Seeing Ourselves Through the Eyes of Others

     We live in a community rich with opportunities to meet people from other countries. They are always interesting, no matter their background or station in life. I learn a surprising amount about us as U.S. citizens just through their questions about our culture and language. I also learn about myself by comparing their challenges to my own. It can be very humbling. Some of these visitors are college or language students, others are professors, researchers or professionals in various disciplines, still others are immigrants with little education but are willing to work hard. Many are parents sharing the experience of a new country with their children. Most arrived by plane or bus, often with multiple connections. Still others walked through deserts or came to our country in tiny boats, risking their lives.

How Do You Say...?
     Kids are like little sponges soaking up language and culture with  enviable speed and agility. When I'm in countries where I don't know the language, I find myself envying small children  who speak and comprehend far better than I. Oh, to have their open minds and no fear of making a fool of myself.  It's puzzling that our education system doesn't require foreign languages in kindergarten and primary grades when our brains are most receptive to learning them.
     We don't consider how difficult the English language is until we have to explain it to speakers of other languages. So many everyday sayings ("That really threw me for a loop," or, "He won hands down," for example) are tricky to explain. Or why words that are spelled differently and have different meanings sound the same (their/there/they're, would/wood, cents/sense/scents, etc.). Or, why does English have so many silent letters in words (pneumonia, bright, could, etc.)?

     In this era of increasing isolationism, led by some politicians and political candidates, I am reminded how surprising and revealing encounters with certain foreigners have been in my own life. More than once, I've had to rethink my attitude.
     Once was when I met someone from a country I tended to view negatively for political reasons. While I still have negative views about the politics of that country, I learned a lot from her in long conversations over coffee or on walks. Probably without realizing it,she taught me to see her country's citizens as individuals who don't always agree with their governments, just as we don't ours. We may still disagree on certain things, but we both learned from each other. In other instances, I've met people from places I've never visited and probably never will. Still, learning about everyday lives and traditions and tasting some of their foods reveals a richness that gives depth to the name of the place every time I hear it now.

  Stranger in a Strange Land
     When I was young, I had the good fortune to live and work in a few other countries. It taught me how one's senses are heightened in such situations and foreigners notice things that  locals often take for granted. When I meet foreigners now I have a greater appreciation for how exhausting it is to be somewhere where a different language is spoken. You are constantly trying to understand or search for the correct words and, initially, translate everything in your head. It's such a relief when you can finally understand without having to go through the translating step. I was often struck by how kind people were to me when I was the foreigner and how patient they were when I was learning their language. Eventually, I realized how they were correcting my errors without being obvious., or making me feel like a fool.
     Everyday experiences like shopping for food in stores that don't carry what you're used to preparing, or getting places without your own car or knowing the language well enough to find your way or ask for help can be overwhelming. Finding an apartment or house is all the more difficult, yet critical. The kindness of just one stranger who helps in a seemingly small way (to them), such as giving directions or explaining how to prepare an unfamiliar food, can impact one's perception of an entire place. Subtle discrimination can have equally profound effects.

     Travel abroad exposes us to negative experiences, as well. We can find ourselves very much in the minority, the seemingly stupid one because we don't speak the language, or we may face prejudice because of what we look like or the place we represent in the eyes of someone who doesn't know much about our country, except from negative headlines. Or, someone judges you by the negative experience they've had with others "like you." I've been in that situation too. It's extremely uncomfortable, both frustrating and instructive. Sometimes you can change someone's attitude, if they will talk with you. Others you can't.

     You don't have to travel elsewhere to get that jolt of fresh perspective. We can get it by opening our doors and minds to new people and experiences, be they people from other countries or states, or even people we with work with or live near, but don't know yet.
     Just in writing this, I realize  I still have much to learn about foreigners in my own community, and even some neighbors. And now I know just who I'm going to challenge myself to get to know better.
    
    
     

Facing Accumulations

     Over the Thanksgiving weekend I started what I thought would be a fairly quick project: clearing some of the blackberries inching towards the road and our driveway. In recent months they were not just blocking the view of the road, the tangled wall of accumulated vines was creating a downright claustrophobic, almost forbidding entrance: a narrow cave of green walls.
     The thing is, once you start such a project, where does it end? In truth, it doesn't. Once blackberries get started, only Mother Nature can tame them and even she gets frustrated with the little buggers.

     At the same time I began hacking into the  enormous accumulation of vines, my youngest sister was 1400 miles away at our mother's  home in Colorado, delving into a houseful of "stuff" accumulated over four generations. Our 90-year-old Mom is planning to move from the house she grew up in to a nearby retirement center. Between childhood and moving back into that house, she lived in four other countries and three states, accumulating many things along the way. She, my sister, and later our other sister, spent days going through drawers, closets, cupboards--entire rooms--of things that seemed important to keep, at least at one time, by someone in the family.

It's hard to throw away electrical items (vacuums, radios, kitchen appliances) that at one time could be fixed. Alas, those days are gone but the habit of saving for repair is a hard one to break. 'Surely we'll find someone to do it,' is a persistent voice. It's even harder to dispose of items that have sentimental value, but you have no room for and rarely see anyway, except in fits of cleaning out every year or three.
      "After I'm gone, someone will have to clean all that stuff out of the basement," Mom has joked for years. Her mother had said the exact same thing. We chuckled, in the smug comfort that the next generation would have to do it. Well, she's not gone, it's time to do it and she gets to help.

     So, as I clipped long- neglected vines three times my height, my family burrowed into decades of family

Bundled blackberries

history.  The vines stretched high into trees; I yanked them down, folded them, thick end first, into 8-12-inch pieces (Yes, it requires thick gloves.Very thick gloves.), then wrapped them with the supple tendril at the end and tossed them in piles. My sisters and Mom yanked open stuck drawers and doors, pulling out long-forgotten items, deciding what to do and forming their piles. My piles were to compost or burn, theirs were to keep, sell, donate or send to the landfill. What would Mom want to take with her? Who in the family would like to have this?  While they were indoors and I was outdoors in the cold (actually good having several layers of clothing when dealing with nasty thorns), I think their job was more exhausting. Studies have shown that the more decisions we have to make in a day, even simple ones, the more our mental and physical strength is zapped.

One side done, the other awaits.

 

It seemed the more berry vines I cut back, the more I discovered behind them , but I did make progress and it's satisfying to see the road now - at least on one side of the drive. The other side awaits...

 
 
       My sister returned to her home in California, understandably exhausted and feeling both accomplishment at what got done and the momentum she leaves behind for the others, but frustration that she didn't get as much done as she'd intended. I hope in a few days she can look back and realize she broke through a wall of sorts - the kind created by the mental block of where to start, what to do with all of the stuff we've poked through over the decades, able then to walk away and say, "later." How do you sort and dispose of the little things that mark lives and time, people and events, feelings and relationships? There's so much history in that house, meaningful to only our family. Bits of it will disperse into the homes of other family members, bringing memories of times and people with them. Others will go into the homes of strangers. But, soon enough, they'll be gone through again as each family moves.

     Like the blackberry vines that never give up, their roots traveling unseen, underground, the "stuff" in our lives vine through numerous homes and generations, each with a memory, each with a story we want to remember.

Thanksgiving...Thank$taking?

     Oh my, I'm getting grumpy and cynical as I age. Or, the world really is changing.
     It's bad enough that Christmas arrives in stores before all the new school supplies have been snapped up by eager students and their harried parents. Then Black Friday proved such a success that it bled into Thanksgiving itself.  Is shopping really that important? Are the sales really that good? What "stuff" is so valuable that a holiday is ruined for employees and their families and has become a headache for employers?  According to some intrepid reporters, some prices actually go up on these sale days. How many eager shoppers notice that?
     What does it say about us as humans that on the one day of the year set aside for us to pause and take stock of all we have to be grateful for, we are encouraged to buy, buy, buy. (More to be grateful for!)
     What does it say about our country that a growing number are, out of pride-stomping necessity, on the receiving side of free community meals (and not just on Thanksgiving).  Some probably go there when they get off work since their pay barely covers rent and utilities. While the rich get richer and the working poor get left cashiering all those valuable bargains, the rest are blessed with the opportunity to feel good about donating or serving food to the hungry. It's a noble thing to do, but far nobler is to do so in January or February when folks are really desperate and fresh food is more scarce. Newspapers aren't there to photograph those warm-and-fuzzy scenes. We all need to spend equal effort on electing people who truly care and can't be bought by the vested interests who ever so quietly make sure the rules and regulations tilt in their favor.
     You could say the real turkeys weren't on Thanksgiving tables, they're in board rooms and back rooms every day where decisions are made about where to produce goods, wages and benefits, healthcare costs and, in essence, who gets a shot at a decent life and opportunities for their families.
     Here's to all the businesses who shuttered their doors on Thanksgiving and allowed their employees a well-deserved day off. A paid holiday, just like those at the top. That would be showing true gratitude to those who make wealth possible, albeit for fewer and fewer among us.

Vintage? Already?

     A piece of history hangs on our kitchen wall, and still serves us daily. It's not a cooking utensil, though modern versions of it are used to find recipes, definitions and substitutions for ingredients or how-to instructions for certain culinary techniques.

      Yes, I'm talking about a phone. “Smart” phone being the latter, where you can call up any information you need in the kitchen, including photos of what a dish should look like.

     

Our not-so-smart (but extremely dependable) phone is a wall-mounted rotary dial model that has been there since we built the house, about 35 years. How did it become “vintage” so soon? It harbors no recipes. Those are in books on my kitchen counters You can tell my favorites by the condition of its cover, or the splattered pages within and notes scribbled in the margins telling when it was first prepared, our impressions and suggestions for improvements. (Bet you can't do that on your smarty-pants phone.) If the phone is used during cooking it's to call a neighbor to ask to borrow a missing ingredient, or the fire department if things get out of hand.

Living in a Bowl

      Because we live in a “bowl” surrounded by forested hills, cell phone reception is extremely spotty. I've never gotten reception on my little flip-open cell phone (another borderline vintage item), so it's used just when away from our house. Visitors with more sophisticated phones rarely get reception here either. To get it you must climb one of the surrounding hills and find a clearing – not impossible, but enough trouble to thwart spontaneity.

      Phones in our house are used for just one thing: talking to another person. No camera or photos, no recording, no maps, movies, music or Wikipedia. No Pinterest or FaceBook. Just one-on-one conversations. (Well, unless you call the customer “service” department of some company and get put on terminal hold, usually with horrible music intended to soothe your increasing irritation. But that's another topic..). 

Our phone cooperative had announced it would discontinue rotary-dial service after a given date, but that date has passed and it still works so I hope they've changed their minds. While I sometimes dial with one of our touch-pad phones when I'm in a hurry, then pick up the rotary one to hear better, I will miss the occasional finger-dial when I'm of a mood. There's something calming--almost meditative--about waiting for the dial to settle back in its home position so you can dial the next number. It's akin to taking deep breaths and becoming present in the moment when you stop at a stoplight.   

Privacy

      A home phone is about as close as you can get to a phone booth these days. Remember those? Cell phones wiped them out alarmingly fast. In fact, that's why I had to get a cell phone. I knew where all the pay phones were in town and used them when I needed to get in touch with someone when I was there, but they've all disappeared. The only pay phone remaining is at our public library, but it's had an “Out of Service” sign on it for ages. I'm sure it will disappear any day, as well. Like the Maytag Man, the telephone repair guy must have gotten bored and left town. Where did they go? Is there still a place in the world where things are built to last and to be repaired instead of replaced? If so, I'd like to go there.

      The way some people carry on cell-phone conversations in public, they seem to think they're inside the privacy of the old-fashioned phone booth, or their own homes. They seem as unaware of everyone else as they are their phone constantly tracks their movements. Tracking can be a good thing when you're lost, but unnerving on a routine basis. Does it give people pause who cheat on a spouse or frequent businesses or places they don't want others to know about?

The Good 'ol Simpler Days

      When I was growing up everyone had just three-digit phone numbers, not the ten digits of today. We also had an operator who had to “place” your long-distance calls, or who you dialed in the event of an emergency. It was a small town and the operators knew everyone, of course. They may well have know you had an emergency before you dialed, having smelled the smoke.

      Once, almost a decade after having graduated from high school and moving away, I was making a long-distance call from my grandmother's house in our small town and when I gave the operator the number she said, “Chris, is that you?” She knew it was my grandmother's house and recognized my voice. We had worked together when I was in high school and it was a nice surprise to catch up with her. 

     More recently, when I was with my Mom in that same house and she needed an ambulance early one morning, when I dialed 911 and gave the house number, the emergency operator said, “That's Cathy's house!” She was right and I knew when she said someone would be there immediately, they would be. My Mom had a standing hair appointment later that morning but before I could call to cancel, the hairdresser called me to see what had happened. She'd already heard about the ambulance visit.

      Some of my childhood friends who lived in the country were on party lines where the number of rings determined which house the call was intended for. Naturally, not everyone respected the privacy of others and would sometimes listen in on conversations not intended for them. But then, rare are secrets in a small town anyway.

Homemade Cell Phone

      Being able to use the phone outside can be a problem if you don't have a cell phone, or they don't work

in your area. Spring through fall, we're outside early in the morning, mainly working in the garden. But, there have been times when we also needed to be able to answer calls from businesses my husband contracted with, or people I worked with, especially when coordinating our farmers' market. We had an exterior ringer at one time (as did our nearest neighbor, prompting some confusion) but it had given up the ghost. Our cordless phone didn't work very far from the house, so we fashioned a really long extension cord for our old table-top rotary dial phone and put it inside a metal bowl near the garden fence to ensure we'd hear it ring. It worked like a charm.

Pluses and Minuses

      No question but today's smart phones are handy – sometimes life-saving. For example, they can be more helpful than a paper map when you're traveling and can talk you through a new city or neighborhood and help you find restaurants, hotels and businesses. The ability to take photos or record sounds is truly amazing, as is being able to access important information or trivia in seconds. They also store your most often-used numbers, which makes dialing much easier. You can't do that on a rotary dial phone, but then remembering numbers is a good skill to have, especially when using a phone other than your own.

     A drawback to the proliferation of cell phones and the countless games and apps they hold is fewer people make eye-contact in public. One person--or both--has eyes on the little device. Hence, fewer people converse with each other; they're busy with what or whomever is inside the little device. It can be a comfort for extremely shy people to avoid conversations with strangers at parties by thumbing busily through their phones, but they'll never have a chance for surprisingly memorable conversations that way. Sadly, it's impossible to drive, bike or even walk through a campus, especially between classes, without paying rapt attention since most students are lost into the world of the little screen in their hands. Some step into the street without even looking, trusting someone else is paying attention. Heaven forbid the driver or biker isn't...

Time to Upgrade

     A little research reveals that the rotary dial phone was patented in 1892, though not commonly used until the early 1900s. The touch tone phone was introduced at the 1962 World's Fair. Plastic dials replaced metal ones in the 1950s.

     After over a century, it's time, I guess, for phones to be upgraded, and they are with amazing speed. Soon enough our rotary dial phone will no longer be supported by the phone company - and I'll miss it.

Pantries Instead of Silos

     It's November already. Where did the year go? I know that's the perennial question, but this year, in particular, it felt like much of it was spent worrying about drought and fires, especially living where we're surrounded by forests and tall, dry grassy areas. But now, after some soul-quenching rains, fire season is officially over. Even Smokey Bear has trundled off from his post at the Forest Service's fire danger gauge. Let's hope he has a longer hibernation this winter.

     We squeaked by but many north-westerners weren't so fortunate. Nor were many farmers. Fire wasn't their problem (here, at least), but drought certainly was.
The Year's Biggest Farmers' Market

     That was brought home to me in conversations with farmers at a unique annual event where locals can buy bulk quantities of grains, beans, meats and storage vegetables directly from growers, called Fill Your Pantry. It's a great way for farmers to distribute their crops and not have to store them over the winter, selling them little by little at winter farmers' markets, holiday events or local grocers. The idea originated here among small farmers and food activists and has become a cherished fall tradition for locavores and farmers alike. The idea has been adopted in several other communities, as well. SNAP (food stamp) benefits are accepted here, as well they should be.  I helped organize the first event and a few thereafter and am gratified to see that others have continued the tradition. Grain and bean farmers, especially, depend on it as a major distribution venue shortly after harvest. Silos to store grains are very expensive. For many, the earnings from this event cover the debt incurred to plant those crops. 
A Crop of Lessons

     The first event was pure pandemonium since we had no idea how many would show up and were overwhelmed by the crowd. It was held at a farm and a few die-hards biked from town to collect bulk purchases – proof that we live in a unique community. Most vendors were blind-sided by such response, but customers were forgiving and patient as bags were filled and were weighed out and volunteers hauled garden carts full of purchases to customers' cars. It was exhausting, but invigorating, too. We'd struck a nerve. Buying local wasn't just a fad. People really did want quality food from people they knew and were willing to support it. Valuable lessons were learned by vendors (like having measured amounts already packaged!), customers and organizers.
    The success was a powerful message to young farmers wondering if farming really worth the hard work and marginal pay. Yep, they discovered, it is. At least for those who want to build a strong local food system. 
     Thanks to this and other markets and events, people got to know their farmers. When one suffered an accident while repairing his old tractor, coming a fraction of an inch from losing an eye, customers rallied to help with medical expenses (he and his wife, like most young farmers, had no health insurance. “Obama-Care” was yet to appear.) They're still selling at Fill Your Pantries because it's their best market of the year.
The Stories You Don't Hear

     Conversations with farmers, especially those growing dry-land crops like grains and beans, revealed a starker story than one might expect with all the wonderful food on display. Farmers were hit by more than drought. An excruciatingly long dock-workers strike earlier this year meant products shipped elsewhere sat on the docks or missed the window of opportunity altogether. One farm family, who grows both grass seed for export and organic grains for local markets came very close to losing their farm because of effects the strike and drought. Export crops couldn't get out so contracts were lost, and grain yields were way down for lack of moisture (but the quality was very high, as can happen in stressed plants). Oddly, though, grain farmers across the country are getting very low prices for their crops this year. Huh? Someone in the world food chain has a finger on the scales of availability and prices – another force over which farmers have no control. The best way for farmers and consumers to have control is through local events like FYP. Unfortunately, not every farmer and community can do that in this global market.

     We rarely pay attention to the stories behind our food until the price jumps or plummets, and aren't aware that farmers are often “eating” price differences themselves in order to stay competitive, or just to survive. There are many, many stories out there that we all should hear in order to understand the “plumbing” that is our food system, be it global or local. Even locavores rely on both. Next time you're at a farmers' market or somewhere where you have an opportunity to talk with a farmer, ask some questions, she and he would likely appreciate your interest and you might be surprised at what you learn. Your food will likely taste a bit different after that conversation - probably even better. You'll certainly appreciate it more.

The Colors of Change

 It's hard to believe, but already another summer gardening season is over.

    

My community garden plot in town is cleaned out and cover crops are sprouting for winter. A few other gardeners have done the same, but still others seem to have forgotten all about their plots. Yet others are planting winter crops. Good for them!

Thanks to Don, we'll eat well this winter

I must confess to being a fair-weather gardener, and am grateful that my husband is a year-round trooper who keeps us in fresh greens, carrots, beets, brassicas, etc. all winter.  He's got next year's plots smothered in cover crops and the winter crops in raised beds look beautiful - so lush and green!

Community garden plots run the gamut from fungus-faded and weedy to colorful surprises peeking out here and there. Birds are having a field day with everything that has gone to seed. In fact, most of the sunflowers have been "beaked" out and hang like dry shells of their former selves.

The birds had been waiting patiently for all the blossoms (enjoyed by countless humans and bees earlier) to turn from frilly yellow or orange with mysterious dark centers to brown and crispy dry so they could do their harvesting. It's been fun to watch them and listen to their chatter - "Wow! Come look at this one! A feast for all," they seem to be shouting as flashes of winged color flit throughout the garden like kids on a treasure hunt.

 I took one last trip through the garden with my camera recently to record some of the colors of fall. While there were some bold ones here and there, it was a particular purple cauliflower that really whetted my visual appetite.

Don't know whose it is, but it's stunning - almost too beautiful to eat. They're a reminder that seasons don't fade completely. There is always something lovely to appreciate and look forward to. I love the colors of fall - there is beauty, even in death, and a certain excitement in seasonal change with the promise of next season's colors and flavors.We need a break from fresh tomatoes and zucchini so we can welcome them enthusiastically again next summer. I've always pitied people who live in constant climates - even "eternal spring" - and don't have seasonal changes to look forward to.

     When I was younger and ran full steam through spring, summer and fall, the colors and changes marked the upcoming season of winter, of rest and renewal - a welcome change. The older I get, the more I see human "seasons" more clearly. We all have our periods of growth, strength, unlimited energy, hope and promise. Eventually, we realize we have spent much of that strength and energy; it's time to slow down and appreciate the little things, and the fact we have fewer
seasons left. When young, we foolishly (necessarily?) think we'll never slow or get tired or old like the people who taught and inspired us did. No sir. We're invincible. The zucchini and tomato plants probably think that too, in June. Their come-uppance comes with a blight, infestation or hard frost - nature's equivalent of our arthritis, aching backs, shoulders, knees or hernias. Spent plants go into compost and come back to nurture future generations. We, on the other hand become more pensive and philosophical as we learn to accept change with as much appreciation as we do seasons. As a lover of seasons, I'm always grateful for change - and increasingly for rest. I'll be grateful to begin anew next spring when it arrives, albeit a bit slower but, hopefully, wiser.

All too soon, the frost will be on the pumpkin.

When Will the Revolution Begin?

     Just as I reached my annual apex of feeling overwhelmed by our self-created flood of produce and somewhat resentful of the time it demands and guilt it instills when so many are hungry, I stepped out of my world and into another for a day.
     I spent that day listening to hundreds of people from all over the U.S. and Canada who deal with hunger, homelessness, health, agriculture, labor and other sectors where injustices are becoming more pronounced. It was the last day of a 3-day conference called "Closing the Hunger Gap,"  hosted by the Oregon Food Bank.
     I knew I'd learn a lot, but the thoughts provoked by the people I met and listened to that day led to something more profound. My feelings are coalescing into anger. That's probably a good thing as we move inexorably into another election season that has as much substance as a vat of cotton candy.
     From the breakout sessions I attended, I both regretted--and was glad--I had not attended all 3+ days of the conference. It would have been more overwhelming than my measly flood of produce and probably more than my brain could absorb - not because of negativity, but because of myriad inspiring conversations, ideas and keynote speakers. They coalesced the frustration I've been feeling for quite some time, but hadn't voiced with others. This was an opportunity for me, an outsider, to learn from people who deal with issues that are altering our communities and our country.
     

I suspect most who attended the conference would not be disappointed to find their work no longer necessary. Unfortunately, it's not likely to happen any time soon.
What You See and What You Don't
     The "face" of the problem is the increasing homelessness in many communities. But that's more like the scab on a sore that's festering below the skin, unseen. We can ignore it or try to cover with "band-aids" to ease our consciences and make us feel better, but it does nothing to solve the problem in the long run. In spite of years of charity, the numbers are increasing. Is the help offered by armies of well-meaning volunteers and non-profits only exacerbating the situation by taking pressure off our politicians and titans of industry?  The symptoms are being attended to but the root causes are not.
     The visible homeless, with and about whom we feel most uncomfortable, are often those plagued by unattended mental illness or addictions. Surviving as best they can must only exacerbate the symptoms. A bowl of soup and temporary shelter in winter won't change their situations.
      There are also "invisible" homeless all around us who show up for work and school every day.  A shocking number of children in our own community have no real home; they may still be with one or both parents, but sleep in cars or constantly change locations (hotels, couches or floors of family and friends). They have no place to call home, let alone a room of their own in which to study or play or temporarily escape the fear and frustrations in their lives. How will that affect them as adults?
     Universities now have food banks for students barely scraping by. Work-study jobs are designed to give them just one hour less than the number that would qualify them for employee benefits, saving the university money. However, that one hour also makes them ineligible for SNAP benefits (food stamps). Add this Catch-22 to the fact they'll likely graduate with debt they'll be saddled with for decades and their futures don't look as promising for having played by the rules and gotten an education as it did for previous generations. What does that portend for our future society?
      Just as we judge all homeless by the most visible, we often judge all who use food banks as somehow failing as good citizens. Truth is, many of them work not only a job, but two or three, and still can't make ends meet because of high housing costs, a temporary or chronic health condition, abusive family situation or some other crisis in their lives. Why should low-wage earners who show up to work every day (they can't afford a sick day) feel shame in not being able to feed their families? Do their employers (especially those whose CEO makes millions) feel shame their employees need food banks? Are stockholders aware of it?
Situational or Generational?
      Some who rely on food banks are infrequent users who feel shame in using them and thus avoid them. Many who qualify for SNAP (food stamp) benefits don't apply. Others are generational users for whom it is their way of life. They know how to work the system for their long-term advantage. We tend to judge the former by the latter, making their situation all the more uncomfortable. Hence, we rarely hear their stories. If we did, they might reveal more of the root causes of growing need.
     In our increasingly global and investor-owned world, it's hard to put a finger on the root causes of food insecurity, lack of affordable housing, non-living wages and all the other injustices that are stewing at and just below the surface. There are many and they've been growing for a long time; the consequences are becoming increasingly visible and tangible. Our daily news shows where the scabs are being ripped off. The report may seem to be "just" about racism, health/obesity, labor strikes, housing starts, immigration, etc. but they are all related to access to jobs that pay a living wage, food, healthcare, housing, and education.
     We were all brought up to believe that if you just get an education and work hard, you can achieve anything. It's still true for some, but an increasing number are exhausted from the treadmill that leads to nowhere. Someday there will be enough of them with just enough energy left to start a revolution to abolish the growing inequities - again. History does repeat itself and we must heed lessons from situations eerily similar to those in our history books. The civil rights movement did not settle racism, the women's rights movement didn't bring pay equity, wars have not brought world peace. Labor unions were formed when a few enjoyed great privilege and the masses got the crumbs. Laws to  counter the inequities of the previous century have been steadily diluted to benefit the few again. Democracy can't be entrusted to the rich to dole out to the rest of us.

     One day soon, the well-meaning folks will put down the bags of groceries they're carrying to the food bank or put down their ladles at the soup kitchen and join those in long lines at the doors to take to the streets to demand justice. We can't call ourselves a democracy when power and wealth is concentrated among fewer and fewer people while the rest see waning opportunity for future security.
     Keynote speaker at the conference, Nick Saul, told the story of an event in Canada where a cabinet minister commented that the happiest day of the year for her family was when they shopped together for food for the local food bank. A recipient whose family had to rely on such food while she went to school and worked several low-wage jobs spoke truth to power when she said, "There is no justice when your children get to choose what my children eat." That recipient, Nadia Edwards, was also part of the keynote session, along with Janet Poppendieck. Nadia not only got a degree in social work and initiated new educational support programs in food banks, but returned to school to become a nurse with the goal of working on the streets with the homeless. She's been on that tightrope; she understands. But she won't just be applying band-aids, she'll be poking at root causes and speaking more truth to power.
    She's both inspirational and revolutionary.
    

Parade and County Fair

     For a small town these were quite the events. People came from other towns, even friends and family from cities. It was pure small-town Americana and the highlight of the summer for kids in the 1950s.

The Parade

     Towns still have parades, but they don't seem as elaborate. Or, am I just remembering them through a kid's eyes? No, I don't think so.

     The main difference between then and now were the floats. They were elaborate examples of excess and waste (through my adult eyes), but I don't think anyone—least of all us kids—thought of them in such terms then. They were beautiful and somewhat magical. People on them threw candy to kids. Girls were dressed in formals and long gloves (how hot those must have been!), others in costumes befitting the float's theme.

     The excess was the result of the design and size. Most were built on a big flatbed truck or long, flat trailer, the kind used to haul huge equipment. Chicken wire was molded into a form (rural scene, waterfall, covered wagon, church, etc.) then stuffed with gazillions of colored paper napkins – all told, the town must have gone through truckloads of them. Hidden in large spaces, such as equipment shops, barns (near town, they couldn't be driven too far or too fast or all the napkins would blow out) or Quonset huts, it took a week or more to build each one. Part of the fun was keeping them hidden while the members of the given organization built them. Then, they'd be revealed the morning of the parade to oohs and aahs. What a nightmare if it rained or a wind storm arose, but I don't remember that ever happening. Prizes were awarded and the floats stayed on display for a while after the parade, then they were disassembled and big loads of napkins would be hauled to the dump (it wasn't called a landfill back then and recycling wasn't a word or concept yet). I doubt much of the chicken wire was reusable after being stretched and shaped either. It was rendered frustratingly unwieldy, but kids had no clue.   

My brother's Boy Scout troop (Note small float behind them)

 

Floats weren't the only things in the parade. The high school marching band (which often won top prizes in state competitions), Boy Scouts and American Legion drum and bugle corps marched. There were lots of horseback riders, and some kids decorated their dogs or brought pets in wagons. 

Nieces and nephew ready for parade in 1980s

      Others decorated their bikes, trikes or wagons and took part too, usually dressed in a costume. There was always a Grand Marshall and other dignitaries, often politicians, carried in the backs of convertibles. Not many people owned convertibles so they must have been on loan from the car dealers. 

     One wonders where all the creative ideas for floats and kids' costumes came from in that era before the internet, Google, Pinterest and all the electronic idea-sharing sources and photos. There were plenty, though, and it was great fun to see it all in one big festival of our own making.

  

There were so many in the parade it's amazing there were people left to watch it in this town of about 2,000 inhabitants.






  

 
The Fair

      You could find the fair with your eyes closed, just by the unique aroma: a combination of greasy hamburgers, cotton candy, manure and dill. And dust. Afternoon winds would always stir dust into the mix.

Every kid with a dollar in his pocket was in for a day of adventure, pop bottle in hand. Carnival rides and the 4-H barn kept most kids entertained until the rodeo started. As at events today, service organizations made money by selling food at booths - the ones where you could get a hamburger or chili to counteract all the sweet junk food.

My Dad & baby sis at the fair

      Adults and kids in Scouts, or who those had 4-H projects that didn't involve animals, had entries displayed in the Home Ec building, whence emanated the aroma of dill, displayed alone or in a floral arrangement. Ribbons were awarded – purple for grand prize, blue, red or white. No one could see the last-minute panic behind them to finish on time, short tempers of frustrated parents whose procrastinating kids were up late finishing their projects. Many a tear was shed. The swiftness with which that was all forgotten was determined by the color of the ribbon (if one appeared) sitting beside it at the fair in the following days. Promises and determination to start earlier next year were as fleeting as New Year's resolutions.

      The more disciplined adults entered beautiful needlework, picture-perfect loaves of bread, little jars of pastel jellies or large ones of colorful fruits or vegetables. Those were the most fascinating to me. How did they do that? And, equally impressive, they grew whatever was in the jar! About all I knew about canning at that point was learning from 4-H or home ec lectures that it would be very dangerous if you did it wrong. People could die from botulism. That made it all the more mysterious and impressive. Little did I know that I'd be doing lots of canning in the future.

      Who knew that decades later I'd be canning lots of home-grown produce every summer, but growing it too. I've never entered anything in the fair since I was a kid, but the thought does stroll across my mind almost every summer...

Thoughts During Harvest Season

     It's curious that when I was growing up in a farming community on the Great Plains in northeastern Colorado, where grains (wheat, oats, barley, milo, sorghum, feed corn), sugar beets and cattle were the main foods produced, I was little aware of it as “real” food. It was all shipped elsewhere to be processed, never to be seen again – or at least not recognized as something local when it came back to us. Maybe I was too young to be interested, no one else seemed to be either.

     The sugar beets went to a factory in the neighboring town, about 7 miles away. Some of them likely ended up in our grocery stores, kitchens, school cafeteria and restaurants but there was no way of telling. It all went under the name Great Western sugar, just like beets from elsewhere. Still, I doubt many locals reached for bags labeled cane sugar; they likely would have been loyal to beet sugar.

     It was the same with grains. At harvest, farmers brought their crops to any of three grain elevators in town, one of which my grandfather owned. When prices seemed good (always a gamble), they were sold and shipped by rail to Denver. There they were mixed with grains from all over the region and sent to mills where they were processed into flour and returned to us in bags labeled Gold Medal or Pillsbury. Bleached white flour was most commonly used; the germ and bran were removed and sold separately. It never occurred to me (or probably most anyone else, except perhaps the farm families themselves) that some of the Wonder bread hugging our lunch meat and mayo or peanut butter and jelly together came from a nearby farm.

     A farmer friend here in Oregon said when his mother was a school teacher she realized that even some of her students who lived on farms, whose families grew wheat, didn't see the connection between wheat and bread. It's likely the same everywhere, or was more so back then. I suspect I knew it intellectually as a kid, we would have learned it in school. But, it sure wasn't what I was thinking when I put slices of bread in the toaster or made a grilled cheese sandwiche. Or, when we went to Grandad's elevator and he'd let us get a handful of wheat to chew on 'til it turned to a chewy gum-like substance - probably gluten.

     Today we live in Oregon's Willamette Valley where the dominant crops are timber and grass seed, but can name the farm behind just about everything on our plates every day, including the meat, beans and grains. In fact, I buy wheat and triticale directly from farmers and grind it myself when making bread or pastries. It's

Not your grandmother's white bread

as far as you can get from Wonder bread. White wheat (has less gluten so is used for pastry and flat breads) grows best in this climate, but some red wheat is grown too. White wheat, freshly-ground, makes excellent pie crusts and crackers – ones you really taste because of the texture and flavor. Red wheat is what was/is grown where I grew up, which is highest in gluten and used for bread.

     Much of the produce we eat is from our own gardens and much of the seed for that comes from local farms, or from seed Don saved himself. Farmers where I grew up saved their own seed, selecting the best each year to plant the following year. Today, not only is it discouraged, it's illegal with proprietary seeds, especially genetically modified ones (gmo). Fortunately, not everyone buys into that scheme and I buy from farmers who don't.

      Harvest season today is very different. For one thing, I'm far more involved in growing and preserving a good chunk of our food. As a kid, I got to go out into harvest fields with friends to deliver lunch to harvest crews and loved the whole dusty, hot, sweaty scene, but then I didn't have to be out in it all day like those men and women, in open combines and trucks – nothing to silence the noise or keep the dust out of every pore of their bodies and clothes. One time when I was in grade school, my friend, Jennifer, who was a year older than me, had to move a truck for her dad and I got to “help.” We could barely see through (let alone over) the steering wheel and I remember monitoring her progress by watching through a hole in the floor.

    Besides the grain elevator, Grandad owned a half section of land. Rain and hail would often hit during summer and could damage or destroy a crop within minutes. He paced the living room on stormy nights, along with every other helpless farmer. I realize now those storms affected everyone since it was an agricultural community and all the businesses and tax rolls depended upon a successful harvest.

Saturday Night

      Summer Saturday nights were lively in our town back then, especially during harvest. This was before farmers had their own harvest equipment so they relied on crews that went through all the farming communities doing custom harvests. It must have been a scheduling nightmare, given the vagaries of weather. The crews were composed of high school or college-age boys and Mexicans who came north specifically to work harvests. It was an intense, exhausting season for all involved.

     The downtown merchants stayed open late on Saturday nights then – grocery stores, drug stores, clothing stores, the five-&-dime, barbers, restaurants, cafes, bars, liquor stores, the library, the Hippodrome theater, even car dealerships. Farmers and their families came to town that night. So did just about everyone in town.
     During harvests there were sometimes live bands in a Quonset hut near one of the grain elevators on Friday or Saturday night, where all the teenagers gathered. I worked in a drug store all through high school and remember Saturday nights being extremely busy. It was exhausting, but fun too.

      Apparently it had been so when my parents were in high school, as well. My Dad also worked in a drugstore during high school and his boss, Mr. Cleveland wouldn't close the store "until the last farmer left town,” Mom said. By then, it was too late for her to go out. She said my grandmother, like many others in town, would park her car in a strategic spot downtown that afternoon and walk home (only about 4 blocks), then come back in the evening and have a prime spot to people watch and visit with passers-by. That was what people did on their front porches during nice weather – but the “porches” moved downtown on Saturday night. No one had a television set then and computers and social media were the stuff of science fiction.

      Today, small farming and logging communities are but a shadow of their former selves and not only are Saturday nights quiet, but most every night is. Farmers have their own harvest equipment, or have closer access to it when they need it. Small hometown stores have been replaced by the Walmarts and similar chain stores with lower prices, though people have to drive to other communities to shop them. The internet has also taken a toll since you can shop from home. Porches on houses today are more for looks. I never see people sitting on them, visiting with passers-by, though some of the fancy houses even have nice wicker furniture on their porches. Community organizations are fading, as well. We're "too busy" and connect more via a machines. We don't have time, we say. What are we spending our time on? What is happening to “community”? It's a question surely every generation has asked as their worlds changed.

An Embarrassment of Riches

     Most every gardener feels it, especially by late summer: overwhelming abundance. Those tiny seedling that crowded the windowsills

Tomato seedlings on the window sill in the spring

in spring are feet high or yards long by now, producing more food than most of us can use or preserve. Friends, neighbors, co-workers and food banks share in the bounty. Fellow gardeners swap varieties and techniques while birds pluck seeds from sunflowers overhead. The ground is baked hard (even the recent rain won't change that much yet), so robins can no longer pull worms from it. Those wrigglers are buried deep or hiding under mulch.
   

   Canning pots rattle throughout the land and freezers bulge. Dry, cool spaces are hung with garlic, beans, onions, squash, ears of popcorn and other foods that (mercifully) require no electric power or more of our time to preserve. Power bills are high in the fall from food dryers, canners and new freezers. Yes, it's a lot of work and I confess my enthusiasm for it isn't quite as strong as it was a couple of decades ago, but once I get started and see colorful, glistening armies of jars lined up on the kitchen counter, that old self-sufficiency glow is rejuvenated.

     This is the true time of thanksgiving, when we have more than we can possibly use and think of those without enough food. I'm grateful not only for the bounty but for the space and ability to grow and preserve it. It seems every day the news proves we have less and less control over our lives. Growing food is one thing we can control to some extent. Mother Nature has a strong say in our success and even she has ratcheted up the challenge knob more than once, but that's part of the game and so far we've at least filled the larder and usually start each

season of preserving with some still left in the cupboard. That's our backup if or when an earthquake or fire or some other disaster visits our neighborhood - if it doesn't get destroyed in the event. It brings my late friend, Bunny, to mind. She said she was so proud the first year she had a big garden and canned dozens and dozens of jars of produce. Her husband built special shelves in their basement to store all the bounty. One night, they heard a terrible crash and went downstairs to find the weight of all those jars proved too much for the shelves and all that work lay amid countless shards of glass. She never canned again.
       Don has taken over much of the gardening, especially the year-round part. I'm a fair-weather gardener and the years I did it all by myself (plus most of the preserving) were exhausting and I was always grateful when fall arrived and the

soil and I had a few months off. It was (and still is) so rewarding in the deep of winter to pull something from

Tomatillos ready to roast

the cupboard or freezer and get not only the taste of summer, but the aroma of it in the form of roasted tomatoes, basil, pesto, apple crisp, you name it.
     We've eaten mainly local foods for the last 20 years since most of it came from our garden. Now, we can supplement with so many other local products that you barely have to put extra thought in creating mostly all-local meals. I know that's another thing to be grateful for - and

I am. My work has allowed me to meet most of the local farmers and interview them for stories or columns. The same with countless small food businesses over the last 35 years. What good fortune! Some of those food businesses are no longer around, others have been sold to other people or to larger businesses. Some celebrate milestones and get even better each year. Knowing all of these folks has given me insight into what it takes to build and keep a farm or business going. It makes what I thought was an enormous garden seem pretty puny (about 1/3 of an acre - I jokingly called myself a "fardner" when doing it myself - too small to be a farm but too big to be just a garden). If any of my crops failed I could go to one of them to buy whatever didn't work for me. Who could they turn to?

     Just looking at our continuously full counter (in spite of preserving things daily) I/we have many, many blessings to count. May I never take them for granted.

The only things not local in this Nicoise salad Don made (with local albacore) is the salt, pepper and olive oil.

    

Be Careful What You Wish For

     It's not news to anyone that weather this summer has been extreme just about everywhere, at least part of the time. Here, in the Pacific Northwest, it's been exceptionally dry and hot. As predicted, wildfires are ablaze in every western state with resources stretched to the snapping point. The Okanagan Complex in north central Washington is the #1 national wildfire priority today. Firefighters from Australia and New Zealand are expected to arrive this weekend.
     Tragically, three firefighters died near Twisp, Washington yesterday and others were seriously burned when they were trapped by fire. I don't know what those men and women are paid, but it's not enough. I can't even fathom the grueling work they face, without let-up, once a fire starts. This summer has been a particular hell for them. They must be absolutely exhausted, in spite of every comfort they are provided. Some train near here and I've seen the heavy protective clothing, helmets and packs which must make already extreme heat darn near unbearable. I try to imagine what must be going through their minds at the end of a long day (or night) or in the hellish thick of an uncontrolable fire. They have to wonder what the heck they were thinking when they signed on. Was it adventure they were after? A challenge? Money for school or family? Whatever it was, we should all be extremely grateful. It's work few can perform.
     On Monday, one of the weather prognosticators that I follow said there's a good chance for some serious rain to visit us by the end of August or early September. It would likely begin as snow in Alaska and move down -- all the way to northern California, he said -- bringing rain, glorious rain to our parched world.
     Yeah, yeah, we've heard that before, but it has yet to pan out. Still, I've pinned my hopes on it all week, telling everyone I'll be out dancing in it when it arrives.
    But, today on Oregon Public Broadcasting's Think Out Loud, one of the reports made me feel almost greedy. Apparently, the cold front that would eventually drift south, bringing that glorious rain, would also wreak havoc with the wildfires, which are barely contained at this point. The cold air clashing with the hot air created by the fires would cause winds to shift quickly and unpredictably, creating even more hazardous conditions for firefighters and property owners. How could I wish for that? Would that inhibit the rain from falling there? Couldn't it help almost immediately thereafter? How scary weather is proving.
     Oregon's biggest fire right now is the Canyon Creek Fire in southeastern Oregon - a very different terrain from the Willamette Valley, yet beautiful in it's unique way and home to amazing wildlife, especially birds.
     I never used to worry much about wildfires in our forested neighborhood until the last couple of years when things started to dry out more. This year has been especially scary. What if this truly is the "new norm"?
     About 20 years ago we converted about 4 acres of former cow pasture into a forest. It seemed like a much higher calling for the land at the time, but now I'm having second thoughts. Two summers ago we thinned quite a few, which left nightmarish piles of branches everywhere. The forester said they'd decompose within about 6 years, but I think that's under normal wet conditions.
  

Arthritic-looking droopy branches

  I also trimmed countless branches from other trees on our property, about head height, making them easier to walk among and improving the value of the timber by reducing knot holes. This summer we've notice that the branches higher up have slipped downward, tapping or grabbing us as we walk through the woods. Is that in part because of the drought? Our neighbor pointed out there are fewer fir cones this year too. So many silent "messages" I wish a professional could interpret for us.
     If there's a way for that rain to come and not worsen the already horrible situation firefighters are dealing with, that's what I wish for...