by jphilo | Mar 4, 2008 | Current Events
For a little while Sunday afternoon I was almost giddy. The temperature rose to 60 degrees. The snow melted before my eyes. In fact it melted so fast the gravel road at the end of the lane started to wash out. The edge of the drainage ditch east of our property turned into a waterfall.
But by late afternoon clouds moved in and it began to rain. By evening, the temperature dropped below freezing, the rain turned to sleet and eventually to snow.. The temperature drop created a natural freeze frame in the drainage ditch waterfall. In other places, water which had melted so fast it flowed by in sheets, flash froze. Every low spot along our road, including the end of our lane, is a skating rink. If I was Hans Brinker, the world would be my oyster.
But I’m not a skater. I’m a winter-weary Iowan bound by a silly promise to not complain. So I won’t. I’ll give you a warning instead. If you send mail, don’t count on me getting it until the weather gets above freezing again, which isn’t supposed to happen this week. Our mail box, surrounded by skating ponds, is inaccessible.
On the other hand, if you know anything about ice fishing send me an email or phone. I’m thinking of building a fishing shack over the washed out section of road. Sure beats complaining.
by jphilo | Feb 25, 2008 | Current Events
It doesn’t take long for some authors, when their books are accepted for publication, to develop artistic temperaments. For me, it only took five days.
It started an hour ago. I was settling in to work on my magnum opus, or at least to reply to some weekend emails, when an incessant beeping began outside. You know the sound. The heavy equipment warning beep, which was a little odd since our gravel road isn’t a hotbed of heavy equipment traffic.
At first I kept writing, but after fifteen minutes I could no longer ignore the noise shattering the quiet so necessary for us artist types. I looked outside. All I saw was the dripping rain which has turned our gravel road into a treacherous slippery mess. The beeping continued, so I got up and looked out our big corner window. A full gravel truck was backing along the road in front of our house, followed by a white city pick up truck. Just east of the gravel truck, past our neighbor’s driveway was a semi stuck in the mud, blocking the road.
I grabbed my camera and documented the high-tech maneuvers used to get traffic moving again. First, the gravel truck dumped a bit of its load in front of the semi. Then two city workers hopped out of the pick up and rustled around in the truck bed. Eventually they hauled out two shovels. Now this was the tricky, high-tech part. The city workers handed the shovels to the men who had been in the semi. Those men shoveled dirt under the semi’s tires and in two minutes, they were able to get the thing moving again.
The entire incident ended with a little parade as the gravel truck drove past our house, followed by the semi, followed by the white pick up. Very festive, though a marching band would have added a nice touch. But by then, the rain had turned to snow, and we all know that below freezing temperatures are hard on musical instruments.
Not that I’m complaining about the cold or the six to eight inches of snow predicted for tonight. I don’t complain about the weather, even though it did cause the road conditions which caused the ruckus which disturbed the quiet I need to write my book.
But since I can’t control the weather and refuse to complain about it, I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll get rid of all distractions – shut the curtains, put in my ear plugs – you name it, I’ll do it.
After all, people are waiting for my magnum opus. I refuse to disappoint them.
by jphilo | Feb 12, 2008 | Current Events
Let me be perfectly clear about today’s picture, which is not a picture of last night’s snowfall. It is a picture of my asparagus patch. If you can’t locate the patch, look at the spruce tree on the left. Move your eyes to the low-hanging branch to the right of that tree. Are you there? Good. Now walk past the branch about three feet and dig through the snow (which I am not going to mention because I promised not to complain about winter any more) until you hit frozen ground. That’s my asparagus patch.
I’m in the horns of an asparagus dilemma today. You see, I write the Food Bites column for Facets an area women’s magazine. This year, each column features ingredients produced locally. Because of printer deadlines, I am now working on the April recipe, which includes asparagus. And that’s the dilemma. I can not cook and photograph fresh, local asparagus in February. Though I am a basically honest person, to meet the deadline I am forced to perpetrate a hoax upon the readers of the magazine. I have to use asparagus that comes from distant lands that don’t have long Iowa winters like the ones I don’t complain about.
But wait, there’s more. The truth of the matter is that I hate asparagus. Hate really isn’t a strong enough word but it’s impolite, even on my own blog, to say that the smell of the stuff is enough to make me hurl. So I won’t mention that, just like I’m not mentioning the fact that we have too much snow and winter has gone on far too long, in my opinion. Anyway, hating asparagus makes it hard to rave about its delicious flavor. In fact, it makes me lie.
So there you have it. What seems like a perfectly innocent recipe column has turned me into a culinary hoaxer and a liar. In one fell swoop, I’ve gone from green vegetables to yellow journalism.
I’ve fallen pretty low, and in an attempt to regain a shred of dignity I’ve decided to make this solemn vow. Though I may occasionally lie about vegetables, I will not complain about winter. No matter how cold it gets, no matter how much more snow falls, no matter how long it takes for spring to come, this blog will never become a forum for my personal anti-winter rants.
I promise.
by jphilo | Jan 10, 2008 | Current Events
“Do you ever think about death?” A friend asked the question in an email this morning. He thinks his son, who has been ill for a very long time, may be dying.
Yes, I told my friend, I think about death every day. It started when I was a kid, and I looked at pictures of my dad in his younger days – showing cattle, playing football, goofing around with his friends. That young man didn’t look like my dad. My dad sat in a wheelchair, weakened by multiple sclerosis. He grew weaker for thirty-eight years before his body died, but even as a kid, I knew that little bits of him died every single day.
When my son was born, my husband and I confronted death often. It almost tore me apart until God showed me the depths of His love for our baby, and I learned to hope in His promises.
Sure, I think of death every day. But I think a lot more about life when I face choices about what I believe and what I do based on my beliefs. Will I concentrate on the little bits of me that die every day or will I focus on the new life I receive? Will I fear death or love life? Will I ignore evidence of God at work in or will I acknowledge and submit to it?
As I think about death and life, the truth becomes clear. I can’t stop death. But I can choose to live in a way that honors the gift of life, the life God gave my father, the life he’s given my son, and the life of my friend’s child.
Every day, I think about death. But I choose hope.
by jphilo | Jan 4, 2008 | Current Events
I feel like a high school homecoming queen the day after graduation. Washed up, dated and insignificant. It’s like I don’t matter anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I was never a homecoming queen. But today, the morning after the Iowa caucuses, I have a great deal of empathy for all of them.
For the last couple of months, the citizens of our state were popular. Our phones rang nonstop. Everyone wanted our opinions on everything. Famous people called us daily – former presidents, senators, congressmen, family and friends of the wannabe movers and shakers of our country. Our mailboxes were stuffed with glossy flyers and Christmas cards from total strangers. Radio talk show hosts begged us to call in. Our state, not Idaho or Ohio but IOWA, was mentioned on the national news every night for weeks. Even out here on our icy gravel road, a few potential suitors braved tromped through the snow and rang my doorbell. We were important. We really mattered. The nation worshipped at the feet of little old Iowa.
Today I’ve gotten one phone call. It was my Minnesota sister. “Iowa who?” she kept saying. “Iowa who? I hear New Hampshire is the place to be.” She gets so miffed when I get all the attention. But she made a valid point.
Though my state’s present tumble from the national throne has thrown me into the depths of despair, I’m reaching out to the people of New Hampshire. They need to know that popularity is fleeting in our political system. It’s pretty heady stuff for innocent country folk. It can kinda turn heads, all the attention from important people with their fancy hair, great dental work and tailored suits with matching shoes.
Don’t fall for it, New Hampshire. No matter how pretty the candidates are, don’t dispense your political favors to every John, Mike or Hilary who sashays through the state. Come January 9, those sweet-talking, love ‘em and leave ‘em politicians will drop you like hot potatoes and move on.
I don’t want you to get hurt like we Iowans did. It’s not worth it. Stay home. Turn off the TV. Throw away your mail. Bar the door. Save yourselves for the general election. It’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourselves tomorrow.
Three last words: New Hampshire who?
by jphilo | Dec 27, 2007 | Current Events
In August I met an gifted artist and teacher – Jo Myers-Walker. We met while I was doing an article about Ames area artists. During our meeting, she described how she was using art to help her mother, who was in hospice, face imminent death. Several weeks later, I emailed Jo to see if she would share her mother’s story with a larger audience. She said yes, even though the memory of her mother’s death on September 13 was fresh and raw.
In the last few months I’ve met with Jo several times, usually at her studio. Once we met at Mary Greeley Hospital where she taught a watercolor class for breast cancer survivors. Though I haven’t had breast cancer, I participated in the activities which included table painting and learning to paint people.
Today my daughter and I visited her studio again. I photographed some paintings that will accompany an article, slated for a summer or fall issue of Focus on the Family magazine, about her mother’s last weeks of life. While we were there, Jo pulled out the paintings completed at the breast cancer class and suggested I photograph them. The paintings were vibrant, full of life. I turned mine over and read the title I’d assigned it – Exploring.
The title describes the painting and Jo perfectly. In her presence, people explore life through art: the joys of the present moment, the struggles of breast cancer, the walk toward death, the hidden places of the heart. And they come away knowing things about themselves they didn’t know before. All because she’s not afraid to embrace life and go exploring. What a gift!
