Midwest

by Stephen Dunn

After the paintings
of David Ahlsted

We have lived in this town,
have disappeared
on this prairie. The church

always was smaller
than the grain elevator,
though we pretended otherwise.
The houses were similar

because few of us wanted
to be different
or estranged. And the sky

would never forgive us,
no matter how many times
we guessed upwards
in the dark.

The sky was the prairie's
double, immense,
kaleidoscopic, cold.

The town was where
and how we huddled
against such forces,
and the old abandoned

pickup on the edge
of town was how we knew
we had gone too far,
or had returned.

People? Now we can see them,
invisible in their houses
or in their stores.

Except for one man
lounging on his porch,
they are part of the buildings,

they have determined
every stubborn shape, the size
of each room. The trailer home
with the broken window

is somebody's life.
One thing always is
more important than another,

this empty street, this vanishing
point. The good eye knows
no democracy. Shadows follow

sunlight as they should,
as none of us can prevent.
Everything is conspicuous
and is not.

Of Cats, Presidential Language, and Discouragement: A Midwest Musing

The day is breaking grey and chilly. Some leaves are still clinging to the trees. They rustle back and forth in the light wind. Persimmons are ripening on the branches out by the prairie. Hopefully, we’ll get some of them before the deer eat them all. Squirrels are busy stashing walnuts and hazelnuts and acorns. 

I walked out onto the back deck to feed the Ebony, Bamboo, and Gracie (the farm cats) and they greeted me with great meowings and fell to their food as if they hadn’t had been fed in days. As if I didn’t know they’d been out mousing or chipmunking or birding in the prairie and had probably feasted well. Still, they mad me feel welcome in their catlike way – which is to say, like a politician who just found out he had my vote and then turned away in search of another. 

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, as I climbed out of the shower and was drying off, I saw Gracie heading out to the prairie to resume the hunt.

Despite all this goodness around me, I’m feeling a little discouraged this morning. Last night I did something I guess I knew I probably shouldn’t have done while doing it – I posted the following on Facebook:

President Trump in Arizona today called a news network, “You dumb bastards." Regardless of your political leanings, is this appropriate language for the President of the United States to be using in public?

Ah, the furor it provoked -- a political rugby scrum, including justifications for such language.  Sorry, but I don't find any such justification for such language at a public rally -- regardless of party. 

I remember the first time I said "bastard" in public and the reaction it got. I was in fifth or sixth grade, sitting on the floor of our dining room on Eureka Avenue in Columbus, Ohio watching tv. Back then our television set, a mammoth, humming thing, was in the dining room. Mom didn't like to have a tv in the living room and the family room hadn't been added onto the back of the house yet. 

As I said, I was sitting on the floor watching tv. A dinosaur movie was on. Dad was sitting in his place at the dining room table reading the sports pages. He looked at me and sighed. I'm certain he wanted to watch the sports news. He'd even prefer Jimmy Crum, of whom he was less than fond, than a dinosaur movie. At any rate, at one point in the flick, one dino grabbed another by the neck and wash thrashing him and I, excited by the fight, yelled out "Kill the bastard."

Bad move. 

I knew my dad was fast. I'd seen him play shortstop, second base, basketball, and football for years. But I didn't he was that fast. I found myself scooped up and this red faced old guy (he would have been around 33) holding me by my shirt collar and demanding, "What did you say??" and telling my sisters to go find mom. "Kill the bastard," I whispered, wondering why he was so upset. "Where did you learn that word?" he asked. "What word?" "Bastard!" 

I honestly couldn't remember. It probably was on the playground of John Burroughs Elementary School three blocks away. I had no idea what it mean -- it just sounded like a cool word. Reminded me of "dastardly," which I had heard in other movies, television shows, and overheard adult conversations. So I thought I'd try it out.

Dad then gave me a very brief and direct lesson of the etymology of that word. And that if he heard me ever say it again, I faced dire consequences. 

I never wanted to face Dad's dire consequences, believe you me.

Now, to be fully transparent, I have said that word since. And some other bad words, too. There may be members of my family or certain friends who have a tape or memory of me blurting something out -- but never whilst giving a public speech, teaching a class, preaching a sermon, or...  Even when I rolled the John Deere tractor down a hill, I refrained lest the cows in the field across the road might hear me -- or because I was too scared to say anything. 

When I awoke this morning and read the vitriol in response to the post, I decided to delete it. And I renewed my promise to myself to not post anything about that man on social media. No matter how hard it is when he is so outrageous and crude and mean. It discourages me to see the support his behavior gets.  

So, today, to help battle my discouragement, I'm going to try to stay centered on the things mentioned in the first few paragraphs. Things that represent goodness and life that continues, even in the midst of this horrid pandemic and political season. And then, when it warms up a bit, I’m going to go up to the garage attic. My plan will be to organize my stash of Brent Bill for sale books, straighten things up so I have a place to put my golf clubs and the deck furniture for the winter, and the like. I don’t know how much I’ll get done as I know I’ll come across stuff that Dad put up there. I'll look at it and remember that good man. I'll probably uncover other things that bring to mind good people who have passed. 

And while I will mourn them, I will also find joy in remembering their love and basic integrity and decency.

Harvest and Election Signs: A Midwest Pick-em-up Truck Drive Musing

 Yesterday, after spending most of the week in Zoom meetings for board's I serve on, I needed to get out from in front of a computer screen. So I told Nancy I was going to fire up the pick-up truck and head out for a ride. "Wanna go with?" She did and so off we went on the backroads -- Gasburg Road, Joppa Road, Bunker Hill Road, and many more.

We didn't talk much -- mostly just looked at fields that had been harvested, that needed harvesting, and were being harvested. We saw big combines working their way across cornfields, trailing clouds of dust and spewing field trash. We witnessed other combines, their wide corn or bean heads removed, maneuvering along the narrow country roads, cars and trucks scooting as far over as they could without tumbling into a ditch, as they moved from one field to the next.

We also saw the risings and fallings of the supposedly flat Indiana farmland that was revealed in the freshly picked fields. We drove through woods being stripped of leaves by cooler temps and the yesterday's blustery winds. The yellow, gold, and red leaves that once adorned the trees now spread like a carpet at their feet, while their arm-like limbs reached up into the sky.

Around every bend, we encountered yard signs promoting this candidate or that one. Looking at them, I remembered something that our granddaughter Alexis posted recently. According to her poll of yard signs, Joe Biden was going to place third in the Hoosier state's voting for president behind Trump and Firewood for Sale.

That was a good joke, I thought. And from our informal survey on our drive, looked to be true. 

The election will be over shortly, one way or another. And I, for one, will be happy to see the signs (regardless of candidate) come down. I will be even more glad to see the political ads disappear from the airwaves and interwebs. People send me, via messages and posts and tweets, things that vilify the candidate they don't like. I'm sick of it. I'm also weary of the increasingly negative attacks of candidates on each other. If I wasn't a pacifistic Quaker, after watching the ads and reading the memes, I'd be for taking all these horrible people out and shooting them. After all, according to the ads and memes there is not one good person running for office. And where these used to mostly be about higher offices (which is odd) now they've trickled down to the state, county, and city offices. Yesterday there was an ad on television saying how Peorgie Tirebinder, who is running for county dogcatcher, had been taking kickbacks from Purina Pet Chow and Pet Armor Flea and Tick Treatment to finance his condo in Florida.

Okay, I made that last little bit up.

As I sat in silence in Quaker worship this morning, I thought about some of what I've just written. Not a good way to center down into listening for God's voice -- except it was. Because I did hear a voice reminding me that on November 4, the signs and ads will be gone -- except for the "Firewood For Sale" ones. And that's a good sign. It connects us with the daily that goes on and on. Firewood, for some people will still be needed -- and it will be available. Those signs are a constant in rural Indiana ... and other states.

I was also reminded that there is another constant. The God of grace and God of glory. The God who is transcendent and immanent. The God who is Light, and Love, and Truth, and who promises never leave or forsake us. The God who is the Great Lover of Our Souls and warms them with a holy fire and lights our way forward. 

We could use a few signs for that. 

Election 2020 Musings From the Midwest

First, let me say that for the past four years I have been completely disturbed and horrified by many of the words and actions of President Donald J. Trump. And that's the last time you'll see his name in this blog post.

However, as voting is going on now and through November 3rd, I cannot be silent about policies, words, and actions I find contrary to my understanding of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am committed to working against these things which I feel are harming the country I live in and am grateful to live in. 

No politician is perfect. All have their faults. That's been true in the past and is true now. Yet many, I believe, acted in what they thought were the best interests of our country as a whole. I do not feel that way about many of the current occupants of public office. 

Here is what I looked for in the candidates for which I voted in 2020 (yes, my ballot has been cast). I looked for people that, imperfect as they are, came close to supporting ideas that congruent with my understanding of Christian faith. People that are for:

• a country and government that respects all people regardless of ethnicity, gender-identification, sexual orientation, religion (or choosing to have no religion), and so forth.
• an administration and government that exists to serve all under their care and which recognize that diversity of color, lifestyle, opinion, religion, and more enrich our country.
• a nation that guarantees and equally protects the rights of all its residents -- again regardless of ethnicity, gender-identification, sexual orientation, religion (or choosing to have no religion), and so forth.
• a country that emphasizes peace in its actions and spending.
• a nation that works to ensure that all its residents have the best healthcare, education, housing, worthy work, and food possible. I don't just mean "access to" -- I mean, have these things -- regardless of ethnicity, gender-identification, sexual orientation, religion (or choosing to have no religion), and so forth.
• a government that encourages civil discourse and acts and speaks with care and respect.
• civil discourse among peoples of differing views so we can learn from each other.
• a country that is known for its mercy and justice toward all peoples everywhere.

I am for these things as a person of faith.

I need to speak about what I'm for, rather than what I'm against, for my own spirit's sake. Being for instead of against helps me to be humble and exhibit (as best I am able) love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

These times are fraught with peril. They are also times that are filled with possibility. May you vote prayerfully and carefully.

God bless us. Every one. 

Thistles and the Prairie

After walking through the slowly fading, quickly browning prairie yesterday and observing the various seeds -- including the fluffy thistle ones -- I read this poem on The Writer's Almanac. 

Why There Will Always Be Thistle
by Maxine Kumin

Sheep will not eat it
nor horses nor cattle
unless they are starving.
Unchecked, it will sprawl over
pasture and meadow
choking the sweet grass
defeating the clover
until you are driven
to take arms against it
but if unthinking
you grasp it barehanded
you will need tweezers
to pick out the stickers.

Outlawed in most Northern
states of the Union
still it jumps borders.
Its taproot runs deeper
than underground rivers
and once it’s been severed
by breadknife or shovel
—two popular methods
employed by the desperate—
the bits that remain will
spring up like dragons’ teeth
a field full of soldiers
their spines at the ready. Bright little bursts of
chrome yellow explode from
the thistle in autumn
when goldfinches gorge on
the seeds of its flower.
The ones left uneaten
dry up and pop open
and parachutes carry
their procreant power
to disparate venues
in each hemisphere
which is why there will always
be thistle next year.


“Why There Will Always Be Thistle” by Maxine Kumin from The Long Marriage. © W.W. Norton, 2003.

Dad and Mom, A Dog, Deer, Killdeer, and Rocks: A Midwest Meditation

 Waking up yesterday morning after watching the debacle that was called the Presidential Debate, I decided I wanted to do something useful. Fortunately, living on almost fifty acres, there's always some thing that needs doing.

The first task I set for myself was to head out to the prairie and locate the spot where my parents' ashes are spread and Bonnie the dog of wonder is buried. The events of spring had overtaken me and I didn't keep the little path to that plot mowed. Soon the prairie grasses, wildflowers, and other flora had taken over and the place was now surrounded by green.  As I stepped out the porch door, I startled three young deer munching vegetation in the front yard. They looked up, stood stock still, and then bounded away, across the yard, the harvested bean field, and down into the woods. 

Lovely. Graceful.

Then it was retrieve my old trail mower for its assistance in finding the memorial area. 

From all its hard work on trails lined with thorn trees, the tires have endless punctures and so I had to put some tire sealer in them and pump them off. Then we went putt-putting out to the prairie. 

I parked where I thought the rock marking Bonnie's resting place might be and heading through the 6 and 7 foot tall prairies grasses and the stalks of fading wildflowers. It was tough going and I was quickly winded and covered with seeds from various plants. In my wandering search, also was assailed by briars, which I've been battling there for years. My search was for naught. I made my way back out and in through another area. Still nothing.

I was pretty certain where the grave should be, but the vegetation was so dense -- especially the briars -- I decide to put the mower to use. Off into the flora towering over us Traily and I went, deck set high, mower blade whirring. After the third pass in the small area where I believed the sought for space was, the left tractor lifted a good bit. I backed up, climbed off the mower, and there was Bonnie's memorial rock. I cleaned around it and then uncovered the sitting stumps (made from a tree I'd cut up) next to it where Mom and Dad's ashes were scattered in 2018. 

After a few more minutes work of clearing and mowing and rearranging,  the area was nice and neat with a winding trail leading to it. 

Satisfaction. Just in time for what would have been Mom and Dad's 71st anniversary today. 

After lunch, I got the little utility cart out. It's basically a heavy duty golf cart with a hydraulic dump bed on the back. While lots of folks around here have larger John Deere Gators and the like, this size is perfect for me. I found Mom & Dad's and Bonnie's "official" memorial markers in the garage. I had taken them in prior to doing a prescribed burn last autumn. I cleaned them up and then Nancy and I went out to place them. We drove the cart down my freshly mowed path -- after Nancy's stroke she is too unsteady for unstable ground. I climbed down and placed them. Then we just sat, surrounded by a wall of tall grass and sounds of crickets and birds. And then a meow. One of the farm cats, Gracie, had made her way through the jungle. She jumped up onto the cart seat between us, wanting attention.

After resting there, lost in memories of "Bonnie, the best dog ever" as her plaque says and John and JoAnn, we headed out. 

"Want to drive across the field," I asked Nancy. I knew she did. So, going at the speed we would normally walk, we bounced and jostled our way across the recently harvested field. Every now and again she'd spot a rock brought to the surface by rains, snows, and harvest. I'd stop and pick it up and hand it to her for inspection.

Nancy loves rocks and as long as I've known her has used them for garden ornaments. She also uses them to hid the concrete foundation wall of our our house. So we spent an hour driving back and forth across a 30 acre field, me picking up rocks. The sky was a deep autumn blue. Killdeer scavenging in the former been field tweeted their displeasure at our intrusion. Leaves rained down in the wind. Trees already stripped of foliage raised their hands into the air, either seeking the warmth of the sun or praising God. 

Or both.

I did, too.