Trees on the Prairie

From E. B. White’s “A Report in Spring,” written in 1957:

One never knows what images one is going to hold in memory, returning to the city after a brief orgy in the country. I find this morning that what I most vividly and longingly recall is the sight of my grandson and his little sunburnt sister returning to their kitchen door from an excursion, with trophies of the meadow clutched in their hands—she with a couple of violets, and smiling, he serious and holding dandelions, strangling them in a responsible grip. Children hold spring so tightly in their brown fists—just as grownups, who are less sure of it, hold it in their hearts.

While the passing of fifty years has not been kind to the first sentence in this paragraph, that last sentence is timeless. It’s one of many I wish I had written.

In the midst of this sabbatical, the paragraph as a whole struck a chord for me, not only because it will be interesting to see what images stick in my memory (and those of Dana and the kids) after we return to Sioux Falls, but also because its been interesting to see which images are summoned to the surface by the day-to-day events of our current stay.

The local electric company has undertaken the task of clearing the trees and brush along the rural power lines. They’ve hired a company called Poor Boys out of Fairplay, Missouri, which has had a crew and a couple million dollars of massive machines running up and down the roads around here. Yesterday, they came to clear out some trees around the power lines that lead from the road to the trailer we’re living in. The mobile home we’re currently living in sits on the same slab that held the double-wide mobile home I grew up in, so these trees, which stand just east of the trailer, suddenly became the source of some of those images to which White was referring.

Just beyond the trees, Dad and I (mostly Dad) were loading the trailers with round hay bales to take back south. While the Poor Boys took out only a few trees along the power line, Dad mentioned that he wanted to take out the whole bunch of them, as the land is currently producing nothing when it could go to grass to feed cattle. There is nothing picturesque about the little clump of trees. It consists entirely of what my dad calls scrub oak (I think), spindly little trees that are neither tall, nor imposing, nor particularly beautiful. However, when I was younger—probably somewhere between ten and thirteen—my younger brother and I used to go out and play in these meager trees. We were in Boy Scouts at the time and learning to lash things together. A little clearing among the tree trunks became something of a hideout, complete with makeshift “doors” lashed together and hung on opposite sides of the clearing. The “doors” were about the size of those swinging doors in the entrance to a saloon on Gunsmoke or Bonanza or some other western. But, of course, our doors were hung from the limbs above. I think one has to be an Eagle Scout before he learns to lashing together hinges.

As I recall, the trees also contained an old well and a trash mound that was a regular source of discovery—old bottles and pieces of rusted metal from contraptions both familiar and foreign. These details later became part of a meager little poem written for my M.A. report, which was titled “Under the Rocks,” after a line from Norman MacLean’s A River Runs Through It.

Under the Rocks

I
Removing first the rocks and then the one-
by-twelves above the well, we dropped the stones
and broken bottles captured out of ash,
and waited for the splash that would not come.

II
We turned to stacking—laid our dog to rest
beneath a humble mound of limestone, left
the blackened cinders under the fire ring
after our campout with Dad—our first and last.

III
We buried Grandpa—who took us fishing, turned
the rocks and sifted through the soil, endured
the shining grubs, some stretching toward the sun,
some playing dead, afraid to be unearthed.

Watching some of those trees come down, and anticipating the eventual clearing of the whole clump, I encountered a bout of nostalgia, of course. I also found myself thinking about why such a meager clump of trees should have an emotional resonance. This led to some reflection on the nature of the imagination (or perhaps just my imagination). As much as I love the prairie and the wide open spaces, it seems to me there is something about confinement that sparks the imagination. Perhaps this is why people generally prefer forests and mountains, with their nooks and crannies, the imagination expanding with each unexpected clearing, each surprising discovery. I thought of Lewis’s wardrobe, with its confinement that opens up into a world of imagination and wonder. I suppose each of us—particularly as children—finds the necessary nooks and crannies—whether they are in a wardrobe up in the attic, or in a clump of trees east of the mobile home.

The [What Week Is This?] Update

Here are some of the highlights from the last week or so.

Firsts

• Put a tag in a calf’s ear.
• Notched that same calf’s other ear.
• Burnt pastures.
• Watched as Dad “put down” a cow with a broken hip.
• Took down a section of old barbed-wire fence.
• Made the rounds of feeding cattle.

Outside of my own personal history and context, this isn’t much of a list. Its unremarkableness is part of its significance, however. Consider the following from Wendell Berry’s “Think Little” and “Economy and Pleasure,” respectively:

The average American farmer is now an old man whose sons have moved away to the cities. His knowledge, and his intimate connection with the land, are about to be lost.

One of the most regrettable things about the industrialization of work is the segregation of children. As industrial work excludes the dead by social mobility and technological change, it excludes the children by haste and danger. The small scale and the handwork of our tobacco cutting permit margins both temporal and spatial that accommodate the play of children. The children play at the grown-up’s work, as well as at their own play. In their play the children learn to work; they learn to know their elders and their country. And the presence of playing children means invariably that the grown-ups play too from time to time.

The fact that I am now, as a forty-year-old, accomplishing some of these “firsts” that might have been accomplished long ago is indicative of the extent to which my own childhood was “segregated.” As a child and an adolescent, I saw that segregation as a blessing. As a younger man, I rarely thought about it. Now, however, I find myself lamenting the fact that I was so completely excluded from the work of my dad.


There’s an Angus Ambassador?

Last Thursday, the weather was wet and the creek was high, so Dad decided we should grab the kids and head to a bull sale over in Fredonia. A ranch down in this area that runs registered Angus cattle was selling about 80 bulls and a few high-end cows. I’d been to several cattle barns and livestock sales, of course, but I had never been to one that was quite this specialized. It’s a little bizarre. The sale included a twenty- to thirty-page program printed on glossy paper, with key stats for the registered bulls, almost like the batting averages or RBIs on the back of baseball cards. The stats included averages and scores related to everything from the birth weights of a bull’s progeny to ultrasound readings reflecting the muscle mass of the rib eye. The beginning of the program included a list of the ranch’s “Reference Sires,” the notable ancestors for the various bulls in the sale. If you’re at all familiar with horse racing (i.e., watch coverage of the Kentucky Derby or something), then you might have a sense of what I’m talking about. Otherwise, I suspect the whole thing would seem rather arcane and bizarre. I’m thinking there’s an essay in the whole experience—perhaps something akin to Susan Orlean’s “Lifelike” (BAE 2004) or David Foster Wallace’s “Consider the Lobster” (BAE 2005).

As we were sitting in the sale barn, eating our complimentary lunch, and waiting for the sale to begin, a young woman walked in wearing a tiara. Kind of surreal. Later, after she had donned a leather sash (think of a cross between the Miss USA pagent and the National Finals Rodeo), I gathered that the young woman was the “Angus Ambassador.” Who knew?


The Writing Life

Quite apart from the challenges of time management (both the weakness I have cultivated over my life and the demands of ranching, fathering, and trying to write), the writing life during my stay in Kansas has been frustrating. Some of these frustrations have to do with audience. (Who is the audience for the essays I’m envisioning? Why would that audience be interested in what I have to say?) I’m trying to keep reminding myself about Peter Elbow’s article on ignoring audience, trying to realize that concerns of audience are a bit premature. Another frustration is focus. Because I’m thinking about these essays as a collection, and because at least six of those essays (not counting any new possibilities that might surface along the way) are related to the family ranch in one way or another, I find myself jumping mentally from one idea to the other without taking/making the time to really dive in on any of them.

Then, this evening, I picked up Essays of E. B. White, which I checked out from the Independence library, and encountered what I believe will be a new friend. To my recollection, I had never read any of White’s essays. Having now read only the foreward and the first essay (“Good-Bye to Forty-Eighth Street”), I’m hooked—both consoled and encouraged.

From the forward:

The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest.

Can’t help but wonder what E. B. White would think about blogging.

A writer who has his sights trained on the Nobel Prize or other earthly triumphs had best write a novel, a poem, or a ply, and leave the essayist to ramble about, content with living a free life and enjoying the satisfactions of a somewhat undisciplined life.

While I can’t claim the title of “essayist,” I’m at least encouraged by the degree to which my life embodies the “rambl[ing] about” that White describes.


From “Good-Bye to Forty-Eighth Street”:

[…] I would rather have a ringside seat at a cattle sale than a box at the opera […]

One Thing Leads to Another

First, gotta love the Fixx. Another one of those weird convergence moments hit yesterday. To explain it, I need to go back. Last year, I applied for and was one of three persons interviewed for a position at a large state university. The committee decided not to make a hire, which, objectively, I can see was a wise choice for everyone involved. While I believe I could have done the job well, it meant redefining my professional life in ways I wasn't sure I wanted to pursue so singlemindedly. And, from their end, I didn't have some qualifications they desired--like a publication record or administrative experience at a university with a larger, more diverse student body. (Of course, I could have simply come across as a moron. One doesn't really get feedback after such interviews.) In any event, I don't know that I would have been a good fit for the job nor the job for me. But, as I told some friends, "It's one thing to not want to go to the party. It's another to not be invited."

Fast forward back to the present. After reading Wendell Berry's essay "The Unsettling of America" and beginning to consider what it might mean to pursue "settlement" in my life, my profession, etc., I stumble across the web to find a brief announcement about the aforementioned position being filled. I wasn't experiencing much in the way of "settlement," I'm afraid. Mostly indignation and dissatisfaction. Not because of the person who was hired, but because I wasn't.

So what do I do? I start Googling. I skim a couple of articles from the new hire's admirable vita. Insecurities surface. Indignation. Resentment and regret over all the choices that led me to where and who I am. The prideful part of me starts to reassure myself that I could have the new hire's vita if I really wanted it. I consider downloading the new hire's picture and using it as a motivational wallpaper on my computer's desktop. I start thinking about the school loans that could have been paid with the salary I would have made. Should have made....

About half way through the second article, however, I begin to realize that--admirable as the articles are--they aren't the kind of thing I really want to do. They are the kind of specialized scholarship that simply doesn't excite me. Perhaps I've been thoroughly converted to the liberal arts mindset, but I still hope to find a way to write (and perhaps publish) regularly and productively without having to select a narrow academic specialty.

So, I never downloaded the new hire's photo for my wallpaper (but I won't rule it out just yet), and I'm in the process of re-establishing an awkward peace about the whole thing. The peace comes from knowing that my insecurities and indignation arise from a prideful desire for a salary and position that aren't really connected with what I want to do. The awkwardness comes from the questions that linger after reading Berry--questions about the distinctions between "settlement" and merely "settling."

Embrace the Funk

Thursday, after a very busy day of committee work, I received an email from a colleague noting that I looked tired and thanking me for a list of committees and concerns to which I have been contributing. Then, today, I attended the South Dakota Festival of Books, and--as always happens when I attend such events--I came away with this huge sense of...well, I've described it elsewhere as a "funk."

My colleague's email inadvertently highlighted a list of invovlements and activities that are important, but not necessarily a part of my job, and certainly not a part of the larger vision I would like to be pursuing for my career and my life. I have fallen back into the very conditions I promised myself I would be escaping. Here's a passage from my tenure portfolio, submitted and approved last year:

As I began my career at USF, I envisioned myself initiating and maintaining a writing center while most of my more research-oriented activities centered on my life as a writer. Instead, five years later, I find my program of professional development shaped largely by the wonderful complexities of writing center work and the joy of teaching a variety of coursework within the English department. My writing life, on the contrary, has taken a back seat. The pendulum has swung too far, and my goal looking forward is to renew the pursuit of the balance.

Three weeks into a new semester, it's become increasingly clear that I've yet to "renew the pursuit" of anything, much less balance. Indeed, I appear to have strayed further from the goal, taking on involvements that aren't obligations, that aren't likely to be productive, and that aren't--or shouldn't be, really--my job.

Thus, over the course of the next week or so, I'm going to embrace the funk, as I attempt to evaluate my involvements and figure out what to winnow. If you're on a funk-free kick, then you'll probably want to avoid this blog for a week or so.

Pre-Semester Funk

The fall semester gets underway here at USF on Wednesday, and I've suddenly been struck with the pre-semester funk. I've been excitedly working on syllabi and planning out courses. I've been looking ahead at all of the projects and opportunities that the semester holds. And I was (and am, mostly) looking forward to everything. But then....

1) I received an email from John Poch, a treasured friend who was writing to encourage me--to goad me, actually--into applying for a Bush Foundation artist fellowship. I placed an advance order for John's new book and then left the Bush Foundation stuff to check for another day.


2) My wife and I screened Akeelah and the Bee to see if the kids were ready for it. (Not yet.) At the heart of the movie is this quotation by Marianne Williamson:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

3) One of my closest friends emailed an update on his writing project, stating that it wasn't going to be done for this fall (as originally intended), but that he was writing regularly and felt good about the sudden burst of discipline in his life.

4) Following my friend's email, I looked up the guidelines for applying for the Bush Foundation artist fellowships, only to find that I haven't published enough in the last six years to qualify.

Suddenly the semester ahead seems too full. Too encumbered by the duties and obligations (and yes, the joys) of teaching, and serving, and administrating, and ...committee-ing. I'm suddenly in a funk, and these two poems come surging back into my mind. The first by Rilke. The second by James Wright.

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We never knew his fantastic head,
where eyes like apples ripened. Yet
his torso, like a lamp, still glows
with his gaze which, although turned down low,

lingers and shines. Else the prow of his breast
couldn't dazzle you, nor in the slight twist
of his loins could a smile run free
through that center which held fertility.

Else this stone would stand defaced and squat
under the shoulders' diaphanous dive
and not glisten like a predator's coat;

and not from every edge explode
like starlight: for there's not one spot
that doesn't see you. You must change your life.

Lying In A Hammock At William Duffy's Farm In Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

There Goes My Life

I dropped the kids off with the grandparents today. It's the first time they've gone away on their own. Usually if both my wife and I have to be out of town or something, then one of the grandparents comes to South Dakota to stay at our house. In any event, as I was driving home--like that scene from the movie Better Off Dead, Kenny Chesney's "There Goes My Life" came on the radio. (Those unfamilar with the song can at least take a look at the lyrics here.) While the song is about a young man who became a dad as a teenager, and I didn't become a dad until my 30s--and under much different circumstances, I suspect it is a song that resonates with most fathers of little girls (of all ages). At least, I hope it would on some level.

I'll admit to being a guy who tears up at some odd things. For instance, Bill Murray's Scrooged makes me well up every time. Chesney's song hits me in a similar fashion, especially on days when I've just started driving north while the kids are riding south. It was a bittersweet three or four minutes.

Those minutes did, however, revive my memory of a web-based writing project that crossed my brain a while back. One that I've considered using as sort of a special-topics-creative-writing-over-Interim course. Given the impact that music has on our lives, the way songs can function almost as bookmarks allowing us to flip back to particular emotional places in our past, I have this notion of a web site called "The Synoptic Jukebox."

The interface to the site would function like one of those old countertop jukeboxes, where you flip the pages to see the various songs available. When readers select a particular title, they would be met with a collection of writings connected in some way with the song. The writings wouldn't be about the songs--at least not directly--but about those emotional places that we associate with various songs. Hall and Oates's "Sara Smile," for example, might connect with an account of a high school dance where some goofy young teen (to remain nameless) requested the song in order to orchestrate the perfect moment to ask a certain Sara to dance. But, perhaps the DJ at this dance, who said he'd be glad to play the song, never got around to doing so, and the goofy young teen--waiting for the perfect moment--never asked the girl to dance. That's just one hypothetical example.

The intersections of music and experience seem such fertile ground that the site could grow rapidly, and given a sufficient number of voices, could become quite fascinating. Regional difference. Generational difference. Etc.

gad

Welcome

As I was attempting to get this blog up and running, a friend of mine commented in an email that he simply doesn't see the point in blogs. My unverbalized response to his comment, and my rationalization for bothering with this whole endeavor, is expressed in the following quotation from Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

Seeing is of couse very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before my eyes, I simply won't see it.

So, "37" is a means of calling my own attention to what I see.

Why not a journal or a sketchbook?

Well, a writing experience this past summer has convinced me that I need to be wrestling with a rhetorical audience--or at least the possibility of one. Stated more directly, I simply tend to think more about my writing and thinking when the possibility of a reader exists. And yet, that lurking reader can also paralyze me. This medium seems like a worthwhile means of simultaneously considering and rejecting audience.

Thus, we're off.