Something to see and behold

You know, for most of the year the Floyd River isn't much more than a little joke. For most of the year, only a bulimic would put a canoe in the water here, if he could find enough to float it. For most of the year, you wonder how fish even make a home in the Floyd. 

The Missouri--now there's a river. The Tennessee is really something to behold. Sometime I ought to hike across the Mississippi instead of taking the car. The Floyd? Seriously, for most of the year, you can cross it most anywhere and not wet a knee.

But this morning the lights from house across the channel are laying long and strange stripes across a whole body of water. This morning the Floyd is no creek--it's a river. 

Last year's Memorial Day flooding was, we were told, "a century flood." 

Maybe.

Does this year's mean we've begun a whole new century?  

Yesterday, we were doing fine until late morning when a wall of water from up north surged down, blew out channel walls, and swept through the neighboring fields, creating Floyd's Lake.  It's strange and it's beautiful out here now; and we're not really affected, if you're wondering. Floyd's Lake is far enough away that we don't have to worry, although the back corner of our acre is a fairly decent water hazard. 

But then, no one's golfing so big deal.

The neighbor's beans are underwater, but they were last year too and he still had a bin buster come fall. He says he never really missed a crop down here in the floodplain, hard as that is to believe. 

Here's the problem, I'm told. Big dumps of rain, like we've had in the last week, happened up river somewhere--as many as ten inches over miles and miles of open cropland, way too much water to be absorbed. Guess what?--it had to go somewhere. From the headwaters in Osceola County, to Sheldon, to Hospers, there are only two little tributaries. From Hospers to Alton and all the way to LeMars, there aren't any. That mass of water hasn't a place to back up, the channel, meager as it is, has to handle all of it.

Well, it can't. Poof!--we've got a flood. Like right now.

In 1953, all that water swept down into Sioux City and killed 14 people, three of them kids, even though that wall of Sheldon floodwater came by to visit mid-morning. It swallowed Leeds, crowded into downtown, and destroyed the stockyards. People crossing the viaduct had to be rescued. Little Floyd's River--that's what Lewis and Clark named it--was a killer.

That's why, today, the Floyd does no more wilding. It's been straight-jacketed by a flood control system that tamed its temerity. That's nice. Something's lost when we toy with a river, even little Floyd. Something's lost when it can't teach us that we can't control everything.  Something's lost when it ceases to be a source of wonder.



But you can't blame Sioux City for locking up a mass murderer, and that's what Floyd's River was in 1953.

Right now, out behind the house, we've got a lake. There's something stunning about that, something that stops you in your tracks and last night turned the gravel road over the bridge into a busy thoroughfare.  Last night there was no end to cars, a steady stream (pun intended) of rubber-neckers. That's all right. Floyd's Lake is something to see and behold.

Yesterday, I had an meeting in Sioux Falls. We started out early expecting trouble at the Big Sioux. About 45 minutes later, we turned around and came home. Couldn't get over the river. The flooding is incredible. Nobody alive in Rock Valley, Iowa, will ever forget the June flood of 2014 because what they have in Rock Valley right now is Rock Lake. They're suffering.

Fourteen people dead in the Floyd's flood of 1953--that was suffering. 



Twenty-five dead back in 1893--that was suffering.



For the next couple days all we've got is a brand new lake home. 

Still, it's something to see and behold. 

To see and behold.

Ministrations

"The worst part of travelling is the toilets," my father would say as he wheeled off the tissue in two long, thin stripes, then shaped them neatly 'till they haloed the throne of some highway restroom, sat me down firmly, and waited. "Never can tell who sat here before."

He was, of course, quite right--just wasn't at all like home on those tall, hard stools with the gap in the seat. I knew even then that his blessed layer of paper kept me safe from gluttonous germs just waiting to feast on my innocent fanny.

Eighteen years later, when I'd become so much wiser than he, I simply refused to dress stools like my father, sure that his excessive tidyness was a course in bigotry designed to make clear that human beings had sinful behinds; it was that cursed total depravity rearing itself once again, keeping young Calvinists like me fearful of loving and trusting and being a brother.

Then, years later, a father myself, I'd wait for my son while his eyes scanned scribbles I was thrilled he couldn't read on chalky bathroom walls. When the task was over, he'd get off by himself, eyeing those oddly incredible drawings, and I'd peel off a tangled white stripe stuck to his pudgy behind.

Well, wouldn't you know? Turns out I was right when I was a mop-haired, late-sixties pseudo hippie, at least according Dr. William Schaffner, an infectious disease specialist at the Vanderbilt University Medical Center, who claims my dad's sweet fatherliness was quite unnecessary since whatever hungry germs he thought waiting for me on the lid were, in fact, incapable of finding a place on my toddler's behind. 

I'm not making this up. And I'm talking to you, Dutch-America.

Those blessed paper liners one finds in well-tended public restrooms today exist only because of a toilet's inherent "ick" factor, or so he claims, because most of us--my family especially--are blessed with substantially secure and bountiful flesh on our bottoms.

Please. This isn't just my lame attempt at potty humor.

Turns out that your cutting board--that's right, that one in your very own kitchen--hosts a 200 times larger collection of fecal matter than that truck stop toilet seat. Schaffner claims the sink sponge you use for dishes is really heavy-laden, 200,000 times worse. Pardon my eeeeeuuuwww.

Here's the really bad news: whatever germs may be on that foreign seat, he says, are likely already aboard your keister. Think of it.  No don't.

Anyway, that's the news from an actual Professor of Preventative Medicine, at Vanderbilt, no less, the Harvard of the South. Look it up.

Well, I for one don't buy it, and pardon my skepticism. On this one, I'm solidly Republican. What the heck does science know anyway? 

It's all a scam.  Listen! They're the ones who told us to stop eating butter. 

Our story and how we tell it

I remember feeling the same thing in South Africa, in Pretoria, when our hosts rolled up in front of a impressive museum designed to celebrate the sheer glories of Afrikaaner history. We were there not long after apartheid ended, officially at least. The wicked witch of racism was dead, people claimed, and the country--or so it seemed to us--was on a honeymoon. There was a palpable sense that at long last things would now somehow improve. South Africa was invoking the name "Mandela," as if it were a song.

The trekker museum--I don't remember it's name back then, and it's been changed since, I'm sure--was an immense, classical structure. What we'd already witnessed and felt was the sheer power of the Afrikaaner heritage among white and Dutch South Africans. Youth organizations celebrated the triumphs of the story--little kids were little trekkers.

But then, the Dutch South Africa story is incredible--and it is ancient, Dutch folks having arrived early in the 17th century, when they also put up shop in New Amsterdam here in North America. To think of the Afrikaaners as Dutch is, after all, a stretch.  Hundreds of years of trekker ancestors have been buried in South African soil.

There we were, out front of this massive museum dedicated to telling the really improbable story of the triumph of Dutch South Africans, who, against all odds, had forged a society, a culture, a way of life, even a language, in a place where their presence had been violently opposed, not only by the indigenous people they dispossessed, but also by snobbish, well-heeled Brits who fought them wherever they could find them. The trekker story is worth telling, worth remembering.

But in the new South Africa it became, suddenly, part of a much larger story. In the new South Africa, it would be told in a different way. That huge museum didn't simply require a face lift, it would need a transformation.  It had a different context altogether when apartheid ended. I was looking at an artifact, and I knew it.  That grand museum would no longer feature the Dutch.

Last week, at the National Homestead Monument, just outside Beatrice, Nebraska, I felt something somehow similar, not because change was in the air but because telling this American "trekker" story--and it too is an incredible saga--is something that simply can't be done without a broader context the monument itself tries very well to do. 

Millions of Americans today have descended from American trekkers who, like my own ancestors, came to this country for liberty, an "empire of liberty," Jefferson once dreamed. They came to live, not cower; they came to claim a new life, not wither slowly away in a land where the horizon was a stone fence.

There it stands, this Homestead Monument, in the shape of a plow that, at once, ripped up an entire ecosystem, altered prairie like no other place on the continent has been altered; yet, at the same time, the plow created a bread basket not only for those who broke ground but for hungry people around the world. That plow was as much an instrument of death as it was of life; and homesteading, which brought millions of Americans to what they thought of as unoccupied land, created untold opportunities at the very same time it destroyed hundreds of indigenous cultures and thousands of its people. 

It's an incredible story, it's the American story, it's our story, it's my story. But those who are in its cast are not superheroes. They're human, like all of us; and their story is much, much larger than their own indomitable pioneering strength. To my own ancestors, the land was free, unoccupied. It simply had to be "proved up." All land ownership required to make it ours was buckets of sweat and blood. All it demanded was work, and, for most of the American trekkers, hard work was an inheritance, even a calling. Here there was good rich earth to be subdued.  

It wasn't easy, not for my ancestors or the Afrikaaner trekkers. Life was no push over.

But when we came, those who were once here left. That's the big story, the story that's much harder to tell and much harder to hear.

Right about here, just down the hill from the memorial building, sits the very first registered homestead in American history. 

It belonged to only one family, two generations, the ranger told me. But they weren't the first inhabitants. There's a bigger story.

And that story is ours too.

Beneath Siouxland skies

According to Robert Swierenga, the Dean of Dutch-American scholarship, immigrants from the Netherlands were serious clusterers:  not only did they originate in the same Dutch communities, they arrived in America with folks from those communities and then stayed in communities they created in America. We were--at least the 19th century Calvinist brand of Dutch immigrants--quite unashamedly clannish, even tribal. 

To anyone who knows us, that's not news.

Take the immigrant Schaaps, seen above.  Old Cornelius C., the bearded patriarch, took his family over in 1868, when, family lore has it, he could no longer abide the scandalous liberalism of the State Church, the Dutch Reformed Church, in Midsland, on the island of Terschelling, where he lived and where there was no pious seceder church. I doubt his reasons were totally spiritual--that is, I'm guessing economic motivations prompted the move as well; but when the Schaaps came to America, they came with a whole gang of like minded folks, malcontents the local Terschelling parish was probably happy to see depart. 

Once in America, they didn't go their separate ways. They got on a train for German Valley, Illinois, because a woman they knew back home knew the preacher there, who said he'd do what he could to get them acclimated, the whole bunch.

It was three years after the Civil War, and free land was to be had not all that far west (what paleface gave a thought to the Native people?). So when C. C. and Neeltje Schaap got a hankering for a chunk of their own land-of-the-free and home-of-the-brave, they lit out for the northwest corner of Iowa, where a bunch of Hollanders claimed good land was to be had. Once again, en masse, they settled in just a bit north of here, between Newkirk and Hospers. All of them. Most anyway. They stayed together. 

They left together and stayed together, maybe more than the other European ethnics, even though the rural Midwest is still mapped with their footsteps--Brussels, Luxumbourg, New Prague, New Berlin, New Holland, New Glarus, and etc.

When we moved to Siouxland (was there ever such a terrible misnomer?), the Schaap bloodline was, in essence, returning. Not one of my father's generation ever set foot on Siouxland soil, even though C. C. and Neeltje are buried right here. Their son, a preacher, left children sprinkled hither and yon in the pilgrimage of his pastorates. My father, born in 1918, never knew his Schaap grandparents, who'd died a decade before. 

But C.C. and Neeltje's great-grandson--me!--grew up in Dutch-American America; and even though I never knew a soul who wore wooden shoes or wore orange during World Cup soccer, my world was almost totally Dutch-American. When, after college, I lived among Swiss folks from southwest Wisconsin, I knew I wasn't what they were--but I also knew that they weren't much different--except their cheese of choice was. . .well, you guessed it.

Last night in Siouxland (note name), in windmill park in Orange City (note name), a mariachi band played for an hour or so, eight or nine men in fancy, traditional outfits, a couple of fiddlers, three or four guitars, two trumpets--you know the sound. Thousands of mariachis sing and play and make weird noises all over this country today, but, listen to this!--this one was local. They were from here. Their address is Hawarden, Siouxland.

I'm not making this up.

At the turn of the 20th century, my great-grandparents, who died here, could never have guessed that a gang of local Mexicans would make the music they did--and not a psalm all night long. When C.C. and Neeltje's great-grandson moved to Siouxland, 75 years later, I still would not have guessed that would happen. A gang of men's quartets wailing out gospel faves--sure. Mariachis, no way. 

When my father-in-law started farming, horses did the heavy work. He had a car, but he'd never been on an airplane. Rural electrification came along during his lifetime--poof! just like that there was light. Most people his age couldn't afford books. They ate food they grew, had basements shelves lined with canned goods, and kept their houses warm--through mean winters--with coal, and sometimes corn cobs. They did their business outside; if they were rich, they had a two-holer.  

But no neighborhood change, I'll assert here, is quite so dramatic as today's immense Hispanic presence. 

Some would move them all back, line up buses from here to Hawarden, fill 'em up with gas, and point them south. The bottom would fall out of the economy in a day or two.

Last year, when this house was going up, I liked to stop by and watch craftsmen do their work. I'd been in a classroom too long, never really knew people who framed a house or hung drywall. One day the insulators came in, a gang I knew were Netherlands Reformed, a particularly staunch and clannish form of Dutch Calvinism (not redundant).  

I stepped up into the house, looked around, had to hunt a bit, but finally found them, filling every nook and cranny with insulation. All--every last one of them--were Hispanic.

There we sat last night, in our lawn chairs, out front of the band shell, listening to a mariachi band from just down the road in Hawarden.

Amazing. 

One more thought.  Here's this morning's dawn.

Just up the river from here, just behind those trees, the Floyd takes a hairpin turn and circles back on itself. Right there at the crook of the stream, an old vet says he once found Native American artifacts from a time--say 1800--when the Yankton Sioux lived right out here on the bank. 

It's interesting, isn't it, that some July morning this sweet pastel sky might have looked exactly the same to them, long before C. C. Schaap and before his grandson and before those mariachis. 

It's His, you know, this world. Not ours.  For clusterers, that's humbling.

Best Burgers

My son-in-law, who grew up in California, can barely get off the plane before stopping at In-N-Out for the kind of luscious burger he claims he can't get even close to out here in beef country. He's even got t-shirts, multiples. I've tried those burgers and they're good; but I think he and the rest of the In-N-Out mob are just cultists. 

I haven't had a Big Mac for a long, long time. But for years I've loved 'em. I guess I just don't do the McDonalds thing much anymore, except when I'm on the road and really need fast food. Then, I get snack wraps. Still, I like Big Macs. I doubt they've changed. I could stop today and pick one up--no problem.

No matter. In a poll just now conducted by Consumer Reports, McDonalds burgers ended up on the trash heap--seriously, dead last. In-and-Out, by the way, was waaaaaaaaaay up there, but in second place. Sorry, son, but your burger got bested. (That'll have him in a rant for the rest of the day.) 

There are times when I'll pick up a Whopper from Burger King because I'm in the mood for what seems the closest I can come to a Subway/hamburger combo. I like Whoppers. Always did. They're like taking a bite out of the garden. Just don't eat 'em without a bib.

Outside my window, through our backyard and over the soybean field, all the way to the other side of the river, there's enough beef on the hoof to keep us in steaks and burgers for the rest of our lives--Angus, too, or so it looks to me, a dozen or so left to pasture on the river bank. What we see out our window is landscape; those beefy black cattle out there for the last week have turned it into a sweet still life.

This is beef country. Well, this is pork country too. And we do very well with dairy, as long as I'm on a roll. Not bad lately with chickens and eggs either--which came first I don't know.  Ag is big business here, keeps the merchants and non-profits cheerful, the fields military-straight, and puts new houses up all over the section. Ethanol doesn't hurt either, of course. We're doing well. 

There are nay-sayers, of course, those who claim that too blasted much of this region's blessed rich topsoil is given to beef cattle to satisfy the world's deplorable burger habit. They're probably right, but who wants to take on the financial titans, right? 

I confess. I love a burger--Whoppers, Macs, and even the ones served up from the new kid on the block, Culver's, a place close to my heart because it's headquartered in the land of the cheeseheads. Culver's call theirs "the Butterburger" because if you want a real Badger state burger or brat (we invented brats, by the way; once upon a time they all came from Johnsonville), you bathe a hard roll in butter before slapping on the patty. Try 'em--Culver's Butterburgers--one word.

Top of the heap, you ask? What burger is really King and not just a trade name?  Consumer Reports asked their subscribers, and they said it belonged to yet another California chain--The Habit Burger Grill. Never heard of it. Never had one. But next time I'm in the state with the bear on the flag, I'll stop. Count on it. Looks like this.


Sheesh. It's now just after six in the morning. I confess--if I had one here beside me in the basement, it soon wouldn't be, despite what it might do to my stomach this early.  

HOWEVER, my favorite--think no ill of me!--is our own. They're not for sale. I got a grill I don't take good care of. It's ancient and so greasy it's off limits to public viewing. We've got wholesome beef from a local farmer whose business isn't business. When I slap one of our own on a wheat bun from the Dutch Bakery downtown, southern Cal's pride-and-joy gets shuffled to the back of the bus, although on a good day I still might swap for a Sheboygan County double brat (but only on a hard roll).

So, Consumer Reports, that's my two cents worth, straight from the heartland, from a place as likely as any to be called hog heaven. Bottom line or top of the heap--I like mine best. 

Sunday Morning Meds--Destiny

“If the LORD delights in a man's way, 

he makes his steps firm.” Psalm 37

Thus saith the NIV.

The rough logic of verse 23 of Psalm 37 is not that difficult to understand:  when—if, even—the Lord likes what he sees in a person, he’ll give the guy or gal a break. Sounds fair. That’s the kind of God I can deal with. He’ll love us if he determines we’re worth his investment. I can deal with that.

Listen to this: “The steps of a man are established by the Lord,” says the New American Standard; “and he delights in his way.” Or how about the KJV: “The steps of a good man are ordained by the Lord, and he delights in his way.”

Seems a whole lot different from the NIV. Correct me if I’m wrong, but in the gap that separates the translations, you could float a whale of a difference. In the NIV, something reciprocal is occurring—“you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” That kind of thing, as if God almighty is shopping for a used car—kicking tires, checking mileage, looking for dings. If he likes what he sees, he buys. It’s that simple.

In the King James, God isn’t shopping. He’s turning out human beings, setting them on a charted course, and watching them go exactly where he’s determined they would, as if, in a way, he were spinning tops. But even that’s a lousy analogy because, once spun, the top-spinner has no idea of direction. Maybe he’s like one of those folks who love model trains. Get the cars out of the box, assemble the tracks, and let ‘em go.

What seems unmistakable in the KJV and New American Standard is that God knows where we go, when we stand, and when we stoop, our ups, downs, and all arounds. What’s more, he delights in watching it happen, in seeing what he in fact determined. He loves to watch us circle around the tracks he’s laid.

That’s a whole different God from the one looking for used cars—or so it seems.

What’s at the base of the difference is a pair of contrary ideas that are not arcane, ideas that have puzzled human beings for centuries, and prompted a whole lot of folks to walk right out of church: Are we free, or is everything about us pre-conceived, foreordained, predestined? Good folks, brilliant theologians, learned scholars have and will continue to disagree, I’m sure, as do—obviously—the linguists who work as bible translators.

Who’s right? Good question, and worth considering.

But what did the poet/King say? Where would he come down? What did he intend? And which translation, pray tell, is accurate?

Those questions don’t bother me a great deal because the passage is, first of all, a song. It's not an academic paper or theological treatise. Psalm 37 is all about comfort, about feeling rest and peace in the Popeye arms of the One who made us and who never ever leaves.

In the very next verse David will admit he’s an old guy, a fact which may well be key to our accepting the sheer joy of this line’s thickly upholstered comfort. I’m probably about as old he was when he wrote the song or offered the meditation, and I think I know why he wouldn’t care for the debates this kind of verse might incite. 

All he wants us to know is that when he looks back on his life—all of his life—he knows for sure that the God who breathed his own breath into the child who would shockingly become King of Israel, that God would never ever leave him alone. 

That God was there always, and will be, forever.  That's the comfort of verse 23.

No matter how you read it, is far less a proposition than it is a promise.

Reviews for Daditong Vintage Canvas Backpack Shoulder Bag Rucksack school bag Hiking Outdoors bag (Black)

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Geometry assignment; Feb. 3

We went over our chapter 7 test today in class.  We then covered the topics of simplifying radical expressions and factoring our perfect squares.  We will be using this skill quite a bit as we move into chapter 8 dealing with right triangles.


Assignment:  Simplifying radicals worksheet  #1-48 all

Algebra 10-12 assignment; Feb. 25

We kept working with rules of exponents today, adding three more to our exponent tool box.  We went over raising a power to a power, raising a product to a power, and raising a quotient to a power in today's lesson.  The students then had time to get started on their homework before the end of the period.

Assignment:  Operations with exponents WS #2  (#1-40 all, 41-57 odd)

Geometry assignment; March 3

We began our unit on circles today with an introduction to some new terms as well as a review of some calculations that the students have seen before in previous math classes.  Radius, circumference, area, diameter, center, secant, tangent, chord, and point of tangency were all discussed and demonstrated.  Working with congruent and similar circles and concentric circles were also aspects of this unit that students were introduced to.

Homework:  circle calculation worksheet #1-9 all;  section 9-1;  page 330;  classroom exercises #1-10 all

Geometry assignment; March 7

We continued working with arcs and central angles today.  We went over the specifics of the arc addition postulate, and how it is different from the segment addition postulate.  We also went through a few examples of problems dealing with central angles, unknown values, and algebraic equations.  The students got started on their homework towards the end of the period.

Assignment:  arcs and central angles worksheet

Algebra 10-12 assignment; March 27

After reviewing with our last check quiz and entry task, the students took the test on multiplying polynomials today.  After the test they were able to work on an extra credit assignment if they chose to.

Assignment:  none  (extra credit was optional)

Geometry assignment; April 18th

We quickly went over our homework assignment before getting started on the quiz today.  The quiz was over finding the area of regular polygons.

After the quiz, the students got started on their homework assignment.


Assignment:  Determining areas of irregular shapes   #1-6

Geometry assignment; April 28

We began chapter 12 today working with 3-D objects.  The new terms that we introduced today involved finding the surface area and volume of various types of prisms.  Each one of these values is a combination of the area calculations that we have been working with in chapter 11.  After going through several sample problems together, the students got started on their homework at the end of the period.


Assignment:  section 12-1;  page 478;  #1-5, 7-11, 13, 14

Geometry assignment; May 8

We spent time in class today reviewing for the Chapter 12 test tomorrow.  We worked through several homework problems and then went over a few new practice problems together.  The students then got started working on their review sheet during the last part of the period.

Assignment:  Chapter 12 review sheet


Answers to review sheet questions.

1.  a.  144 pi             b.  288 pi
2.  a.  9 pi                 b.  4.5 pi
3.  3
4.  32 pi / 3
5.  7 pi   square cm
6.  a.   4             b.  8
7.  yes
8  a.  1:3       B.   1:9         C.  1:3      d.  1:27

Self test answers:

3.  22000 pi / 3
5.  a.  16/3                  b.  9:4
6.  a.  2:5                    b.  8:125

Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 9

We spent time in class today continuing to work with quadratics and how to solve them.  We also working with what the graphs of quadratics look like and how to draw them once the two solutions for x are solved for.

Assignment:  Solving quadratics worksheet

Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 12

We went over our entry task and homework today before continuing our work with quadratics.  We worked with solving more types of quadratics in various forms today.  The skill of working with radicals and finding both a positive and negative solution for perfect squares was used to solve the problems we worked on.  The students got started on their assignment at the end of the period.

Assignment:  Solving More Types of Quadratics worksheet  #1-37 odd

Algebra 10-12 assignment; May 29

We went over our homework today and then went through a review of graphing different types of functions.  We went over linear, quadratic (parabolas), and absolute value graphs.  We then spent some time working on the methods for shifting graphs on the coordinate axes.  The students then worked on graphing some of these shifts as well as working through a review of exponents.

Assignment:  shifts of graphs and exponents review worksheet

Geometry assignment; 8/26

We went over the course syllabus today as well as several of the classroom expectations.  We checked out books and got started on our first assignment that deals with a quick review of some equation solving skills in algebra.


Assignment:  Solving multi-step equations worksheet

Algebra 10-12 assignment; 9/9

Today's lesson focused on the beginning of working with various types of equations.  We demonstrated what an open, true, and false equation was.  We then began to work with equations to find the correct solution set.  This involved doing the same thing to both sides of the equations:  add, subtract, multiply, or divide.

The students then got started working on their assignment at the end of the period.


Assignment:  section 1-7;  page 36-37;  #1-36 all

Algebra 10-12 assignment; 9/12

We went over a quick entry task review today and answered some homework questions to begin the period.  The rest of the time was devoted to taking the Chapter 1 test.

When they finished the test, the students had the chance to do an extra credit worksheet if they chose to.


Assignment:  none;  extra credit worksheet optional

Geometry assignment; 9/12

We went over some homework questions today before beginning the lesson.  Today's lesson involved an activity in which students made drawings of various geometric figures.  After drawing them, the students then constructed 3-D models of the drawings.


Homework:  finish the drawings that the students did not complete and then complete the other side of the activity worksheet.


Chapter 1 test on Tuesday   9/16

Remembering Frederick Manfred--1912-1994 (x)

At his burial service up in the cemetery on the hill above Doon, his daughter read a story that was read again, later, at a memorial party he had himself ordered up, a story that later aired on National Public Radio, albeit altered a bit. That story epitomizes the relationship Frederick Manfred maintained with the faith tradition from which he’d come.

You can read it for yourself in his daughter’s memoir, A Daughter Remembers, but I’ll summarize it quickly. When the doctors discovered a rapidly growing brain tumor, Fred was scheduled immediately for surgery. An hour before, a young female hospital chaplain, someone Freya Manfred describes as “wearing a brightly flowered dress with a white lace collar and carrying a small white Bible,” dropped by to see him. Hospital policy.

When she told Fred that she was there to see how he stood spiritually, he immediately asked her about her background. She told him she was Catholic—although only by upbringing; and he told her in no uncertain terms that Roman Catholics had a great history. Do you know it?—he asked. She didn’t. Well, you should, said Manfred, and then, characteristically, began to hold forth on Aquinas and all manner of Roman Catholic history.

When he stopped to catch a breath, she bridged the question again—“But how are you doing spiritually? Perhaps I could guide you along,” she told him, sweetly.

“Have you read much philosophy?” Fred asked her. When she shook her head, he recommended Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Schopenhauer, Plato.

No reaction.

“What about poetry?” Fred said, booming, I’m sure, and now on a roll.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I should,” she said.

Manfred created a reading list—“Chaucer, Whitman—and don’t forget Dickinson, my personal favorite,” he told her.

Once again, she tried to broker her mission into the lecture. “I came here to find out what your relationship to God might be,” she said sweetly, stroking her white Bible.

And then Manfred told her that he simply wanted someone else. “My background was Christian Reformed,” he said. “You wouldn’t have one of those Christian Reformed guys right here, would you?”

“You mean a minister?” the young lady said.

Freya quotes him like this: “’No, just anyone who’s raised Christian Reformed. Someone who’s sick here in the hospital like me. Aren’t any of your patients Christian Reformed?”

The woman told her she didn’t think she knew of any, and he told her that if she’d find one to “rustle him up.”

“Rustle him up?” she responded.

“Bring him around here so I can talk to him. I like to argue with those guys—it perks them up,” he said. “Send him over and we’ll talk. It’ll do him some good, and me too.”

That’s a story Fred himself would tell, I’m sure, even embellish a bit, if he could. I feel his own voice in it, in me, as I tell it. I know he’d approve.

Morning Thanks--Ray Carver

He came along in my life when I needed him, even though I didn't know I did. I wanted to write, but I knew little about it really. Some of my new friends, other grad students, told me that Ray Carver was coming to teach. They could barely contain themselves. "You don't know his work?" they said, as if I was born in a barn.

I hightailed it to the bookstore and bought a couple of volumes of his short stories. He never wrote a novel.

On first reading, I didn't know what to make of him, truth be told. His stories had this Bowie-knife sharpness that made me cringe, almost in fear, as if life could be cut us up into bloody pieces that never really went away. Reading a bunch of them together was like coming on a barrel of glass shards, full of unforgettable, yet alarming beauty. They were like nothing else I'd ever read.

That was 1980. Ray Carver was dry at the time, not the dead-and-gone drunk he was for so terribly long in his life. He was working on what most consider today his strongest stories, Cathedral, a collection that included the story "Cathedral," the story, he says somewhere, that changed his life, a story of hope that's in just about every anthology undergrads can buy these days.

He never attempted it, but he climbed Parnassus in the literary world, became a cult figure. Soon, there were thousands of Carvers doing what he did, or trying, writing something people began to call "dirty realism." Me too. Count me among the disciples. I could show you lean and mean stories I wrote back then, Hong Kong ripoffs. Ray Carver taught a generation of fiction writers how to be newly-minted Hemingways, sparse and tight and frightfully close to the bone.  

He liked me. And, if you're wondering, yes, there's some considerable idolatry in beneath that statement. Consider it a confession: Raymond Carver liked me, liked my writing. The only way I can explain how much that meant to me back then is to say that it means as much to me today as it did 35 years ago.

This morning's Writer's Almanac features a Carver poem from a moment in his life that every Carver-ite recognizes, the moment Ray Carver found out he was going to die from the cancer that wasn't going away.  Here's the poem.

What the Doctor Said

He said it doesn't look good

he said it looks bad in fact real bad

he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before

I quit counting them 

I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know 

about any more being there than that

Don't ask me what a poem is--I don't know. To me, this feels more like prose than poetry, but frankly I don't care because it communicates with a place in my soul few things do. There's more.

he said are you a religious man do you kneel down

in forest groves and let yourself ask for help

when you come to a waterfall

mist blowing against your face and arms

do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments

To say Raymond Carver wasn't a religious man would be sinfully judgmental.  If "by your fruits you shall know them" is a rule of biblical thumb beyond nuance, some might say he wasn't. He left a trail of brutal ugliness, after all. But most of us are religious, in one way or another; some are just better at it than others. It's worth remembering this scripture too: not all who cry, "Lord, Lord. . ." are.

"Are you a religious man?" the doctor says. Carver replies with characteristic honesty.

I said not yet but I intend to start today

The doctor is a kind man. Listen to him, to what he tells a dying man.

he said I'm real sorry he said 

I wish I had some other kind of news to give you

I said Amen and he said something else

I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do

and not wanting him to have to repeat it

and me to have to fully digest it

I just looked at him

for a minute and he looked back

Ray Carver was not a big talker.  Trust me, he was not a stirring lecturer or a classroom stand-up comic. His ways were halting and sometimes even muffled. It was easy to miss some remarks. I never saw him drunk--who knows what he might have become?  And, of course, this silent moment in the doctor's office holds the recognition of eternity.

He knows it. Listen.

it was then

I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me

Something no one else on earth had ever given me

I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

The book that best documents what happened in Ray Carver's soul after this moment is a book of poems he titled A New Path to the Waterfall. 

There's just too much in that title and this morning's poem for me not to take heart. No one I know is God although some presume themselves approximates. I don't know the state of Ray Carver's soul. I have no idea of what may have happened on his death bed.

But to me, at least, this morning's poem is a blessed offering I'm greatly thankful to have opened. It's gorgeously arrayed with hope.

And hope, in this world, is something I need. 

I'm probably not alone.

Book Review--The Conquest: The Story of a Negro Pioneer

The story goes that James Fennimore Cooper, a gentleman born with considerably more than a silver spoon, got into a tiff with his wife when the two of them wagered that he could--or couldn't--write a better novel than the one Mrs. Cooper was reading. He said he could; she said he couldn't.

Writing novels was not a calling for Cooper, but then he was so wealthy he didn't need a vocation. Still, James Fennimore Cooper is oft considered America's first real novelist. His oeuvre is almost as long as it is classic, even though Mark Twain debunked him so horribly it's a wonder his work survives: 

A work of art? It has no invention; it has no order, system, sequence, or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no seeming of reality; its characters are confusedly drawn, and by their acts and words they prove that they are not the sort of people the author claims that they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is funny; its conversations are -- oh! indescribable; its love-scenes odious; its English a crime against the language.Now that's an unsettling review. 

Don't know if novel-writing suffers when would-be writers take it on because they're sure they can do better, but Oscar Micheaux is another who did. Micheaux, the son of a slave, was born in a Mississippi River town named Metropolis, a town just as much Kentucky as Illinois. When he was 17 he picked up and moved to Chicago, where, for the most part, his first novel The Conquest: the Story of  Negro Pioneer, is set. 

A whole section of the novel is set in South Dakota actually, where Micheaux himself homesteaded.  You read that line right. I was as shocked as you are. Oscar Micheaux, a black man, settled and homesteaded South Dakota land just outside of Gregory, South Dakota. In fact, this land, right here up the road.

It's almost impossible to imagine African-American homesteaders. They're supposed to be Dutch or German or Bohemian, Norwegian or Swede.  But Black?  Thousands of African-Americans tried their luck at "proving up" Great Plains homesteads. Most failed, just like most white families did, my own among 'em.  It takes a some wherewithal to weather the seasonal blows of Great Plains misfortunes.  

Conquest feels autobiographical, because it is. Oscar Devereaux Micheaux's hero is Oscar Devereaux--that didn't take much of a twist. Both Oscars homesteaded. Both Oscars wrote novels as a way of trying to make some quick cash. Both Oscars failed at first marriages. I'm sure the list goes on.

The novel wouldn't be remembered at all if it weren't for Micheaux himself, as well as the oddity of a black man breaking Great Plains ground just west of the Missouri, a black man surrounded by white ethnics and displaced Yankees all trying their hand at making a life on what seemed to be free land (no one asked the Lakota).  

It's not a great novel, but it's endlessly interesting because what it offers is a look at late-19th century African-American life. Most of the novel centers on Black life and culture, which offered its own set of issues, even of bigotry and racism. The cursed villain of the tale is a snake-oil preacher-man, lionized by his meek congregation, not to mention his sociopath daughter.  Conquest often feels like a melodrama.

Sometimes novels tell us who we are even if they don't try. Micheaux wrote The Conquest to make some bucks--Devereaux, the novel's protagonist, certainly does anyway. But a century later the novel's great strength is that it offers a glimpse of another time and place, a panorama not readily available elsewhere. When Fred Manfred's Green Earth came out, not all of Siouxland was proud. However, if you want to know anything about Dutch Calvinist life in northwest Iowa between the world wars, there's almost nothing else to read. 

Besides, Micheaux himself is a wonder, an African-American homesteader, a son of slaves on the open prairie, a South Dakota novelist, a Hollywood film-maker.  I'm sorry. It's still amazing.

He was, for certain, an innovator. When a Hollywood director wanted to make the novel into a movie, Micheaux agreed, then pulled out when the director didn't want him to have a say in the way the story was told. In a snit, Micheaux started his own film company in Sioux City--that's right, in Sioux City, Iowa.  

It didn't take long, however, and he'd gone off Hollywood himself and was writing, directing, and producing movies that still called "race films" because they were intended to play to a segregated movie audience, to the African-Americans who could get in to only those theaters open to African-Americans. Without a doubt, he was more successful at movie-making than he was at novel writing. 

The bookends of the novel (spoiler alert!) is Devereaux's love of a white woman, his determination not to pursue his relationship with her (for reasons of race), and, eventually his return to her, the love of his life, when she discovers something important about her own familial lineage (go ahead, guess).  

Nobody will ever lug The Conquest: The Story of a Negro Homesteader along to the beach. Only scholars and other folks interested in out-the-way museums and rusting highway markers will likely read it. 

But I liked Conquest, and I liked visiting the ground the man worked, too. I liked thinking about him out there in frontier Gregory, South Dakota, about him starting a film company in Sioux City, Iowa, about his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Oscar Micheaux was the son of slaves. He didn't have Cooper's great wealth or position. He came from nothing at all, wrote novels, made movies for his people. 

The Conquest is not a good novel, but it's great, great story.  

Sermon and symbol

To me, that morning he seemed more adamant than he normally is, more given to narrow his eyes and speak with his hands. He's not pushy. He's given to smiles more than scowls. There's normally no grimacing in his pulpit demeanor. He's endearingly off-the-cuff about things.  He'll stop the liturgy of worship service if he thinks of something funny or simply decides he should say what he's come up with behind the pulpit. He's a great guy and a fine pastor. We like him a great deal.

But he seemed a few shades more "the preacher" that Sunday morning, more "thus-saith-the-Lord." The subject was the Bible itself, the Word, the Holy Scripture. He was for it, of course, and adamant about our need to study it, to know it, to gather in and live out of its eternal wisdom. No hellfire and brimstone--he didn't warn us of turbulence in days to come if we didn't study it hard and take it to heart. He was just more adamant about things than he usually is. He wasn't being cute and nice or sweet about the Word--he was serious. It was our calling to know the Bible.

What he pointed out needs to be said. The Gallup people made it very clear when they researched Bible knowledge in the U.S. of A., not long ago: "Americans revere the Bible--but, by and large, they don't read it," their study said. "And because they don't read it, they have become a nation of biblical illiterates."

He might have said that but he didn't. He could have.

Now hold on to your chair. Less than half of all American believers can name all four gospels, while more than half can name only four (or even fewer) of the Ten Commandments. Seriously. I'm not making this up.

Most Americans (82%, in fact) believe that one of Poor Richard's sacred aphorisms,"God helps those who help themselves," is found somewhere in the book of Proverbs, not in Ben Franklin. Surveys also discovered that lots of folks think Joan of Arc was Noah's wife, and half of all high school seniors believe that Sodom and Gomorrah were a married couple.

But our pastor that Sunday wasn't talking about accumulating Bible knowledge. What wrinkled his forehead was his deep desire to make sure we knew how crucial it is to our lives to know the Holy Scriptures' eternal truths. He was less concerned with whether or not we could list Israel's sad line of kings than that we understand why God really didn't much care for the idea of human kingship from the get-go.

He was preaching an old saw, of course, the genre of sermon that couldn't really go south--like fighting sin and loving Jesus and being kind to your neighbor. You can't go wrong when you tell people they need to know and live the Word; we know; sometimes we just don't do.

It may well have been a class in the works of John Milton of Paradise Lost fame--I don't remember exactly. I was in my first semester of graduate school, I think, doing some secondary reading on the Reformation. My mind leaks info like an old inner tube. I swear I read it back then somewhere but don't have a clue where. I wish I could stick in a footnote here, but I can't. You'll have to take my word.

Somewhere in England, a Protestant government created a law to force every church in the kingdom to turn the pulpit copy of the Holy Bible around, the big one, the grand one, do a full-180 up in front of the congregation so that its face was radically open to the people and not just the priest. 

I would guess that all over the country those huge pulpit Bibles were swung around and opened, not so the congregation's most pious congregants could stroll up front and read mid-worship, but because of what that Bible's open face said--so plainly and fully--in the center of worship. The Bible belongs to the people.

It just so happens that the preacher holding forth on the efficacy of the Word that morning was doing so while standing right behind a huge open Bible blessedly opened to us, to the people, 500 years later. So amazing.

There's so much story in that huge open Bible, so much truth without really turning a page.

Right there in front of all of us was the sermon, open to any of us. Right there, without saying a thing. There it was as it is every Sunday morning, wide open.

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