Beginning and Ending with New Year

Most New Year's I find myself in the middle of a trip. More often than not, I am traveling at the end of the year and the holiday creates some inconvenience.
Traveling without reservations through Chile in 1992, Jon and I found ourselves joining a local family in their New Year's Eve festivities. They roasted a whole sheep on a spit in the back yard and put handfuls of lentils in our pockets. The party was warm and welcoming and we flew south the next day in high spirits, looking forward to adventure and some glaciers. What we found instead was a placed closed down for the New Year's holiday. No hotel, restaurant or travel agent was open.  We wandered the empty streets and wondered what to do next. Another local took us in and let us sleep in their children's bedroom.  The next day we went back to the airport and got the next flight out. The start of the new year was a bit of an anticlimax.
That pattern continued through the years. The New Year's Eve

celebrations in Rio cannot be missed. There is no way to avoid the party, it takes over the city. So we dressed in white and joined the millions on Copacabana beach for the fireworks. The air was thick with smoke and the water lit up with floating candle-lit rafts. It was a good idea to take a dip in the ocean before starting the long trek home. The New Year usually started with snarled traffic on the roads and the city badly in need of time to recover from the festivities. A sleepy and hungover start to the New Year.

This year I am not traveling, I am staying home by the fire. But as always, I will awake to a New Year and feel the need to do some cleaning up. It is time to put away the Christmas decorations, organize the now full cupboards, throw away the leftovers, and try to get back to normal life. Christmas was warm and fuzzy, but now it is time to take a cold shower and get moving.
This need not be as bad as it sounds. Last year, in Sri Lanka, I had a very different New Year's experience. Again, we were 10 days into our trip round the island. We didn't expect any party. The Sri Lankas don't party much. They don't drink or eat out. We had difficulty finding a place to celebrate Christmas. As we drove round the inner highlands I saw no bars, clubs or recognizable restaurant chains. We had stayed at a string of cheap hotels with only the bare basics. So on New Year's Eve we went out on safari, then went to bed like the animals, at sundown.

The surprise came New Year's day which, for once, outshone the night before. Our hotel (where we were the only guests) had rustled up a New Year's breakfast for us which we ate outside off banana leaves. It was made of sweetmeats, fruit, coconut rice, and colorful cake. I enjoyed it very much, and even was served decent coffee. The waiters hovered round and explained each dish and beamed. Then they showed us how to turn our cups upside down and 'read' the coffee grounds.  The patterns would tell us what to expect in the year to come.  I don't really know my way around coffee grounds, but I saw some high points between the drops dribbling down the side. I'm sure that means there was some good to look forward to.

After breakfast we received news of our driver. His mother had died overnight and he had gone home for the funeral. Another man was there to drive us on to our next and last destination on the coast. And just like that we were reminded that life is full of unexpected turns, both good and bad. We cannot even try to predict the events of the year to come. Thankfully we checked in to our next, and best, hotel on the beach. Our adventure over, we could relax in a place with western food and bathrooms. We took time to remember the events of the past year, what had brought us to this place, and what we wanted to do next year.  New Year's is not an ending, or a beginning... it is the place in between the past and the future. And like Janus, we should pause and consider looking both directions at once, learning from the past and pursuing a future with hope.

I Wonder as I Wander

It is easy to see how I identify with the story of the magi at Christmas.  I have spent Christmas on five different continents, and in the middle of an ocean. The wise men traveled afar following a star. There is more I'd like to know about these men. What were they hoping to find? What motivated them to make this journey?  Did they hope to be led towards peace in their troubled lives?

We hear more talk of "joy" and "love" at Christmas these days. And we get busy trying to recreate those moments of joy in our own ways. I know my parents certainly worked hard to bring Christmas cheer when we were growing up in Brasilia. First there was the business of finding a bush that could be clipped and wired with branches to look like a tree. Then my long suffering father would spend days inspecting each bulb in the old string of lights in order to get them working. The preparations for the feast started well in advance with the making of the fruit cake and mincemeat being shipped over from England.  There was plenty more food to make on the day, along with holding a father-son soccer match and planning the silly party games I looked forward to all year.

After leaving home I did not immediately try to recreate Christmas and took the opportunity to travel during the holidays instead. My first attempt at making Christmas was in Sofia when Jake was one. That year the US Embassy flew in trees from who-knows-where, and we found a cheap string of lights that melted after being plugged in. Everyone else we knew had traveled leaving us to celebrate alone. Jon ended up going rock climbing Christmas Day, while I took Jake downtown on the tram to a newly opened McDonalds.
My attempts at making Christmas in Rio fell equally flat, as I found cooking and baking in the heat of summer without air-conditioning a real chore. We ended up in the pool trying to cool off.
I hit my stride when celebrating on Kwajalein. It wasn't without effort. No one works harder at celebrating Christmas than the Marshallese.  They have created their own traditions with original music, dances and parades.

 The island has made the season their own with wacky activities to get everyone in the mood. Santa is flown in by plane, then swims up to the beach in scuba gear with lighted tree. Palm trees are lit and sailboats make the parade of lights. Packages are ordered months in advance and everyone shares when the local grocery store is out of butter and sugar. With a lot of help I was able to make Christmas memorable for my family, although I was miles away from other family and friends.
So next chance I got, I got all of us flights to London to spend a traditional English Christmas with grandma, cousins and brothers. Everything was perfect, with the roast turkey dinner, pulling crackers and opening presents round the tree.  However, just days before, I had found out that my passport would not be renewed and my traveling days might soon be over. I was painfully aware that there are problems ahead that I cannot control or fix. There are times when things look bleak, however we dress them up with Christmas cheer and warm feelings.

Like the magi, I am looking for peace that will last past the holiday season, blot out desperation and the general stress of living. I look for hope that the future months and years will bring love and joy where there is despair.
Last Christmas I traveled to Sri Lanka in an attempt to skip the normal Christmas festivities and look further afield. I did not find any answers or everlasting peace, just a different perspective on the holidays.
However you get ready for the holiday, may it make you happy and hopeful.
(Below are blogs from my last two Christmases)

Blog: Living Ruins and a Dead Body

Blog: Skipping Christmas

Unpacking a Story

We have begun a new chapter in our lives, and that involves some tearing out and rebuilding. The ugly bathroom was the first to go.  In the process we uncovered some interesting "artifacts" left behind by the previous owner.  We puzzled over how these had come to be trapped in the walls or behind the plumbing. We will never know the story behind them as their owners have since passed on, an it is their story to tell.  I suppose one could make up a story involving a bullet and some carefully labelled nail files.
In the midst of the demolition, our long awaited shipment arrived from Kuwait. The shipping company, who I will not name here, was cagey about its whereabouts for months, and then suddenly it arrived on our doorstep. Way too tired to start unpacking, and not knowing where I'd put the long forgotten items anyway, I went to bed.

I woke up to find that Jon had unpacked and displayed my dearest memories for me.  They are my collection of decorative pieces picked up over the years and lugged from place to place. They date back to my first teapot, bought on my limited budget during my student days in Gloucestershire. Some are wedding gifts or gifts from students in Brazil. None of the pieces are large, because of having to be transported, and few are expensive, since I expected to lose a few when they fell into my toddlers' hands. I had begun to collect a painted egg from every country I visited until my one-year-old thought they were toys to be thrown around. A few of the wooden ones survived.

I was amazed at how good they all looked together in one display. Despite my obvious taste for color and pattern, they are very different in styles and reflect very different cultures. However, each has meaning to me, and there is a story behind each one. A friend once described the process of moving as packing and unpacking your life.
I questioned my husband on the location of some missing pieces I knew I had packed.  He suggested I might have put them in with something else and sure enough I found some hidden treasures that I had stuffed into a jigsaw puzzle box. I'm not sure that was such a good idea, because it is easy to miss something when sifting through 2000 puzzle pieces. But that is where I came upon the pictured conglomerate above.  And here is the story that lead to those separate memories being fused together.

The shipping company in Kuwait had quoted us a cost (one which our employer would not cover) of $3000 to move our personal items to the US. Under the misunderstanding that we could reduce that cost by half if we reduced the size of our shipment, we had begun to sell off as much as we could and repack items together to save space. I got rid of half my puzzles, and kept only those of places I had traveled to: London, Venice, Rio. Then I found all those small items I had picked up in bazaars in Eastern Europe and off the beach of the Marshall Islands that would fit inside the boxes with the pieces. The small Russian stacking doll had been a perfect choice when we lived in Bulgaria in 1996.  Then Russian crafts could be picked up cheaply at local stalls outside the empty shops. They made perfect gifts for family back home, and could easily fit in a suitcase. Even better, they were unbreakable and could be played with as a toy. Over the years, and five moves later, it is still with us. In my collection of painted eggs, I found one made of wax. It was a rather ugly candle, and I can't remember where it came from, but Jon liked it and it didn't take up much space.

The movers arrived and totally ignored all our pains to reduce the cubic volume and charged us $3000. There was nothing we could do but pay up and hope we didn't offend any port authorities enough to lose our boxes altogether.   A few days later we left the country, right before record high temperatures hit Kuwait.  That July they claimed the temperature had reached 62°C, or 143°F, the highest ever recorded on earth and still debatable.  I'm guessing our boxes were still sitting in a warehouse at the port at that time.  So the candle melted together with the puzzle pieces of London and the Russian stacking doll.
Displayed on my shelves I have pottery from Windsor, Istanbul, Sofia, Barcelona, Jerusalem and Warsaw.   I have hung on to gifts from Brazilians and Marshallese. And Jon's shelf now contains a bullet to go with his Scottish hip flask. My life unpacked is a potpourri of delicious reminders of where I have been. I could just frame my passport, but then I might forget the stories of my life.

Homecoming

I still don't quite understand the Homecoming tradition. I know that it attempts to promote school spirit around a football game, but why there is a coronation and why middle-schoolers dress in wacky costumes is not clear to me. I am trying to figure out how I, as a teacher, and how my son, as a senior, fit in.
We are celebrating 'coming home' by moving back into our Minnesota home and looking forward to fall and winter festivities surrounded by family and friends.

An unexpected bonus of moving back to the US was having old friends be able to come and visit. These are friends we made overseas, but have the Midwest as their home base. We reunited with some Kwaj friends and their three year old son. Fortunately the weather was warm enough for us to visit outside and enjoy the balmy end of summer season. The only down fall was the dropping walnuts. Our yard has three huge trees that drop their nuts the size of golf balls with every gust of wind. The nuts hit the roof, rain down on cars and patio furniture and cover the ground. Any activity outside becomes one of "duck and cover", always alert of falling nuts. Sitting outside becomes hazardous, and I have been struck on the head while sipping a glass of wine.
These conditions didn't deter our visiting three year old. He  promptly donned a bike helmet he found in the garage and continued to explore the back yard. There were nuts to toss, squirrels to chase, seedpods to pop and a garden with cherry tomatoes just ripe for the picking. Inside the house was a basement and an attic with endless possibilities for finding hidden treasures.

He discovered the delight of fishing off the dock and brought back my few years here when my sons were that age. They enjoyed the same delight in catching an ugly old bull head and then being afraid to touch it. I found myself once again doing the unwelcome job of de-hooking the fish.
At that time we had moved back to the US exactly because we wanted our boys to experience the simple pleasures that come with growing up in a small town in the Midwest.
So why did we leave again and take our family globe trotting, in and out of three high schools on different continents? In the backs of our minds we did have a nagging concern that we were depriving them of a wholesome childhood at the expense of our wanderlust.

My friends have now left with their little boy and travel half way across the globe to their home far away and I ponder this anew. In some ways all of my sons' life was a series of field trips. Trips out to explore new geography, to learn of the history and culture of their home, to see the living world around them. Then traveling back to the US each summer was yet another field trip to visit the people and history that make them who they are today.
I know at least one of my sons is tired of these trips, that like school field trips, are more about learning something new and less about pleasure.

Wherever we are, childhood is about learning, growing, exploring and pushing back boundaries. My children certainly have had the opportunity for that both home and abroad.  And while my boys have never had the chance to be crowned Homecoming king, they do understand the meaning of Homecoming. We come home to appreciate our roots before heading back out to take in some more of what the world has to offer. My oldest was described as "not a risk taker" at the age of three. Now I can see him very easily going on a scientific exploration of Antarctica!

Foreign Exchange Student at Football

My son's frustrating start to his senior year of high school began at the first home football game.  "I feel like no one cares about me," is his reaction.  He finds out only hours before the game he is supposed to be playing trombone in the band. He has no music and has never played any of the songs, including the national anthem.  No one has taken the time to share important information with him and he is lost. Technically he is not a new student, but a returning student who everyone knows by name. He attended Kindergarten here and is related to more than one member of staff. Where most of the town sees our family as returning home, my son feels like a foreign exchange student after being overseas for 11 years.

We got through the first home game by following the crowd and sitting with the cheering parents. I felt as foreign as my son. I was surprised that I was expected to show up to watch a game where my son was not playing, bring my own chair to sit out in the cold, and pay for the experience!  I had no idea what was going on the field, and worried how my son would do in his half-time performance.
This was obviously a community event with the whole town showing up.  Many were not watching the game, but watching kids who were there to run around and buy hot-dogs. There was a score board full of numbers, ( why not just 2-0?) , an announcer of player's names, and bright lights to highlight the action. None of it was of help to me. Later I discussed the game with my son. He said he sat next to a nerdy band kid who explained the game to him. Well it seems like someone finally realized there was a need to introduce this foreigner to his new home.

So at my next game I decided to play the foreign exchange student and ask for some clarification. I learned that there are nine players on the field, but another 25 kids dressed on the side lines. Why so many? Well, there are injuries and special players for different parts of the game and youngsters hoping to play varsity one day. I learned that when the refs throw a yellow rag down they aren't throwing a fit, but calling a foul. I learned that the "chain gang" on the side line aren't coaches or parents, but officials who mark where the ball went down, or where it should go down. I learned that when everyone "takes a knee", they aren't showing reverence, but rather they are in time-out, waiting to be allowed to play again.

But the most surprising revelation of the night was the story behind the girls all dressed in football jerseys and walking back and forth as a pack on the side lines. From what I could tell they weren't cheerleaders,  but more like groupies. I had to ask. I learned that each girl had asked a boy on the football team if she could wear his number for the season. Then she dutifully wore his "shirt" to each game and called out "We love our boys" in encouragement and support. After a touchdown the whole gang went down to the end zone and did jumping jacks numbering the score on the score board. It sounded very much like the medieval practice of a knight going out to battle wearing a lady's colors.

Family members and friends I was sitting with revealed all this tradition with pride. They themselves had worn a boy's number and shouted about their love. They described the pageantry at bigger schools where bands march, with flags and even guns are twirled!   You could hear the love and pride of mothers and grandparents as they cheer on their sons and grandsons, but never bragging. "He's faster than he looks!" "Was that my son?" The small town home game traditions are old and strong.

On Our Way

It is a four day weekend, the end of the summer, and our last chance to go up to the lake. But such is the reality of our family that it is increasingly difficult to make travel plans. On a whim I arrive home from school, ask my son to load up his college needs, and convince my younger son that he isn't doing anything important enough to warrant his staying home.  Jon will have to drive separately because of his job's responsibilities, and I've checked in with my eldest son regarding his sporting events. So my two sons and I fill up the van with gas and hit the road in the early evening.

I take a back seat and allow my son to drive.  I start giving directions from the back seat and he takes offense immediately. "I do not appreciate your backseat driving," he tells me directly. I apologize while mopping up my spilled coffee. I still pull up the route on Google Maps, knowing that for all his "I got this attitude", I still need to know where we are going.  My mother calls from the UK just to touch base and tell me about her upcoming trip to Brazil. The conversation is continually interrupted by the Maps lady telling me where to turn, and me telling Sam where to turn. My mother was more than a little confused at what was going on.

Now the most important part of any road trip with my boys is where we are going to stop and eat. So as I settled into reading my book in the back seat about the French policeman who cooks wonderful food, I notice Sam is using his phone to look up restaurants on-route while driving. It turns out that Sam has been this way before to visit a friend whose family owns a slightly dodgy vineyard, and they ate at a slightly dodgy Chinese restaurant. So the three of us ate from the buffet of standard dishes, avoided the salad bar which consisted of canned pineapple and olives, and read our fortunes in the slightly soggy cookies. Mine: "Good things come to those who wait.  Be patient."  Yes, the lesson of my life in a cookie!  I realized that there was no where else I would rather be than in the seedy restaurant with my boys at that moment.

Of course, it would be nice to have Jon and Jake along too, but you take what you can get. It was my turn to drive, and I called Jon to see if he was missing us. He was on the golf course. He let me hear the sound of his swing. Then he posted pictures of his steak supper afterwards. He'd survive our departure without him.
By sheer chance, we ended up on a scenic highway along the Minnesota River valley with signs to the historic Harkin Store. I had heard of this place because Jon would reference it as not the quickest route up to the lake. It was certainly scenic. Deer crossed the road into the shadows of the trees along the river. A family of wild turkeys watched us pass.

And I felt I needed to stop and take a look at this famous store. It was closed and I wondered how many visitors stop here on weekends. It stands as a reminder that once this was a busy river where traders and farmers crossed paths. Once the railway was built, and grasshoppers devastated the local crops, people moved away and bypassed the beautiful valley. Now it is only visited by people like me, who are drawn by the quiet scenery of the river and not in a hurry to get anywhere.  We parked by a sign facing the water. The sign reminded us again that there was history to be learned from and to take time to visit the past. And as I quietly walked up to the old porch I found myself wanting to sit on the long benches awhile and watch the world go by. Life is change, but we can call a time out occasionally, reflect, and take it slow.

My sons were waiting patiently for me in the van.  They knew I had to take a moment and I marveled at their understanding. We drove on with Sam pulling up directions on his phone as mine was now dead. He tuned the radio to NPR Classical, saying that it was good battle music. He and Ben had begun a war game on their ancient Game Boy.  Whatever the reason, I appreciated the music. It suited my mood.
It was now getting dark and Sam's directions were getting shaky.  He was glancing at the phone between battles and misjudged distances.  On his command I slammed on the brakes just to make a wrong turn on to a gravel road. He assured me that Google was never wrong and I should continue ahead.  After a mile and a half of gravel, and a risky bridge over the Crow River, we came to a main road. Soon after I had to stop at yet another 4-way stop sign (something I just do not understand!).  Sam casually looked up from his small screen saying, "Oh, yeah, take a left here." I did and found myself driving towards a ROAD CLOSED sign.

With a sense of achievement we started to see familiar signs of lakes and liquor stores. We turned into the Jahnke driveway, drove up to a house where lights were still on and stepped out to the sounds of laughter and fun.
I love it... going places.  I love all of it: the taking off, the exploring a new route, the stops along the way, the arriving, and above all else, the people who go along with me. And if I ever get to a point where I can no longer go, I will pull out all my pictures and memories and relive the experience of going.

The Junk Bucket

While poking around at the Freeborn County Fairgrounds, I come across a painted sculpture made of assorted bits of junk, displaying the words "SIX BEST DAYS OF SUMMER". I look again, and realize it is supposed to represent the fairground logo, which includes symbols of all the elements of the yearly celebration of summer in Minnesota. I move on quickly because there is more to see, and the Republican representative is moving out from behind his huge Trump cut-out towards me. It is only later, when returning on another of the six days of the fair, that I notice a sign crudely written and placed beside the sculpture. It reads: The "Junkbucket" and All the Pieces... made by a 83 year old guy with one eye

and a shakey hand.  This explains the "chickenpoop" welding. The sign made me think of all the passion that goes into the making of the fair.
My first visit is to the Floral Hall. I help with the judging of homemade wines, and know several of the creative people who grow and arrange flowers. Everything is displayed and I am anxious to see which entries received purple "Grand Champion" ribbons. Then I head out to the food stalls. My first buy is always something deep fried, like a corn dog or cheese curds. The onion rings are good too. The crowds start to gather towards evening, the funnel cake line is long, and the rides open. There are years when I have spent hours going round the rides with my

sons, but today I shudder in horror at the thought of spending any money at all on a whirling, neck breaking, stomach churning moving bit of metal and lights.  Instead I take a quick walk around the other exhibits and find everything much the same as last year.
I am invited to stay in the campground. I'm not sure I want to spend any more time at the fair, but accept the opportunity to get away from the crowds and relax in an air-conditioned camper. The campers are families whose children are working and showing animals at the fair. In between their shifts and feeding schedules, they

get together and share food and a few laughs. This year there are three smokers going, preparing pork and beef for a future feast. Coolers are full, with plenty of shade to relax in during the day, and there is sure to be a lively game of poker once the sun goes down. I hear all about how the pig and rabbit judging will happen the next day.
The children have been preparing their animals since birth and the day has finally come. They dress appropriately knowing that they are being judged as much as their animals. How the champion is picked out of the many animals shown is a mystery to me, but I learn a bit more every year.

My son is helping out at the Livestock food stand this year and I have a few hours to kill. I wander round the exhibits for a second time and admire the enormous quilts. But what interests me more is the exhibits in the 4H building. These are children's projects, completed out of school, not for a grade, but just because they are experimenting with finding what they are passionate about. There are crafts and science experiments, and attempts to carry on a family's legacy. I applaud these youngsters for their passion and hard work.

I find myself at the fair for yet another day. I have already visited all the exhibits twice, but there is still more animal showings. I skip the chickens, but get in on the pig showing. Some of the children, all dressed up in boots and checked shirts, are smaller than the pig itself. More than one is in tears and parents have to step in.One by one they are eliminated until the final three winners are left tapping their hogs around the dusty ring. These will be auctioned off the next day, or rather, their ribbons will be auctioned off. Feed companies that do business in the area throw their money around as a way of rewarding farmers who give them business. I watch a sheep bring in $1500.

I visit the Kiddie Barn out of tradition. My own children are well past the age, but I just have to see if there are piglets this year. I am surprised to find a display of bees and information about bee keeping. The puppies and kittens are already sold, but most of the animals here are on loan.  I wonder who decides to own a peacock, or an alpaca, or a very noisy miniature donkey. I realize that all the animals at the fair are passionately cared for by someone with the express purpose of sharing them with fellow fair-goers. They put money into breeding and transporting these animals without being rewarded with money. This is their passion.

I have now been at the fair for four days. I visit the conservation building and learn about killer wasps. Then I put my name into a raffle to win Senator Al Franken's latest book.  I splurge on a Greek gyro and listen to a elderly trio play bluegrass nearby. I arrive at the grandstand in plenty of time to get a seat for the evening concert. The band Kansas will draw a large crowd, but it won't compare to the number of people who showed up last year to hear Ted Nugent . It goes to show that, as the sun goes down, other passions come out. The beer garden can hardly handle the numbers when a country singer is on stage.
Families camp and stay all week, the working

crowd comes after 5:00 and lingers through the evening. Seniors are bused in on Wednesdays, then come back with their grand-kids wanting them to have the same experience of the fair they had in their youth. Teens take their day jobs seriously, selling food and tending stalls, then flirt and show off on the rides at night. Together they bring their assorted passions to the fair, throw them together into the 'junk bucket', and jointly display what they have been individually nurturing all year.

The Active Pursuit of Joy

I view travel as the active pursuit of that elusive moment of joy. All summer I have experienced this, both first hand and through the travels of others who are visiting loved ones or moving on to new adventures.  However, in the Midwest, I have also noticed that people like to bring that joy back home with them. Masters of DIY, they turn their homes into resorts with back yard pools, hot tubs and fire-pits. They toil to make their neighborhood a small garden of Eden, or buy a cabin up north among the lakes and forest. What brought this to my attention was the new vineyard and winery in town. I was amazed that I had this in my backyard, but then found out that more than a few Minnesotans grow grapes and make their own wine.

I had never heard of Minnesota wine country, but there are two AVA's (American Viticultural Area) in the state: Alexandria and the Mississippi River valley. Growers have found that the lakes around Alexandria and the valley climate both make it possible to produce certain wines. I inadvertently visited both areas this summer and joined in with others in search of the good life.
The bikes outside Nelson's Creamery were too many to count. We joined a line that stretched out the door to get some of their famous ice-cream.  And of course there was plenty of cheese to buy, and wine. The owners had created a classy wine-tasting room out back and sold a huge variety of imported wines. It made for a nice stop on a beautiful drive through Wisconsin dairy land.
Others go out of their way to visit The Stone Barn for the authentic wood-oven Italian pizza.

I hear that some teachers opened the place and it only operates in the summer for those who want a bit of rustic fun on the weekend. They created a bit of Italy in the Midwest. At one time I would have laughed at someone's attempts to recreate an authentic foreign or classical experience with new materials in their own back yard. However, I now see all the work that goes into the bringing what we love best about a foreign culture or unique geography back for others' enjoyment. It is similar to the time a neighbor found the ingredients I needed to bake Brazilian pao de queijo, or when another friend kindly came over to make me a delicious curry with authentic spices.  We are all passing on the experience and sharing the good life .
I have a great admiration for those who can cultivate, decorate, cook, and create those foreign delicacies in their neighborhood for the purpose of sharing joy with other around them.

While helping with the judging of a local homemade wine competition I was able to pick up some advice and a story or two.  Grapes are not original to Minnesota, the climate being far too extreme. The first settlers made wine from corncobs. I had to have that process explained to me, as we tasted the wine entry after the judging was over.  Minnesota has wild grape, which can also be used to make a very potent wine, (some might not call it wine as it is over 50% proof). One local wine maker remembers a summer when, over the course of two family gathering for a christening and a confirmation, they were able to mobilize the guests to pick enough wild grape to make wine. "You could light that batch on fire!"

Since then the University of Minnesota has developed some hybrids that can survive the Midwest winter, and there are over 40 wineries around the state. One is the Three Oaks Winery just 10 miles from my home. I drove through the vineyard on my way into work. Naturally I had to stop, ignore the "No Trespassing" sign and walk between the vines. The grapes are doing well and this year's wine looks promising. Then I am thankful for all the research, time and backbreaking effort gone into bringing this joy home.

Lutheran Sunday

The Lutherans meet at 9:00 Sunday morning. It is summer and there is only one service under the assumption that half the congregation will not be there due to prior engagements with their gardens or fishing boats.  Pastor greets us at the door then begins the service with a few announcements. These are short because it's summer time and there happen to be no weddings or funerals in town. We stand for the opening hymn and wait for the the first bars on the organ. Nothing. As the wait grows I search up front for what might be the problem with the organ. The organist has left her spot up beside the altar and must be making her way up to the old instrument in the organ loft at back. I remember now that there was some reluctance on the part of the pianists about playing the new instrument up front where they were in full view of the congregation. So this led them to make a trek down behind the altar, through the Sunday School building or the basement kitchens, then climbing the stairs at the rear to play the first hymn. And the congregation patiently waited... and waited. After what seemed like a full 10 minutes, the familiar tune breathed out above our heads. She had made it.

Everyone knows the order of service by heart, but that doesn't prevent the out of the ordinary. A tall man suddenly jumped up out of his pew with a loud, "SON OF A GUN!" The congregation burst our laughing, obviously in on the joke. He had forgotten that it was his Sunday to do the readings. He enjoyed the hilarity of the situation, apologized and made his way up to the lectern. The chuckles died down as he began to read from the New Testament.
Pastor's sermon was short and to the point with several stories of dogs and people, he refused to name, who had strayed and got themselves into silly but poignant situations.

During the last hymn I noticed my mother-in-law slip out to make the coffee. I decided to go also and offer help. When I got to the kitchens I found that five other relatives had had the same idea and there wasn't much to do except help ourselves to rolls.  Guiltily, we ate in full view of the congregation waiting in line up the basement steps. Would they think we had snuck out early to make sure we got first pick of the donuts? But no one gave us the stink-eye and we sat together and caught up on comings and goings over coffee.
I came across a Lutheran cookbook in my cupboard and an interesting recipe caught my eye, contributed by Selma S. There is no date, but I would guess Selma is long gone. Here is the recipe for Scripture Cake :

1 c. Judges 5:25              1 c Numbers 17:8

1 c. Judges 4:19              1 tsp. Matthew 13:3

2 c. Jeremiah 6:20           3 1/2 c. I Kings 4:22

2 c. Nahum 3:12              6 Isaiah 10:14

6 tbsp. Exodus 16:31       2 c. I Samuel 30:12

Pinch of Leviticus 2:13   2 tsp. Amos 4:5

I Kings 10:2 to taste

Follow Solomon's advice (Proverbs 23:13) for making good boys and you'll have a good cake. 

I could end with this delightfully silly recipe. Especially since the 'Judges' references are to a story of a woman who hammers a tent stake through an enemy's head while he sleeps in her tent! And, of course, Solomon's advice is to beat with a rod.  Enough said... much is assumed in the Lutheran Church, and much of humanity is quietly understood. This leads to acceptance of all, despite their foibles.  There is thoughtfulness and care within the community, and a good sense of humor to make us all feel "OK".