Poems from The Boundary Waters

Day:
Muscles flex, paddle dips,
A miniscule eddy forms
As our red canoe propels forward.
As the paddle feathers back
Over the water's surface,
Droplets slide off the blade.
The boat, the water, and we
Become one as we journey
Across lake and land.

Night:
I hear little noise except
The haunting cry of a loon
And the waterfall across the lake.
The water is still.
The stars are emerging;
Chunks of space rock
Burn as they streak
Across the black sky
Making a spectacular night show.

Olympics!

We were camping in Illinois last week on our way to the family reunion, so we missed the opening ceremonies of the 2012 Olympic Games. I didn't get to watch any events until late Thursday night after we returned home, so the last few days the television has seen more on time that it has all summer.

As most of you know, I don't put a lot of time into watching televised sports. The Olympics is the one exception. I watch as much of the Olympics as I can.

I love the events--especially some of the ones we don't get to see very often. It's fun to see something like water polo, kayaking, or archery, rather than the usual professional sports.

The sportsmanship in the Olympics is laudable. While everyone is cheering for their home country, they still cheer whole-heartedly for the other competitors. One of my boys commented on how they were surprised to see the athletes who "lost" congratulate the winners. And the medal placers congratulate the "losers." There is seldom any jeering. Spectators as well as competitors encourage and support everyone alike. Especially the underdog.

And possibly one of the most compelling parts of the Olympics is the stories we get to hear behind the athletes (and thank you, Visa, for getting Morgan Freeman to narrate your inspirational commercials which briefly highlight some of those stories).

Who will forget this year seeing a double-amputee from South Africa run a race--and do so well? Or a legally blind archer from Korea helping his team receive a medal? Or a former refugee who used to run for his life, now running for the enjoyment of the sport.

Prince and princess are on the same playing field as the commoner. Every participating country had a female competitor for the first time ever. And while the smaller, less developed nations usually don't have the financial backing for training their athletes, often an athlete from an underdog country ends up in a medal-winning heat here and there.

I know there is plenty of controversy behind parts of the Olympics, but there is much I can appreciate. So, thank you world, for coming together for a couple weeks, putting aside our political differences and cheering each other on. We need more moments like this to celebrate and encourage one another.

Tom Sawyer, Caves, and Childhood

Today we journeyed to Hannibal, Missouri. The quaint (and slightly run-down) village nestled in the bluffs along the Mississippi River is home to Titanic survivor Molly Brown (The Unsinkable). I know very little of her life--other than it was portrayed by Kathy Bates in the James Cameron movie and that she had other movies made about her--so we didn't even look at her birthplace.

Instead we hit the attractions focused around the town's more famous celebrity: Samuel Clemens (the real name of author Mark Twain). The boys and I had just finished listening to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on our drive. On a previous trip, we had listened to the CD about Huck Finn.

The boys had enjoyed the adventures of the stories: dead bodies, mystery, boys playing hooky from school, rafting down the Mississippi River, exploring caves. What's not to like?

We stopped in town and walked along the old buildings of downtown, including Samuel Clemen's boyhood home. The boys pretended to whitewash the fence next to the home. We climbed Cardiff Hill to the overlook of the river valley.

Then we journeyed to our main destination: the Mark Twain Cave. The boys hadn't been in an underground cave before. There's not much that's spectacular about this particular cave. It has few grand formations--very little in the way of stalactites or stalagmites. But there is history (almost 200 hundred years)...and more important, there is imagination connected to Tom Sawyer's story.

We saw where Injun Joe died trying to escape, where Tom and Becky sat and ate cake, where the cross was that marked the treasure room, and much more imaginative history.

There are thousands of signatures in the caves
 (which hasn't been allowed since the 1970s)
--we saw some dating back as far as 1865

Maybe Hannibal, Missouri, survives because of nostalgia (as if that were entirely a bad thing). I think it largely survives because of the embrace of childhood. We all need the chance to return to a simpler time every once in a while--no responsibilities, nor pressure, just time to explore and have fun. I think that is largely why Mark Twain wrote his stories--both for us and for himselof.

In the Land of Lincoln

We visited the re-created village of New Salem, Illinois, a few days ago. In the 1930s Abraham Lincoln spent his young adult years there. It's been painstakingly recreated with archeological research to show where the original sites of the buildings were and using no metal nails in building some of the buildings (we noticed wooden hinges and pegs on a door).

When Lincoln steps out on his own, away from the shadow of his parents, he settles in New Salem. It is an obscure village northwest of Springfield--which, if I recall correctly, wasn't the state capital then; Lincoln would lobby for that move later--with just twenty some buildings.

He gained respect there (it is where the legendary wrestling match occurred). But he also experinced much failure. He ran for a state congressional office and lost. He went in with another village to start up a new store (which there was already one in town, so I'm not sure what they were thinking trying to succeed with a second store in a town that small). After a couple of years it went belly-up.

While becoming a reputable surveyor (a job for which Lincoln had no training), the local law enforcement seized his surveying tools as well as his horse and saddle to auction off for paying off what was owned on the store. Then he turned to law. He had only about a year of formal education, but Lincoln managed to become a lawyer. It was because of his love for books--as well as learning in general. He never gave up.

The village of New Salem only started a couple of years before Lincoln arrived. A couple of years after he left, and the village had pretty much disappeared. But, at least as they like to entice the tourists with, the small little town of New Salem seemed to have had a swaying impact on the man who would become our nation's sixteenth, and arguably the greatest, president.

May wherever we land ourselves shape us for the best.

Family Reunion

The Leo Trumper home

The boys and I are returning from our trek to Pana, Illinois. Every year for the past 66 years the descendants of the Leo Trumper family (and cousins of various names--Werners, Sprects, Yencks, and others I may not know) have gathered at the original homesite for a family reunion. Relatives from New Jersey, Michigan, Arizona, and even Beijing, China, this year, travel to spend time with each other for a weekend.

It is my maternal grandfather's side of the family. I never knew him--he died before my parents were even married. I didn't know a lot of that family, either. We didn't get to make the trip a lot when I was young. I've gone many more times since I've been married, but it still hasn't been that frequently--at least as frequently as we'd like.

Even though I didn't grow up close to these cousins of varying degrees, when we arrive in Pana it is like we have always been close. Even now, as soon as my boys get out of the car, they know they are surrounded by family who love and accept them.

We gather at the home where my grandfather and his six siblings grew up as children. I'm not sure when the last time anyone lived in the old house was, but it remains--largely unchanged--solely for the purpose of the reunion. My Aunt Madeline used to come out from Maryland and stay for longer chunks of the summer in the house--in the room she grew up in--but she isn't able to make the journey any longer--at least not very easily.

The boys and I stay in the house when we visit (Beth has been doing research and field work the last couple times we've gone, so we make the journey without her). The bed sags in the middle. The floorboards creak. The paint is peeling. The bathroom contains a large four-clawed bathtub and a toilet which you can't flush the toilet paper in because the septic system can't handle it. It is not a house you would typically want to sleep in alone. But we never have to. My mom's cousin Denise and her kids are always there as well. Up until a year ago, her father was always there also. As well as anyone else who was up for the quaint amenities.

The Great-Aunts & Uncles

Most everyone there is called an "aunt" or "uncle" regardless of their relation to you. The oldest generation (my mom's true aunts and uncles) still get called that by my generation. The older cousins become my kids' aunts and uncles. We're all family (including the non-family members who often come--boyfriends, girlfriends, even just regular friends).

My Great-Aunt Denise would often show up in the mornings with an offering of pastries, orange juice, and the local parish paper to let us know what time mass would be on Sunday. She doesn't do it much any more (it was often for her late brother Vic who stayed there), but she always did it silently, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but to serve those who were staying in the house.

My Great-Aunt Mary and Uncle Richie always get the house in order and prepare boundless feasts for those who arrive early and stay late.

The big gathering is on Sunday afternoon. Everyone contributes to a wonderous potluck. Most of us complain about having eaten far too much. Yet we still find room for dessert and leftovers later in the evening. As well as a run across the street to the Dairy Queen which my Great Uncle Paul first started.

Nils on the swing

We have our traditions: after the meal there is a water fight and then Uncle Richie brings out bags of northern white beans and straws to have "pea shooter" fights. The yard always has a swing made from a sack tied to rope hanging from a tree. Whenever a train comes down the tracks behind the house the kids love to gather apples that have fallen off the trees to throw at the cars. We'll put nails, pennies and other small objects on the tracks to see how the train cars misshape them. We generally do a lot of sitting around in chairs on the lawn talking and watching the kids play.

As an ordained minister, even though I am not Catholic like most of the family, I still am asked to pray for the meal whenever I am there. It sometimes feels like a weighty burden that I am not worthy of doing. But no matter what, I am accepted.

That is what being family is. I know they're not perfect. And often they're a little too obvious or confessional in their imperfections, but the Trumper family is a place where all are welcome and accepted. They are giving, loving servants who love to share and take care of each other. I think--at least I hope--that family is a little glimpse of Heaven. At least all those good parts.

Camping in the Shadow of Carl Sandburg

A nearly-round moon illumines the night
I can almost see each individual leaf
On the trees towering over our tent.
The land is parched, but no rain has fallen
For several months so I leave the rainfly off.
As I lay on my sleeping bag--the air has not
Cooled enough to be in it yet--
I listen to the sounds around me.
The night is still, but it is not silent.
Man-made sounds like a passing freight train
Rumble in the distance, but overhead
A cacophony of the noises created by
Insects and frogs rolls over me.
I try to isolate just one sound,
But it is almost maddening to try.
A shooting star flashes by overhead.
I know it is not actually a star
But a burning chunk of space rock.
Yet "meteorite" is not as romantic to say.
I track a satellite's orbit across the sky,
And am stirred from near-slumber
From the shrill chatter of a raccoon pair
That comes to take advantage of
Any crumbs we dropped during supper last night.
I watch the pair scampering about,
Chasing each other as if the moon
Bids them to come and play.
Then I lay back in repose, ready for sleep
 As the hunter Orion watches over me.
 -July 27-28, outside Galesburg, Illinois, birthplace of said poet.

Desperation

Last night at church we talked about being desperate for Jesus. The lectionary texts talked about the crowds gathering around Jesus wanting to be healed. When Jesus took the apostles across the lake in a boat to get a respite from the crowds, they walked around the lake to Him. They were desperate to be with Him.

It made me wonder why isn't our Jesus today the same as the real Jesus? By that I mean that when we present Jesus to the public, people aren't desperate for Him like they were 2000 years ago. Jesus hasn't changed. So it seems that it must be because of the way we present Jesus to others. I think we tend to present a Jesus who is more concerned with rule following than a Jesus who loves and wants to bring healing.

So if I'm not presenting Jesus as He really is, I must not be seeing Him as He really is.

And I know I don't see Him as He really is all the time. There are times I'd rather run from Him than run to Him. I think there are times I see Him as pointing fingers at me for my sins, rather than standing with open arms in love. If I saw Jesus as He really is, I think I'd be more likely to run to Him.

But I also wonder if I'm just sometimes afraid to be desperate for Jesus? To be desperate for Him, I'd have to face my brokenness to see my need for healing. I'd have to admit I'm in need.

And I am these things. I do need Jesus. So I'm learning to be more desperate.

Of course, as we were reminded at church, desperation isn't attractive. Desperate people aren't pretty. But this is who Jesus came for. He came for those who could acknowledge that they can't do life well on their own, for those who are empty and want the fullness that Jesus offers.

I must unleash my unattractiveness and ugliness and be willing to run to Jesus. It doesn't come easy for me, but desperation is my desire.

Family in Town

My parents never get to enjoy the Twin Cities whenever they visit. They're either here for a family event or work, so we've been trying to get them up for a while just to enjoy some of the fun things around town. They were finally able to come up Sunday night--with my niece and nephew. They were only able to be here two days, so we packed a lot of fun into the past two days. We never left Minneapolis and did completely free things.

We started the time together by taking a bike ride along the  Mississippi River  down to  the Stone Arch Bridge and to the Guthrie Theater.

In the Yellow Room on the 9th floor of the Guthrie,  enjoying some air conditioning.

We headed down to Minnehaha Falls to cool off in the water.

After enjoying time in the river, we still finished the day going for a swim in the lake at Theodore Wirth Park. The river was restful--the kids played with the rocks, swam down the current, and tried to catch small fish in their hands. The lake was one last cooling off on a 101 degree day with energetic swimming.

This morning we went to the Minneapolis Institute of Art and enjoyed getting cultured.

On our way home we stopped at the Sculpture Garden.

Ethan ate the giant cherry.

We finished off the day driving down around the Chain of Lakes so that Mom could enjoy the homes along the way. We stopped at Wild Rumpus bookstore; the animals and fun decor in the store were a hit. Then we made our way to Lake Harriet for a picnic supper, but got sidelined by the grand opening/ribbon cutting of the new playground there (free coupons for ice cream!). After supper we finished off the night enjoying the concert at the bandshell.

Of Rain and Tents

We went camping for the first time this summer yesterday. I know. It's sad. Already the middle of July. 

It was also the first time we've purchased a state parks pass for Minnesota in the five summers we've lived here. We've been camping...just not in Minnesota state parks (we were going to last summer, but the government shut down, and so did the parks).

Before we left on Friday, I looked at the weather app on my ipad. It said there was, at most on Friday, a 40% chance of precipitation. For like an hour or two. The rest of the day was forecasted with only a 10% chance.

Needless to say, it rained from the point we started making our campfire for supper through a large chunk of the night (maybe I need a different weather app). The fire, which had just gotten started with a nice blaze, was quickly dowsed with the rain. We ended up having our breakfast for supper, and then our supper for breakfast this morning (nothing like beer brats and grilled sweet corn to start your day!). 

Removing the tarp that we laid down under the tent helped remove the water that was seeping through the floor, and placing that tarp over the tent helped take care of the few leaks that were going on. Did I mention that I grabbed our old tent that fit the four of us when the boys were little and we could stuff them in the side vestibules meant for luggage? Yeah, there was that, too. 

Somewhere in my family's history--and I don't know how or where this started--we apparently came under a curse that meant it would rain every time we went camping. Every time. And some of them were big, full-on storms. Now Beth and I, up till now, had done fairly well at avoiding this curse. We've had a few small rain showers, but very seldom have we had to deal with much rain.

So, I'm hoping that this event isn't a sign of things to come. Because we enjoy camping. And we enjoy rain. Just not together. 

Actually, it was a nice, pleasant rain. If we had packed extra clothes (or rain gear!), it would have been a great time for a rain hike. 

Still, we enjoyed it (or at least I did. The boys had their moments of whining ["this hike is too far!"] and Beth did something to her neck that made today miserable for her, but otherwise I think we had fun). We enjoyed a lot of swimming (maybe too much: a few of us have a little red around the eyes--that's never an easy place to apply sunscreen). After some coaxing, we enjoyed a nice hike.

And there were raspberries along the trail to our hike-in campsite and all around it (those aren't them in the picture--I do know what raspberries look like). Fresh raspberries are my wonderful. 

We spent the rain time in the tent, and even that was kind of fun. We worked on the boys' addition skills by teaching them to play cribbage. Not that they actually know how to play it yet, but they were each enjoying playing with one of us. For the first 75 points, at least. Then it got to be a little long for them. 

So we also spent time reading from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Over all, I think we were able to salvage the experience. Which is important. Sometimes the most memorable experiences come from those times when things don't go as planned, but you get to spend quality time together as a family because of those circumstances.

Plus, exposure to nature is always a plus. Even if it's rain.

Encountering Minnie, The Lake Monster