Just Walking This Earth

Reminiscing & Research

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

When our garden is in full swing, I pull out all the canning supplies and fill our fruit cellar shelves. Just like my mom before me, I can tomatoes, salsa, plums - whatever we grow.

Even though the containers I use for preserving produce are glass jars, I've always called it 'canning.' I never gave a thought to the word 'canning.' Until this past week when I learned that 'canning' takes its name from a time when preserving produce was actually done in cans. Who knew?

Last week, I shared growing up country stories from my memoir with the residents at Valley View Village a senior living facility in Des Moines. The average age of those in the audience was at least 80, maybe older.

Many came to the meeting room in wheelchairs, using walkers or with assistance from staff. But what they lacked in physical capabilities, they made up for in mental sharpness.

As I talked about my stories of growing up in the 1950s, they remembered their own experiences growing up before and during the Great Depression. Roosters chasing them. Fixing meals for threshers. Milking cows by hand. Gardening and canning.

Hearing stories of the older folks who come to my book talks is rewarding on so many levels. One is that as they're reminiscing, I'm doing research for my novel. They talk about cooking on wood stoves and shocking oats for the threashers, and I'm making mental notes of details that may work their way into my novel. And then all of a sudden they say something totally unexpected - like canning was done in cans.

Those unexpected details are the best. Fun for me to learn something new and perfect for adding reality and depth to my writing.

I have to spend more time talking with these folks.

How well do we handle freedom?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

“Use well thy freedom.” Those words are chiseled on a college building in Jonathan Franzen’s novel FREEDOM. They articulate one of the major themes of this 576-page tome, which follows the lives of Walter and Patty Berglund and their two children.

We want freedom. We cherish our freedoms. We fight to preserve freedom. But as I was reading this book, I was reminded of the line in the movie - A Few Good Men.

When Kaffee (Tom Cruise) says, “I want the truth.” Jessep (Jack Nicholson) responds, “You can’t handle the truth.”

We want freedom, but how well do we handle it?

Children raised in a totally permissive environment may grow up without the personal and social skills to thrive as adults. Unrestricted access to drugs may lead to abuse and destroyed lives. Often the rules that restrict our freedom exist to protect us from ourselves.

The characters in Franzen’s novel all fight to break the bonds that hold them – parents, marriage, work. For good or ill, all of Franzen’s characters experience their desired freedom at some point.

But the freedom they achieve might be liberating or destructive, or both.

I didn’t find myself particularly liking any of the characters in this novel - and when I invest as much time in reading a book as this one takes, I'd like to like at least ONE character. Because of this quality, getting through the 576 pages was a bit of a slog. But the characters were real. Their desires, their challenges, their lives. And I think the messiness of their lives is indicative of the messiness of freedom.

We need to use well our freedom.

Image from Amazon.com

Crimes of passion - Stepping back

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Jane beats a real estate broker bloody with her stiletto heel. Kit lays into her brother with a broken wine bottle. Physically and mentally abused by her husband, Leah finally takes it out on her children. Grace uses her own car as a battering ram on her daughter's boyfriend's car, totaling both vehicles.

I can imagine that any woman - possibly any man, too - would be able to see themselves in the shoes of one of these characters. Angry and pushed to the limit. Committing crimes of passion. Each action completely understandable in the moment. None of the actions appropriate or acceptable. Because none of them backs off at the critical moment, all of these women need a miracle.

Kris Radish's new book TUESDAY NIGHT MIRACLES tells the story of these four women who have one chance to avoid jail through a court-ordered anger management group. Their group is led by accomplished psychologist Dr. Olivia Bayer who has overcome her own anger issues. Close to retirement, Bayer uses non-traditional approaches to help her charges find themselves and each other.

The characters in this book are vivid and believable. The techniques Dr. Bayer uses are ones any reader could use to stay in touch with herself, provide emotional outlets, and hopefully allow one to step away from the anger.

An excellent read.

Photo from Amazon.com

Ode to spring - and hope

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:58:00 +0000

I walked yesterday afternoon. The sun on my face. A gentle breeze ruffling my hair. In an hour, I was ready to shed the light jacket I’d put on before I left the house. I love spring in Iowa.

Oh, wait! It’s not spring, though it sure seems like it. The thermometer regularly reads 50 degrees, even up to 63 degrees. Who would imagine that the light dusting of snow we had last week, only half an inch, would be only the second snowfall this entire winter to last longer than one day?

The beautiful weather has drawn everyone out - walkers, runners, bikers, golfers - in shirtsleeves and shorts. In January. In Iowa.

The open water of the local pond has become the favorite gathering place of 10,000+ Canadian geese. They are out, too, doing their rather messy thing.

It’s been so warm I’ve spent more than a few moments concerned about the trees. I walked recently with a friend and passed a magnolia tree that was putting out flower buds. In JANUARY!

After spending some days worrying, I realized there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. So at this point, I just put out a little hope. I am hopeful the trees have this figured out and somehow know that this is one weird winter and they are not fooled. I hope that if we do lose the blossoms and therefore the fruits for this season, I hope we do not also lose the trees.

And I hope we get more days like this. I'll be out walking again this afternoon, the sun warming my face. I am very much enjoying springtime in January!

HNY to you, too

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 17:14:00 +0000

HNY, a friend signed off her email. HNY? What's that? I wondered.

Since I traded my office as a public relations agency executive for an office in my house where I write in relative solitude, I often feel completely out of it when it comes to the latest trends. My writing genre choices don't help - a memoir about my childhood in the 1950s and now historical fiction set in the early 1900s.

These days I spend my time trying to put my head in an era without electricity, a time when horse and buggies were the most common conveyance, a time when a 'glimpse of stocking' was something shocking. It takes a concerted effort to strip away all allusions to electricity, air travel, and sex. Actually, sex is all allusion, so that's a different issue.

One of the things I always enjoyed about working in the public relations world was being on top of the current pop business phrases - "tipping point" and "at the end of the day," for instance.

Alas, I find myself slipping further and further behind. The 2012 Banished Words List actually includes words I still like and use, like "Amazing!" It does not help that I don't use a smart phone. I have a cell phone, but I seldom use it. My texting ability is limited to 'ok.' And I sometimes get that wrong.

Perhaps Twitter will help. I'm trying it out - @CABodensteiner. For someone who is challenged to write short blogs, having only 140 characters forces me to abbreviate. Twitter demands I keep one toe in the 21st Century.

Hence my problem with HNY. All of a sudden, people are signing off seasonal messages with HNY. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out that meant Happy New Year.

Oh well. HNY to all of you!

What I approve

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:30:00 +0000

"What I approve is a reflection of me."

My boss had those words written on flip chart paper and tacked to his wall the entire 10 years I worked for him. Every time I was in his office, I read that sentence. Those words were a reminder to himself and to all of us that there was no distinction between what he put his name on and who he was as a professional.

I was reminded of my boss's saying when I read a recent article in Forbes magazine. The article included this sentence:

"Contrary to the assumptions of East Coast magazines such as The Atlantic which paint a picture of a devastated and dumb rural America, places like Iowa are doing very well indeed and are likely to continue doing so."

The Forbes writer referenced the article written by Stephen Bloom. But Bloom is forgotten here. The writer invokes the well known magazine name - The Atlantic.

Readers have expectations when they pick up a magazine or newspaper. They expect the editors will ensure a level of writing quality and content accuracy consistent with the editorial mission - whether the stories are produced by employees of the publication or provided by a free lancer, whether the articles are in the print or online editions of the magazine. In the public relations world, we called this editorial oversight 'third-party endorsement.' That endorsement was why clients valued public relations placements so highly.

Readers of The Atlantic have an expectation that the magazine's editors reviewed and approved of the Bloom article, a piece of writing riddled with errors, laden with out dated stereotypes, and illogically, purposely vindictive. Did regular readers of The Atlantic feel short changed by Bloom's article? Did readers question why a nationally respected magazine they read and admire would publish such a piece?

Do the editors of The Atlantic now question using Bloom's article? They might want to consider that. After all, what they approve is a reflection of them.

Sticks & Stones get personal

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 14:53:00 +0000

How do we protect ourselves from a verbal assault? The Stephen Bloom Affair (okay, that's what I'm calling it) has made me think about that more than a little.

Bloom's article in The Atlantic hurled a stream of vindictive comments at rural Iowans, calling them "lacking in educated, (sic)" "old people waiting to die," "toothless meth addicts" and "wastoids."

I read his article with interest but also some detachment. After all, I'm educated, drug free, have a full set of teeth (including wisdom), hold an advanced degree and even though I grew up on an Iowa farm have lived in urban areas for many years. As an Iowan, I was affronted by Bloom's article, but more interested and confused - able to view the writing with professional detachment. I could deflect the actual hurt of the attack because, of course, Bloom wasn't talking about me.

My distance was safely in place until I read Peter Feldstein's opinion piece published in the Des Moines Register. Feldstein is the photographer and co-author with Bloom of The Oxford Project, a book that tells in words and photos the stories of 100 residents of a small, rural Iowa community.

Bloom spent more than a little time with the people of Oxford, getting to know them, writing their stories, presenting them to the world with what felt like both honesty and compassion. When Bloom wrote his diatribe for The Atlantic, he did it from the perspective of knowing those real rural Iowa people up close and personal.

When the folks of Oxford read his article, they can't retain a protective distance. For them his words are personal. They have every right to feel insulted and betrayed. They don't have that protective shield of distance. Bloom knows them. And now they know what he really thinks.

Peter Feldstein offered the most stinging indictment of his co-author's essay when he concluded his own essay this way: "A few days ago, I picked up the book for the first time since the brouhaha. I had a very sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish Stephen Bloom's name was not on it."

The sticks and stones Bloom threw at Iowa all of a sudden feel very personal. His words landed hard on the good people of Oxford. And they hurt.

Never on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:09:00 +0000

We woke up yesterday - January 1, 2012 - and turned on the TV, expecting as we always do to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade. The parade was nowhere to be found.

Finally I Googled it (thank you, Google) and learned that the parade is 'never on Sunday.' Early parade organizers didn't want to frighten horses tied up in front of churches and risk disrupting church services.

If someone had asked, I would have responded that I watched the Rose Parade every year of my entire life. Not on Sunday? I hardly knew what to do with the rest of the day.

Growing up on the farm, the only day my folks let us kids sleep in was New Year's Day. They took pity on us because New Year's Eve was the only night we could stay up beyond 10 p.m. Or even wanted to, for that matter. Getting up before 6 a.m. every day to do chores and milk cows meant we could hardly keep our eyes open after dark. That didn't have positive implications for dating, but that's a different post.

On New Years Eve, we gathered with the Zidlickys and Staneks. The adults played cards. We kids played Monopoly, ate dishpans full of popcorn, and did our level best to stay awake until midnight. Then we put on hats and blow horns and rang in the new year. Before midnight, we dined on oyster stew and chili - or if we were at Zidlicky's, we ate lutafisk and lefsa. It was a night unlike any other in our year. When we finally hit the beds, it was with the blessed knowledge that we could sleep in.

On New Year's Day, our dog Butch did not come in to lick us awake, we stumbled out of bed long after daylight and still dressed in pajamas settled in front of the TV. Mom oohed and aahed along with us as the floats passed by.

I do not recall the Rose Parade ever falling on a Sunday when I was a kid, but it must have. I expect we did not notice because even if we didn't have to pile out of bed to milk cows, we never missed church. And it didn't matter how late you were up the night before. And it didn't matter what big thing was on TV. Church was always on Sunday.

Adieu to 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:03:00 +0000

Nature provided the perfect conclusion to 2011.

A molten lava sunset, better than any fireworks.

Wishing you a happy and healthy 2012!

Love to the universe

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

I luv u sis! That was the message written on one of the roadside ornaments I found as I walked this past week. When I read those words, I couldn't help but smile as I brushed away tears.

My sister Jane was a soft-spoken, gentle woman who had amazing gifts of caring, hospitality, creativity, and love. She died three years ago and I miss her every day.

The message on that ornament felt as though it had been written just for me, left there just for me to find. I almost picked it up and brought it home.

I'm a scavenger, salvaging all kinds of things I pick up along the road. Pliers, toys, a baby stroller, chairs, lawn decorations. I get a kick out of bringing home things we can use.

I'm a recycler. Often things I pick up go right into the recycling bin. Others are returned for refunds. Last week, I garnered $3.90 for my recent pick up efforts.

My sister would have delighted in creating ornaments such as the ones I found and putting them somewhere for someone to discover. In fact she hung ornaments in a bush a distance from her front porch. A little bit of glitter to surprise and amuse visitors.

The roadside ornaments appealed to both my scavenger and recycler tendencies. I itched to pick them up. When I saw this one with this message, I wanted it even more. But leaving the ornament on the roadside, as difficult as that was, was the right thing.

Like my sister, the ornament is out there, shiny and carrying a message of love to the universe.

I luv u sis!

Cooking up Aebleskivers & Liver Sausage

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 14:08:00 +0000

I was remiss! I should have provided the recipe for Aebleskivers. Here's the one I used. I found it on allrecipes.com. I only made half a recipe, which was plenty for two of us.

For those of you who are especially adventuresome, I've also included my mom's recipe for liver sausage.

Bon Appetit!

Aebleskivers
Ingredients

2 egg whites
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon white sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 egg yolks
4 tablespoons butter, melted
2 cups buttermilk
melted butter for frying

Directions

In a clean glass or metal bowl, beat the egg whites with an electric mixer until they can hold a stiff peak. Set aside.
Mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, baking soda, sugar, egg yolks, melted butter and buttermilk at one time and beat until smooth. Gently fold in the egg whites last.
Brush melted butter in the bottom of each aebleskiver pan cup and heat until hot. Pour in about 2 tablespoons of the batter into each cup. As soon as they get bubbly around the edge, turn them quickly (Danish cooks use a long knitting needle, but a fork will work). Continue cooking, turning the ball to keep it from burning.

Liver Sausage

Ingredients & Instructions

Meat cooked off 2 hog's heads
Add 3 or 4 onions to the broth while cooking
7 lb liver simmered done
Grind it all and mix well
Add salt, pepper, allspice, thyme and marjoram to taste. No one has given us exact measurements.Put in pint jars and pressure cook one hour at 15 lb. pressure

Letting go of tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 15:08:00 +0000

Liver sausage and waffles. That's my family's traditional Christmas Eve supper. This tradition started when Dad gave Mom a waffle iron one Christmas when I was a teenager. I was old enough to wonder at my father's gift choice but young enough to delight in the idea of this exotic food form.

Compared to pancakes, which Mom could whip up in minutes, waffles were a hassle. Still, Mom hauled out the waffle iron and made waffles once a year, every year after that. She always served homemade liver sausage on the side. This meal became a much loved tradition.

After Mom died, we cleaned out her fruit cellar and I brought home four pint jars of liver sausage. This liver sausage was made in 2006. It wasn't her best batch. Not enough head cheese (hogs head for those of you not accustomed to farm cooking). I love liver sausage, by the way, though it is a taste not shared at all by my husband and only tolerated by my son.

I kept thinking I'd eat the liver sausage myself, but I never did. Now, five years after it was made, even my cast iron stomach thinks we're past the expiration date.

Though liver sausage went by the wayside, the tradition we continued until this year is having waffles for supper on Christmas Eve. My son and his family celebrate with us. But this year, travel plans changed the routine and they invited us to spend Christmas Day with them.

Without the tradition to sustain me, I was left to launch into unknown food territory. Taking inspiration from Danish friends, I made Aebleskivers - an airy donut-type pastry served with powdered sugar and jam - for Christmas Day breakfast. We feasted at my son's house that afternoon on their tradition - an eclectic snack buffet.

Traditions are nice. They're comfortable. They make planning easy. But this Christmas showed me that letting go of traditions can be nice, too.

Will Aebleskivers on Christmas morning become a tradition? Only time will tell. Waffles may return, but liver sausage will drift into the realm of happy childhood memories. And my husband says, Amen!

Little holiday messages bring joy

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Ah, tis the season. Decorations are everywhere. Houses, trees, lamp posts. Every year the decorations seem to get bigger and brighter. But I have seen this year that small and subtle can have great impact.

Walking on rural roads in the pre-dawn hours, when most of the holiday displays have been turned off, the only flashing lights are generally yard lights glinting off discarded beer and pop cans.

But this holiday season I've found something new. One dark morning, my eye caught a glint I thought was another can. As I came close, I realized it was not a can, but in the darkness I couldn't make it out, so I walked on by. Another day, the sun had peeked over the horizon when I came upon that same spot and saw the object was a tree ornament. I'm used to seeing just about anything along the road. A tree ornament was a first. I mused over who had lost it? How? And would it be missed?

A little further on, I came upon another ornament. And then another. Ornaments showed up on both sides of the road. None was on the roadway itself where it would be crushed by passing traffic. But none was down in the ditches, either. It was as though someone had placed each one on purpose. Most definitely not a random lost ornament; I counted at least 15 in the course of a mile.

I thought of picking them up. Why let objects so pretty risk being destroyed, as they surely would be? But the more I thought about these ornaments, the more I thought they might be someone's little bit of personal joy, spread to delight anyone who came upon them. Perhaps the decorator meant them to delight those of us who walk. Perhaps they were a personal message to the universe.

When I stooped to take these pictures, I saw the ornaments each carried a hand written message. "Let it snow" "Noel" "Merry, Merry" I didn't turn each one over, but they all seemed to be different.

What message did the person who left these ornaments intend? I have no idea. But they have been a gift to me. The ornaments have made me slow down during my walks. They have reminded me to enjoy the holidays every day. They have made me smile.

I accept the gift of the roadside decorator. And I pass that gift along to you. Happy Holidays to you all!

Another view on rural Iowa

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

According to Stephen Bloom in his recent essay for The Atlantic:

"Those who stay in rural Iowa are often the elderly waiting to die, those too timid (or lacking in educated) to peer around the bend for better opportunities, an assortment of waste-toids and meth addicts with pale skin and rotted teeth, or those who quixotically believe, like Little Orphan Annie, that "The sun'll come out tomorrow."

I am here to say Bloom is wrong on more points than just being 'lacking in educated.' I know rural Iowa. I grew up there. I travel the state regularly, writing for The Iowan magazine about what's going on. I never lack for copy. My faith in our state was renewed as I did research for a feature - 'Sizing up small towns: Rethinking success in rural Iowa' - published in the Nov/Dec 2011 issue of The Iowan.

Many small Iowa towns are not just alive, they're thriving. The people I spoke with in Corning, Fairfield, and Elkader showed why this is so. Here's what they said.

Small businesses are encouraged: “We operate on a handshake, and we're flexible,” says Roger Thomas, executive director for both the EDC and Main Street Elkader, a program focused on historic commercial district revitalization. “We want them to succeed.”

Small town energy - Affordable operations: Adam Pollock moved his family and his business from the San Francisco Bay area to northeast Iowa 10 years ago. “There's a palpable sense of energy in this town,” says Pollock. “It's hard to live and manufacture in San Francisco. When everyone else went to China, we went to the heartland. People here are steady, reliable, and resourceful. With the Internet, we can do business anywhere.”

Communities are supportive and provide a range of amenities. Maria Fuller, D.D.S., graduated from the University of Iowa, and with her husband went looking for the perfect town in which to live and work. They chose Corning. “We wanted to raise our children in a small town,” she explains. “But it was really important that the school provide a solid education. My husband had to get a job. The community needed to provide amenities — a hospital, school, a sense of community.” Corning delivered everything on their list, says Dr. Fuller. “If you always had a dream to have your own business, rural Iowa is the place. Take the time to come, visit a while, and see.”

People are involved and make a difference. Fairfield Mayor Ed Malloy sought broad community participation when he initiated a visioning process for the community shortly after he was elected. Planning took 18 months - a process that Malloy says helped the community “grow, develop, mature, and gracefully integrate into a whole. We have 80 different community organizations that said, ‘Yes, we understand,' and, ‘Yes, we'll take it on,' ” he says. Among other accomplishments, their planning resulted in a $10 million Arts & Convention Center.

Sure, rural Iowa has its challenges. What place doesn't these days? But I'm pleased to say rural Iowans are not sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. They're actively involved. They're looking to the future. They're making the good life happen.

Photo by Jason Fort, courtesy of The Iowan magazine

Giving away 1 million books

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

Want to help give help away a million books? The organizers of World Book Night are looking for 50,000 passionate readers to do just that on April 23, 2012.

Anna Quindlen, novelist and honorary chairwoman of World Book Night in the USA, says "It will be like Halloween on an intellectual level."

Volunteers choose one of 30 titles - mostly current novels and memoirs - to give out. The costs of the million paperback books have been underwritten by publishers, printers and paper companies. Authors have waived their royalties.

You make your application on the World Book Night website. If you're chosen to be one of the book givers, they'll let you know by the end of February.

I've signed up and am keeping my fingers crossed. If I am chosen, I'll be giving out books to residents of Oakridge Neighborhood, a community providing housing and services to low-income people in Des Moines.

My book choices include:

Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,"
Chris Cleave's "Little Bee," and
Rebecca Skloot's "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks."

If I'm not chosen, I may go buy the books and give them out at Oakridge anyway. I just think the whole deal is really cool.

Are we inadvertantly lining Stephen Bloom's pockets?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 20:37:00 +0000

Stephen Bloom's article - Observations from 20 years of Iowa life - published in The Atlantic website edition has caused quite the hoo-ha in Iowa and nationwide. When I read Kyle Munson's article in the Des Moines Register describing the lambasting Bloom lavished on Iowa, my first question was, Why?

Why would someone who has spent 20 years living and working in the state - presumably wanting to continue living and working here - resort to such a rant against the state and its people? I read the article and found in the lead what I thought was the reason - an 'outsider's' commentary on the state as a set up for the upcoming caucuses. A reasonable assignment for one such as Bloom.

He could, however, have met the magazine's assignment and done it far more credibly with a more reasoned approach. My take away upon reading the essay was that it was exceedingly long, largely based on outdated stereotypes, and riddled with factual errors. The few valid points about the state's downturn in economy and population were lost in the overriding diatribe.

I was back to looking for Why? The reasons I can come up with are cynical.

He's promoting his books and subscribes to the theory that 'any publicity is good publicity as long as they spell his name right.' This could backfire on him. I expect Iowans have been an avid audience for his books on Postville and Oxford. They may be less willing to buy them now.
He has another job, in another state, on the line. Bloom is on sabbatical in Michigan at the moment. Maybe he hopes to stay. I'd advise Michigan to beware. If the past is a guide to the future, Bloom may again be willing to take with one hand and stab with the other.
He gets paid by hits to his article on The Atlantic website. Until today, I didn't know this was how contributors to online editions of magazines are often paid. Each unique hit to Bloom's article means The Atlantic pays him more. This last reason is perhaps the most cynical.

Under this scenario, Bloom may have purposely written the article as he did to generate the exact kind of reaction he's gotten. To goad so many of us into doing exactly what we did - go read the article. If he did, it's sad. For me at least. But Stephen Bloom may be laughing all the way to the bank.

Survivor Tree grows hope

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Weeks after the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center, workers found the charred trunk and roots of a tree buried in the debris. Most limbs were blown away; roots were gone.

Even though the tree had been out of the ground for six weeks or more, the remnant was taken to a nursery where, miraculously, it began to grow again.

Called the Survivor Tree, this callery pear tree is now growing at the 9/11 Memorial. New growth reaches 30 - 40 ft. high.

After the attacks on 9/11, I took comfort in the fact that the moon and stars were in the sky that night and the sun rose the next morning. There was hope in the cycles of nature.

The Survivor Tree stands as a living testament that we can persevere, we can go on, in the face of the very worst.

Has my life been worthwhile?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 14:51:00 +0000

I was in New York City last week to celebrate with a friend who was being honored as Global Citizen of the Year by the Whitehead School of Diplomacy and International Relations at Seaton Hall. While there, we toured the 9/11 Memorial where the names of everyone who died in the terrorist attacks are inscribed on plaques that surround water falls that replace the World Trade Center towers.

As we walked through the park, contemplating the people and the lives represented by all those names, my friend commented that she wondered whether what she has done with her life and career make a difference.

The list of accomplishments my friend has amassed during her career includes heading major trade associations, serving in the White House and the Department of Homeland Security, raising two beautiful children, and counting a host of loyal friends and family. The significance of someone as successful as she asking this question touched me.

As we reach a certain age, it is common to reflect on our lives, to wonder how or even if we'll be remembered. The 9/11 Memorial prompts such reflection even if it hadn't crossed your mind before.

On the memorial we find names of firefighters and police officers, average citizens, men, women, children. We see Todd Beamer - the man who famously said "Let's roll!" as he joined others on Flight 93 to overwhelm the terrorist hijackers. His name is inscribed just below the name of Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas and her unborn child.

People - famous or not; the lives - lived full or not, the Memorial left me knowing each one matters.

Salvation Army gets DOWN!

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

There's no more competitive environment for the public's dollars and attention than New York City. Visualize Rockefeller Center with its massive Christmas tree, ice skating rink, and high end shopping and you get the picture. This past weekend, the area was packed with locals and tourists. And, on every corner there were Salvation Army bell ringers.

How can the Salvation Army hope to compete with the up scale, highly decorated glitz of a New York City Christmas? Much to my surprise, they were doing just fine.

Each kettle was staffed with two bell ringers. They played rockin' holiday music. They rang those bells. They danced. The dances were high energy drawing crowds of spectators, including several who joined in. The bell ringers had fun and so did the audience.

It was more fun to watch the energetic Salvation Army bell ringers perform than it was to watch the ice skaters or shop. And the best part? Without being asked, people filled the red kettles.

The Salvation Army in New York offers a good lesson in marketing. They might have thrown up their hands and said 'We can't compete against THAT!' but they didn't. They took advantage of the huge crowds drawn by the Rockefeller Center attractions. They upped the energy. They entertained and engaged the public. They didn't stop; they got moving! And I'll bet they had a very merry Christmas.

How'd they do that?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

One of the delights of reading historical fiction is learning just how it was to live in another time. Of course, knowing how it was to live in another time is the challenge for the writer of historical fiction.

This week I've been puzzling over how to drive a 1916 Ford Model T. A character in the novel I'm writing buys a used Model T. Another character - a person who has only seen cars from afar - decides to take the car for a drive.

As I sat there staring at my computer screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, absolutely nothing came out. How could I write about starting and driving a car when I had absolutely no idea how it was actually done. Presuming it was something like today's cars doesn't cut it. It's at moments like this that I envy writers who have a staff of research assistants.

As it turns out, this post could also be titled, "I LOVE Google." Not expecting much, I typed in 'how to drive a Model T.' To my everlasting delight, the search yielded a host of YouTube videos explaining the process, chapter and verse. The most useful video was created by the Henry Ford Estate. The narrator even wore one of the classic driving coats to lend authenticity.

The videos were very helpful. Helpful enough to get my creative juices flowing and my fingers flying. I'm happy. But not so happy as I might be if I could actually drive a Model T myself. Then I'd know not only how it works, but also how it feels and sounds. Then I'd be sure.

I've told Santa this is what I want for Christmas. I hope he comes through.

Aretha Franklin's trash

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Recently an abandoned storage unit went up for auction. Rummaging through the contents, the buyer found dozens of hats, capes and dresses all once owned by none other than music legend Aretha Franklin.

The Queen of Soul is reported to have said she left the items in the storage locker years ago because she no longer wanted them.

I'm fascinated by abandoned storage units, my interest fueled by such shows as Storage Wars and Auction Hunters. It's not so much what storage unit buyers find in the units that hooks me - though who wouldn't want to pay a couple of hundred dollars for a unit only to discover that it contains tens of thousands of dollars worth of merchandise? Rather the puzzle for me lies in why some people rent the units in the first place and why others go on to abandon them.

Why would someone pay to store what they don't want - As Aretha did? Why would she not just give it all to a charity? Or give it to a theatre group for their costume shop? Even if we have plenty of money, which Aretha apparently does, is it a reasonable use of money to pay to keep what we don't want?

Why would someone abandon possessions they can't help but know are valuable and which they could easily sell for considerable cash? Setting aside those who die or are mentally ill, there are still those who simply abandon units containing brand new, still-in-the-packing vending machines, cars, motorcycles, and snow mobiles. No one would mistake any of these for having no monetary value.

There is something very strange about our societal fascination with keeping things, even though we don't need them and may not even want them. We over buy and then we over keep. There are no doubt hundreds of stories there. I, for one, would love to hear them.

Just look up

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 15:38:00 +0000

I am a very focused person. When I'm working on a project, I tune out everything around me. I don't hear anything; I don't see anything. My husband knows to make loud noises from a distance when he needs to interrupt me. If he approaches gently, like a normal person, I'm likely to jump right out of my chair.

I am grateful for this ability to focus. When I worked in an office cubicle, co-worker chatter didn't bother me in the least. When I'm on a writing roll, the hours just fade away.

The problem with this focus is missing the blessings of looking up. After hours at a computer, my eyes are bleary. I know I'm supposed to give my eyes a rest; I just never think of it.

This week, I stood in my kitchen for hours making candy. Focus is very important in candy making. I watch that candy thermometer like a hawk. Eventually I noticed it was getting dark. Only then did I look up.

There - on display in my kitchen window - was the most beautiful red and purple sunset. Throwing candy-making caution to the wind, I stopped to enjoy this incredible sunset. These displays of light and changing colors last only moments, but they are a true blessing. They remind me of the beauty of the world. They make me grateful for the eyes I have to see. They cause me to stop, in the moment, to remember that every moment of my life is a blessing.

If I only look up.

Who has the rights?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 14:30:00 +0000

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Do you own the cells of your own body? Do you get to have a say in who uses your cells and for what purposes? You might think so. You might be wrong.

THE IMMORTAL LIFE OF HENRIETTA LACKS tells the story of a poor black woman who died of cervical cancer in the 1950s. Without her knowledge or consent, samples of her cancerous cells were removed and taken to a lab where scientists were attempting to create 'immortal' cells - cells that, kept in the right medium, could be made to live forever. They succeeded with Henrietta Lacks' cells, creating the first immortal cell line.

Henrietta's cells - called HeLa cells - still live today. Her cells have been and continue to be used in research worldwide. Research that has uncovered causes and cures of cancer, the cure for polio, the list is endless. Yet, it was 20 years after her death before Henrietta's family learned that their mother's cells continued to live.

This amazing non-fiction book, which reads like a novel, tells the incredible story of Henrietta Lacks, her cells, science, and her family's quest to understand what happened to their mother.

This book raises a host of ethical, racial, and moral issues. It was a fascinating read. In this age of scientific breakthroughs, high costs for medical care, and the spirited debate about stem cell research, it might be good required reading for all of us.

Are you a thumbbody?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Last month I wrote about discovering the Thumbs on Wheels campaign we saw as we drove the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I was delighted to learn that there's a group called Thumbs on the Wheel that's working to educate drivers and kids on this important practice.

The folks at Thumbs on the Wheel (TOTW) acknowledge it's a personal choice to drive safely. They offer a few simple rules that encourage safe driving and maybe even lessen road rage:

Keep your Thumbs on the Wheel every time you drive.
Put your phone away - seriously, it will be there when you get there.
Smile at thumbbody at every stoplight.
Show anybody how to be thumbbody today!

Sales of T-shirts and other merchandise help spread the word. Some of the proceeds of each sale go to organizations including: The Joshua Chamberlain Society aiding wounded veterans, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, the Humane Society, and local schools.

Whether you buy the merchandise or not, the idea is a good one and I encourage you to spread the word. And keep your thumbs on the wheel.

As TOTW says:

Be Safe. Be Happy. Be Thumbbody!

Learning from the master - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 20:04:00 +0000

In the category of teaching an old dog new tricks, here are two things I've learned about candy making from Sue, a member of my book club who is the undisputed queen of candy making. These tips have made all the difference.

Temperature matters. Terms like hard ball and soft ball and hard crack dot candy recipes like peanuts in peanut brittle. And they don't mean baseball or the latest drug deal. My grandmother and mother could determine each of those critical candy-making stages by dropping a few drops of cooking syrup in a glass of cold water. Me? Stickler for detail that I am, I need a good candy thermometer.

Tip: Check the reliability of your thermometer each year in boiling water. If it doesn't read exactly 212 degrees at a full boil, adjust the temps accordingly in your recipes.

Humidity matters. In the past, I found that candies like peanut brittle and toffee and butter crunch occasionally adhered into a sticky glob when I stored them. Eating such candy was a hazard to anyone who had crowns. The problem? High humidity.

Tip: Make crunchy types of candies on days with low humidity and sunshine. This is also true if you make divinity. My grandmother whipped divinity by hand - but only on dry, sunny days.

Sue's Almond Butter Crunch

1 lb butter
2 cups sugar
1/4 cup water
2 T light corn syrup

Melt butter over low heat in a heavy sauce pan.
Add sugar and stir almost constantly until it comes to a full rolling boil.
VERY carefully add the water. (You are adding water to boiling fat)
Then add corn syrup

Cook - stirring occasionally until temperature reaches 290 degrees

Take off heat and add 1-2 cups chopped almonds

Pour into 10 1/2 x 16 inch, well buttered sheet pan.

Let sit 3-4 minutes then sprinkle 12 oz chocolate chips over the top. As they melt, spread them evenly across candy. Sprinkle 1/2 cup finely ground almonds across chocolate.

Once candy is cool, break into pieces and store in tins in a cool place. I've found that scoring the candy with a sharp knife while it's still a little warm helps with breaking it into pieces.