Looking Back and Forward

Election Day. As an unabashed political junkie, today would seem like the perfect time for reflection. In terms of political analysis, however, today snuck up on me this go around. Not because of a lack of attentiveness - I assure you that my bets are well-voiced off-line and my Washington State ballot was tallied weeks ago. We do it all by mail here and in Oregon - this is the future of voting, America. Well, unless/until the Postal Service goes belly up.

Nonetheless, the point of my distraction from the national matter(s) at hand have everything to do with just getting unpacked and dusted off after one last research road trip. I've just unpacked the travel bag for what truly feels like the last time on the primary research for Pelting Out. This final jaunt I'm happy to report allowed me the chance to purposely bring along my curious and amazing daughter, while my wife pursues her own research travel in Africa (Zimbabwe in particular, for those wondering where in the world Sarah is this time). Maya and I went to Wisconsin for a once-in-nearly-a-century special family gathering that provided me with among other related pleasures the true, hands-on narrative ending my book needed. Which begs the question from some - jeez, is it done? That depends on what definitions for "is" and "it" and "done" you're looking to use. I'll just say that the "it" makes much more sense now. I'm happy to report - with a healthy dose of bittersweetness - that without this last trip back to my family's homestead, that "it" couldn't possibly have made as much sense. Or felt as true.

So today is all about "transition" for me. As a storyteller and a citizen. I won't say in which order of importance. However you may reflect upon today - whether you're celebrating or lamenting or trying to tease out why any of this really matters - I hope you've found an equally satisfying reason to move forward with your own work.

Purging some thoughts before filling up with Friday Fish Fry

This trip through the Upper Midwest has given me ample doses of everything I sought this time around. New information from sources I know I'll engage with going forward. A chance to reconnect with people and stories I continue to research. Hours on the road to reflect upon what I'm trying to pull together for a big book on a subject no one seems to have searched for previously. Unexpected pleasures and pains in both unfamiliar surroundings and while tracking down some old favorites. Like so many of the trips I've taken this past year, this is what I've come to see as simply life on the road in America. Today is my chance to reflect and transcribe while visiting a town not far from where I grew up. This is a place where we would come for summertime waterskiing shows and the occasional movie or run to the Dairy Queen. Unlike so much of America, this town and the others around it have changed little from the 70s and 80s. Maybe it even goes back farther. But the ubiquity of coffeeshops with free WiFi and decent espresso even to be found in places like Tomahawk offer a chance to connect the dots with some of the places I've seen along the way.

As I often do, I've collected a mental list of places worth mentioning for others to keep an eye out for when they're similarly out there navigating the vast landscape of America. Whether I'm being a highly selective filter or just a traveler looking for an upside wherever my feet hit the ground, I'll mention a few. With one crushing bummer to show that all's not uniformly inspiring out there on the road.

• I was lucky to arrive on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska just as their minor league baseball team (the Omaha Storm Chasers - the Royals's AAA squad) took the field against the Nashville Sounds (the Brewers's AAA squad).  Just outside the ticket office, a Little League coach was handing out free extra tickets - I grabbed one with a smile. Hot dogs were on special inside the stadium for a buck. Then the Sounds lit up the Omaha starter for 6 runs in the top of the second inning (on their way to a 9-1 victory). Baseball purists might look down their nose at what showed up on the field that night. But I was blissfully entertained after a day on the road.
• For the second time - the prior being smack dab in the middle of winter - I made my way to the "Field of Dreams" movie site just outside Dyersville, Iowa. It was textbook example summer afternoon, with the outfield corn standing 9-feet-high (no drought conditions around a tourist attraction). Two pairs of Iowans asked me to take their pictures. Even if I'd had an anxious team looking to start practice, I couldn't have stayed longer. Just a run around the bases and a passel of pictures taken were more than special enough.
• After visiting the Fort McHenry museum in Baltimore earlier this month, I'd had my interest piqued thanks to a reference to the solitary battle in these parts. So I planned for a stop in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin along the Mississippi River. The history part of town was a widely mixed bag, but there were many delights to be found. I even stayed at the Brisbois Motor Inn because of the epic kitsch quality of their signage around town. The motel was full of railroad workers and what I assumed to be a sizable number of drug mules. I didn't get even a little bit murdered. If you've got the time and itinerary to head through, also stop in at a coffeehouse on Blackhawk Avenue named Simply. It was all that and so much more.
• When unpacking the usual Madison cliches, there should always still be a nod delivered for the shared energy that comes from State Street on a summer evening. But my favorite stretch while in there for little more than a day was to get a falafel platter from a stellar food truck (Banzo) and head out back of Memorial Union and to share the Badger familial energy. I followed that up with a visit to the Wisconsin Historical Society's Library on campus, stumbling into their "Wisconsin After the War of 1812" exhibit. I didn't go to school in Madison. I am a different cut of college-aged rodent (Gopher blood courses through these veins). But a lucky, happy sojourn like mine yesterday made me realize yet again how nice that would have been.
• It's not all happy and inspired out there in America, obviously. The browned and sad fields of drought-stricken corn throughout Minnesota, Nebraska, Iowa and Wisconsin are just devastating to see. We'll be seeing the ripple effect of that sad sight in the grocery stores for the next few years.

There's more on my plate for the next few days before sticking a fork in this year's research travels. Up next I'm stoked for a Friday Fish Fry at the bar on picturesque Little Spirit Lake just two doors down from the house I lived in until I was 10-years-old. Because if you come to northern Sconnie without eating your weight in deep fried fish, you surely will be arrested. Not the cardiac kind, I hope. Here's hoping you get the walleye tonight, too.

Back to touring, much closer to home

I spent last week scanning the scene throughout parts of Washington and Oregon. Just shy of 1800 miles tallied, which took me from Seattle to northeast WA, along the Columbia River all the way to the OR Coast, on down to the southwestern edge of OR and all the way back home again. I'm being a total tease (just for the time being...I promise) when it comes to the details. The trip helped me mix and strengthen the mental mortar I need for a expansive, not-just-decorative wall o' insights. But this week, I've changed hats and get to play a personal favorite role as tour guide (my parents are visiting from Wisconsin for the first time in a few years). I'm savoring the chance to hit the full Seattle slew of delights - too many of which most local folks don't normally have the time to enjoy. Issues continue to hit my radar. The work goes on. Deadlines are still deadlines. It's worth noting, however, the validation that comes from a straight-up touristy wander when the situation calls for it. You're welcome to join me. Just look for the guy with the big foam finger and Sasquatch costume, pointing up at the Space Needle. Any questions?

The search for a narrative recipe that works

I'm back in Seattle and just dropped my mother-in-law off at SeaTac - the value of her help in taking care of our daughter and keeping the homefront under control in my absence is impossible to quantify. The cliche` about "it takes a village to raise a child" certainly applies when one of that child's parents needs to get out of Dodge for a mental stretch - I really couldn't do the work I'm doing without that sort of help. So now I'm back, digesting what I found along the way. I put 1800 miles on a rented Hyundai criss-crossing a wide swath of Iowa and Wisconsin (with just a toe tap into Illinois). For anyone who spends enough time on the road in pursuit of what often they alone hope to be a grand story, I'm sure the revelation is not surprising that the places in between the places on the itinerary really spin the web upon which to hang a narrative. Without being able to fill in too much detail, I must still say that this was a singularly valuable trip for me. I talked extensively about the science, politics, statistics, culture and back breaking work of agribusiness. Hours and hours of interviews remain for me to parse and digest. But the overall takeaway is obvious. Planning leads to insight. Insight - in turn, I hope - leads to good output. Output provides the foundation. And in the case of this project, the foundation is what you need to build something new. Seattle is a long ways from almost everywhere I visited over the past week+ - both physically and metaphorically speaking. I'm nonetheless grateful that I've now got at least some of that insight that I'll use to flavor the recipe I've got in mind for this book. In so many ways, the grind begins anew. Then mix, taste test, add the flavor, and taste test again. To mix the metaphor completely - that's how the good sausage gets made. Not that I know anything about making (aside from cooking) sausage. Mmmm...sausage (drool).

Sightseeing in the offseason

Yesterday featured a long drive - across the full girth of Iowa, skirting along the southern edge of Wisconsin, and ending just a stone's throw into Illinois. Great hotel this time, with a hidden roadside sign adding an extra sense of accomplishment when I actually settled in for the night. I had lots of time to reflect and hatch grand plans. With one poetic moment disguised as a stop to stretch my legs and recharge before pushing on Eastward. I stopped at the "Field of Dreams" cornfield baseball diamond outside of Dyersville, Iowa - about 20 miles West of Dubuque. I'm a bit of a sap when it comes to that movie. My recent trips to Iowa have coincided with the news coverage of that site's sale and proposed re-purposing. Interesting, maybe. But the field itself is a tiny bit of fabulous, even covered in snow and with what should be the magic hour of light just around sunset being somewhat obscured by clouds on the Western horizon. It didn't matter. If you've got an extra hour on your way to Waterloo, I can think of nothing better to recommend. Straight up sentimental cheese - I loved it. Here's some proof of my visit, for any doubters out there lurking.

Thinking about Newt? Ow, that hurts.

Newt Gingrich has me thinking about my ancestry. The stepping off point for that bit of randomness was his performance in last week's GOP debate on CNN. I watched it while in Wisconsin, where my family's roots were firmly set over 130 years ago thanks to the Homestead Act. All those people who live perfectly good lives without ever manifesting the troubling signs of political obsessive disorder surely missed it. Specifically, I'm pointing at when Newt waded into unusual waters for a GOP candidate by responding to a question about immigration with a measured embrace of amnesty for non-citizens. For my almost entirely Scandinavian family, it brought up something I now find fascinating that I'd never given much thought. I'm now aware that one of my grandmothers never became a citizen. It just wasn't that big of a deal way back when - especially since women couldn't vote prior to 1920. To up the ante of weirdness, I'm now focused upon the fact that the trippy little country she came from in Scandinavia ceased to exist in the late 1930s. Blame the Soviets, I think. Her husband naturalized, which was the norm to afford the benefits of citizenship to the whole family. Her kids were all born here. She lived into her 90s, and died in the 1980s surrounded by family and property. But in terms of our modern view of citizenship, she was effectively a woman without a country for most of her life. I'm still sussing this all out. I can't even find the country she came from listed anywhere to make sense of what citizenship she might have been able to claim. Say what you will about Newt. Loudly. I, for one, have never been a fan. Even though he married a former small-town girl from Sconnie on his third try at, um, lifelong party affiliation. But the guy's politics inspired me to take a new look at my own past. Now if you'll excuse me, I think my irony bladder just exploded.

Thanksgiving in Sconnie, post scriptum

I'm back home after a weeklong visit to the land of deer hunting and Packer loving. The things I saw in - or, rather, near - the woods opened the memory gates in ways grand and teeny tiny. One of my everyday urban activities that I brought with me was to go out running in the mornings, before the sun had risen. One time along my daily route, I saw a bald eagle perched in the highest branches of a tree right next to the prevailing county highway in my childhood neighborhood. Old Glorious swiveled her head to look down at me, passing a brief judgment before returning to all things otherwise more interesting far above the forest line. Another day, what could have only been a bat flew directly into me, striking the iPod earbud anchored in my right ear. As of now I see no need for rabies shots since not a mark was made on anything other than my previous sense of species superiority. My last morning conjured a memory like a lightning strike of the first season I was counted among the ranks of official hunterdom. I passed by the spot where I'd seen a truly majestic buck three decades ago. I told that story of the deer's nonplussed and safe run across an open field to my daughter as we drove back to the Twin Cities on our way out of the Northwoods. There were copious other lessons learned or at least hinted at during the past week - some for this book, others just for the sake of what might be humility. For example, I struggled with how to best cook a surprisingly decent hunk of fresh bear loin given to us by a family friend to add to our Thanksgiving bounty. No, it tasted nothing like chicken. The whole visit went something like that. Amidst nearly constant reminders to grasp anew things I've long since forgotten. Being reminded of that is one of the things I'm humbly thankful for this year.

Back in the hunt. But only vicariously.

The time has come for another return to my actual and figurative homeland - northern Wisconsin. As so often happens this time of year, the visit is measured in the number of Green Bay Packer games I'll be there to watch in their natural environment (two - Sunday's Battle of the Bays AND the more awesome TurkeyDaze game versus the slumping but still worrisome Lions). However, the other significant measure of this time of year for so many native Wisconsinites is (gun) deer hunting season. I don't hunt. But I grew up doing so. That season starts tomorrow. While it only goes on for nine days, I argue that it is the cultural epicenter of each Fall heading toward Winter in Wisconsin. Aside from any given gameday at Lambeau Field in Green Bay or at Camp Randall Stadium in Madison. In terms of hunting, I would argue that the act itself is actually secondary. Where the lessons are re-learned annually is clustered around the hunting cabins and country bars, where awareness of full-on winter's arrival and the concept of putting away some venison for that season drives so many into the woods. Plenty of folks (who unlike me) still hunt every year might tweak my sentimental analysis. That's certainly their right. Still, I grew up in it. And I'll call it as I see it. Bear in mind, I went through the DNR's hunter safety course in 7th Grade like almost all of the other boys in the area who couldn't wait to get out in the woods with their families. I walked those woods every year until I went off to college. At it's best, that was the time to reorient with the woods that would otherwise be largely unseen throughout the seasons. I was born into a fortunate group of hunters. We had land to hunt on. And no matter what people feel they know about the hunting, I understand the enduring appeal of going back to that land whenever possible. It will be vicariously interesting to be back there at this time - my first Thanksgiving week visit to the Northwoods in what seems like a decade. Almost everyone I know who's still back there will be hunting. While the emergence of a growing wolf population (and even a few rumored cougars) has scared off much of the deer population, I look forward to the inevitable gossip and speculation about how the woods look and how the hunt is going. I'll still get out there in the early mornings, wearing a blaze orange vest when I go running. Along many of those same country roads that we would disembark from back in the days of my own full-fledged participation in the culture. Wish me luck. Don't worry. It's safe out there. And fascinating.

Chasing Amish rainbows

Whenever I drive through northern Wisconsin, the sight of Amish people ambling along in their horse-drawn carriages never ceases to cause a double take. They're like rainbows. Always worth a looksie. And just about as approachable. I do, however, have plans to visit with them in the future given their unusual contribution to the agribusiness workforce up in the Northwoods. Quite amazingly, they increasingly stand alongside Mexican workers up there as the primary remaining pools of workers in the particular business area I'm exploring. Before I can get to what they do, I'm struck by how little I know about who they are. Just the basics are still a mystery. Amish vs. Mennonite, for example. I always simply referred to their community near Medford as Amish. Usually with an "um, but I'm not really sure" attached to the description. Thankfully, the Amish have taken to the web to clarify things. They may not be the most up-to-date on design, but the flock that's migrated at least in part to sharing their ways on the web are nonetheless informative. Now I know that the Medford-area Amish are the oldest such community in Wisconsin. I also see that even the Amish bitch about the winter. So are we really all that different? Actually, yes. Unless they're somehow finding their way to this blog right now thanks to a Google search after a dinner party conversation about me brought the subject up. WAY different. Still, I dig the carriages - you gotta give them mad props for keeping that technology fresh.

Clarity found on the road

I drove across a healthy swath of Iowa yesterday. Starting the early morning in Sioux City on the western side of the state. That followed a sprint from the Twin Cities the night prior - 4+ hours on the road with next to no one but longhaul truckers to fly by, ever believing in the saving power of cruise control. There's something well worn yet validating about driving a serious chunk of American highway. The rhythms of shuffling through on an iPod jacked into a rental car stereo being the only essential update on a ritualistic transit that feels occasionally necessary for anyone born in flyover America. After a morning out west, I drove to central Iowa. I eventually made my way into Des Moines where the area around Drake University's campus gave me some evening time to regroup and gather my thoughts over good coffee served by mildly distracted hipsters. Not that the drip coffee served in the gas stations and diners is bad. Tastes change, but the buzz remains the same. Much like that found on the road. I've gone poetically lowball on my accommodations the past two nights - motels, where the free WiFi provides a distraction from the otherwise questionable bedding. That's another update to this America we've all seen shift beneath us. But is it meaningful? Depends on what you do with it, I suppose. Regardless, I've been talking with the sort of people I know so well even if in the particular cases of these Iowans, they're new to me. And then this morning I took a satisfying, mind-clearing run to and through the Iowa State campus (last night's motel was a Super 8 just off I-35 in Ames). I loved how this weekend's NYTimes profile piece on Haruki Murakami gave further voice to how his running sustains him. I share that needful passion. A run in the morning orders my thoughts like no other constitutional act. Especially before, in my case, the day ahead means many many more miles on those highways. Today, more of Iowa. Then, Wisconsin. Like a salmon swimming back upstream. In short doses this sort of migration is what connects me - and maybe more of us than we take time to realize - to the country we miss so much.