Flight of the Endeavor (grounding of a dream)

On November 14^th, at 7:55 pm, I watched the last night shuttle launch of, what will most likely be, my life time. Unless you have seen a night launch in person, it is impossible to imagine the power, beauty, and pride that is associated with it. Even watching from an hour and a half car ride away the sky lights up red with ambitious light and in just seconds, from beyond the horizon created with the silhouettes of beachside resorts, the Endeavor emerged. It carried behind it a trail of flame which shown like a beacon of hope to all of mankind. It raced across the sky at an angle and passed right before us making its way to the outer reaches of our atmosphere. As it passed by I thought of those onboard, the hopes and dreams they carried with them, where we would go from here, and I wished them Godspeed.

I do believe, as well as many others, that the space shuttles are based on old technology, are not safe, and not economical. They are in desperate need of retirement and the Orion rockets will be a great replacement. The sad part is that, for those of us who grew in times of Star Wars and Star Trek, the space shuttle was an infantile form of a starship in the making. It made space travel seem as easy as getting on a plane. It was easy to imagine that we would soon be flying to space station for vacation, owning time share on the moon, or exploring the reaches of our own galaxy. There is a part of me that actually dreamed that I could walk around wearing cloak with a light saber attached to my hip before I died. Of course these things are not reality and they certainly won't happen in my lifetime. The new rockets will bring us closer to making such things possible, but it was the essence of the space shuttle that allowed us to dream that they were. That night, the Endeavor raced towards space; as I watched it, my dreams were grounded.

Breast Feeding (unleashing your baby’s inner piranha)

Last night my beautiful wife, who is with child, and I attended a four hour breast feeding instructional at our local hospital. I found the class to be very informative and incredibly horrifying in such a way that I cannot understand how my poor wife was able to sleep last night. I am quite sure, judging by the women clutching their breast while staring wide eyed and the men sitting next to them with puzzled looks on their faces, that everyone in the auditorium felt the same way. The lactation consultant, who was given the task of passing down the "art" of feeding a baby from breast, had the personality of Colonel Robert Shaw as he led the 54^th Massachusetts to the Battery Wagen on Morris Island knowing there was a slim chance any of them would survive. With her regiment armed with bed pillows and a diverse collection of baby dolls she spoke of the benefits that they would receive for the pain and agony that they would most likely endure. She might as well have replaced the word mother with martyr. Through her speech many things managed to fasten themselves to my mind, but none more than the temperament of a baby at breast.

When a baby is born we see a helpless creature that was violently removed from its environment and thrust into a cold, chaotic, and strange world. They are unable to communicate, uncoordinated, not very mobile, and are left only with their instincts and a long list of archetypes to be given association. That is until their lips are tickled and they find themselves face to face with a warm breast. It is at this point they cease being confused and are transformed into carnivorous little imps with unquenchable appetites. As soon as the nipple reaches their palette and they have their first taste of the sweet colostrum they unleash a vacuum that is capable of leaving contusions. For the first couple of weeks a woman's breast will become engorged with milk in effort to compete with their baby's thirst. They will feed very frequently and at will during this time. This equals out to be about a half hour at least every three or four hours. Every last bit of energy will be sucked from the mother during this time leaving her unable to keep her eyes open and reducing her to an almost coma like state. The baby will go as far as milking the breast with its hand in effort to get every last drop of milk and stimulate a further release of hormones to increase production. If the baby isn't "latched on" correctly, and is not getting the desired quantity of milk, its relentless thirst will not allow it to reposition its oral grip on the breast allowing for a more unrestricted flow. It will continue to feed relentlessly until the mother's nipple is so sore she becomes unable to continue feeding it. Today we have an apparatus called a bottle for when this happens. Though it will grow the baby and keep it alive, it is not nearly as beneficial for it to be fed in this manner. When we didn't have such modern technology the mother would have to pass the child off to a wet nurse who would then feed the child and give up more of her own life force in place the mother's. This is still practiced in many third world countries. After awhile the baby will start to salivate excessively. This is a sign that the baby will soon acquire its first teeth which are capable of tearing flesh. To sooth the irritation of these teeth cutting through their own gums, as well as its undying hunger, it will start to gnaw at the nipple causing excruciating pain for the mother. This pain is so intense that the mother will scream in agony and pry the baby from the breast. At this point the baby will look at its mother and either laugh or develop a masochistic grin. The lactation consultant was quick to excuse this behavior as a natural response to inciting a reaction, but I am not quite sure that this is the case given the past history of the baby's feeding habits. Most women will have exorcized the baby from her breasts by this time and most of those who haven't will do it as soon as this happens. From that day on the baby will devour can upon can of formula along with the wages its parents have worked so hard for. After each feeding the baby will hold a smile of contentment as its face turns a glowing red while producing yet another horror of parenthood, the dirty diaper.

I have always been a firm proponent of breast feeding when a woman is able. I believe it is, and always will be, the best form of feeding a baby. I am in no way suggesting that any woman should not do it if able, or not attend a class to teach you how to properly do it. However, I am suggesting that if you should ever teach a class on breast feeding that you spend only fifteen minutes of the four hour period talking about the horrors that could possibly be associated with it. The rest of the time should be spent discussing technique and the wonderful benefits and bonds that are developed through it. The class should be about breast feeding and not about releasing your baby's inner piranha.

A Garden in the Shade (that damn tree in my backyard!)

I once again have an itch to plant one of those amazing gardens that produce the kinds of rewards worthy of feeding kings. The problem with that is my most recent garden didn't seem to produce much at all. Some people, in last ditch attemps to make me feel better, swore up and down that it was most likely due to the use of bad seeds. I, on the other hand, know exactly what the problem was. The problem began years ago in two places about an hour from each other. One was at house in Robinsdale, Minnesota and the other was at a cabin next to Bass Lake in Webster, Wisconsin. Both places just so happen to be owned by my grandparents.

My grandfather was quite an avid gardener according to the way I recollect things. I can recall helping him dig potatoes, load squash into the wheel borrow, pick beans off the vines, and praying to God that my scorched mouth would cease to burn after I so foolishly came to the belief that jalapeno peppers weren't really all that hot. I can also remember that in the back of the laundry room, which was located in the basement of the their house in Robinsdale, were shelves lined with jars of canned tomatoes, pickle relish, sweet pickles, dill pickles, and hot pickles that gave people a similar sensation to the one I described a moment ago. It was the time I spent in the gardens with my grandfather that gave me the basic knowledge that I needed to one day grow up, turn the soil, fertilize it, sow seed, and harvest the bounty of my labors. You may be asking what was it about all of those experiences that would eventually cause my own garden to be a complete and utter failure. The answer is it all took place in the mild climates of Wisconsin and Minnesota.

My garden lived very briefly and perished in a very self-effacing fashion in the heat magnet of a state we call Florida. The wonderful Florida sun does things to vegetable plants not unlike toast in a toaster that was set at the number five setting. Is the number five setting on the toaster really necessary? It burns everything and leaves you a brick of carbon on which to spread some butter and Jam. There goes that A.D.D thing I was talking about in my first post. Where was I? Oh yes, the wonderful Florida sun. You see, when they collect and package these little seeds they print on the packages words like, "plant in direct sunlight." Nowhere on these packages does it say anything about the magnifying glass that sits just above Florida waiting to burn the plants these seeds are about to become till they are a dull brown colored crunchy substance that disintegrates in to dust when you touch them. There you have it, nearly thirty years of gardening experience thrown into the furnace and reduced to ash because I decided to plant my garden in Florida.

I was left with a number of deceased plants that resembled a cluster of dried up sticks. I decided that I would toss these sticks into the compost pile I had prepared in a very large planter I had built in the backyard. I had never used this planter because of the overgrown ogre of an oak tree that casts its shade over ninety-eight percent of everything that exists back there. It was because of this shade the conditions were perfect for rot making it a perfect place for composting the few blades of grass that grew enough for trimming, the leaves and acorns that hurled themselves down to become an eyesore on the ground, and my garden that was so maliciously killed. For months I stared at the empty trellises out front eventually giving up on the desire to encourage plant growth. Although I cannot recall the exact day I can recall the feeling of utter confusion when I, on a rare occasion, decided to clean up the back yard and seen a cucumber plant extending its self out of the planter that was serving as a containment field for my compost pile. Its bright yellow flowers bellowed out and shinning like stars draped over a green leafy background. I couldn't believe it. In the two percent of my back yard that escaped the clutches of the shade cast down from that monstrosity of an oak tree there grew a beautiful vegetable plant. There was no way I could remove the tree and even if I did I would end up with another dead garden. Then it dawned on me. I knew right then the solution to my gardening enigma; I should grow turnips and beets.

Unhook Me Please (if only I could be Amish)

There is not much in the world that would make me happier then completely falling off the grid. I am talking about going totally green, and I don't mean hybrid. I mean shunning the whole idea of electricity. I think the Amish have something close to the right idea. A matter of fact I would probably join them but we have some social and religious ideas that we don't, won't, and can't agree on. I am willing to bet that the Amish community as a whole has an extremely small carbon foot print. Sure it's a hard life but I think the rewards are worth it. When you take away all the excess you are left with closer friends, family, and an earth that takes on a whole new meaningful beauty. I wonder where I could find some good land and a horse.

Back on the Farm (or somewhere near it)

There is a lot to be said about coming from a small town in northwestern Wisconsin. I can close my eyes and smell the fresh cut hay making its way on the breeze coming into the car while driving down one of many alphabetized county roads. I can feel the cool revitalizing water of Trade Lake on a hot mid- summer’s day when the fish are choosing not to be caught. I can envision the rolling hills lit up with the flames of the fall maples as they set fire to the sky as golden round bails sit in rows in the foreground. I miss the way that people acknowledge you as when you pass by them on the sidewalk, and cafes filled with the aged drinking cup upon cup of the Christian cocaine while playing cribbage or reading the local paper that still informs you of who has been out of town and where they have been. I miss the way the fresh snow looks as it falls around you like you are standing in an enchanted wood dancing with mythical creatures that sparkle and shimmer as they float down to the earth. I miss agate hunting along the north Shore of Lake Superior looking for that translucent red rock tattooed with dark lines that seem to move together around and around like the rings of a planet. I miss the quiet. I miss the quaint. I miss home. I miss the farm, or at least somewhere near it.

Where to Start....?

It’s kind of a silly notion that one would spend a large amount of time dedicating their self to publically posting their personal ramblings. It seems that I too feel some strange desire to do so even though I am not quite sure why. Maybe it’s because I feel the need to have people read my thoughts and offer me some measure of compliment which will help me to feel like I posses some sort of intellect. I have read at the most two or three blogs in my lifetime and have heard people refer to them more times than I can imagine. I guess this is what happens when you give a curious cat a laptop and a broadband connection. The big problem here is that the cat, a metaphor I am using for myself for those who might be wondering what I am talking about, has a bad case of Attention Deficit Disorder. In other words, I have trouble holding a thought let alone a subject in a blog spot. What should you be getting from this? You should be getting the view of the universe through the eyes of, one who just so happens to live in it, me.