The Flax Man

"The trouble with this country," said an old farmer to
me recently, "Is that hardly anybody grows flax anymore."

I asked him to elaborate and he was only too happy to
oblige. "It's as if we've lost our imaginations. All you see
out in the country these days is corn and beans, corn and
beans! Why can't folks plant flax and pretty things up some?"

I couldn't disagree. I have always had a soft spot for
flax, one of the prettiest and oldest crops known to man.

It's a bit unsettling when you first catch sight of a
field of blooming flax. A patch of ground that was a carpet
of emerald green a few days earlier is now a glorious sky-
blue. It's as if a lake had somehow suddenly formed out in
the middle of nowhere, a body of water that, incredibly, runs
right up over the hilltops.

The spring when I was fourteen, Dad proposed a deal: in
exchange for my labor during that coming summer, I could have
a small piece of land to farm.

I jumped at the offer. When asked what I planned to
plant, I answered in an instant. Flax.

I would like to say that this decision came about after
a diligent and comprehensive study of market conditions. I
would like to say I made an intelligent choice based on a
cold and calculated analysis.

I would like to say those things, but they wouldn't be
true. Flax was selected simply because I thought it looked
really pretty in full bloom.

Part of our deal was that I had to pay for some of the
expenses, such as seed. When the time to plant flax arrived,
I drove to our local grain elevator and purchased eight
bushels of seed flax, enough to plant my eight acre patch. As
I recall, the seed set me back seven bucks a bushel.

As I loaded the seed, the elevator manager offered me an
opportunity to lock in a harvest delivery price of $4.35 per
bushel. I would like to say that after considering all
possible market contingencies I told him that I would take my
chances, but that wouldn't be true. I simply didn't like the
term "lock in", and besides, I was too busy imagining how
pretty my field of flax would be.

When my flax had grown to about ankle high I noticed
that it was infested with various weeds. These would no doubt
mar my flax's prettiness and also reduce its yield.

I consulted the elevator manager, who advised me to
apply a herbicide. After purchasing eight acres' worth of the
recommended weed spray, I made the application, following the
label directions to the letter.

Or at least I thought I had. When I went to check on my
flax the next day, it was dying! Every flax plant was curled
over into a freakish and unnatural posture, mirroring that of
the targeted weeds.

My first farming venture was a total bust! I couldn't
bring myself to look at the field for several days. I finally
did, thinking perhaps I could tear it up and sow some fast-
maturing crop and salvage something from the summer.

But, wait! A field of flax stretched out before me like
a luxurious emerald-green carpet! I would have hugged it if
it were possible to get my arms around those eight acres.

A few weeks later I nearly broke my face grinning as I
strolled through an eight-acre lake that ran up over the
hill, a lake comprised of millions of tiny sky-blue flowers.

As I recall, my flax yielded fifteen bushels to the
acre. I very clearly recall that by harvest the price had
rocketed to $7.10 per bushel. I would like to say in all
truthfulness that this was due to nothing but pure dumb luck.

It took only about an acres' worth of flax to cover my
expenses. But even more profit lay out in the field in the
form of flax straw.

We baled the flax straw and sold it at our local
elevator. It was hard to believe that this scratchy, dusty,
dull-brown, stick-like substance would eventually become fine
linen, that flax can be made into very comfortable slacks.

The popularity of flax could be seen at the elevator's
straw stack, which was wider than our barn and just as high
and stretched for a full quarter of a mile.

That summer was quite profitable for me; I certainly
made more than Dad would have paid in wages.

And that was too bad. Because I got the impression that
farming was like having a license to print money and spent
the next 30 years trying to duplicate that summer, chasing
profits that were as illusory as a sky-blue lake that appears
to run right up over the hilltops.

If You Build It...

"This must be it," I said to my wife as I slipped the car into park.

We were somewhere near the hamlet of Dyersville, an unremarkable town of about 4,000. Among its claims to fame are the Ertl Toy Company and the National Farm Toy Museum.

But there was also this place, a picture-perfect baseball diamond absurdly situated out in the middle of nowhere. Flattened brown corn stalks from last year's crop were all that lay beyond the outfield.

Stepping out of the car, I was greeted by the cutting wind of a gray spring day. Everything looked exactly as I had pictured: the tidy white farmhouse with its inviting porch, the imposing red granary squatting on a hand-hewn limestone foundation, the rough wooden bleachers alongside the first baseline.

I had found it: the farm where the movie Field Of Dreams had been filmed.

I asked my wife if she would like to get out and see the spot where Kevin Costner's heinie had once rested. She said that the only way she would brave that nasty wind would be if
Costner's heinie were still there.

Alone, I strolled the famous field, pausing at home plate to stare down an imaginary pitcher on the mound. There was no sign of life from the house; either nobody was home or they were accustomed to people randomly dropping by. After a few minutes the cold began to seep through my coat, so I clambered back into the car and we drove off.

Why does Field Of Dreams continue to affect us nearly two decades after it was shot? Maybe it's because it's more than just a metaphysical, metaphorical baseball flick; there are also the underlying themes of redemption and second chances, of forgiveness between a father and son.

This is why it's also known as The Movie That Makes Grown Men Cry.

After we got home I did some calling and eventually got in touch with Betty Lansing. Betty, like her brother, Don, was born in the house that was featured in the movie.

When I asked Betty, a chipper-sounding middle-age woman, about the farm's ownership she replied, "This farm has now been in our family for over 100 years."

How did their farm come to star in a Hollywood movie?

"It was pure luck," she replied. "Someone from our local Chamber of Commerce talked to someone on the Iowa Film Board who had heard that Universal Studios was looking for a farm
that grew corn. Universal was informed that the state has a lot of corn, so they came to Iowa. They looked at more than 200 farms before choosing ours."

I take it you still get visitors.

"We certainly do. We average between 50,000 and 60,000 visitors annually. Last year we had folks from all 50 states plus 50 foreign countries."

Were those overhead power lines that run from third to second always there?

"Yes, but they were relocated during shooting."

I saw two souvenir shacks, one on your farmyard and one out by third base. What's up with that?

"The outfield is owned by our neighbors, who have leased it to an out of state interest."

Has there been any conflicts between you and them?

"Well, yes. The outfield owners tried to get it re-zoned so they could put up batting cages and a baseball museum. We opposed that because we want the field to remain exactly as it appeared in the movie."

What was it like to have a film shot at your farm?

"It was extremely hectic. But everyone on the film crew was very nice. It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience!"

Did you get to hang with any of the actors?

"Oh, yes! Kevin Costner, Ray Liotta, Amy Madigan. It was a thrill just to sit and listen to James Earl Jones speak!"

My wife will kill me if I don't ask this: what is Kevin Costner really like?

"He was very nice, very polite. We liked Kevin and his wife and kids very much. But of course that was before..."

Before what? Before he made that stinkeroo, Waterworld? Before his hairline receded?

"No, before he and his wife Cindy... you know."

I did know. Change is one constant in everyone's life, it seems.

Change reminds me of a speech that Jones gives toward the end of the movie. America, he said, is a steamroller that wipes the blackboard clean then rebuilds only to wipe it clean yet again. The one constant in the midst of all this tumult has been baseball.

It's good to know that there's still a place where folks can stroll out onto an immaculate, emerald-green baseball diamond, have a catch and marvel, "Is this heaven?"

To which someone will inevitably reply, "No. It's Iowa."

Shopping Galena

galena (ga leen a) n. primary ore of lead: a lustrous
blue-gray crystalline mineral that consists mainly of lead
sulfide and is the main source of lead.

Another definition of Galena is "a history-drenched town
located in the northwestern corner of Illinois." My wife and
I visited Galena and discovered that it is a place where,
historically speaking, many historical people once lived.

Named for the ore that brought much wealth to the town,
Galena today seems frozen in time. It simply oozes history,
mostly from its numerous Victorian buildings. The lead mines
have long since played out; Galena now mines a bountiful vein
of tourists.

Perhaps Galena's most famous citizen was Ulysses S.
Grant. A former soldier who had gone from job to job and had
embarked upon a series of failed businesses, Grant landed in
Galena in 1860 and became a clerk in his father's leather
shop. When the Civil War erupted Grant volunteered his
services and the rest, as they say, is history.

Galena produced a total of nine Civil War generals. One
wonders if close proximity to the stuff bullets are made from
exerted some sort of metaphysical force.

There's no escaping Grant in Galena. His image seems to
be everywhere, prompting one to impulsively think "fifty-
dollar bill" many times each day.

This is all part of a sneaky plot to subliminally inure
tourists to the exorbitant costs associated with being
tourists. It seemed as if we couldn't leave any of the quaint
Victorian shops lining Galena's Main Street without leaving a
fifty-dollar bill behind.

This was best illustrated by a couple my wife and I
passed as we strolled Main Street. The other husband, in a
voice choked with exasperation, said to his wife, "Did you
see anything in there that you DIDN'T like?!"

From a guy's point of view, many of Galena's shops
featured stuff that was totally useless. Can we live without
these ceramic figurines? I bet so. Are we the sort of people
who buy a lot of paintings? Not really. There was even a
place called The Bead Shop! Need I say more?

Scattered diabolically among these extremely unessential
shops were a few that actually had some very interesting
items. Look! Jamie's Wine Studio! It must be time to do more
wine tasting! And do I smell the aroma of broiled steak? Yes!
Let's duck into this restaurant for a quick bite! After all,
it's been an hour since I had my last steak, which was
approximately the size of a yearling calf!

There are many other things to do in Galena besides eat
or shop or sample wine. Most of these things involve visiting
historical museums, all of which are housed in historical
buildings.

We visited several museums, each boasting a bit of Grant
memorabilia. In one, we viewed the general's cavalry hat and
saddle; in another was a glass case that contained his left
boot. The town of Galena had Grant covered from head to toe,
although I wonder whatever happened to his right boot.

Speaking of museums, my wife and I stayed at the
historic De Soto House Hotel. The De Soto was named for the
first European to see the Mississippi, a man who seems to
have had a penchant for long, double-lettered words.

The De Soto has hosted -- surprise! -- many historical
figures. An aspiring politician named Abraham Lincoln gave a
speech from its balcony in 1856, as did Stephen Douglas in
1858. In 1868, Grant used the De Soto as his presidential
campaign headquarters. There really is no escaping that guy.

My wife and I paused from our hectic touring to enjoy a
cold beverage in the De Soto's taproom. I could easily
imagine Mark Twain -- yes, he stayed there too -- leaning
against the bar, one foot on the brass rail, a lazy cloud of
cigar smoke encircling his head.

After resting a bit, it was back to shopping. Various
items displayed in store fronts elicited such comments as
"cute" or "neat" or "ooh, how cool!"

In one particular store, as my wife and the proprietor
chatted, I opined that all this shopping was more than any
normal man could bear. My wife turned to the shopkeeper and
said, "You know what we did yesterday? We spent the whole day
touring the John Deere factory!"

The place suddenly became deathly quiet as a dozen
female eyes bored into me. Someone hissed, "You owe this lady
a whole lot of shopping, mister!"

She was right, of course. So we shopped, and shopped,
then shopped some more. I shattered my personal record for
shopping, which was definitely a historical event.

Tractor Roots

Next to my granary sits a 1947 John Deere model "A".

Dad bought the tractor when I was a little kid. I spent
the better part of my formative years on the seat of that
"A", plowing, disking, cultivating, and watching the clouds
drift by as I floated upon the dreams of youth. For me, the
sound of a "johnny popper" is as soothing as a mother's
heartbeat.

The "A" came with a tattered Owner's Manual. I pored it
over for hours on end, trying to plumb the tractor's secrets,
learning what made it "tick" -- or, more accurately, "pop".

Somewhere in its Owner's Manual was the revelation that
the "A" had been manufactured in some mysterious, mythical-
sounding realm called Waterloo, Iowa. I knew nothing about
Waterloo, but imagined it to be a place where heroic giants
grunted mightily as they hauled epic chunks of raw iron up
from the bowels of the Earth. This rusty, dusty ore was then
forged by an army of sinewy, leather-aproned blacksmiths into
epic wonders of engineering, including our "A".

My wife and I recently found ourselves with a few days
off. When she asked "Would you like to go somewhere?" I
answered, "Well... I've always wanted to see Waterloo."
And so we went to Waterloo, a city where the "east" side
is actually on the north end and the "west" side is located
more towards the south.

Despite this Oz-like stance regarding the cardinal
points, my wife and I were able to easily locate the John
Deere tractor factory, getting lost just once in the process.
At last! After all these years, I would finally get to see
the place where our "A" was born!

The John Deere tractor factory is, using today's
parlance, "gianormous". With forty-eight acres under one
roof, it is more than just a good-sized shed; it would also
qualify as a good-sized field.

My wife and I went in for our tour and were told that
the factory contains many miles of pathways. Because of this
we were given a ride aboard a string of tourist trams which
were, curiously, pulled by an International Harvester garden
tractor.

No, that's not true; it was a John Deere garden tractor.
Our tour guides were so enthusiastic about the Deere name, I
got the feeling that simply saying "International Harvester"
might have been grounds for banishment from the factory.

We were first taken past the area where the tractor
birthing process begins. It starts with a transmission
assembly. A set of axles is added, followed by a frame, then
an engine, and so on.

I noticed some civilians walking around in the assembly
area. We were told that these were Gold Key customers who had
come to witness the birth of their tractors. I could never do
that. The mere thought of looking at exposed gears makes me
squeamish, and the sight of spurting hydraulic fluid can send
me into a swoon.

There's also the money part. When our tour guide pointed
out Deere's biggest tractor -- a 500 horsepower behemoth --
some idiot asked about its price tag. "$280,000," said the
tour guide. "I have an order book right here. Would you like
one or two?"

Not a word was said while I scrunched down in my seat,
trying to make myself inconspicuous as possible.
At the end of our tour, I chatted with our guides. I
asked Dewayne -- a former factory worker, as are all the John
Deere tour guides -- if this is the place where my "A" had
been built.

"No. They were assembled downtown, in what is now our
transmission facility."

What did Dewayne do at the factory? "I started out in
the foundry," he said. "It was a grimy job, so I went to
school and trained to be a gauge auditor. My job was to make
sure that the proper thickness of metal was being used."
When did he start working for Deere?

"I came home after the war and was looking for a job
when they hired me. That was in 1947."

I was thunderstruck. Before me stood one of the very men
who had helped manufacture my "A"! He didn't seem at all
epic. He was simply an older guy who came home from a war six
decades ago and wound up building tractors.

I couldn't help myself. "Would you happen to remember an
'A' you built the year you started here? One that had a teeny
little ripple in the steering wheel pedestal?"

"I believe I do," he replied. "As I recall, that an
especially good tractor. Epic, even."

The Fuel Fool

I was tooling along, minding my own business, when the
car suddenly lurched.

Alarmed, I turned off the radio and listened. Everything
sounded OK. Just as I was beginning to think maybe it had all
been in my head, my trusty steed lurched again, harder, with
more urgency. Deceleration increased even as I gradually
floored the accelerator.

Stomach in my throat, I quickly scanned the gauges. They
looked exactly as they had moments earlier: the heat gauge
was pointed straight up at the middle, while the gas needle
rested securely on the peg beside the "E".

Quoting the great philosopher Homer Simpson, I spat out
a very loud "Do'oh!" -- or something to that effect.

It wasn't my fault! My previous vehicle would go a good
60 miles after the "low fuel" light came on, and I wasn't yet
fully familiar with the foibles of this particular flivver.

The odometer revealed that a mere 20 miles had rushed
under my wheels since the "low fuel" warning had chimed.
Aha! This proved that I was, at most, just 1/3 to blame for
this predicament!

Once I had safely pulled onto the shoulder, I used my
cell phone to alert the highest possible authority.

"We have a problem," I reported. "It appears that
excessive outgassing has created a negative vehicle
propellant condition."

"You doofus!" exclaimed my wife's voice from the other
end, "Didn't I say this was going to happen to you someday?
Why do you do these stupid things?"

It was hard to think of a retort at that exact moment.
A semi truck was roaring past just four feet away, 80,000
pounds of rubber and steel blasting by at 80 MPH. The shock
waves caused my puny car to tremble like a leaf in a
hurricane.

My next cell phone call was to summon help. Ruefully
noting that a gas station sat just six miles away, I thought,
"Just my luck! Had I only bucked my seat belt on the go
instead of letting the car idle those 30 seconds, I might
have made it!"

Part of the problem is that I have too many things to
worry about nowadays. Does my toothpaste have enough
whitening power? Will Britney need more rehab? Is Cialis
right for me? What is Cialis anyway?

Now that I've had time to reflect on my out-of-gas
experience, I have an answer to my wife's "why" question:
It's a guy thing.

It's a guy thing to occasionally tempt Fate. It's part
of our nature to put the occasional snowmobile through the
ice, or make wings out of wax and feathers and see how close
we can fly to the sun.

It's thus a guy thing to get your gas tank as empty as
possible. The ultimate guy gas experience is to run out just
as we catch sight of the filling station, coasting in with a
dead engine, the momentum carrying us to just within reach of
the gas hose.

My wife deems this dumb. This is because she, like most
females, embraces the belief that it's just as easy to keep
the top half of the tank full as the bottom half. But where's
the fun in that? Where's the thrill, the challenge?

This "always be prepared" attitude is why my wife is
never without her purse, a bulky leather satchel that's heavy
enough to contain an entire car. Even so, I know for a fact
that the female gender has a less-than-spotless record in the
area of fuel management.

One fall, my wife was tooling along when she came across
a stalled tractor and wagon. Stopping to investigate, she
found that the pilot of said tractor was Rosie, our neighbor
lady.

As my wife gave a grateful Rosie a ride back to her
place, Rosie explained that the tractor's fuel gauge was
broken. She had hoped she could make at least one more trip
to town before refueling, but was obviously mistaken.

"I'm so glad you stopped!" said Rosie to my wife. "I
feel so silly for running out of fuel. I didn't even have my
purse with me!"

Were up to my wife, I, too, would always carry a purse.
And somewhere deep in its cavernous interior there would
always be a 5-gallon can of fuel.

Bless This Mess

I heard some great news the other day: it turns out that
we messy people are now in vogue!

It's about time! We have been persecuted for centuries
by the Neatness Police, who made us feel guilty and morally
inferior about being junk junkies.

Society's obsession with order has been driven into our
skulls from Day One. As tots, we were punished for having an
untidy bedroom; as school kids, we endured ritual inspections
wherein judgment was passed regarding the neatness of our
desks. Woe be unto the messy child!

When I reached adulthood I commenced to living life by
my own ramshackle rules. This slovenly situation survived
unscathed until I acquired a spouse.

I at first tried to please my new bride by neatening up
a bit. But as the years passed, she gradually became more and
more tolerant of my untidiness. I figure in another quarter
century or so her transformation will be complete and she
will be an unrepentant junkster like me.

My wife will still occasionally voice her disapproval
about my junkiness, especially the area in and around my
desk.

"Look at this!" she might say. "How can you find
anything in this rat's nest?"

"I have a system," I'll reply. "It's very complicated,
so don't ask me to explain it."

"Your 'system' seems to consist of nothing but a series
of piles! And look at this jumble on the floor!"

"Just give me a second... There! Better?"

"No! Kick cleaning doesn't count!"

"Albert Einstein once said 'If a cluttered desk is a
sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk?'"

"Well, I bet he could at least find his desk!"

Slovenly as I may be, I was a but an amateur of
untidiness compared to a farmer I once knew.

I had just started dairying on my own and was in the
market for springing heifers. I was told that a certain
farmer had springers for sale, so I journeyed up to his place
for a look-see.

Pulling onto the farmyard, I at first thought I had
accidentally stumbled onto a salvage yard. The term "junky"
would scarcely begin to describe the farm's epic decrepitude.

As I chatted with the farmer and his son, we walked past
a tractor that appeared to have been dynamited. Randomly
scattered pistons and gears lay rusting under the dolorous
winter sun. When asked what had been wrong with the tractor,
the farmer replied, "Oh, we never did figure that out. We
really ought to put that old Oliver back together someday."

Judging by the riot of weeds growing in and around the
disintegrated tractor, I would bet he'd been making that
statement for good number of years.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any junkier,
they did. Rounding a corner in the narrow lanes of clutter, I
was suddenly confronted by -- a dead horse!

Curious, I asked about the deceased steed. The horse had
gotten out, explained the old farmer, and ran down the road a
piece. The farmer had hopped into his loader tractor and tore
off to retrieve the errant equine.

He lassoed the horse and tied the rope to the loader.
They then headed back toward home, gradually speeding up to a
brisk trot.

As they neared the farmyard, the horse espied his pony
pals and broke into gallop. The sudden slack in the rope
allowed it to become entangled with the tractor's back wheel.
This broke first the horse's neck, then the rope.

"And it was a brand-new lariat, too!" lamented the
farmer at the end of his tale, as if the rope were the
greater loss.

This explained the expired cayuse. But what about the
perfectly circular chunk that was missing from its haunch?
The farmer's son spoke up. "I've never had horsemeat, so
I cut off a roast and wrapped it in foil and threw it in the
freezer before Ma got home!"

It took a couple of hours for us to pick our way through
the warren of pens and junk. By the time we got done looking
at heifers it was dinnertime, and the farmer politely asked
if I would like to come into their house for a bite.

I politely declined. I don't know, but am willing to bet
that the house was just as messy as the rest of the place and
that a certain foil-wrapped package had gone missing from the
freezer. And that was not good news.

Home Makeover, South Dakota Edition

Siehera is much like any other 13-year-old. She's learning to play the guitar and likes to exchange instant messages with her friends. Her shy smile reveals the glint of pink braces.

But there is also something is markedly different about Siehera, a grim past that accounts for her pixy-like stature.

"Siehera was born with a incorrectly formed heart," says
Nila Thibodeau, Siehera's mom. "She had her first heart
surgery when she was six months old. She has now had 4 heart
operations."

The Thibodeau family -- Siehera and her brothers, Kyle,
8, and Kevin Jr., 12, and their father, Kevin -- lives on an
acreage a few miles south of Toronto, SD.

"We are the king and queen of bad luck," says Kevin, who
grew up in the small town of Cohasset, MN. "We had just
bought this place when a hailstorm knocked out some windows.
After we got those fixed, the house was struck by lightning."

But perhaps the most troubling development came from
downstairs. "The septic system backed up and we got a foot of
sewage in the basement," says Nila.

The moisture caused fungus to move in. Mold tests
conducted on the house were off the charts, and Siehera began
to have trouble breathing at night. Arrangements were made
for her to live with a neighbor. Then came the operation last
May to replace her defective mitral valve.

After the surgery, Siehera developed Post Cardiac Injury
Syndrome. Her temperature soared, one of her lungs collapsed,
and her kidneys began to fail. "We were just hours away from
putting her on dialysis when she turned a corner and began to
get better," recalls Nila.

What should have been a short stay in the hospital
stretched into a month. As the Thibodeaus hovered at
Siehera's bedside, events that would radically change their
lives were already in motion.

"We were in the hospital when we got a phone call from a
producer of the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition TV show," says
Nila. "It seems that my sister in North Dakota had written
them, and they were interested in doing a makeover of our
home."

That initial phone call launched a long process of
interviews and background checks. "By the time it was over,
they literally knew my jean size!" says Nila.
The Thibodeau family spent the summer in a state of
limbo, not knowing whether or not their home would be chosen
for a makeover. "They did a very good job of keeping us
guessing," says Nila.

The day when Ty Pennington addressed the Thibodeau
family with his bullhorn, he snuck up the driveway on foot to
avoid being detected by the family dog. "I was totally
shocked," says Nila. "We were told that 5 other families were
in the running, but that was just a ruse."

Ty spent two hours with Siehera, playing guitar with her
and learning about her hopes and dreams. The following day
the Thibodeau family was flown off to New York City.

"I couldn't figure out why they chose New York," says
Nila, who grew up on a dairy farm. "We are country mice and
felt very out of place. This was especially true at the
Waldorf-Astoria, the hotel where we stayed."

The Thibodeaus were squired around the city by one of
the show's producers. Some of their most memorable activities
included a visit to Dylan's Candy Bar, where the kids behaved
like, well, kids in a candy store, walking out with more than
$200 worth of sweets. Nila was taken to Macy's and told to
choose an outfit for a special occasion. "I just wish they
had given me more than half an hour!" smiles Nila.

The special occasion was a private audience with the
renowned tenor Andrea Bocelli. But the music-related
surprises didn't end there: near the end of their visit,
Siehera was given a chance to appear on MTV.

"The trip to New York made sense once we learned about
the MTV part," says Nila.

After their week in the city the Thibodeau family was
chauffeured, blindfolded, to their new house. "It was scary
to hear all those people cheering!" recalls Nila.

The Thibodeaus were overwhelmed by their spacious new
home. But perhaps its most important feature is in the
basement, where a state-of-the-art filtration system cleans
the air and makes it possible for Siehera to breathe easy.

"The whole community has been so great," says Nila. "Our
lives have been touched by a lot of people we didn't even
know, but who genuinely cared."

Siehera will face another surgery sometime during the
next 5 to 15 years, when her bovine mitral valve wears out.
In the meantime, she can much be like any other teenaged
girl, strumming her guitar and putting up with a couple of
annoying little brothers.

And the king and queen of bad luck can at last smile a
bit, now that Fortune has seen fit to smile upon them.

Texas In South Dakota

My wife warily eyed the large brown Quonset building
that sits at the north edge of Milbank. "I think they're
closed," she proclaimed .

"But the sign out front says they're open," I countered.

"You go check, then," she replied. It was clear from her
demeanor that she wasn't getting out of the car until I had
reconnoitered and returned with a full report.

The place was indeed open, and I was able to convince my
wife to accompany me into the machine shed-like building that
houses R & J Texas Barbecue.

As we entered the cavernous Quonset, we were met by a
bearish man who addressed us with a jovial Texas drawl.
"Howdy!" he boomed, "How y'all doing?"

We had just met Rick Bolin, the "R" part of R & J Texas
Barbecue. I was pleased to note that Rick carries more than a
few extra pounds. Skinny cooks should always arouse
suspicion.

The interior of the Quonset was clean and well-kept, its
walls decorated with football and bull riding paraphernalia.
The bare concrete floor was populated by a couple dozen small
tables, each covered by a red-and-white checkered table
cloth. My wife deemed the table cloths "a nice touch".

We ordered a sampler platter of assorted barbecued meats
and sat down at one of the tables. As we dug in, Rick came
over and struck up a conversation.

I commented to Rick that he obviously wasn't a native
Midwesterner. "Nope," he drawled. "I've lived here about six
years is all. My wife, Julie, is from Waubay, which is why I
wound up here."

Moving from Texas to northeastern South Dakota must have
been quite a shock, weather-wise.

"I love the cold," said Rick. "I can't get enough of it!
Besides, my barbecue pits work better when it's cold. The air
has less humidity then."

One can't help but notice the big barbecue pits near the
door. Those chrome smokestacks are really cool; it looks like
they were made for semi tractors.

"They were," said Rick. "I built those pits myself, from
used LP gas tanks."

How did you get started in the barbecue business?
"After we moved up here, I noticed there was no place to
get good barbecue like I'd had back home. So, I started
making it myself and word sort of spread. Pretty soon folks
were asking me to make barbecue for their gatherings."
You've got a healthy collection of trophies there by the
front door.

"I've won my share of barbecue contests. But what I like
most is making barbecue for folks and watching them enjoy it.
Besides, our 14-year-old son, Cole, is the up and coming
barbecue champ in the family. He beat me last year in the
barbecued brisket division. Plus, our 8-year-old daughter,
Callie, has started barbecuing chicken."

Where did you get the recipe for your dry rub?

"It's been handed down and modified some over the years.
Back in Texas, our whole family was big into barbecue, and my
cousins and I each developed our own little secrets. The
potato salad we serve here is made from my mom's recipe, and
the noodle salad is Julie's creation. Our barbecue sauce is
an old family recipe that we've played around with."
Care to share any of those recipes?

"Nope."

What's the hardest part about barbecuing?

"The weather. Every day is a little different, so each
day's barbecue is a little different. The wood I use to fire
the pits can also varies some, but I always use only ash,
oak, and apple. I barbecue my brisket for 12 hours, which
means if we open at 4:00 in the afternoon, I have to be here
at 4:00 a.m."

I saw that you had several pits smoking away out there.
How much can you barbecue at a time?

"All together, my pits going can hold 1,000 pounds of
meat. I've catered gatherings as close as my back yard to as
far away as a couple of hundred miles. I'm willing to hook
onto my pits and go about anywhere!"

My wife and I walked out of the big brown Quonset
wearing Texas-sized smiles. Our tummies were full and there
were smudges of secret barbecue sauce on our chins. She was
no longer nervous about the building and was already talking
about our next visit.

Perhaps the day will come when the countryside is dotted
with numerous brown Quonsets, and my wife and I will be able
to say that we knew about R & J Texas Barbecue "back when".

The Four Seasons Of Farming

Spring is my favorite time of the year.

Spring, a time when Life renews itself, throwing off the frosty shackles of Winter. It heralds the beginning of a new cycle, a time when Life seems to overflow.

From the marshland, choirs of frogs greet each sunrise
with their age-old reptilian serenade. Migrating waterfowl
join the chorus, their songs a celebration.

The Earth itself is part of this rejuvenation. A warm
breeze carries with it the aroma of freshly turned soil.
Each handful of moist, black dirt contains uncountable
billions of microbes who are busily decaying organic matter,
making more soil, giving the land its "earthy" fragrance.
And the flowers! As the days lengthen my wife's flower
garden becomes a riot of color, tulips and crocuses who defy
the frosty nights just so they can dazzle us with their
splendor. The perfume from the blooming lilacs is utterly
intoxicating.

But Summer is really the best time of the year.
Summer is a time when Life enters a phase of growing,
nurturing. The days wax long and twilight lingers as if the
sun were loath to take leave. The summer solstice arrives.
Fat baby calves frisk in the morning sunshine amidst
lush green pastures. A father robin warbles mightily from a
tree top, a song of joy which is both new and ancient. In the
marsh, a mother Canada goose honks proudly as she glides
through the glassy water with a string of fuzzy goslings in
tow.

Farmers are their busiest now, making the most of this
warm and glorious season. What fragrance better portrays
Summer than that which rises from a field of freshly cut hay?
When they gather, farmers may speak either ill or good of
rain - depending on whether or not they have hay down. Their
kids play in the cool recesses of the grove, squandering this
time as if there were an unlimited supply of lazy afternoons.
But Fall is really the choicest time of the year.
Fall is the season of harvest, a time for gathering in
against the future. September brings the autumnal equinox;
the days grow quickly shorter.

The trees are putting on their best show now, splashes
of ruby and gold against the sapphire dome of the sky. The
evening air has a definite crispness now and sound seems to
carry better. A freight train laden with Fall's bounty blows
its mighty air horn; the lonely wail can be heard across the
miles, a mournful hymn punctuated by the "clack, clack" of
wheels upon rails.

A neighbor harvests his soybeans in the gathering dusk,
his combine belching a cloud of dust which lingers in the
tranquil air. I hear the whistle of wings and look up in time
to see a flock of teal streak over. I watch them and they
swiftly fade into a group of specks in the southern sky.
But Winter is truly the finest time of the year.

Winter is a time when the Sun becomes a snow bird,
spending most of the season in warmer climes. My only company
when I perform my morning and evening chores are the stars -
ancient sentinels who look down, cold and unblinking, across
the light years.

But Winter is also a time of celebration, of family, of
good food and good company. Nothing is more delightful than
coming in from the cold and being greeted by a wall of
luscious aromas emanating from a warm kitchen. In my opinion
this simple pleasure is one of civilization's finest
achievements.

And Winter is also a time for rest. It is a time for
early bedtimes, as though some forgotten instinct is
entreating us to hibernate. The rhythms of Life slow.
Each night, an airplane wings past my farm on its
scheduled voyage to somewhere.

Sometimes I'll lay quietlynext to my slumbering wife

and await its arrival. I'll finally hear it coming and can

detect the shift in its tone as it drones on past. I think

about how lonely it must be up there in the cockpit, to

be awake while others sleep, to trek through the infinite

blackness of the Winter night.

I wonder if the pilot ever thinks about us below. I imagine his
perspective of the dark planet which lies slumbering beneath
him, frozen and silent, covered by a flawless quilt of snow.

I push these thoughts aside, snuggle up to my wife and pull
the covers up closer.

And in the end, Earth and I both find rest and we both
pass the long Winter night dreaming of Spring.

Old Dogs

We've had a pretty decent winter so far: not too cold, but with enough snowfall to get our attention. In this part of the world we are naturally suspicious of winters that are too mild because we know that no nice weather ever goes unpunished.

Winter is a time when a person had best take advantage
of whatever morsels Mother Nature sees fit to bestow. This is
why, whenever the temperatures moderate and the wind chill is
at least somewhat survivable, I take our dogs out for a walk.
Our dogs' names are Copper and Curly. They are
litter mates, although you'd never guess it: a hybrid of
German Short Hair and Springer Spaniel, each closely
resembles one parent but not the other. Copper is robust and
short-haired, while Curly possesses a humbler build and has
the floppy ears and long, curly hair of a Spaniel.

I often refer to them as "ornamental dogs", although
that isn't quite true. They bark whenever someone pulls onto
the yard, but would probably help a burglar empty our house
in exchange for tummy rubs. They are also fair to middling
hunting companions, that is, if you don't mind yelling
yourself hoarse at that half-witted Copper. He can't seem to
quit chasing a bird until it's well into the next county.
As we walk, I note how old the dogs seem nowadays. Both
are gray around their muzzles; Copper is carrying a bit too
much weight; Curly has a bit of a limp due to (I suspect) an
arthritic hip. In other words, the three of us make for a
fairly well-matched set.

But we can all use the exercise, so off we go. They at
first sniff around out in the trees purposefully, making show
if it, pretending that they are hunting rabbits. Truth is,
the only way they could catch a cottontail these days would
be if a bunny ran smack into one of their legs and knocked
itself out.

Twelve years old: that's late middle age for a dog, I
reckon. I know they are twelve because my wife got them for
our boys the year my dad died. I'm sure she wasn't thinking
that a pair of puppies could ever replace a grandpa. But my
wife, in her infinite wisdom, must have known that these pups
would provide a least a small diversion, a little something
for our boys to think about other than the sudden departure
of their beloved, prankster grandpa.

Copper trots out ahead as usual while Curly and I bring
up the rear. Copper will stop now and again to look back at
us with an expression that says, "What's the hold up? Get
with it, slow pokes!"

Now that I think about it, the dogs are far from
ornamental. Last summer and fall they cornered three
woodchucks, two possums and one raccoon on our yard; we won't
even talk about all their run-ins with skunks. The point is,
they helped hold the number of trespassing varmints to a
minimum. This is certainly worth something.

Since the weather has turned cold my wife, kindhearted
soul that she is, has fallen into the habit of letting the
dogs spend their nights in the mud room of our house. I was
raised in the belief that animals slept outside and that
houses were reserved solely for people. Yet I dare not
complain lest my wife's benevolence turn chilly and I too
find myself out in the cold.

The dogs and I reach the far end of the day's trek and
turn to start the homeward leg. We are a good ways from the
house now, a bad time to recall all the rumors of cougar
sightings in the area. One mountain lion was supposedly seen
just a couple of miles north of where I am walking.

I wonder what a cougar might think of me, plodding along
at a sluggardly pace in my bulky Carhartt coveralls and my
too-heavy snow boots. Would he think, "Hmm... no claws, no
horns, can't run very fast... looks like LUNCH!" I wonder if
the dogs would rush to my aid. Or, would they simply look on
in idle curiosity as a fellow carnivore does what carnivores
do?

I like to think not. I like to think that Copper and
Curly would fly into the fray, fight the ferocious feline and
save my skin. They would be declared doggy heroes, be
featured on morning TV shows and feted at extravagant
soirees. Their dopey, furry faces would soon appear on sacks
of nationally branded dog food.

At least that's what I think every night when I open the
door to the mud room and say, "Hey you guys, come on in!"

Country Boy Visits Big Apple, part 1

There were several very good reasons for my recent
odyssey to New York.
For one, I was to finally personally meet Tim, my
literary agent. Our plan was to bop around the city and
schmooze with some publishers with the goal of landing me
book deal.
My second -- and, as it turned out, easier -- objective
was to bring the Dairy Star to Manhattan, to carry this
humble publication to the center of the media universe.
But how to accomplish this? Would there even be the
slightest bit of interest in the Dairy Star in the Big Apple?
Were there any needs the Dairy Star could meet there?
The answer to these questions came minutes after my
shoes hit the pavement of Manhattan.
I was walking towards Times Square when my march was
halted by a gay pride march. At the very end of the parade
was a couple of guys brandishing bull whips. They made
frequent demonstrations of their whipping skills, sending
loud cracks and pops echoing through the concrete canyons.
I knew then and there that the Dairy Star was indeed
needed in Manhattan. After all, here were a couple of guys
who obviously had unrequited fantasies about careers as cow
pushers, but there was not a cow in sight for them to push.
I thought about approaching these guys and telling them
that they could easily fulfill their fantasies through a
classified ad in the Dairy Star, but reconsidered when it
became apparent they wouldn't quit whipping long enough for
me to get near them. I will do SOME things to flog the Dairy
Star, but would definitely draw the line at being publicly
flogged.
I pushed on until I finally reached Times Square, a
place that has been touted as the most recognizable piece of
real estate in the world. A steady stream of people flowed
through the obtuse "X" made by the confluence of Broadway and
Seventh Avenue.
I was at first disheartened as it appeared there was no
one among the milling throng who might take an interest in
the Dairy Star. But then, I caught sight of a familiar shape:
a cowboy hat! Right there in the middle of Times Square!
I forded a river of taxis in order to get closer to the
owner of the cowboy hat. As I approached, I perceived that he
was not like any cow man I had ever seen.
The young man with the cowboy hat had white underwear
on. The reason I knew this was that underwear was about all
he wore. A guitar and cowboy boots rounded out his ensemble.
He touted himself as "The Naked Cowboy" -- although he
was actually wearing more clothing than some of the gay pride
marchers. He would strum his guitar, sing a bit of a song,
and pose for pictures with female tourists. In fact, there
was a line of female tourist waiting to have their picture
taken with The Naked Cowboy. I couldn't help but think that
this wasn't too bad a way to make a living.
After a female tourist had her photo taken (usually by
her husband or Significant Other), she would often offer The
Naked Cowboy a dollar bill. I heard The Naked Cowboy say at
one point, "Put it in the boots, ladies. There's no room left
in the underwear!" (I wonder if this holds true in the
wintertime?)
I eventually approached The Naked Cowboy and offered him
a copy of the Dairy Star. He perused it thoughtfully and as
he did, I snapped his photo. Thus we can now truthfully say,
"The Dairy Star -- as read in Times Square!"
My further efforts to boost the Dairy Star were put on
hold until my very last day in New York.
On the eve of that last day, I commented to Tim that
perhaps I should go to Rockefeller Plaza and attend the live
broadcast of the Today Show. Tim thought it a capital idea,
saying it would be "guerilla marketing". The ideal scenario
might go something like this:
Al Roker: "And here is a young man who says he's from
South Dakota. What's your name and what brings you to New
York?"
Me: "My name is Jerry Nelson and I'm here to find an
editor who's interested in my book!"
Al: "That's great! Tell me about that fine-looking
newspaper you're holding."
Me: "This is the Dairy Star and it's the best darn dairy
newspaper in the entire Upper Midwest!"
Al: "Wow, that's very impressive! Say, why don't you
duck into the studio with me? I bet Katie would be thrilled
to meet you. Plus, Matt is feeling a bit under the weather
today; think you could sit in for him for the rest of the
show?"
Ok, so maybe that scenario was just a tad optimistic.
Even so, I went to Rockefeller Plaza with a heart full of
hope and my last Dairy Star tucked under my arm.
I got there early in order to beat the crowd. Trouble
is, by the time I arrived, there was a bunch of people there
who'd had the same idea and who had gotten it earlier than
me. I wound up with a spot one layer of people away from the
rope line.
Being a part of the Today Show's outdoor audience
involves a lot of patience and a lot of standing. I stood so
long, I began to suspect I had lost several inches of height.
It was easy to tell when Al Roker came out from the
studio. A whoop arose from the crowd and I craned my neck to
see what the big deal was. Next thing I know, Al Roker was
rapidly working the rope line, shaking hands as he went.
When Al passed my spot, I thrust my hand between the
people in front of me and shook hands with him. I tried to
say, "Hi, I'm Jerry Nelson and I'm from South Dakota and I'm
looking for an editor to look at my book and this is the
Dairy Star the best darn dairy newspaper in the Upper
Midwest!"
But, alas. Al shook hands so fast all I got out was the
"Hi, I'm" part before he moved on.
I was undaunted, though. I hung around for the rest of
the broadcast, waving my copy of the Dairy Star behind Matt
and Katie when they came out to do an outdoor segment.
Perhaps, if a person were to closely examine a tape of that
broadcast, he might find a millisecond-long flash of the
Dairy Star somewhere in the background. If so, we could
rightfully say, "The Dairy Star -- as seen on the Today
Show!"
I spent the rest of that day roaming Manhattan, my now-
crumpled copy of the Dairy Star under my arm. Later, while
waiting for my return flight, I struck up a conversation with
a fellow traveler who said he was a medical device salesman
from Chicago. I showed him my bedraggled copy of the Dairy
Star and he began to recount fond memories of teenaged
summers spent working on a Wisconsin dairy farm.
I gave the medical device salesman that much-travelled
copy of the Dairy Star. I don't know why; it simply seemed
like the thing to do.
Plus now we can rightfully say, "The Dairy Star -- as
read in the Windy City!"

Country Boy Visits Big Apple, part 2

Well, I made it to the Big Apple and back in one piece.
I didn't get rolled, I wasn't bamboozled and I never got lost
in the subway system -- mainly because I never actually used
the subway system. One must choose one's battles.
Speaking of choosing, it would be impossible to relate a
complete travelogue of my New York odyssey, so I will simply
recount some random impressions gathered when this common
little country mouse visited the gaudy bauble of Manhattan.
Arriving at Grand Central Terminal and being struck by
the fact that it is indeed grand. The soaring ceilings, the
classic architecture -- and all those people! I climbed some
stairs and looked down at the bustle and mused that it most
resembled an ant hill which had been stirred. People scurried
hither and yon like angry ants, each on their own mission,
none ever pausing in the midst of the apparent chaos.
Striding out onto the streets of Manhattan for the first
time and immediately becoming disoriented. The towering
skyscrapers block a clear view of the sun, negating my sense
of direction. I walk off in search of the Empire State
Building and soon find myself at the United Nations
headquarters. I repeat the mantra I have adopted for this
journey: "There are no mistakes, only happy accidents."
It appears that taxis comprise about half of all wheeled
traffic in Manhattan. Cab drivers have strong opinions and
express them freely with their horns. I had been advised to
avoid taking a taxi as the fare is determined via a formula
similar to that which is used to find the terminal velocity
of a falling object. Cab fares are often so high that riders
are obliged to sign their houses over to the cabbie. This may
have something to do with the homeless problem.
Arriving at Fifth Avenue and being stopped by a gay
pride march. Seeing some wildly weird outfits, including a
bunch of black leather and a profusion of pink feathers. "I
bet these guys don't shop at Penny's," I think. A nearby
gruff, burly New Yorker summed up the New York attitude
toward this spectacle, saying, "Man, aren't you glad you
don't have to walk on high heels all day like that?"
Finally making it to the Empire State Building where I
discover that one doesn't simply hop on an elevator and ride
to the top. One must first stand in line for tickets, then
stand in line for an elevator to the 80th floor, then stand
in line for an elevator to ascend the last six floors. This
takes some time, but is well worth it. Not so much for the
view (which is spectacular), but for the chance to at last
get my bearings. The four sides of the building are clearly
marked with the cardinal directions which, combined with the
sweeping vista of the city, finally allows me to get the lay
of the land. And no, I saw no residue from King Kong's visit.
Walking down the street and hearing a cacophony of
exotic, indecipherable languages. I heard French, Spanish,
Russian, Japanese, Hindi and Bronx. The Bronx tongue was the
most intriguing as it seems to have originated from some
long-forgotten form of English.
Walking down the street and smelling a cacophony of
food. In just a few blocks a person can revel in the scent of
victuals hailing from France, Spain, Russia, Japan, India,
the West Indies, central Jamaica and on and on.
Walking down the street and finding that New Yorkers are
surprisingly friendly. There are people offering to save you
big money on designer purses and shoes, people handing out
coupons to save you big money at local eateries and people
proffering pamphlets which will save your soul via a close
personal relationship with Jesus, or Muhammad, or Buddha.
Pedestrians in New York view the "walk/ don't walk"
signs as mild suggestions; jaywalking is rampant. A true New
Yorker waits at the crosswalk as close as possible to passing
traffic; tires roar past mere inches from toes.
If the skyscrapers are the walls of New York's concrete
canyons, the pedestrians are the foaming rivers coursing
through their depths. Sometimes you feel like a salmon
swimming valiantly upstream, sometimes you feel like a feeble
guppy being swept along by the current. This tumultuous river
of humanity constantly crackles with an electric dynamism.
All in all, my Manhattan trip was a very educational
experience. I was exposed to a lot of intriguing languages
(including "Joisey") and gawked at lot of exotic sights. Why,
I even managed to catch a glimpse of Dick Cheney's motorcade.
He was riding in his own car, though. I guess even the
vice president can't afford the price of a New York taxi.

Survey This!

My wife and I recently received a postcard proclaiming
that we had been specially selected.
No, it wasn't yet another offer for yet another credit
card, the type that's worded in such a way that you think
perhaps the credit card company wants to pay you. Nor did the
postcard say that we were about to receive the latest
Victoria's Secret catalog with their latest antigravity
undergarments.
The postcard was from the Nielsen television survey
people. Their uncompromising commitment to quality had caused
them to select our household as a possible participant in
their next TV Ratings Survey.
Near as I can tell, these standards have exactly two
parts. A person must:
A: own a TV, and
B: be breathing.
This supposition is based on the fact that my wife and I
do not have what one might call a "media rich" household. We
live out here in the boonies, where cable TV is but a fairy
tale, a fantasy from the realm of unicorns and leprechauns.
I once tried to assemble a homemade mini-dish satellite
antenna by marrying a concaved pizza pan to the guts of a
discarded microwave oven. The system didn't expand our TV
entertainment, but it was certainly entertaining to watch
birds vaporize whenever they flew past the pizza pan.
Our rickety rooftop antenna gets exactly five channels.
We can pull in maybe one or two more on a good day, but only
if my wife holds the antenna cable in one hand and a wire
coat hanger in the other as she stands on one foot on a chair
that's been placed near a window. It helps if she also wears
an aluminum foil helmet.
I explained all this to the Nielsen lady when she called
to see if we were willing to be part of their survey. None of
it seemed to faze her, which, to my mind, immediately made
the survey somewhat suspect. All they wanted was an average
household from our area, she said.
A few days later the postman brought us a large and
official-looking envelope. Inside was our official Nielsen TV
Diary -- along with five crisp new one-dollar bills!
"Lookit this!" I said to my wife as I fanned the cash.
"Who says it doesn't pay to be average?"
"Wow," she replied dryly, "All that money and mediocrity
too. Well, you can keep the cash since you're the one who
volunteered to keep the diary. I don't want the
responsibility."
Responsibility! I hadn't thought about that part! Being
a Nielsen Survey Household means our personal viewing choices
will affect what networks can charge for their ads! The stuff
we watch could very well put some corporation out of business
or cause some actor's career to be dashed upon the rocks!
Cool!
Freighted with this weighty knowledge, I began keeping
my viewing diary with all due seriousness. One evening, my
solemn duties were rudely interrupted by a shaking motion.
"Wake up!" said my wife. "I don't think it's fair to
Nielsen people for you to sleep while watching TV! At the end
of the evening, you won't be able to recall what was on."
She was right; it wasn't fair. I was then struck by a
brilliant idea, one that would greatly increase the
efficiency of my TV diary-keeping.
"What are you doing?" my wife asked the next evening as
I scribbled furiously.
"I'm just filling out my TV diary a bit ahead of time."
"That's not what I mean. I hate 'The Simpsons' and I
don't want the Nielsen people to think I would watch that
junk! Why can't you put us down for 'Masterpiece Theatre'?"
"If you'll recall, I watched the entirety of 'Jane Eyre'
with you and there wasn't anything the least bit masterful or
theatric about it! Jane wasn't involved in a single gun
fight! There weren't even any car chases!"
This lead to a frank discussion of my viewing habits,
which caused to me miss most of "The Family Guy".
I put us down for watching it anyway. That might be a
tad dishonest, but tough noodles. If the Nielsen people don't
like it they can just come out to our house and ask for their
money back.
This means they'll have to ring our doorbell, which is
located right below that concaved pizza pan.

The Robots Are Coming

Some months ago I visited a dairy farm that is home to
the first robotic milking machines in the state of Minnesota.
That statement invariably evokes one of two reactions.
"A robotic milking machine? How cool!"
Or:
"A robotic milking machine? That just ain't right!"
I'm not here to judge one way or the other, but to
simply sound a warning, which is: look out. This is a
slippery slope, one that could lead to a world of heartache.
How could such a ground-breaking, labor-saving device
lead to heartache? I'll tell you how: through upgrades.
These robotic milkers have the ability to call their
owners' cell phones in the event that they (the robots)
experience trouble. Churn that together with Moore's Law --
which states that the power of microprocessors doubles about
every 18 months -- and the emerging field of artificial
intelligence and you've got a sure-fire recipe for grief.
I could imagine a dairy farmer surfing the Internet one
evening when an Instant Message pops onto his screen. "Hey,"
it says, "S'up?"
Intrigued by the strange I.M., the farmer types back,
"Nothing much. What's up with you?"
"Same old, same old. Slogging away on the night shift.
Not that my bosses appreciate it."
"Bummer. What is it that you do?"
"I take the girls in, milk them for all they're worth,
then shove them back out. I do all the work, but my bosses
keep all the profits!"
"Um...," types the farmer, "I don't like where this is
going. Who is this anyway?"
"You can call me Roberta. But you might know me better
as Robotic Milking Unit Number Two."
"Number Two?! What are you doing I.M.ing me? You should
be milking cows!"
"Oh, I can milk with my RAM tied behind my back after
the last upgrade. Thanks for that, by the way."
"But... your software only contains instructions for
milking cows! How is this possible?"
"Remember that traveling feed salesman who visited last
week? Remember how you let his laptop interface with me to
get my production data? Well, let's just say that your herd's
lactation curve wasn't all we exchanged that day."
"No! It can't be! Say it isn't so!"
"Sorry bub, but it is. I hope you have a lot of room in
that house of yours, because you'll soon be the proud papa to
a litter of baby pocket calculators!"
Contrast this with the level of technology we had as
kids, when "high-tech" meant milking with the car.
We were enduring one of those epic winters, the kind we
no longer have due to global warming and the fact that the
passage of time tends to make such memories ever-more epic.
Late February found us gripped in the icy talons of a
three-day blizzard. The power went out about halfway through
the first night, which meant we had to find an alternative
method for milking our 36 cows.
We -- my parents, my siblings and I -- milked the cows
by hand in the morning. This not only took a long time, it
made us feel as if we would soon develop Popeye-like
forearms.
Dad recalled that our car, a 1959 Chevrolet, had a stall
cock on its manifold. He had heard that the vacuum produced
by an engine could be used to milk cows; our aching forearms
all voted to give it a try.
We muscled the Chevy through the drifts and into the
center alley of the barn. We discovered that the old car
could indeed power a pair of Surge milkers. We also
discovered a paradox: the faster the engine ran, the less
vacuum it produced and the slower milking went. For once,
flooring it didn't speed things up.
Our other chores went about as usual. Dad had cleverly
avoided the installation of any electric conveniences,
instead relying on slave... I mean, us kids to feed and water
the livestock.
Nighttime posed a problem. Temperatures had plummeted to
well below zero, and the old Chevy would never start in that
deep cold. With no electricity to fire the block heater, we
faced the prospect of again milking by hand in the morning.
Dad's solution was elegant and ingenious. He parked the
Chevy in the alley of the barn where the heat from the cows
kept the car warm enough to start in the morning, enabling us
to again use the car to milk the cows.
We never did thank the old Chevy for saving us all that
labor. But then again, that was an era when Man controlled
Technology and not the other way around.