Hunkering

The economy is in the news a bit nowadays, which is
about like saying that the sun tends to rise in the east.
Every day brings yet another boatload of bad economic
news. The weight of it presses down on us and makes us want
to huddle in the basement like children hiding from a summer
thunderstorm.
It's been said that the only difference between a
recession and a depression is our collective state of mind.
If that's the case shouldn't the government, just to be safe,
start pumping Prozac into our water supply?
A farm machinery dealer summed it up best recently when
he commented, "This country would be a whole lot better off
if people would just quit listening to the news!"
Not listening wouldn't change the fact that it has
gotten tough for many. There is no shortage of pain as folks
watch their dreams melt like a snowman in May. But as dire as
things may seem, there can be no doubt that we will someday
find our way out of this ditch.
America is still the greatest country on the planet.
She is still the land of opportunity, full of ambitious,
energetic and inventive people. New industries and new jobs
will rise from the ashes of this recession, or downturn, or
whatever you want to call it.
While this dip in the economy is probably not as bad as
the Great Depression, we can certainly take some lessons from
that era. One of them is the lost art of hunkering.
Hunkering can be summed up by a bumper sticker I once
saw: "I've done so much with so little for so long, I can now
do almost anything with just about nothing!"
I was a farmer for most of my life, which meant that I
was self-employed. There was thus little chance that I would
be fired for, say, showing up late for work. On the other
hand, my boss could really be a jerk and often forced me to
work long hours. My wages generally fell somewhere between
"little" and "none".
Because of this, my wife and I perfected the art of
hunkering during our early years together.
Certainly we would have qualified for food stamps back
when we were a struggling young dairy farm couple with two
small kids at home. We never applied for them, though. Pride
was a factor, but I also thought it weird that a guy who
raises food would get food assistance from the government. In
any case, we never went hungry.
This was because we hunkered. We did without such things
as nights at the movies, and planted a large garden. When one
of my cows broke a leg, we butchered her and my wife canned
most of the meat. We dined for many months on the delicious
beef stew that was once a Holstein named Becky.
We also ate road kill, thanks to my wife's uncanny
ability for "grilling" deer with the car. Such events are a
pain in the neck for us, but generally fatal for the deer.
When we were young and poor, we never let a little thing like
tread marks on a carcass stand in the way of fresh venison.
Speaking of cars, we did everything we could to save
gas. We had a Chevette -- basically a roller skate bolted to
a lawn mower engine -- which got about 50 miles per gallon.
It had a stick shift, so I would extend our gas mileage
whenever we went downhill by popping the tranny into neutral
and killing the engine.
I often drove many miles out of our way so we could save
gas by coasting down a hill. My wife argued that this used
more gas than we were saving, but women tend to have a poor
grasp of the automotive world.
Another hunkering method involved saving on electricity
by burning candles. My wife has always had a thing for
candlelight. When I met first her, my wife's apartment had
more candles than a Medieval monastery.
Luckily for us, our family knew about this and often
gave my wife candles for Christmas and birthdays, along with
extra-special candles from Rome for the Fourth of July.
One evening we were enjoying a cozy candlelit meal when
my wife caught me staring deeply into the flickering flame.
Smiling warmly, she reached across the table, squeezed my
hand and murmured, "What are you thinking?"
"I was thinking about how all this wax is going up in
smoke," I replied, "And what it's going to cost to replace
these candles. But I believe I've come up with a way to make
them last longer. What do you call that stuff I'm always
digging out of my ears?"

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.