Rubber Chicken Mythology 2.0

The Dismal Drive

2010-07-05T17:00:00.002-05:00

The Dismal Drive
A meditation of sorts on Copeland, Rivers, and American Dreams
Elee Wood, July 4, 2010

"You've never been in the sand hills?" Dad's question was full of surprise and shock. In the fifteen or so years of my youth spent in Nebraska summers, I'd never really been to the sand hills, and here it was 2004. "We'll go then, for sure." This he said as we passed through the endless rows of Iowa corn en route to North Platte, Nebraska, where my grandmother lived. This was the first trip back to Nebraska since my mother's parents died. I hadn't made the drive across the plains since May of 1999, and despite being older the drive still seemed to take forever. On and on went the rows of corn, with so few cities here on the plains the corn reigns. The landscape lulled and mesmerized, no where to look for variety, and soon enough we were both asleep. The jerking of the car and sound of rumble bars jolted us awake enough for me to realize, this flatland was going to get us in trouble if we weren't careful.

We pulled into North Platte late in the day, the sun beating down on the car we rented back home in Milwaukee. Navigating from his reclined position, Dad casually gave directions to me, the excited-yet-weary driver. Grandma Mabel's house -- the new one, one I don't remember very well because she moved when I was in college -- was neat and tidy, with a well manicured lawn, meticulously shaped and trimmed hedge. Everything seemed flat. The houses were flat, nothing was over a ranch style. The land was flat, no hills, not a break in the horizon for miles. Mabel was inside listening to the TV set at a decibel loud enough to make up for her hearing aids sitting on the desk. She came to the door to give smothering grandmother hugs and welcomed us in standing only long enough to direct traffic and settle back to a seat close to the action near enough for her ailing body to rest again.

She called us kids, me and dad. I'm used to it I guess, being the only child, I never seemed to fit in as the granddaughter. It must be something about the group of people you are in that designates the granddaughter title. Mabel had four of her own kids and seven more from other husbands, all of whom have grandchildren and she still knew all of them, though there aren't really that many.

And so we set off for the sand hills. It was July 3, the day before Independence day.
The night before we spent time at the Lincoln County historical center and museum. The museum is a fascinating collection of the lives of the people of this area. It's no Smithsonian, though it is a people's museum, maybe more so than the Smithsonian could ever hope to be. The jumble of exhibits has some logic to its layout, but more importantly is about the people, about their daily life experience and how they see the world. I was struck by it--the sheer delight in everyday objects and the minutiae of people's lives. Somebody's pencil collection took up four feet of cabinet and another couple’s salt and pepper-shaker collection spread over six. Framed photos of days gone by mingled with adding machines, old furniture, wedding dresses, depression glass and a hat collection. All of it from the members of the community. All of it representing the lives of middle America.

It doesn't take long before you are out of town and into the beginning of the sand hills. It starts slow and then without realizing it you are in the midst of a completely different place, a place where time slips into the unknown. The sand hills began rolling by as we traveled the highway. On the radio Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common Man began and I felt as though we were in a movie. Could it haven been more idyllic? As the music went on, the hills rolled by. Weather beaten windmills sprang up every twenty acres or so to provide the cattle with fresh water. Miles were marked with old boots on the fence posts.

As I sat in the backseat of Mabel’s Buick Century, watching the hills roll by, hearing the plaintive brass sounds of the fanfare, I thought about the day. Independence eve it was, so to speak. My mind wandered and worried about how we seem not to remember as much why the fourth of July matters so much to people in the United States. There’s so much struggle in each individual life to create the dream and live in it, that it seems like maybe that independence is understood, just not always why we have it. But then, the car slowed, and slowed my anxious thoughts about meaning into another place. “Well here we are!” Dad said. “Where is here?” I wondered aloud, since the land in every direction ranged up and down over hills, the bright blue of the sky in sharp contrast to the grassy-covered sand. “The Dismal River.”

We climbed a short overlook, dad and I, while Mabel stayed in the car. At the top we looked out over The Dismal River, Nebraska’s “wildest and most undeveloped river.” It twists and turns, nearly loop-de-loops if you look hard enough. The view was far from the dreary and bleak suggested by its name. Instead, maybe with echoes of Copeland in my head, it was majestic. From above, the river winds and gracefully addresses its sand hill neighborhood. The bluestem grasses and sedges formed a pleasant border framing the water-land divide. Yet, I was told by my father, and Mabel too, this was a rough, forcible river. Like the cymbal crash in Fanfare, like the rumbling timpani and bass drums, this river reflects the winding road of American lives, the real people’s lives. There’s treacherous places, places where you can’t get past the barbed wire fences, places where the springs bubble up from the ground so violently that it seems like you might have made a wrong turn and ended up at Yellowstone. Wildlife abounds, quicksand lurks, and, oh... There’s a golf course at the end, just in case you thought it the rough beauty of nature wasn’t quite American enough.

From our perch over the Dismal River, I could see farther than before. The wide horizon stretch out over miles and miles of land where the bison once roamed, followed by the Blackfoot, Arapaho, Assiniboine, Cheyenne, Comanche, Crow, Gros Ventre, Kiowa, Lakota, Kiowa Apache, Cree, Ojibwe, Sarsi, Shoshone, Stoney and Tonkawa. This land, this river, this place, this is the place of independence and freedom, had and taken, stolen and created. Funny how Copeland almost titled his stirring work as “Fanfare for Four Freedoms.” The crushing awe of nature and the responsibility of freedom lingered in my field of vision and rang in my ears as we departed. Somehow the sand hills evoked the meaning and purpose of independence in ways I had not considered.

Often on Independence Day the outward celebrations—the ubiquitous hot dogs and apple pies, the fireworks and the flagrant flag-waving—almost seem to reject the intended purpose and memory set forth by the Declaration. Yet, I have to have a moment of hope and trust in the common man, as it were, that for some each day is like paddling the Dismal River. Each day people face the twists and turns, the unexpected barriers, the springs and rapids that force us to think about what we are all about. The vast horizon of democracy promises that there is independence, but with independence comes great responsibility.

Looking at the wizened lines of my grandmother’s face as we sped off toward Broken Bow, in hopes of lunch at the Rodeway Inn, I thought of how her life mattered in this great anxious independence. Daughter of immigrant farmers, mother, wife, top seller of Stanley-Home-Products, her life was that of other plainswomen, perhaps of the modern age. Her life was not easy but she became expert at making do and then giving back. I think in many ways this is what is both known and unknown about our “fellow Americans.” There is caring and struggle, there is obnoxious ignorance, and there is anxious independence.

This is the hypnotism that comes from riding in the sand hills and listening to Copeland, dreaming a little about the land of the free. It was a Dismal drive.

holiday happenings

2008-01-01T23:13:00.000-05:00

Ho ho ho. Happy new year. Here's a copy of our annual holiday letter for those of you who want to be in the know. It has been edited for timeliness and such things.

Indianapolis had a nice 4” snowfall back in mid-December. Then it was 50 degrees by the end of the week. Now it is cold and snowy, but again, by the weekend we can anticipate 50 degrees again. Living this far south (at least for us) has odd benefits and odd drawbacks. I think we’ve realized that we like long autumn afternoons and true spring mornings. But we also miss the snow and cold, living more true to our northern roots that I think we thought we might. Nevertheless the world is always turning toward the morning, and as long as we have what we need we can’t really be too picky.

As much as we like to hear about your fantastic adventures of the year, so too shall we share ours: This year it will be all about the numbers. Join in the mathematical fun, and see where you too, can participate.

21: The number of visitors who stopped by and actually slept in our bungalow in 2007. Just a few were repeats, but we had folks en route from Minnesota to the east coast, Cincinnati to Wisconsin, Tennessee, Los Angeles, Toronto and related Canadian environs, Kansas, Illinois, Iowa, and Virginia.

9: Total number of people housed here in one fantastic spring break weekend. The house was a buzz with all kinds of game enthusiasts. Erik taught them how to play Kubb—the Swedish game affectionately known as “Throw Some Blocks, Then Throw the Stick Shortly Thereafter.” Our Kubb ambassadorship has resulted in a full scale resurgence of the game across the northern hemisphere.

1: The guest who locked him self both in and out of the house. What? How is this possible? It comes down to keyed locks on both doors. It’s a tricky little thing, Erik having done it the first time to know how it works. Dan, we apologize again, and glad that you got out in time.

750: Total number of hours worked (including 150 hours of overtime) by Erik in preparation of the new exhibit, The Power of Children: Making a Difference. Both of us spent considerable time and energy in making this exhibit about racism, discrimination and tolerance come to life through the stories of Ryan White, Ruby Bridges and Anne Frank. It was a long summer of overtime, but the result was a fantastic exhibit that opens up much needed conversation for families and children. We also had the opportunity to attend the gala which included hearing from Ruby Bridges and Jeanne White-Ginder, mother of Ryan White. Elee also published an article about the exhibit which appeared in the journal Museums and Social Issues. It’s not available on the newsstand, but if you want a copy, she’ll happily send it along.

12: Number of hours spent flying, and railroading from Indianapolis to Rovereto, Italy where Elee gave a paper at the International Human Science Research Conference. Actually, one of the members of the conference suggested perhaps she and he had attended the Conference on Facial Expressions. Imagine if you can someone who can equal Elee’s penchant for facial contortions, add some Dutch language and a shock of white hair and there you go. If you are looking on the map, Rovereto is in the Southern Tyrol, approximately 2 hours north and east of Verona. It is a beautiful city and though we didn’t stay long, we ate well and relaxed.

7”: The amount of snow it takes to shut down the city of Indianapolis for not one but two days! Hard to say whether it was comical or tragic that our street was never plowed and most of the city was impassable. Yes, they do have snow plows. Whether they know which end goes on the street seems to be in question.

So, to sum things up (exactly 800!) we are doing pretty well. The year ahead promises more exciting travel, fun with friends and family, and a chance to make a difference somewhere in the world somehow.

We wish you the best and hope to add you to our roster of house guests some time in 2008. We’re counting on you to help break the record.

Be merry and bright!

An Innovative Diatribe

2007-07-22T16:45:00.000-05:00

Some recent musings on innovation, novelty, and museums--names changed to protect the innocent. This was written in support of a colleague's report (though it was not cited, so I'm sure somewhere along the line this will look like it was lifted....ah well).

April 26, 2007

Novelty and innovation go hand in hand. They both require newness, a sense of change, or a freshness of ideas. Innovation means taking risks, looking for new ways to do the same old thing, to turn an idea upside down. Novelty has appeal for its newness. At the same time, novelties often wear thin or become trivial and frivolous, but at their core, they must be innovative. Innovation stems from freedom of thought.

To be innovative in a museum means thinking at multiple levels, it means focusing in on the popular culture, on the aliveness of humans, of the novelty of wonder. To be innovative means we must be looking at ideas from multiple perspectives, with different lenses, and taking ideas off-center. A childlike sense of the world can help a museum create that wonder. Inspiring and supporting creative, divergent thinking can create the imagination that leads to wonder. We can find this through the arts, through technology and new media, and through re-imaginings of the past.

A museum has a responsibility to create conditions that motivate unique ideas and approaches. This cannot be done under stringent codes and dictates, or the particularities of an individual. Creativity that leads to innovation must be nurtured, supported, focused, and celebrated. Many museums are behind on innovation. We have not moved toward enough unusual, unique, or creative ideas in our work to call attention to who we are and what we do. There are many others who are ahead. While we may be in the forefront of our local peers, other museums, science centers, and history museums are putting innovation on display.

No large, successful museum can rest on the laurels of “biggest”, “largest”, or “most”, of anything. Size is a liability. An endowment is a liability. The big museums should be doing more with what they have. They should be encouraging more opportunities for staff to take risks, to go out on a limb with a crazy idea, or a new twist on an old theme. Why? Because if when we call ourselves a leader, we must show others how to learn from mistakes, how to encourage creativity, and how to support our staff. The biggest asset of any museum is the collective brain power that exists within the building. Smaller museums are doing it better. Less endowed museums are doing it better. There are no dreams to chase now. The public is more discerning than ever. If our exhibits are to be extraordinary, we’re not keeping up. What will delight, engage, and enrich the visitor is where we can be more innovative.

We are showing our age. To keep up we have to be aware, we have to make efforts to look broadly for ideas. We need to read outside our field. We need to visit all kinds of places, museums, art centers, manufacturing, business. We need to collaborate more and be willing to admit our deficiencies. We need to recognize that the quirky idea might connect with more people than we think. We need to listen to our visitors. We need to see what others do and learn from it. We must learn from our mistakes and be willing to admit them. We must pay attention to what our audience thinks, what they want, and what they need. We should put our faith in staff to do this.

What is innovative? It is more than vision. Innovation comes through processes, methods, concepts, ideas, systems, and programs. Many big museums were innovators in the past, but now many seem more cautious and less ambitious.

Creating an innovative environment is more than “fish” philosophy and sound financial strategies. It requires the opportunity of key thinkers to be creative, to explore the possibility of ideas, and to have time to play, imagine, and create. The museum should not suffer for a lack of inspiration, the very nature of our audiences, our collections, and our staffs should suggest otherwise.

If we in museums are to be innovative, we must find a way to insure that staff are focused on the best thinking that comes from
--flexible thinking,
--looking for the next big thing in every thing we experience, read, or discover from the farm report to the toy convention,
--being curious and thinking broadly,
--taking risks and being okay with failure,
--recognizing success and providing positive reinforcement,
--encouraging idea generation at all levels of the organization
--being willing to learn from others.

pictures of our Italy trip

2007-06-20T20:19:00.002-05:00

Here are twoslide shows of our trip to Italy. Have a nice trip to photobucket:

Meet Rovereto

Slice of Life in Rovereto

buon giorno!

2007-06-14T08:52:00.000-05:00

buon giorno!

I'm in Italia soaking up the good phenomenological rays. The International Human Science Research conference is here for four days. I have to admit, this is the best conference I've been to yet this year. For one, this is the place where my research is most at home, and where what I believe about research is most accepted. So, you could call it a choir conference. And, while on the one hand that may seem too easy and letting on off of the hook, it is a refreshing and uplifting confidence builder.

We have our stars in phenomenology, and I got to sit next to one of them at breakfast. So many of the people that I've read are here and that makes it all the more exciting. Tomorrow I will make my presentation on the idea of object knowledge, along with Kiersten and Mark--my partners in object knowledge knowledge.

Slowly but surely we are learning the ways of Italy. Of course by the time we have it down, we'll have to be on our way home. But, it will be a good experience nonetheless.

Ciao for now.

They Say It's My Birthday

2007-06-10T10:33:00.000-05:00

Many happy returns of the day to my fellow June tenthians: Maurice Sendak, Judy Garland, Saul Bellow, Prince Phillip, Frederick Lowe (of Lerner and), and John Edwards. (There are others but these seem the most auspicious). And, a moment of silence for those whose lives were lost on this day: Alexander the Great, Marcus Garvey, Spencer Tracy, Louis L'Amour, and Ray Charles.

Some fascinating facts from the mind that likes to imagine vast quantities of bizarre items:

First, the basic calculations: 36 years = 432 months = 13,140 days = 315,360 hours = 18,921,600 minutes. (No I am not quoting Rent. Just doing math). I have known Erik for more than half my life at this point! I have been called Elee for 22 years. Been driving for 19 years and wearing glasses for 30.

Using Forks: Let us presume that I use an average of 1.8 forks per day, and adjusting for the earlier years of my life, let's presume that I have used this average of forkage since age 5. That would mean in my current life time, I have used 20, 367 forks.

Handling pieces of paper: A very challenging figure. Let's estimate that on average in an office-oriented position, such that I have had in my last twelve years of such work, I handle roughly 150 pieces of paper a day (including mail, articles, documents, etc.). When I was more of the student type this might have been roughly 50 pages more. As a younger person this was probably just about 50 pages, give or take.

I then calculate: Ages 5-18= 13 years at 50 pages per day = 237,250 pages
Ages 18-24= 7 years at 200 pages per day = 511,000
Ages 24-36 = 12 years at 150 pages per day=657,000

that would give a grand total of 1, 405,250 pieces of paper handled in my lifetime. It represents approximately 2,810.5 reams. Since one ream uses about 6% of total tree, it takes roughly 17 reams for one tree. That means that I've killed about 165 trees, roughly 4.5 trees per year of life. And in reality, I probably should add on about 5 more reams for the dissertation. Another half tree. That's a sobering concept. But, I am doing my part to use less paper and recycle it as much as I can.

So as not to end on a low note, here are some interesting random events in history for June 10:

June 10, 1971 44th National Spelling Bee: Jonathan Knisely wins spelling shalloon
June 10, 1902 Patent for window envelope granted to H F Callahan
June 10, 1752 Ben Franklin's kite is struck by lightning-what a shock!

Realizing where you are

2007-06-07T20:22:00.000-05:00

It dawned on me the other day, that I'm living in Indianapolis. Perhaps you are thinking, "yes, that's where you live, do you know your name and phone number?" But I don't mean I haven't recognized this fact in two years. What I mean is that I am quite surprisingly making my life happen here. Why surprising? While I did technically choose to live here, it wasn't because I wanted to be in Indianapolis. It was for the job. I love the job. I like the people I work with. I'm just surprised that I can put up with the way of life here. Okay, now, before you native types get all up in arms, let me have my say.

I was listening to the radio and heard a story about a senate bill advancing the idea of the carbon footprint taxing. One of the proponents of the bill is Amy Klobuchar, the senator from Minnesota. While I didn't get to vote her into office, I surely would have. The problem was when I both smiled at the thought of how progressive Minnesota is, I also snickered to myself, "only the Minnesotans" (well the other author is from Oregon, so there you go). But then I thought "NO! Did I just disparage the progressive, Scandanavian influenced way of life I so desperately wish to reclaim?" What has happend to me!

I want what I cannot have at the moment. I miss the diversity of cultures and excitement of knowing the difference between a Thai restaurant run by Hmong and a Thai restaurant run by Thais. (And on top of that, missing the options for Thai food). I miss the vast amounts of green sensibilities--the CSAs the community farms, the hippies, people who recycle. I miss the vibrancy of arts like Heart of the Beast, the Cedar Cultural Center, and big rivers and tiny lakes. I miss the accents. Sure Indianapolis has all this, to an extent. But I don't think that it is as evident to me, as I haven't found my way into it yet.

So what is important in this realization is not unlike Erik's favorite motto--no matter where you go, there you are. So here I am. This is not the Minneapolis, but the Indianapolis. It has what I need--Erik, a great job, a job for Erik, a nice house, and good friends. More people stop and visit now because we are much more on the way than out of the way. So why am I complaining? Perhaps I'm just having 2nd year culture shock. In July we'll have been here 2 years. It seems hardly possible. And yet in that time we've settled in. So there must be something that is worth celebrating and owning. And maybe that is what is important. It is less tentative now, our being here. I've got a good sense of that and place can be made into something worthwhile. It just takes a person to make it so.

The 10,000 lives of my namesake

2007-05-03T20:32:00.000-05:00

I'm sure that any of you have 'googled' yourself at some point in time. Given my current (and previous) role in the world, it is inevitable that I will show up on a google list. So instead of the narcissistic method of auto-googling, I thought I would google my alternate realities. Thus, I went to google my full name and sought the 'images' that it produced. Happily, I discovered that not only do I exist in multiple academic environments, but I also function in the role as a pageant queen, and movie star. On straight up names, I come up on page 5 of on a basic google (e.g. somewhere around #25-30). But this is why I don't use the full name.

I am inclined to only briefly mention this idea of 10,000 lives, hatched in a former life, where in you recognize that at each step in your life path, a thousand choices are made and your life continues on the new path--leaving behind 10,000 other options. Such alternative lives are easily recovered via google. Herein lies the tale of my other lives, numbers 1-10

1. The MIT professor: received her undergraduate degree from Harvard College in Russian History and Literature in 1980, and her Ph.D. from the University of Michigan in Russian and Soviet History in 1991.

Clearly this was influenced by my first viewing of Dr. Zhivago and the fall of the Berlin Wall and subsequent dissolution of the USSR. *oddly enough this happened after my ph.d of 1991*

2. The starlet: most recent appearance, Numb3rs , "Bettor or Worse". And, apparently, also had a spot on the "Sopranos" and "CSI" as a coroner's assistant. Should you want to see revealing photos, these also appear on line. I look a bit more Italian here.

3. Is really someone with my name after "Mary" so that really doesn't count. The good news here is that the first three are then repeated in the top 8 google hits, thereby making my officical current self effectively number

4. Lecturer at Exeter. This one is the most frighteningly similar to my own self: Role: Reader in Early Childhood Education. Research interests: Progression and continuity in play (focusing on children's learning, curriculum, pedagogy).Play and pedagogy in early childhood settings.
WHOA!

5. Sadly, self #5 is dead.

BIRTH: ABT 1645, Dorchester, Suffolk, MA
DEATH: 26 Jun 1682, Medfield, Norfolk, MA

Interestingly enough, this is not entirely unlikely a relative! Given the names and relative location, timing and relations, this is potentially a cousin. Cool, eh?

6. Academic self #3 biologist:
Doctor of Philosophy, Ecology and Evolutionary Biology
Bachelor of Arts in Anthropology
Bachelor of Science in Business Administration

The good news on this one is that I appear to be still on the interdisciplinary route. And, it would seem based on the images that more of me than not has long hair.

7. I am the namesake of a science writing award.

8. A tennis player.

9. Author of Mormon stories.

10. Author of a blog based somewhere out west, with a clear advocacy streak (and long hair). Perhaps I will add her to my blog watch.

My formal self does not show up in my proper name until page 5. I guarantee that if you google my better known self you will have a full 8 pages of data.

Anyway. This has been particularly interesting to me. I'm thinking that I might just try to track myself down.

You Can't Take that Away from Me

2007-04-23T20:37:00.000-05:00

This weekend we had the pleasure of hosting a dear old friend from college. He was on his way back east to meet up with his family. He mad a comment that really stuck with me and triggered a thought to write about. It also reminded me of an essay I wrote about our days in college and a funny little group of musicians.

As we caught up on the last year since we'd see him, he recollected more of the challenges he and his wife have had over the last few years. They have suffered mightily from a mysterious development of Lyme's disease which has rendered them allergic to everything under the sun (including, I think the sun), as well as heavy metal poisoning. I'm not talking about too much AC/DC, I'm talking mercury. YIKES. It means they've had to give up their life dreams of owning a farm, of working the land, and living sustainably.

"The one thing I've realized in all of this." Said The Once A Farmer Friend. "You know, this disease can't take our music away from us." He talked about the jublilation of the day when they could buy new instruments. It pulled at my gut. Such a simple pleasure that suddenly means more to a person than anything in the world. It is incredibly painful to realize what it means for two people in their mid-30s with two young children to be completely without anything in the world but friends, a lot of hope, and music. But he was right. As much as identity is caught up in material possessions, it is also connected to the abstract concepts like music.

The full impact of this comment ties to a the lives we led in college. It starts with the house at 1674 Dayton Avenue in St. Paul. It also used to be the center of a community of people variously connected by music and Macalester college. Known simply as “the Yellow House,” it served as a center of activity for a relatively large group of people, all centered around old-time music.

This place was nothing compared to the heyday of Bloomington, Indiana in the '60s and '70s. But it was our own little slice of it. Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure just how long the Yellow House was in the Macalester family. Invariably houses like that would pass on from one generation to the next, one group to the other, bridged in some way by a commonality of at least two people. I initially heard of the Yellow House when I was in my first year at Mac. At that time it was loosely connected to the theatre department, by way of the students of course. It changed hands in my second year, passed to members of the music department. It was in that year that I came to know it. The new members of the Yellow House ran it like a collective, and these Granola-crunching-tree-hugger-folk musicians made it a landmark.

The Yellow House drew people not only with parties and outings, but also a way of life. The residents of the house at that time were five men and one woman. The Yellow House community was connected through the members of the house; five of the six were musicians in a group called the Flying Fingers.

The Flying Fingers were (and still are) a folk-music ensemble run by students. The members of the group learned songs together, taught each other how to play various instruments, and performed both at school and around town. In many ways this group was more likely the basis for the community, but the Yellow House served as the nerve center for the group, and thereby allowed more than musicians into the fold. Both the Flying Fingers and the Yellow House certainly could have existed independently of each other.

In many ways this connection could have easily been rooted in the desire of both members of the house and the music ensemble to embrace more of a collective living standard and, if you will, a more folky way of life. My first introduction to the Yellow House was where the Flying Fingers parties would take place. These were grand events where everyone connected to the members of the band or the house were welcome, food was abundant and music flowed like water. A rack of musical instruments lined one whole wall of the living room. Hanging from them were all manner of stringed things- guitars, banjos, dulcimers, mandolins and the occasional rhythm instruments – jug, washboard and bones. As folks came to the house, the instruments came down and the jamming sessions would begin. The singing and playing of music would go late into the night. Birthday parties, holiday parties, any kind of parties always had the same format, music, friendship and spirit.

Other outings that originated from the house included things like midnight sledding escapades at the Town and Country Club. The Once Farmer was one of these house members. Often in the winter he would drive around the campus and pick up people in his old ambulance. Stocked with sleds and comrades, we would take off down Marshall avenue though the sparkling winter snows to find fun and frivolity on the gentle slopes of the country club. (We climbed the fence to get in). Other times the assorted members would travel to the west side of the Mississippi, in Minneapolis to have a bonfire and sing songs. Some of the more memorable moments were sitting around a big bonfire singing songs like “Rooty Toot Toot for the Moon.”

Music can't be taken away from you. No matter if you have give up your instruments, you have voice, feet, and hands. You can pick up a borrowed instrument and play what your hands will recall. You can always have music. It can heal, it can bind, and it can take away the worries of the world. At the same time, the music creates the connections to the people that make you who you are. As much as the Once Farmer's experience revolves around losing his dream, it draws in his friends and family. It draws in the Yellow House community. It makes me think that we have to stay connected--whether through the music, through conversation, or just keeping in touch.

The Back Story

2007-04-07T23:46:00.000-05:00

For lack of having to catch me or anyone else up with the latest details, here's the essential backstory to get you started.

The Rubber Chicken Mythology: Some Background (originally posted May 21, 2005, some updates made to keep us in the current world order)

I don't exactly know how it started but somehow, somewhere along the line I started using rubber chickens in plays I was directing. They are classics afterall. This mythology is really Eli's fault: He's been keeping track of the rubber chicken sightings and now it has become a thing of its own, a mythology. Nevertheless and all the more, I have to keep it up.

These rubbery oddities have appeared in my life in many ways over the years and certain traditions die hard. I've decided that I'm going to have to do some investigation on the history of the rubber chicken. More on this later. My friends Earl and Elvis (the current resident rubber chickens) will make appearances here from time to time, so please keep your eyes open.

For now, you benefit to some degree with the news and information from Elee's world. This is the current record of my life and times. This blog is dedicated to all the good friends I've found throughout the world who don't want to lose out on the good news and the inevitable mishaps, scrapes, celebrations, and successes as time slips through the hourglass.

Feel free to comment. Heckling is only allowed on alternate Wednesdays.

I'm Your Only Friend, I'm Not Your Only Friend

2007-04-07T23:36:00.000-05:00

Blue Canary in the Lighthouse, who watches over you.

I'm reviving my blog. Thanks to Cathy for the nudge.

It's too late to do it now, but I'll try to get some of the old posts here for nostalgia's sake.