A tree is the perfect foil to gravity; gravity and its insidious ability to make that sweet pull downward at the end of the day seem like desire.

Fruit falls from the branch, as do leaves, so we know at least that a tree too is subject to the law.

But with all its force and strength a tree goes unequivocally in two directions at once. Poised at ground level, it finds the air above free and unexplored and the earth liquid with possibility. The greater the pressure gravity exerts upon it, the stronger and more obstinate it grows. A tree refuses any single, overweaning influence.

While living in complete compliance.

As one who is called both to the centre of the earth and to the sun.

All of that isn't much more than an observation, sweet one, a thoughtful one, but not much more, really. And yet, it sticks to me, heart and soul. The image is something I can't get out of my vision.

From a business point of view, it really has no market value. It can't employ anyone; I could put it on a t-shirt and try to sell it, but it's probably too long. I can't affix my having read it to my resume; nobody would hire me because I like it. I can't sell it, really. It's only a loving observation about trees, but it's one that I can't quite shake because, in some odd sense, this morning I'll look out at the trees on my yard in a way that's slightly different; I'll see them as creatures, like me, growing between time and eternity--look at that last line.

It's from Naked Trees, a series of prose poems by John Terpstra. He wrote it, I read it, and, my guess is, it isn't doing either of us any good financially.

But I feel rich, if I use rich as a metaphor. I'm richer for having read it. Thoreau might say that my bank account has grown, my portfolio is stronger because more diverse, and, I'm considerably better off if I see trees all around me as co-habitors God's own blessed world.

It's that kind of wealth of soul that attracts me to literature and has for more than 40 years. Observations, reflections, stories and poems--I'm vastly better off having read them, having found myself in them, having discovered my place. When I bike to school past those huge old lindens north of the house this morning, I'll feel just a little more well-heeled.

And now the question is, when I get to campus, can I sell that to students?

____________________________________________________
John Terpstra, a fine poet and non-fiction writer, will be visiting those very students in a week or so, and I've created a blog with all kinds of similar Terpstra reflections and observations, which you can sample, freely, simply by going there--terpstradordt.blogspot.com. Who knows, maybe you'll get rich. Just click on the the pic at the top of the column to the left.

Morning Prayer--a poem

The speaker in this morning's poem from Writer's Almanac is kind of a scold--maybe that's why I like him, or her. Once he or she identifies himself or herself, he seems more than ready to stand up and hold forth in manner of the prophet Jeremiah.

That tone of voice is in me too as I start the year with another gang of kids who are all, so noticeably, yet another year younger. I feel more and more, well, grandfatherly, more and more as if I ought to just shut the notes and deliver a sermon about what old men know and young kids sure as heck don't. This morning's poem makes me want to raise a pointer and preach. Listen.

Drugstore by Carl Dennis

Don't be ashamed that your parents
Didn't happen to meet at an art exhibit
Or at a protest against a foreign policy
Based on fear of negotiation,
But in an aisle of a discount drugstore,
Near the antihistamine section,
Seeking relief from the common cold.

See what I mean? He uses the command form, in the negative too. Don't do this, don't do that. Don't be thinking you somehow lack privilege or stature or romance, he says. Just don't, because you ought to be proud. . . Listen.

You ought to be proud that even there,
Amid coughs and sneezes,
They were able to peer beneath
The veil of pointless happenstance.

Same voice. You ought to be taken with the fact that your folks could climb above their silly serendipity and see that somehow the man or woman they'd somehow run into with the cough syrup was, potentially at least, some thing much bigger and better than sore throat relief.

Here is someone, each thought,
Able to laugh at the indignities
That flesh is heir to. Here
Is a person one might care about.
Not love at first sight, but the will
To be ready to endorse the feeling
Should it arise.

I really should run this poem off and show it to my students. Don't know if they'd get it, but it would be good for them. Don't be disregarding who you are or what you come from because the fact is that somebody back there was alive and kicking and paying attention, and that's a good thing because. . .

Had they waited
For settings more promising,
You wouldn't be here,
Wishing things were different.

Yeah. Take that, kids. This little verse has the voice of a Calvinist. Quitjerbitchin'.

Why not delight at how young they were
When they made the most of their chances,
How young still, a little later,
When they bought a double plot
At the cemetery.

Ouch. I'm 62 and we haven't made such plans.

Look at you,
Twice as old now as they were
When they made arrangements,
And still you're thinking of moving on,
Of finding a town with a climate
Friendlier to your many talents.

Maybe I better cool it on the retirement plans.

Don't be ashamed of the homely thought
That whatever you might do elsewhere,
In the time remaining, you might do here
If you can resolve, at last, to pay attention.

I don't know that my students would get it, but, dear Lord, I do. Think lillies. Pay attention.

I believe, Lord--help thou my unbelief.

On Revelation 5 and Reading Literature

“You are worthy to take the scroll and open its seals”


With my son, I read Revelation 5:11-14 as part of the opening of worship at our church last Sunday. This time of year, worship services and my preparations for teaching literature converge. I mine sermons for teaching ideas, my prayers veer into to do lists, and every scripture is a text I might be teaching. Sometimes, it’s a fruitful distraction.

Here’s what I thought as I prepared, delivered, and reflected on part of John’s vision.

One way (not the only way) to read the book of Revelation is to see that it tells us very familiar things, but it does so in memorable, striking (okay, even weird) ways. And those ways have largely to do with images (scrolls, golden bowls, seven eyes and horns, a Lamb with its throat slit). This view respects the good old Reformed principle of interpretation which says that Scripture interprets Scripture: one book/passage/text is explained by/reinforces another.

So what does Revelation 5 tell us that’s old news—even if it’s good news?

• Jesus is Lord (10,0002 angels worship him; “To him who sits on the throne . . .”)
• Jesus is Savior (“Then I saw a Lamb”; “You are worthy . . . because you were slain”)
• Our universe is careening towards fulfillment, a consummation in which God is all in all and the universe unites in worship and praise (vss. 13-14, mostly)
• Whatever will be, our God reigns (the entire passage)

These truths—call them doctrines, if you will, or gospel—are presented to us as a kind of drama, as a story that involves a weeping man, a scroll, the appearance of a Lamb on a throne, loud voices, numberless creatures.

A couple of literary responses suggest themselves. One is that reading the chapter is a kind of experiencing of those doctrines—a participation through words and images of what those truths feel like. I take it as part of the high calling of literary studies that Scripture employs this kind of approach.

A second is that images tell the truth, that fiction (story) is as true as precept. I’m not implying that Revelation is made up, that it’s fiction. But it’s not a Pauline discourse on Christ’s supremacy; it’s a vivid illustration and engagement with those truths.

What’s the point? First, that studying literature—being attuned to images and story—brings in a harvest of rich reading of Scripture. My literary reading enhances my ability to read Scripture. And, second, as implied above, Scripture, by its method, sanctions a literary approach to truth. Telling a good story, wrapping a truth in vivid, allusive metaphors is a way to tell the truth. And engaging with a literary approach to Scripture as well as a truth-seeking approach to literature is a way to join the “four living creatures” who say “Amen” and fall down to worship the Lamb on the throne.

The Soul of an Indian

A Dakota man, in fact a direct descendant of Charles Eastman, said at a conference I attended last week that he carried his great-grandfather's book, The Soul of an Indian, with him wherever he went. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled it out, a book I've never read.

So I listened to The Soul of an Indian yesterday on the way to Chicago and loved it. I'm not silly about such things. What Charles Eastman describes as the religion of Native peoples may well be a bit over-the-top in its generous portrayals; it struck me as being--how shall I say it?--a bit "golden-age-ish." But then who am I to judge the authenticity of another person's spirituality or portrayal of such--red or yellow, black or white? Nope. Yesterday, I just listened.

There's a line that's just a paragraph or two into the book that's really stuck with me, although other things have as well: "The religion of the Indian is the last thing about him that the man of another race will ever understand."

That strikes me as absolutely right. I don't honestly know why I've become so fascinated by the stories of Native America, although it may have something to do with the fact that I live in Sioux Center, in Sioux County, which is 12 miles east of the Big Sioux river and about equa-distant between Sioux City and Sioux Falls--and yet I don't know that in the 40 or so years that I've lived here I've ever yet encountered a Sioux Indian. For that, I've had to head north and west and south.

I've spent long hours reading about the Sioux Indian wars, about Navajo and Zuni histories--novels and chronicles, new and ancient. But what Eastman says struck me totally as true: after all that reading and travel, I don't know that I still understand the traditional religion of Native people.

When we visited Japan several years ago, I read a great deal about the Japanese and decided their faith was vastly too difficult to understand. Here you have a people who, in some ways, have few of the vestiges of what Western folks would consider "religion." A corner shrine in one part of the house maybe, somewhere in the community a temple--but no family alter to speak of, no Sabbath, and few rituals. Yet, travel books make it very clear that religion is central to Japanese life.

This morning I got an e-mail from an old friend, one of those viral things you're fully expected to pass along to all other concerned American citizens. It's deeply anti-Islamic, a screed that promises all of America will morph into Detroit in a decade or so if good people don't stand up and vote the scoundrels out. It's a Christian thing. Of course, it's a Christian thing.

Eastman says in The Soul of an Indian that Native people couldn't really understand what the missionaries were talking about when they brought "the white man's religion" because so many white people they met didn't appear to share the love and peace and moral character that this Jesus guy preached.

All of which leads me to believe that Eastman was only half right. Let me edit the argument this way: "The religion of the Indian [add: any human being] is the last thing about him [add: or her] that the man [add: or woman]of another race [add: or tribe or fellowship] will ever understand."

You don't have be aboriginal to be misunderstood. Most of the time I think I don't understand my own faith.

At the college where I teach--a deeply confessional place, really--I've had wonderful students, students I really, really loved, who graduate to becoming sanctified disciples of Jim Wallis on one hand, or Glen Beck on the other. It's hard to imagine their brothers in the Lord.

I loved The Soul of an Indian, but I bet I'd love The Soul of a Christian just as much, as long as it was written as generously as Eastman's portrait of Native spirituality.

Telling the truth--at least about white Christians, my people--would be a whole lot thornier, or so it seems to me.

____________________

Charles Eastman's life is quite incredible. The son of a white military hero and a Dakota chief's granddaughter, he was raised Dakota, but taken by his father into Christianity and reservation life once his father returned from the 1862 Dakota War. He graduated from Dartmouth and Boston College's School of Medicine and served at Pine Ridge in the years surrounding the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890. HBO used his life selectively for a TV movie titled Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. He married a woman almost as interesting as he was--Ellen Goodman, who taught school at Pine Ridge at the same time he was there. I used Ms. Goodman's character as prototype for a character in my own novel Touches the Sky. Eastman wrote 11 books in an attempt to allow white America to better understand Native people.

Little House on the Capricious Prairie

I know my parents took us to Walnut Grove when I was growing up. It was during our Minnesota vacation. We stopped at Walnut Grove on the way to northern Minnesota where we waded in the headwaters of the Mississippi at Itasca and visited the iron range, even taking a shaking, screaming elevator miles down an old mine shaft, our ears popping, the tour guide making us look for our hands in front of our faces to no avail before he allowed us to turn our lights on. The whole experience emphasized to me something I’d been only faintly alert to before the trip: adults enjoy intimating to kids the subterranean horrors of hell. I know we stopped at Walnut Grove because I’ve seen a picture of my sister and me in front of the Laura Ingalls’ dugout sign, her in a bonnet and me in shorts. It made that big of an impression on me.

I’d never read Laura Ingalls Wilder until I had a daughter of my own. Growing up, I was sure all those books were for girls. My sister read them. All. She also had to be done with supper on Thursday nights to watch the new episodes of the TV version of Little House on the Prairie. Clearly, girls playing dress up were the center of the show and their parties and dating were the driving force of the plots. Later, when the re-runs ran after school and I saw little Carrie fall in the same spot on the grassy California hills with sunflowers every day, it solidified why Laura Ingalls Wilder was not for me. Through high school “Walnut Grove” was significant because it came at the end of “Westbrook-Walnut Grove” or WWG, a rival high school down the ridge to the east.

I got literary in college, then came back home, then had a daughter to whom I began reading Laura Ingalls Wilder, books filled with crayfish and leeches and wolves, with prairie fires and locusts and snowstorms, with expansive skies and tall grasses and creeks that looked nothing like the sundrenched settings of southern California from the TV show. “I thought they were girls’ books,” I confessed to my oldest sister.

“No way,” she retorted, about twenty-six years too late. “And Farmer Boy is the best one.”

Farmer Boy, it turns out, is about Almanzo Wilder, Laura’s real-life main squeeze. On the show, he was played by Dean Butler, and since we would be returning from Northfield on the weekend of the Walnut Grove annual pageant when Dean Butler was to make an appearance, we decided to surprise my daughter, take an alternative route home that ran through Walnut Grove, and stop for autographs and the pageant.

Mr. Butler was scheduled for autographs from 7-8, so we left Northfield, sight of a famous Jesse James robbery gone terribly wrong, at 4:45, leaving us 2:15 to descend to the Minnesota river valley at Mankato, sight of the greatest mass execution in U.S. history, before emerging from out of that same valley at New Ulm, sight of one of Minnesota’s most famously ethnic settlements and our very own Octoberfest, through Sleepy Eye, a town ironically complete with a billboard picturing the Dakota leader of the same name, and out onto the beginnings of the Great Plains, the easternmost sliver that was originally tall grass prairie but where today the tyrant maize has mainly colonized the land and, at the time of travel, was just beginning to tassel.

We were, I suppose, somewhat ironically retracing the trip that Pa Ingalls had made after he’d lost the crop to locusts one year in Walnut Grove when he headed back east to Mankato and then beyond to find work. Even in a Toyota Sienna minivan, however, I found the distance unpredictable, more expansive than it looked on the map. All that space, especially once we emerged on the high prairie west of New Ulm, was still a long crawl on the face of earth. I drove and watched the time and ate strawberry Twizzlers and gauged whether or not we would catch Dean Butler.

We turned into Walnut Grove at 7:32, ran down the power windows to ask some people outside the museum whether Dean Butler were not signing autographs out at the pageant grounds. He was. We followed the brown signs one more mile west, driving right over the sudden thicketed ravine that was marked Plum Creek, then half a mile south and pulled into the grass field parking lot on the line marked by the street sign “Mary.” 7:35 on our clock that was 8 minutes ahead of satellite time (via cell phone). By the time we hoofed it over grass clumps to the ticket windows, it must have been very close to 7:30 on the dot.

Sure enough, there in a cordoned-off chunk of field sat a graying man in his fifties, the autograph line snaking back and forth with wood stakes and plastic runners, about fifteen people in line. “We made it,” my wife and I grinned at each other. That was before we realized that they’d closed off the line.

“He’s got to finish and go see the actors backstage,” the lady blocking the entrance told us. “He’ll be at the museum tomorrow from 9-10.” Like that helped us. This seemed all too Hollywood. Chances were he’d go back to his RV tonight and be inebriated tomorrow.

Our two boys were getting antsy so I bought our tickets--$10 a pop for anyone 5 and over; thank the maker my youngest is 4 for another two weeks—and took them in while my wife and daughter waited for a last chance at an autograph. We spread out our blankets on a hillside behind wooden folding chairs that were all reserved tickets just as a local mixed ensemble began singing some gospel and old country and western songs. They stood on the “stage” made of grass and lit by flood lights from a framework above. Stage left was the Livery Stable and Olson’s Mercantile; stage center was a sort of barn-like structure partitioned off on our side by large white sheeting; and stage right stood a mound of grass with a door in it that represented the famous Ingalls dugout as well as a pond landscaped with rock that represented Plum Creek itself.

Right away when we sat down we heard the rumblings. All day we’d ridden at the edge of cloud, a great mother ship that had been threatening all day, closing off the expanse of sky to the north. We had dipped out of it at Mankato but then driven back into it as we turned northwest toward New Ulm. We’d watched it all day, as one does with weather on the prairie, watching each day’s fate unfold on the great canvas of sky. Now, the cloud had knotted itself into an angry little system.

By the time my wife and daughter showed up—they’d gotten an enthusiastic “Hi” out of Dean Butler but no autograph—things were more desperate. Soon the announcement came: There’s a shower to the east of us; please go to your vehicles to wait it out and it a few moments when it’s passed we’ll return for the performance.”

So we moved to our van on Mary row, abided the humidity, inhaled the breath of cool brought by the wind cloud, felt our breast bone shudder at the deep thunder, before finally absorbing the wind-driven sheets of the storm proper. We could see the hem of the cloud just to the northwest, where no doubt a northwesterly would be driving cooler, drier air. But to our southwest, the storm continued to pile up in deep, slatey grays that meant more rain. This is what it means to await one’s fate on the prairie.

And hunker down and wait we did, like good prairie squatters. Eventually the northwesterly did win, but by the time we got back to our seats it was after 10:00, blustery and cool. We snuggled under our blankets as if it were fall.

The pageant itself proved to be a greatest hits of Laura Ingalls Wilder. They drove impressive horses and wagons through several times; they raised a church; they projected locust outlines on the white sheets; Laura and Nelly fought; they produced a line of fire through the grass that especially impressed my youngest son who plugged his ears and strained his eyes wide; and they did a country danced that impressed my daughter.

One of the themes the pageant focused on was Charles Ingalls’ wanderlust which took the family from Wisconsin to Kansas, back to Wisconsin, then over to Walnut Grove, down to Burr Oak, Iowa, back to Walnut Grove and then finally west to De Smet, South Dakota. In the pageant, Ma Ingalls is especially wearied by his movements; it’s something my wife has also commented on in our reading of the tales.

Then again, hanging on to a chunk of the prairie is no easy task. This same weekend I had finished Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres, the story of the Larry Cook family’s acquisition and loss of a farm of those significant measurements. In the novel, Cook’s grandfather bought the Iowa farm, sight unseen, only to find it completely under water. Once it was tiled out, however, the land was a gold mine, and through shrewd bargains that, typical of small communities, made them no friends, the Cook family consolidated the land into the monumental figure that gives the book its title. Despite the family’s seeming success, however, doom hangs over the farm like a capricious prairie storm. One of Larry’s daughters, Rose, is recovering from breast cancer; another privately counts her miscarriages that are caused, the book suggests, by the chemical run off deposited in the drainage wells. After Larry signs over the farm and the sons-in-law chalk up debt in the spirit of early 80s expansionism, the storm breaks within the family, within the community, within the economy. There is no hiding from fate on the prairie. It’s there, you wait for it, and it takes you. By the time this storm passes, there’s nothing left. The legacy of the Cook family on Iowa prairie ends at a meager four generations.

In his book Grassland: The History, Biology, Politics and Promise of the American Prairie, Richard Manning would have us believe that the prairie is ultimately capricious, that we shouldn’t exactly put roots down on the prairie, that it’s meant for nomadism, movement, flexibility. His models, of course, are Native American tribes, as well as the failed attempts at settlement—the filling and then emptying—during the push of Manifest Destiny throughout the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

Of course, Manning has in mind the far west of the Great Plains, which he proposes be returned to the Buffalo Commons. The tall grass prairie of Iowa and elsewhere has made for some of the richest soil in the world—certainly that’s not a place for nomadism, is it?

There are those who would argue that small towns on the prairie have never been supposed to “make it,” that our number one export is young people, that we live perennially on the verge of dissolution. As small towns continue to dry up or cling tooth and nail to existence, as the countryside continues to empty, it strikes me that perhaps we’ve been a bit too hard on Charles Ingalls. Perhaps his movements were all very natural, perhaps they were what were called for on the prairie, perhaps we still don’t know this mysterious place we live on which rolls beneath us on the wind, as capricious as the sea.

We rolled out of Walnut Grove at 12:30. It took one hour of driving along what they call the Coteau des Prairies to get home. I probably last visited Walnut Grove when I was 8; I’m now 34. Lord willing, it won’t be another 26 years till I’ll go back. Then again, it may just depend on which way the prairie winds blow.

Drinking from the World Cup

I was mad, again, after the last US World Cup performance. I say “again” because I’ve felt this way before about US soccer before but even more so about the game of soccer as it continues to take root in US—I almost said “American,” as if we had a monopoly on that term—soil.

I think I’m well-positioned to discuss US views of soccer for a couple of reasons. I cut my teeth on baseball as a young child, fell in love with basketball as an adolescent, and feel religious charisma about football as an adult. However, I also played soccer in high school. For four years. Without learning how to make a move with the soccer ball. They put me in goal with my hand-sports background, but I didn’t really understand that position either.

Then in college, I went to England and regularly watched the BBC’s Match of the Day where I regularly saw people do things with soccer balls that I had never imagined, running and contorting with the ball dancing on their toes, orchestrating passes I couldn’t imagine, (I’m mixing sporting terms) and shooting pin-point lasers past goalies launched Spiderman-like through midair. It truly could be a beautiful game. So I understand what the game can look like though I am by no means a connoisseur.

I also understand what the average American fan does not see in the sport. This skeptical attitude is typified by the recent commentary I heard from the disembodied egos that sally forth on talk radio. One of these males caught in permanent adolescence mentioned how he wouldn’t cross the street for an MLS game, but he could appreciate the fair weather fan support of the World Cup; how soccer couldn’t hold a candle to NFL football, but it was a feel good event akin to the Olympics. I thought these statements were true as far as they went but also typical of a certain American-centrism or even arrogance.

But perhaps I’m being a bit unfair still. What is it culturally, I wonder, that prevents soccer from being passionately embraced in the US like it is in much of the world? What is it about American—sorry, US—soil that produces such putrid soccer plants?

The lack of scoring is no doubt an issue, especially for my generation (X) and younger. We like scoring and a lot of it. We have the NBA to blame here generally and Michael Jordan specifically. I remember when Jordan went off for 63 against Boston, for example, but try to forget that the Bulls as a team lost that game and the series, that it wasn’t really even close, because the Bulls were the far inferior team. Besides, eventually Jordan made the Bulls a champion with his scoring (This is a lie). Today, too, the biggest stars are the scorers, the players that can take over a game, the players who don’t seem to need a team: Kobe, Lebron, D-Wade. (Note: Kobe has won championships on near-All Star teams; D-Wade barely won one when he had Shaquille O’Neal and a significant supporting cast who were summarily sold off after they won, and Lebron hasn’t come close with his supporting cast of pick-up players). Still, the scoring—and the scorers—are what we want.

Yes, soccer, too, focuses on the stars, and the best players can weave and dance through the lines of defenders and then celebrate their own genius. However, the supporting cast invariably gives rise to those goals, with the fullbacks and defenders doing we-know-not-what in the back row, passing the ball across the field and back across the field and then up to the midfielders and back, like an incredibly slow and lethargic foosball game. But if the so-called stars in soccer can go entire games without scoring, are they really stars? Consider Wayne Rooney in the current World Cup. Proof enough that soccer is not dependent on individuals, on momentary, shooting stars.

In the background of this issue of stars and scoring, though, is control. We Americans like control bordering on dominance. Note that the three major sports are all hand sports where the ball is held or controlled closely in the hands. In football, “turnovers” including “fumbles” and “interceptions” are the most cataclysmic events and the ones that can get you benched the quickest. Of the three, baseball depends on loose balls perhaps the most, and even then the ball is held for most of the game and the best pitchers have the most “control.”

By comparison the control in soccer is much more haphazard. Yes, the best players seem to have the ball “tied to their toes,” but any game that celebrates “a good touch” is not predicated on control. Pin-point pitches in baseball are by necessity more precise than fifty-yard passes in soccer because they’re hand-based and not foot-based.

And so we come back to my consternation with the US soccer team’s last performance where they seemed out of control, discombobulated, and uninspired. It wasn’t just that they didn’t score; it was that for most of the game they seemed unworthy of scoring. They didn’t play well enough as a team which didn’t give rise to chances for individual scores. There were too few chances. It was as if Kobe Bryant didn’t take a shot in the championship game.

This led to a feeling that I, as an American, loathe: a sense of fate or predestiny, a sense that one individual could not overcome the forces facing them. I knew Landon Donovan could not suddenly break loose for five goals, and this angered me. Above all it is this sense of fate, I want to argue, that makes soccer repugnant to the average American fan.

An equal but opposite sense of fate exists in any given soccer match when one team outplays the other but for one mistake, when the worse team scores a goal or the referee makes one poor call and the better team loses. Again, this adds a sense of unpredictability about soccer, a democratic element to soccer, that we in the US really can’t stand.

This democratic element is really an interesting one. American football, some have said, is the ultimate team sport, where each player must do his part to achieve the end goal of a play. Each player must know all the plays and his small part in each of them, but the division of labor is clearly drawn between the “skilled” players, those who handle the ball, and the “unskilled” players, who almost never handle the ball, and also extreme specialists who only get on the field only for a couple of plays a game.

By contrast, soccer is much more democratic. All the players, including the goalie, although he does have specialized skills, must have a similar package of skills. There are no “unskilled” players and no absolute specialists. The players must play as a unit, as one organism all the time or suffer breakdowns that can mean goals and therefore losses.

The supposed “team” element of football continues onto the sidelines, with umpteen coaches and specialists, and up into the press box, with more coaches watching cameras and analyzing statistics. It’s a technological sport, dependent on dead time between plays for slow motion replays from several angles, and aslo dependent on instant replay for its most important officiating calls, which offer more dead time for replays and, most importantly, commercials. In short, soccer is not dependent enough on technology, on commercials.

Finally, there’s the military implications of soccer. I’m tempted to say that we want the same thing from our sports teams that we want for our army, our government: control, dominance, shock and awe. Remember the first “Dream Team” of USA basketball? The All Star team that decimated the likes of Angola, reasserting our dominance in our own sport? It was a moment in Olympic sport, I think, when the average American fan, the forty-year old in extended adolescence, breathed a collective sigh of relief.

It was a moment not unakin, I want to suggest, to the first Gulf War, when we could track the progress of the US army into Baghdad throughout an evening telecast and watch as our smart bombs were guided, video game-like, into key military sights of the Iraqi capital. Very rewarding.

We’re not interested in soccer, I’m saying, because it’s not our sport. We didn’t think it up, we don’t own it, we can’t dominate it. It’s an establishment sport, played by the original colonizers in countries with often deeper, richer histories than our own; it’s a guerrilla sport, played by the colonies in countries much more impoverished than our own, where any street kid could conceivably kick a ball around and become the leading player in the world.

But still, US fans stick around to watch the US in the World Cup just in case we would rise to world dominance. That is what the average fan is interested in: transcendence. Then, when the US falls apart against Ghana, the average adolescent fan gets angry, wonders why soccer is such a stupid sport.

After 9/11, the Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek called the United States to truly join the world community. He claimed that US shock that something like 9/11 could happen here, to us, was exactly the point: that we had spent too much of our time in recent history insulating ourselves from the world, pretending like we were immune to world problems, had not been active enough throughout the world trying to make sure that something like 9/11 would not happen anywhere rather than just trying to make sure it didn’t happen here. In some ways Zizek’s essay, “Welcome to the Desert of the Real,” tried to do the same thing in politics that Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac did in ecology: try to move us from “conqueror of the land community to plain member and citizen of it.”

I’m not sure that the World Cup doesn’t give us the same opportunity in sport. This year, we came to the table of the world’s sport with a worthy offering, equaling the result of several global soccer powers including England. The fact that we bowed out of the round of sixteen with little resistance should not make us so much mad about our lack of success as it should make us humble before the game, humble before the powers that must coincide to achieve success at the game, and simply grateful to be a member at the table.

At the Casino

As we pulled in, I suddenly thought, “I’ve got to give my kids the talk.” Admittedly, this strategy was a sort of afterthought, a last second emergency Hail Mary justification after the sudden realization as to what I was doing—taking my three video-game-loving kids, 4,6, and 9 to a casino with flashing lights and ringing bells. We were on the way from Lake Mille Lacs to Grandpa and Grandma’s house and we needed to stop to eat. Mille Lacs Grand Casino loomed to our left like a Minnesotan Taj Mahal with a stoplight for easy access, and a ready buffet: no waiting, no picking from a menu, no grease-laden kids’ meals of mini corn dogs, French fries, and soda. But cheap—and therefore a no brainer. I didn’t give a second thought to what I was doing until we pulled into the parking lot and I looked with my mind’s eye into the windowless hall of wonders. What was I doing?

I think I’m right on the watershed of, well, opinion or judgment or popular attitudes of Christians toward gambling. Cards were never an issue in my household like they were in others, but it was understood that gambling was one of the great evils of the world. Las Vegas was sin city and I would never go there.

Today, of course, things have changed dramatically. There is a casino a half hour from where I live—and soon there will be a casino one hour from where I live, and there’s one two hours and three hours and four hours. In popular culture, “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” has made its way into the vernacular. I know CRC people in good standing who see an evening at a casino on par with having a six-pack of beer: acceptable in moderation and with limits.

But I’m old enough to say I have qualms about the carnival atmosphere that my children are about to experience. They’re ripe for the wonder of it all. So I prepare my speech.

A note about where we’ve been and where we’re going. We’ve just spent three days at Izaty’s resort, a pretty nice resort on Lake Mille Lacs. And by pretty nice I mean a place with a golf course, a pool, a bar and hotel. I mean villas on the lake; I mean employees with lawn mowers and weed whackers daily prowling the grounds for awry blades; I mean fifty yards of shoreline in perfect bluegrass and Bermuda. Wonderful. We had stayed in a three bedroom townhouse. We had taken a golf cart down to the docks to go out to fish. All on the grace of a relative’s relative.

We’re going to grandpa and grandma’s house. They’ve loaned us the boat, which my dad bought after he sold our farm equipment and went trucking for Bayliner, buying it directly from the company for cost, a seventeen-and-a-half foot fishing boat. Now, they live in Breezy Point, a town that grew up from a resort, in a modular home, not on the lake. They live on a fixed income. I’m pulling the boat; the kids are in the old model Toyota Sienna with my wife. Thus, I can’t give them “the talk” in the car.

So we go in the front door. The entry has a hotel check-in to the left; ahead is an open hall with the typical flashing lights and games and gaudy carpet. We find a map on the left wall with a red “you are here” dot. We can walk straight through the gaming hall and find the restaurant on the right. Or we can drive around to another entrance and hope to access the buffet more directly. Who am I kidding? What casino is going to be set up so that you don’t have to walk past the gaming machines?

We plunge ahead. I would put blinders on the children if I could. Avert their eyes—an excellent parenting strategy I’m sure.

The shiny slot displays include wolves, pirates, exotic—though surprisingly conservatively clad—women. It’s a hall of escape, promise, myth. It smells. Cigarette smoke makes my daughter pull her shirt over her nose. I’m shocked, too. No smoking laws don’t extend to casinos. No doubt it makes sense to let addictions grow together, I think. But of course, this is no doubt a tribal decision. A tribal sovereignty issue.

I was right about cheap. $28.81 for a family of five. Less than a Pizza Ranch buffet.

We no more than find our seats before son number one has to go to the bathroom. On the trip out I begin tallying: one man with a walker; another with a cane; a lady dragging a foot like a peg leg. That’s just on the way to the bathroom. On the way back, I see a woman with her ankle wrapped with a standard ace bandage, the appendage hooked in a crook of the slot machine so she can pull the handle and keep her injury elevated too.

While my wife aids one of our sons at the buffet line, I hold the table and think of what I will say during “the talk.” This is a place that draws in poor people, I will tell them, largely blue-haired retirees on fixed incomes without hobbies, people who shouldn’t be here. And working class men and women who feel trapped by life and are willing to throw their lot on fate for a chance at escape. They watch Fox news. Or CNN. They don’t go to church. Or do. They live in Raymond Carver short stories.

When the kids return, I launch in. “This is a place that people come and throw away their money because they think they can make more without doing anything,” I begin, catching the eyes of a woman at the next table. Suddenly, I think I’m caught in a Flannery O’Connor short story. That I will necessarily caricaturize these people. That I like this cheap food. That my judgments necessarily judge me.

No, there’s a bigger reason for this and other casinos’ existences. I’ve heard casinos called the latest chapter in the Indian wars: that tribes use their sovereignty to target the sitting ducks of American culture. Then again, casinos are about jobs in notoriously jobless areas. Then again, Lake Mille Lacs has a carefully monitored industry in Lake Mille Lacs itself. Then again, I would dare to wager that 0.00 Native Americans work at Izaty’s Resort. Then again, I’ve heard rumors that tribes are not the only ones benefitting from casinos, that there are powerful individuals and management groups making beaucoup bucks behind the scenes.

I think about the people I’ve witnessed. Is this handicap day at Grand Casino, I wonder? Is it stereotype day? I think, this is the underbelly of the American economy, where the dispossessed draw in the dispossessed to dispossess them and repossess themselves. With certain powerful individuals looming like mysterious specters behind the scenes.

Then I think, why am I so judgmental? Why isn’t the casino experience akin to drinking a six pack of beer? What do I know about the woman in her fifties at the adjacent table and the man with her, wearing a Marine Corps hat? What if this great hall, half full with the elderly handicapped is something quite different? Maybe this hall is the new Salvation Army, with its army of cripples and castoffs of society?

I am in a Flannery O’Connor story and Mille Lacs Grand Casino is transforming into the kingdom of heaven before my eyes, a gathering of the poor and downtrodden.

Before we eat, I squint hard and deliver the softest version of “the talk” that I can, still catching the eyes of the woman at the next table, as if she’s listening in, shocked at my tale, my judgment. I don’t back down; I warn my children and direct them to the problems that can occur in the hall of wonders.

Eventually we all have our meals. My youngest son gets barbecue sausage, broasted chicken, green beans and carrots; my other son gets breakfast; my daughter gets a combination of breakfast, chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy; my wife has a regular Thanksgiving dinner; and I have the barbecued sausage, cabbage and stuffed peppers. Because we are on vacation, my wife lets my children have the pop of their choice. So much for health.

Because of the nature of the buffet, we’ve gotten our meals at different times and have started in eating at different times. With all that’s happening with our plates and in my mind, we forget to pray. So much for consistency.

Flannery O’Connor, eat your heart out.

Morning Thanks--the Delafield Lutherans

I honestly don't know if it's true, but the church ladies of the long gone Delafield Evangelical Lutheran Church of Delafield Township, Jackson County, Minnesota, swear--on a bible even--that the smash hit Church Basement Women, a long-running and oft-toured theater piece (an original and two sequels, in fact) was created from material they gave the playwrights in a wonderful little documentary film titled Delafield.

At least that's what they told me yesterday. Straight-faced too. Of course, they're Lutheran women, so lying is out of the question.

We met them yesterday at Windom American Lutheran Church, for lunch--not in the basement, but you get the picture. We'd watched the film the night before with some good folks from Leota Christian Reformed Church, where a sobering discussion occured afterward because the documentary itself is a lament, not only for the passing of a church, but the virtual passing of the rural way of life in the Upper Midwest.

The Delafield church disbanded in 1998, when it look at itself and realized it had far greater past than a future. The pastor says, on the film, that she asked the children to come forward for a children's sermon, but none came. There wasn't any. Most of what she saw before her was silver-haired. It's a blessedly loving documentary created by a son of the congregation, and it was especially moving in Leota, Minnesota, where the good people lost their elementary school just last year. When you lose your kids, you lose a future. We didn't pass out Kleenex before that film went on, but it would have been kind of us to have done just that.

The country folk of Delafield gave their old Lutheran church away, and if you're ever travelling down I-90, past Jackson, Minnesota, all you need to do is lift your eyes to the hill on the south side of the road, where that church's steeple still sits proudly against the horizon. Today, it's the tallest building in a tourist stop (not trap either--trust me).

Anyway, what we'd set up for the bus tour we're on is a meeting with those very sweet country Lutheran folks who star in the documentary that gave birth to all the comedy. We'd meet them, we said, the very next day at the Lutheran church in Windom. Honestly, I thought it would be a highlight of our little pilgrimage through rural southwest Minnesota, a place where few tourists stop to smell the prairie roses.

It was everything I imagined--and more.

When we pulled up on the east side ("you better use the east side because we got vbs going on, you know"), those Minnesota Lutherans wandered outside the door to greet the frozen chosen Calvinists right off the bus. There they stood like some silver-maned welcome wagon, and once our people filed off the bus, they were greeted, open arms. Yes, open arms. I'm not making this up. Actual hugs.

I'm not kidding. I saw it with my own eyes. Those Lutherans and our Calvinists hugged each other even though they'd never laid eyes on us before, and we'd seen them only on a vhs tape. Like old friends. Like family. It's true, I swear. I'm not lying. Hugged. I got pictures.

All of that was late Tuesday morning. We've still got several days to go on this trip, and I don't dare to say it aloud really, but the truth is if we have a moment more precious than that one--all that hugging--can you believe it?-- right there on the front step of the Lutheran Church, I'll be one shocked pilgrim. And lunch too yet. My lands.

It was a very, very good moment. Garrison Keillor wouldn't believe it. What I'm saying is what he claims about Minnesota Lutherans is way off base. And those fine playwrights who've created those plays about Lutheran Church women?--they wouldn't believe it either, all those free hugs between strangers right there at church. It happened sure as anything.

What an incredible blessing. Good enough this morning, for morning thanks.

For sure, don't you think?

The Back Story on a Tremendous Fish

“I caught a tremendous fish,” begins the speaker in Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, “The Fish.” And so did I catch a tremendous fish, last Friday night. But for every tremendous fish—well, not every; there’s something called beginner’s luck, where some novice will sit down with a monstrous hook, ancient line, and his grandfather’s pole and reel in a tremendous fish on his first cast. Huh! What a great time he will think fishing is—until the next time he catches a tremendous fish, twenty years hence! No, for many tremendous fish that are caught comes a tremendous input of time, wasted time some would say, of waiting and praying.

I perfected the latter skill as a young lad. I prayed for fish, nearly wept and prayed. As my bobber danced along the rocky dikes of Lake Shetek I appealed to the Almighty, “Please, please let the fish bite! Please, please, PLEASE!” watching my line intently, willing it under with my faith in His answer. I also tried looking away, thinking maybe God liked to answer prayers when you weren’t looking, to add to the surprise.

I also tried incantations, rhymes that integrated my dad’s theories about the habits of fish. One went something like this: “Walleyes, walleyes, come to shore, so my life won’t be-such-a bore.” I should have tried something a bit more like “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble,” but what did I know about incantations or their effect on the hidden underworld that is a lake?

I’ve only started to realize how fishing spurs the imagination as I listen to my son talk. By this time in my life, I’ve read enough fishing magazines to think I have a sense of how fish work, and so now I craft our fishing spots and techniques around my own theories: fish into the wind because the wind drives baitfish up on shore; fish current because game fish will lay just off the current and wait for baitfish swept downstream by the current as easy pickings; fish the inside turns of points rather than the points themselves because this is the part of structure that will hold fish, etc. It’s all faith—or very nearly faith. Still, it sounds like surety, and so I can extend my son’s patience by spewing such a theory: “This hour before sunset is the best time to fish.”

“Why dad?”

“Because this is when fish like to feed.”

“Maybe we’ll catch a hundred.”

Other times he’ll make up a scene that he thinks is occurring underneath the surface of the lake: “Maybe they’re just all swimming around my minnow deciding who’s going to bite it first!”

Yes, it very well could be. I really have no idea most of the time.

All of this type of experience—prayers, theories, transactions of intergenerational knowledge—is behind a “tremendous fish.” During just the late afternoon and evening of my tremendous fish, we had casted and retrieved, jigged, bottom bounced, drifted, and trolled away time. Sunset had forced us to retreat to lighted bobbers: hollowed out plastic bobbers that have a thin battery inside which you can turn on so that your bobber produces a warm glow when it’s too dark to see it on the surface of the water any longer. With our lighted bobbers and minnows we were catching all the walleyes we wanted—10 inch “cigars,” walleyes just past fingerling stage when they’re easy pickin’s for northern pike.

Then my bobber went out, as in, it stopped working. Perhaps some water from my fingers had adversely affected the battery, perhaps the battery was wearing out, perhaps lights aren’t meant to be inside bobbers and fisher people are meant to go home to their spouses. Whatever the case, mine got finicky and I couldn’t make it stay lit. I took the little metal cylinder that was the light and pushed and pulled it, stuck my fingernail into several crevices to trigger the on-off switch, and got it lit several times only to have it turn off again when I screwed the top back on. Once, it even was lit all the way through the air on a beautiful cast, only to go out upon impacting the water. Finally, I got it to stay lit and cast it out as far as I could from the boat.

The bite had stopped. Our steady diet of “cigars” had completely disappeared; only a flicker of light remained on the horizon; the adolescent walleyes had gone to bed.

Another theory that I’ve heard is that walleyes bite at night, especially under moonlight. We were a week past a full moon, although I had tried out that theory last week with no success. Still, I’m easy prey for the fishing theory that says, “Just a little longer; wait a little longer and you will be rewarded.” It’s this theory more than any other that makes fishing unpopular with spouses. All this was on the backside of tremendous fish.

When my little light got blurry because it had been carried below the surface of the water, however, my faith had been rewarded. I reeled line to make sure when I set the hook I didn’t just pull against my own loose line, alert the fish to my presence and have him spit out the bait. No, I reeled up so that when I set the hook, I felt his (her) weight at the other end.

“Is it a better one?” my cohort Kevin asked.

“I think so.” Never count your chickens.

There was more weight there at the end of the line, yes. I was just hoping for a keeper to add to the one keeper we already had, a fifteen-incher, the unwritten minimum length for walleyes. My pole was bent and bobbing as the fish shook his head. I could hear regular metallic clicks from the drag on my reel, which meant it was giving some so that my line wouldn’t break, and I expected it to fully sing when the fish neared the boat, realized his predicament, and made a run to get away, but for the most part the fish came right toward the boat as I reeled.

“Do you need the net?” Kevin asked. I tried to remain noncommittal. Still, it was heavy.

“Yeah, I do.”

It lightly shook one more time and then there it was on the top of the water, a wide silver slab that Kevin dipped with the net.

“That’s a big fish,” he said. I wish he’d have said “tremendous”; it’s more poetical.

“I bet it’s twenty-four,” I said, already moving on to measurements.

“It’s bigger than that,” Kevin said.

The first odd thing about the “venerable” fish in Bishop’s poem is that the speaker tells us, “He didn’t fight./ He hadn’t fought at all.” It was the same for my fish. I’ve had two-pounder’s fight harder. It hadn’t even made one run, just held back as I reeled and shook its head a time or two.

How’s that for complacency and entitlement? Had he learned it was pointless to resist? Was he a fatalist? Or was he just old and tired or perhaps fat and out of shape, a fish equivalent of a couch potato who didn’t have it in him to do more than shake his head a time or two? After all, he was the only fish out hunting right now, no doubt preying on perch and other fish whose eyesight is notoriously bad, gobbling up a quick meal of easy pickings. Maybe in the dark he just couldn’t see us and he got disoriented from what was happening.

Then again, what was I looking for? If I was looking for a fight, a legendary struggle to tell the grandchildren about, then why was I fishing walleyes which are anything but notorious for their fight. Was I out here simply for my own ego?

Bishop’s fish—or the fish in her poem—is a survivor. He’s “speckled with barnacles” and “infested/ with tiny white sea-lice.” The speaker looks at his “frightening gills” and thinks of his miraculous innards, culminating with his “pink swim bladder/ like a big peony,” and finally notices “that from his lower lip . . . hung five old pieces of fish-line . . . with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth.” Surely, a fish story, I think, though I have caught a couple of fish that had one old hook in their mouths, and once Kevin had his line bitten off three times before he finally caught the northern that was doing the biting. When I filleted the fish, I found the three lures in the fish’s stomach and gave them back to their owner. Still, the five-haired beard is no doubt poetic license, but Bishop’s rendering makes me think that my fish, too, is still grandiose for not fighting. There’s still something wise here, still something impressive in the large, never-blinking eyes, the laid back girth of the golden sides.

I removed the hook which was lightly embedded behind his tongue in the arrow point of his white plastic gill apparatus and held him by the external slit in his gill just under his mouth.

“You wanna measure him?” Kevin asked. There’s a yardstick-like sticker on the side of the boat for just such a purpose. I stepped over a bench to get near it and held it up. You’re supposed to measure walleyes from the tip of the nose to the tip of the tail pinched together. Once you have the measurement you can find a chart that will convert the length to a weight. I carefully put the nose at zero and stretched the tail out, propping up his underside with my hand so he wouldn’t sag. The tail, spread out, reached to the 27-inch mark before he wriggled out of my hands onto the aluminum back bench and then over into the space between the orange gas tank and back of the boat. He was in a tight corner, but shaking himself to move. Sure, now he fights. I had to move the gas tank in order to get him out, then held him up again quickly to the measuring stick.

“I’ll give you 27 ½,” Kevin said.

Yes, it’s all a matter of measurement.

“Do you want a picture?” he asked.

“Yeah, could you?” I said. “Oh, what about the flash?” I asked. This would be a cellphone pic and it was now after ten o’clock.

“Oh, I’ve got an app for that,” he said, smiling. “This thing’s got everything.”

And so I presented the fish, and smiled, and Kevin’s phone, a “Droid,” flashed weakly; then he leaned back for a wider angle and I presented it even more Vanna White-like, extending the tail against my leg with my empty hand.

“I’ve gotta put it back, right?” I asked, sheepishly.

“It’s up to you,” Kevin said.

Consensus around serious walleye fishermen is that you should put the biggest fish back. Big walleyes are almost always females and produce an incredible amount of eggs—many more than small ones. Also, since big ones are not the best eating, unless you’re going to mount one on your wall, you should put them back. Thus, Minnesota instituted a law last year that allows you to keep only one walleye over 20 inches. It allows for one “trophy fish.”

I didn’t know off the top of my head what 27-inches translated into for weight. I knew that 29-30 inches approached 10 pounds, but even then I don’t think I want a dead fish on my wall forever and ever. No, if I was going to keep this fish it would be to eat it. Walleyes taste good. At 27-inches this would be like a Thanksgiving turkey: it could feed a whole family. We like to eat fish at our house: battered in Shore Lunch and pan fried; eaten in a corn tortilla with lime, onions, cilantro, cabbage and salsa as a fish taco; panfish kept whole and deep fried and eaten with rice, with my children eating the eyes, which get crunchy in the deep frier; larger fish broiled or grilled with lime and salt and eaten Thai-style in lettuce wraps with noodles and herbs and peanut dipping sauce.

In short, when I bring fish home, I’m a . . . producer of sorts. I hesitate to say “producer.” The hunter-gatherer enterprise is simply a lot more hit-and-miss than that. There are few sureties, which is why you need prayer and theories. In fact, coming home with fish seems more like the gift of fate than anything, producing a feeling in the producer of humility, of being in the right time at the right place when providence smiles. But when you stay out late, past the time when it’s beautiful and comfortable to fish, when the light is gone and your bobber doesn’t work and the mosquitoes set in en masse, and then you come home and your wife says, “Did you catch anything?” and you say, “No,” and she says, “Then why’d you stay out so late?” there’s no possible answer. But when you pull out a 27-incher, she says, “Wow!” Problem solved.

But there’s another strike against me as producer in catching fish in the great outdoors. Toward the back of the Minnesota Fishing Regulations handbook, several pages explain the dangers of eating fish. “Most fish are healthy to eat,” the page begins, to assuage any fears from the get-go. “But any fish (store-bought or sport-caught) could have contaminants such as mercury and PCBs that can harm human health—especially children and fetuses” (74). I have no idea what PCBs are, but they sound scary. I do know what children and fetuses are, and I’m not too keen on producing mercury and PCBs for them in the fish I catch. For the modern would-be hunter-gatherer, this represents another factor at odds with our would-be hunting and gathering, a different kind of fate with a different kind of expression on its face.

Later pages give guidelines for the same group of child-bearing women and children when it comes to eating fish: Panfish—one meal per week; walleyes under 20-inches—one meal per month; walleyes over 20-inches—do not eat (76). Well, I guess that solves it. What’s the point in staying out late to catch a 27-inch walleye that fights like a log and is carrying mercury death in his muscles? It’s a matter of measurement and pictures. (Incidentally, for “other adults,” eating panfish is “unrestricted,” and all other species of fish are “one meal per week,” so I could go ahead and ingest the mercury myself if I so desired.)

So Bishop’s poem doesn’t give you the backlog on the “tremendous fish,” a backlog that might make the ending of that poem even more powerful. Near the end of the poem, the speaker, after admiring the “great grunting weight” of the fish for some time, and after looking closer to find his “five-haired beard of wisdom” and realizing both what this fish has survived and that now it’s in the speaker’s boat, is overcome by a tremendous feeling. “I stared and stared,” the speaker says,

and victory filled up

the little rented boat,

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine

to the bailer rusted orange,

the sun-cracked thwarts,

the oarlocks on their strings,

the gunnels—until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!

It’s somewhat surprising at first that Bishop turns our attention to the ugly little boat, to the sheen of oil it’s left that certainly has a rainbow tint to it as it lays on the water but which is anything but glorious, anything but pristine. Still, this poem teaches us not underestimate the power of beauty, either of the survivor-beauty of the “venerable” fish or the unexpected location of rainbows, which still may still “shine out” to us from the most unexpected places.

But after this transformative power has spread over everything, comes the final line: “And I let the fish go.” After all that back story, after all that conquest where others had failed to conquer, the tremendous fish goes back in the water, without so much as a measurement or a picture.

I, too, let my tremendous fish go. I rested him in the water with two hands, one under his body just behind his gills, the other on the tail. I eased him back and forth, letting the cool water run over his gills and restore him to alertness, if he ever was alert, this lethargic old-timer. Eventually, I saw one of his ventral fins flutter, but when I began to let go he lurched to port, still imbalanced, so I kept easing him back and forth until he righted himself, like a boy on a bike, and then slowly he swam away and down into the depths again, out of reach of the flashlight beam.

Victory did fill up the little boat, I suppose. I had had my hands on a tremendous fish, had overcome the great urge to possess him, and had given him back to the lake, back to the smiling if tainted providence from which he’d come. Everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow. And so, as the darkness deepened and stars peaked through the canvas of cloud overhead, since neither of us had anything pressing in the morning, we decided to stay out just a little bit longer.

Minnesota Fishing Regulations 2010. http://files.dnr.state.mn.us/rlp/regulations/fishing/fishing2010.pdf>

Death of the Lawn?

It happens every year. In fact, by the testimony of the unused bags of “Fall Weed and Feed” in my garage, it happens twice a year: I contemplate the state of my lawn, watch the spread of clover and dandelions and weigh whether or not I should put down the recommended chemicals that will magically choke the weeds and fertilize the grasses—correction, grass, singular: as per the suburban lawn usual, my lawn is predominantly made up of Kentucky bluegrass, which may or may not be a native of Kentucky.

But the issue of lawns has swollen in my mind to being almost unmanageable. On the one hand there is the tradition of lawns and what they signify. I have a sense that in my parents’ generation, lawns meant a great deal. I get this from a number of sources. When we used to drive around the countryside, my father saved his encomium for the most well-manicured farm places: carefully tended flower beds, newly painted buildings, and newly-mowed straight-lined lawns. “This guy’s a good operator,” he’d say. “Always has his place just like a park!” We, too, mowed our lawn carefully, often in diagonal lines, which my parents found the most attractive.

I see this same tradition in our next door neighbors to the south, high school contemporaries of my parents, who mow their lawn at a ratio of two or three times to our once. They have a bird bath, a stone eagle, and an American flag as part of their carefully constructed landscaping, and I once had to trim one of my trees because it “messed with” his flag. It was true enough, just totally not in my line of thinking on these sorts of things.

What makes me think about lawn care again is that these neighbors, on one of their mowing expeditions have mowed well into our lawn—at least two full swipes, a total of eight or so feet. I’m wondering if this is a message. Is it a hint? “Mow your lawn regularly or I will?” Is it pity? “Those poor Schaaps are so overwhelmed—we’ll help them out a little bit!” Or is it simply pragmatics: they have a rider, we don’t; therefore it’s easier for them to mow our lawn.

Then, too, there’s the issue of the denigration of our bluegrass monoculture. Clover is spreading like a plague; the first spring dandelions arched up their straw necks and poofy heads in alarming numbers; a colony of succors formed a small forest around one of our trees. I even found unidentified white flowers blooming where an old flower bed used to be.

What might the neighbors be saying?

I’m made all the more paranoid because a neighbor across the road approached me in the coffee shop the other day.

“You’re not going to turn me in for breaking the Sabbath, are you?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Sunday afternoon I said to my wife, ‘Is it worse thinking about it or actually doing it?’” A fair point, I thought. It turns out he was talking about our other neighbors across the road who care not at all about dandelions and so have a regular field full of them. “I knew they were gone to the lake so I filled my lawn tractor up with a tank of spray and started spraying.” He grins sheepishly. “I sprayed three whole tanks full before I was done.”

It’s funny but also a type of insult. I take notice.

I’m tempted to say this lawn critique is dated, but that’s not quite true. Not long ago, friends of ours were talking about lawn practices. They were commenting on one gentleman whose habit of mowing his lawn at night, with a flashlight, resulted both in crooked lines in his lawn and whisperings from his neighbors. “Of course,” the story ended, “he had more problems.”

Clearly, the two are not unconnected: a lawn poorly cared for signifies a soul in disarray. That’s what I’m afraid of.

The American lawn is not, of course, without its critics. For example, in Steve Martin’s “The W.A.S.P.”, a satire of the ’50s family, the father initiates his son into the adult world of ownership by classifying his own lawn as a luxury item:

A luxury item is a thing that you have that annoys other people that you have it. Like our very green lawn. That’s a luxury item. Oh, it could be less green, I suppose; but that’s not what it’s about. I work on that lawn, maybe more than I should and pour a little bit o’ money into it, but it’s a luxury item for me, out there to annoy the others. (19)

The Minnesota writer and prairie champion Paul Gruchow let his lawn grow and got turned in by his neighbors. The county agent came by to tell Gruchow he had to mow his lawn on the authority that otherwise he would be spreading noxious weeds to his neighbors. Gruchow asked him about the different plants which had grown up in his lawn, some of which were native prairie plants. The agent didn’t know what they were and just stuck by his demand that Gruchow mow his lawn, leaving Gruchow to bemoan the fact that if county agents don’t know what’s what in the plant world, who does?

Then there’s the environmental effects. Among other things, run off from lawns is notoriously implicated in the insane algae blooms in Minnesota lakes that turns the waters aqua and makes them unswimmable.

I also simply don’t trust the smell. It smells like cancer. I’ve seen the signs posted on my neighbor’s professionally treated lawns—from companies like “TruGreen” and “ChemLawn”; thank you, a lawn that is chemically green is not truly green, and I want a grass lawn, not a chemical lawn—that warn small children to stay away. What’s the difference in my bag fertilizer, even though the bag proclaims “zero phosphorous,” but warns me to wear gloves and long pants and to burn them as soon as I’m through with them (okay, it says “wash them”), and to keep the “drift” away from people and “desirable” plants, and make sure it doesn’t wash off into storm sewers? Coupling these warnings with the nature of drop-spreaders—surely the most imprecise technology since all the technology invented to plug runaway oil wells on the ocean floor—and it seems a recipe for disaster.

“Don’t go on the lawn for a while,” I’ll tell my children, “I just put poison on it.”

My solution to everything is to sow my lawn down in a mixture of prairie grasses and let it grow. I’ve approached another neighbor who’s a biology teacher and he’s in agreement. So’s the neighbor two doors down who mowed his lawn three times total all last summer, though he raised the potential difficulty we might have in finding the kids. We’d quite literally have to beat the—well, grasses to find them.

But imagine not only the flora but the fauna on such a lawn. In the morning I could step out on my patio and shoot a pheasant rising from the blue stem without leaving my own property. Okay, so that’s its own distortion.

In any case, I don’t think it would fly with the town council. Runaway grasses would no doubt decrease “curb appeal” and unbeautify our tidy little town.

Still, the trend may be in my favor, though it may take a while to reach Edgerton. Buffalo grass has begun replacing Kentucky blue grass in some western locales. Even the Minnesota Twins move from the Metrodome to Target Field seems to be in my favor. Early in Target Field’s young life, a kestrel perched atop one of the foul poles and caught and ate all the moths it could. Last week, a squirrel came out on the field, prompting chants of “Let’s go, squirrel” from the crowd. The TV announcer remarked fantastically and sarcastically, “Eventually we’ll have deer out here. Moose. Bear.”

And I say amen.

Martin, Steve. WASP and Other Plays. Samuel French, 1998. Web. Google Books. 2 June 2010.