Just Walking This Earth

Only the best

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 14:14:00 +0000

Winter has given us only the best this year. Many of the warmest days on record to enjoy shirtsleeve walks where we stepped carefully to avoid goose gifts along the path.

A sunset that flamed and boiled and looked like molten lava on the last day of 2011.

The clearest mornings to be surprised and delighted and sent scurrying for my camera to capture something I'd never seen before - a hot air balloon floating right over our deck on a January morning.

And this morning, the most beautiful winter wonderland snow clinging to the trees and glinting like diamonds as the first rays of sun hit.

Yes, this year winter has given Iowa the best.

Tied to apron string memories

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 14:34:00 +0000

A friend gave me an apron for Christmas. It's a beauty - with ruffled layers of lime green, cherry red, and royal blue. It makes me happy to look at it, and I feel cheerful when I wear it. Which is on special occasions.

Aprons are not the staple of kitchen wear today that they once were. My mother wore an apron - most often to protect her Sunday dress from spatter as she fried the chicken we'd have when we came home from church. She didn't wear an apron everyday. Not like my grandmothers.

My grandmothers donned their aprons each morning as they dressed. They'd no more have gone to the kitchen without an apron then they would have stepped out without their shoes. They used their aprons for far more than protecting their clothes. Aprons were potholders, they were for drying hands and tears and wiping away sweat, they were slings for carrying apples and eggs and vegetables. Far easier to wash an apron than the dress it covered. On a visit to the Living History Farm in Des Moines, I learned that aprons were the first line of defense from sparks flying out of the wood cookstove.

Aprons figure prominently in the novel I'm writing about farm life in the early 1900s. Tying on an apron puts me in the mood and the mindset of that time. Wearing an apron, I feel more capable. In an apron, I join the ranks of farm women who went into the kitchen every day and worked the magic that brought meals to the table and contributed to the stability of farm living. Women in aprons got things done.

Do you have a favorite apron or apron memory? If you do, I'd like to hear about it.

Playing with paper dolls

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 14:33:00 +0000

Paper dolls. My sisters and I played with them when we were little. I don't remember who the characters were, but it was great fun to change the clothes over and over, imagining the dolls in different settings. Paper dolls. A great way to spend hours as a child.

Fast forward to today. One of my favorite shows this year is Downton Abbey. This terrific Masterpiece Classic series on PBS has held me spellbound, fueling my passion of the moment for all things WWI. Sadly, the season finale was on Sunday.

What would I do until season 3 airs? As it turns out, someone has answered the question. Play with paper dolls! The enterprising folks at Vulture have created paper dolls for the key Downton Abbey characters.

These paper dolls are a hoot. The Dowager Countess, for instance, includes six changeable faces to convey her different expressions. But they are all the same! Likely funny only to those who watch the series.

The idea of paper dolls is perfect. The timing is perfect. A childhood pleasure meets an adult pleasure. I love it when the stars come into alignment!

Learning from others' crises

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 16:28:00 +0000

When I was in college, I took a self defense class during which I learned to ward off an attacker, break a fall, and use common objects to defend myself. Over and over again, the instructor threw me to the ground, attacked me from the front, back, side. We practiced until my reactions were second nature. The point was to be prepared, to learn the moves before an attack occurred. What I did in that class is no different than a company preparing for a crisis.

When a crisis happens to someone else, businesses have many reactions. The first is generally relief - Thank god that didn't happen to us! Some also express naive denial - Thank god that could never happen to us! What they would be wise to think is - What if something like that did happen to us?

Whenever a crisis happens, I find myself thinking, "What would I have done? How would I have advised that client had I been their public relations counselor?" The media are full of opportunities to exercise this thinking. The mental equivalent of my self defense class.

I guest blogged this week on ReasonedPR.com - discussing what went wrong from a public relations standpoint in the Susan G. Komen For the Cure - Planned Parenthood blow up.

The rules of crisis communication include: Telling it all. Telling it fast. Keep on telling it. A fourth is to Tell your own story. You can't always control whether a crisis happens to you, but you can always control how you communicate about it.

It's easier, I admit, to be on the sidelines for one of these exercises than in the frying pan. On the outside, I don't have the pressure of media breathing down my neck, the public banging on the social media door, or the CEO and board demanding, what do we do? Being on the outside also means I don't have all the insider info.

But there are guidelines to successfully navigating a crisis. It's best if you don't have to figure out what those moves are after a crisis hits.

A confab of rabbits

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 14:40:00 +0000

A light snow blanketed the lawn this morning. Enough to freshen the landscape. As I made my way down the driveway to retrieve the newspaper, I noticed there had been a confab of rabbits at play in the early hours.

Their tracks came from all directions, crisscrossed the driveway, met two or three in a group, then took off again. I wondered what business of the warren brought them all out. Hitting the road for the work day? Planning a potluck before the hawks take wing? An early morning exercise class?

A little bit of silliness on my part, I know, but fun to imagine. We've had so little snow this winter, I realized I hadn't had the pleasure of spotting animal tracks on a fresh canvas and wondering what the animal kingdom has been up to.

In an open winter like we've had, food is easy to find. Water has been free flowing. Life has been comparatively easy in the wild world. Good for them. Not so many aimless musings for me. And I miss that. Seeing the world in a different way is just one of the reasons I enjoy winters with snow.

What's in a name?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:36:00 +0000

Negro. Black. Colored. People of Color. African-American.

Having spent my career in the public relations world, and considering myself reasonably sensitive in any case, I've always tried to be mindful of using the terminology groups of people prefer to describe themselves. Because the terminology changes regularly within the black community - and because it's all so politically charged - I've often felt as though I'm walking on eggshells, uncertain whether I'm using the right term of the moment.

A recent article written by Jesse Washington for the Associated Press addressed the changing attitudes among young black people on this topic. According to the article, increasingly, young black people are shunning the term African-American. Census figures show that 1 in 10 black people in America is born abroad. So the slave ancestry connotation of African-American is at the least inaccurate and possibly even offensive.

I was dismayed to learn from a prominent black educator that some in the black community are offended when any black person who cannot prove slave ancestry adopts the term African-American to describe themselves. Rather than bring people together, the labeling is used as a wedge to drive apart. But then, maybe for some, that's the point.

We have seen that in the political arena. Both Alan Keyes and Herman Cain used slave ancestry as a mark of differentiation against President Obama. The not-so-subtle implication that the President isn't black enough or American enough.

But then such tactics are used often, regardless of race, to declare oneself 'in' and someone else 'out.'

The more generations that pass since their ancestors left Africa, the more tenuous the connection some may feel. One young man, Gibr George of Miami, interviewed for the AP article said, "Are we always going to be tethered to Africa? Spiritually I'm American. When the war starts, I'm fighting for America."

All the terms, all the labels, had a purpose. They meant something in our society at the time. Perhaps moving us all along, maybe to greater awareness, pride, sensitivity, hopefully to greater cohesiveness but perhaps to greater separateness.

I know words matter. I know names matter. But I'm with Gibr George - Couldn't we all just be Americans? I hope I live to see that day.

Amazing Giveaway: A Free Pass to the 2012 San Francisco Writers Conference

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 21:45:00 +0000

Willy Wonka can't beat this. Writer's Digest is giving away a free ticket to the San Francisco Writer's Conference - Feb. 16-19, 2012.

This full-registration pass includes all sessions and keynotes in the main conference, plus participation at the Agent Speed Dating portion. Total worth $745!

The opportunity to meet other authors, hear incredible speakers, pitch my novel to agents - all in San Francisco - well, of course, I hope I win! But you might want to enter, too. Follow the entry rules at Chuck Sambuchino's blog.

And good luck. Someone will win. And soon.

There's still time

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:22:00 +0000

Back in December, I wrote about the World Book Night - a worldwide effort to give away 1 million books. I'm pleased to report I've been chosen to be one of those giving books away. Hurrah!

I'm re-posting that blog because event organizers have extended the application deadline for joining the effort to February 6. There's still time. Check below for info and links. Then, act fast.

Beaverdale Books is one of the distribution sites for Des Moines. There may be others. So come along. Have some fun. Give some books away!

***

Re-Post from Dec. 16, 2011

Giving Away 1 Million Books

Want to help give help away a million books? The organizers of World Book Night are looking for 50,000 passionate readers to do just that on April 23, 2012.

Anna Quindlen, novelist and honorary chairwoman of World Book Night in the USA, says "It will be like Halloween on an intellectual level."

Volunteers choose one of 30 titles - mostly current novels and memoirs - to give out. The costs of the million paperback books have been underwritten by publishers, printers and paper companies. Authors have waived their royalties.

You make your application on the World Book Night website. If you're chosen to be one of the book givers, they'll let you know by the end of February.

I've signed up and am keeping my fingers crossed. If I am chosen, I'll be giving out books to residents of Oakridge Neighborhood, a community providing housing and services to low-income people in Des Moines.

My book choices include:

Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,"
Chris Cleave's "Little Bee," and
Rebecca Skloot's "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks."

If I'm not chosen, I may go buy the books and give them out at Oakridge anyway. I just think the whole deal is really cool.

Taking to the water

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 14:30:00 +0000

I am not a water person. I love looking at the ocean and listening to the surf on beach vacations, but I enjoy all this with both feet on terra firma. So no one is more surprised than I that I've become a fan of sea kayaking.

The idea of white water kayaking has always scared me - what if I tipped over and couldn't get free of the craft? Not a problem with a sea kayak since I sit perched atop a plastic craft similar to a surf board. If it capsizes, which seems highly unlikely, I'm in the drink - and bobbing free and upright like a cork in my personal flotation device.

After the first time on the water, I was hooked. The craft is stable, even in the wake of large, fast-moving motor craft. (Yachts and speedboats gave no quarter, I might add.) Maneuvering is easy.

The first time out, I was worried about a lot of things - falling off because of my own ineptitude, being swamped by another craft, getting tipped over by a whale or porpoise.

The reality was so different. Seeing the bay at eye level, the water shimmering like blue silk. Swarms of fish bubbling just below the surface, the targets of hungry gulls. Passing party boats filled with cheering, waving revelers. Feeling the strength of paddling. Hearing the quiet when I stopped and let my kayak move at the whim of the current.

By the time I surfed a wave back to shore, I was ready to go again. And I did. Kayaking became part of my every day beach routine in Puerto Vallarta.

By the end of the week, I paddled out each morning, hoping to see a whale. Ah, I wish. Wouldn't that be cool!

Just another day in paradise

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:30:00 +0000

I can't say anything that this picture doesn't already.

Puerto Vallarta - January 2012

We can all use a little help

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

The talk of the Puerto Vallarta beach this past week was a turtle hatch. Why the mama turtle chose a busy resort beach as the nest for her eggs is anyone's guess, but she did. Ultimately, it may have been a good thing.

During the week, a larger than normal surf rolled in, rearranging the sand dunes and exposing a turtle nest. The waves carried exposed eggs toward a backwater instead of toward the open sea. The eggs hatched during the day instead of at night. Black birds swooped in to take advantage.

People who know a lot more than I do were there to help. Baby turtles need to orient themselves to where they're born and walk to the ocean themselves. The re-arranged sand made their success unlikely.

A woman moved two baby turtles closer to the water. She didn't put them in the water, just put them within sight of the water. She and I stood and watched, cheering them on. One little turtle ran straight to the water and was swept away by the first wave. The second turtle appeared more unsure. The little guy walked parallel to the water for a while, the waves edging closer and closer. Finally, he, too, turned and walked in to greet the waves.

A man told me he'd watched over six little turtles until they were safely in the sea.

The exposed, unhatched eggs concerned many walkers. A couple went to the nearest hotel to alert security. They were told to collect the eggs and re-bury them in a secure area near the hotel until experts could come and relocate the eggs to the marina.

Maybe the hatchlings would have made it on their own, but the odds were against them. Many eggs were destroyed by the birds. A few more of the babies had a chance because people cared to look over them.

Reminiscing & Research

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

When our garden is in full swing, I pull out all the canning supplies and fill our fruit cellar shelves. Just like my mom before me, I can tomatoes, salsa, plums - whatever we grow.

Even though the containers I use for preserving produce are glass jars, I've always called it 'canning.' I never gave a thought to the word 'canning.' Until this past week when I learned that 'canning' takes its name from a time when preserving produce was actually done in cans. Who knew?

Last week, I shared growing up country stories from my memoir with the residents at Valley View Village a senior living facility in Des Moines. The average age of those in the audience was at least 80, maybe older.

Many came to the meeting room in wheelchairs, using walkers or with assistance from staff. But what they lacked in physical capabilities, they made up for in mental sharpness.

As I talked about my stories of growing up in the 1950s, they remembered their own experiences growing up before and during the Great Depression. Roosters chasing them. Fixing meals for threshers. Milking cows by hand. Gardening and canning.

Hearing stories of the older folks who come to my book talks is rewarding on so many levels. One is that as they're reminiscing, I'm doing research for my novel. They talk about cooking on wood stoves and shocking oats for the threashers, and I'm making mental notes of details that may work their way into my novel. And then all of a sudden they say something totally unexpected - like canning was done in cans.

Those unexpected details are the best. Fun for me to learn something new and perfect for adding reality and depth to my writing.

I have to spend more time talking with these folks.

How well do we handle freedom?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

“Use well thy freedom.” Those words are chiseled on a college building in Jonathan Franzen’s novel FREEDOM. They articulate one of the major themes of this 576-page tome, which follows the lives of Walter and Patty Berglund and their two children.

We want freedom. We cherish our freedoms. We fight to preserve freedom. But as I was reading this book, I was reminded of the line in the movie - A Few Good Men.

When Kaffee (Tom Cruise) says, “I want the truth.” Jessep (Jack Nicholson) responds, “You can’t handle the truth.”

We want freedom, but how well do we handle it?

Children raised in a totally permissive environment may grow up without the personal and social skills to thrive as adults. Unrestricted access to drugs may lead to abuse and destroyed lives. Often the rules that restrict our freedom exist to protect us from ourselves.

The characters in Franzen’s novel all fight to break the bonds that hold them – parents, marriage, work. For good or ill, all of Franzen’s characters experience their desired freedom at some point.

But the freedom they achieve might be liberating or destructive, or both.

I didn’t find myself particularly liking any of the characters in this novel - and when I invest as much time in reading a book as this one takes, I'd like to like at least ONE character. Because of this quality, getting through the 576 pages was a bit of a slog. But the characters were real. Their desires, their challenges, their lives. And I think the messiness of their lives is indicative of the messiness of freedom.

We need to use well our freedom.

Image from Amazon.com

Crimes of passion - Stepping back

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Jane beats a real estate broker bloody with her stiletto heel. Kit lays into her brother with a broken wine bottle. Physically and mentally abused by her husband, Leah finally takes it out on her children. Grace uses her own car as a battering ram on her daughter's boyfriend's car, totaling both vehicles.

I can imagine that any woman - possibly any man, too - would be able to see themselves in the shoes of one of these characters. Angry and pushed to the limit. Committing crimes of passion. Each action completely understandable in the moment. None of the actions appropriate or acceptable. Because none of them backs off at the critical moment, all of these women need a miracle.

Kris Radish's new book TUESDAY NIGHT MIRACLES tells the story of these four women who have one chance to avoid jail through a court-ordered anger management group. Their group is led by accomplished psychologist Dr. Olivia Bayer who has overcome her own anger issues. Close to retirement, Bayer uses non-traditional approaches to help her charges find themselves and each other.

The characters in this book are vivid and believable. The techniques Dr. Bayer uses are ones any reader could use to stay in touch with herself, provide emotional outlets, and hopefully allow one to step away from the anger.

An excellent read.

Photo from Amazon.com

Ode to spring - and hope

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:58:00 +0000

I walked yesterday afternoon. The sun on my face. A gentle breeze ruffling my hair. In an hour, I was ready to shed the light jacket I’d put on before I left the house. I love spring in Iowa.

Oh, wait! It’s not spring, though it sure seems like it. The thermometer regularly reads 50 degrees, even up to 63 degrees. Who would imagine that the light dusting of snow we had last week, only half an inch, would be only the second snowfall this entire winter to last longer than one day?

The beautiful weather has drawn everyone out - walkers, runners, bikers, golfers - in shirtsleeves and shorts. In January. In Iowa.

The open water of the local pond has become the favorite gathering place of 10,000+ Canadian geese. They are out, too, doing their rather messy thing.

It’s been so warm I’ve spent more than a few moments concerned about the trees. I walked recently with a friend and passed a magnolia tree that was putting out flower buds. In JANUARY!

After spending some days worrying, I realized there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. So at this point, I just put out a little hope. I am hopeful the trees have this figured out and somehow know that this is one weird winter and they are not fooled. I hope that if we do lose the blossoms and therefore the fruits for this season, I hope we do not also lose the trees.

And I hope we get more days like this. I'll be out walking again this afternoon, the sun warming my face. I am very much enjoying springtime in January!

HNY to you, too

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 17:14:00 +0000

HNY, a friend signed off her email. HNY? What's that? I wondered.

Since I traded my office as a public relations agency executive for an office in my house where I write in relative solitude, I often feel completely out of it when it comes to the latest trends. My writing genre choices don't help - a memoir about my childhood in the 1950s and now historical fiction set in the early 1900s.

These days I spend my time trying to put my head in an era without electricity, a time when horse and buggies were the most common conveyance, a time when a 'glimpse of stocking' was something shocking. It takes a concerted effort to strip away all allusions to electricity, air travel, and sex. Actually, sex is all allusion, so that's a different issue.

One of the things I always enjoyed about working in the public relations world was being on top of the current pop business phrases - "tipping point" and "at the end of the day," for instance.

Alas, I find myself slipping further and further behind. The 2012 Banished Words List actually includes words I still like and use, like "Amazing!" It does not help that I don't use a smart phone. I have a cell phone, but I seldom use it. My texting ability is limited to 'ok.' And I sometimes get that wrong.

Perhaps Twitter will help. I'm trying it out - @CABodensteiner. For someone who is challenged to write short blogs, having only 140 characters forces me to abbreviate. Twitter demands I keep one toe in the 21st Century.

Hence my problem with HNY. All of a sudden, people are signing off seasonal messages with HNY. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out that meant Happy New Year.

Oh well. HNY to all of you!

What I approve

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:30:00 +0000

"What I approve is a reflection of me."

My boss had those words written on flip chart paper and tacked to his wall the entire 10 years I worked for him. Every time I was in his office, I read that sentence. Those words were a reminder to himself and to all of us that there was no distinction between what he put his name on and who he was as a professional.

I was reminded of my boss's saying when I read a recent article in Forbes magazine. The article included this sentence:

"Contrary to the assumptions of East Coast magazines such as The Atlantic which paint a picture of a devastated and dumb rural America, places like Iowa are doing very well indeed and are likely to continue doing so."

The Forbes writer referenced the article written by Stephen Bloom. But Bloom is forgotten here. The writer invokes the well known magazine name - The Atlantic.

Readers have expectations when they pick up a magazine or newspaper. They expect the editors will ensure a level of writing quality and content accuracy consistent with the editorial mission - whether the stories are produced by employees of the publication or provided by a free lancer, whether the articles are in the print or online editions of the magazine. In the public relations world, we called this editorial oversight 'third-party endorsement.' That endorsement was why clients valued public relations placements so highly.

Readers of The Atlantic have an expectation that the magazine's editors reviewed and approved of the Bloom article, a piece of writing riddled with errors, laden with out dated stereotypes, and illogically, purposely vindictive. Did regular readers of The Atlantic feel short changed by Bloom's article? Did readers question why a nationally respected magazine they read and admire would publish such a piece?

Do the editors of The Atlantic now question using Bloom's article? They might want to consider that. After all, what they approve is a reflection of them.

Sticks & Stones get personal

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 14:53:00 +0000

How do we protect ourselves from a verbal assault? The Stephen Bloom Affair (okay, that's what I'm calling it) has made me think about that more than a little.

Bloom's article in The Atlantic hurled a stream of vindictive comments at rural Iowans, calling them "lacking in educated, (sic)" "old people waiting to die," "toothless meth addicts" and "wastoids."

I read his article with interest but also some detachment. After all, I'm educated, drug free, have a full set of teeth (including wisdom), hold an advanced degree and even though I grew up on an Iowa farm have lived in urban areas for many years. As an Iowan, I was affronted by Bloom's article, but more interested and confused - able to view the writing with professional detachment. I could deflect the actual hurt of the attack because, of course, Bloom wasn't talking about me.

My distance was safely in place until I read Peter Feldstein's opinion piece published in the Des Moines Register. Feldstein is the photographer and co-author with Bloom of The Oxford Project, a book that tells in words and photos the stories of 100 residents of a small, rural Iowa community.

Bloom spent more than a little time with the people of Oxford, getting to know them, writing their stories, presenting them to the world with what felt like both honesty and compassion. When Bloom wrote his diatribe for The Atlantic, he did it from the perspective of knowing those real rural Iowa people up close and personal.

When the folks of Oxford read his article, they can't retain a protective distance. For them his words are personal. They have every right to feel insulted and betrayed. They don't have that protective shield of distance. Bloom knows them. And now they know what he really thinks.

Peter Feldstein offered the most stinging indictment of his co-author's essay when he concluded his own essay this way: "A few days ago, I picked up the book for the first time since the brouhaha. I had a very sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish Stephen Bloom's name was not on it."

The sticks and stones Bloom threw at Iowa all of a sudden feel very personal. His words landed hard on the good people of Oxford. And they hurt.

Never on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:09:00 +0000

We woke up yesterday - January 1, 2012 - and turned on the TV, expecting as we always do to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade. The parade was nowhere to be found.

Finally I Googled it (thank you, Google) and learned that the parade is 'never on Sunday.' Early parade organizers didn't want to frighten horses tied up in front of churches and risk disrupting church services.

If someone had asked, I would have responded that I watched the Rose Parade every year of my entire life. Not on Sunday? I hardly knew what to do with the rest of the day.

Growing up on the farm, the only day my folks let us kids sleep in was New Year's Day. They took pity on us because New Year's Eve was the only night we could stay up beyond 10 p.m. Or even wanted to, for that matter. Getting up before 6 a.m. every day to do chores and milk cows meant we could hardly keep our eyes open after dark. That didn't have positive implications for dating, but that's a different post.

On New Years Eve, we gathered with the Zidlickys and Staneks. The adults played cards. We kids played Monopoly, ate dishpans full of popcorn, and did our level best to stay awake until midnight. Then we put on hats and blow horns and rang in the new year. Before midnight, we dined on oyster stew and chili - or if we were at Zidlicky's, we ate lutafisk and lefsa. It was a night unlike any other in our year. When we finally hit the beds, it was with the blessed knowledge that we could sleep in.

On New Year's Day, our dog Butch did not come in to lick us awake, we stumbled out of bed long after daylight and still dressed in pajamas settled in front of the TV. Mom oohed and aahed along with us as the floats passed by.

I do not recall the Rose Parade ever falling on a Sunday when I was a kid, but it must have. I expect we did not notice because even if we didn't have to pile out of bed to milk cows, we never missed church. And it didn't matter how late you were up the night before. And it didn't matter what big thing was on TV. Church was always on Sunday.

Adieu to 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:03:00 +0000

Nature provided the perfect conclusion to 2011.

A molten lava sunset, better than any fireworks.

Wishing you a happy and healthy 2012!

Love to the universe

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

I luv u sis! That was the message written on one of the roadside ornaments I found as I walked this past week. When I read those words, I couldn't help but smile as I brushed away tears.

My sister Jane was a soft-spoken, gentle woman who had amazing gifts of caring, hospitality, creativity, and love. She died three years ago and I miss her every day.

The message on that ornament felt as though it had been written just for me, left there just for me to find. I almost picked it up and brought it home.

I'm a scavenger, salvaging all kinds of things I pick up along the road. Pliers, toys, a baby stroller, chairs, lawn decorations. I get a kick out of bringing home things we can use.

I'm a recycler. Often things I pick up go right into the recycling bin. Others are returned for refunds. Last week, I garnered $3.90 for my recent pick up efforts.

My sister would have delighted in creating ornaments such as the ones I found and putting them somewhere for someone to discover. In fact she hung ornaments in a bush a distance from her front porch. A little bit of glitter to surprise and amuse visitors.

The roadside ornaments appealed to both my scavenger and recycler tendencies. I itched to pick them up. When I saw this one with this message, I wanted it even more. But leaving the ornament on the roadside, as difficult as that was, was the right thing.

Like my sister, the ornament is out there, shiny and carrying a message of love to the universe.

I luv u sis!

Cooking up Aebleskivers & Liver Sausage

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 14:08:00 +0000

I was remiss! I should have provided the recipe for Aebleskivers. Here's the one I used. I found it on allrecipes.com. I only made half a recipe, which was plenty for two of us.

For those of you who are especially adventuresome, I've also included my mom's recipe for liver sausage.

Bon Appetit!

Aebleskivers
Ingredients

2 egg whites
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon white sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 egg yolks
4 tablespoons butter, melted
2 cups buttermilk
melted butter for frying

Directions

In a clean glass or metal bowl, beat the egg whites with an electric mixer until they can hold a stiff peak. Set aside.
Mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, baking soda, sugar, egg yolks, melted butter and buttermilk at one time and beat until smooth. Gently fold in the egg whites last.
Brush melted butter in the bottom of each aebleskiver pan cup and heat until hot. Pour in about 2 tablespoons of the batter into each cup. As soon as they get bubbly around the edge, turn them quickly (Danish cooks use a long knitting needle, but a fork will work). Continue cooking, turning the ball to keep it from burning.

Liver Sausage

Ingredients & Instructions

Meat cooked off 2 hog's heads
Add 3 or 4 onions to the broth while cooking
7 lb liver simmered done
Grind it all and mix well
Add salt, pepper, allspice, thyme and marjoram to taste. No one has given us exact measurements.Put in pint jars and pressure cook one hour at 15 lb. pressure

Letting go of tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 15:08:00 +0000

Liver sausage and waffles. That's my family's traditional Christmas Eve supper. This tradition started when Dad gave Mom a waffle iron one Christmas when I was a teenager. I was old enough to wonder at my father's gift choice but young enough to delight in the idea of this exotic food form.

Compared to pancakes, which Mom could whip up in minutes, waffles were a hassle. Still, Mom hauled out the waffle iron and made waffles once a year, every year after that. She always served homemade liver sausage on the side. This meal became a much loved tradition.

After Mom died, we cleaned out her fruit cellar and I brought home four pint jars of liver sausage. This liver sausage was made in 2006. It wasn't her best batch. Not enough head cheese (hogs head for those of you not accustomed to farm cooking). I love liver sausage, by the way, though it is a taste not shared at all by my husband and only tolerated by my son.

I kept thinking I'd eat the liver sausage myself, but I never did. Now, five years after it was made, even my cast iron stomach thinks we're past the expiration date.

Though liver sausage went by the wayside, the tradition we continued until this year is having waffles for supper on Christmas Eve. My son and his family celebrate with us. But this year, travel plans changed the routine and they invited us to spend Christmas Day with them.

Without the tradition to sustain me, I was left to launch into unknown food territory. Taking inspiration from Danish friends, I made Aebleskivers - an airy donut-type pastry served with powdered sugar and jam - for Christmas Day breakfast. We feasted at my son's house that afternoon on their tradition - an eclectic snack buffet.

Traditions are nice. They're comfortable. They make planning easy. But this Christmas showed me that letting go of traditions can be nice, too.

Will Aebleskivers on Christmas morning become a tradition? Only time will tell. Waffles may return, but liver sausage will drift into the realm of happy childhood memories. And my husband says, Amen!

Little holiday messages bring joy

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Ah, tis the season. Decorations are everywhere. Houses, trees, lamp posts. Every year the decorations seem to get bigger and brighter. But I have seen this year that small and subtle can have great impact.

Walking on rural roads in the pre-dawn hours, when most of the holiday displays have been turned off, the only flashing lights are generally yard lights glinting off discarded beer and pop cans.

But this holiday season I've found something new. One dark morning, my eye caught a glint I thought was another can. As I came close, I realized it was not a can, but in the darkness I couldn't make it out, so I walked on by. Another day, the sun had peeked over the horizon when I came upon that same spot and saw the object was a tree ornament. I'm used to seeing just about anything along the road. A tree ornament was a first. I mused over who had lost it? How? And would it be missed?

A little further on, I came upon another ornament. And then another. Ornaments showed up on both sides of the road. None was on the roadway itself where it would be crushed by passing traffic. But none was down in the ditches, either. It was as though someone had placed each one on purpose. Most definitely not a random lost ornament; I counted at least 15 in the course of a mile.

I thought of picking them up. Why let objects so pretty risk being destroyed, as they surely would be? But the more I thought about these ornaments, the more I thought they might be someone's little bit of personal joy, spread to delight anyone who came upon them. Perhaps the decorator meant them to delight those of us who walk. Perhaps they were a personal message to the universe.

When I stooped to take these pictures, I saw the ornaments each carried a hand written message. "Let it snow" "Noel" "Merry, Merry" I didn't turn each one over, but they all seemed to be different.

What message did the person who left these ornaments intend? I have no idea. But they have been a gift to me. The ornaments have made me slow down during my walks. They have reminded me to enjoy the holidays every day. They have made me smile.

I accept the gift of the roadside decorator. And I pass that gift along to you. Happy Holidays to you all!

Another view on rural Iowa

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Bodensteiner) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

According to Stephen Bloom in his recent essay for The Atlantic:

"Those who stay in rural Iowa are often the elderly waiting to die, those too timid (or lacking in educated) to peer around the bend for better opportunities, an assortment of waste-toids and meth addicts with pale skin and rotted teeth, or those who quixotically believe, like Little Orphan Annie, that "The sun'll come out tomorrow."

I am here to say Bloom is wrong on more points than just being 'lacking in educated.' I know rural Iowa. I grew up there. I travel the state regularly, writing for The Iowan magazine about what's going on. I never lack for copy. My faith in our state was renewed as I did research for a feature - 'Sizing up small towns: Rethinking success in rural Iowa' - published in the Nov/Dec 2011 issue of The Iowan.

Many small Iowa towns are not just alive, they're thriving. The people I spoke with in Corning, Fairfield, and Elkader showed why this is so. Here's what they said.

Small businesses are encouraged: “We operate on a handshake, and we're flexible,” says Roger Thomas, executive director for both the EDC and Main Street Elkader, a program focused on historic commercial district revitalization. “We want them to succeed.”

Small town energy - Affordable operations: Adam Pollock moved his family and his business from the San Francisco Bay area to northeast Iowa 10 years ago. “There's a palpable sense of energy in this town,” says Pollock. “It's hard to live and manufacture in San Francisco. When everyone else went to China, we went to the heartland. People here are steady, reliable, and resourceful. With the Internet, we can do business anywhere.”

Communities are supportive and provide a range of amenities. Maria Fuller, D.D.S., graduated from the University of Iowa, and with her husband went looking for the perfect town in which to live and work. They chose Corning. “We wanted to raise our children in a small town,” she explains. “But it was really important that the school provide a solid education. My husband had to get a job. The community needed to provide amenities — a hospital, school, a sense of community.” Corning delivered everything on their list, says Dr. Fuller. “If you always had a dream to have your own business, rural Iowa is the place. Take the time to come, visit a while, and see.”

People are involved and make a difference. Fairfield Mayor Ed Malloy sought broad community participation when he initiated a visioning process for the community shortly after he was elected. Planning took 18 months - a process that Malloy says helped the community “grow, develop, mature, and gracefully integrate into a whole. We have 80 different community organizations that said, ‘Yes, we understand,' and, ‘Yes, we'll take it on,' ” he says. Among other accomplishments, their planning resulted in a $10 million Arts & Convention Center.

Sure, rural Iowa has its challenges. What place doesn't these days? But I'm pleased to say rural Iowans are not sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. They're actively involved. They're looking to the future. They're making the good life happen.

Photo by Jason Fort, courtesy of The Iowan magazine