Recycling is one Midwestern habit from which few have strayed. Those who did are coming back to their roots, and for reasons beyond the frugality that established the practice. We now add the “green advantage” when reusing products, or choosing not to use something if there isn’t a need.
Most people in Northeast Iowa recognize the importance of reducing what is in our landfills in order to protect our families, livestock, and fields from contamination. We understand how food gets to our tables, and the cycle that brought it there - nothing originated on the shelves of the M & M Family Market and Catering.
The Upper Iowa River Watershed (UIRW) is an area of “steep and rugged landscape”, a cover for the karst topography unique to our region. In a report from the Northeast Iowa RC&D, The Upper Iowa River Watershed Project states, “Karst topography is defined by land that is underlain by soluble bedrock, such as limestone, and characterized by depressions in the ground, or sinkholes, caves, and underground drainage. Because water can enter the subsurface easily through conduits and fractures in the soluble limestone bedrock, karst aquifers are highly susceptible to contamination.”
This description in the report sounds familiar to us: “Karst topography features in the watershed include; springs, streams that disappear into bedrock fissures, sinkholes, caves, and steep, highly erodible hillsides. These features facilitate direct mixing of surface and ground water. Karst experts typically measure the development of karst by the number of sinkholes, springs and known caves. The UIRW has thousands of sinkholes, hundreds of springs and dozens of known caves.”
Two sentences from a study released through the U.S. Geological Survey called Karst Topography – Teacher’s Guide and Paper Model explain it well. “Although karst processes sculpt beautiful landscapes, karst systems are very vulnerable to ground water pollution due to the relatively rapid rate of water flow and the lack of a natural filtration system. This puts local drinking water supplies at risk of being contaminated.”
Heck, we’ve known for quite awhile that our beautiful landscape is largely shaped by the dissolving action of water on carbonate bedrock, meaning our limestone bluffs are a mixed blessing. What we put into sinkholes and landfills, the chemicals we put onto our fields, and concentrated animal waste aren’t filtered naturally here. We run a greater risk of getting undesirable and harmful stuff in the water we drink.
The watershed data merely supports age-old practices. What it boiled down to in our household was The Great Depression. The Barn and The Peg would look with wide-eyed horror at the things my generation put curbside on garbage day.
“We went through the Depression, and we had to do without. We know better than to waste anything!”
The Peg purchased two sleeves of Styrofoam cups back in the early Sixties. She thought they would be handy to take on our summer vacations, long camping marathons that allowed a family of seven to economically tour the Upper 48. Handy, yet she washed and reused those white 8-ounce vessels, and still had at least a fourth of the original purchase when she moved into retirement living in 1996. Her offspring would commiserate, saying,
“She went through the Depression, you know.”
The Barn added a bathroom for my sister and me around the cement-block shower stall in the basement of 415 Quincy Avenue, Ottumwa, Iowa. He defined the “unfitted” look I later mimicked in my 2000 A.D. kitchen renovation. The two sinks, salvaged from who-knows-where, were both white, but the similarities ended there. He used odds ’n ends lumber to create a beautiful, enormous wall of cabinets, and painted the concrete walls and floor of the entire 150-square-foot space with a speckled pink, turquoise, and white waterproof finish, reminiscent of terrazzo. It was a labor of love and recycled good stuff. Our reaction?
“He went through the Depression, you know.”
The Peg designed and made the most imaginative clothes for my sisters and me, from what her Home Ec students at Charles D. Evans Junior High would toss into the trash. I possess one of those signature outfits, which she kept for some silly reason. The fabric was still good, so perhaps she planned to use it for something else. “Waste not, want not,” was her motto, and she repeated it …frequently.
“The Depression, you know.”
The Peg didn't like it when I left things unfinished. It's not that she nagged, but having been through the Depression, she didn't take investments in materials lightly. When, in my thirties, I finished and framed an embroidered linen sampler I began for her ten years earlier, she blurted out, “I didn't think I'd ever see this!”, enunciating a fear that I had squandered my purchase. I’m not positive there is a connection between her response and the state of the economy during her formative years, but a common justification of Baby Boomers when we don't understand our parents' behaviors is,
“They went through the Depression, you know.”
I teach people to quilt using reclaimed and recycled fabric. Like The Barn and The Peg, I relish the challenge of making something beautiful and useful from what had once been rubbish. Hubba and I know very few people who don’t recycle now, and know plenty who think throwing away perfectly good stuff makes no sense.
Our abilities to be creative, and pride in our beautiful Northeast Iowa landscapes have connected generations, spawned art and inventively useful items, and joined political debaters in common goals of healthy and inspired living. People elsewhere may not appreciate the multi-faceted advantages to recycling, but we do here. By the time others catch up to our innovations, we’ll be the masters of it. It seems we’re on the cutting edge of a movement, already there before it was a movement.
Oh, yeah. We’re hot.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns February 2006
Please Pass the Puffs
A sap. I have always been one, and was forced to suffer the embarrassment of it for many years.
As a child I was aware how easily other people’s behaviors affected me. When a stranger smiled at me, I involuntarily smiled back. I observed some children stick up their noses and turn their heads, and wished I could do that. I would try, but the best I could muster was to hide my face and hope they hadn’t seen my weakness. If I sneaked a peek and they were still smiling, I was cooked.
Even today, sad movies make me cry. I’m really only interested in feel-good movies and chick flicks, and I complain insincerely when tear-jerkers send me over the edge. I kept this personality fault in the closet for all of junior high and most of high school, and in college I avoided situations that would trigger a reaction. As I said, it was embarrassing!
Eventually it was just me and other adults dealing with my over-sappism, and I benefited from their politeness. My peers blamed the cold season for my sniffling during the last ten minutes of any Movie of the Week, and I was grateful for their forgiving dispositions. It seemed that I was doomed to cry during sad movies, or when reading or even hearing a sappy story.
Being a mother added a new audience to this behavior. I thought I had a kindred spirit, observing The Dot at three-years-old watching a movie about a seal. In the end, the seal had to be put back into the ocean, and the little boy in the movie cried. There was plenty of violin music to emphasize the travail, and The Dot, my pride and joy, blubbered. Sis-tah!
The little traitor turned on me, though. In possession of some of Hubba’s stoic genes, she cultivated the ability to reach down inside and choke off the tear bulb. By the time she was eight, she had developed Mom-tear radar. Anytime a song on the radio, or (heaven forbid) something on the big screen down at The Viking Theater got a little hokey, The Dot would turn her chin-set, stubborn face towards me, bring it close, and all but dare me to whimper. Big deal, I thought. I am woman, hear me cry. Deal with it, Dot.
She refused to watch Beaches with me. She was uptight for years about the spectacle I’d made when The Viking screened My Girl. Unfortunately for her, the new elementary principal was sitting behind us, and I had pestered him for his spare popcorn napkin. To make matters worse, I honked into it while caterwauling, “This just isn’t fair! The only purpose of this movie is to make people cry! What abusive cruelty!”
The worm began to turn about five years ago. I had suggested The Dot keep an eye out for the old Bette Davis movie, Dark Victory, remembering it had a powerfully cleansing effect on me when I was her age. Something in her demeanor had led me to believe that she was more comfortable with her share of my DNA, and I wanted to test that. We finally found it on cable one day. Oh, yeah. She bawled like a newborn.
These days she is more comfortable with a spectrum of emotions. She isn’t embarrassed by my sappiness, because I think she gets it: openly expressing deep feelings is a double-dip into the vulnerable pot. Only those with whom we feel safe will witness a display.
The Dot and I spent significant time recently, talking about how we have each changed through the years. She had been home for awhile, preparing for a move to Chicago. What fun to reminisce about how funny I thought she was at age three, and how funny she thought I was when she was thirteen! It pleased us to speak of our family’s close ties, and we agreed that we don’t take it for granted. We mentally high-five each other every day, wherever we are. It’s cool. So cool.
One day before she left, I came into the kitchen and discovered my daughter weeping. Big fat tears, brimming from hazel eyes that appeared greener with each drop.
“What’s wrong?”
She tried to speak, but instead fanned her hands through the air as though to dry newly-polished nails. She turned her head, shaking it as though she could bring back common sense with the motion.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m excited about my move, but I’ve had such a good time being at home. This is like the feeling I had when summer camp was over.”
She wasn’t sad, she told me, she was grateful. She wasn’t upset, she was happy. There are times when adults just cry, and she had outgrown her need for protective, chin-setting denial. The world, you know, needs people who are tender-hearted.
Uh-huh. My work here is done. Please pass the Puffs.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns, February 2006
As a child I was aware how easily other people’s behaviors affected me. When a stranger smiled at me, I involuntarily smiled back. I observed some children stick up their noses and turn their heads, and wished I could do that. I would try, but the best I could muster was to hide my face and hope they hadn’t seen my weakness. If I sneaked a peek and they were still smiling, I was cooked.
Even today, sad movies make me cry. I’m really only interested in feel-good movies and chick flicks, and I complain insincerely when tear-jerkers send me over the edge. I kept this personality fault in the closet for all of junior high and most of high school, and in college I avoided situations that would trigger a reaction. As I said, it was embarrassing!
Eventually it was just me and other adults dealing with my over-sappism, and I benefited from their politeness. My peers blamed the cold season for my sniffling during the last ten minutes of any Movie of the Week, and I was grateful for their forgiving dispositions. It seemed that I was doomed to cry during sad movies, or when reading or even hearing a sappy story.
Being a mother added a new audience to this behavior. I thought I had a kindred spirit, observing The Dot at three-years-old watching a movie about a seal. In the end, the seal had to be put back into the ocean, and the little boy in the movie cried. There was plenty of violin music to emphasize the travail, and The Dot, my pride and joy, blubbered. Sis-tah!
The little traitor turned on me, though. In possession of some of Hubba’s stoic genes, she cultivated the ability to reach down inside and choke off the tear bulb. By the time she was eight, she had developed Mom-tear radar. Anytime a song on the radio, or (heaven forbid) something on the big screen down at The Viking Theater got a little hokey, The Dot would turn her chin-set, stubborn face towards me, bring it close, and all but dare me to whimper. Big deal, I thought. I am woman, hear me cry. Deal with it, Dot.
She refused to watch Beaches with me. She was uptight for years about the spectacle I’d made when The Viking screened My Girl. Unfortunately for her, the new elementary principal was sitting behind us, and I had pestered him for his spare popcorn napkin. To make matters worse, I honked into it while caterwauling, “This just isn’t fair! The only purpose of this movie is to make people cry! What abusive cruelty!”
The worm began to turn about five years ago. I had suggested The Dot keep an eye out for the old Bette Davis movie, Dark Victory, remembering it had a powerfully cleansing effect on me when I was her age. Something in her demeanor had led me to believe that she was more comfortable with her share of my DNA, and I wanted to test that. We finally found it on cable one day. Oh, yeah. She bawled like a newborn.
These days she is more comfortable with a spectrum of emotions. She isn’t embarrassed by my sappiness, because I think she gets it: openly expressing deep feelings is a double-dip into the vulnerable pot. Only those with whom we feel safe will witness a display.
The Dot and I spent significant time recently, talking about how we have each changed through the years. She had been home for awhile, preparing for a move to Chicago. What fun to reminisce about how funny I thought she was at age three, and how funny she thought I was when she was thirteen! It pleased us to speak of our family’s close ties, and we agreed that we don’t take it for granted. We mentally high-five each other every day, wherever we are. It’s cool. So cool.
One day before she left, I came into the kitchen and discovered my daughter weeping. Big fat tears, brimming from hazel eyes that appeared greener with each drop.
“What’s wrong?”
She tried to speak, but instead fanned her hands through the air as though to dry newly-polished nails. She turned her head, shaking it as though she could bring back common sense with the motion.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m excited about my move, but I’ve had such a good time being at home. This is like the feeling I had when summer camp was over.”
She wasn’t sad, she told me, she was grateful. She wasn’t upset, she was happy. There are times when adults just cry, and she had outgrown her need for protective, chin-setting denial. The world, you know, needs people who are tender-hearted.
Uh-huh. My work here is done. Please pass the Puffs.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns, February 2006
Separating and Pruning Our Roots
Did you miss me? Last week, posting to Threadquarters became a victim to time poverty. We’ve talked about this before, almost to the point of whining, so there’s no need to dwell on it. Life is so blessedly full, and there are more things to do than there are hours in the day to do them. What confounds me is when I hear people say, “There’s nothing to do here.”
Huh? Are you kidding?!
I’ve come to the conclusion that being a Midwesterner isn’t a privilege of birth, after all. People move here from other regions of the country all the time, observing that this is the lifestyle they’ve been looking for. You can’t tell them from the real deal. They aren’t trying to change us into New Yorkers or San Diegans, and they slide effortlessly into our communities by rolling up their sleeves and helping alongside us. They aren’t trying to fix us, because they know we ain’t broke.
Conversely, there are those born here who desire a move to where the postman only rings once, if at all. We have to stipulate teenagers for the sake of this discussion, because one of their stage-of-life tasks is to establish independence, and “getting out of this godforsaken town” tops their lists. In time, many move back to smaller towns, or at least the cities of the Midwest. Permanent transplants quizzically look for that feeling of “home” by connecting with other transplants in The South, New England, or The Pacific Northwest.
Yet I have been baffled by the comment, “There’s nothing to do.” Perhaps what they really mean is, “I’m bored.” We can help children with this, but when an adult says, “I’m bored,” our first response is to sadly shake our heads.
I don’t know how others matured their way out of being bored, but I was lucky enough to have The Peg. As a young, young girl, I would approach her with the inability to entertain myself.
“Maa-maaa, I’m bored.”
My remembering ear tells me I used a high-pitched voice, and elongated my words into a childhood singsong of complaint.
“What can I dooooo, Maa-maaaa?”
The Peg would ignore the whine and commence directly to the remedy. She would read to me, or help me look for the color crayons, sewing cards, or paper dolls, or she would introduce a new project for me to work on. That way, if I’d get bored later, I’d have a way to entertain myself. I was lucky that The Peg was my mom.
The Peg developed my project mentality, and the projects she gave me usually involved needlework. For instance, she would take a scrap of sheet out of the rag bag and have me press it flat. Then she would hold it up to the light, against a pane in the window, and trace a figure from one of my coloring books: a rose, a dog, a baby doll, or maybe a cat, a house, a child at play. Then she would hand me a recycled fruitcake tin of colored thread and a big-eyed needle, and would tell me to sew colors on the lines. She didn’t show me embroidery stitches, she just let me invent.
I’m not sure how old I was when I started inventing and embellishing textiles, but I remember a Trick or Treat bag I fashioned for myself when I was home on the half of the day I didn’t have kindergarten. It started when The Peg traced a pumpkin onto a muslin rag. I know the concept of embroidering on sheets wasn’t new to me that day at the age of five. As I embroidered, it occurred to me that I could sew some more muslin pieces together to make the Trick or Treat bag. I went back to the rag bag and found some suitable material, but I didn’t use my finished product for its intended purpose. It turned out to be too small, and I was hoping for a lot more treats than it would hold.
A child being bored isn’t anything new. My college roommate told me that her little nephew once stated emphatically, “I’m bored as a duck.” That was at least thirty years ago, and Hubba and I still use the bored-as-a-duck standard to define the term.
Bored adults, however, are a new wrinkle in my thinking. Maybe when these adults were bored as youngsters, their parents always entertained them rather than teach them to entertain themselves. Perhaps they bought them out of boredom with a new toy, new clothes, or even new friends.
All along I’ve assumed that being a Midwesterner blessed me with the values that were rooted in my youth. Everyone in my sphere was from homes like mine, with parents like mine. I’ve since observed that some Midwestern roots are weak, maybe even diseased. They need separating and care to encourage them to thrive.
Now I am more aware of those who didn’t have as healthy a root system. I remember a frail-looking little girl named Debbie who went to Wildwood Elementary with me, and whose mom was oft-divorced. The woman ignored her little girl, and Debbie would follow me around with the hunger of a lost puppy. At our house, The Peg would give her projects to work on, and Debbie momentarily felt worthy of the effort. There was the ill-tempered Darcy, an only child with every toy imaginable at her disposal. With two working parents, Darcy was left alone until well after dark, in her house with all those toys. I went home with her after school one day, but we didn’t stay inside with her toys. We roamed around outside, while Darcy looked for attention from neighborhood adults. I was bored as a duck, and I never went home with her after school again.
“There’s nothing to do.” That could mean, “I’m bored,” a reminder that not all our Midwestern roots are common. We need to separate the strong ones, prune away the weak ones, and fertilize the young ones with attention and involvement.
All that those bored people need anyway is a project, and we certainly have plenty of those around here! We can help them establish a healthy root system by assuring them they’ve come to the right place.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns February 2006
Huh? Are you kidding?!
I’ve come to the conclusion that being a Midwesterner isn’t a privilege of birth, after all. People move here from other regions of the country all the time, observing that this is the lifestyle they’ve been looking for. You can’t tell them from the real deal. They aren’t trying to change us into New Yorkers or San Diegans, and they slide effortlessly into our communities by rolling up their sleeves and helping alongside us. They aren’t trying to fix us, because they know we ain’t broke.
Conversely, there are those born here who desire a move to where the postman only rings once, if at all. We have to stipulate teenagers for the sake of this discussion, because one of their stage-of-life tasks is to establish independence, and “getting out of this godforsaken town” tops their lists. In time, many move back to smaller towns, or at least the cities of the Midwest. Permanent transplants quizzically look for that feeling of “home” by connecting with other transplants in The South, New England, or The Pacific Northwest.
Yet I have been baffled by the comment, “There’s nothing to do.” Perhaps what they really mean is, “I’m bored.” We can help children with this, but when an adult says, “I’m bored,” our first response is to sadly shake our heads.
I don’t know how others matured their way out of being bored, but I was lucky enough to have The Peg. As a young, young girl, I would approach her with the inability to entertain myself.
“Maa-maaa, I’m bored.”
My remembering ear tells me I used a high-pitched voice, and elongated my words into a childhood singsong of complaint.
“What can I dooooo, Maa-maaaa?”
The Peg would ignore the whine and commence directly to the remedy. She would read to me, or help me look for the color crayons, sewing cards, or paper dolls, or she would introduce a new project for me to work on. That way, if I’d get bored later, I’d have a way to entertain myself. I was lucky that The Peg was my mom.
The Peg developed my project mentality, and the projects she gave me usually involved needlework. For instance, she would take a scrap of sheet out of the rag bag and have me press it flat. Then she would hold it up to the light, against a pane in the window, and trace a figure from one of my coloring books: a rose, a dog, a baby doll, or maybe a cat, a house, a child at play. Then she would hand me a recycled fruitcake tin of colored thread and a big-eyed needle, and would tell me to sew colors on the lines. She didn’t show me embroidery stitches, she just let me invent.
I’m not sure how old I was when I started inventing and embellishing textiles, but I remember a Trick or Treat bag I fashioned for myself when I was home on the half of the day I didn’t have kindergarten. It started when The Peg traced a pumpkin onto a muslin rag. I know the concept of embroidering on sheets wasn’t new to me that day at the age of five. As I embroidered, it occurred to me that I could sew some more muslin pieces together to make the Trick or Treat bag. I went back to the rag bag and found some suitable material, but I didn’t use my finished product for its intended purpose. It turned out to be too small, and I was hoping for a lot more treats than it would hold.
A child being bored isn’t anything new. My college roommate told me that her little nephew once stated emphatically, “I’m bored as a duck.” That was at least thirty years ago, and Hubba and I still use the bored-as-a-duck standard to define the term.
Bored adults, however, are a new wrinkle in my thinking. Maybe when these adults were bored as youngsters, their parents always entertained them rather than teach them to entertain themselves. Perhaps they bought them out of boredom with a new toy, new clothes, or even new friends.
All along I’ve assumed that being a Midwesterner blessed me with the values that were rooted in my youth. Everyone in my sphere was from homes like mine, with parents like mine. I’ve since observed that some Midwestern roots are weak, maybe even diseased. They need separating and care to encourage them to thrive.
Now I am more aware of those who didn’t have as healthy a root system. I remember a frail-looking little girl named Debbie who went to Wildwood Elementary with me, and whose mom was oft-divorced. The woman ignored her little girl, and Debbie would follow me around with the hunger of a lost puppy. At our house, The Peg would give her projects to work on, and Debbie momentarily felt worthy of the effort. There was the ill-tempered Darcy, an only child with every toy imaginable at her disposal. With two working parents, Darcy was left alone until well after dark, in her house with all those toys. I went home with her after school one day, but we didn’t stay inside with her toys. We roamed around outside, while Darcy looked for attention from neighborhood adults. I was bored as a duck, and I never went home with her after school again.
“There’s nothing to do.” That could mean, “I’m bored,” a reminder that not all our Midwestern roots are common. We need to separate the strong ones, prune away the weak ones, and fertilize the young ones with attention and involvement.
All that those bored people need anyway is a project, and we certainly have plenty of those around here! We can help them establish a healthy root system by assuring them they’ve come to the right place.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns February 2006
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