Good food, friends, more hope

Speaking of hope, I cannot imagine a more hopeful way to have spent this anniversary of Sept. 11 than with a few of our newer friends and neighbors on the courthouse lawn here in Lucas County during Chariton’s first --- we hope of many --- Ukrainianfest.

To understand why we were celebrating, you need to know that during the last 10 years Lucas County’s population of religious refugees from an area that includes Ukraine, Russia, Belarus and Moldova has grown from zero to perhaps 700. That’s a huge deal down here in a small rural county. They’re good neighbors (and great cooks). These neighbors of ours also form Iowa’s largest population of people from this region, although other settlements have radiated from this home base.

Most are devout Pentecostal Christians, many actively persecuted during the days of the former Soviet Union, many still fearful of conditions in unsettled newly-independent republics. Some are natives of the Chernobyl region and suffer from after-effects of radiation exposure. They worship in three Chariton congregations.

They are here in large part simply because this was the area of the United States that reminded them the most of home --- and because they were welcomed. All ages are represented. And language still is a barrier for these older newer Iowans and for recent arrivals.

For the cost of a $5 wristband, we ate all we could of every Ukrainian main dish and dessert imaginable, listened to some wonderful music and a certain amount of preaching (didn’t hurt at all) and just sat there in the cool sunshine of a perfect Iowa Saturday amazed that such things could come to pass.

One of the older leaders of the community, speaking through an interpreter, recalled how surprised he was to discover after arriving here --- a victim of persecution who had brought his family far from its former home in search of religious freedom and opportunity --- to discover how few of us actually worshipped in the dozens of fine church buildings scattered around Chariton. He then prayed, in Russian, that Chariton would be blest --- and perhaps (I suspect) revived.

It’s was interesting and humbling to spend a little time among people who have higher expectations of their new neighbors than we do of ourselves.

Hope in hopeless times

I thought I would fly the flag here today, lacking a flagpole. And a little later out at the museum when it’s light, raise it there, too.

In honor of the 3,000 who died in terrorist attacks nine years ago at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and that field in Pennsylvania; to honor the 5,700 U.S. troops who have died since in our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (1,171 U.S. lives lost there alone); to honor the 1,100 among allied forces who also have died; to honor troops alive and serving in those wars; and to honor every parent, spouse, sibling, child and loved one of those serving, whose lives are lived every day on the sharp edge of fear, something that will continue until their loved ones are safely home.

In remembrance of the allied combatants and innocents lost, tens of thousands of them, among the populations of Afghanistan and Iraq and elsewhere during these wars.

And especially in honor of Iowa’s own U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Salvatore A. Giunta, now 25, who last week became the first living recipient of the Medal of Honor named since Vietnam. A graduate of Cedar Rapids Kennedy High School, his family lives at nearby Hiawatha. Eight Medals of Honor now have been awarded during the Afghan/Iraq wars, seven posthumously. The latest of the posthumous awards went last week to U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Robert J. Miller of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Although Giunta survived, all laid down their lives without hesitation or thought for their friends --- the only holy flame that burns amid the desolation of this or any other war.

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Ted Kopell, in a Washington Post, opinion piece published Friday, offered the idea that through all of this we have collectively managed to meet and exceed Osama bin Laden’s most optimistic goals when he launched those Sept. 11 attacks --- the illusion that we were somehow invulnerable in this beautiful land protected by broad oceans was stripped way; our economy is in disarray as resources that could be expended on putting it right are expended instead on wars; and instead of actively seeking ways to resolve our differences and work together we seem increasingly to be turning on each other, some among us eager to launch a jihad, or holy war, on Islam.

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These are not hopeful times. The easy way out is to allow despair and anger to fill us and flow outward from us. The other way, the Lord's way if you will, is expressed in a prayer attributed to St. Francis, although he didn’t write it. Hope lies in praying it as we raise our flags this morning, and every other morning, then going out to practice it.

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

Burn baby, burn ...

Distressed by the bone-shaking condition of Iowa Highway 14 between the south city limits of Chariton and Pin Oak Marsh, I had planned to collect 200 Department of Transportation maps of the great state of Iowa and burn them publicly on Sept. 1.

Then Terry Jones down there in Florida decided to torch 200 copies of the Koran on Sept. 11, the anniversary of Islamic terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon, stealing all my thunder. Who would come to my modest bonfire when we’ve got the international conflagration that plan sparked to fuss about?

Burning things can seem like a good idea, I suppose. And if you think it through, what’s the big deal? The “holy” involved in any “holy book,” including the Bible, has nothing really to do with the paper it’s printed on.

On the other hand, few bother to think such symbolic gestures through and just get even madder than they were in the first place. Messing about with symbols that represent the sacred to other people always is a tricky business and generally a mistake.

Another difficulty with symbolic gestures like book-burning bonfires is that they tend to strengthen the resolve of the folks they were intended to show contempt for. I would not, for example, want my little red pickup to become a selective target this winter for large orange DOT snowplows --- “Let’s get that sucker who burned the maps.”

The really astonishing thing about Terry Jones and his little flock of fruitcakes down there in Florida is how big a blaze his little spark set off and how rapidly it spread. It may be that we’re entirely too interconnected for comfort in these digital days.

There is some good news here, however --- for Baptists. Back in the good old days any wingnut who decided to start a church automatically attached “Baptist” to its title. Consider Fred Phelps and his merry band at Westboro Baptist Church --- no more reflective of Baptist thought and practice than lutefisk is to a Lutheran (although many Lutherans do consume lutefisk).

The trend these days among new churches from mega to mini is to select odd and essentially meaningless names --- like Terry Jones’ “Dove World Outreach Center.” Doesn’t even mention Christian, thanks be to God. Now if he'd just take that cross down off the front of his building.

Furiously flapping Fritillaries

Great Spangled Fritillary. Isn't that a great name for a butterfly? You kinda feel like you should rise, put your hand over your heart and sing it.

The hills were alive with these guys late Tuesday afternoon, fluttering from thistle bloom to thistle bloom, but this was the only one I could convince to pose. Obviously he'd been rear-ended and hadn't been to the body shop yet, but still pretty.

The hill he was grazing on is climbed by my favorite part of the trail system at Red Haw State Park. Many of the lakeshore trails there are heavily wooded and, in summer, dim, and (to me) a little claustrophobic (although many prefer them). This trail bypasses a twisting lakeshore route and climbs a fairly steep hill and then meanders with woods to the north and prairie to the south.

This is the best of both worlds for someone who prefers prairie and savannah. It's the open sky I think and, when savannah is involved, the fact you can appreciate the trees (many times oak) that grow there as individuals. And also because of all that shushine, the blooms are bigger and bolder and brighter and because I'm a fairly shallow person I like bright and shiny stuff.

The down side to this trail is the fact that it's outside the "game preserve" limits of the state park, open to deer and turkey hunters in season and because of its proximity to the woods, popular with those who like to park themselves in the tall grass and wait for their prey to emerge from the protected woods. Not an ideal situation for hikers.

A flock of turkeys calls this neighborhood home, too, and they were enjoying coffee and conversation when I crested the hill, parked in the middle of the trail. First they took off running down it, then moved off into the prairie verge to think a about the situation momentarily, and finally took flight and vanished with a collective whoosh! into the treetops.

Slow down!

I got such a kick out this snapshot that came my way today via friends who now own and are working hard to restore the old Crozier house in northeast Chariton. As part of the process, they located a granddaughter of the builder, J.T. Crozier, and borrowed a stack of old photographs to scan.

This is Mary Crozier, something of a legend in my family at least, with an early speed limit sign that must have been located near the Crozier home since at this time it was the last house in town before motorists (and horses and buggies too) headed north into the country on what is now Highway 14. It could even be that the Croziers commissioned the sign to slow traffic down a little near their house, but that's idle speculation.

The Croziers operated a store on the southeast corner of the square that was patronized by nearly everyone. My grandparents brought eggs, sometimes produce and perhaps even cream there and took it out in trade. When my mother and her sisters boarded in Chariton so that they could attend high school, they clerked at Croziers to help pay their way. When Mary decided the family home was too big for her and sold it, my granddad, who had just built a new house and already had another big house stuffed with furniture, decided he needed some of Mary's and over the course of several visits acquired the Crozier piano, a bedroom set and a vast wing chair that two people could occupy side-by-side.

I remember the store, mostly by that time a dry-goods establishment operated by Robert, Gwen and Mary Crozier. Now it's a coffee shop. But the old desk at which J.T. Crozier stood to do his accounts is now at the museum.

Dancing wind, water and light

And while we're about it, consider the asters --- "they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." OK. So it's supposed to be lilies. But it's September and it's Iowa. Cut me some slack.

Saints and sacraments

Marian Miller: Brighten the Corner Where You Are.

I always learn something new during early-morning minutes before and after the weather report on NBC’s “Today” show.

Natalie (Matt and Meridith had Labor Day off) told me this morning, for example, that Craigslist has blocked its “adult services” section. I hadn’t known previously that Craigslist had an “adult services” section. Actually, I’ve never looked at Craigslist (I’m not in the market for anything other than a half-gallon of milk right now and expect I’d better go to HyVee for that).

So I “Google Newsed” Craigslist to see if more information was available. It seemed to be, but I quit reading midway through the first report. If you-all know more about Craigslist or its adult services section than I do, please don’t tell me. I don’t care.

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Then there was something about some guy named Glenn Beck and a “Restore America’s Honor” rally. I googled him, too, and found out one useful thing --- that he spells “Glenn” with two “ns” rather than one. He seems to be some sort of radio personality. But the fact he spells his name with two “ns” is really all I needed to know. If you know more, again, please don’t tell me.

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All this got me to thinking about the weekend news I was really interested in. Take Marian Miller’s 90th birthday.

Sunday brought a double-header for several of us at St. Andrew’s --- Morning Prayer in Chariton, then a quick run down to Grace Church in Albia for Holy Eucharist with the bishop, who was visiting.

But the high point in Chariton certainly was Marian’s birthday. Marian is a saint --- and our oldest communicant.

Maybe “saint” needs a little explaining, since it can be a touchy concept. Episcopalians usually are mildly cranky about the generally-recognized saints of the church. We name our parishes after them (St. Andrew’s, for example) and sometimes mark their official feast days, but don’t expect anything from them --- like intercession --- other than the examples they’ve provided.

My former vicar was a firm believer in the sainthood of all believers, and made a point of always beginning general correspondence to us with “Dear Saints.” Not that many of us viewed ourselves as saintly. Others limit saintly references to those who have died in Christ, thus “sainted” --- those now among that great cloud of witnesses. And so it goes.

I’m using “saint” here as descriptive of someone in whose life we catch a glimpse of God and a glimmer of who we are called to be. That’s Marian all over. You have to know her to appreciate that.

Last summer I believe it was, several of us from both St. Andrew’s and Grace got together just to sit around and drink coffee (or lemonade), eat, visit, play a game or two --- and sing. Marian’s theme song is “Brighten the Corner Where You Are,” so she asked that we sing that, and we did. Since her memory is not what it once was, she requested it two more times before the evening was done --- and we sang it two more times, one of the essential messages of Marian’s life with two exclamation points.

Marian has very little short-term memory left, but that can be conditional. Unless her family is doing it, one of us always picks her up every Sunday morning at the assisted living center and brings her to church. Earlier this summer, we got to yakking in the kitchen and time got away. The telephone rang. “This is Marian, it’s Sunday morning. Where are you?” We haven’t been that careless since.

At Bible study one day last winter, the conversation turned to why so many people feel it unnecessary to go to church on Sunday. “My goodness, what else would you do on Sunday?” Marian asked.

So the birthday of a saint who always brightens the corner where she is and where we are lucky enough to be, too, is big news.

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The other big news on Sunday was the baptism of three and the confirmation of two by our bishop, Alan Scarfe, at Grace Church. Big news at the other end of the age spectrum, although one of the three baptized was a youngish adult and two, teen-agers.

The bishop always confirms, but loves to baptize, too --- and does so as often has his location on a particular Sunday or other occasion allows.

Now baptism is one of those rites of the church that Christians, who obviously are quite often not led down the same paths, can squabble about if they care to do so.

In the Episcopal church, as well as the Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Lutheran and several other approaches, baptism is how we are “born again,” washed clean, “sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever,” as the Book of Common Prayer puts it. Sometimes that leads to misunderstandings with fellow Christians who look upon baptism as more of a symbol than a sacrament and at being “born again” as something quite different, a conscious decision --- something an infant for example is incapable of --- inspired by the Holy Spirit but undertaken only when the decision-maker is old enough to make this decision for himself or herself.

 Whatever the case, in an Episcopal church on a Sunday morning, baptism is big news whether the candidates be infants, children, teens or adults. Participatory news, too, since the assembled faithful renew their own baptismal vows as the service proceeds --- and depending upon the congregation, occasionally get a little damp themselves as water is taken from the font and splashed (sparingly) on everyone within reach (If you’re attending a baptism and see a priest armed with an aspergillium headed your way, don’t duck but do take your glasses off).

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The bishop is an interesting guy and a good preacher --- another reason for the trip to Albia. I wouldn’t care for his job. There are between 50 and 60 Episcopal parishes in the Diocese of Iowa and he expects to visit and officiate at a service in each one at least once a year, for some more often. This means he’s not home very often on weekends.

His visits also are good for at least one repeat of an old standing joke. The bishop, as surrogate shepherd of the entire diocese, brings along his crosier --- a shepherd’s staff that disassembles and fits into a carrying case similar to most carrying cases when in transit. It is usual, as the bishop walks up the sidewalk carrying the case, to inquire which he’s brought along this time --- his saxophone or his shotgun.

Born in England, the bishop tells about when at age 15 he began to discern clearly the direction life would lead him. Coming home to what he describes as typical English parents after a service at a nonconformist (Methodist) chapel, he walks into the living room and tells them he’s “given his life to Jesus Christ.” To which his dad responds, “O that’s nice; we all do odd things sometimes.”

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Finally, one of my favorite Rosella Erdahl stories. Rosella, a Norwegian Lutheran saint but saint none the less, was in her 70s and 80s when I knew her in Rake, Iowa, a small mostly Norwegian and mostly Lutheran town way up by the Minnesota border. Her mother had been a Rake, a surname taken from the farm in Norway from whence the family had come to live at and give its name to a new Iowa town.

As a girl, Rosella took three lessons learned from her Norwegian Lutheran pastor to heart: (1) That it was crucial that infants be baptized as soon as practical after birth; (2) that to fail to do that was to place in doubt the eternal destination of an unbaptized infant’s soul should it die; and (3) that any baptized person could, in an emergency, baptize with water in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Rosella also was a trusted babysitter, occasionally in the homes of non-Lutherans or careless Lutherans who had not yet taken one or more of their children to the font. This she came to see as an emergency situation, and she began to baptize the unbaptized herself --- until her parents caught on. We called her the stealth baptizer.

But it’s something to consider if your babysitter is Lutheran and your children have not been baptized.

The turning

Pretty poison: lovely to look at --- but don't touch.

The days turned toward fall here Friday; I'm certain of it. Someone opened the windows in Council Bluffs, then in Burlington; a cool wind came down from the Rockies, swept across the Plains, then blew all the sticky fustyness of a long hot wet summer right out of Iowa, across the Mississippi into Illinois.

I'm sure we'll have more heat and humidity, but I'm treating today as the start of a new season anyway.

Have you ever noticed that there's always a sentinel hard maple that signals the shift in seasons by turning first? In this neighborhood, it's this one in front of Carpenter's Hall at the foot of the hill to the north.  Everything else around here, other than the walnuts, is still green.

And a few of the leaves on this American elm sapling down along the Cinder Path this afternoon. Remember that wonderful yellow? Sadly, except for a few isolated giants and saplings like this that tend to be short-lived, those wonderful old trees are gone.

When I was a kid, the main street into Russell from the west and continuing on to the school at the east was lined by giant wineglass elms and I remember driving through the golden late-afternoon tunnel they formed when headed in to football games. We're not likely to see their likes again, thanks to dutch elm disease.

At first I thought the butterflies had gone mad with joy, dozens of them in at least five varieties ranging from monarch to swallowtail fluttering madly ahead of me, chasing each other down the trail this afternoon, banging into my head, alighting on my shirt.

Then I decided they were probably drunk --- maybe on elderberry schnaps. There are so many varieities of ripe and over-ripe berries and soft fruit right now it's no wonder.

The spectacle took me so much by surprise I forgot that I had a camera. But later on I came upon this guy, fattening himself on milkweed as the process of producing one of next season's butterflies continues. But which end is up?

Happy trails

Well, the big news here this week is that the Cinder Path is open again. OK, there may be bigger news. But that's the only news I'm interested in right now. The re-opening has restored considerable harmony to my life and that's a big deal.

Truthfully, the trail has never been closed --- it's just that we couldn't get to it this summer while construction was in progress on the Highway 34 bridge that crosses it --- short of going around traffic barricades, walking down the highway to the construction site and then scrambling down the embankment to the trail. The old wooden bridge that is the trailhead was firmly blocked and the various creeks and marshes in that part of town make other approaches impossible.

Another option, providing it was dry, was to drive about four miles to the point southwest of town where the trail intersects a dirt road and then walk or bike back toward Chariton or on toward Derby. This hasn't been a good summer to spend much time on dirt roads, however, so that approach was blocked much of the time, too.

But now everything's open again, Highway 34 traffic is no longer being detoured around north of town, and we can hike or bike up and down the path at will. The trail surface is in great shape, downed limbs and spots where high water has damaged the trail are being taken care of, September's just beginning. Who could ask for more?

Back at Salem Cemetery ...

It's been a long time since I've fiddled with the Salem Cemetery blog, linked out of the sidebar at right or accessible here. No particular reason for that, other than my attention drifts. The original, and continuing goal, is to account for everyone buried there and to explore how their stories are intertwined. Fairly obsessive, but then I am.

I heard the other day from a Gookin descendant whose great-great-great-grandfather I'd written about. Another Salem lot contains the remains of his parents and maternal grandparents, however, and I'd never gotten around to doing anything with it.

So  I've completed at least for now Salem Lot No. 22 (occupied by Samuel and Lydia Russell Gookin, Lydia's parents, Mary and Reuben Russell, and her brother, John and wife, Margaret, who also was Samuel Gookin's sister; how's that for interrelatedness?). The result is here.

Maybe now I'll keep plugging away at this and get it into some reasonable degree of order. By the way, the dates on these Salem posts have no meaning. I set the whole thing up at once when I started, including place-holder posts, so that it could be organized.

Incredible, still edible, but cook it!

There seems to be some dismay among food safety experts and advocates because egg producers in the wake of the DeCoster farms-related salmonella scare are advising consumers to cook eggs thoroughly. I suppose that's understandable. We've all been led to believe --- along the same lines as Santa Claus --- that an egg shell protects its contents and that it is therefore safe, although unappetizing to many, to eat the things virtually raw.

On the other hand, we've known for years that raw chicken can carry salmonella. That's why we're advised to handle chicken carefully, cook it thoroughly and clean up well after. So it's not really surprising that a hen contaminated by salmonella can lay contaminated eggs.

This of course does not excuse producers who by ignoring basic safety measures actively encouraged contamination.

Except when eating at restaurants where heaven only knows what goes on in the kitchen, none of this has been a problem in my family, where grave suspicion always has surrounded anything undercooked or not cooked.

I'll have nothing to do under any circumstances with eggnog, including the storebought pasturized variety. Same goes for homemade mayonnaise. If confronted by a fried egg, I want to be assured that it has been thoroughly smacked down with a spatula and cooked for a prolonged period so that there is no possibility anything yellow and runny will issue from it.

The same principle applies to red meat. Before it goes into my mouth, it must be brown --- not the slightest  hint of pink. I know that such an approach is considered heresy by many carnivorous foodies, but it tastes just fine to me.

Yet more historic real estate

No. No. No. The Iowa governor's mansion is not for sale. But Terrace Hill is one of the state's grandest homes and I like it --- a spectacular and extremely harmonious example of the highest Second Empire style. The photo above belongs to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, not to me, by the way.

It came to mind today when I happened upon the photo below, taken I believe by Ben Carter (although I'm not sure of that) during January of 1983 when Terry and Chris Brandstad moved in --- loading the contents of their Lake Mills home into one of Jim Siddall's big trucks and heading south.

That's interesting now because it's entirely possible that Terry and Chris will move back in next year --- providing he is elected governor again. Terry is a Republican, so of course I deplore that possibility. But poor Chet Culver, one of my beloved Democrats, has proved to be remarkably inept in several instances and is trailing badly in the polls. The big lug probably hasn't been that bad a governor as governors go --- just inept.

That of course has allowed Terry to run on a two-plank platform --- "I used to be governor" and "I'm not Chet Culver." Like death and taxes, Republicans always will be with us. So it may be necessary to adapt.

The moving-in photo was taken for The Forest City Summit, in Terry's home county of Winnebago, and since I was interested in Terrace Hill I took it after publication, stuck it into one of my Terrace Hill books and have held onto it ever since.

The governor and his family do not live in the whole house by the way. They occupy a very nice --- and spacious --- three-bedroom apartment on the third floor, inserted into an area formerly occupied by servants' rooms, storerooms and rooms for overflow guests. And no, they don't have to climb a lot of steps, unless they want to. There's a private entrance, lobby and elevator on the west side of the House, underneath and behind the porch roof railing that's just showing above the moving van.

 The first floor contains five exceedingly grand state rooms, a smaller but equally grand music room and an amazing amount of hall and cross-hall plus a very grand stair hall and staircase. Home offices for the governor and his wife, meeting rooms, VIP guest rooms and the like occupy the second floor.

The house was built for Benjamin Franklin Allen in 1866 and 1867 on a wooded hill south of Grand Avenue west of downtown Des Moines and was ready for occupancy in the spring of 1868. He spent about $250,000 on it --- imagine how much that would be now --- and then proceeded to prove the accuracy of the old adage, "fools build big houses for others to live in." In other words, he went bust.

The house and its surrounding grounds were tied up in litigation for years until finally, in 1884, Frederick M. Hubbell bought the whole shebang for $60,000. He died there in 1930 and his heirs --- some of whom still are alive and kicking and influential in Des Moines --- gave it to the state in 1971. Gov. Robert D. Ray and his family moved in during 1976. The Branstads were the second official occupants.

It has cost millions over the years to restore, remodel and maintain the house --- and there used to be quite a bit of grumbling about that. It seems to have died down, at least for now. But no matter how folks feel about the cost of upkeep, few deny that Terrace Hill is one of the state's treasures.

Burrs and saddles

This has not been a good summer for those of us who walk our troubles away --- too wet, too much mud. It’s no fun to hit the trail wearing hip boots and carrying an umbrella.

But the weather has turned this week, lots of sunshine, reasonable humidity, cool breezes. The highland trail at Red Haw --- dipping low enough in only one place to get muddy --- was so dry late yesterday afternoon it didn’t matter that I forgot to change out of “good” shoes before heading down it.

The key to walking troubles away is to stop fussing about what ails you as you walk, and concentrate instead on what’s around you. And to be grateful that you can still walk.

One thing that’s been ailing all of us down here I think is death --- too many young people (50 is young) in too short a time --- car crashes, cancer, inexplicable accidents. For some families, these tragedies are the latest in strings. It’s like a cloud over a small place where everyone is interconnected.

It’s disconcerting for those of us on the sidelines to realize while thinking about it all that it took someone else’s tragedy to make us appreciate for the first time lately how lucky we are to be alive and kicking. That’s just wrong.

What happened to the practice of gratefulness on a daily basis? Why so darned preoccupied with a litany of imagined woes that joy has to sneak up and surprise us?

God doesn’t have hands, I’ve been told --- other than those He gave us. And they’re not very useful when we’re sitting on them or wringing them. So I’ll try to wring my hands less and use them more.

School started here Wednesday, and that can be looked upon in two ways --- As the beginning of the end (of summer) or as a beginning. I live half a block from an elementary school and had forgotten yesterday that if I’m away from home during the half hour on either side of 3 p.m. there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get home and into the driveway because of the school bus procession and erratically driving (and parking) parents. Really ticked me off. For no good reason. It’s like migrating birds --- happens every year.

And then there’s politics --- and more politics. Here’s the problem I’m having. Democrats did not get us into the fix we’re in all by themselves. Republicans did not get us into the fix we’re in all by themselves. We did it together, bless our hearts, and none of the ideological tools embedded in our respective mindsets are working especially well.

But few of us are anxious to move beyond our mindsets together and develop a fresh idea or two. What we really want to do is exchange places every four years, grab the same old shovel s, dig the hole a little deeper and then complain about it --- loudly.

And what the heck is this Ground Zero-Mosque business? So we really believe Muslims, just because they’re Muslims, don’t have the constitutional right to build an Islamic Center wherever they want to (in this case two blocks from Ground Zero) so long as all the regulations that govern the religious buildings of all faiths are observed. Well fine.

But the next time gun control legislation is proposed, I don’t want to hear a word from those who believe they have a constitutional right to bear arms or all those other yahoos who allege they have a right to speak freely, assemble freely or maybe plant a church of their own denomination in a place where the neighbors of another denomination don’t want it.

And finally, this vast Islamic conspiracy thing. Well, you’re right --- there is a vast Islamic conspiracy. It’s called birth rate. Just by reproducing more enthusiastically than Christians, the best guess is that sometime during the 21st century the number of Muslims in the world will meet, then exceed, the number of Christians.

So do you really want to kill large numbers of Muslims in order to restore the Christian edge? Or go back to standard 12-child Christian families and try to out-reproduce them?

This doesn’t mean there are not extremely dangerous Muslims --- and more than a few Christians, too --- out there on the lunatic fringe in need of defusing. But neither Muslims demonizing Christians nor Christians demonizing Muslims is going to work. Never has. Never will. And it doesn’t make any difference which side started the fight.

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So those were a few of things I could have thought about while walking yesterday evening. But I didn’t. I just took pictures. And then had to come home and write about all the burrs that had gotten stuck under my saddle to remind myself of why I needed to take that walk in the first place.

More historic real estate

Bentonsport, down along the river in Van Buren County, is another favorite place and because of that I've been checking in now and then on the sales progress of two prime pieces of historic real estate that have been on the market there for quite a while --- the old Methodist church and the Cowles house.

I took the snapshot that includes the Methodist church many years ago, in shaggier times. It really hasn't changed on the outside, although pleasant living quarters have been inserted inside. According to a little self-guided tour brochure available at the Bentonsport visitor center, it was built in 1857 and remained in use until 1988, when the congregation was disbanded --- then was sold.

The old Presbyterian church, some distance south of this building, remains in use during the summer and is a better building in terms of design and all-around preservation. Bentonsport's old Congregational church and the brick Methodist church across the river in Vernon both have long since vanished.

Extensive restoration has been undertaken since this photo was taken on the Sanford House, just across the road to the west and looking kind of bedragled here.

Here's the official listing for the church, which you'll note is priced at $165,000. While the church is a one-of-a-kind property in a lovely and historic place, that's still a mighty price for a building in rural iowa.

And here's the listing for the Cowles house, which occupies an entire block and includes other buildings including a guest cottage and a small stone structure that once was a blacksmith shop. The asking price here is $225,000. This house dates from the 1840s and probably was among those built by Mormon craftsmen who stopped here in flight from Nauvoo to Utah to earn money for that journey.

I hope someone with deep pockets willing to love and maintain these buildings comes along --- and that their owners recoup their investments. The fact for better or worse about investing in restoration of historic properties, however, is that it turns out in many cases to be a charitable donation to our collective heritage rather than a way to make money.

Eggscuse us, please

On behalf of Iowa’s old hens, let me be among the first to apologize. At last count some 500 million Iowa-produced eggs have been recalled in recent days, some from as far away as exotic California.

One of my favorite footnotes to this story was the accusation made in the “comments” forum attached to a Des Moines Register story last week that the media were sensationalizing the issue by counting eggs individually rather than by the dozen. I’ve not bothered to divide 500 million by 12, but however you look at it that’s a lot of eggnog.

It’s not the old hens’ fault you know. They just sit cramped into cages by the hundreds of thousands eating and drinking what’s giving them --- and laying eggs. When egg production declines, they’re sent off to become chicken soup (or at least it used to work that way; maybe they’re just killed now).

It’s not an attractive business. It’s why a lot of people don’t like factory farms. But most people probably don’t think --- or haven’t until now --- where those eggs in the grocery cooler come from. It’s also been suggested previously that if more people thought carefully about exactly where an egg does come from fewer would be consumed. But I’ve watched the process and still like eggs --- in moderation.

The leading Food and Drug Administration theory at the moment seems to be that the hens’ food supply was contaminated, possibly by rodents, and that caused them to lay contaminated eggs.

If something like this was going to happen, folks in Iowa and Maine could have told you beforehand with 90 percent probable accuracy who would be behind it --- the DeCosters, bless their hearts. Maine, because that was where they came from; Iowa, because this is where they expanded to maybe 20 years ago, launching a network of both hog confinement operations and egg factories centered in Wright County, way up north. The old man is Austin “Jack” DeCoster. In part because the Iowa Department of Natural Resources declared him an habitual offender 10 years ago and barred him from launching more operations himself, his son, Peter, now runs DeCoster in Iowa.

Wright County Egg, owned by the DeCosters and headquartered at Clarion, made the initial 380-million egg recall when salmonella was detected. Hillandale Farms recalled 170 million more just lately. It’s not clear if the DeCosters are partners in the Hillandale operation, but both Wright County Egg and Hillandale get their birds and feed from another DeCoster operation, Quality Egg.

I remember the first time the DeCosters made the front pages in Iowa during the 1990s --- after manure from their hog confinement operations began to flow too frequently into state waterways. Those were the violations that earned Jack habitual offender status. In 1997, he was fined $2 million for health and safety violations at his Maine farms. Just this year, he’s been fined in Maine for animal cruelty.

The DeCosters also have made it a practice to employ illegal immigrants. In 2002, they paid $1.5 million to settle sexual harassment charges involving supervisors and female Mexican employees of their Iowa operations. A raid in 2007 netted 51 illegal immigrants at DeCoster egg operations in Wright County. A million here, a million there, this violation, that violation --- but like the Energizer bunny, they just keep going.

Beyond the “whoops-we-poisoned you” factor, this is a sad situation for other Iowa egg producers, most of whom try to operate ethically --- at least so far as their human customers are concerned. I’m still not happy about those caged layers, however.

Chickens are our friends, you know. When I was growing up, our neighbor and friend Alice Hawkins had a pet hen --- spared for years as declining layers were culled and shipped off to soup cans. Alice could walk to the door of the henhouse, call that old hen and there she’d come running out of a sea of white to have her head scratched. So old hens have feelings, too, and I still think fondly of that bird --- and for the most part of those we raised, too, although our bantams were my favorites.

In fact I’ve been eyeing the back yard this week. A little chicken wire there, a little garden shed there, a little corn and some chicken feed, a few leghorns --- instant eggs. Maybe I could even cash in on what’s bound to be increased interest in free-range hens producing closer to home. Naaa. The neighbors would never stand for it. Besides, their yapping dogs would keep the old hens awake nights and cut production.

Downriver to Keokuk

OK, so I didn't really head downriver to Keokuk this afternoon, but I got so enthused about the idea I may have to do just that sometime again this fall. I don't think it's a secret that Iowa's three southern-most Mississippi River cities --- Burlington, Fort Madison and Keokuk --- are three of my favorite places. I just like being along the river, period. And Nauvoo, another favorite place, is just across the Mississippi downstream from Fort Madison and upstream from Keokuk. The river road drive down from Nauvoo on the Illinois side to the bridge back across to Keokuk is one of the prettiest in the country. Who could ask for more?

What got me going this time was a little Web surfing. I'm interested in old houses, so now and then plug "for sale," "historic" and "Iowa" into Google and see what turns up. What turned up this time was a wonderful Web site developed for Birdwood (above), one of Keokuk's grand old homes and one I've driven by several times without being aware of its name. Kids, grandkids and aging parents are calling the owners home to Utah, so they want, reluctantly, to sell the house. This Web site, which you'll find here, is one of the tools they're using.

Be warned, however, to take the tour now if you're interested. My guess would be that when the house sells the Web site will come down and this link will be broken. Scroll down a ways and "Click to see the Birdwood Estate Slide Show." And while you're about it, don't miss "New! Slideshow of Neighborhood" linked a little farther down. You'll get some idea of what the neighborhood on the bluffs northeast of downtown and west of the river is like. I stole the photo of the house, by the way, from the site --- thanks!

Once you've passed Birdwood at the intersection of North 4th and Fulton streets, keep going northeast for two more blocks (until you can't go any farther) and hang a left onto Park Place. After a block, turn right onto Grand Avenue and just keep going north past more spectacular river-bluff homes and you'll come eventually to Rand Park, dedicated on the 4th of July 1883, 50 rolling and shaded acres with some fairly spectacular views of the Mississippi below (like the one just above --- and I took that photo rather than swiping it).

Beyond the view, my favorite part of Rand Park is the gravesite and statue of Chief Keokuk, the city's namesake, gazing in a distinctly lifelike manner out across the river. Now Keokuk is not necessarily my favorite among the Sauk leaders (Black Hawk is). He was just a trifle to conciliatory in his dealings with invasive whitefolks for my taste --- but of course that conciliatory nature of his is why he was popular with the invaders.

Keokuk died during 1848 in Kansas after being dispatched there with his people and was buried in a tribal cemetery near Ottawa. But when Rand Park was dedicated on the 4th of July 1883, his family and other tribal officials were among the honored guests --- part of a plan to return the old chief's bones to this lovely place for burial.

That was accomplished with nearly everyone's blessing in October of 1883 when officials from Keokuk traveled to Kansas, exhumed his remains and brought both his bones and his tombstone home to Iowa. That tombstone is embedded in the base of the monument. The inscription reads, "Sacred to the memory of Keokuck, a distinguished Sac Chief, born at Rock Island, Ill., 1788, died in April 1848."

As you might expect, there is a south central Iowa link to this lovely statue of Keokuk. It's creator in 1912-1913 was was Nellie V. Walker, who grew up a stonecutter's daughter in Moulton, down southeast of Centerville in Appanoose County. A tiny woman, her father gave her a chunk of marble to play with when a child and her career as a sculptor was launched. After attending the Chicago Art Institute she operated from a Chicago studio for 35 years. She died in 1973 at age 99 at Colorado Springs, but is buried near her parents in the Oakland Cemetery at Moulton, just west of town on gravel.

Keokuk also is the site of Iowa's only national cemetery, situated in the southwest part of town just south of the muncipal cemetery, also called Oakland. It's a pretty place, another of my favorite spots in Keokuk. Because of Keokuk's location location along the river and the fact there was a medical school there, five military hospitals were operating here at the height of the Civil War. The city donated land south of the cemetery for the burial of those who died in those hospitals --- more than 600 during the course of the war --- and in 1862 Keokuk was among the first 14 national cemeteries designated by President Abraham Lincoln.

More land to the west and south was added later and the cemetery remains in use, although surrounded now and unlikely to be expanded once its filled. That was among the reasons for the creation of the Iowa Veterans Cemetery near Des Moines a couple of years ago.

More than 5,000 have been by now interred in the Keokuk National Cemetery, including several buried originally elsewhere. Among them are approximately 150 brought to Keokuk in 1948 when the Fort Des Moines post cemetery was destroyed. The Fort Des Moines cemetery was not especially old, related as it was to the "new" Fort Des Moines along Army Post Road in south Des Moines and not to the original Fort Des Moines, downtown near the confluence of the Raccoon and Des Moines rivers.

Coming to Keokuk from considerably farther away were approximately 70 bodies brought here during 1908 from the Fort Yates post cemetery in North Dakota.

Now if you want to cause trouble in both North and South Dakota, try suggesting that when those bodies were brought to Iowa the remains of Sitting Bull, renowned Hunkpapa Lakota holy man, inadvertently (or advertently) were brought along.  

Sitting Bull was buried at Fort Yates after being shot to death by tribal police on Dec. 15, 1890. Many believe, however, that his grave was opened in 1953 and the remains removed and reburied near Mobridge, South Dakota, although some believe the remains that were moved were not his. Whatever the case, two states now claim his grave. Iowa might as well make it three, although it should be pointed out this is exceedingly unlikely if not impossible.

Finally, to come full circle, back to one of my favorite Iowa churches, St. John's Episcopal in Keokuk, three blocks southwest of Birdland at 208 North 4th Fourth (and the picture here is someone else's, shared freely  by its creator, "Smallbones," on Wikipedia Commons).

This really is one of Iowa's finest small churches (although it's quite large), but stained glass --- including three windows from the Tiffany Studios --- is its principal glory. You can find the church Web site here and please do take the "Church Tour."