I can see myself trudging up the relatively steep hillock covered in long, flowing green grasses, waving fiercely in the stiff wind blowing from beyond the rise.   Burdened, thick clouds hang close to the ground, their countenance not one of rain but merely a shrouding of the land in the dimly-highlighted gray of anticipation.   There is nothing else around this place except the grass-covered hills; if there is, my vision doesn’t lead me to see it.   The bottom is hidden beyond the threshold of sight.

The vision alternatively shifts between a bird’s-eye view of the situation and a personal detail; I am in a constant flux between the closeness of my warm breath and the soft ssssshhh of the grass and a perspective floating above, watching the play unfold.    I am dressed unusually — all in white; long, loose pants, a long, flowing seamless shirt, barefoot.   I can feel the dual nature of the grass, both soft and cool underfoot and yet harsh and sharp on the edges as it slides along the top and sides of my feet.

The wind blasts into my face, racing down the slope and nearly bowling me over; my struggle is prolific as I take cautioned breaths of an air tinged with the light smell of salt and water, catching a few molecules before they race behind me to some unknown destination.   I can barely see the breeze is so strong, but by squinting I can look around as I climb.

And I see her.

She is doing likewise; trudging slowly up the hill, leaning forward into the gale, her long flowing locks trailing behind her.    She is also all in white; a long, flowing dress of simple mediumweight cotton dances in the eddies behind her and presses against her barefoot legs as she moves, the bodice scooped and the sleeves long, yet simple; loose and comfortable.     A plain silver comb adorns her hair.

We are almost at the top now, maybe a dozen feet from the pinnacle and perhaps twenty apart but closing, as our trajectories are angled towards each other, when a brilliant light bursts on the peak for just a moment and then fades, and in its place stands a little boy.

He is perhaps two, maybe three years old, but I cannot see his face as he is turned away from us.    Brown, curly hair adorns his round head, punctuated by soft, small ears.    As we all are, he is in white;  a simple shirt, white cotton pants, his small bare feet poking out from the bottom as he stands there in the waving grasses, arms at his sides.

She and I reach the peak, stepping our last and coming to rest on either side of the boy, facing outwards as he is.   I feel a small warmth in my hand and I look down to see his short fingers entwining in mine; he has grasped each of our hands with his.    I look up and stare into the clear blue eyes of my son and he cracks the most innocent and brilliant of smiles.    At that very instant, a new energy like a slow, warm bolt of lightening runs between us and fills me from head to toe.

I look further upwards into the shining eyes and face of my wife who looks at me for an instant, then back down at our prodigy who is sharing his gaze between us.  I know she can feel the connection swelling between us, a bond stronger than mere touch, simple recognition; it is the shared connection of our family, our everlasting association with each other as parent, child, spouse.   I can feel him and her both and I know they feel me.

Our faces turn forward towards a rising sun that is breaking through the clouds, and we squeeze hands, pulsing this energy between us, ready to face whatever meets us, together.

We take a step forward towards the sun, down the hill, and forward into life.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

But I feel her hands every time my fingers press into a ball of dough, and I try to inject deep love into food like she did.

I am not my maternal grandfather; my tools will never be infinitely repaired instead of purchasing new ones.

But I think fondly of him every time I wash my hands, remembering the care he took with every precise, meaningful movement.

I am not my paternal grandmother; I will never do my hair perfectly (in case someone should drive by) simply to mow the lawn.

But when my family and friends are gathered in my house and I am in the kitchen cooking and setting up, I feel the pride she must have felt for successfully bringing everyone together for a good, happy time.

I am not my paternal grandfather; I will never have a love for Branson, MO, within me.

But love of wide open fields, fertile land, and the bounties of harvest will always run deep in my blood because of him.

I am not my sister; I will never jump out of bed and land on the floor fully dressed and perky.

But I hope to pass onto my children the connection she and I have shared as siblings, as it is both flexible yet unbreakable, the perfect combination to last the ravages of time and change.

I am not my mother; I will never think that dealing with the sick, infirm, or dying is, “interesting”.

But I channel her every single time I have to do something considered disgusting or unpleasant for my child, as she would have drank raw sewage if it meant we would be happy and healthy.

I am not my father;  I will never be able to part with sentimental objects as easily as he can in the name of neatness.

But I can only hope to be half as fiercely loyal towards my children as he is to me and my sister.

I am not my family — but I have the best of them within me.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

She came to me the other day asking for help in setting up a blog and I can’t help but feel extremely excited that she’s interested in taking up such an interesting hobby.     My sister, like everyone else, has had her share of troubles and successes in life, but she’s really developed into a good person with a kind heart, an open mind, and intelligent thoughts.     I’m pretty darn proud of her.

I think she writes very well and many of my readership may enjoy her thoughts, so head on over and check out such entries as:

Yup, I’m Corn Fed! — Where she describes her thoughts behind exactly what the term, “corn fed”, really means.

Here I am blogging world! — Where she describes her motivations behind starting up this blogging thing.

Getting My “Needer” Fixed — Fixing her wants and needs.

Or you can simply add her to your feed reader through her RSS feed.

I hope you enjoy my sister’s blog — I know I’ll be insanely curious to see what she writes about!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

That is, until today.

Kindly feast your eyes upon this beauty of machinery and testosterone — the Murray Blizzard 27″ Snowblower:

Powered by an 8HP Tecumseh 4-cycle engine, it is to snow what a T-Rex is to brontosauri.    Rip, chew, and spit 40 yards off.    It has an electric start, a bunch of fun levers and cranks to shift the chute around, and a headlight. That’s right, folks, I can blow snow IN THE DARK.    If that doesn’t say, “manpower”, I don’t know what does.

My father and stepmother apparently have had enough of our driveway resembling the ice planet Hoth and being barely navigable if you don’t own a snowmobile.  When he heard an ad on the radio for a used snowblower in good condition, he jumped on it and I basically got a slightly late Christmas present.     I could have kissed his boots, but my lips would have frozen to them in the -10F weather.

Being parents on a single income and all that jazz, something luxurious like a blower wasn’t really in our near-time budget as we have larger and more important fish to dunk in hot oil, so up until now, me and Mr. Corn Scoop have had a very good relationship, but his capabilities coupled to my arms, legs, and back have limited range and ability and I’ve kept to the minimum required for mobility given that there is some 15″ of white crap in many places around the yard.

In short order after coming over today, Dad and I hauled to it and got my entire driveway, around all cars and even the junk car, as well as a copious path to the garage, neatly cleared out.   I even put ice melt on the steps — imagine!    The blower does a superb job and is fun as hell to run given that I’m not doing the work.

I’m not entirely sure how to thank my father and Amy for the gift enough because it Kicks Some Serious Ass and it’s going to be immensely useful, but I am very, very grateful.

I leave you with an image of myself having some darn good entertainment telling that stupid snow exactly where to go.    Enjoy.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

It was…memorable.

Ontop of this, I would then spend the next month or so sneezing my ass off everytime I was in the house because, as it would have it, I am allergic to pine trees.   (My personal hell is filled with wreaths.) However, I loved them so much (or so I thought) that I put up with it and simply walked around in a Benadryl-fueled haze for the majority of the season.    No wonder the holidays were always so jolly!

These days I’ve forgone the drug-enhanced fun of real trees for the less-nasally-frictive practice of putting up a fake tree that does a reasonable job of approximating The Tree and saves the family a small fortune in Kleenex.    However, we wanted my son to have the family bonding fun of hiking the wooded wilderness in preparation for Christmas (it serves as a penance for sins, I figure), so we took him along when Grandpa and Amy went to locate their shrub of choice.

The below is the resulting photologue of the day, which was terribly nice (completely unlike the arctic temps I was subjected to in my childhood) and lovely lighting for photography.     Keston had a blast.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

For the past couple weekends, Dad and I have been spending long hours replacing the old roof of his house with shiny new brown steel in one of our typical father-and-son construction ventures.   While we can certainly spend time with each other in other venues, this is a very comfortable one for the both of us — doing some work, making something new or better, working in a lockstep learned from years and year of hammering next to each other on a multitude of projects.    I am by no means excellent in my abilities and Dad still retains the Master Carpenter title and is the leading force of the guild, but I know enough not to be a burden anymore.

I was reflecting as I was perched high ontop of a steep and slippery dormer roof two stories up from a certain quick fall and splat that there are few other people in the world who could make me climb that high and perch myself out on a surface that had little-to-no means of barring me from making a very rapid slide to certain doom.     Dad, naturally, has no problem with doing so and climbs around within inches of the precarious edge like a monkey with velcro feet, making me cringe but ever so glad that it was him and not me.    But I had the thought — that’s just like a father, isn’t it?   If it was between myself and my son, I’d hang by my gums from the edge of the steel if it meant that he wouldn’t have to get anywhere near it.

At the same time, I cannot help but think when I put myself in these situations that I should really watch out for my ass because my own son needs me to come home at the end of the day because, really — who else is going to wrestle with him on the carpet and teach him how to discretely stare at boobs?     I find myself doing that a lot, whether it’s perched on some high building, driving fast, or attempting espionage of a foreign government — I really have a desire to come back in one piece when possible.

Speaking of the little squirt, I spent any time I wasn’t on a roof with him, and it was one of the most enjoyable weeekends I’ve had.    He’s been more clingy than usual in the past few days, whether he misses the foreign relatives that left last week, his tooth is bothering him more than normal, or he just feels cuddly, I’ve gotten a lot of run-and-crash-into-my-legs, nearly de-pants Daddy because I want up, or headbutting and giggling while Daddy attempts not to swear loudly.      All these, plus laughing eyes, a bouncy countenance, and soft squishy cheeks has given me endless moments where time could go shag a tree and it was just me and my boy having fun and enjoying being together.

So, I’m thankful and I can say without my normal sarcasm that despite turning out sore and tired from the weekend, I had a good Father’s Day — a solid reminder of how much I enjoy working beside and hanging with my own dad and how absolutely much I adore being a daddy to my little boy.     None of it’s glamorous or glitzy, but it’s real, meaningful, and enjoyable, the way a holiday really should be.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

As it turned out, the zoo is a rather nice place these days, having nice paths and landscaping and easy ways to get around to see all the sights.   Unfortunately, the giraffes, which are apparently the stars of the show, were not on display due to some fence-fixing, so we didn’t partake in feeding or seeing them, but that exclusion did garner us a 20% discount, which was nice.

On the whole, the place was…OK.   None of the animals were spectacular, but they were better than your average Holstein.   The environment was very nice, the staff reasonably friendly (for what we interacted with them), and the weather was mint.   I think, all in all, it wasn’t a completely wasted day.

Photo evidence for those of you who read Playboy for the, “articles”:   (click to zoom in!)

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I am the Scrooge this year; the “bah” in your”humbug” and the dissenter from the happyness of the season.    The hassle outweighs the benefits this year, BUT — read me not wrong, for my heart is not entirely full of dark.

For those I call friends and even to those I do not, I wish you these:  Introspection.   Pause.   Remembrance.    Reflection.   Regret.   Absolution.  Resolve.   Repair.

And hope.

The heart that beats within my cynical chest is still warm, and there is much of me that wishes the best of possible futures for others.    Enjoy your holiday & solstice season and remember that however icy and windswept your reality might be, at least I am cheering for a change.

My best, from mine to yours.

P.S. – I really need a tripod to take high-ISO photos like this one.   I managed to take it by leaning the camera against the doorframe, but golly was it difficult.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

Along with crafting well-built little humans, she has long been an extremely talented craftmaster (craftmistress makes her sound like she’s my lay on the side — with hand-made sheets.  Kinda kinky, I guess.  Craftmadam isn’t much better.)    She’s long dabbled with stamps, cardstock, scrapbooking, and other things, but she recently has come into her own with several items that she’s really cranking out well; well enough to form a website and try to make a go at selling some of them.

Thus was born KangaCrafts.com, her own website with everything handmade, straight from our house to yours, if you please.   She started out by selling pacifier clips (which you attach to baby’s clothes and paci to maintain a close proximity) and has kept on expanding since then.

She DID ask me to talk her up a bit, because she’s pretty proud of the stuff she makes but, you know what?   She should be.    Between her beautiful custom photo and decorative blocks, pretty cards (Christmas packs, too!), little girls’ dresses, Christmas ornaments, custom name letters, and custom name frames, she’s as busy as a bee but cranking out some amazing stuff.   To be honest, I’m pretty freaking proud of her myself.

Take a gander at some of the stuff she’s made below (the images lead to each thing on her website).    I always knew when I married her that she was one-of-a-kind, but I never knew exactly how deeply talented she was.   I’m always amazed by what she comes up with and what she can do.    And I love every minute of it.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 7 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Our pilot, Captain Yolanda. Landa offered to drive there, which is terribly nice considering that at least half of route is exactly what I do every day for work and, contrary to local belief, it is BORING AS HELL.

Keston, as usual, had the best seat in the house, complete with front-view mirror, bottles of sustinence, and toys hanging from the ceiling. Unfortunately for him and us, he did not fall asleep until we were 5 minutes away from our destination. DOH!

Along the way, we stopped at the Charles City wind farm for a photo op. Aren’t they posing nicely?

Once we got to Decorah, we headed to Luther College’s campus, my alma mater, to explore a bit and try to meet up with my college roommate and his family. (Unfortunately for them, his youngest got stung by two bees and they had to take off early.) So, we wandered around for awhile and enjoyed the view.

We then headed to Dunning Springs, a local natural spring with some beautiful scenery.

You’d practically have to TRY to screw up a good photo at this location.

Yolanda and Keston looking happy that they are out, absorbing some good ol’ fashioned nature.

We stopped to pose a bit, too.

Keston was fascinated by the water and probably would have played in it had it not been the typical freezing temperature typical to springs.

Oh, for the want of an DSLR, but I tried my best to capture something interesting.

We then headed up to Phelps Park, a park and scenic overlook across the Oneota Valley and the lower part of Decorah. We stood for awhile, admiring the view, peoplewatching the couples making out in the niches and the artist drawing an incredibly detailed pencil sketch of the river.

We then got asked to take a picture of a couple girls, and they returned the favor for us.

Keston loved playing with the rocks that made up the walls, laid in a herringbone style.

What? I’m just playing!

We then headed downtown to check out some of the shops. We then tried to hit T-bock’s, a very popular local sports bar (where they serve the infamous peanut butter cheeseburger and Erma burger), but it was stuffed full, so we ended up at the 2nd best place, Mabe’s Pizza, where we had a large half-and-half chicken BBQ and Deluxe. It was lovely.

After finishing up with Mabe’s and hitting the Co-Op for some things for Kes (rice ice cream and rice cheese), we hit up the Whippy Dip, the best ice cream stand known to man, and had some sweets before heading home.


Thankfully, Keston fell asleep not 5 minutes after starting to drive and slept all the way home, so that was a big blessing. Yolanda and I spent the rest of the trip talking about religion and philosophy (have I said before that I love the dickens out of this woman?) and we got home without incident. All in all, not a bad day! Now on to the rest of vacation, which involves….WORK! More of that later!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Being a very nice day (cool and only slightly rainy), we opted to stay for awhile and walk around the fair to enjoy it a bit.

My cousin’s daughter, Kennedy, is either trying to get my son to laugh or is amazed by how much he had grown. Either one may be applicable here.

We went to see a bunch of animals, including the pregnant-and-giving-birth-live display, which featured a cow complete with afterbirth still hanging out of her back end. Keston found the pen gates to be the most fascinating part of the entire experience, and quickly ‘climbed’ up one as I was holding him near. Monkey genes!

I don’t think Keston’s grandpa minded having him around, either.

Yours truly and Keston take a break from watching our relatives go on giant slings to smile at the camera.

The Pralles all lined up at the top of the Giant Slide and the girl at the top was nice enough to line us all up and let us go down like a Smurfs convention. Wheeeeeee!

All in all, a good day at the fair, and not bad for being 100 years old!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 9 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

History is the process of looking back to see where we’ve been, what choices we made at the time, and how we have progressed since. The look backwards isn’t always entertaining or amusing, but it’s almost always interesting.

My maternal grandparents moved to the nursing home probably 2 years ago or so and the kids and grandkids emptied out the house and got it ready for sale. In the process, we gleaned anything that we thought valuable or worth keeping. I managed to grab a huge pile of books, papers, magazines, etc. and stuff them all in a box and take them with me. Last night, I got the time to go through it a bit.

Wow, some of this stuff is hilarious.

So, here for your viewing pleasure, are some of my favorite things found while rummaging around:

This Would Sell for a Lot in New York:

There were a lot of coloring books, dot-to-dots, and crosswords in the stack. This particular work of art is by yours truly back in 1986 when I was all of the ripe and creative age of nine. I still feel that red tuxes with orange pants and yellow undershirts would make a good impression on the illusion-starved public.

High School Sexual Deviants:

Don’t these two kids look pleasant and well-behaved? Who would suspect that while they are sitting there in all their conservative finery that deviant lustful thoughts are plaguing their loins?

I found this article, entitled, “Limits of Love” by Walter A. Trobisch, in a conservative religious periodical (Dec-Jan 1971-72 issue) that was stuffed in between various magazines. It was, of course, dealing with the huge problem (!) of premarital sex and all of the complications thereof. Here are some of the more, uh, enlightening quotes:

In regards to the ‘wrong’ kind of love being expressed by liberal viewpoints: “Is it not love, they ask, to train sex by encouraging masturbation and even homosexual relations among teen-agers?” I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I ever had anyone in high school or otherwise encourage me to flog the dolphin. Can you imagine the cheering squad? “Rough ‘em up, rough ‘em up, WAAAAAY UP!” And how do you train for sex by having homosexual relations? I wish I was taking this out of context to make it funny, but really — this is the context.

In regards to teaching and informing about contraception: “One girl said, ‘If I’d take pills regularly, calculatingly, in anticipation of a possible sex adventure, I’d feel like a prostitute.’” Yes, you’re a filthy little whore, aren’t you, taking those birth control pills. I’ll bet you’re just spreading them for everyone.

In regards to menstruation education and why I’m glad we’re not draconian anymore: “Why didn’t anyone talk to me in a concrete way? When I had my first period, all my mother said to me was ‘Be careful. Don’t make anything dirty!’”

And finally, probably one of the more hilarious of passages, the conversation between a pastor and a dumb blonde ‘sinner’, on giving up her cherry to her dipwick of a boyfriend:

Girl: “I can’t understand it,” she said. “I didn’t want it, but he did. And when I gave in, he lost interest. For him it was the end. For me it was the beginning. Can’t he understand that?”
Pastor: “No, Karin, he can’t.”
Girl: “Why not?”
Pastor: “Because he’s a boy and you’re a girl.”

I’m serious, folks. You simply can’t make this shit up.

Children’s Magazines Never Had it So Good

Let’s move on to a publication entitled, Highlights: The Monthly Book for Children. You’ve probably seen copies of this in doctors’ offices; they’re still around and kicking, although the 1967-69 editions are vastly different than today’s watered-down trite. I have about 15 copies of this magazine and it’s quite fascinating to page through.

Goofus is as Goofus Does:

The first example on the left is of a regular article entitled, “Goofus and Gallant”, which is about two polar-opposite boys that have attitudes like their names might indicate. (I know…it’s subtle, isn’t it?) Goofus does something and does it in a crappy, whiny way, and Gallant does the same thing but comes out smelling like roses.

I’m sure the intent was to try to instill in children a sense of good and proper behavior, but it comes out very funny today. Perhaps some updated examples would be better: “Goofus backs out on a deal and gets a cap in his ass. Gallant realizes he has dishonored his sensai and commits hari-kari.”

Pure Chemical Manufacture in Your Own Kitchen:

Another great feature in the last 60s of Highlights are the horribly useful articles about things that you just can’t find in modern children’s magazines, such as this article on how to make fucking hydrogen.

Yes, as in the incredibly light gas that blew up the Hindinburg and powers the Space Shuttle. As in the gas that burns with a *BOOM!* very easily. I made hydrogen in Science Club once using mossy zinc and 12 molar hydrochloric acid and lost most of the hair off one arm when igniting it out of a test tube. But hey, kids — you can do this at home!

This experiment has relatively harmless ingredients — a balloon filled with galvanized nails and vinegar to produce the hydrogen. This is in sharp contrast to:

Making Oxygen!

“Question: I would like to make some oxygen. Can you tell me how?” starts this article. From what I can tell, no subject is off-limits in 1966. I could have written in and asked, “My friends heard about meth on the street. Can you tell me how to make some?” and our friendly scientist author would be happy to show you how to mix common household ingredients together for fun and profit.

I love the billing of this article, too: “A kitchen experiment for the whole family.” C’mon, kids! Let’s go make oxygen! Gee, Dad, that’d be swell!

The really great part is where he describes how to get the catalyst for extracting oxygen from hydrogen peroxide. You have to find some manganese dioxide which, apparently, is easily obtained from batteries. “The best way to open it up is with an old-fashioned can opener. Or you may just put the battery on a rock and squash it open with a hammer….And we must tell your mother what we are going to do. We would like to use her kitchen sink and we will need her help later on.”

Yeah, no kidding — like to wash out our eyes and douse our acid-burned fingers under running water. As you can see in the above picture, it gets even better as they suggest the best way to test to make sure it really is oxygen (you never know — could be Calvin Klein) is to stick a glowing stick into a bottle of the stuff. Fun. Shit.

Cheap House:

One of the books in the pile is a 1971 reproduction of the 1908 Sears and Roebuck Catalog, “The Great Price Maker”. Full of a myriad of horrifically cheap and useful items, some of the most interesting pages are the ones where entire houses are sold — plans, materials, everything. The house pictured on the left is a 4-bedroom, 9-room concrete block house for only $1,995.00! Talk about your real estate markets.

Hair, Hair, Everywhere:

And, remember folks, hair is your chance to “Sound Off” against The Man. By the look of this guy, he’s done a lot of this in his time.
Published in “Current Events” by AEP Periodicals, November 20, 1968

Tricky Dicky:
Knowing what ended up happening with Nixon and Agnew in the end probably doesn’t help my perceptions at all, but do they look devious to start with, or is it just me?

Current Events article “Nixon-Agnew Team Prepares to Govern Nation” published Nov. 13, 1968.

Other great articles from this publication: “Russians Try to Regain Support of Other Reds” and “O.J. Simpson – News Maker” (O.J. started at USC in 1967)

Do the Moonwalk:

Yes, some day I might walk on the moon, but not if NASA keeps getting budget cuts. (Highlights, sometime in 1968.)

I want to be a Drug Addict:

This is a bit of a neat find — my grandmother’s Graduation Booklet. Apparently it was tradition when you graduated high school to write your name in various peoples’ books and to say how you were going to leave your mark on the world. The various career choices amuse me. (She graduated in 1939 at age 17.)

Read on, read on, my son:

Inside this grade school reader, published in 1901, was this picture. There’s nothing so grand about the image in and of itself, but take a look at the caption (click to enlarge the photo):

Dick? Why do I have a hard time believing that the guy’s name is ‘Dick’? ‘Xavier’ or ‘Andrew’ or ‘John’ or even ‘Richard’ I can believe, but Dick? And what are these three men doing, anyway? Hanging out, reading to each other? Is that proper? Do you have to wear your good wig for such an occasion?

Are you there God? It’s Me, the Neighbor Kid:

Inside this all-German book (entitled: “Gretes Lelebuch (?) fur Evangelisch-Lutherische Schulen”) I found this image. My grandfather wrote the translation below it as, “Let the little ones come to me,” but if you had to write what the children were thinking at the time, I’d probably say something like, “Holy shit, it’s JESUS!” (Copyright 1901)

In Conclusion:

Finally, thanks to an old children’s storybook, I have a whole new image to use when I want to tell you all to Kiss My Ass:

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

But the thing we waited most for was after the mixing, and the pouring or shaping, because that was when the utensils, still glistening with the syrupy stickiness of the leftover recipe, were offered up as an offering to the sugar deities with a casual invocation of, “Now…who wants to lick the spoon???”

Stampeding rabid buffalo in heat couldn’t have kept us from the glory of that privilege. “ME! MEEEE!!!!”

Sometimes there was more than one spoon available and we each got one…sometimes it was winner-take-all. I did notice that many times, Mom used two spoons to mix the cookie dough. That seemed a little wasteful. Also, I suspect that she failed to remove quite all of the cake mix from the beaters before handing them to us kids to clean off. I’m sure that was just because she was distracted…baking takes a lot of mental power, ya know.

We’d fall upon them with all the gusto of a vulture on Roadkill Appreciation Day. Quick work was made of whatever concoction had been rendered and the thoroughly-cleaned apparatus were returned to the sink for some washing, although I think by the time we got done, not even microcellular organisms existed on those spoons and beaters.

Nowadays, I often use a spatula to clean out jars and cans of various substances and, if it is a particularly sweet thing, I’ll find myself saying out loud, “Now…look at that. Isn’t that a shame? I got pie filling all over the spatula, down the handle, and covering my hand. Well, we can’t put that into the pie, can we? The food surgeon general wouldn’t approve. Might poison someone. Hrm…well, only one thing to do!” And I fulfill my civic duty by putting myself in the line of danger and removing all food product from the utensil with my tongue.

Hey…it’s tough work protecting the public from such threats. Very *burp!* tough work.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

So, while I do not usually partake of ABC’s 20/20 “investigative” reporting show (although Elizabeth Vargas is cute enough to whip anyone into a verbal frenzy), I found their recent episodes on Taboos in America to be quite interesting. As you might suspect, I have a few reactions and commentary (I know, I know…you’re shocked. My sympathies.)

To Speak the Impossible Speech…

The first segment dealt with the saying of such taboo words like, “nigger”, on American public media and by Caucasian Americans in particular. There was several differing viewpoints presented, but the overall feeling was that the word still carries with it a lot of baggage from its original meanings and use when African Americans were horribly mistreated and treated as sub-humans.

The first of two of the things that struck me during this report was the quote by Senator Joseph Biden about Barack Obama, saying, “I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” Biden said. “I mean, that’s a storybook, man.” Vargas questioned this by saying, “What…he can’t call a black man, ‘articulate’?”

Clearly, it’s intention and context that was at fault here. Biden screwed up, whether intentionally or not, and deserves the backlash he got from it. It’s one thing to say, “Barack is a very articulate man.” It’s a whole different story to say that he is “clean” and what’s with “that’s a storybook, man.” Are you going to vote for someone who a) thinks a black man running for President is a storybook story and b) uses the colloquialism, “man”, actively in a public statement?

The second poignant moment was when Vargas asked if there was a statute of limitations on black history and the faults of our forefathers in relation to today and what we are dealing with. Michael Eric Dyson answered by saying, “Yes, but we’re not there yet,” and I somewhat agree. In terms of how people think and act towards each other in relation to their race is absolutely a matter of still watching our step. As long as I have relatives that think that the blacks in the community are all corrupt and that homosexuals should be shipped off to their own island to die out on their own, we need to continue to be conscious of our words and actions and what meaning they have and how they affect each other.

I do not think, however, that paying reparations and giving exclusive, privileges or bonuses to minority races as a “payback” for what our grandparents did is viable any longer. I hope we have learned enough not to repeat those same sort of offenses, but there’s little point to keep acting like it was we who performed those particular crimes. (I’m speaking strictly to government fundings, etc. for various minority groups.)

I’m not bored, I’m just a mother

As a soon-to-be parent, I found the taboo about “mothers being bored” to be especially fascinating. It appears that journalist Helen Kirwin-Taylor recently wrote an article stating that she hated early motherhood and her children bored her to tears when they were younger. Bedtime stories, playgroups, and other events just left her dulled out of her mind. The article prompted this gigantic backlash from mothers everywhere stating that she was a bad mother, clearly disillusioned, shouldn’t breed, etc.

I think her article, while clearly misinterpreted (and possibly poorly written — I have not grazed my eyes on it myself), still hits a nerve in the world, otherwise it wouldn’t have sparked quite such a debate. I think mothers all over probably looked at that and a big ‘DENY’ flag went up in their minds all the while small voices in the back of their head said, “Well, some days….”

I think this is all perfectly normal. Children are great — I only have one in the womb at the moment, but I have always loved interacting with them, watching the gears grind, and generally enjoying their company. But I can absolutely see Kirwin-Taylor’s statement that aspect of their lives can be utterly boring in terms of intellectual stimuli.

Think about it — you’re taking care of a small human that, at first, can barely do anything on their own (even eating takes awhile to figure out) and presents no opportunity to make your mind struggle. Sure, you have a lot of things to do for the kid — they’re not easy to take care of and the work is always piling up — but they’re not engaging your higher mental functions and keeping you thinking intellectually. You’re fine is if all you crave is some good, hard, manual labor, but if your mind is the sort that loves to be stimulated, challenged, and questioned — small kids will really be a struggle.

I think there’s a few things at play here. One is that women these days, haven largely broken the taboos against getting an education and working the same level jobs as men, are now exposing themselves to large amounts of mental stimuli. Women as CEOs, controlling managers of companies, lead scientists and researchers — they are all involved in some heavy mental work. To take all that and drop off the face of the hard-thinking world in favor of becoming a stay-at-home mother — well, that’s hard to grasp. Your mind would naturally have culture shock and find the tasks to be onerous.

Secondly, there’s so much time involved when children are little just to keep them clothed, clean, fed, and happy that SAHMs have very little time to devote to themselves, whether its reading or interacting with other adults or viewing a complex movie — their minds just do not get the sort of workout that it demands and that becomes a hard thing to deal with.

Thirdly, we need to remove the stigma that motherhood is The Best Thing in the World OMGLOLWTFBBQ. It’s certainly a great thing to have children, don’t get me wrong, but we’re just perpetuating our species, ya know? I mean, we would end up doing it even if it wasn’t considered to be something honorable. By putting it up on this pedestal, we have this angelic property assigned to an activity that is pretty much the same as breathing. This happens with sex as well — it is viewed as the end-all, be-all of existence (“Are you getting laid?”) and yet everyone, from the lowest to the highest, does it at one point or another in some form. Taking off the mystique of the activity would then allow us to see both the good and the bad in everything without unnatural bias.

So, mothers — I think it should be fine for you to say, “My children bore me to death.” This does not, in the proper context, mean that you do not LOVE your children — far from it. It simply means that you do not find them to be challenging to your mental state. This doesn’t seem to me to be a problem, especially since after they are grown up somewhat your mind will get plenty of exercise as their little gears get engaged and they start talking, getting into stuff, asking questions, etc. While I look forward to holding my baby in my arms, feeding it, etc. I also look towards the days when we can spend time together fiddling with computer parts, going for walks, looking at the ants in the yard, and gazing up at the stars together.

Bored? Not for long, that’s what I think.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

JOINT UPCOMING PRODUCT RELEASE ANNOUNCED

SHEFFIELD, IA – May 13, 2007 — The companies of Nathan LLC and Yolanda Ltd announced today that they have joined forces on a new genetic product due to be released to the public somewhere around November 9th, 2007. The joint effort, codenamed, “Human 2.0″, combines the proprietary products of both companies into a single, self-contained package. As of this press release, the project has been underway for approximately 14 weeks and progress is going well.

“We’re quite pleased with how things are going,” stated Nathan, owner and CEO of Nathan LLC. “We had some concerns in the beginning about quality assurance and whether or not this collaboration will work, but we’ve done quite a few tests and have the assurance of our project manager that things are on schedule as planned.”

When asked about the design of the project, Yolanda, owner and CEO of Yolanda Ltd, said, “Well, at this point we’re not sure if the end result will look more like a Nathan product or a Yolanda product, but we’re hoping there’s some essence of each. Although,” she added with a wry smile, “from initial scans, it appears to be coming out more like a Nathan product.”

The 9-month manufacturing process, which is entirely being done inside Yolanda Ltd’s state-of-the-art facility, has taken some toll on the company’s resources. “We’re working a lot of overtime, and have had to slow down on a few other projects due to the demands of this one,” said Yolanda, “but on the whole, we’re doing better than we expected.”

Both companies state that they are very glad to be in collaboration with each other for this enterprise and look forward to showing the public the completed project later this fall.

# # #

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The tradition is called colloquially, “codfish”, although it should be properly termed as “codfish patties with sauce”. However, even this doesn’t approach a very clear definition, since the patties are mostly NOT codfish and the sauce is…well, sauce.

The preparation usually starts anywhere from a day to two days before with the first thing being the soaking of the cod. We use boxed and frozen salted codfish (usually from Alaska) which comes in these adorable little slide-top wooden boxes. As you might imagine, it’s horrifically salty. Like, salt thinks it is salty. Really. You could let it sit in the hot summer sun and it wouldn’t rot for anything.

So the cod gets a good soaking in several sinks of water to remove as much salt as possible before cooking. It is then boiled in a pot inside of a dishcloth bag to keep it from breaking up and floating all over. Afterwards, it is spread out, cooled, and any obvious bones picked out, although part of the experience of eating “codfish” is the occasional rouge bone spearing your gums.

During this time, the potatoes are being started. Red baking potatoes are peeled in large amounts and then cubed and boiled. Then they are cooled to a bit hotter than lukewarm for the next step.

Once the fish and potatoes are both cooked and cooled to a non-scalding temperature, they are both mixed together in a large bowl or tub (oftentimes when I was a kid, it was an old-fashioned washtub). The ratio of fish to potatoes is somewhere near 8-to-1 or 10-to-1, so there’s a ton more potato than fish. (Fish doesn’t stick together, but potatoes do, especially reds, so they provide the “sticktion”.) This mixture is then cooled and stored until frying time.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the sauce is being prepared. This is a light yellow, opaque sauce that looks something of the consistency of pudding and tastes rather like mustard and vinegar. It’s fondly called, “goop”. It has tons of eggs, vinegar, water, mustard, and sugar all mixed and cooked in the microwave until it reaches a pre-custard quality. It is definitely an acquired taste, but to me is like liquid gold for this application. The goop is refrigerated until the serving time.

When it is time to serve up “codfish”, which is a big family gathering, the goop is poured into a bunch of various pitcher-type containers and placed around the table, as vast quantities of it is used on the codfish, so you always have to have a new container handy and/or just have your own, depending on your appetite.

Several fry pans are set going with vegetable shortening in them and once that is melted and hot, the potato and fish mixture is formed into patties about the size of hamburgers and about twice as thick. These are then fried in the hot oil until golden brown on both sides. The finished patties are usually placed in a baking pan and stored in the oven to keep them warm while all the patties are made (before we eat). Then these pans are brought out one-by-one as they are consumed.

To eat, you place several patties on your plate. The number varies by who you are, how much love you have of the tradition, and how many you think you can shove down your gullet before something explodes. Experienced eaters try to fit at least four, sometimes 5 on their plate at a time.

Some people smash theirs up with a fork first (me being one of them) and a lot leave them whole, but then a nearby bottle or pitcher of goop is snagged and copious amounts are dumped onto the patties. Then you simply pick up your fork and dig in, much like eating mashed potatoes with gravy.

The taste is a wonderful combination of the warm potato and fish patty and the cold yet tangy goop on top, leading to a thoroughly lovely experience. I usually manage two platefuls before I start to slow down, and have been known to do a third, but it all depends on the day. Some of my uncles can make a much bigger dent in the patty supply than I.

Other things are usually served on the day, usually some various salads, desserts, and horse doovers, but the main dish is the codfish and if you only eat that, nobody thinks twice about it. We also usually have a “normal” dish for those whom are newer to the family or don’t much like the tradition (my wife included).

It’s a strange tradition, but one that I remember as long as I have lived, and has always happened around Easter each year — something I regularly look forward to. Definitely something unique of my family, so if you’re ever around at Easter and want to try something new — ask for codfish!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Edward and Garnet on the Move

Our first home when we were married, December 19, 1939, was two rooms on the east side of Grandpa and Grandma Schermer’s house. There were two arches that separated the livingroom and diningroom. They filled them in with plywood and their livingroom became our kitchen and their bedroom became our diningroom/bedroom. We also had one large closet and that was our house.

Edward’s folks gave us a beautiful white wood cook stove that they purchased at Kolb Hardware in Latimer. Mr. Kolb was generous enough to also give us an Aladdin lamp with that purchase. That was the most elite lamp yuo could buy at the time; by the way, we still have that lamp. My folks gave us a dining room set that they purchased at Sorenson’s Furniture in Latimer. As you can see, Latimer was a thriving town at that time. There was a doctor, dentist, lumber yard, two grocery stores, barber, bank, creamery, two elevators, and other businesses as well. At that time we bought a breakfast set, cupboard, linolium rug, and we were ready to keep house. The studio couch opened to a bed, so hence — our bedroom.

At that time we were hired man [sic] for Grandpa Schermer. We were paid fifteen dollars a month in the winter and twenty-five dollars a month during seed time and harvest.

Lurlin was born while we lived here. In the fall of 1941 we went to work for Carl Herman whose place was a mile north of where we lived. He wanted to retire but still have all the income from the farm. We had cows to milk, hog chores, all the field work to do, but we had our own house and we could have one hundred chickens plus he paid us twenty-five dollars a month all year long. He would drive the side roads at four o’clock in the morning to see if we were up.

Dad Neubauer did not think it was right for Edward to be a hired man all the time but Dad Schermer thought it was ok. In the fall of 1942 he (my dad) talked to Sumner Osgood who owned a farm south of Iowa Falls. It was for sale but not rented for that year so we rented it. We needed machinery so my dad found a good F-12 and we bought a used manure spreader and a few other necessities but we needed money to pay for this stuff. My dad went to the Iowa Falls bank and we could get a note for 1,900 dollars, but we needed a co-signer. Dad Schermer did not want to sign for us because he was sure we would not make it but my dad said he would sign for us, but pride put Dad Schermer’s name on that note. Needless to say we paid that note off in two years. I forgot to mention that Dad Schermer had given us a team of horses so we were ready to farm. We lived only a couple of miles from Fern and John (Grandma’s aunt and uncle) so we had lots of good times. Sunday night we would put together what food we had and eat supper together. Lynn was born while we lived here.

Luck was not on our side and that place was sold almost as soon as we moved there. It sold for ninety-three dollars an acre. It was on this place we had electricity. There were two light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

We then moved to a farm three miles south of Alden known as the Brooks Farm. The house was in terrible condition. You could see the sun set under the west kitchen wall and the mice were thicker than the flies. Black coal tar ran down the chimney wall and our drain was a pipe out the north wall of the kitchen.

Dad Schermer still thought we should be by Latimer so in January of 1945 we moved to the “Schermer home place”, three miles north, one west, and one mile north of Latimer. This was Edward’s grandparent’s place and a lot of family members had lived here. We lived here until February of 1950. It was here I got a small bottle gas stove and was it ever heaven not to have to fire up that cook stove in the summer. It was here we got our first refrigerator. The war was now over and factories could do things other than war equipment. It was odd that it was a family member caused trouble and caused us to move from here.

We had five great years here. We went to St. Paul, MN, while we lived here and bought a 1946 Plymouth on the black market for $2,600. That was $1,200 over list price. Due to the war there were no cars available.

In March of 1950 in a terrible blizzard we moved to the Witte place one mile north, two miles east, and one-half mile south of Latimer. We also rented the August Witte place across the road. It was here Loren was born in March of 1951. One memory stays with me — Loren had so many medical problems and then we fixed our formula from scratch. One day I accidentally got the maple syrup instead of the dark syrup and every time Loren would burp he would smell like maple. We had four great years here. Wittes were the best landlords you could ask for. We never had a written contract with them. We just all trusted each other.

It was then in 1954 we bought a one hundred twenty acre farm from Paul Borcherding. It was one mile south and five miles west of Coulter. We worked so hard to make it our home. It had a cistern but in a short time we had Mortons put in a water system. Here we had our first indoor bathroom. It was so nice to say goodby to the outside two-holer and the pot. I used eight gallons of varnish remover on the kitchen and stairway. We built a new machine shed.

After being blest with three boys, it was here that God blest us with our baby girl, JoEllen, in November of 1954. We were one happy family and life was good.

From 1947 to 1969 we drove the children to Christian Day School at Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church in Latimer. It was part of the days work to go morning and night. We reviewed confirmation lessons and memory work. It was good for Mom as well as the children. We made lots of memories, like hunting with Loren on the way to school and getting blood on his pants. We went to Kagy Mason’s store and he had one pair of tan pants left and it was Loren’s size. He was so very thin then. There was the morning the car stalled on the railroad track and a milk truck came along and pulled us off before the train came. Talk about bonding with your kids, we were bonded in every phase of life.

As our farm was small, times got tough for us. Dad and I did custom baling. Then one fall Hennings asked Dad if he would help them out in the construction work for six weeks. Well, that stretched into eleven years. Dad and Uncle Bill had always worked together but at this time we rented the farm to Uncle Bill. It was at this time Loren left for college at Seward, Nebraska. JoEllen left for nurses’ training in August of 1973.

During this time the construction of Interstate 35 started to take place. The farmers in our area fought hard to stop it but to no avail. Since it went through our place we just sold them the whole farm. It was hard to part with our home of twenty years that Dad had remodeled into such a great home.

At that time there was not a house to buy or rent in Latimer nor was there a lot for sale to build on. Roy Stover let us buy their apple orchard. The Henning Construction Co. started to build our house in August of 1973 and we moved on December 13th, 1973.

After we got to town, Dad quit the construction company and went to work for Hansen Motor and Implement Co. He worked there for eleven years. The last few years Bob Duvall owned the business. Dad had to quit working at this time because he had to have hip replacement.

I worked in the hot lunch program at CAL School from August to October then the O’Briens who owned the locker called to ask me to work for them. I worked there for ten years when it was sold to Faye Stanhope. I worked six years for him and retired to celebrate our golden wedding in December of 1989.

Where we go from here is in God’s hands, but with His guidance and grace it has been a great life together. We have been so blest.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

I think he’s quite talented at what he does. I’ve been with him through a myriad of projects, both for the home and for other people and all I ever hear are good comments about his work. And that’s nice — I like hearing that my father is good at what he does; makes a son proud.

And, as of an early age, I pattered along behind him as he went around doing various jobs. I remember being very small and following him around the farm and “assisting” in various ways, usually by just handing him a hammer or wrench or so forth. As I grew older, I would help him in other ways, first holding boards for him while he would saw or hammer or otherwise, then eventually starting to cut and measure and so forth myself.

I have a feeling that I slowed my father down on a regular basis. I just couldn’t have been that great of a partner for the majority of my life; it took me a long time to gain a lot of the skills he already had. How to measure, how to cut, how to use the various tools, how to nail boards, how to make them level and straight and flush, etc. But Dad kept hauling me along to various jobs and projects. I guess he figured I’d eventually “get it”. It’s not that he had tons of patience — he did, but it wasn’t perfect. That was reserved for people like Grandpa who had time to blow and didn’t mind if I had to do it three times. No, Dad expected it right and if I didn’t get it right, I got an earful. Usually a very educational earful, however. And, over time, I got better and better.

Now Dad and I have projects together — sometimes at his place or mine, sometimes actual jobs. I get paid by him from his company (Eagle Construction) because I can now do useful work on a regular basis. Mind you, many things are still not up to the same skill level as him, but they’re getting better. I practice by doing things with him and then on my own home, but I still get him to come over for bigger things so I don’t royally screw them up.

I have discovered that there are few things that make a guy feel like a man so much as wearing a tool belt. There’s just something about having every handy implement swinging from your hips in convenient little pockets and loops. Of course, I have my own tool belt — two of them, actually, one major one for most construction, a smaller leather one for in-house small duties.

Let me take you on a tour of my big tool belt (here’s a guy’s pride if you ever saw one):

• The Belt: Purchased on a garage sale for $4 brand-new, it is a Stanley toolbelt with nylon pouches and a double-tongued rolling buckle on a leather belt. The pouches sit on my left hip and the hammer holster sits on my right hip. An optional 2nd deep pouch can be added to the belt and would either rest on my ass or in front of me. Probably only really convenient for roofing jobs where you are using a lot of nails; otherwise, it just gets in the way.
• Hammer: A Plumb 16oz, fibreglass-handled, rip-claw hammer. I’ve had this for years, probably given to me for Christmas or something similar. Prior to this I had a Craftsman 12oz, metal-handled, curved-claw hammer. It was the bane of my existence as far as reliability and usefulness. There are few applications where a curved claw makes sense; I just can’t use them anymore. And the metal bends, fibreglass does not. My hammer hangs on the hammer holster on my right hip when not in use.
• Tape Measure: A Stanley PowerLock II 25′ tape measure, metal case, that I’ve had for some time. I’m about due to get a new one, this one has issues with returning the tape on a regular basis. This sits in the lower-front small pouch on my left hip.
• Utility Knife: I have several utility knives, but the one in my belt most often is a Stanley aluminum-case, retractable utility knife with a single-edged straight blade in it. I have a few others like these as well as one with curved blades in it for roofing jobs. The knife sits in the “cracks” of the pouch, which are folds above the bottom small pouches.
• Square: I carry a Swanson Speed Square in the upper slot of the big pouch on my left hip. It fits perfectly in there. These tools, for those that are unfamiliar, are extremely handy for marking perpendicular lines on lumber prior to cutting. Unlike traditional squares, these are triangular and flat so they are faster (no balancing required) when dealing with normal, dimensional lumber.
• Pencil: Nothing unusual here, just a normal pencil sharpened with my utility knife to a dull point for marking cuts and making notations. Slipped into one of several different pencil slots on the left hip.
• Nail Claw: I have a Stanley 10″ Nail Claw for ripping nails out of existing structures. This usually sits in the large nail pouch on my left hip; there’s no real place for it to go.
• Flat Ripping Bar: I have a Stanley 12″ Wonderbar Pry Bar for ripping existing construction. Since Dad and I do a lot of work on existing structures (vs. creating new ones), we are often doing things like ripping out old windows, doors, etc. These flat bars are invaluable when it comes to doing this sort of work. They act as pry bars, nail pullers, nail cutters, and even scrapers. My flat bar slides down on the outside of my hammer through the metal ring of the hammer holster. As long as I have my hammer in there and I put the flat bar claw-side-in, it’ll sit there fine. No hammer and it falls through, so eventually I’d like to get its own holster. I like how it sounds like I’m drawing a sword when I pull it out, though. It has that typical, “Sssssshhhhiiiiing!” sound, like I’m going to go kill an orc.
• Hammer Stapler: I have a Bostitch PowerCrown Hammer Tacker (Stapler) with its own leather holster. When I need it (roofing and so forth), I put it on the belt behind my hammer; otherwise I leave it off for the sake of weight.
• Drill: I currently own a Black & Decker 12V Cordless Drill as my drilling tool. It’s not the best I’ve ever owned, but my old one gave up the ghost and I don’t have the dough yet to buy a real drill. But it works for now. The drill goes on its own holder off of the righthand side of my belt, ahead of my hammer (when I have it on).

That pretty much wraps up my tool belt and accessories. Additions to this are things like nails, screws, and other bits and pieces as I need them on the job. Nothing like having all your tools at your easy reach!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2005. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS