Check your geography, please

My husband and I received a fundraising request in the mail yesterday from the SMDC Foundation.

It's been about four years since we last donated. (I remember because the donation was made in honor of the doctor who performed our son's bris.)

I haven't donated since, primarily because the hospital's next big push came for building a hospital in Cameroon, Africa. So I was happy to read that their "Soul and Science Campaign" has a goal of raising $9 million to support the health needs of people across our region.

Great, I thought -- until I read the six target areas of the campaign. The final one listed? Construction of a hospital in Cameroon, Africa.

The dirt dilemma

Now that summer is finally on its way, my son plays outside just about every day. And I have a new parenting dilemma.

He thoroughly enjoys being outdoors -- digging in the sandbox, rolling down grassy hills, picking dandelions and blowing the seeds off their stems, doing a little gardening work with me, kneeling at the edge of the pond so he can dip his rocks in and see how they change color.

His supply of clean blue jeans runs out by mid-week. We're talking about grass stains, dirty knees, yellow dandelion juice and, of course, rocks and wood chip debris in the pockets. (See "A boy's treasures" post.)

Food stains? There's no question -- straight into the hamper. But what's a little dirt? How many days in a row can a 4-year-old boy wear the same pair of blue jeans?

Think before you eat

Does it ever bother you that in this day and age -- despite all of our science, technology and social compassion -- people still starve to death? While we enjoy our thick juicy steaks, others are trying to eke out their daily nutrients from dirt. And things are likely to get worse.

I just finished reading "The End of Plenty," a special report in June's National Geographic on the global food crisis. The article is well-reported, excellently written and extremely thought-provoking.

Some key points: For the past decade, the world has been consuming more food than farmers have been producing. The population is expected to grow to 8 billion by 2025. Add to that the affects of climate change, pressures of ethanol production, growth in meat consumption and scarcity of fertile land. It's a scary picture author Joel K. Bourne Jr. presents.

It becomes even scarier when you consider the environmental and health problems that occurred since crop yields were greatly increased with the development of hybrids and the help of irrigation, pesticides and fertilizers from the mid-1950s through 1980s, the so-called "green revolution." And you consider that major corporations are working on launching a second "green revolution."

Aside from becoming an agroecologist, what can one do? Eat more meatless meals, for one. Buy local, organic foods. Drive less. Support sustainable agriculture. Read up on efforts such as the Soils, Food and Healthy Communities initiative. How's that for a start?

A boy's treasures

My son is a collector.

I think it all started when he went on a nature hike at his preschool last fall. He collected a zip-lock bag full of leaves and pine cones. It still sits on my desk.

He comes home with pockets full of rocks and wood chips from the playground. He's generous with his collections. He picks out special rocks for Mommy and others just for Daddy.

His hobby has its challenges. One day, after another hike at his preschool, he couldn't get up the stairs to music class without his blue jeans falling down. He had packed too many rocks in all of his jeans pockets. I have to turn out his pockets over the trash can before I wash pants.

And of course there's the obvious, what do we do with all of these rocks? We've settled that issue. In the winter, they go in his rock box. When summer arrives, we throw most of the rocks into our pond. Special ones go in our planters around the house.

I'm thankful his collections have involved inaminate objects, so far. Just yesterday, he showed me something he found (see picture) when he and his Daddy rebuilt our pond's stream bed.

Does anybody need any wood chips?

Age-old question

My son fell on the playground a couple of days ago and skinned his knee. Last night at bedtime, he worried out loud about when his "owie" is going to heal.

I assured him that it will, adding that the human body has an amazing capacity to heal itself. "How?" he asked. I struggled to explain -- in a 4-year-old's terms -- about skin cells and how they regenerate. I anticipated his next question, "Mommy, what are cells?" I explained again, as well as I could.

He was quiet for a few minutes, seeming to take it all in. Out popped the next question, "Mommy, why did God make us?"

I often wonder that myself.

Breakfast on the birdbath

Every morning, a crow alights on the edge of my birdbath, not to clean or preen, but to eat his breakfast.

At first I thought he might be attracted to the shiny glass beads in the birdbath. But no, the beads are still there.

The huge black bird stands on the edge of the little bowl, chomping away on his breakfast. Sometimes he drops his food in the water, then fishes it out. Sometimes he finishes it completely, then flies off to a telephone line or the neighbor's tree. And a couple of times, he has discarded what looks like greasy chicken bones in the water.

Which leads me to wonder, just where is this bird getting chicken bones so early in the morning?

Returning to work

I return to work today -- sort of.

This afternoon, I'm scheduled to meet with my new employers for a contract writing job that will last about six weeks. I don't know what all I'm writing yet, but I do know the deadline.

I should be excited about getting back to work, even if it is temporary. (I still sense a loss of purpose since my September layoff.) But there's a sadness here I didn't expect.

I've come to like my new routine. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays are my stay-at-home Mommy days. And I've learned to be happy and content if I don't get anything else accomplished on those days but being with my 4-year-old son. Tuesdays are my errand and housekeeping days. Thursdays are reserved for my major exercise outings and working on projects of my choosing.

This morning, that routine changed. I took my son to preschool, explaining that he will attend more days a week now until my new job is completed. I traded my blue jeans for work clothes. I printed out my contract and directions to the office. I prepared my thoughts on the overview piece that I will be researching and writing.

Don't get me wrong. I look forward to the work. But I'm losing time and freedom -- for about six weeks.

Ode to the bloodsuckers

I struggled for two days to compose an ode to the three wood ticks that accompanied me out of Jay Cooke State Park Thursday afternoon. I always have believed I am a stronger editor than writer. So today, I deleted the entire thing.

My exercise buddy and I hiked the Silver Creek Trail on another sun-drenched (though cold) day. We enjoyed a late lunch at Mexico Lindo, which now has my nod for best Mexican restaurant in the area.

But the restorative sense of wholeness I usually get on such outings was shattered by those hitchhiking bloodsuckers. The very thought of them can still make my skin crawl.

Best books for children

My son and I checked out a great book from the library this morning. When I can afford to buy books again, I plan to make it one of my hallmark gifts, at least for young boys in my circle of family and friends.

It's The Kingfisher Book of Great Boy Stories, and it contains excerpts from 17 children's classics, including The Jungle Book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Pinocchio, Oliver Twist, The Sword in the Stone, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Flat Stanley, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

And now to start that running list of library books we liked the best (just in case we want to check any of them out again). Hmmm, more than half contain pirates or sword fighters.

• Skippyjon Jones (Judith Byron Schachner)
• Peter Pan (James Barrie)
• Anatole (Eve Titus)
• Anatole and the Cat (Eve Titus)
• How I Became a Pirate (Melinda Long)
• Ooey Gooey (Mercer Mayer)

Editor's note: My son and I are at odds over whether or not the list should contain SpongeBob Airpants: the Lost Episode. But it is my blog.

More on fighting city hall

In all fairness, I received a call from a police officer today regarding the recently assessed late fees on my husband's parking ticket. (See One good reason not to live in Duluth post.)

She had gone through the investigating officer's files and checked on the date of the hearing and the time our payment of the parking fine arrived. She was willing to forgive $40 of the additional $45 we had been assessed. Apparently, my husband should have sent the payment when the officer called him and told him his findings, not when we received the official notice of them in the mail.

Technically, we were late in paying the fine. We needed to pay the $5 late fee, she said, but she would forgive the $40 that was tacked on for us not paying the late fee.

So you can fight city hall -- for $5.

But two street sweepers and another sprinkler truck came down our street early this morning. (See One good reason to live in Duluth post.) Our wonderful chalk drawings have been washed away.

One good reason to live in Duluth

My son and I were digging up dandelions on our hillside Monday when a city truck that cleans the sidewalks headed down our street.

"Oh no," I cried to my son, as we watched water being sprayed on the sidewalk. "There go our chalk drawings."

The driver slowed and turned off the sprayer as he drove past the colorful sailboat, train, rainbows, gulls, flowers and Mother's Day greetings we had drawn in chalk yesterday. He waved to us, then resumed his work farther down the street.

One good reason not to live in Duluth

"You can't fight city hall." That's a motto that certainly rings true in Duluth, Minnesota.

My husband received a parking ticket on Dec. 26 for not having moved his car 24 hours after a snowstorm. Our family had traveled to a holiday event on Dec. 24 in our other vehicle. We all stayed home on Dec. 25. There wasn't any reason for us to move the car.

Except for the city's parking rules.

Believing the ticket to be frivilous, my husband went to city hall to appeal it. Because of the holidays, he couldn't have a hearing until after the first of the year. The city worker assured him he wouldn't incur late charges for not paying the fine on time since the hearing was scheduled for after that deadline.

The police officer who investigated his appeal sympathized with him over the ridiculousness of many of Duluth's parking laws, including the one he had violated. However, he had violated the law even if it was a disagreeable law. So, we had to pay the $21 parking fine. (I mailed the check.)

Today I received a "delinquent violation notice" in the mail. Although the fine had been paid, it hadn't been paid on time. I owe another $45, or I face 1.) being turned into the credit bureau, 2.) losing my driver's license, and 3.) having my vehicle(s) towed.

Prophetic

I use puppets and props in teaching Torah to my group of preschool and kindergarten students. On Saturday, we were studying Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.

Maybe we spent too long gluing the first 10 letters of the Hebrew alephbet to our tagboard tablets, but by the time Moses was climbing Mount Sinai, the children were, let's just say, a bit unruly.

"Whack." (That's the sound of one puppet hitting another.) One child and his puppet were gently kicked off the mountain and assigned to wait at its base. "Whack, whack." Another two children and their puppets were scrubbed from the mountain.

By the time we got back to the story, only one Moses puppet remained atop Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. The rest of the puppets were misbehaving at the bottom of the mountain.

Unemployment blessings

Thursday was one of those incredibly rare spring days -- brilliant sunshine, temperatures expected to climb above 70 -- a portent of summer in Duluth.

My exercise buddy and I had just hiked through Hartley Field. We had climbed Rock Knob Lookout then trekked through marsh and woodland before returning along one of the ski trails. We spotted bluejays, robins, chickadees, another downey woodpecker. We watched several water spiders struggling to swim against the current of a clear stream. We examined moss and lichen growing on some trees, felt the hardness of a mushroom thriving off a dead birch, side-stepped a fern just poking out of the ground. We talked about whatever came to mind.

At one point, I paused to stretch my arms skyward, my body embracing the warmth of the sun. A thought crossed my mind: I wouldn't be here enjoying this if I still worked at the paper.

Not wanting our outing to end abruptly, we decided to have lunch at Hacienda del Sol. On the drive downtown, I saw the signs for Pancake Days. A familiar thought flickered across my mind: If I still worked at the paper, I'd be eating (and smelling like) pancakes in the cavernous DECC. Instead, my friend and I were dining out on the Hacienda's patio, the first day it was open.

My mind started a list of other things I wouldn't have done that week if I still worked at the paper: "fielding grounders" with my 4-year-old after finding a ball on a mid-morning walk up to the neighborhood baseball field, arriving on time to my twin nieces' birthday party, reconnecting with a friend I worked with more than 20 years ago.

Little hurts

"Momma. You're' hurting me!" my son sobbed, tears flowing down his face like water from a faucet. My heart wrenched, but I steeled myself for the job of removing the deeply imbedded splinter from his finger.

When it became obvious I would need more than a pair of tweezers, I went upstairs for a needle from my sewing kit. "Owie, owie, owie," my son screamed from the living room. "Momma. Come down here. You have to get it out. You have to get it out," he cried hysterically.

Now, both determined, we settled into the big chair and turned on the nearby lamp. I calmly showed him the needle. I told him it would hurt, but then the hurting would stop. We practiced breathing deeply. I poked his finger with the needle, then pushed the splinter out a bit and grabbed it with my tweezers. It slipped out. The ordeal was over, but my son was still crying. He had wrinkled the Spiderman band-aid he grasped in his other hand. I smoothed it out and put it around his finger.

We studied the offending splinter of wood. Then we went to the kitchen for some grape juice. "I want you to have some, too," my son said. An hour later, he paused from his play. "I don't love you when you hurt me like that."

Time and money

I received an unexpected $50 in the mail today, a mother's day gift from, of all people, my mother. Buy yourself a new pair of jeans, the card said. Obviously, she hasn't read my blog. (See "Life's necessities" post.)

I felt like a kid again, when that visiting aunt you never met before tucks $5 into your pocket and tells you to splurge on something you've especially wanted. I started making plans for what I'm going to buy -- either the life jacket or the water shoes and garden clogs. I called my mother immediately to thank her.

It's funny. When I was working full-time, it would take me months to deposit the birthday or holiday check she sent and even longer to get around to spending the money. But now I've got plenty of time to shop -- and an unexpected $50.

On crossbills and finches

I was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone yesterday when I glanced out the back door. Three chubby brown birds with orange-red heads, chests and backs were sitting in my neighbor's small, leafless tree. Redpolls, she said, as I described them.

Carrying on my conversation, I moved to the living room to pick up my Birds of Minnesota Field Guide. Turning to page 76, I ruled the common redpoll out. No, I said, they don't have that much white on them. I returned to the kitchen, book in hand, but the birds had flown.

Maybe they're house finches, I said, thumbing through the red tabbed pages of the book. But these birds looked a lot fatter than the one pictured. Two pages later, I landed on the red crossbill. I declared them thus and finished my conversation.

But as I read more about the red crossbill (Loxia curvirostra), my certainty faltered, especially when I noticed that the map only puts them in our section of Minnesota during winter. I called my layoff buddy, who knows a bit about birds. She and I wavered between house finch and red crossbill. I rued that I hadn't taken better notice of their beaks. I don't always trust those maps, she said, finally. I renewed faith in having seen three red crossbills.

That night my son wanted me to show him all the birds I had seen. (I had told him about how my exercise buddy and I must have gotten too close to a killdeer's nest while we were walking on the Park Point beach that morning.) As I was showing him pictures of killdeer, ring-billed gulls, crows and robins in The Big Golden Book of Backyard Birds, I came across a picture of a house finch. This one was much puffier and looked eerily similar to the red crossbills I'd seen in my backyard.