thewritingprofessor55

Hello from my kitchen island,

To say I have spent significant time here at my kitchen island since returning from our Christmas adventure would be a profound understatement; it is after 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday evening, and here I am. I have been diligently working on both the current Winter Term class and preparing for a semester that begins on Monday, albeit online for the first week. It changes some things, but it is manageable, though it is a pain for some situations, but the need to be cautious in our current world makes the inconvenience bearable, at least for me. It is an amazing thing to get ready for a semester. It seems not matter how hard I work at it, I never feel as prepared as I would like. It reminds me of something I wrote in a recent blog about working and never feeling like it is enough or that it will get easier. I am not sure whether or not that is a good thing or not, but it seems it is the reality of things. Maybe that is why people hope for retirement, work toward retirement, consider retirement a victory of sorts. I am not sure.

When I was a parish pastor, there were different elements of the liturgy that spoke to me and to my soul in a way that was different than all the other scriptural things that are tied to the propers and ordinaries of each week. It is the phrase that is the title for this blog. It is a phrase that is used for a number of instances and settings within the church, but the time it is most poignant is when someone passes from this life. This past week, such an occurrence happened; it happened unexpectedly and tragically. And yet, it happened. Life is something precious, and there are few who would argue that sentiment. Life is something miraculous, and again, few will disagree. And yet, life is fragile and fleeting, and too often we fail to consider that reality. I think about those who passed when I was a parish pastor. Certainly, there were those who lived a long and incredible life (those around them even used such phrases). On the other hand, there were those who left this worldly existence long before we were ready to let them go. In those instances, we feel cheated; we feel disillusioned, and we might feel as if it is all senseless. And yet, who are we to question?

This evening, Georg and I attended the dramatic and stunning The Mountaintop, by the playwright Katori Hall, who is from Memphis, so her decision to develop this incredible piece about the last two days of Martin Luther King Jr.’s life at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis was perhaps a labor of love in a very different manner. If you have not experienced this profound dramatic interpretation of Dr. King’s last moments, you should. It will leave you with some profound questions. While there were several things that caused me pause, the specific issue which affected me the most was Dr. King’s struggle with what his role on earth was and how he understood his life. There were other elements, but I do not want to be a spoiler. Suffice it to say, there were elements (many quite unexpected) that relate to the title of this blog. How do we understand these profound words? What does it mean that lives can be understood in their totality as well done? I ponder this idea more often than not. It was something that struck me every time I officiated a funeral or committal service. It is something I still ponder when someone I know (or even someone I might hear about) passes from this life to beyond.

What allows for the profundity of that statement to be a truthful one? How is that decided, or by whom? Undoubtedly, those who know us have opinions or beliefs about the life we have led. Most assuredly, there is some sense of what we have done as well as what we have left behind. And yet, who really knows or is capable of deciding either our goodness or faithfulness, and to what or whom? One of the things I was very careful about when I worked with end of life situations was to avoid any statement that projected some sense of what happened after life. Some might argue I was waffling or being unfair. I would argue that I am not God, nor do I wish to be. And of course, then there are those who believe there is no such thing. And yet there is the finality that occurs when someone leaves this world. Is it that we will never again interact with them? Is that all there is? If so, the idea of “well done” seems to be merely a human evaluation and the second element of the statement seems much more temporal. It loses the need to ponder, at least in my eyes.

This week I reacquainted with a young amazing person I have known for about 7 years or so, perhaps more, but I am unsure. She was a server at a local restaurant, and incredibly kind. She ironically lives close to my old Wisconsin stomping grounds, and we ran into each other three times in a week. It was an unexpected blessing to be able to speak with her and hear more about her life now. She also told me some of her own faith story, which I found fascinating. She is a profoundly talented and exceptionally good person. I told her that she gives me hope in a world where there is so much difficulty. It was a time that made me smile. On the other hand, it was a week of mourning and a profound sense of loss. The tragic passing of an amazingly talented, dedicated, and profoundly kind and thoughtful colleague has our campus community reeling and trying to figure out what next. There are so many questions for many, but it seems unlikely there will ever be sufficient answers. That is the very nature of loss. Rational and irrational questions, rational and seemingly irrational emotions sweep over us in a tsunamic manner, often taking away our breath and leaving us feeling disillusioned or frightened.

For me this is precisely the time, much like the Psalmist lament that I realize I am incapable of making sense of the nonsensical. It is indubitably the moment when discernment pushes me to believe in something much larger than myself. It pushes me back to those times when I was a seminarian sitting in Dr. Fred Gaiser’s class and he reminded us of how dependent we were on the mercy of a loving God to find some sense in our pain and anguish. It reminds me now of how Dr. Gerhard Forde wrote in his book, Justification: A Matter of Death and Life (It was reprinted in 2012, but I read it in the seminary in the mid-1980s), “theologically, the answer to the question what must [we] do to be saved is nothing. Shut up and listen for once in your life.” While I do not have the page number, I have this passage memorized since I first read it as a student, and in his Confessions class. It profoundly affected my theology and what I would call now my pedagogy or practice as a pastor. I think it is a particularly significant statement when we find ourselves feeling overwhelmed, despairing with no sense of help, or managing such pain that is appears it can never end.

This week I looked at pictures of my colleague from earlier in their life. I listened to stories of their ability to see both the big picture and realize the minute consequences of an action. I recounted my own experiences with them and how they made a difference for a student, allowing them to travel and experience things that I imagine changed that student’s life. I watched, and my heart ached, as people I respect and admire were brought to tears because of the gargantuan change this loss brings to their daily lives, perhaps more profoundly on a personal level, albeit professional as well. My mind races and my soul yearns for a do-over if one could allow such a thing, but much like the drama of the play I watched this evening, death allows no do-overs. In it we have a closure, and simultaneously we are torn open by the loss of one loved. There is a ripple effect of this loss that is, at present, too overwhelming to realize, and yet, we have no options to stop the work, ignore the realities of the change, or dismiss whatever our own lives require us to manage. This reality forces us to face our own fragility and realize we do not live in isolation. We affect each other more profoundly than we often imagine. If we can see the positive in that mutuality, perhaps we would be more able to help each other with the words of this title. Perhaps the idea of being understood as a good and faithful servant is something for this life as much as the next. Perhaps the words or kindness of telling someone well done could make the difference needed.

We are mutually dependent, profoundly delicate, and intrinsically flawed in our humanity. If there was anything I was reminded of this week it is that. The play tonight that focused on the last days of Dr. King’s life; the loss of an exceptional person, who was first human and then a spouse, a parent, an offspring, and a colleague has left me shaken and hurting. It pushed me to reconsider my journey in this world and reminds me that there is nothing guaranteed. There are no certainties in my world. It is up to me to live in a way that I hope others might believe is well done, that I have been good and faithful, and yes, that I have served others. I am grateful for the interactions I was blessed to have with my colleague. It is profoundly evident that they loved the university and were excellent in their work. All accounts spoke about the importance of the two sons and how much they were adored. And yet, we are fragile and life is terminally tenuous. There is so little I am assured of as I write this, but in my own fragile faith, I want to reach out in my own individual way and offer this: Well done, good and faithful servant. May you be at peace.

Thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello from the porch of my home away from home,

During two weeks during the month of July I managed a driving “walk about. It was a journey ultimately covering 3,800 miles and some interaction with things that cover the entirety of my three score plus almost six years of existence. From specific dates as early as 1958 to dates including 1970, 1973, 1978, 1983, 1984, 1993, or as recent as 2019 and memories in between, those 15 days were engulfed with long-forgotten images reimagined and a deluge of emotions that have connected me with every phase of my life. The opportunity to meet with relatives, extended families of those relatives, former classmates, childhood friends, mentors, and simply other people, who made my breakfast at a coffee shop was life-giving and rejuvenating. To return and walk around places from my past, to drive highways that once were commonplace has been comforting in ways unanticipated. It has freed my mind of clutter and spoke to my soul in a way seldom experienced. Contented and peaceful are perhaps the two best adjectives to describe my daily mood as I traveled. While there was a plan, there was no required schedule during the interludes from place to place. To be able to interact with no pretense, to reacquaint after decades seemed effortless. Effortless accurately describes much of how I have felt this entire trip.

As I initially wrote this I was sitting on the back porch of 721, as I fondly and lovingly refer to that location in Newton, IA. Lee and Judy, my first host family home from the year I traveled on a Lutheran Youth Encounter team have become a life-long gift. I cannot help but contemplate that it was 2/3s of my life ago I was introduced to a couple I now warmly refer to as my older siblings. Lee and Judy Swenson welcomed John and me into their home in June of 1978. I can state with complete surety that a breakfast conversation in that kitchen changed the course of my life. As I returned to Newton late last night, Lee and Judy were waiting for me. I walked in and exclaimed, “I’m home!” As gracious as any 50s television show family, I walk into such incredible ambiance and care. I have told Judy more times than I can count, there is no home like 721. This morning we reminisced about the various times I have stopped over the 4 decades. And that does not count the three times we were in Newton during our travel year of 78-79.

As I return to this post, I am reminded of the peripatetic aspect of my life. Paragraph to paragraph, chapter to chapter, this year of my long and winding journey was particularly poignant as I reconnected with extended family over the 12 days, the reality of life’s twists and turns was front and center. In spite of the many trials we have all faced, it was profoundly evident. that I come from an incredible resiliency. The hurdles some of my family face daily humbles me. It compels me to first be grateful for the blessings I too often take for granted. While I have had significant health struggles, and will likely have more, there is so much for which I am grateful. I have been blessed to establish a life that has been rewarding and enjoyable. The other thing that astounded me was the unequalled level of patience I saw demonstrated. That too was (and remains) humbling to observe (to understand).

As the calendar informs us of a new cycle the changes from leaving a home I loved as much as anywhere I have lived, to moving and creating a home with two wonderful people, and with it schedules, dinners, soccer games, writing assistance, motorcycle trips to surrounding diners for Saturday breakfast, and being closer to a family most dear have made for a memorable fall. Trips and events like The Nutcracker have reminded me of the amazing world that is in my own backyard.

And now as I write this it is December, and almost New. Years That gives some indication of life since then. On the 19th of August, Georg, my new exchange student from Estonia, arrived. School began the following week and it never slowed down since. I am not complaining as it has been incredibly productive, but the juggling act that is life has been a bit overwhelming at times. Kelli, my senior supply chain student, and another surrogate offspring, has been a joy to have in the house. She and Georg are like siblings and it is actually sweet and enjoyable to observe their interaction. It was very nice that they both texted me more than once in an evening to check on my schedule as they wanted to wait for me so we could eat together. There have been moments when I realize what I missed never being a parent. While I am content with where I am, there are still glimpses of what might have been. I think the most interesting thing for me is that I believe I could have been a good parent. Something I always worried about. I have been asked a number of times over these past years about my not having children. I have been asked about my being single. I have been asked about if I wished my life to be different than it is. I think I can say quite assuredly that I am content with where I am. Is there a sense of solitariness or loneliness at times? Most certainly. It might be why most of my life is centered around people-oriented tasks. Are there times I wish I had some large family or kids, grandchildren, and perhaps even great-grandchildren? The simple answer is yes, but I ponder if it is because we often imagine the things we do not have.

This summer into fall, a number of decisions were made, and perhaps as importantly, I realize that when I make decisions, and particularly decisions of consequence, I seldom reconsider or even revisit that choice. I am not sure if that is a benefit or detriment, but at the moment, I am inclined to see it as something positive. Moving forward and doing the best I can with the choices made allows for progress, and it minimizes regret. Some of those decisions are significant like giving up my sabbatical, or deciding on a retirement date. All of that has long-term consequence and has resulted in making profound changes. As noted other places, one of those changes was in selling my home, fondly and lovingly known as The Acre. That decision is one of the most momentous ones made in my entire life. The reasons for that profundity are multi-layered, but a number of people have asked if I feel sad. I do not. Are there things about that house I miss? Of course, but I know why I made the decision and I believe in terms of moving toward where I want to be or go, it was the best path forward. One of the things I know is that I have too often become attached to things, and things are only that – things. They do not make us or provide any real intrinsic value. People often identify us by those things, but that is a surface identity. What I realize now is I am more affected by the relationships I have and not the stuff I have. As I noted in the title here, the decades have created the person I am. Some of the most important things I have are what I have been able to re-establish this past year. Those were not things, but people. As I began this blog, way back in July, the opportunity to reacquaint with my cousins might be the most important thing I have done in decades (and that is a literal statement). I was in my early thirties and they were still in their twenties. We are now all septuagenarians. First, how did that happen? Second, why did I take so long? I have no adequate answer to either question. As I have been explaining to my freshmen as they have worked on their Google Map/memoir project, we do not become the people we are by accident. We are molded, often without our realizing it. We are imbued with values and morals, with hopes and dreams often subconsciously. Nevertheless, we are products of a canoecopia (and considering I went kayaking and paddleboarding with them the first night there) of a paddling journey if you will, as we navigate our way through experiences, relationships, and emotions. The things we were influenced by are those things we believe have value. As I consider each of the sisters, I am in awe of their kindness, their loving care for each other, and of the profound beauty they bring to other people’s lives. The admiration I had for them growing up grew exponentially as I spent time with them this past summer. In some more than others, the physical resemblance to their mother is beyond apparent. The kindness, hospitality, and inquisitiveness that was in both of their parents permeates each of them. It is humbling to be their relative, but it is also inspiring. It reminded me of why they were so integral to my life as a child. One of the things that comes through my blog as a recurring theme is the feeling of safety, the feeling of acceptance. What I realized this summer and as I have reflected into this fall is they made me feel valued and accepted when we visited and shared time as children. When I was around their family, even in spite of my mother, I felt safe. That was, and is, an important thing for all people. Those same feelings of love and acceptance were foundational to our summer visit. While we have not chatted as often as I wish in the midst of our busy fall schedules, a text, a quick phone call or sharing a Facebook post has established a continuing thread, reaffirming our life-long connection as family. It is ironic that for many years I have isolated from so many, and simultaneously remained involved with many others. Sometimes I created new families if you will.

New experiences create new memories, new opportunities, and ultimately help us continue to grow regardless our age. I have outlived 4 siblings, and I was neither the eldest or youngest of them. I have been blessed to have people pass into my life from around the world. I have been fortunate to travel and experience more than I could have ever anticipated. I am not sure how all of that came to pass, but again I return to the concept of place and the rhetoric of place. My first real journey was to move to a new family as an adopted 4 year old. Perhaps it was that very move and it’s consequence that provided a foundation of needing to explore and experience. Certainly that nascent foundation was solidified when I was given an opportunity to travel to Europe with the late Dr. John W. Nielsen. Additionally, my desire to understand humanity as simply that – other humans, instilled a desire to learn, experience, and grow from that leaning, that experiencing. There is so much more to life if we merely give it a chance. It took six months for me to finish this. Since then I was back on the very porch I began this blog, back in Newton, IA where Lee and Judy still greet me with open arms. They are as much family to me as anyone. An older brother and sister of sorts, they have been a blessing for four decades plus. The journey continues, and the blessings seem infinite. As another year concludes, one can only imagine what comes next.

Thank you for reading.

Michael

Hello from a quiet moment.

I am sitting in the loneliness of a quiet house at the moment and realizing how much I obsess on little things and how much I sometimes need to understand the why if something. I did not always comprehend my obsession with seemingly minuscule things, but I have been well aware of my ability or need to question things. I understand my questioning as a different issue than my liking order, but lately I see them as more of an extension of each other. Ironically, one of the things that has helped me manage either element of my daily existence has been through my teaching of freshman writing. That might seem counter-intuitive, but hear me out. First, I need to thank my colleague in the College of Education,

It started with a conversation during our providing snacks and coffee during finals week, something our faculty union did for students. While attending this event with a colleague, one who ironically interviewed here the same day I did, a third colleague, who teaches Business Law courses, questioned me about issues of grammar. As one who is in his 60s, who diagrammed sentences in junior high and beyond, was corrected when he misspoke as a child (and all those things some who read this understand), and as noted is OCD, an interesting conversation ensued. While my immediate instinct was to lament the incessant tearing down of grammar rules near and dear, I realized the world was no longer the same. Additionally, one of my former linguistics colleagues professed adamantly that language is post-modern by its very dynamic nature. While this is a bit of a bitter pill for me to swallow, I have been somewhat swayed to fall into her camp. Language is the consequence of personality, culture, and education. All three of those components are more complex than you might imagine, and when you put them together the complications multiply. And yet there is an order; there is an expectation; and those are the things than mystify and excite me. Those are the things that create some of the most interesting expectations and experiences in my classes, particularly my Foundations of College Writing sections.

As I ponder my own personality or practice, my propensity for needing neatness and order began early in my life, before the age of two. I remember as a two year old trying to make my bed and get myself dressed. My Great-aunt told me about those events also, so it was not merely my two-year-old imagination attempting to alter reality. Throughout my life my desire to structure and order was implemented to create a sense of security. If you have read my blog over the years, my need to feel safe and secure is a central need. And yet, what offers security? What provides my inner-self the feeling of safety? Predictability is part of it, and feeling sure of what might happen next allowed no possibility of anything that seemed remotely calculable. Looking back, perhaps taking control of the minutiae was my initial attempt to feel safe. If I had even a modicum of order, of certainly, I could find a glimpse of hope that my life would make sense. These are difficult connections and realities for me yet today.

The last 24 hours most definitely are defined as unexpected. Plans made and revised with intention were scuttled by an unanticipated mechanical dilemma. However, in an attempt to maintain as much of a plan as possible, alternative plans have been secured. There are still things to manage, and there will be some consequences, but an very different experience and new things for me too. Perhaps what astounds me most is I have taken most of it in stride and did not get overwhelmed by such significant issues. I am quite sure that would not have been the case earlier in my life. And yet, there are things I see myself doing to keep some sense of structure and order to the present experience of organized chaos. It is helpful that Georg has been quite chill about all of it. I just told him thank you and his response is this is not the first time, so I may need to investigate. One of the things I have worked hard to put into practice is if I cannot control it, I cannot waste energy on it. I am much better at that now, thank goodness.

The past year has prompted me to ponder beyond the semester and realize the reality of living life beyond the working to live, which is what most of our life consists of. We get up; we have a routine; we go about our daily tasks as if they are thrust upon us and we are the victims of our daily existence. I do not think I have spent my life as such, but I think that is because I am always pondering the why. Why does this or that happen? More importantly, why does it matter? For me making sense of the non-sensical or perhaps it is more needing structure to manage the non-sensical has been my life’s task. And yet, more importantly it has allowed me to live my life as more of a giver. Indeed, for me, the line from the Prayer of St. Francis is what has sustained me more often than not. – hoc dando accipimus – it is giving, we receive. It is a simple adage to understand, but one difficult to establish or practice. My human selfishness gets in the way at times.

It also relates to the practice of forgiveness. Between my seminary studies and my life experiences, I’ve come to realize how powerful the gift of forgiveness is. It is something we need to provide each other regularly. It is something that is too often withheld because of our own weakness. It took me 25 years to forgive a person who caused incredible injury to others, myself included. However, I am still blessed that it finally occurred. That ability to give, even that long after the fact, released me from so much pain, resentment and anger. It changed my life. And it has changed my outlook on so much more. I still need my structure and my predictability. And yet through the freedom of forgiveness, be it given or received, I am able to understand the possibility of another avenue. I am able to compromise more freely and openly. It amazes me how both structure and freedom, seemingly oxymoronic, are to essential qualities for my happiness. As I ponder, I realize some of that initial structure or understanding of structure came from the very person I needed to survive. Ironic that even now as I sit in the quietness of the morning, in the afterglow of what Christmas has become all to often, I am content in the silence. I am blessed by a gift given that has given back so much more, and unexpectedly. In my piety, I am hoping that all who were once part of my human existence and have left this worldly life celebrate a holiday of the ultimate forgiveness and giving together.

I miss those memories and those experiences. In the meantime, I will ponder and organize, but I realize in that structure I do have security, safety, and possibilities. Blessed holidays to all of you. It is nice to post after so long.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Hello from Cracker Barrel,

It is a few hours late, but over the last couple days I pondered a small and mighty person, who would have been 97 years old yesterday. Lydia Louise Rutkowski was no ordinary person. She was focused, goal oriented, and particular in ways that many would have found excessive, but nonetheless, it served her well, both as a person and as a professor. I wish I had been able to see her in a classroom. I can imagine she had every minute of her classes planned and she knew exactly where she was going. By the time I met her, she had long since retired, but anytime one of her long-before -former students met her out and about, they would greet her. She would always be a bit shocked and would respond. Once they were out of ear-shot, she would exclaim, “I don’t know how they recognized me.” I would simply smile and shake my head.” There was not even an inkling of doubt as to why they would remember her. She left a life-long impression.

I still wonder what she must have thought and felt as a person in her late teens, being sent away by her parents to live with relatives in Vienna. She and thousands of others left the Sudetenland toward the end of the war, walking hundreds of kilometers through the mountains to be safe. Her parents were wise about the events on the horizon and sent her away, saving her life. This was not your average walk-about. Perhaps because it occurred immediately following the horrors of the Shoah, it was mostly ignored. Yet 12-14 million Germans across Europe were displaced – they were also tortured, raped, and murdered. Lydia, who had been sent to Austria, lost her parents in the immediate atrocities that characterized much of Central/Eastern Europe. After her arduous trek to Vienna, she would never see her parents again. Her recounting of their passing to me late in her own life was spine chilling. I am often mortified by the human ability to commit atrocities upon its own because of a political ideology or out of revenge. Lydia was able to speak Czech, but refused to speak that language the remainder of her life.

One of the things I need to work on is the time period between Lydia’s living in Austria and her move to London. It seems many refugees (those misplaced because of the changing political landscape) would find their way to London. Between 1946-1953, she would relocate to London, meet and marry a Polish man. Her husband was a n incredible story in his own rite. He was a member of the Polish resistance to Hitler; he was a political prisoner, incarcerated in Dachau, escaped, returned to Polish to fight Hitler yet again, and eventually also emigrated to London. They would live in London, and in 1953 would book tickets to sail to the states. This is no minor decision, but characterizes an entire group of people who made the decision to leave family, culture, and language behind, believing they had a brighter future in a new land. I am not sure it is much different for those trying to come here today. However, the America waiting for them is much different.

I realize the wave of people who came to our shores in the 1950s came to explore the possibility of a new life, but they gave up a great deal. Many of them left those European ports to begin a life unknown. They struggled with language, with customs, with culture, and with loneliness. They learned self-sufficiency, resilience, and adaptation. In their attempts to assimilate, they closed the door on their previous lives, often to the point they seldom talked of their homeland, and they worked hard to use only their new language. Some might believe this was the best way to become Americans, but I am not convinced. The loss of a language because of a conscious decision to no longer use it is tragic in a number of ways. Language explains a lot about those who speak it. Language is one of our most identifying traits, and I should probably reach out to my linguistic colleagues to substantiate my thoughts, but I believe our language inherently reveals how we think and what we value. From structure to sound, I believe our language provides much more than words and utterances. Just this morning (and it is now Saturday, the 14th) I was at an appointment and the RN assisting spoke Spanish as a first language. We noted the differences in her learning English at the age she was when coming to the States and her daughter who was pre-teen. We spoke about the way her usage is more standard or formal and how her daughter’s was more colloquial. Even our decision about language usage reveals things about us. I remember Lydia once noting that she took classes to try to eliminate her accent. It did not work and much to her chagrin, that accent was one of her endearing qualities. I also remember one of the last times I visited her (in the latter stages of her battle with dementia) it was much easier to speak with her in German than English. She spoke, and probably thought, in German more readily at that point.

What still inspires me about Lydia’s generation was their determination and work ethic. They were tenacious in their desire to succeed, and they were beyond purposeful or dedicated in their willingness to work hard and long to achieve their goals. They did not believe failure was an option. She talked of working two or three jobs before she would begin her education at Northwestern University. George took a different path, but one nonetheless laborious. He would work in Chicago with Frank Lloyd Wright disciples and become a painter and interior decorator. There was little in a house he could not do, or re-do. Lydia continued on to graduate school at the University of Illinois-Urbana, working through her Masters and toward a PhD in international economics. She once told me of George’s words about how they would purchase items for their house or their clothes. He said (with apologies for the grammar), “We are too poor to buy cheap.”

There was little doubt they lived their life maintaining that philosophy. When I met Lydia, almost two decades after George passed, she was quite the formidable two-digit midget, as I called her. She knew exactly what she wanted, what she thought, and she had quite the control of the entire little circle where she lived above Lake Menomin. At one point she owned about a third of the circle, got the city council to rezone it, and still had the incredible compassion to pay the overdue taxes for a neighbor to keep them from losing their family home. Along with that, she managed the upkeep of her three story home, was meticulous about her yard, and still managed to keep abreast of worldly economic issues. She read the Wall Street Journal daily and would forecast where the economy was going months before it happened. She really understood economics both micro and macro.

I still miss her wit, her spunk, and her voice. As much, I miss those moments her incredible heart shown through. I marvel at what she and George accomplished in their lives and am still humbled by their achievements and the faith they had in their own hard work, but also the faith they must have had in this country. I struggle when what I see now seems so different. We cannot seem to get along with each other, let alone “the other.” I continue to realize how blessed my life has been. I think often what it means to have been born in America during the boomer generation. Everything was focused on making our life better, but we also both into the concept of “the dream.” We believed with all our heart and mind it was available. Even though I was a blue-collar kid, even though college seemed out of reach, even though I did not get everything I wanted, I was fortunate to always have what I needed. Lydia and George came to the States believing in the same possibilities. Much like my father, who graduated at the height of the depression, they worked hard to make sure they could work their way up that ladder. Yet, they did it overcoming language and cultural barriers. They did it believing in the adage of hard work pays off.

Lydia never quit working. Until about 13 days before she passed, she was a bundle of energy and ready to let you know what she thought. I am still grateful to the amazing Comforts of Home staff who cared for her from the outset. Carissa treated her as if she were her own family. I could give a list that numbers into more than a couple dozen of wonderful individuals who were not paid nearly enough as they provided outstanding care. It is hard to believe it is six and a half years since she left us. She still wanders into my dreams and my thoughts. I can hear her voice as clearly as if she was still here. I miss you and happiest of what would be a 97th birthday, dear Lydia. The picture is almost looking out from her shoreline view of the campus where she worked 38 years.

Thanks for reading,

Dr. Martin

Hello from Manassas, Virginia,

It has been an incredibly taxing year on all involved in higher education. From students to faculty, from staff to administrators, the consequence of the pandemic has been felt by all. While that is perhaps an obvious statement, what is not as obvious is the degree to which it has affected the world of academe. This is in no way meant to underestimate the difficulties of the rest of society, but rather to focus on the world where I spend the majority of my time. I know too well that some of my former classmates believe being a professor is an easy, part-time, no-accountability, proselytizing venture where I am paid to do as little work as possible. I can assure those in that camp that this past year, more than any in the time I have taught, has been more demanding and laborious. It has been more overwhelming and frustrating, and more of a learning experience than any of my previous years spent in the classroom (and ironically, I was not in a classroom the entire year). The best way to describe asynchronous, remote learning is as a time I was never scheduled to be in class and simultaneously, unless I was sleeping, never out of class. It was like having 75 independent studies or more each semester.

Am I glad I experienced it? Yes, I learned an incredible amount about myself as well as about my students. Do I want to do it ever again? That is an emphatic “hell no!” While I might have worked harder than I ever have, I can tell you I felt more ineffective, more like a failure than anytime I have taught. I can also tell you I got more trashed (taken to task) by students than ever before . . . and some of their complaints and concerns were valid (but they had little willingness, it seemed, to see the other side of what happened.) I should note that it was not every student. Most certainly, there were students profoundly understanding. Bottom line seems to be I certainly failed to do the best job ever done in classes, and that is in spite of the extraordinary time spent trying to manage this asynchronous world. Am I frustrated by that? Without a doubt. Why? Simply – I take a lot of pride in what I do, and I do believe I owe students the best I can give them. On the other hand, pedagogically, it was evident that asynchronous remote learning is not the best delivery method for some classes, and that is for a variety of reasons. However, the world of education (and this goes back to our public school systems for starters) seems content to treat students as customers. This is not something to which I willingly subscribe. I cannot be convinced such a plan is helpful. Can I do the checks and balances of tuition and fees as well as state or federal support that make a university education financially solvent? Yes, I probably can. Yet, if we only see our students as dollar signs or retention objects as the be-all, end-all of what we do, what does it mean to profess, to learn, to reflect, to become a scholar? When students become the consumer (e.g. the boss) of their classes, I become a substitute, the purveyor of information. I become a person whose worth or value is determined by someone who brain is not fully developed. I am evaluated by the whims and preferences of someone’s attitudes versus what they have actually done or learned.

I was told recently (and by someone for whom I have incredible respect) that I am too metacognitive and that my students do not want to be pushed in that manner. There are two struggles with that statement. First, I believe the person who told me this is undoubtedly correct (I always want to know the why about the why). And second, and perhaps more importantly, to believe that education is a recipe card or a rubric, which is what this implies. Such an understanding is foundationally wrong. As one of my undergrad colleagues (who is now a professor as I am) reminded me, our advisor, the late Dr. John W. Nielsen once quoted the three word phrase from the Upanishads, “”Tat tvam asi.” Or to put it another way, “the essence are (and this grammatical difficulty is intentional) you.” It is about reflection and understanding who we are as well as the what we are; it is about understanding the manifestation of ourselves and how we (or it) is part of something so much larger (and I would add also important). If we can only see our students as some dollar sign, as having their value determined by the tuition they generate, we lose sight of our role as educators. As noted, I am as well aware of the business aspect of our system as anyone, but I would like to believe that my argument is about more than some idealistic belief in being the professor.

Allow me to put it in a different context, view it from a different perspective. As noted more than once, I am that first generation college student. My parents did not pay for my education, nor did they plan to do so, and the reason for that was simple. They could not afford to do so. When I first went to Iowa State University, I flunked out. When I eventually ended up at Dana College, I was petrified I was not smart enough to be there, Fortunately, with hard work, some wonderful classmates, and an incredible faculty, I learned that I could do the necessary work. Yet, during my first year, I did not know how to learn. I knew well how to jump through hoops. The Marine Corps had taught me this if nothing else. I remember an Introduction to Business Management course. We had multiple choice, take-home, open-book exams. Those exams were written so intricately, that it would take three of us, each working diligently through the book together more than an hour to manage the 25 multiple choice questions. However, we did it (and after notating our exams with where we found our answers) we generally received an A on the exam. However, that was not, nor is it education. I can say with no reservation that I remember nothing from that class. It was actually through my Humanities sequence, I learned the concept of integration and synthesis. Those three semesters and my interim in Europe reflecting on the works of Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Mann, my being in a cultural classroom 24/7 for a month with Dr. Nielsen compelled me to rethink everything. I finally understood what it meant to study or learn (theoretically, conceptually, and practically). It was soaking every drop up. It was looking beyond the obvious, and it was not by following a rubric or recipe card. The integration required to become a professional is not a dichotomous process, one separating classroom and experience. For too much of my schooling, especially back in own public school upbringing, we had two kinds of teachers. First, rote memorization was what we did. There was little difference from English to history, biology to geography. The difference was whether the teacher figured out how to keep me interested or made the process enjoyable. What that admission means is telling. We have been stymied by the process of learning most of our lives. We had (and perhaps still believe we need) to be mollified. I struggle when my students say, “I only want to read what I am interested in.” I balk at the idea that somehow I need to give them every element as if they are trained responders.

So what is the answer? I am not quite sure, but whatever it is, I am quite sure it is neither simple nor will some conceptual response manage it. Why? Because in the words of the feminist poet, Adrienne Rich, it is the students’ response-ability that matters. It is the agency we take as humans to be accountable, and through which we claim an education versus receive one. However, we are selfish. We want things on our own terms. As I write and ponder, I am intrigued by what it was our professors at Dana seemed to do so effortlessly, so seamlessly. If you speak with Dana alumni from education to science, from humanities to the arts, it seems there were outstanding faculty, those who inspired student to take charge of their education. That small college on the bluffs of the Missouri had already created the scholarly community Rich speaks of in her commencement address to Rutgers University (some 25 years later). This does not mean there were never shenanigans. What? No one ever drank on our dry campus, certainly not! Ha! I remember two characters on my floor when I was an RA, somehow believing that having half the campus on our floor and two 16 gallon kegs in their room would not be noticed. They were quite sad when I made them open the taps and pour the rest of the beer down the drain. I remember when one floor on campus decided to make a swimming pool out of the shower. When a faculty person’s daughter knocked the barrier down a flood ensued down the hallway, and, of course, they were not on the first floor. Oh, the memories. And yet we survived . . . all the time afforded an incredible education at that Danish Lutheran College. In spite of being known as the “Holy Dane” campus, there were certainly times when we put Luther’s quote of “if you are going to sin, sin boldly.” into action.

What does it mean to be educated? Yet again another difficult question, but at this point I believe it is about thinking, analyzing, and integrating. It is not memorization; it is not a recipe; it is, however, something different for each person. It is being honest with one’s self and knowing in their heart if they really did the best work possible. It is the wisdom of self reflection. I can still see Dr. Nielsen’s lecture on the “allegory of the cave.” As my floor-mate, and incredibly brilliant professor, Dr. Langholz noted, it is remembering the times we were pushed to ponder the complexities of our humanity by the likes of Drs. Nielsen and Jorgensen, be it philosophically or in light of our national history. Dana taught me to go beyond what was average. Dana taught be to listen and reflect, to ponder and imagine, to never be satisfied to merely complete an assignment. I miss that in some of my students. That is not to say all. I have some really good students; I have some who want to go beyond, but it is difficult for me when they merely want to know what to do without pondering the why they are doing it. For me, it is seldom enough to merely get something done. It is that very nature that is also sometimes to my own detriment. I realize I am seldom satisfied, even with my own work. I want it to be better. I want it to be more thorough; and I want it to be meaningful above all else. Perhaps that is why I am where I am.

In my last blog, I noted the passing of an incredible influence in my personal and academic development. Since that time, it has come to light that another classmate, and ironically a mutual traveler on that Interim trip also passed from our grasp. Lisa (Hansen) Madsen, who was a year ahead of me in terms of our time at Dana, passed, even more ironically, the same day as Dr. Nielsen. I note that because she was an incredibly kind and thoughtful person and an important part of our traveling group that winter term. I note it because her husband was my head resident and also a profoundly important part of my Dana experience. It is always stunning when we lose people we have known most of our lives. She had the most radiant smile and she brightened any room she entered. I am saddened beyond words to learn of her passing. Perhaps, in my own piety, she and Dr. Nielsen met at the gates and began yet another journey, this time as two humans beyond the grasp of our understanding.

Our lives are complex and more unpredictable than we often realize. Perhaps it my age; perhaps I am becoming the curmudgeonly Norman Thayer from the movie On Golden Pond. Perhaps I am realizing I have much less time left than what I have lived and I want to somehow make a difference. Sometimes I feel there is so much left to do. Sometimes I wish I knew what I knew now, except I had realized it half my life ago. As Markus Zusak wrote in his novel, The Book Thief, “I am haunted by humans.” I wonder about the reflection in the cave more often than not. As I post this, I cannot help but remember it was 48 years ago today I graduated as the first graduating class of West High School in Sioux City, Iowa. Amazing what I understood life to be then and now.

The glory days were well beyond then. Thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin

Hello from my study on a Sunday night,

It has been a busy, hectic, productive, with too much yet to do, weekend. While I have met with a covey of students through Zoom, there is more to do. While I have gotten more things packed and staged, there is still more to do. While I have gotten most of a chapter revised for publication, there is still more to do. While I have gotten some of the paperwork for selling the house completed, there is still more to do. While I have both fertilized the yard and managed some other yard things, there is probably more to do. Do you see a pattern? When I feel overwhelmed or need to allow my brain a chance to regroup, as you who read here know, I write. It actually lowers my stress level, and it provides me an opportunity to consider things that need to be pondered.

As I changed the calendar this morning, I realized it is the birthday of my adopted father’s eldest brother-in-law, a man known to the entire neighborhood and beyond as Uncle Clare. If you ever met him, you would remember. He was colorful, opinionated, knowledgeable of all things our natural world, owned an arsenal, swore beyond what any service person should be able, and was the kindest curmudgeon you might ever met. Experiencing him as a child growing up, which occurred regularly because he both lived only about 8 houses down the street and he was our perpetual Sunday dinner guest, he taught me things, many which would cause my mother to cringe. Possibly the best example that is appropriate to share in this venue was the last time I saw him alive. To make a long story short, he had gotten into some fisticuffs with his roommate in the nursing home and he had injured his wrist and hand. As a 90 year old (yes, 90), his skin as frail and his wrist watch had caused some cuts because of his shenanigans. My father was his POA, and as such he was called. I happened to be visiting, so my father asked if I might go check on him.

As I arrived at the facility, I heard his voice before I had ever approached the door. His normal four-letter vocabulary was on 78 rpm speed. As I stood in the door watching for a moment, he turned to see me, asking “What the F&$* are you doing here?” To which I responded, “That is a good question.” Then I said, “You got in a fight with your roommate?” He nodded, while still swearing at the poor CNA there trying to help him, and retorted, “I knocked the c*&^!#!@er out!” Not good . . . I asked him to behave so the woman attending him could finish her work. He told me, “The bitch is trying to kill me.” And so it went until I convinced him to settle down. This was typical Uncle Clare. He had quit school in first grade and yet taught himself to read. He was a bugler in WWI, and in spite of being supposedly legally blind, there were regularly dead starlings around his Martin birdhouse, which he picked off with the pellet gun. Almost every family has that colorful character who has more stories than you can find in the Bible, well Clare was ours. Any yet, in spite of all his bluster, when you did something for him, he was genuinely grateful. He had a bottle of Ol’ Grandad on the top of his refrigerator and a 38 snub-nose pistol under his pillow, which was used one night when people tried to rob him in his late 80s. Indeed, he was like no other person. He had worked on an armored car in the 1920s, when Sioux City was known as little Chicago, and that Thompson sub-machine gun was still in his basement. I remember him one time telling me that Chester Gould, the cartoonist who created Dick Tracy, must have drank squirrel whiskey. I did not really know what that meant, but I never asked either.

What a remember most about him was his insatiable interest in plants, animals, flowers, and yes, guns. He could identify tracks, feathers, as well as name off almost any flora you would find in our state park. He had the most incredible asparagus and rhubarb garden in the world. He spent his days puttering in his yard, driving up to the grocery store, or listening to the television, which sat at the front end of his living room. It was on so loudly, you could hear it outside. There were elements of his house he never changed from 1960 until he moved out of that house in the late 1980s. His wife, Gladys, my father’s eldest sister had passed away tragically in the hospital in 1960. I do not remember her, though I was told I met her as a small child. She was quite eloquent from what I know, but as many in those days, she smoked, and that habit would lead to her death. Uncle Clare often said she was the best thing that ever happened to him. As someone who taught himself to read, he read voraciously, and he listened to the news. He was generally up on all things important and he had an opinion about most of it.

In his latter years, my cousins and my father, as well as myself, did what he needed to have done to make him as comfortable as possible. He loved to sit by the kitchen window and look at this flower garden and the asparagus and rhubarb patch, which he always gave away. It is also the same window from where he would assassinate unsuspecting starlings or any other varmint that got into his yard. He loved to read Field and Stream and National Geographic and when we came to visit he would tell us about his newest facts from whatever he had recently read. He was as pleased as anything as he relayed his handy facts. He was a rather short, stocky person, around 5’6″, and probably 180 pounds. He was bald, clean shaven, with small eyes covered by his horn-rimmed glasses and a noticeably large nose. He looked the same the thirty years I knew him and he never seemed to age. He remained by in large the same. He ate his breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same table. He played solitaire daily, and he drank his coffee out of the same cup. He was a creature of habit to be sure.

As he aged he worried less about appearance or cleanliness and both my cousin, Joanne and I would go to his house and clean and throw away food that would have killed him or washed linens and clothes so he would not seem homeless. This was not done with ease because he did not want people fussing over him, so we would sneak things out. At one point we had to buy a new coffee cup, but one that looked the same because the old one was simply too nasty. He had something to say about anything and everything, and on this day of his 125th birthday, it seems appropriate to imagine what he would say about our present day world. Much like I have noted about Lydia, I cannot even begin to imagine getting him to mask-up. Doubtful at best, and with much kicking, swearing, and gnashing of teeth. I think he was a Democrat, but I am not sure. However, I am pretty sure going through the Great Depression made many middle class people Democrats. I wonder what he thought of Germany in WWII as he was a German himself. Things we never spoke of, but I have no doubt he would have little patience for the gridlock and the bickering that characterizes Washington today. I think he would have more than strong words for our national politicians.

I have tried to think how I would describe his philosophy, but he was a someone self-made person. I think he worked the railroad for a number of years. He asked for nothing and he expected nothing from others. He did have a philanthropic bent to him because he was 32nd Degree Mason and a Shriner. The more I think about him, the more amazing he is to me. He was always willing to give and he was generous and appreciative at Christmas times. There have been moments when I have noted I might be more like him than I ever realized. He understood so much more than I believe most gave him credit for knowing. He was loyal and loved his family, but he stayed to himself. I remember a couple of times when I was struggling as I grew and he would offer encouragement to me. He always accepted me, regardless what I did. He was a conduit for me at times when I was distant because of my struggles with my mother. What I know as I write this about him this evening is I admired him more than I was ever conscious of. I know when my Grandmother struggled, I think he was there to help her. When we struggled with issues of simply growing up, he was always there to be supportive in whatever way possible. I once compared him to a penny that when one took the time to shine it would see his luster. I think he might be more valuable. He might be worth a bitcoin into today’s world. I would love to hear what he might say about today’s world on his 125th birthday.

Love you Uncle Clare. Thank you for all the things you taught me in a sort of osmotic manner. If you have that story-telling curmudgeon win your family. Let them know how much they mean.

Thank you to the rest of you for reading.

Dr. Martin