Before dawn it was 78 degrees Fahrenheit. I went for a hike before the sun came up and beat the daytime heat. It will be the kind of heat they were talking about in the Bible… namely, Hell. A couple groups of joggers were out with me, one running by flashlight. We locals often have the same ideas if there are different interpretations of illumination.
I went to the clinic for a blood test this morning. A technician was working on the entryway. Looked like he was installing a new security system. He asked, “How are you?” I responded, “That depends upon what the doctor says.” Well… he left himself open to that old-time joke.
The university remodeled the waiting room. They removed almost everything except the seats, replaced those and increased the capacity to 13. They included two double-wides, not that anyone in our area needs one of those. They must have high hopes. That or standard practices that make no sense out in the country. I noted they made me wear a wrist band. Not like I would get mixed up with anyone else at my early morning appointment. They did use it to scan me after the blood was drawn.
When I was checking out, the person at the window said my current physician is moving to Coralville. Did I want to follow him, they asked? I said I wanted to continue to visit the local clinic, where I have been going since 1993. They changed my appointment to be with the new practitioner. I should have asked whether it was a physician or some other type. Guess it doesn’t matter for my kind of common maladies.
I made a list of outdoors work for after the clinic, but the only thing I did was spray the cruciferous vegetable patch with DiPel which is made of bacillus thuringiensis, a common pesticide used by organic growers. Everything else will have to wait until the heat wave moves on. According to our post-DOGE weather report, it looks like it is heading east and we may break loose by tomorrow. Who knows, though.
Importantly, I have returned to writing. I wrote a chapter with a career update, then turned to my real interest: remembering our time as a family when we moved from Indiana to Big Grove Township. I can tell it will be a good summer for writing.
Wild Blackberries ripening around Independence Day.
On July 2, 1995, when our child was ten years old, the two of us rode our bikes to Solon on the state park trail. We read the newspaper and ate breakfast at the Country Café. On the way home we stopped to pick wild blackberries growing along the trail. I made blackberry jam with some of them. It was hard not to eat them all as we picked them.
We then rode to watch the Freedom Festival regatta by the public boat landing. The sky was clear blue with a few cumulus clouds. Sails billowed in a breeze imperceptible from the shore.
Summer days like that are a reminder life is always just beginning. We live in each moment yet look forward to every new day with the hope that positive things will take place. Chance plays a role, although we must be active agents in making our future the best it can be.
Big Grove Township was established before Iowa Statehood. The first sawmill was built here in 1839 by Anthony Sells on Mill Creek. Put the big groves of trees together with the sawmill and you have us. The oak, walnut, hickory, ash, elm and cottonwood that once thrived among numerous pure springs were gone when we bought our lot here. What dominates is the culture we and others brought with us to an area where all trees indigenous to the Northwest once existed in abundance yet no longer do. There is something essentially American in that. We moved to Big Grove Township in August 1993.
There is a subdivision named Mill Creek today, suggesting this history. Throughout the area, people refer to early settlers and builders of homes instead of the people who now own those homes and live in them. The names Cerny, Beuter, Andrews and Brown persist, as does the more recent name of Don Kasparek upon whose former farm our home is situated.
On the vacant lot we purchased, there were scrub grasses and a lone mulberry tree. The tree appeared to have been planted by a bird’s droppings while it perched on a surveyor’s re-bar marker. The ground had a high clay content which suggested Kasparek had removed the topsoil before subdividing the plats. When he died in 2003, I recognized him in our association newsletter. We speak of him from time to time in the neighborhood, although not always in a positive way.
I looked at an old picture of a building on Main Street in Solon, the nearest city. In sepia tones, seven teams of horses and wagons are lined up in front of the building on the dirt street. We can make out the lettering on the shop windows: Cerny Bros Grocery, Cerny Bros Hardware, and Cerny Bros Feed. While the roads have been paved for many years, much of downtown and the surrounding area resonates with the area’s origins in history before automobiles.
We built our home during the record-breaking floods of 1993. Governor Terry Branstad described the extreme weather event as “the worst natural disaster in our state’s history.” At one point that summer, it rained 50 out of 55 days. The Des Moines Register published a commemorative book titled Iowa’s Lost Summer: The Flood of 1993. Extreme weather delayed construction of our home that summer, causing us to stay with relatives and in motels for about a month after we moved from our house in Indiana. We finally moved in, the same day technicians were hooking up electricity and cable television. I was used to severe flooding from growing up in Davenport where the 1965 Mississippi River flood broke records. I was not used to flooding, 1993-style.
I couldn’t believe who I was expressed itself in any of local history. My culture was what I brought with me, rooted in coal mining, factory workers, farming, home making, and the rural cultures of Virginia, Minnesota and Illinois. Our history as a family goes back on both Jacque and my families to the Revolutionary War. My line in Virginia goes a hundred years prior to the revolution. This seemed to have little relevance to local culture in Iowa.
That my ancestor Thomas Jefferson Addington is a common ancestor to the Salyer girls of the Salyer-Lee Chapter 1417 of the United Daughters of the Confederacy stands in contrast to the story of Maciej Nadolski working in coal mines in Allegheny, Pennsylvania after the Civil War and then buying land from the railroad in Minnesota. What of my father’s birth in Glamorgan, Virginia? What of the suppression of Polish culture by the Russians after 1865 that led to a massive migration of Poles to North America? If I weren’t here, we wouldn’t speak much of these things in Big Grove Township. Perhaps with time we will.
Dear Dennis,
The pioneer spirit! So much of popular culture lauds these people. Their hard work, and inquisitiveness have been amalgamated into a hagiographic portrait: the very founders of modern society. I take exception to this, rather, the importance and interest of the pioneers is over-emphasized. They struck new settlements in the wilderness, stayed 3-5 years, then sold out to move to Kentucky, then Indiana, then Iowa, then beyond. Restless, not enduring, their influence has been too much. I’d rather look at those who followed in their footsteps. Those who took the broken wilderness and made something of it, in many places the wilderness is, figuratively, still broken, transients residing there, waiting development. (Letter to Dennis Brunning, April 19, 1986).
If the 1980s was a time of our getting started, the 1990s were a time of work and supporting our family. We saved for our child’s college, and for our retirement. During the flood, we established ourselves. The time here was one of making a career and making time for family. We bought the home we could afford, and proceeded to fill it with boxes of stuff, many of which we do not now have a clue about what is inside. We are working on that as I write.
We took vacations, supported our child in high school activities, and took them to college. I worked for the income but took two long hiatus periods because of a nagging dissatisfaction. I had a retirement party and a cake in July 2009. We had been able to establish a financial foundation that, while not luxurious, was okay. All three of us were trying to make our way in a world that did not appear to care whether we succeeded or failed. I believed we were succeeding.
Iowa was one of the last areas settled by horse and wagons. If the United States is provincial when compared to the cultural centers of Europe, what then of us, twice removed from Europe? New York and Washington seem as removed as Paris and Bonn. So, culture in Iowa, even as we sit in Big Grove Township is not an indigenous thing. It is derivative, just as the language I write in is English. What I do, and experience from that point of view is indeed, as so many have said, provincial. But what about this? I cannot say because my life is based on study of western civilization. My view is it is no less pure, and beautiful and useful than the rigid cultures of Europe or the East Coast of the United States.
When I wrote journals, they were not the kind written by Samuel Pepys, or Henry Adams. They do follow journal forms as they came down. To say something new, and private: a creation in its own right. That’s what my writing was about. If it accomplishes nothing more than the calming of a Sunday afternoon, then it will have been of some use.
Creativity in Iowa often takes something of outside origin and incorporates it into a new creation, that is fed from the soil yet showing the genetic traces of the ancestor. This journal might be recognized as something it is not by an easterner or a European. Though nature has presented what it will, we must and will nurture nature’s presentation to our own new, creative intentions. I did not recognize this as we moved to Big Grove Township in 1993, yet that’s how things evolved.
By Aug. 6, I had begun journaling again:
I stopped keeping a journal some time ago. But now, in the basement of our unfinished house I take pen to paper and begin it anew. Here, in Johnson County, I hope for good things to take place.
I notice now… the ringing in my ears, the sounds of birds, and a car now and then driving in front of the house. It is a quiet place. There is much to do to make it a productive place. (Personal Journal, Big Grove Township, Aug. 6, 1993).
In late Spring 2025, while I’m digging in a garden plot or walking on the trail, my mind is consumed by how to pull everything in my autobiography together and bring the narrative to a close. Up to the time we moved back to Iowa, a chronological narrative seemed appropriate. Beginning here, in this place that was a vacant lot when we arrived, life got complex to an extent a time-based narrative doesn’t really capture those 32 years. There was no single narrative. And so it shall be in these closing chapters of this book.
It’s been a good spring. The cruciferous vegetable patch has been coming along nicely. If it continues, there should be plenty of home grown kale and collards for the coming year until next year’s crop comes in. Hopefully everything else in that plot will mature for harvest.
Cruciferous vegetable plot.
I’ve been able to exercise daily with a brisk walk on the state park trail. I’m moderating what I eat using an app to track calories. I shed 15 pounds of weight this spring. I am eating better food in appropriate quantities. Between the exercise and change in eating habits, I feel better.
The trail goes on forever.
Today I plan to catch up on work around the house and make a trip to the wholesale club. Tomorrow I re-start summer writing. Here’s hoping for a memorable summer.
Don’t forget. Today is Juneteenth! Happy Juneteenth to all who celenrate. That should be every American.
Swiss chard and collards donated to the North Liberty Food Pantry.
After an overnight trip to Chicago to visit family and friends, I’m ready to begin summer writing. Ideas have been percolating all spring. It’s time to get them down and make something of them.
I enjoy the Chicago suburbs of Oak Park, Skokie, and Forest Park where I have been spending more time the last couple of years. It is remarkable how from the ground it looks exactly like you’d expect after seeing it countless times while taking off from and landing at O’Hare and Midway. I stayed with someone who lived his whole life in close proximity to where he was raised in Oak Park.
The main summer writing challenge is determining a schedule. I want to get into the garden early in the day to weed and harvest. I don’t want to spend all my energy there. I plan to shake up my daily outline and routines. The re-engineering process should be fun, and easy to accomplish by Friday.
Tuesday morning I took excess chard and collards to the food pantry. The receiver told me, “Those will go fast.” I always feel good when I donate produce I grew for food insecure people.
There are a lot of positives in the waning days of spring. If we can only take the time to recognize them.
It’s been two weeks since I opened my draft autobiography. With the end of garden planting in sight, it’s time to turn back to that work. When I read what I’ve already written it seems like magic. Who wrote all of that? Me. It was me, as unlikely as that sounds.
There are a few kinds of writing on this blog and I’ll be considering them as I go about another day in the garden. The last few weeks have been what I would call “moment capture writing”: I write about a significant event that happened in a few, brief paragraphs and move on. In many ways, these are my favorite posts to read because they tell of moments in my life that might otherwise be forgotten.
Hannah Ritchie wrote a Substack post called “Under-the-hood of writing on Substack.” In it she opines about the type of writing that’s needed on Substack (or blogs). She wrote:
If you do have some tolerance for criticism and have ideas to share, I’d tell you to consider doing longer-form writing. By “longer-form” I just mean more than social media posts or comments; 1,000 to 2,000 words that lets you craft a narrative and explain your thoughts with nuance.
This reflects my blog-writing approach. I’m almost always working through some intellectual puzzle. More on that later. For the moment I must use the last remnants of a very warm night to take care of indoor chores so I can get out to the garden after sunrise.
Six quarts of vegetable broth. The spring version helps clean out the freezer.
While working in the garden, hiking on the trail, cooking, or resting, I’m thinking about my return to writing once the garden is planted. It is particularly important to finish the second book this year and then decide whether or not to put both books in places where people can buy them in 2026. Having a schedule is part of the process. Doing the actual writing is another.
I mentioned that a chronological narrative beginning with arrival in Big Grove Township is not appropriate to this part of my autobiography. On May 25, I wrote:
Up to the time we moved back to Iowa in 1993, a chronological narrative seemed appropriate. Beginning here, in this place that was a vacant lot when we arrived, life got complex to an extent a time-based narrative doesn’t really capture those 32 years. There was no single narrative.
There are some stories I want to tell. Family life after the move back to Iowa is important. My work in transportation and logistics after 1993 covered a lot of territory, yet I want to reduce this to some major stories along with a summary of all I did after returning to Big Grove. Work has been important in my life, so a long chapter about that is in the offing. Becoming empty nesters was a profound change and that merits its own chapter. There was a long period when our child lived in Colorado and Florida, which made frequent visits difficult. My work in environmental activism, on the board of health and in the local food system all are worthy topics with personal meaning. When the money ran out in 2013, and how I coped with that seems important. There is a lot here, yet a lot gets left out by covering these topics. Sorting through all this has been on my mind.
Another writing-related thing is answering the question, What to do about Substack? I don’t post frequently there, but when I do, I get a lot of organic views, more than I do here. Now that the print service I was using to make hard copies of this blog went out of business, I haven’t found a suitable replacement, and maybe it is a good time to move. More on this topic as the summer continues.
Editor’s Note: Still planting the garden and making short posts as I can. It won’t be long before I’m back to normal posting.
The weather has been fabulous the last week or so. Mostly clear skies, moderate ambient temperatures, and normal relative humidity. Each day I begin a little earlier and work until just before I drop. That means about six hours. It is beginning to look like a garden.
Instead of working straight through on a single garden task, I have a couple tasks going at the same time. I work some on one, then another, and then another in small bits of time. It breaks up repetitive motion, keeping me healthy. It also makes garden work more engaging.
The last day of May was cleaning and organizing tomato cages and stakes, turning over part of the soil in plot #4, and then grinding all the desiccated tomato vines into the yard.
I picked a big bunch of greens: Pak Choi, three kinds of lettuce, and arugula. In the house, I managed three loads of laundry. By the end of all this, I felt tired and sore.
Here is a photo gallery of the best last day of May shots.
Trail hiking.Canadian Geese.Sunrise on the trail.Transporting tools.Turning the tomato plot.Tomato cages are ready.
I decided to call my morning exercise a hike instead of a walk. That’s mostly because when my sneakers wore out, I replaced them with a pair of hiking shoes. I don’t know if this will persist, but I’m trying it on for size, to wit:
Here are some photos from my morning hike.
Sunrise on the trail.The trail goes on forever.Reflections in the state park lake.A neighbor’s bush.Bur Oak tree leaves.
I was sidetracked by being a grease monkey for 90 minutes at the beginning of my outdoors shift. When I removed the wheel to replace the tractor tire, I did not realize the role the key plays. It uses friction to to keep the wheel turning as gears engage and turn the axle. No key, no movement.
I started the tractor and put it in reverse: nothing. A couple of YouTube videos later I understood what was wrong, retrieved the key I discarded from the trash and reassembled everything. The grease on my hands won’t come out using special soap, so I will have to wear it off. I drove the tractor to mow a patch in the garden… good as new.
My father eschewed being a grease monkey and encouraged me to find a different way to make a living. Toward the end of his life he was assigned duties as a forklift operator in the meat packing plant. He made a point of wearing decent clothing as he hauled pallets of meat around the warehouse. Decent meant a minimum of homemade repairs. His message was we could rise above the quotidian circumstances in which we came up and found ourselves. He graduated from college at age 40 as an example.
I was glad to resolve the issue created by mounting the wheel improperly. I resisted an urge to call the repair shop and ask them. I just solved the problem using tools available. Self reliance is essential if we will survive the authoritarian regime in Washington, D.C. We need to save our money for more important things like taxes, food, shelter, clothing, and healthcare. Today’s political trends have me living closer to the means of production. That’s a good thing.
Editor’s Note: I finished planting most of plot #3 on Wednesday. I’m waiting for the hot peppers to mature before transplanting them into the final row. Next step is preparing a tomato patch. In the meanwhile, my posts here will be shorter than normal. I do plan to return to “normal” at some point after the garden is in.
Journey Home 
You must be logged in to post a comment.