Wandering and wondering ...

I've got a great walk to campus most days, now, with our new home just blocks from my office. It's a little cold at the moment, but it's a fresh, 15-minute hike through a quiet neighborhood.

I've been thinking about wandering, lately, and the paths that lead us to different places and spaces. Seemingly small, insignificant decisions can lead to long-term changes in our lives. A decision to join the student paper instead of a choir in college led me here. Smaller decisions--like visiting friends in Stevens Point, Wis., for New Year's 14 years ago, during which visit I met my spouse--have consequences we can't imagine at the time.

I'm a fan of saying, and believing, that everything happens for a reason. I have faith that the road I'm on is the right one, and I feel the presence of the Divine in my footsteps. Some days it's tough; over the last months, my family has lost several dear members, with long lives behind them, and challenging circumstances in other areas have made it difficult for us to remember the path.

But as I wander, I no longer wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I know it.

Of Rose Wilder Lane ....

I recently wrote a piece for Legacy.com about Rose Wilder Lane, and her lasting contribution to American politics and history. It's posted here:

http://www.legacy.com/ns/FullStory.aspx?StoryType=1&StoryID=17

There's some great clips and pics they've added to it, too.

Enjoy.

Thinking about Moving ... Again ...

Well, it looks as though we'll finally be in bigger space this weekend, having decided to sublease a townhome here in town. It's three bedrooms, close to campus, and gives us much more room to roam.

There's something sort of final about taking it, though. I had such high hopes that our house would sell and that we could move into a new place of our own, something we owned. Without that, though, we have fewer hopes at all that home ownership in Mankato will happen any time soon. It's tough to suck up, but we'll just have to go with it. Perhaps, if we can get the Wichita house rented, we can move forward.

Meanwhile, our new space will work out well for us.

Sleeping in Seattle ...

That was not a typo, folks; just a fun play on words, meant to convey that in leaving town for five days, I was actually able to get good, sound sleep. Sleep is at a premium with cats, snorers, and blanket thieves storming our small hotel room at all hours of the night!

I just got back from Seattle, Wash., where I attended the annual American Journalism Historians Association conference. This year I served year two of a multi-year sentence--ahem, service--as registrar for the organization. From that perspective things went relatively smoothly. We had an excellent program, with many panel sessions devoted to my favorite research topic: women in media history.

I also met several friends I hadn't seen in some time, as well as the bevy of usual suspects I see at this conference every year. It was fun to catch up, talk shop, and visit. A big question for me focused on the recent move I made from Wichita State to Minnesota State.

I was not, however, chained to my desk the entire time I was there (just Wednesday and Thursday, which is when most people showed up). Friday afternoons at this conference are devoted to a local historic tour, and this year's tour took us through Seattle's Underground and around the harbor of Puget Sound. When I have a chance, I'll describe these for you all, because they were remarkable sites.

I also had a chance to eat fresh fish and chips at Pike's Market, take the monorail to the Space Needle, visit the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame, and drink lots and lots of really excellent coffee. In fact, I think I have a caffeine hangover. Only one of those cups, however, came from Starbucks. I apparently just missed seeing the original, which is in the Pike's Market area, and had to settle for a mocha at a small shop just outside of Westlake Center, where I picked up the monorail.

No part of Seattle is "level" in the slightest. Do not be fooled by concierges or Seattle natives who tell you the six block walk to the monorail, or the harbor front, or anywhere else, is level. It's all up hill, down hill, and around a hill. Reminds me a lot of San Francisco. Or Saint Croix Falls, Wis. Without the harbor.

But, at any rate, I got good exercise getting out and seeing the sights.

And every night, slept soundly in my comfortable, quiet, cat-free room.

On Being a Public Scholar ...

On Friday, I attended a symposium honoring Professor Emerita Hazel Dicken-Garcia at the University of Minnesota's School of Journalism and Mass Communication. The theme of the day was "Beyond the Ivory Tower," and the challenge of the day was to bring scholarship into real-world applications and connections.

It was a fitting topic to honor a person whose great accomplishments as a teacher, mentor, and scholar stretch beyond the boundaries of academia. For those who don't know, Hazel was my own dissertation adviser at the U. Many of her advisees have gone on to do work that transcends basic scholarship to be publicly applicable. My own work bringing high school students into college journalism classrooms is one example. But there are many, many others who continue to apply their skills at research design and analysis to doing good work.

One example is Nora Hall, a Hazel scholar who now works as a Minneapolis consultant to improve neighborhoods and opportunities for women and others who need them. Another is David Domke, who, as a scholar, has published two books about religion and the presidency, and has found himself thrust into the national spotlight during election years. Others do things like work with local community groups to discuss issues of coverage for their organizations, or write editorials and columns explaining legal and ethical dilemmas for the press in layman's terms.

The day felt refreshing in many ways. The gauntlet for public scholarship was thrown into a crowd of former Hazel advisees, current and former U faculty, and invited guests. It will be interesting to see who picks it up.

Meanwhile, I'll continue to think about what it means, this business of being a public scholar, as I put the finishing touches on my new book, which explores the voices of American farm women from 1910 to 1960. It sheds light on their pivotal roles in American history and offers a kind of foundation for exploring the fissures between urban and rural American cultures that developed during that period, fissures that can still be felt today.

Hey, wait: That topic does have real-world applications!

Looks like I'm a public scholar, too.

If I'd graduated in 1950 ...

I'd probably have looked like this.

What I find absolutely hysterical is just how much I look like either of my grandmothers in this picture!

Check it out... You, too, can see what you'd have looked like in a yearbook photo of the past at http://www.yearbookyourself.com.

Of Musicals and Melissa Gilbert ...

Her signature gleams in black ink on a corner of my tattered program for "Little House on the Prairie," the musical I saw Sunday night at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis. Underneath the nearly illegible "Melissa Gilbert" is "Ma" in quotes.

It didn't seem odd at all to see Ms. Gilbert playing "Ma" instead of her signature "Laura" in the show. In fact, it seemed just right, as if time had provided her--and the audience--an opportunity to see her original character becoming a mother who dealt with a child, her "Wild Child," just like herself.

The day began Sunday with rain. Lots of it. The kind of rain that seeps into every pour and turns driving down the freeway into a nightmare of poor visibility. As I headed up to the Twin Cities, I boogied to the "Mamma Mia" soundtrack and reflected about the twisty road I'd traveled through my interest in all things "Little House." My interest started as a five-year-old girl who started reading her first "big" book--"Little House in the Big Woods"--in the living room of Laura's cousin, Ruby. Ruby, a friend of my grandmothers, baked wonderful cookies and always had time for little girls.

I don't remember when I started watching the television show, but I do remember the momentous occasion when my parents let me stay up to watch the episode where the school of the blind burns down.

And my sister and sister-cousins played "Little House" all the time when we were small. I was always Mary, because not only was I the oldest; I was blonde. My cousin Nic had the honor of being Laura because she was a brunette, and she was the second oldest. I think we mostly argued about how we were going to pay more than we actually played, but we had fun, anyway.

Throughout my life, I've added to this trove of memories, taking my first adult road trip to Laura's birthplace in Pepin, Wis., and to one of her Minnesota home sites in Walnut Grove, Minn.; tracing out Caroline's first home in Milwaukee, Wis., and finding her mother's grave in Rome, Wis.; finally taking the long-dreamed-of trip to De Smet, S.D., with my ever-patient spouse just three summers ago; publishing my own book about the Ingalls-Wilder-Lane legacy (The Rediscovered Writings of Rose Wilder Lane, Literary Journalist); and meeting many more friends and fans online to feel the same way I do about the program, the women, and legacy that has become labeled "Little House."

On my way to a new adventure at the Guthrie last night, I could barely contain myself. In just a few short hours, I would see the very newest offering in this LH legacy: a musical scripted by a fan who took on the unenviable task of bringing together multiple visions of a story that at its core remains a story of family cohesion in the face of adversity. In this task, the show exceeded my expectations.

And the music was phenomenal.

So when we were told that many of the cast, including Ms. Gilbert, exit at the stage door after each show to sign autographs, on request, my friends (also huge Laura fans) and I took the opportunity. Several people were crowded around that door, blocking the Guthrie's front exit, and cheered as the actresses playing Carrie and other town players left, followed by "Almanzo" (a seriously cute, talented actor!), and Ms. Gilbert herself, who was tired and anxious about the crowd, but gracious in signing programs and memorabilia for fans, who began to drift off as she made her way down the sort-of line that had drawn itself up. Finally, Kara Lindsay, who turned in a remarkable performance as Laura, emerged, and the same bubbly spirit that characterized her performance made her a laughing, gracious and grateful presence. She, too, signed my program--in red.

So what I have now is a document that immortalizes the passing of a torch, in a way. The "old" Laura, and the "new" one. But both represent a living remembrance of a woman, and a legacy, that we now call "Little House."

What color is the Crayon?

You Are a Yellow Crayon

Your world is colored with happy, warm, fun colors. You have a thoughtful and wise way about you. Some people might even consider you a genius. Charming and eloquent, you are able to get people to do things your way. While you seem spontaneous and free wheeling, you are calculating to the extreme. Your color wheel opposite is purple. You both are charismatic leaders, but purple people act like you have no depth.

What Color Crayon Are You?

Work, interrupted...

The challenge of teaching writing becomes the challenge of writing itself: keeping material fresh, interesting, and rewarding. 

I talked to a class this week about brainstorming, finding good ideas to write about, and finding a market for them. One of the tips I offered? "Enjoy your work."

Enjoying your work seems to be something that we can't always control. I certainly can name jobs I've had that I didn't appreciate at all, much less enjoy, but they filled the need to pay the bills. And later, turned out to be jobs that led me down this twisty road I've been on toward academia, offering me fodder for classroom stories and experiences to share with others. 

But to enjoy your work requires writers to have a positive attitude about what it is they do. Enjoying your work means being eager to find that next idea, research that next topic, pour out the words on paper or on the screen, and move on to the next. It means somehow reconnecting and finding the enthusiasm for the work you need to get through each assignment.

In some ways, I started this blog for that very reason--I needed space and incentive to write again in the ways I've always wanted to write. My second book comes out this spring, but I really want to try to take my writing up to another level--maybe even try my hand at fiction.

Blogging offers me an opportunity to just keep that spirit alive--to write--to enjoy my work. 

Some days, there might not be anything here. But for the most part, this is my chance to simply spend some time every day putting down words and rekindling the joy.

Back to Merry Olde England...

In the spirit of discussing something other than my housing issues, by now well known, I've decided today to talk about the perfectly marvelous time we had Saturday at the Minnesota Renaissance Faire.

I love this experience, which lets participants pretend to be in a 15th century market town on market day, with wares, food and entertainment. On Saturday, we met my sister and  her family, who also brought along our brother's daughter, to make merry at the market for the day.

The minute we arrive, costumed folks greet us; as we approach the gate of the festival, well-wishers, already merry with ale at 9 a.m., wave from the balcony. "Good morrow! Good morrow!" calls mix with casual insults and bawdy humor. The scent of richly roasted turkey wafts through air thick with woodsmoke and magic.

Contemplating Housing ....

About the third time Tommy jumped on my head last night, it came to me: It's really time to find an apartment.

We've been in sort of a holding position for the last month, waiting for some sort of offer on the house so we could move forward with an offer on one in our new community. There's been significant traffic through the old space, so we've got some hope that it will sell soon. But it's getting more expensive to be in this half-limbo of no address, no permanence, and no doors between me and the kitties at night.

Most places here require a year lease, so we'd be stuck until next summer in terms of looking for a home; on the other hand, there are worse things than being patient and finding the right space. 

I'd also like to be settled before the snow flies, preferably. And it was less than 50 degrees this morning when I got up. It's a cool chill that reminds me of how precarious temporary housing can be. 

I'm finding myself in sympathy with others who, for one reason or another, have been uprooted, and have no place to go. It's wearing to not know what the next day will hold, or whether or how things will go. I want to cook again, using an actual stove; I long to bake. I want my easy chair. (My feet agree!)

Most of all, I want to be settled.

Wish me luck.

In which I think about transitions ...

Moving terrifies me.

I recently started a long, complex move from one state to another, involving selling one house, and picking out another, and starting a new job. My husband's also looking for work in the new area, which we chose because it a) had a great new job for me and b) was closer to friends and family. 

But, though I'm an optimist, I've got to say things aren't going as smoothly as I'd like. Or maybe it's just my standards of "smooth" that need to be adjusted.

For one, the house in the first state has not yet sold. Which means we can't just blithely buy in the new state. We must wait.

So we're holed up in an inexpensive hotel with our cats, viewing our fiscal bottom line with anxiety as we pay for a mortgage and a weekly hotel bill.

Something's gotta give, folks.

My husband found a job almost immediately, but it doesn't start until next week and he's not sure he wants it. Having finally given up second shift work at the beginning of July in order to help me and facilitate the move, he's discovered he really hates it. Working second shift means never seeing his wife (she notes, blinking prettily, that the sentiment is flattering, if not entirely practical), and he's not sold on continuing his life as a call center customer service associate. He's frantically applying everywhere in town, looking for a job--any job--that would prevent him from taking that full-time, second-shift position next week.

My new job, so far, has held a few surprises, but for the most part, things are going smoothly. There's very little I miss about my old job and much I adore about this one. 

And the cats love the fact that at the moment, we can't kick them out of our room when we need some sleep. Which leads to minor sleep deprivation on my part, since they learned long ago not to bother the Man of the Place in the middle of the night. I must just look like a sucker who'll snuggle even when she's half-asleep.

Plus, I'm the food lady. And Tommy, the youngest cat at age 2, keeps trying to wake me up earlier and earlier for his first bites of wet food for the day. They only get it in the morning, so when he wants it, he REALLY wants it. Jumps on my head, and everything.

How are the transitions in your lives going?

It's another fine day at Harmony's House!

Welcome, all, to Harmony's House--your source for the inane and the interesting, mostly American upper-Midwest-based news. 

OK, maybe not news.

Maybe its mostly rambling and rumblings, annoyances and grievances, therapy and entertainment.

Hopefully, you'll be entertained, too.