Sorghum

In my family, the last weekend of September means only one thing:
sorghum.

What's sorghum, you ask? Okay, you didn't ask, BUT...this is sorghum:

In my family, sorghum also means that we all pile into the car and go down to the family farm in Iowa, where we celebrate the sorghum harvest. For 20 years--rain or shine--our relatives and Iowa friends have been coming to harvest, eat a good potluck, and visit all day. It's not very glamorous, but it's fun. I've been going almost every year since I was two years old, and I love seeing all my people who I don't usually see enough of.

So when we get there in the morning, what we do first is cut down the sorghum out in the field.

Any kid or adult can help with the preparations. I remember being eight or nine years old when somebody handed me a machete (which gets the job done), and before I knew it I was cutting down sorghum that was five feet taller than I was.

Meanwhile, someone starts a fire.

A contained fire, that is.

Then we take the truckload of sorghum over to the press.

It's powered by a tractor, and there's a belt that turns the press. Then you just feed the press some yummy sorghum, and the juice comes out the side in bright green trickles into the designated plastic ice cream bucket, which is then poured into the designated metal milk pail to be strained.

I remember one year where instead of using the tractor, they had this wooden contraption where historically you hitched up the draft horses and they would walk around in circles to power the press. But nobody there had a horse, or bothered to bring one, so they enlisted all of us kids to grab hold of it and carry it in circles. It was heavy. Eventually a few grown ups took pity on us and helped, and we managed to get some juice that way.

After you have the juice, you pour it into the vat, which sits atop the aforementioned fire, and you let it boil, but not too much! And stay clear of the smoke and steam. After the juice thickens up a bit, you have yourself a fine jarful of sweet greenish sorghum goo. It's basically like molasses, and tastes very good in cookies and other things.

In between all that, we break for a potluck lunch in the dairy barn. It's all cleaned out and hasn't housed cows for a long time, but you can still see the stations where they stood.

The neighbor's dog likes to come and beg for food, and we always wave the Norwegian flag from the barn. I just loved the color of the soybeans that were all around us.



Ahhh yes, sorghum weekend was good.

My idea of a fun weekend

Johanna and Emily sharing a laugh

Life is good.

I often over-work, I spend too much time at the computer, and I tend to think/obsess/worry about tasks left undone when I'm not actively doing them. My weekend activities don't usually look too much different from my weekday activities. I like things that way, but every once in a while even I need a break from routine.

That's when I rent a toddler.

You can rent them pretty cheaply. Actually, all you have to do is offer their parents some free time and you can pretty much get a toddler whenever you want one.

I'm blessed to have two toddlers in my life who are often available. This weekend Johanna is visiting. She laughs at the dog, she has enthusiasm for the most tedious household task, she takes us to the playground "over this way," and she keeps us laughing with her commentary on life. "I not a baby, I a girl," she says emphatically. To my dog, she says, "Puppy, that's enough barking." She's right.

Parenting a two year old is exhausting, but hosting a two year old for a weekend is not. For me, it's a shot in the arm, a break from routine, an opportunity to dwell in the moment and remember that the ordinary things of life are extraodinary.

Thanks, Johanna. Thanks, her parents.

Dream Job

My career ideas swirl around my head and change a lot, but one thing that stays the same is my Dream Job, which...doesn't exactly have a real title, so I'll explain. ~~

In and around maybe 8th or 9th grade, I was reading an article in Time magazine about the resurrection of a style of church music called Shape Note Singing, or more commonly called the Sacred Harp. This is from way back in the early 1800s when new Americans were poor and illiterate and couldn't read music, so instead they matched pitches to different shapes to read on a page. They had no pianos or pipe organs. It was created so that anybody who could talk could also sing along, and everybody could lead and keep the beat from inside their "hollow square" seating arrangement. This style was used up and down the South Eastern United States, and it burrowed deep into Appalachian mountain communities. It was the main mode of congregational singing in that region for decades, and in some places lasted through the 1950s and 60s. This particular style has a haunting harmonic form, and it's distinctly Southern American. But unfortunately this important specimen of musicology seemed lost for the future generations to study, listen to, and most importantly, sing.

This is where Alan Lomax comes in. Lomax traveled the United States recording songs and tales that people had brought with them from other lands, and that had morphed into the roots of traditional American music when they came to this country. Although he did lots work with different organizations, his most important field recordings were probably made during his time in the 1930s at the good ol' Library of Congress. He went to teeny little churches in the South and recorded Sacred Harp music, he recorded the descendant of African slaves singing "Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby" (which was featured in the wonderfully soundtracked film O Brother Where Art Thou, sung by Gillian Welch, Emmylou Harris, and Alison Krauss), many fiddle tunes, work songs, children songs, God songs, sad Irish songs and happy drinking songs.
He collected memories of a culture where singing and storytelling was a part of everyday life. He also recorded very rare performances and interviews with the folk- and -bluespeople of the day, like Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly, Jelly Roll Morton, Ramblin' Jack Elliot, and Muddy Waters, people who still influence musicians today.

My dream job is to be wandering around the world with a tape recorder, like Lomax, asking people to sing me their songs. Music represents so much of a culture--it tells of history, of prosperity or economic depression, politics, violence, faith, happiness, community, work, and play. It tells of our evolution as a people and a society. I like the idea of preservation. I love the feeling that I am singing the same songs my Norwegian grandparents did in their Lutheran church, more than 150 years later. I love that I can find an obscure but beautiful Irish song from the 1800s called "On Raglan Road" after hearing it in the movie In Bruges, because in the 1960's a man named Luke Kelly and his band the Dubliners had the sense to remember it and sing it over 40 years earlier. I love that the African American spirituals have become some of the first songs we sing as children, whether we're Christian, African American, or not.

So don't be shy if I come up to you with a tape recorder and ask you to sing for me. It's the continuation of an American tradition that shouldn't be lost.

Precious time

I love my work, don't get me wrong.

I love my volunteer commitments, make no mistake.

But right now I am experiencing two weeks in between. Home from my travels to Tanzania, where there are many things to do, many people to see, many requests and plans to follow up on my return. Yet not in my school year schedule of piano students, regular meetings, choir rehearsals and Sunday morning worship services.

I'm working ahead, planning, practicing, and coordinating many of those teaching, accompanying and volunteer projects that will come up this fall. But somehow, the time still seems like mine.

Each morning I revel in a walk with my daughter. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we just walk.

I've scheduled coffee or lunch with colleagues and friends, catching up, planning ahead, or just enjoying.

I take my son to lunch, or to a bookstore.

When stuff frustrates me, I pull weeds in my garden.

And I love these days. I know I'd get bored if these days lasted longer than two weeks. But for now, the time is precious, and I am full of gratitude for the end of summer.