Thursday, January 31, 2013

Welcome Back

Our delegation met with Secretary Shinseki in Washington. From all accounts from our governor and three representatives, the meeting went well and lasted much longer than the alloted time. At this time no decision has been handed down from the VA administrator as to the fate of our beloved VA in Hot Springs, but we remain hopeful and some are preparing a welcome home for our five delegates who represented our community with honor.

We are so very proud of them and of all of us who labored so very long and hard over the final presentation given by our five delegates to General Shinseki. What else is there to say at this time of our struggle? We still wait on a decision. To those of us who have been close to this year-long process, there seems to be only one logical response, but, we all know that life does not always produce the most humane or logical solutions to every problem.

So, we wait, and hope, and we remain proud.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Off to Washington DC

After a year of meetings, planning, writing, developing, researching, promoting, hoping and strategizing, five of our people from Save our VA group are heading to Washington to meet with the Secretary of the Veterans Administration. The proposal developed by one of our committees has been sent in advance to General Shinseki. Our five delegates have the job of selling it to the powers that be so that we will be able to keep our very special VA facility from closing, and expand it to accomodate the needs of our veterans, with a focus on those suffering from PTSD, brain tauma, substance abuse and homelessness and joblessness.

The creativity of our locals who developed this proposal continues to amaze me. It is certainly a win-win for the VA, our veterans, and the taxpayers who fund the military.

We, at home, are waiting with bated breath for the return of the five. So much rests on their shoulders, yet, whatever the outcome, we are proud, so very proud of their efforts and those of all of us from this veteran's town who have worked tirelessly, with no monetary compensation. We have, however, received a rich reward. We have united with a diverse group of locals, most unkown to us one year ago, and have felt the deep satisfaction that comes with striving for a common goal that may benefit so very many for years to come.

Tonight, as I write these words, my feelings of pride are mixed with anxiety, hope, fear and confidence in our year-long efforts and those five carefully selected individuals who are on their way to plead our cause.

No matter what the outcome, the pride that rises within will never leave. It will remain for history to validate our story...the story of a town that had a dream, a dream which became a proposal that Washington should not ignore.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

It's Nice to be Missed

An email appeard as I was working on a speech to be given at the Golden Valley Country Club in the Twin Cities next weekend. The writer said that he wondered if my computer had crashed again since I had not written a blog for a while.

I looked back. Wow! Was it really that long? I have not taken a few minutes to write a blog and my computer is back working. I also got a new printer. So, no excuses, except life seems to get in the way of living at times.

What is the saying, "Take time to smell the flowers?"

I must learn to say no to some things. Actually, I did say no to a trip back to the Cities to speak at a founder's banquet. I feel badly, since I am one of the founders of the organization that began twenty years ago and I really love to give speeches. I weighed the pros and cons, and the cons to going won out. Making a video will entail a few hours. Attending and presenting would involve several days.

The email was a jolt. I stopped working on my speech and turned to my blog. It is really a special feeling to receive a message that my writing is missed. I also got another email from a high school friend from Ely, Minnesota, who now reads my blog. She writes,  ....beautiful thoughts....As I read I could smell the wet wool and remember the snow tunnels that were everywhere. The snow was deeper then and the banks were higher. It's good to reminisce.

Emails such as these are special moments. My friend from Minnesota has a way with words. She could write a blog as well, or better, than I. Many people could and would, if the opportunity presented itself. Everyone has something to say, some  more eloquently than others, but everyone has a story. If only everyone told that story. Today, with the internet, more have the opportunity to express themselves. Back in our day, we kept journals. Most were lost or hidden away, but the important thing was that our thoughts were put down on paper, at times for others, but always for ourselves.

Thank you, Tom and thanks, MJ. Words connect us, although we are miles apart.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

It Feels Like Minnesota

The storm brought us over six inches of snow. We all know that we need the moisture badly and even though the snowfall amounts to about a half an inch of actual water, we, in the Black Hills, are grateful for whatever falls from the clouds.

The sounds of snow shovels and snow blowers, almost forgotten since we left Minnesota, brought familiar memories. I often felt surrounded by snow while growing up in north woods, close to the Canadian border. It usually fell around the end of October and remained on the ground, with gradual additions, until late in April. I remember at least once walking through some left-over snow in the woods in the month of May. Of course, it was under the perpetual shade of some trees, but it was there for me to slop through.

My family lived in the pristine woods, about a mile from the small town of Ely, and the snow remained clean and white throughout the long, long winter. We shoveled it, sledded on it, made lengthy snow tunnels in it, rolled it into snowmen and snow forts which protected us during snow ball fights. We ate it. There was no time to go back into the house for a glass of water. It was unsoiled, after all. After hours in the white stuff, hungry and tired, we stomped into the kitchen, scraped our boots, shook off our soggy mittens and unlayerd our heavy woolen snowsuits. The smell of wet wool filled the kitchen for a time, until the aroma of my mother's fresh bread overpowered all other odors.

Oh, the smell of hot chocolate and fresh, buttered bread, still lingers within me! The warmth of the kitchen and hot food took away the shivers from snow that sneaked in through cracks in our winter armor, or, perhaps soaked through the thick wool after so long in the snow. Back then we stayed out doors for much of the day, not being distracted by television or computers.

The darkness came early, and after dinner and dishes, there were board games, radio shows and books, books and more books. Boredom was an unfamiliar word. Life was full back in those days so long ago, in the remote forests of northern Minnesota.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Thanks for the Memories

The new year has come and gone and my computer came and went. The computer guys are still working on the problems, but at least I can receive email again, and I think I can publish a blog.

All of the new year reflections have been published days ago by many other writers, so I guess I should pass on that, but my thoughts often go back to those "good 'ole days" when I am struggling with computer issues. Life was less complex even though the youth today wonder how we managed without instant connections with everyone out there. I admit, this computer has been a gift in helping me write and stay easily connected with special people in my world, and also an aid in my volunteer work in the community.

On the other hand, I often spend valuable time working on computer issues, putting up with individuals in restaurants or other public places talking ever so loudly to someone on the other end of the line who might actually care about that conversation, being ignored or almost run over by someone on their cell phone or head lowered with texting, being put on hold while the person I was conversing with takes a "more important caller who cannot wait or call back", and on and on.

While I was on the phone with the patient computer guys at Golden Shield, (I know most of them by name by now), I could not help but think back to those olden, golden days when there was a dial into a only a few TV shows, and our communication was through wonderful, permanent snail mail, the telephone on which I was first and only to my caller, (even though in the very olden days the lady on the other end of the party line would butt in, after listening in for a long while, and tell me to get off the phone), and a great deal of time was spent in actual face-to-face listening and conversing.

I remember listening to neighbors chatting over the fence or a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, listening to the sounds of cars on the gravel roads, the clucking of fat chickens fussing over a juicy worm, water lapping against the big old rowboat and the drips of water falling from the oars stroking through the water, the steady, familiar vibrations of our gentle cow, Marie, chewing her cud as we lay against her warm belly in the afternoon sun. Sounds of our surroundings were all around then. We did not have our phone constantly at our ear or finger tips, or a TV drowning out the melodies of nature or the sounds of silence.

I remember listening to my mother stirring up dinner in the kitchen, my father's old car clunking up the alley into our garage as he came home from work, a lone wolf howling in the nearby forest, the sharp crack of the baseball bat when the older boys were playing baseball in the empty lot, the church bells chiming, the ring of the doorbell when a friend came calling, chattering voices of the sewing circle ladies lunching in our dining room. I remember imagining - pictures evolving in my head - from all of the listening. There was time for reading, thinking, listening and actually looking into the face of the person with whom we were conversing. Family meal time was with one another. There was no texting, phoning or television. We came first during mealtime in our home.

Most of all, I remember the singing. We sang in the car, at the cabin and the lake, on the front porch and at our neighborhood gatherings. I listened and joined in when I learned the tunes. To this day I remember many of those old tunes and the sound of the piano accompanying them, even as I fell asleep in the adjoining bedroom, filled with the comfort of music.



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