A River Runs.

Last week I watched a story on the news about how the Yangtze River in China is the life’s blood of the country, and has been for as long as it has existed. The piece showed how industry and other development is impacting the river, and the people who live along its edge.

Many of these people literally live off the land. They grow their food, hauling water from the river, raise what animals they might use--for food, for labor, for clothing--and live, simply, but fully. They make very little in the way of money, but they don’t need much--they sustain their own needs.

But the skyscrapers in the background are creeping closer.

I would like to think that the developers, when they want the farmers’ land, will buy it from them for a fair price, a price that makes it worth their moving, that let’s them, essentially retire.

Unfortunately, I know better. I’ve witnessed similar scenarios in my own country, and I’ve learned that the languages of commerce and profiteering are universal. The developers will bide their time, build around the farms, isolating them, violating their borders, maybe blocking access to the water the farmers so desperately need. The government may even step in,condemning the farms as "blight." The farmers. with no financial wealth, will have no power to fight and will be forced out. Some folks call this “good business.” I call it rape and pillage. It has been going on since the beginning of time--but that doesn’t make it right.

As humankind of the 21st Century, we consider ourselves at the height of civilization. We boast of the progress we’ve made. Indeed, many will respond to the plight of the Chinese farmers by shrugging and saying, “You can’t stand in the way of progress.” But having the bigger bulldozer does not equal progress--it is merely technological advance. Progress, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is “development towards a better, more complete, or more modern condition.” I suppose one could argue that erecting skyscrapers on the displaced farmers’ land is a “more modern condition,” but it is not a better one--not for the farmers anyway.

I believe true progress eludes us. True progress involves equity and fairness--even kindness. True progress is the achievement of Peace on Earth.

Many of the stories in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales deal with power abuse--by the government, by church officials, by ordinary individuals--the stronger picking on the weaker, taking advantage for their own personal gain or pleasure. We are still wrestling with these same issues. In the roughly 600 years since Chaucer penned his stories, humanity has made little progress in creating a “kinder, gentler” society.

Collectively, we’ve tried to bring about a more level playing field. We threw out the monarchy, a locked-in dictatorial system of government, in favor of parliamentarian rule--law and committee. We broke the monopoly of the Catholic church, creating many different denominations. Finally, the founders of the United States of America created what they called a democratic system based on liberty and equality.

Unfortunately, fairness always gets in the way of our having what we want, and so we look for “loopholes” that let us rationalize our bad behavior.

The Ten Commandments, the first Law of the Judaic peoples, a foundation of Christianity, and of all western thinking, clearly instruct people to treat each other with respect--to the point where they are not to even covet what the other has (like a poor farmer’s plot of land). It is up to each of us as individuals to embrace the objectives of these tenets, and supposedly of all systems of law, and do them.

If I had one wish for the season, it would be that we would put our credit cards aside and embrace the true meaning of good will, that we would not covet the bauble in the next person’s stocking, that we would be happy they have received such a fine gift--and that we would carry the sentiment forward into the New Year, leaving the farmers to cultivate their land, and letting the developers build their skyscrapers in places they acquire fairly and squarely.

You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will be as one. Imagine . . . .

Nuts for the Winter

The squirrels outside my window have been scurrying up and down the trees, tucking acorns and other squirrel delicacies into hiding places only they know. They’ve been at it for a while now, making me wonder if they know something I don’t--like that the winter could be especially cold or long--and the warm autumn we've enjoyed will come at a price.

Taking a cue from the furry creatures, I too have been stocking up on winter needs, travelling to my favorite farm markets to stock up on apples and squash, cabbage and potatoes. There is also honey to be had, and homemade jams and other home canned goods. I make a point of stocking up on baked goods too, loading as many loaves of bread into the freezer as it will hold.

It’s a somewhat bittersweet activity. Sweet in that I love the fresh produce the area has to offer (I just can’t say this enough!)) I love the drives into the country and seeing the leaves change from shades of green to yellows and oranges and reds.

The bitter part, of course, is that summer is over. And blizzards are, inevitably, on their way. The yellow, orange, red leaves will soon fall, and I will have to dig out my mittens. Trips to the beach will cease (except for the occasional trip to watch a sunset from the comfort of my warm dry car).

In truth, I love the seasons, but the transition into winter is a bit rattling. Will I get everything done in time? And where are those mittens?

I hate having to rely on the “big stores” for my groceries. When the time comes, I find myself standing in the middle of the aisle, dazed, confused, not sure why I’m there. It takes time to readjust, reacquaint myself with the scheme of things.

I do use the big stores to stock up on non-perishables--things like rice, dried beans, pasta noodles. I also stock up on nonfood supplies--paper towels, tissues, light bulbs, batteries, soaps and detergents--things I would hate to get caught without in a blizzard Add cat food and kitty litter. And furnace filters.

This time of year also finds me scrambling to winterize the house, and the car--would love to get another coat of wax on before the salt flies. (The lucky squirrels don’t have that worry!)

To be honest, all of this is somewhat satisfying, especially as I watch the first snows fall. I am comforted in the fact that I am ready, that I have somehow beaten nature at her game.

As the flakes swirl their way to the ground, I can kick back, sip my hot chocolate, stir the pot of chili simmering on the stove, and sigh a big sigh of relief that, like the squirrels, I am prepared for all the north wind can bring--snug as a bug in a rug!

The Rest of the Story.

In my previous post, I wrote about the experience of hunting the elusive Pink Lady's Slipper. It was an unpleasant and fruitless search. I ended my prose with Robert Burns famous "best laid plans" quotation and put the matter to rest.

But when I recently shared the column with the friend who accompanied me on the "adventure," she responded, "Now finish it."

So, here's the rest of the story: A few days after submitting my column, I was relaying the experience to another friend. She laughed and commiserated, and then she paused. "I think my neighbors have Pink Lady's Slippers on their farm," she said, suddenly remembering a conversation about them.

And so, the next weekend, my "adventure" friend and I were on our way to my other friend's neighbor's farm--and there, just yards into the forest canopy behind the barn, we found Pink Lady's Slippers scattered across the pine-needled ground. There were no ticks, no mosquitos. We did not take a long hot hike. We simply followed my friend's neighbor into her woods. We oohed and ahhed and snapped our pictures. And that's the rest of the story.

The problem is, it messes up my conclusion, the moral to the story. I have been looking for the "point" of it all. I’m not sure there is one. It seems to expose the sheer randomness of things, events, conversations, even desires themselves.

Perhaps the most telling feature of this “story” is that it exposes the need for meaning. We like to have things neatly tied up with beginnings and endings and points and purposes. Maybe that’s the lesson of the “real” story--that reality is random and unordered and we, refusing to accept this fact, impose morals, stopping the story short if need be to achieve the desired ending. Like Cinderella’s stepsisters we cut off the toes of reality to make it fit the fairy tale shoe.

At any rate, I have amended my story, I have told the whole truth. I have offered a fair and balanced accounting of 2007’s spring hunt for the Pink Lady Slipper.

Certain details--that my friend’s three-year-old daughter went with us into the woods for instance--have been left out, but none that would “tip the balance,” only those that are redundant or irrelevant.

In the final analysis, we in fact succeeded in what we set out to do--we found our flower. Maybe that’s all that matters. Shakespeare said as much when he concluded, “All's well that ends well.”

Of Lady’s Slippers and Life.

I took some time last week to try to fulfill a longtime wish--to observe the native orchid Cypripedium acaule, or Pink Lady’s Slipper, in its natural environment. I had it on good authority they could be found in Ross Preserve, just north of the county line, in Covert Township. I convinced a friend, another natureholic, to go with me, and on o fine clear sunny day, we set out. We had our hiking sticks, water, hats, sunglasses--and of course, our cameras.

The path is a broad clear swath, once a road actually, so the hike was fairly easy, even if it was a mile in to the small lake. There wasn’t much in the way of “pretty” vegetation, most of the spring wildflowers were done. We did note the various trees that grew along the lane, and the numerous ferns we found where it was obviously wetter.

As we approached the small lake, we began to scout for the prize--the low growing two-leaved plant with a pink “ball” dangling from a thin flower spike. We skirted the lake, venturing into the woods. Nothing. We headed out into the meadow, which we decided really was a mostly filled in, and very dry, bog. We noted the shriveled and brown fern fronds, the bloomless wild roses, and removed ourselves from wild blackberry vines. There was a certain pride in the ability to identify these things. The meadow was peaceful, though the traffic on nearby I-96 prevented us from hearing the birds that must have surrounded us. We lamented that we hadn’t brought binoculars.

We finally gave up. We never found our flowers, and hiked out of the preserve hot, sweaty and bug-bitten. We had discussed bringing bug spray, but thought in the middle of the day, we’d probably be safe. We were wrong.

I nursed an uncountable number of mosquito bites for two miserable days. I removed over a dozen ticks--finding my last one crawling along the edge of my laundry bag three days after what my friend has dubbed “my adventure.”

As I mulled the occasion over (It’s what writers do, after all.), I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s just like life, you know. You set out eager, full of energy and hope, a dream in your heart. You contrive a plan and gather the things you might need for the journey.

But as you travel the road, you encounter things you didn’t foresee, that were not part of the plan--sometimes these distractions are pleasant, some times they turn out to be bloodsuckers--and you realize you haven’t packed the right tools, or have carted other items needlessly into the swamp.

Thus I harken to an older wisdom, the poet Robert Burns, who makes this similar observation after watching a mouse make and lose her nest: “ . . . foresight may be vain;/ The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men/ Gang aft agley [go awry],/ An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,/ For promis'd joy!” That's life.

Know Thy Food

The recent pet food recall of tainted wheat gluten, responsible for the kidney failure and deaths of numerous dogs and cats, underscores the consumer’s need to know what is in the food they are eating, where it comes from, and how it was made.

The incident shows that not all foodstuffs are grown under the same conditions, nor processed according to the same standards. If it is so cost-saving to import our ingredients from across the globe, perhaps we need to ask why.

The recall reveals the lack of oversight being given to imported products, by the companies using them and the government agencies responsible for ensuring public safety. The FDA admitted testing very little of the wheat gluten, a food derivative used in human foods as well as pet foods, entering the United States.

Menu Foods, the maker of most of the recalled food (though later other companies also pulled their products, admitting they used the same wheat gluten), waited an entire month, after receiving complaints, to take action. Not until they themselves had tested the products, not in the lab, mind you, but by feeding it to animals, many of whom died, did they alert the FDA. Imagine if the food was not for your beloved pet, but for your beloved baby.

At the same time the food supply is proving unsafe, the food industry fights simple labeling, the only real tool a consumer has in knowing what their food contains, and where it came from. There is no question that labeling is the responsible approach. The consumer should demand it.

Since the initial brouhaha, melamine has also been found in rice and corn products, and was discovered fed to chickens and hogs destined for human dinner tables.

And it isn't just food. The lethal chemical diethylene glycol, a component of antifreeze, has been found in cough syrup, cold remedies, and most recently, toothpaste.

A final note about the pet food recall: if I were the one buying premium, veterinarian recommended and veterinarian supplied, Hill’s brand pet food, and paying $1.29 a can for the very same thing Krogers sells for 39 cents a can, I would be madder than the proverbial wet hen!

It pays to know thy food--or costs not to.

G8, or, Bono's in Germany.

So, Bono's going to Germany to lobby the G8 about increasing financial aid to Africa.

In the past, concerts held worldwide drew attention to the plight of the "lesser." Organizer Bob Geldof said he wanted to draw people’s attention to the poverty and suffering of Africa, with a call, he claimed, for “justice,” rather than charity.

I've written before (see "Brad Pitt is One Fine Hunk"), I think this is both noble and possible. Even as Christ told us the poor would always be with us, He also gave us the tools (love thy neighbor) to alleviate poverty, if we could ever get our act together. I’m just not sure about the way we’re going about it.

First of all, Africa is not the only impoverished place in the world. For all its affluence, America has its share of starving children. In fact, there are poor and hungry people in every country, in every part of the world.

Second, I’m not sure it is the job of the wealthy to feed them. While it seems that the rich “have it all,” they don’t--they can’t, nobody can. Christ himself ministered to rich and poor alike. He understood that people of means have their needs too.

It stands to reason that, if by sheer luck, or hard work, one amassed an abundance of worldly goods, and people were always begging them for handouts, one might become suspicious, wonder if they are being used and question just how much responsibility they must bear.

And even if it were the job of the wealthy, I’m not sure they understand the true needs of the impoverished. They aren’t wearing their shoes, after all (or going shoeless, as the case may be).

George W. Bush is hesitant about giving aid to Africa. He’s not sure the governments receiving the aid will actually give it to the people in need. As an "insider," he surely knows a thing or two about government corruption.

But, he’s absolutely right. I remember George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh and all the money it raised. Food was shipped to feed those ravaged by famine in that country--and the government held it in customs so long it rotted.

I commend Bono, and Geldof, and others like them, and I would love to see justice done--I just don't think govenmental aid is the best way to bring it about. I think the best way to help the hungry people of Africa, and the rest of the world, is to solve the problem--of hunger and of injustice--for ourselves right here in the United States. We need to all--rich and poor--come to the table with our strengths--and weaknesses--and forge a fair and just system that allows everyone to feed themselves. We need to purge our own governing institutions of corruption and rise like the eagle we hold as our emblem of freedom. When we do this, the world will see our success--and our collective strength--and will want to follow suit. The best leader is, after all, the one who leads by example.

To Mothers Everywhere--Especially Mine!

Mother’s Day sneaked up on me this year--it seems to have come early--but here it is, the second Sunday in May.

Traditionally, Mother’s Day has been set aside to show mothers gratitude and affection for all they do for us, their families. People mark the holiday with brunches, lunches and special dinners. It is one of the floral industry’s busiest days, and long distance phone lines jam up as children reach out to touch base with Mom.

The day became an official holiday in America in 1914, after intense lobbying by a women named Anna M. Jarvis. Jarvis was moved to mark the day after experiencing the loss of her own mother. According to womenshistory.about.com, Jarvis had an argument with her mom, and the two had not reconciled when her mother died. She began to mark the anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May, by passing out carnations in her mother’s church.

Soon, her home city, Philadelphia, was celebrating Mother’s Day, and Jarvis, with others, began a letter-writing campaign to make it a national holiday. Jarvis later decried the commerciality of the holiday--the purchase of flowers, and greeting cards (she felt a handwritten letter was more meaningful).

But Mother’s Day celebrations are found even earlier in history than Jarvis'. Ancients of the Greek and Roman empires both had spring festivals honoring “mother” goddesses--Rhea in Greece and Cybele in Rome.

In the 1600s, England observed “Mothering Sunday,” a day servants and apprentices were encouraged to go home to spend the day with their mothers. They often carried with them special cakes to offer as gifts. This tradition died out with the feudal system only to be revived as American soldiers reintroduced the idea during WWII. And not to be forgotten is Julia Ward Howe, the first to organize Mother’s Day celebrations in the United States--as a day to promote peace.

Personally, I think we should pamper our mothers more often than once a year--how hard is a note, a phone call, or a bouquet of flowers? We may not even have Mother’s Day as a holiday if not for the guilt and grief of Anna Jarvis. To avoid the same trap that snared her--taking our mothers for granted, their love, their comfort, their advice--I suggest we keep our mothers on our minds and in our hearts every day of every year. Then, on the second Sunday of every May, celebrating Mother’s Day will be a greater, grander affair steeped with real meaning.

Discovering the Planet

Discovery Channel’s series "Planet Earth: Portrait of a Planet" has had me completely riveted. The photography is astounding, and I am left awed by the vast and complex systems of life. The show, an eleven-part series, filmed over five years, is roughly divided by ecosystems--Caves, Deserts, Jungles, Shallow Seas, Deep Oceans.

From the Redwoods of California, the oldest living things on the planet, to the Himalayas of China, the tallest mountains in the world, created of limestone (essentially compacted seashells) and thrust into the air by the collision of tectonic plates, from the comical dances of Borneo’s Birds of Paradise, to the habits of Russia’s elusive and almost-extinct Amur leopard, I am amazed by the power, the tenacity and the efficiency of life.

This is no fluffy nature show. It is a comprehensive look at the real worldwide web that is our habitat and the intricate, interlacing systems that allow it to work. As intricate as those systems are, the purpose of it all seems quite simple: it’s all about the children--the survival of the species. In other words, it’s all about life itself.

Anyone who's seen "March of the Penguins," knows the utter extremes the parent penguins go to to ensure their one single egg produces its chick, and that that chick survives to grow and experience its own ordeal to produce its own chick.

Planet Earth takes the principle global, showing the unique extremes to which each species goes to produce young, to send it off with the best possible chance of survival--to promote its species. Sometimes, as with elephants, it takes a herd--that when threatened will form a formidable circle around the calves to keep them safe. Sometimes, as with sea turtles, it isn’t about nurturing, it is about numbers. The turtle lays many eggs in the hope that enough hatchlings, who never see their parents, will make it to the sea and survive to return to the very same beach to themselves breed.

It is heart-wrenching to watch predatory animals stalk and seize their prey. There is no regard for the other’s life, only the singular goal of eating--and feeding their young. It seems brutal to me, but I know it would be just as painful to watch the predators and their offspring starve. As difficult as it is to watch, I am comforted by the fact that animals are not greedy, nor wasteful, nor mean and spiteful. They kill to eat, period. And there is no such thing as a free lunch. From the crabs that clean the ocean bottom to the moths that pollinate the baobabs, each creature gives, as well as takes.

Watching Planet Earth has made me question my own place in the scheme of things. I feel much less "highly evolved." I have realized how little we humans truly understand the planet we call home, and how removing any single component, even the (icky!) cave-dwelling cockroaches which eat bat guano, could have a tremendous, and perhaps grave, consequence--we could, for instance, find ourselves buried in bat guano!

Poetry: Priceless.

April is National Poetry Month, and in its honor, I’d like to share some thoughts on the topic.

At the close of the Civil War, Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. DuBois argued its importance. Washington felt it (I paraphrase) a luxury, as it could not feed the body, and DuBois felt it gave the soul the reason for feeding the body.

Long treatises have been written about the form and function and nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe felt that the most poignant poetic subject was the death of a beautiful young woman, as told by her bereaved lover.

The romantics thought poetry expressed man’s essential imaginations, capturing truth at its purest level. Shelley, in his essay “Defense of Poetry,” contrasts poetry to narrative, where time, he says, distorts things and makes them ugly. Poetry, on the other hand, "is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”

Poetry was, in many ways, born of practicality. Before the invention of the printing press, poetry was the news and entertainment of its time. Its rhyme and repetition were mnemonic devices that let people memorize and recite its stories, its truths, its expressions. The greatest and oldest works of literature--Beowulf, the Iliad, much of the Bible--are in verse forms.

The word itself derives from an ancient Greek word meaning “I create.” Thus a poet is a creator--the poem, the creation.

In the 21st century, poetry seems to have become superfluous, an unnecessary adornment, the latest advertising jingle.

Has “creation” thus fallen by the wayside? And with it beauty--even truth?

Poetry, no matter its form, or its function, exerts an undeniable power on those who experience it. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: What is this little ditty I can’t get out of my head?

Southwest Michigan has Jumped the Shark.

After twenty one years of living happyily in southwest Michigan, I am afraid to say, it has, at last, "jumped the shark."

This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.

What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.

Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.

The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.

Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

I love to sleep. The chilly mornings of winter make me roll up tighter in the warmth of my down comforter. Gray rainy Mondays send me back for a nap. Even the cool crisp mornings pf spring and autumn prompt me to spend “just ten more minutes” in bed.

This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.

I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.

Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.

Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.

And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.

My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.

--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.

It’s a Snow Day!

Note: Since this was published, as an Inside Column by the South County Gazette of Three Oaks, Michigan, on January 20, 2007, the area has been hit with much more snow! The "blanket" is easily two feet thick, with even deeper drifts. My editor has "blamed" this on my column.

I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.

Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.

While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.

Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.

All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”

Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.

Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.

The Accidental President.

In the weeks since Gerald Ford died, I’ve learned a lot about him I did not know. Ford at ninety three was, until now, our oldest living president, and held degrees from the University of Michigan and Yale. He was an athlete and a congressman for 25 years. I think the thing that impresses me the most is that he declined professional football offers to attend Law School. He set aside something potentially gratifying for something truly important He spent his career in Congress working hard, getting things done, and making friends along the way, according to those who worked beside him and are speaking out about it now.

I was sixteen when Nixon resigned amid financial scandal, antiwar demonstrations, and Watergate. Children lack context--the framework, a title. And so, what I remember from my early years are events--the assassinations of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his brother, Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember Kent State; I remember Mi Lai. I remember the Black Panthers and the Hell’s Angels. Viet Nam surrounded and divided the nation, threatening to simultaneously suffocate and explode it.

Into this tinder box fell Gerald R. Ford, the “accidental” president who found himself appointed to replace vice president Spiro Agnew, and then became president when Nixon left the office. “Comfortable in his skin,” as someone described him, Ford took hold of the rudder and steered the nation clear of the rocks--and he made it look easy.

In responding to the former president’s death, the current president made note of Ford’s “integrity,” and called him “healing.” Others have spoken of his “openness.” He certainly doesn’t seem to have taken himself too seriously, and yet could get down to real serious business when necessary. He did the nation true service--and deserves to be commended for it.

As I watch the televised images of people streaming past the coffin of Gerald Ford, in California, in Washington, D.C., and in Grand Rapids, and as I read about what is happening in the world around me, in New Orleans, in Darfur, and in Iraq, I can’t help wondering if we couldn’t use another Gerald Rudolph Ford right about now. I'm wondering too just who that “accidental” president might be.

--a version of this essay was previously published in The South County Gazette.