Photo Post: Dining table.

Dining table at the old library, Burwell, Nebraska, 2010.

Flight rules.

I don't remember sitting on my mother's lap in my uncle's Cessna the time I threw up all over everything as we were making a quick VFR descent through clouds, but everyone else in the family does. So began my entrance into a family whose patriarchs have flown their own planes or lent these skills to the government to fly bigger, faster planes. Once, after listening to Radio Lab interviewing pilots on out-of-body experiences, I called my father and asked him if he ever felt such a thing.

He said, "Oh, God, no. I've never pulled more than four Gs".

Cram Field in Burwell doesn't get much traffic. This is perhaps a problem of location. I stopped at the field today because for the first time in a long time, I saw a plane sitting on the tarmac. Also because I not-so-occasionally have dreamed of getting my pilot's license.



The terminal was empty.



I checked the board, the flight was not yet listed.



Perhaps there's a deal to be cut with my husband: he can have a motorcycle if I can have a pilot's license. That deal would make me the first female in my family to have her pilot's license. It would also make us one of the more dangerous marriages in existence. This is the first he's hearing of this idea, so I'll let you know how that goes.

Too much stuff, too few uses.

Chances are, if you are reading this, you are one of the most privileged people in the world, in terms of economy, education and opportunity. As I pack up and prepare to shut down our home in the Sandhills of Nebraska, the process serves as a reminder of the amount of work and maintenance our standards of lives require.

In these parts, as recently as four generations ago, entire families settled this land by plowing large patches to plant and building tiny sod houses on the corners to dwell in. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, sod houses made wonderful homes for centipedes and spiders while only providing adequately for the families who lived inside. Historical recounts tell of four or five people living their lives in these dwellings, roughly eight feet by 12 feet if it was small, single-roomed construction, which was often the case. Eight feet by 12 feet is about the size of my bedroom here, and I often catch myself thinking that it is way too small to use as a bedroom.

A constant reminder of Sandhills heritage stands at the Burwell park; a sod house built by community members some time ago. It is just like the land it was built from, strong-willed and stoic. And frankly, it makes me feel guilty sometimes, walking by it to return to 3,000 square feet of over-furnished home.

Part of the problem with home is it contains too much stuff. This has been a problem for a while, especially after two households recently combined into one. This week, my loving compadre sent me this New York Times article about stuff which walks through one couple's journey of paring down their posessions. The idea is so potent, it generated a sense of relief just from reading about someone else doing it.

For now, I'm shutting the place down and will be back on the road for work, but something else my loving compadre challenged me to do was make a list of 100 things that I would live with in the recent future. It is a great idea, because there's only one suitcase going with me.

Good morning.

I don't really think about too much on my morning walk, mostly because it happens very early and before coffee. I am thinking something, I'm just not able to retrieve what it is until after a shower, some coffee and a look through the pictures I might have taken along the way. This morning, as the sun was beaming over a few picnic tables, the image reminded me of the importance of gathering friends and families around food. To me, it doesn't matter where the picnic bench is. It can be in some small-town park in the middle of nowhere or at the foothills of the Alps; I place the importance on the gathering, not the where are we gathering.

All we really have is a collection of moments strung together, and they happen whether we want them to or not, so why not find something in each moment that causes us to enjoy being exactly where we are?

Coming home

I wish all returns home were like this past Tuesday, when I drove in after two weeks away for work.

On my way back from New York, I stopped in Detroit for a night to visit an old friend and her partner. They recently purchased a house and quickly made it a home, already with a garden and chickens this first season. Upon my departure, they loaded me up with some jars of jam she made from foraged fruit around Detroit. Among the blueberry-raspberry and straight blueberry jam, I am saving for myself the peach and crab apple; the apples foraged from a neglected tree on one of Ford's old auto plants.

When I pulled up into my driveway, my neighbor saw me and waved. I went over to say hello and he mused that it was hot while I was gone, and it was good for his tomatoes. He started picking some, and asked if I had a bag. I held open the bag holding the jams. He gave me some cucumbers and two sweet onions in addition. I always feel like a leech when he shares his mastery of the garden, because I rarely have anything to offer in return. Finally, this time, I reached into the bag and gave him one of my friend's jams in exchange. Paul, in curt and sincere Midwestern fashion said, "Thanks", and off we went our separate directions. I was still holding my duffel bag from the trip. I walked inside, set all my bags down and smiled this huge dopey grin I am glad no one else saw. I love moments like this.

Hello, Sandhills

Last night was just another holiday weekend on the plains. Had dinner at the local fancy restaurant, then went to a backyard party to watch any consumer fireworks that neighbors were setting off. On my four-block drive home, I crashed the wedding dance across the street from me, at the American Legion. While I was there, I found a woman who told me about the Garfield County Frontier Fair Association book she donated to the historical society; something I need in my research of Nebraska's Big Rodeo. I am headed to the historical society today to see if I can dig it up.