Meal one, multiple courses, most just one bite. And oh, what a magnificent bite! Flavor and aroma. Texture and temperature. Precision and presentation.

Backing up a bit. I was in New York City in early June visiting a friend. His plan for dinner: omakase. Great… what’s omakase?

It’s distinctive, and in this instance, unforgettable. The Japanese word translates to “I leave it up to you.” Chef’s choice; a tasting menu. And more: a multi-course experience playing out right before our eyes in a modest Japanese restaurant, drawing on fresh, high-quality ingredients, most courses consisting of a single bite.

No menu, no guesswork and, although I have photos, in most cases I really don’t know what we ate. Fresh seafood and sushi rice, all prepared and served with utmost attention and care. I think our meal totaled seventeen courses. Maybe ten diners in the entire restaurant.

Seated at the counter, we watched as our chef prepared each delicious morsel. Smiles and nods displayed our pleasure; “mmmm” and gestures conveyed our enthusiasm. Considerable bowing by our chef, tending only to us for about two hours.

Every taste savored within seconds of being served, mostly using fingers rather than chopsticks. Thin strips of ginger available to refresh our taste buds. Sharing a bottle of sake and hydrating with tap water, NYC’s finest.

My companion had experienced omakase before, so he knew, generally, what was happening and provided superb guidance. I deferred to his wisdom as we both placed ourselves in a master chef’s hands. From start to finish, an exceptional meal. Upon reflection, more accurate to say the evening was a glorious experience.

Pivoting now to a second memorable meal… at “Indígena by Owamni” now in expanded space at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis. Indígena, pronounced In-DEE-Hay-Na, according to their website, “is mark(ing) a new chapter, expanding the culinary scope, physical space, and cultural reach of the James Beard award-winning restaurant founded by Chef Sean Sherman.”

For several years, it’s been “Owamni” a much smaller, nationally acclaimed Indigenous restaurant – a fine dining experience I’d not yet accessed – created in 2021 by “The Sioux Chef” (clever). In September 2023, Owamni was acquired by a nonprofit organization, North American Traditional Indegenous Food Systems (NATIFS), thereby “paving the way for more hands-on training opportunities, guest chefs, Indigenous food R&D, and producer spotlights.”

Let me note here that I care about compelling concepts, often as fundamental to a good restaurant as great food. I care about adequate working conditions and fair compensation for those who work in these establishments. And I always care about a meal that lingers in my mouth while I’m dining… and then in my mind for days if not weeks that follow.

Indígena by Owamni delivered on my high expectations. Our meal was “opening night” at their new location (they cohabitate with the Guthrie so I can say this, right?), June 23, which meant servers sometimes responded to our questions with, “Hmmm. Let me check.” They reported back swiftly with answers.

Highlights of our evening: a corn-based side dish, called marichou (caramelized sweet corn, onion, tomato, and something called “warrior seasoning,” an Indigenous-inspired spice blend); a massive bison ribeye sufficient for four (with pink peppercorn sauce, pickled fresnos – basically, chili peppers – and crispy onions); and wild-caught salmon (Pacific Northwest salmon, huckleberry tomato aioli, and sea beans). I had to look up sea beans, a bright green, marsh-dwelling plant that tastes somewhat like salty green beans

I don’t do food reviews. My friend Wini, part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, does… and extraordinarily well. I write about unusual experiences, which sometimes include notable meals. In both of these instances, the food was incredible.

But what about the lift, the specialness, that elevates it all to “deserving a write-up” status? Ah, it’s the company and conversation. It’s the happiness reflected in the pleasure of others. It’s a beginning-to-end encounter: food, service, ambiance… and invariably, the boundless joy of dining with dear ones.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always appreciate your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

This is the text of remarks I delivered after seven performances of “Hormel Girls,” by Cedar Summerstock Theatre at the Cedar River Complex in Osage, Iowa, about 35 miles south of Austin, Minnesota, where Hormel Foods is headquartered. It’s a more expansive look at the Hormel Girls phenomena from the 1940s and ’50s.

As noted, this was my modest attempt to provide historic context for the play.

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Hello! My goal today is to provide a bit of context, a “basket” in which to carry home what we just saw.

My name is Kurt Meyer. Grandpa, Herbert Meyer, worked at Hormels’ beginning in 1928, age 22. Dad, Loren, began 20 years later, in 1948, age 19. They both worked there until they retired, overlapping many of those years. Two of my heroes, their only long-term employer. I mention this because it colors my perception of the company.

And yes, my siblings and I call it what Dad and Grandpa called it, HORmels’… probably plural possessive. As if the founding family would walk in any moment and take possession. The name dangles from many branches of my family tree. In addition to Dad and Grandpa, my uncle, my aunt, my cousin, my brother, my sister-in-law… all worked there at one time. Dad, Grandpa, Uncle Emery, for more than four decades.

Half the parents of my kindergarten class worked at the plant. That’s four of eight parents – country school, class of four. None of the aforementioned were in management, all dependable worker bees.

This does not make me an expert on my topic today. Yet, I likely know more than most and am eager to share at least some of my thoughts, channeled into three headings. A mighty struggle to confine it to three.

--First, marketing claims attached to the “Hormel Girls” phenomena.

--Second, a few words about Jay Hormel, a truly remarkable man.

--Third, the transitional timeframe in which the Hormel Girls thrived.

First, some claims I happened upon… a reminder that throughout the lifecycle of the Hormel Girls, this initiative was supported by an advertising agency, Batten, Barton, Durstine & Osborn, Inc., BBD&O, a venerable organization which traces its founding to 1891, the same year Hormels’ began.

Hormel Girls claims, are you ready? There are ten of them:

--“the largest traveling sales group in America.”

--“the largest traveling musical organization in America.”

--“the only all-female big band in America”

--“their routine of music, song, and chatter, the only show of its kind in the country.” Feb, ’49

--“possibly the most successful musical-marketing strategy in the history of partnerships between music and industry.”

--“likely the most expensive industry musical organization to have existed up to that time in U.S. history… and possibly up to the present day.” (From 2007)

--“perhaps one of the most unique organizations in the entertainment field… a sponsored show using girls who double as salesgirls during (their) continuous tour.”

--“probably the most novel and effective selling organization behind any grocery products in the country.”

--“the only radio show of its kind, and the merchandizing plan behind it. … AND (this last one a conglomeration of many adjectives used to describe the phenomena)

--“America’s gayest, brightest, most dazzling, largest, liveliest, (and) most colorful stage and radio show.”

There’s clearly some waffling here… words like “possibly,” “likely,” “perhaps,” “probably”. Claims like these are notoriously hard to fact-check… but you get the idea. The Hormel Girls concept was distinctive if not unique, with an impressive series of “firsts” or, at a minimum, “earlies in the field.” One final example…

When the Hormel Girls concept was attempting the radio-to-television transition, the entire crew headed to Chicago to work with a guy named Fred Niles at Kling Studios, the largest film and TV production studio outside of Hollywood.“Niles tested a special technique in filming the Hormel series. Recorded tape sound was used with a multiple camera set-up, 60 girls mouthing lyrics in unison with a previously recorded track.”

The Hormel Girls were lip-synching! From information packets distributed to the girls: “Note to brass and reed players: You’re not required to touch your mouthpieces as hard as if you were actually playing so your lipstick shouldn’t smear.” Musicians started lip syncing in the 1940s and 1950s. It became industry standard on television programs like American Bandstand, which went national in 1957… musicians miming their recorded hits to ensure audio quality. Hormel Girls may NOT have been first here… but they were early… very, very early.

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Second, a few words about Jay Hormel, (you met HIM in this play). Only child of the company founder, born in 1892, mere months after the company was birthed. Became head of the company in 1929, the year Dad was born. Died in 1954, eight months after disbanding of the Hormel Girls, two months after my birth.

Jay had a sheltered childhood, including expectations, pressures, and joys of being heir apparent. Eventually, he was enrolled at Shattuck School for Boys, then a private military academy in Faribault, fifty miles north of Austin, not in public school, where he would have encountered company families.

He attended Princeton University for three years, where he had, quote “a very good time.” His dad hoped he might study law; Jay became manager of the university’s laundry service. Father and son finally agreed that Princeton was a poor fit. Jay was brought home.

Before his return, however, Jay sought to become a musician. According to one biographical sketch, “After schooling, he pursued a career as a jazz pianist… with some modicum of success.” He expressed hopes of becoming an orchestra leader, which didn’t set too well with dad. Quote: “Eventually, Hormel DID preside over a small orchestra consisting of himself, his wife and his three sons. Jay was musically talented and was known locally as a virtual one-man band.”

Although he didn’t have daughters, if we look closely at these early years… and squint a bit… we can see in Jay’s moves early signs of the Hormel Girls.

Young Jay began a two-year stint working in the plant. But then World War I broke out; Jay was among the first Minnesotans to enlist. He became an officer with the American Expeditionary Force and supervisor of an ice plant unit at a supply base in France.

While there, he met Germaine Dubois of La Vernelle, a miller’s daughter. At war’s end, Jay Hormel, age 26, returned to Austin and assumed more plant responsibilities. Meanwhile, Germaine, 22, moved to Paris and worked in a millinery shop. In Jay’s son’s telling, many years later, “With little or no explanation,” (Jay boarded a ship in 1922 to find Germaine). “That was just like him… impetuous and unpredictable.”

Indeed, Jay not only found her, he married her. Germaine, a skilled French cook, was also a prankster. According to one report, Germaine sometimes served horse meat or canned dog food as appetizers to elite dinner guests, presumably at their Austin home. (I think I might have liked her!)

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Upon returning to Austin, Jay oversaw the first of many projects constructing the couple’s rambling white-brick, red-roofed French chateau on 177 wooded acres outside of Austin, a home surrounded by a dense forest, entrances guarded by a private security force.

Being named head of Hormels’ in 1929 had some distinct downsides, including… the Great Depression. In addition to the Depression, another negative factor was at play within the company. A writer sympathetic to labor observed that Jay “surrounded himself with a corps of unusually insensitive and often narrow-thinking foremen and straw bosses who seemed to take particular delight in attempting to damage the self-respect and sense of security of company laborers.” Ouch.

By 1933, worker complaints produced, quote, “angry whispers and open rumblings” throughout the plant. There was increased chatter about forming a union to bargain collectively with plant management. But few workers knew how to get a union started. One who did was Frank Ellis, a foreman in the casing room. Ellis not only organized a union, soon he led this new union out on strike, which may or may not have been another first, very possibly the first organized sit-down strike in modern U.S. history. (I’m torn on this “maybe first” point. First doubtful, I’m now reconsidering, not today’s topic.)

I cite this three-day strike for one reason: it’s effect on Jay Hormel, for whom the 1933 strike was transformational. Jay was suddenly sympathetic to labor. He initiated what he called his “Master Plan,” anticipating workers’ grievances, resolving issues before they became major industrial-relations problems.

Until Jay’s death, Hormels’ was an industrial democracy – organized labor with a voice in plant operations. Two Jay quotes capture his view. First, “The idea that an employer is the lord and master of his own business is an antiquated notion. Give labor the fair treatment which is its right and labor’s right to organize will never harm you.” And a second, following the strike settlement, “I couldn’t lick you, so I joined you.”

To which I say, hooray for Jay Hormel’s remarkable growth, that – no surprise – ran parallel to the company’s remarkable growth.

In addition to his son’s words, “impetuous and unpredictable,” one news account said Jay possessed “a distinct flair for the unusual and dramatic.” In support of this point, in 1936, Jay assembled an all-female, 20-person Mexican song and dance troupe, the “Hormel Chili Beaners”, foreshadowing the Hormel Girls a decade later. This troupe presented hour-long shows at county fairs and such and is credited with selling 500,000 cans of chili during their first year.

In 1946, right after the war, Jay established all-female American Legion SPAM Post 570 in Austin, primarily a publicity vehicle, and required the company’s women veterans to join. He recruited ex-servicewomen with outgoing personalities and musical skills to join a start-up drum and bugle corps, also known as “the Spamettes”.

The Hormel Girls concept was rooted in post-war patriotism. Hormel recruited G.I. “Janes,” specifying that they should have SOME musical talent so that they could entertain occasionally at women’s club gatherings. Hormel Girls were soon traveling the Midwest, in grocery stores passing out samples of Hormel deviled ham and liver pate. Then came major stage productions. Then radio…

In traveling the country, the Hormel Girls caravan used many of the same tactics that minstrel shows employed in the late 1800’s. Quoting from “In Quest of Quality, Hormel’s first 75 years,” “The Hormel Girls Corps made quite a stir when it descended upon a city. Sixty girls and accompanying administrative personnel filled 35 glistening white Chevrolets. At an appointed hour the procession, escorted by local police, sirens sounding, entered the city. Each car occupied by two girls, caps set at a saucy tilt. It was an impressive sight.”

*****

A few final words about the transitional time from the late ’40s through the early ’50s. Ah, but in the moving stream of history, aren’t ALL times transitional?

The marketing world was changing… dramatically. Companies had to appeal to more than just people’s patriotism. The Hormel Girls started as former military women with musical talent selling Hormel products. Yet one notices a distinct transformation in attire – from formal uniforms to informal, even flirtatious outfits… dresses with feathers, sequins, and ample leg. As one wag expressed it: “Hormel Girls serves up a musical meal of ‘Spam and legs’.”

At some point, this transition represents an effort by the Hormel company to leverage the band’s femininity and, dare I say it, sexuality – rather modest sexuality on the part of the Hormel Girls – reflecting a broader shift in society and gender expectations. Using sexuality to sell product is MUCH more part of advertising today. The Hormel Girls only hinted at this.

And about language. Despite connotations of the word “girls” for professional women who were former soldiers, the term – like boys – was common and “of the times” referring to unmarried persons under, say, the age of 30.

“Hormel women” sounds much less “salesy,” less inviting, less attractive. Jay’s paternal approach is a bit off-putting by today’s standards but was not seen as such in the postwar era. Hormel Girl requirements reflected the times – overwhelmingly white, all unmarried.

In closing, a final word about pronunciation. A typical half-hour radio drama carried three commercials. “Music with the Hormel Girls” featured five commercials AND a whopping 15 mentions of the Hormel name between numbers. How can this be? Well, ONE way was to have back and forth banter between two girls about pronunciation of the company name, this from a 1951 script. One says HorMEL, the other says HORmel, and so on.

They ultimately conclude, “Whether you call it HORmel or Hor-MEL, you just know you’re right. Serving Hormel Foods is Good Taste because Hormel Foods Taste Good.” Hokey and homespun, yes, but if you want 15 mentions, also very clever.

The George A. Hormel Company, now Hormel Foods, has been part of my life since birth. And even though I didn’t know it – they were gone just before I arrived – Hormel Girls was a compelling part of this. Suffice to say, I’m grateful, as I’m grateful on behalf of Cedar Summerstock Theatre… for your presence at this performance and your willingness to stay a bit longer and listen to me.

Thank you all very much.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always appreciate your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Rucking is just walking / hiking with a weighted backpack. So, when do I engage in rucking? Basically, every airport I’ve been in the last two decades, me lugging an unusually heavy backpack, easier to strap on my back than to position it atop my roller bag, where it invariably slumps off to one side.

Truth is, rucking is more a fitness activity (or in my case, a “striving for fitness activity”) than a sport… but given a growing pool of ruckers – or “tabbers,” the preferred term in the UK and in military circles where it started – competition has evolved, making it a sport.

Tabbers (my preference, too) say it builds strength, burns calories, improves posture, and aids fitness. Which means my animated walk from the far edge of the airport to the car rental shuttle OR the endless hike once through security to my point of departure, always the terminal gate waaaaaay down yonder, is actually good exercise.

According to one article, “packing groceries, hydration packs, or work tools turns a casual walk into active resistance training.” Harrumph. My typical load: two hardcover books, a dop kit since the roller bag was full, a tightly packed computer case, a fleece lest it turns cold. Plus, a notebook, a few snacks, and miscellaneous grandkid gifts, total weight, 14 - 16 pounds. Suddenly, I’ve become a world-class tabber without realizing I’d been in training, waiting patiently until a “seniors division” is launched.

My other competitive sport: parkour. Here, practitioners use only their bodies to maneuver through an environment, overcoming obstacles, moving in the fastest, most direct route… across, around, through, and over various physical features. You’ve seen it in movies, like Matt Damon in the “Bourne series,” numerous Tom Cruise films, Daniel Craig / James Bond in the opening sequence of “Casino Royale.” Running, flipping, climbing, swinging, jumping, vaulting, rolling. It’s me!

As with rucking, parkour roots are also in the military, with obstacle courses incorporated into training. One benefit of this sport, no special equipment required. Male parkour practitioners are called traceurs, females are traceuse… like the word parkour, derived from the French. Sounds pretty exotic, doesn’t it?

My sense? ANYONE can do daring leaps using only their body. My endeavor takes it up a notch. My parkour happens on the back of a riding lawnmower.

My lawnmowing “game” begins once the machine roars into action, always set on the fastest possible speed, neither slowing nor stopping until the task is finished. Of course there are obstacles, including flower gardens, lawn sculptures, stonework edging, hoses lurking in tall grasses. And… did I mention, assertive low branches?

Basically, anybody can mow a long, uninterrupted stretch of turf. Special parkour talent is required to navigate a lawn astride my vintage Lawn Boy. I’ve been cutting grass for six-plus decades, fondly recalling a lengthy push-mower era. More recently, however, I simply sit and steer, duck and dodge, bend and bump, competing only with myself. And the clock. Yes, I could surely go slower… but why?

[Brief insertion: a few decades ago, I recall a colleague asking, “Must you make EVERYTHING into a game?” My response, “Not quite everything… but generally, it makes life much more exciting.”]

In last week’s ramble, I noted the satisfaction derived by linking two previously separate items, for instance, poetry and diplomacy. Today, I’m connecting rucking and parkour to create an entirely new sport I’m calling “ruckour:” Competitors with heavy backpacks drive aging mowers, all while navigating an obstacle-laden yard. Results will be based on time and graded aesthetically, a combined score.

With any luck, ruckour will become a Summer Olympic sport by 2032, held in Australia. Athletes must dodge kangaroos and koalas, the latter clinging to low-lying branches extending over the yard. Rucking weight becomes a hindrance when riders dismount to remove obstacles obstructing the course.

What do you think? For what it’s worth, my money is on a grizzled mowing veteran from North Iowa, who may just be the guy to beat.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Learning of my plans several months ago, another friend asked if I wanted to meet the ambassador. “Sure. Do you know the ambassador?” “Indeed, I do!” She then fired off an email requesting an appointment.

On May 25, one of my travel companions and I enjoyed a pleasant lunch with Christine Toretti, U.S. Ambassador to the Kingdom of Sweden. We didn’t talk politics, fear being if we did, we’d find little in common. Oh, we came close several times, but only at the surface level.

Lunch was friendly, social, occasionally animated. Ambassador Toretti was gracious, offering tourist suggestions, conveying eagerness to help should we encounter difficulties. The Ambassador evidently enjoys her role, although she may be (seeking accuracy here) somewhat bored, maybe underutilized, perhaps lonely.

She’s currently “flying solo,” although dating a U.S. Senator, a long-distance relationship. She was once married briefly to University of Iowa basketball coach, Lute Olson, 23 years her senior. Having assumed diplomatic duties last September, the Ambassador’s Sweden friendships are still in their early phases.

It never occurred to me during our lunch to suggest she take up poetry. Reading poetry is fine, but I think she should take up writing.

Flashback to visiting Pablo Neruda’s home in Valparaiso, Chile. I was familiar with Neruda’s name but not with his poetry. (Poetry in translation just isn’t the same.) My key memory upon touring his museum: a label citing “the longstanding tradition of poet-diplomats.” Not precisely these words, but that’s what registered with me.

Hmmm, interesting. Why was I unaware of this tradition? I sought more information.

After investigating, here’s what I found. It’s legit. My cluelessness may be rooted in this tradition being less common in U.S. circles – where the “donor-to-ambassador” pipeline thrives – despite several notable poet examples: James Weldon Johnson, James Russell Lowell, and Washington Irving.

To call it a “longstanding tradition” may be due partially to Neruda, ambassador to France and Argentina, Nobel Prize, 1971; to Octavio Paz, (Mexico) ambassador to India, Nobel Prize, 1990; and to Gabriela Mistral, first Latin American woman to receive the Nobel Prize, 1945, Chilean consul and representative to various international bodies.

Additionally, Czesław Miłosz was a diplomat for the Polish government shortly after World War II. Gabriel García Márquez (Colombia) was ambassador to France in the early 1980s, the same time, Mario Vargas Llosa (Peru) was his country’s ambassador to Spain. All three are Nobel laureates.

Václav Havel’s poetry fueled a regional resistance movement leading to communism’s fall. He became the Czech Republic’s first democratically elected President in 1993, serving until 2003. Going back in history six-plus centuries (waaay back), Geoffrey Chaucer, author of The Canterbury Tales, was among the first poet-diplomats, having carried out missions in France, Spain, and Italy for England’s King Edward III.

Enough examples. So, why this poetry-diplomacy bond? There are many theories, and I’ve ruminated about this.

Poetry employs nuance, symbolism, and indirect inference… as does international relations. Professionals in both areas rely often on brevity and a healthy tension between precise language AND ambiguity. In saying much with few words. As the late Swiss diplomat Aldo Matteucci noted, “Wrapping words in silk is the diplomat’s job.”

I stumbled across the term “constructive ambiguity,” one definition of poetry. The ambiguity approach is not negative, rather an emphasis on careful, creative language. Diplomat / scholar Dr. Jovan Kurbalija, who studies this topic, notes that poets and diplomats use ambiguity to “navigate complex realities and reach compromises where direct, literal language might fail.”

I’m generally intrigued upon discovering items I didn’t know were connected are actually bound together quite closely. (Need I state this if you’ve read this far?) Poetry and diplomacy are one such example and I’m now musing about others. I’m also wondering if maybe I should send this ramble to Ambassador Toretti, suggesting she scribble down a few lines every so often, rhyming or otherwise, that capture her reflections.

The U.S. has had relatively few poet-diplomats. A new practitioner would undoubtedly be welcomed with open arms.

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“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” … John Keating / Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

As in, haven’t we… hasn’t SOMEONE… seen this all before?

Today I wish to talk about artificial intelligence, A.I. And about Pope Leo. I’m intrigued with the thought that Leo (which is how the New York Times refers to him, so I guess I can, too) made the focus of his first encyclical artificial intelligence. My thinking is that if Leo can address the issue, then I can too.

As you may know by now, I’m not a tech guy (“no kidding, Dad!”). I’m not up to speed on A.I. nor am I Roman Catholic, meaning I’m not well versed on big parts of Christianity either. Hence, it took me a while to scan the metaphoric horizon to have something semi-insightful to say about the Pope and A.I., plus something potentially enlightened about our shared future. Now, having done some homework, a few thoughts:

--What does Leo know about AI? Actually, quite a bit. Context. Background. Philosophy. History… that word again. And while Leo has helpful people around him, one needn’t be a computer geek to have relevant thoughts about technology. Phrases from the opening paragraph of a NYT encyclical story: “a major new teaching on safeguarding humanity,” “a forward-looking document,” “a technological age that will profoundly reshape human life”. Hooray for the Pope. Furthermore, for Leo to wait until all relevant A.I. matters are settled is like walking on the other side of the road (Luke 10: 25-37).

--A.I is a tool… like the printing press, like power looms, advancements generating major pushback while altering history’s course. A.I. is not even guaranteed a smooth ascent; progress frequently generates a sawtooth graph. Let’s hope, however, that society can reach general agreement on the fundamentals AND can engage in civil dialogue about our A.I. wants and needs. Oh, about those advancements… the printing press was a catalyst for the reformation. Ironically, the pontiff who first encountered Martin Luther? Pope Leo X. Meanwhile, the pontiff whose encyclical focused on the industrial revolution, when Luddites destroyed power looms? Pope Leo XIII, inspiration for Leo XIV’s papal name.

--Humans, humanity, and the humanities must always be front and center. Not tools, equipment, or technology, all of which are important. A troubling sign, from long before A.I. was all the rage, so to speak. Humanities degrees have decreased in American higher education, college majors having dropped one-third between 2012 and 2024, now 8.4 percent of U.S. bachelor’s degrees. Note: Leo’s encyclical uses the word “dignity” 100 times in a 42,300-word document… the dignity of humans, not data centers.

--Society is sternly cautioned against constructing a new Tower of Babel. Naturally, the Pope would choose a biblical story to carry his message, although there are other analogies: Pandora’s box, Icarus, Prometheus, even Strega Nona’s pasta pot, 1975, published two decades after Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King” which Leo quotes. “It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us… those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.” I’m all for uprooting the evil! And the overriding message of the Babel story? Thumbs down on hubris and pride and arrogance and profits at the expense of humans.

The greatest gift available through history is the potential for guidance before wandering into an always uncertain future. Thank you, Pope Leo, for giving us a lantern to illuminate our shared journey, a lantern rather than a spotlight, much as we might want one, knowing disruptions are certain, meaning a spotlight might ultimately, inadvertently lead us astray.

Should you wish to read Pope Leo’s Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”), you can access the document via “The Holy See Encyclicals Archive for Leo XIV” or listen to it as an audiobook at “Vatican News”. I highly recommend it.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Two-hundred years ago, Robert Lowry was born in Philadelphia, my favorite East Coast city, where we lived throughout the 1980s. Lowry was a Baptist preacher, a professor, an editor… and a remarkably prolific writer of gospel music, both tunes and lyrics. If you’re familiar with Christian music, you can probably hum more than a few songs he composed.

Born into a Presbyterian family, Lowry experienced a religious conversion at age 17. He joined a Baptist church, where he taught Sunday School and sang in the choir. Encouraged by his pastor to study for the ministry, he went off to newly chartered University of Lewisburg (now Bucknell), where, by age 22, he developed a reputation for his preaching and hymn-writing talents.

By 1854, Lowry became a Baptist clergyman and, for the next 45 years, served congregations in Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey. Beginning in the late 1860s, he was also hymnal editor at “Biglow & Main,” then the leading U.S. publisher of gospel and Sunday School music. Under his guidance, more than twenty hymnal titles were produced. “Pure Gold” (1871) sold more than a million copies.

Lowry composed 500+ hymn tunes, often supplying both lyrics and melodies, among the earliest hymnwriters to perform double duties. I’ll focus on three examples today. For the first, he wrote both words and music; for the other two, he was the composer.

“Shall We Gather at the River?” Probably his best-known hymn, written late in the Civil War, when a New York heatwave struck during an epidemic that caused widespread death. (Grim, indeed.) Suffering in the heat, Lowry recalled a passage from Revelation: “And he showed me a river of water of life, bright as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.”

In Lowry’s account, “I began to wonder why hymnwriters said so much about the ‘river of death’ and so little about the ‘pure water of life, proceeding (from) the throne of God.’ Shall we be among (those) who stand before the throne singing praises?” His response? “Yes, we’ll gather!” the song’s foundational message. Reinvigorated, he rose to write at his pump organ.

Despite the song’s popularity, Lowry didn’t hold this work in high regard: “It’s brass band music, has a march movement, and for that reason has become popular… though I do not think much of it.” While assembling this column, I encountered a writer with similar thoughts: “We agree. The message is extremely shallow and of small benefit for building up saints in the faith.” (David Cloud, Way of Life Literature, Bible study publisher, 2/13/25) Ouch… hey, who doesn’t like brass bands?

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“I Need Thee Every Hour” Here Lowry took words written by a former Brooklyn parishioner of his, Annie Sherwood Hawks, (1835-1918) having encouraged her poetry efforts for years. As he created the tune, Lowry added the refrain, a plaintive “I need thee” appearing twenty times in five stanzas. The refrain concludes with an intimate, “I come to thee.”

“How Can I Keep from Singing?” First published as “My Life Flows On in Endless Song” in a Sunday School songbook in the late 1860s. Lowry composed the tune; the lyricist is unclear. It was first credited to a (semi)anonymous “Pauline T.”; sometimes listed as “a traditional Shaker / Quaker” hymn… but it’s not. Occasionally, these verses are attributed to Anna Barlett Warner, 1820-1915, who also wrote “Jesus Loves Me.” Hmmm, I’m unsure.

Seventy years ago, this hymn morphed to become a folk song / political statement, which doesn’t happen often. It was sung rarely throughout the early 20^th century… then Pete Seeger discovered it, reworked overt Christian references, and made it a social justice anthem. Throughout this transition, the song’s primary theme – inner calm – held steadfast. Despite not being its source, it’s now also a beloved Quaker anthem.

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For these and many other songs, let’s give Robert Wadsworth Lowry his due in 2026, the bicentennial of his birth. After a full, busy life, Lowry died metaphoric moments from the 20^th century, November 25, 1899, yet it seems he hasn’t been forgotten, at least not by Hollywood.

“Shall We Gather…” was featured in the following westerns: Stagecoach (1939); The Searchers (1956); Major Dundee (1965); The Wild Bunch (1969); and Little Big Man (1970). The song was a stand-in for the Christian church in The Red Pony (1949); Elmer Gantry (1960); Spencer’s Mountain (1963); A Trip to Bountiful (1985); and The Handmaid’s Tale (1990).

Although he didn’t write these lyrics, I conclude by sharing the first verse of the third song cited above… with Lowry’s magnificent tune “echoing in my soul”: “My life flows on in endless song; / Above earth’s lamentation, / I catch the sweet, tho’ far-off hymn / That hails a new creation; / Through all the tumult and the strife / I hear the music ringing; / It finds an echo in my soul – / How can I keep from singing?”

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

“The Hormel Girls” tells the story of an innovative approach for selling food products like SPAM and chili con carne, made by the George A. Hormel Company, a company today known as Hormel Foods. Within 30 miles of Austin, Minnesota, it’s usually shortened to just “Hormels,” with or without the “s”.

This distinctive sales strategy was launched shortly after World War II and ran through 1953. According to a 2007 academic article in “American Music,” it was “likely the most expensive industry musical organization to have existed up to that time in U.S. history… and possibly up to the present day.”

Hormel Girls is quite a story. What follows is my attempt to capture and convey its key elements.

Jay C. Hormel, son of company founder George A. Hormel, became the company’s chief executive in 1929 with “a distinct flair for the unusual and dramatic.” Consistent with his reputation, in 1936, Jay assembled an all-female, 20-person Mexican song and dance troupe, the Hormel Chili Beaners, foreshadowing the Hormel Girls a decade later. This troupe presented hour-long shows at local fairs, credited with helping sell 500,000 cans of chili during their first year.

One year later, in 1937, a new product, SPAM, began rolling off the assembly line. The timing was right. World War II “heightened the demand for food that could be easily preserved and shipped abroad.” U.S. forces consumed 150+ million pounds of SPAM during the war. By war’s end, 90 percent of Hormel’s inventory was shipped overseas for American troops and allies.

The company’s postwar challenge was to market a wartime staple to a peacetime audience.

So, in 1946, Jay Hormel established all-female American Legion SPAM Post 570 in Austin, primarily a publicity vehicle, requiring the company’s women veterans to join. In 1946, he supplemented his male sales staff with ex-servicewomen to introduce homemakers to Hormel items. He also recruited ex-servicewomen with outgoing personalities and musical skills to join a newly formed drum and bugle corps.

The All-GI Girls Spam Post 570 drum and bugle corps (also known as “the Spamettes”) crisscrossed the Midwest, marketing company products directly to homemakers, entertaining at women’s clubs, marching in parades, and appearing at grocery stores. Again, the timing was ideal. Post-war patriotism was surging. One historian noted, “Americans could show their appreciation to Hormel’s war efforts by purchasing their meats, including heroic SPAM.”

Before long, the drum and bugle corps became “The Hormel Girls,” a 60-woman troupe of multi-talented entertainers. By spring of 1948, Jay Hormel decided to create a radio program, “Music with the Hormel Girls” first airing on a single California radio station. Radio was a new endeavor for these women, but they adapted quickly.

The troupe morphed into a radio orchestra and became a top-rated Sunday evening program coast to coast, peaking at 227 network-affiliated stations. When not rehearsing for their weekly performances, the women would caravan into cities across the country in a fleet of 35 matching white Chevrolets. Stage shows featured singing, dancing, musical instruments and, of course, product advertisements. For their grand finale, the women were decked out in handsome green suits, reminding audiences of their wartime duties.

While the radio program was popular, the Hormel Girls concept was unable to make the challenging transition into a newer medium, television, in the early 1950s. Meanwhile, the troupe was costing Hormel about $1.3 million annually. Their once-fresh marketing approach had grown a bit stale; shortly came word of a corporate decision “to move their advertising strategies in other directions,” according to a company history. The Hormel Girls disbanded in December 1953, seven years after they began.

“The Hormel Girls,” the musical, is one of four plays being performed this summer in Osage, Iowa by Cedar Summerstock Theatre, beginning in mid-June, with one performance in the restored Paramount Theater in Austin, Minnesota (for dates, times, and tickets – www.cedarsummerstock.com*).

It’s a story well worth revisiting.

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*-Full disclosure: I’m a board member of Cedar Summerstock Theatre.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Pre-design, we drove our architect to the building site when he asked an important question. “What do you hope to do here?”

We explained at least for a while, this would be a weekend get-away, but eventually it was where we’d live out our years. That we hoped to establish a new family “hearth,” wresting control of family gatherings – Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. – from my parents, who lived just across the creek and sought to retire from their longstanding hosting duties. My siblings and I, six of us plus families, had outgrown their home’s small rooms.

“So, how many of you will there be when you gather?” Logical question. My loose count, “Thirty, maybe forty, give or take.” “Hmmm. You wanna build a big house.” “I guess we do.”

Indeed, we have hosted numerous events the last 22 years, often centering around a meal. Political events are a subspecialty, “meet-and-greets” in our great room or on our large deck. Sunday was one such event. Paula and I had both engaged in phone conversations with U.S. Senate candidate Josh Turek. He and Paula share a Council Bluffs background, although Paula’s time preceded Josh’s by several decades.

We told Josh he needed to come, to meet North Iowans, to hear about our issues. If it’s helpful, we said we’d host, at which point the challenge became finding a date. With the primary election near, candidate schedules are crowded. (Ours is too, for reasons unrelated to the election.)

About a month ago, we penciled in a Sunday late-morning brunch in mid-May, hoping cooperative weather would make a deck gathering possible. It did.

We counted 45 people attending from six Iowa counties… and two states. The candidate took time to introduce himself personally to attendees before beginning his 17-minute stump speech. Turek then took questions, listening and responding for twenty additional minutes.

Several powerful statements generated applause… not wild enthusiasm, more steadfast agreement. The only reference to “my opponent” was aimed at Republican Hinson. When the informal program concluded, there was ample time for one-on-one conversation with the candidate. And for obligatory photos.

One benefit of encountering candidates shortly before voting: key points, which may have started out somewhat rough, have been voiced and varnished. Paralympic athlete; 73 Senate millionaires casting votes that favor billionaires; Iowans ready for change. One word not heard often in recent election cycles surfaced. CORRUPTION, emanating from Washington, blatant and shameless. This prompted nods; plans to address it generated applause.

Josh Turek comes off as thoughtful, mature, and dedicated. Other terms heard or that come quickly to mind: authentic, tenacious, and well-prepared. It’s appropriate here to also mention Turek’s campaign staff. We’ve encountered many such operations over the years. Starting weeks before and throughout our time together, staff members were cordial and attentive, responsive and helpful.

While not billed as a fund-raiser, a small supply of envelopes was quickly depleted. After 90 minutes, “Team Turek” departed for two other Sunday events, in Mason City and Cedar Rapids. I close by sharing three of many comments posted on social media, responding to a photo taken at the event.

• From a former state senator: “Kurt & Paula, once again you opened your home to have a great conversation of concerns that not only Iowa is facing, but the entire country. Great conversation, great hosts, great fried SPAM (which I never had before), great friends, and a great candidate.”

• From an Iowa Writers’ Collaborative colleague: “He’s everywhere! In this case, way up in northeast Iowa. That’s a loooooong way from Council Bluffs! Josh Turek is warming up to serve the whole state, not just the eastern third of it.”

• From a former county supervisor: “It helped me make the decision between him and Zach. Josh it is!... I really had a hard time deciding. I would support Zach if he got the nomination, but right now I’m supporting Josh.”

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Hebrews 9:27 is not a very cheery verse. It was emblazoned on a billboard we’d see often during a half-dozen childhood years. I was old enough to read it, not mature enough to place this statement in context.

Frankly, I didn’t give the matter much thought. When I did, it was more straightforward. “Jesus loves me, this I know.” Which brings me to a new word I stumbled upon recently.

“Soteriology” is the study of salvation, from Greek words soteria (salvation / deliverance) and logos (word / study). Defined as “how religious traditions understand the human need for rescue and how this deliverance is achieved, often focused on the role of a savior,” (Jesus for Christians, of which I’m one).

Perhaps it’s inevitable that with age, more time is spent on “what’s next” questions, thoughts of soteriology. And guess who’s been more focused on this recently: our President, wrestling publicly with the inescapable truth in Hebrews.

“I want to try and get to heaven, if possible,” said the President last August. “I’m hearing I’m not doing well. I am really at the bottom of the totem pole. But if I can get to heaven, this will be one of the reasons.” (“… one of the reasons” refers to unsuccessful efforts to end to the war in Ukraine.)

At his Madison Square Garden election rally, fall 2024, candidate Trump noted, “I know my mother’s in heaven. I’m not 100 percent sure about my father, but it’s close.” Apparently, this topic is on his mind; “like father, like son” isn’t too great a stretch.

In September 2024, the subject line in a Trump fundraising email read, “I want to try and get to Heaven,” suggesting that if readers responded with $15 or more during a “24-HOUR TRUMP FUNDRAISING BLITZ,” it would fortify his case. (Hmmm, color me skeptical.)

In a radio interview, August 2025, the President indicated that non-religious people have no reason to be good human beings. “If you’re not a believer, and you believe you go nowhere, what’s the reason to be good, really?” According to Robert P. Jones, president / founder, Public Religion Research Institute, “What’s most striking about Trump’s language about heaven is that it is – like everything in his worldview – transactional.”

Suffice to say, there’s a lot to unpack here. Admittedly, there are many matters where I have no vote, with Trump’s salvation high among them. Yet I do have thoughts… and numerous questions. You might too.

First, a disclaimer: I am not a theologian. My basic soteriological thoughts are rooted in a Lutheran heritage, with salvation hinging solely on the grace of God. Heaven can’t be earned; works aren’t factored into the equation (but ARE an expression of a life transformed by grace). We receive our afterlife gift through faith in Christ, the link / mediator between God and humanity.

Yes, of course there’s a lot more to it, but there’s that pesky word limit. Nevertheless, here are several punchy statements that reflect my musing:

--“Christians serve their neighbors not to get saved, but because they already are saved.” (“Lutheran Living” magazine)

--“Your salvation depends on what Christ has done for you, not what you do for Him. It isn’t your hold on God that saves you; it’s His hold on you.” (Billy Graham)

--“You can’t get to heaven with the art of the deal.” (Russell Moore, Editor in Chief, “Christianity Today” magazine)

Regarding Trump’s case, I truly wish I had influence… and would willingly settle for modest weigh-in. As an alternative, I’d like to have more answers than questions. But then, if afterlife matters were all simple and straightforward, we’d most certainly have far fewer faith traditions, denominations, and churches, most of which engage in essential teaching, caring, character-building, and similar vital ministries.

As is often true with complex issues, we all get to decide for ourselves. And then can act accordingly. With the billboard verse as a reminder, we all get only one life, THEN comes judgment, ready or not. Mindful of this, the afterlife – yours and mine – is a topic that merits serious contemplation.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

What brings this to mind is KWLC radio celebrated a centennial in late April. The station got an early start; Iowa’s first educational radio stations, in Iowa City and Ames, launched just four years before. I was at the station in the early-to-mid 1970s, the halfway point, although I don’t recall marking the station’s golden anniversary.

According to a statement issued by the college, “As one of the oldest operating radio stations in Iowa, KWLC serves as a creative platform for amplifying student voices and a professional environment for Luther students to gain broadcasting experience. On December 18, 1926, KWLC had its inaugural broadcast when Luther College President Oscar L. Olson read U.S. President Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. While early programming aired only a few times a week, the station expanded to daily broadcasts in the 1930s and has remained a consistent presence on campus ever since.”

Learning about 100th anniversary activities prompted a weeklong rumination. Now, with the hindsight of fifty years, what did I learn during my college news experience? After all, it was something to which I devoted, hmmm, maybe 20 hours weekly for my last two years on campus. Five key takeaways come to mind.

FIRST, I learned to think and write on deadline. If a newscast was scheduled for the top of the hour (it was), someone would point at me, turn on my microphone, and I was “on the air,” ready or not. It was a valuable exercise in time and clock management. Because life often imposes such constraints, I’m glad this lesson took.

SECOND, I learned the importance of recruitment, training, and scheduling. I was happy to lead a team effort, but we were all students… with classes, papers, tests, etc. It was easier to fill newscaster slots if we had a large pool of (semi-)trained writers / readers to draw on. I sometimes approached friends to help fill out the schedule, several becoming much closer friends as we worked together.

THIRD, I learned the value of identifying and addressing unmet news-related needs. Decades before the internet, students were often naively unaware of events taking place in the world, both near and far. We sought ways to help them become at least marginally more informed. For example, we took news wire stories – first, late afternoon, eventually also early morning – summarized events in several sentences, then mimeographed a one-page “news capsule” for twice-daily distribution on cafeteria tables.

Mind you, these were headlines more than in-depth reports. Generally, “News at a Glance” consisted of a half-dozen news items, an abbreviated weather forecast, and sports scores involving Midwestern teams. Sometimes we tossed in “the concert band performs this evening” or “the Norse baseball game was rained out last night”… you know, important stuff.

FOURTH, it prompted my modest attempt to develop qualities like discernment, judgment, and perspective. So, in a day’s accumulation of news, what should be the lede? What’s most important? What should the community hear about first? And yes, I still regard greater discernment, judgment, and perspective as worthy pursuits.

FIFTH, I started grasping the importance of LOCAL news: what’s happening on campus, in Decorah, throughout various layers of government. I reported on meetings of the college’s board. We called area police and sheriff departments daily, asking if anything had happened we should know about. Occasionally, we attended city council and county supervisor meetings. My understanding of and respect for public service grew considerably.

During those years, I mused occasionally about whether I wanted a career in the news business, ultimately choosing to set off in a different direction. Ah, but KWLC was a terrific learn-by-doing experience that greatly advanced my maturation and transition into adulthood (for some of us, a rather lengthy process).

I’m eternally grateful for these lessons and fervently hope KWLC is part of a vibrant learning environment for many decades to come. Happy 100, KWLC!

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I’m always interested in your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Heading east on Mona’s sole paved road, 500th Street, we arrive at the Smoke Shop on our right. During my childhood, it was the Mona Store, a grocery/DX gas pump kept open long after it might otherwise have closed… by Blue Bonnet Margarine. Being a mile from Minnesota, the first Iowa store southbound on highway 218, thrifty shoppers from Mower County, Minnesota, population 48,498 according to the 1960 census, bought margarine (“oleo”) in Mona, sold in one-pound packages.

Minnesota’s dairy lobby was sufficiently robust that yellow margarine (“it sure looks like butter”) was unavailable in the state until 1963, then taxed aggressively until 1975. The Smoke Shop, located in the same building, has a similar advantage. Iowa’s current cigarette tax is $1.36 for 20 cigarettes; Minnesota’s tax rate is $3.04 for 20 cigarettes.

Compared with Minnesota, Iowa’s modest cigarette tax is surprising, in part because Iowa was the first U.S. state to impose a cigarette tax, 2 cents per pack, in 1921. It’s possible there are some aging Minnesota smokers driving to the same Mona site where they once bought Blue Bonnet.

Highway 218 makes a 90-degree curve in Mona. There’s a grassy “graveyard” for semi-trailers, four or five of them stored on the curve’s east side. I know it’s grassy because my sister and I mowed the patchy yard that surrounded a small house razed about four decades ago. This was Tillie’s lawn, an elderly widow I’m distantly related to through Mom.

Tillie had an unusually soft voice. I laugh about the time she came out to offer sweaty lawn workers nectar and cookies. Unfortunately, she didn’t duck quite low enough while strolling across her tree-covered yard. When a low-hanging branch snared her hairnet, Tillie’s feeble cries went unheeded; her hands, carrying refreshments, were already occupied. It took several minutes before we noticed Tillie “twerking” in an attempt to free herself from a pesky boxelder. Ah, rural amusement…

Headed north on 218 – or as grandma called it, “the pavement” – we drive past Cliff and Rhoda’s farmstead, although they’ve both been gone about five decades. The summer I turned eleven, I went with Dad to buy a cow from Cliff, strolling into his pasture to check out a gentle brown swiss. I tagged along because Dad was about to go on second shift at Hormel’s in Austin. This meant I was about to enter the dairy business, milking duties every evening, twice daily in the summer.

The highway grading in the mile between Mona and Lyle, the town just north of the state line, is a difference of 15 feet, uphill headed north where, as a Little Leaguer, I’d ride my red Huffy, mitt dangling from the handlebar. I pedaled aggressively since the highway was frequented by roaring semitrucks. The mild slope made my homeward route easier.

Iowa’s welcome sign has gone through various permutations during my lifetime. Now featuring the “Freedom to Flourish” line, my favorite is a more verbose “hello! we’re glad to have you in IOWA where factory and farm share prosperity” (no punctuation except the exclamation point). This was in the early 1960s.

As you can imagine, the standout “hello!” was just too tempting for local vandals. Within days of the sign’s debut, the letter “o” was knocked off, giving travelers a somewhat less welcoming greeting. Hasty “o” reinforcements generally lasted only a few days. Perhaps the sign envisioned the state’s economic future.

At the present time, Iowa’s overall economy ranks 51st (DC’s included) by WalletHub; Iowa’s economic growth ranks 50th (last) by the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia; Iowa’s personal income growth ranks 48th; Iowa’s startup activity/innovation ranks between 48th and 50th for innovation potential, startup activity, and high-tech jobs. Ouch!

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Statistics aside, we’ve now arrived safely at the state line, our journey’s conclusion. Thanks for coming along. Let’s do it again someday.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

This spring, one goal in teaching classes about Garland – in Osage, St. Ansgar, and Riceville High Schools and in a Charles City Elementary School – is to emphasize the writer’s environmental credentials. Often, upon reaching a conclusion, Garland became an advocate… something certainly true of his environmentalism.

Garland’s nascent environmental consciousness began in North Iowa, plowing virgin soil at age ten, in 1870, 16 miles southeast of our home, 25 miles northwest of Charles City. He participated in a decades-long process, converting prairie sod into tillable fields. Remember, native prairie once covered 80%–85% of Iowa; today less than 0.1%.

Read that last number carefully: not ONE percent… one-tenth of one percent! This transformation was already far along by the early 1890s, evident in Garland’s foreward to “Prairie Songs,” 1893.

“A quarter of a century ago (in the 1860s) the prairies of Northern Iowa were only just won from the elk and buffalo, whose bones and antlers lay in thousands beside every trail and watering place. Every crumbling crib of bones or bleaching antler was a powerful incentive to a boy’s imagination. …(Today,) the prairies are gone. I held one of the ripping, snarling, breaking plows that rolled the hazel bushes and the wild sunflowers under. I saw the wild steers come into pasture and the wild colts come under harness. I saw the wild fowl scatter and turn aside; I saw the black sod burst into gold and lavender harvests of wheat and corn – and so there comes into my reminiscences an unmistakable note of sadness. I do not excuse it or conceal it.”

A similar tone is captured in the closing scene from “Boy Life on the Prairie,” 1899, set in Mitchell County, when Garland and his childhood friend Burton are reunited upon returning to the rural Iowa neighborhood where they had lived a half-dozen years before. Prairie expats, now in their mid-twenties, already nostalgic about their boyhood.

“Both boys were silent as they rode away on their search for a little piece of the vanishing prairie. … The ponds were dried up; the hazel bushes cut down; not even a single (poplar) tree existed, except along somebody’s fence line. All else of the prairie had vanished as if it had all been dreamed. The pigeons, the plover, the (prairie) chickens, the vultures, the cranes, the wolves – all gone – all gone!

At last, along a railway track that gashed the hill… (they) came upon a slip of prairie sod. Lincoln leaped from the carriage with a whoop of delight. … Carefully, minutely, the prairie boys studied the flowers and grasses of the sloping banks as they recalled the days of cattle-herding, berrying, hazel-nutting, and all the other now vanished pleasures of boy life on the prairie, and on them both fell a sudden realization of the inexorable march of civilization.”

From an essay entitled, “The Mystery of the Mountains,” written for a Colorado Springs, Colorado “Century Chest” (time capsule), sealed in 1901, opened again in 2001:

“Let those of you who will defend the murder of tree and the gashing of the hills, celebrating the material wealth and boundless enterprise of the mountain west; my office is a different one. I plead for the preservation of the forests and cry out against the desecration of the crystal streams.

Let me emphasize the inestimable value of beauty here in your splendid Colorado, so essential, so far-reaching in its effect upon the lower lands. I predict that the coin value of your waterfalls, your violet cliffs, your shadowed secret lakes and your dim cool canyons will yet outreach the wealth of your mines. Let me beg of you to offer sternest opposition henceforth to all wanton destruction of things beautiful. Be harshly forbidding to all who pollute the streams, deface the rock, or needlessly assault the earth.

We of the plains are coming to love the high country almost as well as you who are native to it. We need your gold, your fruit, but we also need your clear, sweet air, and the message of your glorious streams. To us they are more than mountains, they are flaming sentinels set to guard the beauty of the untracked lands.”

And a final excerpt, from “Joys of the Trail,” 1935.

“Have you seen sunsets so beautiful that your heart ached to see them die? So my heart aches to see the forests destroyed, the flowery meadows turned black by the plow, the mountain streams despoiled. In my veins runs the blood of the pioneer, the hunter, the trailer. I would restore every hill stream to its former beauty if I could. I would carry forward every noble sign and symbol of the past in order that the children of the future may not be deprived of any part of their nation’s inspiring story.”

According to the late Donald Pizer, distinguished professor, the longstanding “dean” of Garland scholars, “Garland was one of those in the history of literature whose ideas and activities are ultimately of more interest and worth than their literary achievements.”

I can’t speak to ALL Garland’s diverse activities, but my hope is that his enlightened environmental advocacy generates more awareness and even greater meaning as time passes. And that Garland’s prescient words assume increasing interest and worth in years to come. Happy Earth Month!

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Verse seven of an Easter hymn, “I Know that My Redeemer Lives;” (tune, “Duke Street”), lyrics by Samuel Medley: “He lives and grants me daily breath; / He lives and I shall conquer death,” followed by two more lines I rarely sing, being too moved to do so by the lines noted above. Eight short verses, encapsulated by five half-notes, one syllable per note… “I shall con-quer death,” a powerful Easter declaration.

Still humming on Monday (somewhat annoying, I know), taking an Uber from our daughter’s home to the Art Institute to see the “Matisse’s Jazz” exhibit, when Paula’s phone buzzed. “It’s Margaret,” a friend and daughter of friends from Philadelphia. We both dreaded and expected this call. Margaret’s mother, Peg (short for Margaret), age 93, had not been well for some time. But oh, the memories.

Peg and her late husband Dick became surrogate family members shortly after we arrived in Philadelphia, January 1981. Far from extended family, it’s fair to say we needed them. Two-plus decades our senior, their children were transitioning away from home when we entered the picture. Maybe we helped fill a void in their lives, too.

We met through St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church, Gladwyne, Pennsylvania. Paula was in graduate school, and I had pieced together several part-time gigs, bringing in rent dollars while seeking a career position. Among my temporary jobs was tenor section leader in the small St. Christopher’s choir… one rehearsal weekly and a Sunday service, $150/month. Peg was one of the choir’s altos.

Dear Peg had a basketful of admirable qualities. I’ll focus on just one of her special traits today, in part because we were direct beneficiaries and saw her – and it – in action many, many times. Peg had the great gift of hospitality, showering it generously on the many she cared for and about.

For a four-year period after meeting Peg and Dick and before our first child, we were frequent guests in their home… for holidays, to be sure, but also, periodic dinners at the Merion Cricket Club, sometimes the Merion Golf Club. They had memberships at both. Suffice to say, we Iowa expats were unaccustomed to dining with people listed in the Social Register.

At one point, Peg and Dick became bicycle devotees, bike riding, yes, but also watching bike racing. There is a velodrome track near Allentown, an hour north of Gladwyne, and for maybe a half-dozen summer evenings, we hopped in their backseat and journeyed along to the Lehigh Valley Velodrome to watch bicycle races. We became fans, yet our primary joy was always the pleasure of their company.

I’ve thought of P&D often during the last 45 years, always with gratitude and affection. Dick died at 91, Peg last week at 93. Nevertheless, their greatest gift to us lives on, however modestly, whenever we extend our dining room table, every time we pull out extra placemats, with each notice to guests that towels are on their bed.

Peg’s mother, like mine, was named Margaret… as is her daughter, like ours. Margaret / Peg was godmother to our daughter Margaret / Meg. To the extent names have meanings, Margaret means pearl, hence when daughter Margaret was baptized, her Gladwyne godmothers pledged an annual “deposit” of graduated pearls, that year and for 18 years thereafter (John Fish & Son Jewelers, Bryn Mawr, PA). When Meg turned 18, we took her pearls to Fish & Son and had them strung. A lovely necklace, a lovely tradition, as was done for Peg, for her daughter… and, more recently, for ours.

I close with verse five from Medley’s Easter hymn, recalling four decades ago, when Peg, Paula, and I lifted our voices as part of the St. Christopher’s choir: “He lives to silence all my fears, / He lives to wipe away my tears, / He lives to calm my troubled heart, / He lives all blessings to impart.”

Peg was one of those extraordinary life blessings divinely imparted upon us.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Pranaya is from Nepal and is attending Luther College, where Paula and I graduated five decades ago. It was Luther’s spring break, and we were eager to have Pranaya join us for a few days. He’s open, expressive, quick to catch on, good humored, and grateful in response to our modest hospitality.

We met Pranaya when he arrived last fall after a 24+ hour airline commute from his home in Katmandu. We served as his host family for his first weekend in the U.S., picking him up at the Twin Cities airport and helping guide his initial transition to a new country.

Similarly, two years earlier, Paula hosted Shan, an equally impressive Nepalese student now attending Luther (I had a longstanding out-of-town commitment). Shan has an internship this semester in Rochester, Minnesota, where we were able to take him to dinner during his break week.

Shortly after Pranaya arrived last fall, the government of Nepal was overthrown, and new, younger leadership (more acceptable to Shan and Pranaya) took office. Both Nepalese students are studying computer science.

Let me also tell you about Felipe, who grew up in Florida and Ecuador. He’s bright, focused, mature, committed to public service… and remarkably impressive. I first met Felipe when, to my random good fortune, I sat next to him at the first Democratic candidates’ debate during the 2020 presidential cycle (Miami, June 2019). He was a recent graduate at the time, from Seton Hall University, and has since earned a master’s degree from Harvard’s Kennedy School.

We’ve stayed in touch; he’s now visited us twice in the Midwest, and I had dinner with him last fall when in Washington DC. Felipe is employed by the State Department, having completed stints in Vietnam, Bolivia, and Peru. He’ll soon finish an intense Mandarin language program prior to his next assignment, in Taipei, Taiwan beginning in May. He’s invited us to visit him there… and it’s likely that we will.

Reflecting on our time with these young men – from dinner on Monday with Shan, Tuesday through Thursday afternoon with Pranaya, Thursday evening through Sunday afternoon with Felipe – leads me to four general observations.

First, what remarkably gifted people these three are. Oh my! I’ve always admired those capable of studying or working abroad, especially when it requires mastery of another language, a skill I lack. I envy Pranaya, who can speak five languages; not surprisingly, his English, strong upon arrival, has improved significantly.

Second, considerable growth – personal, social, academic, professional – happens (perhaps I should say, should happen) between ages 19 and 29. Felipe shows ample signs of being a lifelong learner. Naturally, he’s more finished, more a “contributing member of society,” than when we first encountered one another, almost seven years ago.

In recent years, we gifted maybe ten adults in this age range, including our children, the book, “The Defining Decade: Why Your Twenties Matter” by clinical psychologist Meg Jay. Her key point, summarized: During your twenties, decisions about work, relationships, and identity have a disproportionate impact on your future… so make wise, long-term decisions. Evidently, Felipe grasps this, which doesn’t guarantee success, but surely sets him up for it.

Third, relationships like these generate optimism. The determination, the careful preparation, the commitment to making meaningful contributions – traits that characterize these three men – are promising indicators about them AND for the world they will soon be leading.

Fourth, Paula and I are direct beneficiaries of these friendships. These men generously share their insights, outlook, and international perspective, including their challenges, worries, and angst. Knowing them, interacting with them, makes us better, in part by prompting us to become better.

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Thinking about them, telling you about them here, brings me joy, with the hope that reading about them does something comparable for you.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Apparently, I was somewhat more descriptive than first envisioned. “I’ve reached my word limit and am only at the cemetery… we’ll continue our journey soon.” THIS is part of that continuation.

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I think the farm field across from the cemetery, on the east side of Echo Avenue, belongs to the widow of (maternal) Grandma’s first cousin, I’m not sure. When neighbor kids would walk home from country grade school on this stretch, an older schoolmate, Lynn, suggested we alternate between telephone poles, running one distance (okay, jogging), walking the next, etc. Our group, generally eight or ten kids, ranging from age five to twelve, complied. It made our homeward trek much more fun.

Continuing northbound, the next farm is where Tom and Esther once lived. For years, they had a flock of guinea hens. For eggs? food? protection? Who knows? These birds often took to the gravel road, slowing traffic. (Perhaps THIS was their purpose.) When this farm sold, new owners considered installing a major irrigation system. Neighbors expressed concerns about lowering the local water table and soon thereafter, this plan was scuttled; I always respected the neighborliness of this decision.

One more farmstead before Mona, Hattie’s, although the house was torn down several years ago, after sitting empty for two decades after Hattie’s death. A massive blue pole building was erected recently by the husband of one of my barbers, at “Great Clips” in Austin. Car repairs now happen here. Hattie is the daughter of Magnus and Betsy, (paternal) Grandma’s first cousin. I’ve expounded before on Magnus & Betsy’s barn.

Continuing north, the village of Mona is on Echo’s east side. The Mona Lutheran Church is the first building we pass by. Our congregation marks its sesquicentennial in August; family members have worshipped here since its founding in 1876. My youngest brother – I have four – is our pastor. We collaborate with two nearby congregations and worship here every third week.

Across from the church is what was once the Nelson’s small home: six kids… four sons, two daughters. The family patriarch was a first cousin of my (maternal) grandmother. The older daughter, Mary, was the finest female softball player I knew until maybe twenty years ago, surpassed only by our daughter Ellie’s pitching prowess. The younger daughter, Patty, one year older than me, was my sister’s classmate, her lifelong friend.

One “block” to the north, Echo meets 500^th Street, the town’s only paved road, a 200-yard stretch. Paving happened in 2018, when I noted on Facebook the fiftieth anniversary of our woeful efforts to make paving happen much earlier. Quoting:

“Prior to my freshman year of high school, August 1968. With considerable excitement, my sister and I heard the guy in his four-door sedan on a dusty, unpaved road (it wasn’t really a street) in Mona was indeed a ‘car counter’. Supposedly, his findings would help determine whether our beloved village was about to ‘go modern,’ or, in this case, get paved streets.

Sue and I took the family car – a well-loved, green station wagon – to Mona, she at the wheel, I didn’t yet have my license. We had it fixed in our minds that 100 was the magic number, the line of demarcation between a gravel road and an actual street. We circumnavigated the block in front of Car Counter Man a dozen times… maybe more. Patty was doing something similar with other neighbors joining in the parade.

Naturally, we had NO idea how close we were to reaching our goal. Eventually, co-conspirator Betty persuaded her youngest brother, maybe eight-years-old, to inquire of CCM how close we were (numerically speaking) to paved streets. We were crestfallen to learn that, despite our commendable efforts, we were still far from our objective AND that we were being categorized as – I don’t recall the exact words, something like – an ‘aberrant traffic pattern’.

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Wait, does this mean we won’t get paved? Well, what do you know… we just needed more patience. A few days ago (fall, 2018), Mona got its first paved road, oops, I mean street, where Mona Drive becomes 500^th Street, very near where CCM was stationed in August 1968.

We weren’t an aberrant traffic pattern after all, merely fifty years ahead of our time.”

*****

Yikes. That pesky word-limit again. One more installment awaits, stay tuned…

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

I found Brooks’s theory provocative and asked numerous friends to share their reactions. This is the third and final column of their lightly edited responses.

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“I won’t argue the facts and figures Brooks cites. But he’s overlooked some social dynamics of the past two decades, unintentionally or willfully, that cast a somewhat different light on the changing social landscape.

For example, the enormous success of Meetup.com, founded after September 11, 2001, clearly demonstrates that people are looking to connect to others in a variety of meaningful ways. There are 60 million people and 330,000 Meetup groups throughout the world covering the full gamut of human activity.

In omitting discussion of affiliations, Brooks has painted a picture that is not entirely accurate. It’s black and white, rather than shades of gray.”

***

“I agree with many of the core ideas, especially that people who are truly ‘ardent’ about life, who love people, ideas, activities, and places with real passion, tend to be the most fulfilled. But I also felt the author left out a few important pieces of the story.

First, examples of ‘love’ he focuses on are traditional (marriage, kids, church, patriotism) and in framing their decline as signs of cultural deterioration, he doesn’t acknowledge the enormous gains specifically for women over the past several decades.

Declining marriage rates, later childbearing, fewer kids, and less early romantic involvement aren’t just signs of detachment; they’re also a reflection of increased autonomy: more education, more workforce participation, more economic independence, more ability to choose when or whether to marry, and even safer, more stable marriages because people marry later. These are real, hard‑won feminist achievements, and the article doesn’t grapple with this at all.

Second, women have historically been, and still are, primary maintainers of relationships. If some of these relational structures are weakening, part of the story may be that women finally have more choices and are less willing (or able) to shoulder the emotional and social upkeep for everyone else. Maybe what’s happening isn’t a decline in love at all, but a rebalancing of power, choice, and responsibility.”

***

“Two major snippets stood out to me. The first was from one of his learnings after losing his first true love: ‘It taught me what it’s like when self gets decentered and things most precious to you are in another.’ When I had our first child, I realized parenthood is living with your heart (now hearts) on the outside of your body. It’s a beautiful, messy, rewarding type of love. When your heart is on the outside and it goes through a breakup or gets bullied or moves out, love comes with both great joy and happiness… AND sorrow!

Second, Brooks notes that society is moving away from traditional institutions like the church, and he’s right – but perhaps we’re finding ‘church’ in new places, like a hot yoga class or a neighborhood ICE protest. For women, more educated and financially independent than ever, the bar for ‘marriage’ has been raised. We are no longer willing to compromise our autonomy for a connection that isn’t real.”

***

“As a singleton (per Bridget Jones), my first reaction to this article was a bit defensive. ‘Who are you to tell me I’m not happy?!’ This brings me to the crux of what I find troubling about the Brooks piece: trying to define happiness as the contrast between ‘independence and autonomy’ and ‘loving passion.’ Brooks freely admits that one does not have to be married with children to connect but contradicts this assertion with what I interpret as a conservative, politically driven agenda.

I especially have problems with his ‘married people are happier’ assertion. NUMEROUS surveys show married women are NOT as happy as single women or married men, for all the reasons you’d expect.

I have a plethora of loving attachments, through family, church, friends, and life interests. I don’t think I’m an outlier. Independence and autonomy do not presume a ‘restricted’ or ‘low-energy’ life. See Minneapolis, January 2026. In recent weeks, I have met many people who have a fire in their heart for friends and neighbors and community, regardless of marital status.”

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***

“While there may indeed be sociological, economic, political science interpretations of the data that Brooks presents with his theory of ‘the great detachment’, I wonder if there might be this one as well – people are afraid. John’s letter to the early Church remarked that ‘...love casts out fear...,’ I think this is true and I wonder if the reverse is true ‘...fear casts out love…’

There’s much to be afraid of these days that might caution people about falling in love with something or someone other than themselves – roaming bands of armed ICE agents, the madness of the President, the complicity with power mongering of elected officers and representatives, the destruction of the atmosphere and the violent and unpredictable turns Nature seems to be taking, the cultural fascination with violence on the one hand and self-indulgence on the other.

In the midst of all this woe, there are signals of this fear-overcoming-love seen in the response of many in the Twin Cities. Many loved and cared for their neighbors rather than cower in fear to the ICE agents. Yes, detachment is real, and fear has something to do with it. But like the initial comings of springtime, love is melting the kind of fear that leads to detachment and making space for caring and attachment and service to grow.”

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Before homecoming weekend, I got around to asking if she’d “go with me” to the homecoming dance… and she agreed. Presumably, I made my way over to her dorm and we walked together to the fieldhouse, where such events were held.

I remember hearing that Peg’s floormates aided in the selection of an appropriate outfit, vague memories of a plaid skirt. After five-plus decades, I don’t recall much more. It was a fun evening, one of three or four informal dates I had that semester with three or four different women, generally going to a movie.

How to describe Peg? Friendly, grounded, authentic. As I came to know her better, I’d add smart, multi-layered, both fun and funny. Competitive in a quiet, confident way. An athlete, but she didn’t talk much about her remarkable tennis skills.

During one post-meal table conversation, someone casually mentioned how fast some of us ate (looking directly at me). Within minutes, Peg and I decided to race, testing our speed with substantial bowls of soft-serve ice cream. If memory serves, I edged Peg by a spoonful before a half-dozen watchful classmates. Shortly thereafter, she evened our competition, defeating me decisively in her ability to recall lyrics to TV sitcom theme songs.

I was then only dimly aware of Peg’s groundbreaking court case. I don’t think she ever brought it up; I was probably too oblivious, too self-absorbed – maybe both – to ask.

Peg and I graduated from Luther College in May 1976. With eight others, we now serve on the Homecoming Committee planning our 50^th year class reunion. Although we’ve encountered each other several times over the decades, nevertheless, it was a special joy to see her smiling face in a zoom box during our committee’s initial meeting.

I dimmed my screen momentarily to grab a book written by Peg’s sister about her senior year of high school, extending into her first year of college. I displayed the book so screenmates could see: “Break Point: Two Minnesota Athletes and the Road to Title IX,” by Sheri Brenden.

Peg’s case began spring 1972 with a letter to the Minnesota Civil Liberties Union (MCLU): “I am interested in playing tennis, but the girls’ athletic program does not have adequate competition. There are qualified girls throughout (Minnesota without) the same opportunity to excel in sports as boys. … I ask you to initiate an effort to legally change the Minnesota State High School ruling. … P.S. Please hurry. I’m a senior.”

The MCLU took Peg’s case. Her MCLU attorney soon consulted with an ACLU litigator with greater experience. Ruth Bader Ginsburg, not yet on the Supreme Court, was then coordinator of the ACLU’s Women’s Rights Project, challenging laws that discriminated against women.

Quoting from “Break Point”. “In the early 1970s, few girls imagined themselves as athletes; schools barely budgeted for girls sports; state tournaments and college scholarships were for boys. All this changed on May 1, 1972, when Judge Miles W. Lord issued a federal court decision that opened the door for two Minnesota girls from public schools in St. Cloud (Peg) and Hopkins, Minnesota to compete on their high school teams. Upon appeal (this decision) was upheld by the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals, establishing a legal precedent that pressed schools across the country to create sports participation opportunities for girls.”

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This entire episode makes me exceptionally proud to call Peg a friend, someone I’ve danced with (!) and competed against; someone I’ve respected and admired for more than five decades. Again, “Break Point”: “These trailblazers… stepped forward and refused to be ignored. In claiming their identities as athletes, they opened a door for girls everywhere.”

The downstream impact? In the 70-71 school year, almost 3.5 million boys played high school sports… and 268,591 girls. Figures for the 2024–25 school year: 4.72 million boys, 3.54 million girls. Thank you, Peg, for helping open that door! Meanwhile, I await a soft-serve rematch this fall.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

Taft is a fascinating character. Author, teacher, lecturer, critic, tastemaker, feminist, self-proclaimed “art missionary” and, primarily, sculptor. Born into a family that valued education, he was arguably the Midwest’s most prominent sculptor for almost five decades, beginning in the late 1880s until his death in 1936.

My interest in Taft is partially a spillover of a longstanding interest in author Hamlin Garland. Shortly after Garland moved to Chicago in 1893, Taft attended one of his “salon presentations”; it marked the start of an enduring friendship. The two were occasional collaborators, usually rooted in their shared belief that the arts are for everyone. A half-dozen years after first meeting Taft, Garland married his sister, Zulime, herself a sculptor, ensuring their ongoing connection.

The arc of Taft’s career is documented in his public sculptures, many in Chicago, most scattered throughout the Midwest. His diverse talents first became more widely known through the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Taft’s hometown. Among the hopes – and opportunities – of the Exposition was showcasing an emerging Chicago school of sculpture, works that reflected the city’s dynamic culture and emerging taste just two decades after the Great Fire. According to one critic, “Lorado Taft was that school’s spokesman, theorist, and principal practitioner.”

Taft was rarely interested in what was fashionable, preferring to focus on timeless themes like the relentless march of time and the fleeting nature of human existence. A decade after the Exposition, he authored “The History of American Sculpture,” the subject’s first comprehensive survey, which served as an authoritative reference until the 1960s.

Taft also shared his thoughts publicly through newspaper columns and public presentations. I found two estimates of how many arts-related lectures he delivered – 2,000 and “nearly 4,000” – the larger estimate from his brother-in-law, Hamlin, who may have rounded up (even the smaller number is impressive). One art educator noted, “Taft’s newspaper accounts, magazine articles, and popular lectures may have persuaded more people of the importance of art than his sculptures ever did.”

Among the traits Taft and Garland shared was enlightened feminist thinking, at least by standards of their day. In Taft’s case, it might have been a philosophy that grew out of necessity. The Exposition impresario, Daniel Burnham, (he, of the “make no little plans” quote) hired Taft to convert small clay models into monumental sculptures. Thrilled by this assignment, Taft quickly realized he needed help. He asked Burnham whether he could hire his students, specifically a group of young women. Burnham replied, “Hire anyone, even white rabbits, if they can get the work done.”

Taft retained his most talented assistants. This core group of six-to-eight women, all in their early twenties, became known as the “White Rabbits”. They were paid $5 a day, $7.50 for Sunday work. Within this group, most of whom went on to successful sculpting careers, were his sister, Zulime, and a woman from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, Helen Farnsworth Mears, who I’ll write about soon.

Before long, the White Rabbits became a major pre-exposition attraction. According to one White Rabbit, “Everyone rushing about in mad haste; it must have been a fantastic sight. No wonder all the architects and painters and sculptors – anyone with anything to do with the Fair – came often and shared our paper bag lunch! We were the first art sweat shop; to see White Rabbits at work was one of the sights of those days.”

Workers weren’t the only ones stopping by. Zulime reported “shaking at least 45 governors’ hands.” Of course, there were also periodic setbacks. One winter morning, the White Rabbits arrived to find the previous night’s snowfall had crashed the glass roof over their workspace. A contemporary account said, “Nothing could be salvaged, but these were resilient women. They started over.” In addition to the White Rabbits helping Taft, Taft helped these women receive their own commissions. Time and again, Taft supported anyone demonstrating a passion for creating art.

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A concluding summary: More than any other force, Lorado Taft and the White Rabbits helped make the “White City,” as the Exposition grounds became known, truly beautiful.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

He lost. Ah, but his point registered with his great-grandson interested in delving into the history of our rural community. A reminder that in the 1920s, lanes connecting Iowa farms occasionally were more muddy pathways than gravel roads.

So, guess which state has the most “unpaved, granular-surface roads.” Yes, Iowa… between 70,000 and 73,000 miles, 58% to 60% of all state roads, a grid geared toward the farm economy. Iowa also leads the nation in bridges in poor condition, although this stat improved from 21.2% in 2023 to 18.6% in 2025. Presumably, many deficient bridges are on gravel roads.

I know nearby gravel roads well: to and from home, symbols of connectivity and continuity in turbulent times; a way out into the world AND a route for retreat. Old-timey, evocative, nostalgic. Undoubtedly, readers know many comparable rural lanes.

Generally, gravel roads are traveled at a leisurely pace. Familiarity and slower speeds encourage reflection. On my well-worn path from our home to the IA-MN state line, less than two miles, I recall neighbors, many gone, and stories, many true. Deep ties stretching generations. Come along on this journey.

Out our driveway, we travel east on 487^th Street, a narrow lane that connects to Echo Avenue. As we approach this intersection, envision modest housing on our right that gave my rural community – “Poor Creek” – its name: a half-dozen narrow strips of land, each less than an acre; a tar shack at one end, Otter Creek on the other. These hovels disappeared a century ago. It’s now a farm field I walk in the spring, seeking Native artifacts and remnants from early settlers – crock shards, forged nails, door hinges, etc.

Pointed north on Echo, first road on the right is “Lovers’ Lane,” once a tree-lined drive, although southside trees were cleared 50+ years ago. (Maybe we should call it “LoLa”.) We glance down this road but pass by.

After the bridge over Otter Creek, the place on the left is “Magnus & Betsy’s,” although they haven’t lived there for six decades. (I wrote about them and their barn several months ago.) Magnus was my paternal grandmother’s uncle, my great-great uncle; I’m distantly related to Betsy, too, a maternal connection. Four owners later, the house has undergone renovation for almost two decades. It’s now wrapped in “Tyvek,” insulation as outerwear.

On the east side of Echo, is Wayne and Mavis’s, although Mavis went to her reward in 2017 and Wayne, now 90, lives in a nursing home. Mavis’s parents lived there previously. Gilbert (Gib), her dad, was brother to the man living on my parents’ farmstead before they bought it in 1953. The world has never known people more goodhearted than Mavis and Wayne. Their daughter, similarly kind, lives there now.

Next property on the left boasts a new factory-built home. A chiropractor and a mechanic. During my first decade of life, two sisters several years older than me grew up there; without doubt, the most beautiful girls in Iowa if not the entire world. Sigh.

Pleasant Hill Cemetery is next to this property. I was cemetery groundskeeper one summer 54 years ago, the only nepotism job I ever held. (Grandpa was secretary of the cemetery board although, curiously, minutes were always in Grandma’s handwriting.) Burials began there 130+ years ago, 850 plots now in use. I’m connected to a significant percentage of these saints.

A new cemetery fence was installed several years ago, with arched “Pleasant Hill” metalwork above the entrance, created by Dan, a creative relative by marriage. At one time, I could stroll through this cemetery without much emotion, a period that ended maybe three decades ago. It will be our final resting place.

I’m near my word/space limit and am only at the cemetery, where we’ll stop for a while. (Foreshadowing?) We’ll continue our journey soon.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM

First, a Brooks paragraph (edited), then what it generated. Brooks: “I composed this homage to love because Americans seem to be having less of it. Think of things people most commonly love – their spouse, kids, friends, God, nation, and community. Now look at social trends: marriage rates near record lows; Americans having fewer kids. Americans have fewer friends now and spend less time with those they have. Church and synagogue attendance rates have fallen for decades…. You might call this the Great Detachment, a systematic weakening of loving bonds that hold society together – for community, for nation, for friends, and so on.”

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Correspondent responses:

“Sometimes I’ve wondered if ‘original sin,’ as taught by Christian doctrine, has something to do with our natural tendency as humans to protect ourselves and our own egos, rejecting responsibilities that take time and effort. We avoid reaching out or trying anything new because it’s so much easier. I think being open to change and giving of ourselves are keys to a life well-lived. As Brooks suggests, we should obligate ourselves in service to dear people and rewarding activities to ‘set ourselves free.’”

*****

“My response could be a book, but seeking brevity, a few lines. Brooks speculates on reasons why (society lost a) feeling of community and connectedness we used to have or thought we had. I think it’s a combination: WAGE STAGNATION for the working class (including) young people worried about finances; astronomical RISE IN CEO PAY compared to worker pay; SENSATIONALISM & SEGMENTATION OF NEWS, two different topics; ONE PARTY CONTENDING FACTS ARE IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER leading to a loss of trust in government and expertise; meanwhile SOCIAL MEDIA tends to isolate us while bringing out the worst in people; PLUMMETING RELIGIOUS SERVICE ATTENDANCE …meaning less community, trust, and caring for others; lastly (maybe most important?) EXCESSIVELY COMFORTABLE LIFESTYLES… the ease with which we go through life now compared to five decades ago.”

*****

“Much of Brooks’ melancholy column is based on careful research… but I challenge his conclusions colored partly by his conservative biases, partly by lack of sensitivity to the struggles of younger generations, partly by discomfort with change. Brooks is too steeped in Conservative Nostalgia to look at the world with rigorous objectivity. I agree that love and passion and community are powerful drivers of happiness. While data he cites might imply a decrease in these wonderful values, there are facts I find more compelling, like massive participation in No Kings Protests and the outpouring of community support following Ms. Good’s murder. Brooks doesn’t mention grandchildren. I cannot find evidence that he has them. Perhaps this is why, lacking the astonishing joy of loving little children filled with curiosity and wonder, he fails to rejoice in all that is great with our world.”

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“Aside from our love for things like country or community (my mother often said, ‘You LIKE things, you LOVE people’), it reminds me of one of the most important faith / theological truths: We are created for the purpose of relationship.”

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“I ask myself why any amount of vulnerability is worth the potential of heartbreak. It seems if we could remember its pain with any reliable intensity, to walk outside the front door of your house would be foolish. Instead, I repeatedly force myself into an opposite alignment. What’s the point of life if not to smell all the flowers? Squeeze the stem of a rose and suddenly, you’ve tempted its thorns! The challenge lies in a radical hope: that no love is wasted except that which is solely kept to oneself.”

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One more column, with similarly contemplative responses, is envisioned in several weeks. I am most grateful – and frankly, overwhelmed – by friends’ insightful feedback. As for now, I suggest we all ponder what society’s reactions could be, indeed should be, to Brooks’s “Great Detachment” theory.

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My column, entitled “Showing Up,” is published weekly in the Nora Springs - Rockford Register. I’m also pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative… click on the underscored link to see a list of the talented people who make up this innovative approach to journalism. I always welcome your feedback and, if you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be thrilled if you became one. Thanks much! —KM