A Thanksgiving tradition

A poem by Denny Banister of Jefferson City, Mo., the assistant director of public affairs for the Missouri Farm Bureau:

Tradition is tradition, often difficult to explain,
We do it because we do it, not to would be insane.
Nationalities, races and religions have traditions they must follow,
Without traditions, traditional times would be meaningless, void and hollow.

Americans each year at Thanksgiving have a traditional Thanksgiving feast,
The traditional meat served is turkey, we don't feast on just any beast.
How did the turkey gain its place on our traditional Thanksgiving table?
Because that's what the pilgrims feasted upon according to fact and fable.

Now we've all heard how they hunted the bird, but I know the real rendition,
Our forefathers’ gunpowder was damp that day, they were hunting with bad ammunition.
Don't laugh, you'll have to prove me wrong, but that's what I'm here to say,
Our forefathers couldn't have shot a buck - their buckshot was damp that day.

The men marched forward toward the woods, their ranks had one addition,
They took along an Indian scout, you guessed it - it was tradition.
The women all proudly waved good-bye as their protectors left to go hunting,
Then prepared the table for the feast, trimmed with doily, napkins and bunting.

It's a good thing women are blessed with women's intuition,
This first feast had to be done just right or we'd be stuck with unpalatable tradition.
They didn't know what their pilgrim husbands would bring home for the main dish,
So they fixed foods that would go just as well with partridge, venison or fish.

They created something called dressing made from bread a day old,
They had no intention of starting a fad, they just didn't want it to mold.
Meanwhile deep in the forest, our hunters were being harassed,
By the Indian scout who mocked their skills - the pilgrims were very embarrassed.

One spotted an elk, took careful aim, pulled back the trigger - CLICK!!
They discovered damp gunpowder would not fire, the realization made them sick.
What could they have for their Thanksgiving feast, on what would they that night sup?
One of the lads said, "Let's stew our shoes, I'm famished - I'll gobble it up!!!"

They were in no mood for jokes, and one of the blokes flung his musket into the field,
Just as old Tom Turkey, who heard the "gobble" jumped up - his fate was sealed.
What senses he had were knocked out that day, the turkey was plucked stuffed and roasted,
In exchange for his silence the Indian was fed while the hunters exaggerated and boasted.

They truthfully said they didn't fire a shot, they had no need for ammunition.
That's why today we raise turkeys on farms - to shoot them would break with tradition.
The producers of food from the Missouri Farm Bureau want to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,
As to the quality of my poetry, what can I say - it's a living.

So Banister's poetry isn't the greatest, I did as good as I could,
I was inspired by one of the very best, but Charles, I'm not nearly Os- Good.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

#foodthanks

The AgChat Foundation is urging people today to express their gratitude for those who provide food in a tweet, Facebook entry, video or blog post. People are encouraged to use the hashtag #foodthanks. It's part of the foundation's effort to let the public get to know farmers through social media.

For our part, we at the Capital Press are thankful for our readers who support what we do. I'm thankful to live in a country that produces such an abundance of foods and other goods, with more than 100 different crops grown in my state and many more grown in other states. I'm also thankful that people in big cities are rediscovering the value of agriculture through the local food movement.

Most of all, I'm thankful to work for a company full of good, down-to-earth people who do their darnedest to capture ag's story every week, and every day on our Web site. May everyone be so fortunate.

God Bless America

We at Capital Press wish y'all a happy and safe Fourth of July weekend.

Images of the coastline

OK, the real reason for this post was to practice uploading photos onto the blog. But as you make your plans for the Fourth of July weekend, you might want to make your way to Newport, Ore., where my wife and I took these pictures recently. The famous aquarium is one of many attractions in that beautiful coastline city.

Earning my keep around the old homestead

I spent the weekend back in Eastern Oregon, visiting family for the holidays. I got to relive a little of my youth too, as I did a few chores while I was home.

When I arrived at my folks' place Friday evening, after braving some icy roads through the Columbia Gorge and freezing rain in Interstate 84 from Boardman to the Hermiston/Lexington exit, I was relieved to see my parents' home as I drove south on the Buttercreek Highway. Little did I know, the most treacherous part of my drive was still to come. As I slowed to turn into the driveway, I could see the ruts of tire tracks through the deep snow leading up the hill. I turned in, picking what looked to be the clearest tracks and headed up the hill only to feel the traction give way on the back wheels of my pickup. The tires started to spin, sending the back end of the truck sideways.

I just knew I would end my journey trudging the final 50 yards of my trip through a foot of snow carrying my luggage.

Fortunately, there is not a traffic on the road in front of my parents' house, so I backed down the driveway and onto the highway, which had been cleared of snow. I backed as far as I could without getting my back tires into the snowy shoulder to get a run at the driveway again. But I wasn't at all confident that I would get great traction as I had been driving in freezing drizzle for the last 30-40 miles. But I was sure I wanted to drive up to the house far more than than walk, I accelerated as quickly as I could without spinning the tires and charged the hill.

This time I carried more speed into the driveway and was able to keep the truck churning and slipping forward, but still making progress up the hill. I reached the house, tired from a long trip on difficult roads, but relieved to be home safe and sound.

Saturday, fortunately brought some warmer weather and the snow and ice were starting to melt. But I wasn't sure if things might freeze again. Since I had another obligation in Pilot Rock Saturday afternoon and evening, I didn't want to try to navigate an icy driveway on my return. So I decided to work on some snow removal.

I started off clearing snow, ice and slush off the sidewalks around the house. Fortunately, my brother Ron pitched in too, to save a little strain on my middle-aged back.

The driveway proved a bigger challenge. The battery was dead on the old Ford tractor, and my father informed me that the hydraulics to lift the blade weren't working either. So, I used why I had at my disposal, which was my truck and its tires. I made repeated trips up and down the driveway, trying to break up the deepest spots in the snow and widen the ruts to more than a single tire track in width. Perhaps predictably, the results were less than satisfactory.

At one point I found myself, scoop shovel in hand, trying to clear snow and slush at the bottom of the driveway.

It turned out that I needn't have worried. The meltoff continued throughout the day and the temperature stayed above freezing all evening, so there were no problems getting up the driveway later that night. And by the time I woke up Sunday, the snow was all but gone in the yard and driveway.

But if felt good to get out and do a little physical work around the ol' place. The exercise was good, but the biggest satisfaction came from pitching in without being asked — or ordered — to do so. I used to hate those sorts of chores as a kid. It seemed I was always being directed to do lawn or weed mowing, or watering, or wash cars (or trucks or airplanes) around the place. I hated it all. But this was different. It felt good to do something because it was my idea and it was something I wanted to do. Never mind that Mother Nature did the job I was trying to do much more effectively all on her own. For a few hours, it was easier to walk around the house and navigate the driveway because I got out there to put in some sweat equity.

Feeling lost on Christmas Eve

I think it may be time to get a GPS. I should have put that on my gift list. I need to know where I am.

For some reason, YouTube seems to think I'm somewhere across the pond in the United Kingdom today. I'm not sure what's going on there. I thought I was in Salem, Ore., but every time I venture outside and see snow all around me, I'm not so sure. So maybe I have been transplanted and don't even know it.

Wherever you are this Christmas Eve, I hope you have a happy, healthy and safe holiday. I am sending out holiday greetings — from wherever I am.

I wonder if NORAD can track my whereabouts. I don't have Santa's clout through.

A little something for your Christmas stocking

Since Christmas falls on Thursday, the Capital Press is working a little ahead this week to get the print editions of the paper out and in the mail before the holiday. But if the thrill of anticipation is too much, you can get a sneak peak online Wednesday afternoon.

We should have stories and other items for this week's edition posted online tomorrow. It's just a little something extra — something you can open early without getting intro trouble for peaking — this holiday season.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

News doesn't take a holiday

It's fairly quiet today around Capital Press headquarters, which is unusual for a Wednesday. Normally, Wednesday is the day we have all hands on deck because we are finishing up the print editions of the newspaper. But our deadline was pushed up a day this week to try to get the paper out to folks on time around the holiday.

So, some folks on our staff are taking some vacation time today and/or Friday in order to spend time with family for Thanksgiving. We aren't the only folks affected by the holiday of course. Reporter Mitch Lies has said that he's had a tough time reaching people this week to make appointments or conduct interviews.

We can see the difference in the number of visitors to our website too. The number of visitors to capitalpress.com are down today too. But rest assured, we are still posting news and updates online and we'll have the full contents of this week's edition posted by tomorrow, even though tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Due to the holiday, our office will be closed and we will not be posting news updates to capitalpress.com on Thursday, but we will be back Friday to fill readers in on what's happening in news affecting farmers and ranchers in the West.

As the saying goes, news doesn't take a holiday, but we know people do, or at least try to now and then.

We hope you and your family and friends have a pleasant and safe Thanksgiving holiday. And if you need a break from the holiday hubbub, you can still find lots of new and interesting agriculture news on capitalpress.com.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Thank you for what you grow

In my grandparents' generation, many Americans had to grow much of their own food in order to eat. All four of my grandparents were born before and lived through the Great Depression. They came from farm families and worked on farms part or most of their lives.

My mother's mother also maintained a large garden, which provided fresh vegetables for the summer with plenty left over to can for winter meals too. There was not money for luxuries — things my generation and my daughter's generation now take for granted — but there was always plenty to eat. And the dinner table was the centerpiece of family gatherings.

A lot of families will be gathering this weekend for feasts of Thanksgiving. Perhaps the economic hardships so many are experiencing will make us remember the more basic things of life for which we should be thankful — things like having food to eat and family and friends with which we can share our meal and our fellowship.

I feel fortunate that members of my family, to present day, still make it possible for so many people to put food on their holiday table by working in agriculture. Most Americans are far removed from the farm and have little idea where their food comes from or what it takes to grow it. I've got to see those things first hand and am proud of my family members who help grow food, not only for their neighbors, but the nation and the world.

My grandparents are all gone now. My mom's mom was the last to go shortly after Thanksgiving last year. My grandparents, and several aunts and uncles, won't be around to share in the feasts of Thanksgiving. But I can't help but think of all of the family gatherings, holidays and special occasions that revolved around a family dinner table and featured food our family has grown with their own hands or had a hand in growing.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my family and friends, near and far, and all the people who help feed us all. Their work, a labor of love and great sacrifice, is worth far more than they will ever receive in financial compensation. They deserve to be remembered and thanked this holiday as we remember the many blessings we are fortunate to enjoy.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Photos from the Oregon State Fair

Here are some photos of the Capital Press staff at the Oregon State Fair over the Labor Day weekend. It was fun to see so many people and get a chance to take note of agriculture's importance to Oregon's economy and lifestyle.

Look for us at the Oregon State Fair

Look for members of the Capital Press staff Saturday, Aug. 30, at the Oregon State Fair.

We'll be hard to miss.

Just look for the neon-lime green T-shirts celebrating Ag Day.

I wouldn't advise actually looking directly at the shirts unless you are wearing suitable eye protections. Sun glasses may help, but welder's goggles would be better. The shirts are bright.

It ought to tell people how committed the Capital Press staff is to celebrating agriculture in Oregon and the West though. If our staffers will go out in public wearing those shirts, they are indeed committed to the cause.

I'll be working the Ag Day booth between the hours of 3:30 and 6:30 p.m. Unless I'm rushed to the hospital with retinal damage. That would not be a great way to spend Labor Day weekend.

Click here to see what other fun stuff will be happening on Ag Day.

Aren’t you glad you’re not in Iowa?

A television report this morning showed how much Iowans are being bombarded with political messages during this holiday season.

As Jan. 3 nears for presidential caucus voting in that state, people are receiving more candidate literature than Christmas cards. Phones are buzzing with calls from volunteers urging people to support their leaders.

For example, one of the television networks visited a home where the guy showed he had received 20 pieces of mail in two days — and his phone showed 60 calls since Dec. 1. All of these were attempts to sway his vote.

As the victim — I mean, potential voter — noted, this is the time of year when people are more interested in the Christmas cards than the political flyers, and you think more about Christmas than elections.

Unfortunately, political campaigns are influenced by polls, and obviously the polls have shown politicians they need to do more to sway people to support them.

Perhaps the date for that caucus meeting needs to be changed, or politicians need to come to some sort of joint agreement to “cease fire” and give people a break from politics for at least two weeks around the holiday season.

Wouldn’t that be refreshing?

Technorati tags: Agriculture
Christmas
election
Iowa caucus

Christmas past

I consider myself blessed when I think of my childhood Christmas memories. I remember the many sleepless Christmas Eves when I would lie awake wondering what gifts might be under the tree. I remember the arguments between us (the kids) and my folks determining when the waking hour would be.

We would always push for 6:30 at the latest, while the folks would try to make us stay in bed until at least 7:30. A compromise of 6:38 was usually the result. After the gift opening ceremony, a large feast of fry bread, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit would satisfy the body, as well as the soul.

For my siblings and I, there were two events that never failed to prep our spirits for the Christmas season. One was gathering around the television to watch the annual showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas. The other was the Christmas production the grade school would put on.

Each class, consisting of 15 to 30 students, would either sing, play instruments, dance, or perform a play for the crowd of teachers, students, parents, grandparents, and family friends. With the stage lit only with black lighting, the evening was topped with a mass song of Silent Night.

I attended grade school in the 1980s. I am saddened how today’s generation, only 20+ years later, is not allowed to have Christmas specials like that. They can have a holiday special, but not one that represents Christmas. Having the group sing a song like Silent Night together would result in someone getting fired, or perhaps end in a lawsuit.

As an adult, Christmas has evolved somewhat since my earlier years. I’ve found myself trying to bargain with my nieces and nephews hoping to get to sleep until 7:30, though usually receiving a rude phone call at about 6:38 telling me to hurry up and get to my folks house. I’ve also found myself excited about my gift to someone, not from someone.

We still gather around the television and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, eat a low-fat fry bread breakfast (you mean fry bread isn’t low fat? Even with canola oil?), and go on a long walk with everybody to help the food settle.

As my fiancée and I gear up to be married, one area of concern is the Christmas tree. Last year, I pushed her into the pickup on an 18-degree day and made her search the forest with me looking for the perfect tree. She thought the tree was too vacant and needed to be much fuller.

Her idea of a great Christmas tree is to go purchase one from the nearest tree-lot. I explained how I didn’t want to spend $30 on a dried up, dead piece of shrubbery. Also, the romanticism of going to a tree-lot is just not there.

“Kevin, last year you lost the Thermos of hot chocolate, you got the pickup stuck in the snow, and the Forest Service guy gave you a warning because of the size of tree you cut down,” she argued.

“It wasn’t all my fault. You were the one who wanted the top 8 feet of that 50-foot tree, and then you had the nerve to complain about it once we brought it home!”

After a compromise this year, we agreed to have her store-bought tree (shrubbery) put in the house. I got to decorate the little pine tree in the corner of my yard. I’ve never been too fond of the compromising process.

Remember, the spirit of Christmas is about giving. If you’ve been given something freely, freely give back. If you know of someone who needs comfort, give them comfort. If you know an elderly person who would just like to visit, give them a visit.

The world may try to take Christ out of Christmas, but the world cannot take Christ out of us. Merry Christmas to all.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, December 2007, Kevin Duling

Postal ponderings

At times like this, I really miss my small town post office from the past.

Mind you, my hometown was so small it technically wasn’t a town: it only has 11 people when I was growing up, and even fewer people reside there today.

The post office was connected to a general store that handled mostly groceries. The family that operated the store would occasionally excuse themselves from adding up or packing groceries so they could get the mail quickly for people who might have popped into the post office.

On the day the farm newspaper arrived, that was always the busiest day. Farmers couldn’t wait to get their favorite paper to read the news and classifieds. Sometimes the farmers sat in their half-ton trucks later outside the post office, faces already buried into the newspapers.

Yet no matter what the season, how close was the biggest holiday of the year, there was never a long line-up at this rural post office. If there was more than one person waiting, it just meant there would be a conversation opportunity with one of the neighbors. Everyone knew each other. They even knew each other’s box numbers since there were so few there.

The post office is now closed back home, replaced by a large metal contraption of mail boxes for the community. It stands forlornly across the street from where the other post office once stood.

Instead of having chats with the post office workers about family, weather, roads, crops and anything else that came to mind, farmers instead drive up — dig their little keys out of the truck glove compartments — and take a few seconds to unlock the boxes and retrieve their mail.

It all seems so … sterile.

Today I visited the post office in the city to mail off Christmas packages to friends and family across the country and internationally.

My first clue that this wouldn’t be easy was the 40 minutes it took to make the turn into the post office parking lot and find a parking space.

In small towns, we never have that problem — unless the snowdrifts were too deep.

I managed to get into the post office and started to figure out which way the line-up weaved to fit in the maximum amount of people from protect them from the rain outside.

Inside the main post office room, people were tighter than sardines in a can. The rest of us were in the lobby, hallway, extending past the mail boxes and almost out the back of the building. And still more people kept coming. And coming.

We all came bearing gifts for loved ones. Most of us who work during the day came the only time we could — lunchtime. The line-up barely moved. Snails could have set a faster pace. As the time kept ticking, and minutes began to be measured into quarter-hours and beyond, I realized I had moved … less than a yard.

Counting the amount of people in line, the number of staff at the counter, and the number of packages per customer, I realized the shocking fact that it would take another hour and a half minimum for me to reach the counter. That is in a line-up of increasingly frustrated, agitated people who worried about missing work and were torn with the desire to still try to meet family expectations of gifts for the holidays somewhere far away. Very few of the strangers talked to each other. Usually they just grunted as someone new entered and queried where was the end of the line. Cavemen probably had longer dialogues.

I glanced at my watch. My lunch hour had already passed. I now was up to a yard and a half of moving from my original spot. The victory of slam-dunking my packages on the postal scales and demanding postage still seemed a distant goal.

Gathering my packages, I finally gave up and headed out the door, deciding to return to the post office after the line-ups finally die down.

I hope everyone who knows me will enjoy the pleasant surprise of receiving their holiday gifts — in March.

Technorati tags: Agriculture

Hunters and gatherers

By Kevin Duling

Back in college, my crop science teacher spent many days of class telling us how we need to approach society and relationships using the “hunter and gatherer” mentality we were born with. He added that women were usually the gatherer type while men preferred to go out and kill something, drag it home, and show their women how great they were at the hunt.

I have witnessed both the hunting and gathering instinct at work in society, like a woman urging her husband to stop at the clothing or fabric store so she can browse through the aisles, hoping to find a great deal. Most men, unhappy because there is nothing to hunt and drag home, fall asleep in the car, dreaming of the day when their newly trained bird dog will make its first successful point.

There is one very important exception to the rule that men are hunters and women are gatherers. That would be the day after Thanksgiving. A typical Thanksgiving for my extended family is to rent a large house on the Oregon coast and spend the week playing cards and arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes. The day after Thanksgiving usually involves the men going for a long hike while the women run to the outlet mall at 5 a.m. to begin to gather.

I remember one Thanksgiving when I caved in to the urging of the women and agreed to accompany them on this annual Friday shopping ritual. I figured it would be good to get a head start on the Christmas shopping and I would surely find some good deals. The older men in our house warned me about what was in store for me, with a couple of them using an evil giggle I hadn’t heard before.

At 4:30 a.m., the day after Thanksgiving, I was rudely awakened by a pack of giddy ladies all discussing which stores they would go to first. Not wanting to make them late, I skipped taking a shower and just jumped into the vehicle. Typically, these women always wanted me to drive, but not today. I sat back and watched as eight ladies who were all known for their kindness transformed into aggressively mean, scowling monsters letting nothing get in their way.

I hunched down in the back of the suburban when the driver crashed through a large mud puddle, completely soaking a couple unfortunate pedestrians on the sidewalk. The driver, whom I no longer recognized, laughed out loud as the lady in the passenger seat yelled “Go! Go! Go!” with her fist pointing onward.

At 4:50 a.m. we arrived on scene of the outlet mall. I was shocked to see the parking lot was nearly full with lines beginning to form at the entrances to some of the stores. There was no turning back now, so I grabbed my Christmas list and tried to find a store that was not so popular.

At 6 a.m. I had managed to pick a few things off the list and I felt it was time for a doughnut and a nap. I struggled through the crowd, being pushed and shoved like a pinball as these monsters, oh, I mean ladies, glared at me with their red, glowing eyes. Finally, I found the driver of our vehicle, who used to be my sister, and asked for the keys so I could take a nap.

At roughly 8 a.m. I was getting restless, so I managed to get back out into the chaos to see if I could pick some more things off my list. Entering a large department store, I grabbed a cart, hoping it would give me support and balance just in case the monsters should attack again.

I found a few really good deals. I made it to the sock section and there were three pairs of socks left for an incredible price. I grabbed all three! Meandering through the aisles I witnessed a man at the end of the aisle being scolded by a couple of monsters. Apparently he was trying to get into the express lane with 10 items when the limit was 9. People say a picture is worth a thousand words and when his eyes caught mine, well, let’s just say that there was an understanding between us.

As I was bent over looking at some items I noticed a lady with a cart moving very fast away from me. She glanced over her shoulder and her glowing eyes looked right at me. Fear then turned to rage inside me. “Did she just swipe something out of my cart?” I asked myself. “She did; she stole my three pair of socks!” It wasn’t worth the chase as I watched that five foot tall, 100 pound creature roar around the corner.

At 8:50 a.m., with the sale ending in 10 minutes, there was pushing and shoving. One lady was in tears behind me knowing that she wouldn’t make the checkout counter by 9 sharp. Through all the chaos, the manager yelled through the intercom: “Please ladies and the one gentleman, everyone in line at 9 a.m. will get the sale prices!”

While attending Thanksgiving this year at a friend’s house for a change of pace, a woman I have known for years to be one of the most kind, soft-hearted ladies around was planning her shopping trip for Friday. I remember her saying, “It’s time for me to put my nasty hat on, Kevin; we are pulling out the nasty hat!”

There is one day per year where gatherers turn into hunters and the typical hunter needs to disappear, or he will indeed be hunted.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com
Copyright, November 2007, Kevin Duling

Changing times

I haven't made a blog post in so long, I'm not even sure where — or how — to begin. We've had a lot of stuff going on lately at the Capital Press and I'm tempted to try to share it all. But there's a holiday weekend coming up, and I'm sure you have a lot more important stuff to do that read a long-winded blogologue from me.

So, I'll just say this. There's some new stuff happening over at the Capital Press website. Our staff, under the leadership of Executive Editor Elaine Shein, is increasing the number and frequency of news updates. Don't call us a "weekly" any more, because there is new stuff showing up on our website daily.

We are made a change this week to make our website a bit wider, to take advantage of the proliferation of higher-resolution computer monitors people are now using. We also bumped up the size of some of the ads on our site to take advantage of the wider page too.

We are still waiting on a coding change to reorganize things a bit at the top of the CapitalPress.com site, but in anticipation of that change we are looking at doing something different with our logo at the top, to help let new visitors see that they have indeed arrived at a website that's all about agriculture. The image at the top of this post is a prototype of a look we may try.

But all that is really only the tip of the iceberg. But the bottom line is that we are working hard and considering changes to make the Capital Press even more valuable as a source of news and information about agriculture in the West in print each week and online every day. The cosmetic changes may be easy to achieve, and see, but if we are successful it will result in far more subtle, but meaningful, changes to the information we provide and how we achieve that goal.

So, as things keep rolling along I hope to be making more frequent blog post again, and to wake up the podcast I've left sleeping for the moment.

In the meantime, have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend. And if you have to work this weekend — whether on the farm or off, I hope you find the time to remember the people in your life who have meant the most to you but who are no longer here.

Enjoy the holiday weekend everyone.

The rodent better be wrong

We're in for an early spring, or so says the groundhog. Although I'm not sure ol' Punxsutawny Phil's prediction necessary applied to the entire continental United States.

I haven't heard whether the prairie dog saw its shadow, and I'm not sure there is an official shadow-watching prairie dog anyway.

This has been one of those usually unusual winters here in the West. When it freezes in the deserts of California and the sun shines for days on end in the rain forests of the Northwest in January, it gets hard to believe that a groundhog in some town with an X from back east knows his shadow from his elbow.

Things just ain't right.

Don't me me wrong, I love the sunshine and I am in much better spirits due to its bright, warming effects. But farmers and ranchers need rain and snow in the mountains to provide water for later this year.

Other than in Washington state, seasonal snowpacks are below normal levels in much of the West. The groundhog predicts an early spring, which, if correct, would mean an end to the rainy season, which has already been suspended. As much as I'd love to have some sunny shirt-sleeve weather from now through, say, the end of time, for the sake of the agriculture economy the fat furry rodent better be wrong.

We need rain and snow. Sooner would be better than later, thank you very much.

Technorati tags: Agriculture

Groundhog Day revolt

The most influential teacher I had when I was a student at Echo High School, Jeanie (Robson) McCoy, used to love Groundhog Day. She used to say it was her favorite holiday.

I don't know if it's still her favorite holiday or not, but I wonder what her reaction would be to a move to rename Groundhog Day in the West to "Prairie Dog Day."

I didn't know there was any big controversy related to Groundhog Day until I got an e-mail from Lauren McCain, deserts and grassland program director for Forest Guardians.

According to the press release McCain sent, Forest Guardians and other conservation organizations have been working for four years to get the prairie dog some props each Feb. 2. The effort is an effort to promote the importance of the prairie dog in the Western ecosystems where it is found.

“Just as the groundhog predicts the duration of winter, the West’s ‘groundhog’ – the prairie dog – foretells the future of a community of wildlife dependent on prairie dogs for food and for the habitat they create,” McCain wrote.

And the effort appears to be gaining some momentum. Forest Guardians report that in 2006 both the Santa Fe, N.M., City Council and mayor of Albuquerque, N.M., officially declared Feb. 2 as Prairie Dog Day.

As a lifelong Westerner, I sort of like the idea of a Western critter getting some recognition, whether on Groundhog Day, or any other day for that matter. I have never seen a groundhog personally, as I suspect many of my neighbors haven't either. But then again, I'm not sure I've ever seen a prairie dog either.

Now, ground squirrels I've seen. I didn't know what a ground squirrel was until one day as a teenager when I was riding dirt bikes with a friend of mine on the farm/ranch he lived on near the Umatilla/Morrow counties line in Eastern Oregon. We were roaring off down some dirt road and came upon this area of rolling hills and grasslands beyond the fringe of the irrigated circles and dryland wheat fields. As I recall it, it was an area used to graze cattle that feature a huge covered concrete water tank (which would later serve as our own private swimming pool out in the middle of nowhere.

As we rode along, there was something odd about the landscape. I couldn't put my finger on it right away, but soon realized we were being watched. As we slowed and eventually stopped I realized that hundreds, no thousands, of little creatures were watching us. Some cautiously poked their heads out of holes in the earth. Others, a bit more distant, stood on all fours near their burrows. And still others, stood up on their hind quarters to eye the pair of noisy interlopers who had invaded their domains. Thousands of ground squirrels dotted the area. As we stopped our motorcycles, and got quiet, the furry little creatures resumed their activities, sprinting about or standing sentry over the rolling hills.

So, after reading about "Prairie Dog Day" I got to thinking, maybe there should be a campaign to have a "Ground Squirrel Day" too. But reflecting on a decade of more than a decade in California, most of that in the deserts there, I realized maybe each region should have it's own burrowing, ground-skittering critter to honor on Feb. 2.

How does "Lizard Day" grab you? Or maybe "Desert Tortoise Day" or "Borrowing Owl Day?"

Move over Punxsutawney Phil and make some room. You've got some competition.

I don't expect a lot of farmers and ranchers will hop on the bandwagon to support recognition or protection of prairie dogs or ground squirrels, animals that can damage crops or compete with livestock for rangeland grasses. What would be next, gophers?

Whether a critter is a loveable icon or a pest is strongly dependent on whether those critters live on your land or some far away place and only make an appearance once a year or so in search of its shadow to give you a prediction on the weather.

New and improved? Moving temporarily

Update 12/28/2006: I'm getting frustrated. I can't figure out why we can't post new post on this site and so far I've got no response from Blogger to try to figure it out.

We were in the midst of upgrading to the new version of Blogger when we fell off the rails somehow. So, until we can make new posts here, I've created a new blog, at least temporarily.

For some strange reason, I can edit things on this sight, I just can't publish new posts. If anyone knows how to correct that problem, I'd appreciate an e-mail.

But until we can get that figured out, I'm moving out -- or at least going around the problem. The first post on the new site is about the time I met President Ford, which I posted on the Capital Press website earlier this week (since I couldn't post it here). So, that's what's new, or recycled here. Until we can get our problem fixed, look for new posts at http://blogriculturetoo.blogspot.com/.


Original post: We're making some upgrades here at Blogriculture. We're updating our template to add some new features and functionality, but that means some things may be moving around, disappearing or whatever. So be patient with is during this process.

In this conversion process we are running into some problems. For some reason now, I can't create new posts and get them to save. Our executive editor, Elaine Shein, is having difficulty logging in at all. Once we get this sorted out, we'll make some refinements to the template and some new posts.

Update 12/27/06: I did make a post that I intented to put on here on the Capital Press website. You can find it here. It's about the death of former-President Gerald Ford, who I met a few years ago while living in Southern California. We still can't create new posts, but can edit existing ones.

In the meantime, I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. Was Santa good to everyone out there?

NOTE FROM ELAINE 12/27/06:
While I might be off line currently from posting my own blogs, just a heads up that we are posting the last part of our climate change series this week online at www.capitalpress.com. The special section includes a look at where do we go from here as governments, companies and individuals in dealing with climate change, and gives some practical tips on how to be more energy efficient. We look forward to any feedback.

AND SINCE I STILL CAN'T CREATE A BLOG POST UNDER MY OWN NAME ...12/27/06:

I'll hijack a bit more space on Gary's last blog to add a blog I was attempting to post yesterday, still in the Christmas spirit, sharing Christmas from another perspective.

Gathered around a table with mostly strangers during Christmas day in the Portland area, I was soon questioned how did I celebrate Christmas in the past. What is it like to celebrate it in a rural area, or in a different culture?

Living now about a thousand miles away from my parents’ farm, I needed to pause and think how does one capture in a few words so many generations of traditions, so many years of learning from relatives and neighbors these traditions that range from the foods we ate to the carols we sang in another language.

I thought about how as children we grew up rather confused. There was the English version of Christmas on December 25, which seemed more and more commercialized and centered around Santa Claus. And then there was our version that followed the Julian calendar and had more ties to religion and even the land and crops we produced.

Our Christmas fell on Jan. 7, with Christmas Eve being one the holiest times for us but also the one where we or other people opened our homes up to relatives, friends and neighbors. We would gather for a feast of 12 meatless traditional dishes, some of which only are served during Christmas time.

“Twelve dishes!” one of the people said yesterday, rather surprised. “What ever could they be?”

It took a short while for me to recall all the dishes. After I moved away from the farm decades ago, it was tougher with my job to get time off to travel back and prepare the foods and celebrate with my family. I invited my parents to sometimes visit me and I would try to create as many of the dishes as I could, but it has been a long time since I have enjoyed the whole 12.

First, there is the dish with boiled wheat, honey, poppy seed and sometimes walnuts or pecans. Very sweet, and special because it is only to be made for Christmas as the opening dish.

Then there is the beet soup, mixed with other vegetables. Then two different types of fish: baked or fried, and pickled. There are cabbage rolls, pyrogies, cooked beans, and a cabbage and peas dish. A beets and mushroom dish. A mixture of dried fruits that are soaked overnight, simmered and sweetened. And of course, a special kind of bread with fillings like poppyseed and prunes.

There were other traditions associated with the meal. After we finished feeding and bedding down our cattle with dry straw for the night, we brought in some hay that my father placed under the kitchen table to remind us of the manger in Bethlehem.

A sheaf or vase of wheat was put on the center of the table to represent the crop my family had harvested that season. And one of us kids was always sent to the window to spot the first star in the eastern sky — representing the Three Wise Men — before we could begin the meal. Sometimes the Northern Lights would dance around that star, almost like Heaven was celebrating with us.

We set empty plates at the corners of the table for grandparents who have passed away, to show they are always remembered and welcomed.

We’d exchange Christmas greetings, say a prayer, and we’d sing a Christmas carol in the language my grandparents and great-grandparents had brought with them from overseas. And then the supper would begin.

There were times where occasionally carolers came to our door Christmas Eve, and they would always be welcomed as they blessed our homes. As I grew older, my friends and I were among the carolers who traveled on snow-covered roads to farms scattered for so many miles around.

Often the people we visited would join us in the carols, and for a few moments in each home it was magical. These weren’t commercial Christmas carols about shopping or about Santa and reindeer, nor were they songs that are played on the radio or found on any bestseller sales lists during the holidays, but rather these were carols with deep roots stretching back several generations.

So here I now sat, with these kind strangers who had welcomed us into their homes in Oregon since we were so far away from our families at this time of year. They asked questions, and I contemplated how best to describe what Christmas was like in the past.

I gazed at the various foods — from quiche to smoked salmon — people had brought for the meal, the lit Christmas tree, the pile of wrapping from opened presents and the roaring fireplace that had not long before had a row of stockings hanging in front.

Yes, this year’s Christmas was different from those that had been held on our farm so many years ago.

Every family and culture has its own traditions, no matter what part of the world you live in and the language you speak. What makes Christmas — or whatever other holy day is being celebrated — is family and friends being together to celebrate these times and create memories and traditions for the future.


Technorati tags: Agriculture, Blogging, Blogger, President Ford

What do you get the man who gave you everything?

Ready or not, Christmas is almost here. And I confess, I'm not ready. I still have some shopping to finish before spending the weekend criss-crossing the state of Oregon to enjoy the holidays with family.

I guess if there is any consolation, I've gotten better at this over the years. Once upon a time I did all my Christmas shopping on Christmas eve. I sort of had to get out of that habit when I lived in California. Even FedEx wouldn't have been able to pull me out of the jam I would have been in for sending my daughter's gifts late.

Now I get to hand deliver her holiday gifts, which is great. But compared to many people on my holiday list, she's pretty easy to shop for. I can usually get a few clues from her or her mother about things she would want to need for Christmas.

My parents and brothers are another story. For some reason, I always struggle figuring out what to get them.

Dad is the worst. I've lost count of how many gifts I've gotten him over the years that he didn't really get any use out of. Or the number of Pendleton shirts he's got from me, or others, over the years. He likes those wool shirts, but I've even managed to mess that up. One year I got him a shirt that looked real nice in the package, but failed to realize it was a short-sleeved shirt. Can you imagine? A short-sleeved wool shirt? Who would wear a short-sleeved wool shirt? "You know I love wool shirts, but I just can't wear them because my arms get too warm."

Efforts to be more imaginative haven't faired so well. Last year I went a different route with him and my brothers. I got them all Capital Press caps (my dad rarely goes anywhere without a cap) and our commemorative trucks. Not that my dad still plays with toys, or needs a piggy bank (which is one of the hidden features of the trucks), but in his office he has a couple of die-cast models of airplanes and trucks that he's either picked up or been given over the years. So I thought he could add one more to the modest collection.

But I'm not sure what to do this year. Another truck seems unimaginative. And he already has a Capital Press cap (not to mention dozens, if not hundreds, from every farm, farm supplier and probably from every vacation stop family and friends have made for the last 30 years).

A gift card would probably be perfect, but I'm not sure if he'd even use it. It would probably get tucked away in a draw somewhere and forgotten.

The irony is that my father and I are a lot alike in many ways, but I can't shop for him for some reason. I wonder if I'm that hard to shop for?

So, my quest continues for the perfect gift for my father and a few other family members who I haven't yet crossed off my list.

I hope you all better prepared than I am for the holidays.

Merry Christmas.

Technorati tags:
Christmas, Gifts, Shopping, Agriculture