Old dynamite casings left in what I like to call the “powder house.”
Author Archives: Laura Lindblom
Autumn waking
Sometimes all it takes to clear the mind of distraction, sorrow, worry, weariness, and pessimism is the feeling of dew on my jeans, the sound of brown leaves folding beneath my feet, the rush of a scramble into a dry creek bed, and the glint of the sun through and in the trees.
It is impossible to capture the flicker of dew in the long grass, or to describe the captivating fragrance of the wet earth, a draught stronger than wine, the musk of earth, the sweet of grass, subtle and fresh and intangible. The flicker of scarlet and orange of berries clinging in the twigs of trees, the yellow of a fallen leaf. I wish I could put words to the changing touch of the air from shadowed ravine to sunny hillside – The chill kiss and the warm caress. Sometimes they blend – The warm caress of a breeze wafting into the cool of the ravine, or the chill wind curling and streaming into the warmth of a fragrant open trail.
The hum of bees blends with the whisper of wind in the pines, and the trail curves ahead and disappears from sight. The ground is dark with heavy dew and the green is greener, the gold golder, the brown browner, the red redder in the rich, warm light.
What a mystery, to be walking straight into the sun, which seems hardly to hover above the tops of the trees, the sky brilliant with light, but to be enveloped in cool, moist valley air, walking briskly and without effort – the mystery of autumn in the morning. Or to top a small rise, emerging from a twilight-shadowed creek bed, and find ahead a glowing warmly bank of red-gold brush and sheer wall of golden rock, the pine trees standing like sentinels against the line of sky – the mystery of autumn at dusk.
“The Heavens declare the glory of God,” the Bible says. “Man’s heart away from nature becomes hard,” said Standing Bear. Who can help but marvel at the silhouettes of trees against a lavender sky, the moon tangled in the evening branches of the reaching oaks? Who can harden the heart when the world around is glowing with life, and the air is ripe with sunshine and piney resin and heavy with the damp of morning? The clouds glow like gold in the fading sun, just dipped below the horizon, then turn to the dark of steel and sit heavy in the trees. The sky releases the last of its light with a sigh, a slumbering, sleepy, lazy breeze that quietly stirs the trees, and a few leaves drop.
How can I tame the wildness of the eerie howls of coyotes just over the hill, or calm the unbidden racing of my heart, relishing the delicious thrill of the woods at evening? How can I keep forever the ghostly beauty of the birch trees at twilight, and call to mind their silver glow? It is all too much, too beautiful.
What a glorious way to fire the imagination, to calm and awaken the soul, to revive the weary body. What a refreshing, reviving cup to drink from – The cup of God’s creation, the cup of the green earth. “God writes the gospel not in the Bible alone,” a man once said, thought to be Martin Luther, “but on trees and flowers and clouds and stars.” The dew in the morning, the bees flying low in the grass, the heavens and trees, the moon and lavender sky, the stones underfoot and the dying red of the cliffs in sunset all make it impossible for me to believe anything other than that this world was created by a loving, awesome, infinite God who is worthy of my worship and adoration.
“To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug.” said Helen Keller.
I agree.
Relics
I’m sure I don’t know all the stories of this old boy, but he’s become something of a fixture. I can’t even say I really know when Grandpa managed to come by this old Willys jeep, or how long he drove it, but it sat as a creative, backwoods yard ornament next to the chicken coop for years. Years.
Within the past few, though, maybe ten years, maybe five, the old Willys jeep was retired to a pen next to the corral. Can’t even be used for parts, but for some reason, there just is no getting rid of that old thing. None of us wants to, I imagine.
Even if I don’t remember the details, or never knew them to forget them, there’s something to be said for relics of the past. I don’t know if it is the reminder that everything eventually falls to disrepair (pessimistic) or it is the reminder of good old days, and people I loved (optimistic), but there is something important to me about the rusted body, the peeling paint, the almost-unreadable “Willys” on the hood and the back, the cracked windshield, the springs busting through the cracked leather seats.
It is a part of my dad’s past, my granddad’s past, which makes it a part of my past. If this place were mine to do with as I wished, the jeep would stay. In fact, I’d probably put it back next to the chicken coop.
Who knows when it got the yellow paint job – The green is visible under the cracking, chipping, lichen-covered paint. Who knows when the mice really took to the leather, or when the yellow jackets started taking refuge there – They sun themselves on the remainder of the seats, on the floorboards. Who could tell me the last day that old clunker was driven, or what its last trip was – I can’t even tell you the day it was retired to the the pen beside the corral.
But it is a relic. And it will stay.
Writing in the Hills
The incredulous question, “What’s in South Dakota…?”, which I heard regularly before I moved here, was always a difficult question to answer. You don’t just say: “My heart is there! What more reason do I need to move there?”
People just don’t talk like that.
But now I’m here, and I love it more than ever. And each day, week, month that goes by, I find new reasons to never want to leave. I find new reasons to be enthralled by this corner of the country, this state with a population one third the size of the largest city in the state I moved away from. The state I moved away from has a population of nearly 13 million. The state I moved to has a population of under 1 million.
It would be reasonable to assume that a state this small would have proportionately fewer opportunities – Creatively, artistically, socially. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
I attended the inaugural Hill City Writers’ Workshop today, and am already hoping there will be another one next year. The fellowship hall of the Little White Church was full of eager writers, from ambitious amateur to seasoned professional, all excited to be around other people who all shared a passion for the written word. It was comforting to realize that I was one of three youngest people there – I don’t have to be in a hurry to write my life’s great work. I can wait and let my ideas ripen and grow bolder, better with age.
Although I opted out of the mentor sessions and missed out on the keynote because I only had one headlight and needed to get home before dark, I came away with inspiration and a fresh reminder that those of us in the writing world, no matter how big or small of scale we are working on, those of us in the writing world are all still learning. What a delightful realization!
This is a craft that is less dependent on native talent than it is on perseverance. This is a craft that is less dependent on native ability than it is on heart, passion, and sheer will power. The art and craft of writing requires really just a handful of simple, learnable things: observation, curiosity, and the will the follow through.
All I can say, this is a great corner of the world.
Places to See | Stavkirk
A wonderful local attraction a little off the beaten trail – by that, I mean not exactly your average tourist outing – is the Stavkirke in Rapid City. This Chapel in the Hills is an historic replica of a church in Norway, the Borgund stavkirke in Laerdal, which was built in the 12th century.
The word stavkirke refers to the construction of the building, using staves or pillars made of Douglas fir, the closest possible substitution for the fir trees used by the Norwegians in the 12th century. The church is constructed entirely of wood, except for the iron used in the door knockers and locks. Instead of nails, wooden dowels are used. Some speculate that this is what has allowed churches like the Borgund stavkirk to survive to the modern day – Wooden dowels would give a literal flexibility to the building that might not be had with rigid nails.
Up until a few weeks ago, I had never seen the Stavkirke. I had heard of it and seen pictures, and always had wanted to visit – I wasn’t in the least disappointed. It looked a little like the chapel in Frozen, just smaller. The heavy door knockers and huge locks, the covered walkway around the outside of the church, the vaulting rooftops, and the towering doorways with intricate carving – It all seemed like something straight out of a fairytale.
The visitors’ center has a flyer with a history of the building, including a narrative explaining the use of pagan symbolism in the construction of the church, because of the remnants of mythologies and the deeply-held traditions of pagan religions to which people clung, even after the embracing of Christianity by Norwegians.
The Chapel in the Hills was built in the 1960s according to blueprints supplied by the Norwegian Department of Antiquities, a plan pieced together by Drs. Gregerson and Thompson, and financed by Arndt Dahl, a local banker who was himself a first-generation American of Norwegian heritage.
The church is active during the summer months – Lutheran Vespers happen nightly, weddings are hosted, and countless people worldwide stop to see this relic of our heritage. What an oddity! And what a gem! They have an informative website, too, if you want more information on the Chapel in the Hills.
The girls and I visited while Jess was here, but I went back a few days later over my lunch break – The sky was piercingly blue. I retook a few shots and added a few more. There was a couple from Illinois also there – I heard them talking to the gal managing the visitors’ center – and I struck up a conversation with them. They had gone to college in Champaign, my Illinois hometown! What a small world. Turned out the wife was wearing the same shirt I was wearing, just a different color. She said she got hers from some clothing store – I don’t know brand names, so I didn’t know the store. I had gotten mine from Goodwill. We had a chuckle over that one. It was a fun conversation. And I’m pretty sure they found the Stavkirk well worth seeing, too, in spite of all of the louder, snappier tourist attractions there are to see in the Hills.
Off the beaten path is always a good place to look for the real sights in the Hills.
Surprised by bounty
The sentiment this summer among gardeners was dismal. Just when we started thinking this year would be a great year for gardening, a storm whipped up out of nowhere and smashed everything. So we replanted and waited and got hopeful – And just when we started getting optimistic, another stormed whipped up out of nowhere and smashed everything. Again. It was a little discouraging. Who wouldn’t be dismal when their beautiful garden gets crushed by pea-to-golfball-sized hail, knocked down by straight-line winds, flooded out, shriveled in the heat, or burned by an early frost?
But suddenly we’ve been surprised by our garden actually producing vegetables, in spite of the late (third or fourth) planting. I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but Sarah’s boss at Dakota Greens in Custer gave – gave – us upwards of 20 tomato plants, after the first planting was smashed, plus a variety of pepper plants. Such a gesture of generosity really floored me.
Mom dutifully and eagerly planted them, regardless of how late in the season it was, content to have a garden that looked nice even if it didn’t ultimately grow anything. Someone else gave us a tomatillo plant which is now covered with fruit, other people gave us zucchini plants, and Mom replanted green beans.
But what has been delightfully surprising is that not only did the plants that she planted late do well, but many of the plants that had gotten flattened or severely bruised in the hail are doing beautifully! Mom’s square-foot gardening boxes were planted thick with root vegetables, and we’re getting a bumper crop of turnips. I couldn’t help but marvel at the color – Such a rich, pure color. The basil and oregano likewise are plentiful, and many of the squash plants are laden.
What a welcome surprise! We have bags of green beans waiting to be blanched and frozen, lots of turnips, and herbs to freeze in oil. How exciting!
We were out picking a few days ago, and Luna the Cat was darling to watch – He’s a weird cat with some really weird habits and weird quirks, but he is quite the charmer. He is uncannily companionable, although he prefers to not be snuggled, but he loves to be where the activity is. The whole time we picked, he was discovering the garden. He sneaked up on picked zucchini, prowled around in the green beans, got his little paws wet in puddles, and then discovered the leeks. He likes leeks.
Our tomato crop hasn’t been very good, since a late hail storm damaged a lot of the fruit, but the lack in tomatoes is more than made up for in the other bounty. We’re still pondering what we could use as a hail screen next year.
Lesson for the day: Patience and persistence really does pay off sometimes. If Mom hadn’t insisted on replanting the third (or was it the fourth?) time and continuing the cultivate what survived, we wouldn’t be getting anything from the garden this year, except maybe some of the root crops and some squash. But we’ll have a little to put up in the freezer anyway, and plenty to cook fresh. Nothing quite makes a meal like home-grown produce.
Song Dog Journal 