We had a final electrical inspection for our basement that we have been working on for the past year – almost done! But, the basement is a story for another day as this post is about finding joy in unexpected encounters. Encounters where complete strangers take time out of their day to teach, spread joy, or get to know someone new. The Electrical Inspector About a month ago we received a call from our county’s electrical inspector notifying us of his impending retirement at the end of the month. He wanted to complete the final inspection on our basement if at all possible. Within the week, the inspector was at our door for the third and final time. He walked downstairs and inspected the new bathroom, office, gas fireplace, and family room before asking to see the electrical box in the back room. As my husband opened the door to the back room, he bent down to pick up a container of rocks my kids had left in the walkway. The inspector’s eyes lit up. “Do you have a rock hound in the family?” he asked. “My kids love collecting rocks, particularly agates.” my husband replied. “Our family has been collecting agates for many years now. The kids collect ‘special’ rocks wherever they go.” The inspector excitedly told us that he and his wife are planning to spend their retirement traveling and collecting rocks. The inspector and our family spent nearly half an hour talking about rocks. My kids ran to get their largest agates to show the inspector, while the inspector brought out his cell phone to show us a large, 25 lb. rock that he retrieved out of a mine in Arkansas. The rock had one small crystal sticking out of the top. When the inspector gently removed the outer shell of the rock, he found that the entire core was made of crystals. Before leaving, the inspector invited us to attend meetings at the Minnesota Mineral Club. He said that they could use some young families in the club. As he stepped out the door he said: “Well, this has been fun! Keep up the rock hunting – it really is a great lifetime hobby. Plus, you get to learn about history, geology, mineralogy, paleontology, and lapidary arts while spending time in the great outdoors.” We agree! Mr. Mosquito Controller “Excuse me! Hi! Excuse me!” The kids and I turned around as we heard a man calling from behind us. We were on one of our daily walks last summer and heading back up the dirt road toward our house when we heard the shouts. We all walked back to where the man was standing by his pick-up truck. My son immediately noticed that the truck was from Illinois. “Hey, Mom! He’s from Illinois!” my son exclaimed. He loves to see license plates from other states. Anyway, the man (I’ll call Mr. Mosquito Controller) said “I hope I didn’t startle you. I saw you with the kids and I thought you all may be interested in seeing this. The man held out a few tiny clear glass containers. The containers had mosquitoes in different stages of their life cycle – egg, larva, pupa, and adult. Mr. Mosquito Controller was conducting research for mosquito control near our house. He was taking water samples from puddles, marshes, and other low lying areas to gauge where our county should treat for mosquitoes. When we asked what control they use, he said that they use Bti (Bacillus thuringiensis var. israelensis (Bti) – a natural soil bacteria that disrupts mosquito digestion. The bacteria are packaged in little pellets that are dropped by hand in small areas, or by helicopter in larger areas. We’ve seen the helicopters fly over our house for years now, so it was interesting to learn exactly what the helicopters were dropping. Mr. Mosquito Controller also said that we can control mosquito reproduction by putting one salt pellet (used in water softeners) in puddles around our home – so simple! The kids and I were impressed that Mr. Mosquito Controller flagged us down, and took the time to teach us all about the tiny pests that swarm and bite us throughout the summer. We felt lucky to have crossed paths with Mr. Mosquito Controller. The Hawaiian My family took a long road trip down south to get away from our brutal Minnesota winter two years ago. We took our time to stop and explore interesting places on our way down to the Gulf of Mexico and back. One of the places we stopped was Crater of Diamonds State Park – the only diamond mining park that is open to the public. We set out for our first day of digging for diamonds after sliding into our rain boots, renting our digging supplies, and paying for the entrance into the mining fields. The day was a little rainy, so there weren’t too many people on the plowed fields, but we did come a across a very friendly man from Hawaii and his much quieter friend from Nevada. The Hawaiian said that he flies in once per year to dig for diamonds with his friend. They dig for eight hours per day over a long weekend before flying back to Las Vegas. We ended up digging with our new friends in the slippery mud as we chatted about past trips to Crater of Diamonds, life in Hawaii, life in Minnesota, and about the history of the area we were in. I could tell that the Hawaiian had talked to many of the locals over the years, as he had many stories to share (making our trip to Crater of Diamonds all the richer). My son, who was 7-years old at the time, also joined the conversation by telling the Hawaiian that one of his favorite singers was from Hawaii. My son had been listening to the beautiful ukulele rendition of the song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Iz (Israel Kamakawiwoʻole)
getoutside
Wild Spirits: Watercolor Wednesday
Since the day my daughter was able to walk, she ran. When she was able to run, she flew. In her day-to-day world she is a hawk, mountain lion, tiger, jaguar, snow leopard, or a bull. Her imagination soars, and whichever animal suits her mood on that particular day, wins. But, on most days, she is a horse. Going by names of Apple, Pepper, or Candy, she gallops down the side of the dirt road as fast as she can while giving out a few whinnies, neighs, or snorts while kicking up dust in her wake. I wonder if my daughter ever catches me looking at her with extreme love or admiration – I hope so. She is full of wonder – she is a wild spirit. My family is fortunate to live just four doors up from a horse boarding stable, so when we moved to our current house in 2012, we started visiting the horses on our daily walks. We bring baby carrots or apples from our apple trees to feed the horses. If we don’t have any snacks at home, the kids love to pick the long grass just outside of the horses reach by the weathered wooden fence. When we leave to continue on our walks, my daughter always chooses a horse to hug – her love for them evident. For my daughter’s 8th birthday I told her I’d paint her a picture of anything she wanted. Without hesitation, she picked a photo I had taken of her and one of her favorite horses. A horse that she had affectionately named Taffy. Taffy is a beautiful buckskin mare with a sweet disposition. I had taken the photo with my phone on one of our walks about a month before her birthday, and without her knowledge. I loved that my daughter had Taffy in her arms as she closed her eyes to enjoy the moment. I loved that Taffy stood still for as long as my daughter wanted to hold her. I loved that their hair was blowing in the warm summer breeze. I loved that my daughter’s brows were furrowed with strong feeling. I loved that Taffy’s ears were alert and happy, while her eyes were content and warm. I loved that they seemed connected for the moment – wild spirits. How on Earth could I paint this special photo? Could I do it justice? I needed to try. It took me a few weeks after her birthday party to start the actual painting – I was nervous. I had never painted a person, and horses are not easy to draw or paint. I wanted the painting to convey the feelings that I knew were behind this moment. In preparation for the painting, I read books on painting portraits and figures, I watched YouTube videos of artists painting skin, hair, and horses, and I studied my photo. My first step was to sketch out the photo on my watercolor paper. A simple background was the first paint to be laid on the paper. I didn’t use any detail in the background because I wanted the viewer’s eye to be drawn to the detailed figures only. From there, I painted the face because I figured that if the face didn’t turn out right, I could easily start over without wasting too much time or paint. Satisfied with the face, I continued on to the hair and the horse. My daughter had snapped the picture above while I painted the horse. I must have been zoned in on my painting as I found a surprise on my phone a few days later. My favorite part of painting animals is painting their eyes. I feel that if a good eye can be painted – the rest of the animal will fall into place. After a few days of painting, I was happy with the look of the sunshine on my daughter’s hair, the shine on Taffy’s coat, the way the highlights and shadows made the facial curves just right, the soft look of the muzzle, the sparkle in Taffy’s eye, the windswept hair, the course-looking texture of the mane, and the wrinkles in my daughter’s shirt. My daughter’s 8th birthday painting was finished – it’s one of my favorites. Wild Spirits is the name that came to mind when I looked at this painting. My daughter wholeheartedly approved. My daughter said that she loved the horse’s eye, how their hair was flowing in the wind, and all the details of the painting. I love that my daughter’s feelings of love, passion, connection, and yearning are evident. Happy 8th birthday, my dear daughter! May your wild spirit live on forever.
Can Contrails Predict Fishing Success?
My family likes walks. We walk almost every day – sometimes multiple times per day. The fresh air, exercise, time we get to spend chatting with each other, and the exciting things we see make every walk enjoyable and interesting. It’s our go-to way to get outside and get into nature. Two days ago, I wanted to walk in a nearby prairie at sunset because the light across the fall landscape is especially beautiful this time of year. Dried flowers dot the fields, dainty grass plumes sparkle in front of the lowering rays, and the family seems to feel the magic just as I do. But, this is not what this post is about. This post is about contrails and fishing. At the very western edge of the prairie one can find a clear lake with a sandy bottom. The kids love to explore the shores of the lake when we visit the prairie and we did just that two days ago. While the kids ran up and down the shore, made clouds out of cattail fluff, and searched for lures that others had unfortunately lost while fishing, my husband offered an interesting bit of information: “Too bad we are not fishing right now.” he said (this after he and my son had been shut out three days in a row – well, except for a few mudpuppies). “Why is that?” I questioned (thinking there may be more to this statement than the obvious fact that he’d like to fish all day – every day if he could). “You see those vapor trails [contrails] that the airplanes are leaving in the sky, and how they are slowly spreading out?” he asked. “Yes?” I questioned. “They indicate good fishing.” “How is that?” I asked, “And, where did you learn that?” “I must have read about in one of my fishing books, but I don’t remember where or which one.” he replied. To be fair, my husband has read a plethora of fishing books – books about fishing technique, fishing memoirs, fiction books about fishing, and he even studies lake and river maps. He continued: “It has something to do with pressure changes.” Today I explored this theory further using my favorite learning tool – the World Wide Web. This is what I found: A contrail is: a condensation trail left behind jet aircrafts where hot humid air from jet exhaust mixes with environmental air of low vapor pressure and low temperature. The result is a cloud similar to those that you see when you exhale and see your breath outside. Okay, so how does this affect fishing? I found a simple explanation in a bass fishing forum on BassResource.com. BassChaser57, a self-proclaimed “airline pilot by profession, BassChaser by passion,” stated: There are lots of variables i[n] bass fishing such as temperature, cloud cover, barometric pressure, wind speed and direction, moon phase, fishing pressure, rising/falling water, muddy water, etc. There is one variable that I have used over the years… it is simple and it works. Few of us can spend as much time on the water as we would like so I try to maximize my quality fishing possibilities. I do this by watching jet contrails (the white trails left in the sky by jets.) When I see the sky crisscrossed by contrails I go fishing and expect to find active bass. The explanation is simply that there is high level moisture meaning there is an approaching weather system. Many of us realize bass get active with an approaching storm or lowering barometric pressure, the contrails will tell us the same thing without having to be able to see the weather channel. The next time you see the contrails in the sky, try to go fishing and expect the Bass to be active and prove to yourself that contrails=active bass. Dan Johnson from In-Fisherman magazine defines barometric pressure more thoroughly… In a nutshell, barometric pressure—also called atmospheric or air pressure—is the weight of the air pressing down upon everything on the planet, including fish and anglers. Lest you think such a load is light as a feather, consider that a square-inch column of air rising from sea level to the top of our atmosphere weighs about 14.7 pounds. Even slight changes in barometric pressure can cause big changes in fish behavior. According to Spud Woodward, Assistant Director for the Georgia Department of Natural Resources Coastal Resources Division, fish sense pressure changes through their air bladder. He goes on to explain: Fish that have small air bladders, such as kings, Spanish mackerel, wahoo and dolphin, aren’t as affected by barometric changes as those with large bladders, such as trout, redfish, tarpon, grouper and snapper… That’s because fish with small bladders have a body density that’s closer to that of the surrounding water. They don’t sense the pressure changes as dramatically, so their comfort levels aren’t drastically altered. However, many things they eat have air bladders, and that alone could have a big impact on where you might find them and how they’ll behave. For example, zooplankton and phytoplankton have air bladders and can be caught off-guard by pressure changes causing a feeding frenzy among minnows and other small fish, which in turn brings out larger fish to eat. Woodward continues: Fish with large bladders quickly sense when the air pressure is dropping, because there’s less pressure on their bladder. And when there’s less pressure squeezing their bladders, the bladders expand a bit. When their bladders expand, fish become uncomfortable. They relieve their discomfort by moving lower in the water column or by absorbing extra gas in their bladders. These stresses cause fish to forget about eating, and instead focus on finding a depth where they can find comfort. Finally, Woodward explains the pressure changes where contrails are most evident – the period just before a low-pressure system sets in. Just what I was looking for. Let’s say we’re experiencing a prolonged period of high pressure and the fishing has been good.
Watercolor Wednesday: Shugren Barn and Pond
Welcome to Watercolor Wednesday! Today I’m sharing a commissioned painting I recently completed for the Shugren family. The family is beginning an exciting adventure – they converted their family barn into a wedding and event venue. The beautiful red barn, built in the 1920’s, is a show-stopper. It sits in the middle of more than 100 green acres, and has been in the family since the day it was built. A serene, shallow pond is situated just west of the barn where lily pads and cattails grace the landscape. I was asked to incorporate both the barn and the pond into a watercolor painting. A painting the owners hope to use as a part of their new business logo. Shugren Barn and Pond Shugrens, I wish your family the best as you begin your new adventure with the Shugren Farm Wedding and Event Venue. For more information on the Shugren Farm: Shugren Farm Wedding and Event Venue.
Just Me and My Dogs: A Solitary Hike on the Lake Superior Hiking Trail
Just me and my dogs, alone, on the Lake Superior Hiking Trail. I’ve hiked portions of this trail many times in my life, but never alone with my dogs, and never this particular segment. Early in the afternoon on Saturday, August 18th, I drove the short 2.5 miles up the gravel road from the location my family was vacationing at, to the Castle Danger Trailhead. I noticed a few cars in the small trail-side parking lot, but saw no one. I leashed the dogs, threw my backpack over my shoulders, and headed over to the trail sign: Crow Creek .5mi Red Pine Overlook 1.5mi Encampment River 2.6mi Sure! Why not? I felt a sort of elation as the dogs and I stepped onto the trail – alone. In my day-to-day life I’m a stay-at-home mother of 7 and 9-yr. old children, which I love, but it’s been years since I’ve walked alone; at my own pace; in silence. Nature, here I come! The dogs started off the hike with an excited burst of energy. They seemed to know that a wilderness hike was waiting for them. Brook, my 12-yr. old border collie-lab mix, and Ayla, my border collie-Australian cattle dog mix, were pulling at the leashes with their noses buried in the long grass. I noticed a silence, devoid of others’ voices. But shortly thereafter, new sounds of rustling grasses, branches hitting each other as the wind swept through the high tree tops, and the poignant call of a bird evaded my ears. I was zoning in on the wilderness around me. Within minutes we came across a sign: As I gazed past the sign, I noticed a sharp drop in terrain. We must have made it to Crow Creek. I let Brook off of her leash for the steep descent down as I didn’t want her restrained while she climbed down the stairs – her old hips need special attention. But, the dogs barreled down the wall of Crow Creek anyway, while I tried to avoid the poison ivy that was invading the trail at every step. “If you stay to the left, it’s easier to step down to the creek bed” came a female voice from below. “Thank you!” I replied. A slim lady with short grey hair and a hard hat greeted me as the dogs and I stepped into the mostly-dry Crow Creek. Brook, off her leash, gingerly made her way over to the lady to say hi. Everyone is Brook’s best friend. Luckily, the lady was a dog lover, and squatted down to give Brook a thorough pet. “What’s going on down here?” I asked. “Well, last month we had 8” of rain here, and several footbridges were washed down stream, so we’re here to disassemble them and fix the steps on the sides of the creek. As I looked up the creek, I was surprised to see workers hauling a huge boulder using a four-handled sling – one man per handle. They were gathering the boulders and placing them on the sides of the creek to be used as stairs. There was no way to get heavy machinery into the creek, so everything has to be done using human power. A few of the workers waved, and one said “You’re the first one to use our new steps!” “I’m honored, and thanks so much for the work you’re doing here!” I replied. The dogs and I said our goodbyes, tested out the new steps on the far side of the creek – “They’re sturdy!” I yelled down to the crew below – and continued on our way. Up, up, and up, we climbed. “This is going to be some overlook.” I thought to myself. The dogs and I hiked up steep hills, we climbed up small, but challenging rock obstacles, and cherished the brief flat terrain. The billion-year old basalt cliffs surrounding Lake Superior were proving to be formidable hiking opponents. Now I was hearing the dogs panting, my deep breathing, my new barefoot trail shoes crunching on gravel trails, and I think I could hear my heart beating. The challenging hike was invigorating. The same bird with the high, sharp call continued to follow us on our hike for about a half a mile. I never did see the shy, but curious bird as it kept itself well-hidden in the canopy of the trees. Soon after the mystery bird left, we arrived at the breathtaking Red Pine Overlook. Small, but perfectly manicured farms dotted the vast valley below, we could see tree tops for miles, and the distant landscape was tinged a milky bluish-white due to the Canadian wildfires that burned hundreds of miles away. Brook, panting like crazy, chose to lie down on a rocky outcrop to enjoy the breeze coming up from the valley. Just as we were all sitting down to catch our breath on the overlook, the dogs and I heard something crashing through the woods behind us. I immediately thought black bear, or maybe a moose. Whatever it is, it’s big, and it’s CLOSE! Ayla, my ferocious 35lb. 1-yr. old dog jumped straight up, and turned a 180 in the air. Her buck was up as she barked wildly at the crashing sound. Just then, we saw an old red pine trunk crash through the trees right over the trail we had just walked, though it didn’t touch the ground as a young red pine exerted its strength and held that old trunk about 8 ft. off the ground. Settle down, heart! Since we were all up and alert, we decided to continue our hike to our final destination – the Encampment River. The next mile-long stretch of our hike would end up being my favorite. Towering red pines lined the high bluff we explored, thick layers of pine needles cushioned our steps, and a beautiful overlook accompanied us along the way. Have you noticed the sweet smell of browned pined needles? It is one of my
Accomplishment, Cooperation, and Love: A Day of Working Together
My family arrived at Westfalcon Farm just after noon – the sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing across the open fields, but not hard enough to turn Mr. Squeaky (the 103-yr. old windmill that my children named), and temperatures were holding steady at 70F. The day had come – 2,000 three-year old Christmas trees had arrived, bare root, and ready to plant. We all slipped into our work boots, grabbed our water bottles, and headed for the trail that would lead us to the old hay field. Long grasses, sumac, birch trees, and white pines lined the foot path that had been recently mowed by my father in anticipation of the arrival of his helpers. The kids ran ahead with the dogs after hearing the distant hum of the tractor. I heard my mother exclaim “Well, look who’s here! How are you?” as we entered the clearing to the field. The kids replied “Hi, Grandma! We’re good.” and the dogs started whimpering with excitement as they love seeing Grandma and Grandpa. “Boy am I glad you all are here.” my mom said as we neared the table where my mother and aunt were working diligently at trimming long tree roots, and dipping them in root gel. “Where do you want us? We’re ready to work!” I greeted them with a smile. Truth is, I had been looking forward to this day for the past month. I want, more than anything, to be a part of starting this Christmas tree business on the farm that my ancestors homesteaded in the late 1800’s. From the time I was a little girl, I have dreamed of living in the country – working hard on a farm. Thanks to my parents, I get a little taste of that. “We really need stompers.” my mother said. I looked out over the dusty field and saw my grandfather on top of the ’62 Massey-Ferguson tractor, waiting for my father. My father had been riding on the mechanical Christmas tree planter behind the tractor planting trees, but had stopped to help my uncle straighten the trees that had been planted, and stomp the ground around them in order to secure the roots. “You got it.” I said. Our family ran out to the old red tractor and began stomping. With additional stompers we were able to keep up with the tractor and the mechanical transplanter as my father plopped the young trees into the holes that the machine was opening up in the earth. Seeing the ease with which trees could be planted astounded me. A whole row could be planted as quickly as just a few trees planted by hand. As I tended to the trees, I had time to think about my great-grandfather and his family farming this very land. In one of my great-grandfather’s memoirs, he reflected on working on the farm and wrote: We children were very active as we planted all the potatoes. We would take a one-row walking cultivator and one horse and walk behind that for weeks. I started plowing on a 25 acre field using a Janesville walking plow. I was rather short and the plow handles would knock me over when I hit a rock – being just 12-years old. I would sit down on the edge of the furrow and cry. Soon I had mastered the job and loved to plow, although walking all day behind one would tire even a kid. When cultivating season was over and the last hilling done, we would walk up and down the rows of potatoes pulling the weeds that had escaped the cultivator. Usually we planted 25 acres, but the year of 1914, we planted 42 acres. We kids picked all the potatoes and it was a heavy crop. At harvest time, we dug about 22 acres with our Hoover Digger, and 20 acres we dug with a fork. I can’t imagine the awe my great-grandfather must have experienced as he transitioned from the hard manual labor of the early 1900’s to owning his first John Deere tractor in 1950. There is one entry in his memoirs where he mentions this exact thing: I think as I look back that the lives that had the fate to be lived during this period 1900 to 1974 have been blessed with the richest experiences of any lives. Because in this time, we have seen the first automobile, the first phonographs, and the first airplanes. In other words, all major improvements have come within these years. After half of the field was planted, my mother drove back to the house to prepare lunch for the planting crew. By this time, my brother and his wife arrived to help with the trees too. Within a half an hour, my mother had returned with a potato bake, fresh fruit, coffee cake, and more. The adults sat on chairs surrounding a large wagon, and the kids climbed right on top of the wagon and sat right next to the food. “Mom, I love that you brought the food out to the field – thank you!” I remarked. “Oh you’re welcome! That’s how they used to do it back then.” She responded. “Serving the food on the side of the field makes sense. It would take a lot longer to get the crew to the house, have them eat, and then come back out. This saves a lot of time.” I commented. Everyone finished eating in no time, but grandpa had taken off somewhere, so I turned to my dad and asked him “Do you trust me to drive the tractor, Dad?” “Absolutely!” he responded. After a quick lesson, I was the one behind the big black wheel. The Massey-Ferguson jolted a couple of times as I eased off of the clutch a little too quick the first time. I looked back, crinkling up my nose, and yelled “Sorry, Dad!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he braced himself on the
“Home”: Watercolor Wednesday
Spending a week or two at my great-aunt and uncle’s farm every summer is one of my fondest memories. Waking up each morning to the sun shining in the upstairs farmhouse window, playing in the open fields, caring for the horses and ponies, and enjoying delicious homemade food made it a little girl’s dream, but the best was just being around my great-aunt and uncle. Both were happy, loving, and gentle people – the kind that everyone liked to be around. But, this post is dedicated to my great-uncle. The man you see below with that fantastic smile – a smile he wore often. My great-uncle was the one responsible for igniting my horse passion. He taught me how to care for his horses and ponies – feeding, brushing, and spraying the coat to repel flies. He also taught me how to saddle up Danny (the pony I learned to ride on), adjust the stirrups, and control the reigns. It takes a patient kind of pony to let a learning child take control. From the awkward first saddle tightening to letting me braid his mane into several dozen braids (tying each of them with red ribbon) – Danny was just as patient as my great-uncle. My great-uncle sure loved his horses and ponies, but he also loved his tractors. At about the same time my great-uncle trusted me to take Danny for a ride on my own, my great-uncle talked me into driving his tractor for the first time. I remember the gentle, yet thorough, explanation of how to work the tractor. I also remember his giant belly laugh as I lurched the tractor forward in a not-so-smooth manner. My eyes must have been the size of saucers. My great-uncle urged me to go faster – so I did. He laughed the entire time I was on that tractor. Not ceasing until I parked it back in front of him – relieved, but safe. A few years ago, I was up visiting my great-aunt and uncle, and my great-uncle was proud to show me his tractor that he had restored so perfectly. The 1950 Ferguson TO-30’s gray paint was flawless, and its low rumble continued without a hitch. He even had a small replica of the exact tractor wrapped up in a small blanket and placed safely into a small compartment under the hood – that smile of my great-uncle’s never faltered. That was one of the last times I would see him. My great-uncle passed away this past winter, but he wasn’t alone. Just two days before he passed, Danny, his pony, passed away too. I believe God had a hand in that one. I picture them both in the country – my great-uncle on his tractor and Danny in a field of long grass. After attending my great-uncle’s funeral, and learning of Danny’s passing, I felt the need to paint a picture for my great-aunt – one that I hope will make her smile for years to come. Here is my great-uncle and Danny at “Home”:
“Jessie Diggins Coming Through!”: The Best Cross-Country Ski Trip Ever
“Jessie Diggins coming through!” my daughter exclaimed. “Go Jessie go!” I played along as I heard the rhythmic swish, swish, swish of my 7-year old daughter’s cross-country skis passing me on my left. “Do you think I could be in the Olympics one day, Mom?” she yelled over her shoulder as she continued to pull away from me. “OF COURSE YOU COULD!” I replied – hoping she could hear me up ahead. “Here she goes again!” my 9-year old son said as he took off to race his sister. My daughter has been practicing her cross-country ski sprints ever since that historic cross-country ski finish by USA’s Jessie Diggins – I’m sure my daughter is not the only one. Who wouldn’t be pumped up, motivated, excited, or ready to try cross-country skiing after watching Jessie Diggins and teammate Kikkan Randall take the gold in the Ladies’ Team Sprint Free Final in Pyeongchang (the first gold medal for USA women in cross-country skiing). The jostling for first place between the USA, Sweden, and Norway, the final push for the last 100 meters, the NBC announcer’s extraordinarily excited commentary, the win by a half a ski length, the yell by Jessie as she crossed the line, and the tackle by teammate Kikkan Randall as Jessie collapsed in exhaustion led to the most exciting finish of all Olympic activities – well, it was for my family and me. This finish had everyone in our house up off the couch yelling, cheering, and celebrating the epic win. Check out the excitement in the video below. As my son and daughter skied back to me, I asked them “So, how far do you want to ski today?” “Let’s ski all the way across the lake!” my son suggested. “Yes, can we, Mom?” my daughter asked. “Hey, I’m game if you two are up for it.” I answered. “YES!” yelled my son. “I’m so excited!” said my daughter. This winter my kids have had fun making distance goals each time we ski the lake. The furthest we had skied was to the spot my kids named “The Peninsula” – a total of less than two miles round-trip. Skiing across the lake means doubling our previous distance. On this day, the sun was out, the temperature was perfect (about 35F) and we had the lake to ourselves – not a car, fish house, or person in sight. We had just a few inches of powdery snow on top of the foot of crusty snow that lay heavy atop the thick bed of ice (we’ve had a cold winter), so the skiing was fast. As we set out on our trek across the frozen lake, my kids had energy – they were excited to attempt their longest ski yet. I can’t tell you how many times they both talked about how excited they were, how happy they were to be skiing, and how they couldn’t wait to tell Dad how far they skied. But, with kids, the journey is much more than how far they ski. On our way across the lake, the kids noticed a wild rabbit mostly buried and dead in the snow, so we had to stop and discuss why this may have happened. “Do you think it was run over by a snowmobile?” my daughter asked. “I doubt it, but you never know.” I answered. My son then noticed dog tracks next to the rabbit. “Look!” He yelled. “Look at those tracks. Do you think those are dog tracks. Maybe they’re coyote tracks. Do you think some type of dog killed the rabbit?” “Again, it could be. But, I think that if a dog or coyote killed the rabbit they’d probably run off with it and eat it.” I replied. “Perhaps the rabbit got lost in one of our recent snowstorms and passed away in the middle of the lake.” I offered. “Poor rabbit.” my kids said. About 20 minutes later, we spotted a tiny spider darting around on the snow. “Now, how do you suppose this little spider made it out onto the middle of the lake?” I asked. “Mom, there is land all around the lake – it could have come from anywhere!” my son said almost exasperated. I laughed and said, “Well, yes, but that is a long way for a little critter to walk.” We came up with the possibilities that the spider may have: blown to the middle of the lake from a tree bordering the lake hitched a ride on a bird and dropped to the lake dropped off of someone’s vehicle or ice house We were left wondering what the little spider would eat while he was out there. After about an hour and a half of skiing, exploring, and lots of conversing, we hit our destination. The kids rejoiced and fell onto the snow to cool down as soon as they reached the far side of the lake. Both of them took a small piece of bark that had fallen off of a nearby tree and put it in their pockets to commemorate their achievement, and asked for a picture so that we could prove that we had made it across the lake. The journey back was a little bit slower, as we took a couple of breaks, and skied through an obstacle course (the car wheel tracks and skid marks from pulling ice houses across the lake had made for some fun hills and valleys in the snow). But our conversation was just as entertaining as it was on the first part of our journey. “This is just the perfect day” “I’m so hungry and thirsty” “I hope Dad is going to go grocery shopping soon because we’re going to eat everything in the entire house” “The sun feels so warm” “What do you think sugar ants think when they see us” “If you think that would be bad, what do you think sugar ants think when they see an actual giant” “What if
The Downfall of Youth Sports
“We all need to think more deeply about the insanity of our youth sports culture, with its focus on early specialization in one sport, and, especially its seasons without end.” -Michael Sokolove, author of Warrior Girls “Do you know the girl’s youth traveling basketball coordinator?” asked the Director of Youth Recreation & Middle School Sports in our city. “No, why?” I replied. “I could have sworn that you two have talked because he says the exact things you have talked to me about today regarding youth sports.” “Really? Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one. Something has to change!” Several years ago my son and daughter stepped foot on their own soccer fields for the first time. My daughter was four-years-old and my son was six. Both of them were excited to play on their own team as they had been attending my husband’s games since they were born. Watching his games, my son and daughter looked forward to hearing the long whistles that indicated half-time and the end of the game. Their little feet would scurry for a practice ball and run out on the field to take advantage of the little amount of time they had to shoot on the big nets. Three years have gone by and both of my children are still playing soccer. My husband and I have been coaching and assist coaching our kids’ teams for the past six seasons, and we have been blown away by the many changes in today’s youth sports culture. Today’s youth soccer is not the same as when we were young. The changes we see today are not helping to instill a love for the game in our young athletes, and I’m hoping to bring awareness to some of the largest issues. Join me in a three part series where we explore: Part 1 – the effects of participating in an adult-centered (direct coaching that includes many drills and very little time for players to practice in game-like situations) vs. a player-centered training model (players spend very little time participating in drills, and spend the majority of their training time in game-like situations that promote player creativity and socialization between teammates). Publish on 12/17/2017 Part 2 – the effects of not keeping score. Publish on 12/24/17 Part 3 – the effects of sport specialization at young ages, and the astronomical price increases to play sports. Publish on 12/31/17 Author’s background: Erin is certified in K-12 physical education and adapted physical education. She is also a long-time soccer player and youth soccer coach who loves to share her love of the game with young athletes.