I went out to get my newspaper Sunday morning, and there was a nice chittering chatter, a busy, boisterous loud bird song that sounded familiar.
There was no mystery. I’m not an expert in bird calls, but this is a tune I’ve heard many times before in exactly this place. About 15 years ago, my wife and I planted a Birch tree in our front yard. And, singing his heart out, was a male Goldfinch near the top of the tree. I know that the state bird of Iowa is a seed eater—it especially favors thistle seeds—but what I didn’t know is that it can enjoy a snack of Birch seeds, too.
It seems like an appropriate time for a joyful noise, as spring enters a new phase. Suddenly, the Crab Apples are in their prime, and both the front and back yards are sweet to just stand in and inhale the scent. The traditional Lilacs are adding their own sweet scent to the mix, and although they don’t contribute much in the way of odor, Redbuds are clothed in their finest spring pink finery. They bloom just after their crabby cousins, although their bloom time largely coincides—our two Apple trees are also in flower.
April 7 in Magnolia in backyard.
It’s a good time to outdoors on a cool sunny morning, listing to the song of an avian dinosaur in between his pauses to for a quick Birch seed snack.
Happily, the Goldfinch is not alone. We’ve long overplanted our property in flowers, trees and bushes—and in recent years have emphasized more native plantings. It wasn’t a deliberate strategy to draw in the descendants of the small dinosaurs who survived the asteroid disaster that killed off their larger, earthbound relatives, but it seems to be having that effect.
It’s been common, in recent years, for cardinals to take up residence in our area. Robins are also usually around. This year, both species seem to have nesting pairs either nearby or concealed in a Trumpet Vine or some other shrub in our yard. Add to that the Goldfinch, and also the appearance of a Red Winged Blackbird.
That latter one is, as any Iowan knows, a mixed blessing, as such Blackbirds are notoriously aggressive during nesting season. Still, I enjoy seeing the bird. And I can wear a hat, which pretty much is an effective Blackbird defense.
Woodpeckers and Chickadees, Sparrows, Doves—the variety of birds that is often around is fun to watch. The Blackbird may be grumpy and the Robin definitely thinks it owns the backyard, but I’m still glad they are here. As I enjoy the spring air that will be especially sweet for a few weeks, they’re fun to listen to and to see—definitely makes planting all of those trees totally worthwhile.
April 15–Tulips have joined daffodils in my backyard gardens.
There I was, between the heavens and the earth, perched and pulling on an object that looked like it could take me out.
It was Saturday, the second Saturday of April, a spring day that was giving Iowa a taste of summer. Temperatures that seem normal in the first week of June, with the thermometer flirting with 80, bright sunshine—all in all, a pretty day.
Almost four years ago, a derecho storm blew through Cedar Rapids, wreaking havoc with sustained winds over 100 mph. We lost a giant ash tree, a magnificent old maple and much of the wooden fence the prevents deer from consuming our gardens.
Branches from a neighbor’s willow tree and mulberry tree ended up ensnared in a tall, younger maple.
There, way up there, in the fork of the Maple, a pile of other branches that has been wedged there since they were gently tucked in by a 100-mph breeze in August 2020. JK. Nothing gentle about it.
In the days following the storm came the big cleanup. One of my sisters came over with a chainsaw to help remove many of the large branches, and we cut and removed what we could—but about 15 feet up in the maple, too high for us to reach easily even using a stepladder, there were several long branches stuck in a crook of the maple.
Saturday was one of those pretty, warm spring days that calls for some lawn work. With the help of a grandson, I planted some Aster seeds we had gathered in the fall in our gardens. And my wife had ordered a 2-pound bag of clover seeds, which the grandson and I sprinkled in barer areas of the lawn.
We also did some warm weather enjoyment—taking the grandson’s bicycle and ours to Lowe Park, where we rode and them played for a while.
The final summer-like day, April 15, many flowers in my backyard gardens, Lilac, Redbud, Crab Apple, Rhododendron, Daffodils and Tulips.
And then, the trees. Some of them were, post derecho, leaning, and I had thus staked them. After almost four years, it’s past time to release the trees. I have a better, taller ladder now, and I started with an Oak in the upper yard. After four years, the cord tying the tree to its fence-post stake had started, on one side, to be surrounded by tree tissue, so the removal took some time. At first, I was going to untie, but after 15 minutes or so, I gave up, climbed down the ladder and went to get scissors and a knife.
Which worried me. Joe and sharp tools—we’re never a good combination.
But it worked, with no blood spilled and no slips off the ladder (which, honestly, was my major concern—your amateur gardener is not fond of heights). I had to use a pair of pliers and work for some time to extract the cord from the tree. But I got the job done.
It took some time. I had thought this would be a quick project, but 30 minutes at the first tree suggested I was in for a long haul. So, I carried the ladder down to the Linden tree in the lower yard and climbed up. This tree was attached to two stakes, and I was anticipating twice the fun.
Luck was with me. The expected catastrophe, as so many expected catastrophes do, failed to materialize. I did end up cutting rather than untying, but extracting the two cords took, in total, maybe 10 minutes, most of that time just spent cutting the ropes.
Well, cool.
Yet, I wasn’t sure if I was done yet. There was that Maple. There were those branches stuck in it. Here I was with a ladder—and a hoe I had used, earlier in the day, to plant clover.
I think of this Robin as the backyard boss. He often is keeping an eye on me.
Could I use this taller ladder to get close enough to snag those stuck branches and bring them down, hopefully not bringing myself down in the process? Was this even a wise project to try?
Well, heck. One way to find out.
Yeah, a sort of “hold my beer” moment, but I had no beer and it turned out to be much, much longer than a moment.
There’s a reason those branches had been stuck up in the Maple for four years—they were truly, well stuck. I ascended the ladder, hooked with my hoe (please, no double entendre intended) and went to work wiggling. Push and pull. Hook and reel in. The branches could be rocked, but seemed very, very at home up in that maple.
It’s a nice to be or bee in the garden.
And, after a while, I grew to appreciate that stuck cord in that Oak tree—at the time, it seemed like the complication of the day but no. Also, I could not help but imagine what would happen when I finally loosed these rather substantial pieces of tree that were above me—me between them and the ground, gravity waiting to assert what can happen when the planet grabs an object and an old man’s noggin is in the way.
Too often, the noggin doesn’t win.
After a long, tiring half hour or so, I got the idea of, instead of trying to pull the branches down, to instead wiggle them sideways. The first fairly substantial limb started to fall—directly at me. At least at the start of the fall it was traveling slowly, and I was able to grab and guide it. To my surprise, based on its size, the branch was fairly light—I guess if you let dead wood sit up in the air for four years, it dries and gets lighter.
Next, the white whale, the big one, the long branch—a 10-foot-tall branching limb the size of an adolescent tree. As I wiggled it out, I could not help but notice that it was moving to a position even more directly above me, ready to swat me like a fly once it was free. As I worked with it, smaller side branches would break off, but the big one just moved and inch or so at a time.
Finally, its center of gravity approached a place to the left of the Maple. It began to tip and then to slide towards me.
And I died. This post is ghost written.
Second Magnolia to bloom, the lemon-colored one in the lower yard.
Just kidding! I was able to reach up with my left hand and grasp the end of the slowly tipping branch, and again guide it so that it didn’t make contact with the Joe between it and planet Earth. It was still quite a large limb, and not trivial in weight, but like its smaller cousin, turned out to be lighter than I had expected.
In fact, I had anticipated at least minor injury, maybe some arm scratches, but other than some tired arms, suffered to ill effects—no blood was spilled. Sadly, no drink flowed, either, but whatever. If the boys want to fight, you better let them.
But if they want to climb ladders and removed limbs, perhaps remind them to be careful.
April 15–Daffodils blooming behind Warde Hall, the building where my office is located. Blue sky, last really warm day before a dramatic change in the weather.
The day of lawn work was, overall, a success. And, meanwhile, the backyard has become a true slice of paradise. The run of warm days brought on the second phase of spring, where we move from daffodils and other early flowers and suddenly there is a more diverse, promiscuous explosion of colors. The yellows of daffodils still are everywhere, but now is punctuated with the more diverse hues of Tulips. The second Magnolia, the first Lilacs, Bluebells, the Dogwood, a Redbud, Crab Apple—suddenly flowers and sweet smells are everywhere. Like an old man on a ladder, spring seems to ascend slowly from the ground upwards, and the bushes and medium trees have all shaken off their winter slumber.
In the past two days, we’ve had thunderstorms and cooler, windier weather. We’re dropping back down to more normal temperatures, which is fine with me. It’s the second half of April—a slight chill in the morning and a sweater day is OK with me. The warm days were nice, but in April, they arrive sans the advantage that June will have: Shade.
Well, all in good time. I’m just happy to be here, un-speared and unbroken with a young maple unobstructed with dead derecho wood.
I was asked, for a general faculty meeting April 8, 2024 at Mount Mercy University, to do the “opening reflection.” The invite came the Thursday before, so I didn’t have a lot of time, but I immediately thought of a song that I have played in classes for students. So I wrote the following:
You don’t need a journalist to like me to tell you the news: these are difficult times on The Hill. It’s easy to become discouraged—so, I wanted to play a song for you by one of my favorite contemporary bands, a song that I find full of hope; one that I often play for students during the first week of class. I’d like you to relax and listen, maybe close your eyes—and then I’ll share a couple of thoughts on why I find this song so comforting now.
I suggested a shorter live version, but I had sent a link to this video, and this is the one used in the meeting.
For my students, the message is: I want them to think of how their experience here at MMU can help them change their lives.
But I tell them that the song applies to me. Whatever point in life a person is at, this song is a reminder that our human conscious self-awareness enables us to change.
But the song doesn’t specify what you can change. I can change myself but am also reminded that I have an impact on others, too. Change reaches beyond me.
The old battles that cling on like a vine to me don’t have to hold me if I don’t let them. As I draw the lines between where I am and where I want to be, I know that I don’t fully control the route myself—but I can change course; maybe even be a pebble in an avalanche of mercy that alters history.
I am often scared that I won’t get it right, but I can’t let fear rule my heart.
So, I take comfort in the capacity for change that we all share, whatever the intractable challenges we face—lower enrollment, distracted students, health issues—the road we are travelling is always due to external forces but it is also, always, in part, set by us.
Thus, in the words of Rachel Price and Bridget Kearney, the lead singer and bass player of Lake Street Dive who wrote this song:
“I can change. I can change. I can still change.” Myself, my university, my world.
March 30–Dandelion in bloom on back wall, visited by small bee.
Little call back to “Jesus Christ, Superstar,” which we used to watch every Easter season. What with one thing and another, we didn’t get the movie watched this year—but there was still some Easter buzzing.
On Thursday, a daughter’s family made the drive down from the Twin Cities. The weekend was a bit of a pleasing whirlwind—family outings, two bike rides with a Tag-A-Long seat for a young grandson, an Easter egg hunt in the backyard. On Saturday morning, we went to Monticello to the Creative Adventure Lab–worth the drive if you’re in the Cedar Rapids area, a modest fee for kids to play and inexpensive ceramics for painting.
An otter at the Creative Adventure Lab, Monticello. Will be painted by one of my granddaughters, other grandchildren and children in background getting their paints to decorate their ceramics.
And bees.
Hence the buzz. More flowers are popping as the days slowly warm, and although there are still some frosty nights ahead and we had quite a bit of snow last week, it’s looking and feeling more like spring.
March 30–Another bee. Saw numerous ones on this slightly warm spring Saturday.
As a gardener, I do plant native plants and flowers that will benefit pollinators. True, the gardens are mostly for my benefit, but still—March 30 was the first really bit “B” day in the gardens, with numerous bees on the early flowers and even a bonus appearance by a butterfly.
Well, happy Easter! It was nice to see the bees and even nicer to see the family. Below, eggs in backyard for hunt, butterfly that showed up Saturday.
Well, that was a surprise. They had forecast a winter storm would pass north of Cedar Rapids today, with several inches of snow in the northern tier of Iowa counties.
In Cedar Rapids, we were to see some snow and rain. But the track of the snow, as it sometimes does, shifted at the last minute, and the temperature stayed just cold enough. The rain came last night, and then we got an unexpected generous serving of wet snow this morning. And as big as that surprise was, it was, for me, one of the minor surprises this week brought.
The morning scene Friday was unexpectedly white. Yet, it seemed like a dusting when I got up, so I shot an image with my phone, posted a joke about it, and went about my morning breakfast routine and prepared to go to work.
I had planned to drive today anyway—I bike on nice days but knew today would not be nice—but driving proved very challenging. The dusting had quicky intensified and heavy wet flakes were plopping down and quickly accumulating. Thus, the 10-mintue trip to campus was slippery, and I saw several cars stuck along the way. But I was in a front-wheel-drive minivan, a relatively large vehicle, and thought I would be OK.
I was both right and wrong. Right in the sense that I got to campus and avoided having an accident. But when I got there I got stuck on several inclines.
Each parking lot entrance to Mount Mercy University involves some climb. There is no flat route onto the campus we call The Hill. And I tried several entrances in the snow this morning—the drive to the lot behind Warde Hall first. When I failed to get up that hill, I backed into the street, got stuck for a while there and ended up going the wrong way, going away from campus, down the street to avoid a hill.
Daffodil in front yard March 20.Same flower, March 22. Less sunny look.
So, I drove the long way around, by the Plaster Athletic Complex, and came at campus from the other direction. This time, I successfully tried to get enough momentum to get up the Prairie Drive Hill, where I had been stuck for a while. But when I turned to get into the parking lot, did I make it?
No dice. Lots of ice. Oddly enough, I could drive 3.5 miles and get to campus, but never got 20 yards up any incline to enter a campus parking lot.
So, I drove home. One must adjust when life throws you a curve ball. And, as I noted, the surprise snow storm today was, to me, the little curve.
The big, big curve was Wednesday afternoon. A colleague came to my office and chatted with me, and asked for an update from the week’s faculty meeting. Well, times are tough at MMU, and he was a bit startled by my report. Monday’s meeting had been another curve in this curvy week—but it still not the big one.
After he left, I was arising to go down the hall to the bathroom when the Big Surprise quickly and unexpectedly caught me. Suddenly, I was only partly in control of my body. My right arm felt 10 times too heavy and unresponsive to my commands. Walking was suddenly difficult as signals to my right leg apparently were getting lost in some sort of massive nerve mail mix-up.
Which was exactly what was happening. The truly bad storm of the week was entirely in my own head. The left side of my brain was clearly malfunctioning—and I was savvy enough to understand that these are symptoms of a stroke.
Which it sort of was, fortunately, only sort of. I managed to successfully visit the bathroom and return to my office, which was an unusual act of grit and will far beyond what it usually is. Then I called my wife and told her what was going on, and she said she would come get me immediately. I lay down on my futon and did a Duolingo lesson (not entirely random, I wanted to check my mental powers of both speech and memory). Holding the phone with my hooky-playing right hand was the challenge, but fortunately speaking a bit of Mandarin turned out not to be no more challenging than usual.
Slowly, my rebelling right side began to check back in. Feeling returned to my largely numb leg first. Then my arm began to feel 3 or 4 times too heavy, not 10 times, and the arm was a bit more responsive to signals from my ailing brain. I was able to gather my school bag and camera bag, and walk more or less normally out to await my wife outside. I got in the Subaru with her, and we quickly consulted.
Urgent care or ER? ER, we quickly agreed. Hospital or Hiawatha? We thought we might get seen sooner at Hiawatha, so we went there, which led to one of many first experiences for me, Wednesday and Thursday:
First ambulance ride. When they decided at the ER I should go to the hospital, I thought my wife would drive me there, but the doctor said I needed to be under constant medical supervision because—well—the big stroke could be looming.
First overnight stay as a patient in a hospital since late August, 1958, when I was born. By the time I got to Mercy Medical Center, I felt worn out, I had a headache, but I was also fully, if a bit clumsily, ambulatory on my own—but they wanted to check me out and monitor me overnight.
So many things. A blood draw—not my first, but the first one in a hospital bed. I have long known that hospital stays were likely in my future, and honestly, having an IV put in and having blood removed were always my top fears. The IV did hurt and made a bit of a bloody mess, and I sure did not enjoy the blood draw—but I handled both better than I ever thought I would.
A battery of tests. Lie in this loud machine while brain pictures are made. Lie in this bed while neck vein images, and later, heart images and videos, are made. Touch my hand. Stick out your tongue. Track the finger with your eyes. Put up your arms and don’t let me push them down. Put up your leg and don’t let me push it down. What’s in this picture? Can you read this card back to me?
I appreciate that each medical professional who asked was doing their own assessment, and I didn’t resent any of the test, but they were rather repetitive. My one pleasure was that all of “them” were a little surprised—I could push them away or pull them towards me or resist their tugs easily. The old guy was stronger than they expected.
Well, I did ride a bicycle 50 miles to Solon and back just last week. And I get frequent workouts playing with grandkids.
As it turned out, the tests showed that I didn’t have a full-blown stroke, which is good. My brain showed no signs of permanent injury. But the doctor did describe what I had as a TIA, which he called a “mini-stroke.” And now, I’m taking a new drug and a higher dose of previous drug, and I have several upcoming medical appointments. I’m writing this with a heart monitor taped to my chest.
But I am home. I even actually managed to drive to campus and work for a while this afternoon.
My morning cell phone image. Caption from Facebook: Hey March: It’s come in like a lion, not “get all liony 3/4 of the way through.” #iowaweather
Life is too full of surprises. Dustings of snow that turn into storms. A suddenly fading feeling on the right side and suddenly half your body is not fully yours anymore. It all is a reminder that life is indeed fleeting. We are fragile creatures of flesh and eventually we fall apart.
But to be honest, I kind of felt good today. The people at Mercy Medical Center were kind, passionate about they did, and very comforting. I did indeed feel like there was a “Mercy touch” that I appreciated. And today I was back home with a woman I love and appreciate now more than ever.
So, when I drove to work and couldn’t get up The Hill, well, it just didn’t bother me. I knew today that it is just not a big deal.
The snow fell but the daffodils still looked so pretty, sunny yellow against white—the promise of spring that is still coming.
There are storms in life, but flowers and beauty, too. I, of course, hope I’m around to see much more of that beauty and experience many more of these fickle Iowa springs, but that’s not all under my control. And that is just the way of it. So, savor the moments that you are given, friends. And just do your best to deal with the storms that come your way—with the help of the others around you.
Dr. JJ Wright of Notre Dame speaks March 18 at Mount Mercy.
Well, I don’t suppose most genres of music can be but aren’t always. There is such a thing as Christian Rock, and if it moves people’s hearts towards salvation, it may not be my preferred listening music but that that doesn’t mean it’s not sacred. And even ancient choral tunes can either praise the lord or express human desires—be sacred or secular.
Dr. JJ Wright, folk choir director at Notre Dame University, spoke March 18, 2024, in the Chapel of Mercy at Mount Mercy University, giving a presentation called “Sacred Music & Jazz: How Jazz & Popular Music Can Respond to the Call of Faith.” It was the Hesburgh Lecture, a Notre Dame series that gets professors out, sharing their expertise. His appearance was sponsored by a local Notre Dame club as well as MMU.
The presentation was definitely out of my area—one of the things that I know very little about is music in general, jazz in particular. But I still think his presentation struck a chord, in that I appreciated the rumination on what music means and how it’s related to spirituality.
A student takes notes during Dr. Wright’s presentation.
“I plan to speak on Jazz and sacred music, how they intersect and why they should intersect,” Dr. Wright said early in his presentation.
The lecture was accompanied by samples of music, sometimes spiritual, sometimes jazz, sometimes jazz music written to be spiritual. Many he played on his computer, sometimes he used the piano in the chapel.
Dr. Wright reviewed the definition of jazz and its structure, and how that structure can echo sacred music. Some of that went over my head, I’ll admit. Still, I felt he made a good case that modern music, including jazz, can fulfill the function of music in worship. He noted that, according to the Second Vatican Council, “the purpose of sacred music is to express the glory of God and to sanctify the faithful.”
He contended that any genre of music may be able to do that, although it makes a difference where the music is heard and who the audience is—what their expectations are and what will elevate their spirits. The intention of the writer of the music is important, too.
Traditional Sacred Music, he noted, has been written for 1,000 years and was a part of worship for 1,000 years before that—longer, if you connect Christian music to its Jewish roots. Jazz, in contrast, was the result of African American and Caribbean influences that came together in New Orleans, starting about 120 years ago.
Dr. Wright during his presentation.
Still, Jazz is used to express faith. Dr. Wright played samples from three famous Jazz musicians who were also people of faith and who wrote music intended to express God’s glory.
I’m not looking for drums and a saxophone to appear at the Chapel of Mercy anytime soon. As audience members commented, and Dr. Wright agreed, you don’t want music in a sacred place that calls too much attention to itself—although Dr. Wright did note that, in a way, a sermon is a kind of solo, so one human calling attention to themselves is not always out of place, even if it’s not exactly a saxophone riff.
I still think he sold me his point. Jazz, like any kind of music, expresses human emotion in a way that words alone don’t. “It can create an emotional atmosphere that disposes people to faith,” Dr. Wright said.
Jazz can be holy just as a Gregorian Chant can be. I’m sure I didn’t understand all of the music terms or references, but I found Dr. Wright’s appearance an interesting rumination on the nature of both music and the sacred.
March 6, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden in bloom.
I know many gardeners in the Midwest are going gaga over native plants, and in recent years, I too have shifted my focus in that direction.
I plant many more native flowers, now. To be honest, it’s partly because the Indian Creek Nature Center in Cedar Rapids, at its annual Monarch Festival each summer, gives away native flowers—and “free” is a pretty good bargain. But it’s my choice, too. The most common flower I’ve probably planted for the past three years or so are varieties of Milkweed. They are hardy, pretty and do a service in that that they directly support a beautiful, endangered, regal butterfly.
Past images of Milkweed and Monarch Butterflies, mostly from my garden, all images made in 2022 by me.
However, I’m not a purist. I’ll plant what I like and not feel too guilty about it. Gardens exist to please the gardener—and while I think some attention to what benefits the environment and native pollinators is a good thing, I honestly admit that the main benefit I see in my gardens is that I get to see them.
So, in fall, I plant spring bulbs—in this case, daffodils. I thought of using the “humble daffodil” in the title, but frankly, daffodils aren’t very humble, in my mind. They are loud and colorful and showy—which is the point, frankly. They come in many varieties, and are early among garden flowers, providing a splash of cheery yellow as winter is losing its grip and spring is finally arriving.
Whatever else the daffodil is, in a strict sense, it does not belong here. Like my lineage, it was brought from the “old” world to the “new” world (quotes because both worlds are the same age). Unlike my lineage, which displaced what was “native” on this continent (again, quotes, because humans didn’t evolve on this continent either, and if daffodils aren’t native, neither are any of us), daffodils are at least less harmful to what is already growing here.
March 5, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden, the afternoon before it bloomed.
They may come from another continent, but once settled here, according to various gardening sites I consulted, they are content to stay where they are planted. They’ll live for years (daffodils are sometimes used to identify old homesteads where the house and other buildings are long gone—the plants clearly say “some human once had a garden here”). But they don’t displace native plants.
They also, honestly, don’t do much good. While they provide nectar, their bloom time doesn’t seem to be a busy time for any native pollinators, and they aren’t very attractive to those insects, anyway. They’ve also evolved with a nasty chemical makeup that makes them unpleasant for most animals to consume (they are related to onions but will make your stew nasty and dangerous to eat, not tasty). They provide no food for wildlife and not much in the way of pollinator aid.
So, they just exist for humans. Supposedly, the volatile chemicals that make them not-great-to-eat may have made them useful as natural medicines in the past, which is one reason humans planted them so far and wide, but in my quick research to see if Narcissus were evil, I didn’t encounter what those medical uses might be.
In sum: Daffodils, the scorecard. Pretty: A+. Invasive, A (not being invasive scores higher). Useful or helpful to nature: C (no harm, little help). In Joe’s Garden: A, strong A. Maybe it’s just self-love, but the plant named after Narcissus still makes me feel good about myself.
Early March images–early spring in Iowa in 2024.
I love these cheery signs of spring. This year, they started blooming on March 6, which is freaky early. In a normal year, they would bloom either in the last few days of March or early in April (unscientific finding, but based on checking my Facebook galleries for several years to see when I posted my first daffodil image).
Thus, I am a bit conflicted, this year.
Hi, Daffodils, nice to see you. But WTF? (Why the flower?). It seems a bit cognitively dissident. I both like these early signs of spring and feel out of sorts that spring is arriving so shockingly early.
April 2, 2023April 10, 2022March 9, 2023March 19, 2023 (crocus, no daffodils yet)March 31, 2022 (bloomed 2-25-24 this year)March 31, 2023–day before bloom.
First flowers at Mount Mercy Campus, which I saw coming home on a bike ride Feb. 25.
Will there be spring rains? I’m not asking for a flood, but the ground is pretty dry, and we need more moisture from the sky.
Spring came early this year to Iowa. In this time, as February has turned into March, you can already see some insects active on warm afternoons. The snowdrops and crocus are in bloom, and I’ve even seen the first dandelion.
Tulips are showing and daffodils are pregnant with flowers that look like they could bloom any day now. Trees are mostly still asleep, but I have seem some maples that are getting fuzzy with early flowers. Lilac buds are swelling and turning green—the tiny first leaves have not yet opened, but we’re getting close.
Images of spring, from top, let to right: March 1, MMU campus; Feb. 29, MMU; Feb. 25, MMU, Feb. 26, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 22, my yard; March 2 my yard; March 2, my yard.
Well, it’s March. Usually it is the transition between winter and spring, and has elements of both. This year, that transition was in February.
I have several new trees in my yard, and for their sake and the sake of all the land, I do hope that, as spring gets going, the weather patterns can shift and more moisture from the gulf can quench our thirsty land. Still, if one were to pick a month when a drought may not be consequential, March may be it—even in this warm year, the early flowers don’t use a lot of resources and the trees aren’t awake enough to care much about less dew in the dirt.
So for now, I’ll try to just be happy with the first flowers. Here comes the sun and I say, it’s all right.
Krystal Colbert, a second grade teacher in the Southeast Polk Community School District, was named Iowa Teacher of the year by the state Department of Education in 2023. She spoke Feb. 28, 2024, to a group of education students at Mount Mercy University.
What do I not know about each student? What “invisible backpack” do they carry?
Krystal Colbert, 2023 Iowa Teacher of the Year, spoke this morning, Feb. 28, at the Wente Education Center at Mount Mercy University. The audience was mostly colleges students on their way to becoming classroom teachers, but included education professors, me (a communication professor), several staff and the president of MMU.
Colbert noted that it was her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Anderson, who inspired in her an early determination to become an educator.
A shy kid with speech problems, Colbert said she was made to feel comfortable and welcome in that kindergarten room because of the kind and supportive way the teacher treated her. “Instead of focusing on my deficits, she focused on my assets,” Colbert said.
She remembered when that first school year ended, crying because she didn’t want to leave that teacher, and thinking of her: “I want to be just like you. That is the day I knew I wanted to be a teacher.”
Colbert reminded us that we all deal with students who have all kinds of lives outside the classroom. She noted that she teaches “the littles,” having been an elementary school teacher for 16 years before taking this year off to travel the state speaking about education. Her remarks today were for the college students in the room, and she was speaking of teaching as a mission, a calling.
Krystal Colbert speaking.
But her remarks resonated with me. Honestly, I haven’t been a teacher much longer than Colbert has, since I had a career as a journalist before joining the faculty at Mount Mercy. And I teach, or attempt to teach, “the bigs,” young adults who are well past their kindergarten years, not “the littles” that she says she teaches.
Yet I felt that she was nailing many realities even a professor experiences. It’s easy for me to see the deficits in students and to ascribe all kinds of ill motivations to them, but their invisible backpacks, the things that weight them down, are, well invisible. Of course, my students are adults and have to take way more accountability for their adult choices, but still, as Colbert said, “You don’t know what you don’t know” about their lives beyond the classroom.
And education isn’t something that ever happens in isolation. I’m not a one-man band, but a part of a system that can sometimes serve well, sometimes not so well–but I don’t always remember the team that I’m part of. “This job is too hard to do on your own,” she noted.
I’m not sure what motivated me to attend this session—I didn’t really question my “why.” I like, however, hearing successful teachers ruminating on what makes them do what they do.
“Find your joy,” Colbert urged her audience. I hope that they do. Teaching is among the most noble of endeavors, regardless of whether the students are “the littles,” “the bigs” or somewhere in between. And it may not be the most monetarily rewarding path to be on, but money isn’t everything and it has its rewards.
If one can inspire one other person, well, that’s a lot. That’s what Mrs. Anderson did, and I hope old Joe can do that for a few of his students, too.
Education students and others at presentation by Krystal Colbert at Mount Mercy University.
Dr. William Cavanaugh, professor of Catholic studies and Director of the Center for World Catholicism and Intercultural Theology and DePaul University in Chicago, speaking with a small group of staff and faculty in the McAuley Penthouse, Feb. 15.
When a journalist writes about a speech, ideally, they should do their story the same day. They should look at their notes while they’re still fresh, when new memory can help fill in the gaps, when their recollections haven’t been dulled by the fuzzy lens of time.
Well, I’m not living in an ideal world.
Dr. William Cavanaugh, professor of Catholic studies and director of the Center for World Catholicism at DePaul University in Chicago spoke at Mount Mercy University on Feb. 15.
Now, at least it’s six days later (I am writing this Feb. 21, but probably won’t post it until the next day). That’s how long in the Genesis fable that it took God to create the world, and here I am, finishing the process of creating my speech report. Also starting it. My life has been a bit like that lately, there’s just a lot to do.
I don’t mean that to sound too much like a complaint—I would like things a little less busy, but, frankly, do prefer to have projects to work on, too.
Dr. Todd Olson, president of Mount Mercy University, introduces Dr. Cavanaugh at evening President’s Lecture.
Anyway, consider this as an almost week late rumination on my dim reflections on what Cavanaugh might have said. The good news is that I found his presentations compelling enough that I have at least thought about them in the intervening time, which helps to keep the mold of forgetting from spreading too quickly across the bread of memory, or so I hope.
I attended two events—an afternoon discussion with Cavanaugh in the McAuley Penthouse where 15 staff and faculty sat down with him, and the formal evening President’s Lecture, that he delivered in a large lecture hall to around 70 people—a more diverse audience including students, community members, and even the Archbishop of Dubuque.
Speaking with Cavanaugh in the Penthouse.
The evening speech was entitled “Idolatry in Amazon’s World: Theology and Consumer Culture.”
“We believe in an economy based on stuff,” Cavanaugh noted. We have an enduring love of stuff.
Images of listeners at afternoon talk and evening speech (find the Archbishop)
In fact, over recent decades, corporations have personified products to the point that many ads don’t even mention attributes of the thing, but the personality of the brand. Cavanaugh effectively used a sequence of shoe ads to show this evolution.
It all adds up to a weird sort of modern polytheism, where “we are dominated by our own creations,” he said.
A more humane approach is to remember that it’s the people who make (and ship) the products who have the humanity, not the products.
Student takes notes at evening lecture. I hope their notes were easier to read than mine were!
Marketing kind of came up in the more wide-ranging afternoon discussion of what it means to be a Catholic university. MMU, like all private colleges, faces enrollment challenges now, and Cavanaugh noted there is pressure to do whatever works as a result. He said it’s his opinion that following “best practices,” in this case, is a mistake, because every university then seems like every other university, and it’s important for Catholic universities to emphasize what’s different about them.
On the other hand, he also noted he’s not comfortable with some successful Catholic colleges that are too exclusively “Catholic.” He noted that the role of Catholic education is in an intellectual tradition where students are encouraged to be their most authentic selves, not to conform for a particular ideology or faith.
“If you are Muslim, feel free to be who you are,” he said.
Kev Nelson, MMU Times journalist, makes images at evening lecture.
We also as an afternoon group discussed the kind of cultural pressures that are buffeting colleges, including opportunistic political attacks on education. I don’t think we came up with any easy solution, but it felt good to be with a group that recognized that problem and at least talked about how higher education can reconvince the culture at large of its value.
In particular, Cavanaugh is a fan of liberal arts education—a point where he and I agree.
Overall, I found this year’s President’s Lecture and the afternoon discussion with Cavanaugh to be thought-provoking and refreshing. They prompted me try to think of how to be the best professor I can be, to refocus on what’s important and not to try and measure everything in dollars, and that’s a healthy line of thought.
Life musings ... My name is Joe Sheller and I'm an Associate Professor at Mount Mercy University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. This blog is personal opinion and does not reflect the opinion of the university, its administration, staff or board. I love to garden and often find my mind wandering when I'm pondering weeds or flowers. This blog is a pretty random mix of those thoughts, some on gardening, many on life in general.
Life musings ... My name is Joe Sheller and I'm an Associate Professor at Mount Mercy University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. This blog is personal opinion and does not reflect the opinion of the university, its administration, staff or board. I love to garden and often find my mind wandering when I'm pondering weeds or flowers. This blog is a pretty random mix of those thoughts, some on gardening, many on life in general.
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