|
Archives of the Home Page EssaysWhat's Here?
Many of these essays have writing advice. All have photos, some have recipes, a few have poems. Looking for Grandmother (originally posted --- December 21, 2011) Linda describes how to research the past, particularly your own ancestors, for a writing project. Includes many photos and stories. Thinking Is Writing (originally posted --- October 31, 2011) Linda writes about the importance of uninterrupted thought in the writing process and gives some suggestions and examples on how to draw the reader into your story. The Glitter Phase of Life (originally posted --- September 21, 2011) Linda writes of friendships and friendship poems and reaching "the glitter phase of life." Includes two poems on friendship and a reader's response, printed with permission. Wild Pink Roses (originally posted --- August 1, 2011) Linda writes about memories of roses and how one thing leads to another when researching and writing. Are You a Writer? (originally posted --- June 21, 2011) Linda discusses many aspects of the writing business-- writing, teaching, speaking, publishing-- and calling yourself a writer. Quack or Buffalo? (originally posted --- May Day 2011) Linda discusses the difference between native buffalo grass and invasive quack grass, and ponders the "destructiveness of bustle without thought." Let the Vernal Equinox Inspire Your Gardening and Writing (originally posted --- March 2011) How Linda plans for her spring gardening and spring writing projects. Read about harvesting and cooking with buffalo berries. Includes lists-- and some photos-- of foods grown at Linda's ranch and nearby. Celebrating Winter Solstice: How Epiphanies Happen-- or Don’t (originally posted --- December 2010) How, when and where does Linda get her ideas? Includes a poem about cleaning the toilet. Argiope the Writing Spider (originally posted --- October 2010) What can a writer learn from a black and yellow garden spider? Equinox: The Changing of the Seasons (originally posted --- September 2010) Review spring and summer; plan for fall and winter. Includes Linda's Green Chili con Carne recipe. Journaling the Fruits of the Season (originally posted --- August, 2010) Savor the summer and reflect on your life with a journal. Summer Solstice Recipe: Truth in Writing (originally posted --- June, 2010) The story of one book club's reaction to Linda's book Going Over East and Linda's "recipe" for Autobiographical Writing. May Eve and Vinegar: Bringing Order to Your Writing Life (originally posted --- April 30, 2010) Linda's suggestions for organizing your writing office and files, as well as suggested uses of vinegar and essential oils. Granola: On Cooking and Writing (originally posted --- March, 2010) A spring message from Linda with her favorite granola recipe. The Sacrament of Bread (originally posted --- December, 2009) A winter message from Linda with a recipe and photo of her hand-kneaded, whole-wheat bread. 
Linda M. Hasselstrom on the West Coast, October, 2011.
Looking for Grandmother Recently I’ve been trying to learn more about the lives of some of my ancestors as part of a new book project. I’ve been frustrated because my writing has been sporadic and not very focused. I’m still searching for the threads that I will follow to create the book. But writing isn’t all writing, as I’ve said before (see "Thinking Is Writing," my archived Home Page message from October, 2011). An important part of writing is thinking and preparing to write, so I’m able to rationalize my fumbling through the archives of my family’s life, these remnants that constitute my research materials, as part of that process. Research for writers is different than research for historians who are strictly obligated to facts. A writer may speculate on what those facts mean. Whether you are writing about your own family or others, if you make a statement that sounds factual about something you don’t know, you are writing fiction. Each writer must decide what that difference means. I am determined to write nonfiction insofar as I am able. But I know that everything I write will be colored by what has happened in my life so far, my opinions, my beliefs. I cannot be objective, so I must try to be as honest as possible about my limitations. My search for ancestor information has involved * official documents * photographs * journals * letters * artifacts and * memories I’ll provide examples about how the results of each kind of search has enlightened me. 
Official documents are a good place to start.
The most obvious beginning of a search, and possibly the easiest today, is for official documentation of a life. Many paper files are being put on computers and online, so if you have access to a computer and the internet, searching for public documents has never been easier. Even if you don’t have a computer, start by obtaining official records for births, marriages, and deaths from the appropriate sources. These official records provide you with a framework on which to build and furnish the house of your writing, whether it’s an official history, a more imaginative memoir or fiction based on fact. Double check everything. My grandmother Cora had told me that my grandfather Elmer was killed in “a logging accident.” She told of taking my mother, aged about 5, to see him laid out in his coffin in a huge empty room, kissing him goodbye. When I started collecting documents, I realized I had no death certificate for him, only a newspaper account of his burial. So I contacted authorities in Hood River, Oregon, where he was killed in 1914 and quickly received a copy of his death certificate: he’d been beheaded when he fell under a logging train. Did my grandmother forget that horrid detail? Hold it back to spare his children? Or did some kind person manage to hide the fact from her? I may never know, but that vague “logging accident” is now shockingly real. 
Old family photos can tell you a lot
even if they aren't well-labeled. Frustratingly, many of us find, often after the oldest members are dead, that family photos are not labeled with the information we need. Who are these people? Where did we live then? How old were you? (If you guiltily admit this is the case in your family, start labeling those pictures now! Help your own descendants.) Look at photos actively: think about what you are seeing. How old are the cars in the picture? Can you see a license plate? Does the background-- the house, vegetation, skyline-- provide any clues? What can clothing and hairstyles tell you? Consider facial expressions. My father hated being photographed and any observant person can tell that from the grim set of his lips. My grandmother Cora always looked straight at the camera; her eyes and mouth are surrounded by smile lines. I’ve never seen a picture of her with makeup. Her clothes are usually comfortable, baggy. Her sister Pearl was never photographed in casual clothes or without full and elaborate makeup and hair styling; she always smiled coquettishly for the camera. My mother Mildred used her makeup skillfully and smiles as if she is trying not to smear her lipstick. She looks into the distance, chin lifted, mouth pouty or pursed, like a model. In what is probably the first photo of me, Mildred sits on a concrete step in profile to the camera with her baby balanced on her knees, barely held in place with the tips of her fingers. She looks over her shoulder at the photographer, chin tucked in, smiling in a way I’d call coy. Behind her, the figure of a nurse is barely visible, hovering behind the screen door. Once I saw that photograph, I began to realize something she admitted years later: it was my biological father who wanted a child, not my mother. 
Mother (in overalls) and Grandmother (in knickers).
Photo taken around 1925. How can you supplement information in photographs? When I first saw a picture of my mother wearing belted overalls beside a woman wearing knickers and a gentleman’s flat cap, I couldn’t believe the older woman was her mother Cora. But it is. Mother looks at the camera from under a rakishly-tilted felt hat, her right hand on a large purse at her hip. Grandmother looks away from the camera but she’s smiling. I never saw her wear trousers. In another photo, Mother and her friend Stella are both wearing knickers and flat caps. Then I pulled out my mother’s journal for May 29 to Aug. 5, 1925, when she was fifteen, and found this note on July 3: “Today Stella and I put on our Middies and knickers and caps and we went downtown about a dozen times before we got started for Belle Fourche.” Aha! It’s likely the picture was taken that summer and perhaps Grandmother was persuaded to wear the knickers just for the photograph. On the next album page, mother and daughter are picnicking with rest of the family, and I recall mother’s mention that they had driven out to Red Canyon. If I keep reading the journals, I may find a mention of the knickers photo. Deeper in the album, I see many pictures of mother with girlfriends, posing in various costumes: overalls; baggy dresses and bonnets; flapper dresses. She prances like a model, vamping with a hat tipped over her eyes. She pets a dog and looks soulful. There she stands sideways to the camera, hands on hips, head thrown back, lips pushed out, eyes half-closed: her sultry look. She poses with girl friends, with boys, with Cora. 
Photos of my mother's friends.
Ask questions if you can. But consider the responses carefully, whether they are oral or written. I once asked my mother about a photo in which she was holding a cigarette and a martini glass. She said, “Oh, someone must have put those in my hand as a joke. I didn’t smoke or drink!” A dozen other photos I found later make clear she was quite comfortable with cigarettes and martinis at the time she was married to my biological father. Later, she divorced him and warned me often about his alcoholism. Even if you can’t question people, question the photographs. Look for recognizable family characteristics: ears, noses, eyes. Recently I studied a formal, undated portrait of my mother, wearing a high-necked black blouse and flawless makeup. Though the photo is sepia, I could tell her lipstick was richly colored; her eyebrows were plucked to a high arch, her eyelashes curled and blackened (I still have her eyelash curler). Looking closely, I suddenly realized how large my mother’s nose was and compared it to my grandmother’s nose: also sizable. Both women referred to mine as a “snub” nose. Hmm. More pictures; my biological father’s nose was prominent. Then I looked at a photo of the grandfather beheaded by that train, Harry Elmer Baker: his nose is just like mine. Suddenly this grandfather I never met becomes an ancestor, blood of my blood. 
Old family journals.
Priceless despite the tiny script. I’m fortunate to be part of a family of journal-keepers: Besides my own journals (except for those I foolishly burned after a cheating husband read them trying to prove I behaved as he did; don’t ever burn your journals!) I have my father’s and mother’s journals. Simply reading the journals, though, doesn’t provide the answers to the questions I have about my history. Mother’s childhood diary entries often mentioned going somewhere: the movies, for a ride in someone’s car, to the drugstore, to a neighbor’s. In 1924, age 15, she wrote that Cora gave her fifty cents, her week’s allowance, and “I got my new Jacquette this morning and went down town this afternoon and had a coco cola in Bacon’s all by myself and of course I was waited on by the most efficient of soda squirts.” Suddenly I realized: she lived in town! Because my grandmother ended her days on the Red Canyon ranch, I’d pictured my mother growing up there. But when Cora met Walt Hey, her second husband, they both lived in Edgemont, SD, where he was apparently a jack of all trades; he had completely rewired the high school, for example, and was an auto mechanic. Newly widowed, she was running a small café with her sister Pearl. The ranch may have been acquired later in payment of a debt. I remember a story about her walking from Edgemont to the ranch, at least ten miles, so she may have lived in town with her two older children-- my mother and mother’s brother-- for awhile after they were married and Walt took over the ranch. Walt and Cora later had two sons, George and Harry, who did grow up on the ranch. Recently my Uncle George said he moved an old log cabin across the canyon and added it to the existing log house as a kitchen in 1932-- the year after my mother married her first husband. All the older generation, my grandmother, mother and uncle, probably simply assumed we all knew. And I couldn’t have asked “Did you grow up on the ranch?” because I didn’t know the answer. As I read my mother’s journals, I am made aware of the differences between us. At 15, my mother wrote that her mother Cora asked her if she’d ever been kissed. I said no and lied like everything but I don’t care. She’d never understand that it is a modern custom, this goodnight Kiss stuff. She preached about B. might lose his control. Lord, whoever thought of it. B’s the very soul of honor and Oh Hell she thinks she’s smart about that losing control. They just do that in stories and probably in married life or something. . . . this serious real life stuff makes me sick. All I want is romance. Kisses are romantic but Oh God help me to leave it there. I want Romance. I know I occasionally lied to my parents, but I believe that at age 15 I was more interested in horses than Romance-- but I don’t have my own journals to compare with hers so if I write about this aspect I will have to rely on memory. (Did I mention you should never destroy your journals?) My mother’s later journals are frustrating because she squeezed two tiny lines of script into every ruled line of a journal page. Even with a magnifying glass, I can read only briefly before my eyes cross. Maybe, having lived through the times of scarcity in the Thirties, she was simply conserving paper. I gave her many journals with wide spacing but her handwriting got tinier as she aged. I can trace her mental deterioration, too, by its increasing illegibility and her reminders to herself of things she once knew. Snippets of information she pasted into the journals provide insight: pithy sayings; dozens of obituaries (most are frustratingly undated); photographs of her favorite public men, like Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush. These later journals are too painful for me to read. 
Old family letters.
Postmarked envelopes are a bonus. Some days I’m not sure if learning more about my grandmother is part of the book I’m planning or a distraction from it, so I try not to fret about that. Often when I’m sifting through these mementoes, I see no particular purpose in them for the book in my mind. But I almost can’t help organizing, and I think doing a routine task like sorting letters into chronological order can be a good mental aid to later writing. When I’m stuck on a writing project, unsure how to proceed, I often do some kind of filing or organizing. While my body is busy at the job, I believe my mind might be looking for answers to the questions my writing is asking. In this case, Cora helped me in this obsessive job because she nearly always dated her letters fully: month, day and year. Sometimes a letter remained in its original envelope. Still, I wasn’t sure what purpose was served by putting them in order. When I mentioned her letters to an uncle, he said, “She never said anything anyway. Oh, maybe what she was doing, but nothing about what was going on in the world.” I disagree; letters provide a personal history unavailable anywhere else. An online search makes it easy to correlate private with world events. Often it’s not what’s going on in the world that’s important about letters. For example, on December 23, 1945, about a year and a half after her second husband Walt’s death, my grandmother wrote to my mother that she’d dreamed that he drove into the yard. In the dream, he was dressed up; he’d been to town. He came inside and was delighted with her little Christmas tree, erected because his two boys were coming home on leave from military service. Cora had broken her glasses and he immediately started fixing them; she’d written after his death about the pain of seeing several things he’d meant to fix, forever unfinished. Suddenly I identified with my grandmother in a way I never had before-- as a widow. For years after George died, I’d dream of him coming home, or meeting him somewhere, telling him that we’d thought he was dead. In the dream, of course, his death was just our misunderstanding. Perhaps all widows, and widowers, have such dreams. Two months after Walt’s death, Cora writes to my mother, “My life seams [sic; Grandmother didn’t have much schooling] so empty and the future looks so dark,” but then “something seams [sic] to brace me up and give me courage to go on just awhile longer.” Again, I can identify with her; she doesn’t specify what braces her up-- she seldom got to town for church-- but she goes on. Though grandmother may not have mentioned news events, some are easy to discern from the other things I know about the history of the period. Letters written during the war are on cheap, fragile paper. When she mentions near the end of one that she has to stop writing because she can hardly see, I’m reminded she was writing by lamp or candle light. She refers only obliquely to her sons “over there,” because American censors wanted to keep troop numbers and locations secret. Again, I’m fortunate. Many of the family letters I have are fully dated: month, day and year. Still, knowledge available to the writer and first reader may be hidden from the later reader. Someone writes: “Cooper died today; I am devastated.” Child? Neighbor? Dog? You’ll need to do more research to find the answer. Sometimes clues are tantalizing rather than informative. In one letter, my grandmother is apparently responding to my mother’s news that she has broken up with a boyfriend. “I thought you’d get tired of just going with anybody,” says Grandmother tartly. Had my mother’s quest for “Romance” led her astray? She believed, at least, in the importance of letters. I possess, but have not read, letters written 1925-1930 by the man she married in 1931. In 1938 she married my biological father and in 1952 she married John Hasselstrom. She kept those letters for 76 years, through two more marriage and a dozen moves, until her death in 2001. A story exists there, though I may never write it. If she and the man had emailed, though, she could not have kept his letters and I wouldn’t know that “romantic” detail. Technically, letters belong to the writer, so use discretion in quoting from them even if the letter-writer is dead. If you are worried about what is going to be revealed, consult an attorney who specializes in copyright law. 
Old family possessions may be valuable aids to memory and research.
For a writer, the ordinary possessions from a life often becomes detritus, the stuff we throw away without thought. But consider how these things may be valuable aids to memory or even to factual research. My grandmother wore out most of her possessions. In my poem “Looking for Grandmother,” I wrote that I greet her in my kitchen every day as I use her things but was unable to find her grave plot in the cemetery. When I peel potatoes, for example, I can see her hands deftly slicing peelings into the dishpan (I suddenly remember as I am writing this!) she used to take scraps to the chickens. (There’s another reason to study and write about these memories: each one may lead you to more. I had forgotten until I found my fingers typing “into the dishpan” that Grandmother’s kitchen was a Hoosier cabinet beside her stove. When I first stayed with her there, she had no running water.) I use the towels she folded on the shelf above the sink, What else do I have? A few crocheted doilies, a wooden crochet hook that reminds me how she tried to teach me the art; an embroidered afghan-- she made one for each of her grandchildren but didn’t live long enough to make them for the great-grands. 
An old recipe book with some hand-written entries and advertisements:
"Don't Burn Your Money, Burn Carney Coal." Household hints include products unused today: “blueing is good for cleaning windows,” and “Always have your lard hard,” and “A teaspoon turpentine added to a pail warm water is good for cleaning purposes.” Ads include one for Carney Coal, which “warms its friends and cools its enemies.” Buckmaster’s Bakery “is not a fakery;” its bread is the best, its rolls meet the test, its donuts are crumptious and its pastries bumptious. Hoosier Kitchen Cabinet promises a systematic kitchen, a pleasant day, “a happy home, a contented wife.” Here’s a surprise. In the back is a recipe for “malt tonic.” The ingredients are hops, sugar, water and yeast; hmm. Prohibition lasted from 1918 to 1933 and many folks made their own beer, but I’d never have suspected my grandmother was one of them! And books may hold more than their pages. Tucked between two pages I find a note I wrote to Grandmother on Mother’s Day, 1957. In my mother’s cookbook I find a list headed "Linda": Apr 8 1949 . . . 45 1/2 in Oct. 9 1949 . . . 48 lbs. Nov. 17, 1954 . . . 82 lbs. Nov. 11, 1955 . . . 96 lbs. 5 ft 2 in Febr. 11, 1956 . . . 100 lbs. Aug 11, 1956 . . . 105 lbs. (I remember how I was horrified to realize I could never be a professional jockey, since most of them weigh under 100 pounds.) Oct. 3, 1956 . . . 110 lbs. (Mother 107) On the day she first realized I outweighed her, she began to lecture me about overeating-- but I was already five inches taller than she. Her obsession with being thin later shortened her life. Paper documents vary; I could create a day-by-day timeline of the building of my house by reading my returned checks for that summer, seeing when I paid for the floor joists, the shingles, the septic work. Now that few banks return these documents, future historians will have harder work tracing a person’s location, her financial situation, her interests. Memories Any writer must acknowledge that memory may be faulty. Write what you recall anyway, in as much detail as possible, because this is personal, intimate evidence. Most of my memories of grandmother were tiny vignettes complete with sight, sound and sometimes taste and smell, true though they lack documentation. What year did that happen? Why was she there? But the taste of a gingersnap cookies dipped in the tea she let me drink (with milk) against my mother’s wishes (“it’ll stunt her growth!”) is part of what she was to me. That’s what’s important. If I want to know more facts about grandmother, I have to do more research. Most of us fail to ask the right questions when our ancestors are alive; by the time we are old enough to formulate questions, they may have forgotten, died, or, like my mother, decided to deny certain aspects of her history. Among my significant memories are figures of speech. Grandmother said “My stars!” in situations where my mother swore vehemently. My grandmother called tidying the house “redding up,” a southern or perhaps Scottish expression (see my comments on this topic posted on my Blog Page for November 13, 2011.) My mother once told me a pair of jeans was so worn I might as well “jack up the zipper and run a new pair of pants under it.” I have no idea where that expression may have originated but it’s pithy and memorable. I don’t yet know how these tidbits might become part of what I write. * * * As the Yule approaches, gathering darkness into the longest night of the year, I am grateful to be surrounded by my family, diminished though it is, and our history. The journals, letters and photographs I shuffle from desk to shelf are the evidence of lives lived earnestly, if not always wisely or well. Through the darkness and cold of December and the rest of winter, I will ponder and think and write, knowing that eventually the light will return to the earth. And I know that light will shine on my writing-- and yours as well-- if we steadily apply ourselves. May your Solstice be warm with family, whether related by blood or chosen. And may you not lose confidence in the coming of the light. I do believe I’ll try my grandmother’s Dandy Ice Cream recipe for a Solstice treat. Linda M. Hasselstrom For the Winter Solstice, December 21, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # Note: The "Dandy Ice Cream" recipe may be found in Linda's blog posted on January 3, 2012. Click here to go to the blog page, then search by date or by topic (Ice Cream or Recipe). back to top 
Linda M. Hasselstrom with some of her 2011 tomato harvest.
Thinking is Writing: A Samhain Message from Linda “To get these new ideas down on paper, I needed solitude so I slunk off to the cabin . . . and spent a week writing. It was a glorious week. I arose at six-thirty and thought until eight, by which time my thinking had made me hungry. . . .I was able to write then until about two. . . . about 1,500 words a day.” -- Jon Hassler, My Staggerford Journal (New York: Ballantine, 1999), p. 33 I found this book in the sale section of the Rapid City Public Library, and picked it up because I once met Jon Hassler in Minnesota and thought any journal of his would be worthwhile. Flipping pages, I read the paragraph above and was struck by one sentence: “I arose at six-thirty and thought until eight.” He did that BEFORE having coffee, before eating! He didn’t read, he doesn’t mention making notes; he thought for an hour and a half. The book is vastly encouraging to writers in other ways, but that sentence is, I think, the best possible guidance for a writer. When I have an idea, it’s easy to write furiously: I take notes in my journal, I mumble to myself and take more notes while walking the dogs, I sit at the computer and type wildly. I also leap up to get lunch started, answer an email or two, sit down after lunch with a mystery. At night, in order to stop thinking about my writing and other aspects of my life, I read a mystery until I fall asleep. But what really helps with writing, or with any other problem, is to simply sit down, stare into space and think. (Thinking can be accomplished while walking dogs if no one is talking, but it’s easy to be distracted by the dogs’ antics, the rabbits, interesting rocks and plants.) Writing helps capture ideas only if they are there. And they come more easily if I quiet myself and pursue them. Anything that interrupts thought hinders that process. I believe that anyone who is constantly using a phone, watching TV, blogging, facebooking, texting, emailing– is not thinking. Cannot possibly think. When a retreat is about to begin at Homestead House, I first read the writer’s work, writing comments on the draft. I try to finish that process at least two days before the writer arrives. Then I think about what I have read. Here’s an example: I read and commented on a novel recently: wrote furiously throughout the 140 page manuscript, commenting on grammatical and technical problems, asking questions about what the writer had not revealed about the main character and the setting. That evening I took a hot bath and considered the novel. (I do some of my best thinking in the bathtub while trying to clear my sinuses because it’s so much harder to read then; the library does not appreciate damp books.) Lying back in the tub with my eyes closed, I tried to picture the main character in the novel, a ten-year-old pioneer girl. When her parents move from a bustling town to a new village, she is reluctant to go, misses her friends and the city life they leave behind. Gradually she adapts to her surroundings and finally realizes that she is proud to be part of the founding of a new village. I should have found it easy to identify with this girl. I moved to this ranch at nine years of age and learned how things were done just as she did, by instruction from my parents in how to do the chores that helped the family survive and prosper. The child in the novel was learning in 1880 and I was learning in 1952 from parents who were still doing things in the way their parents did in the early part of the century. My parents would have been ten years old around 1920, so their methods of instruction and the way we lived, except for modern appliances, were not greatly different from pioneering times– especially if compared to the way a ten-year-old girl might live today. 
Linda and her grandmother, 1949.
Sensory detail is one of the best ways to draw the reader into a scene: make the reader see, smell, taste, hear, touch or feel what the character is feeling. Action is not enough; the writer needs to lure the reader. So if I write “Grandmother Hey grabbed Linda’s hand and pulled her up the steps to the school,” I’ve accomplished the action needed by the scene. I can’t control every aspect of how the reader pictures the two characters, but if a reader pictures the woman and her granddaughter in ways that detract from the story I’m trying to tell, I’m working against my own purposes. I need to direct the reader’s attention in a way that advances my story. So I might add sight, more visual description. Grandmother Hey took Linda’s soft little hand in her big leathery one. She smiled down at Linda. Her white hair rippled in smooth white waves back from her tan, wrinkled face; her blue eyes shone with happiness. Linda looked down at their clasped hands; grandmother’s thin gold wedding ring shone and slid up against the misshapen knuckle of the finger. Next I add sound. Grandmother Hey took Linda’s soft little hand in her big leathery one;. She smiled down at Linda. Her white hair rippled in smooth white waves back from her tan, wrinkled face; her blue eyes shone with happiness. Linda looked down at their clasped hands; grandmother’s thin gold wedding ring shone and slid up against the misshapen knuckle of the finger. And smell. Grandmother Hey took Linda’s soft little hand in her big leathery one. She smiled down at Linda. Her white hair rippled in smooth white waves back from her tan, wrinkled face; her blue eyes shone with happiness. Add more touch. Grandmother Hey took Linda’s soft little hand in her big leathery one; her thin gold wedding ring shone and slid up against the misshapen knuckle of the finger. She smiled down at Linda. Her white hair rippled in smooth white waves back from her tan, wrinkled face; her blue eyes shone with happiness. Add feelings, emotions. Grandmother Hey took Linda’s soft little hand in her big leathery one;. Linda looked down at their clasped hands and touched grandmother’s thin gold wedding ring, sliding it up until it stopped. She rubbed her finger over the swollen knuckle of her grandmother’s hand, feeling how the skin slid over the bulging bone beneath. Then she leaned against Grandmother’s arm, inhaling the sharp, clean scent of Noxema. And so on. Not all the senses need to be in each scene; I wouldn’t add taste to this one, for example, but experiment to see what works. Each addition expands the scene, but may also give you more material. I could come back to the mention of Linda rubbing her finger over Grandmother’s swollen knuckle to have the child reflect on age and its effects. The smell of car exhaust can be recalled later as a contrast to the sharp air of the canyon where Grandmother lives. Keep thinking. In the case of the novelist, I suggested she renew her acquaintance with ten-year-old girls through memory or interviewing a few. What do they think about? Their view certainly is broader than that of, say, a six-year-old child, so consider how aware they are. Do they know how their parents make a living? What do they understand about the functioning of the world? Who are the people who make their world: teachers, parents, siblings, relatives. What does a ten-year-old want out of life? Does she have crushes? Plans for a career? To be admired? I suggested that the writer note answers to these questions as best she can. And then simply allow time for her subconscious to work. When you did this in school, it might have been called "day-dreaming," but experts say it is essential to all creativity. Laurie R. King, in The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, (p. 298), some of my “light” reading, furnishes this observation: “However, the mind has an amazing ability to continue worrying away at a problem all on its own, so that when the ‘Eureka!’ comes it is as mysterious as if it were God speaking. The words given voice inside the mind are not always clear, however; they can be gentle and elliptical, what the prophets called the bat qol, the daughter of the voice of God, she who speaks in whispers and half-seen images.” A perfect description of the subconscious at work. Your mind must be otherwise temporarily unoccupied in order for it to receive ideas from your subconscious, which works harder at writing than you do. You must be silent, so you can hear ideas. Walk. Turn off the radio or VCR or computer. Get away from softball players and speedboats and cell phones and people who talk constantly and all other outside stimuli; listen for what will happen in your brain. I always take a notebook to record the ideas I capture on walks. I’ve found, though, that if I’m too hasty in writing down the first thing occurs to me, my thinking may stop there. Without the notebook, I’m forced to keep thinking, keep recalling what that first thought was, allowing my brain to build on it, extend the thought, complete the edifice. Thinking, I believe, may be the most underrated, unmentioned, unsung part of the writing process. Considering the many books I’ve read or skimmed that promised to teach the writer “how to write and make big money,” I don’t recall anyone suggesting long bouts of thinking. Thought is, I believe, considerably more likely to lead to good writing than the latest computer, a magnificent library, intricate research or a beautiful study with a good view of the mountains and the nicest paper and pens money can buy. 
At this season, when the year is winding into winter . . .
For the Celts, Samhain marks one of the two great doorways of the Celtic year, divided by them into only two seasons: the light and the dark. May 1, Beltane, celebrates the return of the light; Samhain (pronounced Sow-wen, from a Gaelic word meaning “summer’s end”) observes the return of darkness November 1. Since the Celtic day began at night, Samhain may have been the more important festival. In dark silence, the Celts believed, one may hear the whispering of new beginnings, the stirring of the seed below the ground. Sounds like a description of the subconscious at work. May this Samhain bring you the daughter of the voice of God, whispering wonderful paragraphs into your listening ears. Linda M. Hasselstrom Samhain, October 31, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # back to top 
Linda M. Hasselstrom on the ranch, 2011.
A Mabon (Fall Equinox) Message from Linda "The Glitter Phase of Life" Signs of fall accumulated slowly through August. One evening I hear the boom of a nighthawk and see the two sitting on the bare branch of the pine beside the retreat house, as they have done all summer. The next day they are gone. The heron stands in the still water of the dam, gazing. Ducks mass around the edges of the water, still floating in flocks, but the ducklings are nearly indistinguishable from the adults. Cows stand knee-deep in their own reflections, drinking. The calves butt heads, graze, wander off in clumps like teenagers. Sunflowers sway, sprinkling the ground around their stems with yellow pollen. Their leaves click as they curl and dry. Red-brown grass shivers on the hillside. Tiny green insects with transparent wings gather on the window screens. House spiders’ webs fill each corner, concentric strands shining in the sun, shimmering as flies and gnats struggle. Fat spiders rush out to tie up each victim. One has yellow and brown hieroglyphics on its back; another has red and black legs that glow fiercely in the sun. Instead of rushing to close windows against the heat each day, I begin to leave some open, sniffing the drying grass on the breeze as I chop tomatoes for sauce simmering on the stove. I’m thinking about friendship, the visit of a woman I’ve known for fifty years. I wrote a poem for her years ago, “Dear Suzan,” published in Dakota Bones in 1993, when we’d been friends about thirty years. 
"Sunflowers sway . . ."
Dear Suzan Since coffee talk and promises to write, the hay has grown, been mowed and stacked. Hawks are moving south, fighting crows; the last tomatoes ripen on the window sill. Your children must be in school. It’s not that I don’t remember; days are short. Often when I plan to write cold and dark eddy around me tangling at my throat, rising from the twisted roots of dead tomato vines; frost tonight promises winter soon. Crisp orange petals tumble at my feet as ripe black marigold seeds tumble into a jar. When the earth is frozen outside the window I’ll touch the warmth of summer in stored seed. * * * This year, as we reach the age of sixty-eight, I’ve been working on writing another poem for her to commemorate fifty years of friendship. We’re in the long, slow autumn of our lives, and her birthday is at the end of September, so thinking of her at this season seems appropriate. Naturally, I want the poem to be good. But are poems written primarily for friendship’s sake ever really good? And if not, does it matter? A quick review of friendship poems is disturbing. One online site calls the friendship poem the “neglected cousin of the love poem,” and many of the ones I find feature either bad rhyme and hopeless sentimentality, or are curdled with outmoded language like “wouldst,” “midst,” and “thou ask’st.” Robert Burns’s “Auld Lang Syne” has become famous, but most are more obscure: Rudyard Kipling’s “Gunga Din,” which probably is so politically incorrect it would be banned from schools but has a fine rhythm, and his more famous “If.” Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote “Tact,” referring to something needed in all long relationships. William Butler Yeats emotes so shamelessly I can’t stand to quote him and Matthew Arnold disappoints me. Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell dedicated “The Armadillo” and “Skunk Hour,” respectively, to each other, but neither is what I would call a friendly, accessible poem. So another question arises. Does a friendship poem need to be a real poem, a good poem? Of course not. If your aim is to honor your friend, to record your friendship or your love, then the act of doing it, and giving it to the friend so honored, is the important part. Don’t wait until the person is dead or out of reach and then wish you’d told him or her of your affection; do it now! Write as well as you can and don’t compare your efforts with those of the great masters. During this Fall Equinox, I will be thankful for the joy of harvesting red tomatoes that seem to glow with sunlight, for solid round cabbages (though the grasshoppers got most of them). I’m bidding goodbye to birds every day, basking in the remaining sunlight and heat while welcoming crisp fall breezes and soaring hawks. We rejoice in what we have and in the balance of day and night, knowing we face the coming of the shadows and barren season of winter. Traditional symbols of this harvest festival include Apples and Wine, Cornucopia and Burial Cairns: contradiction and contrast. Some cultures worship deities of harvest and aging. Filled with the awareness of the time of year, I realized that the season of my years with my friend is the same: we are at the fall equinox, facing the shadows. We speak of friends who have died, destroyed their lives; we are thankful for the joys we have and when we are together we celebrate with good food and drink, just as the harvest-time demands. We are apprehensive about some elements of the future, but fear won’t rule us; we’ve seen too much. I think I felt the “click” as this poem for Suzan slipped from being merely affectionate and nostalgic into being a real poem. I started by considering a phrase she used in a telephone conversation, that she’s in “the glitter phase” of her life. She buys wooden chairs and masks, paints them in vibrant and beautiful colors and makes each one glitter with paint and shiny objects, including mirrors. “The glitter phase of life.” The phrase fascinated me. I started by looking at phrases that used the word “glitter” and found only the one with which most of us are familiar. A cliche: and I advise writers to avoid cliches. But if you question a cliche, you may sometimes find a truth: what is the difference between glitter and gold? And what do we have in our lives that is truly golden? At that point, I believe the poem tipped into being better than it might have been. I’m not sure the poem is finished, but here’s how it stands. 
We’re Sixty-Eight We learned early all that glitters is not gold, but now she says she’s in her glitter phase of life. I know that doesn’t mean she wears those sweaters with pink sequined poodles, or spangles on her lashes. We remember fifty years: she tried to teach me makeup; I saved her contacts one drunk night. But there’s so much more. We’ve often talked but most of all we listened. Glitter isn’t gold, but her marriage is– gold, not glitter, as is the love I’ve found after two losses. We still find fragile sparkles in a sunrise, and know that it will vanish when the sun comes up. Spot a glimmer on a silken cheek, and nod as it wrinkles into age. Glitter flies into the sun, makes us catch our breath, then drifts down tarnished with the first snowfall. So we know now to seize it when we can, decorate our masks with every shimmer possible, notice every shiny flake-- because we know what’s gold, and what is fake. * * * On this fall equinox, give thanks for what you have harvested from your garden and your writing; be kind to yourself. Store up what you will need to get through the cold darkness of winter: in writing ideas, in good food, in friendships. Linda M. Hasselstrom on the Fall Equinox, September, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # A Reader's Response to "The Glitter Phase of Life."
Francis Baumli was a student of mine at the University of Missouri. We began corresponding a year or two ago and I have always found his letters enlightening. I had intended to excerpt this one as a response to my Fall Equinox 2011 Home Page Message but the elements of the letter are woven together like a fine tapestry so I prefer to present the entire letter (with his permission, of course). This is further proof that email, like letters, has the potential to allow lively, engaging and stimulating conversation between people who are not able to meet face to face. A pity, then, that so much email communication is merely twittering (pun intended). Linda November, 2011 Dear Linda, # # # back to top 
Linda M. Hasselstrom on the ranch, 2011.
Driving a gravel road in the Black Hills, I saw them again: wild pink roses. Instantly I was reminded of Sunday trips to my Grandmother Cora’s house when I was a child. My dad would back the 1952 Chevy out of the garage and be waiting, sometimes in the car with the motor running, by the time my mother had herself and me “dolled up” to her satisfaction. I sat in the back seat, of course, and sometimes managed to smuggle a book along. But mostly I looked out the car window, rolled down so the dust and fresh air could pour in. Usually, no matter how hot it was, my mother kept her window rolled up– though sometimes we could persuade her to open the wing window to let in a little air. And writing this, it occurs to me how much has changed. In modern cars, windows rarely “roll” down and anyone under 50 may not know what a “wing window” is. I miss them still; they allowed regulation of the air in the way that a single pane window and vents on the dashboard do not. But I digress, therefore I am. As we drove along, I’d see the low pink roses ruffling as we swept past. The breeze of our passage lifted the dust off their petals and then set it down again, but they bloomed on. My vision was pinkrosespinkrosespinkrosespinkrosespinkroses until I could picture my grandmother’s smiling face. 
My Grandmother, Cora, with some of her (tame) roses.
On a recent trip into the hills, I recalled them and took pictures, and began remembering those trips to my Grandmother’s house. She grew roses on a trellis on the south end of her tiny house, vivid pink against the brown shingle siding. She carried water to them in her tea kettle, dumped her dishwater over them, and I think her shower drained below them. That shower: my uncle George, now 93, had added her bathroom to her house: building a small space, maybe 10 feet by 6 feet, where he installed a toilet and sink with a drain in the floor. On the west end were shelves reaching to the ceiling where she kept extra blankets and winter clothes. On the east end were high shelves over the toilet for paper and other bathroom supples. And hanging from the ceiling was a 5-gallon bucket “repurposed” (which we didn’t say in those days) from holding the deadly mixture we poured over the backs of cattle to kill lice. My uncle had washed it thoroughly, punched a hole in the bottom and attached a hose with a shower head and a clip to stop the water. When we wanted a shower, Grandmother got the bucket down, heated the teakettle full of water on the stove several times and emptied it into the bucket, and then cooled it to the correct temperature with water from the faucet. Then she’d hang the bucket, strip down and step into the bathroom. She’d let the showerhead down and soak herself, then hang it back on the bucket while she soaped herself. Then she’d rinse and dry herself– and call me. I did the same with whatever water was left in the bucket. At the time I had never seen my mother naked and my first impression of my grandmother’s body left me shocked. I realize, though, that the shower experience helped me accept the changes I’m seeing in my own carcass when I shower. But again, I digress. And that’s precisely the point. It’s August; I’m busy with volunteer projects, retreats, gardening, harvesting, and general busy-ness. Yesterday, I wailed to anyone within earshot that I hadn’t written anything for days. I’ve been scribbling a bit in my journal every day but I hadn’t felt the pressure or the interest in writing anything more complex. My usual cure for this condition is to call up a memory and write something about it. Go back to basics: put the news out of your mind; shove any thoughts about deadlines into the closet and shut the door. What do you remember? Start writing and write as fully and with as much detail as you can. Digress in any direction you choose; who knows where you might arrive? In order to facilitate this process, I’ve been keeping the scrapbook I started when I was twelve years old on a table in my office. When I’m lacking in inspiration, I open the scrapbook. So far this summer, in the doldrums of heat and lack of stimulation, I’ve written about the janitor in the Hermosa school and the watch he kept in his vest; about our neighbors when I was five years old and living in Rapid City, Mrs. Bradley and Mrs. Melaven; about how an old man taught me the proper appreciation of strawberries when I was three years old; about outhouses and the courthouse in Rapid City; about my musical career and how my father pronounced “pizza” (with a short vowel and lots of emphasis on the z’s. My computer will not allow me to type a lower case I –it keeps insisting on capitalizing it, which is another difference from the days when the machines did what we wanted them to and didn’t try to second guess us. But once more– I rant.) I have no idea what, if anything, all that writing will become. I don’t worry about it because I am writing. I feel better already than I did yesterday; I am writing. 
Wild pink prairie roses found along a road in the Black Hills, 2011.
In my plant books, I discovered that they are the only North American native rose, Rosa blanda, a pink-fading-to-white-flowered shrub usually called "Prairie Rose". The Latin name of the rose is Rosa suffulta and it’s native from Ontario down into Texas and west to the Rockies according to Grasslands, The National Audubon Society nature guide. Prairie Rose! My research veered into a new dimension. Prairie Rose Henderson is my favorite among the old-time cowgirls, for her wide smile both before and after she lost her front teeth in a rodeo accident. (I’m not going to digress anymore this time to tell her story. She’s been adopted as an icon for all kinds of promotions so you can easily find dozens of tales about her, some of which might come close to the truth.) Moreover “Prairie Rose” is the state flower of North Dakota, though theirs is called Rosa blanda or Rosa pratincula and thus may be a different species. The name has also been adopted by dozens of enterprises from parks to real estate salespersons. So: my writing about prairie roses has led me to memories of my grandmother, to a rodeo queen and to North Dakota. I don’t know where else it might lead: I can envision writing essays on several different topics from that material. But writing that essay is not my job today. The writing has served its purpose: I have stopped feeling frustrated by not writing. I have written something that’s intriguing enough to lead on to other writing. That’s what writers do. On this August 1st, the traditional Celtic fire festival of Lammas (Lughnasad), when the year is beginning to wane and we pause to consider regrets and losses, we may need to remind ourselves that the ending of summer is only the changing of seasons. Use this harvest time to gather inspiration, to make notes, to write pieces like my prairie rose fragment that you can return to in winter. Here’s an old prayer often used in this season: Let our lives be a blessing to the Earth that sustains us, And to all creatures that, Like us, Call this planet home. Linda M. Hasselstrom August 1, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # For more information: See my updated bio on this website (coming soon!) for more about my Grandmother, and the stories about my Rapid City neighbors and the strawberry-eating lesson mentioned above. The Lughnasad prayer above may be found at the One Spirit Ministries website. back to top
Linda M. Hasselstrom on the ranch, 2011.
Are You a Writer? Do you write in the spare time left from your job and rest of your life? Do you have a writing schedule, regular hours and a regular place, where you dedicate yourself to writing? Many workshops, books, blogs and tweets assure you that if you scribble one draft of one poem a year, or if you published a poem while you were in high school, or if you confide your fantasies to your journal every few days, you are a writer. Some folks seem to believe that “writing a poem” means writing down what you are thinking right this minute about a particular topic and giving it a title. My partner and life companion, who spent his career as an engineer with the Wyoming Department of Transportation took a course intended to teach these government employees how to eliminate passive voice, the bane of official documents. The instructor told the students that they could consider themselves “professional writers,” because they were professional engineers, and they wrote. Every now and then, sometimes when I’m signing books, he reminds me with a wink and a nudge that he, too, is a professional writer. 
The writing business: writing.
--Monk in North Dakota, to Kathleen Norris I am a Writer. When I was 9, I moved to a ranch with my parents. Since I had no brothers and sisters, I walked or rode a horse all over the prairie. My mother made notepaper for grocery lists and by tearing up letters and advertisements we received, so I filled my shirt pocket with little squares of paper and took a short pencil with me on my rides or walks. I wrote down sights I found puzzling: why was that antelope stomping? I sketched flowers whose names I did not know, so I could ask someone later. I had begun writing. I have been writing steadily ever since. I earned at MA in American Literature so I could teach, but I have always considered writing my primary interest and job. When you decide to be a nurse or an engineer, you go to college to study your specific field. When you know everything (!) about your field, someone hands you a document testifying to your knowledge and you are officially recognized by other professionals and the public as a professional. No one ever hands a writer a certificate of official recognition, a Writer’s Diploma. We are judged by other standards, and those standards vary. One writer may win a Pulitzer prize; another may have 37 books in print. One may write a popular newspaper column for 15 years or interview famous people and write about them. The woman who writes the church newsletter or man who maintains a web site devoted to writing about scams may consider themselves writers, and in fact may actually write more than the Pulitzer prize winner. Many people and all writers will give beginning writers advice, usually free --and usually worth just what you pay for it-- but no one can guarantee you're going to be a Writer. No matter how brilliant your grasp of grammar, no matter how great your desire, and no matter what countless collegiate creative writing classes tell you, there is no course of study that will make you a writer. Furthermore, unlike most other professions, once you decide to be a writer, no one steps forward to hire you at a specific salary. In fact, relatives, friends, and eventually, perhaps, spouses and children often say, "Why don't you get a real job." No matter how good you are at writing; no matter how many books you have published. My mother was still advising me to get a real job when she was 92 and I was 58. I've read a lot of advice from writers and offered plenty myself, and have concluded that the way to become a writer is to read as much as you can, and write constantly. Then you can start calling yourself a writer, and make your own certificate to hang on the wall. I do not believe that my status is a writer is diminished if everyone who writes one poem a year calls herself a writer. But I believe he or she should know the difference in our definitions. I am a Writer. My poetry, fiction and nonfiction writing has been published in more than a hundred magazines, sometimes even with payment. My essays and poems have been included in more than fifty anthologies and collections. In addition, I've been the subject of features in several magazines and books. The Writing Business --Irwin S. Cobb, author and journalist (1876-1944) --John Steinbeck If you write very well, and on topics of interest to the public, and are very persistent in submitting work, some day you may sell your books to publishing companies. You may make a lot of money. You may make even more money if you write a book about making money as a writer, or go on tour as a speaker talking about your book, or your success as a writer. 
The writing business: speaking to groups.
My 1990 income from writing was MINUS $1,900; in 1989, $9,000; in 1988, $7,400; in 1987, MINUS $218; in 1986, $770; in 1985, MINUS $1,391. It's impossible even to create a sensible budget with such wild fluctuations. [I’m using statistics from years past because I really don’t want to look at more current figures to see if I’m earning more money-- or less.] As a writer, I have no health insurance, no paid vacations, no guaranteed retirement income. Surveys by The Authors Guild show that the full-time writer’s average hourly wage works out to "far less than the $16.00 median hourly wage for full-time college-educated workers." I am a Writer. When I was a Publisher/Writer, between 1971 and 1985, I operated an independent press. I published a quarterly arts magazine and 23 books by Great Plains writers as Lame Johnny Press. (The press name is another story.) I published in order to help other writers, but when the publishing house cost more money and time away from writing than I was willing to afford, I closed the press. I am a Writer. When I was a hired writer, I earned part of my living editing books, or writing text to accompany photos: The Journal of a Mountain Man: James Clyman for Mountain Press; Bison: Monarch of the Plains for Alaska Northwest/Graphic Arts, The Roadside History of South Dakota for Mountain Press. I have been in business as a writer-- that is, writing with the hope of being published and being paid-- around fifty years, frequently submitting my prose and poetry to various publications and keeping track of the results. My income tax return says I am a writer, and I have to prove it every year to the IRS with receipts. My files contain hundreds of rejections; when I get one, I file it and go back to writing. I belong to The Authors Guild, a professional organization, because I know being a successful writer requires a businesslike approach to my job. I'm need to keep up with current news about book contracts, agents, salaries, and other matters relevant to my profession. I buy books from independent bookstores if possible, because they carry a greater variety of books, and not simply those plugged by conglomerates. I buy books published by small and independent presses which publish new writers and those who don’t write blockbusters. I support independent bookstores and publishers in part so they will be in business to support me when I have a book in print. And they do. --Mari Sandoz Calling Yourself a Writer. As a writer, my primary aim every day is to write. My normal daily schedule requires I get up at 6:30 or 7 A.M., and be seated in my office by 8 A.M., fingers glued to my keyboard. I write until noon. After lunch, I go back to my office to take care of some of the "business" of writing. I answer some --never all-- of my mail, beginning with letters from people who want to pay me to do something concerned with writing. (Unless I put letters out of reach, I could spend most days answering letters I should answer.) If you call yourself a writer, you might consider the writerly use of adjectives. For example, I’d say that a full-time professional writer supports herself with her writing work. I do not qualify. I am a full-time writer, though, because when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. And I’m professional, in that I follow guidelines for submission procedures, belong to writers’ support organizations, and otherwise behave as if my writing is a business, not a hobby. 
The writing business: teaching.
One of the ways I support my writing habit is by teaching about writing in various ways: hired to do so by organizations, colleges, book groups, or by conducting writing retreats here at Windbreak House. Some full-time teachers call themselves writers. You don't need to be a writer to be a skillful teacher of writing, nor do you need to teach to be a writer. The two professions often complement each other, but I find that many teachers consider themselves writers if they do a writing exercise with their students once a year, but have never submitted work for publication, and rarely buy a book. Teaching a writing course for teachers, I once carried to the podium a visual aid: dozen boxes containing the various drafts of my most recent book at that time-- Feels Like Far. Since I recycle paper, printing on both sides, those dozen boxes represent only perhaps one third of the paper I used in rewriting the nonfiction manuscript. I estimated that if I were to stack them all, the drafts of that book would reach an eight-foot ceiling-- twice. I wrote the first draft of the book in 1991. During the next four years, while I made a living teaching workshops and giving speeches-- my only income-- my primary work as a writer was to revise and improve the same manuscript. I revised it seven times on the specific recommendations of editors at five large publishing houses in New York. None of them accepted it. Of course I was not compensated in any way for the work of revising they had asked me to do. But I am a Writer. Without assistance from an agent, I’ve written and published thirteen books with commercial publishers. That is, the publishers expect to profit from the sale of my books, and I have not self-published my work, though I consider self-publication to be an honorable action. Sometimes it’s the only way to move from being a Writer to being a Published Writer. I am a Writer. I started my day with a couple of cups of coffee sitting up in bed while I made notes in my journal on how the day had begun, and what I expected to accomplish during it. So far today I have said goodbye to a writing retreat guest; collected, washed, dried, and folded the retreat house laundry; checked the garden for hail damage; responded to a writer who wants to meet to get my advice; written three notes to elderly friends; collected the mail from the Post Office in Hermosa (because we consider our mailbox on the highway insecure); took and copied photos for the web site; decided what to submit to a magazine that asked about my writing; made a batch of dog food (we make our own veterinarian-approved mixture); ordered office supplies. Twice I proofread and revised this Home Page message. I am a Writer, but every day I need to renew my pledge, and act on it, no matter what other jobs I need to do. Linda M. Hasselstrom June, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # back to top 
According to the Gardening Law of Averages in my part of South Dakota, this is too early to do much gardening; the average date for our last frost is May 25th. The greenhouse is already bulging with plants, though it has no artificial heat. The shingles are dark brown to soak up sun, and one side is earth bermed against railroad ties, holding heat well. The soil inside was too heavy with clay last summer, so I’ve amended it with compost, potting soil, and a lot of coffee grounds. If you’re thinking like a cook, I was adding flavoring; if you’re thinking like a writer, I was adding detail and inspiration. Jerry shoveled some of our last big snow into the greenhouse for moisture before I planted radishes on March 12th. By March 18th, the plants had two leaves, so I planted more. In mid-April my early lettuce was as big as my thumb. Trays hold dozens of cardboard pots planted with hot and sweet peppers, tomatoes, and a few wild flowers and herb plants. I’ve covered larger plants with vinegar and milk cartons, and with clear plastic containers (left in the retreat trash by writers) that once held olive oil, gin, and lettuce. Even outside, I’m getting ready. Jerry has tilled the garden and I removed the heavy pots I’d used to cover the rhubarb, though I didn’t pull the mulch away. Early Perfection and Alaska peas are planted with a soaker hose between the rows. When we first arrived here, about a sixth of my garden had been enclosed in a heavy wire fence by tenants, and been heavily mulched with debris from the August, 2007 flood. We planted a few things inside the wire and tilled around the outside for two years, but I was increasingly frustrated by the thick clumps of quackgrass woven into the fence and knotted into the earth. So last fall we tore out the fence, found another use for the wire and posts, and tilled everything but the asparagus and rhubarb beds. 
The greenhouse last fall.
Last fall I marked the plants that showed sturdy growth. This spring, I planned to dig out the quackgrass around these plants and mulch heavily, planting more asparagus where previous plantings had died. I’d collected two totes filled with magazines, catalogs, flattened cardboard (cereal, Kleenex and beer boxes) to use as mulch. On a sunny April day with rain predicted, I loaded my four-wheeler with gardening necessities, put on my gloves, and roared down to the garden, ready to begin. I plunged my shovel in and started digging quackgrass, but the work was brutal; the stuff spreads by rhizomes, crawling over and a bit below the earth’s surface, snarling stems and roots in a mass that is nearly impenetrable. Sometimes I’ve dug quack grass out of a well-watered spot in the garden and found dry soil underneath, the tangle so thick it repels water. After a couple of hours of digging, sweating, mumbling to myself and throwing the grass and roots well away from the edges of the garden, I was worn out. I sat down to drink water and think, as I should have done in the first place. In an 80-foot-tall cottonwood with a stark white trunk, a few zillion redwing blackbirds clustered, singing madly. When I turned to look, they burst into a black-red-yellow cloud and vanished. Two mourning doves slipped quietly into a lilac bush, and one the great-horned owls floated out of the nest in the juniper and north up the draw. As a child, I spent hours in this garden plot, hating hoeing the corn. Sometimes when my mother wasn’t looking, I sneaked into the willow bushes and ran away down the long draw that led out into the hayfield. Moving quietly, I might startle a doe and fawn bedded in the cool shade, or see a redwing blackbird nest and hear the male clacking his beak as he whizzed over my head, warning me away. I’d find a stump and sit on it, thinking. In the asparagus bed, five little orange flags fluttered, representing five asparagus plants. Sometimes thinking is more useful than acting. I stashed my mulching materials in the garden shed, and dug up the asparagus crowns, tucking them into a box with my seed potatoes. When the weather warms a bit, I’ll prepare a new trench beside the rhubarb, where soaker hoses and heavy mulch are already in place. I’ll start new asparagus from seed and transplant the plants later in the spring. Jerry tilled the former asparagus bed so that it’s ready for later planting. By rushing into the task I’d planned last fall without re-evaluating it, I caused myself a couple of hours of hard, fruitless work. By taking time to think, I saved myself more painful work. Eventually, I'd like my garden to be no-till, completely mulched. But clean mulch is hard to find. Since we don't get straw from the ranch, I mulch with hay, thus adding more weed seeds. And since I stopped gardening here when I moved to Cheyenne in 1991, the area has been repeatedly flooded and thus sown with every pesky, inedible and annoying plant that can grow in this climate, and they are hard to eradicate. Quackgrass, for example, is considered one of South Dakota’s most noxious weeds because it can reestablish itself from one-half inch of rhizome. In the past two years, I’ve pulled bristly foxtail, Creeping Jenny (bindweed), Creeping Charlie, burdock, cheat grass, cleavers, cockleburs ragweed, purslane, dodder (its common name is indicative of its reputation: strangleweed), curly dock, needle-and-thread grass, stickseed, fireweed, green foxtail, rough pigweed, henbane (insane-root), nettle, knapweed, mullein, and toadflax. Besides saving myself unnecessary work by taking time to think, I was inspired to thoughts that went deeper than quackgrass roots. First came a metaphor. Buffalo grass, Buchloe dactyloides, is a perennial shortgrass native to this area, furnishing some of the most nutritious grazing available to livestock, to deer, pronghorn, jackrabbits and prairie dogs. It was the main source of forage for buffalo herds, and mountain plovers build their nests in it. Reproducing by above-ground stems called stolons, it sends its roots five feet deep or more into prairie soil, forming a strong sod, making it a good ground cover that protects soil from erosion. Symbiotically, the grass cooperates with other native plants to form communities that resist disturbance and drought. Quack grass, on the other hand, is an invasive intruder from Europe, now widely distributed throughout the country. With shallow but tenacious roots, it spreads rapidly, strangling native growth, crowding out cultivated plants, and preventing the soil from absorbing water and nutrients. Buffalo grass is, like bison, native to the plains and well suited here. Quackgrass is, like subdivisions, Starbucks and WalMart, an opportunist, profiting at the expense of inhabitants with more investment in the country, and more to offer its other residents. Besides the metaphor, my thoughtful pause reminded me of the destructiveness of bustle without thought. I tangled myself up in zipping off to do a prearranged task rather than taking time to consider what I really needed to do. I behaved more like quackgrass instead of buffalograss. Thinking, I believe, is as underrated in writing as it may be in gardening. We gardeners and writers want to be ACCOMPLISHING SOMETHING. We want action: sling that ink! Slam those seeds into the soil! I’ve long maintained that thinking is one of the neglected, and most useful, practices for a writer. When I did it in school, teachers called it “day-dreaming.” Now experts realize that creativity lies in what may appear to others to be aimless sitting. In order to hear ideas from your subconscious, you must be silent. Walk. Listen to birds, Turn off the iPod, the TV, the cell phone, the conscious mind. Let your brain wander, and it may come back to you with fresh inspiration. Be buffalograss, not quackgrass. Linda M. Hasselstrom May, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # back to top 
Linda M. Hasselstrom with a late summer flower.
Snow is falling so heavily this morning that I can barely see the highway a half-mile away, sky and ground so white I must close the shades against the glare. The junipers are a dark wall around the retreat house; grouse waddle underneath, shuffling through a fresh three inches of snow on top of the crusted foot or so beneath. But the Vernal Equinox is March 20th (or 21st, 22nd or 23rd, depending on your calendar) and the gardening catalogs are congregating like box elder bugs by my reading chair-- sure signs of spring. The ancient celebration at this season was known as “Eostar;” we call it Easter. Now, when the world is balanced between light and dark, between freezing and warming, is the time to plan a garden and plan your writing summer. This morning I opened a brown paper bag of tomatoes I dried last summer. As I crumbled them, the smell was so vivid my mouth watered. I’m soaking them in a quarter cup of water to reconstitute them, and doing the same with a handful of jalapenos. I’ll add both to rice to make a flavorful pilaf for lunch. I’ve already written about drying food, in my Sept. 29, 2010 blog, and provided a link to the Living Foods Dehydrator I use, built from plans in the book Dry It, You’ll Like It (dryit.com). Durable and cheap to build-- electric wire, plywood, plastic screen, four light bulbs and four switches-- a dehydrator is a great tool to help us efficiently use the bounty of our gardens. 
Cutting up tomatoes for the food dryer last fall.
Nor am I attempting to persuade you to eat locally; other writers are working hard at that job. Experts like Gary Nabhan, for example (garynabhan.com) say that these days a bite of food may change hands six times and travel 1,400 miles before it is eaten, 50 times farther than it did 20 years ago. And Barbara Kingsolver has brilliantly written (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life; if you haven’t read it, and you eat, you are neglecting your food education) about abandoning the industrial-food rat race to live a rural life and provide much of their own food. I’ve read and recommend what both authors have to say, and learned from both, despite the differences in their environments. Gary lives on a desert farm near Patagonia, Arizona, and Ms. Kingsolver on a farm in the southern Appalachians. Neither can entirely feed their families from their gardens, but both are working to promote eating locally wherever possible. However, neither author lives in South Dakota, where our last and first frosts are usually May 26 and September 14. 
Golda the hen with chicks, 2010.
Here’s Tam’s list of homegrown or harvested food-- and as she points out, I ate some of it (she supplies me with eggs and chicken; I supply her with beef). 
Some sweet peppers and red onions
from Tam's garden, 2010. * eggs * chicken meat, feet (used in stock, and in Asian recipes), giblets * rattlesnake meat (Tam doesn’t like waste, so when a rattlesnake coiled and rattled beside her back step . . .) Perennial fruits: * apples (varieties: Harrelson, Duchess of Oldenberg, Wolf River) * chokecherries (wild) * grapes: Valiant (developed in SD for cold climates) * rhubarb The following plants did not produce in 2010, because of grasshoppers, bad weather, or because the plant was too new: cabbage; cherries (Carmine Jewel); currants; elderberries (Adams and York); plums (Japanese hybrid on wild rootstock); plums (wild). She harvested food from these annual plants: * onions (red) * peppers (sweet; she still had plenty of dried hot peppers from the previous year) * tomatoes (4th of July, Sweet 100 cherry, Beefsteak) And she made pesto and tea from wild lambs quarters, chenopodium, often regarded as a “weed.” 
Apples from an abandoned homestead at
"The Creek Place" in early September. And here’s what I ate from my land: * apple: discovered on neglected trees at The Creek Place * asparagus (Mary Washington) * beef * beans, green (Kentucky Wonder pole) * cucumber (lemon) * carrots * corn (Quickie, Silver Princess, Earlivee, Sugar and Gold, Jackpot, Golden Bantam) * echinecea: tincture made from roots of wild plant, used to build immunity * herbs (arugula, basil, chicory, chives, garlic chives, dill, lavendar, mesclun, mustard, nasturtium, oregano, parsley, rosemary, sage (wild and home grown), spearmint, thyme, veronica) * juniper berries (wild, for seasoning meats) * lettuce (Heatwave blend: Black Seeded Simpson, Little Caesar, Matchless, Salad Bowl, Royal Oak leaf; fall and winter mix; buttercrunch) * peas * peppers (Giant Ancho, The Godfather, both large and hot; Early Jalapeno, Hot Portugal) * potatoes (Yukon gold-- ate the last of them January 2, 2011; we’ll plant more this year) * radishes (French Breakfast, white icicle, scarlet globe) * rhubarb * tomatoes (Early Girl-- my favorite from years ago here, Tomosa, 4th of July, Sun Gold, Balcony, Kellogg’s Breakfast, Mountain Gold, Better Bush, Tennessee Heirloom; Siberian, Bush Early Girl, Glacier, Golden Jubilee, Golden Rave Hybrid, Oregon Spring, Manitoba, Taxi. The plants I didn’t grow from seed were purchased from a Hermosa greenhouse.) Food I purchased from local producers or at farmers’ market: honey, pumpkin, bread, jellies, jams, salsa, plants: flowers, herbs, tomatoes Fruiting bushes planted but not yet producing: * Buffalo berry * American plum * chokecherry * raspberry * sand cherries, Nanking cherries * golden currant * Russian mulberry Celebrating: In the Garden and in the Study To celebrate the vernal equinox, I will look at my notes from my 2010 garden year, look at my garden space, and consider what I’ll plant, and what I won’t plant, this spring. This year I have a greenhouse-- since it’s unheated, perhaps it should be called a starting house-- so I’ll be starting many plants in March. I’ve already planted radishes, covering them with parts of plastic containers left by retreat guests in Homestead House. I tried six varieties of corn last year, mulched and watered it faithfully, but an early spring storm stunted it all. This year I won’t plant any corn; I’ll rely on other local growers. My basil didn’t do well in the garden last year, so I’m going to put it in pots on the deck, and possibly in a new raised bed near the house. I’ll mulch the asparagus and rhubarb heavily now that we’ve torn out the old fence that crowded them. I’ll grow peppers in my cold frames, where they did well last year, hosting several black and yellow writing spiders. I’ll plant more potatoes by placing them on top of the ground, surrounding them with drip hose, and mulching them heavily. I’ll also review my study, considering how I might organize it more efficiently. I’ll dust and examine the crowded shelves, looking for objects I might store elsewhere or discard. Since I’ve spent considerable time working on poems this winter, I’ll go through my poetry draft binder again. First I’ll check the “nearly done” poems; some may need only a little tweaking to be finished. Then I’ll page through the rough drafts, some of them yellow with age, until I come to one that makes me want to start scribbling on the page, revising furiously. I’ll also sort through the file box that holds notes and drafts for future essays, pulling out any that make me want to sit down at the computer and start plinking away. A fresh season means a fresh start. 
Linda harvesting buffalo berries, 1998.
If you wait until frost the birds will eat them. Buffalo Berry Jelly Rinse berries in sink full of water, scooping off most of the stems, leaves, bugs and other debris. Put berries into a large kettle, and crush slightly; a potato masher works well. Add 1 cup of water for every 2 quarts of fruit. Bring to a boil and simmer gently for 10 minutes, stirring often. Drain off juice. For each cup of juice add 1/2 to 1 cup sugar OR LESS. I prefer less, to preserve the tart flavor of the berries; too much sugar ruins this unique taste. Bring to a boil, and boil gently until the jelly thickens. Dip a large spoon in the jelly and when it slides off the spoon in a broad sheet, it is nearly jelled. Pour into sterilized jars. Process in a boiling water bath for 15 minutes. The fruit usually has enough pectin to jell by itself, but if necessary, add Surejell or other pectin. Some authorities say the Indians spread blankets under the bushes after a frost and hit the branches with sticks to knock the berries off. I tried this a few times: the berries stuck tight to the branches, but it was easy to damage a bush. Now I wear gloves and a couple of shirts with long sleeves to pick berries. Some folks (who I suspect have never picked buffalo berries) say the berries are easier to remove after a frost. Whenever I waited until after a frost, I found the bushes empty, the ground under them thick with grouse tracks. From deep in the tangle of thorns, I believe I heard little grouse belches. According to Robert Laurence of allaboutstuff.com, the berries got their name because Indians ate them with buffalo; the tart flavor complements the meat. Settlers liked them with venison and learned to make jelly. I’ve found sharptail grouse are delicious stuffed with dressing to which buffalo berries have been added, and buffalo berry jelly makes a tasty side dish with roast grouse. I once used the buffalo berries I found in the crops of grouse to flavor their meat, a nice feat of recycling. Celebrate this vernal equinox with whatever ritual suits you. Breathe deep, rejoice in the coming of the light and the unfreezing of the ground. In the same way, let your mind thaw, and dive into fresh writing projects. Linda M. Hasselstrom March, 2011 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # back to top 
Linda Hasselstrom and Toby on a mild winter day at the ranch.
Photo thanks to Mike Wolforth. The word “solstice” means “the time when the sun stands still.” Scientifically, the explanation is simple: because of the earth’s tilt, our hemisphere is leaning far away from the sun. Therefore the sun’s arc in the sky is short, making daylight brief. No doubt early humans feared the lengthening nights, and most civilizations we know created rituals to drive away darkness and bring back light and warmth. At the same time, though, they were evaluating food supplies, hoping the harvest would last until spring. Everyone stayed close to the hearth, drawing inward, spending more time together. As nights grow longer and days are short and gray, my partner and I read more, play more board games, talk more than we did during the busy warm months. And I find that my journal can provide inspiration, and rejuvenation. When I begin to explore an idea as a writer, I often begin with its definitions, including its origin if I can discover it. While this information may not appear in what I eventually write, knowing it gives depth to my thinking as I work. The word “epiphany” appears to derive from a Greek word meaning “manifestation,” or “to appear,” and carries multiple meanings. In religion, Epiphany is “a Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi,” and is observed on January 6th. The Oxford English Dictionary indicates this meaning first appeared about 1310. (I was living in poverty on beans and rice when I bought my compact edition of the OED; owning it made me, I believed, a real writer. Hauling out one of the ponderous tomes and applying the accompanying magnifying glass to its tiny print still gives me a huge satisfaction that can never be matched in joy or speed by searching for a word on the internet.) A second meaning is of epiphany is “a revelatory manifestation of a divine being.” Finally, the third meaning in my American Heritage is twofold: “a sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something,” and “a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.” This meaning touches writers, and other creative artists, most closely, since it defines the moment when something we are working on catches fire in our minds, begins to burn with a light that can lead us through the darkness of multiple revisions. Very few occasions in life can match that ebullience, that explosion of delight. Finishing a poem or essay is a long hard grind for me, but after a true epiphany, I can wade through the required hours of moving commas, looking up words, re-reading aloud to check the rhythm, as I work to convey to readers what I realized in that epiphany. Some perceptive writer labeled this divine feeling an “epiphany” with full awareness of its religious connotations. Certainly sometimes finding the puzzle piece that makes a poem work feels like a spiritual experience. Here’s the important question for creators: Can epiphanies happen in front of a TV? With a cell phone in your hand? While texting? For me, the answer is no. I have experienced epiphanies in a variety of situations where I was away from such outside stimuli. One of my favorite times to think is while driving; without interruptions, I’ve sorted out all kinds of problems on long trips. 
Published in 2000 by High Plains Press.
As I drove west, I realized that I was safe; the men I thought threatened me didn’t follow. But the woman I think was abused, and her child, were trapped in that place, and a white woman writing a poem about the situation probably wasn’t going to help her escape. So I began to fantasize about how she might really get away: the epiphany of that poem was working out a fairly logical method whereby she might get revenge for her abuse, and freedom for herself and her child. Only the sense of danger I felt, and the solitary drive into darkness on that extremely isolated desert highway allowed me to even consider the solution I presented as logical for her: a murderous epiphany. Sitting in my light, warm study, or a motel room, or a room with a TV, I could never have come to that conclusion. I believe that epiphanies require solitude and reflective time. Driving, I’m often alone with my cell phone off. I may play a musical tape, but not the radio with its advertising racket. I agree with a writer friend who says, “I’ve solved quite a few writing quandaries in the shower.” Reading can contribute as well. Almost any kind of reading can allow the mind to wander down different pathways and lead to new ideas-- which you can capture in your journal if it is always beside you. I can also attribute some revelations to sessions of doing dishes, and to cooking. Since I set my own work hours, I’ve found homemaking chores can contribute greatly to my creativity; sometimes I burn the rice when I run downstairs to the computer to record the revelation I’ve just had about that poem I started at 5 a.m., but that’s a small price to pay for the poetic satisfaction! Vacuuming floors and even cleaning toilets have led directly to poems. The mind cannot abide a vacuum, and if you deprive it of advertising jingles and chatter, it may produce something original. Writing in the journal, too, can enlighten as well as discipline a writer. I pick up my journal as soon as I wake up, and may have no conscious idea of what to write beyond “12/2/10 4:35 a.m. 25 degrees.” Once I have recorded those traditional details, though, I may write about a dream, or thoughts from wakeful moments in the night.
The new greenhouse outside Windbreak House
with a roof both pointed and curved. I stared at the shells and peculiarly-marked rocks tucked into niches in a piece of driftwood, at wind chimes, and a mobile of beads and driftwood made by a friend. I took deep breaths. “I need an epiphany,” I announced, rubbing my thumb over one of the turtle figurines I collect to remind me to slow down, straightened my spine, breathed deeply, and repeated my favorite calming prayer. Black cattle grazed across the tawny field below the hill; snow lay white over the ice on the pond. A rabbit nibbled grass under a juniper tree. And in the silence, my epiphany arrived: I could write about epiphanies! Here’s an example. I have often remarked that one could write a poem about anything, even cleaning a toilet. Since I’d never found one, I decided to write it, and began with a straightforward description: putting on my rubber gloves, rubbing the stone on the rusty spots left by our iron-rich water. I noted that the directions on the box were in English and Spanish. I concluded I’d rather write a poem about it than actually clean the toilet–- but that touch of humor wasn’t enough to carry the poem. Upon reflection, I wondered at the origin of pumice, so I looked up and copied several definitions and descriptions. I considered the irony that something from the fiery depths of a volcano should be used for this universal task; none of us discusses toilet-cleaning, but the necessity of toilet facilities of some kind are common to all levels of society. And that thought became the epiphany: the mundane and the celestial came together: I was doing a common job with material from something so rare few of us will ever see it. 
A half-used-up pumice stick with its English/Spanish directions.
Studying Pumice Pumice is igneous rock blown out of the throat of a volcano. Open the new package of rubber gloves, slip my hands inside. Super-heated, highly pressurized, pumice explodes upward, bubbling, hissing. Kneel on the rug. Open the cardboard box over the toilet so the pumice dust falls inside. Pumice is the only stone that floats on water. Watch it bob gently. Rub it against the toilet rim. Rust flakes away. Pumice fibers or threads may lie in parallel rows, with intervening threads to form a delicate structure. Scrub around the top edge of the toilet, grinding away rust, curving the pumice to fit the smooth porcelain bowl. Pumice is produced by the expansion of the internal gasses of lava when they reach the surface of the earth. Take your time, as lava takes time to form. Remember the women who have done this job forever, without gloves. Flush. Close the intake valve before the bowl fills. Change hands. The word pumice is derived from the Latin word pumex, meaning foam. Around and around the curve of the bowl rub the pumice, rocking it over the undulations. Pumice is lava froth, glass foamy with air, cut and packaged for sale with instructions in English and Spanish. Shift from one knee to the other. Scrub. English and Spanish. Open intake. Flush. Close intake. Breathe. Scrub, reaching deep. Outside the bathroom window, a meadowlark calls in sunshine. Fine ground pumice is used in toothpastes and hand cleaners. My knees ache. I flush grains of lava from the earth’s blazing heart away. * * * And here’s my favorite Buddhist prayer; I’ve found it so effective at spreading calm that, even though I have it memorized, I copy it on the opening pages of every journal as a reminder. I am arriving; (breathing out) I am home. (Breathing in) I am here; (breathing out) this is now. (Breathing in) I am rooted; (breathing out) I am free. (Breathing in) I dwell (breathing out) in the ultimate. -–Buddhist gatha, prayer That’s my solstice message: may the love you give all the warm year sustain you through winter’s cold, and remind you that spring will be reborn in you. Linda M. Hasselstrom Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota December, 2010 # # # back to top 
I grew up terrified of spiders, thanks to a mother who shrieked at even the suggestion of one. My enlightenment came gradually. I was educated in part by a friend who keeps spider images on her bookshelves, and once enjoyed a birthday cake decorated with a massive Argiope (are-GUY-oh-pee) spider image. Now I visit Argiope every morning, first thing, in her home in the pepper plant in the cold frame south of the garage. This cool morning, 45 degrees and breezy, she didn’t move until I jostled her web picking a red jalapeno pepper. Then she extended a couple of legs, checking the tension on the strands of the web. She reminded me of the way I wake in the morning-- sniffing the air for rain or a hint of the weather, looking for a line of pink marking sunrise, making a note on the temperature in my journal. 
The Argiope spider in Linda's cold frame with a wrapped grasshopper. The zigzag of Ws (the stabilmentum) in the center of her web is almost visible directly above the spider.
Like a writer seizing an idea as it passes-- wrapping it firmly by jotting it down in the journal, making sure it won’t escape. Fastening it into the web of the brain. Her formal name is Argiope aurantia, but she’s also known as the Black and Yellow Garden Spider or the Banana Spider, the Corn Spider, or-- the Writing Spider. These garden spiders build webs two to eight feet off the ground, near the eaves of houses or outbuildings, or in tall vegetation near fields, often spots where then can be concealed and protected from the wind. The one I’ve watched most this summer built her web under the slanting window of a cold frame, over the outer leaves of a jalapeno pepper plant, but I’ve usually found them in tomato plants. One argiope stretched her web between the compost bin and the south side of the house, and fastened her egg sac loosely to the siding. Another appeared one day on the north side of the garage, but when a high wind came up, she vanished. Like writers, these spiders are opportunists, setting up their traps where the wind will bring them prey. The spider may spend hours sitting in the web, apparently immobile. Just as writers carry their journals, ready to scribble down an idea as soon as it floats into view, she is ready to capture her next meal as soon as it touches her web. The circular part of a web may be as much as two feet in diameter, with a dense zigzag of silk in the center. No one is sure what the zigzag, known as the stabilmentum, is really for, but it may account for her nickname as the Writing Spider, since it looks like several WWWWs. Every night the spider eats the circular interior part of the web, and then rebuilds it every morning with new silk. Like a writer, she is creating a fresh draft. Sitting in her web, she may shake it vigorously while she stays anchored in the middle; experts speculate that this scares away wasps, or entangles insects before they can escape, though I’ve seen the spider shivering the web when no insect was caught in it. Maybe she’s exercising between bouts of intense brainstorming. Just as a writer needs to leap up from the computer once in awhile and race out to look at something-- a spider!-- in the garden. In mid-October, I noticed that the spider was not repairing her web. A grasshopper landed in it and she didn’t respond. On October 13th, the temperature dropped to 38 degrees. The next morning, she was gone. I wrote: “One more spider-related metaphor: write down those thoughts when you have them, or they may escape. No one else can write your poem or story.” I closed the cold frame she lived in. And then the weather warmed up and she reappeared, with a smaller sister. Both spiders are thriving in their own little hot house, showing vividly yellow, black and white against the green. And here’s one more writing metaphor: keep looking; you never know what you might discover when you think you’ve finished writing about something. The spiders are still there, and they are dressed for Samhain. Samhain (pronounced “sow-wen”) is one of the two great doorways of the Celtic year, since the Celts divided their year into only two seasons: light and dark. Samhain, occurs on the eve of November 1st. The Celts began their day at night, and began their year during this time of darkness, when the harvest has been gathered, the fields lie fallow, yet beneath the ground, seeds stir with life, whispering of beginnings. The dead were believed to walk on this night, revealing their mystery to the living. Every ending, though, is a beginning, as the gates of life and death open together. In modern times, the ceremonies have been trivialized, and we call the day Halloween. Samhain (Scots Gaelic: Samhuinn) literally means "summer's end." With the rise of Christianity, Samhain was changed to Hallowmas, or All Saints' Day, to commemorate the souls of the blessed dead who had been canonized that year, so the night before became popularly known as Halloween, All Hallows Eve, or Hollantide. November 2nd became All Souls Day, when prayers were to be offered to the souls of all who had departed and those who were waiting in Purgatory for entry into Heaven. Throughout the centuries, pagan and Christian beliefs intertwined in celebrations from Oct 31st through November 5th, all of which appear both to challenge the ascendancy of the dark and to revel in its mystery. Linda M. Hasselstrom Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota October 31st, 2010 # # # back to top 
Linda harvests the last tomatoes of the season.
At the autumnal equinox, the light of day is equal to the dark of night: the planet experiences a moment of complete balance. In the northern hemisphere, the equinox occurs between September 22nd and September 24th, varying slightly each year according to the 400-year cycle of leap years in the Gregorian Calendar. At the equinox, the sun rises directly in the east and sets directly in the west. Afterwards, it rises and sets more and more to the south. (www.crystalinks.com) Symbols of this season are generally products of harvest in the natural world: apples, wine, and gourds; colors are brown, orange, russet and maroon. In some ceremonies, marigold, myrrh, sage, and thistles may be burned. Decorations include acorns, asters, ferns, honeysuckle, milkweed, mums, oak leaves, pine, and roses. In other words, all of the elements of these celebrations involve what is most available and most familiar at this time of harvest. 
Tomatoes in the food dryer.
Around this time of year I take a good look at my house plants on the tables under the deck where they have spent the summer fighting off grasshoppers and outgrowing their pots. I trim, repot if necessary, and bring them inside. I’ve hung the rosemary from the ceiling in my study where I can nip off a few leaves for garlic-rosemary potatoes. The Swedish Ivy and spider plant have already begun reaching for the stained glass butterfly in the basement window, and the oxalis is blooming again. I’ve placed big pots of basil and thyme on the low red shelves in front of the basement windows, hoping they will get enough sun. The lavender is beside my computer, where I touch it to release its calming scent when I can’t find the right word. Each autumn I review the summer of retreats, thinking about how to provide more help for writers. I do practical tasks like create new handouts for questions writers ask, and mark useful passages in books. I inventory the house supplies to see what needs to be replaced. More enjoyably, I recall all the writers with whom I worked; this fall that process will take more time because this has been the busiest retreat season ever. So far, 24 people have come to retreat, with several more scheduled for fall and winter. I also worked with several writers on Writing Conversations by EMail, and I’m still employed by the University of Minnesota/Split Rock, as an online mentor. In that role, I also comment on manuscripts, working with writers I have never met. The program ends in December, however, so I am accepting no new clients. In all, I estimate that I wrote word-by-word and line-by-line comments on at least 2600 pages of manuscript this summer, including poetry, nonfiction and fiction. Each manuscript was different, and each one was an intriguing challenge. In addition, on Labor Day weekend I hosted 14 MFA students and an English professor from Iowa State University in Ames, where I am a visiting professor. They scattered their tents around Homestead House, climbed Harney Peak, studied spider webs, and generally enjoyed the grasslands. Hiking through the pastures, we talked about writing and the environment. Eventually, some of them will choose me as their major professor, and I will begin working with them on their MFA theses. As usual in fall, I’m thinking of ways to make my basement study cosier, brighter, greener, knowing I’ll be spending more time there this winter. Windbreak House Retreats are now open year round, since I am living next door. And to encourage winter retreats, we even have a Snowbound policy: if you get snowed in and can’t leave, you don’t pay for the days you can’t leave. Several writers have been delighted to remain snugly ensconced in Homestead House, considering a blizzard the perfect excuse to read some of the hundreds of books available as well as work on their own writing. Still, fewer people schedule their retreats in late fall and winter, so I consider this equinox the time when my primary attention shifts away from working with writers and toward my own writing. I’ve barely begun a new book, but I’ve suddenly become more aware of it waiting on the table behind me.
And today, I picked what may be the last bouquet of black-eyed susans and am watching the drizzle, glad for the moisture that will reduce the fire danger. I think about the new book while I make green chile flavored with jalapenos harvested from my garden as well as some extra hot roasted chiles purchased at a farmers market last week. When I moved to Cheyenne, I’d never heard of green chile. As the child of South Dakotans, I’d never tasted anything very hot. My mother sometimes made chile con carne with a gentle sprinkle of chili powder, but I had no idea what subtleties of flavor and heights of heat were possible. Jerry bought green chile from Hispanic women friends, and because we both liked it so well, I gradually developed my own recipe. Linda’s Green Chili con Carne 1 lb lean pork (or other lean meat), cut into ½ inch cubes 1 lb hamburger 3 T olive oil 1 chopped onion 3-4 cloves garlic, minced 1/4 C chopped green chile, or 2-3 chiles (if you aren’t used to HOT chile, add these a little at a time, tasting after a few minutes) 1/4 tsp oregano 2 C water or chicken stock Red pepper flakes and salt to taste Cook pork or lean meat a little at a time, browning slightly; remove from pan. Cook hamburger, slightly brown; remove from pan. Cook onion and garlic until limp; remove. (Put the meats, onion and garlic into the same bowl to wait for the next step.) With 2 T butter substitute or butter and 1-2 T flour, make a roux, melting the fat and stirring the flour into it, cooking for a minute or two until it’s thick. Add chicken (or beef) stock and make a smooth gravy. Add the pork, hamburger, onion and garlic. Simmer 2 hours covered, then remove cover and simmer until sauce thickens to the desired consistency. Serve in bowls with warm flour tortillas to scoop up bites. I wrap the flour tortillas in a clean dish towel and microwave them for a minute or two. To stretch this recipe, you can add two cups cooked pinto (or other) beans. And this makes a great sauce over Huevos Rancheros. Linda M. Hasselstrom Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota September, 2010 # # # back to top 
Photo of Linda, 2010, by Greg Latza
Click here for his website Journaling the Fruits of the Season The ancient Celtic festival held on August 1 celebrates late summer and the work of harvesting and preserving the fruits of summer. At that time, the citizens celebrated the summer’s wealth of food and warmth while acknowledging that summer is ending and winter will return. One of the names of this festival, “Lammas” began as “loaf mass,” referring to the bread made from the first wheat to be harvested, brought to church as an offering. Halfway between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox, Lammas is often celebrated by women only, with rituals allowing us to recognize our hopes as well as our fears, to understand our regrets and accept the farewells we must make. Modern folks, however, are often busy at this time of year: frantically cramming in as many of summer’s pleasures as possible before the long winter. Since it’s easy to lose track of what’s important, this is a good time for journaling. Don’t worry about writing finished prose or poetry; use the busy-ness as an excuse to take quick and detailed notes. What are the joys of this season for you? The feel of the prickly echinacea blossoms? The scent of rain on drying grasses? Eating tomatoes from the garden? Freezing strawberries bought on sale? Consider the season’s symbolisms: what seeds did you plant in the eagerness of spring-- either literally or figuratively? What has been the result? What have you gleaned from the past three months? What plans did you make for the summer? Don’t beat yourself up if you didn’t accomplish everything; use the journal time to consider the benefits you did realize, and to plan for next summer. What is passing from your life? How can you say goodbye to it without sentimentality? Instead of regretting, memorialize the past in stories. Perhaps you will make jelly or jam from the fruits of the season, but if not, consider how you can keep images from this summer sweet in your memory. Linda M. Hasselstrom Hermosa, South Dakota August, 2010 # # # 
Some of Linda's specialty journals
kept on a shelf in her office. The workshop was titled Eighty Percent of Success is Showing Up: How your journal can organize your life. Linda discussed using several types of journals so that needed information is right at hand. She suggested a week-long time-tracking exercise to chart how you actually spend your time so that you can rethink how you want to spend your hours each day, concentrating on what you want in your life rather than becoming stressed by reacting to outside events. Linda also showed examples of her own journals for specific purposes, including her personal journal, her Handbook to Everything, her New Poems journal, her Toyota journal, her photograph album journal, her Death File, and others. Linda has kept journals for more than 50 years. "My journals," she says, "help me organize my writing life, but they also have allowed me to keep track of my finances and do efficient estate planning. My journal is the best writing tool I own." For more information: SD Women in Ag Facebook page back to top 
The Summer Solstice (June 20-23) was Litha to the ancient Celts, marking the longest day of the year, the triumph of light even as the year began to decline into darkness. To grow, we must accept even the passing of the sun; we must understand that love cannot triumph over death. We must realize that the light of truth shines more brightly against the darkness of lies. No matter how hard we try to tell the truth, unbelievers will always exist, people who refuse to accept the best possible evidence. Recently, a former student of mine persuaded his book club to read my Going Over East: Reflections of a Woman Rancher, my second published nonfiction book, which originally appeared in 1987. Fulcrum, Inc., reprinted the original edition in 2001, with an epilogue in which I brought the story up to that date. My former student took American Literature from me when I was in my mid-twenties, studying for my MA 40 years ago; he still lives in Missouri. I have not seen him since he left that class, and we have corresponded only briefly. We’ve learned we have much in common from our rural backgrounds-- though he claims to understand Sartre and I certainly do not, despite typing my first husband’s turgid, tepid, and tedious Ph.D. thesis on Sartre’s ethics. Going Over East was published when I was 44. By then, with my second husband, I was well settled into a ranching life I loved. Within a few years after the book was published, my husband and my father died, and my responsibilities changed. 
2001 edition
I wanted readers to appreciate the ranching families who love their work and provide their fellow citizens with healthy, cheap beef, so I described our daily work, the stages of a cow’s life on a ranch, and the hazards to their lives. Also, I wanted to show Americans why we should preserve the grasslands that produce our beef, and protect them from being covered by waste shipped from other regions, by asphalt, or by subdivisions. For the same reason, I also described the wild inhabitants of the grasslands, the badgers, rattlesnakes, buzzards, pronghorn, deer, burrowing owls, as well as some of the plants-- broom rape, goatsbeard, biscuit root, buffalo grass, buffaloberries, gooseberries. 
1987 edition
But this story is about his reading group. “They hated it . . .” said my former student. “They disliked, and were even hostile to, your book. They were reticent about telling me at first because, after all, I was the one who nominated it. But finally they did. THEY DIDN’T BELIEVE IT IS TRUE. They believe life couldn’t be that hard and still be endured. They thought you made most of it up, just to make it appear you had a hard time as a child, and those things couldn’t really have happened because a person wouldn’t ever choose to actually go back to something like that.” He adds, “So be aware, Linda, you are a lone voice crying in the wilderness of South Dakota . . . People don’t want biography in the form of gritty autobiography. They want literary pornography instead; something they can’t smell.” At first I was stunned and angry-- but thoughtless anger is precisely what’s wrong with a lot of the discussions occurring in America today. I prefer that people who disagree do so with civility, with reason. When I wrote that book, in the 1980s, I had no thought that it might be unbelievable to any thinking person. Most of my neighbors did the same jobs the same way, and many of them suffered considerably more. My grandmother, to name just one of the pioneering women I’ve known, regularly killed rattlesnakes and skunks with her garden hoe, but some of the great-grandmothers in this neighborhood would have considered my life a vacation. These tough people usually had neither the time nor the inclination to write about their lives, so mine is a pale imitation of what they endured. By 2002, things had changed in ranching, and also in the world of writing. In my introduction to Between Grass and Sky, I reported that, “Even Annie Dillard, one of my own role models since Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, admits she never had a cat; she borrowed someone else’s experience to create an effective passage. I found her tale less moving if the cat didn’t leave bloody pawprints on her chest.” I love her writing, but have never trusted her reporting since then-- but that was only the beginning. “I’ve always thought the distinction between truth and lies was clear,” I wrote in Between Grass and Sky, “but during the past few years, I’ve collected examples of differing views on the issue of how much truth a reader can expect in a book labeled ‘nonfiction.’ While writers’ renditions of truth vary widely, most readers feel betrayed to discover that an event did not happen as written.” I explained at some length that I had changed a couple of names in the book, since the real people had not given me permission to write about them, and combined two men into one character. Literary hoaxes have always been with us, of course. Wikipedia’s entry on “literary hoaxes” consumes 91 pages. But recent history has brought us some spectacular examples. This is in part because publishers do not-- cannot-- investigate a writer to determine if he or she is telling the truth. Contracts protect the publisher from fraud charges, but not from people willing to lie in signing such a contract. One of the best-known recent scams is the “Navahoax” perpetrated by Timothy Patrick Barrus, a writer of sadomasochistic erotica who wrote three fake memoirs pretending to be Nasdiij, a Navajo. Indians are popular hoax material, in part because readers know so little about the reality of Indian life, and because publishers fail to ask advice from real Indians; remember Grey Owl and Forrest Carter’s The Education of Little Tree. Some folks even say lying and calling it nonfiction is acceptable; there’s a category of writing labeled the “fiction memoir.” And for a truly bizarre story, read about JT LeRoy. After an hour looking to Google for information on literary hoaxes, I’m horrified, and wonder if truth itself is out of date. As George Orwell said, “During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.” Of course, when I write about events in my life, I risk being deceived by a faulty memory, but it is always my intention to tell the truth. If I distrust my memory, I signal that fact to the reader by saying “I think . . .” or “I imagine . . .” or “I seem to remember . . .” and other warnings that I understand the faulty and self-serving nature of memory. My primary self-appointed job is writing for the purpose of helping people to appreciate the treasure this nation has in the grasslands of the Great Plains, and the ranchers who have preserved it for us, full of clean air, uncorrupted soil, pure water. If I lie about anything, a reader might not believe what I say about the grasslands is true. When a writer makes up dialogue or changes events, that’s fiction, or lying. And every time one of those liars hits the best-seller list, readers ask me, “So, did this really happen or did you make it up?” I resent that. If I make anything up, I’ll call it fiction. If I am trying to tell the truth, I call it nonfiction. I sympathize with and greatly pity the readers of the book group. Maybe they’ve watched a lot of “reality” TV. I have no TV connection, but my newspaper informs me about lying politicians, business leaders who won’t take responsibility for what their companies do, and ministers who deplore homosexuality but hire male prostitutes. No wonder belief has been eroded. The members of the book group are so used to a daily diet of lies they may no longer recognize truth. No wonder our society is in turmoil. I have no idea why they disbelieved a narrative that tells about the experiences I lived through on the ranch. I doubt that many of them have lived a rural life, or have experience with the work a ranch requires. Most of the events in the book aren’t even particularly dramatic; details of ranch work in this area that could be easily verified. I can’t convince the book club. Instead, I’ve decided to refuse to believe in them. I’d rather believe in readers who may disagree with me, but would try to discover if I am a liar before announcing that I am. I had encouraged their reading; they might have responded to me with questions. In recent years, ranching has been the subject of many written and televised features, so research on the reality of what I wrote wouldn’t have been difficult. Meanwhile, my former student writes that he won’t quit the book club. I’m glad. How can one change an organization, or encourage it to broaden its viewpoints, if one quits at every disagreement? In an email, he says he trusts that I can write about this incident without embarrassing him: the equivalent of a handshake agreement between us. Here in South Dakota, million-dollar deals can still be sealed by a handshake. I don’t suppose the book club will believe that either, but I’m glad my former student is the kind of man who does. And so we celebrate the Summer Solstice. Without lies, truth would not shine so brightly. Yet no matter how hard we try to tell the truth, we may make mistakes. All we can do is try to be honest. Here (below) is my recipe for achieving truth in your writing, the handout I provide for writers of autobiographical material. Every one of these suggestions evolved from my examination of my own writing, and the truth I am trying to achieve in my work. Linda M. Hasselstrom June, 2010 Windbreak House Hermosa, South Dakota # # # AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WRITING Linda M. Hasselstrom My definition of autobiographical writing: A STORY about certain CHARACTERS in a certain TIME and PLACE (just like a novel or short story) BUT: a novel or story is FICTION and a memoir should be NONFICTION. It should not be necessary to say this. Therefore the usual suggestions for writing apply: -- Write what you know, which includes what you do for a living, as well as the other things you know how to do: hobbies, some folks call them, but include household tasks, things you have learned about dealing with children or cantankerous elders. -- Write from who you are, which can include your body, mind, hobbies; anything can be material. Finally, a serious and astute reader has pointed out to me that the best autobiography, or memoir, happens when the self is not so much the subject as the point of departure. The writer is more interested in drawing attention to what his mind has seen and explored, rather than to simply telling about the wonderful uniqueness of the self. And one test of a good memoir is that the author sees the humor in the self-- is able to be self-deprecating, to invite others to laugh at the author’s foibles, and to give others credit where it is due. In deciding HOW MUCH TRUTH should be in my writing, I ask myself these questions: 1. Is it true? Memory can be faulty & anyone’s mind may unconsciously edit to enhance your role 2. Am I writing self-consciously, self-importantly-- that is, only for the purpose of demonstrating my brilliance or another of my fine qualities? If you think as you write, "The entire free world is going to read this and the people I’m writing about might be angry,” you may leave out important points. Everything you write should have some purpose, some aim, though it may not be immediately apparent. 3. Is the story I’m telling too intimate, too private to tell in public? Ask yourself, "Who are my readers and what do we have in common?” Is it relevant to reveal your political beliefs, your religious beliefs or sexual preferences? 4. Will what I write help anyone? Can you choose to violate your own privacy for a good purpose? Can omission of details give a false impression? 5. Is this story mine to tell? Will what I write hurt anyone? Will that person hurt me? Have I written about illegal activities? If you tell someone else’s story, will the truth hurt them or their descendants? 6. Have I told this story ONLY out of nostalgia? Only for its sentimental value, a dramatic effect on the reader? Have I made a human friend into a dead saint? Am I looking for sympathy? 7. Am I giving advice? Do I slap the reader in the face with the “moral” of the story? Readers prefer to find the story’s purpose themselves, not to be told what to do or think. Show the reader, don’t tell her; present evidence, not judgment. 8. Does everything I have written advance the story, the purpose, the theme? Have I included anything, as Annie Dillard says, “just for the lousy reason that it actually happened”? Have I included any incident just for its dramatic value when I know it does not advance the story? How do you avoid the inherent dangers of autobiographical writing? -- Keep reading autobiographical writing with a critical eye, analyzing other writers’ methods. When they write something you like, study how they do it. -- Keep writing steadily, building experience in good taste and judgment about what should be revealed. -- Ask honest readers to tell you, preferably before publication, if they believe you have told too much. -- After publication, pay attention to reader response and apply what you learn to future autobiographical writing. Writing well starts with collecting material and testing it, which is hard because the real test is the response. The more you read your writing to audiences, or publish work, the more responses you get, and the better you can judge. Deciding what to include/leave out: Remember the Elements of Fiction: character, conflict, plot, theme; you are telling stories that happen to involve you. When writing about yourself, watch out for: -- self importance, self-consciousness -- nostalgia, sentimentality -- giving advice, presenting JUDGMENT rather than EVIDENCE Memoir: n. 1. An account of the personal experiences of an author. 2. An autobiography. 3. A biography or biographical sketch. American Heritage Dictionary. 4th edition. # # # back to top 
When I was five years old, soon after we moved to Rapid City from Texas, my mother helped me weave May baskets of paper strips, and fill them with candy and flowers-- possibly dandelions; we were quite poor. Holding my hand, she walked me to the homes of several friends where we hung the baskets on the doorknob, rang the bell, and jogged away. I didn’t know then that I was following an ancient custom; I suspect even fewer people know today. Several websites show how to create May baskets, but few mention the Celtic and pagan origins of this custom. April 30, May Eve, called Beltane by the ancient Celts, was one of the two most important festivals of the year. Citizens began celebrating at dawn, observing the opening of spring’s doorway into light and summer. Nature renews itself at this season, flowering into the dance of life. Beltane (under various spellings) was celebrated in Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man, while similar festivals were held in Wales, England, Brittany and Cornwall. In ancient Ireland, the main Beltane fire was kindled on the central hill of Uisneach, 'the navel of Ireland', one of the ritual centers of the country, located in what is now County Westmeath. The ritual called for lighting this community fire, and from it rekindling each hearth fire in every household in the village. What a wonderful, unifying custom. Until the early 20th century, Irish people also observed the Beltane custom of hanging May boughs on the doors and windows of houses, a practice brought to America as May baskets. The sense of this ritual, I think, is with us as we observe another ancient custom: spring cleaning. To celebrate, I usually organize my writing files, and renew my recipes for making cleaners for my house that don’t use damaging and nasty-smelling chemicals. 
To the right of the stand holding my printer and copier are bookshelves with the references I most often use. (Writers who have been to my retreats have seen my handout on this topic.) Next stands a file cabinet of business items: property tax records and medical files. My Jobs file holds details of paid work I’ve agreed to do, arranged chronologically, with a section for JOBS FINISHED. Behind that is a file for each retreat participant I expect to host, and each client for my Writing Conversations By E-mail. And on top of the file cabinet-- and scattered on a long table to the right-- stands my file box of current projects. That’s what I’m organizing today. When I get an idea for an essay, I start a file folder to collect information on that topic. I’m recycling hundreds of file folders collected from organizations that were throwing them away. The first folder holds guidelines and submission requirements for various magazines. The trick may be remembering what you called a particular file, but I usually have a computer file on the same topic, which helps keep it in mind. I sort articles, notes, and other information for that essay, then put it alphabetically in the project box. I keep poem drafts in a binder, easy to grab and take along for airline or motel reading when I travel. Certain topics are perpetual: Community, Grasslands, Ranching, Development, Water, Women. These are subjects on which I frequently write, so I often add items to the files and periodically review them for new ideas. At the very back is an envelope labeled DRAFTS I’M SICK OF LOOKING AT. But I don’t throw them away! As I file, I replace books and dust shelves with a rag dampened with a bit of olive oil, scented with lavender. I clean the metal surfaces with a rag on which I’ve lightly sprayed a mixture of vinegar and water, 1:3, sometimes with a scented essential oil added. At my left is a larger desk, with a standing file for unanswered mail, the daily calendar where I record what I’ve accomplished that day as well as the amount of rain or snowfall, temperatures, appointments. On a single sheet I keep a running list of my daily writing jobs, including articles to write, and manuscripts for which I’ve contracted to write commentaries. I try to keep the middle of the desk open for the daily projects. Right now, that spot holds a book, Nontoxic Cleaning, (one of several dandy green guides published by Chelsea Green, P.O. Box 428, White River Junction, VT; ; 802-295-6300 www.chelseagreen.com.) The booklet furnishes information on a basic cleaning “toolbox” containing the only three cleaners you really need: baking soda, white vinegar (the 5 percent acidity kind from the supermarket), and soap or detergent (preferably phosphate-free, biodegradable) for use if you have hard water or if you hate soap scum. These three cleaners will solve most of your cleaning problems without poisoning your life. Vinegar is economical, non-toxic, environmentally friendly, entirely natural, and kills most household bacteria, molds, and microbes; rarely does the average home require a stronger sanitizer. Additional ingredients: -- add essential oils, such as peppermint, lavender, or eucalyptus for a scent much better than the harsh commercial cleaners; the oils, too, kill germs. -- borax for nonabrasive cleaning of stubborn stains. -- lemon juice as an alternative to vinegar; it works as a mild bleach: pour it on stains and hang the cloth in the sun. Exploring the cleaning power of common household substances is a great way to ease yourself into spring cleaning, and begin to wean yourself away from chemicals that benefit no one but the companies that make them. Look for the website that mentions 254 uses for vinegar and counting, www.wisebread.com, which leads you to the site with 1001 uses for vinegar, www.vinegartips.com. Google “uses for baking soda” with similar results, including www.lifehackery.com. Also www.essential-oil-recipes.com offers concoctions for bath and body skin care and aromatherapy, as well as advice on using the oils. You might also like www.frugalliving.com. As with any source of information, study the claims for products you buy either online or in your local store. These days companies are “greenwashing”-- making extravagant environmental claims for products that are not good for us or the planet. I’ve spent years developing recipes that allow me to skip the toxic cleaning aisle of grocery stores. For example, I keep vinegar handy at all times, using it to tenderize meat, soothe bee stings, relieve sunburn, condition hair, kill grass and weeds, sanitize the toilet, cut grease in dish-washing water, clean the coffee pot, and more. To unclog a drain, pour a handful of baking soda down a drain, add a cup of vinegar, and rinse with hot water. Seek and you shall find more suggestions like this. Put 1/4 cup each vinegar or borax and baking soda in the toilet bowl to clean and loosen stains; brush as usual. After all this cleaning and organizing, reflect on what you’ve accomplished while relaxing in a soothing bath, sprinkling 1/2 cup baking soda, and 1/2 cup kosher salt under the running faucet. AFTER you shut off the water, (to prevent the oils from dissipating) add 8-15 drops of the essential oil of your choice: lavender, jasmine, marjoram, rosemary for calming and relaxing muscles; eucalyptus, pine or thyme to clear sinuses and soothe aching muscles; bergamot, chamomile, lavender, patchouli or rose for anti-inflammatory effects; or rosemary, oregano, coriander to energize and revitalize. Here are three recipes for antibacterial room spray: First, fill a 4-ounce glass spray bottle with distilled water. (Essential oils damage some plastics.) Then add essential oils in the following proportions (keep track and change the mixture next time if you don’t like it) -- 14 drops of lavender oil and 8 drops of thyme oil. -- 14 drops lavender oil and 4 drops rosemary oil. -- 4 drops each: lavender, eucalyptus, bergamot oil. Here’s an antibacterial spray for surfaces like floors, countertops and sinks in the kitchen and bathroom: -- add 12 drops lavender, 12 drops eucalyptus, 12 drops orange, and 5 drops thyme to 4 ounces of distilled water into a spray bottle. I’ve also used this in the shower and toilet, especially when I have a cold. A pleasant way to kill dangerous critters. My favorite kitchen cleaner: In a 32-ounce spray bottle, mix in the order given: -- 1 tablespoon castile soap or dish soap -- 8 to 10 drops of an essential oil -- 3 cups water -- 1 cup vinegar -- 1 tablespoon lemon juice For hand lotions, I buy cheap unscented lotions, and add essential oils for the mood I want: lavender for the bedroom, rosemary for after a shower, eucalyptus for after a hot bath with eucalyptus oil if my sinuses are acting up. I’ve tried my recipes, but test these cautiously for yourself; essential oils are widely available these days, in varying strengths, and can cause allergic reactions in some people. Learn all you can about each oil and the folks you are buying from; many oils should be used only in dilution. May your May Eve lead you smiling into spring, ready for some new writing experiences. Linda M. Hasselstrom April 30, 2010 Windbreak House Hermosa, SD back to top
Spring officially arrived at the spring equinox, March 20-21, but we’d already heard redwing blackbirds the preceding week. This is a time of balance between spring and summer, light and dark. The ancients called it Eostar or Ostara-- does that sound familiar? At the equinox, the wheel turns and we acknowledge that light is returning, that spring has arrived bringing hope and warmth. Seeds sprout, animals prepare to give birth. And writers emerge from winter when we curled up in a chair with a shawl around our shoulders and read someone else’s work. Tamara, who helps make virtually every aspect of my life flow more smoothly than it would without her, has cautioned me not to turn this web site into “Linda’s cooking show.” Yet since I moved back to the ranch, as I have worked to re-learn the rhythm of the grasslands and my place here, cooking has become a means of relaxation from the work I do at the computer. Paying attention to the way we nourish our bodies helps me nourish my mind and my writing as well. According to my trusty American Heritage Dictionary, 4th edition, an essay can be “a short literary composition on a single subject, usually presenting the personal view of the author.” Later definitions say it can be “a testing, or trial,” or “an initial attempt.” I work mostly in the essay form these days. An essay usually begins with fiddling around with ideas. I may begin with an image: something I’ve seen, heard, or thought, and see where exploring the idea will take me. 
Linda's home-made granola
In spring we often realize how much weight we’ve gained, and resolve to eat more healthy food. Granola is a good beginning. Moreover, granola, filled with seeds and fruit and often eaten with milk and honey, seems the perfect food to celebrate the rebirth of spring and writing energy. Then, too, I received more reader response to my bread recipe than from anything else we’ve put on this web site. The recipe brought more positive comments than I’ve gotten from many of my books! [To see the bread recipe and essay, click here.] GRANOLA 7 Cups quick oatmeal (I often include a cup or two of regular oatmeal) 1 Cup bran 1 Cup wheat germ 1/2 Cup powdered milk 1/2 to 1 Cup sunflower seeds 1/2 to 1 Cup sesame seeds (toasted) 1 Cup chopped walnuts (or substitute double the almonds) 1 Cup chopped almonds 1 Cup flake coconut 1 Cup honey (try substituting some molasses for the honey) 1 Cup vegetable (not olive!) oil See below for more ingredients added after baking. Mix all dry ingredients well. Pour oil into 2-cup measure. Warm honey until it flows and stir it into the oil (they mix well when warm, and the honey doesn’t stick to the cup). Pour honey and oil over dry mixture. Stir well. Spread on two large cookie sheets. Bake 300 degrees, watching and stirring several times so it gets golden but doesn't burn on the bottom. I use a spatula to pull the mix in from the edges, then turn it in the center so it doesn’t spill over the edges. Baking takes 30-40 minutes at my altitude of 3500 feet, with my propane oven, but watch and time your own baking; it’s easy to burn this mixture. Midway through the baking, I usually switch the cookie sheet on the bottom rack to the top, stirring at the same time. I’ve burned a lot of granola by thinking I would rely on a timer to tell me when it was done; you need to keep looking. Add after baking (so the fruit doesn’t get too hard): 3/4 to 1 Cup raisins, cranberries, chopped prunes, or a mixture of dried fruit. You may wish add 1/2 to 1 Cup flax seed; cooking destroys some of its beneficial qualities, so add after baking. Cool and store the granola in airtight container. I freeze half of this recipe, and it feeds me breakfast for at least a month. I usually eat it in a bowl with yogurt in the morning, but I’ve also kept containers by my desk to nibble as a healthy snack all day long. GRANOLA BARS Bring 1/2 Cup white corn syrup (or honey) to a boil. Mix in 2/3 Cup peanut butter. (Or carob? Or other flavoring?) Stir in 3 Cups of the baked granola mixture. Spread in 9x9 greased pan and let sit 1 hour before cutting. Store in airtight container. For years, I’ve made variations of this granola for breakfast, eating it with yogurt and fresh fruit. Experiment with flavors you like; you might use molasses instead of honey, for example, or omit the honey from the mixing and add sweetener when you are ready to eat. Or add cinnamon, nutmeg, or other spices. More Thoughts about Cooking and Writing Cooking demands planning: do I have everything I need to make this recipe? If not, do I have something that might be substituted successfully? How will what I want to add taste with the other ingredients? Similarly, as you prepare to write an essay, you must ask yourself questions about your plan. Decide if you can logically defend the personal opinion you want to express. Do you need to quote the opinions of others? Do you need to provide facts to support an argument? As you revise, try to consider what it would be like to read the essay if you disagreed with its premise; what would convince you? Even better: submit a draft of the essay to someone who really disagrees with you, and listen to what that person has to say-- just as you might offer a taste of a new recipe, asking for comments on how the ingredients blend together. An essay is often an argument for a particular point of view. Therefore, it often stands or falls on its ability to draw the reader into the discussion. A flat statement that the writer’s view is correct isn’t usually convincing. Often, an anecdote from the writer’s own experience can provide a little entertainment while making a serious point; a personal note may draw a reader into the essay in a way that a simple recitation of facts cannot. For example, I’ve tried to recall, as I worked on this note, how long I’ve been making this granola recipe, and where I first saw it. I have a recipe for pumpkin bread that was handed to a friend on a street corner in St. Louis during the Sixties, by a smiling woman who said the only requirement of the recipe was that it always be “given away with love.” I’ve given away dozens of the loaves since those days, always with a copy of the recipe, and love. I suspect I first copied the granola recipe from a healthy cookbook during the Sixties, both for its health benefits and its practicality. Nowadays, the stores are full of fancy commercial granolas that weren’t available then-- but none of them are as good, or as free of preservatives and sugars, as this one. And, just as I’ve done with some of the yellowed drafts I keep in battered file folders, I’ve been tinkering with it, revising it here and there, since those days. Go ahead: create your own version. Just as it’s possible to fall in love with the cleverness of a particular line, or an image, so it’s possible to overdo some ingredients. How much honey is too much? How many adjectives are just right? Both cooking and writing provide much of their joy from having done them: eating the meal, seeing the poem in print. But in both cases, if we get in too much of a hurry to enjoy that final step, we may fail at one of the steps in the process that must precede it. Take your time making the granola; take your time working through the essay. One more aspect of cooking that makes it appropriate for discussion related to writing is the closeness brought by “breaking bread together.” Just as sitting down to a meal was often a symbolic part of signing peace treaties between warring nations or individuals, so eating together can allow conversation to reach different levels between people. Many of the best discussions of writing at Windbreak House Retreats have occurred during meals. For good reason the retreat kitchen has several aprons (made by a long-time correspondent of mine); many of our writers have made relaxed cooking and eating an essential part of their retreats. I’ll never truly forget the closeness and the memorable discussion that lasted several days when two of us, snowed in during a retreat, created and consumed a 40-Garlic-Clove Chicken. But that’s another story. And blessed may you be this spring. Linda M. Hasselstrom March, 2010 Windbreak House Hermosa, SD back to top 
Every year, usually about December 20, I wish I’d written a Christmas poem as some organized writers do. This year, having failed again, I decided that sending greetings through my website would be compatible with my constant theme of sustainable, responsible behavior, saving both energy and cash. Furthermore, after a couple of hours tapping at the keyboard, I realized that I may already have said most of what I want to say since I’ve been repeating my concern for the prairie in my writing for 30 years. That’s fine: some things need to be repeated often before they are accepted. So I’m not going to waste energy debating causes and culprits of climate change. I’ll keep working to reduce my impact on the world from which I draw both physical and spiritual nourishment. And I’ll try to do unto others as I would be done to. I’ve been re-reading some of the books that taught me a good deal, including Wendell Berry. To live we must daily break the body and shed the blood of creation. When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully and reverently it is a sacrament. When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily and destructively it is a desecration. -- Wendell Berry, The Gift of Good Land Among other sacraments I’ve rediscovered during this year-and-a-half on the ranch is that of baking bread, kneading it a long, slow ten minutes for that perfect texture and crunch. Here’s my current favorite recipe: Rosemary (or Dill) Bread 1 package active dry yeast 1 cup warm water (about 110 degrees F.) 2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary or dried rosemary, crumbled or 2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill or 1 tablespoon crumbled dried dill weed 1/2 teaspoon sugar 1 teaspoon regular salt 1 cup whole wheat flour About 2 cups all-purpose flour (I use unbleached) Olive oil 1 large egg, lightly beaten 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt 1. Sprinkle yeast over warm water in a large bowl; let stand until foamy (about 5 minutes). Add rosemary, sugar, regular salt, whole wheat flour, and about 3/4 cup of the all-purpose flour. Beat with a heavy spoon or an electric mixer until dough pulls away from sides of bowl in stretchy strands. 2. Beat in about 3/4 cup more all-purpose flour To knead by hand: turn dough out onto a lightly floured board and knead until smooth and springy–about 10 minutes, adding more all-purpose flour if needed to prevent sticking. Place in a greased bowl; turn over to grease top. To knead with a dough hook, beat on medium speed until dough is springy and pulls cleanly from sides of bowl (5 to 7 minutes), adding more all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon at a time as needed if dough is sticky. 3. Cover with plastic wrap or a damp dish towel and let rise in a warm place until doubled (about 1 hour). 4. Punch dough down and knead briefly on a lightly floured board to release air. Shape into a ball, gently pulling top surface under until the top is smooth. 5. Place on a greased baking sheet; brush lightly with oil. Cover lightly and let rise in a warm place until doubled, about 45 minutes. 6. Brush loaf with egg. With a razor blade or very sharp knife, make a small X-shaped cut on top of loaf. Sprinkle with coarse salt. Bake in a 375-degree oven until loaf is browned and sounds hollow when tapped on bottom (about 45 minutes). Transfer to a rack and let cool. One of the things I love about bread is that it’s forgiving (shall I point out the metaphor?) If you find, when you cut open a loaf, that it isn’t done in the center, return it to the pan or put it on an oven rack and bake 10-15 minutes longer. Bread is ideal for writers because it also takes well to revision. Find a recipe you like and experiment with it; I haven’t tried other herbs in this yet, but in summer, I surely will. Moisture introduced during baking–a pan of water on the lower rack of the oven–produces a crisp crust. Or spray the loaves several times during baking, using a plant mister. An egg white mixed with 1 tablespoon water or milk and painted on the loaf makes the crust shiny and does not brown as much as a crust glazed with a whole egg or egg yolk. Milk or evaporated milk give a brown color to the crust, the latter a little darker. Sprinkle the unbaked loaf with poppy, sesame or sunflower seeds after glazing, so the seeds will stick. Making two or three 1/2-inch-deep slashes across the top of a loaf allows moisture to escape. Update: Kathleen Norris suggested in a note to me just after Christmas that this bread would be good with dried tomatoes. I chopped several from a jar of sun dried in olive oil and added those to the recipe; delicious! The tomato enhances the rosemary. So for this winter holiday season, I wish you this: May you discover the joys of making bread with your own hands, may your bread always forgive you, and may you be nourished by its body and its spirit. Linda M. Hasselstrom December, 2009 Windbreak House Hermosa, SD back to top |
