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Archive for November, 2011

The Elders Among Us

23 Nov

Speak to the elders in your life.

Last week I wrote about two conversations I had with each of my Granddads. Both men live vivid and classic lives exemplifying American/Minnesotan culture. It was awesome how telling their lives are for the “American” in all of us.

It revealed to me the importance of culture as I related to these two old guys and saw how a connection to the past—to those who came before us—can be a deep and meaningful insight. But it also reminded me of the importance with speaking to the elders among in general.

Whether they share your culture or not, I’ve found to be true what we’ve always been taught to be true: that the older folks in our societies can teach us much.

But how?

Simple.

But first, I’ll give you examples. Then we’ll flesh it out.

I dated a girl in high school whose grandmother lived with her and older brother. Even for a grandma this woman was old. She must have been 80: colorless hair, loose skin, and a small, frail frame. She shook a bit—in her movements and in her speech.

I suppose it would have been difficult to live with her as a teenager. I can remember my girlfriend and her older brother tiring of having to yell for their grandmother to hear.

“We’re going to the movies. We’ll be back at eleven!”, they’d announce six feet from their grandma’s face.

Yet she’d respond, “What?”

They’d shake their head and walk away, and she’d just kind of shrug her shoulders in a “what can I do?” defeated kind of way and turn around going back to what she was doing.

I know this was hard for her, and I remember this being one of the first examples of me empathizing with the elders among us.

She’d sit there on the couch and watch television. I’d sit in the living room with her while I waited for my girlfriend to get ready. It actually wasn’t too awkward. I liked Grandma, and she liked me. She would open up to me some, but her expression usually only ever amounted to a self-deprecating, though good-natured, “Oh, I’m just an old woman”.

I remember once looking at the six faces of my girlfriend’s siblings ascending along the stairwell. I wondered if it ever occurred to Grandma that all this life was possible because of her. I thought she should be proud of this, and always wanted to say that to her.

But I didn’t. Eventually I moved away for college, and she died some years later.

And now looking back, I wish I would have spoken to her more.

Thankfully, today, I have my grandmas. :) And the examples in my past of establishing an appreciation for the elders in our lives have helped open the door for me to see the benefits they offer.

My father’s mother lives alone and like most Grandmas is loved by her family, yet is also easily taken for granted. I grew up living just two miles from her, and as so often happens, we sometimes fail to adequately appreciate that which is so available. (Similarly, I spoke with my older brother more when I was in China than prior when I lived 45 minutes away!)

When I go up to Blackduck I stop by to see Grandma and have realized the power and meaning behind the walking history and wisdom of our elders. I began asking her questions about her past. As a result, I learned things about her and our family my Dad didn’t know!

She’d tell me about her siblings—some of which I know, most I don’t. She told me about her raising my father and his sisters; and those characters—Uncle Paul, Aunt Rhonda—that you grow up thinking are static, you find out aren’t static at all. When you realize this element of humanity from someone you grew up knowing, it adds a dimension to life I find helpful.

Because we go through life facing our problems, and many of us fly blind. But while it’s true we’ll never know the future, we can acknowledge the past of others we know and are related to. For me, hearing about how a relative dealt with something tragic helps me face my struggles. More ordinary, hearing how my grandma related to her many siblings helps me to see how I relate to mine.

These are the kinds of reasons why you speak with the elders in your life. It can be awkward and intimidating, but go into the conversation seeking something deeper. I’m not about to talk to Grandpa about the latest HTC handset coming out, or even about my friends and job. (That’s probably why we avoid talking with older folks—nothing to talk about, we think.)

Forget tech talk and gossip, and get down to what really sinks in: the elderly are dispensaries of the knowledge of the world, our culture, and each and every individual—particularly you.

Listen to the ways they used to live. America has changed ridiculously fast, and getting a taste for the nature of change and the fluidity of life is a conversation away.

My Grandma Ferdig still lives where she grew up. Thus, a living history of where I was raised, northern Minnesota, is right before my eyes. She told me of the days when they’d catch bullheads out of the Jetties on Blackduck Lake. She said her mother would make clothes out of the patterned fabric of flour sacks. She, herself, is an identical twin and can remember waking at 5:00am Easter morning so them two sisters could walk to church for the sunrise service.

On my mother’s side, I recently found out my grandmother’s grandmother came from Ukraine (who knew I had history in Eastern Europe?!). I also learned my great uncle, Wallace, died from alcoholism in the 70’s.

Most people are too focused on—dare I say distracted by—the issues in their lives. Glossing over the present with worry and daydream, we miss the depth of truth of who we are. Our elders hold the key to the doors of this depth. And the awesome part is that I’ve found them to love sharing about it.

Once I responded to an ad from someone who was giving away some filing cabinets. I drove out to an address in St. Paul to find an old man. Somehow we got to talking about his life—-pictures on the wall, perhaps. He was a vet from WWII. In fact, he worked on planes and knew one of the pilots who flew and dropped one of the two atomic bombs over Japan. I looked over at the mantle and saw pictures of his grandkids and wondered if they knew this about their granddad.

I certainly didn’t have to pry. On the contrary, my interest was at least matched by his willingness to share. And it makes sense: his inability to contribute labor and other services to humanity makes him want to feel valued as a dispenser of experience.

Another time, I worked catering at a Bar Mitzvah celebration. I approached one table where an elderly lady caught my eye. I took orders from the guests and she gave hers in an accent. I asked about it, and she responded, “it’s a Chinese accent”. Haha. Then she got serious and said it was Austrian.

“When did you come to America?”, I asked.

She arrived in the late thirties. When she was but a young woman of 16. Her father and her came together to California, but parted ways upon their arrival.

All alone at 16 in a foreign country—-in the 30’s. Who knows if she knew English—probably not. What an early challenge to one’s life! And I didn’t read this in a book or other secondhand media. This was the flesh and blood—live, breathing proof of the life she lived.

But then came the bombshell. She fled Austria because she was Jewish, and as a young woman in Vienna can remember the Nazis coming into town and seeing Adolf Hitler himself from her window overlooking the street.

By telling us about their stories, we learn that heartache and challenges are something everyone has to face and that anyone can overcome.

By telling us their experiences, we learn how much humanity has changed over the years: technologically, economically, developmentally, socially. And my how we’ve changed over the years! That building across the street wasn’t always there and will one day be gone.

The elders among us can relate in the most powerful, direct way that change is imminent, that challenges are part of life.

With this wisdom we tread a lighter, more inspired path.

Here’s a good question to ask your grandparents this Thanksgiving to get the ball rolling: “Grandma? What was your grandma’s maiden name?”

Happy Thanksgiving, readers! Let me know if you hear any good nuggets of wisdom over the holiday.

To new plateaus,

-Brandon

 
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Stomping-Ground Culture 2: Our Grandparents

18 Nov

While I was still “up north” as we say, visiting my family in Blackduck, I decided to stop out at each of the grandparents’ places. Some may consider this dull, but it was enlightening. Here’s why:

As if the Fates of blogging were looking down upon me, my time with my old granddads offered fresh examples of our young, Minnesota culture, wonderfully capping this theme and introducing another. This new theme was this: the depth we gain from having relationships with the elders in our society.

This is actually my theme for next time, though you’ll see its footprints in this post. But for this post, I want to keep up the culture bit. Here we go. :)

Do you remember last week’s post about the county fair and the demolition derby? Yes, America loves its cowboys and competitions. She also loves the smash, crash, sis-boom-bash of colliding cars.

But…

Does America not also love the restoration?

Funny how a day after I saw functioning cars being destroyed, I visited my Grandpa Ferdig and saw this:

A destroyed car to be made functioning.

And not just functioning, but beautiful. Somehow, these themes are opposing, and yet equally American. There’s just as much a thrill to see a pristine car become a fire-ball as there is to see a humble junker turn into a prize-winner.

I first entered Grandpa’s house and greeted his entryway and den whose own faces greeted me back—those of deer and antlers of caribou, moose, and elk. He went out hunting in Colorado just this last fall as a matter of fact, and at his age, that’s adds optimism to my future of active senior living!

And this activity–the hunting–I think actually best represents Northern Minnesota culture. The Sportsman. For I don’t know another technologically advanced country whose citizens are so connected with nature in the way Americans are.

But for all the antlers on the wall, I’m not convinced the trophies are what drives the activity. And like his old, beat-up truck, I’m not sure it’s the dream of driving it around that gets him going.

Maybe it’s the passion to tinker with gadgets, or to see the beauty and potential in something previously discarded. Perhaps is about reliving the past. Either way, while America loves to smash and destroy, she also loves to build and create. Here’s my Grandpa standing next to something few people in the world would want to claim as theirs:

As American as apple pie, the automobile represents the wide-open spaces and the love to move about them. And in this case, the truck stands as a symbol of Grandpa’s creativity, improvement, and transformation.

Here’s a Studebaker he restored:

Stud

So he’s got his restored car, but what does he do? He starts another.

It reveals an American trait that has shaped its progression and growth. It’s in American blood–and literature. It’s the thrill of the journey; the change, the transition, the process rather than the result; the trip, not the destination. It’s what John Steinbeck wrote in “The Red Pony”. (Right, Mrs. Zea?–my 9th grade English teacher.) He wrote that “westering” was the key, not in reaching the Pacific coast.

I think this is what drives America. (I also think it’s what leads to high levels of anxiety and drinking.) But the need to keep active and building something is pronounced in the American culture and psyche.

Even more interesting—-it was the grandfather character saying this to his grandson in “The Red Pony”, if I’m not mistaken.

Thus enter my other grandpa: Mom’s dad, Grandpa Freyholtz. I also paid him a visit while “up north”.

I went to his house and entered the familiar rooms that I remember playing in as a boy. We sat, and of course, Grandma had coffee ready. We sat at the old table that we had played cards on numerous times during holidays.

We chatted about the usual, but I did what I always like to do when I have the chance: hear their story(s). Grandpa’s is interesting because he came from a family of successful farmers in the southern part of the state. He had a nice life scripted out for him, having just got married, had a couple young children, and successful operation. But see, it was this very “certainty” that bothered him.

Though one never knows what life has in store, he also didn’t want a life predicated by what his father and other family were doing.

So he made up his mind to pack up the family in 1965 and head someplace north of Brainerd–he said he liked the evergreens. He wound up just north of Blackduck, situating himself 250 miles away from the life he knew. The soil wasn’t as good, the growing season shorter, and his family wondered why he moved away. But he wanted a life that would be fresh and adventurous.

For better and/or for worse, one thought came into my mind: How American. The same trait that keeps people busy building is the same itch to go places and experience new things.

Then Grandpa said something profound, “I’m a restless spirit”. (What grandfather says that!?) It really struck me because I considered my own travels and my own difficulty fitting into any mold that resembles a “normal” life.

I identified with my Grandpa, but I also sharpened my identity as being a member of a larger group; because I think this is the same spirit that drove the Ingals family of “Little House on the Prairie” from Wisconsin to Kansas, that drove countless Europeans (and Asians, etc.) out of their countries for a new life across the Atlantic (or Pacific).

That I could connect with the words of the old, raspy voice from this elderly man made me realize more than these American cultural identifiers. I realized, through this intimacy, what makes “culture” the powerful, life-giving element it is: it adds meaning to your experience on Earth.

Gee, I guess our nascent culture does have some weight and meaning. And this must be the benefit that keeps other people (Native Americans, Chinese, Jews) attached to the ways of “their people” that I previous thought just a limiting liability.

So from my Granddads came two important lessons in American Culture: restoration and restless spirits. And my connection to them and these traits helped me realize the enhancement when staying connected to those that share your spirit.

to new plateaus,

-Brandon

 
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Stomping Ground Culture, part 1

12 Nov

If you’d asked me before about the culture of northern Minnesota, or America even, I’d have suggested it better described as a lack of culture. Growing up, we never had our version of a pow wow or exotic clothing—nothing drawing back to the days of ancient ancestors.

Removed from lederhosen and the German language (though not entirely from polka) my family didn’t identify with the “old country” in any traditional sense. And actually, I saw our lack of strong, cultural identity as an asset.

Fewer divisions between people existed, and with all the ethnic conflicts around the world, attachment to the activities of others in one’s group, I saw the whole idea of “culture” as over-rated. Hence, I was grateful that America gave humanity a chance to “reset”, individuals less defined being in a group.

(I’ve since, however, realized the strength gained from such attachment–the depth and tradition of a practicing Jew, the community of the Chinese, the spirituality of the Native Americans.)

And I neglected something else by not looking right before my eyes: that just because the bright colors of indigenous-wear and exotic moves of cultural dances all over the world makes their history bright and obvious, this doesn’t remove the fact that culture is made everyday, everywhere. It may not be as “romantic” or “other-worldly” as 3,000 year old ceremonies, but movies on a Friday night, the X-box 360, and your church up the road are examples of culture just the same.

My nephew, Robert, already developing his ushering skills at church.

My brother's church

What’s more, some of the cultural events of northern Minnesota are unique and as expressive as an Indian’s ornate head-dress. I experienced them when visiting my old stomping groups of Beltrami County, and they exclaimed the social vibe, the emotional release, and the identity with its participants that good culture offers anywhere in the world.

So let’s get to know my old neighborhood by seeing them at their best.

Before I stepped foot back on American soil, my father said I had to drive up to Blackduck the weekend of the 14th of August to see my brother-in-law, Kevin, compete in the contemporary rural version of the gladiators—the demolition derby. I did; and it was cool. And I’ll describe it shortly.

First, I’ll say that it was just one of many events at the annual gathering known as the county fair. Like gatherings worldwide, these fairs are about having fun and camaraderie–some drinking, music, a lot of socializing, and games.

County fairs are great cultural markers because they demonstrate two traits of America–its agriculture and competitive spirit.

Farmers from around the region bring their best crops, livestock, and rodeo skills. That’s right, rows of pigs, poultry, cattle, horses, and more are lined up for the judges to determine the best of the bunch. Cooking Cassanovas and Baking Bigshots also bring their A-game to compete in contests of cuisine: the best pickles, pie, or pumpkin bread.

I reflected on this activity and how uniquely American it is. The idea of a Chinese person taking pride in how well their pig or carrots stand up to others brought a smile to my face as it seemed so out-of-place. Hmm, so America does have a unique culture, after all.

Here's two older gals hearkening the culture of a generation or two ago as they sing classic country music at the fair.

If there’s one fashion ideal of the American that sticks in foreigners’ minds, it’s the image of the cowboy:

cowgirl

Indeed, this is a fashion and lifestyle belonging to America and stretches across all it’s fine, fifty states. (except maybe Hawaii)

I spoke with this women for awhile about her life on the farm:

She was preparing to compete in the horse-riding competition.

For many of these folks, it’s a family operation they maintain for hobby. It’s fun to farm. :)

In the evenings, the fair goes from animals and food to games and rides. Moonlight replaces daylight, and is accompanied by thousands of small light-bulbs that stimulate the rides. My family and I enjoyed some time there, especially my other nephew, Garret:

Him and Dad (Kevin, the demolition derby driver) buying tickets for the games and rides.

Now go play and win a prize, Garret!

Garret is eager as the carnie looks on.

And here I’ll mention that America’s distant past does have old-school culture living on through the Native Americans. There are many who live in northern Minnesota, and as their ancestry in these lands goes back countless generations, some retain pieces of their old ways.

Here’s one family at the fair:

And here’s me and my little brother, Anthony:

Yee haw.

The following day was the big event that Dad told me to come for: the demolition derby. For those of you who don’t know, here’s what it is: take an old car and drive it around other people driving old cars. Crash into each other until the last car is moving.

Cool, huh? :)

Well these people thought so:

getting ready for some smash action

You get a nice crowd at these things:

C'mon, man, just kiss her. You know you want to.

He's a good listener.

Alright, enough jibber-jabber. Time to crunch, smash, destroy, destroy!! Ahhh!!! (sorry, had to get that out of my system.)

Okay here come the cars:

pink car looks okay now...

For my readers in China, Americans like to customize their cars to be louder, more powerful, and look cool. This demolition derby is no different.

green car looks okay now...

And they’re off!

uh oh

Finally one vehicle remained, and the proud owner came out of the wreckage to claim his prize.

This is pretty American--a 15 year old driver: ) Here's being interviewed these as he took 2nd. Atta boy.

After the cars beat themselves silly, it was time for the trucks (themselves an American icon). So this was some super-saturated American culture here!

And they’re off.

My brother-in-law, Kevin, there in the middle.

uh oh #2. The firemen had to come at one point in the contest.

When the trucks wound down, Kevin’s displaced driveshaft put him in 5th place. He won a few bucks.

Afterwards, it off to Kevin’s parent’s place to eat, drink, and be merry. Cousins and friends from all over the rural land came to have a good time. Good ‘ole northern Minnesotan fun.

(I’ll also add that in the western part of Minnesota, my friend, Kelsey, tells me that they blend the theme of agriculture the idea of demolition derbies by having combine-tractor demolition derbies!)

A “reset” button was pushed when all the Europeans came to America. It provided a chance to start fresh with some separation from the old ways. There is still a culture, though, and seeing it right after being in China for a year allowed a good look.

I hope you had a good look and can appreciate the culture that you live in and that you create each day: )

to new plateaus,

-Brandon

 
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Home Sweet Home: China in Minnesota

05 Nov

All the pictures and words and emotions regarding China came to an end, folks. This post is about my arrival back and experiences being re-introduced to Minnesota.

I left Zhuhai on an unusually clear, beautiful, warm, sunny day. The car ride to the airport featured lush green palm trees and bright blue skies that lit up the brand-new housing developments being erected along the highway. It was a helluva lasting impression, and it kind of made me sad to leave. It always is a little hard and weighty to leave behind a place and the people you may never get to see and experience again, especially after being there for a while.

From the little Zhuhai airport I flew to Shanghai. A couple hours in the Shanghai airport had me wandering around looking for food that wasn’t silly expensive. I talked to one tall, red-headed American/German girl who just had the time of her life working in Shanghai for the summer. She’d probably be the envy of many-a-situated adult in America who wished they’d studied/worked abroad in a land so different and freeing. Heck, I envied her with her care-free spirit.

Finally I left Shanghai (and China)—on the day my visa expired—to Chicago. The American flight differed from the ones I was used to in Asia. Food was worse and flight attendants grumpier.

Lastly, it was a jaunt in the air from Chicago to Minneapolis.

I was home.

My brother picked me up from MSP. (He also dropped me off here 11 months prior.) I saw his car approach and his face behind the wheel. He stepped out. What do you say when you haven’t seen someone in a while? There’s always that neat reunion vibe.

Driving out to his house in Buffalo, MN, it struck me how everything looked the same back here in the Twin Cities. China was always building. My brother, Jerald, responded that China is developing and America is developed. I suppose he’s right, but in the coming days and weeks, I’d feel the lack of growth-energy here in America.

A box of Grapenuts, which I missed so much in China, was waiting for me at Jerald’s house. He’s awesome. I had a bowl that night and stayed up much too late as it felt like the afternoon hours to my China bio-clock. I then got up (at 5am) and did my tai chi routine established back in Hubei province.

This first, fresh morning where I practiced some calming, meditative exercise revealed the stark contrasts between American life and that which I was used to in China. It was the clean neighborhood—which seemed sparkling; the single-family homes—which seemed luxurious; and the quiet environment—which seemed silent.

Not only were these attributes exaggerated because, in significant ways, China is the opposite. They also seemed sharp because being away awhile allows for fresh eyes upon return. And this is what this and next week’s blogs are all about—a revelation of the life here in Minnesota.

I’d spend the next few weeks visiting my family around the state and documenting the culture I grew up with—but perhaps didn’t see so vividly as I did being re-introduced.

So for you readers living in Minnesota, enjoy the fresh view yourselves. For my readers in China, it’s time to turn the tables and let you experience a different land and culture through the lens of New Plateaus.

:)

And perhaps especially for my Chinese readers this post will be fun because I unexpectedly (though life is reliably cheeky) had pieces of China retain their place in my life even here, on the opposite side of the world.

I settled into a groove at my brother’s place in “suburban-like” Buffalo, Minnesota, a small town 45 minutes west of Minneapolis:

map

He lives in a development of three-story single-family homes. A neighborhood like this is a rare site in China where almost everyone I met lived in an apartment complex.

I admit it was nice to feel the space.

Though affordable in America, it doesn’t come cheap. Debt is the key word as Americans live on borrowed dollars and are contented (and motivated) to put in long days and nights working to stay above the red. I don’t think people back in China know this kind of lifestyle so well. Nor am I sure they’d want to.

Different folks, different strokes.

One thing I can say, though: it’s nice to have nice things. And it’s nice to provide a nice home for children:

My nephew, Robert, and a lovely pair of twins that my sister-in-law babysat.

Getting outside, I visited the local coffee shop, “Buffalo Books” where I’d write and observe:

'Your move, Ted.'

Seeing the foundations of a community in most places in the world is sort of challenging because you’ll have to dig deep. But in America nothing’s too old, and downtown areas of any town–particularly smaller ones–are not too different than the ways they were erected 150 years prior. One-story, uninterrupted buildings line the streets and house small businesses such as bakeries, bookstores, and hardware shops.

Here’s a view of my hometown, Blackduck, Minnesota:

Indeed, a “3-D” view of a town (the history recognized) is quite doable and refreshing, for it provides an understanding that normally goes unnoticed when caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily living.

As a matter of fact, I headed up to Blackduck a couple weeks later to visit family. And it was way up here, of all places, away from the big city, that some residual “Chinese” experiences occurred. Here’s a map of Bemidji, Minnesota, the biggest town up there.

map

My mother and I decided to visit Itasca State Park on a Saturday. It’s beautiful nature reserve full of lakes, hills, forests, and most notably, the headwaters of the Mississippi River:

headwaters

That’s right. That’s the “mighty Mississippi”. All mountains start with a slight incline, all fires with a spark, and similarly, the Mississippi with a creek:

Go ahead and cross the river for fun.

Others enjoying themselves:

Mom and I

We started driving home, but decided to make one last stop to enjoy a beautiful view over a lake. Walking down the path, I heard some talking. It was definitely foreign yet strangely familiar. I caught a word or two and thought, “that’s Mandarin Chinese”. We encountered three folks from China along the wooden walk-way. A middle-aged woman who works for 3M drove up this weekend to see the park. With her was a friend and her son who studies in London:

Son took the picture

I gave them my blog address and hope they checked it out, perhaps are even reading this one: )

That night, I sought out another China interaction in northern Minnesota by getting a taste of the local American-Chinese food:

I entered and greeted the host:

host/owner, perhaps

It’s a wonderfully typical American-Chinese restaurant: Chinese inspired art, family-style restaurant layout, and of course, as much yummy, goopy food as you can stand:

Though Americanized, the food is still the creation of home-grown Chinese-folk. None of the employees knew English, but these two did:

While I ate, the fella and I spoke. He’s been in America for quite sometimes—was originally in New York City. He came to Bemidji several years ago for another Chinese restaurant. He doesn’t like the cold, originally being from SE China (as are the employees), but as happens in life, in any country, his children and wife keep him grounded.

How interesting to go from place to place, country to country to find people of all colors in “each other’s” countries aspiring for the same goals in life. (I met Americans settled down with family in China, as well.)

Being in China all those months, there were times I longed for the chance to eat “normal” food, see the things I was used to, and be around “my people”. Now that I’m back, I’m excited to say “Ni hao” to Chinese people every chance I can. :)

And I look forward to next week’s post where I share with you some pure, untainted northern Minnesotan culture: county fair and demolition derby!

until then,

and to new plateaus,

-Brandon

 
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