THE NEW IOWAN
April - May - June 2010
 Rachel Burns contributes a column to "The Chronicle" about her
experiences as a former California resident who has moved to an acreage in Iowa.

Farm Life
Originally published June 17, 2010

Relay
Originally published June 10, 2010

I have not written much over the past few weeks. Being dubbed “The New Iowan” presents a challenge when I am feeling comfortable and assimilated most of the time. How long can I call myself “New?” Each time I consider bringing the column to a close, I meet someone who mentions how much he or she enjoys reading my little adventures and perspectives. Unless everyone is being what I refer to as “Iowa Nice” about my writing, I should keep at it until folks stop mentioning it.

But be forewarned: being less-new in a small town has increased my level of comfort to a point where I feel almost part of the family. And what does a family do? Care for and nag each other. So stick around for some well-intended nagging, but first here is my personal story.

Last Saturday I participated in the Relay for Life for Sac County with The Chronicle Copy Cats team. Thanks to the generosity of family and friends, I was able to raise $230 for the American Cancer Society. As Relay participants and survivors shared their personal experiences with cancer, I reflected on my own.

After the time of my birth and before my nineteenth birthday I lost all four of my grandparents to cancer, beginning with a grandfather I don’t remember who suffered from leukemia. The more difficult losses for me came when I was 8 years old and my Pa lost a very ugly battle with a rare form of cancer of the blood before his 65th birthday. Five years later I held my Grammy’s hand as she slipped away after a frightening cognitive decline caused by brain cancer. This was also right around her 65th birthday, just like her husband. Later, my paternal grandmother survived a double mastectomy only to die from breast cancer when I was away in my first year of college. A paragraph cannot summarize their countless treatments and numerous side effects.

For Christmas in 2002 my father received prostate cancer. After his surgery I remember his unusual sense of humor as he sang, “I’ll be catheterized for Christmas.” Due to early detection, continued diligence, and a fighting spirit, he has remained cancer-free for seven years. More recently, my mother and I have both had forms of skin cancer surgically removed from our faces. Last Monday morning, I began my week nervously with a follow-up visit to the dermatologist and left his office without getting any stitches for the first time.

Though I feel a secret pang of jealousy whenever adults talk about their living grandparents, I realize my experiences with cancer have been minimal and superficial compared to the heartache and battles some of you may be facing in your own families. So as promised, here is some authentic nagging that I hope you will take to heart: Put on the sunscreen and hat. Put down the cigarette. Schedule that overdue pap test, colonoscopy, or mammogram. None of that is fun, but it all beats the devastating family stories shared at the Relay for Life last weekend.

McPeepers
Originally published May 20, 2010

On April 26th, the babies arrived – three dozen of them! The baby chicks were each a fluffy little ball of uncertainty as we embarked on our first animal raising experience. Now, just a couple of weeks later, I think the babies have entered their teenage years. I find myself yelling, “Chicken, get down!” when their newly-feathered wings transport them atop their water container. While wondering why I am attempting to discipline fowl, I also ask myself how thirty-six chickens came into my possession in the first place.

A year ago my husband and I decided we wanted to live on acreage in Iowa. I’m sure at that point my husband began dreaming up all sorts of things we could do on acreage. My mind doesn’t work that way – I focus on details and often miss the forest for the trees – so the comments about acquiring miniature donkeys, fainting goats, or dairy cows amused and stressed me at the same time. Leave it to my sister-in-law to get the livestock ball rolling.

Days before a December blizzard, my husband’s sister sent him an unusual but comical Christmas present: a gift certificate to the Murray McMurray hatchery. Everyone had a good laugh about this; the New Iowans would be raising mail order chickens in the far-away spring. My husband starting researching chickens and frequently perusing the catalog to narrow down his selection by certain criteria. In the end, it was me who got to make the final decision about breed from a choice of four. Knowing nothing other than what was provided in the catalog description and showy picture, I opted for the barred rocks. Little did I know how inexpensive baby chicks were and therefore how many that gift certificate would purchase!

When the snow finally began to melt away, reality struck me: we would be raising chickens with zero experience! My husband began work on renovating the chicken barn, which had been empty for some years but remained outfitted with hog confinements. I started asking for advice from anyone who would listen. There were three responses I received repeatedly: “put electrolytes in the water”; “you’re going to love them”; or “do you have any idea how much work that is?” Luckily some really nice friends gave us most of the supplies and pointers we needed to welcome our McPeepers home!

I don’t know what will happen next, but at least I’ve answered the question of how I ended up with a mudroom full of chirping poultry. I guess I had better start reading about collecting, cleaning, and storing eggs. Wish me luck or call me with advice, as I will surely need both. Either way, I’m not likely to forget this experience any time soon!

Midwestern Musings
Originally published April 29, 2010

Over the past week I have been thinking a lot about things I used to do on a regular basis that are no longer part of my life. This all started when I was heading through Schaller and saw an ambulance coming from the other direction with its lights on. It was the very first ambulance for which I have pulled over in the ten months since my move. Though it seemed very much out of the ordinary, pulling over for some kind of emergency vehicle was a daily event in southern California. In fact, I used to live on a six lane street between a fire station and a sub-acute rehabilitation facility, so sirens at all hours there were as common as birds chirping on a spring morning here.

Many of these formerly-common experiences involve driving. When asked about a driving distance, I used to respond with a number in minutes rather than miles – and I probably had to specify how the drive time may differ depending on the time of day. It was also common to sit in my vehicle, idling at a stop, for countless minutes at a time in the type of traffic that makes the Minneapolis freeway system seem like a rural rest stop in comparison. No one would leave an unoccupied car running or unlocked at any time. Once, my car was stolen and the police explained to me that it was my fault for choosing a parking spot unwisely. These days I don’t do much merging, lane-changing, or detouring. I don’t get cut off and I don’t wait for parking spots.

Other changes in my lifestyle involve eating. I miss my favorite Italian and Mexican restaurants, but I sure do love how fresh beef and pork taste here. I used to eat drive-through, take-out, or delivered meals at least once a day. In the afternoons I would often drive through one of several coffee shops. On the weekends I would stop by the donut shop, the bagel shop, or the smoothie shop. At first I missed the accessibility and variety of restaurants, but living in the country has forced me to learn some basic cooking skills of which I am proud.

Other things that used to fill my weeks now seem completely absurd. Did I really sit in five hour meetings where little was accomplished? Was that me who would speed-walk at a near run for nine hours a day in the building where I worked? Why did I always work through my lunch breaks? And hey now, what was that second job on Saturdays all about?

As I mentioned last week, I’ve reached a turning point in the life of being a new Iowan. My current weekly routines once seemed foreign all the time; now my old life seems ridiculous. With each passing month I become less and less able to answer the question, “Why would you move here?” Instead of recalling specifics to offer as a response, I now can only think, “Why wouldn’t I?”

IOWA SPRING
Originally published April 22, 2010

There are certain things in life that can only be understood through experience. The beauty and appreciation of the four seasons is one of them. I never doubted the things I was told about spring, I just could not fully comprehend what I had heard until these past few weeks. Those of you who have never lived a year without seasons have not had a “first” spring – but from what many of you have shared, you savor this time of year all the same!

These past few weeks of spring have been very Iowan in their nature for me, though my perspective has started to evolve. Change, learning, and new beginnings have become so commonplace in my life over the past nine months that I no longer consider them unusual. My Iowan spring weeks have been filled with people and activities that used to be foreign to me and are now becoming routine. I would not say that I am taking Iowa for granted, but I am starting to really feel at home.

So far this spring I have met more neighbors than I did throughout the entire winter. Some have stopped by my home and others I have met by chance in the community. I now know more neighbors in springy rural Odebolt than I did in my cramped condominium complex of 118 units in sunny southern California. I attribute this to a remarkable level of friendliness that I refer to fondly as “Iowa nice.” A year ago I was accustomed to going about my week without seeing anyone I knew in the community; now my idea normalcy is the expectation of seeing folks I know out and about.

Besides meeting new people, another concept that has quickly become typical to me is yard work. The saga of raking sticks has continued well into April for me, but remember, I don’t know if that is unusual or not because I have no experience to draw upon. Beyond that, I have been pleased to see the plants and flowers come up unexpectedly. Since I am in a home that is new to me, any perennial plants are a complete surprise because I didn’t know they were there! I am also pleased to report that I have started adding to the plant life. Hopefully I have not started my first-ever gardening experiences too early in the year, but after a visit to the Prairie Pedlar I was pretty certain I could handle a simple dig-plant-water-sun regimen.

Reflecting on my changing idea of what normal is I hope in the future I don’t forget to appreciate things I love about living here. I want to feel at home without losing my sense of amazement about being so far away from home. Luckily I have the kindness of neighbors and the beauty of spring to remind me what is special about this place.

My first Easter Weekend in Iowa
Originally published April 8, 2010

My first Easter weekend in Iowa was the best Easter weekend in recent memory. Everyone said I would enjoy the four seasons out here, but until surviving that winter I never knew how much I could appreciate a beautiful spring weekend. Spring break 2010 started for me with a hot, blustery Thursday alone relaxing on the front porch with last week’s edition of The Chronicle. That afternoon I came up with some weekend “ideas,” but was too already relaxed to call them “plans.”

A spring break highlight was having my friend visit me from California. We worked in the same school together for three years, so there was a lot of catching up to do, but even more showing around to be done! After the airline lost her bag we enjoyed some shopping Omaha-style followed by an evening out in Odebolt. On Saturday I dusted off my spirit of adventure to show my friend around the acreage. We may be big city Californian girls, but we filled our afternoon by climbing around in a hay loft, looking at wildlife, and driving a tractor. We even had a trip to the veterinary clinic when my dog cut her leg open, coining her breed the name barbed-wire-haired terrier. After that we spent Saturday evening with some of the best folks in Sac County.

Sunday afternoon was the most fun and the most work. You may recall mention in my last column of the unfathomable amount of sticks that were scattered around my home by the ice storms; Sunday was a small but successful stick-picking-up party. With a lot of help from some really nice friends, both Iowan and Californian alike, we were able to conquer this daunting task and then gaze at the massive pile which was our accomplishment. I must say that I have never felt so relaxed while doing so much work, and the next day each sore muscle reminded me of the good times and the job well done.

I am not sure what my friend will say about her spring break in Iowa when folks back in California ask how it went, but I am sure that she experienced a brand of fun that no place else can offer.

Mud and Sticks
Originally published April 1, 2010

Over the past few weeks, there have been two things on the minds of those of us who live in the country: mud and sticks. Most of the mud has dried up and been forgotten, but there were many days when I repeatedly thought, “I hate mud!” It wasn’t the mud itself that I cursed. Mud has a wonderful texture and the kid in me really wanted to play in it. It was the putting on galoshes just to walk a few sinking steps to my vehicle, get in, and take them off again. It was also the getting stuck. With my four-wheel drive broken there was an awful lot of getting stuck on my sloping, dauntingly muddy lane. I was warned about “mud season” by many a native Iowan, but until I experienced it first hand there was no comprehending its extent. Living somewhere between the coast and the desert of southern California was the mud-deprived life I led until recently.

Then there are the sticks. I’ve started referring to them as sticks because I’ve heard others do so – but these are not sticks. Limbs, boughs, branches, and the occasional half a tree would be more descriptive terms. After my first experience with ice storms it was easy to say we would pick up the sticks in the spring. Now spring is upon us and there really isn’t a great way to go about cleaning up our acreage, except for one twig at a time. Thinking about the mud and sticks, as well as chatting about them with others who live in mud and stick-rich areas, got me thinking about something completely different: idioms.

In California I taught college courses for individuals who were learning to speak English. My students loved to hear about the figurative language of English, as many common expressions do not translate well. A couple of the idioms I remember teaching include “living in the sticks” and “a stick in the mud.” Living in the sticks is an expression I’ve heard from my friends and family in California many a time in reference to my move to rural Iowa. In case you haven’t heard this one before, it means “living in the country, far away from any major city or urban center.” Now I know why: because I currently live literally in the middle of thousands of sticks! A stick in the mud is a reference to someone who prefers to let enjoyable things pass them by. It’s a person who is, or who is currently being, un-fun. Again, I have discovered the origin of this terminology: sticks in the mud are not very enjoyable! Who would want to spend time with an actual stick in real mud?

Wow, of all the things I thought I might learn in my move from California to Iowa, a deeper understanding of English slang was certainly not one of them! As the season changes, I have almost forgotten my disdain for mud, and I have made some progress on stick pick-up (albeit minimal at best). I guess I’ll have to keep at it, because I don’t want to act like a stick in the mud when I’m living in the sticks.

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