Thank you so much for raising this issue! I’m a social worker (and journalist) by training, so my touchstone is always to “start where the client is.” In the rural area where I do land conservation and habitat restoration, I find it’s a lot more productive to talk with people about protecting the land we all know and love, and our rural way of life, than it is to frame it as a way to make us more resilient to climate change.
Janisse, your writing is always so thought-provoking, especially about place, and I am inspired to more carefully reflect on my own surroundings.
As for the photo you posted of the “star,” I believe those are structural tie-rods to prevent damage in earthquakes. A sign that the building is of a certain age, and likely constructed of masonry, load-bearing walls. Not sure where you were in Mississippi, but the New Madrid fault is the largest (and potentially most destructive) fault east of the Mississippi. Some of the most destructive earthquakes hit there in the early 1800s, and in Arkansas, you can still see evidence of how those earthquakes permanently changed the landscape. That is definitely a story about place worth telling.
I 100 percent agree with you that the concept of place may be missing in environmental activism. My background and day job are in agriculture, livestock production specifically these days, and farmers are some of the most tied-to-land (white) people I've ever met. Most of the farmers I hear from have an intense dislike, bordering on hatred, of the "environmental movement". They are under the impression that "these people" have no concept of land or production or farming and are simply intent on making it harder and harder for the few people we have feeding our nation's people to do so. As America's farming community continues to shrink, and farmers continue to see what could be perceived as anti-agricultural legislation run past government, it's challenging to get them to see the middle ground. I think if "place", if more agricultural understanding, was at the forefront of environmental activism and messaging, that middle ground might become more visible; the place where food can be grown to feed millions and done in a safe manner for both humans and Mother Earth.
Your footnote to read Keith Basso’s Wisdom Sits in Places, brought a groundswell of memories of the time I worked at Salt of the Earth Books, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the early 90s. At the time SotE was the largest political/multicultural bookstore in the Southwest, and hosted many authors on their publicity tours from the east to west coast. In addition to organizing and hosting some of the author events, one of my desk jobs was to handle “special orders,” which were done over the phone. Keith Basso was one of many who would request academic monograms from universities and obscure, slim anthropological editions from small presses. The books usually had to be ordered and paid for in advance, and were then mailed to us, and held until the professors or researchers could pick them up. Keith would come in every few weeks from wherever he was doing fieldwork, and our conversations were often about new books out at the time about place names and geological landmarks, all informing his work on his book-in-progress, Wisdom Sits in Places. I remember conversations with him about how reading Leslie Silko’s Storyteller, or N. Scott Momaday’s House Made of Dawn were brought to life for me after driving the back roads of Silko’s Laguna Pueblo homeland, or rounding the corner of the Conoco station at the entrance into the deep red rock walls of Jemez Canyon, where Momaday’s protagonist stepped off the bus, home from the war, to find his grandfather waiting with his horse and wagon.
I remember Keith as a quiet man; I can’t speak for what kind of professor he was, as we only had conversations about the books he’d ordered, and the research he conducted, living with an Apache tribe far from the city. I found his own wisdom to be inspiring, the way he absorbed and relayed his own ideas about books he’d read, and how he listened intently, and responded briefly and succinctly. One Sunday, as the afternoon sun was going down and we were approaching closing time, I found myself at one of the two registers, just as a line was beginning to form. Knowing my co-worker had left early, I looked up past the person whose books I was bagging, and announced, “I appreciate your patience…” and apologized for their wait, giving a smile to the familiar faces in line, who were thumbing through the books they were about to buy, with no complaints. One of them was Paula Gunn Allen, author of The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions, who I had first met at Berkeley, and who I knew was home visiting her family. As risky as it felt to do so, I called out toward the back of the line, “Keith, do you know Paula Gunn Allen?” He smiled, “I know her work…” and I interrupted, “She’s standing in front of you. Paula, this is Keith Basso…”. They began what I later learned was a “warm conversation,” which later extended into correspondence.
I have many fond memories of the work I did at that bookstore, but remembering having made that introduction always makes me smile.
Thanks for your comments on the Midwest. I grew up in southern Minnesota, a similar latitude of prairie from Beloit. I definitely agree about babies and a blasé attitude toward the coasts. However, I don't think that people are less stressed necessarily--they only hide it better. My North Carolina neighbors always tell me exactly what's going on; in Minnesota, they don't think it's proper to violate one's own privacy in this way. A lot of people in the Midwest have Scandinavian heritage, and I found Norwegians and Swedes also inclined to share few of their woes.
I've just registered for your Journaling course, of course. Your comments in this Trackless Wild edition about views of place and how it does - or does not - relate to environmental activism spurred me. A fellow writer recently said to me, "I love your nostalgic writing." I believed I was clearly writing about environmental issues within the framework of respect for history. Obviously, I need to think about this, thus my intent for my work in your journaling course. Thank you.
Yes, in answer to your question. I have a hope, not vain I pray, that love of place might bring our divided country together. I wrote this in 2020, which was about when I took a valuable writing class from you. Thank you for everything you do. https://tom4tnc.blog/2020/07/23/sunrise-or-sunset/
When we lived in Dayton, Ohio there was a definite equal balance of third space. It really came home to me when we moved to Atlanta and the general feeling seemed to be, "Passive recreation? The land is too valuable for that. You want open space? Head to the Smoky Mountains National Park." It's not quite that extreme, but even in parks, baseball diamonds outweighed nature parks by ten to one. By contrast, Dayton (a much smaller city) had far more green space. Many large park reserves surrounded the city and connected to one another via broad green belts and bikeways. I commuted to work for ten years until we moved far outside town onto a farm. In Atlanta, riding a bike as a commuter is nearly a death wish. Admittedly, the park system in Dayton came about because of five waterways that merged in or near the city center. Two major floods sparked dam-building campaigns and the large storage areas behind them became low infrastructure park areas. the river corridors provided natural networking of these spaces. Regardless of their genesis, there they are and there they shall remain, an emerald necklace gracing Dayton for the foreseeable future.
Bur oaks were the wizened wizards of my experiences from the Glacial Till Plains of Ohio to the Ramparts of the Mississippi River in the Driftless Area where you have recently explored. As a Midwesterner by birth, I certainly resonate with the idea of ecological agrarianism creating a tangible connection of ecology-economy that inspires a personal defense of the land. I have always contended that 'defending our soil' should begin and end with literally defending it, rather than deporting the deep prairie soils of the American bread basket into the Gulf of America Mexico. It should always mean protecting prime farmland for growing crops rather than tightly ranked rows of little houses or large boxes for manufacturing non-renewable goods. Open land equals open minds and open hearts. I always felt that the clear, open, and deliberate speech of Montanans reflected the Big Sky landscape. Did you get that impression during your time there?
Oh! I *know* that tree ... that tree has seen some things. So many things. That is a sacred tree.
I'm so glad you've discovered the joys of Wisconsin and midwestern friendliness. I have a lot of thoughts on place and environmentalism -- I'm actually working on a newsletter about it now, will ping you when it's up. Our home place is about an hour due south of Beloit, has been in the family since the 1860s, and my father's side of the family are actually from Beloit. So you're right in the sweet spot of my home place, and I'm so pleased to hear it's been good to you.
I have spent very little time in the Midwest but one region of it I would love to explore is the Driftless region. And Boundary Waters. Some day, some day.
I really feel your "place" as home when discussing the environment. I can easily do this for a couple of locales in Florida that feel like home and would be easy to turn into environmental essays but I haven't quite gotten there with places in Texas yet. Too big, too much, it's hard to contain it all sometimes.
Well, my dear, once again you've hit it out of the park. Another delightful, thought-provoking morning read. Thank you, forever! Love your ode to the sturdy, calm Midwest (my homeplace, sort of, via my South Dakota-born parents) and love the one-concrete-thing feature.
In light of the authoritarian language Trump used to limit free speech and protest, I deeply appreciate your post. Sending well wishes to you and little Fawn!
Thank you for recognizing the beauty and spirit of the Midwest. I love living in Michigan, especially living close to Lake Michigan. Years ago, a friend who attended college here moved back to Michigan from NYC. I asked him what his friend in NYC thought of his move. He said, "It's our little secret." Good news. An editor gathering essays from writers who live in the Great Lakes area want to include my essay SAND in the collection. Thank you for your help in polishing it.
Thank you so much for raising this issue! I’m a social worker (and journalist) by training, so my touchstone is always to “start where the client is.” In the rural area where I do land conservation and habitat restoration, I find it’s a lot more productive to talk with people about protecting the land we all know and love, and our rural way of life, than it is to frame it as a way to make us more resilient to climate change.
That seems spot on, to me. In the end it's all we can control.
Janisse, your writing is always so thought-provoking, especially about place, and I am inspired to more carefully reflect on my own surroundings.
As for the photo you posted of the “star,” I believe those are structural tie-rods to prevent damage in earthquakes. A sign that the building is of a certain age, and likely constructed of masonry, load-bearing walls. Not sure where you were in Mississippi, but the New Madrid fault is the largest (and potentially most destructive) fault east of the Mississippi. Some of the most destructive earthquakes hit there in the early 1800s, and in Arkansas, you can still see evidence of how those earthquakes permanently changed the landscape. That is definitely a story about place worth telling.
I 100 percent agree with you that the concept of place may be missing in environmental activism. My background and day job are in agriculture, livestock production specifically these days, and farmers are some of the most tied-to-land (white) people I've ever met. Most of the farmers I hear from have an intense dislike, bordering on hatred, of the "environmental movement". They are under the impression that "these people" have no concept of land or production or farming and are simply intent on making it harder and harder for the few people we have feeding our nation's people to do so. As America's farming community continues to shrink, and farmers continue to see what could be perceived as anti-agricultural legislation run past government, it's challenging to get them to see the middle ground. I think if "place", if more agricultural understanding, was at the forefront of environmental activism and messaging, that middle ground might become more visible; the place where food can be grown to feed millions and done in a safe manner for both humans and Mother Earth.
Your footnote to read Keith Basso’s Wisdom Sits in Places, brought a groundswell of memories of the time I worked at Salt of the Earth Books, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the early 90s. At the time SotE was the largest political/multicultural bookstore in the Southwest, and hosted many authors on their publicity tours from the east to west coast. In addition to organizing and hosting some of the author events, one of my desk jobs was to handle “special orders,” which were done over the phone. Keith Basso was one of many who would request academic monograms from universities and obscure, slim anthropological editions from small presses. The books usually had to be ordered and paid for in advance, and were then mailed to us, and held until the professors or researchers could pick them up. Keith would come in every few weeks from wherever he was doing fieldwork, and our conversations were often about new books out at the time about place names and geological landmarks, all informing his work on his book-in-progress, Wisdom Sits in Places. I remember conversations with him about how reading Leslie Silko’s Storyteller, or N. Scott Momaday’s House Made of Dawn were brought to life for me after driving the back roads of Silko’s Laguna Pueblo homeland, or rounding the corner of the Conoco station at the entrance into the deep red rock walls of Jemez Canyon, where Momaday’s protagonist stepped off the bus, home from the war, to find his grandfather waiting with his horse and wagon.
I remember Keith as a quiet man; I can’t speak for what kind of professor he was, as we only had conversations about the books he’d ordered, and the research he conducted, living with an Apache tribe far from the city. I found his own wisdom to be inspiring, the way he absorbed and relayed his own ideas about books he’d read, and how he listened intently, and responded briefly and succinctly. One Sunday, as the afternoon sun was going down and we were approaching closing time, I found myself at one of the two registers, just as a line was beginning to form. Knowing my co-worker had left early, I looked up past the person whose books I was bagging, and announced, “I appreciate your patience…” and apologized for their wait, giving a smile to the familiar faces in line, who were thumbing through the books they were about to buy, with no complaints. One of them was Paula Gunn Allen, author of The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions, who I had first met at Berkeley, and who I knew was home visiting her family. As risky as it felt to do so, I called out toward the back of the line, “Keith, do you know Paula Gunn Allen?” He smiled, “I know her work…” and I interrupted, “She’s standing in front of you. Paula, this is Keith Basso…”. They began what I later learned was a “warm conversation,” which later extended into correspondence.
I have many fond memories of the work I did at that bookstore, but remembering having made that introduction always makes me smile.
Thanks for your comments on the Midwest. I grew up in southern Minnesota, a similar latitude of prairie from Beloit. I definitely agree about babies and a blasé attitude toward the coasts. However, I don't think that people are less stressed necessarily--they only hide it better. My North Carolina neighbors always tell me exactly what's going on; in Minnesota, they don't think it's proper to violate one's own privacy in this way. A lot of people in the Midwest have Scandinavian heritage, and I found Norwegians and Swedes also inclined to share few of their woes.
I've just registered for your Journaling course, of course. Your comments in this Trackless Wild edition about views of place and how it does - or does not - relate to environmental activism spurred me. A fellow writer recently said to me, "I love your nostalgic writing." I believed I was clearly writing about environmental issues within the framework of respect for history. Obviously, I need to think about this, thus my intent for my work in your journaling course. Thank you.
Yes, in answer to your question. I have a hope, not vain I pray, that love of place might bring our divided country together. I wrote this in 2020, which was about when I took a valuable writing class from you. Thank you for everything you do. https://tom4tnc.blog/2020/07/23/sunrise-or-sunset/
When we lived in Dayton, Ohio there was a definite equal balance of third space. It really came home to me when we moved to Atlanta and the general feeling seemed to be, "Passive recreation? The land is too valuable for that. You want open space? Head to the Smoky Mountains National Park." It's not quite that extreme, but even in parks, baseball diamonds outweighed nature parks by ten to one. By contrast, Dayton (a much smaller city) had far more green space. Many large park reserves surrounded the city and connected to one another via broad green belts and bikeways. I commuted to work for ten years until we moved far outside town onto a farm. In Atlanta, riding a bike as a commuter is nearly a death wish. Admittedly, the park system in Dayton came about because of five waterways that merged in or near the city center. Two major floods sparked dam-building campaigns and the large storage areas behind them became low infrastructure park areas. the river corridors provided natural networking of these spaces. Regardless of their genesis, there they are and there they shall remain, an emerald necklace gracing Dayton for the foreseeable future.
Bur oaks were the wizened wizards of my experiences from the Glacial Till Plains of Ohio to the Ramparts of the Mississippi River in the Driftless Area where you have recently explored. As a Midwesterner by birth, I certainly resonate with the idea of ecological agrarianism creating a tangible connection of ecology-economy that inspires a personal defense of the land. I have always contended that 'defending our soil' should begin and end with literally defending it, rather than deporting the deep prairie soils of the American bread basket into the Gulf of America Mexico. It should always mean protecting prime farmland for growing crops rather than tightly ranked rows of little houses or large boxes for manufacturing non-renewable goods. Open land equals open minds and open hearts. I always felt that the clear, open, and deliberate speech of Montanans reflected the Big Sky landscape. Did you get that impression during your time there?
Oh! I *know* that tree ... that tree has seen some things. So many things. That is a sacred tree.
I'm so glad you've discovered the joys of Wisconsin and midwestern friendliness. I have a lot of thoughts on place and environmentalism -- I'm actually working on a newsletter about it now, will ping you when it's up. Our home place is about an hour due south of Beloit, has been in the family since the 1860s, and my father's side of the family are actually from Beloit. So you're right in the sweet spot of my home place, and I'm so pleased to hear it's been good to you.
I have spent very little time in the Midwest but one region of it I would love to explore is the Driftless region. And Boundary Waters. Some day, some day.
I really feel your "place" as home when discussing the environment. I can easily do this for a couple of locales in Florida that feel like home and would be easy to turn into environmental essays but I haven't quite gotten there with places in Texas yet. Too big, too much, it's hard to contain it all sometimes.
The way you describe the Midwest sounds very much like Europe. I love your advisor to the president section.
Well, my dear, once again you've hit it out of the park. Another delightful, thought-provoking morning read. Thank you, forever! Love your ode to the sturdy, calm Midwest (my homeplace, sort of, via my South Dakota-born parents) and love the one-concrete-thing feature.
In light of the authoritarian language Trump used to limit free speech and protest, I deeply appreciate your post. Sending well wishes to you and little Fawn!
Thank you for recognizing the beauty and spirit of the Midwest. I love living in Michigan, especially living close to Lake Michigan. Years ago, a friend who attended college here moved back to Michigan from NYC. I asked him what his friend in NYC thought of his move. He said, "It's our little secret." Good news. An editor gathering essays from writers who live in the Great Lakes area want to include my essay SAND in the collection. Thank you for your help in polishing it.
Congrats, Joan!
I am glad that you have named yourself advisor to the president.