Missing tortoise poster. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
HOW DO YOU LOSE a tortoise? I don’t have the answer and didn’t call to ask. But on Faribault’s east side, Mary the tortoise has gone missing.
I spotted a sign recently for the disappearing reptile on the corner of Ravine Street and Sixth Avenue Northeast. I’ve seen many lost dog and cat posters in Faribault. But a tortoise? Never.
Of course, I instantly thought of the fable, “The Tortoise and the Hare,” in which the slow-moving but determined tortoise wins the race against the confident, boastful rabbit. While the hare naps, the tortoise keeps going. In the end, the loser realizes that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have been so mocking of the tortoise. It’s a good lesson for anyone. It’s OK to be confident, but not at the expense of putting down others.
Back to tortoises. Many years ago, one showed up on our driveway on a summer afternoon. What a surprise. No one expects an errant tortoise on their property. A cat or dog, yes. But an over-sized reptile, no.
My brave brave second daughter scooped that tortoise up, despite my motherly warning not to do so (hey, I didn’t know how the reptile would react), and carried it back home across busy Willow Street. How our neighbor’s tortoise escaped and then safely crossed the street still baffles me.
Just like Mary. What happened to her? And where, oh where, has that not-so-little tortoise gone?
But I’m determined to do the best I can to manage what has now become a part of living. My physical therapist, with whom I’ve met eight times already, has been a great support in providing brain re-training exercises and encouragement. My balance is better. My double vision is easing. My tolerance to noise is improving. Certainly not like I was pre all of this, but I’ll take any improvement.
These railroad tracks lead to The Depot Bar & Grill in the distance. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
JUST DOING MY HOMEWORK
My last assignment from Ryan, my vestibular rehab therapist, was to get out into the real world, even dine at a restaurant. I took my homework and ran with it, maybe too far. Saturday morning Randy and I stopped at a garage sale and then went grocery shopping at two stores. By the time we reached the second grocer, which is considerably larger, noisier and busier than the first, I felt my symptoms flaring from the sensory overload. Oh, boy, how would I manage lunch with his sister?
With a bit of time before lunch, I closed my eyes, rested and tried to settle my hardworking brain.
Soon my sister-in-law Cheryl arrived and we were off to The Depot Bar & Grill, housed in an historic depot along the train tracks next to the river. It’s a lovely place with typically good food. I asked to be seated in a quiet area, explaining that I have sensory issues, especially with sound. I thought I could handle it. After all, I’d been training myself at home by listening to white noise city traffic, roaring waterfalls, crashing thunderstorms while moving my hands near my face. Enough practice and I was managing that noise symptom-free.
Dining tables are right next to the train track at The Depot. A train passed during a previous patio meal there. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
A WHOLE LOT OF TOO MUCH FOR MY BRAIN
But practice is not reality. As we settled at our lower level table with only two other dining tables in that section occupied, I thought, “This won’t be too hard.” But then, as more people filled the restaurant and the volume of conversations increased, I felt my head hurting, my eyes hurting, the constant roar of people’s voices making me feel worse and worse. Finally, I conceded that we’d have to move to the patio. It was too much for me. Our waitress was generously accommodating.
She warned us ahead of time that the cottonwood trees along the Straight River were dropping their fluffy white seeds. That they were. As the white fluff swirled and danced and fell upon our table, I felt like we were in a snowstorm. After our food arrived, Cheryl covered her plate with a napkin. I didn’t, nor did Randy. Fluff landed in my water. I still wasn’t feeling well.
I tried to hang in there, taking only small bites of my French dip sandwich, offering the chips (I’m avoiding salt) to my table-mates. I tried to shut out the conversation of the two women dining near us. But their voices, even though not really loud, sounded loud to me. I tried to engage in conversation with Randy and his sister, whom we haven’t seen in a long time. It was a lot for my brain to handle—juggling listening, talking, surrounding noise, visual of swirling white fluff, staff up and down the nearby steps, traffic sounds (thankfully no train).
A dead rattlesnake inside a case at Grizzly Canyon, an antique shop in Sleepy Eye. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
AN UNEXPECTED DISTRACTION
Then in the midst of this feeling awful and trying to get through this meal, I saw a long snake slither from across the railroad tracks, under the wrought iron fence and onto the patio. It slid toward the nearby empty table, under the chairs, briefly lifting its head as if to inspect. I wasn’t scared, just thankful it was not by us. The snake drew significant attention. Had I been feeling better, I would have pulled out my cellphone to take pictures. Others did, before the snake reversed and headed back toward the tracks, back toward the grassy river bank. A guy identified the snake as a gopher snake. I knew this was not a garter snake, as the women next to us said. I would have guessed rattlesnake, which shows how little I know about snakes. I know only that I don’t like snakes.
After that excitement, we continued with our meals, me mostly leaning my head into my hand in an effort to at least stay until the others finished eating. Finally, I said, “We have to leave.” My symptoms had flared out of control. I tried. And, if anything, I came home with an interesting story to tell about the uninvited dinner (technically lunch) guest down by the (former) train station.
Damage done to the boulevard. Our bedroom was in the direct path of an errant vehicle. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
THE SQUEAL OF TIRES, followed by thuds, disrupted our almost-asleep state of being Tuesday evening. “What was that?” I asked Randy. I was more curious than alarmed.
We live along a busy street in Faribault. Odd and loud noises are not uncommon. But, on a week night at 11 pm, this did seem out of the ordinary. Randy waited a bit, then rolled out of bed to check. Curiosity will always get you. He saw nothing except a torn-up patch of boulevard grass outside our bedroom window. No vehicle in sight.
I asked if we should call the police. “What would they do?” Randy asked. He was right. We had nothing to report except the sounds and the displaced patch of lawn. The vehicle was long gone.
Black marks on the pavement show how the vehicle veered out of the traffic lane toward and over the curb. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Morning shed more light on the situation. Black tire tracks curved toward the curb next to the boulevard. It is likely accurate to assume that a driver was going too fast down Tower Place (the hilly side street by our corner lot) and lost control while turning onto Willow Street. Oops. Should have slowed down and stopped at the bottom of the hill. We’re just thankful he/she did not continue on, plowing into our bedroom.
If I was a forensic investigator, I could determine the make and model of the vehicle based on this part left behind on the damaged lawn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
This is not the first time we’ve dealt with vehicle-related issues on our property. A tire once fell off a car and rolled down the hill, slamming into the side of our house, just missing the gas meter and pipe. Other times vehicles have jumped the curb on icy streets. One landed half-way across our side yard, taking out the stop sign on the way.
Lawn litter. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
While outside examining the lawn damage and tire tracks Wednesday morning, I happened upon a rectangular box tossed on the grass near the stop sign. It was an empty box once containing 2.0 grams of Sunset Sherbert hybrid distillate disposable vape. Pluto Labs, THE FUTURE OF CANNABIS, LIVE RESIN, the box read. I don’t pretend to know much about cannabis, except that the Minnesota legislature recently approved the use of recreational marijuana. But that doesn’t take effect until August 1.
Then I flipped the box to read that this was a SCHEDULED 1 CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE… THE INTOXICATING EFFECTS OF THIS PRODUCT MAY BE DELAYED UP TO TWO HOURS. THIS PRODUCT MAY IMPAIR THE ABILITY TO DRIVE OR OPERATE MACHINERY, PLEASE USE EXTREME CAUTION.
It made me wonder. Did the out-of-control driver toss this empty box from his/her vehicle just before rounding the corner and then slamming into and jumping the curb onto our lawn? The dots seem to connect.
Approaching the new City of Faribault water tower, northbound on Interstate 35. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo taken on June 1 from the front passenger seat)
WATER TOWERSAND GRAIN ELEVATORS. They are the defining landmarks of rural communities, the structures that rise high above the land, marking a place. In my native southwestern Minnesota, where the land stretches flat and far with infinite sky, you can see water towers and grain elevators from miles away.
Rice County remains rural at its core. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Long ago I left the prairie to settle in a region with a more diverse topography and a heckuva a lot more trees, lakes and people. I appreciate Rice County, my home of 41 years, with its geographical and human diversity.
Alfalfa dries in rows next to the water tower aside I-35. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Faribault, population nearing 25,000 (big by my standards), is located along Interstate 35 an hour south of Minneapolis. To travelers, it likely seems just another unidentifiable city along the endless four-lane. Another place to pass en route to wherever.
A view of the water tower heading southbound on I-35. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Now a new water tower rising aside I-35 a few miles north of Faribault will clearly identify my community. From the interstate, I’ve watched progress on the 750,000 gallon water storage silo that will serve the growing industrial park. The city received a $2 million grant from the Business Development Public Infrastructure Program through the Minnesota Department of Employment and Economic Development to help fund the estimated nearly $4 million total project.
Faribault’s symbol graces the new water tower. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Recently, City Of Faribault and the city logo, a fleur de lis, were painted onto the top of the tower, which currently sits at the base. It’s a simple, memorable design that is Faribault’s signature signature. The graphic, which resembles a lily and was often used by French royalty, honors the French heritage of town founder Alexander Faribault. It should be noted that he was also of Dakota heritage.
Northbound I-35 traffic passes the new City of Faribault water tower. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
I like the fleur de lis. It’s artistically-pleasing, elegant, timeless, a classy symbol I’ve come to associate with my community of Faribault. Now, for anyone passing by on I-35, that flourish of gold on the water tower accented by blue will flag Faribault. Even here, far from the prairie, water towers are more than just functional. They identify a place, on the land, under the sky.
Almonds in a jar, our healthy snack food. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
I AM A SENSITIVE SOUL. I am also a wordsmith. Combine the two and you get someone who responds with sensitivity to words. That’s me. Use inappropriate words in certain contexts and my emotions flare.
For example, I don’t like the words crazy, insane and nuts when applied in general to how someone is acting. If you’re talking about actual nuts, like peanuts, walnuts or almonds, nuts is appropriate. Apply it to human behavior and you have overstepped the boundaries of fitting word usage in my opinion.
You can be crazy with joy, meaning excessively joyful. I’m good with that. But if someone terms another person crazy, I recognize that for what it is, a hurtful label. Ditto for insane.
For anyone with a mental illness, especially, and for others, words like crazy and nuts sound offensive. I can’t think of any other illness with such associated disrespectful words that are loosely used in everyday life.
And then there’s the intentional use of hurtful words. A southern Minnesota craft brewery, whose name and location I choose not to share here (but which I feel needs some education by the National Alliance on Mental Illness), claims “Crazy Good Beer” with names that are spin-offs of mental illnesses. Hopzophrenia IPA. Catatonic Cream Ale. Manic Black Lager. Clever marketing or humorous, you might say. Me? Nope. This sensitive soul finds these names degrading/mean/offensive/insensitive to anyone diagnosed with and managing a mental illness.
What if, for example, the beers were spin-offs tied to cancer? Chemo Juice. Black Lung Lager. Radiated Raspberry Sour. And so on. I expect the response would be loud, and not in a good way. But it’s alright to name beers after schizophrenia, depression, bi-polar…? Nope. Not OK.
I’m not picking on this small town brewery. I expect these are fine, hardworking folks dedicated to the craft of brewing beer. Rather, it’s one public example of inappropriate word usage and the importance of recognizing the power of words.
Words matter, sensitive wordsmith or not.
THOUGHTS? Any words that spark a negative reaction in you?
A family of Canada geese emerge from the grass growing along the Cannon River in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)
EACH SPRING I ANTICIPATE the appearance of newborn ducks and geese in the wild. There’s something about these waterfowl that appeals to me. Perhaps it’s the cuteness factor. Or maybe it’s the reassurance that, despite the ever-changing chaotic world, some things remain constant. Eggs hatch. Ducklings and goslings emerge. And the cycle of life continues.
I spotted adult mallard ducks, including these drakes and hen, but no ducklings. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)
This year I was a bit late getting down to North Alexander Park in Faribault, a prime viewing spot along the Cannon River for an adaptation of Robert McCloskey’s children’s picture book, Make Way for Ducklings. The book won the Caldecott Medal in 1941 and is a beloved classic about a duck family in Boston.
Parent and baby gosling along the recreational trail in Faribault’s North Alexander Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)
On the recent day I went duck and goose hunting with my camera here in Minnesota, far from Boston, I found only goslings. No ducklings. I approached with caution. I’ve learned from experience that Canada geese are aggressively protective of their young. I already hold childhood trauma from enduring vicious rooster attacks. I don’t need to add to that.
I kept my distance from the goose family, relying on my telephoto lens to take me closer. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)
And so I watched and focused, thankful for my zoom lens which allowed getting close to the geese without getting close. The young ones appeared to be at teenage stage, rather than vulnerable baby stage. Thus my trust of even the youngest rated zero.
Determined goslings assert their independence. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)
I was fully aware that the geese were aware of my presence. People occasionally toss bread to waterfowl here (something I wish they wouldn’t do), so they may have expected a hand-out. Not from me. I was simply there to observe and document while dodging excrement, one of the hazards of stepping into a Robert McCloskey scene.
Despite the caution, despite the need to watch my step, I will continue to delight in this annual rite of spring which draws me to the banks of the Cannon River in southern Minnesota. Far from Boston.
A turtle, rather than a tortoise, used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2020)
I TOOK A FIELD TRIPTODAY. Not the fun sort like my granddaughter, Isabelle, took Thursday to see a performance of “The Adventures of Tortoise and Hare” at the Ordway in St. Paul. Rather mine was into the outdoors, outside a physical therapy office in Faribault.
Friday marked my seventh vestibular rehab therapy session with Ryan at Courage Kenny. I started weekly therapy in mid April after being diagnosed with vestibular neuronitis and Meniere’s Disease. These are complex diagnoses which affect the vestibular system in my right ear. (Click here to read an earlier blog post that details my many symptoms.) Basically, therapy is retraining my brain to handle the deficiencies I’m now experiencing due to damage to my eighth vestibular nerve. And to think this all started with a viral infection in January.
Back to today. Typically I meet with my physical therapist in a small room where we review my symptoms and progress and I learn, and practice, new exercises. Last week we ventured into a long hallway so I could walk back and forth, moving my head from side to side and then up and down. I didn’t do so well, veering to the left and into the wall. But I practiced at home all week, as I do all exercise homework Ryan assigns, and I felt I was doing better. I am determined to do everything I can to reclaim my life, or at least some version of what life was before these health issues.
A scene at Falls Creek County Park, rural Faribault, used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2022)
OK, WE’RE TAKING THIS OUTSIDE
Then Ryan announced we were going outside to try this walking and head turning activity on the sidewalk. I started out not so well, again steering left. Being outdoors added sensory input I wasn’t used to experiencing inside a small room. This exposed me to a real world environment. One with chirping birds and traffic and people crossing the parking lot and trees and clouds. Just a whole lot for my brain to try and manage. Once I’d semi-managed the sidewalk, we moved onto the lawn. Another new landscape to take in while I moved my head and attempted to walk a straight line.
That was my field trip. A change-up from a controlled environment. My ability to handle my symptoms has assuredly improved with therapy as Ryan nudges me to push myself more. And I am. I’m out and about some now, trying to do things I once didn’t think twice about doing. Trips to the grocery store, big box stores, a walk in the park, doing photography, simply being among people. It’s not always easy, especially when symptoms flare. Sometimes I fail. I recognize my limits. That includes time on the computer. Too much online time and my head begins to hurt, my vision blurs, I see double. Because of that, I’ve been publishing fewer blog posts.
This is how I feel sometimes. Artwork close-up by Bill Nagel. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Each month Beth Ann chooses a different group or nonprofit to feature and support with a financial gift. I was humbled by her desire to increase awareness of vestibular issues. And, bonus, she enlightened me about the Vestibular Disorders Association which, at quick glance, will be a valuable resource as I navigate my diagnoses. I feel validated just scrolling through the website, like I want to shout, “This is real! This isn’t just in my head. It really, truly is in my head!”
Merchandise vended by an international singing group that performed in Faribault and used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2014)
GOING TO CHINA WITHOUT GOING TO CHINA
Earlier this week I endured an MRI per my neurologist’s orders to assure nothing else is going on inside my brain besides the already-known. I get results on Wednesday. He’s confident nothing additional will be found and I hope he’s right. While in that machine for an hour trying to manage the blasts of overpowering noise (I’m hypersensitive to sensory input), I remembered Ryan’s advice to “dig deep” to get through the procedure. I think I dug a hole all the way to China.
Next week I will need to dig deep again to get through another hearing test, followed by an appointment with the ENT given persistent, intermittent ear pain and more. I’m documenting my symptoms (once a reporter, always a reporter). And I’m hoping for answers as I press onward, preferring not to travel internationally again.
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