"Dalai Lama, Long Life!": A cousin's account

We are delighted to present this thoughtful essay and eyewitness reportage by cousin Tanya Cook (pictured below with her youngest child, Perrin), who trekked to Madison, Wis., last week to see the Dalai Lama. Madison, like Minneapolis, has a large Tibetan Buddhist population. The scrapblog editor notes that during her stint as Minneapolis Star Tribune religion reporter, she followed the Dalai Lama around for a couple of days and had a similarly fascinating experience.

By TANYA COOK

July 20, 2008

It had been an exciting and stressful week leading up to my trip to see the Dalai Lama’s public talk at the Colosseum in Madison, Wis. My close friend and her boyfriend had driven all the way from the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area to attend. We aren't Buddhists, but we couldn’t pass up the chance to hear this important and engaging spiritual leader. I’d always been fascinated with his self-deprecating humor, down-to-Earth manner of talking about issues as diverse as world politics and self-help, and his almost cult-like status in certain circles of popular culture. The Dalai Lama has a special connection with Wisconsin, having chosen to visit seven times. One of his senior students founded a Buddhist Temple near Oregon, Wis., to the south of Madison, and helped to found one of the nation's first Buddhist Studies Departments at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.

I was worried about being late as we drove to the Colosseum. We had left the house later than planned because I was trying to give the girls maximum birthday party time before taking them home to stay with their dad while I attended the talk. Then there was the county fair. Traffic was congested and we hiked in from beyond the horse trailer parking section, the sweet scent of dry hay and warm animals filling the air. We passed one Toyota Prius after another; several cars sported “Free Tibet” bumper stickers. As we drew close we heard, over the drone of a helicopter circling above, a group of people chanting: "Dalai Lama, [something, something]." My friend said, “I think they’re saying, ‘Dalai Lama, long life.’” But could there be protesters? I wondered. Who would be protesting a man who had won the Nobel Peace Prize?

The round red and white spaceship looking building loomed in front of us. To the right we saw the group, loudly chanting and holding signs. Now we were close enough to make out what they were saying: “Dalai Lama, stop lying! Dalai Lama, stop lying!” Yes, a protest group. Insert ‘You know you’re in Madison, when ... ’ joke here.

We paid them little heed as we found the door for advance ticket-holders, passed security guards who reminded us to turn off cell phones. It was touch-and-go for me for a minute, but I quickly revealed the thing that made the wand beep as the guard swept it past my midsection was only my key chain. My purse passed inspection, too, and we ascended to our seats.

I needn’t have worried about being late. They waited for the crowd to be seated, and we sat through introductions by a local radio personality and the governor, Jim Doyle.

Although our seats were high, we knew when His Holiness appeared on stage as 30,000 people rose as one to stand in respect. His bald pate shining, he bowed to the crowd and other monks in attendance, joining his hands, palms together in front of his chest. We bowed back in unison and then began a thunderous standing ovation. Coming out of his bow, the Dalai Lama faced the crowd and then pumped his hands up from waist level twice, the universal gesture for “More applause, please!” He followed this quickly with the gesture for “Stop, please, sit!” And sit we did. He removed his sandals and sat cross-legged in an upholstered chair, adjusting his crimson and saffron robes. His translator hovered at attention to his left. His Holiness donned an earpiece microphone like the ones Madonna or Brittany use to sing and dance simultaneously and began his 90-minute talk, entitled “Educating the Heart.”

I was worried at first that I’d understand little of the talk. It was difficult to hear, and His Holiness’ English, while excellent, was strongly accented. I also worried that I knew too little about Buddhism to follow an esoteric discussion of dogmatic beliefs. But as he spoke of compassion and the purpose of life we listened quietly and tried to let the words enter our hearts. He said the purpose of life was to be happy and that once basic material needs were met, it was impossible to achieve lasting happiness through material means.

He was profoundly positive, even when discussing his difficult relationship as a political leader in exile. He stated strongly that the Tibetan people had great respect for the Chinese people, but not the Chinese government. Freedom, the Dalai Lama expressed, is a fundamental human desire, and totalitarianism is its opposite. Like any great public speaker, he put in jokes punctuated with his open and warm laughter.

Even having read about it, I was surprised at his humility and willingness to make himself the butt of a joke. In the opening moments he quickly dispelled any notions of what he was not. He did not have any special healing powers, he said. If anyone knew of someone who could heal through touch, he said, let him know, because recently a particularly enthusiastic fan had hurt his left pinky finger after a bout of hearty hand-shaking! When asked about how he maintained his strength living in exile he answered, “Good sleep, good food.”

My favorite part of the talk, though, was when he revealed his most important source for learning about compassion. Considered to be the emanation of the Buddha of compassion, this man has worked to teach others to find compassion, even for their enemies. But his most important lessons on compassion, he said, came not from the Buddhist teachings he’s studied his whole life (and in previous lifetimes), but from his mother. He described her patience, tolerance, and unconditional love as the basis of his spiritual understanding of compassion. His Holiness stressed the importance of individual happiness beginning with family relationships, with happiness spreading from families to communities to nations to the world.

We left the Colosseum hungry and looking forward to getting home to start dinner and work on the happiness of shared food and conversations. The protesters were still there. Later, I read in the newspaper they were part of a Buddhist sect that accuses the Dalai Lama of religious intolerance and hypocrisy. Their chanting followed us past the hybrid cars and horse trailers, but this time I smiled, imagining their words differently, preferring my friend’s interpretation: “Dalai Lama, long life! Dalai Lama, long life!”

Suckers 101: An essay by Uncle Joe

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

Many species of sucker frequent the Upper Mississippi drainage system. They include, but are not limited to, blue, quillback, highfin, hognose, silver, golden, river, spotted, carp sucker, chub sucker and sturgeon sucker.

The hognose sucker featured in a photo as a delicacy on the family blogspot was an erroneous photo subsequently corrected by a photo of a fine string of white suckers proudly displayed by J.C. Kirkwood, right.

The book "Northern Fishes" by Eddy and Surber states, "None of the suckers bites readily on a baited hook." Consequently, only proficient anglers are consistently able to catch suckers with hook and line. J.C. Kirkwood and sons Joe and Tuk, all skillful sucker fishermen, were tutored in the sport by the late master angler Edward Sprick.

In early spring, suckers make their prespawning run up the tributary streams to the Upper Missisippi. April 1 is not only April Fools' Day, but also prime time to begin fishing for suckers in the Zumbro River, which is usually high and muddy from snowmelt and spring rains. The swift current often brings trees as well as a number of large household items floating down the river, a hazardous situation that precludes using a boat in the pursuit of suckers.

Back in the 1930s, before fishing and a lot of other stuff became high tech, it was common to fish with a set line containing several hooks baited with earthworms. The line was tied to a small willow on the bank. Several lines were set out, with a railroad spike serving as a sinker in the swift current. One could spend a lot of time baiting hooks.

The meat of the white sucker is sweet and firm in the spring, excellent eating except for the fine bones. Grandma Maria Augustin Sprick always had a loaf of fresh bread on the table when suckers were on the menu. "If you get a bone in your throat, just take a piece of bread," she said. That usually took care of the problem.

After World War II, fishing became more sophisticated, requiring more than just a hook and worm. Using a spinning rod and a nonstretch braided line, an experienced angler could reel the bait slowly through a snagfree hole and feel the subtle bite of a sucker nibbling away at the worm. On a good day, one can catch more fish than he can carry, which is a good reason to fish near a road.

Not everyone fishes suckers for the same reason. A 5-pound sucker gives one a good fight in the current. Some, including the kids from the Environmental Learning Center I took out to the Zumbro, fish just for the sport of it. Sucker fishing is the most popular of the numerous outdoor activities scheduled by their program director.

Others who fish for sucker know that pickling the fish dissolves the fine bones and that when cut into small pieces, a piece of pickled fish on a cracker, enhanced by a glass of Miller Lite, makes an excellent hors d'oeuvre.

Uncle Ed (shown above with cousin Chris Miller, sainted dog-of-our-youth Alfie and fish) would have been pleased to know that his recipe for pickled fish appears on a number of websites. And there are still a few familiar names on his original list of those who relished his pickled fish as gifts. He would also be pleased to know that I and my fishing partner and usually dependable guide, Doc Knudsen, are carrying on his tradition of trying to prevent Nature Deficit Disorder among our nation's youth.

And this is most certainly true!

Elmer "Joe" Sprick, sucker fisherman, outdoors sage, astute essayist, scrapblog senior research associate and usually reliable uncle, can be reached at earlybird1@mchsi.com. Other of his essays can be found lower in this blog.

A nurse named Florence: Her own story

Aunt Florence, who turns 82 today (Jan. 20, 2008) wrote this for the family memory book "An Even Dozen":

By FLORENCE SPRICK BYE

In June 1944, as U.S. troops, my brother Edward Sprick among them, landed on the beach at Normandy, France, I began my nursing education at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minn. My mother had signed permission for me to join the U.S. Cadet Nurse Corps, so I had enrolled in the Northwestern Hospital School of Nursing.

115 student nurses from five Minneapolis hospitals were on campus to study basic sciences for three months. 1,500 naval cadets were also there. They were very strict at St. Olaf; we only saw the naval cadets from a distance as they marched. We were all in the dorm by 7 p.m., and lights went out at 10 p.m.

In September, my group affiliated at Minneapolis General Hospital for contagious diseases, caring for patients with everything from diphtheria to polio. We also spent three months at Rochester State Hospital studying psychiatry, a new field at the end of World War II.

We used the Sister Kenny hot-pack technique for polio patients. Many were also placed in iron lungs, the first respirators.

While I was a student, one of the first partial-lung resections was done -- unsuccessfully. During pediatric training, a child died after the doctor removed a tracheotomy tube. We used to hang wet sheets in the wards to increase the humidity. Penicillin was in early use, and we gave babies and children injections every three hours. Cancer patients were considered terminal. In obstetrics, we "scrubbed in" for 13 deliveries; that wasn't a very busy department during World War II.

Our public health nurse, a Japanese-American, had to leave for a detention camp in California. Also, the Marigold Ballroom was out of bounds for student nurses because Japanese-American G.I.s hung out there.

We used to walk downtown to the YWCA and bowl against the other hospital nursing students. We had to set our own pins.

Even when we were on night duty, we had to get up and go to classes during the daytime. We had very little time off for three years, including the summers.

In December 1946, my mother gave permission to the hospital board for me to marry Bill Rafferty, my G.I. sweetheart. During my final six months as a student, I had to room by myself and work in a ward called "Coffin Corners" because the school frowned on marriage.

I graduated in June 1947 and my husband was discharged from the service. We had met in Fort Dodge, Iowa, where I had worked in pediatrics and then obstetrics at Lutheran Hospital. I saw my first severely burned child there, and a 14-year-old girl who died as the result of an illegal abortion.

For the next six years, I traveled with my husband as he did steel construction work. I worked in many small hospitals, using my obstetrics experience. I was licensed in Minnesota, Iowa and Texas. In other states, including Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas and North Dakota, I received a six-month work permit.

We moved to Waterloo, Iowa, where I worked as obstetric supervisor in the labor and delivery room at Schotz Memorial Hospital. Our daughter, Patricia Louise, was born on Oct. 1, 1952. After three months, we moved to the Rio Grande Valley in Texas, separating in Corpus Christi in January 1953 and divorcing soon after.

Patty and I then lived with my mother in Lake City, Minn., where I worked at the hospital from February 1953 to August 1955. It had only 25 beds. The halls were always full of beds for patients. I remember using chloroform to anesthetize obstetric patients.

In August 1955, I married Chuck Schmidt and moved to Red Wing, Minn., where I worked at St. John's Hospital as a 3-11 p.m. shift supervisor. I then took a job at Interstate Clinic because I wanted day hours to care for our son, Karl, who was born in March 1958. In those days, nurses were replaced when they had babies, so I moved to Red Wing City Hospital, where I worked as assistant administrator for nine years, until the hospital closed in 1967. JoAnne was born in 1960. I used my four-week vacation to convalesce after her birth, then went right back to work.

During my time at City Hospital, we performed a rare but successful aortic aneurysm surgery at the same time the Duke of Windsor had the same surgery. But our patient wasn't famous, so we weren't written up in the newspaper.

In 1962, Karl, our happy, lively 4-year-old son, was diagnosed at the Mayo Clinic with pseudohypertropic muscular dystrophy. By age 12, he was wheelchair-bound. We all worked together on his care. I took him to Dr. V. Richard Zarling at Fairview Hospital in Minneapolis twice a year for evaluation and experimental medications. We set up a vigorous daily exercise program, and he took lots of vitamins.

Karl graduated from Red Wing High School and worked at Interstate Rehabilitation Center in Red Wing. He received an electric wheelchair from Red Wing Vocational School. I helped push for rights for the disabled for years before a law was passed requiring ramps and parking spaces to make life a little easier for the disabled.

In 1969, after Red Wing City Hospital closed, I went to work at the new Lake City Hospital. I worked in obstetrics and medical surgery for 11 and a half years. While there, I took a coronary nursing course. We began monitoring cardiac patients and started intravenous treatments, as well as monitoring fetal hearts. Hospitals now had their own pharmacists.

After Chuck Schmidt and I divorced in 1978, I moved to Rochester, Minn., and worked in a surgical ward at Methodist Hospital. After six months, my hours were cut, so I returned to Red Wing and in March 1979 became the 3-11 p.m. charge nurse in labor, delivery and postpartum care at St. John's.

By 1982, I needed a change, so I moved to Minneapolis and worked the 3-11 p.m. shift in obstetrics at Midway Hospital. I was laid off after being exposed to chicken pox, which I had never had. [It's very dangerous in adults.]

Among nurses' duties were rupturing membranes, performing episiotimies and monitoring fetuses. I felt this was too much liability after a nurse was targeted by a lawsuit. The liability insurance for obstetrical nurses increased substantially after that.

While I was again seeking employment, Karl, 24, died unexpectedly of a heart attack. It was then I decided to work with the disabled. On March 7, 1983, I began work in the prolonged respiratory care unit of at Bethesda Lutheran Hospital. I moved to Ford Parkway in St. Paul, but soon moved to Roseville because the airplane noise was too much for me.

I worked days-evenings, only four days a week, but the work was physically and emotionally hard. The patients were long-term ventilator patients, many of whom lived on the ward. We were like their family.

In 1984, nurses in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area went on strike for a month. In 1988, five hospitals merged to form HealthEast. Our unit continued as a long-term care unit.

My last day of working full-time was Sunday, May 15, 1988. At the end of my shift after I did my report, I put on my roller skates and skated up and down the halls, into all my patients' rooms. They all just loved it! But it's hard to laugh when you're on a respirator.

I worked on an intermittent basis in June and July. Then, Virgil "Bud" Bye, a man whom I had spurned in 1944 so I could go to nursing school, looked me up. After being apart for 40 years, we started going together again, and we were married on Aug. 6, 1988.

I retired from nursing for good on Jan. 20, 1991, my 65th birthday.

Postscript: The affable Bud, to whom Florence enjoyed a happy marriage, has since passed away. Florence now lives in Maplewood in the summer and in San Diego, Calif., in the winter with her companion Harry Greason, a World War II vet. That's them below at the 2007 Veterans Day Parade in downtown San Diego.