“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”. -Statue of Liberty

It was -26F when I got up. But it was clear and the sunrise was lovely. I figured after breakfast and a cup of coffee it would be a perfect day to grab my splitting maul and head into the woods.

Splitting wedge used by three generations of my family.

This wasn’t spontaneous, I had planned it the day before when the cold first settled in. There is no better weather for splitting some forbidding looking rounds of oak and cherry. Moisture within the wood is already creating tension in the chunk, so the descending six-pound maul head makes it easy to split. 

Tiny chunks of ice were forming on my eyelashes as my exhalations steamed up from my open mouth. I paused and took a seat on a lovely round of clear oak to wipe the tiny ice balls impeding my vision. 

I glanced back towards the house, the same house built by my Swedish immigrant ancestors in the 19th century.  I wondered if they were hassled much upon entering a new country. It was then that I decided I need to go for a walk down in Minneapolis to practice what the late US congressman, John Lewis called “good trouble.” 

I’m not comfortable with what I’ve been seeing. And I hardly recognize my own country anymore. Cutting wood turned out to be a warm up for my afternoon walk with 50,000 other hardy souls as we joined in solidarity in downtown Minneapolis in protest of the terror tactics of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), who had descended upon the city. Their actions included abducting thousands of US citizens and peaceful observers, and shooting Renee Good, a mother and US citizen. 

So why would I go down to the cities on such a cold day and subject myself to bitter windchill temps and the possibility of getting mixed up in something potentially dangerous? 

From our rural home out at the edge of a woods life can be quite serene. 

I try to stay current on news and I can no longer just depend on one source of news to be a critical thinker. The recent news of masked agents breaking down doors, grabbing US citizens for simply having an accent or for their skin color had me reflecting on the Brown Shirts in Germany in the 1930s who used the same tactics. 

I went to the house to change from wood splitting clothes to winter camping clothes and headed to the cities. I didn’t even have a sign. I just wanted to show my support. Selfishly I was hoping my support would be an antidote for my feeling helpless through such chaotic times.

I felt a warmth and pride as a Minnesotan as the crowd of demonstrators huddled like a giant mass of penguins. I was stunned after an hour of standing at the size of the gathering joining to practice our right to peacefully protest. There were people of all ages from elders to youngsters. This was a crowd that exemplified the color of America’s diverse melting pot of citizens. Surprisingly I saw zero policeman at any time during the entire march.  And I was relieved to see no masked ICE agents.

Even with this huge stream of people, there was no vandalism or violence of any nature. On the contrary I witnessed folks taking care of each other. Volunteers passed out free hot coffee, water, and hand and toe warmers. When someone slipped, a host of hands offered help. 

Most of the protester signs demanded that ICE leave Minnesota.  I cracked a smile at the sign that said, “Leave Minnesota A-Loon.” Some signs displayed bible verses and others reminded us that we all at one time were immigrants. It pleased me to even see some signs showing support for the Minneapolis Police Department who incidentally are mightily strained from the chaos inspired by the ICE agents.

Our immigration system has been broken for decades, and needs fixing. But when over 70,000 folks across our country have been detained over the past year with no criminal record, well that is just plain wrong. And the tactics used are equally monstrous and cowardly. Even the Minneapolis Chief of Police questioned the so-called training of ICE.

To use terror as a tool makes the agents terrorists themselves.

With the sun setting I was driving back north to home again. I reflected on the day and felt good about my days work. 

The next morning I was back in the woods to take advantage of the cold and easy splitting. I returned to the house to warm up and then learned of another shooting death, of Alex Pretti. Watching the videos and hearing some of the witness accounts of this shooting paints it more like an execution. And of course the government’s messaging leaped out claiming the dead nurse’s intent to inflict “maximum damage.” And yet images indicate Alex Pretti never touched his gun for which he has a permit to conceal and carry. 

This is happening an hour south of my growing woodpile. It can happen anywhere and apparently with the blessing of our own government. It saddens me to realize that America is no longer the custodian of democracy in the world.

I returned to the sanctuary of my woodpile and needed fresh air.  A pair of ravens passed overhead, almost tumbling in the cold wind. I picked up the maul and resumed work. Even though the air temps were still below zero, the methodical swinging of my maul soon had me sweating. I paused to wipe my brow and suddenly found myself wiping my cheeks. I learned that salty tears don’t freeze on the face.

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