Communication

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COMMUNICATIONS

Roller Derby

This article appeared as a web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Fall 2008.

Adrienne van der Valk '97 never expected to become an avid participant in roller derby, but that's exactly what happened. She loves the "brazen, post-feminist flamboyance, pin-up punk aesthetic" of the sport, evident in these photos by Angie Ponso.

player looks over her shoulder during a match
Adrienne van der Valk seems to be keeping an eye out for marauding competitors as she flies around the floor.
Player on a bench winces while another looks concerned
Aches, pains, and "gnarly bruises" are definitely a part of the mix, van der Valk says.
Three women, two in gear, sitting together
Modern roller derby athletes include "teachers, welders, landscapers, attorneys, therapists, bartenders, and students," van der Valk says. About half of these women are mothers — and very tough mothers, indeed.
skater leads group around the track
Van der Valk says she was lured into roller derby by the "excitement and the girl-power" but she stayed for the sport.
Woman in skull makeup with a toy raygun
Roller derby has changed since the days of Kansas City Bomber, says Adrienne van der Valk. For one thing, she competes in a flat-track league, rather than the banked track leagues of the past. And fighting is not allowed.
Woman in Id Rather Not t-shirt holds helmet on head
Van der Valk’s league, the Emerald City Roller Girls, is a nonprofit, skater-run affairs, unlike "professional" clubs of the past.
back of a woman in a wide leather belt with a waistline tattoo and holding a pair of black skates over her shoulder
Adrienne van der Valk says she plans to compete until she is broken — "And I hope I skate until I die," she adds.

Chef Harry Schwartz '79

This article appeared as a web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Spring 2008.

Chef Harry carrying a huge watermelon at the back of a vehicle
Chef Harry Schwartz '79
Harry in front of a table with ingredients, class of students watch him, and the bus is visible through the windows
Harry Schwartz teaches kids about how fun and tasty healthy food can be.
Chef Harry and family pose for the camera on a city street
Chef Harry with wife of 28 years, Laurie, daughter Alexa, 19, a junior at Bowdoin College.
Harry holds at small dog in the front of a carriage. the other two sit at the back, facing forward.
Seeing the sights via carriage ride with wife Laurie, daughter Alexa, and dog Blitz.
Harry poses with the group of kids in a kitchen. Harry and a kid both point at a laughing girl in front of them
Goofing around with kids on the tour bus.
Harry is opening the front door on the buss
Get on the bus...
Harry and reporter in front of a table laden with food in front of the bus
Chef Harry loves to be in front of the cameras, as he is here on "Fox and Friends" in New York City.

Neighbors: Betty Moffett Shares Childhood Photos

See Moffett's short story "Neighbors" in the Spring 2008 issue of The Grinnell Magazine.

Betty as a child, smiling for the camera.

Betty and her father, who served in the military in World War II.

When Betty's father returned home after World War II, the family moved to a new house, leaving behind Betty's best friend and bringing her new neighbors.

Betty with some of her playmates -- but not Sissy and her brothers.

Meet the New Alumni Director

 

Portrait of Jim HessRecently, on a sunny September afternoon Jim Hess saw his worlds collide — sort of. Hess, the new director of alumni relations at Grinnell College, was in Washington, D.C., his former home, at a picnic for Grinnell alumni and students.

Hess has spent the last 18 years in the nation's capital working at George Washington University, most recently as executive director in the Office of University Events. He moved to Grinnell in June with his wife, Kirsten, and their 3-year-old daughter, Madeleine.

Hess says he is attracted to the energy he finds on college campuses. "I think part of it is, with students coming and going, there's always a certain newness to the institution," he says. "I've always enjoyed working with the students, and the faculty for that matter. ... It's an atmosphere that I've always enjoyed."

Before diving into any major projects, Hess says he wants to learn what makes Grinnell tick. "I'm going through the first year really trying to get to know Grinnell and the people in the community, people on campus, around the country, and around the world," Hess says. "The overall goal is to continue to improve the interaction and connection between the College and alumni. I wouldn't sit here and say, 'This is an area that needs work.' I want to take time and get a feel for things."

He says, however, that the alumni office might try to help sponsor more alumni picnics after getting such a great response from Grinnellians. Last summer there were five picnics, he says; this summer there were 16. "I think people really seem to enjoy themselves, seeing one another," he says.

Farther down the road, Hess says he is interested in trying to do more with alumni education programs such as Alumni College, which allows former students to study with each other and with professors during the days before Reunion. "There's room," he says, "for expansion of programs that have been very successful already."

That process of continued learning is also what drew Hess to Grinnell. "I definitely feel that Grinnell is a unique institution with its own unique culture, even among liberal arts colleges, and it was something that I very much wanted to be a part of," he says. "I genuinely feel that it is an institution that draws people who want to learn and [teaches them] how to learn. I talked to alumni at this event. And it's fascinating to see if they've graduated in '07 or in '57, they're still going at life as a learning experience. That seems to be a part of Grinnell."

Originally published as an online web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Winter 2007

Campus Mystery

darly lit loggia with bikesGrinnell Magazine Wins National CASE Award

For the first time in its 40-year history, The Grinnell Magazine has been honored by the CASE Circle of Excellence Award program. The magazine won a silver award in the "Best Articles of the Year" category for "Campus Mystery: My Search for the Duclod Man," by freelance writer Sarah Aswell '04. Like a number of Grinnell students and alumni over the last 15 years, she received a disturbing anonymous letter from the "duclod man." Read the fascinating story of Aswell's search for the letter-writer through some of the darkest, most shadowy corners of the Internet.

As early as 1992, students at Grinnell College began receiving strange, anonymous letters in the mail. The letters contained homemade greeting cards with crudely drawn pictures -- men crawling, toilets and trash cans, twin closet doors -- and jokes that didn't make sense. Q: What would a duclod like about the land of the giants? A: Standing in two closets without touching either knob.

In one mysterious letter, the sender defined the made-up word duclod as the fusion of two words, dual and closeted, a person who hides his or her sexuality from both gay and straight people. Another letter described duclod as "bisexual, homophobic, heterophobic, confused."

The letters were sent in groups, four to seven cards reported at a time. They were postmarked from different, seemingly random parts of the country, and always sent during school breaks. Mostly, the letters targeted gay and bisexual seniors.

That's all anyone knew for 14 years.

Spring 2004

I receive my duclod letter during spring break of my senior year. There's no return address, but it's postmarked Hartford, Conn. My address is scribbled in big, rough block letters. Inside the envelope is a piece of paper folded like a greeting card. Inside the greeting card are sheets of paper with photocopied text running crooked off the page. On one side, a strange message: "if you like shaving cats, try shaving crayons." On the facing side: "it takes two hands to handle a duclod."

I'm alone in my apartment. Reading the letter, my muscles tighten and my face heats up. I turn on the TV and all the lights.

I'm familiar with the duclod mystery -- it's Grinnell's rural legend. A few friends have received letters, and I tell myself they're probably nothing more than an elaborate, albeit malicious, joke.

The next morning I walk to the student affairs office. An administrator shakes her head and shows me the letters they have on file, from the crisp white letters of recent vintage to the aging, creased pages from the early '90s.

"These are just the ones reported," she tells me.

She fills me in on everything they know. Campus security has been investigating the case with no luck. The Grinnell police have been informed. She tries to take my letter for the file, but I hold on to it. It was sent to me; it's mine.

I call an old friend, Fred, who received a letter a few years ago (even though he's straight). He wrote an article about it for the school newspaper in February 2001. He tells me the letters were often sent from Boston and Worcester, Mass., and Memphis, Tenn. For years there has been duclod graffiti in the men's bathrooms on campus. "Duclods die twice," was scrawled on a wall in the library basement. Fred said everyone had pet theories. He had to be a student -- how else could he know who the bisexual students were? He had to be a Grinnell staff member -- he had been sending letters for more than a decade. "He" had to be a group of students, a sort of sick club, passing down the tradition as members graduated.

Fred also tells me I can find duclod jokes on the Internet -- someone named Chamo Howards posts them in random online forums and on message boards.
It takes me two years to find him.

"Chamo Howards" isn't his real name, of course. Neither is "Red Kuller," "Professor Xlhoip," or "D. Trapper." I track him through dozens of fake names and websites. Each new page reveals something darker about the man I am looking for. He is obsessed with bodily functions; his favorite drawing is a crude toilet seat with beans balanced on top.

I begin to recognize patterns -- the way he constructs sentences, his diction, the types of sites he visits, his calling cards. A picture of a jack-o'-lantern. Puns that don't quite work. Posts at 4 or 5 in the morning.

Fall 2005

I've entered graduate school, but I haven't forgotten the letter I received before leaving Grinnell. A big break comes the day I find Red Kuller's home page.

When I click on the link, and my mail client automatically opens and tries to send a mass e-mail from my personal account. The heading reads, "The bad machine doesn't know it's a bad machine." I close the message without sending it, and a website pops up: Welcome to Desolation.

The website is full of conspiracy theories and ramblings. But in between the creepy gibberish, I find my first real insights into the person who sent my letter. He likes the Red Sox, linking him to Massachusetts. There's also a link to Camp Arrowhead, a small summer camp in Massachusetts. It's a tiny glimpse of normalcy. Did he work there?

Each discovery of a new fake word or new fake name leads to more pages, jokes, fake words, and names. I've learned to navigate the Internet's maze, the forgotten pages in ancient HTML, the boarded-up houses of the World Wide Web. I've trolled joke sites no one has visited since 1996. I've lurked in guest books no longer connected to home pages. But none of it links to a real person.

I've formed him completely in my mind. He's male, middle-aged, awkward-looking. He's single, outwardly quiet and polite. He grew up in Massachusetts and has family in Memphis. Too many letters came from these two places for it to be otherwise. He is, I decided, bisexual. He is a duclod.

I don't have any solid evidence to back up that last point, but I feel the truth in it. He sends the letters to shame, to out, to accuse, but the issues seem personal.

Winter 2006

A duclod joke is found scrawled in a bathroom at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire. Fred forwards me an e-mail from a student at the University of Kansas who received a letter and had no idea what it was about. Chamo is widening his field.

I begin to collect the dozens of e-mail addresses Chamo leaves in his wake. I write to them from a fake address I've created, calling myself "Maggie Pie" or "Maggpie." "What is your real name?" "Answer me." My e-mails don't bounce back, but he never responds.

My next break comes in February. It's 3 a.m. and I'm on one of Chamo's many webpages. As with the Red Kuller site, my e-mail client opens, and Chamo attempts to e-mail people from my account. I scroll through the addresses that automatically appear, as I have a hundred times before. This time I notice one address that is always, always on the list. I nervously type the address into Google, and a single page pops up. Her name is Melanie Owings, and she lives in western Massachusetts. I have the real name of a real person.

I Google her full name, and what I find scares me. Melanie is mentioned in many of Chamo's strange forum postings. He writes hidden messages about her, matching the color of the font to the color of the background -- when I highlight the pages, the messages pop out. "My name is Melanie," he writes, and I know he's lying.

I e-mail her. "I'm looking for someone who wrote me an anonymous letter," I write vaguely. "I know this is strange, but please write back."

She writes that she doesn't know anyone connected to Grinnell College. I write back, stupidly, "Are you sure?" She doesn't answer. I wish I had asked her about Memphis, about Camp Arrowhead, about any shy, awkward middle-aged men she might know.

Suddenly I realize what I've been doing -- e-mailing strangers from an anonymous, fake address and harassing them. My big break is a dead end and a wake-up call. I'm no better than Red Kuller.

Early Spring 2006

I find him on a Friday. Chamo's newest character, "Pilldown Man," leads me to the home page of "Chillee UmGum." I highlight the page and find a secret message. It's a link that says, "This is my maker." I hold my breath and click.

His name is Richard. He likes to farm, and his real-life webpage is about organic farming. The image at the top of the home page is the jack-o'-lantern I've seen so many times. I click on the "résumé" link, and his life pops up before me.

His picture: an awkward-looking, overweight, middle-aged man with glasses. He lives in Memphis. He went to college in western Massachusetts. He grew up in Lawrence, Kan. His father had taught at the University of Kansas, where the latest duclod letter had been sent. He links to Camp Arrowhead. I look at the web address and see the term "shavescats." I remember well the strange message in my own letter.

I have my guy. And he loves gardening.

I had thought finding him would satisfy me, but almost immediately I'm thinking about what to do next. I now have his name, address, phone number, and real e-mail address. I want to out him somehow.

I call Grinnell College and talk to the administrator again. She's intrigued, but points to an obvious flaw -- I can't connect Richard to Grinnell College. He doesn't mention it on his home page, and he isn't an alumnus or a former employee.

I call him. I don't plan on saying anything; I just want to hear his voice, either in person or on his answering machine. But when the machine picks up, it's just an automated female voice.

I e-mail him. I use my alias because I'm still scared and because Chamo has taught me how to act like him. More and more I want to conceal and confuse; I want to find out about him without him finding anything out about me. I write him three times: "Are you Chamo?" "Why do you do this?"

He is silent.

I e-mail him again, taking a different tack. I write him something I think he will like. I make sure it's nonsensical, make sure it's not actually funny. I wonder if this completes my transformation into Chamo.

He writes back within the hour: "Pretty funny." I write him back two more times: "How are you connected with Grinnell?" "Why do you do this to people? Are you a duclod?" He never writes back.

Grinnell's spring break ends in a week, and I imagine letters trickling in from some strange corner of the country. If even one of the recipients feels shame for who they are, did I fail?

April 2006

I take my duclod letter out of its worn envelope. I write across it, big: "This is Maggpie. Stop sending letters, Richard." I put my duclod letter in a new envelope with Richard's address on it. I mail it to him.

Fall 2007

The letters didn't stop. A senior at Grinnell received one over Christmas break, postmarked Memphis, Tenn. It had all of the telltale signs -- an odd joke and childish, disturbing illustrations. More jokes were posted in abandoned Internet guest books.

Revisiting Richard, I felt like an alcoholic who makes any excuse for another drink. I told myself I'd stop after I found his name. Then I told myself I'd stop after I sent him back the letter. Now I wanted to talk to him.

First I found the Duclod Man's father, or rather, his obituary. He was a chemistry professor at the University of Kansas, the only other school that received a significant number of letters. The obit listed his surviving relatives. Duclod Man had a sister, Janis, in Memphis, and a brother, Allen, in Albuquerque. His mother, Mary, lived in Memphis, and his stepmother, Catherine, in Bennington, Vt. The locations matched the postmarks I had scribbled down more than a year ago off the Duclod Man's envelopes.

I called his mother. I didn't know what to say. She was elderly and didn't ask why I was calling. He lived alone, she said, and I could call him at work -- a doughnut shop. I thanked her and hung up. A doughnut shop?

I called his sister-in-law, Elaine, and his sister, Janis. This time I was able to stammer out my story. They were shocked and surprised, but perhaps not as much as I expected.

Richard was autistic, they explained, or a mixture of problems, possibly indefinable. He grew up in the 1950s, before anyone knew much about such conditions. They hadn't even heard about autism until Richard was in his 20s. He was intellectually normal, Janis said, maybe even above average, but emotionally he functioned like a 10-year-old. He was much better at written communication than conversation. He liked numbers and making up words. He was, she said simply, odd.

Elaine was a little more descriptive about his mental health: Richard spent his days watching black-and-white science fiction movies, tinkering on his computer, and possibly drinking too much. He didn't quite know how to take care of himself -- you had to tell him to bathe and change his clothes. He probably shouldn't live alone, she said, but his mother had always been in denial about his mental health. We have our own families and careers, Elaine said, and we're all used to the way he is. Most of the time we leave him alone.

I looked through letters -- borrowed from a Grinnell student affairs file -- spread out in front of me. I was searching for anything from Albuquerque, where Elaine and Richard's brother, Allen, lived. There were two postmarked in late November. Did Richard ever visit for Thanksgiving? Yes, said Elaine, a number of times.

The family helped me put together other pieces of the puzzle. Richard's connection to Grinnell, which had remained a nagging mystery, stretched back almost 100 years. His grandfather had been an organic chemistry professor there and raised his family in town. Richard's mother and aunts attended Grinnell. Over the years, his mother had taken him to summer reunions to visit friends and family, which gave him the chance to write duclod graffiti on campus and perhaps snag a campus directory.

I told the family what I knew, and they told me what they knew. First of all, they said, he's not Richard. He's Rick. I had to repeat it to myself: he's Rick. For hours on the phone, I listened to their stories and watched their Rick come to life while my Richard dissolved into the background.

This is Rick: his one true love is organic gardening, and, Elaine explained, he's extremely talented. As his small house disappears under years of unopened mail, his backyard thrives. What does he do with the excess vegetables? The same thing he does with the leftover doughnuts from his job -- he takes them to a food bank.

This is Rick: he spends much of his time rocking in an old rocking chair. The slats are broken from overuse. Rick's rocking has worn through the carpet, through the floor, and polished the concrete. The image stays with me. As I read about autism, I learned that rocking is a classic comforting behavior.

It wouldn't be appropriate or helpful for me to speak with Rick, Janis insisted. As much as I felt I needed to hear his voice and ask him questions, everything I learned told me Rick wasn't in control of his actions or his words, and his slow, stumbling speech wasn't a true representation of who he was. At the same time, I saw them protecting him.

They showed me Rick, and I tried to show them Richard, the Duclod Man. I sent them links to the webpages where he wrote as Red Kuller, Chillee Ugum, and Professor Xlhoip. All three family members said the same thing: I would have never guessed he would write these things, but I can tell it's him. All three are convinced he's harmless. His health is failing. He's obese. He has heart, cholesterol, and sleep apnea problems.

Regardless, I want the letters to stop.

Janis agreed to talk to Rick and tell him to stop what he was doing. I couldn't wait to hear what he said, but when she called back she didn't have much to report. He denied sending the letters, but his body language told her otherwise. He admitted to coining the word duclod and confirmed its meaning -- bisexual, closeted, confused. She told him to take down his websites, and he agreed.

Rick did what she asked, kind of. He posted an apology, then took it down and added some disturbing links. It's as if he can't help it.

When I read the apology, I was thrown back to the starting line emotionally. In a long letter titled "I Went Postal" (a pun and a perfect calling card for Richard), he tries to explain himself. I see the man I spent years searching for, but I also see the sadness and the complexity of living with a mental illness. He talked about his deep fear of dogs. He talked about his struggle with Christianity. He talked about a cousin who killed her mother.

The letter wove in and out of reality, between Richard and Rick.

For a moment Rick peeked out. "My father told me I was born with autism, a disease for which the prognosis is never very good, but my mother told me that when I was a few months old, my father flung me across the room like a rag doll and I landed on my head," he wrote. "I have always been one to lose it easily, and I was on the psychiatrist's couch from age 5 to 12 for this. My mother told me time after time 'get well,' 'get well,' 'stop thinking sick thoughts.'" Rick seems aware of his issues.

Then Richard appeared in the letter: "Once I signed my fate in blood over to the Tabular Turtle, a turtle with a tail at both ends and no head, I knew I was not a Christian."

This is Richard: paranoid, mischievous, scared.

I called Janis, and she confirmed some of it. Their cousin Alice smothered her mother to death during a paranoid schizophrenic episode; their own mother sometimes blamed Rick's condition on a childhood accident, sometimes on a difficult two-day labor. Elaine alluded to a family history of mental illness and social difficulties, and explained that Rick's mother is a Christian Scientist. In that faith, when you're sick it's your fault, she said, so how can you reconcile the fact that your child has a disability?

Janis also told me Rick was sent to a state hospital for two weeks when he was 13. No one can quite remember why or what happened to him there. But being sent back, Allen told me, is Rick's biggest fear.

As the years passed, all three agree, it was easier for everyone to let Rick be. On the surface he lived a quiet life. Even now, Janis worries therapy would be disruptive for him. But the more I read about autism, the more I'm convinced he'll sink deeper into his disturbed world if he continues to go untreated.

For me, everything over the last three years of my search -- and everything back to Rick growing up with autism in the 1950s -- comes down to a lack of understanding.

I can imagine Rick biking down some quiet street, 40 years ago, being teased and not understanding why he was different, and his mother still not understanding there are better options for him. "I now fail to see the value of being human," Rick wrote in his apology. "Some have told me I would never become a man. I always looked for others to feel superior to and really thought I could build myself up by putting others down, but it just doesn't work that way over the long haul."

This is Rick becoming Richard -- reading conspiracy theory webpages for years until he learned to make his own, writing hateful things in strange letters he dropped in the mail genuinely not knowing why, his mental illness left untended and undefined, his self-esteem low, and his sci-fi tapes in meticulous order.

My hatred for Richard ended when his anonymity did. Talking to his family strangely makes me hopeful. If my Duclod Man had been sane and reasonable and still filled with hate, I would feel hopeless. Rick simply doesn't have the tools to understand his dark places, but perhaps now has the opportunity to find some peace.

And this is a good place for me to leave him -- not on the Internet and not with a letter, but with his newly aware family hopefully taking some new steps with him, his rocking chair, and his garden.

Editor's Note: Names and places in this story have been changed. A longer version of this story originally appeared in The Advocate.

Tenure

 

Tenure: on its face, not the loveliest of words. But there are few as sweet in the ears of an early-career academic. Tenure signifies job security, the acceptance of one's senior colleagues, a feeling of belonging and - perhaps most importantly - support for a life's work.

But while tenure is an obvious watershed in a young professor's life, it is also an important moment in the life of the community that awards it. Those receiving tenure stop being seen as academic gypsies - transients who'll disappear soon on their way to another term position in another place - and begin to become institutions.

Inevitably, they will change the character of their departments and their colleges, as well as influencing the generations of students who will come through the doors to their classrooms and offices in the years to come. This is especially true in a small, close-knit community like Grinnell, and in recognition of this fact, we thought we'd take a closer look at the latest group - two women and two men; three in the English department and one in the Spanish department - who've been invited to sink roots here.

These professors are:

Originally published as a web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Summer 2007

The Innovators

drawing of  a light bulb

Perhaps we've all had a flash of inspiration that we were positive would lead to success: the million-dollar idea, the can't-miss business concept, the surefire solution to a vexing problem.

While most of us never get those great ideas off the drawing board, the Grinnellians on these pages have turned their visions into reality. From part-time businesses to companies with a global reach, they've found willing buyers for their innovative approaches.

Their stories are inspiring and engaging -- and we hope they might even motivate you to take action on your own grand plan:


 

Animal Instincts

Like most veterinarians, Dierdre Farr '75 got into the field because she wanted to heal animals, but after more than a decade in practice, she began to fear that even her best work might be doing more harm than good. Many of the treatments she prescribed for animals were painful, invasive, expensive, and worst of all, didn't always result in improvement.

"Western medicine does a lot of good things, but it's a flawed system," she says.

Frustrated by the limitations she saw in her field, she was on the verge of letting her license lapse when she began studying Eastern philosophy and medicine. She was intrigued by its non-invasive, holistic approach to health, and when she met another vet who'd transferred the approach to his practice, she was convinced she'd found a way to reconcile her desire to heal with her interest in compassionate care. "This was a gentler medicine," she says. "It fit my personality."

She took classes to learn how to do animal acupuncture, chiropractic care, and herbal medicine, and she began rethinking the way she practiced veterinary medicine. To rebuild her career, she bought a house in Des Moines with an attached clinic, and rethought her previous approach to the animals she treated.

From beginning to end, Farr was committed to keeping animals calm and comfortable: instead of practicing on cold and sterile exam tables, she uses a futon, and she'll often spend more than an hour with an animal on the initial visit so that she can get a good sense of the animal's physical and emotional health before suggesting treatment. Her recommendations range from diet and lifestyle changes to acupuncture and chiropractic care; she uses no traditional Western-style medicine.

It wasn't long she found a devoted base of clients. "I have a group of clients who already have a holistic bent and just like the philosophy of care, but I also see people who have dead-ended with Western medicine," she says. She finds that her methods are particularly effective for older animals with chronic conditions such as arthritis.

She admits that Eastern medicine can't solve every malady. "It's not usually for acute situations," she acknowledges. "I always tell people that if my appendix is about to burst, I'm not going to go on acupuncture." Still, she believes that her approach holds an essential place in the spectrum of medical care, and she's earned the respect of many other veterinarians in the area, who will frequently refer patients to her if they believe an animal could benefit from her techniques.

As health care for animals continues to rise, Farr says it's time that people recognize the benefits of alternative medicine. "We're willing to spend thousands of dollars a year to pay for medicines for our pets, but so much of it is a crutch to deal with the side effects of other drugs.

"Sometimes less is more," she says. "I think there's a place for all of us."

See more at: Natural Solutions for Pets (previously Des Moines Veterinary Acupuncture).

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VersaTile

Ed Gates '79 knows that when most people think of tile, they think square, and they think floors: kitchens, bathrooms, and patios, mostly. But as a founder of Aloe Tile, he'd like to see people expand their horizons a bit. "We try to define tile as we're going," he says of the two-person shop that he runs with his wife, Cornelia. "You can do anything with a tile -- it can be interlocking, like a puzzle piece, or tessellating, like an M.C. Escher drawing -- a bird turning into a wave turning into a fish. It's open to your imagination."

You won't find his tiles at Home Depot or Lowe's, but if you visit one of the 20 or so public schools, the bus shelter, or the two public rest areas where his work has been commissioned, you'll see his creations on the walls. For more than a decade, Gates has been handcrafting tiles to use for murals, wall hangings, tables, and as commemorative pieces. "People want beauty and color in their lives," he says. "[Handmade] tile can express a person's individuality."

Gates first got interested in ceramics in junior high. He bought his first wheel in high school, and at Grinnell, he ran campus workshops in pottery in the basement of Darby. After earning a degree in ceramics from Kansas City Art Institute, he bounced around the Midwest before landing in Texas, where he took on jobs as a potter, woodworker, and teacher.

It was while working as a teacher at the Corpus Christi Creative Arts Center that he began delving into tile more seriously. The local regional transit authority wanted to work closely with the center and the community to beautify a bus shelter, and Gates helmed the project, working with art educators, students, and other artists within the community to create a mural of tiles.

Gates loved the project, which allowed him to focus on his art while working with the community, and that became the basis for Aloe Tile. He began taking on other tile projects, like murals for public schools and (perhaps more surprisingly) rest areas. "When people get off the road, they don't want to see an old, scary rest stop," he says. "They want to be at a place where they can breathe and stretch. [The murals] are etched and hand-designed and painted. It's a lovely thing."

His tiles, which are often quite detailed, look almost like paintings. They might feature birds, animal, people, or landscapes. And while many are designed to be stand-alone pieces, others are incorporated as accents into projects with "field tile" -- the solid color tiles that most people think of when they think of tile.

Now working in a large warehouse just a block from Corpus Christi Bay, he and his wife keep busy working on large beautification projects and smaller works including thousands of "ceramic documents" created to commemorate and recognize outstanding service, tenure on boards, or special events.

While his services are in demand, he's happy just where he is. He says he never wants to be sitting in an office just overseeing tile work -- he's committed to keeping his hands in clay.

"Our interest isn't in getting bigger and bigger," he says. "Our interest is in making something better every day. We're trying to create beauty."

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This Is Your Life

When Ebenezer Scrooge tossed and turned his way through an evening full of nightmares in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, he was having more than just a rough night -- he was undergoing a life review, says Ellen Leupker '64. By examining the events of his earlier life through older, wiser eyes, he began to understand who he was -- and how he might still change.

Most of us won't have such perfectly-sequenced, epiphany-revealing dreams, but Luepker, the founder of Living Portraits, believes that the life review process is for more than just characters in novels. "[A life review] is for many people -- people who may be terminally ill, or people in their 70s or 80s -- or even their 40s or 50s," she says. "A life review can create coherence and purpose in people's lives. They become clearer about who they are, and it can enhance the sense of meaning in their own lives."

Since 1995, Luepker has been creating video life reviews through Living Portraits. She works with individuals and their families to capture the highlights of a person's life through thoughtful questions that get to the heart of how they've lived their lives.

The process from start to finish is remarkably thorough: once a life review is requested (often by family members of a particular individual), Luepker meets with the subject of the life review, then collects questions from family members. After organizing the questions chronologically, she meets with the individual for two or three two-hour sessions and goes through the questions, videotaping the entire process. From there, the video is edited, organized, and put on a DVD. In all, the process can take up to 60 hours to complete. "People find this to be an extremely pleasurable experience," she says. "It's not therapy, but it's a therapeutic experience."

The therapeutic aspect of the work is part of the reason she got into the business in the first place. Luepker, who has done psychotherapy and counseling work for decades, says she was inspired to start Living Portraits after she learned about a graduate school mentor who had done life histories for older women in Japan. "I was fascinated by the process," she says. "People need to review their lives and make meaning out of them." Her training in psychotherapy gave her the skills to do loosely structured interviews that guide -- but don't intrude on -- a given train of thought.

While life reviews are similar to the more commonly known oral histories, there are key differences. Unlike oral histories, which tend to focus on particular groups of people -- nurses in World War II or survivors of the Holocaust -- life reviews focus on individuals. They also don't limit the discussion only to a particular segment of a person's life.

She says the visual aspect of these life reviews are also unique. "With video, people can remember the body language of those who are no longer with them."

While Luepker's Living Portraits work represents only a portion of her income (she also continues her therapy work, supervises training for psychiatry residents, and has authored books on counseling), she finds the work finds deeply satisfying. Last year, she had a dozen clients, and as the baby boomer population ages, she'll have a growing audience for her work. And someday, she may even turn the camera on herself.

"I think that I would welcome the opportunity to do a life review," she says. "I'd love to have my own children asking the questions."

See more at: Living Portraits.

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Betting on the House

When Rob Buntz '74 first got into the real estate business in 1977, he bought a run-down duplex in St. Paul, fixed it up himself, and sold it for a profit. Since then, he's done the same with condos, townhouses, and hotels -- renovating the spaces and turning a profit by renting or selling them. But now he's got an even bigger idea: he'd like to fix the real estate business itself.

Buntz has spent most of his career in real estate, but admits that that it wasn't his plan when he graduated from Grinnell. He took a job as an admission counselor at Macalester College. but it wasn't long before he was itching to be on his own. He'd worked in construction before heading to Grinnell, and he thought he might be able to parlay the skill into his own business. "I had this romantic notion that I was going to design and build furniture," he says.

It was a successful venture, but as his customers requested ever-larger projects, like built-in shelving, decks, and house additions, he saw a new opportunity in real estate. He bought a duplex in need of repairs just a few blocks from Macalester -- a purchase he financed with a credit card -- and began renovating the spaces. "I did a lot of the work myself, and I was living in the plaster dust," he says.

His success with the duplex -- as well as the red-hot real estate market -- led to other projects, and by 1981, he was mulling over the idea of buying a Lake Superior resort that had fallen on hard times.

By that time, however, real estate was crashing. "I was still pretty young, and I hadn't noticed that the economy had gone in the tank, interest rates were high, and we were in a pretty bad recession," he recalls. "It took me two and a half years before I finally got a shovel in the ground. I can't tell you how many bank doors I knocked on, trying to find someone who would provide financing."

The wait proved to be worth it. Bluefin Bay, the result of the purchase and renovation, has been a remarkably successful resort, attracting couples and families year-round for summer activities, fall color tours, and winter skiing and snowshoeing.

Buntz has other projects in Minnesota and Colorado, but after three decades in real estate, he's turned his attention to the business itself. This past spring, he launched WebDigs.com, a site that's a mash-up of traditional real estate sites and Google maps. It offers a flat rate for buying or selling a home -- and, he promises, as much information and savvy as most of the best real estate agents.

In addition to locating properties within a specific price range and offering specific features, the site can also find houses that are within a few minutes of your office, church, or favorite shops. You can also request a specific school district. "These are the sorts of things that a really great real estate agent would know -- but this is something you can do right on the website," he says, noting that the cost is significantly below the traditional 6 percent commission that an agent would command. "It's the best of both worlds."

He says the time is right for such an advance. "When Charles Schwab announced that it was taking everything to the Internet, everyone laughed at him, but we went from paying $250 to a broker for a couple of stocks to $7.95 on eTrade," he says. "The same is going to happen to real estate industry for the same reasons. The consumer now has access to the information because of the Internet."

While the site will only offer information on Twin Cities homes for now, he's hopeful that it will expand significantly over the next two years. You can bet on it: after all, he's proved adept at finding the perfect opportunity -- and improving it.

See more at: Bluefin Bay.

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Picture Perfect

If you want to relive your childhood memories, you might start by hauling out a few scrapbooks and flipping through the pages. If kids today want to do the same a few decades from now, they might end up heading to a computer and pulling up images on a website.

When Creative Memories (then Shoebox to Showcase) began in 1987, its founders had to reinvent the way scrapbooks were marketed and sold. Two decades later, with digital photography and the Internet changing the way we save, store, and display our images, Creative Memories President Asha Moran '92 is helping transform the company again. "This is [the company's] 20th anniversary, but we really have to think entrepreneurially again," she says. "Digital photography has had a huge impact."

Creative Memories made its presence felt early on with an innovative way of selling scrapbooks: instead of picking up supplies at a craft store, independent consultants hosted workshops to sell scrapbook supplies -- think Mary Kay or Tupperware. Those who came to events brought their favorite photos, and consultants helped attendees select the right products for their scrapbooking goals. The events may have been about buying and selling products, but people returned month after month because of the social aspect of the parties. "People love to come to the workshops, because they get to tell stories about their families and they build these very strong relationships with other people who they see on a monthly basis," explains Moran.

That successful scrapbooking model began to change in the late 1990s, when digital photography became more popular. That was about the time that Moran signed on with the company to host parties. While she had an easy link to the company -- her grandfather started the parent company of Creative Memories -- she had plenty of credentials to help her move up in the organization. Her business background as a consultant for Deloitte and Accenture, combined with the frontline experience as a host, helped her make strides in the company.

As she moved up the ranks in the company, eventually settling in as president in 2004, she saw that the Creative Memories would have to adapt to the changes that were happening in photography. "We know that there are diehard scrapbookers who love the social dynamic," she says. "But there's a different segment of the market that wants something faster and cleaner and easier that they can on their own time."

Rather than push stubbornly ahead with the business model that had worked in the past, the company decided to add a digital component to their business. They developed software that helped scrapbookers organize and personalize their photos, create scrapbooks online, and order copies of their creations to ship directly to them. "The great thing is that it can be duplicated," she says. "So you can create an album for each sibling at a family reunion, or for each kid after a trip."

While Moran admits that competition is getting stiffer -- sites like Shutterfly and Snapfish are taking a big piece of the digital photography pie -- she believes that scrapbooking in many forms will continue to thrive.

With company consultants in nearly a dozen countries, including Japan, Germany, Canada, and Australia, she sees a world of opportunity ahead.

"It's amazing how much is universal," she says. "People love to tell their stories and celebrate their memories no matter where they live."

See more at: Creative Memories.

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One Man's Trash, Another Man's Treasure

Lugging your garbage can out to the curb each week might be a nuisance, but for local and state governments that have to find a place for all of it, it can be an even bigger hassle. Americans send 140 million tons of trash to the landfill each year.

But landfills aren't just a smelly eyesore -- they can downright dangerous. Harmful chemicals from our discarded stuff can leach into the groundwater, and a significant amount of methane, a greenhouse gas that is far more damaging to the atmosphere than carbon dioxide, is released from landfills as well.

And that's where Steve Korstad '72 comes in. Korstad, the chief financial officer at Coronal, believes there's an elegant to solution to the growing problem, and it's called combined heat and power (CHP). He's convinced it has the potential to reduce landfill waste while creating an efficient form of energy. With the help of local and state government officials, his company plans to build a CHP facility in International Falls, Minn. If all goes well, it could be the first one in the nation.

At the heart of the solution is the plasma torch. The torch, which was first developed by NASA, creates an electrical arc that can reach temperatures of 25,000° F (hotter than the surface of the sun). The heat breaks down waste into basic elemental components; the resulting gases can be converted into energy, and the solids are transformed into a glassy, igneous rock that can be used for road aggregate, tile, or bricks. "All the bad stuff, like mercury and lead, gets encapsulated in the rock, and it doesn't leach out into the water," Korstad says.

Unlike the incinerator technology that has been used to burn trash and produce energy for decades, the plasma torch technology has the potential to offer a cleaner, more efficient way to produce energy. The CHP facility in International Falls, which will be able to process about 100 tons of trash daily, could produce enough energy to power more than 3,000 homes.

While the technology isn't brand new (there are facilities in Japan already using the plasma torch technology), there's nothing yet available in the United States.

Korstad says there's growing interest in finding solutions for the landfill problem. In addition to grassroots support that plasma torch technology is seeing from communities where landfills are becoming major problems, government funding is helping foot the bill to get the first CHP facility up and running. In 2006, Coronal received $2.5 million from the state of Minnesota to help with design and construction of a CHP facility, and Korstad estimates that the first CHP facility could be up and running in Minnesota as early as 2009.

"If it works, people can come up and kick the tires, so to speak," says Korstad. With its scalable and modular design, he's optimistic that plenty of places will be able to use the technology to address the landfill problem. "This is something that could be implemented throughout Minnesota and the rest of the country."

See more at: Coronal.

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The Best Medicine

Atulya Risal '90 had his life all mapped out when he left Grinnell: he'd get a master's degree in electrical engineering, follow it up with a Ph.D., and land a cushy job soon after. He was dutifully plugging away at a master's at Purdue when a friend asked Risal to join him and two others to create a new software company.

"It was a fork in the road," he admits. "But I was getting bored in Indiana, so I said I'd do it for a year." He wrapped up his studies and headed down to Florida to join his friends, and he never looked back

He and three others founded Pilgrim Software in 1994, a business that builds compliance and quality management systems primarily for medical device, pharmaceutical, and biotechnology companies.

It may sound complicated, but the idea is fairly simple: because of the growing global marketplace, a wide variety of government entities and outside organizations have developed standards to ensure the safety of products that are developed. Whether it's a regulation developed by the FDA or a section from Sarbanes-Oxley, companies must know and follow the guidelines set forth. Pilgrim's software helps companies keep on top of these requirements. "We have applications that help our customers run their process better, and in that process, they also comply to the regulations," he explains.

The company started just before web and software companies started receiving millions of dollars of venture capital (VC) funding during the dot-com boom, but Risal says they already had everything they needed. "We say we had VC funding -- Visa cards," he says wryly.

While it's easy to joke now, he admits that the early days were tough, and he and the other founders considered getting day jobs while they worked to get the company off the ground. Ultimately, they opted against it. "We decided we had to jump in with both feet," he says. "If it wasn't going to work, we still wanted to be able to say that we had done our best." These days, it's no longer a worry: the company has attracted many big-name clients including Pfizer, Bristol-Myers-Squib, and Boston Scientific.

It took a bit more than a year before the company was in the black, and today, Pilgrim Software employs about 100 people in the United States and another couple dozen in countries around the world.

With the benefit of hindsight, Risal says he'd encourage almost any recent graduate to try to start up a business. "The time to work the hardest is in your 20s, when you have the most energy. You might as well push yourself and do something for yourself," he says. "If it doesn't work out, you can always work for someone else in your 30s.

"To me, it's been an adventure every day," he says. "There's always a factor of luck in whatever you do, but you should pursue what you believe in."

See more at: Pilgrim Software. [Update: Pilgrim Software is now Pilgrim Quality Solutions]

Originally published as an online web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Fall 2007

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Commencement 2007

A graduating student fully gowned It wasn't real. We black-robed, silly-hatted seniors gathered outside of ARH to wait for the exercises of commencement to start -- which meant we were graduating. And none of us could believe that we were actually graduating, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I thought it was more likely that the whole deal was a lame practical joke. Our professors would wink at us when we got our diplomas, and we'd open them up to see just a big GOTCHA where a real diploma should be. So we seniors made small talk, joked, took photos, and began sweating through the graduation robes.">

And then, as if guided by some mystical force, we arranged ourselves in alphabetical order and started to walk from the front of ARH to the lawns of Central Campus, where we were to sit in uncomfortable plastic chairs, lose about a gallon of sweat, and somehow complete four years of top-notch liberal arts education.

When we, the class of 2007, first came to Grinnell, we were probably too busy trying to impress our fellow college students with how college-studenty we were to think of ever leaving Grinnell. But we were there at commencement, older, more freaked out, and presumably wiser, to do that very thing. The ceremony was all incredibly uplifting and wise, I have to tell you. But I found I couldn't think about duty, or education, or any of the things I was being encouraged to worry about in profound ways -- I had more practical things to do.

Like sweat. Those black robes, in the still stifling midday heat of an Iowa summer, make a person feel less like they were graduating from an elite liberal arts institution and more like he or she was stranded in the Sahara, and the buzzards are gathering overhead. What most observers would take as a look of sublimity on our faces, or satisfaction, or relief, was more likely the symptoms of heat stroke. I even watched a ragged student take off his robes and wring the water out of them, before he swooned and fell face-first into the mortar board of the person in front of him. His parents probably thought he was doing something academic, and snapped a couple photos to show the folks back home.

When I wasn't sweating, I thought about how I needed to pee, and when I didn't think about that, I was disappointed. After the high school band played every uplifting tune besides "Pomp and Circumstance," after we filed into our seats, after the chaplain prayed to an inoffensive, one-sized-fits-all higher power, after the speeches were all read, the honorary degrees awarded, the hands clapped, the class of 2007 rose up, one by one, to shake President Osgood's hand and grab a diploma. Then we sat back down, watched the rest of the parade, and tried to clap extra-loud when one of our friends mounted the stage.

This was important, I guess. But shouldn't my brain grow a couple sizes larger now? Shouldn't I be able to wave my diploma in front of a prospective employer's face and get a job? Shouldn't something happen?

But then it was over. No lightning, no fire. We just all pulled off our robes and collapsed in heaps in the shade. Families found their children, and the children tried to lose their families, and off we all went to a picnic on South Campus so we Grinnellians could get one last chance at making awkward conversation. Mingling for Grinnellians is a bit of a difficult proposition normally. In Grinnell you might awkwardly wave at a person, say, you kissed one night. But at the picnic, you get introduced the girl's parents, siblings, and aunts, and they want to know everything about you -- and that certainly presents some problems. Our oldest friends from college were introduced to our friends who knew us when we picked our noses and played with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; our teachers were introduced to our parents -- one side of the equation having taught us how to think critically, write, and live -- the other side having taught us, among other things, how not to poop our pants.

Once the picnic ended, we wandered away to family dinners and naps. We would never take another Grinnell class. We would never again walk through the loggias and see familiar faces, and try to avoid those familiar faces. We were leaving everything behind -- besides our diplomas.

The few Grinnellians who stuck around Grinnell found the pub soon empty, the campus abandoned, our lives together stopped, almost mid-motion. It seemed cruel to leave Grinnell like that, the place that we had known for so long, to to have say goodbye to everyone, to have to get a job, to take off that sweaty black robe and that silly square hat and actually have to miss what we were about to leave behind -- the all-nighters, the bad parties, the awkward conversations. It wasn't uplifting or exciting. It was sad. Not just because it was an end of something big, but because it felt like our shared lives didn't have to end right then, like we could live in college our whole lives and never have to leave anyone.

But we were finally Grinnellians. You become a Grinnellian, I think, only when you leave, only when the chemical reaction of classes and stress and dining hall food and everything have done their slow invisible work and you bring your new knowledge and understanding into the outside world where you can actually appreciate it. Because being a Grinnellian isn't about being in Grinnell, or even talking with Grinnellians (or logging onto Plans). It's about a certain way of looking at the world and caring about what you look at.

Maybe that's why I was disappointed with the pomp -- I was expecting it to be a celebration of us leaving Grinnell. It wasn't that at all. It was about how we had become Grinnellians. It was about how we were not done yet. We were only just beginning.

But maybe that's just the heat stroke talking.

For more from Brendan Mackie '07, visit his blogs at: bmackie.blogspot.com and 100peaches.blogspot.com.

Originally published as an online web extra for The Grinnell Magazine, Fall 2007

Pope Benedict XVI, Islam, and Interreligious Dialogue

 

Harold Kasimow talking to people while sittingIn meeting with a Muslim delegation in Cologne, Germany, on Aug. 20, 2005, Pope Benedict began with, "Dear Muslim friends," and concluded as follows: "Interreligious and intercultural dialogue between Christians and Muslims cannot be reduced to an optional extra. It is in fact a vital necessity, on which in large measure our future depends. ... I pray with all my heart, dear and esteemed Muslim friends, that the merciful and compassionate God may protect you, bless you, and enlighten you always." From these statements and other of his writings, it seems to me that Pope Benedict XVI, like his predecessor John Paul II, has made dialogue with other religious traditions, especially with Islam and Judaism, a priority.

In view of this fact, the great puzzle is this: why did the pope in his lecture at Regensburg choose to quote a 14th-century Christian ruler who clearly associates Islam with violence? That is a puzzle I cannot resolve. However, I do know, as a professor, I often use quotes with which I strongly disagree in order to deepen a discussion. And it is certainly possible that, as a former professor speaking at his old university, this was one of the pope's goals.

A week later, on Sept. 20, 2006, in his general audience in St. Peter's Square, the pope made it clear that he does not agree with the statement he quoted from the 14th-century Christian ruler. Pope Benedict stated: "In no way did I wish to make my own the words of the medieval emperor. I wished to explain that not religion and violence, but religion and reason, go together. I hope that my profound respect for world religions and for Muslims, who worship the one God and with whom we promote peace, liberty, social justice, and moral values for the benefit of all humanity, is clear."

However we interpret Pope Benedict XVI's lecture at the University of Regensburg, this can be a historical moment to advance interreligious dialogue, especially between Christians and Muslims. Let me explain my understanding of dialogue. The aim of dialogue is not conversion or to reach agreement on core beliefs. The aim of dialogue is to listen to each other, to come to know one another, and hopefully to respect each other. The hope is always that authentic dialogue between Christians and Muslims can bring healing in the long history of the conflict between these two great missionary religions. From the very beginning, these two Abrahamic traditions have fought not only on the battlefield, but also in the field of ideas. The aim of dialogue is not to blur or resolve the conflicting truth claims of these two traditions. Rather, interfaith dialogue can become a path to friendship and love and must become a priority for all religious leaders.

The aim of dialogue is not to lead Muslims to accept Jesus Christ as "the sole redeemer of humanity" or to lead Christians to accept the Qur'an as the final, true revelation from God. But dialogue can help us see that members of another religious tradition can have authentic faith in their hearts and can be genuine ethical, spiritual people. In spite of the radical theological differences between Christianity and Islam, there are also very strong affinities. Both traditions believe in a God who is merciful and just and dream of a world of peace, one in which every person has infinite value. A true encounter with the other can give us the ability to extend love to the stranger, to see the humanity and touch of divinity in the stranger, the member of a different religious tradition.

At this point it is difficult to say if the pope's address in Regensburg will harm or improve authentic dialogue between Christians and Muslims. The most important positive development since the pope's talk was an open letter sent to him by 38 Muslim religious leaders and scholars from all over the world, including Professor Seyyed Hossein Nasr of George Washington University, who was Grinnell's Gates Lecturer in 1994. The Muslim leaders expressed their deep appreciation to the pope for making it clear that the negative quotation does not reflect his personal opinion and for his strong support of frank and sincere dialogue between Christians and Muslims.

Now more than ever in this urgent moment of crisis for the world's religions, the time has come to be open to the possibility that there is truth and holiness in other religious traditions. This is the official position of the Catholic Church. In dialogue we can come to see that different paths are in some ways instruments of God, and that diversity of religion is the will of God.

In his splendid book The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, Jonathan Sacks, the chief rabbi of Britain and the Commonwealth, contends that "In heaven there is truth; on earth there are truths." This seems to be what the Qur'an is saying in Sura 5:48: "If God had so willed, He would have made all of you one community, but [He has not done so] so that He may test you in what He has given you; so compete with one another in good works. To God you shall return and He will tell you [the truth] about that which you have been disputing."

Originally published as a web extra for The Grinnell Magazoine, Winter 2006