The Man Who Fed the World

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Norman who? How is that an American wins the Nobel Peace Prize, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and the Congressional Gold Medal (a feat only accomplished by four other people in history: Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, Elie Wiesel, and Nelson Mandela) and throws a National Medal of Science in to boot, and most people don’t know who he is?

How is it that an Iowa farm boy and wrestler comes to the University of Minnesota, almost isn’t admitted, and accomplishes these things? How is it that this man is credited with saving as many as a billion lives and is a household name in certain developing countries, and people here are talking about Brett Favre?

I wouldn’t know him either, except that I work at the University and wrote about him once, so I read his biography. Check out this story, then this great commentary from a few years back, then consider picking up the book, The Man Who Fed the World.

Borlaug not only worked to develop strains of food crops that would grow in areas of the world facing famine, but he taught the people to raise those crops and to continue his scientific work on their own. Not only did he bring new technologies and fertilizers to these areas to boost production, but he advocated for laws and public policies that helped farmers and the hungry.

And when people criticized him for advocating inorganic methods of increasing yields, his response was to invite them to join him in working among the world’s hungry, and then talk. He didn’t oppose organic farming; he simply knew these regions couldn’t grow enough food quickly enough that way to feed those who needed it and was unwilling to choose who would starve.

He didn’t give fish; he taught fishing. He may be the most remarkable man you’ve never heard of.

Trevvy, King of Beasts

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Trevor likes gorillas. He likes to act like a gorilla. The great ape may be his favorite animal, in fact.

So the other morning, over breakfast, Trevor abruptly announces, “Y’know how the lion is the king of the jungle? I think the gorilla should be. Because all he would have to do is pick up the lion like this,” — and here he mimes picking up something with a tightly clenched fist — “and PKEHHUUWWH!” — and here he throws a hard punch with his other fist, accompanied by a sound effect somewhere between a gunshot and a bowler’s strike.

Everybody laughs. “Trevvy,” I say, “when you said, ‘pick up the lion like this,’ what exactly did you mean?”

“I meant like when an animal picks up a baby animal by the back of the neck,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Just wanted to be clear,” I said.

That’s quite a gorilla.

Always Darkest Before the Dawn

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

We got a letter from Albertville Primary (and his teacher, the mysteriously named “New Hire”) informing us that he will have be in the morning half-day group.

“Trevvy,” said Jodi, “that means you’ll get to ride to school with Brendan and Gabe and Emma!”

Trevor looked concerned and a little sad. “But Mom,” he said. “I like to get up in real morning.”

“What do you mean by real morning?” asked Jodi.

You know,” he said. “Like, when the sun’s already up!”

The Exquisite Ache of Loving

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

While we were visiting friends in Michigan last weekend, they were saying goodbye to a loved one. We offered to stay away — to not burden them with guest beds and towels and six extra mouths to feed. They insisted we come, to share what they had to give. “We may have to leave for a few hours,” said the wife and mother of three. “And we may eat hot dogs,” said the husband and father.

I don’t want this to come across the wrong way — like taking pleasure in pain — but there is something beautiful about being invited to share in the sorrows of another. I’ve said before: it’s easy to share in the good times — anyone can do that. But vulnerability requires trust, and real empathy is hard work. The intimacy of a family drawing together at the close of a life can be deeply moving, and in this case, the opportunity for us to share these moments and to feel strong and useful, able to listen and to be leaned upon, was a source of great peace and joy to me. Like all hard labor for a good end, the ache I feel for our friends brings with it a little smile — the result of shared and genuine emotion, of loving and being loved.

Does that make sense? I commented to a friend not long ago that genuine emotion seems to be a rare thing. And I know for my part that I am a sponge for it — I’ll soak any source ’til I’m dripping (usually from the eyes). Our work-a-day lives too often require cold calculation and compromise, a daily quest for the brightest shade of grey. A splash of color — even the deepest of blues — resonates, and we are grateful.

Thank you, friends, for sharing your lives with us. We love you.