Paul Hosford & Painted Heart Music
"The Voice Of Nowhere"

A profile of one man's struggle
to survive in rural America today
through his passion and
commitment to music.

Introduction by Kerry Case

A cold, blustery day in March finds me walking up the sidewalk to Painted Heart Music LLC, the home and recording studio of Paul Hosford, his wife Lori, and their three children. March has come to Nebraska as it has every year, with a bitterly chilling wind that cuts right to the bone. For those of us who call this land our home, we know from experience that the lamb of March is little more than a fairy tale. This month has always come in roaring like a lion. Paul and Lori hand-crafted the sign outside their house themselves, and I always admire the beautiful, exquisite lettering, every detail perfect. This house is very special, a home that is overflowing with the energy of creativity - the joy, the frustration, the heartbreak and the determination it takes to create a life here, filled with both beauty and hardship.
A few moments later I'm sitting in Paul Hosford's basement, or as they have named it, the "Lizard's Lair" for the little lizard that once scurried across the floor, the place where Paul spends most of his time creating and recording music. Paul and Lori have just been notified that they have been chosen as honorees by the domestic abuse center in a nearby city; Paul plays an antique hammer dulcimer on loan to him from the local museum at the annual candlelight vigils to remember domestic violence victims. He donates the proceeds from a CD to the Center. Paul and Lori comment that surely somebody else deserves the honor more....
We listen to the wind as it roars outside, whipping around the house in a fury. Ordinarily, such weather would be cause for complaints, but today it seems particularly fitting. Paul has just shown me the lyrics of a song he's written, titled "The Winds of Change." To say that change has come to Paul's life in the past few years is putting it lightly. These changes have propelled me to ask Paul some questions about his life,his experiences as a farmer, a musician -- mostly what the future holds for people who have a deep love for this land that is strangely beautiful, harsh and desolate.
Reflecting on the time that we've been friends, I feel truly honored to know such a remarkable person. Though I've only known him a few years now, I've come to respect and admire Paul for the care and compassion he shows others and the deeply creative and moving talent that he possesses. Paul has shown amazing tenacity and determination to live and build a record company, complete with equipment of his own invention, "in the middle of nowhere," as he often puts it. As I sit and prepare to interview him, I find myself talking more about my own experiences and before I even realize what has happened, we've suddenly switched roles. Paul has a knack for making people feel comfortable and in the time that I've known him, I've observed that he's more interested in getting to know other people than talking about himself - a difficult challenge for an interviewer.
Still, as Paul's story begins to unfold, his thoughts and feelings about this land that he loves so much becomes abundantly clear. Paul speaks with a passion that illustrates his commitment to staying here, most of the time, against all odds. There's sadness behind his words as memories of better days surface. Much has been lost and many of our smaller, rural communities are mere shadows of what they once were. A sense that time is running out pervades in every word spoken. For those of us who have chosen the difficult path of making our homes here, we know all too well the value of what the land can give us, and the value inherent in our neighbors and in our children. Our children, our future, are leaving enmasse, unable to support themselves or their young, no longer growing families in a place where roots run deep. We know in our hearts that it is the young, the next generation that will ensure our survival - they are the lifeblood of our small, struggling communities. As we become more and more fragmented, leaving our roots behind out of necessity to survive, we begin to forget who we are and where we came from. Those who live in this land face an uncertain future, and for many, it would seem that a way of life is disappearing before our very eyes.
Despite this present darkness hanging over our land, there is reason to hope, to believe, to dream. The Hosford family, like many other families living in Nebraska, come from ancestors who put everything they had, every hope, every dream, all the blood, sweat and tears they could muster into creating a sustainable future for themselves and their children. I think a small, engraved tablet, found at the Archway monument in Kearney, Nebraska, says it best - "The cowards never started. The weak died on the way. Only the strong arrived. They were the pioneers." The blood of the pioneers still courses through the veins of Paul Hosford and others like him. The spirit of the pioneer never left, and their voices whisper in our hearts if we only have ears to hear them. Paul has lived this life -- he "walks the walk" rather than "talking the talk." He has seen the changes that have come to the family farms of yesterday with the advent of Agribusiness. His outlook is at times blunt, always provocative, and sometimes surprising. The challenges and struggles that he has met in his life give him a unique perspective on the past and future of rural Nebraska, and by extension rural America. This is Paul's story, in his own words, starting with his song lyric.



The Winds Of Change

What is worth less than just one man
In the face of the winds of change?
They sell what he owns and take his land,
I guess it's a losing game....

So many years they farmed the land,
The work was all in vain --
Just a family left to stand,
Alone in the wind and rain...

They left the cities, they left the towns,
Some even crossed the sea --
They broke the sod and settled down,
They did it to be free....

They suffered loss; they suffered pain
In a land that won't forgive.
So much work, so little gain,
They fought so hard to live...

Darkness falls on an empty land,
Like a shadow in the setting sun --
The wind blows cold over children's graves,
Cold as the soul of the corporate man --

Back to the cities, back to the towns
The family farm is through --
A way of life comes crashing down,
What is there left to do?

lyric to The Winds Of Change
by Paul Hosford

Life has never been easy, or at least easy for very long, in the plains and rolling hills of Nebraska, a place too often likened to the middle of nowhere. The archaeological record shows that the human population, dating back at least 10,000 years, has varied greatly in response to climate changes and conflicts. A drought lasting 2,000 years drove most away 8,000 years ago. A peaceful agricultural period was ended by a 200 year drought starting about 600 years ago. Nebraska was also the site of long and bloody warfare in protohistoric times. Warriors from the north and east, armed with firearms by the British and French, contended with warriors from the south and west, mounted on Spanish horses. Life here has always cycled between boom and bust, and it is little different today. At the moment we are contending with a protracted drought and decades of economic depression. Experts say that no one really knows how many people the Great Plains can support; they imply that it is fewer than reside here at present.
This land offered such promise to our ancestors only a few generations removed. My own family worked its way across half the world -- London to New York to Canada to Illinois to Nebraska -- only to endure all manner of disaster, from blizzard to prairie fire to grasshoppers that devoured the crops year after year. In the earliest days of white settlement the army had to be sent out at regular intervals to wander the countryside, hoping to deliver food to starving settlers they'd happen upon. One of the earliest acts by the Boone County Commissioners was to forgive property taxes since no one had any money (such forgiveness won't likely be seen again...). Yet here at last was the "promised land" -- here they would finally settle, half a world from where they began, and grow as many children as they wanted. What pushed them? A search for a place that 'felt like home...'. Somehow, they knew this place was here; somehow they found it, hoped always to keep it.
Those early ones erected cemetery monuments with all their children's names on them, never envisioning their children living any place but here, in the rolling hills they'd come through so much to claim. But only those who died young, in the arms of parents who faced such tragedy alone on the wind-swept prairie have their death date recorded. The rest lie buried far away....
Given how harsh this life can be, it's amazing anyone stayed. Yet there is something about this land that inspires those who love it, both White and Native, to face just about anything to stay on it. People have been finding a way to survive here for a very long time -- this land holds promise; opportunity. The opportunity to grow that can only be found in soil where roots run deep. Recall the devotion of the famed Ponca chief Standing Bear. He walked back from Oklahoma, bearing the body of his son on a litter so it might rest in this soil. His commitment to this land resulted in the landmark legal decision that Native Americans were human beings and entitled to the same protection under the law as other men and women.
But there are limits to what can be endured, and we are hemorrhaging young people. It has been observed that in most years, the number one export of Nebraska's rural counties has been their children. Just like corn and soybeans, children grow well here -- at least they used to. We send off our corn, we send off our kids, never thinking we might run out of either. Many forces have contributed to this loss, some natural, some of our own doing. In our rush from agriculture to agribusiness we have turned a blind eye to the value of intangibles; to the value of our neighbors, people more dedicated to a way of life than to the bottom line. The transformation from farming as a balanced way of life to farming as nothing more than a means to make a profit has made us all more efficient, enriched a few, and forced many others to abandon their heritage, their dreams and their birthright. Slowly, one by one, we've squeezed out those who loved this land the most, those with the deepest roots, the deepest commitment to the land, to family, to our way of life. Those who are best at balancing the complexities of life, understanding that there is more to life than can ever be measured on a balance sheet, have faired poorly; those who can focus exclusively on monetary rewards at the expense of almost everything else are the ones who now thrive.
And it shows. When I was growing up, in the 60's and 70's, there were six places to buy groceries, three hardware stores, at least seven gas stations and much more, all in a town of 2,000. Now there is little left but agribusiness, and in it's own efficiency it has eliminated the need for a lot of man-power. Less than 20 miles from here you can find huge swaths of land fenced off, roads and all. Since it's all owned by an agribusiness power, there're "no trespassing" signs and gates separating miles of land from the rest of us rustics (perhaps to keep the vestiges of the old at bay?). The houses are provided by the owners, far away. So are the vehicles, the equipment, the seed and fertilizer, livestock and feed. Unlike the rest of us, those who work the land, tend the animals, are paid by the hour, have a retirement plan, health insurance. But one wonders at their commitment to place....
My grandfather helped build the first highway across the continental divide, spending his summers in Colorado, breaking his back in more interesting scenery. But this was home -- he came back and stayed. My father couldn't wait to join the Navy -- he enlisted the day he turned 18. He ended up in the Philippines, playing piano in the evenings at officers' clubs. But he too came back. I haven't traveled much, or stayed away long; my other grandfather had been a vice president at the First National Bank in Chicago -- I remember sitting outside it late one afternoon, wondering what his world had been like, finding I didn't much care.
I never really wanted to do anything but make music and farm. Agriculturally, my family didn't sanction tearing out trees to gain half an acre; mortgaging our heritage for shinier equipment. All we asked was a decent commodity price, and later a cash flow agreement with the bank so we could pay our bills on time while waiting for an uncertain harvest. We lived in town, driving the few miles out to the farms most days. I loved being out there so much I'd make my father drag me out every chance I got. I pestered my father and grandfather to let me drive the old Allis Chalmers "C" -- 18 horse power. "You're too young..." they'd always say. One day they made the mistake of leaving me alone with it -- I hitched it to the rotary hoe and, not knowing I should look backwards as much as forwards, buried four rows of corn. They didn't get mad; just got down on their knees beside me to dig it back up. Soon I was getting up at five in the morning to lay by the corn two rows at a time. I remember being drenched by dew in the early mornings as mist shrouded the neighbor's abandoned barn. I'd be drenched by sweat before eleven. And I can't remember a single day when something didn't break down.
I passed up a regents scholarship in order to farm, as my father had passed one up to fight in WWII (a nobler motive perhaps...). I had been actively recruited by Boston University to become an engineer. But my heart was here, and here I stayed. I married a country school teacher, and embraced a lifeway that had existed far longer than anyone could remember. Unfortunately, I was one generation too late. I would argue with bankers that there was value in this life, and that adjustments had to be made on the financial front to preserve it. I'd just as well have been talking to a brick wall. The neighbor who owed $500,000 stayed in business because his bank couldn't afford not to keep him going. The neighbor next to him, stricken by Parkinson's at an early age but owing less than a tenth as much was forced to sell most of his land to save a few acres for his kids to grow up on. Both neighbors are devoted to this life, both have something to contribute to this community -- both should have a place here regardless of how much interest they pay.
My kids are bussed 13 miles to school in a county of less than 6,000 people because nobody's having kids here anymore. The towns must merge their schools to keep one open. Kids seem to have monetary value to the State only if they are mostly in one place. There used to be a school on every section, few ever had more than a dozen students at any one time. My wife remains unemployed because no one wants a woman with 17 years experience teaching in the hardest situations for the lowest pay simply because she loves the kids -- town schools, with salary schedules, would have to pay her for that dedication. As I write this, 5 local teachers, one with 27 years experience, are being laid off. There just isn't enough money; our property taxes are among the highest in the nation already. Our governor, when running for office, told me to my face that the state has made a "good faith effort" to support rural schools. In other words, we're on our own. When agriculture became agribusiness, when farming went from being a multifaceted way of life to mere commodity manufacturing, we started a domino effect that continues to cost us our best and brightest.
When my father retired from farming I was at the peak of my abilities -- 30 years old, and a father for the first time. I had never looked forward to the future more. But the cold hard fact of the matter was that the family could make more by renting the land to the neighbor than from me farming it alone. I had been so eager to start farming -- I had passed up college for this life. Suddenly at 30 I was uneducated and unemployed in a place that offered few opportunities to gain either. Our old banker told us flat out to move away, put our kids into the care of strangers, see our families once or twice a year.
Some people will spend large sums on things like a plasma TV to watch bad programming, or an SUV to drive only on pavement. These things produce little tangible return. Yet they make our lives "better." But we never think of the value of our neighbors, learning too late that they made our lives better also. They were the people who made Scouting work, who volunteered at fund raisers. My daughter can't be in scouts anymore because there is no one to lead her age group. There are a lot of people who want to help this area, but I fear sometimes they too overlook the value of intangibles. Yes, the bottom line does matter. But commitment to the community is just as vital, and this isn't included on balance sheets. Banks aren't in a position to subsidize everyone, or take excessive risks; it's just that when making decisions that will impact another's life, we need take into account how these people's presence or absence impacts everyone's life. Often, when there's a will to stay, there's a way to make it happen. Our new banker said he thought we had something to contribute to the community; he wanted us to help find a way to make it practical for our children to return here after college.
We're still here after 19 years of marriage, four pregnancies and three children. My wife Lori and I had decided early on that this was our home, this was where our children could best be raised. So with a new bank willing to give us a few years to pay off some residual debts from farming, I became a full-time Mr. Mom while my wife put in 11 hour days with no benefits or job security. Back at school five weeks after a difficult delivery, I was alone for the first time with a fragile creature that embodied tomorrow, and at first I counted time by hours and minutes until she came home next. There was so much I didn't know -- everything, really. Women seem to know a lot more about babies -- they also seemed to give each other support. I'd see moms drop kids off with other moms so they could run errands, or just get together to talk, and while they were without exception friendly towards me, I never really fit into their gender-exclusive world. But oh how I've come to respect and appreciate what mothers go through....
Being a stay at home dad here has been especially challenging -- I know a lot of dads who have put a lot of time into their kids, but I think I may have been the first to do it full time. People have been supportive, but seemed to regard me as something of a curiosity. My wife and I had agreed that we were willing to make sacrifices so one of us could be home all the time. Originally that meant me in the winter while she taught and her in the summer while I farmed. Once I was no longer farming and Lori could earn more than I could, I was determined to do the best job I could raising the kids, even if it meant figuring it out as I went along. I realized early on that equal measures of love and common sense, coupled with a lot of patience, were enough to get through most situations. I have done music when I could -- between loads of laundry when the children napped, a baby monitor next to my mixing board....
I've been writing and playing music since I was very young; I recorded all the parts for a song I'd written when I was 13 by using two little cassette players. I had started a small recording studio in our home a few years prior to leaving farming; because, as my father (an accomplished musician himself) had observed, I make music not because I want to, but because I have to. That's who I am. Music, especially jazz, has provided me with spiritual nourishment for as long as I can remember. I am driven to create. There is something in the freedom of improvisation that has long nourished my soul. I had badgered my father into setting up his old hi-fi for me one winter day when I was 11. I listened to old 45s pressed in pastel shades of vinyl for hours on end. Dave Brubeck; Gerry Mulligan. I'd try to play along on a baritone ukulele that I'd learned to chord on a few years earlier. None of the chords I knew worked for jazz -- I began playing single notes right on the beat. One day I realized I was doing what the bass player did. So I once again badgered my father, this time into buying me a used bass guitar with a Budweiser label taped to it (it had been traded to the local jeweler for an engagement ring -- I've wondered sometimes what sort of ring a bass like that could buy, what sort of marriage ensued...). My mother made me take the label off. My father showed me how to play some scales, and soon I was attempting to play with him. I must have been awful, but he told me later that he didn't really notice -- he was too busy listening to what was yet to come.
I started a little band in eighth grade, and that too was a curiosity. We played jazz instead of rock, something unheard of in the 70's. But the group fell apart in high school -- too many other activities. I collected some old reel-to-reel tape recorders and converted my walk-in closet into a tiny studio. I started learning other instruments -- guitar, percussion, 'cello -- so I could put on tape what I heard in my head. When I was 16 my great uncle gave me his flute -- he had played with big bands on the West Coast. But he'd started here, on the farm. Flute was the only instrument he could carry on a horse to school. He handed me the flute as he left the house for the last time ever, saying simply, "Learn to play it."
We've stuck at it -- all of it but the farming. This is not an ideal place for a recording studio, hours from Lincoln or Omaha where steady work might possibly be had. It's probably about the worst place on Earth to have as record label, far from the rest of the musical world; worse still since we don't do gospel or country music -- music popular locally. We do jazz and classical and original, all made by people whose roots are entangled with our own. People to whom music is a passion rather than a profession. People who's commitments in life preclude relocating to make music. Since late July of 2002, we've released 13 CDs, and have 6 more in various stages of production, all featuring artists with a deep connection to this place.
There is much creativity here -- people are born with it regardless of where their parents live. It is so common place in some ways that it's ignored; everybody has some creative ability, but a few, like me, have no choice -- they must create. We make a lot of compromises to accommodate creativity; I record people for what they can pay me. Last year my solo jazz guitar CD, Emergence, was picked up by String Jazz in England, then the world's largest jazz guitar label. Yet I play in nursing homes and book stores, and teach little kids how to begin, all for a few dollars. I've been giving demonstrations in schools for twenty years so kids could see and hear and play instruments they couldn't otherwise. Yet I have only once been paid money for doing so.
I work hard in my isolated world. Just as when I was farming -- long hard hours alone. Something goes wrong everyday. I have had to teach myself just about everything -- I have built much of my recording equipment using skills I learned as a teenager reading Popular Electronics and parts salvaged from old TVs. I have to fix my equipment when it fails -- tractor mechanics can do a lot, but seem to draw the line at working on synthesizers. I have to deal with software glitches on my old computers, computers just fast enough to do what they must for me. I have to arrange the songs to be recorded, play the bass, the guitar, the percussion, the flute and 'cello parts, even though I've never had a lesson on any of them. Then, put them together one at a time so they sound like they were played together. Edit and mix and master. I've been working seven days a week on my latest project for over six months now, and it shows no sign of letting up. I've put that effort and time into an 18-year-old girl with little experience and less encouragement who also makes music not because she wants to, but because she has to. The "harvest" of six months of musical work is always in doubt, but doubly so with one so young. It's always a big risk to devote so much to a CD that may or may not sell. I had no idea how she'd be received (so far, she's being received very well...). But that wasn't really the point: I did it for her -- to help her get started on the path she had to follow. I did it to pave the way for other talented High School students to follow their hearts also. Where I once farmed the soil, I now farm the soul....
I lie awake nights now and then (I've heard even city people do this), realizing what is at stake, what insanity it must seem to the rest of the world to still be here when neither Lori nor I have steady paying work (she substitutes when and where she's needed). How especially insane it is to try to make music, unique music, here of all places, the middle of nowhere. How idealistic to devote six months to a young person. But I understand why my forebears stayed through the blizzards and fires, grasshoppers and financial "panics". I understand why Standing Bear walked several hundred miles to bring his son home. I have looked at the lives of those who came before me, both White and Native; seen what they had to endure, come to better understand why they did so. It was because this was their home; they did what they had to to keep it, using what they had to work with -- their own hands, their own belief that the only thing standing between them and a better tomorrow was the hard work it would take to reach it. They helped each other when they could; they had little to work with -- far less in many ways than we have today -- yet they created lives, their own unique lives; lives they were "destined" for because they built them with their own talents and abilities. Lives that still reverberate today, shaming those who have forgotten their dedication and vision....
I have been honored by the friendship of some of the Pawnee, those who were here before us, perhaps because in my heart I honor them. I've looked to them for wisdom -- they were here much longer than we have been. I've read differing definitions of the name "Pawnee" but I suspect it means 'people who live here because it is their home.' I suspect every people who have struggled to remain here, regardless of race or beliefs, have been and are today somehow "Pawnee". I suspect that is why so many of the Ponca and Pawnee died when forced to relocate in Oklahoma. Some of us belong to this land; we are its children not just by accident of birth. We are an expression of it just as much as the grass and the trees; the ripple of the streams, the howl of the wind. We are an integral part of this ecosystem, an ecosystem that covers the spectrum of existence from physical to spiritual, and we both define and are defined by this land. The great Lakota mystic Black Elk spoke of the "hoop of the nation" -- I have come to see that a "nation" is more than just the people living in a certain area; it is not just a conglomeration of people sharing the same language and beliefs. The "hoop of a nation" -- the gestalt we call community -- is built upon the myriad of ways peoples' lives intersect with each other, with the past and the future, with the land itself. By moving so many Native Americans from their ancestral homes, the links to their land, to their ancestors, were severed, the "hoop of their nation" damaged as much by that as by anything.
I was especially honored when a Pawnee woman invited a friend and me to dance their ancient war dance with her at a powwow. I suspected that it was an honor accorded very few from outside the tribe, probably even fewer whites. She explained that her people only went to war to save that which they held dear -- their loved ones, their home. I recalled that some warriors would wear a long sash into battle and drive the point of a spear into the end of it, staking themselves to the ground. It was a highly symbolic (and often fatal) act -- the ground they stood upon was sacred; more precious than individual life, a legacy from long ago to be kept safe for those still to come. They would fight to the death rather than surrender it. I was reminded of a solitary old man who hanged himself from his windmill a few years ago rather than leave his farm (and how within a couple of months every tree and building, along with the gallows of a windmill had been bulldozed into oblivion).
A farmer pits his own abilities against Nature, and both shapes and is shaped in the struggle. To some, like the old man, the struggle is life. It is as much Nature shaping us as us shaping her -- Nature gave us our strengths and our weaknesses, the tools we use against (or along with) her. Nature is ever-changing -- each day, each growing season is a new struggle that promises nothing if not the unexpected. When we grapple with her, she challenges us to adapt to her according to our strength and abilities. Just like jazz -- we have to improvise something new, something that is an expression of the fleeting moment, every time we play. In farming, this process can be seen and felt every day. But all life is like this -- everyone "farms" -- everyone pits him or her self against the world, and is called to utilize his or her own strengths and abilities to fashion a life. One way or other, we all improvise, we all farm the soul....
When Lori finally lost her position as a full-time teacher two years ago, I panicked. We had barely gotten by before -- what would we do now? Leave. Or fight. Fight with the only things we had -- our love, our determination, our hearts and hands, our ability to improvise. That's when we officially started Painted Heart -- that's when we began putting 16 years worth of music on CD, started recording as much new material as we could. There was no outside money to be had -- I didn't even bother to ask -- it was too big of a risk, too unusual to attempt here. But we had to take a risk, we had to do something that had never been done here before; we had to build a new life with what little we had -- creativity, determination and faith. And yet, that's what's been done here so often -- in a land this challenging, doing what hasn't been done before is often what must be done. We used what money we had built up from music to get going. Friends helped in various ways, from artwork to web design. Others, good intentioned as they may have been, let us down, costing us more than can ever be recovered. Two years later, we're still growing. In truth, I can only call it a miracle. We may be gone tomorrow -- we live one day at a time anymore. But at least we're here today....
Last year I was recommended by Dun & Bradstreet for inclusion in National Register's Who's Who of Executives and Professionals. I suspect it had to be a computer malfunction -- but maybe surviving in the music business, surviving here, for 17 years means something, shows some commitment and resourcefulness. I know I don't amount to much, even though the music does. The one real value I have, perhaps the only value, is that I have been brave enough -- or fool enough -- to try to live a dream. A dream marriage, even though we have problems just like everybody else. Dream children, even though our oldest has a learning disability. A dream house, even though it needs paint and new carpet. A dream location, even though it's dry and windy and one of the poorest places in the nation. And a dream career even though few will ever hear of us.
Since there was no one to turn to for support, we've had to learn to do everything ourselves, just like our great-great grandparents. We record in an 86-year-old unfinished basement beneath a house my great-grandfather built, using technology unimaginable in his time. We take the photographs; we do the layout and design. We write the notes. We print the inserts and labels. We shrink-wrap with a glorified hair dryer. We seem to give away more CDs than we sell....
Here and there, now and then, someone notices. In Europe; Indonesia. We get air-play in places where people don't know how to buy our CDs. But sometimes we touch people, connect with them. Something of the passion in our lives, our refusal to give up, is reflected in the music, and now and then somebody picks up on that. We'll never be rich; we'll never be famous. But we are touching hearts, and we are showing people that it's okay to dream.
Often dreams need encouragement: we realized when we were learning how to start a small business there was a need for more business resources here. So we spearheaded the development of a unique small business section in our local library. Many in the community and the larger area helped with this -- they too understood the need. And now we're expanding our website into the Painted Heart Gallery with the intention of encouraging other creative people to sell their work by making it easier for them to get on the Internet. The Internet is our life-line. We'll handle everything but the packing for them, and keep them on the site whether they sell anything or not. We want to use our experience to make it easier for those who follow.
We hope soon to capture art exhibits on DVD; show them on public access cable TV -- this area's art needs to be seen. We hope to start an Internet/ low power FM radio station: this area's voice needs to be heard. The media is an integral part in defining the personality of a community -- there is much that can be done to reinforce who we are.
Despite it's promise, despite our embrace of it, agribusiness has failed us. In destroying agriculture - - our culture -- we've lost a host of people, a host of skills, a host of ideas. Agribusiness is here to stay. But it devours all in its path; trees, houses, old men suspended from the windmill they carried water from as a child. Just as my own ancestors drove the Pawnee and Ponca from this land in their quest for prosperity, we are being driven off by those larger, stronger than ourselves. Capitalism, for all it's saving graces, feeds upon the small. The Indian, who most often asked no more than to live and let live, the family farmer who asked the same. But capitalism also offers opportunity; we must develop a new culture to replace the one that has been lost, and find ways to prosper from it. By rebuilding our intangible infrastructure, by utilizing our human capital, we have a chance to redefine who we are, who we are becoming. Economic development alone is not enough to turn the tides of rural decay; the farms remaining are more efficient economically than they've ever been. But economics alone won't rescue us; we are starved on many levels -- starved most for a new vision of tomorrow, a tomorrow that holds promise for anyone and everyone who wants it badly enough to work for it. We shall always be cattle and corn, soybeans and hogs. But we can be much more, and must be if we are to survive.
Theodore Roosevelt advised the citizens of South Dakota to "do what you can, where you are, with what you've got." A century later, his words still resonate in rural ears. For me, creativity is life. All I can do, where I am -- the middle of nowhere -- is to work with what I've got -- creativity. And as long as I am able, I'll do what I can to encourage others to create as well. Because creativity spills over -- it isn't confined to just one area of life. Creative people are creative in many ways, and can do much with 'what they have, where they are.'
It takes much creativity and confidence to improvise; knowing no other way, I have improvised my life. There is no road map, no master score, to save rural Nebraska, rural America. Ruin is never far away in this land; we may everyone of us fall. But it must not be because we didn't try -- endeavor is our heritage, a gift bequeathed to us by those who built the life we're losing. By now, most of the people here are here simply because it is their home. Greener pastures abound, and have already drawn away most who search for better grazing. But creativity and commitment are still to be found here. Intangible as its value may be, creativity is one of the strongest forces in life. It is probably too late to "save" rural America -- too much has changed. No matter how much we desire to, we cannot go back. But it is not too late to create a new, multifaceted and vital lifeway in rural America. And none are more able to do this than those who are driven to create. They are our future, our last best hope. We cannot look for others to save us, like school girls waiting for a knight in shining armor -- we are forgotten in today's urban world; we have few to turn to but ourselves. We have no choice but to improvise our way to tomorrow -- that's what people here have always had to do.
A Native American elder who knew me well told me not to expect to accomplish much in this lifetime because "nobody shares your vision." And that may be; but at least I have a vision, and if by pursuing it I can encourage others to pursue theirs, I will have accomplished something. I am staked to the plains, in the face of the winds of change, and will stand or fall according to my strength and ability to create a new and sustainable way of life. If I can remain standing, perhaps that will make it easier for others to remain standing also. Someone else told me when I started my studio that while a positive attitude won't guarantee success, a negative attitude will guarantee failure. Last fall I organized guitarists from across America into Jazz Guitar Central, a co-op that will help us promote our music by working together. Last month the CD with the 18-year-old was a top 100 seller on CD Baby -- the first full month of it's release. 58th in total sales among thousands of CDs. A girl with no experience or reputation from the middle of nowhere. I hope things like these will help, inspire positive attitudes, convince others that we are capable of doing anything we set our minds and hearts to. We just have to believe in ourselves again.
I once asked another native mentor what power is: he said it is love. Not money; not influence. He said that power comes in the ability to dream, to follow one's heart; he said with it comes the ability to help others dream, help others follow their hearts. My life is the creation of my heart -- often over the objections of my head. I dream of the best of all possible worlds -- of people being able to live here without sacrificing economically or culturally -- I believe the two are more intertwined than we realize -- a vital culture is necessary for a vital economy to develop. Technology makes this feasible here for the first time (just hours ago I sold a CD -- the one with the 18-year-old -- to someone in Japan). I dream of a land whose fertility feeds not only the body, but the heart and soul; a land as rich in the dreams it nurtures as in the other crops it harvests.
The song asks "What is there left to do?" Work towards, believe in, the future, in one's self. Join with others; lend a hand. Try not to give up. Do what one can, no matter how small, with what one has, where one is. Farm the soul with dedication and faith in the harvest. Have the courage to dream. It can be done here; it has been done, time and time again, for at least 10,000 years. For as Victor Davis Hanson, a classical scholar (and orchard farmer) observed in his book on the demise of farming, The Land Was Everything, "Culture is created in the countryside, by hard work and sacrifice...