PAl'L KOESTER
Don’t talk dirty to me, it’s soil!
The saga continues ...
Now that the university has
decided to ignore financial lim
itations, parking problems and the
concerns of women on campus by
tearing out one of the most centrally
located parking lots, the new debate is
which “dirt” to haul in for the new
green space.
The university has requested that
Kennebec “dirt” be used. It is higher
quality, less available and therefore
more expensive. Gary Varley of Land
Construction claimed that this
“Mercedes of black dirt” was not nec
essary, because cheaper construction
company black “dirt” would serve the
purpose.
I don’t care to debate whether
Kennebec “dirt” is a Volkswagen or a
Mercedes, or whether this rich topsoil
is a wise investment. I’m writing to
express my concern about the use of
that filthy four-letter word, “dirt,” in
my favorite newspaper.
You sec. I’m a soils major, and it
pains me to hear folk calling soil
“dirt.”
There is a difference.
“Dirt” is what you clean off your
clothingorscrapcoffyour shoes when
you enter a house. Soil is what serves
as a medium to grow most of the
world’s food supply. “Dirt” is that
stuff you sweep off the lloor and throw
into the garbage, but soil is a major
storehouse of nutrients and is a home
for an incomprehensible number of
organisms.
The term “dirt” implies worthless
ness. There is a reason the Soil Con
servation Service was not named the
Dirt Conservation Service.
1 found the two articles about the
“dirt” debate in the March 15 edition
of the Daily Nebraskan very painful to
read. I cringed each of the 26 times I
read that dirty four-letter word that I
shall not repeat.
The term “dirt” implies worth
lessness. There is a reason the
Soil Conservation Service was
not named the Dirt Conservation
Service.
In a country where nourishment
comes from a grocery store and 2
percent of the population grows the
entire food supply, it is no surprise
that many have little appreciation or
understanding of the importance and
complexity of soils.
Some day, we shall all get the
opportunity to form an intimacy with
the soil. Whether our ashes are cast
across the land, or our bodies arc
decomposed by worms, fungus and
bacteria, we shall all return to the dust
from which we came.
The good news is that we don’t
have to die to be in touch with the land.
Although there is much left to learn,
scientists have uncovered many of the
secretsofthal thin, diverse layer which
covers a portion of the earth’s surface.
Soils arc like snowflakes; no two
are alike.
Some soils arc dark, others light,
and the variations of colors are amaz
ing. Many break up into blocky struc
tures; others break up into columnar,
platy or granular ones. Some are sticky,
others slippery. Soils vary in texture,
from clayey to sandy or silty, with an
infinite combination of these compo
nents. Soils also vary in the amounts
of organic matter and microorgan
isms they support.
Different soils are more suitable
for different purposes, such as agri
culture or construction. For instance,
Kennebec soil — a fertile, bottom
land soil with good aeration, water
holding and structural properties —
would undeniably be a good soil for
the “green space.”
There arc many areas of interest
because of the diversity and impor
tance of soils. Soil microbiology, mor
phology, physics, fertility, chemistry
and genesis arc important to agricul
turists, engineers, geologists and en
vironmentalists.
Soils are interesting from a gcolog- 1
ical perspective. But they are more
interesting to me because they support
the plants that feed the life on this
planet and purify the water on which
we depend.
About 10 percent of the earth’s
surface is covered by a thin layer of
soil with the right climate to grow
food. And most of this is not as highl y
productive as the central plains.
Soils form through weathering pro
cesses that take hundreds to thou
sands of years, and soils are easily
carried away bycrosional forces. Soils
may be dirty, but like forests, they are
a limited resource we must appreciate
or lose.
So next time you hear somebody
calling soil “dirt,” remind them where
they came from, where they are going
and where their next meal will come
from.
koester is a senior soil science major and
a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Paula la\ k;ne
i
Another fan falls for ‘The Wall’
I t’sjust a liny piece of paper really.
If I set fire lo it. I think it would
disappear within seconds—along
with my will lo live.
I have in my hand one of the most
prized possessions in the universe.
No, it’s not a piece of Richard Nixon’s
chest hair. It's a ticket, and right in the
middlc of it arc the words “Pink Floyd
at Arrowhead Stadium.” Whether rain,
sleet, snow, blazing sun, tornado or
nuclear holocaust, I'm going.
The members of Pink Floyd are old
enough to be my parents. They’ve
gone through several changes in the
past 26 years, and 1 never thought
they’d take the stage again.
If 1 were the pope, going to a Pink
Floyd concert would be like meeting
God.
Being the proud owner of the boxed
set, the video “The Wall.’’ shirts, post
ers, postcards and a slew of other
compact discs, I am a walking cess
pool of Pink Floyd information. The
name of Syd Barrett’s cat was Roger
(Syd’s real name). Pink and Floyd
were the last names of two jazz play
ers, and “Dark Side of the Moon”
remained on the charts longer than
any album in history.
“Dark Side of the Moon” came out
in 1973, two years before I was even
on this planet. Many years later, my
friend Lynn and I invaded her broth
er’s room in search of some new
Garfield books and other neat things
older brothers always had.
Like any eager sixth graders, we
dug up some of his old tapes which
had some “really weird stuff on it.”
We popped one tape into Lynn’s
Barbic-esque “boom box” and listened
to what sounded like a man running
and breathing heavily. At first we
thought it was Lynn’s brother, but we
picked up on the synthesized space
music and the tape cover.
“It’s called ‘On the Run’ by a band
called Pink Flamingosorsomething,”
she said. “Oh,” I said.
I, as all adolescent Velcro-shoe
wearing girls did, went through the
Tiffany phase, the New Kids on the
If I were the Pope, going to a
Pink Floyd concert would be
like meeting God.
Block phase and Ihc Bell Biv Dcvoc
phase. As soon as I came to my musi
cal senses and blowlorchcd my
NKOTB collection along with a few
“Dirty Dancing” posters, Pink Floyd
became “my band ,” and then it be
came an obsession.
All right, I admit it may seem
childish to be obsessed by something
so petty as four guys with instruments.
Obsession is for people who have pic
tures of Elvis hanging above their
toilets and swear they saw The K ing in
Aisle 9 at Super Saver. Obsession is
thousands of polyester-sweater-clad
teen-age girls oogling after the best
look ing Beatle (John) and buying Pepsi
because Michael Jackson swore it made
his skin white or something.
Under normal circumstances. I’m
a calm and collected human being —
I don’t care what my mother says. But
when you mention Pink Floyd I re
gress to a babbling bowl of Floydian
ooze. Too bad.
Why can’t people understand how
someone can be absolutely addicted to
a band? They look at the Grateful
Dead—a band with one of the largest
cult followings in the world — and
dismiss deadheads as lost, misdirect
ed youth raised on Skippy peanut but
ter, Orange Crush and acid. They
chalk up Woodstock to a bunch of pot
smoking hippies looking for some
thing to do while awaiting a UFO
abduction.
People who assume this don’t real
ize that from Mozart to Mudhoncy,
music is something more than notes
and words.
It’s not just a place on your radio
dial. It’s this big intangible art form
that touches emotious and nerves deep
er than the reach of any dentist’s drill.
Music is the greatest universal lan
guage—whether it be rock, classical,
country, rap, reggae, New Age, alter
native or whatever.
Musiciansbccome messengers. We
look at them and come to an under
standing. We respect them more than
we do our own president. If Eddie
Vedder ran against Bill Clinton in the
ncxtelection, TippcrGorc would have
a heart attack. Stone Gossard would
be secretary of stale, and the Oval
Office would be D.C.’s biggest night
club.
Music explains things people can ’ t.
It defines a generation. When 1 listen
to “The Wall,” 1 don’t get “really
messed up,” as most people put it. I
feel this great sense of independence
and power.
It talks to me. It docs not, however,
talk to me like the Beatles “talked” to
Charles Manson. For music to affect
people that way, they must have exist
ing psychological problems. Music is
not harmful. It’s a solution, not a
problem.
I don’t know what I’rp going to do
when Pink Floyd comes on stage.
Spontaneous combustion, perhaps? P11
finally realize they’re real men and
not just living legends.
Whatever happens, it’s worth it.
Sec you on the dark side of the moon.
Lavigne it a freshman news-editorial
major and a Daily Nebraskan senior report
er.
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April 5 Meeting, Nebraska Union Board, City Union, 5:00 p.m.
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