$2.00 BUYS A GEM!

As I approached 40, more than two decades ago, I discovered an ad in a children’s magazine touting the benefits of corresponding with pen pals.  Remembering the joys of writing to various pen pals from around the globe as a teenager, I assumed that my 14-year old son would be equally thrilled.

Angie in Portsmouth 

I quickly whipped off a letter to a pen pal agency in Chicago.  As a postscript I added, “If you have the names of any adult pen pals, I would love to correspond with someone.”  Within a few weeks I received a reply.  In addition to supplying the name of an Italian pen pal for my son, I was forwarded an intriguing letter from a most-interesting woman named Angie.  She had initially sent a letter to a Boston newspaper, hoping to find a pen friend from the east coast.  Since this effort yielded nothing, she went one step further and fired off an inquiry to the White House, asking in typical Angie-style, “IS ANYONE THERE MR. PRESIDENT?”  Eventually someone there forwarded her letter to the Chicago pen pal agency, no doubt chuckling the whole time. She found a way to get noticed!

My new pen pal and I made an amazing match.  Angie and I corresponded several times a week, launching into the Minneapolis/Portsmouth chronicles of everyday life.  I’d always wanted an English pen pal and Angie was equally thrilled to find an American pen friend.  She often teased me about paying the agency the grand sum of $2.00 for her name.  In turn, I chuckled while gently reminding her that no one on the east coast had been remotely interested in corresponding with her.

One day, after about a year’s correspondence, Angie encouraged me to come “across the pond” for a visit.  I talked it over with my husband, took out a $1,000 loan, and booked my flight.  Many of my friends thought I’d truly gone crazy.  The questions became, “How can you possibly go and visit some stranger for two weeks?  What if she’s some weirdo?”  My reply was, “I know her well.  Letters tell you a lot about a person.”  And we’d written volumes.

Angie leading the way on the Isle of Wight

One spring afternoon in 1988 I boarded my flight to London.  When my plane landed nine hours later, I wondered if I’d acted impulsively.  I was scared stiff.  Did I really have to go through those passenger doors?  What had I done?  A moment later, glancing through the window, I spotted a woman jumping madly up and down.  She was holding a huge welcoming sign.  Knowing it was Angie, I maneuvered my way past the crowd.  Angie took off running, arms outstretched to give me a long awaited hug.  We both started laughing, recognizing what oddball adventurers we must be.  We understood it already, even if others didn’t.  On the way to her Portsmouth home I was more reserved than Angie had expected. I think her husband Nick must have been relieved. Angie was even more lively and boisterous than I’d imagined.  Through the years, we’ve forged a unique and lasting friendship—now 25 years. We’ve visited one another on various occasions and can’t imagine life without one another’s perspective.  We’ve seen sights and met people we never could have imagined.  There have been disagreements, as with any friendship, but in the end nothing comes close to matching this unusual and unexpected pen pal connection of a lifetime.

A DIAMOND IN THE RUFF

“I want this dog Mom,” my 10-year old son Alex said. We were at the humane society and we were determined to get a dog.  We were both “softies” for dogs, especially labs, and this one looked sad and lonely and hungry for affection.  She was also totally adorable! Ginger (her name at that time) wasn’t barking and whining like some of the other dogs.  Alex was determined that this was the only dog we could ever take home. He climbed into her cage and wouldn’t budge.  There was another family equally interested and the man suggested that if we didn’t want her, his family did.  I wasn’t sure that she was the “right” dog for us, but in the end I trusted Alex’s wisdom.  We learned that she hadn’t had a good life up to that point, having been malnourished and left alone outside for hours at a time.  I wondered how anyone could do that to her; she was such a beautiful and gentle-looking dog.  Now, however, there are many days when I thank her original owners for caring enough about her to give her another chance for life.

Alex and I brought her home and introduced her gradually to Felix and Nipper, the cats in charge of the household.  It was a slow get-acquainted process and never really evolved the way we might have liked.  She had a real fixation for cats, but they did eventually adapt to one another, although reluctantly.  I suspect that this golden lab just had an innate intrigue about cats.

My husband Heinz thought that Ginger was a silly name; he decided to start calling her Martha.  The name grew on us after a while and we couldn’t imagine calling her anything else. 

Some of Martha’s happiest times were going to our cabin in Wisconsin, where she loved to run along the lakeshore and go for long walks on the cabin roads.  She also loved to curl up by the old fireplace and jump in the rowboat with Alex to head over to Blueberry Island.  Years ago Martha had an exciting one-night adventure on the island with Alex and his cousin Dan.  They built a roaring bonfire and took Martha along for companionship, as well as comfort and security, like a warm blanket.  Somewhere along the line she must have let them down though because they rowed back to the cabin in the middle of the night.

Some especially memorable adventures with Martha were trips to the doggie bakery in south Minneapolis.  It no longer exists, but what a haven it was for dogs and their owners!  There were scrumptious looking doggie treats in all shapes and sizes and the whole emphasis of the shop was on DOGS.  There were all kinds of dogs that came through the doors and most of them felt completely at home.  It was great fun watching the dogs and dog owners interact.  It was a very unique experience and Martha loved going there.

As the years progressed, Martha developed a tumor in her spleen and the outlook was not good.  A friend and I took her on a mini road trip to Wisconsin.  I think it was one of her best trips ever and very poignant.  It was a magical, nostalgic drive, wonderful and bittersweet.  Martha seemed very content and at peace.  I was flooded with memories of Martha at the cabin and on other trips to Wisconsin, in all seasons.  The irony was that Martha was teaching me about “being in the moment”, one I’m often reminded of to this day.

Martha died not long after that trip to Wisconsin.  She’ll always be my favorite pet because she had such a gentle, loving spirit.  Everywhere she went, she made people smile, whether riding in the car with her ears flapping out the window or her paws on the steering wheel.  My friend had taught her to bark her name in two syllables, which was hilarious.  She was always reaching in her toy box for the right toy for the moment.  She loved stuffed animals, which I had fun buying at thrift stores.  She would take the stuffing out, fling them in the air, and shake her head like crazy.  She was incredibly playful.

After Martha died, I wanted to do something special to honor her, so I developed a variety of greeting cards and called my little venture MARTHA’S BONEYARD.  It was just for fun, but always with gentle-spirited Martha in mind. 

Our son Alex is now 27, married, and a new professor with a great career ahead of him, but he still loves labs of all kinds and can’t wait to get his own.  I’m no longer in position to own a dog, but I’ll always have fond memories of that wonderful dog named Martha. She was truly a DIAMOND IN THE RUFF.

GRANDPA OLSON, ADVENTUROUS SPIRIT

Indira Gandhi, former Indian Prime Minister, once wrote:  “My grandfather once told me that there are two kinds of people:  those who do the work and those who take the credit.  He told me to try to be in the first group; there is much less competition.”

My grandfather would have chuckled at those thoughts and wholeheartedly agreed with them.  From the time he left home at 14 until he retired at 79, he worked long and hard, and he never hesitated to give credit to those who helped him along the way.

In 1872, as a 19-month old, his Swedish-born mother Eli brought him to America on the Kong Sverre, a large Norwegian steamship.  Arne, his Norwegian father, had come to America the year before when Oluf was only 14 weeks old.  He worked in lumbering to raise money to send for his family the following year.  He built a log house near Greenwood, Wisconsin, where his little family would spend their first winter in the wilderness.  The next spring they moved to land near Curtiss, which Arne was able to homestead.  He acquired sixty acres of land and he and Eli built a small farm.  I’ve often wondered what those early years were like and if they ever had regrets about leaving their family and homeland behind.  Neither my grandfather nor his parents ever returned to Norway or Sweden.

My grandfather was born February 4, 1871 in Oslo, Norway.  Ironically, his father Arne was also born on that day.  Oluf attended a rural elementary school near Curtiss, Wisconsin.  The 1918 Clark County History book wrote about him years later:

          “His parents, settling in Mayville Township, Clark County, when it was a wilderness, he acquired his education in the district school, which stood in the middle of a wood, through which not infrequently roamed bears and wolves, so that his journeys to and from school were flavored to some extent with the spirit of adventure.”

my grandparents Oluf and Myrtle with Arne and Eli, my great-grandparents

Grandpa Olson (on right) about 1890

I think my grandfather thrived on the spirit of adventure. Although he attended school only through fourth grade, he sought out many different work opportunities.   When he left home at 14, he worked at logging and for railroads in different capacities.  He told the local newspaper:  “From that time on, I never depended on my parents for food, clothing, or shelter.”  Although he returned to farming at different periods in his life, I don’t think that’s where he was truly happy.  At one point he helped operate three different farms in Marathon and Clark counties.  And then, in 1907, six years after he married my grandmother, he moved to Abbotsford, my hometown, where he worked double duty—serving as a railroad foreman and village marshal.

My grandmother often helped by carrying a ladder around town so he could light the oil street lamps, which were so typical in the nineteenth century.  As a town marshal, it was his duty every evening to make the rounds, fill the lamps, trim the wicks, and touch a match.  He added, “We didn’t have to put them out in the morning as they usually ran out of kerosene before daylight.”

Another of his responsibilities as village marshal was to operate the jail and apprehend troublemakers.

          “We had a jail 14x14 feet on the Clark County side of Abbotsford where we usually had some drunken lumberjacks sobering up.  We never fined them just for being drunk but if they got to fighting, they had to pay a fine before being released from jail.  The most drunks I remember having in the jail at one time was seven.”

Once during his years as village marshal four strangers came to town and at night they tried to rob the village bank.  One of the robbers was caught, tried and sentenced to 10 years in the state prison.  The men managed to get in the bank, but not the vault.

In 1914 my grandparents moved to Neillsville, Wisconsin, the county seat, where Grandpa became custodian of the courthouse, and eventually worked as baliff and deputy sheriff, as well as janitor.  The Neillsville paper reported:  “It is the irony of fate that Oluf, who started the blaze in the street lights thousands and thousands of times, should have been caught by the flames in 1953 and sent to the hospital with burns running up the back of a leg.  Those flames, coming from a grass fire, sneaked up his trouser leg by a rear attack.  He did not know what was happening until the heat told him.”

Early on in his job, my grandfather was supporting nine children and earning a meager $60 a month.  At one time the Neillsville Press reported:

          “It was close going and when the time came for the annual Clark County Fair, the courthouse closed down so employees could attend the second day’s events.  As Judge O’Neill left his chamber, he met Olson in the hallway and inquired whether the Olson family was going to take in the fair.”

          “No, replied Olson, “we can’t afford it.”

The judge pulled out three dollars and said, “You take your family to the fair.”

Grandpa Olson and his family did go to the fair, and according to the Neillsville paper, “After buying their tickets, there remained but a few cents of the three dollars.  A man at the fair gate told Olson he should sign up for the prize to be given to the family with the largest number of children attending the fair.  The prize was five dollars.”

My grandpa and his nine children easily won the prize.  Later he attempted to return the three dollars to Judge O’Neill, but he wouldn’t accept it.  According to the Neillsville paper, Grandpa referred to the judge as “the most outstanding man to ever serve Clark County in public capacity.  The old Judge O’Neill was a warm and human man, as well as a good judge and a public spirited citizen.”

During my grandfather’s time as deputy sheriff in Neillsville he apprehended a murder suspect, a man, who, in a drunken rage was accused of killing his sister-in-law in her own home and then trying to pin the murder on a burglar.  The mother of three young children had been severely beaten.  The accused, Gust Handke, was locked behind steel doors at the county jail.  As the Marshfield News reported in 1927, “During this time, District Attorney V.W.Nehs, Sheriff H.M. OIson and undersheriff Oluf Olson have grilled, cross-questioned, and cross-examined the suspect, but to very little satisfaction as Gust Handke refuses to talk or answer any of the deeper questions.” 

My grandfather was present at the court hearing that was to follow, and as the paper reported, “At 10 a.m. the courthouse was filled to capacity with people who had come to take in the hearing and get a look at the suspected murderer.  At two o’clock Oluf Olson, under-sheriff who made the arrest, was placed on the witness stand.”

At the end of the hearing, “the judge after a minute or two of deliberation, bound the suspect over for circuit court.”  Shortly before his trial in circuit court, Gust Handke pleaded guilty.  He was sent to life at hard labor at the state prison in Waupun and each year on the anniversary of the young mother’s death, he was kept in solitary confinement.

I’ve often wondered how my grandfather was affected by that case.  He had nine children, including my mother, who was only 13 at the time.  I’ve also wondered if my grandmother was aware of the challenges and dangers of my grandfather’s job.  I doubt that he ever saw himself as a hero, more likely that he viewed himself as an everyday man doing what was expected in the service of his community.  He was an incredible role model for those around him, and as Albert Schweitzer once said, “Example is not the main thing in influencing others—it’s the only thing.” 

Despite having only a fourth grade education, he at one time became school director of the Curtiss elementary school and was proud that nearly all of his children became college graduates, as well as teachers.  Starting with his oldest daughter Ellen, each graduate offered financial help to the next student in line.

Grandpa Olson and Dad

My grandfather had a strong sense of values, as my mother could attest.  She and my father eloped and drove to Dubuque, Iowa to get married by a Justice of the Peace.  She was afraid of losing her teaching job because women at the time could be fired if it was learned that they were married.  She didn’t want to take that chance, but somehow my grandpa discovered the truth and had it printed in the Neillsville paper.  He insisted that no daughter of his was going to be secretly married.  My mother was relieved that she never lost her job.

When my grandfather got married in March of 1901, the Colby Phonograph wrote:

          “Mr. Olson is one of the leading young men of his town, honest and industrious and highly respected by all his acquaintances.  The Phonograph joins the many friends of the young couple in wishing them a happy and prosperous voyage on the matrimonial sea.”

In 1946, my grandfather celebrated his birthday at the courthouse.  He was then a part-time employee.  The Neillsville Press reported, “Oluf Olson celebrated his 75^th birthday at the courthouse on Monday.  He gave a party for his friends there, with the help of Mrs. Olson, providing rolls, doughnuts, dill pickles, cheese and coffee.  His friends bought a box of cigars for him.  Now a box of cigars for Olson is a long smoke, for when he smokes a cigar, he makes a business of it, taking his time and doing nothing else.  OIson has completed 31 years as janitor at the courthouse.  He is still going strong.”

I remember those pungent cigars well.  When I visited my grandparents in the ensuing years, my grandpa often had a cigar in hand and a big smile on his face.  Life was good!

Grandpa loved having his children and grandchildren visit on holidays or for any other occasion.  Some of my fondest memories are of Christmas Eve gatherings at my grandparent's house.  The house was filled with relatives from all over the state.  It was festive and magical and I loved every minute of it.

In December of 1948, a few weeks after my birth, my grandfather announced his resignation from the Clark County Courthouse.  He had worked for 34 years as janitor of the courthouse, along with his other duties as sheriff and baliff.  True to his character, he would not leave his job until another worker had been trained.  He was loyal, devoted to his family and community and a man of exceptional spirit and humor.  May Sarton, an American writer once said, “Do not deprive me of my age.  I have earned it.”  My grandfather felt comfortable in his old age and had earned his rest.  His community was proud of him and deeply appreciative.

Grandpa Olson lived to be nearly 91 and Myrtle, the gentle woman he married, 94.  They were married for 64 years.

The Clark County Jail where my grandfather once spent much of his work life is now a museum and listed on the National Register of Historic Places.  About 30 years ago my Aunt Ellen, his oldest child, gave me the large wall clock that my grandpa received when he retired.  It hangs proudly on my wall and I think of him whenever I wind it up and listen to the gentle ticking.  I’ve gone through the wonderful old museum numerous times and often imagined him interacting with the inmates, using good humor whenever possible.  His name is still listed in the old phone book.  I find it ironic that he lived on Court Street.  I also find it ironic that the murder suspect he apprehended lived in the same rural neighborhood of my father, who was only 13 at the time of the arrest.  Many years later, as my mother often told me, Grandpa came to admire and respect my father, who was in many ways like him.  I loved and greatly admired them both.

Grandpa would be proud to know that the Clark County, Wisconsin genealogical site preserves the history of the towns and land that he loved.  Dedicated volunteers, including some of his relatives, have made it a special place for many of us to learn about our ancestors and why they chose to settle in Clark County.

I think he would also be proud that his children’s families in Wisconsin have maintained a connection with relatives in Norway.  It is my fondest wish to one day visit the land of my grandfather and great-grandfather.  Then my journey will also be complete.

"WHEN FUN AND DUTY CLASH. . .

LET DUTY GO TO SMASH!”

It’s hard for me to imagine that quote being associated with my dad in his 1932 high school yearbook.  Maybe it was tinged with sarcasm because he was such a quiet, unassuming man, or maybe school was where he could really unwind.  At any rate, I had a lot of fun discovering the existence of that yearbook.  I learned much more about my father than I ever imagined. 

The painfully shy man from Loyal, Wisconsin was an actor in two high school comedies—The Touchdown (as a professor) and Skidding, a three-act comedy about a family on the skids.  He played the role of a judge.  He also participated in basketball, track and field (in shot put and discus), and was on the newspaper staff.  He became sophomore class president.  Loyal was a very small school, so I was surprised to see that they had track and field events like shot put and discus. That must have been a lot of fun for my dad.  Life on his parent’s farm didn’t allow much free time.

Reading the yearbook was good fun; it was so innocent.  The class will said:  “Lowell D. ( Tiny) leaves his agility at snatching “forty winks” while the teacher isn’t looking to Edna H.”  I know that he rose very early to do chores so I’m not surprised that he was trying to catch up on his sleep during class. And it sounds like he wasn’t the only one struggling through physics, judging by this poem:

“We know our brains are dense;

We know he knows they are;

We know he has great patience

To stand and watch us stare.

Three cheers for Mr. Thomas

It’s good that he is here;

Or we would never really know

Our physics lessons clear.”

My father was born August 28, 1913.  Today, August 21, it’s nearly 100 years since he was born.  Any hour or day now my daughter will give birth to a little boy.  I don’t know his name or his arrival time, but I secretly wish that my daughter’s due date, August 25, could be pushed back a few days.  That might well be selfish, but I think it would be wonderful to have her little boy share something with the great-grandpa he’ll never know.  My dad loved kids and I know that he would have been excited about this little boy.

My father never had the opportunity to go to college, unlike my mother.  He would have loved to, but there was no way that he could have afforded it.  My mother only had that opportunity because her siblings helped pay for it.  Dad valued education immensely and offered to pay my way through college.  I didn’t have to go; he would have supported me if I’d gotten a job right out of high school.  But he didn’t want me to miss the opportunity if that was what I wanted. 

My parents married in 1938 and were very dedicated to one another.  They both came from poor families and yet they built very successful businesses and raised three children.  My mother kept a book about my parents where she chronicled their life together.  She was immensely happy and often wrote about it.  On their sixth wedding anniversary she said, “This year has been as happy and full as each year since we married each other.  We couldn’t be more happy together than we are—it isn’t possible.”

As a young man Dad worked in a state conservation tower near Fairchild, Wisconsin, checking for possible fires in the area.  My mother was a business teacher in a local high school.  Within eight years they scraped together enough money to buy the Coast-to-Coast hardware store in my hometown in Abbotsford, Wisconsin.  My mother wrote, “We moved to Abbotsford, the town I was born in.  It has been a very successful year and we like it, though at first I was lonesome and unhappy here.”

My mother was worried that my father would be sent off to war in 1941, but my oldest brother was born in April of that year and my father became exempt from the war. 

By the early 1950’s my parents were able to buy land near Mead Lake, about 30 miles from Abbotsford.  They wanted to build a small cabin for weekend getaways.  One of my dad’s favorite ways to relax was to head off to the cabin.  Dad was very proud of our simple rustic cabin which he helped build with a friend, who also built our house.  It was one of only two lots on that side of the lake.  We often drove out there on Saturday night after he finished work.  I think he was especially happy that he’d found a cozy retreat near the farm where he’d grown up.  In later years he loved taking us water skiing on the lake.  One day he surprised us and bought a beautiful blue fiberglass boat with a 35-horsepower motor.  It seemed incredibly fast to us. It was a real speedboat for that time. He pulled countless skiers behind that boat and never seemed to tire of it.  That was his way of relaxing and making kids happy. I remember him once taking me skiing through the upper channel of the lake.  My mother was quite upset because she couldn’t see the boat and she imagined that I had gone down in the middle of the lake.  My dad was always good at reassuring her, but once he had to discipline me on his own.  We had a family reunion and I was eager to show off a little.  I wanted to go racing across the waves with the boat pulling me; I’d done it often and it was exhilarating.  But there was one thing I forgot—MY LIFEJACKET.  It might not have been noticed except that I fell--in the middle of the lake.  That was the end of my skiing for the day; my dad made sure of that.  No amount of arguing would change his mind.

Dad loved having his own business and worked extremely hard.  The Coast-to-Coast store he opened in 1946 sold hardware items, auto supplies, housewares, farm equipment, sporting goods, electrical supplies, appliances, and furniture.  At Christmas time Dad made sure to use his extra store room to stock plenty of toys.  He loved to see families come in to pick out gifts for their kids.  The most memorable Christmas I ever had growing up was receiving a gift my mother and dad had saved for me to open until I’d opened a number of smaller gifts.  I remember the disappointment I felt at receiving socks and other everyday items; I wondered if my parents were poorer this year than I had imagined.  Then Dad brought out a big package that looked like a suitcase.  I thought, “Why do I need a suitcase?  Do they have plans for me that I don’t know about?”  I opened up the “suitcase” and discovered a beautiful gold saxophone inside, lying on a red velvet surface.  I was ecstatic.  I played that wonderful saxophone all the way through high school. 

I remember working in the store and waiting on customers, being a little self-conscious wrapping packages at Christmas time.  Dad, along with the customers, always tried to help me feel at ease.  Working at the store was the best place in the world to learn to make change.  I’m glad I had that opportunity.  Today many young people I’ve observed in stores fumble around if they have to make change on their own.

I remember some Amish men who drove their buggies into town and would park them behind our store.  They would often come in for simple, inexpensive things and they loved chatting with my dad.  They had a lot of things in common.

Eventually my father opened a furniture store, in addition to the hardware store.  It meant longer hours and even occasional Sundays, but he always had time to take us on vacations. He wanted us to have experiences that he never had as a child.    He and my mother loved to travel and they did plenty of it.  They made friends everywhere.  They bought a small tent trailer and took us to Washington D.C., Philadelphia, New York, Yellowstone, the World’s Fair in Seattle, Washington, Arizona, and all over Canada. When we returned home we could re-live our vacation because Dad put together a slide show, complete with popcorn, supplied by my mother. It was better than going to the movies because we were part of the action.

What I’ll always remember about my dad was his endless patience, his love of reading, and his tender heart. I struggled with basic math, including Algebra and Geometry, and he never made fun of me or told me that I should be doing better.  He just explained over and over again.  The math problems are long forgotten, but not the way I was treated. Centuries ago Saint Augustine said, “Patience is the companion of wisdom.”  My father was a reflection of that.

Dad was a true role model for reading and staying curious about life;  I can remember coming home from school at lunch time and seeing him reading in his easy chair.  We got subscriptions to all kinds of different newspapers and magazines.  He often had his nose in a book, as did my mother.  I attribute my love of reading to their role modeling.

My dad was a rare man who frequently displayed emotions.  I remember going to church with him and my mother on Christmas Eve and seeing tears in his eyes as he listened to a vocalist sing O Holy Night.  He didn’t sing, but music moved him deeply.  When I hear that song now I think of him and a flood of tears comes. 

My dad had a tender heart in other ways as well.  It was incredibly hard for him to put his mother in a nursing home.  My mother and dad could no longer take care of her and he was very sad.  We often went to the nursing home to see her, even though she never had any response to our attempts to converse with her.  My father talked with tenderness about her and never abandoned her.

I was lucky to have had a lot of one-on-one opportunities with my dad.  We sometimes went fishing in our little rowboat and usually talked about much more than fishing.  Another thing we loved doing was picking blackberries from the woods near our cabin.  They were absolutely delicious and my mother turned them into delectable pies.  It was our reward for persevering—fighting the thick brush in the woods and the mosquitos.  It was true teamwork!

My parents were involved in their small local church.  Although I belonged to the youth group, I knew that I didn’t want to become a member of the church.  I tried going to the classes, but I just wasn’t committed in my heart.  It was an embarrassment for my mother, but my dad gave me the freedom to say no.  Dad always wanted me to think for myself.

My dad, although quiet, had a great sense of humor and loved getting together and playing cards and games with friends.  I would often hear them laughing and sometimes they let me join them when they played  Tripoli for pennies.  I was ecstatic when I occasionally won the jackpot.

My dad was an occasional drinker and often kept a bottle of Southern Comfort in the top cabinet in the kitchen.  I had watched him mix drinks a few times and I learned how to make a Tom Collins.  Occasionally when I knew my parents had gone out with friends for a few hours, I’d invite my neighbor and friend over to raid the cupboard and test the latest drink.  Years later I told my dad and he had a good laugh.

One thing that I had a hard time accepting about my dad was his enjoyment of going hunting in the fall.  I dreaded the thought of anyone going deer hunting and was secretly glad when he came home empty handed.  I know that for him it was much more about the camaraderie and his love of nature.  George Carver once said, “Nothing is more beautiful than the loveliness of the woods before sunrise.”  My dad often expressed that sentiment and I understand it even more today.

In the late 60’s my father learned that he had colon cancer.  My mother had a hard time coping with the news.  She had always lived in fear that someone in her family would get cancer.  But it seemed like my dad had beaten the odds.  His five-year check-up was good and we thought that he was cancer-free.  Within a couple of years, however, the cancer was back.  My mother wrote on what would have been her thirty-sixth wedding anniversary, in 1974:  “What heartache this year has brought—the dreadful suffering and yet the incredible bravery of my darling in his last month of life.  Though his pain was terrible, his smile was bright—no complaints, just quiet endurance—insisted on his trip to Arizona where after three weeks of suffering, he died March 1.  No braver man—no more wonderful husband, father, or friend ever lived.  I had the great privilege of being chosen as his loving wife.  So ends a book of a devoted marriage and a grieving wife with wonderful memories.” 

Nearly forty years after his death I still think of my dad almost every day and realize how much I miss him.  I recognize and celebrate how unique he was—a kindhearted man with immense patience and compassion.  He cared deeply about his family and friends and others less fortunate.  My mother often said that his biggest fault was that he was too generous and people didn’t appreciate it.  He never demanded or expected that they would.  He just gave simply, from his heart.

The Talmud writes that “there are people whose remembrance gives light to the world, long after they pass away.” I will always honor and remember my father’s gentle spirit.

MILLVINA — “PEOPLE THINK I AM THE TITANIC”

For well over a decade I’ve had a fascination with the story of the Titanic.  I had seen the movie when it originally came out and afterwards I sought out countless books about the people who had survived and those who didn’t.  I wanted to know more about their lives and how the sinking of the Titanic had changed so many hopes and dreams.  I had a pen pal in England who shared my interest and sent me fascinating books and articles.  And then a few years ago I learned about the last surviving passenger on the Titanic, Millvina Dean. 

Millvina’s parents, Bertram and Georgette sold their London pub in 1912 and left Southampton, England with their two children to emigrate to Wichita, Kansas, where her father’s cousin owned a tobacco shop and Bertram was to become a co-owner.  Millvina once said, “If it hadn’t been for the ship going down, I’d be an American.”  Ironically, her family was not even supposed to be on the ship.  Because of a coal strike, they were transferred to the Titanic as third class passengers.  Nearly 500 third class passengers boarded at Southampton.  Third class cabins had very high standards on the Titanic.

The Titanic was making its maiden voyage, which was to last seven days.  Many of those on board were very wealthy, famous Americans. The ship was nearly 900 feet long, the same as four city blocks.  Some called it a moving hotel, a floating city. It was the greatest steamship the world had ever known, but as elaborate and elegant and sophisticated as the Titanic was, it did not prove to be unsinkable.  It had a swimming pool and a squash court, but a minimal number of life boats. It was unthinkable that anything could happen to it. Many scientists say that the damage to the ship would not have been so extensive if it had been going slower.  When the collision with the iceberg occurred and quick decisions were needed to save lives, there was a lot of confusion about the orders given. In her later years Millvina agreed with assertions that the crew was ordered to give priority on the lifeboats to first and second class passengers.  And sadly, many of the lifeboats left, being only half full. Some people did not believe the seriousness of the situation on the Titanic and refused to enter the lifeboats. In addition, a lifeboat drill which might have saved many lives had been cancelled. The Titanic sank in less than three hours and more than 1,500 people perished.  Millvina Dean’s father was one of those, but she often spoke glowingly of him and his courage.  She attributed her father’s quick response to saving her and her mother and two-year old brother.  He felt the collision with the iceberg and upon going on deck and sizing up the situation, quickly got his family out of third class and up to where the lifeboats were located.  Millvina, just nine weeks old, was wrapped in a mail sack and lifted into lifeboat number 10.  Her father said goodbye and that he’d be there later.  His family never saw him again. 

Those on lifeboats were eventually rescued by the Carpathia, which had received the initial distress call. It was only when Millvina’s mother Georgette was on board that she discovered that Bertram, her young son who was named after his father, was also on board. The Carpathia’s captain, Arthur Rostron later said, “The rescued came solemnly, dimly out of a shivery shadow.” He was a hero in the Titanic disaster, acting quickly and decisively.  Upon receiving the message that the Titanic had struck an iceberg, the Carpathia turned about and made the 58-mile journey in three and a half hours.  They avoided six icebergs and fired rockets signaling a coming approach.  The captain spotted a massive iceberg which may have been the one that doomed the Titanic.  Overall, according to the book Voyagers of the Titanic, “the human cargo of this mourning boat were dazed by shock and sorrow—and angry, too, that their liner had been driven and equipped so heedlessly.  It had steamed westward as if it were invulnerable, plunging too fast into an ice zone to stop when an iceberg hove in view.  There had been a woeful inadequacy of lifeboats, there had been a shambles loading them, and the crewmen who were put in charge of them often proved blundering or weak nerved.  The ship’s last hours had been a climax of deadly folly.”

As the Carpathia made its way to New York, the captain had a memorial service at the spot presumed to be where the Titanic went down.  When the ship arrived in New York, at 9:30 p.m. Thursday, April 18, 30,000 people came to see it. Millvina’s mother, now being alone in raising two children, made the difficult decision to return to England after a week.  The people of New York supplied her with numerous items, including a suitcase full of clothes.  The London Daily Mirror reported news about Millvina, barely three months old, on May 12, 1912:  “She was the pet of the liner (the returning Adriatic) during the voyage, and so keen was the rivalry between women to nurse this lovable mite of humanity that one of the officers decreed that first and second class passengers might hold her in turn for no more than ten minutes.”

When Millvina returned to England with her mother and brother, she spent her early years on a farm, which her grandfather owned. Money from various charity organizations helped educate her and other Titanic survivors.   When she turned eight, her mother was about to re-marry and it was then that Millvina learned what happened on the Titanic. 

Millvina did not share with people until many years later that she had been a passenger on the Titanic.  She thought of herself as an ordinary person and was surprised that people were interested in her.  During World War II she worked for the British government drawing maps.  She became more interested in the Titanic when Robert Ballard discovered the wreckage in waters more than two miles deep in 1985.  It was then she was found and interviewed. She was in her 70’s and took part in many conventions and exhibitions and documentaries, as well as television and radio interviews.  She enjoyed the attention, but didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about.

In 1997 the movie Titanic came out and won 11 Academy awards, including best picture.  James Cameron, the director, upon accepting his award asked the audience for a moment of silence to honor the 1,500 people aboard the Titanic who perished.  Millvina Dean never saw the movie, saying that she didn’t want to be reminded of what happened to her father.  “It would have made me think, did he jump overboard or did he go down with the ship?  I would have been very emotional.”

In 1987 Millvina attended the memorial service for the Titanic at a London church, marking the 75th anniversary.  She also visited Belfast, where the ship was built.  She crossed the Atlantic for the second time in 1997 on the Queen Elizabeth II and visited the Kansas house where she and her family were to live. 

    She once said, “People think I am the Titanic.” 

In 2008 I read an article about her in the New York Times, telling readers that the last survivor of the Titanic, Millvina Dean, age 96 was now needing to sell numerous family possessions so she could pay for medical expenses relating to a recent broken hip.  She was residing in a nursing home and had no way to cover expenses.  She had to sell a suitcase, which was given to her and her mother in New York after the ship sank.  I couldn’t believe that she was forced to do that.  The sale of different items raised about $50,000 and some of the items were returned to her by the buyer.  The story attracted a lot of readers’ attention, including James Cameron and the stars of the Titanic movie, Kate Winslet and Leonardo Di Caprio.  Together these three donated $30,000 to the Millvina fund so she would never have to worry about medical expenses again.  I couldn’t get my mind off her story and decided to write to her at the nursing home where she was living.  I did a little research and discovered the address.  I wrote a short letter in the fall of 2008 and never expected an answer; I just wanted her to know that I had read the story and was thinking of her.  About three months later I received a postcard of the Titanic from her with best wishes and her signature.  I couldn’t believe it.  I framed it and now have it hanging on a wall in my room next to another larger photograph of the Titanic.  That picture was sent to me by my English pen pal and has the signature of many survivors, including Millvina Dean. I feel incredibly lucky and blessed to have these two memories of the Titanic.

Millvina died of pneumonia not long after, on May 31, 2009, at the age of 97.  Her ashes were scattered in Southampton where the Titanic set sail.  The day she died was the 98th anniversary of the Titanic launching.  There were many tributes to Millvina Dean when her death was reported.  I’ve included a few of them.

Anthony Keyes, who published several poems about the Titanic and got to know Millvina, said, “Millvina’s life changed for the better after Sept. 1, 1985, the day that the Titanic was re-discovered by Dr. Robert Ballard after being lost for 73 years.”  He asked her how she felt about it.  Her reply was, “It was with utter disbelief—my thoughts went immediately to my father Bertram who went down with the ship.”  Anthony called her “a remarkable optimist.  She was always looking forward, although her strong, affectionate bond with her lost father remained.”  Anthony Keyes’ book Poetic Realms offered a picture of Millvina at her home. He said, “Millvina wanted me to tell her story and wrote a short poem herself, which went:

        “When this you see, remember me, the baby saved from the sea.”

The president of the Titanic International Society, upon Millvina’s death, called her “the last living link to the Titanic and a dear friend.  While she never sought the limelight, she enjoyed its results in meeting people and traveling the world.  Her story inspires us as a story of hope and adversity and teaches that a full and rewarding life can follow personal tragedy and loss.  We will miss her very much, but never forget her or the other 2,200 aboard the Titanic.”

A few final thoughts about Millvina—She shared what she learned from her mother about the Titanic and did a great deal of research about it.  She had a wonderful sense of humor and loved talking to children about the Titanic.  She was a fascinating person and lived a long life and I’m glad that I met her in some small way.

REMEMBERING MOM

I recently discovered an emotional letter my mother wrote to her parents in July of 1924 from a hospital bed in Minneapolis.  Learning about her painful childhood struggles helped me understand the insecurities that plagued her for most of her life.  It also deepened my love for the strong woman who later evolved.  As a ten-year old she spent four months in Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children, as it was then called.  Her parents lived 150 miles away in a small town in central Wisconsin.  They had little money for visits and eight other children to care for.  My mother wrote:

     Dear Mama and Papa,

     Why did you bring me up here?  I cry all the time because I have nobody to stay.  If Papa comes home or is home, you come up, will you?  Oh Mama, please come up next weekend or this week.  You can’t stay at the hospital, but you can come up and see me every day.  I wish I was home.  I hate it up here.  You can talk by the window but can’t come in for a few days because two boys had diphtheria, but they are in the other part of the hospital so don’t worry about me.  Will you send me something?  Will you send me some paper and envelopes so I can write again?  The other girls are all getting letters and packages from other folks.  Come if you can.

     Love Mildred

I cried thinking about her as a young child, alone and quarantined in a large city hospital, worrying about an operation.  Seven years earlier as a three-year old, my mother had contracted pneumonia and been sick for three weeks.  A painful joint condition followed, as well as swelling on her left knee.  My grandparents took her to a regional hospital in Wisconsin where she was immediately operated on, with several incisions over the swelling.  After a three-month stay she was allowed to go home, but when the cast was removed, her knee was stiff, flexed at about a 45-degree angle.  According to hospital notes, my grandparents said that she’d had use of the knee before her first operation in Wisconsin.  Her knee never improved, despite a second operation and four-month stay at Shriner’s Hospital.  On June 22, 1926, nearly two years after her second operation, Shriner’s reported, “Condition exactly the same—perfectly stiff, not necessary to return.”

I remember, because of her inability to bend her knee which caused her leg to stick out, that there were plenty of embarrassing times.  She often apologized to people at ballgames, on airplanes, in schools, or even in church who were momentarily inconvenienced while moving past her.  I think her biggest regret and shame, though, was never being able to ride a bike.  She could do so many other things despite her knee problems, but riding a bike was never one of them.

I never knew the history behind her illnesses or knee operations.  In addition to her lengthy bout with pneumonia, she’d also had scarlet fever, measles, chicken pox, and influenza before she was 10.  What I did know was that she was the youngest of 10 children and grew up in Neillsville, Wisconsin.  My Norwegian grandfather Oluf worked as a deputy sheriff and janitor at the Clark County Courthouse.  My grandparents were poor and the regional hospital understood that.  In fact, Sister Superior wrote this to my grandmother on July 17, 1917 when my mother was three years old:

     You are kindly informed that your little daughter has been very good.  She slept till 9 o’clock this morning.  You don’t need to worry about paying; we shall keep her for the love of God free of charge, if you are not able to pay.

The irony struck me—my being grateful for a compassionate health care system of yesteryear which truly cared about a young child from a poor family but failed her from a physical standpoint and probably worsened her condition.

I’ve come to understand why my mother had so much compassion for others.  Whether it was the aged bedridden man in the shack across the street from us she brought meals to regularly or a friend who’d recently lost her son in Vietnam and needed a comforting shoulder to cry on, my mother was there.  She was there for me in countless ways as well, and I now understand so much better why she didn’t want her own little girl to hurt in any way.

My mother truly believed in the power of love.  For thirty-six years she kept a wonderful record of our family’s joys and sorrows, adventures and mishaps.  The family book she started in 1938 is still treasured reading.  She adored my father and wrote glowingly of their relationship.  Unfortunately, the stories ended when my father died in 1974.  My mother, at 59 had her most painful struggle.  I, along with other family members, didn’t believe that she would survive, but she did.  She moved to Arizona, where my parents had spent part of recent winters and where my father had made all arrangements for her for when he was no longer living.  Gradually she made new friends, and spent hours walking around her neighborhood.  Everyone seemed to like Millie.  Eventually, through her daily walks and interest in sports, she met my stepfather Bill.  They shared a real passion for sports, travel, reading, and nature.  When they returned to our family’s cabin in Wisconsin, my mother immediately started preparing food for her beloved bird friends.  I’d often visit and see her sitting by the lake watching her favorite birds—the cardinals, hummingbirds, and finches.  There was always a big bucket with sunflower seeds for the cardinals, but she once got the shock of her life when she opened it and discovered an enormous mouse nibbling away.  He was slow getting out and had obviously enjoyed a few good meals along the way.

Mom loved the Chicago Cubs

My mother, although a lover of simple things, was also quite complex and unafraid of expressing strong opinions.  We frequently disagreed about politics and other issues, but she was never afraid of challenging me to see things from a different perspective. 

When I decided to seek a divorce after 29 years of marriage, I was very hesitant to tell her.  I was fearful of her reaction because of her devotion to my father.  I waited until the last moment—as we sat in the car in front of my apartment.  I shouldn’t have worried.  Her only concern was about my happiness.  She said, “I love you darling and only want you to be happy.”  I sat in the car and openly wept before taking her into my apartment.

The tenth anniversary of her death just passed.  I still can’t believe that she’s gone, even though she lived a long and full life.  She was quite a remarkable woman who displayed tenacity and perseverance, an adventurous spirit, love and dedication, compassion and wisdom, and an incredibly independent and strong-willed nature.  She was generous to a fault, and as a dear friend of mine said, “She was a sparkling human being.”  I miss you Mom, but I feel your spirit is with me everywhere.

ALBERT, A GERMAN-AMERICAN ICON

One bright sunny July day I was barely out of bed when I heard a knock on the cabin door.  I knew immediately that it was Albert, our 75-year old neighbor who usually showed up unannounced.  Sometimes he was a welcome guest, but at other times I felt downright irritated, especially before 8 a.m.  Why didn’t he get it? I wondered. Our time at the cabin was short on weekends and it was a long drive home; we just wanted some quiet, family time after a hectic week in the city.

“You’re wasting half the day away,” he said in his thick German accent.  “I’ve already been on a two-mile walk with Toby (his beloved basset hound) and done some fishing.  Why do you come here if you waste the best part of the day sleeping?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Albert, you need to understand,” I shot back, more than a bit resentful.  It’s been a long week and everyone’s tired.  You don’t have to get up early and fight freeway traffic on your way into work every morning. “

“I know plenty about getting up early and going to work,” he reminded me in a rather scolding way.  “I worked 90-hour weeks at a bakery in Milwaukee when I first came here from Germany.  I damn near sweated to death. I was up at four in the morning.  You couldn’t give me that big city or any other. Concrete jungles I call them.”

Somehow we’d digressed a bit, nothing unusual in discussions with Albert.  It took me a long time to realize how truly unique and different Albert was-- a true icon.  Yes, he was opinionated and overbearing at times, but he was also tender, wonderfully kind and generous, funny, and remarkably intelligent.

Perhaps the truest example of his tender heart I discovered one morning when he pulled me out of the cabin to point out the baby rabbits he was protecting from some raccoons near our screen house.  He’d discovered them by accident, but he felt responsible for their welfare.  My initial reaction was a bit of confusion.

“How did they wind up here, Albert?  What’s going to happen to them?  Won’t some animal find them?”

He reassured me, saying, “That’s why I covered them up.  They’re camouflaged—nothing can get at ‘em.  The mother’s gone.  I think a cat got it.  I heard some screeching a few nights ago.”

I agonized over the mother, but I knew that Albert would check on the rabbits often and that they would probably survive.

What was hard for me to understand, though, was how Albert, who showed so much tenderness toward those bunnies, could hunt an “adult” rabbit with no qualms at all and offer it to us for dinner.  That was an issue we never agreed on, but after many long discussions, we could at least chuckle about it.  I’m sure that Albert thought that I was naïve about the realities of the world, especially hunting, but he begrudgingly accepted it.

Albert also learned to accept his differences with the rest of the family, including my mother, who spent summers at the cabin after returning from Arizona.  Often they would get into heated political discussions that reached an impasse.  Albert would get up and head for the door.  But the next night he’d be right back sharing a beer and some popcorn and talking about football and the Packers.  He didn’t take sports as seriously as she did, but he understood her love of the game.  Sometimes he would just shake his head and say, “Millie, it’s just a game.  How can you get so upset about it? How can anyone watch those idiots who make millions play a stupid game that means nothing?”

“Cut it out Albert,” my mother would say.  “Just leave me alone.”

Albert would get up, shake his head, and mumble, “I’ve got things to do.  See you later.”

Albert always watched over the cabin in winter when my mother left for Arizona.  He sometimes climbed up on the roof and shoveled the snow, disregarding his own personal safety.  He checked the cabin regularly and called her if there were any problems.  She was extremely grateful and paid him $25 a month.  He was happy to get the money, but he would have done it for nothing.

There were some things Albert considered a waste of money.  Feeding the birds in summer definitely fit into that category.  My mother loved feeding the cardinals, hummingbirds and finches and nothing Albert said would make an ounce of difference on that subject. 

“Millie, why do you do that,” he said emphatically.  “Those birds have plenty to eat.  When you leave they won’t know what to do.”

“I don’t care,” she’d snap back.  “I love feeding the birds and watching them.  I look forward to it when I come back.”

“But Millie, it’s STOOOPID!”

Albert didn’t understand that practical was not part of my mother’s vocabulary when it came to birds.  The same was true of her use of firewood in summer.  Why would anyone use the cabin’s fireplace on a summer evening, or anytime he wondered.

“You’re just wasting wood,” he complained.  “It just goes up the chimney.  There’s no sense to it.”

“There is to me, Millie answered.  I love a cozy fire and I’m only here a few months.”

“But Millie, it makes no sense at all.”

The discussion ended, but not without a smile from Albert.  He loved my mother’s feistiness and resolve.

Albert’s generosity came through often and in wonderfully simple ways—from catching delicious sunfish for us and readying them for our frying pan, to patiently teaching our son Alex to fish from the dock.  We loved the fresh vegetables from his well-tended garden as well as his tantalizingly delicious homemade bread.  Those baking skills, honed over 40 years before as a professional baker, obviously hadn’t diminished.

Albert was always willing to help his friends, even in the middle of the night.  Years ago I had gone to the cabin with a friend and attempted to start a fire in the fireplace late at night.  Years of watching others successfully build fires apparently hadn’t registered.  I carelessly threw in an overabundance of newspaper and the cabin was starting to fill up with smoke.  I called Albert frantically.  He showed up, in disbelief, but he quickly built a small wood fire and got the newspaper smoke going in the right direction—out the chimney.  He never mentioned it the next day.

One problem of his own that Albert told us about occurred when he was still on his farm.  A few teenagers thought it would be fun to knock over his outhouse one Halloween night.  Albert’s response took a full year, until the next Halloween, but it was worth waiting for.  He moved the outhouse back five feet.  Much to the mischief makers’ surprise, when they attempted to repeat their prank, they discovered that the trick was on them.  They stepped right into the pit.  Albert never had that problem again.

One touching story of Albert spoke of his love of dogs.  Toby, his aging basset hound, followed him everywhere.  When Toby died, Albert was devastated.  He had lost his best pal.  When anyone mentioned Toby’s name, Albert’s eyes filled with tears.  But a neighbor who knew Albert well surprised him with a special gift—a beagle puppy.  After a few days Albert told us, “He’s no Toby—he’s crazy,” but he was obviously thrilled.  It just took time to adjust to the new puppy’s energy level.  I’ll always remember his smiling face as he came through the cabin door one day.

“Guess what I named my dog?” 

“What, Albert?”  We couldn’t imagine.

“ALEX!!!”

We were shocked and honored.  Albert and our son were buddies and shared a genuine love of dogs.

Albert also loved reading.  Whenever he received a copy of Time, Newsweek, Scientific American, Popular Science or other news sources, he was grateful.  He combined long walks with a healthy dose of reading every day.  He didn’t understand why Americans didn’t read more or follow current events.  It was his lifeline to the world.  We were amazed at the statistics he recited from different publications.  He cared deeply about global issues and how they impacted all of us.  Among his concerns was how technology was causing people to lose their connections with one another.  We discovered a great deal of agreement on that subject.

It’s been a few years now since Albert passed on.  Sadly, his cabin and ours have also passed on to other hands.  A few years ago when I was lamenting the painful loss of the cabin, a fellow teacher reminded me that the rich memories would always sustain me.  In his words, “that’s all we really have anyway.”  At the time I resented his remarks, but I now realize how right he was.  One of my fondest memories of the cabin will always be of Albert.  He was an exceptional human being and I will forever count my blessings that our paths crossed.

As for that “concrete jungle” that Albert often spoke of with disgust, he once acknowledged that his view of cities needed some revision.  A few years before he died, he visited us in Minneapolis.  He was surprised that the city had beautiful parks and lakes and places for people to walk and bike and enjoy nature.  It wasn’t going to turn him into a city person, but he realized that things change over time.  That also applied to the country he left so many decades before—Germany.  It had been over 50 years since he’d been back, when he had the opportunity to visit his homeland and the area where he grew up.  Although he felt some anxiety about making the trip at his age, he was as excited as a little boy.  When he returned home two weeks later he couldn’t wait to talk about the astonishing changes that had occurred in Germany since he left.  He couldn’t believe how the roads had been paved.  He was thrilled to have seen so many fascinating places.  It was heart-warming to see his youthful spirit; he was happier than we had ever seen him.  The family connections he made were meaningful and enduring.  His fondest wish was to return to Germany where he wanted to spend his remaining time.  Unfortunately that never happened.  He did, however, leave us with unbelievably rich memories.  Thank you Albert, we won’t forget you.