Watercolor Wednesday: Morning Bugle Hello! I can’t wait to share my newest painting, Morning Bugle, with you on this Watercolor Wednesday, but I owe you a quick explanation about where I’ve been: Where Have I Been? It’s been a minute since I’ve shared anything here on Unbound Roots, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down in the past couple years with the best of intentions to connect, but I wasn’t ready. The past four years have been A LOT! The COVID-19 pandemic, dealing with long COVID symptoms, a terminal diagnosis for my father, the death of my uncle, selling of our house, building a new home, the death of my dear father, a breast cancer diagnosis for my mother just two months after my father’s death, my mother moving in with us after falling very ill from her immunotherapy, the death of my grandfather (my mother’s father) when my mother was at her sickest, my mother moving back home after seven months (I still miss her daily presence in our home), and healing as we get back to our new normal. Life trials can be tough, and it’s amazing how they can zap any of the creative juices. Writing, painting, woodworking. Nothing felt right in the past four years. Instead, I was focusing on one-day-at-a-time and one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. Sleep (not easy), exercise, helping my children with their homeschool work, visiting with my dad before he passed, being there for my mother, seeing loved ones, preparing healthy meals, keeping a clean house, and working on the final touches on our new home were the only activities my brain had room for. All I can say is THANK GOD for the support of my husband and children, exercise, and daily devotions. These three things kept me somewhat sane over the past few years. It wasn’t until this past September when something began to change within me. On the Road to Recovery Two months after my mother moved back home, my little family of four took off on a long road trip through Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado in early September, 2025. I could go on forever about our trip, but I’ll keep it short. Mountain hiking, hot spring swimming, horseback riding, fly-fishing, rock-hunting, and wildlife viewing renewed something in me. I was able to focus on the present while we experienced new and wonderful things. I remember being home for a couple of weeks after our road trip and saying to my husband, Jake, “I feel happy and content. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way.” Grief is a fickle thing. No one can tell you exactly how you’ll feel, when you’ll fall, when you’ll start to pick yourself up again, or what your new normal will look like. There is a general grief process (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance), but nobody can prepare oneself for how this process will feel. I know my grief started the moment my father gave me his heartbreaking diagnosis of pulmonary fibrosis in early 2020. It was the same awful disease that had invaded his father and both of his brothers. We all knew what his outcome would be. The trials that came after that diagnosis in the next four years just compounded what I was already trying to process. It was ROUGH! In September, the fog of these trials began to lift. Painting, writing, and woodworking – I was starting to feel the pull again, and it felt SO GOOD! I was finally in a place where I could let joy back into my life. So, here we are! I’m ready to share my words and paintings with you all again. Morning Bugle “Morning Bugle” is the first painting I’ve wanted to complete in years. Yes, I’ve finished a few other paintings for myself and others, but this was the first painting I was looking forward to – the first painting I’ve felt inspired to paint in years. This painting was born from an experience in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. Rocky Mountain National Park Thirty-seven degrees at 4:30 a.m. in Rocky Mountain National Park, my friend Jen had us up early trying to glimpse the ever-elusive moose. Jen is known as a moose whisperer, and the impressively large mammals seem to flock to her. I have never been lucky enough to see a moose in the wild, but I hoped to change that. We pulled into a parking lot next to a large mountain meadow. I knew we must be in a good observation area as wildlife photographers lined the parking lot with their huge, fancy lenses on tripods waiting for the first light of dawn to break. Promptly, we heard an eerie, high-pitched trumpet sound followed by a series of grunts. Sending chills down my spine, the bull elk’s morning bugle was emblematic of the wild, untouched landscape we were immersed in. When dawn began to break, dark silhouettes of the elk herd began to emerge. Their presence was special to our whole family, but I’ll never forget the beauty of hearing that morning bugle. The bugle that inspired my first enjoyable painting in years. The bugle that signified that healing had arrived. I introduce you to Morning Bugle – a painting that portrays my vision of what the bull elk must have looked like as he bugled in the wooded mountains of Rocky Mountain National Park on an early, chilly morning in September. Experiences Shortly after the morning bugle brought the sun up, two bull moose put on a show that had us all breathless. Powerful sparring between a younger, smaller bull moose, and a larger, older bull moose kept us captivated. Jen, our moose whisperer, was as enthralled as we were. After the sparring, the two moose sauntered up near where we were parked giving us all an up-close experience with the amazing animals. As Christmas and the new year knock on our door, I wish you and your loved ones a year full of grand
Our Family
My Heart: A Special Project for Valentine’s Season
“Mom, have you seen my heart?” my daughter asked as she rounded the corner to go search in the kitchen. “The last time I saw it it was on your bed.” I replied. “Oh, that’s right!” she yelled as she went running into her room. My Heart My heart just happens to be a little, red, fabric heart with frayed edges that was once filled with lavender blossoms – a sachet. Seven years ago, my husband bought me a delectable box of hazelnut chocolates from France for our sixth anniversary. When the package arrived, the ornate box of chocolates came with a bright red sachet attached to the top. The fabric was thick – maybe a denim or a canvas – and the French lavender flowers that were inside the sachet perfumed the air as soon as I opened the box – a nice surprise. I remember savoring those chocolates. I’d eat a piece of the creamy hazelnut treat once per day – letting them melt in my mouth. Sharing was very limited. I know my husband had a few pieces, but the kids (who were one and two-yrs. old at the time) shared only one piece. The chocolates didn’t last long, but I kept the sachet in a drawer for years, until my daughter started to sleep with it at age five. My daughter was going through a phase of being afraid of going to bed. “What happens if a tornado comes during the night?” “What happens if our house starts on fire?” “What happens if a robber comes to our house?” My daughter would think up every bad situation, and worry herself sick, which prevented her from going to sleep at a regular hour. My husband and I were getting very tired staying up late, and we were running out of ideas on how to help her through this phase of unrest, until I remembered the red heart. The Lavender Sachet One night when my daughter came to our room, unable to sleep again, I went to my drawer, pulled out the heart, and sat down with my daughter. “Smell it!” I instructed her. “Mmmm… that smells good.” she replied as she exhaled after taking in the still-sweet scent of the lavender sachet. My daughter sat quietly as I told her the story of how I acquired the heart. “Would you like to bring this heart with you to bed?” I asked. “It will help remind you that my heart is with you always.” I offered my daughter. She and I walked back to her room, my daughter snuggled into her covers, and put the sachet up to her nose to smell the sweet, calming lavender. It’s been years now, and my daughter still sleeps with my heart. The bright red heart is a little more muted, the edges are a little more frayed, and a hole in one of the seams allowed all of the lavender to fall out. She still has bad nights of sleep here and there, but when she does, you can bet you’ll find the red heart with her. The Boutique Just recently, my parents found out that they will be running a small boutique on their farm come May of 2019. I asked my daughter if she would like to make hearts, and sell them at the boutique. “Yes!” she said. “I can make hearts for other kids that have a hard time sleeping.” Last weekend, my mother dropped off some of my grandmother’s old thread and some red felt that my mom had found at a thrift store. I ordered two pounds of fresh lavender blooms from France, and a small bag of polyester fill. First on my to-do list was to hand-wash my daughter’s old heart, stuff the sachet with a little bit of fill and lots of lavender, and stitch up the hole. My heart is now clean, and smelling sweetly of lavender once again. We have spent the last few days cutting out hearts, stitching them up using the simple, but showy blanket stitch, and then filling them with sweet lavender. We have many more my hearts to make before the boutique in the spring, but our hearts are in it – we’ve been enjoying ourselves. Love My heart began with the celebration of love – a wedding anniversary, and will hopefully continue on for years – bringing love and comfort to others. My Heart – the perfect project for this Valentine’s season. Happy Valentine’s Day to you! I hope you have love surrounding you, even if it is just a small, red, heart to remind you.
Accomplishment, Cooperation, and Love: A Day of Working Together
My family arrived at Westfalcon Farm just after noon – the sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing across the open fields, but not hard enough to turn Mr. Squeaky (the 103-yr. old windmill that my children named), and temperatures were holding steady at 70F. The day had come – 2,000 three-year old Christmas trees had arrived, bare root, and ready to plant. We all slipped into our work boots, grabbed our water bottles, and headed for the trail that would lead us to the old hay field. Long grasses, sumac, birch trees, and white pines lined the foot path that had been recently mowed by my father in anticipation of the arrival of his helpers. The kids ran ahead with the dogs after hearing the distant hum of the tractor. I heard my mother exclaim “Well, look who’s here! How are you?” as we entered the clearing to the field. The kids replied “Hi, Grandma! We’re good.” and the dogs started whimpering with excitement as they love seeing Grandma and Grandpa. “Boy am I glad you all are here.” my mom said as we neared the table where my mother and aunt were working diligently at trimming long tree roots, and dipping them in root gel. “Where do you want us? We’re ready to work!” I greeted them with a smile. Truth is, I had been looking forward to this day for the past month. I want, more than anything, to be a part of starting this Christmas tree business on the farm that my ancestors homesteaded in the late 1800’s. From the time I was a little girl, I have dreamed of living in the country – working hard on a farm. Thanks to my parents, I get a little taste of that. “We really need stompers.” my mother said. I looked out over the dusty field and saw my grandfather on top of the ’62 Massey-Ferguson tractor, waiting for my father. My father had been riding on the mechanical Christmas tree planter behind the tractor planting trees, but had stopped to help my uncle straighten the trees that had been planted, and stomp the ground around them in order to secure the roots. “You got it.” I said. Our family ran out to the old red tractor and began stomping. With additional stompers we were able to keep up with the tractor and the mechanical transplanter as my father plopped the young trees into the holes that the machine was opening up in the earth. Seeing the ease with which trees could be planted astounded me. A whole row could be planted as quickly as just a few trees planted by hand. As I tended to the trees, I had time to think about my great-grandfather and his family farming this very land. In one of my great-grandfather’s memoirs, he reflected on working on the farm and wrote: We children were very active as we planted all the potatoes. We would take a one-row walking cultivator and one horse and walk behind that for weeks. I started plowing on a 25 acre field using a Janesville walking plow. I was rather short and the plow handles would knock me over when I hit a rock – being just 12-years old. I would sit down on the edge of the furrow and cry. Soon I had mastered the job and loved to plow, although walking all day behind one would tire even a kid. When cultivating season was over and the last hilling done, we would walk up and down the rows of potatoes pulling the weeds that had escaped the cultivator. Usually we planted 25 acres, but the year of 1914, we planted 42 acres. We kids picked all the potatoes and it was a heavy crop. At harvest time, we dug about 22 acres with our Hoover Digger, and 20 acres we dug with a fork. I can’t imagine the awe my great-grandfather must have experienced as he transitioned from the hard manual labor of the early 1900’s to owning his first John Deere tractor in 1950. There is one entry in his memoirs where he mentions this exact thing: I think as I look back that the lives that had the fate to be lived during this period 1900 to 1974 have been blessed with the richest experiences of any lives. Because in this time, we have seen the first automobile, the first phonographs, and the first airplanes. In other words, all major improvements have come within these years. After half of the field was planted, my mother drove back to the house to prepare lunch for the planting crew. By this time, my brother and his wife arrived to help with the trees too. Within a half an hour, my mother had returned with a potato bake, fresh fruit, coffee cake, and more. The adults sat on chairs surrounding a large wagon, and the kids climbed right on top of the wagon and sat right next to the food. “Mom, I love that you brought the food out to the field – thank you!” I remarked. “Oh you’re welcome! That’s how they used to do it back then.” She responded. “Serving the food on the side of the field makes sense. It would take a lot longer to get the crew to the house, have them eat, and then come back out. This saves a lot of time.” I commented. Everyone finished eating in no time, but grandpa had taken off somewhere, so I turned to my dad and asked him “Do you trust me to drive the tractor, Dad?” “Absolutely!” he responded. After a quick lesson, I was the one behind the big black wheel. The Massey-Ferguson jolted a couple of times as I eased off of the clutch a little too quick the first time. I looked back, crinkling up my nose, and yelled “Sorry, Dad!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he braced himself on the
An Easter Gift: The Ukrainian Gift Shop Experience
“I can’t wait to go to the egg store tomorrow!” my son exclaimed as he glanced at his calendar before settling into bed. “Mom, can we read Rechenka’s Eggs one more time before we go to the egg shop?” my daughter asked. “Of course.” I replied. “Climb on up on your brother’s bed.” The whole family cuddled together as we read one of our favorite Easter books. Rechenka’s Eggs by Patricia Polacco is about Babushka, a sweet old lady who lives on her own in a tiny house. She is well-known for her fine Ukrainian eggs (or pysanky) that she decorates. All through the winter, Babushka lovingly creates the eggs so that she can sell them at the Easter Festival in Moskva. When Babushka is not decorating eggs, she loves to walk and enjoy the simple things. She can be heard whispering “A miracle!” when she sees caribou or calves being born. On one of Babushka’s walks, a goose fell from the sky, injured, so Babushka brought the goose home to nurse her back to health. Babushka named her Rechenka. Soon after Rechenka’s injury healed, the goose knocked over Babushka’s bowl of pysanky. Babushka was crushed and Rechenka felt horrible, but the following morning Rechenka had laid the most colorful, elaborately decorated Ukrainian egg (pysanka) – “A miracle!” When I was in elementary school, I remember making Ukrainian eggs with my classmates. The process seemed arduous, but I was so proud of my egg. I wanted my kids to have the experience of making pysanky – the time was right. As I searched for a place to purchase pysanky supplies on the Internet, I came across a small shop named “Ukranian Gift Shop”. The shop had been in business for over 70 years, but the family story that was lovingly showcased on the site gave me chills. It read: When she was six years old, Marie Sokol moved with her family from her birthplace of Dobrochyn, in the Sokal region of Ukraine, to Yugoslavia. Eight years later at the age of fourteen Marie decided to follow her two brothers to America. She traveled alone by ship through Ellis Island to join her brother Paul in Pennsylvania. Marie stayed with Paul on his farm for a year before she ventured out once more by herself to Winnipeg, Manitoba in Canada, where her other brother Kirylo had settled. “With a few dollars and a small suitcase containing all my possessions I set off for Canada. The train stopped in Minneapolis for the night at the Milwaukee Depot. I decided to go out for awhile. It was a cold night. I remember asking a policeman if he knew of any Ukrainians living in the city. He directed me to Seven Corners. As I walked up the street I could see the frozen Mississippi River glistening in the moonlight. It was very pretty. I came to five houses, all of them dark and quiet. The third house seemed like the right one, so I knocked. A young couple answered the door. ‘Do you speak Ukrainian?’ They answered ‘Tak, Tak’ and invited me in. They told me of a young woman who was living with them. To our surprise and amazement we discovered the woman staying with them was my second cousin! Was it not God’s will that led me to this house? I had no idea that in all of the United States she was living in Minneapolis. It was a miracle. We cried and laughed at our reunion. I did not go on to Canada. It was right for me to stay in Minneapolis.” “I remember my first Easter in America and how homesick I felt for the traditions of the holidays which I once knew. I recalled my mother and grandmother decorating the colorful eggs and taking them to church to be blessed and decided that I could not let the Easter season pass without at least trying to make a pysanka (Ukrainian Easter Egg). So I made a writing tool (kistka) from the metal tip of a shoelace. I bought crepe paper at the drug store and made dyes by soaking the paper in boiling water. My first attempts were crude, but I did it, and made my first Pysanky in America!” Marie opened the Ukrainian Gift Shop in 1947, and it is still run by the family today. On the first day of spring, my family piled into the car, and off we went to the Ukrainian Gift Shop. When we arrived at the small shop, we were greeted warmly by Elko, Marie’s grandson. “Welcome! How can I help you?” he asked with a friendly grin. “Hi! We would like to get supplies for making Ukrainian eggs.” I replied. “I think I can help you with that.” Elko said. As Elko went to gather supplies I noticed that both kids had found a special table – a large table filled with hundreds of beautiful pysanky. “Look with your eyes – not with your hands.” I called out – I could feel my stomach tighten with nervousness. Just then Elko returned with the supplies. “Thank you so much.” I said. “You know, my children have been enamored with the book Rechenka’s Eggs, and that book is what brought us to you today. Do you know the book?” “I sure do!” Elko responded. “And, I have a fun story to share with you about that book.” “Really?” my husband and I replied at the same time as the kids scooted over to listen. Elko continued, “Back when George Bush – the second one – was president, he invited Patricia Polacco to the White House Easter brunch because of the book Rechenka’s Eggs. Patricia called my mother and asked her if she would decorate a large ostrich egg to gift to the White House. My mother agreed. But, she not only decorated the ostrich egg, she also crafted 12 goose eggs for the 12 cabinet members and a chicken egg for the president
To: Dad
“I love him.” My son replied after I asked him what came to mind when I said “Grandpa Peterson”. “I do too, buddy.” Last November I wrote about my desire to write about two very important people in my life – my mother and my father. I wrote a post about my mother on her birthday. Today, on my father’s birthday, I share a post with you about him. This one’s for you, Dad. In September of the year 1980, my parents had their first born child – that would be me (two younger brothers followed in the next four years). I remember my mother telling me that when I was born, their good friends called me Little John as I looked very much like my father. But, my father had his own special nickname for me. He called me Erin Jean Jelly Bean. Dad was great about making life special. On weekend mornings when he didn’t have to rush off to work, he’d make his delicious breakfasts. French toast with homemade syrup was my favorite, but pancakes and scrambled eggs with cheese were a close second. Every night before bed, he would fluff my feather pillow so it would be just right for sleeping. On weekday evenings, I remember watching through the living room windows for my father to return home from work. If I was lucky, he’d bring me a special treat – usually Tootsie Rolls. I loved sitting on his lap as a little girl and sucking my thumb. Dad would always ask “What flavor is it today?” As I grew, my relationship with Dad was strengthened in new ways. I began to realize the qualities that made my father so special. He was a hard worker, a perfectionist, he was present for his family whenever we needed him, he cared for others, and he was always fair and honest. Dad was the first to grab onto the arm of my elderly grandparents when they started to have trouble walking, and drive them here or there so their safety would be ensured. He was the first to step up to drive family (sometimes extended) members to the airport – even if it was 3am, or pick them up in some remote area if a car had troubles. He’d snow blow the driveways of our elderly neighbors, and mow peoples’ lawns if he knew of troubled times. Nothing has changed. From the time I was little I loved to build things. Luckily, my father was an excellent carpenter, so I couldn’t have had a better mentor. In high school, I was the only girl in my wood tech. class, but this didn’t bother me. My goal was to build the best piece of furniture in class. Besides working on my project at school, I spent weekends and weeknights building a drop top desk with my father as my guide. Dad was patient and informative – he has always been a great teacher. My father is still the first person I go to when I have project questions, or when I hit a DIY milestone. This winter my father and I are planning on designing and building barn doors together for my basement that my husband and I have been working on finishing. I can’t wait! Another trait I admire about my father is his love for family time. Many weekends were spent up at the family cabin where Dad taught me how to build the proper campfire, how to fish, and how to tie a respectable fisherman’s knot. He was always the perfect driver for our water skiing and tubing adventures on the lake. We never had to worry about him going too fast, getting too much slack in the line, or trying to throw us off (unless we wanted him to). Family vacations with “just our family” were also a common occurrence. Getting married was very special, but difficult at the same time. I was excited to build a life with my husband, but sad to leave my parents. A sign of a great childhood, right? Before I walked down the aisle, I saw my dad waiting for me, and the first tears were shed. He looked so distinguished and handsome in his tuxedo. Don’t even get me started on the Father-Daughter dance. Let’s just say that my guests were running tissues out to me. I knew that Butterfly Kisses would be a tough song to dance to. Gosh dang-it, I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking about it. Dad has continued to be one of my biggest supporters even though I am married with two children of my own. One particular moment continues to shine over and over again. After much deliberation, my husband and I decided to homeschool our two young children. I gave up my career as a public school teacher to teach our children at home. Both sides of the family (my husband’s and mine) had reservations about our decision, but Dad simply said “Your kids will be the luckiest kids because they will have a teacher that loves them more than anything.” We are four years into our homeschooling journey now – and loving it. A few months ago, my parents, my kids, and I were walking the trails at my parent’s farm when the kids spied some minnows in a small, shallow creek. The kids ran through the tall grass and trees, following the stream up to the pond to try to catch the minnows in their hands – wanting to identify them. “Do you think the turtles eat the minnows?; Do you think there are bigger fish in the pond?; and Do you think the minnows die in the winter?” were just some of the questions that were asked. The kids were experiencing and learning. My father shook his head, looked at me, and said “I would have given anything to grow up getting the education your children are getting. They are the luckiest kids in the world.” Dad, your trust
Christmas Memories: A Doll For Grandma
Porcelain-white skin, lips tinted rose, eyes painted with exquisite detail. What would her hair look like? Long blonde locks that brush her ankles, two auburn-colored braids that playfully hang down from each side of her ball cap, or raven-black ringlets that delicately frame her face – I could only guess. Most outfits were fancy gowns trimmed with lace, but another was a softball uniform, and one was a beautiful red sweater with plaid skirt that included ice skates as an accessory. When I was a young girl, I remember running down Grandma and Grandpa’s stairs at Christmas time to the Christmas tree they had decorated so nicely. I’d gently search through the gifts until I found the one with my name on it. Every year the box was roughly the same shape and size, and I always knew what would be carefully wrapped up inside – and yet the excitement never waned. When the time came for presents to be opened, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents would gather in a circle to read the Bible. As a child, it was so hard to sit still for the reading, so as soon as the scripture reading was finished, the kids would jump up and hand out presents to their grateful recipients. Everyone got one present from Grandma and Grandpa – simple and sweet. Logs crackled in the fireplace, cheeks were pink from the heat of the fire, the murmur of relatives chatting could be heard, and the smell of delicious holiday food filled the room. All of this was drowned out as I started to unwrap my gift. The tag with my name on it was always written in my Grandma’s beautiful handwriting, and the rectangular boxes were expertly wrapped. I’d take my time unwrapping my gift, as I knew the suspense would only last a moment. After I removed the top of the box, I gently unfolded the tissue paper that protected my gift, and there she was – my new porcelain doll. For many years my grandmother picked out a new porcelain doll to give me for Christmas. Each and every one was special to me. All throughout my childhood my dolls were displayed on my dressers, shelves, and any other open spaces I had in my room. I spent hours playing with them and combing their hair (which I found out later was not a great idea – doll hair is not like human hair). I still have my dolls, and now my daughter enjoys playing with them and taking care of them. Grandma always loved dolls, and I was not the only one she bought porcelain dolls for. She also bought them for the other girls in the family, and for herself. She once told me that when she was a little girl, her family didn’t have much money, but she remembered getting a doll when she was young – a treasured possession. I often wonder if this was why she continued to collect dolls. A few days ago, my great-uncle sent me a document that had been written by my great-grandfather (my grandma’s father) in 1977. In this document, Great-Grandpa reminisced of Christmas’ past, and I found a special mention of my grandmother (Connie) inside of it. Christmas was better as our children came and gave us incentive for celebrating. Connie started Sunday school and the first year at Christmas program I remember her little poem, yet- so, it goes: ‘Presents large and presents small But this is the best gift of all (she held up her doll).’ ~Roy Falk Reading this brought back the memory of my Christmas porcelain dolls – a Christmas memory that is still one of my favorites. I like to imagine the magic my grandmother must have felt when she opened up the doll she was given at Christmas when she was young. Was it the same kind of magic she gave to me each and every Christmas when I was a child? I’d like to think so. To my readers: I hope you had a very Merry Christmas. A Christmas that was filled with tradition, loved ones, and fond memories. Do you have any special Christmas memories? I would love to read about them if you would be so kind as to share them in the comment section below. Wishing you a Happy New Year! `Erin
Happy Birthday, Mom: Thank You for Being You
Since beginning my writing journey, I’ve wanted to write about two important people in my life – my parents. Today is my mom’s birthday, so what better time to tell you about this special woman. Mom, thank you for being you – this post is for you! Last evening my family had my parents over for a birthday dinner for Mom. We served homemade lasagna, breadsticks, and spinach salad followed by ice cream with warm peanut butter cookies for dessert. Great conversation ensued, games were played, and laughter was common throughout the night. The kids had Grandma and Grandpa sit through five different Coyote Peterson (wildlife educator) episodes, which spurred conversation about different insects, and lots of cringing as we watched Mr. Peterson purposely get stung – one insect after another. The bullet ant sting (the most potent sting in the insect kingdom) was the final episode we watched, and let’s just say we hope we never experience that sting. Our night encompassed much of what makes Mom so special – laughter, fun, homemade food, outdoor adventures, learning, and a love of family. Growing up, I had a wonderful childhood, and Mom was very involved. She coached my soccer team for years, joined my school’s PTA, volunteered to chaperone my field trips, lead my Girl Scout troops, volunteered as an artist-in-residence (through the Minneapolis Institute of Arts) where she would teach art lessons to classes in my school – my favorite part of elementary school, and she volunteered during many of our youth church activities. I remember being excited to have Mom with me – wherever I was. All of these activities were very special, but one of the most meaningful and memorable acts was her choice to stay home with us when we were little. Mom went to college at the University of Minnesota and got a nursing job right out of college. She took an extended leave once I was born so that she could stay home and raise me, and later, my two younger brothers. Once my brothers and I were in school, Mom chose to go back to nursing, but only part-time. My parents worked it out so either my mother or father was home for us at all times. I remember home-cooked meals in the evenings (Mom’s wild rice soup was my favorite), and warm after-school snacks – oatmeal muffins were the best. Mom made all of our Halloween costumes, often dressing up along with us. One of my favorite memories is Mom playing the piano at Christmas while we sang songs by her side. What Child Is This has always been her favorite Christmas song. Our summers were filled with swimming at the many beaches on White Bear Lake, trips to the library, weekends at the family cabin, and the occasional camping trip. As I grew, Mom was not just my mom anymore, she transitioned into a friend. We picked up the habit of taking one or two long, brisk walks every day. To this day, we still take walks together when we visit each other. These walks are, and always have been, filled with deep conversation, catching up on the day’s events, and our way of staying healthy – physically and mentally. While I was in high school, we started enjoying girl’s weekends when the boys were away hunting or fishing. Whether we were hiking the North Shore of Lake Superior, visiting my grandparents in Texas, gazing over the Fourviere district in Lyon, France, exploring the canyons in New Mexico, snowshoeing in seven feet of snow in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, or horseback riding in the Absaroka mountains in Montana, special memories were made and our relationship grew stronger. Some weekends we chose to stay home where shopping, dinner out, a game of Canasta, and popcorn and a movie on the couch were just what we needed. “Now and Then” was always our go-to movie. I can’t wait until my own daughter is a little older so my mom and I can introduce her to this classic film. Marrying my high-school sweetheart was best described as bittersweet. I was more than excited to marry my love, but I was sad and a little nervous to move out of my parent’s house for good. A sure sign of a wonderful childhood, right? Both of my parents walked me down the aisle, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. The emotions I felt when I saw my future-husband waiting for me at the end of the aisle, and the love and support I felt from my parents as they linked their arms with mine, was overwhelming. I was celebrating and mourning the changes that were taking place – all at once. Life did change, but the relationship with my mother continued to grow and get stronger. My mother now works alongside of me as I run a small gardening business. Throughout the growing months, we spend hours each week working in gardens, talking, and creating together. On the days that we don’t see each other, we talk on the phone – sometimes twice per day. When we are not working, my family still spends many summer weekends with my parents at the family cabin where games, fishing, swimming, long walks in the woods, and roasting marshmallows fill our time. Four years ago, my parents bought the family farm, which changed all of our lives. After retirement, my mother became engrossed in researching her family history. During this time, she discovered that one of the homesteads still existed. Long story, short (you can read the full story here) – my parents ended up moving onto the farm, starting a tree farm, and are still unearthing family secrets as they explore their new home. This has been something my mom has loved and cherished. Consequently, this is what ultimately guided me back to writing – a long time passion of mine. I needed to tell their story. I needed to tell my family’s story. My mom
Community: The Fellowship of the 1920’s to the Ghost Towns of Today
This period between 1923 and the early thirties seems to me was the end of a rich community fellowship, the parties, and the ball teams of which each community had one… It was the end too of meetings at Larson’s Hall and these neighborhood times have never come back. ~ Roy Falk, 1977 Only recently has the idea of community piqued my interest. Why? Because before now, I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know what a true community was. For the past year I have studied my great-grandfather’s (Roy Falk) memoirs in great depth. His words, as he reflects on his childhood, have started to stir up a sort of longing inside of me. A longing for “de good old days”. A longing for the way that neighbors came together in times of need, for the relationships that were forged between community members at the local creamery, for the way children gathered en masse to play games, and for the free time that was available to build a rich community fellowship. My family and I are surrounded by thousands of people here in the suburbs, but you wouldn’t know this by taking a walk through our neighborhood on a typical day. No one is outside enjoying the perfectly manicured lawns, the giant playground sits empty – desperate for screaming children full of energy, and the walking trails are largely unused and quiet, which makes for wonderful wildlife viewing around the many ponds, but is not so great for meeting friends. I know that there is a simple answer for why this is – times have changed. What is a community? Community, as described by doctors David M. Chavis & Kien Lee, is about people. A community is not a school, a church, or a neighborhood – these are just places. It’s not the exchange of information over the World Wide Web – it’s much more than this. Community is: …both a feeling and a set of relationships among people. People form and maintain communities to meet common needs. Members of a community have a sense of trust, belonging, safety, and caring for each other. They have an individual and collective sense that they can, as part of that community, influence their environments and each other. That treasured feeling of community comes from shared experiences and a sense of—not necessarily the actual experience of—shared history. As a result, people know who is and isn’t part of their community. This feeling is fundamental to human existence. “De Good Old Days” As I read my great-grandfather’s memoirs, examples of community are woven throughout. I wonder if he realized this. I imagine he did. Group Gatherings Great-Grandpa shared many stories where neighbors gathered together. For example: The young people built a dance platform in the woods 1/4 mile from our house on the farm Pete [my great-grandfather’s uncle] had just sold. Pete and Betsy [Pete’s wife] both loved to dance… [August Helberg] was a violin player and played for the dances held in the woods where the young people had built the platform (no roof or walls). If it didn’t rain they had dances every Saturday night. We could plainly hear the violin at our farm if we listened. and Stanly Store was always an honest store, well-liked by the community. Trade during the time the creamery was running was heavy. The young fellows of the neighborhood would meet there any night to have a pleasant evening and I spent many evenings there. The store and garage and barn are all gone now, not a trace of it is left in 1975. People gathered together to enjoy the company of others, build relationships, exchange stories, and explore common interests. But, these weren’t the only signs of a healthy community. Neighbors offering help in times of need was also an important part of my great-grandfather’s life. In Times of Need Great-Grandpa reminisced about the loving relationship between his mother and one of her best friends: Here there lived a cantankerous old man called, or rather nicknamed, Rovel (Swedish) Warble Nelson on account of the peculiar way he talked. His wife and mother to the children was a great friend of my mothers and much respected in the community. She died around 1909 and as my mother had been with her much during her sickness, she had told whoever was home with Mrs. Nelson when she died should pull a curtain shade on a certain window. So, as we watched we saw the shade pulled. There was no telephone yet so this was just a way of communication. About a teacher who was welcomed into his home as she began her career in the local one-room school house: In 1915 or 1916, an Irish girl by the name of Molly Gilmore came to live with us and teach our school. She was a good teacher and much respected and loved by her pupils of which I was one. One thing she did that was unusual was she put up a hurdle for us in the school aisle using a long broom handle for a bar. This we could adjust by adding or taking away books. She taught us the high jump and some of us became proficient in this sport. I jumped six feet later on because I used to jump fences – sometimes to my sorrow! Even when a new family moved into the town, poor and in desperate need of help, the community did all that they could: The children were too young [there were five total]. They were desperately poor as they produced almost nothing to sell. The neighbors would chip in and provide help. My father took the sleigh and horses and collected a lot of flour, beans, spuds, groceries, rutabagas, etc., which was a great help… All the children of this family were successful after they left this home. Neighbors also helped out on the farm: Ole was a surgeon of no mean merit – he would come and castrate
It’s a Small World: Another Horse Connection
Last week I wrote about the special connection between horses and humans. That particular piece was one of the most difficult to start. How do I put a lifetime of passion and memories in one post? But, after I gathered pictures, picked out memories that meant the most to me, and chose a few of my great-grandfather’s horse stories to share, there was no stopping the words from spilling out onto the page. The connections that were found between the generations of my family and the love we have had for horses for over a hundred years was heartwarming and eye-opening at the same time. However, these connections were not the only ones discovered – another connection was uncovered this past week thanks to the following photo: In this picture a four-year old version of myself can be seen riding a pony at a friend’s birthday party. Do you see the man with the sweet cowboy hat on? He ended up coming into our lives some 30 years later. I didn’t make this connection until I dug up this picture to use in my horse story last week. Our Home My family and I moved into our current home almost five years ago now. We were thrilled to find a place that was just 20 minutes from downtown St. Paul and Minneapolis, but made us feel like we were living in the country. The lot we live on is large enough to have nice-sized perennial gardens, hold our 12 raised-bed vegetable gardens, and keep our free-range chickens happy and chatty. Four doors down from our house is a horse boarding stable, so we walk to visit our friends almost every day. And, much to our delight, we quickly found out that our next-door neighbors have ponies come to stay with them every summer. Why? It’s quite simple – our neighbors have a large lot so they have a friend’s ponies come over to keep the grass in the pasture under control throughout the summer. This friend, I’ll call Joel for privacy’s sake, lives just down the road from us, so he stops by every day to spray the ponies with fly repellent and give them treats. Naturally, my family and I flock to the ponies every summer. We feed them long grass by hand, and when the apples on our apple trees ripen in the fall, the ponies delight in the crisp, sweet treat. Two summers ago I came up with a great idea – yes, it does happen once in awhile, believe it or not. Joel One day, as Joel was over taking care of his ponies, I asked him if he would be willing to bring a pony over to our house for my daughter’s fourth birthday. My daughter has always been completely crazy about horses. She decorates her bed with stuffed horses, plasters her walls with horse pictures, and visits the horses in the neighborhood on a daily basis. Going to see the horses is like brushing teeth for her – a habit. A surprise pony ride would be a dream for her. Joel was more than willing to come and surprise my daughter, and he actually seemed just as excited as I was at this prospective event. I had a sneaking suspicion that Joel had done this before. More on this later. On my daughter’s birthday, it’s easy to say that she was in utter disbelief when a pony started walking up the driveway. I remember her screaming “IT’S BUTTONS!” She knew Buttons well since this pony spent most of the summers in our neighbor’s backyard. The smile that washed over my daughter’s face was beautiful. Quick note – Do you see those cowgirl boots with the pink trim? That girl wore those boots each and every day for two years. She only stopped wearing them because she could no longer scrunch her feet into those beloved boots. Needless to say, we have the boots in her memory box because neither mom nor daughter could part with them. Anyway, my daughter rode the pony for a good hour the day of her birthday before… …bringing her brother on a ride that was just as long. Everyone, including Joel, had smiles on their faces throughout the evening. Success all around! Last week, as I was rummaging through old photos for my horse post, I noticed a similarity between the man in the sweet cowboy hat in my old picture, and Joel. The man sure looked like Joel, but could he be? The hats they wore seemed similar. Maybe the nose too. Had we crossed paths 30-some years ago? The Connection Yesterday I was out mowing the grass in the backyard when I saw Joel pull up in the neighbor’s driveway. I jumped off the lawn tractor, ran up to the house to grab my old picture, and sprinted back down to the horse pasture. “Hi, Joel!” I yelled. He responded with “Well, hello there!” When I reached him, I said, “Joel, this may seem crazy, but is this you in this picture?” He looked and exclaimed “Well, would you look at that! That’s my hat, and my mustache.” He looked at me, pointed at the picture and asked “Is that you?” “Yes,” I replied, “I was at my friend’s birthday part, and four-years old at the time.” He smiled and said “It’s a small world! That’s Sugar you are sitting on. She was a great pony. Oh goodness, thank you so much for sharing this picture with me.” Joel and I ended up sharing horse stories for at least a half an hour. I told him about my favorite horse memories, my parent’s farm, and my great-grandfather’s stories about Rowdy, his horse. Joel told me about growing up on a farm that was located very close to where we currently live, and how his grandfather bought him his first horse when he was 15 years old. Joel named his horse Charity because he liked to share the horse with