Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of my blog, Unbound Roots. I received a nice little message from WordPress, the content management system I use to run my blog. It read: Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com! You registered on WordPress.com one year ago. Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging. Looking back, I published 53 posts over the past year, which is roughly one post per week, and I’ve enjoyed each and every one of them. Not only because I love research, writing, editing my photos, adding the photos to my stories, and everything else that goes along with publishing a blog post, but because I have found that interacting with my readers and others who write brings me just as much joy as writing does. Thank YOU for the time you’ve devoted to reading and commenting on my posts, thank YOU for your support, thank YOU for your friendship, thank YOU for your advice, and thank YOU for making this past year one of my favorite years yet. I am truly grateful for you. I have to give a special shout-out to my husband for being my editing partner. He has read and re-read every single one of my posts, whether he wanted to or not. He has been a constant support, and he has allowed me the time to write, edit, and interact with others. Thank you, hubby – I love you! I also wanted to give a special shout-out to Angela, writer at You Are Awesome. My husband worked with Angela, and connected us just months after I started Unbound Roots. Angela introduced me to a wonderful blogging group, Big Up Your Blog, where I have met some wonderful writers and friends. Talk about people who inspire you to write! The people in this group faithfully support, critique, and share each other’s writing multiple times each week. I have learned more from this group in one short year than I ever could have imagined. Thank you, friends, for all you do! Angela was also the one who urged me to submit my cross-country ski post to WordPress Discover – the gold standard of blog publishers. The morning that I got the email from a Discover editor that my post would be featured on Discover, I texted Angela to notify her and thank her. In all my excitement, she was nothing but supportive again. Thank you, Angela, for being a guiding light throughout my first year of blogging. To top off my year of writing excitement, I also received another notification on my first writing anniversary – my blog, Unbound Roots, had been nominated for an award through the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards (held in London every year). Eek! The nomination is for “Hidden Gem” which is described as: Have you stumbled upon a blog by chance and discovered useful information or thought-provoking content? Is there a blog that doesn’t get the notoriety they deserve? Maybe they have such an original style you can’t help but read their posts. A blogger who you believe should get the limelight for a change is who deserves the Hidden Gem award. The nomination in itself was a gift on my one-year anniversary. If you have enjoyed my writing, I would love your vote. You can vote HERE. Voting closes on April 30th. Be sure to check out some of the other writers in all nine categories – there are some wonderful bloggers in the list of nominees. I want to leave you all with one last THANK YOU! Each and every one of you have positively influenced not only my writing, but my entire journey into the wonderful world of writing. Thanks for helping to make my first year great!
On The Farm
Welcome to life on the farm: Where every memory is a treasured tale. Join our family journey as we share heartwarming stories, time-honored recipes, and rich historical narratives passed down through generations. Gather ’round as we invite you to experience the joys, challenges, and abundance of rural living.
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
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“There’s An Opossum In The Chicken Coop!”
“Mom, Ayla was going after what looked like a chicken in our driveway.” my daughter explained as I was cleaning up the kitchen. It was 12:35am (yes, we are a late-night family), and my husband had just let the dogs out before bedtime. “Did the chicken coop get closed up tonight?” I asked. Just then my son entered the room and said “Yep. I closed and locked the door.” “Did you count the chickens before you closed up the coop?” He replied “No, it was too dark.” Just then I heard my husband yell, “Ayla, leave it!” followed by a bunch of clucking. The kids and I ran to the front door and my son exclaimed “Rosie, what are you doing up here?” As I looked out the door, I saw the dogs running up the sidewalk with our Rosie on their heels. Both dogs ran into the house – the youngest looking very proud of herself for letting the chicken keep all of her feathers (ears held high, tail wagging, tongue out, with a big smile on her face). Rosie, on the other hand, was a little distraught standing on the porch, clucking without pause. I’m not sure if it was because of Ayla’s playful advances, or because she had been locked out of the coop for a few hours. But, for whatever reason, Rosie was here and needed help. I slowly bent down to pick up sweet Rosie. She stood still – seemingly aware of her situation and wanting nothing more to do with it. Rosie gave out two more clucks before she settled into my arms and quieted herself. I slipped on my big snow boots and headed around the back of the house toward the chicken coop. As I neared the chicken coop, I saw that the kids had gone through the house, grabbed a flashlight and their boots, and were heading to the coop too. I also heard several hens out in the attached chicken run chatting as they heard our arrival. “Why are the hens out in the run tonight? They’re never out in the run at night during the winter months.” I said to the kids. Just then, I heard my son say “Johnny, why are you off of the perch tonight?” Our rooster loves his perch – once he settles on it – he doesn’t leave until the sun comes up. “What is going on?” I asked. “We have to thoroughly check the coop and run to see what has the chickens so worked up.” My son had the flashlight, and within seconds I heard him yell “OH MY GOSH! THERE’S AN OPOSSUM IN THE CHICKEN COOP!” I saw a small opossum curled up behind the five-gallon chicken waterer as I peeked into the coop. Johnny had the young opossum cornered in the coop, and he or she looked terrified. Half of the hens were perching high up on their roost in the coop, and the other half had decided that the coop wasn’t safe enough to sleep in, so they were perching in the run – smart birds. I walked back to the chicken run to set Rosie inside while my daughter went to get my husband to help get the opossum out of the coop. As I returned to the coop, I saw Rosie dashing out of the chicken coop. She wasn’t about to be locked in with the opossum. I picked her up again and set her on the high perch in the coop – this time she decided to stay and watch us. My son gave my husband a three-foot stick to try to urge the opossum out of the coop. The opossum showed his or her teeth at first sight of the stick, but then put up with the gentle nudging. Luckily he or she was younger so there was no awful hissing or snarling that older opossums are known for. Meanwhile, our trusty rooster did not leave my husband’s side. If my husband was inside the coop nudging the opossum toward the door, Johnny was right there. When my husband moved outside to keep the little predator moving away from the coop, Johnny was not more than a few inches away from my husband’s legs. It wouldn’t surprise me if our rooster thought that he was the one getting that opossum to move. The opossum wobbled around the coop after exiting and tried to hide beneath a wooden pallet – not too private. My family checked the coop and run one last time before helping the chickens get settled in for the rest of the night. Our opossum experience had the kids on a late-night adrenaline rush, so we talked about our opossum encounter before climbing into bed. We all agreed that: Johnny was a great rooster for protecting his hens a flashlight should be carried out each time the coop is closed for the night in order to count the chickens (and check for opossums) we were very lucky that the opossum was young When my son awoke the next morning, he showed me a short paragraph in the book The Chicken Whisperer’s Guide to Keeping Chickens. Authors Schneider and Dr. McCrea write: Opossums occasionally raid a chicken house, often taking a single bird at a time and clumsily mauling it. Opossums tend to feed on the bird starting at the vent or consume young poultry whole, leaving behind a few wet feathers. They’ll also eat eggs left in the nest. You’ll find eggs smashed and strewn about, often with just small pieces of shell remaining. Opossums may also come in just to eat the grain or feed in the feeder. We were lucky. I can’t help thinking back to when Rosie came to our front porch. She had made the decision to stay out of the coop when it got dark (which is not easy for chickens to do), she braved the dogs in the driveway, and proceeded to follow them to the
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
The Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: The Weathered Farm
Think of the things this farm has seen, the many people it has known, the storms the farm has weathered.
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
Tradition: A Swedish Cranberry Dessert
Thanksgiving on the Farm As my family and I sat down at the table to celebrate Thanksgiving, I felt a warmth wash over me as I gazed around the room. Here we were, sitting around the table as a family on the farm that my Swedish ancestors homesteaded in 1884, our chairs sat on the wood floors that my great-great-grandparents walked on over 100 years ago, “Come Lord Jesus” is a prayer that we would soon be reciting together – a prayer that was said by my ancestors, and the delicious homemade food we were about to eat came from recipes that have stood the test of time. Traditions Tradition: “the handing down of information, beliefs, and customs by word of mouth or by example from one generation to another without written instruction”. Traditions are more than things that are passed down through the generations. Oh yes! They are much more than that. Traditions have a way of dredging up memories, of allowing you to live in the past – if only for a fleeting moment, and of surrounding you with warmth, happiness, and contentedness. My son and I were both diagnosed with celiac disease (part of our Swedish genetics we’re not so fond of), so for the past three years we were unable to eat stuffing, green bean casserole, and cranberry salad due to the gluten in the dishes. Because of this, Thanksgiving didn’t feel complete. Over the past few years, my family has learned to make all things gluten free, so this Thanksgiving, my son and I would get to indulge in the foods we had been missing. Finally! A complete Thanksgiving meal. A Cranberry Treat The cranberry salad was the dish I was looking forward to eating the most. This salad is more of a dessert, so I’m not sure why we call it a salad. Although, I have a feeling this article explains it well: Minnesota: Land of 10,000 Dessert Salads. Or, maybe we simply call it a salad so it sounds a little more appropriate to serve as a side dish with the main meal (as we serve pumpkin and apple pie for dessert). Sneaky, I know. Hey! We only do this once a year. Layers of crumbled graham crackers, jellied cranberries, and sweetened whipped cream make this sweet, but tart dish a treat. My mother recently told me that my great-grandma Falk served this dish at Thanksgiving, and the family has continued to make it every year. After hearing this, I Googled the ingredients that are in my great-grandma’s cranberry salad, and read that this particular dish is a Swedish dessert. Research is one of my favorite hobbies, so I contacted a few relatives who live in Sweden to ask about this cranberry dish. One was able to confirm that our favorite cranberry salad is in fact an old Swedish dessert called “giftas” (pronounced ‘yiftas’). So, maybe the recipe was actually brought over to the United States by my great-great-great grandparents when they emigrated from Sweden. Either way, giftas is a special dessert – a Thanksgiving tradition that evokes warm memories, satisfied smiles, and allows us to step back in time for just a moment. I leave you with my great-grandmother’s giftas recipe (or is it my great-great-great-grandmother’s?): Giftas Recipe Crumble 10 oz. of graham crackers (about two packages of regular graham crackers). My kids and I made homemade gluten-free graham crackers. If you would like the recipe for the gluten-free crackers, you can find it here. We crumbled the entire recipe, and had about 1/2 c. of graham cracker crumbles left over. Our chickens enjoyed a little Thanksgiving treat. Growing up, my family used to crush the graham crackers using a rolling pin, but now a food processor finishes the job in less than a minute. Tecnhnology – a blessing or not? Whip a quart of heavy whipping cream on high until soft peaks form. Sweeten the cream by adding a 1/4 c. of powdered sugar, and 2 teaspoons of pure vanilla extract (or in our case – 3-4 teaspoons as we can’t get enough vanilla flavoring). Mash three – 14 oz. cans of jellied cranberries. Using a clear serving bowl, layer the graham cracker, cranberries, and whipping cream, paying particular attention to making sure the layers show on the outside of the bowl. Finish the gifta with a layer of whipping cream and add sprinkles of graham cracker crumbs on the top. Ingredients 10 oz. of graham cracker crumbles (about two packages) 1 qt. heaving whipping cream 1/4 c. powdered sugar 2 t. pure vanilla extract 3 – 14 oz. cans of jellied cranberries Do you have favorite traditions or foods that make your holidays special? I would love for you to share them. Skål! – Cheers!
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
