A personal story about Grandma published on You Are Awesome.
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.
A 1914 Ford Model T – Another Unbelievable Connection
Cornerstone Last April I decided to dive into writing – something I’ve wanted to do for years, but the time wasn’t right until now. My kids are now old enough to be more independent, so I have an hour here and there for myself. Yes, it’s great! When I first started writing I shared a story about my parents buying the family farm. The way my parents acquired the farm, and the connections they discovered still amaze me and give me the chills when I think about it. We continue to uncover stories and discover connections, thanks to my great-grandfather’s (Roy Falk) memoirs. Because of this, life on the farm has turned into a cornerstone of my writing. Just recently, another unbelievable connection was made when a visitor spotted a story about my great-grandfather’s 1914 Ford Model T. Farm Displays Many people have toured the farm in the past few years. Visitors are transported approximately 100 years back in time as they view displays that contain antique objects, old pictures, and informative plaques throughout the property. For example: The display below contains a photograph of the Falk children digging potatoes (my great-grandfather is in the center), a direct quote from my great-grandfather’s memoir, and an old potato bucket. These artifacts are hung in the old granary that was built by my family in 1919. This particular display is about potato farming, which was one of the main sources of income for the Falk family. My great-grandfather wrote in his memoir: When I was 15 years old, my father gave me two acres of potatoes in the spring as my wages for my summers work. As it turned out, by fall, my two acres of spuds did very well. I remember they were a variety called Kings, a high-producing red potato. Potatoes were high-priced that fall and I received $350.00 for my summer wages. Well, being 15 years of age, I wanted a car and bought a 1914 Model T with brass lamps, radiator shell, etc. Beautiful! I took this car out without any instruction the first time I drove it. Florence [sister] was the only one who dared ride with me, and I drove it to Gearge Widells in South Pine Lake and back without mishap. Today, in 1977, that Model T would be worth quite a bit of cash. This story has filled my mother with determination to find a 1914 Ford Model T that can be displayed at the farm. I’m sure my father is just thrilled at this prospect as he has always wanted a classic car. I know my son is. He has had a fascination with the Model T since he was a tiny tot of four-years old. Coincidence? A 1914 Ford Model T in Sweden “You’ll never believe what happened when the Swedes were here” The tone in my mother’s voice told me that I was in for another chill-inducing connection It was Thursday, August 17th, 2017, and a group of 80 visitors (many from Sweden) had come to tour the farm. During one of the tours, a distant relative from Sweden swiftly walked up to my mother and took out his cell phone. “That story about forking up potatoes?” he said excitedly. “I have a picture to show you. I have that same car in Sweden – a 1914 Model T Ford!” My mother looked at his cell phone and there it was, a 1914 Ford Model T. She looked up at him incredulously and exclaimed “You wouldn’t believe it, but connections like this have been happening weekly here on the farm.” He replied, “When you and your husband come to visit us in Sweden in a couple of years, I will bring you on a ride in my 1914 Model T Ford.” How is it that a distant relative from Sweden has a 1914 Ford Model T? The same year, make, and model that my great-grandfather bought when he was 15-years old? Everything happens for a reason. Chills. Another connection made. My parents are now looking forward to taking a ride in the 1914 Ford Model T when they visit relatives in Sweden for the next reunion in two years. I wonder “How many more connections will be made in the future?” Only time will tell.
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
The Horse: Why Do They Continue To Capture Our Hearts?
What is it about horses that capture the hearts of young children and adults alike?
A Wedding Miracle: Straight Line Winds, Selfless Friends, and the Ruach
My family and I spent the day at the lake yesterday. Several other family members met up with us for a day in the water since the temperature was in the 90’s with high humidity. We all agreed that the only reprieve from the oppressing heat of the day was to be in the water. Swimming, paddle boarding, fishing, and socializing filled our time at the lake. As my daughter would say, “It was a good day!” Later on in the evening, two of my mother-in-law’s friends joined us at the lake for a glass of wine and conversation. As the kids played in the water and fished at the end of the dock, the adults kept watch over them while conversing about wine, camping trips, Arizona, among other things. But, for the last half hour or so, we discussed the eventful wedding day. Twelve Years Of Marriage Twelve years ago, on this very lake and property, my husband and I were married. We had decided to have an outdoor wedding on the lake because we both had grown up around this lake, love the beauty of the lake with her crystal-clear waters, and we love the history that surrounds the lake. Our wedding day had started perfectly. The sun was shining, the temperature was in the 80’s, the lake was as smooth as glass, and the wedding set-up was near completion. Preparation Family and friends had helped to prepare for the wedding the entire week before the big day. Small, smooth Lake Superior stones were written on and used as place-setting markers while larger rocks were used to number the tables. My father drilled holes through limestone pieces, and floral frog pin holders were attached to make beautiful flower vases to use as center pieces. A large tent (covered 300+ people) was set up on the property and draped with tulle and white lights, while a dance floor was set up so we could dance under the stars. Three hundred and fifty chairs were set up in front of an alter that was adorned with a Christian-based runner my mother had made for the wedding. The make-shift aisle consisted of green grass sandwiched between yards of white tulle that lay like hammocks between the chairs. My mother-in-law and her friend constructed beautiful floral arrangements for the centerpieces that made the whole wedding site smell as though you were sitting in the middle of a garden. Everything was just beautiful. All we had to do was wait for the wedding to start at 4pm. The Storm Everyone had left the lake property by noon to go get ready for the wedding. I was at the salon with my best friend getting our hair done, my husband was with his groomsmen on the way to lunch, and the rest of the family had headed to their homes to get ready. As I was sitting in the salon chair, I noticed that the sun had disappeared, and a strong wind had started to blow in. The ladies in the salon started to chatter about the sudden change of weather. Within minutes of the sun disappearing, large raindrops started to fall, the sky turned a sickly-green color, and the wind picked up with a vengeance. As we sat and watched the amazing spectacle out the large windows of the salon, the rain started to fall in sheets, but it wasn’t falling straight down, it was blowing straight sideways. Garden pinwheels that a merchant was selling across the street, were pulled out of the ground and were carried down the street by the gusts of wind, and wood sculptures were tipped over. In less than an hour, the storm had ended. At that moment, we had no idea that the angry winds and rain had left the wedding set-up in shambles. Here we were, less than four hours before the wedding was scheduled to start, and everything had been blown apart. Straight line winds had torn across the lake, meeting the wedding set-up head-on. The large steel I-beams that held up the 300-person tent had literally been snapped in half, just like the tree behind the tent. All 350 chairs were scattered on the property, with the tulle laying in disarray around them. The tent canopy had blown on top of the small cottage on the property, and all 35 tables were overturned. White linen tablecloths lay scattered on the lawn, dirty and wet. Rocks and candles were strewn about, and the printing on the typed-out wine list at the bar had bled down the page, making it look like it was crying. My mother-in-law remembers arriving at the property and sinking down to her knees as she viewed the damage, feeling defeated. I remember my brother calling me shortly after the storm came through to tell me of the damage. My mother got on the phone at this time and said “Erin, what do you want to do? If you want to call it off and re-schedule, we can do that. If you want the wedding to go on, we will just make the best of it.” I replied, “Mom, I just want to get married. I don’t care about what it looks like, I just want to get married.” She simply said “I figured you would say that. Good, we will make it happen!” A Wedding Miracle My mother got on the phone and called as many family members and friends as she could, while my husband’s cousin got on the phone and called as many family and friends from my husband’s side of the family as she could. The great clean-up had begun. Within an hour, there were about 60 people who showed up to help. Parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, neighbors, and friends dropped everything and hurried over to the wedding site. Linens were brought to and from a dry-cleaner, tables and chairs were turned upright and re-organized, and tulle was re-strung. The tent company brought Penske moving trucks to remove
Weaving a Story: A Journal, a Loom, and a Corn Cob Pipe
Some years, in the spring of the year, Mama would set up the carpet weave in the upstairs of the granary. This setting up of the weave took help, so Aunt Lizzie Falk would come out to help. Aunt Lizzie smoked a corn cob pipe and she stayed with us until the setting up of the old loom was finished. Mama would spend whatever time she could spare weaving pretty carpet, using the many balls of carpet material she had prepared during the winter. -Roy Falk Westfalcon Farm has revealed many hidden treasures since my parents bought the family farm in the spring of 2013. Thanks to the well-kept journal of my great-grandfather, Roy Falk, we have been able to link the stories in his journals to treasures around the farm. One such treasure was my great-great-grandmother’s (Christine West Falk) weaving area that was left untouched in the upstairs of the granary. Mama The loom, with wood worn smooth by the years of use by hard-working hands, is still attached to the old log beams that hold up the the granary. The Old Loom Old wooden bobbins sit perched upon hand-forged nails. Pencil markings adorn the granary walls that whisper the secrets of the loom patterns used, the number of yards consumed, and the quantity of rugs woven. When I look at the granary, I often imagine my great-great-grandmother putting the old loom to use up on that second floor. Granary I imagine her hands working diligently with the homemade rug material. Spending the little free-time that she did have weaving rugs for her family, and perhaps making a few dollars by selling the extras to neighbors. When I stand in the granary, nostalgia washes over me as I see the special treasures that have been left for our family to find. I feel the worn surfaces of the old loom, I picture my great-great-grandmother placing the bobbins on the nails as she weaves, and I read and re-read the writing on the walls. The smell in the granary is warm. A combination of old wood and the grains that used to fill the granary. I wonder, is there still a hint of smoke from Aunt Lizzie’s corn cob pipe?
Sweet Clover, Summer Memories, and a Wildflower Bouquet
As the kids and I took a walk down our road to the lake, the intoxicating smell of sweet clover, vanilla mixed with fresh-cut hay, permeated the air. Late June in Minnesota is when the summer wildflowers awaken and adorn the sides of the roads, prairies, and edges of our 10,000+ lakes. On this particular day, my daughter started collecting wildflowers on the side of the road as we walked toward the lake. “Mom, I’m going to make you the most beautiful wildflower bouquet today.” As my daughter waded through the tall grass and wildflowers, she gathered: Black-eyed Susans, Prairie Fleabane, Tufted Vetch, Virginia Waterleaf, Yellow and White Sweet Clover, Ox-eye Daisies, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Red Clover. Once we arrived at the lake, my son picked an exquisite American White Water Lily, also known as the Fragrant Water Lily, to add to the bouquet. Before long we had a beautiful wildflower bouquet of all different colors, textures, and scents waiting to adorn our kitchen table. My family has been picking wildflowers along the roadside on our walks for year. One thing that always comes to mind, when reminiscing of these ventures, is the smell of sweet clover. In fact, my children have learned to identify sweet clover when it emerges from the soil in the early spring. First, there is excitement at finding the plant itself, but then a serious race ensues to see who can pick and smell the first sweet clover leaves of the year. There is nothing like the smell of sweet clover, especially on a warm summer day like today. Years ago, as a teenager, I remember helping my boyfriend (who is now my husband) with his summer lawn mowing jobs. There was this particular spot in a yard that smelled especially sweet every time we would mow. Determined to identify the plant, I would stop and search high and low for the plant that smelled so sweet. Finally I found a plant that appeared to be a type of clover (three finely-toothed leaflets). After my job, I remember going home and telling my mother about this clover plant that had the most wonderful smell. She said “Oh, sweet clover! That was your great-grandpa’s favorite smell as well.” Little did my mother know, that my great-grandfather had actually written a journal entry about his memories of clover. What I remember was that mother laid me in the shade at the edge of the field and cocked the hay as my father raked it. The smell of the Red Clover drying and the humming of the bees comes back vividly now as I write of this happening. ~Roy Falk My mother’s aunt (who typed up my great-grandfather, Roy Falk’s, journals) noted how incredible my great-grandfather’s memory must have been to remember incidents that happened before he could even sit up on his own. I was also surprised, but I know it’s not unheard of. In fact, I remember one incident that happened when I was a baby in a walker. I was at a family friend’s house, and as I was wheeling around, the dog who lived at that house accidentally pushed me down the stairs in my walker. I was amazingly unharmed, but the memory of tumbling down those stairs and being terrified is still sharp in my mind. The sweet smell of the Red Clover and the buzzing of the bees must have had quite an impact on Great-Grandpa for him to recall this memory so well. After reading Great-Grandpa’s journal entry, I was interested to see if there was a purpose of the clover being in the hay field. According the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (DNR), clover was brought over to the United States from Europe in the 1600’s. It was used as a forage crop (to feed livestock) and as a cover crop (where it is used to keep weeds down and enrich the soil). Clover plants have very long tap roots that extend several feet below the top soil. This tap root brings nutrients such as nitrogen up to the top soil, nourishing nearby shallow-rooted plants. I wish I could have been sitting next to the field with Great-Grandpa, listening to the bees and smelling the hay and clover as it dried in the fields. As I’m writing this, my husband and children are imploring me to accompany them on our daily walk. I think I’m ready to go out and smell the sweet clover again after sharing this story. I urge you to make your way outside and embark on a journey to look for some summer wildflowers. You may just come home with a beautiful bouquet, and if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the scent of vanilla and fresh-cut hay drifting the air.
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Heartache in the Chicken Run
Last night the kids went outside with their flashlight after dark to look for night crawlers since it had rained earlier in the day. They collect night crawlers throughout the summer so they can use them for fishing. While the kids were out, they went back to check on the chickens and the chicks (we keep our 2 1/2 month old chicks in the run right now to keep them separated from the older chickens in the coop until the chicks grow to be about the same size as the older ones) to make sure all the chickens were accounted for. When my son and daughter went past the run, they counted only five chicks, not the six that were supposed to be in there. They searched throughout the run, but couldn’t find Dahlia, the missing chick. Both of the kids came running into the house yelling that Dahlia was missing. How can that be? Our run is very predator proof. We used 1/2″ hardware cloth on every opening from roof to below ground throughout the run. Yes, we even installed hardware cloth a few inches under the top soil to prevent predators from digging up into the run. My husband and I asked the kids if they had accidentally let Dahlia out of the run when they were going in and out of the run. They insisted that they had not. My husband grabbed the large flashlight and we all hurried out to the run. The kids and I waited outside of the run while my husband went in to inspect. He checked all the places that the kids had checked before he noticed that the screw-on lid to the five-gallon waterer was sitting cockeyed on the bucket. My husband lifted the lid and I heard him mutter “Oh geez.” He reached into the bucket, and slowly pulled out little Dahlia, wet, limp, and lifeless. My husband gently set Dahlia on the ground while he securely screwed the top back onto the waterer before returning to pick her up. I felt sick to my stomach, my daughter immediately cried out in terror as big crocodile tears fell down her cheeks, and my son walked away in a sort of skip, not knowing exactly what to do as he put his hands up on his head. The whole scene was heartbreaking. Quite a few people have given me that smile with a short shake of the head after I tell them that all of our layers have names. I can’t help it. I love animals, and if they live with us, they are a part of our family. You see, each chicken has his or her own personality. Goldy (Golden Rod) is my gardening pal. She stays right by my side as I pull weeds, dig holes, or till up the soil in hopes that a big, juicy worm or bug will surface. Rose is the boss of all of the hens, well, and sometimes the rooster too. She is also one of the first chickens to run to me at full speed when I call the flock. Thistle was given her name by my husband when she started to peck at our hands and run away from us when she was just a few days old. These days, she seems to be an old soul who likes to sit by us on the deck when we relax at the end of the day. Dahlia, sweet Dahlia, calm, quiet, and easy to hold. As my husband held Dahlia, I ran into the house to get a towel and was back out in less than a minute. My husband notified me that Dahlia was still alive, but barely. I wrapped her in the towel and held her close to me as I carried her inside. She would move her head every once in awhile, but the breaths she was taking were short, shallow, and occurring every ten seconds or so. Close to death. One thing that struck me was how cold she was. Usually the chickens are like large heat packs when you hold them. As I felt her cold body in my arms, I was reminded of a story my mom had told me a couple of years ago. Bud, the owner of the family farm prior to when my parents had bought it, had woken up early one morning to start on the farm chores when he noticed that a lamb had been born during the night. That particular night was one of those frigid Minnesota winter nights where the temperatures had dropped well below zero. The lamb was frozen solid by the time Bud had reached the little one. He wrapped the lamb up and gently held her under a heat lamp. Miraculously, the lamb had thawed, awoken, and went on to live a full life. Can you imagine? If this lamb survived, maybe Dahlia could survive. By the time I walked inside with Dahlia, both of the kids had asked me a dozen times if she would be okay. As I looked down at her with her head drooping down, eyes closed, and barely breathing, I replied “You probably should start praying because we need a miracle.” Within this short time, my husband had gathered a large storage bin, put a few inches of pine shavings in it, and attached a heat lamp to the side. I gently laid Dahlia down in the bucket under the lamp and went to get a blow dryer. With the setting on low and cool (which is a lukewarm temperature), I began drying Dahlia’s feathers. We used the blow dryer for about a half an hour, making sure to dry around her neck, chest, under her wings, and back. Soon after, we noticed that Dahlia was trying to move her head a little more often, and she started to open her eyes sporadically. I warmed up a heat pack, wrapped it in a towel, and gently slipped it underneath Dahlia for additional warmth. After an hour of continuous
If Only The Walls Could Talk, What Would They Say?
If only the walls could talk, what would they say? In my introductory post of Westfalcon Farm I mentioned that one of the things that had an impact on my mother the first time she saw the old family farm was the many etchings on the bricks inside the old separator room in the barn. Well, let’s just say that since that first trip up to the farm years ago, the family has discovered many more etchings, drawings, names, dates and even pictures, not only inside of the separator room in the barn, but throughout the barn, and even inside the granary. A quick note before going on about the writing on the walls: My great-grandfather, Roy Falk, wrote in his journal: In 1917, father hired a man by the name of Gust Sundberg to build him a new barn. I did a lot of work on that barn, as I was 14 years old that summer, so I helped on all work that I could, such as cement work, laying upper floor, and shingling with wood shingles. Now, the family noticed something a little different about the barn that the Falk family had built. Even though the entire exterior was wood siding, the inner walls were lined with brick. The brick is where most of the family names and dates are etched. Why brick on the interior? Again, in my great-grandfather’s journal we found: My grandfather evidently knew the brick trade as he built some kind of brick kiln and manufactured brick, taking the clay in a hill on the eastern side of his land. We wonder if the brick that was used was made by my great-great-great-grandfather. If so, were they installed to help support the barn, or maybe used for insulation? If only the walls could talk. Either way, the bricks have played an important part in teaching our family about our family history with all of the names, dates, and words we have found. Along with my great-grandfather’s journals, we have a very detailed history, indeed! The bricks in the barn have almost every family member’s name (those that have lived on the farm) etched into them, beginning with my great-great-grandfather, August Falk. As you can see below, August etched his initials into the brick. This is the only place throughout the farm that we have found August’s name or initials. However, my great-grandfather, Roy Falk, made his mark in many places throughout the barn and the granary. Many treasures have been found in the barn such as the brick with the year 1917 penciled onto it, which is the year the barn was built. We even found bricks that gave us information such as what must have been a big spring snow date on April 2, 1920,… …the day the family got new drinking cups (January 3, 1919),… …and the day the family cat must have taken ill (“Puss got sick, Mar. 2, 1920”.) Some of my favorite writing happened on the wood walls of the granary. For instance, I love this simple drawing of a horse. Many people in my family have been horse-lovers so this drawing made perfect sense (get ready for some fun horse stories in the future): Another area which turned out to be pretty special was in the upstairs of the granary. As soon as we climbed the stairs for the first time, we saw the name Jack Dempsey (American professional boxer who reigned as the world heavyweight champion from 1919 to 1926) written in large cursive letters on the wall. Now, my great-grandfather was a wood carver, and before he died, he told my mother’s aunt that he wanted my mom to have the boxers he carved. Of course, this was long before my parents even knew about the family farm. I wonder if my great-grandfather somehow knew that his pieces of art would have a special home with Mom. A home that my great-grandfather grew up in and treasured. The boxers are displayed on a shelf next to Jack Dempsey’s name. My mother has commented to me that she can just imagine her grandfather, Roy, and his brother, Russel, having lively boxing matches in the upstairs of that granary. If only the walls could talk. I’ll leave you with a little poem that this post inspired. A poem? Me? I know, I’m not a poet, but for some reason I felt the need to write one today. So here it goes: If Only The Walls Could Talk By: Erin Burton There is a farm in Cambridge, just east of town. A barn and a granary that refuse to fall down. Where writing, etching, and pictures abound. So happy my family has finally found. If only the walls could talk, what would they say? Would they tell of a time of happier days? They would tell of the crops that made the family proud. And about the boys wrestling in the granary as they laughed aloud. Would they tell us about Mama who milked the cows every day? Or, about the baby that the horse watched over in a manger of hay? They would tell of the newborn lamb that was frozen one cold, winter night, But, came back to life after being warmed by the light. And about Mama and her loom, yes, she worked so hard. And Pa who worked so very diligently in the yard. Would they tell about laughter, hope, fears, and tears? All things were possible when family was near. These walls are old, but not ready to fall down. They have too many stories to tell to whoever is around. They cannot talk but give us a glimpse, Into the lives of our loved ones who once did live.
Mom’s Quick and Easy Homemade Tomato Soup
By the middle of May, here in Minnesota, our average high is 70F. This weekend we had several inches of rain with temperatures between 40F and 50F. Now, I’m not one to stay inside on a typical day, rain or shine. In fact, I very much believe in dressing for the weather and enjoying the outdoors regardless, but the cold rain this weekend (after we had beautiful, sunny weather in the 80’s) seemed to incapacitate me. All I could think of was Mom’s homemade tomato soup. The perfect comfort food on a chilly, rainy day. Family time, family history, and family traditions have always been very important to me. Family recipes are just as special. There is nothing better than those delicious family recipes that have been passed down through the generations. They are special not only because they are delicious (Hey, we keep them around for a reason, right?), but because of the memories that come along with those recipes. I grew up in a family that always enjoyed having a vegetable garden. We spent our short, Minnesota growing season planting, weeding, harvesting, and enjoying the fruits of our labor. Tomatoes were one of our favorite, and we were always sure to harvest all of the green tomatoes in the fall before the frost touched our precious fruit. After harvest, we would let them ripen in the sun on the deck and bring them in at night to protect them from the freezing temperatures. This practice has always led to an over-abundance of tomatoes in the fall. Definitely more than we could eat. Alas, have no fear! Once our harvest ripened on the deck, we would wash, core, and freeze our mass of tomatoes. What a treat it was when Mom took a package of frozen tomatoes out of the freezer in the middle of winter to cook them up in her delicious tomato soup! Today, I enjoy doing the same for my family. Homemade tomato soup is one of my family’s favorite meals, and they were all more than happy to sip the delicious soup on this cold, rainy weekend. Last year, we had a great growing season for tomatoes, which evidently resulted in quite a few extra tomatoes. Here it is the middle May and we still have a drawer full of frozen tomatoes in the downstairs freezer. Alright, onto the tomato soup. To begin the soup, pick 8-10 tomatoes and remove the skins. My favorite part about working with frozen tomatoes is a trick my mother taught me back when I would help her make tomato soup: All you need to do to remove the tomato skin is run the frozen tomatoes under warm water and the skin will literally fall off. How easy is that? Dice up one onion. Start heating four cups of milk at a low temperature and add one-to-two tablespoons of flour. Meanwhile, cook the tomatoes and onion at a simmer until the mixture is reduced by at least half (or, if you let the tomatoes thaw before cooking, you can dump out the water before cooking). Once the milk begins to boil, add a pad of butter and boil for a few more minutes. As soon as the milk mixture and tomato mixture are ready, add 1/2 teaspoon baking soda to the tomatoes and stir until well-mixed (the soda will neutralize the acid of the tomatoes so the milk will not curdle). Enjoy the bubble show that ensues (my children love this part)! Once the tomato mixture is all bubbly from the baking soda, slowly pour the boiling milk into the tomato mixture and stir. Immediately remove the soup from the heat (heating the soup after the milk is added could also cause the milk to curdle). Salt and pepper the soup to taste and serve immediately with your favorite soup crackers! The taste of homegrown tomatoes in the winter and spring is something that is very hard to come by in MN, so this soup is especially delicious when vine-ripened tomatoes are locally unavailable. The next time you have more tomatoes than you can eat, freeze them, and enjoy them in a hot, homemade bowl of tomato soup! Recipe Ingredients: 8-10 tomatoes, skinned 1 onion, diced 4 c. milk 1-2 T. flour rubbed smooth in very little cold milk 1 T. butter 1/2 t. baking soda salt and pepper to taste Directions: Put the skinned tomatoes into a stew pot with the onion and cook until soft and reduced by half. Meanwhile, in a separate pan, heat the milk over low heat and add the flour (rubbed smooth in very little cold milk). Add butter when milk begins to boil and continue to boil for a few minutes. Next, add the soda to tomato mixture once reduced. Stir well and add the boiling milk. Do not cook after milk is added. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately with crackers. Enjoy!