Driving to the Southwestern U.S., we stopped in Salina, Kansas for a night and were delighted to find the Central Kansas Flywheels Yesteryear Museum.
History
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
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.
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.
Minnesota’s North Shore: From Fire and Ice to a World-Class Lake
The beginning was a dramatic fire and ice event – the end resulted in a world-class lake.
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.
The Farm: Moving Back To Their Roots
Have you ever had one of those “everything happens for a reason” moments that gave you the chills? Well, I have a story to share with you that still gives me the chills, and I truly believe that everything that happened in this story, happened for a reason. Now, this is the introductory post to the family farm. This story really sets the stage for future posts, so I’m not going to leave anything out of this important beginning. I hope you enjoy the story! The Beginning In the year 2000, my mother had an inkling to start looking into her family’s genealogy. She simply wanted to know where her ancestors came from and where they settled. Many hours were spent combing the internet, looking through books and articles at various museums and libraries, and ultimately, my parents flew off to Sweden to see the homeland, visit new-found relatives, and of course pick through the records that are so diligently kept in the Swedish archives. Somewhere along Mom’s research trail, she came across an old plat drawing that showed a piece of land that her great, great grandparents, Lars and Katarina West, had homesteaded (December 5, 1884) when they emigrated from Västanå, Sweden. This homestead ended up staying in the family for three generations. Lars and Katarina gave the farm to their daughter, Christine Selena and her husband August Falk on the premise that they would allow Katarina to live the rest of her life with them. Along with taking care of Katarina, August and Christine went on to raise their family on this homestead. This land happened to be about 40 miles from where my parents were currently living in Minnesota. Not long after finding the old plat, Mom was able to find an address that was currently listed as being on the property. Bud answered the phone when my mom called and he and his wife, Elvera, graciously welcomed my family to come up and see the farm. A few weeks later, my mom and several other members of the Falk family went to visit the farm for the first time (2009). When my mom arrived at the farm with the family, they were welcomed by a long, pine tree-lined driveway that lead to a beautiful old farm, which included a giant windmill, a pole barn, an old wooden corn crib, a couple of metal corn cribs, an old white barn, a white granary that was as cute as a button, and a little brown farmhouse. Bud set my mom and the rest of the Falk clan free on the property so they could explore the grounds. I remember my mom telling me two particular things that really had an impact on her the first time she saw the farm: the first was that she found out that the barn had been built by her family in 1917 and was still in great shape; and the second was that many of the West and Falk names (along with the dates) had been etched into the old bricks on the barn inside the separator room (see Figure 1). Many of the names were etched in the early 1900’s. An incredible surprise! Now, there is one thing I remember my mom always saying to me when I was growing up: “I love old barns, and I could see myself living on a farm if I ever find one with an old barn in good shape.” My parents went on to visit the farm two more times in the next few years. After the second visit my mom was fairly certain that if the farm ever went up for sale that she would like to buy it. A couple of weeks after the second visit, my mom asked my dad if he would be willing to move up to the farm if it should go up for sale. I can’t imagine how Dad’s face must have lit up at that moment. My dad has been dreaming of land, barns, and a workshop for years. Let’s just say that they made the call to Bud and his wife, Elvera, right away to tell them about their interest in the farm if Bud and Elvera should want to sell. Fast-forward about five years from the first time my mom visited the farm, and here is where that “everything happens for a reason” moment occurs. Everything Happens For A Reason Both of my parents had recently retired from their careers and had decided to fill much of their time with volunteering in state and national parks, wildlife refuges, and in any other location they could find where nature abounded. This particular year, they were working in a visitor center, completing maintenance projects, and teaching classes about butterflies to elementary-age children at the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge in Alamo, TX. They volunteered there for three months before they planned to slowly make their way back home visiting other parks along the way. Well, they ended up needing to come home early, so they decided to drive home in two days instead of the one-to-two weeks they had previously planned. Mom and Dad arrived home at about three o’clock in the morning on Sunday, March 23, 2014. The next day, Mom and Dad received a phone call from Bud. He was ready to sell the farm. Soon after the phone call, Mom called me and told me about the phone call from Bud. I couldn’t quite tell if she was still tired from her long car ride back from TX, or if she was in disbelief about receiving a call about the farm going up for sale. I’m sure it was a little of both, but Mom told me that she really felt that they were supposed to be back from TX to get that phone call. God works in mysterious ways. Everything happens for a reason. Early the following week, Mom and Dad drove up to the farm to meet with Bud, and to