Introduction to Watercolor seemed like an interesting elective course in college. The soft look of the brush strokes, the mix and mingle of the paint colors, and the wonderment of how water effects painting techniques – watercolor painting had intrigued me for years. I needed three more credits before finishing my general courses, and I thought “Why not give it a try.” I hadn’t taken an art class since middle school. At 13-years old I had been given a “C” for a drawing I had worked hard on (and was proud of). I remember asking my mother, “How could Mr. L give me a “C” for my drawing when art is individualistic?” “You have a good point, Erin.” My mother replied. “I think you should discuss your thoughts with your teacher.” The conversation was definitely uncomfortable, but my art instructor appreciated our conversation. Consequently, he raised my grade. Even though our conversation went well, I thought I wasn’t creative enough for art classes, so that art class would be my last. Well, until I signed up for Introduction to Watercolor at the end of my undergraduate program. Loading up on watercolor painting supplies in the school bookstore was much more fulfilling than loading up on textbooks. I filled my bag with a paint tray, tubes of paint, several types of brushes, and a simple sponge – I was ready to begin. Introduction to Watercolor taught me the basics of watercolor: color theory, brush techniques, how to fade colors, how to paint shadows, how to achieve a 3-D effect, etc. We painted flowers, shapes, paper bags, and even attempted to paint portraits – I wasn’t quite ready for that. I enjoyed the class, but I didn’t feel a strong connection to the art – yet. Nine years later, my mother-in-law asked me if I wanted to join her for another introductory watercolor course. I had just had my first baby, and I thought that one evening away would be great for me, so I agreed. The course was much like my introduction course in college, painting techniques were taught and many still-life paintings ensued. A fun landscape project was thrown in at the end of the class, but I still wasn’t enamored. My passion for watercolor painting wouldn’t be realized for another nine years. My kids and I were in the midst of studying the book “The Wild Horses of Sweetbriar” by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock – a classic children’s book with beautiful watercolor pictures painted by Ted Rand. Our assignment was to focus on painting animals, so I dug out my old bag of watercolor supplies I had purchased in the university bookshop and we began. I chose to paint a bunny as my daughter was having a bunny-themed birthday the following week. I was pleasantly surprised with the enjoyment I experienced while painting an animal. A few days later, I was motivated to paint another animal, so I took on a more difficult painting – a chicken. I am particularly fond of chickens as they provide me with plenty of entertainment around our home. A painting that was detailed, yet playful, was my goal for my new painting. Within hours, “Chicken Chortle” was born, and so was my watercolor awakening. I realized my passion for watercolor painting when I started painting pictures that depict the relationships between people, between people and animals, and between people and nature. The past six months have been filled with painting, and I have started on a journey that will always be a part of me. I knew my watercolor passion was there 18 years ago, but it was not fully realized until I found the right subjects. I look forward to sharing my paintings with you, and the heartwarming stories that accompany them. Have you ever had a passion sneak up on you?
unbound roots
Lake Superior: The World’s Best Playground
The birth of Minnesota’s North Shore was a dramatic fire and ice event – the end resulted in the world’s best playground. Stephanie Pearson, from Outside Online, discusses the Lake Superior area and writes: “All together it’s a giant, world-class playground for hiking, trail running, mountain biking, kayaking, sailing, backcountry camping, and open-water swimming (for anyone crazy enough to try).” I would like to add agate-hunting, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, bird-watching, nature-photography, mountain climbing, canoeing, berry picking, and fly-fishing to the list. Eight state parks line the North Shore of Lake Superior in MN, ready for explorers. Each park has unique and magnificent natural wonders that really need to be experienced in order to fully appreciate them. Because of the dramatic geological history of the Lake Superior area, much of the North Shore is wild, rugged, and left untouched. Cascading waterfalls awash viewers in a light mist, deep gorges give the faint of heart butterflies in the stomach as I cling to a tree while others go to peer over the edge (wait, did I write “I”?), layers of pine needles on the trails feel soft underfoot and give off a sweet strawberry aroma, wild blueberries, raspberries, and thimble berries await the hungry hiker in late summer, and bright colors of lichen adorn the ancient basalt bedrock that lines the lake. You may even catch a moose swimming in a backcountry wetland, bald eagles soaring over the cliffs, deer nibbling on spring growth, and trout darting under the overhangs in the many creeks and rivers that bubble and tumble into Lake Superior. If you are one of those people who is crazy enough to slip into the icy waters of Lake Superior, you are in for an adventure. Taking The Plunge When you step into the frigid waters of Lake Superior, it takes mere seconds before your feet start to ache from the arctic water, and only a minute or so before your skin goes numb, thank goodness. Although, at the numbing point you have to exercise caution, as the feet tend to stumble around as they try to navigate the slippery rocks underfoot. My family has had a yearly tradition of submersing ourselves in the icy waters. I swear, we are not crazy (okay, at least not all of us). This tradition is more of an “Okay, Lake. Give us all you’ve got. We can handle it!” kind of thing. We often have one or two people that slip due to numb feet – sending them splashing, ill-prepared into Lake Superior’s ice-bath. For some reason, those who are standing can’t help but laugh, but at the same time are thanking the Lord above that it wasn’t them – this time. We usually have curious on-lookers, who are most certainly happy they are still dry and warm where they watch, but can’t wait to see the reactions of the swimmers as they dive it. What does it feel like to dive in? Walking out to the point where we submerge ourselves usually takes us at least five minutes. I don’t know why we take so long. It’s not like we ever really get used to the water. Our minds are probably stopping us. We don’t swim on days when the waves are large. No thank you! Here in MN, most of us don’t know how to handle those ocean-size waves – especially those that are near freezing temperature. The guys usually take a little longer to get used to the water (ahem), but usually stay out longer than the women. There is usually a 10-second count down to submersion. On zero, we dunk under. Our breath gets caught as the cold envelopes the our entire body. In seconds we explode out of the cold water. A few of the crazy ones stay to swim (I told you not all of us were crazy) for a few minutes – relishing in the cold, weightless, free-feeling of swimming. Everyone who emerges from the lake (we haven’t lost anyone yet) steps out with a smile on their face. If for only a minute or two, we bested the giant, frigid, vast lake. After stepping back onto the shore, we like to warm ourselves on the rocks. This always (yes, always) leads to agate hunting as we relish in the warmth of the rock. Hunting The Not-So-Elusive Lake Superior Agate Agates can be found in almost every country around the world, but the regions around Lake Superior are the only areas in the world containing the Lake Superior agate. According the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (DNR): The Lake Superior agate differs from other agates found around the world in its rich red, orange, and yellow coloring. This color scheme is caused by the oxidation of iron. Iron leached from rocks provided the pigment that gives the gemstone its beautiful array of color. The concentration of iron and the amount of oxidation determine the color within or between an agate’s bands. These agates can be found in much of Minnesota and into Northwest Wisconsin, as glacial movement spread agates with constant friction and movement throughout the ice age. What I believe is so special is that anyone can find agates in Minnesota. Agates are everywhere. Every time we go to the North Shore, my family brings home dozens of Lake Superior agates. Most of them are the size of dimes or quarters, and if we’re lucky, we may go home with silver-dollar sized rocks, but these are much more rare. All you need is to know what to look for when searching for the not-so-elusive agate. The DNR goes on to provide a list of what to look for when searching for one of Minnesota’s state gemstones: Iron-oxide staining in shades of rust-red and yellow is found on most Lake Superior agates. Translucence allows light to penetrate the stone. Sunny days, especially early morning and late evening, are best for observing translucence as the sun rays shine through the stone. A glossy or waxy
Fly Fishing For Trout in Minnesota: A Summer Paradise
Time To Head Out My husband and I roll down the car windows and turn up the radio as the heat of the day creeps up. We turn onto the back country roads that run parallel to the river, and listen to the crunch of the wheels on the gravel roads. Once we reach the easement to the river, we park on the side of the road and prepare for fly-fishing. Chest waders go on first, followed by our fly-vests. The leather harnesses of our split-willow creels are draped across our chests – though we never seem to keep the trout we hook. Two-way radios are hooked onto our vests to communicate on the stream, and waterproof cameras stuffed into pockets to capture the moment we catch a lunker. We grab our fly-rods and head out. Waiting Waters Tall grass and wildflowers greet my husband and me as we step off of the road. Five-foot tall stinging nettle threatens us as we near the trout stream. We lift our arms and rods high in the air to avoid its sting, while dodging the outstretched arms of nearby trees grasping at the tips of our rods. A light morning fog appears before us – a sure sign that the icy water of the stream is imminent. We crouch beside the bank of the trout stream as we approach the water. The water is clear, but alive. An ever-observant brown trout darts from under the bank beneath our feet – spooking several other fish in the process. My husband whispers that he is heading upstream. I will stay here as there are fish to catch. I enter the waiting waters cautiously as my husband tiptoes away. Swift currents and smooth rocks underfoot threaten my balance. I take my time – feeling out each step before fully committing. Cold water presses my waders against my legs as I move toward the center of the river – cooling me from the heat of the day. I have my eye on an undercut bank on the opposite side of the river a few yards upstream. I stop in the middle of the river – it needs to rest. The water continues to rush past me, carrying away the evidence of my arrival, and the trout calm – a sense of peace restored. The Rhythm Of The Cast Bringing the fly-rod straight up, I grip the fly-line with my rod hand as I release the fly from the hook holder with my other. I peel line off of my reel, letting the hook and line drop beside me. The floating line moves with the tumultuous water – curling and twisting around me before straightening as the water carries it downstream. I grip the line by the reel with my free hand and raise the tip of the fly-rod into the air – keeping the rod in line with my forearm. In a straight and fluid movement, I bring the rod tip down in front of me – pausing to let the fly-line follow. I repeat the pattern, but this time I allow the line to unroll on the surface of the water after the last forward movement. The fly lands in the quiet water near the undercut bank. Patience Moving water carries the line back toward me as I watch carefully for any movements indicative of a strike. I slowly pull the slack line through the guides on my rod. As the fly approaches, I begin the rhythmic casting again. The process repeats until I see the slightest pause in the movement of the fly-line as it floats toward me. Everything surrounding me disappears as I focus solely on the line. I hold the fly-line and raise my rod tip straight into the air as I feel the erratic pull on the line – fish on. Keeping the rod tip up, I strip the line steadily while keeping the line taut. The fish attempts to dart back under the bank, and I lose my footing for a moment as I try to maneuver the fish, but remain standing. Up stream, down stream, through fallen trees, and around large boulders – the fish tries to escape, but I am patient. Soon I land the 10″ brook trout. Keeping the fish underwater, I gently dislodge the hook. The scales are so small that the trout feels smooth – almost scaleless. The gold color of the fish is highlighted by red spots rimmed with an electric blue. I observe the most obvious sign that I have caught a brook trout – the contrasting white accents on the bright orange, lower fins. Gently, I lower the fish deeper into the water allowing it to swim away. It swims slowly to the river bottom – pausing to recuperate before moving on. I radio my husband to notify him of my catch. Time to move. I move upstream; looking for a new place to land my fly. Downstream of fallen logs or large boulders, deep holes – often appearing turquoise in color, or another undercut bank will do. My husband and I fish a couple more hours as the fog disappears under the heat of the mid-day sun. Submersed in Beauty We pause for a lunch break, a quick dip in the water – yes, it takes our breath away, and an hour of reading by the trout stream. My husband goes back to fishing late in the afternoon, but I choose to sit on the bank near where he fishes. I enjoy watching him fly-fish as the cast of a fly-rod is one of the most breathtaking displays – an art. The rhythm of the cast and the silent movement of the fly-line in the air is captivating. The way the line rolls out on the surface of the water is awe-inspiring. I sit for an hour before the fog begins to return as the sun lowers in the sky. Twilight arrives and sparks of light begin flickering throughout the
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!
Grounding: A Lesson From My Daughter
A few days ago I walked out on my back deck to find this: A little human footprint among the puppy prints in the snow. That would be my daughter. She is the only one in the house who would venture out into the new fallen snow in her bare feet. I couldn’t help smiling after seeing her prints in the snow, which also started a chain of thoughts on my end. First of all, my daughter is the queen of barefoot walking. I’m sure we have all gone through periods of walking barefoot, with most happening during childhood. I remember the thrill of walking, running, climbing, and jumping barefoot when I was young. Climbing trees was easiest when my little piggies were free. Jumping in cool puddles after a rain was bliss. And, racing through the soft green grass while we played neighborhood games was so much fun. But, these times are gone. My feet have lived in shoes while outside for many years. Now it’s my daughter’s turn to go barefoot while climbing trees, jumping in puddles, and playing neighborhood games. She also goes barefoot while hiking and taking the dogs for long walks. Only wearing shoes while going into public buildings, or boots when temperatures dip too low here in the great state of Minnesota. My daughter is determined to go barefoot, and she’s determined to get others to try it too. The Birthday Party One month ago, at my daughter’s birthday party, I overheard her talking to her cousin about going barefoot outside. Her cousin hardly steps foot outside without his shoes on, but my daughter convinced him by saying “Just try it. If you practice a little each day, your feet will get stronger and tougher, and you will feel attached to the Earth.” My nephew got a big smile on his face as he headed out the front door sans shoes with my daughter. As she bounded onto our gravel driveway without missing a beat, I had to laugh a little when my nephew looked, well, he looked how I probably look when I try to walk on that dang driveway. Limping, stepping as light as he could (not that this really helps), and heading straight for the grass. “See?” my daughter said, “It’s not that bad.” Ha! That’s what she thinks. My nephew remained shoe-less for the remainder of the afternoon. He’s stronger than I am. When my daughter said that my nephew’s feet would feel stronger and tougher after going barefoot, I understood what she was talking about. She convinced me to try going barefoot a few times this past summer on our gravel driveway just for the sake of making my feet tougher. I imagine I looked like an injured fool as I navigated the driveway. Tiptoeing as fast as I could to reach the reprieve of the soft, green grass, but limping each time I stepped on one of those evil, larger, gravel stones. My daughter laughed as she took off running down the driveway. Her feet are tough. This I observed, but her statement “…you will feel attached to the Earth” is what I had questions about.” After seeing her footprint in the snow, I asked my daughter “Do you remember when you talked your cousin into going barefoot at your birthday party?” “Yes.” she responded. “What did you mean when you told him that soon he would feel attached to the Earth?” I asked. She replied “I don’t know, I just feel connected to the Earth when I go barefoot, and it makes me feel good.” This response reminded me of a comment one of my readers had written on my Get Outside and Get Into Nature: Your Mind and Body Will Thank You post. Grounding Dr. Allison Brown wrote: “Have you heard of Grounding? Just putting our feet on the earth causes measurable, physiological changes that impact the health issues you’ve mentioned and more! Humans are wired to require a connection to the Earth!” Grounding is a concept I have never heard or read about. Could grounding be the “connection” my daughter experiences when she walks barefoot outside? What is Grounding? Grounding (also known as Earthing) happens when the Earth’s surface electrons are transferred into the human body through direct contact with the ground, such as walking barefoot. In our body, free radicals are unpaired electrons that scavenge the body to seek our other electrons so they can become a pair. This action causes damage to cells, proteins and DNA. Free radicals are associated with many human diseases including cancer, Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, and many others (Lobo et al., 2010). When the skin comes in contact with the earth, free electrons are taken up into the body. These electrons are natural antioxidants and help neutralize damaging free radicals. Antioxidants are molecules which can safely interact with free radicals and terminate any harmful reaction before vital molecules are damaged. Okay, so how does this help our bodies? Benefits of Grounding Oschman et al., 2015, wrote: Electrons from the Earth may in fact be the best antioxidants, with zero negative secondary effects, because our body evolved to use them over eons of physical contact with the ground… The disconnection from the Earth may be an important, insidious, and overlooked contribution to physiological dysfunction and to the alarming global rise in non-communicable, inflammatory-related chronic diseases. According to Chevalier et al., 2012, emerging scientific research supports the concept that the Earth’s electrons induce several physiological changes in the human body such as reduced pain, better sleep, a shift from sympathetic (fight or flight) to parasympathetic (rest and digest) tone in the autonomic nervous system (ANS), and a blood-thinning effect. Further exploring the effects of grounding, Oschman et al., 2015, conducted a study where they repeatedly observed that grounding increases the speed of healing and decreases or completely eliminates inflammation. They discuss that grounding is a simple, natural, free, and accessible health strategy that can be used against chronic inflammation. Pain and
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
The Lure of Fishing
“Mom, will you write a story about fishing this week?” asked my son as we were sitting at the dinner table earlier in the week. “What made you ask that? I asked him. “Well, you like to write about nature, and fishing is a ‘naturey’ thing.” he replied. I smiled and said “You’ve got that right. I really like your idea! Fishing it is.” After all, we were planning on heading to the cabin in a few days – the place where I learned to fish when I was a little girl. The perfect spot to get me in the fishing frame-of-mind. Cabin As soon as we arrived at the cabin this evening, my family piled onto the old pontoon. My husband pushed the pontoon away from the dock, my daughter scooted onto my lap, settling in to drive the pontoon to our favorite fishing spot, and my son was busy setting up his line already. While my daughter steered the boat out of Cabin Bay (an endearing name given by my children), she commented on the shoreline just four doors down from our cabin “Look at their perfect shoreline! They have a tree hanging over the water which is perfect for bass.” That’s my little fishergirl. Tonight I’ve decided that I’m not going to fish. Instead, I’m going to start this fishing story that my son has requested – a story that I’m excited to write as fishing has been an important part of my family for many generations. In fact, my great-great-grandparents depended on fish to help sustain them, as they were farmers that were the second generation removed from Sweden, and had very little money. In the words of my great-grandfather: In the early spring before the ice was off the lake, we put our long gill nets in. We had two, I think. They were 30 feet long which gave us 60 feet of gill nets. My father and I would walk down to the lake about four in the afternoon, row out to the edge of the ice, and row slowly along the edge as the net was laid out. Sometimes we had fish to bring home with us at once. The next morning we picked off all the fish in the nets, sometimes as much as half a gunnysack full. It was always a cold job, but rewarding. These fish, mostly northern and sunfish, were all delicious coming from the ice cold water. I loved to walk along the shore wearing knee boots and shoot fish. If I shot above the water the concussion would stun the fish and they would turn up and be picked up. We shot two one day, one weighed 19 ½ pounds – another 14 pounds. This was illegal, but the game warden never bothered anyone till after World War I, when they tightened up on us. After that, we never put out the nets, but I continued to shoot fish. This was only possible when the fish were spawning and swimming in the meadows at high water. They would lay their eggs in the low meadows then go back to the deep lake, but I shot lots of big fish in season. Fishing wasn’t isolated to early spring. My great-grandfather continued: Victor Erickson and I would also spear fish in the night late in the fall. Using a gasoline torch, we could see the bottom of the lake and easily spear any fish that showed; one man rowing the boat backwards, the other standing at the stern where the light was with the spear ready to stab. Back In The Day Gone are the days of using nets and spears for fishing in my family. Our typical outing requires a rod with hook and bobber, and a tin of wax worms, a container of leeches, or a bucket of night crawlers that the kids collect after the sun goes down. Growing up, my parents or grandparents would take the children out in the old Lund or Alumacraft boats, and we would drop a line somewhere along the shore of the cabin lake. Sunfish, crappies, perch, northern, walleye, and largemouth bass were the typical species that were pulled out of the water, but dogfish, sheephead, bullhead, and carp would surprise us on occasion. I remember the excitement of seeing the bobber go down, the competitions my family used to have to see who could get the biggest or most fish, and watching wildlife as the sun went down in the evening (although, back then I didn’t realize the importance of this). As we sit on the pontoon, I ask the kids what makes fishing fun for them. My daughter simply says “I like to catch the fish.” My son replies “I like to watch the bobber start to go under, and I love not knowing if the fish is big or small, or what type of fish it is.” Neither of them commented on the wildlife around them, but my daughter admired the beautiful sunset, and my son was watching birds fly about. Immersed in their surroundings. The Fishing Experience As I look around me I see the sugar maples starting to turn hues of yellow, orange, and red on this late-September day. Majestic white pines are sparse among the maple trees, but they tower over all others – dark green with soft, long needles. Wild rice along the shoreline has started to turn autumn brown, but the arrowhead plants are still a bright green. The day has been unusually warm, gracing us with temperatures in the mid-80’s. A light breeze blows from the south – warm for the most part, but cool when the gusts lift off the cold water. The dog is lying in her favorite spot on the front deck of the pontoon. My husband and children are quiet – entranced by casting, waiting, reeling, and casting again. Wood ducks startle and fly out of nearby cattails, a sharp-shinned hawk flies overhead, and the rough squawking
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.
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