Porcelain-white skin, lips tinted rose, eyes painted with exquisite detail. What would her hair look like? Long blonde locks that brush her ankles, two auburn-colored braids that playfully hang down from each side of her ball cap, or raven-black ringlets that delicately frame her face – I could only guess. Most outfits were fancy gowns trimmed with lace, but another was a softball uniform, and one was a beautiful red sweater with plaid skirt that included ice skates as an accessory. When I was a young girl, I remember running down Grandma and Grandpa’s stairs at Christmas time to the Christmas tree they had decorated so nicely. I’d gently search through the gifts until I found the one with my name on it. Every year the box was roughly the same shape and size, and I always knew what would be carefully wrapped up inside – and yet the excitement never waned. When the time came for presents to be opened, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents would gather in a circle to read the Bible. As a child, it was so hard to sit still for the reading, so as soon as the scripture reading was finished, the kids would jump up and hand out presents to their grateful recipients. Everyone got one present from Grandma and Grandpa – simple and sweet. Logs crackled in the fireplace, cheeks were pink from the heat of the fire, the murmur of relatives chatting could be heard, and the smell of delicious holiday food filled the room. All of this was drowned out as I started to unwrap my gift. The tag with my name on it was always written in my Grandma’s beautiful handwriting, and the rectangular boxes were expertly wrapped. I’d take my time unwrapping my gift, as I knew the suspense would only last a moment. After I removed the top of the box, I gently unfolded the tissue paper that protected my gift, and there she was – my new porcelain doll. For many years my grandmother picked out a new porcelain doll to give me for Christmas. Each and every one was special to me. All throughout my childhood my dolls were displayed on my dressers, shelves, and any other open spaces I had in my room. I spent hours playing with them and combing their hair (which I found out later was not a great idea – doll hair is not like human hair). I still have my dolls, and now my daughter enjoys playing with them and taking care of them. Grandma always loved dolls, and I was not the only one she bought porcelain dolls for. She also bought them for the other girls in the family, and for herself. She once told me that when she was a little girl, her family didn’t have much money, but she remembered getting a doll when she was young – a treasured possession. I often wonder if this was why she continued to collect dolls. A few days ago, my great-uncle sent me a document that had been written by my great-grandfather (my grandma’s father) in 1977. In this document, Great-Grandpa reminisced of Christmas’ past, and I found a special mention of my grandmother (Connie) inside of it. Christmas was better as our children came and gave us incentive for celebrating. Connie started Sunday school and the first year at Christmas program I remember her little poem, yet- so, it goes: ‘Presents large and presents small But this is the best gift of all (she held up her doll).’ ~Roy Falk Reading this brought back the memory of my Christmas porcelain dolls – a Christmas memory that is still one of my favorites. I like to imagine the magic my grandmother must have felt when she opened up the doll she was given at Christmas when she was young. Was it the same kind of magic she gave to me each and every Christmas when I was a child? I’d like to think so. To my readers: I hope you had a very Merry Christmas. A Christmas that was filled with tradition, loved ones, and fond memories. Do you have any special Christmas memories? I would love to read about them if you would be so kind as to share them in the comment section below. Wishing you a Happy New Year! `Erin
Westfalcon Farm
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!
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
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.
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?
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.