Grandpa Montgomery

I know I said I'd write about the Gasaway side of the family, but I've been thinking about my Grandpa Montgomery, born Roscoe Lee in 1877. He always called himself Ross. My mother adored her father. He was a skinny little cheerful fellow who loved music, dancing, and baseball. Mother said he taught all of his children to dance by having them stand on his feet while he danced. Family reunions were usually held in someone's basement so we could dance. There was usually live music. I can't remember what kind but I know that about 10:00 at night, Grandpa would stand up and call out "Virginia Reel." We'd all line up, the music would start, and we'd dance. We kids loved those reunions. There was, besides wonderful food, a huge metal tub filled with ice and Uncle Carl's home-made root beer. No one checked to see how many you took. And there was home-made ice cream, gallons of it! Uncle Marlowe read poems he'd written and Uncle Roscoe and his wife Jiggs did crazy dances. My uncles would come up to me, bow, and ask for the next dance. I felt like a queen.
   Grandpa had a little Jack Russell he called "Blackie." I'm not sure why, as the dog wasn't black. This little dog grabbed Grandpa's trousers and hung on while Grandpa danced around the room, the dog swinging through the air.
   Grandpa loved baseball. Knew all the statistics and listened to the games on a beat up little radio. He was a dedicated Cubs fan. I remember going to visit and Grandma told me he was over at the sand lot. There he was, watching the kids play baseball. I asked him how he was. "Not so good today," he said. "Your Grandma and I were out dancing till near two o'clock last night." One year, Dick and I took him to Chicago to see the Cubs play. He had never seen them, never been in a big stadium. He was speechless with joy. He knew all the players, all their stats, and when the Cubs won, he said he thought he'd died and gone to heaven.
   Grandpa's father was Joseph Franklin Montgomery, born 1850 in Posey County, Indiana. In 1873, he married Martha Gasaway and there were five children: Roscoe Lee (Ross), Walter, Albert (Bert), Lewis, and Viola. Martha died in 1891. Grandpa was just fourteen. I think he and his brother Walter (then thirteen) went to live with their grandfather Samuel. The boys remembered that Grandpa Sam was strict about keeping the Sabbath. Walter told about trying to lift his grandpa's rifle off the rack and sneak out the door, but never got away with it. Sam would just point to the rack--never saying a word--and they knew it was no use trying to get that gun on a Sunday.
   Grandpa never spoke about his childhood and typical kid that I was, I never asked. I do know Grandpa and Grandma lived in Illinois around Pekin all their lives except for a short stay out side of Stevens Point, Wisconsin. (Good thing, as that's where Mother met Daddy, but I'll tell that story another time.) They rented a farm. My mother was nineteen and had a job as a cashier in a shop in town. During the week, she lived with her friend Genevieve in town. (I'm named for Gen's sister Ruth) Mother came home weekends. Uncle Carl (just a year older) lived at home and ran the farm. One night Mother and Carl sneaked out of a window to go into town to a dance. When they got home, Grandpa met them. Carl was twice his size, but Grandpa spanked Carl.
   I think our lives are made up of our stories, like a quilt. I tell you these stories so you can add them to your patchwork quilts. After I fill in the Gasaway side of the family, I'll tell more family stories. Maybe you can send me some of yours so we all can share.

The Montgomery Side

My maternal grandfather was Roscoe Lee Montgomery (he called himself Ross). The origin of the name Montgomery has an interesting history. Back in the days when the Roman Empire covered most of Europe, in the southern part of France in an area called Gaul, there was a mountain known as Gomer's Mountain. In the language of that day it was Mont Gomeri. The Lord in charge of the lands and the villages was eventually known as Lord Montgomeri. The name was later spelled Montgomerie and eventually became Montgomery. When William the Conquere chose men to accompany him and take positions of responsibility in his famous war with England, he chose Roger deMontgomerie who led the center of the invading army at Hastings, and was known as Roger the Great. The Montgomerys spread to Scotland at an early date beginning with Robert deMontgomerie who went there in the early 1100s. One of his successors, John Montgomerie of Eaglesham married Elizabeth, the daughter of Sir Hugh de Eglintoun, and was a hero in the battle of Otterburn in 1388.
     Some of the original Montgmerie families had remained in France and established themselves in Normandy, where they were the overseers of Mont Saint Michel, the French fortress which protected France for centuries against the invading ships of England. The Montgomery Castle is still standing at Ponterson, near the Normany Coast. The unfortunate story of Montgomery, a Count then occupying the castle at Ponterson is still told and will always be an important part of the history of France.
   On the occasion of the marriage of his sister, Marguerite, with the duke of Savoie, Henry II, King of France, gave a large feast. There were all kinds of sports as entertainment, and after the jousting matches had ceased, King Henry was not quite satisfied. He wanted a chance to joust with Count Montgomery. Queen Catherine and others tried to dissuade him, but the King was obstinate and insisted he have his way. During the joust, the lance of Count Montgomery fatally injured the King, and he died on the 9th of July, seven days after the celebration, in the year 1559.
   Although Montgomery was never held responsible for what obviously was an accident, the Queen never forgave him. She finally got her revenge when Montgomery was captured along with other Protestants, who were called Huegenots. She had him executed. She is the same queen, the infamouis Catherine de Medici, who ordered the Massacre of the Huguenots at St. Bartholomew's Church on Augut 14, 1572. After that time, the Montgomery family, along with other Protestants left France and settled in England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. (There were a LOT of Montgomerys.) It was from Ulster in North Ireland that most of the early Montgomery families came to America. (So I AM Irish!)
   The first Montgomery ancester that we know about in America is Robert Montgomery, born about 1780 in Georgia. We don't know much about his life in Georgia other than he was a school teacher and attended the Presbyterian Church. His brother James and sister Martha remained in Georgia, but Robert (who was called Robin) moved to Gibson County, Indiana. Soon several other families from Georgia moved there as well. Among them was the Marvel family with their children, including their daughter Patience. Robin often visited the Marvel family. One of the stories that has been passed down is that one morning Robin followed the girls, Patience and Comfort, to the milking gap, where seated upon a stump, he made himself useful by holding a calf by the ears while Patience milked its mother. Suddenly he said, "Patia, will you milk my cows?" Patience replied curtly, "No, Robin, I will not milk your cows." There was silence for a time while Patience thought the request over. She considered Robin's good qualities and her heart softened. "Say that again, Robin."
   "Say what?"
   "What you said before."
   Robin repeated his question.
   "Yes, Robin, I will milk your cows." And so preparations began for a wedding. They were married April 30, 1813 by the Methodist Curcuit riding minister Rev. Benjamin Edge. This was said to be the first marriage in the Black River Basin in the Indiana Territory. They made their home in Smith Township, Posey County, Indiana.
   Robert fought in the battle of Tippecanoe. He also fought in some of the Indian Wars and was a soldier in the War of 1812. Robert and Patience Marvel Montgomery were the parents of 11 children. (William; Prettyman; John; Elizabeth; Nancy; Samuel; James; Lavina; Robert, Jr.; George; Thomas) We are descended from Samuel who married Phoebe Elizabeth Pruitt. The Pruitt family came to Indiana from Kentucky in 1820. They had lived in the Carolinas previously. Phoebe's grandfather Simon Williams, Jr. served in a civilian capacity during the Revolutionary War and his service has been accredited by the DAR.(in case that kind of thing is important to you. I'm not quite as interested as perhaps I should be. I remember my father [Boppey] saying that ancestors were like potatoes in that they are buried in the ground. But I digress...) Although Samuel had to sign his will with his mark (he was illiterate) he left a sizeable fortune for his children. He was probably dyslexic, as his family was well educated.
   Samuel and Phoebe Elizabeth Pruitt Montgomery were the parents of ten children. The fourth child was Joseph Franklin Montgomery who married Martha Gasaway. They had five children: Roscoe Lee, Walter, Lewis Samuel, Albert, Viola, Joseph Franklin, and Elizabeth.
   Roscoe Lee (who called himself Ross) married Dorothy Christina Danner (check the last blog). They were the parents of: Carl, Marguerite Marie (Nonnie), Irene, Marlowe, Roscoe Henry, Dorothy, Mildred Louise (who died very young), and Selma Juanita who was always known as Juanita. Aunt Neetie (Juanita) never allowed her first name to be spoken aloud!
   Next time I'll write about the Gasaway side--the maternal side.
   No pictures this time. Sorry. Just a lot of names and dates. But our histories are more important than we realize, imprinted in our DNA. I have been drawn to Mont Saint Michel ever since seeing a picture of it when I was in primary school. I finally was able to go a few years ago. Rented a car in Paris and drove through Normandy, arriving at Mont Saint Michel in the last afternoon of Christmas Eve. Went to midnight mass and wept through the entire service. The same was true of St. Bartholomew's in Paris. I had never heard of the church, but while in Paris I found it one day while wandering around. I went in and sat in a pew. Someone was practicing the organ. I wept. Have no explanation for my responses to some of the places I've gone. Like how do you explain Mongolia??? But we were once tribal people, completely dependent upon the land upon which we lived. That may seem strange to us now with all of our technology, but that sophistacated "stuff" is a mighty thin coat. Underneath we are still homeo sapien, surviving and doing what we can to enjoy the process. I'm mighty satisfied with how my process is going. Hope you are too.   

Grandma Dolly

Grandma Dolly

It's my maternal grandmother's turn--Nonnie's mother. She was named Dorothy Christina Danner, but called Dolly because of her big brown eyes. In the picture she's about 16.

Dolly was born in Lincoln, Illinois in 1884. Her father Christian "Henry" Danner was born in Mt. Pulaski, Illinois in 1840. His father Christian Danner was born in Wurtenburg, Germany in 1810. Christian and his brother Andrew came to this country in 1834.  Christian went first to Pittsburgh where he worked in blacksmith shops and carriage works for six years. There he married Eva Smith. (She died in 1854 leaving four children: Andrew, Henry--Grandma's father, John, and Kate).  Christian moved his family to Mt. Pulaski and with his brother Andrew set up the first blacksmith shop in Mt Pulaski. In 1855, Christian married Dorothy Birkhardt who had come from Wurtemburg, Germany. (She died in 1873, leaving five children: Mary, Christena, Christian, George, and Gottleib.) The brothers built the first frame houses in the town. There were no roads or bridges in the county and prices for labor were low. A horse could be shoed for $1.50. At the close of the Mexican war, Christian went to St. Louis and bought a quantity of damaged iron. He then began manufacturing heavy wagons which he sold to the men who were going to California to mine for gold. He also made the first iron plows in Mt. Pulaski. He was undoubtedly the finest blacksmith in the area. Son Henry Danner became a farmer. He was also a goldsmith and eventually owned a jewelry store in Springfield, Illinois. His home backed up to the home of Abraham Lincoln. Rumor has it their dogs ran through a hole in the backyard fence.
   Henry had six children: Dorothy, Mary, Julius, Adolph, George, and Fred. I remember my mother speaking fondly of her Uncle Jewel. She said that after a family dinner, he went around the table to each of the children. He'd put his arms under their armpits and shake them up and down so they'd have plenty of room for dessert. I believe Uncle Adolph had a humped back and died quite young. Uncle George joined the Merchant Marine. He had what Grandpa called "the wanderlust." Once, in La Crosse, Wisconsin (I was about six), Mother and I were walking through a little park on our way home when Mother stopped. "Uncle George!" she called. A tall gray-haired man stopped and they chatted. I remember hearing her say he must come home with us. He said no, he'd come later. He never came. However, when he retired, he went to Pekin to be with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma said George and Grandpa sat on the porch and talked and talked until the day George died.
    Dolly's mother was Anna Marie Reinhardt, but I always heard her called Mary.

That's Mary Danner on the left. The girl squinting in back is my mother--Nonnie. I don't know who the other two people are.

   Mother always spoke lovingly about Grandma Danner. (She is one of the "Marys" I named my Mary after. The other is my sister Mary Ann.) Mother said her grandmother Mary Danner had "healing hands." Every spring she came to the house with a tonic they all had to take. It was a horrible mixture that even included turpentine! She also had them wear what Mother called "an asaphidadee" (that a phonetic spelling as Mother never really knew what it was officially called). They wore it next to their skin. Mother says that when they were playing and got warm it had a strange smell. I'm sure there was garlic in it as even the smell of garlic was supposed to have a therapeutic effect.

Dolly married Ross Lee Montgomery. Here's their young family. Carl in the back. Mother is on the right (so sweet!!). Irene is on the left. Marlowe is seated on Grandma's lap. The picture was taken about 1910. (That would make Mother six.)

And there were more children....the two new little ones were Roscoe and Dorothy. Eventually Juantia (called Neetie) was born. One child died when she was two. Grandma told me she never got over the loss of that child and sometimes would find she had set a place at the table for her.

Here's the family at Grandma and Grandpa's fiftieth wedding anniversary. Back row: Marlowe, Irene, Marguerite, Dorothy, Roscoe. Front row: Juanita, Grandpa, Grandma, Carl (he was my favorite uncle). And as long as I've mentioned his name, I'll tell you a favorite story about him. It was the year I was a senior in college and World War II was still going on. In those days couples did not go "steady" and I was corresponding with a lot of boys who were in the war. One of them was Hadley, a very wealthy boy--a real southern gentleman my Mother was fond of. He was on leave so I was going to visit him and his family in Arkansas. But first, I went to Pekin where Mother was visiting with Carl and Ann. Uncle Carl had a marvelous garden (had learned from his mother who was the BEST gardener). Every evening, he and I went into the kitchen where he made us sandwiches of home made bread, thin slices of his Bermuda onions, and those long yellow peppers. We'd eat our onion sandwiches and talk. The last evening I was there, he asked me if I planned to take a ring from this young man (agree to marry). I said heavens no! He leaned forward and whispered, "Good. Now, you just take your time. There's no need to rush into marriage. You've got all the time in the world." Then he looked around. "Now don't you tell your mother I told you that. She asked me to talk to you because she thinks you're too fussy and will end up being an old maid." I loved that man!
   My sister Mary Ann named Grandma Montgomery our "fat grandma." Grandma laughed and said, "Who do you love?" And we'd shout, "Our fat grandma." She never minded. By the time I knew her she was not a good cook--probably burned out from raising such a large family. She was not interested in housekeeping either. But she had a magnificent garden and made the most beautiful quilts. She made all of her granddaughters (and there were many) little quilts. Mary Ruth has the one she made for me. My mother's relationship with her mother was strained. I never knew why. I only know that when Mother got a letter from her mother, she was angry and cried. Grandma was not exactly a warm and fuzzy person. When Grandma died, my Mother wept and in those few moments, the relationship was healed.

Here are three generations: Ruth, Marguerite, Dorothy Christina. Taken in 1947.

Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary

   Grandma died April 1, 1956 and is buried in Pekin, Illinois.

   Next time I'll do Grandpa Montgomery.

My Grandma Hammer

Her name was Laura Olsdatter Anderson and she was born on a farm in Norway February 1st, 1870. Her father was Ole Anderson (1831), her mother Engeborg Andersdatter (1842). Ole emigrated to America in 1869 and set up a tailoring shop in St. Paul, Minnesota. When Laura was fifteen months old, Ole sent for his young wife and daughter. Engeborg was in poor health and died when Laura was just two years old. Poor Ole. He had no idea how to raise a little girl and so Laura was raised by two"aunties." I remember meeting them when I was very young. They lived in a large duplex with lots of windows and heavy lace curtains. They gave me a penny to go to the little nearby store and buy a sweet. I thought they were very good mothers.

When Laura graduated from school she was hired as a "copy preparer" by West Publishing Company in St. Paul. They published legal and medical books. She met Ludvig while he was studying at the United Church Seminary, majoring in Theological Studies. One of their favorite activites was ice skating. (I have copies of many of their letters--they are sweet. It's obvious they were very much in love.) They married October 27, 1896--right after Ludvig's graduation.

Ludvig was assigned two rural churches in South Dakota. It was there they raised their family: Einar Oswald, Harold Edward, Sigmund Immanuel, Clement Victor, Rolf Walter, and Laura Louise.

This picture was taken in 1903. Ole is seated in the middle. The last row: Einar and Harold. Middle row: Ludvig, Rolf, Ole, Laura. Bottom row: Clement, Laura, Sigmund.

This picture was probably taken in 1913. Standing: Rolf, Sigmund, red-haired Clement. Seated: Einar, Laura, Laura Louise, Ludvig, and dapper Harold.

The year the banks closed, I think it was 1934, we lived with my grandparents in Faribault, Minnesota. They had lost all their savings and so we were able to help with expenses. The little brick house is now a National Treasure, but then it was just home. I think it was hard on my mother as Grandpa would say, "Oh, let Marguerite do that. She's young and strong." He pampered grandma--always had and always would. But I loved living there. Grandma was my first piano teacher (she taught all of her children to play the piano. I have fond memories of my father sitting at the piano, head thrown back, pounding out The Mareilles. He always went  back to the beginning when he made a mistake. I never did hear the ending.) Grandma taught me how to knit and I still have the little bone knitting needles. (She taught all of her children to knit, crochet, sew on a button, and darn a sock.) She was a remarkable woman and a good role model for me. A tiny thing, I doubt she ever weighed more than a hundred pounds. She was a terrible cook, fair housekeeper, but she loved to read and felt it important to keep informed about what was going on in the world. She and Grandpa were always loving with each other. They took a nap after lunch (which they called dinner). I remember peeking into their bedroom and seeing them stretched out side by side on their three-quarter bed, hands clasped, eyes closed. Makes me teary-eyed just remembering.

   There was one thing Grandma cooked that I loved. They were a molasses cookie she called "Mary Anns"-- strong, and dark covered with her version of frosting--powdered sugar and water. I still have never found a recipe that tastes as good as they did.

   It was the depression and Grandma's house had been "marked." Bums came daily. Grandma never turned anyone away. She always had some small chore for them. When finished, they sat on the back screened porch. Grandma brought them a basin of hot water, soap, and a clean towel. She always said a prayer, blessing the food, the man, and his family. Her  voice was frail, high and soft. The men bowed their heads reverently, as if they were again boys with a loving mother.

 On summer nights, we kids all met under the corner streetlight and played Truth or Dare. About 8:30, Grandma came onto the porch and called me in to practice. I always had mixed feelings for as much as I liked being with the kids, I treasured sitting beside her on the paino bench playing the simple tunes she taught me. There was always a little moral lesson tucked in between the notes. Grandma belonged to the WCTU--Women's Christian Temperance Union, which was against strong drink. But she held her beliefs gently. I remember when my children were very small, Uncle Lee and Aunt Laura brought Grandma to visit. It was a hot summer afternoon. Grandma sighed and said, "It's so hot, a cold beer would taste so good." Dick and Uncle Lee raced to the refrigerator. Grandma drank lemonade.   

   One of my favorite stories came from Uncle Sigmund. When he was about ten he built a telegraph in the cellar, the wires ending in the kitchen. Grandma learned the Morse Code so he'd have someone to send messages to. Let the cooking and cleaning wait. It was activities like this that were important.

   I was her first grandchild, and my second name is hers--Laura. They lived on a very limited pension, but she sent me birthday gifts--books from their library. Oliver Twist, Tale of Two Cities, Wordsworth's poems, Milton. The books were well-worn, for all of her children could read before they entered school. By the time my father entered first grade he was in the middle of "The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire."
   Grandpa adored her. We all did. She flew to my wedding--her first flight (she was 77) and arrived carrying a book about the Communist Manifesto. I was shocked. "One needs to keep up with what's happening," she said. She was suffering from a mild dementia and sometimes got lost trying to find her way home from the market, but she was still reading the latest books. She hemmed the slip I wore under my bridal dress and gave me a precious little seed-pearl ring she had received from her father on her sixteenth birthday. Bad cook, poor housekeeper, strong mother, loving wife, she left a lasting legacy.

    

Ludvig Erickson & Laura Olsdatter Anderson Hammer on their 50th wedding anniversary, 1946.

More Pieces

I've missed doing my blog. It gave me a feeling of being connected. I'm not yet ready to do the one about my Grandma Hammer (to follow the one about Grandpa Hammer), but wanted to do something. So, here are some more of my pieces. (They're dated, but.........)

The large chorale I sing with was giving a major concert. We had invited two other ensembles to perform with us, had a full symphony orchestra, and were being televised. This was the big time.

     The house lights dimmed and the concertmaster came on stage and bowed to the appreciative audience. Everyone hushed and he nodded to the oboe player who took the cue. Clearly she played her 'A' and the orchestra tuned. The concert was brilliant and right on key.

     It's the oboe who sets the key because it can't be tuned like violins and timpani. Every group has its 'oboe.' In my family we have two, my niece's eighteen-month old son and my 87-year old mother.

(Another)

I have a veritable garden of friends who need watering and definitely lots of sunshine. I'm not going to take this any further for I'm not sure what to do about pruning, fertilizing, or weeds.

(And yet another)

I needed a quick centerpiece for my table one day so I cut some English ivy from my garden and stuck it in a pretty bowl of water. Added a lovely touch to my table setting.

     Several days later I went to throw it out and noticed it had roots, tiny delicate white threads already drawing nurturance from the water. I immediately planted it and put it in a sunny window. I've kept it as an object lesson, a daily reminder to keep putting out roots to draw sustenance from my surroundings whatever they are; to keep living and flourishing like the garden ivy.

(Gift pieces from others)

My daughter in her quiet wisdom sent me a card: "Bloom where you are planted." Good advice for someone like me who has been transplanted over and over and over again. I'm blooming as best I know how. And I get comfort from some words of a Leonard Cohen song: "Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in eveything. It's how the light gets in."

Some Hammer History

Stories make history interesting and inspiring. They are always subjective, always up for interpretation. Thanks to Mary Ruth and my cousin Gary Mosher, I've got quite a bit of history about the Hammers. So let me tell you about my grandfather Ludvig.
    He was born the eldest son to Erik Larsen and Sidsel Andersdatter in Hamar Norway on November 24, 1862. That date is dear to me for my eldest son John was born on that day. That's where the 'Hammer' in John's name comes from. Erik and Sidsel lived at 54 Halock Gate in Hamar. Erik was a  cabinetmaker and carpenter and Ludvig apprenticed his father.  Here are Erik and Sidsel.

Erik (standing) with two  brother, possibly Emil and Anton.

The church where Ludvig was baptized.

Ludvig longed to become a Lutheran minister, something impossible for a person of his class. So he saved his money and at age 18, made his way to Oslo (called Cristiana in those days), then onto the ship Rollo for Hull England. There he took a train to Liverpool and finally boarded a ship bound for America.
   Weather was fierce and they were late, but the ship finally landed in New York. Ludvig put his large trunk on the dock and went to get a cart.  He returned to find his luggage had been stolen, and he was left with only a small trunk containing his books, handkerchiefs, money, and new underwear. A nearby policeman sympathized, but said he could do nothing. While being examined and processed for entry into the United States, he was asked his name. In Norway, a child takes on the name of his/her father. As Ludvig was the son of Erik, he said, "Ludvig Eriksen."
   The official replied, "Too many Ericksons. Where were you born?"
   "Hamar."
   "Hammer it is," the official said and Ludvig had not only a new country, but a new name. I wonder now how I would have felt in similar circumstances. All I can think is YIKES!
   Luvig knew there were Norwegians living in Northfield, Minnesota and so he made his way there. On arrival, he stopped at a hardware store with a Norwegian name and asked for work. The man wasn't hiring, but said the Svien family had a big farm. Maybe they needed help. Ludvig hadn't eaten that day, but he hiked the ten miles to the Svien farm. It was supper time when he arrived, and Mrs. Svien opened the door. She invited him in to supper. He eyed the table in the dining room and although he was very hungry, he politely declined. Mrs. Svien insisted. The story is still told of the small young man who was not hungry and yet ate enough supper for three. The Sviens hired him. He worked, went to high school, learned English, and saved enough money to go to St. Olaf's College and eventually the Seminary in Minneapolis. He graduated in 1896 and was ordained in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.

  
   He then went on to serve parishes in South Dakota. Here's his first Confirmation Class.

In 1896 he married Laura Olsdatter Anderson, but I'll tell her story another time. Here's their family. (The only car in the county.)

   I tell this story to honor the courage of that young man of 18 who left behind all that he knew and loved--family and home--to follow a dream. I remember him as a small man in a dark suit. He always wore a hat outside. He and Grandma took naps after lunch. I can remember seeing them lying fully clothed on their narrow bed, side by side, sound asleep. He had an internal clock that went off at 10:00 in the morning and 3:00 in the afternoon. He could be seen walking briskly across the lawn into the house softly singing "lul-la-lul-la-lul." Grandma always had the coffee ready and a "bit of something sweet." He let me sit on his knee and drink coffee through a sugar cube. "Don't tell your mother," he said. I never did. Grandpa died in June 1944 and is buried in Meadow Ridge Cemetary in Faribault, Minnesota.

Silly Songs

I wish I'd known my Mother when she was young. She told us very little about herself, but I could tell from the photos she loved having fun. She had a wicked sense of humor. (Here at age 14)

And she loved being with friends.

One of my fondest memories happened when I was in the first grade in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Mother and Daddy had been elected co-presidents of the PTA (Parent Teacher Association) and had decided to do a fundraiser for the school. What I remember most vividly is a group of people gathered in our dining room. They were putting on costumes, acting silly and laughing a lot. Mother came down the stairs and I couldn't believe what I saw. She was wearing a bright gingham dress with a full skirt. A ruffled petticoat peeked out at the bottom. Her long dark hair was braided with wire so it curled out like great wings on either side of her face. Huge ribbons were tied at the ends of the braids. Her legs were covered with sagging black stockings, a hole in one knee. Lace-up black boots covered her narrow feet. Best of all, she had dark freckles over her nose and had "blacked" out one of her front teeth. She stood in the doorway, feet crossed awkwardly, her finger in her mouth. We were all speechless.

     Daddy looked rather tame beside her in his knickers and straw hat. I could hardly wait for the show.

     The setting was an old-fashioned schoolhouse. I'm sure there was a story or plot, but all I remember is Mother singing "In the Little Red Schoolhouse." She was a show-stopper. I remember the tune and most of the words.

In the little red schoolhouse, with my book and slate. In the little red schoolhouse, where I was always late.

DA-DA-DA-DA-DA in those days of yore (I warned you I couldn't remember them all!)

How we'd all stand up and holler "two and two are four." And when we shoulda been learnin' about the golden rule, our little hearts were yearnin' for the swimmin' pool. We could hardly wait for the four o'clock bell. When he heard it ring we all would run like HECK! Oh, gee, I wanna be in the little red schoolhouse.

Ten o'clock the spelling lesson's just begun. Johnny throws an ink ball just for fun.

Hits the teacher's back with an awful splat! Teacher turns around and says, "Who did that?"

Pretty little Percy in the very front row, raises up his hand and says, "Teacher, I know."

Little Johnny whispers to the teacher's pride, "You just wait 'til I get you outside."

Johnny's told to stand with his face to the wall. He says, "I don't wanna," and he starts to bawl.

"If I turn around I take an awful chance, I got a great big tear in the seat of my pants."

Oh, gee, I wanna be in the little red schoolhouse.

I never heard her sing again. I guess being a star once is enough for any lifetime. Daddy was the expert when it came to silly songs, but I'll tell about his another time. This space belongs to Mother. I do miss her.

More Pieces

     I friend gave me an herb garden and I killed it. I didn't mean to, but it died just the same. I tossed the last plant out today.
     Seems I killed them with kindness--over-watered and over-fed. There's a lesson in there, I just know it, but I'm not going to pursue it today. I'm going on a cruise next week. Waste not, want not.

#####

     I was in Maine one September, visiting son Doug who was on location working on a movie. He had rented a cottage on a pond (that's Maine talk for a lake) and asked me to visit. "You'll love it, Mom," he said. He was right, I did.

     I had lived on the shore of Lake Wissota in Wisconsin while growing up.

I often envied my city friends being able to visit each other whenever they wanted, but the quiet of the country was right for me. There were three Lombardy Poplars at the edge of our lot my father called the 'old maids.' I would lie out on a summer night and listen to them whisper to one another, secrets I would never fathom.

     The bedroom I shared with my sister had a dormer window that looked out over the lake. Daddy had built a window seat there and Mother had made a pretty cushion for it. I spent hours reading and dreaming there.

     One summer night, I woke and went to sit in the alcove. The moon over the lake was full and cut a shining path across the dancing waves. I stared in wonder. And then I saw them, a pair of loons swinning across that silver band of water, their sad call cutting through the night air. I felt a chill rise in my back. This was a scene I would never forget and I knew it. I sat quietly for a long time to honor the moment and the loons.

     Those days in Maine brought back memories of living on Lake Wissota. Made me look more carefully at the "movie" I'm making called "My Life." It consists of billions of moments, magical and full of wonder.

Patchwork Pieces

My Grandma Montgomery made quilts. Her bedroom and dining room were filled with piles of colorful fabrics all cut out in small pieces. It was like a country garden with no obvious plan of design. Rarely did she buy any fabric, for her family and friends kept her supplied. There was a piece from Aunt Irene's last sewing Aunt Nita's latest housedress, and Aunt Nelda's apron scraps were there. My mother was always looking through the pile of remnants at Samuelson's Dry Goods Store for a pretty piece for 'Mama.' A quarter of a yard was all it took to guarantee a good representation in Grandma's latest artistic endeavor.
     My writing is like Grandma's quilt-making. I put my thoughts down on anything available: the backs of receipts, napkins, paper towels, even an occasional piece of yellow-lined paper. There are scraps from friends and family, from books read, movies seen, and experiences. My mind is a veritable garden of ideas, all colorfully stacked all over the place, waiting to be cut into the appropriate shape and 'sewed' into a piece. I call them "Patchwork Pieces."
     I'd like to start sharing them. Here's one of my first:
     My sister had asthma when we were growing up, and as sorry as I felt for her, and as glad as I was that I didn't have it, I would sometimes long to be ill. My illness would be very rare, not disfiguring, painful, nor fatal. It would be mysterious, and I would lie on my bed, covered with silk comforters. The doctors would stand by consoling my parents. "There, there," they would say, "she's nearing the crisis point now."
     My mother would weep softly, and my father would clench his jaw to contain himself. My sister would regret all the things she'd done to anger and hurt me. My termperature would begin to rise, the room would hush, and all would wait expectantly as I went through the crisis.
     I always recovered, and the only evidence of my brave adventure was that I would be left with big boobs and long eyelashes.

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And another:

     I was having dinner with a young friend, laughing and talking when she interrupted me. "You are a remarkable woman," she said.

     "I am?" a note of disbelief was evident in my voice.

     She nodded slowly, and for a brief moment I saw myself through her eyes. I am!

     We are like beautiful tapestries to the world, intricte patterns woven out of a variety of threads, each of us distinctly unique. Some of us are like pale delicate Flemish tapestries, others like the rough natural macrames, some are art pieces, some warm fuzzy blankets. But we all, banker or boozer, are that beautiful work of original art.

     The only problem is that we see others' finished pieces right-side-out. All we can see of our own is the underside; the knots, twisted threads, cut-end pieces, patched and worn spots, and we need loved ones around to remind us of how we really are. In order for that tapestry to exist it needs both sides. That's a law in the universe.

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I've got a bunch of these, so you'll see them now and again.

Marmalade Memories

My friend Len gave me a bag of oranges and lemons. He likes to shop at Costco as he says the quality of the produce is the best. However, he and his wife Judi can never eat it all, so every time we meet for lunch, Len gives me a bag of stuff. I don't mind.

I decided to make marmalade. As I was slicing the oranges and lemons, I thought about Dick. (I'll explain the connection eventually.)
During my senior year at the University in Minneapolis, my parents and sister moved to Shorewood, a suburb of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. After graduation, I accepted a job in Fond du Lac, a small town in central Wisconsin. Every weekend I took the train to Milwaukee to visit my parents and let my Mother feed me. My sister (Mary Ann) was attending a local college and had made friends. Every weekend Mary Ann and her boyfriend arranged a blind date for me. I can't remember any of them.   But on Friday, September 13th we were to meet my date after the local high school football game. I wore my Minnesota sweatshirt, wool slacks, and my favorite gummy-soled blue suede shoes (really!). During the half-time, we left our seats and started to walk past the bleachers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this handsome fellow wearing a camel hair jacket and red tie. He came up to us and began talking to me. With as nasty a tone as I could muster, I said, "I don't believe we've met," and I walked away. He turned to Mary Ann's boyfriend and said, "That's the girl I'm going to marry." And marry me he did.

It was 1946 and Dick was freshly out of the service. He'd entered the Marines shortly after December 7th, 1942, while still a senior in high school. At seventeen he needed to get his parents permission and the approval of high school to get an early diploma. He did both tasks.

Dick had been an altar boy and an Eagle Scout (at the time, the youngest in the state of Wisconsin).

He was smart, ambitious, and had a wicked sense of humor. Who else but a young man in love would have done this.....

He never lacked for friends. People just loved him. But to get back to the marmalade...It was Fall and I had been canning. Tomatoes, peaches, apricots, and applesauce. I had made apple butter and several kinds of jam. To make all the pickles on my list, I had bought a bag of salt. We --just Dick and me--were going away for the weekend to visit our friend Big John. A big treat for me.

He was Big John (at 6'2" compared to our John) and he loved marmalade. I found a competent baby sitter --not easy for our bunch, as Doug was only 4 months old, Bill one and a half, Mary three, and John five.

I spent the morning slicing oranges and lemons, making sure the rinds were as thin as possible. Dick interrupted me on his way out to the backyard. "Honey, I emptied the sugar and filled the bowl." I was grateful for any kind of help. I got out my speical rectangular pan--it fit over two burners--and dumped in the oranges, lemons, and about 8 cups of sugar and began to stir. Another interruption when John came into the kitchen. He was hungry, but said he could take care of it himself. He put cereal into a bowl, poured in milk, and added sugar. "This cereal tastes funny," he said. I was too busy to be concerned about his personal taste for cereal as I was having a terrible time with my marmalade. No matter how much it bubbled and boiled, nor how long I stirred, I couldn't get the sugar to melt. "Mom," John insisted. "There's something wrong with the cereal." My response was not as sweet or patient as it should have been. I was now really concerned about my marmalade. "Tastes salty," John said.

     Salty? Oh no! I tasted the marmalade. Salty. Dick had never seen salt in a bag. He was so sorry. "It's kind of funny," he said. "Not to me," I replied. "Not now. Give me a little time." He disappeared into the bedroom. I sank into a chair and tried not to cry.

     A short time later, they came slowly walking by, Dick, John, Mary, and Bill. All were wearing coats and hats and looking sad. Dick picked up the rectangular pan and said, "We're having services in the back yard." And they did.

     All of that happened so long ago, but as I stirred my pan of oranges, lemons, and sugar the memories were as yesterday.

Christmas Stories

There's the well known Christmas story recorded in the Book of Luke that we all know. But at Christmastime I like to think about my family and their stories.

The Christmas we lived in Minneapolis, Dick decided on Christmas Eve we should take a drive to see the Christmas lights. We all thought that a great idea, but we had a problem. Doug (7 months old) was taking a nap, and I had cooking and baking to do to get ready for our Christmas dinner.
After some discussion we arrived at a compromise. I'd stay home with Doug and they'd go on the drive, but they had to promise to tell me all about it when they returned. All agreed. Dick took John, Mary, and Bill on the drive. Doug and I stayed home.

Shortly after they left, Doug woke and I put him in his "bouncer" in the living room so he could see our Christmas tree. It was a tall one covered with lights and ornaments. I went back into the kitchen. Several times I heard him laugh out loud, but I wasn't surprised. He was a happy baby and laughed a lot.
About an hour later, Dick and the children came home. To everyone's surprise, Santa had been there. After all the boxes were opened and we were sitting about basking in all our loot, John went up to Doug. "You saw him," John said, "and you're too little to talk." Doug just smiled.




The year we lived in Atlanta, I decided to take the children to the big Sears store down town. I had just gotten my first car--a rattle-trappy affair, but we thought it was grand. The children
dressed in their Sunday clothes for this was a special occasion.

The moment we walked in the store we could feel a buzz of excitement in the air. Santa was there! And the line to greet him was l---o---n---g. No one complained, for we all knew it was a treat to actually be able to sit on the old fellow's lap and tell him exactly what you wanted for Christmas.
When it was our turn, Doug (just 2) nodded politely, but he would have nothing to do with that white-haired old guy in the red suit. However, Bill stepped right up. From under his jacket, he unhooked his holster and guns and held them out. "I'll trade," he said. "My holster for a rifle."
Santa paused, and then he roared with laughter. Bill got to keep his holster and Santa came through. A rifle with Bill's name on it showed up under the tree.


The Christmas Mary was three, I told her that in March we were going to have another baby.

She was delighted and went about telling all her friends. "When our baby is born," she said, "we'll lay him in the hay." I tried explaining that when our baby came, if it was a girl the nurse would lay her in a pretty pink basket. If it was a boy, the basket would be blue. But she could not be pursuaded.
She gathered all the Christmas ribbons, added a bunch of her own, and made a little manger in the dolly bed Boppie had made for her. Daily, Mary laid her baby in the "hay," practicing for the day when we brought our real baby home.

The Christmas John was five, he woke up about 3:00 on Christmas morning and came to my bedside. I was sound asleep for his father and I had only been in bed about an hour. (Sometimes it takes parents a while to get things ready so Santa can come.) "Can we get up?" he whispered.

"No!" I said. "It's the middle of the night. Go back to bed." He did.

Finally 6:00 arrived and John again came to me. "The houselights are on across the street," he said. "I think Santa's been here."

We all got up and sure enough, Santa had arrived. The cookies were gone. The mug was empty, and boxes and toys were stacked under the tree. Long after we'd opened our gifts, I asked John if he'd gone back to sleep. "No," he said. "I just lyed there."

He was one sleepy kid.

My last story happened when Doug was five. He and his best friend were in the back seat of the

car having a conversation. They didn't realize I could hear them. I wasn't snooping, not really, but I couldn't help overhearing.

Doug's friend said, "Do you still believe in Santa?"

Doug shook his head. "No, but my Mom does."

I fear he's right. I still do! Happy New Year!!!