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.

#####

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.

#####

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!!!