A Little Treasure

A few years ago we did some work on this 100-year-old farmhouse. The crew of guys working on the project joked about finding money in the walls. Every day when I'd come home from work, I'd ask them where they piled the money, and every day they'd shake their heads and say, "Just more newspaper and bat crap." One day they pointed to a little pile of things they had uncovered....and in the pile was this little old book.

It had a strange picture on the cover of a baby holding a bottle and sitting by a chicken. The word 'ALBUM' looked to be written in a Japanese font and was outlined with shiny gold foil swirls. I was thrilled to sit down with my new treasure and open its pages, hoping to find old family photographs...and yes, some old currency pressed between its dusty pages. I found neither.

Do you remember autograph books? That's what this album really is and as I paged through it, I realized that it belonged to my husband's grandmother, Mary Jackson, and her sisters, Clara & Edna. Turns out it was a Christmas gift to the three girls from their teacher, Minnie Olson. (Wow, they had to share?) It was filled with little verses and writings in fountain pen and pencil from schoolmates who attended the Glenwood Academy back in the early 1900s.

Each entry was dated and signed, and many of the kids included the names of their hometowns -- all small villages within 60 miles of the school. What fascinated me was not only the superb penmanship, but the content of writings. When I was 10 or 11 years old, my friends and I all had autograph books. But when we exchanged them, we wrote silly things to each other like this:

When you get old,
And think you're sweet,
Take off your shoes,
And smell your feet.

But I'll tell you what, these verses, written in the early 1900s, had a much different flavor. Here are couple samples:

When angels pull the curtain,
And pin it with a star,
Remember you have a friend
Tho' she may wander far.

When the golden sun is setting
And your heart from care is free,
When o'er thousand things you're thinking,
Will you sometimes think of me?

I had forgotten how many of these verses referred to death...the final curtain...the golden sunset. As I read through them again recently, it made me wonder if these kids really thought that much about dying at these tender young ages. Or maybe death was just something that people commonly used as subjects of their poems and personal writings? Were these verses just some standard pieces they practiced in their penmanship class or recited for their teachers? I'm really not sure. Didn't these young people feel invincible...like I did at that stage of my life?

I did find a couple with some humor woven into their lines - like the one written on January 26, 1910 by the girls' friend, Bertha, a Glenwood girl:

I eat when I'm hungry
I drink when I'm dry
If a tree don't fall on me,
I'll live 'til I die.

The girls even let their brother, Claude, write on a page:

Be kind and be gentle
To those who are old...
For kindness is dearer
And better than gold.

Mary, who was ready to graduate, wrote to her sisters on January 28, 1906:

Dear Sisters Clara and Edna,
Childhood is a bough where slumbered
Buds and blosoms many numbered
Bloom on and make forever
The world more fair and sweet.
Your loving sister,
Mary D. Jackson

Almost sounds like she was bidding her childhood good-bye, doesn't it?

Here's one from Adolph. Now this kid was a thinker...

The hours are viewless angels
That still go gliding by
And bear each minute's records up
To Him who sits on high.

Contemplate the meaning of this one...it kind of 'stumped' me. It's not a beautiful image...not a particularly deep thought.

Put a stick in memory's woodbox for me.
Your Friend,
Valborg

At the book's end there was one page written in Norwegian by a girl named Peggy. I tried Googling the words but came up empty. I'll have to bring my little treasure to church next Sunday and find someone who can translate. If I'm successful, I'll let you know...

In Memory...

Sarah Hoidahl passed away Sunday, January 16, 2011 at the age of 33. Sarah began working at American Solutions for Business in 1997, beginning her career as a home office team member and most recently becoming a sales associate, serving clients in West Central Minnesota. Sympathy to Sarah's family, including her husband and two young children. God bless them!

A Precious Gift

I didn't write this...but wanted to share it with you...have a Merry Christmas!


We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly sitting and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, 'Hi.' He pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.

I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. 'Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster,' the man said to Erik. My husband and I exchanged looks, 'What do we do?'

Erik continued to laugh and answer, 'Hi.' Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby. Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room, 'Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek- a-boo.'

Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed.

We ate in silence; all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid-row bum, who in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.

We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between me and the door.

'Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik,' I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's 'pick-me-up' position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man.

Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their love and kinship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time.

I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, 'You take care of this baby.'

Somehow I managed, 'I will,' from a throat that contained a stone.

He pried Erik from his chest, lovingly and longingly, as though he were in pain. I received my baby, and the man said, 'God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift.'

I said nothing more than a muttered thanks. With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, 'My God, my God, forgive me.'

I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes.

I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not. I felt it was God asking, 'Are you willing to share your son for a moment?' when He shared His for all eternity.

The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, 'To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as little children.'

Halelujah!

Do you still remember your part?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXh7JR9oKVE

Cherished Chairs

Recently, I adopted another member into my family of "Cherished Chairs." It's the sort of thing that just happens... no planning.

This time it happened at a supper at First Lutheran Church of Norway Lake. Paul and I joined the line of folks waiting to buy dinner tickets. As we inched forward, we came to the first of many long tables filled with craft and "pre-owned" items that were being sold as a fund-raiser. Between the first two tables was old wooden spindle-back chair with a bright pink price tag on it. I leaned forward to read the tag. . . $5!

In my head I said, "Sold!" but outwardly I played the part of a real expert. I tested it to see how sturdy it was. I looked under the seat to see what kind of wood it was made of. I ran my finger along it's sleek lines and felt it's somewhat dimpled complection. In reality, I didn't care about any of that. I just plain wanted it and that was that. Paul kind of rolled his eyes but he knew in the end, the chair would be mine. He'd been down this road with me before.

I have a certain weakness for chairs...especially if they are all alone. If you've ever been to an auction, you've heard them refered to as "odd." I've always wondered about that. Does being alone or one-of-a-kind make one odd?

Some day, my children will hold an auction to get rid of all my old stuff. And as people wander among the rows of cherished chairs, I'm pretty sure, someone will refer to me as odd.

I'm okay with that.

Why Fly South?

Late summer days in Minnesota can be some of the most pleasant and most beautiful of the entire year. I caught these geese basking in the morning sunshine today on the banks of Lake Minnewaska in Glenwood.

The First Annual "Rock Pickers Triatholon"

It was a beautiful summer evening in rural Minnesota when my husband (the Agricultural Engineer) asked me to give him a hand and pick a round of rocks in the soybean field. I was working on my stairway project but agreed to wrap it up and head over to meet him at the 'Olson' farm about four miles from our place. He and the dog had taken the 'Gator' to the field and planned to keep the little safari vehicle there for a few days in order to finish the rock harvest.

I arrived and we took off up the soybean rows, finding plenty of rocks that could potentially end up in the combine if they weren't gathered. The round was a long half-mile and after we finished, we decided that one of us ought to walk 'overland' to the next farmsite toward home with the dog. Copper had been swimming in the pond and hunting in the field... he was filthy. Riding in the car wasn't an option for him.

I volunteered to take the walk across the pasture, through woods and down another field to the farmsite...a little over a mile away. On the way, a doe ran across my path...not 20 yards ahead. I should have counted all the little critters I saw, many of which scolded me for being there.

I walked through an open meadow where, two years earlier, we had planted some pine trees right out there in the sod. It was fun to see them peaking above the tall grass, showing off their new soft green needles.

I rounded the edge of a pond and picked a nice little bouquet of wildflowers and watched the geese and their fuzzy little ones swim away from me. One of the parents led the family and the other followed a distance behind, stretching its neck to be sure Copper and I weren't dog-paddling toward them.

Finally, I made it to the farmsite, hopped on the waiting bicycle and headed home with Copper following along in the ditch - tongue hanging out (the dog's not mine..okay, well maybe my tongue was hanging out, too). The wind was strong and fought with me all the way down the highway. I had only gone a mile when Paul appeared in the car. He must have known about my aching legs and my losing battle with the wind. I traded my bicycle for his car and drove home, leaving he and Copper to finish the last leg of the race.

As I arrived at home I congratulated myself for taking first place in the Rock Pickers Triatholon. It was then I realized that I had been joined in the event by an army of woodticks... 19 of them to be exact. What a prize for my first place finish!