A Christmas Cookie Story

Thank you, Erica Lynn Idso-Weisz!

Grandma Idso's Cinnamon Thumbs aka “Norwegian Little Fingers”

We all have that one food that sends us sailing back in a vortex of nostalgia the moment that you see it, smell it and taste it. For me that beautiful moment is wrapped up my Grandmother’s delicate Cinnamon Thumbs that graced our warm Christmases growing up.

These are the kind of cookies worth sneaking out in the middle of the night, at risk of stubbing your toe on the way, just to open up the freezer to be met with the glow and the rush of frigid air and the hollowed Cool Whip containers ever so carefully layered with these delicate morsels of pure joy.

I love the simplicity of this recipe. In the wise words of Julia Child, “With enough butter, anything is good." This couldn’t be truer for these simple cookies. The sugar and butter complement one another beautifully, and provide a delightfully delicious dance of flavor, lusciously kissed by the cinnamon sugar.

My Grandpa Idso, a born and bred Norske, enjoyed good belly laughs and healthy amounts of teasing. My stoic grandmother was often the recipient of a gently ribbing and though she feigned that it was “too much” I know that she loved it and him, so very much. He referred to these cookies as “Norwegian Little Fingers” and to this day I can’t help but smile whilst nibbling on these treats, thinking of his kind and fun soul teasing my grandmother about her cookies. I can still her voice playfully chiding “Oh Pete” as he dunked these sweet treats in his coffee and gave her the sweetest of half-cocked smiles.

Grandma Idso’s Cinnamon Thumbs aka “Norwegian Little Fingers”
5 T. sugar
1 c. butter, softened
2 c. flour
1 tsp. vanilla
Mix and roll into ladyfinger shapes. Bake at 350 for 20 minutes. While hot, roll in a mixture of 1/2 c. sugar and 1 Tbsp. cinnamon.

I love these cookies served along with another family tradition, Peppermint Bon Bon ice cream. It has to be the pink kind with ribbons of minty goodness flowing throughout. Enjoy!

A Pearl Harbor Day Story

My friend, Peggy Walter, sent me this story. 

In 1941 my Mom, Margaret Quirk (19) and Dad, Kenneth Michael (21) were working and living with relatives in St. Paul. On Dec 7 they were on their way to their parents homes to tell them they wanted to be married. Enroute they heard about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Afraid that their parents would tell them to wait until the war was over to get married, they went back to St. Paul, and my Mother wrote their parents a letter instead. They were married on Jan. 23, 1942. Not long afterwards my Dad enlisted in the Navy. He was sent to France where he participated in the Invasion of Normandy. He was gone for 4 years. Every year on Dec 7, my Mom calls and says: "Do you know what your Dad and I were doing on this day in 1941?" I always let her tell the story.

Honoring a Life That Changed Mine by Lonnie Ellis

Last summer, at the Rock Bend Folk Festival, I met a man named Dana Melius. Dana works for the St. Peter Herald and we ran into each other a time or two after that and then because Facebook friends. Once, each of us had bought the same book twice accidentally, so we traded. I had two copies of Humans of New York: Stories and he had two copies of Dreams Of My Mothers: A Story Of Love Transcendent. So, we swapped but he tucked two dollars into his book because he thought he was getting a better deal. 

A couple months later, Dana's young wife died unexpectedly from complications of cancer surgery. It was tragic and her death touched me as I read the poignant posts written by Dana and his children mourning the loss of their wife and mother. 

Then one day, another post crossed my Facebook path. A post written by a man who had an experience with the Melius family years before. It was a stunning story of violence, mercy, reconciliation, and redemption. I thought it was so important to share it in light of the debates we are having in our country on gun violence and refugees. I finally contacted Lonnie Ellis, the author, to as if we could share it here. He was happy to have us do that. I'll preface his powerful piece of writing with a comment he wrote beneath the piece on Facebook. He believes in the transformative power of stories, and so do we.

Many of you have not heard this story, or heard it so fully. I only began talking about it in my late 20s. I think its because its taken a long time to start to understand who I was then. In my 20s I didn't really think of myself as the same person who participated in some really serious violence as a teenager, sometimes even as the aggressor. I think I had to understand it myself in order to share it. Another factor - I had the notion that it was ideas that were important now, that I should just talk about ideas and philosophy as the motivators. I've learned that its our stories that transform and that people need to hear these stories.

Honoring a Life That Changed Mine

LONNIE ELLIS·SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2015

A revised version of this was published as an op-ed in Winthrop News.

Rural Minnesota lost a vibrant and generous leader when Kim Melius of Winthrop passed away on November 23rd. Many knew her as a dedicated mother, social worker, and hospice caretaker. Kim and the Melius family impacted me under very different circumstances. I grieve her death knowing my life would be immensely different if not for the compassionate decision Kim and her family made eighteen years ago.

The story begins with senseless violence. In 1997, I was among twenty-two young men who drove from Glencoe to Winthrop looking to retaliate for an assault on one of our friends. In a dark yard, I stood by and watched as my friends viciously beat two young men. Some distance away, a third young man was ambushed, knocked unconscious, and savagely beaten with as many as fifty blows to the head and body. This young man was Kim’s son, Ben. He suffered a cracked skull and massive swelling in the brain. He could have died.

Sometime during the scary, painful days that followed for Ben, his mother Kim, and father Dana, they had to make a decision about pursuing justice. The other perpetators and I faced three felony assault and rioting charges. Many of us had been involved with violent acts and legal problems before. You would think the family would want to lock us up and throw away the key, but the Melius family chose a path of restorative justice instead. They sought healing for the victims, the perpetrators, and the wider communities of Glencoe and Winthrop. Where did they find the mercy? Where did they find the hope?

The restorative justice process put the perpetrators, victims, and our families in a room together for several hours, face-to-face. I had to bear witness to the real human suffering I’d caused. With every story, the consequences of our violence broke into my consciousness. I remember the strong and gracious Melius family standing in the center of it all and was inspired by them. With my mother crying by my side, I stood up and said, “I didn’t throw any punches, but I am not innocent. I contributed to a group mentality where we could do terrible things. I stood by.” I, along with the other perpetrators, did many days of community service and paid for damages. We spent hours with Dana writing an op-ed for the papers trying to bring healing to the communities shaken by our violence.

I know that felony convictions would have permanently altered the course of our young lives. We would have faced a lifetime of challenges beginning with college admission, housing, and gainful employment. But at greater risk were our souls, and this event and the Melius’ choice began a permanent transformation in mine.

I began wanting to be a different kind of person. I wanted to be the kind of person who would have stopped my friends that night—who would have even been willing to put my own body between victim and violence.

Four years later, with my transformation well underway, I set off for a college semester abroad in India. I learned that among the fifteen students from Gustavus Adolphus College was a student from Winthrop I felt must be the sister of Ben Melius. On our first day, I pulled Ambryn Melius aside.

“I think you might be the sister of Ben Melius.”

“Yes,” she said as she nodded.

“I was there that night. I was there the night your brother was beaten.”

She waited for what seemed like a long time. Then she responded, “You didn’t have to tell me that.”

Like her parents, she didn’t turn away from me. We became real friends and have continued to deepen our friendship over the years and are still close to this very day.

Over the next decade and a half, I became a faith-based community organizer, got a master’s degree in theology, and now serve as associate director of a national Catholic social justice organization in Washington, DC. All the while, Ambryn and the Melius family invited me into their home. There, I saw more of the incredible wisdom, grace, and love that enabled them to make that extraordinary decision eighteen years ago.

Kim, Ben, and Dana dared to hope for strangers who caused great pain in their family, even when we didn’t hold a lot of hope for ourselves. That changed my life. I could never thank Kim Melius enough for her part in it, but I try the best way I know how—by striving to live up to her example.

Lonnie Ellis, Washington, DC (formerly of rural Glencoe)

A story caught on Facebook

We love the way sometimes people who know us and know we are story collectors will let us know about a good one they have read somewhere. This one was spotted by our friend, Michael Callahan. Mike is a comedian and has contacts with many other comics around the country. Darlene Westgor is a comic friend of his from the Twin Cities. She recently posted a wonderful, but sad, story on Facebook. I contacted Darlene to see if we could use it and she agreed. (Comics must be so good at story catching because they are always looking for the humor, and sometimes tragic humor, in life.)

Darlene's story:

Back in the 80's I worked in a record shop in Chicago. Hooked up with the manager at the time cause he had a high rise apt and I was impressed. He knew music had a sick sound system and a lighted pedestal bed. (You heard me) Yadda, Yadda, Yadda, I moved on. For the past 25 years, this guy has sent me cards for every occasion, no matter where I lived. At first I thought it was crazy, Mother's Day, Easter, Christmas, my birthday. but then I assumed he was just a letter writer. Thing is, he never left a return address. I tried to look him up, the guy was of the grid. I didn't pay much attention to it but he had missed some occasions and I just knew. For the first time, I googled his name and found his obituary. And that he died 'suddenly'. It really, really messed me up. Someone I haven't seen in over 20 years. Fucking awful.

The Gas We Pass

Every Sunday night the Old Hens get together to play cards, Last Sunday night it was my turn to entertain them. The oldest lady is 91, the next is 89, the next 88. I am the baby and I am 85. During our card games we chat, snack, laugh and laugh some more. Somehow the topic that night was passing gas. Everyone does it you know. The 89 year old whom I am sure has never said
the word fart wanted to know more about the subject. I brought a book I have, called "The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts ( it is a children's book". She started reading it to the rest of us. I got the giggles as she looked like the Queen of England reading to her adoring public. She had to use the word fart several times and stumbled over the word but managed to finish the book. She announced it very educational. By this time everyone was hooting and hollering and bringing up stories probably best forgotten. I had 4 boys so I was an expert on what a stinker was. One lady told how her son would light a match if his buddy let one go. Evidently if you are close enough to his hinder you can see a small flame.
My friend the 88 year old announced they called it flatulence, another called them toot toots, a former daughter in law told me "girls never fart". I wish that were true. I believe I will call them trumps as they do in jolly old England. Apparently they know Donald Trump. Now there is a gas bag. Or maybe I will be an all American and call them FARTS.

Anonymous

Anonymous story from Rock Bend

I am the mother of three amazing girls, ages 7, 12, 14, and 19. The past three years have been the hardest and most challenging.

Three years ago in June, we had a house fire that completely burned our house to the ground. We lost everything. My girls were ok. My husband and I were on vacation (first vacation in years without kids)...San Francisco. We received a call from a police officer. My first thought was my girls. My kids had been at the zoo that day and while they were on their way home they saw smoke in the sky. They joked that it was their house, and it was. Amazingly, our cat was able to get out of the house safely. While in San Francisco, all I could think of was being home with my girls.

As devastating as the fire was, my girls have had a very positive attitude. We are all so grateful that nobody was hurt. This was a very tough time for my family but at the same time we grew closer together and hae learned not to be materialistic; stuff can be replaced, people cannot.

Our house was rebuilt but adversity was just around the corner again.

My husband was in the mortgage business and when the market crashed, investors lost homes and money and blame trickled down to all the little people in the business. My husband was part of an investment group and helped with loans and he was charged, along with realtors, mortgage loan officers, and title officers and was sentenced to two years in federal prison where he is now.

So for the past 20 months, I have been a single mother, We went from a two-person income to one. Raising strong and confident ladies has always been my goal. I am humbled by my daughters' resilience. I truly feel with all we have been through we could be negative and bitter but we have all learned to find the silver lining in bad situations.

To top off life events, our new house was broken into and all our electronics and tax information was stolen. The house was trashed but all we could do was laugh. I don't think anything could phase my girls and me.

I unfortunately now suffer from panic and anxiety attacks from all the trauma. I am looking forward to my husband being home with us soon and getting back to a normal life.

That is, until the next devastating event.

Three Sox

My name is Three Sox...and they say I am a greedy cat. My human, Charlie, and I are in the middle of a canoe trip down the Minnesota River from Redwood Falls to Mendota. He sits in a rocking chair all day with sweep-arm oars and a bicycle aboard to visit the historic 1862 Dakota -US war sites. I'm just in it for the bouillion- Mr. Lincoln's lost Indian gold. Watch for our book about the riches stolen from the Minnesota tribes..."guarded by money changers during the Civil War...about Alex Ramsey's brother Justus, who was in charge of the gold and shot himself at 67 in a St. Paul hotel. About the missing steamship, Julia, and the helicopters that cruise the local nite skies with ground penetrating radar and metal detectors to find, as the one-eyed taxi driver told us, "riches beyond belief and white man's dollars more numerous than the stars"!

B.W.

This is my story...written at Rock Bend

Born to two parents who criss-crossed the country to find themselves and find each other, I grew up in the middle of the Nevada desert, in a small town surrounded by friends and a conservative church family.

My formative years were defined by the open skies, purple mountains, and sagebrush- and the allergies that came with it. It's here where I discovered my love for space, an understanding of how the world should be, and my love for down-to-earth, grounded people.

Then I moved to Las Vegas. The big city. I hoped to flee, to escape everything I knew, everyone who helped define me. Four years in college and a mess of troubles later, I was far from that person, that kid in the small town. I moved again. This time, it was for a job and a new fresh start in life.

The plane touched won in Hartford on a cold November night. I remember thinking, "Here we go; this is "real" life." That real life took an unexpected turn when a met a blonde-haired, green-eyed, beautiful girl who stole my heart from the get-go. We were married three years later.

Now here was are; living in western Wisconsin, after moving again, lonely, unemployed, and still figuring out who we are. The one constant has been my faith, knowing that God has never- and will never- leave us.

This is my story: sojourning, searching, changing. Without it, I wouldn't be who I am today. And for that, I am grateful.

Ricky C.

Anonymous

I had my name announced over the school intercom. They actually asked that my sister and I go to the office. The never happened; and all my classmates laughed and said, "Oh, you are in trouble now!" I went to the school office and nobody would look at me. The school secretary asked me to go into the principal's office, which I did. I found not the principal, but my church pastor there. He too, wouldn't look at me. I instantly was nervous. I was only in tenth grade, but I could tell something was really wrong. The only thing he said was, "I have to wait for your sister." I sat in the chair stewing. I knew it was bad. Seconds felt like entire days. Finally my sister arrived and my church pastor started to cry. He couldn't talk. I started panicking. Finally I just yelled, "Tell me what happened!" He then told me that my dad had died in a car accident that morning. My life was never the same.

Anonymous

Great Expectations

Great Expectations

By Jane and Carol

In 1945, my mother graduated from Madison Normal Training. She began teaching Grades 1-4 in a two-room schoolhouse three miles west of Dawson. By the end of the year, my dad noticed that the girl he had gone to country school with was now a young lady and it was time for a new relationship. Mom, having grown up in a home where much sharing of meals with others was a daily occurrence, began preparing for that ritual by noting that in Dawson, Hanson Jewelry Store sold china and stemware. As her monthly paycheck permitted, a setting or two was purchased. The mother of a student began selling Easterling and that solved the silverware problem. A traveling salesman passing through the area selling tablecloths convinced Mom that he had a “one of a kind, foreign made, exotic, and not sold anywhere else” tablecloth. (Lesson for the teacher: Beware of traveling salesmen.”- No washing instructions- the starch came out, the thread frayed, lesson learned!) Tonight the table is set and family is “expected” to join one another for a time of dining and fellowship.

Damn that dog!

Don't be fooled by that innocent look. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that Bert, in his dotage, has caused us plenty of angst. He has some health issues; some of his medication gives him a powerful thirst and some of his medication gives him the need to pee at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places. (Remember the Christmas tree skirt story?) We thought we had the problem solved. We went to Pet Expo and bought a portable pet fence that is three feet high and can be stretched to about ten feet long. When we leave the house, we run it between the living room and kitchen and we shut the other doors so he's contained. We bought puppy training pads and he learned to pee on those. On our way back from Mankato today we were saying how nice it is to have found a solution to this problem and it's so good to not be mad at Bert all the time for peeing and how the dogs seem to have adjusted just fine. We pull in the drive-way and.....STOP....there he is looking out the living room window at us. I swear he had a smirk on his face. We are astounded. What in the hell happened? The gate is still in place. We didn't leave anything in the way that he could jump on. The only possibility is that Bert, in his decrepitude, completed a three-foot vertical leap from the slippery kitchen linoleum, levitated forward, and landed on the living room carpet. He's not likely to make this leap back into the kitchen when he feels the need to pee so that means we're back to square one. Regis is going to put a row of razor wire like they have at prisons on the top of the pet fence because I know, if we went back and bought the four-foot fence (another hundred dollars) Bert would have a heart attack and die, leaving us with 150 dollars’ worth of worthless pet fence. Damn that dog.

Church and coffee

As told by E: I don't go to church much. Once every five years, maybe, just to try one on, see what I might be missing. I like the ones that encourage taking your cup of coffee into church. If you're alone, hanging onto your favorite cup is like having a friend with you. I like to sit in the back, but not the way back. Those pews fill up with people with kids. Distracting. You spend your whole time smiling at some two year old looking over their father's shoulder. Or picking up their toys. I have a hard enough time paying attention to an entire service. My mind wanders to the ceiling, the stained glass windows, watching other people. If I can tell you one main point from a sermon, you're lucky. Sometimes there's a breakfast afterwards or a luncheon with a free will offering. I tried the luncheon once. Everybody was smiling at me and offering me more cake and being so nice. When I got home, I realized I still had the $1 price tag on the butt of my jeans that I had bought at a yard sale.

A Dream by Shirley Saum

Last night as I lay snuggled in my feather bed, I dreamed Sean Connery called and asked me out to dinner. I hated to refuse him, but I had to tell him I was already in a relationship. He became very persistent and wondered who could possibly be a rival for my affection. He insisted I describe to him this person who had taken over my life.

I began by telling Sean his name. He goes by the name George Herman Ruth and sometimes I call him Babe. He is fairly short, with beautiful brown eyes, and dark hair. He is also very loving to me; he does not like to compete with others for my affection. He loves to sit beside me on the sofa and snuggle. I also told Sean, George is the most loyal date I have ever known. With a huff Sean slammed down the receiver and I reached over to pet my little Yorkshire terrier, George.

Shirley the Smiling Cat

Mary went to the pound to get a pet. She didn't want just any pet, she wanted a special pet. She looked around and saw some dogs and cats but then she saw a cat that was smiling. She said, "This is the one." She named it Shirley. Shirley the smiling cat.

Gathering Stories at Rock Bend

Kathryn and I spent the weekend at the Rock Bend Folk Festival, in our 600 Words booth. We invited people to sit with a pad of paper and a pen and tell us their story.

Many people asked what we plan to do with the stories we collect. To be honest, we aren't sure. This is an ever-evolving project. We displayed some at the festival, we have published some on this blog, we have a Facebook page, and we have talked to Ann at the Art Center about an exhibit in the spring. We have lots of ideas but in the end, the simple act of asking people to tell us their stories might be the most important thing.

We had interesting reactions to our invitation. Some people sat right down, almost made a bee-line for a chair, as if they knew they had something to say. Some stood for a few moments, thinking, before they sat down to write. Some were reluctant to write but tapped their foreheads and said they would think about it. Some were reluctant to write but told us a story instead. Wonderful, all of it.

At the end of the day when all the stuff from our booth was safely stowed, we sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine to unpack the story box. There were more than we thought...more than thirty. We each took a pile and we began to read them out loud. We laughed out loud, we wept, we sat in stunned silence. We were truly amazed that people sat right in front of us, in the sunshine, telling us these deeply personal stories.

I was surprised that in many cases, people reached down into their dark and private places to tell us about a house fire, a divorce, a spouse in prison, the death of a grandparent, embarrassing moments from childhood, being called to the office at school to hear of the death of a parent in a car accident. We had goosebumps many times.

I wrote a couple Facebook posts about the sacred feeling of hearing people tell their stories. Once I looked back and though, maybe I am over-reaching, attaching too much meaning and feeling to something simple. But looking back, I don't think so. It is a sacred thing, the sharing of our lives deepest moments through writing.

Shirley's Story

‎6/‎14/‎2015

My day today reminds me of the old song: Over the River and Through the Woods. My neighbor called and wanted to know if I would like to go to church. I eagerly said, "Yes". You see I had not been anywhere for a week and I like to think I am a people person.

I walked over to Linda's home and she had her car parked on her lawn. We took a little-used road going through the woods; it was drivable but just barely. It was what I would call a low-maintenance road. We went north, east, south and finally west to get to my church. We had coffee after church and were home by 11:00 a.m.

You might ask why I could not drive myself and go to church on a city road.

A crew of men is working on the road in front of my home. They are replacing water pipes, sewer pipes and storm sewers. They are also going to redo the road with new curb and gutters. They would have moved my car, but it would have been a least a block away over a rough stretch of road. I told them I would be fine; thinking it would be a good time to get all those things done that I have put off until another day.

The first day I pulled out a lawn chair and thought I would spend a half hour watching the big cats work. Wow!! They were like a well-oiled machine. One big cat would dig a deep trench, another would place the pipes and connect them together, another would cover up the trench. Another machine would come along and pack things down.

Friends would call each day to see how I was doing; I had to admit I was fascinated by all of the action taking place in front of my home. There were young men down in the trenches, who with a flick of their finger would tell the cat operator to move the huge claw over a fraction of an inch or two. I worried someone would get hurt, but they certainly know what they are doing. I do not know when they planned their strategy as they work long, long hours. Usually by 6:30 a.m. they wake me with their little bells; they do not call it a day until 8:30 at night.

Each day I would pull my lawn chair out where I could have the best view of what the crew was doing on that particular day. They all have green tee shirts on and they told me if I needed anything at all just yell at a guy with a green shirt and they would see all of my needs were taken care of. I must say I have a new admiration for road construction people. They are all very polite and helpful.

Needless to say I spent most of my week sitting in the sunshine watching the crew do their job. I had my camera outdoors so took many pictures of the men, machines and the work they were doing. People have asked me, "Didn't you get bored and did you get a lot of things done?” I had to admit I was not bored and no, I did not get a lot done. However, I did not think it was a waste of time at all. I learned a lot of new things which is what life is all about. I learned there are very nice people in all walks of life. I learned there is a talent in running huge machines. I learned people watch out for each other. I learned every job is needed and the people who know how to do different jobs are all a very important part of our society.

My friends are watching out for me, just as the workers watch out for each other. My friends call me several times a day. Linda brought me groceries and took me to church. Betty and Gary brought over a wonderful coffee cake and stayed for a cup of coffee and chat. Nadine walked over to return a book to the library. Paul said he would bring me whatever I would need. Thanks to all of them. I played games on my computer and read several books. I had a wonderful week. Tomorrow I may make cookies and invite the construction men to enjoy them…and to thank them for a week of entertainment.

Epilogue

Sorry boys, no cookies today.

I have spent the day watching them work about twenty five feet from my house. They have a huge hole dug down about twenty feet. I watched as they cut down a forty year old maple tree in a matter of minutes. They are all very efficient and know exactly what they are supposed to be doing. There are local plumbers, electricians and others to help with the placing of pipes. They would first place the sewer pipe in the trench next a sheet of insulation then the smaller machine comes along and covers everything. Today they had a short lunch break and the big Cat operator stepped out of the cab with a roll of paper towels and a can of spray cleaner. I watched as he lovingly cleaned the arm (or whatever it is called) of his big Cat. You could tell by his actions he loved his machine.

It is a huge mess right now, but in about a week I should have a new road going by my home with new water and sewer pipes. I have enjoyed watching the progress each day and knowing they are very careful about doing their job correctly and carefully.

Cookies? Maybe tomorrow.

Today I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. A young man knocked on my door yesterday and told me to move my car as they were going to do the curb and gutter and I would not be able to get out of my garage for a week or two. The cement has to cure!! He wanted me to park it several blocks away; he would meet me and I could have a ride home in his truck. I hurried to the post office to mail a package and meet Mr. Young Guy on Reno Ave. As I parked and waited for him, I decided to leave my car in the garage, i did not like the thought of leaving my trusty little Malibu exposed to the elements and I did not think I could walk that far. I have good friends whom I am sure would see that I had groceries could get out once in awhile. I told Mr. Young Guy I had changed my mind and would leave my car in the garage. He looked a little puzzled, but said o.k.

I have watched this project since June 12th when they started digging up my street and laying water, sewer, and storm sewers. I enjoyed watching the progress and the men with their machines, green shirts and hard hats; however getting around on bumpy and lumpy streets was not as much fun. Some days when I would go to the store I would take a street and avenue to the highway. I would take the same route home only to be told I could not go there. Go to another street; that street had a 3 foot drop off, so I would turn around to go on another street only to be told I could not go there either.

Finally a friendly truck driver walked a couple of blocks and came back and told me to go the way I had driven to the highway. I had my walking sticks in the car and the truck driver told me to hit someone over the head with one to get their attention and someone would see to it that I got home. I went to that street and a young man in a green shirt waved me on and after thinking my car was going to disappear into a big hole I made it home. I vowed I would stay home until this project was finished.

Today the Hannas and I sat on my patio and watched them do the curb and gutter. It is amazing how quickly they get it done, They will soon do my driveway and last of all they will put a layer of tar on the road. I may have to call on the Hannas, Kockelmans, Johnsons, and Lundquists to see that I get to the grocery store and church. Church may be the most important as I might have used a few naughty words trying to get home. I made it through the summer and am looking forward to driving on my new wonderful street. And I may I add " good job, boys." You did great.

Dad's Story

One day when U-Gene and I were considerably younger, we elected to go walleye fishing on Stowe Lake. I inquired what we would use for a boat and U-Gene replied, "We will take my fishing boat tied to the dock.

Joan had at this time spent a lot of sweat and money landscaping the front yard at their cabin, and the dirt was wet and very soft with a crop of new grass coming up. I reminded U-Gene of this but he directed me, "Mr. Saum, get over there by that ash tree and direct the car and I back to the boat trailer."

Doing as ordered, I watched U-Gene with his head hanging out the open door back the big yellow open door up against another tree springing the door hinges so the door would not close. At the same time the big yellow car was digging 6 inch ruts in Joan's landscaping project.

Joan was out of the screen porch by this time stating orders and adjectives at U=Gene. His response was to get out, hook up the boat trailer and order me, "Get in, we have to get out of here"

I indicated that we couldn't do this since his door would not close. A mean streak in my personality made me say, "I can fix the door. I will run get a wonder bar." This I did while U-Gene as taking a verbal whipping from Joan. I got the door to close and managed to get in as we roared off to Stowe Lake.

Not one word was spoken during the 20 mile ride or during putting the boat in the water. I was secretly amused because of the punishment he had absorbed while the door was being worked on after being on the water for about an hour , he broke the silence by addressing me with an adjective I had never heard before.

I have to state that while I was tickled by the event, U-Gene got even. He caught 11 walleyes and I caught none. The boat was always positioned so that I was where the fish were not. By the time we left the lake, U-Gene felt vindicated and we resumed our close personal relationship as if the events of that morning had never occurred.

It is my personal belief that a part of U-Gene still resides at Lake Miltona even though he is not actually there with us. Consistent with this belief I would like to close by paraphrasing a paragraph spoken by the author Ernest Hemingway upon the occasion of the untimely death of a young friend in a hunting accident. This paragraph is correct, fitting, and suitable of my friend U-Gene.

Now he has come home to the lake. He has come back now to rest well on the lake that he loved through all the seasons. He will be here in the winter and in the spring and in the summer and the fall. In all the seasons there will ever be. He has come back to the lake he loved and now he will be a part of it forever.

Estle Saum

Don't Peek!

Don’t Peek!

Years ago I asked my fifth grade students to share a safe childhood secret. Did they ever peek inside their wrapped Christmas presents before Christmas? The responses ranged from an emphatic “NEVER!!” to hilarious stories of elaborate schemes to locate, unwrap, and rewrap carefully hidden gifts. Their oral tellings were fun, but their writing was even better. They decided to publish a class book to share with their parents. Some names were changed to protect the guilty.

Where was my story? Not in the book. I told them I had to be a good example and not divulge my own childhood secrets. I’m not teaching anymore, so here’s the truth: I did it once. Just once. I was six or seven, on the cusp between finding joy and wonder in any gift I received, and wanting the new and popular gifts my friends were sure to get for Christmas that year.

My grandma on my mom’s side was a cool grandma who worked for a well-to-do family with a daughter a few years older than I. Ellen had all the latest and greatest kid stuff, and the most stylish clothes I’d ever seen on an elementary school girl. Her influence meant Grandma’s Christmas gifts would be the best of all.

Just to be sure that Grandma came through for me, a few days before Christmas I broke in to one of the wrapped gifts she’d left in my mom’s closet at Thanksgiving time. When I pried off the tape and removed the paper, I couldn’t have been more disappointed. Staring at me through the cellophane window of the cardboard box cover was an 18-inch-tall brown fuzzy teddy bear with a yellow satin bow tied at its neck. A teddy bear? Really? Didn’t grandma know I was too old for stuffed animals? I cried for a good long time, then rewrapped this second-rate gift. In the process I accidentally poked a hole in the cellophane window, creating a jagged tear. The Scotch-tape I used to repair it was obvious, but I didn’t care. I shoved the rewrapped box back in the closet, hoping it would disappear. I didn’t want a teddy bear!

The excitement of opening presents with my siblings on Christmas Eve soon gave way to concern about how my grandma would feel if she knew how much I disliked one of her gifts. And it was about to be discovered. I opened the first two gifts from Grandma: a beautiful sweater and a cozy nightgown. Then it was time for me to open the box with the teddy bear. I tore the wrapping paper off and somehow willed my immature self to act as if it was the one gift I wanted more than any other.

I have to admit that thanking my grandma with hugs and kisses felt good, despite my guilty conscience. Being a naive kid, it didn’t occur to me that my grandmother and my parents knew perfectly well what I’d done. I eventually outgrew the beautiful sweater and the nightgown, but Brownie (as I soon named the bear), with his soft brown fur and beautiful satin bow became a close companion. When I climbed into bed at night or when I needed comforting, Brownie silently kept me company until years later, when his soft fur was worn smooth from age.

Jill 9/12/15

A Car Fire, Prarie Home Companion, and St. Peter.... as told by E.

I was a Studio Art major when I was in college. We took a bus tour to the Institute of Arts in the Cities. When we came through this area on the bus, somewhere near Henderson,  I thought what  a special area this river valley seemed to be. Only the rich or the elite must live here.

Sometime later when I was working in a small town near the Minnesota/South Dakota border, a co-worker and I decided we wanted to go to the Cities to see the Prairie Home Companion. My co-worker coerced someone she knew, someone she perhaps wanted to be romantically involved with, an older man, perhaps a sugar daddy, to take us up to Prairie Home Companion.

Problems developed right away. The car burned gas and obviously had issues. My friend and the man started arguing. We got to Belle Plaine and knew the car wouldn't make it. We started towards Mankato. We got to St. Peter and the car started on fire. Right on Main Street. At Christmas time. So much for Prairie Home Companion.
But people from town were so helpful. There were people on the scene right away to help us.

My friend freaked out. She called someone to help, someone she knew.

We had some time on our hands before help came. I walked away from these two who were arguing again. I tried to pretend I wasn't with them. I went into the shops and talked to people and store owners. I went into a book store, had something to eat at a cafe, and went Christmas shopping.

Peple say I'm the friendly type, outgoing. Everytime I looked back, my friend and the sugar daddy were following me, arguing. Eventually the guys parents picked us up. I sat in the backseat with the mother talking about recipes and life.

Two years later I got a job in Mankato. Whenever I drove around, sometimes I'd take a wrong turn, I'd end up in St. Peter.

Eventually I moved here. And I love it here. Looking around at Rock Bend going on, the college, the people and houses....it was the right choice. A great place to live.

 

 

Shoes on the Plaza as told by Larry

My wife and I met in college while we were both students. We dated and eventually got married while we were still in school. She was here from Mexico and she needed to get her Visa so we she could stay in the US.  Right after finals, we took a trip to Mexico to get the Visa and visit her family. It was October, 1968.

While we were at her family's place, the university was nearby and there was a student protest going on. The protest was something about the government's overreaction to two schools and a soccer game. This  was right before the Olympics.

We had dinner and were with my wife's sister when we heard the demonstration nearby at the Plaza of Three Cultures. It was a loud and raucous crowd. The dumb gringo in me, said let's go look. And so we did. We stood on the north side of the plaza looking at the commotion and watching the crowd. We were not participators, just observers, and could see the tension rising.

When it seemed to get really bad, my sister-in-law said let's leave, and so we did. That's when the soldiers appeared. We walked past them and were a ways behind them when they started shooting into the crowd. Not over the crowd or to the side of the crowd. But into the crowd. There was screaming and pandemonium. And then the soldiers brought out a cannon and shot it off into an apartment building.

Students were screaming, running, hiding. We went back to my wife's family's place. But we heard later soldiers went from apartment building to apartment building looking for protestors. Some of the women students pretended that the men hiding in the building were their boy friends, and got them out safely that way. My sister-in-law was a nurse and helped with the injured and wounded students.

The next day we went back to the Plaza.  What we saw at the plaza was eerie. Pools and pools of blood. And there were shoes, hundreds of shoes. The women simply could not run in shoes and took them off.

And there were belts on the ground. Hundreds of belts. The soldiers made the men they arrested take off their belts so they couldn't use them for weapons.

The news said the army admitted to 85-95 people being killed, but other sources said that many more died or simply disappeared.

 

On turning five! Our first kid's story

My life is good. Birthdays are good. I'm going to be five. In sixty three days. So I only remember birthday number four. Cake and candles. People brought me stuff like gifts. Somebody gave me a sled. That was good  because it was winter and I could slide down my back hill. Really fun. Sometimes my dog got in the way. We had to say watch out Holly, get out of the way. We don't want to hurt you. I like it when people sing happy birthday to you. I like to sing, too. But I'm going to be a drummer. People sound happy when they sing to me, but it's not their birthday. They don't get presents. It's not their cake. But I share my cake. And the ice cream, too
I'm going to turn five real soon, yes! Then I'm going to turn six and then seven and then eight. And then BOOM! I will be nine.

600 Words Coming to Life!!

600 words happens this Saturday!! My friend, Teresa Saum, and I are going to be at Rock Bend Folk Festival in Minnesota Square Park this Saturday and Sunday, September 12th and 13th. We'll be there under the blue tent with the sign, What's your Story, from noon until six collecting stories from folks at the festival. We'll also be talking about story writing or anything else that comes up: music, dancing, wine, the weather, the price of corn or beans.

We've thought about doing this gathering of stories for awhile. There are a lot of projects and books about writing down one's stories: The Stranger Project and What's Your Story and the Facebook page Humans of New York come to mind. We decided it was time to stop talking about gathering stories and do it.

We know that our stories connect us to other people and are a showcase of pieces of our lives. They also show our vulnerability and humanity and that's sometimes hard to do. We're often taught not to talk about ourselves or not to bring about up little gems of accomplishments or to hide our utter failures.

But oh, the stories we could tell! Walking through fresh cement, and getting chased by crows comes to my mind. And the stories we have heard. Our family tells them. Our neighbors tell them. The guy in the grocery store tells them. The cab driver, the woman on the train, a kid in the park, the pediatric nurse, the musician, the hula dancer, the cop....all have stories to tell. And often do. A young woman in the second hand store where I was volunteering told me a story this morning that brought me to tears.

But oral stories often get lost and not written down. And often, no one just looks at you and says what's your story. We are doing just that.

Our little mission is to find people who are willing to open up to us and write a 600 word story. Your stories can be anonymous. We will collect them and eventually put them in booklet form as a collection of local stories and writing. With your consent, we'll post them on our 600 word Facebook page or this blog.

We don't tell you what to write. We don't use red pens. That would defeat the purpose of your story and the flow of words.

We're excited to get started. We had one early foray to a bar where we learned that three men in a bar with their backs to us was probably not an easily accessible situation. There has to be an element of trust and ease. We've got an event planned in late September at an assisted living facility. We have tons of people giving us ideas and offering advice from their own experience.

At the tent, we will also have an area for kids to write and draw their own stories with markers and colored pencils about Rock Bend, music, dancing...whatever.

So stop in at our tent on Saturday or Sunday. Sit down and write a story and drop it in the box. Or take the idea home with you and contact us later, if you're so moved to write 600 words, more or less. Or just sit with us and chat!