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.