Grandpa D

Happy Birthday 1971

               

Things I learned from my Grandpa 

Frank 'D'

                    

Chocolate milk is made by feeding 

Hershey chocolate bars to cows.

  

There was no reason to doubt this explanation.
Grandpa had milked cows & supplied milk to Bridgeman Creamery for 40 years.

You can eat as many pink peppermint candies 
as you want.
 
Just use a slow & steady hand 
with the lid of the 
crystal candy dish 
so Grandma doesn't catch you. 

Napping on the couch 

is good medicine. 

If a nap doesn't fix 

your problem, 

                                   Alka-Seltzer will.

 

 If you eat 

Cream of Wheat  

and 

stewed prunes for breakfast 

it will 

run right through ya. 

(Consider yourself warned.)

Husbands are to obediently 

perform any household chore the wife requests 

to the wife's precise specifications. 

Smile and cheerfully 

start over

if Grandma frowns at the job

you did vacuuming. 

And last, there were the "Dutch" words Grandpa 

taught me. 

For example, the word "poopaloola." 

If you were being a little stinker, Grandpa would affectionately call you a  

"little poopaloola" 

(pronounced poop - ahh - looo - lahh.) 

Any person who was particularly nutty he referred to as a "crazy poopaloola."

At some point my gullibility fell away and 

I realized that this was not a word

from the Dutch language, but my

Grandfather's confabulated word for "little sh*t."

I decided not to add a picture of a little sh*t to this last item. Certainly you understand....

A heavenly memo to my Grandpa -

I miss your big noisy "smooches" and how you called me "Bobolinks." I'll be expecting one of those sweet Grandpa kisses that tickled my cheek when we are together again....and I'd love a pink peppermint if you have some.

Love,

Bobbie 

Motley Crew 1967

The Five Minute Warning

A few years ago after our Dad had passed, my mother received this picture in the mail from one of his long-time friends. In my top 10 of favorite family pictures this priceless snapshot is my number one. Sure there are many other family photos - church portraits, photos taken during special meals and holidays. But they all show us in our best clothes and on our best behavior.  This is the only photograph I am aware of that captures all seven of us and what we looked like on any regular old day on the farm.

According to Mom, the person behind the camera was an old army buddy my Dad had served with during the Korean conflict. Having arrived for an unexpected visit from another state, he surprised my parents by calling from town that afternoon to relay he would soon be at the farm. And that he was.....arriving about 5 minutes later. Thus I've dubbed this picture, "the five minute warning."

I had much fun scrutinizing the details of this picture by magnifying it on my computer. There are little memorable treasures all over the photograph. For example, I don't remember my Dad having hair on the top of his head, let alone dark hair. The picture tells otherwise. And was that a two day beard? That I don't ever remember seeing that either. Evidently there was just enough time for Dad wash up and throw on a clean shirt.  It had to be a different shirt than he had on prior to the visit. The first reason was because it was clean and second, all Dad ever wore for farm work was a standard navy blue or gray twill work shirt and matching pants. I have no doubt his sleeves were carelessly rolled up because he'd quickly scrubbed up to his elbows with the Lava soap.  That was something he always did when he came in the house.

I wish I knew what my mother was saying, although I can guess from the shape of her mouth that she was telling one of us to shape up. It's likely her message was for me, Missy McGrumpy, scowling at the camera with a fistful of baby carrots in hand.  From the size of the thin yellow carrots I'm guessing the picture was taken in late June or early July. It's no wonder I looked grumpy that day. I was very shy around strangers, the late afternoon sun was right in my eyes and I had likely been dragged out of my favorite playground, the garden. 

Posed all clean and happy, sister Kat stood angelically next to me with my garden grunge and sourpuss face. I see eldest brother DeeDee, standing like a super hero with hands on his hips, had also donned a clean shirt just like Dad. There is no doubt Tat came from the shop, shirt smeared with grease. His perpetually happy smile is captured just as I remember it. Tat always had a look like he had the joy-joy-joy-joy down in his heart. Coordinated striped shirt and socks, sideways belt and jutted hip fit brother DooDee's personality perfectly. As a child, he was the closest genetic match to me in the grumpy department. 

I'd like to thank the gentleman who thoughtfully sent us this treasure after Dad passed away.  I'm grateful he captured us in our humble state that summer day over forty years ago. And, I'm deeply grateful for the gift of memory restored and the loving family bonds that neither decades nor death can separate. 

Happy Tails

One of my daily childhood chores was to feed the cats. Even now I occasionally dream about it, and in my dream, it is always winter.  I don't know why this particular dream lingers in my mind, decades after I left the farm. Perhaps because I always loved the cats. They were an important part of my life, and they counted on me every day.

Feeding the kitties during winter was a bit of a production. Whereas in the summer they were simply given dry cat food, Mom believed that even the cats should have something warm to eat during the winter.  As family suppertime approached, Mom would drag out an old pan reserved for cooking kitty vittles. First she'd heat water on the stove. Once it was steaming, into the water went Carnation powdered milk, dried bread, leftover meat scraps and cooking grease. Once all the ingredients were near boiling, she'd pull it off the stove and toss in a spoonful of sugar. I never asked her why she added the sugar.  But, it may have simply been like most everything else my Norwegian mother cooked. A little sugar went into everything. The most common stews she made for the cats were beef milk, pork milk and chicken milk. The smell of the greasy hot milk, bread and meat was not very appetizing. The chicken milk had the nastiest smell. The beef and pork weren't so bad. But then again, I wasn't a hungry cat.

When the kitty stew came off the stove it was the cue for me to get into my winter wear. Depending upon how many layers I needed to ward off the cold, this could be an ordeal. I was pretty klutzy so I'd sit on the floor to pull on my stiff nylon snow pants and floppy rubber boots. Winter footwear consisted of thinly lined rubber boots, buckles atop, with bread bags over your socks to help keep your feet dry. My homemade coats were warm, with thick bulky insulation sewn into them. An itchy woolen scarf, hat and hand knit mittens were the last to be donned. By the time you were dressed you'd be sweating bullets and felt like an overstuffed sausage casing.  It was a blessed relief to go out into the cold.

Walking carefully was important to prevent the milk from slopping out of the cooking pan onto your duds.  Although it was a short walk to the barn, it could be painfully long if you were met by a stiff north wind. With each step I could hear the whisking sound of my nylon snow pant legs rubbing against each other and the clomp of my rubber boots carried loosely on my feet. The crisp snow cover amplified the sounds of my crunching footsteps as I trudged cautiously across the quiet yard.

Entering the darkened barn at night was what I most disliked about this routine. In the darkest moment between opening the heavy wooden barn door and snapping on the light switch, one could see several pairs of little amber eyes glowing back at you. Most of the time, those flashlight eyes belonged to hungry cats. But occasionally they belonged to a nasty old fox or skunk who was helping themselves to the dry cat food. Now, I know my parents told me that the skunks were WAY more afraid of me than I was of them, but I was still scared of what that big old bushy black and white tail could do to me.  I was always prepared to turn and run as fast as my loosely buckled rubber boots would take me.

Part of what motivated me to do my cat feeding chores was how eager the kitties were to see me. As soon as I entered the barn, they'd race up to me, furry tails stuck straight up like skewers. As I made my way down the concrete alley between the pig pens, the cats would meow frantically, weaving around my legs and each other in a frenzy. You had to shuffle your feet to not trip over them. Also greeting me was a snorting chorus of pigs bullying each other, vying for a spot at the edge of the pen. In the cold night air, miniature clouds of exhaled steam and pig snot blurted from their snouts as they sniffed at the aroma of the warm food. By the way, everything you've ever heard about how bad pigs smell is true. But, in the dead of winter, the stink wasn't so bad. Winter made for a much better olfactory experience than the acrid eau de pig that rose steaming in the summer heat.

When I poured the chunky milk, the cats would patiently push each other until each had claimed a spot along the edge of the food dish. With their thick winter fur coats puffed up, they'd draw down tight into a seemingly legless crouch.  All the desperate meowing would cease the second their noses tapped the greasy milk and their tongues began to rhythmically lap lap lap lappity lap lappity lick lickety lickety lick. With a dozen or more cats eating at one time, they made quick work of drawing off enough milk to get at the tidbits of meat that had descended to the bottom of the pan. Once they greedily snared the meat the growling would start. I'd stay and watch for a few minutes until bellies were full. After the growling ceased, the mutually affectionate grooming began, as the lot of them would lick clean each others greasy milk splattered faces.

I'm not sure of all the reasons that

made me a cat lover 

at such a young age. 

Maybe it was the appreciative purring 

and 

unconditional affection they offered. 

I guess the reasons don't really matter, 

as long as I still have

a place in my heart

and

in my dreams

for these happy memories.

Two Red Hots

Forty years ago, there were no alarm clocks or cell phones to wake us up in the morning. When my father's rousting voice carried up the stairs, we rose reflexively. The five of us kids knew we were not being invited to wake up. No, we were to get up and get moving right then and there.  I don't remember exactly how my parents conditioned that behavior in us, but whatever they did, it worked.  

The loudest voice I ever heard my gentle father use was on cold winter mornings. Delivering each word with increasing emphasis and volume, he'd call up the stairs, 

"TWO RED HOTS!"  

That wake up call meant just one thing.  It was not just cold, but bitterly cold outside. But this we knew even before his announcement. Through the coldest nights we'd hear the bones of the old house snap and creak when the warmth inside caused the frigid 1910 frame  to contract.  

It wasn't only my Dad's voice that got us going in the morning. My mother made a lot of noise when she cooked breakfast. Out of the kitchen a cacophony of clanging would echo - pans, dishes, silverware, food containers - it all got banged.  I don't know if this was Mom's way of waking up, if she was angry or simply  oblivious to the amount of noise she made in the kitchen each morning. Raspy sawing sounds could be heard as she cut through the hard crust of homemade bread. I remember that bread knife. It was engraved "Crookston Grain" along it's shiny serrated blade. I wonder what went through her mind when she used that knife. Maybe she was angry, and with every stroke thought about how exhausted she was from the never ending farm chores and caring for five children day after day. If she was resentful, she didn't take it out on us. Perhaps it was the kitchen that got the brunt of it.

In those days, farm wives had little, if any help from their husbands who were equally taxed. There was no respite ever from the farm and livestock. Today's winter trips to warm  islands and Vegas were unheard of in the 1960's. Being a farm wife was a pretty thankless job.  Area businesses would give small tokens of thanks to farm wives each year at Christmas.  These were all domestic items, imprinted with the business logo from the grain elevator, gas company, the co-op, or farm supply store, just to name a few.  As a thank you, the lady of the house would be gifted a knife, platter, coffee mug, spatula, calendar etc... 

Can you imagine what a woman would say today if the co-op gave her an embroidered oven mitt after she and the hubs spent over a hundred grand on fertilizer?  I think today's woman would take that mitt and stick it somewhere and I'm telling you, it's not the oven. 

Let's get back to breakfast. By the time Dad yelled up the stairs, our noses had been thoroughly teased by enticing smells wafting out of the kitchen. Drawing us out of bed would be buttery fried eggs, sausage or bacon from our own stock, toasted homemade bread, and old-fashioned oatmeal with raisins. This wasn't any old pasty oatmeal. My mother took care to boil the cereal flakes to a perfect chewy texture. The raisins had been resurrected into soft plump fruit by soaking overnight. They added a delicious sweetness to the oatmeal. If you put brown sugar on top of the hot oats and patiently waited a few minutes, the sugar would melt into a toffee-like crunchy crust. So good. I don't ever remember any of us kids ever having a problem getting to the breakfast table on time. 

Tomorrow morning when my cell phone alarm rings, I'm going to hit the snooze, and go back in my mind to the two RED HOTS, the best breakfasts I ever had, and our old house that was full of love.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

 As a youngster, I remember being tucked into bed pretty early in the evening, often by 7 pm.  I'm confident that it was 7 because I could hear the Lawrence Welk show come on the television. An old metal grate in my bedroom floor amplified sounds from the living room TV below. There I'd lay, pressing a pillow over my head, trying to block out the annoying accordion-led melodies and incessant tap dancing sounds of Bobby and Cissie. 

There are some routines that I'm happy not to repeat as an adult. As a child, Saturday nights were the worst for sleeping. The Saturday night scrub in the tub wasn't so bad but Mom would put curlers in my hair, making it impossible to hold the pillow over my head and block out downstairs noise. In preparation for Sunday church, I would be put to bed with freshly washed hair coiled around porcupine-like curlers secured with stiff plastic hair picks. Mom had a sure-fire rolling method that guaranteed morning curls and prevented curlers from falling out of my fine hair. She'd hold tension on the hair while t i g h t l y rolling my hair around the bristly black curlers until they hugged the hair root. If you didn't hold your head by pulling counter tension she'd jerk the curler just enough for it to hurt a little bit. The taut headdress produced a burning sensation on my scalp and I always imagined it slanted my eyes. It was impossible to find a sleeping position where the curlers didn't painfully dig into your scalp. And Mom wondered why I was always so crabby during church the next morning?!?

Some day I will ask my mother why it was necessary to have AquaNet frozen curls to
attend Lutheran church. 

Thank GOD for the invention of the curling iron. He must have heard all my Saturday night bedtime prayers.

.

Child Torture Device circa. 1960's

The Girl That Didn't Say "No"

Our family is fortunate to have possession of several letters, preserved through the decades, which were written by relatives long ago passed. The treasure I am sharing here brings me many fond memories of my paternal Great Grandfather, Horseman Pearl, "H.P." Briden. I remember him for his love of farming, cigars and the Minnesota Twins. H.P. was in his 80's at the time he composed this humorous letter to his sister-in-law Cora in 1963. It reads like a sweetened condensed story, written in fast-forward style through the timeline of his life, punctuated by reflections on the love of his life, Genie. The letter is captured here, just as H.P. composed it.

July 31, 1963

Dear Cora, 

Maybe you would like a little of my early history, and what happened in the gay nineties. I start a way back when I was only 6 or 7 years old. At that time there was a family living across the way by the name of Aldrich. Some years later, Geo, my oldest brother bought this farm and Aldrich’s moved to Cedar Falls, Iowa, bought a room and kept roomers, then a few years later, think I was about 18. A few years later the folks decided to send me to the SNS, so I went and stayed at the Aldrich’s. They had one room downstairs for me about 8 X 10 feet, that way I remember it, and upstairs there was 7 or 8 girls. There was one girl by the name of, yes, you guessed it, her name was Miss Genie Dilly from Grundy Center. The girl I liked and the girl that didn’t say “no,” the girl from Grundy Center, yes, she was my girl from then on. I still don’t know why they sent me there to school, I didn’t want to teach school. I wanted to farm, but I stayed, didn’t like school, didn’t learn anything, I think I was the poorest scholar in school, but I sure liked the girl from Grundy Center.

I haven’t got time now to tell you all we talked about. The next year I think I worked on the farm for my cousin, Bert B, and I can’t remember what Genie did do, but I do remember getting a letter from her once in a while. I wish now I’ll keep some of those letters, it’s a long story, lets skip a couple of years. Later Genie taught school as you well remember, she didn’t get big wages, but think she enjoyed it wasn’t $30 per month for the first year, I only got $13 to $18 per month.

H.P. & Genie's Wedding Day, March 21,1901, Grundy Center, Iowa

I remember working for Fred Garton, my cousin, he used a walking cultivator, cultivating corn. Well guess it didn’t hurt me any. I can still walk. I got tired of working out, someday I wanted a farm of my own, have a few cattle in the pasture, maybe a horse and buggy. I like livestock, so I finally had nerve enough to ask Genie that most important question. I wondered what will the answer be. Think you know the story from here on.

We were on the home farm a few years, didn’t like it too good then, think it was 1907 or 1908 bought 100 by Waterloo, that wasn’t no good either, we surely can find something better, so we went to Waterloo for a few years, that was worse than ever. We’ve got to get out of here, so we looked at land near Crookston in the Red River Valley in 1912.

We got low on money, bought a few cattle, went to the Big Banker. Could I borrow a little money. I think so.  I had 4 or 5 old horses, so I had to mortgage my stock. Well that part was ok. I expected that and it’s 10% interest. I thought that was it. Oh, but your wife will have to sign too and again she didn’t say “no.” We paid him back before he died. 1915 we made it the first three years. Well, let’s skip 40 years. I think you know the story the rest of the way.

1955. Well Cora, those little kids have grown up, as you well know, and what is the use of me writing any more, you know the rest. Roger and the girls living right here sure being nice for me, they are all so good to me. I’ve got two awful good daughters. Yes, I look back to the day we wed, and I think March 31, 1901 was the happiest days of my life, and think I’ve got lots to be thankful for. Yes, we got into arguments, but think it was all my fault, but I still loved her.

Ruth just called. I talk to her and Una most every day. A way back many years ago, the girl by the name of Genie Dilly, had a different name. In the fifties, she went by the name of Grandma, all those grandchildren, she loved them and they loved her, everyone that knew her did too. I can remember when Kay was a baby, Ruth used to leave her with Grandma while she went to town, always helping somebody. A few years later, then it was Dell, then Lana Joy and little Tookie. She liked those children and so did I. Your good sister was with me for nearly 60 years, was always so good and done so much for me. I sure miss her.

Think I’ve wrote enough, might be too much. A ball game this afternoon, Boston and the Twins, I like the ball games.

So I’ll mail this silly letter now and I’m out of cigars too. Well Cora, this is just part of the story about the girl I loved, that lived in Grundy Center and she didn’t say “no.”

Pearl Briden

Just one more thing, will you do me a favor? Please don’t let anyone see or read this silly letter. Why don’t  you throw it in the waste basket? Goodbye for now. 

I'm not sure what Great Grandpa would say to me today since I have posted a letter he expected to be thrown away. Remembering the goodness he and Great Grandma Genie brought to our lives, I think he'd forgive me for sharing their sweet story.

Mousey Musings

This week we enjoyed some remarkably beautiful weather with January temperatures upwards of 50 degrees.  The weather was a cheerful topic shared with a friend over dinner.  The conversation wandered into how the warmth has caused our beloved house cats to yowl obnoxiously, demanding to be let outside. We debated the pros and cons of letting house cats outside to hunt. It seemed a sensible choice as we speculated that the unseasonable warmth would result in a surge in the spring mouse population.  From there my mind meandered into childhood memories of growing up, with mice, on the farm.

Every fall, as temperatures descended, dozens of freeloading farm mice would pack up their families, grab their little mouse suitcases and move into the thick layer of straw which was placed over the septic system next to our house.  Intended to protect the underground plumbing from freezing, the straw was prime real estate for mice. As a child I imagined that big straw pile as a cozy mouse city, a maze complete with little mouse family rooms all connected by teensy mouse tunnels. My imagination created a mouse mayor whose job it was to keep things running smoothly for the city through the long winter. Mr. Mouse Mayor would encourage their secluded spirits by promising that next fall he'd find a way to move everyone into the "big house." For a mouse, the farm house would be the ultimate winter hostel. Need to set up a bedroom hideaway? No problem. There were endless places to hide away and plenty of fabric to gnaw up to make into soft, downy beds. Hungry for cereal in the middle of the night? Cheerios could be yours with just one chomp through a thin cereal box. If you wished for heartier fare, an all-you-can eat buffet was open 24/7. You just had to be willing to do some climbing through the cupboards.  Best of all, there were NO CATS in the big house, lurking and plotting to ruin your day. As a little girl, I brewed up these countless imaginary mice stories to entertain myself during the long and cold winter days.

As I got older my perspective on mice changed. Once personified in my imagination, the truth of their filth and destruction changed the role of mice in my imaginary stories.  Gone was their cartoon-like appeal.  No longer did I draw pictures of an apron-wearing mama mouse tucking her sweet babies into little walnut shell cradles.  There were no more stories about Daddy mouse bringing supper home, carrying a slice of cheese and a saltine cracker on his back.  I don't remember any particular experience that dissolved my once naively sweet imaginings. Maybe it was the smell from the decomposing mouse that died in a furnace vent one winter. Or finding ragged mouse-made holes in my treasured vinyl  Barbie dollhouse. How could they ? !  I'll never forget the bloated mouse buoyed belly up in a forgotten bucket of water.  That was a quick lesson in Decomposition 101. Perhaps it was the startling awareness that mouse turds look like raisins. I'd really like to thank the adult that pointed that out to me. I don't believe I ate raisins for the next 10 years.

As I grew, so did my understanding of why it was important to control vermin on the farm. It was a primary role of the cats, the farm's feline overlords, to keep the mouse minions in check. Every mouse taken out by a cat was one less to clean out of a trap. When spring arrived, the cats would go into overdrive chasing mice. Having been drawn from their winter cocoon by the rising temperatures, the mice provided great sport for the cats. Removing the straw insulation from the septic field would cause a "cirque de mouse" style eviction to occur. Dozens of mice would skitter frantically away from their disrupted nests, weaving and leaping in desperate attempts to dodge the eager cats. This cat versus mouse rodeo would only end after the felines had their fill of mouse pate and tired of the chase. For us kids, the event provided morbidly amusing entertainment -  a little "Wild Kingdom," down-on-the-farm style.

When my son was about 4, I watched through the dining room window as he eagerly followed his Grandpa outside to "help" with the annual straw removal from the septic. With wide-eyed wonder, he excitedly flapped his arms and jumped from foot to foot as the cat and mouse chaos ensued around him. In no time, each cat was chomping heartily on a mouse, it's skinny gray tail still wiggling, a jiggly protrusion out of the cat's mouth. Ignoring the mayhem, Grandpa continued to pitch fork after fork of hay into the wagon.  Inquisitively, my son asked, "Why do the cats eat the mouses tail last?"  Without missing a beat, my Dad replied, "So they can use it for a toothpick."  To my son it was a very logical answer for two reasons. He'd watched Grandpa reach for a toothpick at the end of every meal,  and as a 4 year old, he was convinced his Grandpa knew EVERYTHING. I chuckle every time I think of Dad's nonchalant answer and my son's innocence. 

Well, hopefully the neighborhood will be spared a mouse led take over this spring. But if there is, 
mice beware.  Team Kitty is ready to reduce you to toothpicks.