After a somewhat plain but ample breakfast, I got the men clean warm water to wash up. I felt our simple lifestyle acutely, offering them such primitive facilities.
After their morning toilet was accomplished, Mr. Barker and Mr. Karpis gathered their things. For all appearances they were on their way out the door. But instead, they set their bags by the kitchen door and took a last look around the place as if not quite ready to leave. I wondered at their hesitancy, but managed to keep up the small talk so things didn't get awkward.
Finally after a bit of a lull in the conversation, Mr. Barker cleared his throat in an uncomfortable sort of way, and asked if I knew of a Miss Eggermeir.
"Miss Eggermeir?" I thought a moment. "You must mean Miss Trudy. Well, yes, of course I know her."
"Yes, Miss. Gertrude Eggermeier, that would be. Yes, that would be the woman we need to see," Mr. Barker replied. "Are you able to direct me to her place, please?"
Miss Trudy! Our Miss Trudy! Well, I didn't know what to think of this. I certainly did not know of any business these city dandies should have with our Miss Trudy. And I didn't want to sully her stalwart reputation by sending strange men her way, her being a woman alone on the prairie. And yet I could think of no excuse I could use to thwart them. I would not lie, but I didn't see a way I could tell the truth either.
I was rendered completely speechless.
"Uh, well, yeeeees... I suppose I do know how to get to her place...It...it...it's not at all far from here." I stammered to a stop.
"Did we show you our vegetable garden?" I choked out.
The two men looked at each other and engaged in a sort of eyebrow communication. Mr. Barker turned back toward me. "Now, Miss Tilda," Mr. Barker coaxed (for that is my given name, if I haven't yet mentioned it), "Miss Tilda, as much as we love to look at a vegetable garden, I don't suppose there is much to see at this time of year. Isn't that so?"
I nodded slowly. My mind was whirling, searching for a way to save Miss Trudy's good name. But I was finding no answers.
"Now Miss Tilda," Mr. Barker began again, "We have legitimate business with your friend and neighbor. That business is none of your concern if Miss Eggermeier has not kept her neighbors abreast of her entrepreneurial endeavors. Let me assure you that we mean her no harm. We are merely businessmen checking on a business connection."
Well what was I to say to that? Miss Trudy, a business connection? Was it possible? Most of the time I enjoyed being the lady of the house, but there were times when life threw me a situation I didn't quite feel competent to address. And that morning had certainly turned into one of those times.
"Weeelllll," I began. "Well, I suppose I could point you in the right direction." Oh, how I wished Papa was home to decide this. Oh, how I prayed I was not sending evil upon Miss Trudy.
With much nervous stammering, I finally managed to direct the men to Miss Trudy. But I didn't like doing so one bit..
When Mr. Barker and Mr. Karpis finally opened the door and stepped out, Henry came running up to wish them on their way. I was glad that he was there to make light of the situation. I was too undone within myself to play a good hostess to our departing guests.
Henry and I watched them drive out of the yard and down the road until the fancy auto disappeared behind the neighbor's woods. I am sure we couldn't have presented more opposing moods. Henry was grinning widely, excited after having entertained such citified men. I felt pale and shaken.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster 6
After the supper chores were finished, I sent Henry out to the barn to get tucked in. I lingered in the kitchen listening in on the conversation in the dining room. I was bursting with curiosity about these men. Why were they here? What would they be doing in Warroad? What was their St. Paul life like? Did they have wives and children at home?
But there is only so much lingering one can do without drawing attention, and when Papa caught me listening, he sent me out to the barn. I would have to wait for the answers to my many questions.
The next morning, Henry and I were up early tending to our chores. Henry fed and watered the stock and milked our faithful Rosie; I gathered the eggs and headed in to make breakfast. This meal didn't take any planning at all, since our breakfast was generally always the same. We had salt pork and beans, with eggs along side. I would have liked to stir up a little oatmeal to serve with fresh cream, but our rolled oats had petered out the end of April, and Papa had not yet made the arduous trip to town. It was arduous for him because it was a whole day of driving; it was arduous for me because I preferred to avoid Fitjedahl. Whatever our reasons, we had yet to undertake our stocking-up travels, so oatmeal was not to be.
When breakfast was nearly prepared, I began to wonder whether our illustrious guests would ever awake. I asked Papa what I should do if the food was ready before the men made their appearance. Although Papa didn't want to seem rude, he did have a full day's work ahead of him. He had me serve breakfast at our regular time. Henry and Papa and I soon finished our meal, and still Mr. Barker and Mr. Karpis had not awoke.
Papa had to travel a few miles today to visit with one of his members who was sickly. Henry didn't want to leave home when we had such exciting guests, so I sent him to occupy his time out of doors, and out of my way.
I busied myself with the breakfast clean up, and got some beans boiling on the stove. I checked the sponge I'd use for the biscuits I planned for dinner. I kept the beans and pork for the men's breakfast warming on the back of the stove. I would quickly fry some new eggs when I heard the men stirring.
When the kitchen chores were done, I swept the living room and the front porch and dusted the lamps, the end tables, and the upright grand piano Papa had gotten when we still lived in Muenster and his hopes for me were still untarnished.
I had never done well with my music lessons, but I did like to sit and play a bit of music of my own devising. Papa would have liked for me to play the classical composers, but I wanted to play the ragtime tunes I used to hear coming out of the dance halls in Muenster. And so we remained at an impasse.
I tried to only play when Papa was not around, so as to not add further to his feelings of hopelessness regarding his only daughter. That morning, with all the excitement over our dandied guests, I found myself pining after some city music. After I finished the dusting, I sat down at the piano stool intending to play for only a few minutes. I still planned to get out to the garden to plant a few more seeds. But the seeds and the empty ground wouldn't be going anywhere in the next half hour.
I quickly found myself lost in the music, and so I felt my heart go directly into my throat when a deep voice behind me asked where I had learned to play like that.
"Oh, uh, well," I stuttered as I turned to face Mr. Barker. For it was he who had entered the room without my having heard a sound. "I'm not really supposed to be playing these tunes at all. I took lessons when we lived in Muenster, but I never could make my fingers keep up with the works of Bach or Chopin. When I heard these tunes coming from some of the buildings in town, it seems that tunes of a similar style just found their way out my fingertips. I don't play from music, so what I play is probably not correct." I realized I was babbling and stopped myself abruptly.
"The way you play is just like some folks down in the Twin Cities like to hear. I know of several joints down that way that would pay good money to have someone play like that."
I was stunned into silence. I never imagined these tunes that came to me so easily would be a marketable skill. But it was of no import. We did not live in the Twin Cities and were not likely to get there any time soon. Not to mention what Papa would think if I ever asked him if I could play music in a public house.
"Would you like some breakfast, Sir? I can have it ready in five minutes. Is Mr. Karpis awake, too?"
"That would be fine, Miss. I'll get him."
But there is only so much lingering one can do without drawing attention, and when Papa caught me listening, he sent me out to the barn. I would have to wait for the answers to my many questions.
The next morning, Henry and I were up early tending to our chores. Henry fed and watered the stock and milked our faithful Rosie; I gathered the eggs and headed in to make breakfast. This meal didn't take any planning at all, since our breakfast was generally always the same. We had salt pork and beans, with eggs along side. I would have liked to stir up a little oatmeal to serve with fresh cream, but our rolled oats had petered out the end of April, and Papa had not yet made the arduous trip to town. It was arduous for him because it was a whole day of driving; it was arduous for me because I preferred to avoid Fitjedahl. Whatever our reasons, we had yet to undertake our stocking-up travels, so oatmeal was not to be.
When breakfast was nearly prepared, I began to wonder whether our illustrious guests would ever awake. I asked Papa what I should do if the food was ready before the men made their appearance. Although Papa didn't want to seem rude, he did have a full day's work ahead of him. He had me serve breakfast at our regular time. Henry and Papa and I soon finished our meal, and still Mr. Barker and Mr. Karpis had not awoke.
Papa had to travel a few miles today to visit with one of his members who was sickly. Henry didn't want to leave home when we had such exciting guests, so I sent him to occupy his time out of doors, and out of my way.
I busied myself with the breakfast clean up, and got some beans boiling on the stove. I checked the sponge I'd use for the biscuits I planned for dinner. I kept the beans and pork for the men's breakfast warming on the back of the stove. I would quickly fry some new eggs when I heard the men stirring.
When the kitchen chores were done, I swept the living room and the front porch and dusted the lamps, the end tables, and the upright grand piano Papa had gotten when we still lived in Muenster and his hopes for me were still untarnished.
I had never done well with my music lessons, but I did like to sit and play a bit of music of my own devising. Papa would have liked for me to play the classical composers, but I wanted to play the ragtime tunes I used to hear coming out of the dance halls in Muenster. And so we remained at an impasse.
I tried to only play when Papa was not around, so as to not add further to his feelings of hopelessness regarding his only daughter. That morning, with all the excitement over our dandied guests, I found myself pining after some city music. After I finished the dusting, I sat down at the piano stool intending to play for only a few minutes. I still planned to get out to the garden to plant a few more seeds. But the seeds and the empty ground wouldn't be going anywhere in the next half hour.
I quickly found myself lost in the music, and so I felt my heart go directly into my throat when a deep voice behind me asked where I had learned to play like that.
"Oh, uh, well," I stuttered as I turned to face Mr. Barker. For it was he who had entered the room without my having heard a sound. "I'm not really supposed to be playing these tunes at all. I took lessons when we lived in Muenster, but I never could make my fingers keep up with the works of Bach or Chopin. When I heard these tunes coming from some of the buildings in town, it seems that tunes of a similar style just found their way out my fingertips. I don't play from music, so what I play is probably not correct." I realized I was babbling and stopped myself abruptly.
"The way you play is just like some folks down in the Twin Cities like to hear. I know of several joints down that way that would pay good money to have someone play like that."
I was stunned into silence. I never imagined these tunes that came to me so easily would be a marketable skill. But it was of no import. We did not live in the Twin Cities and were not likely to get there any time soon. Not to mention what Papa would think if I ever asked him if I could play music in a public house.
"Would you like some breakfast, Sir? I can have it ready in five minutes. Is Mr. Karpis awake, too?"
"That would be fine, Miss. I'll get him."
Monday, October 18, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster 5
Last year was our first suckering day, having moved into the area in March of that year. While we were on the way home from Miss Trudy's we happened upon a strange sight. Bertie and Joe, our faithful Morgans, were plodding along with the buggy behind. It was a beautiful, sunny day and we were savoring the memories of all that had transpired. I recalled the silly girls who screeched when when the most handsome boys chased them with a large wet sucker. Henry kept intruding upon my musings with his own adventures of suckering day. And Papa was breathing deeply and sighing as he does when all is right with the world.
Suddenly, the air was filled with a rattly huffing noise coming from around the bend ahead. We were just passing Hausfeld's woods heading west. Since the road ahead curved to the north, we could hear but not see the source of this awful racket.
Papa pulled our buggy off to the side and kept a firm hold on the Morgans' reigns. I got the impression Papa had a pretty good idea what was coming around the bend. I, myself, suspected what we'd see. As we waited and the sound grew louder yet, Henry was hard pressed to keep still. He really, really wanted to see what it was. Soon enough, after one especially loud cough and sputter, around the bend came an automobile.
I had seen autos occasionally in Muenster, but Henry had been too young when we left to have a keen memory of them. He was jumping and hollering from his buggy seat. Papa was trying to settle him and I myself sat spellbound. But it wasn't the auto that held me rapt; it was the occupants of the vehicle. Both men were very sharply dressed and quite handsome.
The driver of the automobile pulled to a stop next to our buggy. "Good Evening, good sir. Would you be able to direct me to Warroad? We seem to have gotten off the beaten track."
"Yessir, I could certainly tell you the way. But it's quite a long drive yet, even in your fancy transport. You'll be awfully late arriving. You're better off spending the night at our place. It's just a few miles ahead. We aren't a fancy establishment, but it's a lonesome area you have to pass through. The country up that way is only thinly settled. Not many folks likely to be out to give you a hand should you have any trouble along the way."
"We'd be much obliged to you for putting us up. I think you'll find us well-paying guests."
"No payment necessary. Just follow along behind the buggy. The Morgan's will lead the way. Bertie, Joe, giddup."
Well if Henry was excited before, he was doubly so now. Imagine an automobile in our very yard! I was still intrigued by the handsome strangers. That ride home from Hausfeld's corner had never taken so long.
I knew, however, having been the lady of the house for so many years already, that I had to pull my concentration back to the task at hand. These men were certainly too high class to get a blanket in the haymow. Henry and I would have to sleep there. I'd have to freshen up Papa and Henry's big bed for the gentlemen. Papa would have to sleep in mine. Thank goodness we had been given an extra set of sheets when Mr. Quinle passed away last winter.
And supper! What did I have on hand that I could serve to such fancy guests? I thought I had a jar of peaches tucked away. There was cheese in the cellar and I could have Papa cut some ham from the smokehouse. I had a few soft potatoes that I saved back last week when I put the potatoes in the ground for the coming summer. If I boiled them and served them with butter and the last of the remaining dried herbs from last summer, that would have to be good enough. It was too early to have any fresh greens or other vegetables on hand.
When I looked up from my planning, Bertie and Joe were just pulling the buggy into our yard.
"Henry, you take care of the horses," Papa reminded. I could tell Henry wanted to get a good look at that car, but it would have to wait. First things first. I winked at him by way of encouragement and then I scurried off to get started on my tasks.
When I had the beds changed and the supper on the table, I found Papa and the men visiting on the front porch. Our front porch faced south, so it was a pleasant temperature early in the year. We had a porch swing which I had begged Papa to build after seeing one in the Sears Roebuck catalog. And we had two wooden rockers. It was not extravagant, but it was my favorite spot on our property. It pleased me to see such fine gentlemen relaxing amidst our simple things.
Henry was with the men, and he was not antsy. I assumed he'd had opportunity for a good look at their auto.
"Tilda, I'd like you to meet Mr. Karpis and Mr. Barker from down St. Paul way."
"Pleased to meet you, sirs. Supper is ready. If you'll come to the dining room, I'll get the food on."
By this time I was nervous as could be about the country fare I laid out. But after seeing the gentlemen take such pleasure in our front porch, I was somewhat reassured. After Papa said the grace, and I saw Mr. Karpis and Mr. Barker tuck into the supper, I was even more comforted. I would have thought they hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. They complimented me profusely and I felt my head swell with pride. I know I oughtn't to feel such pride, but it is somewhat gratifying to give others pleasure with the work of my hands.
Suddenly, the air was filled with a rattly huffing noise coming from around the bend ahead. We were just passing Hausfeld's woods heading west. Since the road ahead curved to the north, we could hear but not see the source of this awful racket.
Papa pulled our buggy off to the side and kept a firm hold on the Morgans' reigns. I got the impression Papa had a pretty good idea what was coming around the bend. I, myself, suspected what we'd see. As we waited and the sound grew louder yet, Henry was hard pressed to keep still. He really, really wanted to see what it was. Soon enough, after one especially loud cough and sputter, around the bend came an automobile.
I had seen autos occasionally in Muenster, but Henry had been too young when we left to have a keen memory of them. He was jumping and hollering from his buggy seat. Papa was trying to settle him and I myself sat spellbound. But it wasn't the auto that held me rapt; it was the occupants of the vehicle. Both men were very sharply dressed and quite handsome.
The driver of the automobile pulled to a stop next to our buggy. "Good Evening, good sir. Would you be able to direct me to Warroad? We seem to have gotten off the beaten track."
"Yessir, I could certainly tell you the way. But it's quite a long drive yet, even in your fancy transport. You'll be awfully late arriving. You're better off spending the night at our place. It's just a few miles ahead. We aren't a fancy establishment, but it's a lonesome area you have to pass through. The country up that way is only thinly settled. Not many folks likely to be out to give you a hand should you have any trouble along the way."
"We'd be much obliged to you for putting us up. I think you'll find us well-paying guests."
"No payment necessary. Just follow along behind the buggy. The Morgan's will lead the way. Bertie, Joe, giddup."
Well if Henry was excited before, he was doubly so now. Imagine an automobile in our very yard! I was still intrigued by the handsome strangers. That ride home from Hausfeld's corner had never taken so long.
I knew, however, having been the lady of the house for so many years already, that I had to pull my concentration back to the task at hand. These men were certainly too high class to get a blanket in the haymow. Henry and I would have to sleep there. I'd have to freshen up Papa and Henry's big bed for the gentlemen. Papa would have to sleep in mine. Thank goodness we had been given an extra set of sheets when Mr. Quinle passed away last winter.
And supper! What did I have on hand that I could serve to such fancy guests? I thought I had a jar of peaches tucked away. There was cheese in the cellar and I could have Papa cut some ham from the smokehouse. I had a few soft potatoes that I saved back last week when I put the potatoes in the ground for the coming summer. If I boiled them and served them with butter and the last of the remaining dried herbs from last summer, that would have to be good enough. It was too early to have any fresh greens or other vegetables on hand.
When I looked up from my planning, Bertie and Joe were just pulling the buggy into our yard.
"Henry, you take care of the horses," Papa reminded. I could tell Henry wanted to get a good look at that car, but it would have to wait. First things first. I winked at him by way of encouragement and then I scurried off to get started on my tasks.
When I had the beds changed and the supper on the table, I found Papa and the men visiting on the front porch. Our front porch faced south, so it was a pleasant temperature early in the year. We had a porch swing which I had begged Papa to build after seeing one in the Sears Roebuck catalog. And we had two wooden rockers. It was not extravagant, but it was my favorite spot on our property. It pleased me to see such fine gentlemen relaxing amidst our simple things.
Henry was with the men, and he was not antsy. I assumed he'd had opportunity for a good look at their auto.
"Tilda, I'd like you to meet Mr. Karpis and Mr. Barker from down St. Paul way."
"Pleased to meet you, sirs. Supper is ready. If you'll come to the dining room, I'll get the food on."
By this time I was nervous as could be about the country fare I laid out. But after seeing the gentlemen take such pleasure in our front porch, I was somewhat reassured. After Papa said the grace, and I saw Mr. Karpis and Mr. Barker tuck into the supper, I was even more comforted. I would have thought they hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. They complimented me profusely and I felt my head swell with pride. I know I oughtn't to feel such pride, but it is somewhat gratifying to give others pleasure with the work of my hands.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster 4
Fred carefully laid out a square of mackintosh before kneeling down to his work. He struggled a bit with the process, but changing a tire was all a part of the age of the automobile. Except in the cities, the roads in those days were not much more than muddy tracks. A car jounced and slid around terribly and a flat tire was an expected part of any road trip.
After the battle with the tire and all its parts was finished, Fred put his tools away and was just folding up his mackintosh when he heard the approach of a horse drawn conveyance of some kind. But above the sound of the approaching vehicle, he heard the most awful crooning he'd ever heard.
The noise was awful!
"I might want to die," thought Fred.
Soon the rig came into view. Fred recognized Alvin seated beside a woman of somewhat advanced age. She was driving a farm wagon pulled by a bay and a piebald and singing her old woman heart out. If one could call it singing, that is. The cackling and croaking noises were certainly not in any way melodic.
"Fred, my friend, this is the Mrs. Josiah Higgins," Alvin had to shout to be heard. "She has graciously offered us her home for the night or for as long as we desire to stay."
The said Mrs. Higgins finally stopped her verse as Fred turned to introduce her.
"Mrs. Higgins, ma'am, is my long time friend, Fred. Fred is somewhat apprehensive of becoming beholden to others," Alvin offered as explanation. "I will have to briefly discuss your hospitable offer with him."
"Well, don't take all day about it. I'm itching to have a ride in that auto of yours before it gets dark."
After a short discussion, the men decided to stay the night with Mrs. Higgins. It was a decision they would come to regret. But for now, Alvin eagerly hopped back into the wagon with their hostess. He had taken a fancy to her eccentricities. They continued a short distance past the DeSoto until Mrs. Higgins found a spot wide enough to turn the wagon around easily.
Just as Mrs. Higgins had maneuvered the wagon toward home, Fred fired up the DeSoto. Mrs. Higgins' faithful team jumped and jerked and pulled the wagon into the field along the road. The bay pulled one way and the piebald the other, each snorting and bucking and kicking. Even so, they somehow managed to drag the wagon substantial distance across the greening fields with Alvin and Mrs. Higgins clinging to the seat for dear life.
Eventually the horses wore themselves out of their panic. Mrs. Higgins got down and whispered her own peculiar brand of sweet nothings in their ears. They were soon calm enough for her to climb back aboard and steer them toward home.
Mrs. Higgins did not miss the opportunity to serenade the company once again.
After listening to Mrs. Higgins' latest selection, Fred mumbled under his breath, "And starting the car scared the horses? Would somebody please explain that to me?"
"Man, oh, man, I thought we'd never get rid of them, Miss Trudy." Oskar sighed. "We've got lots of work ahead of us if we want to be ready for our next guests."
Tall and lean Oskar Carlson was Miss Trudy's neighbor. He was always on hand to help out when she needed a man around the place. But they also shared another, more nefarious hobby. Oskar helped Miss Trudy operate her still, deep in the woods between her barn and the Fish River.
"Oskar, we've plenty of our product ready for the gentlemen to sample. If they want more, they will know where to find us. I am quite certain that ours is the finest product of the sort in Minnesota's northwoods.
After the battle with the tire and all its parts was finished, Fred put his tools away and was just folding up his mackintosh when he heard the approach of a horse drawn conveyance of some kind. But above the sound of the approaching vehicle, he heard the most awful crooning he'd ever heard.
Silvy, Silvy, all on one day,
She dressed herself in man's array,
A sword and pistol all by her side,
To meet her true love she did ride.
The noise was awful!
She met her true love all in the plain,
'Stand and deliver, kind sir,' she said,
'Stand and deliver, kind sir,' said she,
Or else this moment you shall die.'
"I might want to die," thought Fred.
Soon the rig came into view. Fred recognized Alvin seated beside a woman of somewhat advanced age. She was driving a farm wagon pulled by a bay and a piebald and singing her old woman heart out. If one could call it singing, that is. The cackling and croaking noises were certainly not in any way melodic.
"Fred, my friend, this is the Mrs. Josiah Higgins," Alvin had to shout to be heard. "She has graciously offered us her home for the night or for as long as we desire to stay."
The said Mrs. Higgins finally stopped her verse as Fred turned to introduce her.
"Mrs. Higgins, ma'am, is my long time friend, Fred. Fred is somewhat apprehensive of becoming beholden to others," Alvin offered as explanation. "I will have to briefly discuss your hospitable offer with him."
"Well, don't take all day about it. I'm itching to have a ride in that auto of yours before it gets dark."
After a short discussion, the men decided to stay the night with Mrs. Higgins. It was a decision they would come to regret. But for now, Alvin eagerly hopped back into the wagon with their hostess. He had taken a fancy to her eccentricities. They continued a short distance past the DeSoto until Mrs. Higgins found a spot wide enough to turn the wagon around easily.
Just as Mrs. Higgins had maneuvered the wagon toward home, Fred fired up the DeSoto. Mrs. Higgins' faithful team jumped and jerked and pulled the wagon into the field along the road. The bay pulled one way and the piebald the other, each snorting and bucking and kicking. Even so, they somehow managed to drag the wagon substantial distance across the greening fields with Alvin and Mrs. Higgins clinging to the seat for dear life.
Eventually the horses wore themselves out of their panic. Mrs. Higgins got down and whispered her own peculiar brand of sweet nothings in their ears. They were soon calm enough for her to climb back aboard and steer them toward home.
Mrs. Higgins did not miss the opportunity to serenade the company once again.
I'll take you home again, Kathleen
Across the ocean wild and wide
To where your heart has ever been
Since you were first my bonnie bride.
After listening to Mrs. Higgins' latest selection, Fred mumbled under his breath, "And starting the car scared the horses? Would somebody please explain that to me?"
"Man, oh, man, I thought we'd never get rid of them, Miss Trudy." Oskar sighed. "We've got lots of work ahead of us if we want to be ready for our next guests."
Tall and lean Oskar Carlson was Miss Trudy's neighbor. He was always on hand to help out when she needed a man around the place. But they also shared another, more nefarious hobby. Oskar helped Miss Trudy operate her still, deep in the woods between her barn and the Fish River.
"Oskar, we've plenty of our product ready for the gentlemen to sample. If they want more, they will know where to find us. I am quite certain that ours is the finest product of the sort in Minnesota's northwoods.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster 3
"Where we off to again, Fred? It don't seem as though we are making any true progress here. The roads twist and turn around these ol' lakes and swamps and it all looks the same after awhile."
"Ah, well, now Alvin, I do reckon we will be arriving at the summer home by evening. There is no rush. Our business will keep."
This time of year, the roads were sometimes quite impassable. But the spring had come early this year and the snow had melted quickly. The frost came up from the ground by Easter and the frost boils in the roadways were mostly dry. The men were able to travel without too much trouble. Since Fred was driving the '31 DeSoto, Alvin decided to rest his eyes. Fred drove on. And on. And on.
Suddenly the all too familiar thump and rumble of a flat tire disrupted Alvin's slumber. Fred let slip a stream of choice words and then hopped down and started to assemble all his tire changing apparatus.
Alvin soon stumbled out, too, and attempted to shake off his sleep. He offered to help, but Fred suggested Alvin continue ahead on foot to see if there was any help to be found. Fred was more than capable of changing the tire, but he wouldn't turn down the help of a friendly neighbor if it was near at hand.
Alvin sauntered down the road and around the curve. He was soon out of sight behind a thicket of pale green leaves and white spring blossoms. He whistled softly to himself as he moseyed along. Alvin had always enjoyed a spring walk, but in his current occupation, he seldom showed that side of his nature. He wasn't sure Fred and the others would be much taken with spring beauties and fresh air.
After about half a mile of fresh spring air, which as it turned out was quite enough for Alvin, he came upon a farm house set back from the road. The house was gray with age. A fresh washing fluttered on a line. A lilac along the walk was just beginning to waft its fragrance through the air. Alvin approached the house and heard a raucous caterwauling from within.
"What's that I hear?" croaked the voice from the other side. "Who's there?"
Alvin heard a rhythmic thump and scuffle and the door was yanked open. In the dim interior, Alvin could make out a birdlike lady, well-wrapped in layers against the spring air. She seemed to teeter precariously over a polished oak walking stick.
"What may you be wanting? There's naught here but I," asked the small lady in a tremendous voice.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but my friend and I, we were out for a drive, and well, you see," began Alvin.
"Speak up, son. What's that you say? A drive? With a carriage, you mean?"
"Well, ma'am, no, we were in an automobile and we got a flat."
"An automobile, you say! And what's this about it being flattened?"
It was a quite lengthy interchange of this style. Alvin politely gave answers to the woman's gravelly voiced questions. But Alvin finally made her understand the situation.
Mrs. Higgins, for that was the name of the diminutive lady, was eager to see the DeSoto. "Help me harness the team and we'll go out to help," said she. Mrs. Higgins grabbed yet another layer and hobbled to the stable with the ball of her walking stick clutched firmly in her tiny hand.
"Ah, well, now Alvin, I do reckon we will be arriving at the summer home by evening. There is no rush. Our business will keep."
This time of year, the roads were sometimes quite impassable. But the spring had come early this year and the snow had melted quickly. The frost came up from the ground by Easter and the frost boils in the roadways were mostly dry. The men were able to travel without too much trouble. Since Fred was driving the '31 DeSoto, Alvin decided to rest his eyes. Fred drove on. And on. And on.
Suddenly the all too familiar thump and rumble of a flat tire disrupted Alvin's slumber. Fred let slip a stream of choice words and then hopped down and started to assemble all his tire changing apparatus.
Alvin soon stumbled out, too, and attempted to shake off his sleep. He offered to help, but Fred suggested Alvin continue ahead on foot to see if there was any help to be found. Fred was more than capable of changing the tire, but he wouldn't turn down the help of a friendly neighbor if it was near at hand.
Alvin sauntered down the road and around the curve. He was soon out of sight behind a thicket of pale green leaves and white spring blossoms. He whistled softly to himself as he moseyed along. Alvin had always enjoyed a spring walk, but in his current occupation, he seldom showed that side of his nature. He wasn't sure Fred and the others would be much taken with spring beauties and fresh air.
After about half a mile of fresh spring air, which as it turned out was quite enough for Alvin, he came upon a farm house set back from the road. The house was gray with age. A fresh washing fluttered on a line. A lilac along the walk was just beginning to waft its fragrance through the air. Alvin approached the house and heard a raucous caterwauling from within.
Ha, ha, ha, you and me,When he was reaching up to knock on the door, Alvin couldn't help noticing how the picturesque scene outside contrasted with the noise emanating from the interior. Alvin gave a mighty knock hoping to be heard above the racket.
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!
Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!
If all the folks in Adam's raceOnce again, Alvin reached out and banged on the door, and the crooning suddenly ceased.
Were gathered together in one place,
I'd let them go without a tear
Before I'd part from you, my dear.
"What's that I hear?" croaked the voice from the other side. "Who's there?"
Alvin heard a rhythmic thump and scuffle and the door was yanked open. In the dim interior, Alvin could make out a birdlike lady, well-wrapped in layers against the spring air. She seemed to teeter precariously over a polished oak walking stick.
"What may you be wanting? There's naught here but I," asked the small lady in a tremendous voice.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but my friend and I, we were out for a drive, and well, you see," began Alvin.
"Speak up, son. What's that you say? A drive? With a carriage, you mean?"
"Well, ma'am, no, we were in an automobile and we got a flat."
"An automobile, you say! And what's this about it being flattened?"
It was a quite lengthy interchange of this style. Alvin politely gave answers to the woman's gravelly voiced questions. But Alvin finally made her understand the situation.
Mrs. Higgins, for that was the name of the diminutive lady, was eager to see the DeSoto. "Help me harness the team and we'll go out to help," said she. Mrs. Higgins grabbed yet another layer and hobbled to the stable with the ball of her walking stick clutched firmly in her tiny hand.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Welcome JennaT
The first additional author. Yeah! Welcome Jenna. I look forward to reading your installments.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster 2
The real story to be told happened after we moved Up North. To Fitjedahl. Not in town, but far outside of town. In the Middle of Nowhere would be more accurate. We live 20 miles east of Fitjedahl which is the closest town of any note. Fitjedahl is only getting itself started. It is hardly a town in any proper sense of the word. Up and coming, they say, but we'll see about that. I have my own opinions on the matter.
It's not that I don't like Fitjedahl, but it is smaller than I am used to and the locals will stare. I imagine they think southern Minnesota is a foreign country. The girls titter behind their hands and the boys pick on Henry mercilessly. Papa says it is all in my head, but I know better. I know how children are, having been one myself at one time.
I am happy to stay at home, out in the Middle of Nowhere, keeping things up the way I choose, with or without systems, as I see fit from day to day. We see the neighbors now and then, and they do not seem to titter behind their hands. They are at least discreet if they do. I see the man at the creamery a few miles up the road, and the woman at the post office when we get there.
Papa serves several churches. Four or seven depending upon the time of year. They are scattered about this area of Minnesota and he gets around to preach at them when he can. The nearest one is two miles across the sections or four miles if we stick to the roads. That is the Brunner congregation. The people who worship there could be said to be our neighborhood. They are not divided from us by river or township lines.
We live only half a mile north of the Fish River. It is called that because of the suckers that are drawn out by the netful every May. Suckering day is a big deal and the whole community turns out. The suckers pickle nicely and all it costs is your sugar and vinegar. If the weather is good on suckering day, the women sit on blankets while the men and children pull out net after net of suckers. Then everyone shares a picnic meal. Fried chicken and roast beef, boiled eggs and beet pickles, pie and lefse.
But when suckering day is cold, which is just as likely as not, we head to Trudy Eggermeirs barn for our picnic. Being a widow, she doesn't keep animals except her faithful milch cow, so her barn is empty much of the year. She cleans it up every April in the hopes of a cold suckering day. That is her day to shine, so yes, she does hope for cold weather.
On those cold spring days, nothing is finer than coming in and standing by her drum stove, each taking a turn jostling the others for the closest spot. We start out a bit damp from the suckering, but in no time at all we are warm and toasty. Miss Trudy hauls hot cocoa and coffee by the kettleful. The men set up board tables and we have our picnic just the same.
When the crowd is well sated by all the good food and hot drinks, someone will pull out a guitar or fiddle or even just a harmonica. Someone will sing everyone a tune or two and soon everyone is dancing. By late afternoon, though the festivities begin to wind down. Like Miss Trudy, most folks keep a milch cows and a milch cow needs attention each afternoon.
It's not that I don't like Fitjedahl, but it is smaller than I am used to and the locals will stare. I imagine they think southern Minnesota is a foreign country. The girls titter behind their hands and the boys pick on Henry mercilessly. Papa says it is all in my head, but I know better. I know how children are, having been one myself at one time.
I am happy to stay at home, out in the Middle of Nowhere, keeping things up the way I choose, with or without systems, as I see fit from day to day. We see the neighbors now and then, and they do not seem to titter behind their hands. They are at least discreet if they do. I see the man at the creamery a few miles up the road, and the woman at the post office when we get there.
Papa serves several churches. Four or seven depending upon the time of year. They are scattered about this area of Minnesota and he gets around to preach at them when he can. The nearest one is two miles across the sections or four miles if we stick to the roads. That is the Brunner congregation. The people who worship there could be said to be our neighborhood. They are not divided from us by river or township lines.
We live only half a mile north of the Fish River. It is called that because of the suckers that are drawn out by the netful every May. Suckering day is a big deal and the whole community turns out. The suckers pickle nicely and all it costs is your sugar and vinegar. If the weather is good on suckering day, the women sit on blankets while the men and children pull out net after net of suckers. Then everyone shares a picnic meal. Fried chicken and roast beef, boiled eggs and beet pickles, pie and lefse.
But when suckering day is cold, which is just as likely as not, we head to Trudy Eggermeirs barn for our picnic. Being a widow, she doesn't keep animals except her faithful milch cow, so her barn is empty much of the year. She cleans it up every April in the hopes of a cold suckering day. That is her day to shine, so yes, she does hope for cold weather.
On those cold spring days, nothing is finer than coming in and standing by her drum stove, each taking a turn jostling the others for the closest spot. We start out a bit damp from the suckering, but in no time at all we are warm and toasty. Miss Trudy hauls hot cocoa and coffee by the kettleful. The men set up board tables and we have our picnic just the same.
When the crowd is well sated by all the good food and hot drinks, someone will pull out a guitar or fiddle or even just a harmonica. Someone will sing everyone a tune or two and soon everyone is dancing. By late afternoon, though the festivities begin to wind down. Like Miss Trudy, most folks keep a milch cows and a milch cow needs attention each afternoon.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tilda and the Gangster
I've always been a good one for telling stories. The only thing different this time, is that I'm writing it down. I suppose it's also different this time, because this is a true story. All these things in this book really did happen in my community. Sort of.
Although I now live right here in Fitjedahl, I have lived primarily among Germans. First in Wisconsin then for a brief stint in Missouri, followed by a longer stay in southern Minnesota in a town called Muenster. The Germans are a very orderly people. Lots of rules and systems. There is a right way to do everything and woe to anyone who does not know that right way.
Now I find myself among Norwegians. And this I much prefer. I am beset with a somewhat disordered nature; which did not serve me well in those locations I formerly called home.
In order to tell my tale aright, I must first explain that my father is a minister. A Lutheran pastor of Norwegian descent. Which, my being one half Norwegian, might explain some of my difficulties with the Germans. But I cannot blame them for everything.
My mother, may she rest in peace, was of unknown descent, so it is easy for me to ascribe to my maternal ancestors, the bulk of my life's difficulties. I'd feel amiss saddling any one nationality with the blame for things that have been a constant trial to myself (and I must admit, to others). I imagine my mother to have been a melting pot of America's peoples, each of whom I might blame for something within me.
I have two brothers, the older being Ernst, who is a model child. He is really a young man now, but until very recently has been a boy so it is very difficult for me to think of him otherwise. Having been besotted with Lisbeth Schultz, he stayed among the Germans when the rest of us moved up north. I am not sure whether Lisbeth is likewise besotted with Ernst. She is the daughter of Professor Schultz who is the dean at the school I would have been forced to attend had we stayed in Muenster.
My younger brother is Henry after my late mother who was Henrietta. He is still in knickers. Or would be if we were in Muenster. This far north there are no knickers, for fear of freezing the legs off all the little boys. He is not yet old enough to bear his share of the chores. Regardless of the length of his breeches, he is only good for pestering me and needing to be rescued from one variety of trouble or another.
I am somewhere in between my two brothers in age. I was twelve on my last birthday. Or so I am told. I secretly think I am a year older and that someone got mixed up at some point in my upbringing. I plan to someday write a letter to the church where I was baptized. That is in Milwaukee. It is a German church, so I don't think they would have messed up the records. Not with all their birth and baptism recording systems fully in place.
I don't quite know how my father fell in with the Germans, but he did. Someday I plan to find that out, too.
But for now we are with the Norwegians. The land here has just recently been opened for settlement. Many people here came from farms in Southern Minnesota. And others came from North Dakota. They wanted a Norwegian Lutheran pastor who was brave enough to outlast the winters. Somehow they found Papa and the rest is history. Thank goodness the Germans and their rules are also history. And that they slid into history before I completely ruined my father with my inability to follow rules. That is what they called it in Muenster. Inability to follow rules. As if I was disobedient by nature instead of just plain scatterbrained.
I even kept a special place in my diary for the expressed purpose of keeping track of all the rules and systems. When to stand and when to sit during church services and on which side of the icebox to put the milk. How to arrange a living room and how to hang clothes on a clothesline. I had to figure these things out on my own, having been left with the running of a household from an early age. But the Widow Mueller told me in no uncertain terms that my clothes were not hung correctly on the line and I would drive my poor father out of the parish with his wrinkled attire.
Although I now live right here in Fitjedahl, I have lived primarily among Germans. First in Wisconsin then for a brief stint in Missouri, followed by a longer stay in southern Minnesota in a town called Muenster. The Germans are a very orderly people. Lots of rules and systems. There is a right way to do everything and woe to anyone who does not know that right way.
Now I find myself among Norwegians. And this I much prefer. I am beset with a somewhat disordered nature; which did not serve me well in those locations I formerly called home.
In order to tell my tale aright, I must first explain that my father is a minister. A Lutheran pastor of Norwegian descent. Which, my being one half Norwegian, might explain some of my difficulties with the Germans. But I cannot blame them for everything.
My mother, may she rest in peace, was of unknown descent, so it is easy for me to ascribe to my maternal ancestors, the bulk of my life's difficulties. I'd feel amiss saddling any one nationality with the blame for things that have been a constant trial to myself (and I must admit, to others). I imagine my mother to have been a melting pot of America's peoples, each of whom I might blame for something within me.
I have two brothers, the older being Ernst, who is a model child. He is really a young man now, but until very recently has been a boy so it is very difficult for me to think of him otherwise. Having been besotted with Lisbeth Schultz, he stayed among the Germans when the rest of us moved up north. I am not sure whether Lisbeth is likewise besotted with Ernst. She is the daughter of Professor Schultz who is the dean at the school I would have been forced to attend had we stayed in Muenster.
My younger brother is Henry after my late mother who was Henrietta. He is still in knickers. Or would be if we were in Muenster. This far north there are no knickers, for fear of freezing the legs off all the little boys. He is not yet old enough to bear his share of the chores. Regardless of the length of his breeches, he is only good for pestering me and needing to be rescued from one variety of trouble or another.
I am somewhere in between my two brothers in age. I was twelve on my last birthday. Or so I am told. I secretly think I am a year older and that someone got mixed up at some point in my upbringing. I plan to someday write a letter to the church where I was baptized. That is in Milwaukee. It is a German church, so I don't think they would have messed up the records. Not with all their birth and baptism recording systems fully in place.
I don't quite know how my father fell in with the Germans, but he did. Someday I plan to find that out, too.
But for now we are with the Norwegians. The land here has just recently been opened for settlement. Many people here came from farms in Southern Minnesota. And others came from North Dakota. They wanted a Norwegian Lutheran pastor who was brave enough to outlast the winters. Somehow they found Papa and the rest is history. Thank goodness the Germans and their rules are also history. And that they slid into history before I completely ruined my father with my inability to follow rules. That is what they called it in Muenster. Inability to follow rules. As if I was disobedient by nature instead of just plain scatterbrained.
I even kept a special place in my diary for the expressed purpose of keeping track of all the rules and systems. When to stand and when to sit during church services and on which side of the icebox to put the milk. How to arrange a living room and how to hang clothes on a clothesline. I had to figure these things out on my own, having been left with the running of a household from an early age. But the Widow Mueller told me in no uncertain terms that my clothes were not hung correctly on the line and I would drive my poor father out of the parish with his wrinkled attire.
About "Write Like the Dickens"
This blog stemmed from a post I did on my primary blog, Day by Day, According to theMom. I had expressed wonder at the popularity of Charles Dickens' serials, and the anticipation which accompanied the release of each installment. I wondered to myself and my readers whether there was a forum for serial novels today.
As I was stirring during the following night, restless upon my bed, the idea came to me that I could start my own blog for such a purpose. Will writers here ever become world famous? Will we ever have fans waiting at the allegorical wharf for our next installment? I cannot say.
But we will have fun. I challenge writers and aspiring writers to write a chapter a week. Don't worry about continuity; just have fun. Work on your writing skills. Challenge your imagination. Increase your writing output.
While reading Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop, I wondered periodically where he was going with a certain chapter or character. He may not have even known himself at the time. But he kept on, and his books live on, in spite of what might at times seem to be disjointed story lines.
I welcome anyone to participate in my experiment.
I must however, demand a few guidelines. These guidelines may seem stringent to you. You may think they will stifle your creativity. So be it. Create your own blog.
I want only clean stories. No blatant s*xuality. Nothing of that sort described graphically.
No foul language. No taking God's name in vain. No profanities. Feel free to use symbols such as @&#*! if you must. Readers will get your point. But I want to make an effort to promote literature that is tasteful.
You can always include those things on your personal copies, but not on my blog.
It truly takes much more ingenuity to create a stimulating story line that is clean and profanity free. The author of clean stories must titillate the hearts and minds of readers without the use of sensuality or shock value. Hmm.
So here is the deal. I've never opened a blog to public authorship. I'm going out on a limb. If you want to write here, leave a comment with your e-mail address, but use the words "at" and "dot" instead of the symbols. Tell me a little bit about yourself and what you'd like to write about if you know. Unless I sense something amiss (like you might be some creeper or something), I'll add you.
If there is anything I deem a problem, I will simply kill the blog, so behave trust-worthily.
Oh, and one more thing, if you are a young person, please include that information in the comment when you introduce yourself. I'll create a special label we can add to those stories done by youth. I know it is a bit more difficult for young people to find a forum on which to write, and I hope to encourage your pursuits.
Write Away!
Mary, aka theMom
As I was stirring during the following night, restless upon my bed, the idea came to me that I could start my own blog for such a purpose. Will writers here ever become world famous? Will we ever have fans waiting at the allegorical wharf for our next installment? I cannot say.
But we will have fun. I challenge writers and aspiring writers to write a chapter a week. Don't worry about continuity; just have fun. Work on your writing skills. Challenge your imagination. Increase your writing output.
While reading Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop, I wondered periodically where he was going with a certain chapter or character. He may not have even known himself at the time. But he kept on, and his books live on, in spite of what might at times seem to be disjointed story lines.
I welcome anyone to participate in my experiment.
I must however, demand a few guidelines. These guidelines may seem stringent to you. You may think they will stifle your creativity. So be it. Create your own blog.
I want only clean stories. No blatant s*xuality. Nothing of that sort described graphically.
No foul language. No taking God's name in vain. No profanities. Feel free to use symbols such as @&#*! if you must. Readers will get your point. But I want to make an effort to promote literature that is tasteful.
You can always include those things on your personal copies, but not on my blog.
It truly takes much more ingenuity to create a stimulating story line that is clean and profanity free. The author of clean stories must titillate the hearts and minds of readers without the use of sensuality or shock value. Hmm.
So here is the deal. I've never opened a blog to public authorship. I'm going out on a limb. If you want to write here, leave a comment with your e-mail address, but use the words "at" and "dot" instead of the symbols. Tell me a little bit about yourself and what you'd like to write about if you know. Unless I sense something amiss (like you might be some creeper or something), I'll add you.
If there is anything I deem a problem, I will simply kill the blog, so behave trust-worthily.
Oh, and one more thing, if you are a young person, please include that information in the comment when you introduce yourself. I'll create a special label we can add to those stories done by youth. I know it is a bit more difficult for young people to find a forum on which to write, and I hope to encourage your pursuits.
Write Away!
Mary, aka theMom
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