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.

Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!
Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!

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.

If all the folks in Adam's race
Were gathered together in one place,
I'd let them go without a tear
Before I'd part from you, my dear.

Once again, Alvin reached out and banged on the door, and the crooning suddenly ceased.

"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.

Welcome JennaT

The first additional author.  Yeah!  Welcome Jenna.  I look forward to reading your installments.

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.

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.

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