Prairie Sunrise
September 3, 2016
“The prairie landscape embraces the whole of the sky.”
— Paul Gruchow, Journal of a Prairie Year
“The sun rose. It popped up abruptly as it always does along distant horizons on the prairie or at sea.”
— Paul Gruchow, The Necessity of Empty Places
Here are some photos of a Minnesota summer sunrise at the old family farm:
“Up North” in Minnesota: My Taste of Living on Lake Time
August 27, 2016
To Minnesotans, “Up North” is a state of mind. For me it evokes fantasies of hot summers on cool lakes, vacation cabins nestled in the woods, contemplative fishermen watching their bobbers. During my childhood I would overhear people talk about going “Up North” and it stirred longings to escape our land-locked farm with its interminable chores.
On my recent visit to Minnesota, I finally got a taste of living on lake time Up North. My youngest sister and her husband have a new cabin on Big Turtle Lake near Bemidji (which is about 5 hours north of our family farm in southern Minnesota) — and it has a guest room! Staying in this quiet, peaceful place for the first two nights after my arrival was the perfect start to my vacation. I couldn’t help but unwind listening to the lapping of the water against the dock, watching the ever-changing clouds move across the sky, hearing the haunting call of loons across the lake.
My sister and I went kayaking on the mirror smooth lake in the early hours before breakfast and again near sunset. This was my first time kayaking, and although I couldn’t seem to paddle in a straight line, I loved it! In the heat of the day, we waded into the reedy lake and swam to cool off.
The cabin itself was set back from the lake, but a wall of windows gave a view of the lake through a line of trees. To get down to the lake, we walked across a marshy patch on a wooden boardwalk.
My experience living the lake life was almost exactly as I had imagined it all these years. Even the mosquitoes stayed away for the most part — a few bites couldn’t mar my enjoyment. I hope to be back!
A Minnesota Farm Alphabet
April 15, 2014
When we were cleaning out my parents’ farmhouse, I came across this farm alphabet book I made for them in 1994, twenty years ago. I made the illustrations from colored tissue and paper cutouts. Each page highlights fond images and memories of my 1950s and ’60s childhood on our Minnesota farm. I’ve reproduced the book for you here:
A is for angels in the snow, and
a pail full of apples to feed the pigs, and
the smell of just-cut alfalfa, and
the attic with its trunks of winter clothes, boxes of Dad’s Army things, and stacks of Easter baskets.
B is for bats that occasionally swooped down from the attic, and
the brooms John and Ken used to bring down the bats, and
jumping from the heavy beams in the hayloft into piles of scratchy hay, and
boots lined up on newspapers by the front door, and
shaking cream into butter, and
the bullheads we caught with bamboo fishing poles.
C is for chocolate-covered cherries on Father’s Day, and
playing circle tag in the snow, and
cinnamon cream pies, and
corn on the cob, and
wooden clothespins, and
barn cats.
D is for the dish towel we waved to call Dad in from the fields for supper, and
the long gravel driveway we walked to catch the school bus, and
dusting the furniture at least twice a week.
E is for the egg yolks that stood up in the frying pan, and
the jolt of the electric fence, and
playing eucher.
F is for the floods that washed out the driveway, and
dressing in front of the furnace vents on cold winter mornings, and
Mom’s rich dark fudge with nuts, and
swatting flies with pastel-colored fly swatters, and
retrieving foul balls for ten cents.
G is for the green grain box carrying oats to the grainery, and
pulling the tough, yellow skin off chicken gizzards, and
gopher traps and garter snakes.
H is for hoeing thistles and hauling hay, and
the hard-boiled eggs Dad cracked on our heads, and
doing homework around the kitchen table, and
the holy water that hung in a bottle at the bottom of the stairs, and
hanging clothes to dry on the lines outside.
I is for the ice storms that transformed our everyday farm into a winter wonderland, and
learning to iron by practicing on handkerchiefs, and
the white rocks surrounding the island, and
ice skating on the pond by the culvert.
J is for junk pile treasures, and
Jack Frost’s feathery masterpieces on our window panes, and
jeans that froze stiff on the clothesline in winter.
K is for the kitchen table, and
kneeling to say the rosary after supper, and
the knick knack shelf in the living room, and
pretending to make bread by kneading our pillows.
L is for Lava soap in the washroom, and
the smell of blooming lilacs, and
the Little Team, and
taking turns mowing the lawn, and
pink lungs floating on top of the water from cleaning the chickens.
M is for mittens drying on the furnace vents, and
picking from the Montgomery Ward catalog, and
Morrell mushrooms in scrambled eggs, and
mosquitoes.
N is for St. Nicholas Day goodies in brown paper bags, and
the Nativity set.
O is for the oilcloth covering the kitchen table, and
overshoes with lever-like buckles, and
the two-seater outhouse.
P is for dancing the polka, and
dishpans full of buttered popcorn, and
priming the pump in the washroom, and
the ants in the peonies, and
shelling peas and planting potatoes.
Q is for Dad’s collection of silver quarters, and
warm quilts on the beds.
R is for rhubarb sauce and wild raspberries, and
the roller towel in the washroom, and
red-winged blackbirds, and
raking leaves, and
root beer floats served on the island in real glass glasses.
S is for the stubble in the oat fields, and
Mom’s sauerkraut and homemade liver sausage, and
sprinkling the laundry before ironing, and
the stanchions in the barn, and
sledding on Walerius’ hill.
T is for tinsel on the Christmas tree, and
the tire swing, and
Tom Thumb donuts from the Minnesota State Fair, and
waiting out tornadoes in the basement, and
feeding the threshing crew.
U is for Union Hill, and
the unheated upstairs where we slept, and
sleeveless cotton undershirts.
V is for treating chest colds with Vicks Vapo Rub, and
the VFW picnic, and
summer vacations at Hauer’s home in the Cities and at Grandma and Grandpa Meger’s house in Montgomery.
W is for whipped cream on chocolate cake, and
roasting weiners on sticks over a bonfire, and
stacking wood, and
the wringer washing machine, and
shouting “Whoa” when it was time to drop bales of hay into the hayloft.
X is for Aunt Mary’s x-stitch embroidery, and
the axe that beheaded the chickens.
Y is for the smell of yeast from freshly baked bread, and
butter so yellow visitors would ask Mom if she put food coloring in it.
Z is for below-zero weather, and
zillions of mosquitoes.
Sugaring Season
April 12, 2014
I’ve never seen the workings of a maple sugar camp. I’m surprised that my frugal parents did not ever make the effort to tap the maple trees in the woods and make syrup for our large family. We were content with Mrs. Butterworth’s.
My sister took me to see this sugar bush near Rachel Lake in northern Minnesota. The day was too cold for the sap to run, so the camp was temporarily abandoned. But buckets were hung ’round the maple trees in readiness for the temperature to cooperate and set the sap running. It would have been fun to see the operations in full swing. I hope they had a successful season.
In Praise of Shadows
April 11, 2014
“Were it not for shadows, there would be no beauty.”
— Jun’ichiro Tanizaki, from In Praise of Shadows, translated by Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker
” . . . we find beauty not in the thing itself but in the patterns of shadows, the light and the darkness, that one thing against another creates.”
— Jun’ichiro Tanizaki, from In Praise of Shadows, translated by Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker
The stark bare trees in the Minnesota landscape were strikingly beautiful. They cast dark shadows on the snow. At times the shadows looked like the tree roots made visible.