The Smell of Fresh Baked Bread

(Looking out over the Wisconsin channel of the Mississippi River, my grandparent's porch)

Last night a friend, @jenmontfort, posted a wonderful photo of her grandmother's recipe drawer along with one of a cookbook her grandmother had put together. We had a lovely chat discussing our respective grandmother's recipes, how lucky we were to have these culinary treasures, the notations they made by certain dishes...and then we got to bread. Fresh, amazing, homemade bread. I could sense we both had the same kind of ecstatic memories when it came to our grandmother's delightful, soft, delicious, fresh out of the oven, loaves of love. *Literally, picture the classic cartoon image of someone floating helplessly toward a heavenly scent...that's how good my grandmother's homemade bread smelled.*

I make a number of recipes that were my grandmother's. Her coleslaw, her pie crust, her cookies, her rhubarb custard pie...all special taste memories that I really enjoy recreating. My cousins do too, from what I can tell, we have reminisced many times about the special cakes or pies that Grandma K made for us on our birthdays or how she'd always send cookies home with us. My grandmother's pineapple rolls, pecan rolls, and cherry turnovers were always among the first to go at the Rosary Society bake sales at the Immaculate Conception Church in Fountain City, Wisconsin.

What none of us have ever really mastered, however, is her bread. And make no mistake, bread was a staple in their home--there was no low-carb or carb-free diet at grandma's. In the morning there was toast, on the lunch table--along with pickles, some kind of meat and vegetables--there was a stack of sliced bread; on the dinner table, the same. I can't imagine how many times a week she baked, but there were always pies and cookies in the freezer and fresh bread on the table. And there was always a little something sweet for dessert--maybe a dream bar, or apple crisp; a raspberry pie with cream cheese on the bottom (that was her special treat for me); or a few of her frosted sugar cookies that we all called "Grandma Cookies."

Several times when I was quite young I remember "helping" her (read as: likely being in her way) but as a teenager--and for many years after--the thought of cooking, let alone baking bread was WAY off my radar. But the sensory memories of her baking have never left me. This bread was so important that I once Fed-Exed it overnight to a boyfriend to show him how incredible my baking lineage was--a complete ruse, really, but I know he gobbled the bread appreciatively nonetheless. Thankfully he's never asked me to make good on those bread baking skills in the years since then.

I've had a few wondrous, "choirs-of-angels" bread related experiences--the fresh baguettes on Rue Lepic in Paris, a pain de compagne that was part of an unforgettable picnic at Pointe du Hoc, a little sourdough boule that I tore at while walking the ramparts in St. Malo--so I hold a good loaf in the highest of esteem. But no loaf, boule, or baguette will ever come close to the warm, crusty, loaves of love that were served up daily on that little table, in the small kitchen, with the picture window overlooking the mighty Mississippi River.

Someday I will make a loaf of bread worthy of the memory of Viola. It wont be in the well-worn loaf pans she used, and I don't have a radiator to put the large aluminum bowl on to speed the rising process of the dough...but maybe in my own small way (with reasonable expectations) I can recreate my own little slice of heaven.

Long Gone (but not forgotten)

I'm essentially a nostalgia junkie. For all my attachment to my beloved BlackBerry and MacBook Pro, one of my most prized possessions is my table-top Victrola. The 78 rpm records that spin on the green felted turntable are a little scratchy and they are easily broken. (Just ask my father who, as a teen, used them for discus practice in his back yard...that way he "always broke a record."I kid you not.) But the sound that comes out the doors of this beautiful little gem is unlike any other music you'll hear. In all honestly I'd much rather hear Benny Goodman or either of the Dorsey brothers--scratches and all--on a 78 than on some luxe Bose sound machine.

Anyway, the other evening I was spinning tunes on the Victrola (Les Paul and Mary Ford's Tiger Rag played more than once...) I got to thinking of all the things that were once taken for granted as stable and long lasting and now are no more. Whether it is a job or profession or an electronic appliance, the obsolescence rate is a little overwhelming when you really stop to think about it. And as industries and our way of life change, what we embrace of the new and what we choose to cling to of the old becomes more and more difficult to decide upon. 

I know this is not terribly groundbreaking thought here, but it really did hit me...between my Victrola--which would have been a staple in many if not most homes throughout the early years of the 20th century--and some of the photographs I've taken lately I was reminded by how cyclical our world is. 

Drive by any strip mall or, much more sadly, any Main Street in much of the country and see how many buildings and storefronts are empty. And as industry moves to other countries and leaves a community completely, there are large campuses that will be let to go to seed if someone else can't find a way to utilize them. It is the way of the world and I understand that. And not everything that we're losing needs or deserves to be saved, I fully understand that as well. But contemplating how to move forward and embrace the new without shunning the best of the old is a tricky bit of navigating.

My photographs from yesterday's post show the ruin of what was once a bustling part of port life on the Hudson River. Today they stand as a reminder to a way of life that once was...but one which would make very little sense to many of us today. 

And a the photographs that follow are of a similar nature. These places are long gone...but I think still worthy of consideration.

The two photographs above are of the Harlem Valley State Hospital (top) and Wingdale Prison power plant (The Sing-Sing Country Club.) Part of the campus was a state hospital for the insane and part of it was used as a prison facility for the "criminally" insane. A kindly State Trooper was good enough to share this info with me (as I was nearly trespassing) and then I of course researched it a little further when I got home. The campus is quite something and the buildings, which mostly seem to have been built ca1910-1920s have some wonderful details to them. Here's a great link with more details and some great vintage postcard views: http://harlemvalley.org/wingdale/

                                          

This is about all that remains of Pier 54 in NYC where the survivors of the Titanic, aboard the RMS Carpathia, disembarked. If you enlarge the photo you can see where White Star and Cunard painted signage overlap. This is also the pier where the Lusitania left from, so there is a lot of great history here. Another link to a little more detailed info: http://www.atlanticliners.com/pier_54.htm

And finally, since I'm a little obsessed with iron work (as with the remaining piece of Pier 54), this is a little piece of highway to nowhere. New Yorker's will recognize it because there are sports fields and courts underneath it on the UWS. I love the graceful sweeping arches and the play of light and shadow.

                                        

Driving past the Harlem Valley campus or past an abandoned farm or estate always makes me wonder about the people who lived and worked there, their stories. All these ruins once contributed to a community and served a population...today, they are shells and remnants. I can't help but wonder what pillars of our community, what places we depend on today will end up like this. 

On the River...

At various times during the course of the year I find myself thinking of my former days in NYC. On balmy summer days there was nothing lovelier than heading out to Riverside Park and having a long walk along the Hudson--often with the promise of a stop for ice cream or a treat at the Boat Basin Cafe. Along one section of the Hudson River Greenway bike and walking paths are some spectacular ruins, and if you've stopped by here before, you KNOW I love a good ruin.

Archival photos of the Hudson show what a hard working river it has always been and I'm just glad it's coming back as a river and a gathering place for good, healthy outdoor fun.

So in keeping with my theme of pictures being worth a thousand words...here's a few photos of that unique industrial ruin...and yes, I had a little fun with the CameraBag app filters.

If a picture is worth a thousand words...

Then I hope this post (3 photos= 3000 words, right?) will make up for my month long absence.

The muse of the written word has left me for more verdant pastures so I've spent some time messing about with old photos in CameraBag and Photoshop applications. The words will be brief, but hope you enjoy my futzing with filters.

This first installment is from an ESPN advertising campaign that was up all over NYC ca 2003 or so...I loved the images and was again reminded of the power that sport can have to bring us together.

Nice to be back...I've missed you all!

Not to decide is to decide...or is it?

A lovely family friend has said, for as long as I can recall, that not to decide is to decide. To an extent he's right. By not choosing you are making a sort of choice, or at least allowing other forces, in some cases, to make your choice for you.

So here we are, less than a week out from the 136th running of the Kentucky Derby, and I guess I've decided not to decide. (For the record, The Viola Gopher Count in the wee hamlet of Viola, Minnesota, was first held in 1874, a year before the inaugural Kentucky Derby. The folks in Viola still hold the Gopher Count and are pretty proud that it predates the Derby by a year. Here's their website, I'll leave it up to my intrepid readers to learn how the "count" is accomplished.  (http://gophercount.com/)

Right...rodent census festivities aside, I don't have a Derby horse. Not in any sense. If you've stopped by here before you know that I've already bemoaned my lack of an equine favorite for the big day. This could be in part, at least, because I was so uninspired by Mine That Bird last season. The game little gelding just never did it for me. Having fallen in serious love with Zenyatta and Rachel Alexandra, my affections and attentions were simply engaged elsewhere.

I've heard and read of many others having my same dilemma and all expressed it very well and with great humor. The fact is that when you are known to be "horsey" by others, they automatically assume you have a favorite for the Triple Crown season. This year those who have posed that question to me have been answered with a shrug and mumbled 'dunno. There is a furrowing of their brow, usually, incredulous that I--the girl with an opinion on everything under the sun, not to mention a ready argument as to why I'm right--didn't have a Derby horse to tout.

I'll say again that I prefer a dark bay or a dappled gray to the usual assortment of chestnuts. And there are some trainers I've come to respect more than others. Smarty Jones and Funny Cide grew on me, I'd be lying if I said they were my choices before their respective Derby wins. In the case of Funny Cide, I was a fan of Empire Maker who, ironically, would deny the little gelding the Triple Crown by defeating him on the wide, sweeping turns of Belmont Park. And obviously I don't have personal connections to any of the trainers, owners, breeders or jockeys, so my little biases and favorites are based on my gut and small tidbits I hear and read. Neither scientific nor fair, but there we are.

So where does this leave me? Well, I have a few horses I'm "in like" with, so I'll wait and see what happens. I have like for Jackson Bend, though I don't think he's likely the winner; I also have some like for Super Saver and Calvin Borel...they may have a shot; Devil May Care, a filly in the Derby is interesting...I'd be happy for a sistah to win. Paddy O'Prado is a lovely gray, but one report from earlier today suggested he didn't like the slop at all (and who could blame him?) so he may not run his best over a runny mess on Saturday either. So we're back at the beginning, aren't we?

Quite frankly, I'm more excited by some of the races on Friday, Kentucky Oaks day, and their entrants. Rachel Alexandra has been pointed toward the La Troienne and will have a rematch against Zardana who defeated the HotY a few weeks ago. And Unrivaled Belle is interesting, too, I'll be curious to see how she fares against little Z and Rachel.

All that said, I still love this time of year, the promise of a Triple Crown is alive and the possibilities for all of these talented three-year-olds are fun to ponder. And the good news? Just about anything can happen...hey, the Habs tied up the series with the Caps, that should allow for nearly boundless hope where horses are concerned. I refuse to listen to the trash-talkers and nay-sayers who seem to get a good deal of enjoyment out of tossing about the "not a chance" retorts when a horse's name is thrown into the ring. To be sure they know exponentially more about the odds and entrants than I ever will, but on any given day anything can happen...that's why they run the race. Go with your heart and bet on who you love...and if you can get a great price, so much the better. Just enjoy these wonderful weeks when we get to welcome--albeit temporarily--the rest of the country into the horse racing fold.

Hump day herty gerty...

I had a nice little adventure today that I'll write up later this week...but I wanted to post this trio of random found advertisements. All are from 1920s issues of the New Yorker. 

The first one should be self explanatory as to why it's interesting.

  

Love this little gem of an ad for it's by the by mention of Vuitton Trunks and Service. *sigh*

And finally, it's always nice to be reminded of just how far a little kindness can go. Whether it's toward a fellow human, a hard working horse or any creature--great or small. It's from a column the NYer did in those early days called Why Like New York. 

Here's to kindness writ large and small. 

Just Folks

I'm always a little suspicious of politicians (or other robber barons, captains of  industry, titans, moguls) who blather on about how they are just regular ol' Americans. Despite all appearances to the contrary--let alone common sense--these larger than life and often charismatic figures continue to perpetuate the myth that they are just folks. These creatures will often speak with a certain put-on homespun folksiness to further ingratiate themselves with a portion of the populace who believes vehemently that individuals who have spent too much time book-learnin' are elitist and radical. 

For that segment of the public, their leaders should be someone they'd like to have a beer with; someone with whom they could enjoy a NASCAR race or discuss the good ol' days when women didn't get to vote (let alone work in high-level positions) and other folks knew their place. This crowd likes for things not to change--they'd like everything to just be like it was, or how they thought it was, at the very least.

The predatory just folks politicians have learned their talking points well and know just which hot-button words and ideologies to spew as a means of riling up their already idling mobs. Of course, the mobs don't make the critical thinking leap to the realization that their heroines (and heroes) travel to their little gatherings mostly by Lear Jet and are drinking bottled water with bendy-straws. There is no real consideration given to the fact that very few of these aw-shucks-gee-whizz types are what they seem; that they are, instead, engaging in a very old and very profitable bait-and-switch. 

Proving once again that nothing is really new under the sun, I came upon this wonderful tidbit as I was browsing old New Yorker issues today. The piece below is from the June 13, 1925 issue and was written by Ben Hecht. (If you click on it you can enlarge it for better reading.) It runs in the magazine, right next to a profile of William Jennings Bryan who would die only a few weeks later that year. It's a not too thinly veiled comment on Bryan that beautifully exposes the hypocrisy of the just folks breed of varmints.  

                          

Famous when Barnum was still wondering what peanuts were...

I'm sure it says rather a lot about me that so many of my references and off-hand thoughts come straight out of the movies, and today is no different. There's a great moment toward the end of Casablanca where Captain Renault (Claude Raines) asks where the missing letters of transit were hidden and Rick (Bogey) replies that they were in Sam's piano. Renault responds, "serves me right for not being musical."

My version of that line that is most applicable to my adventures earlier this afternoon would have to be "serves me right for not liking the circus." (As a quick aside, I realllllllly don't like the circus. Clowns in particular I find rather disturbing. I was however, a big fan of Carnivale on HBO and Water for Elephants is among my favorite books...go figure.)

Yesterday I mentioned that there were a few area cemeteries that have lingered on my "to stop" list but I never quite managed to visit. It was as beautiful a spring day as you can hope for in Connecticut, so I decided to check out the Milltown Rural Cemetery outside of Brewster, New York.

I travel this particular back road quite often and the Snow Monkey calls it my own personal Autobahn because it's a very windy rural road with many hills that can be a lot of fun if you know it well enough. Literally, I must have passed by this charming little cemetery a hundred times over the past few years and the one mausoleum that is most prominent always intrigued me. There are some equally prominent obelisks as well, but it is the colonnaded and pedimented mausoleum that I really stopped to have a closer look at.

One of the perks of being new(ish) to an area is that all your discoveries seem pretty exciting--well, that and I'm unusually easy to amuse--so Seth Benedict Howes was a fabulous revelation to me. It was Seth B. Howes whom I always meant to look up and see what he'd done or who he was to have merited such a monument. I'd gone as far as jotting his name down in my little Moleskine notebook and writing firmly, GOOGLE HIM.

None of it happened until today.

I parked my car off to the side of one of the small lanes that wind through the grounds and got out to walk around, working my way up to the Howes' mausoleum. Along the way I passed sections of Crosbys, and a few Barnums. I wasn't overly surprised at the Barnum headstones, after all P.T. Barnum is a native son of nearby Bethel, Connecticut. I don't know that they are relatives of the famous showman, but it should have given my intuition a little nudge toward what I would discover. (P.T. is buried in Bridgeport, Connecticut, at Mountain Grove Cemetery which he himself is said to have laid out.)

As I approached my objective, I stopped to look at the stately obelisk right next to it that also bore the name of Howes. On each side of the base are  lengthy and interesting tributes to members of the Howes family. One side begins with stating that those interred here (Seth B. Howes' parents, Daniel Howes and Ruhamah Reed Howes, among others) are the lineal descendants of Jeremiah Howes, "born on the high seas between England and America." The chiseled panel goes on to pay homage to their forbears and concludes with Until the day break and the shadows flee away.


I now knew who Seth Benedict Howes belonged to, and I knew from the two monuments that this was a prominent local family, but it wasn't until I got home and started to do a little digging that I got the answers to my growing list of questions.

Normal people (and better researchers than I) would have started right off with Google, but I went straight to the NYT. Someone with this kind of memorial was, once upon a time, a high profile somebody, and where better to find that than the Times?

My instinct was right on. Seth Benedict Howes was, in the words of an April 1932 NYT column, "a noted circus man, now dead, who had been famous when P. T. Barnum was still wondering what peanuts were." The column was occasioned by a monthly meeting of the Seth B. Howes Tent of the Circus Fans Association, better known (!) as the New York Chapter of the Circus Fans of America. The guests of honor at the luncheon, held at the Roosevelt Hotel in Manhattan, included Miss Wallenda, a high wire girl, and an ex-clown turned circus writer who recounted a circus visit by J.P. Morgan and President Grover Cleveland in 1892. 

See what I mean by it serving me right for never liking the circus? 

Looking through various sources like Circopedia.org or circushistory.org (who knew?) and the charming Southeast Museum in Brewster, it's pretty clear that Howes really was BIG in circus circles. Yet nothing about the solemn mausoleum of Seth B. Howes suggests his achievements in the world of circuses and entertainment. Born in August of 1815, Howes and his brother Nathan (buried near the aforementioned obelisk) ventured across the Alleghenies and then down to Mobile, Alabama in 1831. While in Mobile they managed to procure a lioness and her two cubs--said to be the first lion cubs exhibited in America. In the 1850s, after a trip to Paris where Howes met Monsieur Franconi, proprietor of a large hippodrome and they decided to start a similar enterprise in NYC. According to Howes' obituary in the May, 1901 NYT, their big show opened at a Roman type hippodrome in Manhattan in May of 1853 on the NW corner of 23rd street and 5th Avenue. Howes is also credited as having worked, along with his brother Nathan, with Hachalaia Bailey's elephant who was among the first elephants in the US. The legendary little person, Tom Thumb and the Siamese twins, Eng and Chang were also part of one of the Howes' tours. He became famous for the manageries he assembled and toured on both sides of the Atlantic.

There seems to be a little discrepancy about whether Howes or Barnum was bigger, etc. (Certainly Barnum was the better showman and is today much more broadly remembered, but Howes was no small character and was one of the wealthiest circus proprietors in the country.) One article notes that Howes managed a circus for Barnum from 1850 to 1853 and another notes the existence of the Howes & Mabie's Circus (in various incarnations as Mabie-Howes Olympic Circus, etc.) from 1841-1846. What is certain, though, is that Howes was a good business man. In addition to his circus tours, he amassed a large fortune in railroad stocks and land near Chicago. His family home, Stonehenge. and his later estate, Morningthorpe, are described as opulent, to say the least, by many sources. Howes retired to Putnam County, New York in 1870. I don't think it's an understatement to call Seth B. Howes the father of the American tented circus.

Seth lived to a ripe old age, 86 years, dying in 1901. His wife, Amy, who was an accomplished circus equestrienne, also lived to her mid 80s before dying in 1927. It is Seth B and Amy M Howes who are interred in the temple-like mausoleum that had called out to me every time I drove by the rural yard. 

                                    

Obviously, this is great local history in Putnam County, NY. To a transplant like me, though, it was a real discovery. I'd venture more than a few of my neighbors know all this, but to me it was all new and exciting...just as it was in October when I "found" the Bells at Kensico Cemetery. 

A couple of odd side notes seem in order for this circus impresario who was among other things a great rider--bareback, acrobatic, classical riding, you name it, he mastered it. Who could have expected to scratch the surface of a circus man and find a real horseman, too?

The surprises contained in Seth B Howes's will... (a pair of little known daughters from his first "relationship" and the true value of his estate...valued roughly at 1-1.5 million dollars in 1901, though the column states there was likely a good deal more in Chicago real estate that had yet to be valued. Also noted was his substantial donation to the Milltown Cemetery and his very explicit instructions for the maintenance of--and lack of intrusion to--his mausoleum.)

Seth Benedict Howes' NYT obit from May of 1901.

Finally, a 1978 tag-sale at Morningthorpe, the Howes estate near Brewster, New York, as reported by the NYT.

Cradle to Grave

I've said it before and I'll say it again...I do love a good cemetery or obituary. I like to think of obituaries as little tiny biographies, highlight reels of past accomplishments and interests. While I don't go to the obits section first like my old piano teacher, Mrs. Mackey did, every now and then I look through the printed obits in the NYT, London Times or Boston Globe. (For the record, Mrs. Mackey was the organist at church as well, so she had to know when she needed to reschedule a lesson because of a funeral gig.)

I found this recent obit in the Boston Globe to be of interest. Janice Snow lived to be nearly 100 and saw so many of the high and low points of the 20th century. She saw the world evolve in airline travel, mechanization, civil rights...the whole gamut of the last 100 years.

There are, I think, real little gems to be found in these overlooked columns of newspapers. Even if the remembrance is someone we knew slightly, often there is a surprise in the person's military experience or history...a tidbit we'd never have known if a thoughtful family member or journalist hadn't brought it to light. And as interesting as the celebrity obituaries are, I'm usually more intrigued with those regular people who have lived across the decades of the past 100 years--their experiences are almost always enlightening. Some were in dangerous and pivotal roles in our various wars, others worked tirelessly on domestic issues (read as raising a family and working hard.) There are the noted scientists, musicians and sports heroes who are largely forgotten, but renew our interest when we read over the highlights of their lives. 

And as for cemeteries, well, just call me a fan. I know, we'll all end up in one sooner or later, but the great monuments and small headstones alike fascinate me. I've had some wonderful times in the cemeteries of Paris, London, Boston and NY. I'd bet most people who are interested in architecture or sculpture are also drawn to some of the incredible works of art that can be found in cemeteries around the world. 

I made a wonderful trip to the Kensico cemetery last fall. Among the highlights there are the graves of Tommy Dorsey and Lou Gehrig...but it was some of the forgotten names, those with grand and interesting monuments that really caught my eye. Here's the blog entry...The Bells of Valhalla. 

Last winter, when I was in Montreal for all the Canadiens celebrations, we of course visited Notre-Dame-des-Neiges cemetery. It was a cold December day and there were snowflakes floating around us...it couldn't have been a more perfect afternoon. Like some of the great American cemeteries, this French-Canadian jewel is making the most of it's spectacular views and surrounds, welcoming visitors and mourners alike. Mount Auburn and Forest Hills are great that way as well sponsoring tours, art events and nature walks. The above photo was taken that afternoon in Montreal, as were the photos below. 

                                       

There are a few small (and some tiny) cemeteries that I've driven by for a couple of years now and just have to stop at some afternoon. One is a 19th century close to the Connecticut-NY border called the Milltown Cemetery. There are a couple of very large above ground mausoleums that are quite spectacular when viewed among the other very quiet stones. Two other 18th century burial grounds are on my more traveled routes and I'm hoping to explore them in the near future, so photos are sure to follow.

The Summer of '78

I’m continually amused and surprised by the vast array of scents, experiences, and sights that can trigger a memory. Whether it’s the oily-carbony smell emanating from railroad tracks that flashes me to a London Underground moment or a fragrant whiff of lilacs that remind me of my maternal grandparent’s home along the Mississippi River in Wisconsin, I’m transported.

Monday as I was working on finishing up some paperwork and just generally picking up around the flat, I had a similar flash of memory. You see, I had As The World Turns on television in the background as I was doing things in the other room. For those of you who have better things to do during the day, ATWT is going off the air this fall, just as Guiding Light did last fall, so they are working up to this finale with a lot of flashbacks and guest cameos. Monday they happened to bring back Julianne Moore who enjoyed a good run in a meaty dual role on the soap before her big move to motion pictures. For the record, Meg Ryan also had her early days on ATWT as Betsy Stewart Andropolous.

While I’m a little sad to see the two soaps I’ve followed (sporadically and rarely, to be fair) go the way of all flesh, this isn’t a eulogy to either program. It’s instead a loving memory of my paternal grandmother, who was a great devotee of both shows.

In July of 1978, when I was but a wee young thing, my home was devastated by a flash flood. We were evacuated and I was taken out of my bed in the middle of the night, with our Calico cat, Mittens, and my Dutch rabbits and bundled off to my Grandma A’s house. For a child of tender years, it was a cross between and major nightmare and an adventure. I would find out the extent of damage to our home by accident—seeing it on the national evening news—as my parents had wisely not been explicit with me as to the level of loss and mess.  It quickly became clear that we’d be spending the summer living with Grandma A until our house could be repaired and made livable again.

While my parents sweated and swore through mud and summer heat and battled the red tape of HUD (FEMA’s unwieldy and mostly useless predecessor) and flood insurance issues, I spent a delightful summer with my grandmother.

Grandma A, the Galloping Grandma as a family friend called her, or even the Galavanting Grandma, was a wonderful companion. We’d go on bike rides around her circle and she’d take me with her when she went to the driving range to practice her golf shots. I still, to this day, play with many of her clubs. I have a few of my own modern clubs, but I love using her fairway woods and wooden driver.  The thwack of a wooden club is so much more aurally pleasing than the hollow ting of a Big Bertha type driver.

Now and then we’d go and get a donut at The Donut Hut and stop by to see how work was going at our house and to see if mom and dad needed anything. We'd listen to Herb Carneal doing the Twins games on WCCO radio in the car--sometimes accompanied by a Dairy Queen. And we’d talk, she’d take me to tennis lessons or to the swimming pool to meet my school friends…she put a lot of her life on hold to see to our needs that summer. She also put up with a kid, a cranky cat, and a few rabbits that she’d never planned on—some of those bunnies ended up with names like Slingshot Sam, so dubbed in honor of his projectile pooping abilities.

On the nights when I’d be anxious about an impending rainstorm (I was a little gun-shy when it came to heavy rain for a year or two post-flood) she’d sing to me—You Are My Sunshine or The Moon Shines Tonight on Pretty Red Wing—until I fell asleep. And if she didn’t sing, she’d recite the poems of Robert Service…The Shooting of Dan McGrew or The Cremation of Sam McGee.

And she liked her stories (both ATWT and Guiding Light—I assume she’d probably listened to them both on the radio and transitioned with them to television) and explained what she could to a young thing like I was. A lot of the drama was beyond me at that age, but I got the gist of it and we’d watch quietly together.

I didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but my grandmother slyly imparted a good deal of wisdom that summer. She’d been a bloomer-wearing girl basketball player back in the early teens and 20s. Her formative years were spent in Red Wing, Wabasha, and Lake City, Minnesota--river towns where swimming and boating were part of daily life. (Lake City, Minnesota, claims itself to be the birthplace of waterskiing.) As a teen herself my grandmother would swim across the Mississippi River at Lake Pepin. Those were the days of ferries between Minnesota and Wisconsin and excursion boats for young ladies and gentleman.

You’d be safe in saying that for most of her life, my Grandma A swam against the current. She liked to do things her way and she always felt more than equal to any man in any room. In her mind there was no reason a girl/woman couldn’t do anything a boy/man could do. I always envision her young self as a cross between Kate Hepburn and Jean Arthur…self assured, athletic, resilient, mouthy when need be, silly, and above all, someone with a huge heart. She was definitely an advocate of just get out there and do it. A good role model in so many ways for a young girl.

We never get enough time with the people we love…and I’d have less than a decade with my grandmother after that summer of 1978, but we packed a lot into those few years. I’ve a mental scrapbook packed to overflowing of moments shared with her.  I smile at the thought of her running into Jack Dempsey and Randolph Scott in the subways of the Mayo Clinic complex where she worked. I mentally wonder how she found the strength to divorce my grandfather as his political career was on the rise. She was a great storyteller with a quick wit and a sharp tongue at times, but she was fiercely loyal as an advocate and a remarkable woman.

As ATWT winds down and fades away, I’m sure I’ll occasionally think of my grandmother and that summer of 1978. I know she’d be watching this last season and she’d probably be surprised at some of the storylines that are featured, but she’d also enjoy seeing the old characters whom I expect she saw a little as old friends.

As she used to toast, in her best Irish brogue…”May you be in heaven and hour before the devil knows you’ve gone!”

Sláinte mhaith, Norma, and thanks for everything, always.

(from the collection of the MN Historical Society: Maiden Rock, Lake Pepin.

Photographer: Martin's Gallery 

Photograph Collection, Carte-de-visite ca. 1865 

Location no. MW1.1L r37 

Negative no. 55668)

“Now the Moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing,

the breeze is sighing, the night birds crying,

for a far'neath his star her brave is sleeping,

while Red Wing's weeping her heart away.”