The Ruptured Appendix

One summer morning I was outside with my grandfather, Bill Knutz, tying the dog out, when he told me that he had gotten very sick when he was 11.  His appendix had ruptured and he was rushed to the hospital for surgery.  He never said if he'd been sick prior to that or had any warning whatsoever, and he never said exactly how long he'd had to stay in the hospital, only that it was a "long time."  Keeping in mind that this was before the era of antibiotics, it's probably nothing short of a miracle that he survived.

Above: Will, Willie and Howard Knutz on their farm SW of Huron, S.D.

What I know of the story starts with Sprague Hospital, one of Huron's early hospitals, located as many of us will remember at the corner of 5th and Dakota avenue.  Although this was not the first location for the hospital, it was the most prominent and the last location.  It was run by Dr. Buell H. Sprague.

"Willie's" appendix ruptured about Oct. 23, 1923.  He was taken to Sprague Hospital by his father, Will, while his mother, Elvirta, stayed home with the other children: Howard (9), Richard (5), and Mabel (4 months).  The family lived on a farm on the Virgil Road near McIlvaine's place, about 10 miles from the hospital.  No doubt it was the longest trip Will had ever made to town.

No one can tell the story like someone who was there - and for that, we turn to his mother Elvirta's diary, graciously shared by Aunt Mabel and cousin Bonnie.

Oct. 23: Willie was operated on for appendicitis at 10:30 o'clock this evening at Sprague Hospital. Will went with him and stayed with him.  Was in the operating room while they operated on him.

Oct. 24: I and the other 3 children went in to see Willie this forenoon and Will had me and the baby to stay with Willie and he and the 2 boys came home.

Oct. 25:  Will and the boys came in to see Willie.  Willie is getting along alright but at nights he raves and tries to get out of bed and so I have to watch him close.  The Drs. says there is some ether in his system yet and after it is out he won't do that way.

Oct. 26: He surely has some terrible dreams and times.  He imagines that we are trying to hurt or kill him, that Richard runs over him with the baby's cab and has it full of rocks.  He calls me a darn fool.  Will and the boys came in again today.  I am staying at this hospital night and day.  I sleep in a chair, Will brought baby's cab for her to sleep in.  Mrs. George Peterson washes for the baby.

Oct. 27:  Will and the boys came in again today.  Willie doesn't rave so of nights now.  He is doing fine.

Oct. 28: Will and the boys were in today.  Willie is the same.

Oct. 29:  Will and the boys were in today.  Willie is the same.  Lulu comes up every evening, we go out to supper together.

Oct. 30:  Willie is the same.  Will and the boys were in again.

        Oct. 31:  Willie is the same.  Will and the boys were in today.  The nurses had a Halloween party last night.

Nov. 1:  Willie is improving right along.  Will and the boys were in again.  He can eat jello, soups, custards, toast and ice cream.

Nov. 2:  Will didn't come in today.  Willie just feels fine.

Nov. 3:  Willie is the same.  I came home last night. 

At this point, Elvirta had spent 11 days and nights at the hospital with Willie, with a four-month-old baby to care for as well.  There is one last entry in her diary for this time period:

Nov. 4:  We all went in to see Willie this afternoon.  Mama, Papa, and Maudie [Elvirta's parents and sister of Carthage, S.D.] were there.  Willie sure gets lots of gifts.  He has apples, grapes, candies, gum, oranges, grape juice, pop-gun, box of trinkets, books of all kinds, Halloween horn, colors, pencils, pencil sharpener, knife, rings, tablets.

Willie put the colors, pencils, and tablets to good use during his long stay.  He drew pictures and wrote letters to pass the time.

Of the letters he wrote to his classmates, the one above is my favorite.  Apparently when it came time to write to Lillian, his future wife, he was speechless.

Exactly how long he had spent in the hospital is probably lost to the past at this point.  But if there's a moral to the story, it's this:  Write down your stories.  Tell your grandkids, even if they don't seem interested at the time - more is being absorbed than you know.  Nearly 100 years later, I'm glad Elvirta took the time to document this part of Bill's life, and that family members all shared what they had or knew of it.  Thank you to you all.

The house on the Virgil Road

 Pictured below is Elvirta Knutz and her two young sons, Willie and Howard.  They are pictured at their home on the Virgil Road SW of Huron, S. D.  Attached to the photo is a sketch she made of the home, with a note on it that reads, "Our home by McIlvaine's - we moved here in Mar. 1917 and bought it that June.  Lost it and moved away in March 1925 to Wolsey."  

While they lived here, two of their children were born, and one died.  And their son Willie met his future wife, Lillian Christensen, a neighbor girl.

Above: the house when I was there in 2016.

The 47th Anniversary of Will and Elvirta Knutz

 An excerpt from the journal of Elvirta Graves Knutz (mother of Bill Knutz)

1957, March 30, Saturday

47 years ago today we were married and such a day as it was; it rained, hailed, wind blew hard and it blizzarded all before noon but that did not stop me; Delbert took me to the depot and waited with me till the train came; I had to go to Huron (from Esmond) to meet Will. Henry Thompson and his girl Stella were there to be married at the same time we were; we were witnesses for each other. We ate our dinner in a hotel which is now torn down and there is a gas station and truck parking lot there now. After dinner we were married and did some shopping and drove home; we used horse and buggy those days, had to drive about 7 miles; got home I got my first meal for us; which was (as I remember) bacon and eggs and potatoes. To night 47 years later 3 of our children and their children had very delicious supper at Dorothy’s; they each brought some portion of the meal. Dorothy roasted a turkey and chicken with dressing; Mabel scalloped some potatoes; Lillian brought corn and peas; there were cakes besides Dorothy baked a 4-tiered angel food, had swans to hold each layer and frosted it so pretty; Mabel helped her with it; Lulu brought a delicious jell-o fruit salad. Everett was there too. He gave us a very pretty card with a dollar bill inside. Later in the evening we had cake and coffee; oh I was so full. Bill took our pictures (dad and I) cutting the cake and of me feeding him a bit.

A Love Story that Lives On

     Bill Knutz and Lillian Christensen knew each other nearly their whole lives.  As children, their parents' farms were located around the corner from each other, less than a mile apart.  The children of both families attended the same rural school and formed close friendships throughout the years.  Bill and Lillian's brother Ray were best of friends, but it was Lillian really caught Bill's attention.

     Bill loved to tell their grandchildren the story of how they "laid claim to each other" in the third grade.  Bill's route to school took him past the Christensen farm.  One morning, Bill and his brother Howard, in their horse-drawn buggy, ran into Lillian and Raymond Christensen in their buggy. A race ensued, but unfortunately, the wheels of the two buggies became entangled and locked together.  Needless to say, the next day (and every day thereafter), Bill and Howard could be seen riding a single horse to school  The same thing held true for Lill and Ray.  But down the road a distance they would do a switch; Ray and Howard would end up on one horse, and Bill and Lillian on the other.

At Sunnyside school, early 1920s, Bill Knutz and Lillian Christensen (marked with X)

     On one occasion, when the kids were in third grade, Bill got sick and missed a few days of school.  The teacher asked Lillian to sit next to him and show him the lesson.  Bill said, "I got a feeling all through my body, like I wanted to put my arm around her waist and give her a hug."

     One of Bill's favorite stories was when Lillian wanted to see if he was an honorable fellow, or a snitch.  One day at school, a girl named Harriet dropped her mitten.  Ray grabbed it and hung it on a nail in the barn.  The teacher asked Lillian who did it, and she said it was Bill.  Bill did not "squeal" on Ray, even though he had to spend noon hours inside all week.  And he married her anyway!

     As teenagers, Lillian moved to town and took a job as a nanny.  Bill worked as a farm hand for Mr. Peterson, whose daughter had a crush on Bill and would stop at nothing to get him.  Lettters and messages for Bill would not be delivered and she tried everything she could to get Bill's attention focused away from Lillian and on to her.  At Christmas Bill was invited to Christensen's for a Christmas Day celebration.  He had to borrow a horse from Mr. Peterson to get there.  His daughter was furious when she found out, and even more so when he went back to Christensen's to celebrate New Year's Day!  She told him he should spend the day with her, and asked, "What if Daddy won't let you have the pony?" to which he replied, "I'll walk then."

     A few summers later, Bill and Ray went to Nebraska to work as farm laborers.  Bill diligently saved his pay, but on the way back they stopped at a pawn shop and he found a saxophone.  He said he had always wanted to play one, and despite no musical training and no ability to read music, he decided to spend the $10 and buy it.  He also came back home with a black onyx and diamond ring for Lillian.

   Bill and Lillian had planned to get married for quite a while before it actually happened.  This was during the Great Depression, and their primary problem was a lack of money.  But they finally decided to go ahead anyway, and on Dec. 28, 1935, they jumped in Bill's car and drove to nearby Miller, where their friends Henry and Grace Speirs witnessed their wedding.  Lillian had a government job that paid better than farming, and because jobs were saved for single women, they did not tell anyone of their marriage.  However, when Bill's car was spotted overnight down the street from Lillian's apartment, to save their good names they were forced to make an announcement, and Lillian had to resign from her job.

     And the rest is history.  There were good times, and there were bad times, but they stuck it out together.  What stuck with me as a child was how respectfully they treated each other even when they disagreed; how Grandpa bent over backwards to take care of his wife, family and home, and how Grandma did all she could to take care of Grandpa and was fiercely protective of him.  Though both of them are gone now, it's a love story that lives on.

Lillian and Marie

There's few better blessings than a long-term friendship.  From at least 1916, Lillian Christensen and Marie Morse were friends, with the Morse family living on the next block over on Beach street.  The Morses eventually moved from Huron, but the families still got together.  When Lillian passed away, Marie's name and address were in her address book, though they probably did not get together in person frequently if at all.

Below, Lillian and Marie through the years - top, about 1916; middle, 1927.

A Silent Testament to a Story Nearly Forgotten

The photo to the left is of my grandparents, Bill and Lillian Knutz, taken sometime prior to 1957, the year their farm home burned to the ground.  I love the picture, but one of the things I enjoy just as much is looking around at the background of these old photos.  These things tell the story of their lives, day to day.  I see the radio, where Grandma first discovered soap operas.  I see a starfish hanging on the wall, most likely something Lillian's father in California sent her (he liked to spend time swimming in the ocean and collecting shells).  But what really caught my interest was the two wooden leaf-shaped shelves.   I know my mother made these in fifth grade at age 12, as my grandmother told me, and also documented with a handwritten note taped to the back.


Taking a closer look at one of the shelves tells the real story.  Notice the burned wood along the upper edges of the shelf.  This was from the fire that consumed their home and most everything in it, in May of 1957.  Oh, the stories this little shelf could tell!  As the house was burning, the family ran in and out trying to salvage as many of their possessions as possible, until the fire department arrived on the scene and took over.  The firemen pushed grandma's piano out of the smoky house, which meant a lot to them - when they weren't busy farming, they had a dance band to bring in a few more dollars.  A fireman was able to grab one of the little leaf shelves off the wall, but not the other.  Much of the rest of their things, including clothes, housewares and furniture, were destroyed.  The starfish was destroyed.  The radio was destroyed. But this little leaf shelf lives on.

It now hangs on our wall, with a small picture of Jesus sitting on it, just as it did in my grandparents' house in town.  But the blackened edges of the wood testify to a story long, long ago and mostly forgotten.

The Cistern From Hell

Few things terrified me as a kid like the thought of the cistern out at the farm.  We used to love to go out there with Grandpa and search around the concrete foundation where the house once stood, before it was burnt to a cinder by a fateful bolt of lightning.  We'd look for remnants of Uncle Don's melted marble collection or whatever other treasures might have been thrown from the burning house in an effort to save what they could.  But every step around that concrete foundation was made cautiously, after an over-abundance of careful looking, lest we fall in the dreaded cistern.

Grandma, besides being small in stature, was outnumbered by us so she'd frequently tell us "little white lies" to help enforce the rules - except with the cistern - besides being true to a certain degree, she went out of her way to tell us what would happen if we didn't heed her stern warnings.  "Don't get too close, or you'll fall in!"  "The ground around the cistern is soft and it'll suck you right in!"  "You'll be stuck in a small little dark space with nothing but water!" and the worst - "We might not be able to get you out!"  It's still hard to even think of all the things she told us about the cistern without a little panic setting in.  I didn't even know what a cistern was, but I didn't care.  I wanted no part of it.  It was a hole right down to hell itself, as far as I was concerned.

A few years ago, I was looking at an old photo album with my mother and we ran across this photo - and she said, "There's my grandma holding my sister, there's Dorothy, there's me, there's Teddy the dog, and the cistern..."  My blood ran cold and my heart rate skyrocketed.  I had not thought about the cistern since I was about 10 years old.  I was horrified at how close they were all standing to it!  And how near it was to the house!  And the dirt - the soft dirt around it!  And no one seems to be terrified!

Once I settled down, I fully understood why Grandma said what she said.  My first thought was, "I wonder what it looks like under that board!?"  Which is probably why someone put a heavy rock on it and started telling tall tales.  Love ya, Grandma, and I miss you every single day.

And if you believe that, I have a bridge I’d like to sell you…

[Note: George Knutz was my great grandfather's brother]

The year was 1906.  The place was Sedalia, Missouri.  George Knutz, ill after a dog bite, was taken by the night train to Dr. L. E. Stanhope in nearby Nevada, Missouri.  There were plenty of doctors in Sedalia, but none like Dr. Stanhope.  He had a madstone.

George Knutz

Knutz, a carman on the Third street line in Sedalia, was bitten by a local dog known only as “Tramp” on Friday.  By Monday night, his symptoms worsened to the point where he and friend Fred Koyl took the Monday evening train to Dr. Stanhope, who, for $35, would treat him with the controversial stone.

A “madstone,” as the name implies, was used to treat bites that might potentially transmit rabies, or “hydrophobia” as it was also known.  These porous stones were found in the stomachs of cud-chewing animals, but not all of these stones were created equally.  A stone from a white deer was said to be more effective than a stone from a brown deer, for instance.   The stone was boiled in sweet milk until the milk turned green, indicating all poison was removed from the stone.  It was placed hot on an open wound; if the wound had scabbed over, it was re-opened first.  The stone would then adhere to the wound, and draw out any “poisons” that might be present.  When the poison was gone from the wound, or when the madstone was full, it would drop off, and then it could be re-boiled to start the process all over again until the patient was purged of whatever poison had been in the wound.

The process had to be followed exactly, and there were additional caveats.  If the owner of the stone tried to sell it, it would negate the healing power; also, the patient had to come to the owner of the stone, and not vice versa.  Many folklore testimonials can be found attributing miracles to these madstones, while others suggested it was simply placebo, although no amount of placebo can stop rabies.

George Knutz had the madstone attached to the calf of his leg for nine and a half hours, afterward feeling so well that he returned to working his streetcar route on Friday morning.  Dr. Stanhope told him if he had waited another day, his outcome may have been very different.

“There are a great many so-called madstones that are bogus, and, of course, worthless,” stated Dr. Stanhope.  “I have a madstone that has been thoroughly tested, which I apply to bites at a reasonable price, with perfect confidence that it is a sure cure for hydrophobia.”  Besides his usual fee of $10 for the first hour plus $5 for each additional hour, Dr. Stanhope was offering stock in his madstone for the price of $1, which entitled the whole family the lifetime privilege to have the stone applied free of charge for all poisonous bites.

There was no word on the health of the stray dog, Tramp, who bit Mr. Knutz.

Carroms - The Game of OW!!

"It's your turn."   "Okay ... OW!!!!  Let's play checkers instead!"

And so went our games of Carroms at our grandparents' house.  Most of the time when Grandpa would play a game with us, it involved the Carrom board, either playing our own version of the game on one side of the board, or flipping it over and using the other side for a game of checkers.  We never did know the real rules for Carroms but instead would play it like billiards, only on a board.   The little pool cues that came with the set disappeared long before we started playing with it (or did Grandma decide the last thing she needed was three wild children running around with little sticks?) so we'd "snip" the carroms with our fingers into the little net pockets.  The first game usually wasn't bad, but after that our fingernails really, really hurt.

I never thought about where the carrom board came from, only that it was always there, and still is (somewhere).   Last week, while cleaning out a closet full of games, I found a rusted coffee can filled with the old wooden carroms, and I started wondering how this relic made its way into our family.  A few days later, I was going through family photos and there it was, in the background of several photos from Christmas of 1958!   It was perched under the Christmas tree, all pretty and new, just waiting for someone to try it out.  And later, apparently someone did - my aunt June and her boyfriend (and future husband), Everett, were playing a game of checkers on it in one photo (I wonder if Grandma took the sticks away from them, too...)

Christmas, 1958.  If you peek behind Everett, under the Christmas tree, you can see the Carrom board in all its sparkly newness.

June and Everett checking out the new game.

I will have to remember to drag out the Carrom board when my granddaughters are visiting, just to see how long they put up with "snipping" those hard little carroms around the board.  I'm guessing just once.

Independence Day, Great Depression Style

In the southern part of Beadle county, South Dakota, Cain Creek meanders through the slightly hilly terrain of Clifton township.  Nearly 50 miles long, the creek enters western Beadle county and winds its way southeasterly, emptying into the James River.  A small portion of the creek just barely caught the northwest quarter of Will Knutz's 80 acre farm, and as my mother remembers, was down a rolling hill from their house.   In the weeks before the Independence Day holiday in 1933, someone looked at that creek and had a great idea...

The dot inside the red circle shows the location of the farmhouse of the Will and Virta Knutz family, and its proximity to Cain Creek.  The road just to the left of the red circle is Highway 37, south of Huron.

Neighbors and friends gathered to build a dam on the creek, forming what was said to have been an excellent, and very popular, swimming hole.  The Knutz children, among others, spent their days enjoying a refreshing swim and the company of others there for the same purpose.  Young Richard Knutz, just 16 at the time, "just about lived in that pool," said his mother, Virta.  Will Knutz gave his blessing to the project, on the condition that everyone pick up after themselves before they left.   A small baseball diamond was added as well.

A group of young swimmers at the Knutz swimming hole

The swimming hole was the site of an incredible 1933 Independence Day party.   On July 3, some of the ball players showed up and "fixed up" the diamond, cleaned out the tree grove, and "penned off a corner of the pool for the little kids to swim in," Bill Knutz wrote.  And the Knutz family prepared for the onslaught of guests the following day.

Swimmers - from left, Bill Knutz, Lillian Christensen (who would later become his wife), and second from right is either Howard or Richard Knutz. 

It was estimated that about 1,000 people showed up for the festivities, starting with a "kitten" ball game for the youngsters, commencing at 10 am and stopping at 12:30 for a picnic lunch.  Afterward was the women's ball game, and then the races - first the younger kids, then the young men's race, the married couples race, and lastly the "fat man's" race.   Cash prizes were awarded for first and second places for each race.  The "big" baseball game followed the races, and it was estimated that as many as 90 cars were parked there at that time.   Pop and ice cream were sold; horseshoes, and of course, swimming, were all-day events.  It was noted by Bill Knutz that there were so many people in the pool that the water was nearly to the top of the dam.  All the neighbors for miles around were there, "and then some," noted by one of them, Miss Edna Christensen.

After dark, another neighborhood acquaintance, Mr. Baum, hosted a barn dance for which Bill Knutz and His Harmonians supplied the music.

After the Fourth of July party, the swimming hole continued to be a hot spot for the rest of the summer, with cars coming and going all day, "up until midnight," said Mrs. Knutz.  But the following spring, when the snow began to melt and the rains came, the dam washed out.  The neighborhood came together again to rebuild it, and they enjoyed another summer of swimming.  But the following spring, in 1935, the waters proved too much for the dam and again, it wouldn't hold.  This time, it was not reconstructed.  The days of the Knutz swimming pool were over.

Cain Creek today, photo courtesy of Google Earth.

Sources:
Photos
Elvirta Knutz's Life Story, as written by herself
Letters of Bill Knutz to Lillian Christensen
Letter from Edna Christensen to Lillian Christensen
Huron Daily Plainsman, 20 Feb 1966
List of Playing Dates for Bill Knutz and His Harmonians
1949 Beadle County Plat Map, R. C. Booth Enterprises
Betty Hammer
Google Earth
http://cartoongraphics.blogspot.com/

The Summer of 1934

When Elizabeth O'Neal suggested a Genealogy Blog Party, I was all in.   (Thanks, Elizabeth!) The theme for the opening party was to create a time machine to visit an ancestor.  I truly did not feel there was any one ancestor in particular that stood out over the others, so I decided to sit this one out.

Then, later on in the week, I remembered The Diary...

Yes, it's a diary with the whole summer ripped out of the center.  Not ripped, exactly, more like surgically removed with a sharp instrument.    I immediately knew that if I could get that time machine, I'd zip back to 1934 and see what was going on for myself.  I'd try to become my grandmother's new best friend and confidante.

Yes, that diary belonged to my grandmother, Lillian Christensen, and anyone who knew her knew she could keep a secret, and take it to the grave if she had to.  And obviously that's what she chose to do with the Summer of 1934.  That block of time has been neatly removed from her life as if it never happened - May 5 through August 31.  Whatever she was up to, she didn't want anyone to know about it.  But why didn't she just destroy the whole diary, instead of leaving this blatant gaping hole in the middle?

Because she wanted to torment me for being so nosey, that's why.

My grandfather often told the story of how he and Lillian "claimed each other" in third grade (or was it second?)  Once they laid eyes on each other, the rest was history, he said, neither of them ever looked at anyone else.  Grandma never said anything while he was telling the story of his youthful little heart going pitter-patter at the mere sight of her.  But then, Grandma's lack of involvement wouldn't have been surprising.  He was the storyteller, she was the practical one.   I never gave it a second thought... until now.

All I really knew of Grandma's young adulthood was that she was a nanny for awhile, then worked in the office of a government agency, and at some point had her own apartment.   I had no timeline for any of these events.

Thanks to old newspapers, city directories, and the diary, I've been able to put together some of the story.  Her diary begins in January, with her living with the Hansowitz family, caring for the children and helping out around the house.  She is dating my grandfather at the time, and makes references to what they're doing on the weekends.  She was also doing office work during the day, and may have been working through a government program, as she mentions being shuffled from the court house to the post office and back again.  And that's where the diary ends.

She must have gotten a permanent position at the U. S. Crop Allotment Office shortly thereafter.  In early June of 1934, Huron Construction Co. placed the following advertisement in the local newspaper:

Lillian Christensen is listed in the 1934 Huron City Directory with an address of 425 Wisconsin av. SW.

Lillian, on the roof of her apartment.

So, I know exactly where she worked, and approximately when she started there.  I know exactly where her apartment was, and I know her job must have been permanent or she never would have gotten her own place.  (Yes, Grandma, I did listen to everything you told me on that subject).  And while I still don't know exactly what she was up to during those missing four months, I'm getting a pretty good idea of the situation.  Oh, did I mention that the letters she'd written back and forth with my grandfather have a huge gap after April of 1934?

I'm going to keep going through her papers and letters looking for clues I overlooked.  And I WILL figure this out, if there's any way possible.

I'll bet she's terribly amused by all this...

The Bill Knutz Orchestra

      Bill Knutz and his bands supplied the Beadle County, South Dakota area with dance music for more than 20 years.  The first band, “Bill Knutz and His Harmonians,” was documented as early as the summer of 1934[1], and consisted of Bill playing saxophone, his brothers Howard on bass fiddle and Richard on drums, Raymond Christensen on fiddle and trumpet, and Ray’s beautiful sister Lillian, on piano.  Lillian would eventually become Bill’s wife.  Ray and Lillian’s brother Clarence, who played clarinet, joined them sometimes as well.  Bill’s mother, Elvirta Knutz, handled their calendar for them.

     Howard and Richard Knutz both eventually left for the west coast, and Raymond went off to college, so Bill reformed the band around himself and Lillian, with various other local musicians.  The new band was called “Bill Knutz and His Orchestra,” and they continued to play at barn dances as well as regular venues.[2]

     His daughter, Betty, described the dances:  “Most barn dances were usually quite crowded!  Depending on the popularity of the bands, but most of them took turns at different places each week.  The crowds were ordinarily quite sizable since most everyone did bring their kids, baby sitters and grandparents.  Everybody came!  Teenagers came with their parents to learn to dance.  Other kids depending on their ages brought their toys, pillows, etc., whatever they wanted to play with.  And then they found a corner to fall asleep in!  Some of those little guys were pretty good dancers, too!”[3]  During the years of the Great Depression, barn dances were affordable ways to have some fun.

     Occasionally, younger members of the family would get a chance to showcase their own musical talents.  Bill’s younger sister Dorothy, and his daughters Betty and June would sometimes join the band to sing.[4]

     Nearly 120 tunes are among the several set lists played by the band.  When, exactly, Bill Knutz and His Orchestra stopped playing isn’t clear, but one of the songs on that list was from 1953, making their run at least 20 years.

---

[1] See newspaper ad at top left, from the ad for the dance at Honrath’s barn, from the Daily Plainsman (Huron, South Dakota) 16 August 1934, pg. 5

[2] The newspaper ad for Albert Baum’s barn dance was from the Daily Plainsman of 17 June 1937.  The ad for the VFW Club was from the Daily Plainsman of 31 Dec 1948, pg. 5.

[3] Interview with Bill and Lillian’s daughter Betty, about 2002.

[4] Betty also noted that her sister June played Hawaiian guitar and sang second soprano, while Betty had a Spanish guitar and sang Alto.  Bill’s sister Dorothy sang soprano.  The three girls would get together and practice songs.

The Family Doghouse

If I were going to post about special memories of my grandparents on Grandparent's Day, I wouldn't know where to begin.  There's the Ugly Baby, Grandma's adventures with Contact Paper, swiping her True Story magazines, making Christmas ornaments, my love affairs with her double boiler, serving bowl, and sewing table, the unthinkable things she used to do to my hair, and of course, the lies she told us regularly. But when Thomas MacEntee of Geneabloggers posted a photo of the old Family Doghouse, I knew I'd found my topic.

After a trip to Arizona, my grandparents came back with this gem that they'd picked up from a tourist shop in New Mexico, probably around 1970.  Grandpa hung it from the kitchen wall, and the fun began.  My brother, sister and I took turns putting each other in the "place of honor", getting mad at each other, and pitching fits until we discovered the perfect enemy - Grandpa!  He acted so indignant about being in the dog house that we quickly forgot about each other.  This lasted for quite awhile, until one rainy morning when he commented how glad he was to be in the doghouse so he wasn't getting rained on like we were.  He later told me the looks on our faces was priceless, and it was probably the first time we'd ever been speechless, all three of us, at one time!

They were fantastic grandparents, and we were blessed to live so close and spend so much time with them.  They were such positive influences on our lives, and a lot of fun to boot.

The Old Table and the Wild Hair

Yesterday morning, I had my husband pull my grandparents’ old dining room table from the back of the garage, where it has been sitting for some time.  I always intended to refinish it, but the fact that I don’t know the first thing about the process kept me in procrastination mode.  I thought perhaps I could clean it up and put it into service again, but seeing its condition made me angry and very sad at the same time.  Grandma took good care of it while she was alive, but after that it was slowly destroyed. Splatters of dried paint, and a thin coat of glue and glitter covered both the top and the beautiful ornate pedestal base.  I realized that no amount of “cleaning it up” was going to make any difference.  At that point, I got the Wild Hair…

Grandma originally got this table around 1957-1958, after their home on the farm burned down and they moved to town.  She very rarely bought anything new, so I assume the table was second-hand when she bought it.  It was the center of every important (and unimportant) event in our family for the next ~40 years.

It held my parents’ wedding cake…

It held my Aunt’s wedding cake…

It held a squirming 1 year old and all her presents…

It held my Grandparents’ 25th anniversary cake…

It was the centerpiece of my Grandmother’s Card Club meetings…

And more birthday cakes…

And company from far away…

New Years’ celebrations…

And so many delicious Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners were served from it. 

And it holds so many other memories for which pictures only exist in my memory and in my heart… Memories which served to fuel that Wild Hair to which I referred earlier.  The next thing I knew, it had been stripped and sanded -

and today, I hesitantly made a decision on the stain, and got busy -

I am hoping by this time next week, it’s sitting in my dining room ready for Generation #6 to begin making memories.

Mom!! Grandma took away my Cleavage!!

Yes, I did.  I got a cute picture of my granddaughters, and one of the older ones was inadvertently (I'm hoping), showing a little more cleavage than Old Grandma thought necessary.  Ten minutes with Photoshop and things are good, at least from my perspective.  If I was a little better skilled with the program, it wouldn't have taken me that long, but who cares?  In the end, I did what a grandma needs to do.

As I was working, I thought about my own grandmother, Lill.  She was the original Photoshop Master, and she never went anywhere near a computer.  Her method of choice was Contact Paper.  Remember that stuff? That wonderful-but-cheesy sticky paper that you could use inside your kitchen cabinets and drawers, on tabletops, or wherever you needed a quick and cheap "makeover."  What a feeling of success when installation went smoothly, and whatever you were sticking it to was totally transformed... and what a feeling of exasperation if you weren't careful and the adhesive side stuck to something it wasn't meant to.

Grandma took Contact Paper a step further.  Sitting in her living room one afternoon, I saw a new picture of my cousin and her little boy hanging on the wall.  The background was lovely - daisies!  I remarked about what a nice picture it was, and she had me look at it closer.  The daisies were covering my cousin's ex-boyfriend!  Grandma had painstakingly cut out these flowers from Contact Paper and strategically placed them, and the result was actually good!  Looking closer at the other photos on the wall, I noticed another where the divorced spouse had been "flowered-over."  This phrase became a part of our family's legacy, as spouses were jokingly threatened with being flowered-over from that point on.

I kind of shudder when I think about what Grandma might have done with a computer and Photoshop.  Ex-husbands and wives would be gone from the family photos in a millisecond; that grandson with the long, shaggy hair would gotten a respectable haircut; eye makeup would have been toned down.

And I take comfort in the fact that none of *her* granddaughters would have sported any cleavage either.

My Granny’s Love for Her Granny

This blog post was inspired by Amy Johnson Crow 's "52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks" challenge.  Learn more at her blog.

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The pictures to the left are of the gravesite of Alvilda Monsen, my great-great grandmother, in Riverside cemetery near Huron, South Dakota.  The humble gravestone is engulfed by irises, all from a couple of small clumps my grandmother, Lillian, planted there many years ago.  Alvilda was born and raised in Norway, the wife of a fisherman.  Her husband’s fishing boat was caught in a storm at sea, and he never returned.  Alvilda had a difficult time providing for her three children, but they got by.  Her oldest daughter, Ella, came to America in 1904 to her paternal uncle in South Dakota.  One by one, as the family members crossed the ocean to a new life, he opened his heart and home to them, helping them to

learn English and find employment.  Ella worked as a housekeeper in Huron, and soon after married and began raising her own family.  Her younger brother and sister eventually followed Ella to the United States, but Alvilda stayed in Norway.   Finally, in 1915 at the age of 54, Alvilda went to South Dakota to Ella’s home, where she and my grandmother Lillian spent many hours together.   Lillian was 3 when Alvilda made her home with them, and was 13 when her granny died of liver disease.

Every time I see these irises, I wonder if Lillian thought about how much she missed her grandmother as she dug the holes and placed the bulbs around the marker, perhaps remembering things they had done together.  Seeing the flowers that my grandmother lovingly planted on her own grandmother’s grave warms my heart.  I wish I could do the same for Lillian.

This is Where…

Back in 2006, we took a trip back to my grandparents’ home in South Dakota.  The last of them, my grandfather, passed away in 1996, and my mother continued on there for another 9 years before moving in with us in another state.  The house sat vacant.  It had seen better days – wonderful days – of lots of family chatter, savory aromas from the kitchen...  it was a safe haven where love and protection permeated the entire house.  Everything good about life I learned in that house.  And now we were going back one last time to pack things up and to say goodbye.  Take a tour with me, if you will.

This is where I would start to get excited – coming around the corner, seeing the warm light coming from the kitchen window.  The lilacs are lovey now, Grandma would have liked them; but they did not hide the house back then.  When we were dropped off in the early morning hours of winter, I could almost feel the warmth from the open oven door and the smell of hot chocolate radiating out the window with the light.

This is where I’d watch the squirrels clamoring to get to the squirrel feeder as Grandpa restocked it every day. And from the outside, this is where Grandma and I would wave to each other as I was leaving.  Every time I left her house, except once, she was at that window; and every time I’ve left that house since her death more than 20 years ago, I could still see her standing there, smiling and waving at us.

This is where I’d stand and contemplate – contemplate if the wonderful things stored in the attic were worth risking my very life to get to.  Yes, the attic was full of mysterious things both good and bad.  Boxes of old clothes, makeup samples from my mother’s time as an Avon lady, old toys… and monsters, for sure.  Lots of monsters.  Plus, Grandma told me, if I stepped in just the right place I’d fall down in between the walls, and “even Grandpa won’t be able to get you out.”  It worked.   Even now, I get a little chill down my spine at this sight.

This is where I sometimes slept when I spent the night there.  It was a tiny second bedroom with a magical trundle bed unlike anything I had ever seen.  Grandma would put a blanket on top of the mattress to make it more snuggly, and my sister and I would curl up under a big gray blanket with big red strawberries embroidered all over it.

This is where the black rotary dial phone sat, neatly in the little nook between the kitchen and the dining room; and where my grandmother would pull up a kitchen chair every night at 9:30, waiting for her mother-in-law to make her nightly “check in” call.

And, one more, if you don’t mind…

This is where I’d watch Grandpa walk in the morning, dressed in his overalls, and he'd back his blue and white car out of the garage.  He’d put his lunch pail in, wave goodbye, and head westward to his farm where chores awaited.  I miss these days.  We are now raising our first generation of the family who never knew this place, and never knew these people.  I suppose we are now the ones whose responsibility it is to make the memories…