From Pedestrian to Motor Vehicle Operator: My First Car

Subtitled: “If you don’t like my driving, stay off the sidewalk.”

I guess no matter what generation you belong to, as teenagers, we all felt the same as we gawked with pride at our first cars.  No matter what the old pile of nuts and bolts really looked like, what the eyes saw was filtered by the heart, with a touch of hormones, and the end product was a sleek, mean, speed demon that would be the envy of all those pimply-faced pedestrians as it zipped past.

I was a mere fourteen years old when my father found a car in the classified ads of the local newspaper.  I wasn’t sure why he decided I needed a car at that tender age, but wasn’t about to argue.  We went over to see it, and my heart stopped.  There it was.  A 1967 Ford Galaxy 500 hard-top convertible, in Robin’s Egg Blue, with black interior.  It instantly became the car of my dreams, and after discovering it currently belonged to one of the most popular older girls in school, I was certain it was not my destiny.

I spent the next four months behind the driver’s wheel of that incredible piece of machinery, savoring every blissful moment, even if it was locked in the garage the whole time.  I had a countdown going until my 15th birthday, when I would get the keys and permission to drive back and forth to my friend’s house, six blocks away.

I spent the next two years practically living in that car – I bought an 8-track tape player, my friends sewed Robin’s Egg Blue and Black pillows for the back seat, and the car even had a name, which I won’t share.  Ok, it was “Growler”.  We spent our Saturday afternoons driving around our little town seeing who else was driving around our little town.  Everyone pitched in a buck or two for gas as they got in the car, and oftentimes I made enough money for gas for the whole week, plus a Diet Coke or two, but I never told them.

I’ve had many cars in the 35 years since Growler was retired, and I’ve not been quite that excited about any of them, nor do I anticipate it ever happening.  For it’s not just a First Car, it’s a rite of passage, and it’s One Per Customer.

The Virtue of Perseverance

Scan the front page.  Flip it.  Scan the back page.  Put it back in the binder and take the next page out.  Repeat.  I am up to Scan #245, about 2/3 of the way through the first of two binders of papers.  When I have them all scanned, I’ll start reading and transcribing.  I can hardly wait.

You see, these are the writings of my great grandmother, Virta, who had the beautiful lace curtains in the old farmhouse.  These journal entries span from 1956 to 1967, and as I scan each page, I catch snippets of her life – all of our lives – surfacing for just a moment, to tease me about what comes after the scanning.

From a trip to town to Montgomery Ward’s, to a vacation in Oregon to see one of her sons, it’s all here.  Illnesses… the destruction of my grandparents’ house by lightning… company stopping over… their retirement from the farm… it’s all come past my scanner this evening.  And I know what’s coming – the birth of their first great grandchild (me) – grandsons going off to war – and the death of her husband - and so much more interspersed between the major events of her life.

I’m tempted to stop the scanning and just dive right into devouring it, but I saw what happened to my mother when she did just that – we didn’t see her for a week!  And as much as I want a scanned copy of this journal as a backup, I know if I read it before I scan it, the scanning won’t happen.  So I will not read it until I’m done, which will roughly be another 500 scans.  Quite frankly, I’m not very enthusiastic about this part at all.

In the meantime, I’ll keep scanning, checking to see who’s signed on to chat, scan more, read some blogs, scan another page, check email, etc., and try to remember that each scan puts me one scan closer to reading.

Lefse – Breakfast of Champions

I don’t usually blog about my food.  But anytime lefse is made, eaten, or even passes through my mind, I think of my ancestors – I can’t help it.  As I’m rolling out the paper-thin sheets of potato-based dough, I wonder if my grandmothers through the generations have felt that ache in their upper arms, before remembering that they probably did this much more frequently than I!


As I put each round sheet onto the griddle to cook, I wonder if my grandmothers were fascinated by the characteristic brown splotches created in such a haphazard pattern.  My guess is, if I were able to ask them, they’d look at me like I was crazy.  Making lefse, to them, was probably in the same category as doing laundry or sweeping the floor. 

I wonder how they served their lefse – if it was a part of their evening meals, as we use bread; or if they enjoyed it for breakfast, as I often do, or how they prepared it.  Plain?  Brown sugar?  Butter and cinnamon-sugar?



Whether I’m making lefse or eating it, it’s the one time that I feel very close to the Norwegian women who have come before me.  No amount of genealogical research compares to doing what they did, and having made it a part of my family’s lives.  It’s as if my grandmothers, Agnes, Lise, Anne Johanne, Marie, and Alfhilde, are somehow there with me as I do the work and savor the product.  A little part of them lives on.



Lori, of Genealogy and Me, wrote a great post this week about interviewing the old folks – I’d like to take it a step further, and suggest you learn the customs and family traditions as well.  If not for my grandmother, Lisa, who took the initiative to talk about these things, even when I was too young to really appreciate it, and my Aunt Mary, who taught me to make some of the treats she enjoyed as a child, these traditions would be nothing more than a vague memory for me, and non-existent to my children.  This Mother’s Day, let’s be the women who pass down our traditions.

Harriet Van Brocklin – Doing God’s work on the Prairie

Nestled between cornfields southwest of Freeport, Illinois, sits a lasting reminder that Harriet Van Brocklin was there, and that she had faith.


It takes a special kind of person to be a pioneer.  Harriet’s husband, Conrad, was that kind of person, and while he stands out in his community’s history, it’s clear that Harriet was his kindred spirit in that respect.  Not just any young woman would leave “civilization”, as well as her family, and take her two babies to what was at that time the western frontier, and live among Indians and wolves.  But Harriet did, in the spring of 1836.  She was taking herself, and her children, to an area where there were no doctors, no neighbors, and what you had was what you brought.   For some time, the Van Brocklins were the only settlers in Florence township, in sparsely settled Stephenson county.  It would be a year and a half before another settler moved into the area.  How lonely she must have been.


But Harriet had brought faith with her.  She was converted as a child in New York, and her relationship to God was vitally important.  They held their own religious services, and had public services as early as 1846 in an old log school house near their home.  In 1852, Harriet organized a Methodist congregation, and by 1860 it was part of a circuit of 5 churches with two ministers.  In 1866, the Van Brocklin church building was completed, built on land donated at least partially by the Van Brocklins, with money raised by subscription.   In more recent history, services were still held every other week, sharing a minister with another congregation.  Harriet has long since gone, but her work lives on.

Van Brocklin's Day

On Yellow Creek they built a Church
And enemies said, "'twill be left in lurch,"
For the waters were high and the debt was large,
And God, they said, was against the charge.

But the day was bright and the sun shone clear,
And a pontoon bridge they crossed without fear;
And though the feet slipped the heart was true,
And they walked on ice to see the thing through.

The Elder preached well of Christ and love,
And carried our thoughts to temples above;
And when he stopped, Brother Best did write,
And soon the debt was out of sight.

Yea, more than asked, with a hearty will,
Because our God their thoughts did fill;
And thanks to friends and God we'll give --
Praise here, and then go home to live.

May angels often come and see
Repentant sinners bend the knee,
And new-born souls begin the song
They sing in heaven's assembled throng.

--J. Wardie
Freeport, Feb. 20, 1883

Thoughts on an old farmhouse

Pictured here are my great grandmother, Virta Knutz, with her boys, Willie, 7, and Howard, 5, about 1918.  They lived on this place, east of Virgil, South Dakota, until sometime in the 1930s, when they lost it in the Great Depression.



My great grandfather, Will Knutz, with the boys, on the front “deck”.  I love the old lace curtains in the window, and wonder what the room looked like on the inside.   Looking at the photos makes me wish I could step back in time, and experience what it was like to live on the old farm, and how day-to-day life felt for them.



On a trip back to South Dakota, I wanted to find the old farm.  I drove past it several times, before realizing the old house was probably behind a thick patch of overgrown trees set far back from the road.  The driveway, mostly filled in with weeds, was gated off, but I parked my car and climbed over the fence, and began the walk through the hip-high grasses. 


Little by little, the tangible reminders of our memories grow old and fall apart, and eventually cease to exist.  Such was the fate of the old farmhouse.  Broken windows, doors torn off, and graffiti sprayed across the walls were stark reminders that nothing lasts.    I wondered if the kids with the spray paint had any idea that my great-grandmother had lovingly made that room into a warm place for her family, with beautiful old lace curtains where there now was broken glass.  Or, where they stood destroying things, that a young family had once started building a legacy.   Heading back to my car, I stopped at the edge of the grove and took one last look back, and for just a moment I could see Virta peeking through the lace curtains, smiling, waving goodbye.  Holding onto the tangibles forever isn’t always possible, but thank goodness what exists in our hearts is safe.

Wordless Wednesday

The old farmer, my great-grandfather, Will Knutz, surveys the landscape after a hard days’ work on his farm in Clyde township, Beadle County, South Dakota.

If I get a Time Machine…

I’m going a barn dance!  And in the 1930s and 1940s, with dust in the fields, worries galore, rebuilding what was lost, and war, It was a time to put your worries aside.  It was a time to socialize with your neighbors, tip a few, kick up your heels.  There was no shortage of these dances on the prairie, and on any given weekend one could have their pick of where to go and what band to enjoy.  Ladies often were admitted free, while the gentlemen might have to pay 25 to 30 cents to get in.

Among the popular local bands in and around Huron, South Dakota were such groups as the Golden Pheasants; White’s Red Jackets; the Rhythm Ramblers; Doyle and His Old-Timers; the Sod Busters, and the Bill Knutz Orchestra, in whom I have a vested interest.   While these bands did sometimes play in larger venues, such as the Band Box east of Huron, they frequently booked their jobs in the barns of their neighbors.  Henry Meyer, who lived north of Wessington, Ed Langbehn, near Wolsey, Bill Schwartz, west of Huron, and Albert Baum, southeast of Huron, were frequent hosts of these weekend escapes. 

I’m not sure when my grandfather, Bill Knutz, first became interested in being a band leader.  As a young man, he farmed himself out (pun intended) as a hired man, and did some traveling around the midwest during harvest time.  He lived frugally, and when the season was over, treated himself to a saxophone he’d found in a pawn shop in Nebraska, as well as a ring for his favorite girl.  Both ended up being “keepers.”  He taught himself how to play, and eventually formed his first band, “Bill Knutz and His Harmonians”, including his future brothers-in-law, Ray Christensen playing the fiddle and trumpet; Clarence Christensen playing the clarinet; and Bill’s brothers Howard playing the bass fiddle, and Richard on the drums. Bill’s mother, Virta, kept track of their bookings.


The Harmonians were rearranged to form the Bill Knutz Orchestra, when the band leader discovered his girl was also a mean piano player, and a good-looking girl in the band never hurt business…  Unfortunately, it was not so easy where the drummer was concerned, and he had to settle for a fellow without much rhythm, who liked to keep a bottle by his drums for an occasional “swig”.  When the drummer would speed up or lag behind with the tempo, fortunately all it took was Bill to wander back to the drum set and blow the sax into the poor man’s ear until he was back on pace.   Realistically, none of these people were professional musicians, just working folks with a day job, most of them dirt-poor farmers looking to make a few extra bucks for groceries and have a little fun in the process.


Both my mother and my mother-in-law grew up on South Dakota barn dances, and described similar situations throughout the 1930s and 1940s.  Large crowds, comprised of whole families, would attend these outings, and often it was here that youngsters learned to dance.   Sonny Baum taught both his daughter and my mother a three-person dance called the Butterfly Dance; similarly, my mother-in-law, a lifelong fanatic, would dance with her father, Casper Kluthe, when he wasn’t busy on stage with his accordion.  The smell of hay, the noise, the applause, the rowdy activity, with the younger children curled up and sleeping blissfully in any available corner, all while the band rocked out “Swingtime In The Rockies” and oldies like “Little Brown Jug.”  “I’ll never forget those dances in our barn,” said my mother-in-law, and she never did.  Alzheimer's robbed her of many of her treasured memories, but not these.


The Bill Knutz Orchestra eventually dwindled to just the two main members, Bill and his favorite pianist, and an occasional granddaughter (moi) warming the piano bench next to her grandmother, learning the chords to such favorites as “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley,” while the the more talented of the duo played the melody.   The leader of the band always tooted along on his sax.  I was blessed to be a late part (although a very small part) of their orchestra.  I’d love to have seen them in their heyday, and experienced the excitement of one of their dustbowl-era barn dances.

A Sad Time

Burying a loved one is never easy, and I must say it’s even less easy when it’s a little child.  We lost our newborn grandson on Thursday, and among many difficult decisions to make was his final resting place.  Our side of the family are transplants here; we have no history or roots, which makes it all the harder.  Some years ago, I began researching the family history of my daughter-in-law, whose family has been in the area for some time.  Before going any further, let me clarify that burying a child never ever feels good, but sometimes you just need to make a decision that feels “right.”
Three years ago I discovered that my daughter-in-law had great-grandparents buried in a beautiful rural cemetery just outside of a tiny village about 6 blocks wide and about the same distance long.  I knew these folks had a long history in the village and throughout the township.  With my camera in tow, I picked a lovely early-summer day to drive the 15 miles to the cemetery, hoping to locate the graves, pay my respects, and take some nice photographs for her family history.   The cemetery was well-kept and full of shady evergreen trees, and the sounds of various birds accented the hum of a tractor in the background.  The weather was perfect.  It felt good.  I decided to photograph the entire cemetery, thinking that perhaps someone’s research might benefit from my efforts.  I can tell you now, the person who benefitted the most was me.
I found the great-grandparents about a third of the way through the cemetery.  I had done so much research on them, I nearly forgot this was not my family as I stood at the foot of their graves and felt a bit emotional at the thought of actually being there.  When I finished, I continued on my mission.  I had not gotten too far when I discovered the great-grandmother’s mother, Effie Mae, buried in the cemetery as well, with her husband, Will.  I kept going.  I found Will’s parents, and his grandparents there.  I found Effie Mae’s parents, and her grandparents buried there as well.  Eight generations back, our little newborn grandson’s ancestors rested, dotted throughout the small cemetery. 
Today my son purchased the plot next to the great-grandparents, the original focus of my search, and we will lay our sweet little angel to rest there in a few days.  I feel comforted that he is surround by history – HIS history – and that he will not be alone.  For the last 100 years, members of his family have gathered in that cemetery, burying grandparents, parents, children, nieces, nephews and cousins.  Now we will be among those to do so.  I’ll think of his great-great-great-great grandmother, Jennie, as she buried her own 5 month old baby there.  This still does not feel good, but it does feel right.

Tombstone Tuesday – a “What?!?!” Moment…

It was the first speechless moment I’d had in a long time – and I’m rarely lost for words…
My father had a huge trunk full of loose photos that had belonged to my grandmother, Lisa, who immigrated to the US from Norway in her 50’s, to marry my grandfather.  Very few of these photos were labeled, and I had sat up late for several consecutive nights going through them, and scanning the many extremely small photos that must have been quite popular back then.  I had to scan and enlarge them just to get a good look at the faces and places, all of which still went unrecognized.  About halfway through what was seeming like a very un-fruitful job, I picked up this tiny little photo, scanned it, and to my amazement, recognized the names on the stones as being my grandfather’s parents in Norway.  I knew little about them besides their names at that point.  Seeing this very tangible proof of their existence brought them to life immediately for me.  I would love to have yet another speechless moment, paying my respects in person, if someday possible.

Sentimental Sunday – Grandpa Tom’s Rocking Chair

I don't know how I was lucky enough to have ended up with Grandpa Tom's rocking chair - perhaps it was just a matter of having a baby at the right time.  I didn't even realize exactly what I was getting when they loaded this heavy, built-to-last chair into the back of the van and drove it 300 miles to my house.  All I knew is that my cheap, "some assembly required" rocking chair had broken, and I had a young child who missed it desperately.

I had seen the chair at my grandmother's house for as long as I could remember, in fact, I remember her re-upholstering the seat in the late 1960's.  I never thought a thing about its origins, until I was browsing through some old pictures of my great-grandparents' home, and there it was!  I assumed that after my great-grandmother, Virta,  passed away, my grandparents inherited it.  I asked my great aunt, Mabel, who was Virta's daughter, if she knew anything of it's origins, and she confirmed that it was Virta's father, Thomas L. Graves, who made this chair.

Tom made two rocking chairs, my mother said, and what became of the other one, we do not know.   Actually, Tom was a carpenter and a farmer by trade, among other ventures, and he not only constructed these two chairs, but numerous pieces of furniture, and with his son Delbert built a number of homes, barns, and even a two-story double-wide store in Esmond, South Dakota.  In his spare time, he liked to whittle, using soft stone.  Truly a creative man.


I don't know when he built this rocking chair - he died in 1933, at the age of 71, and I'm not sure when he retired from his life of woodworking, or if death was what ended his avocation.
But what I do know is that many generations of his young descendants were comforted in that chair, and his daughters, granddaughters, great-granddaughters, and great-great-granddaughters have tenderly held their sleeping infants in it. Most recently, my own granddaughter, Alyssa, who represents Generation Number Seven, joins the fold, and hopefully the tradition won't end there.

Ancestor Approved Award

 Many thanks to Evelyn Yvonne Theriault for the Ancestor Approved award!  It really made my day, Evelyn!

It's my job, now, to "list ten things I've learned about any of my ancestors that has surprised, humbled, or enlightened me, and to pass the award along to ten other bloggers whom I feel are doing their ancestors proud."

1.  I was definitely humbled at the story of Rebecca Lair, my ancestral grandmother.  That lady is an inspiration on how to survive bad circumstances.

2.  I was surprised to learn of my grandmother's experiences in Norway during World War II.  And very humbled.  Would I have the guts to have lived her life as well as she did??

3.  I was surprised to discover my grandfather's long lost brother, in Iceland, and a whole new group of wonderful cousins.  It truly is a small world, and it gave me hope of breaking down some other brick walls.

4. I was surprised to learn how many of my husband's ancestors were early pioneers in various areas, founding towns and living in some very primitive conditions.

5. I was enlightened to learn how difficult life could be for a new Irish immigrant in this country in the 1850s, and the ethnic prejudice that they had to endure.

6. I was delighted to learn more of my great-grandfather, Justin Meyer Jørgensen; not only facts about him, but stories and bits of information about him personally, and his part in family dynamics.  I thought this information was unattainable, until I met my cousin, Tove, from Norway.  Never stop hoping for the details you want so desperately.

7. Learning that my husband's grandparents stowed away on a train, to get where they needed to go, was a startling discovery!

8. Researching my husband's line, which includes numerous physicians, was definitely an education in early medical practices.  Yikes!  But also reading in old newspapers about how many times Dr. Seeman of Rockham, South Dakota, was summoned for various emergencies, makes me so proud of him.  He was a dedicated country doctor.

9.  I was surprised to learn that my husband's great-grandmother, Frances Stemper Joyce, delivered so many babies and tended to her sick neighbors, with her own large family to take care of.

10.  I was delighted to learn my earliest ancestor "on this side of the pond" was here in 1623.  It's staggering to comprehend that much elapsed time.

Now - for the blogs I would like to pass the award to.  It was really tough to make a decision, as I love to read so many blogs, but here they are, in no particular order:

1. Branching Out Through the Years
2. Reflections From the Fence
3. What's Past is Prologue
4. Those Old Memories
5. Bits and Pieces
6. Lessons From My Ancestors
7. Desperately Seeking Surnames
8. The Ties That Bind
9. I Will Remember
10. Stardust 'n' Roots

Thanks again to Evelyn for the award, and thanks to all the bloggers who produce such interesting reading on our favorite topic.

Ray

I never met Flight Officer Raymond Christensen personally, but I’ve heard so much about him over the years that it’s hard not to feel close to him.  He was my grandfather’s best friend, and my grandmother’s younger brother, although my grandmother never talked about him much.  A gifted writer, with devilish good looks, and a sense of adventure, combined with a charming wit all equipped him to make a success of himself in his various undertakings.  His life, had it been longer, would have made an incredibly fascinating book.


Growing up in rural Beadle county, South Dakota, my grandparents and their siblings and friends “made their own fun.”  They  stopped up Cain Creek and made a popular “swimming hole”, and occasionally took my grandfather’s old Model A on a road trip. Ray and my grandmother, being less than two years apart, were naturally very close.  She was his trusted confidante, and vice versa.  But it was his friendship with my grandfather, Bill, that brought out the fun-loving sides of both of them.  Bill told how they went to the river and caught snapping turtles, and when they had several of them, they daringly positioned the tail of one in the mouth of another, and so on, until they had a Wagon Train of snappers, all “snapped” together.  They then, very carefully, got the first snapper to bite onto a cigarette and clench it between his jagged, razor teeth long enough for a picture to be taken. They learned new and creative ways to shock each other with the aid of an old magneto, an object that kept the boys occupied off and on for years.  No one ever truly knew what was safe to sit on, pick up, or even touch with Bill and Ray and that magneto around.



After high school, Ray worked as a farm hand in various midwest locations, until deciding he’d like to go to Agriculture school at the University of Minnesota, a decision that fiercely angered his father.  Going it alone, Ray sold life insurance for State Farm in Minneapolis to support himself and pay his tuition.  He was the first in his family to pursue higher education.  The photo on the left shows him grafting a hybrid wheat plant in the University’s wheat field. His “smarts”, as well as his determination, and his desire for something “bigger”, would have taken him far in the field of agriculture, had he gotten the chance.


World War II altered the course of many lives, and Raymond’s was no exception.  After three years of study at the University, he put his agriculture degree on hold and was accepted in an officer’s training school in the Army Air Force.  A letter to my grandparents, dated Feb. 20, 1942, reads in part:

“Started to school Saturday and like it O.K.  It will come fast but if they keep me in like they have in the past I’ll not only get it, but get fat too.  (The) Grub is swell … I’m learning typing – code – electricity and eventually radios.  If I pass I may get to be radio man on a bomber and fly all over heck…”

And that’s exactly what happened.  After completion of his program, he was assigned to the 417th Night Fighter Squadron as a radar observer with the rank of First Lieutenant.  He was one of a crew of two in an English Beaufighter, working with pilot Joseph Leonard.  Ray described the relationship between them as such -

“I’ve got quite a bit of faith in my pilot and we get along as well as anybody could … We’ve got to have perfect teamwork to live out this blessed war so we pay as much attention in our teaming up as we would to getting married - probably more. In this case “until death do us part” doesn’t seem to lend any humor to the situation whatever.”

The Bristol Beaufighter

Ray and Joe did well together – a “Stars and Stripes” article  gave Flight Officer Raymond Christensen credit for helping to bag a German plane in the North African war zone, in March of 1944.  

Letters continued to go back and forth between Ray and my grandparents.  A letter from Ray, dated May 5, 1944, describes the dangerous situations they faced on the island of Corsica, where Ray was stationed:

“When we go airborne we can look right into Herr Hitler’s back yard and make faces at him.  One of his little boys done foxed me the other night so here I sit on the end of the runway just awaitin’ to get revenge…”

Ray in his flight suit 

This would be the last letter my grandparents got from Ray.  Eight days later, he and Joe flew what would be their last mission.  The plane was located at the point of the red “X” on the map below, when it was last seen on radar, shortly before going down under enemy fire. Six planes were sent in a search and rescue attempt, joined by six more in the early hours of May 14, my grandmother’s birthday.  All they found was “much debris, an oil slick, and two life rafts.”



Ray was posthumously awarded the Purple Heart and Air Medal for his courage and sacrifice.  And that’s the end of his story.  But my mind can’t help but wander, and entertain the notion of what he might have done had he lived a full measure of years.  He took life by the horns, and he had some incredible gifts that will go forever unused. We’re left to wonder What If…

Happy Valentine's Day - A Corny Valentine

A corny valentine from my grandfather, Bill Knutz, to my grandmother, Lillian Christensen, ca. 1931, during their courtship.

Esmond, South Dakota

    On the flat prairie of eastern South Dakota, there once thrived the bustling little town of Esmond.  I had lived in the general vicinity for many years, but it wasn't until I began my genealogy quest that I really learned of its existence.  Between my own personal research and research I've done for my various websites, I've encountered a lot of ghost towns, but despite having a population of zero, Esmond is far from dead.

    It started out with the name "Sana", and like many other small towns, was impacted by the westward-sprawling railroad tracks.  The town was moved 1/4 of a mile to be nearer to the railway, and renamed "Esmond" in the early 1880s.

    My connection to this area is through my great-great-grandparents.  Thomas Lafayette Graves, his wife Nettie Bell (Lair), and their four children pulled up their roots from Stark County, Illinois, bid adieu to their parents, siblings, cousins, and lifelong friends, and headed northeasterly to the small hamlet in March of 1906.  Tom was both a farmer and carpenter by trade, really a Jack of All Trades, working with his only son, Delbert.  They lived on a farm just a stone's throw north of town.

During their years there, Tom and Delbert built many homes and barns, and most notably, a large double-wide, two story building in Esmond. This building, known as the Big Store, housed a store on the main floor level, and an opera house/dance hall on the upper level (note the "T. L. Graves, 1911" at the top of the building).  We do not believe that Tom ever operated the store portion of the building, but he was responsible for many dances, and no doubt  good times, in the upper level.

When I first started researching this part of the Graves family's lives, I assumed I'd be disappointed with what little information I'd find, but I couldn't have been more wrong.  Several books have been written, with an extensive collection of photos published, and an annual Esmond Homecoming held during the summer.



On a trip back to South Dakota a few years ago, my mother and I made a detour through Esmond.  Despite both of us having been born and raised nearby, neither of us had ever been there.  Having seen the pictures of Esmond in its Glory Days, we hoped we might be able to see approximately where the Big Store might have been located.  As we drove down the ice-packed dirt road to toward what was left of the town, the spirit of residents long gone seemed to give us a warm welcome, despite the brutally cold temperatures of a South Dakota winter.  The gravel roads through the small town were packed with snow and ice, but, not about to be stopped after coming such a long way, we persevered, and were rewarded with signs on each lot, telling what business or home had been located there in days past.  Gazing down the street a couple of blocks stood what was left of the elevators by the railroad tracks, and suddenly, my mind flashed to a postcard I had showing the same scene, with busy townspeople all going about their business.  And just as suddenly, reality was back, and the elevators were delapidated, and the street empty.

    Every other summer, those wonderful souls who have taken responsibilty for keeping Esmond alive, hold an Esmond Homecoming, and one of these years, I'm going to make it back there to attend.  I want to go where my great grandmother went to school, where Nettie purchased her family's supplies, where Tom and Delbert laid brick after brick to construct the largest store in town.  I want to see the town streets full of people, and hear the bustle of activity, and for just a moment, experience the thriving little community of Esmond, South Dakota.

Sources:
"Home - Esmond, South Dakota"
"Remembering Esmond, South Dakota", 1996
http://esmond.santel.net/
http://www.epodunk.com/
Bonnie Guagliardi

Blogger's Best Friend Award

Thanks so much to Carol at Reflections From the Fence, for awarding me this fine honor!  She's been a great source of encouragement since I started this blogging thing, and I appreciate it very much.

Swiped from Carol's site: "The developer of the award 'Bandit' "A Blogger's Best Friend Award" says it shall be given to your most loyal blog readers. Thus, the award should be given to a follower of yours who takes the time to comment regularly on many of your posts. In addition his or her blog should be creative, funny and always entertaining. Upon receiving this award, pass it along to two fellow bloggers who fit this criteria."

I have to pass this on to Kathy's Kampground Kapers, and  Greta's Genealogoy Blog, with my appreciation.  :)

Karen

Thank you, Thank you

I'd like to thank Yaya, of Yaya's Changing World for the lovely Happy 101 Award.  I like it very much, but it's making me hungry.  :)

With this award goes the responsibility of naming 10 things that make me happy.  Shouldn't be too hard - the hard part will be stopping at 10!  Here we go, not in any particular order:

1) Getting a few minutes' peace and quiet to post to my blogs.

2) Watching my energetic little Tori so happy she breaks out in dance while she sings "Oh yeah!!"

3) Getting a genealogy goodie in the mail.

4) Working on my websites and getting HappyGrams from people who have found useful stuff.

5) Seeing my little Alyssa's face light up with a big fat smile when she sees her Grammy.

6) Getting a few minutes' peace and quiet to huddle up with my Bible and ponder what it has to offer.

7) Hitting the snooze alarm as many times as I want.

8) Watching my sweet Sierra with tears in her eyes at her gr-gr-gr-grandparents' graves, and seeing the love she has for people she never knew, but feels so much a part of.

9) Reading fun, insightful, newsy and touching blog posts, and getting to know new friends.

10) Seeing my husband's eyes sparkle when he laughs.

There you go. Now, I'm going to pass it on to 10 (again, hard to stop at just 10!) of my favorite bloggers, who haven't already received it:

Lessons from My Ancestors
Genealogy and Me
Reflections From the Fence
Writings by Abby
Greta's Genealogy Blog
Mom's Country Cookin'
Word Designer
Grace and Glory
Those Old Memories
The Ties That Bind

My Irish Genealogy Treasure

    The best Irish genealogical "find" I ever got, or could ever hope to get, was not a photo, not a document, not any single piece of information.  The best asset to our Irish legacy was Uncle Jimmy.

  
    We already had land documents, plats, birth, death and marriage certificates, baptisms, etc.  We had plenty of facts about our Joyce clan of Hand county, South Dakota.  What we were sorely lacking was a depth to their beings - personal stories about them and their day-to-day lives - which Uncle Jimmy was more than happy to supply in abundance whenever family gathered.  Many of his childhood memories are grounded in the tight-knit Joyce clan on his mother's side of the family.  His stories told of tough times, happy times, stories of he and his young cousins stealing liquor and drinking under the porch at Grandpa Pat Joyce's farm home, family gatherings, and the old folks telling stories of their own and the boisterous laughter drifting across the South Dakota plains.  What he brought to our family legacy can't be duplicated in any courthouse or library.  He brought life itself to these folks long gone.

    Uncle Jimmy joined the ancestors last November.  How blessed we were to have captured some of his stories.  He was, indeed, our greatest Irish genealogy treasure.

The Oscar II

Weighing nearly 10,000 tons, the "Oscar II" cut through the waters of the Atlantic ocean at a speed of 15 knots, with over 1,000 passengers on most of her voyages.  She hauled thousands of Scandinavians from Europe to their destinies in America, until she was scrapped in 1933, after 32 years of service.  Among those Scandinavians looking for a better life were my grandparents, Adolph Hammer and his young wife, Agnes, and their 11 month old daughter, Mary. 

I've often wondered how Agnes must have felt on that trip.  Aside from being 7 months pregnant, and tending to a young child, I wonder if she was excited about their prospects in a new country?  What did she think of the spectacular New York skyline - did they, in some imaginative way, remind her of the fjords of Norway?  Was she was homesick for her father, mother and brothers?  Was she afraid she'd never see them again?  (She didn't.)  When she dreamed of their future, what did she envision?

How many young Norwegian women must have crossed the Atlantic with those thoughts in mind...

The Sweetest Chocolate-Covered Cherries

I'm sure it was Lillian's best Christmas present ever.  When she and Bill had been married some 23 years prior, they had eloped, and she had only a simple wedding band as a symbol of their commitment to each other.  There had been no elaborate wedding, and her dirt-poor farmer could not give her a diamond ring, but I never heard her complain.  She often said that she would never have chosen anyone else to spent her life with, regardless of how much money he had.

As Christmas approached, they also prepared to celebrate their wedding anniversary on December 28.  Bill had something different in mind this year. Typically, for Christmas, they gave each other the same simple gifts: she gave him a can of pipe tobacco, and he gave her a box of chocolate-covered cherries.  But this year, he had something different in mind.  Lillian's wedding band was wearing thin, so he took it to the jewelry store to have it "fixed", but instead had it incorporated into a new ring, complete with a diamond.  He then took the traditional box of chocolates, hollowed out one of the candies and placed the ring inside.

Their four teenaged children, who were in on the surprise, carefully picked around the "special" chocolate as she passed her gift around to them.  She knew something was going on, and eventually discovered her special present.  At the age of 46, Lillian finally had her diamond wedding ring.

And So It Goes... Mothers and Daughters

Firstborn daughters of firstborn daughters...

Alfhilde Olsen Monsen, widow of Gabriel Monsen, with her baby daughter Gabriella (later known as "Ella"), this photo was taken about 1885 in Bergen, Norway. Her husband, a sailor, died at sea in a boating accident, leaving her with three small children.

Ella Monsen Christensen immigrated to the United States from Norway at the age of 20, learned English, and worked as a houshold servant.  She later sent for her mother and siblings.  She married Peter Christensen, a baker, in Huron, South Dakota.  She is pictured here with her daughter, Lillian, about 1912.

Lillian and her first child, daughter Betty, on their farm in Beadle county, South Dakota, about 1939.

Betty, with her first daughter, Karen (me!), about 1959.

Kreativ Blogger Award

I'd really like to thank Carol, from Reflections From the Fence for this nomination, and for her encouragement with this blogging stuff.  If you're interested in RVs, family history, or just like a Good Read, check it out.

The winner of the award has to list seven things about themselves and then pass the award along to seven other bloggers.  So here we go:

1) I've got an incredible God who sustains me minute by minute, and crams each day full of blessings I don't deserve.  It's been a Wild Ride, and I can't wait to see what's next!

2) I've got the most wonderfullest husband in the world.  Oh heck, just throw in the whole family - they are the best.  Add the dogs in there too.  Never a dull moment!

3) I love doing family history - mine, or anyone else's, for that matter.  I enjoy doing lookups and research for people, each time remembering how great it felt when I was first starting out and some very kind and generous people helped me get going, and still how good it feels to discover something new or meet a new cousin.

4) I'm addicted to making websites, of course, pertaining primarily to genealogy and history.   I am a volunteer for GenealogyTrails, and host the state site for South Dakota, as well as Beadle and Hand Counties, and Olmsted county, Minnesota.  And I'm the webmaster for the Peoria County (Illinois) Genealogical Society.  Can't get enough.

5) I really need to get off this computer and do something active more often.

6) I love cheesecake, which necessitates that I get off this computer and do something active more often.

7) I love to quilt, crochet, and bake good things!

It's hard to nominate only 7 of the blogs I read... there are some really, really good blogs out there... but here goes, in no particular order:

1) Kathy's Kampground Kapers

2) Those Old Memories

3) Random Relatives

4) Lessons from my Ancestors

5) We Tree

6) Desperately Seeking Surnames

7) Mom's Country Cookin

I hope you check out some of these blogs, if you haven't already.

Delbert Dee Graves, World War I

Any mother sending her son off to war has to do so with such mixed feelings - pride, tempered with fear; faith, battered by the reality of death.  So often I have tried to imagine what my great great grandmother, Nettie Graves, must have felt as she watched her only son, Delbert, leave for Camp Dodge, Iowa, on a warm Thursday in June of 1918.

Delbert, being the only boy in the family, had spent a lot of time with his father, helping him with the farm work, and together, they constructed numerous buildings on the flat plains of eastern South Dakota.  Delbert worked for a dray business, and raised hounds, and often helped his brother-in-law, Will Knutz, on his farm.

Delbert's absence from his family was no doubt immediately felt.  His father, Tom, mostly did carpentry work after Delbert left, probably finding the farm to be a burden to handle alone.  Delbert's younger sister Lulu, often pictured with him, must have had a difficult time adjusting to his absence.  And then there was his mother, Nettie.  I know how I would have felt, and not sure there are words to adequately express it.

Delbert's first stop was Camp Dodge, Iowa, pictured at left.  He often sent his little sister postcards, one, sent in August, just prior to him being relocated overseas, read, "Hello, Lulu, Have had a couple of easy Days work lately.  Good Bye, Best Wishes, D.D.G."  Delbert was a member of Company H of the 351st Infantry, commonly called the "Doughboys."  From Camp Dodge, he was sent to Fort Des Moines, and then to England at the end of August, and shortly afterward, to France. 


 Influenza was rampant, and struck the military in France especially hard.  After being in France a mere two weeks, nearly the whole Company came down the the flu.  Makeshift hospitals, such as those pictured here, were quickly constructed to deal with the incredible numbers of sick soldiers. Delbert's friend, J. W. Hofer, who had gone through Camp Dodge with Delbert and was assigned to the same Company, told of being sick himself, but not so severely as Delbert; he made sure Delbert was covered up, and brought him food, as often as he was able.  Still incredibly weak from his illness, Delbert was not able to go with his Company when they moved on.  On December 5, his condition worsened, and he was admitted to Base Hospital No. 18, with a diagnosis of Scarlet Fever.


Delbert died December 12, 1918.  His family was notified shortly thereafter.  His body was laid to rest in the American Cemetery at Bazoilles-sur-Meuse, Vosges, France.  However, reports kept surfacing from some of the other men who had known him, that they had seen him after this time, leaving the family with an incredible amount of anxiety, but hope as well.  More military investigations took place, and his death was definitely confirmed in April of 1919, some four agonizing months later.  I cannot imagine how many sleepless nights his family endured during this time, not knowing the fate of their son for so long.  They began making arrangements to have his body returned home, and laid to rest in their little town of Carthage, South Dakota, in Pleasant View cemetery, just outside of town. 

In June of 1920, Delbert finally came home.  A brief service was held at the family home - not exactly the homecoming they must have dreamed about for their beloved son and brother.  A public funeral was held at the cemetery, with The Delbert Graves Post of the American Legion in charge of the services, with full military honors.  A tremendous number of area people came to pay their respects and comfort the family, as can be seen from the photo above.

We should always remember our soldiers, each and every day.  Each one of them, and their families, have sacrificed *something* to do the work that needs to be done.  Some of these people have sacrificed EVERYTHING.  I know how Delbert's death and absence from the family affected the remainder of his mother's life.  Tucked inside one Delbert's books from his childhood, Nettie had placed a small piece of paper that she wrote some 10 years after his death -

"If you only could come home,

Friends may think we have forgotten, 

when at times they see us smile,

but they little know the heart aches

that our smiles hide all the while,

Sweet and peaceful be thy rest

Forget you, we can never;

God called thee, he knows best

His will be done forever."

God bless you, Delbert, and thank you for your sacrifice.

A Sunday Drive in Rural South Dakota

This photo depicts the Will Knutz family of rural Huron, South Dakota, enjoying their new car.  The photo was taken prior to 1918, and includes Will Knutz behind the driver's wheel; his wife Elvirta beside him, and in the back is little Howard, their son, Delbert Graves (Elvirta's brother) and Lulu Graves (Elvirta's sister).  Will and Elvirta's sons William and Richard are not in the photo.

It was said that it took Will awhile to refrain from pulling the steering wheel and saying "Whoa" to get the car stopped!

Are you having a Ruhamah Day???

It is with great relief that I report that I'm not a blood descendant of Ruhamah Jones Nickerson.  I am, however, a direct-line descendant of her father-in-law, William Nickerson.  But he's a topic for another Black Sheep Sunday.

Ruhamah was born about 1650, and married Joseph Nickerson, and they lived in Massachusetts.  The Nickerson family is well known there; Joseph's father William (mentioned above) having founded the town of Chatham.  But Ruhamah was well-known in her own right.

While described as being a beautiful woman, she was also known as being, according to the Nickerson Family Association, "of a disagreeable nature," to put it mildly.  She *lived* for harassing people.  She was not burdened with the constraints of manners or polite social behavior.  Both the Indians and her white neighbors alike were afraid of her, and went out of their way to avoid making her angry.  If anyone provoked her, she would "play havoc with their washing, their choice plants, and the fruits of their harvest."  Any time, day or night, Ruhamah was Ready To Rumble, and never backed down from a confrontation. Oddly enough, Edward Bangs, an early colonist and a direct-line ancestor of mine, once argued with her, and his barn burned down a short time later.

Ruhamah outlived her husband, and another family took her in, while the townspeople were ordered to pay them for her support.  No matter what the compensation, I'm sure it wasn't enough!  She lived to a ripe old age, and had spent so many years sitting that when she died, it was "thought best to bury her in the same crooked position".  And they did.  Perhaps their way of getting the last laugh?

Sometimes we all have a Ruhamah Day, and would love uproot the tomato plants of the $#*()!! who just cut us off in traffic.  It's okay to savor the thought.  You aren't grumpy, you're just Getting In Touch With Your Inner Ruhamah.  Think about it all you like, just don't do it, or people might be remembering you, too, some 400+ years later!