Evening star

The Danish American Center in Minneapolis recently held its annual meeting. Being relatively new to this organization, I attended for the first time.

 

Danes love to sing, so we opened the meeting with a folksy-type song and ended with another, each written by a Danish composer.

The first song talked about oats. Sung from the oat's perspective, the lyrics spoke of all the things the oats see (sun, wind, rain) and the many uses oats have. It was snappy and fun to sing.
 

 

 

The second called Evening Star (printed above) was written in 1861. It had an easy melody for me, a non-singer and reader of music, to follow.

But it was the words that really spoke to me. They stuck in my head and I had to borrow a songbook from the center so I could copy this particular song.

Danish people see the beauty and prose in all of nature. Thinking you might enjoy the lessons in this lovely song, I share the words with you here.

" Evening star up yonder, Teach me like you to wander 

Willing and obediently, The path that God ordained for me.

Evening star up yonder!

 

Teach me, gentle flowers, To wait for springtime showers

In this winter world to grow, Green and strong beneath the snow.

Teach me, gentle flowers!

 

Teach me, lonely heather, Where songbirds nest together,

Though my life should seem unblest, To keep a song within my breast.

Teach me, lonely heather.

 

Mighty ocean, teach me, To do the task that needs me,

And reflect as days depart, Heaven's peace within my heart.

Mighty ocean, teach me!

 

Shady lanes, refreshing, Teach me to be a blessing

To some weary soul each day, Friends or foes who pass my way.

Shady lanes, refreshing!

 

Evening sun, descending, Teach me, when life is ending,

Night shall pass and I, like you, Shall rise again where life is new.
Teach me, sun descending! "

 

 

As the seasons change, now from summer to autumn, and the days grow shorter, nature is a wonder and can teach us so much. Each season has its purpose and its beauty. We can learn, as the song tells us, from the ocean, the heather, the sun and the shady lane.

When I once commented that there wasn't anything I liked about winter, a friend very poetically told me it was such a beautiful season, with all the trees and flowers and earth enjoying a peaceful rest, quietly readying themselves to burst forth and be alive again.

 

I've never looked at it quite the same since.

Orange socks

Perhaps every family has a strange wedding tradition. Or perhaps not.

But ours, the Steffen family, has such a tradition.

The men in the wedding party wear orange socks. Yes, orange.

To understand it, you have to go way back to my 1965 wedding, the first wedding in our family. And you have to understand my Dad, who had the most wonderful sense of humor I have ever known in anyone. He lived to tease the six of us kids and went on to tease the heck out of his grandkids as well. To them, he was "Boppa" and they adored him.

So as I was dressing for my wedding in 1965, nervous and frantically telling everyone in my house to hurry up and get ready, I passed my parents' bedroom to see my beloved Dad dressed in his suit, pulling on orange work socks. I'm sure he was posed this way just waiting for me to pass by to see him.

Of course, I freaked. YOU ARE NOT WEARING THOSE SOCKS, I'm sure I screamed. To which he simply casually replied, "Why not?"

This, I am quite certain, put me right over the edge and I went running for Mom to plead with him to change his socks.

It was a joke all along. A word of advice: You do not joke with a bride an hour before her wedding.

Well, the rest of my younger sisters and my brother saw the humor in it. So much so, and possessing a much better sense of calm and humor than me, that for their weddings, they insisted Dad wear orange socks.

Thus, a tradition was born.


This is my daughter, Kristie, and husband Rich, proudly sporting his orange socks on their wedding day.

I have to give credit to the men who marry into this family of ours. Some of them knew Dad; some did not.

But they all have agreed to go along with this tradition to honor my Dad. And they have had a lot of fun doing it.

We celebrated another wedding in our family over the weekend, this time in Hawaii where my sister's youngest, Mac, married Ren Chang, an Oahu native.

I regret I could not attend. What a picture-book setting and what a perfectly lovely couple.

And, of course, the men in the wedding party wearing, what else?

Pictured are the groom, Mac, in the middle; nephew Josh on the left, whose groomsmen also wore orange socks when he married Heidi ten years ago; and my niece Madeline's husband, Eric, who followed this tradition for their own wedding three years ago.

The last wedding for Dad to sport his orange socks was my son, Steve's wedding to Julie in 2001. We continue to honor him; some would think in this strange way, but always he is at the center of the tradition and we remember how he would laugh and show off his socks.

He also always carried a small flask of spirits in an inner pocket of his jacket to every wedding, to "calm his nerves." So far, we've only followed the orange socks-rule.

When my then five-year-old granddaughter was in a dance recital recently and my son was participating in a father-daughter dance with her on stage, it was such a special occasion that he felt compelled to adopt his own orange-socks tradition.

The little dancer and her proud Daddy.

Dad is gone now, but the tradition lives on and he will always be remembered. Strange how these things start.

If you haven't adopted your own family wedding tradition, you might consider starting. However outlandish, however not understood by anyone outside your family, it will be yours and will warm your heart.

Just as the sight of orange socks warms ours.

Lost or well spent?

My last post, Laying Low, was about being off my foot following surgery.

Little did I know I would continue to lay low for the last three weeks. I will spare you the details of getting sick right after surgery with bronchitis and coughing my insides out ever since. Oh yes, at the same time, my husband got pneumonia so he was also down for the count.

Suffice it to say it has not been pleasant. I have heard the old people's joke: If we didn't go to the doctor, we wouldn't go anywhere.

So not funny. Doctor visits have been the total extent of our last three weeks' outings.

I'm not done whining. In the last three weeks, I have missed:

• My fifty-year high school class reunion
• An entire week of residential Danish Folk Camp
• My granddaughter's annual back-to-school party
• Three consecutive Sundays at church

The "Kolac" seller. A folk artist
makes these cute figures
with wooden shoes in South Bohemia.

While I was laying low, however, I got an email from a person seeking a recommendation for a tour to the Czech Republic through a tour group, Czech and Slovak Heritage Tours that they were considering. We had taken this very tour in 2004 and had agreed to be listed as a reference. Over the years, I have answered many such inquiries.

So I wrote some positive comments, highly recommending the tour and noting some highlights of our trip, and hit send. That is usually the end of it.

But not this time.

The inquirer wrote back saying she appreciated the recommendation and then told me a bit about herself and her husband and why they were considering this trip. They had to sign up quickly as the tour was only a couple weeks away.

Laying low, as you recall, I had plenty of time on my hands to respond to that email. She wrote back, commenting on my email, telling me more about herself, her family, twin grandchildren, their farm life in a small Iowa town, etc.

What a lovely person, I thought. So I wrote back again. She wrote back. I wrote back. She wrote back. I wrote back. We are not talking one-line emails here. We are talking pages.

You have no doubt heard about online dating. Often leading to successful relationships, often lifetime commitments. Well, if a lasting, online true friendship can be formed as well, I believe we have done that.

She and her husband are off to the Czech Republic now. How I miss our daily communication. But we are meeting when she returns. I can hardly wait.

So were three weeks of time and events all lost in laying low? Not hardly. I consider it time well spent. There is usually more than one way to look at most everything, and often unexpected blessings come if you're open to them.

And having found this new treasured friend, you'll be glad to know I am no longer whining.

--------------------------------------------



You might want to check out this website: http://czechheritage.com

 

 

Laying low

I am recovering from foot surgery four days ago. Laying low, you might say. It is not fun.

Not that I am in pain, because I'm not. I'm grateful for that. But the worst thing in the world for me is to follow the doctor's orders to stay off my foot and keep it elevated with ice.

Stay off my foot? Me? Seriously?

It's harder work than work. I need a chill pill about now. A person can only take so much sitting in a chair with your foot elevated. Tired of reading. Tired of knitting. Poor me.

Ever have days when you're your own worst enemy? Well, I started out the day that way. Then I read a Facebook post from a friend I know with cancer. Yesterday's doctor visit for her did not go as well as she anticipated when she got the most recent scan report that showed cancer activity. Just when she was hoping to hear there was no activity whatsoever.

My poor-me-pity-party turned around on a dime.

Sometimes we need to pause and give thanks for whatever circumstances we find ourselves in. There are always more blessings, more reasons to be grateful, more sunshine than clouds, and more love than we even have a right to expect.

And the encouragement from others my friend received and the kudos for her courage were heartwarming. If she can keep her head high and her hopes up, my puny little dribbles of temporary, passing, slight discomfort make me ashamed. I will heal.

And I will focus my prayers and thoughts on her healing, as well. It's definitely time better spent.

Dedicated to Barb with my very best wishes for a complete recovery.

 

Go little album

Go little album, far and near,

To all my friends I hold so dear,

And ask them each to write a page,

That I may read in my old age.

So begins my mother's autograph book from Robert E. Simon Junior High, New York City, 1939.

My aforementioned project of going through my mom's old photo albums, along with reorganizing my own, found me rediscovering her old autograph book. What a treasure!

I vaguely remember having such a book in grade school, but I think it's safe to say they are now extinct. The annual signing of high school year books took their place in later years. I'm not sure what the custom is now, but I hope it's not Facebook or Twitter.

I sometimes re-read my high school yearbook, with messages from former classmates. Entire pages were reserved for my best friends. But I especially love the messages saying, Never forget me. I'll always remember you." And I actually haven't a single clue who wrote it, although the author signed his or her name.

Back to my mom's autograph book. There were some really amusing rhymes back then. And many of the entries were signed: Your fellow Grad-U-8.

May you dive into the sea of ambition,

And rise with a bump of wisdom on your head.

~~~

Down by the river, carved on a tree,

Are three little words:

Don't forget me.

~~~

When you grow up and have a house,

Just give a thought of this big louse.

~~~

I wish I was the little cup,

From which you drink your tea.

And every time you took a sip,

I'd get a kiss from thee.

~~~

Then there's one that's not so nice:

 

Roses are red, violets are blue.

I have a bull dog that looks like you.

 

Although it is signed: "Your friend, Dorothy. Yours till you have traffic jam for breakfast."

 

But this one has to take the prize. My mom went on to have a set of twins!

 

I wish you luck, I wish you joy.

I wish you first a baby boy,

And when his hair begins to curl,

I wish you then a baby girl.

And when her hair is straight as pins,

I wish you then a set of twins.
 



Some writers were artistic and either wrote upside down, around the page, or drew musical notes (Never B-flat. Always B-sharp.)

 

 

I'm guessing this is actually a caricature of my mom.

 

Such an innocent time....sigh. 

I'm keeping Mom's autograph book handy. When life seems complicated, the world complex, and everything beyond my understanding,  I'll board a time machine and go back to 1939 for awhile. It makes everything look so much better.

Unveiling Nelly

Nelly Gustafson was born in 1851 in Sweden. She died in 1934, so I couldn't have actually known her.

But I feel like I do.

Nelly was a midwife in Lindström, Minnesota in the early 1900s. She graduated from Lund University in Lund, Sweden in 1870 and came first to Philadelphia where she practiced for several years. Then, hearing about the large Swedish population in Minnesota, she came to Lindström to settle with her three children around 1903. She set up her practice here, delivering babies for a fee of three dollars, or five dollars, or whatever the person could afford.

I became acquainted with Nelly when I became director of the Chisago County Historical Society in 1994. Since we didn't have a museum at the time, we had several large display cases in the lobby of the Government Center in nearby Center City. It was my job to keep them filled with interesting exhibits.

We had been gifted Nelly's midwife kit, a fairly good-sized wooden box full of rather crude instruments. The kit contained bottles with dried-up medicinal fluids, old cotton and gauze, various forceps, scalpels and assorted and sundry items needed to safely bring a new life into the world in the early 1900s.

This kit was well cared for and well organized. It was clearly a collection of tools of a professional. And I was going to display it. Over the ensuing years, I would rotate this display many times, handling this valuable artifact totally in awe of it being in my care.

I became immediately enthralled with this pioneer woman of our county, bringing to our early population a learned and professional approach to midwifery, all the while raising children on her own. (It has been said she was married to a scoundrel in Sweden.)

Nelly has been a hero of mine ever since. And now she is permanently on display at our own Chisago Lakes library in the form of a bronze statue, unveiled this past week in a ceremony and reception with a crowd of over 150.

The statue was painstakingly crafted by sculptor, Ian Dudley. I cannot say emphatically enough how fortunate we are to have this expert artist in our own local area. Ian doesn't go to work until he has thoroughly researched his subject. In this case, it included a trip to Sweden where he met people who knew the family and shared old photographs, letters and stories.

Once back home, Ian began the process which he described in a talk preceding the unveiling. I had no idea it involved so many phases, beginning with a scale model. His knowledge of the way to present the most minute detail and his use of various metals and materials was mind-boggling to me.

Well, at last, the moment had arrived for the official unveiling.

We all held our collective breath as Ian humbly stood by the covered sculpture, his hand poised and ready to remove the orange parachute-like covering.  Neighbors greeted neighbors as the crowd gathered around. Folks were ready, cameras in hand. You could feel the expectant air as we all tried to get as close as possible for the very best view.

Finally, the parachute covering was dramatically lifted!

And then Nelly came back to life...well, in a respectful manner of speaking.

Isn't she just so elegant? 

I present to you, Mrs. Nelly Gustafson, on her way to deliver the town's next baby, riding in her carriage with the real-to-life naugahyde foot guard. So beautiful!

Following the official unveiling, a reception was held in the library featuring Swedish open-faced tea sandwiches and luscious desserts made by local caterer extraordinaire, Jon Ekstrom.

And as we enjoyed the Swedish refreshments, we were serenaded by the Twin Cities Nyckelharpalag, one of twenty groups in the Twin Cities (with thousands of groups in Sweden and about 175 in the US).

What is a nyckelharpa, you say?

Well, I just happen to know because the group distributed a card with its history and the composition of the instrument. Suffice it to say, it is a Swedish key fiddle. It looks like this:

The Twin Cities Nyckelharpalag

So there you have it. A wonderful evening, filled with everything that makes a small town great: neighbors, friends, a ceremony, music, food, local library, and beautiful summer weather.

Everything perfect to greet Nelly again. And she is most welcome here.

Opening the flood gate

I have started tackling one of the many things on my retirement To Do List. This resembles a bucket list, only a very practical one. Achievable, too, if you actually do it.

It is my photo project. It is daunting, to say the least.

It started with taking a box of loose photos belonging to my Mom, who passed 18 months ago. It's the last remaining task to wind up her affairs, which puts it all-too-neatly into a compartment, which seems sad and unfair for a person's life.

Going through her photos, dividing them among family members, was a sharp and sad reminder that she is gone. Many long, deep sighs went into sorting through the pictures, a flood gate of memories opening up, reliving so many good times -  of Mom, and all of us as a family. Missing her all over again; riding another wave of grief.


I was once given a card with this saying on it. So true, isn't it?

Well, I finished. Everything is in envelopes ready to give to my sisters, my brother, and even some cousins. The big box is empty.

Of course, this only served to remind me that my own photos needed attention.

Ordinarily a fairly well-organized person, subscribing to the notion, "A place for everything and everything in its place," somehow I fail miserably when it comes to photos.

In this case, it has meant jamming photos and keepsakes into a bedroom blanket chest that has never stored a blanket. The day of reckoning came when my own collection of my Mom's recently-sorted  photos would no longer fit into the chest. That, or I could no longer close the chest.

So...I got a banker's box, took a bunch of old file folders and labeled them in five-year time spans. Then I unloaded the full contents of the chest and started sorting.

Because I am doing this in my media center (also known as the bedroom), I needed to stick with the task or not be able to go to bed to sleep at night. I shifted piles to the floor for a few nights, then worked more speedily as I have an aversion to messes. Well, messes that I have to constantly look at.

Okay, the photos are now in their five-year-time-span folders. And now I don't know what to do with them.  Photo albums? Scan them all (we're talking thousands)? Sort by time period? Event? Make scrapbooks? What to do?

Until I figure out how to keep them all (or even whether I keep them all), all those beautiful photos and related memorabilia are in a banker's box, in five-year-time-span folders, awaiting further action. On top of the blanket chest.

But until I decide, I will savor all the memories my photos hold.

In nothing else am I rich. In nothing else am I poor.