Queen for a day

How many of you remember the bizarre 1950s show, hosted by Jack Bailey, Queen for a Day? 

Four women were selected for each show, requesting a prize, such as a washer and dryer, to help them overcome some personal tragedy. They would elicit support from the audience by telling their sad story. Hankies in hand, they would sob as they recounted their misfortune.

The audience would then decide, via an "Applause-O-Meter," which story had affected them the most, and the winner would be deemed worthy of the title "Queen for a Day."

The winner won her prizes, and was bedecked in a sable-trimmed red velvet robe and a jeweled crown.

This was the most pathetic, ridiculous show of the 50s. It was also extremely popular and ran for fourteen years, into the 1960s.

Imagine, sharing your personal tragedies with the public, trying to outdo other contestants with your story, hoping to produce enough sobs to win the prize.

My younger sisters produced a fabulous and hilarious take-off on this show in our neighbors, the Bergs, basement. They invited parents and other neighbors to come view their show, complete with popcorn and chairs set up in theater-fashion.

My sister, Edie, played the role of "Mrs. Myron Tashisky," a fictitious name. Since "Mrs. Tashisky" was from the south, my sister adopted the appropriate drawl (Miz M-a-hron Tashi-sky).

Mrs. Tashisky had the most horrible sob story you could imagine. All she hoped to win on the show was a wringer washer for her eighteen children! Of course, her heart-wrenching story went on and on with great drama.

To further emphasize her distress, she unrolled and unrolled a giant roll of toilet paper (she couldn't afford Kleenex) to dry her tear-filled eyes as she recounted her distress, until there was toilet paper all over the stage.

Of course, Mrs. Tashisky won. Just to put your mind at ease.

Thankfully, we've come a long way since I Love Lucy (still one of my favorite shows, by the way) and Queen for a Day. 

But we have lost a lot, too.  My all-time favorite show, Andy Griffith, depicts a gentler, more sensitive time in Americana. I wish we had that back.

I watch very little television, preferring my own select DVDs to entertain me as I'm knitting in the evenings.  With two TVs in the house, my husband watches the other one, almost drowning out all other sounds with shooting, swearing, or engaging in....well, you know...

He likes action. The louder, the better, apparently.

I, on the other hand, wish for the 50s back. At least for the more tame television.

But definitely not, Queen for a Day.  That can well be buried in the past and stay there. Right along with The Newlywed Game.

Summertime trouble

We heard the sounds of the fire engines, my neighborhood friend, Jill, and I, roaring through the neighborhood on a summer evening.

It was about 1956.

The sirens were louder than I’d ever heard them, and suddenly I realized it was because they were so close. In fact, careening down Howell Street towards our alley.

When I wondered aloud where they were going, Jill joked, “Maybe to your house!”

I felt numb as fear overtook me. It had been my evening chore to take out the trash and strike the wooden match against the barrel. One of the rules associated with this task was waiting to see that the fire started properly and watch it until the fire slowed down.

But, of course, I was in a terrible hurry that evening. In a rush to resume playing with my neighborhood friends, I dumped the trash into the barrel, struck the match, quickly threw it in, and rode off on my bike.

How could such a sweet little thing get into so much trouble?
(By the way, this was my favorite sundress. It was pink and blue.)

Turning up my street and approaching the fire truck parked in the alley, I knew I was in very big trouble. My first thought was to stay on my bike and ride away, but knowing I’d have to face the music sooner or later, I opted to face it sooner and get it over with.

My mother gave me a stern and rather frantic look as I approached. If I recall correctly, Jill rode away. The fireman on the scene gave me a lecture, explaining some of the trash fell over onto the brush along the alley fence, and could have quickly spread and been much worse.

Then my mother pretty much repeated everything he said, but in a much less friendly tone.

I am quite sure; in fact, I'd bank on it, that I had consequences that have somehow been blocked from my recollection.

But the worst consequence of all was seeing my younger sisters and brother all looking at me, as only siblings will, fully realizing the drama of the whole episode.

And very glad it wasn’t them in trouble this time.

Back to the farm

In 1957, we learned that my Aunt Norma was engaged to be married to a man named Bob Kristensen. She had known him for many years; most of her life, actually. We had never heard of him.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

It meant she would be moving from St. Paul, Minnesota, back to her hometown, the small farming town of White Lake, South Dakota, following her June wedding.

Now this came as a real shock.

Aunt Norma, my Dad's sister, was our very special, beautiful aunt who stayed with us to babysit, bought us things and, in any way possible, spoiled us. She had a bubbly, outgoing personality and an infectious laugh.

She had been dating a handsome man in St., Paul named Don. So, I just naturally assumed if she got married someday, it would be to him.  Don was jovial, fun, a tease, and...well yeah, okay, maybe a bit boisterous. Maybe even more so after a few beers. Okay, sometimes obnoxious.

But who in the world was this Bob Kristensen guy, and why would Norma leave the glamour of her city life to settle down in White Lake? On a farm, no less. It was great fun to visit White Lake every summer as kids, but to live there? All the time? That was another matter altogether.

Aunt Norma worked in a contractor's office, not far from our home in the Macalester-Groveland neighborhood. By this time, I was old enough to venture that far on my bike, so I occasionally rode over that way to stop in to say hello.

Of course, I was reasonably sure I'd also be treated to a ten-cent cherry phosphate at Towey’s corner drugstore on the corner of Selby and Snelling.

To a twelve-year-old, pre-teen girl, Aunt Norma was just the type of young woman to be idolized. She always wore the most beautiful clothes, red nail polish, clip earrings and high heels. And she had a winning smile and that wonderful, charming laugh.

So the whole move-to-White-Lake thing was baffling to me. 

And then we met Bob Kristensen. His quiet, soft-spoken and gentle ways very quickly won us over. So opposite the boyfriend, Don. So less artificial; so very much more real. Our new "Uncle Bob."

June 1957

The wedding was at Trinity Lutheran Church in town. 

Construction had just been completed at the newly-built brick church, but the landscaping had been delayed due to many days of steady, soaking rain.

With no sod having yet been laid, the entire church yard resembled a muddy pig-pen  Not just your mere garden-variety mud, but something more like quicksand. My memory is very vivid in that regard because I got stuck in the mud, and I wasn't the only one. Someone, I don’t know who, had to come pull me out, my shiny black patent shoes caked with the wet, sticky, gritty substance.

It was a beautiful wedding. Following the church basement reception, a party that continued to the wee hours was held in the garage at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm.

Norma and Bob settled on the Kristensen family farm, not far from Grandma and Grandpa's farm. Uncle Bob continued to share farming the land with his twin brother, Ray.

And so my glamorous, Aunt Norma became a farm wife. She took pride in tending her chickens, cooking, baking, and playing the organ at church. She was actually a natural in, what was to her, a familiar environment.

Come to think of it.....she never seemed happier.

Threshing days

You never hear about threshing anymore. 

According to my husband, who grew up on a southern Minnesota farm, modern machinery and equipment ended the need for this laborious process.

But in my grandparents' farming days in White Lake, South Dakota, threshing season rolled around in the fall of the year, after the grain was harvested.  The men on the farm would begin the threshing process, which separated the grain (edible) from the chaff (inedible).

Because it is a huge, labor-intensive job, farmers would get together and help each other, first completing the work on one farm and then moving on to another.

The farmer who owned a threshing machine would harvest other farmers' grain. A machine called a combine later replaced the old threshing machines. The combine had a chute that loaded the grain into a wagon, or directly into a grain bin.

It was hard work for the men-folk, but perhaps equally as hard for the women.

The women got together as well, moving from one farm's kitchen to another, pooling their culinary resources by cooking and baking in large quantities together. Many calorie- and carbohydrate-laden meals were needed to keep the men supplied with ample energy to do their work.

In some communities, I'm told, threshing bees were held, involving flea markets, dances, and other community events.  I don't know if that was the case in White Lake, in my grandparents' threshing days, but I have never heard any stories to that effect.

Whatever the practice in various locales, threshing season was part of Americana for many years.

And one thing was common to all: celebrating the end of threshing season.

When the work was done, the grain bins full, the hay bundled neatly in rows, farmers glowed in the satisfaction of bringing in another year's harvest, and looked at their fields with pride.

And celebrated.....as evidenced by this great photo. 



(L to R): Leonard Steffen, Harvey Steffen,
Carl Markhardt, Herbert Steffen,
Wilmer Steffen, Charlie Steffen (kneeling),
 Art Ketelhut, Otto Steffen (sitting), Emil Steffen

For the benefit of my Steffen cousins, I've identified the men in the photo by name.

You might know, it would be my own grandfather, kneeling with the bottle tipped to his lips.  It looks to me like the bottles were mostly empty.

So, hmmm, I wonder.  How did the women celebrate?

My imagination knows no bounds in that respect.

Small town rituals

The small, rural town of White Lake, South Dakota, held great fascination for us six kids as we visited there each summer. It was our Mayberry.

Although the farm itself was a novelty, the small town routines of the 1950s were even more interesting to us.

An "ice cream man" came to the farm to deliver Popsicles, ice cream and frozen novelties.  This differed from the ice cream wagons with their tinkling bells that drove slowly up our neighborhood streets in the city. The White Lake ice cream man stocked the deep freeze (we said freezer; they said deep freeze).

Then there was the "bread man" who, similarly, stocked the freezer (deep freeze) with bread and buns. We had a "milk man" in the city, but, of course, there was no need of that on the farm, because another ritual was taking the milk to the White Lake Creamery in town. First, of course, came the twice-daily ritual of milking, skimming the cream from the frothy milk in the stainless steel "separator" and filling milk cans.

The stores were open on Friday nights in White Lake and everyone headed to town, as much for socializing as for weekly shopping at Oltman's dry goods, Gambles, or Ehler's General Store.

We were excited as we cleaned up from our day's play, dressed in something better than our play clothes, and piled in the car for the 8-mile ride to town.

The kids all congregated together by the stores as we'd each been given a nickel for a pack of gum, maybe Black Jack, Beeman's, or Clark’s Teaberry. Or a Baby Ruth candy bar. Or Necco wafers. When we were a little older, we could get a cherry Coke at Warrell's drug store, or the Silver Dollar cafe.

The women did their shopping, while the men played pool or just drank red beer (beer with tomato juice) in the tavern or the Legion Hall. It was a big social night for all, and a weekly ritual for farm families isolated most of the week.

Saturday night was bath night. With one small bathroom and a limited water supply, we had to share the water. Where at home we could fill the bathtub, there was barely enough water to cover us, but we didn't mind.


Trinity Lutheran Church
ca. 1970

Sunday mornings, as at home, were reserved for church.


But church at White Lake was much more fun than it was at home as it meant we could sit together with all the other kids, and not with our parents.

This was a practice they had, and we thought it was great. We wished we could do that at our church at home.

I made friends with a few girls my age. Mary Ann lived down the road from my grandparents' farm, and Kathy lived a few miles away. Grandma would drive me to Mary Ann's, and that was the only occasion, or the furthest, I'd ever seen her drive. 

Kathy's mom would drive over to pick me up for a visit. I thought she was the prettiest mom I ever saw, and always pleasant, always smiling. I thought Kathy was so lucky, as I couldn't imagine her mother ever scolding her. She always offered us nectar (we called it Kool-Aid). 

Over the years, I was able to see how different my White Lake friends' lives were from mine; and yet we were the same, laughing at the same silliness and sharing 'Teen magazines when we were older.

My Grandpa had a quiet sense of humor, always stood with his hands behind his back, and delighted in playing tricks on us. His cow-pie trick became a ritual for us kids, as well as our cousins who visited.

First, he would claim to have a “secret" to tell us, or he'd ask us to come over by him to look at something oh-so-interesting. 

Of course, he’d stand in front of the pile of manure, blocking its view.

When we came close enough to him, he’d take us by the arm and into the “cow pie” we’d step. He'd take no regard of our footwear: barefoot, sandals, or Sunday patent leather shoes. If we were barefoot, he’d laugh about the manure squishing between our toes.

No cow pies in sight? Then it might be chicken poop. My mother didn't always think it was so funny, but we sure did. We fell for his trick every time, even though we usually knew what was coming. Grandpa would laugh like he really got us.

Ah, the simple fun, the simple rituals, the simple life.  I know now how choosing life on a farm is anything but simple.

But to us as kids, it was simply delightful, and a treasure to recall.

Rooms with names

The two-story South Dakota farmhouse was large to accommodate my Dad's family of nine. 

Two bedrooms downstairs, along with the living room, dining room and kitchen.  Five rooms upstairs. Beautiful hardwood floors. And one teensy-weensy bathroom.

But what was unique about the farmhouse was that most all of the rooms had names.

Well, the kitchen was just "the kitchen." A large cast iron stove took corn cobs for heating, kept in a basket alongside the stove. The window above the sink not only let the sunlight in, but provided a view of the yard and barns. Chickens scurried about, while the dog, (first Pudgy, then Butchy), slept peacefully in the shade. 

The dining room contained a large table covered with oilcloth. This middle room, between the kitchen and living room, doubled as an office-of-sorts, with a desk piled with mail and newspapers, and a record player for 45 rpm singles. From the dining room, one could usually hear Ferlin Husky singing Cattle Call, or crooning, Ah'd walk fer miles, harsh miles, fer my momma and daddy...".

Grandpa and Grandma outside
the back door by the pump
used for drinking water.
The three dining room
windows can be seen.

The coolest thing about this room was the built-in buffet.  It separated the dining room from the kitchen, and the doors and drawers could be opened from either direction. Silverware needed in the kitchen? Silverware needed in the dining room?  Either way, there it was.

The living room had a deep ruby red frieze couch and matching chair, with doilies made by Grandma to cover the arms and backs. A crocheted cup and saucer that Grandma starched with a sugar mixture adorned the glass-topped coffee table. A door leading to a large front porch was in the living room, but, sadly, the front porch, called the "East Porch," was seldom, if ever, used.

The “East Room” was one of the main floor bedrooms, where Mom and Dad always slept when we visited there.  The other bedroom was Grandma and Grandpa's room. All the bedrooms had iron beds and wooden dressers.

The “Toy Room” (our favorite) was the first room you came to upstairs. It was filled with charming toys once belonging to my aunts and uncles, played with as they were growing up. Paper dolls with plastic stands, an old-fashioned green wooden toy telephone, dolls with plaster (mostly cracked) heads, that we lovingly placed in handmade cradles, my aunt Lois Ruth’s candy bar wrapper collection, and many other assorted and sundry old treasures.

At the far end of the upstairs was the “Book Room” that housed Uncle Erwin’s collection of  academic and philosophic books on shelves and in big foreboding trunks. He also had a fascinating collection of matchbook covers. All the matches were torn out and he kept only the covers. They, and the books, are still there in that same room.

In the middle of the "Toy Room" and the "Book Room" was the "Boys’ Room.”  This was where Uncle Erwin, Dad, Uncle Herb and Uncle Marvin slept. Bereft of any decorating whatsoever, it was obvious the boys slept there. Iron beds, one wooden chair, a calendar on the wall.

The "Girls' Room" belonged to Aunt Norma and Aunt Lois Ruth. As we grew older, this became our favorite room. The closet was full of old Prom dresses,  pressed corsages, summer sandals and high heels which we clomped around in.

A deep blue bottle of Evening in Paris and tins of talcum powder sat alongside jars of Ponds cold cream and a brush and mirror set on the dresser. Ah, we were princesses in this room.

If Lois Ruth happened to be home, we’d “powder" her back. My sister, Christine, and I would first sprinkle eau de cologne on her back, then dump talcum or dusting powder on it. This would make a wonderful paste and we’d rub it all in. Although the bedroom reeked of perfume and powder, we thought it was great fun, while Aunt Lois thought it was pure bliss.

The last room actually had no name, but it belonged to Aunt Loretta. Again, an iron bed and a curved, skirted make-up table, painted blue and white, with a hair brush and mirror set. It was our least favorite room because it had a stuffed owl in the closet. Intriguing, but it gave us the willies.

We considered all of the rooms in the farmhouse special. They all contained abounding love, energy, and warm memories for my Dad's family, and then for us.

Each of us felt as special to my grandparents as the rooms with their own names.

And the legacy of love, energy and warmth were passed on.