Residents

Their names are screwed tight 

to the Resident's Directory

hanging visible by the door 

opening one way ~ no escape. 

He dresses up proper to read the news

one more time. Changing chairs makes 

the old news new. 

Elsie ran away to be a bride before 

his father could interrupt love. 

A work tent by the rail road's 

 newly laid track ~ her nuptial bed. 

Jesus loves me is the only song 

she remembers. She sings it heartfelt,

 over and over, now that she isn't a child. 

We come to see our mother who doesn't 

know we came. When her limp hands wake

to clasp back tender, our smiles tremble. 

Wedding bands worn thin

don't lie. 

Sophie's Seeds

Sophie moved her large bulk slow. Even so, the homestead work was accomplished with thoroughness. In between relentless chores, she planted flowers along the rock wall which she had hauled and stacked one stone at a time. Stones were plentiful and unwanted in the fields.  She reframed them.


She is famous in the family for this: Doctor suggested she only have one piece of toast in the morning, instead of two. A keen mind in an aged body outsmarted him. With gumption, she told the family she would follow orders, but she would be sure to cut it thick. She pronounced it tick. 

When we go back to the prairie, poking about the old places jog memories. Asking a question about some unfamiliar object becomes a story starter.

This tin can sieve with lid is for holding minnows. It was dropped in water to keep the fishing bait alive.

When I was younger, I lusted for the object left along the prairie trail. Now, I hunger only for the stories to pair with the digital proof. Often, the story is as wispy and fragile as the rotting curtains.

The ungainly rug loom held a place of honor in the small living room. Sitting by the hot stove under dim light, they toiled all winter turning straw into gold or rags into rugs. 

The rusty story starts to loosen as you turn the handle. Flimsy questions echo up the stairs. 

Her carpet was printed on linoleum. A good faux, easy to clean. The flowers are still bright.

Her bottom knew the frozen wooden seat of the outhouse ~ intimately. Paul would dig a tunnel from the house in winter. His aim was good as the tunnel always ended at the door of the outhouse. It was a two seater. There's a delicate question I have never asked about!  

This old jar of hollyhock seeds whispered how a homemaker, in spite of lean times and a hard life, knew how to save color for her soul from one season to another. I'm learning what she knew. It was and still is, an essential. 

No matter how severe the drought, or how meager the crop ~ one common saying frequently heard among those homesteaders after harvest was, "Oh well, maybe next year." A shrug of the shoulders flipped the burden of failure away while their hands found the next needful thing to do. They couldn't waste any energy for they needed to survive winter's sour winds. 

Each spring, they picked up the handle of that dream one more time, and with calloused hands dug a place to plant seeds. 

Reflecting Love

Wilfred wooed Thelma for five years before he married her. Letters diverted from a disapproving mother didn't cool his determination. His constancy continues now from the place where she lives full time and he lives day times. Her thick brown hair is still lush, but grey. A stroke ten years ago changed the direction of what they had envisioned for their golden years. They have gone far past plans A or B. 

Their view is one we can only partially empathize with as we look inside, and they look out with acceptance. 

Fifty nine years of deciding to honor their vows is an epic story. The prairie yields many similar stories. The staying power of love thrives here. We have seen it up close ourselves. Too close. Perhaps roots grow extra deep in this lonely sod? 

Thelma was a stunning young woman on the outside. Being in her presence for even a short while reveals a woman who is stunning on the inside, too. I was the one who felt visited. And blessed in her presence. All heaven will welcome one such as she. She stays because we need her light and love. 

Hobo's Leavings

They felt the need to leave their names carved in the woodshed's planks. The McHenry Loop was a dead end. A tricky little turn around. If they wanted to keep going west, they would have had to walk across the prairie to the main line.

Some wrote their names like a brand, with flourish. A couple drew a profile, perhaps unable to write.  Indian Dave, GA Slim, Red, Omaha Kid, Hank the tie tramp, and Rock Island Whity left permanent proof that they had passed through. No amount of paint layers will obliterate their ~ I was here.  1904. 1917......

It is art, hidden mostly in tall prairie grass. What was graffiti then, becomes a creative record of a hobo's wandering now. If only we could follow their trail of carvings left behind across the wide expanse of America's railways.

Stripping Down For The Final Lap

Let me describe a North Dakota Public Auction. It's a social event. It's an eating occasion. Eating supports a good cause after all. Hopefully it doesn't rain. If you're a dealer/collector or just a dishonest person, you jiggle around the goods, hiding things in junk boxes or camouflaging a treasure. It's great fun haggling and outbidding someone, coming away with the prize. It's great fun as long as you don't know the story or the people who all this stuff belonged to. I will never go to another one without some compassion for the family. I think auctions should be 'by invitation only' - to keep the cannibal like dealers away and let the family and friends have some dignity while salvaging some keepsakes..... but then it wouldn't be very profitable.

My father in law and uncle in law both had a combined sale. It rained off and on, the food cart made history, we came home with a $15.00 upright piano in perfect condition in the back of a new to us pickup.

I was rude and cruel and disgusted with the dealers lusting ruthlessly over the personal treasures of women I have loved so much.

It felt like the auctioneer and his wife who is the clerk, his daughter, son and son in law were the enemy, even though they have been friends of the family for years and years. I came home promptly and made amends for treating them so bad. Hope they forgive me my passion, grief and sadness.......... taking it out on them. They did a great job. It was a very successful auction.

North Dakota Norwegians are stoic. Cliff's matched pair of Percherons showed off in the front pasture as the bidding took off; when the bid closed, they were loaded and taken to their new home. Cliff never liked machinery. He trained and broke so many horses to harness that when I asked him how many, he laughed and looked confused. Probably hundreds! He loved his horses. After they went, he came in the house and sat looking out the picture window till his composure returned. No drama, no tears, no trembling lip. He did clear his throat a lot, however, when he told me it was time to quit, as he couldn't handle them any longer. And he must have had dust in his eye when he told me the owner said he could come see them work any time. He knew the exact farm that would be their new home.

When Myrtle's prized china hutch went to a local gal who would cherish it, instead of a dealer who would double his money, it made me happy.

When her Cape Cod ruby Avon collection of dishes was broke up and parceled off to several different bidders, it was tragic.

When the blue bird dishes that she spent her life collecting painstakingly one piece at a time (no e-bay or craigslist or internet) went to a dealer with a diamond stud in his ear - I hid behind sunglasses and took a walk till the kill was over.

When her ancient drop leaf table, which had a hitch in it's gettyup on one side - only she could usually close it - when it was opened, I started blubbering like an idiot, for how would the new owners ever get it closed?

It wasn't that I wanted or coveted anything. It's hard to explain, but I'll give it a go. Prairie women have an unusual life. Little things matter, because they are sort of removed from the city and all it's offerings. They worked so hard! To have the pretty things, that she and Evelyn had spent years collecting and caring for, their treasures that brought them so much pleasure, casually treated and going to the highest bidder was a bit traumatic for me. Even though my head knows, it was never the 'stuff' that was important to them. Yes, it was entertainment, pleasure, maybe the hunt, the acquiring, but never ever was it the priority. I think they used their pretty things to bring joy to others. I LOVED sitting down to a table covered with a crisp white tablecloth, laden with home cooked comfort food, served on her beautiful dishes artistically arranged. We felt so loved, nurtured and pampered somehow!

Evelyn had boxes of Norwegian bibles, leather bound, 200 years old or more! There were precious things that had been on some immigrant ship and traveled on some prairie schooner. There were things in boxes sitting in the rain that had been kept and cherished through great hardship and sacrifice.

One thing that visually symbolizes the auction agony for me was a simple jewelry box that held just a few homely trinkets. As a friend and I were turning them over and digging around we came upon 2 extremely old miniature photographs in matching hand wrought frames with pin clasps on the back. They had to have been ancient relatives, but no one knows who they were. No one cares. The entire box probably went for fifty cents.

Gordon and Cliff both have wives who are room mates in the nursing home about 20 miles away. The men actually did every one a huge favor by doing this hard thing now, instead of later when they have passed on. Dealing with grief, while dealing with the practical matters has to be so difficult. They are free from the encumbrances, traveling light. There aren't any u-hauls hitched to a casket. Only love and relationships are eternal. They have all our love. They have dignity. They are both highly respected and liked in the community. They are starting over. Finishing well...........with courage and composure.

With a gigantic lump in my throat and through blurry eyes, my heart stands and salutes them. We are all grateful for their brave foresight. The pain now is actually thoughtfulness later.

Life in Boxes

Craig and I are in North Dakota. Along with his dad, 4 brothers and wives, we are packing up the house and shop. Packing everything in boxes, shallow boxes, so people coming to the auction will be able to see what is inside without disturbing, breaking or hiding something valuable in a box of doodads worth a buck. As the 4 long trailers slowly fill up, the reality starts having a dark dimension. Gordon and Myrtle have been married 60 plus years and the boxes represent everything in their life. Some things were scrimped, sacrificed and saved for-yearned for.

There are dish sets that were added to one piece at a time. Furniture which has been redone over and over again, re-apolstered, re-finished. The cream separator from when Gordon and his boys milked cows twice a day. The same cows who tied them down to the farm so that vacations were special and rare. The cows who were literally their bread and butter, grocery money week to week. The hand crank drill press that has been in the shop for so long that nobody remembers it not being there. It has a fly wheel the size of a ferris wheel......where are the little people going to play at night? There were boxes and boxes of cards recived by everyone over the years for birthdays, anniversaries, thank you grandma, etc. Saved because.......we don't know for sure, but probably because life on the farm can be lonely and somewhat isolated, especially a farm buried in a little town surrounded by wheat fields, sunflower fields, cow pastures, sloughs full of cattails, rock piles, corn, soy and hay. Saved for the same reason she fed and watered her yard full of birds and planted lovely flower beds. Saved because they were a pretty, colorful bright spot in her day, her life. Something to savor over and over again.

I completely broke down last night. Each of these words are a tear. Each sentence a sob. Coming home, won't be coming home any longer. It is finished, that part. Only death is more final. The auction tomorrow will seem like a funeral, except the auctioneer gets paid. Gordon will make some money, feel lighter in so many ways and have some freedom from endless chores. It is a good thing, but doesn't feel good. We're just doing it sooner than later. Will the emptiness fill again? I know in my knower that it is people, experiences, memories which make our lives full, not things! But what has been unexpected is how symbolic the things are, how they represent a person.

The boys wanted each of their children to have a keepsake of grandma's. There were enough collectible plates to go around. Myrtle used to have one wall by the huge table completely covered with nursery rhyme plates which she had collected one at a time. When the grandkids came, they would beg her to 'tell the plates' meaning, tell the story behind the picture on the front. She would patiently go through each one till there weren't any more. They would snuggle as close as possibe, the smaller ones crowded on her lap. Brita and Tess remember caressing her soft, velvety elbows while she spoke. All of us have a house full of our own things, we don't need or want much of anything from the boxes. Her handwritten notebook of recipes is sweet, but my kids would just have to haul it away with my stuff someday.

There were games and puzzles that had been so well used, that the box had layers of tape on the corners holding them together. A bookshelf Craig made in shop when he was in 9th grade, always in a place of honor.

That big old house, held together by thick layers of wallpaper soaked with love, laughter, memories, tears, scents of meals and music, won't fall and rot away by the searing summers and desperate winters. It makes it easier and we are so grateful. It helps that a young, energetic, hopeful farmboy, his wife and two children will carry on the tradition of family farming, right there, collecting their own memories which will all be boxed up someday too.