Mom and Dad

by Nancy Hallock

Looking back, I realize how God-like my mother was.  She planted seeds.  No, not so much in a garden, although her baby iris flowers were stunning, but in people.

She would plant a seed in our Dad's brain.  It would nurture and grow, and after awhile, it would give birth to an idea.  HIS idea!

Then a doorway would be moved to a more sensible (for her) location.  A wall would come down and a dining room would be created.  A half-door would be built to protect that precious little baby, who had come ten years after the rest.

The story about that little seed is for another time. 

Dad was born in Fargo, North Dakota, in 1913, of Norwegian parents.  He didn't speak much English before he went to school, which probably was common in that part of the country, in those days.  He made up for it by becoming a star scholar, who could recite rules regarding English usage until the day he died at age 92. 

Ragnar (his friends called him "Rags"), had five younger sisters, so there was always a full house.  However, there always was room for "boarders," including two "old maid" school teachers, who were sisters.  They stayed for many years.

A few years ago, we saw an article in a local home and garden type of magazine from the Fargo area.  It had an article about an old house that was the original farm house on that side of town.  It would have been in the country at the time it was built.

Imagine our surprise, when we realized it was nothing of the sort!  It was the house that Dad had helped his father build when Dad was fifteen years old.   Our grandfather's flower gardens were well known at the time, and there are lovely pictures of the house and gardens from when Dad's family lived there.  We also have pictures of the house being built.  It looks different now.  Some creative and beautiful changes have been made, and two of our family members have been able to visit and take pictures.

The moral here (if there is one), is that the "official" records are not always correct, and are sometimes created by repeated media misperceptions - some things never change.

What is important is to listen, listen, listen to those stories.  Grandpa has already told you this ten times?  Listen again.  You might hear something new in the telling.  As the present becomes less important, the past becomes more vivid.  Listen!

Some stories you just can't tell.

by Heidi Horchler
Yesterday I was in the grocery store and a man came buzzing down my aisle in one of the store-provided electric scooter carts. He had a friendly face and I smiled a greeting at him. The cap he wore had insignia showing that he had served in the military. As he passed me and stopped to look at the greeting cards, I noticed the back of the cap read "WORLD WAR II."

Ever since we started this blog, I've been trying to break the ice with Seniors I meet, to see if they'd be interested in sharing a little slice of their lives with us.

"I see you're a veteran," I said.

"Oh, yeah," he replied, "WWII."

He told me he was 93 years old.

I said I'd bet he'd have a lot of stories to tell. 

He paused and nodded, "We were there on Omaha beach, not D-Day, but a couple days after. We couldn't be there on that day because we were a tank unit and needed more time to get on land."

"Wow," was all I could say. I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone who'd experienced that battle firsthand. 

"I lost a lot of good friends that day," he continued, "that's why I wear this hat," and he reached up, touching the brim of his cap.

At this, he started to get choked up. His eyes watered for a second, then he composed himself.

67 years ago, he lost friends in one of the most intense battles in our nation's history. And by the look on his face; remembers it like it was yesterday.

I wish I could have talked to him more, gotten his name, asked him about his kids or his wife or where he grew up. But I didn't have the heart.

At that moment, he wasn't in a grocery store, in a 93-year-old body, confined to an electric scooter. He wasn't looking at greeting cards and talking to a young lady in the magazine aisle.

He was on Omaha beach with his buddies. 

Thanks, Dad

by Heidi Horchler

My dad, 1976

Since Eileen and I started this blog, I've been bugging my parents to send me stories. My mom's parents were from Norwegian, Irish and German descent, and Dad comes from a very colorful and interesting Italian American family. My ancestors from both sides came from the Old Country, mostly in the 1800s and settled in the Midwest. My mom's side in Minnesota and North Dakota, and my Dad's side to Chicago. I know that one of my mother's grandmothers came here as an indentured servant (what must that have been like!) and one of my father's grandfathers came the long way - by steam ship,  around Cape Horn, South America, and all the way up to San Francisco. He was there for the great Earthquake of 1906, and later made his way across country by working on the railroad, baking bread for the workers. Such stories!


Last week, while talking to my dad, he mentioned that he had been working on something for the site. I was pretty excited, and couldn't wait to see what he came up with. When he sent it to me, I had to laugh. When asked to tell about stories from the old days, and a memory of his family, for a website by, for and about Senior Citizens, my dad chose to write about his kids; me and my brother John:


by Art Giovannoni

This is for my daughter, Heidi. I am a retired tool & die maker, and I live with my wife of 27 years in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Heidi has been after me to write an article for her latest blog. I want to relate to her readers a little bit of her and her brother’s earlier years.

A totally awesome picture of us, 1981

  I became a father in August of 1967. My eldest, John, is a son to be proud of. He is a musician, teacher, and partner in a thriving music store in northern Ilinois. Oh, but when he was a teen, the drums, the DRUMS! Then he put himself through college, earning a degree in music, wow! Yes, as you can surmise, I’m a proud father. He also loves the outdoors. We spent every summer vacation camping and fishing. Once he even caught a large-mouth bass that I had lost. I know this because my hook was still in the fish’s mouth!

 In 1969 on another August day, God saw fit to bless my former wife and I with a BEAUTIFUL child. Heidi. A name, by the way, I chose. She was always, and still is, full of energy! She has always loved the outdoors; camping, fishing and since her marriage, hunting. She has a passion for acting, writing and horses. She is an excellent cook, no - chef and a fine mother of two great boys. (This from a proud grandfather)

Well, Heidi, I hope this qualifies for your blog.

Love ya, Pook. Dad

Thanks, Dad

Childhood Summers in Northern Michigan

by Holly Klapper

The constant beckoning of the outdoors was almost too much to take when you had chores to do inside.  Just the second our chores were given mother’s approval out the screen door we ran; with a loud slam.  Usually this was followed by a faintly heard reprimand from mother.  We were already halfway across the yard.  There were so many things to explore in the outdoors.  There were streams to cool your hot feet in, perfect trees for making  rope swings, beautiful Mayflowers and sometimes mushrooms or wild berries to proudly take back to mom.

The air was always filled with the smell of fresh cut grass in the summer.  My favorite times were when the Aunts and their children came over.  We had long picnic tables in the yard and would help our moms shuck bushel after bushel of corn.  It was canning time.  After a few complaints they would usually let us stray off and play hide and seek or kick the can.  Red Rover was another favorite.  We also enjoyed taking one of Grandmother’s strong old quilts and holding the edges carefully, while tossing one of the smaller children in the air.  Oh the giggles caused by that!   A good wheelbarrow could keep us entertained for a good while, taking turns pushing each other.

On special occasions we could persuade mom to take us to the lake for a swim.  I always liked to go in slowly, as it was very cold.  The tiny fish would come and nibble on your toes.  My, how that tickled.  We would have contests walking on our hands and doing flips in the water.  My favorite lake had a few logs floating in the water for our amusement.  We, of course, had to see who could stay on the longest.  Not an easy feat.  The most fun of all for me was when we got to stay until it was dark and make a fire.  Usually the marshmallows were brought out.  The search for the perfect stick could last 20 minutes!  Everything was a competition.

A couple times in the summer we would have company over and dad would make homemade ice cream in the yard.  This was no small endeavor.  I don’t know for sure how long it truly took him.  But, to a child waiting for ice cream, it seemed like five hours.   There were wild strawberry patches and rhubarb grew wild too.  But, the best picking was out of my dad and Grandpa’s garden.  They  grew grapes, raspberries and blackberries.  Summers always meant sticky fingers and red stained t-shirts.  We were truly blessed.

Keeping In Touch With What’s Really Important

by Emma Satter

I heard about this site because my mother and her friend decided to make it one day. They sit down and work on it together, I help them out sometimes. I think it is a great idea and I have a story that I would like to share.

I am a regular teenage girl, and like many others I have a facebook, a cell phone, an ipod, and I’m always connected to something. I found out that life’s not about the things you have, the clothes you wear, or how popular you are at school, it’s really about how much time you spend with your family. My story is from a few years back on my birthday. My grandpa has an airplane that he keeps in a hanger, and we sometimes go flying. For my birthday he told me that we were going to go for a ride. So I got ready for a ride and maybe a nice breakfast, I got my phone and everything else I thought I was going to need and went to my grandpa’s house.

As we left the house to go to his hanger, I noticed that he seemed a lot happier than usual, almost as if he knew something that I didn’t. When we got to the hanger we opened the doors and pushed the airplane out. He helped me get buckled in, and we started up the engine and made sure everything was working properly. As we taxied down the runway I concentrated on the stick and the rudder pedals, for I wanted to become a pilot, just like my grandpa. We got to the end of the runway and we lifted off, into the sky we went. We flew around, and I got to fly the plane for a while, then it was time to land. My grandpa took over and got us safely to the ground.

Emma and her Grandpa, Tom Weidlich in his
PT-17 WWII Stearman Trainer

Usually we land at a nice little airport with a little café in it. This time it was a little tiny dirt runway with a few glider planes parked there. The building that was there looked kind of like a shack but bigger. When I took my belts off and got out of the plane, my grandpa started explaining what the little glider planes were and what they did, I learned that they have no engine at all, and you ride the wind currents to stay in the air. I was really interested by this and was wondering what it would be like to fly one, when all of the sudden my grandpa said “how would you like to ride in one of those?”

I was confused and wondered if he was serious or not and as we walked up to the building an instructor came out and shook my hand. My grandpa explained what was going on and he said “happy birthday Emma!” I got to fly the glider, and it was amazing. There are no distractions, no phones, no facebook, no drama, no nothing. Just you and the instructor having the time of your life. I flew the whole time and I even landed it.


This was kind of a life changing experience for me, because this made me realize that material things aren’t what life’s all about. It’s the family and friends you surround yourself with, so maybe next time you pick up the phone, or go to log in to facebook, instead maybe read a book or spend time with your family and learn a few things about what’s really important to you.
Thanks for reading (:
Emma

Pictures of Dead People

by Lorene Hoover  

My grandmother had a thing about smiling for pictures. "If that person dies," she'd say, "you'd have to look at his smiling face. And who wants to look at a smiling dead person?"

    Strangely, Grandma didn't seem to mind looking at pictures of dead people. In the front room of their sprawling farm house where Grandpa listened to the radio or read the newspaper while Grandma did her mending or studied her Bible, a picture of Grandma's mother in her casket was prominently displayed behind the curved glass door of the china cabinet.

    The cabinet was kept locked at all times. Grandma showed me the key, saying. "If the house ever gets on fire, get that picture out."

    Grandma, a tall woman who was as disciplined as her crimped, gray hair, did everything well with little help from anyone else. I'm sure that on July 3, 1939, she had everything under control for our big family day on the Fourth. The house was dusted and polished, the guest bedroom ready for my aunt and uncle who would arrive that evening. New potatoes had been dug and washed, peas picked and shelled, pies baked, chickens killed and dressed, and the linen-covered table in the dining room was set with her best china.

       That night Grandma must have heard the storm approaching. Always afraid of lightning, she got up and disconnected the radio and telephone. Later, she said she heard something like a giant's footsteps on the roof. The newspaper reported that lightning must have struck the house about 1:30 a.m., but the family did not notice the flames until nearly 30 minutes later.

    By that time, flames were overtaking the house. In the confusion, neither my aunt and uncle nor my grandparents, rushing in and out of the doors, saved little. My grandmother could not find the key to open the china cupboard so she scooted and half-carried the whole cupboard out of the burning house.

    Months later, after a new, smaller house was built, my great grandmother's burial picture was again displayed behind the china cupboard's glass door.