by jphilo | Sep 4, 2015 | Out and About
Camp Dorothy’s very own Thelma and Louise are home, dog-tired and sweaty, after a hot weekend on the road. And I mean hot. Really hot. How hot was it?
I’m glad you asked.
If you remember, the purpose of our trip was to attend the 67th high school reunion for Camp Dorothy’s namesake. The reunion supper was held in Pipestone, Minnesota’s historic hotel, the Calumet Inn. The Calumet was restored some years back, and just got a second facelift, courtesy of the folks at Hotel Hell.
I’m not making this up.
The weather turned hot, hot, hot on Saturday with heat and humidity both in the upper 90s. So the camp director made a recognizance run before the festivities, to scope out parking spots and the quickest, most stairless route for Dorothy. That done, the clueless camp director returned to the overnight digs so she and Dorothy could get all gussied up for a hot night on the town. Which turned out to be a whole lot hotter than anticipated.
Because the air conditioning was out at the Inn.
Though the staff had fans to keep the air moving, kept the ice water flowing, and even handed out damp, chilled washcloths, it was still hot. So hot my dress stuck to the varnish on the back of the wooden chair every time I leaned forward. So hot condensation puddles formed instantly beneath cold glasses. (BTW, it’s possible to surreptitiously wet one’s hand in the puddle and trickle water down one’s leg, arms, and cleavage without being detected. Don’t ask how I know this.) So hot the establishment treated everyone to a free round of drinks.
Why we didn’t pack up and move to an air conditioned venue?
Because once octogenarions get where they’re going they tend to stay put. Two members used walkers and three used canes, and though the remainder of the group was surprisingly spry and ambulatory, they were also sympathetic to the limitations of their former classmates.
So there we were, two hot babes out on the town.
One with her dress stuck to the back of the chair. The other swapping stories with former classmates. Both of them enjoying the music provided by a male quartet (with one member who graduated in 1942) whose only nod to the the heat was to sit on tall stools as they sang. Sure, we were hot. But, we were also alive.
What more could two hot babes out on the town wish for?
by jphilo | Aug 26, 2013 | Out and About
Camp Dorothy’s very own Thelma and Louise are home, dog-tired and sweaty, after a hot weekend on the road. And I mean hot. Really hot. How hot was it?
I’m glad you asked.
If you remember, the purpose of our trip was to attend the 67th high school reunion for Camp Dorothy’s namesake. The reunion supper was held in Pipestone, Minnesota’s historic hotel, the Calumet Inn. The Calumet was restored some years back, and just got a second facelift, courtesy of the folks at Hotel Hell.
I’m not making this up.
The weather turned hot, hot, hot on Saturday with heat and humidity both in the upper 90s. So the camp director made a recognizance run before the festivities, to scope out parking spots and the quickest, most stairless route for Dorothy. That done, the clueless camp director returned to the overnight digs so she and Dorothy could get all gussied up for a hot night on the town. Which turned out to be a whole lot hotter than anticipated.
Because the air conditioning was out at the Inn.
Though the staff had fans to keep the air moving, kept the ice water flowing, and even handed out damp, chilled washcloths, it was still hot. So hot my dress stuck to the varnish on the back of the wooden chair every time I leaned forward. So hot condensation puddles formed instantly beneath cold glasses. (BTW, it’s possible to surreptitiously wet one’s hand in the puddle and trickle water down one’s leg, arms, and cleavage without being detected. Don’t ask how I know this.) So hot the establishment treated everyone to a free round of drinks.
Why we didn’t pack up and move to an air conditioned venue?
Because once octogenarions get where they’re going they tend to stay put. Two members used walkers and three used canes, and though the remainder of the group was surprisingly spry and ambulatory, they were also sympathetic to the limitations of their former classmates.
So there we were, two hot babes out on the town.
One with her dress stuck to the back of the chair. The other swapping stories with former classmates. Both of them enjoying the music provided by a male quartet (with one member who graduated in 1942) whose only nod to the the heat was to sit on tall stools as they sang. Sure, we were hot. But, we were also alive.
What more could two hot babes out on the town wish for?
by jphilo | Aug 17, 2012 | Family
Tomorrow Mom’s oldest living brother, Uncle Leo, turns 90. Not an unusual feat in their long-lived family. What is unusual is that Uncle Leo lives on the Pipestone County farm his parents bought and moved to in the late 1920s, and he’s lived there ever since.
Except for two historic exceptions. The first came after he was crowned Pipestone County Health King* after which he traveled to the Minnesota State Fair to compete in the State Health King competition. He won that competition, too, which qualified him to compete in the national competition at the Chicago World’s Fair, but his father put the kibosh on the trip.
The Vernon and Josephine Hess Family 1941
Front Row: Josephine, Donna, and Vernon
Second Row: Lois, Ruth, Dorothea, Letha
Back Row: Leo, Wayne, Ralph
But, Leo saw the world a few years later during World War 2. He served in the European theater where he fought in the Battle of the Bulge. He was well into his 70s before he finally started talking and shared the horrific things he experienced in Germany.
When the war ended, Leo returned to the farm, where he raised five children, corn, soybeans, milk cows, pigs, and a huge vegetable garden – with the help of his parents. After their health failed in the 70s and 80s and his children grew up and moved away, Leo kept farming. Probably well beyond when he should have turned things over to someone younger. But that’s not easy for most men, especially health kings and soldiers, to do.
So he kept farming until he absolutely couldn’t anymore. But he still lives on the farm. He still loves to read. He still loves to study history and maps. He still recognizes and remembers the names of his nieces and nephews – all 30+ of them. He still cries when he talks about the Battle of the Bulge. He still makes it to family reunions.
And still, when he smiles and the dashing young man he once was peeks past his grin, it’s easy to understand why Uncle Leo was crowned Minnesota State Health King over 70 years ago. It’s easy to see why he’s reached the age of 90 in relatively good health. And it will be a joy for those who love him to wish him a happy birthday and many more on August 18, 2012.
Happy 90th birthday, Uncle Leo. Long live the king!
*I am not making this up. In the 1920s and 1930s, each county’s health nurse went to all the elementary schools to weigh, measure, and otherwise assess the health of all the students. A boy and girl in each county were christened County Health King and Princess. I know this because a few years after Leo’s brush with the royal life, Mom was crowned Pipestone County Health Princess. Which means that the sibs and I are descended from royalty. Next time you see me, feel free to bow or curtsey.
by jphilo | Aug 7, 2008 | Family
Disclaimer: I wrote this piece while we were at the reunion for my husband’s side of the family and read it during Heritage Night on the evening assigned to the Philos. Several people asked me to put it on the blog. It’s a little longer than my normal posts, so bear with me and enjoy!
When I grew up, my entire extended family of 2 grandparents, 16 aunts and uncles, and 39 grandchildren lived within 90 miles of one another. Our idea of a reunion was gathering at the park in Pipestone, Minnesota for a noon picnic. All the aunts brought fried chicken, salads and homemade desserts: angel food cake, sour cream chocolate cake, sour cream rhubarb pie, strawberry-rhubarb pie, apple, peach and cherry pies. The uncles brought bats, baseballs and gloves.
We ate dinner fast before the Jell-o melted and the potato salad went bad. When the food was gone, the uncles and all the male cousins willing to brave Uncle Ralph’s killer fastball, swarmed onto the ball diamond and played for blood. The aunts sat in the shade, gossiped and told the impatient, younger cousins they had to wait a half hour before going swimming. At the end of the longest half hour in the history of the world, the youngsters changed clothes in the car so the aunts could save the locker rental fee. Then, the kids ran to the bathhouse, slapped their dimes on the counter and hit the pool. When the ball game ended with winners gloating and the losers not speaking to the gloaters, the swimmers were hauled dripping and screaming from the water and everyone went home.
So the first reunion on my husband’s Walker side of the family was a real eye opener. It was in Phoenix, somewhere around 1979, which meant members of the far-flung Walker brood had to buy plane tickets and pay for motel rooms. The amount of money required was a real shocker to a Midwestern girl whose parents wouldn’t spring for a locker fee at the swimming pool.
But that was only the first shock in a whole string of shocks. The Walker aunts and uncles had drawn up a strict schedule of events and expected people to stick to it. The schedule included things like meals, games, free time and a big meal where everyone was introduced and told something about their families and lives. Not only that, they suggested activities for free time and kept track of what we chose.
Those of us in the high school through young adult crowd, cocky and smarter than we would ever be again in our entire lives, rolled our eyes at our elders. “Planned spontaneity?” we scoffed. “Who needs it?” Someday, we agreed, when we were in charge of the reunions, we would not plan things to the enth degree and impose our obsessive-compulsive schedule disorders upon our children.
But a few decades later, a strange thing happened. Somebody, or a bunch of somebodies, came up with a cockamamie idea about the perpetual Shadow Valley Family Camp where the far-flung Walker brood could gather for a week in the summer and maintain family ties. The formerly spontaneous young adults morphed into bunch of middle-aged planners and made the previous generation look like amateurs. Suddenly there was mission statement, a website, a camp week scheduled a year in advance, a building plan, a menu, a humongous shopping list, a cookbook, KP duty, a work roster, historical documentation and a daily schedule which includes blocks of time for work, planned excursions and recreational time, which is another name for free time, but it’s not called free time because we refuse to impose our obsessive-compulsive schedule disorders upon our children. But if anyone younger than 25 can’t think of anything to do during recreation time, the middle-aged planners will gladly give you suggestions and record your choices.
About two weeks before the 2008 Shadow Valley Camp, my siblings and I were in charge of my side of the family’s annual reunion. It was one of the most organized to date. We sent invitations in January, and with only a handful of RSVPs by mid-May, sent a series of emails reminding people to RSVP so we would know how much broasted chicken to order and wouldn’t run out of food which is what happened to last year’s planners who graciously gave us a heads up so we knew what was coming.
We gathered in the Pipestone Park, and our dynamite organization paid off big time. There was enough chicken and more than enough dessert since we told people to bring either a salad or dessert and everyone brought dessert. There was no baseball game, because we only bring dessert to our family reunions so everyone’s a little too hefty to run the bases these days. Instead, we had a display of labeled historic family photos people could order, and it was a big hit because it was kind of a new idea for us to label photos and then share them. And thirty minutes after the meal, the kids begged five bucks from their parents and went swimming. Between that and $6.50 per head for lunch, the kids had to change clothes in the cars to save the cost of locker fees.
All afternoon, people complimented me about the reunion. “How did you do it?” they asked. “When did you get so organized?” they asked.
“During family camp with my husband’s side of the family,” I told them. “We’re going there again in a few weeks.”
“Maybe we should incorporate more of their ideas,” one of my cousins suggested.
I choked on a chicken wing imaging their reaction to a reunion schedule, work rosters and recreational time suggestions. Once I dislodged the chicken bone stuck in my throat, I answered. “Maybe not. Organization gets a little pricy, you know. Reunions on Hiram’s side of the family cost $60 a person. And they last a week.”
“Maybe we’re organized enough,” someone remarked and they all walked away.
After that reunion, I counted the days until Shadow Valley Camp began, eager to participate in the bargain of the year. For $60 a week, I get three meals a day with no chance of food running out, a daily schedule, and plenty of suggestions about what to do during recreational time. Somebody even records my choices, which is great, because at age 52 I can’t remember anything for more than a few minutes and need all the help I can get.
If that’s the cost of organization, it’s worth the price.
by jphilo | Jul 14, 2008 | Reflections on the Past
This past weekend, we had our annual Hess Cousins’ Reunion in Pipestone, Minnesota. We also celebrated Mom’s upcoming 80th birthday, but since she might not like having her age broadcast on a blog, I’m not going to mention it.
Anyway, we went a few days early and visited with some of Mom’s siblings and sibling-in-laws. We drove past my aunts and uncles’ former farmsteads and stayed at one of them with my cousin and his family. We drove past the Pipestone Monument where we used to spend summer afternoons. (Admission was free.) We drove past the Dairy King we never got to visit. (It was too expensive. We drove past Hank’s Grocery Store, but didn’t stop to see if they still stock the Uncle Sam’s Cereal. (The label said it was full of bran fiber, but the taste convinced me it was corrugated cardboard.) Grandma used to send us to the store for the cereal when she ran out or couldn’t stand having us underfoot anymore.
Then we drove by Grandma’s (and Grandpa’s, too) old house. She hasn’t lived there since the mid-1980s, but to me it’s still Grandma Hess’s house. The paint’s brown now instead of the 1950’s beige I remember. The picket fence is gone. Grandma’s flower beds are gone, too. The house is the right size, but the yard is a whole lot smaller than I remember. In a few years, the house will be gone, too. The hospital, which is across the street, owns the house and plans to build a helicopter pad on the site of my grandma’s house.
Getting a picture of the place was a top priority during the trip. I want a tangible memory of Grandma’s house – something to look at while i remember sitting on the aluminum chairs in the back yard, eating sugar bread she made for our snacks, while I conjure up the smell of the pajama drawer we pawed through when we stayed overnight unexpectedly, while I picture the basement fruit room full of cobwebs and shelf after shelf of her home canned fruits and vegetables.
Now I have a new top priority. I’m not anticipating any grandchildren in the near future, but I want to clean out a dresser drawer and stock it with kids’ pajamas. I have fond memories of Grandma’s house. And I want to pass them on.
