by jphilo | Mar 29, 2013 | Family
photo source
Mom and I ate lunch at The Machine Shed on Tuesday. She loves to go to the all-things-farming restaurant for two reasons. First, the wall and ceiling decor consists of small farm machinery, farm advertising, and farm kitchen utensils in common use when she grew up in the 1930s and 40s. Second, the menu includes her two favorite sandwiches: patty melt and rueben.
This week, she ordered the patty melt. Medium rare. While we waited for our food to arrive, she surveyed the room. A smile played at the corner of her lips. She pointed to a white metal sign with red letters on the wall near our booth. “Ivar owned an Allis-Chalmers implement dealership for a while.”
Then her gaze settled on a lard bucket sitting on a high ledge. “Ma used to pack our lunches in lard buckets.” She started to giggle. “One time, a boy from school had a dead civit cat and started teasing my sister Ruth on the way home.”
“What’s a civit cat?” I asked.
“A kind of skunk,” she explained. “Ruth got so mad she whacked him on the head with her lard bucket. Hard enough that the kid passed out for a few minutes.”
I smiled “I’ll bet he never bothered her again.”
“No,” Mom agreed, then shook her head. “But ruined the lard bucket.”
She looked around some more and pointed at what looked to me like a giant wooden fork with curving tines. “We had one of those,” she said. “But I can’t remember what it’s called.”
“A hay rake,” I suggested.
“No.” She shook her head. “A scythe maybe?”
“Or a swather?” I tried again.
“I’m not sure.” She frowned. “I used to know all that stuff.”
My heart sank. What could I say to a woman who read Gone With the Wind in one long sitting during high school, who aced every test in high school and college, who earned her Masters Degree while teaching full time wile caring for an ailing husband and raising three young kids?
Then her smile returned and she looked my way. “Say,” she said, her eyes twinkling, and her face feigning confusion, “do I know you? What’s your name?”
We laughed together, and now, I can hardly wait to make her smile when we eat dinner with her on Easter. Because she was right about the name of the giant wooden fork with curving tines.
It’s called a hay scythe.
photo source
by jphilo | Mar 12, 2013 | Family
Over the weekend, Mom’s side of the family gathered to say good-bye to her brother Leo. Our time together was a reminder of the many blessings of a large extended family. Here are my top ten:
10. Mom (and her kids) always have a place to stay when visiting her hometown.
9. When a high school reunion committee includes Mom’s name in a hometown newspaper listing of those for whom they need contact information, someone will see the ad and reply.
8. Everyone knows Lange’s Cafe is the place to go for supper as a family.
7. One topic of conversation at supper is the general health and well-being of our geraniums.
6. Though the older generation of our family was not outwardly demonstrative, our generation has become very huggy, and we even say, “I love you” to one another.
5. When those from far away are driving home, those who don’t have so far to travel call to see how the trip is going.
4. When one person says, “Mom, Dad, can I have a dime to go swimming?” everyone else responds, “In a half hour, once your meal has time to settle.”
3. When Mom’s nephews and nieces look at her, they see her not only as an increasingly frail and elderly woman, but as the young firecracker who used to make them mind, drive the tractor, bale hay, and milk cows.
2. Eyes light up at the mention of fresh kohlrabi from Grandma and Grandpa’s garden and of Grandma’s tapioca fruit salad at Christmas.
1. When travel complications mean Mom’s the only member of her generation able to attend a funeral, she never feels alone because every niece and nephew in the large crowd of nieces and nephews make sure she knows she’s loved and her presence there is important to them.
by jphilo | Mar 8, 2013 | Family
Mom’s last living brother, my Uncle Leo, died peacefully yesterday after 90 years of hard work on this earth. He was the fourth of his parents’ eight children and the youngest boy. Leo took over the family farm, though his father had a hard time handing over the reins. Single-handedly, but with considerable help from his mom, he raised five children on the farm where he’d grown up.
Leo was a farmer and a father, a son and a brother, but he was much more than the sum of those things. He was also a World War 2 vet. He took shrapnel in his foot during the Battle of the Bulge. His injury slowed his fellow soldiers, and finally, they gave him a gun. “We’re going that way.” One of them pointed toward a building in the distance. “Find us if you can,” and left him on his own. He bottled up the terror of that day, and all the terrible days of war he experienced, until decades later a counselor at the VA Hospital encouraged him to tell his stories.
But Leo was more than a a survivor of World War 2. Mom said he’d been an eager student during his years in country school and an avid reader. In one of my last conversations with Uncle Leo, he said he’d always dreamed of going to college and studying history. Family obligations thwarted his dream, but he read voraciously. He loved history, and he loved maps, and his pleasure in them didn’t dim until after his 90th birthday.
But Leo was more than a World War 2 vet. He was royalty, crowned Pipestone County Health King at some point in his school career. The crown earned him a trip to the Minnesota State Fair, where he competed in and won the title of Minnesota Health King. That title made him eligible to compete in the national Health King Contest at the Chicago World Fair, but he caught a cold on the train to the Windy City and had to go back home.
Even so, Leo proved himself worthy of the Health King title during the long years when he cared for his wife, Anna, who suffered from Alzheimer’s. After she died he continued to live alone on the home place, worrying all who loved him, until he was over 90 years old. In December, during a visit at his son and daughter-in-law’s home, he fell. He went to the hospital and never rallied enough to return home.
In a few days, my brother and mom and I will make the long drive to Pipestone for the funeral. I’ll look forward to seeing his children and their spouses and their children, to seeing my remaining aunts and uncles, and many cousins. I’ll look forward to reminiscing about the old home place with everyone. I’ll go teary-eyed in anticipation the sad playing of Taps, the color guard, and the flag-draped coffin. And all the while, deep inside my heart where my inner child who wants to be a princess lives, I’ll be hoping an official crown will be on Leo’s head, a kingly sash will grace his chest, and his hands will grasp a royal scepter.
Good-by, Uncle Leo, father, brother, uncle, farmer, World War 2 vet, historian, and Minnesota health king. Long live our memories of the king!
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2013 | Family
Sixteen years ago this day, my father died.
He was born almost 68 years earlier, the long-awaited and only child of his doting parents, Cyril and Fern Stratton. Maybe because he was an only his parents, who raised him on an Iowa farm during the Great Depression, could afford to take so many pictures of their little boy. Maybe caring for only one child gave his mom time to glue the photos on the black pages of an album and label them in her careful handwriting with a white-inked pen–page after page of quaint photos in which little Harlan looks like a member of the Little Rascals gang.
It’s hard to reconcile the blond-haired toddler in the pictures with my dark-haired dad until I see my father’s smile and joyful spirit shining on the child’s face. Then the resemblance is startling, striking, because throughout his life, Dad was a child–even a rascal–at heart.
When we were young, he was our kindred spirit. My brother, sister, and I loved to be near him. We snuggled close to him on the couch, though we learned to keep a wary eye out for his finger pokes and tickles. He taught us silly songs, showed us how to make goofy faces, and laughed until he cried at the television shows that made us laugh until we cried, too.
On summer days, when Dad wheeled his chair outside and parked in the driveway, the neighborhood kids came running. Children swarmed around him as he told jokes, handed out nicknames like candy, and–until Mom put a stop to it–gave wheelchair rides to those daring enough to climb into his lap.
As the years went by and multiple sclerosis stripped away Dad’s physical abilities, his speech, and finally, his memories, when all he could do was lay in a bed or sit propped up in a wheelchair, the presence of little children stirred him to life. His eyes followed the movement of his grandchildren. His head turned to the sound of the high, piping voices of his grand-nieces and nephews. A grin spread across his face and he snorted with laughter.
In the presence of children, his spirit broke through the walls of his ravaged body. For a moment, the man we missed so much returned. For a moment we saw, that despite a long struggle against a cruel and devastating disease, our father was still a child–and even a rascal–at heart.
Oh, Dad, I miss your smile.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929–March 4, 1997
by jphilo | Dec 24, 2012 | Family
Thanks to Winter Storm Draco, the winter session of Camp Dorothy started a day late. Things finally got rolling Saturday afternoon, after Hiram brought Mom to our house. The first order of business was lunch, followed by baking caramel rolls for the neighbors. Dorothy participated in the first, but declined the second, choosing instead to take a nap.
The nap ended before the rolls were done.
So Dorothy staked out her spot on the sofa and amused herself by reading a novel and working a few crossword puzzles. Hiram stepped in as activity director and organized a rousing Uno tournament that was enjoyed by all. Evening activities included supper, caramel rolls, Wheel of Fortune, and requests by someone for lap blankets and a footstool before camp goers watched the Coen remake of True Grit. Not everyone lasted to the end of the movie. At breakfast, I told Mom that Mattie Ross lost her arm, but lived to see another day, thanks to Rooster Cogburn.
Of course, I left out the gory details since we were eating.
Sunday was busy, what with left over caramel rolls to eat at breakfast, a morning nap while the camp director and activity director went to church, watching the camp director make apple crisp for dessert after lunch, naps all around in the afternoon, novels to read, and a spot on the sofa to guard from interlopers. Apparently, that spot is the Camp Dorothy version of Mom’s favorite red chair at home.
If you ever go to visit her there, DON’T SIT IN THE RED CHAIR!
All in all, a good Sunday even though Vanna, Pat, Judge Judy, and Alex Trebek all take the day off. Which, when considered in the right light, is good news. Because on Monday afternoon, after Camp Dorothy ends, those perky television personalities will be well rested and raring to go when Mom settles back into the red chair for hours of viewing pleasure.
Back to you, Pat Sajak.
by jphilo | Dec 21, 2012 | Family
Well, well, well, Winter Storm Draco is certainly living up to his enemy-of-Harry-Potter namesake. With a second day of school closings, Draco’s evil, icy tentacles have stilled any remaining visions of sugar plums dancing in the heads of central Iowa elementary students looking forward to today’s school Christmas parties.
Not only that, nasty old Draco pushed back a whole bunch of Philo phamily phun by a day. Camp Dorothy, scheduled to run from Friday through Monday, won’t start until tomorrow. Hiram called once he got to work this morning and said the roads are still nasty, too nasty for 84-year-old women and their wimpy daughters to tackle.
Camp Dorothy’s namesake took the news in stride. “Better safe than sorry” were her exact words. Her reply might have been different had she known we’re having pork steak and apples, one of her personal favorites, for supper tonight. Then again, the cook where she lives said he’s making several kinds of soup for tonight. If one is oyster stew, Mom’ll be smiling.
But enough chit chat. Draco delayed Camp Dorothy until tomorrow, but the preparations commence immediately: pillows to plump, applesauce to inject with giggles, weekend schedules for Wheel of Fortune to check, Uno decks to locate, and much, much more.
Expect a full report Monday. Unless the weekend festivities leave the activity director utterly spent and speechless–an event Camp Dorothy’s namesake says she’s never witnessed since the day her second daughter spoke her first word.
