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A Christmas song to love!

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 02:31:07 GMT

This new Christmas song was an instant favorite the very first time our talented friend, Jamie Soles ( from Grande Prairie, AB Canada) gave an advanced preview of it on our piano--two years before he recorded it. He left the music with us, and we ( Jacob - bass, Jessa -tenor an octave up, Annah- alto and I- soprano/melody) sang it Christmas 2006. There are some songs you love to sing...this is one of those.

The song's simple phrasing captures the heart and mind, while the melody and harmonies touch a deep chord that resonates with a profound sense of joy. Jamie has encapsulated the beautiful message of Christ's birth in few words....allowing the imagination to take musical flight, filling in the details that we all know and love so well.

I'd share more, but why don't you just click on the play button and judge for yourself? (Shared here with artist's permission...please respect his copyright.)

Son [From the Weight of Glory album, 2007]

Joseph, Mary, nine months, carried
Census, senseless, we must go

Travel, painful, comfort, hopeful
No room, what now?
One place more

Barnyard, pungent, cattle, manger
What a time to be a stranger

Dark night, starlight, shepherds, big fright
Angels! Bright light! Good news tonight!

Master, Saviour, Promised Deliverer
Humbled, veiled, God Most High

Redemption, salvation, adoption, new creation
Propitiation, God's own Son

Songs will always ring
From those who've left their wandering
And found rest, true rest
God's own Son

Used by permission

If you enjoyed it as much as I do, won't you take a few minutes to drop a line of encouragement to Jamie and his family (his wife and several children sing harmony)? So often we are blessed by music or writing, but rarely share how meaningful and encouraging someone's creative efforts have been.

You can purchase the song or entire album from iTunes or directly from Jamie's website. And I highly recommend ALL his music. You can preview the full scope of his work at the link given above. Not only does he write delightful songs for children with strong, clear Biblical truths, but he is an incredibly versatile artist and talented guitarist. He mixes a number of styles/genres of music...blues, jazz, folk, rock. His music will appeal to adults also, with lyrics that are thoughtful, true, edifying to the listener and glorifying to God.

Jamie, Val and family - thank you so much for sharing your talent in such a godly, encouraging way. You are a continual blessing to our family!

The poignant print of the Christ-child (shared by artist's permission) is an original creation of Diana Moses Botkin, a talented artist and personal acquaintance of mine --
who just happens to be running a special on her 'Renaissance' line of prints!
Buy 2, get 1 free (+ free shipping on orders over $50 until 12/15/08).
Contact her for more info.

Of Fiddles and Farewells

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 13:48:13 GMT

(Performed by Caleigh. Please click on the play arrow above to start music - it's so beautifully done)

Four years ago in April, just days before my father passed away, repairs on his father's fiddle were finally complete. It had been damaged for some time and had lain mute for many years as Grandpa Nick's fingers became too gnarled with arthritis to play. I have the vague memories of a three- or four-year-old child -- of Grandpa playing a little tune for his beloved grandchildren, his "luptke tosheks" (Polish for "little hearts") despite the pain in his hands and weariness from a long, hot day in the blacksmith shop. No one else in the family played violin, so it had sat silent within its case for many years even before Grandpa died in 1989.

That night, Daddy cradled the restored fiddle in his hands, emotion welling up as he remembered his father, knowing he would soon see him once again.

My sister's close friend, Lenore Siems, a member of the celtic group 'Caleigh' [KAY-lee], played 'Ashokan Farewell' on Grandpa's fiddle. (And yes, she has been crying her eyes out like the rest of us...her nose is not normally such a vibrant, glowing red!)

While she played, my parents danced their last waltz together in the living room to the poignant melody. Dad, barely able to move his swollen feet and legs, sported the silken 'fancy pants' boxers that were soft against his ultra-tender skin.

Tears flowed freely as children, children-in-law and grandchildren witnessed this poignant expression of my parents' loving partnership throughout life, together facing the upcoming separation in that courageously beautiful final dance. Emotions raged within me...a keen sense of honor and privilege to share in this bonding moment as a family but aware, also, that we intruded into their intimate expression of oneness and devotion.

Long days and wakeful nights of pain followed before Daddy slipped into unconsciousness and finally entered into the glorious presence of God on April 15, 2004, carried on the echoes of our praise songs that morning. I sat by his side and held his hand as his spirit slipped away with a last long exhale.

Peace be with you, Daddy. I miss you so much. You fought a hard fight and, ever the educator, you taught us lesson after lesson until you had no voice left -- but showed, by example, the meaning of courage and forebearance until the very end.

Once again, Ashokan Farewell floated from Grandpa Nick's fiddle at Dad's 'Celebration of Life', played by Lenore and accompanied on the piano by my eldest, Jessica (age 14 at that time). I stood at the back of the church, holding my 17-month-old baby, who patted at my tears with chubby hands and hugged my neck to give sweet baby comforts to a grieving heart.

For many, many months I could not hear this song without a flood of tears. Four years later, I am left with a bittersweet ache as I listen to its beautifully haunting melody, skillfully performed here by the ladies of Caleigh.

Our daughter, Susannah, age 14, has since learned to play violin and has recently begun to fiddle. She just played 'Ashokan Farewell' on Saturday night at the Scenic Six Fiddle Show in Potlatch, Idaho and brought back a flood of memories, which prompted this post.

Someday she may give her great-Grandpa Nick's fiddle a voice once again. I long to hear it sing out...a vibrant testimony to the interconnectedness of generations and the eternal bond of family.

Hand-Me-Down Heritage

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 19:09:03 GMT

[These recollections, begun August 2006, were finished following the death of John's mom on December 9, 2007. Time presses ever on and I needed to capture these memories before they fade. It was written for Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis, so they would understand how much our visit to the homestead meant to me.]

My family is well acquainted with ‘hand-me-downs’ of all sorts. Raising a family of five children made it impractical to invest in separate wardrobes for each child at every size. Besides, there were special outfits at every stage that I particularly loved and couldn’t wait until it fit the next child. I sewed some for holidays or occasions, while others were a tangible connection to special people…in particular the coats sewn by my paternal grandmother for my sister and me when we were tots. My mother lovingly tucked these into the cedar chest, bringing them out when my babies arrived to wrap yet another generation in warmth and love. For us, ‘hand-me-downs’ are not worn and scorned items, but old friends connected with our family history. They mark various events and ages with a string of memories forever attached as firmly as the tag at the neckline. But a hand-me-down of a different sort marks the summer of 2006, when my three youngest daughters and I visited the Bauer homestead for the first time and received a little hand-me-down heritage.

After touring the Illinois countryside--mile after mile of cornfields spotted by houses (translation: I took a wrong turn and got lost), we were several hours late after lingering longer than expected at the Franklin Creek Heritage Village described in detail elsewhere. Though I had met John’s uncles and aunts once, shortly after our marriage nearly 21 years ago, and we had exchanged Christmas letters over the years, for all practical purposes we were unacquainted. Uncle Dick /Aunt Phyllis Bauer and Uncle Daryl/Aunt Joan (Jo-Anne) Eckland were sitting in the shade by the back door, waiting our arrival. Aunt Phyllis and Aunt Joan came to greet us as Sarah, Annah and I ‘waded’ into the sauna that is Illinois in July, the thick verdant air heavy after air-conditioned comfort. I extracted a soggy, sleeping Esther from her car seat. We sat and visited while she continued her much-needed nap in my arms. Soon she opened drowsy eyes, took in her surroundings, spied the dog, and that was it…she was re-charged and ready to go.

Uncle Dick was eager to begin the grand tour and ushered us all into the trailer hitched behind his golf cart. The cart enabled him to care for the critters on the farm, despite encroaching years and ill health. First stop was the pygmy goat pen, where we watched the young kids frisking about in their adorably hyper fashion. The nanny goats showed eager interest in the ‘treats’ -- wheat crackers. Giggling, the girls shared in the snack when Uncle Dick offered the open box and then nibbled on a cracker himself.

Next, we stopped at the stone placed in memory of John’s father, Robert Bauer. In keeping with his brother’s request, Uncle Dick scattered Dad’s ashes across the fields surrounding the homestead. But I suspect his passion to preserve family history compelled him to erect a permanent tribute to Dad’s life, so he placed a memorial stone there among the flower beds.

As I snapped photos of my children around the memorial, I was so grateful for this tangible link to the grandfather they never knew. Even though Dad was not ‘there’ (not that a person buried in a plot is really ‘there’ any longer), having these special places provides a sense of connection to past generations, a bond to one’s family heritage. While Sarah (6) and Esther (3) simply viewed it as another posed photo with pretty flowers and a stately, polished stone, Susannah was pensive, reflecting on her unknown grandpa. And I ached anew that my children have grown up without the tangible love and hugs of Grandpa Bob, experiencing his life only through the remembrances of others.

The mood lightened as we visited the sheep and miniature donkeys. They, too, loved wheat crackers – the universal snack. Uncle Dick obviously enjoyed his hobby farm, and had a real affection for his animals. After observing my laying hens, or even the neighbor’s alpacas, I understand the magnetic draw of quietly observing animals, learning their individual personalities and quirks, marveling at the amazing and varied creatures our Loving Father created, and enjoying the quiet moment to ponder and muse. The modern world cannot comprehend this, caught up in the frantic pace that characterizes life in our time, the cacophony of the accompanying soundtrack making quiet reflection nearly impossible.

Piling back into the trailer, we hit to the next point of interest…and probably the most memorable part of our Illinois trip for me. The trailer stopped before the old barn, built by the children’s great, great, great grandfather, John H. Bauer, when he homesteaded the farm.

Standing in the dusty entry, looking at the walls filled with farming ‘stuff’ collected over the years, I found myself blinking through tears for the second time that day, experiencing another profound connection to the past.   Did the man have any inkling, as he labored within these walls--caring for his livestock, putting up hay in stifling humid heat, faithfully laboring to provide for his family--that his descendents would stand here on the threshold in hushed awe, five generations later?

We stepped inside to experience this mute testimony to his life and labor, senses a-tingle. Maybe I am far too romantic and sentimental, but the realization that my children’s great, great, great grandpa John stood here and worked, sweated, worried or mused while watching his animals in a quiet moment was profound. Reflections swirled within and touched chords of emotion. I thought of each successive generation; they also had labored within these walls…great-great-Grandpa George, great-Grandpa Howard, Grandpa Bob, and my children’s father, John. Do those who have grown up in its shadow, who possess this wonderful link to the past, experience the same sense of awe, or are they inoculated against it by proximity and familiarity?

The wagon frame, though old, was not ‘family owned’. The bent wood arch on the front belonged to the settlers who founded the town of Mendota, Illinois. But Uncle Dick drew our attention to a sledge tucked underneath, a orange extension cord impertinently draped over one runner. It looked monstrously heavy, solid, immovable. That very sledge was used to haul logs to build the primitive settlers’ cabin for young John Bauer, the usual dwelling of newcomers as they established their farms in this untamed land of opportunity. Of course, my little girls’ eyes open wide with acknowledgement; they had stood in just such a cabin earlier that day in the Heritage Village. Suddenly their family history came zooming into focus. A handle of understanding was grasped as they made the connection to the past.

We also admired an old black cutter…in sad shape, but still sporting the lovely, gracefully curving runners and front. Aunt Joan has one of the lanterns that George hung on it when he went a-courtin.’ Looking at antiques from yesteryear is interesting, but gazing on things once used by your ancestors goes beyond interesting and borders on numiscient. Nearby sat a wheelbarrow and old hand tools, nearly passed usefulness. Things cherished and valued not for intrinsic worth, but because who’s hands had used them.

We viewed the site where the old log settler cabin had sat, no trace left except the flourishing clump of lilac bushes nearby. Uncle Dick informed us that priorities of early settlers ran something like this: build cabin, build privy, plant a lilac. Apparently everyone planted a lilac by their privy!! [The next morning we dug up a small lilac shoot so I could transplant a bit of the homestead in Idaho, but it didn’t survive the long trip back in the stifling car trunk. However, I plan to make another attempt on our next visit, or will plead with John’s brother Denny to dig me a shoot and ship it to me next spring.] We also saw the place where the lovely Victorian house had stood before it burned to the ground when Grandpa Bob was a baby. All that remains are old photos of the gracious home and stories passed along by those who had lived there.

Our last stop was the garage. Nothing noteworthy downstairs, but up the narrow stairs on the back wall was a true treasure. There, kept company by two rows of vintage clothing from various estate sales, sat the battered old immigrant chest of my children’s great-great-great- grandmother, Kunigunda (it almost sounds African!) Here stood a dusty but solid, tangible testimony to the brave spirit and determination that prompted the journey from Germany to America, their hopes for a better life nestled around the worldly possessions of Kunigunda and her sister.   I had the girls perch on the chest for photos with Uncle Dick…and cherished the moment. Then the girls started playing dress-up with all the clothes…funny clown wigs, dusty frocks and fun hats.

Finally, Uncle Dick points to an old, beaten up wooden swivel chair. It was Grandpa Howard’s favorite desk chair as he worked on the Bauer and Mueller genealogies. It is in sad shape, missing back spindles, splattered with paint and tilted askew, but I would have carted it home in a minute if I could have secured it to the roof of my Lincoln sedan. Instead I brought home photos of his chair to add to my memories of the only meeting we had before Grandpa Howard died.

We enjoyed a quick snack inside, then Aunt Joan whirled us off to see the burial places of those who built the homestead we had just toured. It was a poignant moment to stand before the bold ‘BAUER’ on the polished granite tombstones. Susannah in particular was pensive and a little sad that we did not have flowers, so she strolled about, looking for dandelions to put by the stones. Alas, the grounds were too well-cared for and offered no bright spots of yellow.

Soon, we stopped off to visit Aunt Mildred Truckenbrod and see her lovely garden. I had never met Aunt Mildred…hadn’t even known there WAS an Aunt Mildred. Actually I had heard her married name but never made the connection. Apparently she and John’s dad had not seen eye-to-eye and so there was little contact between their two families, though John remembers playing with his cousins when he came to visit Grandpa Howard and Grandma Ivy in the summers. Aunt Mildred was delightful and seemed to take pleasure in our admiration of her flower beds. Then Annie hit her with an odd question: could she pick some flowers for her great-great-great- grandparents grave? Somewhat bemused at the quaint request, Aunt Mildred helped the girls gather a lovely bouquet before we left, then we backtracked to the cemetery in the growing twilight to leave this small token of respect.

After stopping at Joan’s place to say ‘hello’ to Uncle Daryl and see the house Grandpa Howard and Grandma Ivy moved into when Uncle Dick took over the homestead farm), we turned the car back to Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis’ place.

We had only meant to spend the day and return to Sycamore early that evening. But it was growing late and Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis pressed us to stay the night. Assured that it was not an imposition, or at least a welcomed one, we agreed to stay. The Littles were so excited! Each of us was issued a T-shirt to sleep in, and we made use of the travel toothbrushes stowed in the car’s jockey box for these types of ‘just in case’ moments. It was a delightful visit and we frittered away the next day with visiting, looking through old pictures and talking. Uncle Dick ‘gifted’ the girls with ceramic figurines and other mementos of their visit, and we headed north as the afternoon drew to a close, taking lovely memories home with us and hopefully leaving the same behind with John’s family.

©2007 Photos and reflections by Paula Bauer (wife of John Howard Bauer – great, great, grandson of John H. Bauer 1818 - 1903) upon her first visit to the Bauer Family Homestead with her three youngest children, Susannah Faye (12), Sarah Grace (6) and Esther Elizabeth (3) on July 13-14, 2006.
Writing begun in August 2006, completed December 2007.

'Assister' - morning humor

Sat, 10 Mar 2007 15:53:33 GMT

Esther, eager for her Saturday morning bagel, was stretching to reach the toaster.

"Hey Toot! Can I assist you?"

Taking the bagel, I pop it into the toaster for her.

"Mom, what does 'assist' mean?' asks the perplexed four-year-old.

"Oh," I chuckle, "that's another word for 'help'."
(We encourage vocabulary building in our house...the consequences of a very verbal mother.)

Big sissy Susannah pipes up in her best pedagogical tones, "And...that's why I am called... a sister!"

ba-da-boom

ROTFLOL

Good one, Annie....and oh so true!

memory triggers

Tue, 20 Feb 2007 15:12:07 GMT

Last night I sat and visited with my husband as he labored on the latest 'honey-do' project - a rotating compost barrel for my gardening endeavors.

The smell of the acetylene welding torch, the familiar weld flash lighting the shop with white-hot light, the odor of hot metal all transported me back to childhood.

I remember watching with wide-eyed fascination as Grandpa Nick, a blacksmith, and Dad did these same tasks, with hats turned backwards before it was 'cool.' Once again I reveled in the delightful shower of glowing sparks--mini-fireworks-- though the smell of hot metal and the grimey surroundings were hardly festive.

This mental picture of yesteryear triggered a wave of emotion as I remembered, and missed, these two 'giants' in my life. Tears were accompanied by thankfulness and respect...my own giant of a man shares the same ability to fabricate and fix about anything.

God bless strong, capable men!

Ingratitude - a firmly entrenched icon in our culture

Tue, 21 Nov 2006 18:06:15 GMT

On Thursday, thousands of people across the country will reluctantly make an appearance at the obligatory Family Thanksgiving Dinner. With plastic smiles pasted in place, they gather with people they don't really want to be around, gorge themselves on traditional holiday fare.

[does Proverbs 17:1 come to mind? Better is a dry morsel with quietness than a house full of feasting with strife]

Many are more engaged in the football game than in the lives of the people around them. Usually absent from the occasion is the spirit that gave rise to that historical first Thanksgiving celebration...the recognition of God's providential care and abundant blessings, even in the face of extreme hardship and deprivation. Is it any wonder that this holiday has been renamed "Turkey Day" by many with flippant hearts? When considering what the Pilgrims' lives and prospects where as they lifted grateful hearts and voices in thanks to God, I am ashamed at my own murmuring over trifles in my life.

God, open my eyes to truly see
all that Your mercy showers on me
moment by moment, my spirit give voice
to grateful praise, the offer'ing of choice
to glorify Your name

O Lord that lends me life, lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!

William Shakespeare

Sauntering along, hand-in-hand with careless ingratitude to God, is another perennial attitude fostered in our society. Consider a commercial currently being aired on network TV. The dilemma? How to survive the “Return of the In-Laws" [Psycho-genre music playing ominously in the background]. The solution: gorge them on food until they fall asleep, and then go out a buy a new truck! [snort]

This disdain and disrespect towards one's in-laws is promoted by advertising, jokes, and all manner of derogatory, pointed comments. A radio ad a few years ago suggested that holidays are so much better when you book rooms for the in-laws in a particular motel, rather than suffer their presence in your home.

Instead of extending gratitude and respect to the people who loved, raised, shaped and influenced your Beloved, it is more socially expected to groan -- either outwardly or inwardly. Granted, parents often show an appalling lack of wisdom in the nurture and care of their children. But as the parents of your spouse, they should receive the same honor rendered to your own parents, which is why I consider in-law jokes abhorrent.

With Thanksgiving approaching...

Mon, 20 Nov 2006 16:24:21 GMT

sharing my favorite passage from Mother Carey’s Chickens (1910) seems timely.

We often speak of a family circle, but there are none too many of them. Parallel lines never meeting, squares, triangles, oblongs, and particularly those oblongs pulled askew, known as rhomboids, these and other geometric figures abound, but circles are comparatively few. In a true family circle a father and a mother first clasp each other’s hands, liking well to be thus clasped; then they stretch out a hand on either side, and these are speedily grasped by children, who hold one another firmly, and complete the ring. One child is better than nothing, a great deal than nothing; it is at least an effort in the right direction, but the circle that ensues is not, even then, a truly nice shape. You can stand as handsomely as ever you like, but it simply won’t ‘come round.’ The minute that two, three, four, five, join in, the ‘roundness’ grows, and the merriment too, and the laughter, and the power to do things. (Responsibility and care also, but what is the use of discouraging circles when there are not enough of them anyway?)

The Carey family circle had been round and complete, with love and harmony between all its component parts. In family rhomboids, for instance, mother loves the children and father does not, or father does, but does not love the mother, or father and mother love each other and the children do not get their share; it is impossible to ennumerate all the little geometrical peculiarities which keep a rhomboid from being a circle, but one person can just ‘stand out’ enough to spoil the shape, or put hands behind back and refuse to join at all. About the ugliest thing in the universe is that non-joining habit! You would think that anybody, however dull, might consider his hands, and guess by the look of them that they must be made to work, and help, and take hold of somebody else’s hands! Miserable, useless, flabby paws, those of the non-joiner; that he feeds and dresses himself with, and then hangs to his selfish sides, or puts behind his beastly back!
(Excerpt from Chapter 5)

Holidays mean family. Some families are messed up. With God’s grace let us work to build beautiful ‘family circles’ that emit such truth and goodness that those less blessed, who grew up in all those other geometric shapes, will be drawn by its beauty and warmth, and brought to the true knowledge and faith in the Source of all goodness and life. To God be the glory!

a most excellent book

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 13:22:55 GMT

A number of years ago a friend loaned me a 'must read' book. I just searched it out again because of a particularly memorable passage about family circles found in Chapter 5. We began reading it aloud yesterday during a short drive, much to the delight of the family. Some vaguely remember it from story time 5 or 6 years ago (maybe more?).
I highly recommend Mother Carey's Chickens by Kate Douglas Wiggin (who also wrote Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm). Wiggin has a delightful way of turning phrases that simply captures with amazing and often amusing clarity a wide spectrum of human emotion and/or motivation encountered in the normal process of living. Special thanks to dear friend Julie K. for a memorable recommendation!

More thoughts of my grandpa Nick

Thu, 31 Aug 2006 13:39:46 GMT

In the previous entry, I tried to impart a sense of my beloved grandpa Nick, the blacksmith. This morning I was reflecting on his endearing Polish names that he gave to his grandchildren. Though I can't seem to find it in the Polish translating programs, "my Luptke Toshek" was his general term for all his grandchildren. It means "Little Heart". To think that this large, beefy, man...who's strength was legendary throughout the region, along with his hunting skill, would coin such a term! But when I ponder it, it is such a beautiful reflection of true 'family values'...without him ever saying, "Family values are important". His family...his grandbabies...were his heart...his little heart. He would pick us up and dance a polka with us...da-da-deeing the tune to "Little Brown Jug" as he twirled us about. Is it any wonder that we felt so loved by Grandpa?

side note...in ancient times, either the kidneys (Hebrew) or the liver (Roman) were known as the seat of human emotions. You don't know how thankful I am that I did not grow up being called, endearingly, 'my little liver.' (Though the alliteration is much better, is loses so much appeal!!)

His specific name for me was "Scwezcek" (skwe-chek) Polish for "Grasshopper". I can't determine if that is because I had such long, skinny legs as a youngster...or because I did a lot of jumping around...or both!!

Oddly enough, I never use these terms of endearment with my own children. But I suspect that they will be very commonly used for my grandbabies, because that is just what a grandpa (or grandma) says.

My mother called my girls "poopka" ( Polish for 'dolly') when they were babies.
That fits well in both languages!

An encounter with the past

Wed, 30 Aug 2006 03:09:22 GMT

I have not forgotten...just have been consumed with various duties around the house. Canning, freezing and drying loads of cherries, peaches, salsa. It has been a number of years since I did much canning. I forgot what hot, hard work it is! But is is also very satisfying to see my fruit shelves fill up with jars of dry and canned fruit, put away for cooler days to provide for future enjoyment and nourishment.

Now..about our summer rendezvous with the past...

We climbed out of the car and looked around. Various and sundry buildings were scattered around the Chaplin Creek Village, in Franklin Grove, Illinois. Nothing looked 'polished'...it was definitely not designed to attract attention through bright colors or modern style. Hoping the girls would find the time rewarding, we began with a tour of the old school house, led by our docent, Marie, and her granddaughter.

An old upright piano mused silently in the corner, keeping company with the vintage dress and pinafore hanging out beside it. Nearby a quaint potbelly stove stood sentinel over the empty coal bucket, collecting dust and the odd cobweb as it waited patiently, ready to fulfill its sole purpose and bring warmth to the chilly room. Old maps were still rolled up on wall mounts over an clean chalkboard. I was tempted to pull one down and gaze on the world of the late 1800's, but I could see that time and the elements had been busy...the paper was deteriorated to the point of shredding. I gave it one longing, lingering caress and withdrew my hand. My children sat in the desks...Esther's cherubic face beamed with delight at sitting in the little desk 'in school' while Sarah busied herself with the small slate and chalk, drawing pictures and letters, and Susannah paged through the text on her desk.
I could imagine a room full of shiny, scrubbed, eager faces just like theirs.

I read aloud the rules for teachers in 1872 and we all laughed. Besides detailing their daily duties (filling lamps, cleaning chimneys, hauling water and providing coal for each day's session, whittling pen nibs for teacher and students' use alike), there were various moral requirements.

After a 10 hour day in school, the teachers were allowed to spend the remaining time reading the Bible and other good books.
Men could court only one evening a week -- unless they went to church regularly, THEN they were allowed two evenings each week!
However, a woman who married or engaged in unseemly conduct would be dismissed.
any teacher who smoked, used liquor in any form, frequented pool or public halls, or who got shaved in a barber shop (?!!) gave good reason to suspect his worth, intention, integrity and honesty. (However, you will notice that his 'unseemly conduct' did not result in dismissal)

And if a teacher conducted him/herself in all of the above things, 'without fault' for five years, he/she could expect a 25 cent increase per week in salary...providing the Board of Education approved. Whooo-eee, what incentive!!

We went into the Salt Box house next, learned that houses often had lean-to areas added on as the need for space grew. This particular house had two such areas added on. One became the 'formal parlour' that was mostly kept closed except for company or funerals. There was actually a separate outside door, so that the family was not disturbed when friends and neighbors came to pay their last respects. Spinning wheel, piano, and slick horsehair chairs with carved backs where positioned around the room (no photos, sorry). I was struck that even in the 'best' room, it felt slightly austere. Was this because the warmth of a living, breathing family was lacking...giving no animation to the house?

We then departed to take a tour of a reproduction Grist Mill (which was quite fascinating in itself and may get its own blog entry eventually) and returned about an hour later to resume our tour of the village. Our next stop was the whole reason why I brought the girls here...the old blacksmith forge.

My grandfather was a blacksmith. My childhood memories are filled with the ringing of the heavy hammer as it hit a glowing red plowshare or some other metal part plucked from the blistering heat of the forge and held on the huge anvil with tongs. Grandpa's face was always smudged with soot, with cleaner streaks where rivulets of sweat had trickled down, washing away the grime, eyes gleaming brightly against the dark badge of his labor, eyeglasses pitted from bits of flying metal. But everything was put on hold when one of his "Luptke toshek" (Polish for Little Heart, at least that is what we were told...and I am sure it is not spelled correctly!) showed up in the doorway after the long drive up. Then we got joyful greetings and squeezes and kisses ...with Grandpa torn between wrapping us in his powerful arms for a proper greeting, and trying to be mindful of our clean clothes! The forge held different smells and noises, out of the ordinary, but honest....soot, hot metal, ringing hammer blows, the hum of the bellows and the exhaust hood over the forge, the steady beat of the trip hammer that was felt from head to toe as it's thudding throbbed through one's body, the sizzling 'whoosh' of blistering metal as it was plunged into water for rapid cooling, mingled with sweat and a hint of [sniff]..of ...baby lotion?? yes...Johnson and Johnson's baby lotion! This giant of a man, who earned his living in a way few men could, was a study in contrasts. Big and strong, yet gentle. Firm, decisive, but tenderhearted. Covered in grime, but smelling of babies. And one of the mottos he personified? "Always be kind to children". I wasn't aware of this, but my siblings tell me that many a child stopped by whenever a bike or wagon needed some TLC from his capable hands. And though broken farm implements lined up outside the door, he always stopped to help..."No charge". That was my grandpa.

So there I stood, watching as my children moved through this quiet shell of a smithy... possessing all the accoutrements: the tools, the metal parts and trappings, and even boasting of the lingering smell of soot from the long-cold forge, but none of the life...none of the vitality of the man who wielded the hammer.

And then Annie, great-granddaughter of a smith, picked up the hammer languishing in dis-use near the anvil and posed with it. Tears overflowed and I snapped photos of my sweet girls as they touched a rather grimey part of their heritage for the first time, and I got reacquainted with dormant childhood memories.

How I wish Grandpa's smithy was still in existence, the familiar sound of Grandpa's labors echoing faintly in the ears of those who remember, that my girls could see it, smell it, experience it. But alas, it was torn down many years ago, making room for modernity...a manufactured home and a yard filled with plastic toys. Gone is the need for such men, such buildings. Fueled by a profound sense of loss, I hefted the hammer over my shoulder and brought it down with all my strength upon the anvil, feeling the shock of its impact travel through the handle, up my hands and arms... satisfied to hear it ring out in fitting tribute to a humble man, a great man, my Grandpa Nick Pulczinski...who may be gone, but not forgotten.

Reluctantly I turned from the poignant memories stirred up in the smithy dust, and we moved on to examine a dilapidated old barn currently under restoration, an old jail,
a lovely restored barn -- use for various gatherings of the Heritage foundation, and a primative log Settler's Cabin. This will be referenced in a future post, so stay tuned.