THANKSGIVING REFLECTIONS

FROM WHERE I SIT   Thanksgiving Reflections   11/14/13 PAT DEKOK SPILSETH

Years ago, Russell Baker wrote a column for The New York Times asking, “Do you ever wish you had it to do over again?”  Baker wondered if folks missed porches and rocking chairs where people sat and reflected on life.  He doubted if many still have rocking chairs or porches, but he said, “Well, for all the things we’ve lost--sitting on the porch swing at sunset, smelling the honeysuckle--think of all the things we’ve gained.  

The trick is in holding on to a little of each.”  That’s what Thankgiving is all about.

Thanksgiving and other holidays are so enjoyable when celebrated with friends, family and lots of good food.  I love traditions.  I want to celebrate holidays like we did when I was a kid, with big family get-togethers.   However, today’s families are smaller, and sons and daughters, aunts, uncles and cousins rarely live in the same community.  Families don’t seem to be as connected to traditions anymore.  

When I was a little girl, my father’s DeKok relatives always gathered at Aunt Sadie and Grandma’s home in Brooten.   Most of his family, except us, lived in one community, Brooten.  Aunt Sadie, Brooten’s redheaded post mistress, was the DeKok family organizer; she sewed litle girls’ dresses, canned chickens, fruit and vegetables, quilted cozy blankets, baked Dutch treats, planned all the family doings and was a consummate garage sale shopper.  I thought Aunt Sadie could do anything!  

At holidays, Grandma and Sadie’s house smelled of chickens roasting in the oven.  She had the tall uncles sit in the overstuffed living room chairs where Tony, Hank, Gerben and Gerrit smoked cigarettes, and Uncle Dan puffed on his fragrant pipe.   The womenfolk sat around the oak dining table in hard, straight-backed chairs sewing, holding babies, sharing recipes, and sipping tea.  Mom, the lone Norwegian among the Dutch relatives, was the only coffee drinker.  Bepa as our Dutch relatives called Grandma DeKok, sat in a rocker dressed in black with her long gray hair twisted into a bun. Never did I hear her utter a word in English: she rarely spoke; she listened.  

In Sadie’s sunny kitchen, all my cousins would sit at the Formica kitchen table drinking orange or cherry Kool-Aid in plastic glasses, which Sadie probably purchased with fat green books of saved Gold Bond stamps.  In those days very few ladies baked treats made from packaged mixes.  We snacked on sugar cookies and rice crisy bars the aunts made from scratch.  After eating, we’d play on the enclosed front porch with many windows.   Aunt Sadie had toys for us: dolls, buggies, balls, trucks, Chinese checkers and Cootie games that she had found at garage sales.   All too soon it was time for my family to climb into our blue Hudson and drive home to Glenwood.   I really loved being with my cousins: I wished they could come home with me. 

Mom’s Barsness relatives lived near each other in Starbuck, Morris and Alexandria.  When our Norwegian relatives celebrated the holiday at my house in the jail, I loved to invite my cousins to play in the upstairs women’s cells.  We’d pretend we were eating prison fare, bread and water, on the black and white enamel dishes of the prisoners.   In Dad’s office we checked out the ferocious looking mug shots of convicts wanted by the FBI posted on a bulletin board.   What a thrill it was for the cousins when they had to use both hands to turn the huge iron key that opened the heavy jail door leading to the men’s cells.  Dad would gave them a little peek inside to see the bullpen.  That’s where the guys sat on the bunks in their cells to eat Mom’s meals. The guys didn’t really eat bread and water: they ate the same meals our family ate.  Life was pretty good in the jail: it was warm with plenty of home-cooked meals.  A few men spent the holidays, year after year, with us.

At Thanksgiving, I looked forward to big family gatherings.  Both Mom and Dad had six kids in their families.  It was always fun when the Scandinavian relatives sat joking around our dining room table.  Uncle Ervin was full of silly jokes, and Emery, Odin and Luverne loved to tease.  The aunts would serve mashed potatoes, roast beef or Capon chicken, lefse and Aunt Ruth and Mom’s favorite, herring.  For dessert, we had a big variety of Norwegian butter cookies and cake.  Our dining room was warmed by tall silver radiators belching hot air into the room.   To compensate for the dry air, Mom had coffee cans of water standing on top of the radiators.  They put moisture into the room so we didn’t get “stuffed up” and start coughing.  Her gloxinas bloomed pink, purple and white in pots sitting in deep sills of the tall windows.  

At Thanksgiving we think about our many blessings.  I’m so grateful to live safely with my family in America in a warm home with plenty of food.   And I feel blessed to have so many treasured memories of our family gatherings.  Jerry Herman wrote, “This is the land of milk and honey/This is the land of sun and song/This is a world of good and plenty/Humble and proud and young and strong.”  

Winter weather is blowing in.  It’s late November: morning frost coats the windows and cars. Trees are bare, lawns are browning, and ice is forming at the shoreline.   On the bleakest of days, some clever souls are able to imagine themselves on a white sandy beach, while sitting at home surrounded by roaring winds and snowdrifts.  Whether it’s warm or cold outside, life is good.  We have so much to be thankful for. 973 words

FROM WHERE I SIT FAMILIES GATHER FOR THANKSGIVING

FROM WHERE I SIT   Families Gather for Thanksgiving pat spilseth

Thanksgiving Day is a gentle reminder that we have much to be thankful for.  I’m blessed with good health, family, and friends plus a warm home, plenty of food, and the ever-changing lake which greets me every morning.  Of course, I’m also very grateful for Buddy, my loveable Beagle, who encourages me to get outside for a walk each day no matter what the weather.

Perhaps some of you will recall the picture, which hung in many dining rooms, kitchens and churches, of an elderly man praying before his simple meal.  The photograph entitled “Grace” portrays an attitude of thankfulness.  Photographer Eric Enstrom said, “I wanted to take a picture that would show people that even though they had to do without so many things because of the war, they still had much to be thankful for.”  

This Thanksgiving my family is spending Thanksgiving in Mexico with our daughter Kate and son-in-law Bernardo.  Determined to keep traditions intact, we’re planning to eat turkey and the trimmings at Sol’s place, Cafe Bohemio in Puerto Vallarta.   Sol and his partner are NYC actors who have created a bustling patio cafe in Old Town where we’ll dine outdoors at a linen-covered table feasting on turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries and pumpkin pie.  

Thanksgiving week radio stations will play that memorable, age-old, Thanksgiving song, which has already begun to spin endlessly on my head’s turntable:

 “Over the river and through the wood,

To Grandfather’s house we go;

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,

Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes and bites the nose

As over the ground we go…”

Lydia Maria Child wrote this popular Thanksgiving song as a poem in 1844.  She wanted to celebrate childhood memories of visits to her Grandfather’s house.  Sometimes the song is alternated with lines about Christmas, rather than Thanksgiving.

The song makes me recall the holidays I loved so much as a kid.  When we went to Grandma DeKok’s house in Brooten, I’d get to see my Dad’s relatives and lots of cousins.  The gatherings were usually held at our Dutch Grandma’s home, which she shared with my Aunt Sadie, the red-headed post mistress in Brooten.  Sadie was a favorite aunt who sewed little girls’ dresses, canned chickens, fruit and vegetables, quilted cozy blankets, baked Dutch treats and was a consummate garage sale shopper.  It seemed to me that Aunt Sadie could do anything.  

Sadie and Grandma’s house smelled of chickens roasting in the kitchen.  In the living room, the uncles sat near the upright piano in overstuffed chairs and sofa smoking cigarettes though Uncle Dan was rarely without his fragrant pipe.  The aunts sat on hard, stiff-backed, wooden, dining room chairs after they’d busied themselves in the kitchen assembling the meal, fed the little ones, served coffee to the men, gathered their sewing, and finally sat for a few moments of rest and chatting.   Grandma was always dressed in dark colors, with her gray hair tucked into a bun.  Silently she’d rock back and forth in her wooden rocker near the window.  I never remember her saying anything.  

In the sunny kitchen, my cousins would sit around the gray Formica table in padded chairs, surrounded by smells of cooking chicken, potatoes and baking rolls.  Kool-aid was our treat along with rice crispy bars and sugar cookies, but only after we’d eaten a healthy meat and potatoes meal.  After eating, the kids would scoot to the many windowed front porch to play with the dolls, buggies, balls, trucks, Chinese checkers and Cootie games that Aunt Sadie had found at garage sales.  The afternoon passed too quickly: too soon we had to climb into our blue Hudson car and drive home.  At the close of the day, I longed to take my cousins home with me: I wanted brothers and more sisters to play with.  

Thanksgiving remains a favorite holiday for me, a time to gather family and friends together to remember our blessings.  689 words

Vicks Repercussions

FROM WHERE I SIT  VICKS REPERCUSSIONS  11/5/13 PAT DEKOK SPILSETH

The weather outside is frightful.  Though the calendar tells me it’s November, chocolate bars still fill bowls near the door where I greeted the visiting witches and goblins mumbling “Trick or Treat”.  I love seeing the little tykes coming to my door with their pumpkins and parents.  But I’m gracious to teenagers who can’t give up the ghost and still want to trick or treat.   After all, it still pains me to remember hearing the grumpy guy who told me “you’re too big!” when I rang his bell in my yearly witches’ costume. 

Snow is expected tonight as temperatures dip.  Docks and boat lifts still dot the lake, and fog coats the air so thickly that I can’t see across Carmen’s Bay.   I feel a cold coming on; aches and pains are creeping into my body, making me feel my advancing age.  Time to swallow the Ibuprofen tablets and apply Vicks under my nose.  I haven’t resorted to hanging a clove of garlic around my neck.  I still enjoy being with friends; I know they’d turn up their noses at the garlic, but my friends do use Vicks and like its odor.

A previous column about the medicinal  ingredients in Vick’s little blue and green bottle had emails flashing on my computer, phone calls and notes from folks.  Many other affectionadios of that little bottle share my affinity for the pungent medication that cures without a doctor visit and costly prescription.  But even Vicks has increased its price.  My movie star cousin Beverly noted that her tiny bottle of the salve cost over $7.00 at Walgreens.  Not only does she use the stinky salve for colds, but she greases her hands with it too.  So many soothing applications are possible.

Fargo reader Barb, who taught in Glenwood back in the late 50’s, has 3 bottles of the magical mix on hand.  Some who heard that my mom Esther actually swallowed a glob of the salve when she had a cold and sore throat exclaimed, “Did she REALLY DO THAT?  That’s disgusting!”  But it worked...

Others wanted to know where to buy a bottle of cod liver oil.  That fishy smelling liquor must be available at health food stores as well as some drug stores.  

Allergies are another menace this season.  Stuffed noses, throbbing sinus, fevers and chills demand a remedy.  Buddy, my Beagle sidekick, suffers from snuffles.  My vet told me to give him the little pink pill others use for allergies.  Covered with a dab of creamy butter on a muffin, he gobbles the muffin and pill in one gulp.  It’s been no trouble for Buddy to take his pill if I simply say the word TREAT.  In a flash Buddy is off to the laundry room, where treats are stored.  The pill hasn’t quieted his snores, but they’re sweet as he snuggles in Grandma’s rocker my office as I type my columns.  

Boxes of Kleenex appear in every room of my house.  Sneezes, coughs, watery eyes and nose blowing seem to pass from Dave to me to Buddy to guests.  The paper tissues are so convenient, but I do miss the soft cotton hankies Mom would wash, iron, and fold into four squares to tuck in my pockets.  They didn’t irritate my nose so I didn’t develop a huge, red nose.  

Handkerchiefs are kinder to a tender nose, ballooned and reddened with repeated blowing and sneezing.  My nose hurts when I reach for a paper tissue, but Mom’s dainty squarers of cotton hankies are perfect.  They’re stored next to my Vick’s bottle in the night stand next to my bed.

Remember when Moms used to tuck their hankies in their apron pockets or the sleeves and tops of their house dresses?  Often that enhanced their bosoms.  Today, the only time I see a lace or linen hanky is at a wedding, sometimes a funeral.  Hankies seem to be comfort signs to nervous brides and sad mourners.

A November storm is approaching from the west.  The lawn furniture is stored; we’ve mulched some leaves and Thanksgiving pumpkins and Pilgrims decorate the house.  The fire in our fireplace is so inviting so I’ll relax in my red leather chair with Buddy and a good mystery.  Let it snow; let it snow; let it snow...  727

FROM WHERE I SIT  ‘TIS THE SNEEZING SEASON  10/10/13    Pat DeKok Spilseth

 It’s that time of year when major bugs abound, waiting to catch you unawares.  They strike when you’re undernourished, in crowds of contaminated folks and overtired.  Being around kids in a classroom is the worst place to catch the sick bugs.  Then you usually end up flat on your back in bed coughing, sneezing, nauseous, dizzy and totally miserable.   

 I decided to avert such dire consequences.  I got my flu shot in the arm this afternoon.  Some administrators can make the shot painless, but today, it hurt.  I tell myself, the pain is worth not getting the flu...hope, hope.  Get the shot before they run out of the vaccine.  With my maligned immune system, I make it a point to head to the lines at a neighborhood drug store where nurses wait to innoculate patients and fill out the necessary forms.  

It’s cold season too.  I remember Mom’s warnings about flu and cold bugs.  I keep a jar of that trusty green and blue bottle of VICKS petroleum jelly in my night stand.  I swear that it works wonders for sore throats.   Nightly, I take a tiny whiff of the medicinal smell.  NO, I do not swallow a glob of VICKS like Mom did...just a whiff will do.  But if I start sneezing, coughing and feeling run down, I grease my neck and under my nose to clear the sinuses and wrap a wool sock around my neck, fastening it with a safety pin.  I know I don’t look particularily appealing all greased up, but it’s worth it if the Vicks wards off the bugs.  This procedure seems to produce deep heat, warming not only my neck but my entire body with its strong, mentolated magic. Though it stings my eyes, and they begin to water, I know the Vicks is working its powers on my body.  I feel better inhaling the strikingly pungent odor from the tiny blue jar.   It worked for Mom and our family when I was growing up.  Why toss away a good thing?  

Cod liver oil was Mom’s other remedy to ward off colds.  Like clockwork, every morning before I left for school, she poured a teaspoon of that oily, icky medicine for me to swallow.  I had to wash it down with a tiny glass of orange juice.  Nobody I knew could stand the unadulterated taste of cold liver oil sliding down our throats.  Cod liver oil combated colds, but that oily taste couldn’t be stomached without something to camophlauge the fishy taste.

When fall or winter colds struck, Mom insisted I put on my flannel pajamas and rest in bed.  She’d cover me with her percale sheets with the crocheted edges that Grandma Elizabeth had made years ago.  Snugly, she’d tuck me into bed with Dad’s gray, wool, army blanket and one of her patchwork quilts, that the aunts had stitched the past winter.  Those quilts were made of stitched squares of worn Pendleton wool shirts, wool pants, Mom’s house dresses and Aunt Sadie’s wool plaid skirts.  It was cozy; I could feel the love.  

Then came her best prescription, the sugar medicine.  Esther would cut a plump, yellow lemon in half, squeeze and twist in over the protruding knob of the glass juice squeezer.  Pale, yellow, lemon juice would spurt from the thick rind’s innards along with many seeds that had to be strained from the juice.  If I drank the sour, lemon juice straight, without any additives, I’d twist up my face with its strong sour taste.  However, Mom knew that if she warmed heaping spoons of sugar stirred into the sour lemon juice, she could have me sipping the sweet lemonade.  As it swam down my aching throat, hot lemon juice was a sure cure for a sore throat.   Sugar does help the medicine go down.

From storage, I’m pulling out my wool sweaters and warm slacks, winter coats and jackets, scarves and hats and mittens.  I don’t want to be caught short of warm duds when the white flakes start flying.   Recently, Dakota was immobolized with over 40 inches of snow; roads were closed; powerlines pulled down.  Misery accosted the plains!  Get ready; cold weather, flu bugs and fever are coming east.  Prepare for the worst.  725 words