Popcorn Balls

After the kids left for school this morning, I did a quick clean up of the house. Since they'll be home for the next 10 days on Christmas break, I wanted the satisfaction of knowing the house was at least clean at the beginning of those ten days. When I got to Lauren's room, there was a bowl of mostly eaten popcorn from last night. There was also an almost empty mug of hot chocolate. As I picked up the bowl and mug, the scent of popcorn and sweetness wafted up and for a minute I was 10 years old again and it was Christmas Eve morning and we were making popcorn balls.

Christmas Eve morning there was always a bustle of activity in the farm house. With eight kids in the house, it was rare to ever have a quiet moment. But on Christmas Eve morning, it was busier and crazier than any ever. While Christmas cookies had been made ahead of time, fudge, divinity and popcorn balls were always made at this time. Mother would cook the fudge and it seemed to me that she was never very pleased with the way it turned out. Linda was in charge of the divinity. From what I remember, most of us kids pitched in to make popcorn balls. First we would pop incredible amounts of popcorn and put it into a huge bowl. Then we'd cook the sticky syrup according to the Betty Crocker Cookbook. We would argue over what color the popcorn balls should be every year. Eventually we'd agree and food coloring was added to the syrup. The hot syrup was then poured over the popcorn and one of my older siblings would stir it. When it was sufficiently mixed, we would all dip our hands into a bowl of very cold water and then grab some of the hot gooey popcorn and form it into balls. We'd let the popcorn balls cool on waxed paper, eagerly waiting to be able to eat that sweet and salty treat.

After the treats were made, the kids would run upstairs and start bringing down presents we'd had hidden away. Now the presents were placed under the Christmas tree while Mother would begin preparing food for Christmas Day. The excitement of Christmas was in full swing!

On Christmas Eve, evening chores were always started early. The children's Christmas program was that night and we had to get to church early. We girls would each wear a new dress that Mother sewed for us for the program each year. Church was always completely full on this night. The children would march down the long aisle singing "Come Hither Ye Children" to open the service. We would sit in several of the front pews of the church. After all the children were seated, the clanking of metal folding chairs could be heard as more seating was made available in the church aisles. Grade by grade, we would then tell the story of Jesus birth. The last song of the night was always Glory to God. I can still remember every word of the song and feel the excitement of everyone in the church as we all sang at the top of our lungs.

Once the Christmas program was over, all the children would receive a brown paper bag with an apple, an orange, a couple hand fulls of peanuts and hard candy. Now it's hard to believe how much we loved those simple goodie bags. Once we got back to the farm, it was time to open Christmas presents.

I really don't remember many of the gifts I got back then. But there were a couple of things we could be sure of. Mother always spent $20 on each of us. She would save her money up from each milk check (or in later years social security checks). And she wanted to spend exactly the same on each of us. I mean down to the last penny exact! Each of us would also receive an envelope from Daddy with $10 in it. When Uncle Dale lived with us, we each received an envelope with $5 from him. The first Christmas after Daddy died, Mother gave us each an envelope that said Merry Christmas from Heaven and had the usual $10 from Daddy in it. She also included a beautiful poem she had received about how he was spending Christmas in Heaven with Jesus. It was very touching. Last year, we each had an envelope from Mother (courtesy of my sister Jo). Mother had been saving up money for Christmas that year as she had every year. She died about half way through the year, so we each received the $10 that she had saved up for each of us. Again, it was very touching. After opening gifts, we always would have dried beef and cheese sandwiches, cookies, pumpkin bread, cinnamon rolls and maybe even a popcorn ball.

This will be our second Christmas without Mother and our fourth without Daddy.  We continue to gather on Christmas Eve as we always have. We still open presents when everyone arrives and we still eat dried beef sandwiches and all the yummy treats. Except I can't remember the last time we had popcorn balls. There is an emptiness without Mother and Daddy there to celebrate with us, but I know they are celebrating in Heaven and that makes it all okay.

It's amazing what memories a simple whiff of popcorn and sweetness can bring to mind.

You Are Still Here

You are in the pink sunrise

And my children’s laughs

In the cookies baked

And presents wrapped

In the phrases I say

In the home that I make

In the prayers that I pray

Every morning I wake

In my boy’s love of baking

In the naps that I need

In my girls’ love of books

And in the speed with which they read

In Lauren’s love of visiting

In Dani’s need to “mother”

And in the way Evan imitates

Your characteristic shudder

In the stillness alone

Where I hear your advice

And your reminder

That these are the best years of my life

In the dutchman’s breeches of spring

And the dandelions that follow

In the harvest of fall

And in cold winter’s hollow

When God called you home

Eternity to see

I whispered that you would

Always remain part of me

Those words that I spoke

When you had to leave

Were more true than I knew

Truer than I ever believed

You heard my first cry

I saw your last breath

Our connection can’t be broken

Not even by death

Although now in Heaven

You are never far away

I see you and hear you

Hundreds of times every day

In the air that I breathe

I can still feel your love

And I know you’re sending hugs

From Heaven above

You were a part of me

From my very start

Now you live on forever

Inside of my heart

The Teapot and the Bell

Our family always cut our own Christmas trees when I was a kid. We would either venture into the woods behind the farm or drive the mile to what we referred to as "the lower farm" that my Uncle Dale owned, to find a tree. I recall one year my brother, Charlie, drove the rest of us kids to pick out a tree. He got the truck stuck in the snow and we all had to walk the mile home to get a tractor to pull the truck out. It seemed that every year the tree would end up being too tall to fit in the living room and we'd have choose to either saw several inches off the bottom of the tree or cut a hole in the living room ceiling. We always chose to cut off the bottom of the tree.

Decorating the tree was always fun. One of my older siblings got the job off stringing the lights and then we'd all put the ornaments and thin strands of silver tinsel on. Plugging the lights in when the tree was fully trimmed was always a breath taking affair. We never put any presents under the tree until the morning of Christmas Eve. Then, we would all trudge up and down the stairs carrying armfuls of gifts that we'd hidden away upstairs. I can still hear the sound of  our thumping feet on those old wooden stairs. Soon the living room was full of presents waiting to be opened later that night when the church Christmas program was over.

I'm sure our tree was decorated like many others in the 1970's. We used the big Christmas lights that would get hot to the touch. We had three main kind of ornaments: glass tiered ornaments with frosted rings, glass balls in different colors, and red and green balls covered in satin thread. But there were always two special ornaments on the tree each year. One was a silver teapot and one a red bell. The teapot belonged to my Grandma Betz and the red bell had been my Grandma Miller's. Every year those ornaments hung in the same spot on the tree. The teapot was especially fragile with it's glass handle and spout. I believe I heard a story that one year, my brother Mike's class was told to each bring an ornament to school to decorate the classroom tree. Mike reportedly took the red bell without Mother's knowledge. Thankfully it made it home again, unharmed.

At some point in the last several years of Mother's life, she told me that I could have the teapot and bell ornaments when she died. While I was thrilled that those special ornaments would some day be hung on my tree, I hoped that day would never come, because it meant Mother would no longer be with us. After Daddy died, Mother told me that I should take the ornaments home. I told her that as long as she was alive, they would stay at the farm and be on her tree. That was where they belonged.

Last fall, a few months after Mother died, I ventured up into the attic at the farm knowing it was time to bring the teapot and bell ornaments home with me. Suddenly, I felt extremely guilty for taking them. Surely they were as special to the rest of my siblings as they were to me. Still, Mother had told me to take them. As I found them in their boxes, tears sprung to my eyes. The simple red bell had belonged to Mother's mother. She died when Mother was only 17. She never met any of her grandchildren. But she had hung this very bell on her tree many years before. The teapot was a bit tarnished and looked so fragile. The thought of Grandma Betz, who died just before I turned 3, hanging this ornament when my dad was a kid brought even more tears. What treasures these simple ornaments were to me.  I wondered if they would survive the 3 hour drive home. I carefully wrapped the ornaments in tissue paper and placed them in a small box to bring home. The guilt of removing them from the farm remained.

They survived the drive home and after putting them on my tree to take pictures, I put them back in the box and placed it in the hutch in our dining room. The ornaments were too fragile to leave on the tree, where they could easily be broken. I vowed that I'd find display boxes for them, but I never got around to it. A year later, the box still sat in the hutch, the teapot and bell hidden away inside.

Yesterday I pulled our Christmas tree out of the basement and set it up. I strung the lights and unwrapped all the ornaments that we've collected over the years. The kids each have accumulated several of there own. I figure that by the time they are adults and move out, they will each have enough ornaments to decorate their own tree. I have lots of personalized ornaments and lots of other special ones too. None of them are fancy, but so many bring special memories to mind. My sister, Jo has given me two different red fox ornaments in honor of my dad. She also gave me two special angel ornaments last year. Each says "Heaven is My Home". One is a girl angel with the word 'Mother' and the dates 1924-2011. The other is a boy angel with the word 'Daddy' and the dates 1917-2009. Those are very dear to me. I also smiled as I hung a 'peace' ornament recently given to me by two new friends who told me that I bring them peace. Little do they know how much they have brought to my life. Hanging the special snowflakes that Eric's grandma crocheted for us a month before she died at the age of 91 always bring back lovely memories of her.

As we decorated the tree, I kept hearing Mother speaking to my heart. I was reminded of the teapot and bell hidden away in my hutch under layers of tissue paper. I could hear Mother telling me that the ornaments were meant to be hung on the tree, where I could enjoy them. She said, "If they get broken, they get broken. But what good are they doing you if they are tucked away where you never see them?" I could feel her telling me that if I wasn't going to use the ornaments, I may as well have left them at the farm. I tried to dismiss the thought, but as I hung other ornaments on the tree, I noticed I was leaving a couple of open spots. They were the exact spots where the teapot and bell always hung on the tree at the farm. I went to the hutch and took out the box. As I unwrapped each of the two ornaments, I said a silent prayer that they were each still in one piece. They were. I hung them on the tree right where they belonged and stepped back to take a look. It was a breath taking sight. The teapot and bell fit in perfectly. As I took in the beauty, I noticed my "Mother Angel" ornament smiling as she looked over at the teapot and bell! The "Daddy Angel" was doing the same.

Where Were You

Mother's visitation and funeral were held at St. John's Lutheran Church in Caledonia. It is a huge, beautiful church full of stained glass windows. The church is built in the shape of a cross and has a bell tower like many old churches did. It also has a full basement where funeral lunches are served. The evening of Mother's visitation, while the adults were gathered upstairs, my children and their cousins spent most of their time in the church basement together. When I went down once to check on them, I heard their laughter and their shoes clapping as they ran on the tile floor. I knew there was nothing Grandma would have loved more than to see her grandkids living in the midst of death. I've thought about this many times over the 17 months that she's been gone and have finally put it into words.

Where Were You

Where were you that sweltering

Summer evening

When people stood in line

To pay their respects

Your physical body

Lay in the flower adorned box

Gently resting

On pillows of silk

But where was your spirit

Now free

From the weight

Of its earthly form

Were you watching

As people hugged your children

And shared memories of you

From years gone by

Or were you in the laughter       

Of  your grandchildren

Playing together

In the church basement below

Did you notice how many

Gathered to honor

A woman like you

Who never did a lot

Or were you  with

Your grandchildren

Feasting on treats

You once loved so much

Were you looking

At all the items displayed

Showing the fullness

That was your life

Or were you running

In step with the grandkids

Their dress shoes clapping

On the hard tile floor

Were you noticing the beauty

Of the stained glass windows

In the gorgeous church

Where you’d worshipped for years

Or were you mesmerized

by the true beauty

Of grandchildren celebrating

Each moment spent together

Was your focus

On your own death

On our mourning

Our tremendous loss

Or were you focused

On the lives

Still being lived

By the little ones

I hear the words

You spoke many times before

And know where your spirit was

That day

“Suffer the little children

To come unto me

And forbid them not

For of such is the kingdom of Heaven”

You were with the children

Who teach us so much

Grieve a little while

Live, Laugh and Love Forever

Coincidence

For all the times you want to dismiss something as a coincidence, yet deep down you know there is more to it than that, here is my take on what coincidence really is:

Creator

Offering

Individualized

Nourishment

Completely

Intimate

Delivered

Entrusted

Numinous

Connections

Experienced

New and Improved (Thanks to a Co-Author)

Today, I was honored to have my poem, The Grief Stone, included in the Remembrance Service at our church. I admit I was nervous to hear it read aloud. It's one thing to post it on my blog and not see anyone as they read it. It is another to sit in church and hear it read aloud (along with your name attached to it). I always turn into a puddle watching the video of loved ones who have gone before us anyway. Now I imagined everyone would hear my name, look for me in my normal spot, and see me blubbering. Lauren was the only one who was up for going to church and watching the tear jerking video with me today. I understand why it was too painful for the rest of the family. Lauren and I huddled together in the pew and let the tears flow as we listened to the words and watched the pictures of member's loved ones appear on the screen. Most of the people I never knew. I recognized the names of several others. And then my parents picture came up along with the words I chose to accompany it, "Little things done with great love are now cherished memories." More tears flowed from both Lauren and myself. Luckily, I had packed plently of tissues. I was thankful that my name was mentioned so early on in the video, so I could get beyond that. It was strange to hear Pastor Tim read the words I'd written. Other than the fact that he obviously has a man's voice, he read the words precisely how I felt them as I had written them. I don't know if he paused in the right spots or emphasized the right words or how exactly he did it, but he nailed it. (I guess that's why he's the pastor and gets to wear the white robe!)

Pastor Tim is the person who first encouraged me to "write my soul" as he called it. I am grateful that he did. As I told him after the service, it's therapy for me and obviously I must need therapy with all the writing I do! What continues to surprise me is that other people often tell me that they can relate to my writings. I swear that it shocks me every time someone compliments something I write. I was overwhelmed with all the wonderful compliments I heard after today's service. Thank you to everyone for the kind words.

A year or so ago, our church had each person interested write their name on a slip of paper along with a prayer request for themselves. These slips of paper were then put in a basket and we everyone picked out a slip of paper and prayed for that person for a number of months. My prayer request was for direction. What I meant by that was for God to reveal to me what my gift to others was or where I could make a difference. In a funny twist of fate, one of Dani's best friends picked my name and prayer request out of the basket! I am starting to wonder if possibly my writings are the direction in which God is pointing me. I hope that doesn't sound conceited in any way, because like I said, I am honestly surprised when others say they get something out of my writings.

After today's service, I asked Pastor Tim for his permission to share his words from the video, because I thought they fit so well with my poem. He gave his blessing and agreed to "co-author" the new improved version of The Grief Stone. Below you will find my original words in italics. Pastor Tim's words are in normal print.                                                                                                           

The Grief Stone

(revised version)

Co-Authored by Kim Seeger and Pastor Tim Tengblad 

A jagged sharp stone

Of grief

Lodged itself in my heart

On the day you died

Every thought I had

Every breath I took

Scraped and cut

Pierced and hurt

Countless tears fell

Unstoppable

In response to the pain

Of losing you

Each tear

Was like an ocean wave

Mighty and powerful

Upon my heart

I wondered if it was possible

To drown in my own tears

To be pulled under the waves

And never resurface

The waves

Were commanding and relentless

Washing across my heart

And the grief stone embedded there

Mary Oliver writes in her poem "In Blackwater's Woods": "To live in this world, you must be able to do 3 things: to love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it, and when the time comes, to let it go, to let it go."

And so it is, that dear, precious one we love dies, and we feel our grief as like a jagged sharp stone lodged in our heart. Every time a thought turns to them, we feel it's sharp pain. We feel it every time a memory comes to mind, or a longing for return comes, and touches the sore spot on our heart. Tears first appear to be our undoing, only signs of pain and loss.

Grief is a process, a journey, as was our relationship with the one we loved. A process, a journey filled with light and darkness, joy and struggle. Sometimes we grieve what WAS: the goodness, the love and happiness known only to us and our loved one.

Sometimes we grieve what WASN'T: sometimes there is baggage to let go of on our journey of grief, so we can walk lighter on our new path, alone or with another.

Sometimes we may grieve over our NOT GRIEVING: not like we used to. Fearing we may be losing our sense of connection, not realizing that we still love them. Not realizing we are simply moving on, down the path of our new life, as the one we loved would want us to.

Whatever the source of our tears, over time, they do their healing work.

Ever so slowly

The sharp edges

Began to lose

Their jaggedness

Each pounding wave

Was transforming

The grief stone

Not drowning the heart

Jagged edges smoothing

Memories no longer

Piercing the heart

So deeply

The waves still persist

Not as frequent

Nor as intense

But they still come

The grief stone

Will never be dislodged

It has permanent residency

Within my heart

But each wave

Continues to transform it

Buffing and polishing the stone

Into something gentle and peaceful

Yes, the grief stone remains ironically as an act of grace. It is your continuing connection with the one you loved.

By God's eternal grace in Christ Jesus, may yours be polished more and more into a grateful pain...one that so dearly reminds you of what you once had, and still have in your heart, as you continue your own journey into gratitude.

Exposed

It's late Autumn and most trees have dropped their leaves. Only a few weeks ago, the same trees were ablaze with color. People flocked to admire the beauty. Now the trees are bare, the color gone. And the people are hurrying about their lives once again. They hardly notice the trees now. When they do, it is only to comment how bare, drab or depressing they look.

The naked trees are exposed to their very being. Every twig shows scars from each leaf that fell. The crooked and imperfect branches once hidden under a leafy canopy are on display for all to see.

But who of us is unlike those bare trees? I've often said that we all have our own demons. By that, I mean we all have scars, insecurities, heartaches or issues that we try to cover and hide from the world. Some of us have more "leaves" to cover these imperfections than others. Yet we can't hide from ourselves. Even when covered in a beautiful disguise, we know our demons. Eventually, we all drop our colorful leaves. Their beauty is only a memory. We feel naked, our numerous scars and imperfections on display for all to see.

Think of the trees. Though stripped of their leaves, they remain. Though exposed to the harshness of winter, they stand firm. Though their imperfections are on display, they grow stronger. Look closely at the trees and see the true beauty. Though many trees are similar, no two are exactly the same. All are beautiful, but none are perfect. There is stark beauty in the empty branches. As winter sets in and the cold and snow arrive, the trees continue on. Occasionally a new dawn will reveal hoarfrost covering the branches. As the sun breaks through, it appears as though the tree's very soul has wept in the night, it's tears have crystallized and now sparkle in the new day. There is beauty, even in the midst of grief.

Who of us has not felt as though we stand alone, naked in the depth of winter? Though our physical and emotional scars are exposed, we go on.  Though all can see our imperfections, our limitations or our grief, we survive and even grow.  Like the trees, we each are different, all beautiful but none exactly the same. Our struggles may be similar, but none of our branches identical. Yet there is stark beauty in having our very being exposed. The tears of our souls are like the sparkling hoarfrost on the tree branches. Only when we are stripped of everything and left exposed for all to see, do we realize we still have everything we truly need: Our amazing God.

Just as He brings the trees through the bitter cold and harsh storms of winter, God remains with us and guides us through the cold and bitter storms of life. Like the trees, we come through these storms stronger and more aware that with God we can handle anything. Then, He blesses us the new leaves of Springtime and we appreciate their beauty more than ever before. We know we will be exposed again, but have even more faith and know that He will guide us through.

Susanna

Halloween seems like a good time to share a story that began long, long before I was born. I've often thought that if I ever wrote a book, I'd write about this. However, I don't think I have enough background information to make it non-fiction. Then again, I am currently reading a book written by a woman who found a newspaper article from way back about a woman found frozen in the snow in northern Minnesota way back when. She researched and wasn't able to find any more information. Yet she was inspired to right a fiction story based on the woman found frozen to death. Who knows, maybe some day I'll find the inspiration to do something similar with this story.

When I was little, I remember hearing a story about a relative named Susanna who drowned herself and her infant in a pond on their farm after hanging her shawl on a tree branch next to the pond. As a kid, I didn't think much about it. After all, it had happened back in the "olden days" and I had no interest in family history at that point. I remembered the story over the years, but didn't give it much thought.

Several years back, as my sister Jo and my parents were putting flowers on the graves of relatives on

Memorial Day, Jo had the idea to put flowers on Susanna's grave. But, the grave couldn't be located. The records of the church Susanna had attended had been destroyed in a fire and although her husband and his second wife's graves were at the cemetery next to this church, Susanna's couldn't be found.

After my dad died, I suddenly became more interested in our family history. It was then that I actually listened to the story about Susanna closely enough to realize who she was. Susanna was my great-great grandma and my dad's great grandma. The story we heard as kids was that Susanna had a newborn baby and was sick with milk fever (though I'm not sure what that was). Her husband, Nicholas, had told her that there were men coming to help out at the farm the next day and she needed to get up and cook for them. In the night, Susanna supposedly got up and drown herself and the newborn in the pond, after hanging her shawl on the nearby tree branch. This happened in May of 1876.

My sisters and I looked for an obituary or a newspaper article to give us further information on what had happened or where she might be buried. Our search turned up nothing. Then Mother told us that she thought she knew the location of the farm where Susanna died. All we had previously known was that it was in Union Township in Houston County, MN. Mother recalled that when she and Daddy were newly married, Minnie Zibrowski (My great grandma, who was Susanna's oldest child) had taken them to a farm to pick apples. As they drove in, Minnie commented that going there always made her sad, because it was where mother had drown herself and her baby. Mother said she hadn't asked Minnie any questions about it. People really didn't talk about things like that back then. With the new found information that Mother might know where the farm was, we all loaded into our van and headed for Union Township. Mother always has such a great memory that it shouldn't have surprised me that she led us right to the farm. The narrow gravel road that led to the farm made it easy to imagine the horses and wagons that Susanna and her family must have used to travel the same road in the 1870's. As we approached the farm, Mother quickly pointed our where the driveway used to be back when she picked apples there. It had since been moved. However, we didn't see a pond. We drove beyond the house and turned around. As we drove back past the farm again, we saw what obviously used to be a pond, now dry. There was also an small ramshackle old building across the road from the farm. We assumed it must be the original house where Susanna and Nicholas lived.



The old house where Susanna and Nicholas lived



It was very exciting to finally know where Susanna had lived and ultimately died. However, we still didn't know where she was buried. We suspected that since the death was ruled a suicide, she likely wasn't allowed to be buried in a church cemetery. Doing some research online, I learned that in those days, suicide victims were occasionally buried within church cemeteries, but they were placed in the far northeast corner in unmarked graves, and often buried face down. I found that heart wrenching.

An interesting aside to the story (and probably the direction I would go if I ever wrote a fictional story based on Susanna's death) is that a good friend and neighbor of my mom's told her that there was some speculation about Susanna's death. This woman's Mother had told her that there was a rumor that Nicholas had actually murdered Susanna and the baby. He had served in the Civil War and apparently came back from it as a very harsh and unfriendly man. Adding to the speculation of his involvement in the deaths, he remarried less than 2 months later. If you are thinking it was simply to have a mother for his remaining children, I should point out that those same children were then sent to live with Nicholas' brother and his wife.

We drove past that farm many times, wondering if possibly Susanna and her baby had been buried on the farm or in the nearby woods. We knocked on the door of the new house to see if the owners had any information. They were never home. Or maybe they thought we were Jehovah's Witnesses.

Mother was very interested in finding where Susanna was buried and finding more information on her death. When Mother was in hospice I commented that soon she would know the whole story on Susanna and jokingly asked her to send us a sign where Susanna was buried if God would let her. She said she would, which made me chuckle.

The beginning of last November, my brother-in-law, Keith, saw a neighbor of the current owners of the farm where Susanna died. He told her the story of Susanna. Later that same evening, the owners of the farm visited the neighbor and Susanna's name was brought up. The current owners of the farm had been informed of Susanna's death when they bought the place. They had also been told that she was buried in Union Cemetery, but since it was a suicide, no gravestone was allowed. Supposedly a wooden cross once marked the grave, but it had since been removed. She was reportedly buried in the northeast corner of the cemetery near a group of pine trees. I had actually searched that area for a marker after the research I did indicated where suicide victims were often buried. There was a sunken spot near the trees and I wondered if it could be the spot.

Keith also went to the Houston County Historical Society and asked for help in possibly finding a newspaper report of Susanna's death. My sister, Char and I had each previously tried to find copies of the Caledonia Argus from May 1876, to see if there was an article on Susanna's death. Interestingly, several months of the 1876 Argus, including May, were missing. Keith found the same thing. But, the woman working in the Historical Society suggested checking for an article in the newspaper from nearby, Hokah. Bingo! There was an article. It talked of how Susanna had supposedly suffered from "partial derangement of the mind" and that in the middle of the night, she rose from bed and took the baby outside. It went on to say that she first tried to drown herself and the baby in "a small mud hole that contained not over a foot of water". The article continued that since "her efforts were unsuccessful" she went on to drown herself and her baby in another hole that contained 3 feet of water.

How incredible that we had a newspaper article documenting the death. Of course, being the detective that I am (ha ha) I have to admit that I question a few things in the report. If she rose in the middle of the night and the bodies were found in the morning, how could it be determined that she tried to first drown herself and the baby in a 1 foot deep mud hole. Was someone watching and observed this, or what evidence was found to support this idea? I also wonder how much investigating was done back in 1876. Surely there were no CSI agents. My guess is that they asked Nicholas what happened and this is the story he gave. While it could have happened the way he explained, one has to wonder.

While Keith was at the Historical Society, he also mentioned that we thought we knew where Susanna was buried, but weren't sure. He was told that he should consider "witching" to find the grave. He (like the rest of the family) had no idea what "witching" was. I still don't know exactly how it's done, but I know you take two wires and hold them a certain way over a grave. If there is a female buried there, the wires supposedly move a certain way and if a male is buried there, the wires move a different way. I find it very difficult to believe that Keith actually went and tried this, but he did. He says the wires moved to indicate a female was buried at the sunken spot. He said he also tried it over marked graves and the wires moved to correctly identify those people as male or female as well. I find it all kind of spooky and am not sure that I want to believe that method could actually be accurate. But I sure wish I would have been there when Keith did this. It would have been fun to videotape! Regardless if the "witching" worked, we now assume this is where Susanna and her baby girl are buried.

Last Thanksgiving weekend, Jo and I put Christmas decorations on Mother and Daddy's grave. Jo had also found some solar decorations for some the graves of relatives. I decided to buy a solar angel to put on Susanna's grave. I found out weeks later that the angel scared some nearby neighbors. They also apparently knew the story of Susanna and as they looked out their window on a dark winter's night, they saw a glowing light in the old cemetery, right about where Susanna was rumored to be buried. Word got back to Keith pretty quickly, asking if family had put something on the grave as they were concerned about the glowing light!

Whether Susanna actually took her own life and the life of her newborn, or if Nicholas was some how involved, we will likely never know. At one point, I commented that it would have been better if Susanna had never married Nicholas. Then it occurred to me that were the case, I wouldn't be here. So I guess I'm glad she did marry him. I just wish her life hadn't ended so tragically.

An interesting tidbit is that my great grandma, Minnie (Susana's daughter) did have a happy marriage. She and husband, William Zibrowski were married for 65 years. While Susanna's husband either had a hand in her death or at the very least wasn't very kind to her and remarried quickly upon her death, Minnie married a man who couldn't live without her. On their 50th wedding anniversary, William and Minnie renewed their wedding vows. I have heard they liked to "rib" each other in a good natured way. Sometime between the night of Thursday, May 6, 1954 and the morning of Friday, May 7, 1954, Minnie, age 87, passed away in her sleep. William, age 94 but not previously ill, passed away on the afternoon of Sunday, May 9, 1954. Everyone said he died of a broken heart. A double funeral was held for them.

Mother told me she had hoped that she and Daddy would make it to 65 years of marriage just like William and Minnie. If that had happened, she would have been 87 and Daddy would have been 94, the same ages as William and Minnie. When Daddy died, he and Mother had been married for 63 years. My parents would occasionally "rib" each other too. I'm betting that when Mother got to Heaven she teased Daddy that she held up to her end of the bargain. She died about four months after what would have been their 65th Anniversary.

We have continued to look for information on Susanna. We know her maiden name was Thieme or Tieman. She was born in 1846, although we are not sure where. We have no information on her parents or any siblings. We don't have any pictures that have been identified as Susanna. She married Nicholas Hains (Haines, Heinz, Heins, Hines Heintz) on August 5, 1866 in Dubuque, IA. William had served in the Civil War prior to their marriage. We do not know where they met each other. By 1867 they were living in Union Township.

I still occasionally search the internet hoping to find further information on Susanna. Hopefully some day we learn about her life before she married Nicholas. While Susanna's  life ended tragically, I see God's goodness in how he provided for Minnie. Minnie was only 9 when her mother died. That had to be devastating. She was then sent to live with her uncle and his wife. Yet she found a wonderful man to marry and they had 65 wonderful years together and only a couple days apart before being reunited in Heaven. Even if I never learn any more about Susanna while I am alive, I am confident that one day I will know the whole story. All the puzzle pieces will fall into place and it will all make sense. And on that day, I will get to meet this woman, Susanna, whose life and death we have wondered about. I will also get to meet William and Minnie, whose lives I consider to be a love story.

Auger Cookies

There were always plenty of cookies on hand in Mother's kitchen. The usual varieties were chocolate chip, molasses and ice box. At Christmastime, we always had cut-out sugar cookies too. Mother had lots of the old fashioned metal cookie cutters in shapes like Santa, a tree and an angel.

One Fall when I was 5 or 6 years old, my sister, Linda decided to make cut-out Halloween cookies. While we had plenty of Christmas cookie cutters, we didn't have any Halloween ones. I'm not sure there were even any available to buy way back then. Linda had the idea to make our own cookie stencils out of an empty cereal box. She drew a witch's hat and a pumpkin on the box and cut out the stencils. We then put the stencils on the rolled out cookie dough and cut around them with a knife. Besides the witch's hat and the pumpkin, we also wanted to have a ghost stencil. Some how I was put in charge of making that stencil. I drew my best ghost and cut it out of the cereal box. I don't remember Linda commenting on my finished stencil. We made the cookies and when Daddy came into the house, we offered him one to eat. He knew what the pumpkins and the witch's hats were. He then looked at my ghosts and said, "What are those? Augers?" Did I mention that I was never good at art? I honestly don't remember my reaction at the time. But I can tell you that we kept all three of our cookie stencils and made those same cookies for several years. And every year, my ghosts were called Auger Cookies. I'm pretty sure they were Daddy's favorites.

When Daddy died and his casket had the secret little drawer I mentioned in another entry, family members put pictures and notes in the drawer. I wrote a letter that I placed in the drawer. But I wanted to put something more in there as well. I thought for a long time about what that 'something more' could be. And then I remembered the long forgotten Auger Cookies. So, I drew a ghost (or should I say an auger) on a piece of paper, cut it out and put it in the drawer. I smiled and was satisfied with my choice.

My drawing (today) similar to
the ghost/auger I drew as a kid

I now have quite a collection of cookie cutters of my own, ranging from the traditional reindeer and Christmas trees to less common shaped ones like the state of Minnesota, a cactus and even a margarita glass. And I do have Halloween ones shaped like pumpkins, bats and ghosts. But no matter how hard I look, I can not find an auger shaped cookie cutter. Luckily, I know how to make an auger stencil.

Quaking Aspen

On my morning walks, I always pass a cluster of Aspen trees. They have long grabbed my attention. I've considered writing about them before, but have dismissed the idea several times. The leaves, however, keep pulling me in, asking me to tell their story. I see them moving when the air seems still and I hope that I am like them, fluttering and speaking when God whispers to me.

Quaking Aspen

Tiny green leaves

on trees of white bark

always eager

to spread Your Word

Even on the

calmest of days

responding to
Your mere whisper

Dancing and singing
reflecting Your glory
in beautiful
poetic motion

Captivating,
drawing one in
as other leaves
remain still

Huddling together
in wind storms
and moving
in unison

Together
enduring storms
better than trees
which protest the wind

As days shorten
and Autumn arrives
green leaves transform
to brilliant gold

Their song 
becomes louder
their dance
more beautiful

Golden leaves
become crisp with age
praising You
with greater enthusiasm

Make me like
the aspen leaf
moving at the very whisper
of Your voice

Dancing for You
in the tiniest breeze
which other leaves
refuse to acknowledge

Let my words
become a song for You
My actions
a beautiful dance

Lead me to
live a life
which reflects
Your magnificent glory

Remind me
that in unison with others
life's storms
are more easily endured

When life's Autumn
approaches
may I continue
to quake for You

Transform me into
the golden aspen leaves
which sing Your praises
louder than ever

Red Fox, Revisited

 

one of two red fox in our backyard 6/24/12



Early on in my blogging, I posted an entry called "Does God Smell Like a Red Fox?" I told how after my dad died, a red fox kept appearing in our back yard, on my morning walks and other  times  when I just needed a little "sign" from above. When my sister Jo was diagnosed with breast cancer last winter, the fox appeared again after a long hiatus. Then on the morning of June 24 of this year, I looked out the window, and there were two red foxes in the back yard! That day was the one year anniversary of my mom's funeral.

 

As our daughter, Danielle's confirmation day was approaching recently, I just had a feeling that the red fox would be showing up again.  Fearing my husband and kids would think I'd lost it, I didn't tell them. Last Tuesday afternoon, Eric and I were gone to school conferences with Lauren and Evan. When we got home, Dani told me that she had seen a fox in the backyard while we were gone! I then told them that I'd had a feeling the red fox would be showing up.

When I originally wrote about the red fox sightings, I mentioned that I didn't think my dad was coming back to me in the form of a fox. But I felt that God knows each of us so intimately, that he knows what things to send our way to feel His presence. I still believe that. My dad trapped hundreds of red foxes in his younger years and seeing foxes after my dad died, just brought me peace. I had shared that with my mom. When the fox sightings happened again while she was dying and at significant times after she was gone, the peace continued. God knew I found comfort in seeing the fox and sent it when I most needed it.



Eric brushed off the connection between the fox sightings and God as coincidence. One day last year I was talking to him about it and prefaced my story with, "I know you'll think I'm nuts, but..." He stopped me part way through my story and told me that he didn't think I was nuts. He said he only wished he could be as certain as I was in my belief. I understood that. There were many times that others spoke of their faith with such certainty that I envied them. If only I had as strong of a faith as they did. And yet some how I just knew these fox sightings were from God. I just knew. Just a couple of weeks ago, Eric shared with me a dream he had. In it, he was talking to someone about my fox sightings. He told the person that to an unbeliever, the sightings were just a coincidence. To the skeptic, they were a possible sign. And to the believer, well...they just knew. I had to go one extra step, so I asked him which of those categories he fell into. He was honest and said he fell into the skeptic category. I'm ok with that. It's a step up from how he originally viewed it.



Great niece Meghan
and Obbles



Grant and Zach giving
kisses to Ms. Dani

My view on the red fox has actually evolved a bit too. None of us actually saw a red fox on Dani's confirmation day. Yes, she saw one several days before and I do find comfort in that. On Sunday, we were busy celebrating with family and friends and never bothered to look out the back windows of the house. There could have been a fox or two out there, but if there were, they went unnoticed. However, I saw other "red fox" that day. The joy of seeing Dani and her friends declare their faith...red fox. Hearing some of Dani's faith statement in Pastor Morrie's beautiful sermon...red fox. Watching two little boys from her church school class sneaking up to sit with Dani...red fox. Feeling Mother and Daddy's presence as Pastor Tim confirmed Dani...red fox. Seeing the mom of one of the church school boys crying in Dani's arms after reading the tribute Dani had written to her...red fox. Talking with this same mom and realizing how much more deeply Dani's words described her than even Dani knew...red fox. Watching new children play with Obbles, my favorite childhood toy...red fox. Seeing the gift of Dani's confirmation plaque from Grandpa and Grandma Betz, all the way from Heaven...red fox.



Dani's confirmation plaque
My dad made the plaque,
instructing my mom to get
it engraved. Dani picked
her verse while Grandma
was still alive. My sister
Jo had the retired local
jeweler do the engraving.



Yes, my view on the red fox has changed. I still believe that God sends me comfort and peace and love through my red fox sightings. But I now see how limited my definition of "red fox" was before.  Red fox come in many forms. They aren't just red and they aren't just foxes. "Red fox" come in whatever form God chooses to allow me to feel His presence. If I had sat around on Sunday, waiting to see a red fox in the usual form, I would have missed the numerous ones all around me.

How can I be so certain? When it happens to you, you just know. You just know!

May your day be blessed with red fox sightings.