This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land

I just got back from a short swim at our Peoria Hotel pool, the Jameson Inn.  I was the only one in the pool area, and enjoyed the water and the quiet.  I sat in the hot pot for a bit before coming back to the room, warming up and relaxing.  We were on the road again a little too long for my hip's comfort and I think all three of us (sister, dog, and myself) are happy to be out of the car.

Iowa is pretty.  And windy.  I thought Ames was picturesque.  It has a lovely old downtown that is about 2 long blocks with boutiques and restaurants and big shade trees.  We found the cornerstone of Mary Greeley Hospital where Carol was born and took her picture there.   It was an odd sensation, knowing that our parents most likely walked the downtown streets that we were driving.  Since I've never had much family association/connection to PLACE, it was an unusual feeling for me, again on this trip of history, to have a sense of those who have passed.  I kept thinking if I just squinted in the right way I might catch a glimpse of 60 years ago and see an Army sergeant with his new bride strolling down the sidewalk.  They would perhaps still be shy with one another -- he with a promising career in the Service, she pregnant with her first child, gloriously pleased to be making a family.  (My Aunt Ruthie once told me that Mother only ever wanted to have a family with children.  And because she was a juvenile type 1 diabetic, diagnosed at 11 years old and often ill, having children was a big question.)  This experience of seeing the places where my parents lived has made me ever more interested in someday going back to Germany to visit where I was born and to go to the areas we lived overseas.  It's been magical.

Some of the magic was broken this afternoon on our drive out of Ames, yet it was a good reminder to help me shake off any naivete I might have carried on my journey through America's breadbasket. You know -- the waving wheat that sure smells sweet kind of sentiment.  If I really want to see the whole world (and I do) I need to occasionally take off my rose colored glasses and look with honest eyes.  Here I am, driving along in my nostalgic haze in postcard=like Ames, and I come to a stop light.  In front of me is a man driving an old pick up truck.  He has bumper stickers and signs -- "One Big Ass Mistake America" (look at the first letters of each word) and "2012 - No more Re-Nig"  It took me a minute to catch the meanings of these phrases and then I could hardly believe it.  I actually took out my camera and snapped a picture so I could refer to it later.  Once I took it all in, I wanted to ram the pickup.  I paused a moment and decided instead to send this driver love.  It took a lot of effort on my part.  What I do know is that prejudice and bigotry come from fear.  My grandfather on my father's side was a racist, born and raised in rural southern Indiana.  As his granddaughter, I loved him, but I am sure that now, as an adult, I would not like him.  He was anxious and afraid until the day he died, more than 25 years ago.  These bumper stickers could be on cars in Richland, Washington or Portland, Oregon, or even San Francisco, California, so I know this kind of fear and ignorance is not exclusive to Iowa or the Midwest.  It makes me angry, and sad, and ever more determined to combat fear in positive ways.  I want to help my country continue to be a place for discourse and disagreement, big enough for many differing opinions, but I will not tolerate this kind of racial violence in my home or anywhere else I find it.

I spent the rest of the windy drive through Iowa from Ames to Peoria thinking about fear.  Carol has honored so beautifully my need for silence and quietude.  We haven't played music in the car or watched tv at night, choosing instead to read or rest.  Today I contemplated the contrasts between fear and love, between wind and calm, between being educated and being ignorant.  I didn't come up with any answers or deep insights; I just reaffirmed my commitment to working on my own pockets of fear and ignorance, storm and unrest, stupidity and carelessness.  One of my mantras since I learned the song in Jr. Girl Scouts has been "Peace Begins With Me".  As we traveled one day closer to my new home, I got a big opportunity to set my mind to Peace.   So be it.  Peace Be With Me.  Peace Be With You.

Back to the Future....

It's Wednesday morning, May 2, and we're in Ames, Iowa.  We will leave (after I finish writing) for Peoria, Illinois.  I've never been to Peoria, nor has Carol.  It's a little more than halfway from here to Indianapolis -- we are on the final stretch of our journey.  Carol was born in Ames almost 60 years ago.  At that time our parents were newly married; our Dad was a young sargeant, teaching ROTC at Iowa State University.  Carol was born at Mary Greely Hospital and we are going to drive by there and throw memorial kisses at the facility on our way out of town.

Our drive yesterday was surprisingly beautiful.  The Iowa farmland was not as expansive nor as flat as I had expected.  We went through miles and miles of rolling hills, some green, some brown with freshly tilled soil that had either been newly planted or was ready for seed.  The weather was sunny and warm, the roads between little towns had little traffic.  Carol foraged for food last nite as I rested and found a marvelous Chinese restaurant next to the University -- she brought home some delicious veggies and tofu for me and I set upon it like a hungry wolf.  It was delicious.  Who knew you could find yummy tofu and veggies in Ames, Iowa?  I'm grateful.


Yesterday morning, on our way out of Sioux Falls, we stopped at Augustana College, a place that all Swanson girls went to school.  Our uncle went into the Army, so he did not attend.  My Mother and my Aunt Margaret (the oldest) served as Dean of Women at different times.  The campus is beautiful -- it reminds me some of my own Alma Mater, Willamette University, in Salem, Oregon.  Old stone and newer brick buildings.  Tall trees, a quiet, contemplative atmosphere.  There was a residence hall on the corner with "Women's Hall, 1909" written above it in stone -- we suspect that our aunts and mother lived there at some point.  Again, the air was rife with history, and as Carol and I sat in the garden next to the Women's Hall and scattered some more of Aunt Ruthie's ashes, I imagined the spirits of our dearly departed all around us.  Whenever I see birds, I think of my Mother, and our pilgrimmage here has been filled with birds leading the way as they swooped by the car on the freeway, by birdsong in the morning, by hawk sightings as they circled above the fields, looking with their sharp eyes for mice and other critters.


I feel we have paid our respects and done our duty to and for our relatives.  We looked through the pages of time past, with one more nod at roots today by visiting Carol's birthplace.  Once we leave Ames, it's on to the future, the unknown.  Peoria will be new to us, as will Indianapolis.  It's up to us now to be in the present and to create our journey from scratch.  I look forward to the future.  I look forward with the strength of my ancestors cheering me on.  I look forward.

The Land of my Mother

It was an amazing day, April 30, 2012.  Carol and I got up in a relatively leisurely manner.  I had to get Sailor out in the morning, so he and I went for a walk around the area at about 7 am.  The circus is in town next door (@ the Sioux Falls arena) and Sailor was very excited by all the animal smells.  I’m pretty sure he’s never smelled elephant or tiger or camel before.  Nose in the air, he pranced around.  I was kind of sleepy on the walk and as I passed by a local business, instead of Hoy Trial Attorneys I read the sign as Hot Trial Attorneys.  What kind of town IS Sioux Falls, I wondered?

Anywho, late morning we headed north about 40 miles to Madison, SD to connect with our Aunt Mae who has lived in this area all her life.  Auntie Mae will be 92 on 12/12/12 and at 91 she’s a wonder.  She lives independently, still drives (!), has good sight and hearing, and seems to only use her cane for minor balance assistance.  I thoroughly enjoyed her company, her sense of humor, and the stories she told us about life in rural South Dakota in the 20’s, 30’s and beyond.  As I stated in my previous blog, there were three girl cousins all born in 1920 -- my mother, Evelyn Mae, the woman we call Auntie Mae, and another cousin Maudie (her actual name was Mary and I think she is one of the reasons I was named Mary).  They were very close as children and maintained a bond throughout their adult years.  These girl cousins were the daughters of sisters – Anne (my grandmother), Lena, and Emma (Auntie Mae’s mother) were all Erickson’s.  Anne became Swanson, Lena became Fitzgerald, Emma became Swindler.  Anne Erickson (Swanson) was born in Norway and immigrated with her Mom, Dad, and her sister Lena; Emma was born later in South Dakota.  My maternal great grandfather (the father of these three sisters) died when the girls were young and my maternal great grandmother farmed the South Dakota land with her three little girls.  She had help from the neighbors and eventually remarried, but can you imagine doing all the back breaking work of farming, caring for animals, and raising girl children on your own even for a short time?  In South Dakota?  Yowzer.  This is what I mean when I refer to the hearty stock of my ancestors.  Amazing. 

So Auntie Mae took us on a tour to see, with our own eyeballs, some of the family sites.  We saw the land that our great grandparent’s farmed, this land where a widow and her girls eeked out a living.  We were unsuccessful at finding the Swanson (our grandparent’s) family farm – the buildings are not likely still standing anyway.  The first three Swanson children (two aunts and my uncle) were born on the property in what was the original homesteaded house that became the chicken coop.  My Mother and the last baby (Aunt Ruthie) were also born at home, but in the actual “newer” house that had been built by then to shelter this family of 7.  Auntie Mae said today, several times, that it was a lovely house, built well and sturdily.  As the piece de resistance, we did locate, with Auntie Mae’s invaluable direction and advice, the cemetery where my grandparents are buried in Salem, South Dakota at the Salem Evangelical Lutheran Church.  We found their headstones amongst the other Swansons and Ericksons and Ericssons and Bjornsons and lots of other “…sons”, and had a tender moment of thanksgiving for these people who begat so we could be begat.  Our grandparents were older than the norm when they married, and started their family quite late.   Our parents were in their 30’s when they met and married, birthing me when almost 40.  My grandfather died the year I was born; my grandmother, five years later.  So where others have squeezed in an extra generation or two, I feel closely connected to these Scandinavian immigrants, even more so now that I’ve stood at their graves and witnessed their land, breathed their climate, seen their horizon. 

We scattered some of Aunt Ruthie’s ashes over her parent’s gravesite and Carol read again from our Mother’s old Lutheran Book of Prayer.  The air seemed thick with story and history while our 91 year old Auntie Mae (who is actually a cousin if you’re following the genealogy correctly) looked on.  The weather was comfortable and in the 70’s and the clouds were light and the sun, warm.  We hear there are severe thunderstorms predicted for tomorrow here, so we feel doubly blessed that we had a perfect day.

We took Auntie Mae back to Madison and stopped at the Second Street Café for coffee and a bite to eat.  Auntie Mae’s appetite is great and she would not let us pay for her food or ours.  I think she was really pleased with the outing and with our visit – I know I was.  Upon leaving, she gifted us with an old cuckoo clock that had been originally gifted to her Mother by our Mother who bought it when we were in Bavaria when our Dad was in the Army.  She also wanted us each to pick a tea/coffee cup and saucer from her collection “to remember her by”.  Carol picked a lovely blue flowered set and I picked one from the St. Louis World’s Fair, a fair that our grandparents attended.  Additionally she had a set of 9 rose colored goblets that belonged to our grandparents that she really wanted us to take and share – we left her one goblet and Carol and I will divvy up the other 8.  Such precious gifts given with such sweetness, kindness, and love.  So even tho I’ve just spent the last month letting go of all the miscellaneous things I didn’t need or want any more, now I have a few heirloom items that I didn’t even know were waiting for me. 

The landscape around Sioux Falls, in small towns like Montrose (where my grandparent’s farm was), Madison, Mitchell, and Salem is farmland and peppered with livestock.  Fields are now being prepared for crops.  The farms these days are huge, much larger than what the early immigrants homesteaded for their families.  Most of the towns, however, are still small, with only several hundred to several thousand inhabitants.  Aunt Mae has seen vast changes in her life time – improved roads, the shifts of farming from family to corporation, the transition from walking to horse to automobile.  I am struck this evening with how much I miss my Mother.  I wish I’d gotten to see this area with her, to hear her stories of her childhood.  I feel lucky to have gotten this afternoon with Aunt Mae, as she is the only survivor from this time and generation.  Her faculties are still so sharp -- her descriptions and the twinkle in her eye are imprinted in my memory. This is one of the most precious gifts a family can bestow -- the gift of story, of generational history, of awe at the passage of time.

I’m always looking for the lesson.  One of many from today is to cherish your roots.  I have no illusions that any of these relations were without dysfunction.  I don’t think this was a “simpler” or a purer time.  It was just different.  And I value, greatly, the contributions they made to their families, communities, neighbors.  I’m not sure I would have survived what they did.  I’m not sure I will live as long as my Aunt Mae (who, btw, attributes her long life and excellent health, in part, to eating a good breakfast every day, never having smoked, and not having been a drinker).  Maybe I wouldn’t have even liked these farmer folk, (nor perhaps they, me) but they are who stand behind me, who went before me.  Finally, for the first time and after over 50 years, I am here in this land of my Mother’s people, and I’m so glad I’ve come.  That I got to do this journey with my one and only sibling is grace beyond measure.