Ma

Early on we started calling my mother's parents Ma and Pa  to differentiate from my Dad's mother whom we called Grandma.  My early childhood, Ma and Pa lived on the farm where my mother was raised about 30 miles from Tomahawk just outside of Ogema. It was a working farm, Pa was proud of his Holstein cattle. Ma helped with the farm chores in addition to keeping house.
It was before the automatic milking machines when Ma would trudge to the barn, grab her stool from the rack and start on the lineup of cows. Milk would ping the bottom of the bucket but soon a rhythmic hiss would take over until the bucket was filled. The barn cats knew the routine and would lineup just close enough that Ma could squirt a short stream of milk to their waiting mouths.  The bucket was dumped into the larger milk can and Ma moved on to the next cow. So it went until the entire herd was milked and ready to be turned out again. Pa would wrestle the full milk cans to the milk house to wait in the cool water for the truck to pick up.

Ma had a large flock of chickens, in the spring she would set up one of the bedrooms in the house as the brooder. Newspapers covered the floor, Pa had made a large enclosure with just room to walk around, A large light hung from the ceiling to provide warmth for the chirping chicks. They would grow contentedly until strong enough to be outside.

Ma loved her grandchildren and made each of them embroidered quilts. The hours she must have spent, hand embroidering the squares, then sewing on the treadle machine until the quilt grew large enough. Being a young mother during the depression, many of the quilts were made from outgrown clothing. The flannel quilts of course were from pajamas and long johns. Her quilts were all tied, and for batting she used additional flannel sheets. 
I was about 4 when my newborn sister received a baby quilt from Ma.  I don't remember saying anything, but Ma knew I needed a gift also. She quickly returned with a small box that held beer bottle salt and pepper shakers. Perhaps a strange gift for a 4 year old, but I treasured them and still have them over 50 years later. 

The next time we visited the farm, Ma handed me my very own quilt for my bed. It was pink (I was the oldest granddaughter) and white with embroidered animals on the white squares.  I couldn't wait to have it on my bed! Yet, my mother decided it would grace a spare bed, rather than my own. I would treasure my quilt, taking many opportunities to lay on it with a good book, trace the animals with my fingers, until finally my mother relented and allowed me to put it on my bed. Though somewhat tattered, that quilt is still a prized possession.

It was time to leave the farm. Pa wanted to retire, Ma wasn't feeling well. The decision was made for them to purchase a trailer and move it to our back yard.  Mom had strict rules about Ma and Pa's new house. We couldn't go to the door and were not allowed in unless we were invited.  One day, I don't know where my siblings were but Ma invited me in. It was time for a treat so she grabbed a fork and speared the last marshmallow in the bag and gave it to me telling me not to eat it. She brought a chair over to the stove and invited me to stand on it. (only a grandmother would sanction this). She turned the flame on medium on her gas stove and showed me how to roast the marshmallow to a rich golden brown. Oh, how yummy, made especially so because I didn't have to share.  A precious memory of a grandmother that would leave us all too soon.

Ma was soon diagnosed with a brain tumor and died while I was in second grade. My parents thought we were too young to go to the funeral so stayed with a babysitter. It was hard to understand why Ma wasn't there for us anymore.

Edwin and Tillie Albrecht in front of their house in the 1940's
I would later know them as Ma and Pa (my grandparents on my mother's side)

Back to Genealogy

It was time to sort through the boxes I received from Grandma,  you know the ones, those filled with photos supposedly burnt in the fire.  Were they Hallbergs, Bjorklunds, Swansons or somebody totally unrelated.

There were a few that I could recognize as having seen from my parent's collection. Whew! Those were identified. Then came others that I had NO IDEA who they were. Some were written on the back in Swedish, and the front had a Swedish Photography Studio stamped on the cardboard frame. Still, which side of the family as both my grandmother and grandfather were Swedish.

By this time Peter (the one who started all this) and I had exchanged many letters.  Email was still not prevalant so I did the best technology of the time. I scanned some of the photos and mailed them to Peter asking if he could identify any.  A few weeks later I got the long awaited answer. He was able to identify all but one. Yippee!!!! This was my grandfather's family.

I asked my father for some help in further identifying some of the unknowns. True, it had been a few years, but he was able to identify some of the others. Yet, there will be a bunch that will forever remain unknown.... Sigh....

There were other treasures in the boxes as well. Grandma had started writing some of her genealogy down. There were newspaper clippings with the puzzle left to me to figure how they all fit in.

It was going to be a journey through time to sift through this and get it recorded. Grandma left me quite a legacy. I only wished she would have been open to talking about her family more while she was alive.

She did mention a couple of stories from her childhood.

She loved to surprise her mother by cleaning the house while her parents were in town. They lived  a few miles from the center of the community, so I imagine the shopping trips were few and far between and took most of the day when they happened.

Bjorklund Road in Ogema is named after John Bjorklund (my great great grandfather)
Hallberg Road in Ogema is named after Andrew Hallberg (my great great grandfather)

The more I found out about my ancestors, the more I wanted to know. I was smitten.

Christmas!

Christmas- The very word evokes memories for all of us. For me, it was Christmas shopping trips to Wausau. Not the shopping itself, but the getting there. Wausau is about 40 miles from Tomahawk so to pass the time, we sang. Beginning around Thanksgiving, we switched to the Christmas favorites, carols we had learned in church to the fun songs we learned in school and other places. It was a family affair, we all sang, some more off key than others, but happy memories. Who could forget our "fractured" version of Santa Is Coming to Town?

You better watch out,
You better cry
You better pout,
I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus ain't coming to town.

He's made a list, checked it twice
He found out you were naughty, not nice,
Santa Claus ain't coming to town.

He saw you when you were sleeping,
He knows when you were awake,
He knows that you've been bad not good
So for this year it's too late.

You better watch out,
You better cry
You better pout,
I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus ain't coming to town.

Other favorites of the time: I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas; Are my ears on straight? Up on the housetop, O Christmas tree.

Our tree was always a balsam, it came in the house the day after my sister's birthday. Dad would work hard to get the lights "just so", It was then our job to unscrew the bulbs and put the colored  metal reflectors on. Ornaments were hung with care, making sure not too many in one place, but the tinsel seemed like it took forever to get the just right look. Soon colorful packages would start appearing under the tree to add more mystery. We would be admonished to leave them alone but it didn't stop us from shaking them and trying to guess.

Mom would start her Christmas baking, many varieties of cookies and candies. We kids would "help" and most times would just make more work for her with our sloppy decorating techniques.  Still, year after year she included us in this ritual. It seemed we ate them as fast as she made them.

Sunday School had switched to Christmas mode, with the lines distributed and the program scheduled. Everyone had a part, no matter how small they were. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles were in the pews, as the program was performed. The story of the Christ Child born in a manger.

Christmas Eve would find us feasting on Lutefisk and potato sausage before heading to a late candlelit service. Very traditional, year after year, it brings comfort to know the story hasn't changed after all these years. Jesus was born to save us all from sin.

The Last of the Lutefisk Lovers

You either love it or hate it. A feast of our Swedish heritage, I don't ever remember a time when I didn't like lutefisk. Perhaps Mom is to blame with her no nonsense "You WILL eat everything on your plate" directives. Whatever the case, we grew up looking forward to the 2 times a year when we could have lutefisk.

The first happened early in October when our church hosted its annual lutefisk feed as a fund raiser. There were meatballs for those non fish lovers but I don't recall ever eating them. I went straight for the fish. Served family style, you had to be quick to grab the bowl or wait until it was refilled.  I heaped plenty on my plate, not too concerned about saving some for the other diners, as there were plenty of waitresses to refill the bowls. We always ate early on lutefisk nights as then Dad would take us home and Mom would take her place in the kitchen helping out wherever she was needed for the rest of the evening.

There are many ways to eat lutefisk, but I prefer it with "the works". You need a few requisite boiled potatoes sitting next to the fish on your plate. Then smother the whole plate with white cream sauce. Next, pour melted butter over the top allowing some to pool in the pockets of cream sauce. Top it liberally with black pepper. Lutefisk is best when served with unlimited churchmade lefse, rolled to perfection.  There are still plenty of churches that offer the annual feast but looking around, I see younger generations are missing.

Most do not want to cook lutefisk at home, because the aroma is decidedly "fishy". Throughout my childhood, Dad would bring home the unreconstituted fish in a large dried slab. Mom would soak it in the sink for several days, changing the water as the fish finally began to take on the look of plump lutefisk.  This was always the Christmas Eve meal in our house. For those guests who didn't like lutefisk,  (my German Grandfather) Mom served some of Dad's freshly made potato sausage. It was always a difficult pick as I liked them both equally well but usually settled on the lutefisk. Mom would cook it by wrapping it in cheesecloth and lowering it in boiling water until cooked to perfection.  Sadly, one Christmas Eve, the fish disintegrated before her very eyes until there was nothing to serve but the potato sausage. Very disappointing.

Years later, my Dad became a snowbird and wintered in Arizona, far away from the northern climes of snow and ice. He missed having lutefisk as it was not available.  With the internet, I was able to locate a company that would not only ship a small quantity but also would include lefse! A perfect Christmas gift for several years. The fish was top notch as I also ordered some for myself.

Yes, we celebrate our Swedish heritage with lutefisk, but have not been able to pass our love of the fish to the next generation.  We may be the last generation of lutefisk lovers.

September 11, 2001

September 11, 2001 will be a date that is forever seared into the minds of all who were alive that day. The day America lost her innocence. It was so hard to believe that someone would be so evil to hijack a jet plane and deliberately fly it into a building let alone several planes on the same day.  As we watched the news stories unfold, I had an empty pit in my stomach knowing even my world would never be the same. I looked at overhead planes differently, lost my enthusiasm for traveling by air and in general became more of a homebody. 

Like many others, after that initial newscast, I was glued to the television trying to make sense of what was happening. A jet had flown into the World Trade Center tower, followed by a second jet moments later. The building came tumbling down with thousands of people with it. Many lives were lost, you could see people jumping to their deaths. The cloud of concrete dust and debris making it difficult for survivors to breathe. Emergency personnel scrambled to the scene without hesitation for their own safety. Many did not go home that night and gave their lives to try to save others. 

While this was the scene in New York, another jet flew into the Pentagon, one of our nation's government icons in Washington and a building I had been in during a class trip so many years ago.  I can only imagine the horror these people went through knowing they would not survive.

A fourth plane was taken over but passengers fought back against the hijackers. Unfortunately not successfully and the plane went down in a Pennsylvania field taking all the passengers with it. Still, it's intended target would have resulted in many more deaths.

So little regard for life, even their own. Misguided evil had reared its ugly head. Our world changed forever on September 11, 2001.

And the band played on...

July 4th, a day of freedom and celebrations capped off by a stellar display of fireworks over the Wisconsin River. Let me back up a bit.

The celebration would start off with an early morning parade down main street. As part of Tomahawk's marching band, we had faithfully gotten together a couple of times during the summer, though school had been out for a month. Our flip music holders would hold the day's marches so we didn't have to memorize our parts. We would play several songs so I was grateful for the music holders and used paper clips to keep the wind from flipping the sheets prematurely. We took to the streets around the school, practicing our formations. "You guys look worse than Gomer Pyle! Now shape up!!!" was heard more than once from our frustrated band director.  We tried our best. The pinwheel corners almost always got out of line. The band director declared us ready (or hopeless). We hoped for a cool cloudy day, our uniforms were heavy, the tophat even heavier. The 4th arrived and we were excited. We met at the appointed place and quickly under the director's direction took our places in formation. One of Sousa's masterpieces spewed forth from our instruments. We were ready!!  The majorette raised her baton, blew her whistle, we were off.  The street was lined with people, some in lawn chairs, some standing, all cheerfully awaiting the parade. Tweeeeett  tweet. Our starting cue for song 1. We marched as we played, trying to stay in formation. Are we still in line? Keeping rows and columns straight with your eye on your music and marching in step to the cadence of the drums was not an easy task. The song ended and we marched to the drums a few minutes before we began song 2.  The crowds clapped and cheered adding their appreciation. The band played on.

The end of the parade route came quickly. We quickly backtracked along the route in anticipation of watching the rest of the parade.

The afternoon was the waterfights. Tomahawk's fire department had their best truck out and hoses at the ready. The opponent also was ready dressed in full firefighting gear. Sirens signaled the start. Water shot forth from the hoses aimed at the opponents. Soon one of the teams was forced back from the water pressure and the fight was over. Kids decorated their bikes and had the kiddie parade. The afternoon was filled with family picnics either in backyards or at the parks. Evening brought the anticipation of the fireworks. Around 9 pm everyone started to Veteran's Memorial Park with their blankets or lawn chairs.  Sparklers sizzled as children waved them around. Fireworks for the consumer were limited so community fireworks were a huge event. The park was packed. Memorial park sits serenely next to the Wisconsin River, and several nights a week, the Kwahamot water ski show performed. The 4th was all about family and friends getting together for the Fireworks. Most of the shells were low,  their thundering booms met with ooohs and aaahhs of the spectators. The grand finale was a very low burst, that formed into the American Flag as it hovered over the water.

Sweet Memories

It is rhubarb season here in Wisconsin. Mom used to have a large rhubarb patch with plants stretching the length of the two car garage. She made plenty of strawberry rhubarb jam, preserving it in clear mason jars so we would have the sweet treat throughout the year. Rhubarb sauce over vanilla ice cream sounds strange but is actually very good. A perennial favorite however, were her rhubarb custard pies with just the right amount of nutmeg to add to the flavor. Topped with whipped cream it was a treat worth waiting for. As children we were occasionally allowed to pick a stalk of rhubarb, and given a tin measuring cup with a generous amount of sugar to dip the rhubarb in. Of course we would leave that huge leaf on and eat right up close to it.  When I bought my first house, in the back unkempt yard was this plant with six foot stalks and huge leaves. It couldn't be.... Yes! it was rhubarb. Two very well established plants probably close to 50 years old. I worked to tame those plants, mowed around them and soon was able to reap the harvest. Years later when I moved, I made sure those plants came with. Today they are still very productive, I will be making jam, and of course my favorite, rhubarb custard pie. Yummmmm.

Mom

On June 16, 1927, Margaret Mildred Albrecht was born to Tillie Heinlein Albrecht and Edwin Albrecht in Glidden Wisconsin. Margaret was the second daughter born to the couple. I called her Mom.
Margaret loved her children and taught them many lessons. Sewing was a must for the girls, as was embroidery and other needle work. Patience was needed as she taught them to perfect the tiny stitches or if using the old blue Montgomery Wards sewing machine, how to piece the pattern together to make a finished garment. She encouraged hobbies, playing outside, and of course, chores. From a young age we were taught to wash dishes but could occasionally get a reprieve from the task if we read  to her or practiced our weekly piano lesson. Saturday mornings when others were parked in front of the TV, we were busy straightening the house, cleaning our rooms, or the dreaded cleaning the bathroom. We learned the difference between a weed and garden vegetables, as we spent time in the large garden, working alongside her. End of the season found us together in the kitchen as we learned to slip skins from peaches and tomatoes in preparation for canning.  Mom shared and encouraged our dreams, giving us just enough responsibility to become successful in what we attempted. She was strict when it came to matters of faith, rarely allowing us to skip church or Sunday School.

In her professional life, Mom was a teacher. She taught Jr. High English and both my brother and I had the privilege to be in her class. In addition to learning an appreciation for literature, we learned to diagram sentences. If anything she graded Den and I harder because she was sure we could do better. She was fair in her classes, but that didn't always make her the most popular of teachers. If she assigned homework she expected it to be done.

She was opinionated and felt young girls looked better without all that makeup that everyone was so inclined to overdo. She ended her career, not teaching but being the Jr. High Librarian and would fight the school board to make sure her students had up to date research material.

In the early hours of November 8, 1985 Mom left this earth. The church was full as friends, colleagues, and former students came to pay their respects. You are still missed, Mom.

Memorial Day

            In my grandmother’s time it was called Decoration Day and it was celebrated the last Thursday of each May as a way of honoring the dead. It was a big deal in those days. Early in May people bought bouquets of artificial flowers, cemetery sprays they were called as that was their final destination. Originally the flowers were real but in later years multicolored plastic flowers were used to decorate the graves of loved ones. Now, in many small towns you still see decorated graves with colorful silk flowers.

            Growing up in the small town of Tomahawk, Wisconsin during the 1950’s and 1960’s our family was no different. Early in May, we would make the trip to Ogema some 30 miles to the west. This was the home of my ancestors and many are buried in Hillside cemetery. The colorful cemetery sprays were retrieved from the trunk of the car, and while our parents made sure each grave was decorated just so, we scurried from grave to grave, trying to remember from the year before where our ancestors were buried. Sometimes we would embark on a search of the whole cemetery to seek out the oldest grave. Soon, our parents would finish their task and satisfied that their loved ones were properly honored would call us back to the car for the return trip home. We would be back in a few weeks for the official Memorial Day ceremony.

            It was exciting for me. The day before my aunt Pearl had called and asked if I would play taps at the official Memorial Day ceremony. I was in 8^th grade and my cousin Bruce was to play taps. His echo had gotten sick and being from a small town, they had no other trumpet players to fall back on.  I would be hidden behind a large tree and as I heard Bruce play, I would echo. Nerves hit me. What if I flubbed up? Perhaps the sound wouldn’t come? Why did I say yes? I knew nobody would know me and I would be hidden anyway, but this was important!  I practiced.          

            Memorial Day we left home in plenty of time so I could get last minute instructions from Bruce who was 4 years older. How handsome he looked in his steel blue Prentice High School Band Uniform. He would march with the rest of the band into the cemetery behind the American Legion. The Honor Guard came in first, proudly carrying the flags. They took their place among the soldier’s circle. Speeches were made, honoring the veteran’s of wars that were fought years before to insure our freedom. A moment of silence, and the reading of names. A feeling of pride welled up inside me as I heard my grandfather’s name. A Swedish immigrant, he had fought in the First World War to defend his new homeland. The rifles were raised to shoulders and a loud volley rang out, the first of the 21-gun salute.  Everybody stood at attention, some with their hands over their hearts, others their eyes misty with tears.

For some it was a very emotional ceremony. I heard the lonesome wail of the first phrase of Taps. Suddenly, I remembered why I was there. The nerves had not left me as I put my horn to my mouth and echoed. I concentrated on getting it right. Taps is such a simple song to play but it is all done by lip tightening and the notes could easily come out wrong. Another phrase pierced the silence. I dutifully answered with my trumpet. The song ended and the color guard took their place in front of the band to march out.  I was proud to have been my cousin’s echo and very glad that the notes that came forth had been correct.

            Throughout my childhood, Memorial Day was always spent at that little cemetery in Ogema but my 8^th grade year was the only time I was truly a part of the ceremony.

Hello - Goodbye

Mother's day has always been kind of bitter sweet.
It was 30 years ago yesterday I gave birth to our son, Brian Anthony. Close to 4 months premature, he didn't have much of a chance. As I looked into that plastic isolette, I could see he had his father's dark hair. I declined to hold him, wanting him to have the best chance and staying warm under the lights. I offered him my little finger and his tiny hand could barely wrap around it.  It wasn't long. Our pastor baptized him, and soon after, Brian left us having lived only about 4 hours. Instead of the joy and happiness that surrounds a new birth, we were planning a funeral.

The Milkman

Growing up in the 60's we had a convenience that has all but disappeared. Our dairy products were delivered right to our house, early in the morning before we got up.  Mom put in a standard order of 2 half gallons of whole milk and depending if she were baking, sour cream or butter. Claude would bring the milk into the entryway and place it in an aluminum box, where it would stay cool until we got up and put it in the refrigerator. Our milk was in returnable glass bottles, that were sealed with a paper cap.  We took delivery 3 times a week. I am not sure when we stopped getting milk delivered, perhaps it ended with Claude's retirement.

Henry

I really don't remember when Henry first came into our lives, where he came from or even how he got his name. Many other families would call an object with the same purpose "the board of education". Henry is a beefed up yard stick. Twice as thick as the wimpy sticks that the hardware store gave out, Henry has brass reinforcing the ends, and extends a full 48 inches!  Dad would grab Henry when he needed to discipline us with a quick swat. The extra length made sure Dad wouldn't miss his mark and we didn't need to even be near as with Henry in hand, Dad could reach clear across the room. After the first couple of incidents, all that was usually needed to keep us in line was just the threat that Henry would come out of the closet.

Henry had other purposes as well. After all, a beefy 4 foot yard stick could come in handy for measuring things.

Years later, as we cleaned out Dad's house for the last time, one of the items that came home with me was that now antique measuring stick that we as children called Henry. No longer used as a board of education, he is content to stay in the closet until needed to measure something.

Gone Fishing

Grandma lived about 90 miles from us in Morse, Wisconsin. The year we moved into our new house, it was decided that we three children would spend the week with Grandma. We all loved the idea of a vacation at Grandma's house. I was about 10, my brother 2 years older and my sister 4 years younger. The Bad River runs through Morse, so it was a quick walk to a fishing hole. Sometimes we would fish from the bridge, but more often Grandma would take us a little further. We would walk the railroad tracks, balancing on the rails until we got to the slightly overgrown trail that would lead to the falls. We sat on a large flat rock, baited our hook and waited for the fish to bite. While there were trout in the river, it was rare that we caught any but it didn't matter. We were just as happy catching chubs and shiners as we would bring them back to the feral cats that lived near Grandma's. By the end of the week, the cats were very well fed and were hoping for something besides fish for dinner.

The summer vacations at Grandma's continued for several years. Fishing was always a focus, but we also spent time berry picking, picnicking, helping Grandma bake. Some days it would be cookies, while other days it could be cupcakes. Grandma's sister Mildred would also come to visit and would take us to Ashland for a picnic at Prentice Park where we would be able to watch deer and swans. In the evenings, we would sit around the card table and play cards. The games were either smear or 500. While I remember the names, I don't remember how to play either game.

It was a quieter time, before video games and home computers. There weren't any children in town our ages so Grandma made sure we had fun. Fond memories.

Goodbye

1983, the year of the aforementioned reunion Grandma (Leola Swanson) spent a lot of time in the hospital. We visited as often as we could but distance limited our time.  I went to the reunion in August and answered the questions of many of Grandma's health. She had really looked forward to seeing everybody but it was not to be.  After the reunion we travelled the 40 miles to be with Grandma. She looked frail, lying in the hospital bed but was alert and she wanted to learn all about the reunion. Oh how I wished  I spent more time remembering names.  Finally, I had no more to tell. Grandma leaned back, grimaced in pain and was gone. I knew then that she had hung on, waiting for the reunion report.   News travelled quickly to the rest of the family. A funeral service was planned, visitation at the small funeral home in Glidden WI. Grandma had her own reunion as we said goodbye to her to the strains of "How Great Thou Art." Many of the cousins who had travelled for the reunion stayed the extra days so they also could say goodbye to the cousin they knew so well.

Grandma would be buried in Ogema next to her husband in Hillside Cemetery where many of her ancestors were also buried. After the funeral, the hearse departed for the trip alone.  Others departed the church for their respective homes. Tony and I followed Mom, Dad and Glen to begin the task of cleaning out Grandma's house. Memory escapes who else was there. While at the church we noted they were soon to have a rummage sale and it was decided that what was not wanted would be sent to Grandma's church.

Grandma was a great hostess, never letting anyone leave her house hungry. She always had cookies in her cookie jar "in case someone would come". That day was no different. We shared in the somewhat stale chocolate chip cookies knowing it would be the last we would get from Grandma. The task at hand was hard. The brothers were each generous with each other and many times the line "you take that" was uttered from both. They also thought of the next generation and saved  items for my cousins that were not there. I was allowed also to take what I wanted. 

Grandma's turkey roaster served her well and now over 30 years later it still serves me as do her cake pans and other kitchen items. Each time I use them, they remind me of a loving Grandma who hosted many family dinners.  As a budding genealogist, but not expecting to find anything, (they had all burned in the fire, I was told.) I quickly made it known that I would like any genealogical papers and photos. Imagine my surprise when deep in the closet were 2 large boxes of photos!  Grandma, I wish....

Catching the Magic

Catching the Magic

            It has been many years since that last Swanson/Halberg reunion in Glidden. Still, I will never forget the program. We joined together for a time of stories and song to celebrate our heritage. I knew very few people in the room but we all had a common ancestor. Most songs were unfamiliar to me, being of a younger generation, and this being my first reunion. I could pick out Dale Bjorklund’s well trained melodic baritone voice. (Perhaps because of our close proximity.)

            Then a gentleman stepped up to the mike with a briefcase. Upon opening it, I could see the glimmer of silver as he carefully selected a tool. The magic began! Clarence’s eyes shone, his foot started tapping in anticipation of the music to come. He put the harmonica to his lips and lustily blew a lively tune. Details are long forgotten, but the magic lives on. 

            It wasn’t long after, when I, wanting some of that magic, purchased my first harmonica. The Pocket Pal, as they are called, went everywhere with me. If I had a few secluded minutes at work, I would try to pick out a melody. My job allowed for many solitary nights in a van waiting for trains to arrive so I had time to practice. Soon, I was craving more. That year Tony bought me a new harmonica for Christmas. A Honer Echo in the key of C. This became my pride and joy, and my main instrument. I began to practice in the car as Tony and I drove to various destinations. I bought a book, hoping to get tips to further my skills. I found songs in the key of C that I could play from reading the music. The magic was beginning.

            I am always amazed at the sounds that can come from the harmonica and the number of melodies that can be played not only in one key but with only 16 different notes. Pianos with the multi octaves truly are versatile but don’t look down on the lowly harmonica as being too limited.

            In 2004 when I went to Kentucky with a group of 4-H kids, I left my harmonica at home. Big mistake! A tourist shop near our hotel sold Pocket Pals. I and several others purchased one on a lark as the others didn’t know how to play. They noodled around on theirs. The bus trip home was long. It was time for some camp songs. The harmonicas came out. Standing in the aisle of the bus, I noticed my foot tapping, my body swaying. Had I been in front of a mirror, I am sure my eyes were shining too. Song after song, the kids joined in singing to my accompaniment. I had caught the magic.

            Thank you Clarence for sharing your harmonica with us so many years ago. It has made a difference in my life.

Elation!

Armed with the letter, when I came home, I quickly penned a response to Peter in Sweden. I dutifully answered his questions to the best of my ability and waited patiently by the mailbox for his reply. It wasn't long in coming. He was excited to make contact with his American cousins (he actually was my Dad's cousin) and sent a copy of his genealogy to show how we were related. I was thrilled to know some of my Swedish heritage as my Grandfather had died the year before I was born. Personal computers were just becoming available and were very expensive but already I could see where one would be helpful in keeping all of my genealogical data straight.  The first genealogy program I purchased was for my Apple llGS. I can not remember the name, but I thought I was on the cutting edge of technology and sat for hours entering what Peter had sent me. I knew nothing about sources back then and doubt if the program did either.

Living away from my ancestral home, research was limited. I asked my parent's for some information, they gave me a few names which I quickly typed in. By this time, 3 of my grandparents were already gone. I asked Grandma about her family, but she seemed to clam up. I asked for photos, but her reply was they had all burned in the fire. I knew there was a fire, so figured I was out of luck and didn't pursue it further.  Basically, I had no genealogical research skills at this point. As a year had passed since that first letter, it soon became apparent that my computer would also be inadequate and I quit using the program I was once so enthusiastic about.

Meanwhile, the letters to and from Sweden continued. Peter and his family became close friends, he nurtured my genealogical interests, offering more family tidbits as he found them. For my part, I was not able to contribute much genealogy but still valued his friendship.

I was excited about my upcoming wedding so put thoughts of genealogy research on hold.

The Beginning

Growing up I had a strong sense of family. Not only did I have both parents, but an older brother and a younger sister. Yes, I was the "forgotten" middle child. Three of our grandparents were still living. We had aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as great aunts and uncles all whom we visited often and knew quite well. Where did we come from? Mom told us a few tidbits, Grandma told us a few tales of her childhood (as we rolled our eyes in boredom). We didn't ask for more.  I guess it just didn't seem important. Oh, how I wish I had taken the time to really listen, to ask for the stories of my ancestors.

Genealogy or family history was not part of the school curriculum as it is today in most schools. Had it been, I may have paid more attention to history classes and started my genealogical journeys much earlier.

Early in 1980, Grandma received a letter from a Swedish cousin looking for information on her late husband and his descendants. She wasn't going to answer, and had several lame excuses why not. I was fascinated and thought he at least deserved an answer to his inquiry. Grandma gave me the letter and thus my genealogical journey began when I was 26.