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.