I’m getting ready to go to Lisbon regarding auction sale business for the last time; however, I’ll probably be there until Sunday this time and will be very glad when it is over. The next trips out there will be to just relax and visit with the folks. Going through their possessions gives one a handle on the passage of time. For instance, Ma’s wedding dress from 68 years ago was dredged up from the bottom of her beloved cedar chest and the shirt Dad wore at the time revealed itself, too. Pictures are especially interesting: who is this, when would that have been, where was this one taken, etc. The bedroom set they were given as a wedding present will have to be sold. No one has room for it. The “Box” built by Grandpa Sandvig in the 1920’s has to go. No one has room for it. The ornate china closet with side board has to go. No one has room for it.
The written word might be the best way to preserve things, anyway. I will have lots of stories to relay through my blog regarding my parents, but in the interest of time today (remember, I’m heading to Lisbon shortly) I’m going to bring out a story my father-in-law told from his past that was transcribed by my wife Mary. It recalls the time when Adam and his brother went out one morning to milk the cows and do other chores. Quite a little time passed and “still their younger sisters and father hadn’t come out of the two story farmhouse to get the milking started. ‘Na, wo siens ah?’ In German he says, ‘the cows stand here leaking milk; they have already let down their milk. Finish up here, Lazarus, I guess I’ll have to go wake them up-- they must have overslept. I could smell smoke before I even got close to the house.
Putrid smelling smoke from a collapsed chimney enveloped me when I opened the door. ‘Good God in Heaven! Mutta! Mutta!’ Mother was the first one I saw but I couldn’t pick her up off the bedroom floor; she was just too heavy for this 15 year old boy. Getting a grip under her arms I pulled her out of the house, left her on the front stoop and ran back into the house. I returned to find Dad still conscious enough to be able to walk. I grabbed him, blankets and all, and he walked out of the house with my help. ‘Go upstairs and get the girls,’ he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was so thick and noxious I thought I’d collapse, too. I grabbed a diaper and held it over my nose and mouth as I sprinted up the 16 foot staircase of our tall, two story farmhouse. ‘Helen, Katy, Clara, wake up! Wake up!’ They couldn’t be roused and one by one I pulled, tugged, dragged them down the steep, narrow staircase outdoors to safety. ‘Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get out of here!’ I had to pull them down backwards and once I almost fell. Klunk, klunk, klunk, their feet hit every step. [Several sentences here are omitted] Once Felix was outside the house he plopped down beside his family as they lay helpless and disoriented for a time, coughing like crazy until they came to and started throwing up. They were all terribly sick and Mother had a terrible headache that didn’t go away for a long time. I wanted them to go to the doctor but no they said, ‘we’ll be all right now.’”
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Graduation
We attended a reception for a high school graduate on Sunday. When I congratulated her, I spotted a twinkle in her eyes which I presumed came from earning this accomplishment paired with her dreams for the future; she told me she plans to attend a good university. Young folks at this stage of their life begin to strongly think of independence. My wish for her and all high school graduates is to realize that with this freshly minted diploma all they have really done is open a gate. Now comes the tricky part; they have to decide how large the yard beyond will be. For some it will be small and thick with weeds growing alongside the fence line. Grass will grow ragged and unmown with lots of dandelions abloom. At the opposite, others will fertilize and maintain a huge yard, multi-colored and textured with flower beds, bushes, and trees where song birds and butterflies make their homes.
My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.
A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
Dream Big - Author unknown
If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.
Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.
You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.
Dream big.
Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.
There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.
Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.
Persist.
Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.
Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.
Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.
Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.
Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.
There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.
Do it right
My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.
A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
Dream Big - Author unknown
If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.
Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.
You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.
Dream big.
Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.
There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.
Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.
Persist.
Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.
Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.
Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.
Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.
Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.
There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.
Do it right
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Busy, busy, busy
I've been so occupied with other things that I almost forgot it's Wednesday, the day I usually write a blog. Writing is one of my favorite things, and I never intend to give that up. The primary draw for my time has been the auction sale we are preparing for in Lisbon on May 30. A reader of this might be interested in scanning the sale bill posted on the internet. A couple different versions of the bill are located on these sites: www.rdauction.com --- or --- www.globalauctionguide.com/rd.
When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.
When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
More Memories
The grass is greening up, shirtsleeves seem sufficient to keep the breeze off, and we got in a damn car accident yesterday - rear ended at a stop light. I went to the emergency room afterwards, had a CT scan and the doctor reported he saw a hollow chamber within the walls of my skull. Well, I am still mobile and the other party’s insurance will take care of the repairs (they say).
We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.
There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.
Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.
To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.
We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.
There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.
Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.
To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.
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