Finnish Cousins Galore

This has been the warmest week, not only of the Fahrenheit kind, but also as in company of the warmest kind. This very day we had two sweet sisters that exchanged Finnish immigrant history with me. We reminisced about the elderly immigrant Finns that settled or homesteaded with our grandparents. Gone are the days when children dressed up and went visiting with their parents, to be seen and not heard. But always welcomed with the adults at the coffee table.

These two drove a long way to attend the two day professional bull riding event at Omaha's Quest Center; only girls that grew up on a ranch with rodeo stock, cowboys, and boots in their lives, would do such a thing.

Two days ago we entertained seven cousins and a friend at our own coffee table and later on at our dinner table. Every Finnish American is a long lost cousin of our hearts...but two of these actually were cousins. They gathered here from five states. There is is a whole lot of laughing with a group of retired women on a trip. The beautiful daisies were a gift from them!

But the big surprise was when I was contacted by a woman who I believe is truly a cousin, one who I never knew existed until I got the unexpected and delightful email query. Yes, I was a Buffalo, SD Sacrison. Her grandmother was a Finnish immigrant Kyro-Sacrison to Lead, SD.

It is Fahrenheit warm as well. The old fashioned lilacs in the planters are beginning to bloom. That makes me very happy.

Pictures are Worth a Thousand Words

It is a pleasure to obey this kind gentleman.

The Power of the Printed Word

A grandson was here from California for dinner on Maundy Thursday. On Good Friday and Saturday He Who Must Be Obeyed had a manly-man garage sale of machines and large equipment. Men of all sizes and descriptions drove up in vans and pick-ups. Men do love a manly garage sale and every one was lonely and talkative, or so I was told. I felt sorry for the ones who wanted a little something to buy that didn't cost them an arm or leg. Next time I am going to have a table of those extra hand tools that seem to reproduce themselves, filling up every shelf and nook in the garage.

One lady drove up and waited till 8:00 and then asked "Where are "Willo's things?" She should have been invited in to pick out what ever she fancied. I was flattered, even so. Maybe I will have to set up a table of the things that multilpy in my kitchen drawers and on my book cases; such as the lonely lead crystal swan who lost her mate in the last house cleaning episode. He lost his head with one swat of a long handled duster and crashed to the floor.

Yesterday He Who... went to a funeral while I had my quarterly visit to my Nurse Practitioner. My blood pressure fluctuated in the office and I was told to take it at home several times before Thursday. It fluctuates here as well and my pulse races from 83 to over a hundred. I don't know what that is all about. It seems to occur with a whirling bout of vertigo.

Maybe I am just giddy over our recent computer crash. We purchased a new tower that wasn't compatible with our printer. It is going back to the store as I type. The old tower is being updated and the data has been recovered. It is not exactly like 'the same old w____ in a different dress,' but more like the same one with different underwear. I rather like shiny new things; but then new "underwear" is always nice too.

We are now reading "Frederic Remington's Own West: Written and Illustrated by Fredric Remington." Remington is as gifted with the pen as with the brush and we are enjoying his ability to describe his surroundings, the people he rides with, and the bloody incidents with the buffalo soldiers. TV violence is a poor comparison to our own bloody past with those that first peopled our land.

We are ever aware of the power of the printed word.

A Beautiful Boy

How Blessed with babies we are!

The Blue Hazzard

Could you speak louder, please? Very good.
“Lima, that must be Peru? Not Peru? Oh, India."
“Take the case off. I need my book to see how.”
"Willo, I need a flashlight."
“Do you mean the Rim, the Rom? The Ram? It is silver colored?”
“I removed the one closest to the battery.”
“There are silver cords all over.”
“The third one is the second from the battery.”
“The first one from the battery, right.”
“I have this thing plugged in, should I unplug it?”
“O.K.”

“I think I am connected."
“I need to shut the computer off and then unplug it.” I am laying it on its side again and opening up the case.”

“Should I push Enter again?"

“Who will do this?”
“OK, A local service guy that will charge me? Uh huh.”

“Do you have a service guy in Omaha? You are in India? You don’t know service guys in Omaha?”

“Alright, Alright.” “A local tech?” “Thank you. Bye.”

Learning Life Skills

Life is one great experience after another!

Life's Little Pleasures

Diddle, diddle dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.

I was reminded of this Mother Goose Rhyme as we drove home from the shoe shop. No not shoe shopping, shoe repairing. I took in a pair that needed a seam resewn, and upon looking down at my ancient leather Ked on my right foot, I was reminded where my big toe had pressured it into holiness last summer in the garden. "Yes, I can fix it," the butcher-sized fellow behind the counter said,"but I will have to put a patch on the inside so the hole will still show on the outside. "Bring it back when you pick up the one with a ripped seam tomorrow."

He Who Must Be Obeyed told him I would leave it right now, thus saving us the gas for an extra trip. He followed me to the Wrangler and took it back into the repair shop. Hence the Diddle, diddle.

Shoe repairing is a fascinating business. I have always thought so. It started with me leaning on my elbows watching my dad slip one of my shoes on the iron last bolted to his work bench and hammer on a new heel, or paste on a sole. Some tasks take on a pure and holy demeanor; polishing shoes, same thing. My dad polished my mother's, mine, and his own; a Saturday night ritual, while I was having my weekly bath in a little tin tub off the kitchen.

One of our dear friends, Fritz, a hero from the Grand Generation, had a shoe shop in South Dakota when he was just back from WWII and starting his family. In my small home town, Mr. Zoldie, a Jewish immigrant in that land of Finnish, Norwegian, and Irish immigrants, owned the shoe shop. If a job got too complicated for my dad, our shoes went to Mr. Zoldie and I had the opportunity to listen to his lovely Yiddish accent. He reminded me of Geppetto, a cobbler, in the Pinnochio book my Aunt Olga gave me for Chistmas.

He was found in his shop hanging one day, no family, no synagogue, he was alone in the hinterland; probably lonely, hopefully not hated.