How quickly things change...On June 30th, Mom and Dad called. Mom scared. Took Dad to ER. Had heart attack. Released after testing July 4th. On July 13th, second bad attack. This time, the Cardiologist, Dr. Evans, did an angiogram, angioplasty, and echocardiogram. Dad is in ICU with breathing tube, IV feeding him, catheterized, with a blood pump. Also had to have dialysis for awhile. By July 16th, breathing tube removed. Two days now has has slept, moving around and trying to turn this way and that. Who knows what dreams he dreams? <br><br>Mom cried when Chris and I drove to the hospital. &#39;No more Hawkeye and Chingascook...&#39; was all she could say, over and over. In ER, Dad motioned us over to his bedside, saying if he doesn&#39;t come out of this, he knows he&#39;ll see us on the other side. I&#39;m so glad I took their photos on Saturday, July 7th, as I did. Images of them kidding with each other, smiling at each other, goofing off, holding hands, kissing, or just gazing into the camera naturally. <br><br>As I write this, I am alone in the ICU waiting room except for one solitary woman, and Mom. Mom plays solitaire quietly, across the room on the coffee table. She keeps asking me, when I go over to her, why she&#39;s paying two months&#39; rent for the old apartment. I explain we&#39;re late this month and we need to give notice. Where are we moving to, she asks. I tell her, but a few moments later, she has forgotten and asks again. &#39;Oh yes,...where Dad needs to go...&#39; I smile inwardly as the solitary woman leaves us alone. <br><br>Mom remembers enough of a conversation a few days before when we told her and Dad they had to move to a nursing home. Then, I could see Dad&#39;s face become relaxed and visibly relieved, knowing finally that someone could be there to help them. <br><br>My ears notice that Mom is whistling as she plays cards. Cards and whistling - how appropriate. Two things burned into my mind from my earliest memories that I associate with Mom. <br><br>I hear Mom moan...she says she has eaten too much, and decides to quit playing cards, and lay down for awhile. <br><br>Sharon and Bill, arriving in the afternoon, are with Bill and Betty running errands. <br><br>The hours as this goes by seem surreal. Time passes differently. You don&#39;t acknowledge it. Instead, you ignore it, withdrawing into a safe, emotional cocoon. At one and the same time, you reflect superficially on memories that surface unbidden but don&#39;t surprise you, but you never let them manipulate you into giving way to any emotional release. This is your way, you say. Maybe so. Maybe it&#39;s just your defense against facing mortality head on instead of intellectually, the way most of us most of the time deal with it, if we deal with it at all...&quot;

St. Vincent. It&rsquo;s in the farthest northwest corner of Minnesota where North Dakota, Minnesota, Manitoba, and the Red and Pembina rivers meet, and darned near the oldest European settlement in the state. In the 1960&rsquo;s and into the 1970&rsquo;s, you were waved through the US/Canadian by people you knew. It never was a big place, now a ghost of its former self. <br><br>Across the ever-present rivers was Pembina. <br><br><em><blockquote>McCall&#39;s. Skogmo&#39;s. The Spot. Dick&#39;s Corner. The Hartz Store. The Tastee Freez. Coast-to-Coast hardware. Ice rink on the banks of the river, lights strung overhead. The dam. South Pembina. Old 81. The airport. The museum. Crossing the Red, then the Pembina. Ukrainian church dome. The wild grape vines growing up the side of the old Methodist Church. Ancestors&#39; rocking chairs in the museum...</blockquote></em>The old museum seemed like a treasure chest of old area artifacts. Many a summer was spent touring the row upon row of exhibits, taking in as much as possible. My imagination worked overtime wondering who the people were that once owned that dress, that gun, that book. There was so much stuff that each display area was a Fibber McGee open closet. Even the walls were covered with treasures all the way up the ceiling. <br><br>The Park nearby had a monument towards the back, almost hidden by the now older trees. The white pyramid-like steps led up in the center to a pillar. Names and a dedication, barely legible, told of a war to end all wars, and the local boys that wouldn&#39;t be coming home again. I would climb that monument thinking it was magical, touch the white stone, rough and hot in the summer sun. Who were these people who were just names now, I wondered as a child. I was in awe of someone who would sacrifice so much. <br><br>Then, bike home over the bridges, daring to stop and look down to the river below. Such a long way it felt, and sometimes there would be a pull in the back of my mind to jump...jump! A little thrill would run up my spine at the thought mixed with incredible fear. <br><br>I drowned once. I was with my mother and her friend Glennis at the Emerson pool on a sunny summer afternoon. I wandered away from the wading pool area. I was little, but could see people were having more fun in the big pool. I wasn&#39;t afraid to try it. I lowered myself over the edge, hanging onto the side. The pool was very busy that day. A wave caught me, lifting my body. Before I knew it, I was floating away from the edge. I was scared, but at the same time, as I went below the surface, I kept my eyes open...I was looking up, seeing the light above me grow smaller as I sank. Soon, I blacked out...The next thing I knew, I was lying on warm cement, coughing up water...Glennis was there pressing my chest and covering my mouth with hers. She had seen me as I began to sink and dived in and rescued me. Years later, despite still not knowing how to swim, I love water, and remember that day, and how peaceful it seemed. A few moments of panic, then quiet. <blockquote><em>silver threads among the gold rope swings I dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair Grandpa napping on the porch Grandma making pound cake with that broiled coconut brown sugar butter topping in the kitchen bike riding down the center of main street look no hands discovering hidden paths back alleys abandoned house begging to be explored the river always the river bridges looking down wondering what it would be like to jump scared yet excited floods dikes sandbags moving away until the water goes down taking the army &#39;duck&#39; through the waters to the parked cars marooned at the junction Sunday afternoon drives to nowhere cousins dropping in food laughter catching up part of something bigger roots family history cobbler aprons long hair in buns large hands in bread dough warm arms wrapping themselves around you feeling like you are SO special because you are loved so loved those capable arms and legs that love you succumb and it&#39;s your turn to be strong for them wheelchair cat-in-the-cradle those last years together end too soon and you&#39;re weeping at the coffin bending over kissing cold lips not caring what anyone thinks feeling for the first time real loss Grandma I will miss you so much you are my best friend remembering sleeping with her, breakfasts of cocoa and brown sugar toast only she makes that special smell of her body as you snuggle with her at night after Grandpa is gone and she&#39;s alone Grandpa who gave you pink peppermints whisker rubs and called you his little girl Grandpa who napped on the porch age made no difference they were love</em></blockquote>I spent significant time in solitude, finding places to dream. Places to sit and gaze through old thick tree branches as acorns fell on my face. To squint as sunlight peeked through the waving leaves, or discover shapes in the clouds.<em> <blockquote>overalls wide paintbrushes kerosene cleaning tree swish swash swish swash bark stained with years of paint leading down a path to a pet cemetery and Hawkeye and Chingascook can I be Chingascook today Popeye shared bathwater Iten&#39;s water service cisterns graindoor sidewalks hand-me-downs Outer Limits ceiling grate peek nightmares slanted ceilings that certain smell as I press my nose against the window screen noon 6pm 10pm town whistles county fair quonset hut blue ribbon jam Egg Pants Tonto George&#39;s general store from another time Freibohle&#39;s Garage dime fridge pop swinging from the gas sign Dad filling up Old Man Freibohle checking the oil exploring behind discovering old jail bars ghost firehouse horse-pulled truck curling rinks town pumps Bordnick&#39;s farm equipment cacophony vs. Hughes&#39; livestock menagerie potato bugs canning wringer washer hanging reaching pinning squinting gathering folding the smell oh the smell crisp stiff alive tarp paper garages anti-anti-I-over scared running laughing screaming late Sunday night meetings jumping off church steps hide &#39;n seek around the church in the fall cold running until we see steam rising off our skins in the moonlight breathing so deep sore throats in the morning no regrets alive so alive so young was it all a dream</blockquote></em><!-- >'"><br><font color=red size=6>&quot; or &gt; missing in user HTML. Please fix the HTML.</font> -->

A message from our mother, to her daughters (Sharon, Betty, and Patricia)... <blockquote>I love you still even though you sometimes treat me like dirt. Dad &amp; I went through hell to bring you back from California and away from Tom the devil&#39;s cohort. It really tore your Dad apart to see you in the condition you were living in. Estelle gives me a pain in the ass. She should have stayed at home and raised her kids properly. She thinks she is so smart. She sits and puffs away on her cigarette and thinks everything will be okay if she dishes the money out to those no good boys of her&#39;s. I&#39;ve got news for her. She is just helping them to get into Lucifer&#39;s hands deeper and deeper.<br><br>I thank God we got you away from there but don&#39;t know for sure if you are glad we did or not.<br><br>I pray that Daniel tries to walk the right path. Eva is sort of off the right path but pray she turns back before it&#39;s too late!<br><br>I&#39;m sure glad my mother is not alive to see all this as it would break her heart. I&#39;m so thankful that I did all the right things for her even though she and I always had our arguments. We loved each other immensely! She was not just my mother, she was the best friend I ever had on earth! When I needed to talk to someone she was always ready to listen and to encourage me to go on!!<br><br>She did not have it easy as a child. Her father was a drunkard! I don&#39;t know where he would end up after death. He died long before I was born so never knew him. My other grandpa, Grandpa Fitzpatrick, was wonderful and loved all the grandchildren. He always had a pocketful of pink peppermints. I was 4 1/2 when he died so can&#39;t really remember him too well. <br><br>I remember his big white beard. I do believe I&#39;ll see him and my grandma in heaven! What a wonderful reunion that will be!!! <br><br>When the Lord calls me I hope I don&#39;t struggle to live as I want to drift into the arms of Jesus nice and easy. Betty, I&#39;d love to talk with you someday. Trish, too, if she wants to listen to me. <br><br>I was so delighted to have three little girls, and it was so fun to sew all of your clothes. I sure spent hours at that machine. <em>Dad was so pleased that he would sneak up behind me, give me a peck on the cheek. He loved me so tenderly!</em> Sure we had our arguments but they never came to blows. <br><br>Grandpa Short was so cruel to Grandma Short. I don&#39;t know why she stayed with him as she was a teacher. But of course the wages were so low I supposed she couldn&#39;t make it. So she just stayed and kept having kids. Can you imagine - he blamed HER for that, too, as if he didn&#39;t have any part in it, the miserable bastard! <br><br>I wouldn&#39;t take anything from him. He said, &#39;You think you&#39;re so smart.&#39; I said, &#39;You&#39;re damned right, and a lot smarter than you.&#39; I bet your Dad could have told you things that would make your blood curdle of how his Dad treated your Grandma Short. <br><br>There are lots of men around today that take part, but women can get a lot better help if they aren&#39;t afraid to ask. <br><br><em>Some days I wish I&#39;d never been born. Happiness is an illusive visitor to me. I&#39;ve struggled with that all my life.</em> The happiest time was with you three girls and your Dad!!! Your Dad was a prince!!! <br><br>No man has a right to treat a wife like a child! A wife is a grown intelligent adult and should be treated as such. <br><br>My hand is getting tired so better quit and finish this later...</blockquote>I found the notes above written on scraps of paper while tidying up her room once...

<p>I am in what is called Haplogroup H (mtDNA) - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haplogroup_H_(mtDNA)</p><p>Details I&#39;m still trying to understand and find out, but they are:</p><p>LOCATION263 315.11609316519REFERENCEA : T T Patricia Short LewisG C C C </p><p>I&#39;m also trying to join <font color="#000000">The mtDNA H Haplogroup Project</font>&nbsp;- see http://wiki.hmtdna.org/doku.php&nbsp;- otherwise known as &quot;Tracing Helena&#39;s Daughters&quot;.&nbsp; The group&#39;s goals are lofty, stated as:&nbsp; <em>The primary goal of this project is to explore the individual identity of each sub-clade. The mtDNA Haplogroup H project now has over 2000 members, making it one of the largest public mtDNA Haplogroup projects. </em></p><p>See a map showing general migration patterns of my maternal line, in the PHOTOS section here...</p>

My grandmother, and all her friends, used to get a kick out of <font color="#5588aa">my love of tea</font>. I would insist on my milk in it, as taught to me by Grandma, and of course three sugar-spoon spoonfuls of sugar, mixed just right...then I would ceremoniously and most carefully sip my tea spoon by spoon, blowing on it a wee bit to cool, then slurp it up with gusto. &quot;You&#39;re quite the tea granny, Patricia Kaye,&quot; Grandma or Toots would say, as I sat at the little table in the kitchen. It was right by the back door with the frosted glass showing a scene of a hunter with his dog in the woods. Behind that door was the back porch, with the wringer washer and the slop pail. That&#39;s where Grandma put all her vegetable and fruit peelings, etc., and it had a complex organic odor that I didn&#39;t dislike, but definitely identified as uniquely Grandma&#39;s. She would use it on her garden in the spring, mixing it in to help the next batch of vegetables grow. She had a small garden by her outbuildings, a line of small sheds in the back yard, ending with an outhouse. Looking out the back door was her clothes line, which she used year round, even in the winter. I learned from her that clothes could also &#39;freeze dry&#39; just like coffee! I even have a photo of her standing in a boat hanging clothes during a flood. I tell you, nothing could keep my Grandma down. She was a stubborn and persevering Irish woman if there ever was one. Life experience had taught her that if you want something done it&#39;s best to do it yourself, that God helps those that helps themselves, and that hard work never hurt anyone. She had a lovely touch about her that people remembered for years afterward, whether it was because they had stayed at her Fitzpatrick maternity home under her care, or knew her as a town resident and neighbor in another capacity. Her friends could count on her, and she was generous with her hospitality and time. I knew her for far too short a time, and of that for even shorter when she was still in her prime; but I remember enough to have been inspired down through the years by her, and feeling very blessed to have known her, and to have had many days and even nights where I spent them with her and got to see her make many things with her hands - amazing baked goods, knitted mittens, embroidered dish towels, scrumptious meals, or ingenious wheelbarrows made out of what was at hand (including tricycle wheels for the front wheel...). She had a strong large body, and wore her hair long all her life, always up in a top bun during the day out of the way, but down at night and brushed well before bed. In later years I got to help her brush it out. Only at the end, when she was tired and in the wheelchair, did she allow it to be cut, and even then under protest. I think it was one of her only vanities, being a fairly plain woman. I can surely understand that and not begrudge her. But she was a lovely woman all the same, and I smile to think that Grandpa saw that too, those many years ago when he admired her carpentry handiwork upon meeting her...

Delphine Mundorf on Oct 05:

I am not a big believer in "hands on" healing. But our grandma definitely had that "touch". When I was in high school I got atleltes foot really bad from the High School Gym showers. The teacher didn't disinfect the floors between classes. This eventually turned into excema. I had it real bad under my arms to the point that it even got infected. Grandma had a greenish black thick vaseline type gunk that was called burn ointment . We were there visiting and I was in misery and I tell you the truth she rubbed this thick oitment under my arms one morning and do you know by afternoon my underarms were almost healed. What a relief. Since it worked so well she gave us some to take home to continue using it. But guess what it didn't do a thing for me when we used it. It was Grandmas healing hands along with the ointment that "cured". Grandma also saved many a babies lives in her maternity home. I heard of several cases where a baby had problems and the Dr. would go through the book trying to do the right thing for a baby and would finally give up and say Mrs. Fitzpatrick I don't know what to do. If you have one of your old home cures that will work go ahead and do it. She would and it would work. And this nursing and other skills our grandmaother had was all from a woman with only a 3rd grade education.

• Comment

My grandfather, Sheldon Albert Fitzpatrick, was an extraordinary man. He kept bees and made his own honey. He ran a farm, and did the family&#39;s cobbling. Much to my grandmother&#39;s chagrin, he made homemade beer. A man of letters, he loved literature, passing that love down to my mother and thus to me. He cared about his community, and was Treasurer, Mayor, and keeper of the cemetery books and grounds at various times for our little village. Most of all, he was remembered as a warm man with a wonderful sense of humour, well-loved by all who knew him. I was only 5 years old when he died, so my memories of him are limited. I remember an old tall man who wore a hat, took naps on the porch, let me sit on his lap where I would give him sloppy kisses and in retaliation he would give me whisker rubs (I would squeal with laughter and love every minute of it)...and oh yes, the pink peppermints, the peppermints he would share with me that he loved so much... <br><br>I sat with my grandfather sometimes during his last days on this earth, when he was laying in his bed at home. When I would come to him and talk to him, he would call me his little girl, and my mother would weep saying I was the only one now that he seemed to recognize. I didn&#39;t fully understand that then, but cherish that memory now. It reminds me of when my own father said his last words to Mom and I, Mom saying &quot;No more Hawkeye and Chingascook&quot;...an allusion to other memories of a time when I shared special moments with my father as a little girl...

Jackie Mangana Zimmer on Oct 05:

You were vey blessed to have seen your Grandfather even for a few years. I think I saw him when we visited in 1951, but don't recall the privilege! He was my Grandfather Fred Fitzpatrick's brother. Thanks for sharing your memory! Cousin Jackie

• Comment

McCall&#39;s (Henniman&#39;s). Skogmo&#39;s. The Spot. Dick&#39;s Corner. The Hartz Store. The Tastee Freez. Coast-to-Coast hardware. Ice rink on the banks of the river, lights strung overhead. The dam. South Pembina. The airport. The museum. Crossing the Red, then the Pembina. Ukranian church dome. Old 81. Old Pembina with the vines growing up the side of the old Methodist Church. Ancestors&#39; rocking chairs in the museum...the old museum that seemed like a treasure chest of old area artifacts. Many a summer was spent touring the row upon row of exhibits, taking in as much as possible. Imagination working overtime wondering who the people were that once owned that dress, that gun, that book. So MUCH stuff that each display area was a mini Fibber McGee open closet. Even the walls were covered with treasures all the way up the the ceiling. The Park nearby had a monument towards the back, almost hidden by the now older trees. The white pyramid-like steps led up in the center to a pillar. Names and a dedication, barely legible, told of a war to end all wars, and the local boys that wouldn&#39;t be coming home again. I would climb that monument thinking it was magical, touch the white stone, rough and hot in the summer sun. Who were these people who were just names now, I wondered as a child. I was in awe of someone who would sacrifice so much. Bike home over the bridges, daring to stop and look down to the river below. Such a long way it felt, and sometimes there would be a pull in the back of my mind to jump...jump! A little thrill would run up my spine at the thought mixed with incredible fear. I almost drowned once. I was with my mother and her friend Glennis Friebohldt at the Emerson pool on a sunny summer afternoon. I wandered away from the wading pool area. I was little, but could see more people were having more fun in the big pool. I wasn&#39;t afraid to try it. I tentatively lowered myself over the edge into the pool, intending to hang onto the side. But the pool was very busy that day, many jumps, splashes, and waves. A wave caught me and lifted my body, and I panicked. My hand slipped, and before I knew it, I was floating away from the edge, I couldn&#39;t grasp it, and I was sinking...I was scared, but at the same time, as I went below the surface, I kept my eyes open...I was facing up, looking up, seeing the light above me grow smaller as I sank...The next thing I knew, I was laying on warm cement, coughing up water...Glennis was there. She had seen me as I began to sink and dived in and rescued me. Years later, despite still not knowing how to swim, I love water, and remember that day, and how peaceful it seemed. A few moments of panic, then quiet...

<p>When I was growing up, there were only a few years that I remember my sisters being around. I was the baby of the family, and my two sisters were much older than I was. Betty was nine years older, and Sharon eleven. I remember fragmented memories of them at home - Sharon&#39;s high school science project of breeding hamsters getting a bit out of control in the old barn. Taking Sharon to the depot to take the train to Illinois where she&#39;d be attending college, Mom and I very sad, crying as she stepped onto the train. Betty dating, and being picked up by her boyfriends. One boy took her to the fair and won her some stuffed animals which I eventually inherited. Another became fairly serious - Charlie was his name - and I was very sad when Betty broke his heart by breaking off with him after meeting Bill (now her husband of over 30 years!) Betty taking out the first new car my parents ever owned, my parents later finding out she had driven it in a farmer&#39;s field. <br><br>After Betty graduated in 1968, I was all alone with Mom and Dad. I was only 9 years old, and just starting to be more social, coming out of a shell where I mostly played alone. Part of that was due to my physical problems when I was younger. Part of it was due to the geographical isolation of where we lived. So, as you might imagine, quite a bit of my growing up was as an &#39;only child&#39;... <br><br>My parents didn&#39;t take vacations like many people would, where you&#39;d go on a road trip across America, or to a Lake Cabin, or to Disneyland, etc. When we did go somewhere, it was usually short trips on the weekend, to relatives living in the county - a &#39;Sunday drive&#39;. You&#39;d enjoy the drive, the country air and nature on the way, and drop in on cousins to visit, have a meal. A clear memory of these journeys were being in the back seat sleeping, awakening to sun strobing through the trees... <br><br>On the rare occasions my father had some time built up - and a bit of money saved up - we&#39;d go on trips to visit other relatives near and far. One relative we visited more often than others was my Mom&#39;s sister and her husband, Aunt Pat and Uncle John Beaudette. Uncle John was a small, wiry fellow, French ancestry, who ran a body shop fixing cars. Aunt Pat was a working woman, always seemed a bit mysterious and glamourous to me. Uncle John smoked pipes, and both he and Aunt Pat were drinkers. My parents had drank alcohol once upon a time, too, but quit it more or less before I showed up. They felt it was the right thing to do when they got serious about their religion. However, when they visited my Uncle and Aunt, inevitably they would end up playing cards, having a drink or two, and laughing the night away in Aunt Pat&#39;s small kitchen. I would be left to myself to explore their house, which always fascinated me. I would always find the licorice in the candy dish, or marvel at the beautiful bedroom set in a hallway side-bedroom.* Sometimes I would sneak down into the basement and snoop around the old trunks and boxes to see what I might find. In the end, Aunt Pat would usually make me a malted milk, which I would eat slowly, then go into the side bedroom to fall asleep listening to the grown-ups talk... <br><br>* Ironically, years later, Aunt Pat gave me that set knowing I always admired it... </p>

<p align="center"><font face="Courier, monospace"><font size="7">St. Vincent Memories</font></font></p><p style="border-right: medium none; padding-right: 0in; border-: medium none; padding-: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.01in; border-: medium none; padding-: 0in; border-bottom: #000000 1pt solid" align="center"><font face="Batang, 바탕, serif">One Small Town in Minnesota</font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">Site Address: </font></font><font color="#0000ff"><u><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">http://56755.blogspot.com</font></font></u></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">Description:&nbsp; </font></font><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2"><em>St. Vincent Memories</em></font></font><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2"> is a site about </font></font><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2"><strong>place</strong></font></font><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">. Specifically, about a small town in Kittson County, Minnesota. My goal with the&nbsp;site&nbsp;is to showcase the town&#39;s entire history, with particular focus on the indigenous, exploratory and settlement periods. Sources are various &ndash; Public Domain, cited copyrighted material, and private collections.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">St. Vincent is one of oldest settlements in the State, having seen European explorers, military expeditions, and fur trading since the mid-17</font></font>^{<font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">th</font></font>}<font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2"> century. The site also includes surrounding communities, since no one lives in vacuum (in my opinion). Those other communities include but are not necessarily restricted to: Pembina, North Dakota; Emerson, Manitoba; Noyes, Minnesota; Humboldt, Minnesota; and Hallock, Minnesota. Pembina in particular has a long and close association with St. Vincent, and at one time long before borders, the two were for all practical purposes, one. Only the Red River of the North ever caused them any separation, but nothing a canoe or ferry boat couldn&#39;t overcome&hellip;</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">The site includes excerpts from historical newspaper and periodical articles, academic papers covering subjects relating to the area, personal reminisces/letters/diaries/journals, photographs, etc., with some commentary by the site owner, a native of St. Vincent.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><font face="Arial, sans-serif"><font size="2">Format of the site is a blog; archives are readily available through the site of past posts via either a straight search feature, located at the top of the page on a navigator bar, or through Labels, available on the right-hand side-bar, towards the bottom of the page.</font></font></p>

Arrangements were made for the <font color="#999999">cremation</font>. This morning it took place. Christopher and I met Tom at Riverside&#39;s crematorium at 8:30am.<br><br>We met the two men who do the cremations. We watched as the box with Mom&#39;s remains was taken and placed in the furnace. I thanked the men, and Tom, and we walked away.<br><br>It was gently raining, and as we approached the car to leave, I asked Chris if he&#39;d mind taking a walk through the cemetery. We got our umbrellas, and proceeded.<br><br>I don&#39;t often have a chance to walk through a cemetery when it&#39;s raining. No wind, so amazingly quiet, peaceful, and empty...except, of course, for the silent city around us.<br><br>The huge, old trees throughout the cemetery made me think of home, the home <font color="#5588aa">my mother</font> lived in most of her life. It, too, had great old trees surrounding it. There&#39;s something amazing about trees, and seeing such trees gave me comfort as I glanced back at the crematorium and saw the waves of heat rising out of the chimney on top.<br><br>As we walked past the gravestones, we noticed white-tailed deer further on, one standing, and one beyond that was laying down under a tree. Chris took photos as I watched them watch us.<br><br>We turned a corner, then another, heading back to the car, when we noticed a small flock of birds in the distance coming out from behind the mausoleum. Wild turkeys, a small band of males. We headed up the small hill and around the building, and caught them as they disappeared behind, shaking their feathers, looking up, and stepping ahead under the falling rain.<br><br>It was a magical morning walk, a very special walk I will never forget...

My Mom did a spectacular plum pudding<span style="font-size: 130%; color: #ff6600"><strong>*</strong></span> (which is somewhat similar to fruitcake...but not really...!) She was carrying on a tradition that her mother, my <font color="#999999">Grandma Fitzpatrick</font>, had done before her.<br><br>She always shopped for the best <font color="#5588aa">suet</font> fresh from the butcher&#39;s, dried fruits, etc. over in <font color="#999999">Emerson</font>. She canned some every year, and it was like wine, getting better the older you let it sit. At Thanksgiving or Christmas, we&#39;d pop open a jar, steam the pudding until it was warm and plump, and then pour one of the two homemade sauces she made - lemon and caramel/butterscotch over the top of each serving - it was amazing. Sometimes, she even <font color="#5588aa">hid a coin</font> in one of the servings to make it more fun!<br><br><span style="font-size: 130%; color: #ff6600"><strong>*</strong></span> <span style="font-size: 85%">AKA </span><span style="font-size: 85%"><font color="#5588aa">Christmas Pudding</font></span>; while my mother&#39;s pudding was heavenly, <font color="#5588aa">not all</font> puddings are created equal...

The Swing...the hours spent in it, on it, swinging, sitting and twirling, laying back hanging on looking through the trees, at the sky, at the trees, noticing the iron bar the big oak trees had grown around, that Grandpa Fitzpatrick had placed there many years ago when my mom was a little girl, the iron rings still there, never changed, only the ropes when they wore out, or the wooden seat our family would make and notch and put onto the rope just so&hellip;jeanie with the light brown hair&hellip;walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down&hellip;the woods just behind you, the tips of the trees brushing your legs and back on the backswing, dragging your feet in the well-worn dirt path to stop, jumping off into the pile of leaves in the fall that Dad would make just for you&hellip;hearing Mom whistling in the house making supper&hellip;walking from the swing to the house, crunching acorns under your feet&hellip;dew on the grass on early morning swings when Mom would be by the clothesline hanging the clothes, whistling, the bright morning sun making the white sheets so brilliant you can hardly look at them, spiderwebs gleaming, worms hanging, dandylion seed floating, distant crows cawing&hellip;year pass, and there are your own children, swinging on that same swing, the same iron bar, the same iron rings...there comes a day when the auctioneer sounds in the front yard and strangers look through your things, your memories, and you quietly walk past the crowds to the swing and take one last swing before leaving it to your past, and walking on...

<p>The greatest show on earth...<br><br>One of my early memories is one night my father working a late shift at the depot, and calling Mom to hurry and come over there. Very unusual for him to do. Mom didn&#39;t tell me why, wanting to surprise me.<br><br>When we got there, it he took us out back, on a deck by the tracks. It was pitch black, but a clear night with stars twinkling overhead as I looked up. As my eyes adjusted, I looked straight ahead and noticed a stopped train. I could hear the engine down the line idling, and once and awhile I could hear a car shift and bang against the next one. I soon could make out smells like a farm, and colorful pictures on the sides of the cars.<br><br>&quot;It&#39;s the circus train,&quot; my Dad said, a smile in his voice.<br><br>&quot;Really?&quot; I exclaimed, all wide-eyed.<br><br>&quot;Yep...it&#39;s the Barnum and Bailey, Ringling Brothers, too - the <em>Greatest Show on Earth</em> - see it on the train?&quot;<br><br>There it was, in large bold letters, along with pictures of elephants and clowns and horses.<br><br>&quot;Can we go closer, Dad?&quot; I asked.<br><br>&quot;Sorry, but it&#39;s just made a quick stop before going into Canada. You can&#39;t board, and it&#39;s too dangerous to go closer.&quot;<br><br>I was disappointed, but that passed quickly. Just to get a chance to see the train was magical. I knew it even then...</p>

<p>My Grandpa Fitzpatrick curled. I never had a chance to see him on the ice - at least I don&#39;t remember him on the ice - but I do remember at least once being taken to the St. Vincent curling rink on a very cold winter day, and sitting on some low bleachers, with glass separating me from the lanes of curlers. I was very small, and thought it would be heated, but it wasn&#39;t. I was so busy trying to keep my little hands warm in my mittens (knitted by my Grandma Fitzpatrick), that I didn&#39;t watch much of the action. At least that&#39;s the way I remember it.<br><br>The rink was only a block away from my grandparents&#39; home, down the same road that if you took if a few block more, led to my own home. My home used to be their home; they built it, in 1906. Later, they sold it to my parents, and moved &#39;uptown&#39; to a house on the main street of St. Vincent, Minnesota, our little village. The town pump was right outside the curling hall, and there were times, when I was small, that Grandma had me fetch a pail or two of water from the pump. Sometimes, it would take many pumps to get the water going. Other times, it was stubborn; that was when Grandma taught me about &#39;primeing the pump&#39;. Like magic, water would come forth again...<br><br>Later, after Grandpa died, I would spend more time with her. Grandpa&#39;s old bed in the porch, that he took naps on, was now passed by on my way into the main house to hang out with her while she baked, or outside while she hung clothes, or gardened. Grandma loved to putter around her yard, especially her sheds, and create useful things out of leftover lumber and other parts. <br><br>A memory I&#39;ll never forget is how she included me a wee bit in creating a homemade wooden wheelbarrow, and then made a larger one for herself to use around the yard to haul trash, tree cuttings, weeds, etc. to be burned or whatever. She used old tricycle and baby buggy wheels for the wheelbarrow wheels, making her own frame, handles, wheel assemblies/axels all by hand, out of wood scraps. You could tell she was a daughter of an Irish carpenter. I still have his carpenter&#39;s saw box, and use it to hold books I&#39;m reading. It&#39;s dark with age, but still strong. His old saw is with me now, part of what I inherited from my parents after they broke up housekeeping in 2001. The wood on the handle has a soft glowing patina from many years of use. Great Grandpa Fitzgerald married a Prince Edward Island wealthy farmer&#39;s daughter, took her half-way across a continent to America, where they did whatever they had to, to make a living. All I know of him besides his carpentry is that he died drunk, run over by a train, ground to pieces and decapitated, 5 years after his wife died shortly after giving birth to their 14th child. R.I.P....</p>

<p>I was raised drinking tea like fish swim in water. It was part of our daily lives. I came to adore it, the whole process, from preparing it to slurping it noisely by teaspoon from my teacup full of tea, milk, and 2-3 teaspoons of sugar! As time went by, my inquisitiveness discovered that the tea was <font color="#5588aa">Red Rose</font>, a brand from Canada. It&#39;s a strong black/orange pekoe tea with a touch of bergamot oil in it. <br><br>We lived on the border, and I didn&#39;t think of the small town by us - Emerson, Manitoba - as anything other than, well...Emerson - another small town like my own. I was born there, we shopped there, I attended piano lessons there, etc., etc. Border guards waved us through both the US and Canadian ports of entry. People knew each other. We were rarely asked to declare anything or how much we had purchased. Those days are definitely gone...<br><br>My grandmother and mother owned ordinary everyday teapots, but they also had highly decorated china pots made in England, brought out for company. With these were beautiful porcelain china teacups and saucers, so beautiful they were works of art as well as items of service. It was a ritual that made the act of drinking the tea that much more special.<br><br>Later on I tried other teas, and have enjoyed many. But I still adore Red Rose the best - strong, sweet...the taste and smell brings back a flood of memories of a time, people, and something very, very comforting...</p>

<div><p><span style="font-size: 130%; color: #990000">I grew up with a piano always a part of my life.</span> Before I was even born, my family had the piano. It was first owned by my grandfather&#39;s brother, my <font color="#5588aa">great uncle Dick</font>. Eventually it found its way to my parents&#39; home, where my sisters learned how to play on it. Then one day I wandered up to the tall bench, looking up to the even taller upright, its oak wood golden, and its brass foot peddles heavy and mysterious. I crawled up and pressed the white and black keys, and was delighted by the sounds they made. My older sister showed me how to play a song with her, a silly song, but fun, and I laughed with her. She told me it was called &#39;<font color="#5588aa">Chopsticks</font>&#39;. I had learned my first song...<br><br>When I was in second grade, my mother found a piano teacher in Emerson, Mrs. Forrest. She was very strict, teaching from the <font color="#5588aa">Royal Conservatory of Music</font> (Toronto) style. She <span style="font-size: 180%; color: #336666">stressed</span> proper body posture - how I sat, how I held my arms, wrists, and hands - and never ever let me forget to keep those hands up. An arched hand was a happy hand; a lazy hand got a ruler. &quot;Never look at the keys,&quot; she would drill into me. I found out that for every song you played well, not only were hours practiced on that composition, but many more hours were spent dedicating yourself to the mechanics that underlay each piece of music: The Notes! Hours were spent learning each key white and black, each octave, how keys connect; scales, arpeggios, the Latin terminology, reading music, learning the history of the great composers.<br><br>While I initially lived a little in fear of Mrs. Forrest, I learned to respect her, and eventually realized she gave me an incredible grounding in the basics that I benefited from throughout the rest of my training.<br><br><span style="font-size: 130%; color: #990000">Back to the piano.<br></span><br>The piano was a Bush &amp; Gerts<span style="color: #990000">*</span>, one of their tall uprights. I didn&#39;t notice that right away. To me, it was just a piano. But as I learned how to play, I began taking a pride in the piano I was playing on. For instance, the piano case was made out of the most beautifully-grained oak. The white keys themselves had a swirling translucence that I learned was for a very good reason - they were made from real ivory, something that is illegal nowadays (for good reason...) It became one of my chores to dust and polish the piano, and I always made sure it was done impeccably.<br><br>I took a peek under the <font color="#5588aa">top door</font> one day...it was like another world. I pressed keys and watched the <font color="#5588aa">action</font> - the <font color="#5588aa">hammers</font>, the <font color="#5588aa">dampers</font>, the <font color="#5588aa">frame</font> itself with all the strings. It was also then that I noticed a fascinating label, in gold, that talked about the famous <font color="#5588aa">Exhibition in Chicago</font> many years ago, and how this piano was made by a company that won awards there.<br><br>It was then, when looking even deeper inside, that I discovered handwriting near the top of the <font color="#5588aa">soundboard</font>, above the strings. It was like a time capsule, <font color="#5588aa">dates and names</font> of tuners over the years all the way back to shortly after my uncle bought it, all written in pencil. <br><br><span style="font-size: 78%"><span style="font-size: 85%; color: #990000">*</span> - <em><span style="font-size: 85%">Bush &amp; Gerts pianos were manufactured in one of the largest and most thoroughly equipped factories in the world. The company controlling the Bush &amp; Gerts was one of the strongest in the piano industry and the aim was to sustain the distinction which the instruments have gained in the long and persistent reaching out for perfection in tone production. In the ware rooms of the foremost piano merchants of the world the Bush &amp; Gerts pianos were presented as instruments worthy of the highest and most discriminating trade. The Bush &amp; Gerts factory was located at Rockford, Ill.<br></span></em></span></p></div>

The Swing...the hours spent in it, on it, swinging, sitting and twirling, laying back hanging on looking through the trees, at the sky, at the trees, noticing the iron bar the big oak trees had grown around, that Grandpa Fitzpatrick had placed there many years ago when my mom was a little girl, the iron rings still there, never changed, only the ropes when they wore out, or the wooden seat our family would make and notch and put onto the rope just so&hellip;jeanie with the light brown hair&hellip;walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down&hellip;the woods just behind you, the tips of the trees brushing your legs and back on the backswing, dragging your feet in the well-worn dirt path to stop, jumping off into the pile of leaves in the fall that Dad would make just for you&hellip;hearing Mom whistling in the house making supper&hellip;walking from the swing to the house, crunching acorns under your feet&hellip;dew on the grass on early morning swings when Mom would be by the clothesline hanging the clothes, whistling, the bright morning sun making the white sheets so brilliant you can hardly look at them, spiderwebs gleaming, worms hanging, dandylion seed floating, distant crows cawing&hellip;year pass, and there are your own children, swinging on that same swing, the same iron bar, the same iron rings...there comes a day when the auctioneer sounds in the front yard and strangers look through your things, your memories, and you quietly walk past the crowds to the swing and take one last swing before leaving it to your past, and walking on...