Yankton

It’s good to be back

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Zoom in on Front Standard. Yankee Doodle Dandy [Blu-ray] [1942].

We had our first celebration party Saturday night.  No masks, no social distancing.  Lots of good b-b-q’d food–burgers, brats, ribs.  Add all the other picnic food, and we stuffed ourselves.  Later, our house was surrounded by individual fireworks.  One time, I wondered if flames licked our roof.  All turned out fine.

Yesterday, we had a later start to our 2nd celebration and had to travel for it.   I started watching Yankee Doodle Dandy in the morning, and again for the nearly twentieth time wasn’t disappointed. The black and white screen didn’t disappoint either because the music and acting related brought color of its own type and emphasized family, patriotism, a united country.  All of which we can be proud. Like other generations who bounced back after our county’s crises, we are bouncing back from Covid–I hope for a long time now. On our way home, the sky was lit up with all sorts of colored lights–north, east, west anyway–we saw colorful expressions of “Let freedom ring,” celebrating our county’s freedom.

It seems like most of the nation is hot and dry or enduring storms of one type or another.  We have lots to be sad and worry about, lots to be thankful for–and we are free, to a certain extent, to say what we want, do what we want, and explore, which is what I’ve been doing again for my upcoming book–Where Two Rivers Meet.

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It all started with the comment my sister made about giants rumored to have been found back in the 1800s. “Giants,” I asked.  She plagued about my memory again because I had never heard the tales….”Out near Clearwater Lake,” she said, trying to ‘shiver me timber’ memories. So I did an Internet search.  Little else is known, and not much media was given any coverage, BUT:

“In the “Pioneer Press” of June 29, 1888, is an account of the discovery, twelve miles from Clearwater, N. E. 1/4, sec. 21, T. 121-27, by Charles W. Pinkerton, of the town of Corinna, of the remains of seven persons said to have been from seven to eight feet high.” Franklyn Curtiss-Wedge, History of Wright County, Minnesota, 1888.

We both started researching and took a few trips out to dig up graves where we knew they were supposed to be found–south of Clearwater. Our freedoms didn’t allow us to go on private properties.  Following what we thought were the right coordinates, we drove on paved and dry roads with dust spraying the back of my SUV.  Because so much has been developed, the area, Clearwater Lake,  gave up no hints as to where we should look.  When we got home the last time, we re-checked the coordinates and realized we were off a couple of sections.

I have to be honest, I’ve been known to travel on trails that aren’t posted private property (to my sister’s embarrassment and fear).  But without a little brave/stupid hankering for answers, I would not have been able to write my first book, Steppes to Neu-Odessa, which is a biographical dictionary of Odessa Township, Yankton County, SD, and where the first German-Russians settled in the US–including mine). I don’t worry too much about not having an invitation, but I definitely won’t go where there is a warning, and I am not wanted.  But if anyone gets a hankering or an invitation, let us know.  We might follow along.  I might also want to see the many, MANY, native mounds that surround a number of the lakes in this vicinity and the Clearwater River.  Otherwise, I have the freedom to imagine what I want for the next book.

Hope you are still enjoying your Independence Day weekend on this Federal holiday.  HOT! yes, but so much to do and find and explore.

IMG_9994.JPG  ANYONE FOLLOWING ME?

On the road again,

Cindy

 

 

 

 

“My Dad”

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Paul Peterson sang “My Dad” during an episode of The Donna Reed Show.   Although sung from Jeff Stone‘s teenage, male point of view, (he was the son of Donna and Dr. Alex Stone), he speaks for many of us females as well and our adoration toward our fathers. As the lyrics go, my dad, Harold Frank, may not have been, “. . .much in the eyes of the world; He’ll never make history…But he [was] the world to me.“

He had a rough beginning, but he seldom dwelt on it.  Maybe I’ve blogged about Dad before.  He was born and raised on a farm north of Yankton, South Dakota, to Fred and Anna (Hauck) Frank, children of immigrants from Russia. Both of his parents’ had strong family ties with lots of friends and relatives in the Yankton, Scotland, and Menno areas.

An article in the February 14, 1920 Scotland Journal announced that the area had been free of the flu so far that winter.  Less  week later, my dad’s family all came down with the dreaded virus.  Grandma and Grandpa Frank died on the same day, February 21, 1920,  with Dad’s little brother Eddie dying on the day of his folks’ funeral.

The three living Frank children went to live with Uncle Chris Hauck in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Aunt Leona was nine, Dad was seven, and Aunt Ramona was two.  Later, the children were split up and fostered by different families. The picture below on the left was taken after Aunt Leona’s confirmation and the last day the three siblings would be together for many years. Aunt Leona’s family moved to Idaho.  In fact, even though Dad and Aunt Leona corresponded, they didn’t see each other for forty-five years.

Dad stayed with his foster parents near Scotland until he was twenty-one when he moved back to the St. Cloud area and eventually met and married Mom, Winnie Johnson. (The picture of him on the right was taken when he still lived in South Dakota. Handsome devil, wasn’t he?)

Harold Frank about twenty – five years old.

As the song goes . . .Dad may not have “been much in the world,” but he was the world to me and my siblings.    He went to work  every morning clean as a fresh-washed copper penny, and after working hard in a hot iron foundry, he  came home every night covered in black dust.  He taught us right from wrong, taught us about his love of  God and the Bible, guided us in faith, and he modeled a life to be followed.  He was a quiet man with few wishes or needs except for a good chair to hang his leg over while he read his newspaper, a transistor radio to listen to his Minnesota Twins, a good hamburger anytime, and a beer to quench his thirst after mowing the lawn.

He also told us about our German-Russian heritage, which had been taught to him by his parents and later by his foster parents who were his first cousins.  So important to him that it was important for my sister to begin researching our lineage.  I took over when I moved to South Dakota.  I eventually found that our Frank, Engel, Jasmann, Mueller and other relatives were the first German Russians to come to Dakota Territory in 1872 and settle in Odessa Township, Yankton County.  I wrote Steppes to Neu-Odessa: Germans from Russia Who Settled in Odessa Township, Dakota Territory, 1872-1876, a biographical dictionary of these first settlers.

A bit of the orphan came out at times–like when Dad remarked that he never thought he would be so lucky to have a family.  But I can say we, his children, were the lucky ones to have such a good father.

 

The Tin Can
My child, do not forget my teaching,
                                       but let your heart keep my commandments . . .
                                       It will be a healing for your flesh
                                       and a refreshment for your body
                                                                       Proverbs 3: 1, 8

Round, red, black, and gold container,
bottom rusted, lid twisted askew,
the Watkins carbolic salve
rested on the shelf above the basement steps–
next to Dad’s pint.
He self-medicated:
Burning swigs for sore throats,
Vicks rubs for coughs,
Hilex baths for itch and ground-in dirt.
The old man had cures for all our family’s ailments.
But for me as a small child,
the tin that held the brown muck,
stinking of gasoline and spruce, contained a mystery.
Whether I had a knee scrape, bee sting, or poison ivy,
and while I wept in pain, Dad performed his magic.
Bowing as if in prayer, he carefully wrapped
my wounds with a Band-Aid, gauze, or clean rag.
Before long, I was out playing again,
paying little attention to God’s healing power
delivered through my father’s hands.

Don’t turn your back on what inspires you

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The Mississippi River flowing by Clearwater, Minnesota
A couple weeks ago, I heard second-hand that St. Cloud is thinking of developing a walkway from around downtown to the hospital. When I heard this I thought of San Antonio’s River Walk.  Restaurants, boutique shops, boat rides, this city’s “underworld” is alive with charm.
Until train and car took over, the Mississippi piggy-backed its drifters  north and south, it sent the prized white pine down the river to sell and fill the lumbering industry’s pockets, but  it was a carry-all for so much trash and waste  it became polluted. Then some turned their backs on this great waterway. Thank goodness, laws exist now to protect its health.
It is good to think that St. Cloud will honor The Old Man who has been its loyal friend for so long. The other day, I sat at a boat landing watching the river side-stroke around a few curves as it rolled toward Sartell where it eventually blathers in foam as it spills over the dam. It is alive.

I love the Atlantic Ocean,  and it too inspires me. Sometimes, the waves play at my feet.  At other times they nearly push me over as they romp toward shore with more vigor. I can’t help but visualize my German, English, Welsh, and Scandanavian ancestors sailing away from oppression, tyranny, and near-starvation to start all over again in America. The waters rush at me as if deep  calleth unto deep.

I wrote Steppes to Neu-Odessa: Germans from Russia  Who Settled in Odessa Township, Dakota Territory, 1872-1876 (Heritage Books 1996, 2002) after I moved to the South Dakota.  The Yankton hills draw me in as they bulge from the James River, sloping and angling their way through rich, black farm land.  Here my German-Russian ancestors gathered to begin their lives in earthen huts. So moved by their strength and determination, I wrote:

  The “Rooshuns”

In quest of home, they roamed Dakota’s range.
From Yankton to Pembina, wagon wheels
dug furrows these tenacious nomads trekked
to claim near-similes of Ukraine’s steppes.

They settled. Waist-high grasses waved and clapped
an encore: soddies, shanties, rammed-earth shacks
cropped up. The husbandmen corralled the land
like bronco busters broke the untamed west.

Grooms planted rows of barley, wheat, and corn.
Their wives nursed fragile sprigs of cottownwoods.
Stacks of mischt, the twists of tight-wound hay
became crude symbols of their brutal lives.

These pacifists fought wars against the snows,
against the droughts and fires, the storms of ice.
Once former subjects, nouveau czars of plains,
in black knee boots, stood firm on humble realms.

I see them in gray photos: faces grave,
babushkas, sheepskin coats, beside their squats.
I read church records, letters, homestead deeds,
a diary, our Bible’s family tree.

On page, I transcribe lowly family myths,
then fantasize I enter their domains.
Like Russian thistles tangled in my thoughts,
dwell pioneers whose blood thins in my veins.

While living in South Dakota, I was lonesome at times for the river’s watery presence, I wrote:
 Daughter of the Middle Border

Garland writes about my earthy grandmothers
who left eastern hamlets
to follow their wander-lusting husbands
across Dakota prairies.
These petticoat farmers produced the manna,
feeding the men who grappled with the land.
But their own hunger was harder to stave off
without churches, schools, and McClure’s.
North of Yankton, my youthful father tired of treeless plains,
left the rise and fall of the coteau.
Hankering after richer pastures,
he drifted east, sinking his spade in Minnesota’s fields.
Years later, I, like my grandmothers,
trekked to Dakota to work alongside my spouse.
We tilled the land in a different way,
reclaiming their inheritance of Canaan’s blessings.
While home for now may be inside this Harvey Dunn landscape
of azure skies, green-gold desert, and pasque flowers-
I feel Twain’s anchor, Old Man River,
tugging at my veins.
(c) 2002 Stupnik

After a thirty year stint in South Dakota, I returned home to Minnesota to live and write about my first love, where I was born and raised.  Most of my novel/book writing  right now  is about my homeland, Clearwater, Minnesota, the landscapes near the Mighty River, the friends I have/hahttps://tonybennett.com/d, and the history and Main Street Women that inspires me.
What landscape inspires you and leaves you longing to return? Is it Colorado like John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High?”  Is it the hilly and foggy city that  Tony Bennett sings about in “I Left My Heart in San Francisco?” Or is it the powerful soundtrack of “Legends of the Fall” that beckons you back to the mountains and icy streams of Montana?
All of these places impel me to write, but for me, the Mississippi flows in my veins, mobilizing my imagination.
 I welcome you to my new blog site and my new webpage.  Remember, I am available to read and talk for book clubs, poetry readings, panel discussions, and almost all book and craft events.  AND don’t forget to let me know what inspires YOU.