School Days

I am going to tell some family stories in these first blogs to provide context for who I am.

John, my dad, came from solid German stock from western Germany. I think the name belies some Irish background. People did move all over, often more than we. That never ceases to amaze me – how mobile people were when transportation was not as easy. Perhaps because they were not burdened with so much ‘stuff’! Grandpa and Grandma Gillen had a 160 acre farm just north of Faribault. Dad was born in 1911, the oldest of ten children. He only spoke German until he began school (although he never remembered much of the language). One day driving home from school some children called them ‘Krauts’ and threw rocks at them. The horse was spooked and ran off the road, breaking one of the wagon wheels. Loquaciousness was not Dad’s nature! It was difficult to get any story out of him, let alone one with much detail.

Dad – a young man. ‘Field of Dreams’ is emotional for many men because we see our own life in our father, our hopes and dreams, our youth and vitality.

 

Mom was the seventh of nine children, born north of Faribault. The Durands were as French as could be. Our earliest ancestor is Jean Durand, dit Lafortune (called ‘lucky’ or ‘fortunate’). Jean was born in Doeuil, Saintes, Saintonge, France about 1636. He emigrated to Canada and married Catherine Annennontak, a Huron orphan raised in a Catholic convent school. They married in 1662. Jean died in 1671, leaving her with three children. There is a Durand Foundation where our genealogy and many stories are preserved. Louis was a voyageur, a traveler to the west – Detroit with Sieur de Cadillac, founder of Detroit, and likely to Wisconsin and Minnesota where many Durands later settled. It’s logical to believe the stories of these lands would have been passed down. Louis, half native American, would have been a tough and valuable member of such an expedition. Some of the Durands were great adventurers. More to come about them.

Mom was a great storyteller and frequently told stories of growing up. She would frequently pause at a climatic moment in her tale for a sip of coffee, or some other household errand, leaving the listener hanging on for more.

She loved the farm she called the “Delisha Place”. It overlooked the Cannon River Valley where they would play and go on picnics. Her description was idyllic. It was said that Jesse James and the Youngers hid out in caves after they were shot up in the Northfield, Minnesota raid. Northfield is in Rice County, ten miles north of Faribault. Cole Younger was booked into the Rice County jail, and his signature appears in the jail log that is on display.

Mom went to Pleasant Valley School which is now preserved in the Rice County Village of Yesteryear. Several of my uncle’s initials are carved on the blackboard. Her first teacher only lasted half a year. Mom was only learning to recognize pictures, not read, but quickly caught up. In fact she was passed over one year, so only had seven years of education. She used to quote my Grandpa Durand, “There are a lot of educated fools.” How true. She, like he, were great readers and aware of the news. She was much better informed than many people I meet today who have wasted years in schools. She loved school, and her lifelong dream was to teach.

Her best friend was Agnes Gunning. Mom loved to misquote the John Greenleaf Whittier poem, School Days, this way:

“Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And here comes Agnes Gunning.”

Here is the full correct text of the poem, quite apt for her school days.

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near it stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;—
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,—
“Because, you see, I love you!”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, because they love him.

John Greenleaf Whittier