Author: mjgillen100@hotmail.com

“‘We didn’t have much, but we never suffered really, because we had everything we needed.’ Work wasn’t about building wealth; work was a regular part of daily life. It’s just what you did.” – Smoky Mountain Magazine

Bob, Janet, Dad, Mom, Dick & Jeanne

Mom was raised on a 90 acre farm. Their large family did not have much. In fact, they were poor, but she never felt poor. After the ’29 stock market crash and depression she remembers men coming to the door looking for work or a bit of food. One Christmas only the three youngest children, Mom, Florine and Bernice, received a gift. Mom remembered the look of disappointment in her brother’s eyes, but there were no complaints.

Recently I heard some neighbors talking about mountain folk who depend on wood for heat. That was the way I grew up in Minnesota. Many of my memories are of “making wood”, meaning cutting and splitting many cords (a cord is 4 feet by 4 feet by 8 feet). We had to handle wood many times, including throwing it down into the basement and stacking a good supply of dry available wood. I also think of “tending fire” meaning stoking and banking it with ashes to last through a bitterly cold night. A banked fire could be shaken down the next morning, the burning coals loaded with fresh tinder and fuel to get a roaring hot fire. We used some coal for the coldest of nights. You get to know and understand wood: the smell of red oak, the smooth grain and easy splitting of ash, the tough fibers of elm. Hardwoods, my friends, not soft pine!

Dad and Mom both had some tough furnace experiences. Mom used newspaper to start a fire. It was smoldering, and when she opened the door to the firebox it burst into flame and blew  back, singeing her eyebrows and the hair around her face. Dad several times had the stovepipe blow loose. He had to go to the basement with a wet handkerchief protecting his nose and mouth from the billowing smoke to reattach the pipes. Another time he was shaking down the coals and a hot ember flipped into his slipper, badly burning the side of his foot. When I hear about people talk of saving money with a wood stove I think of the hard work and dangers, although I miss the smells of cut wood and its wonderful heat.

There is a poem by Robert Frost, “Out, Out”. It is about wood cutting with a large open saw blade. Our neighbor, Bob Steinbauer, had a tractor with a large saw mounted on the front. Such a saw was very dangerous. The saw was used especially for very large, awkward, difficult pieces of wood to cut. These had to be lifted carefully and positioned despite the difficulty in handling them. Dad never let me close to that blade. I don’t think Dad ever read the poem, but he knew the danger.

Our old farm house was one that had several additions. The original dated to the 1800’s with windows that were hand hewn. Dad added the basement by excavating it with a grader blade pulled by a team of horses. He and Mom later added an addition, as well as indoor plumbing and water. They began farming in 1934. Life’s work was difficult and demanding then.

Were we poor? Yes, certainly we were as I reflect. Like Mom, though, I never thought of us that way. Our neighbors weren’t much different, for one thing. We were always well fed. Mom made some of best bread – individual little loaves, row after row in bread pans. She knew how to adjust for the conditions, humidity and temperature, just by the feel of the bread. Even in a blizzard we were warm and could survive for days without electricity. Most importantly, we had love and one another.

I believe need fosters appreciation. There are many today who do not lack materially, but seem desperately poor spiritually.

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

Confessional, biographical, political, philosophical, perhaps controversial, but hopefully stimulating and thought-provoking. That is my goal with this personal blog. I want to be mindful of the privacy of myself and especially others, but open and honest. I intend to also share quotes, books, poems and recommendations, so here goes.

I am a ‘Thursday’s Child’ . . . far to go. I read a Random House children’s book, “Ulysses”, when I was ten or eleven. Ulysses reluctantly sailed with the Greeks to the Trojan war which lasted 10 years. It ended when “wily” and clever Ulysses planned the ruse of the Trojan horse that resulted in the destruction of Troy. He wandered another ten years before reaching his home island of Ithaka. I wanted to be Ulysses (Odysseus in Greek) -even to the scar on his knee he suffered on a boar hunt (which in later life I had, though not from a boar). I wanted to be a restless wanderer, hear the Siren’s song, to enjoy the charms of Circe, to sail between Scylla and Charybdis, to use my wiles to escape Polyphemus, the Cyclops.

My career was law and insurance. Few adventures there. I managed a crew through some dangerous claims, and outwitted the bureaucrats a few times – as close as I came to my hero, Odysseus.

I have now retired to a new beginning in life. Although no longer a young man I yet have an adventurous spirit and a willingness to share my stories, adventures, reflections, lessons, regrets, and even sins.

It is important to provide background, a context.

I was born in 1950, two years after my family had been stricken with polio. Florence, our mother, was smart and knowledgeable, especially about the epidemic of that era, poliomyelitis. She was aware of the dangers of water as a carrier of the virus. She had warned the children, Robert, Richard, Janet and Jeanne, to stay away from the river (the Straight River was just below their farm). and did not allow them to go the county fair. In August, though, Bob, the oldest came down with flu symptoms, headache and fever. Mom took him to a local doctor who said it was the flu, but his eyes and fear confirmed to her it was something more serious. A day later, a Sunday morning, Bob tried to read a Tom Mix comic book, but could not hold it up. Saliva dripped from the side of his mouth. John and Florence left Dick, Janet and Jeanne with Father Snyder, their parish priest, and took Bob to another doctor who told them to immediately take him to Minneapolis. The route was the old Lyndale, a two lane road. In route, Dad suddenly slowed, whitened, as the car turned by itself into a field drive. Mom asked why he was stopping. A tie rod had broken, but the car miraculously turned into the only drive. Dad flagged for help. Two ladies, Good Samaritans, drove them to the hospital in Minneapolis. Bob had Bulbar polio, a form that strikes the spinal cord and breathing. He was placed in an iron lung, but died two days later, 9 days before his 13th birthday.

Dick was already stricken and hospitalized when Bob’s body was brought home and placed in the living room for the wake. Only the bravest friends and neighbors (treasured as lifelong, loyal friends) braved the fears of this disease of undetermined origin. Grandpa Durand sat up all night with Bob in an old oak rocking chair. Bob was laid to rest in the parish cemetery, land that John and Florence had donated less than a year before. He was the first to be buried there, coming home to rest on the old farm.

Left to right – Bob, Jeanne, Janet & Dick

Dick (11), Janet (10) and Jeanne (8), in turn, by age, suffered polio. It was most severe according to age. Brother Dick had a spinal fusion in 1951, when I was barely a year old and toddling with our old dog, Pooch, to keep him company. He was in a full body cast for months, but was so well-cared for that he never suffered a bed sore. Dick suffered all his life, had much active enjoyment taken from him, and would never endure surgery or life prolonging treatment. He died at age 61.

Jeanne, the youngest, suffered much less, but died too young at age 71. She suffered from the effects of chemotherapy and radiation as well as post polio symptom, all severely weakening the muscles in her throat and neck. She was in a halo for months and fed only a liquid diet, but remained positive and firm in her faith.

Sister Janet had polio in her leg, resulting in one leg shorter than the other and a foot smaller than the other. A blessing was meeting a woman who shared her story, one with whom she could share pairs of shoes. (A life lesson that we are better when we share our handicaps with others.) Janet is always positive and upbeat, no matter her pain or discomfort. She thrives on company, never complains, always ready with a laugh. She and I have NEVER had one cross word – though I tease her relentlessly!

My mother called me a “miracle child”, named for St. Michael to whom she prayed fervently. She had suffered miscarriages, so, I guess I was, in fact, a miracle child. That is a heavy burden for a Thursday’s child . . . more to follow . . .

Let me share a poem about the journey of Odysseus back to his home of Ithaka, a journey we all share –

Ithaka

BY C. P. CAVAFY
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Welcome to my retirement blog, a collection of reflections, stories, observations, and recommendations. I hope you enjoy, and I look forward to sharing.