Today was going to be about Grand Rapids, a nice little town on the edge of the Iron Range. Birthplace of Judy Garland!

Instead, Marsha and I have been working on Ancestry.com most of the day. I see how people get hooked.  Genealogical research turns out to be an absorbing and time consuming pastime. Also most interesting in Marsha’s case because, while her mom and both Robert and my parents are rather recent arrivals from the ‘old country,’ it turns out her dad, William Jackson, has some serious American History. As in Plymouth, Massachusetts in the 1500s and, we think, some ancestors who did something or the other in the Revolution.

I’d feel a little inferior except for being able to trace my ancestry to an itinerant fiddler and Odin and Thor.

Luckily, we took a fairly long walk today so I have more photos of Trees and Grass and Leaves and Water to share. Tried for just a little different angle from the previous days of trees grass leaves water.

Chilly green early summer. Mid-day, stretched out on a homemade quilt. Reading Autumn Killing by Swedish writer Mons Kallentoft. Vacation life as it should be lived.

Last night’s walk.

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We rurally-raised elders remember when people went ‘visiting.’ It went kind of like this at our place: Dad might say “Let’s go over to Knute’s and get some coffee.” Or Mom wondered if she could get that recipe for molasses cake from Helen. Or Robert or I wanted to go play somewhere besides our own fields and woods and hay loft and back bedrooms. So I get way too country-girl-sentimental when I come up here I know and start sounding like a wordy Norman Rockwell. I forget to mention that half the time we probably didn’t have enough gas in the car to both go visiting and still get the cream into town to sell on Saturday. Or that Mom was usually so exhausted from her 24-7 work day maintaining a farm and family that she frequently fell asleep over the cake and coffee spread. But I can see it all through the rosy haze of long ago if I want to ….

Now people ‘drop by’ or meet us for coffee or dinner or Skype, text, email and post. I, not being a particularly social person, mostly prefer this new world…still…visiting had its charms and certainly its tastes didn’t it?

Yesterday we ‘visited.’ Because we are up north and it’s still possible. Back in the day—when I was a child—we often visited the Week’s, Agnes and Knute or Louie and Helen. Yesterday we spent a nostalgic afternoon with that same Helen and two of her ‘girls.’ Revisiting a time. We chatted, reminisced, looked at photos, drank coffee and ate a lot of cake.

Here’s what VISITING look like…

The Old (MINNESOTA) Place

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Sunday, May 31, 2015. It’s been two years since I’ve been out to the old place; today Robert, Marsha and me are dropping by. I’ll return later this week for some quality time. Wonder what I’ll see today? How much further fallen? Still standing walls? Is the end of the old brown couch still visible? The cellar wasn’t that deep so the abandoned furniture can just come to rest there with me peering in from year to year to see what I still recognize.

I wrote about this coming summer visit to the old place for a winter class assignment asking us to imagine a conversation with an inanimate object. I picked the house I grew up in…The Old Place we call it.

Today won’t be that visit, the one described in the story I wrote—that’s the trip later in the week, just me myself and I—resulting in…a soliloquy post…

20150531_162901Here’s my story from last winter:

HOME ALONE: A SENTIMENTAL CONVERSATION

You know I come here alone so I can talk out loud to myself without seeming silly don’t you? Maybe I’m not talking to myself; maybe I’m talking to you. I always say hello when I walk through the door. Of course I can only come in those few steps without falling to the ground below the broken boards and fractured linoleum that was once the floor. A  few steps further on and I would fall into that horrid old cellar—a creepy damp spider-ridden place where mom kept the jars of blueberries and June berries and choke cherries and plums and pears and peaches and apricots and apple sauce. Because we were a family favoring fruits way over vegetables. On canning days you wore your fruity perfume with summery pleasure and a pretty dressed-up pride. Gosh you smelled good, old house. Remember?

OMG—covering all emotions—we text these 21st century days of connecting through the Cloud and, just as quickly, disconnecting.  If only it were really that easy. No, not really. I do not want to disconnect. At some point in every visit here I want to turn black-cloaked Bedouin mother, wailing and wailing for what I’ve lost. What I can’t get back. What, no matter the conversations I have right here by your front door, with me and with you, I cannot get back. Youth. Mom. Dad. Absolute Safety. Unconditional Love. A Whole Big Long Future In Front Of Me. We sort of shared all that didn’t we? Now look at us.

Hey did you know I’m coming to visit at the end of May? Memorial Day. Hot pork sandwiches and coffee at the Blackduck Café. Bright paper flowers at the family graves  in all the reds pinks golds blues of the real thing that mom loved and planted all around you. Do you remember that, old house? How the Sweet Peas smelled?

This time I’ll stay longer than I usually do. It seems the older I get the more I have to talk to you about. Partly I am afraid you’ll disappear before me. Last time you looked pretty shaky…should go to the gym like me. If I lived up here maybe your gym could be a little more than having Jack mow the field and yard once a year. Maybe we’d haul away the broken down woodshed and outhouse. But then what would I pee behind when I visit?

Sometime I promise to come up in January. You know I do think of you then. Honestly. Alone. So cold. Do you miss the cook stove and the barrel stove both going full blast, warming your heart? Me too.

Okay, well, see you end of May. Planning on being there most of the day. I’m bringing sandwiches, thermos of coffee, bottle of wine, my camera and a notebook.

We’ll talk.

?

 

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United States history and geography are all about journeys. From the first Asians across Beringia, the land bridge between Asia and North America, to those pious Pilgrims, to yesterday’s Mexican or El Salvadoran child, we came and are still coming down a long hard road. Every regional history has these tales to tell, but our U.S. immigrant history is so present, so relatively contemporary, making the journeys easier to imagine and to research.

Since my history is Scandinavian I, of course, love those stories of Odin, Thor and Freya; and then the recorded antics, brave and foolhardy and greedy as they may be, of the Vikings.

But I also like the more immediate stories of my dad and his twin Elin and his little sister Gyro of the golden curls and the small boy, Ilif, disembarking onto Ellis Island. Then, while many of the Scandinavian settlement stories are set on the increasingly prosperous farms and towns  of Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota and the Dakotas, my family only follows that course on mom’s Floren side; on the Neset side it’s all rough and tough northwoods lumbercamp, liquor store and subsistence farming life.

When I’m up here, where the American Nesets’ journeys begin I feel quite emotionally attached to our story and, for reasons obviously not connected to fame and fortune, quite honored to be part of it. It is almost as though the ordinariness of it confirms our place in the solid center of immigrant stories.

I write about my family all of the time, about our origins in the poverty that often existed among the early emigrants to the lumberjack culture of this harsh north country. That was followed for my parents and generally for my generation, by the typical struggles of working class Americans, how to feed and clothe your family and perhaps someday own some little chunk of land. Now our kids and grandchildren move up a ladder, not necessarily to that mythical American dream, but at least to lives of greater choices in all things economic, cultural and geographic. The choices may not be quite as diverse and grand as the pontifications of our politicians would like us to believe, but they are there to some degree. In grandchildren who own their own businesses and land and horses and degrees from prestigious universities and travel and dream and seek to their hearts’ content.

I’m always sentimental about northern Minnesota. Yeah, you’ve noticed. Easy to forget how anxious I was to leave at age 18—to Florida Philippines North Carolina New Mexico The World. And always so happy to return.

We came home the other day by way of the Red Lake. Here—in honor of those first guys over the bridge…

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Rain has re-entered my life. First the unusual cloudy days, many including at least a few raindrops, before I left New Mexico for Minnesota a week ago. Since then more days than not with fairly steady rainfall. I imagined under these conditions I would be paying serious attention to writing both in my blogs and in massive note taking for everything I want to say about ‘time and place’ prior to and during the Big15Trip.

I’ve been begging, longing, crying, hoping, damn-close-to-praying for rain to inspire me. It’s here. I’m not inspired. Lazy. Accomplishing nothing. A week’s vacation. Okay, I can justify that but as of tomorrow morning it is time to move on. Think. Create. And so forth.

Actually I have accomplished something. The Village Bookstore in Grand Rapids is excellent—as good a small town bookstore as I’ve seen anywhere. It is especially on top of Scandinavian crime fiction so naturally I would be a fan. Marsha and I made our first shopping foray to downtown GR yesterday and I managed to stop by the bookstore for a quick look about and emerged with a few new ‘Nordic noirs’ in hand. I also picked up Book Four of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle.

Seriously, Knausgaard is as brilliant as the critics claim. “Not since James Joyce, has anyone written something this important…” a reviewer says. Since I’ve never been able to read Joyce beyond some required college excerpts I cannot attest to that—but I can tell you Knausgaard is most readable and original and addictive. Preparing me for my weeks coming up in Norway.

In fact in a little while we are practicing a time honored Scandinavian tradition. Company is coming over for cake and coffee. Trust me when I say it doesn’t get any more Norwegian than that.

Forest Goddesses.

Forest Goddesses.

One of those Nordic nights when the killer prowls the forest and the trusty detective scans the horizon for clues to who did it...

One of those Nordic nights when the killer prowls the forest and the trusty detective scans the horizon for clues to who did it…

 

MINNESOTA Family Way Way Up North

I have a small family. One brother, about eight living first cousins, two children, four grandchildren. The older generations all Euro-American, working/lower middle class, moderately hard-working, usually law-abiding, decently-educated and slightly-boring people.  We actually perk up considerably at the grandchildren level—more interesting occupations, educations, ethnicities, cultures, interests, residences.

Here’s a small album of some of Cousin Audrey’s family, daughter, granddaughter, great-grandchildren. This really belongs on my other blog but they’re all so photogenic on a pretty Minnesota May afternoon that it seems travel-worthy enough. All that Viking blood you see on display….

 

 

 

 

Morning walk in the almost-rain.

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We’ve just returned from a 400 mile round trip between Grand Rapids and Roseau—or the Minnesota of lakes and woods to the Minnesota of Lake of the Woods. I managed to check into the one motel room in Roseau last night with faulty internet service so my commitment to a daily travel blog was stymied. Now to catch up.

It’s time to let go of my tree obsession and write about something else. Family and fish for example always remembering this is a travel blog of course. Visiting relatives, which we were doing, is very much an experience of time and place, and since I’m planning on throwing age into the mix in the next few posts, that final trip enters the picture too, doesn’t it?

This visit was a little more complex than we would ordinarily experience because of Cousin Audrey’s birthday,  which she would be just as happy to skip since her age and health have pretty much taken the fun out of everything. You can’t get out of a birthday that easily, we’re here to celebrate we say…please enjoy yourself or make us think you are…we mean. Daughter Terri already has the fresh walleye laid out for an evening fish fry on the patio of the assisted living facility where Audrey lives, chocolate cake with blue and yellow flowers from the Super One grocery is in the frig and the flowers and cards keep coming.

This family of cousins lives up north in the town of Roseau in Roseau County, prairie, woods and farming country just a few miles south of the Canadian border. One of those small towns still clinging to life thanks to Polaris nearby and the fact that it’s prime fishing country, close to Lake of the Woods and Northwest Angle. The Angle, as it’s referred to locally is an odd bit of land sticking out into a lake, part Canadian, part American, the northern most bit of U.S. territory AND where my cousins fish for walleye… the most sought-after fish in Minnesota. Its thick, white fillets, handsome shape and coloring, and elusive nature make it the ultimate prize among anglers. (MN DNR)

Terri and Brian have a comfortable camping trailer which they park in a trailer park/campground up in the Angle and where they go to fish many weekends spring, summer and fall. For which I am extremely grateful since Walleye may be my very favorite food in the entire world. In fact this morning I had leftover walleye and fresh doughnuts for breakfast. Life is good up here in the north woods.

Here is my bit of geography and some fish photos for the day. I’ll move on to family tomorrow.

The photo I originally used came from a walleye picture web site but according to my smart-ass brother it was a yellow-perch, only a cousin to the walleye. So I've changed it to this authentic walleye picture, unless cousin Terri is lying to me and this was yellow perch also. Who can you trust these days...

The photo I originally used came from a walleye picture web site but according to my smart-ass brother it was a yellow-perch, only a cousin to the walleye. So I’ve changed it to this authentic walleye picture, unless cousin Terri is lying to me and this was yellow perch also. Who can you trust these days…

NW ANGLE (or Walleye Capital of the World)

     The Northwest Angle aka “the Angle” is located on the northern side of Lake of the Woods, or when viewing a map, the “chimney”. The area is 596.3 miles, 473.2 miles of that is water. It is also the northern most point of the contiguous 48 states. The Angle is in coexistence with Angle Township and Lake of the Woods County, surrounded by Manitoba and Ontario.

     northwest_angle,_mn

THE NORTHWEST ANGLE By William E. Lass | 02/04/14

Minnesota’s Northwest Angle in Lake of the Woods is farther north than any other part of the contiguous United States. Logically, it would seem that this area of about 123 square miles should be in Canada. But this oddest feature of the entire U.S.–Canada boundary was the proper result of American treaties negotiated with Great Britain.

The first step in creating the Northwest Angle was provided by the Treaty of Paris (1783). In recognizing American independence, Great Britain agreed to a U.S.–Canada boundary from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River. West of Lake Superior the line was to run by middle of lake and stream to the northwesternmost point of Lake of the Woods. From that terminus the specified boundary was a due west line to the Mississippi River.

Although they did not realize it, the American and British diplomats had agreed upon a geographic impossibility. They accepted map maker John Mitchell’s depiction of an egg-shaped Lake of the Woods that had an obvious northwesternmost point. They also believed Mitchell’s claim that a line drawn due west from there would intersect the Mississippi.

John Mitchell’s 1755 map showed Lake of the Woods as roughly egg-shaped.

In 1798, British explorer David Thompson proved that the northernmost source of the Mississippi was south of Lake of the Woods. This discovery confirmed the existence of a northwest boundary gap.

The U.S. obtained an unspecified area west of the Mississippi from France by the Louisiana Purchase. In 1807, American and British diplomats tried to define the northern boundary of Louisiana. The British proposed that the 1783 water line be drawn only to the point where it first touched the forty-ninth parallel. They believed that from that intersection the forty-ninth should be followed westward.

The American negotiators rejected this proposal. They refused to consider anything that changed the wording of the 1783 treaty. Consequently, the British agreed that the northwesternmost point of Lake of the Woods had to be the starting point of a boundary extension.

The negotiators first provided for a new boundary that ran due north-south. This line was from the northwesternmost point of Lake of the Woods to the forty-ninth parallel. Then the boundary was to follow the forty-ninth westward to the continental divide in the Rocky Mountains. The administration of President Thomas Jefferson refused to approve this agreement because it did not resolve other outstanding issues between the two countries.

The U.S. and Great Britain finally fixed Louisiana Territory’s northern boundary by the Convention of 1818. They accepted the due north-south and forty-ninth parallel lines that had been proposed eleven years earlier. This treaty completed the shaping of the Northwest Angle diplomatically. There was not, however, an accurate map of Lake of the Woods even then. Additionally, no one knew where the forty-ninth parallel was relative to the lake’s northwesternmost point.

The existence of the Northwest Angle was confirmed by a joint American-British surveying commission, which compiled the first detailed map of Lake of the Woods. In 1824, David Thompson, the chief British surveyor, identified the lake’s four possible northwesternmost points. The next year Johann Ludwig Tiarks, an astronomer employed by the British Foreign Office, determined that the lake’s northwesternmost point was at the head of Angle Inlet.

The U.S. and Great Britain accepted Tiarks’ calculations of the northwesternmost point. In the Webster-Ashburton Treaty (1842), they agreed on the boundaries that shaped the Northwest Angle.

Joint American-British boundary commissions determined the angle’s precise boundaries. From 1872 to 1875, surveyors calculated and marked the northwesternmost point and the due south line from it to the forty-ninth parallel. During this survey both Great Britain and Canada tried to eliminate the Northwest Angle by reviving the suggestion made in 1807.

The U.S. government rejected their offers to buy the angle. The Americans realized that it did not have great economic value. But they persisted in rejecting anything that would change the treaty under which they had gained their independence. In 1912, another commission surveyed and monumented the water line boundary from the northwesternmost point.

Since 1925, a joint U.S.–Canada boundary commission has maintained the boundary. Among other things, the commission assures that the boundary is easily identified by appropriate monuments.

 http://www.mnopedia.org/place/northwest-angle

 

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Green didn’t overwhelm me with its Greenness on Saturday’s tour of family graves. I wondered if imagination increases its intensity just as distance makes the heart grow fonder. Because I remember June Green as being of a depth and breadth that overwhelmed all else in the natural world. Like wearing glasses with green lenses; all light bulbs being colored green; the sun shining green; the world as a bowl of greens;  Crayola greens: forest, mountain meadow, jungle, spearmint, Caribbean, ocean, emerald, shamrock, fern.

Saturday didn’t seem that green. Then Robert reminded me that the trees weren’t fully leafed out yet. It’s not June yet, he said, give it a few more days. And it’s happening before my eyes. Yesterday on the walk. Today in the rain. Greener by the hour.

I know I said this is my travel blog—and it is. And I’m in Minnesota, having traveled here.

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Green, green, it’s green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green, green, I’m going away
To where the grass is greener still

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Ah well I told my mama on the day I was born
Don’t you cry when you see I’m gone
Ya know there ain’t no woman gonna settle me down
I just gotta be traveling on
Singing

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Green, green, it’s green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green, green, I’m going away
To where the grass is greener still

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  Nah, there ain’t nobody in this whole wide world
Gonna tell me to spend my time
I’m just a good-loving rambling man
Say, buddy, can ya spare me a dime?
Hear me crying, it’s a

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Green, green, it’s green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green, green, I’m going away
To where the grass is greener still

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Yeah, I don’t care when the sun goes down
Where I lay my weary head
Green, green valley or rocky road
It’s there I’m gonna make my bed
Easy, now

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Green, green, it’s green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green, green, I’m going away
To where the grass is greener still

Songwriters: HEIKKILA, KRISTIAN/LUNDSTROM, BJORN/SPARKS, EARL

Green, Green lyrics © EMI Music Publishing