Uffda - my aching back

UFFDA - my back is killing me. Ole and I have been busy changing the "face" of our backyard. We tore out a very large flowerbed and replaced it with over 200 pavers and built a firepit. I guess I proved to myself that I can still work like an old plow horse - even if the temperatures have been in the 90s over the last two days. And those of you who live in other parts of the world don't understand what a temperature of 90 means in Minnesota - because the humidity is at 90% at the same time!! And that makes it VERY HOT!

Below is what that area looked like last year. Quite a transformation, don't cha' think? And a lot less work this fall and next spring.

And we have 13 new little family members that actually managed to hatch!! This is one very busy mama duck. We have ducks on the river every year, but no mama has managed to get her eggs to hatch for years because of the instability of the river level. Every time it rains the river rises several feet and floods the nest out. This year the river level has remained high throughout the spring so she must have built her nest on a high spot and lucked out because the river went down instead of up.

They're so busy peeping and pecking for bugs and worms every morning and evening. And Mama is ever on guard watching and protecting. I'm going to throw some grain out in that area to keep them coming back.

Well, we're having another "rain event" today. That's what the local weatherman has started to call them - "rain events." We don't just get a nice shower now and then - we get deluged for days at a time. It's getting really old and very depressing.

I got an email from someone named Rhea this morning - asking whether or not there are still any hoboes around (reference yesterday's entry.) Well, Rhea, I currently live just a half-mile from where I grew up next to Bum's Jungle and haven't seen any hoboes back in that area for years. A few years back there was a hobo convention that took place on the east side of the state, and that summer we had a ton of Folks on Foot that were making their way to the convention. Minnesota is noted as being a really easy welfare state, especially the county that I live in. So at that time, all the hoboes would hop off the trains in the city, go to the welfare office and collect $360 and then hop back on the freights and head for the convention. At that time you didn't even have to establish residency in Minnesota - they would just give you money. If I remember correctly there were several thousand hoboes that attended that convention - so I guess the answer is "yes" - there are still hoboes around. But at this point it's a very rare occasion that I see one riding the rails. My buddy, Art, used to ride the rails and has an interesting story posted on his blog. I'm sure he's got more to tell, he's just got to pull them out of his memory banks.

By the way, Rhea, I don't recognize your name - what's your blogger name?

I'm really disappointed in you folks - I guess my blog isn't as well-read as I had thought - or are you just trying to keep me from getting a big head (snicker). Only a few people have signed my Notify List that's WAAAYY down on the bottom of the page. If you would like to continue to read Lena's Latest Gossip and be notified when I update, please sign up so I don't have to cry and feel really bad. (sniff, sniff, pulls tissue from box.)

Hoboes, Tramps, but No Thieves

I referenced Bum's Jungle in my previous entry, and how the hoboes would hop on and off the steam trains that would go by, spend the night in the hobo camp in the woods that were behind our house and then move on. Fortunately, we never had any come to the door asking for food or money.

My mother spent her younger years growing up in southern Minnesota on a farm, where it wasn't uncommon for men to come walking up to the farmhouse looking for a handout. Some of them would offer to fix things in return for some food, others just wanted to be fed. She said her mother always managed to find something to feed them regardless of the time of day, just to make sure that there would be no trouble. She would make them fresh coffee, sit them down on the back porch and give them a plate of food. My Mom always remembers them as being polite and saying thank you for whatever they were given. Occasionally there would be one or two that her father would hire to help with the field work if needed. They would sleep in the barn in the hay and considered it to be pretty comfy and warm compared to sleeping in the boxcars on trains.

Apparently, they had their own sign language and would leave "marks" in conspicuous places for the hobos that followed to let them know what the conditions of the area were - where you could always get a good handout or where you might be met with a shotgun.

My parents were married in the early 30's, during the Great Depression. My father tried to farm in central North Dakota where things were pretty dry. He said he put seed in the ground for seven years before he finally got any kind of a crop, and there were times when his cows had to eat thistles because there was no grass.

Because of these conditions there were a lot of men moving about the country looking for work, using any method of transportation they could - the railroads being the most common. My Mom was always a shutterbug and I think must have carried her Brownie Box Camera with her wherever she went. I found this picture in one of her scrapbooks.

She said it was taken in the spring of the year and the top of the train was full of young men headed west. She had gone to town to sell some chickens to get some cash to buy groceries and managed to snap this picture as the train went through town.

Apparently their farm was far enough away from the railroad tracks that they had very few hoboes approach the house just for food. If any one of them managed to go that far into the country they were looking for work, and of course with no crops, there wasn't any work to be had.

A movie that you might find interesting on this issue is called Emperor of the North. It stars Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine. Marvin plays "A" Number One, a famous bum who rode the rails, and Borgnine plays the part of a railroad cop whose mission in life is to keep "his" train clear of any freeloaders. It gives you a good peak into what life must have been like back then for these people.

Times - they sure were different back then.

PLEASE NOTE: WAAYY down on the bottom of this page I've put a "signy up thingie." If you would like to continue to read Lena's Latest Gossip, please sign the Notify List. I THINK I've finally got it figured out now - Sometimes I'm just not the brightest lightbulb in the box. Anyway, I've been notifying through a regular email and sometimes I worry that I'm sending things to people who really aren't interested. So if you are - just sign your name - er - email address and you can become one of my very exclusive Groupies!!

The Dreaded Bum's Jungle

I was about four or five years old when my father decided to settle down and quit living the gypsy life on the road construction crew that he worked for. You can reference that story HERE: http://mahvalicious.diaryland.com/060926_61.html. He bought a piece of property on the edge of the little town that we had settled in, (population 275 at that time) and proceeded to set up residence there.

I remember very vividly that one morning in the fall of the year when I headed for school, I was told that when school got out that afternoon I should go home to the new location instead of the old one. Four o’clock came, the dismissal bell rang and I went happily skipping down the road headed for home. Little did I know that my father had purchased a piece of property adjacent to the dreaded BUM’S JUNGLE!!

Now I had no idea what a Bum’s Jungle was, but all my friends, who were skipping down the road with me by the way, were eager to fill me in on the horrible and terrible things that happened there. My Dad’s Half Acre of Paradise was bordered on one side by the railroad track that went through town, on one side by the gravel road that went a mile down to the country church, on the third side by an open field, and on the fourth side by a heavily wooded area known to all the local kids as Bum’s Jungle. At that time the railroad was still using the big black steam locomotives that shook the Earth making the dishes in the cupboards rattle when they went roaring by, and spewed black ashes and stinky smoke all over everything.

Of course there were times when the engines wouldn’t roar by, but would stop to take on a load of something or to switch to a siding track until another train went sailing past. That’s when the inhabitants of the Bum’s Jungle would take advantage of the slower pace and hop on or off the boxcars and take up residence in the wooded area behind our house. Periodically we could see men moving about back in the woods, campfires at night, etc. The camp would be occupied for a few days and then would be empty for a long period of time. Then Big Brother and I would go carefully exploring back in the woods to see what we could find – empty whiskey bottles, cigarette packs, snoose cans, remnants of meals cooked, etc. As the years went by the occupancies became fewer and farther between. To my knowledge there never was any trouble from any of the inhabitants – they were just itinerant men moving from one location to another in a manner they preferred.

And to this day that piece of property is still known in the local community as Bum’s Jungle.

Ole is NOT who he appears to be!

In my previous entry I made mention of the fact that Ole is NOT who he APPEARS to be!! That Ole is a sneaky Finlander, ya’ know.

First of all, let’s just say that Ole’s last name is Olson. You need to know that in order to understand this story. Olson isn’t a very Finnish name, but for today we’ll just say he can be blessed with a Norwegian name.

One day a number of years ago, when Ole was still “gainfully employed” he was making a sales call on Hazel, a lady that held a very important position in the local school district. Hazel had been a customer of Ole’s for many years and just happened to claim the same Old Stomping Grounds as Ole did. So when Ole called on her they always reserved a bit of time for shooting the sh- - , in addition to doing business. This particular day the subject of folks that they both knew from the Old Stomping grounds came up, in particular, Ole’s grandfather.

Hazel asked Ole a question about his grandpa, and Ole responded with, “That mean old SOB?” (I never knew him but I guess he was hell on wheels.)

HAZEL: No, your OTHER grandpa.

OLE: What OTHER grandpa?

HAZEL: Uh,oh – you don’t know!!

OLE: What do you mean I don’t know?

HAZEL: You REALLY don’t know?

OLE: Know WHAT for heaven’s sakes?

HAZEL: OMG, I’ve gone and spilled the beans. I can’t believe you’re 50 years old and didn’t know about your Grandpa August.

OLE: Well, for heaven’s sakes TELL me!!

It seems there was a baker by the name of August HUMMPAA (pay attention to that name – it will give you a chuckle later in the story) in a small town close to where Ole’s Grandpa Matt farmed. The baker’s specialty was cinnamon toast, and back in those days he used to deliver the cinnamon toast to the various farms in a horse a buggy. Now apparently August Hummpaa was a horny old bugger and “had his way” with a number of the farm ladies around the countryside, one of them being Grandpa Matt’s wife – Ole’s grandmother. The result ended up being Ole’s father – I always wondered why Ole’s father didn’t look like the rest of his five older brothers and sisters.

Anyway, when Grandpa Matt found out his wife was expecting and that August Hummpaa had been sniffing around about the time she got pregnant, he kicked her out and sent her back to Rhode Island where her family was. Apparently Ole’s father was born back in Rhode Island and was several years old before Grandpa Matt and his wife came to terms and she was allowed to come back home.

As I said, August Hummpaa was apparently a horny old bugger, had several wives over the years and at the time of his death (90-something) he left behind over 100 LEGITIMATE descendants. No one knows how many illegitimate ones there are/were floating around the world. Now a strange twist to this story is that this is when Ole discovered that he and Hazel (remember her, back in the beginning of the story) are actually first cousins!! August Hummpaa was biological grandfather to both of them.

And there’s another strange twist. August Hummpaa had a grandson named Olavi, who had the hots for Ole’s little sister, and the feelings were mutual. Well, wouldn’t you know that when Little Sister graduated from college and moved out to California she and Olavi started shacking up together. Ole’s mother was beside herself but finally broke down and had to tell Little Sister that she couldn’t live with this guy, as they were actually first cousins – and you know what happens then!! Apparently this whole issue was supposed to be a deep dark secret – so only those on a need-to-know-basis were privy to the information.

The day Ole found all of this out from Cousin Hazel he came home laughing and giggling and couldn’t wait to tell me the story. Ole thought it was hilarious and had/has enough self-confidence that he didn’t feel it made HIM any less of a person. Now Ole’s father on the other hand, spent his entire life feeling sorry for himself because of a situation he had no control over and ended up drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle most of his life, stating that he drank because of his past history. Yeah – right – but that’s another story and I’m not going there today.

AND THEN: After we had laughed and giggled about the issue we decided that Ole had to tell Lovely Daughter all about it. She was away at college at the time so we decided that the next time she came home for the weekend we would take her out to dinner under the guise that we had some important announcement to share with her. And we did. She sat very quietly and seriously throughout Ole telling her the entire story. Then when he finished he made the announcement that he had decided to legally change his last name from Olson to Hummpaa, and that she, as his child, would from then on be known as Lovely Daughter Hummpaa. A terrified look came across her face and out of her mouth came, “Over my dead body! There’s no way I’m going to be known on campus as Lovely Daughter Hummpaa!!”

Of course it was just a joke – Ole would never have done that – but we sure all got a good laugh out of it.

So now you know that Ole is truly not who he appears to be.

40 Years Ago Yesterday

So apparently Diaryland is back up for the Freeloaders and we can go back and make entries - supposedly. I tried a number of times this morning and I won't say I couldn't get into the site, but it was SO SLOW I gave up waiting for the page to load. At one point I waited 15 minutes before the page completely finished. So - I think I'll stick with a bit more stability for now and not keep banging my head against the wall back over at Diaryland. Enough said - on to more fun things.

Now to go back in time:

Forty years ago yesterday (sorry, Kids, I couldn't get to this yesterday - too busy) on May 6th, 1967, I woke up, crawled out of bed, looked out the window and started to cry. It was snowing. Great big huge fluffy flakes of snow causing visibility problems. And this was supposed to be my wedding day!! I had a hair appointment in town and took off in my '67 Mustang, slipping and sliding all over the highway. By the time my hair was finished, the snow had quit and the sun was shining. Whew. I had a lot of out-of-towners coming for the wedding and I didn't want them to have trouble getting there in the slippery, sloshy stuff.

My wedding cake was being made by a bakery in town, but they didn't deliver out to the country churches, so early in the afternoon my Dad, Big Brother and I headed to the bakery to transport my cake the ten miles to the church. The four layers were all assembled, and the cake was sitting on a board which we loaded into the backseat of the car with me sitting on one side of it and Big Brother sitting on the other trying to hold it steady and keep it in one piece. All went well for the first nine miles until we crossed a railroad track just a mile from the church. My Dad slowed WAY down to just barely a crawl, and we were holding the cake board very steady, but as the rear wheels crossed the tracks there was enough of a wiggle that the cake top toppled - off the cake and upside down onto the floor of the car. We managed to get the rest of the cake into the church and onto the table without further adventures.

Well, now, this was definitely a catastrophy. You couldn't very well have a wedding cake with no top. So my sister called a friend of hers who was an amateur cake decorator and she came rushing to the church with her tools and equipment to see what she could salvage. This was only four hours prior to the wedding, so we definately couldn't bake another one. She was a miracle worker and by the time she finished her task, if you didn't know the cake had been upside down on the car floor, you wouldn't have guessed it. As was custom, we saved the top layer, froze it and celebrated by eating it on our first anniversary. We did come across a few small pieces of gravel embedded in the frosting - but oh, well, neither of us broke any fillings so all was well.

The wedding was scheduled to start at 6:30 p.m. so the wedding party was at the church a couple hours ahead of time. During this time my little Norwegian Aunt cautiously came up to me to wish me well and ask me if I was really SURE I wanted to marry this "fella." I told her I was sure but was curious as to her concerns. Her response was, "Well, he's a Finlander and they carry knives, ya' know." Well, maybe they did back in the Olden Days, but I had never seen Ole carry anything other than a pocket knife. I assured her that everything would be fine and the wedding would proceed as planned.

The church bells were ringing and it was time for my Father to walk me down the aisle. By this time I was so nervous I was shaking uncontrollably, don't ask me why. I remember him taking my arm, squeezing it tight, giving me a peck on the cheek and telling me everything would be fine. My Father was never a very demonstrative person, so that little incident has always stuck with me.

So down the aisle I went, took Ole's arm and the ceremony proceeded. Now my little niece, age 5, and nephew, age 3 were the flowergirl and ringbearer. When my little nephew was asked what he was going to do in the wedding he told everyone he was going to "bury the rings." Well, unfortunately he got pretty bored standing there holding those rings on a pillow, waiting for the long-winded minister to get to the point here, so he started sticking his head through the vertical posts on the alter railing. His mother tried to stop him several times, but that didn't work, and before you knew it he had his head stuck between the verticals and couldn't get it out!! He turned to his mother and whispered in a loud voice, "Mom, I'm stuck, what do I do now?" By this time the congregation was in giggles and the minister was getting upset. Finally in frustration, the little guy was able to get his head turned enough so that he could see his father who was seated in the balcony and yelled out in a loud voice, "Dad, come help me get my head unstuck." Now the congregation was roaring and the minister was getting angry. He was such an old sourpuss anyway - no sense of humor. Well, nephew finally got his head unstuck, the ceremony went on and in the end, regardless of what happened, we were married anyway!



Then as we came out of the church we were both "captured" and put in the back of a pickup and driven all over the countryside and through our little town, horns honking, etc.


Of course there was the usual messing with the car. It was stuffed FULL of gift wrap paper, the plug wires were all pulled from the distributor, which caused some real problems, and shaving cream spread from one end to the other. But we overcame all of that and took off down the road to a location that we THOUGHT no one else knew about. But we were wrong.




And that's today's history lesson of what happened 40 years ago when we got married. Stay tuned for tomorrow's edition of the soap opera.

I Got a Bit of Snoose up My Nose

I got a bit of snoose up my nose this morning regarding Diaryland. I know that there are those of you who support Andrew and his server problems, but I think there are better ways to handle the situation than to just cut everyone off with the exception of the Gold Members. How about giving all “freeloaders” a 30-day free trial to see whether or not they like Diaryland before they start paying a monthly fee. Wouldn’t that make more sense? This type of behavior only makes me NOT want to become a paying member and to look elsewhere for service. And if he truly is having trouble rebuilding his server and it’s taking this long, maybe he’s got the wrong boys doin’ the job.

ANYWAY – enough on that subject.

I wrote something several days ago regarding May Day. I suppose it’s really not relevant anymore, but I’m going to post it anyway – just because I can – so there. (Gotta get rid of that “snoose” in my nose, ya know.) So here goes:

When I was a kid we used to celebrate May Day every year. By May 1st the weather is usually warm and sunny on a daily basis, a very definite reason to celebrate in Minnesota. And then there was Mrs. Broberg, my grade school teacher, who definitely believed in all things traditional. And May Day and May Poles were on her list of traditions.

We had a tall pole in the schoolyard located so that we could use it as a May Pole. Every year one of the bigger boys would shinny up the pole and attach a bunch of crepe paper ribbons to the top. Then Mrs. Broberg would drag the record player outside, set it on a little table, run a bunch of extension cords back to an electrical socket, and we would practice the May Pole dance. Heaven forbid it would rain at anytime during the week that we would practice, because then the crepe paper ribbons would run and bleed and one of the bigger boys would have to shinny up the pole again and replace them. May 1st would finally come, and all the parents would be invited, chairs set up out in the schoolyard and we would perform the dance.


We girls were all dressed in dresses that matched the pastel color of our crepe paper. And we wore big beautiful hats made from paper plates covered in crepe paper flowers that we had spent hours making. The half of the girls would have a ribbon and walk to the right; the other half would take a ribbon and walk left. We’d walk in opposite directions holding the ribbons tight, and as we met, we would alternate by going under the ribbon of the first girl then go over the ribbon of the next girl and so on. This up and down or in and out movement would create a weaving pattern down the pole as the ribbons got shorter.
Of course there was a series of winding and unwinding the streamers to the music, a few dance steps tucked in here and there, and when the pole was finally all woven we would end the celebration with cookies and Kool-aid in the school yard.

Then it was home to deliver all the May baskets to our friends. Sneak up to their door, leave the basket, knock on the door and run as fast as you could. I don’t know why we felt we had to run to get away because our friend was also out delivering May baskets and wasn’t home to chase and kiss us anyway!

May baskets were a real competition as to who could build the prettiest. We’d work on them for days ahead of time selecting just the right paper, ribbon, and contents for each friend. They were usually made of old wallpaper, construction paper, gift wrap, etc., with pipe cleaners for handles and maybe a few silk flowers or curly ribbons attached for decoration. We’d save our money and shop for penny candy to fill them. Back then a dime would buy a sugar high that would last for days. Root beer barrels, fire balls, lemon drops, sweet sippers, bubble gum, well, you get the idea. It was almost Halloween repeated in the spring.

Do the kids still celebrate May Day by delivering May baskets? Or is that something that has faded into the past. Lovely Daughter is 31 now, and none of my friends have school age grand children, so I’m just a wee bit out of touch. It’s certainly something I look back on with fond memories.