Merry Christmas ~ Mid-Winter Snack

The winter wonderment hides her true height. Waking from a long morning snooze, hunger becomes number one on the list. Legs at full stretch, neck reaching for the space beyond, a shiver bristles every inch of her in an attempt to shake the matted snow from her hide. This winter it's important to stay nourished. Feed on willow. Feed on any shrubs that might still fuel bounty. Feed for two or possibly three. Willow nurtures her winter weary soul till spring light brings new life.

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Macmillan's Pocket Classics ~ A history lesson on the life of Lenore Catherine Broome

This time of year, it is common to be on the hunt for engaging books to read, and the Macmillan's Pocket Classics are always top of the search list. This year I found six books (shown in the photo above) from an Ebay seller in California. The seller states that they purchased these books from an estate sale, and are not related to the books previous owners.

Like a lot of books, these have been inscribed by their previous owners, and in this case, these appear to be the original owners. Five of these books were inscribed by Lenore Broome, and the sixth book by Westel Wallace, all of them from Monte Vista Colorado. The publish dates on these books are 1908, 1909, and 1910.

Normally we receive as gifts or purchase the Macmillan’s Pocket Classics one at a time, so to have six arrive at once, five of which from the same owner, the same place, and with similar publish dates got me to thinking… I put my googlefu to work, and am completely fascinated by what I found!

In the 1906-1907 school year for the State Normal School of Colorado, as posted in the quarterly bulletin series VII No. 1 on page 193, Lenore Broome is listed as being a junior from Pueblo Colorado.

In the September 1910 edition of The Colorado School Journal, Denver Colorado page xliv (page 40 at the beginning) it reads: “U. OF C. Of those who graduated from the College of Education, University of Colorado, in 1910, the following are some of those who are teaching in high schools : Lenore Broome , Monte Vista…”.

The University of Colorado Bulletin Vol. XXI No. 10 General Series No. 175 Directory Officers and Graduates 1877-1921 published in Boulder, Colorado August 1921, on page 82 lists: Broome, Lenore Catherine, A. B. (Mrs. Westal Wallace). Monte Vista, Colorado.

On an aside an A. B. degree the abbreviation of “artium baccalaureus,” which is the Latin name for the Bachelor of Arts (B.A.) degree.

Next up comes the most in-depth information about Lenore Broome that I uncovered. The History of Colorado Biographical Volume IV published by the Linderman Co., Denver Colorado 1927 on page 357 reads:

“Westel Bruce Wallace, vice president of the Wallace State Bank, at Monte Vista, Rio Grande county, was born in Denver, March 4, 1891, and is a son of Robert Bruce and Lulu (Love) Wallace, the former of whom is a graduate of Wooster College, Wooster, Ohio. Our subject is a member of the Ancient Free and Accepted Masons and the Benevolent Protective Order of Elks, and also belongs to the Monte Vista Rotary Club. His religious affiliation is with the Presbyterian church. On November 19, 1912, at Pueblo, Colorado, Mr. Wallace was united in marriage to Miss Lenore Broome, who is now deceased, and to them were born two children, Patricia Joyce and Westel Bruce, Jr.”

Searching for just a bit more information to round out this story; it seems that Lenore Broome Wallace died in 1924. As for Westel Bruce Wallace, he received an education at the University of Colorado, seemed to have an engaging work career, and remarried in 1936 to Mildred Crooks. This information is from the Prabook website. However the marriage date of Westel and Lenore is incorrect on this page. Their marriage day was in fact November 19, 1912 and it can be verified from the Denver Public Library Digital Collection - Colorado marriages, 1858-1939 page 1627. Worth noting that here Catherine is listed as her first name. The joys of genealogy even if its not your family.

The last bit of interesting information is that their daughter Patricia Wallace came to be known as Mistress William F. Rapp. Why is this interesting? There is a leg of my family tree that is from Colorado, and they had friends in the 1950’s with the last name of Rapp. Further research is required to connect these dots, and perhaps discover how these books migrated from Colorado to California, but for now, its time to get reading.

These are beautiful books and will be enjoyed in our home as winter covers the view out the window. May your winter days be filled with joy and contentment.

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Free Will

Our car tires steamrolled over the jagged searing asphalt to match the flat terrain, as we traveled highway 30 between my grandparents’ farm and my uncles’ fancy home in the city. Highway 30 divides the state of Iowa in half from east to west, the heart of the heartland where endless fields of corn swagger in the breeze of each passing vehicle.

The stream of sunlight flashing through each row of corn is mesmerizing. It can lull a young girl into a sense of complacency. Was this all there was in the world? Endless fields of corn where my only option was to become a farmer’s wife? Sure, I could choose to attend college after high school graduation, learn another skill that would change the trajectory of my life. But my grandfather always held sway that it was an M.R.S. degree that I would be seeking.

This seed of thought took root, and I chose to seek my degree without having to spend dollars, that I didn’t actually have, on an education, that was just a piece of paper according to my mother.

Looking back from where I am today, these antecedent conditions held a grip over what I thought was my free will choice not to attend college. In other words, it was the cause and effect of my life experiences that made the choice for me. That I did not actually freely choose to not attend college. The causal chain of determinism holds merit in this narrative.

Over a quarter of a century later this narrative has changed, and I find myself seeking illumination granted by attending an institution of higher education. However, the question still swaggers in the breeze. Did I make the choice to attend college as the result of my own decision (free will), or was it the result of a complex chain of cause and effect (determinism)? The Heisenberg uncertainty principle guides me to an answer I can conceptualize.

I am a tiny particle, smaller than a quark, in a large universe of organic and inorganic matter. Matter made up of protons, neutrons and electrons, which according to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, it is with enormous uncertainty that we can measure anything as tiny as an electron. If one can ascertain the position of the particle, its motion is unknown. Or one can measure its motion, but then one will not be able to know its position.

Therefore, being a tiny particle surrounded by other subatomic material, it is impossible to predict, where I am or where I am going. It is impossible to use the concept of determinism to know exactly what my future will look like. It is within this unpredictability that gives my free well its authority to choose.

...

When...

When nature hides the key to the universe, and your happiness. 

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Roads Ahead

The rubber meets the road with a harsh thud, a squeal of anticipation for the unknown thunders’ past. Thrilling to most except that one among us who is cautiously dipping their toes onto the road that leads forward. Caution tells them this will change everything. Everything they thought they knew about themselves, their family, and the world around them.

It is the beginning of a lifelong quest for more. More enlightenment, more understanding, more questions that have no true answer.

It is an uncharted moment in time when a human starts to question their mortality, and what lies ahead beyond the death of the body. Some get to travel decades before this question smacks them in the heart. Others are confronted with this reality at a young age. What happens to us when we die?

It is with experiential knowledge that it can be stated, when a person dies, there is a ton of paperwork, and irrevocable choices for those that are left behind breathing through a straw. Life after death is in itself a miracle.

We are haunted by realistic dreams of our loved ones telling us “They wish they didn't have to go, but it's time". Years pass, and again they roller-skate into our dreams. Sporting the coolest of shirt and shorts from the 1980's, hair held back with a rainbow sweat band, and when we ask them, "what are you doing here?"

Eyes glimmering with freedom they reply, "I don't know, but I'm living my best life I guess!"

This is a relatable story for many of us. Is this proof that there is life after death? Only to the dreams dreamer. Is there concrete proof anywhere in the world throughout humanity's history that there is life after death? Not that I know of. Should this keep me from believing that there is something or nothing beyond our mortal body? No. It's the hearts faith that I am made of Stardust that keeps me moving forward. Aristotle's vision of our universe as a gigantic organism, growing and restless, seeking knowledge of itself, anchors me with the endurance to keep going forward where the rubber meets the road, and where the stars meet the heavens.

Is it rational to believe in something we can't prove, like life after our mortal body's death? No, not really. But when was the heart of man rational when death is calling? Oh, to miss the age of the busy signal. Death can keep calling, I'm busy.

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Flattery

I saw the devil today. Cloaked in finery and flattery words of multi colored deception. She knew the rules of engagement to woo the young soul towards her goals.

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Elephants

Elephants have an uncanny way of taking up residence in the living room, and occupying more than their fair share of space on the couch.

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Love is...

Love is...
            By MDJGussak

Love is a vassal surging in-and-out across the keystone. 

It catapults deftly from yesterday to never. 

Love is a Glaucous Winged Gull, it's loud, it's messy, flying away at the slightest startle.

For all its aches, love endures.

Somewhere.

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Merry Christmas & Happy New Year

 

Where Life Takes You

Around a corner, up a hill, and through some knee-deep snow. There never seems to be a shortage of bad corners ahead, yet they will ultimately become what you choose.

Every corner in the road is one that will lead you to the exact place you are meant to be standing. Stand on your footing firmly planted on solid ground, and take in the view along the way.

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Walter - A Narrative Poem

       WALTER 
           By MDJGussak

There lurks an unkindness around Walter
as he boards the sternwheeler Nenana bound
for Fairbanks. Visible between the taffrails
a wicked shadow shivered bleeding from
the Tongass forest. Encouraging him with crimson
Devils Club berries, bitter with treachery. Grab-thieves
hungry for his belongings and breath. All Walter seeks
is a small grubstake for his own poke. Just a tiny shimmer,
a nugget to help pay his way. North to home,
and a sense of somewhere to belong. The Nenana
turned on its heels, STEER COURSE bellows
the crusty old salt, skyward in the helm. His voice
barely heard over the keow mew ha-ha,
of a scavenging group of Glaucous Winged Gulls.
Walter catches a glimpse of his reflection rippling
distorted in the wake. Scraggy unshaven face, sunken grey
skin, draped in tattered torn clothing, unrecognizable
as his mother’s son. Was he a gudgeon to travel this route?
There is time to ponder, to set fears at ease, to guard against
the perils. The journey home is long. Walter
checks the time on his pocket watch, confirming
the glow in the distance. He dissolves into a corner
on the back deck, turns up the collar of his coat,
and settles in for the first of many long restless nights.

... 

How do you say goodbye?

“I will say goodbye now,” he said. “In a day or two I shall be going away… I shall go back home. I do not think you will miss me.”

The children said good bye cheerfully, and thanked the Cook prettily for the beautiful Cake. Only little Tim took his hand and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

In the village there were in fact several families that did miss Alf for some time. A few of his friends, especially Smith and Harper, grieved at his going, and they kept the Hall gilded and painted in memory of Alf. Most people, however, were content. They had had him for a very long time and were not sorry to have a change. But old Nokes thumped his stick on the floor and said roundly: “He’s gone at last! And I’m glad for one I never liked him. He was artful. Too nimble, you might say” (Tolkien, 58-59).

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Works Cited
Tolkien, J.R.R. Smith of Wotton Major and Farmer Giles of Ham. 12th ed. Ballantine Books. 1982

Unsettled in the Lessness

    UNSETTLED IN THE LESSNESS  by MDJGussak

Petal ponders her lot along the bluffs edge. Her unsettled heart made of clay and silt, dull shadowless empty of spirit. Owning no perspective, matching the water-sky that folds around her pointless in its purpose. Icy rain drops beat against her back like a drummer flogging a metal barrel. The rain swells shameless in their deaf goals, sobs unrequited. Her bones loosen from their layers. Lessness unsettles her resolve. Petal’s time has passed.

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Woven Hell

         WOVEN HELL 
         by MDJGussak

Dogged souls
fresh at the gate
vying
raspberry
pleasures.

 

Harvesting bittersweet
under nightshade
ploughing
snowdrop
garments.

Seeded handbasket

together we ride
wagging
celestial
rewards.

          

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Slipping

The miles slip past, Iceworm Gulch, Glitter Gulch, and then the vastness of the terrain opens up at Broad Pass. On a clear day we can spy Denali among the Western snowy peaks of the Alaska Range.

"Do you want to stop for a picture?" inquires my husband.

"Not this time, let's keep rolling."

We continue the drive south in quiet contemplation. This land is steeped in history, not to be found among the pages of texts but in the layers of bones that go unseen below the tundra. Frozen in time.

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Trails’ Calling

 

Trails' Calling by MDJGussak

“Now! Jump now!” shouts the skiff driver. “It’s now or never!” His voluminous voice rises above the breaking waves. Dani and I exchange brave grins, fasten our bundles over our shoulders, leap overboard and aim for the shallowest part of the shore. The stony beach shifts under our weight rocking us back and forth. We stumble in one direction, and scramble for balance in the other.

“Walter!” Dani yells at me over the surf. “You okay?”

“Yeah! You?”

“Think so brother! That was a ride and a half, two nickels to the fella who thinks they’d want to do that again!”

We gather our wits and glance around for the other five men from the skiff. They give every appearance to be as disoriented as we are but when one man feels compelled to lead, the rest of us will follow. We were told there is a path at the tree line that will lead us to a prospector camp at the edge of the village. The fella in the mustard color hat strides forward with confidence so we follow. Plotting our way through the woods the angry swelling waves fade into the distance making room for the rustling whispers of the trees. Turns out following mustard man was a good choice.

“Walter, I can’t believe you talked me into coming with you. If I’d known half of the toll it would take, I would have turned around in Seattle.”

“You say that now, but when we have a hefty poke full of that Yukon Gold, you’ll thank me for cajoling you to come along.”

Smirking sideways at me he replies, “Momma was none too happy when you left this time, what with taking her favorite son along with you!”

“Just because you’re the youngest doesn’t mean you’re the favorite.” But in truth all three of us knew he was Momma’s ducky little boy.

“Well, all I’m say’in is you best look out for my wellbeing or you’ll catch hell when you get home.”

“Stop your yapp’in and keep moving, I’d like to make it to camp before night fall.”

The woods began to thin, we could see the lanterns of camp, and the prospects of a meal. Hot or otherwise was of no consequence. If it was edible, I could eat! Dani normally had a delicate palate but I think he too would eat whatever was put before him with more gusto than polite company could overlook.

We were welcomed at the edge of camp by a pack of working dogs chained to short tethers in a clearing under the trees. Their fierce barking broke the quiet of the woods, and rattled what was left of my daily allotment of nerves. A man appeared from the shadows, barked back towards the dogs in a language I did not recognize but whatever he said they settled back down. Some of the dogs turned away from us while others watched the group of newcomers with a keen mischievous eye.

Slogging through the mucky trails that braided around the makeshift structures of camp Dani and I finally acquired our lodgings for the night. We were tired, famished and our water-logged boots spread their chill throughout, sucking away our remaining strength.

At the flap door of the wall tent we were greeted with the musty smell of moldy canvas, dirty socks and something that resembled food. There were four other fellas spread out about the tent and a fifth standing at a pot belly stove in the middle of the cramped room. He stirred the contents in a large kettle precariously placed on top of the stove. Putting the ill-fitting lid back on he turned in our direction, grinning like a darn fool who knew something we didn’t. “Any of you ever eaten moose before?”, he cackled like a gravely raven with a beak full of mischief. “Well come on over and grab yourself some stew before all the good bits settle to the bottom.” The other fellas bustled to the stove forgetting, in their hunger, if you didn’t bring your own tin cup to the table you weren’t going to be served. Most everything on this adventure is bring your own or likely go without. Learning from their misstep Dani and I quickly retrieved our cups from our packs and were soon slurping and chewing like a couple of wild animals.

We paid the owner of the wall tent his due for the meal and the use of his cots for the night. In short order Dani and I were sleeping the rest of the weary, forgetting all the troubles that might lay ahead, and those we had recently passed through.

Morning came with a belly ache something fierce. Not sure that moose agrees with me. I reach over to give Dani’s cot a good jostle. He replies with a pitiful groan. Glancing around the tent we are the only ones still here, the others must have felt an extra burning to get a head start. Perhaps Dani and I should get a move on too, before newcomers arrive to haggle for our cots. If they have more coins in their pockets, we’ll be left wanting a place to sleep.

The other fellas were kind enough to leave a kettle of water on the stove when they left, something hot might settle my stomach. You know you are in the middle of nowhere when a cup of hot water that carries a hint of flavor from last night’s meal is a treat.

“Come on Dani, we best get go’in!” This time there was no reply. A few short steps in his direction and it was apparent his face was flush with heat. “Lord, Dani! You’re burning up! Let’s get you out of that coat.” It was a bit of a struggle to get him free of his still damp and musty coat, like wrestling with a limp rag. “Come on Dani, you got’ta help me out. Dani? Can you hear me?” Giving his cheeks a few smacks, he seemed to rouse.

“Walter, I don’t feel so good.”

“Me neither Dani.” He shuttered, heaved, and his stomach let loose its contents. Over and over again. Dani vomits until the stench of bile and sour moose stew fills the tent. The retching finally subsided, his eyes glazed over, he went limp, short shallow breaths followed. “Dani, I’m going to find some water, hold tight, I’ll be right back.”

Outside camp was abuzz with chaos in every corner. Folks packing up carts, dogs barking, and men bickering over one thing or another. The only thing I desired at that moment was to find fresh water, and a means to Dani’s quick recovery. Slumped shoulders and wringing hands, my desperate appearance caught the attention of someone who helped me move Dani to the infirmary tent, and pointed me in the direction to fresh water with a nod. The path to the creek and I became familiar with each other in short order. Bucket after bucket of icy cold water is my task for some time. By mid-day there was nothing left in Dani but the dry heaves, fitful shaking, and a fire inside that kept his fever stoked.

Twilight crept into camp, and the bleak cloud of our circumstances weighed across my chest. Dani was weak and barely had anything to say all day. Tucking him in for the night and getting as comfortable as possible crouched between the wall and floor next to Dani’s cot, uneasy thoughts of what to do next swirl around me buzzing their fear and regret.

A cackling eerie noise off in the distance woke me from my fitful sleep. Perhaps it came from my dreams, or Dani’s weakened body. “Dani, how’re you feeling? Dani?” I scoop him up and give him a shake. “Dani?” There was no moment of clarity, no showing of farewell, he simply slipped away from my arms. Stillness surrounds us. Dani no long inhaled, and I was afraid to. With my next breath would come the realization that I was here and he was not. I cannot tell you how long we laid there, as I wept hushed tears over my baby brother.

A preacher fella came to camp from the village, took down Dani’s name, birth date, and hometown. He gave me a wooden cross to mark as I saw fit, and the directions to the cemetery. We have been thick as any two brothers could be, best of friends, and traveling companions. Now I have to leave him behind in this far-flung corner of land.

My dearest Sister, September 17, 1897

Greetings from Alaska. We finally made it to Dyea and I am waiting for news of when the next sternwheeler loaded with men and supplies will make it to camp. With this shipment of supplies will come my ride home. Dani died last night. Retching and fever something awful. They say there is a cemetery not far from here where I can lay him to rest. Regrets flood me, I should have never cajoled him into coming on this foolhardy journey with me. Momma was right this time. With luck I will arrive home before this letter reaches you. If you can, please hold this on the inside, I’ll break the news to Momma myself. No need for you to take the burden I rightfully deserve. If this letter arrives before me, give me a month to follow, after that it would be best to let Momma know about Dani. Sorry to put you in this predicament. God’s grace I arrive before this letter.

                    Your loving Brother,
                            Walter

***

Summer's Arrival

It has been a long while between posts. Life's daily chores have been getting in the way of blogging. Plus, summer has arrived in Anchor-town spreading glory and green. Enjoy summer in your neck of the woods, and thanks for stopping by this corner of the inter-webs.

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Clarence

Clarence was quite possibly the worst vacuum cleaner salesman in Greene County Iowa. I am not going to say “in all of Greene County” because frankly Greene County is not that big. When you look at a map of the United States and zero in on Iowa you might think to yourself, “Isn’t everyone who lives here a farmer?” Iowa is after all known for its corn production, right? Well Clarence wasn’t much of a farmer either, plus he preferred to be one of those “city folks.” Being a city folk meant you did a job during the day and had the evenings and weekends to do as you pleased. And what pleased Clarence most was fishing.

During the day Clarence traveled the dusty county roads that connected each farm. Meandering around a few pastures filled with grazing Holsteins, this area of Iowa had its share of dairy framers but mostly his view was row upon row of corn fields. They were mesmerizing really, those perfectly planted rows flickering in rhythm to the passing sunlight. At each farmers driveway, he would break his thoughts away from the hypnotic corn, and head up the lane. He would park in the yard at a spot closest to the house. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Iowa term for yard, this is the large gravel area that was surrounded by the barn, the machine shed and the well house. At the edge of the yard there was always a worn path to the house, sometimes this path was stone, sometimes, if you were one of those fancy farmers you had a concrete walkway from the yard to the house. No one ever thought of parking on the lawn.

Heaving a heavy sigh Clarence opened the car door, then closed it with a thud, hoping to alert the Mrs. of his arrival. Swinging around to the trunk of his Ford Fleetline Special Deluxe, that he had purchased used some years back, he retrieved the object he’d hoped would bring him his daily bread. A shiny new olive drab Electrolux AF canister vacuum, the latest model in cleaning efficiency. He only needed two more sales this month to stay in good standing with the company and possibly earn a good word from the regional manager. Not that he cared much about status, it was the free time he sought most. Time to be in his boat trolling along Spring Lake hoping for a largemouth bass to also take the bait, and be able to reel in a tasty supper to go along with the sale.

Vacuum cleaner in hand with a box filled with attachments under his arm, and the hose wrapped around his shoulders, he rang the bell. It took a few moments for the Mrs., to answer the door, and he could hear the commotion of the children tussling about inside. When the door was finally opened with a friendly greeting, Clarence put on a smile and started his spiel. He was only a few moments into describing the amazing features of the Electrolux AF when it began to be apparent that this family, while in need of a nice vacuum to assist the Mrs. with the house chores, could not afford to purchase what he was selling.

Clarence lowered his shoulders, smiled kindly at the Mrs. and told her he could see she had her hands full. He let her know that he would leave the vacuum cleaner here for the day or two so that she could try it out on her own time. He said he would be back by tomorrow or the next day to pick it up. Saying his farewells, he ambled back to his Ford. Clarence could sell a person a rusty tool if he knew the person had the money to buy it but it was his kind heart that kept him from being a good vacuum cleaner salesman.

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Rocketing

Our rocketing skiff, heading towards the barely visible shoreline, lunges and twists over the dark icy waves. One moment, we are tossed up into the air, and the next we are jolted downward wondering when the bottom will hit or if we will suddenly find ourselves in an endless freefall. The salty ocean spray quickly soaks into my travel tattered coat, and another cold shiver passes through my bones. If only I could have carried more items in my satchel on this journey, surely it would have been another coat. The light of the day is beginning to illuminate our surroundings enough to realize the shoreline is no California beach. It does not look like a soft silky beach that would welcome us gently with a quiet hello. This was going to be one of Momma’s thundering pats on the back, stout embrace, welcome home. Lord how I miss arriving home after a long journey. If there is going to be another one in my future I best continue to hold on tight.

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Trampled

The lure of riches led men in droves to Dyea Alaska and the glacially sculpted valley of Chilkoot Pass. This land, long stewarded by the Tlingit people, where for thousands of years the ice gnashed its way down the mountain peaks, and the chattering streams carried old bones to the sea, encountered an unsalt-worthy horde. The rush of human feet, beasts of burden, and canine companions, crushed the earth to an unrecognizable mush. Flags of unfamiliar laundry flew among the branches of the forest. Streams bent and twisted out of their custom. Even under the protective cloak of snow Chilkoot Pass could not withstand the trampling unscarred. The Klondike Gold Rush lasted but a few short years, and to this day the land is tainted with physical reminders of greed. To this day the hearts of the Tlingit people carry the ache of this wound.

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