North Dakota Schoolteacher, Winter of 1949

New Leipzig, ND, 1950 Kids on their way to school

    While searching for another document on my computer, I came across this story, sent to me in the winter of 2008-2009 by my mother’s cousin, Ursula Wunderlich, of Voltaire, ND. Since then, Ursula has finished her time here on earth so I can’t ask permission to use this, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She wrote it originally for her home-town newspaper, and I know there are many mid-westerners who can identify right now with the weather she describes:


    “This bad winter weather brings to mind a time in this writer's life,
60 years ago, to be exact. It was January 1949, and I was teaching a rural
school in McLean County, Otis Township, in the Strawberry Lake vicinity.
Fresh out of high school, I was asked to take on the job, as teachers
were hard to come by. Having no college degree, or practice teaching to lean on, this was quite a challenge, to say the least. I had 11 students in
all grades except the second & sixth grades. Patron families represented
were Alvir Anderson, Ervin Golly, Miles Harmon, Palmer Madsen, and Henry Sheelar. [The Andersons were also cousins.] I was my own janitor, hot lunch cook, and custodian of whatever needed to be done. This included carrying coal from the shed near the school house, storm or no storm.
   
     I stayed at the school during the week, if possible. Didn't think of it at the time, but I should have had a rope strung from the school building to the shed, so as not to lose my way, as there were times when one could not see one building from the other. I firmly believe that the good Lord had angels watching overtime, or I wouldn't be here today.

    That January, we had full-fledged blizzards every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. No one came to school, except teacher and her pals-- mice! Thursday & Friday as many of the students as could, arrived. On Friday I would ride home with either of two families to spend the weekend. This arrangement was designed to save the precious coal supply, as the weekend coal then could be on hand for [school] days.
   
    Sundays were usually calm, & I'd either walk the mile from one family to the school late Sunday afternoon, or the patron would take me there with horses & sleigh, depending on where I spent that particular weekend.
    Monday morning..another storm [moved in], no kids. Since the teacher was on the grounds and as long as the students got their work accomplished, we did not have to make up all those days. Good thing, as Don Wunderlich and I had our wedding date set for June 7th, and I fully intended to be married, not teaching until mid-July!

    One Sunday in late January, a neighbor flew south to the
Anderson farm with a visitor from out of state. (I still wonder how he
got to this area, as nothing we knew of was moving, no mail service, and we didn't have phones, although we did have electricity.) I asked the
gentleman if he knew whether Don Wunderlich was back from a trip to Michigan, where he'd gone during the holidays, [to] bring back a new car. He responded, 'Yes, and I'm going to the Wunderlich farm from here, want to go along?' If I had had a few more minutes to decide, I probably would have declined the offer, but I said 'Okay, let's go!'

    What a sight  from that little plane! There was no bare ground to see anywhere from the time we got in the air until we landed on a field near the Wunderlich farm. Every thing was WHITE!

    Made it back to the Anderson’s and of course, the next day--no kids due to another storm. We were blocked in till the 4th of March, when the Army plowed us and the entire area out. That evening Chuck Sheelar's Mom sent him to the school and we drove to Kongsberg for needed supplies. The next day it stormed so bad and really blocked everything, rock hard. The Army couldn’t come back a second time so we had to wait until spring when Mother Nature took over and melted all that snow!

    Yes, this winter of 2008-09  brings back memories and also reminds us that this is North Dakota, and winters can be open or they can come with a vengeance. So, stay warm, close to home, and be prepared!"

 More About Ursula:

Ursula did marry Don Wunderlich. They lived all their lives on a farm near Kongsberg and raised their family there. Ursula was active in the little German Lutheran church at Kongsberg until her recent death, but nothing is left today of that busy little town except the church. Most of the people buried in its cemetery are Ursula's relatives.

Heart Lifters for Difficult Times

Diana Savage’s 52 Heart Lifters for Difficult Times (Harvest House) is the perfect Valentine for my sweetheart! The pastel colors, the delicate daisy on the front cover, might indicate a  book intended for a feminine audience, but a look at the table of contents indicate that the pithy devotionals inside apply to either gender. Here’s a sampling: Who is God’s Interpreter, starring an absentminded, umbrella-snatching professor; In the Shadow of Tradition, featuring Punxsatawney Phil, the groundhog weather prognosticator; Wisdom for Overwhelmed Fathers, about parenting challenges; and the piece that sold the book to me, one for Valentine’s Day called Like...Fantasy Football Games. 

Every devotional begins with a humorous story, followed by unique and thought-provoking applications of God’s principles to our own lives. Each is tied up with a ribbon of humor at the end, making 52 neat and memorable gift packages to encourage either man or woman...or in our case, both of us. For what could be more romantic than sharing one of these devotions, perhaps as part of a weekly date night?

photo credit: France1978 via photopin cc

Fishing Among Treacherous Rocks

Former commercial fisherman Ti Foltz told me this true story several years ago. I thought it might be a good one to share with Sun Break readers on this foggy morning:

Ti’s trolling boat rose and fell in the cold Alaskan water. He fished alone on that clear summer day, too busy to notice a gray line of fog building on the horizon. The twelve lines from the outriggers on his troller had multiple leaders. Lined with hooks, each leader reached out into water as far as seventy-five feet. Dozens of hooks needed to be loaded with the herring Ti hoped would lure the King salmon.

He watched for rocks as he worked. All around him spread swirling, white-capped wave broken by thousands of jutting rocks. Some disappeared beneath the waves only to pop into view again as the water receded around them. Others, tree crowned, were as big as small islands. He needed to get close to the rocks without damaging the boat or losing his lines. Bait fish schooled along the deep rock ledges and the salmon lurked there to feed on them. The lure of those big Kings made risking the treacherous waters worthwhile.

Suddenly the salmon began to strike hard and fast. As soon as Ti reeled in one line and gaffed the fish aboard, other lines filled up.

As he worked, he realized the sunlight had dimmed. Clammy fog swirled around the boat. Immediately he hauled in his lines, but already the land and rocks around him were blotted out.

Fortunately, he had a compass and charts on board. In the fog, with no landmarks visible, he had to trust them to take him back to port. Depending on his senses to steer a straight course wouldn’t work. His instincts screamed, “Wrong direction!” and he fought vertigo as panic threatened to overwhelm him. Lord, he pleaded, show me what to do.

Then he heard a mournful, muffled wail through the mist. He recognized the foghorn on the cape, right where it was supposed to be. His inner ear righted itself and he felt calmer. With his eye on the compass, he motored slowly through the rock-studded fog and back to safe harbor.

In any situation, Ti concluded, feelings can betray us and cause us to crash. Relying on God’s Word to guide us is like having a chart in front of us and a compass to steer by. Even when feelings overwhelm us and threaten to throw us off course, we can trust God’s Word to brings us through the rocks and into the safe harbor of his perfect plan for us.

Safe in the harbor

lower photo credit: gillfoto via photopin cc

top photo credit: sydandsaskia via photopin cc

Shopping via Traveling Salesmen

We like our Senior Center fitness class as much for the interesting conversation as for exercise. Tony, in particular, can be counted on for a great story. As a newlywed in North Dakota, he’d worked as a produce manager in a grocery store. When he and Bonnie moved to Everett, Washington, he interviewed for a job with the old Penney’s store. “If you can successfully sell one thing, you can sell anything,” he told the manager. He got the job and soon he was in charge of the men’s and children’s clothing departments.

Tony loved selling suits. On slow days, he would stand on the sidewalk in front of the store and observe the men walking by. When he spied a likely customer, he’d strike up a conversation:

 “Say, got a minute? I have a suit in here that would look wonderful on you. Come on in and take a look.” Before he knew it, the stranger would be standing in front of the mirror in the suit, while Tony mentioned what a perfect color it was for his complexion and busied himself with pins, taking a little in at the sides and shortening the cuffs a bit. “There, now, isn’t that perfect for you?”

The customer would cock his head, admire himself, agree, and before he knew what had hit him, he’d be walking out of the store humming a happy tune, with a new suit under his arm.

Tony’s story reminded someone else about the traveling salesmen who, when we were young, made regular circuits through our neighborhoods, and soon we were off on another topic. Our family lived far from the big city, but still, the Watkins man and the Fuller brush salesman found us. My mom would buy vanilla flavoring or pepper, liniment or special salve from the Watkins man. The Fuller brush man brought us cleaning tools and hairbrushes.

Then there were the salesmen who might pass through only once; persuasive sellers who found a ready audience in the five kids who listened to their spiels.

We all loved to read. When a college student came through selling a fat book called “The Lincoln Library,” and leafed through the thin pages, showing us articles on every imaginable topic, even our parents thought this would be a good substitute for the encyclopedia set we couldn’t afford. And at first we were thrilled, pouring over the articles. But after a while, the tiny print, difficult to read under our kerosene lamps, made it discouraging to use for anything but pressing flowers.

Sometime in the early fifties, another salesman stopped to demonstrate a marvelously easy-to-play instrument he called a “Hawaiian Tremelo.” It looked something like a zither, with strings of varying lengths on one side you chorded with a pick. With the other hand you slid a rolling bar on a mechanical arm up and down a melody string, plucking the notes of a song. It made a whiny, wobbling sound that reminded us of the then-popular music of Hawaii. We clamored to have our own “Hawaiian Tremolo,” and persuaded our parents that we would faithfully practice if they would put out the at-the-time huge price of $30. We did practice...for a while. I, at least, learned to play it. But it didn’t take long to get tired of the tremolo sound, and it, too, went on the shelf.

But the traveling salesman’s item I remember most was the fur coat my father bought my mom. We children were very young then and my parents struggled to make ends meet on Dad’s logger’s earnings. Mom sacrificed a lot to keep us fed and clothed, and I think Dad felt she deserved something nice for herself. The pelts, probably squirrel skins, were glossy variations of brown. The three-quarter length coat itself hung straight from big, 1940s shoulders...not a pretty style, but my mom faithfully wore it on every excursion to town or for every special occasion for two decades. Eventually she cut it up and made a sofa cushion out of the good parts.

Today we can shop at the mall or online. Our choices are limitless. But there was something special about having the store come to us in the person of an old-time traveling salesman.

Begin the new year with The Rest of the Story

Happy New Year!

Want something special to start the new year off?

Friend Marjorie Stewart has written the script for a you-tube video, Christmas--the Rest of the Story. She also plays the part of Anna in it.

The video takes about a half hour to watch, so brew a cup of tea, turn up the volume, and prepare for a thought-provoking treat! (You'll love the original music written and performed by the young couple who play Joseph and Mary.)

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cO0Jdmvf0l0&feature=share&list=PLO3Lwf2Snz8_cPDunMJHmTa17vz_I7mut&index=9.

Capsized!

Here's another true Alaskan fishing story by Stanwood teacher and commercial fisherman, guest blogger Jim Nash. (with Joan Husby)

At the set net site where the skiff capsized

    “God...help!” My prayer flashed heavenward as my body plunged into the breathtaking cold of Alaska’s Cook Inlet. I fought to the surface.


    A few yards away my crew mate, Chuck Barron, sputtered, treading water. Then Chuck’s brother, Danny, popped his head up. No sign of our skiff. The safety of the beach was a half mile away. None of us wore life jackets, although they would have conserved our energy. In the late 1970s, we didn’t even own them.


    At our fishing site at Coho near Kenai, cool, windy days are the norm. So at 70 degrees F., this July day had seemed hot. We wore jeans, T-shirts, and knee-length rubber boots while dragging a three-ton boulder to the water with a tractor. Such boulders made inexpensive anchors for our gill nets. I had already drilled a hole in this one for a large iron eye bolt. Then I attached a line for a buoy.


    From water’s edge, I saw my young wife, Dixie, and the rest of the crew mending nets at camp on the bluff. I waved. Dixie and some of the others waved back. We knew they’d be keeping an eye on the boat. The currents ran strong here, parallel to the beach. If something happened, those on land could quickly launch another boat and speed out to help us. But what could go wrong? We were young and in tiptop physical condition. At least Danny and I were. Chuck was a little older, the father of small children. I turned to them. “All right, guys. Time to launch.”


    The twenty-two foot aluminum skiff rested in its cradle behind a tractor. Danny hopped into the seat and backed the trailer into the surf. The water lifted the boat free. Then we splashed aboard, and, as the tide rose, we positioned the skiff over the boulder. We secured the line from the boulder to a sling suspended beneath the boat. I peered over the edge and checked the taut line. “Okay, let’s take it slow.”

 
    Enjoying the sunshine and the rare warmth, we inched away from shore, towing the boulder. I angled a couple of miles up the beach toward our fishing spot.


    Half a mile offshore, I cut the motor. Now all we needed to do was release the slipknots that held the sling in place, and let the boulder drop to the bottom. Easy, I thought. The worst that could happen might be a line binding as the big rock fell. That could cause the boat to ship water. Then we’d have to bail like crazy. No problem.


    I stood next to the slip knot at one rail, ready with a knife in case the knot should stick. Chuck and Danny stood at the opposite rail. “Three, two, one...release!” I shouted. We yanked at the knots.


    I felt mine let go. No need for the knife. Suddenly, the world flew upside down. Details registered like snapshots in my mind. I saw Chuck sail overhead, launched out of his boots, and disappear. Danny, too. Then the swells closed over my head. I knew what had happened. The other slip knot had stuck and the plummeting boulder had flipped the boat.

 Loose gear bobbed to the surface in a scatter of bubbles. In warmer waters, we would have struck out for shore. But the shore was far away and the current was strong. I shivered violently. At most we had twenty minutes to save ourselves before the blood to our extremities slowed in an effort to protect heart and vital organs from the cold. Soon we’d be unable to use our hands, arms, or legs.


    “We’ve got to get out of the water,” Danny said through chattering teeth.


    How? I wondered. Suddenly, the skiff broke the surface beside us. With yells of relief, we swam to the overturned craft.

 
    I shoved as Chuck tried to haul himself up on its bottom. The boat rolled under his weight. He fell back.


    “Here, I’ll try.” Danny made it up, but the boat slid out from under him, too.


    “Water must be leaking into one of the flotation tanks,” I said. Foam gel filled these aluminum compartments in both bow and stern. The weight of the water would destabilize the boat. We watched the gas tank and a number of small buoys float away with the current as we tried to climb onto the boat, only to slide back into the icy water.  “It’s no use,” I said after ten minutes of futile effort. The others looked exhausted. Were we going to die out here? Though lightheaded and numb, I felt strangely at peace.


    “Look,” Chuck gasped, gesturing toward a bright pink buoy floating between us and the shore. “If we can hang onto that, maybe we can kick our way to the beach.”


    We reached the buoy and clung there. Far away on the bluff, we saw our friends clustered near the net racks. “Help!” we yelled, over and over, but no one looked our way.


    “This isn’t working,” Chuck muttered. “We’re too tired to reach shore. I can’t feel my hands anymore.”


    “Hold on,” I said. “There’s one more thing we can do.” We were all believers. We trusted God every day to guide and help us. As we clung to the buoy and to each other, I called aloud to God: “Father, send help, or we’ll die. But whatever you do, it’s all right with us...Just take care of our families.” An almost physical warmth flooded over me. I knew he’d heard.


    For a moment, all sounds faded away. Then we heard the mutter of a small plane. I recognized a friend’s yellow Super Cub.  We yelled and waved, but the plane flew on along the shore and out of sight. We groaned.


    I looked back to the boat. Only the tip of the outboard stuck up. Enough water had entered the ballast tank that the boat now floated vertically, bow down with its stern a few feet beneath the surface. I swam over and pulled myself up. Holding to the outboard, I balanced thigh-deep, grateful to be partially out of the life-sucking cold.


    Still clinging to the buoy, Chuck looked toward the shore. “I’m going to try it,” he said.


    “Me, too,” Danny agreed.


    “I know I can’t swim that far,” I told them. “God be with you guys.” The two brothers kicked for shore, pushing the buoy.


    Chuck and Danny moved slowly toward the beach. Why didn’t the crew see us?


    Later, we learned that unexpected company had arrived, and the watchers on shore had gathered around to visit. Not until Dixie’s cousin, Gary, asked where I was did they come to the edge of the bluff. They looked in vain for the boat.


    From my precarious perch, I saw them. “Help!” I yelled, and waved.


    “Boy, that seagull sounds a lot like Jim. Anybody have binoculars?” Someone handed them to Gary. He scanned the inlet.  “It is Jim!  They’re in the water!”


    The other boats were nearby on the bluff, loaded with mended nets and their trailers already hooked to the tractors, ready for the next day’s fishing. In a frantic scramble, people tossed nets out of a boat. Rick Grossel, a wiry native Alaskan,  jumped on a tractor. Four people leaped into the boat for a wild ride down the dirt road and across the beach.


    Almost too cold to keep my grip on the outboard motor, I watched them launch into the water and head toward us. Chuck and Danny had stopped swimming. I saw Danny struggling to keep his brother’s head above the water.


    “I’m okay,” I yelled as the boat neared. I pointed toward the others. “Take care of them first.”

   When the rescuers reached the two, Chuck was barely breathing. The men in the boat pulled his dead weight over the side as Danny pushed. Then Danny almost leapt into the boat in his eagerness to get out of the water.

         
    Back at camp and wrapped in dry blankets, I shivered violently in my wife’s embrace as I waited a turn at the hot shower.


    Meanwhile, our friends pulled Chuck and Danny back from the brink of hypothermia. We didn’t know then that warming the body too quickly can force the cold blood from the extremities into the vital organs and cause a shock that can kill. But God protected us from that danger, too.


    He had heard and answered our cry for help out there on Cook Inlet.


    Like most commercial fishermen, I had done all I could to prepare physically and mentally for emergencies. “I’m glad I didn’t wait for trouble to strike before I prepared spiritually,” I tell people now. “Because God and I already had a relationship, I knew he’d hear me when I called. When trouble came, God gave the peace that comes from knowing he wants what’s best for me.”


    Nevertheless, after our capsizing, we bought and used life jackets.

OUR NATIONAL HOLIDAY

OUR NATIONAL HOLIDAY...GIVE THANKS!

Sarah Josepha Hale, Mother of Thanksgiving

This year marks the 150th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln’s proclamation establishing the 4th Thursday in November as the official National Day of Thanksgiving, a move he hoped would help “heal the wounds of the nation” following the War Between the States.

In a conversation last week, I stated my desire for our own Thanksgiving to include expressions of gratitude for our blessings. Someone very dear to me responded with a comment about the supposedly wrong ideas we’ve been taught about the pilgrims, Indians, and the first Thanksgiving. None of us were there to observe what happened then. But we can’t deny that from the very beginning of European settlement in this country, Americans have paused to thank God when he has led us through times of crisis.

During the American Revolution, Continental Congress issued a number of proclamations setting aside days for thanksgiving following some major battles of the war. When George Washington was inaugurated as first president, he proclaimed a national day of thanks for both the end of the war and the ratification of the new U.S. Constitution. John Adams and James Madison issued similar proclamations during their presidencies. Thomas Jefferson feared that doing so would interfere with the separation of church and state, so no formal proclamations were issued after 1815.
However, most states continued to celebrate a Thanksgiving holiday, although not all on the same day.

Sarah Josepha Hale, a well known writer, editor and crusader for women’s issues, edited the influential magazine, “Godey’s Lady's Book,” for over 40 years. She wrote pieces urging the establishment of a national day of thanks on the last Thursday in November. She believed the holiday would be a unifying measure that could help the growing divisions between North and South. She continued to advance the cause throughout the Civil War, and when the war ended, President Lincoln asked Secretary of State William Seward to draft such a proclamation. The President issued the proclamation in the fall of 1863.

At the age of 72, after 3 decades of lobbying, Sarah Josepha Hale (and the United States of America) had her national holiday. She is sometimes called the "Mother of Thanksgiving" because of her tireless efforts.

Both President Lincoln and Sarah Hale believed that people who realize their dependence upon God are the people God blesses. As we gather to celebrate this Thanksgiving Day, let’s remember to be grateful for our forebears’ sacrifices and for the blessings God continues to shower upon us.

Abraham Lincoln's Thanksgiving Day Proclamation