Easter Dandelion and Mother Clucks

On Easter morning as I survey winter damage to my rose bushes, I spot the large yellow blossom on the south side of the house. I kneel close to it, and then I lean closer to gather the many large leaves in my hand. A slow, steady pull brings Mr. Dandelion up by the root, but as I hold the plant, the pungent odor of earth and plant make me pause.
Memory:
All winter I eagerly watch as Mom assembles goose eggs into neat rows in assorted containers of oats. She places them point down in the oats to keep them still and cool. Under a table in a cool corner of the "other room," shoeboxes, old dishpans, and assorted sizes of cardboard boxes, all without tops, store the eggs until spring.


In spring Mom picks out some hens that aren't laying, we call them clucks, to sit on the eggs in nests made of orange crates tipped on their sides. Each crate has ample straw and is on one end of a small pen in the hay barn, which by this time is empty of hay.


Then the magic begins. We feed and water the cluck as she sits on the eggs, keeping them warm and guarding them as if they contain her own offspring. 


The eggs hatch and as the goslings grow, mother cluck is a fierce protector and provider too, but the hay barn floor yields nothing as mother cluck scratches to uncover morsels for them as if she were scratching the dirt. 


As as they grow beyond her care, I feel a tinge of sadness for the mother cluck.


But the goslings need fresh greens with lots of protein. 
"Fill the pail with dandelion leaves," Mom says as she hands me a small pail and knife. "Cut them close to the ground and be careful with the knife."
I don't have to go far. The backyard is full of yellow blossoms all the way to the road bank. When I return with a full pail, my overalls have green knees, but I am eager for mom to cut the leaves so I can feed them to the goslings.
Mom reaches into the pail to draw out a handful of leaves, holds them firmly on a wooden plank by the milk house, and with a long knife she quickly slices the leaves into small pieces. When finished, I follow her to the hay barn where the goslings are waiting.
"Pa pa pah, goosey!" She greets them cheerfully, saying the phrase rapidly and repeating it several times. The goslings respond with chatter that lets us know they are hungry.
We talk to them as they eat their greens. "Pa pa pah. Pa pa pah." Everyone is happy.


But since I have no goslings to which I can feed my freshly picked dandelion, I toss it on the garden to be plowed under later in the day.

Dad's birthday at Janesville Elementary.

I was lucky to be pretty close to my folks. Still am. Things like that don't change even though they've been dead for years. Sometimes people ask me if I think of them much, I say, "I think of my mom all the time, but I don't have to think of my dad. You see, every move I make reminds me that I am his son. Not that we looked exactly alike or anything, (We didn't. He was taller and better looking.), but my mannerisms, vocalisms, and movements seem to match his more every day.

This is the dedication in my book A Farm Country Christmas Eve.

When I do a show I add, "...who made my growing up on the farm a wonderful experience."

Anyway, you can imagine that he was on my mind on his birthday, February 18, as Nancy and I drove Highway 60 west of Faribault and turned south on Elysian Lake Road toward Janesville to do three performances at Janesville Elementary School. It was a beautiful day and the scenery was great. I remember thinking, "If we were on a trip to another state and witnessed scenery like this we'd be taking pictures, but since it's so close to home, one takes the beauty for granted." Then I remembered that Dad had said something like that once.
  Don't I have any original thoughts!

 My first show was If I were a Farmer: Nancy's Adventure  for about 90 K-1 and 10 adults. When audience members are this young, I keep my introduction really short, but I keep the prologue because the meter and rhyme help grab the attention of the kids. I like to see them smile when I show them the picture of Dad making a mustache with the cow's tail. He was always goofing around, trying to make things fun.

Tractors on Tombstones

Like lots of women, my mother worked hard and long hours. Yet I never remember her complaining. She seemed to link work, love, farming, family, and satisfaction in a way that made her happy to be alive and, when she was near the end, reluctant to die.

For about a month before she passed away, she was confined to a bed and hooked up to an IV and oxygen. Talking was difficult for her. Nancy and I visited with her regularly on week ends, and during the week I would stop to visit after work before I went home. These visits provided precious moments for both of us as we often talked of her life on the farm.

Memory:
 "...and what did you enjoy most during your 60 years farming with Dad?" I know the question is stupid the moment it comes out of my mouth, yet I say nothing more because I see her dark blue eyes sparkle a little as she blinks. The oxygen tubes slow down her speech as she struggles to position them with her free hand.
Finally, she says,"Your dad, he was such a wise guy, always pulling jokes, always racing to do things--always he was the center of attention." 
She pauses a moment before she continues. "What I liked best was when I pulled the silage wagon with the newer 850 Ford alongside the field chopper when he was pulling the field chopper with the older 860 Ford. I had more power and speed and just by pulling the throttle back I could gain on his older tractor. Gosh, I loved pulling ahead of him!"


She smiles widely, uninhibited by the tubes pinching her face. Her eyes tear and we laugh softly.

In less than a week she passed away. When it came to picking out a stone, I conferred with Dad and he agreed with my suggestion. Since the tractors looked identical, I supplied the engraver with just one picture. The numbers are too small to see on this picture, but the tractor above Mom's name is labeled "850" and the tractor above Dad's name is labeled "860."

Mom on the 1957 

Model 850 Ford

The wheels are wide for cultivating corn.

Creative Cover-up

Saying, "My wife quilts," is a bit like proclaiming Minnesotans fish or Baryshnikov dances, without saying anything about the passion for the activity. Nancy's passion for quilting probably rivals the passion of any person for pastimes or art.

The quilt rack in the picture on the left contains only 9 of her many quilts.
About 40 or more decorate our sofas, beds, walls and a couple other quilt racks. Several more are under construction, and I'm afraid to guess how many are in the mental planning stages.

I don't quilt, but I like being under them. Like many people my age, as a child I slept in an unheated upstairs bedroom. I'm not complaining! I loved the brisk air and the chance to snuggle under the big patchwork feather quilt, which was nothing fancy. I thought the quilt beautiful. Even as a kid I understood that quilt squares didn't have to adhere to the same color wheel as school clothes. Striking mismatches in color and pattern look great on a quilt!

Like many farm women, my mother, Helen (Cervenka) Fredrickson, quilted too, but she didn't always get to finish what she started. You know, farm work and meals came first during the day, and in the evening after milking she packed eggs, ironed clothes, baked, or did the family's sewing. She loved to work.

Memory:
Nancy and I sit by the kitchen table, visiting with Dad and Mom. They are in their late sixties.
Nancy explains that she needs more quilt squares to begin to assemble the Relative Quilt.
"The idea is simple enough: I've mailed a square of cloth to each of the relatives and each person uses the cloth or some other piece of material to create a square. They mail it back to me and I put them together as a quilt. The trouble is that I need to get a few more back before I begin to lay out the quilt."

I'm thinking that people are busy and lots of them won't ever finish the squares, but I follow Dad's lead and say nothing. He knows there's a time to listen and also a  time to shut up and listen.

No one says anything for a short time. Then Mom says, "Would you like a quilt square that my mother made?"

I can tell this is a big deal to Nancy as she slowly exclaims, "You have a quilt square from your mother!"

"I have enough squares for a whole quilt," says Mom. "My mother gave them to me. She always said a mother should make a quilt for her daughter when she gets married. Since I was the youngest child, though, my mother was old when I got married and her fingers were no longer able to quilt. So she just gave me the squares. I was always going to put them together, but I never had time. Now I have time but my eyes are poor. So do you want one?"

Nancy hesitates. "What are you planning for the other squares?"

Mom says, "I don't know. Throw them away, maybe."

At this, Nancy and I look at each other in shock.

"Then I would gladly take them all, if you don't mind, " Nancy says.

At this, Mom smiles.

A few years later, after Mom and Dad's 50th Wedding Anniversary, Nancy gives the completed quilt to Mom.

After a few tears and many "thank yous" and a few hugs, Mom gives the quilt back to Nancy to keep.

The quilt hangs now on our library wall.

The dedication on the quilt reads as follows:

Helen Cervenka Fredrickson's Quilt

Squares Made By Mary Cervenka 1938

Quilted By Nancy Fredrickson 1988

This picture displays the design.

A quilt is craft, folk art, and fine art;
a quilt is culture, custom, and love;
a quilt is frivolous, practical, sentimental, and real;
a quilt is fun, serious, and can reach out across borders;
a quilt is color, pattern, and style;
a quilt is bright, soft, and wonderful.
A quilt is like its maker.

When we travel, Nancy always looks for a quilt store with fabrics that reflect the locale. I, too, have come to enjoy the quilt store hunt as part of our travel adventure..
By the way, many relatives completed quilt squares and the Relative Quilt turned out really great, but that's material for another blog, and, yes, that pun was intended.

Photographs  by Nancy A Fredrickson