Today’s guest post comes from Renee Boomgaarden.

We recently made a grocery run to Bismarck. I started singing “The Wells Fargo Wagon” as I usually do whenever we buy provisions like that, and husband asked two interesting questions. Why was Wells-Fargo hauling freight to Mason City, Iowa, when everything came by train in those days? Were there stage coaches in northern Iowa at that time? Those questions puzzled me and I had no good answer until 2:00 the next morning when it came to me. Trains hauled everything to the towns, and Well-Fargo hauled things in the towns. It was a dray service.

My maternal great grandfather was a drayman. He had a business in Hamburg, Germany hauling freight on the Hamburg wharves and delivering things all over the city, just like the Wells-Fargo wagon. I wish I could have seen those wharves at the turn of the century when my great grandfather worked there. Hamburg was, and is, a very important world port, and it must have been a wild and exciting place to work. He did pretty well, I gather, since my grandmother told me that they had their own carriage with horses that had shiny, polished hooves.

Her parents would leave gold-edged calling cards embossed with her father’s name when they went visiting. I still have one.

We had a strange carving in our house that my great grandfather was said to have been given by an Italian sea captain. I have it in my house now. It has always been an object of fascination for me, and you can see the weird animals and fantastical landscapes carved in it. It weighs 4 lbs. It is multicolored, with streaks of black, pale green, white, and scarlet. There are ravens, a bat, a stag, and what I think may be a bear, along with a bowl-shaped recess carved in the middle.

My mother didn’t know what sort of stone it was made from. I took it to a chemistry class in high school and the teacher helped me with a variety of chemical tests that ruled out granite, quartz, and marble. In 1995 I was in San Francisco, walking through China Town, and I saw similar carvings out of identical stone, and was told they were jade incense burners.

In 1913 my great grandfather left Hamburg, slipped into Holland, and boarded a ship in Rotterdam that sailed to New York City. He loved to gamble and lost everything playing cards. He ran away to avoid his creditors. My grandmother, age 14, her sister, age 12, and their mother followed in April of 1914. They brought the carving with them. Why? It is heavy. It must have taken up precious space in their luggage that they could have packed with more useful things. Not only did they haul it to New York City, they hauled it to Foley, MN two years later, and then to Pipestone County a few years after that. I wonder what it meant to them. It is more weird than beautiful. It is hard to dust. Why have I hauled it from Rock County to Winnipeg to Indiana to North Dakota? I have no idea.

My great grandfather died alone in an apartment in Pipestone in 1947. He lived with my grandmother for a few years after his wife died in 1937, and my grandmother eventually kicked him out of her house because he still played cards for money. I guess she never forgave him for what he lost in Germany. I don’t know what my children will do with the carving when I am gone, but I hope one of them will keep it and ponder its mystery and keep hauling it around.

What object are you hauling around as a relic of past generations?

Today’s guest post is from Renee Boomgaarden.

I have an image problem in my family that I am at a loss to change. I am by nature bossy and controlling. My children learned early on that they ignored my advice and expectations at their peril, not only because they would be in trouble, but because I was usually right.

After my son left for college, I knew that he had to make his own decisions, and that I had to back off, only giving advice when he asked. It wasn’t a hard transition for me. He is a sensible guy. He married a sensible wife, and together they do well. It recently became apparent, however, that Son hasn’t caught on to my changed expectations in our relationship. I guess I was supposed to make a formal announcement that he could disagree with me without fear. This misunderstanding came to light last month in Cavendish, Prince Edward Island, on a tour of the house that Lucy Maud Montgomery used as model for Green Gables, home of Marilla Cuthbert, the ultimate old bossy pants.

The author of Anne of Green Gables grew up in Cavendish within walking distance of a lovely farm house with green trim. Relatives owned the house, and young Lucy played in the forest glades around the house, turning them in the Haunted Wood and Lover’s Lane in her books. The house has been lovingly maintained. We planned to spend a day in Cavendish exploring the Green Gables site and then hitting the beautiful pink beaches just north of town. I had heard a weather report that rain and clouds were going to move in to the area in the early afternoon. My son had his heart set on the beach. His wife and I were excited about both beach and Green Gables. Husband was happy with whatever we did.

After we had toured the house and the Haunted Wood, I innocently suggested to Son that perhaps we could go to the beach in case rain set in, and then walk the Lover’s Lane trail afterward. He agreed. No one else objected. We piled into the rental car, and then the trouble began. Son caught on that his wife was worried that we wouldn’t make it back to do the Lover’s Lane trail. He got upset at me because of my “insistence” that we go to the beach immediately, and husband started muttering about my “control” issues. Son angrily turned the car around and we went back to walk the trail. I kept saying that it really didn’t matter to me, I just didn’t want people to be disappointed in the beach if it rained. I realized, then, that Son still interpreted suggestions and ideas from me as direct orders, and he felt caught between obeying me and keeping his wife happy. I got really steamed that neither Son nor Husband would believe me, so I walked by myself on the trail while they walked on ahead.

That probably didn’t help the situation.

We managed the rest of the trip through PEI and Cape Breton Island with far less drama. We really did have a great trip, but I am still thinking my way through this image problem. At least now I have a handle on the source of the trouble.

What are some key differences between the way you see yourself, and the way others see you?

Today’s guest post comes from Renee Boomgaarden.

Rupert Murdoch’s recent spot of bother made me think about a newpaper I read for the first time on my trip to the Pine Ridge Reservation – The Lakota Country Times. I found it to be a welcome change from our local paper and the online news services I usually read. Our local paper is published six days a week and contains day-old news and lots of typos and bad grammar. The articles are dull. We occasionally buy a Sunday New York Times in Bismarck, a real treat for our daughter who loves to read to wedding write ups.

I grew up with a weekly paper, The Rock County Star Herald, a paper mentioned quite often, along with its publisher Al McIntosh, in Ken Burns’ documentary “The War”. Al still published the paper and wrote a weekly column when I was a kid. He lived at the end of our street in a grey brick house. Wednesday was always an exciting day, since that was when the paper came out and we could see what had happened in town over the past week. It was a finely written paper and, well, personal in its tone.

The Lakota Country Times is also a weekly paper and seems to be a true community publication that prints news, goings on, and cultural information important for its readers. It describes itself as “The official legal newspaper for the Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservation”. Its motto is “Truth, Integrity, and Lakota Spirit”.

My initial impression of the paper was that it was colorful and thick. All the pictures were in color, and there were lots of them. It had many op/ed pieces, health and public service announcements, government notices, regular and guest columnists who were all local people, ads for Indian businesses, book reviews, and pages of letters to the editor.

Some were from tribal members who were incarcerated in the SD State Penitentiary asking for prayers. Some were from Europeans who had visited the reservation in the past and were asking for the addresses of long lost friends. Others were from tribal members living in other parts of the US. One of these was from California alerting the tribe to the public sale of personal possession and artifacts of Chief Red Cloud, a very important figure for the tribe. The letter outlined how the objects had been stolen by army and government officials in the late 1800’s. I was amazed at the details that had been handed down to the letter writer from ancestors about the people who had been involved in the removal of those objects from the reservation and how the artifacts had ended up in California.

The paper dripped with wry and sarcastic humor and had a whole page of Indian cartoons I had never seen before. Any positive happening was reported with photos and extensive copy, such as the graduation of three people from an alternative high school. Obituaries were plentiful and published at no cost in a section called “The Holy Road”. There were far too many death notices for young people, a sad fact of life on the Rez. I doubt that the reporters were so disrespectful and insensitive as to hack into the phone messages of the deceased.

I think Mr. Murdock has lost touch with his readers and what is important to them. Perhaps he needs a refresher course at Pine Ridge and Rosebud to figure out what a good paper can do for a community. The Lakota Country Times has a website that gives a nice sense of what the printed edition is like. Check it out.

What newspapers have you liked and disliked over the years?

Today’s guest post is from Renee Boomgaarden.

Our town has a wonderful vocal teacher. “Kathy” (not her real name) is a conservatory trained soprano who found true love with a local backhoe operator and successfully blended marriage and motherhood with the work of a vocal performance major. She teaches on occasion at the local college, performs with regional operas and civic choruses, and has a private vocal studio.

Kathy is really gifted at nurturing young voices and picking just the right material to challenge and inspire her students. This April, three of her oldest high school students (my daughter, daughter’s best friend, and another local girl) participated in a juried competition sponsored by the state chapter of NATS, the National Association of Teachers of Singing. The event was held at NDSU in Fargo while the Red River was cresting. Kathy is a member of NATS and participated as one of the nine judges. I drove the three girls to Fargo, along with best friend’s mother who also was the girls’ accompanist.

The singers were divided into competitive categories based on gender and year in school. Our girls were lumped in the one high school category. Most of the singers were college undergraduates, with a few singers in the graduate student and adult categories. There were separate categories for those singing Broadway musical numbers. Most of the participants sang opera arias and oratorio solos, with a few art songs thrown in. All singers started performing at 8:00 am.

It’s quite something to hear and see about 60 anxious singers preparing to compete that early in the morning. Practice rooms were at a premium. Most of the women wore rather daring and flamboyant cocktail dresses and very high heeled shoes. (By the end of the day, most of the women were walking around in bare feet). The men wore somber suits and ties. Once the 8:00 round was completed, the judges decided who would go on to the 10:30 round in which more singers would be eliminated, and so on through the 2:30 round, until the 4:00 final round in which the three best singers in each category would perform and be evaluated by all nine judges.

At 8:00, our girls were judged by two men who wrote furiously while the girls sang. They were finished by about 8:30 and they fell asleep in the van in the parking lot for two hours. Tension runs high at these events and those few minutes of singing wore the girls out. Best friend’s mom and I spent nap time listening to other singers and watching the weeping of those who were eliminated and the excitement of those who were sent on to the other rounds.

Our girls were the only high school students at the competition. Best friend has a phenomenal voice and she was the only one we expected to make it to any of the other rounds. Much to our surprise and delight, the judges decided that since there were only three high school students, all of our girls were automatically forwarded to the final round held in a lovely and intimate recital hall.

The Steinway grand took up most of the stage. The voices in the final round were truly beautiful and I don’t know how the judges decided between them. My daughter was the youngest singer in the competition. She is an alto, aka mezzo soprano at these events. Her voice is just developing strength and range. It was so interesting to hear how the voices matured as the singers got older, even among the college-age singers.

The last singer was a graduate student, a huge, barrel-chested man who closely resembled Pavarotti and looked like he was quite ill. He struggled to the stage, got himself in role, and and filled the room with an enormous, powerful baritone. He then struggled back to his seat and looked like he was going to collapse.

Daughter was awarded $10 for making it to the final round. The judges’ comments were all encouraging and kind. I am informed that she wants to do this again next year and she insists she has to have a new cocktail dress for the event. She feels she is too tall and her ankles too wobbly to wear high heels.

What have been your experiences being judged?

A Guest Blog from Renee Boomgaarden

Recently we discussed our feeling about news stories, and I noted that there was very little in the news that I could tolerate, with the exception, I now must confess, of stories about animal rescue. I don’t mean shows about animal welfare officers rescuing pets from abuse and neglect-those shows just make me angry and upset. I mean stories about helping animals out of predicaments of their own making. You know the kind-goats stranded on bridges or with their heads stuck in fencing, bears who wander into town, get treed and tranquilized, and fall sleepily into the waiting nets of patient rescuers who transport them back to the woods, ducklings retrieved from storm sewers as their mother quacks anxiously nearby.

I think my favorite stories are those told friends and family. The story about the dog who decided it would be a good idea to roll vigorously back and forth over a decomposing porcupine (both smelly and painful) stands out, as does the tale of the poor, bored, Lakeland Terrier who spent hours independently chasing a ball back and forth over a paved parking lot until it had worn the pads off its paws.

My dad and my best friend tell the most memorable rescue stories. My friend grew up on a farm, and one day after checking the cattle she came upon a Great Grey Owl sitting on the ground under a telephone pole. She was able to walk quite close to it and saw that one pupil was quite dilated. It looked kind of stunned and she surmised it had had a head injury. She somehow managed to get it into a tall box in the back of her car and drove three hours to get it to a raptor center at the University of Minnesota. She never heard what happened to it after that.

My father loves dogs and has had his share of trauma with them over the years. He still speaks with sorrow over a favorite dog he had as a boy-a Rat Terrier named Diamond-who went down a badger hole and never came back up. It still bothers him. His all-time favorite dog, however, was Puggi the Pug, a dog he had after he retired. One day in early Spring, Dad and Puggi went to the city park in Luverne, right along the Rock River, to see if the ice had broken up. The river was still frozen over, but barely, and before he could stop her, Puggi ran out on the ice to get to some birds on the other bank.
A portion of the ice gave way and she went through and was pulled under the remaining ice by the strong Spring current. She was gone. Dad said he walked down stream about 100 feet and just stared, thinking to himself that he had lost his dog for good. His eye was caught by an old ice fishing hole in the middle of the river, and to his joy, up popped Puggi. She couldn’t scramble out of the hole on her own, so Dad laid out flat and advanced across the ice on his stomach. He grabbed Puggi and slithered back to shore. He figured she saw light coming through the hole as the current took her down stream and she swam toward it. He took her home and put her in a hot shower to warm her up. My mother was appalled at the risk he took, I don’t think he thought twice about going out on that ice.

What are your tales of animal foolishness?