Why do some people get the genealogy bug, and others don’t? I’ve been thinking about this a lot since two of my Aunts, my mom and one of my cousins have taken a trip to Canada to research the origins of my Grandma’s Father. All I know of the situation is that Great Grandpa came to America either with Great Grandma or met her here in Canada. At any rate, they got married, and my Grandma was born in Regina, Saskatchewan. When my grandmother was 12, they moved to Wisconsin (they think) and then finally to St. Paul, Minnesota.
If genealogy provided stories about their lives and/or funny antidotes, I would maybe be more enthused, but I just can’t get into it, but feel as if I should. I loved nothing more than to sit with Grandpa Tschida and coax stories out of him about his childhood and young married life. Those images came to life in my head far more vividly than genealogy research can stimulate my imagination.
Don’t get me wrong, I am forever grateful for the info that others have worked hard to unearth, but I just don’t want to go to the work of doing it myself! I hope that Mom, Aunt Barb, Aunt Marge and Mary find everything they are looking for plus much more. I am also hoping that they actually find the house my Grandma lived in and take a photo, but I don’t even think it’s on their agenda. Maybe the house isn’t even there anymore. Those are the things that fascinate me. Where did my Great Grandfather work? Is the place he worked still there? A photograph would be awesome. What did Great Grandma do? Did she take care of things at home?
Back in those days, photography was more of an extravagance than it is today. Imagine how much info overload our future generations will have. We’ve made it incredibly easy for future gens…but maybe it will have taken all the fun out of detecting…hmmm.
Grandpa Tschida & Mark
Another vivid memory of Christmas occurred when we were maybe 5 and 9, or thereabouts. We were both pretty sick with the flu and/or a cold and we were resting down in the basement while watching television with Mom and Dad. The phone rang and of course in those days there were no cordless phones, so Mom ran upstairs to answer. She was on the phone a long time, which was certainly not unusual, so we didn’t really think much of it. Eventually she came back down and we finished watching tv. At some point, Mom exclaimed that it was time for bed. As we walked upstairs to bed, we just happened to look in the living room and WOW….Santa had visited while we had been downstairs.
Another place we always went without fail was to Grandpa & Grandma Tschida's house and all my Uncles, Aunts and cousins would be there. It was a full house! My grandparents/Aunt went to a lot of work to ensure that each of us kids got a gift or two. They didn't have to do that, especially when it had to cost a ton, since there were about 18 of use kids. I always truly appreciated it. My grandparents and Aunt Marge gave to us way more than we could ever hope to give back.One of the last memories I have of Christmas and Santa was again at the farm. Dad asked us if we wanted to go out for a late evening ski through the fields. I was always game for skiing; especially up at the farm. The quiet swishing of the skis as they broke trail across the freshly fallen snow always seemed mysterious and enchanting. The farm was also usually pretty dark which added to the mystique, but on this particular evening I remember the moon was glowing brightly. (I looked it up and there was a full moon on December 25, 1977) There is nothing better than skiing across open fields with the silvery light of the moon shining down on the sparkling white snow. As we got to the end of the mile long driveway, Dad turned towards the farm and said “Hey, did you see that? I thought I saw some lights in the sky near the farm.” We were at an age that we were starting to get wise to Dad’s joking around. So of course, I remember us both saying “Yeah, right Daaaaddddd.” I know that he continued to be pretty persistent about what he saw, but we kept on with the “Sure Daaaddddd.” The joke was on us. Once we got back to the farm and unbundled all our outdoor clothes, we walked into the living room and guess what? Santa had struck again. Dad’s only words, “See? I told you!” He must have loved that moment.
There are so many wonderful memories of Christmases past. Looking back, I realize that we had it sooooo good in comparison to others. I will forever be grateful for all the wonderful memories we were given.
I remember sometimes my Mom would argue it, but Grandma would INSIST upon our having cookies, and there was no arguing with her. We loved that part of the visit. They were always unique cookies as well… (Store bought). At home we made our cookies from scratch to save money, but Grandma and Grandpa always had the yummy store bought kind, like; fig newtons, oreos, vanilla sandwich cookies, or my personal favorite wafer cookies (see picture below). If that wasn’t enough, there was always the endless supply of candy that was within easy reach.
The place that we hung out when visiting my Grandparents was always the kitchen. My Grandma’s kitchen must have been at least 20 x 20 and I am not exaggerating. She had an old oil burning oven/stove as well as your standard electric stove, a fridge and a huge kitchen table. Oh sure there was a dining room and living room along with three bedrooms, but the place to be was the kitchen.
The farm, while the best place on earth to be during the day, took on a foreboding and scary feel at night. You could literally hear the walls whispering evil things...footsteps and small shuffles wafted through the air into our little ears while we lay shivering under the covers.
Winters were the worst because it would get dark so early (even earlier than in the city) and stay dark much longer. I remember one never ventured upstairs alone, it was always done in pairs. And then one poor soul had to reach way up high into the darkened stairwell to pull the string for the hall light to come on. What nerves of steel that took each and every time. If you ever woke up in the middle of the night, may God have mercy on your soul.
It was so bone chillingly dark that you could put your hand in front of your face and not see anything more than an inky blackness that seems to breathe and waver as if alive. It didn’t help at all that the room between the two bedrooms (ours and my parents) was a dark, dank, spooky attic. It was a Jumanji type of attic with shadowy what-nots and unexplained shadows that seemed to quiver and shake as if taunting us. There was one window in this room that was always cobwebby and grimy from years of neglect, giving little light to the spooky attic, but rather making things seem even more scary and treacherous.
There was a single step up to the attic with an old skeleton key that always stayed in the keyhole, but in the locked position on this painted white door. The room was always locked, and I never ever had the courage to ask why. Upon entering this gloomy, spiderwebby room, the floorboards would creak with every footfall, warning whatever monster was deep in the shadowy recesses that you had now entered no-man's land and thus considered "fair game." Even in broad daylight, one never went into the attic alone. It just wasn’t done.
I don’t remember any one particular event that evoked such fear in our hearts and minds, but we were always afraid of that farmhouse at night. Even in adulthood, when the farmhouse was discussed between my brother and me, it was always done in a low voice with deep respect and awe.
My mom claims it’s the stories my Dad told, but I really don’t remember any particular stories at all, until we were much older and already had our fears embedded into our psyche. To this day, I can still feel the sheer terror of spending time alone there. During the summer my cousin was dying, I spent well over a month there alone and refused to sleep upstairs. I just used the pullout couch in the living room, which held a whole new host of "scary" because there was a floor vent pass through that looked directly into the upstairs bedroom. I usually slept with the light on each night.
My grandparents worked hard their whole lives. Even when they should have been retired, they continued to work at the turkey plant near their farm and tend to the animals they raised. Chickens for the eggs and geese (I don’t want to know what for), but my Grandma always told me it was for pets. I have a sneaking suspicion she lied. Especially after one particular Christmas dinner. She cooked all day and then put the goose onto the table. I asked what it was and she told me. I refused to eat it and cried the entire meal. If this isn’t a surefire way to upset a Grandma, I don’t know what is. She never ever served goose again.
I spent one summer helping my Grandma incubate, hatch and raise the goslings from the time they left the shell. I remember that I accidentally spoiled one of the goslings and he would cry at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night. Grandma looked at me and said “You spoiled him; you get up and feed him.” Little did she know I absolutely treasured that time and would have done it anyway. Geese are very smart creatures and are often not given the credit they are due. They are conniving, clever and manipulative. They are also loving and loyal until the day they die. That particular gaggle that I helped raise always remembered me and would run to the fence whenever I came back to the farm.
One particular summer that Michelle and I spent together, we were old enough that we could fit into her mom’s old 50’s style skirts and dresses. We would walk up and down that long gravel driveway. We felt so special, beautiful and important. Too bad there were ZERO guys around to enjoy the show. My favorite skirt was a yellow taffeta skirt that would rustle and shimmer when I walked. I also favored a pale lavender skirt. I wish I could remember what Michelle’s favorite skirts were, but I have a total block. Maybe she had the same favorites.
I was an avid reader all through my childhood but when Michelle and I were together on the farm alone, I never once touched a book, nor did I desire to read at all. I don’t know what we talked about or laughed at, but I remember we never fought and our love was deeper than any love I’ve ever felt for anyone. That summer as she lay dying in a hospital bed in Fargo ND, I stayed at the farm to be nearby. My mom stayed with my Aunt to support both my Aunt and Michelle during this time. It had become inevitable that she would be leaving us.
I read a lot that summer more than likely to take my mind off of that dark shadow of death flirting with all of our peripheral visions. The book I remember most clearly was “Watership Down.” I had just finished the book and was immensely sad. I was wandering around the farmhouse while my Grandparents were out doing chores. I felt an overwhelming despair and sadness at that moment. In that moment, the farm phone rang and I just let it ring and ring. I knew without having to answer that it was bad news. A phone can ring differently when it’s a harborer of bad news, you have to listen very closely, but the tune is decidedly different. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and picked it up. It was my Mom and she prepared me as best as she could. She told me to go get my Grandma and I refused. I remember distinctly arguing with her that I would not, as if somehow my not getting my Grandma would allow Michelle to live on. Finally I went and got her. I don’t remember any more of that day; except that I never saw my Grandparents shed a single tear. I realize now that it was just their way. If I thought I was stoic, they surpassed that stoicism to an all new level. Maybe it was because they lived on a farm. I have noticed that a lot of farm people have a different outlook on life and death. They seem to accept it more naturally than city folk. But as a 14 year old child, I didn’t understand this lack of compassion and feeling. After all I was the one that had lost my very best friend and blood sister. Oh yes, we had cut ourselves and melded our blood together just like the cowboy and Indian shows we’d seen on television. I don’t remember anything else from that point on except the ride back home from Detroit Lakes to the farm after the funeral and burial. I felt an overwhelming sense of loss, and just at that moment the clouds parted and the sun shone down through the recently departed clouds and formed sunbeams. God had welcomed another angel into Heaven. I remember being straight pissed though.
Michelle's death occurred the summer of 1980. This was the year I would be starting high school. It was an extremely sad time...and new school certainly did not help. Who knew that Michelle's death would seem like a cake-walk in comparison to what was to come 22 years later.