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“My Dad”

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Paul Peterson sang “My Dad” during an episode of The Donna Reed Show.   Although sung from Jeff Stone‘s teenage, male point of view, (he was the son of Donna and Dr. Alex Stone), he speaks for many of us females as well and our adoration toward our fathers. As the lyrics go, my dad, Harold Frank, may not have been, “. . .much in the eyes of the world; He’ll never make history…But he [was] the world to me.“

He had a rough beginning, but he seldom dwelt on it.  Maybe I’ve blogged about Dad before.  He was born and raised on a farm north of Yankton, South Dakota, to Fred and Anna (Hauck) Frank, children of immigrants from Russia. Both of his parents’ had strong family ties with lots of friends and relatives in the Yankton, Scotland, and Menno areas.

An article in the February 14, 1920 Scotland Journal announced that the area had been free of the flu so far that winter.  Less  week later, my dad’s family all came down with the dreaded virus.  Grandma and Grandpa Frank died on the same day, February 21, 1920,  with Dad’s little brother Eddie dying on the day of his folks’ funeral.

The three living Frank children went to live with Uncle Chris Hauck in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Aunt Leona was nine, Dad was seven, and Aunt Ramona was two.  Later, the children were split up and fostered by different families. The picture below on the left was taken after Aunt Leona’s confirmation and the last day the three siblings would be together for many years. Aunt Leona’s family moved to Idaho.  In fact, even though Dad and Aunt Leona corresponded, they didn’t see each other for forty-five years.

Dad stayed with his foster parents near Scotland until he was twenty-one when he moved back to the St. Cloud area and eventually met and married Mom, Winnie Johnson. (The picture of him on the right was taken when he still lived in South Dakota. Handsome devil, wasn’t he?)

Harold Frank about twenty – five years old.

As the song goes . . .Dad may not have “been much in the world,” but he was the world to me and my siblings.    He went to work  every morning clean as a fresh-washed copper penny, and after working hard in a hot iron foundry, he  came home every night covered in black dust.  He taught us right from wrong, taught us about his love of  God and the Bible, guided us in faith, and he modeled a life to be followed.  He was a quiet man with few wishes or needs except for a good chair to hang his leg over while he read his newspaper, a transistor radio to listen to his Minnesota Twins, a good hamburger anytime, and a beer to quench his thirst after mowing the lawn.

He also told us about our German-Russian heritage, which had been taught to him by his parents and later by his foster parents who were his first cousins.  So important to him that it was important for my sister to begin researching our lineage.  I took over when I moved to South Dakota.  I eventually found that our Frank, Engel, Jasmann, Mueller and other relatives were the first German Russians to come to Dakota Territory in 1872 and settle in Odessa Township, Yankton County.  I wrote Steppes to Neu-Odessa: Germans from Russia Who Settled in Odessa Township, Dakota Territory, 1872-1876, a biographical dictionary of these first settlers.

A bit of the orphan came out at times–like when Dad remarked that he never thought he would be so lucky to have a family.  But I can say we, his children, were the lucky ones to have such a good father.

 

The Tin Can
My child, do not forget my teaching,
                                       but let your heart keep my commandments . . .
                                       It will be a healing for your flesh
                                       and a refreshment for your body
                                                                       Proverbs 3: 1, 8

Round, red, black, and gold container,
bottom rusted, lid twisted askew,
the Watkins carbolic salve
rested on the shelf above the basement steps–
next to Dad’s pint.
He self-medicated:
Burning swigs for sore throats,
Vicks rubs for coughs,
Hilex baths for itch and ground-in dirt.
The old man had cures for all our family’s ailments.
But for me as a small child,
the tin that held the brown muck,
stinking of gasoline and spruce, contained a mystery.
Whether I had a knee scrape, bee sting, or poison ivy,
and while I wept in pain, Dad performed his magic.
Bowing as if in prayer, he carefully wrapped
my wounds with a Band-Aid, gauze, or clean rag.
Before long, I was out playing again,
paying little attention to God’s healing power
delivered through my father’s hands.

I REMEMBER MAMA

by
Cynthia Frank-Stupnik’s mother Winnie Frank in November 2002.

 

MOTHERS DAY~

As an author, I mostly focus on women’s studies and women’s history. I especially enjoying writing  about strong women who have made an impact in the world. Did you know a woman named Anna Jarvis, as well as many others, lay claim to founding Mothers’ Day?

My family and I had a nice Mothers’ Day hosted by my oldest son and daughter-in-law.  Good fun, lots of good chatter,  grandchildren, and May birthday celebrations with a BIG cake  were the order of this day.  On top of all that, good weather! What could get any better?

When I returned home, I turned on TCM and saw that one of my favorite old movies, I Remember Mama with one of my favorite actresses, Irene Dunn, was playing.   This mother was the heart of the family as my mother and my grandmother were.  Honored once a year, these women represented the models most of us appreciate.     I have many happy memories of long-ago Mothers’ Days when my own “Mama” and grandma were still around, yet my own Mother’s Day,  the ones I share now with my daughters-in-law and granddaughters,  is even more special.

This day that was devoted to my mother and everyone I knew began in Sunday School.  In the musty church basement, I created the same things for a number of years.  From the pail of broken color crayons, I with others  crafted our card of love on construction paper.  From scribbles that the teacher addressed “To Mommy” from “Cindy” to more ornate three-dimensional pictures I designed when I was older, my greeting accompanied a paper cup of petunias or marigolds.   Right after the last stanza of “This Little Light of Mine,” I ran up the steep steps and out the door to the waiting car where my mother sat.  I offered her my precious gifts by dumping them in her lap before hopping into the back seat so Dad could drive us to visit Grandma and Grandpa for a family get-together.  Grandma welcomed us along with our other aunts, uncles, and cousins.  My mother and her sisters gave their mother flats of pansies, her favorite flowers. If it was warm, we ate outside and always, always, the center of the table held glass bowls heaping with glistening olives, green and black, as if they were the most precious gems in the world.  Anyone passing the table grabbed a few from the bowls which Grandma or aunts filled as fast as they were emptied.  When dinner was over, as the men sat around yakking in the lawn chairs, Grandma’s daughters, my aunts,  cleaned up the table, scraped plates, packaged up leftovers and washed, wiped, and put away the dishes.  Then they all knelt in her rock garden and planted the flowers for her.

Not much changed in Sunday School over the years, and when it was my turn for my sons to share the same gifts with me, the hosting batons were handed down to others.  I remember the joy I felt when the boys were little and presented me with their teacher-planted petunias and their special handiwork on their cards.  Their etchings were usually flowers and rainbows, and I showed them off on  the bookshelf until I put them in my drawer of memories. Their flowers seldom survived.  They were replanted and often drenched with loving care. For years, especially after Grandma could no longer throw big parties, my mother’s baton became  the potato masher as she became hostess for this special day.  I don’t remember planting flowers in her garden because my dad and sister pretty much handled that, but I remember big family hugs, lots of laughing and talking, a few hands of 500 around the dining room table, a Twins game  blasting on the TV in the living room, lots of food–all garnished with the same center pieces–green and black olives, and the dishes–stacks of plates, platters, and serving bowls, and silverware that usually my sister and I tackled with our batons, a wash cloth and drying towel.

I can still handle the cooking if I have to, but life and traditions change.  Daughters-in-law and sons usually alternate the holidays and activities with us.  Other things have changed as well.   Although we often have olives, they aren’t the  center pieces. Sometimes a baby sits in the middle of the table.   We have other tastes as well.  I ‘m not sure what my grandparents or parents would have eaten without turkey or ham.  Now we often have pulled pork sandwiches or someone’s fired up the b-b-q.  We eat salads of all kinds. This time, because I was hungry for it, I brought tomatoes and mozzarella that my daughter-in-law garnished with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.  I doubt my grandmother or mother would have had these in their pantries.  Holidays like Mothers’ Day are still traditional, a time for love, a game of Old Maid, and giggles with the grand kids.

As far as I am concerned, anytime I can see my family, it is Mothers’ Day.  Thank you sister for such great photos.  They bring a smile to my face, and I ache to see them as soon as possible.

Mothers’ Day 2017 with daughters-in-law and granddaughters

 

 

 

Don’t turn your back on what inspires you

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The Mississippi River flowing by Clearwater, Minnesota
A couple weeks ago, I heard second-hand that St. Cloud is thinking of developing a walkway from around downtown to the hospital. When I heard this I thought of San Antonio’s River Walk.  Restaurants, boutique shops, boat rides, this city’s “underworld” is alive with charm.
Until train and car took over, the Mississippi piggy-backed its drifters  north and south, it sent the prized white pine down the river to sell and fill the lumbering industry’s pockets, but  it was a carry-all for so much trash and waste  it became polluted. Then some turned their backs on this great waterway. Thank goodness, laws exist now to protect its health.
It is good to think that St. Cloud will honor The Old Man who has been its loyal friend for so long. The other day, I sat at a boat landing watching the river side-stroke around a few curves as it rolled toward Sartell where it eventually blathers in foam as it spills over the dam. It is alive.

I love the Atlantic Ocean,  and it too inspires me. Sometimes, the waves play at my feet.  At other times they nearly push me over as they romp toward shore with more vigor. I can’t help but visualize my German, English, Welsh, and Scandanavian ancestors sailing away from oppression, tyranny, and near-starvation to start all over again in America. The waters rush at me as if deep  calleth unto deep.

I wrote Steppes to Neu-Odessa: Germans from Russia  Who Settled in Odessa Township, Dakota Territory, 1872-1876 (Heritage Books 1996, 2002) after I moved to the South Dakota.  The Yankton hills draw me in as they bulge from the James River, sloping and angling their way through rich, black farm land.  Here my German-Russian ancestors gathered to begin their lives in earthen huts. So moved by their strength and determination, I wrote:

  The “Rooshuns”

In quest of home, they roamed Dakota’s range.
From Yankton to Pembina, wagon wheels
dug furrows these tenacious nomads trekked
to claim near-similes of Ukraine’s steppes.

They settled. Waist-high grasses waved and clapped
an encore: soddies, shanties, rammed-earth shacks
cropped up. The husbandmen corralled the land
like bronco busters broke the untamed west.

Grooms planted rows of barley, wheat, and corn.
Their wives nursed fragile sprigs of cottownwoods.
Stacks of mischt, the twists of tight-wound hay
became crude symbols of their brutal lives.

These pacifists fought wars against the snows,
against the droughts and fires, the storms of ice.
Once former subjects, nouveau czars of plains,
in black knee boots, stood firm on humble realms.

I see them in gray photos: faces grave,
babushkas, sheepskin coats, beside their squats.
I read church records, letters, homestead deeds,
a diary, our Bible’s family tree.

On page, I transcribe lowly family myths,
then fantasize I enter their domains.
Like Russian thistles tangled in my thoughts,
dwell pioneers whose blood thins in my veins.

While living in South Dakota, I was lonesome at times for the river’s watery presence, I wrote:
 Daughter of the Middle Border

Garland writes about my earthy grandmothers
who left eastern hamlets
to follow their wander-lusting husbands
across Dakota prairies.
These petticoat farmers produced the manna,
feeding the men who grappled with the land.
But their own hunger was harder to stave off
without churches, schools, and McClure’s.
North of Yankton, my youthful father tired of treeless plains,
left the rise and fall of the coteau.
Hankering after richer pastures,
he drifted east, sinking his spade in Minnesota’s fields.
Years later, I, like my grandmothers,
trekked to Dakota to work alongside my spouse.
We tilled the land in a different way,
reclaiming their inheritance of Canaan’s blessings.
While home for now may be inside this Harvey Dunn landscape
of azure skies, green-gold desert, and pasque flowers-
I feel Twain’s anchor, Old Man River,
tugging at my veins.
(c) 2002 Stupnik

After a thirty year stint in South Dakota, I returned home to Minnesota to live and write about my first love, where I was born and raised.  Most of my novel/book writing  right now  is about my homeland, Clearwater, Minnesota, the landscapes near the Mighty River, the friends I have/hahttps://tonybennett.com/d, and the history and Main Street Women that inspires me.
What landscape inspires you and leaves you longing to return? Is it Colorado like John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High?”  Is it the hilly and foggy city that  Tony Bennett sings about in “I Left My Heart in San Francisco?” Or is it the powerful soundtrack of “Legends of the Fall” that beckons you back to the mountains and icy streams of Montana?
All of these places impel me to write, but for me, the Mississippi flows in my veins, mobilizing my imagination.
 I welcome you to my new blog site and my new webpage.  Remember, I am available to read and talk for book clubs, poetry readings, panel discussions, and almost all book and craft events.  AND don’t forget to let me know what inspires YOU.