The Timeless Art of an Open Letter

“Way back in the 20^th century, when people led private lives and wrote personal letters and messages meant only for the eyes of the recipients…an open letter carried some weight.”

Linton Weeks

An Open Letter…About Open Letters

 

“A letter is an intimate thing; a whisper between two souls in a noisy world.”

 

Susan Marie

   poet and author

 

 

                                                   The Open Letter, as literary form, remains something of a contradiction and mystery, a throwback to an earlier time of artful writing and rhetoric. Under the guise of an intimate exchange, the open letter is actually intended to be read by a wide and public audience. When done well, it speaks at once to private lives and universal themes. Its roots go back to the Bible (e.g. the Apostle Paul's Letters to Timothy, Titus and Philemon) and it shows itself today in the form of countless blogs and social media posts of virtually anyone with an internet connection. 

An open letter can express political anger and social angst about anyone and anything. It can also speak plainly of the most personal feelings of love (or yes, animosity) toward a mother, father, sibling or spouse.

To that end, my father, Clarence Stolt, penned such an open letter in February of 1963 while riding on a train back to his hometown in Wisconsin the day after his father died. It first appeared as a published piece in a church bulletin and shortly thereafter in the monthly newsletter for the Veterans Administration’s Milwaukee home office where he was employed his entire life.

Yes, I am clearly and unabashedly biased here, and indeed I have shared this letter publicly before, but there is something about its homespun eloquence that still draws me into that rolling railroad car fifty-plus years after my father wrote them. But more than that, I offer it here as a prime example, not to be forgotten, of the timeless art of the Open Letter.

 

An Open Letter to My Dad

The phone seemed to jingle a little more nervously than usual when Carol called at the office and said you had slept away peacefully.

It wasn't unexpected. We both put up a bold front in our last visit at the St. Paul V.A. Hospital 10 days ago, but inwardly we knew.  You made it clear that 85 was a lengthy life and you had no regrets in leaving.

I boarded the Hiawatha train the following day and found the quiet of a streamliner rolling northward an ideal place for reminiscing.  You had a full life, Dad. Coming over from Sweden in rugged pioneer tradition and starting a new life in northwestern Wisconsin was no easy task.  But it sure developed your initiative, independence and, best of all, the good old virtue of common sense which more than compensated for your meager schooling.  Never gave it much thought before but your working years must have been in excess of 60 years.  I don't think you were idle a day until you reached 75.  With limited means you saw that we three kids went to college, which is a splendid tribute to both you and Mother.  Remarkably good health blessed your life until that pesky hip accident. This, coupled with Mother's passing, dulled your zest for living a little, but you kept such thoughts pretty much to yourself.

Two old photographs come to mind.  The faded confirmation photo in which your eyes speak sheer devilment, and that picture of you in your Spanish-American war uniform displays a physique few servicemen boast today.  Not much fighting in that conflict, but those training camp conditions you mentioned on occasion didn't make me a bit envious.  Incidentally, I'm told you were the last of the Spanish-American vets in Pierce County.

By golly we had some great times together.  Those fishing trips on the St. Croix river:  (remember the time I cast your new rod into the depths of the Mississippi?); those leisurely car trips along Lake Pepin where as a youngster you did some commercial fishing; those trips to the Minnesota State Fair.  Oh yes, there were many more – the pheasant we snitched out of season; and how you enjoyed coming to Milwaukee to see the Braves perform.  Never could figure where you got the stamina to sit through those laborious doubleheaders.

Our Christmas gathering last December left the most pleasant memories.  You were feeling exceptionally chipper and I was amused by your comment that Kent Francis, my youngest, really warmed up to you on this visit.   I know how happy you were two years ago when he came along to carry on the family name.  Kent is a dynamic chap, a little too mischievous at times; I'm sure he takes after his "Gwam Pa."

Truthfully, Dad, I never heard anyone say a harsh word about you and my memory isn't good enough to recall all the compliments concerning the love, respect and help you gave your fellow man.  Typically, you never bothered to mention to me your recent generous gift to the local church.  You are certainly worthy of the Lord's promise: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God hath prepared for those that love Him."

Thanks for everything, Dad. I know you are having a marvelous time now, and deservedly so (though I'd like to know how you explained about that pheasant incident). I won't say goodbye – just so long for a spell.

 

Sincerely,

Clarence

Neighbors

Remembering an Old Man and the Memory of a Lifetime

I’d like to think that old man did it for a reason, a good reason. That he moved on of his own free will, leaving behind no regrets and no explanations. Owing nothing to nobody. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all say that when it’s our time to go?

The setting was a pair of ground floor apartments in a converted duplex in Chicago, a tired old building in need of a paint job and more. It sat next to a cobblestone alley that back in the day could have been a good route for north side bootleggers, but had long since disappeared from civic prominence.

As a grad student new to the city, finding a decent room for rent quickly became a top priority. With only a few days until the beginning of the fall semester, I found the ad for a furnished two-room apartment in the local paper, and as far as I was concerned it couldn’t have been a better stroke of luck. Centrally located in the city, close to an El station for easy transportation downtown to school, the place was simple and affordable — two of the finest words a student can hear. And as if that wasn’t enough, when I first met the landlord he told me I had a quiet neighbor, an older gentleman who had lived there a long time and always kept to himself.

Good enough for me.

The first thing I noticed was the name on the man’s mailbox, directly below mine at the front of the building. ‘P. Stavrakis.’ it said in heavy black magic marker on a piece of old masking tape. So right away I knew his name. That was easy enough. And doubtless more than I needed to know about the man.

The way I figured it, if you lived out in the suburbs you gauged people more on what you see. Here in closer quarters one bases things more on what one hears. For instance, the old man must have had some working years left in him because five days a week I would hear him leaving right at 12:30 every afternoon, then coming home again at ten o’clock at night. Not likely an office job of any sort. 

We had tenant parking but every time he left the building I never heard an engine starting up. So I could assume he didn’t drive a car. And he had to be a loner. Never once did I hear a guest’s voice or a phone ring in that apartment across the hall. The only sounds I ever heard were the occasional muffled sounds of a television game show or the sizzling of meat on the stove.

To be fair, in those first days and weeks in the city I pretty much kept to myself, too. I didn’t know anyone and I tried my best to concentrate on school, allowing myself as few distractions as possible. It just so happened that one of those distractions came to be that old man next door.

I caught my first glimpse of him late one morning when I was getting ready to go to class. Through my window I saw someone coming down the alley carrying a bag of groceries. I stepped closer to the glass and peaked around the ugly blue curtains. With his stooped shoulders, traces of white hair and soft, careful gait he gave all the appearance of a man who didn’t want to be noticed. 

I say traces of white hair because he always wore a brown baseball cap low across his forehead, resting atop thick black-framed glasses that further hid his features. Call it urban camouflage.

I followed him till he slipped out of view. Seconds later I heard the creaking of floorboards coming down the hall, followed by the jingling of keys, the gentle opening and closing of the door, and then finally the sliding of the lock. That was his first greeting to me That was P. Stavrakis.

The next clue came a few nights later when I first heard the music. It was late on a Saturday night. I was lying on my couch reading when the faint streams of a melody slipped out from behind his door. It was a wistful, melancholy mix of strings and mandolins scratching out from what must have been an old phonograph player. Strange music. Music from the old country. No lyrics. Just the melody. 

And as I did an image came to mind: the man sitting there in a straight-backed chair, in his pants and white undershirt, maybe a drink in his hand, listening and remembering happier times, times long gone. And the only reason I could think of that a man would play music like that — a woman. Definitely a woman. Who was she, and what happened to her? To know her story would be to know a big part of his.

I tried to keep reading, but after a few minutes it was hopeless. I put my book down, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and turned out the light. There in the soft glow of a streetlamp I leaned back and together we listened to the music.                                                                                    A few days later I was coming home from class; it was raining lightly so I was walking a little quicker between the El station and my apartment. I slowed down long enough to grab my mail and bring it inside, throwing down what there was of it without looking at it right away. When I did get around to going through it I noticed a cream-colored letter addressed in a woman’s fine hand to Mr. Pietr Stavrakis. 

The letter was postmarked five days earlier, from Albania of all places, with some funky-looking stamps commemorating that country and the sovereign reign of King Konstantin. No return name or address given. Seeing the obvious mistake, my first thought was to go back and put the letter in his mailbox. What the hell business was it of mine?

But holding that parchment-like envelope in my hand got my imagination going. What if it was a love letter? Long ago lost but recently found? Maybe from the woman behind that sad music? Or maybe a relative with impending news. Bad news from a son or daughter. Whoever it was from, it had to be something important, coming all the way from Albania.

I could put it back in his mailbox, or I could go out into the hall and slip it under his door. He might appreciate that. A neighborly gesture. Then again, he might wonder who was handling his personal mail. Either way, I had to do something. It was late afternoon and he might be coming home any minute. I decided to slip it under the door.

I swear, the floorboards creaked louder than ever when I stepped into the hallway. What if he was home? What if he heard me and suddenly opened his door? What would I say? Damn, should I knock or just leave the letter on the floor? I leaned my ear up to the door. Not a sound, though I could definitely smell something, a sour cabbage-like smell that seemed to saturate the wood. Last night’s dinner? More like every dinner from every night of the last how many years.

I left it there under his door and quickly went back to my room.

It wasn’t until later that night that I heard him coming down the hall, followed by the jingling of his keys and the opening and closing of his door. After waiting a few seconds I peeked out and saw that he had picked up the letter. 

All was quiet over there for a minute or two until I heard glass shattering on the floor. It was enough to make me jump. My first thought was to run over and see if he was all right. But something held me back. It wasn’t long before he started playing the music again. It sounded even sadder than before. And he kept playing it all night long.

The next morning, a Friday as I recall, was bright, cool and clear — a first taste of autumn in the air. I was on my way to catch the El when I looked up and saw coming toward me on the sidewalk none other than Pietr Stavrakis. He was wearing the baseball cap again and his hands were buried in the pockets of his well-worn overcoat. Did he recognize me? Should I say something? Did he even know I was his next neighbor?

Right as we passed one another our eyes briefly met. Neither of us said a word. As I reached the end of the street, about to turn the corner, I stole a quick glance back at him but he was already gone.

A few weeks later I went home to Wisconsin for the weekend, and when I returned Monday morning I grabbed my mail, looking it over carefully this time to see that it was indeed my mail, and entered the building. I was coming down the hall when I saw my neighbor’s door wide open. That was strange. 

I slowed down, a little afraid of what I might see. Inside was nothing but bare cupboards and blank walls. A curtain fluttered at the open window. I cautiously stepped over the linoleum threshold to get a closer look. The old appliances and furniture were still in place, but it felt as cold and empty as a midnight bus stop. 

Despite the open window and the fresh scent of air freshener, I could still catch that peculiar smell — probably the only thing he did leave behind.

The landlord startled me when he came up behind me carrying a mop and pail. Stepping out of his way I asked what had happened. The landlord shrugged, saying matter-of-factly that the old man left him a note last week saying he was leaving. Along with the note was enough cash to cover the last two weeks of the month. 

Apparently, Mr. Stavrakis never had a lease and always paid cash for his room and board. And now just like that, he was gone. I asked the landlord if anything bad had happened. Did he know why the old man left? He shook his head, stepped into the empty apartment and closed the door behind him. End of discussion.

For days afterward, I wanted to sneak in and scour the place for any clue Pietr Stavrakis might have left behind — anything that would tell me something about who this man was. But like I said, he didn’t owe anyone any explanations, least of all me.

Years later it’s one of those memories I can’t let go of for some reason. The memory of an old man who by happenstance once lived under the same roof as me; a man who stayed a while and then slipped out quietly with no one giving it a second thought.

Well, almost no one.

 

           

                       

-end-

The Faces of Grief

I add this posting in honor of my parents, both of whom have passed on: my father Clarence Stolt and my mother Carol Stolt, who penned the following words in August of 1976.

          Since the death of my husband two months ago I have frequently been asked by relatives and friends, “How are you doing?” I usually respond “Pretty good” as I find it very difficult to state verbally the depth of feelings I do have. But the other day when I was thinking certain thoughts I decided I should put them down on paper.
 

            How deep a wound can grief cause before it starts to heal?  How long must I wake in the morning with that hurt feeling in the pit of my stomach – the feeling one has when you leave for your first day of school, or the day you begin a new job. It’s the feeling of quivering uncertainty inside which you try to cover up on the outside.
 

            I think to myself, “How could I have better prepared myself for this?” or “What could I have done beforehand to ease the hurt and help the pain?” There is no way one can realize the effect of the death of a loved one until it actually happens to you.
 

            At first there is the excitement of having relatives and friends there to support and help with the many funeral plans which need to be made. This occupies your mind almost totally at first. After the funeral is all over there is a great need to be alone just to catch your breath. Then the legal matters, which must be attended to keep you busy, and your mind is focused on what must be done first. Finally things settle down and minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, grief starts seeping in to your heart and your soul.  When you are busy with family and friends the pain and fear can be shoved to the back of your mind. But in those odd, fragmented moments when time suddenly catches up with you, those precious memories keep crowding in to your mind, and nothing will blot them out.

 

 

             It is hard to know what things my jog the mind and cause the tears to flow. It hits as suddenly as an attack of indigestion. It can be triggered by the refrain of a Guy Lombardo tune, the sight of a beautiful sunset, the sound of a friend’s voice, finding an old letter tucked away in a drawer, finding the old fishing shirt he wouldn’t let you throw away, even seeing the tomato plants he nurtured in the back yard. That’s when the grief rips at the very core of your being, and you wonder if life is ever going to be good again.
 

           Grief is a slow process. There must be time for tears and sadness before our hearts can begin to heal. There will always be a corner of your heart which will hold the hurt no matter how many days, weeks and years pass.
 

           After the initial phase of grief, as days and months go by, a new kind of emotion takes over – the kind of feeling that makes you feel warm inside when you remember something he said, an old habit that was as much a part of him as his voice, the way he laughed at a joke, or the nice things that people remember about him. When this takes place you are turning the corner and have conquered the hardest part of it.
 

            Grief can send you in to the darkest pit of agony, from which you may never quite return, or it can take you down a tenuous, frightening path for a while. When you get to a point when you tell yourself – and show the world – that you will no longer be the victim of death, then it all turns to that feeling of gracious thankfulness that you did know and love this person for the time you did; that you are blessed to have three wonderful children who are a part of him that lives on. Then you feel strong enough to face the future, knowing he would be proud of you and would say, in that inimitable way of his, “I knew you could do it, Mama.”

 

When I Grow Up I Want To Be…

         
            What did you want to be when you were growing up? What wondrous, unfettered dreams first took hold in that developing cerebral cortex of yours? Maybe you can’t quite recall. Long time ago, right?

            I’d be the same way were it not for an irreplaceable store-bought scrapbook my mother kept entitled "My School Years." In it my mother archived the class pictures, report cards, notes, even height and weight statistics from my long-ago grade school years. It may be quaint and antiquated now, but going through its contents now always makes my past and my present come alive, if only for one reason.

            At the end of each school year, each chapter if you will, is a little section where the student could complete a simple statement:

            WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE A –

            There were little boxes next to given occupations, and one could simply put a checkmark in any one of them. Understand, this was a different time, so the choices offered were, to say the least, clichéd. If you were a boy, did you want to be a Fireman? Policeman? How about a Cowboy or an Astronaut? If you were a girl, was it going to be a Nurse, a Secretary, an Airline Hostess? If so desired, a girl could even check the box declaring her intention to become a Mother.

            Ah, the choices we could make.

            According to the book, in the First Grade I wanted to be a Scientist. The following year my vocational interests apparently drifted a bit. That year I wanted to be, of all things, a Private Investigator (a write-in vote). By the Third Grade I decided to give myself some options – I wanted to be either a Fireman or a Football Player. Maybe both.

Sure, why not?

            Well, in case you haven’t already guessed, none of those choices came remotely close to fruition for me. Hell, I never even played high school football.

______________________________________________________________

"The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why." 

                                                                                                             -- Mark Twain

Back in my formative years this was a playful little exercise, nothing more. But now in my more mature mind it raises a deeper question - why do some people come to know what they want to do with their life’s work and actually achieve it, while the rest of us struggle and bounce around for years trying to find our 'calling,' if indeed we ever do?

           What triggers that fateful light bulb to flicker on for some and not for others? Divine Intervention? Karma? The way one particular strand of DNA molecules happened to wrap around another? Or is it something a little more down-to-earth, like parental guidance and good education, mixed in with some hard work and spirited determination?

I’m not talking about Mozart-like prodigies or millionaire athletes. I just want to know how and why some wonderfully average people come to find their ‘thing’ with such certainty early on in their lives.   

Why? Because I wish I would have had such a revelation.

            That's not to say that anyone has an easier road just because they know what they want to do. We all have our struggles, our highs and lows, our lucky breaks and dead ends. No free passes when it comes to that. Nor should there be.

And not everyone needs to have that magical, mystical 'aha' moment in order to lead a productive and fulfilling life. But it stands to reason that, much like taking a long vacation trip, those who know ahead of time where they want to go have an advantage over those who simply get in the car and start driving, hoping against hope they’ll come upon their ‘true purpose’ before it’s too late.

            I write these words not as a scientist, fireman or former football star, but rather as a man of steadily growing years who is still learning, still wondering, still looking for that special road sign that might point me in the direction of doing my life’s work.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? I guess only time will tell. And like it or not, maybe that is the best answer of all.

             

______________________________________________________________

"The only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle." 

                                                                                                             -- Steve Jobs

 

           

~~~

 ----

The Perils of an Eager Young Mind

                                                            “Kent had to be ‘sawed out’ at neighbor’s today.”

                                                                -          journal entry of Clarence Stolt, April 16, 1966

     Some memories just stay with you. There’s one in particular I've hung onto for some reason, like an old snapshot pulled from a box full of memories. In fact, the more time goes by the more it seems like it never really happened. But it did.

            It’s more than a little hazy now, but I still remember the time my father took my mother and me to see a re-release of Gone With The Wind that was showing in theaters in 1966. Dad was something of an amateur historian and a bona fide Civil War buff, and from him I picked up a playful boy’s interest in soldiers and battles of that era. So, being all of six years-old at the time, I gladly tagged along when they told me it was a movie about the Civil War.

            What they didn't tell me was that it was a four-hour marathon bore with too much talking, kissing and crying. Where were all the battle scenes? The cavalry charging and the cannons blazing? Neat stuff like that. As for the troubles of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara, well, I didn't much give a damn either.

            However, there was one scene in the movie that did stick in my mind. It takes place during the siege of Atlanta and starts with a panoramic shot showing the streets literally covered with the dead and dying men of the Confederacy. Cut to a crowded hotel lobby serving as a makeshift field hospital. Surrounded by stretchers and the anguished cries of the injured, a white-haired doctor stands with sleeves rolled up and his shirt smeared with blood; haggard and helpless to stop the suffering. He says he hasn't been home to see his family in days. As for treating the men around him, they're out of bandages, anesthetic and hope. When yet another young soldier is brought before him the doctor takes a weary look at the wound, sighs, and declares that the leg will have to come off.

            What? Sitting there in that dark theater my eyes grew wide.

            The soldier lets out a blood-curdling scream, followed by a plea for mercy. "No, not my leg. Don't take my leg." Two attendants hold him down while the doctor shakes his head, picks up a bone saw and pours some whiskey over the blade. He bends over and there's another long, horrible scream as the camera pulls up and the scene fades away.

            Well…talk about horrified. To these young eyes that had never seen anything of the horrors of war, it was a new experience, to say the least. Finally the ending credits rolled and the house lights came up. No doubt by then my butt was plenty stiff and sore from having sat through four hours of a love story.

Fast-forward to a warm Saturday afternoon a few weeks later – April 16, 1966, to be exact. I was goofing around with my next door neighbor in his front yard. For some reason, or none at all, we were climbing around the wrought iron hand railing near the front door and I happened to stick my skinny little leg between two of the bars. Putting my weight down my left leg sank in further. Then I decided to twist my foot back so that the toe would catch behind another bar. I wish I could say there was a logical reason for doing all this, but it escaped me then and it certainly escapes me now.

            Anyway, my leg was wedged in there pretty good when I decided it was time to untangle myself.

            Hey, wait a minute. Something's not – this doesn't feel right.

            The more I struggled, the more a fear started to grow. I couldn't get any leverage to free my foot or my leg. I was stuck!

            Fear was in my voice and in my eyes. My friend stared at me rather dumbfounded before he finally decided that he better go get his dad. So his dad comes outside, probably not understanding at all what his own son was trying to explain. What do you mean Kent is stuck in the railing outside?

He comes over and very gently tries to pry my limb loose, but no luck. By now my breathing was raspy and the tears were rolling.

            Not wanting to risk further physical damage, our neighbor decided this was a matter for my dad to deal with, so off he went to fetch him. An eerie minute or two passed. Meanwhile, I kept wiggling my leg in a desperate attempt to free myself, which only made the situation worse because my leg was starting to swell up. Finally the two fathers turned the corner. Dad took one look and shook his head, no doubt thinking something along the lines of “how the hell did the kid manage to do that?” He came over to take a closer look, tried to pry me out himself, but my tears and fear dissuaded him from going too far with that.

            Like surgeons the two men conferred briefly out of earshot, then quickly decided on a course of action. Dad said he’d be right back. He headed back over to our house and returned a minute later. Now there was something in his hand.

            Sweet Jesus, he's got a saw!

            I'm wailing now. Wailing and blubbering at the same time so that none of my words are coming out as actual words. I'm trying to say, “No, don't do it. Please don't do it.” But they don't hear anything but the crying and the blubbering. Dad comes over and tries to calm me down, but to no avail. He gently puts a hand on my thigh and brings up the blade. And he's not even going to use any whiskey to sterilize the blade.

            Finally it comes out: "No, not my leg!"

            Suddenly the two guys start to laugh. I can't believe it. My mind is pulsating with visions of torn flesh and naked bone, not to mention a lifetime of hobbling around on a wooden leg, and they're laughing at me?

This can't be happening. Dad could be temperamental from time to time, but this was ridiculous. He put his hand on my leg and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the first searing jolt of pain.

            Of course, the blood and pain never came. (Now wouldn't this be a hell of a story if it did? But let’s keep it real, shall we?) The next sound I heard was the scratching of metal on metal. I looked down and saw not a bloodbath but the steady movement of a hacksaw cutting into the wrought iron railing.

I suppose at that moment I should have been relieved, a little embarrassed maybe, but relieved. No, all I cared about at that point was getting out of this devilish trap and running away as fast as I could. So when Dad finally stopped laughing and cut through the bar on one end enough to bend it back and set me free, that's exactly what I did. I ran like hell. On two skinny, but very sound legs.

            A big part of growing up is learning to separate the irrational fears in our head from the slightly more rational world that really is out there. Maybe this was the first step for me in that regard and that’s why I still remember it. Oh, I still harbor my share of irrational fears, even these many years later. Doesn’t everybody? They’re just not quite as irrational as they were when I was six years old.

Yes, I did learn something about the hard realities of life that day; it’s a lesson I have carried with me all these years. And I can safely say that I have never stuck my leg through another metal railing since. 

~~~

                                                           

                                                                                            

 

Character is Destiny

“Character is Destiny.”

-          Heraclitus (535 BCE – 475 BCE)

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know about you, but as ancient Greek proverbs go that is one of my all-time favorites.

Okay, I really don’t know many other ancient proverbs, and I came across this one in a Clint Eastwood biography, of all things, but I believe my point still stands – this is a good thought to fall back on in the course of our day-to-day struggles at work, at home, and with life in general.
 

Why?
 

In three short words it offers rare reassurance to every one of us who deals from time to time with elements seemingly out of our control. It says that one’s fortune can and will be determined more by who we are on the inside than how we appear to be on the outside. It also serves as a model of conduct – do the right thing and your future will be assured – that is as good, if not better, than anything a CEO or best-selling self-help guru could come up with on his or her best day.
 

Don’t let the lofty ideas throw you off. Character, while not easy to pin down in so many words, is real, no matter what the era; and destiny is not something reserved only for the rich and famous.

Case in point – in the early 1900s a young woman named Margaret was growing up on a small farm in the rural township of Irving, Wisconsin. The daughter of Norwegian immigrants, she, like countless other girls of that time, held on to simple dreams: find a good man, fall in love and raise a family. Most likely this would mean a hard but stable life working on a farm. In those days this was a calling of the highest honor.
 

Margaret did indeed meet a good man, and in 1919, at the age of twenty-five, she married Adolph Thompson, a native North Dakotan nine years her senior. Together they took over his family’s small dairy farm in Wisconsin and welcomed the arrival of two daughters in the next three years. Everything was playing out just as she had always hoped and prayed it would.
 

But that wouldn’t last.
 

The first heartache came in 1923 when her third child, a boy, was born with a congenital digestive disorder that basically made it more and more difficult for him to digest any food. It might well have been what is known today as esophageal achalasia, a rare and potentially deadly affliction that can occur in very young children. But back then no such diagnosis, let alone cure, was known. Certainly home remedies and prayer vigils were not enough. Even doctors at the nearest county hospital in Marshfield were powerless to save him. Margaret could only watch as her son, Adolph Harvey Thompson, grew weaker by the day until finally his body gave out and he starved to death. He was four-months-old.
 

(Incredibly this wasn’t the first time Margaret experienced such grief. Twenty years earlier her younger sister, Gina, died when she too was only four-months-old, purportedly from malnutrition due to another digestive ailment.)

Then in 1937 Margaret’s husband suffered a crippling stroke that left him so weak as to be unable to do any more work on the farm. He struggled with life from then on, dying in 1946. Through it all Margaret and the children soldiered on as best they could and somehow kept the farm going.
 

A decade or so later the next calamity struck when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and ended up undergoing a radical mastectomy, the pain and scars of which would doubtless make any patient or oncologist cringe today. Still she raised her family of five children without complaint or compromise, and never gave up or stopped caring when it would have been damn easy to do just that.
 

Yet all I knew about her until later in my own life was that Margaret Thompson was my maternal grandmother, a sweet, smiling woman who always seemed to me as fine and delicate as a porcelain doll.
 

So whether you know it or not, someone in your family’s past most likely struggled more than you will ever know, and thanks in no small part to their perseverance you are now reading this.
 

Next time things aren’t exactly going your way and you think you’ve got it rough…well, think again. And trust that you are never really alone in this life because somewhere along the line you have character firmly on your side.

 

 

 

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In Memory of Charlie 'Morris' Freeze