a brief family history and the last piece of advice I ever got from Grandma:
THE DEPARTURE DATE ON THE STEAMSHIP TICKET WAS CLEAR...
THE DEPARTURE DATE ON THE STEAMSHIP TICKET WAS CLEAR...
IT WAS ON THE 9TH DAY OF MAY IN 1879, AND MAY WAS ONE OF the best times for crossing the North Atlantic from Bremen, Germany to Baltimore, Maryland; the winter storms had passed and the hurricanes were yet to come. The family ticket had cost 309 marks, nearly half-a-year's wages for the usual worker. It was a family which included the parents, Carl and Wilhelmina, and two children, Albert and Emma. The idea of coming to America which had first grabbed the heart of Carl were due to several factors: A failure of will to get a proper education, the need to earn a living, and the lack of special skills on the part of Carl to be able to do so, as well as the news of other Pomeranians departing boat load after boat load to America and particularly Wisconsin, where they had found a climate and geography similar to the homeland.
Carl had become afraid of committing himself to a life of prolonged poverty, he wanted only to be a proud man making his way in the world. So he went to work devising a plan to make his dreams come true. He began saving money and it had taken him almost 7 years to do so. The steamship they boarded was named The Ohio, which had been built by Norddeutscher Lloyd and first launched in 1868 and had made its landing in Baltimore on the 8th day of April in 1879, with Carl and his family aboard. What they found in America did not produce a series of uninterrupted amazement's. The German immigration into Central Wisconsin had started in 1836 when an expedition from Milwaukee set out to establish a settlement in what would become Atalan Township. By the time Carl and his family had arrived, a railroad had been built and Carl had been able to talk himself into a job. He became a section boss on a crew from a town called Johnson Creek.
When Carl and his family had arrived in Baltimore, his son Albert was 7 years of age. His name at birth was: Albert Johann Gottlieb Daugs. Little is known about him from the time he arrived until he was married. He most likely attended school in the one room schoolhouse in Johnson Creek, which in the 1880s, was reported to have had 35 children in all of the grades. It was the center of worship as well as a place for community affairs, and it is likely that this is where he first men a young girl by the name of Helena Johanna Wilhelmina Fredika Schumacker, who had happened to be there visiting relatives. They would be married on the 11th day of October in 1894. They were both 23 years old at the time, and by then Albert had graduated from Wartburg College in Dubuque, Iowa in 1891 and was about to graduate from Wartburg Seminary...
...And Albert and Helena happened to be my Grandfather and Grandmother.
Albert was ordained as a Lutheran Minister at Johnson Creek, where he taught himself English and typing; while Helena taught beginner music, and organ and piano. They eventually moved to Monona, Iowa in 1918, where their 11 children continued the habit of catching sparrows sparrows in barns for food. And I must admit that I have often wince at the thought of that. Albert had hurled himself into the work of a minister - and in those days, that was the life that apparently went with it. Albert died on the 14th day of February in 1939. I was then 3 years of age, and recall only that I once sat on his lap and that he had the aroma of tobacco on his shirt. As for my Grandmother Helena: we would visit her each and every summer at the house my dad's brother Palmer owned in Monona, and she was destined to become the love of my young life, both as a grandmother as well as mentor.
The place was truly a paradise. There was an old barn up on a hill which was used to store hay, and close by there was always a straw pile. I could watch my uncle Palmer cutting and stacking and thrashing grain, with all of his neighbors coming to help, and the shed between the lower barn and house was always filled with drying walnut lumber which was great fun to smell. There was also a large orchard on a hill north of the main house, which was filled with many varieties of apples. The main barn was the largest in the area of that portion of Iowa, and the milking of cows became a regular pre-dawn routine routine for my summer visits, as the smoke from a brick smoke house drifted in the morning air. The smoke house itself was about 12 feet by 12 feet. The finest aromas, however, came in the spring and early summer with hams and bacon and sausage, and when the maple was boiling down down to make maple syrup.
The ice box in the main house was a work of art built right into the wall which Grandma used to cool milk and cream. She would always fill a bowl with strawberries and cream, invite me out to sit in the morning sun beneath a Mulberry tree, and I came to understand that this routine event served a larger purpose.
Her words were wonderful: she told me that I must have the modest ambition in my life to understand the world and how I fit into it. To always want to learn more about a person, a place, an event, or an idea. To know the music of life itself and insisted that as I grew older, I would pass what I'd learned to others, to my children and grandchildren and friends and neighbors, because I wanted them to hear my music too. She told me to forever remember the houses I had inhabited, the people I loved, my own large stupidities and small triumphs, and if I did all of that: I would be as happy as she was.
The last time I saw her was in the spring of 1958.
I had graduated from college and was about to go off to the seminary to become a minister like my Grandfather had been; and, once again, Grandma and I sat together beneath the shade of the Mulberry tree. Me with a bowl of strawberries and cream in my hands; while I watched that wondrous smile of hers etched across her face. The smile then rapidly vanished. She asked me if I was aware that my Grandfather had kicked my Dad out of the house for having made a girl pregnant, and I replied that I was aware of that. She then said that had been the worst mistake that my Grandfather had ever made and it had taken her along time to forgive him, but that my Dad had learned the lesson which she had taught him - that of forgiving my Grandfather first.
It became quiet for a time. I finished my strawberries. I Looked up at her. Once again, there was now was a small hint of a smile and I was completely unprepared for the corker that came next, when she said:
Dick, there is something that you need to know. Almost every Daugs' male that I have ever known has had one major and somewhat disgusting problem when they were young men. So I asked, What was that, Grandma? And she replied: It always seemed to me that whenever they saw an attractive woman, they were somehow unable to keep their penis in their pants. I want you to promise me that you will try to keep zipped-up at least until you are ordained, can do that for me?
It was a promise that I kept, although I did not know what to say to her...
...So, I remained silent and spooned the remainder of the of the cream from the bottom of my bowl, and gave a small affirmative nod...
Carl had become afraid of committing himself to a life of prolonged poverty, he wanted only to be a proud man making his way in the world. So he went to work devising a plan to make his dreams come true. He began saving money and it had taken him almost 7 years to do so. The steamship they boarded was named The Ohio, which had been built by Norddeutscher Lloyd and first launched in 1868 and had made its landing in Baltimore on the 8th day of April in 1879, with Carl and his family aboard. What they found in America did not produce a series of uninterrupted amazement's. The German immigration into Central Wisconsin had started in 1836 when an expedition from Milwaukee set out to establish a settlement in what would become Atalan Township. By the time Carl and his family had arrived, a railroad had been built and Carl had been able to talk himself into a job. He became a section boss on a crew from a town called Johnson Creek.
When Carl and his family had arrived in Baltimore, his son Albert was 7 years of age. His name at birth was: Albert Johann Gottlieb Daugs. Little is known about him from the time he arrived until he was married. He most likely attended school in the one room schoolhouse in Johnson Creek, which in the 1880s, was reported to have had 35 children in all of the grades. It was the center of worship as well as a place for community affairs, and it is likely that this is where he first men a young girl by the name of Helena Johanna Wilhelmina Fredika Schumacker, who had happened to be there visiting relatives. They would be married on the 11th day of October in 1894. They were both 23 years old at the time, and by then Albert had graduated from Wartburg College in Dubuque, Iowa in 1891 and was about to graduate from Wartburg Seminary...
...And Albert and Helena happened to be my Grandfather and Grandmother.
Albert was ordained as a Lutheran Minister at Johnson Creek, where he taught himself English and typing; while Helena taught beginner music, and organ and piano. They eventually moved to Monona, Iowa in 1918, where their 11 children continued the habit of catching sparrows sparrows in barns for food. And I must admit that I have often wince at the thought of that. Albert had hurled himself into the work of a minister - and in those days, that was the life that apparently went with it. Albert died on the 14th day of February in 1939. I was then 3 years of age, and recall only that I once sat on his lap and that he had the aroma of tobacco on his shirt. As for my Grandmother Helena: we would visit her each and every summer at the house my dad's brother Palmer owned in Monona, and she was destined to become the love of my young life, both as a grandmother as well as mentor.
The place was truly a paradise. There was an old barn up on a hill which was used to store hay, and close by there was always a straw pile. I could watch my uncle Palmer cutting and stacking and thrashing grain, with all of his neighbors coming to help, and the shed between the lower barn and house was always filled with drying walnut lumber which was great fun to smell. There was also a large orchard on a hill north of the main house, which was filled with many varieties of apples. The main barn was the largest in the area of that portion of Iowa, and the milking of cows became a regular pre-dawn routine routine for my summer visits, as the smoke from a brick smoke house drifted in the morning air. The smoke house itself was about 12 feet by 12 feet. The finest aromas, however, came in the spring and early summer with hams and bacon and sausage, and when the maple was boiling down down to make maple syrup.
The ice box in the main house was a work of art built right into the wall which Grandma used to cool milk and cream. She would always fill a bowl with strawberries and cream, invite me out to sit in the morning sun beneath a Mulberry tree, and I came to understand that this routine event served a larger purpose.
Her words were wonderful: she told me that I must have the modest ambition in my life to understand the world and how I fit into it. To always want to learn more about a person, a place, an event, or an idea. To know the music of life itself and insisted that as I grew older, I would pass what I'd learned to others, to my children and grandchildren and friends and neighbors, because I wanted them to hear my music too. She told me to forever remember the houses I had inhabited, the people I loved, my own large stupidities and small triumphs, and if I did all of that: I would be as happy as she was.
The last time I saw her was in the spring of 1958.
I had graduated from college and was about to go off to the seminary to become a minister like my Grandfather had been; and, once again, Grandma and I sat together beneath the shade of the Mulberry tree. Me with a bowl of strawberries and cream in my hands; while I watched that wondrous smile of hers etched across her face. The smile then rapidly vanished. She asked me if I was aware that my Grandfather had kicked my Dad out of the house for having made a girl pregnant, and I replied that I was aware of that. She then said that had been the worst mistake that my Grandfather had ever made and it had taken her along time to forgive him, but that my Dad had learned the lesson which she had taught him - that of forgiving my Grandfather first.
It became quiet for a time. I finished my strawberries. I Looked up at her. Once again, there was now was a small hint of a smile and I was completely unprepared for the corker that came next, when she said:
Dick, there is something that you need to know. Almost every Daugs' male that I have ever known has had one major and somewhat disgusting problem when they were young men. So I asked, What was that, Grandma? And she replied: It always seemed to me that whenever they saw an attractive woman, they were somehow unable to keep their penis in their pants. I want you to promise me that you will try to keep zipped-up at least until you are ordained, can do that for me?
It was a promise that I kept, although I did not know what to say to her...
...So, I remained silent and spooned the remainder of the of the cream from the bottom of my bowl, and gave a small affirmative nod...
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