"februari"
Violet, and I in 1979, the year I moved to Minnesota.
My mother, Violet Palm, was born in May of 1909. She spoke Swedish and Norwegian, and a smattering of English while she lived with her first generation Norwegian descendant mother, Annie Berg, and first generation Swedish descendant father, Wihelm/William (Willie) Palm, at their home in the NW quarter of Section 2 in Palmville.
She went to school at Palmville District 44 West, where she began to learn English, located in the SW quarter of Section 2 Palmville and walked the mile through the woods to school and back every day they had school (Spring and Fall). Being as the school was built in 1904, according to my records, she was among the very earliest grades held there in the one-room school, in operation from 1904 to 1946, which still stands there off Roseau County Road 8 with its intersection of Roseau County Road 125.
Grades 1-8 were taught at the same time; in the same room, meaning when she graduated from the eighth grade at age, what? Fifteen, in 1930, she had all four of her younger brothers: Raymond b: 1911, Clifford b:1915, Ervin b: 1921, Clinton b: 1924; and her one sister Irene b: 1917, in her classroom; her youngest brother Clinton, just beginning first grade in 1930.
Somewhere I found this cursive example of her signature. They don’t teach this in schools anymore unless as adult you choose to take a course in calligraphy for some reason. I found another signature of hers that was written in pencil on the cellar stair wall in the log house they lived in. It isn’t quite as fancy.
Mom taught me how to count to ten in Swede or Norsk, I don’t recall which. I can muddle my way through it even now, surely mispronouncing the words, but doing so brings her to mind forty years after her death with a particular clarity.
I regret that I didn’t ask her to teach me the months of the year, so here, during the month of February, I’ll title each of my blog posts in Swedish, as I had January in Norwegian. When I heard the Google translator voice say the date aloud I had to laugh. What self-respecting Swede talks like that? C’mon!
Doubt, I'll know anytime soon. So in my once-yearly keeping with the tradition of the Wannaskan Almanac, I submit two februari poems by Will F. Stevens of Isle au Haut, Maine https://www.isleauhautmaine.us/
High Desert, Mourning Morning
Dark- coffee brews, eyes awaken and scan the tiled floor
As morning, first-light silhouettes the yucca blades -outdoor
Surroundings- vastly alien from what only yesterday - I fled
Maine, it's winter snow and ice - some dread
Not Me, but a week change of place and- clime
Appreciated for the brief, will hasten Winter's passing time
Sunrise prompts a feathered- flush
Of neighbors' awakened slumber from deep juniper- brush
Aside any fear - for desire of moisture as the birdbath- vessel
Quenches avian thirsts in this high desert- wrestle
For survival - skills here require taking advantage - chance
Gamble of grasping tidbits of nourishment from a tightfisted expanse
Western flicker adeptly chisels ice for drink as platinum plated, blue- light
Spreads broadly along the Sangres's lofty- heights
Bleeding red hues now to swallow fleeting dusky -shadows
In turn, lure Magpies, long tailed and bicolored- flock now
To siphon drinks and police the yard for any item that - delights
A brightened yellow sky sprinkled with bluebird wings in flight
They splatter water in cold bath with brisk shake - and shutter
The wish of smaller crowned sparrows scratching among ground- clutter
The moments they wait before their sip and bathing- flirt
With predator demise, always on edge, as danger- lurks
From sharp-shinned eyes on wings of- flight
Ending the transformation - Night to Day - to Forever night!
Wm f. Stevens
February 4, 2018
"February and the Groundhog."
How cold and white the snowy plain
In creaking branch ,a stress on grain
Though sun lofts higher,it's warmth fast drains
As moonrise hastens and makes it's claim
The anxious wish for flowing sap
Lures disappointment from the taps!
The ground hog rests in burrowed suite
His habit learned from past colds
deep
But beckoned forth from drowsy sleep
A shadow long, the hope-he'll keep
For winter's whim so hard to map
And groundhog prefers a longer nap!
So, betters be wary--of the two
Lest frosty lovers warm in stew
That fickle sun and sprightly zephyr brew
A sense of slipping bite , of winters' cruel
Thus winter's whim so hard to match
And ground hog's comfort,not an easy snatch!
Resort one must to holding faith
That wood and larder will hold apace
While Sun gains hours, to Moon's disgrace
And sprints ahead to win the race
So allow the groundhog his comfy wing
Only six short weeks to gain the Spring!
Wm f. Stevens
February 2, 2015
You've got her smile!
ReplyDelete