By guest writer: Carla Erdmann
Our Mom was a Beauty when Life was Still
Our mom was a beauty when life was still
Full of promise, filled with dreams.
Some came true and some did not.
So it goes, so it seems.
She gave us life, she gave us love,
She raised us in her way.
Provided for us the best she could,
Sharing lessons we still use today.
Do any of us look like her?
Four girls, and each of us so varied.
We live our lives, make our history
What part of Mom have we carried?
Walks with Daddy Along the Soo Line Tracks
How was it, you may ask, that I was allowed to walk all by myself from our house on Vine down 4 blocks to 3rd Street, then another 2 blocks to “Roddis Plywood” to meet my daddy coming out of work. I think I was about 8, and after all, this was 1951 in small town Marshfield, Wisconsin – 70 years and another world ago.
After school I’d change from a dress to play pants, have an apple from our tree in the back yard and head off to meet my daddy. I’d stand across the street from the factory gate and wait for the 4 o’clock whistle to blow. And then, before the screech had even ended, out of the buildings would come a sea of men in green, blue or brown work clothes, funneling through the gate. I’d stand on tip toes and scan the dozens, looking for just one person. And then I’d spot him, tall enough to be head and shoulders above the rest, my daddy.
He’d wave his cap and with a motion of his hand remind me to stay across the street and wait. He and some other workers would come up along side me. “Is this your boy?” one would tease, knowing my dad had just us four girls. If someone asked, “Carl, who’s this?” Daddy would answer, “This is Carla.”
I’d grin. Was this before or after I’d chipped my front tooth playing circus with a turned over washtub? Memories do leave us with questions.
Other workers might go down a street or to the parking lot, but Daddy and I would head toward the train tracks, the short-cut home. Once we got past the round house Daddy would give me his lunch bucket. I’d hold it open which freed him up to pick green stalks of asparagus growing wild just a few feet off our path of ties and ballast. Once he’d gotten enough in the bucket he’d take it back and my job was done. Asparagus wasn’t what I looked for. I looked for iron ore pellets that had fallen off passing freight cars. They were rough and they were dirty and Daddy tried to discourage me from stuffing them into my pockets. But they were my treasures – at least until we got home.
Two more questions prompted by this memory. What ever happened to those nuggets? Did Daddy get rid of them or were they in my pockets for Mom to find? Was she mad at me for picking them up, or at Daddy for letting me?
Oh, and that asparagus: How did something so peculiar, found growing wild near the tracks, taste just like some old vegetable when served at the table?
