Just when I think I’ve successfully helped Elon Musk contain his adolescent tendencies, he has to pull a stunt like this. He didn’t even call me first to discuss his hare-brained scheme! Obviously, he knew in advance the scolding he would be getting from me for even considering his dingbat plan to squander 44 billion dinero on Twitter.
I can’t believe I have to crank out yet another Octo-woman Letter to Elon to try to clean up this mess. I do the best I can, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen!
Elon Musk Tesla Inc. 3500 Deer Creek Road Palo Alto 94304
Dear Elon:
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? If you felt like going on a shopping spree, why didn’t you just purchase amazon.com, or the Seattle Seahawks, or even China? Any of them would have been a wiser investment than buying Twitter.
You used to keep busy inventing and producing self-driving electric cars, spaceships, rockets, satellites, brain chips, tunnels to relieve traffic, solar panels, batteries, and high-speed broadband internet. Important stuff. Not tweets.
Tweets have already been invented by birds and other imitators. They already know how to do it. Our feathered friends, as well as any birdbrain who can combine 280 characters into a hopefully coherent message can twitter without help from you, my boy. You are needed elsewhere.
Listen to me, young man. You’re supposed to keep stamping out the need for gasoline, help quadriplegics walk, beef up internet speed and cost all over the world, relieve traffic congestion, safely and economically transport people in space, and figure out how to restore my personal aging memory bank, just to name a few items on your current To-do list.
You’re going to have to give all that up in order to take up your new captivity in that birdcage called Twitter whose only product is the online graffiti known as tweets.
Your companies Tesla, SpaceX, Boring, Neuralink, and Starlink, have now been joined by the big tweet-maker. In case you’re pondering a better name for your newly acquired Twitter company, I nominate “Great Big Can of Worms, Inc.”
If you think you were busy before, kiddo, get ready to be squashed, pummeled, stepped on, kicked around, spit at, pooped on, hung from a tree, burned at the stake, and possibly unfriended by everyone including Big Bird. Whatever you do or attempt to do, somebodies won’t like it.
After the public’s sibling rivalry gets through with you, even the Humane Society won’t be able to salvage what’s left of your pitiable remains because Sarah McLaughlin probably won’t like you either. And don’t count on me to be sending you consolation and a care package of birdseed or a can of earthworms.
If you think I’m here waiting in the wings to bail you out of trouble, mister, you can forget it, because I just bought a brand new Casio electronic keyboard this week and now I have to stay home and practice.
But, Oh no! I just realized! Does all this mean that we have to give up our trip to colonize Mars in 5 years? I wanted to celebrate my 96th birthday watching it on SpaceX news. I was really counting on that. I was depending on you, kid.
EvenBig Bird wants you to quit tweeting and get back to work, Elon!
Maybe it’s not too late. Thirty days aren’t up yet – if you hurry, maybe you can apply for a refund.
During the 1930s when I was little, I was frozen with fear whenever I had to pass anywhere near a certain house near my school. It was the home of a classmate whose father was (shudder! shudder!) a real-life policeman.
My only acquaintance with law and order at the time was via comic books, movies, newsreels, or my little brothers playing cops-and-robbers. In those days “Shoot ‘em up!” didn’t involve needles and dope. It was what could happen to me if I walked past that scary house. I was sure of it. Or it could result in a jail sentence or even the electric chair. In all the years of my childhood in St. Patrick’s parish, I never walked down that street, not even once.
Officer Friendly
Like diapers, times have changed. It took till 1966, but police in Chicago figured it out. They introduced Officer Friendly who’d visit classrooms to talk to the kids about how they should be Safe Street Walkers (I’m not making that up) and about Stranger Danger. Mostly though, Officer Friendly was there to offer a kinder, gentler message to the kids about their work to protect – not scare – them. Soon, the idea was picked up, and Officer Friendly was put into practice all around the country. The program isn’t in practice often anymore, but maybe some form of it should be.
Asa also known as A.J. is 10 years old today
Many kids today, especially black kids, must surely have fearful, negative impressions of the police, and in view of recent news stories, with good reason. I wish there was a way to fix that. I wish there was a way to ease their fear and renew their trust.
My great-grandson Asa – also known as A.J. – is having a birthday today. Technically, he’s now 10 years old, but in terms of his maturity and reasoning ability, sometimes it seems like he’s closer to 24. He’s also the son of a cop. His dad – my grandson-in-law Joe – is a decorated officer of the law.
Naturally, A.J. has every reason not to fear the police. Not just because Joe is his dad, but because he’s seen the kind of work his dad does. Up close and personal.
A.J.with his dad Joe
As an example, one day last year when he was nine years old, his family was driving to an event in a nearby town. A.J. was in the back seat, his mom Gretchen was riding up front, and Joe was at the wheel. They were waiting for the traffic light to change at a busy intersection – when suddenly, all hell broke loose! A suspect was running from police officers who were chasing him from a distance. Instead of watching the action, Joe burst into it! Jumping out of the car, he yelled for Gretchen to slide behind the wheel, and then he took off running. He tackled the man and then held him down till the other officers reached the scene and made the arrest.
Meanwhile, as his 9 year-old son was still watching, the victims and bystanders started cheering and applauding Joe. They thought he was just a citizen who had leaped into action – not a trained officer. He wasn’t even in the city he was hired to serve, but he had instinctively leapt into action and did the job he was trained to do.
Yesterday, A.J. observed his dad at work again, and – again up close! He was riding in the car with Joe, joined by his puppy Hershey. To describe what happened, the following is the message Gretchen texted to her mom Susy:
Message to Susy from Gretchen: Asa and Joe witnessed a terrible car accident today where a car flipped in the air and landed in a ditch near them. Joe parked Asa and Hershey on the side of road with the emergency flashers going and helped to extract the people from the vehicle and give CPR while police, medics, and fire started arriving. It was a really scary scene for Asa to be caught in the middle surrounded by ambulances and fire trucks and he saw a lot today that he will probably remember forever.
The driver and passenger were badly injured but Joe and the paramedics were able to get a pulse back on the driver before she was able to be transported. We are feeling so grateful for life today and wanted to tell you all we love you, and it’s moments like these that remind us how fragile life can be. Asa talked a lot with me about what he saw while he was parked in our car at the scene and he made good decisions about when to look away.
We’ve talked a lot since he got home and he seems to be handling it pretty well so far. We said prayers for the victims of the accident and hope they will recover, and we decided to let Asa open presents for his bday today to hopefully change his focus.
Ever since I started trying to put this week’s blob together, I’ve struggled with how to conclude it. Since today is his birthday, I wanted A.J. to be able to read it. Regretfully, instead, I’m going to warn Gretchen and Joe to avoid letting him see it. Maybe when he’s older . . .
When I was a kid, – I, and probably most little kids – were really scared of the police. But, today, little kids like A.J. who have a lawman as a parent, have every reason to be scared FOR the police.
Everybody loves and respects firefighters. Admit it! Haven’t you at least once waved at those heroic men or women driving by? Everybody understands the personal courage and physical strength their jobs demand of them.
Joe leaving for work
The police – who are expected to demonstrate the same on-the-job Spartan strength and bravery – don’t enjoy the same “image” as the firefighters. Their performance is something society demands and takes for granted.
The grim truth is that, overall, the police work is far more dangerous than that of the firefighters. According to the last comparative statistics I could find, in 2019, the number of police officers who died in the-line-of-duty was nearly twice that of the firefighters. That year, forty-eight firefighters and eighty-nine police lost their lives.
Wikipedia related more of the ugly statistics:
According to data compiled by the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, over the period 2010 to 2019, there were 1,627 U.S. police officer line-of-duty deaths, including 528 deaths by gunfire, 459 deaths from job-related illness, 335 deaths from automobile crashes, 130 from being struck by a vehicle, 58 in motorcycle crashes, 25 by drowning, 20 by beatings, 19 in falls, 13 in aircraft accidents, 5 by strangulation, 4 by being struck by train, 3 by electrocution, 2 in horse-related accidents, and 1 in a terrorist attack.[3] Deaths in motor vehicle crashes or motor vehicle strikes represented about 43% of all police line-of-duty deaths over the period 2006 through 2019 (about 809 deaths).
This is a photo of Joe, Gretchen and A.J. with Joe’s parents – Kim and Jim. They are very proud of him. We all are. I think he serves as a perfect example of what we want a police officer to be. He’s certainly not alone though. The ranks of every police department are filled with the same brand of quiet but unsung heroes. My great-grandson A.J. is a very perceptive kid. I hope he never realizes and has to fear the danger his dad may be facing when he leaves for work.
Gretchen, Joe and A.J. with Joe’s parents Kim and Jim
So, A.J., if you read this someday, I want to wish you a very belated happy birthday! I had intended this to be a story about you and your dad, but it took a twist that’s best to be dealt with when life has given you a little more “seasoning”.
One more thing, A.J. If you know any other kids who have a parent in law enforcement, please give them a high five from me.
I don’t know why everybody is complaining about the weather this month. The nice thing about the alternating rain, sunshine, wind gusts, flooding, sleet, occasionally balmy temperatures, thunder, snow and hail that we’ve been enjoying in Enumclaw this week, is that it hasn’t included an earthquake.
It’s also been an acceptable excuse to stay inside a warm house with your feet up watching TV or working crossword puzzles because it certainly doesn’t make sense to get stuff out to start cleaning the refrigerator or work on your overdue taxes when you’d have to stop when the deluge lets up so you can rush back outside to finish planting the vegetable and flower seeds or digging up the dandelions. Right?
Trying to sneak in a head start on spring gardening, daughter Susy, granddaughter Josie an I were happily sowing seeds like amphetamine-crazed beavers last week, when . . .
The Seattle Times was practically forced into featuring the weather this week. It reported that while folks in more normal habitats than Western Washington are accustomed to having four seasons, we have to get real. Our local meteorologist suggests that we have only two seasons: Wet and Dry.
“. . . residents of the Puget Sound region just can’t seem to agree. Some claim that rather than using seasons or months, it would be more accurate to use something like: Rainy, Extra Dark and Rainy, Fake Spring, Disappointment, Juneuary, Glorious Sun, Oppressive Sun, Four Glorious Weeks, and then Wet again.”
“In recent years, unfortunately, the period previously known as Four Glorious Weeks — usually sometime between late August and early October when the skies are blue, the temperatures are warm (but not too hot) and the mountain and marine views dazzle — has been replaced by Smoke and Ash.”
Even if the climate gets a bit smokey though, the Four Glorious Weeks – for instance, the last couple weeks of August and first two of September – are still the best time to visit us, or to have a wedding, a yard sale, a public flogging, or a forest fire.
Our fearless efforts to plant the rest of our Dollar Tree flower and vegetable seeds has been temporarily scuttled by Mother Nature. Our visions of the carrots and pansies and beans we’ll be harvesting has been dampened – you might say – by the mildew and mold we hope we’re not cultivating instead.
I rely on our Chief Resident Gardener Susy to let us know when it’s time to venture back out to our pots and plots, sprouts, seeds, weeds, and fantasies about the Garden of Eden we’re going to produce if only we don’t drown first.
Susy, on the other hand, relies on the seven donkeys who live with us. If they won’t even step outside the barn that day, she considers that as an offer you can’t refuse. Desist with the hoes and trowels, guys, it’s time to get down and dirty with the vacuum cleaner, babysitting her grandson Wesley, cleaning out the horse stalls, or re-painting the kitchen.
I, instead, feel it’s time for feet up, popcorn bowl, and getting acquainted with this year’s Oscar winning movie duds. Or, if all else fails, and guilt wins, grappling with the refrigerator’s inedible noxious fungi. In other words, there may be friendlier activities than the sweat, sunburn, aches and pains, mosquito bites, bee stings and slug slime of gardening in the Pacific Northwest. I like to think it may be Mother Nature’s way of giving gardeners an excuse to get some rest.
I know we’ll be back at it soon, though, because gardeners tend to be well-fertilized with hope for tomorrow, and for more temperate barometric readings. After all, when God planted the Garden of Eden, I bet it wasn’t raining.
This week I found two oddly conflicting messages in my gmail. One of them was from daughter Susy showing me a photo of one of fields here that day. A very nice thing about this farm is the way Mother Nature likes to show off. Susy’s message said: “The rainbow begins and ends at Kartar Ridge Ranch. Spring has officially arrived with wind, rain, sleet and hail!”
Rainbow on Kartar Ridge Ranch
As any well-moistened citizen of the Pacific Northwest can attest – April showers bring May showers! It’s Spring! And now we can do some serious gardening. And enjoy the rainbows, the dandelions, the earthworms, and the wee sprouts struggling to avoid drowning.
“Spring has sprung, The grass has riz. I wonder where my raincoat is.” The engagement with the radishes, the dahlias and the petunias has begun!
Or maybe not. The other gmail message was from an accountant at the company that “does” my taxes. It said: “The filing deadline for your 2021 tax return is fast approaching, and we have not received your tax organizer or documents. At this point, with your permission, we will need to plan to file an extension.”
I get this message from her every single year. It’s her devious way of ruining April for me. She already knows full well that I’m going to be late, but this way she can formally lay on the guilt. Shame on tardy me! Gardening is no excuse. Well, at least I’m consistent.
Her company has been “doing” my family’s taxes for the past 31 years. I have never met her or any of the folks who work at her company in person because I don’t have the nerve to. This is because of the first conversation I ever had with one of them – back in the days of the green eyeshades, the adding machines, and the red and black ink.
After assessing the reports and figures I had mailed in the first time, the accountant called me. “I have a question about your deductions. You seem to be presenting them as ‘estimates’. The IRS doesn’t accept ‘estimates’. Can you send me your reconciled transaction listings?”
“Ha Ha!” I responded, jovially. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t usually reconcile the accounts. They have to learn to deal with their marriage issues without any intervention on my part.”
I heard a long silence. Then she gasped “WHAT?” Did you just say that YOU DON’T RECONCILE? What kind of a slut ARE you???”
Well, actually, those may not have been her exact words, but I definitely got the message. And probably so did everyone else in the office. What kind of worthless heathen scum fails to RECONCILE?
Ever since, I’ve been very careful never to show up there in person. I have been extremely fastidious about reconciling almost every account but not on what you’d call a timely basis.
There are problems with my method. For one, I don’t get around to doing my balancing act till a few weeks after Uncle Sam’s tax deadline; and because 10 months have gone by since I last did it, I have to go through the nasty Quicken learning curve all over again. In spite of my shoddy lack of respect for all those pristine recommended accounting practices, however, I still manage to triumphantly Do the Deed by the extension deadline of October, thus avoiding the inconvenience of jail time.
The accounting company I use probably has three classified client categories: Corporate Clients; Individual Taxpayers; and Disreputable Slobs. Being in the latter group explains why I never show up there in person. Nobody likes getting stared at, sniffed at, or spit on, just because they’re a little bit UNRECONCILED and TARDY.
At least I’m not alone in my procrastination. When I was a child, all the arithmetic had to be done by hand and on paper, and then it all had to be delivered by the tax deadline to the nearest IRS office in person.
Meeting the deadline in 1929Meeting the deadline in 1944
I’m trapped. It’s no use trying to wiggle out of it another day. The ax has fallen. The wolf is at the door. It’s time to face the music, to brave the advancing hordes. I can’t think of any more cliches, so I’m going to have get to work! For sure! I’m going to plow right into it tomorrow morning. Or maybe Wednesday. Thursday, for sure. As soon as we get the dahlia tubers planted, and the hall closet decluttered, and I catch up on Yellowstone Season 2, and several other really urgent activities. . . . .
Spring having sprung here in Enumclaw, daughter Susy, granddaughter Josie, and I planted a few hundred vegetable and flower seeds in a little row of milk jug mini-greenhouses lined up along a sunny wall of the garage.
Mini-greenhouses
Technically, what should happen is that friendly little green sprouts will pop up any day now, all excited to get graduated into some raised beds where they will bloom in glory all summer.
There are several reasons why this effort may not materialize as hoped. Among them are:
Seeds 5 pks for #1.25
1. We bought the seeds – 25 packages of them – at the Dollar Tree – 5 packages for $1.25 – for a total price of $6.25. It seemed like a bargain, and they’re sure to be fresh because the “Expiration” dates were cited as 两千零二十三 . That must mean 2023 A.D, right? Considering that all these seeds were produced in China, however, we are earnestly hoping that we won’t be raising a great big crop of long-grain rice.
2. Susy and Josie seem to be under the illusion that I have joined their ranks as a qualified, experienced gardener. My only association with their planned tomatoes, peas, beans, potatoes and squash is pinching and squeezing them at the supermarket. The truth is, unless you count marijuana, I have never grown a single edible plant. I am, however, related to a sister – Joan – and a nephew – Tim – who both have managed what could be considered truck-farming operations in their Iowan backyards; and my brother-in-law Don once gave me detailed instructions on how to grow 7 kinds of garlic.
3. Because, so far, Susy has been providing all the muscle in our effort to produce the garden of Eden, I felt that I should volunteer to assume some kind of role that would further our cause. That’s when, in a heroic moment, I volunteered my services as the Official Weeder-in-Charge. Equipped with my handy walker, my Fiskar’s weed-puller, my Hula Hoe, and my gardening-kneeler-that-when-it’s-turned-upside-down-you-can-sit-on-it, I plan to win the coming war on weeds. Or not.
As an unfit gardener, I have to think ahead to alternative solutions. A good reason for purchasing the seeds at Dollar Tree is because we can be saving our money in order to sniff out easier ways of exterminating the weeds. Enter the new battery-operated farming robots named Tom, Dick, and Harry!
This friendly robot gardening team is being introduced in England by the Small Robot company. Tom’s job is to identify and map the location of every plant and weed in the area, then Dick rolls in and electrocutes each weed. Harry is still a prototype, but his job will be to plant the seeds in the by-then weed-free field. Sadly, I can’t engage them to take over my gig as Resident Weeder at this time, because they’re not selling them at Dollar Tree yet. https://youtu.be/-aabkKhm4GE
Tom identifies, maps the weeds,Dick zaps ’em, Harry plants the seeds
Zinnia sprouts
News alert! We have some SPROUTS! Eureka! It took 9 long days. So far zinnias, marigolds, forget-me-nots, sunflower sprouts are peeking out. As Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone With the Wind” put it: “Thank God, the crops are saved!”
.
.
.
Two of the raised garden beds
As soon as they graduate with honors from the milk jugs, the sprouts will take up their residence in the raised beds which have been cultivated by Susy. Apparently, Susy still hasn’t learned my method of finding alternative solutions for providing sweat labor, such as the one below.(It was written by Kranti Nivedan and submitted to Richard Strachan’s website.)
See, Susy? There’s always an alternative solution.
It’s funny how we can view our ancestors on a family tree. Their names appear in little boxes with a couple of calendar dates that show when they lived. Neat and tidy. With nary a clue as to the drama, or the joy, or achievements, or the pain or suffering of the lives that were actually lived. Or endured.
This is a photo of my grandmother, Johanna. That was what my Norwegian mother told me her name was, but I learned later that she was often called “Hannah”. My mother may not have known that, because she was only 2 years old the last time she saw her.
When my mom named my older sister “Joan”, I think she may have thought that was an American version of the name Johanna. Forever after, my sister’s name was always pronounced as Jo-ann. I’ve always believed it was because that’s the way my mother thought her mother’s name was pronounced in America.
Apart from that reference, neither my mother nor my grandfather Knute ever spoke of Johanna. I finally learned why a few years ago. They were keeping a kind of family secret.
Take a tip from me: if you’ve never peered much into your ancestral family tree, use caution, or, like me, you might find yourself hurtling down a rabbit hole you might have otherwise avoided.
To understand the household that Johanna was born into, I depended on the impeccable efforts of my distant cousin Julie Davis who is an accomplished genealogist, the research of my great-nephews Corey and Michael, my niece Leanne, and especially, the painstaking efforts of my niece Christine.
Johanna’s parents – my great-grandparents – were Sarah Olson and Jacob L. Johnson.
Johanna’s mother, Sarah was born in Norway in 1839. Nothing’s known yet about her parents or siblings. I don’t have a photo of her, so we’ll use the image MyHeritage.com uses for women who don’t have a photo available – and then use our imagination.
After her immigration to the United States, Sarah had three marriages: the first was when she was 19 years old to Thomas “Louis” Larson, age 20, in Illinois. They had 3 children, but Louis died the year their 3rd child was born.
Sarah – now a widow – with a 6 year-old boy, a 5 year-old boy, and a new baby girl probably had no means of support, at least, until a 32 year old man named Thompson married her. She gave birth to his daughter the same year, but he died two years later, leaving Sarah a widow once again, only now with four very young children to support, a precarious position for a female to be in in the 1860s.
That’s when we meet my great-grandfather Jacob Johnson. Sarah, age 30, and Jacob, age 23 were married in Iowa, and then proceeded to have 7 children – 6 girls and one boy.
My grandmother Johanna, and her twin sister Juliane, were the 3rd and 4th to be born. Sarah, by then, was the mother of 11 children. It was after the birth of the 10th child in 1877, though, that her story becomes more bleak.
It’s likely that the household Johanna and her siblings were living in wasn’t a peaceful or happy one. It was probably chaotic, Several desperate events happened to the family in quick succession.
The first was the death of Johanna’s twin sister Juliane at age 3.
The same year, 7 months after giving birth to her newest baby named Elizabeth, Sarah was committed as an “inmate” to the Iowa Hospital for the Insane, an institution described in Wikipedia as “a dark and gruesome place”. Admission to mental hospitals in those days would commonly be considered illegal today. A declaration of mental aberration by a husband, family member, police or any complaining citizen could cause a victim to be involuntarily admitted for lengthy or permanent confinement.
Iowa Hospital for the Insane at Independence
My grandfather Jacob Johnson
I don’t know the date Sarah was released from the asylum, but the following year, at age 40, she delivered her 11th child, John Jacob Johnson. At somewhat the same time, her husband Jacob Johnson “left” the family. Census records two years later in 1880 show him living in Illinois. The farm the family lived on – and the children – were left to Sarah.
Once her husband Jacob had deserted the family, Sarah would have been in serious difficulty, to put it mildly. Some of the 11 children may have been sent to live with other family or neighbors. The four oldest were between 12 and 18 years old and may already have been hired out to live and work as farm-hands or household help. Johanna’s twin had died, but 7 children still must have been in need of support. Their ages were newborn to 10 years old.
Eleven months after the new baby John Jacob was born, and having been “left” by Jacob, Sarah was committed for the second time to the asylum. Mental health care as we know it today didn’t exist. The History of Medicine in Iowa carefully describes it this way:
“The early history of insane hospitals and the treatment accorded their inmates was tragic indeed, but fortunately for us, this period had passed before our institutions were organized, but we were not free from the tradition that insane hospitals were for the care of the insane and only incidentally for treatment.”
Mental illness was referred to as “insanity” and it was generally considered to be incurable. And hereditary. The purpose of confining the inmates to the asylums was to house them, not to treat their mental condition. Once confined, they didn’t usually have visitors. A post card or letter describing the inmates’s condition was mailed to the next of kin once monthly. For Sarah’s first stay, the messages were supposed to be sent to her husband Jacob Johnson. For her second stay, Jacob having “left” her, it was sent to an unidentified person named A.F. Craig who may have been a neighbor or relative who transported her there.
My niece Chris obtained Sarah’s Return of Physician forms for both of Sarah’s stays. They authorized her confinement and were signed by a person named C.C. Griffin, MD, who testified that “I have this day seen Mrs. Sarah Johnson the person named in said Commission as insane and have made a personal examination in her case, as required. As a result of such examination, I hereby certify that according to my judgment, said person is insane, and a fit subject for custody and treatment in the Hospital for the Insane.”
In his examination for each stay, C.C. Griffin describes the symptoms of Sarah’s “insanity”. During all of her pregnancies, Sarah is perfectly normal. Between them though, “…she is careless and negligent about the house, allows her children to go without food, is jealous of her husband, wanders about at night with no purpose…” But Griffin also makes a sinister suggestion on the form. He doesn’t indicate the source of his information but writes : “Her first husband is supposed to have committed suicide. By some, it is thought that she killed him and the present mental condition is due to it.” Apparently gossip was an acceptable source for judging Sarah’s sanity and infringing on what should have been her legal rights. Even her dignity was taken from her. The following announcement appeared in the town newspaper:
From The Vinton Eagle
This time, Sarah is kept at the institution for 2 years. When discharged in 1882, she was sent to live at the Poor Farm, also called the County Home for Incurables in Iowa where paupers and insane people were sent to live. In 1886, Sarah’s farm was sold for $700 and the money was put in trust for her living children. In 1896, Sarah died at the Poor Farm at the age of 59.
Wooden cells at the Johnson County Poor Farm and Asylum in Iowa where my great-grandmother Sarah Olson Johnson died in 1898 at age 59
Govert Dyrland
When Sarah was sent back for her second stay in the asylum, something hopeful finally happened to five year-old Johanna: a couple named Govert and Martha Dyrland took her into their own large family and raised her on their farm in Norway, Iowa. I never met the Dyrlands, but when my mother Josie was 16 and came to the U.S., I believe she lived with them. And I remember both my mom and my grandpa both always spoke of them with great respect. They must have been very kind people.
.
Jacob Johnson with his 2nd wife Sisela
.
The following year, 1883, my grandfather Jacob married his second wife, Sisela Swenson, in Illinois. That year Sisela give birth to the first of their 9 children. Counting the 7 children he left in Iowa, Jacob fathered 16 children: 8 girls and 8 boys.
.
.
Now it’s 1894. The same year Jacob welcomes his 7th child into his new family in Illinois, his daughter in Iowa – Johanna – gets married.
This is a photo taken on the wedding day of Johanna and my grandpa Knute Longfield in Norway, Iowa. Johanna was 18, Knute was 24.
The following year, 1894, Johanna gave birth to my uncle Nelles in Graettinger, Iowa. Two years later, in 1896, my mother Josie was born in Norway, Iowa. One year after that, Johanna delivered a baby named Mable.
In 1898, the horror of her mother’s story was re-played on Johanna. Still nursing the baby Mable, she began showing signs of what seems like what we might think of today as “post-partum depression”. Because the “insanity” of her mother was considered hereditary, I believe Johanna didn’t really have a chance in hell of avoiding the fate that awaited her.
On December 17, 1898, after wandering to her sister’s house at night, her sister and her uncle took her to the same Iowa Hospital for the Insane where she was taken into custody as an inmate – exactly the same scenario as Sarah’s. The admitting doctor was even the same – C. C. Griffin, MD.
This time, the Return of Physician form in the medical chart contained a little more information. It stated that Johanna was 24 years old with brown eyes and brown hair, height of 5’3”, and weight of 123 lbs.
Johanna
On admission, Dr. Griffin described her insanity thusly. “First symptoms manifested after birth of last child. Lost all interest in her household duties, care of children. In constant fear of impending danger. …Wanders up and down the road when permitted. Has no inclination to care for her children or household duties. All interest in home has disappeared. Conversation incoherent, profane…Physical condition fairly good. Bowels regular. Sleeps little at night. Has not menstruated since birth of child…breasts are quite large and full of milk.”
In 1900, two years after her confinement, Johanna became ill with typhoid fever. The Ward Notes recorded by an attendant describes her condition on August 10: “She was kept as quietly as possible and given sponge baths, but this did not seem to have much influence over the temperature: this morning at 8 o’clock, the temperature was 104.6. She has had bags of ice about her head and chest for the past two or three days… A number of rose spots were first observed over the abdomen and chest on Aug. 7th. There was considerable tymponitis the last two days and extreme tenderness of the abdomen. She was given several enemas although her bowels were not much constipated. . . She was conscious and in her usual mental condition most of the time. Occasionally was a little delirious . . . and repeatedly screamed, although she would not say that she was in pain, but said that she felt peculiar.”
Johanna died at 10:25 that morning. She was 25 years old.
There may have been no way Jacob learned of her death. Jacob seemed to be prospering in Illinois. He’s pictured below with the two daughters he fathered there.
Jacob’s farmhouse in illinois
Jacob with his two daughters born in Illinois
,
,
,
,
,
,
.
Johanna, on the right, with three of her sisters
There don’t seem to be any photos of Jacob with the six daughters he abandoned in Iowa, but here’s a photo of four of them. My grandmother – Johanna is on the right.
.By age 70, my grandfather Jacob was living in South Dakota where he married for the third time, to Elizabeth Krohling. He died at the age of 87 and because he was a Civil War veteran, he was buried with full military honors. Personally, I appreciate his service in the Union army, but had I been around at the time of the funeral, I may not have been in a big rush to get there in time to honor him.
Like other women in the 1800s, my grandmothers were second-class citizens. They weren’t encouraged to get a real education, they didn’t have the right to own property, keep their own wages if they had any, or sign a contract. And they were denied the right to vote. What they were expected to do was to perform their household duties, produce one newborn baby after another, and then care for them, milk the cows, tote the water, do the wash, make the bread. It seems that complaints by dissatisfied husbands as to neglect of those duties could result in catastrophic punishment and assumption of lunacy. That could have helped seal the fate of my grandmothers.
Most of the insane asylums of the 1800s have been abandoned. The horrific treatment of other human beings makes it uncomfortable to consider the thought of staying there and such treatment simply didn’t last once mental illness became better understood. The hell-hole my grandmothers were housed in is an exception. Built in 1873, the building is still in use. Renamed the Mental Health Institute of Iowa, it is now successfully operated, and serves the state of Iowa with modern and humane treatment of its patients.
According to travelIowa.com: “Most of the building is still used but one of the old wings was turned into a “Days of Yore” museum that features a disturbing look back through time at how society treated people suffering from mental illness. You can tour the older wings and the hospital’s graveyard by appointment. Visitors have reported hearing whispers, feeling cold drafts, having the feeling that they are being watched and even hearing disembodied screams.”
And according to mysteriousheartland.com, “Apparitions of former staff and patients are also seen in the buildings and on the grounds around the hospital”. The site also ranks the institution as the sixth most haunted insane asylum in the Midwest.”
We haven’t been able to find out where Johanna was buried, but if you watch this video of the building she died in, you’ll see a small graveyard on the grounds. Maybe that’s where her grave is .If you ever schedule a tour of the Days of Yore museum, Please look for her name – Johanna Johnson Longfield – but they may have called her Hannah. She was my grandma, and her story doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.
(A final note: If you’ve patiently read through this story about my grandmothers, I hope you’ll keep in mind that any family’s genealogy has to involve ancient history: the primitive hand-written record-keeping of olden days (often difficult to decipher because of the flowery script in use); missing documents; and dependence on the memory, impressions, or accuracy of earlier generations contributing to it. No matter how much conscientious diligence and fact-checking is applied today, the info can be riddled with errors. There may be some in my grandmothers’ history but I hope they’re minor ones. And if they aren’t, the fault is mine.)
My husband Gene once told me, “Whenever a job recruiter asks you if you can do something – always say ‘Yes!’ And then go find out how to do it!” This odd counsel was the best career advice I ever had.
His second tip was more earthy. “When you apply for a job, even if you can’t afford it, always wear something new. Not for how you’ll look, but for how you’ll feel.”
The year was 1969. Judy, the youngest of our seven kids, was 8 years old, and Mark, the oldest, was 17. I had just fumbled my way through a 2 year course in that strange new technology called “data processing” at Seattle Community College. It was time to see if I could use what I had sort-of learned in order to find a job.
Thanks to Gene, and wearing my first “Dress for Success” suit, I did get the first job I applied for. I was hired as an (unqualified) procedures writer for the same school that trained me. (If you’re trembling with excitement to read about my “exploits” in that job, you can find it here in blob# 003. )
For the next 60 years of my employment, that old advice kept aiding and abetting me, not just when I was the “recruit” but when I was the recruiter. If the applicant sitting across from my desk was applying for a system we were innovating, I knew neither of us really knew beans about “how to do it”. Nobody else in Seattle did, either. What he/she/they had to know was where to look for help, and then noodle out how to make it work in the real world. HOOAH!
What I always hoped for in an applicant’s face was what I can only describe as a glint of Dogged Determination. I learned to never underrate that quality in others. People who have it can move mountains. In the workplace, they will beat the pants off those who are “better qualified” but who don’t have that same stubborn resolve to, as Tim Gunn puts it, “Make it work!”
Many jobs today are to do stuff unheard of a few years ago and the successful “pioneers” won’t necessarily be the ones who got all the gold stars in school. They’ll be the ones who dig in and learn it barehanded and who can deal with more flops than wins. Keep in mind that Orville Wright personally survived 8 major plane crashes trying to learn to fly like a deranged bird, but fly he did!
Take Elon Musk’s Neuralink company, for example. His brain chip may or may not work. If it does, it’ll help paraplegics walk, provide instant access to computer resources and a whole list of – as yet – unimagined applications such as maybe curing brain disorders, and – I hope – memory retention.But nobody there knows how to do it. Yet.
Need a job? There’s currently 72 unfilled ones listed at Neuralink. Help me out and apply today! Don’t worry about the “job requirements” Get the job first, and then figure out how to do it.
Consider the lowest level listed, as an example. It’s for one of their paid intern positions for summer 2022. Don’t be put off by the job requirement for “3+ years of software engineering experience”. Think about that. Anybody who owns a cell phone has software engineering experience, and don’t you forget it. If they give you any guff, just tell ‘em Octo-woman sent you. And say it with Dogged Determination.
I have good reason for wanting a brain chip. Along with other parts of my body, my memory is seriously sagging and a wired bra just won’t suffice. I’m in dire need of getting one of those Neuralink brain chips, and besides that, I definitely need to get one of those Neuralink brain chips. I’m not greedy. I’d be satisfied with, oh, maybe 10 Mg of memory, even. Under full warranty, and with free upgrades, of course.
My ultimate goal is to achieve the memory of the hero of this tale.
That’s the kind of memory retention I want to get installed in my brain — and this “Oddly terrifying” (and heartbreaking) video from Reddit is exactly what I hope it would help me avoid.
That sweet lady has forgotten who she is, and in the near future, I know it could be me greeting that stranger in the mirror. If it happens, I just hope I’ll be as nice about it as she is.
Meanwhile, Elon, keep trying!Just keep telling us Yes, you can! And then DO it!
Sometimes, when you look at ancient photos of your predecessors, don’t you wish you could ask them some questions? Maybe introduce yourself? You may know their names, where they came from, and a little about them, but you don’t really know them.
My Great-Great Grandparents Ellen and Michael Gorman
Take my paternal great-grandparents – Michael and Ellen (Colbert) Gorman. They had a major role in propagating me – which may explain those dour countenances – but we never met, and they never even heard of me or any of my siblings. I wish we could get acquainted. And I would like to pump them for info about how they survived and managed to make it to America and what happened to them when they got here. It would surely be a fearsome tale of stubborn endurance, stamina and grit.
I know a little about them, thanks to the diligence of the genealogy research of my second cousin Julie Davis; the history of Cedar County, Iowa; old newspaper archives; various publications in that fountain of all wisdom, the internet; and the rest I can only conjecture.
What I know about Michael is that he was born in July, 1830 in County Waterford in Ireland. He was 16 years old in 1846 when he immigrated to America with his widowed mother, Margaret, four brothers and two sisters. It’s likely all eight of them were illiterate, penniless, and malnourished. They didn’t come here to pursue the American dream. They came because they were hungry.
Michael Gorman
They probably couldn’t even speak English. Most of those emigrating probably only spoke Irish (sometimes referred to as Gaelic). According to Wikipedia “Down to the time of the Great Famine and even afterwards, the Irish language was in use by all classes, Irish being an urban as well as a rural language.”
To understand how they may have communicated, I submitted a couple of sentences to an online English to Irish translator and got this result:
.
The widow and her family’s need to emigrate was the 1845 beginning of the devastating potato famine that nearly destroyed the Irish. The following describes the setting in their home county of Waterford.
When Michael’s mother – my undoubtedly stoic great-great grandmother – arrived in New York from Ireland with her five sons and two daughters in tow, we can only guess at how that travel was funded. How would a destitute widow with seven children been able to pay for their passage to New York? Even in the steerage section, the fare was about $15. Unless there was a “cut-rate” for the kiddies, that would have totaled a staggering $120 for the family for the voyage.
They traveled aboard the American packet ship named the George Washington. This is a painting of it that was done 6 years earlier than their trip. It is pictured in Liverpool, the port where the family probably embarked from. In bad weather, sailing ships like this could take several weeks to get to New York. The steamships that began traveling later in 1852 could make such a voyage in two weeks if the weather was good.
.
The George Washington, the ship the family sailed in to New York in 1846.
Some of the ships required that the passengers bring their own food and water for the trip, too. How could my indigent great-great grandmother have come up with the fortune to finance the passage and provisions needed for that long desperate journey?
I may have found the answer in various publications that describe the role of the British landlords in Ireland. In the death and despair of the 1840s in Ireland, agents for wealthy British landowners found a way to “clear the property for improvements” by compensating its tenants. If they “surrendered” their holdings in the property they were living on, the company would pay for them to emigrate to another country. And I’m guessing that’s how my great-great grandmother managed to acquire the $120 “fortune” that funded the journey of her family to the new world of America.
After she got her brood aboard the ship, it’s probable that my great-great grandmother would have faced more hardship. Most Irish immigrants traveled in the cheapest section of the ship – below deck in the hellhole called steerage.
Disease thrived in the squalid conditions of steerage travel, where depending on the size of the ship, a few hundred to 1000 people could be crammed into tight quarters. Wooden beds, known as berths, were stacked two-to-three high with two people sharing single berths and up to four squeezed into a double. The only ventilation was provided by hatches to the upper decks which were locked tight during rough seas and storms.
Since the only bathrooms were located above deck, passengers trapped below during stormy weather were forced to urinate and defecate (and get seasick) in buckets which would overturn in the churning waves. The stench was unbearable and the spread of deadly diseases like typhoid, cholera, and smallpox spread unabated.
Food was also in constant shortage. Some ships required passengers to bring their own meager provisions, while others provided only minimum rations meant to keep passengers from starving. A lack of clean water and rancid food resulted in rampant bouts of dysentery.
Immigrants disembarking at Ellis Island
Once they survived the trip and the red tape and English-speaking customs agents at Ellis Island, the family travelled up the Hudson River to Albany where they lived for five years. After that, they moved to Illinois, and then to Iowa where they settled permanently. I think Michael was in his early 20s by then.
There’s so many questions I wish I could ask. Except for Michael, I don’t know much about the rest of the family. According to the ship’s Passenger List, his mother Margaret, was 36 at the time of the voyage. Brother John was oldest at 19 years old. Michael was next at 16. Then Paddy, 11, Mary 9, Allen 6, Margaret 4, and William 2 years old. The ages of the children tell us a lot about the stark burden their mother must have faced in keeping them alive and safe.
Ellen (Colbert) Gorman
My great grandmother, Ellen Colbert, and her family had to make the difficult journey, too. She was born on June 19, 1835 in County Cork in Ireland. Still a child, she immigrated to the U.S. with both her parents, though it’s unclear when the voyage occurred or whether she had other siblings. Their County Cork was among those that were the most devastated by the famine.
Up until Michael’s family moved to Iowa, he probably didn’t know the girl he was to marry. Ellen was five years younger than he was, for one thing, and the 93 miles separating Cork and Waterford counties was probably like traveling the distance to the moon. So I’m guessing they met in Iowa.
St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Iowa City, Iowa, 1860
.
.
Michael and Ellen were married on 6/22/1851 at St. Mary’s Church in Iowa City, Iowa. They settled in Pottawattamie County in Iowa where Michael successfully farmed for sixty years. Living the American dream.
.
.
Ellen and Michael in front of their farmhouse in Pottawattamie County, Iowa
They had ten children, three of whom died in childhood. I believe my grandfather James Gorman was fourth oldest.
In 1910, Michael retired and he and Ellen moved to live on the farm of his son James and his wife Elizabeth (my paternal grandparents). Michael died on 4/7/1916 when he was 85 years old, and Ellen died seven years later on 8/30/1924at age 89.
While I don’t know them well, I am very proud them. They came to America with nothing but their drive to survive and to succeed, and they managed to do both. For the rest of us who came from their roots, we can be sure of one thing. We weren’t bred from sissies!
In spite of the all-American spirit that drove Michael to succeed as a farmer in the Midwest, if he was anything like the other Irish I’ve known, he probably never gave up his longing for his native land. I’ll leave you with an Irish blessing as Michael might have expressed it to us.
And Oh yes, I hope you have a happy St. Paddy’s Day!
To help celebrate the ”Wearin’ of the Green”, this is for Michael and Ellen: nine of their great-great-great-great grandchildren – the Celtic Cousins – in actionat the Seattle Center in 2003.
This is me – your great-grandma Ford. I know you haven’t met me in person yet, but I am definitely one of your fans.
Practicing all his baby moves
I just saw your captivating performance on the ultrasound, and, my boy, you certainly are a star! Only 20 weeks in the oven, and you already have Oscar-winning potential! I don’t know why they call it an “Ultrasound” though. Not to complain, but even with my new hearing aids, I couldn’t hear the soundtrack. I’m sure you’re going to have a terrific singing voice, though, just like your mama, Sonja.
After you arrive, I want to urge you to use your voice for gurgling and cooing and burping. Babies that do that are so much more popular than the ones who – Ahem! – make a scene by getting over-emotional and blubbering and being cranky just because they’re hungry, or wet, or have colic, or teething, or haven’t been able to visit their great-grandmothers.
A.J. with friend
Wesley Gene
You should know that when you come into the world, you will soon meet my two other great- grandchildren – both boys: Asa (known as A.J.) who’s 9 years old, and almost as tall as me, and Wesley, 2 years old, who comes up to my knee. Currently, I’m reasonably sure they are the most intelligent, talented, and handsome boys in Western Washington and perhaps even among those matriculating at Hogwarts.
. . . And in black and white
Wesley’s baby brother in color . . .
But here’s my big surprise for you. There’s going to be another cousin waiting to greet you when you arrive around July 15th! Like you, he doesn’t have a name yet, but his big brother Wesley will no doubt assign him one soon. He should make his grand entrance around May 10th so he’ll only be 2 months older than you. I know you’ll have a grand time playing and pummeling each other into submission, and I’m sure you’re going to be good chums for life.
Sugar and spice
You and your three cousins will all be boys. I apologize for that. I tried to convince your parents, as well as your aunts and uncles, to really try harder but they have so far failed to produce a female great-grandchild. Having seen you in action on the ultrasound, however, I now feel that you will be providing a more than acceptable alternative. Try to think about it this way. Yes, girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, but boys get all the best CEO jobs. At least there’s that!
Papa Bear with Mama Sonja
The real reason I’m writing you, though, is to quell the fear you probably have to being born the son of a bear. Rest assured, child. Your daddy is not a real bear. Not the kind that will be eating you for lunch. No indeed, my boy. We just call him Bear because his name is Barrett. You’ll be meeting him soon. He’s really quite nice. I haven’t heard him growl even once. I feel that he is quite acceptable – as long he refrains from having a room in his house called a den, and doesn’t name you “Teddy”.
Take my advice. I recommend that you be kind to your parents. There is no user guide for parenting, so you will need to offer them some technical assistance from time to time. That’s when you can turn on the charm with the coos and gurgles and burps and smiles! It will really help you worm your way into their affection, and it will certainly ease the pain of the economic suffering and lack of sleep you will be inflicting on them.
Get yourself ready to take on the world with your immediate big job of eating, sleeping and pooping. I know you’ll be good at it, and you’ll have plenty of help. Once in a while, though, before you wake up your mama or the Papa Bear, try giving your troubles to God because He’s up all night anyway, and so am I. You can always count on me, kiddo – your great-grandmother The Owl. Call me. I’ll have my people get back to your people.
Just kidding. Truth is, long ago, even before the Age of Disposable Diapers, I was a mama to several small baby persons such as yourself. I was derelict in my performance in every way except one: I liked the Night Feedings. A lot. This is when an Owl can really shine.
Try to picture it so you can let your people know how to do it. House very quiet! Parked in a comfy chair, feet up. Pall Mall cigarette (menthol because I was very health conscious) lit in ashtray on end table right next to the cup of heated up stale coffee and the bottle of warm baby formula.
And then, snug on my lap – the grand prize – my wee, freshly-diapered treasure, glad to be alive (and no doubt hoping to avoid nicotine poisoning, or hearing loss attributable to my singing voice). Well, let me tell you, baby, as an Owl, that was the best part of my day. It was Prime Time.
Keep it in mind, in case it runs in the family. The following will demonstrate your future effect on the household you’ll be taking over. I’m pretty sure its author was an Owl.
“I simply adore doing meal planning, prep, serving, and clean-up”, said no rational person ever.
To those of us who find the joy of cooking to be a smarmy concept, I feel compelled to share some of the methods I have used to combat such a hoax through my 70 years of experience in the kitchen.
To illustrate, I have a pretty effective four-step method of meal planning.
In step one, I go to the refrigerator, open the door, and look inside. Contained within, I often find many items which may have seen a better day, but have not been discarded. This is entirely due to my sensitive nature. At my age, it kind of hurts my feelings to think something should be thrown out just because it’s a bit old and moldy and smells bad.
I follow wholesome parameters, of course. If that carefully Saran-wrapped bowl contains something grayish with green spots on top that may have started life as chicken with pasta, I would normally avoid serving it. Or if the product has an odd color, is forming foam on top or seems to be sort of breathing, just set it aside for your child’s next science fair project. That is because you must never ever eat food which is actually moving. It could be very detrimental to your health and it may well be the source of ringworm or the dreaded toenail fungus.
Often though, there’s something inside the refrigerator that doesn’t look too dangerous to warm up and serve, and my work is done! Dinner is served! Bon appetit! (A French expression meaning “Eat this or starve. It’s your choice.“)
If not successful finding some treasures to serve, however, I proceed to step two and go directly to the freezer. The trouble with step two is that it’s something I should have executed yesterday when that rock-hard frozen pork roast would’ve had time to thaw.
Feeling around, I keep hoping to find something friendlier, like a package of frozen hamburger. I can usually beat frozen hamburger into submission by dropping the package into a big bowl of cold water where it can leisurely recover it’s warmer personality. In meal planning, I consider hamburger to be one of my best and most faithful friends. (My social life is really pathetic.)
There’s a lot you can do to hamburger, but one of the things you cannot do is cook it and then serve it in all its bare, unadorned glory. You have to put it IN something. That’s when I launch step 3 which takes place in the pantry. That’s where I can often find a compatible companion for the hamburger. A favorite of mine is a can of Cattle Drive Gold Chili with beans. If you heat it up, add the cooked hamburger to it and sprinkle some raw onions on top, it’s delicious, and you have the added benefit of finding that it’s good for your bowels. I call it Hamburger Surprise.
Step four is for-when-all-else-has-failed. This step is made up of several options:
Option (a). Search for the nearest Golden Arches. Nobody ever turns down a quarter pounder or a Big Mac. For the vegans, you can get fries with extra tartar sauce.
Option (b). If the milk hasn’t curdled, get out bowls for the Cheerios, and serve with a flourish. As always, attractive presentation is important for an enjoyable meal.
Option (c). Suggest to your diners, the value of fasting tonight as an effective means of diet control, and how nice it will be to shed all those extra pounds of flab generated by the output of my well-known cuisine (at least for those who had managed to eat any of it).
Well, that’s how I do meal planning and it works for me. But here’s one more approach you might consider using.
