"America, thou art more fortunate..."

This scene of German emigrants boarding a steamer bound for America would have been what the Augustins and Spricks saw and experienced when they left Hamburg, Germany, in the 1880s. The great German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, right, wrote this poem in 1827 in Weimar (Vienna):

America, thou art more fortunate
than our old continent.
Thou has no ruined castles
or ancient basalt.
Thou art not now plagued
with useless memories
and fruitless strife.

(Not exactly true anymore, but we digress.) Jorgen Bracker, former director of the Hamburg History Museum, wrote this about immigrants coming to America:

The motives of many Germans leaving their homeland at the time of the enlightenment was not only crushing poverty but equally the restrictions imposed by the authorities and a religion which suppressed individual ideologies. It was these people Goethe had in mind when he stated that a new beginning was only possible in America, where no deference had to be paid to outdated power structures and traditional attitudes, where men could build a state in which everyone enjoyed equal rights based on adequate schooling and educational opportunities. From Goethe's time to the beginning of the First World War, several millions Germans emigrated to the USA; their descendants today amount to many times this figure.

"When Father Was Gone": Cousin Cathy's account

Associated Press photo: U.S. troops during the 1968 Tet Offensive.

While still very young, cousin Cathy Miller wrote this stark, beautiful true account of the Miller family's Vietnam experience. Needless to say, "Father" is dear old Dad/Uncle Bill, who served in the U.S. Army in Vietnam in 1967-68.

When Father Was Gone

By MARY CATHERINE "CHATS" MILLER NORTHRUP

Grandmother [Maria Augustine Sprick] was baking bread that day, her white bread that crackles when the knife breaks through its thick crust and steams a little as each slice is cut off the loaf. My brother and sister and I were staying with her while Mother took Father to the airport.

Father [William Alton Miller] was going to Vietnam.

When they left Grandmother's house, Father gave me a big hug. He was wearing his dress uniform, and my cheek scratched against the cold metal buttons and bars on it. He held me for a long time, and when he let me go, he told me to be good and he would be back soon. I said okay. It seemed simple enough to me.

Mother was crying, though. Mother never cried.

After they left, my brother and sister and I went back to our game of Monopoly. My brother kept stealing money from the bank, and my sister yelled at him. Grandmother told them to behave and gave us each a piece of warm bread with a thick layer of homemade grape jam on it.

Mother was quiet when she came to take us home.

At breakfast the next morning, my sister and I were arguing over the puzzle ring in the Lucky Charms cereal box when my brother spit out a mouthful of milk. He said it tasted like the air in his schoolroom after the teacher pounded the chalk powder from the big blackboard erasers. Mother said the milk was dry milk, and we had better get used to it. She said we were going to be cutting corners until Father came back, and we all had to help. My brother said the milk still tasted like chalk powder.

When we came home from school that day, Mother was mowing the lawn. Mother never mowed the lawn.

Every day after supper, Mother would call us into the living room and have us sit down in the giant, soft company chairs. The curtains would be drawn, and the thick carpeting on the floor would absorb all the sounds except Mother's voice as she read a letter from Father. The light from the lamp on the end table would cast shadows on her face.

The letters always sounded about the same. Father said he missed us and told us to be good. Mother never read us all of the letter, though. She would stop after a while and tell us the rest was for her.

But sometimes we would get our own postcards from Father with a note only to us. One time I got one with a picture of a pale-skinned girl with shiny black hair paddling a boat down a dirty river with huge jungle plants on either side of her.

I imagined what it would be like to be paddling a boat down a dirty river with huge jungle plants on either side of me. I decided I liked sliding down the snow-covered hill by our house better.

Sometimes when we had been watching "Tom and Jerry" cartoons after school, the news would come on and Mother would make us be quiet. The man on TV would look very serious, and there would be films like John Wayne movies -- only no John Wayne. Mother would get a funny look on her face and start ironing clothes. Supper would not be on time.

One week, Mother didn't call us into the living room at all. When we asked why, she said that Father was very busy and couldn't write. My brother asked her why he was busy, and she said that in Vietnam, the people we were fighting against had made a strong attack called the Tet Offensive right where Father was. She was sure he would write soon.

My older sister, who was 9 [actually, Pamela Marian Miller was 11], got scared and ran into her room. I heard her screaming that Father was going to die.

The next week, Mother called us into the living room again. Father had written that many of his men who were out on missions gathering information for our side had not returned, and he felt terrible. He did not say he missed us or remind us to be good.

First grade was terrible, too. I got one-hundreds on my spelling and arithmetic tests, but every day at lunch, I felt sick and would have to come home. The doctor gave me a purple lollipop and said I was fine, but I still couldn't make myself drink my carton of milk and eat my peanut butter sandwich and apple.

One day after she had brought me home at lunch, Mother sat me down at our kitchen table and asked me if I missed Father. I said sure, of course I did. Mother said that she did, too, but she just kept remembering that he would be home soon and everything would be all right. She stroked my short blond hair and smiled at me.

I spent all of the next day in school.

Some nights, though, I would have bad dreams. It was usually the same one: Mother and Father would be taking us to the zoo and somehow, my brother and sister and I would get lost. I would always be alone, and the zoo would become a jungle of ugly monsters, laughing and grabbing at me. I would wake up crying and go into Mother and Father's room to sleep with Mother.

One afternoon after I had started second grade, I went into Mother and Father's room to find Mother sewing. She was humming, and I asked her what she was making. She said that my sister and I were going to have matching dresses for when Father came home. She said she was going to get her hair fixed, too, and have a rinse to hide the gray in it.

A few weeks later, Mother called us into the living room, but she didn't read a letter. Instead, she told us Father was coming home next week. She said we were going to stay at Aunt Marion and Uncle Wally's house near the [Minneapolis-St. Paul International] airport that week because Father wasn't sure exactly what plane he could ride home or when he would arrive.

My brother and sister and I were excited because we could play with our cousins [Dan and Sam Broberg] there all week. It didn't matter to me what day Father was coming home, really; I was kind of scared to see him again. I was afraid he wouldn't recognize me. I hoped my matching dress would help.

That week, my uncle [Wallace Broberg] bought a red carpet to roll out for Father at the airport. He said it was a great honor, but I didn't understand why. My cousins and my brother and sister and I made signs for Father with Magic Markers and tagboard. They said things like "Welcome home!" and "We love you!"

A couple of days later, the phone rang and someone told Mother that Father would arrive at the airport at 10:30 the next morning. Mother hugged Aunt Marion and kissed me.

In the morning, Mother dressed my sister and me in our matching dresses, and she scrubbed my brother's ears red. We packed the carpet and the signs in Uncle Wally's station wagon and drove to the airport.

As we waited at the gate where Father's plane would be landing, people asked us about our signs. My aunt and uncle explained while Mother inspected my brother's ears over and over.

A loud voice announced that Father's plane was landing, so we crowded around the big windows to see it come down the runway. I asked Mother some questions, but she didn't seem to hear me. Aunt Marion took my hand and spoke to me softly.

People started coming in the door of the gateway. Now I was afraid I would not recognize Father, either. I imagined a stranger coming up to me and calling me his daughter.

Then someone walked through the doorway and Mother let out a cry. She ran to Father, reaching him even before Uncle Wally's red carpet did, and she hugged him for a long time. I watched Father whirl her around in the air, and I was still afraid. I handed my sign to my cousin.

Mother and Father stopped hugging, and Father came toward my brother and sister and me. He was wearing his same dress uniform, but his face and hands were a dark brown. My sister told him he sure did have a good tan, and my brother blabbed that Mother had dyed her hair. He laughed a long, loud laugh, and then he bent on one knee and told us to come over to him.

Shy at first, we went to him, and he put his arms around all three of us. My head was on his shoulder and as I felt his arms surround us, I knew this was Father. There was a certain smell he always had about him, a mixture of his aftershave and the outside and himself, and, close to him, I remembered it.

Father was home.

Eulogy for Aunt Annette, 1914-2002

Read by niece Pam Miller at Aunt Annette Kulseth's funeral in January 2002 at St. Olaf Lutheran Church in north Minneapolis. Annette is buried by her beloved Hart at Glen Haven Memorial Gardens in Crystal, Minn. (Virgil Bye is also buried nearby.)

Eulogy for Aunt Annette

By PAMELA MILLER

It's possible that if the Minnesota Vikings had not lost on Monday night, we would not be here today. Annette was the Vikings' biggest and nicest fan, and lately they had disappointed her bigtime, even though she had forgiven them, as was her way. Though I'm less forgiving, I don't want to blame her death on Dennis Green, because a lot has been blamed on him lately, and unfairly, I think. So it's not Dennis Green's fault.

It's Randy Moss' fault.

Annette loved the Vikings. She and her husband, Uncle Hart, who died in 1985 and was just as sweet as she was, had Vikings season tickets for years before there was a domed stadium. They would never have let a little thing like freezing cold keep them away from a Vikings game. In her later years, she never missed a Vikings game on TV unless she was here at church, and no doubt she let Pastor Dale [Hulme] know how she felt about services that ran into noon games (although probably in a nice way).

But the Vikings were just one of the things she loved.

She loved her family, especially her siblings -- Adelaide, Edward, LeRoy, Emma, Anna, Marion, Florence, Alverna, Elmer, Clarence and Kate. Five of them are still alive and here with us today. In her long-ago youth, Annette made many loving sacrifices for her siblings, including taking care of them when they were babies and toddlers and preteens and quitting school in the eighth grade to go to work to put some of the younger ones through school. This was heartbreaking for her, because she loved to learn, and indeed would continue to learn all through her life. But she loved her siblings even more, and to her dying day, she would do anything for them.

She treasured her family, and by example taught us all how to live in a family -- to love each other, to not judge each other and to endlessly help and forgive each other.

Annette lived through many hardships and heartbreaks: World War I, the loss of the family farm, the loss of schooling opportunities, hard work for sometimes difficult people, the Depression, World War II, more wars, deaths and losses of all kinds. Yet she was the happiest person I know, and I never went to see her when I didn't come away feeling better. Her happiness was organic, and it was contagious. She embodied the goodness and sacrifice and broad perspective that made the generation she was part of earn the title "the Greatest Generation."

Annette also loved her many nephews, nieces, grandnephews and grandnieces, and would do anything for any of us. We all learned that if you went to her house and said you liked something, she'd insist on giving it to you. So you had to be careful what you said you liked if you hadn't brought along a U-Haul. She never seemed to run out of delightful, eclectic things to give away. Those of you who've been to my house and seen the things hanging up on my walls know that everything that didn't come from Target came from her.

She made me take it all.

Annette also loved animals. She had three sainted dogs in her life -- Schnitzel, Seth and Seth Too. As kids, we nieces and nephews used to point out to our strict, hard-bitten, merciless, slave-driving parents that Schnitzel, Seth and Seth Too got treated a lot better than we poor, hard-working, much-persecuted kids. Those dogs ate better, had nicer accommodations and got more TLC. But our parents didn't buy any of it. If we wanted that kind of treatment, we had to go see Annette and Hart to get it.

So we did.

Annette loved the outdoors. Her house a few miles north of here overlooks Eagle Lake and was once in the country but is now part of a booming suburb, Maple Grove.

She loved her neighbors, particularly Cathy Ewing and her children, Jenna and Christina, whose visits delighted her.

She loved the North Shore of Lake Superior and went there every year, including this past one, to stay at a little cabin right on the lake.

She loved her humble cabin in Old Frontenac, Minn., and spent as much time there as possible. She loved to walk and simply be outdoors, watching the birds and dreaming. The first thing she'd do when she got to Old Frontenac was fill the birdfeeders and set about10 old lawn chairs under her great big weeping willow tree, and that was the most relaxing, peaceful place to be on sunny days, particularly if you were trying to escape a parent who wanted you to paint the house or walk the dog or clean your room or do your homework or practice the piano.

Annette and Hart never made you do any of those things. They gave you cookies and lemonade and sat in the lawn chairs with you and told Ole and Lena jokes.

She loved her God, and her church, and all of you here who are part of that church. She's gone here for decades, and loves this church's people, its pastor, its music, its message and its mission. She was a low-key Christian who sought to walk in Christ's loving, forgiving footsteps. I have no doubt she's sitting right now in heaven in one of Jesus' lawn chairs.

There are so many other things I could say about Annette. Some of you who think you never met her actually might have at the State Fair, because for years she served the best food there at the St. Olaf booth. Every Christmas she concocted rosettes that made Norwegians I work with genuflect in awe, and sugar cookies that melted in your mouth. She also was a talented rosemaler and created many beautiful, artistic things. She could pick up a big, dead weed off the ground and turn it into a Christmas wreath with a few deft turns of the wrist.

She read voraciously. On the days I've taken her groceries I've also often taken her a bag of books. One day last summer I took up a big bag full, including Steven Ambrose books about World War II or Lewis and Clark and several classic novels. I figured that would keep her busy until Christmas. A week later I went up again with groceries and she had the book bag ready to return. Don't you want to read them? I inquired. "I did read them," she said. Incredulous, I quizzed her, and sure enough, she had read them all.

She read the paper from end to end and caught any mistakes I made in my job there, or maybe it was my brother's mistakes she caught, because I don't make any.

However, Annette wasn't perfect. She embodied some contradictions that puzzled us. For instance, she couldn't stand [WCCO Radio's] Dark Star, and so she listened to him every chance she got. she had some funny theories, such as the time she insisted to me that El Nino was responsible for disabling her garage door opener. Probably because she never drove, she had no sense of direction, but pretended to. Once we took a four-block detour to see an old farmstead in Brooklyn Park that she vaguely insisted was "over there" and ended up in Hassan Township.

Annette was usually sweet, but sometimes she could be contrary. She had a very pleasant way of taking you to task. For instance, a couple of months ago she and I were in Lake City, in my car in a funeral procession for my cousin's husband [Duane Davidson], when she said to me in the most pleasant voice: "Pamela, isn't it a tradition to get your car washed before you're in a funeral procession?"

She'd be glad to know my car is freshly washed today.

She could be stubborn, most recently about the suggestion from some of her relatives, including me, that she might be more comfortable in assisted living. She let me know she would never live in a place that had plastic flowers in the lobby. And she let me know, stubbornly but kindly, that she wanted more than anything to remian living, and someday to die, in her own home. It had its risks for a person of decreasing mobility, but it was what she wanted, and I did my best to respect that.

Annette was very philosophical. This past Sept. 11, our world was shaken by unfathomable acts of evil, and many an afternoon before I went to work Annette and I would sit at her kitchen table and talk about how the world had changed, and what it all meant, and about how her country and her values would endure, no matter what.

In summary: Annette had a beautiful personality. She was kind, intelligent, hard-working, stylish and funny. She loved life and made the world a better, sweeter place. We are all better for having known her, and we'll always remember her big, beautiful smile.

Letters to Vietnam

Pam was in sixth grade, Chris in fourth and Cathy in second when they wrote these letters to Uncle Bill in Vietnam in 1967 and 1968. (Click on each item to make it bigger and easier to read.)

Lost on home territory: Going too far on the Zumbro

Photo by Joe Sprick: The Zumbro River bottoms as viewed from the bluffs of the old Sprick farm near Theilman, Minn.

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

My record stood for 74 years. Though I had left a lot of bootprints in wilderness areas in the West and in the forests of Wisconsin, I had never been lost in the woods. But records are made to be broken, and such was the case on a beautiful day in late September 2001.

As children, my siblings and I often sat on top of the bluffs above our farm near Theilman, Minn., overlooking the Zumbro River bottoms. To the right was the Spring Creek drainage ,referred to on U.S. Geological Survey maps as Hungry Hollow; locally, it was known as the Hungry Run. I knew the area well, having fished both Spring Creek and the Zumbro River with my older brother, Ed. After school in the fall, I had often ran his trapline, checking for fox, raccoon, skunk or mink.

One day while picking morel mushrooms with my fishing partner, Doc Knudsen, I looked down from the bluff top and decided that before I got much older, I should canoe the Zumbro from Millville to Theilman. It would a sentimental journey, a way to see all the old landmarks.

The only problem would be finding a canoe partner who was lighter than me to ride in the front of the canoe. There have been times when I've canoed with a heavy rock to hold down the front of the canoe, but a rock makes for poor company.

It was my good fortune to become acquainted through church with a retired IBM executive named Dwight Pierson. Dwight was fond of the silent sports, and both he and his wife were marathon runners and in excellent shape. He was more than willing to accompany me, though he had little knowledge of the area.

Since I knew it well, I didn't bother to bring a map alone. I did contact the canoe concessionaire in Zumbro Falls to find out how long it would take to float from Millville to Theilman. "Seven miles; you should be able to cover it in three or four hours, easy," he said.

I relayed that information to Dwight and told him to bring a lunch and a fishing pole, as we'd have ample time to enjoy both. Mavis would take us to Millville, drop us off, and pick us up in Theilman at 4 p.m.

We launched our canoe at a little park in Millville. Water levels were up and the current was favorable for a rapid ride downriver. It was a perfect morning -- no wind, temperatures headed for the low 70s. There was a hint of fall color along the steep bluffs on either side of the river. A short distance from the landing, Dwight spotted three deer on a river bank. Further along, a mature bald eagle watched us from the top of a tree as we floated silently by.

I watched the shoreline for something familiar. At one time, a narrow-gauge railroad had followed the river through the valley. The train had stopped at little towns called Lakey and Keegan to pick up grain, livestock and cream. I could remember seeing the train and the grain elevators from a bluff top back in the 1930s. Now those two towns were just names on a map -- a very old map. I did recognize the Keegan site, where a meat-processing plant is now located within view of the river.

For the rest of the afternoon, I drew a blank on landmarks. Maybe I was too busy dodging snags and brush piles in the river. I even missed the mouth of Spring Creek, where I had hunted with my brother, LeRoy, when he shot his last buck before his death in early 1985.

By 3 p.m., I had no idea where we were. Fortunately, we spotted a canoe landing sign. That meant we were near a road, so we pulled the canoe up the bank and decided to walk out to the farmhouse. A 2-mile hike took us to two farm sites, but no one was home.

A short way past the second farmhouse, we came to a town road. I knew then where we were. We had overshot our destination of Theilman by 7 miles! I felt embarrassed, tired and stupid. To make matters worse, Mavis would be waiting for us 7 miles upstream at Theilman.

Maybe this is what cell phones are for. But we didn't have one.

We flagged down a school bus driver and asked if we might hitch a ride into Theilman. He was sympathetic, but said regulations forbade him from taking on any passengers when there were schoolchildren aboard. We told him we understood and thanked him anyway.

A half hour went past -- no traffic. Dwight and I were dreading the long walk to Theilman when the school bus, now empty, appeared over the hill. The driver stopped and said, "Get in and I'll take you back to Theilman."

We arrived in Theilman at exactly 4 p.m. and walked to the canoe landing, where Mavis was waiting. "Where is your canoe?" she asked.

"We left it uptown at Eggenberger's tavern," I remarked. "We got off the water early and decided to wait for you there."

Mavis knew us better than that, so we told her the whole sad truth as we backtracked to pick up the canoe.

In the future, I will be satisfied to view the Zumbro River bottoms from a stump on the bluff top of the old farm. And I will be forever grateful to the Good Samaritan school bus driver.

The white stag: A rare encounter in the backwaters

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

The label in one of my old field jackets reads "Hirsch Weiss," the German moniker for the White Stag Clothing Co.

One perfect November day, while fishing in the Mississippi River bottoms south of Wabasha, Minn., I saw a real white stag.

On that unusually warm Nov. 2, I hadn't felt the need to bring my camera. I had already taken enough photos of fall colors, big crappies, bluegills and most of my fishing partners, young and old.

My fishing partners that day were Doc Knudsen and Ralph O'Connor. Doc provided the boat and guide service. Ralph provided the commentary, as he was born and raised near the section of river where we were fishing. He knew every slough and backwater in that vast area, now known as the Upper Mississippi Wildlife Refuge. This day we would fish some of his favorite spots near West Newton.

As we motored from one slough to another, we could easily spot the high water mark on the tall cottonwood, ash, soft maple and river birch trees. Those next to the water had been badly scarred by ice floes during spring flooding.

It began to appear that the highlight of our day would be lunch. One of us usually manages to catch a fish while eating lunch, and today it was my turn: I caught a 3-inch largemouth bass. At 1 p.m., our intrepid guide stated that he would take us to one more good spot before we gave up. His intentions were of the best, but because the water was so low, the propeller began churning up bottom mud.

We were about to turn around when I spotted something white on the shore of a small island. It gleamed in the sun and appeared to be draped over a large log. Slowly, we moved closer.

My first reaction was that it was a stuffed animal -- but why out here in the middle of nowhere? Then I saw one of its ears move. Eventually I could make out the head of a deer with a forked horn on one side and a long spike on the other.

About 50 feet from the white buck, Doc and I got out of the boat and began to walk slowly toward it. It quickly got to its feet and bounded off into the water, swimming to the next small island. If it stayed on the Minnesota side of the channel, it would be unprotected fair game the next day, the opening day of buck season.

Upon returning home, I picked up the mail and found the November-December copy of the Minnesota Conservation Volunteer magazine. On its cover was a photo of an albino buck that appeared identical, right down to the unusual antlers, to the deer we had seen that afternoon.

We had not gotten quite close enough to the deer to determine if it had pink eyes, the test of a true albino, but we certainly had witnessed a rare phenomenon in nature -- a white stag hiding out on his own little island.

Fish or no fish, my day was made.

Ah, rosettes

Here's Aunt Annette's rosette recipe, in case anyone is brave enough to attempt them. This recipe makes 75 rosettes, which is 7.5 servings in our family. (Click on it to make it larger.)

The song dogs: A poetic essay by Uncle Joe

The scrapblog editor likes this essay by Uncle Joe so much that she's tried to shop it to a couple of paying publications. Their editors liked it too but said it didn't fit their "mission." Well, excuse us very much! It fits our mission!

Here is the essay, which we edited slightly and printed with permission from Uncle Joe. Actually we haven't gotten his permission yet, but seeing as how he's editor emeritus of the scrapblog and CEO of this glamorous new scrapblog reading library, we're thinking he probably won't sue us.

Here's the absolutely lovely essay, the first of many we plan to reprint from Uncle Joe's 2004 book "Lake Pepin Pot-pour-ri."

The Song Dogs

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

If you've heard coyotes sing, you might not agree with the outdoorsmen and wilderness buffs who interpret their eerie sounds as songs. Their voices can range from a torturous scream to a mournful howl.

We first heard them from the ridges overlooking our campsite while backpacking in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Area of Idaho and Montana. A year or so later, a pack chased a rabbit through our campground in the Flambeau River State Forest in northern Wisconsin during the wee hours of the morning. Fortunately, most of the campers slept through it, or there may have been some kids as scared as the rabbit being chased.

Because coyotes are nocturnal, we seldom see them in broad daylight. A well-hidden, quiet human watcher might get a fleeting glance at one at dawn or dusk. Coyotes have keen eyesight and an excellent sense of smell.

When we built our retirement home at Ten Oaks, north of Lake City, Minn., [Joe and Mavis now live in Lake City proper] there were no coyotes in the area. They would soon arrive.

The gray and red fox that we once saw and heard quite frequently are now gone. Biologists tell us that coyotes and fox compete for much of the same food, and sometimes the fox is the food.

Even though we sleep with the patio door of our bedroom partly open for much of the year, the rumble and whistle of the trains seldom wake us. It is the yipping and howling of the coyotes triggered by the train whistle that sometimes gives us a wake-up call.

But as loud as their song may be, we much prefer it to the barking of our neighbor's dog, for we know that the coyotes will stop singing as soon as the train passes, while Mollie next door keeps right on barking, day or night.

When one sits in a tree stand the last hour of daylight during bow season, a lot of man-made sounds might lead one to think that there is no wildlife within miles. Car and trucks zoom past on nearby Hwy. 61. The railroad tracks are on one side of my tree stand. And I can clearly hear people coming and going in the residential area just a few hundred feet on the other side. It is a far cry from wilderness, where the hand of man is not apparent.

But when darkness falls, about the time one climbs down from the tree stand and starts up the hill to the house, a lone coyote howls less than 50 yards away, and chills go up my spine. Another coyote answers about 50 yards away in the opposite direction, and my hair stands on end.

For a brief moment, the song dogs give the illusion of wilderness even though the lights shine from our living room window only a hundred yards away.

There are those of us who still need just a wee bit of wilderness tonic for the soul, even though it may come in small doses from the consummate survivors -- the song dogs.

The story of one year: Grandma Sprick's 1960 calendar

On a little calendar Uncle LeRoy gave her, Grandma recorded what happened every day for a year in 1960. (Click on each part to make it bigger and easier to read.)