A debacle in the Old Frontenac forest

You know something very, very bad has happened when we are moved to say, "It's a good thing Alverna isn't here to see this." That's what cousins Pam and Dan and Uncle Joe said to each other as they tromped through the ravaged woods of Old Frontenac this weekend. We were shocked by what we saw, which was clearly the result of unscrupulous loggers aiming to make a buck -- many bucks -- off of trees that should never have been harvested. Taking a historical perspective, Uncle Joe, our own wise forester, wrote this account of what led to this debacle.

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

In the 1800s, the Garrards, an aristocratic family from Kentucky, spent summers on the shores of Lake Pepin. One of its sons, Israel Garrard, a Northern Army general in the Civil War, loved the area and acquired several hundred acres of forested land along the lake. He named it Frontenac.

In the 1880s, Israel donated several acres of forest to Florence Township with restrictions in the deed that precluded commercial development. Accordingly, a major highway and the railroad were developed farther west in what became New Frontenac.

The forestland contained mixed hardwoods, predominantly red oak, basswood, cherry, elm and maple. It was largely unmanaged. Hunting and firewood cutting (of dead trees) were permitted. Within the forest is a well-maintained cemetery where Gen. Garrard and his family lie buried, along with many citizens who loved this quiet area.

In the 1980s, the Frontenac Historical Preservation Commission was established, made up of eight civic-minded village dwellers. Their mission statement: "To protect and preserve the natural beauty, cultural heritage and historic features of the Frontenac Historic District." They succeeded in preserving a number of historic buildings and served as a watchdog group that prevented major highway construction and commercial development in the village.

In recent years, the commission recognized that management of the park timber had been neglected and that some of the trees up to 200 years old were deteriorating. Its choices: leaving the parklands as a natural area, cutting only dead trees for firewood as had been past practice; removing the culls and high-risk overmature trees, or hiring a consultant forester to advise and supervise a timber sale.

The commission members, who had no experience in managing or selling timber, could not have known the terms "logger's choice," "commercial clear-cut," "diameter limit" and "gypo logger" -- all dirty words to a forester.

They contacted a local sawmill operator who helped them designate the dead and high-risk trees. Unfortunately, stumps were not marked, which might have headed off the cutting of unmarked trees. A contract was let to a local tree service for the cutting of designated trees. That tree service subcontracted the cutting to an unscrupulous logger.

Sawyers came in a day before the contract starting date. Disregarding the markings, they cut nearly all of the big, sound, healthy and valuable trees. The cutting went on for a day and a half before township officials discovered the contract violations and the severe damage the skidder had inflicted on the remaining small trees.

The cutting resulted in newspaper headlines and a lot of angry citizens, especially those who love big trees and who own land bordering the parklands.

In a recent press interview, the commission chairman said: "We now know that the best approach is to work through a knowledgeable forestry consultant. The fee of 14 percent would be cheap, since he will get much more revenue from the harvest than an unknowledgeable woodlot owner and, more important, only the designated timber would be removed."

Ironically, the commission has unwittingly destroyed the very thing it had hoped to care for and protect.

Although cleanup is underway and new trees are being planted, inquiring minds may someday want to know what happened to Wakondiota Park in Old Frontenac in March 2007. Only time will tell if a stand of buckthorn will occupy the site for the next century. Will the ash saplings being planted survive the recently resurgent emerald ash borer? Will the oak saplings survive oak wilt infection? Or will the remaining stand of cull trees and buckthorn stand as a monument to the Frontenac Historic Preservation Commission?

It takes a true optimist to find something positive in the destruction of a stand of 150-year-old hardwoods, but one astute landowner whose lot borders the park had his taxes lowered because the big trees bordering it had been destroyed. (That landowner also compared what happened to the destruction of a herd of elephants to harvest their tusks. It's that ugly.)

A salty old forestry professor once warned a class I was in: "Trees are a long-term crop. The way you manage a stand of timber may have a great impact for 100 years or more. Consider the cutting practice carefully."

In the meantime, we can only hope that the general is sleeping peacefully in his grave.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Maybe this is why we wear name tags at family reunions??

Nominee: Annette Sprick Kulseth
Nominator: Alverna Sprick Miller
Year: About 1999

That's right, folks. She has done it again.

Do you remember quite a few years back when we had a family reunion on the North Shore? During a walk, Annette was telling a person she thought to be a stranger on the road all about our family reunion, as only she can do.

The "stranger" turned out to be her sister, Anna, and all of us were convulsed with laughter before she caught on.

Well, the other day at our house, Annette picked up a snapshot of a woman holding Nathan Pepin. After scrutinizing it a while, she commented, "My, but that woman looks a lot like Anna." You guessed it -- it was Anna!

So Annette should get the Burnt Wienie Award for not being able to recognize her own sister, after lo these many years!

Burnt Wienie worthy: A fish story

Nominee: Sam Broberg
Nominator: Marion Sprick Broberg
Year: Unknown

There was a young man from the city
who was handsome, determined and witty.
But he wanted to go fishing
instead of just wishing --
to stay home was such a great pity.

One night his uncle said,
"How early can you get out of bed?"
To which Sam replied,
"Any time you decide.
Where will we meet, Uncle Ed?"

Samuel rose at the crack of dawn
and came down the stairs with a yawn.
He had breakfast with Joe
and said, "Now let's go;
Uncle Ed's waiting out on the lawn."

They rowed the boat out to the spot
where the fishing had really been hot.
Uncle Joe gave Sam a rig
with a spinner and jig
and said, "See if they're biting, or not."

Now Samuel caught 17 bass.
As a fisherman he really had class.
But Uncle Ed bet a dime
he could catch two at a time,
and the boat was filling up fast.

The fish basket was full to the top,
but Sam didn't want to stop.
Uncle Ed said, "That's all,
or we'll be breaking the law
and we don't want to get caught by a cop."

Now when Sam was first granted his wish,
he had promised to carry the fish.
but when he reached for the packet,
he just couldn't hack it,
and cleaning them wasn't his dish.

Sam's boo-boo is that he wasn't wary
of catching more than he could carry.
So a picture was taken
of Sam visibly shaken
as he tried to lift them and look merry.

Burnt Wienie worthy: An Uncle Gus special

Nominee: Gus Krociel
Nominator: Sandy Kirkwood
Year: 1975

Under a weeping willow tree
the '58 Chevy stood.
The car, as mighty as it was,
had Joe's recharged battery under the hood
and for the past several years
was parked at Kirkwoods' on blocks of wood.

The owner came one balmy Sunday afternoon
to take it to St. Paul.
He chained it on behind a van
and prepared it for the haul,
being fearful that without being towed,
there was danger of a stall.

Merrily it proceeded down the road,
its master at the wheel,
who was smiling at all they met,
hardly able to control his zeal
at having his treasure home at last.
His happiness was real.

Suddenly sirens could be heard
from somewhere in the rear,
and in a few seconds,
a patrol car did appear.
"I don't know what's happening!" Gus exclaimed,
"but I sure could use a beer!"

"Whose car is this, that's been weaving
back and forth across the center line?"
Without a moment's hesitation,
Gus replied, "It's mine, it's mine!"
And he promptly was presented
with a $50 fine.

"I'm afraid your little journey
will have to be delayed
until you get some no-fault
and your license fee is paid."
So Gus stopped at Millers'
and the message was relayed.

He asked for a drink of water,
which some of you may doubt,
and as he ran to Kulseths',
Alverna heard him shout,
"I'm sure glad I had in-laws
all along the route!"

I hope this little rhyme
hasn't left you bored.
Please consider our brother-in-law
nominated for the Burnt Wienie Award.
After all is said and done,
just think, he could have had a Ford.

Burnt Wienie worthy: The cold facts about hot peppers

Nominee: Bill Miller
Nominator: "An impartial observer"
Year: 1974

On this early spring day, William Miller, raconteur, in-law, man about Old Frontenac-town and gardener, was inspired to plant among his tomatoes and carrots and cabbages a row of peppers, aiming to outdo another in-law whose talent for gardening excelled in the potato field.

William went to town and bought his Burpee seeds while Alfie stood sentinel over the spot in the garden destined for these championship peppers. They planted the peppers in what they considered a straight row.

Under the Frontenac sun and with Alfie to chase away rabbits and moles and gophers and stray porcupines, the pepper plants flourished until that day in August when William, sighing with satisfaction, thought, "Now I will enjoy the fruits of my labors."

While Alverna was sunbathing, he went into the garden, not to pick a peck of pickling peppers, but to make a lovely bell-pepper sandwich.

At his first bite of pepper on rye, William leaped into the air, saying, "Gott in Himmel! These are hot peppers!"

Thereupon, Alfie morosely scratched up the pepper plants, and if there was collusion, Alfie has remained silent to this day.

A Holocaust survivor speaks in Lake City

Editor's note: This essay is from Uncle Joe's book "Lake Pepin Pot-pour-i." We think it offers a good opportunity to post the old slides we found of Alverna and Marion's 1952 trip to Dachau, still a raw and terrible place.

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

Not everyone watches the History Channel. Not everyone reads nonfiction. Not everyone will travel to see the sites where it occurred. Most of those who survived the event are now deceased. And there will always be those who say, The Holocaust never happened.

On Sept. 13, 1995, an elderly man named Henry Oertelt from St. Paul came to Lake City. He was on the speaking circuit, not for money, but to tell his story to the world, lest we forget. Henry, a survivor of Auschwitz, showed us the numbers tattooed on his arm. This is his story.

He was born in 1921 in Berlin. By 1933, Hitler had risen to power and implemented his plan of activating factories to make weapons of war. A hate campaign was started against Jews. Every two weeks, the newspaper carried stories of crime supposedly committed by Jews. Their rights and property were systematically taken away.

Euthanasia was carried out against the handicapped and mentally ill. The Catholic Church was able to stop it in 1938, but by then, 80 percent of Germany's handicapped and mentally ill people had been killed. Hitler's goal was to produce a "master race" by eliminating them, Jews, Gypsies and Poles.

Hitler's army invaded Poland in 1939. The first concentration camps were built in Poland and Czechoslovakia. By 1943, only 10 percent of the original Jewish population still existed. That May, Henry and his family were taken by the SS to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia [Theresienstadt]. Of the 15,000 children sent to that camp, only 100 survived!

Henry's worst memories were when all children under 13 and anyone who needed medical treatment were trucked to the crematoriums, gassed and burned. Those who remained were tattooed and forced to work. They were not permitted to use their names, only their numbers.

As the Russian army advanced into Poland, concentration camp inmates were loaded into cattle cars with standing room only, and no food or sanitary facilities for two and a half days. One-third of them died en route to Auschwitz.

As the Russian army approached Auschwitz, a forced death march began. Those who stumbled and fell were shot.

Eventually, the survivors met up with the American Army, which gave them boxes of concentrated food. The prisoners couldn't handle concentrated or solid food, and many died after eating it. Henry was put on a menu of broth and remained in bed for a week before he could eat solid food.

Christians who risked death by hiding them saved the lives of some Jews. Denmark shipped 10,000 Jews to Sweden, a neutral country, in fishing boats. Some Jews also survived in France.

Henry's message emphasized that we should all respect each other's religious beliefs. But unfortunately, there are some who still preach hate. It is our responsibility as members of a free society to speak out against those who would abuse the rights of others. If we don't, "ethnic cleansing" will continue throughout the world.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Lean, mean and spleenless

Nominee: David Sprick
Nominator: Elmer (Joe) Sprick
Year: 1974

Resolution

WHEREAS, on the second day of his vacation, David William Sprick did become involved in an altercation involving one bicycle and one large German shepherd-type dog;

AND WHEREAS, the circumstances resulted in his mother's hair turning from gray to white and the medical bills incurred were of such magnitude that they approximated purchase of the sixth floor of St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester, Minn., and new cabin cruisers for three doctors;

AND WHEREAS, David's impoverished father was required to take over menial household duties during the recovery period while affairs of state suffered;

AND WHEREAS, David's gift money in the sum of $30 was squandered on Steely Dan albums, McDonald's hamburgers and generally riotous living while cousin Alfie suffered the humiliation of one week in solitary confinement with bruised ribs;

AND WHEREAS, David's father, the plaintiff, was required to file a claim against kinsfolk who were graciously bedding and boarding said nominee during the time of the altercation;

NOW THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED, that the Waldesruh Corporation, a loosely knit, nonprofit organization, does hereby nominated David William Sprick for the Burnt Wienie Award of 1974.

Burnt Wienie worthy: LeRoy makes a splash

Nominee: LeRoy Sprick (winner!)
Nominator: Unknown
Year: 1974

Professional Pride Downfall of Local Contractor

L.F. Sprick, local builder, narrowly escaped injury today while working on the boat docks at the Lake City municipal harbor.

Sprick, age 39 [we think not], was working alone at the end of one of the docks and had just completed a minor repair job when he stepped back to admire his workmanship. Splash! The heavy green slime on the water's surface kept Sprick afloat until help could be summoned.

At an interview at the Sprick home following the incident, Mrs. Sprick noted that if her husband made a practice of this sort of thing, something would have to be done to rectify the harbor pollution problem, as her laundry facilities had been contaminated by the mess.

Burnt Wienie worthy: A berry big jam

Nominee: Ed Sprick (winner!)
Nominator: Anna Sprick Smith
Year: 1975

Berry Pickin' Bachelor Brother Bombs Birdland

What caused a mild-mannered fish-pickling expert, walleye fisherman extraordinaire and sometime bird-watcher to suddenly this summer turn against those featherly flying creatures he so recently had watched and mimicked?

It all started with a poor strawberry season. Then the Millers went East on vacation and the mischief began. Edward began picking their raspberries. Other family members intercepted his activities and tried to distract him with bass fishing -- to no avail.

He soon was spied carrying gallons of buckets of black raspberries to those who would reach out in weakness.

Then he recruited co-conspirators Alverna, Anna and Joe Kirkwood, who did not realize to what extent the passion had progressed. Together at Waldesruh they picked buckets of blueberries for the home freezers.

In mid-August, when the jars and freezers and Sure-Jell and patience and time and desire were all used up, this gentle soul turned tyrant began to disappear into the deep woods near the nursery. Grinning, he would emerge with gallons of blackberries, black caps, huckleberries -- whatever. He would descend on weary sisters, lady friends and his aged mother in hopes that they would prepare the stolen fruit.

Yes, stolen! For our feathered friends preparing themselves for that autumn trek to warmer lands found no berries. They flew from patch to patch. No berries! Occasionally a starving bird would fly too low over a supermarket and with dazed eyes note a "No lids" sign and know the frustration of housewives that summer.

Mother Sprick, attempting to humor the bird-bombing, berry-picking bachelor, turned out pies and passed them on in brown paper bags to less talented members of the family.

Sister Anna realized the seriousness of the berry virus when she overheard Edward, who had just picked 5 gallons of the (whatever) berry, asking, "Tuck, what'll it take to get you to help me pick tomorrow at 7 a.m.?" Innocent Tuck, whose bank account had been depleted by a trip to Washington, D.C., and the Gould strike in Lake City, agreed to this dastardly rendezvous in the berry patch by declaring that he could be bought for 50 cents.

Meanwhile, back in the hot kitchens, recipients of the berries ran from door to door. "What are they?" "What do you do with them?" "Uncle Henry says they are blackberries." "Al says they are boysenberries." "How much sugar do you use?" "Can I borrow a few jars?" "No! They're full of pickled fish." "Sorry, I can't eat anything seedy." "Gosh, Grandma's pie is good!"

Where will it end? said the birds. Enough, already! We are starving! We've been forced to eat the Culex tarsalia mosquito, and we'll surely fall asleep on our journey southward!

Will the birds ever return to Waldesruh, Frontenac and Lake City? Will the family eat anything this winter but berries? Will Edward ever say, "Ich habe mein Nase voll"? Will ulcers be aggravated and will more ulcers develop?

Surely this travesty on nature is worthy of the Burnt Wienie Award. I speak for the birds when I state that all who vote accordingly will be given a sample jar of special blackberry or you-name-it jam.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Psycho in the shower??

Nominee: Chris Miller
Nominator: Elmer (Joe) Sprick
Year: Unknown

While visiting the Wisconsin Spricks in July, Chris was required by house rules to take a daily shower. While showering was not necessarily a new experience for Chris, he failed to recognize the merits of putting the shower curtain inside the tub. The high-velocity shower head quickly flooded the small bathroom before it was noticed by the pride of the Lincoln High School cagers.

When the flood became apparently, Chris made an attempt to soak it up with the bath mat and return it to the tub.

But in the meantime, considerable quantities of water had seeped through the floor, through the basement ceiling and through the second fake ceiling in David's room, which tends to be a bit on the swampy side anyway.

Fortunately, a dehumidifier corrected the problem, but not before Chris' boo-boo had been discovered and made a part of the special records of the seventh annual Stump-in.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Diaper caper

The scrapblog editor found an alarming number of Burnt Wienie Award nominations related to diapers. This one is almost tasteful by family standards.

Nominee: Annette Sprick Kulseth
Nominator: Alverna Sprick Miller
Year: Unknown

All of us know that Annette is very gracious, hospitable and generous. She has given away a small fortune in antiques to family and friends, for instance.

But did you know about her frugal, conservative streak? How conservative? Let me give one example!!

When she first baby-sat with our little grandson, Noah Joseph Miller-Johnson, she washed out a disposable diaper -- for reuse!!

Now, that's conservative!!

Burnt Wienie worthy: Blade blunder

Nominee: Dan Broberg
Nominator: Marion Sprick Broberg
Year: 1981

Listen, my friends, and you shall hear
the tale of a young, budding mechanical engineer.

One May Saturday morning, sometime after dawn,
father Wally went out to look at the lawn.

"Sam, the grass needs mowing," he said, looking dapper.
"Dan, would you service the old Red Snapper?"

So Dan, with a moan and a grunt and a snarl,
took the mower and set out to work a while.

He scrubbed it and cleaned it and changed the oil.
He sharpened the blade -- oh, what toil!

Sam, the mower, looked on in pain --
so happy was he when it started to rain!

It rained for three days. Oh, there were pools,
while Dan sat in classes, now back at school.

The grass grew long. Sam hoped for the sun.
He knew the mowing job would not be fun.

He started the mower -- off with a snort.
Soon something was wrong, he had to report.

With the help of mom Marion, he checked it over,
but could not diagnose it, out there in the clover.

Father Wally came home and surveyed the scene.
He pulled the rip cord -- it started real keen.

Mowing the grass (looking more like hay),
he noticed it was coming out the wrong way.

How he exclaimed with chuckles and frowns,
"Dan put the dang blade on upside down!"

Burnt Wienie worthy: Where the heck is Dumfries?

Nominee: Elmer (Joe) Sprick
Nominator: Alverna Sprick Miller
Year: Unknown

It is a long way to Tipperary, but even a longer way to Dumfries, Minn., if one goes by Joe Sprick's directions.

On a recent night out, the clan was in Millers' van, headed out to dinner. All agreed on only one thing -- that the restaurant in Dumfries would be a good place to go.

But there seemed to be no agreement on how to get there. Several van passengers offered to map the route. The variety of ways to get there proved interesting, and offered much subject for debate.

Bill wanted to go through Zumbro Falls, as he knew that route and only that route. Most of us thought that was the long way around. Alverna wanted to go out the Thielman road and pick up Hwy. 60 at Scotoch Settlement (you are old if you know where that is!) for nostalgic reasons. Kate wanted to take us past the route where John Kirkwood lived as a child -- if she could find the right cutoff road. Joe wanted to go that way also, as it would take us past the farm where Stegemeyers used to lived. Bless their hearts, Mavis and Anna were content to let others make the big decisions.

After considerable chatter, it was decided that Joe could direct the driver, as he seemed quite confident of his skills along those lines. So we headed down Hwy. 61, then out on Wabasha County Rd. 4, past Hagedorn's Salvage, up Campground Hill, and turned left at O'Brien's Corner. All was going well. Alverna directed everyone's attention to the left for a spectacular view of Lake Pepin down Reilly's Coulee. (Later on, this evidence was introduced to try to pin the blame on Alverna for our late arrival in Dumfries, but there were no buyers.)

At any rate, all passengers, including Joe, the tour guide, missed gravel road 32 off to the right, which would have accomplished all three missions of the journey: A) it was the shortest road to Dumfries, B) it went past the farm where John Kirkwood lived as a child, and C) it went past the farm where Stegemeyers used to live, although the farm buildings are long gone now.

So, would you believe that we were entering the city of Wabasha, or at least the suburbs, when tour guide Joe realized that we were back on Hwy. 61, bound for Chicago? Not too much was said as we unanimously agreed to turn west on Hwy. 60 to get to Dumfries. (For the uninitiated, Dumfries is definitely southeast of our starting point.)

So, for making it a long way to Dumfries, I nominate Joe Sprick [pictured above during a walk on Lake Pepin, where it was easier to tell east from west] for the Burnt Wienie Award, for even though he has traveled the world, he had a hard time finding Dumfries the short way!

"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.