42 Maple Street

Before Grandma K moved into her cozy apartment, she lived in this big blue house on Maple Street. It looked so welcoming with its wrap-around porch. When we’d visit, we would have to squeeze between the piles of magazines and old memorabilia to sit on her comfy chairs. She was a bit of a pack rat, but in a cool way that always meant you’d see something interesting, like a pair of wooden Dutch shoes that happened to be sitting in the doorway of the bedroom upstairs. The guys on American Pickers would have loved the sentimental hodgepodge and Grandma K, for she was one special lady with a lot of moxie.

You always knew Great-Grandma K had just arrived because you could hear the adults talking that she hadn’t called before heading over. “She shouldn’t be driving anymore, especially in the rain.” But there Grandma K would be in the driveway; stepping out of her teal sedan with a plastic kerchief tied around her head to protect her freshly colored white-blonde curls from the weather. As soon as the adults finished fretting and scolding, she would usually turn to the nearest great-grandchild and confide “what a bunch of turds” with a laugh.

After she passed away, my Aunt Kristi sent a box of things Grandma K had left for my mom. But there were other interesting trinkets in the box representative of Grandma K that my aunt had chosen as remembrances. For instance, she sent my brother a small porcelain cat the size of a silver dollar. Its belly was flat and had “Gum Parker” painted on it, just in case he ever needed a temporary place for his chewing gum.

But the items within the blue house weren’t its only attractive quirks. Right off the kitchen was a door that led down to the cellar. One of my older cousins, Breanna, used to scare her sister and I with descriptions of what it looked like down there. She made it out as the creepiest place in town. According to her, the cellar had walls and shelves carved right into the dirt beneath the house. The shelves were also covered in cobwebs and you had to watch out for spiders since it was so dark down there. It doesn’t sound as scary any more, perhaps she was telling the truth. There was something oddly exciting about having that spooky door always waiting for us to open it and peer into the darkness. Either way, the descriptions scared Mackenzie and I so much so that we didn’t dare go down into the cellar that summer. 

Grandma Joyce labeled this with:
 "Karina, the barmaid at Grandma K's, 2000"

Then there was the outhouse in the backyard. It was unused, of course, and had been for quite some time. The outhouse was a funny relic of the past, which for some reason was curiously alluring to all of us great-grandchildren. When we’d all open the wooden door and look in, we’d see the small bench with the boarded up hole. Grandma K had still kept a stack of outdated magazines inside of it as a joke; one day someone might need reading material when they are out there.

This was the lady who let my Mom and Aunt Kristi run unaccompanied at a very young age down the alley behind her house to Schubert’s, the local grocery store. After slipping them some extra coins from her top drawer for more sweets, Grandma K would hop on the party line to let her sister Edna Schubert know the little girls were on their way. Edna indulged them like her sister did; she would greet my Mom and aunt, allow them to fill up a paper bag with candy and would then slip the girls more than they had coins for. After sending them back down the alley, Edna would let Grandma K know they were back on their way via the same party line.

Though Schubert’s was no longer around when my siblings, cousins, and I were little, Grandma K always had snacks around for us. I always remember small bowls of nuts and candy she would leave out while we were playing games with her. In between turns of Old Maid, you could find a treat at arm’s length in a leaf-patterned crystal dish without even looking. You always wanted to be watching your game too, because though Grandma K loved to play, she was always too excited to maintain a poker face. As soon as she found the Old Maid card in her hand, she’d let out a little groan. When you were picking from her hand, the smile on her face desiring you to take it off of her would signal which card was actually safe to take.

Grandma K and Mom playing Old Maid.
Grandma K's new apartment.

Playing cards on another visit in the summer.
Note the shared moment between Grandma K & Maren,
 who both know Grandma K has the Old Maid card.

Other games were easier for Grandma K to win because her enthusiasm wouldn’t risk her success. One winter, she taught my sister and I to play dice. You should have seen her excitement when my Grandpa Larry suggested we raise the stakes and gamble for candy. Each time the dice spilled from the cup, Grandma K would react appropriately with a disappointed “oh no!” or a celebratory hoot. Games always turned into a vocal affair when she, Grandpa Larry, and Maren were all playing. They were so invested in the play that the entire suspense of the game seemed to come from their own enthusiasm.

Learning dice at the blue house.

Behind its lace curtains, 42 Maple Street had an air of magic and mystery. Chewing on the chocolate cigars Grandma K kept around for all her great-grandchildren, I would sit staring and wondering at everything within the house. Why were these little stuffed animals or those wooden shoes here? How did they get there? Was there more past that spooky cellar door?  And why did this old house always feel so full? Sitting and wondering more than 10 years later, I realize that in the center of it all, between all of the visiting family and nostalgic belongings, was Grandma K radiating her spunky joyful spirit that filled any empty place in her home.

Gone Fishing

There is something so satisfying in the smell of fish sizzling on the griddle. It always meant a delicious home cooked meal from someone’s catch that day was about to be served. Once the fresh fish had been cleaned and cut, it was then dredged in the flour mixture. As soon as it was placed on the hot griddle, the fish would set off a loud hiss. That sound would always bring everyone closer to the kitchen from where the mouthwatering smell wafted.

Grandma Joyce frying the day's catch.

Growing up, fishing had been the boys’ thing. My two cousins, Adam and Jacob, Uncle Bruce, and Grandpa Larry would all head out in the morning in the truck towing the fishing boat behind them. In the afternoon, they would return from a day out on the lake with a cooler full of fish. Part of me always wanted to tag along, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at fishing. Even at that age, I knew that feeding your pioneer family in the Oregon Trail computer game was completely different from the real thing.

One day, my curiosity urged me to follow my uncle and the big cooler of fish around to the back of my grandparents’ house. My cousin, Mackenzie, and I watched as he cleaned and cut up each of the fish they had caught. I had come too close, though, and blood spurted down the front of my clothing; my new white shirt with Esmeralda on it from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame was eventually ruined as the blood and fish oil stained it. I was really bummed but had at least been able to satisfy my curiosity.

Years later, I finally learned how to fish and experienced the fulfillment of a meal produced from what I had caught.

It was a warm breezy morning the day we headed out to the lake for a simple fishing lesson. I helped hitch up the boat and drove in the truck with my Grandpa as my Grandma, Mom, and little brother, William, followed behind in their van. I remember that drive as one of the most picturesque drives I had ever been on in Minnesota. It sounds so cliché, but the sun was truly shining in the clear, light blue sky, illuminating the green fields and woods. I experimented with my first digital camera that I had received for Christmas, desperately trying to capture the perfect moments we passed on the country roads. Subtly rolling hills of green crops. The sun glinting off the tall, vibrant stalks. Dust swirling in the middle of the dirt road from the previous truck. Barns in all shades of well-worn red.

Grandpa Larry and I backed the boat into the water from the boat landing dock and met the others around the other side of the lake. We picked them up and sped off to a quiet spot where we might fish undisturbed.

Caught in the stinging mist from speeding across the water.

I had never seen fishing poles so short until my Grandpa pulled out several from the boat’s storage. But they got the job done. We used mealworms to bait the small sunfish and then waited for them to bite. I want to say we were really good, but I think the sunfish were just plentiful that day.

William and Grandma Joyce with their flopping catch.

My Grandpa Larry and I very excited over my first catch.

We headed home in the late afternoon with our bountiful catch back down the scenic country roads. Each of us took turns cleaning up from the day spent on the lake. By the time we were all done, my grandparents had the sunfish cleaned and cut, ready to be cooked. William, ever the eager assistant in the kitchen, helped Grandma Joyce dip the cuts into the egg mixture then dredge them in the flour.

My dad, Bruce, watching William prepare the fish.

Soon, the griddle was sizzling with the breaded fish and that wonderful smell wafted back through the screen door into the townhouse. Even those of us who weren’t cooking had gathered in the kitchen, our mouths watering, awaiting the delicious meal and recounts of the day we were about to share. 

The Sleepover

“Button, button, who’s got the button?”

My Great-Grandma Deloris Karels repeated this simple phrase as my cousin, sister, and I slowly walked her living room searching for that button. All she did was hide one somewhere and yet, we were so excited to find it.

“Maren is getting colder. Oh, Mackenzie is getting very hot!”

There was no special prize for finding the button and as it was only the four of us in Grandma K’s apartment, there was no audience to applaud our triumphs. Sometimes the winner was allowed to hide the button next, but the three of us usually let Grandma K hide it again. While she did, we would wait in her powdery perfumed bedroom. My sister couldn’t contain her excitement from the suspense and would bury her face in the bed. My cousin and I liked to look at all the old pictures that were stuck in the vanity mirror above Grandma’s silver backed hairbrush, comb, and mirror set.

When Button, Button finally lost its charm, Grandma K had many more old-fashioned games to entice us. She was always fond of games. Three other elderly ladies lived in the building and they all often met Grandma K for a game of cards. Naturally, we had already played a few games of Go Fish and Old Maid. Caffeine from the coffee Grandma K had let us have—or should I say creamer and sugar with a splash of coffee—pulsed through us late into the night. My cousin, sister, and I were meant to be having a special sleepover at Grandma K’s apartment, but it seemed more like we were being encouraged to test our limits without the supervision of our parents.

The caffeine made us all the more eager to try more of Grandma K’s games. We moved on to Clothespin Drop, which is exactly like what it sounds. Each of us took a turn during a round in which we tried to drop old clothespins into a large mason jar from varying heights. First we knelt on a chair and then later we stood on it to make aiming more difficult. I don’t remember who was better that night, but I do remember how much fun the games were.

Once we finally started to tucker out, Grandma K played on her air organ—or did she play some harmonica? She was very musically talented and could play equally well on both instruments. We didn’t want the night to end, but it had to. The three of us squeezed into the big bed in Grandma K’s spare room and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of our somewhat rebellious night, one of the best sleepovers we had all had.

At Grandma K's apartment, 2001.
Me, Grandma K, William, Mom, Maren

Family Recipe: Green Wreaths

Celebrating a real Midwestern Christmas means an abundance of assorted baked goods, bars and other lovingly prepared holiday treats. After the meal, whether lunch or dinner, emptied casserole dishes and salads are quickly cleared away to make room on the counters. Overflowing trays and vintage tins filled with layers of cookies between wax paper are brought in from the garage where they have been kept from melting by the winter chill. There are, of course, staples that annually return; several of them being Spritz cookies, melted hugs over pretzels, fudge, Oreo balls, and the very festive Wreaths.

Similar to a Rice Krispie Treat, Wreaths are a simple mixture of marshmallows and cereal formed into small wreath shapes in honor of the holiday décor. But there is nothing simple about the feelings the green circles bring. Wreaths are one of those things for me that instantly make me feel a strong sense of nostalgia, of all the Christmases spent eating these between the meals, church service, and opening of gifts. Practically none of the desserts on the aforementioned trays and tins require a fork or plate. So you will always see someone walking around the house with one or two of the treats in their hands, though they have been told many times to grab a small plate to prevent crumbs. Everyone always ends up with sticky fingers and wreaths are no exception to these instances.

I honestly cannot remember a Christmas without them. Even when my immediate family couldn’t make it out to Minnesota for the winter the one or two times, we still gathered in the kitchen to whip up a batch. Usually several batches of wreaths are made for us in advance since my family gobbles them up on visits without even trying to keep count of how many we have eaten. I think my Dad would agree he is the worst. Except for the intricately shaped Rosettes, my Dad’s favorite Christmas dessert is a green wreath, sometimes two sandwiched together so that they only look like one. My Mom always seems to be asking him how many he’s had once the desserts have been out for a while.

Maren, Grandma Joyce & Grandpa Larry making wreaths circa 1997.

My sister, Maren, is always right behind my Dad in Wreath consumption. Though she also has always loved to participate in the dessert’s preparation. This past Christmas when she and her boyfriend, Alec, were visiting home from Santa Barbara, they whipped up a batch of Wreaths. I arrived home a day or two afterwards once my finals had finished. I was so excited to see the cookie jar full of Wreaths. I had one my first night back, but when I went to grab another the next day, they were already gone. All of them. Alec had been allowed to bring a Wreath back for each of his family members to try but still, there should have been plenty left for me to have another. When the matter came up at dinner that night and everyone shared the number of wreaths they had consumed, the case was closed. I hadn’t stood a chance coming back so late in the game. It just goes to show how irresistible Wreaths are.

To make your own batch of delectable Christmas Wreaths, I have included my Grandparents’ recipe:

What You Will Need:

30 Marshmallows

½ Cup Butter

¼ Tsp Green food coloring

½ Tsp Vanilla Extract

3 ½ Cups Cornflakes Cereal

Directions:

First, melt the butter. Then add all of the marshmallows and stir until they are melted. Next, add the vanilla and food coloring followed by the cornflakes. Stir until the cornflakes are evenly coated in the green mixture.

Grandpa Larry, me, Grandma Joyce, Maren & my brother, William, making wreaths circa 2005.

Be sure to form your wreaths on greased wax paper or foil or you will be left carefully picking off the liners from your Wreaths when you go to eat them. Decorate your Wreaths with red cinnamon candies (or whatever) for a real festive touch. And don’t forget to lick the spoon!

Enjoying the sticky leftovers from the pot.