Anny Ahlbom—she taught us how to live, how to die ~ June 20, 1985

David Heiller

I didn’t have the good fortune of knowing Anny Ahlbom very well. I met her one early spring afternoon in 1982, while working as a magazine and insurance salesman. She asked me right into her home six miles west of Rutledge. We drank coffee and ate apple cake. The 90-year-old lady led me through the house, showing off the paintings and carvings done by her late husband, John. She played the piano and sang and danced with me, a total stranger. She gave me a pair of mittens which she had knit, and a set of woolen wrist bands, then took my mittens with a promise to knit the hole in one of the thumbs.

I didn’t have a chance to sell her anything, and by the time I left two hours later, I didn’t want to.

When you enter Anny’s old house, the work of John Ahlbom overpowers you. Practically everything is hand done, starting with the rock exterior walls. Walls inside are painted floor to ceiling with murals of forests, horses, lakes. Figurines of men and animals, carved out of wood, stand in every corner. The stone fireplace, the 10-foot plastered archway that looks like marble with its colored mortar, the curved, wooden cupboards on the corner, are all the work of an artist, John Ahlbom.

Indeed, John deserves a story in himself. His works are scattered everywhere in Pine County. From the painting of Dr. William Ehmke at the Willow River High School library, to the life-size painting of Jesus Christ at United Methodist Church in Finlayson, from the brick fireplace at the American Legion Hall in Askov to the fireplace at Cassidy’s Restaurant in Hinckley.

But while John left physical tributes to behold, Anny left something equally valuable—a special personality that was partly from the Old Country and mostly from Anny herself.

She and John came from Sweden in 1914, and were married in Pine City that year. “I didn’t understand a thing the justice of the peace was saying,” Anny had said about the ceremony. In fact, the story has it that John coached Anny on the words “I do” over and over. When the time finally came, he told her, “Say yah, say yah!” They had to borrow $2.50 for the license. For their honeymoon, they took a rowboat trip on the Snake River in Pine City.

They moved around for several years, living for a time at the corner where Dwight Dietz now lives. At first, they stayed in a tent insulated with hay. John and Anny would take the bowl of bread dough to bed with them, so that it would rise during the night for the next day’s food. It was at that site about 1916 that the baby twins of John’s brother died. They are buried on the birch knoll to the east of the Dietz farm.

After several moves, John and Anny settled to stay six miles west of Rutledge. There, John built his “Kingdom of the Woods,” as some people called it. They raised five children: Claude, Roy, Alice, Astrid, and Johnny. Claude died when he was 17, in 1933. A frozen pile of sawdust that he was tunneling into collapsed. John, coming home from work, discovered his dead son when he saw the feet sticking out of the pile. Alice died in 1960.

Anny was a vital part of life in the area. She gave birth to all her children at home except the youngest, Johnny, in 1933. He was a breech baby, so they called for Dr. Ehmke and met him in a November blizzard in Rutledge. Anny brought many other children into the world too. She served as midwife for the Romanowski family next door, helping with the births of Agnes, Paul, Bernice, Mary, Marsella, Edwin, and John. Ed now farms that place, and his two sons, Randy and Ronnie, called Anny “Grandma.” She called them her grandsons.

Army’s kindness extended to others. She would make soup during the depression and take it across the road at noon time to the country school, Rhine Lake District 51. She and John also boarded teachers for the school for more than 20 years.

Anny and John also danced well. They won numerous mazurka and waltz contests in the area. Anny told me once, “Men used to whisper in my ear, ‘I love to dance with you.’” I could imagine it.

They loved each other, and weren’t afraid to tell others. John used to talk of the time Anny wanted to go to an auction sale, yet wanted a big supper that evening. So she fixed a chicken and put it in the oven. She carried a bowl of bread dough with her to the auction, and held it in her arms to rise while she watched the sale. When she returned home, the chicken was done, and the bread was ready for the oven.

“You can appreciate a woman like that,” John had said of Anny.

Anny and John also played jokes on one another. One time, Anny told John that the Romanowskis needed help moving a big bed. John went over, and they didn’t know what he was talking about. He came back, and called out “Anny” in such a voice that made Anny smile and hide. She was in a bedroom, scrubbing the floor, so crawled under the bed. John spied her feet protruding, dragged her out, then dunked her head in the bucket of scrub water.

Anny’s greatest loves were gardens and flowers. She would never throw a flower bulb away. In the winter, 200 plants would sit in the house. Son-in-law Basil Serfin remembers the time the flowers needed watering, and Anny ordered him out with the sprinkling can, even though it was raining. She raised gardens big enough for 12 people.

She also worked with her hands. Rug making was her specialty. Her rug loom is now on display at the Pine County Historical Museum in Askov. She would also demonstrate weaving on another loom at the museum.

There’s much more one could say about “Anny-in-the-woods,” as she signed her letters. I think her health was the most remarkable, and a reflection of the wholesome life she led. Anny didn’t even have a doctor. She’d had surgery in 1966, then saw a doctor for a yearly checkup after that. Finally she quit even those once-a-year visits.

Anny’s daughter, Astrid, and her husband, Basil, moved in with Anny two years ago. Astrid took over the cooking, and Anny began spending more time in the lawn chair than in the garden. She became weaker and weaker over the past six months, and began losing weight.

Astrid and Basil took Anny to Mercy Hospital on Thursday, June 6. Anny didn’t want any drugs, or intravenous feeding. No intervention.

“They said ‘It looks like she wants to go, and let’s not hinder it.’ A wonderful way to go,” Basil said. “The body just quit,” her son Roy said.

At 8:30 Monday morning, June 10, Astrid and Basil watched Anny die.

“She just went to sleep. Very painless,” Basil said. “She accepted everybody as they were, strangers and friends alike,” Astrid said.

“And in the end, showed us how to die,” Basil added.

Even in death, the joy of Anny’s life came forth. Anny used to tease that if she raised one finger while she lay in the coffin, that meant she wanted a peanut butter sandwich.

“And we had peanut butter and bread ready,” Basil joked.

She also asked Myrtle Romanowski to place a rose in her hands, to cover up the gnarls of 93 years of life. That wish was granted—Mrs. Romanowski placed the flower there.

I have a feeling that rose is still growing and alive, and that Anny is, too.

Taking her out to the ball game ~ June 4, 1992

David Heiller

How do you define baseball? If you are a six-year-old girl, it’s by the length of the licorice, and the taste of the pop, and Kirby Puckett’s first grand slam.

I took Malika to her first game last Friday. Before the game, I tried to engage her in Baseball Talk (BT). This is the second most boring language in the world (behind the mating noise of a three-toed ground sloth). You say things like, “Wow, Puckett has seven hits in his last 12 at bats.” And your friend answers, “But Lieus can’t hit worth beans with men in scoring position.” Boring.

Fortunately Baseball Talk on Friday was tempered by Kid Talk (KT), which has all the logic of a computer that just fell off a desk. It almost makes sense. Here are some samples of our dialogue, which I jotted down on the back of my scorecard.

Daddy~Daughter Dynamic Duo

BT: Larkin is playing right field.

KT: Who’s Larkin?

BT: You know, Gene Larkin.

KT: Who’s Larkin? What’s a Larkin, Dad?

KT: I see Kirby—the guy cleaning the area out there (around the pitcher’s mound).

BT: No, that’s the groundskeeper.

KT: How many more minutes (till the game starts)?

BT: Twenty

KT: You already said 20.

BT: No, I said 30.

KT: Oh.

KT: I want pudding.

BT: Where’s pudding?

KT: That guy’s holding it.

BT: That’s not pudding. That’s beer.

KT: Oh.

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’M HUNGRY.

She talked about a zillion other things too. She admired in a loud voice a woman’s earrings, which were shaped like little baseballs. (Now THERE’S a good birthday present for Cindy.) She checked out ladies’ purses, and told me (in a loud voice) every time she saw one she liked, or one that resembled her own 47 purses.

Noah and Malika working
 on their Twins imitations

She ogled a baby across the aisle, a kid all of one month old, who was passed between Mom and Dad while they ate pretzels and drank beer.

In between talking, Malika ate. It was a miracle. Her stomach normally holds half a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, max. But at the game, where food prices are inflated as much as the stadium, she consumed a can of orange soda, three strips of button candy on paper, 67 peanuts, and a licorice rope two feet long.

She finished it all by the fifth inning. “I want a hot dog,” she said. Sure, for another $3, I thought. I put my foot down (on a carpet of peanut shells) and said no. But not until I’d bought myself a glass of “pudding” for $3.25.

We did manage to talk a little baseball, thanks to the idol of every kid who plays catch in Minnesota, Kirby Puckett. Kirby came through. He moved from groundskeeper to hero when he came up with the bases loaded in the fourth inning, and lined a homerun over the right-centerfield fence. We stood and roared with 26,000 other fans. Malika gave me a high-five and hollered, “A grand slam!” I didn’t even know she knew what a grand slam was, but she yelled it. I heard her. There’s hope for her yet.

We didn’t quit clapping until Kirby stepped out of the third base dugout and tipped his cap. A true hero, for the umpeenth time. Then at the top of the fifth, the crowd rose again as Kirby ran out to center field. The scoreboard announced that it was his first grand slam in the majors. It showed a replay, then a close-up of Kirby, who modestly doffed his cap again, and gave it a short swirl to the crowd.

My spine tingled. It was a special moment, one I’ll remember for a long time. Malika won’t. But I’m glad she was there with me to share it.

The Twins ended up winning, 17-5. But they could have LOST 17-5 and Mollie wouldn’t have known the difference. She had her food and her questions and her purses and earrings and her Kirby and her Dad. What more to baseball is there?

When we were leaving, she showed a new dance step to anyone who cared to watch, something between the Radio City Rocketts and some Nazi Storm Troopers. Then she tiptoed down the sidewalk, missing every crack for two blocks in honor of her mother’s back.

In the car, she made the predictable announcement: “I don’t feel so good.” Stomach hurt? “Uh-huh.” But no disasters would end this adventure. The car rolled northward through the night, and the dash light soon wrapped a sleeping girl in its warm, green glow.

The next morning, I asked Mollie what she thought of the game. “I just loved it,” she said dramatically.

“What’d you love about it?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “The Twins won. I want to go to another game next time.” Sounds good to me.

The wonders that spring from the earth ~ June 8, 1995

David Heiller

 We don’t get much traffic on our road. Sometimes only a car or two a day.

Last weekend it was busy though, from people going to Faith Lutheran Cemetery. They drove slowly, taking their time, the way you do on a nice spring day,

At the cemetery they prepared the graves of their loved ones for Memorial Day by planting flowers, or pulling a few stems of grass that the lawnmower missed, the way you brush the hair out of a child’s eyes so he looks good for company.

People at the cemetery wanted their sons and husbands and mothers to look their best on Memorial Day.

I watched the cars from the garden, where I was planting seeds of flowers and vegetables. And I got to thinking.

Life springs from gardens in a way we can measure and enjoy. You work the soil, plant the seeds, and three months later the black soil is transformed into a place of beauty and bounty.

A peaceful spot.

At first I thought a cemetery must be the opposite of a garden, a plot of ground planted with dead people. But really a cemetery is its own kind of garden, a garden of people.

It blooms on Memorial Day. That’s when we’re supposed to recognize soldiers who died defending our country, or who served in the military. We do that in a vague, patriotic way.

But for most people the Memorial Day trip to the cemetery brings thoughts of their own loved ones who are resting beneath their feet.

We may speak a few words about them with friends and family, but mostly we remember them with an inward smile and a silent greeting.

How are you, Lynette? I miss you.

Malika with Grandma Schnick's stone

 

Dad, they’re playing taps for you.

Hi Grandma. See how big the kids are getting? Somehow at the cemetery, you know your sister or father or grandma are listening.

Maybe it’s a husband who died of cancer. Maybe a child who took his own life. Maybe they died peacefully in their old age. Maybe they died tragically and young. They are all remembered on Memorial Day.

And we remember the good things about them. That isn’t hard, because in cemeteries only good things grow. You pull out the bad memories like so many weeds, and their love and kindness and generosity comes out. At least for me.

Planting some young seeds

Several years later, Malika
with her friend, Sarah.

My nine-year-old daughter, Malika, invited a friend, Sarah, over on Saturday. I asked if they would like to have their own garden. They said yes.

I let them have two nice beds. In one they planted flowers: four marigolds and six alyssum sets which Malika had picked out the day before at a greenhouse, and four packets of seeds of alyssum and celosia.

I told them how deep to plant the sets, and how to dig a trench for the seeds. They listened politely, and then did it their own way. That was fine with me. The flowers won’t disappoint them, and I didn’t want to wreck their first garden with a lecture.

“What if weeds come up?” Malika asked.

“We’ll pull them,” Sarah said in a determined voice. I plan to hold them to that promise. (OK, maybe I’ll help a little.)

In the other bed, they planted carrots, squash, cucumbers, lettuce, and sweet corn. I read them the directions on each packet, how far apart to plant the seeds, how far apart to make the rows. They listened this time and did it the right way. I’m a little sterner with vegetables.

I hope their gardens turn out, and I hope the kids turn out too. The two go hand in hand.

Mostly I hope they see at a young age the wonders that spring from the earth.

The clouds had a silver lining ~ May 27, 1999

David Heiller

The blackflies swarmed over us when we stopped for lunch at the portage going into Ima Lake. They were bad on the paths before that, but at Ima they hit like a blizzard of giant gnats. They were so thick we could barely breathe.

We choked down bologna and cheese sandwiches—seasoned with blackflies—and quickly pushed off toward to Thomas Lake.

We had been traveling for five hours, and had four more to go. Dave paddled alone in his 17—foot Grumman, using a double-bladed paddle that he bought for the occasion. Jim and I had Jim’s Old Town Penobscot.

Dave solo, and in the rain.

Dave had quickly figured out the nuances of paddling solo. He looked like he was doing a martial arts exercise with the paddle, moving it fluidly back and forth, back and forth, wax on, wax off, into the water. He skimmed across the water faster than Jim and I could paddle, although Jim and I weren’t paddling very hard, except when we were trying to evade blackflies.

The only drawback for Dave was that his legs and boots got soaked from water dripping off the paddle with every stroke. And every time he hoisted the canoe over his head at a portage, water came dribbling out the back, upsetting the balance on his shoulders and upsetting anyone who might be in the path of his personal waterfall.

We reached a campsite on the east side of Thomas at 6 p.m. We were bushed. Sixteen miles is a heck of a day for us. But it’s amazing how a beautiful campsite in the middle of canoe country can lift your spirits. It’s like the feeling you get when you arrive home after a long trip. You might be dead tired, but when you step out of the car, you feel instantly better. We were home.

We threw out fishing lines and set up Jim’s big tent. Jim and I went looking for firewood in the woods behind camp while Dave got supper ready. About 100 yards in, I heard some heavy, crunching noises. There stood a moose looking at me, no more than 30 yards away.

I called to Jim. He was as dumbstruck as me, that we were so close, and that it didn’t run away. We both watched the moose for about 15 minutes. It seemed less concerned about us than it did about eating its supper of twigs and leaves. It didn’t have a calf, and it wasn’t the biggest moose we’ve seen up north, although its bony head still towered over ours.

Jim and I started walking toward it slowly. We got to within 15 yards before it turned and trotted away in giant strides.

Dave and Jim

“That made the trip worthwhile right there,” Jim said. “I don’t care what else happens.” That summed up my feelings.

As we were getting ready to eat a supper of spaghetti, something took my cisco, and after a 10 minute battle, complete with Jim’s play-by-play of how to keep the rod tip up and don’t give it any slack, I pulled in a 23-inch, four-pound walleye, the biggest one I had ever caught.

It wasn’t hard falling asleep that night, especially after the rain started. A moose, a lunker, and rain on the tent. Heaven. Is there a more blissful sound than rain falling on a tent? And Jim’s tent was waterproof! That isn’t always the case with my tents.

A silver lining: no bugs

The weather turned rainy and windy for most of the next four days. It hurt the fishing a bit, and dampened our urge to go exploring. But the rain clouds turned out to have a silver lining, because blackflies don’t like overcast days, according to Jim, who knows things like that.

Jim and David:
 Hey it's raining, but there are no blackflies!

It seemed to be true, because the only time the blackflies were bad enough to bring out the netting was Friday evening when the sun came out. Jim and I put head nets on then. Dave didn’t have one, so he made supper with his rain jacket on and his hood pulled up around his face like a nun. It was kind of funny, especially since the weather was the nicest we had the entire trip, no wind and the sunlight golden. All you could see was half his face, and he wasn’t smiling. But I didn’t say anything. Critters can go wild when pestered by blackflies.

A fish took my cisco about that time, and after another fight complete with Jim’s unnecessary advice, I hauled in a 32-inch, 10-pound northern pike. We had caught more fish than we could eat by then, so I let him swim away.

The happy campers in the rare sunshine on this trip.

We packed up on Saturday and went half-way out in order to shorten our last day. We camped at a trout lake, which had such clear water and steep terrain that it was like being in the Alps.

Jim sat under a jackpine on Sunday morning watching his bobber in the water. The lake was like glass, dimpled with a light rain. Mist rose off the surface. A loon took off in front of us, churning the lake to froth for about 50 yards before becoming airborne. Jim talked about what a beautiful spot it was, and how much the boundary waters meant to him. I had been thinking the same thing. He always beats me to those sentiments.

As if in thanks, about 10 seconds later Jim’s bobber went down and he pulled in a 16-inch brook trout. We ate it with one that Dave caught for a final, delicious breakfast.

The rain and wind picked up as we headed out, and on Snowbank Lake we were suddenly faced with waves two feet high. They took us by surprise. We had to turn into the wind or risk getting swamped. Jim and I plowed through the whitecaps head on, getting sprayed and working harder than we had all trip.

Dave, alone in his canoe, had the same idea, and he worked even harder. The front end of his canoe was too light. It slapped up and down on the big waves, which seemed to come in twos and threes. He didn’t have anyone up front to dig into the waves. He took in water, which went to the back of the canoe, making matters worse. But he kept going, stroke after stroke, and he reached the lee side of a big island just after we did. He’s the toughest paddler you’ll ever see.

We rested for the first time in half an hour and talked about the rough haul. It was one last test for us, and like the blackflies and the rain, we passed. Then we paddled on, under the protection of the island and mainland for the rest of the way, back to the parking lot and home.