Floors Castle and Crying During Movies: Adventures in Scotland, Part 9

July 20, 2016August 21, 2018 / mariezhuikov / 3 Comments

Floors Castle, Kelso, Scotland

My story about Floors Castle starts, not in Kelso, but a few months ago back on my couch in the U.S. (Yes, I’m doing it again – starting a story about Kelso someplace else.) This was before I knew about the newspaper story detailing my ancestor Isabella’s childhood in the castle and before I was convinced of my family’s ties to the castle.

I knew of rumors of the ties, so I was digging through the castle’s website when I noticed a movie had been filmed at Floors Castle, called “Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes” (1983).

I actually saw this movie when it came out since I am something of a Tarzan fan. (I watched way too many Johnny Weismuller Tarzan shows after school while growing up.) Plus, if you’ve read my novels, you know I have a thing for animal/human communication. But the movie was rather fuzzy in my brain since I saw it so long ago.

I decided to buy the movie for a look at the castle in preparation for my trip. When I eventually watched it (sitting on my couch), I recalled why it got panned orginally. Much of the first part of the movie features Tarzan (Christopher Lambert) grunting at apes. The critics didn’t like the lack of dialog, but hey, what are you going to do? It’s a movie about apes! Nonetheless, the movie did end up receiving three Academy Award nominations. It didn’t win any, though.

The last half of the movie is set in Scotland at Floors. My dear blogging audience, because I have no pride left, I will share my reaction to the movie with you. In short, I bawled like a baby. When the castle first appears in the opening credits and the duke and his doomed son (Tarzan’s father) race toward it on horseback, tears were coursing down my face and I didn’t know why. It’s not usual for me to burst into spontaneous copious tears at movies. I’m more of a leaky-tear-wipe-away person. And the castle scenes weren’t particularly emotional, either.

But once the movie was over, I realized the tears were from an overwhelming feeling that my ancestors loved the place and their time there.

A few months later, I found the newspaper story about how my great-great grandfather worked at the castle for over fifty years, and I decided that maybe I wasn’t so crazy after all. I mean, why would he work somewhere so long if he didn’t at least like the place and the people in it?

The castle gate.

My Bed and Breakfast was close enough that I could walk to Floors Castle. When I reached the gate, I asked the attendant if walkers got a reduced entrance fee, but she wasn’t buying it. 🙂

I meandered up the castle driveway with some trepidation. After all, if a movie could affect me so strongly, I wasn’t sure how I would react to seeing the real thing. This was after a search for my great-great grandfather’s gravestone at the Kelso Abbey that morning, which proved unfruitful. But I was told of another cemetery in town that I hoped to check on my next, and last day in Kelso.

058 The driveway was long and lined with tall trees and rhododendrons. It wound through fields and afforded views of the castle and the River Tweed in the distance. Set on a hill above the river, the castle appears to grow directly out of the lawn. I knew from my research that, in addition to the castle tour, Floors features a gift shop and two cafes (one with an outdoor terrace), plus a walled garden. It was still early in the day and I wasn’t hungry, so I planned to tour the castle first and eat later.

Built in 1721 for the First Duke of Roxburghe, Floors Castle is still home to the Roxburghe family and the Tenth Duke of Roxburghe. It is the largest inhabited castle in Scotland but parts of it are open to the public.

As I approached, I became confused about where to enter for the castle tour. It seemed as if the signs were pointing to the castle’s front door. Surely that couldn’t be right. Tourists entering through the impressive massive intimidatingly wealthy front door? What if I was mistaken and I walked in the front door and everyone turned to look at me in horror?

The front door. Intimidating, much?

I decided it was safer to enter the gift shop around the side of the castle first. I browsed the Floors Castle Christmas ornaments, Floors Castle honey, and Floors Castle dish towels, then asked the clerk where the entrance for the castle tours was. “The front door,” she said.

When I explained I couldn’t believe they’d let tourists in the front door she just laughed and said, “Of course, why not?”

Buoyed by newfound certainty, I walked to the front door. I did not get yelled at as I entered. Instead, the docent gave introductory remarks to the small group of us gathered in the entry, then he set us loose upon the castle. The tour is self-guided, although docents are in some of the rooms to answer questions and to ensure that nobody walks off with a priceless vase.

I wandered amid the tapestries, paintings and porcelain. There was even a room full of stuffed birds. Apparently one or two of the dukes were ornithologically inclined. One of the duchesses collected a few Matisse paintings. When I got to the dining room (which was originally a billiards room) I encountered a particularly friendly and knowledgeable docent named David.

The dining room where David and I talked. Image courtesy of Floors Castle.

I told him about my ancestral connections to the castle, and he was intrigued. He had a list of dates when the various dukes reigned, and we figured out my great-great grandfather must have worked for the sixth and seventh dukes of Roxburghe. David said a lot of building was going on during the reign of the sixth duke and that perhaps my grandfather was instrumental in it. The castle isn’t the only business on the estate, there’s also forests, fields, horses, wind farms and the like. It’s a huge operation.

086 We also got to talking about the Tarzan movie. He told me he was in the movie – he played a cleric. He said the rainy scenes at the castle were shot with the help of the local fire department up on the roof, spraying “rain” with their hoses. He also mentioned that the film directors were sticklers for historical accuracy. All the television antennas on the roof had to be hidden during the day, and were put back out in the evening so the residents could watch TV.

David promised to look into some things for me. I gave him my card. As yet, I haven’t heard anything from him, but who knows? So, although I didn’t get to totally “vindicate” my ancestors’ role with the castle estate office, at least David knows about him, and my family, and all of you!

My bird friend.

By now I was hungry. Thankful that I didn’t burst into tears during my castle tour, I made my way to the terrace café. I sat outside and indulged my sweet tooth in chocolate eclairs and meringues. A friendly (and hungry) bird kept me company – reminiscent of the Kelso Welcome Swan.

Sated and peaceful, I toured the walled gardens. But I must confess the flowers that truly impressed me were rhododendrons growing in the forest on the trail to the gardens (see photo below). After another visit to the gift shop to buy mementos, it was time to go.

069

As I left and walked down the drive, I couldn’t help but stop and turn back to look longingly at the castle several times. It was like the ancestors inside me didn’t want to leave just yet. I indulged them for a while, but then it was time for the next adventure.

Kelso Ancestor Quest: Adventures in Scotland, Part 7

July 14, 2016July 14, 2016 / mariezhuikov / 2 Comments

“Main Street,” Springfield, MN

My trip to Kelso starts, not in Scotland, but in the small southwestern Minnesota town of Springfield. That’s where my mother (from whom I get my Scottish blood) was born, and the museum there is home to a set of family scrapbooks she put together.

A few weeks before my Scottish trip, I visited the Springfield Museum on a quest. You see, one of my ancestors — my great-great grandfather William Dick — was rumored to have worked for Floors Castle in Kelso. He was the lead carpenter (or “joiner”). But when my parents and aunt visited Kelso in the late 1970s, they were told by the castle estate office that they had no record he worked there.

My Scottish great-great grandparents, Susan and William Dick.

As a journalist, I know that could mean a lot of things. It could mean the records were lost. It could mean no records were kept so far back (the mid-1800s) or it could mean nobody looked very hard for the records.

While tooling through the family genealogy book one day (months before my trip), I noticed mention of a newspaper article about William Dick working at the castle. The note said the article was in the family scrapbooks.

The castle, on its website, says it is interested in historical information about the people who worked there, so I thought a visit to the museum was in order to find records to prove that my great-great-grandfather worked there.

I also noticed in the genealogy and census records that at least one of their ten children, Isabella, was born on the castle property in 1842. Why would she be born there if my ancestors had no connections to the castle?

Since it’s a good chunk of a drive from Duluth to Springfield, my oldest son kindly offered to join me in the quest. This was also a good chance for him to learn more about his family history since he had never been to Springfield.

We took off one afternoon with tents in tow — planning to camp in the Springfield City Campground overnight so that we could get to the museum in the morning. The museum wasn’t actually open on the day we planned to visit, but I had made prior arrangements with the museum director to meet us there.

Very helpful Springfield Museum Director Carole Young with some of my family’s scrapbooks.

We met the director, Carole Young, as planned. She had the scrapbooks waiting for us, spread out on a table. It didn’t take us long to find the newspaper article in question since my dear organized mother had indexed the scrapbooks by family name.

There it was, a story from the Spirit Lake Beacon, a newspaper in Iowa. It was dated 1913 and had the title, “Scenes and Reminiscences of a Spirit Lake Lady Reared Among the Royalty of England and Scotland.” It was an interview with Isabella (the one born at the castle) and the story featured her memories of life growing up in a grand house on the castle grounds. Her father was the head state carpenter at the castle, holding the position for “upwards of fifty years” until he retired.

Their house was apparently near a cricket field and castle visitors, such as Queen Victoria and the Prince and Princess of Wales would drive down from the castle to their house to watch the games. The article says “rooms were prepared especially for them” by Isabella’s mother and the children. During these visits, Isabella said, “We children were always on our best behavior and willing to do little things to make it pleasant for the visitors,” who often stayed three or four days at a time. Isabella also met famous composers and pastors. She and her siblings were sometimes called on to “make up the required number” for a cricket game, and Isabella was proud that they could play the game well.

Eventually, Isabella, a widow with children, left the U.K. and came to America to marry a childhood neighbor who lived in Illinois. They later settled in Minnesota and then Iowa. Her brother, Francis, came to America also, settling in Minnesota. He was my great-grandfather.

Viola! Proof that William Dick worked at the castle! Unfortunately, there was no way to photocopy the article from the scrapbook, so my son and I took scans and photos with our cell phones. However, they didn’t turn out so well. Once I returned home, I searched for a digital copy of the story. I couldn’t find it in the Spirit Lake newspaper database, but I was able to find the same story in The Des Moines Register, which had published it a week later. Score!

I sent the story and a photo of William Dick and his wife to the castle. I had also emailed the castle previously, but did not receive a reply to either attempt.

Harrummph. Whatever. It was proof enough for me. And the quest was a good bonding experience for me and my son. I realize there’s almost nothing more boring than reading about someone else’s ancestors, but I hope this story wasn’t too painful.

Next posting: Kelso — for real this time!

Springfield Ancestor Quest 015

My Dad & Barnacle Bill

February 22, 2016February 22, 2016 / mariezhuikov / Leave a comment

My dad repairing a vehicle in our driveway, 1951.

One of my fondest memories of my father — who is ninety-seven and has been having a rough go of it lately — involves the ballad of Barnacle Bill, a song popular in the 1930s.

Picture me as a child of five, knocking on the bathroom door. My father is inside, shaving or whatever. He answers my knock, singing in falsetto:

“Who’s that knocking at my door? Who’s that knocking at my door? Who’s that knocking at my door? (Cried the fair young maiden).”

Of course, I’d tell him it was me and that I had to go to the bathroom . . . BAD. Like all children who would rather play than go pee, I’d leave it until the last moment.

He’d answer by continuing to sing, this time in a gravelly male voice:

“It’s only me from over the sea
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).
I’m all lit up like a Christmas tree
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).
I’ll sail the seas until I croak.
I’ll fight and swear and drink and smoke,
But I can’t swim a bloody stroke
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).”

By this time, I’d plead again for him to let me in, and he’d reply in falsetto:

“I’ll come down and let you in,
I’ll come down and let you in,
I’ll come down and let you in,
(Cried the fair young maiden).”

Sometimes he’d let me in. But if he needed more time to finish, he’d draw out the torture by singing the last verse:

My dad in his knickers (right) with his father outside their home in central Minnesota. I call this photo “fancy pants.” It must have been taken in the 1930s, during the time the Barnacle Bill song was on the radio.

“Well hurry before I bust in the door
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).
I’ll rare and tear and rant and roar
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).
I’ll spin you yarns and tell you lies
I’ll drink your wine and eat your pies
I’ll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes
(Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor).”

Finally, he’d open the door to find me doing the ‘I have to go pee’ dance in the hallway.

Even though this ritual was rather cruel, hearing my father imitate the male and female voices was fascinating. It was sort of scary, too, like there was a stranger (or two) in the bathroom. And some of the words were rather violent. But I was the youngest of four, so no doubt, my father needed some type of delay or coping mechanism for these interruptions from his children.

In looking up the lyrics for this song on the Internet, I learned my father was singing the tame version. His rendition was made popular by Hoagy Carmichael and his orchestra on the radio (including Benny Goodman on clarinet and Tommy Dorsey on trombone). Other adaptations are much “saucier,” and longer.

All I can say is thank goodness my dad sang the short and sweet version to me or there would have been a puddle in the hallway.

Duluth Does the Day of the Dead

November 8, 2015November 8, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 3 Comments

At the risk of having you all think I’m extremely morbid, (since I just wrote about obituaries) I am going to write about All Souls Night in Duluth, also known as the Day of the Dead. It’s a community event that, although somber, is an expression of joy and remembrance for our ancestors.

I’ve wanted to attend All Souls Night for a year or two, but it never worked out until this week. Part of the event is held indoors and part outdoors on a chilly northern November evening. After applying colorful skull makeup at home, my friends and I arrived for the indoors part in time to hear a local singer and choir perform. Then there was a ceremony to honor the dead. Most touching was when audience members called out the names of the departed. Their offerings were recognized with the ring of a bell.

Tribal belly dancers came next, honoring the dead with their sinuous and graceful movements. Then it was time to head outdoors for the Funeral March for Bad Ideas. A jazz brass band led the hundred-plus people around the block along with stilt walkers, and several huge puppets that depicted death and rebirth: fish and moose skeletons combined with a monarch caterpillar and butterfly.

We gathered in a pavilion and held a ceremony to burn pieces of paper upon which the audience had written their bad ideas from the past year. Some were funny (like “Donald Trump”) and others were more personal. My friends and I were getting cold, so we left after the spiral dance, missing the music that continued indoors.

I was impressed by the range of ages of the crowd. There were more children than I was expecting for an event that deals with death. But I suppose it is good to have the next generation learn about honoring ancestors.

I was also surprised to learn this has been going on for eight years here. Candlelight and singing amid the clutter of our lives. . . .

My Obituary

November 1, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 5 Comments

I was digging through an old grocery bag of papers and artwork from my school days when I found a news story that detailed my death. I must have written it for English class. Here it is:

Another schoolwork bag find: my shadow portrait from sixth grade.

Marie, 16, died today after saving five girls from drowning. She was lifeguarding at the YWCA girl’s camp, Camp Wanakiwin. The girls were having trouble swimming to shore from an airplane that crashed in the lake near the camp.

Said one of the rescued girls, “She was going back to the plane to get a sixth girl when the plane blew up.”

Marie had completed her sophomore year at (specific school name deleted to protect the innocent). Her anatomy teacher said that she was witty and smart. “I used to give her a hard time,” he said. “Her presence will be sorely missed in school.”

Marie was one of the top swimmers and cross-country skiers at (school name), holding the city titles for 100-yard breaststroke and girl’s senior high cross-country skiing.

The funeral will be held at First United Methodist Church, 10 a.m., this Wednesday.

I’m sure I wrote the story tongue-in-cheek (delusions of grandeur, much?!), but it gives a glimpse into the things that were important to me at the time: mainly, my lifeguarding class and athletics. My anatomy teacher was my favorite because he was always cracking jokes and made learning fun. And what better way to leave this world than in an effort to help others, combined with a big explosion!

Later, after I became a mother and wrote a relative’s obituary, I wrote a serious obituary about myself. Motherhood and my relative’s death reminded me of my mortality, and the journalist in me wanted to know that the last words written about me would be somewhat accurate. That obituary has been lost to the winds of time, but I recall it focused on my career and role as a mother.

Lately I’ve been considering taking a stab at another one. Not to be morbid, but because I’m not sure that my kids or relatives know enough to do it justice. I mean, think about it. Good obituary writing is an art. And for some people, it’s the only time they’ll ever get in the newspaper other than their birth announcement. I’d really rather have my obituary say more than I liked knitting and was a good speller.

I’ve saved a couple of friends’ obituaries I thought were well written. But I suppose that even after I rewrite mine, I’ll have to update it — sort of like a resume or a will. Things change the longer you live. Accomplishments that were important to you in high school no longer matter as much when you’re in your fifties.

From my past efforts I know that writing your own obituary causes you to take stock of life. It makes you ask: Is what I’m doing really important? (To yourself or to society.) Is this how I want to be remembered? Do I need to change something?

Who will write your obituary after you die? Do you think they’ll get it right? Does it matter or is it all vanity? It’s something to consider.

Afternoon in the Museum – Finger Weaving with Dennis White

August 18, 2015August 18, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 2 Comments

Dennis White demonstrates finger weaving in the La Pointe Museum.

Last weekend I had the chance to revisit Madeline Island in Lake Superior – my latest island love. This time I brought my family along and was able to spend more than an hour on the island – more like five hours – but it still wasn’t enough!

The most noteworthy experience was a visit to the museum in La Pointe, the town on the island. The museum is a compendium of historic and modern buildings. Although the dusty artifacts were interesting, the coolest thing was an actual live human being named Dennis White. He was demonstrating finger weaving, a Native American craft.

Finger weaving is new to me. Dennis explained it’s like weaving without a loom. He described two methods to us, one that uses a single stick as a frame for the weaving and another that uses the doubly complicated equipment of two sticks. For the two-stick method, Dennis had some custom-made wooden frames, but explained that a person could just as easily poke two sticks into the ground for the same effect. I loved that the technique was so primitive and portable.

He weaves sashes for ceremonial purposes, bags, and small pouches that people are now commandeering to carry their cell phones. To allay the boredom that can come from working on a single design, Dennis usually works on multiple weaving projects at a time (eight or more). It takes him about 10 hours to weave a sash. The longest amount of time he spent on a project was 100 hours.

Dennis is an Ojibway from Hayward in northern Wisconsin. He’s so accomplished at his craft that he was invited to do an artist’s residency at the Smithsonian Institute. One of his weavings is featured in the Tweed Museum of Art in Duluth. Dennis also has a master’s degree in mathematics and is a retired math teacher.

We got into a philosophical conversation about the links between math and art, and how people with a talent for one of these things often possess a talent for the other. I wish I could better remember his words. In any event, they were deep and true. Just from our short exchange I could tell he was kind, wise, patient, and proud of his heritage. His sense of humor was delightful, too.

An elementary school art teacher happened to be standing next to me during our conversation and told me she hopes to invite Dennis to her class someday. I get warm fuzzies knowing that this chance encounter could lead to young minds being instructed and inspired in an ancient craft.

For more information about Dennis, read this story from “On Wisconsin” magazine.

The Neanderthal in Me

April 28, 2015November 3, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 5 Comments

Neanderthal image from Wellcome Images, a website operated by Wellcome Trust, a global charitable foundation based in the United Kingdom.

I figure a birthday is a perfect excuse to discover more about myself, so I sent my spit in the mail to 23andMe, a company that tests DNA. Each person’s DNA contains 23 pairs of chromosomes, thus the company’s name. And if you order one DNA test kit, you can get additional kits at a discount, so I requested one for my son, too.

Although several companies provide personal DNA testing, I’ve been watching this company for a while. They first came to my attention when I worked for a major medical center and one of the founders gave a presentation there. Back then, their DNA test cost too much for me: $500. But now the price is only around $100.

The doctors at this major medical center (which shall remain nameless) expressed concern that 23andMe was providing medical genetics results but no genetics counseling. They thought it was irresponsible to give people possibly alarming information without giving them a means to interpret it.

Turns out, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration thought the same thing in 2013, prompting the company to no longer provide medical results. Instead, they have limited their offerings to ancestry DNA and, as an exciting added bonus, you can discover if you have any Neanderthal DNA lurking in your family tree. If you wish to share your information with others who have used the service, there’s also the chance you could find relatives you didn’t know you had. And you can participate in research surveys.

So my son and I sent our saliva samples off. The company said it could take six weeks for results, but we started receiving ours in about two weeks. I’m still waiting for the final round of info, but here’s what I’ve learned so far:

I have more Neanderthal DNA in me than 66% of the population. Most people of European descent have a smidgeon of Neanderthal DNA, a relic of when our ancestors migrated out of Africa and mixed with the Neanderthals living on what eventually became the European Continent. My son has more caveman DNA than 98% of the rest of the population. Hmmm, what does that say about my ex? (Smirk.) And if you’re really enthused about your inner Neanderthal, you can buy a T-shirt on the company’s website proclaiming your Neanderthal DNA percentage.
There were rumors of Native American blood on my mom’s side of the family, and this test confirmed it. There’s not as much Native American DNA in my genes as we thought, but it’s fun to know that its there. There’s even a tinier bit of Middle Eastern DNA in me.
The biggest chunk of my ancestry is from English/Irish/Scottish stock. This must be why I feel I have a Gaelic soul (see previous blog post about this). The next largest chunk is German/French. A tiny bit of Scandinavian rounds it out.
Singer/author Jimmy Buffet (who is Wastin’ Away Again in Margaritaville) is a distant relative on my mom’s side. I hear he has a thing for islands. I am an isle-o-phile, too. Maybe it’s in our genes. (I also like margaritas!)

As I am a bit of a science nerd, this was all very fun to learn. I hope that someday the company will be able to provide medical DNA results again. I gave them permission to store my sample in hopes that they can test it later for this purpose.

Yes, it is rather scary that this company now has genetic information on gobs of people, and although customers can sign off on how much of that info they are willing to share, in the end, the company has it and could do whatever they wanted, I guess. In my case, curiosity won out over paranoia.

Mother’s Day is coming up. Maybe dear old mom would like to embrace her inner Neanderthal?

Yo, Dorcas!

April 5, 2015April 6, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 10 Comments

Some of my female ancestors.

My ancestors had weird names. I was looking through a genealogy book for my mom’s side of the family recently, and came upon gems like “Experience.” Actually, there are several “Experience”s, and they were women who lived in the 1700s. Tell me, how can you make a nickname out of “Experience?” Spiery? Expy? It just doesn’t work. Maybe they didn’t use nicknames in the 1700s.

I know that names of virtuous traits were popular then – such as Prudence, Virtue, Hope, but Experience? Maybe it meant the opposite of Chastity? (Smirk)

Then there was Dorcas. And there are several of those poor women in my tree from the 1600s and 1700s. The name connotes whiffs of Dork and Doofus. I was so curious and disturbed by this name that I had to look up its meaning on several baby name websites.

One said: Dorcas — Derived from the Greek dorkas (gazelle). The name was borne by a Christian woman of Joppa who devoted herself to works of charity. She was raised from the dead by the Apostle Peter and converted many to Christianity.

Another said the name was used in America. The Aramaic version is “Tabitha” and that it means gazelle. In the bible, Dorcas was called Tabitha by the Jews.

Personally, I like Tabitha better, too.

With names like Ephraim, Menzies and Ruben, my male ancestors didn’t fare much better. There’s even an Ebenezer.

I suppose in the far future, should I be so lucky to still have descendants, they can laugh at my name, Marie. The urban dictionary (my favorite dictionary!) says it’s the French version of Mary. It’s a universal middle name. Also that it’s “the name for that irresistibly mysterious girl whom you see around often, yet know nothing about. An outrageously cute spontaneous person. Lovable, extremely intelligent, and slightly eccentric. Often resembling a nymph of sorts. Beautiful and trustworthy.”

Yeah, a nymph. That’s me! Actually, my mother told me I was named after a Catholic nun who took care of her when she was in the hospital having me. Sister Marie later left the order. Maybe because she was such a nymph.

Laskainen – An Enduring Finnish Phenomenon

February 10, 2015February 10, 2015 / mariezhuikov / 2 Comments

Laskiainen Festival wear, in both camo and fluorescent orange. Perfect for deer hunting.

Last weekend I meandered a desolate, snow-blown road about an hour north to attend the cultural phenomenon known as the Laskiainen Sliding Festival in Palo, Minn. It’s the 78th year for this event, which celebrates all things Finnish. I sold my novels at a table. I had such a good time when I was invited to sell books there a few years ago that I went back.

Laskiainen is a bring-your-own-sled experience that is held at a community center on the shores of a lake. It provides the perfect place for thousands of Fins from far and wide to slide down the hill in the back of the center onto the lake ice. The farther one slides, the taller one’s flax will grow next summer, or so the story goes.

No Finnish festival is complete without Art, the accordion guy.

Inside the center are rooms filled with vendors, food providers, and a Finnish museum. I got into the event late, so my table was out in a hallway, but it was great for people watching. Rosy-cheeked cherubic children in snowmobile suits passed by along with a plethora of adults, dressed mainly in camouflage (pink camo for the ladies), plaid, fur hats, fur trooper hats, plaid trooper hats, and Carhartt gear (a brand of heavy cotton work clothes). There were even several plaid snowmobile suits. A few people passed my table wearing North Face jackets, but you just know they were visiting relatives.

My table was next to some folks who sold furniture (rustic benches and tables) made of cedar, ash, and other heavenly smelling wood. I sold a few books and had lots of conversations with people who live in the forest and hadn’t talked to anyone in a week, maybe two. An elderly yet sprightly lady from a Finnish newspaper booth a few tables down spoke Finnish-English to me for about half an hour, and we did our best to communicate — about what, I’m still not entirely sure, but she did seem to like the cover of my “Eye of the Wolf” novel, which sports – you guessed it – an eye of a wolf.

The weavers of the flax.

Talk about Minnesota Nice – it was the type of event where a vendor can leave their table for a potty break and not worry about anyone stealing their wares; an event where the organizers write vendors thank you notes for attending and don’t ask for any payment; where old friends meet and high school classmates reconnect.

The event organizers assure me it is the longest-running Finnish festival in America. May it run (or in this case, slide) for many more. And may their flax grow tall.

The princess of sliding (one of several).

Close Call in a Tunnel – Guest Post

December 5, 2013 / mariezhuikov / 1 Comment

My dad

My arms and hands are so tired from shoveling and snowblowing during our recent three-day snowstorm (love my new snowblower, though!), that I thought I’d take it easy and post a story I typed up for my dad earlier this year. My dad, 95, is a retired electrical engineer (you can tell that from his writing). If he had succumbed to the incident he describes below, myself and about seven other relatives would not have been born.

This is an experience I had in about 1945 when I worked on the Great Northern Pacific Railway. My paycheck came from Great Northern but I also was assigned to work on the SPIS Railway, the Burlington Railroad and Northern Pacific.

For Great Northern, we tested rails from St. Paul to Seattle. My experience occurred while testing rails in the Cascade Tunnel in Washington. The tunnel is about eight miles long. On a clear day, a person can see the length of the tunnel, it is so straight. Our work train consisted of a gas-electric locomotive and a testing car.

Our train had three gasoline engines in service: one for the locomotive, one for the air brakes, and one for turning the 3-volt electric DC generator that was used to magnetize the track. We tested for fissures using a multi-volt meter and measuring the voltage drop along the 39 feet of rail while running 3,000 amperes through each rail.

The tunnel slanted a few degrees up to the west. The day of our test, the wind was blowing from the west, preventing natural ventilation. We were over half-way through it when the engineer let us know he needed help because of carbon monoxide gas poisoning. We had some beds in the car and he lay down in the bed. The other three other operators started passing out, too.

We decided the only choice was to keep going and run out of the tunnel. Only the conductor and I were still on our feet. The conductor didn’t know how to drive the train, so I had the job of running the locomotive to the west end of the tunnel. We made it all right and then continued onto the next town, where we got medical attention.

The doctor gave me some pills for carbon monoxide poisoning. Afterwards, I had the all-time worst headache, but recovered okay. The whole situation would have been serious if I had passed out. The conductor wouldn’t have known how to operate the locomotive, and we could have been stuck in that tunnel and died.

Marie's Meanderings

Internet home for Marie Zhuikov: Blogger, Author, Poet, Photographer

History