Testament

Laine Roberts

July 16, 1975 - September 15, 2013

I never met Laine.  She was a friend of a friend.  I may not have seen the world  in the same light as she did.  I may not have been able to believe as passionately as she did.  But I can truly appreciate her fervor and dedication to her ideals. And I would have liked to have had her as a friend.  I know too many people who are afraid.  Laine was not afraid.  Not till the end.  She wrote her testament as it appears below.  How long before her demise I don’t know. 

 

About Me

 

I BELIEVE  that the most important part of life is

       forgiveness and that if we had that everything

       would simply become alive again.

       I care nothing for material wealth.

I BELIEVE  in complete benevolence.

I BELIEVE  that trust is all that matters.

I BELIEVE  that pride will cripple the entire world.

I BELIEVE  that everything organic is completely and

       totally alive and aware of all existence.

I BELIEVE  that David killed Goliath with one stone.

I BELIEVE  that Jesus Christ was risen from the dead.

I BELIEVE  that I am just as black as I am white.

I BELIEVE  that every single bird of the air deserves as

       much oxygen as I do.

I BELIEVE  in love at first sight.   I BELIEVE in one love.  

I BELIEVE  in a savior.

I BELIEVE  that I would be living on the streets if I did

       not have others to look out for.  The roof over

       my head is for them, not me. I am not alone in

       this world.  I have peace.  I experienced my

       deepest peace the first time I realized

       that I had nothing.

I BELIEVE  I have received the Holy Spirit.

I BELIEVE  that I have become one with God.

I BELIEVE  that I am a sinner and that this world is

       absolutely crushing me because        

       I cannot stand to see it.

I have seen fish made into enough to feed four. 

I have witnessed devils and I have seen angels.

I know that I am human  and that everything that is

       wrong in this world seeks to destroy

       my spirit, soul, and mind.

I BELIEVE  that I am just like you.

I BELIEVE  that I have committed every sin in my heart,

        including murder.

I BELIEVE  that blood was shed for me.

I BELIEVE  that I receive grace that does not belong to me.

I BELIEVE  that everyone should be included and that no

       one is ugly nor stupid or fat.

I BELIEVE  in the truth and I believe that

       everyone should experience it.

For reasons unknown, Laine took her own life 

this past September 15th.

She quieted her body, but not her soul.

 

The Good and the Bad

by June T. Bassemir

 
My daughter came for a visit last week ahead of her Japanese husband’s flight by seven days.  That was good because it gave us a chance to meet and visit with my brother at Jones Beach which is about 60 miles to the West of Jamesport.  Brother Chet lives north of Jones Beach by about 20 miles.  It was our first 2013 warm spring day and we took our lunch.  Jones Beach has only one parking lot open due to extensive destruction from “Sandy” last year.

 With a full tank of gas the Honda was ready to travel on route #27 which is the secondary main road going from West to East ... or East to West.  It was decided to use that rather than the parallel Long Island Expressway, normally referred to as the LIE, “the world’s largest parking lot”.  As it turned out that was also good as exits are far apart.

All went well on Route 27 until we exited before our correct turn.  Instead of going south we were headed north and the map to show us the correct route to take, was out of reach in the back seat compartment.  That was bad but Diane found a good place to pull over and I got out of the passenger side to retrieve it.  A quick look at the car and I noticed the right rear tire was flat.  That was really bad.  Fortunately, a garage selling tires was within a mile and we limped to the place where two men sat waiting for customers.  That was good but their sign said “Used tires...Cash only”.  That was bad because my wallet had only two dollars and my daughter’s wallet was empty.  Searching everywhere for more money, as the man removed the old tire and prepared the newer one, I remembered stuffing some bills into the small compartment near the shift.  That was good because there was a twenty, two fives and a one.  That was bad because the cost of the tire was $35. plus tax but I found loose change to make up the difference in both door handles.  That was good.

We used the cell phone to call Chet to let him know what happened but that was bad because he is hard of hearing and couldn’t hear what I was shouting at the top of my lungs for the whole world to hear.  He blamed the cell phone for breaking up but eventually we were able to get out two words..."flat tire”.

That was good – at least he would know why we were going to be late.

The rest of the day was pleasant and our return trip back home was without incident.  However the very next morning the tire so recently purchased at the seedy garage was as flat as a pancake and you know that was bad!  Two new tires were purchased from an honest tire specialist nearby who suggested I go back and complain but there would be no compensation from the “Cash  only” place and I would be out both the time and gas to get there.  The bad tire waits at the curb for my next garbage collection day and that is good.  It was an expensive trip to Jones Beach on our first warm day - the last of April.

 June Tuthill Bassemir is the widowed mother of four and grandmother of 10.  An artist and writer, she  volunteers as a docent in a 1765 farm house.   June loves old cars and antiques, and has also enjoyed furniture stripping and rug hooking.  "I used to say I was a stripper and hooker.but with so many trips around the sun, no one raises an eyebrow anymore. They only laugh."  June has given up furniture stripping, but is still an avid rug hooker.

The Battle For The Marshall Islands

By Kevin Schmitt

 I thought I’d share with you some of the things my dad told me about his Navy days. It all began in Idaho, believe it or not. That’s where boot camp was, near Lake Coeur D Alene. (That’s about thirty miles east of Spokane Washington, in case you’ve never been there.) For Dad, it was a great experience. The lake is long and narrow, like Loch Ness, and so clean, they even had a rule against pissing in it.

 Dad was seventeen years old and had been brought up with wood chopping and winter outhouses. So the rigors of a Rocky Mountain boot camp didn’t ruffle his feathers one little bit. In fact, there was just one thing that came into his life that was totally new to him, and that was a young man who was half black, and half Cherokee Indian. His name was Jamie Jameson, and he hailed from the state of Georgia.

 I suppose you could say that Jamie was a social trail blazer. In order to gain acceptance, he had to be twice as good as everyone else, but real modest about it. Dad didn’t take to him right off because Jamie could run like the wind, whereas Dad was built for weight lifting. Running is a very important part of boot camp training, so if you’re a bit slow at it, you just might resent those who are not. Maybe Jamie sensed that---maybe not. But one chilly night when Dad was standing guard duty, Jamie showed up with a cup of coffee. Dad didn’t stop being a racially ignorant person that night, but it was a beginning.

 After boot camp, Dad’s platoon got on a train and headed towards the ocean. (Which seemed like a very fitting and proper place for future sailors to be.) Idaho hadn’t taught them a thing about the South Pacific, but what the hell, everything would work out just fine. Palm trees, naked native girls, and a few near sighted Japs they’d have to bump off.

 They could hardly wait.

 They had to change trains in this little mountain town and it was winter so they all headed for the only restaurant to be had. Trouble was, no colored folks were allowed. Well, the kids in that platoon were more redneck than not. But Jamie had won them over at least to a point. Anyway, a platoon is like a gang. You mess with one member, you mess with all. So the platoon formed up in front of that café and no one was allowed in. A deputy sheriff was called in, but that man was no fool. He took one look at all those uniforms and realized that his handcuffs would be staying in their little case.

 In the end, everyone was allowed in, and just to pour salt onto the wound of the proprietor, Jamie was told to take a healthy dump in the bathroom so he wouldn’t need to go on the train.

Continued HERE 

Kevin Schmitt lives in Minnesota and has been a factory worker for thirty-five years. His hobbies are camping, cross country hiking, kayaking, and playing the Boehm type flute (Irish folk music and marches.) When the weather is too God awful for anything else, he writes and practices a bit of Karate kata. He is not a cool person, and he is aging rather quickly.

For The Love of Kathy

by Frank Beresheim

          I went to my bedroom,  sat down in my single bed.  I stared up at the ceiling and nursed the beer I was drinking.  I often thought of Kathy her long red hair, freckles, blue eyes and a smile that could light the sky.  Those were the times of my life, always believed she was the one.  We always had fun together, we liked the same foods, music, she played keyboards and I played guitar, walks through the city, long bike rides.  We had a lot of fun riding around in my old white Cadillac.  She was always happy until my drinking got worse, and she left me, with the saddest face I had ever seen.  I finished my cigarette, put the butt in the can, and got ready for bed.

          I laid down and closed my eyes and I wound up in Crazy Charlie’s Bar and grill.  Charlie’s was one of the most unique bars I had ever had the privilege to drink at.  It had a coffin nailed to the ceiling along with many other things, like a violin, several women’s garters, funky glasses, an old wooden tool box, including hundred of more items.  I looked in the dining room, and saw the tables with the butcher paper across the table, and crayons.  I remember going in there many times with Kathy.  We had fun writing on the paper, drawing pictures, and was reminded that this was where I first told her that I loved her. I wrote I love you in all in red, in a red heart.  When she first saw it, she appeared to be shocked, but did not reciprocate it.  I remember thinking, maybe she doesn’t really like me.  I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I walked by her, she grabbed me by the waist and rose up to greet me with a kiss.  She looked me straight in the eye and said “I love you” right out loud, followed by a big kiss.  I said I would be right back, and headed for the bathroom.  I used the facilities and when I washed my hands I looked up at the mirror and mouthed the words she said "I love you",  I felt like the greatest man in the world, she loves me.  We ate our dinner and went back to her place, spent the night loving each other. 

CLICK HERE to Continue. 

 Frank Beresheim was born in New York City in 1959 and  moved to the Catskill Mountains as a child, returning to Queens at age 16, where he began writing poetry and playing music.  Married in 1988, Frank found his way back to the Catskills and never looked back.  He lives with his wife and two teenaged sons in the friendly community of Saugerties, NY.

On The Trail of Laura Ingalls Wilder

"The Stove," a real luxury item back then.

 

by Delores Miller

When our five children were small, one of the first joint gifts Santa Claus laid under the

Christmas tree was the complete set of Little House On The Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder. All read the books many times, until they became tattered and torn. Now, 35 years later the eleven grandchildren are reading the same books. I read this collection in 1945 when the Wisconsin Library sent boxes of books to our small country school.

Among the titles are Little House in the Big Woods, set in Pepin, Wisconsin where Laura was born in 1867. Little House on the Prairie depicts journeys in a covered wagon,  Farmer Boy, set in New York where Laura's husband Alonzo spent his childhood.  On the Banks of Plum Creek, set in Walnut Grove, Minnesota.  Long Winter was set in DeSmet, South Dakota. Russ read this often, and when we had a blizzard, he wanted to string a rope to the barn like Laura's Father had to do.  By The Shores of Silver Lake, took place a railroad surveyor's shack in DeSmet. Laura married Alonzo in 1885 and The First Four Years recalls when they lived on a tree claim before moving to Mansfield, Missouri

Now that travel is more convenient, we visit the historical sites mentioned in Laura's books: Pepin, Wisconsin; Walnut Grove, Minnesota; Mansfield, Missouri and DeSmet, South Dakota. Historical societies have put on pageants and plays depicting the books.

Laura Ingalls Wilder began writing her books in 1932 when she was 65 years old. Maybe there is hope for Delores to write commercially yet. Laura died in 1957 in Mansfield, Missouri at the age of 90, Alonzo died ten years before. They had one daughter Rose, also a writer, and all are buried in Mansfield. We have visited the cemetery.

We purchased the complete set of Laura's books from Abebooks.com. Used, they were about $50 for the nine books. The grandchildren enjoy them immensely.

If you want to learn about Pioneer life from the eyes of a child, re-read the Little House On The Prairie books. The television show is fake, nothing like what the show presents ever happened in the books.

Life In A Log House

By Delores Miller



When immigrants came to Wisconsin from Germany, one of the first things they had to build, of course, was a house.  This land was covered with virgin timber.  In 1889 Ludwig Knaack, his wife Augusta (nee Hauschultz), and two sons, Charles and William came to Wisconsin, purchased 80 acres of land in Section 21 of Dupont.  Planted a large apple orchard in front by the road and named their farm Orchard Lawn Farm.

In 1892,  hemlock logs were hacked down  from their swamp and they commenced to build a home.  25x35 feet, two story, 1750 square feet, a good sized home, but then again more children arrived, Lillie, Emma, Ottro, Frederick and Johanna.  All were members of Trinity Luteran Church, West Dupont and family members are buried in the cemetery awaiting eternity.  Walked to German Catechism classes at Marion for eighth grade confirmation.

Dug a partial basement, used for storing fruits and vegetables, trap door from the kitchen, outside entrance.  Two doors front and back.  Brick chimney half way down, wood cook stove and heater to warm the house.  Four rooms downstairs, 3 upstairs.  Porch front and back.  Eight logs high on the first floor, 4 upstairs.  Balsam roof rafters, pine boards covering and red cedar shingles.  Dug a well for water, a cemented pit with a pump jack.  Logs were squared and hollowed at the ends so they fit snuggly together.  Cracks were filled with a plaster lime mixture, with shingles wedged.  Rough boards and latts were nailed over to keep the plaster from falling out.

The Knaack family lived in this log house until 1947, when they  had an auction, sold out and migrated to the Pine River area.  Reinhard Hintz acquired  the farm to pasture cattle.  Ray and Violet Arndt obtained the farm in 1964.  This log house stood forlorn and abandoned.  Because the roof was rotting, Ray put metal on to save from deterioration.

The Marion Historical Society, with members willing to save the log house, contacted the Wisconsin Conservation Corps, who dismantled the log house, numbered each log, and reassembled the house  exactly as it appeared in 1892 in Marion seven miles away.  Doors were made from old lumber, inside walls were covered with shiplap lumber and old newspapers.  A concrete base was poured, layered with 2x4s and matched pine floor boards.  Items were donated,  begged or borrowed: stoves, an organ, rope beds, cribs, cradles, pots, pans, rag braided rugs, pictures, etc.  This log home located near the baseball field  in Marion is a perfect example of life in a log house in the early years of 1900.  Every one should go visit and explore and hear the history from the volunteers.


HOMESTEAD

My axe is dull, my saw is gone,
These trees will stand forever.
The stones that I would lay them on,
Will one day break and sever.

The grass is in your garden now,
The weeds grow green and high.
Upon the hill I used to plow;
Our little creek is dry.

No happiness is here for me,
And though you bid me stay,
I only know, I only see
The road that leads away.


August and William Riske, twins were born on January 12, 1864, came to America in 1883 when they were 19 years old.  Purchased land in Dupont, which now 125 years later is still in the Riske name, 120 acres.  August Riske, 1864-1939,  married Hermine Lutzow, 1859-1914, had two daughters Clara Genskow, 1896-1991, and Ella, 1890-1900.  Ella died of typhoid fever when she was 10 years old.

William Riske, 1864-1941 married Hannah Dordell, 1874-1949, and had five children, Paul, 1896, Alma, 1898-1900, Martha Seelig, 1899-1979, Emil, 1902-1978, and Harvey, 1910-1981.  All were members of St. John's Lutheran Church, Marion.

Both brothers were well-to-do farmers.  William built a two story log house, 24x28, along with a  blacksmith, wagon, and buggie shop.  A two section barn, log and wood frame.  A 12x26 concrete silo was built later.

August Riske bequeathed his farm to his daughter and husband Arnold and Clara Genskow who farmed until 1948 when the Emil and Frieda Riske family moved across the road from their log house.  This is now the home of Edward and Mary Riske, located on Quarterline Road.  The log house of William Riske fell into disrepair, trees and bramble bushes covering   this fine home, and now in 2010 only memories and photographs remain.

                            copyright 2010, Russell and Delores Miller

Anyone with links to, or who is researching the Hauschultz / Hauschulz / Howschultz / Hochschultz / Hochschulz families' genealogy is most welcome to contact Jade Wuiske who has  extensively researched this family tree for over a decade via email.  Her address is  
jwuiske@live.com  
Also, would you please copy me, the editor, on any information so that I can send it along to Delores. Thank you.
dave@windsweptpress.com



 Delores Miller lives with husband Russell in Hortonville, Wisconsin.    In the summer of 2007 they  celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party hosted by their five children and ten grandchildren.  It’s been a long road.  Dairy farming until retirement in 1993, they continued to 'work' the land, making a subdivision of 39 new homes on their former hay fields.

The Unsecret Garden

by Michele Crabtree

With no secrets to conceal

A garden will reveal

Each facet of its glory

Every color being seen

Among the requisite green

Describes a detail of the story

Having nothing to hide

As her mood coincides

With the rites of the season

Respectful of the way

Her colors fade to gray

Not questioning the reasons


What seems to be conclusions

Is just shedding past illusions

Of scenes she left untold

The palettes of her history

Reflect no shades of mystery

So to not entrench her soul


No decisions must she make

To be real or to be fake

Cannot hide from her true color

While accepting without doubt

The new life that will sprout

The plan of nature's mother


To embrace the coming sequel

Which may or may not equal

The heritage of its past

With faith but not with envy

Her calm awaits the frenzy

When the time is right at last


Giving no excuses

Nor blaming past abuses

When her lushness is no longer

Assuring to return

With new lessons she will learn

To make her message stronger


She paints another chapter

While telling of its rapture

Makes no secret of its glory


This garden tells a story.

 

April 24, 2013

Michele Crabtree spent the first 52 of her 57 years in Cumberland, MD, her birthplace.  Since moving to Murrells Inlet, South Carolina in 2008, she thinks of herself as a "Southerner in training," realizing there is no such thing.  She has dabbled in humorous poetry since her twenties.  The source of her poetic leanings is her Great Aunt Olive who wrote clever rhymes on all of her greeting cards.   Michele is passionate about writing more serious poetry reflective of life experiences.  Her poetry style has been rhyming, but she is working on breaking from that "comfort level."  Her goal is to compile her past, present, and future writings in an organized fashion.