Becoming An Ancestor...

Photo of my ancestors - Grandfather Alleshouse in upper left of last row, next to Great Uncle Sam Schauweker, and my Great Grandmother Lucinda.

As I was picking at some gunk in the bottom of the slow cooker, it hit me - I’m just like my mom - the woman obsessed over the ditzely details of cleaning the kitchen while forgetting to turn on or off the oven for the casserole. 

It can be startling to recognize one's mother in the mannerisms of one’s self. Particularly those that are clearly the result of nurture versus nature.

It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about since last week when our Rabbi launched the Days of Awe with a sermon on becoming an ancestor that elicits good memories. This is the period of days when we are to reflect on our behaviors over the year past, repent for harm or hurts we’ve caused, and remember our ancestors and their impact on our lives. 

I consider myself  lucky with the array of ancestors I can count. My father’s family arrived in this country in the late 1700s, with my Great-Great-Great Grandfather Frederick appearing in the first U.S. Census of 1790 in Pennsylvania. His son Ludwig, or Lewis, moved his family to the frontier of Ohio in 1818. 

This family history was all meticulously documented by my Uncle Paul, Dad’s youngest brother. It was his wife - Aunt Marge - who provided the critical nudge for him to compile a remarkably rich history of our family in this country. Thanks to Uncle Paul, we have tales of the reputation of our Great Great Grandmother Mary Conrad and her colorful personality featuring clay pipes smoked in the garden. 

I know my Alleshouse ancestors as “gentlemen farmers”, engaged with their church community, musically gifted, with creative arts talents we inherited in the form of beautiful quilts stitched by my grandmother. I knew my grandfather as a quiet, thoughtful soul who had a way with bees, resulting in luscious honeycombs of honey on his dining room table. 

I know less about my Blue ancestors - other than they had family above and below the Mason-Dixon line during the Civil War, making for awkward family reunions for the next hundred years. 

Harvesting a red tomato in Minneapolis today takes me back 60 plus years to Grandma’s large garden behind her house in Deshler, Ohio, as she handed me one of her prize picks with a gentle, “Try this, Mary Margaret”. I’ll chase the flavor of those warm fresh tomatoes as long as I live. 

My birth family also landed in this nation as it was being born, ending up in Eastern Tennessee. My new-found family tells stories of Grandpa Arnold’s talents making moonshine as a way to pay the taxes on their extensive properties, before tragedy took Grandma. That led him to the mountains of West Virginia where he could earn enough to feed his five children in the coal mines. 

Apparently my birth mother wasn’t interested in remaining in Welch, as she hightailed it to Columbus, Ohio when she learned she was pregnant. There she gave birth to me, her only child, promptly found a job, got an education, married, and never told a soul of my existence. 

I certainly don’t blame her for that, as the 1950s were a rather punitive period for unwed mothers. 

My parents, on the other hand, were thrilled to finally have their baby after years of trying. I went home from the hospital, lying on a blanket in the backseat of my parents’ car with my father driving so slowly that my mother remarked on it to the day she died. 

All of this leads to the challenge our Rabbi posed in his sermon. What kind of ancestor do we want to be to those who come after us? How will we be remembered? 

I have a few more days until Yom Kippur closes out, and the allegorical Book of Life is slammed shut for the year. So as the pace of current events swirl around us at dizzying speeds, I find myself wanting to pick at small drippings on the inner base of the slow cooker while I ponder the stories I hope to leave with our children and their children. 

Again...

Neighbor Steven Mosborg captures the moment, as usual

The seasonal shift to fall up here is heralded by the start of the Minnesota State Fair. Local media set up shop on the fairgrounds with goofy contests; daughters of dairy farmers sit in a cooler to have their heads carved out of 90 pound blocks of butter; and, farm animals and crops compete for ribbons. 

This year’s launch was extra exciting because friend and scone baker extraordinaire Jenny won a blue ribbon for her entry of cinnamon swirl scones…as well as the sweepstakes award for the entire category. 

As the Fair wends on, we know we’re approaching the deadline to prepare for the school year to start. This year, I was excited for a batch of our second generation friends - the children of close friends who’ve become our friends as well - who are sending their first borns off to kindergarten. Just imagining the excitement of Alma and Ester, of Zeke and Shea, of Hadar and the younger siblings moving up in their pre-school classes was heart warming.

If you’re good at math, it’s clear these kindergartners were born during the early parts of the pandemic. Those scary times meant new moms delivered with only medical personnel and secluded from visits from close family. The grandparents of these dearly cherished babies didn’t have the opportunity to hold those brand new babies until new parents were comfortable with whatever protocols were available. Masks? Gloves? Disinfectants?  

And here we are again. These parents are sending off those cherished five year olds in another horrifyingly scary environment. 

Well documented data tells us this country of ours is the riskiest place on the globe for children attending school. And still, in this northern state of optimism despite all evidence otherwise, we persist in believing it can’t happen here. 

It can. And it did. 

And now we’re experiencing community trauma and a perpetual state of grief, on the verge of tears as we learn stories of the horror that unfolded two miles from here two days ago. 

The 23 year old murderer bragged in online postings that it was so very easy to buy any guns desired. 

We can change that. We must change that. 

A Fartshumper Summer

What summer in Minneapolis has looked like…

Having lived half my life on the North Coast here in Minnesota, I’ve come to appreciate the Scandinavian heritage that permeates the culture. These are stoic straightforward upright no nonsense sorts that recognize we all benefit from working together to create a better community. 

Since they originate from Viking stock in bitterly cold climates where daylight is scarce for a portion of the year, summer is a season to celebrate. Gardens bloom under great thought and tending. The wealth of lakes are filled with kayakers and swimmers. And all levels of government go to work on projects to repair and replace aging infrastructure so we don’t have to suffer the embarrassment - and pain - of another bridge collapse in the future.

This summer has been remarkably extraordinary with the range of projects affecting The Cities. When residents began complaining about the number of projects, there were protestations from various city, county, and state departments saying the number of projects was the same as always…until one started adding all those projects together to realize that perhaps each of those projects had multiple parts, and oops! It may be truly impossible to get from the West side of The Cities to the East side of The Cities on a vast number of previously passable roads.

And that’s where the fartshumpers come in.

By the beginning of May, our otherwise lovely neighborhood began sprouting pipes that crisscrossed streets and sidewalks to provide water to households while aged pipes were being lined - oh, and while they were at it, fiber optic cable was strung. When PVC pipes go across a street, they are covered with a mound of gravely dirt so cars don’t break them, which makes sense. Until you drive over the first one believing it to be a normal “bump” and your car gives a “wha-hoo-ha rump” sound it’s hard to forget. 

The word for speed bump in Norwegian is Fartshumper - and that’s exactly what this summer has been. Filled with fartshumper speed bumps that make driving perilous and slow. Never before in our experience has the knowledge that summer will come to an end been so curiously welcome up here.

What the physical fartshumpers have provided us residents of Linden Hills are a series of lessons to manage the psychological fartshumpers we’re experiencing in the country. 

I’ve learned that cutting down exposure to the incessant string of fartshumpers in the news is soothing. I’ve learned that taking it slow and carefully can reduce the impact of the shocks resulting from the tariff, no tariff, tariff again game show. 

And I’ve learned to pivot in my meal preparations. Egg prices have settled down now that bird flu has abated - thank you, science and research. But the impact of climate change and a shortage of immigrants to harvest crops is having an impact on other commodities. Coffee prices? Yikes! We’re cutting back on meat and learning great recipes for beans for protein. And chocolate is a luxury. Even Costco discontinued its chocolate chips with rising costs - so ginger cookies it is! 

At least the word is fun to say and can elicit a smile amidst the insanity of the fartshumpers coming our way for the foreseeable future…stay sane, friends.

Marking a Threshold

…not today’s weather, just thinking ahead!

I’m finally finishing up this post in honor of my friend Sally’s birthday today - as we Mid-Century Modern Babes share a birth year. Actually more Americans are mid-Century moderns than any other batch of people, so there are a number of us achieving a new decade in the next year or so. 

I’ve always believed that new decade birthdays signal something special. Sure - it’s a time to pause and reflect on the past decade, while imagining where the new decade will take us. For me, the reflection of the past half decade is one I will skip. No need to dwell on that era of Orthopedic Challenges. 

But imagining a new decade full of promise and potential? I’m all in. 

I have a peer who successfully recovered from a serious health threat and has dedicated himself to his love of travel to faraway places - picking a continent or country for an extended exploration off any sort of beaten path. 

Another is feeding his love of photography by going on photographic “safaris” to capture humans in their native habitats of New York, Paris, Rome, or Istanbul. 

I’ve always believed the start of a new decade requires excellent celebrations at least once a month. So I will ensure there is one spectacularly fun event or gathering scheduled from November 2025 to November 2026.

And since November 2026 is an important month for our country, I’ll ensure a number of those gatherings are in the company of thousands of others deploying our constitutional rights of peaceful assembly to speak up. Still working on my personal favorite sign though, so appreciate your thoughts on that. 

How we celebrate our shared “achievements” of acquiring this well-seasoned, hard-earned perspective on life purely by surviving this one wild journey has shifted for many of us. At 50, I wanted a grand party with a DJ and lots of friends from all walks of life. At 60, it was a house party billed as a “welcome back from California” - so the cake was a surprise for everyone. 

This year, however, is different. Interrupted mobility can do that to one. Sure - I’ll gather with family and friends and throw in some travel as well. 

But this year, I’m taking the advice of a dear childhood friend who shares my birth year. My friend Anita is asking all who know her to forego gifts to her, and instead to give a gift of kindness or generosity beyond the normal. She does have a raft of kind and generous friends - so the impact of extra generous kindness should be felt by many. 

Anita has a fulsome list of ideas - from calling old friends or teachers to tell them about their impact on your life to baking cookies for neighbors just to let them know you’re thinking of them. It’s all about being present in and for the lives of others - listening to stories, sharing a meal or tea.

Her birthday ask made me think of the impact we Mid-Century Modern Boomers could have if we spread Anita’s actions to all our peers. Just imagine what could happen if an idea like that went viral.

We Struggle for Hope

Early June 14th - preparing to celebrate our Big Beautiful Multicultural Democracy…

Last weekend began well. We joined dear friends at the annual Humphrey-Mondale dinner and were inspired by the stories we heard of those committed to public service who worked hard to move forward the interests of the constituencies they served. 

Both my husband and I spent parts of our working lives walking the halls of the Capitol building in St. Paul, so we saw some old familiar faces in the room. I pointed out one State Senator, remarking he hadn’t aged at all. He was hugging a younger female colleague, and when she turned around, my husband asked who she was. 

“Oh, that’s Melissa Hortman,” I said. “She was the House Speaker who this session is sharing leadership with her Republican colleague in a remarkable show of collaboration.”

I knew Melissa because I had the privilege of moderating a webinar she delivered to the University of Minnesota’s retirees last year. She had taken time from the start of the legislative session to speak with our group of old faculty, staff, and administrators who remain interested and engaged in civic affairs. 

She was remarkable with her responses to the pertinent - and some impertinent - questions of my colleagues. I shared how impressed I had been with her quiet competence, her balanced approach to compromise, and her clear concern for the community she served. She was measured and pragmatic. And also a strong advocate for fairness in civil rights and for comprehensive reproductive health care.

We left that evening feeling uplifted. 

I woke up to a list of tasks to complete as we prepared for our Clowns & Tacos Celebration of Our Big Beautiful Multicultural Democracy on our lawn. It was designed to offer space for those who were either too young or too old to go to the rallies planned throughout the greater Twin Cities area. The bouncy house was on its way, and my friendly Lorenzo asked if we wanted more chips for our Taco Bar. 

And then the news started popping up, as it now does on our ubiquitous devices. First a notice of shootings in the northern suburbs, and a note to shelter in place. We live in the southwest corner of the Cities, so I didn’t pay much mind. 

Then a text came from a friend saying Melissa had been shot, followed quickly by the next saying she and her husband had been murdered, that another senator had been shot, and the madman was still on the loose. 

Within the hour, notices were flying to avoid public gatherings as sporadic details emerged of the horror that had taken place overnight. 
Friends called and texted asking if we were still gathering. My gut said that we needed community more than ever, and our neighborhood gathering wasn’t on anyone’s list. So we moved forward.

Some stayed home. Some changed plans and boldly went to the Capitol in a show of surprising strength. Rallies continued, and we now know the madman was hiding and running and ended up in a field where trail cameras picked him up about 48 hours after his first bullets killed Melissa.

We had close to fifty people on the porch and on the lawn, reconnecting with old friends and meeting new neighbors. It was precisely what this country is all about - friendly people who may not agree about the latest road construction project, but who can discuss and resolve their concerns over a taco. 

The anxiety and horror of what was unfolding over the day was also on the lawn. Lots of discussion about what we do in the face of this madness. What can we do?

By midweek, one of the many legacies of the Hortmans - their children - provided an answer. You may have seen this - but it deserves repeating as often as possible.

“We are devastated and heartbroken at the loss of our parents, Melissa and Mark. They were the bright lights at the center of our lives, and we can’t believe they are gone. Their love for us was boundless. We miss them so much.

“We want everyone to know that we are both safe and with loved ones. We are grateful for the outpouring of love and support we have received, and we appreciate your respect for our family’s privacy as we grieve.

“Our family would like to thank law enforcement for their swift action that saved others and for the coordination across communities that led to the arrest of the man who murdered our parents. We especially would like to thank the officers who were first on the scene to our parents’ home and their heroic attempts to rescue our mom and dad.

“Our parents touched so many lives, and they leave behind an incredible legacy of dedication to their community that will live on in us, their friends, their colleagues and co-workers, and every single person who knew and loved them.

“If you would like to honor the memory of Mark and Melissa, please consider the following:

• Plant a tree

• Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail.

• Pet a dog. A golden retriever is ideal, but any will do.

• Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it.

• Bake something - bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone.

• Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something.

• Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace.

  “Hope and resilience are the enemy of fear. Our parents lived their lives with immense dedication to their fellow humans. This tragedy must become a moment for us to come together. Hold your loved ones a little closer. Love your neighbors. Treat each other with kindness and respect. The best way to honor our parents’ memory is to do something, whether big or small, to make our community just a little better for someone else.”

  And that, my friends, is a challenge to all of us. To push away the anger that breeds evil with a commitment to hold to resilient hope and care for our fellow humans.

Swain's Send Off

Cover of Tom Swain’s auto/biography written with friend Lori Sturdevant - a powerful read.

It takes something pretty special to get me to leave the comfortable haven of my home porch on a perfect early summer morning before the second cup of coffee. Tom Swain was that something special today.

His community of family and friends gathered to celebrate Tom and his remarkable life in one of his favorite places on the University of Minnesota campus. This send off wasn’t some random slapdash program thrown together at the last minute. No sireee.

Tom began planning for his send off when he was 95. And that was in 2017. By the time he ended his last chapter this year, there had been eight years of phone calls and notes with his pre-selected eulogists - so all were well prepared to honor the man who made the most of every moment of his remarkable 103 years on this planet of ours.

I met Tom when he was in his early eighties, so I only knew him for 20 years or so. He had been called back to advise the University president on the public relations and public affairs functions of the Big U, as we call it. That was his third or fourth engagement in institutional relations for his Alma mater - he was a stalwart supporter of our state’s only public research university, and always game to lend his knowledge to the U.

As one of the PR people on campus, I was called to a meeting over in the administration building to meet with this presidential advisor. I remember thinking it was just silly to imagine a well-seasoned 80+ year old would have his finger on the pulse of 21st Century tools and tactics to influence constituencies or audiences, as we call them

Boy, was I wrong. Tom Swain was the consummate connector and he understood people and what made them tick. He listened in order to understand and spoke in order to clarify or to carefully guide colleagues so that his ideas became their ideas. He understood that trust is built carefully and slowly, and can be lost quickly if one violates shared values. He was a man of integrity who cared deeply about any issue or cause he championed. 

Swain didn’t need to deploy social media or targeted placements. He was a master at engaging the people around him to deliver their best work on behalf of the goals of the institution. Whether that involved media relations, government relations, or community relations, his mastery of the relations part of the equation gave all around him the permission to engage effectively with either the media, government, or community with tools available. 

I learned a lot from Tom Swain, as did the hundreds of his family and friends who gathered for today’s send off. And perhaps most poignantly for all of us who now sport stunningly silver hair - we learned that one is never too old to take on another challenge or a good risk, as demonstrated by our friend Swain.

The Serendipity of Friends

The Linden Hills neighborhood kids all grown up (with one grandkid added) - the Koppel kids, one Liddy kid, and the Cooney kids back on the block.

I’ve spent more than a week surrounded by close friends, both here at home and at a beach house in South Carolina. And that’s led to deep pondering about friendships and how they come to be.

A week ago, we gathered with an array of former neighbors as well as the adult version of the former kids of the neighborhood to celebrate the life of our friend Sheree Cooney. The greetings and hugs and memories and laughs and tears spanned nearly 20 hours and two events. We welcomed friends from around the country - all returning to honor our connection to Sheree.

Most of the stories we shared were highly appropriate. But not all. That wouldn’t have been true to the feisty woman who was Sheree.  

We knew nothing about this neighborhood when we signed a short term lease for a house at the end of 1990. We just thought the house was cute and near a couple of lakes, and how bad could that be? Turns out the serendipity of that decision landed us in the midst of a true village that helped us raise our kids with the nurturing of good friends - like Sheree. And those serendipitous friends remain dear today. 

The rest of the week was spent with a group of my college roommates. What could be more random than the array of 18 year olds who show up on a Freshman hall in North Carolina? Yet among those women - plus a few from the other three years - are some of my closest friends today. We’ve shared experiences of first jobs, dating, marriages, kids, pets, good health and bad, and now grandchildren. 

We are lucky - again pure serendipity - that we were thrown together in college and have remained close. We started arranging get-togethers nearly 30 years ago, before texting and email made it easy.  Now we have Google shared drives to arrange activities on trips abroad. 

This week was an easy trip to meet up at Myrtle Beach where one of The Girls conveniently purchased a house that is ideal for gathering. We missed one core member who was wrapping up treatment at Duke, but she zoomed in to laugh along with us nonetheless. 

I can only imagine what life would have been without these women, these friends in my life. Less fun for certain. And definitely less meaningful.

Thoughts Over Matzo Balls

We wrapped the eight day observance of Passover on Easter Sunday - once again the monotheistic lunar calendars aligning. But the thoughts of the season continue to live on.

When one is in the process of prepping for Passover, one finds herself with time to reflect on a few of the core themes of the holiday - both slavery and freedom. If you take the requirements or rules of the holiday even moderately seriously, then there’s some hefty cleaning that takes place, along with significant food preparation to greet the holiday. It’s the OG of Spring cleaning with a range of customs or traditions surrounding food.

There are the matzo balls of my father in law - the dense type from Hungary. There are the assorted Moroccan spiced dishes of my mother-in-law’s family from Tangier. And in addition to the 4000 year tradition of telling the story of the Exodus, we use a seder plate from cousins Allegria and Ghimol, made by Moroccan brass craftsmen in 1936. Lots of history - many eras - and that makes my mind wander while I’m cleaning or cooking.

This year, my mind was wrapped around concepts of Freedom - what did it mean to the ancient Hebrews? What did it mean to our cousins who grew up and lived in Tangier from the 1930s through the 1990s, and who commissioned the Seder plate? And what does it mean to us today?

OK - stay with me on this one. 

Those who study ancient history posit that not all of the Hebrews living in slavery in Egypt had the gumption to stand up and leave when Pharaoh finally relented following the final plague wrought by the hand of God through the staff of Moses. I think Charlton Heston’s version in the 1956 film, The Ten Commandments, is still my favorite. 

Most assume that all who got a pass to leave slavery would have quickly packed to go, but historians believe nearly eighty percent of the enslaved Hebrews remained in Egypt. Why is that? 

Perhaps it was preferring the known to the unknown. Sure it’s bad to be a slave, but what’s “out there”? What dangers await us as we walk away from all that’s familiar? 

The twenty percent who sought freedom and were brave enough to leave their homes fueled the stories within the Bible’s Book of Exodus, and we celebrate that bravery even today with songs and stories about tables. Of course, the question for us is would we have been brave enough to leave? To become migrants wandering the desert with little clarity of where we were going and how we would be received once we arrived? 

Is the desire for self-determination, the freedom to live without the literal and perceptual shackles of laws and rules over which one has no input or control enough to push any of us away from the known and comfortable? 

Our cousins in Tangier chose to remain when the city lost its international status and became part of Morocco in 1956. That meant the departure of many of the Europeans who had enjoyed the free port status of the city and a shift to the rule of the King and his ministers. Although the sisters were of Portuguese heritage, they were accustomed to life in this North African city overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar. It was comfortable and familiar and they chose to remain rather than migrate with other family and friends. 

Sitting around our table in 2025, the questions arise again. What is important to us about our freedom today? Which of the freedoms we now take for granted are most important? 

Is it the freedom to speak out and disagree on important issues? Is it the freedom to own a gun? Is it the freedom to gather with whomever we wish and worship as we are called to worship? Is it the freedom to protect our privacy? What type of enslavement today would push us to leave this country? Is it the same circumstances that drove nearly all of our ancestors to migrate to this country in the first place? 

My family arrived on this continent in the 1700s seeking financial opportunities from England, and as mercenaries from Germany. My husband’s family arrived in the 1950s, seeking sanctuary from the European theater of war that had torn apart the world they knew. Both pursuits brought our children’s ancestors to what was known as the land of opportunity for immigrants who were willing to work hard. 

For my ancestors, there were no laws governing an immigrant's process to becoming a citizen until 1790. And by then, all had passed the two year threshold of living in this country - and they were white - so they automatically qualified to become citizens. For my husband’s family, the rules required five years of residency - not even continuous - just a total of five years in order to apply to become a citizen. Done and done.

Today we watch immigration becoming a lucrative business. Whether running from or running to, America has been a beacon for immigrants seeking opportunities. And depending how our culture feels in any one era, we’re either welcoming or contemptuous of newcomers. It may go without saying that we’re in one of our contemptuous phases. 

And that leads to the last pesky questions that remain a distraction - when did this land of immigrants become so angry at immigrants? And why don’t we fix the laws to make immigration a rational and reasonable process once again?