Happy Syttende Mai!

     After a three generation Zoom call with my family this afternoon I walked from The Little House to the cemetery. It's 25 months now that Joanne has rested there next to my Negstad Grandparents. Memories of 54 years of marriage flood in. Wonder about my Grandparents, both of whom died before I was born, is always a part of the visit. Not far away are my parents and just a little father an uncle and aunt. Harold, who smoothed my enrollment at Augustana College, now University, isn't far from Joanne. Ervin and Freda, neighbors and siblings who died in farm accidents a year apart, are near. Joanne is surrounded by community "a great cloud of witnesses." Our family roots in the community go back to 1885. Naturally the visit stirs grief and an acute presence of absence. Visiting others interred there is always a part of my experience. To that end I think this from Garrison Keillor fits.

"In old unread book I opened and found, pressed between the leaves, a piece of yellowed handstitching: '“Elizabeth Crandall is my name And America is my nation. Providence is my home And Christ is my salvation When I am dead and in my grave and all my bones are rotten, if this you see, remember me, when I am quite forgotten. 1845.”'

Takk for alt,

Al