Last week was a week of loss. First, my Aunt Alma went to sleep Saturday evening and woke up Sunday morning in heaven close to one month before her 96th birthday. Then my old neighbor, Jerry Serhienko, followed her two days later. There have been two new cancer diagnoses since then also.
It must be my age. I have entered the winter season of loss. It’s difficult not to be sad about these changes.
Aunt Alma reminded me so much of my mother. They looked alike. Alma also had a very unusual voice and I thought eventually I would sound like her. I had hopefully daydreamed about living as long as she did too. Time will tell, but I currently have my doubts about that.
I drove to Wishek for the funeral and met my brother and his wife at the church. The church, St. Luke’s, was the Kaseman side of the family’s spiritual house. The last time I was in the lower level I saw the old black and white group photos of confirmands lining the walls. We picked out the ones of my dad’s and his siblings’ confirmations.
What seems to me like not so long ago, our family was large enough to fill that church on occasions of weddings and funerals. Friday, the pews were mostly empty. The absence of wriggly youngsters and babies to shush during the message was noticeable. There were lots of gray heads and hearing aids.
It was so nice to see some of my many cousins again. My brother and I spent a few minutes before the service counting our remaining aunts and uncles. Including in-laws, there remain three uncles and four aunts on my mom’s side and three aunts and one uncle on my dad’s side.
It used to be we were surrounded by people related through blood or marriage. I grew up thinking I was related to everyone and that every family was like mine. I was in college when I learned otherwise.
While I didn’t have the chance or energy to speak to everyone, it was still nice to see them. Talking wears me out.
After the service, we went directly to the cemetery northeast of Wishek. That provided an opportunity to visit my parents and many, many aunts and uncles gathered at their final resting place. Nearly half of my family from my parent’s generation resides in that cemetery while the other half rests in the New Kassel cemetery along the Zeeland road.
We met again at the senior center following the interment for a delightful lunch. My stomach growls today as I can still picture the fabulous soups — your choice of knephla or hamburger vegetable rice. The smell was divine. The smartest that attended the funeral had one cup of each balanced on their plates with ham or chicken salad sandwiches. I chose knephla, swimming in cream and butter, and the tenderest knephla I have enjoyed in a long time.
Dessert offerings were homemade by the church ladies, I think. It was the best funeral lunch I have had in years.
While exiting the church we ran into one of my aunts on my dad’s side of the family. It had been a long time since we visited Aunt LaVerna and Uncle Clifton, my dad’s only living brother.
“You have to come over to the house,” LaVerna said. “But, Clifton is going to play cards at 1 o’clock.”
“We will stop,” we promised, “If only for 15 minutes.”
We timed our lunch and visiting at the senior center to have about 20 minutes at the Kaseman’s for a quick hello.
Before we could sit down in the living room, Uncle Clifton was on the phone apologizing because he was going to be late for cards.
“He plays with Gideon Boschee,” LaVerna said.
“He’s 106 years old,” Clifton said.
“Are you sure he has time to wait for you?” I asked.
We had a nice visit about gardening, and milking, and caught up on the latest family news. Our 15 minutes went by quickly, about 60 minutes longer than anticipated. It was still hard to leave, but I knew I had to save some energy to drive home.
And drive home I did, but not empty-handed. When the subject of the cost of seeds today and the unfinished row of Zinnas in my garden popped up, my aunt produced flower seeds for me. In true German-Russian style, she offered me a Swiffer Sweeper container about the size of a shoebox filled to the brim with seeds she had saved.
“Are you sure you don’t need any of these?”
“You can share them with Marion,” she said. Marion is one of my cousins, twice.
“Okay, and thanks,” I said.
My brother had been bargaining on his own with Uncle Clifton when offered honey to make honey mead. That is until the subject turned to pfeffernusse cookies.
“How about I give Sue this honey and she can make us some pfeffernusse cookies,” Curt counteroffered. “I don’t like the taste of mead.”
“What is mead?” Aunt LaVerna said.
“Fermented honey,” Kim, my sister-in-law said. An ancient drink.
We struck a deal for Christmas cookies which I am debating whether or not to have Christmas in July and headed towards the door with our goodies. As we exited, the phone rang. It was close to 2 p.m.
I laughed to Curt and Kim as I got into my car, “I bet that phone call was Uncle Clifton’s card buddies wondering if he’s ever going to show up.”
When you are 93 years old and counting, there’s no such thing as 15 minutes in McIntosh County.
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