A couple of years ago I asked my grandpa's cousin Shelly to write her remembrances of Emil and Hilma. She's a published author and has an appreciation for family history so I figured she'd be willing and to date, is the only relative that I've asked to write memories that has actually come through for me. As stated in my blog about Emil I appreciate her help with the Burke family more than I'll ever be able to repay. I post this entry (as written except I added the links for the bread recipes, that are undoubtedly not the same as what Shelly remembers) with her blessing:
Grandma and Grandpa
Burke
Grandpa Burke
I don’t have a lot of memories of
Grandpa Burke, but I do remember he liked to sit on the royal blue
velvet couch just to the left of the front door in Grandma and
Grandpa’s living room. He’d look out the window onto the street
or sit on the front porch and people-watch. In his later years, he
slipped into dementia, and I remember my father trying to correct
Grandpa’s actions in Swedish. The only words I remember are flicka
(girl) and poiken (boy).
Grandma told me that all the girls in
the lumber camp chased Emil, but she was the one that caught him. She
always told that story with a big smile and great pride.
Grandma Burke
Of course, my memories of Grandma are
from a child’s perspective. I loved her baked goods—delicious
frosted cinnamon rolls and limpa and bula breads. Sweet, white bula
was my favorite. I loved to layer it with butter and eat slice after
slice as I followed Grandma around the kitchen. I was fascinated by
her huge flour bin that was built into the cabinets Grandpa had
built. I was almost as big as me and tilted outward into the room. My
mother and her friends didn't have anything like it. Mom always
measured flour out of a five pound bag with measuring cups. But
Grandma scooped flour out of the bin with her hands and threw it onto
the counter. From my perspective, Grandma’s baking was magical—she
didn't measure anything and simply added ingredients and mixed them
until they felt “right” in her hands. Her linoleum floor and
kitchen counters were always covered with a dusting of flour, and
Grandma’s house always smelled like yeasty fresh-baked bread. I
loved it.
Grandma was known to be tight with
money. One of her favorite phrases was “too much penga, or
money. But whenever I visited, Grandma would always give me a quarter
to buy candy at the dime store across the street. She always had pink
peppermints and anise candy in dishes around the house, but those
weren't my favorites. I couldn't wait to slip across the street
to buy a handful of Pixie Stix or a few candy necklaces, compliments
of her generosity.
I also remembered that Grandma loved to
watch Rex Humbard on TV and send him occasional financial gifts. I’m
pretty sure my dad didn't have a high opinion of Rev. Humbard, and
he certainly didn't wants Grandma sending him her hard-earned
money. But it was important to her, and I remember her as a person
who cherished her Bible and hymnal. In her earlier days, she attended
one of the Swedish churches in Muskegon, and from what my dad has
told me, I believe she took her children to church there because she
believed it was important for them to know about the God of the Bible
and believe in Him.
From the stories I've heard from my
dad and his siblings, Grandma wasn't a warm and fuzzy parent, but I
believe she loved her kids. I also believe she gave everything she
had to provide for them during the years of the depression—taking
in laundry and baking in order to provide extra income. I know things
weren't easy for her. And I believe she loved the indulgences that
came in later years from her grandchildren—like beautiful dresses
from my cousin Ruthann and gifts from her adult children, as well.
It was a
challenge for me to share my bedroom with Grandma when I was a
teenager. We didn't always see eye-to-eye on fashion or music or
dating. But I've never regretted that my parents cared for her in
our home. Their decision shaped my own caregiving choices and
commitment to care for others, in spite of the cost.
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