take it or leave it
Lessons from my grandmother
My grandparents are in this covered wagon with their three young children. It’s hard to see, but my grandmother is holding a baby. That's my dad! Standing next to the wagon are friends and relatives that helped them pack.
When I looked through my dad’s files after he died, I found my grandmother, Katherine Prieb’s, written account of traveling for eight days by covered wagon with her husband, John, and their three young children, all under the age of 5. In 1922, my dad was 8 months old when his parents decided to move from Hillsboro, Kansas to Inola, Oklahoma where they had purchased a farm. I had heard this story many times, but finding and reading my grandmother’s written words of this journey was an unexpected treasure. My edited and condensed version of her story follows.
The original plan was to transport the family along with two teams of horses, a cow, furniture and farm implements by train. A summer day begins with men loading a freight train car scheduled to leave that afternoon for Oklahoma. Katherine wrote, “We had (everything) loaded in the train car except for the livestock and were going to eat at Mother’s house in town and then load the livestock, when the depot agent came running and informed us they could not allow any livestock to go along and have it insured for landing at its destination because of a strike coming up. So what now.”
How stressful it must have been to hear this news at this late hour. Someone quickly made the suggestion to travel by a covered wagon. My grandmother continues, “So everybody looked for different things that we must take with us on our trip; others helped to find a tarp to cover the wagon; others thought of feed for the horses and a water trough at the back of the wagon; and what all else, like a one-burner oil stove and a can of kerosene, a box of small potatoes, a cured ham, a jug of water. How we managed to get all that arranged within four hours, I don’t know. But we left that afternoon late.” Grandmother also mentioned that they had to “shoe the horses in order to walk on the pavement where we could not avoid it.”
The second night of the trip, a dark storm cloud appeared, so the family got permission from a nearby farmer to shelter in their old empty farm house. Belongings and food were moved out of the wagon so they wouldn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the vacant old farmhouse turned out to be a “rathole” with rats running on the floor as the children slept on the floor with the family’s food box. My grandmother was not happy.
But then, the next day was idyllic and peaceful. At noon, they “came to a bridge where they could see clear running water along the creek bed so we could park along the road side, unhitch the horses and let them rest and drink their fill and the children could cool off in the clear water. I cooked some potatoes with jackets on our little cook stove and washed diapers in a bucket; also I had somehow gotten some homemade soap which helped to take the stain out of diapers. The barbed wire fence was a good clothesline for hanging up our clean washed things in the hot sunshine after the clouds disappeared and we sought the shade of the bridge.”
But tragedy was soon to follow. Continuing on their journey, they came to a bridge with a sign, “condemned for heavy loads.” The weight wasn’t a problem, but the bridge was in bad shape. After crossing the bridge, my grandfather noticed one of the horses had trouble keeping up with the other three horses. So, my grandfather unhitched the horse and led it while walking behind the wagon. A short distance later, the horse could go no further. Then, alarmingly, the horse fell over “board flat” in the middle of the pavement. It became apparent that the horse had stepped through a plank and caught a spike through the side of his hoof. People came by and offered to help but no one knew what to do. “One lady tried to offer smelling salts but no results. Another lady offered to send a vet out.”
Then, to their dismay, the horse just stopped breathing. My grandmother wrote, “A farmer came by and offered to help get the dead horse off the road. He took my husband along to the nearest farmer who came back with a wagon pulled by two horses, and they dragged the dead horse into the farmer’s pigpen.” (Picturing the pigs snacking on their beloved horse unsettles me every time I read it.)
While waiting, my grandmother quickly fixed a little supper to eat; they wanted to leave before the vet would show up. “Before we got our stuff back into the wagon, the vet was there. The dead horse was gone, but they insisted we had to pay them mileage. That really hurt. From there on our traveling was with a heavy heart. But we thanked God we still had enough horse power with three horses and did not have to buy one to finish our journey.”
My grandmother continues, “When we came closer to Tulsa, Oklahoma, we watched the names on the mailboxes since we were acquainted with some people there. About 11:30, we saw a familiar name. We knew we had to have some drinking water for our horses. So we turned in and those people were so kind to us. They were almost ready to have dinner and I was just about played out from heat and not enough water. Wes (my dad) had been crying almost the whole trip unless he was asleep. Why I don’t know. He was still nursing and only eight months old. When we left the farm house we knew we had only one more night to spend in the wagon. We were all looking forward for the end of our journey. We could hardly sleep that night.”
“So early before sunrise we were on our last day of our trip.” It was another hot and humid day, and my grandmother writes that she “was starting to feel one of those nasty headaches coming up so when we got to Inola that day at noon, John got me a few oranges so I should last until we got to our brother’s place.” When they finally arrived, Katherine tried to forget her misery by lying down and resting before collapsing. She wrote, “After noon, the men folks went to town to start unloading the freight car. There was much to repair. Someone brought glue and whatever else was needed to mend dresses and wardrobes and such things and before evening we were at our new home for a first night rest after spending eight days on the wagon on the road.”
The farm my grandparents purchased in Oklahoma turned out to be near a creek bed that regularly flooded, and unfortunately they had to give up the farm. The family eventually returned to Kansas.
My grandparents faced many challenges, yet they gifted their children and 18 grandchildren with a rock solid foundation of faith. They were examples of faith in the midst of adversity. Rereading my grandmother’s story once again, what struck me this time was how often she mentioned where they found drinking water. Traveling on hot summer days, it was crucial that they find clean water daily for their horses and themselves. And they did. My grandmother’s story offers a lesson every time I read it.
Take it or leave it suggestion #19: Write down a family story and keep it in a file.
Years later, my two grandparents were blessed with two sets of twins born to two daughters within two years.
Make a generous leap
It was 1973, I was a sophomore in college, and I needed a summer job. Jobs were tough to find in my small Kansas hometown, so I decided to look for a job in Chicago. My college friend had previously worked summers at a Chicago lakefront snack shop. Okay, so maybe it was a generous leap to think I could find a job in Chicago. On a fun weekend trip with friends to Chicago that included pizza, I met my friend’s sister, Sharon, who lived in Chicago’s LakeView neighborhood. She invited me to stay with her family for the summer. I accepted.
Early June, I arrived in Chicago, and moved into Sharon’s apartment. I unpacked and arranged my stuff in the spare bedroom which actually was a closet under the stairs. I had a macaroni and cheese for dinner with my new summer family.
In the morning, I started “looking” for my new summer job. I walked to nearby Lincoln Avenue and headed south to a busy six corner intersection where I knew there were dozens of shops lining the streets. As I walked in the harsh shadows of the early morning sun, I squinted my eyes to peer through the store windows lining Lincoln Avenue. Should I go inside this store and ask the store manager for a summer job? I don’t remember how many times I actually went inside and asked, but I kept walking. Then, I set my eyes upon Woolworths with its shiny, bright, red doors and prominent and flashy entrance, and I was beckoned inside. Here was my summer job.
I entered Woolworths and was immediately met with a blast of cold air. Air conditioning! This would be a great place to work. On the side of the store, behind a partition, I noticed a busy lunch counter and red booths. Digging deep for courage, I looked around for an employee badge. I was eventually directed to a supervisor, who after looking me over and asking a few questions promptly gave me some paperwork to complete. Before lunch, I had my own clean uniform and a job as a sandwich girl in the kitchen. I had no kitchen experience, and I had never been to a Woolworth's restaurant.
Every weekday morning that summer, I put on my uniform, and I walked a mile up the diagonal Lincoln Avenue to Woolworths. I started the day cleaning and preparing my sandwich board for the lunchtime rush. I filled rows of metal bins with cottage cheese, pickles, mayonnaise, and tuna fish. I stocked the mini-refrigerator underneath my sandwich board. I sliced turkey. I baked bacon in the hot industrial oven using giant gloves to take out the trays. The temperature of the kitchen was rising by the hour, with cooks preparing for lunch.
My sandwich board was immaculate and well-stocked and I was ready for the busy lunch hour. I made dozens of sandwiches every day, including the ever popular turkey club. Three slices of bread, mayonnaise, bacon, turkey and a tomato, cut in thirds with toothpicks holding it together. I added a pickle and a handful of chips.
From my sandwich board, I had a limited view of the restaurant. I could only see the hands and partial faces of the waitresses as they added orders to my window. I later learned that the waitresses liked me because my sandwiches were well-made and I made them quickly. This meant more tips for the waitresses. And, they liked me because I didn’t yell at them!
A diverse group of women worked in the restaurant. This Mennonite girl became acquainted with an Irish supervisor, a Cuban cook, a very young woman probably from Appalachia who worked the grill next to me, and an African American waitress, and others. The kitchen was a true Chicago melting pot.
I learned a lot that summer. I learned that I could tolerate a hot kitchen if I got used to it gradually. I learned that I was pretty good at multitasking. I learned that a kitchen job could be routine and sometimes boring, but still a rich experience. I learned that making a generous leap to look for a job in Chicago paid off.
Writing this, I was remembering the sit-in protest that took place at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in the south. After rereading about this nonviolent sit-in, I learned that it took place from February until July in 1960 in Greensboro, North Carolina, and resulted in Woolworth changing its segregation policies in its southern stores. I was surprised to learn that this sit-in happened in 1960, only 13 years prior to my summer job at Woolworth.
Take it or leave it suggestion #18: Take generous leaps of faith
Lincoln Ave. and School Street, photo taken June, 2024
in 1973, this building was a Woolworth. The entrance has changed drastically, because It is now a condo building. No more red doors.
Here is a link to a historical photo of the store on the LakeView Historical Facebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1122046797924824&set=a.215431155253064
The summer of 1973, on Saturdays, I took the train downtown and explored.
the train takes me home
My husband Bob took this photograph at the train station in Newton, Kansas. I am pointing towards Chicago.
Kansas Story #2
My dad loved our Mennonite Anabaptist heritage and its history. He collected stories, photos, artwork, letters and other items for historical value and stored them in bedroom closets or dusty file cabinets in the garage. After dad died, my family had to decide what to do with his files. I discovered a ten page story typed, single spaced, about a Mennonite family immigrating from Southern Russia to Kansas. I kept this story both in my heart and in my dusty closet.
This harrowing story has similarities to many present day immigrant stories. In 1910, David and Anna Reimer and their 8 children boarded a ship to the U.S. headed for a Galveston, Texas, the closest port to Hillsboro, Kansas. The Reimer family sold their property in Southern Russia, and were joining other Mennonite families, including my relatives, already settled in Kansas.
When the ship arrived at Galveston, every immigrant had to be examined by a doctor before they were allowed to leave the ship. Three of the youngest Reimer children, Anna, 8, Elizabeth, 6 and Cornelius, 4 contracted severe cases of the measles and were sent to a local hospital to recover. Three of the older sons were diagnosed with trachoma and had to remain on the ship. Mr. Reimer and the two remaining children were free to leave.
Trachoma is still the leading cause of blindness worldwide and is especially contagious among the young. Any immigrant found to have trachoma was not allowed to enter the country.
I am guessing Mr. Reimer didn’t fully understand the ramifications of leaving the ship with his sons still onboard, and he was busy caring for other family members as well. Then, the unimaginable happened. Without warning, his three young sons still onboard, the ship slowly left port to return to Europe. Mr. Reimer witnessed Issac, 14, Peter, 12, and Jacob,10, waving to him from the ship’s railing as it departed. It must have been heart breaking.
It took several months for the three young boys on their own to find relatives still in Russia. Upon their arrival, they learned that tragically their sister, Elizabeth, 6, had died of the measles.
In the U.S., the Reimer family settled in Kansas. The Mennonite community wanted to help the grieving family desperate to reunite with their young sons. There were no telephone calls. They could only send telegraphs, letters and lots of prayers. Eventually, a church member was hired and sent to Russia to locate and accompany the boys on a second trip to the U.S. This second trip, with many delays, also took months. At least, they had a chaperone.
Finally, in November of 1912, the three boys arrived by ship in the U.S. for the second time. Unfortunately, the boys were again found to have trachoma. This time, because the Reimer family was already residing in the U.S. and had applied for citizenship, the boys were allowed to recover at a U.S. hospital.
The long awaited reunion with their parents was so close. Peter was the first to be released from the hospital and reunite with his parents. Finally, on April 6, 1912, eighteen months since separated in Texas, mom and dad waited at the Newton train station for Jacob and Issac, and with great relief, they were finally home.
Almost hundred years later, my Mennonite dad waited at the Newton train station for my train from Chicago to arrive. For many years, I took Amtrak’s passenger train, the Southwest Chief, leaving at 2:30 p.m. from Chicago’s Union Station to Kansas.
My trips home would begin with me walking to the nearest elevated train station, dragging my suitcase behind me. While waiting for the train on the platform above the street, I would always take a last look over the urban neighborhood below: apartment buildings, stores, advertisements, graffiti, traffic and the parade of pedestrians always walking the sidewalks.
In Newton, my dad was always waiting for me, sitting in his 4-door green Ford parked just feet from the train tracks. We didn’t say much on the short thirty mile trip home to Hillsboro, maybe because it was 3:30 a.m.
As the sun started rising, Dad turned off the two lane highway onto a thirteen mile country road lined with wheat fields and a dozen familiar farms with some cattle grazing. On the horizon, I could see Hillsboro’s grain elevator and water tower. The town is quiet and there is no traffic. I am finally home.
My story of immigration from a rural community to an urban community is vastly different than the Reimer boys. However, I am delighted that I met my dad at the same station. The train tracks connect me to my past. I kept this story and it’s now in my file cabinet.
Please note: I want to give credit to Cornelius Reimer who typed his name at the end of the story. This story may have been published at one time but I was unable to find it.
Take it or leave it suggestion #17 Look through dusty file cabinets
The train takes me back to Chicago.
an unexpected friendship
I grew up in a small town in Kansas known for its Mennonite heritage. My great grandparents were German Mennonite immigrants that lived in Russian’s Ukraine. Then in the 1800’s, fleeing the Russian draft, my pacifist ancestors found their way to Kansas bringing with them turkey red hard winter wheat to plant on the plains.
Almost all of the five year olds in my kindergarten class were from Mennonite families. Twelve years later most of us graduated from high school together. Many of us then decided to attend Tabor College, the Mennonite College also in my hometown.
My hometown is known for its Mennonite heritage and wheat farms that surround it.
Kansas story #1
After a long night of studying in the college library, I needed a break, so I decided to walk four blocks to the the Wagon Wheel Cafe. The Wagon Wheel, which was located right next to the four-lane highway that bordered my small hometown, was already closed for the day.
There were no sidewalks and it was dark, so I had to walk carefully in that narrow space between the highway and the ditch. When I got to the cafe’s dark parking lot, I walked past overflowing and smelly garbage bins to the back of the cafe where I could see the bright kitchen lights.
Without knocking, I opened the back screen door, walked through the quiet empty kitchen, pushed open a swinging door, and stepped into the carpeted dining room. Sitting at a table for four was my friend Zoomer Boomer with a circle of visitors around her. Zoomer looked up and greeted me with a quick and generous smile and a chair was added for me at the table. There were several plates of leftover pie on the table.
Zoomer Boomer’s name was actually Evelyn. She was hired to wash dishes and clean the cafe after hours. Evelyn earned her nickname because she zoomed around the cafe with a cart collecting dirty dishes. I imagine Boomer was added because it rhymed and it just first her. She had a large personality and a booming laugh to match.
I was curious when my college friend, Don, invited me to meet Zoomer at the cafe after it closed. I knew everyone in my hometown of less than 3,000; a lot of them were my relatives. Who did my out-of-town friend know that I didn’t? And why were we going to visit her after hours? It seemed odd.
Zoomer cleaned dishes all day but late at night she owned the cafe. She was the matriarch welcoming her late night visitors. Every night, there was a different group of visitors sitting around the table with Zoomer. Visitors coming in the back door of a closed cafe late at night. On these late night visits, I discovered a hometown I knew nothing about, a social network I was oblivious to. My world and my heart opened up a bit.
Occasionally, a police officer I recognized parked his squad car at the back door and joined us at the table looking for conversation and a piece of pie. Sometimes the officer brought along some troubled soul that was riding along in the squad car. I wanted to know what crime this kid had committed, but I didn’t dare ask. Then, there were Zoomer’s friends Pete and Repeat. But that’s a story I have forgotten except for the laughs we had.
These visits were endlessly interesting and incredibly entertaining. Of course, I returned, to join this group of outsiders around the pie table.
Evelyn died in 2001 at the age of 89. I fondly remember Zoomer’s care and concern for me. She always asked how I was doing. I wish I could have said goodbye to her. She was an remarkable women; an unexpected friend who opened up my heart. Blessed is she among women.
Take it or leave it #16 Be open to unexpected friendships
make peace with uncertainty
When I was in junior high, my family moved to another town so my dad could enroll in graduate school. During this time, my family attended an evangelical church. It was a friendly and welcoming Protestant church community, but it was not the Mennonite Church I was used to. One week, the church sponsored a revival featuring a guest preacher. It was a school night, but my parents brought me along, or rather dragged me along, for this special revival service.
I knew what was coming: the altar call. I experienced many of these in high school and college. The altar call was an invitation at the end of service to make a public commitment to accept Jesus in your life. The congregation would sing verses to a hymn as the minister waited for us to decide.
Sitting in the sanctuary, I noticed that the minister somehow had managed to rig a gigantic chart behind the pulpit which he pulled down during his sermon. This chart, the minister explained, illustrated a sequence of events that would occur with the second coming of Christ: some people would disappear from the planet, others would face a time of terrible tribulation, Jesus would appear riding a chariot with horses, the moon would turn blood red, stars would fall out of the sky, and the sun would turn black. I don’t remember in what order.
The minister wanted to warn us that these events would happen, according to his interpretation of the scriptures, in the next five years With this frightening chart looming in front, he urged us to be ready for the second coming of Jesus in order to escape the tribulation that was about to happen. WHAT? In the next five years? I was horrified. I really wanted to go high school.
After a long service listening to the ministers’s warnings and predictions, I was in a state of panic. Then, the minister gave his altar call. He invited us to walk up to the front to be saved if we were not already saved, or if we needed to be saved again. Were we certain? My sensitive 13 year old brain, already prone to anxiety,was going down a rabbit hole trying to determine if I was certain enough and if I would be ready when Jesus came back. I steeled myself to resist the altar call. With each verse, I felt the pull to walk up to the front for certainty. With each verse I felt less sure. My mind was in a tug-of-war. The altar call seemed to last forever, verse after verse of “Just as I Am,” just kept coming for me.
The service finally ended and I was so relieved to be still sitting in the pew. The congregation then headed to the basement where rows of folding chairs were set up for people to have social conversation and punch and cookies. I sat in my chair with my cookie, frozen with anxiety. It was really challenging for me to have casual social conversation when at any moment Jesus might appear in a chariot and/or the moon turn black.
Well, obviously, the end times did not happen in the five year timeline illustrated by the minister. In fact, I have lived through several memorable predictions of the end of the word. We laughed at December 31, 1999 at midnight, but who wasn’t relieved to wake up somewhat still intact on January 1, 2000? My middle school students were frightened about December 21, 2012. According to the 8th graders, the internet and You-Tube, cataclysmic end of era events were predicted on this date by the Mayan calendar. I recognized this anxiety and I tried to reassure my students.
I learned about the life cycle of a star while teaching middle school science. The minister was right. The sun, when it starts dying in several billion years, will become engorged as its remnants burn out, turn blood red and then burn out a blackened moon.
The minister’s altar call offered me certainty. I would be saved. However, if I responded to one altar call, my teenage brain would feel uncertain again for another one. My adult brain has learned that with the questions of life and the mystery of our end of life, certainty doesn’t stick for me. Instead of seeking certainty, the challenge has become for me to practice my faith smack dab in the midst of uncertainty. Just as I am.
It took me years to make peace with the hymn, “Just as I Am.” I find it soothing now, I listened to Amy Grant sing it this morning:
“Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, O Lamb of God, I come, I come.”
Take it or leave it suggestion #15: make peace with uncertainty
Nature soothes and reassures in the face of uncertainty.
Women play basketball, too
My family lived a block from the college gym, and I spent many nights sitting in the bleachers watching high school and college basketball games. I could hear the crowd roar from the back of our house. March Madness reminds me of those exciting nights sitting with my friends, eating buttered popcorn, cheering for our favorite players, and always hoping our team would win. But the players were all men.
I was surprised when my P.E. teacher, Miss Dahl, invited me to play on a basketball team my senior year at Hillsboro High School. Times were changing for women. This was the first women’s basketball team at H.H.S. By 1972, all U.S. schools receiving federal funds were legally required to offer women and men the same opportunities in sports.
I don’t remember if I understood the legal mandates of Title IX behind this invitation to play basketball, but my friends, Cheryl, Dena and I were pretty excited to play on a basketball team together in a gymnasium.
Cheryl, my best friend since kindergarten, and I already shot baskets after school in her backyard. Now we started practicing drills and learning plays with Coach Dahl and the team in the H.H.S. gymnasium. We even got new team uniforms to wear for our first game. I was # 24. That first season, the H.H.S. Trojans Women’s Basketball team played 6 games with neighboring rural high schools: 2 wins and 4 losses.
The photo below is of my friend Jenny Klauke Koll going for a lay-up.
I thought I was a good enough player, and it helped that I was tall. Each night after the game, I had so much adrenaline that it took hours to fall asleep. I had little experience playing a team sport. I have wondered what kind of player I could have been if I had started playing at a younger age. Like my niece, Ruth, who played basketball for the H.H.S. 25 years later; her team won two consecutive state championships in 1995 and 1996. She was a gifted player. Like my friend Jenny who was recruited to play basketball for the Fighting Irish at Notre Dame (1980 - 1984). She was another gifted player. She started playing on a team in 7th grade.
This is a photo of Jenny flying.
In 1972, the rows of seats in the gymnasium were mostly empty when we played our games, even for home games. No cheerleaders were there to support our team, only a few friends. Surely some parent came to watch us play. I remember a row of our male classmates attending one of our games. I don’t know if they were there to laugh at us or support us. The women’s basketball team just wasn’t take seriously. Yet.
I am proud of being on the first women’s basketball team at my high school. I am proud that I won the award for scoring the most free throws. I am proud of the letter I earned that year.
Last October, a record breaking audience of 55,646 watched Caitlin Clark and her team, the Iowa Hawkeyes, play college basketball. Clark is an amazing player and has tons of awards to prove it. In March, Clark became the all time leading scorer for both men and women NCAA Division 1.
I love to watch Caitlin play. She runs across the court radiating confidence and strength. She sinks those 3 pointers one after another with ease. So far this season, she has made over 162 three pointers. She plays the game in the zone - which to me means she plays from her heart. She’s a gifted player. Fifty years ago, it may not have happened.
Take it or leave it suggestion #14 - Support women in sports
My niece Ruth started playing basketball in first grade. She played on her first team team in sixth grade. Her H.H.S. team won the Kansas state high school basketball championships in 1995 and 1996.
The only photo I could find of me playing basketball. I am playing a game at a Catholic Worker retreat in the early 1990’s.
A shout out to my friend Julie who ran track in high school. This photo was taken between 1977 - 1978. She is another amazing athlete.
How can I keep from dancing?
When I was in high school, the strict Mennonite Brethren church my family attended didn’t allow dancing. There were no wedding dances or high school proms allowed in my teenage years.
Sunday worship at my Mennonite Church always started with the congregation singing two hymns with the choir before the pastor read the scripture. Standing with my family to sing, I was surrounded by soprano, alto, tenor and bass voices, and I learned how to sing in harmony at a very young age. Singing in harmony with a large Mennonite congregation is a magnificent experience, and you feel it in your soul. But we didn’t move with the music. Nope. Well, maybe some toe tapping to keep the correct time. But that was it.
As a youth, I was immersed in music: choirs, choruses, concerts, and piano lessons. Every Wednesday night, all the elementary school students had youth choir practice after Bible study. My mom was an accomplished piano player and teacher. I learned to appreciate music.
In high school, I had a little battery run transistor radio next to my bed. My bedroom was on the second floor and with the door closed no one could hear my radio. On Sunday nights, if I dialed the knob back and forth, I could find a faint signal from Chicago. I would listen to Casey Kasem’s top 40 hits on WLS. It wasn’t the best connection, but I could hear Roberta Flack, The Carpenters, Carole King, Jimmy Cliff, The Bee Gees among others. This Mennonite girl went to Chicago every Sunday night.
A few times, when I was alone, I tried a few dance moves in front of a mirror. It felt awkward and uncomfortable. There wasn’t anyone to show me how to dance.
When I went to my Mennonite Brethren College, I had to sign a statement that I would not dance “while representing the school.” Hmmmm… what about dancing where no one knows me? And that’s how I justified going along with friends one night to dance in Wichita, 60 miles from campus. I felt a lot of guilt about sneaking out, and I had to keep it a secret. My friends and I couldn’t talk about our fun the next day back on campus.
Finally, out on a dance floor in Wichita, Kansas, I fell in love with dancing. I watched the other dancers closely and copied them. I danced all night never taking a break and never stopping for a drink. In fact, I didn’t drink. I was only interested in dancing. This was the beginning of the disco era, so I felt quite comfortable dancing with or without a partner or in a group.
It’s 50 years later, and I still have dancing in my bones. Last week, my husband Bob and I danced at a parish event. It’s amazing to me that I moved to Chicago from Kansas almost 50 years ago. The day after I graduated from my Mennonite College, I followed that faint radio signal all the way to Chicago, and I have lived here ever since. What is the first thing I did when I moved here? This Mennonite girl went dancing.
Take it or leave it suggestion #13: Go dancing
I went to Chicago every Sunday night listening to the radio.
My Mennonite background is always there.
Blessed is my grandmother, Katherine
Katherine Jantzen Prieb
1896 - 1991
My grandmother was a quilter.
When Katherine set up her large quilting frame in her small living room it spread wall to wall and filled the room. I remember squeezing around the quilting frame to watch my grandmother sewing delicate stitches with her rough hands. She sewed together scraps of cloth collected from old dresses to create beautiful quilts. Katherine joined other church women in sewing circles to make quilts for church missions. My grandmother made quilts for all of her grandchildren; presenting each grandchild a quilt when they got married as a wedding gift. I was the lone granddaughter that didn’t get married until I was in my 40’s. She gave up waiting for my wedding day and I finally got mine.
See the photo quilt I made below.
My grandmother was a farmer and a gardener.
Katherine’s hands were rough and thick and embedded with dirt from years of farming. When she moved to town, she grew juicy red strawberries and baked pies with rhubarb from her backyard garden. I was always curious about the clucking chickens laying eggs in the shed next to the garden. I didn’t know anyone else who had chickens in town.
Katherine loved working with soil. See my garden plot below.
Above: Katherine and John Prieb with three of their five children. My dad is the boy in the middle.
My garden plot at Vedgewater Community Gardens
My grandmother collected snapshots.
Katherine had 18 grandchildren; she wrote letters to us and prayed for us. Snapshots of her grandchildren were on display in every room of her house and she would point them out to anyone who came to visit. She would show me photographs of my twin cousins I didn’t know who lived in Alaska and tell me all about them.
My grandmother loved snapshots of her family.
These are my cousins; two sets of twins and I were all born close together. Grandmother cared for one set of twins when their mother, her youngest daughter, died soon after the twin boys were born.
This is one of my favorite snapshots. Katherine, my grandmother is holding my niece also named Katherine. The other two women are my great aunts. These great aunts both lived in the Chicago area at one time.
Katherine loved a table crowded with family.
Katherine’s house was small and slightly crooked and needed some repair. My grandparents raised five children during the depression; my dad told stories of the challenges and disappointments they endured. They worked hard to earn a living. But all that was forgotten when aunts and uncles and cousins gathered together around the table for Easter or Christmas. While my dad and my uncles talked in another room, and the grandchildren played, the food would be prepared in the kitchen by my three aunts, my mom and grandma. When the table was set, everyone gathered around the tables to sing a hymn in harmony before the meal was served.
Katherine was happy when the table was crowded with family.
My grandmother’s Bible.
Katherine was a woman of faith.
The Mennonite church was her center. Her days were filled with church services, Bible study, and sewing circles. Her well-worn and well-used Bible was her guide. She prayed for her family. She asked God’s for help. She believed in prayer. So do I.
Blessed is my grandmother, Katherine. Her prayers for me are still answered.
Take it or leave it suggestion #12 Thank your grandmother for her prayers.
A snapshot
The best photos are snapshots that tell a story. My husband used these colorful bowls to make kugelis, a Lithuanian recipe from the Backis family. The recipe instructs you to grate a massive amount of potatoes and onions. The story I have heard many times since I met Bob’s family is not to grate your finger when making this dish. Kugelis was prepared and served by Bob this year at our Thanksgiving family meal without grated finger. That green bowl on the right belonged to my mom. But that is another story.
Take it or leave it suggestion #11 Take snapshots of your family traditions
My brain loves a good story
My friend invited me to hear Ann Patchett talk about her newest book Tom Lake at a book tour event. It was on a school night and I usually say no to going out after work, but this was an invitation by a good friend to meet a New York Times bestselling author and this time I said yes.
Ann was speaking at Senn High School’s auditorium. Listening to speakers in this kind of large setting can be especially daunting for me. When I have to rely solely on my poor auditory skills, it’s hard for me to track the speaker. I am easily distracted by sounds. I start looking at the windows or the ceilings or down at the floor, a lot.
Afterwards when people are sharing how much they enjoyed the speaker, I realize that I missed a lot of what was said again.
Discussions, poetry readings, plays, lectures, musical lyrics, speakers, readings from the Bible at Mass all require auditory skills. I miss a lot of what is being said all the time. My lack of auditory skills has caused me to often feel inadequate, especially when I was younger. Not so much anymore. I now understand that it has nothing to do with my intellect but more to do with how my brain works. If I catch one or two interesting things offered at a performance or by a speaker, that’s just good enough for me.
But not to worry! Ann Patchett was absolutely wonderful. She walked onto the stage, sat in a comfy chair, smiled and shared stories. I learned forward and listened without effort. I was mesmerized.
Lesson learned: my brain knows how to follow a good story even in a large auditorium and even when I am tired - and Ann is a fabulous storyteller. Thanks for a lovely evening.
Take it or leave it suggestion #10: Understand how your brain works.
This photo below was taken on December 25 in Rogers Park. This angel belonged to my parent’s manger scene and appeared every Christmas. I brought the angel to Chicago with me, and sometimes she still reappears at Christmas. She connects me to past traditions.
Lessons learned from geese
I love Canada geese and have taken many photographs of them. Some say the geese are a nuisance, but I adore their webbed feet and how they waddle when they walk. I admire the line formations geese create when they fly and when they walk across the street.
The car thermometer registered 13 degrees when I spotted the geese near Lake Michigan. I got out of my warm car to take photographs of the geese huddled together in the frigid temperature. Geese will fly away if they feel threatened, so I approached them slowly. I didn’t want to cause the geese to expend the energy they needed to maintain their body temperature. You can see some of the geese stretching their necks, alert to potential risks.
Thirty minutes later, I ran back to my car and blasted the heater to warm up my chilled hands. I was curious how the Canada geese stay warm in this deep freeze. So I went home and Googled it.
Unlike humans, the arteries and veins in a goose are located close enough so that the warm blood flowing away from the heart in the artery will help the blood in the vein before it returns to the heart. To warm up my hands takes more energy because my arteries are required to send the chilled blood all the way back to the my heart to warm up. This amazing adaptation helps keep the Canada geese warm.
Take it or leave it suggestion #9: Learn more about the animals you encounter
Canada Geese are alert to the potential threat. Will the dog chase them?
Life is a banquet
Thanksgiving Day, Chicago Catholic Worker. Ruth is sitting on top step, far right.
I climbed the steps of the steps of the St. Francis Catholic Worker in Chicago’s Uptown neighborhood because a friend invited me to dinner. It was my first visit. He wanted to introduce me to the Catholic Worker Movement.
(Kathleen and Lester, left)
A few minutes after I arrived, I found myself in the kitchen where I met Ruth. Ruth was wearing an apron and waving a spoon as she was cooking dinner. She greeted me warmly and I felt right at home.
When I met Ruth, the Catholic Worker was her home. Ruth along with other Workers offered hospitality, food and shelter to guests. Catholic Workers like to explain they are not offering a service but inviting guests into their homes.
When the dinner was ready and the table set Workers, guests, friends and strangers, a group of about 25, gathered around the crowded dining room table to share a meal. Everyone was welcome to dinner. The food was plentiful and the conversation lively. I felt nourished and wanted to learn more about this place.
It’s hard to adequately describe the impact this visit had on me. I had been thinking about leaving Chicago, but instead I kept going back for dinner at the Worker. Then I started reading about Dorothy Day the founder of the Catholic Worker Movement. I stayed in Chicago and moved to the Uptown neighborhood. Ruth became a very good friend.
What inspired me most about Dorothy Day was her belief that the Divine is present in each person we meet. Each person gives us a glimpse of the Divine. If someone challenges us, we just dig deeper for that glimpse
Dorothy was right. I kept going back for dinner at the Catholic Worker night after night. Stories, laughs, sorrows and feelings were shared and relationships were built around the dining room table. We got to know each other and found compassion. Indeed, I had been invited to a banquet and I was dining with the Divine.
“Heaven is a banquet and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship.”
Dorothy Day
Jimmy
Rosalie
This collection of black and white photographs were taken between the mid 80’s and the mid 90’s at the St. Francis Catholic Worker in Uptown.
Nick and Justina
“The only answer in this life,
to the loneliness
we are all bound to feel,
is community.”
Dorothy Day
(Russell on the left)
Take it or leave it suggestion #8
Read Dorothy Day’s autobiography “The Long Loneliness” again
Practice Waiting
When I was about 12 years old, I bought my first Instamatic Kodak camera with money I earned babysitting the neighbor’s kids. After I took a roll of film, I used a special 5x7 envelope to mail the film cartridge to a company in another state to be developed. Then, I had to wait for what seemed like a really long time, for the prints to be returned, along with new envelopes for my next roll of film.
This camera is almost as old as I am. I bought it with babysitting money when I was a kid and was so excited to start taking photos.
When I moved to Chicago I bought my first 35 mm Pentax camera. After I took a roll of film, I walked to the busy neighborhood camera store near Broadway and Addison to get it developed. The woman behind the counter wrote the pick up date on my receipt. It usually took about a week. It was hard to wait.
Then, I took a photography class and learned how to set up a darkroom and make my own photo prints. It took about two days to develop and print the photos. The first day I developed the film and hung it up to dry. The second day I used an enlarger to print the photos. So quick, I thought.
This summer, traveling to Spain, I used my iPhone to take photos and saw the images instantly. No waiting.
I no longer wait with anticipation to get an envelop of photos in the mail, or to pick up prints at the store, or to turn on the light in the darkroom. Less waiting. I like the instant access to my photos, but I am left feeling that something has been lost.
I took a selfie (with my iPhone) of me holding my Canon digital camera. I can download the photos in minutes.
I printed this photograph from film I developed in my darkroom.
In the darkroom I learned that minutes could feel like hours and hours could feel like minutes. Waiting to turn on the light for that first glimpse of the photograph, the minutes felt like hours. Yet at the end of the day the five hours I spent working in the darkroom felt like minutes. Time had little to do with the clock and more to do with the heart.
I used my iPhone to take this photo of my husband Bob while walking the Camino. It took one second to realize it was one of my favorites.
Take it or leave it suggestion #7: practice waiting
Show unexpected kindness to strangers
This summer my husband Bob and I flew to Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago. The Camino de Santiago offers may paths for pilgrims to walk, all heading to Santiago de Compostela, which according to tradition is the burial place of Saint James. Pilgrims walk each day carrying backpacks and water bottles always looking for the familiar posts with a yellow arrow showing the way of the ancient Camino path which winds through the mountains, villages, and cities of Spain.
Pilgrims have walked the Camino for centuries. Each pilgrim walks for their own reason. Many walk for spiritual direction and prayer.
As Bob and I walked our 100 kilometer Camino path, I felt vulnerable everyday. I was barely able to communicate my needs in Spanish, and my body was pushed to its limits. But in my vulnerability I learned to recognized that each day gifts of grace were always available and always offered.
Several times Bob and I were uncertain of the direction of the Camino path, somehow missing the familiar yellow arrow that showed us the way. Often just at the right moment, someone unexpectedly showed up directing us to turn to the left or turn to the right or both. They were our angels.
It was around 6:00 p.m. at the end of a really rough day walking 16 miles up and down a rugged mountain path. We had already walked an additional two kilometers up a steep hill from the Camino to a small village for our night’s lodging. We were exhausted and without a soul in sight we were uncertain about the location of our reserved lodging. Did we really need to climb yet another rather steep hill before us? Did our Google map directions really lead us to a cow path? When you have already walked 16 miles, another hill is a special kind of hell.
Amazingly, a kind-hearted woman just appeared from a country driveway. She had been checking on the chickens and proudly showed us a beautiful brown egg in the palm of her hand. She noticed our distress and wanted to help. We used gestures and attempted words in Spanish to explain what we needed. Nodding her head, she said something in Spanish that sounded reassuring and motioned for us to follow her. She lead up up the cow path and helped us find our way. Before she left us, she hugged us both and warmly wished us well. We decided she most certainly was an angel and we brushed a few tears from our eyes. I will never forget that little brown egg in the palm of her hand.
That is the Camino…when the unexpected kindness of a stranger feels like a miracle. Immeasurable gifts are given to us every single day. The gift of the Camino is that we notice them.
Take it of Leave it #6 Show unexpected kindness to strangers
Memorize the planets
When I was a student in grade school, there were only nine planets. Kids in school memorized the names of our neighboring planets with fun mnemonics. For example, “My Very Education Mother Just Served Us Noodles” the first letters help us remember: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Our solar system was organized and manageable.
Fast forward a couple of decades and the Hubble telescope starts sending to Earth images of previously unseen galaxies for beyond our imagination. Middle School Science textbooks now inform students that there are billions of suns. No wait, there are billions of galaxies and trillions of billions of suns. Each galaxy can have billions of suns.
I tried explaining to my Middle School students how vast the universe is. They were not impressed, they refused to believe me, and asked how I knew this to be true. I got so much push back that I had to find sources to back up my claim. The students could not fathom billions of galaxies. Who can? When considering the vastness of the galaxies one can feel insignificant. Earth is a mere grain of sand barely seen on the map of the Universe.
My husband reminded me of the Bible passage that describes God counting the number of hairs on our head. She also knows when a sparrow falls to the ground. Look it up, Matthew 10: 29 - 31. The smallest of details are important to the same Creator that created trillions of magnificent suns. We are both magnificently insignificant and significantly magnificent - a sacred juxtaposition.
Walt Whitman writes that one blade of grass can blow your mind. Well, he didn’t write that exactly but it’s close. “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.”
Take it or leave it #5: Memorize the planets.
Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, in the Flint Hills region of Kansas
Climb stairs whenever possible
I groaned looking at the next flight of stairs I had to climb. It’s 7:30 a.m. and I am carrying a heavy briefcase packed with files on one shoulder, a lunch bag on my other shoulder, a shopping bag packed with miscellaneous but important items for teaching in my left hand, and a cup of coffee in my right hand. I was climbing to the third floor at work. “Change your mindset,” I say to myself, and then I start to climb the next flight of stairs.
At work, I climb stairs all day. I climb steps to classrooms on the third floor in one building and then to my office on the third floor in another building. By the end of the day, I feel more resistance with each step and my leg muscles are strained. Sometimes I have to stop to catch my breath. It seems I am in a tug-of-war with gravity.
About 4.5 billion years ago it is hypothesized that gravitational forces caused the Earth to collide with another gigantic celestial body (Theia) which then threw Earth off balance and gave it a 23.5 angle tilt. This tilt is why we are blessed with seasons. Different times of the year we are at different angles from the sun.
Gravity is invisible and we take it for granted. But when you climb steps you can feel this marvelous and powerful force pulling on your body. This amazing force that moves planets, keeps Earth rotating around the sun, gives us seasons, and then also remembers to keep my feet planted on the Earth when I climb steps. While this pull makes climbing a challenge it also makes my life possible.
Take it or leave it suggestion #3: Climb stairs whenever you get the chance and contemplate how the force of gravity makes life possible.
Contemplating the Solstice, June 21, 2023. Because the Earth is tilted at an angle, we enjoy seasons and amazing Chicago summers.
From the third floor window
My office at work is on the third floor and has grand windows that offer glorious views of the church and trees that line the street. I have raised the window screens to get a clear view and take photographs from these windows because that’s what I do. Each season.
Once upon a time - the story goes, a Monsignor lived in this corner room. (Monsignor Kealy was pastor at St. Gertrude from 1936 - 1968.) His photo hangs in the entryway next to the front door. He’s a stranger now, and most pass his photo with hardly a notice. But at one time everyone knew him.
Maybe the Monsignor appreciated the same view of the same trees from the same windows. Maybe he also paused and took a second look at the changing colors of leaves, or the trees announcing the return of Spring, or maybe he noticed the white blankets in winter. Did he understand that each day looking out the window something new is offered?
I imagine us standing side by side looking out the window. Someday I will be a stranger too. But our tree friends will still be there to be admired and to tell a story.
Take it or leave it suggestion #3: Look out windows
Monsignor Kealy
Open your heart
Take it or leave it #2
It was January, and I wanted to take a Titanic photo. “What’s that?” My friend nodded and smiled but had no idea what I was talking about. “You know, when Leo was holding Kate on the bow of the ship and Celine Dion was singing, “My Heart Will Go On” It’s that pose. Okay, it is Lake Michigan and I am standing on a sidewalk on Loyola Campus. But try it anywhere. Raise up the arms, open up your heart and look up to the sky.
That Kansas sky!
On the top the row of
a football stadium.
Photos by Ruth Harder and Bob Backis
Is that message left for me?
When going for walks in Chicago, sometimes I will stop and notice something discarded, maybe a letter, a random piece of paper or an open book, and I’ll pretend it’s a message - a message left for me.
Who left this for me?
When I was a kid walking to my elementary school in the morning, I would often pause to notice a large rock placed in my neighbor’s front yard. For reasons I can’t explain, over the years, I felt a connection to that rock. Even as an adult when I returned to my hometown for visits, I looked for that rock. Then one year, it was gone.
My husband notices restaurants or new businesses and will comment on them as we drive by. He complimented someone on their Christmas lights as we came in the front door. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe the lights were not turned on when I came in the door? I didn’t notice the lights. No apologies, because I noticed something else. Our brains are trained to notice different things.
I am curious about what I notice. In any given moment there are millions of things one can see, smell, hear, taste. We can’t notice everything, so our brain decides what we pay attention to. Why does it select somethings over others? My take it or leave it suggestion: practice noticing what you notice or practice noticing what you don’t notice.
I noticed this grass near Foster Beach while walking with a friend. It’s hard to take a good photograph of grass, but I liked this one.
I noticed this sign and decoration while walking on Glenwood Ave.
Contact Carolyn at photographybycbackis@gmail.com