Elders: Our Bridge to the Past & Connectors to the Future

Not my Mayme. A photo borrowed from Wix. Whose Mayme is she, I wonder?

Let me tell you about Mayme. She was an elder in my life who taught me kindness, cleanliness, calmness and to love life on the farm. It's likely memories of Mayme that drew me away from city living and back to the quiet of the country.

My mom and I met Mayme when I was three or four years old. We were living in a tarpaper shack without running water or electricity about a mile from her place outside of Deer River, Minnesota. My parents were trying their hand as hippie participants in the "Back to the Land Movement" of the early 1970s. Sometimes I thought living in the country was fun and adventurous, but I often missed the extended family in St. Cloud we'd be away from during these grow-your-own escapades. At that time, my parents were young with big dreams and wild ideas.

We heard from another neighbor that Mayme, an immigrant from Finland, sold milk and eggs off her farm. We could use both, so Mom and I walked down the road to meet her.

I remember that day well. The sun was shining, the sky was crisp and blue and wild flowers bloomed in the ditches. I recall approaching Mayme's pretty little place where hollyhocks in a riot of colorful blooms edged a white rail fence and framed a carefully mowed lawn. A tidy gravel driveway led to a small barn, a milk house and a low slung pig barn. To the north, was a little one and a half story post war home with a double cement step-up leading to the kitchen door. Past the house lay a green rolling pasture with a few Brown Swiss off in the distance, and a field of hay and woods to the east. To the west, just outside the kitchen window, were two rows of raspberries perfectly spaced and weeded, a plum tree, some apple trees, and a row of pines to buffer her house from the road. Just below the plum tree was a swing set for the grand kids. Between the pasture and the house, I could see Mayme’s clothes line with woolen undergarments, a few white button down shirts and some socks on display. Next to the clothesline was the most beautiful and tidy garden I had ever seen. There wasn't a weed to be found, everything was in perfect rows, and there was Mayme, white hair and skin, deep with wrinkles. She saw Mom and I walking towards her and with the agility of a young woman, pushed herself up off her knees and greeted us with a warm smile.

Talk about meant to be! I think all of our hearts melted in that moment. This would have been one of those scenes in the movies where lights twinkle, magic dust swirls around and an operatic voice, slightly ghostly but somehow full of joy plays in the background. We were meant to find each other that day. It was clear to all of us.

Mayme invited us into the kitchen for a cup of Finnish coffee and a donut. She had just made the donuts that morning.

Inside, we were transported back to the 1940s. Everything was exactly as it was when the house had been built. There was a pristine white enameled wood cook stove on one wall, a white and sparkly red vintage dinette set under a window, and along the other two walls, a refrigerator and bank of cabinets with linoleum covered counters. Like her farm, her kitchen was immaculate. She had a place for everything and everything was in its place. I loved it and felt instantly at home somehow. Of course, I was looking at it through the lens of freshly made donuts!

Mayme poured my mom a cup of strong black coffee and gave me warm milk with a splash of coffee on top. I had never had coffee before and loved how it made me feel so grown up. I appreciated the nod of respect I hadn’t even earned.

That day we shared basic stories. We learned that Mayme’s family was originally from Finland and she had arrived with her parents as a young teen. They ended up in South Dakota where her father had been a preacher and farmer. Mayme and her husband bought the farm in Deer River shortly after they married. Sadly, her husband died suddenly when she was in her late forties or early fifties leaving Mayme and her growing kids to run the farm. During World War II, when her husband was sent to Europe to fight, Mayme and the kids were on their own then too. By the time we met her, there were lots of adult children and grandchildren who'd come to put up hay or help her with the hog butchering, but most of the work was Mayme’s. She kept busy on the farm and certainly made it look easy.

Mayme was strong with powerful milking hands. She was tall and lean, probably close to six feet, and moved with a careful, slow pace that only the most confident possessed. She did nothing in haste, but everything was done efficiently at the right time - in the right order. She wore those white button down shirts I had seen on her clothes line and slacks (as pants for women were called back then) giving her a more manly assured stature. She'd have my mom set her hair in pincurls on Saturday night and Sunday she'd wear a dress to church, but on the farm, Mayme preferred comfort and clothing more suited to work. Mayme was confident in everything she did - it was clear she knew herself.

I'm sure my mother was more help than I, but I recall being part of the chores. I loved when she'd call the cows in for milking and holler to them in Finnish or sing out over the pasture, "Hey Boss. Come-ah, come-ah, come-ah!" I'd help her guide the cows into the barn and learned of the intimate knowledge she shared with each of them. She knew just who would walk in easy and who needed a sweet gentle guide or a tap on the backside. The barn cats would all come running when the cows came in because they knew they'd get a treat. Mayme milked by hand from a stool into a pail. I'd try, but quickly realized my hands would need to grow and gain strength if I were to have any luck filling a pail to the top. Mayme had been milking her whole life - a seasoned pro to my fledgling inexperience. I'd help fill the milk cans and watch as Mayme would splash a bit of milk into the pans on the barn floor for the cats. Every night she’d bring in a jar of milk, and in the morning, the cream would be ready to skim off the top to make butter - voita - she told me. There were lots of Finish words in my life back then, but only a couple remain as ghosts floating across these memories.

Mayme's milk house was part processing kitchen where she could sterilize and wash big equipment or do her laundry in the huge cement sinks and counters. It was always cool in there, but through another door, Mayme had a wood-fired sauna for bathing. Mom and I would join her a couple times a week for a Finnish bath.

When late summer and fall came, we picked plums and raspberries, and harvested vegetables from the garden. Mayme ate mostly from her farm buying only flour and sugar and a few other items each week. She could cook and bake anything! She’d make roast beef, pork chops or chicken with potatoes and roasted carrots. For breakfast she’d make blueberry pancakes or puuroa, the oatmeal or Cream of Wheat she’d serve with a big dollop of brown sugar and a splash of fresh cream. The best thing about Mayme’s kitchen for me was that there was always dessert. Every lunch and supper was finished with a sweet cake, pastry or cookie. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven being able to satisfy both my hunger and my little girl sweet tooth!

Mayme became a most valuable mentor for me and my Mom. I knew from the moment I met her, I wanted to be just like her. I adored her kindness and generosity. My mom and I melted under her love and support. We started visiting Mayme daily. Despite one chore after another throughout the day, Mayme was well-tuned to hospitality. She always made time for my mother and I to visit and be nurtured with her care.

Mayme would remain a fixture in our lives, a surrogate mother and grandmother long after we'd moved onto new adventures. Mom and I continued to visit her in Deer River, and once we had settled in St. Cloud, Mayme would come stay with us for a few days at a time here and there.

Mayme died when I was twenty-one. At her funeral I learned about the Finnish Death Wail. In the cemetery as her body was lowered in a simple wooden coffin into her grave, the women began to wail and moan and howl. This sound, unlike anything I had ever heard, dissonant and jarring frightened me at first, but once I realized its intention, the wails brought comfort. At Mayme’s funeral we were allowed our emotions and expected to bear witness. I wasn’t alone in loving Mayme. There was a collective voice reflecting the pain and sadness that this loss brought to the community. Mayme was a woman worthy of deep honor; worthy of that collective wail. 

Mayme, an elder in my life, was a bridge to knowledge, a bridge to times past, and a bridge to a way of life and skillset, a future, I'd adopt and emulate.

Who's the Mayme in your life? I'd love to hear your stories.

Sending love from the farm,

Sarah

PS - The Farm Store is OPEN DAILY 9-6 N1972 420th St. Maiden Rock, WI