HEADING NORTH

Along the Mississippi River

My last evening in Clinton we went to the Mississippi River because I wanted to see it before I left town.  And I was recovered enough that I even cared about such things.  We spent an hour watching a tug boat with 15 barges maneuver under the highway bridge and through the raised railroad bridge as it headed down the river.  The angle made it tricky – at least that’s the way it appeared to us on the shore – to miss the bridge supports while making a turn and missing the shore on the other side of the railroad bridge.               

Today, Monday, is new territory for me – new roads, new scenery, and Mother’s only remaining relatives.  We’ve met once or twice more than ten years ago, but Mother was with me then and she carried the conversation.  I was only along for the ride then.  Now I am on my own.

I spent the morning driving the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River to Minnesota. The high bluffs are unique to this part of the river.  I was often travelling with the trains as they made their way along the river.  It felt much like travelling the Columbia River on the way to Oregon:  a big river and long trains.  The only difference is the dams; here they are lower, smaller, less concrete, no powerhouses or fish ladders.  I must have passed at least six dams, stopping at one just to check it out and watch a small boat go through the locks.  I never lose my fascination for boats and lock.

The winding two-lane road wandered above the river and through tiny town with populations less than 1000.  There was little traffic and the day was gorgeous.  After following another vehicle for several miles I finally decided to pass him.  When I pulled into the left lane and was even with the other car, I spotted a long-necked goose strolling across the highway in my lane.  A car was approaching me in the far distance but I had plenty of room.  I said a couple of bad words at the goose, the goose took no notice, and I had visions of feathers and legs and blood and guts scattered across the hood of the car.  I swerved to the left, hoping to miss the goose, the goose flapped his wings a couple of times, took a couple of quick hops, and continued strolling across the highway. Tragedy averted for both me and the goose.

I pulled into Hastings about 1:00 with a plan to visit Mother’s cousin Walter at his nursing home.  He passed his 100^th birthday in April.  He and Mother always talked about the fact that he was six weeks older than she was.  I was a little concerned about introducing myself to him and making sure he understood who I was.  I certainly didn’t expect him to recognize me after such a long time.  When I was a block from the nursing home, Richard (Walter’s nephew) called to say he was planning to go with me to visit Walter. His call was the gift of the afternoon. Richard and I have met, the last time being at Mother’s 90^th birthday in Salem, Oregon. We met at Perkins, had a bit of lunch, chatted about our relatives, then went together to see Walter.  We’ve all certainly aged in the last ten years but it’s good we still recognize one another.  Walter was having a good afternoon so conversation was good.  He let me know he had been waiting a very long time for me to get there!!  At times he confused me with Mother, which I expected, but it was o.k.  At other times he remembered I used to be in the food business and asked about my brothers.  He drifted in and out of sleep, but it was more like he was gathering his thoughts for the next thing he wanted to say.  His humor was still there, and he didn’t mind saying he didn’t understand something I said.  I am sure I talked a bit fast for him.  When I left I held his hand, gave him a hug, and said, “This is from Dorothy.”  He seemed to like that.

Richard and I drove on to Caroline’s, Walter’s daughter, for an evening of visiting and dinner.  My only time of meeting Caroline was back in the 1980’s when Dad and Mother and I, and Fred and Sarah, made a motorhome trip across the country.  We shared roasted salmon, cowboy beans, corn on the cob, and angel food cake smothered in fresh strawberries.  And we shared family stories, for hours.  Richard has researched the family history for the last ten or twelve years, has traveled to Germany to find our roots there, and has compiled the information and photos in a book he calls a “work in progress.”  We talked together about how to manage the boxes of family photos and letters that are in my garage.  Now that I have his book I can mesh my information with his.  We all have pieces of the puzzle, but between us we believe we have a complete picture.  But we are also painfully aware we should have asked more questions about our families.  We could have, but we didn’t.  When you’re young you don’t care about such things.  Perhaps it’s the curse of our later years:  we should have asked, we didn’t ask, and now it’s too late.  Mother was the last of the Kloepping family, so the name is gone – except in the stories Richard and I write and the gravestones we have visited.

At the end of the night, we agreed we have to get together more often – but it’s always a matter of long distances.  We determined the three of us are second cousins so we have to stay in touch. Since Caroline and Richard are both in the St. Paul area, it makes more sense for me to travel, then we can easily meet together.  I suspect Richard and I will be corresponding by email during the year as I begin to dig through the archives in my garage.  He is certainly doing his part with the family history; I have to do mine.

On Tuesday morning I found my way to the Walker Art Museum, only to discover my favorite blue horse painting is not on display right now.  So I enjoyed the outdoor sculpture garden and am ready to head for Fargo, North Dakota.