Tablets of the Missing

Tablets of the Missing in Florence, Italy.  A stone exists here to commemorate the service of Flight Officer Raymond Christensen of the 417th Night Fighter Squadron, whose body was never recovered after his plane went down between Corsica and Italy on the night of May 13, 1944.

The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Max Ortmeier

This is one of the first antique photos I ever saw - at least since I got hooked on genealogy 20+ years ago.  It was in a box of things my mother-in-law gave us.  It had been in her family for some time, the bride being a distant relative.

The wedding was between Maximilian "Max" Ortmeier and Elizabeth Schaefers, and occurred on 04 Jun 1912 in Polo, Hand County, South Dakota.  I could look at this photo all day - the detail available in the scanned version is incredible.  The cars, the clothes, the faces... and the home!  I don't know who owns the lovely home, but I would be thrilled to live there, with the wrap-around porch and beautiful Victorian trim!

In looking at the faces, I can't help but wonder which ones are closely related to us.  What a job it would be to attempt to identify everyone!

Max Ortmeier was born 19 Nov 1880 in Westphalia, Germany, the son of Ferdinand Ortmeier and Maria Luening.  His bride was the former Elizabeth Schaefers, born 11 Aug 1890 near Orient, South Dakota, to August Schaefers and his wife Anna Schmeiding.  Max came to South Dakota with a friend in a covered wagon, and took a homestead in nearby Hyde County, but later obtained a farm in Hand county, where they lived out the remainder of their lives.

The children of this union were Vincent, Raymond, Agnes, John, Mary, William, Bernard, Richard, and James.  Elizabeth died in 1953, and Max in 1974, and both are buried in the cemetery of the church where they were married.

A letter from Raymond Christensen

Note:  The following is a letter from my great-uncle Raymond Christensen to Mr. Bauman of State Farm Insurance of Minneapolis, where Raymond worked before enlisting in World War II.  Raymond was a radar operator in the 417th Night Fighter Squadron, one of the most dangerous jobs a soldier could have.  This letter was written while he was stationed in North Africa, and he was killed months later.  Many thanks to my cousins for sharing it.


417th Night Fighter Squadron
A.P.O. 525, C/O Postmaster,
New York City, N.Y.

Dear Mr. Bauman: -

True to form Uncle Sammy doesn't want us boys to get bored or stale by staying in one spot.  From a social point of view I don't know why he picked North Africa for me.  Otherwise it is mildly interesting.  We've only lost a few boys, so I feel quite optimistic about a long life as yet.  I've got quite a bit of faith in my pilot and we get along as well as anybody could with me.    We've got to have perfect teamwork to live out this blessed war, so we pay as much attention in our teaming up as we would to getting married - probably more.  In this case "until death do us part" doesn't seem to lend any humor to the situation whatever.  It's a good sport going up in the black of the night and scaring bad little Nazis, just like when we were kids, only the Nazis don't scare any to d------ easy.
England was a good host - in most cases too friendly to soldiers..... It's quite a shock to the boys to come over here (North Africa) and have these lovely French African girls ignore them completely.  It's a fact, the girls here don't smoke - I never saw one intoxicated, and I never saw one flirt on the street.  It isn't all a difference in language either, however, I will admit it is a handicap to not be able to converse.  Oddly enough as few of these people speak English as there are of us who speak French.
The architecture here is quite modern looking and the streets quite wide.  The poorer class of natives inhabit the older parts of the city, but they are off limits to Army personnel.  One couldn't possibly imagine the sights in one of these areas.  There are Arabs lying in the street in the blazing sun with flies all over him.  He is unwashed, ragged, no one bothers him, he is left to finish his sciesta [sic] as he sees fit.  No sight disturbs the calm and steady movement of pedestrians.  Either a man is just lying around or he has an objective.  There seems to be a singleness of purpose like an ant- an utter lack of imagination or interest in events around about.  There is every type of uniform and insignia from all the allied countries, jeeps - cars- trucks - donkeys with huge loads or carts ridden by natives - horses - oxen hitched to all types of odd vehicles.  The better class arab in flowing gown and turban, veiled women - quite a number of civilian whites and me.  A hell of a mess if I ever saw one.
The Red Cross has started and is operating several very nice clubs, some for officers and some for the enlisted men.  They offer a varied program from speech classes to dancing - a swell place to kill a few hours and certainly an oasis for me out here.  A credit to the organization.
We are on American rations now and have our own kitchen.  Until now we have always lived with the British Air Force.  They can't get the food that the Americans do get and of course prepare it in their own style.  Whether it was good or not made little difference an American wouldn't approve it.  It is good, though, to get a bit of canned fruit.  In England grapes sold for $5.00 a pound and no tinned fruits - very poor peaches were 50 cents a piece.  Clothing was rationed unmercifully.  Little do the U.S. people know what rationing is, much less war.  I've only had a sample and that wasn't good.  Some of the events here that never get back to the U. S. would make your flesh crawl.
The food situation is better here - there are loads of good grapes - tomatoes - peppers, etc. and of course being French, plenty of wine and champaign.  The latter is about $2.00 a quart.  As in England the boys still pay the black market $10.00 a quart for Scotch.
We aren't allowed to buy any food or fruit in town so the Red Cross has snack bars for the boys.  All our food has to be approved before we get it.  And so much for Africa.
I finally got my discharge and appointment to Flight Officer.  Aside from a financial gain it's not too exciting but one more step - also a gaudy uniform.  The best to you and the Co.

Ray

A Brush with Stardom…

Lawrence Welk

Except it was well before stardom hit Lawrence Welk.  As a young man, he and his band traveled throughout North Dakota and eastern South Dakota playing for dances, and one of those jobs was at Cottonwood Lake, near Redfield, South Dakota, when he was just 17. One night, he asked 19-year-old Mary Joyce out on a date.  After that date, he told Mary she was too old for him, so asked her 15-year-old sister Ag out instead!  She went out with him a few times, but eventually declined his requests as his breath was terrible!

There are a few things about this story that don’t line up perfectly – Mary and Ag’s ages would make the year 1916, but Welk would have been only 13 then.  Perhaps it was a few years later – but Mary was married in 1920, so it would likely have been around 1919.  This story came from uncle Jimmy Yost, about 2002, through his nephew Brian.

Mary (left) and Agnes Joyce

Holiday Meals

If I sit quietly and block out the real world, I can remember vivid snippets of holiday dinners at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Thinking back to our arrival at their home, I can still smell the aromas of some wonderful things cooking in the oven, and hear the rattling of the pressure cooker control.  I can see the pink bowl on the table, always filled with something really, really good; I can see plates with slices of different pies on the buffet.  I see a pretty pink popcorn cake that was destined to be munched on all afternoon, long after dinner was gone and everyone had thought they were full.  No matter the holiday, it was always a full and delicious meal, and lots of good company and conversation.

Now that I have a fair number of years doing Grandma's job, it occurred to me that I probably never told Grandma how much I enjoyed and appreciated all those fantastic meals - all the potato peeling, the cooking, the baking, the trips to the grocery store, all the money they spent, all the cleaning poor Grandpa had to do in preparation... and they probably had no idea that they were making such comforting and lasting memories.

A Passion for Mechanics

The year was about 1917, and the place was rural Beadle county, South Dakota, and the Will Knutz family was going for a ride in the new car!  But first, photos had to be taken.  People piled in and out of the vehicle, in various configurations, until it was finally time to take a spin.  For little Bill "Willie" Knutz, sandwiched in the back seat between his uncle Delbert and Aunt Lulu, and behind his brother Howard, this was a life changing event.

Bill told the story of when he was just a lad, and the car needed repair.  Will took the car to a mechanic in Huron, and as the man worked on it, Bill watched his every move.  The mechanic finally noticed, and invited young Bill to take a look under the hood, and took the time to explain all the parts to him and what they did.  He was fascinated at how it all worked together, and from that point on, Bill was deeply interested in mechanics.

As a young man, Bill worked as a farm hand.  He told of many cars that he had bought and sold, and he tinkered with them all.  Only one got the best of him; he told how it sat in the barn for months while he worked on it, and he never did get it running.

Over the years, Bill used that mechanical ability to fix just about anything that needed fixing; they never had the money to just replace things, so you could argue that it was out of necessity. But I think otherwise - when he would get our attention as children, he'd take us to his basement workshop and show us whatever he had apart at that moment, and how it worked, in detail.  Then he'd fix it.  And I suspect he would have fixed things regardless of his financial condition, because on that day in the mechanic's shop long ago, he'd found his passion.

Vintage Recipes

I just finished transcribing recipes out of a charming old recipe book, which my grandfather purchased from the U. S. Department of Agriculture in 1957.  He gave it to my mother when she got married that year.

Anyone who knows my mom will not be surprised that nearly 60 years later, the book is still in fantastic condition!  My grandmother was a cook; but cooking was not among my mom's interests. As a matter of fact, I remember coming home from junior high one day, and meeting my brother as he arrived home from grade school.  A strange smell greeted us as we walked in the door - it almost smelled like... brownies!  And it was.  They were awesome - and it's a good thing that we enjoyed it, because that was the only time it happened!

While not a natural-born cook, Mom did crank out a few things from her kitchen that were especially good.  She made a casserole with mixed vegetables, meatballs, onions, cubed potatoes, and cream of celery soup sauce that was fantastic. I always loved that aroma coming from the kitchen.  And once in awhile she'd make a black cherry jello salad with raw apples and walnuts in it, which was also a welcome sight at the dinner table.

One of the things I noticed in these old recipes was "table fat" as an ingredient.  I was not able to figure out exactly what this refers to.  Some suggestions were fat trimmed from meat, or lard.  As I transcribed, I noticed that "table fat" was an ingredient in some of the cookies and cakes, so I doubt it was meat fat.  I also noticed that butter was conspicuously absent.  Perhaps "table fat" refers to butter, lard or margarine.

I hope you enjoy perusing the recipes from this old book - you can find them here.  There are some old stand-bys, as well as recipes I'd probably never cook (tongue, for instance), but it was fun to see what was served up on the dinner tables of the 1950s.