Becoming A Nonagenarian: An Autobiography Geraldine M. Winkler

By Geraldine M. Winkler

This compelling autobiography is a delightful and humorous read. It shows how faith, love and parental nurturing helped a skinny, very ordinary little girl through early obstacles, and led her to an extraordinarily satisfying life. Born during the Great Depression, she was raised in poverty, though she never recognized it as such. She faced death twice by age eight, but never feared she would die. When she was nine, she was uprooted from the only home she had ever known but was able to adapt to the new circumstances. She treated life as an adventure with her name written all over it.

The author's ability to cope and her positive attitude were inherited from her parents and forebears. Her grandparents immigrated to America to find the "Promised Land," but instead the land they found was hard and dry, and the work to make it arable was even harder. The author also added her grandmother-in-law's story, which was carefully handwritten in a journal beginning in 1875. Their experiences after coming as pioneers to the west coast were astonishing.

But this book mainly chronicles the author's childhood, how she met the man of her dreams, losing him for a time, but passionately coming together again. This began a lifetime of living, loving, and laughing, on their way to becoming nonagenarians. Now all of her lofty childhood dreams have been fulfilled and she is ready to share her wonderful life with other readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098312497

Book preview

Becoming A Nonagenarian

Copyright © 2020 by Geraldine M. Winkler

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author

ISBN: 978-1-09831-248-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09831-249-7

Printed in USA

Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

The Pioneers

CHAPTER TWO

A Child is Born

CHAPTER THREE

Growing New Roots

CHAPTER FOUR

Missing and Kissing

CHAPTER FIVE

We’re in the Army Now

CHAPTER SIX

New Beginnings

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Cottage with Water Features

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thirty Gallons of Peas

CHAPTER NINE

Moving On

CHAPTER TEN

The Gas Wouldn’t Pass

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Twice Told Tales

CHAPTER TWELVE

Covenant Living

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Nonagenarian Milestone

PREFACE

Books, including dictionaries, newspapers, stories, words that are new to me--how I love them all! For the first 60 years of my life I proclaimed that ‘love’ as a fact, until a dear relative, who was also an English teacher, gently told me I was using the term ‘love’ improperly; informing me that you cannot ‘love’ an inanimate object. Her explanation made sense, but somehow the words ‘like’ and ‘enjoy’ do not express my great appreciation of a well-chosen word or a well written book. Along the way, I also found much satisfaction in writing, as well as reading. This new pursuit involved long letters to friends and relatives, writing poetry, and much later in life, a desire to write an abbreviated version of my life story, even though I cannot even approximate the excellence I admire in other authors.

I mulled over this thought in my mind for years, wishing the desire would go away, which it largely had. Then one day, at the end of a church service, I was singled out of the congregation by a visiting lay-person, whom I did not know, who said she had a prophetic word for me. I will share with you a few of those words that I knew had to be from God.

...You have a lot that needs to be passed on to the next generation...your job is not done...The Lord sees the things that are on your heart...dreams that you have. And He says, ‘I care about those dreams’…The fruit of the seeds that God has allowed you to plant...are coming, and it is great. You feel like, ‘Oh but God, my time is past’...and He says, ‘No, you still have amazing things to share. Your words are precious and valuable. It is not time to stop. It is just the beginning.’

Wow! I felt in my heart that this ‘word’ was to encourage me to write my story. At my advanced age can I possibly do this? I don’t know, but with His help I will make the attempt, knowing that Unless the Lord had been my help, My soul would soon have settled in silence. (Psalm 94:17) NKJV

I began this venture with the idea that this would be an autobiography. As I re-read the finished work however, I wonder if it could be labeled a love story? I will let the readers decide.

My family includes two siblings, four extraordinary children, nine talented grandchildren, and seven adorable great-grandchildren that I would love to talk about, but a litany of their attributes and achievements, although of great interest to me, may not be of interest to my readers at large. Accordingly, in this book I have put the emphasis on my background, and the memories and experiences my husband and I have encountered along the pathway of life; both the sorrows and joys, which have given me a purpose for being.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A huge contribution to the writing of my life story was the affirmation and help I received from our daughter. She agreed to be my editor after I began to write; gently suggesting a rephrasing here, a small deletion there, and pointing out places where clarification might be needed or typing errors were found. Above all she was my encourager. When I felt I had nothing interesting to say or couldn’t remember events or dates clearly and would have abandoned the project completely, she coaxed me on with uplifting words. When I couldn’t find any time to type and had nothing for her to edit for months at a time, she never scolded or pressured me. Her confidence in my ability to write this accounting of my life and the value she placed on a finished book are what spurred me on.

As the book neared completion, I found I had to lean on her more. I had no idea of all that was involved in working with photos, and what was necessary to prepare a book for the publishing process. Both she and her husband offered invaluable assistance with those issues, assuring there would be a book for you to read, plus a few pictures. Both of them have my enduring thanks for all their help in bringing this project to its conclusion.

And my highest appreciation, respect, and endless gratitude go to my husband Richard, who also gave me his strong support throughout this project. Our life together has been a great love story and that is my inspiration for this undertaking. Details are private, but I will say that his love was always the wind beneath my wings. I felt Richard’s affection every time he fixed our breakfast and/or lunch, washed dishes, made the bed, and went on errands so that I had more time to work on my manuscript. He often asked, What can I do to help? Before I even started this book, I asked if he would be with me during this endeavor. I reminded him that both of us have busy lives, so that writing even a short book could take years. His answer was a firm yes then, and he’s kept his word. "Thank you, My Love.

CHAPTER ONE

The Pioneers

It was a dark and stormy night, the kind that often was the opening line to 19th-century mystery novels. But this stormy night was only too personal, when a loud thump awoke me from my sleep and brought the mystery right into our own home. With my heart beating wildly, I opened my eyes and stared with fear into our dark bedroom. The dimly lighted bedside clock told me it was 4:30 am. I then heard the noise more clearly—it sounded like a knock on a window or wall somewhere in the house. Goosebumps crept over my body as I awakened my husband and sent him to investigate what I suspected must be an intruder. I felt somewhat comforted as I heard my husband padding about the house in his slippers doing a thorough search. About ten minutes later I heard a door open at the far end of the house, followed by an earsplitting, terrifying scream, then a loud crash, and I froze in my bed… But wait, I am far ahead of my timeline and will have to finish this episode in a later chapter, where it belongs.

I am a full-blooded Swedish-American. All of my great-grandparents were born in Sweden, as well as three of my four grandparents. On my father’s side of the family, my grandfather, Lawrence (Lars) Eric Erickson, was born in Sweden in 1868. In 1885 Lars became eligible for the enforced military training that was required in Sweden, but his religious beliefs precluded military service. Instead he applied for a permit to emigrate to America, to join several of his friends that had already made this journey. In 1888, he traveled steerage (the section of a ship with lowest fares and inferior accommodations) to America. After going through the immigration station at Ellis Island, he traveled to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where he made contact with other Swedes seeking their fortunes in the USA.

My paternal grandmother, Augusta Anna Boberg, was also born in Sweden, in the year 1866, and she, too, later crossed the Atlantic on a steamer bound for America. She had been a schoolteacher in Sweden, as well as a governess. Upon arrival in New York, she also was held at Ellis Island, as were all immigrants at that time, and then made her way to the Milwaukee area. She learned English by taking jobs as a domestic in wealthy homes, where she became familiar with American ways. She re-met Lars Erickson, whom she had known in Sweden, at the Swedish Covenant Church in Milwaukee. They were married six months later in early 1894, and both of them became naturalized citizens in 1896. During this time in Wisconsin, their family increased to include three daughters, and on April 6, 1904, finally a boy, Eric William Erickson, was born. Eric became my much loved father, when I was born twenty-six years later.

While living in Milwaukee my Grandfather Lars, heard reports of the wonderful land of opportunity that was available out West; about the rich, fertile soil that produced abundant crops and the tales of temperate weather where, it was reported, the sun shone every day. There were brochures that advertised cheap acreage for sale in California; so on the strength of this information, Lars purchased forty acres, sight unseen, in what was known as the Hilmar Colony. This land was located in the Turlock/Hilmar area on Hultberg Road, in the Northern San Joaquin Valley.

On my mother’s side of the family, Anders Olofsson was born in Sweden in 1824, and married Lena Jonsdotter. They had three children in Sweden, before coming to the United States in 1853. He settled his family in Dixon, Illinois, and Americanized his name to Andrew Olson. Another seven children were born here in America--their tenth and last child was my maternal grandfather, John Olson, who was born on February 14, 1864. In Sweden at that time, it was customary for the sons to take the first name of their fathers and add ‘son’ to it to create a new last name, generation after generation. The daughters added the word ‘dotter’ to their fathers name in the same manner. Notice this in the first sentence of this paragraph.

My Grandpa, John Olson, eventually moved to Nebraska, where he met Ellen Johnson, who was born in Sweden. They married in 1886 and settled on a farm in Knox County, Nebraska, near Wausa, where they began a large family of nine children, though their first child died shortly after birth. My mother, Opal Evelyn Olson, their ninth child, was born on August 27, 1904.

In 1910, my father’s family, the Lars Ericksons, decided that the time was right to move to the West. They packed their possessions and boarded a train headed for Seattle, Washington, where they then embarked on one of the President Line ships going to San Francisco. From there they took a train to the San Joaquin Valley the next morning, and arrived in Turlock on a hot, August afternoon. They reunited with some old family friends from Milwaukee, who had preceded them by a few years to this Eden? Then it was time to go out to see for the first time and take possession of the farmland they had bought earlier, while living in Milwaukee.

In 1911, my mother’s family, the John Olsons, moved from Nebraska to a farm about seven miles west of Turlock. There they eked out an arduous living from the dry, unyielding soil. With ten hungry mouths to fill, it was always a chore to keep the family fed but living on a farm made the difficult possible. Chickens provided eggs and meat, Grandma Ellen had a vegetable garden and Grandpa spent much time fishing in the San Joaquin River, where the catfish and shad, a large, bony but tasty food fish, were plentiful in those days. The fish and freshly dug potatoes were a staple in their diet. Grandpa Olson’s one concession to their lean food budget was to always have some pork on hand. Usually they could only afford a chunk of salted pork, which was mostly fat, from which Grandma would make a tasty gravy to serve over almost anything—usually potatoes, mush, or any form of bread.

Life certainly was not easy for these early immigrants. They found that their surroundings were quite unlike what the brochures had so glowingly described. There had been no mention of the hard-packed, arid land and strong winds that blew sand and dust. Irrigation ditches had to be dug to water the dry, thirsty land, outbuildings needed to be built to accommodate the livestock and poultry, and equipment must be purchased to cultivate the soil. I remember my Aunt Miriam (‘Mernie’, to us) used to tell me how many inches of sand would collect on the inside windowsills after each sandstorm, and how discouraging it was to attempt to keep a clean house. It is well known that the Swedes highly value cleanliness, but stubbornness and perseverance were also characteristics of those first settlers; they didn’t give up easily. The mainstays of those pioneers were family values, their church and faith in God, and the fellowship they had with their mainly Portuguese, German, and Scandinavian neighbors. They aided each other during births, illnesses, deaths, harvests and in so many other ways. They embraced and were enriched by their different cultures and depended on one another for encouragement and support during those early days.

My future husband’s maternal grandmother, Rhoda Augusta Davis (who was called ‘Gustie’ by friends and family), was also a true pioneer in America. Her family originally came from England in the 1600’s and settled in the New England area; many of them eventually migrated to Massachusetts. Shortly after she married a handsome young man, Theodore Walter Crosby, Gustie and her new husband began an extraordinary journey from Massachusetts to Northern California, which grandmother Crosby put in journal form. I will include her words here, just as she wrote them over one hundred forty-five years ago. As you read her extraordinary account in Hewing Our Way I hope you will better appreciate the trials and perseverance of our ancestors.

HEWING OUR WAY

Journal by Gustie Crosby

If everyone had our experience, there would be no use in writing this; but I feel sure that ours, (there are two of us) has been a little different from the usual marry-and-go-to-housekeeping experience which we see in everyday life, and different, too, from the story-book lovers who have their hardships and hair-breadth excapes (sic) before the happy knot is tied, and who forever and after sail smoothly on the Sea of Life, with never a trouble or care to mar their heavenly bliss. What I am about to tell you is true; too true, it seemed at times. I often wished it might prove a dream and that I would awake and find myself once more at home, as we always call the scenes of our childhood, no matter how long or how far we are away.

Walter and I were married in 1875 and after a few weeks left the old Bay State* and came to California. How calmly we can write the words left home but the reality—ah me! Only those who have gone through the ordeal know the heart-rendings and the tearing asunder of all the ties the heart holds most dear; no not all, for our life’s chosen companion is with us till death do us part to take the place of father, mother, sister and brother! *Massachusetts

With mother’s last words, keep up good courage ringing in our ears, we sped on our journey across the continent. Of that journey, which is a common one now, I will say but little. We enjoyed it hugely after the first day and night. A young man who had been to California before was our acquaintance. Oh, how homesick we all were the first night! I think we all cried—I know of two who did; but with daylight and new scenes and new faces to take up our attention we soon regained our usual elasticity of spirits. I think it is those who are left behind that suffer the most; there is an aching void which cannot be satisfied, a vacant place at the table which no one can fill except the absent one.

We reached San Francisco without delay or accident and, after stopping awhile to rest and see the sights in that semi-tropical city, took our way to one of the thinly settled northern counties of the State, where lived an old acquaintance of my mother’s who had come by way of the Isthmus twenty years before, and had lived in fear of the hostile Indians for several years until the whites were sufficient in number to cause fear on the other side. Not having means to buy a place, we took up one hundred and sixty acres of Government land under the pre-emption title. All the choicest land was taken before our arrival, so we took the best we could get of what was left; it was Hobson’s choice, that or none. Then our romantic hardships began.

How different was the realization of our dreams of a home in the Golden State from our anticipations! I had imagined a tiny white cottage in the suburbs of some town or city, with flowers about the door, tidy little rooms, a shining stove and a smiling wife inside to welcome the tired husband at night. All this came to pass, only instead of the suburbs of town it was the suburbs of the jumping off place! The white was the natural white of spruce lumber which had never heard of a saw-mill. Rough was no name for the country! Nature was there in all her grandeur. I cannot describe the feeling of awe which came over me when first I went to our home which was to be. There was no road, nothing but a cattle trail over the steep hills, in and out among the grand old spruces and pines, which had been growing, nobody knows how long. We had a little bay mare which Walter, my husband, had worked for. I, being of the weaker sex, rode, of course, while my other half went afoot. Our claim was about a mile and a half from the valley road and it was the last half of the trail which was the worst. Not being much used except by cattle, the bushes met overhead in many places and it was very annoying to have one’s hat pulled off by a little twig or branch and left dangling in the air. Some places were so steep I would have to cling to the mane of the horse whilst going up the pitch (incline) to keep from falling off backwards. In descending, I had almost to lie on my back to keep from going over her head.

The first thing to do, of course, was to build a house, or rather a cabin,