Smalltown SoDak

Yale, SD where my grandma, the Queen of Yale, reigned until Jan 2019 at the age of 97, leaving this world across the gravel block from where she entered. Yale is just one of my small-town hometowns, definitely my favorite, although Cavour leaves memories.

Question 6: Where did I come from?

I grew up on the rural plains of eastern South Dakota. It’s still one of my favorite places on earth. It’s the land of don’t give a shit of what people think, be as you are, do as you do, say as you may say, it’s just whatever is, goes, ya know? And that’s what I love about it. Raw sincerity is all that you get. It’s as refreshing as Margaret’s vodka water lime she’s not afraid to double for me.

Back it up, back it up…

Abbreviated glimpse: One set of maternal great-grandparents arrived from Germany, planted themselves on the wide open Prairie for whatever reason one decides to just keep venturing west into the great unknown at that time, then bore my maternal grandfather, Gerhard Johann-Heinrich.

So my grandpa was German and my maternal grandmother’s family came from Norway. They were both born first generation in America, grew up on the open Plains, during a time of dust bowls and grasshopper storms, outhouses then movie houses, kerosene stoves to stove tops.

I wanted to know that feeling, and I wanted to get to know more about my grandma, and I wanted to surprise her with a story of her life in her favorite South Dakota magazine. That part didn’t work out unfortunately, and while the denial hurt, I learned something else that day. A friend’s diagnosis of throat cancer can throw a white flag of perspective.

I drove to one of my favorite redneck bars, then called the Redline now known as the Redzone, in one of my favorite hometowns, Yale. My uncle was there and maybe an aunt or two, my mom and stepdad, me, and I was kind of pissy. I admitted the story hadn’t been accepted, and my uncle replied, “Well, then print it yourself.”

Duh.

The project took off to another level of learning and fun, taking photos, designing layouts, using creative skills that would give my grandma the attention she deserved. Story submissions can get chopped up, and I didn’t want that to happen, already putting in the necessary time and edits to properly depict my grandma as she deserved, so instead, a personal approach was quite a relief. The rejection served as fuel, but if not for my uncle’s quick advice, the Queen of Yale would be impatiently waiting on my hard drive.

It’s now in print and a PDF, maybe I'll attempt to upload the Queen of Yale here to share with those who missed out on a lovely story about a young girl growing old, until at 97 almost 98 years of life, she released her last breath.

My mom took over the seated awake position around midnight, so glad it was her time to be there when her mother exhaled one last time. An aunt was in the recliner on the other side of Grandma’s hospice bed. Three more aunts, a couple uncles, cousin and his family, all draping ourselves wherever we may lay, it was a few days of saying good bye to granny in her own living room, in the house her husband built, across the road from where she was born in a tiny home in 1921.

Everything about her was fun, and sweet, and cute, and loving, I don’t remember Grandma Ormalyn being any other way. Ormalyn. Her mother made it up, combined two names of twins she played with as a child: Norman and Lynn.

The Queen of Yale found the eyes of those who enjoy a feel-good story about a lovely woman who endured hard times that did not define her. She found love in life and stood up for herself and other women along the way, in her own way, more action than words. No, she didn’t face a major conflict or battle, nor did she invent something, nor make a name in the history books. She was an above average woman of life on the Prairie.

It feels good to know Grandma is honored in her small hometown she loved, where she entered this world, and where she exited this world, same portal of rural footage.

My grandparents’ role in my life was substantial. We only lived in that same town together, one gravel block away, for a few years, unfortunately during my post-parents’ divorce, hot-off-the-press, plus hormones-raging, drinking-became-normal, sneaking-out-on-Saturday-night years.

But we were never more than a 20-minute drive no matter which other town or part of the rural route in between, we were always close.

My paternal grandparents were also within driving range but I know nothing about their family history. They lived in the land of Laura Ingalls Wilder, which made those visits special. That and because I really enjoyed time with them, made possible one week a summer guaranteed and then any seemed-to-be-Sunday afternoon we would drive over and visit, holidays too.

The summer week was my saving grace. I loved everything about those weeklong stays in DeSmet, especially the cute boys at the swimming pool. And I can’t deny Bingo fun on Saturday nights at the Elks with the old people. Ice cream at the Frosty owned by my uncle and new aunt, more cousins. A Laura Ingalls Wilder passion play usually punctuated our last night’s stay, never to forget the drives through the countryside where my sister and I would whisper from the back seat to Grandma who we knew couldn’t hear us while Grandpa’s shoulders raised in a muted chuckle. She wasn’t dumb, flapped her saggy-skinned arm at us with some of the prettiest fingers I’d ever seen on an old lady.

The desperate desire for a brown thoroughbred horse with a black mane and tail I would name Beret, inspired by Prince no doubt, brought forth by the small TV in my grandparents’ living room where I could watch stations beyond the basic 3, 5 and 9 and PBS, bring on MTV, combined with the country side drives where horses dotted the setting of green pastures and blue skies.

Aging sure triggers a deeper appreciation of ancestral stories, but history is interesting at any stage of life, whether you’re living it or thinking you remember. Memories don’t lack in my head, whether they’re true or not, I’ll hold on to them. Pictures I’ve created of my ancestors will remain because that’s what I know and until I find something different, then that’s what is.

My mother and her sisters often go on road trips to other states to track down pieces of their mother’s history, but certain bits remain a mystery. It’s been fun love for them, creating memories. They make their parents smile from the heavens.

We moved around from town to town until we ended up on my stepdad’s sheep farm slash welding business. I preferred town to country as a teen, but now, it’s all nourishing. My kids LOVE going to “the farm,” a house in the country, surrounded by tree strips, pastures and cropland, a church across the oil road we walk to every other Christmas Eve when all the step families get together.

A playground of old park equipment from town heading to the dump got sidetracked and landed in the tree clearing next to the shop across the driveway from the century-old farmhouse. It’s like Disney Land for the local colony kids. Therapy for the grandkids who return and swing and roast marsh mellows and run across the road in the moonlight to find a gravestone in the cemetery behind the church, and return with a name and date, where Grandma or Grandpa can usually track the deceased’s history.

My kids and I make the 4.5-hour drive east across the state quite often; it’s worth it. They would agree. Whether we’re spending a week on the farm, or joining my dad at Wheel Jam in June, or holidays with the family, or hunting weekends in the fall, or whichever random hair band from the 80’s graces the stage at the State Fair, I always find a good time because there’s always a good time to be found. That’s how they roll, the peeps from my hometown, open arms always, flashback to the Journey concert. Last one was Foreigner, they rocked it.

Rural lifestyle seems to be dwindling as a whole, but I’m grateful my triangle of small towns survives. They are my refuge from fast-paced living. My hometowns remind me of authenticity; sometimes visits feel more like therapy.