by Elsie Mooers
Hulda was my mother’s sister. Just three years older than my mother, Esther, they were very close as children. They played together, danced together as they grew older, worked together at the Spalding Hotel when in their late teens, and, when they married, lived within a few miles of each other all their lives.
Naturally then, my relationship with my Aunt Hulda was a close one. My earliest recollection of Aunt Hulda was of her driving her Model A Ford and riding in the back seat with several cousins. She was probably one of the first women drivers on the Cuyuna Range in the early 20’s. We were going down the road just this side of Deerwood where there was always a rough patch and sink hole when, going over a bump, the door opened and out I bounced. I say bounced because I really did. But I picked myself up, none the worse for wear, the car backed up and picked me up and we continued on our way. There was no thought of taking me to the Doctor to see if I was OK. It would have taken more than that little mishap to go to the Doctor in those days.
We often went for rides in that Ford, usually out to the home farm in the township of Glory which was twelve miles South of Aitkin. My Grandparents, the Kjeil Nickanders, had homesteaded there in the 1880’s and had raised their family of fourteen children there. Even as a child, I loved to go out there and, as we drove along, we got a running commentary on who lived where, the horrendous state of the roads, was that a high-bush Cranberry bush back there? There’s smoke coming out of Per Ecklund’s chimney; he must be cooking his morning coffee.
As we got older, we went fishing quite often at Rabbit Lake. We would fish, swim, hang from trees and drop into the water. It seemed that Hulda’s four kids and my sister and I could all swim well enough so no one worried about us. When enough fish had been caught, Hulda would clean them, get out a battered old frying pan, throw some bacon grease in it, fry the fish, and we would have a meal fit for a King! Nothing ever tasted so good unless it was her fried salt pork with new potatoes and milk gravy when we would come home from a berry-picking trip.
I would often stop at Hulda’s on my way home from school. She lived in Lakeview at that time. There was always a great smell of fresh bread baking, a pie on the table, or donuts frying. She had been a cook and baker in a lumber camp for awhile in her younger days and she was tops. It seemed like she was always washing clothes too. The washing machine was a Maytag and it stood in a little panty off the kitchen until it was rolled near the sink when it was time to wash. I could always count on her if I needed something. Uncle Gust, her husband, worked in the underground mines and he worked year-round. I once needed a book-keeping notebook that cost fifty cents and I got the money from Hulda I remember. I suppose my mother didn’t have it to give me.
When I tell my children about those hard times in the 1930’s, they do not, I think, believe me.
I will never forget the berry-picking we did. I was not particularly fond of berry-picking; there were too many mosquitoes and it was too hot in the woods for me, but my mother and Hulda dearly loved to pick berries! They picked berries of all kinds, cranberries, blueberries, chokecherries, black berries, whatever was in season. They picked berries for years and days on end but every once in awhile Hulda would call and say,”I saw some black raspberries on Rider’s field this morning. How about if we go?” We always took a lunch, whether it was a short trip or a long one. That was the most fun of the day. Always, we had home-made rye bread, boiled eggs, home-made donuts or some other goodies. Between my mother, who was also a great cook, and Hulda, we ate the best woodland lunches that were ever devised. She taught me to nibble just a little bit on a wintergreen plant, along with a boiled egg, and salt and pepper of course. Woe it was if we forgot the salt and pepper! I can see those pine woods so clearly; sitting there amid the Blueberry vines, the Wintergreen vines, the moss, listening to the birds and the forest and talking, always talking, about the old days when they were young and on the farm. How lucky I am to have those memories.
Even as Hulda grew very old, we would drive along the red mining roads if we were out for a ride and if we saw a few berries, Hulda would get out and pick them. Even if she picked a cup-full, she made jelly when she got home.
Aunt Hulda was a wonderful dancer. She was a large women in her younger days but light as a feather when she was dancing. I was taught the schottische and polka and waltz as soon as I could walk. Dancing, to the Nickanders, especially to Hulda and Esther, was as necessary as air to breathe. We used to go to dances at the Finn Hall, and whenever a Humbo or Mazurka would be played, Hulda always danced with me. Even when she was in her nineties, if she was visiting, I would put on a Humbo and we would dance. She always led and I felt as graceful as a gazelle as we danced to “Jenta och jag” in the living room. She and my mother went to the Senior Citizen’s dances. They were held here, in Brainerd, Pillager, wherever, and they both danced well into their ninties. Hulda was selective in her partners though; she only danced with good dancers…..some of the men were good dancers but she didn’t think they smelled good enough to dance with. She would say, “I don’t think they ever take a bath or wash their underwear”. (Aunt Hulda’s nightgown hung outdoors to air every day!)
Aunt Hulda was an avid reader. In her later years, she loved reading Harlequin romances. I would pick them up at garage sales and got so I would only buy the older ones for her because, she said, “the newer ones are just all full of sex and why should I read about that when I can’t have any?” I still think I should be picking up Harlequin Romances for her when I see them at garage sales.
During those later years of her life, we were perhaps closer than ever for, as my mother became increasingly forgetful, we could still get in the car and go to Hulda’s and have a cup of coffee and conversation. We would often go for rides together as well, and always the talk was of the old days and of the people they had grown up with and “remember when we climbed out of the window and went dancing at Ecklunds?” We would sit at her kitchen table with that beautiful black Monarch Stove behind us, the smell of egg