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Personal Statement #18 My Dear Grandparents: Ma & Pa MarquartThe Sacramental Rites Of Familial Love
March 22, 2009
About seven years ago, I had been visiting a friend, Linda, regarding business matters. She had not mentioned that she possessed psychic abilities. We're having a conversation - but suddenly she goes into a trance-like state and is not herself. She's now wandering about the room, arms flailing near her head, as if she were attempting to ward off threatening bees. I don't know what to make of this. And now Linda is speaking to me - but this is not the Linda that I know - and she will not remember this incident in a few minutes when she regains her normal senses.
I was shocked, of course, at this communication. This was my first contact with the world of psychic-medium transmission; and an unexpected one. I have many friends in the psychic community today, and my grandmothers send messages to me somewhat regularly. I sense their presence in my life, and their strong affection for me... just as they have always given to me, since I was a little boy. I have already said some things about Grandma Becker and her influence in my development. And I have a few things I'd like to say about Grandma Marquart, too.
(1951) This photo reveals the origin of my Indian name: "boy who stands with raised fist" - [smile]
Elizabeth and George Marquart I always knew them as Ma and Pa. Their grown children did not outgrow these terms of endearment; and I, without reason to the contrary, quite naturally, would employ the same. These names make me smile now... and it was never Pa and Ma... but always, in reverential tones, Ma, would be addressed first... see the above photo: even when the positioning sequence would demand otherwise, it's still Ma and Pa [smile]. Now I'm laughing. Don't get the idea that Pa was some kind of pushover. Not hardly. Even when I was a tiny boy, I was never in doubt that Pa was a force, a most substantial person... yet... yet... ha, ha, ha... there was something about Ma... if you were to meet her, you would never forget her... ha, ha, ha... I'll try to explain. Pa was born in Zeeland, ND, located very near the South Dakota border. I would later learn that Zeeland, in the late 1800s, was the end of the railway line in that part of the world for the new settlers. I wish I knew more about it, but Pa's father, Joseph Marquart IV, came to own a large tract of farmland north of Napoleon, ND. Ma was not a local girl. In the early 1900s, as a young teen, her German family, the Kuhns, fled the rising totalitarian forces in Russia. This act of defiance, a vote for personal freedom, would forever mark itself upon Ma's spirit... and, as one in her obit, mine, too.
The Short Menu: Cornflakes at Ma's It is autumn, 1957. I have just entered the first grade, St. Philip's School. 11:45 AM. Time for our l-hour lunch break. But I do not follow the others to the cafeteria. I am now running as fast as I can, my short little legs in most eager motion, as I make my way to Ma's house, just up the street, three blocks away. Ma is waiting for me... she is always so excited to see me... I wonder why...
"What do you want to eat today?" she asks, with her mock tone of enquiring objectivity. She knows what I will say.
"Cornflakes!" my six year-old self responds, quite seriously, but in a singsong voice. "Cornflakes?!" she exclaims with more insincere incredulity. And now she is laughing at me. A certain high-pitched giggle.
(1956) at Ma's house... the boy who loved cornflakes... I need someone to put my shirt collar down, because I have better things to do, you know how it is... and I am patiently waiting for this photo to be over so I can go do them...
Every day we enjoy this ritual. Say the same things every day. And now I am concentrating on my cornflakes... I like them so much... but what's this? this background music... someone is laughing... this high-pitched giggle... this sheer unmixed delight in my presence... I am way too busy eating to really investigate, but the laughing continues... someone is hovering over me... enjoying, exulting in, my mere existence... just so happy... that I am alive.
I can see myself sitting at Ma's kitchen table, the gentle autumn sunlight streaming from the adjacent window. And Ma says: "If you're finished, let's go downstairs, and I will make something for you."
Ma has another kitchen in the basement. I can see the ancient wooden table, can feel the well-worn table covering, must have been in the old farmhouse, before I was born. Ma is making some coffee at the very out-of-date cooking stove. She is intent about her work. It would be a very long time before I would understand the importance, to Ma, and now to me, of what would happen next. A goodly portion of fresh cream is added to the coffee. And sugar. Ma pours this mixture into - not a cup, but - a saucer! I study what Ma does. She dips a piece of her homemade bread into this creamed-coffee, and offers some to me. Then, expertly, with two practised hands, raises the saucer to her lips and sips the coffee. I do this, too. And I can feel Ma's affection, her protective and cherishing doting, for this little sonny-boy. Today I understand. Ma is re-enacting a custom from the old country. This is how people - like those of an exploded planet, Krypton, those of a world no longer existing - once expressed hospitality to each other; once expressed community and familial love to each other, and would enjoy each other's company. I now understand clearly that Ma could not have honored me more. By this sharing of bread and creamed-coffee, taken in a saucer, in the ancient traditional manner, I was being baptized into the fellowship of her most fond, most sacred, memories of familial and societal joy.
Many years later, my mother would comment to me: "Because you were with Ma so much, every day, for some time, during the first grade, she once said that she always thought of you as her very own son!" These words, so long after the fact, are a treasure to me... but, you know... I already knew this... I felt it... I still feel it... I feel it right now... as if Ma were exulting in my existence, this very moment. This sense of now regarding Ma's affection, Ma's gift to me, results, I think, from its penetrating, transformational potency - once received, I could never lose it; moreover, she continues to love me afresh, in my present life, as she has made herself known to me, many times, in recent years.
(1955) My mother, only 24, looks so pretty in this photo.
When God Speaks Through a Grandfather There is something about a Grandfather. Is there a higher office in this world? An early memory regarding Pa is that of my playing on the floor, underfoot, by his large stand-alone radio. You know, the one with the big dials, and, when switched on, the whole thing would light up. I remember playing with the dials, switching the thing on and off, enjoying the lights... Pa never stopped me and my fun... and by this, he told me that I was more important than his radio. Recently, one of my psychic friends said that she was receiving an identifying image from my grandfather... it was the radio! of course, it was Pa, I felt this immediately. That white hair. That wrinkled face. Those tired, soulful eyes. That work-beaten body. Pa's hands had so many wood-slivvers from his carpentry work that he no longer bothered removing them! Such a stoic. I remember his daughter, my aunt, sitting down beside him, exasperated with him, as she removed one after another from his leathery hands.
(1958) up on the roof... with Pa, as he does some repair work... look at that prairie vista... no wonder I love it so.
I have spoken of these ND Lions (Personal Statement #8). And Pa Marquart rests in that hall of fame. But I would say that Pa was of a better strain, better than some of the more neurotic ways of the Becker side of the family. Pa knew how to work, with the best of them... but without making work his god. When a grandfather, especially one of such stature, as Pa, speaks to you, it is like God speaking. I remember an incident when Pa saw something in my attitude that needed correcting, and he took the time to explain to me what I needed to do, and why I needed to do it. This was wonderful. Some of the men in the Becker family were not this way very much... but Pa, for me, became this personification of the Reasoned Response... I sorely needed to see this kind of intellect in action. And I am marveling at this now. I said that teaching from a grandfather is almost like receiving words from God. I am thinking of the story in Genesis which says that God breathed life into Adam. And it's sort of funny... it was almost like that with Pa, as he worked with me. I was so open and receptive to his teaching that, at times, when he gave me an insight, it was like having life breathed directly into me! By this I mean to say that, immediately, my attitude changed - a permanent change, one lasting to this very day. Here's an example. I am 10 or 11 years old. My duties frequently require me to drive a tractor through the middle of town, as I move heavy equipment to a distant field. And what is on my mind? I am worried... what will my school friends, the town kids, think if they see me in work clothes... if they see me having to work, while they have fun, and ride their bikes all over town... they will laugh at me... Well, this is starting to make me laugh now. I am so much like Pa Marquart today, it hurts... ha, ha... but, I still remember that immature little boy's thoughts. And I also remember Pa - somehow he knew what this green, tender one was thinking - I'm sure it was easy to read the anxiety, the rising embarrassment, on my face. And now Pa is sitting me down. He is not harsh with me. I am so young. There is a gentleness in his voice; but, also an unmistakable intensity. He is about to tell me something important... I could not have been more attentive if God himself had appeared to me... maybe he did... as, in my young mind, there was some confusion regarding these two august personages.
I can still feel Pa's fervent soul-energy as he begins to reach out to me, to refashion my thinking with greater enlightenment. I still remember some of his very words: "Wayne... never, ever be ashamed to be seen working. It is an honor to work. You be proud of yourself. Be proud of your work and that you can work. And you will become a good man if you learn to do a good job at whatever you do. And never worry about what others might think about this."
(1970) One of the last photos, one of my last days, as a ND working farmboy. I would be leaving in a short while and this phase of life would suddenly, irretrievably, be over. Actually, as I see myself here, I notice that am no longer a boy. I had changed during the past year, since high school graduation. I remember how strong and energetic I felt in those days. At this point I had been a runner for 5 years and my legs were the most powerful part of my body. At NDSU I would run everywhere, especially, the long half-mile stretch from the dorm to the classroom buildings. It is 10 below zero, and I am running, just for the sheer joy of it, passing everyone, showing off... ha, ha...
Well... I received this message straight from God, you know. And I took it as such. And these words penetrated my deepest Self. And I am laughing now, as I see myself, a short time later - the kid on the tractor, now with-an-attitude... ha, ha. And I began to realize that Pa was right! so right! all of the work I was doing was making something of me... that I was becoming something different than the town kids, some of whom had never worked a day in their frivolous lives... and that no one would ever be able to take this from me. In an instant, I had become like Pa... I had become his son. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
The Girl Next Door Pa, as I understand it, grew up on the farm today owned by Richard Marquart, my cousin. (Personal Statement #20) Later, Pa would have the farm, just south and down the way, on which my mother grew up... and where she and Dad lived their lives, where I grew up. And Ma Kuhn... well, this new immigrant family owned the farm just west, less than a half-mile away, just beyond the trees, from Pa's boyhood home. Pa married this girl next door. Even as a little boy, I always had this sense that they were well matched; and, in the years that I knew them, never noticed even a hint of negativity between them. They would, however, have more than their share of trouble from other sources during their lives. Of course, they suffered through the Great Depression; and the drought years of the 1930s. I remember Ma telling me of the financial difficulties - said she would collect dried cowpies to be used as fuel to heat their house during the brutal ND winters (the same uninsulated house I speak of in P.S. #1). But, by far, the greatest tragedy in their lives, one of horrific proportions, was the loss they suffered during the diphtheria plague of the 1920s. In just a few days, Ma and Pa lost four sons! all of their sons! and one daughter, Agnes! ... these children would have been my dear uncles, and my aunt... and I feel the loss, too. Ma and Pa never really recovered from this. They went on to have five daughters, whom they loved - but, the loss of their first children, for Ma, especially, was more than devastating. And while Ma's heart would later sing for me, she was also never far from tears. I could sense this, even as a tiny child. And, no doubt, I was the son, to both of them, that they never had.
And yet... my travels in life have only served to highlight how special these two were. I still stand in awe of Elizabeth and George Marquart. But all of this is more than a grandson's sentimental journey into the past. In P.S. #17, I spoke to you about the rising dark forces of socialism in our country; ascendent and threatening elements, which, if allowed free rein, as F.A. Hayek famously explained to us, will inevitably lead to totalitarianism. If you build it, they will come... This kind of oppression is such an old story in history. So predictable. So formulaic. So deterministic. Yet, so many of us today are so naive in terms of the grand lessons of the past. How we all need, the whole country needs, people like Elizabeth and George Marquart. Ma Kuhn, and millions like her, fled the ominous dark clouds, the gathering storm, of European socialism. These people were not deceived. They were not naive. Their perspicacity and prescience, reluctantly, led them to abandon long-established farms, fields, orchards, and houses; sold them, sometimes for pennies on the dollar, or ruble... left it all... why? because they were not impressed with the breakdown of the rule of law; with the now-arbitrary decisions of judges who made contract law worthless; with the dimunition of property rights; with confiscatory economic polices of oppressive government; with the incessant lies from officials-as-thugs, rendering it impossible to live their lives, and to do business, with any reasonable degree of certitude and foreseeable outcome. People like Elizabeth and George Marquart just had no sense of humor about these things at all. Because it was so clear in their minds... the dots had all been connected so well... and they could see, from dire personal experience, where such policies, of the latest generalissimo, inevitably will take us... take us down that dark road... leading us straight to Hayek's serfdom. While many of these dangers are not very real in the minds of many Americans today, they were very real to that young girl, Elizabeth Kuhn. Ma once told me how she grieved, every day she grieved, at the loss of her ancestral homeland... and yet, she would have done it all again, in a heartbeat, to breathe the air of freedom in America. And, because the threats and dangers of socialism were so clearly defined in her mind - because of the dark things that she had personally seen as a young girl - her way of speaking to you was extremely frank, and no-nonsense... she would tell you exactly what she thought... and she couldn't care less if you disagreed... she would laugh at you if you started to spew nonsense... because, in her view, there were some things not open to negotiation... some things to which toleration did not extend, and rightly so. Yes, Ma was very politically incorrect... that was her beauty and her genius... she would often respond in an in-your-face-and-up-yours-and-stick-it-where-the-sun-don't-shine attitude to anyone who would dare to speak the insipid drivel of socialism... because she had seen her entire world destroyed by this kind of darkness... and she would never, ever forget... and she would take a bullet before she would ever go back to the Animal Farm of serfdom. I couldn't agree more. And I hope I can rise to the stature of Ma's courage in these matters.
(May, 1964) We had lost Pa the previous year; Ma continued alone for another 20 years (P.S. #20). But she would soon move to a small trailer, no longer able to bear the memories of her departed soulmate in the beautiful house and gardens that he had built. Ma grieved at Pa's funeral as I've never seen anyone grieve, her usual tuff-bird persona totally shattered... This photo is one of my favorites, always makes me smile. I am nearly 13. I had just returned from Bismarck, having been selected by my school as representative at a young scholars conference held at the state capitol building, where I delivered a prepared address. I was very proud of myself... ha, ha... as you can see from my expression... hey, I even had a blue ribbon on my chest... but what I really like about this photo is the set of Ma's jaw - so characteristic of her... this person of will power... and now, I see the beginnings of that same set of the jaw in my young and tender self... I had become her son... (postscript: the kitchen window, behind Ma, is the one through which the autumn sunlight streamed onto the little boy and his cornflakes)
And we all - the whole country - need to be more like Ma in this way... and how we need to rid ourselves of this poisonous "political correctness" that is rotting us from the inside. Our vacuous and vapid culture has drifted far downstream, not only from the wisdom of the Founding Fathers, but even that of our grandparents, most of whom understood the essence of Life and knew what was Real. We live in dangerous times. Every couple of generations, it seems, the battle to maintain freedoms must be waged, again... and my sense of history tells me that, once more, we are in one of those precarious times... right now. What would happen, to the world, if the real America - that place of personal freedoms; that place where once the sacred dignity of simply being human was codified as law - what if there were no longer such a place, no safe haven, for future Elizabeth Kuhns to flee to? That is a most troubling thought, my friends.
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