“June a rare month as well as providing many rare days” from the June 19, 1979 Door County Advocate
By Grace Samuelson
June a rare month as well as providing many rare days
By Grace Samuelson
“What is so rare as a day in June?” That selection from James Russell Lowell’s “Vision of Sir Launfal” was one of the many “pieces” we memorized in school, when this grandmother was a girl. Then it was an important part of entertainment, in those days without radio or television.
Those well-remembered pieces that we spoke at school programs or Friday afternoon Literary Society meetings helped to instill in us a love of poetry. The picture study classes gave us an understanding of the great masters, and we learned music appreciation in singing class. I remember that we learned a great deal of German music, and then when World War I broke, suddenly we weren’t allowed to sing “The Blue Danube”, or “My Heart’s in the Highlands.” We struggled with the difficult “Marseillaise,” since France was our ally. I remember too, being in a home talent play at that time, and as part of the finale, three girls: Agnes Fax, Joyce Otis, and I were representative of Belgian refugees, dressed in black cheesecloth dresses, and scarfs over our heads. We all sang lustily: “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
But June brings back memories too. June is a favorite because it evokes thoughts of old fashioned things. There are so many of the old-fashioned flowers, which remain dear to our hearts. The cherry blossoms and apple blossoms are through blooming, but though we’ve seen those blossoms every year since many of the big orchards were first planted, each year the sight of that misty white bloom, set off with the blanket of gold dandelions like a carpet beneath, bring just as big a thrill. The fragrance of the lilacs always brings to mind the perfume Miss Minor wore when I was in third grade, and my first grade teacher. Miss Colignon’s talcum.
Then the bridal wreath sends out its white petaled sprays; June “pineys” bloom and roses outdo themselves. There are lovely named varieties now, but we used to have the bushes with the many pink flowers and myriads of sharp thorns. And we would gather the wild roses to bring home to our mothers: beautiful, and so cherished. Our back yard had loads of forget-me-nots and in the east side of the house the wild flower garden my mother had transplanted, carrying roots of trillium, mayflowers, jack in the pulpits, yellow and blue violets and others in pails of black dirt from the cottage at Clark’s Lake.
Way back in those days almost every parlor piano was graced with a long linen scarf, trimmed with crocheted medallions. On our piano there were bisque statuettes of Ruth and Boaz, some family photographs, and the covered rose-bowl, which held the potpourri of rose petals, the recipe of which was handed down through the family. It took lots of rose petals, some spices, and orris root powder, but the fragrance lingered for years.
I recall reading, with awe, that in the Balkans, where the rose petals were gathered to create attar of roses, those petals had to be gathered at darkest night. The workers couldn’t begin to pick till 1 a.m. and had to stop at two. They said 40 percent of the fragrance disappeared with the light of day. My grandmother had a string of beads that Great Aunt Effie had sent her from California. They were made of rose petals; I remember they were black in color with a gold bead strung between each black one. They had a lovely fragrance, too. Grandma used to wear a knitted lace collar on her long black dress, and the black beads showed up well against the white.
The honeysuckles in bloom drew butterflies and bumblebees, and when the daisies bloomed in the vacant fields near our house we made daisy chains, and stripped the petals to learn if “he loves me, he loves me not.” Dandelions held under your chin would tell you whether or not you liked butter. (Who didn’t?). We slipped the hollow stems of the dandelions inside one another, and made chains to wear around our necks, or as bracelets. The seed pods from the box of elders made lovely “pincher” glasses, and, we thought, gave us a dignified air.
June bugs could be a bother, and when the “Green Bay flies” (really may-flies) came they covered the store windows down town, under the lights, and the sidewalks were so full of them they crunched under your feet. People gathered them in tin cans, to use for fish bait. If a spider dropped down near you, spinning his web, you knew he had a message: usually there was a letter coming. We didn’t collect spiders, but we did try to collect butterflies or moths, and in the evenings we would try to capture the lightning bugs in pint jars. Then if you took the jar into your bedroom you could see them flash their little lights in the dark. The vines that covered the ell part of the front porch grew large green leaves, and created privacy. Often in hot weather we’d bring our quilts down and sleep out there. The only problem that there were big green or brown worms on the vines. I suppose that was what caused my nightmare. My sisters claimed I woke up yelling. “Hurrah! He’s got green whiskers at last!”
June is a commemorating month: commencement exercises for many phases of education: kindergarten, Junior High, High School, Technical School, College, and University. Then we have the June Jubilee, Flag Day, Father’s Day, first day of summer, and Mid-summer night’s observance by some, (supposedly the night the fairies appear, as in Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream.”) June is always a big month for weddings, showers, and anniversaries. Poets rhyme June with moon, croon, and honeymoon. Birds are mating; building nests. The cardinals and sparrows come to the feeder, and we’d like to chase the brassy grackles away. The orioles and a robin love the oranges we put out, and we enjoy watching. Bird watching is free! The cardinal has a nest in one of our trees, and the orioles nearby. And mama duck parades her 12 ducklings in flotilla formation. What a disciplinarian she is! Just one squawk, and the errant baby is kept in line: go bobbing over the waves or skimming along in still water, and with a mysterious series of quacks and maneuvers she teaches them not to go astray, and dip food from the water. By fall they will all be entirely independent. She is a marvelous example of mothering.
This is vacation time; picnic time though both may be curtailed this year by the gasoline shortage. The old song went: “Can’t go to Heaven in a limousine, cause the Lord don’t sell no gasoline.” Well, picnics in the back yard can be fun, too. I remember the Sunday School picnics we used to go to. Seems to me some of them were on top of Gussie Lawrence’s hill. We carried our jugs of lemonade, the crocks of potato salad tied up in dish towels, boiled ham sandwiches on homemade bread, devil’s food and angel food cakes, and then we were treated to ice-cream cones (the Poulos brothers’ cake-cones), which were dished up by generous “scoopers.” One-legged races, tug of war, and baseball, when they even let the girls play a little. We considered it a celebration second only to the Fourth of July.
Door county fish boils are known far and wide. Better Homes and Gardens and National Geographic have pictured them. Once, in the thirties, the Depression years, we went to a family reunion at Stoney Creek, where the branches of the Samuelsson, Fellows, Trodahl, and Johnson families had a big fish boil, the first I’d ever seen. I have a snapshot of the group. Not many of us left now.
The flag day I remember most was not observed on the 14th because it rained, and was held the next day. I was through teaching at Bethlehem, and took the train home, stopping off in Washington D.C. to see Stanley on the way. His friend met me, as Stanley had Marine Honor Guard Duty for Flag Day ceremony at the Capitol. That was a thrill, and an impressive sight. I like to fly the flag every day, when weather permits, and I do need a new flag. Ours is in tatters. Those terrific winds we had around Memorial Day are responsible for its condition. The American Legion and the Amvets are having a flag-burning ceremony, which is how I disposed of the old one. Love of flag and country were drilled into us from first grade on, and displaying the flag is one way we can show it.
There is never quite as much fuss made over Father on his day as for mother. But Dad’s day has a spirit of its own. The day of observance came late in my father’s life, but I think we girls paid tribute to him in other ways besides the gifts he got as he was older. He was a unique person; strict, though lovable. His nautical experience as a youth helped steer us on the right course. His precepts: honesty, industriousness, and friendliness have carried us through a lifetime. We were very lucky.
Neighborliness is very evident in June. Those who have beautifully kept lawns and gardens are often out to talk and share with others. We benefit from the lovely surroundings, enjoy the visits and the activities. My girlhood neighbors were wonderful, too; I recall them with much affection. You remember all the good things. Not just the Lady Baltimore cakes, or coffee kuchens and rhubarb pies brought over on occasion. But the helping hand; the tolerance with our noise when we were allowed to play out after supper: “Pum pum pullaway.” and “Auntie, auntie OVER!” Being included in a birthday party, when we weren’t as old as the birthday girl or her guests. Watching a neighbor sharpen the butcher knife on a crock, before she cut thick slices of fresh bread for her daughter’s friends. Calling to each other as we picked over berries, or snapped beans and podded peas on the porch. Tea parties, staying overnight, or being invited for a meal. Running errands.
Although I didn’t realize it then, we had many serendipities — unexpected happenings. As a little girl, I knew I was lucky: having a week’s vacation on Uncle Sam’s farm. A chance to help graze the cows and to ride on his shetland ponies! To go camping with the camp fire girls when I was old enough — and now serendipities happen often. Wonderful friends and family: gifts of books, friends providing rides to church and meetings. Relatives and friends’ visits. Letters. A view of the bay. Truly lucky.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
[https://sites.rootsweb.com/~wipgs/PGS/PGSSAMUELSONFamilyOct2010.htm includes an anecdote attributed from “e-mail family memories contributed by Chris ELONICH (25 Oct 2010).” The anecdote is included in the biographical entry for Grace’s husband Stanley, under “22. Stanley Gordon SAMUELSON”. Chris Elonich, reflecting on it, noted that Grace would have said “A serendipity” concerning the circumstances of her body’s internment.]
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