Saturday, December 15, 2007

Happy Holidays from Linnea, Psyche, Jesse, with Memories of Ed at the Golden Gate

Christmas Greetings 2007

Dear Friends and Family,

It is hard to write this year’s letter without the help of my first reader, editor, proofreader, best friend, and life partner. Ed’s death on June 2 utterly changed my life. The adjustment is ongoing. He lives in my thoughts and memories every day. We were blessed with 30 wonderful years together. I haven’t yet figured out what’s next. I have been busier than ever, which is in some ways a blessing.

We had a couple of trips before Ed became too ill to travel, with two days in Santa Fe in January and a lovely week at Ixtapan de la Sal, a spa south of Mexico City in February. Psyche came at Easter, and Julia and Michael came in May. I was touched that all seven of the living children came for the memorial mass in June.

In late June, I went to ALA in Washington, and to my high school class reunion in Newberry. In July I visited John and Karen Nystrom in Ft. Collins, Colorado, and in August spent a long weekend with Psyche in San Francisco. At the end of September, I returned to Michigan, where my cousin Mary Ann and I organized a family reunion at the little church on the hill where my grandfather, John Hendrickson, had been pastor from 1904-1911, and where he and many other relatives, including several great grandparents, all four grandparents, and my parents are buried.

I have continued to work on genealogy. Perusing old Swedish church records and discovering names and facts has helped me feel connected to those who have gone before. I’ve also scanned many old family photos, some unidentified, which can be found at

November took me to Tucson, where I reconnected with old friends and attended a children’s literature conference, and to San Francisco, where Jesse and I spent a week with Psyche, including Thanksgiving at the Point Reyes youth hostel. Psyche and Jesse will be here for Christmas.

Jesse continues to make his living as a free-lance artist. He comes over now and then to cook dinner for me (and do his laundry). His art can be seen at:

Psyche continues in her job with Hellman and Friedman in San Francisco, and she also volunteers in the emergency ward of San Francisco General Hospital.

I enjoy my half-time job as elementary school librarian, or as I like to say, the job I’m paid to do half-time. Another teacher, Susan Fuller, has been renting part of the guesthouse since fall, and it is great to have company and someone to look after the animals when I go away. I still have one sheep, three chickens, bees, two cats, and Bert, the dog. I planted some tulip and crocus bulbs the other day, just before several days of rain and snow, so I am hoping to see flowers in springtime. Life is still good, although greatly changed. Every day is a challenge, a mix of tears and joy.

When I drove to Tucson along I-10 this fall, I recalled how I had driven that road for the first time, 36 years ago, to a new life in Arizona. I remember being so excited at the first sight of a yucca blooming somewhere in New Mexico, that I stopped to take a picture. Five years later, in 1976, I drove back along that same road on my way to State College, where I would meet Ed. I cried all the way to Las Cruces, sad that my Arizona life had come to an end. I didn’t know what was waiting for me in State College. This fall I also cried on that road, alone once more. The thirty years with Ed seem to have passed in a flash, like the yuccas briefly glimpsed through the windshield. Perhaps my life will fit into thirds, the first third before Ed, the second third with him, and the third third, should I have that long, as only God knows.

Finally, two poems, the first, by Emily Dickinson, the second by me.

After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Cereal in the Morning

You always made the hot cereal in the morning

I can almost smell it now,

The oatmeal or the cream of wheat

Sifting into the boiling water

Ready when I came out

Perhaps already slightly cold.

“Ah, cream of wheat,” I’d say

Your spoon clinking in the bowl as you finished yours.

God’s blessings on all of us, as we continue on our journeys into the unknown.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Family Reunion September 30. 2007

Members of the Olson-Hendrickson-Erickson-Bergquist-Peterson-Arrowood families gathered on September 30, 2007 at the Bethlehem Covenant Church in Palestine, Stephenson, Michigan, to which our common families originally belonged, to share a meal, memories, and photos. The group photo turned out rather blurry, alas.

Here is a bit of family history:

John Hendrickson departed from Östra Åmtervik, Sweden together with his sister Greta and her husband Lars Magnus Bergquist in 1882. John Hendrickson later sent for his parents Maria and Henrik, and Bergquists and Hendricksons both settled in the rural community of Palestine, near Stephenson (Menominee County), Michigan. On that same ship was Johanna Katrina (wife of Johannes Olson) from Nordmark, Värmland and their younger children, Anna, Andrew, Hulda, William, and the infant Oscar. The Olson family eventually settled in Negaunee, Michigan and later in Ironwood, Michigan.

The marriage of Hulda and Pastor John Hendrickson in 1893 united the families of the Bergquists, Hendricksons, and John Olsons. John Hendrickson served the Humboldt Park Covenant Church in Chicago, was an itinerant preacher, founded the church in Ironwood, and was Pastor of the Bethlehem Covenant Church in Palestine (Stephenson) from 1903 to 1911.

John Hendrickson died in Ironwood on February 28, 1915, the day after his 55th birthday, leaving Hulda with six children: Hugo, Milton, Marion, Leonard, Cornelia, and Gerald. Hulda remained active in the life of her family and the community until her death in 1973 at the age of 98.

Another Swede, John Erickson arrived in North America in 1881 with his wife Christina and the younger children Emil, Gerda, Lydia, and John Victor. Older children August and Alma had come earlier on their own and settled elsewhere. John was born in Wastanvik, Fryksände, Värmland, in 1836. Christina was born in Gällserud, Lysvik, Värmland, in 1834. They departed for North America from Klampenborg, near Sundsvall, and after some time in Norway, Michigan, settled in Palestine, buying 40 acres of timberland in 1884, which became the farm later known as the Olof Olson's.

John Erickson served on the board of the church for many years, and the minutes often noted that he closed the meetings with a prayer. Christina died in 1895, and according to her granddaughter Viola Olson, was one of the first buried in the church cemetery. I have not been able to find a picture of Christina. There are several of John, however, a tall strong man who died in 1914.

Olof Olson and his brother Charles arrived in the 1896 from Markaryd in Småland. Olof married John Erickson’s daughter Lydia on September 25, 1901, and Charles married Jennie Jacobson (another early family). Olof and Lydia had 4 children: Viola, Harold, Doris, and Elsie. In 1943, Doris married Leonard Hendrickson, son of Hulda and John, uniting the Olson and Erickson families with the Hendrickson and Bergquist families. That same year Elise married Carl Peterson, who still lives at the farm below the church. Viola never married, but kept house for her father, Harold, and Elsie after the death of Lydia on October 28, 1928. Harold married Emma Johnson Bunda in 1954.

Two children of John and Hulda, Milton and Cornelia, married members of the Arrowood family (Mary and Frank). Marion married Henry Bruemmer, and Gerald married Senia Suokko. Hugo, who served on the front lines in Alsace, fighting in battles of the Marne, and Meuse Argonne in World War I, never married, and preceded his mother in death.

I know many of us have photos or other early documents to share. Mary Ann and I have scanned many of them. Jo Anne Arrowood Swanson and I have put many of them on Flickr on the internet for all to see, add to, and comment on. The web address is

It was twenty years ago in August since we gathered in 1987. It was my mother Doris’s last gathering, and she reported on Pastor John Hendrickson’s diaries. This coming October 9 would have been her 100th birthday. Viola wrote in 1991, at the conclusion of her report to me on family history:

"We are standing on the shoulders of the giants who left us such a beautiful heritage. They were intent on peace and security. They carried their supplies from the tracks -- five miles or more -- from the place now known as Stephenson. They crossed the river on a log carrying 5 gallons of kerosene and 100 pound sacks of flour. Many trips were made."

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Letting the Balloon Go

My Dad is a Balloon that I Let Go

My Dad is a balloon that I let go, floating up into the white fluffy clouds in the blue sky. He got smaller and smaller as he got closer to heaven. After I lost sight of him, I kept looking among the clouds for the tiny speck that was my Dad. Now I look for him everywhere.

I look for him by the chicken coop, holding a bag of chicken feed. I look for him at the liquor cupboard, pouring a small glass of Chartreuse. I look for him in his recliner in the TV room, patting Bert and telling him what a good dog he is. I look for him in my son’s eyes. Andy’s eyes are hazel and oval, not like my Dad’s round brown eyes, but Andy has that same sly look when he’s about to make a joke. At other times, Andy has my Dad’s intense, focused, thoughtful look. You can almost see his brain working.

I look for him in Linnea’s face. She and my Dad took on many of each other’s mannerisms over 30 years of intimacy. She also has so much of his history in her head. They raised two children, coped with plumbing emergencies, drove across Australia in an old Volkswagen van, and had so many other adventures together. She remembers his virtues, his generosity, his gentleness, his thoughtfulness. She remembers his vices, his indulgence in food and drink, his secrecy, and his desire for control.

I look for him in the mirror. His eyes look thoughtfully back at me from my reflection. They tell me that he loved me and took good care of me. They tell me that my virtues are commendable and my vices don’t matter very much. They tell me to stay close to Linnea, to visit Jesse and Psyche, and to take good care of my husband and children.

His eyes tell me that death isn’t so bad, and to be grateful for all that I have done with my life, as he was grateful for his life. – Julia Philips, August 22, 2007

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Poem for the Wake

A Poem for Ed Philips

by Ross Burkhardt
June 16, 2007

81 trips around the sun:
Ed's sweet journey now is done
A year ago we celebrated
With folks to whom he was related
And friends from far, and also near,
Many of whom now reappear
To pay their last respects and mourn
This gentle fellow who was born
Four score years ago plus one
For Ed's sweet journey now is done.

As summer days drift towards September
What is it that we'll remember?
Bert and Wagga, goats and sheep,
Gathering eggs, naps for sleep,
Fragile glassware, politics,
The New York Times, symphony tix,
Salmon dinners, cooking bacon,
Festivities always in the makin'
Voyages down to Mexico,
Off to Greece Ed did go,
Spain, Japan, England, Oz -
Traveling was a noble cause.

So here we are, an Irish wake -
Thank you all, for dear Ed's sake.
Now's the time to share your story
Honoring Ed in all his glory.
Step right up, tell a tale
About this most amazing male.
This is your chance, don't be shy,
Even if you make us cry.
For we deserve to have some fun
Now that Ed's sweet journey's done.

Tributes to Ed from the Memorial Service


A while back on a long road trip, we listened to a book on tape entitled Kim by Rudyard Kipling. The story was set in India, and although I don’t remember anything about the plot, the main character was always looking for people who were on the WAY rather than on the WHEEL. This was the first time I had heard of this expression & I took being “on the way” to mean a person who is authentic and not bound by the constraints of society.

I don’t know if Ed set out to be authentic intentionally, since I have seen old photos of him wearing a suit & tie, but he definitely took the road less traveled.

In death, he is confined to a little box (at least temporarily), but he certainly was not in life.

He was an accomplished professor, but he was also the most unpretentious person I’ve ever met. He showed up at any possible event in his tennis shoes & suspenders and drove his VW camper van until it was ready for a museum.

He was my father’s age, but he acted younger than I do. He stayed in youth hostels well after retirement age & was even robbed in one in London. He was an intrepid traveler known for taking red eye flights. One year, he showed up at my door at Christmas in a Santa Claus suit carrying a basket of cookies. He was ahead of the curve in all things electronic.

Ed was an accountant (an occupation where many of the people in it can be characterized as being ‘uptight’), but he was one of the most easy going people around. He delivered one of his own children unexpectedly at home. And after his 8th child was born, I asked if he thought there would be more. “It’s up to Linnea” was his response. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, except the prospect of one of his wine glasses getting broken.

But most of all we knew he was on ‘the way’ because he was nearly incapable of saying anything bad about another person - unless politics were involved.

Ed, the most unlikely accountant I’ve ever met!

May you rest in the embrace of the family you so delighted in knowing through the words and objects they left behind.

Tribute to Ed

Craig Werner

For June 16, 2007

My friend Ed Philips gives the lie to the Monty Python line that an accountant is “too boring to be of interest.” When I was on sabbatical in 1999-2000, I spent about five months living in Ed’s and Linnea’s home, and during that time and during subsequent shorter visits, I came to know and love Ed for his kindness, intelligence, wit, and good sense. Our friendship was forged through conversation—lots of it. Breakfast, almost always prepared by Chef Ed, would find us listening to NPR’s “Morning Edition,” romping through several items in The New York Times and Albuquerque Journal (always starting with the comics), discussing recent current events, or just plain sitting and enjoying each other’s company. and Scrambled or fried eggs, French toast, bacon—that crisp, flavorful bacon became an Ed trademark for me—fueled our chats so that often, I had a hard time breaking away to go to the UNM campus to do research. Evening meals were just as joyful, preceded by a full viewing of the TV news, and followed by a leisurely porch sit with the whoosh of cars going by on I-40 accompanying our musings. I miss these savory meals and the Southwest atmosphere in which they were taken, but most of all, I miss the dear man who made my times in Albuquerque some of the happiest days of my life.

I recall so many priceless moments with Ed, repeated so often that they became virtually ritualistic. Just before supper, he would intone with mock solemnity, “Dinner is served.” Accompanying the meal was a dish created by Ed, whose name he pronounced with an austerity befitting its make-up: “Ed Salad” with a grand pause between these two words. He was proud of his glass collection, augmented over the years through patient buying and selling, and for every glass of wine I drank with him, he took pleasure in serving it in a different glass, regaling me the while with a tantalizing story of how he came by it or what its chief characteristics were. Our railings against the politicians in power were relentless, pithy, and, I daresay, right on the mark. We traded college teaching stories with all the enthusiasm of new instructors trying out new ideas for the first time. We listened in awe and almost total silence to Maria Callas and other singers we both admired, giving thanks for the power of music to convey the depths of the soul. Ed’s forays into accounting taught me more about taxes, financial record-keeping, and economics than I ever thought it was possible for me to understand, let alone enjoy. Through his quiet enthusiasm, I actually began to sense some of the intriguing qualities of a discipline which had been entirely uninteresting to me before our friendship.

What I will above all treasure most about Ed is that ineffable attitude of kindness and respect with which he treated me and others with whom he came in contact. He taught me much about patience and flexibility in personal daily affairs and about the importance of keeping stress levels low. I particularly remember one night at the supper table when I suddenly realized one of the chief reasons I enjoyed Ed’s company so much. “I feel I have come,” I told Ed and Linnea, “to a home where the word “defensive” has no meaning.”

Five days before Ed passed away, we sat preparing to sip champagne in celebration of his and Linnea’s birthdays the following day. “Are you going to have some champagne, Ed?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, “three drops.” After the birthday toasts, I asked Ed if he had gotten his champagne. “Five drops, actually,” he said, and I could feel the smile infusing his quip. Those few words, some of the last he ever said to me, conveyed his sense of accuracy, his sense of humor, and his sense of enjoyment at being with people. I am convinced that Ed now knows bliss greater than any of our imaginings. I join so many who celebrate, honor, and cherish the life of this kind, caring, and noble soul.

Julia's Tribute to her Father:

Julia wrote this when she attended the caregivers writing group during the week that Ed was in the hospital, and read it at the Memorial Mass on June 16.

My Dad’s eyes are still the same—a living pool of humor, kindness, and self-deprecation.
He doesn’t want to die, and he doesn’t want to be in pain, and he doesn’t want to trouble anyone. He wants to take care of himself.

I am like him. I want to solve my own problems without relying on other people.

My Dad is still full of hope. He wants to go home, and he wants to eat good food, make jokes at the dinner table, and pet the dog.

My Dad is afraid of not being able to breathe, and he is afraid of embarrassment and of pain.

My Dad has let go of some things. He doesn’t complain about people any more, except George W. Bush. He is very cooperative with the nurses and doctors. I am not like that yet. I want to correct them, refuse to do things on his behalf. But it’s not my decision.

My Dad still has his warm sweet voice. I would like to be more like my Dad. He is easy-going and a forgiving person. My Dad has had a long life, and he has done a lot of good in the world. If he knew when his life was going to end, he would carefully prepare and leave calmly. But the uncertainty, although normal, is hard to take. Any of us could get sick or hurt or could die at any moment.

Thank you, God, for all the caring, helpful, skilled, and hard-working people that are there at those times. I love my Dad, but I can only do a little bit to help him. I do believe in prayer and in working on things also.

Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.

Julia Philips

May 3, 2007

Ross Burkhardt recited poems and shared these comments:

Our first speaker this morning, Karen Nystrom, referred to Ed by citing a line from a Robert Frost poem. I suspect that Frost might have had someone like Ed in mind when he composed these words:

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My name is Ross Burkhardt, and I live in Las Cruces with my wife, Jeanne. Many people have spoken of the adventures they had with Ed, and his voyages all over the world. Jeanne and I were fortunate to travel with Ed and Linnea on several occasions. We went to England and lived in a 17th century thatched cottage, where Ed cooked meat using a Raeburn stove -- the crackle was delicious. We purchased pottery in Mata Ortiz, Mexico, near the ruins of Paquime. We toured Trinity Site one cold October day, and we birded at the Bosque del Apache many times. We also enjoyed extravagent tail-gate dinners at the Santa Fe Opera.

A nineteenth century poem by Lord Byron speaks to these adventures, and to our sadness and sense of loss:

We'll Go No More A-Roving
by George Gordon Lord Byron

So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Joy of Life: Ed's Last Day

Prayer of the Faithful

Prayer of the Faithful

Leader: In Thanksgiving for Ed’s life, a life spent loving and supporting family, friends, and students in many ways, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Leader: A devoted father to two generations of children for over fifty years, and a loving and supportive husband to Linnea for thirty years, may we follow his example in providing steadfast support and sustenance to others, we pray.

Leader: An advocate for social justice and human rights, Ed worked for church reform and opposed injustice. May we continue this work, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Leader: Intellectual and intelligent, Ed was always curious and always thinking. He eagerly explored new places and ideas through travel, reading and research, in both his personal and professional life, and shared his discoveries with students friends, and family. May we continue his love of knowledge and teaching, we pray.

Leader: As one who suffered the pain of divorce and the loss of his son, Joseph, Ed was no stranger to sorrow, and he reached out to others in empathy. May we follow his example, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Leader: Ed faced the daunting struggle of his long illness with bravery and good humor, and made sure his family would be cared for after he was gone, despite his failing health. May his courageous and loving heart inspire all of us, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Leader: In thanksgiving for Ed’s caregivers: for Linnea, for Julia, Jesse, and Psyche. For the wise and concerned care of Dr. Ian Rabinowitz and the staff of the University of New Mexico Cancer Research and Treatment Center for over two years, and for the VistaCare hospice staff, especially our nurse Christina, and all who patiently and tirelessly care for the sick and elderly, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Leader: In thanksgiving for the support of Father Bob Kelly and VistaCare hospice Chaplain Linda Broda Pribble, and for the support of Eleanor and Anjie, and the members of the caregivers’ and cancer survivors’ writing groups, and to all who minister to the suffering and sorrowing, may the peace they give be given them, we pray.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Memorial Mass, 16 June 2007

Order of Service

Musical Prelude

Welcoming Rite

Processional Song: #630 Morning Has Broken

Greeting and Opening Prayer: I Thank You God, for this Most

Amazing Day by E.E. Cummings

(read at Ed and Linnea’s wedding on May 29, 1977)

Liturgy of the Word

First reading: Ecclesiastes 3:1-11 To Every Thing There Is a Season

Responsorial Psalm #437 On Eagle’s Wings Psalm 91

Second reading: I Corinthians 13 Though I speak with the Tongues of

Men and Angels

Gospel Acclamation: #374 Celtic Alleluia

Gospel: Matthew 5:1-11 The Beatitudes

Homily & Tributes by Family & Friends

Prayer of the Faithful

Liturgy of the Eucharist

Presentation of the Gifts by Family & Friends

Song: #628 Rain Down

Holy, Memorial Acclamation, Great Amen, Lord's Prayer: RECITED

Sign of Peace

Lamb of God: RECITED


Communion Songs: #549 Shall We Gather at the River

and #205 Dona Nobis Pacem

Final commendation, Song of Farewell, Prayer of commendation

Song: Going Home from Dvorak’s New World Symphony

Song of Sending Forth: #605 Lord of the Dance

Musical Postlude: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring J.S. Bach

(played at Ed & Linnea’s wedding)

In Memoriam: George Edward Philips, 1926-2007

Philips, 81, Professor Emeritus at the University of New Mexico and beloved husband, father and grandfather died Saturday, June 2, 2007 at his Albuquerque home, two and one-half years following his diagnosis with small cell lung cancer.

He was born May 29, 1926 in Hamilton, MT to John A. and Mildred Courtney Philips. Ed was internationally known and respected as a leading financial accounting theorist and author of articles in major accounting journals. He joined the faculty of the University of New Mexico Anderson School of Management in 1982 and retired in 1994. Professor Philips received his doctorate from Michigan State and taught at UCLA and Penn State before coming to New Mexico. He also taught in Finland, Scotland and Australia.

Known for his kindness and generosity, Ed devoted much of his life to raising his children, putting all seven through college. He loved children, animals, travel, music, cigars and drink, good conversation, collecting wine glasses and reading about science and current events. Ed was also an excellent cook and was proud of the happy flock of laying hens in his North Valley back yard.

Ed is survived by his wife of 30 years, Linnea Hendrickson; children, John Philips and wife Ritsuko Miyamoto, Julia Philips and husband James Feldman, Michael Philips and wife Marguerite, Catherine Malavé, Joan Philips and husband Jin Tai Li, Jesse Philips and Psyche Philips; grandchildren, Andrew, Laura, Carolyn, Amina, Joe, Anthony, Daniel, Alejandro and Mei. He is also survived by his brother Robert Philips and wife Marie. He was preceded in death by his parents, brothers John and Donald (Pete), sister Edith and his son, Joseph.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Ed Update May 12, 2007

It is a week now since Ed came home from the hospital. I’m still not sure how to describe his current condition. He is not in pain, but he is eating almost nothing. He is very thin. He is getting 3.5 liters of oxygen per minute from an oxygen concentrator, to which he is tethered by a 50-foot cord. This is long enough that he can walk all around the house. He spent an hour or so sitting under the portal on Thursday afternoon. He’s sometimes having trouble remembering things. But, he’s very glad to be home, and not in the hospital.

We have had visits from excellent hospice nurses, a wonderful chaplain, and a social worker. We have canceled plans to attend a retreat for cancer patients and their families next weekend at Glorieta. Ed has not gotten dressed since he arrived home, but he is still reading the New York Times, the Albuquerque Journal and his news magazines. He checked his e-mail one day this week, but I don’t think he replied to any. He likes to sit in his comfy chair in the TV room, where he’s been watching Congressional proceedings and book talks on C-Span.

Bert (dog) doesn’t like the hospital bed because there’s no room for him, but he still spends the night in Ed’s room, either on the floor or on the couch beside the bed.

I have stopped going to work. Even working from home has been difficult. I want to spend as much time as I can with Ed, and taking care of things at home. The hospice nurses have recommended that he not be left alone for more than 2-3 hours at a time. Jesse came over on Tuesday morning to stay when I had a project at school.

I accidentally turned the faucet that shuts off our leaking water pipe the wrong way last weekend, and caused a flood in our garage. Jesse helped me move boxes of books and papers. Fortunately, little was actually damaged. The good thing is that we unearthed some wonderful old photos, newspaper clippings, and letters we didn’t even know we had. Ed has been identifying people in the pictures and letters, and I’ve been writing the names on them (this is a lot more fun than reconciling bank accounts).

Michael is here from North Carolina this weekend, and is going over the bills and bank statements with us, which is helping me understand how everything works. It is not going to be easy to follow in the footsteps of an expert accountant. This afternoon Michael helped water everything from the well with the big blue hoses, and Anne came over to help, and together we did quite a job on all the wet boxes in the garage.

I’ll send another update in another week or so, or if anything changes. Psyche is scheduled to come June 1-3.

Thanks to all of you for the cards, the phone calls, the email wishes, and your prayers. And the food! It really helps to feel your support. I may not be responding to each of you individually, but please know that each of you is greatly appreciated.


This morning in Nia class we danced to this oldie from 1956, sung in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, “The Man Who Knew Too Much,” starring Doris Day and James Stewart. Happy Mother’s Day!

Que Sera Sera
(Lyrics by Ray Evans, Music by Jay Livingston, sung by Doris Day)

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here's what my sweetheart said.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Historical Family Photos

I have been creating sets of old photos on Flickr, including photos of my mother's trip to Sweden in 1939, upon which my cousin Magnus Persson in Sweden has generously commented and provided extremely useful additional information. I also have a Hendrickson history set and an Olson-Erickson (my mother's side of the family) set. My cousin Jo Anne Swanson and I have put many photos together in a Hendrickson group, and we are hoping that other family members will also decide to contribute. I was absolutely thrilled to discover in Jo Anne's files, pictures of two great-grandmothers (John Hendrickson's mother, Maria Nilsdotter, and Hulda Olson Hendrickson's mother, Johanna Katrina) that I had never seen.

Here is a slightly more recent picture (but still old!) of my brother John and me sitting together in a lawn chair in 1950. This was scanned from a very badly faded color print. I'm still trying to figure out the best way to make these badly faded and yellowed prints more visible. Don't you love the saddle shoes, red socks, and matching hair ribbons, and John's suspenders?


We are back from a lovely one week at Hotel Ixtapan de la Sal, Mexico. I highly recommend this hotel and spa. There are many more photos of the trip posted on Flickr.
But, here's one of Ed at an overlook "El Mirador" on the road between Ixtapan de la Sal and Taxco.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine's Day!

Picture taken by my webcam this morning -- schools closed because of snow today! (again!)

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Ed Update January

Discussion group at The Bishop's Lodge, January 16.

Ed had his check-up and chemotherapy as scheduled this past Wednesday, January 24. He is doing well – no change in his condition according to the doctor and his reports. This is good news. So far, the effects of Wednesday’s chemo have not hit him – that is good, too. The past couple of times he has felt terrible from Friday afternoon through the Saturday following Wednesday chemo.

We survived our New Year’s weekend with no power for two days, snow piled high and branches down everywhere. Lights came on just after sunset on New Year’s Eve. However, the yard is still full of branches, and there are still snow piles in the shade. We spent the nights of January 16-17 in Santa Fe, where we had a wonderful time meeting friends for delicious meals and an animated discussion of Willa Cather’s “Death Comes for the Archbishop” at The Bishop’s Lodge, the former home of Bishop Lamy (the model for the book’s Bishop Latour). I hope to post a few pictures on Flickr:

Monday this week the annual ALA children’s book awards were announced – always an exciting occasion, even though this year I was not directly involved. On Tuesday we attended the Metropolitan Opera’s webcast of “The Magic Flute” at the Starport theater at Cottonwood Mall (to be broadcast on PBS stations this Sunday at 1 pm).

We’re looking forward to a visit from Craig Werner at the end of next week, and a trip to Ixtapan, Mexico from February 23-March 3, where we will meet Gloria and Herb Thompson from Pennsylvania, whom we have not seen for many years.

Friday, January 5, 2007

For Additional Photos

For more photos, please click on the following links:

Manga_Mom's photos on Flickr

Jesse's Flickr photos

Albluquerque Snow of the Century Group