Grandma Rogge

Grandma Rogge

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the times that I spent with my grandparents in my hometown, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. I clearly remember all four of them and in that regard, I am luckier than many. Dad's mother was Alberta Ruth Meiklejohn, born in 1888 in Spirit Lake, Iowa.

Alberta's father Albert never knew his namesake. He died of Typhoid Fever only months after he married and before she was born. Her mother returned to Fond du Lac with the new baby where they were "taken in" by relatives Anna and Billy Ray.

The Rays, who lived in the town of Empire, Fond du Lac County raised Alberta as if she was their own child. She went by the name Alberta Ray until she moved to Fond du Lac to attend high school. She lived there with her cousins Henry and Tillie Keys. In spite of hardships and with their help, she graduated from Fond du Lac High School in 1906.

Albert's family came to the town of Empire from Putnam, Washington County, New York. His father, John, was a wealthy Scotch farmer in the hills east of Fond du Lac. The Meiklejohn homestead, a lovely brick house, still stands along Highway T. Albert was one of eight children and all were successful business and professional people. Alberta's lineage is traceable back to the crowned heads of Scotland, England, and very early Europe. Unfortunately, Grandma Rogge's noble heritage did nothing to ease her circumstances in life.

Before her marriage, she worked as a secretary and bookkeeper for the Wiley Smith Medical Clinic. That experience came in handy as I was growing up. Mom frequently consulted Grandma to formulate a care plan for whatever ailed any of us. At the age of twenty-nine years, she married Otto Rogge, a man ten years her senior.

Exactly nine months later, she gave birth to twins: my dad, and his sister, Charlotte. That fall, the great influenza epidemic of 1918 killed many. Charlotte was only six months old and didn't survive the scourge. After four years, dad's sister, Lois Ann was born. The family lived a quite, simple life at 234 East 5th Street.

Dad's mother was a small woman, plain to the extreme. Although petite in stature, she was anything but frail. Flinty is the word that comes to mind when describing her. Grandma was a no-nonsense, non-smoking, non-dancing kind of woman and a teetotaler. Ironically, she died from cirrhosis of the liver.

Grandma Rogge was a true domestic executive. She always wore a bib apron when she was home. It served many purposes around the kitchen. It wiped away my tears, dried a dish in a pinch, or served as a buffer when handling something hot from the oven. She could do anything, knew a folk treatment for every ailment, and ran a tight ship. If Grandpa Rogge was a mastiff, grandma was a Boston terrier.

To say that Grandma R was frugal would be an understatement. She was a skilled seamstress and made everything for her family. She made her own bricks of soap from fat and lye. She preserved any and all foods and was an excellent cook. Her real calling was pies. Folks worshiped her pies and the secret was lard. She made the crusts with it and, as a result, they melted in my mouth. They were all wonderful but rhubarb custard was my favorite.

Her home was, like her, severe. There were no frills, and no soft corners. Straight wooden chairs were the rule and, not until later years, did Grandpa have a comfortable place to stretch out. I think it was an early prototype of the recliner. She kept a well ordered home. There was one green plant in the dining room near the window, and on the buffet sat a mantle clock that looked like a nun's wimple. It chimed on the hour but it too, was plain.

The front parlor in her home was also stiff and formal. She kept the curtains pulled and no one ever used that room. I liked to venture in and spent considerable time trying to understand the curious nature of a painting of Abraham Lincoln. It hung on the far wall and Abe's eyes clearly followed me as I moved about the room. It didn't matter where I went, he continued to look directly at me. I felt a little nervous, him staring at me that way, but was fascinated at the same time. A family friend in California had painted that portrait for Alberta.

Grandma R was a gleaner. She knew how to make something from nothing, and, she knew exactly where "nothing" was located. In earlier years, her Grandfather Meiklejohn had established a woolen mill on east Fourth Street road. I remember trips to pick watercress from the creek there. Then, she and Grandpa knew the location of every roadside asparagus root in Fond du Lac County. Early summer often found them and me picking the edible shoots and collecting them in little tin pails meant for home. We gathered nuts from hickory trees in the territory, mushrooms, and even picked dandelion blossoms for wine. She had a handsome store of canned goods in her basement. The shelves that crammed the space were overflowing with neatly arranged jars of every color and size.

The life that I remember on east Fifth Street was a simple, uncomplicated affair and it hummed along to a steady routine. Grandma taught me such practical things as how to darn a sock, how to make jam and jelly, and how to bake a pie. With her, I learned that there comes great satisfaction in doing even small jobs well, and the joy that comes with communal activity. She also taught me how to embroider: a skill that I enjoy to this day.

Whatever she said went, period! She was firm to a fault but kind and patient in the application. Grandma Rogge was the very embodiment of the word "industrious." She was always on the move doing something. Alberta was a wellspring of such aphorisms as "Waste not, want not," "Idle hands are the devil's workshop," "Silence is golden," "A stitch in time saves nine," and others. She applied these sentiments to her everyday life and regularly suggested that I apply them to mine as well.

In short, Grandma Rogge's was a black and white world. Perhaps that's one reason why she always welcomed me in her home. I was a talkative child; no one needed to draw me out. I was inquisitive about everything and she was a patient teacher. I shadowed her in all tasks and we enjoyed each other: she, my curiosity and laughter and I, her practical knowledge and efficiencies. I treasure the time I spent there with my grandma and those memories are among the fondest of my childhood in my hometown, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Oh, and the Lincoln portrait, it hangs in my dining room now, and Abe is watching over my shoulder as I put these words to paper.