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 B E AT R I C E O JA K A N G A S

FINNISH RYE, FEED SACK FASHION, AND OTHER

SIMPLE INGREDIENT S FROM MY LIFE IN FOOD
1 Homemade 2
 Cookbooks by Beatrice Ojakangas
Published by the University of Minnesota Press

The Great Holiday Baking Book

Great Old-­Fashioned American Desserts
Great Old-­Fashioned American Recipes
The Great Scandinavian Baking Book
Great Whole Grain Breads
Pot Pies
Quick Breads
Scandinavian Cooking
Scandinavian Feasts
 Homemade
12
FINNISH RYE, FEED SACK FASHION, AND OTHER
SIMPLE INGREDIENTS FROM MY LIFE IN FOOD

BEATRICE OJAKANGAS

University of Minnesota Press

Minneapolis • London
All photographs are reproduced courtesy of the author, unless credited otherwise.

Copyright 2016 by Beatrice Ojakangas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the
publisher.

Published by the University of Minnesota Press

111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu

Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper

The University of Minnesota is an equal-­opportunity educator and employer.

22 21 20 19 18 17 16 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ojakangas, Beatrice, author.
Homemade : Finnish rye, feed sack fashion, and other simple ingredients from my life in food /
Beatrice Ojakangas.
Minneapolis : University of Minnesota Press, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016027973 | ISBN 978-0-8166-9579-9 (hc)
Subjects: LCSH: Cooking, Finnish. | Cooking—Minnesota. | Ojakangas, Beatrice. | LCGFT: Cookbooks.
Classification: LCC TX723.5.F5 O42 2016 | DDC 641.59776—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016027973
 Contents
12
Acknowledgmentsix
Prologue: Any Questions? xi

d PART I
My Paternal Grandparents: A Story of Commitment and Perseverance 3
Finnish Cardamom Coffee Bread (Pulla)   6
Korppu  7
My Maternal Grandparents: A Story of Famine, Fire, and Fear 8
Grandmother’s Sugar Cookies   12
First Names First 15
Finnish-­
Style Mojakka  17
Growing Up on a Farm in Northern Minnesota 18
Salt Cake 22
Mummy’s Simple White Cake   23
There Were Ten of Us 25
Being Finnish 31
Thin Finnish Pancakes (Lattyja)   34
Sunday Services at Uncle Frank’s 35
Summers on the Farm 37
Wild Berry Jam   38
Swimming39
Cows in Wintertime 41
Finnish Baked Cheese (Leipäjuusto)   45
Venison46
The Best Venison Liver and Onions   47
Visits from Aunts and Uncles 48
Orange Date-­Nut Cake   53
My Twelfth Birthday 54
No Recipe Needed 56
Mummy’s “Juicy” Cinnamon Rolls   57
Feed Sack Fashion 58
Hired Men 61
Mrs. Long’s Graham Rieska   63
Christmas Trees 64
Pulla People  66
Some Stories Are Hard to Tell 68
Vesala70
Floodwood, My Hometown 72
Sam’s Socklat Cake   74
Lincoln School in Floodwood 76
Anne Brown’s Beauty Parlor 80
Town Kids versus Country Kids 82
Country Carrot Meatloaf   83
Seeds for a Bible 84
Heaven and How to Get There 86
Confirmation in the Finnish Lutheran Church 88
Till the Cows Come Home 90
The End-­of-­Summer Prize 92
Lemon or Orange Chiffon Cake   96
Back to the State Fair 97
Cheese Soufflé  99
Finnish Rye Bread   101
d PART II
Becoming a Home Economist 105
A Turn in the Road 108
My First Taste of Gourmet Food 111
Hot Cheese Puffs   112
Burnt Sugar Ice Cream   113
My “Toast in the Morning Man” 115
Almond Cardamom Scones   118
The Pillsbury Bake-­Off 119
Cheesy Picnic Bread (Chunk o’ Cheese Bread)   123
A Year in Finland 124
Lanttulaatikko (Rutabaga Casserole)   125
Swedish Prince’s (Princess) Cake   126
Stories from Finland 129
May Day Tippaleipä   132
Sima  133
Sunset Magazine 134
A Marriage Encounter with Moussaka 136
Moussaka  136
A Food Writer and a Mom 139
Jumbo Sugar Jumbles   140
Welcome Back to Duluth 141
Somebody’s House 145
Rabbitburger  148
Stroganoff Burger  149
Swiss Fondue  149
Jeno and the Big Idea 150
Two Years at Vocational School 152
Karjalan Paisti (Karelian Three-­Meat Stew)   153
Cooking School in the South of France with Simca 155
Tarte de Nancy   156
Pâté Sucrée  157
Nice Is Nice 158
A Totally Untraditional Bouillabaisse   160
The Seven-­Course Morel Festival Meal 162
Cream of Morel Soup   163
In the Kitchen with Julia Child 165
Quick Method Danish Pastry   167
Danish Pastry Braid   168
On TV with Martha Stewart 169
Katja’s Birthday Sponge Cake   172
Peachie, the Butter Spokesperson 174
Cookie Questions 176
Chocolate Chip Cookies   177
The Great River Road 178
Nauvoo Wheat-­Nut Coffeecake   179
Shrimp à la Creole   180
The Butter Churn and My Beloved Mom 181
Twenty-­Nine Cookbooks and Counting—­A ll of Them “Pot Boilers” 183
Cooking in a Church Kitchen (Bring Sharp Knives!) 193
Three-­Grain Wild Rice Sunflower Seed Bread   195
Summing It Up 196
 Acknowledgments
12
From the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, I recognize a basic truth that “I
am a part of all I have met.” From my family to my friends and to the teachers,
both formal and in passing, I owe a debt of thanks and acknowledgment. My
life is more than what I have inherited through blood and body. I have had
the incredible support of extended family and friends, who somehow magi-
cally appear just when I need encouragement the most.
This is for you, my family. To my late mother, Esther Honkala Luoma, who
taught me to cook on the woodstove, and my late father, Ted, who put ingenu-
ity into my gene pool. To my husband, Dick; kids, Cathy, Greg, Susanna; and
my grandkids, who are “grand” indeed: Niko, Tomas, Isabella, Kieran, Celka,
Lian, Frans, and Kaisa. My hope is that these stories will shed a bit of light
on each of you. Also, for my nine brothers and sisters and countless cousins,
there may be something here that explains some mysterious family trait.
To the folks at the University of Minnesota Press, who have been so amaz-
ingly supportive—­Erik Anderson, Kristian Tvedten, and others: I couldn’t
have done it without you!

d ix
 Prologue

Any Questions?
12
I have just completed a cooking demonstration, maybe on holiday baking or
on the many ways to use rhubarb or some other item of current interest. I’ve
mixed, chopped, cleaned, sautéed, and measured, explaining the function of
each ingredient and the techniques I find work best. I’ve led others through
the process, we share ideas, and I end the presentation with a call for ques-
tions. While I’m expecting to answer inquiries about the product at hand and
what we have just been discussing, instead the first question is almost always
“How did you get into writing cookbooks?” Then, the familiar questions fol-
low: “What was Julia like?” or “What is Martha really like?”
I like to start at the beginning. Ever since I was a young girl, growing up on
a farm in northern Minnesota, I wanted to write. Books fascinated me, how
they could transport the reader to another land by words alone. I wanted to
write about all kinds of things. I wrote stories but knew little about how the
outside world worked. Food eventually became an easy topic for me; I learned
to cook and bake before I could read—­and on a woodstove! A few years later
(and concocting a way to get a few days of vacation in the summer) I officially
began my foods career through the local 4-­H, where I won trips to the State
Fair through cooking demonstrations. It launched a whole new world for me.
To be honest, to think about writing my own memoir seems self-­serving.
I didn’t ever believe I would be noticed or that what I had to say would be
held credible by anyone. I’ve always felt “hidden behind the bushes” because
of where I live. Nobody seems to hear about northern Minnesota unless it
is weather related. The icebox of the nation. The land of lakes, wolves, bears,
swamps, and mosquitoes. Who could be interested in that?
And yet I have always had this overwhelming desire to talk—­to write—­to
tell people about my life. Though it really wasn’t ever about me: it is about
what surrounds me. The beauty of this northern place, the love of friends and
family, the funny and incredible things that have happened to me in the little
bubble in which I dwell. And always, through everything, food. Growing up
on the farm, I would talk to the animals, to the trees, even to a blade of grass.
I found a piece of paper so beautiful I would become emotional and attribute

d xi
xii d Prologue

to it a flavor, a color—­and it became a thing of beauty. The best gift I could

receive was a tablet with lines for writing.
The stories that follow are snippets of life growing up on a simple farm
in northern Minnesota. I begin with stories about my grandparents, all four
of whom immigrated from Finland and whose heritage has left a lasting im-
pression on who I am and how I approach life and food. Throughout these
stories, I usually refer to my mother as “Mummy” and my father as “Isä”
(Finnish for father). There are stories of growing up on the farm, and then
seeing a larger world unfold in front of my eyes through my love of food, from
State Fair blue ribbons and national championship recipes to the Pillsbury
Bake-­Off, working for the wonderful California-­based magazine Sunset in its
food department, traveling to Finland to research cuisine and then returning
to Duluth, where I helped invent the Jeno’s Pizza Roll. And there are stories
of later adventures in cooking, of meeting Julia Child and Martha Stewart.
To this day it all still grows from the simple approaches to food that became
such an important part of who I was growing up on the farm.
I’m 100 percent Finnish. That means all of my ancestors came from Fin-
land. I’m also 100 percent Minnesotan, if I can be 100 percent of two different
things. In Minnesota, we’re trained to be what’s called “Minnesota nice,” and
I’m not quite sure where that comes from. It could be that we’re plunked in
the middle of “New Scandinavia,” but of course Finns aren’t really Scandina-
vians. We’re “Nordic,” and that’s what Scandinavians are, too. We’re taught
to “get along” with non-­Lutherans. Nobody is wrong, they’re just different.
My mother made it very clear when I was growing up that regardless of skin
color or personal differences, we are all equally loved. I am a child of God,
as is everybody else. I was reminded later in life that when the Protestant
Reformation was brought to Finland by Mikael Agricola, it was difficult to
convince Finns that God could understand Finnish.
My husband is also 100 percent Finnish. That means our three kids are
100 percent Finnish. But our grandchildren are either 50 percent Finnish
or 0 percent Finnish. Three of our eight grandchildren were adopted from
Colombia. They are easy to spot in a crowd of Minnesotans because of their
gorgeous, thick, dark hair and flashing dark eyes. The other five grand­children
are blond, fair-­skinned, tall, and lanky, with soft brown or blue-­green eyes.
“Who am I?” I have pondered this as I walk through our beautiful woods
that are permeated with the aroma of poplar and evergreens. That’s the un-
derlying question as I begin writing. The thought comes to me time after
time, something I learned early: “I am a part of all I have met.” Just recently I
took a course in which we were challenged to remember events both recent
and past. The professor teaching the course commented that everything that
 Prologue d xiii

has ever happened during a lifetime is recorded in the brain. What a remark-
able fact! The happenings stored within my skull, then, add up to who I am.
Memories, both happy and sad, float to the top and create something
beautiful, challenging, and heartbreaking. These memories strike a balance
in my mind between thankfulness and opportunity.
Compassion for those less fortunate gives me pause. Stories about the dif-
ficulty my grandparents faced coming to this country and the struggles they
experienced make my life seem like a total gift. Even within my own family
I wonder why I have been so lucky, with a healthy body, sharp hearing, and
clear sight while others endure deafness, blurred vision, muscular dystrophy,
and other ailments. For these blessings I am thankful.
What follows are snippets from my life, memories of food and the farm
and family, stories of the challenges I have faced and places I have traveled.
And always: stories about food. These many ingredients create the recipe that
makes me who I am.
This page deliberately left blank
1 Part I 2
This page deliberately left blank
 My Paternal Grandparents
A Story of Commitment and Perseverance

12
I often wonder who I would be if my father’s mother had married the man
she loved. Susanna Kaisa Herneshuhta (or Sanna, as everyone called her)
was born in 1872 in Lapua, Finland. I knew her only as a very old woman. She
was eighty-­one years old when she died. The last time I saw her, in 1957, I had
walked the twenty blocks from my university dorm room at the University
of Minnesota Duluth to the county hospital. Her thin white hair was pulled
back, and her big, watery blue eyes seemed to see right through me. There
was a calm about her that I couldn’t explain.
Grandma, whom we called “Mummu,” spent her last days in Miller Hos-
pital in Duluth. She had been hospitalized because she had developed in-
fections. I had just enough money to buy her a single rose. She loved roses. I
wonder if her love for roses was because her birthday was at the end of June,
just when the wild roses were in bloom. Her son Isä (my father, also known
as Ted) loved roses, too, and planted many varieties in a long, narrow flower
bed in the yard of our farmhouse in Floodwood, the small town fifty miles
west of Duluth where I grew up.
Mummu had years earlier stepped into a posthole, fallen, and broken
her hip. She was bedridden from that point on, as there was no such thing
then as the hip replacement surgery so common today. I quietly slipped into
the stark, antiseptic room and approached her in her narrow hospital bed.
She was preaching sermons in Finnish. I could understand her, but nobody
else could. I told her that nobody knew what she was talking about. Her an-
swer was simply (in Finnish), “When God’s word is preached in good, clear
Finnish, anybody can understand it.”
When I was growing up in Floodwood, Mummu would visit us, as she did
all of her children. For her to “visit” meant that she would be staying with us
for at least three months at a time. She didn’t have a home of her own for the
last twenty years of her life—­except for the homes of her children. Her eldest
son, Frank, according to tradition took over the farm after Grandpa died in
1933, the year before I was born. When she was with us, she was assigned to the
“side bedroom” just off the living room. That was because she couldn’t climb
stairs anymore, and it was easy for her to go out and get fresh air on the porch.

d 3
4 d Homemade

When Mummu came to visit, she brought her belongings in a brown

paper bag. I remember that she often wore more than one dress at a time,
one on top of the other. Her breath was always sour and she smelled mildly
of ammonia—­like so many old people.
My father, Isä, bore a striking resemblance to her, with his slightly off-­
kilter-­shaped head, high hairline, long, narrow nose, and oversized, almost
bulging eyes. When my father died in 1997, in his late eighties, I thought he
looked just like his mother.
Sanna had been in love with a young Lutheran pastor named Gustaf, who
left for America when she was eighteen years old. Gustaf had promised to send
her a ticket for passage to America as soon as he could save enough money.
Not far from Sanna’s village, Lapua, is Ylistaro, also known as “the village
with the beautiful church.” The huge church was built, much to the amaze-
ment of the villagers, by the order of the czar in St. Petersburg, who con-
trolled the building of all churches in the country. (Finland had been part of
the Russian Empire since 1809.) The story went that the czar got his orders
mixed up, and some large town somewhere got a tiny church that should
have been built in Ylistaro. In truth, the church was indeed intended for
Ylistaro because it is situated in the center of the parish. Sanna visited that
impressive church as a young girl, and it was in this village that she met
another young man named Konstant Luoma. It was hard times in Finland,
about 1890, and men and women in their early teens and twenties, includ-
ing Konstant, were leaving in great numbers to come to America, where the
streets, they had heard, were paved with gold. Immigrants in the New World
had to be resourceful. Practical skills and a strong back turned out to be the
best assets a Finn could have.
Sanna had waited for her ticket from her beloved Gustaf for two years.
Just as she was about to lose hope of ever getting to America, she received a
letter from Konstant with a ticket and a proposal. She waited a few months
more and finally wrote him, saying that she would accept his ticket and con-
senting to marry him. It took a few months to get everything together. She
packed her belongings into a small trunk, and just days before embarking
on her journey, she received a letter and a ticket from Gustaf. Heartbroken,
Sanna continued with her plan to marry Konstant because she had made a
promise. She returned Gustaf’s ticket and used the ticket from Konstant to
come to America in the late 1890s. She married Konstant and lived on the
homesteaded farm he had carved out of the forest in Cedar Valley, Minne-
sota, about fifty miles northwest of Duluth. She bore him eleven children,
including my father, Theodore, whom we called Isä. There was no way to
connect with Gustaf, as Sanna had no idea where he was living.
Konstant died in 1933. Sanna wrote to her only living daughter, my aunt
 Homemade d 5

Esther, saying that Gustaf had finally found her and had come to visit. He had
spent his life as pastor of a small Lutheran church in Embarrass, Minnesota,
less than a hundred miles from where Sanna and Konstant lived, yet a con-
siderable distance given the lack of roads. Gustaf had married and had five
children. His wife died earlier that same year.
Sanna and Gustaf sat at the trestle table in the farmhouse kitchen. Over
a pot of coffee and freshly baked sweet coffee bread, the two discussed their
lives for hours.
Sanna told Gustaf that Konstant had been a good provider. He was a hard-
working, rough, strong, hard-­drinking, but resourceful man who was able to
make a living with his own two hands and a team of horses. Along with farm-
ing and logging, he cleared the forest to pave the way for roads and highways
through that part of northern Minnesota.
It had not been an easy life for Sanna. According to Finnish tradition, the
women took care of the animals and gardens and anything to do with the
production and preparation of food. The men did the fertilizing and plowing
of the fields. It was a woman’s job to feed and milk the cows, clean the barn,
and tend the vegetable gardens. Women helped with the haymaking. It made
no difference that a woman might be pregnant. Babies were born at home
with the help of the township’s midwife.
Gustaf, on the other hand, lived in a home provided by his small Lutheran
parish. Most of his salary was in the form of food and housing. There wasn’t
much cash for discretionary spending. He and his family couldn’t travel, and
they were under constant scrutiny from the village. Physically, life for Sanna
would have been easier had she married Gustaf, who was a tender, loving
pastor and much loved by the people in his congregation.
Sanna had longed for a life of spirituality, the life of a pastor’s wife—­
especially when Konstant had come home in his swashbuckling way smelling
of drink. She had spent her life in prayer for patience.
After their long talk comparing their lives, Sanna wrote to her daughter
Esther to say that she and Gustaf had decided not to marry. It was too late.
“I will die with the love of Gustaf in my heart,” she wrote.
My aunt Esther cried.
I still wonder who I would be if Sanna had married Gustaf. I’ll never know,
nor would I want to know. My grandfather—­who taught his boys to roll their
own cigarettes at the age of eight—­put resourcefulness, energy, creativity,
and a sense of independence into my gene pool. Sanna mellowed all that
out with her quiet and steady faith in God. Though Grandpa might not have
spent much time in prayer, he lived in the service of his family, neighbors,
and community—­never denying the presence of God, but never one to ser-
monize, either. It really doesn’t matter.
6 d Homemade

Finnish Cardamom Coffee Bread (Pulla)

We call this cardamom-­perfumed bread “pulla,” although Finns today might call
it “biscuit,” which irritated my Finnish aunt Ida. Other Finns called this bread
“nisu” and even today there is some controversy among Finnish descendants.
Nisu, it turns out, is the old Swedish name for wheat. When Finnish was “Finni-
sized” in the early 1900s, the word nisu was changed to vehnä, the Finnish word
for wheat. I have found this bread in Finland today being called “vehnäleipä”
or wheat bread. I like to call it “pulla,” even though the root name comes from
the Swedish bollar. Whatever the name, the tender-­crumbed, mildly sweet,
cardamom-­flavored bread is a standard in our house. This is my favorite recipe:

2 packages or 2 tablespoons active dry yeast

½ cup warm water, 105°F to 110°F
1 cup sugar
2 cups milk, scalded and cooled to lukewarm
1 teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons freshly crushed cardamom seeds*
5 large eggs, 1 egg reserved for glaze
8 to 9 cups all-­purpose flour
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
3 to 4 tablespoons pearl sugar** or sliced almonds for tops of loaves

In a large bowl, dissolve the yeast in the warm water and add about 1 teaspoon
of the sugar. Set aside until the yeast begins to foam, about 5 minutes. Add the
milk, salt, cardamom, 4 eggs, and 2–­3 cups of the flour. Beat until very smooth
and no lumps remain in the mixture. Slowly stir in 2 cups more flour until it is well
blended into the batter. Stir in the softened butter. Set aside for about 15 minutes
until the dough begins to rise a little. Stir in remaining flour to make a dough that
is too stiff to stir easily. Turn out onto a floured board. Knead gently for 10 min-
utes until very smooth. Or, if you prefer (and this is what I do these days), turn the
dough into the bowl of a standing mixer and knead using the dough hook, for
10 minutes until very smooth and satiny. TIP: Be stingy with the flour to make the
most delicious, moist pulla. The final dough should still be “tacky” to the touch
and a bit soft. Cover, and let rise until dough has doubled, about 1 hour.
Turn dough out onto a very lightly greased counter or worktable. Divide into
three parts, and then divide each part into three. I sometimes dust the counter-
top with a very light coating of flour to keep dough from sticking, although oiling
the counter lightly helps, too. Shape each part of the dough into strands about
20 inches long (nine strands in all). Braid three strands at a time into a plait. Place
on a greased cookie sheet, preferably one without sides. You will make three
braids. Cover lightly with a towel and let rise for about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
 Homemade d 7

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Beat the remaining egg and brush each loaf care-
fully, coating the tops and sides. Sprinkle with pearl sugar and/or sliced almonds.
Bake for 20 to 25 minutes until light golden-­brown. Do not overbake. Cool on
racks and slice to serve.
* Cardamom: This is the third-­most expensive spice, just behind saffron and vanilla. I suppose
my grandmother brought the spice with her from Finland and kept it carefully guarded because
of its value. The spice was popularly used for flavoring specialty baking, especially coffee bread
in Finland. Her reunion with Gustaf was a very special occasion for Sanna. Today, I more often
purchase desiccated cardamom seeds usually found in little bags at the supermarket, although
I prefer the strength of the flavor of the seeds that I get from cardamom in the original pods.
The bleached white cardamom pods are most familiar to Scandinavians. In many cuisines,
such as Indian cooking, they use cardamom from green pods. In either case, the pods need to
be opened up and the black seeds removed. That’s what you measure. I crush these seeds in a
coffee grinder that I reserve just for this purpose. Cardamom loses its flavor quickly after being
ground. Therefore I never bother to buy the already-­ground cardamom in jars.
** “Pearl sugar” looks like crushed sugar cubes and is available in Scandinavian markets.

Korppu
Traditionally, Finnish women baked coffee bread—­like the pulla recipe
above—­on Saturdays. If there was bread left from the baking a week before, they
sliced it and toasted it in the oven until it was crisp and dry to make “korppu.”
The dry toast kept well when it was stored in an airtight container, usually a glass
jar with a screw-­on lid. Korppu was eaten with coffee—­often dunked into hot
coffee to soften. I remember stacking korppu next to a cup of hot cocoa and
dunking a piece at a time to soften and make it “squishy” and delicious. Because
cinnamon is much cheaper than cardamom and readily available, the coffee
bread and korppu often were flavored or coated with cinnamon sugar.
Korppu was so popular and such a good way to use day-­old bread that it
became one of the products of the Zinsmaster Baking Company in Duluth.
The Zinsmaster Baking Company was founded in Duluth in 1913 as the
Zinsmaster–­Smith Bread Co. by Harry W. Zinsmaster and R. F. Smith. The small
local enterprise grew to one of national importance. Additional Zins­master
companies were located in St. Paul, Minneapolis, Hibbing, and Superior,
Wisconsin. Recently, I received a gift of a bag of korppua from a cousin who
lives in Floodwood. The Finns proudly call it “biscotti,” and though that name
is technically correct, as it is a twice-­baked product, korppu bears no resem-
blance to the Italian classic.
 My Maternal Grandparents
A Story of Famine, Fire, and Fear

12
My maternal grandfather, Joel Sakris Honkala, was the only one of five boys
who didn’t starve to death in the famine of the late 1800s in northern Finland.
Because his family wanted a better life for him, they pooled their money and
bought him passage to America when he was in his late teens. I don’t know
why, but he first went to Florida; perhaps others in his group were headed that
way, too. The Grandpa Honkala I knew wore a rather floppy fedora, some-
times a bit askew, and by the time I was thirteen he had shrunk to my height.
His arthritis caused him to limp and he was bowlegged. Through all of that,
though, he was a smiling, affable character who loved his grandchildren.
Grandpa Honkala—­who would give me the name of “Peetsi” or “Peachie”—­
was baffled by the modern names of his grandchildren. That’s a fruit, he
mused when he heard my name, Beatrice, which sounded like peesti to him,
or “peach.” Then came Lillian or “Liljan kukka,” kukka being Finnish for
“flower,” and then Marion, or marja—­a berry. All these names are a transla-
tion, mixing Finnish and English. When a cousin of mine was born who was
named “Carol Jean,” he exclaimed, “Karosine! Now I have heard it all!”
When Grandpa was younger and had just immigrated to Florida, he picked
up a saxophone and I’ve heard did very well—­so well that he earned enough
money playing in a dance band that he could go back to Finland and marry my
grandmother, Amanda Aurora Nevala Tassi, who was called “Ruusu,” Rose.
Ruusu was a seamstress and owned a small dress shop in Kurikka, a vil-
lage in the western part of Finland. The first two years after their marriage
were difficult. She lost a child. Then my aunt Elma was born. They decided to
sell the dress shop and all that was in it and use the money to leave Finland
and go to America.
Joel undoubtedly had favorable things to say about America, and they
prepared to leave—­this time to go to Minnesota, where they heard they could
get free land to build a farming life. They homesteaded in Brookston, about
twenty-­five miles west of Duluth, around the year 1910. They had a boy, Al-
fred, and in 1913, my mother, Esther, was born. Two years later, my aunt Helen
was born. Grandpa built a nice, wood frame house, large for the area, that
had both an upstairs and a downstairs for his wife and four children.

8 d
 Homemade d 9

My mother, Esther Alma

Honkala (Luoma), at
three years in 1916.

The year 1918 had been hot and dry—­the woods and fields were tinder-­dry,
and the crops hadn’t done well. It is claimed that a spark from a coal-­burning
train combined with extremely dry conditions started the horrific fire that
began in Cloquet, Minnesota, in October of that year and spread northward.
Over 450 lives were lost, dozens of communities were destroyed, and hun-
dreds of thousands of acres of woods burned. For people lost in a single day,
it remains the worst natural disaster in the history of Minnesota. My grand-
parents and their family, including my five-­year-­old mother, were caught in
the middle of it.
As the fire moved swiftly toward their farm, my grandfather Joel and
his son, Alfred, lowered buckets into their well and used the water to wet
the house and its surroundings. They turned the cows, the horses, and the
pigs loose out of their barns. Ruusu hauled household belongings, including
baked loaves of bread and canned goods, into the root cellar not far from the
house. Joel kept dousing the house with the buckets of water.
Ruusu was known for being excitable, and in a frenzy as she saw the flames
10 d Homemade

coming toward them and soon to engulf them all, she put my mother, Elma,
Alfred, and Helen into a horse cart and took off at a gallop. To her dying day,
my mother wondered where her mother thought she could escape to ahead
of the flames. But the flames encircled them.
The horse was soon overcome, and the cart became mired in a creek bed.
Ruusu, with Elma and Alfred, ran back to the house. My mother and her
three-­year-­old sister, Helen, crawled under the seat. “But where are the little
girls?” Grandpa Joel yelled. Ruusu said they were already dead in the cart.
“They are not dead!” Joel cried. With that he ran through the flames to the
cart, put the girls, both of them singed and burned, over his shoulders, and
brought them back to the house.
My mother, Esther, had the most burns of the two girls. Her arms were
badly burned, as were her legs and thighs. Her skin grew back silky and
patterned. Growing up, accustomed to the swirls and curls of the scars on
my mother’s arms, I thought that all mothers had “flowers on their arms.” I
would sit on her lap and trace the petals and leaves with my little fingers, and
I thought her arms were beautiful. I don’t think she wanted to scare me, but
as I grew older she told me the story about the fire little by little.
After Grandpa had saved the girls, the winds changed and the farmhouse
did not burn. All of the animals died except for one horse and its foal, which
stood in the middle of a plowed field and were spared. Even when that horse
grew old and lame, Grandpa couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. My mother
and father inherited the horse after they were married and it lived with them
for many years.
After the fire died down around their farm, the Red Cross arrived. The fire
had moved on toward Duluth—­which made the Grand Rapids hospital, about
fifty miles to the northwest, more accessible than Duluth’s hospital, even
though Duluth would have been about twenty-­five miles closer. My mother
and Helen were hospitalized, and Ruusu went along to assist the nursing
staff. The hospital was teeming with burned and sick people.
In letters that my mother saved, Ruusu had written to Joel, telling of how
lonesome she was and how badly Esther was burned, but how she didn’t com-
plain. Ruusu asked my grandfather questions like, “Did the bread survive
the fire?” and “Was everything destroyed?” It was late October, winter was
coming, and Joel had his hands full preparing as much as he could for the
cold months to come.
After a painful month in the hospital, and to make matters even worse
after the horrific fire, there came word of a rising influenza epidemic. The flu
pandemic of 1918 affected five hundred million people across the world and
killed three to five percent of the world’s population.
 Homemade d 11

One morning Grandpa Joel made his usual phone call to the hospital. He
asked about the condition of his daughters. The answer was, “Your daughters
are doing well, but your wife died last night.” Ruusu, in the hospital taking
care of her children, had taken ill and died. In some of her letters to Joel,
she was asking for more warm underwear as she felt so chilled. I wonder
how long she actually was ill. My mother told me she remembered seeing
her mother’s body, passing by, covered, on a gurney. “I don’t know how, but I
knew it—­that my mother was dead.”
Ruusu had, over the few years that she and Joel had lived in Brookston,
seemingly befriended everyone. She was the first to be there when a baby was
born, when somebody was sick, when anybody needed help. She was there
with food, care, and concern. Ruusu was beloved by all. The news of her death
shocked the township and the neighboring townships.
There was Joel, now desperately in need of help. Four children, two of
them badly burned in the fire, the farm all but demolished, and winter com-
ing on.
Brookston is on the northern edge of the Fond du Lac reservation. Finns
and American Indians got along well. They had similar skills, similar prob-
lems, and similar resourceful mentalities. My mother as well as the whole
family learned to speak Ojibwe. The Ojibwe in the area learned Finnish. They
had a deep kinship. One of the Indian families offered to adopt my mother
and her siblings after the horrible events. But, of course, Grandpa Joel would
hear none of that.
Instead, he wrote for a Finnish “mail-order bride” who, he said, had to be
able to cook and keep house. That was all he asked.
Helena Lindgren had taken chef’s training in Helsinki so that she could
be employed in New York City until she was called to be a mail-­order bride.
She was among the seven percent of Finns whose first language was Swedish.
Helena accepted Joel’s invitation and headed for Minnesota.
Helena owned a cookbook that was published in Helsinki in 1909 and
was written in two languages, English on the one side and Finnish on the
other. It was published especially for young women in cookery school.
The dual-­language book was highly convenient: someone who employed a
Finnish-­trained cook could read the English version of each recipe and, with-
out communicating in Finnish herself, tell her employee what she wanted
cooked.
This book is in my library now. I have enjoyed deciphering Helena’s notes
in the book and especially her additional recipes scribbled in the margins. It
took me years to realize that “Zugar Gukis” was her phonetic rendering of
“sugar cookies” and that “Bunsk Kaik” meant “sponge cake.”
12 d Homemade

Grandmother’s Sugar Cookies

Here is the recipe for “Zugar Gukis” as it reads in Helena’s cookbook.

1 glass sugar ½ pound butter

1 pound flour ½ cup milk
1 egg 1 teaspoon soda

There are no directions for assembly. However, in my experimentation, the

following recipe is close:

1 cup sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda

1 cup butter ½ cup buttermilk
1 egg 1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups all-­purpose flour Extra sugar for shaping

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Cream the 1 cup sugar and butter until smooth.
Add the egg and beat until light. Mix the flour and baking soda and add to the
creamed mixture alternately with the buttermilk and vanilla, mixing until a stiff
dough is formed.
Shape the dough into balls the size of walnuts and place 2 inches apart on a
greased or parchment-­covered cookie sheet. With the bottom of a water glass
dipped first in water and then in sugar, stamp the cookies to flatten out to about
2½ to 3 inches. Bake about 10 minutes until light golden.

Makes about 4 dozen cookies

Life in Brookston, Minnesota, was a far cry from the relative luxury Helena
had known in New York. It was November 1918, with winter coming, on a
burned-­out farm where she was called to replace the wife of somebody she
did not know in the least. And Helena certainly came to realize that she was
expected to fill the shoes of a woman who now was almost sainted in the
community. Helena’s kitchen became her castle, and nobody was allowed
in—­especially my mother and her sisters. Although Helena was an excellent
cook, she was not a teacher and vehemently disliked my mother, saying (in
Finnish), “I don’t need a watchdog in my kitchen.” My mother decided right
there that her kids would learn how to cook and would always be welcome
in her kitchen. Her experience made a lasting impression on my mother, and
ultimately, on me.
To finish high school, my mom moved to Duluth, where she worked for
 Homemade d 13

Grandpa Joel
Sakris Honkala
and “stepmother”
Helena Lindgren
Honkala, mid-­1940s.
My mother never
referred to Helena as
“mother” but always
as “stepmother.”

her room and board with a Jewish family by the name of Stern who would be-
come lifelong family friends. She enrolled in Duluth’s Central High School,
an imposing, beautiful building that was built in 1892 of locally quarried
sandstone.
Most everyone who has visited Duluth, even today, knows Old Central
with its 230-­foot clock tower that rises above the downtown, a Romanesque
brownstone building modeled after the Allegheny Courthouse in Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. The building’s brownstone came from the Krause Quarry in
Fond du Lac and other quarries along the Wisconsin south shore of Lake
Superior. Today, when I drive through Duluth and see that building, thoughts
of my mother come to mind.
Mom said her shoes never fit properly, and she told me she would kick
them off under her desk. For this she was bullied and kids would throw her
shoes down the hallway to embarrass her. Finally, in her junior year she
couldn’t take the harassment anymore and dropped out of school.
14 d Homemade

At the same time, my father, Ted, had left his home in Cedar Valley and
was working at the Neil Bort Pie Company in Duluth. Neil Bort Pies were
small handheld pies that had fillings of chocolate, lemon, apple, berries, and
other fruits.
The two met at a dance at the “62 Hall” in Brookston. Mom had continued
to work as a household assistant and cook for the Stern family in Duluth after
dropping out of school. After dating for a short time, my mother and father
were married on October 29, 1933, on his family’s farm in Cedar Valley.
When Ted took Esther home to meet the Luoma family, his mother,
Sanna, asked the critical question, “Are you a Laestadiolainen?,” referring to
a form of conservative Lutheran revivalism common at that time in Scandi-
navian countries, including Finland.
Although Sanna was steadfastly religious, she did not subscribe to the
Laestadian philosophy. Rather, the family worshiped about once a month in
a small Lutheran church in Cedar Valley. In the winter they held their “ser-
vices” in homes because the little church building had only a woodstove in
the middle of the floor for heat and to this day has only a two-­hole outhouse,
about twenty feet from the structure, and no place to park either cars or
horses and wagons.
Mom replied that no, she wasn’t. And with that, she was approved to join
the family.
 First Names First
12
My parents had no honeymoon, but according to country tradition, Ted’s
brothers tied cowbells to the springs of the bed—­quite a bit different from
the usual painted and decorated getaway car that Dick and I would later have
at our wedding.
I was conceived and born in the same bed, and in the same house my
father, Isä, had been born in twenty-­five years earlier. I was born on July
22, 1934. As I like to say, on the day I was born, my life changed. For some
unknown reason, my father insisted on naming me “Beatrice,” which was an
unusual name for a Finn to choose. After all, the Finns don’t even use the
letter b in their language. The letter b is pronounced somewhere between a
b and a p.
You might ask, “What difference does that little fact make?”
When my grandfather came to visit—­the same day I was born—­he asked,
“What is the baby’s name?”
My mother replied, “Beatrice.”
“Peetsis? That’s no human name, that’s a fruit!” he said in Finnish.
The name stuck. From that day on, my name was “Peachie” or “Peaches.”
I was known to Finns as “Pikku Peetsi” or “Little Peachie.”
This name “problem” could have been solved if I’d followed my mother’s
advice the day I started first grade in Floodwood. As I took off for school
in the big yellow bus, Mummy told me, “Now remember that your name is
Beatrice. You don’t want to be stuck with a nickname all your life!”
I settled in to my classroom with thirty-­four classmates. Miss Pappanen
named all of the students in the class. Then she said, “Hmm, we have two
Beatrices—­how are we going to tell them apart?”
I waved my hand enthusiastically, “I know, I know! You can call me
Peaches!” So, Peaches it was from that point on in my life. Even my elemen-
tary school report card named me as “Peaches Luoma.” It just seemed so very
normal.
The other Beatrice and I bonded immediately. She later became known as
“Bea,” but I remained Peaches or Peachie.
To this day I have trouble introducing myself as Bea. It is like stealing my
best friend’s name.

d 15
16 d Homemade

At eighteen months, I was already Nine months old, April 1935. One of the
“Peaches” to my family. kitchen chairs was brought outside for this
photograph.

My mother said I was a hungry baby. There was always homemade rye bread
in the house and when I was just a few months old, she would leave a slice
of buttered bread next to my crib. When I woke at night, I’d find it, sit up,
and eat every last crumb; then I’d crawl back under the covers, satisfied. A
friend once told Mummy that she was “spoiling” me and that no child had to
be fed in the middle of the night. My mother didn’t have the heart to break
me of the habit of midnight eating with no warning, so she decided to wean
me off it. One night she put a crust of dry, unbuttered, hard bread next to my
crib, thinking I’d reject it. When I woke for my usual snack, I took that crust
and gnawed and chewed away at it until it was finished. Then I went back to
sleep. This made her sad. She continued with the slice of buttered bread. I
don’t remember how long. To this day when I’m hungry, all it takes is a slice
of whole grain Finnish rye bread to satisfy me.
The Finnish rye bread that was a staple in our house is a simple bread,
made with milk or water, coarse rye flour, white bread flour, a little salt, a
little sugar, and yeast. My mother made it in large batches, once or twice a
week, depending on how many extra mouths there would be at the table. If
somebody showed up at the doorstep around mealtime, they were always
 Homemade d 17

invited to sit down and share a meal. Usually the menu consisted of Finnish
rye bread (you’ll find that recipe later in the book) and a strange-­sounding
stew called “mojakka” that is really a hearty beef (or in our case, venison)
stew with potatoes, onions, and rutabagas. The stew is simmered over low
heat until the meat and vegetables are “falling apart” tender. Nobody really
knows where the name comes from. It isn’t known in Finland, nor does it
appear in any dictionary. Mojakka can be made with a meat base, or it can
be made with fish. It got so that whenever we had leftover meat on hand, we
would turn it into mojakka.

Finnish-­Style Mojakka
This stew (pronounced moy-­yah-­kah) is known only to American Finns, largely
in the Upper Midwest, and can be made with any kind of meat. We most often
made it with venison. The vegetables vary, but we always used root vegetables—­
whatever we had on hand.

3 pounds boneless beef or venison cubes, or leftover roast, trimmed and

cut up
2 tablespoons butter, lard, or oil
4½ to 5 cups water
1 onion, thinly sliced
2 teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon ground black pepper
½ teaspoon whole allspice (optional)
2 cups chopped carrots, rutabaga, turnips, parsnips, or other root vegetables
4 potatoes, peeled and cubed
2 tablespoons all-­purpose flour

In a large pot over medium high heat, brown the meat on all sides in the butter.
(If using leftover roast, you can skip this step.) Add 4 cups of the water and bring
to a boil. Add the onion, salt, ground black pepper, and optional allspice. Reduce
heat to low and simmer for one hour or until the meat is “falling apart” tender.
Add the carrots and/or other root vegetables and potatoes and simmer for
another 1½ hours. Mix the flour and remaining ½ cup water in a separate small
bowl, forming a thin paste. Add this to the soup, stirring well and s­ immer for 15
more minutes.

Makes 8–­10 servings

 Growing Up on a Farm
in Northern Minnesota
12
In the poem “Ulysses,” Alfred, Lord Tennyson said, “I am a part of all that
I have met.” This statement implies that all encounters, whether positive or
negative, are a part of our psyche. It might even mean that we should avoid
the negative. In my mind anyway, negative encounters have a reflective reac-
tion within us that brings out positive images.
The farmerly tasks that were assigned to me at a tender age would be
unthinkable today. I shoveled cow manure in the barn, raked poop in the
chicken coop. I learned to drive the “joker”—­a converted Ford, I think it
was a Model A, without floorboards, a cab, or fenders. I was twelve years old
at the time. We used the joker to pull the hay mower, hay rake, and wagon.
When I was sixteen, my parents took a road trip to Oregon to visit my aunt
Elma. Two of my sisters went along on the trip, and the rest of the kids were
left behind for me to care for along with the routine farm chores, with which
I was very familiar by then. There were cows to be fed and milked morning
and evening; the milk had to be strained, chilled, and stored in ten-­gallon
containers, then lifted into a cooling tank to chill before the milkman came
to pick them up. The chickens had to be cared for, eggs gathered, and the
garden vegetables picked, cleaned, and put away.
The cows were my confidants. I knew each one by name and personality.
I was feeding and milking them at the age of ten. By the time the sun came
up in the winter, I had milked my share, gulped down a bowl of hot oatmeal,
changed from barn clothes to school clothes, grabbed my books and home-
work, and torn down the quarter-­mile road to catch the big, yellow school
bus at the corner of what is now named Benson Road.
Many years later, I wondered if my classmates could smell barn on me in
school. I asked that question just last week. The reply? “We all smelled like
barn!”
We had round, galvanized tubs that usually were used in the sauna build-
ing when Mummy washed clothes. In the summertime on hot days, we would
fill the tubs with water and set them out to be heated by the sun. We would
run out and swish the water around until we determined that the water was

18 d
 Homemade d 19

Leonard and I enjoy

a summertime
“swim,” while Isä
drives the Ferguson
tractor in the field
behind us.

warm enough to go “swimming.” I would wear a sunsuit and my younger

brother Leonard would wear a pair of shorts. Or nothing. We never worried
about sunburn and I don’t recall being burned.
When the Rural Electric Association moved into our area in 1940, my par-
ents were the first to sign up. I was six years old at the time. A Westinghouse
stove and refrigerator found a place in the kitchen. Even though we could now
cook anything with the turn of a knob, we still fired up the woodstove for
baking crusty rye bread and for its “coziness.” I still believe you can’t get the
same kind of crust on bread as you can when it is baked in a wood-­fired oven.
The Westinghouse refrigerator had smooth rounded corners and hummed
away in the kitchen; it took the place of the old oak icebox and was most ex-
citing. The refrigerator came with a cookbook and directions for making ice
cream. We always had plenty of milk, cream, and eggs on hand, and in the
summertime I could add fresh berries from the woods and fields. I would
20 d Homemade

skim the cream that rose to the top of the ten-­gallon containers and mix and
churn the cream into ice cream and butter.
It was in about the fourth grade, when we were asked to write what was
on our minds, that I truly discovered the joy of writing. From that day on,
whenever we were told that part of the curriculum for whatever class we were
taking was to write an essay, it excited me. My classmates groaned. This was
the beginning of my quest to learn how to write, and that hasn’t been easy.
My language was peppered with Finnish words and though I was good at
spelling, I wasn’t sure of my grammar. I loved to do research in the library at
school, no matter what the topic.
Further, all my routine tasks around the farm gave me ample time to dream
about writing. I was too self-­conscious to tell anybody, so I wrote secret stories
and hid them. My parents gave me a used black Smith Corona typewriter one
year for Christmas, and it became my prized possession. I could hack out
stories and when I was brave enough, I sent them, secretly, to magazines like
Calling All Girls and Seventeen. I collected a pile of rejection slips.
Much as I loved to cook, I hated the mandatory home economics classes
at school. They were nothing new to me. The home economics teacher was
short, fat, always wore black dresses, and had dandruff on her shoulders. The
classes she taught were a series of endless repetition. Biscuits, muffins, cocoa
brownies, and tiring talks about aprons, tying one’s hair back, and washing
hands. I wanted more. I wanted to write and I wanted to explore the tradi-
tional foods of the world. At the time I felt that I didn’t know enough about
anything to actually write about anything. I was a sponge ready to learn, and
in addition I had an imagination that had plenty of freedom to roam.
Mr. Riley, the science teacher, was a true inspiration. He was a tough dis-
ciplinarian, and the physics and chemistry he taught all made sense to me. I
learned the difference between baking soda and baking powder in chemistry
class. Soda is a base that reacts with an acid to make a cake rise. Baking pow-
der, on the other hand, has both a base and an acid in its makeup, and all it
requires is a liquid to spur the action. I figured the reason that we used one
combination or another was merely a matter of taste.
English classes weren’t quite as easy to figure out, although I did enjoy
reading the classics that were assigned to us. I couldn’t relate to the charac-
ters because I thought they lived in such exotic places. I couldn’t picture the
March girls in Little Women in barn clothes! But still I thought the farm we
lived on was the most beautiful place in the world.
I would walk through the woods and over the fields and hold my fingers
to shape a square and imagine a “calendar picture” right in front of me. I’d
name the scenes for the topic and season. It was many years later that I had a
 Homemade d 21

camera of my own, and when I got it, I was always behind it—­so I was in the
pictures only in spirit.
It has always been fascinating to me to ponder the idea of inherited traits.
Today with DNA testing I may learn the answers to many questions I have
about my heritage. Following that thinking, we are also made up of our an-
cestors’ personalities, whether we knew them personally or not. I have traced
back certain traits to my grandparents and note their qualities in myself and
my brothers and sisters. That is why I know that the stories about all of my
grandparents are important. I thank God for their gifts and their strengths
and weaknesses.

In northern Minnesota, a small farm in the mid-­1900s required multiple

incomes to survive. Springtime brought outside chores. There was the
preparation of the fields for planting potatoes, wheat, and oats as well as
plowing the “kitchen” garden. There were newborn calves to be nursed and
cows with large, heavy bags to be milked twice a day.
We had to wean calves as soon as possible so that they would not be de-
pendent on their mothers’ milk. To do that, we had to teach the newborn
calf to drink milk from a pail. Baby calves have an instinct to suck, so we had
to let the calf suck our fingers as we gradually immersed our hand into the
warm, sweet-­smelling, frothy milk. There is a special aroma to the colostrum
milk—­it was sweet, a deep yellow, and a bit sticky. Once the calf learned to
drink from a pail, we switched the feeding to a mixture of powdered milk and
water and no longer had to pretend our fingers were nipples.
I have always loved the sights, sounds, and smells of springtime. The first
sign was always from the song sparrows, which would sing their songs early
in the morning, going from an A down to a D many octaves higher than I
can identify on the piano. Sometimes it is just a lilting A–­D and sometimes
an A–­DD, and I would listen for the answer from somewhere. I have always
wondered what these birds were saying to each other. “Stay out of my terri-
tory”? Or “Welcome to my territory”? Then there is the sweet aroma in the
air as the evergreens would awaken and the poplar trees started circulat-
ing their juices and the buds that eventually burst into leaves started to get
sticky. There would be a white web­like film on the ground that needed to be
raked away so that the tender grass could burst into life.
The chill in the springtime air, the slight crunch of the early-­morning
frozen mud on the driveway that slowly softened as the sun rose high enough
to bake the surface dry by noon. These are the delights of spring, I’d think—­a
sure sign that the freezing cold of winter is behind. Springtime, I have always
thought, holds such promise.
 Salt Cake
12
By the time I was about five years old, I had already discovered that it was far
more pleasurable to satisfy the wishes of my parents than to rebel. Maybe it
was because my mother had lost her own mother at the age of five and grew
up under the scolding hand of her stepmother that I wanted to please her. She
must have told me stories about how she was physically and mentally abused,
though I don’t recall too much because the stories were so gradually revealed.
The upshot of them, though, was that I carried the vision of the wicked step-
mother in my mind. My mom would tell me more about her early childhood
in bits and pieces much later.
She always referred to “Stepmother” when she talked about the woman
who had replaced her mother after her untimely death. “Stepmother never let
us into the kitchen,” she would say. “So, I want my kids to know how to cook.”
When she said I needed to learn how to bake a cake, I agreed. I was five
years old. She took out the big tan crockery mixing bowl with blue stripes
around the outside, the wooden spoon, and the essential ingredients: butter,
sugar, eggs, salt, baking powder, flour, vanilla, and milk.
The woodstove had been fired up so that the gauge on the front of the oven
read 350°F. It was January and although it was freezing outside, the kitchen
was cozy and the stove was always hot and ready for baking. We were not yet
powered for electricity.
I attentively watched and made mental notes of what the batter looked
like. She scooped an egg-­sized sphere of butter and slapped it into the bowl.
“About a half cup is right,” she said. Then she poked the butter with the tip of
the wooden spoon, making indentations that looked like so many commas in
a row. This was to soften the butter, she said.
Then she added sugar in twice the measure of the butter, about a cup, and
stirred it until it was all creamy. Next she added eggs, two of them, stirring
really fast so that the liquid of the eggs was whipped into the butter mix-
ture. She went on to mix in the flour and baking powder, and explained that
one teaspoon of baking powder to one cup of flour was the best proportion.
Vanilla for flavor and enough milk to make a smooth, pourable batter—­and
the cake was ready for the baking pan.
“Taste it,” she said. “If it tastes flat—­add a pinch of salt.” We did, and

22 d
 Homemade d 23

Mummy’s Simple White Cake

½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 cups all-­purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 9-­x 13-­inch cake pan.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter with the sugar. Add the eggs and
beat until fluffy. Stir the flour, baking powder, and salt together and add to the
creamed mixture alternately with the milk. Stir in the vanilla. Beat until light and
fluffy. Spread evenly into the cake pan.
Bake for 25 to 30 minutes until the center springs back when touched or until
a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean and dry. The
cake is perfect simply cut into squares, but sometimes we sprinkled cinnamon
sugar over the top.

mixed a little salt in. Then we scraped the batter into the buttered pan and
stuck it into the oven to bake, until a straw plucked from the corn broom and
stuck into the center of the cake came out clean and dry.
It was a couple of weeks later and my mother was in labor, not an uncom-
mon occurrence (there eventually were ten of us children). This was the day
my sister Lillian was born. Dr. Van (Floodwood’s resident physician) and my
father were in the bedroom with my mother. I wasn’t allowed into the room.
The kitchen stove was fired up because they needed boiling water to sterilize
the doctor’s equipment. My job was to open the side lid of the woodstove and
add a piece of firewood every fifteen minutes or so.
It was then I decided to bake a cake for Mummy.
I took out the bowl and spoon and tried to remember all the ingredients.
I hadn’t started school yet and hadn’t learned to write, so I had to remember
the recipe. I mixed the batter as I had been instructed and, last of all, tasted
it. It was flat, so I added a pinch of salt. Still flat. I added another pinch of salt.
Still flat. Finally I was tossing handfuls of salt into the batter, and it didn’t
seem to be helping at all. The batter looked good, though, and I poured it
24 d Homemade

into the pan and put it into the oven. Pondering what could have been wrong
when the cake was half-­baked, I realized that I had forgotten the sugar. This
was a lesson that served me well the rest of my life. Always taste to see what’s
missing!
The cake turned out golden and beautiful. It looked delicious! I proudly
served my mother a square of the freshly baked cake while she was lying in
bed after having given birth to Lillian. She didn’t say anything about it being
salty. She only said that it looked beautiful.
Many years later she admitted that the cake I had made was so salty it
made her tongue curl. That was Mummy—­always encouraging and always
looking for the best.
 There Were Ten of Us
12
I am very fortunate to have grown up in a home full of brothers and sisters.
To understand who I am, you must understand a little about them, too, and
our lives together on the farm in Floodwood.
I was two years old when my brother Leonard, the second oldest in our
family, was born. By the time he was a year old or so, my parents recognized
that there was something wrong. Deafness runs in the Luoma family, but
they didn’t want to believe Leonard might be affected. My dad had a brother
named Walter who was born deaf and died early in life from tuberculosis.
They didn’t want to believe that this trait would be inherited. I recall my par-
ents taking Leonard to every doctor they could, and it was a doctor in Rush
City who finally gave them the news. Leonard was born deaf with weak (or
no) audio nerves. I remember Mummy weeping. He appeared to be a perfect
baby with strong bones and “all ten toes” as the old saying goes.
As a baby and as a toddler, Leonard noticed everything and was super-
active and fearless. When he was about four years old, our father started to
build a new barn for the farm. The barn stood thirty-­t wo feet high and forty
feet long with the typical rounded roof. Near the top of the roof during con-
struction, there was a long and narrow plank that ran from the front to the
back of the barn’s frame.
To the horror of my parents, Leonard climbed fearlessly to that narrow
plank and ran back and forth from the front to the back again and again,
some thirty feet off the ground. You couldn’t yell at him because, of course,
he couldn’t hear. I don’t know how they got him down to the ground; all I
know is that my six-­year-­old heart was beating like a drum. Finally, they did
get him down, but there was no way to explain the danger to him and the
fright we all felt.
Two years later Leonard was enrolled in the Minnesota School for the
Deaf in Faribault, now called the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf.
It was a sad and happy situation for the family. We so looked forward to
Christmas and summer holidays, anxious to see how much language he had
learned. It was always a sad day when Leonard had to return to school, but
we were thankful and happy that he had such a great opportunity to learn
communication skills along with the traditional curriculum that we had

d 25
26 d Homemade

Leonard and I at the

farmhouse, ages two
and three, in 1937.

in school. This was in the days before American Sign Language was used.
At home, we learned to spell-­sign words, so we could communicate with
Leonard in a very rudimentary but convenient manner. Today, we all would
have learned ASL.
Faribault was known for producing blue cheese. The students at the Min-
nesota School for the Deaf were taken on regular field trips to the blue cheese
caves and obviously were treated to samples. These samples developed a taste
for blue cheese in most of the students, including my brother. I especially
remember his delight when we’d buy a square of Treasure Cave blue cheese.
Later, the company that bought the caves moved their production to a facility
in another state and closed down Treasure Cave in the Faribault area in the
1990s. To this day, one of the best gifts I can give Leonard is a hunk of blue
cheese.
My sister Marion came next. She and I did a lot together growing up and
were always the best of friends—­from peeling “popple” (our name for poplar
trees) in the woods, to caring for the chickens, to barn work. We made up
 Homemade d 27

stories to entertain each other while picking berries, weeding the garden, and
doing chores. Even today, Marion and I have a special “sisterly” connection.
We taught each other to be terrible shoppers. On our trips to Duluth, we
lusted over items in Woolworth’s, Kresge’s, or the Ben Franklin stores where
we could buy a little vial of Blue Waltz Perfume for twelve cents or a little
fake watch with hands that were permanently fixed so that the face read ten
minutes to the hour or twenty minutes after. We would look at each other
and ask the question, “Can I live without it?” Of course, the answer was al-
ways yes, so we didn’t spend any of our hard-­earned money to buy anything.
Even today, we follow the “Can I live without it?” rule.
Lillian, my parents’ fourth child, was born on the day that I created the
Salt Cake. Lil was always popular in high school, an athlete, cheerleader,
adventurer—­she was all around a lot of fun to be with. Her cooking adven-
tures were not as serious as mine, but what I learned from her early experi-
ences has given me a chuckle. Directions for a cake recipe said to cream the
butter and sugar together. Noticing there was no cream in the ingredient list,
Lil was puzzled, so she just dumped in some cream. I never did find out how
that cake turned out.
When Lil was born, I had begged my parents to name her Betty Mae after
a beautiful dark-­haired doll I had gotten as a Christmas present that came
prenamed “Betty Mae.” My doll had dark curly hair and a pretty face. Mummy
and Isä promised that the “next” baby girl would be called Betty Mae.
Betty Mae has since been questioned as to why a “northern girl” like her has
such a “southern” name. But so it was. Betty Mae was born eighteen months
after Lillian. She is the only one of us six girls who has dark hair! Betty Mae
and Lillian were pals all through school; both of them were cheerleaders and
shared friendships. Betty Mae went on to become a home economist.
Eugene, the sixth one to join the family, was the second son of the family
after a string of girls, and I am sure his arrival delighted my father. He now
had another son to whom he could pass on the resourcefulness required for
country living. Eugene was quick and wily and learned his lessons well. He
and Rudy (the next in line) would figure out all kinds of things, from ways to
trap fish in the St. Louis River to outsmarting the game warden when they
trapped weasels in the wintertime.
Eugene, always thinking, has invented so many things we can’t keep up
with him. One of his most successful gadgets is the Zip-­It, a simple little tool
you can use to unclog drains. When his long-­haired daughter (all girls seem
to have long hair these days) was at home, clogged drains were a regularity.
So Eugene took a plastic strip (the kind that are used to secure boxes during
shipping), cut notches on the sides, and used that to pull the stuff out of the
drain.
28 d Homemade

Next came my brother Rudy—­and seemingly always with mischief on their

minds, Rudy and his older brother Eugene were inseparable. Only eighteen
months apart, they did everything together, even after both of them grew up
and got married. In this photo they look like lonely little kids—­however, they
probably had devised some plan and were about to head out to do it. It was
Eugene with the ideas, and Rudy who would carry them to fruition.
Years later, Alvin, the fourth boy, was born into the family. Eugene and
Rudy were admonished by Mummy and Isä to always include Alvin in their
activities. Considering him a nuisance, one day they put Alvin into a gunny-
sack and hung him from a birch tree in the woods. Later, at the dinner table,
Mummy noticed that Alvin was missing. “Where is Alvin?”
Rudy and Eugene guiltily glanced at each other, and one of them said, “Oh,
we forgot! We hung him in a gunnysack in a tree!”

My brothers Rudy
and Eugene on
the front steps of
our farmhouse in
1947, when Eugene
was four years
old and Rudy was
almost three.
 Homemade d 29

When I asked Alvin how he managed to spend all that time hung in a
tree, he replied that he just fell asleep, crying, but knew somebody would
come and get him. The mosquitoes, he recalls, were terrible as they bit right
through the burlap gunnysack.
Even as grown-­ups, Rudy and Eugene traveled together, worked on home
projects together, devised schemes together, planned their hunting shack,
and spent time there thinking of projects, solving problems, and telling jokes.
After Eugene developed muscular dystrophy, Rudy became his right-­hand
man. He was always there ready to help out.
Of the ten of us, Rudy, the seventh child, was the most unlikely one to
leave us first. He was only sixty-­three, the tallest, and probably the fittest of
us all. He was hit by a massive heart attack on a sunny December morning
while drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
The last time they were together, Rudy was laid out on a gurney in the ER
and Eugene, devastated, sat in his motorized scooter. What was he going to
do now? “Rudy’s gone” was a hard reality to comprehend for us all. We loved
him so much.
My sister Nancy was born with a motherly instinct. When I was in col-
lege and dating Dick, Nancy was in fourth or fifth grade and Mummy was
pregnant again, embarrassingly for the tenth time. Nancy had been sworn to
secrecy, as Mom was hesitant to announce to the world that there would be
one more Luoma on the planet.
The complication was that Isä had had his tubes tied and was supposed
to be sterile. This threw my parents into a terrible quandary. Isä accused
Mummy of sleeping with the milkman, the veterinarian, almost every man
who came to the farm. She was devastated, as she had never done such a
thing. She insisted that he was the father of her unborn child.
Isä later went to his doctor to get himself checked out—­and sure enough,
the tubes had come untied!
This all happened the year Dick and I became engaged. Nancy was so ex-
cited about the prospect of a new baby in the house, she could hardly contain
herself.
As news in small towns tends to spread, eventually, Nancy’s friend on the
school bus asked her, “Is your mother going to have another baby?”
Nancy, wanting to tell her friend that there would, indeed, be a baby in the
house, blurted out, “No, but Peachie is!”
Of course, this news was bound to spread even more quickly. When
Mummy heard about it, she got on the party line (our country telephones at
the time were all hooked to a single party line) and called her sister Helen,
talking about the new baby she was about to have. She could hear the click,
30 d Homemade

click, click as the neighbors picked up their phones. The news was out—­and
I was off the hook!
Alvin, like his brothers, is a guy with many talents. A horticulturist at
heart, he spent his working days for Minnesota Power as a lineman. When
I was a student at the university and home for a weekend, Alvin (in grade
school at the time) would wake me up enthusiastically on Saturday morning
to show me plants he had grown. They were long, skinny things that in the
winter, with a dearth of sunshine, grew leggy and thin. But he was so excited
to show me his latest.
He took the harassment from his older brothers in stride. When they ac-
cused him of being really, really dumb, they asked him smartly, “How much
is one and one?” Alvin answered, “Two!”
“How much is two and two?”
With eyes smartly closed, pursed lips, he answered, “Two and two is easy!”
One summer, Eugene and Rudy decided they would try to raise enough
money to buy a motorbike by doing chores. Of course, with Alvin being so
young, he was not capable of doing as many things as the older boys, but
he did contribute what bits he could and their goal was eventually accom-
plished. They bought a used motorbike.
The older brothers, having raised most of the money for the bike, told
Alvin, “The only thing you earned was the air in the tires!”
Alvin’s answer, “Well, then, I’ll take my air back!”
Dawn, the infamous number ten in the family, wasn’t going to be left
behind! A straight A student and an accomplished flutist, she went on to the
University of Minnesota to become an architect. Her designs are creative—­in
fact, she designed the home we now live in. But that’s not all. She tried her
hand at retail children’s clothing, then gave up the idea. Dawn is now the
family expert on the Minnesota Twins, and she follows baseball religiously!
It turned out that Dawn and our daughter, Cathy, were separated in age
by only two years. So, Dawn was “Auntie Dawn” to Cathy—­a position that
seemed hilarious as they made mud pies together.
 Being Finnish
12
We were Finns and almost everybody else we knew was a toiskielinen, or a
person of “another tongue.”
Our closest neighbor, a quarter mile away from where our driveway
started, lived on the corner where we caught the school bus. It wasn’t a cor-
ner at all. It’s the dead end of what is now called Benson Road, named after
the people who bought the farm from my parents in 1962.
Our neighbors were a combination of one hundred percent Norwegian
and German (or Pennsylvania Dutch) and Mennonites. Instead of going
to the Lutheran church that we attended, the neighbors went to the Bible
Chapel in Floodwood—­an amalgamation of various fundamental groups in
the area. They often alluded to the fact that we were condemned to hell if we
didn’t repent and be saved. This was an idea that puzzled me.
We thought they were nice people, but later we found out that the neigh-
bor kids had been instructed not to associate with our family because we
were heathens, and I suppose they thought our evil ways would rub off on
them. Or something like that. It was a funny thing, but they never hesitated
to ask for help when they needed it.
The mother of our closest neighbor family, the Mennonites, almost always
wore a “huivi” wrapped around her head. Or, that’s what we Finns called the
cotton scarf that she wrapped tightly and knotted just below her hairline on
the back of her head. On very rare occasions, she would appear with her long,
dark hair tightly rolled up on a rag to make a shiny, smooth rope around her
head. It was the style, but they did not want to be too worldly and stylish.
Our neighbors lived a different way from our Finnish standards. Their
house was cluttered and had a musty smell, and they allowed cats to run
across the big round kitchen table.
I remember once when I was offered a slice of freshly baked bread. The cat
had just been shooed off the table, and the bread placed down just where the
cat had sat. I can’t remember if I was polite enough to eat that slice of bread,
or if I had just remembered something I needed to do and took off quickly.
Most of the time we had to run the quarter mile to catch the school
bus, but sometimes in the winter when the bus was late, usually due to bad
weather, they would invite us into their house to stay warm. I never really

d 31
32 d Homemade

liked it because their house smelled funny, and if they offered me something
to eat, like a cookie, I couldn’t touch it. I could just picture a cat licking the
cookie dough spoon.
For their summertime bathing, they had a big white bathtub outside
under the willow trees that was enclosed in a tent. I don’t know what they
did in the winter. Our family always bathed in our sauna on Saturday night,
fall, winter, spring, or summer, and though my mother invited the neighbors
to sauna, they never came.
“You can’t get clean in a bathtub,” my father used to say. “You’ve got to
take a sauna and then scrub yourself all over!” You had to sweat and when
you sweated, you could rub off white stuff from your skin. That’s when you
were really clean.
“Sauna” was a ritual. We bathed every Saturday night and the night before
any important holiday, like Christmas, or if important company came to
visit. In the summertime, we had sauna almost every night during haymak-
ing season, just to cool off and wash away bits of itchy dried hay that stuck
to our sweaty skin.
The sauna was a separate building away from the house. It had two rooms:
the first was the dual-­purpose dressing room and laundry where my mother
washed clothes on Mondays using a wringer washer. After churning every-
thing in hot soapy water, she fed the clothes through the handwringer into
galvanized rinse tubs. Then, after rinsing the clothes by hand, she would
again feed them through the wringer, turning them into long, flat, twelve-­
inch-­wide ribbons that had to be shaken out and hung on an outside clothes-
line to dry. In the winter, the wet laundry would freeze into stiff boards, and
by evaporation got almost dry.
We brought the semidry laundry into the house, fired up the wood-­
burning stove, and placed sadirons on the top to heat up. Sadirons—­or sad
irons, the name coming from an Old English word meaning “solid”—­were
used in the days before we had electricity. They were thick slabs of cast iron,
delta-­shaped and with a handle, heated on top of the stove. These were also
called flatirons. After we had electricity, we switched to electric irons.
In our sauna building there was a long, homemade bench in the dressing
room that was also used for the laundry. The bench spanned the full length
of the room, and that’s where we would sit to cool off after soaking in the
belching steam that we created in the hot room, or steam room, of the sauna.
The floor of the dressing room was always covered with clean hand­woven
rag rugs.
Those rugs were all woven by my aunt Martha, who had a loom. Martha
used strips of fabric from old clothing. To make the colorful balls, we cut old
clothing, sheets, and anything that had outworn its initial use into 1½-­inch
strips. We would wrap the strips into balls and when we had a basketful,
 Homemade d 33

we would transport them to Martha, who then wove them into rugs. It was
always fun to try and recognize the patterns in the rugs that came from our
old clothes.
The steam room of the sauna had a stove fashioned out of an oil barrel
that had pipes through it and that circled into another oil barrel that was
made to hold and heat water. The barrel stove was covered with rocks that
would heat up from the wood fire. To fill the water barrel, we carried pails of
water, pumped from the well near the house. As the water circulated in the
pipe through the fire, it would heat up. This took a long time—­at least three
hours—­so we had to have a good, hot fire going.
The steam room had a concrete floor with a drain that was covered with a
wooden platform and shelves that we called “lavas” on three different levels.
The top level was always the hottest, especially when you threw a ladleful of
water onto the hot rocks. This phenomenon is called löyly. Because of the
steam, only when kids were big enough were they allowed to climb to the
top level. We would watch the temperature on the thermometer on the wall
go down when the water we threw on the rocks burst into steam, making us
feel hotter and hotter.
We all took turns taking our sauna baths. First, we’d bathe the “little kids,”
and then the girls went in together and then the boys took their sauna to-
gether. We girls never went in with the boys, nor did women bathe with men.
The only exception was that husbands and wives usually bathed together.
As we steamed, we’d rub ourselves with Jergen’s soap and wet washcloths.

Little brother Alvin at three years old, in the sauna in his tub on the “lava.”
34 d Homemade

I loved the floral aroma of the soap, especially if it was a “new” bar, just un-
wrapped. We each had our own pan of water for bathing. Last of all, we would
dump ladles of cold water over ourselves to cool and rinse ourselves. Then,
we’d go into the dressing room to dry off and put on nightclothes, and run
into the house to read the funny papers (the Sunday paper always arrived on
Saturday in the mail in Floodwood). Then we’d drink bottles of orange, straw-
berry, or cream soda that Isä brought from town as our Saturday night treat.
I loved the “Saturday night” feeling because we had spent the day scrub-
bing the floors, baking bread or a cake, and sometimes some cookies. Sat-
urday was the day to wash the bedsheets and the clean aroma from drying
outside was delicious.
Sunday was the day of rest, although it was only once a month that we had
worship services—­at Uncle Frank’s house. But that is another story.

Thin Finnish Pancakes (Lattyja)

Sometimes we call these “flapjacks”—­they are very thin pancakes that are quick
to make and perfect for a quick breakfast or simple supper. For a dessert, they
can be served with berries and whipped cream. Sometimes I use buttermilk in
place of milk—­that would make them “buttermilk pancakes.” The batter can be
made the night before, then refrigerated. If it thickens beyond being pourable,
just add more milk or buttermilk.

2 eggs
1 teaspoon sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup milk or buttermilk
2 tablespoons melted butter
1 cup all-­purpose flour
Butter for the pan

In a medium-­sized bowl, whisk the eggs, sugar, and salt together. Add the milk,
butter, and flour and whisk until smooth. Cover and let stand for 1 hour before
cooking the pancakes.
Heat a heavy skillet or a Scandinavian-­style pancake pan, and brush with
butter. Spoon the batter into the pan, using no more than 2 tablespoons of the
mixture at a time. Cook on both sides until golden and serve hot.

Makes about 20
 Sunday Services at Uncle Frank’s
12
Even though there were two Lutheran churches in Floodwood, we went to
Finnish Lutheran services once a month in Cedar Valley, about twelve miles
away. During the cold months we’d usually go to Uncle Frank’s farm, where
the traveling pappi (pastor) would lead the service. I was baptized at Uncle
Frank’s, as were my brothers and sisters. The baptisms were always at the
service soonest after our birth.
Uncle Frank’s house was built in the same plan as the old country farm-
houses in Finland. You entered a small foyer with a painted floor where
one could hang jackets and deposit muddy boots before entering the tupa,
a large multipurpose kitchen/great room. The tupa had a woodstove and a
trestle table, and in the expansive center of the room were a half dozen long
wooden benches, all covered with clean and colorful home-­woven rag rugs.
The room also had a sink that included the convenience of a water pump on
its left side. For hot water, you would pump water into a pail and transfer it
to a boiler on the woodstove. This was a very modern kitchen in the 1930s
and 1940s.
The aroma of boiled coffee and coffee bread, along with the smoke of the
woodstove mixed with a kind of sweet “old house” smell, permeated the air.
The combination hung on my clothes like incense even after we were home.
If I were blindfolded when Uncle Frank and Aunt Mayme came over to visit,
I could have identified them just by their smell.
When a service at Uncle Frank’s started, we all sat quietly on the benches.
I learned certain phrases in Finnish: “Isän ja pojan ja pyhä hengeen nimeen.
Amen” (In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen).
Psalms were sung in Finnish. I could sing by following along in the little
book of psalms because Finnish is pronounced exactly the way it is written,
but I couldn’t understand a word of the service itself except for Jumala, which
I knew was the word for God, and Jeesus (pronounced “yeesus”) for Jesus.
Pastor Villen, looking very tall against the seven-­foot-­high ceiling, would
launch into his sermon. Whenever I heard this phrase “Tosisesti, tosisesti,
minä sanon teille” (Truly, truly, I say onto you), I knew he was quoting Jesus.
I waited for the final “Amen.” That’s when the adults would gather around
the table for coffee, and us kids would take off, chasing after one another.

d 35
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Once, on going my rounds, I heard a noise a little way down the hill,
so I ordered a young soldier to throw a bomb; he failed to get the
pin quite out and slipped the "dud" into his great-coat pocket;
fortunately, a sergeant standing near saw what had happened and,
on examining the "dud," found the pin practically released! The
slightest movements would have set the bomb off and we should all
have been blown sky high.
No matter at what hour I returned from my tour of inspection along
the battle line, I always found my faithful orderly, Corporal
Hutchinson, awaiting me with a "nightcap" such as could only be
mixed by the dexterous hand of an old campaigner. Hutchinson
served with me when I commanded a battalion of the Irish Fusiliers,
and followed my fortunes when I went to command the Dublin
Fusiliers. On asking him if he would go with me to the Jewish
Battalion, he replied, "Oh, be the hokey!—but shure, Sir, that's
where you'll be wanting me the most."
Hutchinson remained with me until we set out for the Jordan Valley,
when he was taken ill and invalided home. I missed him sadly, for he
used to remain by my tent door and ward off any undesirable
intruder like a well-trained watch dog. A more faithful, loyal and
trust-worthy soldier never shouldered a rifle.
 CHAPTER X.
The Nablus Front.
On the 17th July we were transferred to the 60th Division and
attached to one of its Brigades.
We were very sorry to leave the 10th Division, for we had made
many good friends all round, and our Divisional and Brigade
Commanders had always treated us fairly and justly.
On the evil day of our transfer a fatal accident befell Lieutenant B.
Wolffe. He was in charge of the transport wagons and was engaged
in loading up supplies at the Ordnance Depôt. The drivers were, of
course, dismounted and standing by their teams while the work of
loading was going ahead. A sudden noise frightened one of the
teams, and off the four horses careered at a mad gallop. They were
heading straight for some troops standing near, and Lieutenant
Wolffe, seeing this, made a gallant attempt to stop them by
springing at the heads of the leaders as they dashed past.
Unfortunately they were going too fast for him, and he was dragged
under their feet, the wagon passing over his body.
I visited him in hospital, as did also our Chaplain and others, and we
cheered him up as much as possible, but he died on the 20th, and
his death cast a gloom over the whole battalion, for he was a most
conscientious officer, a good Jew, and well liked by all ranks. He was
buried with full Jewish rites, a "Minyan" from the battalion attending.
The Commander-in-Chief in General Orders eulogised the gallant
attempt which he made when he sacrificed his own life in his plucky
effort to save others.
On the 24th July I was requested by Dr. Weizmann to bring a
representative party of officers and men of the battalion to a most
interesting ceremony at Jerusalem—the laying of the foundation
stones of the Hebrew University On Mount Scopus.
In the days of her past greatness the law was expounded at
Jerusalem. It is quite possible that again, even in our own days, we
shall hear a message of peace and goodwill issue forth from the
Temple of Learning overlooking the Holy City.
The site chosen for the building is a magnificent one. It looks down
on the domes and minarets of Jerusalem on the one side, and, on
the other, overlooks the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea, with the
green hills of Moab looming in the distance.
The ceremony itself was a most interesting one. The Commander-in-
Chief was present; also all the civil and religious heads of the
Jewish, Christian, and Moslem communities, while a vast multitude
of people of all creeds thronged along the slopes of Scopus from
Jerusalem—a seemingly good omen for future peace and concord. It
was a truly inspiring and historic occasion, and augured well for the
future greatness of the University. Stones were laid by the Christian
Bishop in Jerusalem and by the Mufti (the Chief Mohammedan
dignitary). One was also laid by Dr. Weizmann in the name of the
Jewish Regiment, while what perhaps appealed to me most of all
was the part taken by Jewish children in laying a stone representing
the Hope of Israel.
On my return to the Battalion I found the Headquarters encamped in
a pretty grove of olives on the Inniskilling Road, some two miles
behind the firing line. While we were here our Chaplain, the Rev. L.
A. Falk, one day discovered a red granite column embedded in the
side of a hill. This we unearthed and, on measuring it, found that it
was about 12 feet high and about 2 feet in diameter. We erected it
in our camp in a grove of olive trees. I much perturbed our good
Rabbi by chaffingly suggesting to him that we had been erecting an
altar to Baal, in a grove, in one of the high places! Our find got
noised abroad, and the Governor of Jerusalem, Colonel Storrs, with
his assistant, Lord William Percy, motored out from Jerusalem to see
it. They had lunch with us, and I was delighted to note that Lord
William Percy took a keen interest in preserving the fauna of
Palestine, and had induced General Allenby to impose strict
limitations on the shooting of birds and beasts.
Our transfer to the 60th Division did not, for the time at least, result
in any change in our position in the line, but, almost from the
moment we joined the new Brigade, we felt the hostility shown
towards all things Jewish by the Brigade Commander. I endeavoured
to counter his prejudice against the battalion, during a friendly after-
dinner chat, by pointing out the immense debt we owed to the
"People of the Book" for all they have done towards civilising and
humanizing the world for thousands of years. During their struggle
for existence through centuries of exile, in countries where every
form of torture and repression had been in vogue against them, they
never lost their age-long Hope of a Restoration. The General
seemed, like many others, to have a very vague idea as to the aim
of the Zionists, which is simply to establish a National Home in
Palestine where Jewish life, rooted in its own soil, would have an
opportunity of developing on modern lines, in accordance with its
own ideals. I gave the Brigadier some new ideas on Jews, but all my
eloquence was in vain, for I failed to convert him, and he hinted that
I was only wasting my time by being mixed up with a Jewish unit!
But although the Brigadier was right in one way when he said "You
will get nothing out of it," yet in another way he was altogether
wrong, for I have got a very great deal out of my service with this
Jewish Battalion. I have had the satisfaction of proving that, in spite
of all obstacles placed in its path, this new unit showed that it was
worthy of the best traditions of the Maccabæans, those doughty
Jewish soldiers who, on many a well-fought field, defeated the
legions of Antiochus and freed Judæa from a foreign yoke.
But it is not by fighting alone that a good battalion is proved, and
the Jewish unit was tested in many ways as this record will show.
There was no respite from such work as digging trenches, building
stone sangars, and constructing roads along the hill-sides, by day
and by night; nevertheless, every soldierly duty allotted was carried
out cheerfully and promptly.
The rumour which had got abroad about the attack on the Turkish
trenches opposite our front now crystallised into definite shape, and
the actual date of the attack was often hinted at.
A few days before the assault was to take place our Brigadier gave
us the special job of making stone emplacements, almost within
sight of the Turks, just above the village of Jiljilia, and as we fondly
hoped we would have a place in the assaulting column, all hands
worked with a will, especially our two Christian Lithuanians, Stenelus
and Sterilitis; these men amazed the British gunners by the ease
with which they placed huge blocks of stone in position—all done by
sheer strength of muscle combined with hearty good will.
This particular piece of work was under the supervision of Major
Neill, and, as it had to be done in record time, his task was no easy
one, but, fortunately for him and his Company, the Turks never
spotted what was going on, and before we left these parts Major
Neill saw the guns safely emplaced without suffering a single
casualty.
All this stone work on the steep sides of a hill, coupled with heavy
marching to and fro, and scrambling up and down, was not good for
the men's clothing, which soon got worn, ragged and dirty. A false
step on a slippery slope meant that the seat of a man's flimsy shorts
was rent asunder, and it was quite usual to see the tail of a shirt
hanging out! Yet, no matter how ragged and disreputable-looking
the men were, I found it impossible to get any renewal of clothing,
although it was freely handed out to other units.
It seemed as if it were a joy to some people to be able to withhold
necessary articles of clothing, such as shirts, boots, socks, shorts,
etc., and keep the men working on dirty jobs, and then say with
glee, "Look at the ragged dirty Jews."
It must be remembered that we could not obtain enough water even
to wash our faces, for every drop had to be carried up the
precipitous sides of the hills on camels as far as they could clamber,
and then by mules and donkeys up the steeper parts. Often there
was a shortage of the precious fluid even for tea-making.
I wrote urgent letters again and again, and protested that the men
were unfit to march for want of shoes, and that many of them were
actually exposing their nakedness for want of clothing. I sent my
Quartermaster, Lieutenant Smythe, day after day, to the Ordnance
Stores trying to extract necessary articles, but all in vain! We were
nobody's children, and consequently we could get nothing. I saw the
Brigadier, and represented to him that in many cases our men were
ragged, shirtless, sockless, and bootless, but if he made any
representations on our behalf there was no result.
Had we belonged to a Brigade instead of being merely "attached"
most of our troubles would never have arisen, but the policy
adopted by the local Staff was to keep us as "wandering Jews,"
pitched from one Brigade to another, in a continuous round of
General Post.
It was a heart-breaking experience as any soldier will understand.
At last I rode over to my old Gallipoli friend, Colonel O'Hara, who
was on the Staff of the 10th Division, and he, like the good soldier
that he is, helped me out of my difficulty as far as it lay in his power.
What a difference it makes when one meets a good Staff Officer!
Not nearly enough care is given to the task of selecting the right
men for this all-important branch of the Army. They are too often
selected for any reason except the right one, viz., efficiency.
The Brigade to which we were attached was fortunate in having at
least one good Staff Officer. The Brigade Major was a thoroughly
capable soldier, and always out to help in every way in his power.
The Brigadier often caused me much inward amusement by
pointedly appealing in my presence to the judgment of a certain
Colonel X, an officer junior to me, who was in command of a section
on our right. If I had a sangar built which commanded a good field
of fire, it was sure to be found fault with, and another had to be
built in a site chosen by their joint wisdom.
One night the gallant Brigadier came across the spot where I had
my outlook post established; he thought it was in the wrong place,
of course, and consulted his friend, Colonel X, as to where it should
be.
"Don't you think it ought to be on the top of this house?" said the
General. The Colonel climbed to the top of the house, gazed round
in the inky darkness, came down again, and said he quite agreed
with the General, as all good, well-trained Colonels, with an eye to
the main chance, invariably do!
I was then ordered to put the outlook on the top of the house,
which had a flat roof, where a man would be seen by every Turk for
miles round! Needless to say, I never placed an observer in this
absurd position.
Just about this time one of my men, quite a youth, was found asleep
at his post, and as this is about the most serious crime of which a
sentry can be guilty, he was tried by General Court Martial and
sentenced to death.
A few days later a telegram came from the Provost Marshal ordering
me to send the condemned man under strong escort, with two
senior non-commissioned officers, to the prisoners' compound some
distance away. I feared that the unfortunate lad would be shot at
dawn, and as I knew he had been working exceedingly hard, day
and night, for 48 hours before he was found asleep at his post, and
was of good character and very young, I determined to try to save
him. I therefore sent a private wire to General Allenby asking him on
these grounds to reprieve him.
My friend the Brigadier saw the wire before it was despatched and
stopped it. However, one of my men in the Signal Office told me of
this, so I immediately wrote a confidential letter to General Allenby,
gave it to a motor-cyclist, and sent him off post haste to G.H.Q.,
some thirty miles away, telling him to ride for all he was worth, as a
man's life hung on his speed.
I am glad to say that not only did General Allenby reprieve the man
and reduce the sentence to a certain number of years'
imprisonment, but he suspended even that punishment, provided
the man proved himself worthy of forgiveness by doing his duty
faithfully in the battalion.
The young soldier returned to us overjoyed and full of gratitude for
his release. He proved himself worthy in every respect, and was
never afterwards called upon to do a day's imprisonment.
Not satisfied with having held up the wire, the Brigadier motored
some miles away to report the matter to the Divisional General, Sir
John Shea.
I was duly haled before the General, not knowing for what reason,
until he said, "You know you will get yourself into trouble if you go
sending telegrams direct to the Commander-in-Chief." It then
dawned on me for the first time why I had been sent for.
I explained all the circumstances to the General, and said that, in
such an emergency, I felt justified in what I had done. Besides, I
said, I had not addressed the Commander-in-Chief as such, but as
General Allenby, an officer whom I had known for many years. I also
confessed that, when I found that the wire had been blocked, I had
immediately written a letter of appeal to General Allenby, and had
sent it off by a special cyclist despatch rider.
The General pretended to be so horrified at this that he needed a
cocktail to revive him—in which I may add he asked me to join him.
I do not know what he thought of the Brigadier's action, but I can
leave the reader to imagine what I thought of it!
A few days later, when I was breakfasting with General Shea, I was
much amused when he told me that when he was at home his
children insisted on his reading a lion story to them every evening
out of "The Man-Eaters of Tsavo"!
From the frequent consultations between the Brigadier and his friend
Colonel X I felt that something was on foot, but little realised that it
was a matter which, if carried out, would strike a blow at the very
identity of the Jewish Battalions. This, however, soon became
evident.
Shortly after my interview with the Divisional General I was called to
the telephone to speak to the Brigadier, who said, apparently with
great satisfaction, "I want to tell you that your Battalion and the
39th Battalion (which was then on its way up from Egypt) are to be
brigaded with two West Indian Battalions, and you are to be placed
under the command of Colonel X, who is now a General and has
come to live near my camp. You will find General X a very nice man."
I thanked the Brigadier for his interesting information and hung up
the receiver.
It was now clearly my duty to stop this second attempt to destroy
the identity of the Jewish Battalions in Palestine or resign my
command. It was no easy task to achieve, because our good friends
had worked underground all the time, and sprang this surprise upon
me only when it became an accomplished fact; Colonel X had
actually been appointed to the command, a Brigade Major and a
Staff Captain had been posted to the new Brigade, while the
transport and ordnance section of the formation had been already
organized and sent to Jericho.
The Staff at G.H.Q. had, of course, arranged the whole affair, and it
would be no easy task to get the Commander-in-Chief to
countermand the Brigade formation. I felt that a very firm stand
must be taken if this blow aimed at Jewish prestige was to be
averted.
I accordingly wrote a strong letter direct to General Allenby, pointing
out that, if such a scheme were carried out, it would involve very
grave issues. The Adjutant-General at the War Office had promised
that the Jewish Battalions would be formed into a Jewish Brigade,
and to depart from this declared policy would be looked upon as a
direct slight, both by the Jewish Battalions and by Jewry the world
over. Loth as I was to worry the Commander-in-Chief, I considered it
my duty to him, to my men, to myself, and to Jewry to see that
Jewish interests were not trampled upon without a protest while I
retained command. I requested therefore that the orders should be
cancelled, and, if not, that I should be relieved of my command.
That my attitude on this question was correct was proved by the
receipt of a most friendly reply from General Allenby, in which he
thanked me for my letter and said:

I see the undesirability of brigading Jewish with West Indian

Battalions, and I have decided not to do so. I shall form a
provisional Brigade of the two Jewish Battalions until a complete
Jewish Brigade can be formed, and they will be under you.

The whole tone of this letter showed that the C.-in-C. had been
badly advised by his Staff in this attempted amalgamation of the
Jewish with the West Indian Battalions.
A few hours after I had received General Allenby's communication a
wire came from G.H.Q. cancelling all the orders which had already
been issued with regard to the formation of the new Brigade.
Thus I won the second round in my fight for fair play for the Jewish
Battalions and Jewish ideals generally.
I realized that my stand for justice would be bitterly resented by
certain individuals at G.H.Q., and that, sooner or later, I would be
penalised for having upset their attempted little coup.
CHAPTER XI.
 We March to the Jordan Valley.
Within two days of the receipt of General Allenby's letter cancelling
the mixed Brigade formation, we were suddenly ordered to leave the
cool and pleasant hill-tops of Ephraim and march down to the
sweltering heat and fever-stricken desolation of the Jordan Valley,
1,300 feet below sea level, in the very hottest and most unhealthy
month of the year.
We, of course, took our orders for the deadly Valley quite cheerfully,
feeling that it was "not ours to reason why," but we did feel that it
was a blow below the belt to be taken out of the line on the Nablus
front, just as an attack, for which we had done most of the spade
work, was about to be made.
Had we remained with General Emery, I feel sure that he would have
given us a chance to show our mettle in the raid which was timed to
take place on 12th August, 1918.
Even when we were transferred to the Brigade in the 60th Division
we still looked forward to taking part in this move, and, as I have
already mentioned, we slaved away at every kind of preparation for
the affair, but, alas, we were taken out of the line, and ordered to
march to a new front, just three days before the attack.
It almost looked as if our enemies feared we would do well, and our
prowess would then get noised abroad to the discomfiture of our
detractors.
On the 9th August we marched from our pretty camp at Inniskilling
Road, where we had revelled in the grateful shade of the olive trees
which abound there, and took the road, bag and baggage, for Ram
Allah, our first halt, where we were to bivouac. Here we were to get
further orders from the G.O.C. 53rd Division, whose headquarters
were in that ancient town. It was midnight when we got to our
camp, where we found that someone had carefully chosen a site for
us which was literally one mass of stones. It must have been the
favourite place of execution in olden days when stoning to death
was in vogue, and the stones had never since been gathered up!
There was no grumbling, however; every man cleared a little patch
whereon to lie down on his waterproof sheet, and slept the sleep of
the tired. We remained at this delectable spot for the best part of
two days, and on the afternoon of the 11th we marched to
Jerusalem, where we came under the orders of the Desert Mounted
Corps.
We bivouacked about a mile or so short of Jerusalem, and, as the
camp was reached long after dark, the City remained hidden until
dawn next morning. I had a cheery and welcome dinner the evening
we arrived with Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Chetwode, who
commanded the 20th Corps, at his headquarters at the German
Hospice on the Mount of Olives.

THE WAILING WALL AT JERUSALEM

(See page 93)
I was awake about 5 o'clock next morning, just as the mist was
beginning to disperse, and woke up everybody all round about me to
have their first look at the Holy City. My officers were all very tired,
so merely gave one peep at it out of sleepy eyes, and then buried
themselves once more in their blankets. Later on the men spent the
whole of the forenoon visiting Jerusalem, and especially the
celebrated Wailing Wall, which is the only authentic portion of the
Temple enclosure which still remains. Its huge blocks of stone seem
to be as indestructible as the indomitable race which designed,
shaped, and placed them in position so many centuries ago. The
Jewish "bevel" is a noticeable feature in the stones. Here the Jews
for nearly two thousand years have wept and wailed, placing their
foreheads against the walls and copiously watering the masonry with
their tears. The wailing of the Jews at this remnant of their Temple is
one of the most pathetic and curious sights I have ever witnessed.
The Jewish mendicants who are allowed to congregate in the vicinity
of the Wailing Wall are not a pleasing spectacle, and I hope that one
of the first acts of the Zionists will be the removal of this blot on
Jewry.
Bethlehem can be reached in a few minutes by motor from
Jerusalem, and near to it Rachel's tomb stands by the roadside,
while almost opposite is the field in which Ruth gleaned.
At 4.30 in the afternoon of this day (12th August) we marched off
under the walls of Jerusalem, past the Damascus Gate, skirted the
Garden of Gethsemane, and wended our way on to the road which
would take us down to Jericho. It was a lovely sight as we halted
and looked back over the Valley of Jehoshaphat, with the brook
Kidron between us and the walls of the venerable city, the beautiful
Mosque of Omar overshadowing the Temple area, the mysterious
Golden Gates fronting us, sealed up, and the westering sun gilding
Mount Zion.
I have seen Jerusalem since from many points, but the view from
the corner of the Jericho Road, where it skirts the Mount of Olives
on the descent to Bethany, is, to my mind, by far the most beautiful
and impressive. I halted every platoon there, so that all might look
well at the glory of it—a glory which, alas, some of them would
never again return to look upon.
We bivouacked about three miles beyond Jerusalem, and next
morning (13th August) marched through Bethany while it was yet
dark, and reached our bivouac at Talaat ed Dumm at 2.30 in the
afternoon. I reported our arrival to General Chauvel, of the
Australian Mounted Division, whose headquarters were at this place,
and from his hut I had a splendid view of the beauty and desolation
of the Jordan Valley which lay spread out before me.
Talaat ed Dumm is a weird uncanny spot. It is mentioned in the
Book of Joshua as Adummim, and is the gate of the Judæan
wilderness. The red and yellow barren hills and rocky narrow valleys
have a peculiar desolation all their own, while the heat at the time
we were there was scorching.
By some jugglery on the part of the Staff, all our transport animals
had been taken away from us, and we found ourselves stranded
without a particle of shade, shelter, or food on this God-forsaken
spot, sweltering in the fierce rays of the burning sun. At last,
towards sundown, our baggage and rations arrived in motor lorries,
dinners and teas were rolled into one, and peace reigned once more
in this drowsy wilderness.
When the terrific heat had become somewhat less scorching,
accompanied by the Padre, I wandered up to an ancient ruin which
topped the summit of a hill dominating the roadway. This proved to
be the castle of a redoubtable robber chief, who had lived here in
bygone days and taken his toll from every traveller. From time
immemorial this had been the stronghold of the robber bands who
waylaid, robbed, and even murdered those journeying to and fro
between Jerusalem and Jericho. It was close to this bandit's castle
that the Good Samaritan poured oil and wine into the wounds of the
unfortunate wayfarer who had fallen among thieves. It was an ideal
spot for a robber's lair, because it commands a full view of what is
practically the only route for caravans through this dreary barren
wilderness.
We were not sorry to leave our camp at dawn, and strode out so
merrily that we overtook a Cavalry Brigade which blocked our way!
As we marched down the steep descent to the Jordan Valley we had
on our left the Wadi Kelt, which wound its tortuous course through
the boulders at the bottom, hundreds of feet sheer below us. Some
people say that it was here that the Prophet Elijah was fed by the
ravens, but it has been satisfactorily proved that the brook Cherith,
where Elijah hid, is now known as the Wadi Fusail. It runs into the
Jordan from the westward, near a place called the rock of Oreb.
This suggested an idea to me that the "ravens" spoken of in the
Bible were not birds but people, for the word "Oreb" means a raven.
Now we know there was a prince called Oreb, for we have an
account of his death in Judges, Chapter 7, Verse 25. It is also a well-
known fact that in the East tribes take their names from their prince
or chief man, so that in all probability there was a tribe called Orbim
(the plural of "oreb" or raven).
The place where Prince Oreb was slain was the rock of Oreb, and it
is known to this day as "Tel el Orbaim." Moreover, this place is in
Gilead, which was Elijah's old home, so it was quite natural that he
should flee to this neighbourhood and be fed with flesh and bread,
night and morning, by his friends the Orbim, or "Ravens."
How similar, too, are the words used in the 4th and 9th verses of 1st
Kings, Chapter 17: "I have commanded the ravens to feed thee
there," and "I have commanded a widow woman there to sustain
thee!"
Can it be possible that the ravens were people and not birds, and
that our old and learned translators fell into the error of thinking that
they were birds, because they did not know of the possible existence
of a tribe called "Orbim" or "Ravens"?
We continued our march down through the Judæan wilderness, the
place where the High Priest yearly turned loose the Scapegoat which
bore on its head the sins of the Children of Israel.
Occasionally, away to our right, between the desolate, dusty,
sulphurous-looking hills, we caught a momentary glimpse of the
emerald sheen of the Dead Sea, while away on our left on the edge
of the valley, stood out the Mount of Temptation.
 THE JERUSALEM-JERICHO ROAD

NEAR THE WADI KELT

(See page 95)
The moment we got down to the Jordan Valley (or Ghor, as the
Arabs call it) the real trials of the men began. The heat was intense,
and the going became very heavy, for we had no longer a good
metalled road on which to march. Dust lay a foot deep on the path;
it was exceedingly fine and looked like the best powdered cement.
As the men marched clouds of it arose and choked them, while their
feet were actually sucked down at each step, and an effort had to be
made to draw the foot out again, as if some devil were below,
pulling at the sole of the boot.
The sixteen platoons forming the battalion marched well apart in
order to evade as much of this blinding, choking, sulphurous dust as
possible.
Jericho, the city of the Palms, lay a little to our right. We passed its
outskirts and halted for a rest under Old Jericho, the walls of which
the Bible tells us miraculously fell to Joshua's trumpets over 3,000
years ago. This was a thought which acted as a spur to every Jewish
soldier, and although the march was a hard one and the worst of it
had yet to be done, the men came through the ordeal triumphantly,
and very few dropped out by the way. Those who did fall by the
wayside were helped along by our Padre, the Rev. L. A. Falk, who
gave up his horse to the footsore and carried the pack and rifle of
the weary, thus cheering them along into Camp. This time it was the
Priest who proved the Good Samaritan on the road to Jericho.
Soon after we recommenced our march from under the walls of old
Jericho a huge black column of fine dust, whose top was lost in the
Heavens, arose in front of us and gyrated slowly and gracefully as
our vanguard, leading us onward to our bivouac on the banks of a
cool and pleasant brook, where it vanished. I felt that this was a
good omen for our success in the Jordan Valley, for it was a case of
the Children of Israel being led once more by a pillar of cloud.
The Headquarters of the Australian Mounted Division was close
beside our bivouac, and here I had a very welcome breakfast with
Major-General H. W. Hodgson, its capable and genial Commander.
The General told me that he would review the battalion on the
following afternoon, on its march out to the new camping ground on
the Auja.
Next morning, while the men were resting and refreshing themselves
on the banks of the Nueiameh (for so the cool stream was named), I
rode down the Valley to the eastward of Jericho, accompanied by
our Padre.
We waded through the Wadi Kelt, luxuriant grass growing where the
water had overflowed its banks, showing how fruitful the Valley
would be if it were irrigated. We searched the plain to discover, if
possible, some traces of the ancient Gilgal, Joshua's G.H.Q., and
eventually we came upon what we took to be the site, some three
miles to the south-east of Old Jericho. At all events we found some
very ancient stonework buried in grass-grown mounds just about
where Gilgal might be looked for, and I feel sure that if excavations
were carried out here some very interesting discoveries would be
made.
After we had briefly examined the ruins, I suggested to the Padre
that we should go and breakfast in Jericho, if indeed we could find a
caravanserai there, so in search of a hostelry we rode into the
modern city of the Palms.
It proved to be but a poor tumble-down jumble of buildings, as
might have been expected. However, as we rode along, we came
upon a somewhat pretentious looking building on which was painted
"The Gilgal Hotel." Whatever doubt there may have been about the
ancient Gilgal, here at any rate was a modern one, the discovery of
which at this moment was most opportune, for we were both
decidedly hungry after our explorations.
As we rode into the courtyard a dozen Arab urchins who had been
lounging about made a dash for our horses, each eager to grasp the
reins in the hope of some "baksheesh." An elderly dame, on hearing
the scuffle, emerged from a doorway, scattered the surplus boys,
and called loudly, "Victoria, Victoria." A musical voice from a room
above responded to this familiar name, and, on looking up, we saw a
buxom, olive-tinted damsel step on to the balcony. A voluble
dialogue then took place between mother and daughter, the result of
which was that Victoria, in excellent English, invited us up to
breakfast. We had a most sumptuous feast, or so it appeared to us,
inured as we were to plain Camp fare. I was particularly pleased
with the flavour of the honey, which Victoria informed me was taken
from a hive in the garden. The milk, too, was good and plentiful, so
we had at last reached the "land flowing with milk and honey."
Before we left, I asked our fair hostess how it came about that she,
a Syrian damsel, was known as Victoria, to which she promptly
replied, "Because I am Queen of Jericho."
Some time afterwards I made a special visit to Old Jericho. Naturally,
during the 3,000 odd years that have elapsed since its capture by
Joshua, the old city has got silted up and the place has been
covered over by soil washed down from the Judæan hills; but just
before the War a party of Antiquarians commenced excavation work
and exposed several buildings of the old city, some twenty or thirty
feet below the surface of the ground. There the lintels and door-
posts of wood may still be seen embedded in the brickwork, but they
are all turned into charcoal, probably from the fire which consumed
the city by Joshua's command.
It will be remembered that the rebuilding of Jericho was forbidden
under a terrible curse, "Cursed be the man before the Lord that
riseth up and buildeth this city Jericho; he shall lay the foundation
thereof in his firstborn, and in his youngest son shall he set up the
gates of it."
The Battalion left its pleasant bivouac by the Nueiameh at 5 o'clock
in the afternoon, and waded across through its cool waters; when
we had marched through the appalling dust of the Valley for some
three miles, I observed General Hodgson waiting to review us on the
far side of a steep nullah. I cantered on, and took my place beside
the General and his A.D.C., Captain Buxton.
I am certain that a review was never held under more peculiar
circumstances.
The men marched in column of fours, platoon after platoon, down
one side of the steep gully and up the other, and then past the
General, who apparently expected to see them marching as steadily
as if they had been in the Long Valley at Aldershot; and the strange
part of it is that they were marching steadily, shoulder to shoulder, in
spite of the difficult ground which they had to negotiate and the
enormous load they had to carry. They were one mass of dust from
head to foot. Nothing could be seen of their faces except a pair of
eyes blinking out of a countenance which looked as if it had been
dipped in a flour barrel and then streaked with lines of soot, for
rivulets of black sweat ran in parallel lines down their dust-covered
faces.
It was the funniest sight I ever saw in my life, but the men were as
grave as owls. I could hardly keep my face straight when, on the
command "eyes left" being given, they turned their comical looking
faces boldly up to the General!
I remarked to him that it was a bit of an ordeal to review them just
after scrambling down and up the steep sides of a gully, and he
replied, "That is exactly why I am here. I want to see how they
shape under the most difficult possible circumstances, and I must
congratulate you on their soldierly bearing and steadiness."
The Battalion certainly did itself credit that day, for it was no light
ordeal to go through, considering the dust and heat, and the
enormous weight that the unfortunate men had to carry stowed
away on every part of the person.
When we had completed about six miles of the march towards our
camping place at the Auja, we were met by the Brigade Major of the
12th Cavalry Brigade, an energetic Staff Officer, who, besides coming
himself, had thoughtfully provided guides to lead us into the Camp in
the darkness. It must be remembered that we were now within sight
and range of the Turkish guns, and all large bodies of troops had to
move in the dark. We were very glad to reach our bivouac on the
Auja, which is a pleasant, swiftly-flowing streamlet, with many cool
and shady nooks amid the foliage which grows in profusion along its
banks.
 CHAPTER XII.
Our Position in the Mellahah.
We were now attached to the 12th Cavalry Brigade, commanded by
Brigadier-General J. T. Wigan, and on the 16th, 17th, and 18th
August we took over D and E sections of the Desert Corps front line,
relieving the 19th Indian Lancers and the 6th Indian Cavalry
Regiments. We were unfortunately only a few days with the 12th
Brigade, which was moved to Ludd soon after we were posted to it.
The Jordan Valley, at the place where we were entrenched, is about
fifteen miles wide and is over 1,200 feet below sea level. It is for the
most part fairly flat, but is intersected here and there by huge
ravines, which are in places quite narrow, and at others some
hundreds of yards across, with sheer cliffs some thirty to fifty feet
high as banks. Looking at the valley from the hills that border it, one
would never suspect the existence of these great rifts. The River
Jordan runs in the centre of one of these depressions, which in
places is 50 to 100 feet below the ordinary level of the rest of the
valley.
The Wadi Mellahah is another huge cleft or rift, running about a mile
to the west of, and more or less parallel to, the Jordan. It is some 10
miles long, and varies from a few score yards to a mile in width.
Steep cliffs and slopes shut it in on both sides, and make the bed of
the Mellahah about as hot and stifling a spot as can well be
imagined, while, to add further abomination to it, noxious fumes
arose in places from its barren and desolate looking sides and bed. A
tiny, briny streamlet runs its straggling course through it in the dry
season, although in places it spreads out into large reed-covered
swamps. The water of this rivulet was so salt that a single drop was
more than one could bear to take on the tip of one's tongue.
We made our headquarters in this gully some three miles from
where it flows into the Auja, of which it is a tributary, and here we
fixed up a reed hut as our mess house, under the shade of the only
tree in this depressing spot. Of course we had to keep down in the
depths of the ravine, otherwise we would be seen and shelled by the
Turks.
This Mellahah Wadi had been made in the course of ages by the
rush of water coming down from the Judæan range and from other
hills to the north where there is a heavy annual rainfall. Here and
there in the ravine, where it is at its broadest, stand isolated hillocks
which the water has not worn away, and on these had been
constructed some of our more northern redoubts; they were easy to
defend and commanded a good view, for their tops were on a level
with the surface of the surrounding valley.
One of our redoubts was named "Salt," and just to the north of it a
sparkling spring bubbled out of the side of the cliff. It looked so pure
and inviting that I took a mouthful, and was nearly poisoned for my
pains. It was the most briny, sulphurous liquid imaginable. There is a
fortune awaiting the man who exploits its medicinal properties!
The northern end of the Mellahah was held by the Turks, and there
it opened out into a huge swamp. Of course the mosquitoes bred
and thrived in this natural reserve, and played havoc, not only with
the Turkish Army, but with our men too; when the wind blew from
the north it carried the little demons amongst us in swarms. We had
drained the swampy part of the Mellahah within our own lines at
enormous pains, so that unless the wind blew from the north, we
were fairly free of the irritating pests.
As a matter of fact we used to go out every night half a mile or so in
front of our wire, deepening and diverting the streamlet, in order to
dry up the swamp and remove the breeding ground of the
mosquitoes as far as possible from our posts. This was always risky
work, for, if the Turks had discovered what we were about, they
would no doubt have made it very lively for us with rifle and
machine-gun fire.
From a military point of view our position in the Mellahah was a
hazardous one.
We were now on the extreme right flank and extreme north front of
the British Army in Palestine—the post of honour and danger in the
line, with the Turks practically on three sides of us in the salient
which we held. We had the most exposed piece of front to guard
which it is possible to conceive, and we were so badly supported by
guns, etc., that, had the Turks made a determined attack in force,
we would probably have been annihilated before succour could
reach us. It was altogether an extraordinarily risky position in which
to place a raw battalion. The authorities must have had great faith in
our fighting abilities.
We were the only troops in the Mellahah, or within miles of it, our
next nearest neighbours being the West Indian Regiment, which had
a much better position than ours, close under the Judæan hills, with
the swift sweet waters of the Auja running through their lines.
The 20th Indian Infantry Brigade held the Jordan some three miles
to the south of us, and it would have been quite feasible for the
Turks to have concentrated a considerable force and thrust
themselves into the gap between our lines and theirs, and by so
doing we would have been completely cut off.
The Anzac Mounted Division was strung out a long way southward,
from the Auja to the Dead Sea, and some considerable time would
have to elapse before these doughty warriors could come to our
assistance. The guns guarding our section of the front were very few
—about six 13-pounders and a couple of howitzers, the latter being
rarely brought into action.
We had in our neighbourhood part of the 4th Turkish Army, some
10,000 strong, with over 70 guns, so it can be seen how precarious
our position was. In our infant days some wag had bestowed upon
us the unofficial motto of "No advance without security," but here we
did not live up to it, for we were indeed well advanced without any
security.
The Turks were in possession of the important Umm esh Shert Ford
on the Jordan, and held very strong positions covering the ford on
our side of the river, and their entrenched line ran right across our
front and onward to the Judæan foothills, some ten miles to the
west of our position.
To the southward of the Umm esh Shert Ford we had an observation
post on the cliffs which overlooked the Jordan, and on a moonlight
night it was an eerie experience to stroll across to it and lie on the
warm sand, listening to the melancholy howling of the jackals and
hyenas which filled the air with their dismal cries and wailings. I
often wondered if the thick growth of tangled trees and shrubs
which spread out over 100 feet below me up and down the river
banks did not conceal many strange wild creatures, still unsuspected
in these regions; the place lends itself to the weird in all things, but
the only uncanny thing I saw there was a reddish coloured hare with
enormous ears, which, on that occasion at all events, got away
safely to the shelter of the reeds.
The Turkish outposts at this point were established on the opposite
bank of the Jordan, but they never molested us, or attempted to
cross at this point.
Our sector of some seven miles of front stretched from this point in
a north-westerly direction, and we held a series of redoubts, some
on the Jordan bank of the Wadi Mellahah, others on hillocks in the
ravine, as I have already described, and three more on the right
bank of the Wadi.
This sector was divided into two. I placed Major Ripley in command
of the north-western part, while Major Neill commanded the south-
eastern wing. Each of these officers had some six redoubts to
defend, and several of the posts were quite isolated and had to
depend entirely on themselves in case of attack.
I recommended that two of these posts should be abolished, for
they were unsuitable for defence purposes. The Corps Commander
(General Chauvel), the Divisional Commander, and all their staffs
came out one day to see if my suggestion was sound. I remember
we all stood in a row looking over one of the parapets of the useless
redoubt in full view of the Turks; if they had only fired a lucky shot
from "Jericho Jane" that morning they might have made a good bag!
All the generals agreed that the two posts were useless, so we
dismantled them gladly, for it meant less men to find for duty each
night—a most important consideration when one's men are all too
few for the work in hand.
This was the last I saw of General Chauvel and General Hodgson, for
they were soon afterwards ordered out of the Valley to prepare for
the great concentration which was being secretly carried out on the
extreme left of the Army near Jaffa. When the Australian Division
was removed we were attached to Major-General Sir Edward
Chaytor, who commanded the Anzac Mounted Division of immortal
fame. This was a piece of rare good fortune for us, for we found in
General Chaytor a man of wide sympathy and understanding, a
demon for work and efficiency, but always ready to give honour
where honour was due—even unto Jews.
Although our position in the Mellahah was such an isolated and
precarious one, we had no pessimistic forebodings with regard to
our ability to give a good account of ourselves if attacked. We felt
that "the greater the danger, the greater the honour," and it behoved
us to be all the more vigilant, and up and doing at all times.
The magnificent way in which the men responded to the call of duty
in that desolate, nerve-racking region, is beyond all praise. All day
long the sun beat down mercilessly on them, their only shelter being
a flimsy bit of bivouac canvas, and the nights were stifling.
Perspiration streamed from every pore, even when resting. Flies and
mosquitoes deprived everyone of sleep, for our mosquito nets soon
became torn and worthless, and could not be replaced.
Just before dark every available man other than those required to go
on patrols and reconnoitring duty had to parade fully equipped and
march to his post on the redoubts. Here the apparently endless night
was spent. At dawn the men marched back to their comfortless
bivouacs to snatch what repose they could before they were again
called upon to work on strengthening the redoubts and deepening
the trenches.
It was in truth an exceedingly strenuous life under such terrible
climatic conditions.
Water could only be obtained in very limited quantities; every drop
had to be carried from the Auja four or five miles away. The whole
place was constantly enveloped in stagnant dust, so it can be
imagined with what appetite a man could tackle food under such
appalling conditions, every mouthful of which was necessarily full of
sand and grit.
An Australian summed up life in the Jordan Valley very well, when he
remarked one sweltering day, "God need not have troubled to make
Hell when He had the Jordan Valley."
This part of the Jordan Valley is not supposed to be habitable during
the months of August and September. Even the wild Bedouins, who
linger in these parts to feed their flocks of goats, flee from the
accursed place in these two dreaded months.
No British soldier had yet been called upon to endure the horrors of
the Mellahah even for a week; nevertheless the Jewish Battalion was
kept there for over seven weeks at the most deadly period of the
year. Looking back upon it all I can only say that the Jewish people
may well be proud of their Battalion for the admirable way it "carried
on" in this abomination of desolation. It was about the hottest, most
unhealthy, and most God-forsaken place in the universe—in fact
some of my men assured me that they saw the Devil himself there,
horns, tail and all!
Such was the position allotted to the 38th Battalion to defend and
hold, and it can be imagined that the change from the hill tops of
Ephraim to this inferno was appalling.
Knowing that our enemies had already tried to abolish the Jewish
Battalion, I was strongly reminded of the story of Uriah the Hittite!
How terribly we suffered owing to our tour of duty in this pestilential
region will be described in a later chapter.
 CHAPTER XIII.
Life in Mellahah.
Although the climatic change from the cool hill-tops of Samaria to
the inferno of the Jordan Valley differed as does Heaven from Hell,
still we had compensations in the fair, just, and kindly treatment
meted out to us by General Chaytor and every officer, non-
commissioned officer, and man of the Anzac Mounted Division.
The battalion stood entirely on its merits, and that it found favour in
the sight of these famous fighters is the proudest feather in its cap.
Their minds were as broad as the wide spaces from whence they
had come, and in their strong souls there was no room for petty
spite or discrimination. If we quitted ourselves like men and
performed our duties like good soldiers, then it did not matter, even
if we were Jews.
The Anzac Mounted Division Headquarters were about eight miles
from my own, and it frequently fell to my lot to ride there through
the devouring heat of the day for a conference with the General.
Never shall I forget the delicious cool draught of shandy that always
welcomed me, straight from the ice-box, mixed by the cunning hand
of Colonel Bruxner, the A.A. and Q.M.G. of the Division. Bruxner
would spy me from afar off, and, being a man of understanding, had
the nectar all ready by the time I reached his tent, and oh, how
good it was! No place in the world can raise a thirst like the Jordan
Valley, but it was almost worth enduring when it could be quenched
by a long draught of Bruxner's elixir.
The principal objective on our special piece of front was the Umm
esh Shert Ford over the Jordan. It was some two miles to the East of
our most northerly posts on the Mellahah, and it was well protected
by a series of trenches, by barbed wire entanglements, and by the
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