Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #46: Words Made of Letters

Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #46: Words Made of Letters

By Tim Krenz

January 25, 2017

In a prized heirloom which I keep well protected, I can read the words written by my maternal grandfather that he wrote to my grandmother before they married and started a family. Beside old pictures in the photo book where I found the letter—including a black and white photo of my Grandpa at my parent's wedding—I have no other way for him to speak to me. I can conjure no memories of him. My grandfather, Victor Michael Kielty, died almost a decade prior to my birth. My Grandmother Evelyn M. Kielty, neè Yonker, lived until almost age 89, passing away just a few months prior to my 30^th birthday. I have memories of her, many in fact, as she lived close and played an prominent part in my life.

Once in a while, Granny Kielty, provided me with stories of Grandpa, some funny, some sad, all good. When talking about her long-departed husband, she always looked fondly at her memories while sharing. She wore her wedding ring proudly until her death. I could see in her the love she had for Grandpa Kielty, the love she never lost. With these few contacts with the past, like the letter, the photo(s), and her own reminiscence, I got to somehow know Grandpa Kielty in the only ways possible. The insights gave me the impression of very good, decent and kind man.

In that letter to Grandma Kielty, Grandpa mentioned things about the life he wanted, some hopeful things, and some stern things about what he did not want. He signed the letter, pre-marriage proposal, “Your friend, Victor.” In all the stories, and all the other ways concerning Grandpa Kielty, like his newspaper obituary, I do not trip over the words, but I read into them the place or time he lived. Even more, I try every time to hear his voice, how he thought, the man inside and how he outwardly presented himself. I hear cautious words of a suitor, and the depth of his affection for Granny.

The letter I discovered gave me this “hearing” of him, the first real sense I ever had of him, and can ever have, unless I find more of his letters. Growing up, I always had wished I knew him in my life, even if too young to remember it. If I only had a word or picture of him holding me, I would have enjoyed it. More than for me, I always wished that he and Grandma Kielty would have lived old, for the sake of Granny who always seemed sad at the end of her stories. Grandpa left the world at the age of 52. He died far too young.

In a different lette in the same photo album, I found a letter from my maternal great-grandmother, Katherine Yonker, neè Yiddake, to my Grandmother Evelyn. I reach further back into the history of my maternal family, to before the birth of my own mother. I know that Great-grandma Katherine died a long, long time ago before 1940, and the circumstances of her death remain a mystery, speculation notwithstanding. I may have never known her, if not for a letter.

I don't remember Great-grandpa Yonker, Katherine's husband and my Granny's father, but I know from stories that I attended his funeral when very young in the early 1970s. He died in old age, and had lived as a widower. I have an heirloom from him, however: an old ring, a beautiful whitish agate on a sterling band. I found no letters from him, but I have the ring. Yet, somehow, I understand part of his life. In Great-grandma Katherine's letter, I hear that ghost-like voice, one of a sad woman, depressive even. The family lore I hear confirms that she lived a very, very sad life before dying awfully young.

In the photo album of my mother's family, I recognize some of the great-aunts and great uncles, and more recent relations when full of youth and exuberance. I can also see that many relations now living share similar looks and features of our ancestors. Not myself in that album, because I look like my father's side of the family.

I can touch and smell the ancientness of the frail paper on which my heritage wrote their letters. I can smell the chemical decay of the photos, too, as they fragment away in the thick, black paper of the album. I have memory now of those I did not know, because I could read their words and sense their time, by sight, by touch and by smell. The pictures survive, too, though the photos disordered and got loose in the book, by the age of the glue worn away. Like photos and letters, we survivors of our ancestors, on both sides of my family, begin the long journey to brittleness and fragility by age and living.

The letters, especially, I have something that both excites the sense of history, and daunts the passing of our time. In the relics, I can touch them in the careful way to avoid damaging them. I feel the threads of the note paper, unmarking themselves by time of the now faint colored blue and red lines. The pencil and pen scripts erode. In them, I have the authentic history, that historians cherish in their research, of a primary document created by those people important for me to define present things. I actually can touch the paper held by my Grandfather. That gave me more reality and closeness to him than I ever knew before I found his words and his voice. In touching the letter, I create the shape of the room where he wrote. I see the lantern giving him light to write. I see the desk. The person blind to my actual memory comes alive.

The photos give me a different sense. The black and white smoothness speaks the words that I cannot express. Images of them give me the image of their minds. Drying their sweat in soiled work clothes, lunching from pails in the shade of the house during fall harvest on the plains of southern Minnesota and northern Iowa.. My Grandpa Kielty met my Granny Kielty while harvesting with a crew one season on Grandpa Yonkers farm. I pretend to see that moment of spark.

I touch that history, that identity of the Kielty family, their heritage that I do not know by personal experience in the Great Depression, but that I see in their faces. I hold the moment that my grandparents beheld, even if I cannot see what they looked upon. But even that picture gives me words in my thoughts of their home and hearth, their land and their work. Holding these letters and pictures, I behold them.

Regardless of what others think, I need these things to understand better, allowing me to comprehend my present better, and help point me in the direction of my future. I cannot covet the letters and the photos on a computer, which digitizing may preserve them for an historian and journalist (like myself), but having them and holding them mean so much more to my spirit. I have to forget the intellect, the ingenuity, the very technology that runs the work and the social world. I have to create these persons from real fragments.

I cannot hold something an ancestor held in their hands through any number of computer pixels in order to bond with my heritage. For most of my life, I could feel the absence in my heart of those people I never knew. In touching their affects, I found a contact with that side of my family, and that itself fulfilled a missing part of my spirit. I could never have asked for more, when all technology fails, than for touching an accidental discovery to surprise my sense of heritage.

Wonder Pory Psalm: From: Alphabet Psalms

Wonder Pory Psalm

From: Alphabet Psalms

By: Pi Kielty (posthumously)

Found: January 10, 2017

Wonder Pory Psalm

The depths of thee, your empathy, always mark you strange. Where you walk, you wander, and call your father's name. The odd cloth you wear, what you do, you've always done your same. How you talk to raptured rooms, you rebel toward your early tomb. Then you feel around that shore, and command a stormy sway? What makes you different, we cannot tell, yet we feign embrace your bizarring self. You carry them, then leave them all, for hills you roam, in desert realms. Eating what, but clay? What heights you see? How wise you know? Then talk of things ancient old, yet still removed our ills away. That simple path, without silver you trod, and show those things you pray. We wonder. It makes you odd, but now we see, your bloody crown, hands, and hobbled legs. We see your wondering soul. At your grave, we saw the stone, now pushed and rolled. He saved. Forgive us, Lord, for we thought you strange. You left the world. We remained. We live with guilt and sinful shame. Now we grieve our awful crime. In last, we see the Wonder. We need you more, and once and more, as time returns. We pray you welcome. Please, Lord, reveal more wonder. . . come home with us and Stay.

The Low Adventures: Trekking Superior Hiking Trail Part 1: Introduction

The Low Adventures: Trekking Superior Hiking Trail

Part 1: Introduction

By Tim Krenz

November 29, 2016

Why on god's otherwise even-leveled earth did I spend two or three weekend trips a year, or sometimes 8 or 9 days, climbing trails with a heavy backpack, if those trails always went up and up hills and moutainish peaks, instead of the nice, level ground between them; or walk almost 800,000 steps on the soles of battered, smelly boots; to cover almost 280 miles of trail, sightseeing detours, and spur trails to the car and back; why did I endure warm or freezing rain, snow, and depressive heat that made fog over Lake Superior on hot, sunny, windless days; for what did I trek in total from Two Harbors just north of Duluth, MN, to the Canadian border, and not in a straight line or in any sections of trail that made any logical order or plain sense in the way we did them?

For almost a decade now, I pondered that question: The “why did I do it?” question. What compelled me to challenge my overweight body and my smoker's lungs, my crooked knees, my butt-grabbing pain to literally carry myself over the next step or hill? The severe challenge of the Superior Hiking Trail now rests in a hubristic memory, a feat that I did that which so many others did in much better style, and could do in a few weeks what took me and my worn out body six years to find time to finish.

I swore at those hills that never stopping climbing. I cursed the rain that forced me to eat cold suppers of some dehydrated crap in a metal bag, in my tent, while I wrote the journal of this low, not high, adventure. I know the answer now, to most of my questions, and the “why did I do it?” question. I will admit no guilt, other than accomplice in this particular story of my life. The camping high court of adventure gods would not condemn me for my act of extended temporary insanity. Why did I trek the Superior Hiking Trail? Well, I blame my good friend, Craig.

The story, of course, has its beginning. This story began in November of Two-Thousand-and-One. By then, I had lived in my apartment for over two years, since around the time Craig returned from Africa with his Peace Corps fiance, Jennifer, the daughter of a Kansas pastor. The apartment on main street Osceola, WI, itself possessed many qualities besides spacious rooms. It owed a view from its upstairs window of Wilke Glen and the Cascade Falls, and rebounded the sound of crashing water to white noise me asleep or into relaxation whenever I left the window open

Craig still calls that the ultimate bachelor writer's pad. Aside from the window views from the top of the corner building, downstairs, I could sit on the sidewalk at the coffee shop next door, and I could walk to the public library or the brazier for ice cream, both of those within one block. Most of all, as Craig said, I had a trout stream and the Mill Pond kitty corner across Cascade Street. I lived an idyllic, though rather empty life. Of importance to me, two months before that day in November 2001, I committed to significant changes in my personal and spiritual life, heretofore run rampant in lethargy and slackness. I had barely begun that razor's path of enlightened learning, but I knew fuller, more purposed and even some deliberate living lay ahead.

That November Saturday, Craig brought his family to Osceola to visit his parents, and he stopped by my place alone to talk about Bill Bryson's book, A Walk in the Woods. Then he asked me to trek the Superior Hiking Trail on the northern Lake Superior shore together with him. While I fitfully watched a tense, and ultimately disappointing, Michigan-Wisconsin college football game, Craig talked. And he talked. And, . . he talked. The idea deeply intrigued me. I asked questions, but his answers always came clouded with no certainty as to how many years of weekend camping it would take us to complete the trips. But if anything happened to me, he promised get me off the trail, even if it took several trips (Huh?).

I always enjoyed camping, as a kid with my family, and in Boy Scouts. I always wanted to do long distance backpacking. With my new commitment to more vigorous, actual living, instead of dreaming, I eventually said, “Craig, I'll do it!” I felt enthused, and honored, that my good friend since college years, (we did not know each other in our smallish high school), asked me to go on this great adventure.

“Tim, let's go for ride,” Craig said. “My dad let me take his classic car today, his classic, mint conditioned car. We'll ride in style and talk more about it.” I did not know that Craig's dad had a collector's car, and I knew nothing about hot rods or “muscle cars,” so as the football game entered halftime, we went out the downstairs door and into the garden out the back of the shops.

We walked through the parking lot on that cool, cloudy fall day, and I asked Craig, “Where's the car?”

“Right there,” he pointed, at a classic and mint car. I looked at this immaculately-conditioned white car with a red racing stripe along its length on the side. Craig drove to my place that day in a great looking, flawlessly preserved, Ford Pinto. Although we had to wait for spring to trek the trail, the real adventure just began.

Welcome to Cepiaclub 2017

The Cepia Club LLC Description

The Cepia Club LLC, a community-based media company located in the St. Croix Valley of Western Wisconsin, provides media services and products to customers, clients, enterprises, and the public. Since its foundation as a limited liability company in December of 2007, Cepiaclub uses the access and resources of the world-wide web for both its own operations and to connect globally, The Cepia Club's core function seeks to both inform and empower others with clear, feasible options to reduce larger, even global problems, into smaller, manageable, local—even individual—solutions, whenever possible.

Through regular e- and hard-copy publications of Freedom Scene America!, Strategikon, and Normalcy Magazine, and special books, articles, and pamphlets, The Cepia Club's unique look at politics, economics, society, and culture, give handy, accessible guides to activism for any person, inside or outside the mainstream of America.

Freedom Scene America!, a short handbill publication for the CepiaNet and the general public, gives updates and news about our business and its operations. Strategikon, for invited readers and the Cepiaglobal Associated Membership Program, offers inside information on the latest public and private policies, etc. that impact readers, and how Cepiaglobal can influence them.

Normalcy Magazine, a free and advertiser-supported public document, lets global readers the insights and impacts of groundbreaking ideas and events, through essay, story, poetry, and other creative arts. Normalcy Magazine will challenge readers to think about the world, ask questions, and help those readers work toward the new normal they would like to see in their lives and in the world around them.

The Cepia Club LLC also produces modest broadcast programs and special features for either the discerning viewer or those inclined to lighter entertainment. Found on our Pikzl Vision T.V. Station, programs like the community news maker interviews on Freedom Affairs, or Cepia Community News, bring the same ideas and solutions to the viewers in a community-oriented format. Other presentations, including documentary, drama, music, sports, let viewers connect with community media.

Finally, as a supporter of a world connected to itself in a meaningful and valued relationship between people, The Cepia Club also provides resources, management, training, and helpful guidelines for others around the globe to help them and their community connect to each other in the spirit of a free idea, freely shared, for a peaceful and prosperous present and future.

Sub Terra Vita #45 Questing for Normalcy: Allowing the Change: Why? What Type?

Sub Terra Vita #45

By Tim Krenz

April 24, 2016

Rev. November 23, 2016

Questing for Normalcy: Allowing the Change: Why? What Type?

We need to engage in the discussion of change, because of the inevitability of change can assert its own means beyond human ability to control. Many cliche's about change in civilization nonetheless will sometimes hold true: “Nothing ever changes;” or “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Yet, these cliches usually speak power to apathy among people who feel powerlessness to change anything. Voice to this reason: Everyone has it in their power to make change in themselves, in their immediate surroundings, and somewhat beyond themselves—at any time in their lives if they choose to do it.

The ability to change anything takes what most people would only reluctantly give up, things like effort, work, ideas, energy and the irreplaceable quality of time. As a great industrialist once reportedly said, “If you think you can't, you're right!” The power of believing that change can happen, and that good can result from that personal action, demands the informed decision and hard work in the individual. Positive change requires willingness and effort to make it a reality.

If people want nothing to change, change will still happen without them, but it might not turn out well. If not done broadly, someone else or a motivated few will benefit from any change to the status quo, seizing the opportunity to profit from a mass reluctance to participate. Time does make everyone outdated in the end. In certain moments in history, those who failed to evolve with the new conditions ceased to keep their status, their prestige, their security, or their very lives in some instances. If a consenting majority does not involve itself in the process of change, then the few will profit. In that case, a small faction thereby obtains too much power in their own hands, which harms the good of the whole.

What level of change in our society would work best? In short, change from the bottom up in society, from the homestead and main street, actually has the most advantages for the greater good of all. In the world today, technology and the power relationships vibrate in an odd flux. How the changes we make or allow politically, economically, socially, and culturally to affect us here in the St. Croix Valley have more importance to people here, more impact for the good, here, than any amount of change a person tries to implement in the Madison Capitol or Washington, D.C.

To clarify the argument, a voter in the Valley, or even an activist, has little to absolutely NO IMPACT on state or national policy, unless, of course, they swing massive amounts of wealth. While that statement holds generally sound as a “gold rule” of higher level changes, only truly exceptional and visionary people, those few bright souls in a century, have the ability to affect change beyond their line of sight. But ultimately the simple voter and even the vocal and caring person, can change almost zero things beyond their home town. To use resources better and wiser, the focus put in the Valley or any hometown to make those necessary or desired changes can multiply effects—better and here, rather than wasted and frittered elsewhere.

On the optimistic side, the effort to change things grows naturally, the closer to home a voter, an activist, an entrepreneur, indeed ANYONE, puts her or his effort. And furthermore, those individuals or a community conscience will always find it harder to work alone to create the type of changes necessary. Whatever way the community defines as necessary and good changes for the most people, the entire community or a large portion must work together. Beware the change that the majority consent will not approve or cannot control. That type of force or unleashed spirit to only destroy the old without a consensus for viable, stable, and logical replacements will in the end unleash horrible consequences in which everyone gets victimized. Always seek changes that could unite and solidify a stable order in a community or region.

As implied above, a local change close to home can grow easier in a natural, steady way forward, with less disruption. Like a Frenchman named Talleyrand said about his country's 18^th Century revolution, any upper-level or mass and chaotic disruptions in the name of changes will eventually “eat their children.” Digest those words, and do not gorge on change without thought and effort. Changes happen, with or without us. It remains the responsibility of all to help work for them and to guide them.  

Redemption Pory Psalm

Redemption Pory Psalm

From Alphabet Psalms

By Pi Kielty (Posthumously)

Found: October 28, 2016

Timeless thought to redeem, God knew idle rest. Its awful dark pleased Him less. He drew his brow, with hand across, It, He divided. And He blessed it best. He tossed the light. It flickered then burned, then firmament from water, the land, His deed unspurned. Creating life full, no strifeful mirth, He created a heavenly place for earth. For one Godly blow, He made by Man's seed sown, yet loneliness perplexed the time future unknown.

He made Woman from the rib of the first one He'd done, then Adam and Eve joyed frolicking fun. The tree, the Knowledged hedge, eat not the fruit, He said. Temptering unspirit caused Eve to dare. And Adam ate, then sinwards they'd stared. Cast from paradise, moved on they roamed, growing fruit, on fruitless loam. The hard world began, ending that creation, now a harsh home, for their lonely, hopeless station.

Far the future, the angel did sing, “Thou with child,” that marriage unringed. “Immaculately conceived. To free from that sin, you must truly believe, Your redemption begins.” Then He came born, and an Empire fell, on the cross He gave all, rising from hell. He saved by cross, one made old, old laws to hear, a new Law, God told. Redemption, He owns, our souls in spell. Back to that garden. . . This time done well.

Peace Pory Psalm

Peace Pory Psalm

(Final)

From: Alphabet Psalms

By Pi Kielty (Posthumously)

Found: October 30, 2016

“Peace-Peace!”, to its makers. “Peace-Peace! Joy. . .praise. HOPE,” the taker of war's harrows spoke.

Peace-Peace!, comes a'las, bonding our faith, His garlands cast. An olive'd gift, none a sword—smite despair with soft fronds. The sad parts away, fast, beyond. Flocks hymn, hosted blast, a quiet holy, godly song.

Peace-Peace!, unto us, and our earthly kin. Never more our mortals war, for battles score deaths to win. No more tears, none for the dead. We wrong us poorly when blood we shed. His life, only, no hurt frowned. God saved our world. Earth rainbow crowned.

Peace-Peace!,without end, ever-and-all. He and we ascend, from the tomb's hell bleak, dark hall. He reclaims us, restoring. “Forever life,” this quiet morning. Our minds now know God's fair warning. “New wars, no more,” He answered our call. In full, He forgives our first garden's fall.

. . . The cannon go silent. . . . The second garden grows over them.