Vicki Holmsten

The red, blue, and white horses galloped through my childhood. They decorated and brightened the bookshelves and end tables of my family home. It seemed like everyone we knew had these horses–aunts & uncles, friends, neighbors. The wooden horses are carved in Sweden in the province of Dalarna, the home territory of my grandparents, and so have extra meaning in the Holmsten and Barkstrom extended families. On my bookshelf now, they remind me of my tribal roots in the land where my story started many generations ago.

I have loved this book for many years. My mother bought it for me at the annual book fair at the Lane School in Hinsdale. It started out with a yellow-blue-white dust jacket that is now long-gone. The stories still enchant me as they spin out tales of characters like the Potato-Faced Blind Man and Henry Hagglyhoaggly Who Played the Guitar with His Mittens On. The story of the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy is one of the most beautiful love stories I have ever read. The book sits on the shelf next to my writing desk so I can reach it when I feel the need to hop a ride on the Zig Zag Railroad to the Village of Cream Puffs… and maybe points beyond.

My father was proud of his Illinois license plate number. All of his cars were Illinois 51 300, a number so low it marked him as a long-time resident of the state. Mother kept that number after Dad died, finally giving it up when she quit driving ten years later. We took family car trips in the 51 300 cars, including many trips to Minnesota to visit the uncles, aunts, and cousins in the extended family home country.  On our longest trip, we drove across the top of the US to get to Vancouver, British Columbia, and then headed back across Canada, dipping back south as we got to the northern side of the Great Lakes. Dad loved to drive. I remember the comfort of listening to Dad and Mom’s voices talking quietly to each other as I snoozed in the back seat, secure in the parental love that encircled me.