Vicki Holmsten

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.

My mother used to say the baking gene skipped generations in the maternal line in our family. She was no slouch in the kitchen and I never saw anyone turn down one of her cookies. But she did not love getting her hands in the bread dough the way I do, nor do I remember her making any cakes beyond the cake mix specials for family birthdays. According to Mom, her mother was the lover of flour and baking , and true to her prediction, I came by this love of baking. I have my grandmother’s wooden spoons in the jar on my kitchen counter. On days when the air feels right and my sourdough starter is ready to go, the spoons come out of the jar and I call upon the spirit of my Mormor to guide my next bread-baking adventure.