Incredible Western Women Series
For those of you just joining us, here’s a little background…
Born in the small town of Colville, WA, I was raised in the Spokane suburbs and moved to rural America with my husband a little over three decades ago. Country life is an amazing place to raise our sons and grandkids. Here on the Colville Reservation, we have lakes, rivers, and creeks to fishing and swim in, hills and mountains to ride horses and hike on, and plenty of space to enjoy family time.
Four generations have grown up and enjoyed this land and all it provides.
I’d like to share rural America with you through the words and photos of incredible western women.
And if you are a western woman or have someone in mind who can share their stories with us, please pass on their name and contact information to me. I’d love to include them on this journey.
So now, let’s open the corral gate and hear from this month’s western woman!
It is a pleasure to introduce Linda Hasselstrom. We are writing sisters through Women Writing the West.
When Linda volunteers for something, she does so with her whole heart. She’s an essayist and poet and hosts writing retreats at her ranch, Windbreak House. Check her out on YouTube.
Push, Whack, Shove, Wallop, Pound
Kneading, I could see my grandmother’s strong arms working the dough on the breadboard by the woodstove. Bread dough, she’d say, is as independent as a 2-year-old. Both require hard work if they are to develop properly.
I fold outside to inside and push with the heels of my hands, rotate the globe a quarter turn, crease and push, again and again, while my brain replays a conversation with a young friend about Western problems: subdivisions, zoning, water.
“But what can one person doooooo?” she wailed.
Kneading, I consider that universal question. When the warm mass sticks to my fingers, I dip a bit of home-ground wheat flour to scatter across the board. Turn, fold, PUSH; turn, fold, WHACK; turn, bend, SHOVE. My muscles hum in harmony as natural as the bread’s ingredients.
Baking bread is cheaper and more consistent than other forms of therapy, and the results are edible. One can’t nibble a human therapist, any more than one can successfully treat tension with alcohol or drugs.
Up to my elbows in bread dough, I WALLOP an irrational argument, POUND my point home. Decisions I’ve avoided for weeks make themselves as I poke a finger into the shiny dome to check the tension. When I plop the dough into my grandmother’s green porcelain bowl to rise, we’re both bouncy and full of vitality.
Until lately, I’ve baked mostly for my own well-being, but my friend Marty taught me a better way.
What can one person doooooo?
In January, Marty baked and handed out 15 loaves: to the wife of the neighbor who has been accused of a crime. To the woman suffering from cancer. In February, 45 loaves.
At 81, Marty is active in church activities, busy with children, grandchildren, and interests so varied I’m always discovering new ones despite a decade of correspondence. She travels, teaches morning and evening classes, takes part in a book club, writes letters.
In March, she gave away 53 loaves; April, 46. In her kitchen, young women learn the art of mixing, kneading, shaping the loaves they’ll take to their own kitchens to bake. Marty’s prayer ingredient is optional, but the smell of fresh-made bread blesses each home.
May, 40 loaves, including bread for a family mourning the death of their mother. “This somehow gives me a gift,” she explains, “and I guess the only thing I can name this gift is ‘peace.’” She maintains a large home, dozens of plants inside and around it; she sends me pictures of her cats. She’s kept baking bread throughout the ugly incidents life can provide, including cancer.
June, 55 loaves, and July — in Kansas! — 72. She sends me clippings about Kansas politics along with her opinions and obituaries of people who lived with good humor and good works.
August, 46 loaves. “When I was a child and my mother made bread she would cut off a slice when it came out of the oven hot, slather it with butter, cover it with brown sugar, fold it together and give us a “love” sandwich.” Her grandchildren, learning to knead dough at ages 2 and 4, gobbled love sandwiches.
September, 35; October, 47. Last year during Lent, instead of giving up coffee or chocolate, she gave bread to the workers in her church, and to others in the community. “This brings me joy,” she says, adding, “which in a sense is a selfish way of looking at it.”
The gift of bread carries with it history ancient beyond reckoning, symbolism that applies equally to every homeland, every religion. November, 60 loaves. Marty admits enjoying the fragrance of baking bread, “filling the house like a lovely incense.” And more: “Making homemade bread is not a talent or really a skill. . . . It only takes planning, time, energy and love.”
In December, while headlines screamed about stress, Marty gave away 51 loaves. I bite into butter-slathered hot bread. The universe wobbles and then settles into an age-old throb of grace.
Connect with Linda
Linda M. Hasselstrom ranches and writes in western South Dakota. She’s been called a rancher/environmentalist as if this is a contradiction, but it’s not.