Hilda Hammer stopped by to welcome me to the neighborhood in spring 1958, soon after we’d moved into the farmhouse on Cottage Grove Road. The Hammers lived a quarter mile east in the once grand Hernsmeier family homestead that included a large barn plus the three-story house (okay the third story was a full walk-up attic).
Our house and property, suffering from neglect, included the sad remains of a barn and other outbuildings. It had been the residence of the elder Hernsmeiers, but was now owned by daughter Elinor Brown. Paul, then a first-year teacher at Monona Grove High School, agreed to clean the place up in exchange for a break in our rent. The conditions of the outside property were absolutely daunting.
The Hernsmeier farmland between our house and Hammers, was in the process of being annexed to the City of Madison. But in 1958 it was still Blooming Grove, a rapidly disappearing township.
Back to Hilda—after she introduced herself and met two-year-old Kari and newborn Lori, she informed me her daughters Phoebe and Fritzi, both Monona Grove high school students, would be available for babysitting.
She and her husband, Preston (Pret), a math professor at UW-Madison were also parents of Nick, a high school freshman and Katie, an elementary student at Estes School, Blooming Grove’s remaining school. Tag-along Arthur, four years old, completed the Hammer family.
Physically Hilda didn’t resemble “Leave it to Beaver’s” mother—not even close. Short, very heavy, she braided her long hair and fashioned it into a pug. But she seemed always to have a twinkle in her eye, a positive attitude, and hearty a truly infectious laugh
I needed a friend like her badly. I’d really suffered from lack of friends since moving to Wisconsin eight months earlier when we moved from Decorah to the isolated farmhouse fourteen miles from Paul’s school. In January, Lori arrived prematurely and I developed complications following her delivery that resulted in a longer hospitalization plus three blood transfusions. Caring for a preemie plus a toddler left me exhausted.
Phoebe or Fritzi babysat the few times we could afford to go out to a movie or dinner. They’d arrive with an armful of children’s books—Babar, The Adventures of Madeline, Yertle the Turtle, Benjamin Bunny—the list went on and on. Years later when Kari and Lori babysat, they did the same.
The following summer Hilda approached me with her dilemma. Her precocious youngest child was of kindergarten age, but Estes School provided no program. She knew I’d completed the two-year elementary education program at Luther.
Her question—would I consider having a private kindergarten in my home? Across the street from us new homes were being built and she knew of several other families in the same predicament. She sweetened the pie by saying she would always be available to bus us in her station wagon for field trips to the zoo, or library, or to visit the capitol, UW dairy barn, etc.
And even though Lori was only two and Kari four, she didn’t see tending to either of their needs during class time being a problem.
So, I turned the dining room into our classroom. My dad had built a wonderful table with four chairs for the girls, so we just had to round up a couple more chairs. Paul resurrected an old dresser for teacher supplies and Hilda shared many appropriate educational puzzles and games.
We followed the public-school schedule, with class beginning at 9:00 to 11:45—show and tell, a little academic work, an art activity, music activity, games, snack time, free time, story time in the living room and a field trip perhaps every other week.
I received a dollar a day per kid and felt duly rewarded by the developing friendships with each of the five mothers. Kari and Lori chose to join the group for the activities they liked, most often the music, story time, free time and always snack time!
Then in 1961, we moved back to Iowa so Paul could get his Masters at University of Northern Iowa. Serendipity happened shortly before our return to Wisconsin, in fall, 1962. The Hammers were planning to spend a year in California, where Pret would be teaching for a year. Hilda asked if we’d like to rent their home while they were gone—we jumped at the chance because the price was right and we didn’t have to house hunt. Paul returned to Monona Grove and in November Chris arrived.
The Hammer house had been remodeled many times, though I doubt ever by a professional. Just a few tidbits: (1) Turning on a light switch did not necessarily mean a light would go on in the room in which you were standing. (2) Kari and Lori’s closet, located on an outside wall, had never been insulated. During the winter, they’d select jars or bowls, fill them with water, set them on the closet floor and have a contest to see whose selection would freeze solid first. (3) In order to get furnace heat in the kitchen, we’d need to remove the bottom drawer in a kitchen cabinet. The heat duct was located on the wall behind said drawer.
During our year in the Hammer house, we met next-door neighbors, the elderly Clyde and Genevieve Woody. Their home was a sprawling ranch style home onto which a small apartment had been added. Mr. Woody, and Iowa native and engineering graduate of Iowa State University, had become an extremely successful entrepreneur in his field. His company, the Madison Silo Company, had manufactured silos throughout the country and upon retirement, he’d sold out to Martin/Marietta. No doubt his success had afforded him the ability to invest in his chosen hobby, horses. Because Madison is close to the Illinois border, his horses, trotters, raced at the Arlington Race Track as well as others.
Mrs. Woody was suffering from cancer, and we learned of her death the following summer when we returned to Iowa in order for Paul to complete his degree. Mr. Woody wrote us asking if we’d consider renting his home and he would move into the apartment. The rest of the deal—Paul would help him with his horses (He owned four valuable brood mares, retired from racing, housed in his barn and fenced in a ten-acre plot adjoining the residence) and I’d take care of his apartment and laundry. He shared the evening meal each day with us. The arrangement, with much reduced rent, allowed us to finally save money for our own home.
I was twenty-six, mother of three, about to become a Brownie Scout leader and my next-door neighbor was Hilda Hammer. Kari and Lori adored her as much as I did, and they, along with Arthur, attended Kennedy School. The Hernsmeier farm, now the Rolling Meadows subdivision, had been annexed to Madison, allowing Katie to attend LaFollette High School. The older Hammer kids had left the nest.
I learned so much from Hilda during those years, about mothering, about priorities, and separating the small stuff from the big stuff. Once she told me how she kept a positive attitude.
During the frantic Christmas gift-giving season, she’d help each of the kids make or purchase gifts for everyone in the family (including her). But she’d also spy some little thing in a catalog she’d like, so she would purchase the item, wrap it, and write on the tag, “To Hilda, From Groceries.” She explained to me that by doing such she always knew there would be something under the tree she’d love. I’ve been known to replicate her plan.
She accomplished so much and that simply wasn’t true for me. Once I asked her if there was a secret. She laughed, but did tell me every morning she sat down with a cup of tea and wrote out a list. Then she crossed out the first item. The first item, “Make a list,” had been accomplished.
During her daughter’s high school years Katie developed an interest in visiting churches of other denominations. Hilda supported her by driving her two miles to the bus stop on Monona Drive, then picking her up later. As an adult Katie became an active member of the Friends (Quaker) society, quite possibly a result of her Sunday explorations as a teenager. The example that Hilda demonstrated for me certainly helped me to broaden my views.
One day eight-year-old Kari returned from visiting next door. She asked me why I didn’t clean like Mrs. Hammer, whom she viewed as very efficient. “Mrs. Hammer,” she said, “sweeps the floor and then announces to her family if there’s anything in the pile they want, come and get it, otherwise its gone,”
Kari and Arthur had a hate/love relationship. He was bright, funny, interested in absolutely everything, but often showed a dark side. torture bugs and such and once treated our girls to his lemon popsicles. After their first lick, he admitted they were “piss popsicles.” I don’t remember the incident but Kari says she’s still angry with me for not going after him.
After another of their spats, Hilda said to me, “You know, you and I aren’t friends because of our children, but in spite of them.”
The last spring before the Hammers moved to Pennsylvania, Hilda invited me to join her for the spring luncheon of her Dickens Fellowship group at the UW Memorial Union. I splurged—bought a new, pink flower encrusted hat for the occasion (Paul still teases me about it). Probably the only Charles Dickens book I’d read was “A Christmas Carol,” so I didn’t fit in very well with the ladies as they chatted about characters in his books as though they were sitting at the table. I think I was a good listener, fascinated with the lovely group of women.
Back to living next door to Hilda.
We adored Mr. Woody and I think the feeling was mutual. Though he grieved his wife’s passing he continued with civic duties (Rotary) and participation in the Scottish sport of curling that he and Mrs. Woody had enjoyed. With Paul’s help, the ninety-year-old was able to keep his beloved horses a few more years—the city was encroaching on all sides of his property. And during those years he named three of the foals after our kids, Kari, Lori, and Chris. I can’t remember the full names of the horses named after the girls; the one male named after Chris was “Trotwood Chris.” The girls loved making “horse stew” for the horses from the adjoining orchard—apples, pears, plums, flowers, water—all mixed into a five-gallon pail of water kept the girls entertained and the horses happy.
Jon arrived in 1966, our last year before building our own home. At that time, after living there four years, the ninety-four-year-old moved to California to spend his last years with his son.
Hilda was a voracious reader (she had a bookstand mounted over her kitchen sink so she could read while attending to kitchen chores) and her needlework was exquisite. Her specialty was Danish cross-stitch, a delicate process of interpreting charts onto linen.
In ’64 or ’65 Pret accepted a professorship at Pennsylvania State College in State College, where they settled permanently in a very old, very large brick home.
Hilda and I kept up our correspondence. Nearly every letter or birthday greeting included a seasonal ornament cross-stitched on specialized parchment paper—a Christmas ornament, a Valentine bookmark—and not just to me. She remembered Kari and Lori too.
So open, she wrote about her son Nick’s predicament. After high school he journeyed to Europe and apparently hooked up with other young adults trying to find themselves. He reported to his parents he would soon become a father—twice. No, not twins, but Faye, his friend from Australia was pregnant and so was Kristin, his Norwegian friend. Faye delivered Dmitri and three months later Kristin bore Hege in Norway. Hilda wrote she wouldn’t let her son’s behavior deprive her of a relationship with her grandbabies. She cherished them both.
Later Nick married Faye and returned to Madison where they adopted two biracial children, Patrick and Jessica. Sometime later they relocated to Pennsylvania fairly close to his parents. Nick became successful in the construction trades and Hilda had the opportunity to become a mother-in-law. She loved Faye and having grandchildren close.
I had the privilege of meeting Hege in 1972 when my father and I went to Norway. Through Hilda’s intervention, Dad and I were invited to dinner at Hege’s grandmother’s lovely home in Oslo. Five-year-old Hege, a happy child with brown curls, joined us as we enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner. My dad, born in Norway, enjoyed the evening, especially conversing in Norwegian with Mrs. Jacobson. Hege’s mother, Kristin, was at work at a local television station, so did not join us.
In 1994, I partnered with another knitter and we took thirty knitters to Norway. Again, Hilda arranged for us to meet Hege at our Oslo hotel. She’d grown to be a beautiful young adult who was attending college. She’d also been to the United States and met her father and grandmother, more of Hilda’s doing, I’m certain.
Hilda’s husband passed away in the early nineties. Son Arthur, a computer geek, lived with his parents. At some point, Hilda explained Arthur’s situation—he was gay and very lonesome. Though successful vocationally, he had no friends.
Arthur undertook the ambitious project of building a lap pool in the basement of their home. She wrote how much they both enjoyed their daily dips and also, she said he was a very loving son who took good care of her.
I spoke with Phoebe a few years ago. She’s lived in Germany, but came home to take care of her mother the last months of her life. I think Hilda died in 1998 – I can’t remember the cause.
I spoke with Arthur perhaps two years ago. He’s still living in the home he’s opened up to the gay community. He sounded busy, probably too busy to want to talk with his mother’s old friend. But he sounded happy.
I think of Hilda almost every day. How fortunate I was to have friend like her in my life.
