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The Kochendorfer family, taken before Sarah was born.
That’s my great grandmother on the right.

In
March of 1862 my great-great grandparents, Johann and Kathryn
Kochendofer with their five children, John, 11, Rose, my great
grandmother, 9, Kate 7, Margaret 5 and Sarah 3, to a homestead located
in Flora Township in the southwest corner of Renville county,
Minnesota, just upstream and on the other side of the Minnesota River
from Redwood Falls. The farm sat at the edge of the prairie, where it
began sloping down to the river valley. It’s a beautiful spot for a
farm, with fertile fields in front, and the backyard dropping off into
a wooded hillside. They had spent the spring and early summer living in
a tent while they broke the ground for farming and built a log house to
shelter them for the winter.
Around noon on August 18th of that
year, Johann and John had returned to the house from the fields for
lunch, Kathryn was in the kitchen cooking and the girls were doing
laundry when a group of Indians armed with rifles appeared. After a
short conversation, one of the Indians took an axe that was leaning
against the woodpile and threw it down the hill into the woods. Johann
told John to get the axe and return it. As he stood speaking with the
intruders, he had his hands on Rose’s shoulders as she stood in front
of him. Suddenly one of the Indians shot him. Kathryn ran to the door
of the house and was also shot. The girls ran into the house and hid
under the beds but they heard John yelling for them to run for the
woods. They all ran from the house except for little Sarah who would
not come.
There is a steep ravine right behind where the cabin
was. It’s easy to conceive of young children playing hide and seek in
that dark wooded gulch to pass away the summer. The knowledge they
gained would save their lives. As they ran into the woods, their dying
father motioned to them to go to the Schwandt farm, there closest
neighbor, below them in the valley. As the girls ran through the woods
they were reunited with John and then started to make their way to the
neighbors. When they cleared the woods and looked down, they saw that
the Schwandt farm was also under attack and they witnessed the murders
of the entire Schwandt family. A pregnant woman was cut open, the fetus
pulled from her body and nailed to the barn door. What they didn’t know
was attacks like these were occurring up and down the valley. It’s
estimated that as many as a thousand settlers were killed in the next
few weeks.

The ravine behind the farm

John
remembered that his father had told him that Fort Ridgley was
downstream from them, but they weren’t sure how far. But they decided
that they had no choice other than trying to walk there. For the next
several hours they made their way toward the fort, hiding in the tall
prairie grass and stopping at stream beds to rest and drink. When the
little girls were too tired to walk any farther, Rose and John carried
them on their backs. Late that afternoon they joined several other
settlers who where headed to the fort in ox carts. By nightfall they
reached the fort, eighteen miles away, only to be told that they could
not come through the barricades, for fear that the Indians would rush
through with them. They spent the night hiding under the wagons and in
the morning they were allowed to enter the fort.
The fort was
manned by180 soldiers, with 250 civilians who had escaped the massacre.
The fort was not in a good defensive position, sitting on high ground
surrounded on three sides by ravines that allowed attackers to get
unseen into rifle range. But it did have six artillery pieces, which
were stationed on the four corners of the fort with the two lighter 12
pounders in the central parade ground to be moved quickly where they
were most needed.
On the 20th around noon they were attacked by a
force of about four hundred Indians led by Little Crow, the commanding
chief of the Indian forces. After a fierce battle they drove the
attackers off. But little crow returned again two days later with 800
men. Out numbered four to one and facing wave after wave of Indians
attacking from the ravine the soldiers fought for 6 hours using the
canon to break the charge after charge. A final assault came at the
Northwest corner of the fort, right were the biggest gun was waiting
with a double load of canister shot. As the attackers came up from the
ravine the big gun and both the twelves fired simultaneously ripping
huge holes into the advancing line. At that point the fighting stopped
and the Indians never returned to the fort. Casualties in the fort were
three dead and thirteen wounded.
There are many stories to be told
about the Dakota Conflict, stories of bravery, cowardice, brutality and
sacrifice, on both sides. There were two other major battles, in New
Ulm and at Birch Coulee. I haven’t spoken of the events that led up to
the conflict, the Indians were provoked by cruelty and broken promises,
they were starving and feared that their families would not last
through the coming winter. If you are interested in finding out more of
about the Dakota Conflict, Over the Earth I Come by Duane Schultz is an excellent read and covers the events very thoroughly.

Quinn and the current owner of the farm standing near where the graves were found.
The original farmhouse, on the left was built on the foundation of the cabin.

After
Henry Sibley arrived at the fort with reinforcements, parties were sent
out to bury the dead. Johann, Kathryn and little Sarah were buried in
unmarked graves near the house. In 1891,the man who had taken over the
homestead found them while digging a post hole, John, by then an adult
returned to the farm and brought the bodies back to St. Paul were they
are now buried. The children made there way to St. Paul and stayed with
relatives. A year later they were returning from a visit to St. Louis
when the steamboat they were on caught fire and sank. Rose ended up
going to stay at the Keller farm near Ellsworth, Wisconsin. She took a
shine to one of the Keller boys, Ted, and they were married. They moved
to South St. Paul where they owned an orchard. Rose lived into her
eighties, long enough for my brother and sister to know her. I come
from tough stock.

Currently Reading Over the Earth I Come: The Great Sioux Uprising of 1862 By Duane Schultz see related

There’s something about having your mobility limited by a bum leg that, at least for me results in a slackening of personal hygiene standards. Oh, I’m sure there are intrepid souls,with much greater physical limitations, some permanent, who keep themselves nicely buffed and polished. But I’m just not that big on overcoming obstacles. Since I’ve worked around Crohn’s disease for most of my life, maybe it’s because I have obstacle burn out. I know, I hear you saying, “That’s nothing man look what so and so has dealt with!” But I guess you pick the hurdles you want to jump and those you just avoid.

Mounting two flights of stairs to the shower, being limited to one legged or sitting sponge baths because of unhealed incisions, requiring accompaniment to the bathroom, difficulty in disrobing, not wanting other folks to handle my private bits, the list goes on, are all to be avoided in my world. After the hip incident, I didn’t shower for three weeks. I had daily sponge baths in my room, but that’s just not the same. Of course there are problems with this avoidance. Aside from the feeling that you are covered with a patina of filth, one develops a certain fragrance. Maybe “stench” is a better word.

Most of the folks in the trenches of health care, the nurses, aids, therapists and wheelchair pushers are probably used to it. They never mention it and if you do, they downplay it. “Heavens no, you don’t stink.” But their body language and facial expressions give them away. I don’t play poker for nothin’ dude. And of course there are other indications. The looks on their faces when they come into the room and ask if you’d like to wash up now or if you’d had a shower yet. In rehab I had a chance for a shower but I had an unhealed incision in my hip, so I refused. I’m sure if I’d stayed much longer they would have dragged me in kicking and screaming. Well maybe not kicking.

Family and friends can be more brutally honest. Especially college age daughters. Young women will really let you know where you stand. At least if you are their hopelessly clueless father. “What’s that smell?” “I think you really need a shower Dad.” “Dad, you stink.”

OK, I can live with it. And soon I’ll have a new knee and be walking and showering without assistance and I’ll be back to the old manly fragrance of Bob. With the occasional room filling cigar stench.

Have a great day!

I’m sure that you won’t be surprised to hear that I didn’t like being incarcerated in a nursing home, I mean rehab center. The whole thing was a terrifying glimpse into the future. As the Who so aptly put it, “Hope I die before I get old.” However there were some mitigating aspects of my stay at North Ridge. The therapy was very good and it helped to have someone cracking the whip twice a day. And I met some interesting characters.

I’ll start out with my roommate on the first night. Luckily,  I only had roommates on the first night and the last night of my stay. They were both named Jim. The first Jim spent his days as a motionless lump, slouched in his wheelchair or in his bed sleeping. He came out at night. His wife, Jerry, kept apologizing for him in advance. As they left in the evening both she and her son admonished him to behave. What the heck was I in for?

Ten minutes after lights out he started. In a ghostly whisper, “Jerry……Jerry….answer me Jerry.” Which was bad enough, but after repeating the mantra softly a few times he turned up the volume and roared like something out of The Exorcist. Terrifying. The aids came in and calmed him down. He started up again in a few minutes. Same script. I picked up the phone and called Beck. “Now I know what’s going on. I died when I fell in the garage and now I’m In Hell.”

From the other side of the curtain, in the middle of the mantra without skipping a beat, “You’re not in hell.”

The nurses got him up and took him out to sit with them in the hallway until he was ready to behave.

More on my new friends later.

I think my wife, Becky says it best:
The fun just doesn’t stop at our house.

Bob was crutching (is that a word?) into the house Saturday night, lost his balance and fell backwards onto the concrete garage floor. Yeah you read right. Luckily he didn’t crack his head open and we got him into the house and into bed. We were hoping he was just a little banged up but Monday morning he still couldn’t get out of bed or even move without severe pain. I called the Dr. and they said we better come in for an x-ray, so one of the neighbors came over to help me get him into the car. After about one minute we knew that wasn’t going to work so I called 911 and an ambulance came and took him to Methodist.
 
Sure as shit………broken hip. But as the surgeon said: it’s a “good” break. Clean. Typical. Standard procedure. Uh huh. Anyway he had surgery Monday night. Apparently they just put a screw in there and you’re good to go.

And as Lucia said: at least it’s on the same side (the knee-less side!)
 
There’s always a silver lining ………..somewhere.

The photo is of me in my cell room at the rehab center. I spent eight fun filled days . There are stories. I will tell them later.

I Just got word that they’re ending my antibiotics on 7/31, and then waiting 2-4 weeks to see if the infection comes back before they put in a new knee. Then it’s another three or four weeks before I can go back to work. I’m thinking about going back to work just to overcome the boredom. Plus, after four weeks my disability is only 70% of my salary. Not good. I guess I should be thankful that I have disability insurance and medical too. I’m sure this thing is going to push 200k before we’re done. Cripes! Four surgeries! aaaaarrrrgggggggh!!!!

It’s actually not as bad as you might think. I have a pretty good capacity for doing nothing. Reverie is one of my favorite pastimes. As my Mom used to say, “You think too much.” I did polish off an 800 page book, well, trilogy. The Deptford Trilogy by Robertson Davies. Certainly one (three?) of the best books I’ve ever read.

I know I’m being kind of egocentric here lately, not replying to comments and not getting out to read others posts, but right now I’m using this as more of a record of my medical adventure.

Apparently I was cursed, the pain in my knee was the infection returning so that Monday I went into the hospital and had the knee removed and replaced with a spacer that’s full of antiboiotics. In about six months I’ll have a new knee put in. Hope that one works. I’m home from the hospital now, dealing with the inconvieniences of having a knee that won’t bend and not being able to put any wieght on on leg.

Last night, my pal Steve and I were drawn to the Jewish cemetery in the neighborhood, one of them that is, there are two right next to each other, with different names and entrances. We were drawn by what appeared to be the sun setting in the East. When we got up to the highest point which is probably the highest point in the Northwest Suburbs, we discovered it was the sunset reflecting off buildings downtown! But an even more interesting discovery was a gravestone with the name “Geshundheit” on it. I’ll bet that was good for some laughs.

We didn’t defile any graves or anything and tried to be respectful, so I don’t think I’ve been cursed. Maybe it was the uneven ground and the hill walking. I woke up this morning with a pain right in the middle of my knee cap that so far two vicoden and four Ibuprophen haven’t even dented. Nothing goes better with pain than a joke so…

A lion walks into a bar, sits down next to a hooker and orders a Martini for himself and one for the hooker. Soon they are in a deep conversation, but suddenly the lion jumps off his stool, knocks the hooker down and eats her. He calmly gets back on his stool and orders another Martini, which he knocks back in one gulp and then falls off the barstool and crashes to the floor unconscious, barely breathing. The bartender runs around the bar and gives the lion smelling salts and mouth to mouth and after some considerable effort revives the lion. The lion, extremely groggy asks the bartender what happened to him. When told he was unconscious for several minutes, he what the hell caused it. To which the bartender replied…

“Must have been the bar bitch you ate.”

And now for a movie recommendaton. Last night we watched The Proposition, a dark and violent “western” set in 1880’s Australia. A good story well acted, it’s one of those movies that you could take almost any frame and have a great photograph. A humerous detail is a stagecoach being pulled by a team of camels.