Untimely death came calling on a regular basis in the 19th century, especially for women. Pregnancy and childbirth were a common method of culling the human herd. Many men lost their wives to the rigors of labor and delivery, and if a woman survived the ordeal, her child could easily fall victim to a fatal illness or accident. My great-great-grandmother Anna Maria Holzschuh was very familiar with the Grim Reaper’s cruel customs. As a Catholic, she most certainly prayed to the Virgin Mary to keep her family safe.
Astonishingly, I learned that Anna Maria had back-up; she dabbled in astrology, an ancient pagan practice designed to thwart Death’s wicked ways. I thought that was impossible. Doesn’t Catholic doctrine preach that using any form of divination such as horoscopes or astrology is a mortal sin? Yes, but the evidence is right there in her prayer book: a list of each child’s name, birth date and sky sign.
Now I read my horoscope occasionally, but I don’t take it seriously. I have faith and science. Modern medicine says the key to human longevity is heredity — what happens in your genes, not what happens in your jeans. Good news for me. Anna Maria died at 69, but most of her 11 children, including Great-grandpa Casper, made it way past that. My great-aunt Katarina Jospeha, whose English version of her name is the same as mine, lived to 102.
Now the fact that Anna Maria was into astrology is in itself amazing, but why on earth publish that in your prayer book, of all places? Was she hedging her bets, or was it a mini-mutiny against male-dominated institutions that controlled her life? Whatever, neither prayer nor astrology prevented Death from doing its dirty deeds. In a span of eight years, she lost three daughters, two as infants and her adopted niece, Margaretha.
Even if Anna Maria sinned grievously by secretly consulting the zodiac calendar, she did not deserve what occurred on Sept. 13, 1890. The day began ordinarily enough. She and John George were empty nesters by then, doing very well for themselves. They ate a light breakfast and headed out to pick corn. They worked until noon, then went back to the farmhouse for dinner. Perhaps she used my iron pot to cook that meal.
As they were eating, Anna Maria noticed John George was unusually animated. He laughed loudly as he talked about their long life together and expressed his deep affection for her. Then suddenly, he fell silent. The change was so dramatic she asked him if he was ill. He said no and got up to leave, explaining he wanted to feed the pigs before going back to the cornfield. When he didn’t return, she went searching.
The Sheboygan County News of Sept. 17, 1890, reported the rest: “John George Holzschuh, a well-known and well-to-do farmer of the Town of Lima, committed suicide on Monday last by hanging himself in a small workshop back of his house. No cause can be assigned for this taking of his own life. His son Casper, who is engaged in cheese-making near Sherwood, was notified of his death and left for his home on Tuesday.”
Like Anna Maria, I couldn’t make sense of it. What made John George do such a thing? Apparently, he too had secrets. How did Anna Maria carry on? She had to supervise preparation of his body for burial, sit through the wake in her parlor, attend his funeral Mass filled with holy water, incense and songs of lamentation, and accompany his coffin to the cemetery, all the while believing her husband had condemned himself to eternal damnation. What emotions prevailed during those dreadful days and the 11 years she lived as a widow — rage, despair, loneliness, guilt?
I didn’t learn this part of the story until after my father died. I wanted to ask him if he thought I was strong enough to carry such burdens. Then I remembered something he said to me that day in the attic when he shared the story of my golden pot made of iron. “Anna Maria’s fortitude was forged in the furnace of life, the same way a blacksmith fashioned that pot you are holding. You come from a long line of gritty women, Katrina Maria. Remember that.”
How could I forget? Each time I take out Anna Maria’s kettle, I recall that day in Aunt Annie’s attic when the past merged with the present in the form of one old discarded cooking pot. People always say things don’t matter. Well, I say — sometimes they do.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
Categories
