A Womans' History Month Tribute to My Sister

Jeanne Marie Holz Simmons

1952~2002

I was eleven years old and in sixth grade when Jeanne, the fourth of us five sisters was born. Holz’s Harem, Dad lovingly called us.

From the beginning, she was special. She had dimples; none of the rest of us did. Well, maybe Carolyn had a couple. She had a lovely long curly strawberry-blond pony tail that reached below her waist; the rest of us could barely coax our hair to grow to our shoulders.

She loved all animals, especially horses and dogs, while a few of us were afraid of dogs, including Sparky, our untrained Springer Spaniel who nipped whenever he had the chance.

I loved being the big sister and taking Jeanne and Ann, my two youngest sisters, on character-building adventures. One summer when they were about six and eight, I decided that they needed to experience the day hike to Catfish Creek that all hearty Dubuquers took. In helping them build up their confidence to face the unknown dangers of the wild, I nearly got us killed. Just after I pointed out the rattlesnakes sunning on the rocks, I lead them across the wooden train trestle at the very moment a train rounded the bend. There was only one escape. Quickly stepping on the railroad ties to reach the other side, we had to concentrate on not getting our feet caught in the spaces between. We jumped into the weeds and made it with racing hearts and inches to spare. I think I made Jeanne and Ann swear they would never tell anyone what happened that day, especially Mom and Dad.

We spent a lot of time together as a family, including memorable summer vacations at Lost Lake in northern Wisconsin.

I gave them their first Barbies, complete with the now valuable outfits.

I had Mom send them alone not by one, but by two trains to visit me in Rochester, Minnesota, where I worked at the time.

A few years later, I took them to the Peterson farm in western Iowa. They drove the tractor, fed the pigs, chased the kittens in the barn, rode the horses. And were horrified when, right before their eyes, Fern hacked off the head of the chicken she was going to prepare for supper.

Jeanne grew into a quietly beautiful young woman. She was generous with her concern and interest, always observing and listening, always giving the wisest advice. Throughout her life, Jeanne attracted and kept a wide circle of loyal friends.

She was also generous with her talents, whether it was her exquisite stitching, her wholesome cooking and baking, or her sage nursing advice. She offered comfort whenever we hurt, either physically or emotionally. She was never judgmental.

Jeanne was generous with her time. One of the best gifts she ever gave me was the time she arrived unannounced in my kitchen to help me prepare for a large dinner party. She proceeded to cut and mince and clean until everything was ready. Oh, and she volunteered to be our companion when my one-year-old daughter and I drove a huge rental truck cross country to move to Seattle. Later, she followed her four sisters to Seattle to live, work, marry, and raise her son.

Jeanne was an excellent seamstress and creator of cross-stitched gifts. She made dresses for her nieces’ infant daughters’ first birthdays and colorful quilts for her friends. She joined her sisters in creating the first two sisters’ quilts, winning the drawing for the first one. Her wedding present to her sister, Ann, was a beautiful bear claw quilt that she made entirely by herself.

She loved to cook and to bake and was committed to natural ingredients and healthy living long before they were trendy. She loved to garden, nurturing the plants selected with her niece, Emily, for her new garden design.

Jeanne loved the outdoors, whether it was camping at the ocean or at Lake Chelan's camp ground, cross country skiing, or biking. One of her first jobs was as a camp nurse at Camp Conestoga and not for one year but for three.

Jeanne was an avid Mariner’s baseball fan, taking her son to games whenever possible. She also loved taking him to Disneyland and Disney World and Yellowstone National Park, returning to each several times.

Jeanne was a skilled nurse much admired and honored by her colleagues in Seattle’s Swedish Hospital Special Care Nursery. There, you will find her portrait and a beautifully written tribute near the nurses’ station.

She loved babies, especially her own son, her nieces and nephews, and eventually their children. She would arrive at the hospital as soon as possible after birth to hold and gaze at the new arrivals and during many visits once they were home. Using her solid experience and education, she had ready tips for the new mothers in our families on infant care, nursing, and feeding.

Jeanne drew on her faith for strength and for ways to be the best person she knew how. She never announced her beliefs; you simply knew from her actions that she had a firm moral and spiritual core.

Jeanne faced her cancer and its many setbacks with uncommon courage and trust and hope even when the health care system failed her. Still, she carefully put all her affairs in order to ensure that her young son would have college as an option if, later, he should so choose.

Here are photos of two quilt blocks created by her four sisters for the first Quilt of Courage, sponsored by the International Myeloma Foundation.

You can see the whole quilt at: Multiple Myeloma: IMF's Multiple Myeloma Quilt of Courage 1

I think of Jeanne every day and miss her terribly. Her brief life touched us in ways she probably never realized. I know I didn’t tell her often enough how much she meant to me and to all of us. She is one of the few women I most wish to be like.

Winter in My Home Away From Home

Winter in Rochester as I remember it in the late 1950s. Since we were only allowed two visits home that first winter in nurses' training at St. Mary's, we often trudged the long blocks downtown for a break, where the sole Mayo Clinic building towered over the city.

Winter Memories of the 1950s

The crunch of snow with each step in 20 degree below weather...

The sound of loose tire chains clanking against the inside of the car fenders as cars and buses accelerated to crest Dubuque's steep snow-packed hills...

The repetitive sound of the snow shovel against cement from November through March, day in and day out...

Checking the overnight snowfall first thing in the morning, despite the fact that school was never cancelled...

Street lights casting long shadows on the mounds of shoveled snow...

Snow angels, snowmen, forts, snowball fights (if it wasn't too cold to pack a perfect snowball)...

Rushing home from school to see if the city had flooded the ice rink two blocks away, then anticipating the thrill of skating hand-in-hand with that special boy...

Spreading the word which streets were blocked off for sledding...

Dragging the tobaggan to Bunker Hill or the Country Club for a group sledding date, then meeting at a nearby house for hot cocoa...

All these and more remind me that winters in Dubuque during the 50s were magical. It was not until much later that I had to shovel the walk or dig out my car or try to get it started and warmed in time to get to work.

Winter Snow

Were severe winters so commonplace in Iowa that my ancestors didn't choose to photograph them? I found only these in my collection. And, did 1943 to 1949 see record snowfalls in Dubuque? And if not, why did my father take only these?

The first photo was taken about 1943 and I'm standing next to a family heirloom that I would dearly love to find. I was told that my great-grandfather, M. F. Michels, a skilled carpenter and painter of detailed and exquisite embellishments on the passenger cars for the Milwaukee Railroad at their shops in Dubuque, handcrafted this sled, perhaps for my father, his grandson. It was a deep maroon and the scene in front is of a deer and other animals in the forest. After I left home to start nursing school and as my parents moved into their second home, my father donated many beautiful family pieces from his childhood, including this sled, to St. Vincent de Paul. I never dreamed I had to ask to keep it.

This photo was taken the winter of 1944 in our backyard in Dubuque, Iowa. It looks like I struggled to make it this far, falling a few times. Not long after, I'm sure I sat inside next to the heat register from our coal furnace, trying to get warm, a favorite place for my sisters and me to dress during the cold winter mornings.

By February, 1947, when the following photo was taken, my sister, Carolyn, had arrived. Here, she and I stand guard over a fort my father made by piling the snow until the walls were higher than my shoulders. My winter memories are of deep, deep snow. Now I know why...I was a lot shorter back then.

The last photo was taken during January, 1949. My second sister, Liz, was to arrive two months later. The snow looks too cold to pack into perfect snowballs, a common problem during our cold, cold winters. But we could eat it.

My husband and I have been blessed with children, grandchildren, close friends, good health, and curious minds. Today we will remind ourselves not to take them for granted.

Why This Blog?

Although it's been many years since I've lived in Dubuque, Iowa, I've always considered myself a Dubuquer. I have many wonderful memories of growing up during the 1940s and 50s and am afraid they'll be lost if I don't write them down. I think a blog is the perfect way to share my stories with my family, don't you?

I've recently discovered beautifully designed and written blogs by some of my fellow historians and family researchers. They've shown me what's possible and spurred me on to create my own.

I plan to create and post to two blogs...this one, focusing on my early years growing up in Dubuque, Iowa, and another, profiling my German-American heritage and my often times successful and sometimes not so successful search for my origins in Saarland, Rhineland, Schleswig-Holstein, Bavaria, Austria, and Luxembourg.