True Stories of the Picture "Grace"

Rhoda Enstrom Nyberg, then 86, and her brother Warren Enstrom, then 88, are shown in August 2003 with a copy of the famous “Grace” photograph taken by their father, Eric Enstrom, in Bovey. Rhoda Nyberg, who hand-colored the photograph, died last week at age 95. (Photo from Duluth News Tribune)You’ll recognize the picture in the photo on the left, known as “Grace,” as the one I use in my Thankful Thursday posts. Rhoda Nyberg, the woman who hand-colored the photograph, died last week. Here’s her story in the Duluth News Tribune. 

And here’s my “Grace” story, one I first posted a few years ago. I’ve rewritten it, and added a postscript and footnotes.

When I was growing up in the northwoods of Minnesota, many homes had a reproduction of this photograph somewhere on the wall of the kitchen or dining room. I suppose that’s not surprising, since the photograph was taken by a northern Minnesotan.

A few summers ago I stopped to purchase a print of this photo in the very same studio in the little town of Bovey, MN where the original photograph was taken. I was on my way to Hibbing to pick up my son from his cousins’ home, and the highway to Hibbing goes right through Bovey, so I thought I’d stop. The studio is in an old wooden turn-of-the-century store front building butted up to a sidewalk directly bordering the highway that is the main street through town. It’s still a working photography studio, the kind with large framed high school graduation and wedding photos lining the walls.

No one was in the lobby, so I rang the little bell on the counter and waited a few minutes before the photographer came out to help me. He fetched my print, carefully rolled it, fastened it with rubber bands, gave me a little pamphlet with the story of Grace in it, and charged me $12.50.

In 1918, the studio was owned and operated by Eric Enstrom. The man in the photograph is Charles Wilden1, who showed up at the studio peddling foot scrapers. From the pamphlet:

“There was something about the old gentleman’s face that immediately impressed me. I saw that he had a kind face… there weren’t any harsh lines in it,” Enstrom said in recalling the 1918 visit of Charles Wilden to his studio.

It happened that Enstrom, at that time, was preparing a portfolio of pictures to take with him to a convention of the Minnesota Photographer’s Association. “I wanted to take a picture that would show people that even though they had to do without many things because of the war they still had much to be thankful for,” Enstrom said.

On a small table, Enstrom placed a family book, some spectacles, a bowl of gruel, a loaf of bread, and a knife. Then he had Wilden pose in a manner of prayer… praying with folded hands to his brow before partaking of a meager meal.

To bow his head in prayer seemed to be characteristic of the elderly visitor, Enstrom recalled, for he struck the pose very easily and naturally.

I remember family conversations about the contents of that bowl. As a child, I thought it was some kind of soup, but it’s even more humble than that: It’s just a bowl of oatmeal.

The photo didn’t get much attention at the photographer’s convention in 1918, but it became popular as people driving through Bovey spotted it in the window of Enstrom’s studio and stopped to buy it. As soon as one framed print was sold, he’d make another to take its place in the studio window.

Eric Enstrom considered this photo to be his very best of the thousands that he took in the 50 years he worked as a photographer.2 He thought he had captured something special, something he described like this:

This man doesn’t have much of earthly goods, but he has more than most people because he has a thankful heart.

One morning back in 1918 an ordinary man was doing his ordinary job, selling things door-to-door, when he met another ordinary man doing his ordinary job, and the results were extraordinary.

I’ve matted and framed my print, and it’s leaning on the book shelves in the living room. It reminds me of my childhood, and it reminds me that small things done well can have lasting results. It also reminds me to be thankful for all that I have, even my morning oatmeal.

Postscript: Two summers ago, I brought the framed photo that had been in my childhood home back from Minnesota. My son and his wife have it hanging in their little home. Perhaps my little granddaughter will grow up wondering what’s in the bowl, too.

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1Of the mysterious life of Charles Wilden (Grand Forks Herald).
2Eric Enstrom was also the very first to photograph Judy Garland, back when she was still Frances Gumm. 

My Dad Was A Cowboy

As you know, my dad passed away on September 10. At the memorial service, there was mention of his past as a cowboy, and I remembered this old post from the old blog. Originally there was a photo of my dad as a young boy dressed up like a cowboy, but that’s gone now, and I can find neither the photo nor the scan of the photo to upload to this repost, so I’ve had to make do without it.

When my sons were little, they wanted to be pirates or superheroes. When my dad was little, his dream was to be a cowboy. My boys dressed up as pirates and superheroes, but my dad dressed up as a cowboy. I have a photo of him as a boy dressed in chaps and a bandana, holding a lasso, looking pleased with himself.

My boys haven’t grown up to be pirates or superheroes, but my dad did live out the dream he had as a little boy living on a farm in western Kansas. After he served in the military, he worked on a ranch in Kit Carson, Colorado. He loved his work riding the range and he didn’t plan to ever be anything but a cowboy.

But sometimes other dreams take you by surprise. One day my cowboy dad was listening to the radio. I don’t remember the name of the program he was listening to, but it included a presentation of the gospel. The Spirit “blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes,” and that day the Spirit blew across the open range of Colorado and a cowboy was reborn.

Before long, the cowboy had a different dream, and he became a student at Bryan College in Dayton, Tennesee. Next he was a pastor of a little church in Belleview, Idaho; then a student again (this time at Wheaton College in Illinois); and after that a pastor and professor in northern Minnesota. He’s now retired from teaching, but he still lives in Minnesota, where he co-pastors a little country church.*

What happened to the cowboy dream? The interest didn’t die, at least not completely. My dad bought a horse in Minnesota, but once the horse was thoroughly trained, the fun went out of it for him. My family sometimes went to Idaho in the summer so my dad could help out on my uncle’s ranch, but though he really loved those breaks from his work and study, the cowboy life wasn’t his dream anymore. He had a new dream: to be a servant.

I wonder what the Spirit can make of former pirates and superheroes?

*He was still working in that little church up until a few weeks before he died, still living out his servant dream. You can read a few tributes to him here.

Boys Will Be Boys

I first posted this five years ago. Things are changing in my family, you know. I might be feeling a little longing for the old days.

I’ve never met a little boy that didn’t love playing superhero.  If they don’t have a real superhero costume, a pair of briefs over long underwear and a towel-cape will do. If you let them (or you’re not looking) they’ll take flying leaps across the livingroom from the coffee table or the back of the couch. It’s always cute, sometimes annoying, and possibly dangerous, depending on what superhero he is, what superfeat he’s attempting, and how many other superheroes there are in the room.

Playing superhero is fun, for sure, but it’s also very important work—purposeful work. When the caped pretender turns 12 or 13, give or take a few years, you’ll see him begin to unfold into a real hero.

The metamorphosis might start with a bit of a bad attitude. He thinks he knows better than his parents; he thinks he’s invincible; and he doesn’t like taking instruction. This can be a difficult stage, because he doesn’t know better than his parents, he’s not invincible, and goodness knows, he needs instruction more than he ever did. This stage of hero development is not much fun, but parents who hang in there may see that this, too, has a purpose.

Youngest daughter is twenty-one and works at a gym. A week or so ago she came home and told us about her day. A young man, a customer at the gym who is the same age as youngest son and still in high school, had been hassling her.

“We should hang out sometime,” he said. He was nothing if not persistent, even though she thought she was obvious in her refusal.

Oldest son’s response? “I should have a talk with him.” Youngest son? “I’ll beat him up!”

As it turns out, her boss had overheard things and he had a talk with the young man, so  it was all resolved without any help from her brothers.

Yes, youngest son needs to learn a better approach to fixing these sorts of problems—a better step one, anyway. I expect that to come with time. A year ago, however, it would never have crossed his mind that this situation might require something of him.

He’s one step closer to becoming a hero, and that, really, is what the briefs pulled up over the long johns when he was five were all about. Boys will be boys, and that’s a good thing, because it’s working to turn them into men.