By Gentzy Franz
A folk hero imprints their personality upon people and places; their lore grows with time and distance. Death accelerates this process.
When a folk hero dies, we reflect on their deeds. Their life becomes grander. As time passes, we have a fuller picture of who our hero was. We love them more. We are inspired by them. We pattern our lives after the meaning we have assigned them. And ultimately, we are better because of them.
As Becki’s nephew, I have had the luxury of distance. I only saw her on the occasional trip to Minnesota; she was close enough for me to revere, yet distant enough for me to fill in the gaps. Accordingly, I have been creating folklore about Becki, this folk hero, my entire life. I’d like to share with you my version of her story.
Becki, the folk hero, settled in the mystical north woods of Minnesota early in the 1980s. She lived in the log cabin she assembled with Big Pete. She chopped wood. She endured winter after winter. She raised two kids who have become exceptional adults. She played instruments and honed every talent she had—even honed some talents she didn’t have. She experienced heartache. Her sorrow may have in part been self-inflicted, but only inasmuch as she was willing to love and be loved. There is risk in abandon. And yet she continued to love.
She was steely enough to canoe the boundary waters alone. And her laugh. It was full. Deep. And not liberally offered. She’d laugh if something was funny, never gratuitously.
The shop she owned was Gramma’s Pantry. It smelled of coffee, sesame sticks, and lavender. Every time I dip a scoop into a bulk food bin, the sound reminds me of Becki, the folk hero. The shop was clean, precise, an extension of her ideals. Maybe 600 square feet, yet bigger in my mind than Costco. Vitamins, oils, supplements, everything you could need to prolong this mortal journey on earth.
And therein lies the cruel irony.
Her life ended so suddenly. So tragically. Too soon. Becki looked no different the last time I saw her, when I was 32, than she did when I was ten. She was not aging. Wasn’t she beautiful? She was living, travelling, renovating, building. But not aging. The north woods and the lifeblood of Gramma’s Pantry created a veritable fountain of youth from which she drank daily.
But perhaps the irony is consistent with the folklore. She, of all people, should be alive. But as we know, death is no respecter of persons. It robs us all, randomly, unsuspectingly, and often unjustly. And as unjust as it seems, perhaps our folk hero would suggest otherwise. Becki was not ravaged by the disease. Her last year could have been spent in treatment centers and hospitals, dying. But instead she spent it living; her body sustained by the nutrients she fed it. Living against the odds, the fountain of youth allowed her to prolong the battle against an inevitably indomitable foe. And she knew when it was over. And peacefully, reverently, heroically, Becki drifted on to an eternal realm. She lived on her terms. She worked on her terms. She had style on her terms (didn’t she have great style?). We should have known that death too, would be on her terms.
The night Becki drifted away, I was alone. Our four kids were asleep and my wife was out for the evening. My mind was flooded with memories of this folk hero…and the lore began to grow. I thought of little Luci, the granddaughter she adored, growing up on tales of her grandma Becki. Luci will be inspired. She will be motivated to live life on her terms. To follow the example of her grandma.
I listened to the great folk artist—Greg Brown—one of Becki’s favorites, and thought of her. I must have listened to Driftless at least a dozen times.
Have I done enough, Father,
can I rest now?
Have I learned enough, Mother,
can we talk now?
Will you visit me
in my place of peace?
I'm going driftless.
Let's cry all our tears
cry them all out now.
Let them flow down
and clean all the rivers.
And the evening sky
is the reason why
I'm going driftless.
Our folk hero has drifted on. To Grandma and Granddaddy and all the others who preceded her. Becki certainly did enough. She certainly learned enough. She left an imprint that will never fade. An imprint that we can revere and build upon, telling tales and weaving lore, until it is our time to drift along and meet her.
A folk hero imprints their personality upon people and places; their lore grows with time and distance. Death accelerates this process.
When a folk hero dies, we reflect on their deeds. Their life becomes grander. As time passes, we have a fuller picture of who our hero was. We love them more. We are inspired by them. We pattern our lives after the meaning we have assigned them. And ultimately, we are better because of them.
As Becki’s nephew, I have had the luxury of distance. I only saw her on the occasional trip to Minnesota; she was close enough for me to revere, yet distant enough for me to fill in the gaps. Accordingly, I have been creating folklore about Becki, this folk hero, my entire life. I’d like to share with you my version of her story.
Becki, the folk hero, settled in the mystical north woods of Minnesota early in the 1980s. She lived in the log cabin she assembled with Big Pete. She chopped wood. She endured winter after winter. She raised two kids who have become exceptional adults. She played instruments and honed every talent she had—even honed some talents she didn’t have. She experienced heartache. Her sorrow may have in part been self-inflicted, but only inasmuch as she was willing to love and be loved. There is risk in abandon. And yet she continued to love.
She was steely enough to canoe the boundary waters alone. And her laugh. It was full. Deep. And not liberally offered. She’d laugh if something was funny, never gratuitously.
The shop she owned was Gramma’s Pantry. It smelled of coffee, sesame sticks, and lavender. Every time I dip a scoop into a bulk food bin, the sound reminds me of Becki, the folk hero. The shop was clean, precise, an extension of her ideals. Maybe 600 square feet, yet bigger in my mind than Costco. Vitamins, oils, supplements, everything you could need to prolong this mortal journey on earth.
And therein lies the cruel irony.
Her life ended so suddenly. So tragically. Too soon. Becki looked no different the last time I saw her, when I was 32, than she did when I was ten. She was not aging. Wasn’t she beautiful? She was living, travelling, renovating, building. But not aging. The north woods and the lifeblood of Gramma’s Pantry created a veritable fountain of youth from which she drank daily.
But perhaps the irony is consistent with the folklore. She, of all people, should be alive. But as we know, death is no respecter of persons. It robs us all, randomly, unsuspectingly, and often unjustly. And as unjust as it seems, perhaps our folk hero would suggest otherwise. Becki was not ravaged by the disease. Her last year could have been spent in treatment centers and hospitals, dying. But instead she spent it living; her body sustained by the nutrients she fed it. Living against the odds, the fountain of youth allowed her to prolong the battle against an inevitably indomitable foe. And she knew when it was over. And peacefully, reverently, heroically, Becki drifted on to an eternal realm. She lived on her terms. She worked on her terms. She had style on her terms (didn’t she have great style?). We should have known that death too, would be on her terms.
The night Becki drifted away, I was alone. Our four kids were asleep and my wife was out for the evening. My mind was flooded with memories of this folk hero…and the lore began to grow. I thought of little Luci, the granddaughter she adored, growing up on tales of her grandma Becki. Luci will be inspired. She will be motivated to live life on her terms. To follow the example of her grandma.
I listened to the great folk artist—Greg Brown—one of Becki’s favorites, and thought of her. I must have listened to Driftless at least a dozen times.
Have I done enough, Father,
can I rest now?
Have I learned enough, Mother,
can we talk now?
Will you visit me
in my place of peace?
I'm going driftless.
Let's cry all our tears
cry them all out now.
Let them flow down
and clean all the rivers.
And the evening sky
is the reason why
I'm going driftless.
Our folk hero has drifted on. To Grandma and Granddaddy and all the others who preceded her. Becki certainly did enough. She certainly learned enough. She left an imprint that will never fade. An imprint that we can revere and build upon, telling tales and weaving lore, until it is our time to drift along and meet her.