May Overgard Satterthwaite

May Overgard Satterthwaite. Born in March of 1923, you were the second of five, but born the third. 150% Scandinavian, they called your clan “square heads” and you were proud of it. You said it meant “honest” and that you were. We never were 100% sure about Dad’s family, some kind of English – mutt mix that forced “Satterthwaite” on us all. But we know where you came from: Christian Anderson Overgaard married Liv Dahl to bring the best of Denmark and Norway to America. Like gjetost cheese. Krumkage Christmas cookies. But especially, you.

They didn’t name you for your birth month – though it would have been appropriate considering how fast you crossed streets – a good New York girl knows how to look out for herself in heavy traffic. Delaware must have seemed slow and easy by comparison – except for the fact that those first years of marriage were nothing like “easy”: nearly lost your man to pneumonia, meanwhile you were working, teaching Sunday school, and leading the choir – all part of starting the Minquidale Assembly of God over there on the other side of the tracks. And God got you through it! You were the one for Dad. You supplied the “grit”, and he supplied the “grits”. He was your man from the Old South. A young preacher boy couldn’t have asked for a better wife: adoring, faithful, always attentive. Didn’t hurt that you played piano and sang alto.

We loved looking at those square black and white snap shots: your best photos have you glancing his way, radiant. Somehow, you convinced Dad to leave off scrapple for Scrabble; well, mostly. Is there a seven letter word in the dictionary that you don’t know? Who cares what the definition is? It’s a “bingo”!

Your house was clean! Clean? Did we say just “clean”??? Sorry! Spick and Span. Neat as a pin. Immaculate. Hypo-alergenically sterilized. Think of the money Dad would have saved if he had just bought a 55 gallon drum of “Lestoil” concentrate before you started in. No tiny corner un-scrubbed, no dribble un-wiped, every smear eliminated. You boiled, disinfected, steamed: no germ had a chance at your house. Your domicile was like your accountant’s ledger sheets. The decimal points are aligned and the books balance to the penny. Nothing out of place, and no small knick knacks: they just get sucked up the vacuum cleaner tube anyway. Yours was a Nordic way of living: no frills, but with elegant simplicity that takes some work and skill to achieve.

Christmas, we must admit, was a problem. You asked for very little for yourself, and always “practical”. Good thing we had Aunt Elsa to help us make cool stuff for you, like the little Christmas tree of sewing thread. You seemed thrilled! I guess we’ll never know if you would have preferred the yellow dump truck Rick had picked out for you.

Sorry we never took the hint about learning violin. All those violin albums you loved – and we ended up playing clarinet and piano and the saxophone. But you sure made music a part of us and now it is one of our biggest pleasures, and our children’s. Was music a Danish invention, too?

You sure had a soft spot for babies: seventeen foster children and wishing you could have kept the most of them. It was your voice pronouncing the words, but it was Jesus in you saying, “Let the little children come to me!” Come they did.

You willingly gave up easy access to your own children and grandchildren for the cause of the Kingdom. Mexico, Wisconsin and Spain were far away for a home body like you. Now we understand even better your daily prayers for us – thank you for them!!! – we missed being physically close by, but during all those years we were truly closer than we realized.

Now you’re with your Lord, with Dad, and a lot of square heads, no doubt.

And no need to clean up! Enjoy!