The Scofield Park Memorial

The year is 1925 and the great war "to end all wars" is now largely a benchmark of memory for veterans who are now in the midst of their own postwar period economic boom.

The entrepreneurial craftsmen, the immigrants or the children of immigrants that were the spine of a still largely agrarian economy were now fading in the "Fordization" of mass production, electrification, national advertising and an unprecedented era of mobility and communication...radio...the arrival of aviation...1925 was flush with unprecedented confidence, and the era of the disposable, the irreparable was yet to arrive.

Public buildings, automobiles and even something as mechanically simple as the new convenience of an electric fan were fabricated with a sense of permanence. The Great Depression is yet four years distant in the unknowable future.

In this year of 1925, a permanent monument as a memorial is about to be completed by a team of craftsmen. This is a work that cannot be mass produced and it was built perhaps as an extension of human memory just as the written word is placed on a blank sheet of paper, lest we forget. On that monument was inscribed the names of those who went, rightfully or wrongfully to wage war to end all wars. One name in particular for this writer also serves as a reminder, an extension of a personal memory that of my grandfather. Oscar.

Below is an image of the local paper extolling the completion of the memorial and in my mind's eye. I see him at the breakfast table. paging through the morning edition with his coffee and orange juice and coming upon this;

How did he view this memorial in his back yard, so to speak? He had served in the field artillery in the this last and first truly global conflict. The last to use the horse to draw the weapons of war

Now the age of the automobile had arrived, the "fliver" with it's output measured in "horsepower". Even in the last year of his life, a Sunday drive with yours truly in the backseat was a recreation that I suppose, now looking back, I am fairly certain, the driving of an automobile had an entirely different meaning to him, than it does to me. Driving is now a almost exclusively a necessity, not an object of pleasure.

Recently, this work of craftsmen who have long since having passed from this life, that remains in Scofield Park,  has demonstrated their wisdom of working with material mediums that  transcends their lives, restorative to a legacy based on a confidence in it's permanence. More permanent than the post editorial resolution that World War One was the war to end all wars.



A life, many lives bench marked by the ritualized conflicts of war and personal memory juxtaposed against the external extensions of memory in memorials..certainly a contrast  but yet, as one person noted that what we see, that which we experience internally and without in regard to others is simply a shadow of an individual as hopeful, as cynical and as bewildered as the rest of us.

Mundelein Is Everywhere and Nowhere In Particular

Suburban Archeology and Life In The Slow Lane


Nowhere in Particular and Everywhere Americana

In a universe far way, in the year of 1958, there is a proverbial postwar oasis made of greener pastures far removed from the incessant noise and clamor of Chicago.
In the midst of the the windswept prairies, there are mile upon mile of cornfields connected by remote gravel roads, where creeks run wild, full of ferocious snapping turtles and exotic crayfish, this was the destination of my clan in search of suburbia. For me it meant no more playing in the backyard which was the fire escape, or missing the walks to sample the delights of Cicero along Roosevelt Road. What I found was a world of postwar America, tract homes, and what was to become suburban sprawl, so much so than when an old friend of mine returned after thirty years, he immediately lost his bearings. A great deal of what we both knew as landmarks had vanished or were so altered they were unrecognizable. We talked about "suburban archeology" as being an unrecognized field. My childhood home home inadvertently became a museum for  postwar suburbia in a development named "Fairhaven" ..The word ubiquitous comes to mind as if Kurt Vonnegut was put in charge of naming tract developments despite the fact that there are no Oaks or Mission in a cookie cutter development such as  an atypically named Mission Oaks that defies it's own description. Yet, as we age we become hapless historians of our past as baby boomers glued to the dawn of a mass migration based on seemingly endless oil reserves and a promised future of flying cars. So it was back then, and we were carried on it's back only to look back with wonderment at the now seeming miracle of optimism mixed with the possibility of nuclear annihilation. Out on the front lawn, one summer night night long ago, we watched the arc of Spunik as a pinpoint of light in the blackness of space pass over our enclave of Fairhaven....as a portent we could not decipher as a mixture of awe and foreboding....only to return inside to out tv trays and Uncle Walter pronounce..."Thats the way it was"at the end of every broadcast and so it is as we glance back over ours shoulders en route to elsewhere.

It was, like all such rapidly spreading automobile enclaves, a new world of emerging technologies, that now are lost, forgotten and yet, were an important facet of every day life. Consider this state of the art self service machine. Then consider now when an electronic device fails, it is, for all purposes, a disposable artifact.
The long extinct television serviceman's fee could be prone to an end run by our fathers.
This short essay began with a friend Bob and myself spending six months on a quixotic quest to find the mythological vault where Coronet Films were archived in search of one particular jewel of an educational film..Remember the Projector Boys? Roll the film until it flaps around the spool....darkened classrooms and a soggy bag lunch placed atop the coat rack awaits us. "Galoshes" line the hallway awaiting recess as well.


We were in search of a film starring no less an important figure in my childhood, Mrs Frost, my third grade teacher who took her students on a tour of 1950's Mundelein, my hometown, replete with vanished vistas and ghost images that portrayed a small town community much like Mrs Frost's hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana. We never did find that film....but the past lives on nonetheless...as a series of detours and whirlpools frozen between drills where we hid under our desks to await annihilation in a blinding flash or chasing butterfly's. I am still in recovery from those educational films..Arent we all?



She regaled us with stories of her childhood in Indiana and as a suppressed and talented artist she had an indelible influence on yours truly. She sketched each of her students in a portrait and my own was a personal treasure for decades....a place and time created by sitting next to her desk, one by one, myself among them created a keepsake of childhood...a remembrance. She saw into a future that often adults need to be reminded of through her own tales she regaled us with..of root cellars and Ice Men.

Yes, but in the beginning, this place whose name is legion was so unique, so indescribable that in the beginning, they couldn't settle on a name. Or more accurately, determine one. One can imagine Rufus and Elmore deeply ruminating on the front porch overlooking the infinite horizon of the flat prairies green with corn stalks and the soft breezes that made them wave...as if it were a kingdom of dreams that had no identifiable location on a map.

Rufus had a far away stare stuck on his grizzled face and to no one in particular, he muttered "You know what, we don't live anywhere particular." Elmore winced,"What on heaven's name are you talk'in about now?"
"Well... I was over in Half Day, you know where that is located... right?"
"Of course I do, so whats your point?"
"Well.... they sort of asked me where I was from... and you know what all I had in my mind was tryin like hell to get some mental image I could give them of this place."
"And,so?,"
"There ain't none"


So universal was it's delights sought, they, at first settled on Mechanic's Grove, which seemed to infer a place of flat tires, broken buggy springs or exploding radiators. Worse perhaps, this may be a place where nails were placed on the roads in order to gain new citizens. Actually the name came from a wave of immigration to the area as a result of a severe depression in industrial England, hence they honored their previous professions.

Then, in a moment of misbegotten genius, someone had a revelation, that this place need a name to separate it from all other such little towns scattered like so many forgettable tiny burgs. Area was chosen as the name,as the ultimate generic,sort of like Place, or Spot, which I suppose is better than the suggestiveness of Intercourse, Pennsylvania or the hyped promise of Santa Claus,Indiana. The name Area stood for the motto of a small, short lived private school that taught "Ability, Reliability, Endurance, and Action."

Suddenly this lovely oasis due to it's brand X name became the butt of jokes. A private developer by the name of Holcomb came along with his cash, and the name suddenly dropped the more idealistic name that designated a defunct school of ideology and became Holcomb as a means for this fellow to honor himself. This did not last long when Holcomb presumably "went south" and a connection to a name of overwhelming prestige and power was thought of as a antidote, a sort of 360 degree "Hail Mary" pass then ensued, and so it was that Area became Rockefeller which I suppose, implied more dynamism. Then, in a flash of star crossed fate, a new seminary akin to a Disneyland was announced to be built by the Cardinal Mundelein, ordained by he to be on the West edge of town.

Hmmmm.... the gleeful aroma of a likely tourist trap ensued as the magic spell of the Rockefeller name had certainly failed to jell as intended.. Not wanting to seem opportunistic or trading in on their new attraction, the city fathers then met with due haste and as a result of fierce debate, the fourth consecutive name was chosen and Rockefeller went the way of Area and Mechanics Grove as they were simply a crazy quilt prelude to a photo finish.... in a stroke of genius, it was thus named. No surprise here.



So why Mundelein was chosen as a postwar escape route from the West side of Chicago for my parents became obvious, as at the time, being a lifelong city dweller my father had no immediate need for a car, and so a way of commuting became paramount in their decision. The station of what was called the North Shore line became my primary object of curiosity for me and many an afternoon was spent either waiting for my father's train or simply milling around asking questions of the motormen. Even more importantly it had a candy counter where I would bring my younger sister along for "Milk Duds" or some other "sugar buzz"


Of course, my father eventually bought a car, a manually shifted used 1951 Ford, which came out of Detroit the year I arrived at Oak Park Hopital. My father, "peddle to the metal" drove this car until the floorboards had holes big enough where our feet would get wet, and my mother forced the issue of a new car, after perhaps saying once too often to me, "Keep your feet away from that hole!"


The Conquering Of Space and Time

So, in Mundelein or Mundlelean, or Mundlebin, what have you, a young man that was once me wistfully eyed the roaring Mountaineer or The Laker thundering through the town, horn blaring...me sadly confined to a series of pathetic orange crate scooters that had such innovations as candle lit headlamps that unfortunately had a bad habit of blowing out at a critical moment, or failing to have brakes, inevitably led to violent spin outs, or even lacking such conveniences such as a seat, we careened toward an ill fated mobility. The harsh reality was that I was still confined to my P.F Fliers as a general mode of transportation. In desperate moments such as these... we would place our contorted bodies inside the rims of old tires and roll ourselves down a hill, or worse make futile attempts to slide on cardboard boxes, then hitting a rock, only to be hurled like a softball of laundry in a somersault of doom.

It was a era of failed attempts to conquer space and time. The brief glances of the urban sophistication of Libertyville, outside of the outskirts of our tract homeland, were like glimpses of the Emerald City. Strange temples and exotic attractions lined the wide boulevard of dreams.

Then, like all miracles of technology, the Schwinn Bicycle Company of Chicago suddenly solved this age old riddle and my new 1958 Red Hornet stood there gleaming there in 1958, awaiting me like a passport to Oz, or deepest Africa, even the deeply forested canyons in my mind's eye, of the verdant Skokie Valley which I imagined to be the proverbial Black Forest cut through by a winding river.


An Expedition to the Luxurious Wiener-mobile, to Greet World Famous Uncle Johnny Coons

In those dark pre-Bozo days of summer, Uncle Johnny Coons was the raconteur of cartoons, that taught us how the world really operated versus the boring facts that led us to capture flys on our desks or made us turn on ourselves... in a intermittent flurry of improvised weapons, like the highly accurate rubber band, carelessly left for us to use in place of the notoriously difficult to aim "spitballs" made ingeniously fashioned in haste from notebook paper. Some became sure shot legends in those days of armed resistance to our captivity. Cartoons were our textbooks, or at least mine anyway.

But summer in Mundelein was a cornucopia of delights resulting in "whatdayawont to do?"
" I don't know I asked you first."
Ah, but the day, our hero, the mastermind of the cartoon school of knowledge came to town with no less than the high tech vision of our future, the streamlined Weiner-mobile that cast a spell on our cartoon imaginations. I imagined all the important local townsfolk turning out lining the streets as the triumphant wiener wagon in all it's glory separating the pushing and shouting crowds.."Look, omigod, there he is... It's Uncle Johnny Coons!" I also expected the world famous Oscar Meyer to be a Germanic Count, like the Grand Duke Ferdinand.

Uncle Johnny was having an off day on a hot summer morning and was gruff, little beads of perspiration ran behind his glasses as his frozen smile was more like an involuntary gritting of teeth during a visit to the dentist. Oscar Meyer was having a smoke in the alley behind the Jewel, a short and swarthy Italian "little person" from the Fifth Dimension, like Snow White's driver. I suppose it was another day on the Wiener Road for them, but that day is indelibly etched in my mind for entirely unforeseen reason on my part. The Star Trek of the future arrived early with the stove top miracle of instant Jiffy Pop, but my future would be forever changed when I saw a colorful unfamiliar banner, flying wildly over at a large cooler. Wow. The tastes of exotic lands, foreign cultures, had arrived in the Jewel parking lot. It was a miracle!


At first glance I thought it was an elf peering out of a snowball, but then it struck me, these are pies made by Eskimos! There were other exotic fare in that little town that even hot dogs were extraordinary, amazing and yes, fabulous.

It was a world of sage advice, "Hey kid stop spinning on that stool!" Or more practical insights into the world of commerce when too many vacant stares at toy trains brought a rude wakening to the universe of dreams."Hey kid, are you gonna buy something!?" Other indelibly etched memories were to follow.


My brother Brian like a determined explorer of yore set his gaze upon the endless plain of cow pastures surrounding Mundelein and then set his sight on finding the enigmatic origin of the creek. My mother , dressed in her business casual "moo-moo" frying up a storm to meet a last minute dinner deadline, blithely asked, Where's you brother?"
"I dunno.."

A postcard at the Lake County Museum shows a work crew atop a ditch-digging machine. Dated June 30, 1911, it includes a message from one of the workers saying he won’t be home for the Fourth of July holiday because the machine has to be disassembled to cross a railroad bridge.The creek has a connection to one of the individuals satirized by the film, Citizen Kane, for his lavish spending on what resembled a throne chair,facing the planned Westward expansion of his empire, the Civic Opera House in Chicago. He died penniless in a Paris subway station, the victim of the Morgan investment banks, cashing in on the depression as well as a little known event that would forever change America. Just prior to the depression, the United States Supreme Court in their wisdom, forbade utilities from owning transportation networks, which broke up the synergy and growth of cheap electric transportation via the interurban, one of which was the one that brought us to Mundelein. Non polluting mass transit was passe with cheap gas, as I recall gas in 1958 was 27 cents a gallon.

Insull himself is a forgotten man.

Seavey Creek as it is called begins to bend south near Lake Charles in the Gregg’s Landing subdivision east of Butterfield. The ditch was rerouted and a dam built to create the lake, according to Brown, the Vernon Hills engineer, which originally served as a gravel pit for the building of the North Shore Line that sits on the former property of the aformentioned Insull "the man who electrified America", beginning in nearby Libertyville, which then spread throughout the U.S. While he is forgotten, his mansion remains.


That same aforementioned bridge that disrupted a worker's 4th of July holiday, later caused more issues, or should I say excitement. My sister Lynn as well as others in her classroom were stunned by the anomalous UPS truck stuck like a piece of dry gum under the Soo Line trestle. This was life in the slow lane. She rushed as all the others did in a frantic push to the window, to gaze in wonder upon this miracle floundering there like a permanently wedged, square soda can..
" You're not going to believe what happened!"

Somehow this seems to be symbolic of a changing world being delivered and of it's choices which would later come back to haunt us as wedged between destinations

There is one final twist in our story of lost Americana, in that in the year of 1963, a group of Japanese engineers flew over to the Midwest to examine what was then high speed transportation and their target was the financially failing North Shore Line. The vanquished of WW2 had a dense population that was growing. Rather than rely on expressways which took up a great deal of scant real estate, they were the pioneers of the Bullet Train which originated here, not there. In that same year due to competition from the Edens Expressway, the line folded and became ironically enough a harbinger of my own past, a walking path.Irony, thy name is history, forgotten and lost, the arcane and archaic seems to reinvent itself before our eyes.

Ah, progress ...that bitch Goddess...in the memory in more ways than one as a retrogression of what was as a genome of childhood.

More to follow...My teenage escape from an ill fated future toward the Oz of California in the Gold Rush of 1969....

S.S Colonel Duensing:

In the last post, my father was off on a remote string of islands, listening to Tokyo Rose, preparing to participate in the invasion of Japan, which now is recognized, as it was back then, to be doomed to failure in regard to the first waves of a tactical assault, of which my father was more than likely to have been one of the fatalities.

You might also recall the story of Freida Duensing who brought hope to the disenfranchised, as I also recounted earlier. This family portrait if it is to be accurate has some dark shadows attached to it as well as light as any portraiture should.

During this time, the imminent invasion of Berlin by Allied forces has begun, and a series of defensive command structures and activities were either chaotically organized, or were constantly tampered with to ill effect by a Mr Hitler.

In the thick of this was, ironically enough a Duensing, who, like many former Nazi's in postwar Germany, escaped prosecution and went on to have a successful political career. Literally thousands of former Nazi commanders and so forth, escaped criminal trials, as the U.S attempted to ward off a now Cold War adversary and former ally, the Soviet Union by recruiting them as a ready made force. Unofficially, of course. That in of itself is another story.

My grandfather, while assisting me with a writing of a family history was asked to identify notable historically significant Duensing's as he was very proud of our name. He misidentified a key player in German history as a Mayor, when in reality, he was a Police Chief who oddly, was able to keep his position as both a Nazi functionary as well as a postwar civilian. He is the fellow to the extreme right, in more ways than one. According to the official record, he had a dual or "dotted line" authority which ironically, countered that of my father as being in a tank destroyer batallion, as Erich or Eric also was attached to a Panzer Division.


At the same time in Berlin, as my father was island hopping, a certain Mr Goebbels clearly regarded the Commander of the Defense Area as his subordinate. Talks between the two took place in Goebbels' office. Every Monday a so-called "major meeting of the War Council" took place under Goebbels' leadership to discuss the defense. Those taking part included the combat commanders, representatives of the Luftwaffe and the Labor Service, the Mayor of Berlin,as well as the Chief of Police, who is the very same Chief of Police of West Berlin in 1967 is the Social Democrat and former SS colonel, Erich Duensing.

One of the psychotic plans to be implemented which fortunately was never brought to fruition was the apocalyptic destruction of Berlin itself which Hitler had stated needed to be carried out as he wanted nothing usable left for the victors and in his demented mind, the German people were "undeserving" of a future without him. These were formal plans well thought out.


From 1936 to 1945, he was a career officer in the Wehrmacht. He had been in charge of the West Berlin police since 1962 and systematically handed out appointments to old comrades from the Wehrmacht and SS, including such as had worked in the Reich Security Main Office ( under Goebbels) as well as to former chiefs of Gestapo branch offices.

It gets worse.

The Ordnungspolizei were German police units that were dispatched to the occupied territories and that were largely implicated in German war crimes. The role of one Ordnungspolizei unit in implementing the “final solution” in Poland is, for instance, the subject of Christopher Browning’s study "Ordinary Men" which is one of several books that caused a great deal of controversy in Germany, as to factions, one wanting to sweep civilian collaboration under the carpet and the other, as a matter of history wanted to bring it to light. For a accurate portrait of this time I highly recommend the Roman Polansky film, "The Pianist"


This is a photograph of this police force out of country known as the Ordnungspolizei posing with Jews awaiting deportation and their death in German-occupied Poland. A world gone mad.

Tanks For The Memories

I never realized that four years of my father's life was glued to this fine Oldsmobile and Ford product, numbered M10..in addition to a menu of horseradish sandwiches, malaria and other exotic and rare delights of The Pacific Theater. Here is a "commercial" for this wonderful product, no less filmed at the Fort Hood, Texas training grounds, where despite the lively narration, it was hot, sweating and generally miserable for Midwesterner s like my father.

America..On The March!



On the home front, life went on in a manner of speaking in "sweet home Chicago." My mother's world was decidedly different than that of that Duensing fellow she was engaged to at the time.



Of course life could be tough and boring without the conveniences of home, being on a remote island or coral atoll in the middle of nowhere, on their way to invade Japan, but, at least there was one convenience, there was always entertainment on the radio, while studying sand charts and swatting fly's, if you weren' otherwise occupied as target for tree snipers.

The Gutenburg Duensing Connection

There is an interwoven thread of printing as a chosen occupation which leads back to the Lutheranism of my forebears in relation to the Bible, which in of itself was chosen to be the first written work to be typeset and printed. The Lutheran difficulties in Germany caused some in our family to break away, as so many other nationalities have and are, in search of freedom and opportunity in this experiment of America. The passenger lists coming out of Bremen are a fascinating set of documents that demonstrate (when connected to the U.S census, or other historical records) that they leapfrogged their way here. In other words, one group would arrive and let their brethren in Germany know it was their turn, as now there was a foothold. Now without going too far off the subject, consider what trans-Atlantic travel was like in the 1850's, and consider that unknowingly, they were arriving to find peace and prosperity just a little more than a decade before the great American Civil War. So much for the peace portion of prosperity. Below is a contemporary print of German Immigrants arriving as if to suggest their arrival was a matter of chaos.



My father was a Production Manager in the printing industry as well as my grandfather, who sold lithographic presses. As we move to a perhaps dim future without books via it's replacement by electronic media, this portion of the family history has more of a historical context than perhaps a couple of decades ago. As a self made individual in terms of his entrepreneurial career, my grandfather Oscar was a staunch Republican who also believed in the power of positive thinking, as well as being a self taught "toastmaster" or public speaker as evidenced from his library on these subjects. Here is one of what he sold, a Cook Lithographic Press. This was a second career after his P.R firm had run it's course, which I think is a rather remarkable self created transition. However, this choice of printing always made me wonder, why this and not that? I know that he had an encyclopedic series of connections to other Duensing's and seemed to know more than by happenstance of what was occurring in Germany as well as elsewhere in the U.S, according to my many conversations with him. Was another Duensing influential in this decision? I don't know. I do that beyond my father and grandfather there were other family members carrying on the tradition of Gutenberg.




Interestingly, there was another Duensing, this one in Michigan by the name of Paul Hayden Duensing who ran a small, but very influential printing shop. To say he was well known is without a doubt. Here we see a video of a printing school facility honoring him very close to me in Asheville, Carolina. Paul Hayden Duensing, however, cared deeply about the “look of letters.”

Duensing sold his type and also developed a private printing press. He called his avocation “The Private Press and Typefoundry of Paul Hayden Duensing.” Through his press, he printed many volumes dedicated to the art of type and printing. Duensing wrote many of these himself and translated some others from significant European documents. In Type II: A Leisurely Showing of Typefaces and Ornaments Available in Limited Castings, he noted that he “actively and enthusiastically supports the thesis that there exists a need for certain scholarly, historical and esoteric typefaces beyond those whose widespread commercial use and traditional acceptance make them economically viable.”His particular specialty was typesetting and in particular, the development of type. These two Duensing's my grandfather and Paul, whether there was any direct connection between them is unknown. However, I do know my grandfather had a passion for limited edition books, so who is to say, in terms of how Paul came into this field? Did Paul's career'e parallel that of my father's inasmuch there may have been a family connection? These connections are a work in progress...

Freida Duensing and Women's Rights In Germany

Advocating For The Downtrodden


You may think so far the Duensing Saga has been largely dominated by the male of the species, but with this post, I will try to balance this equation. Another fact is that not all of our tribe attempted to avoid the difficult situation that led many to America, but as they say, that's another story. While our closer relations sought to root themselves in an entirely new country, the ones who remained had the advantages of playing on the home court, or at least that's what you would assume. But some stories have a twist, especially if you happened to be born of the "fairer sex." which then, had it's own baggage.

Freida Duensing, in her own time, was described as " excitable, moody, idealistic and compassionate." Which is perhaps not so surprising, as she was a driven woman in a time where women were supposed to be docile, at least in theory anyway. She and several other women were far ahead of their time in a largely patriarchal Germany. As one of the major women's rights activists embroiled in a range of social issues from sexuality to gender roles and family rights, she was born on June 26, 1864 and passed away, in Munich on January 5, 1921. This role was brought about in 1892, when visiting a Hanover "poorhouse." In her own words;

" Seven mothers with their children were crammed into a single room, a large whitewashed, disgusting, filthy room. I could see how a woman could sink in such a poorhouse."

She left Hanover immigrating all the way to Zurich, Switzerland to avoid the glass ceiling of sexism, to become one of the first female attorneys in Germany and became immediately recognized as "the leader" in juvenile court advocating for illegitimate children.

She was one of the first women who documented and wrote many articles on the subject of child abuse. She wrote many studies, one of which is typical, " Investigations Regarding the Illegitimate Population of Frankfurt-on-the-
Main," Dresden, 1906 ; Frieda Duensing,"

One can imagine her on the streets and back alleys, ignoring perhaps her own safety to document such conditions. In this she was certainly self-less.

In 1904, the newly minted lawyer reached the position of of Professor,Chairman of the "Association To Protect Children", (from exploitation and abuse) in Berlin. Under her leadership, the German Central Association and the Berlin Centre for Jugendfürsorge were combined into German Central Jugendfürsorge in 1907. No mean feat. In her work, in this context she founded the Association of Female Guardianship. In addition, another major commitment was that mentally sick children and young people should be taken not to the then brutal insane "asylums" but instead housed in therapeutic facilities. She was one busy woman.

The first mention of her I came across in Germany arose in association with another famous woman,Marie Baum, who is pictured below and was one of the leading figures in Germany's women's movement. "She was on friendly terms with a number of famous fighters for women's rights like Gertrud Baum, Frieda Duensing and Marianne Weber and various letters in the nachlass bear testimony to these relations."



They later were instrumental in founding The Association for The Protection Of Mothers, which stressed, among other things, women's education, health issues, legal rights and so forth for single and unmarried women but all women were considered inclusive to these issues.

From the prospectus issued after the Congress;

"The attempt has already been made by means of creches, foundling institutions, and the like, to deal with this matter. But the protection of children without the protection of mothers is, and must remain, no more than patchwork ; for the mother is the principal source of life for the child, and is indispensable to the child's prosperity. Whatever ensures rest and care to the mother in her most difficult hours, whatever secures her economic existence for the future, and protects her from the contempt of her fellow-beings, by which her health is endangered and her life embittered, will serve to provide a secure foundation for the bodily and mental prosperity of the child, and will simultaneously give the mother herself a stronger moral hold."

While virtually unknown in the U.S, in Germany, you will find a Dr. Frieda Duensing Street in Diepholz as well as The Duensing Museum In Hannover.Many books about her are available. The major work on her is in The German National Library:

https://portal.d-nb.de/opac.htm?method=showFullRecord¤tResultId=Woe%253D119164078%2526any¤tPosition=1

Bibliography

* Ricarda HUCH, Marie tree, Ludwig Curtius, Anton Erkelenz (hrsg.): Frieda Duensing: A Book of Remembrance, Berlin: F. A. Herbig, 3. propagated ed. 1926 (1.) Ed. (1922) (Includes texts by Duensing herself, including letters and diary entries text editor of Duensing,
* Lina Koepp: Frieda Duensing as Leader and Teacher: 12 years In Berlin Jugendfürsorge, Berlin: F. A. Herbig, 1927.
* Herbert Major: A Genius of Charity: Dr.: Frieda Duensing, Bahnbrecherin and developer of Jugendfuersorge in Germany Diepholz 1985.
* Florentine Rickmers: Duensing, Frieda. In: new Deutsche Biographie (NDB). Volume 4. Duncker & Humblot, Berlin 1959, p. 162 f.
* Regine Heining: Frieda Duensing - its importance for the social work, Mühlau 1999 (unpublished thesis; archived in Ida soul archive)
* Gabriele Ullrich: "" the bonds broken."" Frieda Duensing - pioneer Jugendfürsorge. In: upheavals. Women images from four centuries between Weser and dumber Fischerhude 2000, p. 56-77 (with 8 photos) and S. 179-187 (112 notes); ISBN 3-88132-608-1
* Ann Taylor Allen: Feminism and Mütterlichkeit in Germany 1800-1914, Weinheim 2000
* Susanne Zeller: Frieda Duensing (1864-1921). Head of the ""German Central Jugendfürsorge"in Berlin" In: women worlds. Biographisch-historical sketches from Lower Saxony (Ed.: Angela Dinghaus), S. 221-228
* Manfred Berger: Women in Social Responsibility: Frieda Duensing, in: Our Youth 2009/H. 9, S. 389-392

The History of Duensing Corners

The last time we encountered Henry, his intoxicating blend of lime and cola ultimately fizzled and so as there was already a very significant German population in Algonquin, Illinois, it is perhaps understandable that this small town of some 3,000 people, of which one third were already direct immigrants, would be his next choice. Another was a family connection. Frederich Duensing, another native of Crete had founded the Duensing enclave in Algonquin as well. He settled on what was then the east side of the village, on yet another farm and thus begins this story of three generations of this self same family, all of whom are also holographically named Fred. Fred begat Fred 2 who begat Fred 3or if you like Fred, Fred and Fred. Fred the Third, as we will call him is the father of one Arnold who for one reason or another broke the chain of Freds.

This store who was commanded by the Duensings, Arnold in particular, (whose interior is pictured above) would later become a hardware store, which was unceremoniously demolished in 1960, to make way for a "King's" auto dealership, but this is getting ahead of the story. There is some amount of irony in names. The store was originally named "Vette's" long before cars were on anyone's mind and in the end was destroyed to sell Corvette's.

This "dry goods" store was the precursor to a general store, and was distinct from a hardware store. Dry goods were textiles, household items and as they say, sundries, which is a lost word in of itself, which now has been replaced by the term "general merchandise." The business was a family affair as some of his brothers also worked pulling merchandise down, tallying receipts and keeping accounts. Fred's son would later enter this dry goods business by purchasing this store in 1915.Interestingly, Henry's story would come full circle, as he returned to Crete and is buried alongside of ten other Duensing's, not from his childhood farmstead, in the cemetery of The Zion Lutheran Church. As a side note to this story, there are so many German immigrants or their first generation children buried there, it is of some interest to their relations who remained in Germany.


Again. another story branches from this one in the family tree, so let's return to Algonquin to continue where we left off.


The stores location later became known locally as Duensing Corners, as evidenced by this side view of the store in all of it's late Victorian framed splendor.


Fred or Friedrich had found his niche, as evident from his home, which remains to this day,fairly much as he left it. In an age where we are bombarded with information, on March 4, 1915, the local paper reported that "Prairie Chickens were heard north of the village." At the same time a pointed editorial denounced the fact that pigs were endlessly wandering the streets,pestering the public for hand outs, whether they were future pork or just down on their luck, I don't know.

Meanwhile, back at the Algonquin farmstead, there there is the matter of the 1902 Tornado. Several animals were killed, homes damaged, electric wires tangled, the Duensing windmill was blown down, Episcopal church was twisted and wrecked, Janak's boat house was demolished, 30 trees were blown down and the liberty pole snapped which also carried away the telephone wires leading to town. The Duensing farm was later sold to the Hopp family and of course is now known as the Hopp farm, but it was founded by Fred #1.

Note the young man riding his bicycle in front of the family home, as he is yet another Duensing of a new generation, the aforementioned Arnold, who ultimately would also be later be woven and hence documented into this story of Algonquin.


A hefty Arnold Duensing here is pictured at a later date about to lead the Algonquin centennial parade of 1936 on horseback. Why he was chosen is lost to history. As far as I can determine, Arnold was either a local burgomaster or the town's buffoon judging from his unceremonious attire. I don't know. It appears from the photographic evidence that his head has outgrown his outrageously little hat.


And so we leave Henry and all the Freds and Arnold from Duensing Corners in long ago Algonquin in the midst of that parade during the Great Depression, which leads to another story, that of my Grandfather's role in opening "a lost wonder" of Chicago.



In the next post we return to the "fatherland" and meet this relation as well as other Duensing's who melded themselves into the history of Germany before we return to Duensing Americana. But that is another story...that includes the Anti-Nazi Underground, women'e rights and of course, sausage.

A Park In Lost Chicago

This is a story that manages to mix Native Americans, the Great Depression, a rug company and families in one location, that unfortunately, in the eyes of many, was lost, then remembered and now is duly noted in Chicago History.
My grandfather was taciturn, reserved and a very formal man who yet, was warm, gracious and charitable. In this mix of traits, there was a side of him that somehow escaped my notice. This was the creative side of my grandfather, that somehow mixed the promotional skill of a P.T Barnum with commerce,inserting this activity purposefully with the timing of an event in conjunction with competing for notice in what now are called news cycles, the media by capturing the public's attention. All of this from a man I knew as a child perfectly content to puff on a cigar, while tinkering with household repairs.

All of this story revolves around a lost Park. The Olson manufacturing mill was located in Chicago at Diversey Ave. and Pulaski. During the war era, when raw material was scarce, people would send in their old wool rugs, rags, clothing etc. and Olson Rug would turn them into a beautiful area rug. The family owned business was "the place" to buy rugs for many years. Alongside the factory was the renowned Olson Memorial Park. Walter E. Olson built the 22 acre park in 1935. The project took nearly six months to complete. About 800 tons of stone and 800 yards of soil were used for it's construction. Approximately 3,500 perennials were used along with numerous species of junipers, spruces, pines, arbor-vitaes and annuals. The park consisted of a stunning rock garden, duck pond and 35-foot waterfall. Olson Park became a popular spot for family outings. During the first Sunday after it's dedication Olson Park attracted as many as 600 visitors per hour. In 1965, Olson Rug sold it's building to Marshall Fields. In the 1970's the waterfall was turned off and regrettably in the eyes of many, the park dismantled and demolished to make room for, of all things, a parking lot.

Here is the portion of an article entitled "Chicago's Seven Lost Wonders"

The Olson Waterfall

"It wasn't Kublai Khan but the Olson Rug Co. that decreed a mighty pleasure dome on the Northwest Side. In 1935 Walter E. Olson created a park next to his carpet factory at Diversey and Pulaski. The centerpiece was an ersatz mountain with an equally artificial 35-foot waterfall. It took a pharaoh's army of 200 workers six months to fashion the thing out of 800 tons of stone and 800 yards of soil. The Olson Waterfall was saluted in a contemporary newspaper account as "the most pretentious undertaking of its kind in the country."

In those Depression years, Olson Park was as close to nature's wonders as most Chicagoans could get. Until it closed in 1971, myriad families picnicked on the grounds, watching visiting American Indian chiefs do war dances in full MGM regalia. It was also a venue for saying "Let's let bygones be bygones": The park's opening corresponded with the 100th anniversary of the expulsion of Native American tribes from Chicago. As a small measure of amends, the Olson Waterfall was symbolically deeded back to the Indians."

The park opening was in the hands of my grandfather.


My grandfather Oscar was one generation removed from the family farm in Crete, Illinois and in that same entrepreneurial spirit we saw in Henry, his uncle,who manufactured soda pop, we now follow him, in retrospect into the past. He owned a public relation's firm and consequently was responsible for making Olson Park, as it came to be called, a success, when it came to fruition.

Of course there had to be souvenirs printed for the occasion, many detail's to be attended to. Here is one that remains, a post card.


The park was originally conceived and developed beginning in 1935 by Walter E Olson, son of the original founder of the company, who subsequently retained my grandfather to insure it's success. It had a Native American theme displayed here in the pictures and when it was originally dedicated on September 27th, 1935 on American-Indian Day (not sure if this still exists) was attended by members of various tribes native to the area including Potawatomi, Winnebago, Chippewa and Ottawa. All arranged by one O.F Duensing.

Old Number 44: A Refreshing Lime Cola

Dispersing themselves, either willingly or otherwise, from the family farm in the remote and pasoral hinterland of Crete, Illinois, our ever enterprising Duensing Brothers seemingly scattered themselves randomly, hither and yon, to the remote scattered communities of what would become suburban Chicago. Untangling their exploits long since largely lost to history can be both a challenge and a journey into a lost American landscape.

Some of their later footings were little more than informal enclaves identified by a single storefront or perhaps a few houses to mark their location on a map, if you had one.

One of these young entrepreneurs either had a compulsive sweet tooth or a vision of carbonating the farming communities with the family name. In the annual Report of the Illinois Food and Safety Commission dated 1912, one particular Duensing was listed as having a factory in his home or did he live in the factory? Probably it depended on how busy he was. Chicago family owned soda companies are a local tradition, whose product and monikers runs from the ridiculous to the sublime. and our family rode the first wave. Have a taste for the paranormal? Quench that desire in several flavors.


Which brings us to Old Number 44, a tasty libation combining Lime and Cola direct from Chicago Heights, courtesy of The Hy.Duensing Co, attractively packaged in a embossed,cork sealed "Hutch Bottle" long before multi-national corporations rediscovered the advantages of a niche market.

Everything old is new again. Think Coca-Cola invented the distinctive bottle. Think again,. The ever inventive Henry C. Duensing Company presents you with a all new package that somehow resembled a work of art lodged somewhere between a Slinky or a caterpillar, depending on the limits of your imagination. Yes, and folks, great grip action too on those hot August days!

Look closely, if your brain has swelled under the blazing sun, you don't have to remember the name of your favorite flavor of Duensing Soda..just ask for a # 44..chilled to perfection. My aunt has the original well thumbed recipe book for these marvelous carbonated concoctions whose only proof of existence is in the auspicious hands of rare glass bottle collectors. Henry's bubbling business went flat for some unknown reason, (maybe he lost the recipe book) and being the unstoppable force of nature he was, he eventually moved Northward in search of greener pastures, still enamored of foodstuffs, where we will catch up to him in a later post.


Stay tuned for the Duensing contribution to what the Chicago Tribune called "one of the great lost wonders of Chicago",courtesy of my grandfather, Oscar, no less and then we will visit the interior of a long vanished dry goods store in Algonquin and catch up to our ever enterprising Henry.

Further reading on Chicago family sodas :http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/110816