Legendary stuff in Minnesota
Paul Bunyan, 7-Up floats and a truly great Great Auntie
Release date: January 17, 2025
Myrtle Viola Semerau Mitchell
Born on March 1, 1907, Myrtle Violet Semerau was the second child of butter maker Rudolph Semerau and his wife, Minnie Meinke Semerau. She and her older sister, Leona, were just 14 months apart and would remain best friends throughout their lives.
Twenty-one months after Myrtle’s birth, my grandpa, Howard, was born, and that was the Semerau family until St. Patrick’s Day of 1917 when another sister, Viola, was born.
The family lived in rural Rich Valley Township, MN, eight miles from Hutchinson and nine miles from Glencoe, the county seat. They raised cattle, hogs and chickens and grew enough vegetables to feed themselves and family in the area.
Myrtle and her siblings attended country school before transferring to Hutchinson for high school. She and Leona graduated together in 1925, and, as was the practice, all four kids lived at home until marriage.
For Leona, that happened in 1931, and two years later, my grandparents got married, as well. Myrtle, however, would wait another 22 years before she married Maurice Mitchell, a recent widower who just so happened to be her boss — a story for another day.
But before then, Myrtle lived a quietly extraordinary life, not only for the time, but for all time.
She held down a full-time position as a professional bookkeeper, and lent her accounting skills to various charities and religious organizations in her community.
She was active in state and national politics, and volunteered for years as a certified transcriber for the Lutheran Braille Workers, making it possible for visually impaired people to read books with their fingers.
And with the money she earned, Myrtle bought herself delicate crystal glasses and had them engraved with her monogram, MVS, Lovely Lady silverware and eight complete settings of Homer Laughlin’s Countess.
Myrtle believed strongly in living — and loving — the life you have, of giving back to her community and celebrating each and every day. She used the good stuff, whether she was setting the table, getting dressed for a meeting of one of the many social groups to which she belonged or entertaining a little girl who loved her dearly.
It is one of the things I’ll always love about her.
Simply Auntie Myrtle to me
Myrtle was my grandpa’s sister, but to me she was just Auntie Myrtle — Auntie rhyming with panty — the soft-bodied woman who loved on me like no other. Not in a spoiling way, that was Grandma’s job, but rather in a gentle-handed guiding way, a you-can-be-great way.
Growing up, Auntie Myrtle and Uncle Maurice lived next door to my grandparents in Park Rapids, MN, a quiet northwoods community that came alive each summer as tourists headed to nearby Itasca State Park. A hundred feet of towering Norway pines separated the two houses, one built of century-old logs which had been floated down the Fish Hook River, and the other a mid-Century wonder with floor-to-ceiling windows and a red brick fireplace that divided the house into public and private spaces.
Even as a young child, I was allowed to walk to Auntie Myrtle’s house unchaperoned and unannounced.
I’d dance with the trees, stop to watch a chipmunk or squirrel go about their business, maybe collect a pocketful of pinecones or pebbles, and then arrive, none the worse for the journey, at Auntie Myrtle’s back door.
She had a front door, of course, but that was for company, and I was family. Plus I could reach the doorbell back there.
Auntie Myrtle’s house smelled like African violets and cigar smoke. Although pansies were her favorite flower, they were planted outside. Violets, all sizes, colors and textures, filled the windowsills of the house, each one brighter and more pungent than the next.
The cigar smoke, of course, belonged to Uncle Maurice, a walrus of a man with a booming laugh just a bit smaller than his bristly mustache. He’d greet me with a hug, then retire to his office on the other side of the fireplace.
Then Auntie Myrtle and I would get busy. Side-by-side at her big maple table we’d put together puzzles and illustrate stories we’d take turns making up. We’d turn popsicle sticks into fairy houses decorated with leftover ric-rac and sequins and populated by plastic figurines she’d picked up at the Ben Franklin store in town.
But my favorite craft activity with Auntie Myrtle was coloring. To this day I’ve never seen another person who colored the way she did.
Auntie Myrtle would outline the section first, and then slowly, carefully begin to fill it in with teeny tiny circles, an endless slinky of color that moved inward from the outline until every bit of the interior was covered in the most dainty, most perfect coloring imaginable.
To call her technique mesmerizing would be an understatement.
At some point during the visit, if I had timed it right, Uncle Maurice would come in and proclaim it time to eat.
As I helped him clear and then set the table, Auntie Myrtle would prepare lunch. Our Special Lunch: Open-faced Colby cheese sandwiches and 7-Up floats.
Although I remember my grandparents reading magazines — The Ladies Home Journal for Grandma and The Reader’s Digest for Grandpa, it was Auntie Myrtle who turned me on to books.
While the rest of the grownups were busy making dinner, playing cards or doing other grown-up things during family gatherings, I remember Auntie Myrtle inviting me onto her lap and opening the most magical book in the world — Paul Bunyan by James Stevens.
Inside that green-covered book, she introduced me to the bigger-than-my-imagination adventures of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, and of Sourdough Sam, Hels Helsen and Johnny Inkslinger. To the Winter of the Blue Snow, the Year There Were Two Winters, and the Spring the Rain Came up from China.
To the wonder of reading.
As I got older, our reading sessions relied heavily on books written by Laura Ingalls Wilder; Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, On the Banks of Plumb Creek and By the Shores of Silver Lake. In the Spring of 1874, Laura and her family had moved from Wisconsin to a dugout on Plumb Creek near Walnut Grove in southern Minnesota. She was seven. I was seven. It was a match made in heaven.
That Auntie Myrtle had a collection of the original printings came in handy, as well.
Years later when I was working as a syndicate travel writer, I had the opportunity to spend some time in, not only Walnut Grove, which was the setting of On the Banks of Plumb Creek, but also DeSmet, SD, where Laura lived for much of her adult life, and the setting of six of her books, including By the Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, These Happy Golden Years, The First Four Years and On the Way Home. Auntie Myrtle had passed away by then, but her presence was surely felt, and the memories flowed as easily as the tears.
And ending and a beginning
Auntie Myrtle passed away on April 5, 1986. She was 79.
I was nine months pregnant with my daughter, and had already been on bedrest for several weeks when I got the news. Although I begged and pleaded and bawled like a baby, my OB refused to let me travel to Hutchinson to say goodbye. I spent the day of her funeral in tears.
Fifteen days later, my daughter was born, and when my grandpa saw her for the first time, tears filled his eyes.
“She looks just like Myrtle,” he said. And I knew it to be true.
Paul Bunyan: The stuff of legends
Growing up in Minnesota, it’s nearly impossible to be unaware of Paul Bunyan. There are no fewer than a dozen giant statues of the legendary lumberjack in my home state, and so many references to him that it makes your head spin.
We lived in Bemidji for a year before I started school, and the Paul Bunyan there is still one of my favorites. Plus, he’s accompanied by Babe the Blue Ox, so that’s a big bonus. Bemidji’s Paul stands 18-feet, and was built way back in 1937 to promote Bemidji’s winter carnival, and was added to the National Register of Historical Places in 1988.
But, my favorite Paul, and I’d chance a bet that he is the favorite of every kid who has ever made his acquaintance, is the 26-foot tall animated Paul who lives at The Paul Bunyan Center (now Land) in Brainerd. I remember visiting him as a child and being astonished, and not a little terrified, when the big man greeted me by name as I approached, and asked how my day was going! Years later, my own kids had the same reaction when Paul greeted them by name, totally unaware that the ticket taker discreetly got the names from parents as they bought tickets.
Unlike Bemidji’s Paul which was purpose-built for Bemidji, Brainerd’s animated Paul — did I mention he winked and waved! — was originally made as part of an exhibit at the 1949 Chicago Railroad Fair, and purchased by Brainerd residents, Sherm Levis and Roy Kuemicheal, to be the centerpiece of a new amusement park they were building.
And what a park it was! I remember spending many happy afternoons there with my parents and grandparents, and later, with my kids. We’d picnic under huge mushrooms, laugh at the piano-playing duck, explore the old wooden fort and tour the grounds in the locomotive. I’m looking forward to taking my grandkids there soon, and continuing a beloved tradition, and one uniquely Minnesotan.
Your turn and your traditions
Reflecting on the person who is your “Auntie Myrtle”
Describe your earliest memory of this person. What was going on, and why do you think this moment stands out in your mind?
What is one characteristic or trait of theirs that you most admire? How has this trait influenced you or others in your family, and do you see echoes of this trait in yourself?
Think about a time when this person made you feel especially loved or supported. How does this memory shape the way you think of them?
What is a skill, hobby, or interest this person introduced you to? How did they share it with you, and how has it become part of your life?
Think about a tradition or routine you shared with this person. What made this time together special and how has this tradition influenced the way you interact with your own family or friends?
What is something this family member used to say that has stuck with you? Do you find yourself repeating their words to others or living by these words yourself?
Describe a place or food that reminds you of this family member. What specific memories does it bring up?
Imagine you could spend one more day with this family member. What would you do together, and what would you want to say to them? How do you think they would respond to the person you are today?
Copyright 2025 Lori Olson White
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On February 13, 2025, I will be presenting a family story close to my heart in a FREE program titled, Howard and Elvira: Love and the German Chocolate Cake, and I’d love to have you join me! This program will be held exclusively online; everyone is welcome. Link details will be emailed to you after registration. See you there!
I’d also like to invite you to visit my other space here on Substack, The Lost & Found Story Box where I share true stories which have been lost to time are brought back to life through deep research and historical storytelling.
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I don't have a relative like this, but I recall my father's adored Aunt Mamie. His father was the baby of a big Irish family, and there were 18 years between the eldest sibling, Mamie, who was born in 1880, and my grandfather, who was born 1898. My grandfather married later in life so by the time my father was born, Mamie was in her mid fifties. My father adored his aunt, who was the grandmother he never had. She was a beautiful person with a very sweet face, just like Auntie Myrtle.
Lori, I grew up in Minnesota and in the early 70s my parents took us to Brainerd for some camping and to see Paul Bunyan. I’ve always had a memory of Paul saying my name but all these years, I thought I had imagined it. I never took the time to look up if it would have even been possible, but, thanks to you sharing your memories, now I know I didn’t imagine it. And the best part is that he said my name correctly (highly unusual). The Romper Room lady never said my name, but Paul Bunyan did. 🤣 Can’t get more Minnesotan than that.