The Walk to Work

Walking to work in the morning is definitely better than driving, particularly when it means there is no need for a car, no rush hour traffic, no scraping windshields or shoveling snow, no struggle to find parking, no unknown delays, no icy roads to drive on, and especially when the walk is only two blocks long and takes you past this…



Above: The view immediately out my residence hall heading toward the Cathedral ruins and the North Sea.



Above: At the first intersection, looking left toward the St. Andrews Castle ruins and the North Sea.

Below: At the first intersection, looking right toward the center of town.





Above and Below: The Cathedral Ruins (1.5 blocks from my room) and the North Sea immediately behind it.





Above: the arch (haven’t learned the name yet) and the Roundel, where I study! Both are immediately across the street from the cathedral ruins!

Below: The cathedral in the background, the Roundel in the foreground.  The upper left-hand window in the picture is mine!  You’ll have to wait to see the inside on another day.  For now I must get to work!



Pop by for a visit someday!  :)

Sea-Side St. Andrews

In less than three months I’ve moved from the mountains of Montana to the flat fields and rolling bluff lands of Minnesota to the sea-side town of St. Andrews, Scotland.  Each beautiful in its own right, flaunting its own personality and charm.  Thankfully, they are all so diverse that they ultimately become incomparable. 

This first week of this three-year marathon has itself felt like a marathon.  “Fresher’s Week,” they call it, though I’m not sure why; particularly since there is no such thing as a Freshman in their university system.  Each day has been packed full of learning the ins and outs of the town center, the shops, the good pubs and the not-so-good pubs, meeting other students, town tours, opening bank accounts, etc.-all the must-do’s of setting up camp in a new location.  And now it’s the eve of my first day of school… never mind that I won’t be going to class or taking exams.  What will I be doing?  Ask me in a few weeks. Or months.

Since there is so much I can tell you about all I’ve discovered and seen this week, I’ll start with a small glimpse into the town of St. Andrews.   

St. Andrews is a sea-side town.



It lies on the western edge of the North Sea, which separates Scotland/England from parts of continental Europe and Norway.  The water is cold, though supposedly not enough to keep kids out of it during the summer months or university students out of it at dawn on May 2nd each year.  Don’t ask me why!



There is a small harbor on the edge of town with some form of sea-creature wrangling going on.  I haven’t yet chatted with the skippers to get the inside scoop.  They all have a bit of a “don’t talk me if you’re a tourist” look to them.  Or maybe I’m just more shy than I like to admit.



And like any sea, the tide goes in and out on a daily basis.  Do you see anything in this picture that just doesn’t seem to belong?



For the last two years, I’ve lived in the Northern Rocky Mountains.  For the next one year, at a minimum, I will live one block from the North Sea. 

Not a bad change of scenery!

Reporting in from across the Atlantic

Greetings from St. Andrews! 

After three days, three nights, three planes, three security checks, and three new stamps in my passport, I’m officially here!  The journey felt long at the time, but was altogether smooth and glitch free.  By far the wildest part of it all was the ride from the Glasgow airport to St. Andrews.  I had forgotten how Europeans drive… fast and furious.  Not to mention that here in Scotland they drive on the “proper” side of the road (as they like to call it), which simply added to the drama in my fatigued mind.    

But I am here and am settling in nicely.  St. Andrews is B.E.A.utiful - at least every nook and cranny that I’ll be spending all of my time in is beautiful.  The city dates back to the middle ages, with the oldest building owned by the university being from the early 1400’s. 
Imagine that.  The size is absolutely perfect.  Supposedly the entire city is approximately 15,000 people, but you would never guess it.  Everything I will need from now until the end of my time here is within a ten minute walk, on one of three streets.  Already I feel as if I’ve mastered the town shops and buildings, and it’s only been two full days.  

More pictures will come, but just to get your mouth watering…


Above is the view of one of the three streets from just outside my room.  It’s a very peaceful sight at night.

Below is just one of the side streets just about one block from my room.  Also, the last street before the North Sea. 



More to come.  But all is well in St. Andrews, Scotland tonight.

Where I Come From

Having traveled so far and so often over the last ten years, I am often asked, and therefore telling people, about “where I come from,” (thank you, Alan Jackson).  And I’ve noticed that the more they learn about the place in which I grew up, the more amazed  most of them become.  I’ve learned in the last ten years that where I come from is a rather unique place, or at least a place that the majority of Americans my age simply can’t comprehend.   

I often think about the area that I grew up particularly during times like this when I’m about to venture into a whole new world.  Several post drafts on this topic have been waiting for me to work on and submit, and I’m forcing myself to do one before departing tomorrow.  We’ll see if others come once in Scotland.  Realistically doubtful.

In this post let me introduce you to one quarter of my family tree and one quarter of me.  This is Bellechester, MN, a town only five miles from Mazeppa.  It is a town with .3 square miles of land, surrounded by countless acres of farmland, and, as of the 2010 census, has 175 residents.  It’s where my mom, originally Nancy Bartholome, and her five siblings grew up and went to school, where my grandma lived for as long as I knew her, and where many of my relatives live (and lie) yet today.

Bellechester has one church, St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and one cemetery, St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery.  Bellechester is a Catholic town, and always has been.

In the cemetery lie my grandma and grandpa: Anita and Luverne Bartholome (1920-1986).

Grandpa Luverne was the son of Josephine (1882-1951) and Great-Grandpa Dominic Bartholome (1875-1967).

Dominic was the son of Catherine (1853-1956) and Great-Great-Grandpa Nicholas (1832-1918) Bartholome.

Nicholas was the son of Susanna and Great-Great-Great Grandpa Peter Bartholome (1803-1875).

Do you know where your great-great-great grandpa is buried?

Do you have four linear generations buried in one cemetery?

They all came from Colpach-Haut (German: Obercolpach), Luxembourg, beginning with Nicholas in 1855.  He eventually homesteaded a piece of land in Bellechester, the deed signed by Abraham Lincoln himself, and then had his father Peter, and brother and sister come over to join him in 1868.

Nicholas met Catherine (whose family also came from Luxembourg when she was just 14 years old) in Lake City.  Catherine (my great-great grandma) was  named first “Catholic Mother of the Year” by the National Catholic Conference on Family Life in 1942, then awarded the Papal Medal, “Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice,” by Pope Pius XII in 1952.  It’s the highest medal of honor to be awarded by the pope to laity.  She lived to be 103 years old.

Of their eleven children, they had my great grandpa Dominic, as well as John, who became a Catholic priest and was deemed, “Right Reverend Monsignor,” by Pope Pius XII. 

They also had my great-uncle Peter Bartholome, born in 1893 in Bellechester, who also became a Catholic Priest and eventually became the Bishop of St. Cloud, MN.  Unfortunately for Bellechester, he’s buried in St. Cloud.

Four generations in one cemetery, and I’m sure a fifth will come, and probably a sixth when my cousins reach that point in life. 

The land that was originally deeded by Abraham Lincoln is where my mom grew up, where I visited my grandma, and now where my aunt lives.  This summer the whole family celebrated 150 years of the land being in the Bartholome name.  Hopefully it continues for years to come. 

Whether that happens or not, the Bartholome’s resting in the cemetery are going nowhere and will continue to silently speak to a society that has lost its appreciation for the places and the people from whom we come. 

Summer Afternoon Views

Summer 2011 afternoons and evenings often have this view for me.  To the front, a big, black helmet nine inches from my nose and to the left and the right, rolling hills of elm, maple, oak, and cottonwood trees separated by fields of corn, alfalfa, and soybeans.  Add a mountain or two and there would be no better place on earth.  Alas...

Meet my dad, Leroy.  Here he is along the Mississippi in Lake City, MN, sporting his leather vest decorated with HOG and ARMY patches from years past.  He's quite the character, as anyone who's ever met him knows. 

One of my favorite views of the summer afternoons...

Meeting with Monica

I wish I had a picture to show you.  She was absolutely adorable in her blue denim jumper that didn't quite cover the black, obviously high-quality basketball shoes, her short white hair and her whimsical but faded Scottish accent. 

Her name was Monica, and she was an 80 year old woman, born in the birthplace of golf, Scotland, and now residing in the birthplace of waterskiing, Lake City, MN.  Having never met me and only hearing of my move via my aunt, she insisted that I come to her condo for conversation about Scotland, and of course for a cup of tea, or two.  And a Biscott.  And a piece of shortbread fresh from the oven. 

It was a delightful visit with her, sipping tea with milk and sugar, and listening to her tell stories about her childhood in central Scotland and return trips to her homeland.  She told of the food she ate as a wee child at her mother's table and gave me a list of "some of the most delightful B&B's that side of the world."  She told me of the places I absolutely must go to see and how to eat at a "pub lunch" to save money.  The whole encounter was all very random, but also very interesting.

She's been here in the States for the majority of her adult life, but was obviously a lover of all things Scotch.  I'm pretty sure that by the end of our time together she still had not quite learned my name, but she certainly had me excited about getting across the pond to check out this new place I'll eventually learn to call home.