Recent Deaths of Note from Nelson’s Notable Deaths Compendium

Volume IV (excerpt: La—Lu)*

Lambert, Mrs L. F. — heart attack, butter maker, 1937 Larson, Edwin — son of Carrie and O. P., tuberculosis, gassed in France, 1934 Lawrence, Elizabeth — lynched for reprimanding white children who threw stones at her, 1933 Lee, Pavlo “Pasha” — actor, killed defending Kyiv from Russian offensive, 2022 Leinonen, Andrew — shot dead at Pulse nightclub massacre, 2016 Lloyd, Dee — aged 17, texting while driving, 2019 Logan, Andrew — stranger, suicide by train, 1932 Logan, Jessica — aged 18, suicide by cyberbullying, 2008 Long, Wm. H. — Lutheran minister, suicide by carbolic acid, 1935 Loughran, Cara Marie — aged 14, murdered by school shooter, 2018 Luehmann, Henrietta Schultz — aged 21, stove explosion, 1938 Luehmann, Geraldine — aged 16 months, stove explosion, 1938 Lueth, Betty Hawkinson — aged 15, suicide by AI Chatbot, 2025

*We have two individuals to thank for this file: Marge Swinton who compiled it, and Nora O’Hearn who entered all the data into the computer. Both jobs were incredible tasks.

February 2025 Recap!

Bolt and bar the shutter,

for the foul winds blow:

our minds are at their best this night,

and I seem to know

that everything outside us is

mad as the mist and snow.

—William Butler Yeats

What a wild ride February has been. America, it seems, is exhausted. How are you, dear reader? The yoga teacher in my wants to remind you to take extra time today (and every day if you are able) to just breathe. Maybe that’s right now; this moment. Just close your eyes and take three deep breaths. I’ll wait…

Great start. Let’s keep it up!

I’ve been looking for service opportunities this month. And writing; writing has helped. I stole my good buddy Tommy’s idea and volunteered for Twin Cities Habitat for Humanity. Orientation takes place in early March, and I hope to be building homes in underserved neighborhoods by the time you read my next newsletter (which, thank you, by the way). I volunteered to review grant applications for PFund, a local foundation “which helps build more equitable communities for queer people in the Upper Midwest”. While looking for opportunities in the veteran hospice space, I came across an organization called Grace Hospice. There are opportunities at Grace Hospice to perform legacy work (helping people write their memories), pet therapy (I’m looking at you Churro!), patient companionship, and vigil work as well. I had a nice conversation with their volunteer coordinator Bryan, who told me they currently don’t have any veteran volunteers, which I found shocking! Orientation for Grace isn’t until April, but I’m eager to help out in that space as well. 

[Quick aside: a number of years ago, I recorded an a cappella group called the Threshold Singers, which sings at the beds of hospice patients. Here’s one of their songs:]

So what? I hear you asking. Do I hear the dreaded bells of “virtue-signaling” ringing across the land? [That’s what “They” want, by the way, to turn us against each other with labels and buzz words. Don’t fall for it, friends. Use your brains, use your hearts.] Here’s the reality: I have time to spare, and my conscience can only rest when I know that others in my community aren’t needlessly suffering. 

My favorite picture of my grandma Helen. Unknown date, likely early 1940s.

If you had told me a month ago that I’d be spending my writing time in February working on various genealogy-centric essays, I simply wouldn’t have believed you. Yet, here we are. It started, as I thought about my grandma Helen (Thue) Sauvageau in early February—she passed away in February of 2017. As I thought about her, I created an account on FamilySearch and pretty quickly started finding information about the Sauvageau and Thue side of the family (my dad’s folks). It’s pretty wild, but I was able to track the Sauvageaus back to Marcé-sur-Esves and Poitou-Charentes, France in the 1640s. I traced my Grandma Helen’s grandparents to Møre og Romsdal and Hallingdal, Norway in the 1860s.

Helen Sauvageau’s parents: Albert Peder and Inga Olive (née Braaten) Thue. Prior to 1953. According to Dad, this was taken at their old farmstead near Kindred, ND.

My mom’s family was a bit harder to trace, but I’m making some progress there. I wrote a little about my research and findings regarding her maternal grandmother, Edna Celina (née Melsness) McGough here.

In the process of that research, I registered for an account with Newspapers.com, which features a wealth of digitized newspapers from around the world. Cross-referencing these with family tree sites, military drafts, and census information has allowed me to feel closer to my long-gone ancestors than I ever imagined. I had no idea, for instance, that my great-grandfather Arthur Lemke’s brother Albert died in a house fire which started when he fell while smoking a cigaret [sic]!

February was a good month for adventures in Classical music. For my birthday, Leah got me tickets to a Schubertiade performance by the Schubert Club, featuring local band Kiss the Tiger at a Saint Paul bar called Amsterdam. As a big Schubert fan, it was great to hear some new and traditional takes on his music.

Schubertiade at Amsterdam featuring Kiss the Tiger

I got to record my second opera in February: Snowy Day, as performed by the Minnesota Opera. Joel Thompson composed Snowy Day in 2021, based on the 1962 children’s book of the same name by Ezra Jack Keats. It was a lovely opera, and since I was recording it for work, I got to see it four times (during rehearsals) prior to the opening night recording. Check out a promo from the production below!

Then, back at MPR HQ, I got to record audio for countertenor Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen and pianist John Churchwell, as they performed music of Robert and Clara Schumann, Johannes Brahms, and Wolfgang Korngold. I’ll likely post a video of that in the next month as well.

Something fun

〰️

Something fun 〰️

Something fun that we did in February was taking Churro to Pug Night at Unleashed Hounds and Hops in the North Loop of Minneapolis. Beer and pugs: what could be better? I counted about 40 other pugs, and of course dozens of other breeds. We even met another fawn pug named Churro and talked to her parents for a while too.

The Human Caterpillar of pugs named Churro

Churro giving strong “can we go home now” vibes

Until we meet again, dear reader, keep breathing!

RUTH

Mom, Lace and I moved back in with Dad in Minot, midway through my eighth-grade year. I played sousaphone in the marching band, wore tee shirts bearing the logo of my previous school, tucked into ill-fitting Lee jeans that Grandma and Grandpa purchased from the Dakota Boys Ranch thrift store. I often tied a long-sleeve flannel around my waist, à la Joey Lawrence’s character (“Joey”) on Blossom. The popular kids at my new school would wait long enough for my back to be turned before letting out a loud, sarcastic “WHOA!” At home, I’d listen to my Boyz II Men and The Bodyguard cassettes, alone in my bedroom.

Even though attending the middle school soirées had been my favorite activity at Dilworth-Glyndon-Felton Junior High, I have yet to make an appearance at any of the Erik Ramstad dances. In Spring, when the eighth-grade formal comes around, I have no intention of attending. On the drive to school one morning, Mom asks me, out of the blue, “Are there any girls you have your eye on?” My face turns red as I shrug and stare out the back seat window. Mom is persistent though, and at some point over the following days, I reveal that I have a minor crush on Ruth, who plays clarinet in the school band. Ruth’s often unkempt hair is the color of the bear pelt in Dad’s den. She has braces and a charmingly self-conscious smile. We have never spoken. There is no overlap between her friend group and mine. In fact, my friend “group” only consists of Aaron, a guy from my Social Studies class who wears a Nirvana Incesticide shirt and doodles in his textbook rather than taking notes.

On the evening of the formal, I am in my bedroom, shirtless in Zubaz and watching Cops on a tiny, hand-me-down black and white TV while playing on a 3D vision board: a “bass guitar” I have constructed from an empty Kleenex box, a cardboard paper towel tube, and four rubber bands. Mom raps on my door and tells me to get dressed up in a hurry—she has a surprise for me. I hear unfamiliar voices in the living room as I don my black silk shirt and a clip-on tie patterned with dueling electric guitars against a neon blue background. As I walk into the living room, I am stunned to see Ruth, who appears as bewildered as I am. I look at Mom and then at Ruth, who stares at our stained carpet. Our black longhaired cat, Circe, rubs herself against Ruth’s bare shins. Ruth takes a pronounced step backwards.

Mom clasps her hands to her chest and coos. “Let me get a picture of you two over by the TV set.” Reluctantly, Ruth comes alongside me. We exchange fleeting, embarrassed eye contact before I return my gaze to my feet. Ruth presses her hands along her knee-length floral-print skirt, and looks up long enough for Mom to snap her photos. Ruth’s dad is idling in the driveway. She sits up front with her dad, while I hop in the backseat. The vehicle is completely silent as he drives us to the school. Once Ruth and I walk through the doors of the cafeteria/gym/dancefloor, she joins her friends and I sit alone in the bleachers, wondering how Mom got Ruth’s phone number.

I never speak to Ruth again.