1971 post-crescent interview with dorris marxhausen

The following article was written by SANDRA SHACKELFORD, staff writer with The Post-Crescent in Appleton, Wisconsin (Wednesday, November 17, 1971, page D5).

'Woman At Large' Travels Toward Her Future in Politics (headline)

     Dorris Marxhausen is a wife and mother, that's true. But she also is a "super map reader and navigator." The ship on which she is a crew member travels over cement highways and dirt roads. When the family finally debarks from its rolling home in Denver in June, it will have logged over 25,000 miles on its speedometer.
     In Appleton over the weekend, she played her role with her husband, Reinhold, professor of art at Concordia Teachers College (CTC), Seward, Neb., in part of a year-long tour of the United States in a program titled, "Artist At Large -- Commitment To Christ."
     If there is some sort of stereotype connected with a woman's role as "her place" beside her husband, forget it.
     She's outspoken while weighing her answers and then reevaluates them. She's politicized and an exponent of many aspects of the Women's Liberation Movement. Her place in definitely in and of the world.
     Dorris met her husband while a student and he was her instructor at CTC. She was 21, he 10 years her senior. Their courtship was whirlwind, unconventional. During the spring when other coeds were oohing and ahhing over their diamonds, Reinhold presented her with a brass curtain ring. She was unaware of its significance at the time.
     "I never cared for diamonds and that just hit him right," she said. And when an invitation came for him to conduct a workshop in Montana and the letter stated, "Your wife is welcome to come along," marriage was first mentioned. Three weeks later they were married at 7 a.m. in a simple ceremony.
     That was 18 years and two children ago. As for the early hour which she remembers well, "I recommend it. You don't have all day to sit around and get nervous about it. You don't worry about details."
     While a friend bet on a short-term marriage, as some go, there was no one-year payoff.
     A year on the road, leading a tightly structured schedule while bumping shoulder to shoulder with people from other backgrounds and concepts, has taught her many things. She isn't parroting her husband when she explains his convictions which she shares.
     "He's working on attitudes and acceptance ... through slide lectures and words through which he hopes to broaden his audiences' outlook as to the possibilities of enriching worship visually."  This has led to a looking at creation through the eyes of an artist whether the family is gathered with students around a garbage heap, explaining its creative possibilities, or knowing that her husband is often expected to perform "like the trained bear coming to town."
     The whole point he's trying to make is "that churches tend to be very drab. Nothing changes from week to week but the eyes don't stop working just because you happen to be in church. You can worship visually just as well. That's why the inside of the church has to change." If merchandisers change displays to make a more attractive store with greater sales impact, Dorris queried, why can't churches?
             A Trivia Magnet
     Before her marriage to "Marx," Dorris did her stint as a teacher in a multi-graded classroom in the central valley of California and was a librarian with an affinity for kids and reading.
     "I'm a regular trivia magnet," she laughed, the walls of the van loaded with the latest reading matter --- newspapers from each town, magazines, paperbacks. This accumulation of grey matter has helped her in her dealings with people and their environment and has aided in keeping her abreast of detailed news she may have missed in some isolated area.
     As for her being limited in her role as being a woman by the bonds of marriage, she isn't buying that line for the life she leads.
     "I've got this freedom out of marriage because I married a guy who believes in the value of the human person being able to pursue his or her own goals."
           Her Career Goals
     Looking back over 18 years, she spoke of marriage and motherhood as the most liberating experience for her, then gasped, "Oh my gosh, doesn't that sound hokey? Oh, wave the flag!!!" She leaned back on the couch, crumpling up in laughter under her sons (Karl, 16, and Paul, 14) mini-posters reading ... "Beware the March of Ides"  and  "Rain is sane"  and  " A loved enemy is a forgiven friend."
     What are her own career goals? As soon as the kids' education is taken care of, she'll support her husband so he can give himself totally to his artistic pursuits.
     "I am presently preparing myself to serve in government somewhere, Dorris stated.
     Her background has already grown its roots --- an active, eight-year participant in Seward's political process, she was on the state central committee of her party for five years, resigning to strike out on this year's tour of the U.S. with the family.
     Why did she choose politics? She answered succinctly.
     "The government has a tremendous effect on everyone's life and it can use all the humanizing elements it can get."
          Women in Politics
     Her political activism comes through with the mention of women or the lack of them, in the governments' decision making process.
     "There aren't nearly enough women in elected office." She explained, "I'm not a person who contends that men women are completely interchangeable in every job,  but it's a shame not to take advantage in the point of view that would come from more women officials."
     Dorris pooh-poohed the contention that women would be less effective because of their so-called emotional makeup. 
     "That's a lie. That's part of a myth." She was adamant, her grey blue eyes growing wider. Women are usually brought up feeling it's acceptable to express emotion and men are taught to repress theirs." 
     How would she break down what she constitutes a myth? 
     "I've tried to with my sons" by avoiding the stereotypes which are as much a burden to men as they are to women.
     "I recognize the good fortune in our family's life ..." Her husband's job is not the sort that finds him "mysteriously vanishing into some building every day. The kids can be with him and participate in his job."
     "That's rare today except for a farm family. I don't know how many other families can manage this. Our boys have been and are needed by their father, and they know it. Maybe working successfully isn't the only thing that contributes to the feeling of personal worth for a young child, but it helps."
     Marriage and motherhood aren't at all hokey for Dorris Marxhausen. If anything, "It was a good beginning lesson on how to control my selfishness as a young woman and having a dependent child around intensified the process."
     That's what makes Dorris run and she's not saying connubial bliss is for everyone. But, she added, it was a big improvement over the girl she grew out of.
     In fact, one of her hopes for the future is that "society will soon quit equating marriage with success for a woman."
     Meanwhile, come June, it's back to political activism for the 39-year-old woman who will either become active in the League of Women Voters' chapter or return to precinct work in voter education, a field "that's as grass roots as you can get."

(Double click on Post-Crescent Photo by Edward J. Deschler to enlarge image and caption, next.)

Newspaper article courtesy of Reinhold Marxhausen Estate, Seward, Nebraska.

feeling it

    I woke up this morning from a dream about mom. She was telling me how it was when she was with her doctor after I was born. Her grappling with the absence of my feet. How she herself was in a daze coming out of the ether. It wasn't until she unwrapped the bundle that was placed in her arms that she noticed my legs were straight with tiny toes at the end of them. No feet for her baby. The doctor pronounced her first child had clubfeet.

    In the dream she wasn't specific but implied that the doctor knew things that were confidential. The dream said no more than that. As I typed this post, it was the stories she had spoken to me that filled in the gaps. How they had been at a beer party earlier that day, driving over a bumpy rural road to get her to go into labor. And so on.

    I thought about a Carrollton friend Charlie when he cried over the phone to me, scared to death with the reality of his own grief. Its awkwardness, its tumble, what it is like to FEEL it bubble out, without dignity. The words of David came to mind in Psalms 56:8. How all our struggles and tears were kept by God in a bottle, as a valuable part of our existence, given his attention.  How precious were our tears. In contrast to sharing the pain, life has told me to keep those pains shielded from public view. Hold the grief down. Hang on to the hurts. Build up walls. Be like an island or a rock, as the poet Paul Simon wrote.

    One morning as she headed out Jan told me that I should take some time to think about my mother and write down the memories I have of her. (Double click to enlarge images)

She advised me to be open to crying. "Let the tension and stress be released." As she spoke memories began to surface. So,  I acted on my wife's idea, curled up in the recliner, wrote and drew in my journal.


It was like the lyrics of Running Blind by Michael Hedges. The way memories went "tearing its way through my heart."

Hedges' song here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBiQAEBYIWY and lyrics follow.

Somewhere defined in aimless words
Somewhere within my angry herd
of stampeding emotions
Love was running blind

I read my way through those scattered pieces
Gathered up all the trampled feelings
And built up the fences strong
so l could hide

But all night long I would stare
at all the moon and the stars I could bear
Then from daylight on
It would tear through my heart
It went tearing its way through my heart
Tearing its way through my heart

Dazzling circles slow too soon
But dancing to some forgotten tune
You weave in the sky some pattern I can trace
Fading to taste the afterglow
Pure as the song you sing so low
Your senses came down to meet me
Face to face

Baby all night long I would stare
at all the moon and the stars I could bear
Then from daylight on
It would tear through my heart
It went tearing its way through my heart
Tearing its way through my heart
Tearing its way

As I drew and waited and put down more, it happened to me. The thing Jan suspected took place.

The Holy Spirit of God unlocked the muscle memories within.

 

The silence in the house was broken with deep sobs felt in my stomach muscles.




Groans and coughs.
Spitting into the wastebasket.
Letting the memories out.


Like the way she relentlessly squeezed my pimples when I was a teenager. I hated that about her. That memory of violation. Like the way she drank alcohol during her pregnancy and the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome that deformed my feet. The shame and rejection put onto my little heart. The restoration that God brought back to me through the prayers of Betty, Larry, Jan, and others. 

 
By his stripes we are healed, Isaiah wrote in his book 53:5. To me that meant my reality today could be altered by what Jesus did, when he died and resurrected from the dead. His act was like a historic vortex that sucked up every harsh memory I chose to go of and infused an x factor that brought release and healing to my mental state in the present.

When I told Charlie about my mom dream God spoke through his words to encourage me. What was so damn important about being needy, emotional, feeling these feelings, and asking for help? The way that dream came to me. The way You put me in that position. The way You chose to visit and open the door for Charlie to help me.
    

pages speak life

     In our conversation Betty Runge brought up two books Thursday, June 25th, at Seward, Nebraska. One had a brown cover, she remembered, while the other was green. The occasion was my mother's funeral. Betty and Leo Runge had made the trip in from Ames, Iowa. Leo was my mother's cousin. My grandmother on my mother's side was Amalia Runge Steinbrueck. Dorris Elenore Marxhausen was originally a Steinbrueck from Blackburn, Missouri. A small farming community twenty miles from where my wife and I live.

    As documents, both books were published in 1985. The brown book was sixty-four pages in length. The title was "Runge Book: Pictures and Impressions." It was self-published by son Karl Marxhausen through Christopher Press of Des Moines, Iowa. (See cover, next. Double click on image to enlarge)

    The green book was one hundred and eight pages in length. The title was "I Saw It On My Way Thru: Nebraska Traveler." It was self-published by father Reinhold Marxhausen through Independent Publishers of Seward, Nebraska -- a subsidiary of the Seward County Independent newspaper. The author had his son do the graphics. There was an edition of 1000. It was released on July 7, 1985. (See cover, next. Double click to enlarge)

   The Runge Book was based on drawings of relatives that I made during the three day reunion in August. All of us were housed in a dorm on the campus of St. Paul's College in Concordia, Missouri.

Some graphics depicted something about each person I met. Most were humorous and fun. Some embodied ideas I held at the time. The edition was limited to those who signed up for the book. It was an outlet, a gift, and now also served as a time capsule for my father and my own life.

  The Nebraska Traveler was formed to stimulate imagination among family members, young and old, as they looked out the window of their vehicle on the way to a vacation destination. In the introduction the author aspired to promote the thinking process at all levels, learn how things work, discuss philosophy and art, teach awareness no matter where they were, and much more.  Questions were asked and a place on the opposing page provided room for the participant to write down their thoughts. For example: "Do horses sleep standing up?"

    It was the SINGING RODS that my mind settled on. ABOVE, BELOW.

"In 1962 I became a colleague with him at the college. When there were office spaces at Jesse Hall I had a room on the corner just across from Founder’s Hall, where your dad had an office on the second floor of Founders. All of a sudden I could hear the notes of “Amazing Grace” outside. Your father was throwing metal rods out of his office window down to the sidewalk. They were cut in different lengths. (When they struck the sidewalk they rang out notes) As he threw the rods you could hear the tune of Amazing Grace. That’s when he started to move into that world of sound sculpture."

"I’ll never forgive the national announcer on television. David Letterman did not catch who Marxhausen was. Your father had brought with him the metal rods that he intended to play Amazing Grace with on national TV. Letterman picked up all the rods in one handful and dropped them on the floor altogether. He didn’t give your father the chance to play them (as he had hoped to). And then Letterman ended the interview right there." Jack Duensing   (phone interview interview, January 9, 2015)

This happened the night of January 17, 1990. That was the night I was laying on the den floor of Betty Larson. An important story which I will detail in another post. Click on Youtube link and move ahead on video to the 31:48 minute marker to see that Letterman segment. https://youtu.be/T31f2fU5Qc8  Four and a half minutes long.

     My wife and I were plugged into the green house fellowship just off Sixth Street and Forest Avenue, the inner city of Des Moines, Iowa. An older lady Linda arrived to the evening prayer meeting in her wheelchair. David Garcia led the street believers in bible study. Joe Dunn sang about being a green olive tree planted in the house of the Lord from behind his casio keyboard. Terry Sharlach, Michael Calton, Jim, Little David, Curtis, and others worshiped Jesus on the beat-up metal folding chairs, just down the street from the Salvation Army Center. The adult we called Little David stayed at our house for a season.
     I didn't know about speaking in tongues. The baptism of the Holy Spirit was new and interesting. It was nothing I learned about from my Missouri Synod Lutheran teachers.

     I do remember Curtis Manchester. What I admired about him was that he walked the city streets and was able to pray for hours and hours because of this prayer language. My spoken prayers ran dry after a couple of minutes. He had full control over the gift. And the Holy Spirit gave him the ability to praise God fluently in what sounded like foreign language.  It was a wonder to me. I also witnessed raggedy clothed believers of Jesus minister in the group. What I mean by that is some knew scripture very well, and were able to share scriptures that gave hope and comfort to someone who asked for prayer. None of them were ordained. Yet, they were able to speak words of life, say yes to God's presence, with hearts knit together, and came back to meet and sing and pray.

     While living and working in Des Moines I met people and groups of people who were charismatic. Where you could ask for prayer and believers in Christ would pray for you right there. God was close. God was active. Jesus was lifted up and bragged about. The Holy Spirit was credited for opening hearts and making Jesus someone you could get to know. Many lessons were learned. There were surprises. My night job of cleaning office buildings for two years turned into a day job working at Redeemer Lutheran Church.
     By 1987 Jan and I had gone on two team trips with members of that church in a van down to Nuevo Progresso in Mexico. At a family camp we heard missionaries speak about their work, and we took part in a Candidate Retreat in Minneapolis to see if missions was for us. The Lutheran agency World Mission Prayer League encouraged us to get contextual bible schooling. So as to understand the Bible from a culture outside of the United States. Jan already had her Bible schooling through Concordia University in Seward. It was I who needed the classwork. God opened the door for us to attend the Lutheran Bible Institute of California in Anaheim. Sixteen hundred miles from home.

     Back in Nebraska, during the summer of 1987 my mother Dorris Marxhausen enrolled in a college class trip to Nicaragua in Central America through Concordia University. She was studying also Spanish. The back of the above photo read "July 21, 1987. Coke (soda) in a bag"

These photos are in the Marxhausen Estate.

    

memorandum

My mother died last Friday night.

Hiker, gardener, seamstress, neighbor, journalist, political candidate, actress, musician, artist, mother and wife are just a few of the descriptions of Dorris Marxhausen.

Eight minute slide show for family and friends. Photos courtesy of Marxhausen Estate LTD. Most of the photos were taken by her husband, Reinhold Pieper Marxhausen.

wanted to

   As I review folder after folder, it has become clear to me, Dad was interested in his babies, his boys. His was a time before digital photos and cellphone selfies. Despite all the time it must have taken, he developed the film himself in his basement darkroom and made 8 by 10 inch prints using light-sensitive chemicals. He did lots and lots and lots of them, because he WANTED TO.

Whether next to a water barrel with Mom and me at the pool, 

or in the kitchen with me in the high chair wearing my shoe brace.

Out doors on the front step with Mom and my brother Paul and me, 

or asking Mom to get Dad and me me fit blocks into the play skool roof. 

Mom pushing me on the Concordia campus with Jesse Hall in the background...

as well as me chomping on a strap...

and his two sons by the door. 

Past our drive way at the Con cor dia apart ments on Sixth Street

or Dad holding me on his lap

or the happy faces in the mirror.

So it was no surprise that he caught me holding a pocket mag nify ing glass up to my eye, me stand ing in the mid dle of his art room at home, or the cray on in my hand on paper he set out for me to scrawl on.

How I held the big hand le and  watch ed the dab bles of water color ap pear on the paper pad he set out for me to use. Me in the mid dle of his art room, under his sup ervi sion. 

Building,

making,

eating, 

chatting,

and

reading,

sharing,

looking at art,

the two of us on the living room floor.

In the garage, me on the tricycle and Paul on the wagon.

looking,

drawing,

sticking,

writing and drawing.

Dad took lots and lots of pictures.

I see it now. He did all that work and all the time it took him, because he wanted to.