Aloisia Knaus Schupfer
Her Story
Dedicated to My Mom, Beverly Schupfer Morris
Introduction
A human life is incredibly short, and like the wisp of smoke that curls into the air only to disappear without a trace, so too must we all. In the short time allotted us on this earth, many of us leave little or no permanent mark. None, at least, that will outlast us more than the memories of those who knew us. Our main legacy, in most cases, is our children and grandchildren. Some individuals live such exemplary lives, however, that they radically alter the posterity of their families forever. They are people of great courage, character, and strength, about whom stories are told long after they are gone.
One such person is my great-grandmother, Aloisia Knaus Schupfer. From the time I was little, I heard stories about her, the young Semmerin who had followed the cows high up to an alpine lake every summer and lived alone in a wooden hut, living an existence right out of the pages of Heidi. It was family legend how she had agreed to marry a distant cousin and come to America, perhaps seeing she had no real prospects of marriage or children in Austria, and how she ended up a farm wife in the Idaho panhandle, barely able to speak English, trading her farm goods to the Nez Perce Indians for fish. Or of how her alcoholic husband had abandoned her, leaving her to raise three children alone. Despite the hardships of life, Aloisia Schupfer lived a life of kindness, service and love of family. My grandfather, Herman Schupfer, her second son, could speak only with kindness and affection about his mother. She had been the rock in the family for as long as he could remember. My mother, Beverly, her granddaughter, remembers her as a kind old woman who lived alone and spoke with a thick German accent. Of course, I don’t remember her at all. She died many years before I was born. But through the stories of my grandfather, his brother Otto, and my mother, I feel like I know her.
Several years ago, I realized that my own parents were older, and that eventually they, too, would be departing this life. I had always been attached to my parents, my mother particularly, and this new realization was deeply disturbing. In addition, I had spent quite a few years beginning in 2000 tracing down and recording the stories of the airmen who flew dangerous missions over Europe in World War Two, trying to find the stories that these men knew before they flew their final missions. This got me thinking about my own family. Every family has the material for a dozen great stories. Here I was preserving the stories of airmen and hadn’t really taken the time to find out or preserve the stories of my own family. If I didn’t do it, then future generations of descendants might never know about their ancestors. My father, Robert, also a writer, put together a brilliant story of the Morris family a few years back, but other than my grandfather Herman, nobody had done much with my mother’s side of the family.
I decided to write the story of my great-grandmother, because she is one of the most fascinating people I’ve heard of. A deeply sympathetic character, her life was never easy and she knew more than her share of separation and heartbreak, but she retained her basic goodness and loving demeanor right to the end. A woman tied to the old country, she continued to speak German with her children and had many German-speaking friends in an area settled by Austrian and German immigrants. She read a German Bible and subscribed to German newspapers. Her three children were thoroughly Americanized, without the hint of an accent, and yet they could launch into the archaic provincial German dialect spoken in the high Alps of Steiermark with perfect ease.
To write this history, I have relied on two sources. My main source is my mother Beverly, who knew Aloisia and has many memories of her, though all are through the eyes of a young girl. My other source is my late grandfather, Herman Christian Schupfer, who passed away in 1975. My grandpa was a history buff and instilled a love of history in me. Though he only had an eighth grade education (he’d had to quit school and work on the farm after his father left), he was a brilliant man who wrote three privately published books of history about the Latah County area. I spent many hours listening to his stories (he loved to talk) and looking through his ‘museum’ that he’d built in his basement. The most important thing my grandpa gave me was my faith in God. He was a religious man, and had gotten this strong faith from his mother, so one might even say that the gift she gave to him, she also gave to me.
Someday, when I have more time, I hope to write a novel about my great-grandmother. For now, a brief history will have to suffice. The important thing is to record the story, before it’s too late.
Her Story
Dedicated to My Mom, Beverly Schupfer Morris
Introduction
A human life is incredibly short, and like the wisp of smoke that curls into the air only to disappear without a trace, so too must we all. In the short time allotted us on this earth, many of us leave little or no permanent mark. None, at least, that will outlast us more than the memories of those who knew us. Our main legacy, in most cases, is our children and grandchildren. Some individuals live such exemplary lives, however, that they radically alter the posterity of their families forever. They are people of great courage, character, and strength, about whom stories are told long after they are gone.
One such person is my great-grandmother, Aloisia Knaus Schupfer. From the time I was little, I heard stories about her, the young Semmerin who had followed the cows high up to an alpine lake every summer and lived alone in a wooden hut, living an existence right out of the pages of Heidi. It was family legend how she had agreed to marry a distant cousin and come to America, perhaps seeing she had no real prospects of marriage or children in Austria, and how she ended up a farm wife in the Idaho panhandle, barely able to speak English, trading her farm goods to the Nez Perce Indians for fish. Or of how her alcoholic husband had abandoned her, leaving her to raise three children alone. Despite the hardships of life, Aloisia Schupfer lived a life of kindness, service and love of family. My grandfather, Herman Schupfer, her second son, could speak only with kindness and affection about his mother. She had been the rock in the family for as long as he could remember. My mother, Beverly, her granddaughter, remembers her as a kind old woman who lived alone and spoke with a thick German accent. Of course, I don’t remember her at all. She died many years before I was born. But through the stories of my grandfather, his brother Otto, and my mother, I feel like I know her.
Several years ago, I realized that my own parents were older, and that eventually they, too, would be departing this life. I had always been attached to my parents, my mother particularly, and this new realization was deeply disturbing. In addition, I had spent quite a few years beginning in 2000 tracing down and recording the stories of the airmen who flew dangerous missions over Europe in World War Two, trying to find the stories that these men knew before they flew their final missions. This got me thinking about my own family. Every family has the material for a dozen great stories. Here I was preserving the stories of airmen and hadn’t really taken the time to find out or preserve the stories of my own family. If I didn’t do it, then future generations of descendants might never know about their ancestors. My father, Robert, also a writer, put together a brilliant story of the Morris family a few years back, but other than my grandfather Herman, nobody had done much with my mother’s side of the family.
I decided to write the story of my great-grandmother, because she is one of the most fascinating people I’ve heard of. A deeply sympathetic character, her life was never easy and she knew more than her share of separation and heartbreak, but she retained her basic goodness and loving demeanor right to the end. A woman tied to the old country, she continued to speak German with her children and had many German-speaking friends in an area settled by Austrian and German immigrants. She read a German Bible and subscribed to German newspapers. Her three children were thoroughly Americanized, without the hint of an accent, and yet they could launch into the archaic provincial German dialect spoken in the high Alps of Steiermark with perfect ease.
To write this history, I have relied on two sources. My main source is my mother Beverly, who knew Aloisia and has many memories of her, though all are through the eyes of a young girl. My other source is my late grandfather, Herman Christian Schupfer, who passed away in 1975. My grandpa was a history buff and instilled a love of history in me. Though he only had an eighth grade education (he’d had to quit school and work on the farm after his father left), he was a brilliant man who wrote three privately published books of history about the Latah County area. I spent many hours listening to his stories (he loved to talk) and looking through his ‘museum’ that he’d built in his basement. The most important thing my grandpa gave me was my faith in God. He was a religious man, and had gotten this strong faith from his mother, so one might even say that the gift she gave to him, she also gave to me.
Someday, when I have more time, I hope to write a novel about my great-grandmother. For now, a brief history will have to suffice. The important thing is to record the story, before it’s too late.
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