The Sandburg home at Connemara was filled with laughter, song, story-telling, good conversation, good food, love and work. Carl Sandburg wrote a third of his works and Paula Sandburg ran a Grade ‘A’ goat dairy here.

The home always buzzed with activity. One might find the music of Andres Segovia playing on a phonograph in the Sandburg bedroom, resonating off the antebellum ceilings, or hear the simple chords of a railroad work song from Sandburg’s guitar and lips. Music was an important element of home life, so too was exercise. Arising often mid-to-late morning Carl did a 30-minute routine of stretching and weight bearing activity using Indian clubs or a heavy chair. He always did this slowly, each step repeated methodically.
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Evenings he would walk with Paula and Margaret, a “measured mile” returning by starlight, often with a souvenir of acorns, rocks or leaves.  Sandburg found joy and laughter in the ordinary. He collected jokes and loved to share them with friends, family and audiences.  Sandburg had a booming, full-bellied laugh that filled the room as he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling.

Dinnertime brought fresh food and inspiring conversation. Sandburg’s favorite meal was soup with dark bread.  He ate slowly and never overate, often missing a meal and saving a piece of pumpernickel bread for later. The meal was followed by Sandburg reading from a manuscript, sharing a story or quirky tidbit from the newspaper.

“Everyone at Connemara ate fresh, simple foods: thick soups and baked breads, fresh butter and cheese from our dairy…in autumn and throughout the summer the family would can and freeze vegetables and fruits for the winter months, and we made preserves and jellies from the wild mountain blackberries and blueberries.” Steichen, p 112.

Sitting in his upstairs garret, his typewriter precariously perched on a wooden crate, his desk and other writing tools within an arm’s reach, Sandburg wrote. Here he composed, rearranged, edited, distilled; long into the night. He scribbled thoughts on paper and using a thumbtack, carefully arranged his notes on a piece of cardboard for viewing.

Sandburg wrote drafts in pencil, sharpening each to a fine point with his pocketknife. He created his own shorthand, leaving off vowels for efficiency. Typing was arduous for him and he often recruited his wife or one of his daughters to assist. Before he quit smoking cigars in the mid-fifties, Sandburg would take a cigar and cut it in half, saving one half for another time. He was a thoughtful writer, one who didn’t rush and one who couldn’t be pushed.