the gully book

   My family, that is my mother's family and my father's, come from a little tiny town in northwestern Minnesota called Gully. My mom's family help settle the area in the late 1800's, my father's family arrived in the area around the turn of the century. Truly, these were pioneers. They cleared the land, built houses, tilled the soil, planted and raised crops and dairy cattle, and raised families. Big families. When I was a kid, it seemed that I was related to everyone in town. Haugens, Paulsons, Dahls, Ringstads, Soliens, just about everyone was a relative or as Aunt Max would say, a 'shirt tail' relative. This was home for the family. My mom was born there, both of her parents were born there. Her parents were baptized on the same day, in the same holy water, as the story goes. They grew up together, married and started their family there. The aunts and uncles had the farms, and it was on one of these farms where my dad and his dad were working on a threshing crew when my dad met my mom. 

   In May 1979, Grandpa's funeral was there, in December, Grandma's. 5 years later, my Dad's funeral was there, and 5 days later, his dad's. Dad's mom had her funeral there too, in 1975. The cemetery is a regular stop when I visit, as most of the family is now there, dating back to the pioneer days. Relatives who died young, in the influenza outbreak of 1918, World War II, accident, illness, old age. Perhaps someday, a long long time from now, I will be there too, in that quiet place next to the woods and wheat fields. 

   As when I was a kid, my boys loved running around town, exploring the streets, buildings, and meeting people that we may be related to. A quiet little place called Gully.

   So you see, Gully is home to the family, for many reasons. The family has been there for well over 100 years.   Most of the family is scattered across the country now, and the younger ones don't have occasion to visit there very often. But in 2010 a number of us made the trip for a weekend in July to celebrate the Gully Centennial. There was a lot of food, drink, a parade, and plenty of visiting. Everyone had a good time, and it was the event of a lifetime.

And, there was the book.

   A committee was formed, and it was thought a good idea to make a book celebrating Gully, telling the story of many of the families, tons of pictures. Everyone in the family paid $50 apiece for a copy, which we expected to take delivery of sometime in the not too distant future.

   We're still waiting. The trouble is, the book is being produced by volunteers, and clearly it has not been a priority, as we are closing in on year three and still no book. There has been some grumpiness and anxiety about this, and questions about when it will arrive. We have been told we can get our money back. Speaking for myself, I will wait, as I would rather have the book someday than the $50 now, which would only buy me a tank of gas. As long as the gauge is on the quarter mark.

So I hope the book arrives soon. It will be fun to see the pictures, see the story, and to share that with my kids, and grandchildren someday. 

After all, we've been there a long time. There is a lot to tell about this little town, village actually, called Gully.

my nieces, part 4

I met my second niece when she was just a couple weeks old. My parents were very excited about this grandparent thing, so we packed up the car, drove all night to Arizona where my brother was stationed, and saw the new addition to the family. There is a Polaroid snapshot in a book somewhere of me holding her in my hands. I was 11 at the time, by now a 3 time uncle and an old hand at this. I only got to see her a few times a year, as we lived in northern California and my brother was in the Air Force, so they lived in several places, all a long way from us, all over the world. Except for the three years they were in Panama, I managed to see them as often as I could. My niece always loved to sit in laps, so I spent many hours with her there, reading her stories and playing with her. She was quiet, studious, and very very sweet. As she grew older, she retained her sweetness, but left the quiet part behind. She grew into a lovely, fun person, striking off on her own to college and eventually a career in dentistry. "Sucking spit" as she refers to it.  As an Air Force kid, she managed to have friends all over the world. I had the pleasure of meeting a few 'gentleman callers' and giving them the once over. While I enjoyed this immensely, she was probably just a bit concerned that I might scare them away, or at least make them wonder about the family. At her wedding, I met her husband for the first time. As I shook his hand, she told me, 'uncle Kerry, don't do that, I told him all about you'  Rats. Oh well. She made a very good choice, he is a terrific husband, father and person. 

Recently, she became an Advisory Commissioner for the parks and rec department where she lives. Pretty impressive, but she still calls me 'unc'. I hope she remembers me when she is elected to the Senate, the House, or the White House.

Happy Birthday, April Marie.

my nieces, part 3

My oldest niece is a force of nature. Fiercely independent, she has been that way her whole life. As a little girl, she was not the type of kid that would sit in your lap and cuddle up. She would engage in conversation, had an active imagination, and loved to make up silly names. She often called me 'silly billy'. Her dad, my brother in law, would call her silly names and she reveled in that. One such name was 'anglelupepasqualegobaglutchiesmithandjones'. She loved that. She was very much like her dad, and they were very close her whole life.

I spent a lot of time at their house while she and her sister were growing up. During my stays I would read bedtime stories to them. She always enjoyed being read to, and we spent many hours watching PBS in the afternoons: Sesame Street, Electric Company, Carascolendas. She could sit for hours watching these programs. I remember watching her, sitting quiet as a church mouse, watching those shows, and repeating softly the things they were trying to teach kids. Certainly the lesson was not lost on her as she grew up.

As an older child, I would take her shopping to K Mart and short trips to the local A&W on my motorcycle for some root beer. Maybe not exactly bonding experiences, but I have always loved being an uncle. Really. I love being an uncle. Even as an adult woman, she still calls me Uncle Kerry.

I did not get to see a lot of her during her high school years, I was raising kids of my own then. I would go see her play the occasional volleyball game and see her at family gatherings. Our re connection started with her high school graduation. When I went to her graduation and spent a bit of time with her at her parent's house, I discovered the little girl who was my niece was a wonderfully warm, funny, vibrant young woman.

After doing a couple years at a community college, she transferred to a state college not far from where I was living. She would come and see us often then, and she formed a strong bond with my oldest son. True to her upbringings, she soon gave him a nickname, Kemosabe. She and 'kemo' were inseparable. She loved him, and he adored her. Best friends. So much so, that she had a portrait taken of them together. Later, when 'kemo's' brother was born, she would come watch him a couple days a week, better to pay her than a daycare. She doted on the boys like a mother, and they both are the better for it. Patient, kind and giving, she was a positive, loving influence on her little cousins. She read to them, played with them, talked to them like they were adults. History repeats.

She graduated from college, but I missed her graduation as I was at my own going away party, we were leaving California for a new life in the midwest. The details of our lives would become distant, but not the bond. One morning, she called very early to tell me she was engaged. I was so touched that she called to share that. We made the trip and watched her start a new phase of her life.

Now she is a mom to three wonderful kids, has a successful career, and is still a force of nature. She lost her dad a few years ago, and still mourns that loss. Like her uncle, she has trouble letting go, but I know she will learn the same lesson I did: we are not supposed to let go. We move on, not without those we lose, but taking them with us every step of the way. I recently danced with her at her sister's wedding. We laughed, we shared, and we shed a few tears.

And why not? She is my niece. My girl.

Happy Birthday, Angela Lynn.

one giant leap

Recently the nation mourned the passing of Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the surface of the moon. I was ten years old on July 20, 1969 when Neil stepped out of the LEM and stood on the moon. Who cannot feel emotional when we see this, and hear Walter Cronkite say "....Neil Armstrong, 38 year old American, standing on the face of the moon..." Wow. He stood on the moon, looked at his home a quarter of a million miles away, and said something about one small step....

As a kid, I watched this, thought it was cool, and then went back to my comic books, bike, and those things that ten year olds do. It was only later, much later, as an adult, that I began to have a real appreciation for Mr. Armstrong. Not for stepping out on the moon, uttering an historic phrase, planting a flag, gathering some rocks and then blasting off back home. Sure, cool stuff. What made him a hero, a real hero to me, is something else.

Neil Armstrong knew how to hang in there. He could wait until the last second until making a life or death decision. In a training exercise, the LEM trainer went out of control, but he hung in until the last possible second before ejecting out. The trainer crashed, he survived, and flew to the moon. As the mission commander, it was his job to pilot the LEM to the surface of the moon with Buzz Aldrin. As Neil and Buzz were descending, there was a glitch, so the LEM had to be landed manually. Neil guided the spacecraft to a landing spot in the Sea of Tranquility with only a few seconds worth of fuel left. Now we're not talking running around in the Hyundai with the gauge on E. This is serious stuff. Run out of gas on the moon and life gets real pretty quick. The alternative is to abort, fly back into orbit, hook up with the command module and go home. No moon, no historic words, no flag, no rocks. No parade when you get home. No high schools named after you. Well, you get the point. I'm pretty sure Neil was not doing this because he wanted a high school named after him. He was a pilot. Moreover, he was a test pilot. He loved to fly. By some stroke of luck, NASA picked him to be the first on the moon. Probably because someone knew that he could hang in there, not panic, make the call, and do the job.

That's why he was a hero to me. Not for doing the glamorous thing, but for doing something only a very few can do. Stay calm. Process information. Trust your intuition. Make the call. Do your job. He set an example for me. I don't think I will be flying to the moon or testing the latest suborbital space plane, but I do make decisions every day. I try to live by Neil's example and not panic, process the information, trust my intuition, and make the call.

Rest in peace Neil. I hope that I will live to see someone like you step out on the planet Mars one day. Why? Because like you, it will capture the imagination of an entire generation, and because we can.

595 Walnut Park Avenue

   I grew up in the same town my grandparents, my mom's parents, lived in. We lived on the south end of town, grandma and grandpa more to the north. They had a little house with two bedrooms (one for grandma, one for grandpa), and converted the garage into a little guest house with a bedroom and bathroom. In California you can do that and park your car on the street without living in fear the snowplow will bury it in the wintertime. When my parents and I moved to California in 1966, we stayed for a short time in that little garage guest house.       After a month or so, my parents rented their own house on the other side of town but we saw my grandparents almost every day. Grandma and grandpa had fixed up their little place quite nicely, in addition to the guest house, they built a screened in porch that connected the house and garage. The porch had a couch, chairs, refrigerator, and was a great place to play cards. Year in and year out, there were many family gatherings at this house, and you could count on card games at these gatherings. In the porch the men would play poker. Here is where I learned to play 2 and 22, 7 card no peekie, 5 and 7 card stud, 5 card draw and other variants of poker. In the house, the women would play canasta. Grandma was a fierce, and I mean fierce, canasta player. She called 7's "meat axes" and red 3's "red treys", and if you made a play she did not like, she would call you a "dret sek" ....look it up.
   Grandma loved to have company. She loved to feed us, and she would always have several kinds of homemade cookies on hand. When the weather was nice (remember, this is California) we would eat outside, in their backyard. My grandparents took particular pride in their backyard. They had many lawn chairs, lounges, tables and lawn ornaments decorating the yard. They built a playhouse for the great grandchildren to play in, complete with little wooden refrigerator and oven. Gotta have some place to make those pretend cookies. The centerpiece of the backyard was a large weeping willow tree, which they trimmed like a  huge umbrella, giving us shade from the hot summer sun. My cousins and I would climb the willow and explore it, and sway back and forth in the breeze. Under the weeping willow tree was an old yard swing, a heavy metal frame and springs that supported a couch like seat. Grandma would recover the seat every few years to keep it fresh. On Sundays you could find Grandpa laying in the swing, reading the Sunday paper or a paperback book, he was a voracious reader. He loved his Charley Pride and Merle Haggard records, and was not afraid to turn up the stereo loud and play them.
   When there were family gatherings, we would all  gather at Grandma and Grandpa's house: Aunts, uncles, cousins, my sisters, their husbands, my nieces and nephew, and the occasional  visiting relative from Minnesota, who would marvel at us parading around in shorts and t shirts while the mid west would still be under a blanket of snow. Christmas time would find us all there, having Christmas Eve dinner, then a frenzy of gift giving, followed by pie and coffee. Christmas Day, back to the house for leftovers and cards. Grandma was her happiest when the house was full.
   Their house was not fancy or expensive; it was just a simple house that they bought and fixed up when time and money would allow. The front door had a tendency to stick, so once in awhile I would crawl under the house and turn a screw jack until the door opened and shut properly. I was usually rewarded with some cookies and milk. You could not be at their house without having something to eat. Don't even try to get around it. Just sit down and enjoy it.
   As the years passed on, the large family gatherings were taking a bit of a toll on my grandparents; the preparation, the event, the clean up were wearing them out.  The end of an era was approaching. To reduce the wear and tear on grandma and grandpa, the gatherings would be shorter and fewer would attend. Grandma did not like this, but she knew that it was tougher on them to do it too. She insisted that it was more fun to be at her house for gatherings, with all the family.
   In May of 1979, Grandpa passed away. He became terminal with cancer, and rather than spend his last days in a hospital, the family wanted to take him home. He died in his own room, in his bed, surrounded by his family. The house that he worked so hard to fix up, the place that his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren gathered in, had one last gathering for his passing.
 Now that Grandma was alone, I tried to see her every day, dropping in to say hi or to stop by with some A&W root beer to share. She still baked cookies, so we would sit and have some root beer, cookies, watch some TV and talk, then I would go home. My uncle would come by to do yard work and whatever else Grandma needed. The city needed to rebuild a storm sewer that passed right under their beautiful back yard, so the willow tree and yard were all dug up. A new tree and grass were planted, but it was not the same. Losing her back yard was hard on Grandma, being a Norwegian she would not say so, but it was tough.
In the Fall of 1979 Grandma left for a trip to spend the holidays with one of her sons on the east coast. A cousin came to pick her up, so I drove over to say goodbye. As I walked out of the house with her, Grandma shut and locked the front door, turned to me and said "I'll never come back here again. Don't you dare tell your mother." I told her that was silly, that I would see her after the holidays, but she repeated "no, I won't ever be back"
   We said our goodbyes, Grandma got in my cousin's car, and left.
The day after Christmas, early in the morning, we got a call that Grandma had passed away during the night. She never did come back to the house where she hosted so many family gatherings, to the kitchen that she made countless dozens of cookies, doughnuts, lefsa. Somehow, she knew she would not return. Why she decided to tell only me this, I will never know.
   After Grandma passed, the house sat empty for a few months, then my mom and her brothers had the sad duty of going through the contents of the house, the personal possessions, distributing to various family members, and then selling the house. The house finally sold, and over the years has changed appearance. The porch is gone, the yard is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. I drive by the house whenever I visit the area, but I don't take pictures. I would rather remember it the way it was, Grandpa laying in the yard swing, Grandma baking in the kitchen, the men playing poker and the women playing canasta.
There is an old country song, it's never heard on the radio anymore, but I remember hearing it when I was a kid. Whenever I think of 595 Walnut Park Avenue, I think of this song, and vice versa.

This old house once knew my children 
This old house once knew my wife 
This old house was home and comfort 
As we fought the storms of life 

This old house once rang with laughter 
This old house heard many shouts 
Now it trembles in the darkness 
When the lightning walks about 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets the cold 

On my knees are gettin' chilly 
But I feel no fear or pain 
'Cause I see an angel peepin' 
Through the broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints 

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets in the cold 

On his knees he's gettin' chilly 
But he feels no fear or pain 
'Cause he sees an angel peepin' 
Through a broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints 

This old house is afraid of thunder
This old house is afraid of storms
This old house just blows and trembles
When the night cames after dawn
This old house is getting fragile
This old house is in need of paint
Just like me it's starting to die
I'm getting ready to meet the saints

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints 

reinvention

   How many times have you heard about someone reinventing themselves? Madonna has supposedly done this many times. I am not sure that posing nude for the camera alongside the road or marrying a Brit or kissing Brittney on stage is really reinvention, but it seems to work for her. Nixon reinvented himself after resigning the Presidency and being exiled to California (could be worse). He emerged as a 'statesman' who gave advice to a new generation of politicians. Jimmy Carter didn't really reinvent himself, but he started living the life he was best fit for, doing humanitarian work, writing books and winning the Nobel prize. Maybe that is more an example of redemption, not reinvention. And, I don't have enough time to talk about Robert Downey Jr., who reinvented and redeemed himself many times.

   These famous people became more famous by this reinvention.  But there are countless millions who reinvent themselves every day, or made decisions to take another path, or find another way. We all know of someone who has done this, and probably can list failures and successes for each. Life is a crap shot. We make it up as we go along. Man plans, God laughs.

   Recently I observed my 18th anniversary of moving to the midwest. I was born here, but when I was 7, my parents moved to California, in pursuit of a better life and snow free winters. I grew up in California, went to school there, had my first jobs there, got married, had kids, bought a house, had a life. In the early nineties the house was sold, the jobs were quit, the stuff and kids were packed up and we headed to Minnesota. It took 5 days to make the trip, along the way we almost lost everything in the truck, but in early June we arrived. No job, no place to live, no fricking idea what to do next. God wasn't laughing, he was hysterical. Probably to tears.

   So it was time to reinvent myself. At age 35 I finally realized, admitted to myself, that I needed a career. I had avoided that for my whole life, scoffed at those who went to college and got degrees, thinking they thought they were better than me. It was time, I decided, to become better than me. I went to school. Three years of 2 nights a week, summers included, and I earned the degree. By then I was firmly entrenched in the career, working on those pesky computers so others can do their jobs. In addition to the degree, I earned some professional certifications. It seems I was always going to school. If I wasn't in school, I was working. Or sleeping. I changed jobs too, making the move 4 times in 10 years. The best way to move up is to move around. Working for the government is not very exciting, sometimes not challenging. Contrary to popular belief, those who work for the government are not overpaid and underworked. We are pretty much the same as those who work in the private sector, except our salaries are published in the local paper. But back to reinvention.

   My career path has not been smooth, or linear. I was not one of those who knew what I was going to do with my life since age 7. I had to compete with people younger than I, so I worked harder, longer than most. I was hungry, figuratively and literally. And, I had mouths to feed. Later, I was given the opportunity to teach part time at a local college. Wow, if my high school classmates could see me now. If my dad could see me now. This reinvention was not by design, or part of some grand plan. Things just happened. Some hard work, lots of long days, and a bit of luck. No Nobel prizes, no advising Presidents, no posing nude along the highway. Just living a life.

   This is life. We make it up as we go along. We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We reinvent, or plan, or go to class, or move. Or none of the above.

   A long time ago, some friends of mine had twin boys, plus an older son. Their house was always in a state of chaos. I asked the dad, a very reasonable, sane person, how they coped with this chaos, this mob rule. Without missing a beat he told me, "...we learned to surf".

Do yourself a favor. Head to the beach. You never know what the tide will bring in, it might be a sail.

Ray

   A couple weeks ago I traveled to Tucson Arizona to attend a memorial service. The service was for my sister in law's brother. We knew each other as kids, and since we were the same age and had something in common (his sister married my brother) we had a sort of bond. We played with Hot Wheels together as kids,  we did impressions of Johnny Carson, and when we were teenagers my brother would sneak us beers to drink with him. Pretty cool stuff. The last time I saw him was at my niece's wedding several years ago. By then we had not seen each other in many years, and really did not talk much. But, we had something more in common: we were both uncles to our sibling's daughters, who had grown to be lovely, remarkable women. (readers of this blog know of my weakness for my nieces) So even though we did not keep in contact, we had a bond that could not be broken. Two kids, from different parts of the country, different cultures, brought together through the love of family.
   When I heard of his death, I made plans to attend his memorial service. I wanted to be there to express support for my sister in law, who has been a sister to me for most of my life.  It was a beautiful service, with our  nieces doing readings, some nice words by the priest, and mariachi music. Lots of music. It was his wish to have a song played, "play music when I die" and that wish was fulfilled. Yes it was a sad occasion, yet also there was happiness, as friends and family came together to celebrate a life that ended much too soon. For me, I was lucky to spend time with my brother, my sister-in-law, my sister, my sister in law's family, and of course our nieces and their daughters, a new generation of nieces to love and enjoy.

Welcome to the family, Esperanza.

   I have been to many funerals, most for elderly relatives who lived long lives. I have only been to two funerals for contemporaries, people my own age. The first was my best friend, who died suddenly at age 46. I still, and probably always will grieve his  passing. The second, for my friend Ray, who too died much too young. We shared a common generation, a brother and sister, and our nieces. Although I did not see him much, I will miss him, knowing he is gone and won't come back. Like my best friend, I will never forget him or let him go.

adios mi amigo.