Double Nickel

I celebrated turning 18 with my high school buddies, we drank a whole bunch of Budweiser, got sick, told lies, and enjoyed hangovers the next morning. When I turned 21, I was with Gene and Garry, we hit up some cocktail lounges (bars) in the big city of Sacramento, enjoying the free drinks they would give to anyone turning the legal age. I still have the margarita glass I drank from when I actually turned 21, Gene snuck it out of the Peppermill Lounge under his cowboy hat. Really. I took about a month to celebrate my 21st, I was testing the limits drinking, partying, and generally being alive on the planet. It was a good time.

I celebrated my 30th birthday with my oldest son, 5 days old, puking on me and keeping me up for days on end. Despite his making my birthday a sleep deprived, stinky and sticky day, he turned out ok, having graduated college and finding employment. 

When I turned 44, my brother and oldest sister flew in from 'out west' and surprised me. I had to teach that night, so they came with to watch their little brother at work. Later, when I was looking over the practice tests I was going over with my students, I found the one my sister had. On it, she had written a note to my brother "....I didn't know he was this smart"  I assume my brother agreed with her.

11 years later, I am now almost old enough to qualify for the senior menu of most family restaurants. Good grief. I have not really been looking forward to 55. But, I have moved now from denial to acceptance. I'm not ready to embrace 55, that might take awhile. A little at a time, please.

How did I get here? 55. OK, if you have already crossed this bridge, you probably have no sympathy for me. Well, go get your own blog. Knock yourself out. I'll read it.

As for me,  I look back on my life thus far and see a journey that has not been very linear or by the numbers. I have lived, celebrated, mourned, wandered, loved, been fearless and scared. I made and lost friends, lost my dad, my best friend, and too many relatives and friends. I've swept floors for a living, earned some college degrees, picked up some scars you can see and some you can't, and made a fool of myself on occasion. I have witnessed the joy of childbirth, held my nieces as they fell asleep in my lap, comforted some people and scared others.

I have known joy and depression. Loneliness and friendship. I get pissed, dejected, elated and sometimes feel numb.  I marvel at how quickly life changes. 

My mom says that everything happens for a reason. I don't know about that. I just don't. I am convinced that one thing leads to another, and have learned the value of that. The ripple in the pond thing.  I am aware that I cannot change the past but I probably look backwards more than I should. More often than not, I am lead by my heart rather than my head, I believe life is lived in the heart. My intuition may not always be right for others, but it has generally served me well.

 Like most, I do the best I can with what I have. I was raised by loving parents, a mother who was emotionally tender and vulnerable, and a father that was tough as nails with a very sentimental core. They did the best they could. They kept me clothed, fed, and provided a stable home despite the issues they had between them. I tried to apply some lessons learned from them on my sons, and avoided some others. I did the best I could.

So here I am, 55 and looking forward to the next 50 years or so. I still enjoy an occasional beer, am very glad I don't have to change any more diapers, and I can live with being old enough for the senior menu. Out of vanity I'll probably continue to pay full price for awhile though. The driver's license may say I'm 55, but when I'm running down the road on my Magna, I feel 17 again. The wind is at my back, the sun is shining on my face. My heart is leading me down that road. One thing leads to another.

letter to aunt max

Dear auntie em

Well Max the family has gathered this morning and Jo asked me to say a few words. Since you and I have not spoken in a while, I thought I would drop you a line with some of the things I have been thinking of lately.

First of all, I wanted to say how much I miss Thanksgiving out at the farm. Those holidays were really special, and you somehow always managed to throw some food on the table. As you often said, it wasn’t much, but we always managed to get enough to eat anyway. Some of the best naps I have ever taken were on your living 

room floor after eating. I could always count on you to either step on me or, if I was close enough to your chair, to have you use me as a place to rest your feet. Once we had rested up from dinner, we had pie to look forward to. And leftovers. Lots of leftovers.  Once you moved off the farm and we would have Thanksgiving at a restaurant, you would still make a full meal so we could have leftovers. I guess you figured a restaurant could never have a enough food to fill us up………

No matter what the occasion, you made sure the family was fed. Even when we all came to Lund cemetery to raise Aunt Hilda. You had been after Jo and I for years to raise Aunt Hilda’s headstone, so when we finally got around to it, you brought enough food to feed an army. We raised Aunt Hilda, and there is a great picture of you, sitting on the ground with a cup of coffee and doughnut, your feet in the hole where Hilda’s stone was. I guess you found a comfy spot to have coffee…….

The farm. Everyone loved coming to the farm. Knowing that you and Wally built the house yourselves gave it extra meaning. Although, I must admit, I could never figure out why you had a phone in the bathroom but no water in the kitchen………..but it was a great place for the family to gather. 

Max, I loved how you would always keep an eye on me, and how you tried to be so discrete about it. Like when I dropped by the farm to pick you up on my way to Fosston. I was driving my Camaro at the time, and I am pretty sure you were not wild about riding in that car. All the way to Fosston, you were using your peripheral vision to keep an eye on how fast I was driving. I know this, because at one point you said,  “you know, when you are this close to the ground, it seems like you are traveling much faster than you really are…..”

And when we were at April’s wedding in Las Vegas, I had the sneaking suspicion you were keeping track of the number of beers I was drinking. Somewhere around beer number 5 you gave me the look. THE LOOK. I guess it didn’t help that in response I raised my beer in a toast to you. Sorry Max. At the time, it seemed the thing to 

do….

Max, we all loved your wonderfully pragmatic style. I remember one time you told me about a vivid dream you had of Grandpa. You said he was walking across the yard at the farm to you. The dream was so vivid that you awoke from it. I asked you, “were you scared?” You looked at me and said “I wasn’t scared of him when he was alive, why would I be scared of him when he is dead?” 

Well I can certainly see the logic in that, and never forgot it.

Well as I said, the family has gathered today. My boys are here too. Remember how you would read to Arnold, and have him read to you? Now he writes books for children, I think you would like them. And remember how you would hug Tyler with the “Aunt Maxie death grip” around his neck? Well he is well on his way to becoming a teacher. I think that since your birthdays are right next to each other, it kind of bonded you. I see a lot of your personality in him.

I rode to Bemidji with Alison yesterday, we had a wonderful time sharing Aunt Max stories. We wish all the nephews and nieces could be here, because we all have hundreds, thousands of those stories.  You have touched so many lives, rest assured that those stories, those memories will live on for generations in the family.

I know you would not want me to go on and on or worse, to puddle up about all this. Far be it from me to cross SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED.

Max, I’m gonna miss you. But I wanted assure you that

1. The family will be well fed today.

2. Jo will be OK. She is surrounded by a family and friends that love her and will take care of her.

Well it’s time to go. I prefer to think that you have not gone away, but now you are back out on the farm with Wally and Julie. You and grandma are making a big meal, and sitting down at the table are grandpa, my dad, ruthie, manly, stella, cliff, otto and alma, roald, mildred, ed, dave, and all the others we miss so much. You have all of them out at the farm, you’re feeding them, and maybe after dinner you will have time for a hand or two of gully rummy. And pie…

Someday, we’ll all be back out at the farm together.

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