Armistice Day

Several years ago I went to a Giants game with my buddy Eric and his friend Norris (The Reverand). A generous amount of beer was consumed that day, and we talked about many things, and even managed to watch the game a bit. At one point I said to Norris that my brother had served in Viet Nam. His reply to that was, "Did he come home?"

No one had ever asked that before. I replied, ' yes he did'. Norris then gave me a pat on the shoulder. That's what guys do. There was a Beach Boys concert after the game, and Norris and I joined a huge conga line that went around Candlestick Park. I told you, beer was consumed that day.

My brother is 11 years older than me, so we really didn't grow up together. He joined the Air Force about a year after he graduated high school. Viet Nam was raging and his draft number was coming up I suppose, so he joined up. It wasn't long before he was shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay for a 1 year tour of duty. I remember that Christmas, we watched the Bob Hope Christmas special on TV. Bob had stopped in Cam Rahn Bay, and we watched closely to see if we could see my brother. Well, you can guess how that turned out. A sea of young men all dressed in green. I wonder how many families watched the screen to see if they could get a glimpse of their son or brother.

The year he was in Viet Nam my parents were on edge (more than usual). I didn't really think of their well being much back then. I was about 8 years old and all I knew was my big brother was in a bad place. Every night we'd watch the news, and every Friday Walter Cronkite would inform us how many U.S. soldiers were killed in Viet Nam. It was a long year. Every time we got a letter from him, it was an event. Way before email and Skype, there was snail mail. I remember his return address was an APO in San Francisco. I wondered how the post office could get the mail from San Francisco to South Viet Nam. Never did figure that out.

As the end of his tour drew near we all became anxious and were counting down the days. In retrospect I think that as the end of my brother's tour came closer, my dad became ever more anxious. Dad was a World War II combat veteran. He saw things that no one should ever see, and he rarely talked about it. About a month before Germany surrendered, Dad's older brother, a tank driver in the 10th Armored Division of Patton's 3rd Army was killed in action near Trier, Germany. At the time, my dad was just a few hours away. There is an iconic photo of my Dad at his brother's grave at Hamm Cemetery. Just a white cross with a soldier's dog tags hanging from it. My Dad would talk of his brother at times, and he would always say, '...so close, so close..' meaning, that the war was almost over. Just a month. But a German 88 mm gun ended his brother's life in an instant. I can't help but think Dad was thinking of that as my brother's tour of duty was coming to a close.

November, 1968. My brother was on his way home. It was Veteran's Day and Dad had the day off. I was home on school holiday and Mom was working, so it was just Dad and me at home in the morning. Dad gave me strict instructions to stay inside and wait for the phone to ring. We were waiting for a call from my brother at the airport to come get him. Dad, with his usual nervous energy, was out in front of our house painting the white picket fence. Really, we had a white picket fence.

We were living in California at the time. Fall and winter in northern California is the rainy season. Along with rain there can can be fog, the  low hanging 'tule fog' that can linger for days. Dad is wearing his coveralls to stay warm, and is down on one knee lathering on the white paint. At some point in the morning, I heard conversation from the front of the house.  I looked through the large plate glass window in our living room to see Dad in his coveralls, paint brush in one hand, standing up and shaking my brother's hand. My brother was in his dress blue Air Force uniform. He had taken the bus from the airport and walked out of the fog to come upon Dad. Dad always referred to Veteran's Day as Armistice Day. Over the years, when I would hear Dad tell the story of my brother walking out of the fog, it was always on 'Armistice Day'.

I bet Dad thought of the day he came home in January of 1946. The war was over and  he was home again. But when he stepped off that train, I wonder if he thought about the brother he left behind, who would come home 2 1/2 years later for reburial in the hometown cemetery.

When Norris asked me if my brother had come home from the war, I remembered that moment. Yes, he did come home. He walked out of the fog and surprised Dad.

When we were all in the house, Dad remarked, '...now both of my boys are home'.

Armistice Day, 1968.

fathers and sons

I have just returned home from a trip to Washington state, I helped my youngest son move there to attend graduate school. He's 22 years old and on his own, totally on his own, for the first time. All summer long I had been dreading the morning I said goodbye and left him there to his life and drove away. I knew I would tear up and get that knotted feeling in my stomach. I had given much thought to what I would say to him before I left, even practiced it in the car over the two and a half day trip. He was still sleeping as I woke up in his apartment, showered, packed my bags and loaded the car. All ready, I woke him up and said it was time for me to go. After a few minutes he came out of his room, and I got ready to impart my fatherly advice. When that moment came, I hugged him tightly, said goodbye, then pushed away slightly to speak. I could not find the words. Instead, I just held his furry face, looked at my little boy and smiled. I hugged him again, told him I loved him, and then made my way to the door.

I think I had to wipe my eyes every few minutes for the first couple hundred miles.

When I was a kid, we would make a yearly trek to Minnesota from California to visit my father's parents and many other relatives. We made this trip for several years. One year, as we were departing my grandparent's house, my grandfather, in his late 70s, broke down and cried as we were leaving. This was upsetting us as we had never seen him cry before. My father was particularly upset, and after we left the house and were in the car, he started to cry as well. Through his tears he said he never saw his dad cry before. We drove away, and as we did my grandmother, blind for many years, stood at the door and waved to us, not seeing us but knowing she would be seen.

 I did not fully comprehend what this meant until  I was an adult myself. I was saying goodbye to my parents, and as my dad started to hug me, he started to weep. He didn't say anything, he probably could not find the words. Like my father before me, I was moved and started to cry as well.

Someday, perhaps my sons will have sons of their own. And if they do, there will come a day when they need to say goodbye to their sons. When that day comes, I hope they find it hard to say whatever it is they wanted to say, and all they can do is grab their son's faces and smile through the tears.

After all, that's how it worked for Tyler, who was the second son of Kerry, who was the second son of Arnold, who was the second son of Alfred, who was the second son of Peder.

toys under the tree

30 years ago yesterday was the last time I talked to my dad. It was his 63rd birthday, and he was in the Veteran's Hospital in Fargo, undergoing treatment for cancer. Dad was in rough shape, but I'm sure he sucked it up and chatted with me for a bit on the phone. He was optimistic about his chances to beat cancer, and put on a very brave face. But after surviving pneumonia as an infant, living through the Great Depression. front line combat in World War II, and losing half of a lung, Dad's luck was running out. He passed away 3 days later, on the 15th of December. This was his last birthday.

My sisters and I jumped on a plane, my brother got emergency leave and we all headed home. We all made it home to be with Mom and the many relatives and friends that gathered to say goodbye to Dad. Five days after Dad passed, his father, my grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, Grandpa's the next. A bittersweet Christmas.

Growing up, I was aware that Mom and Dad were children of the Depression. Mom was raised on a family farm that was modestly prosperous, so there was enough food, a warm house and the stability that comes with a large extended family. Dad was one of 8 kids, and lived in poverty. The family moved from time to time, from farm to farm, and my Grandparents eked out a marginal existence. The kids were expected to contribute as early as they could to the family survival. Dad left school somewhere in the 8th grade, and worked every day for the rest of his life. Christmas was nearly non existent, often the only cheer for the kids were gifts from relatives, particularly an Aunt who would bring food to the family and simple gifts to the children. Christmas joy would be in the form of a pencil, an apple, some candy. This was the stark reality they lived in. Dad would only sparingly tell me of these things, and he never complained about it. Mom would tell me these stories too, and tell me that Dad never really had a Christmas with gifts under the tree until he was much older, as a married man with his own family. As a kid myself I would have mixed feelings about this, feeling sorry for my dad for the many spare Christmases he experienced, and perhaps a little guilt over the comparatively lavish gifts I received over the years.

These memories later prompted me to get Dad something different for Christmas one year. I was now a young man with a job, so I had some money to spend. Not much, but my resources were now beyond that of a kid. So I bought Dad an electric train set. Getting this for Dad was somewhat of a leap for me, I was not sure how he would react to this. A man in his late 50s getting a train set. But after all, this is the late 70s and we are all now enlightened, so what the hell. It was a simple set, an engine, a few cars, a caboose and an oval track. But it was a real electric train.

I remember when Dad opened the gift. As he used to say, he got a real 'charge' out of the train set. I assumed he would probably set it up once in awhile, run it for the grandchildren, and that would be that. I was in for a surprise. Upon opening the present, he immediately found a room to setup the train, and played or 'monkeyed' around with the train all Christmas Eve, with me, my brothers in law, and my nieces and nephew. He liked it. He really did. Later, he built a wooden box with hinges and a hasp. He took the train set with him wherever he traveled, even to the campground he and Mom were caretakers for in the summer. There was a pavilion there with an electric outlet, and he would set it up on the cement floor to entertain guests and campers.

I still have that wooden box and the train set it holds. I haven't taken it out in years, but I have dreams of setting it up again, and maybe handing it down to a grandson some year, although I am in no hurry to be a grandparent. And maybe then I will tell that child about another kid, who was raised in poverty, worked with his hands his whole life, witnessed the horrors of war, and yet could still find joy in finding a toy under the Christmas Tree. Maybe that is the Joy of Christmas we hear about so often.

Happy Birthday Dad. Merry Christmas everyone.

I won't forget, mom

I just finished closing out my mom's estate. It was a modest estate, we dispersed her possessions to various family members and friends, converted her investments to cash and once I was satisfied that all the bills were paid, I divided up the cash between my sisters, my brother and myself. Mom designated me to be the executor of her estate, and I did my best to follow her wishes. I was kind of dreading the final acts of being the executor. For the last 5 months I was getting regular reminders of Mom, her mail having been diverted to my house. As executor I was obliged to go through everything, make sure the Social Security and pension checks stopped arriving, and pay the few bills she had. Now the mail has stopped arriving. Her possessions have been scattered to the wind, the money she had in the bank is dispersed, and those that survive her continue to grieve in our own ways. I worry that I might drift apart somewhat from my siblings, as some of those ties that bind are gone. I wonder if now I could be called an orphan, as both of my parents are gone. I am sad.

Among those things of mom's I found what used to be a nickel. It's been flattened and curved, and you can just barely make out Jefferson's head and other markings. When I found this, I thought what an odd thing to keep. Then I remembered that I had given this to Mom when I was a kid. Our house was just a block from the railroad tracks, and I would often stack some coins on the rails as a train was approaching. The odds of finding these coins after the train had passed were small I discovered. Maybe it has to do with a train traveling 70 miles per hour, weighing several hundred tons, and the coins are somewhat smaller. Physics I suppose. Never took that class.  I probably lost a fair amount of my allowance money on those tracks, maybe I felt obliged to give some back to Mom, in the warped shape of a Jefferson nickel. Mom kept that nickel for the better part of 40 years in her jewelry box. I was somewhat astounded, as Mom was not necessarily very sentimental, but she certainly had that soft side. That nickel laid next to her rings, jewelry, and other treasures she had. It meant something to her. She never mentioned it to me. It's odd to think of parents keeping little treasures, we forget that they were young and and idealistic, had romances, and collected memories.

It caused me to think, mom did a lot of things that she never called much attention to. She was collecting memories. Growing up, Mom was the disciplinarian. Dad was tough on the outside, very soft on the inside. Mom had some inner grit that kept her going. She could get cranky at times, and sometimes she was a real PITA. Then, she would surprise you. When I was 17, I had a real POS car. But it was my car. I was having a lot of trouble with it, and no money to fix it. Mom and Dad never had much cash, so I was left to my own devices to get things fixed. One day, I was particularly upset with my car, and was sitting on the front porch being miserable about it. Mom came and sat next to me, and starting weeping. I asked her what was wrong, she said she just wanted me to have a good car, and was sad it wasn't working out for me. It made me think that maybe car problems are not so important in the whole scheme of things.

Much later in life, Mom and Dad were retired and living alone in northern Minnesota. Dad had cancer, and it as it turned out, not long to live. Mom didn't have a driver's license, but she got dad moved from one hospital to the next, rented a room nearby so she could be near him during his treatments, and never once complained to any of us kids. She didn't want to worry us. It's the dead of winter, she's lugging suitcases, helping my dad walk around, getting cab rides, dealing with doctors, and keeping my dad's spirits up the best she can. Never a complaint. We would forget about these things when she would be a PITA.

Mom kept things that meant something to her. She did things that she would not call attention to. She was being a mom. When I was little, I wondered how it was that she would always have an answer to my questions, she knew how to treat me when I was sick, how to get to school, what to make for dinner, you name it she had the answer. I thought, I will never know this much stuff. What will I do when I have kids? How can I get ready for that? I was worried. I would fail as an adult. Better to leave society now before I cause any permanent damage.

Well I survived child rearing, they turned out ok mostly. I realized as I was going through those years, we do the best we can and then make it up as we go along. We don't call attention to a lot of the stuff we do, probably because we are too tired. We just do. We collect memories, little mementos and treasures that would not mean much to anyone but ourselves. And without realizing it, we turn into our parents. Sort of. Maybe that is the final revenge of parents. Our kids start channeling us. I hope mine are around to wheel me out in the sun when I'm too feeble to do so. And maybe call me once in awhile.

Mostly, I hope my kids remember me when I am gone. As a parent, I was constantly reminding my boys about this or that. Don't forget I would say, which was just ensuring they would. Mom would do the same to me. Don't forget this or that, remember to do this. Yes mom, I will. No really mom I will. Then I would inevitably forget. She would get after me, tell me I need to be better about remembering things, then she would give me the same reminder in a day or two.

Now the long goodbye is over. I put off writing about this until now, I wanted to save these thoughts and have some closure. I'm still sad, and probably will be for a long time. That's normal, and probably even a little healthy.

Mom, I did learn those lessons. I won't forget. I have a flattened nickel to help me remember. I'll won't forget, Mom.

Goodbye Mom. Say hi to Dad for me. When you see Aunt Max tell her we miss her too. If you see Gene tell him I'm really pissed he's not coming back. You all can have a laugh about that. I won't forget any of you.

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.