Settle in, grab a cup of coffee and enjoy your stay here at Shelly's. The pie is great, the coffee pot is always on and soon you will find this to be the best place in town. SOON TO BE AMERICA'S MOST READ BLOG

Monday, August 28, 2006

BAIT HOOK & CATCH---PART ONE

Sorry guys, this is not a fishing story. Today's tale takes me a little further south where farmers are farmers, pigs are pigs and in a way, we hope the two have nothing in common


Edwin Johnson woke up feeling as if his mind and heart could no longer sustain his body. He has been feeling that way quite a bit lately. Ed knew the problem, but the solution had him bewildered. Life unknown path left him a widower at 67. The woman he so dearly loved after 48 years lost her earthly fight a year ago and every day seemed a bit tougher than the one before. His imperturbable upbringing told him the time had come to shake off the past and move forward.


One mode of survival meant cleaning up the farmstead. Folks from all about the county used to drive by and comment on the immaculately painted buildings, the manicured lawn and Betty's abundance of flowers. No more. Even the implements started to look neglected and no longer cared for.

Most mornings Edwin sat with his old cat, Scrunchers and thought about Betty. The years they shared together tilling the dark Iowa soil, building up the heard of prime beef cattle and traveling to the lakes in their Winnebago had crumbled to a pile of photos left on the kitchen table.

Edwin and Betty shared dreams about selling off the heard, jumping in the motor home and becoming nomads, free wheeling snow birds, drifting off to winter in Arizona. Memories, all Edwin had to live for, kept him bound and reclusive.


"Scrunchers, " Edwin said, "I think we need to go feed the cattle and perhaps think about cleaning out the barn." Scrunchers flicked his tail twice and walked uninterestedly to the door. An old cat who has heard the same story before seen barn mice as a better alternative than sorrow.

"No, today we clean, I mean it. There is no reason to sit here and wallow any longer," Edwin said to the departing cat. "Betty would have no part of this mess." He put his coffee cup in the dish pan and headed for the feed lot with a wagon load of grain.

This day Edwin decided to rejuvenate himself once more. He pushed back his thinning gray hair, put the seed corn cap, took a quick survey about the farm and decided to clear off the hay wagon. As he backed the green Oliver up to the hitch, he repeatedly had to remind himself this is what Betty would have him do today, so he pulled the wagon into the barn, took a deep sigh and started throwing junk out of his way.


"Yup, Betty sure wouldn't like the way things look around here. Guess one should start cleaning this place up," Edwin said, realizing he was talking to himself.

The July sun fell behind a stand of locust trees when Edwin tossed the last piece of unused equipment, parts and cans of odds and ends on the hayrack. Tomorrow he would pull the wagon to the front yard, put up a yard sale sign and be done with it. He walked back to the yellow frame farm house that he and Betty built so many years back.

When Edwin sat down at the table waiting for the frozen dinner to heat up in the microwave, thoughts once again of heading to Arizona come winter entered his mind. "Maybe I'm not so old that I couldn't sell out and move there permanently," he mused.

The next morning Ed awoke with a little more expectation from life. It was as though the junk laden hay wagon held the golden ring of life he so dearly reached for, yet always dangling within an inch from the hand. He couldn't explain the feeling. Life had to change. After his coffee and a bowl of Corn Flakes, Edwin unconsciously reached for a new seed corn hat. Half realizing he made a fresh step in life, he shrugged and pounded the yard sale signs into the dry Iowa soil.

Cliff Jensen stopped by first. He was returning from the feed store and knew as sure as gold if he returned home there would be work to do, soon an hour whittled away as the two men stood with one foot on the hitch of the hayrack talking hog prices, the Minnesota Twins and the broken flywheel on the Moline that needed repaired before the next hay cutting. He bought nothing. A few neighbors came by, picked up one or two cans of parts, kicked around on the soil, and complained about the current governmental leaders. They too left empty handed

Doris Jensen stopped by to see if her husband happened to be lounging around killing time. She bought a tractor seat, a bucket with a Guernsey cow painted on the front advertising some product or another and three five gallon pickle jars with wire handles, then left to find Cliff. By noon Ed only made a paltry fifteen dollars and a huge pile of farm junk still remained.

Right after Paul Harvey signed off with his "good day," tag, Ed heard a horrible racket coming from the front yard that sounded like a train derailment. He looked out the screen door and there sat a red International pickup rumbling from a rusted out muffler. The passenger door had a foot of electrical wire holding it shut. Some sort of racket was emanating from the radio that may have been music. Ed thought this could only mean trouble so he stashed his wallet under the sofa, walked out and expected the worse.


From behind the pile of old tractor parts a figure emerged. A forty-something petite woman with a butterfly tattooed on her slender forearm. She reached out to introduce herself. "Names Cassandra, but friends call me Prism."

Edwin just stood there as if every word he ever learned had been sucked right out of him.

"Do you have a name" she asked jokingly, raising her eyes up from under a pair of rose-colored-sunglasses.

"Oh, um, sure, name is Edwin but most folks here abouts call me Ed," he laughed, nervously wiping his hands on his overalls before reaching out to shake hers. "Um, that is sure some kind of truck ya got there."

"Yup, that's Sun Dog."

"Who?"

"You know, Sun Dog, the Indian who chases the sun and never catches it . . . is that English?"

"What?"

"Edwin?"

"No mam, I'm part Swedish, part Iowan, and mostly old farmer."

Cassandra laughed. "Why you're a jokester, I can see it in your aura." Edwin did not ask her what it was she saw.

Friday, August 25, 2006

THAT FISHY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE--PART II

Sunday morning Ollie was trying to beat the clock hoping to catch the ever elusive trophy walleye before the festival ended. The first set of mushers could be seen coming down the hill and onto the glistening lake. The dogs started to finish the last leg of the race across Wolf Lake as the spectators frantically began jumping and cheering their favorite teams on. Ollie's fish house door flew open and he blasted off into a rage--yelling to the spectators something about the "mother of all walleyes," being scared off with all their carrying on.

Elsie McDermot, who never saw eye to eye with Ollie, told him to go soak his head and get back in his stupid ol' fish house before she belts him with her cane and just as she turned around, she lost her footing in the slippery warm snow and in the process knocks over The Lutheran Women's coffee table sending nearly $500 blowing into the blustery wind.

The chase was on. The fine folks of Tamarack Falls took off after the money. The weekly paper described what soon took place as, "an ugly mess of people, dog sleds and dollar bills." To top everything off, the ice suddenly cracked, shooting a dull thud across the lake, ending at the northern edge, allowing the rusted Desoto carcass to fall to an early grave.

In a panic driven moment the dog sled team from Winnipeg crashed into Ollie's fish house, leaving nothing but a pile of lumber and fiber board. The Team Duluth dogs ran towards town and several other sleds crossed paths and wrecked what was left of the grandstands, judges booths and remaining fish houses. From that point on, nobody had a clue who won the dog race.

Ollie knew the prize walleye was history. In despair he tossed his pole into the pile of lumber and thought seriously about torching the whole mess, instead he turned and walked back to the cafe. All in all, it was a wise decision not to hang around for the sled dog awards since the judges had no choice but to draw names for the winner. Straight forth another fight broke out when a team from Chicago took home the honors. Big city dogs had no right being in the winners' circle.

After a period of disgusting muffled grumbling, Ollie, Swen, Eric and Oscar and the other remaining few duffers decided to walk back down to the lake to see who won the fishing boat. Although the awards were not to be announced until five-thirty, they pretty much knew their guess of early April didn't make finals.

Most of the old guys figured the misfit, Christen Asbjørnsen, likely had the chinook all figured out with his slide rule mumble jumbo and was already loading up the boat, making their journey back to the lake even harder but Swen hoped his guess of March 20 had a chance. Unlike horseshoes, close counted in the auto guessing game.

Just as they arrived, the ugliest fish house winner's name was announced. Swen, with his pile of scrap building materials now piled in a heap, took home the prize. He accepted the $25 gift certificate from The House of Minnow's Bait and Tackle, but knew Monday morning there was hell to be paid for his prize.

As the sun set into the pines of this, once tranquil community, it finally came time to announce the grand prize winner of the 14 foot Alumacraft boat and motor. After the judges carefully narrowed down the contestant with the closest guess to the surprised exit of the Desoto, Mayor Carlson and the new Norske Queen, Evelyn Toegras, climbed onto what was left of the stage and announced the winner of the boat and motor--Erma Peterson.

Swen got up and left. "What in tarnation did a 72 year-old woman want with a fishing boat anyhow," he grumbled as he walked back home. The rest of the evening he sat in front of his black and white Philco with Folgers, his aging dog, trying to figure life out.

As Ollie pulled off his boots, hung up his long johns and crept into bed, he could only think of all the destroyed fishing houses, Swen's lucky win from the bait shop, the walleye that got away and, of all things, Irma Peterson winning the aluminum fishing boat.

As he closed his eyes, thinking about all the crazy things that took place, he thought maybe, just maybe, 72 wasn't too old to get married after all. He was hoping for a good night's sleep, after all, he had a phone call to make in the morning.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

THAT FISHY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE--PART ONE

After a few weeks of southern tales we take our focus off Carter Edwards (he will return) and head north to a land I still call home for an engaging two part story concerning a couple of bachelors and their fight for freedom

Some call it love, others, well they say it's just infatuation. Ollie's stand on the subject of romance and the like-- it's all just plain stupid. He ought to know, holding the honor of being the oldest bachelor in town.

His favorite fishing partner and best friend Swen, thought he had life figured out. For the price of a cup of coffee over at the Loon Lake Cafe he would be obliged to explain just how marriage will drive a man under. Due to the fact that he was a logger nearly all of his life, he had every opportunity to stay clear of women with hungry looks in their eye.

"It'll ruin everything from good fishin' to enjoying a peaceful sittin' with a fine bowl of pipe tobacco," Swen often reminded half-interested listeners at the cafe's back table. "Besides, who needs some woman sneakin a beer out of the icebox when ya got friends that'll do that."

Now Ollie never talked much about falling in love--fishing and politics were his strong arguing points amongst the guys who nursed a cup of coffee long enough to make breakfast fade off into lunch. But lately Irma Peterson has made a shameless attempt to show up at his house with fresh baked goods and even went so far as shoveling his porch and sidewalk as to be able to make her accidental twice weekly meeting. This created an environment for endless jesting from the old duffers around the table. Ollie had it, at 72 he felt secure that no woman was going to snag him–end of conversation.

February was exceptionally harsh that year. Most of the men would normally be down at Wolf Lake ice fishing for northerns or, with a bit of luck, a walleye or two, but this was proving to be the coldest winter since ‘48, or ‘37 depending on who was telling the story.

Cabin fever started to set in and the menfolk were getting a bit edgy and hard to live with, especially the married ones. It was to cold to sit out in the fish house and after a couple of hours of coffee drinking the conversation became heated to the point where someone would slam their fist to the table in rage. A person could only drink so much coffee and a true fisherman could only handle so much nagging at home.

The fever spread throughout the town. Gladys, Loon Lake's most dedicated waitress, had it with the old guys at the back table and their ceaseless appetite for coffee. She put up with their twenty-five cent tips long enough and one more rotten joke from them and Gladys said the cafe would be torched and burned to the ground and she would gladly dance on the ashes.

Yes, it was February and a miserable one at that. The official thermometer at the Lief Erickson Memorial Airport had not crawled above the zero mark in 27 days and no relief from the meteorologist was in sight. Swen said he saw a flock of penguins flying south that morning. That set Gladys off and it took six stitches to close his wound from the broken coffee cup

To make matters worse a rumor had been set in motion about town that the annual Snow Snake Fishing Festival may be canceled due to the fact the lake had frozen clear to the bottom in some spots. Ollie slammed down his coffee cup when Albert Jensen broke the news. Every year Ollie made a solemnly sworn promise to win the walleye fishing competition. Alas, every year that promise failed to come true.

The Snow Snake Festival celebrated many time honored traditions such as The Ugliest Fish House contest, The Great Northern Sled Dog Race, the crowning of the Norske Queen and by far the most popular–Dump The Desoto In The Lake raffle.

Christen Asbjørnsen, a scrawny slightly bent over man whose wardrobe consisted exclusively of khaki pants and flannel shirts, for the past ten years guessed, within reason, the day and month the Desoto would take its plunge to the miry depths of the northern corner of Wolf Lake. Before he left Norway in 1938, he held the position of district census taker. After years of climbing up and down hills and through fjords to number the people, he started guessing, by ways of early Viking mathematics, how many people lived in his area. Now he studied the wind, moon and temperatures and then calculated by the position of the earth when the ice would melt enough to allow the shell of the car to plunge.

This year the raffle became the talk about town because the winner would take home a prized 14 foot Alumacraft fishing boat complete with a 15 horsepower motor. It wasn't every year that such a prize found its way to the Desoto drop, but being the 25th anniversary of the Snow Snake Festival, a local boat dealer sweetened the pot considerably.

Many of the seat warmers over at The Loon Lake Cafe wanted to keep the boat the best kept secret for fear of outsiders buying tickets. The big sled dog race brought mushers and visitors in from a wide area so their hopes of a small number of entrants had a slim chance.

It was February and a cold one at that. The Desoto normally fell through the lake around mid to late March, but the tickets were no longer sold after the festival so late comers could not have better odds. Still there was an air of nervousness in fear the weekend celebration may be canceled.

Saturday morning a strong western breeze blew in bringing the temperature up to a scorching 49 degrees and in those cold war days long before global warming had ever been conceived, the coffee cup philosophers down at the cafe laid blame on the sudden weather changes to the communist exploding nuclear bombs in Siberia.

Saturday arrived and the festival remained on schedule despite the sudden chinook. The Lutheran's Women Guild cashed in on coffee and doughnut sales since the 50 degree weather brought record crowds to town. Folks here about thought summer had arrived a bit early and took advantage of God's solar blessing.

Sunday morning Ollie was trying to beat the clock hoping to catch the ever elusive trophy walleye..............................................

Sunday, August 20, 2006

FADED BUICKS AND BUSTED DREAMS--THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS


If you have not been to the cafe for quite a spell you will have to back-track one story to catch Part One. Other than that sit back with a fresh cup of Joe, order up some eggs and bacon and find out what this Edwards boy was up to.



After twelve hours of hauling Melvin pulled a roll of twenties and peeled off 2,540 bucks from his chain drive wallet. Carter nearly fell over dead. He had never seen that much money in one pile, at least not around his house. After bills were paid, granny's stone paid for and his parents taking in account his room and board for twenty-some years, he was left with nine hundred dollars and figured it was truly a gift from above.

Early the next morning the money had burned a hole so deep in his pocket that the very skin below was red and itchy so he dressed, gulped down coffee and toast and out the door he ran to catch a ride to McCarver's place. He knew exactly where he was heading after he bought the Buick.

It didn't take long for a ride to show up and as luck would have it, which is a rare commodity in Cater's life, Jerry Hendigger was hauling a load of pigs to the auction in Bradysville, so he passed right through Quails Hollow where McCarver stored his Buick.

Jerry stopped the small rig down by Quail River and before the air brakes sent out their whoosh, Carter was out and heading down Jasper Road, a gloomy gravel road which followed the river and up past the second bridge he could at last see the barn that held his every thought captive.

He ran up the rock strewn path and slid the barn door to the side. There sat the massive 3,452 pound ‘72 silver blue Buick Electra hardtop with at least 15 years worth of dirt packed down with pigeon droppings. A quick survey showed a cracked windshield and four flat tires that matched. Carter popped the hood and under the cobwebs and rodent nests sat the largest engine he ever laid eyes on, a 455 cubic inch, four barrel, premium gas swallowing pile of cast iron.

Webster walked in and saw Carter's glazed over eyes and detected a slight amount of drool emanating from his mouth.

"I'll take it," Carter yelled. "Are you sure it will run?"

"Well it did when I last parked her," Webster said, kicking one of the numerous barn cats away.

The two men killed the morning and half the afternoon attempting to resurrect a long forgotten relic of the cheap gasoline era. Finally after a new battery and lots of priming, Frankenstein awoke. Clouds of noxious blue smoke filled the barn then gently settled into the low pasture where the muggy summer wind collected it and pushed it gently out of sight.

A Buick, once dead, coughed and sputtered until the gas ran through the iron veins and ignited the dormant cylinders, then in a belch of fire and black smoke, the engine gave in and finally ran on all eight cylinders. Cater gave Webster his $275 bucks plus another 30 for the battery, filled the tires and rolled off in a cloud of dust and oil smoke.

Knowing something had to be done about the large accumulation of barn residue he drove back to the Burford Filling Station Car Wash and Video Store. When the owner came out to survey the mess he refused to touch it. Not to give up he drove over to the Burford quarter car wash but when Jake Ackers, owner of the car wash laid eyes on the none-too-fragrant residue, he too refused to allow him into the car bay and sent him out back where local men wash trucks and farm implements. After three hours of vigorous scrubbing and rinsing Carter was finally down to the paint, meanwhile two tires went flat.

After borrowing an air compressor from Jake he headed back to the filling station to repair the tires and noticed the 10 gallons of gas he poured into the car was nearly gone.

"Likely runnin' a little rich. ‘Hat's bad if'n you gotta use premium gas," the attendant told Carter as he mounted the last tire. "Best put sumptin like STP down the carb, maybe it'll clean ‘er out. Seen on TV oncet where them race car drivers down at the track are usen it.

Carter dumped a can of cleaner down the carburetor, put twenty dollars of the cheapest gas in the tank and sped off towards home with a newly acquired engine knock. He had just one thing on his troubled mind, getting a date with Elsie Pheltz. Carter flew down the driveway and rear-ended gramps Studebaker, pushing it against the very same porch gramps launched his rocker off when leaking gas blew most of the old house down.

The Edward's family came running out to see what landed on the roof. Like a line-up of misfits they all stood there and leered at the Buick. Never has a car that large ever entered their driveway and not many thought it would ever leave.

"Right fine car ya got their son. Ya didn't perhaps see grandpa ‘round nowhere", Pa asked, standing on the porch in his tattered long underwear. Before Carter could answer his siblings, to many to keep count of, were crawling about the Buick and asking for a ride to Berford.

"How am I going to ask Miss Pheltz to the dance with ya'all getting me aggravated, now scram." Nobody moved. A few more family members soon joined in, climbing about the car playing with the power windows and AM radio. Two more crawled into the trunk. Carter threw his arms into the air and wearily trudged his fatigued body to bed. Later that afternoon he discarded the filthy jeans out the back window and after a few swipes with a soapy cloth he put on a new shirt and jeans, saved for a moment just as this.

After his family convinced him into taking the whole clan to town he pulled up the long driveway and for the first time in as long as anyone could recall the car made it to the highway. When they arrived in Berford, Carter shut off the car as the engine dieseled for nearly three minutes before stopping. His family scattered in a million directions as they all had someplace to go. Carter had just one–the Crosby Diner where Elsie Pheltz waited tables.

He stood by the Buick which had taken on the smell of hot oil. His legs felt like Jello. Carter slowly opened the screen door and peaked inside the aging diner. There stood the secret love of his life with her back turned. He quickly sat down, swiped a metal comb through his hair, grabbed a menu off the gray and white Formica counter and prepared his dance invitation. Carter had to make this good.

Elsie turned around and saw him sitting there. "Carter Edwards, why you ol' skunk, what brings you to Berford," she said, smiling so cutely at him. "Haven't seen you in a coon's age."

Carter's world suddenly came crashing down. He stared in disbelief, half stunned.

"Why Elsie, you're, you're ah, ah preg..." He couldn't get his thoughts in order.

"Yes, I'm pregnant. Six months along."

"Who?"

"Why the Mason boy, who else, were pertnear married already. So what's ya havin'"

"A bad day," Carter said. "A real bad day."

Sunday, August 13, 2006

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS--PART ONE

For those who have warmed there weary bodies here for some time you will recall Carl Edwards and his virus laden computer. I said these were chapters from an unfinished book. After digging through my enormous pile of unpublished debris I found more chapters. This is one chapter given in two parts

Carter Edwards sat himself down on the last porch step that wasn't cracked, splintered or broken. The proverbial black cloud of self-pity and despair floated lazily about Carter's head. He felt downright helpless.


When Carter last thumbed his way to town he noticed an ad in the window of The McComb County Bank & Savings Depository about the big dance in Berferd coming up soon and as usual, Carter had no money, no car and of course no date.

Frustrated, he stared at the pile of dilapidated cars strewn about around the Edward's homestead, thinking if just one of the vehicles would run, just one, he could take care of that all too illusive rendezvous with one of the local gals.

"Cars, cars, cars," Carter moaned to himself. "All these stupid cars, you'd think one of them would run. I should of stayed in that stupid school and learned me how to fix ‘em."

The young man realized there had been more years of his life without school than there was with and at his age that didn't carry any bragging rights. After he dropped out of Slim Whitman Industrial Arts School, Carter reasoned he had done well to learn to spell his name and count money, so staying around made little sense to him.

Life around the shack was driving him mad. The autumn wood had been cut and piled, there was little need for cleaning granny's room since she died and gramps still had not returned from his walk last spring. Carter thought long and hard about driving gramp's ‘54 Studebaker pickup, but he recalled the whack up the side of his head laid upon him several years ago for moving the truck away from the path to the back house. Carter knew if gramps ever returned it would be as soon as he touched the well worn truck. Besides, hornets had made a nest under the dashboard.

Across the backyard and down the quarter mile driveway sat about every kind of car imaginable, most stripped of one or more major part, making the vehicles useless. Half of the junkers were rolled over on the roof, resembling a field of dead bovines set out in the sun to bloat. Chevy's Fords, Plymouths and a few Ramblers filled the yard and it didn't make much difference what make they were because not a one of them served any useful purpose.

An idea suddenly grabbed Carter. He remembered seeing an ad above the pop cooler down at the filling station for a man who bought scrap metal. A dealer from Gradyville would come and pay top dollar for old cars, lawnmowers, washing machines, certain bathtubs and all things metal. Carter yelled through the screenless-screen door not to fix lunch for him and hoofed it up the driveway so he could stand out on the highway and wait for a ride. Webster McCarver just happened to be heading to Gradyville and gave him a lift.

"I'm going to sell everyone of them stupid cars back home," Carter said as he slammed the truck door, "and maybe even that stupid pickup of gramps. It'll serve him right for walking off like that. The old geezer even took the keys with him."

Webster just listened to his frustrated passenger, knowing Carter had not the sense given to most at birth. "So watcha gonna do when ya git all that money little buddy," Webster asked.

"What else. I'm going to get a car that runs and looks good too, then I'm going ta ask that Phelp's girl out. I sure had been thinking a lot about her lately," Carter replied.

"Got your eyes on anything yet, Carter?"

"Nah, but when I do, It'll have all four tires that match and I'm going to make sure the transmission is bolted down. Last pile of junk I bought lost the gearbox, still sittin' there too, right in the driveway."

"Well Carter, tell you what, if you get enough money I'll sell you my old ‘72 Buick. They're gitten a right fair price for them older cars nowadays, but I'd just as oon sell it to someone who could use it."

The two worked out a deal by the time they got to the fillin' station across the bridge that cuts over to Gradyville. Carter gave Webster a high five and slammed the door. He was sure he'd get a date now. Carter reached in to the cooler, grabbed a 7-Up and made his phone call

Melvin Bradley showed up early the next morning with his tow truck and after seeing the pile of cars down over the hillside and throughout the yard decided to return later that day with a forklift and a flatbed and proceeded to haul every last pile of automotive junk from the Edward's estate. Most of the cars died right where they were parked while the more mechanically endowed autos made it to the yard. Very few cars that entered made it back out on their own.

After twelve hours of hauling Melvin pulled a roll of twenties and peeled off 2,540 bucks from his chain drive wallet. Carter nearly fell over dead. He had never seen that much money in one pile, at least not around his house. After bills were paid, granny's stone paid for and his parents taking in account his room and board for his 20 some years he was left with nine hundred dollars and figured it was truly a gift from above.

Early the next morning the money had burned a hole so deep in his pocket that the very skin below was red and itchy so he dressed, gulped down coffee and toast and out the door he ran to catch a ride to McCarver's place. He knew exactly where he was heading after he bought the Buick.

Friday, August 11, 2006

TWO NUTS THAT FELL FROM A BIRCH TREE

It would be nice to believe I have followed in the footsteps, or a long ancestral line of writers, poets and storytellers. This is not so. I singlehandedly destroyed the finely honed Scandinavian art of shutting up, minding one's own business and keeping one's thoughts to one's own self.

As I perused the birch tree that holds numerous family members I have found one relative whom I admire—Olaf Nordstrom . This fine rugged individualistic Swede became the first in my family to make the trans-Atlantic trip to America shortly after WWI. Rumors, via my elders, say he was thrown out of Sweden for being a writer, worse yet a journalist.

I wanted to believe his expulsion came from his viewpoint against the uprising of the German empire. You see, the Swedish government had this fear if Olaf kept calling the German inconsiderate names, they may come up North with tanks and bi-planes for a not-so-friendly visit..

True, Olaf was outspoken towards the Germans, the Poles, the Lithuanians, the Turks, the Russians and most other Europeans, especially the French, but what put an end to his career was not his political savvy. The nail in his journalistic coffin came the time he tore into his brother-in-law Floyd Christianson.

You see Olaf wrote things the way he saw them and when he saw Floyd chasing his secretary with birch twigs and little else through the snow outside his sauna, you know what made the front page of the Ostersund Times. Floyd, who just happened to be Ostersund's mayor, sent Olaf a life threatening telegram from a location where the mayor's wife could not find him.

Olaf's career as a local journalist and editorial writer went kaput and there wasn't a paper in a hundred kilometer range that would employ him, so after the war had ended and The Treaty of Versailles was set in place, he set sail for Chicago hoping for a job with a Swedish-American newspaper. Olaf knew American political corruption and allegations would give him enough fodder to allow good reading.

Everything seemed to work well for him in Chicago until he wrote an editorial accusing the Italians of hiring Germans to fuel the bootlegging operations and the Poles were drinking to much of the rot-gut while the Irish took advantage of their drunkenness and skimmed money off the top of the nasty beer business. In one article he insulted two-thirds of the immigrant population of Chicago.

After Olaf found his 1930 Hudson Coupe dismantled bolt by bolt and lying in a heap outside the Swedish-American Gazette building, he decided to migrate to the fertile grounds of North Dakota and raise potatoes, hoping his German neighbors never read Chicago newspapers.

After leading a dull and unproductive life as a farmer, Olaf sold his acreage to a new potato chip plant in Gary Indiana who put the sliced spuds in a wax paper bags and shipped them off to East Coast consumers who just discovered cholesterol.

With a wad of cash burning his pockets Olaf settled down in St. Paul and married Inga Swanson, a pretty good looking svelte soprano, bought a 5o kilowatt clear channel radio station and became the voice of The Swedish-American Libertarian. The new "Olaf's Views and Opinions On The World Show," became a hit with farmers who needed a voice to represent their needs.

Whatever the problems were that befell the little guy, Olaf always found a corporate entity to nail to the wall, but with Olaf the wall generally fell back on himself.

In 1937 he took on Oscar Myer, Rath, Swift and three other large packing houses for driving down the price of pork bellies and nearly bankrupting small hog operations in Iowa and Minnesota. Once again he found his 1936 LaSalle dismantled and deposited by his office in a rather ugly scrap heap. This time Olaf fought back by mounting a pork boycott until the bacon cartel forked over higher prices to the farmer and promised to replaced his LaSalle. Olaf had now become the local hero of the airwaves.

Soon after WWI the rest of my ancestors migrated to America, settling in the rolling hills of western Iowa and other locations throughout Minnesota. They were a quiet bunch, taking care of business, raising pigs and planting corn, but place a cup of coffee in front of them and they would chatter for hours.

Whenever Olaf's name came up nobody admitted to being directly related to him in fear of reprisals. One day, as a painfully shy young teenager I blurted out that I was proud to call him uncle because he was a true outspoken individual. The room fell into a dead silence until my Aunt Mary blurted out, "Well you might as well give her a typewriter and let her go. She going to be trouble, I can see it."

As I start back searching for new mental energy on my computer as a writer/storyteller/antagonizer, I would like to say thank-you to my great Uncle Olaf–not to worry we still got a crazy world to talk about. Oh yes, one more thing–my family is still rather paranoid about having another writer hanging in the family tree. Best I can tell they are all on their best behavior.

P.S. While you are up their in writers heaven can you ask God to give me the ability to put my car back together, seems like someone dismantled it bolt by bolt.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

LOSING THE LIGHT OF OUR BOOMER WARS

It is said that in every persons life comes a time when their eyesight begins to fail. As we gracefully age, darkness creeps upon us like swamp fog from a grade B horror movie. Along with a sundry of bodily evils handed to us in the lunch box of life, we are sooner or later forced to munch away on the Twinkies of dwindling vision.

Now mind you I am not putting any emphasis on age. Allow me to say this and I hope you will keep my words a preciously guarded secret–when the first Boomers were placed upon this earth, there stood I, a cuddly babe with marching orders in hand. I arrived on earth one spring day in Iowa believing youth springs eternal.

Without stamping any date on my grand entrance, let me just say Ozzie And Harriet was only an ignored script sitting on a producers desk, family photographs were shot with a Brownie Box Camera, radios still had tubes and cars had not yet sprouted fins. But most of all, during those wondrous early years, I had perfect vision.

We Boomers were destined to fight a very unforgiving war. Not Vietnam, no this war was fought to destroy the grim reaper, father time, gray hairs and he who invented wrinkles. We declared war upon anything that threatened our eternal sovereign youth. Our vanity comrades invented more anti-aging creams and lotions than a snake oil hustler ever dreamed of. Our weapons consist of liposuction, laser surgery, breast augmentation, hair transplants and Viagra surely was invented by those who saw the future.

So in this world of perfection, everlasting beauty and comfort, why in tarnation must I start to replace my 75 watt light bulbs with 100 watts of brilliance. Why am I wearing bifocals and still reaching for a magnifying glass in order to read the back of a CD cover? We invented the darn digital platters but sadly can't read them.

I sadly admit magnifiers can be found round about my apartment, secretly hidden out of sight of visitors who must never, never see me squint. So you recognize what I am talking about here is the aging of my baby-blues. Sadly those of my, oh so youthful age, are now living in a blurry, fuzzy and darkening world

Thankfully my diminished eyesight ( that sounds so PC) did not charge in like a Taco Bell Chihuahua tasting his first bowl of Ol' Roy Jalapeno flavored dog food. No it crept up like foot rot. One day the room is a tad bit darker, or so we think, so I attribute it to the generic Wal-Mart light bulbs that seemingly grew darker and darker.

If it wasn't for an alarming article I read recently about diminished eyesight in Boomers I would still be complaining about micro-print on everything from CD covers to contents on cereal boxes. But alas, it is to late to complain. I know better for the grim reaper has thrown a sinister hoodoo-voodoo upon my eyes. Why just yesterday my eyes beheld more beauty than the mind could comprehend. Now in order to observe what my neighbors are up to I have to dig out my binoculars.

I should have pictured this all coming years ago when I went to bifocals. My optometrist told me that by putting a pair of two different ranges of contact lenses he could make my brain believe all is well, but in fear of looking like the lights blinking away on a railroad crossing I opted out for the secretive blended bifocals.

Several years ago reality was served to me one damp, sullen February day here in Northeast Ohio when I performed an acrobatic double flip with a final slam-dunk-face skid in a dimly lit cement parking deck stairwell on the way to my office. Certainly a egregious situation.

This took place when I was still ambulatory in most situations. I uttered a word of caution to myself before entering the dark foreboding stairwell, especially with the, oh so stylish, multistory heel on my dress boots that elevated my height to a svelte six foot.

"Go easy now dear," my inner self cautioned. "Before you lurks disaster." Next thing I knew gravity called my name. A stupendous effort at cheap slapstick comedy broke the dark silence of the stairwell.

There were no judges with scorecards, no applause from the audience. Thankfully no blood stains marked my untimely decent. Just embarrassment. "Someone is going to pay for this travesty, " I muttered as I gathered my belongings. Not only did a brand new pair of nylons, bite the dust, the monetary damages became worse after I spilled my cup of Starbucks coffee.

For many months I walked with a noticeable limp. I suffered from nightmares about falling into an endless abyss. And yes, after an angry phone call to the city, promising a stupendous lawsuit for a dimly lit stairwell they did install brighter lights. The man on the other end stated in all those years nobody ever complained about the dark decent to the main level.

Busted. My eyes were no longer seeing light, but utter darkness. The maintenance man had to replace the 60 watt bulb with a much stronger bulb. Oh how could this be. I had no gray hairs, and ahem, no wrinkles, ahem. Let me count the years from my birth, well let's not.

Now several years later I long for the days of climbing and descending stairwells. Stylish boots and walking to the office, oh well, that is all passed. Fancy schmancy power chairs and 100, no 150 watt bulbs are my life here--high overlooking enemy territory.