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

Thursday, December 27, 2007

BROKEN BRIDGES AND REPAIRED HEARTS--A CHRISTMAS STORY





As usual I am late and without excuse other than re-editing the story off the magazine tear sheet was horrible. How did I ever read such type when they first printed this story (December 1995). Still, we are in the middle of the Holiday Season, so let us begin...




Good will towards men and peace on earth.” The assuring words look great on Christmas cards all decorated in crystalline white with angels descending towards earth. But in reality Christmas is not always wondrous, nor calm.

Marvin and Sheryll Ivanson's daughter was nominated to be lead angel in the school play until a sudden case of Chicken Pox put an end to her great moment. This would be the last year for the much sought after Christmas role, an angel with a talented singing voice. Next year she would move onto junior high leaving behind her the chance to be the singing angel. Bud Johnson, the feed mill owner, broke his leg in a sledding accident and the Mallard family had to return to Illinois for the funeral of Jane's mother.

Peace on Earth,” drifted from an old RCA console radio at Jake's appliance store on the main street of Cobblestone Lake, though the majority of townsfolk did not take up on the idea of heavenly peace. Just ask Doc Swenson. His two-year-old farrowing pen burned to the ground, destroying 75 feeder pigs along with the structure. An investigation showed some of the wiring had been chewed away by some nesting squirrels last fall.

Good will towards men,” seemed like a bitter pill to swallow for the congregation of Lakeside Lutheran Church. A late fall storm flooded the Little Indian River and nearly washed out the only bridge leading to the church property. To trouble the waters even more, the county refused to appropriate the money to repair or build a new bridge, because only the church members and a few local fisherman seeking out a private fishing holes use the bridge. The plat map showed both the road and bridge belonged to the county, so now farmers and politicians are at each others throat.

Things looked bad for this little Norman Rockwell community. Most holiday seasons saw noses pressed tightly against the windows of Clarence's Rexall Drug Store watching the American Flyer 4-6-4 Mountain Pioneer Special chugging up the hill as it entered the paper mache tunnel and come out the other end to greet a winter wonderland of trees, skaters and forest creatures. The model train ran its course from morning till evening all Christmas season.

This year Clarence was having back surgery at the Mayo Clinic and not a single employee had a clue on how to set up the elaborate model train layout. Children walked by in disbelief as their hopes were dashed. Not a tunnel, mail car or mountain goat was to be seen.

Clara Nordstrom had the holiday blues. While peeling potatoes for supper she could only think about her daughter and son-in-law who moved to Omaha and about the little two-year-old granddaughter she has yet to see, let alone spoil. She dreamed about the day when Sonja would open Christmas presents and run about the house .

Thankfully, some good news arrived around that winter. The Norell Implement Company decided to put on an extra shift and corn prices were holding at a rather good price. With this little boom in the economy, the town should have anticipated a prosperous Christmas, but not so. Somehow the good news never offset the despair that hung over this little farming community. The Cobblestone Lake Christmas of 1958 looked awfully bleak.

Pastor Nelson made plans last July to travel to Norway for Christmas. Jim and his wife needed a getaway and what better way to vacation than to enjoy his ancestral home during the holidays. With all the problems in Cobblestone Lake, his heart became heavy with grief and now Norway looked further away every passing moment.

Saturday, after numerous cups of coffee and much prayer, Pastor Nelson sadly broke the news to his wife Elsie and later to the congregation of Lakeside Lutheran Church, who now found temporary shelter in the Jr. High gymnasium. Norway was no longer a reality. God called him to endure the suffering with his community.

Wednesday morning a committee of 25 men and women converged upon Evelyn's Cafe which sat next to the Standard Oil station. The Lakes Area Civil Defense Team had to be reactivated for the first time since the Korean War ended. The group called for a county wide plea to roll up the sleeves and fight the invisible Grinch that gnawed away at their community.

Thursday morning an air of excitement quietly crept into this little Iowa community. During the night Ken Eisner came over from Alta and assembled the American Flyer Pioneer Special, complete with plastic mountain goats and the automatic mail catcher, then just as quietly slipped out of town before anybody knew what took place. Eisner built the setup years ago and when word reached him, he laid down his farm chores and immediately headed over to the drug store and put up the display.

Elmer Sorenson couldn't believe what he saw, nor could he believe the tears that welled up in his eyes. The train display had been just as much a part of the holidays as the movie White Christmas, which played over at the theater for the last four years. The stocky frame of a man never wept at anything.

Elmer, you see, was the County Commissioner and his signature kept the bridge from being built across the Little Indian River. Angered about some foolish words uttered by a church deacon nearly 32 years ago when he married an Episcopalian girl from Ft. Dodge, he never returned to the Lakeside Lutheran Church. He know held the power to make the church squirm.

As the American Flyer rounded the curve up the steep mountain grade and over a Lincoln Log bridge, Elmer had an eerie vision of a train wreck because of a damaged bridge—he imagined for a quick moment the sounds of children crying. As he suddenly turned around he thought he saw the deacon, who departed this earth many years ago, out of the corner of his eye.

Elmer once again wiped away more tears from his eyes as he convinced himself the cold, sharp winds made his eyes well up. He pulled his coat collar up over his ears and walked down to the cafe.

After he sat down at the counter Judy brought over the usual, a cup of coffee and a bismark.

Looks like Doc Swenson is going to get a new farrowing pen, kind of sad though,” Judy said.

Why's that,” asked Elmer, as he picked up the assortment of chopped nuts that fell from his bismark.

They are going to dismantle the old church for lumber since Doc has a need and the the bridge just ain't safe enough for folks to cross anymore. They want to start tearing the place down right away while the river is frozen so they can haul everything across the ice if need be.”
Judy placed the glass coffee pot back on the burner, hesitated for a moment and turned back toward Elmer. With a note of sarcasm she mumbled, “Get the picture?”

Suddenly that sweet roll felt like a brick in his stomach. Elmer threw down the ninety-five cents for his shortened coffee break and quickly drove off in his Mercury to the dangerously crumbling bridge.

Back in town, the winds were howling in across the Dakotas, bringing January like weather to the area. Greg Nelson, the pastor's son, drove his front-end loader into town and by evening all the Christmas lights were up on Main Street and the manger scene, complete with live sheep, appeared in front of the Farmers Coop Grain Elevator.

The Auxiliary Civil Defense League had a big pot of potato soup and nine freshly baked pies prepared for the half frozen street decorators. Cobblestone Lake for the first time that year looked and smelled like Christmas, which was only a week and a half away. One could easily see the townsfolk suddenly became a bit more festive.

Yes, the town had regained its foothold and Christmas joy seem to spread all through Cobblestone Lake. But not for Elmer. He spent the evening staring at the deserted church. He could see his parents grave against the rusty red snow fence. In the prairie like surrounding of the river bend, Elmer thought for a moment he could see his dad's '38 Desoto pulling up to the church just in time for Sunday School. For a flash in time he was a child again. He once again pulled the collar of his coat about his ears and dashed back to the warmth of his Mercury.

The next day an unseasonable warm spell descended upon the area, allowing the townsfolk to get out and do some last minute Christmas shopping. The warmth also brought a chicken pox epidemic, causing the elementary school Christmas play to be postponed a week so all the children could be in the reenactment of the birth of the Christ Child. This meant Susan would be the star angel after all.

Clara Nordstrom was cleaning up the community building after Saturday's annual meatball and lutefisk dinner when she suddenly dropped her broom and screamed as if her last breath had been robbed from her mortal soul. In the doorway stood a little bundled up toddler along side Clara's daughter and son-in-law from Omaha.

Early Monday morning Doc Swenson was down by the river watching the ice begin to melt as the current started to regain control of the river. As he shook his head, feeling as though he lost out on a deal of a lifetime for free lumber, inside his heart there erupted a sigh of relief—how could he use church lumber for a farrowing pen. He returned to his truck in time to see Elmer pull up to the end of the gravel road where three men exited his gray Mercury.

Elmer politely greeted Doc then walked over to the condemned bridge. After a few minutes of pointing, digging away at the black soil with the heels of their boots and a signature on a contract, he overheard one of the men say they would start construction perhaps as soon as the first of the year. The only signature that was needed to build the new bridge had now been penned.

Doc raced backed to town and entered Evelyn's Cafe, where the news always starts before it is disseminated out into the community. Doc was to late to shout the news, since Elmer had beat to the cafe and was sharing breakfast with Pastor Nelson . The blessed contract sat at the end of the table.

The day after New Years, sounds of diesel engines filled the air as a Cat pulled down the last of the old iron bridge. With the weather holding out, the contractor felt the new bridge, a beautiful combination iron and wooden beams, would be finished by Easter. Doc's new farrowing pen beat that deadline by two months. The mystery of how the money came to be for the new farrowing pen was whispered about town for some time, but a canceled trip to Norway turned into a sizable check sent to Gunderson Lumber and Supply.

Over the years the children became adults and shared the joys of the once lost but found Christmas with their children and grandchildren. If doubts arise in the minds of youngsters an evening trip to the bridge at Christmas will delight their hearts with the spectacular color of the decorated bridge in honor of Elmer Sorenson's signature that saved the church those many years ago. If you stand quietly, the breeze through the pine tree seems to whisper sounds of Christmas.

As for the whereabouts of the American Flyer 4-6-4 Mountain Pioneer Special, you ask. It still runs every Christmas at The Cobbled Coffee House which once held the Rexall Drug Store. The Standard Station and Evelyn's Cafe no longer stands on Main Street since a corporate drug store company bought the property. But in truth, not much else has changed, except for the pages on the calender.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

THE HISTORIC SHOWDOWN AT GRANDPA'S FARM



HISTORY


It is hard to imagine a Thanksgiving dinner without a good old traditional juicy, plump turkey sitting on the table. When your family drives for miles over hill and dale to Grandma's farm in order to celebrate that one festive day each year, you sure don't expect a rather ordinary chicken to grace the table

Such was the Thanksgiving of ‘72. A holiday still spoken of around the Johanson holiday gatherings, lest the younger generation be doomed to repeat the same mistakes perpetrated that infamous day not so long ago.

This mess all started when my Grandfather Nels decided not to go the route of buying a frozen turkey from Jerry's Red Owl grocery store that year. He had a score to settle with his brother. This particular feud started the previous year when great Uncle Donald bagged the 12 point buck that Grandpa had in his rifle site. The exact moment he was ready to pull the trigger he realized the log he sat upon to steady his aim was also home to a colony of red ants, who were quite angry for being disturbed once they settled in for the fall.

Being caught under fire from behind caused Gramps to heave the rifle onto a rock pile, which in turn set off the firing mechanism, which then caused the bullet to find its mark in Ralph Peterson's prized Holstein. The good news is the Holstein survived but walks with an unfortunate limp. The bad news is the buck darted into my great-uncles pasture and straight for the barn.

Now poor old Donald couldn't see more than a stones throw, or so they say, but bagging this deer was a cinch. The next week's Prairie Times had a large photo of Donald holding back the head of that wonderful freezer full of venison. From that moment on a feud began that always left everyone in the family very uncomfortable. Just one word of the red ants could set off a barrage of Swedish vulgarities that could cause Eric the Red to blush like a Sunday School teacher.

It may be true the argument went all the way to the grave but long before that occurred, battles would erupt, like the time at our family barbecue when my Great Uncle Donald nearly gave Gramps a coronary when he bragged about how he had to stalk that deer for miles. The plate went to the ground and away they went. I truly believe that in reality they loved each other, but their staunch Northern European manhood would never admit it.

NOW THE STORY

Grandpa Nels stopped by to visited Jim Nelson who had an aluminum fishing boat he been talking about selling, though he wasn't all that sure he would actually let it go. Nels really didn't want to buy the boat, but instead sought an excuse to run off for the afternoon, drink coffee and hide from Grandma. You see Grandma was on his back about cleaning out the mud room, so it once again resembled the enclosed back porch she had built on to the farmhouse. Well Nels didn't feel up to it, but then he never did.

Jim Nelson farmed the piece opposite the old Gunderson place about three miles out of town on the blacktop leading up to Eagle Lake Lutheran Church. He and his wife, Irene, raised wild turkeys and every year they would sell them off around the first of November.
Jim's wife laid out lunch for the men then departed to finish her chores. When she returned Irene pulled out her "angry finger," and suggested to Jim, with a dead on wagging finger that he should forget about selling that stupid boat and wait ‘till spring when it will bring a decent price. She reminded him that turkeys needed to be sold in two weeks or they'd be stuck feeding them all winter.

Inspiration stuck Grandpa like a bolt of lightning. He would buy one of those 35 pound feathered beasts and serve it for Thanksgiving. His mind laid out the whole story for his brother to see who was the big hunter. The way Nels would tell the fearsome story would be the encounter he had with the crazed bird while out partridge hunting. Suddenly he walked by the turkey when a life and death battle ensued. After the dust settled he laid the bird out flat with his trusty 'thirty-ought-six'.

Nels reached down into his bibs and pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill, grabbed the Tom, tossed it into a cage then drove off in his rusted out International pickup after filling up his pipe with a fresh bowl of Prince Albert. His mind raced with wild stories of hunting and victory.

Grandma was furious. When he walked back from the barn she stood there, arms crossed in the still cluttered mud room and declared in no uncertain terms she had no desire what so ever to butcher a thirty-some pound turkey for Thanksgiving. She muttered a few words in Swedish and turned around and slammed the door. Gramps just took the pipe out of his mouth, tapped it on his shoes and turned away from the house until things cooled down. He knew she would soon allow him back in the house.

Nels went to the workshop, threw some scrap lumber in the barrel stove in order to take the chill off the autumn air, turned on the on the old Emerson radio to the Yankovich Polka Hour, then dug out a rusty old ax and proceeded to sharpen it.

With less than two weeks remaining before Thanksgiving, Grandpa thought a corn and wheat diet should go along way in fattening up the tom but it didn't take long before the turkey ruled the barnyard and consumed everything in sight. It looked as if he put on at least ten more pounds.

Amazingly Grandma took a liking to the old tom, especially when he walked about puffing himself up with prideful air making himself seem so big and important. She said he reminded her of Elsie Norberg down at the Rexall store who always took the gossip and turned it into a mission to mend everyone's problems, therefore looking like she actually meant to be something great, other than a transmitter of cheap talk. Ol' tom finally found redemption when Grandma named him Sinbad the Tom. He was now a pet and people don't eat pets.

Thanksgiving week arrived and the battle still raged on concerning Sinbad's destiny. My grandmother insisted he lived here on the farm and like the dog or cat, there would never see an oven. Grandpa disagreed. He planned to outfox his brother Donald and at 72, Gramps knew he did not have a lot of years to pull off the ultimate victory.

Wednesday morning Grandma warned Nels several times he had better get to town and buy a fresh turkey or there would be no thanksgiving dinner. The wagging finger in his face reminded Gramps she meant business. Her position on a store bought turkey was final.

Grandpa headed into town on the cold November day and no sooner did he hit the blacktop and the windshield fogged up. He grumbled about why he didn't fix the defroster fan when he had the chance. When he got to town he stopped by the International dealer to get a new fan and switch, then he drove over to Sig's Bait and Tackle where the coffee was always hot even though the fishing wasn't. He got to talking about how the late fall fishing was panning out and looked at the new selection of rods that just arrived.

Bill Lundgren stopped by and was talking about the bear that tore up the municipal campground down at Eagle Lake and how someone should bag him before he returned to do more damage. Well, the three warriors discussed the bear and a few other issues when Nels thought he should head over to the drug store and get some more pipe tobacco and the latest Boxing World Digest. He then went over to fill up the gas tank at the Deep Rock where he met Dale Sutherland who was about to put in an order for a new hybrid seed corn at the Dekalb dealer. Nels told him the extra cost might prove to be a mistake since the Farmers Almanac said it looked like a dry summer coming up next year and Northrop King makes a better seed corn for dry seasons.

He finally headed home since his stomach started to growl. He was contemplating cleaning off the porch before the family arrived tomorrow, but decided his bones couldn't take the cold damp air, besides they could use the front door if Grandma thought the back way looked all that bad. He turned on the truck radio on to hear the five o' clock news. As he pulled onto the gravel road leading home he had a nagging feeling something was wrong, but just what, he couldn't put a finger on it.

When Nels walked into the steamy kitchen and took off his glasses he saw Grandma standing there with a roasting pan and that look on her face. His heart sank. Yes, readers, he forgot the turkey and the Red Owl store closed 15 minutes ago.

Grandpa's first thought was Sinbad. His second thought was his wife's temper. In order to save his hide he started to ramble on about a last minute run on fresh turkeys and all that was left was a sick old goose and how he knew she wouldn't want to cook that ol' bird. Grandma didn't but a word of it and Nels knew it.

Nels grabbed the gun down from the closet and headed for the barn. He had the look of a frontier hombre on his face. Sinbad the Tom was about to become dinner and Gramps had to pull off the coup de grâce. Grandma just about turned the gun on ol' pa but she knew the family would be here in the morning, hungry for turkey.

Grandpa Nels threw on the barn light and there stool Sinbad the Tom. Somehow that turkey knew the only thing between him and the roasting pan was the Winchester. Sinbad made a lunge for Grandpa, knocking the rifle to the ground and in a mysterious moment of déjà vu, the rifle fell to the ground, misfired and struck the power box. The barn went dark and Sinbad the Tom was never seen again.

The next day our family sat around the dinner table preparing to devour fresh rolls, candied yams, mashed potatoes and chicken. My younger cousin Marie Anna crinkled her nose and asked why we weren't having turkey.

This now became Grandpa's shining moment. He became fully animated while telling the chilling story of how this 50 pound wild turkey attacked him from behind and threw him to the ground. He tried heroically to regain his footing but the turkey developed into a rabid fowl and flew over to his gun and somehow fired it, missing his head by inches. The bullet, he said, hit the power box and if nobody believed him he would take them to the barn and show them where the turkey shot the box.

The grandchildren listened with awe–their eyes as large as the pies sitting on the buffet. Great-Uncle Donald just looked over to grandpa and said, "Keep trying Nels, you ain't goin ta outdo me and ya know it by yolly!" Just as Grandpa felt Donald should be kicked in the shins, Grandma looked over to Nels and smiled. "Pa, will you please pray the blessing."

"I Jesus namn vi sitta ned på borden och fråga God's välsignelsen på det mat - och behaga förlåta Donald för varelse sådan en dåre"

Roughly translated: "In Jesus name we sit down to the table and ask God's blessing on the food. And please forgive Donald for being such a fool.
Amen"

Happy Thanksgiving from the staff (?) of Shelly's Cafe

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

HANDLE WITH CARE--A PATCHWORK THANKSGIVING STORY

Copyrighted November 1996

Last year found me in the hospital so I never got a chance to share my annual (one of two) Thanksgiving stories. I hope it is not to late, but if so, read it when you get home.

The oversized Currier & Ives calendar from the Hereford State Bank read November 21, 1961. Though folks were busy running about to and fro doing their last minute marketing, life in this little corner of Iowa moved a bit slower than the rest of the world, or so it seemed for a certain young boy.

Eric thought every minute seemed like hours. As the Lake School District fourth grade class sang "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go," intoxicating thoughts of grandmother's turkey drifted through his imaginative mind. With visions of tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast overtaking him, Eric crooned on for another verse–alone.

When the snickering of his fellow classmates returned him to reality, he scrunched down into his wooden desk where he prayed for a chance to crawl under the door. To his relief the school bell finally rang. Eric grabbed his construction paper turkey, somewhat sloppily held together with library paste and bolted for the door. Before he could reach the hallway, Mrs. Olsen called him back. With a comforting hug she thanked him for the wonderful solo. Eric smiled, thinking he pulled one over on the teacher. Like any good teacher, she knew his thoughts.

Like the long-awaited-school bell, so it was with the lengthy bus ride back to the farm which also seemed to take an eternity. Eric anxiously anticipated the holiday aroma of pumpkin pies and warm bread straight from the oven. After the bus dropped him off he could see the windows steamed up from the busy cooks in the kitchen.

For Eric there were no rivers or woods to cross in order to get to Grandmother's house because his grandparents lived with him, or should it be said, he and his mother lived with his grandparents. Either way, the farm became a home for the four of them and life was good.

As he flew through the back door everything looked and smelled just as he imagined on this long day of great anticipation. Mom and grandma were up to their elbows in flour as the mantle clocked ticked away towards the last 16 hours before the plump turkey made it into the roaster to send his senses into overdrive.

Yet, something seemed out of place. Suitcases and boxes were strewn about all around the livingroom and Eric knew they weren't going anywhere for Thanksgiving. All one had to do is look in the kitchen to figure that out. Plus, who would feed the livestock, gather the eggs and all the other chores he always helped with.

"Who belongs to all these suitcases?" Eric asked his mother as he scrapped his finger along the bowl of frosting, withdrawing it quickly after he received fair warning that no unwashed hands were allowed in the kitchen.

Mother replied in an indifferent tone as she grabbed his hand away from another bowl."Your cousin from Washington has come to spend some time on the farm."

"Cousin from Washington? What cousin?"

"Ya, your cousin and you must do all you can to welcome her here. She has never been on a farm before, you see," Grandma said from the pantry.

"She! Oh no, sounds like trouble," Eric said in a disgusting voice as he picked at the cinnamon coated pie apples. His hand was slapped once again.

His mother explained that his cousin Janine would be staying on the farm, hopefully forever. She sat him down and explained abut Janine being in a foster home for several years and mother said with a thoughtful sigh, it was time for her to be here with real family.

About the time Eric started to ask what a foster home meant, a strange sound came down the darkened hallway. Soon a freckle faced, ten-year-old with fire red hair–and braces on both legs appeared. A set of arm crutches stabilized her. She smiled bashfully at Eric

"Eric this is Janine," said Grandma. A long uncomfortable moment of silence followed. To him, it seemed as long as waiting for Christmas. "She had polio at the age of four and is doing so much better now that, ya, we felt it would be good for her to come and live on the farm with us. We need more smiling faces like yours," she continued.

The silence remained and Grandma knew it to be a good time to make the needed adjustments. After the introduction and explanations, Eric raced out the door, devastated that his home became a dumping ground for a 10-year-old girl with crutches. He knew everyone's attention would now be focused on this strange girl who couldn't help a bit with chores. Why, she was just a dopey ol'city slicker!

Wiping tears from his eyes, he grabbed a shovel and headed for the pig barn.

"The heck with the turkey," he muttered. "As a matter of fact, the heck with Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years too."

Grandpa finished cleaning the farrowing pens and came over to ask his grandson what he thought of his cousin. Eric scowled at the whole idea of her being there. He wanted no part of sharing his house with her and that's that. Silently the two guys walked to the cattle shed.

Without so much as a word between the them, grandson and Gramps finished feeding the cattle. Grandpa looked down at Eric, put a steady hand on his shoulder and said, "Ya, I know just how you feel."

Eric felt he already held the upper hand in this deal and soon, out she would go, as he sheepishly looked to Grandpa for a line of defense, but Grandpa now felt a strong sense of grief in his heart.

"Ya," Grandpa said once more, "I felt the same way when your grandma said you and your mom were coming here to live. Oh boy, did I hit the roof."

Grandpa threw in the last shovel of grain in the trough as the huge Angus snorted the dry feed into a powdery dust storm.

That comment sent a shock wave straight through Eric since he never knew Grandpa as a grandfather type person, he always seemed more like a father. You see, Eric's real father died in the Korean War about the time his son took his first step.

Grandpa stopped for a moment and knelt down to look Eric straight in the eye. "I told my son when he left the farm to join the military that I wasn't going to raise his family if something ever happened. I guess I was pretty sore at him."

He paused for a minute and wiped his eye. "The night your mother called from Ohio and told your grandma she wanted to come live here I did not want nothing to do with both of ya–until I heard ya crying in the background. You see my little friend, I never heard your voice until then. Until that time you were just a name, Eric Randall Junior."

Another long, silent moment took place as the two walked back to the farmhouse for some warm supper. The song lyrics, "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go," echoed through Eric's mind. Especially his embarrassing solo. He and mom made their long journey to Grandmother's house several years ago. Now his cousin made her journey.

Thanksgiving morning arrived and the chores were started early since twenty relatives were soon to gather about the table. The barn work should have been finished over an hour ago, but showing a city slicker how to gather eggs was no easy job, especially a city slicker with leg braces.

True, she would never be much good with a feed cart, but her ability to do arithmetic just may come in handy he thought, remembering the "C" on his last report card.


Yes, 1961 had a little more giving of thanks than expected. One more chair found a permanent place at the Nordstrom dinner table. Grandpa gave the blessing in Swedish as usual and thanked our Lord for the added family member. This year though, he gave Eric a wink after the Amen.

Happy Thanksgiving ya'll

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

MORE PICTURES ON THE CAFE'S WALL

Enlarging the photos destroyed some of the contrast. The blog site said they offer a slide show but it looks as if I had to change the way my page looks to accomplish that--I'm not sure. Someday I may try that.

But for today, just imagine the pictures about 300 percent better than what you see below. I may put them on e-mail once more. Now to finish my annual Thanksgiving story finished.

Thanks for stopping by for coffee.





























Wednesday, October 31, 2007

CALIFORNIA DREAMING ON SUCH A RAMBLING DAY


Before you unfolds the journey of two men who brave the elements of the unknown. I broke the tale down to three chapters to make it an easy read. Grab your coffee and remember, my vision is still not dead on, so disregard any glitches one may find.

CHAPTER ONE
A MAN DREAMS OF HIS DESTINY

There comes a time in the lives of many well seasoned Minnesota fisherman when they begin to feel the thrill of the old fishing hole has started to fade and hope of finding a new spot seems to be an uphill battle. Talk of imagined lakes teaming with hungry walleyes, fishing trips without having to battle mesquites or wood ticks are often spoke about down at the cafe, but in reality that is about it, just talk.

With winter's howling winds still haunting everyone's memory, Nels felt a vacation to a warm, balmy fishing paradise was called for. As he swirled the coffee about in the cup he thought perhaps a trip to see his second cousin in Long Beach might not be such a bad idea.

Meanwhile his long time fishing pal, Maynard, felt a trip to Michigan's Upper Peninsula to be a more economical vacation, not fraught with numerous potential disasters and the fishing, he heard, was great that time of year. But truth be known, Maynard really wanted to see the World's Tallest Milk Bottle that was portrayed in a post card his cousin sent him back in the ‘62 when his family went to visit Big John's Copper Mine and the Mystery Spot.

Maynard could never figure out his fascination for the giant structure. Perhaps it had already crumbled into the landscape of two-lane tourism, but as he grew older and none the wiser, he felt compelled to seek it out and if the fishing was as good as he heard, well then that would be a bonus.

So began the argument. Nels wanted to head west and Maynard maintained after at a dozen or so trips to the Black Hills, he felt it a travesty for great fishermen to waste precious few summer days heading west again, especially for a God forsaken place like California.

Minnesotans rarely trust anyone from California, yet there had been at one time a sizeable Swedish population in Long Beach and Nels felt safe going there to fish. And so the dream finally seemed to take shape–if he could convince Maynard to go as a traveling companion..

Nels had one up in the vacation argument since he owned a some-what reliable car while Maynard possessed an ragged old Dodge pickup that had more rust than sheet metal, plus the odometer rolled over more times than a hound dog who stumbled onto a dead carcass. The passenger side window received a hail of buckshot when he slipped on fresh snow during a deer hunting trip back in ‘72 and the tailgate took flight when he volunteered to transport Carl Odegard's Jack Ass, who decided trucks had little to do with his lifestyle and kicked out the back end with considerable force. Still Maynard felt if the truck started on a thirty below day, then it was worth keeping.

But the car Nels owned, a 1962 Rambler Cross Country wagon, had already seen 25 years of service the year this argument took place. Not much could be said of the car since everything had been kept as neat as a pin since they day he bought it. Nels felt a fool and his money were soon parted and car salesmen were nothing more than a shoehorn aimed for his wallet.

The fishing there abouts had been rather poor lately and Nels needed a cooling off period with Irma Peterson who called on him a bit to often lately to go fishing in the boat she won the previous winter during the Annual Dump the Desoto contest. So Maynard once again gave up hope of seeing the Upper Peninsula since the decision had been made fora fishing trip to the ocean. The guys at the cafe's back table all sighed in relief when the two finally made peace and like always they paid there bill and headed about their day.

CHAPTER TWO
THE SAGA CONTINUES
The story could very well end here and you the reader would be forced to imagine the rest of the journey. Fortunately, I recall most of the details of this heroic attempt of Nels and Maynard to reach the mighty Pacific Ocean from their small insignificant Minnesota town..

There were a few problems with logistics that should have set off warning lights since neither of the two had been further west than the Black Hills. The 500 mile trip to Mt. Rushmore usually turned into a two day journey depending on how many coffee stops they made and how long they hung out at Wall Drug. Nels figured in his head if it took two days to get to the Black Hills, then another day added to that should put them in Long Beach.

But paper and pencil would show at a blistering pace for the two, motoring 300 miles-per-day, the ocean pilgrimage would be a six day drive at best and they only planned to be gone for seven or eight days. So as the two slowly drove out of town that weekend, before them stood a colossal challenge for survival unbeknownst to our small town fishermen.

The scenery soon faded to boredom and after four days Nels became so sick of the Great Plains he could have been hog tied and tossed to the buzzards that seemed to follow the old Rambler for most of their journey. By mid-day the car overheated four times and to add more misery, a fresh can of Copenhagen could not be found anywhere. And the road continued on and on.

By that evening Maynard had belly-ached about Nel's car enough to create a tension level that nearly came to blow several times. By this time they discovered the great American desert. It was hot, darned hot and rolling down the windows did nothing to relieve the heat. Air conditioned cafes for coffee breaks were nearly 100 miles apart and that alone nearly killed Nel's who would drive down to the cafe several times a day just to kill time and brag about what he had caught that day.

Out across the two lanes there was very little that offered them hope. On the fifth day Maynard suggested they take the Interstate but Nels considered that to expensive and traffic flowed around 70 miles per hour, making them a sitting duck and besides his fuel mileage would be affected. As the sun began its decent into the west our weary travelers pulled into Kingman, Arizona and after a cup of coffee and a sandwich the men retired, too tired to argue.

The next morning the exhausted travelers had to make a decision to head on or turn around but after Maynard looked at the place mat on the table he saw with amazement a town nearby called Bullhead City.

"Thirty stinking miles and it is on a two lane. With a name like Bullhead, why the fishing has got to be great," Maynard said, with a new found excitement. What he really had in mind was to catch a few Bullheads and return home.

Nels saw the tourist sinkhole as something to slow down his journey. Only he knew the Rambler was dying and had no plans to tell Maynard of the possible upcoming death of his beloved Rambler. If the two were ever going to make it to Long Beach they needed to keep rolling and Bullhead may be their end.

After the two travelers left the Desert's Edge Cafe they took in the Andy Devine Museum then returned to the Rambler. With a turn of the key the engine miraculously started but left a plume of blue smoke that covered the parking lot. Nels maintained the thoughts of a stubborn old man that if he ignored the smoke, the mechanical problems would go away. Maynard had his mind on the next leg, the 30 mile trip to Bullhead City, therefore did not notice the oil cloud they left behind

The outside temperature was creeping up towards 100 degrees already. If there is anything a cold-blooded Swede can't handle it is heat. A thirty below day in the fish house with a bottle of peach schnapps is no problem. Both of the men were down to their yellowed t-shirts and Maynard even considered taking off his long johns. Running with a bad engine knock, the rapidly aging Rambler rumbled across the Colorado River when they caught sight of a sign, half erased from the wind and sand reading Bullhead City. A few trailers were scattered about in the barren wilderness with a lone combination cafe/gas station edged up next to the agricultural inspection station. That was Bullhead City

Curious to say the least, Nels and Maynard walked into the cafe where the Royal Crown thermometer on the outside wall now read 112 and inquired about the bullheads. The bearded man flipping burgers laughed. It wasn't the first easterner that followed the two lane past Laughlin looking for a fishing hole.

"Under that dam is a rock that looked mighty like a Bull's Head. Well, we used to call this place Hardyville but some city fellers up Sacramento way decided to name it after that rock in the water nobody can see no more. Ain't no bullheads around here. To hot for decent fishin," he said wiping the sweat from his forehead with the dirty white apron. "Folks say, and I'm agin it that someday there will be a big city here."

Nels swigged down the coffee and poked Maynard in the side. "C'mon we got an Ocean nearby with a cool breeze. Lets go find it." The bearded man was still yammering about seniors, Laughlin, Nevada and higher taxes as Maynard left a dollar bill for the coffee and more than a generous tip.

Nels excitement did not last long, the Border Inspector told them it was nearly a full days drive from Bullhead City and he had better take lots of water for his radiator because the weatherman said it would probably hit 117 degrees across the desert.

"Oh my God, not another day of heat, Maynard cried out. "Why, why, why did you do this to me you stupid Swede. Why, why ,why." He got in the Rambler and slammed the door hard enough to crack the vent window. The car moved with a bit of hesitation from the transmission and the smoke got bluer and bluer.

CHAPTER THREE
THE END AND THEREFORE AMEN

With map in hand Maynard looked at the next leg of the journey which led them down US 95 and over to the Mother Road, Route 66, then to Barstow. The inspector told them the journey across the desert would be about 165 miles or so of blistering hot mountainous terrain and don't expect to find many gas stops, best to keep rolling and don't pick up hitchhikers in the desert since most of them are crazy from the heat. Each word the uniformed bearer of doom uttered stabbed Maynard deep into his solar plexus, but Nels just pushed down his flip-top sunglasses and like a good trooper headed west.

The mountains were evil, like hell itself had opened their doors just to torment mortal man. Maynard bet Nels his last fresh can of Copenhagen they would never make it to Barstow and like a prophet of doom, he won the bet. About 15 miles from Barstow in an out-of-the way one-time gold town of Daggett the two-tone blue Rambler blew forth with a horrific screech from the motor followed by a combination plume of steam and oil smoke. The horrid smell ripped through their sinus cavities like a blow torch. And there they sat in the 118 degree heat with a dead horse.

I am not able to recall which they feared most, dying in the desert heat or being attacked by a crazed desert rat while sitting in the car along the two lane. They both showed signs of heat prostration and if weren't for a California Highway Patrolman coming by when he did, likely they to would have died from the heat.

The car was pulled into a nearby garage and the report was not good. The old Rambler needed a new engine, the transmission wasn't doing so well and the mechanic told them the front tires weren't looking very good either.

Not accustomed to hearing such vile Swedish and Norwegian profanity, inserted with a small amount of English speckled throughout, the mechanic told them to get out of his shop and return when they cooled off. No doubt the heat had destroyed most, if not all their reasoning The two angry Minnesotans were forced to get a room at the Desert Owl Motel and Cafe which had the added luxury of a rather busy Santa Fe railroad about 75 feet behind their room.

With a fresh can of Copenhagen and a air conditioned room, the two men consumed several pots of coffee to settle their nerves and slowly came to their normal baseline of sensibility and Nels for the first time admitted defeat as gracious as he knew how

His first line of defense came when he saw a used car lot across the street but all the high mileage dinosaurs had rotted upholstery from the intense heat and likely they never would get them back home safely in any cars he saw. For the first time in years Nel's took the advice of Maynard and the two opted for a Greyhound trip back home.

Nel's meekly walked back to the shop where the mechanic came out with a gun tucked under his shirt, afraid the two would go off into another vituperation in an unknown tongue. Not this time, Nels came in peace and attempted to bargain a fair price for his car and assorted pieces of tackle, thermos bottles and old fishing magazines he picked up at the post office and never got around to reading.

Nels walked around the car as if he was trying to sell a prize Holstein, showing the mechanic the fine points of his beloved Rambler but all he got was a measly sixty-five dollars and a trip to the front door. The owner told the cashier to be ready to call the police if they became hysterical again. But no, all the two wanted to do is return back to the lakes once more where they could go about life much as they always had.

So much for the fishing trip to the ocean. After a thousand mile ride through sage brush, rolling hills, and scorching heat they decided the ocean fish probably wasn't biting good this time of year anyhow. One good thing about the long ride home, it would give them time to get their fishing story down tight. As far as the two were concerned nobody had to know they never made it to the ocean.

The first thing Nels asked the bus driver was how many stops for coffee they would make in the next few days and he thought he had a pretty good sense of humor when the driver told them they would arrive in Fargo in 36 hours. From that point they were on their own

Although Nels would never admit it, he was kind of lonesome for Irma Peterson and a slice of her homemade rhubarb pie. He thought perhaps the walleye fishing may have picked up a bit, so he sat back in his comfortable seat and planned for a uneventful ride home. But no sooner had the bus pulled out of the station when Maynard started in about the amount of time they wasted trying to get to the ocean and what they should have done was go see Big John's Underground Copper Mine and of course, the world's tallest milk bottle.

Nel's closed his eyes and soon Maynard's voice drifted off into that void all Swedes were able to conjure up from birth, much like the place their minds go when their wives start in about going shopping or mowing the yard. He thought about rhubarb pie and how things like that are much more important than oceans. He wondered if Irma would want to take the boat out the day he returns. Yes, life is good when the fish bite and the pie is good and the coffee is hot.

They tell me somewhere outside Barstow, California you can still see the remains of the old Cross Country Rambler left sitting in the brush as a testament to the courage of the Viking spirit, to find and oceans and to conquer the seemingly impossible. It is not up to me to say if Nels conquered his dreams. I am here only to tell the story as I was told and to hand it down for generations to come.

Friday, October 12, 2007

NEW PICTURES ON THE CAFE WALL
















There is a little bit of everything included in this week's gallery. The Henry J (not this one) is the first car I remember from my childhood and somewhere (lost in time) my folks had a picture of me and my brother sitting on the hood of our Henry at my grandpa's farm in Iowa holding huge corncobs with cheap Indian souvenir feathers on our head.

The 3-D marigolds are here at our building. I rescued them from the K-Mart dumpster and they have grown like they came from an expensive nursery. With a little photo shop work the flowers stand out real nice if you stare at them. Watch out for the 3-D effect

The boats are from Monterey Bay. The ocean pics are from the Thunder Bay area and most of the other photos are California except the night shots from downtown Chicago. More Chicago photos will be posted later

The roses were mine. The desert hill was a place called the Devil's Punchbowl north of my California home. The girls in the tree were friends of mine from back home.

I have a few Ohio pictures but it is hard to find the majestic beauty from the wild west.

There are hundreds more to put on the computer and if you think they look good or bad, wait until you see them enlarged. I will be glad to send anyone a larger copy if asked.

And yes, there is a new story on the way. Speed bumps along the way have slowed me down.

Monday, October 08, 2007

ONE VIKING SPEAKS OUT




















After hearing there are many children who believe in both Christopher Columbus and Santa Claus, my friend Hagar (with his captured girlfriend) had something he wished to add to such nonsense

"Jag ingen aning varför dem fara Italiensk tänka de upptäckt USA. Tjur skit. Vi sålde lutefisk till indisk och gjord dem känna god!

"I have no idea why those Italians think they discovered America. Bull crap! We sold Lutefisk to the Indians and made them feel good."



After conquering most of the known world, my people like a little R&R. But from behind the bushes a captured Scotsman is heard yelling "Ma 'se do thoil e, Cha toil leam idir sgadan saillte!"

Please, I don't like salted herring! (Gaelic)

For the Norviegans--Uff Da













Pictures taken at the annual Scandinavian Festival at Thousand Oaks, California circa 1997
























Sunday, September 30, 2007

PHOTOS ON THE CAFE WALL


























I have been putting a ton of photos--some new some old onto the computer. I wonder if perhaps I should have sent these e-mail, but I hope the quality is as good on the Cafe wall.

The moth, bee, flamingo, tiger and weed seed are new. The flamingo was a paint shop trick. The pond with the deep blue reflection grabbed my attention in California. The Mallard swam around in our local lake. The rest are just shots.

Notice the dew in the flower, the proboscis on the bee and the top picture, in the tangle of weeds there is a little puddle of blue--one of my favorites


Enjoy