NATIONAL MS WALK--CAN YOU HELP?

Welcome friends. It has been a while since I last worked on the story page. Although I am about ready to post a new story, I want to take time to try a new idea. Most, if not all of my readers know I have Multiple Sclerosis, a disease that certainly changed my life.

Many of you may also know because I decided to tame the beast within a new plan for my body was needed. In January I started to work out and swim at our new YMCA in order to lose weight and gain mobility. It has been amazing to see and feel the change in my body.

The National MS Society helps us in numerous ways by donating equipment and aiding in research to find a cure for this wretched disease. In my case, because of my age and the progression of the MS there is little doctors can do, but for those who are younger, much has been achieved by slowing down the disease. For me, it is exercise. For younger individuals a wide and varied amount of help is available.

I can not walk the two (or four ) miles yet, but I am volunteering to help those who can in Massilon, Ohio on April 26th. I am going to use the Internet to raise money. This is a first. Can you help with a donation? Can you pass this website onto a friend? Whatever you feel in your heart is a good donation is welcome. This is not for myself as an individual, but for all who are fighting for a better tomorrow.

Make the check out to the National MS Society. If you want a receipt other than your check, let me know.






I am asking you to join the movement by making a contribution to support our efforts!!!

Thank you and sincerely. God bless you for helping.


Sorry the epledge does not work on my site. I will try and fix it but until that time the checks will have to be sent to the above address.

P.S. The photo is our 2007 team

PICTURES FROM A CAFE'S WALL

As I slowly work my way through the editing process of my next story, I thought I would return to the Cafe and brighten things up a bit with photos from my All Aboard Amtrac trip taken nearly 10 years ago.

When you start your trip from Chicago's Union Station on the Empire Builder or head out west on Rt 66, most folks like to stop at Lou Mitchell's for a hearty breakfast (and ladies, we get free Milk Duds). The photos stop at Union Station--though I stopped in LA, from whence I started.

What we see is a hodge-podge of the great plains, Glacier National Park and the Pacific Ocean. I should have placed them in order, but, eh, who cares. I hope you enjoy the pictures and as always, they look much better full size. You can see the reflection of the Vista Dome windows in some. I worked hard to remove most of that particular problem, though one is a dramatic reflection of person and train. I left that one alone

P.S. I discovered if you click on the photo it will become full size. At least on my computer. I did not know that. Hope it works on your computer also.

More photos to be released soon.

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.

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

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

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.