Dad was born on a farm near Fosston, MN. His mother, Minda, was college educated and taught school before she married and had children; she then boarded other teachers on the farm. His father, Oliver, raised cattle and had a mill. Dad spent a lot of summers putting up hay for the livestock. Grandma told he was a somewhat mischievous child, but he was raised in a Christian family.
The family rented out the farm and moved to California, where Dad worked as a busboy at a grocery store for a time and as a paperboy. They then moved back to Minnesota, and Dad went to work for Jacobson’s Construction, building grain elevators. He enlisted in the Air Force, where he loaded bombs onto planes. His was a patriotic family: His father served in France during World War I; his oldest brother Orin fought in Germany during World War II; and Dad and his brother Jim were in Korea.
After four years, Dad was discharged and went to drafting school on the G.I. Bill. He returned to Jacobson’s as a superintendent, and went on the road. That’s how he met my mother, Leona, in Kremlin, MT. He was working on a grain elevator there; she was living in an employee boxcar apartment for the summer with her sister and her sister’s husband, who worked on the railroad.
Dad became an instant father to four when he married Mom. They together then had my sister Karen and me, and my brother Steve. (I grew up thinking everyone had three sets of grandparents.) Dad loved us all. Some of my fondest memories were when we traveled on holidays to our grandparents — our three-seater station wagon filled with gifts. It was a long drive to North Dakota and then on to the family farm in Minnesota.
We moved a lot throughout my childhood, but we settled in Brady, MT, when my oldest sisters started high school. Mom and Dad divorced for several years – but when they were in their 70s and retired, they decided to remarry and build a home in Boulder. That’s where Mom passed away of cancer in 2018, and where Dad died at 90 years after breaking his leg and getting COVID.
Not many people saw Dad’s sentimental side; especially as he got older, he could be pretty gruff. But when his daughters won champion ribbons for their pies at the fair, Dad was teary-eyed, and you could hear the crack in his voice as he swelled with pride.
I also don’t believe there was anyone who loved their wife as much as Dad loved my mother. Once, we were at a local bar when company came for the holidays. A patron asked what my mother’s name was, since all Dad would call her was, “Sweet Essence.” We all got a chuckle out of that one. As gruff as he was, he was loved and is missed so much.
