Remembering the Saints

Here is my annual reminder that this is the time of year we remember the saints that have gone before us into glory.  Just before All Saints, Parents Arnold and Inez died and joined the 'great white host" which we read for our devotions this morning from the book of Revelation.  

Dad died Oct 25, 1991 and mom on Oct 21st, 1976.  I remember when Pastor Schroeder came to call on us to plan mom's funeral and asked dad what hymn he would like, and dad said, "oh, I guess, "Den Store Hvide Flok"., (Who is this host Arrayed in White?) which had been sung at innumerable funerals at Norwegian Lutheran churches over the generations. It is a Norwegian folk tune from the 17th century.   Aunt Minda asked that I sing it at her funeral and I also sang it for uncle Leonard, and brother-in-law Jerrold Lerum's funeral.  And others. 

Judy's dad also died in October, the 24th '03, and her mom Bina in early November (2018), - I sang at her funeral too, (Come to Me All Who Labor and are Heavy Laden).  

In Latin America the 'day of the dead" has great significance when families go to the cemeteries and spend time with the souls of their departed loved ones.  If we still lived in Kenyon we would have gone to tend to the folks' graves at Holden and wandered amongst the resting places of many of my ancestors - from great grandparents Knut and Mari down to the present and where Judy and my ashes will one day be placed.   

This always has been a favorite time of the year for me.  Growing up on the farm it was a comforting time when all the harvest was complete and we were prepared for the long cold winter to come.  It is a good time to think of our mortality and the coming reunion we will have with all the saints. 

Peace, Jerry - October 27, 2020

 

Some grave makers of ancestors in the cemetery surrounding Holden Lutheran Church – in rural Kenyon, Minnesota.  (with one exception)

Great grandmother, Ribor Rolfseng, and husband Lars Jensen Romo , immigrated from Norway in 1866.  They were parents of my grandfather, Jens Romo, whom I never knew as he died in 1930.  (She is buried in the Emanual church cemetery in Aspelund)  

The Aaker gravestone, near which are buried Great-great-grandparents, Knut and Mari Aaker, great-grandparents Nils and Martha Aaker, (Follingstead), grandparents Olaf and Ellen Aaker (Solberg), and numerous other Aaker relatives. All three generations lived and labored on the Aaker “home place” settled in 1857.

Great-great grandparents Matte and Ole Follingstad were parents of my great-grandmother, Martha Maria Follingstad, who married Nils K Aaker. She came to America with her family in 1858 and settled in the Kenyon/Wannamingo area. Little is known about Matte and Ole.

Great-great grandmother, Ingeborg Ellingsdatter Kvam, and husband Mons Hanson Moane, were parents of my great grandmother, Anna Solberg.  One of the oldest gravestones in the cemetery, these markers are deteriorating as the years pass.

Great grandparents P.A (Peter Anton) Henning and Gjertrud (Stene) – parents of my grandmother Martha Romo, are buried here as well as son Fredrick and daughter Ella.

Grave monument of great grandparents, Peter and Anna Solberg. Anna was the mother of my grandmother, Ellen Solberg Aaker, who married Olaf Aaker. Peter and Anna settled on the farm where I grew up and where both my grandma Aaker and I were born. (1880 and 1938)

Judy and I have this beautiful setting for the final resting place of our remains, surrounded by many beloved saints who have gone before us.

 

 

One of my favorite grave stones in the Holden cemetery is that of Sister Anna Huseth, one of our ancestors.  She was a missionary nurse to the Eskimo people in the early 1900s.

Indeed, what more can we hope to be said of us than this: “She Hath Done What She Could” – Would that this be said of me when I am gone.

Bachelors

 

John and Melvin were the slowest men I ever knew, though to say I knew them is not quite accurate. As a boy growing up on a farm near Kenyon, Minnesota, I observed them and sometimes heard comments about these bachelor brothers, usually accompanied with a wry grin to communicate that the boys were not quite up to speed with the world. 

I was curious about their lives.

They were always the last ones to get into the fields for springs work, so the crops always lagged behind their neighbors. Part of the reason was that their land was not good for farming.  That was back in the time before everyone starting tiling the fields to drain all the wetlands and sloughs and plant row crops fence to fence. The large field in front of their buildings was marshy and too wet to cultivate in early Spring.  But even when things dried out the brothers were late.

All the farmers in the neighborhood had dairy herds and started the day at the crack of dawn. John and Melvin, not early risers, were slow to get out to the barn in the morning.  Theirs was a fairly typical red barn we could see from the road.  My guess is they milked about 15 cows by hand, not with a milking machine as they likely did not have electricity in the barn until the 1950s,  Maybe not even then. Definitely “pre-modern”. 

Our community had been settled by Norwegian Lutherans.  These brothers were literally “Norwegian bachelor farmers”, in the vain of Garrison Keeler’s radio descriptions in “The News from Lake Wobegon”.   They grew up and lived their whole lives on that farm about a mile up the road from ours, land that was no doubt homesteaded by their grandparents in the 1860s.

The large two-storied, white farm house was stately and classical, and was said to be full of antiques.  They lived there with their sister, Julia, who did the house cleaning and cooking in addition to caring for their elderly father. I don’t remember ever seeing the parents, but do remember that Julia was considered to be more sociable then her brothers.  Mom sometimes mentioned that Julia had been at Lady’s Aid.  Or was that Ladies Aide, I don’t remember. 

They drove an old Ford or Chevy – about a 1932 model, and we sometimes saw their car moving ever so slowly down the road as they went for an evening ride to check out how the neighbors’ crops were doing.  We held our breath as the car swerved dangerously close to the ditch as John probably took his eyes off the road a bit too long wondering why Joel’s corn was already knee high when they had just gotten their seed in the ground.   

John and Melvin were not often seen in church even though they would have been de facto members as were about ninety percent of those living in the neighborhood.  The one time I am sure all three of the siblings were in church was for the funeral of their father.  His death had been announced by Melvin to Bud in the hardware store one morning.  Bud greeted Melvin with the usual “how’s it goin’ today, Melvin?”, and Melvin simply said, “Dad died today”.  Not much else to say. 

There were other bachelors in our neighborhood and congregation. It seemed like each of the extended families had at least two or three: the Floms, Voxlands, Jacobsons, Ramsteads, and Wrolstads filled at least two pews with bachelors in the back rows of the sanctuary. 

Why were there so many unmarried men in the neighborhood?  Were there not enough eligible young ladies when they were growing up?  Were they so shy that they never got up the gumption to go courting?  It is a bit of a mystery as shyness and coyness didn’t keep many others from finding mates – my own dad would have been considered quite shy, for example, and he found a wonderful life partner and helpmate.

My best guess is that the natural process of taking over the farm from the parents by one of the boys in the family sometimes meant much time-consuming hard work and time just slipped away.  The girls were more likely to prepare to be teachers or get jobs in town and there were not many options left for the boys in the countryside as the years went by.  It would take more of a sociologist then me to explain it. 

Some of the bachelors finally did marry in their fifties. As they say, “late in life”.  As for John and Melvin, they never did, they were just too slow. 

My Dad - Arnold

Dad was a farmer. Just an average farmer at the time when a man could raise a family on a small dairy farm and never work a job off the farm.  He was not a mechanic, but he and brother Len could fix the combine with the most rudimentary of tools when it broke down in the field; he was not a carpenter, but he could hammer together a chicken house with a little help from neighbor Clarence; he was not a horseman, but he know all about untangling harnesses and how to hook up Jiggs and Maggie to pull a load of just about anything; he was not a writer, but his penmanship was classical and sometimes wisdom came out of his mouth like bits of poetry; he was not musical, but delighted in whistling a tune and worshiping God through the old hymns in church as he mouthed the words almost inaudibly; he wasn’t well-read, but did read two newspapers a day and listened to the news three times a day; he was never prosperous, but had a deep appreciation for the fertility of the soil and land of which he was a faithful steward, and for the richness of good conversation, his family’s happiness and for his community.  So, dad was not good at much, but he was excellent as a neighbor, husband, brother, and especially as a dad. 

Training Tupence

Over the years Judy gained the reputation in our family for her ability to train the dogs we have owned. All of them, from Cocker Spaniels Rocky and Anne, to Natcha the chow, cross-breeds like the huge Beckett, and Adricc, our faithful Corgi, were well-behaved and pleasant companions to live with. For over ten years of outings in the mountains and valleys of Montana, Adricc never strayed off the path and always did his best to keeps us together.  The herding instinct he was born with meant he was happiest when his people, Judy and I, didn’t get separated on the trail.  Obedience and loyalty are characteristics we like in a dog.  

So far Tupence is a different story.  She entered our lives in late March, the day before the stay at home order was implemented in Montana due to the corona virus pandemic.  We “rescued” her. She was a tiny two-month old mixture; her mother half Corgi and half Fox Terrier and who knows about the father.  She is the highest energy dog we’ve ever had, and gets totally distracted by every thing that comes across her way or into her view – people, leaves, bicyclers, and especially other dogs. She has become very bonded to us, but is totally deaf to our calls, scolding, or bribes. 



Now she is four and a half months, so perhaps we shouldn’t expect too much, but obedience and following commands do not seem to be in her nature. The other day she ran wildly into the street barking at a very large though calm German Shepherd.  Judy and I looked like elderly clowns running around trying to corral her.  


I think most dogs are trainable – i.e. learn not to jump up on people, come when called and walk alongside of rather then pulling their master along.  

The reason we humans keep pets are pretty well known or assumed.  I worked for years with a program that placed domesticated animals with families all over the world.  Domesticated animals provide multiple benefits for humans, among them the provision of food like milk and meat, and fiber for clothing.  Early humans domesticated animals as living tools – as draft animals to pull implements and carts, and as herders and hunters.  But our ancestors surely recognized other benefits as well. Many animals provide comfort as companions.  It is well accepted that pets relieve stress and they keep us from being lonely.  Think of all the useful ways animals are put to use for therapy and as service animals. 

I know already one of the most important benefits Tupence brings to us.  We laugh a lot at her antics and frolicking, and that is a good enough reason for us. Definitely important to keep fun and humor in our lives as old people while we live shut up at home most of the time during this corona pandemic.

We’ll keep her even if we can’t train her!!  

Old Songs for an Old Man

For some months I have used a book by Richard H Schmidt to meditate on some of classic hymns of the Church.  There are 40 of these hymns in this book, Sing to the Lord an Old Song: Meditations on Classic Hymns, (Forward Movement, Cincinnati, Ohio, 2019).  

Most mornings I read the texts of each hymn, trying to concentrate on the message and recreate the tune from my memory.  Schmidt provides  reflections on each stanza which usually speak to my own soul's needs and wonderings. I find it quite instructive to read the short blurb about the author of the hymn, and the composer of the tune (never the same person).  I am curious about the historical context and relevance of the hymn and why might it have endured and meant so much to so many for so long - in many cases for centuries.  

Then with the use of technology there is the added advantage of listening on my I-Phone to wonderful recordings of most of these hymns by dialing them up on You-tube.  I prefer choral renditions accompanied by organ or orchestra. Altogether, this reading and listening guides my morning prayers, and the tune frequently stay with me as I find myself humming and singing the first lines of the hymn a couple of hours later.  

I am drawn to these traditional hymns because of the richness of their poetry and soundness of theology as well as the emotional responses that arise within my heart from the music. Even as I know some of these hymns by heart from the many times I've sung them in worship, often since childhood, there are a number of them that were new to me. I was glad to make their acquaintance. 

The first line in Schmidt's Preface says it well for me, "Tears don't often come to my eyes in church, but when they do, it's usually because of a hymn - not a sermon, not a biblical or liturgical text, not the beauty of the architecture or the stained-glass window, but a song."  

Preferring the old and classic hymns puts me in the category of my (older) generation who choose "traditional" as compared to "contemporary" worship settings.  It is not that I don't like to sing "praise" or "renewal" songs.  In fact, I sometimes like to strum my guitar and sing these songs, especially Taize, alone or along with others.  But, as the only music used in liturgical worship,  I sometimes find the repetitive and stock phrases of praise songs to lack the depth and challenge of classical hymnody and writing.  I especially object to their use as performance during worship.  I find that the poetry and composition of classic hymns lends itself to reflection and meditation, and especially to prayer.  I very much dislike the thought that these time-tested hymns may be becoming lost as churches search for ways to be "relevant" and grab the attention of the next generations.  I believe that people of all generations seek deep and meaningful ways to relate to and be with the divine presence, and the old songs should be in the mix of our human attempts to worship and commune with our God.

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