We would have been right on time for Mom's picnic, but Guy Rolfsrud got everything screwed up. We Rolfsruds pride ourselves on promptness, some of us even to the point of driving around the block for fear of arriving early.Stan was lathering up for a quick shave when the phone rang and it was Guy over at the Flying Cloud Airport, looking for a playmate or at least a lunch. Guy is the son of our North Dakota cousin, Harold Rolfsrud. Guy lives with his family on a lake by Cottonwood, near Granite Falls, and is a charter pilot for an executive flying service. So, occasionally, when he has time to waste during a Minneapolis turnaround, he gives Stan a call.
Guy was immediately told that he was interfering with a finely-tuned schedule, and that mother would be informed of this fact, but he just went right on talking anyway.
He was talking up Mom's oil well in North Dakota so there really was no good reason to cut him off prematurely. Mom would want to know this. Guy says he knows nothing about the situation, so that makes his story all the more interesting as speculation and imagination are thus permitted to run wild. This it did. With oil at $120 a barrel and with a wellhead potentially yielding 200 barrels a day, it becomes very important to know what your share of all this could be. Which no one knows, of course. It boggles.
Anxiety
Mom did admit to having some anxiety about our late arrival when Stan and Kathleen showed up at the Clearwater Suites fifteen minutes late, despite having taken advantage of the secret Osakis cutoff. Actually, Mom thought we were a full hour and fifteen minutes late, apparently having slipped off daylight savings time momentarily.She was patiently awaiting us in the stuffed and striped hallway chair outside her room and we felt horribly guilty as we trudged up the incline, baskets and coolers and gifts in hand.
Before we had a chance to blame our tardy arrival on her nephew's son, we were introduced to her neighbor, two doors down. Well, not exactly introduced, because no one could remember her name. But Evelyn quickly supplied it and we all laughed about how much trouble we have recalling the easiest things.
Then Nola, the next door neighbor, pulled up. That name was easily remembered because of a fantastic memory hook: She is the former proprietor of Nola's Ark, a pontoon restaurant that once plied the mighty waters of Alexandria's Lobster Lake.
"Are you the oldest one?" Nola asked Stan. "No, but I am the oldest boy," he replied with a smile.
Mom was ready to eat as soon as we got there, but first we had some gifts to open. This done, we proceeded to the outdoor courtyard with the cooler and basket. We gathered some chairs, spread Danny's checkerboard tablecloth, and put down plates and lunch, all the while realizing our rapid movements were creating some buzz behind the many courtyard windows.
Nola ambulated herself out to our table to say a few things. Kathleen had an extra sandwich and we invited her to stay. She couldn't stay, she said, because she hadn't signed out. Stan spotted the friendly face of an attendant at the courtyard door.
"I am so sorry," he said to her, " But I cannot remember your name." It was Peggy, of course, he had met her many times before, and now she happily excused Nola to join us for lunch. Then Peggy took the formal group photo for the family and friends blog.
The four of us sat remarking on the lovely weather this rare day in May. Mom chuckled and talked oil business, trying her best to remember the name of the other farmers on that section of land by the old place homesteaded by Stan's grandparents. We talked about Leo, a family friend who had had a chain saw accident on our farm and was friends recently with Mom at the Suites. Did Mom say he had passed on? Stan remembers every minute of that terrible day after the tornado, but he couldn't remember Leo's last name.
Nola asked if Stan was the oldest one. "No," Mom said. "But he is the biggest."
We sat, genuinely enjoying the sweet company in the warming, breezy courtyard. Life is good at the Clearwater, we agreed. Nola confessed to being a bit lonely now, but accepted that as part of life's challenges. It is hard for old friends to come by often as she would like them to, she remarked.
We agreed. It takes eight hours and a tank of gas just to have a two-hour lunch with Mom, we said. It is sad, but these things do make a difference. Mom mentioned how fortunate she was to have her companion, Michelle. 
As soon as dessert was cleared, in walks Peggy and.... Denise. (It is Denise, right?) They brought fresh desserts from the cafeteria: a square of brownies, a bright red cherry and a dot of ice cream. Mom said she'd save hers in her mini-fridge. Stan wolfed his.
We retired inside, putting the courtyard back exactly as it had been. Kathleen took a picture of Nola's Ark, framed in Nola's room, near the handmade Lobster Lake dish towel stitchery.
"Are you the oldest one?" Nola asked Stan. "No, but I am the smartest one," he replied, proud of his best response of the day.
Mom looked a tad tuckered, while claiming that visitors don't tire her and that it doesn't matter if she misses her nap. We stayed on.
Bud Chan
Mom's getting all wound up for an 88th Birthday on May 23, conveniently just one day before Kathleen's birthday. Convenient, because it makes it so easy for Stan to remember it.
We visited a while in Mom's room, trying to remember to speak softly to Mom and loudly to Nola.
For some reason, Mom wanted to talk about this man. This man had helped build the Farwell house. He was a very nice man. He worked with Bud Chan. "Oh, I know who you mean," Stan said. "He was a hero to Darrell Williams. Darrell was always talking about him. What was his name?"
"Yes," Mom said, "He didn't have children. I just can't remember his name. Darn." Frustration hung heavy. We just wanted to remember the name.
"It will come. It will come," Stan comforted Mom. "Yes, I know," she nodded, "but you will be gone."
"Have Michelle email me the name when you get it," Stan suggested.
On the way out, we stopped briefly at the manager's office. Doris guessed all the male names that might fit. No match.
It wasn't until Stan and Kathleen were half past New Munich that it came.
"Ed Prchal. Ed Prchal. It was Ed Prchal." It just felt so good to say it, a sensation of redemption that all is not lost, that there are still active memory fragments.
"Yes, so what about it," Kathleen asked. "What did your mother want to say about him?"
"I have no idea. But I remembered the name."
