Memories on a perfect June day

Dad has been gone for 25 years this summer, but the simple gravesite in this gorgeous setting still hold memories of the sweet little homestead near Farwell where Mom (D. 2015) and Dad spent final days together. Visited the historic Trysil cemetery yesterday and the trees have grown some, the blooms are out, and it still holds all its charm with the view over a quiet lake. It was a perfect June day, and you could barely see their old place through the greenery, flanked by six stout evergreens, representing, for me, their progeny.

A more peaceful site could not be found.

Army stories department

How being caught wearing somebody else’s name while on guard duty (an Article 15 offense) led to a promotion to sergeant.

First off, you have to understand that being a commander of a brigade headquarters company ain’t no picnic. No respect. The lowly captain is in charge of a motley bunch of guys who work for brigade level officers superior in rank to the company captain. So at best, the captain gets grudging cooperation from his unit members, ranging from privates to a full-bird colonel. It’s like being in charge of the dirty laundry. Essential work, but not exactly the best job.

I was a drafted specialist four that afternoon loafing in the barracks when it was suggested that I switch places with someone on guard duty for a reason long since forgotten. I did, putting on his name and reporting for the next round. I knew it was a court martial offense or Article 15 to do it, but for some reason was convinced the low-level risk was worth it.

Within three minutes of my arrival at the guard shack full of off-duty guards, the jig was up. Caught by an no-nonsense sergeant. I was sent back immediately to my Orderly Room to report to the First Sergeant what I had done. Top took it in stride, lectured me, and I left. I had no idea if he was going to report me to the commander or not.

Fearing this, the next day I asked to see the old man, figuring if I took the initiative, it would stand in my favor. I figured he’d let me know what he knew of my offense.

After reporting smartly at attention, I stood at ease and mumbled vague generalities about “wanting to get myself straight” or “do some good soldiering” without letting on the reason why I was there. This must have been music to the captain’s ears, used to hearing draftees give defiant excuses, sham, complain, rebel, or scribble FTA on every wall they saw. He seemed pleased and chatted amiably for a moment before excusing me.

"Whew," I thought to myself upon leaving. Top didn’t tell on me after all. The old man knows nothing of my offense.

Days later I got a call from my new friend. “Specialist,” he said jovially, “the information section you are in has a slot for a sergeant and no officer in charge. Let’s cut some orders to make you an Acting Jack and you can be the NCOIC.”

A couple days later I had the hard stripes sewn in place, a genuine field promotion.

The next time I pulled guard duty, I was the sergeant in charge of a platoon, checking it for fakers wearing somebody else's name, for shame.

Get on my back, I'll carry us

Pretty good impression of Kirby Puckett rounding the bases by granddaughter Emily at last night's Twins game. Only thing, he makes the trip around the bases without a cellphone. A Father's Day treat from Melissa for the four of us, including Mom, of course.

Father's Day Catch

A 150-pound blue fin tuna pulled from the ocean miles off San Diego harbor lost a battle to Hai on Father's Day. The monster, held for the camera with the assistance of two deckhands, will be cut up and distributed amongst his friends. (He doesn't like fish) Choice belly cuts, full of the good stuff, await the old man on his next trip to the coast. MMM. Omegas galore.

Beyond Meat gets trial

Had my first Beyond Meat plant-based burger today, courtesy of our vegan Jennifer. I was curious what it would taste like and how it compared to a traditional meat-based burger. I don't eat red meat so I am no one to judge, and I like vegetables on their own, that aren't trying to be something else.

But I fried one up (Kathleen opted not to join) and it was pretty good. Kathleen noticed that it was very red for a burger, and I reminded her that it was plant-based so no requirement to make it medium-well. Probably the red was from beet juice or something. It wasn't as dense and a little more uniform than the average meat burger. As I recall.

Three minutes on a side as the directions advised, a dash of ketchup and an onion and oh boy. Four on a scale of five.

U.S. Senator Amy Klobuchar's dad wrote up my uncle in 1953

Front page news that day in the Bismarck Tribune was the inauguration of Dwight David Eisenhower, as 34th president of the United States of America. On the backside of that yellowed clipping is a story about Halvor Rolfsrud, who that day was reluctant to be named speaker of the North Dakota state legislature.

The story was written by Jim Klobuchar, Tribune staff writer at the time, and the father of now U.S. Senator Amy Klobuchar.

The story was about a power grab by young upstarts who find a leader in the older 45-year-old Rolfsrud, my amazing uncle.

“The 45-year-old farmer-lawmaker is something of a rarity by present day standards,“ Klobuchar wrote in 1953. “Virtually penniless when he took over his his father’s farm near Keene, Rolfsrud has since burgeoned his farm holdings to 5,000 acres, invested successfully in a coal mine and dabbled in a variety of other interests to a point where his assets are now reported near $400,000.

“But outwardly he remains cautious and reserved. His friends credit him with a flinty determination in rough going, and his rise from comparative indigence offers nothing in rebutal. He retains a humility, however, which is both impressive and genuine.

“‘ It was an honor to be named for the speakership,” he said, “but at the same time it would have been embarrassing to assume its responsibilities. There were others who had more seniority than I, and who were more familiar with parlimentary procedure.”’

____________

The article continues for about 20 more inches, (see photos) extolling the virtues of my father’s big brother, called to be his father’s right hand when he was crushed in a terrible accident and eventually died in 1920. As a result, Halvor only reached eighth grade.

My cousin Harold wanted to tell his father’s story, and I told him I had seen Klobuchar’s write-up, where it was, I didn’t know. I found it today, here’s a picture of it. I hope you can read it, about a son of immigrant grandparents I never knew, who had an American dream for themselves and their progeny, living lives of hardship, but leaving a legacy of honor and virtue.