They still write about him

Here's a story about my Dad that appeared in today's Fargo Forum. He died in 1994. They still remember him in North Dakota. A nice thought.

http://www.inforum.com/community/history/4490193-eriksmoen-picking-erling-rolfsruds-baton

This is the Minnesota State Fair 2018

Don't you just want to be part of this? Perfect weather brought out the mob on the first day.

We got it out of the way right away. You know how you always see somebody you know at the State Fair? Well Tom and Sandy, our old neighbors from Shakopee, were on our bus today. Other than that, pretty ordinary.

Highlight was being up close and personal with Kathleen’s favorite weatherman and anchor, Belinda and Julie from Kare 11 interviewing a dog, and then the traditional ride to Machinery Hill on the sky tram, and walking back to the art barn and stopping to see the homemade cookies and cakes. Kathleen did not say she would enter next year, as she usually does when she sees the samples that don’t seem to look as good as hers. :) It was hard finding vegan food for Stan, stopped at French Meadow to sample their Earth Wings, lines too long, patience short, and opted for the fresh french fries. Bus ride home was smooth. Another year gone, another State Fair. Kathleen’s still there last we checked.

So much to see.

Discovery

Two blocks from the bustling Eden Prairie Shopping Center, this woodsy trail leads past a sweet pond and wetland hidden from street view. Much to explore and Birdie is ready. We've made good progress moving into our new home on Leaping Deer Lane. Still no deer. Pet Smart Hospital is a block away and Birdie almost was a candidate, eating a whole bag of aluminum-wrapped doggie supplements. No problem, just evidence of tin foil in her whatever.
Below is a shot of our moving crew, Bob, Rick and Matt, sent along by Jennifer. Guests last night at the new digs were Melissa and Emily, who live just down the road. (Can I get a ride home from my violin lesson?) They approve of the new place and so do we.

Ready to go. . .cable guy says so

We can move in to the new place in Eden Prairie. The cable guy did his thing, with the usual struggle, and we're good. Nathan is from Dundas, which we both thought quite a co-incidence, that's where our youngest, Jennifer, lives.

Ready to go. . .

We take possession of our new place on Leaping Deer in Eden Prairie tomorrow (Wednesday) near the Eden Prairie Center. It's a rental very similar to our former Shakopee residence only a bit smaller. Close to the Eden Prairie shopping center and family members, we are hopeful this may be the right place. If it is, we'll buy at this location. We have three years to decide this time. Movers come on Thursday. Our lease in St. Paul runs out September 1 so we should have a relaxed move and time for the State Fair and relatives from Colorado. Yippee!

Fire on the way to the airport

Saw this fire on the way to the San Diego airport today, a dozen miles from Hotel California. Temps got up to 108 during the past week, fortunately the air conditioning was working at the new salon where we're putting up final touches. Grand opening soon.

Good Morning from Hotel California

We'll be spending a week. Mornings here are sublime. Afternoons not so much. It's August.

Bruce Grant and the Dogwood deer

When I pulled the arrow from the heart of that Dogwood deer, I had no doubt who dunnit.

It was back in the 90s and Kathleen had seen a few life-sized seasonal decorative reindeer at Bachman’s or Menard’s or somewhere and she wanted one. They were made of all natural materials, willows and branches, and they cost at lot.

Seemed a shame to spend that kind of money on a fake deer when you had all the materials for it available in the garage or growing in the yard. So I cobbled together a PVC pipe skeleton and tied up twigs from our big Dogwood bush in the front yard. It took a few days, but soon I had a presentable life-sized reindeer for front yard display. A stag with oak horns, we called him "Twig." He looked as good as the ones at Bachman’s, you’ll have to trust me on this because our pictures of it are packed away for our next move.

Twig was so realistic that passing dogs would strain at their leashes and bark when they were walked by.

The morning after I put this pride and joy out onto the lawn, this artistic masterpiece, it had suffered an indignity unmatched by others.

I plucked the offending arrow from the chest area, a kill shot if there ever was one on a Dogwood deer, and marched across the street to see the usual suspect.

Bruce D. Grant denied having anything to do with it. Who would do such a disrespectful thing? he replied in mock concern. But it was no good. The twinkle in those steely eyes, just like his father the legendary Vikings coach, betrayed him.

We had a good laugh and I returned his arrow.

Bruce was a good friend. We golfed together on weekdays when he could sneak out of work. We joked over beers in the basement. Once he brought his little daughter Natalie over to present a tiny replica of Kathleen’s little yellow VW bug she liked so much.

They are burying Bruce today, the victim of a brain tumor. Much will be said about his many past deeds. We will remember him for his endearing sense of humor, a fun-loving neighbor, gone too soon at 57, a life well-lived.

Chaplain's reward will be in heaven

Shamming

Shamming (Military): "To intentionally avoid work, being at work, exercise, etc..."

1: "Hey Bob, I know you aren't really doing that paperwork you're just shamming to avoid working outside."

2: "Bob is a fuckin' shammer."

Definition courtesy Urban Dictionary

=====================

I still have no idea who that chaplain was, he said he was a relative. Cousin or something. I’ve had no luck in 50 years in finding him. I’ve tried.

I was in Missouri at the time, along with other teenage conscripts and college grads, learning the brutal arts of modern jungle warfare. The only relief that hot summer was the promise of a day of abuse in the consolidated mess hall, taking my turn at kitchen duties for our training unit. (I believe the mess hall was air-conditioned, prompting the mess sergeant to frequently shout at lingering diners, “get out of my mess hall, take your apple with you, get out now,” as others stood waiting in the heat outdoors for their chance at rations.)

No, a day working in the mess hall started at 4 a.m. and finished after dark, a day of misery just to endure. Fortunately it didn’t come up often.

So it was with surprise and relief that I heard the unexpected notice shortly after dealing with mounds of dirty breakfast dishes. “Rolfsrud!” the messenger from headquarters screamed to no one in particular, “Rolfsrud, report to the chaplain’s office!”

That was it. Nothing else. An order from the chaplain’s office takes priority over the grease pit. Nobody would have any idea what the order was about and wouldn’t hint if they knew. Just do it.

So I found myself tossed outside on the sidewalk that July morning walking the half mile to the chaplain’s office, past the manicured lawns of the many bureaucratic entities necessary to mount a ground war.

What could this be about? A death in the family? A tragedy back home? It certainly wasn’t going to be good news. I hadn’t had a lot of that lately, so I decided that whatever this was, the bad news could wait. This was an opportunity.

So when I reported to the chaplain’s assistant clerking the busy front desk, I gave him my name, he sort of mumbled, and I went directly to a comfy chair in the large waiting room. And waited.

I don’t remember what I did those hours in the waiting room. I certainly didn't ask when the chaplain would be ready for me. All I knew was that there were no mess duties, it was air-conditioned and the chair was soft. I was thrilled just to wait, the picture of patience. And this I did. Morning turned to afternoon and I waited. No lunch for me.

No one was looking for me, no one yelled that it was my turn to see one of the many chaplains. It was as if I were invisible in that room with busy troops coming and going, not noticing a slick-sleeve private probably awaiting grief counseling in a dark corner of a large waiting area.

Finally, after an eternity, a kind voice came from one of the office doors. “Are you Rolfsrud? Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. I didn’t think you were coming. I’m sorry you had the wait. Come in to my office,” he said -- respectfully.

I did, still curious about what was up, but not wishing to rush it. The office was spacious, suitable for a sky pilot of some distinction. I think there was an artist drawing of Jesus. With a beard and long hair.  I still don’t remember if you salute a chaplain. Don’t remember if I did.

“Nothing important, I just wanted to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Lt. ??????? and I think we are related and I just wanted to get acquainted.”

I was shocked and amazed. I had no idea who this decent officer was, or even why anyone in authority would speak to me with humanity in his voice. I didn't care. I settled in to the soft chair, hoping this pleasant conversation would last for the five weeks I still had to go in this god-forsaken place. It didn’t last of course. We touched on a few things, had little in common. For the life of me, I can’t remember the chaplain's name. I’ve tried, but the shock may have altered my abilities. Don’t even remember if he was on Mom’s or Dad’s side. Anyway, I do remember the last thing he said : “Is there anything else I can do for you?” much like a tech does on a help-line. There wasn’t, of course, unless he could inspire divine intervention to get me the hell out of here.

Frankly, he had already done much more than enough. It was twilight by the time I got back to work at the mess hall, and nobody had missed me. I don't remember if I took the most direct route back to the mess hall. The big gang of soiled and sweating soldiers had dutifully gone through their day of misery completely without my assistance.

I should have felt guilty. I didn’t. After all, I was ordered to go see the chaplain, whoever he was, and as far as I knew, that order had been heaven-sent.