Ed's Day Wednesday
Dear FOLKS,
Each Wednesday I continue to share family information that was provided by my late cousin Edwin J. Ostrom. We now focus on stories and anecdotes regarding Ed's maternal grandparents, Reinert Immanuel Emerson and his wife Dora Elisa Nilson, numbers six and seven on Ed's Ahnentafel report. We have learned of the records found for Reinert that I wrote earlier as a report. You can see this report by clicking here.
In recent weeks the memories have included those of their children Ruby, Geneva, Lola, Ole, Alice, Ivene, Vivian, Verola and Ray. These you can read through the following links:
- Ruby's story by clicking here
- Geneva's story by clicking here
- Lola's story (Part One) by clicking here, and (Part Two) by clicking here
- Ole and Alice's stories were combined here
- Ivene's story (Part One) by clicking here, and (Part Two) by clicking here
- Vivian's story (Part One) by clicking here, and (Part Two) by clicking here
- Verola's story (Part One) by clicking here, and (Part Two by clicking here
- Ray's Interview (Part One) by clicking here, and (Part Two) by clicking here and (Part Three) by clicking here.
- Ole's story, (Part Two) by clicking here.
 |
| IMAGE: Three girls enjoying summer watermelon. Left to right, neighbor Laura Peterson, Alice Emerson, Estelle Emerson. circa 1920. Taken on the Emerson farm, Ward Co., ND.From the Edwin J. Ostrom family photograph collection. |
MY MEMOIRS, Part One
by Estelle M. Olson, written circa 1996
by Estelle M. Olson, written circa 1996
I am surprised that
I have lived to be 83, (only by the grace of God), as I think back of some of the
chances I took as a child and of some of the incidences when helping my husband
Raymond. I recall one incident in particular helping in the fields on the west
quarter. We drove an A & B International tractor each. They are small by
today’s tractors. When coming home evenings, we hit the hill coming down into
the valley and Raymond would throw his tractor out of gear, letting it roll at
maybe 45+ miles per hour, often times passing me because I was the sensible,
cautious one. He would chide me as he flew by. It took no more than twice and my
caution flew with the wind. My adventurous spirit took over and from then on I
would throw that little red monster out of gear and roar down that hill, and
all the way into the yard. We did the same stupid thing coming down the east
hill, but could not roll all the way beyond the church and that slight incline
into the yard. We could do it with the cars easily enough.
One of my earliest
memories was hearing Mother upstairs praying. I would go quietly up a few steps
to listen to her. At that time, it was all so mysterious to me. She would name different
ones in the family at different times. My name, perhaps, came up more often than
others. To this day I thank Mother for her prayers.
The earliest of my
childhood that I can remember was going behind the house and going to the
bathroom in my pants (it may have been in a diaper; I can’t remember). Then Mother
would lay me across her lap and clean me up. I don’t recall her ever scolding
me. Could I have been 2 or 3 years old? But I do remember being scolded for
eating a tomato out of a box she was ripening for canning.
My first school days,
brothers Bill and Ole would walk on each side of me to shield me from the wind.
One winter I froze my feet so bad, especially the backs of my heels, could I
have had a hole in my stocking? That injury bothered me even years after I
married. The fun we had skating on the slough we called “The Kettle.” Bill falling
one time, he must have gotten a concussion. He walked home, went upstairs and
went to bed not remembering the walk home. He didn’t feel good for many days.
I’m sure Mother’s prayers intervened again. Also, one of the Langseth boys
running out on the Kettle when it was thawing in the spring of the year. We called
it “rubber” ice. Every step he took the ice would almost break, he was ordered
by the teacher to get off the ice. He came running to the shore, grabbed the
teacher and carried her screaming out on the ice, never breaking through.
We walked to school
through the barn yard and across the pasture and beyond over one hill and
another. We would crawl through fences, often tearing our clothing. At one time
we had a Guernsey bull (seemed like the cattle were often by the barn in the
mornings) and he would lower his head as if to charge as I would go by. One
evening I placed the black snake whip by the pump shed. I was determined to put
him in his place; sure enough the next morning the cattle were by the barn and
again that bull made his threatening gesture. I picked up the black snake and
charged him with all my power (I was 45-50 pounds, perhaps). I had learned to use
that whip by watching Bill and Ole. That bull took off and me right behind, really
showing my skill with that whip. Maybe I should say I shook in my boots all the
way to school that day. This challenge took place a few more mornings before
that bull paid no more attention to me. But I did have respect for him and was
glad when Dad sold him.
When I finished
grade school I was to go to Ryder [North Dakota] for high school and before I could
enroll the school was full so I never did go.
We had a huge
Hereford bull that was so gentle and tame. He wouldn’t stay in the pasture,
always visiting the herd in the neighboring pastures. He picked a fight with the
neighbor’s bull and we kids went out to that pasture and yelled at the tops of
our lungs, “Jack, Jack stop! Stop!” A miracle, they did stop fighting and if I
recall right, he followed us home. Another time he got into a large herd by
Rice Lake. Ole and Bill walked the distance from home, something like three
miles, went into the pasture with the other cattle and bulls, called to Jack.
When he came to them, they climbed on his back and rode him home, steering him
with a small branch switch. They would tap him on either side of his head
indicating which way they wanted him to go. That was Jack, the Hereford bull.
At age 16, Mother
sent me by train to my oldest sister Ruby’s. Ruby and Morris were having their
fourth baby. This trip resulted in my meeting Raymond Olson. After a few other
romances, Raymond and I were married in 1934. The next summer we moved out to
Sumner, Washington. Raymond worked in a plywood factory making parts for car’s.
He hated it there, so we moved back to North Dakota a year or two later. We started
farming by renting Hellmer Lowe’s place. Raymond bought some sheep at an
auction sale. That investment really put us on our feet as those sheep turned
out to be very profitable. In those early years the crops were never too good.
We struggled, never had money for things for the house. I had to refurbish
things Raymond bought on auction sales like an old clumsy wood chair in
horrible shape. I actually cried, but I was undaunted. I padded that chair with
what I had on hand and made a slipcover of pink and white gingham. I must say
it turned out quite charming. In fact, I still have that chair to this day.
When Raymond’s
folks bought a small farm with huge buildings close to Ft. Ransom [in
southeastern North Dakota], where Raymond was born and raised, we moved to
their place. This is where we presently live in the summer months. We
eventually built a small house next to the original one and our son Jerry and
his family moved into the old farm house. He and Raymond have farmed together
now for many years.
We have two living
children, Jerry and Jean. We lost a baby in childbirth and a one-and-a-half-year-old
son was killed in a farming accident. Don’t think I was ever the same after
that. Jerry married Cynthia in 1960. She was a school chum and neighbor.
They have four children: three girls and one boy. Jean finished her last years
of high school in Seattle Washington, staying with my sister, her Aunt Vivian
and Uncle Scotty. Then she went to Warner Pacific College, in Portland, Oregon
and met Bill. They married in 1966 and in 1969 had twin girls.
The twins were ten
weeks premature. One weighed 2 lbs-11oz and the other 2lbs-9oz. They had to
remain in the hospital for five weeks after they were born, until they reached
approximately five pounds each. The day they arrived is a time I will never forget,
I was in the woods picking Juneberries when Jean called from the hospital.
Raymond, along with some of the grandkids came as far as they could get to me
in the pickup and honked the horn until I came out of the woods, and in walking
to them, one of the girls, who was three years or so old, reached out of the
pickup window clapping her hands and yelling “Twins! Twins!” She was so elated.
My heart just sank because those babies weren’t due until October. What ran
through my mind was, "They’ll die; where will they bury them?” How those
thoughts raced through my mind. Again God intervened. Jean told later about how
several of the older women in their church in Salem, Oregon would come and say
to her, “We have been praying for those tiny babies.” Thank you God. As of this
writing they are 27 years old.
Going back to the
memories of my childhood, there never was time or money for birthday
celebrations, all we got was the number of slaps on the behind. The first
birthday gift I ever got, I was perhaps eight or nine, was from my brother Ole.
He had been to Minot and brought me the most beautiful orange. I took it and
went behind the house and wept. I was so touched as I never had been shown such
kindness or thoughtfulness before.
I hesitated eating
it because then it would be gone. That incident taught me there should be more
thoughtfulness and kindness among siblings. I do remember there was a lot of
squabbling with a half- dozen teens butting heads.
And the haying, oh,
the summers of haying. It went on and on. The whole family was involved in the
fieldwork, except Mother who slaved in the hot kitchen preparing food for the
hungry gang.
 |
| IMAGE: Bill Emerson on farm tractor (circa 1928). Emerson's barn in the background. Silhouette of a female in the foreground obviously the photographer. From the family photo collection of Edwin J. Ostrom. |
We would come in hungry, dirty and tired to that hot kitchen. Then Dad would make us all lay down on the floor for a nap; then out in the hot sun to put up more hay. We kids would change jobs with each other when we tired of one. So it was from raking the mown hay to running the bucker (a machine with long wooden tines in the center with a horse on each side to pull the unit into the swath of hay). We would get as much hay on the bucker as it could hold, put it up to the readied stack then back up the horses, leaving the hay there. Usually two men or boys would pitch the hay by hand into the stack with two more in the stack to tromp or pack the hay down and even it out. That process got to be a contest to see who could erect the most perfect stack. I was always proud of mine, whether I deserved to be or not.
For some reason I
strove for compliments, some sort of praise—never got it though. I'm sure that
caused me to be a bratty, obnoxious pest. I do recall getting into trouble,
many a time with threats of “you’re going to get it now.” One time I had gotten
brothers Bill and Ray, I think it was, so provoked I really believe they were going
to kill me and feed me to the coyotes. They took after me and I ran into the
house (Mother wasn’t home), I locked the screen door behind me. I heard them
pulling on the door, soon breaking the hook. I ran through the coal shed, which
was attached to the house, ran down the hill to the barn. They were right
behind me. I went to a shed on the northeast corner of the barn, grabbed onto
the lightening wires, crawled all the way on top of the barn on the very edge.
I used the lightening wires for support, looked back and saw their heads coming
up over the shed. I scrambled all the way over the top, down the west side and
sped to the house again. Why they ever gave up the chase, I don’t know. And why
did we like to play on top of the barn? Sometimes we would slide down the steep
slope on our seats getting slivers from the shingles—then it was to have Alice
remove those slivers. If Dad caught us on the barn roof, we were again
threatened with the black snake. Mother would threaten us too by saying she’d
get the black snake. This was before I even knew what a black snake was. I envisioned
it to be an ugly, horrible device, that was until Ole and Bill acquired one.
How it was used around the livestock. Even I learned how to use it well enough
to swing it so it would wrap around a person without hurting them. There was a
lot of bickering squabbles. We didn’t complement each other, seems we rather ridiculed
each other, with Mother reprimanding us to be more tolerant. She would often
pull on our hair at the nape of the neck as punishment, something we all
despised. I never ran away from a punishment. I’d stand my ground and take it,
then often wondered why didn’t I run and hide like my brother Ray did.
Mother would take us
to evangelistic meetings. These were usually held in the school house as the
local Lutheran church wouldn’t allow them in their building. Bill would drive
as Dad wouldn’t go. They would often preach “hellfire and brimstone” and brother
Ray took up the fire, often getting up on a hay rack and imitating those
preachers. He would raise up on his heels, wave his hands and preach almost
word for word what he’d heard the preacher say. He had no audience, only the
wind, but we could hear him wherever we were on the place. He missed his
calling as he surely had the knack of delivering a powerful gospel message. God
could have used him, I’m sure.
In all our
bickering and cussing each other out, if and when someone got ill or hurt, we
all sent in a dither of concern. When Mother outmatched a brother or sister, I
was hurt to the core for that one. Remembering another time of having a part in
Mother’s prayer, she was tormented with that dropsy eczema on her head. Her
hair was just sticky and her face swelled up. She was in agony. She tried cold
wet clothes, etc. to no avail. At last she took me by the hand. Evidently I was
alone with her and maybe crying because I was so concerned for seeing her in
such misery. We knelt at a kitchen chair, she poured her heart out to God, asking
him to relieve her of her misery, and I cried and called on him too. Miracle of
miracles, that’s our God. We rose up off our knees and she had complete relief.
And if I remember correctly the eczema cleared up almost instantly. I don’t
recall that she ever had a recurrence. Thank you God!!
Another incident of
God intervening, this was after I was married, happened when the men were
chasing the cattle across the river to run them in the pasture in the hills. All
went across but one cow. Jerry was on a horse. Raymond was across the river to
herd the cattle up the alley. I saw the trouble they were having, so I went out
beyond the barn to help by trying to head her toward the river. She turned and
came straight for me and charged with an ugly "baah." Jerry saw what
was happening and thought I was a goner. That cow just brushed my body with hers,
jumped the fence going uphill. I know I uttered “Oh, my God!” I didn’t even have
a stick in my hand. I don’t recall stepping aside as she brushed my body. I
could have without realizing it, but she didn’t even knock me down. Thank you
God.
We had measles, whooping
cough and the dreaded scarlet fever. Mother was so sure I was dying as my
throat was so swollen that when I tried to swallow water it came back up
through my nose. Again, Mother dropped to her knees crying to God to save her
little girl. At the time I thought she ended her prayer in Norwegian, but years
later I realized she was talking to God in tongues. Miracle of miracles, that’s
our God.
[For the next passage it
may be useful for us to become familiar with the word "mow." The word
"mow" that rhymes with "moe," means to cut the grass. While
the word "mow" that rhymes with "cow," means a pile of hay.
Hay-mows (sounding like cows), mean a heap of hay or a place in a barn where
heaps of hay are stored. It helped me to better understand the game Estelle describes
once I understood this new-to-me word. For a full explanation found on
"The Word Detective" website, click here.]
We kids made use of
our big barn, I think, as much as the livestock. Oh, the fun we had. Dad put up
swings over the stalls and we would swing for hours. The fun we had when the
hay was hauled home and put into the huge hay mow with slings that were pulled
off the hay rack with ropes and pulleys by the team of horses. The hay was
pitched onto the rack by hand off of the hay stacks we had made earlier. So
much was put in one sling and then another sling was filled up with hay until
there was a full load. Each sling folded up with its bunch of hay as it went up
to the peak of the barn. At the top a big hay door was open and the slings
would hit a metal track at the very top of the mow and would be pulled to the
end of this mow. That action would trip a rope outside the barn to open the
slings to drop the hay in the mow. Often we kids were inside the barn,
sometimes to pitch the hay to the sides when the mow got quite full, so there
would be room for another sling to be brought in and dumped. We had to make
some fun out of that too by grabbing onto that empty sling as it was being pulled
back out to the hay rack. Then we would let go and drop into the hay that was
still on the rack. That would be maybe 18-20 feet. That barn roof began sagging
in the middle so bad that Dad had cables fastened across the top of the rafters
with turn-buckles hoping to winch it up and put in extra supports. But that
didn’t work as some rafters began to break. It wasn’t long before we made a
game out of that too. One of the boys tied a rope on the hay sling track about
midway between two of the cables. We kids would hang on to that rope, stand on
the one cable and swing ourselves to land on the other cable; then turn around
and swing back. Over time, that jarring on those cables straightened that barn
roof! As far as I know that barn is still on that farm 25 miles southwest of
Minot. There was a platform up the north end of the mow to repair the track
when needed. We would go up on that, maybe 30 to 40 feet high—even when there
was just a small amount of hay in the mow. It was not enough to just drop down
onto the hay, we had to do somersaults—more fun! We could have broken our necks!
Thank you God.
We also dug tunnels
in the hay in the mow; then crawled in these tunnels to hide from each other.
Once, when filling the mow with the first hay load in the morning, we were there
ready to pitch the hay to the sides and we heard kittens meowing. The sounds
seemed to be coming from under the hay. We hurried to tell whoever was driving
the horses to pull in the sling to stop as we wanted to find those kittens. We
all frantically dug until we found the kittens. Evidently the mother cat had
carried them to the hay loft and they had gotten covered from the last load of
hay from the day before.
Often I was chosen,
or perhaps volunteered to ride after the cattle that had been turned out on
open grazing land on the prairie to bring them back to the barnyard for the
night. This particular time I didn’t want to bother to put the heavy saddle on
the horse, so I rode bareback. In getting to the herd a strange bull was among
them. He sure didn’t cotton to any horse. He lowered his head and pawed the
ground. Needless to say, I took a mighty big detour on my bareback steed
knowing one quick turn of my horse would send me to the ground in the path of
that ugly monster. I did get the herd home minus that bull. He took off another
way. Thank you, God.
Mother encouraged
all of us to learn to play the organ and sing. Nothing thrilled her more than
to have one of us, usually Lola, cord on the organ and several of us standing
by singing hymns. Mother would often cord on the organ and sing by herself—I’m
sure when she had to give up on us to come and join her. Wish I could
remember some of the sad, mournful ballads she’d sing. One I recall is
“Come Home” about a wayward son. I have the book she made out of black cloth
and pasted in poems she would cut out of magazines etc. And the black bloomers
we all had to wear. They were baggy things made out of sateen, and oh those
horrible stockings. Mother knit the legs on a knitting machine and Dad knit the
feet by hand. We all despised those stockings as there was a ridge where the
foot was attached to the legs. Another thing was the long legged underwear we
had to wear in the winter and try to roll the cuff" around the ankle so it
would not be bulgy. We got quite expert at it. When Alice and I were to go
somewhere in the evening, we would roll them up above our knees—until those snoopy
twins, I think Ivene was in on it too, saw us do that. Down the stairs they
went to tell Ma. Up the stairs came Ma. Down our long legged underwear went! No
doubt we banned those brats from watching us dress after that.
Alice and I longed
for a room of our own. So much so that in the spring when the chickens matured enough
to turn them out into the big chicken coop, we’d scrub that brooder from top to
bottom, hang some curtains on the windows, and move our beds out there with
some rugs on the floor. What a castle we had. But it got hot in there with only
small windows on the south side. We would have to leave the door open without a
screen. The kittens soon discovered the warmth under the quilts with us. They’d
crawl to the bottom and start playing with our toes. We’d grab them, toss them
out only to have them return.
We so often played
tag, always going barefoot in the summer. There were two granaries close
together, perhaps 3 to 4 feet apart. We would crawl on top of the granary which
was turned into a bedroom for the boys in the summer after the grain was hauled
out. We would put our hands and bare feet on the sides of each building and scamper
on top of the roof. Brother Ray saw me do that, so he came after me in the same
fashion. I couldn’t let him catch me so I jumped off onto the ground. I’m sure
it was 15 or 18 feet. Is that why my back hurts so much now?
Mother ordered
Sunday School books and taught us around the kitchen table against Dad’s
wishes, but he had gone, I believe, to the Seattle area to check on work, as
farming was very difficult. She took advantage of his absence to get us kids
started in God’s word. We started in the Gospel of John and it wasn’t long
until we realized we were sinning against God and each other. So one day in
that famous barn, I think it was Alice, Ray, Oliver, Ivene and I got to
discussing what we had learned and what was required of us. We all knelt and
prayed very sincerely for God to forgive us as we repented of our sins and
crying our hearts out. We told God we accepted Christ as our savior. We told Mother,
but she was somewhat cautious. She well knew the flighty minds of youth, but
kept encouraging us to pray and read the Bible. I don’t recall how long she
held these lessons each Sunday morning. Even though we “backslid” as the
expression was, for several years we again renewed our vow’s to Christ and each
strove to be faithful; thank you God. Now each of us is continually praying,
hoping, trusting that all of our families come to realize their need of the
Lord in their lives and accept Him with repentant hearts. Thank you God. Oh,
the value of a Mother’s prayers. Dad made peace with the Lord too before he died.
He went to church faithfully with Mother after they moved to Seattle. Thank you
God.
[end of Part One]
With Estelle's story we are now reading the memories of ten out of the thirteen children of Reinert and Dora. As a family history researcher, I can tell you that this is an extraordinary degree of participation. Within my family many ancestors have stories to tell, in fact everyone has a story, but only a very few have left that information for me to read; most I have to discover through records they left behind.
Rest assured that Estelle shared the exact family names and important dates in her original story. In respect to the living, I have tried to remove specific dates and detailed names of the most recent (living) generation. Researchers of this family can contact me by email for more information.
Once again we are at the end of this week's article. I want to thank Cousin Ed and his family for helping to bring these stories to us. It is so entertaining to learn of life and growing up in rural North Dakota. I hope you enjoyed this post and that you have a good week. See you next time and thank you for stopping by.
The URL for this post is: http://homefolktales.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-emersons-according-to-estelle-part.html.
Please comment regarding this post by clicking the URL above and then use the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Or contact me by email at dsteff4246[at]gmail[dot]com.
[end of Part One]
With Estelle's story we are now reading the memories of ten out of the thirteen children of Reinert and Dora. As a family history researcher, I can tell you that this is an extraordinary degree of participation. Within my family many ancestors have stories to tell, in fact everyone has a story, but only a very few have left that information for me to read; most I have to discover through records they left behind.
Rest assured that Estelle shared the exact family names and important dates in her original story. In respect to the living, I have tried to remove specific dates and detailed names of the most recent (living) generation. Researchers of this family can contact me by email for more information.
Once again we are at the end of this week's article. I want to thank Cousin Ed and his family for helping to bring these stories to us. It is so entertaining to learn of life and growing up in rural North Dakota. I hope you enjoyed this post and that you have a good week. See you next time and thank you for stopping by.
-- -- --
The URL for this post is: http://homefolktales.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-emersons-according-to-estelle-part.html.
Please comment regarding this post by clicking the URL above and then use the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Or contact me by email at dsteff4246[at]gmail[dot]com.
Copyright (c) 2016, Darlene M. Steffens. All rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment