In today’s world, my father would be termed a workaholic. Not that he had a choice, being the father of seven. Yet, as a kid in Minneapolis, I know he ice skated, skied and was a swimmer. As our father, he made two pairs of skis for us kids to share. However, playing table games or playing catch with my brothers didn’t happen.
I do remember playing checkers with him a few times. I never won — he played for keeps. I suppose his intention was to inspire me to try harder.
He took us kids swimming several times each summer at Pearson’s Lake, seven miles east of Ogema — just a mile or so from the Christoffersen family farm. Dad could swim very well, but he didn’t spend that time teaching us how to swim. Perhaps swimming came naturally to him and he thought the same should be true for his children.
He came to the lake to swim himself, leaving his clothes somewhere in the woods distant from our swimming area. Our spot did not have a sandy beach, but rather stones, drop-offs, cold springs, and if you could swim the distance, a raft. (I never got to the raft.)
After Dad jumped into the lake, we wouldn’t see him again until he popped out of the water on the opposite shore, at least a half mile away. When we saw him reenter the water, we knew our time at the lake was half done, because once he got dressed again, the party was over!
Occasionally my mother would join us, not swimming, but standing near the bank and fretting the whole time. She feared he’d drown, and she’d become widowed, and “whatever would she do” with all these children?
During the winter, when the weather prevented him from working at his profession (bricklaying), he’d have blueprints spread out over the dining room table, studying them, figuring out how to approach challenging areas. We weren’t allowed to disturb him, but I remember a few times when he called me over to explain those white lines on the bright blue paper. I think I absorbed some of the information, as studying and visualizing floor plans has always intrigued me as an adult.
Mom was a wonderful cook, and though I don’t remember Dad giving her many compliments, he did so indirectly. When she baked bread, he’d always want the heel. We didn’t care, we wanted the soft stuff. So, he’d butter the heel and then as he sunk his teeth into the crusty heel, remark “how we were missing the best part,” and “I hope Mama will always save the heel for me.”
When we had a Sunday beef roast, he’d offer the “bone-in” part to any of us, but we refused, wanting the “pure meat” cut. He’d ceremoniously plunk the boned portion onto his plate, again exclaiming “how lucky he was to have the best part.”
During the warm summer months, Mom treated him to his favorite warm-weather delicacy — a bowl of sour milk. She’d begin with a starter, fill the bowl, let it stand on the counter overnight, then refrigerate it the following morning for him to relish at his evening meal. When finished, before she washed the bowl, she’d add milk to the dish, stir it, then pour the new mixture into a clean bowl for the following day.
With a twinkle in his eye, Dad would always offer us “a taste,” but we refused. He’d never fail to remind us of the “delicious treat we were missing.”
She really adored the guy. Years later, when Carl and Doris were newlyweds, Doris cautiously asked Mom if she would talk to Carl about “picking up his soiled laundry and depositing them in the hamper.” Mom’s reply, “I always thought it was an honor to pick up after my husband.”
I truly think she did — oh my!
