Mom and Dad

by Nancy Hallock

Looking back, I realize how God-like my mother was.  She planted seeds.  No, not so much in a garden, although her baby iris flowers were stunning, but in people.

She would plant a seed in our Dad's brain.  It would nurture and grow, and after awhile, it would give birth to an idea.  HIS idea!

Then a doorway would be moved to a more sensible (for her) location.  A wall would come down and a dining room would be created.  A half-door would be built to protect that precious little baby, who had come ten years after the rest.

The story about that little seed is for another time. 

Dad was born in Fargo, North Dakota, in 1913, of Norwegian parents.  He didn't speak much English before he went to school, which probably was common in that part of the country, in those days.  He made up for it by becoming a star scholar, who could recite rules regarding English usage until the day he died at age 92. 

Ragnar (his friends called him "Rags"), had five younger sisters, so there was always a full house.  However, there always was room for "boarders," including two "old maid" school teachers, who were sisters.  They stayed for many years.

A few years ago, we saw an article in a local home and garden type of magazine from the Fargo area.  It had an article about an old house that was the original farm house on that side of town.  It would have been in the country at the time it was built.

Imagine our surprise, when we realized it was nothing of the sort!  It was the house that Dad had helped his father build when Dad was fifteen years old.   Our grandfather's flower gardens were well known at the time, and there are lovely pictures of the house and gardens from when Dad's family lived there.  We also have pictures of the house being built.  It looks different now.  Some creative and beautiful changes have been made, and two of our family members have been able to visit and take pictures.

The moral here (if there is one), is that the "official" records are not always correct, and are sometimes created by repeated media misperceptions - some things never change.

What is important is to listen, listen, listen to those stories.  Grandpa has already told you this ten times?  Listen again.  You might hear something new in the telling.  As the present becomes less important, the past becomes more vivid.  Listen!