Tag Archives: Kenyon MN

Writing

Author’s journal: Holden on to hope

Leave a comment
The current Holden Lutheran Church building. Photo credit: St. Olaf College

I’m pretty sure a one-hour road trip to my home town didn’t used to exhaust me the way it does nowadays. This is partly because I’m ancient and venerable, of course – and I have particular reason to be aware of that just now. But I’m pretty sure it’s also because we didn’t have constant, disruptive highway repair going on in those days. I suppose one must bear in mind that the highways – like the glaciers and the pyramids – were much younger back then. But I also suspect that the Powers That Be just like messing with Gaia-killing auto drivers.

Which is a roundabout way of approaching my story. I drove down to Kenyon, my home town, today. It was the second time I’ve been there in a week, not a common occurrence. A group of my high school classmates and I gather somewhere for lunch every time there’s a fifth Wednesday in any month. Today was that day. We met at a new café in Kenyon, which is remarkable in itself. Kenyon has rarely been capable of supporting more than one restaurant, and sometimes it hasn’t been up to any at all. I wish the folks at Angie’s well. The food was pretty good.

There was really little reason for me to go down today, though, since I saw most of these people on Saturday. (Must be the gypsy in me.) We held a class reunion Saturday, which we do every five years. (And no, I won’t tell you which anniversary it was. No doubt it’s possible to deduce my age through a web search, but I’m not going to hand it to you on a plate.)

We met in a nice little park in Holden, a township north of town. Holden is pioneer country for Kenyon, one of the earliest Norwegian settlements in the area, going back to the 1850s. This was long before my own family moved up from Iowa to settle ignominiously southwest of town, with the newbies. Holden was the home and headquarters of Pastor Bernt Julius Muus, a prominent Norwegian-American pastor and church planter. Muus is best remembered as a main founder of St. Olaf College in Northfield. In his day, however, he was equally notorious for being sued by his wife for divorce – something that just didn’t happen among Lutheran clergy at the time. It became quite a scandal – the poet Bjørnstjerne Bjornsen, on tour in the U.S., interviewed Mrs. Oline Muus and found – to his own surprise, since he hated the Norwegian clergy – that he sympathized with her husband. Prof. Georg Sverdrup of Augsburg College (the subject of a journal I edit), took the wife’s side, seeing Pastor Muus’ behavior as symptomatic of the dictatorial tendencies of too many pastors in church bodies he disagreed with. The radical journalist Marcus Thrane wrote a satirical play about the affair, which was produced in Chicago.

In spite of the fact that I was standing on what had once been enemy territory, from a Georg Sverdrup point of view, I had a good time in Holden Community Park, next door to the church, where they’ve restored an old railroad depot as a shelter.

I’m not sure whether attending reunions is good or bad for the human psyche. It’s a little melancholy to see how much one’s friends have aged (though a moronic but benign natural response assures one that oneself looks better than everybody else). But it’s morally good, I’m convinced, to display oneself before the others, giving them the same reassurance. Also, of course, to renew acquaintances and see what everybody’s been up to. And to learn everybody’s name over again, because I DON’T RECOGNIZE ANY OF THESE RELICS!

I can say for sure that the experience knocked me for a loop psychologically. I’ve been weird for days now, and I fell off my diet. Various explanations for this reaction occur to me, but I’m not sure of any of them.

Nonetheless, I carry on relentlessly with my novel writing. I’ve wrapped up the Baltic Campaign of King Knut’s war against St. Olaf (the man, not the school). Now I must build up, with tragic inevitability to… well, you’ll know when you read the book. I’ve been experimenting with some limited multiple viewpoint narrative in this work, and that’s where I’ll be going now. I’ll need to pause at least one day in laying down words, to organize my research.

Uncategorized

Thank you, Kenyon

1 Comment

We know from the Bible that a prophet is never honored in his own country. By that standard, I definitely don’t qualify as a prophet. Because my talk last night in my home town (Kenyon, Minnesota, in case you missed it) went extremely well and was warmly received.

I gave a PowerPoint travelogue on my trip to Norway this summer, with a concentration on historical sights. Personally I think I went a little long, and some later alterations to the script came in ragged. But everybody seemed pleased and entertained, and my book sales were gratifying.

So, many thanks to the Kenyon Vikings Sons of Norway lodge.

Authors, Bookselling, Uncategorized

Headed home, briefly

1 Comment

I was looking for a video about the Battle of Hafrsfjord for tonight’s post, but everything I found was longer than I wanted. But the film above is interesting. It’s not about Hafrsfjord, but about the Battle of Nesjar (1016), which I described in my novel, The Elder King. Erling Skjalgsson gets a mention.

The theme of my life just now seems to be homecoming. I went back to the first college I attended last weekend. And tonight I’m going to my home town, Kenyon, Minnesota, to speak to the Sons of Norway lodge (and hopefully sell some books).

I’m not lecturing in Viking costume this time. I’ll be giving a presentation on my trip to Norway this summer, emphasizing the historical sites I visited. I’ll concentrate especially on the battle of Hafrsfjord.

On the unlikely chance that you can be there (I should have announced this yesterday or earlier) the meeting will be held at First Lutheran Church in Kenyon at 5:30 p.m.

Uncategorized

Eating and plumbing

1 Comment
Kenyon, Minnesota back in the 1930s or so. Before my time, but this is pretty much how I remember it.

Yesterday was a good day. There’s been a sudden hiatus – for some reason – in my translating. I got a sudden reminder on Facebook that some of my high school classmates were meeting down in Kenyon (our home town) for one of our occasional get-togethers. (When there are five Wednesdays in a month, we try to meet at some restaurant for lunch on the fifth one. The lockdowns, of course, played hob with this admirable plan, but we’re back at it again).

We met at a new restaurant in town. I might as well mention it, as I liked the food and the service. Kenyon has not been a lucky place for restaurants since I was a boy. This place, Lacey’s, occupies a space where two restaurants have died over the last few years. But one of my friends, who’s stayed in town and knows everybody, said they have a good business plan and are doing a brisk trade. God bless them.

I genuinely enjoy these little reunions. I don’t know any of these people well anymore, and we have vast differences in beliefs, education, and politics. But we have two inexhaustible topics for conversation – our shared school experiences, and the multiple indignities of growing old. There’s a bond there. I suppose military veterans feel much the same. And our casualty list is, I expect, comparable. Members of my class started dying off fast after graduation, and they kept it up at a rapid pace through the years that followed. Somebody noted that we haven’t actually lost any for a few years now. It would appear that we few, we happy few, we survivors are a hardy lot.

A wiser man might have stayed home due to the driving conditions (it’s a tip of over an hour). The temperature lingered just around freezing all day, and what the meteorologists call a “wintry mix” kept falling. But in practice I found the road surfaces fine, and made it there and back without any scares.

An update on my great plumbing crisis – the way things have shaken out, it all proves to be not only a case of God’s provision, but of my own obliviousness. The Bible says, “Before they ask, I will answer them,” or words to that effect. (Actually I’m not sure it does. I’ve heard it quoted many times, but Bible Hub doesn’t produce a reference.)

I have a Home Service Warranty, and have had it since I bought this place. It had honestly never occurred to me that it might cover plumbing. I had what I assumed to be an adequate understanding of what warranties cover – not structural stuff, but appliances. And in my mind, plumbing was a lot more like a roof than like a clothes dryer.

But lo, I was wrong. My old pipes are covered, thereby saving me piles of money. I am gratified by this, but embarrassed to have almost missed it.

Uncategorized

Hey, you want to see my home movies?

2 Comments

Here’s some film footage I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before (unless you saw it on Facebook, where I posted it this morning).

My father was one of those 1950s dads who took home movies as a hobby. After his death I found myself with a large number of old 8mm reels, about which my feelings are ambivalent. In a way I’d like to look at them, but the projector is complicated to set up. And, frankly, my memory of those years isn’t the happiest.

But a while back a fellow I know offered to digitize them for me. I agreed, and presented him with a big box full (he was a bit surprised at the quantity). I figured it would take him a long time to work through them all, but surprisingly he’s got the job done now, and I’ll be picking the stuff up this weekend.

He was intrigued, as a church history buff, to see some footage Dad had taken of the centennial celebration of our home church, Hauge Lutheran of Kenyon, Minnesota, back in 1959. If you’re interested in old cars, at least, this might appeal to you. The building is the Old Stone Church, the original church building, built around 1878, as I recall. I’ve written about it here before. I’m sure I was there somewhere in that crowd, but I can’t find myself. Very likely I was standing next to Dad as he filmed. I have no recollection whatever of the day.

If you’ve read my novel Troll Valley, this church is the model for the original Nidaros Lutheran Church in the book. And the tree line you see in back is the model for Troll Valley — though in real life it’s known (for some unknown reason) as Monkey Valley.

I wondered about the white tabs on the left. My friend explained that in some of the old 8mm films, the manufacturers just punched the sprocket holes through the exposure area itself, and the left-hand side of the image was out of view when it was projected (other film brands had a black bar over there). So the ”data” on the left has actually never been seen before.

Thanks to Tim Larson for digitizing.

Uncategorized

Memoir of a watershed weekend

2 Comments

As I’m sure you know from news reports, I had another birthday this weekend. I keep waiting for someone to yell “Walker is in his 70s! This is ridiculous! Aren’t we going to do something about this?”

But no one ever does. It’s almost as if the world doesn’t care.

But aside from that, it was a pretty good weekend. The best birthday I can remember in a long time.

Got a free meal from a family member, who drove a considerable distance to be with me. That’s appreciated.

Also took advantage of a couple freebies in restaurants I frequent, over the week.

I heard that translation work may be coming this week. And even that my car part might come in (!).

Also a couple other items I don’t feel free to share publicly. One of them was that a big mistake I thought I’d made turned out to not be nearly as big as I thought. Made my crowded interior life a touch roomier than it’s been.

Then on Sunday, I drove down to Kenyon for our every-other-year (I can never remember whether the word is “biennial” or “semi-annual”) family reunion. A bittersweet one.

We held it in Depot Park, next to the municipal swimming pool and across the road from the bare spot where the old Root Beer stand used to be. The weather was beautiful, unusually so for the beginning of August in Minnesota.

Attendance was down. Scheduling conflicts, Covid fears. I don’t know what all. Perhaps the main reason is that the old mainstays, “the Cousins,” grandchildren of our immigrant patriarch John Walker, have mostly died off now. It’s become a reunion of second and third cousins. And second and third cousins tend to be less invested in one another than their “cousin” parents.

And, of course, all the families are smaller nowadays.

The word around the picnic tables was that this was likely to be the last Walker reunion ever.

There was a small crisis to handle. Cousin Doris, widow of Cousin Jim, had some family history items she needed to pass on, since she’s moving to an apartment. Among them were a lot of family letters – significance unknown. And my great-grandmother’s wedding dress from 1890. And Great-Aunt Charlotte’s porcelain doll (possibly valuable). Plus four very large photographic portraits, of my great-grandparents and of their individual parents, in couple shots, dating back to the mid-19th Century.

I took it all, except for the doll (fear not; it found a home). I have no place to display the photos, but I’m the family historian, so they go to me. In my basement for now.

I find it poignant and sort of metaphorical that our family heirlooms, such as they are, should end up in the home of a childless man. After me, who knows what will become of them?

I need to put labels on them.

Uncategorized

Remembering Carl

Leave a comment


“Chicken Eggs 29563-360×480 (4899748717)” by Emilian Robert Vicol from Com. Balanesti, Romania – Chicken Eggs_29563-360×480. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

For no conceivable reason, I’ve decided to relate another childhood memory, something I haven’t done here in a while.

I grew up on a farm outside Kenyon, a small town in southeast Minnesota. We operated what they now call a “diversified agricultural operation,” which means we grew and raised whatever we could think of that would earn back worth the trouble.

One of the things we raised was chickens. I’m not sure how many we had; maybe about a hundred; probably less. The numbers fluctuated, I’m sure. In any case, one of the daily chores was to “pick the eggs,” to gather them from the box nests we had for them in the chicken coop. I have breathed a lot of powdered chicken manure in my time; it accumulated on the floor and we just walked on it. It dried fairly quickly. A doctor told me I have a spot on one lung that’s common in people who’ve worked with chickens; it might come from those days.

After the eggs were gathered in a pail, we took them into the house and down to the basement. There we would wash them in a special solution, swishing them in a bucket with many, many holes, inside a larger bucket of the washing solution, clockwise and counterclockwise until they looked clean.

Then the person doing the job would take them to another room in the basement, where we kept the Big Egg Carton. There was a stool there for sitting on and a bright light hanging from the ceiling. Each egg would be examined for cracks, and any lingering crud on the eggs would be sanded off with a sandpaper block. Then the eggs were placed in cardboard trays inside the big carton, several layers stacked one on top of the other.

(Eggs with cracks were kept for our own use. We kept them in a regular egg carton, the kind you see in stores, on a counter next to the stove. We didn’t bother to refrigerate them. We used them up pretty fast.)

When the carton was full, we’d load it in Dad’s Studebaker pickup and take it to town. There, in the southeast corner of town, near the railroad tracks, was Carl Larson’s poultry operation. Continue reading Remembering Carl →