Farmhouse in South Dakota

By Steve GerkinCategories: Creative Nonfiction

(A braided essay)

At dawn on a Saturday morning in July of 1958, our nuclear family loaded up for a trip to spend the day with Mom’s uncle, Albin Matson. We lived on the Missouri River in Sioux City in northwest Iowa. Uncle Albin lived on the other side of the Missouri in southeast South Dakota, fifty miles away, down two-lane roads through rich, black dirt fields. Uncle Albin’s dwelling was the same farmhouse his family built when they immigrated from Sweden in the early 1900s. With sleepy eyes, we piled into the Chevy.

Dad always bought Chevy station wagons. He ordered a new one from Miller-Kidder Chevrolet on Pierce Street every three years. Well, the company bought it. The latest addition was a putrid, copper-color behemoth with a six-cylinder engine and a manual transmission (three speeds on the column). Even as a ten-year-old, I knew this massive hunk of GM steel wasn’t cool. Still, it had its purpose. Dad packed the way-back with samples of aluminum windows and doors used as props to solicit Cashway lumberyards in the four-state region to carry the Gerkin Window Company line of products. Once a year, until Uncle Albin died, we made the pilgrimage to visit a few relatives on my mother’s side of the family. The Matson homestead was like no other—like our grade school textbooks showed folks living in pioneer days.

My younger sister, Molly, and I (she is about seven years old, and I am nearly eleven years old in this recollection) sat in the backseat, just in front of the way back. Mom and Dad smoked in the front seat and drank coffee. The smells of both overwhelmed me. I cracked the window open. Eventually, we pulled off the concrete county two-lane and turned onto a gravel country road with a bump; the sack of fireworks rocked in the storage space behind me. Stones bounced off the bottom of Dad’s pride and joy. As an oncoming car approached from beyond our direct view, beyond the undulating hills, thick dust trailing the vehicle rose, announcing its impending arrival like a fog bank rolling into San Francisco from the sea. Dad pulled over to the edge of the gravel and waited for the vehicle to pass.

Mom continued her travelogue of the sights we saw, offering an oral history for all captive ears, including those in the backseat. We traveled past the white, one-room country schoolhouse where her mother taught in her first job—after earning a Home Economics degree from the University of South Dakota in Vermillion—and lived in the house of a School Board member, as was customary. (Years later, my Cousin Barry walked to that school daily, no matter the weather. Honest).

Mom remarked that her mother, Melvie Matson, was the first woman in the family to graduate college and join a sorority (Pi Beta Phi, which her father thought was frivolous). Her family’s farmhouse was our destination. It may have been where her wooden chest of clothes and treasures from Sweden arrived stateside, addressed only with her name and Vermillion, South Dakota.

The gravel road continued its crunch.

The copper car slowed and entered a rutted dirt lane past a white clapboard house (they were all clapboard houses) of the Matson’s old-world friends, Elmer and Effie Lundquist (relatives from the same region of Sweden), past fields of corn stalks stirring in the breeze, past barking dogs. From their house, we saw the home of my mother’s ancestors. As we rode down this road, I imagined it in the winter, with feet of drifted snow pushed to the side by a tractor. I guessed what a muddy mess it must be in the spring. For now, it was a dusty, brown path whose terminus was Uncle Albin’s barnyard.

We rolled onto the Matson’s land between a water trough, a small animal pen, and the chicken house. The Chevy jerked to a stop behind the long, tall hedge that acted as the boundary between the farmyard and the home; one last cloud of dust settled over the car. Looking back on the scene, it seemed like we were on a different planet—far away from our neighborhood of neatly trimmed yards, far away from the country club.

The Matson barnyard was a cul-de-sac in a rural sort of way. Different from its counterpart in the city, where the concrete roundabouts had driveways that branched outward, like the spokes on a wagon wheel. The wagon wheel of the rural version had an earthen floor with well-worn paths to several multi-purpose barns to the north, access to the fields to the east, pig and cattle pen with a water trough and neglected windmill to the south, a chicken coop beside a large garden to the west, and a great set of bushes that nearly obscured the house along the western flank, except for a walkway through the vegetation that connects the east side of the house to the barnyard. That’s where we parked our station wagon. It’s not a parking place where Dad stopped and turned off the engine, next to the bushes, just feet away from the farmhouse kitchen in South Dakota.

All three relatives – Albin, Alice (his second wife), and Barry (his son) – came through the front porch’s screen door. Followed closely by his mother, cousin Barry led the charge towards the people from the outside world.

Uncle Albin came into view between the hedges with his well-weathered face and a hitch in his gait. Cousin Barry flashed a delightful, darn-glad-to-see-you-smile, and I grinned back at the more petite and well-muscled boy, who was a year younger. The adults gladly greeted each other: Mom with her reserved exuberance, Dad with his salesman vigor, and Uncle Albin with his always-present Swedish-accented mutter. Like his son Barry, Albin humbly conducted himself, barely looking out from under his green John Deere hat, while the ladies twittered opening lines in what was a daylong stream of small talk. We headed for the principal entrance through the screen door and a short breezeway, a screened-in porch with rows of snow boots and heavy parkas hung on hooks. This scene reminded visitors of the frightful winters. The seasoned door slammed behind us.

I would love to go there sixty years later, although it may be disappointing. What if the farmhouse and other structures are gone? What if the Norman Rockwell setting disappeared? What if the owners have no idea of the Matson clan? My recollections are so superficial—play activities between Cousin Barry and me. As an older man, I now know and appreciate that the folks on Albin’s farm endured incredible hardships, working the fields, suffering through harsh winters, and clinging to their Scandinavian roots.

I know there is more to tell than just a story about a farmhouse in South Dakota. Only one person can help me with my odyssey: my Aunt Joan.

Joan Skordahl Morris (b. July 28, 1930) is one of three daughters of Julius Ambroise Skordahl and Melvie Matson Skordahl (Albin’s sister). She is my mother’s younger sister, which makes her Aunt Joan to me. Curious about the farmhouse in South Dakota, I emailed her, the only surviving member of the Skordahl family. I had not seen her since Dad’s funeral several years ago. She fired back a lengthy recounting, telling me that her widowed Grandmother Skordahl (Bertha) immigrated from Norway to the southcentral section of Minnesota (New Ulm) in 1900 when Julius was seven and brother Bergie was five. Planning to settle before the boys arrived in America, Bertha’s sister agreed to take care of them. Bertha, a nurse, scouted out the best opportunity to support her boys. An acquaintance in southeast South Dakota convinced her to move to Vermillion, where Bertha married a prosperous farmer, Mr. Nelson. (Aunt Joan said he died early and, regarding the family history, remained an enigma.)

Vermillion became the boy’s destination. A wooden chest painted with J.A. Skordahl, Vermillion, South Dakota, on its top, carried Julius’s clothes and belongings from Norway.

Aunt Joan’s mother’s family immigrated from Sweden when Melvie was an early adolescent (around 1901). The family built the farmhouse on their farm, 5 miles east of Vermillion, in proximity to Swedish friends from the old country.

Melvie and Julius met at a dance in southern Minnesota. The story goes that Julius was a cigar-smoking, fancy-Dan on the dance floor. The romance became a marriage on June 30, 1921, at a nearby Baptist Church, attended by Scandinavians from the area, including the Lundquists. The young professionals’ first household was in Volin, just a few miles northwest of the farmhouse. Julius began a large animal (horses and cattle) veterinary clinic, and Melvie was the school’s superintendent. As the story goes, Scandinavian men liked their hops, including Julius. During a meeting of the Ladies Temperance Union in their living room, the vet’s homemade beer started popping their tops. Melvie explained the noise away, suggesting, “Oh, they must be dynamiting at the quarry?”

Even as a near-teenager, when Dad drove us to the farmhouse in South Dakota, it struck me that these relatives were different than me. Who were they? Could Aunt Joan give me the insight I craved? Could she tell me what they were like? I wondered, would my childhood memories conflict with hers? Did we do some of the same things? What were her activities, experiences, and reasons for being on the farm? I spent only a few days at the farmhouse in South Dakota – how about her? Loaded with questions, I called Aunt Joan.

We had not talked since my father’s funeral several years ago. A chat between us was long overdue. When I asked her about time on the farm, Aunt Joan shifted into high gear. Based on months of living there, Aunt Joan had strong memories of the farmhouse in South Dakota. At age thirteen, she spent considerable time on the farm before moving with her family from Sioux City to Nampa, Idaho. The farm was often a summer and winter opportunity to spend time with the Swedes for long periods. Aunt Joan claimed that she and her mother lived with the Matsons in the late summer at harvest time.

“A horse pulled the hay threshing machine,” she said, “They let me sit on the wagon seat and hold the reins, but I did not get to drive it.” During threshing time, neighbors gathered at each farm to help harvest the crops. “The kitchen was in full swing,” Aunt Joan recalled, “The smells were wonderful. Pails and baskets loaded with good eats and, of course, big pots of coffee.” Aunt Joan told me about the plow horse, Daisy. “I can remember the last ride on Daisy. I rode her to visit a neighbor girl. We were nearing the barn on the return trip, and I decided to play my new harmonica. Daisy bolted, and I fell off just before the low ceiling of the barn door.” Both survived. Horses and milk cows were not the only animals on the farm. There were also pigs, Hereford cows, and a herd of barnyard cats.

The old-world farmers turned to Swedish when the appropriate English word proved elusive. They spoke with the homeland accent. They toiled in the dirt, determined to be independent in an unforgiving environment—freezing in heavy snowfalls with temperatures well below zero, suffering through hot and humid summers—as they worked the land for its bounty. Impressions from yearly trips had a strong effect on me. Yet, Aunt Joan’s revelations showed the resolve of these new Americans and enlightened her about life on the farm. As a youngster, I couldn’t grasp what it meant that my Grandmother, Melvie Matson, had immigrated to this fertile land. She slept in this house, walked in and out of the same kitchen door as me, milked the cows in the same little barn, and cared for the farm cats.

I didn’t know Bertha traveled to Minnesota to find the best location for the boys and her. I couldn’t imagine my Grandfather courting my Grandmother in that farmhouse kitchen. I didn’t know that he lived in poverty during his years at Veterinary College in St. Joseph, Missouri, and struggled as a large animal vet near Melvie’s farm during the start of the Great Depression. It is not lost on me now. I take ahold of it.

Yet, the imprint of my adventures on the farm and the life stories of my mom’s parents live deep in my fibers. I like to think their DNA powers my mental, emotional, and physical structure,

As an adult, I wondered why Norwegians and Swedes immigrated to America to the upper Midwest. Why did they want to leave their native lands and family members? Historians recount that over-population and rock-pile farms in Scandinavian countries created impossible economic duress, and the lack of religious freedom highlighted the reasons for the uprooting.

The disillusioned Scandinavians yearned for wide-open spaces where they could live independently and practice the religion of their choice. When the church heard of a family’s decision to go to America, numerous resources proved they turned their back on them. It was heresy for the Lutheran Church in Sweden to leave the church and the tight-knit, hundreds-of-years-old community. In 1862, President Abraham Lincoln promoted legislation opening up over 300 million acres west of the Mississippi River. On May 20, 1863, Lincoln signed the Homestead Act, which allowed the sale to citizens or future citizens (immigrants) up to 160 acres of government-owned territory. The total closing cost for each family was $18 ($ 471 today). Settlers had to homestead the parcel for five years. Then, they received the land title. Interested immigrants scouted the land or hired professional land locators for $10 to $25. Most homesteaders arrived in the Dakota Territory very poor. In addition to building the homestead, most had to find other work before their farms became self-sustaining. Until the Act ended in 1986, two million individuals earned more than 270 million acres of farmland. The abundant farmlands of Montana, North Dakota, Colorado, and Nebraska had the most successful claims. South Dakota (6^th ) claims totaled nearly 100,000.

A blonde, blue-eyed two-year-old Sioux City, Iowa girl strolled down the middle of the busy street she lived on, dressed only in her birthday suit. Her dad, Julius Skordahl, caught up with his free spirit. Wrapping my Aunt Joan in his arms, he called her Pidgeon, then and always. She was different than her two older sisters. As my Aunt Joan roamed through the farmhouse in South Dakota, no doubt, she bounced through the rooms and out the screen door to see what she could find. She had a certain glow that carried her through a substantial career in athletics, which earned her a position as President Kennedy’s first national fitness adviser for the President’s Council for Physical Fitness in the 60s. Aunt Joan traveled to hundreds of schools around the country. She used her cheerful Swedish spirit to excite adolescents and teenagers to exercise. Aunt Joan insisted that personal fitness promoted the lifelong benefit of pride in caring for one’s body and demonstrating the link between physical and mental health. During one of her national fitness tours, Aunt Joan held such a demonstration at my North Junior High School in Sioux City in 1962; she beamed when she saw my eighth-grade face beaming back at her from my auditorium seat in the crowd of youngsters. To this day, we both grin at each other during infrequent family events, like reunions at Christmas or funerals or an occasional stop-over with us in Tulsa as she and her husband crisscross the country. My ninety-two-year-old Aunt Joan still radiates authentic charm, advocates for physical and mental health, and lives with zest and purpose. She is likely one of the fittest, most enthusiastic seniors in Tucson.

Her experiences at the farmhouse in South Dakota precede this writer’s exposure by two decades. Yet, much endured. The house’s exterior shape remained similar, along with the expanded window seat in the dining room, showcasing its horizontal stain-glass window in the top pane, the identical porches, barns, corn crib, and the outhouse and fields. Some experiences differed. For instance, she swam in the cold water trough below the windmill. My parents deemed the dirty water with a thick green mossy covering and a maze of trapped bugs not suitable for me to use.

We arrived relatively early in the morning, and Uncle Albin still had a chore to do. He took Barry and me to the cow barn where several milk cows, tethered by a rope to the wood beams of their stalls, waited patiently. Uncle Albin pulled up a three-legged stool and pushed his hat up his forehead. He smiled at us – something this serious-minded Swede seldom did. The now-instructor settled a galvanized bucket under a swollen underpart of the animal. He pulled alternately on the things that hung down. The anatomy looked like the underside of a pink piñata with tiny legs. I recall my surprise when the stream of milk hit the inside of the metal container, sounding like raindrops on a metal roof, then becoming a rhythmic stream against the metal, matching the pace of Uncle Albin’s tugs. Standing up, he looked me in the eye as if to say, I dare you. I sat on the small stool.

A Guernsey looked back from her hay trough; her body was enormous, her fragrance was pure barnyard, and her torso was just inches from my head. I reached out and softly held the teats as Uncle Albin had. They were soft, warm, and spooky. Afraid that I may hurt the cow and get kicked, I gently tugged. Nothing. I looked up at Uncle Albin, who encouraged me with this Swedish-laced phrase, “Ya shoor.” I gave it another go or two, trying to replicate what the veteran did. The results were disappointing, but Uncle Albin pounded me on the back, the Swede saying, “ Guud yob!” Cousin Barry sat on the stool and quickly filled several metal containers. We carried the pails of liberated milk past the screen door and into the kitchen, where the other adults eagerly awaited our return. A chorus of ohs and ahs from the adults in the room greeted our accomplishment. Uncle Albin leaned against a wall and grinned at the moment. The still-warm milk went into several large pitchers. One made it to the lunch table for consumption in a few hours. It was warm, rich, cream-like, and strange-smelling.

I asked Aunt Joan about the farmhouse and its features. Since she spent many days in the house, she is an expert on the farm’s layout and daily life mechanics. “There was always good smells of something simmering on the stove – Swedish pancakes cooking right on the stovetop, or pastry baking or, probably, meat.” The kitchen was huge. It had doors to the pump room that brought up water used for primary water needs and the pantry that held a host of foodstuffs, including a three-foot-high burlap bag of breakfast oats that Uncle Albin dragged across the floor to its resting place. A long, spool wood leg table, covered by an oil cloth with numerous coffee stains, occupied the middle of the kitchen. The star of the largest room in the farmhouse was the cast iron stove, the house’s multi-purpose Queen. An open doorway led to a vestibule offering entrance to the dining room to the left – used commonly for feeding Swedish-speaking post-church visitors with a slab of meat, potatoes, a macaroni dish, and jello. “The Lundquists once arrived in a sleigh on a snowy Sunday,” Aunt Joan recalled. Beyond was the sitting room and doorways to two bedrooms to the right and a narrow set of stairs to the upper floor.

The kitchen’s most modern appliance was the wooden telephone box on the wall between the porch door and the stove. The oak box had two silver bells at the top and a tilted writing board below the speaking piece. Aunt Joan offered this commentary, “You aggressively wound the lever on the side of the box while placing the black listening piece located on the left side of the box, tethered by a black cord, to your ear, and waited and hoped you’d hear a voice. I watched my mother rev up the phone box with the metal handle on the right side of the box and shout “Effie, Effie” into the trumpet-shaped speaking piece in hopes she had picked up on the other end. Effie lived in the white house, whose lane leads to the Matson’s farmyard. Effie’s husband was Elmer, a towering, lumbering Swede in overhauls with a voice volume that matched his size. When they came over, he and Uncle Albin discussed farm stuff and poured down the coffee.”

In the backyard, the washhouse stood nearby behind a large willow tree. Next to the washhouse, a flat door covered the storm cellar with its steps into the earthen cave, offering shelter during tornado attacks. The underground room kept meats frozen in the winter and cool in the summer and stored potatoes and grandmother’s canned tomatoes and corn.

Aunt Joan spoke of passing evenings in the summer house (a small building open on one side) close to the home, “Grandfather Matson built it, especially for Grandmother. It was covered in vines. So sweet.”

The outhouse was on the north side of the house, back from the house. Aunt Joan explains, “It was entertainment in itself. The Matsons subscribed to Swedish newspapers and plastered those articles and pictures on the inside walls and door for visitors to enjoy.”

Saturday night was bath night for Albin and Bertha. The washtub was filled with water, warmed by the stove. Monday was the wash-the-clothes day. Before his chores, Albin removed the tub and scrub board from the wash house and set them outside. In the winter, he placed the implements in the kitchen. Clothes dried outside, clipped to the clothesline strung between metal poles.

Aunt Joan tagged along during Uncle Albin’s morning chores. He didn’t seem to mind. The first stop was the cow barn of 8 or so milk cows – red-brown and white spotted Guernseys and tan-colored Jerseys. She frequently asked him, “Why does the barn smell so bad? He didn’t have an answer for me. It was always a mumbled Swedish response.” Before leaving the cow barn, the farmer reached into a wall recess, pulled out a liquor bottle, took a swig, and winked at his little associate. Second on the list was hauling bushels full of corn on his shoulder, corn from the crib to the pigs. He headed back to the kitchen for breakfast, then lit out for the fields, which Aunt Joan did, too, mainly if the hay wagon was part of the scene. She remembers, “I don’t recall any tractors on the farm. I got to sit on the wagon seat and hold the horse reins but was not allowed to drive them. Females only brought out the midday meals, never got to do the fun stuff.”

Cousin Barry and I shot out of the Matson’s farmhouse kitchen, out the breezeway, past our parked car to the ample open space in the middle of the barnyard. I retrieved several items. Barry and I were on an adventure —no adults, just two late-adolescent boys sharing a manly moment. I held my new yellow bow and a couple of arrows. Simple enough.

We settled in the dirt expanse just behind the water trough. Aiming above the weathervane on the windmill, I pulled back the bowstring as far as possible. Releasing it sounded like a plucked piano string—the arrow sped over the windmill and far above the sea of corn stalks. The bright sunshine blurred the three-finned projectile as it reached its apogee, causing us to lose sight of its descending arc. If there was one, we couldn’t verify it was returning to the black soil downrange. Cousin Barry and I stood in silence, hoping for some confirmation the arrow had returned to earth. Quiet. Were we anticipating hearing it hit the ground a hundred yards away? Quiet. Seconds passed. The silence continued. We turned to each other, grinning, as if we saw Flash Gordon blast off in a Buck Rogers rocket ship near the chicken coop where we stood and disappeared into the bright sun, maybe into space. Had it landed? Was I going to be in trouble with my parents? Should I say that the arrow broke? Perhaps it vanished into a time warp?

Silently, Barry and I turned from the scene, eyes wide, smiling fiercely at each other. We have no idea what just happened; our minds spin. Without a word, Barry ran across the barnyard. I laid the yellow bow down in the dirt. The same stringed weapon that launched the quivered spaceship to its destiny became a hastily discarded gadget. I ran after Barry; he headed for a small, red barn. I stepped over the six-inch threshold of the barn door. Once adjusted to the darker environment, I saw corn ears for feeding their livestock, stockpiled in metal bins to dry. In the middle of the open space was a large wooden implement. In the background, a mountain of shelled corn cobs stretched to the top of the weather-beaten, two-story, rectangular barn. It seemed the freestanding, hand-operated corn sheller on the dirt floor was the machine that Uncle Albin and Barry used to remove the corn from the cobs before feeding the grain to their livestock. Barry picked up an ear and grinned back at me, something he had done when we were about to do something as if silently saying, “You are not going to believe this.” He stuffed one ear of corn into the red-painted, cast-iron tube on top of the mechanism. The ear disappeared as he cranked a large, vertical wheel on the sheller’s side. The contraption made a racket (unseen cylinders of metal teeth removed individual kernels by pulling the cob through the machine). The kernels dropped down a bottom tube into a metal pail, and the denuded cobs shot out an opening like a torpedo. After months together, the grains and the cob went their separate ways.

Much to the glee of my cousin, I fed a few ears into the machine. It was fun to drop the corn in one end, muscle the wheel around, and mechanically expel the fresh cobs. We hurled them onto the massive pile of fellow cobs that spanned the building’s twenty-foot width to the rafters, likely thirty-feet tall. Barry flashed his now-famous, ain’t-this-something grin, scrambled, and dug his way to the top of the heap. I followed suit, not knowing what came next. Taking a moment to survey the world through this unusual height, I saw daylight between the boards; so bright outside, so much dimmer where I sat, the smell of dried cobs, dust, and dirt filled my senses. A light summer breeze moved through the board gaps. To get off the mountain top, as it turned out, a person swung from a wooden rafter that connects the peaked roof to the sides of the barn, launched onto the downslope of the rough cobs, and rode them downward until crashing on the dirt floor; then, repeat. We laughed at the innocent fun. Dad appeared at the corn crib door, “Skipper, it’s time for lunch.” Barry threw an empty pail my way. He filled his with empty cobs. So did I. It turned out the cobs have another use. We headed for the farmhouse kitchen with one intermediate stop, the chicken coop.

The six-foot-tall, white clapboard structure was likely six feet wide and 20 feet long. Barry opened the screen door to the coop; an unpleasant odor greeted us. Some roosting hens were unhappy about Barry reaching under them to check for eggs. We grabbed a few warm eggs, maybe a half dozen, sat them on top of the cobs, and entered the kitchen filled with heavenly smells and a large group of adults socializing in the largest room. Albin’s wife, Alice, operating the sizeable cast-iron stove, motioned to me. She required more corn cobs to provide heat for the massive stove to continue to cook the evening meal. She showed me how to lift the lid off the firebox on the right end of the stove. I dropped two handfuls of recently shelled cobs into a mass of fire and replaced the cover.

During the depression, Doc Skordahl (people called him Doc) could occasionally bring Albin a surplus calf from the stockyards – they were so cheap. Aunt Joan described such a trip as written by her sisters Phyll and Marge in a family scrapbook. It went this way, “The only trouble was getting them to the farm. “Easy,” said Dad. “The slobbery, hairy little calf shared the back seat with us on the way to the farm. It was pretty wild in those days with no air conditioning, with all the windows open, the calf’s ears flying, and snatches of saliva whipping through the air.” Even over the phone, her glee to tell that story registered. She laughed into the receiver, “We used to slide down those corn cobs in the crib. What fun!”

Sometimes, the Skordahls stayed at the farm in the dead of winter. The sisters slept upstairs, snuggled in a bed lined with bricks warmed on the iron stove and wrapped in paper to keep them warm. No matter the time of year, when the girls went to bed, they sneaked to the register, whose duct circulated air from the dining room immediately below. Aunt Joan became animated, relaying this story, “The adults continued their drinking and joke-telling in the dining room. We’d sneak over and put our ears on the register, listening for anything said in English and relishing in the occasional good gossip.”

Sometimes Melvie and Joan went to the farm for several weeks in the summer to do some heavy house cleaning and help during the threshing season, leaving the other two sisters and father in Sioux City. During these extended stays, they experienced going to Hub City for recreation. Aunt Joan described that experience like this, “Hub City, a misnomer if there ever was one. Hub City was a gathering of four corners of dirt and gravel roads. It had a Lutheran Church (pronounced Loó-ter-un in Swedish-speak), a country bar, and a field for playing softball. The farmers gathered on Saturday and Sunday afternoons to play ball. Of course, a few beers followed. We (the women) did not go. I wondered what Grandmother thought – I think she was pragmatic. She knew about Albin’s penchant for the hops but knew better than to rebuke him. He was a hard-working son who had taken full responsibility for the farm when his dad died, and he gave up marriage to operate the farm for her; what could she say!” Saturday was grocery day. Aunt Joan looked forward to that, saying, “We went to town, into Vermillion, for groceries, yahoo! After the shopping, around twilight, we sat on the parked car’s hood, and all would visit. We girls ate ice cream cones. The men hung out in the bar, and the women talked. There was always lots of laughter and conviviality.”

Lunch fixings wait on the kitchen table. Barry and I constructed our sandwiches side-by-side, creating another round of competition. This time to see who could build the largest dagwood—baloney, tomato slices, cheese, pickles, lettuce (the winner is not declared), and grab a handful of chips and a cold root beer, then out the back door to our quiet, non-adult space on the concrete by the willow. Energized by sustenance, we sprinted past blabbering adults up the stairs to Barry’s bedroom above the dining room. He proudly pulled his baseball card of Eddie Matthews off his dresser top. He said Matthews (the 1954 Red Man Tobacco All-Star of the Milwaukee Brewers) was the greatest baseball player ever. I said, no, it was Mickey Mantle. Neither he nor I convinced each other to switch allegiances. “Wanna wrestle?” Barry offered.

In the 1950s, professional wrestling was significant, especially in the upper Midwest.

Ardent fans packed local venues from the Corn Palace of Mitchell, South Dakota, to the Auditorium in Sioux City. The stars were household names. Some boasted thick, muscled physiques and sold Geritol (liquid supplement) and Gillette shaving blades during commercials on fuzzy, black-and-white television screens. On Saturday afternoons, folks crowded close to the small screens to witness the entertainment that was supposed to be authentic. Some youngsters imagined they were those grapplers, bursting with bravado, showing up on TV sets all over the Midwest from some arena in Minneapolis 300 miles away. Putting his Matthews baseball card carefully on his chest of drawers, Barry and I bragged that we were Verne Gagne, Haystack Calhoun, Gorgeous George, or Killer Kowalski. Settled on a personality for each of us – Gagne for me, Haystack for him— we crouched on Barry’s single bed mattress. We began a wrestling match—two titans of wrestling.

I imagined fans going berserk. We waved to them, shouting the challenges we created on the spot. The one east-facing window shed light into his room. We rolled around, putting moves on each other, not perspiring because we were too young to sweat. It didn’t matter who won. It was just two young boys making believe, being in our world for a while. The World Championship, undecided, we bolted down the stairs and out into the farmyard.

We jumped on the tractor near the chicken coop, pretending to drive it, making motor- sounds as boys do. Garage driving—in this case, the farmyard. Barry suggested we swim in the water trough across the way. Recalling my parents’ decision, I countered, “Nope, it’s time for fireworks.”

Opening the back of the Chevy, I grabbed the sack of minor explosives and ran around the side of the house to a small concrete slab by the back porch. Barry returned from the kitchen with a metal food can. Punks glowing, we lit a string of Black Cat fireworks and stepped back to watch the exploding chain writhe on the concrete like a smoking snake. After some trial and error, we discovered that if we put a firecracker under the edge of the inverted can, the explosion would flip it several feet into the air. I still see it happening. Tired of blowing things up, we ascended the adjacent willow tree, a limb at a time, until reaching a height that let us sit on separate branches and see far out over the field to the west, down the area’s slope. I recalled hearing the wind blow through the branches, rustling the long, thin leaves. The limbs moved so gracefully. We were quiet. We watched the cats roam their territory below us.

Our conversation continued, with both of us swapping stories back and forth during several phone calls and emails. Aunt Joan stated, “A Sioux Indian path ran diagonally across the farm and through the bottomland in the northwest quadrant. Occasionally, a band of Sioux journeyed along their historic byway. Sometimes, Grandmother Matson befriended them with food as they walked through the farm. The exact purpose of each band of natives varied. Some were traders traveling to Sioux enclaves in the region. Some natives trekked between the Yankton Reservation near Iowa for pow-wows and other ceremonial affairs.” Other occasional events occurred in the kitchen.

Aunt Joan said canning time at the farm was a significant event. She recounted, “My mother and Aunt Edie (her sister) and, maybe, another neighbor or two would steam up the kitchen. It was a flurry of activity. Neighbors helped with each other’s canning needs and shared common belief systems. These families believed in their homeland, no matter the rebuffing they received for leaving the country. They felt a kindred spirit with the King and Queen and a bias for their religion. Mother told me Grandmother Matson’s formality came from her belief the family was associated with royalty.”

I was only around my Grandmother Skordahl several times, twice in Boise, Idaho, and once in Nampa, Idaho, where Grandfather worked as a meat inspector. Mostly, I remember her during our Boise trips, coming home from teaching, putting on a kitchen apron, tending to supper, and laughing. I remember her graying hair, her bit of extra weight. A picture of her and my Grandfather is on my writing desk. She died of a heart attack in the winter of 1959. I woke late one night when the phone rang across the hall in my parents’ bedroom. My mother wailed. I still hear it. With my heightened appreciation for the farmhouse in South Dakota since my phone conversations with Aunt Joan, I now envision Grandmother raised as a farm girl; it adds to her persona. She grew up on that parcel of rich, dark earth.

I strongly feel for the tall man with the playful wit, whose strong Norwegian accentuated everything he said. Julius Skordahl earned a Vet degree from St. Joseph Veterinary College in St. Joseph, Missouri, just a few miles north of Kansas City. He worked as a night clerk in a local hotel to pay for his education. I have two of his textbooks – Fröhner’s Textbook of General Therapeutics for Veterinarians (301 pages) and Manual of Veterinary Physiology (807 pages). The former has a label on the inside front flap with his name and school typed on it. The latter has his signature on the inner flap. His signature. From that era, there is a photo of him in a basketball uniform, holding a ball on the court while smoking a stogie clenched by his trademark smile.

As a true Scandinavian, coffee was always within reach. He sipped on a cup, half full of coffee with one lump of sugar; he called his cup of joe a hooker. A dedicated prankster, I witnessed him in action during a Boise Christmas visit. He was notorious for shaking his presents under the Christmas tree, to the dismay of his daughters. His eyes twinkled like stars as he brandished his best I-am-a-bad-boy-and-I-don’t-care smile, announcing with great gusto that he knew everything people bought for him. During this adventure to Idaho, Grandfather took me up in the mountains for a day to accompany him as he inspected several meat processing plants. We lunched at a rustic cafe in the high country. He told me I could have anything I wanted if it cost less than 25 cents. He put on his serious face for a few seconds before laughing with palpable joy for successfully needling me.

He moved to Mount Vernon, Washington, after my Grandmother passed and he retired. During a Christmas spent with him as a 12-year-old, he took me fishing on a chilly morning along the banks of the nearby Skagit River. We parked his pickup with a camper equipped with a small pot-belly stove and a smokestack out the top, next to his cronies with similar rigs. He was so proud of me when I snagged a good-sized Steelhead (a salmon wannabe) and reeled him in while his fishing buddies watched the action. The last time I saw Grandfather was in his house in Washington. He loved to sit in a stuffed chair in a windowed kitchen corner. Leaning forward, Grandfather smiled, “Get me another little hooker, won’t you, Stevie.”

Asked about the overall tone of her remembrances of the farmhouse in South Dakota, Aunt Joan reflected for a moment, “They were all good. There was happiness, freedom, inclusion in life, family togetherness, a feeling of belonging. Love all around. We often sat with other family members at the end of the day among the shady trees surrounding the summer house (trees that shielded the north side of the farmhouse from the scourges of winter storms). Even Uncle Albin sat with us, watching the sunset, afraid of the dismal possibility of no rain the next day for the crops, afraid the sun would sink below the horizon shining brightly rather than a sun shrouded in clouds, supposedly rain clouds. Regardless of the rain forecast (a common farmer’s lament), there were always laughs and Swedish jokes.” Aunt Joan asked her mother, “What are they saying? And she would always reply (perhaps to protect her tender ears), ‘You wouldn’t understand.'” Decades later, Aunt Joan and Uncle Frank traveled to see the farm.

I asked her how she felt about returning. “Sad,” she said, “We drove to South Dakota in 1989. The old farmhouse and outbuildings are all gone. It is open land.”

Reading a piece of Mary Gordon’s Seeing Through Places recently took me back to another kitchen, one in a South Dakota farmhouse. It lured me to write about my remembrances of that farmhouse and the people associated with it. It’s somewhat complicated. I know, either it is, or it isn’t. Right? But, to a fifth-grade kid, who were these people, exactly? It was confusing. And it matters to me more now, as I grow older, reflecting on those lasting scenes. Peeking beneath the covers of cherished memories allows me to understand what I suppose to be Gordon’s intent, which has taken on personal meaning. Gordon writes, “It often seems that at the moment things happen, they are swallowed, but not fully digested.” So, it is with these stories about the Matsons and Skordahls.

Like Gordon’s ancestors and other rural dwellers in the 1950s and before and beyond, I suppose, my relative farmers of South Dakota relied on very few people other than themselves— stubbornly self-sustaining. As an adolescent, it was just a fun excursion to visit for a day. As a much older man, it gives me pause to ponder what they endured. It is such a simple, honest, and uncluttered existence. Reflecting on my impressions of the rural Scandinavians, I marvel at their independence in a harsh environment.

I spent time with Swedish relatives at the farmhouse in South Dakota decades after Pidgeon’s last visit; she’d headed for Nampa, Idaho, with the family and the University of Oregon to start her own life. It seems the lessons of South Dakota people’s work ethic, yet pilots her journey, and their Swedish joy de vivre drives her exuberant march through life. I, too, have always worked hard with little complaining.

Time spent recollecting the farmhouse in South Dakota transports me to remembrances of my Grandfather and Grandmother Skordahl, who spent large parts of their lives there. I couldn’t conjure my Grandfather courting Grandmother from this house. I couldn’t know of his drive from Vermilion or Volin to the Matson farm. These considerations never occurred to me as an adolescent but now bring fond feelings. I know I am a man who admires those Scandinavian farmers, who has learned from a farmhouse in South Dakota, and who has their grit in my fiber.

This is more than a story about a farmhouse in South Dakota. It is about those who lived there, those who visited, those who had Sunday dinner, those who told stories in Swedish about the old country, and those who experienced the same hardships of immigrating to a foreign land, of separation from their relatives, of dirt farming behind horses, of harvesting corn by hand, of living, loving, struggling, and dying in rural, southeast South Dakota. It is about my Grandfather, whom I cherish, realizing that he walked over the threshold of that kitchen door, speaking in his thick, Norwegian accent. I can see him standing in the yard under the willow, looking at the countryside, smiling at how far he had come, how far all of those who have graced the grounds of the farmhouse had come. I can see him starring in a movie in my mind.

I yearned for another phone connection with Aunt Joan. Yet, she was on the road to Oregon before returning to Arizona. I left a message. Aunt Joan emailed me because she was anxious about discussing our collaborative project. We shared remembrances about the importance of a sense of place, revisiting the stories of departed relatives, remembering the lessons they taught, and recognizing the culture and the words of brave folks from Scandinavia. These recollections forged an even stronger bond between an aunt and a nephew hewn from the timbers of old-world pioneers. Settling in a comfortable chair on the backyard porch, I rang her up for a debriefing session. After a few niceties, we returned to our debriefing.

“What did it mean to you to relive, revive your early childhood memories on the farm?” I asked.

“It brought me happiness. It reminded me of the feeling of love and security from a family that loved each other. It reminded me of their friendly nature, their kindness towards each other in the community.”

“So, do you feel that sense of association has changed?” I asked.

“I don’t see that closeness in today’s everyday living. Gatherings at the farmhouse centered around the kitchen table; the adults talked and drank coffee. Today’s neighborly visits are more like people dropping off something or leaving voicemails or email notes.”

“I cherish the fact that I can still hear Grandfather Skordahl’s Norwegian accent in my ear,” I said.

“My Grandmother and her friends had difficulty with the new language. As young immigrants—Mom, Dad, Uncle Albin, and others—were passionate about being American. They wanted to learn English to be accepted. Their accents were heavy. When they were with their peers from the old country, they spoke Swedish. I liked it better when they spoke English, and for the most part, they did. When Grandmother talked to me, I had difficulty understanding her.”

“Cousin Barry and I were from different worlds. Yet, we didn’t know that. During our one-day visits, we played together as young boys, doing young boy things,” I said.

“Unlike you, I didn’t have a cousin to play with. That and the five-year and nine-year difference from my sisters taught me to entertain myself. I was a dreamer, adventuresome, imaginative, and never felt neglected. It was just the way it was, and besides, I had the whole farm to explore and Uncle Albin to follow around. He would sit me on the horse harnessed to whatever wagon or equipment he used. I was never too interested in what the ladies were doing. A tomboy, I guess.”

“Your parents—Grandfather and Grandmother Skordahl—lived a world away from me. We traveled several times to see them at Christmas in Idaho and Walla Walla, and I was too young to pay attention to their interaction. What intimate thoughts do you have about your parents?” I asked.

“I loved to hear the stories they told of their courting years. Their shared values brought them together. Mom and Dad overcame their differences, and there were some when I was a child. Still, they were unified in their parenting.”

“Your tales of the farmhouse in South Dakota added so much to my fond memories of being there,” I said.

“I hold dear the wonderful childhood times of visiting the farm. I felt love and security and learned from the values of these courageous farmers. Recalling my time with them brought me back to it with renewed eyes of gratefulness and appreciation. That’s why Frank (husband) found me in tears after writing about those memories.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“Sure.”

The conversation was over, and we both hung up. I crossed the porch, opened the backdoor, and walked into the kitchen.