Seems like Fridays are my days to do very little constructive, other than reogranizing gear, cleaning out files, and getting cameras ready for the coming season. And, sort out the pile of stuff sitting on the table in the Randy room, mostly pictures and old family artifacts.
Found this picture from the summer of 1969. I was a few months shy of the ripe age of five years old. Taken in the front yard of the homestead of my Grandpa and Grandma Newberg, following a morning fishing at Twin Lakes, near Forbes, Minnesota.
Being the oldest of his grandsons, Grandpa relished in taking me fishing, teaching me what his father had taught him. We would sit on the dock, while he enjoyed simple pleasures and peace he seldom found in other aspects of his life.
He would let me eat all of the treats Grandma would pack for us. He was happy to let me have his share, so long as I was willing to fight the skeeters for an extra hour or two. Seemed like a good deal to me. And was good for him, allowing him to smoke his home rolled Prince Albert cigarettes and sip whatever he kept in the flask that was off limits to me.
This trip is probably the first real fishing memory I have, but was a very vivid memory. As you can see, I was already working on the smile Moosie loves to give me so much grief about. What more could a kid ask for - a July morning of fishing with Grandpa, getting to reel in every bullhead, and my belly stuffed with homemade pastries.
My Grandpa Newberg, being a first generation American, loved fishing. It didn't matter what kind of fish, so long as it would bite on a hook, baited or not. It was the culture of his family, being recent immigrants from Sweden and Finland.
Born in 1906, he was the first generation of his family to learn English after his father came to northen Minnesota from Sorda Lundby Sweden in 1891, and his mother's family coming from Vaasa, Finland in 1898. He spoke English pretty well, but his Swede and Finn was excellent. He married a Finn woman, eight years his younger, with the patience of Job, the oldest of ten children whose parents had come from Finland in 1905.
When we would fish, he would tell me old Swede fishing songs and stories. We would recite them back and forth to each other until such time as I had them memorized, albeit without the proper accent and annunciation to give full effect. It was great fun, and to see Grandpa's smile of geniune pleasure, it made me smile even more than him.
Evidently some of those songs were of the adult variety, given I nearly gave Grandma a coronary one morning while helping her draw water from their well out in the front yard. The memory of what happened next lingers fresher than any of the fishing memories.
It was on this same week-long stay with my grandparents that I was pumping the well handle while Grandma was mannig the buckets. I started to sing one of the songs Grandpa had taught me while fishing each morning.
Not sure what the words were, or what their meaning, but she looked at me, almost in tears, set down the water pails, ran up the steps and into the house. I looked in confusion as to what I did to bring such a response from the lady who thought I walked on water, and of whom I thought the same.
Once inside the house, the sweetest, dearest, most kind woman I have known in my entire life, erupted. Grandpa was shaken from his mid-morning nap, to face the wrath of one mad Finn woman, a God-fearing Methodist, who protected and cared for children to a degree that she could see no humor in teaching them sailor songs.
Not sure what words were exchange, but I knew when they quit speaking English and reverted back to the native tongues of Swede and Finn, things were not good for Grandpa. Having never seen Grandma in that state, I just kept pumping water on to the ground to make sure I looked like I was minding my own business.
In a few mintues, Grandma returned, wiping tears from her face, hugging me as though I been the victim of some heinous abuse. As she whispered in my ear of how she married a man who did not understand the meaning of the Good Book, I looked to the sky and prayed for my father's life; I prayed that Grandma never found out what her son, my father, taught me while we would fish the Big Fork River that formed the north boundary of our property in Big Falls.
Growing up with grandparents whose lives were formed in the manner of being recent arrivals to this country was a treat. They took great pride in their command of the English language, even if they did not speak it as smoothly as their native Finn and Swede. Their customs were still rooted deep in what their parents had brought to this country.
Fishing and hunting being second on the list family traditions, only after the highest priority of saunas. I still have my grandfather's old Model 14 .30 Remington pump. I shot my first whitetail with that rifle.
I only wish I had kept the old fishing lures he and his family would make. Carving minnow style baits was a popular hobby among him and his brothers. He had boxes of them, handpainted of different colors, some with hooks, and some blanks awaiting their hooks. Being young and stupid, when offered those old baits upon his passing, I suggested they be given to others in the family.
A picture like this, one of a few pictures I have of me with my Grandpa Newberg, makes me smile, thinking about innocence of youth, the true pleasure Grandparents get in spoiling their grandchildren, and appreciation for the unique heritage from which our adult lives emerge, heavily influenced by the traditions and norms of those teaching us.
Found this picture from the summer of 1969. I was a few months shy of the ripe age of five years old. Taken in the front yard of the homestead of my Grandpa and Grandma Newberg, following a morning fishing at Twin Lakes, near Forbes, Minnesota.
Being the oldest of his grandsons, Grandpa relished in taking me fishing, teaching me what his father had taught him. We would sit on the dock, while he enjoyed simple pleasures and peace he seldom found in other aspects of his life.
He would let me eat all of the treats Grandma would pack for us. He was happy to let me have his share, so long as I was willing to fight the skeeters for an extra hour or two. Seemed like a good deal to me. And was good for him, allowing him to smoke his home rolled Prince Albert cigarettes and sip whatever he kept in the flask that was off limits to me.
This trip is probably the first real fishing memory I have, but was a very vivid memory. As you can see, I was already working on the smile Moosie loves to give me so much grief about. What more could a kid ask for - a July morning of fishing with Grandpa, getting to reel in every bullhead, and my belly stuffed with homemade pastries.
My Grandpa Newberg, being a first generation American, loved fishing. It didn't matter what kind of fish, so long as it would bite on a hook, baited or not. It was the culture of his family, being recent immigrants from Sweden and Finland.
Born in 1906, he was the first generation of his family to learn English after his father came to northen Minnesota from Sorda Lundby Sweden in 1891, and his mother's family coming from Vaasa, Finland in 1898. He spoke English pretty well, but his Swede and Finn was excellent. He married a Finn woman, eight years his younger, with the patience of Job, the oldest of ten children whose parents had come from Finland in 1905.
When we would fish, he would tell me old Swede fishing songs and stories. We would recite them back and forth to each other until such time as I had them memorized, albeit without the proper accent and annunciation to give full effect. It was great fun, and to see Grandpa's smile of geniune pleasure, it made me smile even more than him.
Evidently some of those songs were of the adult variety, given I nearly gave Grandma a coronary one morning while helping her draw water from their well out in the front yard. The memory of what happened next lingers fresher than any of the fishing memories.
It was on this same week-long stay with my grandparents that I was pumping the well handle while Grandma was mannig the buckets. I started to sing one of the songs Grandpa had taught me while fishing each morning.
Not sure what the words were, or what their meaning, but she looked at me, almost in tears, set down the water pails, ran up the steps and into the house. I looked in confusion as to what I did to bring such a response from the lady who thought I walked on water, and of whom I thought the same.
Once inside the house, the sweetest, dearest, most kind woman I have known in my entire life, erupted. Grandpa was shaken from his mid-morning nap, to face the wrath of one mad Finn woman, a God-fearing Methodist, who protected and cared for children to a degree that she could see no humor in teaching them sailor songs.
Not sure what words were exchange, but I knew when they quit speaking English and reverted back to the native tongues of Swede and Finn, things were not good for Grandpa. Having never seen Grandma in that state, I just kept pumping water on to the ground to make sure I looked like I was minding my own business.
In a few mintues, Grandma returned, wiping tears from her face, hugging me as though I been the victim of some heinous abuse. As she whispered in my ear of how she married a man who did not understand the meaning of the Good Book, I looked to the sky and prayed for my father's life; I prayed that Grandma never found out what her son, my father, taught me while we would fish the Big Fork River that formed the north boundary of our property in Big Falls.
Growing up with grandparents whose lives were formed in the manner of being recent arrivals to this country was a treat. They took great pride in their command of the English language, even if they did not speak it as smoothly as their native Finn and Swede. Their customs were still rooted deep in what their parents had brought to this country.
Fishing and hunting being second on the list family traditions, only after the highest priority of saunas. I still have my grandfather's old Model 14 .30 Remington pump. I shot my first whitetail with that rifle.
I only wish I had kept the old fishing lures he and his family would make. Carving minnow style baits was a popular hobby among him and his brothers. He had boxes of them, handpainted of different colors, some with hooks, and some blanks awaiting their hooks. Being young and stupid, when offered those old baits upon his passing, I suggested they be given to others in the family.
A picture like this, one of a few pictures I have of me with my Grandpa Newberg, makes me smile, thinking about innocence of youth, the true pleasure Grandparents get in spoiling their grandchildren, and appreciation for the unique heritage from which our adult lives emerge, heavily influenced by the traditions and norms of those teaching us.
