Month: August 2006

Over a week ago, Jessica http://jazziejewel.spaces.live.com/default.aspx?owner=1asked the questions, “What is love?  How deep is love?  What is true friendship?”  Well, I’m not much of a philosopher, and I couldn’t come up with a great answer for her, but it did get me thinking about such things.  And my thinking usually leads me to my family stories.  This time, my thoughts are on my Grandpa, George Haroldsen.  I don’t know why questions of Love would lead me to thoughts of George.  He couldn’t be described as a “Don Juan” by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact most of the love stories that I have heard about him center on his blunders. 

Oh… it makes sense now.  I can relate!!! 

George was a hard working, no nonsense sort of guy.  Back in 1905, when my family moved from Hyrum, Utah to Idaho Falls, Idaho, 19 year old George was working up in Montana.  In fact his earnings provided the earnest money for the new family farm. 

A few months later when the neighbor girl, Kate Smith, came over to invite the new neighbor kids to her 16^th birthday party, George wasn’t around to meet her.  Later, when he got back into town, he asked his younger siblings lots of questions about the birthday girl. 

Over the next few years, they “both did a lot of looking at each other” as George put it, but like I said, George was very slow and calculated in his love live.  Nevertheless, Kate made sure she was frequently within his gaze, like when George was leaving on a train to accompany a shipment of cattle to Portland, Oregon, Kate was there to “wish him a good trip.”  So eventually, George and Kate started to see each other a little bit.  Kate thought they were getting serious, but then George made a big blunder. 

He had just bought a beautiful new buggy.  So here is a 23 year old eligible bachelor sporting around his new ride, and there was a dance coming up on Saturday night. 

The town flirt decided that she wanted to go to the dance in style, and before George knew what happened, he had agreed to help her out by giving her a ride to the dance. 

When Kate found out, she was furious.  George really had to scramble to make amends with Kate again.  And by the time he was back in her good graces, George was thinking of the future.  Later in his life while recalling that time in his life, he philosophized, “Life without a mate, without a partnership, would be a flop.” 

They were married June 9, 1909 in Kate’s family home and the next day, they were on the train to Salt Lake City, for their honeymoon.  It was on this honeymoon trip in Salt Lake, that another George Haroldsen “blunder” happen. 

One of George’s female cousins, who lived in Salt Lake City, showed them around the city.  One stop was at the Photographer.  George didn’t know until it was too late that Kate wouldn’t want his cousin to stand in the picture with them for their wedding photo.  I have that picture of the three of them.  It was their only wedding photograph.

Dumb guy… certainly not the Don Juan type with all the slick moves and right lines.  But no woman experienced more loyalty or devotion than Kate did in her married life.  George was a slow learner when it came to properly showing his love, but no one beat him in staying in love with his life’s partner.  Unlike the new buggy story and the wedding picture story, no one and nothing got between George and his love for Kate.  By his own definition, his life was not a flop.  

I was 8 years old when after 59 years of marriage, Kate died within a week of discovering cancer.  It was on leap year day, February 29^th, 1968.  George was devastated.  But he tried to carry on.  Along with continuing to do his farming (he was now 82 years old), in honor of Kate, he tried to keep everything in the home the way she had always done things.  When I came to visit, I remember he still had cookies in the cookie jar (they weren’t the good ones Grandma had, but…) And like Kate had done before, the toys for us, the younger grandkids, were cleverly hid around the house so I could go searching for the “cool” toy truck, and my sisters would find the doll.  One of my aunts reported that he did pretty well (with his daughter’s help) learning how to cook certain meals just the way Kate had done it, but she did catch him watering Kate’s plastic house plants. 

June 7^th, 1974 was a sad day I will never forget. George had been admitted into the hospital only a few days earlier.  At the age of 86, it was his first hospital stay.  With my father, I had visited him a few hours earlier, but he was sleeping for the whole visit.  They said he died of a stroke.  I really felt the loss.  I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with him.  But my sadness was sweetened at the thought, “Grandpa is with Grandma again.  Now he is happy again.” 

As I think about it, what my grandpa said fits in perfectly with my own philosophy.  “Life without a mate, without a partnership, would be a flop.”  I would consider my life a flop without my partner… without my “Beautiful Wife.”

I love this music on my space of Neil Diamond singing Morningside.  It’s a story of an old man’s forgotten legacy using the metaphor of a strong table built with pride, gone unclaimed by his children.  It could be the theam music of my space.  I guess for a few days, it will be.

It’s been a while since I have been to a dance.  I’d like to blame that mostly on fact that I live in the middle of a desert waste land and there’s little opportunity.  But my lack of attendance at a dance also has something to do with my lack of dancing ability (See my list titled “I wish I could”). 

However, this past Saturday night, I found myself at a community dance.  We went as a family to this town of about 300 – 400 people called Oak City.  The outdoor dance, with a live band (Lawrence Welk style) was the culmination of “Oak City Days”, their annual celebration. 

After we arrived, and before I knew it, I found myself out in the middle of a hundred other people with my cute daughter, Clarissa.  We were facing another couple in our “Square” of four couples preparing to do the Quadrille. 

So as I stood out there under the stars, without a clue of what I was doing, I thought of my 2 Greats Grandpa, John Smith (Jock).  On a full moonlit night back in the summer of 1852, he too stumbled into a square dance, the Cotillion, as the pioneer company he was traveling with showed this Scotsman how to dance American style.  In spite of the fact that I was as clumsily as ever, Clarissa showed me a good time as we stumbled through to the end of the dance. 

I was so intent on trying to follow the voice of the “caller” that it wasn’t until the dance was over that I thought of the occasional school and church dances I had attended as a teenager.  Back then my awkward dancing combined with my paralyzing shyness made me a big klutz with the young ladies.   Quickly, I shut out the memory of those poor girls dashing for the bathroom when they saw I finally had gotten up my nerve to ask for a dance.  I wonder how Jock fared out on the dance floor?  Maybe that’s where I inherited my two left feet. 

I watched my younger children as they struggled to “enjoy” themselves at the dance.  Besides the intimidating crowds, the Big Band era music wasn’t what they had expected.  Mommy (my Beautiful Wife) encouraged our young children to be brave and to go ask someone to dance.  I watched as Cory searched the crowds for the right one to ask.  First he had a false start.  The song was almost over when he was ready to make his move. 

Momma was his coach… “Now you will have to wait for the next song… You need to get your nerve up and ask right at the beginning of the song.” 

In his reply, Cory’s voice sounded timid to me, but his words had the confidence I would have wished for at any age.  “I have my nerve up… It’s just taking me that long to find the right girl to ask.” 

Then it happened.  Cory was off winding through the towering crowd of mostly adults, like a cat closing in its prey.  I have never seen a little girl’s face suddenly turn happier.  Those two owned the dance floor for the rest of the night. 

I couldn’t be more pleased.  If it is hereditary, Cory gets his dancing and ladies skills from his mother. But I’d like to take credit for something, so maybe he gets his good luck from me.

 

This morning we took two of our daughters to the high school for their first day of classes for the year.  Actually for one of my daughters, this is her first day of public school ever. (But that is another story for another time.)  As I watched my two “High School” daughters, get up extra early on their own, I could see the anticipation in their eyes of what they might expect on the first school day of the year. 

 

Now, I know that I am a guy, but I’m not that stupid.  (I do have other daughters who have been through this as well.)  They are certainly more interested in the social aspect of a new year than they are in the academics.  But I have studied the history of education and schooling as it pertains to our family, and I don’t take the opportunities for a good education, which my children have, for granted like they do.  

 

My 2 Greats Grandpa, John Smith, or Jock as he was called, had no education.  In the Scottish coal mining community of the 1820’s where he grew up, family survival necessitated another strong back to carry the coal out of the pits.  So Jock was cheated out of the few meager years of schooling that was offered to the Scottish children.  Throughout his life, Jock was reminded what a disadvantage he was in because he couldn’t read or write.  Once, after working for years to satisfy the requirements of the Homestead Act, Jock missed the posted filing date, and his neighbor jumped his claim, leaving Jock with only a notice of eviction from his own farm.

 

Jock made sure the schooling for his children in the 1850’s and 60’s was better than he had… a little better any way.  But public schools didn’t exist in the Utah territory of the mid 1800’s.  So only those who could afford too, sent their children to school.  Jock could afford to send only one of his children.  Robert, Jock’s oldest son attended.  When he couldn’t make it for some reason, his next younger brother, James would take his place for the day.  My Great Grandpa, Adam was 3^rd in line.  So it took him a few years of substituting for his older brothers before he learned to read and write.  But Adam learned to write very well.  His handwriting was beautiful.  It puts mine, and most handwriting I have seen now days to shame.

 

The story is the same with many of my other ancestors.  My 2 Greats Grandpa, Johann Tillack had immigrated from Prussia to Australia.  He donated the land and petitioned his Lutheran Church to get the first school started where he lived outside of Melbourne in 1873.  That school still exists and thrives today, and is called the Bayswater Elementary School. 

 

So with the new school year starting, school stories from my family are on my mind.  Parents raiding the cellar for vegetables to send with their children as their part of the teacher’s salary… a Baptist church from the South setting up free schools in the poor Utah communities as a way to proselyte among the Mormons…  school teachers boarding with the families of his students as part of his salary. My dad said that changing from 4^th to 5^th grade was a big deal.  He said that instead of just moving over a row in the same class room, you got to change rooms to the older class in the school. Grades 1 through 4 in one room, and 5through 8 in the other room. 

 

So I will watch my two “High School” daughters boarding the school bus each morning, while thinking of my Grandpa, George Haroldsen, hitching up the sled and going around the rural neighborhood on the cold Idaho winter school days to give them a ride to school. 

 

While listening to my children complain about how hard their school work is, or of how much homework they have, or of the many other problems caused by the school or teacher, I will be thinking of my parents, and their parents, and theirs… on back as far as I have information.  They wanted their children to get a better education than they had…(and we got it), to have better opportunities (and we got that too.)  That’s the same thing I want… for my children to learn more… to get more education… to be able to have more opportunities than I have.

 

Yes… the start of a school year is exciting to me as well as to my children.  It’s not only a time to look forward to new beginnings and new opportunities.  It’s also a time to look back, with thankfulness, for the opportunities that I now have… a fulfillment of someone else’s dreams… my parents… and their parents… and theirs.                      

It’s a funny thing to me.  Nothing is so personal and yet so public at the same time.  It’s among my earliest memories of pondering a subject.  Where did it come from?  How did I get it?  Who else has it?  This subject has continued to be intriguing to me throughout my life.  So this is how my family name evolved.

 

Back in Norway, or “The Old Country” as my Great grandpa (Christian) would say, the father’s first name became the last name of his children.  So my 4 Greats Grandpa Christoffer’s name was added to my 3 Greats Grandpa Harald’s name.  So he was known as Harald Christoffersen.  Of course the sen meant Harald was Christoffer’s son.  Well this naming practice changed in the mid 1800’s.  Harald’s children used the last name of Haraldsen.  So Harald’s son, Christoffer (named after his grandfather mentioned above) became Christoffer Haraldsen.  But his children including Christian were the first generation to continue using the same last name.  Similar naming practices were followed in other countries, like Ireland where the Mc in Mcfadden meant the son of Fadden.

 

So then as a 12 year old boy, Christian immigrated with his widowed mother and surviving sisters to America in 1876 through Ellis Island.  While being processed to enter the country, an immigration official “Angloized” the family name into the more English sounding Haroldsen.  As I think about it, the one family heirloom my family could bring from the Old Country, their name, was in essence “vandalized” or at least thoughtlessly dinged with the careless mark of that immigration official.  But now of course it is carefully protected (with the immigration official’s mark and all) from the miss use from careless spellers, and bad spellers (like me).  Yes, I even know of some Haroldsen’s who are offended when they see their name misspelled.  Little to they know that technically, they themselves misspell it compared to the original spelling.

 

Not long after this Norwegian family arrived, Christoffer’s mother married another Scandinavian named Lars Villiamson.  Lars hadn’t had a son of his own, and so when he married Christoffer’s mother, he offered to teach him to farm and give him a farm as an inheritance if he would take his name and be known as Christoffer Villiamson.  Christoffer agreed to this and learned and earned a farm from his stepfather.  But he always regretted forsaking his own father’s name, saying he had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.  Nine years later, while applying for a marriage license, the clerk told him that his name hadn’t ever been legally changed from Haroldsen.  So at that time he assumed the Haroldsen name once again. 

 

So if naming practices in Norway had changed a generation earlier or later, I would have been a Christoffersen.  If Christian hadn’t felt loyalty to his own fathers name, I would have become a Williamson.  (yes, Villiamson was also “Americanized”)

 

If this seems confusing, be thankful you didn’t live in one of these Utah communities back in the late 1800’s.  The Scandinavians tended to gather into the same settlements and of course attend the same churches.  Counties like Sanpete and Cache County were full of men with the same name.  The story goes that in church, the bishop (like a pastor) would call on Brother Jensen to come to the front to give the closing prayer.  50 men would begin to stand.  Seeing his mistake, the bishop would clarify, “Would Brother Lars Jensen please come and give the closing prayer.”  Then there would still be 10 or 12 men standing looking at each other wondering “which” Lars Jensen.  So then the bishop would resort to the less formal nickname and just ask, “Saddlebags” to come pray. Of course there is a story behind every nickname as well. But they really did have to use nicknames just so they knew who they were talking about.

 

With an understanding of my own last name, I have wondered at many of my other family names.  I have tried just as hard to learn about my Tillack family name from Prussia.  But to no avail.  I know some names evolved from occupations and some from farms or villages of residence.  But I haven’t found a good source of information in learning about name origins.  I wish there was some expert who has written a book on the subject.  But if so, I haven’t found it.  As hard as this is to try to sort out now, I pity the poor sole who takes it upon himself in a hundred years from now to sort through all the computer nicknames they find on what will be then “old documents.” If one of my posterity were to find a copy of my space, he/she may spend days trying to discover where “Storyteller” came from.  Of course, when I sign up on some other sight and Storyteller is not available, I’ll have to resort to some other nickname or add a lot of numbers to my nickname.  Over a lifetime I could well have hundreds of different nicknames I’ve been known by in cyberspace.  I’ll try to keep it simple (for posterity sake) and maybe choose something next time that no one else would want.  Heck I could make it descriptive to add meaning as well.  Something like “Badspeller” is probably available.  If not I could just misspell it.