Growing up in Minnesota

By Norita Clark

These short stories are a compelling and heartfelt glimpse into the life of the author as a young girl growing up on her grandparents' farm in rural Minnesota before and during the first volleys of World War II.

The years from age four to sixteen will pluck at your heartstrings and draw your memories back to a different time and place.

Norita Clark is the ultimate storyteller, and her words pull you into every story. You won't be able to put this book of short stories down until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norita Clark
• Release date: Jun 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201141431

Book preview

Growing up in Minnesota

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Norita Clark

Copyright © 2020 Norita Clark

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author or the publisher.

The author has tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from her memories of them. To protect privacy, in some instances the author may have changed the names of individuals and places, and may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

Author Photograph by Marisa Marie Tofoya

Table of Contents

Foreword

List of Characters

The Storyteller

The Farm

My First Christmas Program

Grandpa and the Pink Ribbon

Clark Bars in the Cellar

December Twenty-Third: A Special Night

Grandma and the Gift of Second Sight

Blackie: The Best Dog Ever

Grandma Wolden’s Tree Trimming Ritual

The Alligator Under the Bed

The Slough

The Little Bay Morgan

The Lunch Box

A True Teacher

The Blue Waltz Perfume

Christmas Rituals

4-H Projects

A Minnesota Winter Adventure

Being Norwegian

Spring Cleaning

Dressing for Margaret’s Wedding

Rabbit Dance

Wild Crocus and Blue Flax Flowers

Truman’s Accident

Leaches, Moonshine Stills, and Ravens

The Barn

A Note from the Illustrator

Acknowledgements

About the Author

I lovingly dedicate this book to my maternal grandparents, Martin and Lily Wolden.

They were and still are the major influences in my life. They molded my character through example and words. They were true pioneers in their approach to life. Always ready to step outside the envelope of what was considered the norm of their day. They never lived in the past but looked at the possibilities of today and tomorrow. This picture shows them at about the time they entered my life.

Foreword

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I met Norita Clark when I first moved into the neighborhood where she lived in Tucson, Arizona. She was selling her handmade jewelry, and I was, of course, selling my books. We became fast friends.

After editing and reading her stories, I now feel that not only do I understand Norita better, but I feel like I’m a member of her family. She is compassionate, thoughtful, and can be a bit impish at times – that’s when I love her the most.

I can also say, with all honesty, that her grandparents, Lily and Martin Wolden, are without a doubt some of the best and hardest working people I’ve ever met on the pages of a book.

From the opening of the book The Farm to the closing in The Barn you will meet Norita’s family, friends, and classmates. You will also learn the ins and outs of living on a rural farm in Minnesota during the beginning of World War II.

I hope you will feel like I do when you close the book and put away your Kleenex.

Mary Ann Carman

Cross-Genre Mystery Author

List of Characters

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The stories bound here are small windows that let us look in on the characters that populated my life growing up in Minnesota. Since meeting them on the pages of short stories can be like dropping in during the middle of a movie, perhaps a brief description of those who dwell upon the pages would be helpful. In a long narrative these personalities can develop as the story line progresses; however, in short vignettes such as these that is often not the case. These sketches may help bridge the gap.

The narrator: Norita Clark, an only child, raised by her maternal grandparents on a farm in Minnesota, who had a life filled with adventures made up of everyday incidents. She’s an adventurous young tom boy who tells episodes from her life spanning the age period of four to sixteen. She is tall for her age, with frizzy light brown hair and hazel eyes. Reading and animals were what really mattered to her.

The Farm: The real main character in these stories. For without its overriding presence in every phase of my life, there would have been a very different set of Growing Up in Minnesota stories.

Martin Wolden aka Grandpa: The most important person in my life is my maternal grandfather and who became my legal guardian after my father died. I remember him as gentle, kind, loving and wise; a big man, over six feet with the black hair, brown eyes and high cheekbones of a Lapp, the type referred to as a black Norwegian. He wouldn’t tolerate abuse of animals or people in any form. He often said if a man beats his horse, he’ll beat his wife and kids. This was an exceptional philosophy to be held by farmers at this time. He patiently tolerated my pranks and mistakes and praised my victories, turning them all into a lesson in life. I adored him and still do. Although I am now older than he was when he died, I still wonder in my mind what he would do in situations that perplex me.

Lily Wolden aka Grandma: My maternal grandmother, a second generation Norwegian, was the glue that held the family together. She was formidable and didn’t suffer fools gladly or otherwise. Any one crossing her could count on licking wounds for days. Few wanted a second round with her. She was only five feet on her tiptoes with a stocky body, waist long chestnut hair that she wore braided around her head and smooth skin, both of which she was slightly vain about. She always worked outdoors, either in the barn or the fields. She tolerated house work and cooking only because no one else would do those chores. Her costume of preference was a man’s bib overall and an old dress shirt. She taught me discipline and responsibility and to care for and about others.

Beulah Wolden Clark aka Mom: She was a recent widow who, along with her older brother Mark, moved to California to work in the aircraft industry during World War II. She was a shadowy figure who moved in and out of my reality for the first twelve years of my life. She had very black hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes like her dad. She was petite and beautiful. She sent me gifts on a regular basis and called sporadically.

Melvin Wolden aka Uncle Melvin: Mom’s younger brother who was sixteen years older than me and farmed with my grandparents. He often teased me and got me in trouble when I goofed off. He was a lanky blond who looked like my grandma. He loved to hunt and had hunting dogs.

Margaret Skindrud a neighbor: The only daughter of good friends and old neighbors of our family. Margaret worked in an office in Fergus. She was my first Sunday school teacher. She went to Montana on vacation and came back engaged. I was in her wedding.

Margaret Ryan: The country school teacher who changed my life and taught at District 222 for five years. She made me aware of the scope of life beyond the farm. She fanned the flame of my lifelong love of reading and study.

Baby: My Black Angus heifers, raised while I was in 4-H for nine years. I got a new Baby every year.

Blackie, the best dog ever: A half Irish setter and lab dog that looked like a black Irish setter, who was my pal of choice. He was the son of Uncle Melvin’s Irish setter bird dog, Rusty.

Nellie, the little bay Morgan horse: She taught me patience and the realization that love can overcome seemingly impossible obstacles. She taught me much more than I ever taught her. She shared my adventures in my growing-up years.

Truman: Our black and white cattle dog who got run over but lived to tell the tale.

Carol and Faith: Pals from town school who both had horses and often shared in my adventures.

The Barn: The huge red building that was the center of our farm life. I learned firsthand the lessons of birth, death and most of all loving and appreciating the animals that dwelled there.

Bob: The owner of the farm just north of ours. I wrecked his flax field. When Grandpa retired, he bought our farm.

Junior: The schoolmate at District 222 who gave me my first bottle of perfume and was my soft ball pal.

Bill: The ringleader of the bullies at District 222.

Tom: The boy who made me carry his lunch box and ran over Truman.

Miss Johnson: The teacher sent to straighten out the problems at District 222.

The Storyteller

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Some traditions need to be carefully massaged

And groomed until they become ingrained in the heart:

There to be savored and rolled on the tongue of memory

Like fine, aged brandy graciously served in a crystal snifter

To the members of the clan who remember parties past

And look forward to parties future.

So, too, this story teller bridges the memories of her clan

Telling the stories to those who have heard them before

And bringing them to those, who with wide eyes

Hear them brand-new and shining for the first time.

The Farm

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Growing up in rural Minnesota in the forties and fifties gave me a pretty typical farm kid’s life. Farm life is based on routine. If your farm was a dairy and also grew crops, they formed the basis for two big routines that never varied. Cows had to be milked and cared for, and the crops had to be tended on schedule. Our farm fit into this routine. A routine that Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle Melvin, myself and anyone who was there, followed every day. There could be no exceptions, the well-being of the farm depended on it.

I loved the farm and all the animals. Most of the time doing my little chores was fun. I did things like feeding the ducks and the bantam hens that lived in the barnyard. I worked my way up to feeding the Holstein calves milk. We used a tin pail especially made for this; it had a large nipple attached to the side near the bottom. We fed two calves at a time. Since there were more than two calves in a pen, there was a lot of butting and pushing by those not being fed. Calves know nothing about politely waiting turns.

As my chore duties expanded, I often was sent to the hayloft to drop hay bales down to feed the animals. I loved going to the loft; most of the barn cats hung out up there, and I loved the cats. They made little sleeping caves between the bales. I tried not to take