Skip to main content

Heltne Family Reunion

That's a Heltne.  Mari Heltne.  There are quite a few Heltnes, as it turns out, all descended from immigrants from Luster, far up the Sognefjord, in Norway, and off a bit to the west, on Lustrafjord.  If you enter, "Luster, Norway" into Google Earth, you will find it; a small place, deep into the heart of Norway.  It was from there that their name-bearers came by boat, down the Luster fjord, out into Sognefjord, and to the sea.  Eventually, they found Lake Mills, Iowa, deep into the heart of America.  They lie there, now.

The great-grandchildren, and their children met--some for the first time--in Lake Mills, and walked among the markers of their common bonding.  They went into the musty churches, struggling now with time and the consolidation of their parents and grandparents farms into endless rows of huge farms; farms with fewer homes, fewer schools, fewer towns.

Paul and Jean Heltne--Jean, like many of us, having married into their story--did most of the work of pulling the scattered family together.

We drove down the roads that their founders had ridden down behind the teams of horses that once did what corporate machinery does today, finding in minutes what had taken hours behind the horses; finding only driveways where the farm houses had stood, where they grew up, or where their parents and grandparents had told them about.



The creek was still there, tamed.  






Some of the houses were still there, disguised.



The barn on the farm where Wallace Stegner had been born no longer remembered what it had been to be young.

Mostly, the family was there, straining to remember what they could, laying their memories out side-by-side to find the earliest versions, putting together the jig-saw picture they each had pieces of, noting the missing pieces, wondering who might have them, and how many were probably lost.

They promised to meet again.  Too much had been lost.  There was much still to be remembered; much to tell each other.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Friends-- My step-father of 35 years died this morning. His name was Conrad Royksund. He was 86 years old. He was born into poverty on a farm near Puyallup, WA. He was the first member of his family to attend college and earned a PhD from the University of Chicago. He paid his way through all of that by fishing in Alaska. He spent his professional career as a college professor. I met him when I was just 3 years old and don't actually have any memories of my life befor e he was in it. He was intimidatingly smart, funny as hell, and worked his ass off. He taught me to meet people with kindness and decency until I was certain they could not be trusted. He taught me to meet ideas with carving knives until I was certain they could. I will remember him as one of the bravest, most curious, and funniest people I have ever met. He left this world with a satisfied mind. We are so grateful. Dan Hubbard

Caliche Busters and Government Work

When I was young and both stronger and smarter than I am now, I put my might and brain to work doing nothing useful, unless it might be thought that hand/foot/eye coordination might come in handy.  Those were skills to be learned and practiced.   I found an iron bar our grandfather had shaped in his blacksmith shop.  He took old car, truck, or wagon axles, and made tools from them for digging post holes.  He sharpened one end to a tip, and the other to a blade.  Washington State, like many places, had a hard layer of soil, probably created by water and limestone, or some such materials, that made digging holes a miserable chore.  The bar chipped through the natural concrete so that a shovel could take it up.   I found Grandpa's iron bar, and since I was young and dumb and strong--or so I thought--decided to punch a hole down to hardpan and ultimate truth.  I knew how to do that.  Raise the bar vertically with both hands, and then slam in straight down.  On the second try, aimi

The Sea is Rising

Let us just step back:  two hundred and fifty years ago, or so, the ships of England and Spain had drifted onto a whole new continent, as they saw it, from far north to a savagely cold south; pole to pole, as if there were such things. Millions of people already lived here, some of them still hunters and gatherers; some of them very wealthy, indeed!  Gold and silver stolen from the southern Americas funded Spanish and English dreams. There was land, lots of land, under starry skies above, rich land, and oil and coal and iron ore.  The whole western world learned how to build industries not on simple muscle power, but on steam and oil.  We farmed, too, of course.  All we needed was cheap labor--slave labor from Africa, mostly, so the ships came with slave labor.  Chinese labor built railroad beds where there had been rock cliffs. Europeans, long used to killing each other for good, religious reasons, brought their religious savagery with them.  Even when all they wanted to do w