Monday, March 05, 2007
It's Been A Full Year...
...Since our family lost a true patriarch when my Grandfather Harold Widegren passed away. I've missed him greatly in this past year, as have all of our family members. As a sort of tribute, I'm going to repost a story about him which I originally shared on this blog in February, 2004, one that hopefully will bring laughter and joy on such a sad anniversary.
---
...The folks across the street from my Grandparents raise animals for slaughter (and other forms of amusement). This particular family are never without a number of chickens, some cows and a handful (or so) of goats. Specifically, it is them damned goats which cause the most trouble due to the fact that they simply have a nasty disposition. Additionally, they seem to be able to defeat whatever crude means of restraint that their captors choose to employ on them. As such, the goats routinely wander across the road to my grandparents' yard to chew up whatever they can get their vile little goat teeth on. Some years ago, the goats' bitey targets included a very nice garden that my Grandfather had planted and lovingly maintained. He complained loudly to his neighbors about the goats and their eating habits to no avail. Finally, after several destructive episodes, the neighbors conceded that something had to be done. If the goats wandered into my grandfather's yard again, he was given carte blanche to shoot them.
The goats, of course. He could shoot the goats. No shooting the neighbors, not even a little...Anyhow...
The reason that my grandfather's neighbors were so cavalier about passing out the license to kill was that them goats were scheduled to die anyway. Indeed, since the goats' sole purpose was to be raised for the slaughter (and since they were nearin' "slaughterin' size"), why not kill two birds with one stone? My grandfather would get the satisfaction of avenging his considerable property damage at the hands of these vile creatures and the neighbors would get to use the goat meat and goat bones and whatever else come out of dead goats for...Well, whatever people use goat things for. As should be expected, however, there were two minor snags in this seemingly clever plan: My grandfather didn't own a gun, nor was he aware of the "goat usage" intention of his neighbors.
The very next day following the goat death pact agreement, the goats once again freed themselves to feast on my grandfather's garden. Seeing this, my grandfather sprung into action, seizing the larger male goat which he then tied to a tree. Remembering only the basic directive of "kill the goat" from the previous day, but lacking any sort of firearm with which to accomplish such a task, grandpa quickly visited his garage, returning only with a shovel. The account of what happened next comes straight from my then 76 year old grandfather:
"I looked at the goat and it looked back at me...Then I brought up the shovel and came down on his head, square and hard. So hard, in fact, that I broke my shovel. Damn goat broke my shovel. And he didn't die straight away, either...Just lay there on the ground, lookin' up at me, moving it's hooves and going 'eee, eee, eee'...Well, I figured I had to finish the job, so I grabbed the handle and proceeded to beat this goat the rest of the way dead. Part way through, I saw my neighbor pull into his driveway so I dragged the goat behind the garage where they couldn't see. I buried the goat there when I was done."
"You...Uh...Buried it?" I asked.
"Behind the Garage." he replied.
"Don't you figure they would've liked to use the carcass? After all, I figure that's why they said you could shoot it." I inquired.
"Never thought of that." he said. "Humph. Well, it's done now. Maybe they figured it just up and ran away."
They say that on certain nights in Grand Junction, when the moon is bright and full, you can see the broken spectre of a goat, bleating his final death-bleats in the pale moonlight behind a ghostly garage while a phantom homeowner takes whack after solid whack at him with an ethereal shovel handle. Some folks say that the ghostly goat has a shovel-shaped dent in his lifeless, spooky goat head and that the homeowner has a look of glee on his face as the scene plays out on it's spectral stage...But that may just be folks tellin' tales...
Or it may just be true...
Labels: grandpa, indignities, lame stories, sad stories, spooky shit, tales of triumph
Monday, March 13, 2006
I'm Back...
Well, to be fair, I've been back in town since late Friday night. My wife and I went over to Grand Junction caravan-style, following my mom, dad and sister on Thursday morning. My grandfather's funeral was 9:30 Friday morning at the Koinonia church, a church which my grandfather built and that my mom and dad were married in. Given all of what has transpired in the last week, I was up and down emotionally (mostly down) all weekend but I know that I need to get "back in the swing of things" eventually. My parents and my sister stayed in Grand Junction until yesterday but my wife and I left Friday afternoon for two reasons...One was that the weather was slated to only get worse as the weekend wore on and the second was, frankly, that I could barely stand to be in my grandparents' house knowing that my grandfather was gone...It was hard for me to see him in his casket...It was hard for me as a pallbearer knowing that he was in the casket as my cousins and I carried him to his grave...It was very hard being around so much family and realizing that he was not going to come walking in at any minute...I simply could not stand it...
The service at the church was a good one, I almost forgot that my grandfather was gone as I listened to family and friends recount stories of him...While I refrained from sharing any stories (and I have many), they affirmed something which I had always assumed: you'd have to look long and hard and you'd still likely not find anyone who disliked my grandfather. Above all, he was honest, caring, helpful and generous. He was a natural born father, a trait which easily endeared him to everyone whom he crossed paths with. I am going to miss him greatly, his being gone leaves a large hole in my life, the size of which I never anticipated...
Despite the emotionally draining week that I had been through, I still followed through on my original plan to compete in the 15th annual Broomfield Old-Timer's Wrestling Tournament on Saturday. I wrestled in the 27-36 year old division in the only weight class which I have ever known (heavyweight) and, despite emerging unable to breathe and with a bruised rib cage, took 2nd place. I'm definitely going to train, though, if I ever compete in the tournament again. No more going into a wrestling competition cold (and out of shape). No more...It's way harder than I remember...
There's really not much else to say...I'm going to try my best to get back to my schedule for this blogsitething as soon as I can but it may take me some time. Again, I'd like to thank everyone who comes around and especially thank those of you who took the time to leave the wonderful comments regarding my grandfather, It meant a lot to me...
You all have a good Monday, now...
The service at the church was a good one, I almost forgot that my grandfather was gone as I listened to family and friends recount stories of him...While I refrained from sharing any stories (and I have many), they affirmed something which I had always assumed: you'd have to look long and hard and you'd still likely not find anyone who disliked my grandfather. Above all, he was honest, caring, helpful and generous. He was a natural born father, a trait which easily endeared him to everyone whom he crossed paths with. I am going to miss him greatly, his being gone leaves a large hole in my life, the size of which I never anticipated...
Despite the emotionally draining week that I had been through, I still followed through on my original plan to compete in the 15th annual Broomfield Old-Timer's Wrestling Tournament on Saturday. I wrestled in the 27-36 year old division in the only weight class which I have ever known (heavyweight) and, despite emerging unable to breathe and with a bruised rib cage, took 2nd place. I'm definitely going to train, though, if I ever compete in the tournament again. No more going into a wrestling competition cold (and out of shape). No more...It's way harder than I remember...
There's really not much else to say...I'm going to try my best to get back to my schedule for this blogsitething as soon as I can but it may take me some time. Again, I'd like to thank everyone who comes around and especially thank those of you who took the time to leave the wonderful comments regarding my grandfather, It meant a lot to me...
You all have a good Monday, now...
Labels: get outta town, grandpa, sad stories, sports, tales of triumph
Monday, March 06, 2006
...We'll See You Soon...
I will be out until next week so I can attend my grandfather's funeral. Thank you to everyone for leaving such kind comments, it means a lot to me.
Do you ever wonder, when you see someone that you love, that that meeting could be the last time which you ever see that person? Does it ever cross your mind, even briefly, that the time which you're spending with a friend or a family member could ultimately be the last time which you are able to enjoy that person's company? Generally, I never think of things in that manner...Conversely, from my seemingly overly optimistic and naive perspective, there will always be a tomorrow...Most of the time, operating on the same principal of a broken clock still being right twice a day, I'm correct that "life goes on." Sometimes, though, I'm proven wrong. As I'm typing this, just over six hours ago, my wife and I left my aunt and uncle's house and, among other people, I said goodbye to my grandfather Harold, shaking his hand and telling him that I'd "see him soon." He agreed, responding that he'd see us in a couple of days. We were both wrong.
Just over two hours ago, I received a phone call letting me know that my grandfather Harold had passed away.
My grandfather Harold was one of the four children which Anton and Olga Widegren, my great grandparents, whom I unfortunately never had the opportunity to meet, had. He was many things in his lifetime, including a sailor, having served in the navy in World War 2. Additionally, he was a devoted husband to my grandmother Marjorie and a loving father to his 4 children including, of course, my mother. He was a carpenter for many years following his service and certainly knew the value of a hard day's work. He was honest, friendly, genuine, opinionated, faithful and thoughtful. He was a good listener, even long after his eyesight and hearing had failed him, always eager to learn what was going on in the lives of others and taking pleasure in his family's successes. I am very fortunate not only to have known him, but to have had the privilege of calling him "grandpa" for the past 31 years. While I have countless memories of my grandfather to cherish, none of them can take his place - I'm going to miss him very much...
Goodbye, grandpa. We'll see you soon.
Do you ever wonder, when you see someone that you love, that that meeting could be the last time which you ever see that person? Does it ever cross your mind, even briefly, that the time which you're spending with a friend or a family member could ultimately be the last time which you are able to enjoy that person's company? Generally, I never think of things in that manner...Conversely, from my seemingly overly optimistic and naive perspective, there will always be a tomorrow...Most of the time, operating on the same principal of a broken clock still being right twice a day, I'm correct that "life goes on." Sometimes, though, I'm proven wrong. As I'm typing this, just over six hours ago, my wife and I left my aunt and uncle's house and, among other people, I said goodbye to my grandfather Harold, shaking his hand and telling him that I'd "see him soon." He agreed, responding that he'd see us in a couple of days. We were both wrong.
Just over two hours ago, I received a phone call letting me know that my grandfather Harold had passed away.
My grandfather Harold was one of the four children which Anton and Olga Widegren, my great grandparents, whom I unfortunately never had the opportunity to meet, had. He was many things in his lifetime, including a sailor, having served in the navy in World War 2. Additionally, he was a devoted husband to my grandmother Marjorie and a loving father to his 4 children including, of course, my mother. He was a carpenter for many years following his service and certainly knew the value of a hard day's work. He was honest, friendly, genuine, opinionated, faithful and thoughtful. He was a good listener, even long after his eyesight and hearing had failed him, always eager to learn what was going on in the lives of others and taking pleasure in his family's successes. I am very fortunate not only to have known him, but to have had the privilege of calling him "grandpa" for the past 31 years. While I have countless memories of my grandfather to cherish, none of them can take his place - I'm going to miss him very much...
Goodbye, grandpa. We'll see you soon.
Labels: grandpa, sad stories
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Bleatings and Beatings
My family has never been a 'gun' family. Not for lack of trying, mind you...Fate just always seems to intervene. My father had a very nice ruger when I was younger...He had taken it apart to clean it, my Mom found it, pronounced it 'broken in pieces' and discarded it. After that, my dad stopped trying. My dad once told me he was going to take me hunting. I woke up ill that day. He never took me hunting, I've never been hunting. I'm not a hunter. Sad, I know. Actaully, I'm not sure my Dad's ever been hunting either...
Anyway, both my Mom's side and my Dad's side are not real hunters. Or shooters. My uncle Mickey, who married into the family, has a hairy back, a surly disposition, a genius IQ (so he says) and a large gun collection. He's the exception to the rule. I don't mind guns, I like guns. I respect guns. I would like to own a gun. My wife says no. Again, sad. I know. Anyway, my family doesn't own too many guns. This will come into play later.
My Mom's parents (my grandparents, duh) live in Grand Junction, which is on the western slope of Colorado. My grandfather served in the Navy in WWII and spent the rest of his life as a carpenter. He built lots of things, including his own house out in what WAS the middle of nowhere back when it was built. Large plots of farmland where folks could raise up a family, a couple cows, 2 or 3 crops and all the other trappings of the american dream. As it pertained to those with land. Anyway, neighbors slowly trickled in over the years.
The folks across the street from my Grandparents raise animals for slaughter and other forms of amusement. They are never without chickens, some cows, goats...The goats...The goats have a nasty disposition. Also, they can defeat whatever crude means of restraint their captors are using to hold them onto their side of the road. The goats routinely wander across the road to chew on whatever they can. Some years ago, this included a very nice garden that my Grandfather had planted. He complained loudly to his neighbors about the goats to no avail. Finally, they conceded that if the goats wandered into his yard again, he was free to shoot them. The goats. Shoot the goats. No shooting the neighbors. not even a little.
See, their reasoning was "we're just going to slaughter them anyway, they've about reached slaughterin' age, so if he shoots them, saves a step for us." Grandpa's reasoning was much more basic. "Kill the goats."
Remember what I typed earlier? Grandpa doesn't own a gun. Not a single one. I'm not convinced that he ever carried a gun outside of his service to our country. Either way, this fact would prevent his shooting of any goats. Luckily, he had a backup plan. He owned a shovel.
The next day, sure as shit (which is an expression I've been longing to use) the goats wandered back his way. My Grandfather immediately captured the large male goat and tied it to a tree. He then wandered off to complete some chores, seemingly so the goat could contemplate it's fate. The only thing the goat did, however, was to free itself by chewing through the rope. Well played, mr. goat. Well played.
The next day, the goats, seemingly emboldened by the previous day's escape, came across the road and into my Grandfather's garden. Grampy wasted no time that day, grabbing the male and tying it to the same tree as the previous day. He then went directly to grab his shovel. Here is an account of what happened next, which I got from my then 76 year old grandfather...
"I looked the goat in his eye and it looked back at me...I brought up the shovel and came down on his head, square and hard. So hard, that I broke my shovel. Damn goat broke my shovel! And he didn't die straight away, either...Just lay there on the ground, lookin' up at me, moving it's hooves and going 'eee, eee, eee'...Well, I had to finish the job, so I grabbed the handle and proceeded to bludgeon this goat the rest of the way. Part way through, I saw my neighbor drive up...I dragged the goat behind the garage, so they couldn't see, and finished the job. I buried the goat there when I was done."
"You buried it?" I asked.
"Behind the Garage." he replied.
"Don't you figure they would've liked to use the carcass? After all, I figure that's why they said you could shoot it." I inquired.
"Never thought of that." he said. "Humph. Well, it's done now. Maybe they figured it just up and ran away."
On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see the lonely spectre of a goat, bleating his final death-bleats in the pale moonlight behind my Grandparents' garage. Ok, maybe not, but it makes for a fun story. The goat did die, it is buried there and my Grandfather still doesn't own a gun. I can't rightly say that I've seen 'ghost goat', but I'm not ruling anything out just yet.
Anyway, both my Mom's side and my Dad's side are not real hunters. Or shooters. My uncle Mickey, who married into the family, has a hairy back, a surly disposition, a genius IQ (so he says) and a large gun collection. He's the exception to the rule. I don't mind guns, I like guns. I respect guns. I would like to own a gun. My wife says no. Again, sad. I know. Anyway, my family doesn't own too many guns. This will come into play later.
My Mom's parents (my grandparents, duh) live in Grand Junction, which is on the western slope of Colorado. My grandfather served in the Navy in WWII and spent the rest of his life as a carpenter. He built lots of things, including his own house out in what WAS the middle of nowhere back when it was built. Large plots of farmland where folks could raise up a family, a couple cows, 2 or 3 crops and all the other trappings of the american dream. As it pertained to those with land. Anyway, neighbors slowly trickled in over the years.
The folks across the street from my Grandparents raise animals for slaughter and other forms of amusement. They are never without chickens, some cows, goats...The goats...The goats have a nasty disposition. Also, they can defeat whatever crude means of restraint their captors are using to hold them onto their side of the road. The goats routinely wander across the road to chew on whatever they can. Some years ago, this included a very nice garden that my Grandfather had planted. He complained loudly to his neighbors about the goats to no avail. Finally, they conceded that if the goats wandered into his yard again, he was free to shoot them. The goats. Shoot the goats. No shooting the neighbors. not even a little.
See, their reasoning was "we're just going to slaughter them anyway, they've about reached slaughterin' age, so if he shoots them, saves a step for us." Grandpa's reasoning was much more basic. "Kill the goats."
Remember what I typed earlier? Grandpa doesn't own a gun. Not a single one. I'm not convinced that he ever carried a gun outside of his service to our country. Either way, this fact would prevent his shooting of any goats. Luckily, he had a backup plan. He owned a shovel.
The next day, sure as shit (which is an expression I've been longing to use) the goats wandered back his way. My Grandfather immediately captured the large male goat and tied it to a tree. He then wandered off to complete some chores, seemingly so the goat could contemplate it's fate. The only thing the goat did, however, was to free itself by chewing through the rope. Well played, mr. goat. Well played.
The next day, the goats, seemingly emboldened by the previous day's escape, came across the road and into my Grandfather's garden. Grampy wasted no time that day, grabbing the male and tying it to the same tree as the previous day. He then went directly to grab his shovel. Here is an account of what happened next, which I got from my then 76 year old grandfather...
"I looked the goat in his eye and it looked back at me...I brought up the shovel and came down on his head, square and hard. So hard, that I broke my shovel. Damn goat broke my shovel! And he didn't die straight away, either...Just lay there on the ground, lookin' up at me, moving it's hooves and going 'eee, eee, eee'...Well, I had to finish the job, so I grabbed the handle and proceeded to bludgeon this goat the rest of the way. Part way through, I saw my neighbor drive up...I dragged the goat behind the garage, so they couldn't see, and finished the job. I buried the goat there when I was done."
"You buried it?" I asked.
"Behind the Garage." he replied.
"Don't you figure they would've liked to use the carcass? After all, I figure that's why they said you could shoot it." I inquired.
"Never thought of that." he said. "Humph. Well, it's done now. Maybe they figured it just up and ran away."
On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see the lonely spectre of a goat, bleating his final death-bleats in the pale moonlight behind my Grandparents' garage. Ok, maybe not, but it makes for a fun story. The goat did die, it is buried there and my Grandfather still doesn't own a gun. I can't rightly say that I've seen 'ghost goat', but I'm not ruling anything out just yet.
Labels: goat killin', grandpa, lame stories, me roots
