I’m about to start a series of posts that are a travelogue I worked on after a remarkable summer in 2001. I concatenated our traditional family summer camping trip with a personal journey aimed at photographing the night skies. Some of the descriptions will seem anachronistic today, with the subsequent advent of smart phones, ubiquitous GPS, and the demise of photographic film, but I hope the narrative of the adventure still holds up.
I intend to review my old writings (with the assistance of my skilled copy editor), filling in some of the gaps I left, and submit them to this forum. I invite you to enjoy them at your leisure, and if you have reactions, or if you find something unclear, let me know!
Growing up in a home headed by a “ham” (an amateur radio operator), we often would hear my dad’s radio conversations with remote, distorted, and static-filled voices. In one such contact, the usual exchange of technical banter was augmented by a personal one. Dad mentioned that he had a “full house”, the poker hand, in describing his children: three boys, and a pair of girls.
We all overheard such over-the-air dialogs, as well as evenings
filled with the clicks and beeps of Morse code. Such are the experiences of the children of a zealous
But it has been a very long time since we were all together for any extended time under the same roof. My dad’s Morse code telegraph key went silent a few years ago, and it is the second passing of a parent that now brings us together to figure out the final disposition of their possessions.
The last time we spent this much time in such proximity we
were on a family backpacking trip in 1972.
It was a wonderful and new shared experience, but as teenagers there was
always plenty to bicker about. Some
things never change.
And although we still sometimes act like squabbling
siblings, the things we argue about are no longer the outrages of personal
space violations (“Mo-om, he’s looking at me funny”). Instead, they are the banalities of politics. On the things that matter, we all seem to
Over the course of four days we came together under the roof
of the house our parents enjoyed at the end of their lives and we applied our individual
strengths and skills to the task at hand.
We unearthed familiar artifacts, discovered old photos, revived faded
memories, and re-told family stories as the contents of a very full house were
processed by the “full house” of siblings.
I am sad to announce the passing of my mom, Jacquelyn
(Jackie) Olson, who lived a full and active life until becoming limited by the gradual
but inevitable decline of health from COPD.
I remember her most as the central figure of a busy family;
her five children had diverse interests, and she encouraged all of them. She was the family manager, in charge of
feeding, clothing, coaching, logistics, cheerleading, and enforcing bedtimes. She set the house budget and found many innovative
ways to stay within it, becoming a do-it-yourself expert before DIY became a popular
acronym. She was fearless in tackling
new skills as needed, providing an example for all of us: that we could learn and become skilled at just
As kids, we knew that she was quite talented; she could play
piano, operate a sewing machine, program a loom, make leatherwork, and ride
horses. I was surprised to find out that
she even had a darkroom, and at a time when my interest was aimed in this
direction, her equipment became my equipment, and I learned to develop film and
Perhaps the strongest example of her brave approach to
learning was when she decided to go back to school and get a nursing degree. She was a student again, and despite the twenty-year
hiatus from her earlier coursework, she completed her first semester with an A
in chemistry, and all her other classes. My brother Eric and I were at the University
at the same time, neither of us quite matching her GPA. I recall meeting her for lunch sometimes at
the student union, along with some of her classmates. She was a generation older, but they all seemed
quite pleased to be hanging out with her.
She became an RN and worked at Waconia Hospital where she
was liked and respected, confirming and adding to her sense of independence. She started applying her income to new
hobbies: ceramics and stained glass, but
one of her favorite activities was attending estate and yard sales, to find
antique or underappreciated furniture, which she then restored.
In contrast to my dad, who offered explicit advice, boiling
down life lessons to memorable phrases, Mom taught by example. And not just how to hang wallpaper, but how
to be considerate to friends and respectful to non-friends, how to persist in
the face of obstacles and setbacks, and how to speak up when someone is not
doing the right thing. From her I
learned the skills of patience and persistence, and acquired the values for, if
not the skills of, being kind and attentive to others.
In 1997, she decided that Minnesota winters were no longer to her liking. The more arid climate of the West suited her better, and so she moved to Idaho Falls, acquiring Eric’s original house there as he built a new home for his growing family. (My dad reluctantly followed, never completely pulling up his Minnesota roots).
She has been happy there for these last decades, gardening
and landscaping and able to read as many novels as she wished, solve the daily
crosswords and keep up with neighbors, friends and family. In the last few years she has had to slow
down on her interests as her disease gradually overtook her body and
breath. It has been an unpleasant time,
and she has claimed that she has been ready to go for a while, but life is a
strong force and doesn’t give up without a fight.
The impact of her examples was not limited to her
children. She made friends all along the
way, from lifelong childhood friends, through college and sorority sisters, to neighbors
that had the fortune to move next door, and their children who are just now
becoming young adults. Many people will
I will miss her.
In an odd cosmic or spiritual coincidence, my mother took her last breath at 3:11, the time indicated by the stopped antique clock in her bedroom. It was the exact complement of the old song about the grandfather clock that stopped short when the old man died.
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