View from a Prairie Home

By Hege Herfindahl, Columnist

It is not a given that we will grow old. I don’t need to remind you of the death of my beloved son a scant two months ago at 42 from cancer.  The death two years ago of my dear son-in-law at 43 from a heart attack. And the death of my father at 54 again from cancer. But my grandfather lived to be 91 with a clear mind and a healthy body almost to the end. 

He lost two wives and a son-in-law. But he was stoic and philosophical about growing old.  He told me he was not afraid of death and took each day with a calm demeanor. He had his daily walks and visits with friends. He spent his winters in his apartment in Oslo and his summers in his cabin on the southern tip of Norway. He drove there on his moped, although it was 250 miles. In the fall, he would not leave until lobster season was over. He had lobster traps that he would set using a homemade boat. At the cabin, he made substantial improvements the 28 years he spent there. 

The cabin was on a peninsula, Bjørholmen. The only way to get to the southern tip was to balance on a small trail right next to the ocean. Using dynamite and sledgehammers, my grandfather, then in his late 60s, made the path into a road. Then, he improved the road, hauling wheelbarrow loads of gravel from the mainland until the road was drivable. He also blew out a part of a mountain to create a parking space for two cars. Because two of his daughters, one being my mother, would come every summer with their cars full of kids. 

Suddenly, every summer, my grandfather’s life would be changed from calm to chaotic. Sometimes, there were 11 guests. We really took over his cabin, running around with sandy feet. Catching fish and crabs and cooking them in salt water on his stove and not watching the pot, so the salt water frequently boiled over. The salt water caused the stove to become rusty. We left fishing lines and crab shells all over outside and my mother and aunt were always washing clothes by hand in the small kitchen where the only faucet was. But the faucet produced only cold water so my mother and her sister would heat water on the rusty stove in a big pot. 

And what did my grandfather (bestefar) do? He would smile and sit in his chair, often with a book. He smoked his pipe and commented on our many activities. But he was very particular about how to behave in boats. There were no such thing as a life jacket in those days. And outside the archipelago, the ocean was never still. And of course, we often ventured there, because in the horizon, the ocean and the sky touched and it was and still is an awe inspiring sight. He told us to never stand in a boat. If we needed to move at all, crawl. And always say where we were going. He taught us how to row properly; long, calm pulls with the oar and when you lift them for another pull, keep them low. I would row, and he would stand on shore to observe and later tell me how I did. 

When I moved to Minnesota, my mother cried but my bestefar told me he had never been to the United States and he came to see us twice, both times in his late 80s. My dear bestefar has been my inspiration in so many ways as I grow older. He was stoic in the face of adversity, which we all will have if we are lucky enough to grow older. He never took life for granted, but embraced it and tried to make each day count. He never let his age stand in the way of doing what he loved or being with the people he loved. And he wasn’t afraid of change and never complained about the modern way of doing things and how much better it was in the past. 

As I grow older, despite all the grief I am feeling now, I hope to be flexible like my bestefar and enjoy each day the Lord has given me.