In the winter of 1932-33 it took us 150 chapters to finish the story of GOLDIE, the dog we "found" in an Alaskan ice cave. At first we called her DOG, then one day she led these two great explorers from Minnesota to the very end of the cave where she bagan to scratch in the cave floor. Soon she was turning up gold nuggets of all sizes, keeping us glued to that chapter for an entire week. From then on her name was GOLDIE. Every morning during that week Pa had to come into the barn and hurry us up so we wouldn't be late for school.
Another "togetherness" time that Bud never forgets was a special building project. This time it was a pull cart with two wheels and a long handle made for pulling garden produce to the house. When it was complete Bud took it for a cautious test run around the yard. It worked well, as did everything he made. Then it was my turn to really test it. I expect there may have been a bit of jealousy in my action. With a firm grip on the handle I started down the sloping yard toward the granary. Speed was my goal. I would give it a real test run. Faster, faster I ran, cart sliding on an outer arc toward the granary steps. I made the turn, the cart did not. It wrapped around the lower step, wheels flying one way, vegetable box another, frame broken and bent. I continued running, handle in my hand, yelling at the top of my voice, "Not strong enough. Not strong enough." (Bud now claims that after hitting the granary steps I took an axe to it. That I don't remember.)
In spite of this calamity, we didn't fight as some brothers did. We really fought only once. Fortunately, Pa heard us from the start. He finished it. The fight began as we were listening to Dempsey vs. Sharkey fight on the radio. All I remember is that my support was for the loser. This was a greater loss than I could bear. I struck the first blow. It never happened again.
As we moved from childhood to adult life, those personal characteristics, so different in these two farm boys, continued into our middle years. Now, both retired and in our eighties, we are different still. Bud became a machinist, and I a professor. Today Bud collects aluminum cans and from them makes and sells garden ornaments. People love his work. I write and serve on many groups attempting to build a better life for the next generation.
Distance keeps us apart, but if we were together there would be no fights, no broken carts and a togetherness made permanent by growing up together on a small farm.