Wednesday, June 2, 2004

I had a nice weekend in MN, but came home to the news that my grandfather had died Monday morning at 92. I'm saddened but not grieving, if that makes any sense, given that he had what seemed to be a good, full life. In a way I feel bad that I might not be feeling bad enough.



In his nineties Halvar Johan Sorenson (somewhere along the line anglicized to Oliver John) was still able to do some deer hunting, tried out a jetski (accompanied), was a better pool player than anyone in the family, managed to hit the seasonal lutefisk feeds (not a churchgoer, this was apparently his method of atonement) and was a voracious reader. I occasionally got the idea he'd outlive the rest of us.



He developed a liking for Dolly Parton, so much that two of the just three movies I recall him seeing in theatres in my lifetime were 9 to 5 and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. When Grandma was still alive they were great dancers and cutthroat cardplayers. Katie and I would spend long stetches of summers on their farm, and they cared for us with a long-leash attitude that I admire greatly, although in 2004 letting an 11-year-old run around alone on a county-fair midway for hours would get you locked up. From the grandkid standpoint, the only thing--really, the only thing--close to negative I can say about him is that we always had to be quiet for an hour so they could watch Days of Our Lives. How 'bout that, as Ollie would say.



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