Please use this blog to share family members about the Hilde family. Below are the memories that I shared at the funeral. ~Kristen
Grandpa Hilde was the quintessential stoic, proud Norwegian – always eating something with potatoes, always talking and always right. He was proud to be Norwegian and would tell anyone who was near by that fact. Any word could be translated to a Norwegian. He frequently translated names to what they meant in Norwegian. When Rylyn was born he was quick to point out that his name meant rye field. Grandpa was also proud that Bjorn had a Norwegian name and explained that it meant bear. When he first told me Hilde meant war, I was skeptical and thought he was teasing, but I checked and, of course, Grandpa was right. He loved to speak Norwegian with anyone he could find. If you asked Grandpa there are no bad Norwegian words – he said all the bad words came from the Finlanders.
Grandpa’s and Grandma’s Norwegian heritage shown through our family dinners of lutefisk, potato krube, and lefse. However, he was more than willing to try cooking other foods. We just weren’t always willing to eat them. Don’t get me wrong, most things he cooked were very good and quickly disappeared from the table, especially his potato krube. But soup days were things to enter into with caution. Soup days meant Grandpa was cleaning out the fridge. Potatoes were a staple in his diet.
He often said that you could survive a week with nothing but a bag of potatoes.
Grandpa loved to talk and he loved to tease. He had a sense of humor that sometimes left you wondering if he was joking or not. When you were sure he was serious you would glance up to a smile and hear his chuckle. He usually did this to me while I helped him with various odd jobs. He always seemed to have some project going and always needed an assistant. One summer he hired me to drive the tractor while he walked behind with a plow to hill the potatoes. Grandpa told me he would pay me and dollar signs immediately came into my mind. Every morning when he picked me up early to drive to the field at Haurunens where the potatoes were he would remind me that I would be paid for my work. I had visions of all the things I could buy as I drove the tractor up and down the rows of potatoes week after week. When the job was finished Grandpa came over to our house and I eagerly met him at the door. But instead of the check I was envisioning there sat a sack of potatoes at Grandpa’s feet. “That’s it?” I asked. “No, there’s another sack in the truck. You grew ‘em, what did you expect to get paid in?” he said with a smile. Now, one would think I had learned from this, but no. Grandpa needed help cleaning up some large logs from the yard and again I was told I would be paid. Again, the job was completed and my payment arrived in the form of chainsaw art created by Grandpa from the logs we had cleaned up.
His sense of humor often came through his stories, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. Grandpa told the story of the trout he planted in the pond by their house in Embarrass. He described feeding them with Purina trout food and how they would jump right out of a hole in the ice to be fed. One day he and James decided to go fishing for the trout, but got no bites. So, what do you do when can’t catch anything? Dynamite, well, at least that was their answer. Grandpa described tossing in dynamite to search out the fish, but still no luck. He enjoyed giving all the details of the fountains of water as they tried to find the fish. Grandpa later learned there was an underground connection between the pond and the Pike River. As we were still laughing at the idea of the pond water exploding up with no fish, Grandpa muttered, “Dang Finns were down river catching all my trout.”
I think storytelling was what he loved to do more than anything. Stories about the history of the Iron Range and about the area around Ulen were expected during car rides, trips to Ulen, any time a newspaper was near him, dinner, when the tv was on, and really just anytime he thought of one. This past Easter he was explaining why Highway 53 curves all over and then has a straight shot, then curves all over again and has another straight shot and so on. Grandpa said the surveyors for the road were wandering around this way and that way looking for wine in the woods. When they heard of a winery they would go straight to it, so our roads follow the paths they took to get liquor. One might question if he was telling the truth, but there really was no point because Grandpa’s stories were never wrong. Another story he told was about moose milk. When Dana asked how he milked a moose he explained it was what they did when they ran out of cow’s milk at the logging camps, though he said it was much harder to catch that type of cow. He then added that by moose milk he really meant horse’s milk, which was never told to the men in camp because it was better if they didn’t know exactly what they were drinking.
Grandpa told many stories about his family and loved to look through old pictures that he kept close to his chair in the living room. He talked about his grandpa’s little dog that ran around the farm chasing gophers out of holes. He spoke of Benny’s horses being the best stallions, which is why they ended up being teamsters at the logging camps around Ely. Grandpa told of sneaking out at night from the farm to go to town and his mom not catching him until later. One of my favorites was a story he told a number of times about going out to eat with Benny and group of other family members at a restaurant. Just before the bill came Benny excused himself from the table. Shortly after the bill arrived at the table, but Benny did not. The group waited and waited, then finally decided to pay the bill and leave. Grandpa would chuckle as he described finding Benny at the car whose question to the group was what took you so long.
There are so many more stories that Grandpa could have talked on and on forever. Of course this is not the case. Grandpa had been passing on stories more and more the last few years as he organized old pictures. He knew they were important and now it is our turn to realize how important these stories are for us. I feel like I know his grandparents and aunts and uncles as if they were my own because of him. He passed on his family to us through his stories and now we must pass on him to ours, for Bjorn and all the other Hildes that have yet to come. At the side of each of your seats is a paper. If you have a story or a memory of Grandpa I am asking you to please take the time today to write it down. The papers can be put in the basket in the entry. Later, they will be placed in a book so all of the Hildes who did not get to meet Grandpa will still have a chance to know him through the stories and through us. It is our turn to do the talking for him. We need to pass on his humor, our heritage, and most of all his stories so his grandchildren, great-grandchilden, and all others that follow will know him.
Grandpa’s and Grandma’s Norwegian heritage shown through our family dinners of lutefisk, potato krube, and lefse. However, he was more than willing to try cooking other foods. We just weren’t always willing to eat them. Don’t get me wrong, most things he cooked were very good and quickly disappeared from the table, especially his potato krube. But soup days were things to enter into with caution. Soup days meant Grandpa was cleaning out the fridge. Potatoes were a staple in his diet.
He often said that you could survive a week with nothing but a bag of potatoes.
Grandpa loved to talk and he loved to tease. He had a sense of humor that sometimes left you wondering if he was joking or not. When you were sure he was serious you would glance up to a smile and hear his chuckle. He usually did this to me while I helped him with various odd jobs. He always seemed to have some project going and always needed an assistant. One summer he hired me to drive the tractor while he walked behind with a plow to hill the potatoes. Grandpa told me he would pay me and dollar signs immediately came into my mind. Every morning when he picked me up early to drive to the field at Haurunens where the potatoes were he would remind me that I would be paid for my work. I had visions of all the things I could buy as I drove the tractor up and down the rows of potatoes week after week. When the job was finished Grandpa came over to our house and I eagerly met him at the door. But instead of the check I was envisioning there sat a sack of potatoes at Grandpa’s feet. “That’s it?” I asked. “No, there’s another sack in the truck. You grew ‘em, what did you expect to get paid in?” he said with a smile. Now, one would think I had learned from this, but no. Grandpa needed help cleaning up some large logs from the yard and again I was told I would be paid. Again, the job was completed and my payment arrived in the form of chainsaw art created by Grandpa from the logs we had cleaned up.
His sense of humor often came through his stories, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. Grandpa told the story of the trout he planted in the pond by their house in Embarrass. He described feeding them with Purina trout food and how they would jump right out of a hole in the ice to be fed. One day he and James decided to go fishing for the trout, but got no bites. So, what do you do when can’t catch anything? Dynamite, well, at least that was their answer. Grandpa described tossing in dynamite to search out the fish, but still no luck. He enjoyed giving all the details of the fountains of water as they tried to find the fish. Grandpa later learned there was an underground connection between the pond and the Pike River. As we were still laughing at the idea of the pond water exploding up with no fish, Grandpa muttered, “Dang Finns were down river catching all my trout.”
I think storytelling was what he loved to do more than anything. Stories about the history of the Iron Range and about the area around Ulen were expected during car rides, trips to Ulen, any time a newspaper was near him, dinner, when the tv was on, and really just anytime he thought of one. This past Easter he was explaining why Highway 53 curves all over and then has a straight shot, then curves all over again and has another straight shot and so on. Grandpa said the surveyors for the road were wandering around this way and that way looking for wine in the woods. When they heard of a winery they would go straight to it, so our roads follow the paths they took to get liquor. One might question if he was telling the truth, but there really was no point because Grandpa’s stories were never wrong. Another story he told was about moose milk. When Dana asked how he milked a moose he explained it was what they did when they ran out of cow’s milk at the logging camps, though he said it was much harder to catch that type of cow. He then added that by moose milk he really meant horse’s milk, which was never told to the men in camp because it was better if they didn’t know exactly what they were drinking.
Grandpa told many stories about his family and loved to look through old pictures that he kept close to his chair in the living room. He talked about his grandpa’s little dog that ran around the farm chasing gophers out of holes. He spoke of Benny’s horses being the best stallions, which is why they ended up being teamsters at the logging camps around Ely. Grandpa told of sneaking out at night from the farm to go to town and his mom not catching him until later. One of my favorites was a story he told a number of times about going out to eat with Benny and group of other family members at a restaurant. Just before the bill came Benny excused himself from the table. Shortly after the bill arrived at the table, but Benny did not. The group waited and waited, then finally decided to pay the bill and leave. Grandpa would chuckle as he described finding Benny at the car whose question to the group was what took you so long.
There are so many more stories that Grandpa could have talked on and on forever. Of course this is not the case. Grandpa had been passing on stories more and more the last few years as he organized old pictures. He knew they were important and now it is our turn to realize how important these stories are for us. I feel like I know his grandparents and aunts and uncles as if they were my own because of him. He passed on his family to us through his stories and now we must pass on him to ours, for Bjorn and all the other Hildes that have yet to come. At the side of each of your seats is a paper. If you have a story or a memory of Grandpa I am asking you to please take the time today to write it down. The papers can be put in the basket in the entry. Later, they will be placed in a book so all of the Hildes who did not get to meet Grandpa will still have a chance to know him through the stories and through us. It is our turn to do the talking for him. We need to pass on his humor, our heritage, and most of all his stories so his grandchildren, great-grandchilden, and all others that follow will know him.
