Growing up in Moose Knuckle, Minnesota was absolutely thrilling. Some of my earliest memories of ole Moose Knuckle are with my Uncle Olaf and Ice fishing on Lake Winnibigosh. In the middle of winter Uncle Olaf and I would drag his fish house onto lake “Winni” behind his old 61 Ford Pickup that he referred to as “Stinky Larry”, Stinky because it smelled like dead fish, Larry after his little brother Laurenz who died at an early age. We would ride out at 4:30 in the morning with the cold air nipping at our frosted lips. It would take about 20 minutes to get out to the middle of the frozen lake. When we arrive at the predetermined spot, Uncle Olaf would yell, “Time to drop the house on the witch!” At that point we both would get out of “Stinky Larry” and begin setting up our fish house on the frozen lake. Once the fish house was secured to the ice, Olaf and I would begin to drill our ice hole. I remember Olaf drilling the ice hole and the smell of apple cider and Jack Daniels. To this day, when I smell or see Jack Daniels, I remember my dear Uncle Olaf. These are some of my fondest memories of my childhood in Minnesota.
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As a child, one of the most painful memories I recall was in 1973 when my Dad’s brother Olaf lost his arm in a tragic farming accident. The amount of blood and carnage gave me nightmares for days. That is a lot to go through for anybody much less a seven year old. As a result of the accident Uncle Olaf had lost his left arm from the elbow down. I did not see Uncle Olaf for many months after the accident. When I asked my Father, “Dad, what happened to Uncle Olaf?” He replied, “Your Uncle doesn’t feel like being around people after the accident.” Being only a child I thought that Uncle Olaf did not want to see me, not realizing at that time the man had just had his hand ripped off by a piece of farming equipment and probably did not want to talk to anybody. I thought that I would never see Olaf again. So when I saw him at the annual VFW spaghetti feed dinner I was very happy. He has gotten a prosthetic hand that was shaped like a hook. He spent the rest of the night talking like a pirate and chasing me and my cousins around VFW hall with his hook hand. These are the fondest memories of my Uncle Olaf.