The iconic older generation Thompson family photograph had been taken behind Raymond and Elizabeth Thompsons white wood frame farmhouse six miles north of Milaca, Minnesota on state highway 169. It was rugged Laurentian glacial terrain, rocky, studded with clusters of scrubby coniferous trees, occasional careless brush strokes of white barked Birch, and a few small streams and ponds spotting the fields. It was brutal farming land, and they barely earned enough from milk, slaughtering a few hogs and sheep and farm crops to feed their children. All ten of their children had lined up chronologically beginning with my father Bill, standing behind his mother Elizabeth, and ending at the far end with David, who appeared to be a around 11 or 12 at the time. The photo said a great deal about how they all thought, but mostly Grandpa Ray, who thought very hierarchically. His oldest son William Raymond, my Dad, had the most responsibility for helping running the farm, but among the least recognition of his ten children, as though he had been an indentured servant. Bill was taken for granted, whipped with a razor strap if the cows werent lined up in their stalls in time for milking. It was understandable that Bill stood behind his parents almost out of sight, best to keep a low profile. As I was growing up, our father talked less than most other Dads, but when he did speak up, it was well worth listening. Most of what I think of as my basic values I learned from him. One of his admonitions was a paraphrase of Abraham Lincoln, Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt. So our Mother often said our Dad was the strong silent type. Later in life when Richard Widmer Professor in the Horticulture Department at the University of Minnesota was looking for someone to help teaching a one day workshop on a specific topic in floriculture, he asked my Dad, who had an eighth grade education. Bill replied, Aw s..t, I couldnt teach a dog to pee on a post, but he agreed to help as long as his name want on the workshop syllabus. In Twin Cities region, he was considered a Master Grower, roughly comparable to a master silver smith or wood carver. Christmas time somehow didnt seem to mean very much to our Dad as we were growing up. One year our Mother said to him as my brother and I were talking around the kitchen table about what we wanted for Christmas, Bill, tell the boys about what you got for Christmas when you were their age, but he seemed reluctant to say anything. Finally, looking down into his coffee cup he said,One year I got toy tin horn for Christmas.... And some cookies wrapped in red cellophane. Being the oldest son didnt count for much in those days. He was born the same year as B.F.Skinner. The second photo with yours truly a few years back discussing plants in our garden.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 16:52:43 +0000
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