1.010 Minnesota Catholics and Cows

1920 • Minnesota ~ When the wheels needed to be changed or the axles greased, my father—not yet a man—lifted the more than 200-pound hay wagon with his back, raised it higher with his arms, and held it steady while his older brother Aloysius, or Louie as the family called him, slipped the new wheel on the axle. That’s how strong my father was.

Grandma Clemens

Working in the fields one burning afternoon alongside his mother, he observed her intently. Stooped and worn, gray strands of hair straggling from her bun, dampened by sweat escaping her forehead, he saw how tired and weathered she looked. Her back bent shocking wheat, she took the sheaves of grain, tied them, then carefully stood the bundles upright in the field for drying. He decided right then and there that wouldn’t happen to him, knowing if he stayed he’d sink into her footprints forever, tied to endless seasons of disking fields, planting corn, and milking cows.

When he was fifteen, Carl pooled his money with three friends, Paul Adamson, Johnny Mohlke, and Tone Conway (Michael Anthony Conway was his given name; later in life he became One-Eyed Mike). They bought a touring car, an open-topped green Chevrolet with isinglass curtains. It was a clunker that cost them $10 apiece; it was all they could afford. When they first got it, Johnny, a fiery redhead who didn’t weigh more than 150 pounds and never sat still for more than ten seconds, was the only one who could drive, and he drove like a maniac. He was the drinker of the group, sometimes pouring it down for a week. Tone and Paul drank heavily too, but not like Johnny. Carl, the oldest of the four, was the only one who didn’t partake; alcohol made him sick as a poisoned pup.

They often rolled the car on the country dirt and gravel roads, got out, and tipped it back up on its wheels to take off again. It didn’t go over 60 miles per hour, but Johnny put the pedal to the metal, in town or out. Carl soon took over the driving. He was reputed to be a hot rodder, accelerating with the cutout wide open. He drove fast, but he drove sober. Every time his mother heard their phone ring, one short and one long, she would shake, sure her son was in another accident and someone was hurt, or worse, dead. Nobody was—not seriously anyway—although Carl did come home once with his arm torn open. A scar ran the whole length of his forearm. It wasn’t something he bragged about.

My grandmother was of the opinion boys should stay home and work on the family farm. Carl was of a different opinion. Trying to please his mother was about as easy as jumping over his own knees, and one morning he disappeared and didn’t come back. Grandma was hurt; she worried about him constantly and prayed he’d return home. No matter to Carl; he was tired of being told what to do. He didn’t go far, just off to his uncle Frank Nigon’s place east of Rochester to work. Then in 1923, he and Tone got a job at St. Mary’s Hospital Dairy Farm, milking cows for a year. The farmstead was a pasteurizing plant and supplied the milk for St. Mary’s hospital. Starting with forty acres, it was run by the Sisters of St. Francis from 1900 until 1925. It was a huge tiled barn built like a U, the east wing used for milking the herd of forty cows, the middle section the bullpen, and the west wing stabling the twelve to fifteen horses. At that time a team of horses cost more than a car. They raised turkeys and chickens too, with everything used for the hospital. A boss and five men did the milking. Carl lived in the bunkhouse over the milk house with Paul Adamson and Tone Conway, each making $15 a month plus their room and board. They did general farm work, milked the cows, and handled the horses, playing penny ante poker in their off time. The nuns worked them hard and paid them little and after a year and a final straw, the three friends had enough and walked out.

St. Mary’s Farmstead (current photo)

Seattle construction site, Carl(?) white cap, front row

When he was eighteen, Carl and Tone decided to head west for work and adventure. They called up Johnny and Paul, and the four friends each packed a cowhide suit case and hopped into their Chevy. The three of them drank their way to Seattle while Carl drove. Sobering up, they decided not to stay, dropped Carl off, turned around and drove back. They knew they were farmers, rooted to the soil of Minnesota. Carl remained in Seattle, first getting a job in the lumber mills and then for a dairy delivering milk. He eventually landed in California where there was better work and better weather. His brother Lawrence joined him for a time, and they gained employment with Frederickson & Watson Construction Company, traveling from job to job; in those days, to find work, unless you were a farmer, you had to go were the jobs were. My father, the only man in the family to leave the farming life, was considered the smart one.

to be continued …

© 2017. Catherine Sevenau.
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