Red is the Pemble color and it is only fitting that my dad is depicted with red socks and shirt. The scene is from a trip to Mexico after being diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He passed away a few months later.
Chester Ward Pemble was born in 1917 during WWI. I was told that at delivery the doctor exclaimed, “You’ve got yourself a little Buddy!” ( Battle buddy was a term used in WW I to describe a partner assigned to a soldier in the U.S. Army.) His father nicknamed all the children so he was referred to as Bud for the rest of his life.
Growing up during the depression in the region of Hawick/Paynesville, MN couldn’t have been easy for Dad’s family and I feel this experience was the driving force behind his determination to succeed in business and life.
Looking in the mirror, I can see that I resemble my father much more than my mother. While I did not inherit his math and business skills, I am confident that I am similar to his sisters who were teachers. Dad held teachers in high regard and was proud that I chose that career path. Teaching matched my gifts in life and was the most fulfilling career choice I could have made. For this I am thankful. I have also inherited his love of travel along with an appreciation of solitude.
I just received the results from my DNA test through Ancestry.com and according to them I am 49% Scandinavian, 30% Scottish, 6% Iberian, 5% Europe South, 4% Europe West, 2% Great Britain, 2% Middle East, less than 1% Europe East and less than 1% European Jewish.
Hmm… By the looks of it, I’d say the 6% Iberian Peninsula came from him.
The class of 2018 is cruising down the home stretch and ready to complete their final lap. Be proud of your glory days as they represent a time in your life that can never be repeated. You are probably in peak physical condition due to the rigors of training along with youthful resilience, and have shared bonding experiences with teammates you have probably known and played alongside since elementary school. When this time comes to an end you may feel an unusual combination of accomplishment and sadness.
Are we really saying farewell to the glory days? You couldn’t forget these experiences and memories if you tried. Rather, it’s a time to say to yourself, Wow, wasn’t that incredible?
To quote football coach, Lou Holtz: The answer to three questions will determine your success or failure:
1 – Can people trust me to do my best?
2 – Am I committed to the task in hand?
3 – Do I care about other people and show it?
If the answers to all three questions are yes, there is no way you can fail.
So, be thankful for the experiences, apply the lessons learned and make sure to find a way to make the future even better than the past.
I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I know it won’t be boring.
A pilgrim walks through the cooler air of a tunnel on a hot day along the Camino de Santiago. Impressionistic effect created using Topaz Studio.
“A hobo wanders and works, a tramp wanders and dreams and a bum neither wanders nor works.” -Anonymous.
“Hobo at the Breakfast Table” by Randy Meyer
Randy recently picked up the paint brush, after a long hiatus, to capture a memory from his childhood:
It was a cold, snowy day in the early 1960s and this gentleman wandered up to the farmyard asking for work in exchange for food and lodging. He seemed somewhat prepared for the weather being dressed in a long, heavy, hooded coat that had seen better days along with big boots that were held together by wrappings of a sort. Randy’s parents could not afford to hire extra help, but they generously invited the man into their house to eat breakfast. Imagine four little children peeking into the small kitchen with wide eyes watching this disheveled older gentleman with a monstrous beard and tremendous appetite devour copious amounts of eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast and whatever else was available that morning. After satisfying his hunger, they wished him well as he made his way to the next farm site.
Who was this man… Hobo? Tramp? Bum?
Since the railroad was still running a train route to the towns of Gary, South Dakota and Marietta, Minnesota it is possible that he hitched a ride on the rail and walked farm to farm in search of food, board or money. This would define him as a hobo.
True hobos fully embraced a strong work ethic, bouncing from place to place, looking for short-term jobs to earn their keep, while bums and tramps wanted to bum everything—money, food, or cigarettes.
The very first American hobos were cast-offs from the American Civil War of the 1860s as young men rode the rails to find their fortunes, usually finding menial work or farm labor. The name hobo is believed to be a shortened form of “hoe boy.” The Great Depression and the Dust Bowl in the 1930s forced millions of Americans to become migrant laborers riding the rails in search of work.
My mother was born in 1920 and talked about hobos coming to her family’s farm when she was a child. Since threshing and haying were labor intensive processes there were opportunities to be had and her parents or grandparents would occasionally hire a hobo to help, allowing him to sleep in the barn. There were hobo markings along the railroad stop in nearby Smiths Mill, Minnesota that would communicate places in the area to work, sleep, etc. which led the hobos to their farm. These markings were a pictographic Hobo Code understood among the hobo community. Since hobos weren’t typically welcomed (and were often illiterate), messages were left that were easy for hobos to read but looked like random markings to everyone else which maintained an element of secrecy.
Whatever happened to the strange breakfast guest depicted in this painting? We’ll never know, but Randy can still see his crazy eyes.
I find myself mesmerized by the process as each step is carefully, yet quickly, completed. Noticing the bare hands, I wonder how many burns occur during a typical work week. I know I would need a first aid kit within close proximity.
Resting the body, mind and all things in between. Lightening the burdens carried may help, as well.