Bradenton Herald*Sunday, May, 1999; Bradenton, FL: By CLAUDE
The Things We Used To Do: Growing up in the '30s in South Dakota
Picture this--South Dakota at the height of the Depression, cold and blowy in the winter and hot, dry and dusty during the almost rainless summers. Although I was born in 1925 in the country store my parents owned since 1912, my first real memories begin in 1930 when we were forced to move into town because credit extended by my father, along with the Depression, caused us to lose the store. I was eighth--the oldest of the three younger boys--in a family of 10 children, two grandmothers and my parents. I started to school on the day we moved to town and the most horrible events took place during those first couple months. I was left handed, and Miss Shekleton was determined that I would write right-handed. After a number of confrontations, my mother finally stepped in and said that it would be best if I were permitted to use my left hand. These traumas resulted in no one being able to read my writing until I went to college after World War II.
Store-brought toys, in our home, were non-existent. We had to make our own toys and find our own fun. Our little town was surrounded on two sides by an Indian reservation and just north of town, across the Big Sioux River, was the only Indian Vocational High School in the northern half of the U.S. Besides the Indian students who were bused in in early September and returned home in late May, there were many Indian families in and around our one square mile town, most of whom also attended the public schools in town. Most of the time we all got along quite well, but there were occasional gang fights which I sometimes observed from behind a big tree where and older brother made me swear to stay during the confrontations. I like to say that "I played cowboys and Indians with real Indians."
A lot of my childhood experiences have escaped me, but I most certainly remember the love and caring of wonderful parents and many older brothers and sisters. We never missed a Sunday going to church, with my father leading the family contingent down the aisle and all sitting in the first or second row. My mother was a Sunday School teacher for many years. I earned my 12-year Sunday School pin, as did most of my siblings.
Of course, my Mother was the binding factor with her quiet, loving demeanor, always giving of herself to so many of our neighbors and others. To help bring in money during many of those years, mother took care of countless new mothers in the area and their new babies. She had no training but was the best "nurse" to be found in a large area. Doctors frequently asked her to care for some sick individual in their home, which Mother did.
The poignant part of this story is that if Mother had not worked, we probably would not have eaten as well as we did, nor paid the rent on time. Times were bad for all during the early and mid-'30s. Dad, although a tireless and hard working Norwegian, often had trouble making enough money to pay for necessities. Older siblings later told me that, because Dad's truck was his livelihood, many times he made only enough money to keep the truck in good repair and on the road.
At my age, I was not aware of just how bad things were. One incident made me partially aware of the times and the extent of my father's pride. As a seventh or eighth grader, I had a best friend-we were inseparable. His father became blind, and the family had to move off the farm into town. After school on day, Orville said that he was going down to the Court Office to get a sweater at the relief office. I really needed one also, so I went with him. Orville got the sweater with no trouble, and when I asked for one, I was turned down because "your father is not on relief." Dad was brought up learning that you took care of your family yourself.
My siblings and I all learned a great deal about family love, togetherness and caring for others. Mother also brought in extra money weaving rugs (from the basement could be heard the banging of the loom often around midnight) and making and selling Norwegian goodies at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She was really giving of herself to and for her family, and her great love of her fellow man and selfless devotion to others resulted in her being named the Centennial Queen in my home town in 1969.
Our town was a farming railroad hub where a large stockyard stood right next to the railroad, and nearby were three or four large grain elevators. Some real memories of mine center on those stockyards. Among other things, there were steers to be teased. Sometimes they resisted our "play," and I have the false teeth to prove it.
Just beyond the western edge of town was a very large (as I remember) "hobo jungle" where "travelers" would arrive -via the railroad- and leave with great regularity. It was quickly established by newcomers that there was a very nice lady just a couple of blocks down the road where you could get a sandwich and milk if you knocked on the back door. Yes, mother fed who knows how many "bums" in spite of the fact that she and Dad were just barely able to feed their own younghans!
The "hobo jungle" is a vivid memory because it was a source of many childhood activities for many of my friends and me. The jungle, of course, was made up of numerous kinds of homeless "travelers." We befriended some and antagonized others as we developed into teenagers. I can't remember any really serious incidents, but at various times we were run off, swore at, shot at (yes, rally!), and otherwise generally being fearful of getting too close to them.
Halloween was an exceptionally memorable time of the year. We had outhouses, farm machinery, old cars, and various and sundry other items that we tipped over, put on top of the high school, moved to the mayor's yard, etc. My first and only jail time was in a small town six miles from home where the local jailer advised us, in a friendly manner, of course, that we might consider limits to our festivities. It was only about 15 minutes, but well remembered!
Dad drove a truck throughout the northwest quadrant of Moody County (we never owned a car 'til about 1938) for the local creamery, bringing in cream from the farmers (three routes, six days a week), and delivering butter and sometimes other groceries when asked. Incidentally, when Dad retired, the creamery hired three young men to replace him! Every evening dad brought home countless quarts of milk and pounds of real butter, and we ate ice cream (everything coming from creamery) like there was no tomorrow. He, like mother, was very loving, caring and generous while being the "strong, silent type." We often had to interpret his "Humph"!
Sometimes to help with the fuel situation, he would walk along the railroad tracks picking up pieces of coal to burn in our potbelly stove. During the long, cold South Dakota winters, we three little boys would jump into our bed -upstairs- and mother would pile on the quilts, and we were immobile until she uncovered us in the morning. The hear from the stove or floor furnace (which often was cold by morning) would come upstairs via a couple of registers in the floor.
Because we never owned our own home, we rented and moved frequently to various housed in town. Mother, always the fastidious one, insisted on wallpapering and painting every place we moved into. If I hadn't hated it so much, I could have been a first class paperhanger.
The story of my older siblings working outside the home, graduating from high school, leaving home thereafter )five of them ending up in Chicago at various times and their many activities prior to my arrival on the scene and some years afterwards is another story, worthy of telling one day.
Claude S. Gulbranson is a retired educator of the deaf. He lives in Anna Maria, Florida
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herald Tribune, Sarasota, FL
News Coast
6/15/2000
Manatee County
Claude S. Gulbranson
Claude S. Gulbranson, 75, Anna Maria and formerly of Sarasota, died June 13, 2000.
He was born Feb. 2, 1925, in Flandreau, S.D., and came to Manatee County 13 years ago from Sarasota. He was a Navy Seabee veteran of World War II and had been a secretary for the First Special Battalion of the Seabees since 1991. He was a member of Roser Memorial Community Church and president of its Men's Club. He graduated from Augustana College in Sioux Falls, S.D. He was a teacher for the hearing impaired for 30 years.
Survivors include his wife, J. June Stuart; a daughter, Diane of Huron, Ohio; a stepdaughter, Beverly Leland of Kent, Ohio; two sons, David of Salt Lake City and Dan of Denver; two stepsons, Kenneth Stuart of Kernersville, N.C., and Bert Stuart of Kent; Ohio; two sisters, Louella Nace of Flandreau, SD and Peggy Smith of Ocala, FL; three brothers, Irvin of Huntsville, Ala., John of Archer and Oliver of New Jersey; 13 grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
A service will be at 10 a.m. Saturday at Roser Memorial Community Church. National Cremation Society is in charge. Burial will be in Flandreau.
Memorial donations may be made to Roser Memorial Community Church, 512 Pine Ave., Anna Maria, FL 34216; or to Hospice of Southwest Florida, 5955 Rand Blvd., Sarasota, FL 34238.
The Things We Used To Do: Growing up in the '30s in South Dakota
Picture this--South Dakota at the height of the Depression, cold and blowy in the winter and hot, dry and dusty during the almost rainless summers. Although I was born in 1925 in the country store my parents owned since 1912, my first real memories begin in 1930 when we were forced to move into town because credit extended by my father, along with the Depression, caused us to lose the store. I was eighth--the oldest of the three younger boys--in a family of 10 children, two grandmothers and my parents. I started to school on the day we moved to town and the most horrible events took place during those first couple months. I was left handed, and Miss Shekleton was determined that I would write right-handed. After a number of confrontations, my mother finally stepped in and said that it would be best if I were permitted to use my left hand. These traumas resulted in no one being able to read my writing until I went to college after World War II.
Store-brought toys, in our home, were non-existent. We had to make our own toys and find our own fun. Our little town was surrounded on two sides by an Indian reservation and just north of town, across the Big Sioux River, was the only Indian Vocational High School in the northern half of the U.S. Besides the Indian students who were bused in in early September and returned home in late May, there were many Indian families in and around our one square mile town, most of whom also attended the public schools in town. Most of the time we all got along quite well, but there were occasional gang fights which I sometimes observed from behind a big tree where and older brother made me swear to stay during the confrontations. I like to say that "I played cowboys and Indians with real Indians."
A lot of my childhood experiences have escaped me, but I most certainly remember the love and caring of wonderful parents and many older brothers and sisters. We never missed a Sunday going to church, with my father leading the family contingent down the aisle and all sitting in the first or second row. My mother was a Sunday School teacher for many years. I earned my 12-year Sunday School pin, as did most of my siblings.
Of course, my Mother was the binding factor with her quiet, loving demeanor, always giving of herself to so many of our neighbors and others. To help bring in money during many of those years, mother took care of countless new mothers in the area and their new babies. She had no training but was the best "nurse" to be found in a large area. Doctors frequently asked her to care for some sick individual in their home, which Mother did.
The poignant part of this story is that if Mother had not worked, we probably would not have eaten as well as we did, nor paid the rent on time. Times were bad for all during the early and mid-'30s. Dad, although a tireless and hard working Norwegian, often had trouble making enough money to pay for necessities. Older siblings later told me that, because Dad's truck was his livelihood, many times he made only enough money to keep the truck in good repair and on the road.
At my age, I was not aware of just how bad things were. One incident made me partially aware of the times and the extent of my father's pride. As a seventh or eighth grader, I had a best friend-we were inseparable. His father became blind, and the family had to move off the farm into town. After school on day, Orville said that he was going down to the Court Office to get a sweater at the relief office. I really needed one also, so I went with him. Orville got the sweater with no trouble, and when I asked for one, I was turned down because "your father is not on relief." Dad was brought up learning that you took care of your family yourself.
My siblings and I all learned a great deal about family love, togetherness and caring for others. Mother also brought in extra money weaving rugs (from the basement could be heard the banging of the loom often around midnight) and making and selling Norwegian goodies at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She was really giving of herself to and for her family, and her great love of her fellow man and selfless devotion to others resulted in her being named the Centennial Queen in my home town in 1969.
Our town was a farming railroad hub where a large stockyard stood right next to the railroad, and nearby were three or four large grain elevators. Some real memories of mine center on those stockyards. Among other things, there were steers to be teased. Sometimes they resisted our "play," and I have the false teeth to prove it.
Just beyond the western edge of town was a very large (as I remember) "hobo jungle" where "travelers" would arrive -via the railroad- and leave with great regularity. It was quickly established by newcomers that there was a very nice lady just a couple of blocks down the road where you could get a sandwich and milk if you knocked on the back door. Yes, mother fed who knows how many "bums" in spite of the fact that she and Dad were just barely able to feed their own younghans!
The "hobo jungle" is a vivid memory because it was a source of many childhood activities for many of my friends and me. The jungle, of course, was made up of numerous kinds of homeless "travelers." We befriended some and antagonized others as we developed into teenagers. I can't remember any really serious incidents, but at various times we were run off, swore at, shot at (yes, rally!), and otherwise generally being fearful of getting too close to them.
Halloween was an exceptionally memorable time of the year. We had outhouses, farm machinery, old cars, and various and sundry other items that we tipped over, put on top of the high school, moved to the mayor's yard, etc. My first and only jail time was in a small town six miles from home where the local jailer advised us, in a friendly manner, of course, that we might consider limits to our festivities. It was only about 15 minutes, but well remembered!
Dad drove a truck throughout the northwest quadrant of Moody County (we never owned a car 'til about 1938) for the local creamery, bringing in cream from the farmers (three routes, six days a week), and delivering butter and sometimes other groceries when asked. Incidentally, when Dad retired, the creamery hired three young men to replace him! Every evening dad brought home countless quarts of milk and pounds of real butter, and we ate ice cream (everything coming from creamery) like there was no tomorrow. He, like mother, was very loving, caring and generous while being the "strong, silent type." We often had to interpret his "Humph"!
Sometimes to help with the fuel situation, he would walk along the railroad tracks picking up pieces of coal to burn in our potbelly stove. During the long, cold South Dakota winters, we three little boys would jump into our bed -upstairs- and mother would pile on the quilts, and we were immobile until she uncovered us in the morning. The hear from the stove or floor furnace (which often was cold by morning) would come upstairs via a couple of registers in the floor.
Because we never owned our own home, we rented and moved frequently to various housed in town. Mother, always the fastidious one, insisted on wallpapering and painting every place we moved into. If I hadn't hated it so much, I could have been a first class paperhanger.
The story of my older siblings working outside the home, graduating from high school, leaving home thereafter )five of them ending up in Chicago at various times and their many activities prior to my arrival on the scene and some years afterwards is another story, worthy of telling one day.
Claude S. Gulbranson is a retired educator of the deaf. He lives in Anna Maria, Florida
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herald Tribune, Sarasota, FL
News Coast
6/15/2000
Manatee County
Claude S. Gulbranson
Claude S. Gulbranson, 75, Anna Maria and formerly of Sarasota, died June 13, 2000.
He was born Feb. 2, 1925, in Flandreau, S.D., and came to Manatee County 13 years ago from Sarasota. He was a Navy Seabee veteran of World War II and had been a secretary for the First Special Battalion of the Seabees since 1991. He was a member of Roser Memorial Community Church and president of its Men's Club. He graduated from Augustana College in Sioux Falls, S.D. He was a teacher for the hearing impaired for 30 years.
Survivors include his wife, J. June Stuart; a daughter, Diane of Huron, Ohio; a stepdaughter, Beverly Leland of Kent, Ohio; two sons, David of Salt Lake City and Dan of Denver; two stepsons, Kenneth Stuart of Kernersville, N.C., and Bert Stuart of Kent; Ohio; two sisters, Louella Nace of Flandreau, SD and Peggy Smith of Ocala, FL; three brothers, Irvin of Huntsville, Ala., John of Archer and Oliver of New Jersey; 13 grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
A service will be at 10 a.m. Saturday at Roser Memorial Community Church. National Cremation Society is in charge. Burial will be in Flandreau.
Memorial donations may be made to Roser Memorial Community Church, 512 Pine Ave., Anna Maria, FL 34216; or to Hospice of Southwest Florida, 5955 Rand Blvd., Sarasota, FL 34238.
Bradenton Herald*Sunday, May, 1999; Bradenton, FL: By CLAUDE
The Things We Used To Do: Growing up in the '30s in South Dakota
Picture this--South Dakota at the height of the Depression, cold and blowy in the winter and hot, dry and dusty during the almost rainless summers. Although I was born in 1925 in the country store my parents owned since 1912, my first real memories begin in 1930 when we were forced to move into town because credit extended by my father, along with the Depression, caused us to lose the store. I was eighth--the oldest of the three younger boys--in a family of 10 children, two grandmothers and my parents. I started to school on the day we moved to town and the most horrible events took place during those first couple months. I was left handed, and Miss Shekleton was determined that I would write right-handed. After a number of confrontations, my mother finally stepped in and said that it would be best if I were permitted to use my left hand. These traumas resulted in no one being able to read my writing until I went to college after World War II.
Store-brought toys, in our home, were non-existent. We had to make our own toys and find our own fun. Our little town was surrounded on two sides by an Indian reservation and just north of town, across the Big Sioux River, was the only Indian Vocational High School in the northern half of the U.S. Besides the Indian students who were bused in in early September and returned home in late May, there were many Indian families in and around our one square mile town, most of whom also attended the public schools in town. Most of the time we all got along quite well, but there were occasional gang fights which I sometimes observed from behind a big tree where and older brother made me swear to stay during the confrontations. I like to say that "I played cowboys and Indians with real Indians."
A lot of my childhood experiences have escaped me, but I most certainly remember the love and caring of wonderful parents and many older brothers and sisters. We never missed a Sunday going to church, with my father leading the family contingent down the aisle and all sitting in the first or second row. My mother was a Sunday School teacher for many years. I earned my 12-year Sunday School pin, as did most of my siblings.
Of course, my Mother was the binding factor with her quiet, loving demeanor, always giving of herself to so many of our neighbors and others. To help bring in money during many of those years, mother took care of countless new mothers in the area and their new babies. She had no training but was the best "nurse" to be found in a large area. Doctors frequently asked her to care for some sick individual in their home, which Mother did.
The poignant part of this story is that if Mother had not worked, we probably would not have eaten as well as we did, nor paid the rent on time. Times were bad for all during the early and mid-'30s. Dad, although a tireless and hard working Norwegian, often had trouble making enough money to pay for necessities. Older siblings later told me that, because Dad's truck was his livelihood, many times he made only enough money to keep the truck in good repair and on the road.
At my age, I was not aware of just how bad things were. One incident made me partially aware of the times and the extent of my father's pride. As a seventh or eighth grader, I had a best friend-we were inseparable. His father became blind, and the family had to move off the farm into town. After school on day, Orville said that he was going down to the Court Office to get a sweater at the relief office. I really needed one also, so I went with him. Orville got the sweater with no trouble, and when I asked for one, I was turned down because "your father is not on relief." Dad was brought up learning that you took care of your family yourself.
My siblings and I all learned a great deal about family love, togetherness and caring for others. Mother also brought in extra money weaving rugs (from the basement could be heard the banging of the loom often around midnight) and making and selling Norwegian goodies at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She was really giving of herself to and for her family, and her great love of her fellow man and selfless devotion to others resulted in her being named the Centennial Queen in my home town in 1969.
Our town was a farming railroad hub where a large stockyard stood right next to the railroad, and nearby were three or four large grain elevators. Some real memories of mine center on those stockyards. Among other things, there were steers to be teased. Sometimes they resisted our "play," and I have the false teeth to prove it.
Just beyond the western edge of town was a very large (as I remember) "hobo jungle" where "travelers" would arrive -via the railroad- and leave with great regularity. It was quickly established by newcomers that there was a very nice lady just a couple of blocks down the road where you could get a sandwich and milk if you knocked on the back door. Yes, mother fed who knows how many "bums" in spite of the fact that she and Dad were just barely able to feed their own younghans!
The "hobo jungle" is a vivid memory because it was a source of many childhood activities for many of my friends and me. The jungle, of course, was made up of numerous kinds of homeless "travelers." We befriended some and antagonized others as we developed into teenagers. I can't remember any really serious incidents, but at various times we were run off, swore at, shot at (yes, rally!), and otherwise generally being fearful of getting too close to them.
Halloween was an exceptionally memorable time of the year. We had outhouses, farm machinery, old cars, and various and sundry other items that we tipped over, put on top of the high school, moved to the mayor's yard, etc. My first and only jail time was in a small town six miles from home where the local jailer advised us, in a friendly manner, of course, that we might consider limits to our festivities. It was only about 15 minutes, but well remembered!
Dad drove a truck throughout the northwest quadrant of Moody County (we never owned a car 'til about 1938) for the local creamery, bringing in cream from the farmers (three routes, six days a week), and delivering butter and sometimes other groceries when asked. Incidentally, when Dad retired, the creamery hired three young men to replace him! Every evening dad brought home countless quarts of milk and pounds of real butter, and we ate ice cream (everything coming from creamery) like there was no tomorrow. He, like mother, was very loving, caring and generous while being the "strong, silent type." We often had to interpret his "Humph"!
Sometimes to help with the fuel situation, he would walk along the railroad tracks picking up pieces of coal to burn in our potbelly stove. During the long, cold South Dakota winters, we three little boys would jump into our bed -upstairs- and mother would pile on the quilts, and we were immobile until she uncovered us in the morning. The hear from the stove or floor furnace (which often was cold by morning) would come upstairs via a couple of registers in the floor.
Because we never owned our own home, we rented and moved frequently to various housed in town. Mother, always the fastidious one, insisted on wallpapering and painting every place we moved into. If I hadn't hated it so much, I could have been a first class paperhanger.
The story of my older siblings working outside the home, graduating from high school, leaving home thereafter )five of them ending up in Chicago at various times and their many activities prior to my arrival on the scene and some years afterwards is another story, worthy of telling one day.
Claude S. Gulbranson is a retired educator of the deaf. He lives in Anna Maria, Florida
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herald Tribune, Sarasota, FL
News Coast
6/15/2000
Manatee County
Claude S. Gulbranson
Claude S. Gulbranson, 75, Anna Maria and formerly of Sarasota, died June 13, 2000.
He was born Feb. 2, 1925, in Flandreau, S.D., and came to Manatee County 13 years ago from Sarasota. He was a Navy Seabee veteran of World War II and had been a secretary for the First Special Battalion of the Seabees since 1991. He was a member of Roser Memorial Community Church and president of its Men's Club. He graduated from Augustana College in Sioux Falls, S.D. He was a teacher for the hearing impaired for 30 years.
Survivors include his wife, J. June Stuart; a daughter, Diane of Huron, Ohio; a stepdaughter, Beverly Leland of Kent, Ohio; two sons, David of Salt Lake City and Dan of Denver; two stepsons, Kenneth Stuart of Kernersville, N.C., and Bert Stuart of Kent; Ohio; two sisters, Louella Nace of Flandreau, SD and Peggy Smith of Ocala, FL; three brothers, Irvin of Huntsville, Ala., John of Archer and Oliver of New Jersey; 13 grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
A service will be at 10 a.m. Saturday at Roser Memorial Community Church. National Cremation Society is in charge. Burial will be in Flandreau.
Memorial donations may be made to Roser Memorial Community Church, 512 Pine Ave., Anna Maria, FL 34216; or to Hospice of Southwest Florida, 5955 Rand Blvd., Sarasota, FL 34238.
The Things We Used To Do: Growing up in the '30s in South Dakota
Picture this--South Dakota at the height of the Depression, cold and blowy in the winter and hot, dry and dusty during the almost rainless summers. Although I was born in 1925 in the country store my parents owned since 1912, my first real memories begin in 1930 when we were forced to move into town because credit extended by my father, along with the Depression, caused us to lose the store. I was eighth--the oldest of the three younger boys--in a family of 10 children, two grandmothers and my parents. I started to school on the day we moved to town and the most horrible events took place during those first couple months. I was left handed, and Miss Shekleton was determined that I would write right-handed. After a number of confrontations, my mother finally stepped in and said that it would be best if I were permitted to use my left hand. These traumas resulted in no one being able to read my writing until I went to college after World War II.
Store-brought toys, in our home, were non-existent. We had to make our own toys and find our own fun. Our little town was surrounded on two sides by an Indian reservation and just north of town, across the Big Sioux River, was the only Indian Vocational High School in the northern half of the U.S. Besides the Indian students who were bused in in early September and returned home in late May, there were many Indian families in and around our one square mile town, most of whom also attended the public schools in town. Most of the time we all got along quite well, but there were occasional gang fights which I sometimes observed from behind a big tree where and older brother made me swear to stay during the confrontations. I like to say that "I played cowboys and Indians with real Indians."
A lot of my childhood experiences have escaped me, but I most certainly remember the love and caring of wonderful parents and many older brothers and sisters. We never missed a Sunday going to church, with my father leading the family contingent down the aisle and all sitting in the first or second row. My mother was a Sunday School teacher for many years. I earned my 12-year Sunday School pin, as did most of my siblings.
Of course, my Mother was the binding factor with her quiet, loving demeanor, always giving of herself to so many of our neighbors and others. To help bring in money during many of those years, mother took care of countless new mothers in the area and their new babies. She had no training but was the best "nurse" to be found in a large area. Doctors frequently asked her to care for some sick individual in their home, which Mother did.
The poignant part of this story is that if Mother had not worked, we probably would not have eaten as well as we did, nor paid the rent on time. Times were bad for all during the early and mid-'30s. Dad, although a tireless and hard working Norwegian, often had trouble making enough money to pay for necessities. Older siblings later told me that, because Dad's truck was his livelihood, many times he made only enough money to keep the truck in good repair and on the road.
At my age, I was not aware of just how bad things were. One incident made me partially aware of the times and the extent of my father's pride. As a seventh or eighth grader, I had a best friend-we were inseparable. His father became blind, and the family had to move off the farm into town. After school on day, Orville said that he was going down to the Court Office to get a sweater at the relief office. I really needed one also, so I went with him. Orville got the sweater with no trouble, and when I asked for one, I was turned down because "your father is not on relief." Dad was brought up learning that you took care of your family yourself.
My siblings and I all learned a great deal about family love, togetherness and caring for others. Mother also brought in extra money weaving rugs (from the basement could be heard the banging of the loom often around midnight) and making and selling Norwegian goodies at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She was really giving of herself to and for her family, and her great love of her fellow man and selfless devotion to others resulted in her being named the Centennial Queen in my home town in 1969.
Our town was a farming railroad hub where a large stockyard stood right next to the railroad, and nearby were three or four large grain elevators. Some real memories of mine center on those stockyards. Among other things, there were steers to be teased. Sometimes they resisted our "play," and I have the false teeth to prove it.
Just beyond the western edge of town was a very large (as I remember) "hobo jungle" where "travelers" would arrive -via the railroad- and leave with great regularity. It was quickly established by newcomers that there was a very nice lady just a couple of blocks down the road where you could get a sandwich and milk if you knocked on the back door. Yes, mother fed who knows how many "bums" in spite of the fact that she and Dad were just barely able to feed their own younghans!
The "hobo jungle" is a vivid memory because it was a source of many childhood activities for many of my friends and me. The jungle, of course, was made up of numerous kinds of homeless "travelers." We befriended some and antagonized others as we developed into teenagers. I can't remember any really serious incidents, but at various times we were run off, swore at, shot at (yes, rally!), and otherwise generally being fearful of getting too close to them.
Halloween was an exceptionally memorable time of the year. We had outhouses, farm machinery, old cars, and various and sundry other items that we tipped over, put on top of the high school, moved to the mayor's yard, etc. My first and only jail time was in a small town six miles from home where the local jailer advised us, in a friendly manner, of course, that we might consider limits to our festivities. It was only about 15 minutes, but well remembered!
Dad drove a truck throughout the northwest quadrant of Moody County (we never owned a car 'til about 1938) for the local creamery, bringing in cream from the farmers (three routes, six days a week), and delivering butter and sometimes other groceries when asked. Incidentally, when Dad retired, the creamery hired three young men to replace him! Every evening dad brought home countless quarts of milk and pounds of real butter, and we ate ice cream (everything coming from creamery) like there was no tomorrow. He, like mother, was very loving, caring and generous while being the "strong, silent type." We often had to interpret his "Humph"!
Sometimes to help with the fuel situation, he would walk along the railroad tracks picking up pieces of coal to burn in our potbelly stove. During the long, cold South Dakota winters, we three little boys would jump into our bed -upstairs- and mother would pile on the quilts, and we were immobile until she uncovered us in the morning. The hear from the stove or floor furnace (which often was cold by morning) would come upstairs via a couple of registers in the floor.
Because we never owned our own home, we rented and moved frequently to various housed in town. Mother, always the fastidious one, insisted on wallpapering and painting every place we moved into. If I hadn't hated it so much, I could have been a first class paperhanger.
The story of my older siblings working outside the home, graduating from high school, leaving home thereafter )five of them ending up in Chicago at various times and their many activities prior to my arrival on the scene and some years afterwards is another story, worthy of telling one day.
Claude S. Gulbranson is a retired educator of the deaf. He lives in Anna Maria, Florida
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herald Tribune, Sarasota, FL
News Coast
6/15/2000
Manatee County
Claude S. Gulbranson
Claude S. Gulbranson, 75, Anna Maria and formerly of Sarasota, died June 13, 2000.
He was born Feb. 2, 1925, in Flandreau, S.D., and came to Manatee County 13 years ago from Sarasota. He was a Navy Seabee veteran of World War II and had been a secretary for the First Special Battalion of the Seabees since 1991. He was a member of Roser Memorial Community Church and president of its Men's Club. He graduated from Augustana College in Sioux Falls, S.D. He was a teacher for the hearing impaired for 30 years.
Survivors include his wife, J. June Stuart; a daughter, Diane of Huron, Ohio; a stepdaughter, Beverly Leland of Kent, Ohio; two sons, David of Salt Lake City and Dan of Denver; two stepsons, Kenneth Stuart of Kernersville, N.C., and Bert Stuart of Kent; Ohio; two sisters, Louella Nace of Flandreau, SD and Peggy Smith of Ocala, FL; three brothers, Irvin of Huntsville, Ala., John of Archer and Oliver of New Jersey; 13 grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
A service will be at 10 a.m. Saturday at Roser Memorial Community Church. National Cremation Society is in charge. Burial will be in Flandreau.
Memorial donations may be made to Roser Memorial Community Church, 512 Pine Ave., Anna Maria, FL 34216; or to Hospice of Southwest Florida, 5955 Rand Blvd., Sarasota, FL 34238.
Gravesite Details
He was creamated and his ashes were spread on his parents graves.
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