A while ago while talking with one of my nieces, the conversation led to her saying that she “didn’t really know my Dad” (her grandpa) very well because she was so young when he passed away. That felt, to me, like one of the saddest things I had heard in a long time. Sad, because, to know my Dad was to love him.  He was loved by many and his light shined bright. He always had a smile. For those who didn’t know him, I would like to acquaint you with Everett Waite Jorgensen (1914 – 1988), a man who meant the world to me.

Just so you know, I am not trying to paint a glorious or saintly picture of him.  He was human, after all.  I would just like my family, especially my children and grandchildren, to know who he was through my eyes and my heart. He was my hero and my biggest supporter in life through my formative years.

We rarely get the chance to glimpse into someone’s life and see ALL of who they are and it’s usually only those closest to them that they can truly “be themselves” around.  That being said, I think my mother knew him best on an adult level, but as a child, I saw him through child eyes and that can often be a lot more magical and endearing.  I always saw him as my rock in a home that seemed a little more than rocky at times.  No matter what was going on, though, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved me.

Dad did well in life, learning life lessons and as we all do, then he applied them accordingly.  He was deeply religious and had a love of God.  He always tried to obey the ten commandments and adhere to the golden rule. He always said “you have to walk a few miles in someone’s moccasins” before you really know them. Some memories I have of him are funny and some are just interesting, but they paint a picture that will portray him as I saw him. I’m sure my siblings have many more stories of him from their own perspective. Since I am the youngest there is a stark reality that I did not have as much time with him as my siblings.  They were greatly blessed to have more of him than I did.  He died when I was 28 years old and my own children were very small at that time. He weaved his way through life and through lives.  He settled into the hearts of many who loved him dearly.  I hope you enjoy these short stories as I share them a few at a time during my stroll down memory lane.  I have many to share.

My Dad, My Hero

One spring day, my Dad and I were going out to the fields to irrigate. All of my brothers and sisters were in school, so I am guessing I was about five years old. We didn’t have kindergarten in those days so I hadn’t made it to the “big time” of going to school yet. He didn’t always take me with him to irrigate either, but he did it often enough that I have a lot of memories of going out to the fields with him.  He was a farmer by trade and loved the land. He owned around 200 acres of good farmland in southwest Idaho and grew sugar beets, grains, hay and corn. The land was not level, but looked more like small rolling hills.  The irrigation ditches were positioned at the top of each hill so the water would flow downward into the field. There were enough acres that the fields needed to be irrigated pretty much every day during spring and summer until the crops could be harvested. The water would be dammed off in the ditch in order to have enough backed up for the aluminum irrigation tubes to work. He (we) would carry a load of irrigation tubes from one section to the next in order to get the whole field watered so the crops would thrive. When he had watered the whole field (this took days), the tubes would be carried back to the beginning and he would start over.  He would have me help him carry the tubes back and forth and set them out at each furrow so they could be set and get the water flowing. He taught me at an early age how to get the water started in the tubes. I would pump those tubes with all my might, trying to get the water running. Sometimes it took me several tries. He easily could start them with swift move.  He would dunk the tube in the water and pull it back out with it flowing. I never did quite get the knack of it the same way that he could do it.  Nonetheless, he was just good at farming and made it look easy most of the time.  He had it down. 

On this particular day, we were walking down the road to go out to the field and we both noticed a huge bull snake laying across the road.  When I say across, I mean across from one side of the road to the other and it was about eight to ten inches around. While I stood there tensed up, he just told me “stay here” then proceeded toward the snake. He was carrying his shovel over his shoulder as he always did.  He’d have the handle resting on his shoulder with the shovel end toward the back. That’s how he always carried it unless it was in use.  He pulled the shovel down off of his shoulder and sauntered over to the snake.  In about two split seconds he had the head chopped off of the snake then proceeded to pull the carcass off to the side of the road. I was just standing there in disbelief right where he left me.  I didn’t dare move. He put his shovel back over his shoulder then came back and took my hand as if nothing had happened.  We walked together out to the field to start irrigating.  He was my super hero that day.  I know the snake was pretty much harmless, but it was big and scary to a five year old. Dad had saved the day and was my protector.

Entertaining the Cows

Saying that my Dad was happy all of the time is an understatement.  He was always singing (unless he was swearing), but mostly singing.  He always had a tune to hum or song to sing when he was doing chores or out in the field watching the crops grow. He especially loved humming when he was milking cows.  He told me it calmed them down and helped them give more milk.  I’m not sure if that was true or not, I just think he loved singing so much that he couldn’t help himself.  He would pet them and hum while he hooked up the milking machine to their udders.  It’s funny how singing to cows is contagious. I used to go out to feed the cows and after I was done forking out the hay into the manger, I would stand up on the hay trailer as my ‘”stage” and sing my heart out to them while they were eating.  I could always count on them to be a captive audience.  They even stuck around when they were done eating, watching me with their big cow eyes and “chewing their cud.”  I had dreams of being an entertainer and practiced for them every day.  But, I digress…

Dad and my brother milked cows twice a day, morning and night and it brought in enough money that eventually Mom and Dad were able to get their farm paid off from the proceeds. The milk was sold to a local dairy processing plant, in a town about twenty miles away. In the beginning, when they first started milking cows, Dad would strain the milk into big metal milk cans and we would transport the full cans every morning and drop them off at the processing plant.  When the cans were full they were very heavy.  It sometimes took two of us to lift them up into the pickup bed so we could transport them.  We would drop them off and get empty cans to bring back for the next day’s milking. Eventually, Dad bought a tank system so the milk could be filtered then stored into a cooled tank in the barn until the big milk trucks could come and pick up the milk. The “milkman” would hook up a hose from the tank in the barn to the tank on the truck and turned on a pump moving the milk from one place to the other. This was a whole lot easier than lifting those heavy milk cans! The biggest perk to having the milkman come was that we could order things from him as often as we needed and they would be delivered on the next milk run. Things like butter, cheese and ice cream were always available.  We got the big two or three gallon buckets of ice cream (think Baskin Robbins size buckets) and I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have ice cream in the freezer or cheese in the fridge during those cow milking years.

I think Dad enjoyed being a dairy farmer.  It provided a steadier stream of income as well as the joy of singing to the cows every day. Being a farmer, let alone a dairy farmer, is hard work.  There is always something that needs to be done, looked after, tended to, or fixed.  Dad was one of the hardest working people that I know and he always did it with a smile and a song.

I would encourage anyone who knew him to write a few stories of your own.  My oldest sister is compiling a longer comprehensive history of my Dad’s life.  You can send her your stories so they can be included in her efforts.

I will be posting a few short stories at a time in a series so that I can write them as they come to mind.  Sometimes I forget things but all it takes is a nudge from a picture or something said in passing to remind me.  These stories are held deep in my heart because I never want to forget this man who loved me unconditionally.