CHERISHED FURNITURE TAKES 58 YEARS TO RETURN TO RIGHTFUL OWNER
A writing sample of a member of the Daughters of Norway Literary's Society's that was published in the San Jose Mercury News, saturday, February 24, 2001, p. 6F. .Written by by Elderid Everly of both Sigrid Undset Lodge #32 & Anne Grimdalen Lodge #34.
Eldrid and the desk
We lived in a small house on the Moen place in North Dakota. Mr. Moen was the landlord, so we just called it the Moen place. Space was at a premium, so Dad’s desk stood in a corner of the living room behind the door to the kitchen. When he wrote letters to his native Norway, the kitchen door needed to be partly closed. He would take a kitchen chair to sit on.
The desk was a stately piece of furniture and was known as a secretary. Pa would place his chair just so, then lower the desk leaf. Because the resting chain was broken, he would pull out the top drawer and rest the leaf on that. Pa was not a handyman, so the chain was never repaired.
He kept his ink, pens, pencils, writing paper, etc. inside. In the cubbyholes he kept letters from Norway, because they were read over and over. Also tucked away were receipts from any purchases, which were few during the Depression years.
Pa was very serious about his letter writing. He would meticulously address the envelope, fold the letter to his parents, reach in his pocket and pull out a dollar bill and insert it with the letter.
Mother said a dollar would buy a lot in Norway at that time. If it was around Christmas, a couple of Christmas Seals would be affixed on the back. Then Pa would study the letter and sigh, as if he sent his heart and good wishes with it.
We didn’t always have postage stamps in the house, but two cents left with the letter in the mailbox would send it on its way. Pa’s letters—very newsy and humorous—were passed from family to family in Norway. His correspondence is remembered yet in that country.
The secretary had a china cabinet above the desk. Here, Mother kept her nice dishes, including wine glasses and various hand-painted plates and bowls. She told us the story behind each item—who had given that to her and for which occasion. Most of them were wedding gifts, and I marveled at how well they had lasted, since I thought my parents had been married forever.
It was always a thrill when we kids could look in the desk and get a pencil or paper, or just because we were curious. We all knew if we borrowed anything, it was to be placed back exactly where we had found it. Even so, to a small child the desk was magical. It was like an organized junk drawer. It never seemed to overflow, but the, in those days, we had no junk mail to accumulate. No bills came to the house, as we had no electricity or gas and no running water. We had no TV and had radio only in the winter.
Years later, when Mother passed away, Dad moved to an apartment for a year. However, he still had a room at the Moen farm where he worked, so he decided to sell most of his furniture. He asked his married kids to buy a few pieces, the desk among them. Dad asked if I’d buy it for $10.
It may sound strange that we should pay for the furniture, but he felt there would be no hard feelings among the siblings if we each paid its so-called worth. We all got our money back in other ways. I bought the desk and placed it in the living room of my large apartment in plain view. Now I could peek inside the desk as often as I pleased. The top shelves now held my own wedding glassware. Oh, I loved that desk!
By now World War II was raging and my husband decided to move from Grand Forks, North Dakota, and seek work in a war plant. But the desk could not go with us because the expense of moving it would be too great. How could I part with this beloved treasure? I asked Esther, my sister-in-law, if she would like to buy it for $10.00. She was reluctant but we made a bargain. I would buy it back when we returned after the war. So the desk departed my ownership; temporarily, I was sure.
A CHANCE TO RECLAIM
At long last we moved back to Grand Forks. I had a baby and we bought a house. Now I could buy back the desk. Alas, Esther claimed never to have made such an agreement and told me so in fancy language. I lost my desk. Each time we visited I would see it and I know she gloated.
Several years later I divorced and moved to California, never to see Esther again. But I never stopped longing for my desk. The years disappeared. One day I was talking to Esther’s niece, Betty, and asked her if the desk was still there. Yes, Esther still owned it. I told Betty my story, and said I’d like to buy it if it ever was for sale.
Four years ago Esther passed away; Floyd passed away last March. Betty called me. She told me Floyd had a nephew nearby in Erskine, Minnesota—on the other side of the Red River—and might know about the fate of my desk. I called, but found out he had no control over the estate.
A week later, on a Wednesday evening, Betty called. The auction sale of Floyd’s estate would be that Saturday, and the desk was definitely available. But here I was in California, and the auction would be taking place in Minnesota. I was crushed!
No one could stand in for me either, it seemed. Betty would be out of town, and other people I knew would be busy. I even called the auctioneer several times to make a bid but was unable to reach him.
However, this was no time to be shy. I gritted my teeth and called Floyd’s nephew, Dale, whom I had never met, and asked him to bid for me. I told him my story again, and must have touched a sympathetic chord. He agreed to make the bid. I said I’d pay as much as $500, far above its original price. I was so excited I called my daughter Linnea and related the news.
GOING FOR IT
Mother, she said, what if the bid is $550 and you lose it? You’ve waited so long. Call him again and tell him the sky’s the limit! So I did and he replied, I’ll get it for you.
Saturday morning we left for a wedding and wouldn’t return until Sunday. It was a nail- biting weekend. All the way home I was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. When I got in the door the answering machine was blinking, but it wasn’t Dale. I had to call him. Did he buy it? Yes! The desk was mine again—and he’d gotten it for $350.
I was thrilled. I had waited so many years, and now this perfect stranger had bid for me and trusted me to send the money. Then Dale said, It’s in my garage and I don’t know what to do with it. I assured him I would claim it soon. My nephew Jon had worked for a furniture mover, so I called him and he promised to keep it at his home until I decided how to ship it to California.
I needed to call Betty with the good news, but it took a few days before I could. We chatted a while and then I told her the desk was mine. There was a long silence. Finally, in a tiny little voice she said, How did you get it?
Oh, I explained, I had Dale bid for me. She stammered and then revealed that she had told her son Darrin about the desk and my dilemma. He had gone to the auction and bid on it for me! Darrin had stopped at $300 and Dale had bid the $350! Strangers to each other, Darrin had thought Dale wanted it badly and he also wasn’t sure how much I’d be willing to pay.
Betty apologized for sending Darrin to the auction. She said I might have gotten the desk cheaper if he hadn’t bid. But I told her I was flattered to think two young men whom I had never met would bid for me so I could have my lifelong dream come true. Who said chivalry was dead? I had two knights in jeans and boots (or were they Nikes?) driving pick-ups and dueling with dollars.
HOME AT LAST
Last December, when it was finally time for the desk to arrive, I promised my kids I would not open it without them present. We carefully unpacked the boxes. We placed the pieces on the designated spot. The desk looked lonely until we placed some Norwegian letters in the cubbyholes. We also placed a photograph of Dad in a place of honor, so he could still rule. This was joined by pictures of Mother and my grandparents.
On Christmas Eve, I gathered 10 of my 14 great-grandchildren around me in front of the desk and read this story to them. They listened in rapt attention. I told them that 58 long years ago, the desk had belonged to their Great-Great Grandpa Olaf. We counted on our fingers the number of generations. Their eyes grew wide and they said wow and cool. It was indeed both.
