Obituary of Eric Groseth

SOME OF MY RECOLLECTIONS OF UNCLE ERIC by Velma Foster When I was about six years old, our family moved from the farm to town, from the Foster homestead north of Maidstone to Lloydminster. It was the 1940's and Lloydminster was into it’s first oilboom. I didn’t like the idea of leaving the farm but my preference didn’t carry much weight. So, the next best thing to living on a farm was to visit farms whenever possible. One of my favourites was the Groseth homestead farm. Grandpa and Grandma Groseth were still living in the forties, and both Uncle Jorgen and Uncle Eric were on the farm too. Jorgen went off the farm to work for a while, but Uncle Eric never left home. He was the youngest of the family of seven and he would eventually take over the farm. Eric was born at home in 1922, five years after Jorgen. He was the baby of the family and some would say he was spoiled and a mama’s boy. Perhaps he was. But, to me he was a friend. A big playmate - always a kid at heart. Even after he became the serious boss of the farm, he was always ready for fun. And no child could have had a better companion. When Jorgen was home there were two big brothers - both fun to be with. I spent part of every summer of my childhood at that farm. As mentioned, both Grandparents were alive in the forties. To my delight, the Groseth’s were still farming with horses. “The Boys,” as Eric and Jorgen were referred to, were doing most of the heavy work. Grandpa, was likely still advising and was always busy at the lighter jobs - sawing wood, mending harness, resoling boots, hilling potatoes, a bit of stooking. What I like most about being with Uncle Eric was that he let me try things - milking cows, feeding calves from a pail, gathering eggs, slopping the pigs, cleaning out barns, these were of course all useful things to allow - but, also he let me help care for and hitch up and drive the horses - sometimes on the democrat, sometimes on the hay rack, wagon or stoneboat. I loved driving the horses. And, when the first tractor arrived, he let me drive that too. In fact, once, when I had advanced beyond just steering to actually sitting on the seat and driving, with Eric standing behind, we were heading into its garage - an old log building converted for the purpose. I was concentrating on getting lined up to clear the door and forgot about having to engage the clutch to stop the tractor. Eric could see that I wasn’t going to stop and, at the last minute he grabbed the wheel and yanked the tractor to the right, and, although we took off the corner of the old log building, avoided having the whole thing brought down on our heads. He may have saved our lives. At least he saved us serious damage. And - he still let me drive the tractor again, although as long as that old building stood I was often reminded on my shortcoming as a tractor driver. Such things were not all that I was allowed to do. “The Boys” thought it was a big joke that I liked to try smoking. One day when grandma was away for the afternoon, “the boys” were smoking a pipe, and I thought it might be worth a try - I always like the smell of pipe smoke. One pipeful might have been fine, but I thought I’d give a second one a try. (I wonder if that was my idea or was there a bit of encouragement from the sidelines? - it’s too long ago to remember.) In any case, when Grandma came home I was in bed. Down with a touch of the flu - was how my two co-conspirators explained it. Nothing a dose of Enos Fruit Salts couldn’t cure. I missed supper but was soon up and about. Grandma wondered at my speedy recovery, but, her doubts too did pass. And of course the incident provided “the boys” with something to laugh about ever after. I long ago gave up the smoking habit, but one other habit I picked up at the Groseth farm has stayed with me all my life. That was the after-dinner nap - or, for me, the any-old-time nap. Hard for a child to understand the need for a nap on first being at the farm. But, after a few days of getting up with the birds and putting in long hours of physical activity, much of it in the fresh air, I could barely get through dinner (that was the noon meal - dinner) before crashing somewhere, in the coolest possible spot where the flies were least persistent. Eric was an accomplished napper - able to read for a few minutes, shut his eyes, and be asleep immediately. Ten or fifteen minutes, or more if required, and he was up and ready to go again. On the Groseth farm the after dinner nap was part of the routine, as were the mid morning and after-dinner-after-nap coffee breaks, always with a scone or some such snack. Routine was extremely important. That fact could be missed because of the seemingly easygoing way that things were done there. But, under it all was a fairly strict routine. Perhaps that’s why Eric always had to be able to check his watch at any hour of the day or night, right to the very end. A watch and a flashlight. Just part of a farmer’s outfit. Uncle Eric had the gift of paying attention. He truly did live in the here and now - very aware of the world around him - for the most part it was the world of the farm and the countryside. He seldom travelled far from home. One or two trips south - across into North Dakota where some of the relatives had remained when the family came up into Canada. Likely a trip to Crane Valley to visit sister Lily and husband. Otherwise, his world was close to home. Lloydminster or the Battleford’s were more or less the limit. Preferable were trips to the river - many an evening would find the Groseth’s down at the river sitting, with night lines out, watching for geese and other wildlife. The Mouth of the Big Gully Creek was a favourite too, and Black Lake. Eric was also an avid reader. Hunting stories, old time stories, history, and national geographic magazine - his interests were quite far-reaching. When he no longer read, after being a lifelong reader, we knew he was slipping. Eric took in everything around him. He had the eye of a hunter, noticing subtle changes in his environment. And he could spot an arrowhead from horseback or even from the tractor. He (and Jorgen too) knew the birds and other wild creatures. And they took care of things - their animals, their tools, their fences. And they watched. I remember when the road past the farm was little more than a prairie trail. In those days there were lots of neighbours. So it was very important to know who was passing by, which way they were going, and to speculate as to why they were going. So watching was important. Eric watched everything - and even when he more or less withdrew into his room at Pine Island Lodge he never missed much of what was going on. And of course he commented on it. His very poor hearing made him seem unsociable because he could have been so easily misunderstood and therefore embarrassed by that. But he never lost interest...He may have been cranky at times, but he was never indifferent. He was so pleased to hear that Rush Lake had water in it again after more than 20 years, and that Forty Mile Creek was running again - into Rush Lake, through to Turner Lake and on to the river. His last car ride was out to there last spring, and a meadowlark blessed us with its song as we drove by. Of course, we took pictures, as that is what Eric always loved to do. He liked to record what interested him - on camera especially, but also on video and cassette. He took lots of pictures. So, today, there are lots to enjoy - and Nadine has put many of them on display, and we hope everyone will enjoy looking at them. And thank you for joining with us as we celebrate Eric’s life, a life fully lived and, bravely seen through to the finish. Farewell friend and Uncle Eric. I’d like to being by sharing some memories that others have shared with me about Eric. Bev and Myrtle, two of Eric’s nurses from the North Battleford Hospital wrote a lovely letter and gave me permission to share their thoughts with you. A few lines from the letter: Dear Nadine and Family, Thank you for contacting me regarding Eric’s passing. My heart is heavy, but the memories are near and dear. Eric was a man who impacted the lives of those who knew him and cared for him. He had such a quiet, gentle spirit - that one had to be drawn to him. Although he went thru’ major surgeries, he never complained. We had to always remind ourselves that he might need pain control or help to the bathroom as he never wanted to ‘bother the nurses.’ Since he was released from the hospital, we have kept in touch a few times a year by mail or phone. The last conversation we had, he said he was not feeling good. I guess I knew then that time was limited for this fine man. Now his time here is over and he is playing ball in a much happier place. Darralene, actually most everyone I talked to, fondly remembered Christmas Eves: the little house packed with people getting stuffed with big turkey dinner and Christmas pudding. After dishes, Lily would bring out the candy, Jorgen would get the crib board and other games, then Eric would get out the fiddle, guitar, mouth organ, etc. and the music would begin, often into the wee hours of the morning. No evening complete without ‘lunch’ at which time the fun continued and kids often asleep on the heap of coats on the bed would have to be carried home. Gilbert told of how Eric and Roy Davis came bouncing across the field in an old Model A. It looked like no one was in the car until they got close - there were no seats in the car so they were sitting on wooden boxes. He told of a hunting trip with Eric, Jorgen and the Scott boys, how all morning they hadn’t even seen a track. They stopped to eat lunch and got to telling stories - this went on for nearly two hours. When they got up to leave, there were fresh tracks behind the truck. The deer had been there and left - they mustn’t have been crazy about the stories. I imagine they were pretty good. The hunters never did see another track all day. After we moved here in 1975, we seldom missed a Saturday night at the ‘boys’ place. My daughter Marla looked back in her diary. She said it was hard to talk of Eric without thinking of Jorgen and Lil and the farm. She remembers going ‘up the road,’ Eric coming out to greet us when we pulled into the driveway. She can still picture Eric and Jorgen eating fluffy white icing, getting it on their upper lip like it was a moustache and laughing and laughing or the stories told that are not as funny written on paper, but in the telling. Or sometimes not heard above the laughing, especially when someone like Gerald Scott was telling a joke in his soft spoken drawl. You have to imagine explosions of laughter, Eric nodding his head, twinkle in his eye. Jorgen saying ‘yah, yah’ and eating peanuts with false teeth that didn’t fit properly, in brackets she says (it sounded like a horse walking on pavement.) But there was always laughter - often until there was not a dry eye in the room. And Lily with her kind heart always making sure everyone was taken care of. And when we would leave, Eric would head to the barn to check the animals. Joni loved the Saturday nights playing cards, pool or horse shoes. How it was always a time of lots of laughs and everyone talking at the same time. The midnight lunch added the final touch. She was always amused at the way Eric poured his coffee into the saucer to drink it. Young Ken mentioned how he learned to trap moles with Eric. And how Eric would get excited about things - like Ken’s 1st ghetto blaster or his 1st motorbike, so much so that he would go out and boy one for himself. Or he said ‘remember how they would talk through all the shows and then in the commercials ask what happened in the show?’ Marlene talked of the stability of this way of life in a fast changing world. And the way that their joy was attained from the simple things of life. She remembers the old gramophone player and Eric’s vast collection of western 78's - Wilf Carter, Hank Snow, Ernest Tubb, Gene Autry, Hank Williams. As a child, Eric and Jorgen called me the ‘foreman’ down at the barn during milking time. If you want a drink open your mouth they would say. One would point the teat at me and squirt. Of course most of it went on my face or clothes. They would tell me I’d have to do better or I wouldn’t get paid or might even get fired. They loved to tease. Years later when my son was about the same age - 8 or 9, I overheard some neighbours telling him that they had known his great uncles for years and that they were good people. My son, having been teased a lot by them too agreed and added quite seriously ‘but you can’t believe a word they say.’ I remember playing ball in the pasture out behind the corrals, using cow pies for bases. I should share that they were old dried cow pies - or we could have given a new meaning to sliding into 1st. - or how the outhouse was referred to as the parliament building where you went to cast your ballet. - and there was the horse that chewed on everything from buildings to metal gate latches - he was named Hacksaw. - then there was the hen that was so old Eric would lift her up into her nest at night and lift her down again in the morning. I enjoyed Eric’s spirit. He was interested in so many things. He was enthusiastic, spry and energetic. When he broke his hip it was likely because he was used to stepping over the gate on the way to the barn, not going through it. He hadn’t allowed for the years of sickness and surgery. Up until his bout with colon cancer, when he was already in his 70's, he had never stayed in a hospital. He was born in the house on the farm. He had a tonsillectomy but even this was performed there too - on the kitchen table. My mom, Ruth, their sister, died 50 years ago. Eric, Jorgen and Lil became sort of fill-in parents for me and much like grandparents for my kids. The house at the farm, old, small and lacking in modern amenities, was the place where you were welcomed by it’s people, warmed by the cook stove and nourished with kindness and of course good coffee, good food and good times. I wrote a poem for Eric on his birthday a few years ago. I’ve made a few changes and I’d like to share it with you in closing: For Eric Early in the morning in large rubber boots, with dog at his side, to the barn he would scoot. The dew’s on the grass, roosters crow, horses fat, he’d milk cows and always a squirt for the cat! Not a thing escaped his watchful glance: animal tracks, nests, the old hen’s prance, the smallest details of nature’s source, or arrowheads from the back of his horse. Witched well, trapped, fished, hunted, skied many a field with Jorgen, known as the boys, skidoo and four-wheeled. Like Christmas Eve, Saturday nights he held dear; horseshoes, cards, pool, music, laughter, some cheer. Drives to see wildlife, the favourite was Black Lake, take pictures of deer or geese, then some wieners bake, observe the paint mine and cattle lazily ranging and how oil wells the landscape are constantly changing. Inside the old house on days snow or rain he’d watch baseball, or rodeo - it’s clowns entertain, tumble rocks, record music, maybe a rope braid, sing, play and instrument, western or nature book read. Oft like a big kid, sense of humour, teased a lot, welcomed any who called, always coffee in the pot. Born on this homestead he cherished to the last live a basic, simple lifestyle - now a thing of the past. Long a strong Norwegian before sickness came much of his vigor and freedom to claim. But now he’s at rest with those gone before, and we have these memories. Eric, may your spirit soar! Donations in memory of Eric may be made to a Charity of the Donor's Choice.