Al's Letter to Dad 1947

I decided to read the letter. Here it is. I'll try to annotate if I can.

Marquette

March 12, 1947

Dear Dad:

This is to Al’s father Louis, who stopped speaking to Al in the 1920s because he had an affair with Al’s mother’s sister, Rikka, for decades. Louis was a tailor on Lake Street in Minneapolis. Al drove down to see Louis right before they both died, and Louis slammed the door in his face. This is family lore I only heard a time or two, and my father would spit Louis and Rikka’s name out, as in, these people. Jesus Christ.

I am very sorry to hear you are sick in bed. My prayers have been for you every night since I heard you were sick and I am sure they will succeed.

They did not succeed. Louis was in his late seventies when he died.

I am feeling fine again. I work at the store every day. As a matter of fact I spend the (w)hole day there.

Al had only an eighth grade education, but was said to be very smart and good with numbers.

We do pretty well at it. We take in between $55.00 and $60.00 a day we sell about 250 cups of coffee every day you see it keeps us on our toes, it takes 5 of us to keep the thing running at night.

My idea of hell is running a coffee shop. But hey! A new jukebox!

My house is just short of finished now. I have a pump from Electric One-laundry tubs and bathroom and oil heat in it so we are very comfortable. And also buy (?) gas for cooking, a nice fireplace, the whole thing cost me about $5500 so we should be comfortable.

We have had a very bad winter here one blizzard after another.

Yeah, it’s Marquette, Al. Why I live in California.

I have shoveled so much snow that I could barely reach anymore drifts six and nine feet high but it’s March now so I guess spring is just around the corner. Last nite it rained and we lost about nine inches of snow. I built my garage about a block away from the house so I would not have so much snow to shovel.

See? He’s smarter than I am.

I placed the garage about 20 feet off the highway, but it’s the wading through the snow that gets a fellow down.

Typical Swede. I feel your pain. You didn’t have a snowblower like my brother and I did. My brother complains about how expensive they are at Menard’s.

I am planning on making a trip to Detroit the first part of April we will have Easter vacation then. Will visit with the old bunch at Packard, and will see some steel men. I am planning on getting back in the business and selling the stuff this time.

This I had never heard until right now. Reminded me of me in 2023. Get something going.

I will see if I can make connections with the Bethlehem Steel Co. to sell for them in Minneapolis and surrounding territory.

Well, that’s all the news for the present. Buck up and get well soon.

Love, Al

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This letter made me feel like Al was a little chirpier than I had assumed. This letter was rather breezy, considering his father wouldn’t speak to him. Al had a brother named Rube, who lived on Lake Minnetonka and was a Justice of the Peace. He also owned a barbecue place—I even have a photograph of it: “OHMAN’S BARBECUE”. My God, all the restauranteurs!

I was struck by how close my own father’s handwriting was to Al’s. Dad’s handwriting was very spindly and lower-case, like he was conserving ink, like Al’s. Mine is not really similar, but it’s closer than I thought.

It also kind of reminded me of many of my conversations with my own Dad, which were heavily fact-based exchanges of Volvo mechanical issues, how to assemble things, and why you should put screws in a bar of soap before one uses them (try it—it works).

I now have these conversations with my brother, because I’m an idiot. Jim got the Dad Fix Stuff Gene, and I got the neurotic artist gene, which doesn’t get the Airstream bumper repaired.

My Dad hated Louis (Louie) with a passion. But I learned something valuable from his anger towards Louie, which I employed with my kids: we’re family, we try to stick together, and we do.

I gotta call my brother and make sure he’s not opening a diner. Also: there’s this door outside that’s rotting.

Also, again: I thought the house he built was in Scandia, but Ann H., a new paid subscriber and Marquette resident, sent me some clippings she had thoughtfully compiled for me. The house was in Harvey, a few miles outside of town. They are seen above. Thanks so much, Ann!

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Hey, YBs: Well, you all got me curious about the letter. I even was able to figure it out, mostly. I thank you for telling me to read it. At my own Substack Shack, I will get that Week in Review out before Sunday night. Have a fun day. I’m probably going to hit the local pond and maybe golf.—J.