May 31, 2014
Rhoda E. Hoaglund, 92, of Homestead, passed away on Wednesday, May 28, 2014, at ManorCare Nursing & Rehabilitation Center in Kingsford, Michigan. Rhoda was born on Jan. 17, 1922, in Norway, daughter of the late Axel and Ida (Ekquist) Osterberg. Her family moved to the Racine/Kenosha, Wisconsin, area when she was 7 years old. She graduated from Kenosha High School in 1941.
Rhoda joined the United States Navy during World War II and served from 1944 to 1946 as a specialist photographer.
After her naval service, she attended the University of Wisconsin-Madison for one year.
She married Ralph Hoaglund on May 29, 1948, in Norfolk, Nebraska. This year marked their 66th wedding anniversary. Rhoda worked alongside her husband for more than 25 years at the Florence County Co-Op in Aurora. She served as coordinator for Northeast Wisconsin Technical College Adult Education program for many years. Rhoda and Ralph also operated Peaceful Acres Maple Syrup in Homestead. In 1991 they won the top national award for North American light amber maple syrup.
Rhoda was a long-time volunteer and supporter of the Caring House in Iron Mountain. She served on the board of directors for the Florence County Aging Unit, was a member of the Wisconsin Maple Syrup Producers and was instrumental in starting the kindergarten program in Aurora, Wisconsin.
Rhoda enjoyed gardening, cooking, baking, and was an excellent seamstress. Her greatest joy came from spending time outside working in her garden and yard.
She is survived by her husband, Ralph; children, Rhonda (David) LaBine of DePere, Wis., Wesley Hoaglund and Susan Reinheimer, both of Orlando, Fla; sister, Eileen Molinaro of Philadelphia; grandchildren, Andrea LaBine of Howard, Wis., Brian LaBine of DePere, Wis., Axel Reinheimer and Emily Reinheimer, both of Orlando; great-grandchildren, Olivia, Alexis, Shonn, Seth and Indica; great-great-granddaughter, Chloe.
In addition to her parents, she was preceded in death by nine brothers and sisters; son-in-law, Barry Reinheimer; and her granddaughter, Heather (LaBine) Bahr.
In accordance with Rhoda's wishes, private family services will be held at a later date.
Burial will be in the Homestead-Aurora Cemetery.
Condolences may be expressed to the family of Rhoda Hoaglund online at www.ernashfuneralhomes.com.
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Saturday, May 31, 2014
Rhoda Osterberg Hoaglund
Sunday, May 25, 2014
A Cousin's Reunion
I received the following message from Kathy, the daughter of Vernon Krans:
It later became the Claus Johnson homestead; Julia Ekquist Johnson and Claus Johnson bought the Andrew Ekquist homestead after Andrew died. Andrew and Louisa sold Charlie Krans 40 acres of land for $300 in 1895 where they built a house and raised a family. For many years after Andrew died, our Great-Grandmother Louisa lived with Teckla and Oscar Lundwall, but returned to live with Ellen and Charlie where she died.
Here's more information about the Ekquist family:
http://nancyadele.blogspot.com/2012/06/ekquist-family-in-homestead-little.htm
It's also a wonderful opportunity to either meet or reconnect with other extended family members.
"We are going to have another cousin reunion. I wanted to send you the basic information early so you can mark it down your jam-packed calendars. So no excuses --- you have had plenty of notice!It will be on Saturday, September 6, 2014. Jeff and Kay will be hosting at his farm in Homestead. In case you didn’t know, they purchased the old Erland Peterson homestead. The Popple Creek ( or Crik, as we called it) runs through his property and the Claus Johnson homestead is across the road. (Claus Dr.), and is not too far from the Krans homestead. Brain Banks, who presently owns the old Krans place, has also invited us to the farm. So it should be interesting to learn a few facts about our family beginnings. Remember, we are now THE oldest generation so it is up to us to preserve our history to pass on to our children. If you think your family would be interested in attending, please inform them about the date.More details this summer."
What a wonderful chance to visit where our Swedish ancestors began their life homesteading in "Amerika." In April of 1883, the entire Ekquist family moved from Florence to this farm site in Little Popple, later called Burnsville, and finally Homestead, Wisconsin. This homestead was later considered to be the “stoniest and stumpiest land”in the area. Only 30 acres were workable. They joined the John Larson’s,and the Lars Peterson’s as the first pioneers in “Little Popple.”
It later became the Claus Johnson homestead; Julia Ekquist Johnson and Claus Johnson bought the Andrew Ekquist homestead after Andrew died. Andrew and Louisa sold Charlie Krans 40 acres of land for $300 in 1895 where they built a house and raised a family. For many years after Andrew died, our Great-Grandmother Louisa lived with Teckla and Oscar Lundwall, but returned to live with Ellen and Charlie where she died.
Here's more information about the Ekquist family:
http://nancyadele.blogspot.com/2012/06/ekquist-family-in-homestead-little.htm
It's also a wonderful opportunity to either meet or reconnect with other extended family members.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Sharon Dishaw's Obituary
Obituary for Sharon Ann Dishaw
Sharon A. Dishaw, age 49, of Brownstown, passed away on Thursday, May 22, 2014.
Born on August 17, 1964 in Trenton, Michigan, she was the daughter of Earl and Alice (Lundwall) Dishaw.
Sharon was a 1982 graduate of Flat Rock High School. She worked in a group home with handicapped people as a Nursing Assistant.
She was preceded in death by her parents, daughter, Amanda and sister, Marlene.
Surviving is her son, David (Shana) Spencer of Dearborn Heights; daughter, Laura Spencer of Gibraltar; 3 grandchildren, Peyton, Adreyona and Camden; 4 brothers, Larry (Linda) Dishaw of Flat Rock, Thomas Dishaw of Flat Rock, Michael (Deb) Dishaw of Maybee and Earl John (Sharon) Dishaw of New Boston and sister, Doris (Jim) Liedel of New Boston.
A memorial service will be held at a later date.
Memorials may be made to Family.
Love from Strangers
The following is a posting from our 2nd cousin, Ron Osterberg. Thank you, Ron.
Walking into his plush Beverly Hills office, Ramona and I suspected grim news. The doctor was not smiling. “I’m sorry Mrs. Osterberg,” he said in a low expressionless voice, “I’m sorry, but we cannot remove your cancer. There’s nothing we can do.”
It happened again. This time though it was in slow motion. When doctors told me that my first wife had died, there was a sharp line separating the before and the after. One moment she was alive. The next she was dead. There wasn’t an in between time. This was different. The beginning was now. When would it end?
Ramona shrunk herself into a tight little ball and almost disappeared in a corner of the plush leather chair. She pulled her knees tight up to her forehead in an extreme fetal position. She looked so little and so helpless. Her face was hidden inside that little ball, but I heard her deep sobs. Once heard, sobs like that are never forgotten. They start deep within the soul and pulsate out to the world.
With her arms tucked inside the ball, I couldn’t hold her hand while I talked with the doctor. I could only rest mine on her back. I don’t recall what we said. I think I asked the usual questions. Was he certain? Did he consult with others? How reliable are the tests? Soon the words ran out and we stared silently at each other. Eventually he excused himself and left the room.
So slowly did Ramona uncoil herself and resume a sitting position before standing unsteadily. She grabbed me around the middle and with her face buried in my chest said, “Ronnie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this.” I told her that everything would be all right and she said, “No, things will not be all right. I’m going to die. There’s nothing all right about that.”
I recall little else until we were in the elevator where Ramona said that she couldn’t face the children feeling the way she did. “It wouldn’t be fair to them,” she said, “we’ve got to decide how to handle this.” It was about two in the afternoon and the restaurant in the lower floor was almost empty. It was a perfect place to cry.
Once seated, we talked of many things, she and I. We talked about how she finally had children after her first husband brutally threw her downstairs causing a miscarriage. We talked about how I met a great mother for the children when I thought that couldn’t happen. We talked this way and that way about things and how we would handle them.
Gradually our moods lightened as we made vague plans. If one doctor gave us bad news, we wouldn’t tell anyone until we talked with two more. As we talked while sipping coffee and wine, waitresses sat at our booth and chatted about nothing in particular. They were like old friends stopping by for cheerful banter. One got Ramona to tell her a funny story and called the others over to hear it. They were reconnecting us with the world.
The restaurant manager sat with us and asked for our car keys. He said the lot might be closing and he would make certain we weren’t stuck. Ramona looked at me and we had the same thought, “There are so many really good people in this place.”
Our talk was now more hope than gloom. We talked about how lucky we were to have met and how grateful we were for the time we had together. We resolved to focus on the good of what was left, not the shortness of it. We felt strangely calm as if someone had sprayed tranquilizer into the air.
When we asked for the check, the manager appeared at the table flanked by two waitresses. Taking turns, they told us not to worry about the check and the parking. “Please, let us do this for you,” he said. A waitress added, “We overheard you talking and everyone in the restaurant wants to help in their own way.” The other waitress added, “Please, let us help.” One of the waitresses hugged Ramona and told her that she could not make the cancer go away, but she could help make her life a little easier.
Driving home, Ramona and I agreed that our experience seemed divinely inspired. We went into their place not knowing how we could get through the next ten minutes and left with hope. Strangers gave us their love and it worked wonders.
The next day we learned of another type of surgery. Ramona had it and she survived another thirty years. Today, decades later, I often think of those strangers who restored our souls. I owe the world much for what they did.
It happened again. This time though it was in slow motion. When doctors told me that my first wife had died, there was a sharp line separating the before and the after. One moment she was alive. The next she was dead. There wasn’t an in between time. This was different. The beginning was now. When would it end?
Ramona shrunk herself into a tight little ball and almost disappeared in a corner of the plush leather chair. She pulled her knees tight up to her forehead in an extreme fetal position. She looked so little and so helpless. Her face was hidden inside that little ball, but I heard her deep sobs. Once heard, sobs like that are never forgotten. They start deep within the soul and pulsate out to the world.
With her arms tucked inside the ball, I couldn’t hold her hand while I talked with the doctor. I could only rest mine on her back. I don’t recall what we said. I think I asked the usual questions. Was he certain? Did he consult with others? How reliable are the tests? Soon the words ran out and we stared silently at each other. Eventually he excused himself and left the room.
So slowly did Ramona uncoil herself and resume a sitting position before standing unsteadily. She grabbed me around the middle and with her face buried in my chest said, “Ronnie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this.” I told her that everything would be all right and she said, “No, things will not be all right. I’m going to die. There’s nothing all right about that.”
I recall little else until we were in the elevator where Ramona said that she couldn’t face the children feeling the way she did. “It wouldn’t be fair to them,” she said, “we’ve got to decide how to handle this.” It was about two in the afternoon and the restaurant in the lower floor was almost empty. It was a perfect place to cry.
Once seated, we talked of many things, she and I. We talked about how she finally had children after her first husband brutally threw her downstairs causing a miscarriage. We talked about how I met a great mother for the children when I thought that couldn’t happen. We talked this way and that way about things and how we would handle them.
Gradually our moods lightened as we made vague plans. If one doctor gave us bad news, we wouldn’t tell anyone until we talked with two more. As we talked while sipping coffee and wine, waitresses sat at our booth and chatted about nothing in particular. They were like old friends stopping by for cheerful banter. One got Ramona to tell her a funny story and called the others over to hear it. They were reconnecting us with the world.
The restaurant manager sat with us and asked for our car keys. He said the lot might be closing and he would make certain we weren’t stuck. Ramona looked at me and we had the same thought, “There are so many really good people in this place.”
Our talk was now more hope than gloom. We talked about how lucky we were to have met and how grateful we were for the time we had together. We resolved to focus on the good of what was left, not the shortness of it. We felt strangely calm as if someone had sprayed tranquilizer into the air.
When we asked for the check, the manager appeared at the table flanked by two waitresses. Taking turns, they told us not to worry about the check and the parking. “Please, let us do this for you,” he said. A waitress added, “We overheard you talking and everyone in the restaurant wants to help in their own way.” The other waitress added, “Please, let us help.” One of the waitresses hugged Ramona and told her that she could not make the cancer go away, but she could help make her life a little easier.
Driving home, Ramona and I agreed that our experience seemed divinely inspired. We went into their place not knowing how we could get through the next ten minutes and left with hope. Strangers gave us their love and it worked wonders.
The next day we learned of another type of surgery. Ramona had it and she survived another thirty years. Today, decades later, I often think of those strangers who restored our souls. I owe the world much for what they did.
Sharon Dishaw
Sharon Dishaw died early this morning. As soon as I know more, will post it here.
Remember to hug your loved ones and tell them how much you love them.
Life is precious.
Remember to hug your loved ones and tell them how much you love them.
Life is precious.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Happy Birthday Dad!
The following post was written by Ron Osterberg. His grandmother, and Brun's mother was Ida Ekquist Osterberg. Ida was Grandma Teckla's sister, and I knew her as "Aunt Ida" and she lived in Aurora, Wisconsin when I was a child, and we visited her often.
Brun H. Osterberg
May 18, 1907 – October 4, 1958
Brun took life seriously. Yet, childhood friends in northern Wisconsin remembered him as playful and funny. He was a hard working loyal family man. Yet, friends remembered that he often drank too much and deprived his family.
He was a man of many contradictions and his character had many facets. That’s why pinning down his essence is difficult. However, those who knew him agree that “cynical” is an apt one word description.
Our father judged the world harshly, especially politicians and the wealthy. Like his father, he admired Eugene Debs, the long time socialist leader. At the core of his political belief was fairness and the notion that socialists were best able to create a fair system. Though he voted for FDR, he preferred the socialists.
Brun left home when he was 14 years old and worked as a lumberjack in Hurley, Wisconsin before bumming around the country and the world. He talked about riding under and between railroad cars.
He eventually became a merchant marine and identified himself that way for rest of his life. He crossed the equator four times, went through the Panama Canal and spent time in European and Asian seaports. He was a good sailor, but he often missed his ship when it sailed. That meant that he worked mainly on ships others avoided.
While a merchant marine, he took taxidermy as a hobby and grabbed an albatross to stuff. Bad move for two reasons. First, the bird pecked his finger leaving a bad gash. The ship’s medic soaked it in iodine that was too strong and it dissolved the tip of his finger. The missing eighth of an inch with the fingernail bending over the end fascinated his children.
Second, seamen thought that harming an albatross was bad luck. Shortly after the albatross encounter, the ship caught a hurricane. Thinking that they were sinking, the captain called the crew together for a group prayer. When the crew was assembled, a shipmate wondered aloud if the storm, which he said Osterberg caused, would go away if they threw him overboard.
While hitchhiking to a ship’s job at a mid Atlantic seaport, a car struck and dragged him several hundred feet. People thought him dead and wired his parents for burying money. He survived the accident and used the money for bus fare home which was then in Kenosha, Wisconsin. In the family house were his parents, two older brothers, Rudd and Ben, one younger brother, Wes, and three younger sisters, Evelyn, Eileen and Rhoda.
Brun married Marge Hansen in 1932 and they had four children, Sally, Ron, Bruce and Kenneth. They divorced in 1946 and he went to San Diego. There he married Marge Woodhouse in 1951 and had four daughters, Patricia, Lynn, Wendy, and Jill. He had a heart attack in 1956 and a car smashed him in 1957. Later that year, doctors told him that he had colon cancer which killed him within a year.
He was good at many things and relaxing was not among them. In Wisconsin he worked in the garden after coming home from his job at Nash Motors. He ate dinner and chatted briefly with Marge before descending to his workshop in the basement. When the weather didn’t allow gardening, he went straight to the workshop after coming home. When he did relax, he listened to the radio. He and Marge were friends with four couples with whom they exchanged visits.
Our father was five feet ten and weighed 170 pounds. His hips were so small that for many years Marge Hansen bought his shorts in the boy’s department.
Brun was a true do it yourselfer. He fixed everything, including cars, and he never called a repairman. As a skilled tool and dye maker, he made openers that cut through steel cans like a hot knife through butter.
While talking with him a few weeks before he died, our father became introspective and said softly, “If I had it to do all over again, I’d.....” He paused, searching for the right way to phrase his last thoughts. After several seconds, he blurted out in his old pre-illness voice, “Ah shit; I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.”
Happy Birthday Dad!
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| Brun Osterberg |
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| Back row: Brun and Marge Middle from left to right: Ron, Bruce and Sally Front: Kenneth with neighbor dog about 1944 |
Brun H. Osterberg
May 18, 1907 – October 4, 1958
Brun took life seriously. Yet, childhood friends in northern Wisconsin remembered him as playful and funny. He was a hard working loyal family man. Yet, friends remembered that he often drank too much and deprived his family.
He was a man of many contradictions and his character had many facets. That’s why pinning down his essence is difficult. However, those who knew him agree that “cynical” is an apt one word description.
Our father judged the world harshly, especially politicians and the wealthy. Like his father, he admired Eugene Debs, the long time socialist leader. At the core of his political belief was fairness and the notion that socialists were best able to create a fair system. Though he voted for FDR, he preferred the socialists.
Brun left home when he was 14 years old and worked as a lumberjack in Hurley, Wisconsin before bumming around the country and the world. He talked about riding under and between railroad cars.
He eventually became a merchant marine and identified himself that way for rest of his life. He crossed the equator four times, went through the Panama Canal and spent time in European and Asian seaports. He was a good sailor, but he often missed his ship when it sailed. That meant that he worked mainly on ships others avoided.
While a merchant marine, he took taxidermy as a hobby and grabbed an albatross to stuff. Bad move for two reasons. First, the bird pecked his finger leaving a bad gash. The ship’s medic soaked it in iodine that was too strong and it dissolved the tip of his finger. The missing eighth of an inch with the fingernail bending over the end fascinated his children.
Second, seamen thought that harming an albatross was bad luck. Shortly after the albatross encounter, the ship caught a hurricane. Thinking that they were sinking, the captain called the crew together for a group prayer. When the crew was assembled, a shipmate wondered aloud if the storm, which he said Osterberg caused, would go away if they threw him overboard.
While hitchhiking to a ship’s job at a mid Atlantic seaport, a car struck and dragged him several hundred feet. People thought him dead and wired his parents for burying money. He survived the accident and used the money for bus fare home which was then in Kenosha, Wisconsin. In the family house were his parents, two older brothers, Rudd and Ben, one younger brother, Wes, and three younger sisters, Evelyn, Eileen and Rhoda.
Brun married Marge Hansen in 1932 and they had four children, Sally, Ron, Bruce and Kenneth. They divorced in 1946 and he went to San Diego. There he married Marge Woodhouse in 1951 and had four daughters, Patricia, Lynn, Wendy, and Jill. He had a heart attack in 1956 and a car smashed him in 1957. Later that year, doctors told him that he had colon cancer which killed him within a year.
He was good at many things and relaxing was not among them. In Wisconsin he worked in the garden after coming home from his job at Nash Motors. He ate dinner and chatted briefly with Marge before descending to his workshop in the basement. When the weather didn’t allow gardening, he went straight to the workshop after coming home. When he did relax, he listened to the radio. He and Marge were friends with four couples with whom they exchanged visits.
Our father was five feet ten and weighed 170 pounds. His hips were so small that for many years Marge Hansen bought his shorts in the boy’s department.
Brun was a true do it yourselfer. He fixed everything, including cars, and he never called a repairman. As a skilled tool and dye maker, he made openers that cut through steel cans like a hot knife through butter.
While talking with him a few weeks before he died, our father became introspective and said softly, “If I had it to do all over again, I’d.....” He paused, searching for the right way to phrase his last thoughts. After several seconds, he blurted out in his old pre-illness voice, “Ah shit; I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.”
Happy Birthday Dad!
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