by Cathy LaGrow
To Ruth, Peder was simply her father. Her relationship with him would always be woven together with her understanding of God.
On the inside flap of the English Bible he bought before her birth, Peder had written his name in a distinct script, recognizable from innumerable sermon outlines stacked on his desk and from the ledger where he kept a precise accounting of every purchase he made. Ruth watched him pore over the pages of that Bible until he knew where every Scripture and story was located.
Ruth would open the book as the years passed, even long after he was gone. She read his notes and records.
Peder Nordsletten
Aug. 5, 1923
After this, Peder had written the dates when his worn-out Bible was taken to a bookbinder and returned with a new cover.
Rebound Feb 1928
Rebound Feb 1938
On an inside page he kept track of how many times he read the Bible through from beginning to end. He’d learned English as a young man. As he’d struggled to perfect the language, it helped to read God’s Word in the tongue he would mostly preach in.
Finished reading first time Sunday, May 1, 1927
Feb 17, 1929 - I started to read this Bible through a second time.
Finished Sun. Aug. 27, 1932
Started third time April 2, 1942
Lord, deepen my faith as I read it.
Completed third time, Sunday, March 19, 1944
Praise God
In addition to pointing parishioners to the Scriptures he knew so well, Peder had a repertoire of quotations he loved to trot out. While offering a hearty handshake he’d say, “A grip of steel to make you feel you’re not in the world alone!” Another favorite admonition was from Sir Walter Scott: “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”
Anchored in his deep heritage of faith, Peder appeared unbending as a man, unharmed by the storms of life. But his faith had been forged in the fire of loss.
It would be many years before Ruth would discover just how grievous that loss had been.
Chapter Seventeen
WHEN RUTH’S FATHER WROTE about his childhood toward the end of his life, he did so without complaint or bitterness. Yet Peder, the oldest of five siblings, was just ten years old when tragedy struck and changed his family forever.
Peder had been born in America on July 9, 1886, to recent Norwegian immigrants. They were blessed with one child after another, but earning a living was hard for the Nordslettens. Peder’s father, Ole, worked for the George R. Newell Company in Minneapolis. His top wage while working for the grocery wholesaler was eleven dollars a week. He often walked the three miles to work to save a nickel on streetcar fare.
One night a lantern was knocked over in the kitchen. The flames quickly spread. There were five young children inside, and Peder’s mother, Marie, desperately smothered the fire. But when her dress caught fire, she panicked and ran outside. The flames engulfed her. The children were saved, but seven agonizing hours later, Marie Nordsletten succumbed to death.
Peder’s father was left with a broken heart. He did his best to care for small children who needed him but wanted their mother. His low wages made survival a struggle. The tragedy brought him to his knees, and his son later wrote that it was “the means of father’s great conversion.” Ole finally opened the Bible his parents had given him when he’d left Norway for America. The words within saved him. He later said that the hardest blow in his life had given him the biggest blessing—his faith.
Ole’s parents wrote from Norway saying that they could take in two of the children. Eleven-year-old Peder and seven-year-old Anna were chosen because they were the quietest.
The children traveled with a neighbor by train to New York, then boarded a ship, where they took bunks in third-class quarters among the poorest passengers returning to Europe. They arrived just before Christmas, leaving behind a family in grief and a country fighting the Spanish-American War.
For the next four years, Peder and Anna lived with their aging grandparents. Peder described them as “very righteous; hence, religiously, we received a very good bringing up.” They lived on a thriving farm in a large log home, which years later burned to the ground. The family seemed to be plagued by fire.
Peder was confirmed in the Lutheran church, and not long after, word came that his father had remarried. In 1902 the siblings returned to America, this time traveling alone. They arrived at a sod house, made from squares of compact dirt and constructed on the stark, empty flatlands of North Dakota, where Peder’s father, stepmother, and siblings had settled.
Their new mother was not cruel, only unloving. The children would never become her own. She seemed to always be seeking something different—the greener grass or pot of gold, anything that wasn’t where they were now. In the midst of such tension, Peder watched his father draw strength from his new faith, his connection to God.
One day while driving oxen, young Peder felt God’s call. He decided to become a preacher. He worked hard, and by the age of twenty-three had saved enough money to enter Red Wing Seminary in southeastern Minnesota. His first year proved enormously difficult. With a limited English vocabulary, Peder understood little of what the teachers were saying. Since he had not completed eighth grade, he was required to take sub-classes.
But he studied diligently, steadied by prayer and the help of fellow students and faculty. On May 25, 1916, Peder Nordsletten “was deeply moved” when he held his diploma in his hand.
Two years later he graduated from the Lutheran Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, and the next day, he married his sweetheart, Olava, to whom he’d been engaged for a decade. During those years apart, Olava had been a nurse in a Catholic hospital in Canada and had attended the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. The couple would be together for the next forty-two years.
* * *
Ruth adored her family, her brothers included. She couldn’t imagine a life without them.
Orville was the baby the Nordslettens had taken in right after the death of their firstborn, and he took the slot of oldest child as if made for it. According to the adoption home, he was of French descent, but as he grew, his frugality and attitude reminded his family of the attributes of a Scotchman. They nicknamed him Scotchy.
If Scotchy earned a dime, he saved it. Scotchy would shake his head at his younger brothers and their lack of restraint. He once told them, “I could paper my whole room with the dollars I’ve saved. But you two have nothing.”
Born a year and a half after Scotchy, Olin was his brother’s mirror opposite. Nicknamed Ole, pronounced O-lee, the boy saved his pennies only long enough to buy whatever had captured his fancy. Ole’s antics kept Ruth in stitches but earned him the most punishment of all the children; it simply took more to straighten him up. But his mischievousness was softened by the generosity of his heart. On one occasion when he did manage to save some money, he used it to buy his father a radio.
Once while Ruth and her parents waited in the car to pick Ole up, they saw him bravely steal a kiss from a girl. They were all surprised, including the girl—though she didn’t seem to mind.
When Ole was in his late teens, he interviewed for a position on a fishing boat. When asked if he could cook, Ole answered without a pause, “Oh yeah, I can cook.” Ruth doubted that her older brother could even boil water at that time—she’d never seen him in the kitchen. But he got the job and was a quick study. Eventually Ole would become a minister, but he never lost his love of fishing.
The youngest brother was Kenneth. Kenny’s hairstyle matched his father’s, molded straight up and slicked back with thick pomade. He loved to roam the nearby gravel pit and swim in Lakes Spirit and Okoboji. Though he was youngest, his personality blended well with the other two boys—he was not as mischievous as Ole nor as focused as Scotchy.
With four active children of varied personalities, Olava never had a day without some kind of challenge. But the one place Olava would not tolerate misconduct was in God’s house.
Sometimes she doled out preemptive spankings to Ole and Kenny before church, with the promise of worse if they didn’t control themselves during the service. Scotchy and Ruth were spared because of previous good behavior. They knew to sit like cherubs while their father preached.
For the Nordslettens, church and family life were knit together. There was no office in the church, so the living room was kept immaculate for parishioners who might stop in seeking counsel, issuing complaints, or requesting prayer. The humble room, furnished with a piano and plain furniture, was also used as the music and radio room. A local piano teacher used the instrument to provide lessons to children. In exchange, she taught Ruth for free.
Initially, the lessons made Ruth feel like she’d been corralled, forced to leave her beloved outdoors. The bench was too hard, and the steady tick of the metronome reminded her of a slow-moving clock. Eventually, though, playing piano evolved from a duty to a passion.
The parsonage was filled with music. Peder and Olava were accomplished singers. All of the children played instruments: Scotchy the trumpet, Ole the trombone, and Kenny the clarinet. Ruth played the piano and took singing lessons, and she later played the clarinet like Kenny.
In the evening, Peder would sit in his rocking chair beside the radio. The children gathered around to listen to the serial adventures of Jack Armstrong, and later Captain Midnight. Peder and Olava enjoyed Fibber McGee and Molly. The room was as quiet as a library except for the voices crackling through the speaker.
The dining room table was the family’s hub, where everyone ate meals together. Olava used the table to spread out colored fabric squares to make quilts. It was the setting for family games like Rook, marbles, and Monopoly. Ruth especially loved it when her older siblings and their friends played Monopoly and allowed her to be banker. She enjoyed lining up the neat stacks of colored money and counting out $200 every time a player rounded the board and passed the giant “GO.”
From the time she was a baby, Ruth was known for her pleasant disposition, but sometimes a deep stubborn streak emerged. One clear day Ruth packed her little brown suitcase, then marched up the street several blocks to the train depot. Peder held Olava back, picked up the phone, and told the operator to connect him to the depot’s ticket office.
“My daughter should be showing up momentarily. Could you please keep an eye on her until I get there?”
After Ruth reached the two-story train depot, she fished in her pocket and sighed. I should have asked Scotchy for a loan. Shrugging her shoulders, she decided to explore. The long, rectangular building was one of the most ornate in town, with curved dormer windows that peeked out from a flat mansard roof. There was a central waiting room, a pavilion in each corner, and a canopied section for waiting passengers. The straight lines of the rails stretched tantalizingly to the horizon and seemed to pulse with the energy of faraway cities.
Ruth peered down the tracks from a safe distance away. She plopped onto a wooden bench and tried to picture the empty rows filled with travelers seeking adventure. Her stomach began to growl. It must be time for lunch.
Running away was more boring than she had expected, and when Peder and Olava arrived, she was ready to go home.
Ruth’s childhood unfolded with mittens warmed on the grate in winter, bags of penny candy from the downtown store, a pretty Schwinn bicycle for her birthday. The years became imprinted with the smell of Olava’s homemade donuts and soft molasses cookies fresh from the oven and with memories of summer Bible camps and hearing Big Band music over the radio.
Time pushed the family onward. The boys were nine, eight, and six years older than Ruth, and eventually they left home, one by one. Scotchy joined the navy. Ole became a fisherman and later went to seminary. Kenny went to Minneapolis to work for Braniff Airways. None of the boys were lost to World War II, which would begin and end as Ruth was coming of age.
At a time when hundreds of thousands of Americans were left homeless, the Nordslettens had a comfortable home, good food in their bellies, and a house full of love. Ruth’s life wasn’t free from challenges. There were the usual losses of youth and moments of tears and pain. But on the whole, Ruth Priscilla—once called Betty Jane—had a childhood filled with love and joy. A blessed childhood.
Almost as if someone she didn’t know had been praying for the girl her entire life.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’VE ACCEPTED a new position as a traveling evangelist,” Peder said to Ruth as they gathered at the dinner table.
“Your father has wanted to do this for a long time,” Olava said, pulling up her chair. “He’ll be reaching people in churches all around the country.”
“But it means we’ll be moving to Minnesota,” Peder added. He studied his daughter’s face, and as she asked questions, her parents assured her that the change was the right one for their family. They’d be settled in their new home before Ruth began seventh grade that fall.
She felt excitement and a thread of fear—Wallingford was the only home she could remember. Now, after eleven years, everything would be different.
They moved first to Fergus Falls, Minnesota. With 10,000 residents, the town seemed huge to Ruth—Wallingford had fewer than 250 citizens. On the north side of town stood the magnificent state hospital, one of the last insane asylums built in the Kirkbride model. It resembled a towering castle and, at times, housed as many as two thousand patients.
Ruth spent seventh and eighth grade in Fergus Falls. She made friends quickly and loved to ice-skate on local ponds during the cold winters. But before Ruth’s first year of high school, Peder and Olava decided the best home base for ministry was Minneapolis. As one of the largest cities in the country, it offered seemingly infinite resources and was a good central location for Peder’s travels around the region.
Peder enjoyed his new position. He visited churches in twelve states and four Canadian provinces, staying in more than a hundred parsonages. He encouraged congregations with messages as a guest speaker, and he advised pastors as a veteran of the parish ministry.
Ruth and Olava appreciated the conveniences of Minneapolis. Ruth rode the streetcar to school every day, and it wasn’t long before she could navigate the city with ease. Even on a tight minister’s income she was able to dress well, and her cheerful and engaging disposition always drew people to her.
A few years later, a teacher of Ruth’s would write in her yearbook: “You sure are filled with atomic energy—may it never burn out. However, be just a little more conscious of the serious side of life as well as the joyous.”
Another remarked, “You really livened up my English class.”
In the years that Peder traveled, Ruth and Olava grew closer than ever. They took the streetcar around the city to shop or sightsee, and attended church together. For a special treat they watched a movie at the cinema. Olava’s favorite was Lassie Come Home.
These were war years, and ration cards were as normal as money to Ruth. Since her mother didn’t drive, they at least weren’t subject to gas rationing. At times, classmates or church friends told stories that related to the faraway war; of brothers, sons, husbands, and friends not coming home from places like Normandy and Iwo Jima. But as in the Depression years, Ruth was sheltered from tragedies taking place beyond the safe existence her parents built around her.
On rare occasions, Ruth was able to travel with her father. She was always welcomed with glowing compliments about how pretty she was, what a fine girl she seemed to be, how proud her daddy must be. Ruth, in turn, was proud of her father, and she missed him terribly when he was gone.
“How long until you come home this time?” Ruth asked her father on one of his visits. “You helped the boys prepare for confirmation, and now mine is coming soon.”
Ruth had been studying hard for the ceremony that would be a public declaration of her faith. But she knew it would be easier to understand Luther’s Small Catechism if she was sitting beside her father as he explained the lessons that he knew like the back
of his hand.
Peder promised to be there to help his daughter prepare.
After her confirmation, Ruth continued to enjoy a full life in the city. Then suddenly, after only two years in Minneapolis, they were packing up again. Decades later, Ruth would be stunned to learn that as they were leaving Minneapolis, a woman named Minka Disbrow was moving in, just two miles from the cute bungalow house the Nordslettens occupied. Perhaps they’d walked the aisles of the same grocer, or brushed past each other on a streetcar, or sung hymns near one another at the same Lutheran church.
The Nordslettens were relocating to a small farming town in Wisconsin called Viroqua, where Peder had taken what would be his final pastorate. Ruth, now a junior in high school, was once again the new girl, but this would be her last time in that role. This town would take her in completely, and she would remain here for the rest of her life.
* * *
After the grand city of Minneapolis, little Viroqua in southwestern Wisconsin was a throwback to Ruth’s first tiny hometown in Iowa.
“What kind of hick place have we moved to?” she wanted to ask.
Ruth had grown accustomed lately to dressing well, in dresses or at least in pressed slacks and a blouse. But the girls in Viroqua wore rolled-up blue jeans, bobby socks, and saddle shoes, topped off with their fathers’ white dress shirts. Ruth stared at the girls, feeling like she’d arrived in a foreign land.
At least Ruth had one relative at the small high school, and second cousin Anita was thrilled to show her around. With Ruth’s quick smile and confidence, she didn’t have any problem fitting in. She was a beautiful girl, the new pastor’s daughter, and a fascinating newcomer to the students who’d known each other since playing in the church nursery.
To her own amazement, Ruth soon felt comfortable in the “hick” town. She even sported the local uniform of rolled-up blue jeans and bobby socks, although she had to settle for a T-shirt to complete the outfit. Her father’s white button-down shirts were much too big for her petite frame.