Peering at the Past – Nobody’s Friend, Everybody’s Friend

History has surely been written about the resourceful, the successful, the achievers. However, there were those, who also extraordinary, accomplished absolutely nothing of historical significance. But they often, for good or bad, contributed to the everyday experiences of their neighbors. Local Houston, Minn., historian and author Ingrid Julsrud wrote about not only what she termed “the most distinguished citizens” of her hometown but also those “from the opposite end of the social ladder.” She recalled from her youth during the first two decades of the 1900s, three who might be considered misfits who nevertheless were “prominent.” Two, in later times, might be termed retarded, handicapped or underprivileged, but those words were not used during their lifetimes.

Nobody’s friend

Mikkel Grasby was eccentric. Unlike his brother, K. B. Grasby, who owned a large grocery and dry goods store, Mikkel was a loner with no friends and “didn’t want any.” Mikkel lived at the end of a street, near the big slough in town. The only visitor was his brother, Matt, who brought him groceries and a kerosene can, the latter a necessity for all residents in that era.

In the two to three years Mikkel lived down the alley from her childhood home, Julsrud saw him at close range only once. She wandered into the garden behind her grandfather’s barn and saw Mikkel out on “the little platform that was his porch. He stared at me with those near-sighted eyes as if to say, ‘What are you doing here invading my privacy?’ I was scared and hurried away, and I never went back into the garden again without an adult with me.”

Mikkel made furniture from wooden shipping crates. There was a plentiful supply, since all merchandise was shipped on freight trains in those crates. But his furniture was of questionable quality. Julsrud’s grandfather had a small rocking chair, which was so heavy, clumsy and uncomfortable that it was eventually cut up for firewood for the kitchen stove.

However, Mikkel produced some enviable toy furniture for dolls. He made it for his two nieces, Alma and Millie Grasby. “There were doll highchairs, rocking chairs and a lovely bed about 15 inches long. It was painted dark brown and reminded me of the walnut beds Grandma had on the farm minus the carvings. How I envied those girls that toy furniture.”

Mikkel lived in a house that was as strange as he was. There was only one room with no foundation, elevated on stilts – one on each corner – about four feet above the ground. In springtime, with melted snow and spring rains, the slough backed up under the stilted domicile, which somewhat resembled a boat. The house was visible in winter, but during summer, it was nearly hidden by “tall slough grass, willow trees and a scrubby box elder.”

One day, Julsrud’s father came home at noon and told the children that Mikkel had died alone at home. “I don’t think there was a funeral,” she recalled. “He was taken away and buried. Quite pathetic, don’t you think?”

Lazy

George Gerard came from a well-respected family, including two sisters, who both married into prominent families. However, George was mentally challenged. In those days, there were not yet services or education and occupational programs for those citizens. He had a pleasing appearance, a “tall, bony and angular man, who never did a day’s work in his life.” George, who was thought to be lazy and not contributing to the community in any way, occupied much of his time, at least during pleasant weather, riding around in a one-seated buggy behind “a nag of a horse,” that Julsrud surmised must have been ridden by someone weighing far more than the horse. The unfortunate beast was so swaybacked, it looked like a hammock on sticks.”

Gerard spent much time on the river banks, often observed in his buggy, transporting driftwood he had scavenged from the water to use as firewood. His residence was on the east edge of town, a small house beneath trees and surrounded by tall grass and weeds.

After Gerard had somehow advertised for a wife, a “short, stubby woman” arrived from somewhere in the south and married George. The newcomer “had a loud, raspy voice and round pop-eyes that made her look permanently surprised or scared out of her wits.” Unlike her newly-acquired spouse, she worked hard, making a living for the family, busy every day cleaning houses and washing clothes.

Housecleaning at the Julsrud home during the First World War (1814-1818), she said, “I wish I was president. I’d stop that war.” When asked how she would accomplish that, she replied, “I’d go right to the front lines and order those men to stop their fighting and go home.”

George and his wife had one child, a son named Casper, who unlike his father, was well-liked and highly respected by the community. Casper worked at the newspaper and later for the railroad while living in Austin.

Everybody’s Friend

Eddie Horner, who as an adult, lived with two adult sisters (one being widow) and a younger nephew and niece, was regarded as “slow” but also “everybody’s friend.” His wore small, steel-rimmed eyeglasses that always appeared crooked on his face. Eddie did odd jobs for folks in town, such as shoveling snow or splitting wood (firewood). But his favorite activity was talking, anytime, anywhere there was anyone who had time and the inclination to listen. He frequented businesses in town where he and whoever would visit, laugh and have a grand time.

Eddie often talked about his plans to get married. No one understood when or to whom and neither did Eddie. But he talked about it just the same. Kindly, no one pressured him for marital details. Everyone treated Eddie with respect, possibly out of pity, but he seemed to brighten everyone’s day. Julsrud emphasized that “People laughed with Eddie, not at him.”

A little over a century ago, in the early 1920s, the Horner family sold their property and moved to California.

Source: Remembering Old Times; Houston During the Post Card Era (1993), by Ingrid Julsrud