His Name was Andrew
by Gene Koltvet

The front door opened wide and in he came. “Craazy people!” was his greeting. Andrew was a beloved fixture in town, always jolly, kind and friendly. He lived in a makeshift apartment in a business building a short distance from his job and could be seen early each morning walking slowly, shuffling his shoes on the sand of the gravel road that went through town, past Anderson’s hardware store, Tommy’s beer joint and Ed Wolf’s blacksmith shop on his way to work at the Farmer’s Elevator. His tweed driver cap sat at an angle on his head looking as if he had bumped into something. A half empty pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco pooched out the front of his bib overalls and a red handkerchief peeked out of his back pocket. Andrew Carlson was one of two employees of the Farmer’s Elevator in Holmes, Iowa, the other, manager, John Anderson. The time was 1939.

Andrew unloaded truck and wagon loads of grain brought to the elevator for sale from nearby farms. He loaded railroad cars with grain to be shipped out and managed the stocking of items such as cement blocks, bricks, clay tile, fence posts and rolls of woven and barbed wire fence. The lumber shed contained stacks of new lumber and sacks of cement used in building farm buildings. He unloaded coal from a railroad car by shoveling it into the coal storage shed.

The office was a small building at the bottom of the ramp that lead up to the grain pit in the elevator. A large concrete scale, capable of weighing tractor-trailer trucks, lay just in front of the office window. John could operate the scale and weigh the trucks from inside, then send them up to the elevator pit for Andrew to unload.

John worked at a large roll-top desk in the corner of the office. A black candlestick telephone stood on the edge of the desk with its earpiece hanging from the hook on the side; a brass spittoon sat on the floor next to his right foot.

The dried out, rough wood floors squeaked when we walked on them and a potbelly stove stood in the middle of the office. It was a good place to warm up and dry out our mittens in the winter time after playing in the snow. Andrew kept a good fire in it all day.

“Andrew, get this place cleaned up,” John would growl. After a day of truckers and farmers tracking dirt and snow into the office it took a lot of effort to sweep those worn floor boards clean. After straightening up all the chairs, emptying the sand buckets of cigarette and cigar butts, he cleaned out the ashes from the potbelly stove and carried in more coal. The most important job each morning was to empty, wash out and scrub John’s spittoon clean.

Often unshaven, his face was tanned and rugged emphasizing his bushy eyebrows. His false teeth were left in a glass in his kitchen because they didn’t fit; his mouth was sunken and a trickle of tobacco juice often leaked out of one corner under his mustache. Always happy, he hummed and sang songs learned as a boy in Norway, while he worked.

The elevator and the lumber yard were our playground. Four, sometimes five little boys climbed around and played tag on the stacked lumber knocking some stacks over and creating extra work for Andrew to restack them. He never scolded; he only admonished us to be careful and made sure we didn’t hurt ourselves, even when we became a nuisance.

“Andrew, can we ride up on the truck lift?” We knew it was dangerous, but that’s what made it fun. “As soon as I get the pit empty and shut down the elevator” he would say. We would sit down on the deck of the lift and wait, making sure he didn’t forget. He would raise us clear up to the ceiling and then bounce it up and down to scare us. It usually worked as we would holler with excitement and fear.

Andrew was the face of the elevator, known and loved by every farmer and every trucker in the county; he was unique. He drank a little too much beer on occasion, but when well oiled he was jolly and funny and would often shout, “craazy people!” as he walked away laughing after talking and joking with someone. It was a common expression unique to Andrew and recognized by anyone who heard him. Not understanding what he meant by it, we would laugh along with him, never at him.

A classic Norwegian immigrant of the early 20th century; he was like a favorite uncle; he left indelible memories on all our lives. Even at a very old age, he worked up until the day he died. It was a very sad day for us when we heard that Andrew died of a heart attack the night before