I have some Davidson relation with whom I get together occasionally, usually during deer season, and fortunately, only occasionally at funerals. Some are blood relatives; others are related to the same people I am. They are friendly gregarious people who like to have fun--and if they can’t find it someplace, they create it on their own. They’ve always been quite an entertaining bunch. But as different as they all are, the one thing Davidsons hold dear is family.
So it was that on May 26, this year, that they gathered at the Palmville Schoolhouse & Town Hall at Roseau County Roads 8 and 125, to await the arrival of one of the pilots of the family who would be an integral part of the ceremony they were set to conduct at the Palmville Cemetery. The event being the internment of one of the family’s ashes.
The wife and I were invited.
Well, the schoolhouse and the cemetery are on diagonal corners of our land that used to be Davidson property, SW and NE, respectively, and,the way I figure, they saw the likelihood I would see a large group of cars at the end of our road and wonder what was up, so to circumvent an embarrassing situation ... (Okay, okay, they did notify me in advance.)
The deceased was my cousin, Jack Delano Davidson, who died on May 20, 2018. His obituary read, in part that he was born on March 6, 1941, in Roseau, to Irene Adeline (Palm) Davidson and Martin Dale Davidson of Wannaska. He was baptized and confirmed at Bethlehem Lutheran Church in Wannaska where he attended school until the 7th grade, graduating from Roseau High School in 1959. He worked in Milwaukee for a short time, before he attended Bemidji State University for 2 years, studying art and wildlife management.
In July of 1962, Jack was united in marriage to Janet Erickson in Roseau. The couple lived in St. Paul for a short time where Jack did die-cast work, then moved to Roseau for employment at Polaris. In 1964 Jack began working for Northwestern Bell Telephone Company, retiring in 1991 at age 50. The family moved to rural Thief River Falls in 1966. They raised their four children there, Jacki, Jeffrey, Jennifer, and Jared. Jack and Janet later divorced. Jack resided in Thief River Falls until his death.
In his early years, Jack immensely enjoyed the outdoors, hunting, trapping, and fishing with relatives and friends, often times in Canada. He was a pilot and at one time owned his own plane. He was a longtime member of St. Pauli Lutheran Church and is a member of Zion Lutheran Church. He held memberships in the Eagles, Minnesota Deer Hunter’s Association, Pennington County Sportsmen’s Club, and Agassiz Sportsmen’s Rod and Reel. Jack was a talented artist and enjoyed drawing and painting.
Survivors include Jacki (Gene) Lunsetter, Thief River Falls, Mn, Jeff (Stacy) Davidson, Thief River Falls, Mn, Jennifer (Steve) McCarthy, Mendota Heights, Mn, and Jared (Angie) Davidson, Bemidji, Mn; eight grandchildren: Joel (Stephanie) Lunsetter, Jenna (Shay) Erickson, Carly Lunsetter, Chad Davidson, Kendra McCarthy, Neeve McCarthy, Kade Davidson, Mataya Davidson, and great-grandchild Brooks Erickson; brother Dean L. (Judy) Davidson, La Porte, In, nephew Larry (Beth) Davidson, nieces Diana (Steve) Dix, and Darla (Aryl) Aldred, and their families. Jack is also survived by many cousins who were special to him.
Those conducting the ceremony were Jack’s four adult children and their spouses, his eight grandchildren (two with partners), and one great almost two-year old grandson; in addition there were six cousins including myself (two with spouses), an uncle, and three Palmville neighbors.
Jack had been cremated and his urn placed in the family plot where his mother, Irene (Palm) Reese, father, Martin D. Davidson, his sister, Karen K. Davidson are buried. His older brother, Dean L. Davidson, who died in 2019, was buried in the Iowa Veterans Cemetery, in Adel, Iowa.
An avid hunter, sportsman, and recovering alcoholic, Jack left his vast highly-unorganized estate to his children in lieu of his participation in their lives. Whereas monetarily, they may benefit from its sale, I’m positive they would’ve gladly forfeited ‘their mind-numbing inheritance’ in exchange for having Jack reciprocate their adoration of him merely in the form of attending an occasional school program or activity, birthday, graduation, or anniversary. It just didn’t seem to be in him.
I loved him as a cousin in the early days, but as alcohol took its grip of him, I admit my affection for him eroded, even as I learned of its effects as a disease; his decisions hurt the ones that loved him most and he seemed cognitive of them to the point of dismissal; a selfishness had taken over. It was a sad thing to witness.
In his latter years, rehabilitation seemed possible. He gradually warmed to his family again, becoming acquainted with elder grandchildren and a great grandchild whom he had never known. Making amends, he became generous and attentive, attending family gatherings and dinners including birthday parties--and family reunions, as though he’d never had missed a one. People were happy to see him; it’d been too long a time without his laughter and sense of humor, although he was now an aged changed man devoid of the youth we mostly remembered.
But time and forgiveness has a way of making all negative things seem ‘so long ago’ and the sting of such infractions vague memory, and so it was that lovely day a year later, in May, at the Palmville Cemetery when his immediate family brought his ashes and his urn for burial at a place overlooking Mikinaak Creek where he had grown up as a boy on the land adjoining the cemetery on its south side, once owned by his parents and now is the Reynolds farm.
As in all things Davidson, starting times may not be exact. Time has a way of ‘immediate adjustment’ and, should you be new to the family, you may begin to think your clock is ‘off’ or you misunderstood the agreed upon time, only to learn that Davidson time isn’t military time or daylight savings time nor built around hours, minutes or seconds as you’ve known it all your life being other than a Davidson by blood.
No, Davidson time, is ‘when it’s ready’ time, a reality shared intimately by other cultures, who we won’t individually name here today, but whose Grand Entry event times are often just as vague, but taken in stride because ‘it’s just the way it is.’ And should you think a moment, suddenly remembering the family you are among, there undoubtedly will be an “Oh yeah!” when you remember, and thereby automatically relinquish all your concerns and doubts about yourself. It isn’t you. “It’s Davidson time.”
So it was, the bulk of the attendees who initially gathered in the Palmville Cemetery at the supposed time, eventually, one car at a time, made their way back to the road past the Palmville Town Hall & Schoolhouse, our driveway, and awaited the arrival of Ronnie Davidson, from Holt, Mn, who was a very important part of the ceremony.
It wasn’t as though Ronnie couldn’t find his way to the cemetery without an entourage, but for the fact there wasn’t enough room within the cemetery perimeter to land his two-passenger float plane -- not that he couldn’t do it--oh no, don’t doubt it--but it’s just that problem of getting back into the air from there may prove to be more of a challenge -- temporarily.
This Davidson had been in tougher situations and had always seen through to accomplishing the seemingly impossible; it’s just that, that day, it wasn’t really necessary to push the limits of logistical requirements. He would land near the schoolhouse and taxi down Roseau County Road 8 to park his plane there, where someone would give him a ride to the cemetery in time for the ceremony. So until he arrived--eventually, they’d all stand around outside their cars and visit, looking through the one-room schoolhouse windows, talking about the place and probably Gramma Irene and Grampa Martin.
Bursts of laughter were common.
Someone finally said, “Here’ he comes!” and all looked toward where the individual was pointing, seeing at last an orangish speck coming near, nearer, and nearer descending lower and lower --and then buzzing over the top of us gathered there, to fly on west then sharply bank back to the east; its wing flaps down, slowing its speed, the wheels below the floats gingerly contacting the coarse asphalt surface of Roseau County Road 8, its wings leveling off; the plane taxiing toward us at the schoolhouse, avoiding first, a probably-surprised slowly on-coming car in the north lane, then second, moving a wee bit over center to avoid the stop sign positioned just off the end of the south lane.
Nothing to it. It seemed as though just an everyday occurrence as children played along the schoolhouse road seemingly oblivious to the approaching plane.
For me, it’s still amazing, still wonderful somehow, to be a part of this experience and included in the family no matter how remote my relationship to the family is now that I am among the oldest in the family, and those whom I was more closely related, have ‘walked on’.
Some thought they should all move their cars from the schoolhouse road so Ronnie could park his airplane there, as the road there is too narrow to allow the plane to pass by the cars; so, one by one, the awaiting entourage left, to go back to the cemetery; one car remaining there to bring Ronnie there too.
Once the ceremony was over at graveside, Ronnie would catch another ride back to the schoolhouse where his airplane was parked and one of Jack’s sons, Jeffrey, awaited him, with the bulk of Jack’s ashes nestled comfortably in a fruit jar.
The others of the family, less the neighbors, drove to the family deer camp a few miles south of the schoolhouse to await Ronnie and Jeffrey’s long awaited arrival in his airplane, where, flying only a few feet off the ground at that point, Jeffrey would lean precariously from the orange cloth-covered fuselage, and release Jack’s gray-white ashes as a long white plume over an open field we of the family all know, as “The Long Field, ” a 500+ yard clearing, east to west, that was a part of the family hunting land Martin purchased back in the early 1960s.
This land, inherited by Jack’s children, adjoins land that Martin’s two brothers-in law, Ervin Palm, of Aurora, Mn, and Raymond Palm, of Roseau, Mn, purchased about the same time. These parcels were just across a township road, north of the Palm’s older brother, Clifford Palm’s quarter of land, that he had once farmed until moving from the area, to work at Bucyrus Erie in South Milwaukee. Martin, Ervin, Raymond and Clifford have all since ‘walked on’.
And now, so has Jack.
So it was that on May 26, this year, that they gathered at the Palmville Schoolhouse & Town Hall at Roseau County Roads 8 and 125, to await the arrival of one of the pilots of the family who would be an integral part of the ceremony they were set to conduct at the Palmville Cemetery. The event being the internment of one of the family’s ashes.
The wife and I were invited.
The deceased was my cousin, Jack Delano Davidson, who died on May 20, 2018. His obituary read, in part that he was born on March 6, 1941, in Roseau, to Irene Adeline (Palm) Davidson and Martin Dale Davidson of Wannaska. He was baptized and confirmed at Bethlehem Lutheran Church in Wannaska where he attended school until the 7th grade, graduating from Roseau High School in 1959. He worked in Milwaukee for a short time, before he attended Bemidji State University for 2 years, studying art and wildlife management.
In July of 1962, Jack was united in marriage to Janet Erickson in Roseau. The couple lived in St. Paul for a short time where Jack did die-cast work, then moved to Roseau for employment at Polaris. In 1964 Jack began working for Northwestern Bell Telephone Company, retiring in 1991 at age 50. The family moved to rural Thief River Falls in 1966. They raised their four children there, Jacki, Jeffrey, Jennifer, and Jared. Jack and Janet later divorced. Jack resided in Thief River Falls until his death.
In his early years, Jack immensely enjoyed the outdoors, hunting, trapping, and fishing with relatives and friends, often times in Canada. He was a pilot and at one time owned his own plane. He was a longtime member of St. Pauli Lutheran Church and is a member of Zion Lutheran Church. He held memberships in the Eagles, Minnesota Deer Hunter’s Association, Pennington County Sportsmen’s Club, and Agassiz Sportsmen’s Rod and Reel. Jack was a talented artist and enjoyed drawing and painting.
Survivors include Jacki (Gene) Lunsetter, Thief River Falls, Mn, Jeff (Stacy) Davidson, Thief River Falls, Mn, Jennifer (Steve) McCarthy, Mendota Heights, Mn, and Jared (Angie) Davidson, Bemidji, Mn; eight grandchildren: Joel (Stephanie) Lunsetter, Jenna (Shay) Erickson, Carly Lunsetter, Chad Davidson, Kendra McCarthy, Neeve McCarthy, Kade Davidson, Mataya Davidson, and great-grandchild Brooks Erickson; brother Dean L. (Judy) Davidson, La Porte, In, nephew Larry (Beth) Davidson, nieces Diana (Steve) Dix, and Darla (Aryl) Aldred, and their families. Jack is also survived by many cousins who were special to him.
Those conducting the ceremony were Jack’s four adult children and their spouses, his eight grandchildren (two with partners), and one great almost two-year old grandson; in addition there were six cousins including myself (two with spouses), an uncle, and three Palmville neighbors.
I loved him as a cousin in the early days, but as alcohol took its grip of him, I admit my affection for him eroded, even as I learned of its effects as a disease; his decisions hurt the ones that loved him most and he seemed cognitive of them to the point of dismissal; a selfishness had taken over. It was a sad thing to witness.
In his latter years, rehabilitation seemed possible. He gradually warmed to his family again, becoming acquainted with elder grandchildren and a great grandchild whom he had never known. Making amends, he became generous and attentive, attending family gatherings and dinners including birthday parties--and family reunions, as though he’d never had missed a one. People were happy to see him; it’d been too long a time without his laughter and sense of humor, although he was now an aged changed man devoid of the youth we mostly remembered.
But time and forgiveness has a way of making all negative things seem ‘so long ago’ and the sting of such infractions vague memory, and so it was that lovely day a year later, in May, at the Palmville Cemetery when his immediate family brought his ashes and his urn for burial at a place overlooking Mikinaak Creek where he had grown up as a boy on the land adjoining the cemetery on its south side, once owned by his parents and now is the Reynolds farm.
No, Davidson time, is ‘when it’s ready’ time, a reality shared intimately by other cultures, who we won’t individually name here today, but whose Grand Entry event times are often just as vague, but taken in stride because ‘it’s just the way it is.’ And should you think a moment, suddenly remembering the family you are among, there undoubtedly will be an “Oh yeah!” when you remember, and thereby automatically relinquish all your concerns and doubts about yourself. It isn’t you. “It’s Davidson time.”
So it was, the bulk of the attendees who initially gathered in the Palmville Cemetery at the supposed time, eventually, one car at a time, made their way back to the road past the Palmville Town Hall & Schoolhouse, our driveway, and awaited the arrival of Ronnie Davidson, from Holt, Mn, who was a very important part of the ceremony.
It wasn’t as though Ronnie couldn’t find his way to the cemetery without an entourage, but for the fact there wasn’t enough room within the cemetery perimeter to land his two-passenger float plane -- not that he couldn’t do it--oh no, don’t doubt it--but it’s just that problem of getting back into the air from there may prove to be more of a challenge -- temporarily.
This Davidson had been in tougher situations and had always seen through to accomplishing the seemingly impossible; it’s just that, that day, it wasn’t really necessary to push the limits of logistical requirements. He would land near the schoolhouse and taxi down Roseau County Road 8 to park his plane there, where someone would give him a ride to the cemetery in time for the ceremony. So until he arrived--eventually, they’d all stand around outside their cars and visit, looking through the one-room schoolhouse windows, talking about the place and probably Gramma Irene and Grampa Martin.
Bursts of laughter were common.
Someone finally said, “Here’ he comes!” and all looked toward where the individual was pointing, seeing at last an orangish speck coming near, nearer, and nearer descending lower and lower --and then buzzing over the top of us gathered there, to fly on west then sharply bank back to the east; its wing flaps down, slowing its speed, the wheels below the floats gingerly contacting the coarse asphalt surface of Roseau County Road 8, its wings leveling off; the plane taxiing toward us at the schoolhouse, avoiding first, a probably-surprised slowly on-coming car in the north lane, then second, moving a wee bit over center to avoid the stop sign positioned just off the end of the south lane.
Nothing to it. It seemed as though just an everyday occurrence as children played along the schoolhouse road seemingly oblivious to the approaching plane.
For me, it’s still amazing, still wonderful somehow, to be a part of this experience and included in the family no matter how remote my relationship to the family is now that I am among the oldest in the family, and those whom I was more closely related, have ‘walked on’.
Some thought they should all move their cars from the schoolhouse road so Ronnie could park his airplane there, as the road there is too narrow to allow the plane to pass by the cars; so, one by one, the awaiting entourage left, to go back to the cemetery; one car remaining there to bring Ronnie there too.
Once the ceremony was over at graveside, Ronnie would catch another ride back to the schoolhouse where his airplane was parked and one of Jack’s sons, Jeffrey, awaited him, with the bulk of Jack’s ashes nestled comfortably in a fruit jar.
The others of the family, less the neighbors, drove to the family deer camp a few miles south of the schoolhouse to await Ronnie and Jeffrey’s long awaited arrival in his airplane, where, flying only a few feet off the ground at that point, Jeffrey would lean precariously from the orange cloth-covered fuselage, and release Jack’s gray-white ashes as a long white plume over an open field we of the family all know, as “The Long Field, ” a 500+ yard clearing, east to west, that was a part of the family hunting land Martin purchased back in the early 1960s.
This land, inherited by Jack’s children, adjoins land that Martin’s two brothers-in law, Ervin Palm, of Aurora, Mn, and Raymond Palm, of Roseau, Mn, purchased about the same time. These parcels were just across a township road, north of the Palm’s older brother, Clifford Palm’s quarter of land, that he had once farmed until moving from the area, to work at Bucyrus Erie in South Milwaukee. Martin, Ervin, Raymond and Clifford have all since ‘walked on’.
And now, so has Jack.
What a wonderful family event!
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