Idag, jeg har tenkte om nabooen min 40 år siden. Han heter Bubsi, og han var en virkelig norske enkelbondsmann.
Vi treffet ons når min familie flyttet til Central Minnesota. Han hadde gården neste oss. En dag, jeg spørtet til ham,
"Hvor mye koster det til å pløye denne åker her?" (Det var kansje en halvhektor) Etter et øyeblikk han sier:
"Kansje en tolv-pak."
Etter da, vi drakk øl, fordelte maskineri og arbeid, og snart bli vi beste venner. Han hadde store maskineri, og jeg hadde små. Han hadde 50 hektorer, jeg hadde 5. Han var en dyktig bondemann og jeg var ikke. Det var en hyggelig ordning.
Today I thought about my neighbor of 40 years ago. His name was Bubsy, and he was a true Norwegian bachelor farmer.
We met when my family moved to Central Minnesota. He owned the farm next to us. One day I asked him,
"How much would it cost to plow this field here?" (it was about an acre.) In the blink of an eye he said: "About a 12-pack."
After that, we drank beer, shared machinery and labor, and soon became the best of friends. He had big machinery, mine was small. He had 120 acres, I had 12. He was a skilled farmer, and I was not. It was a comfortable arrangement.
Mange søndager, vi satt og drakk øl foran huset, og så på bilene i veien. Bubsi sa:
"Da kjøre Gawkerene"
"Hvem er Gawkerene?" sier jeg.
"Oh," sier Bubsi, "de kommer fra her og da, Noen kommer alle så langt fra Minne-goddam-apolis, og hver søndagen, for de meste, de kjører og gawker på veien."
I vinteren, på søndag, vi satt og drakk kaffe med konjakk i kjøkken. Innemellom vi kjøret og gawket i Bubsis lastebil.
På dem gamledagene, jeg sang or spilte guitarre med en "Country Band." En gang jeg så Bubsi da, og vi snakket. Han sa til meg,
"Du er bessere musiker enn du er bonde."
O ja da, jeg husker deg, Bubsi, og jeg savner deg.
Many Sundays we sat and drank beer in front of the house, watching the cars go by on the road. Bubsy said, "There go the Gawkers."
"Who are the Gawkers?" says I.
"Oh," says Bubsy, "they come from here and there. Some come all the way from Minne-goddam-apolis. And every Sunday they drive down the road and gawk."
On Winter Sundays, we sat in the kitchen and drank coffee with brandy. Sometimes we'd go down the road in Bubsy's pick-up and gawk.
In the old days, I sang and played guitar in a country band. One time I saw Bubsy there, and we talked. He said to me,
"You're a better musician than you are a farmer."
Oh yes, I remember you, Bubsy, and I miss you.
