Now that I have broached the question of how Great-grandpa Ole got his name (see part I), Kari Larsdatter’s son Ole, christened in 1855, raises similar issues. Since the baby was illegitimate, it is understandable that he was not named for his paternal grandfather, Knut. I think we can safely assume that Kari had not met her future husband Ole Pedersen Nesseth of Gausdal parish; she didn’t move to Gausdal and marry him until seven years later.
Why was the baby not named after some male ancestor of his mother? “Lars” would have been logical; Lars was not only the name of this boy’s maternal grandfather, but also the name of Kari’s maternal grandfather. Incidentally, Lars Poulsen had died just 10 months before this Ole was born, which would seem to make “Lars” even more appropriate. Another choice might have been Poul. Did Kari name him Ole after her 14-year-old brother? That doesn’t seem likely. Or is there some “Ole” in the life of the Lars Poulsen family, or even two Ole’s, related or not, that we don’t know about?
Back to the earlier Ole, Ole Larson: here’s a dark, hugely unlikely, but fictionally intriguing scenario: Suppose that then, as today, babies were occasionally named out of gratitude for some benefactor of the family. The sentencing document that sent Anne Larsdatter to prison for thievery (of food) says she acted in cooperation with “two other persons” who were tried in a lower court. While the printed version of that document as posted on the site does not name the other persons, the handwritten version does; one of them is Ole Engebretsen. And just suppose that besides being responsible in a way for Anne’s imprisonment, Ole Engebretsen was also responsible for saving her family from starvation. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Anne named her prison-born baby after him?

Dan informed her that she was no longer welcome to help him lead the singing at his services, which she had been doing for most of her life. He went so far as to rebuke her before the congregation. Whether under duress or by her own volition, Reatha left the home, finding work as a domestic at the farm of Walter Hart in the North Dakota borderlands outside Sidney, Montana. The Hart’s allowed her to board in Sidney to complete high school, and she graduated in 1933 at age 19. Her sister Helen graduated the same year at the age of 21.

Like many Pentecostals, Dan held some pretty strong and sometimes unorthodox opinions. He never took up a collection at his meetings, instead relying on odd jobs and personal gifts from his “converts” to sustain his family. Apparently his voice came in handy for other things besides preaching and singing, as for a time he hired himself out as an auctioneer.

Standing on the left is my mother, Reatha, on the right her older sister Helen; seated between them are Velma, Esther, and the youngest daughter, Leah, born in 1921. Leah suffered from mental retardation, and possibly physical problems as well. She was placed in an institution as a teenager, and died there while in her twenties.
In addition, her health was unstable, and one can imagine that giving birth must have been an ordeal for her, even under the best of circumstances. Nevertheless, by 1917 Dan and Lillian boasted four little ones. Clockwise from top (oldest to youngest): Bernard, Helen, Reatha, Velma.

Dan married Lillan Drayer in 1909, and moved to a homestead in southwestern North Dakota, near Leipzig (now called “New Leipzig”). They didn’t stay on the homestead long, but soon sold or traded it, and acquired the general store/post office in the tiny village of Thunder Hawk, SD, on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation.
Several of his children, including my mother, were born in the living quarters behind this store. In 2003, I visited Thunder Hawk and photographed the ruins below, which I believe to be of the same building. Some local residents told me that it had housed the general store until after World War II, then was a tavern until the 1960′s.
