My first blogged rumbling...

Another Diet-Pepsi night. Sure do miss beer and Jagermeister right now. Kinda like that girlfriend you had that your kids wouldn't approve of; fun but not good fer ya! Accents are OK in blogs, eh? Why would anyone want to lose an accent? And it has a place in the written word, too.

Why Rumbleshorts? Just what you think. I really need some asbestas underwear. Just like socks may have re-enforced heels and toes, the same needs to be in place to absorb the rumble. Absorb the force that is, not any mess. Well, usually. Unless we were up late in the night drinkin' and then next day play that old Scandanavian game 'reesk-a-fart'. It's a game you don't want to lose, trust me.

Actually Rumblesorts is a friend of mine. His story is best told by my cousin in Mantorville Minnesota, Ole Bertinious Olson Sannes. I last heard him tell this tale around the fire at the outdoor rink. He sauntered up and began...

Rumbleshorts was born in Norway about 1352 and his birth brought a gasp to his Moder and Fader. Not a pretty baby, his sight could scare the plaque right off yer teeth! His folks thought him to be a punishment, kept him home and out of site. He grew to have no height, an unsitely dwarf with which they had no pride. His name came from the regular rumble of stink expelled from his bottom. So they kept him in the barn.

(All men should be called Rumbleshorts.)

When the explorer Lief Erickson visited Norway, Fader figured it was time for Rumbleshorts to see the world. His Fader took the lad to the Erickson ship and hid him on board, a ten year old stowaway, not by his choice. The ship and Rumbleshorts sailed. Found by the crew in a pile of rags, they adopted him as their little Viking. Viking warriors cared not about his sight. He was another hand on board. He did the worst of chores and did them well. He pulled his weight, all 65 pounds thickly packed on a two foot frame. And he never complained. For in this Viking crew, Rumbleshorts had found a family.

The voyage of this Erickson crew returned to Iceland and there set out west in search of lands to settle. Rumbleshorts took a special bond during this time with Bertinious, the scribe of the journey. Bertinious taught him the written language of Norway as he recorded each day’s events.

They sailed through the unknown, through Hudson’s Bay, the Great Lakes and eventually what we know as the northern Minnesota border. The expedition became one of survival as their boats lay broken on the shoreline rocks. The journey for survival took to the land and they knew, that with winter approaching, they had to go south.

They were not the only warriors in this unknown land. When Rumbleshorts and a party of fishermen returned to camp near what we know as Kensington, they saw the slaughtered remains of their warriors. Bertinious recorded the day on what has become known as the Kensington Runestone.
"Eight Goths and 22 Norwegians on a journey of exploration from Vinland very far west. We had camp by two rocky islands one day's journey north from this stone. We were out fishing one day. After we came home we found ten men red with blood and dead. AVM save from evil."

The expedition headed south and east following the rivers and valleys. Their new enemy, the cold of winter, claimed more warriors, till just Bertinious, four others and Rumbleshorts remained. In the bitter cold of 1362’s winter, they could go no more and stopped to freeze and die. Bertinious chiseled his last runestone and passed, leaving Rumbleshorts as the sole remaining Viking. Rumbleshorts scraped the frozen ground to bury his warrior family. Having nowhere to go, he guarded the graves.

Odin, the Nordic God, was pleased with Rumbleshort’s loyalty and granted him eternal life to guard his fellow warrior’s graves. Not blessing, but a curse for Rumbleshorts. Rumbleshorts wanted to pass.

Eternal life. Yes, he’s still here, about 650 years old now and guarding the graves somewhere west of Mantorville. He’s seldom seen. He scavages around for food. It’s not always raccoons by the garbage cans.

Maybe you’ve noticed on Halloween, that pumpkins smashed in the street Halloween night aren’t in the street come morning. Rumbleshorts considers pumpkin a culinary delight! He enjoys a discarded cigarette butt; chews it for full flavor. And he's a hunter. He hunts for ale. Lays in the shadows of the patio party. He’ll claim his cans of bounty.

He sleeps in the leaves by day, as quiet as possible. But if anyone nears the graveyard of his warrior family…

Oh, how do I know this? Rumbleshorts is not without friends. (Wink) I'm one!