Hans Roald Amundsen
My Grandfather was a legend before I was born. He was a bush pilot in Alaska's early days and was a man who dedicated his life to making the lives of others better. He fervently believed in God and built a life around serving his creator. He knew something about God I may never know. He was reverent, he was polite, he was thoughtful and he was a hero to many, though he would never say it. He was a man of risks with a heart for adventure, a man who loved everyone around him and who loved my grandma until the day he died; though she passed six years before him.
As a child I was often dropped off at the airport to be babysat by my grandparents who ran a missions oriented aviation service dedicated to the transportation of missionaries in Alaska. My Grandpa would let me look over his shoulder as he serviced aircraft. I would watch as his greasy hands gracefully tore apart assorted aircraft and put them back together again. When I got bored he would put a push broom in my hands and I would scatter the day’s nuts and bolts all over the hanger floor. Sensing I was no longer needed there, I would retire to the parts room to find the box with the replacement stall horns. After shoving one in my mouth I would suck on it making a very annoying screeching sound as I ran up and down the stairs. Usually about this time my grandpa would roll his eyes, smile and tell me to get in the Cherokee. Once we were out of the pattern and at altitude he would look over at me and with a "she's all yours" he would hand the controls over to his 7 year old grandson. My love for flying came from these moments. I can still feel the sun on my face beating through the Plexiglas of that small airplane while I gripped the yoke with fervor and stared down the attitude indicator like it was an angry grizzly bear (I was too short to see out the window). I’m still amazed at the attitudes my grandpa would allow the airplane to go into before he would add a “little aileron” or a “little more rudder”. I have the propeller my grandfather soloed on almost 60 years ago hanging on my wall and it serves as a testament to the man and legend he was.
Being Scandinavian, my grandparents celebrated Christmas Eve and I have many fond memories of those nights. The feast was always the same Norwegian and Swedish foods.... some of them good, some not so good, though the smell of even the worst dishes now bring about dear nostalgic memories. Much to my annoyance at the time, my Grandfather would read the Christmas Story allowed before we ate, It seemed he would read the synoptic gospels in their entirety before he finally got around to praying so we could eat. I was always impatient, hearing the sirens call from the Christmas tree loaded with presents in the living room. Now that he is gone I would put all those presents back under the tree just to hear him read from Luke one more time. Never have you heard a man read the scriptures with such reverence, it was an honor to be part of that tradition.
As a child I was often dropped off at the airport to be babysat by my grandparents who ran a missions oriented aviation service dedicated to the transportation of missionaries in Alaska. My Grandpa would let me look over his shoulder as he serviced aircraft. I would watch as his greasy hands gracefully tore apart assorted aircraft and put them back together again. When I got bored he would put a push broom in my hands and I would scatter the day’s nuts and bolts all over the hanger floor. Sensing I was no longer needed there, I would retire to the parts room to find the box with the replacement stall horns. After shoving one in my mouth I would suck on it making a very annoying screeching sound as I ran up and down the stairs. Usually about this time my grandpa would roll his eyes, smile and tell me to get in the Cherokee. Once we were out of the pattern and at altitude he would look over at me and with a "she's all yours" he would hand the controls over to his 7 year old grandson. My love for flying came from these moments. I can still feel the sun on my face beating through the Plexiglas of that small airplane while I gripped the yoke with fervor and stared down the attitude indicator like it was an angry grizzly bear (I was too short to see out the window). I’m still amazed at the attitudes my grandpa would allow the airplane to go into before he would add a “little aileron” or a “little more rudder”. I have the propeller my grandfather soloed on almost 60 years ago hanging on my wall and it serves as a testament to the man and legend he was.
Being Scandinavian, my grandparents celebrated Christmas Eve and I have many fond memories of those nights. The feast was always the same Norwegian and Swedish foods.... some of them good, some not so good, though the smell of even the worst dishes now bring about dear nostalgic memories. Much to my annoyance at the time, my Grandfather would read the Christmas Story allowed before we ate, It seemed he would read the synoptic gospels in their entirety before he finally got around to praying so we could eat. I was always impatient, hearing the sirens call from the Christmas tree loaded with presents in the living room. Now that he is gone I would put all those presents back under the tree just to hear him read from Luke one more time. Never have you heard a man read the scriptures with such reverence, it was an honor to be part of that tradition.
When my Grandfather died he was 94 years old. While eating lunch he simply put his fork down and slipped away. He lived profoundly and he left a deep impression on those who were around him and who got to be part of his life. He was a hero who counted himself a servant. He is gone now but his legend will most certainly live on.
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