My Father, the Modern-Day Viking
a man, a mastermind, a maverick
If any of you have wondered why I haven’t posted any of my own articles over the last few months, I finally have time to explain why.
A BIT OF BACK STORY
In May of 2024, Ron and I visited my dad at his home in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, to celebrate his 87th birthday. He was still swinging power tools on rooftops and maneuvering his Dodge Ram Hemi like a race car driver.
A few months later, Dad went from vibrant, hale, and hearty, to weak, testy, and unstable. My siblings and I have come to the conclusion that Dad was suffering the consequences of having gotten at least one CovAin’t jab plus a booster.
During 2022, he often complained of feeling “like shit.” At least he was honest. After many visits to doctors and specialists, he was diagnosed with Myelodysplastica Syndrome. They might as well call it Turbo Cancer. Although we were seeing bizarre signs such as weight loss, dizziness, and mobility issues, he didn’t tell any of us siblings of his diagnosis until January of 2025.
Imagine our fright, watching our strong father waste away within mere months before our very eyes, as we learned that he had become utterly dependent on abdominal injections the doctors called “chemo lite,” along with blood infusions every three weeks. As if being regularly injected with chemicals wasn’t bad enough, it was disconcerting to think about the tainted blood supply ostensibly “keeping him alive.”
My dad’s sister Edna died in late January and Dad attended her funeral. My sister sent photos of everyone at the memorial service, but I didn’t even recognize him. “Where’s Dad?” When she pointed him out, I nearly keeled over. He looked like a different person (Dad encircled in red).
It was at this point that we four siblings and family friends began urging Dad to move back to central Wisconsin to be close to them. He agreed to move into an apartment just nine blocks from my sister’s house. She was able to cook and clean for him.
But she began having to deal with his defecation issues. There’s nothing like poop problems to signal warnings. Also, he was frequently dropping stuff because he had lost strength in his right arm and hand. Worse, he was unable to pick things up off the floor because he wouldn’t have been able to get himself upright again. The situation looked more distressing every day.
MY SOLO TRIP
Three weeks after moving into the apartment, Dad had a non-injurious but nonetheless tragic fall and went into the hospital in March of 2025. He was subjected to a series of tests. Of course his hemoglobin was extremely low because he hadn’t had a blood infusion in over two months. But also, due to the Myelodysplastica Syndrome, his bones were soft and brittle. Scans revealed that his entire body was riddled with micro-fractures. And the cancer had metastasized to his prostate, ureter, and lungs.
I flew to Wisconsin to help my sister and to visit with Dad and my brothers. On the day I arrived in his hospital room, Dad decided to end his treatments. He was moved into a hospice care facility.
Dad was waiting for me, just like my older brother said.
I extended my initial seven-day trip to ten days so I could help my sister and my younger brother begin cleaning out Dad’s house which was nearly four hours away. In a 24-hour period, we collected 50 big bags of trash. It was only the beginning of a series of weekend clean-up sessions to come, done by my siblings and my brother-in-law. But I had to wrap up my part with that ordeal, and prepare to fly back home.
We got back to my sister’s home. She took me to see Dad one more time before we had to drive to the airport. I left my daddy in a hospice bed, and I wondered if I would ever see him alive again. This did not go well.
In my sister’s car, after I said good-bye to Dad, I had a breakdown. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life. I was watching myself go through an uncontrollable emotional eruption, much like being a very young child watching my father walk away and not knowing if he was leaving me forever.
I wailed. I screamed. I called out, “No Daddy, no! I cannot cannot cannot cannot do this.” I threw off my hat, my gloves, and my scarf. I kicked off my boots. I pounded on the dashboard. My body convulsed and I almost vomited several times. My amazing sister — while she was driving and crying herself — found tissues for me to mop up my snotty nose and tears.
Many hours later, she said that I was singing my grief and she had never heard such utterances before.
I felt like a walking zombie. Emotionally spent. In between being with my dying father and being with my husband so far away was a desolate space indeed.
At the Minneapolis-St.Paul airport, I was graced with the presence of a lovely United Airlines representative. Though I could barely speak to explain that I needed assistance, she carefully guided me through check-in. My travels to Denver and then to San Luis Obispo were uneventful. Ron and I had many conversations. The bigger part of my grief over Dad’s passing had occurred, before he even left us. Time is a funny concept, isn’t it?
After I got home, my sister and I logged at least a half dozen text messages and phone calls over several hours every day, as I helped her navigate the complex process of putting Dad’s financial and personal affairs in order, and the emotional rollercoaster that came along with it all. Despite knowing that I was of crucial assistance, I felt powerless, and I was melting down every few days.
THE LONG JOURNEY
Late in April, I had a particularly long crying jag, with Ron holding me on our bed for nearly three hours. The following Sunday night, he asked me what I thought about canceling our upcoming 45-day RV trip that I had spent two months — and a few thousand dollars — planning. The idea was that we would be free to book flights as soon as possible after getting “the call.” I agreed that it would be best to remain open. So, the following afternoon, I canceled our reservations. It felt right.
That evening, we sat outside in our courtyard, discussing our feelings after canceling the RV trip. Ron said, “You know, honey, we’re in a position where we could just pack up the truck and drive to Wisconsin.” I said, “Yes, and we could avoid the rigamarole of flying.” He clarified: “What I mean is, I think we should do it. How many days do you need to prepare?” I paused momentarily, thinking about how long it actually takes to get the flights booked, fly, and then drive to my sister’s home. It seemed like an eternity. I said, “Three days, we can leave Friday morning after I’m done teaching.” He said, “Forget about work. Let’s get to your dad.”
We departed on May 1st, leaving our home and our precious cat Nilla in the care of two close friends. We had no end date in sight: We would be with Dad for the duration. We drove long and hard on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, staying in hotels at night, then did a short drive on the fourth day. That afternoon, we went to see Dad. We were all so happy to see each other. We saw him every day.
It was strange and heartbreaking to see my ass-kicking maverick-y father struggle to use a fork to feed himself, even while his mind was sharp and his resolve was as strong as ever. He ordered us around like servants, just like the old days, while he openly adored all the care workers, saying to them, “Hello, Dear,” and “Thank you, Feller.”
But Dad didn’t want to leave his room. We all found that odd, since he typically loved meeting people, and socializing with friends old and new. I suppose that he didn’t want to use his last days in frivolous conversations and hearing about other people’s medical problems. Fair enough.
Besides, he had a lot on his mind, because there was still so much to do: Deal with his trailer in Arizona; sell his big house in southern Wisconsin; liquidate other financial assets and marshal them in a new bank account. My brother-in-law helped a lot with the banking stuff. He told my dad that he had made many good financial decisions in his life.
My older brother had been working on a Viking display for Dad. I helped him complete the project by ordering a beautiful sword, which arrived in time for Dad’s memorial service. My Brother built the display cabinet, arranged the contents, and had the glass cut to size. He stained the wood by hand. There are light reflections and other visual distractions, but I hope you can see the care and attention to detail that my brother put into this display.
DAD’S LAST DAYS
On Monday, May 18th, Dad gathered us four siblings and two sons-in-law to his room. After three hours of talking, he said he had decided to take the easy way out: “I’m going to take the shot,” he said. We all assumed it meant finally accepting morphine. But the following morning, he woke up and was genuinely angry. “Why am I still alive?” he asked. “I must have gotten a bad batch.” We were all perplexed. “Maybe they put me on a 48-hour waiting period,” he added.
And then it dawned on me: He thought he was getting a euthanasia injection! I took my father’s hand and gently told him, “Daddy, they don’t do that here. It’s not like the choice your Canadian friends have.” He stared at us all for a moment —pissed as hell — then said in the most serious tone, “All right, then. I guess I’m going to have to get a BIG bottle of whiskey, guzzle the whole thing, and end it myself.”
We called in the hospice nurse. Mary was amazing. She and Dad adored each other. She sat down on the bed with him and explained that her best option would be to double his morphine and Lorazepam, which would help his mind to rest. He agreed. Ron, my sister, and I all stayed the entire night in his room.
The following morning, Wednesday, Dad was resting well. I knew he was still with us, though, because his lips would move to try forming words like when I would tell him “I love you, Daddy,” and he would almost eek out, “I love you, too, Shari.”
It was his birthday; he turned 88.
The next morning, Thursday, both the hospice nurse and the hospice chaplain saw him. They said, it could happen in the next few hours, but he wouldn’t likely last until Friday.
. . .
That afternoon, Ron and I were in Dad’s room. His long-time friends Cheryl and Jay arrived. Ron was softly finger-picking his acoustic guitar. I watched Dad’s breathing, counting the seconds between each breath, while Cheryl asked me about our childhood family vacations. I told her that Dad worked so hard we didn’t have time for fancy getaways. He chose for us to visit his family and my mother’s family. She asked if I remembered anything from those vacations, and I said that we all have very fond memories of those times, making our own fun. Then I saw that Dad didn’t take another breath.
I am certain that he heard me, and that passed on because he was truly fulfilled, knowing that he had given his children the life he intended for us.
My father passed at 2:25PM Central Daylight Time. 2:25 on 5/22.
FINAL THOUGHTS
It was a truly wondrous time. I had many moments alone with Dad at various stages of his final days, sitting or laying with him in his bed. I was able to share my deepest emotions and wishes and reassurances with him. I sang to him. I stroked his head. I told him that he was an amazing man, and that I loved him.
Being there for his last breath, I feel like I was the Valkyrie accompanying this hard-fighting Norse warrior to Valhalla.
THE EULOGY
Before Ron and I had even left home I began writing his eulogy. I decided to title it “My Father’s Dream.” I delivered it to the friends and family members at his memorial service on May 31st, 2025 at Maurina-Schilling Funeral Home in Owen, Wisconsin, and I am sharing it with you. You might choose to watch the video of the eulogy on YT, just move the video playhead to the 35:19 time marker where the Eulogy Begins.
Here is the text:
MY FATHER’S DREAM
Thank you all for being present for this tribute to Harris Kenneth Borslien. My address is on behalf of myself and my siblings Kevin, Susan, and Shawn. It is titled, "My Father’s Dream."
CHAPTER 1: THE DREAMER
My father was a dreamer of good Norwegian stock, and if you knew him, he’d definitely let you know that.
As a young man, he began planning to have a big self-sustaining farm on which to raise beef cattle. He was inspired by long-time friend Larry Solberg, who raised cattle on his ranch in northern Minnesota. In 1958, Dad met Sandra, my city-girl mother. They were deeply in love. She fed his dream, ready to create a family of several children and space for them to connect with the natural world. Harris and Sandra made their plans and soon married.
Despite challenging times — including being drafted for a two-year stint during the Viet Nam war as a missile silo guard and working on an arduous railroad crew — my father kept his dream alive. Because of his military service, he was able to secure a loan and buy their first home outside Superior in the township of Wentworth.
At my mother’s insistence, he found a steady, come-home-at-night job as a signal maintainer with the Soo Line Railroad in Owen-Withee, and together they began searching for the ideal property for his farm. They were already meeting and making friends with local folks who would later become lifelong friends, but it was a regular customer at The Spot Bar in Owen who tipped Dad off to the most appealing piece of real estate.
In 1968, our family moved to a 180-acre ranch a couple miles south of Owen-Withee. We were blessed with an artesian well on the property, the Popple River behind us, and a running creek below. It was an amazing, expansive space, where we roamed freely, at least until it was time go to school or do chores on the farm, in the garden, or in the house.
My father’s dream quickly manifested with a growing herd of polled Herefords, which were the rockstars of the cattle industry throughout the 1970s and early 80s. Eventually, there were 125 head and a patented Limousine breeding bull appropriately named "Jackpot." What a sight it was to see that humongous bull doing his job with the heifers and cows in the breeding pasture out our big bay window!
CHAPTER 2: KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE
Dad’s day job had him on call 24/7. He might have needed to go out during a raging snow storm at 2:00AM, finish the job, and come home just in time to hop on the tractor and deliver hay in the lower pasture, then drive to the station for an 8-hour shift. Afterward, he would come home, eat dinner, change clothes, and head back out on the farm.
Because my father’s dream was so taxing, he rarely took vacation. When he did, he chose to visit his family and friends in Minnesota and my mom’s family and friends in Superior. It wasn’t a lavish life of fancy trips around the United States or overseas, but it was ultimately fulfilling.
My parents even opened our home to host a foreign exchange student, Tania Calero, from Ecuador. Tania was immediately and forever a member of our family. We all experienced great joy and long-lasting memories.
In order for my father to live his dream and maintain the burgeoning family budget, he needed to be creative. Dad was an innovator who invented contraptions and fixed broken things for making farm life easier without breaking the bank. In addition to having a creative mind, he was a skilled welder, electrician, and craftsman. Dad could solder, glue, screw, tape, tie, or nail together just about anything to get a task done. And get 'er done, he did.
And yet, there was so much farm work to be done that some jobs got started and went unfinished. But let’s be honest: We didn’t bale hay all year long. There still seemed to be some time left over for helping neighbors . . . and for socializing.
As my parents’ local friendships flourished, so did the amount of partying. Weeknight bowling leagues lead to Friday night dinner and drinks, which moved on to Saturday night cocktail parties and eventually to all-day Sunday snowmobiling and beer drinking. Despite mother often insisting that Kevin or Shawn accompany Dad on his late-night railroad jobs, my father’s lifestyle eventually earned him a drunk-driving offense that nearly destroyed his dream. For, if he lost his railroad gig, he would have no money to keep the hobby farm going.
Maybe we’ll just blame it on the wild 70s and 80s and the pervasive desire to have it all. Still, in the end, my father’s physical strength and extreme perseverance pushed him through every hangover. With a big breakfast and black coffee as fuel, he’d be out in the field at the crack of dawn, then on his way to the station and another come-what-may day. It’s what a good father does to provide for his family.
CHAPTER 3: THE DREAM DEFERRED
Speaking of fathers, my dad never knew his biological father. Melvin Borslien died when Dad was only about 4 months old, leaving the entire family to struggle through extraordinarily difficult times during the last few years of the Great Depression. But they were of rock solid Norwegian stock (in case I haven’t mentioned that), and giving up was never an option. Dad and his four siblings graduated from high school at least, and they worked very hard to help Grandma make ends meet.
This is the work ethic that was in my father’s blood, and pushed him onward through even more challenging times with his dream.
Dad was forced to make a hard decision to leave the Soo Line for Canadian Pacific Railways in order to keep his pension and benefits. The job shift required him to sell the farm and move several times with Mom and Shawn.
During this awkward period, Dad asked Larry Solberg to pasture and feed his cattle temporarily so he could avoid heavy tax penalties that would incur if he were to sell them. Months wore on, and Dad eventually visited Larry’s farm to find him gone, along with all of Dad’s cattle. Lawyers told Dad that there would be no realistic chance of recouping his losses. It was a tough blow to their friendship and to Dad’s huge financial, physical, and emotional investment in his dream.
During this time, my mother was experiencing debilitating health. In addition, each of us children were going through life transitions: Graduations, marriages, divorces, the birth of grandchildren, and faraway moves. It was a lot for my parents to handle, all in a few short years.
But my father had a strong resolve, and my mother allowed him to make the big decisions necessary to secure their well-being.
They eventually moved to Prairie du Chien in southern Wisconsin, with the help of a substantial amount of inheritance money from my mother’s father. If it weren’t for Grandpa Olson’s scrimping and saving — and stashing money in multiple bank accounts — Mom and Dad would have been hard-pressed to find a property to purchase and make it their home.
CHAPTER 4: THE DREAM EXTENDED
My parents’ friends in Prairie du Chien stirred their interest in travel, which lead them to renting and then purchasing a trailer unit in a 55+ community in Mesa, Arizona. While Dad continued to live his maverick-y lifestyle — making friends and building a handyman business within the resort — Mom really wanted to be with her children and grandchildren. But, because of both her traditional role as a wife and her impaired physical condition, she acquiesced to Dad’s protracted dream, and she did her best to enjoy friendships and activities at the resort for 4-5 months each year. Dad made sure to bookend their annual snowbird trips with family celebrations at Thanksgiving in the autumn and Easter in the spring. He did his best to make her happy.
Mom passed in December 1999, marking a major change for our whole family. Dad lost the love of his life, the woman of his dreams who was irreplaceable, but he did not like being alone. He had a couple of long-term relationships, the last of which ended in 2023.
Around that time, Dad was diagnosed with a form of bone cancer called Myelodysplastica Syndrome. His body was unable to make blood, and the cancer was metastasizing to other organs. There were lesions on one kidney. Part of his treatment was receiving blood transfusions every three weeks along with abdominal injections of what the oncologist called "chemo lite." Well, Dad would keep these appointments — always driven to the cancer center by friends or family — unless he was feeling particularly good, in which case, he would skip one (or a lot) of his treatments. This maverick-y practice did not serve him well, as it made subsequent infusions more difficult for his body to use the blood efficiently and effectively.
Dad’s bones were rapidly becoming extremely soft and brittle while he was simultaneously losing muscle mass. He was often light-headed and unstable, and he would fall, creating bruises and micro-fractures throughout his body.
He was frequently experiencing a-fibrillation and he underwent a heart ablation near the end of 2024. His medical team recommended putting off his annual trip to Mesa until another set of lab tests the following January.
Dad never made it to Arizona, opting to remain in Prairie du Chien until we four siblings and several close friends expressed our preference for him to move back to Owen-Withee. On a snow-stormy day in mid-February, Dad moved into an apartment in Withee, where he quickly became comfortable with Susan’s excellent care-taking and visitations from long-time friends.
Nearly three weeks later, Dad slipped out of his recliner chair onto the floor. He was so weak that he could not get himself up. Susan found him; no one knows how many hours he had been there, but he was very thirsty. Jesse called an ambulance, which transported Dad to Mayo Clinic in Eau Claire. He was tested and given multiple blood infusions over several days.
As the hospital stay wore on, Dad decided to stop the cancer treatments and blood infusions. He said he didn’t want to live like a junkie, feeling high after treatment, then crashing and feeling anxious for the next transfusion. We four siblings agreed that our father was not a junkie, and that he deserved a highly dignified end to his amazing life as a truly self-made man.
Fortunately, with Dad’s decision, it meant he was in hospice care, and his military service earned him the benefit of the Veteran’s Administration paying for his care at the Clark County Rehabilitation and Living Center in Owen.
Many of our close family friends, who Dad had visited frequently over the years, came to see him. He was thankful for all their love and support, and told me to send his gratitude during the memorial service.
CHAPTER 5: THE DREAM ENDING
We four children and two sons-in-law visited Dad every day, making him comfortable, sharing family supper, telling stories, laughing and crying. There were many precious moments in those last few days, with all of us gathered around his bedside. We continued to witness him persevering in every thought, decision, and movement as he spoke to us in his characteristically intense manner.
Dad struggled with being a prisoner in his nearly useless body, and he finally accepted morphine. He wasn’t in any physical pain; he simply wanted to be released from the prison of his mind that just wouldn’t shut off. With the medication, he became much quieter but was still visibly unsettled, often enough that the hospice nurse agreed to double the dose to give him some peace.
And he was indeed peaceful in those last hours. I told him — as we all had — that no one was holding him back from taking the final step home. He had a robust spirit until his last vigorous breath.
With that, my father’s dream finally ended — closing out a truly marvelous era.
While his passing has left a gaping hole in the heart of this world, his creativity, his strength of character, and his unstoppable Viking attitude live on in each of us children and in the memories of beloved others.
May the spirit of Harris Kenneth Borslien sit at the high table of venerated Norse warriors in Valhalla. And may he be forever honored in Heaven by his Creator, and on Earth by loved ones, as a spectacular, one-of-a-kind man, family member, friend, lover, neighbor, serviceman, signal maintainer, craftsman, vintage cowboy, and life-affirming maverick.
POST-SCRIPT:
In the weeks following his death, we siblings and the two sons-in-law definitely feel Dad’s presence. He is sending us messages.
We’ve been seeing this Ford Maverick truck that I don’t recall ever seeing before, despite it having been on the market for years. There are lots of railroad related messages, of course. For example, Ron and I were following a caravan of friends to a local bar. I had no idea the backroads route they were taking, but it had us crossing railroad tracks no less than five times in a few minutes.
Ron and I were on our way home from Wisconsin and staying one night in Barstow, California. Our hotel room had precisely one piece of art, featuring a train. That evening, we decided to enjoy a rare dinner out, and the very limited wine menu included a California wine called “Maverick Ranch.” A Dad double!
That evening after dinner, Ron and I stopped at a gas station to fuel up the truck. I realized that we were parked behind a large truck set up with a full welding kit, something I hadn’t seen since Dad’s welding rig on the ranch. On the other side of that vehicle, a couple asked Ron some questions; turns out they were on their way to Arizona.
Just yesterday, I was on the phone with Tania, our former foreign exchange student from Ecuador. I was telling her that I always called Dad a maverick; she said, yes, of course! Then she remembered that earlier that very same day, she had turned on her tv to watch a movie: It was Top Gun: Maverick!
We all vowed to be open to Dad’s messages from beyond.
Thank you for reading and/or watching, and for your thoughtful comments. I wish you all the life of your dreams.
beautiful remembrances of your father’s amazing life & adventures & messages from heaven!
tears are rolling down my cheek as I read this having learned a few days ago my beloved baby sister has cancer, my thoughts and prayers intensely focused on her healing body-mind-spirit in the name of Jesus Christ … heartbroken
Love always! That was so sad and so lovely.