the transitions continue

Last week my Dad was back in the hospital again, this time with pneumonia.  He should be coming home today IF all the tests check out properly.  He had just begun getting back on his feet, using his computer to read and listen to music, making jokes with the nurses and feeling frisky, when he fell in the middle of the night, and progress was reversed.  Again.

Because of an original fall in September he was tightly watched, with numerous alarms attached.  For a man who's always been in control of his world and inventive about making things work, this was more than he could take.  Having only one arm hadn't stopped him from figuring out years ago how to clip his own fingernails, so he's pretty capable, and by golly if he wants his little toolkit he should have it.  At least in his opinion, although we don't know for sure what it is he's going to fix.

After a visit to the neurosurgeon to address the consequences of removing the alarms a plan had been put together with the agreement of LRH and he was ready to "get out of jail."  Until that mid-night fall.

Those who had or have had parents in nursing homes are familiar with the story, one I link to the issue of transition from care recipient to caregiver.  It's not like talking to your children about having to obey rules and being compliant, because he still sees himself as a fully capable adult.  The conversations are at times a little tense, and sometimes I know he's smirking behind my back, just like I did to him 50 years ago.  He's figuring that what I don't know won't hurt me, but he has more people reporting on him than we ever had teachers reporting on us.  As it should be.

As frustrating as this relationship is becoming, a lifetime of memories have become the source of solace, and a longer lifetime than others may know.  Many of our classmates lost their parents long ago.  Or there's the example of my grandson's girlfriend, now about age 21, whose father disappeared from the family a couple years ago, and whose mother died from cancer this fall.  There, indeed, is a load to bear.

Makes a person think about all the energy and creativity that we had but didn't appreciate in our youth, and now may pine to replace, knowing that we can't.  Call it "coming of age" perhaps.  We'll never have it all - except the transitions.  On to the next phase, right?

Comin' home for Christmas

At this time 50 years ago, give or take a week or so, those who had gone off to college or perhaps enlisted in the armed forces or took a job far from home were coming home for Christmas for the first time.

It was a chance to catch up with classmates and friends, renew a girlfriend/boyfriend relationship, share some experiences with family, or just collect your thoughts.  Most likely it included a Christmas gathering with extended family, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  It was the only world we knew, and perhaps naively thought it would never change.

But it did.

As our parents are disappearing we are becoming the family host for our own offspring, and the caretaker for those parents remaining.  The change is drastic but has hardly been noticed as it occurs over a 50-year span.  Lonna lost both of her parents by 1981, sadly more noticeable to her at that age than for most of us who have the element of time to ameliorate the transition.

Even today, the loss of a parent with whom you spend much time can leave a hole in your world, may make you feel aimless for a period as you re-orient your life.  The impact may in fact be greater today because you have been the caretaker and clearly are an adult.

The flashback to 1962 was very real this week when the grandson returned home from college and attended my favorite granddaughter's Christmas concert.  I saw myself returning home, full of knowledge now and so worldly, I thought.  I didn't have a chance to see any performances of my younger siblings back then, and am sure I didn't see any at NKHS either because I would have remembered being in that new building.

I have only one clear memory of that long-ago vacation, and that was a card party, held New Year's eve as best I recall.  It's  a recollection that only occurs with some silent reflection and perhaps an outside prompt somewhere along the line.  Just another example of something happening today that rings the inner bell of memories, many to be treasured, some not.

(My favorite granddaughter, by the way, is also my ONLY granddaughter.)

thoughts following the reunions

There's a whole lot of things that will run through your head before, during, and after a 50-year reunion.  Here are some examples.

Most of us would wonder why we did those stupid things that we did in HS.  Chuck Helgeland has become known for apologizing, but like the rest of us cannot undo what has been done.  Linda Loken is a world-class historian with scrapbooks of practically every event of our four years, and I found in them the "senior interview" we all did for the Anchor.  I read mine and was embarrassed by what I wrote.  Somebody should have slapped some sense into me, but it's too late now.

Lonna's class had a float (created by Richard Hrubetz) for the Lake Mills Jubilee on Saturday, so we were there for the parade, and I noticed the Class of '52 had a float in the parade as well.  Imagine this - There we will be, 10 years from now...  Are you ready?

Their lives were certainly different since they lived through and likely can recall World War II and the Korean War.  So then I projected in a different way - backwards - to realize that in 1962, it was the Class of 1912 that would have been celebrating their 50th!  That may change your perspective.  It did mine.

The Lake Mills reunion was pretty much a one-day event, confirming even further that with holding a four-day affair, our class is pretty unique.  I have heard from NKHS grads both before and after our time who say their reunion is pretty much a three-hour meal and that's it.  I described to some folks on Saturday our four days together, and they just kind of stared at me like, "ok, really?"  Think of this: would any class ever purposely try to arrange either style, limiting itself to the three-hour dinner or creating the four-day gathering?  Probably not.  Either one just sort of "happens."  The design flows from the people and their relationships, though I think the Lake Mills folks might enjoy an extended reunion, too.

Do you realize we had classmates returning from Massachusetts, New Jersey, California, and numerous points in between?  And Dick Brunsvold who lives in Norway, missed it.

Our classmates have experienced a pretty good level of success, but so have the LMHS grads.  Makes me think that Norwegian ancestry may have a hand in all this, although I once knew a fellow from Kansas who graduated in a class of four.  Three of them earned doctorates while he was a successful business owner.  That sets a pretty high standard.

"Butch" Pederson

Saturday evening I had a chance to visit at length with Wayne "Butch" Pederson, the Lake Mills shooting guard with the high-arching shot that probably was inadvertently blocked at one time or another by the arches in our gym.  Butch lives in Chicago where he was a teacher/administrator for a number of years.

Like the other players on the floor for those games in '61-'62, he recalls the high level of competition between NK and LM that all agree made everyone better. "You know, it started in junior high and just carried through," he commented.

His memories of our final game have a little different perspective.  "We trailed, what, 18 - 4 at the end of the 1st quarter?  I thought we were done.  I did.  Then in the 3rd quarter I got hot, shots going in that I couldn't believe.  And I won't forget my 2 free throws with 15 seconds left.  We were leading by four and I knew how important they were because it could be the game.  I hardly recall the ball leaving my fingertips, and it just floated in."

Paul Charlson was quoted in an earlier post about his own memories of the season, and you can read his story here . . .

Just before we left, Butch and I looked around and hypothesized about our common future, what with the incidence of cancer, heart disease, tumors . . .  Some of the people attending their reunion - just like ours - won't be there next time, and that's a sad reality.  Until then, let's stay in touch.

The Story of Man - in 2 Minutes

We tried to tell the Life and Times of the Class of '62 in three minutes.  And before we could post it, this YouTube came out - "Our Story in 2 Minutes."  It's tough competition so I stowed it away for a few days.  Makes The Life and Times of '62 look amateurish.  Oh well.

Click the full-screen icon in the lower right corner of the photo frame to get your best view.

Here's the description from the young man who created it:

My final project I made for my video productions class "Cutaway Productions" (Search them for their channel) at my high school. I don't own the rights to the song or the pictures and I am not trying to, I just did this video for fun and I spent many a hour on it so please don't sue me.

Pretty impressive for a high school class, and I can assure you that culling from millions of options, then fitting the photos to the music would be daunting.  Probably helps to have the right equipment and software.

Your Last . . . Whatever

Sometime in the last couple of years we've made purchases that suddenly trigger the notion that "This may be the last time we ever buy . . . " that particular product.

For example, I wanted to convert our grill to natural gas but was told I could not.  Considering we had used the current grill for 18 years and it really had many years to go, I realized that if I were to buy a new grill today, it will no doubt be the LAST one I will ever buy, so let's dump the old beater and start a relationship with the newer, more valuable product.  Get what you want, because by the time it needs replacement, you probably won't want to be standing outdoors in the rain or snow trying to do the grilling anyway, so the next one WILL be your LAST grill.

We applied the same thinking to other products for the home: a new steam iron, recliners, and various other items.  Theoretically, they are our last, ever.

Morbid?  I don't look at it that way.  Maybe it's "glass half-full vs glass half-empty" but I never really understood the management application of that concept anyway.  In the sales world the notion was that those with a positive view would look to the half-full side, and those with a negative view would lean to the half-empty side.  Whatever.

I suppose our "glass" is indeed better than half-empty, yet have you noticed the imaginary contents might taste better than 40 years ago?  Could it be that at last you have the time to enjoy the flavor, to swirl it in the glass and test the "nose"?  Consider how many glasses of milk you have consumed in your lifetime.  Consider the satisfaction involved just by the quantity, but also by an appreciation of a lifetime of taste.  A half-glass of iced tea or lemonade even tastes better now in the absence of a rush to be somewhere.

Our house itself is a balancing act between lifetime/half-glass thinking.  I'm pretty skeptical about the roof we put on 2 years ago.  The siding is OK, the windows are Andersen and good to go, but the furnace is now the 2nd replacement since 1985 and won't make the lifetime list, and for sure we'll be replacing the television, computer, printer, and at least some furniture around the house.

The cars?  They are always a love/hate relationship.  They don't make 'em like they used to, which means you can run them up to 200,000 miles pretty easily even if you're sick and tired of them, which I usually am about 5,000 miles into their lifetime.  So it's a real question as to exactly when the last car will be purchased, and even then I'll be waffling over the "want vs need" dilemma.

So you just can't beat the "last a lifetime" concept.  That new grill will indeed last a lifetime, as well the steam iron, and the recliners.  Those glasses are "full."  The question now is "what else?"

Donald Woodward McNamara, Part II

Ronald McNamara, on the left
Donald McNamara, on the right, ca. 1962

Just ten days ago the story of Donald McNamara, who attended NKHS from the fall of '63 until he enlisted in March, 1964, was reported on the blog.

Without a complete re-write of that story, suffice it to say that Donald enlisted in the Marines, presumably with his mother's permission, rather than graduate, at age 17 1/2, then died in Viet Nam on July 21, 1967, at the age of 20, three months short of his 21st birthday.

Since the original posting, other NHS and NKHS graduates have been engaged in uncovering more.  They have found that Marv Everhart, '61, is a cousin, was serving in Nam in the Army, was part of the detail that escorted Donald home, and was present at the funeral and burial at Graceland Cemetery in Albert Lea.

Ann Swensrud Johnson, NHS '56, has led the search at the local level and coined the term "Project McNamara."  Through her friend Jan Mielke of Lake Mills, she found the above photo in the 1963 LMHS yearbook, with the twins on either side of Steve Kvale, the fellow with glasses.  Donald and Ronald had been students at LMHS prior to transferring to NKHS, and the photo caption identifies them as Ron and Don Carberry.

At this writing we have no other photos of Donald to share, though Ann has discovered that Marv and the daughter of a half-sister have several - which will allow us to meet the original commitment of posting his photo on the Virtual Wall and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund site, where his military information is available.

Donald and twin brother Ronald were buried at Graceland, Donald with proper military rites, having been transported to an Albert Lea mortuary from Minneapolis.  Thus Northwood was left "out of the loop" if you will, which is not surprising given his short attendance at NKHS, from September '63 to March '64, yet he enrolled as a Northwood resident, and his military records reflect that.

At this point we are researching any connection or commemoration for him at the Northwood VFW.  Marv has a copy of a short obituary that appeared in the Anchor on July 27, 1967, and notice of his funeral service two weeks later, August 3.

If you happen to be standing right now, you may want to sit down for this next part.  The bigger story for all involved in this research came four days after the original post.

We received an email request from a fellow named Shane Edgar, asking if we could provide more information about Donald McNamara.  He had Googled the name, found our post, and sent the email.  We told him we had posted what we knew, and asked Shane, as a point of curiosity, what his connection would be.

His email answer:  I am trying to get some information on him because I was recently told he is my father.

We were all shocked, and our search went into overdrive, resulting in much of the information above.

We have since spoken directly with Shane, who is piecing together his own story, have invited him to meet with several from Northwood and Lake Mills who were connected to Donald in some way, and invited him to meet with several from the Class of '62 during the 50th Anniversay Reunion this summer.

The story of Donald Woodward McNamara is certainly being fleshed out, with help from players like Ann and Marv, who not only was a cousin but a good friend of Donald, and is himself learning things he did not previously know, along with Amber Carberry, the daughter referenced above.

If anything good has come following the Viet Nam War, this just about has to be at the top of the list. Strangely, there have been so many coincidences that have brought it about including, in shortened format, the following events:

• I had been copied in the past on emails sent to Ann Johnson, and beginning March 10 I connected with her more personally about our parents and family, with a series of email discussions. 
• On March 13, Stan sent the email about the Virtual Wall, asking if anyone knew Donald Woodward McNamara. I forwarded his email to Ann Johnson, and the day following, she ran into Nancy Hengesteg and Vickie Perkins at the Northwood Theater. They knew him, and the story took wings. 
• On March 16, as cited above, the story was first posted, and on the 20th, for the first time ever, Shane Edgar Googled the name of Donald Woodward McNamara. 
• Then, in a bizarre twist, on Saturday, March 24, Shane told me on the phone that his wife's niece, Mary, from the Lyle, MN, area, is dating a fellow by the name of Nathan, who is the grandson of Ann Swensrud Johnson.

What a story. You just could NOT make this up.




Look for additional information and photos to be posted here on the blog as well as the two websites listed above. Donald Woodward McNamara may have slipped through the cracks 45 years ago but we will pay him due respect today. We salute his service.

Donald Woodward McNamara, 1946 - 1967

Stan Arendts sent along an email about a "Virtual Wall" that memorializes those Americans who gave their lives in Viet Nam.  The website, VirtualWall.org, lists names and hometowns, and photos if any are available.

The lone casualty listed from Northwood or Kensett is Donald Woodward McNamara, and Stan asked if anyone knew this guy.  He was a member of the class of '65 but apparently he and his family were not district residents for very long, so little information has turned up as to his local impact, other than his being a nice, nice, handsome guy.

Don's name and photo are not listed in the '62 or subsequent yearbooks, and there is no photo of him on the Virtual Wall website.  There is, however, a profile that reveals he died outright of hostile enemy action in Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam, and a report from the Virtual Wall:

The 3rd Bn, 3rd Marines' Command Chronolgy for July 1967 reports that at 2:15 PM, 21 Jul the 2nd Plt, Mike 3/3, while escorting a road sweep team on Highway 9 southwest of Ca Lu, encountered two enemy soldiers. The Marines killed one of the NVA soldiers, retrieving the dead soldier's body. Shortly afterwards, the platoon found itself under heavy attack by what seemed to be most of an NVA battalion. The remainder of Mike 3/3 came to help, while Kilo 3/3 and a light tank section mounted out from Ca Lu to assist. By 8:15 PM Mike Company reported they had broken contact and were withdrawing. While the number of enemy dead is not known, the Marines lost eleven men killed in action - and another died from wounds three weeks later.

The Vietnam Vets Memorial Fund has a page dedicated to him online.  One of his fellow Marines reports on his page that he is buried in Graceland Cemetery in Albert Lea, and the VVMF has a link that will allow you to make donations to their cause in his honor.

The page also includes links to Remembrances left at the Wall in his honor.  Lyle Frazer tells from a Marine's point of view about Donald and the incident leading to his death.

Ray Calhoun says Don and I would lay on our backs, looking at the stars, and singing Up Up and Away to the top of our lungs. They all thought we were crazy.

When he turned 18 he chose to enlist rather than finish school, and being a Northwood resident at that time he is listed that way in all the war records under his name, though sadly few that we've contacted can recall who he was.  Yet review the remarks of Frazer and Calhoun and you get a sense, a feeling, that this fellow was indeed one of our nation's finest. Perhaps we can find a photo that could be posted, not just here in the NKHS 62 blog but on the Virtual Wall, all to his honor.

He may have had few worldly possessions when he was at home or when he went away, and in the end, he gave his all.  

The Old Dress Code

Standards of dress have changed, and will continue to change over time.  When we graduated the girls did not wear slacks or jeans although that was acceptable for boys, and the boys often allowed the belt-less look to let the jeans slide down substantially like today's hip-hop wannabes.

By the late 60s the girls were indeed wearing slacks, and how logical was that for cold winter days.  In 1969 Tinker vs Des Moines Board of Education struck a huge blow to dress standards in schools when a Supreme Court decision ruled it acceptable for Tinker to wear an arm band in protest of the Viet Nam War, and schools changed forever.

Whether the impact is positive or negative when the dress codes were relaxed, there was always something to be said about dressing up, about "Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes.  A graduation party or other special event meant the uncles were going to be dressed up with shirt, jacket, and ties, under the assumption that you can always "dress down" but it is really hard to "dress up" once you get there.

Glenn Rezabek, Scientist

Recall that teachers like Lyle Bestul always wore suit or jacket and tie, and Glenn Rezabek was normally in a lab coat.  His commitment to professionalism may have come from his having discovered a teaching career after working in retail and other business operations for a number of years.  His obituary was listed in a prior posting in October, 2010, and you can read it here . . .

Good Guy Gone Bad - Walt White

(Recently my favorite chemistry teacher to follow is Walter White, from Breaking Bad, now in its 5th season.  The only time he puts on a lab coat and full protective gear is when he is cooking meth, but that's another story.)

The point is simply that times have changed.  If you walk into today's schools you see teachers often wearing beat-up tennis shoes, knit shirts, and apparel that they might also be wearing this upcoming weekend, though perhaps not Sunday morning.

And speaking of Sunday morning, that has changed as well.  A recent email conversation with Ann Sandberg Johnson sparked memories of her folks all dressed up on a Sunday morning, and generally speaking so were all the other parents.  Today the percentage in "Go to Meetin'" clothes is minimal.  A good thing?  Or bad?  Decide for yourself.

Close Your Eyes - You'll Remember

Thanks to Larry Holstad for passing along this trip down memory lane - about growing up in a gentler world.  Once you've viewed it, tell us which parts bring back the best memories.

Click the full-screen icon in the lower right corner for a bigger view.  The good news - the print is much larger.  The bad news - it gets a bit blurry.

What Grandkids Teach Us

My Grandson, Bryan, is now a freshman at Luther College.  When he was about 5 years old we went for a bike ride on the Red Cedar Trail near Menomonie, WI.  He was riding a bicycle that once probably had training wheels - and rode the entire 7 miles of the trail that day, always in the lead, his short little legs pumping like crazy.

The Red Cedar is an old railroad bed like so many bike trails, following along the river of the same name, and the bridge is a neat place to stop and rest, watch the water flow below or spit into it, throw rocks, or in the case of a 5-year-old, skip merrily across the bridge.  You don't forget days like this, and as the youngsters grow to the point of high school graduation and heading off to the next level there is the sudden realization - there you were, 50 years ago.

Bryan is a musician who loves to perform.  A solo in front of an auditorium full of people is performed with confidence.  Nerves of steel.  But on a day last December when he wanted to buy some clothing and we walked into Amundson's in Decorah, his knees turned to jelly.  He's just not used to decision-making in a clothing world that means more than baggy jeans and sweatshirts or tees.

We're also talking kind of serious money for the clothing you might want to wear somewhere other than showing up at jazz band practice, another part of the decision-making process.  And that's not the only thing that would concern him.

In December, 1994, two months before he turned two, I was in Madison, WI, where I saw and picked up a pair of red and white striped overalls, the kind with Bucky Badger on the bib.  I thought they were so cool, the perfect Christmas gift for a cheesehead.  He didn't.  He felt them, got this yuck look on his face, and only wore them one time because his mother made him.  If the fabric doesn't feel just right for him, the article is useless.

So combining his idiosyncrasies and his inexperience makes the Decorah mission interesting.  Yeah, been there, done that, but that was me.  This trip into the clothing store was a convergence of sorts, like his first time out of the box, yet it was a heartfelt commitment on his part.  He just knew he needed an upgrade, even though he wasn't sure what that meant.

But he's a wise kid, wise enough to know he can lean on people he trusts when he makes decisions, and even wiser in choosing quality people to associate with - and trust.  He is open to discussing his goals and objectives, seeks input, seeks learning, and seeks advice, from friends, teachers, family on all matters, including clothing.

Later that evening in December we talked at length about the challenges he was facing, how he was working to finesse the time demands while considering a higher level of classwork and how it could fit in, if at all.  He's already shown a propensity for good thinking and linear work in his writing, and this course could further refine those talents.  He talked through the pros and cons of our challenges without being defensive since for all practical purposes he had already made his decision, and it was a good one.

Home at Christmas, he weighed in on the limitations of the education and training received in high school, his disappointment that certain instructors left the door open for him to lay out his own training, instead of challenging him to compete and learn at a higher level.  He had concern the instructor had failed him, largely due to his own limitation to be able to push Bryan to do more and be better.  The college experience is drawing it into focus.

He also brought home his December shopping success: dress pants, long-sleeved shirt, and v-necked sweater, as if to say, "Grandpa, I'm growing up now."

Perhaps it's the same personal growth and maturation your parents were hoping to see from you those 50 years ago.  For me, the hope is that he mimics any good decisions I may have made, and avoids the bad ones, and so far he's way ahead of my schedule.  What I've learned during the process is that there are no do-overs, except today to have the joy of watching someone you love who takes it to the next level.

There we were 50 years ago, making our way in a world of decision-making, with or without good advice, with consequences that were sometimes good, sometimes not so good.  Watching Bryan has allowed me to see myself revisit the process from afar, Alice through the looking glass.  Wishing that I could fully protect him, I am silently glad that I cannot.  Instead, I just learn about me.

The World We Were Born Into

Stan Arendts has forwarded this video of spontaneous celebrations on Hawaii on VJ Day, August 14, 1945.  With music by Jimmy Durante the perfect background, you get a strong sense of the joy concluding the "Big One," fought by the Greatest Generation.

It was the beginning of our time.  Eisenhower and Churchill were heroes.  The world was right, we fought real wars against clearly defined enemies wearing clearly marked clothing, and enjoyed clearly defined victory.  This is the world we were born into.  Ambiguity and confusion would have to wait 30 or 40 years.

For the website with more background information on this amazing video, go to contributor Richard Sullivan's website.  The movie is an edited version of the 16mm Kodachrome film shot by his father, and it is marvelously well done.  Thanks to Stan for forwarding.

Be sure to click the "full screen" icon next to the word "vimeo" in the control box.

Family from Another View

San Miguel is the only town on the island of Cozumel, located off the shore of the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico.  Like much of Mexico, the land is nearly barren, growing primarily scrub bushes, and wandering off the main roadway that circles the south end of the island will put a tourist into thick brush and will coat him with the dust that is everywhere.

Here and there impoverished families live out in this bush, though most of the residents live in San Miguel itself, and primarily they exist by selling their goods to the tourists that come, whether to stay at a local resort or by way of a short visit from the cruise boats that come in weekly, to sit in the sun or to scuba dive.  If not in sales, the locals are serving in a restaurant or manning the many boating operations housed there.

On Sundays, their day of rest, they gather along the beaches that run from downtown to the hotel zone on the north end, and on Sunday evenings many gather as families in the town square to listen to a local band.  The group is mostly brass and percussion with an excellent female soloist. They play popular Mexican music, and most of the locals dance.  From time to time brave tourists join in, and the young male locals are cruising for dance partners among them.  Good dancers are successful in attracting partners, but if not, the visitors tend to stray away.

The children are beautiful and well-behaved, the family a cornerstone of the Mayan culture as you can see from the photo above.  Normally the kids are running about playing with each other, often inter-mingling with the tourists, while the parents sit and visit quietly, perhaps eating delicious ice cream (coconut is a favorite), or sometimes dancing.

Among the many dancers, one particular couple stands out.  They are in their 80s and walk slowly from the short stone wall that surrounds the square to the middle of the uneven dance floor, where he holds up his left hand for her to grasp, slips his right hand behind her back while she puts her left hand on his upper arm - and they glide away.  For song after song their dignity stands out amongst all the dancers.  And every Sunday night they come back for more.

It's also a great place for the young men to hang out with their girlfriends, who are wearing high heels and bright red lipstick to contrast against their skin.  There's a lot of hand-holding and swaying back and forth if not dancing, and often they look dreamily into each other's eyes.

When the band is done, the families like the one pictured will probably hop on their moped to speed away, the young child propped between dad's legs in front and mom sitting sidesaddle behind him.  Sometimes the baby is sitting on mom's sidesaddle lap.  As dangerous as it is, accidents are rare.

By day everyone returns to their work.  One young mother has marked her turf at a corner of the same square where the dancing goes on, and daily is offering bracelets, belts and sashes for sale, at the same time tending to her two youngsters, one in a sling on her back and the other now old enough to navigate from an unseen leash, always within range of his mother.  She gently approaches the tourists, with a shy smile on her face when she holds up her goods, her two children obediently quiet at all times.

It's an ultimately simple family life with many of the same symptoms of the hometown where you grew up 50-some years ago.  Disregard the poverty and the workstyle and it's just like home.

An Ode to Parents

1935 Northwood High School Football Team

Arleigh Holstad - 1935

Richard Holstad has written fondly of his memories of his dad, and lessons learned or passed along by him. In the photo above, Dad Arleigh is in the middle row, far left.  Click on the photo for a larger view, and if you look closely you will see a bandage over his left eye.  


His official game photo is on the left, and Richard speaks with pride of  Arleigh's athletic experience.  He even has Arleigh's old practice jersey, "tattered, faded and worn as it is."  Perhaps we all have memories of valuable lessons learned, like those Arleigh passed along: Every game is a lesson in life, and when the buzzer goes off, the game is over, with no chance for a replay, or second or third chance.  It's not about winning or losing, it's about playing the game.  It's a team sport, and though you may let your team down, or your team may let you down on occasion, there's no feeling to compare when the team comes through all at the same time, as a team.

Richard says he learned how to lose before learning how to win, and it's much more fun to talk about the wins...  As we all would agree.  Perhaps being a part of that 61-62 basketball team may have been extraordinarily rewarding, but for some of us with limited skill set such that the ball has a tendency to "clank" off the backboard as it would if a brick were thrown up, could only participate vicariously - from the bleachers.

In any event, how much guidance did we actually receive from parents?  And how much was ignored?  Richard has clearly taken Arleigh's advice to heart.  If you have thoughts on the life experiences gained from your parents, mom or dad, pass them along.  This could be a whole new avenue to stroll.

Few of our era are likely to say there was never any advice or suggest there was no direct supervision.  More likely we may hear:

• They always knew what I was doing.
• They really kept me on a tight leash.  (And you deserved it?)
• They didn't say so, but I could tell they were proud.
• Rarely did they come to my defense in a dispute with a teacher; if they did, they may well have been incorrect in their decision.  But I wouldn't object, of course.
• Right or wrong, they didn't want me to be like so-and-so.
• They didn't tell me what to do in life - they thought I should figure it out myself.

Share your thoughts.  This could be fun.

A View of the Past

Mary Nelson Groe sent along, by way of Marilyn Weidler Ulve, this photo show from the Denver Post, and though the archives are mostly before our time, they are still of our time.  Spend some time - there are 70 of them.

Mary Nelson Groe in 2007

Click here - 70 photos from '39 to '43

Even better - her comments about the era:  I remember wearing shirts made of chicken feed sacks. Never wearing shoes in summer except to funerals or church. No shoes, no shirt,no service was never heard of.  Child labor law??? Took bath once a week. Made dirt roads to play with toy cars. Most adult men smoked or chewed but tobacco was not laced with chemicals. What was an inside toilet? This was fun viewing my past.


Add to the list long-sleeved shirts worn to school to start the year that became short-sleeved in the spring.  Sisters whose mother would sew dresses from feed sacks.  Mud squishing up between the toes after a good rain - or even in the barnyard.  Animals on every farm including the duke's mixture of cattle, hogs, chicken.  Child labor?  Free, and expected.  Baths?  Early on, in a dishpan.  Tobacco?  Practically every man and few women.

Send along your thoughts to nkhs62@gmail.com.

To Be Happy

Posted on a chalkboard by the coffee pots at the old J. D. One-Stop in Northwood:

When I was five years old, my mother told me that happiness was the key to life.  When I went to school they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I wrote down "happy."  They said I didn't understand the assignment.  I told them they didn't understand life.

-- John Lennon       

It's not particularly deep philosophy but it does address a truth.  I mentioned in another posting that I don't know for sure which teacher, if any, ever motivated me to read books, or enjoy the ever-so articulate writers and orators.  Helen Thies certainly loved her symbolism, as someone pointed out, and for the love of me I wasn't  very good at finding the many interpretations that she uncovered, and this Lennon quote is pretty straight-forward if philosophical. 

One of the fellows I worked for in the 80's got all fired up about the symbolism in "Fatal Attraction," that spooky movie starring Michael Douglas and Glenn Close.  He expounded with enthusiasm on the water that showed up at appropriate moments, as it did when Glenn's character boiled the family pet rabbit.  A previous posting about Marilyn Monroe and her movie "Niagara" followed the same women/water symbolism, as I discovered when researching the movie a little bit.  Makes sense.  What more powerful water than Niagara?  More powerful woman than Monroe?  I don't think you even have to use your imagination . . .

The great writer and thinker Christopher Hitchens died recently.  He wasn't necessarily a symbolism guy, but he was a powerfully logical writer, and was cited by Ross Douthat, a conservative writer for the New York Times for his anguish over the existence of God, and his singular ability to debate an issue by citing circumstances and realities that few others may have considered.  It was as if Hitchens had a computer-like mind that enabled a constant "search" of "all things relevant to this topic" and then parsed the story to reflect it.

George Will is another author whose articulation is just fun to listen to, whether you agree with him or not.  Bill Buckley was awesome.  Lincoln was THE MAN of few more eloquent words.  Roosevelt.  Kennedy.  I wish I had paid more attention during English class and perhaps I would have loved them even more, symbolism or not, and somewhere along the way learned to be a better wordsmith.

Lennon, he of Beatlemania, may have just cut to the chase with the above quote, and I would confess to being one of those who would have thought he had not understood the assignment, being committed instead to the stated goal the student should achieve.  In 1963 Beatle music was becoming so popular, and though I had heard and loved the music they were playing, I had no clue who they were until I happened to be standing in Vic's Pizza in Mason City one night, waiting for a table or a person, I don't know which, glanced down at the jukebox near the front door that was playing one of their songs so I could find out exactly who was making that music, and realized that those four mop-headed characters were the source of the harmony that I, like everyone else, was becoming attached to.  

Continuing in my cultural heritage, narrow-mindedness, and inability to change with the world, I lacked the appreciation of the gradual transition of the Beatles to their adventures of living, the White Album, Paul's shoe-less walk across Abbey Road (symbolic or not), the hair that got longer and longer.  Some English teachers got with the program and used "Eleanor Rigby", "Yesterday", and various other Beatle titles as a teaching tool, and at least one basketball coach that I know would use their music to prime himself on game day, turning up the volume to a high level, then listening in a room by himself before his team took the court that night.

All while quietly, secretively attempting "to be happy."  And here's where we are today, in a state of retirement, reflecting on the past.

The path through this posting may not have been linear, but no matter - this ain't the New York Times.  But it is worthy to end where we started, with a quote from Lennon:  Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.  And we'll leave it up to you to figure out the meaning and symbolism behind the whole posting.  Then send your thoughts to nkhs62@gmail.com.  My brain is near empty.

Home for the Holidays?

Home for the Holidays doesn't mean quite as much as it did in 1962 when college kids were approaching the end of the first semester, which in those days did not end until mid-January, or maybe those who had enlisted and would not be able to make it home until they had earned a leave.

Whatever the case, hearing the Perry Como tune inserted here caused some reflection on that first Christmas after graduation.  And I don't really recall a single thing about it.  Who I saw - what I did - what gift I received - NOTHING!  Bah humbug - maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be?  Call me Scrooge.

What I do recall is coming home the first weekend after classes started, and off and on after that point, frequently by hitchhiking.  Chuck Hendrickson and I did that often, and learned some lessons from it, plus picked up some life experiences.  

We'd find somebody to give us a ride out to the main highways out of Cedar Falls, like Highway 20 heading towards Parkersburg.  We always taped paper on the side of a suitcase with "Mason City" printed on it, figuring nobody knew where Northwood was, and once we'd get in a car we could somehow finesse the last 20 miles.  Often the drivers were heading north on 65 anyway, so it worked out.

Some folks went out of their way to help us out and sometimes we wish they hadn't because we'd be crammed into the back seat with some kid with a sucker, or something like that.  I think Chuck had a puppy throw up on him once and we'll have Janis grill him to find more about that - and add it to this blog.

One time I hitched over to Ames to see Phil Johnson and a semi driver picked me up.  I could not believe how that cab bounced around, but I still appreciated the ride.  I learned those guys probably retired with bad backs because it was really rough.  Phil came to Cedar Falls on a return visit and while there wound up talking to Norm Stewart, then UNI's basketball coach.

We were touring the campus, walked through the Men's Gym, and ran into Stewart, who saw Phil right away, recognized him, and said hello.  To Phil, not me.  As I recall the conversation Phil said, "Do you think he knows me?"  Of course he did, because he didn't greet me, that's for sure.  We turned around, Phil found Stewart in his office, and thus started the process that made Phil a Panther forever.  But that's another story.

I also learned that in hitchhiking you had to be instructive to drivers as to where they should drop you off.  One time we got dropped on one of the farm-to-market roads between 218 and Greene, and I thought we might die of loneliness out there.  Me, Chuck, a blacktop road, a gravel road, and lots of corn.  But if you just found out what route the driver was taking, you could set yourself up to get out at an intersection with traffic.  You always had to prospect.

On one occasion Denny Carnes and I hooked a ride home.  Somewhere out on Highway 20 a guy driving a big, long-finned Cadillac picked us up.  He pretty much looked like death warmed over.  His sallow face had a greasy mustache, baggy eyes covered by sunglasses, and a constant cigarette.  He regaled us with stories of Las Vegas, including his experience with Johnny Cash that we won't go into here, just to keep it clean.

To get back to Cedar Falls we turned the suitcase around with "Student to Cedar Falls" on the other side, and repeated the process.  I don't know how many trips we made like that but we sure wouldn't let the grandkids hitchhike today.  Too dangerous.  We grew up in a much better time.

So here it is at last - Perry Como.  This really looks like home, and it should take the Scrooge right out of you.  It did me.  Happy Holidays.

And if you have a wide-screen monitor, this newer and updated version is even better.  Notice all the trains.

Joe Frazier - Part Deux

This really isn't about Joe Frazier.  It's about the world we lived in, and how little it resembled a cultural world that most of us probably still do not know or understand.

Primarily Norwegian Lutherans, we had little interaction in particular with the black world that Joe Frazier may have symbolized, sharecroppers trying to stay alive after the slavery of their ancestors.  What we saw was - entertainers like Nat King Cole, Fats Domino, Little Richard, and of course the sports figures like Frazier, although in the 50s, the southern athletic teams were white white white - with an occasional black, who was normally the fastest guy on the team and their running back.

When Martin Luther King became the voice of the oppressed who were seeking more opportunity, a common theme was that the blacks were "unappreciative" although we had little or no understanding of what they'd gone through.  And an uncle who came to visit opined that all the racial problems in Memphis were caused by Communists trying to create dissension.  Surely they must have been behind it.  J Edgar Hoover would have been leading that line of thinking.

I suspect that if any of us had brought home a black boyfriend or girlfriend, there would have been great apprehension and even hostility at home, though doing so probably had one in a trillion odds of happening  because of the church basement lifestyle instilled in us.  In Our Town we knew nothing of the culture.

When several classmates (Norwegian Lutherans, for sure) went to the Miami Luther League convention they routed through Washington, DC, staying in a hotel in a lesser section of town.  All were cautioned not to go out alone, or after dark, into the primarily black neighborhood.  Truth be told, whether it was actually dangerous or not, none of the conventioneers could have known.  But imagine you traveled away from the hotel, say to do your laundry, and you were the only white in the laundromat . . . might you feel uncomfortable?

Kathryn Stockett wrote The Help, later to become a popular movie, that underscores the plight of the black in America, especially in the south.  The low expectations, the "management" of a class of people, the limited mobility, are all something foreign to our own lives.  Hers is a story of blacks hired as "the help" in white homes on the other side of the tracks.  Talk back, you lose your job.  Do it twice and you're blackballed, and perhaps your family as well.  And no public complaining.  Unfathomable conditions for those of us from a small Iowa town.

The attitudes run deep, probably unnoticeable for a farmboy from Iowa.  But the discrimination is there, though subtle, and is sometimes felt even if not intended.  Attending grad school in Missouri, I experienced it when walking through the education building with two classmates, both black.  Having had one of them in several classes, I knew him quite well.  He was tall, smart, a handsome fellow, and charismatic.  He went by "Dude" and it was appropriate.

A professor of education, Dr. Bell, was approaching us, peeking into classrooms as he walked, as if he were looking for someone, and when he came up to us he greeted us with "How are you boys doing?"  The temperature dropped 50 degrees.  The Dude turned to his friend and said, "I don't see any boys, do you?"  And his friend said, "No, I don't see any boys."  Ouch.

At one point I worked for a company based in Atlanta, GA, and discovered that it, too, was lily-white, but these folks didn't know about "Uffda" or "Yah, sure, you betcha".  You had to listen twice to the deep southern accent of some of them in order to understand them, and while I enjoyed that, you could sense the quiet racial attitude.  The company finally hired a black rep in Chicago.  Carl once attended a regional meeting in St Louis with us, where our regional manager special-ordered a slice of watermelon to be placed on his plate.  Lonnie thought that was really funny, and several of us laughed, unfortunately.  Carl didn't make it in this career although this incident wasn't the cause.  Nor did he object to the watermelon, though I suspect The Dude would have, with little restraint.

Somehow you extract lessons by watching others, and though I have had black friends from time to time, my upbringing didn't do much to prepare or instruct me for the racism they experience, and the black friends were normally operating within my white world anyway.  I only know that in reading what folks like Joe Frazier grew away from - their home - my own home, while isolated, didn't create any baggage for me.  And the racism I have seen as a spectator, like those situations above, haven't broadened my scope very much.  It's still a life I can't really imagine.

Vikings go to Eight-Man Football

It should be no big surprise that the Northwood Anchor reports the enrollment of N-K is in a stage of decline, and the recent recommendation of the coach and AD to go to an 8-man program in 2012 reflects the problem.

Fifty years ago the graduating class was somewhere between 60 and 70 students annually, and today the entire high school will be housing 100-120 students for the foreseeable future.  If you're responsible for programs, as the board and administration are, you're looking at a significant issue.

How can you provide competitive services and curriculum at those levels?  Your high school staff has to be reduced at least 40% from the days of yore, and curriculum is probably provided through a sharing arrangement with other school districts, and that is not easily done for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that a top-notch math teacher can select whatever job he or she wants.  And traveling from Northwood to Manly or Lake Mills for half your assignment, on a daily basis, leaves little to be desired.

The N-K school district appears to have gotten boxed in or left behind for whatever reason, as other area districts did their merging.  So you're at the mercy of what's available, and in the case of the local gridiron heroes that means the JV will need to travel longer distance, possibly play both 8- and 11-man football, or even 9-man football against Minnesota schools just to have the program.

As freshmen, we had 13 players on our frosh-soph team.  That meant two available subs standing on the sideline and a coach, Jon Swenson, holding his breath and hoping nobody on the field got hurt.  Fortunately our team size grew as the Kensett guys came on board in the future, and the reflection here is to consider that at least for that year we faced what they face today - scarcity.

The Magic of Being a Senior?

At this time 50 years ago we were a couple months into the school year, the first quarter having been completed and report cards issued, I suppose, and there were three games remaining in the football season.  So how did you feel about being a "senior"?  If not in 61-62, whatever year it was that you were a senior?

Personally I don't recall feeling much one way or another.  King of the hill?  Doubtful.  Glad to have one year to go?  Dunno.  Sad that it would soon be over?  Doubtful.

Was it really an achievement to have made it into the 13th year?  Let's face it, much of the drill is simply to move on to the next year.  We didn't have to pass any competency test other than passing grades, weren't required to climb a certain hill or run faster than a speeding bullet.  Call me a realist or a cynic, either one, and if you beg to disagree with the theory, send an email to nkhs62@gmail.com and let's discuss it!

Presumably everyone is happy to have made it through high school and research tells you that it's one of the milestones to financial success in life, but the feelings of being in the year itself?  Probably empty for the most part.  And now maybe a greater memory than the reality was.  What do you think?

Barn Stories

Larry Holstad emailed recently about the barn door photo in a recent posting, inserted again here.

I was looking at the barn door and remembered how we rode calves out the other door, against directions as I recall, and our reward was ringworm.

The more I thought about the door and the barn the more I had to laugh about the incident(s) he described, and all the memories about barns in general.  Ringworm was a downside to our rodeo fun, and "against directions" is a nice euphemism for the order we received but ignored.  But hey, we're young and these calves are tough, right?

When my girls were little more than toddlers their favorite bedtime story was the one I told of grabbing a cow's tail as she headed out the barn door after milking time.  A young cow was not suitable because she would be far too excitable and the ride was probably going to be out of control, and an older cow just wouldn't get up that much speed, but a cow at the proper age would free-wheel you all across the barnyard at speeds you didn't expect.  Presumably my siblings won't read this and report it to my Dad because he still won't like it today, the reason, of course, that I would not do it when he was anywhere nearby.

Sounds like a weird bedtime story but they didn't know farms and barns and it sure sounded exciting to them, and they were going to sleep with great fancies in their heads of becoming farmers, maybe . . .

The barn's haymow was always a place of intrigue, and I loved sitting in the haymow door when it was open because you could get a great view across the countryside.  And one time when we were chopping straw and blowing it into the mow, I couldn't help but decide I should jump from the haymow door into the wagon that had just pulled up below me.  It was probably about 20 feet down and since I would be landing on some really soft straw it would be no problem.

Wrong assumption - jumping into chopped straw is just like jumping into water.  It parts.  The difference is that there is a wagon bed about 3 feet below the surface, designed to stop you suddenly.  I was lucky to avoid a broken leg, or whiplash injury, although it did snap my neck pretty good.  Just stupid, I guess.

Richard Holstad commented some time ago about the sights, smells and sounds of the barnyard and he was pretty much right on.  Mostly the recollection is sweat with lots of frustration, cowshit, to use the vernacular at the request of Stan Arendts, the smell of hay, cows mooing or bellering,whatever their fancy at the moment, and a surprise kick from a cow that inevitably hit squarely on your knee and could put you down.  Pushing the calves out the door in the spring to watch them run and kick their heels with their newly found freedom was a fun job - herding them back in when they didn't want to go was something else.

Around the barnyard there's ups, there's downs.  And at graduation time Gerry Pike and I had the ultimate important conversation - about inviting a girlfriend out for the party, knowing that it was spring and the barnyard was in need of a good cleaning, so how embarrassing might that be, because whether you cleaned it or not, the air was always the strongest in the spring.

You know, if a person could just spend his time sitting on a chaise lounge in a screened in porch, with people you like to be around, away from the bugs and the elements at least, if not the odors, wouldn't life be great?  Do you think you'd miss the barn?