TRUTH OR FICTION?

  

I recently discovered two photos. Both are dated 1960. I was in third grade that school year, the year my parents and I moved from Silver Bay back to our farmhouse in Harris, Minnesota.  (About two months later we moved back to Silver Bay.) The pic above was taken at the farm. Soon after our move.  

Once Upon a Time... 

Years ago I was writing a memoir about the neighborhoods in my life, especially childhood years in Minnesota – including our family farm in Harris and our years in Silver Bay. Some of past blog entries were helpful as I put together material for the book.

A writer friend read a chapter or two of my stories, and told me I was wasting my time writing a bio -  since I wasn’t famous, who would read it? Her comment turned out all for the best. My favorite books when I was a kid were Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mysteries.  I dreamed of writing a novel about girl detectives, and put my energy into writing my e-book The Missing Photo Mystery.

 

But now, after posting some childhood photos on Facebook, I’m tempted to return to my memoir. Have hundreds of printed pages still waiting in a file cabinet. But I’m unsure about the project. Not because I’m a non-famous person, but because I’m not sure about the truthfulness of my memory.  

 

The girl in the photo above doesn’t look like a miserable sad-sack to me.  But for years I knew I hated moving back to Harris. I knew my time there was dreadful - riding the bus to school in North Branch, being the new girl in class, living in a farmhouse without central heating. That’s the story I told myself. Here's the second photo I found.

 

I see the same happy girl. Both pics were shot at our farmhouse. I recognize the walls. The place and dates on photos are contemporaneous evidence of that time. 

 

Memory’s a Tricky Thing...

Can we always trust it? Or do we revise memories as time passes? I believe now it was a difficult year for my parents, not me. I’ve woven my parents’ anxiety at the time, and their fears and worries together with my own emotional memories. 

 

If I do return to writing a story about my life’s neighborhoods, I may have to shelf it with other fiction. And here's a possible opening line… “This is not a memoir.” 

 

Silver Bay Christmas - 1960

House on Banks Blvd.  Fourth Grade.

My white blouse is initialed with "N" for my child nickname, Narta.  Later, in the spring, I get a "Ben Casey" blouse - named for one of the two popular TV doctors.  The other famous TV doctor is my favorite, Dr. Kildare. 

Not sure, but I may be gazing at a new Silvertone transistor radio, still in its plastic wrapper. 

On the floor is my new chemistry set, chosen from the Wish Book, also known as the Sears Christmas catalog.  It includes a microscope!  Through its lens I look at strands of my hair and leaves from Mom's African violet.

I've never been that interested in science, but my teacher Mrs. Munson read us a book about Madame Curie and her work with radium.  And thanks to the Campton Library I've read Landmark biographies about Alexander Graham Bell, Luther Burbank and George Washington Carver.  Science is interesting again.

It's the Cold War.  President Kennedy, just elected, wants our country to have more scientists in the future.  Maybe I can be one of them...  

SILVER BAY, 1958-1959, Second Grade

I am in second grade.  My teacher is Mrs. Sarf.  She's big and tall. Sometimes she scares me.

I'm learning to spell.  Some days we stand around the room in single file.  Mrs. Sarf says a word and when it's our turn we have to spell it out loud.  Sometimes two words sound the same but mean different things and are not spelled the same.  Did you know a slice of pie is spelled "piece" of pie?  But at Christmas  when you hear "peace on earth, good will to men" it's not spelled like piece of pie?

At the beginning of the year Daddy and I walk to the public library.  It's really close to our house.  It's in a green building.  The police office is in the same building.  The library is on the end near Banks Blvd.  Daddy gets a library card.  I look at all the books in the children's section. There are a lot of books to read.

One day I find a book on the library shelf that is the same book we have in our desk at school!   It's for when we do science.  But we don't take the book out of our desk much.  I have Daddy check it out for me. I read the whole thing.  It's easy because it's mostly pictures of birds and stuff. 

I can't wait until the day when we have "show and tell."  I have something to talk about.  The girl in my class who knew how to spell piece and peace reads a lot and is smart.  She might want to know about the public library in the green building.  For "show" I bring the science book from the library.

My teacher doesn't like my "show and tell." I want to sink through the floor when she is mad at me in front of my friends.  She calls my house.  I should not take out any of my school books from the public library. I will be bored at school if I read those books at home. That's what she tells my mom.   I thought my mom would be scared of my teacher, too.  But she's not.  Mom tells my teacher it's my teacher's job to make sure I'm not bored at school.  And it's good thing I like books.

Although we rarely used our science book, one spring day we take a "science field trip."  We walk to our teacher's house.  Her husband trapped a beaver.  The beaver's skin is stretched out on a board.  The little feet are in a small cardboard box on the lawn.

Science wasn't just pictures of pretty birds and animals. I learned more about that later in high school -  when we dissected fetal pigs in biology class. Oh, the smell of formaldehyde...

Straw Hat Players - Moorhead, Minnesota - 1975?

My seven years of summer theatre in Moorhead, Mn continue to influence me...  as one of my life's many neighborhoods.

As I wrote in previous blogs, the years tend to mesh as I possess few artifacts of that time... a couple of programs, a few pics from the Fargo Forum, some slides that are now digitized.

Among the pictures on the wall in front of my desk are four taken during summer theatre productions in Moorhead...one of these is of a silly, comedic version of Dracula - I'm not sure it was supposed to be that funny, but Les Sarnoff played Dr. Van Helsing.  Enough said .

(Not positive Dr. Van Helsing is the character name - Wish I could  find my old script. Probably donated years ago to the Los Feliz branch of the Los Angeles Public Library for one of their Saturday book sales.)

Anyway,  Sarnoff's character was a vampire expert.   And one of my favorite funny lines went something like this: "Here. Let me rub the juice of the batswort around these windows to ward them off."

It was hard to keep a straight face, but alas, as Mina, already bitten by Dracula, I was in a catatonic state, and not allowed to move a facial muscle.

In the pic above, Les is about to drive the stake into Dracula's heart. I believe the first name of the actor playing Dracula was Bruce. The character Jonathan (played by Kim Moerer, I think) is holding me back so I don't try to save the vampire. The actor in the middle of the pic is Jerry ver Dorn. 

Straw Hat Players Revisted - 1972 (?)

Photo is from production of a Neil Simon play:
LAST OF THE RED HOT LOVERS.

Great fun.  My character was Bobbie. The lead actor was Les Sarnoff... an amazingly funny man.

Probably from the summer season of 1972... I recognize the pantsuit... think I bought it earlier that year in Fargo or Moorhead... for an après wedding outfit, something new and something blue...   

Straw Hat Players 1975 (or 1976?)

I think the pic below comes from my 6th season with  Moorhead's Straw Hat Players, summer of 1975 -  THE BOYS FROM SYRACUSE, a musical based on Shakespeare's THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

I remember this production well. And not because it was the first - and only - time I was a featured dancer in a musical [I hadn't taken any formal dance lessons since 1st grade.  But Fatima was a comic character - I could get away with not being the best-trained dancer in the company].  I got to play the finger cymbals... wow.  Our choreographer was Roger Rabey.

My memory of this production remains strong because of
the second night of performance.   Good timing and an improvised tilt of the head in my solo dance prompted an unexpected wave of laughter in the audience... for a few moments time stopped... I felt that all the people in the auditorium and I were one - melded into a single entity with the universe - a transcendental experience, I guess.  Strange, rare, crazy, wonderful, brief.  Difficult to describe, impossible to forget.

In the photo is the wonderful comedy actor Leslie Sarnoff... as a lusty wizard, I believe.  I'm next to him, mid-stage.  Other members of the harem, from left to right: Bethea Stewart, Julie Ruhland and Kristin Rudrud.

My Summer Vacation, a Quick Trip into the BWCA

I lived in northern Minnesota while growing up.  My family camped occasionally, but after a few outings with a tent we switched to renting cabins during the summer, usually in the middle of the state. This summer, for the first time, I ventured way north, into the massive acreage of lakes and forest known on the U.S. side as the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

Here's our happy group after meeting up on a Sat. morning and getting our gear together:

There are 10 in the photo but unhappily a work conflict left one of us behind.  There are also 2 dogs in photo.  They will share our wilderness adventure.

In photo below you can see our group of  21st century voyageurs ready to be motored across Moose Lake.  Once dropped off we will say adieu to motors. We will depend on our canoes, paddles and muscle power for water transport and for strong backs to lug (or I should say portage) our stuff (or I should say gear) from one lake to the next.

Our group of  9 set up camp on a small island - Robin's Island, I believe.

Bill and I pitched our tent mere feet from a marker pounded into stone: the official international border.
So, from my temporary home's little rear window I could see Canada - You betcha!

WINTER - SILVER BAY - 1962

CHEERS TO ALL,

SOME PHOTOS TODAY.  THESE WERE SHOT AT MY HOUSE ON BANKS BOULEVARD IN SILVER BAY.


MY NEIGHBOR IS HELPING WITH A SNOW PERSON.  BELOW THAT A VIEW ACROSS BANKS TOWARDS OUTER DRIVE - I THINK THE CAR MUST BE OUR 1952 FORD.  THAT NEXT SPRING WE BOUGHT MY FAMILY'S FIRST NEW CAR - A 1962 CHEVY BEL AIR.   THE THIRD SHOT SHOWS OUR BACK YARD - A VERY STEEP BANK INDEED - I WONDER HOW MY DAD EVER MANAGED TO MOW! 

Children's Theatre in the Campton Gym

Oh, how I wish I had a photo or program from the first play I ever saw.  It was in the Campton Gym where, even before the dance recital on its stage (written about in a previous blog), I experienced a production of PINOCCHIO.  For me, a life-changing event.

During that school year, 1956-57, most students beyond 6^th grade attended classes in houses on Bell Circle.  Seniors (and perhaps juniors also?) rode the bus to the high school in Two Harbors. Kelley High was not yet finished.  And yet, in the midst of what must have been a challenging teaching experience, someone began a drama club and produced a children’s play. I don’t know how or where PINOCCHIO was advertised.  I don’t remember hearing anything about it in class.  Just that one afternoon Daddy drove me to Campton School to “see a play about Pinocchio.”

We sat down on steel folding chairs set in rows on the polished, wood floor facing the stage—on the end of the gym nearest the kindergarten classroom.  I think music played on a phonograph to one side of the gym.  After a few minutes, the lights in the audience faded.  The gold pleated drapes were still shining as they parted in the center and moved slowly to each side.  Geppetto’s workshop stood there before me.

Perhaps there weren’t any boys interested in the Drama Club. A girl named Francine Williams played Pinocchio’s creator and father, Geppetto. The following Sunday I was thrilled to recognize the actress when I was leaving my church after Sunday school.  She was walking toward the church for the morning service.  She was with her mother, later my high school Home Ec teacher.  I stared at Francine as we passed each other on the cement walkway.  I wish I dared say something about her wonderful performance.

Last month I was in London for vacation, with a two-day side-trip to Stratford-upon-Avon.  Walking down Stratford’s Chapel Street I passed a group of uniformed boys— probably students of the old, prestigious King Edward VI grammar school which is right in the middle of town.  Seeing these boys I couldn’t help but think how different it would be to attend school in a village with all that history about you.  A quick check on the internet tells me that the original charter of Stratford-upon-Avon dates from 1196.  What a different perspective it must be to grow up in a village with all those Shakespearean reminders around than in a brand new town like Silver Bay.

In Stratford we saw two plays. One was a new children’s play titled ROBIN HOOD'S HEART with Marion as a funny, swashbuckling heroine.  Parents and grandparents in the audience probably all worried that the production might occasionally be too gruesome for young people.  I know I did.  But the children in the audience laughed at the slapstick, cheered the hero and heroine, and booed enthusiastically at dastardly King John and the evil Nottingham sheriff. Some girls that looked about twelve wept at the end when Robin and Marion, on trapeze, gazed at each other with rapt fairy tale true love.  And I remember how I also cried in the gym of Campton School in Silver Bay as Pinocchio and Geppetto were reunited, and Pinocchio became a real boy.  A life-changing event.  My journey to Shakespeare’s home town began that day, when Daddy took me to see that play about Pinocchio.

Narta Ramberg and her Pen Pals

In the past few weeks blog visitors from Europe and Asia prompted me to open a shoebox of memorabilia that includes letters from my childhood's foreign pen pals.

In March of 1961 President Kennedy, by executive order,  established the Peace Corps.  The Corps was authorized by Congress on September 22, 1961.  

I read about the Peace Corps at school in the Weekly Reader.  In the midst of the Cold War the idea of promoting world peace and friendship - Kennedy's words about the purpose of the Peace Corps - seemed a good idea.  But I had just turned 10 - too young to join. However, somehow I read about "Children's Plea for Peace" an organization based at the World Affairs Center at the University of Minnesota.  At least part of the Center's mission was uniting children around the world through letter-writing. Soon I had two foreign pals, a girl from London, England, and a boy from from Accra, Ghana. 

Above is the postcard I received after my pen pal request.  The date on card is 31August 1962.
Alas, I think I only exchanged letter for a year or two.  Probably stopped writing once I began junior high school.


Still, on the odd chance that someone reading my blog knows or has known these two youngsters of the 1960s, I include my nickname at the time - Narta  - as well as the names of my childhood pen friends:

  Celia Richards  of London, England 
  Richard Amable of Accra, Ghana

More about pen pals in future.

One Reason I Love the Beatles

In early January, 1964, someone tapped on Mr. Zinter's math classroom door to deliver a message from the school office.  My mother had called the school to ask if I could be excused early.  My eighty-three-years-old grandfather was in the hospital.  

Mom and I packed the car and we picked up Daddy at the gate of Reserve Mining when he got off work at three that afternoon.  We drove down to Minneapolis, stopping only for gas. During most of the trip I was squeezed in the front seat of our 1962 Chevy Bel Air between my parents, but I couldn’t seem to get warm.

Between my grandparents’ house and Deaconess Hospital Mom pulled into the parking lot of a Minneapolis Red Owl Supermarket.  There was a payphone on the pavement just outside the store.  I stayed in the car while Mom and Daddy tried to contact one of Mom’s sisters, my grandma or the hospital.
It was a cold winter night. The key was left in the ignition so the heater would stay on.
I turned on the radio and fiddled with the knob for a clear signal.  The station I found was playing a song that I had never heard before.  I stared at the radio.  What was this music? The deejay answered my question as the soon as the final chord ended.  He said it was I Want to Hold Your Hand.  He said it was by a British band, the Beatles.

Grandpa died in his room at Deaconess Hospital the afternoon after we arrived.  His funeral was several days later.

I never saw my Grandma, a stoic Dane, cry at the hospital, at her home, or at the mortuary.  At Deaconess Hospital A nurse whispered to my Aunt Florence that Grandma’s poise and self-control made her “just like Jackie Kennedy.” President Kennedy's assassination had occurred less than two months earlier.  

At Grandma’s house, when I was by myself, I would switch on my celery-green Sears Silvertone transistor radio, aching until I heard the Beatles sing that song again.

"Let's Twist Again" - Silver Bay's Malt Shop, 1961-63

Until the Malt Shop moved in, the brick, split-level Norshor building was home to professionals. As I recall it, the credit union took up the greater part of its square footage.  The town’s lawyer and optometrist had offices in the Norshor.  Also my dentist. Occasionally, the building boasted a beauty parlor.

No need for these small business persons to worry that non-client young people were going to clog their hallways.  Instead of going in the main entrance that faced Outer Drive, a sign directed all Malt Shoppers to a side door. From that entry we walked down a half-flight of stairs to the partly underground, lower floor of the building.

A wall divided the Malt Shop into two halves.  Both rooms were floored, as was the rest of the building, in twelve-inch vinyl in swirled toffee and white. First you entered the room that had the soda fountain and a long counter with stools that were against the wall that bisected the space. There were also tables and chairs in the room, but Denise and I usually sat at the counter as we’d done at the Carmel House (in previous blog)

Denise and I, fifth-graders, gave up our Carmel House sundaes when the malt shop opened. On our first visit Denise recommended a strawberry phosphate — flavored syrup with charged water, and that became my usual.  If we heard one of our songs coming through the doorway of the other adjoining room, we downed our fizzy concoctions like thirsty fishermen with a cooler of cold ones.     

A quarter in the juke box bought three songs.  If I still had a quarter after buying my phosphate, I would pick Dion’s “The Wanderer, “Travelin’ Man” by Ricky Nelson and something with twist or twistin’ in the title. 

The teens on the dance floor had more change in their pockets than those of us still in grade school. They kept the music going. Before long one of them would  select Chubby Checker’s “Limbo Rock.”   Two kids would pick up a broom that was always nearby and hold it horizontally, ever lower, above the floor.  Kelley High students didn’t even object when Campton kids joined the limbo line and took our turn bending underneath. “How low can you go…?”  In my case not too low, and was quickly eliminated.  I preferred to “…twist again like we did last summer.”

The Malt Shop in the Norshor Building closed about two years after it had opened.  A second malt shop on Outer Drive, newly-constructed, one-room affair was built next to the outdoor skating rink mostly as a hang-out for people to warm up and order a bowl of chili or a cup of cocoa.

I rarely visited this new place. With its windows overlooking the rink, it was bright on a sunny day.  On gloomy days, or at night, it was lit-up by overhead fluorescent. There wasn’t a whit of danger – not like the dim dance floor of the Norshor basement.

Something about the Silver Bay Carmel House

Denise Manzer and I were great friends during fifth grade, both in Mrs. Jauhola's class at Campton.

Denise Manzer

Mrs. Jauhola's Fifth Grade, Campton School

I mostly remember cleaning out the sink in the back of the room, near the lockers. Seems we had a lot of messy art projects in Mrs. J's class.  Most of her students would probably remember a long, long project involving papier mache and dinosaurs.

But, on to the Carmel House.... Sometimes on Saturdays, after watching SKY KING and ROY ROGERS, I'd go down to Denise Manzer's house on Charles Circle. (Across Banks and only a few houses away since I was on Banks near the corner of Charles.)  Denise and I would walk uptown and mosey into the Carmel House.  We'd sit at the counter. When the waitress came, one of us would say, “A hot fudge sundae, please."  The other girl would say, “I’ll have the same.  With a glass of water, please.” Then, first girl, "I'll have a glass of water, too."  Our ice cream would come in stemmed tulip-shaped, parfait glasses with  whipped cream (Reddi-whip?) and a maraschino cherry on top. Denise and I would plop down a whole quarter - each - to pay for the treats.  I'm guessing this ritual lasted for maybe five or six Saturdays.  And then… the Silver Bay Malt Shop opened!  And I'm talking 'bout the first one, in the Norshor Building... "I'll have a strawberry phosphate, please."

The Campton Gym and the Virginia Reel

So in my previous blog I admitted my horror at seeing the trampoline set up in the Campton Gymnasium.  And I admitted my ineptitude and looking like a fool.  However... the boys also faced days of fear and loathing in gym class.  For making fun of poor little men on the trampoline, they met their nemesis and it was called the Virginia Reel.

Oh, what sad male faces I witnessed those days when we walked into the gym to discover the record player plugged into an electrical socket and the boys learned we weren't going to be running around the perimeter of the gym with Chicken Fat on the turntable.  Oh, no.  We were about to tackle the basics of folk dancing.   On those days the boys, forced to touch and maybe even hold hands with girls, were miserable indeed.  Ah, for me, who loved dancing, revenge was sweet.

The Campton Gym and Phy Ed Class

This morning's paper prompted my returning to that micro universe of my young life - the Campton Gym.  In the past I've chatted about events in that gym: a dance recital, seeing the movie Hemo the Magnificent, a shot clinic.  Today today I'll actually talk about the gym as a place for physical education classes.

In today's Los Angeles Times, page 7, I read this headline: "American just keeps getting fatter, new study says."

This is not a new concern.  In the 1950s President Eisenhower established the President's Council on American Fitness. The next president, John Kennedy, also a veteran, was a big supporter of this council. For those of you in gym class in the early 60s, you may remember a song with the lyrics, "Go Chicken Go."  Sometimes Mr. Gere our teacher would plop the Chicken Fat Song onto the turntable in the Campton Gym.  This song was written as part of the presidential program to get kids moving. Kennedy believed it American children should compete with the Soviets in physical strength as well as science.  

Above is from the cover of a booklet providing guidance for fitness. I found the picture on a website for JFK's Presidential Library.


I hope to write more about gym class in the future - the good, the bad and the ugly.  But for now, I'll leave you with lyrics from Meredith Willson's song, "Push ups, every morning.  Ten times.  Not just, now and then...  Go you chicken fat, go..."

My Poor, Lonely Violin

Last blog was about music and I'll stay with that subject today.

In fourth grade I began violin lessons.  Ah, here my memory fails.  I can't remember my string teacher's name.  But I was in Mrs. Mattson's class.  Here's a photo I posted in a previous blog.

(That's me in the middle of the first row, between Terry Skog and Harold Varney. )

My first string recital was another Campton Gym experience.  The old Campton Gym -  I realize now that in my childlife the Campton Gymnasium was a universe unto itself. There on one end of the gym was the raised stage where I saw my first play, PINOCCHIO.    And there I danced with other little girls who were students of Mrs. Baum (a topic of previous blog entry). For this string recital of beginning players I believe we joined with string students of Mary MacDonald.   I still possess music from the recital - hand-written and then run off a ditto machine.  So faded that I can't scan, still readable although about 50 years old.  The music on this sheet music includes Aunt Julida's Polka and the Merry Widow Waltz. 

My first violin was a small one, a 3/4 size.  Before long I was ready for a full-sized violin.
And here it is, my second violin, newly stringed, but lonely indeed.

I played violin from 4th grade until the final week of senior year.  That was it.  I stopped. Now I long to play it again.  Playing again, even minimally, will require time, practice, dedication, probably lessons and also enormous patience.   In short, it will be a challenge, and one I'm sure to write about another day.

Music Matters

I suspect this is the first of many essays about music experiences in Silver Bay. 


First of all, I'll start with the music classes we had in elementary school because the other day I found myself singing Sweet Low, Sweet Chariot while doing dishes.  No idea why that popped into my head.  But I do know when and where it came from - classes with Miss Godich (or Goddich?) at Campton Elementary School.  How lucky that we had vocal music classes in elementary school - maybe 2 or 3 sessions a week. And music books.  Besides a handful of old spirituals like Chariot I recall learning folk songs about the Erie Canal and that sweet gal Betsy from Pike.


But one of the first songs I remember learning from Miss Godich was "You'll Never Walk Alone" from the musical CAROUSEL.  "When you walk through a storm hold your head up high..."  Do you think we realized we were singing about more than a winter blizzard?  Maybe we did.  Miss G. was an awfully good teacher. About that same time she taught us a three-part round with three simple words - in Latin.  Dona Nobis Pacem. 

Until next time... give us peace.

HEMO THE MAGNIFICENT

Awhile ago I wrote about my hometown not having a movie theatre and that sometimes we watched old movies at the Kelley High auditorium on weekends - sponsored by the Letterman's club, the Science Club, Future Teachers, etc. to raise money.

Today I'll write a few words about  Hemo the Magnificent.   After a too-large meal, or when I'm over-tired by too much exercise (a rare experience), or when I'm just trying to do to many things at one time - I flash on the picture of a frantic telephone switchboard operator in my brain.  The image comes from Hemo.  Each year - 4th, 5th and 6th grades (early 1960s) we sat on the polished floor of the Campton Gym to view this movie.  For those who haven't seen it, it's a funny and educational film about the working of the human body - particularly the heart.  It's a combination of live action and animation - I would say a film way ahead of its time. 

A few years ago I put the title into the Amazon search site.  I learned it was released on videotape in 1991.   Reading some of the reviews that had been posted on the site, I  learned that  Campton was not alone in showing this movie so often - that baby boomers across the country viewed Hemo the Magnificent at their schools multiple times - and loved it.  


 

A Bit about Moving and Memory

Memory.  A few folks have commented on my ability to remember so many things from past decades.   I credit much of it to circumstances that let me link time and place together so often  Why?  Because from birth to age 17, I called many places home.  Until I was nearly 5 I lived on our family's Harris farm.  Then we moved to Silver Bay where we first lived in the trailer park, in two different cabins.  Not sure why we moved but I think the second one was larger.  I do remember it was nearer the laundry center.

After the trailer court we moved to our first house on Charles Circle.  In 1959, because of the national steel strike, we moved back to Harris for the summer.  In the fall, back to S.B., I began third grade at Campton.  Then, we moved back to the farm again, this time presumably forever.  But, instead, we returned to Silver Bay after only a few months and I returned to Mrs. Lyson's third grade class at Campton.  {I will someday write an essay on the whys and whats and the family angst during this move back to the farm.  Also about my months going to school in North Branch as the "new girl" - I'm convinced I was on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent.}

But in winter 1960, with Daddy back working at Reserve, we lived in a Beaver Bay trailer for perhaps a month. My memories of that Beaver Bay trailer include its location -  down a short unpaved road on the side towards the lake, and watching the winter Olympics in black and white on a TV affixed high in a corner of the kitchen area. After the trailer we moved to a three-bedroom slab on Banks Boulevard, across from Campton.  I lived on Banks the rest of third grade through seventh.  Then Mom said she'd rather have a basement house than a slab so we moved to Gibson Road.   I also suspect she wanted me to live nearer the high school - she always worried I'd get hit by a car on that busy road called Banks.

I think living in so many homes, unless you're with a nomadic tribe or in the military, is unusual.  I also think it helped me organize my own internal memory files. At least that's my theory.

Another Vacation in Minnesota

In the last blog I wrote about Brainerd and its park devoted to lumberjack Paul Bunyan. I wish I had a photo of my mom during our visit to Brainerd.  She probably wore a dress.  I think the picture below was taken on a vacation only a few years earlier.

We were at a gift shop - a Trading Post - somewhere near Aitken or Deerwood.  I would guess my youngest sister snapped the photo which would date it in the spring or summer of 1959, before or just after Karen graduated and moved to Minneapolis.

I think this was the place where Mom suddenly caught sight of a ceramic ashtray souvenir - it was shaped like a coiled rattlesnake.  Like Indiana Jones, Mom has phobia when it comes to snakes (ophidiophobia).   Seeing this "snake" Mom let out a scream.  Karen and I were in another aisle of the gift shop at the time. Leaving Mom in the care of my dad, we aimed straight for the door and went outside, pretending not to know that crazy lady.


Now back to the dress.  It wasn't just June Cleaver.  Moms wore dresses back then.  A photo in an earlier blog shows my mom on our Harris Farm, in a dress while wrangling some goats.