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.

Our Dog Pebbles

What's a neighborhood without a dog?  In our case - same with many neighbors - our houses are built on hills - and there are no yards, just slopes covered with ivy or more drought resistant plants.

So - a lot of dog walking in our streets.  Imagine the miles per year when you walk a dog three times a day.  

Pebbles is our second dog.  She was probably 4 when we adopted her from Pets for Friends in Sun Valley.

Pebbles has shared our lives for nearly 10 years.  And it's taking me a long time to put together the story of her past life which, I slowly realized, included years with a circus clown named Beppo.

 

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."

Blue Jeans on the Campton Stage

Oh, to find the perfect pair of jeans.  Just when I find a style that is at least almost perfect the company decides to make something new and improved.  

But to think that I never owned a pair of jeans until 5th grade - bought my first pair of jeans when I needed them for a talent show. Our quartet agreed that the right costumes would make all the difference. That's picture I wish I had.

After convincing Mom to give me enough money I walked to Toback’s Department Store at the Shopping Center, the only place in Silver Bay where they sold jeans, and bought a pair of stiff, deep blue Wranglers.

Standing up there on the Campton stage we crooned Oh Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie and The Streets of Laredo in two-part harmony loudly and with feeling.  We didn’t know much about cowboys except what we’d learned from watching Rawhide and Wagon Train, and I certainly couldn't find Loredo on a map, but I loved those mournful tunes.  And, we looked good.  The legs of our jeans were rolled into wide cuffs.  On top we wore plain white blouses with collars.  Around our necks we had tied red bandannas.  We pushed the square knots and the tails of our scarves jauntily to one side.

About that time I was reading a novel called Sierra Summer, an adventure about a dude ranch vacation - starring Annette Funicello.

Up there singing on that stage I knew we belonged right there on that ranch - with Annette.  

My Journey from Frail Girl to Lady Golfer

Writing brings awareness - I'm not the first person to think, say or write this.  However... after dealing with my girlish fear of the trampoline in a previous post, I now realize that too often I still see myself as that weak little girl being teased by boys on the playground and in gym class.

Before the Dance

The photo above was taken a few years earlier than the trampoline horrors. I'm standing in a hallway at Campton Elementary prior to a dance recital in the gym - same gymnasium that would provide great cultural experiences but frightful phy ed classes.

Now this is how I prefer to think of myself - hitting one of my best tee shots ever.  Photo was taken by my nephew Erik at a course at Camarillo, CA, towards the coast, about 50 minutes away from our house in Hollywood. 

 

It's only when it comes to my athletic abilities, or lack thereof, that I wish that I had brothers and/or gone to school after 1972's Title IX.    Golf was the first sport I ever tried except for a few months of tennis one summer in high school.  To take up your first sport in your forties has been a challenge - physically, yes, but the mental image of becoming an athlete may be the greatest hurdle.