I am obviously going way out of sequence in sharing my influences and mentors, but AJ’s untimely death has struck me hard.
AJ, Allesandra Jacqueline Lesho, was our dog sitter. She died tragically in a car crash soon after achieving her longtime goals of serving on a mission trip to Ecuador and getting into veterinary tech school. AJ was 24 years old. She stayed in our home several times to watch our dogs. She will be greatly missed by humans and canines alike.
AJ was a wonderful and kind young lady. Small in stature, but a giant in attitude, spunk, and love for animals. She lived nearby and worked as a veterinary assistant at the Elkridge Animal Hospital, where we have taken our dogs for many years. She always greeted us (mostly just the dogs!) with great enthusiasm. Due to frequent vet visits with our old dogs, we got to see her quite often.
Just days before her death, I texted AJ about potential dog sitting for an upcoming trip. She apologized for the slow response since she had to get back from the Ecuadorian countryside to WiFi. I told her I hoped it was going well. She replied, “It is amazing.”
AJ’s lesson for me is not that life is precious and short (though it certainly is). No, the real lesson for me is how much I didn’t even know AJ. I knew she was going on a trip to Latin America this Summer, but I didn’t know that it was to Ecuador. I didn’t know that she was going on a mission trip to care for animals as a volunteer with World Vets. I didn’t know that she had gotten into her dream veterinary program. I didn’t know anything about her background or her family.
In fact, I really didn’t know much about AJ. Yet, she shared our home when we were away and she loved our dogs nearly as much as we do! So why didn’t we take more time to learn more about her? Do we all have so many relationships in our lives in which we know so little about people we interact with on a regular basis?
Yes, I think we do. Some people are much better at learning about the people around them. I guess I’ve always tried to respect privacy, telling myself, “people will tell me if they want me to know.” Others either don’t have the time for “peripheral” relationships or, sadly, don’t care.
I believe the reason that AJ’s short life has affected me so much is a feeling that perhaps I could have helped her more if I’d known more about her. I hope I would have encouraged her more in reaching her goals if I’d known about them.
I also speculate that AJ had to raise a good amount of money for her mission trip. Besides what we paid her to stay with our dogs, AJ never asked us for anything. There is no doubt in my mind that we would have donated if only we had known. With my network of doggie friends, I have no doubt that I could have talked at least one or two others into supporting AJ. Now, sadly, I am left with only sending donations in AJ’s name to WorldVets.org and her school, CCBC.
Tomorrow I will attend AJ’s memorial. I will likely talk to her family and friends to learn even more about AJ. I truly regret not doing so with her. That, I am learning, is a life lesson I’ve missed.
[In the midst of packing boxes, photos will have to come later!]
I’ve already written about my wonderful experiences in our Desnoyer Park neighborhood and our three-room Desnoyer Park school. It seemed as soon as I got comfortable with the school, it was time to move on to another school. That became a pattern in my early life and very well led to me being a bit of a wandering soul in my adult years. I am also convinced that it caused much insecurity and shyness due to always being a new kid at school.
After third grade, all the students at Desnoyer Park had to move on to other schools. In our neighborhood, the closest school was Longfellow. It was over a mile away, probably a bit closer if you could cut through the Town & Country Golf Course. Most days I rode my bike to and from school. That include a good part of the winter months as well!
The fourth grade was an interesting year for me. Not only did I really get to know my friend, Toran, but that was the year that my sister Pam set me up with the evil principal. I became somewhat of a class clown that year, but not until one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Johnson, left mid-year. Upon returning from Christmas vacation, we returned to a substitute teacher. We were told that Mrs. Johnson was not coming back. No further explanation was ever provided. For the first few weeks we had a succession of substitute teachers. Finally, we got one who stayed. Unfortunately, I don’t recall anyone liking her. That, together with the principal fiasco, led me becoming a class clown.
I did pretty well in classes that year. At that point, school was pretty easy for me. I don’t recall anything particular about the year, except for my friend, Harry, barfing right next to me and the black man who came to talk to our class one day. This was in about 1970, not long after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., so race relations were still rather difficult across the country. At that time, St. Paul, Minnesota, was still very white. Our speaker talked about the difficulty of being a black man in society. I found him fascinating. My favorite story was when he talked about walking through a mall and a little white kid came up and bit him. He said the kid had thought he was chocolate! The class roared with laughter, but the lessons of race relations, kindness, and respect stuck with me. Many years later I remembered that story vividly when accompanying a black friend to a store in Kaposvar, Hungary. Little kids stared at him and followed us, as if they had never seen a black man before.
It seemed that as soon as I got acclimated to the new kids at Longfellow and the new teacher, summer vacation was upon us. During that summer, we moved from Desnoyer Park to our new home on “stately” Summit Avenue in St. Paul. That meant a new school for me and my sister. Our new neighborhood school was Linwood elementary. Linwood was a Kindergarten through Sixth Grade school in the central part of St. Paul. This time it was all new kids. At least from Desnoyer Park, most of the kids moved on to Longfellow. Now it was all new kids.
I never liked Linwood and never really fit in. My mom insisted that I join the band. I did not enjoy that at all. It also was somewhat ostracized at that school, at least among the kids in my grade. As the newbie, I quickly fell in with the wrong crowd. My new best friends were involved in drugs, petty theft, and other questionable behavior. I spend most of my time with Calvin. His family consisted of an older brother, a younger sister and a single mom, who worked her ass off to support her family. I don’t even remember much about Calvin’s dad. Calvin was not a bad kid, but had some bad influences in his life. Calvin’s older brother was in high school and was heavily into drugs. As a result, marijuana and hash were easily obtainable for us.
For whatever reason, I never really liked the idea, but smoked my first joint at about the age of ten! The best part about it was Calvin really was a good friend. Whenever the group would smoke pot, Calvin was okay with me not participating and he backed me up any time others would try to force me to join in.
Calvin provided a number of positive influences as well. He was an outgoing kid, so we always had other kids around. He got me very interested in sports. I was already an avid baseball fan, but never really played any sports. I was a small and short kid, so was often the last kid picked whenever teams were chosen. By playing baseball, football, and basketball with Calvin, I started to realize that I had some natural athletic ability. That still needed a lot of honing, but it was a start. Calvin and I spend hours and hours in the summer playing catch with a baseball and football in the fall. Calvin got me signed up for the local little league baseball team and, while I was still not too good, I learned the game and eventually got pretty good.
Calvin’s family was also very interested in downhill skiiing. His mom had been a ski instructor, so I got to tag along every time they went to Alton Alps or other local ski areas. There were some winter months that we skied at least one per week. I finally had learned a winter sport that I enjoyed!
Somewhat surprisingly, Calvin also got me interested in religion. I had always attended Catholic Mass with my father every weekend, but it really didn’t mean much to me. Calvin’s family went to a baptist church. I tagged along and was encouraged to get to know Jesus. It was in a baptist church that I first recall dedicating my life to Jesus and was “saved.”
After time, my relationship with Calvin started to sour. He became more involved in the drug scene and I moved on to other friends at school. After sixth grade, he moved on to the local junior high school and I followed my sister to St. Luke’s Catholic School. Fortunately, some of the kids from Linwood also moved to St. Luke’s, but there I was at yet again another grade school. By the seventh grade I was in my fourth new school.
During the second half of sixth grade I started a paper route. My first job! I remember trudging up and down the streets at around 5AM delivering papers in the cold and snow. I continued this into seventh grade and made friends with another paper carrier, Martin, who was from St. Luke’s. So, at least I had one friend when I started the new school. Since I was new to the school, I knew nothing about the school’s football team for seventh and eight graders. Martin joined the team and encouraged me to sign up, albeit a couple days late. Sadly, the coach didn’t care much for Martin and wouldn’t let me join the team. All of the “cool” kids were on the team, so I was again an outcast. That team went on to win the Twin Cities Championship in the Catholic school league during eighth grade, so this was a longstanding and bitter point in my life.
I became a bit of a loner in the seventh grade. I spent a lot of time alone at home throwing baseballs and footballs and shooting hoops in our oversized yard on Summit Avenue. I fashioned a ball yard in our back yard and would toss and hit balls for HOURS on end. Very quickly, I had to change from baseballs to tennis balls due to the many broken windows in our house. Due to the configuration. of the “field,” there was no left field and the living room windows were in right field. As a result, I quickly learned to hit to dead center field (and too often to right). I also taped a square on our brick house to throw tennis balls in an attempt to improve my aim. Again, I spent hours and hours every summer throwing tennis balls against the house. All this would later pay big dividends when I started playing competitive softball!
During my second year at St. Luke’s, despite not getting a football champion jacket, I did finally learn more about my Catholic faith. I was confirmed as a Catholic and learned Catholic sacraments. In addition, I got involved in theater and, overall, finally felt more a part of a school community. Most importantly, though, I became friends with Pat and Jim, both who would have a tremendous impact on me and become my high school buddies and lifelong friends. MUCH more about Pat and Jim later . . . .
The first non-family person I ever remember looking up to was baseball great Willie Mays. I had come across a book in the library entitled, The Baseball Life of Willie Mays. I knew very little about baseball and had never seen Willie Mays play. My dad was not a baseball fan, so I’d never even been to a big league game. Before I knew it I had re-read the book several times and, outside of family, it became clear that Willie Mays was possibly the most important person in my life. I started studying baseball and watching my hometown team, the Twins. Even with stars like Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva on the team, they couldn’t hold a candle to the great Willie for me.
When I was about ten (a couple of years after my grandpa Grewe died), I befriended an older gentleman that I met on while on a trip with my dad. His name was Jim Shane. We had taken a cruise from New York City to the Bahamas. It was a relatively short cruise that I don’t remember much about. I just remember that after the cruise, we had a relatively large group of people wandering around the city before we had to head the airport. We walked by a storefront that had a large poster/photo of Willie Mays in the window. I was mesmerized. My dad was moving on, but I stayed back from the group looking at the photo. Jim Shane was a part of our group and cajoled me to catch up to the group.
He told me to call him “Shane.” We talked about baseball as we walked through New York. When Shane was my age he watched the 1927 Yankees, thought of as the best team of all time. We talked Yankees, baseball, and later, Twins.
After we returned from that trip, Shane and I stayed in touch. He had worked in the mining industry. When he was in his late 40s, he fell nearly 100 feet and landed on his head. From that point on he was retired by the company and received a nice pension. Shane had no visible problems due to the accident, but he never worked again. Instead, he worked as full-time volunteer. He made daily trips to transport blood for the Red Cross. He drove people all over town. He made deliveries for volunteer organization. He harvested his garden all summer long and provide our family, and many other families in town with fresh fruits and vegetables. Overall, he just made himself useful for others. That was who he was.
For several years, we met regularly for pancakes. He also took me and my friends to Twins games on a semi-regular basis. Jim and his wife, Lucille, had no children. After a year or two of our friendship, Lucille suddenly died. I was in shock, but not nearly as much as Shane was. I remember walking up to him at her funeral and it seemed as he just walked right past me in a daze.
Lucille’s death changed our relationship for a time, but not for long. Pretty soon, he was back to helping others – and taking me out for pancakes and baseball games. Shane was like my substitute grandfather, but perhaps even closer. I called him on the phone nearly every day. We could talk baseball – and life – for hours. I suspect this was a rather unique relationship, as it lasted easily until my mid-teens. When other friends were on the phone with girls, I was on the phone talking baseball with Shane. It’s was probably after I entered high school that I thought I was too old for him. Fortunately, Shane latched onto my younger brother, Jon, and continued the contact with our family.
Shane’s selfish service to others and his basic kindness to everyone he met made a big impression on me. I am lucky to have had such positive, friendly, and giving influences like Shane in my life. His influence, plus my friendship with another great friend named Jim, led us to name our first-born son James. I’m sure Shane would be proud.
We called him “Papa.” I didn’t know him by any other name. I don’t recall how he got that moniker, but it fit. His full name was Ellison Capers Grayson. He was born in 1898 in Charleston, South Carolina. He was a fine Southern gentleman – the gentlest of souls I’ve ever known. I rarely saw him visibly angry.
Papa as a younger man. I remember him much older.
Papa was an interesting man. He was incredibly smart, but didn’t have a college degree (a fact I didn’t know until well into my adult years). He was a draftsman and (I thought) an engineer. One of the oldest relics of his is a drawing he made for the U.S. Navy for a submarine. This dated from before WWI. Papa could draw just about anything and his handwriting was unique and impeccable. From what I could recall, he could fix anything. He made my sister a wonderful doll house and made me a fine-crafted wooden tool box. The handle for the box was the crooked arm of the included hand drill. Papa had a manicured yard and had a special green thumb. His rose garden received his special attention.
Papa and Grandma moved from South Carolina to Minnesota on a temporary assignment with the railroad. Papa was the “engineer” who designed the iconic orange refrigeration railcars for various fruit and vegetable producers. He worked for such railroad companies as Western Fruit Express, Fruit Growers Express, and Great Northern Railway, the latter causing his temporary assignment to St. Paul, Minnesota. Unfortunately for Grandma, Papa’s “temporary assignment” to Minnesota lasted over forty years!
I never remember Papa working, but I’m pretty sure that he didn’t retire until after I was born. I do remember him always wearing a suit. In fact, I am certain that even AFTER he retired he continued to wear a suit quite often. Certainly any time Grandma had him take her anywhere. A signature item on Papa’s suit jackets was the iconic Rotary International lapel pin. He was very proud of that and wore it every day.
Some of my earliest memories of Papa were at the St. Paul Rotary Club’s “children and grandchildren’s day” at the St. Paul Athletic Club and at the Athletic Club’s Sunday brunch. The Rotary club at that time far exceeded 300 members and meetings took place in the gigantic ballroom. I remember stopping in the men’s room with Papa prior to meetings. It was a classic! Marble walls, bathroom attendants, five-foot urinals, shoe shine stand, and even a barbershop. Papa regularly took me to the club for haircuts.
My mother loved Papa. He was everything that my father was not: beat, organized to a fault, initiative about fixing just about everything. My dad couldn’t even fix the flapper in a toilet, while Papa could have installed an entire toilet and could have replaced all the innards by modifying spare parts. Papa was a regular in our home, checking off my mom’s “honey do” list that my dad never had the time, inclination, or ability to do.
When I was about eight or nine years old, Grandma and Papa moved back to their home in Charleston, South Carolina. We kids were devastated. We had only recently lost our Grandpa Grewe, but now were to be without our precious Papa. Grandma Grayson was the strict one. Papa was great with kids and we all loved being around him. Grandma and Papa would often take Pam and I on shopping trips. This almost always included lunch somewhere. The real treat was when the trip was to Dayton’s in downtown Minneapolis! That normally meant a stop at the Forum Cafeteria. The Forum was a spectacular, Art Deco style two-level cafeteria. The food choices seemed endless.
At the Forum, Pam and I would pile our trays with jello, meatloaf, potatoes, corn, cakes, pies, and cookies. Grandma was always far ahead of us, so didn’t put the hammer down on our selections. Papa, for the most part, let us pick whatever we wanted. Almost every time, as we were stuffed with food left on our plates, Grandma would tell us, “your eyes are bigger than your stomach!” She chided Papa to keep a better eye on what we put on those trays. I’m not sure if Jon and Jenifer ever had that experience, but if they did, I’ll bet Grandma watched them like a hawk!
After Papa and Grandma moved to Charleston, we didn’t lose touch. Papa was a prolific letter writer. I am sad to say that I did not reciprocate as much as I should have. I’m sure he hoped I would write him more. One of the most interesting “letters” from Papa was when he sent me a lizard in a matchbox. Papa had poked air holes in the box and left some leafy greens for the lizard to eat, but unfortunately, the lizard did not survive.
I was lucky enough to spend a summer in Charleston when I was ten years old. Not only did I get to meet cousins I didn’t even know I had (second and third cousins), I really got to know Papa even better. At that time he was in his seventies, but you wouldn’t know it they way he worked his house, yard, and garden. They had a small house, but an enormous yard. Papa hired “cousins” to do the mowing, but he and I did everything else. We dug, planted, weeded, fertilized, raked, and picked-up sticks all summer long. This included keeping his famous rose garden blooming. I suspect this time with Papa led to my joy of gardening later in life.
Papa also showed me all the sights of his hometown. I’ve been to every major tourist attraction in the area; watched parades of cadets at the Citadel and toured the campus; spent time on the Battery overlooking Fort Sumter; poked around old cemeteries; visited with Papa and Grandma’s many friends and relatives. Most of all, though, it was just spending time with Papa.
No matter what we did and where we were, Papa impressed upon me the importance of good manners and kindness. Outside of my mother, he is probably the kindest person I’ve ever met. Decades after his death, I met Rotarians who had known him. Even after so many years, they were effusive in their praise for such a “kind and wonderful man.” From what I can tell, Papa had no enemies. I really cannot recall him ever saying a bad word about anyone.
I am blessed for having known Papa and for his influence in my life. He definitely taught me empathy and to be kind to everyone. He definitely taught me to at least TRY to fix things. I have taken apart far more than I’ve ever put back together, but Papa spurred a healthy curiosity about how things work. I write much like Papa (and my father) by using large and small caps in my hand written words. Finally, Papa taught me how to treat women – like a gentleman. I still remember how proud Papa looked at he and Grandma’s 50th Wedding Anniversary. Grandma knew he was a keeper.
Papa died at the age of 80 when I was in high school. For whatever reason, Dad (or maybe Grandma) decided that the whole family would not attend the funeral in Charleston. Only Dad went. I was devastated. It was then I decided that if I was able, I would never miss a funeral. Even now, I think of Papa every time I attend a wake or funeral. I’m sure he would be proud. If I can provide even half the example to my grandchildren that Papa provided to me, I, too, will be proud.
As a regular reader of this blog knows, this blog is about significant influences in my life. That means not just people, but special places to me. One of the first real special places I remember is Grand Lake. My grandparents, Carl and Ruth Grewe, bought a “lake place” on Grand Lake in Rockville, Minnesota. Grand Lake was probably less than a half-hour drive from their home in St. Cloud. Until my family found “The Timbers,” Grand Lake was where we spend our summers. There may have been a bit more to it than just buying The Timbers, but more on that (and The Timbers) in a future blog.
I have so memories about Grand Lake that it is hard to know where to start. It is there that I have most of the very few memories I have of my Grandpa Grewe. He died when I was eight years old, so it feels like we didn’t have too much time together. Memories of him at Grand Lake include taking boat rides with him in a small rowboat; Grandpa trying to fix the outboard motor; floating in a large barrel-half as Grandpa waded through the water with me; Grandpa smoking cheap cigars; and Grandpa’s birthday party shortly before he died. Ironically, the last time I visited Grand Lake was when I took my own grandson, Austin, to the lake.
Me and Grandpa Grewe in the lake (with Pam in the foreground)
There was so much more than Grandpa Grewe at Grand Lake. There was Grandma, Aunt Gail, Uncle Chuck, cousins Joey and Amy Rising (Aunt Gail’s kids). Aunt Shari and my Grewe cousins were not yet around in those early days. Mom went with us more often than Dad, but often it was just Pam and I spending time with Grandma and Grandpa. Frequent visitors included my Great Aunt Signe, her husband Milo Jahoda, Great Grandma Selma Kallin, and other extended Grewe and Kallin relatives.
Grandpa Carl Grewe was first-generation German and Grandma Ruth Grewe was first-generation Swedish. Great Grandma Kallin arrived by boat from Sweden when she was just a teenager. I just remember her as a tiny old lady. She lived with Signe and Milo (actually, I think they may have moved into HER house) in St. Cloud. Mom’s family consisted of her older sister Gail and her “baby” brother Carl. Because my dad’s only sibling lived in San Francisco and his parents moved back to Charleston, S.C. when we were still relatively young, we were much closer to the Grewe clan than the Graysons.
I remember so many activities at Grand Lake. Most of the time, we (like most Minnesotans) just referred to it as “the lake.” We played many games on the substantial side yard. Joe, Amy, Pam and I regularly explored the “neighborhood,” swam, fished, got lost in the nearby corn field, and just ran around together like many young kids did. Nobody watched us. We could be gone for hours without anyone worrying about where we were or what we were doing. My favorite activities were fishing (especially with Grandma), rowing the boat across the lake, walking around the lake with cousins, and just swinging on the old porch swing. Another memorable activity for me at the lake was reading comic books. I found several boxes of Uncle Chuck’s old comic books. They kept me entertained for hours!
Many significant activities took place at the lake. Every summer birthday seemed to take place at the lake. I also vaguely remember Uncle Chuck’s engagement party, some sort of bachelor party, and Joe and I staying at the lake on the weekend of Chuck and Shari’s wedding. Parties were common and always involved food. Just about any meal was a treat. In August and September we always got freshly picked corn on the cob from the farm at nearby Pearl Lake. We fired up the giant and majestic granite fireplace grill for hamburgers and hot dogs. Grandma was a wonderful cook and everything tasted good. The front porch was where us kids ate. There were tables that pulled up along the front wall and we simply grabbed a chair and feasted. The only problem was if someone kicked the wooden support legs of the “table,” it caused the entire table to drop!
The outdoor granite fireplace grill was not the the only piece of granite surrounding the lake. Built into the grill was a large slab of granite that served as the front of the chimney. It was engraved with the inscription, “Grewe Grand Vista.” At the drive-up entrance to the house was a foot stone etched with “Grewe” and another nearby had the scripture Golden Rule carved into the stone, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The other memorable granite pieces included various granite scraps interspersed along the sidewalk from the house to the lake. One of the last stones before the lake was a “mistake” tombstone of a woman that had a crack through it. It might of been rather eerie to some, built it was just another stepping stone to us.
The reason for all the granite was because Grandpa Grewe was in the granite business. Grandpa and his brothers owned a firm in St. Cloud called the Grewe Granite Company. Grandpa sold the business shortly after I was born, but there were always granite pieces around the lake, at Grandma’s house in St. Cloud, and in my homes growing up. Even today, I have a granite table that my grandfather made and one of the two granite bird baths that my grandfather had made.
The lake house was nothing special. The last time I was there, it didn’t look all that different than it did when I was young. It consists of a fairly large wood frame with wood siding. It has been painted various colors over the years. The most distinguishing feature is the huge screened porch that extended across the front of the house and extended halfway along each side of the house. Everything inside is rudimentary and, except for the bathroom, hot water heater, and modern oven, it remains the same today. There is still an antique gas oven and wood burning stove in the kitchen. When we were kids, all the meals were prepared using those now-rudimentary appliances. I think it wasn’t until Gail and her family lived there about half of the year that the bathroom and modern oven were added. Before that, we had to head outside to the outhouse to use the bathroom. Fortunately, it was a two-seater!
The great room of the house had a huge fireplace. Except for the wood burning stove in the kitchen, it was the only source of heat in the spring and fall months. There was a dining room between the kitchen and great room. Three bedrooms ran along the sides of the house (only two after the bathroom went in). Grandma and Grandpa had the “good” bedroom – the only one with a decent bed. The kids slept on beds along the sides of the porch. They were only thin and old mattresses on top of springs, but we LOVED sleeping outside every night. Only if it rained really hard was this a problem. Otherwise, we slept like babies, mostly underneath the stars. Even now, I love sleeping whenever I can hear rain outside my window.
I was lucky to have spent so many good times at Grand Lake, both as a kid, and occasionally later with my kids. Uncle Chuck still owns the place today, which is how I was able to experience this with Austin.
Amy with Austin at Grand Lake
Our frequent visits to the lake ended shortly after my grandpa’s death. That led to one of the experiences at Grand Lake that I will never forget. I think it took place shortly after Grandpa’s funeral. Joe and I were sleeping in one of the side bedrooms when we were suddenly awakened by an explosive argument between Grandma, Gail, and Chuck. I don’t remember the details, but it was mostly between Grandma and Aunt Gail. I think it was about the handling of Grandpa’s estate. Gail thought she would be the executor, but it was actually my dad, who was a lawyer.
The argument was traumatic for me. I remember peeking out of the room to see Grandma with tears pouring down her face. Both she and Gail were screaming loudly. I think Chuck was part of it at the beginning, but must have left. I’d never really seen my Grandmother sad and angry before. Little did I know then, but this caused a rift between my family and Gail. We saw much less of our cousins after that. We still saw cousins and still got to the lake on occasion, but it was never the same. Shortly thereafter, we started going to The Timbers instead of Grand Lake. We loved The Timbers, but losing Grand Lake was bittersweet. Grand Lake became Gail’s territory and we always felt like interlopers. Even so, Grand Lake holds a very special place in my heart.
At Grand Lake, I learned the true value of family. It was there that so many of my memories of my Grewe/Rising family were formed. It was there that I last saw my Grandpa Grewe. It was there that I last saw my cousin Kris. It was there that my only cares in the world were wrapped around my sister Pam and my cousins Joe and Amy. It was there that I learned my love of Minnesota sweet corn. It was there that I learned to fish and swim. It was there that I celebrated so many family celebrations and it was there that I saw my grandmother cry. Grand Lake was this and so much more to me. I wish every kid could have that experience. I feel blessed to have had such a wonderful opportunity.
Toran was my first real best friend. Yes, I used to play with neighbor Tommy, but that wasn’t much of a long lasting friendship. Toran, on the other hand, is someone I consider a lifelong friend. We’ve had some very long intervals between seeing each other, but it is always as if we never missed a beat whenever we see each other. Unfortunately, since moving to Maryland, we’ve had an excessively long time between visits.
I first met Toran at Desnoyer Park. We started hanging around together in the 3rd Grade, but I think it was in the 4th Grade that we really became the best of friends. Both of us were “newcomers” at Longfellow school because Desnoyer capped out at 3rd Grade. Many of our classmates went on to other schools. Toran and I became fast friends.
Toran was, and is, one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. He had a very interesting family and ALL of them were wicked smart. I believe that both his parents worked at the University of Minnesota. His mom was a scientist with the U of M heart program. I’m not sure of what his dad did. She was from Finland and had a calm Scandinavian accent that was familiar to me (more on that in a later story). Toran’s dad was from Turkey. Both were extremely hard working. Toran had two older brothers and a younger sister.
I remember doing math tables in 4th Grade. No one could even come close to matching Toran in the competitions we had. He could do complex multiplications in his head faster than I could add two numbers. I guess coming from a family of scientists helps! Despite both parents being immigrants, ALL of the kids spoke perfectly English with no accent besides the Twin Cities version of Minnesotan.
It was from Toran and his family that I learned about setting sights high. There was absolutely no doubt that Toran and his siblings could achieve anything that they wanted to do. Their family was exceptionally generous to me. I remember Toran’s dad telling me that I would be a high achiever as well. It was important for me to hear this from someone besides family, and it made a very positive impact on me. I can still hear Toran’s dad encouraging me.
I have no idea how much money Toran’s parents had, but as professionals, I’m sure they made a decent living. Despite this, they lived in many ways as if they were poor. Their house was rather small, but Toran’s dad, together with Toran and his brothers, expanded the home to a very nice and comfortable size. They did ALL the work themselves – and did it to a professional standard. I was amazed. My dad could hardly pound a nail straight, yet they built a wonderful home. It was heated mostly by a wooden stove. The kids learned from a young age that they had a responsibility for their family. I recall many cold mornings heading outside to haul logs in for the day’s heat.
As an adult, Toran went on to build himself a magnificent home along a river. Not only did he perform the work himself, but he had the forethought to purchase the pricey land well before it was highly sought. Toran accomplished this using both his head and his hands. I could not compete with Toran’s skills, but I was able to learn much about fending for one’s self using wits and technical skills.
Thought it has been years since I’ve seen Toran, there is no doubt in my mind that he is still successful, comfortable, and perhaps more importantly, satisfied with his accomplishments and his lot in life. In short, Toran is a winner in life. Thanks for the many life lessons from Toran and his family!
Our home in the Desnoyer Park neighborhood was at 2470 Beverly Road. This was the home of my childhood. I vaguely recall our Highland house, but this was truly the first house that I could call home. It was a stately home perched atop of Eustis hill. It was on a corner where five streets came together. The home was large, builds of white stucco with blue shutters, and had a huge yard. Though the address was on Beverly Road, the front of the house faced Eustis Street. It had a front overhang that was held up by four magnificent pillars. A hedge surrounded the extra-large corner lot, making it appear a bit like a mansion.
The house consisted of two useable stories, plus a full walk-up and voluminous, albeit unfinished and rustic, attic. It had the normal kitchen, living room, dining room, and three-season porch on the first floor. The second floor included a master bedroom, three good-sized bedrooms, and a bathroom. All bedrooms had more than adequate closets. A single-car garage was attached. The basement was large and housed the furnace, a laundry room, and a “workshop” area (as if my dad had any use for a workshop!). Soon after moving in, my parents updated the kitchen, added a full first floor bathroom, and turned the porch into a real “family room,” complete with bar seating through a kitchen opening.
The neighborhood was very quiet. This small triangular neighborhood was bordered by railroad tracks and interstate 94 to the North and Northwest, the Mississippi River to the South and Southwest, and the Town & Country Golf Course to the Southeast. It consisted mostly of small homes with families. It was just our parents, me, and my sister Pam when we moved in. Brother Jon came very shortly after. In fact, he might have been the reason to move into the larger home.
Pam and I quickly became acquainted with the neighborhood kids. Pam started kindergarden at the Desnoyer Park school. A year later, Mom enrolled me at a nearby Montessori School. I remember something about me being too smart for “normal” school, but I’m sure that was just Mom’s idea of explaining why I wasn’t in the same school with Pam. I just remember that I felt like I got cheated out of nap time, something that was NOT in The Montessori curriculum. Perhaps that is why I am such an advocate of good naps even today!
Because of the advanced learning at Montessori school, Mom, Dad, and teachers suggested it might be a good idea for me to start regular school in the first grade rather than kindergarten. The only problem with that is that I was a very young first grader, turning five just after the start of school. It certainly was not a problem with the academic rigors of the first grade, but I believe it later hurt me on various levels. Not only was I always one of the youngest in the class, but I suspect that I was perhaps a bit more immature than my classmates. From an athletic perspective, it definitely hurt my prospects. I was already of small stature, but was a year in growth behind many of my classmates.
Despite being the youngest, I very much enjoyed Desnoyer Park school. It was a great place to start since it was an old “temporary” schoolhouse with only three classrooms. There was a kindergarten room, a first grade room, and a combined second and third grade room. There were always a number of second graders in the first grade room as well, but these were likely the slower kids. We never knew a difference about it since even the second graders in the first grade class inevitably ended up in the third grade the following year.
The first grade teacher was very strict. I think her name was Mrs. Mudge. She got the kids in line from the very start. She was also the one who really controlled things during recess. Recess was what I remember the very best about the school. We had a blast playing every game imaginable. In addition to controlled games like Red-Rover, we played king of the hill in the winter and had a giant slide, a huge jungle gym, and a now-banned and dangerous merry go round. I recall playing a game similar to king of the hill where the last person left on the merry go round was the winner. It was pretty scary, but I won a few times. I was also ruthless when it came to spinning the thing as fast as I could, and likely contributed to some injuries. We all got up and walked away, though!
I had a very sweet, older teacher in the second grade. I don’t recall her name (maybe Ms. Abby), but I remember wanting to please her. As a result, I did quite well in school that year. My report cards were excellent (one of the few times in my life!). Unfortunately, she was retiring the following year, so she co-taught with a new teacher when I was in the third grade. The biggest thing I remember from third grade was that was the year my Grandpa Grewe died. That occurred shortly after my sister Jenifer was born. It was a complete shock – and my first experience with death. I was crying in school one day and my former second grade teacher kept me after school to ask about it. When I told her about my Grandpa, she gave me a hug and told me she would have to help fill the void. She made me feel much better. It was an act of kindness and compassion that I’ve never forgotten. Even thought I don’t remember her name, she had a profound impact on me. From that point on, I suspect that I “felt” compassion for others more than most of my male friends.
Immediately behind the school there were several large skating rinks in the winter – one for general skating and one for hockey. There was also a warming house adjacent to the general rink. It seemed that most kids (and a lot of adults) hung out on the rink during winter months. Many times we needed to shovel the ice before we could skate. Unfortunately, I could never skate well. Part of this was because my dad was not a winter sports aficionado. I don’t think I ever saw him on skates. That is probably due to his parents being transplants to Minnesota from South Carolina. Since I didn’t really take to winter sports, I suspect felt the cold more than my peers, something that would never change. I remember that from a very early age. Even if we were at the rink, I spent way too much time in the warming house as opposed to on the rink. I’m sure it also had to do with embarrassment for not being able to skate as well as the other kids.
The summer months, though, were wonderful. I could run and play with anyone. Most of the time it was Tommy Boehm, my sister, and Tommy’s sisters. There were a few other kids that joined from time to time, but I feel like our group sort of ran the neighborhood. We certainly ran, walked, and biked all throughout the neighborhood all summer long – and from sunup to sundown every day. We lived the life of Riley! Tommy was a year behind me in school, but because I was young for my class, we seemed to click together quite well. Tommy, though, was the adventurous one. He taught me to stretch boundaries. Most of the time that was okay, but it was during one of these adventures that I received my first stitches.
My new stitches!
Another bad lesson was when my sister and I locked our mom in the basement. Mom had told us we could NOT go out to play at the Boehm’s house. I have no recollection why, but she had been quite clear about it. When Mom was in the basement doing laundry, Pam and I locked the basement door and left. Bad decision! Not only was Mom livid, as we should have expected, but she had to crawl out a small basement window. As this was a rather old home, the screen was nailed to the frame. As Mom was crawling out, she stepped on a rusty nail. The nail went right through her sandal into her foot. After her trip to the ER, we were grounded for WEEKS! We learned, albeit a little late, NOT to mess with Mom!
All in all, Desnoyer Park was a wonderful neighborhood to grow up in. Unfortunately, after sister Jenifer was born, Dad decided our house was too small. Our growing family soon ended up in a grand new home on Summit Avenue in Saint Paul. That home would lead to even more fine adventures, but I consider our home on Beverly as my childhood home. It contains not only the stories listed above, but many more fond memories.
I don’t know how I could write about influences in my life without talking about my older sister, Pam. We are actually less than a year apart – good Irish twins! Since we are so close in age, we basically grew up as best friends. Almost all of my very early memories include Pam. We did almost everything together. Even our first friends were kids from the family kitty corner from our house. Pam’s friend was Cindy. The lore is that Cindy was also my first love. Though Pam was one grade ahead of Cindy and me, she was probably closer to Cindy (thus me) than to Cindy’s older sister. Cindy had a younger brother, Tommy, who I started to hang around with as well. So though we were playing with neighborhood friends, Pam and I basically still hung out together.
Pam was almost always the “good” kid. I was the one who always seemed to get in trouble. I do remember, though, when we both got our mouths washed out with a bar of Disney’s Snow White soap after we called each other “poopey.” Poopey was our favorite swear word, though I’m not sure where it came from. Maybe it was us making fun of our little brother Jon’s dirty diapers! Anyway, any time our Mom caught us calling one another poopey, we got the soap. I remember Pam saying poopey an awful lot, but it seemed that I ate a lot more soap than Pam!
For a while we slept together in the same room and the same bed. Like all close siblings we took baths together. Over time we graduated to separate twin beds and then I got a room all of my own. We played all the games, told stories, and did all the things that little kids do. I looked up to Pam even way back then as my elder. She was my best friend. I remember Mom having to tell us to stop talking and go to sleep. We just whispered instead! Sometimes, we would even creep down and try to peek into Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Occasionally their door would be locked and we would giggle.
One particularly funny story occurred when I was in the fourth grade. Pam was in fifth. (perhaps Pam won’t think this so funny!). Anyway, we were both relatively new to our school. Our previous school was a three-room schoolhouse, Desnoyer Park, with only K through 3. After third grade, we had to go to another school just over a mile away. So, I was a relatively new fourth grader at the “new” school when I got called to the principal’s office. I had no idea why. I got interrogated for over an hour about the “magazine” I brought to school and why I thought it was so funny. I kept objecting and claiming not to know what the principal was talking about. She was a mean lady and VERY large. She actually threatened to sit on me if I wouldn’t admit to what I did. The only problem was that I had NO IDEA what she was talking about. It ended up with me going home after my mom was called about her evil son.
Later that day, Pam confessed that it was she had brought a Playboy magazine to school that day. I truly had no idea. Yes, I vaguely recall that we had found a couple of magazines somewhere. Dad found us and told them that he had bought them for a client of his who was in jail. I guess we believed that story then, but that still didn’t excuse Pam for blaming her little brother for bringing the Playboy to school that day. From then on, I got the reputation in my new school class for being the class clown. So, what does a class clown do? Yup, get in trouble and make everyone laugh. From then on, I was nothing but a troublemaker at that school!
This is where I need to confess. Though Pam’s ill-fated curiosity landed in my lap, there were oodles more dumb things that I did that landed on her. I picked on her a LOT, but that never stopped me from wanting to be more like my big sister. Most of the time she either put me in my proper place or even more likely, quickly forgave me. It was the latter that provided a life lesson to an indolent and arrogant young boy. Forgiveness, I’ve learned, is one of the most difficult and important values one can exhibit, yet Pam practiced it as a young teen.
As we got older, we grew apart, as siblings often do. We had our own groups of friends. I think Pam did a much better job making new friends since she continually got involved in things like Girl Scouts and later, music. Pam stuck it out in the school band, unlike me, who quit after just a couple of years. Her dedication to this craft made her quite the musician. Her musical repertoire stretched from the tiny piccolo to the marching band tuba. I watched Pam succeed again and again. At first I thought she was just lucky latching on to things and doing well. Later I learned that all Pam’s successes were the byproduct of something else – practice and hard work!
Whether it was getting excellent grades, being an accomplished musician, keeping a clean and orderly room, learning to cook, being selected for a Rotary international youth exchange program, or otherwise getting recognized for this or that, Pam continually demonstrated to me the value of diligence and work. Unfortunately for me, I was much more interested in having fun and being lazy. This caused some distance between us, mostly because I was jealous of her successes.
We both started at the University of Minnesota at the same time due to Pam’s year abroad with the exchange program. At first, she was much more successful transitioning to the academic rigors of college, but I began to catch up when I finally figured out the need to put in the proper effort. Interestingly, Pam and I followed a similar curriculum and we shared a number of classes and professors. Almost by default, we started getting closer again. We played intramural softball and football together. Pam was pretty darn good – for a girl! She was also pretty tough. During her time in South Africa, she learned to play rugby. If a guy wasn’t ready for her block, he would find himself on the ground! She also carried the tuba in the University of Minnesota marching band. Quite a feat for a diminutive young lady. I became more proud of her than jealous.
After college, we both ended up moving far away from home. I was in Germany with the Army. Pam had married a man from Mexico and moved to Mexico City. Not surprisingly, Pam had done quite well for herself there. Before long, though, the draw to his hometown was not nearly as strong as Pam’s need to be closer to her family. She moved back to Minnesota. I wasn’t nearly as diligent, still living hundreds of miles away from family even today.
I could go on and on with the Pam’s life-long lessons to me. Just observing her actions demonstrates the great character traits she consistently teaches me (and others):
Loyalty. Pam showed such incredible loyalty and diligence to her work with the Boy Scouts. During her time there I must have had a half-dozen different jobs. I recall various conversations about how it was not easy and times she felt under appreciated, but she always stuck with it.
Thoughtfulness. Pam is definitely “old school” when sending cards and notes. I always receive birthday and holiday cards from Pam, but also receive notes out of the blue that may include a newspaper clipping, an old photo, or something else that made Pam think of me. That is obviously a testament to her always seeking ways to do for others and her love for family.
Toughness. I already relayed the story above about her intramural sports career, but Pam has always been a fighter. My dad regularly told the story about when Pam almost died as a newborn. She had appendicitis as a newborn and required surgery the day she was born. The doctor told my parents that she would not survive the night. Well, she certainly did. I think that made her the apple of my father’s eye (at least until littler sis Jenifer came around!).
Consistency. Pam is always there to help celebrate my achievements and activities, as well as those of Amy and my kids. Unlike me who has missed many, Pam is always there.
Integrity. Pam never ceases to amaze me. Before she married Doug, she insisted that they receive “permission” from the Catholic Church. This also says a lot about Doug, a non-Catholic, to stick with her, but after years of petitions, interrogations, hearings, and who knows what else, Pam was finally granted permission to marry the “heathen.” Pam demonstrated integrity to her faith (and Doug to Pam). I think they both won on that deal.
I am not trying to embarrass my big sis for her great qualities (yes, I should have mentioned her humbleness as well), but she truly provided, and continues to provide, this younger brother more than a normal share of positive influences. Sure, she has her faults, but I don’t want to take anything away from HER story! Your turn, Pam.
When I consider influences in my life, I cannot leave out my dogs. Except for a couple of short intervals, I’ve never lived WITHOUT a dog in my life. On the one hand, they provide companionship, unconditional love, and a calming presence. On the other, they can provide as much angst and worry than even people can. I can say without a doubt, though, that dogs have provided me with much more positives in my life than all the trouble and worry they cause.
Dogs are like kids. It is hard to have a favorite since we love them all the same. For me, I think there is some sort of continuum for my dogs. I think the “normal” process is when people get a new puppy, all their time and energy gets focused on the new dog. There is no doubt that happens due to the demands of a puppy, but there is certainly a novelty of the puppy that draws us in. For whatever reason, I’ve been perhaps a bid standoffish to my new dogs. Yes, I welcome them into the family, but have always been clear that the oldest is always the “top dog.” Each dog needs to earn his or her way to that position in my affections.
My current dogs are Buster and Bella. Bella is my top dog right now, but Buster will get there in time. Bella has only held that position for a couple of years, since the death of Schonie. (Don’t tell anyone, but Schonie probably still ranks as the best dog I’ve ever owned!). Buster, try as he might, has not been able to overtake her as the top dog in my heart. At least, not yet.
Buster and Bella
Each dog has distinguishable and unique personality characteristics, but the breeds also provide some commonality. We’ve had three Miniature Schnauzers, one Boxer, and an American Bulldog over our nearly 35 years of marriage. I grew up mostly with Boxers. There was a Miniature Poodle and a few others during my youth, but it was almost always a Boxer. They were: Bos’n, Tanya, and Hush, and a couple of others for short times as well. After I left home, my parents continued with Lucy and Emma. Somewhere along the way, my parents stumbled upon Pugs, which I’ve never taken much of a liking to.
Schnauzers taught me unconditional love, as well as spunkiness, love of life, determination, and empathy. Between Schatzi, Schonie, and Bella, we’ve been blessed with many years of great companionship. Sure, they bark, but they are also great watchdogs. Much better than a Boxer who would either welcome strangers or sleep through a burglary. It may be because I’ve experienced several years of elder-Schnauzer care, but I find that I worry about these dogs more than any other. I can’t explain why. Perhaps it is due to our first – Schatzi – and her near-death experience after eating a handful of cold medication (that is a story by itself).
Dealing with Schonie and Belle as elder dogs in rapid succession has clearly tempered my experience with Schnauzers. All our Schnauzers have had kidney issues and bladder stones. Schonie and Bella had heart problems, but this did not manifest itself until late geriatric ages. Through this, I’ve learned great empathy. They have all been excellent dogs, but age made them subject to regular bouts of peeing in the house and occasional vomiting and indoor pooping. The urination has been the hardest, due to its damage to flooring and carpet. I all-too-slowly learned to be more forgiving of these “accidents” and recognized that this was not a time to scold the dog. I especially feel sorry for the times I firmly scolded Schatzi, and even Schonie, for something that was truly beyond their control.
Casey was our only Boxer. She was a “rescue” from a neighbor who could no longer keep her. We got her when she was about two years old. Casey was the bridge between Schatzi and Schonie. Despite my normal ranking of dogs, I don’t think I ever let Casey fully take over the reign as top dog. Rather, she was a bit of an outsider to our Schnauzer-friendly household. That said, she was the perfect dog for that time in our lives. She was GREAT with our kids and could roughhouse like no Schnauzer ever could.
Boxers, including Casey, taught me unconditional love. They were always willing to just be there, to talk to, to cry to, or to play with. They are relatively short-lived, so I learned the value of living in the “now.” All of our Boxers were clearly geriatric by 10 years of age. Old age, unlike with the Schnauzers, seemed to come on very quickly. The good news is that they didn’t need the same elder care as the Schnauzers. They were ready to die when their time came.
Boxers taught me the need to doggy-proof our home. They are proven hunters – of food and leftovers. Unlike the Schnauzers, who were happy with dirty diapers, the Boxers LOVED counter-surfing and tipping over and destroying the trash. I needed to learn to change MY daily habits to avoid the anger, mess and sickness caused by a trash-eating dog. One of my favorite examples was when one of the Boxers of my youth (Tanya, I think) actually opened the refrigerator and ate over two pounds of fondue steak meat while we were at Christmas Mass.
Buster is the current baby of the bunch. Bella is now 14 and Buster is only about 8. He is our first (and likely last) American Bulldog. Most people would immediately identify him as a Pitbull or at least a bully dog. Except for his interaction with other dogs, he is nothing even close to a bully. I have never seen a dog who loves people so much. He is also the happiest dog I’ve ever known. Though he is a nervous Nellie, this dog is ALWAYS wagging his tail. If I yell at him, or even if I smack him for something he has done, he responds by wagging his tail, looking at me with eager eyes, and smiling in the way that only a pit-breed can do. Whenever I am mad, sad, or simply having a bad day, Buster’s happy temperament quickly tames my temper or bad mood.
Of all my dogs, Buster has taught me the most. He, like Casey, was a rescue dog. This time it was from our son and the City of Minneapolis. Buster had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, when another dog bit someone. We quickly ushered him out of Minneapolis because he was tagged as “potentially dangerous.” From Buster I learned patience in spades. I also learned what it means to be a good dog owner. You would think that after a lifetime of dogs, I would know how to be a good dog owner. Until Buster, I did not.
Buster wasn’t a bad dog, but he came to us with a well deserved reputation as a furniture destroyer (he had eaten full couches) and was far from being house-broken. The latter was very quickly remedied. The problem there was simply a matter of providing him with a regular schedule of eating, going outside, and sleeping. We learned that he really was house-broken, but had no routine that he could depend on. Who knew that this was so important for a dog? While I suspect that our lives were fairly regular, our previous dog care was much more haphazard. Buster keeps us on a very demanding schedule! Buster, like his breed’s reputation, is exceptionally loyal and will never give up on a task. Those alone are wonderful lessons, but there is much more that Buster has taught me.
From Buster I’ve learned to become a much more intentional dog owner. I know that I have to be mindful of his schedule. I realize the need to provide him exercise. Previously, we merely tossed our dogs in the back yard to do their business and “play.” We also chucked a few balls to them now and then. But, a large dog like Buster needs regular interaction and attention. More importantly, though, somehow along the way Buster became extremely dog-aggressive. I don’t mean he just likes to bark and snarl at other dogs. He literally wants to destroy them. Once he spies another dog, it takes all the strength I can muster to pull him away. He will not let up. As a result, we need to be ever vigilant to the situation around us. We avoid contact with other dogs at all cost (except those in his “pack”).
We’ve spent thousands of dollars on training. The most effective training for Buster has been the inclusion of a “shock collar.” That is the ONLY thing that we’ve found that can help divert his attention – though only momentarily – from another dog. Besides that, the training required hours and hours of patient training. We can see the results every day in a very well behaved dog. Buster listens and follows commands unlike any dog I’ve ever had. He will obey instantly. The value and patience of regular training is apparent and has been a great lesson to me for the rest of my life as well. It reinforces the importance of regularity, hard work, and diligence in whatever you want to improve upon.
The bottom line to this long article is that dogs have been a huge influence in my life. Without the life lessons and companionship provided by my dogs, I would not be the man I am today. They encourage me to be a better version of myself. I like to think about the country song by the Bellamy Brothers to sum up the impact and importance my dogs have been to me: Lord, I hope that I can be the Man that my Dog Thinks I Am.
My dad ruined me. When I was four years old I took my first cruise on the Bahama Star. It was a short two or three-day cruise from somewhere in Florida to Nassau, Bahamas. There was me, my sister Pam, my mom and my dad. I actually remember very little about that cruise, except for my dad being sick in bed for most of a day. Mom told us that Dad was seasick, but I’m not so sure. My dad was a Navy man. I’ve been told over the years that he was always prone to seasickness, but for all the cruises I took with him, this was the only time I remember him getting seasick. I now wonder whether it was actually a little hangover rather than being seasick! Anyway, the Bahama Star started my love for travel aboard luxury liners.
My next foray into the world of cruising was a short trek in the early 1970s from New York City, again to Nassau. We cruised aboard what, at that time, was the largest cruise ship in the world: the Queen Elizabeth II. The QE2 was the flagship of the Cunard Cruise line. Unlike my first voyage, I remember so very much about the QE2. It was just me, my sister, and my dad. We were with a group of my dad’s clients/friends. One of the friends was his travel agent, who brought along a couple of his kids. His son was my age and together we explored every square inch of that 70,000 ton liner! I was so impressed at the mere size of the ship. The restaurants were without a doubt the best I’ve ever experienced on a cruise ship. The British staff was impeccable and I learned much about British customs, including “high tea.’
In 1976 my family (now including younger siblings Jon and Jenifer) embarked on a cruise to Bermuda on the SS Amerikanis. We were originally booked to have all six of us in a cabin, but our travel agent tipped my dad on the fact that the room right next door was vacant. For a $25 tip, us kids got our own room right next door. We had a blast on that ship. Jenifer (then 6) spent hours every day riding up and down the elevator with the “Lift Boy,” who adored her. She and Jon also ordered bunches and bunches of bananas from the room steward, who also took to our group of young kids. The only problem was that on the way back from Bermuda, Jenifer came down with the chicken-pox. From then on the crew avoided us like the plague!
The talent show those days was not nearly the same as today. Pam, Jon, and I entered as “The Spirit of ’76.” We played a drum and fife squad with Pam playing her piccolo, Jon on the drum (the cabin wastebasket), and me carrying an American flag. It was a big hit . . . and we WON the competition! The prize was a case of champagne. The staff scrambled to find more “appropriate” gifts for us, but still presented the champagne to our parents. All in all, it was a wonderful trip, which only cemented my love for cruising.
The next childhood cruise was only a few years later aboard the Cunard Ambassador. This time we included my grandma Grewe and cruised to Puerto Rico and the Caribbean. We had two more “family” cruises that included my mom and siblings. The first was a Thanksgiving cruise on the Holland American Line’s SS Westerdam with my parents, siblings, and now children. My kids were young, but not nearly as young as my brother Jon’s kids, who were still nearly infants. That was a trip for the ages since it included near hurricane winds and the rockiest cruise I’ve ever been on. On the promenade deck, there were waves actually crashing up over the bow. It didn’t take too long before they shut down ALL outside access.
The cruise line had conveniently placed plenty of barf bags in every lobby. People were literally throwing up all over the place, and it wasn’t from a virus! The real testimony to the weather was that on Thanksgiving Dinner (the worst weather day of the week), there were only two other tables occupied besides ours. During dinner, I remember drinks and even salt and pepper shakers falling down. I enjoyed it all, but nearly everyone else was locked in their cabin feeling queasy. The fitting end to that cruise was when our flight back to Minneapolis was diverted to South Dakota due to the weather. We arrived very late in the evening and there were only a couple of cabs in town to take the entire manifest of passengers to the local hotel.
The final “family” cruise was a Christmas cruise after my father died. It was aboard the Royal Caribbean’s Freedom of the Seas. This remains the largest ship I’ve ever cruised on. Its 150,000+ tons makes the QE2 look like a bathtub toy, but despite this, I continue my romantic fascination with the mere size of the QE2. That is probably due to my relative 9-year-old size.
Amy and I have taken numerous other cruises over our marriage, including: my second voyage on the Amerikanis, the Westerdam (2), the Norwegian Sun, the Norwegian Getaway, the Norwegian Star, the Carnival Liberty, and the Royal Caribbean’s Majesty of the Seas, Grandeur of the Seas (2), Serenade of the Seas, Freedom of the Seas, and Adventure of the Seas.
All told, that is somewhere around 18-20 cruises and over 100 days at sea! I am not writing this to brag. I am not even close to the number of cruises my parents or others who cruise sometimes twice per year. Rather, I am merely share my recollections and the genesis of my love for the sea. I find it both exhilarating and relaxing. Some of my best memories are aboard cruise ships. We’ve cruised with family and friends, as well as several with just the two of us. On the latter, we met numerous interesting people along the way.
While I am always up for a cruise, I recognize how much we miss along the way. A less than one-day stop at an island or city is never enough to experience the culture and beauty of any one place. But if you ever just want to simply relax and go to sleep with the soft waves lapping aside the ship, I highly recommend a cruise!
Amy with Austin at Grand Lake
Papa Pete’s Prose 