If I Won The Lottery

Decade Seven and beyond: Exploration and mostly ill functioning body parts

To test to my grade school sentence diagramming skills, my father offered, “If I had a million dollars, I know what I would do,” probably his longest composition ever, discounting run-on sentences. Yet, too complex for my fifth-grade grammatical skills. An adverbial clause introduced with hypothetical if had me stumped. Seven decades later, Judy’s hypothetical creative writing challenge surfaced a pleasant memory, an early morning father-son discussion at the breakfast table—Dad and I were the only early risers in our family. He apparently knew what he would do with a million 1950’s dollars, today worth perhaps twenty million. Maybe he didn’t realize how many zeros followed the number one. His example inflated to today’s economy requires an extra zero, total of seven, but I am inured to big numbers considering America’s national debt with figures reaching ten zeros and climbing. Or, stargazer’s 1950 estimate of 4000 visible night-time stars to a number today with 4000 zeros behind it. Inflation!!

What would I do with, let’s say, twenty million dollars? An amount quite conservative considering recent near billion-dollar lotteries. The concrete-sequential segment of my brain needs to visualize what twenty million would mean in manageable units. Mercedes Benz cars, for instance. I recently gave my vintage E350 to my granddaughter and did a spot check for a new replacement, its price tag, fifty thousand dollars. Today’s twenty million dollars would deliver four hundred E350’s to my doorstep. Sales tax and registration would seriously damage my retirement. Dad could have purchased twice that many 1950 Fords, that last new car he ever owned, but, of course, he didn’t have any sales tax back then. He even wailed about social security tax because his eight dependents only eliminated his income tax.

My first consideration would be Laurie’s and my four children and our three grandchildren since I have no desire for even one new Mercedes, let alone four hundred. Not to eliminate their financial problems for the rest of their lives, but how to preserve a few financial hurdles to challenge their integrity. Besides, total reliance on even 20 million, large as that number is, would too soon evaporate, perhaps by one or two family members to the chagrin of the others.

My family values were developed through poverty, and who knows if an acquired DNA could be squandered by a bunch of zeros. Unable to decide, I would probably die intestate relying on the wisdom of the state to make the dispersal. To parrot the advice of a child to Santa, “As for me, my little brain isn’t very bright. Choose for me Dear Santa what you think is right.”

Give to charity, you might suggest. To the best of my knowledge, no millionaire has vowed to give half of his fortune away when he or she leaves this planet. Such an act of charity is reserved for the billionaires who wisely horded their millions to become billionaires. I could use that strategy and hoard my lottery good fortune, but my investment skills aren’t that great and my horizon for growth is relatively short. And the number of potential charities numbs my mind, again, threatening intestate.
A friend vowed to create his own charity and screen the needs of people requesting funds. What a nightmare. I can’t tolerate unsolicited calls when I have nothing to offer but maybe a change of car insurance. And, to the best of my knowledge, that friend has yet to win any lottery.

More significant, how would I handle winning a negative lottery, the person chosen to leave a sinking lifeboat, or, Shirley Jackson’s short story, “The Lottery” where a villager is chosen each year to be stoned to death. Could I accept such a just or an unjust decision of my peers?

I won the world’s greatest lottery back in 1941. Competing with a billion competitors and myriads of ever-changing circumstances of time and place, my little package of DNA found a mate and, with the help of God, developed my soul. I am still grappling with God’s creation to prepare it for when I must give it back, or at least account for the eight decades it was in my care.

I can create longer and more complex sentences than my dad, sometimes too long and convoluted, but I don’t have his vision of what to do with instant wealth.


Decade Six: Creative reflection

Father Pierz Memorial High School had been a mere hole in the ground across the fence from the cemetery much larger than any open grave on the other side. Who or what was to be buried there the spring of 1952? Just four of my sexual formative years, that’s all, which I struggle to uncover at a class reunion some fifty years later.
From the sixth grade playground, I watched that hole fill and grow into a three-story four-year high school. Sixth through eighth grade school students were considered mature enough for no-nun supervised playground north of the church, yet not quite ready for the hanky-panky of a middle school or a junior high school. Little did they know. We were the first television generation.
During the ’51-’52 school year, we sixth-graders played on the prairie, a vacant lot across from the construction site, post nun-supervision, pre hanky-panky. Three years later, we entered Father Pierz Memorial High School as the future class of ’59. We exited as graduates four years later through doors of a gymnasium that did not exist when our incarceration began.
Until the gym had been added, busses of basketball players and student fans traveled thirty miles down the road to Belle Prairie’s basketball court. As the tallest kid in tenth grade phy-ed, I’d been drafted to the “A” basketball squad because they needed a tenth player for practice scrimmage games. I got to suit up and even sent onto the floor for a full minute of play that season. Many years later, John Tax, team manager (towel-boy) at the time, recalls, “The home town fans cheered so loud the visiting team thought I was the team’s secret weapon to turn around a losing game.
Three lay members of our staff, Misters Peterka, Swartz and Graeve, names sounded like a lunch item at a German family restaurant. Father Schulzetenberg, resident superintendent, added color to the program, mostly with his fire-engine-red ’57 DeSoto, its interior accented with red and white cheerleaders. One morning I caught his attention and his disdain by screeching my ’49 Studebaker to a stop inches from his rear bumper. We jointly stepped out of our cars, faced each other and my rear left tire popped and fizzled just parked there.
I whispered, “Good morning, Father,” as my ego and my car slumped. He nodded and walked toward the building.
Years later, Father Schulzetenberg lit his signature cigarette after a particularly ritualized Christmas Mass and experienced a fatal heart attack. According to Father Voigt, he carried a card in his wallet that read, I am a priest. In case of an accident call a bishop. I had discovered his humorous nature too late to appreciate him.
Father Kunkel, an elderly priest recruited from a neighboring parish to instill sophomore boys with religion and sex education, stalked up and down the aisle slapping each of the faces of disruptive boys uttering, “You don’t give a damn if you go to heaven of hell.” Cause of his tirade, everyone giggling over his explanation of oral sex as misuse of an inappropriate opening in a woman’s body to avoid pregnancy. He walked out never to return, a little taste of the heaven he had mentioned prior to his exit.
Father Thompson replaced him with stories of growing up in gang-infested streets of Chicago, his favorite anecdote, holding the flame of cigarette lighter to the foot of some particularly bad gang member. He eventually left the priesthood and married one of my classmates after she had become a Franciscan nun. The married couple attended our tenth class reunion.
Father Robert Voigt confronted seniors as dispenser of religion. He taught us to believe hell exists! Between his glaring from his perch in front of the room and the funeral procession to a grave site outside our window, we paid attention. His teaching method was to select one student to stand and be interrogated about the assigned reading for the day. No one dared to not be prepared, just in case.
Confessions were offered in the room adjacent to the office on days prior to required Mass attendance such as First Fridays. With hormones raging and mortal sins well defined, mostly boys took advantage of this service.
Custodian Al Sand held court in the furnace room for us boys who needed to talk to someone without a mission to mold our character, yet effectively did. He gave me some fabric to cover the seats in my 1950 Mercury, but my Grandmother made me a winter coat out of the material in stead. A beautiful coat but didn’t wear it with the pride she so deserved. I chose the dark room as my escape from class, FILM DEVELOPING posted outside the door. One time our principal knocked and waited. We—discretion dictates I not mention who was with me—were caught. However, as seniors I had earned the respect of Sister Mary Gertrude.
Sister Shaun brought life to history while Sister Phyllis destroyed math. Correction, students like me destroyed Sister Phyllis, the consequences of guilt still felt fifty years later. Sister Romaine was the proper type to teach typing and Sister Magloire exemplified yet debunked evolution in biology class. A lively young Sister Renee taught Latin, a useless dead language. Sister Judine encouraged acting in public forums, while Sister Hilaire insisted we model Christ in our homes. Not once since Christian Family Living have I ever inserted a light bulb into my sock to darn shut a toe hole.
School lunches were served across the street in the church basement for fifty cents, a price increase from the dime we paid in first grade.
Jiggs Gilbride said, “Toss me a milk.” I did. He shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered off. I had to clean up the mess, and pay for the bottle. He was the bully of our class, the guy everyone wanted to befriend.
This and more from a memory jogged by a fiftieth class reunion.


Career development and lasting relationships

My mother claimed I laughed after hanging up, but the information received wasn’t funny. Gerald was dead, and I felt some responsibility for his decision to end his own life.
My mother had called me to the phone and stood by, curiosity etched on her face. “Well, what was that all about?”
I said, “My cashier’s husband shot himself.” I distinctly remember saying my cashier, not the cashier at the Paramount, or calling her by name, Carol.
“But you laughed.”
“I didn’t laugh,” I replied. “At least I didn’t mean to.”
“Were the two of you friends, this man who shot himself?”
“No, as a matter of fact he was very jealous, and I think he wanted to hurt me.” I had already said too much, but she tucked that incident away with the other mysteries surrounding my life away from home. “That was my manager on the phone and he wants me back right away.”
I had been summoned, but more important, I needed to talk to Carol, the first person I ever had intimate sex with.
The thirty-mile drive from my parent’s home to my college apartment seemed to take forever, with emotions ping ponged from guilt to relief and back to guilt. My unplanned one-day trip to visit my parents was to avoid a conflict with Gerald. Carol and I had been counting the box office receipts, when he parked across the street, got out of his yellow Buick, and glared.
Against Carol’s advice—he had obviously been drinking—I crossed the street rehearsing a question that I hoped would break the ice. His features were shadowed from the overhead streetlight and gave no indication of his temperament, but the strong odor of alcohol offered a clue.
“Are you willing to talk to me?” I chose my words carefully, opting against the blunt can we talk?
I accepted his snort as yes, because I hadn’t a prepared response if he refused.
“I’m so sorry about what happened between Carol and me. I would give anything to change that.” Silence. I chanced what only a naive young man might attempt. I held out my hand and said, “I’m hoping we can get past this and still be friends.”
The double irony of the situation, we weren’t friends before the incident. From the details Carol told me about their relationship, he wouldn’t be the kind of person I would want as a friend.
He stared at my hand and said, “And to think I was just beginning to trust you.” He stepped off the curb and headed toward the Paramount. Carol scrambled from the box office and disappeared into the theater. Gerald paused in mid street and headed toward the Sportsman Bar. I felt a sigh of relief when he bypassed my uncle’s bar in favor of a more rowdy bar a few doors down.
Later, as I was taking the receipts to the night deposit at the bank, a huge yellow Buick swerved, jumped the curb and came directly toward me. I froze, not knowing which way to move, but it swung back into the traffic. Gerald’s last words through his open window, “You fucker.”
I didn’t go to my apartment that night, but decided to pay my folks a visit. The next day was my day off and I didn’t care if I missed a day of school.
The seduction began a couple of months earlier when Carol and I were counting the matinee receipts. I joked that my landlady painted the toilet seat without telling me.
She laughed and said, “My sister’s fixing up an apartment in her basement you could rent. I’m living upstairs with her for the time being.”
Separated from their husbands, both sisters could use the extra money; it seemed like a logical decision. I moved a couple of days later, just before the storm of the century. When I woke up, I found approximately four inches of water covering the floor. Sloshing to the toilet I thought about the painted toilet seat, my reason for moving to this swimming pool. I retreated back to bed, the only dry spot, and pondered my predicament.
A light knock on the door and Carol’s voice, “Are you awake?”
She entered before I could answer, standing in the open door with the sunlight behind her. Her long blond hair usually tossed over her shoulder and spread across her left breast or braided and trailing behind her, was rolled tightly into a circle on top of her head. The few errant strands glittered.
She sat on the edge of my bed and said, “I’m sorry. We never expected a flooded basement. I wouldn’t blame you if you want to move out.”
I lay on my back grasping the single sheet tight to my neck. “Does this happen every time it rains?”
“It depends on what you mean by this.” She crossed her arms, lifted her negligee and thrust it aside. She stood and pulled the cover from my grasp. I remember her cold wet feet against mine, barely recovering from my trip to the bathroom. We were side by side, naked.
I can’t remember what happened, or didn’t happen, but she said, “Maybe if I let my hair down it will help,” so I assume our first attempt wasn’t a total success.
I didn’t need her to let her hair down to appear more sexy. That wasn’t the problem. I couldn’t tell her that the stretch marks on her stomach disturbed me. I knew she had children, but I had no idea what pregnancies can do to a woman’s stomach. To this day I imagine, if she thinks of the incident at all, she will assume letting her hair down did the trick. Actually, I shut my eyes, and it worked.
I hesitate to tell what happened next. Gerald burst into the room, sloshed to our bed and cuffed me across the face. He pulled Carol up by the hair and dragged her through the water and upstairs.
About a minute later Carol’s sister came down and said, “He’s gone, but you better get out of here.”
After a night in my car, my friend Del Hoppe and I located an apartment above Harry’s Bar at the opposite end of St. Germain from the Paramount. Del, a fellow college student, worked as a relief projectionist at the Paramount. We maintained our friendship to the present.
I suffered bouts of anger and guilt, the first against Carol and second against me, and our relationship never recovered to the openness we once shared. She got into trouble reselling tickets and pocketing the money, a somewhat common practice at the time, and agreed to quit. She remarried one of my college buddies.
I stopped at their apartment one evening after work to share the details of my promotion and was surprised at her protruding belly. I resisted asking if the wrinkles disappeared, and then began to mentally count our months of separation, although nearly a year had lapsed.
She grinned and patted her tummy. “It’s my husband’s baby.” She cast her gaze to the floor. “I miscarried Gerald’s baby.”
Gerald’s baby. I again began to mentally count but had no beginning or ending reference dates.
“You probably figured out that we reconciled before I quit at the Paramount, but you and I weren’t talking much at the time.”
My turn to stare at the floor. “I’m sorry.” For allowing her to take the blame or for the loss of her as my confidant, I couldn’t express at the time.
She ignored my apology. “Gerald took advantage of my guilt and forced himself sexually on me until I got pregnant. After the doctor established my due date, he shot himself.”
“He wanted you pregnant? Why?”
“I would have three kids to support, not an attractive situation for finding another husband.”
“Well, I guess you proved him wrong. Where is Gary?” When I had called she said he wasn’t home but I should come over anyhow.
“He hasn’t left me, if that’s what you’re thinking, nor are you going to get a repeat performance. We’ve hurt each other enough.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” I lied.
“Good. Now tell me what happened to Sammy?”
Sammy had been fired as manager of Paramount’s sister theater, and I was promoted to his position, the news I intended to share with Carol that evening. Theater business dominated our conversation the remainder of the evening. I wish we could have dug deeper into our relationship, which, except for one incident of sex, was like a brother sister. Had things worked out different, my seduction could have been a positive experience.
Like an older sister, Carol cautioned me about stumbling into a forced relationship by getting a girl pregnant. “Always carry condoms,” she had advised. “Look at me. Pregnant at age seventeen and forced into a bad marriage.”
I refused her advice because the sin would be premeditated. Ironically, she hadn’t offered a condom that morning in the flooded basement.
I believe her intent was my initiation to sex and wanted to make the experience a positive one for me. Another gift of irony, it turned out to be the least safe sex of all. The incident ultimately blended with all my other growing-up experiences and helped shape my character.
I only wish Gerald would have shaken my hand that night in front of the theater.


Decade Three: Career development and lasting relationships

My first encounter with Roger and his family, although brief, indicated much promise for a lasting relationship. Late spring, lush fresh-mown lawn and blooming shrubbery offered a backdrop of pleasant visuals and aromas, and I, too, had been nicely scented. Barb, Roger’s wife, lent a cautious eye to every nook and cranny, if I may use the expression to describe her scrutiny of a potential relationship.

Their two boys, Daniel and Darren, ages seven and three, added an element of excitement since children in my life had come and gone, the last as a young adult who wasn’t terribly young when we first met, with parents already beyond any adventurous forward-looking stage of their lives. Two of my neighbors had children Dan and Darren’s ages, myself not much older. A wonderful opportunity to host kids’ birthday parties—I doubt any bar miztvahs in this neighborhood, but who knows, it was 1974 in a progressive Minneapolis suburb.

Then no response. I still blame my matchmaker who introduced us, by no mean a spirited PR individual. Imagine my surprise when he returned with an appraiser and a purchase agreement signed on the dotted line. The only glitch, Roger, a wannabe realtor, decided to arrange their own financing, their nest-egg savings lacking of the required down payment. The dollar shortage probably due to the Storkamp family spending a summer touring Alaska, which also explains the break between their viewing the property and signing a purchase agreement.

My realtor, whom I disparaged a paragraph ago, proved to be the rule bender for which his profession is famous. In his case, a rule buster by presenting the bank a bogus sales agreement exaggerating the purchase price by three thousand dollars, from $33,000 to $36,000, thus qualifying for a larger loan. Through tears and embarrassment, Barb and Roger in that order, the deal solidified for the next twenty five years, Barb being the last of the family to say goodbye in 1999, my assessed value, $148,500. A recent sale at the time of this memoir, $286,400 with property taxes at $4972.

To my shame but not blame, the pleasant aromas that offered my appeal dissipated whenever fresh air was reduced as is the case with Minnesota winters. A foul and mysterious odor permeated from the laundry room. Frustrated, Roger took hammer and crowbar to the walls and exposed a recently self-evacuated resident family of mice, exiting so quickly the left steaming fresh poop atop the pile sectioned off for that purpose. A ladder zigzagged from poop station, to pantry of stored dog food, to a nest at the pinnacle. My previous owner had a dog but no mouse traps.

My garage saw an array of Automobiles from decade old Chevys and Fords to Late model police cars and auction block vehicles, most notably a 67’ Plymouth Wagon, Old Betsy the family’s battered but loved Alaska-or-Bust vehicle. (A special memoir segment in this blog dedicated to her) Gracing my exterior, half a dozen travel trailers parked alongside, on one occasion three of them back-to-back, excluding the 28 footer Ole Betsy pulled to Alaska and returned home empty handed.

The aforementioned shrubbery and lawn became accented with a utility shed and a forest of various species, maple, spruce, and popular. An issue I had to come to grips with concerns my exterior. As a man’s formal dinner suit requires a black tie, a house can be any color as long as it is white. Roger held out as long as possible until Barb and the neighbors convinced him I am not a rural Minnesota farm house. I took the insult to heart and agreed with their decision to paint me green to match the backyard forest, still in its infancy.

As a loyal protector from wind and rain, ice and snow, and burglars, I do not feel privy to expose the intimate nor the rambunctious activities within my walls, other than to say there were a great deal that filtered out into the yard and cul du sac. Vigorous interactions with neighbors are dealt with in other segments of this blog. Thank goodness, because they were enough to make any respectable house blush from green to red.


DECADE NUMBER TWO: exploration of my body, mind and environment

Let me begin by saying I never wanted to be in the seventh grade. I longed for the ninth grade at the new high school. I recall a nightmare where that two year time warp occurred. I stood at the front door of Father Pierz Memorial High School too embarrassed to enter because the legs in my faded denim jeans had huge holes and my bare knees were exposed. Today’s jeans are purchased with frayed and ragged body exposures, even across the butt.

That said, I have more memories from my seventh year than all the others combined, partly attributed to the onset of puberty and partly to my teacher, Sister LilyRosa OSB. Given a list of the fifty three students in my class, I could recall at least one memory of each person, be it as incidental as where he or she sat in relation to me or the time a girl who I won’t identify stood to read aloud with her dress tucked between her butt cheeks. She sat two seats in front of me.

I remember the class size because Sister LilyRosa celebrated her fifty-third anniversary in the classroom that year. The numbers matched. To her fifty three students, she seemed old, yet probably younger than I am as I record this memory. She began teaching before the turn of the century; now that makes her seem old!

Each morning Sister LilyRosa and Sister Roland from the eighth grade classroom across from us would leave us students unattended for their twenty minute coffee break. They said such freedom gave students the opportunity to show responsibility. Actually, it gave our class clown (no name mentioned, but not me) an audience to entertain with such antics as imitating our teacher and passing gas loudly. He must have eaten beans for breakfast to produce that kind of thunder.

In truth, the two nuns gave certain classroom tattletales an opportunity to hone their skills. One must have snitched on the classroom farter, because the parish pastor made a surprise visit to our class and pulled the culprit from the room. The humbled student returned from the storeroom with the imprint of the priest’s hand on his face, and, I think, he went back to eating normal breakfasts. The single slap was the reverend’s trademark.

One time I almost met with the farter’s fate in that same storeroom. One of our playground games included a pocket knife. We’d face an opponent a few feet apart and toss the knife to his left or right. If it stuck, he’d have to stretch his leg to that point. The object was to get as many tosses without stabbing his foot or making his stretch impossible. We’d play this game when playing drop-the-marble got boring.

I don’t recall what happened, but here’s the account I gave Father Voigt after being called from Sister LilyRosa’s classroom. “I was cleaning my fingernails with my pocket knife when Kenny tagged me even though I wasn’t playing that game. I swung around and accidentally cut his hand between thumb and finger.”

The priest glared down at me. I was tall for a seventh grader, but he seemed much taller. “Let me see the knife.”
I dug it from my pocket.

“Open the blade.”

I opened all three blades. He took the knife.

“Are you and Kenny friends?”

“We don’t usually hang together, but we get along.” Truth is, he was a city kid, and I lived in the country; came to school on a bus—not a matter of prestige. A second truth known to teachers and students alike, neither of us would ever fight anyone. I don’t think we were pegged as cowards, but our temperaments precluded any sort of violence.

“If you want your knife back, come to the church rectory after school. Now go back to class.”

I don’t recall if I retrieved the knife—going to the priest’s inner sanctum was akin to entering a haunted castle. But I suspect Father Voigt held high expectations for Kenny and me. Four decades later, he singled out our successes—Kenny a medical doctor and I a doctorate in education—in his published history of our town, Pierz, Minnesota.


We had no physical education classes in our school; just a playground area near the school for the lower grades and a grassy field opposite the church where fifth through eighth graders grades were encouraged to play ball games. I recall one game with the country kids pitted against the town kids. Not only was the score lopsided, but we country kids never even got up to bat before the school bell called us back into the building. The kids from town had the advantage of little league baseball in summer. We chose up sides after that fiasco, but we all knew who got picked first and who last. I lost interest in playing ball and didn’t even participate the last day of the school year when our entire class had the full afternoon off to play ball. It was bad enough to strike out in front of the boys, but having younger and older girls laugh at me would have been too painful.

Being unsupervised, I don’t recall any problems other than a few kids leaving the property to buy candy over the noon hour. The local store owners were instructed to send those students back to school, and most of us didn’t have money to spend anyhow. During special farm equipment demonstration days in town, country kids could join their fathers for free hot dogs and pop, but they needed a note from home.
Except for that last day of school, I don’t remember girls participating in ball games with the boys, they just seemed to stand around and giggle a lot. By the seventh and eighth grades, some of us boys quit playing ball and socialized with the girls.

One particular girl, Betty Ann, caught my interest. My friend Dennis and I hung around with her and her friend, Gail, most of our seventh grade. We teased and bantered back and forth. For instance, Gail snitched on me back in the first grade. Neat rows of paper pockets like the ones found on inside covers of library books had been tacked onto a bulletin board, one for each student. Whenever someone broke a rule, a red strip of construction paper would mysteriously appear in that student’s pocket. I knew Gail had put the red flag in mine for running down the hallway on the way to the bathroom. She accused me of reciprocating and I denied it.

Sister LilyRosa embarrassed Betty Ann and Gail by labeling them boy crazy in front of the entire class. Dennis and I got off free, but the girls weren’t as much fun to be with after that. I don’t think Betty Ann was completely aware of my feelings for her. She became my first official date when I finally reached the ninth grade but, like tasting a new food for the first time, she spit me out. I was devastated but survived. Dennis and Gail’s relationship lasted well into high school. I still consider Dennis my best friend although we don’t get together very often.

Although I seldom participated in sports at school, I kept active at home; summer time lawn and garden work and in winter shoveling snow. Although my family didn’t live on an active farm, I raised rabbits and bantam chickens. In my free time, I traipsed across fields to neighbors with kids my age, and sometimes just to reach my favorite quiet spot out in the woods. I hired out for such farm jobs as catching chickens, or picking rocks, or stomping silage, even some limited tractor driving. (A year later I did most kinds of farm work, sometimes living away from home for months at a time.)

During the 1952-53 school year, the changes occurring within my body caused discomfort, physically and emotionally. I couldn’t trust that my voice might betray my anxiety, and body odors, mostly bad breath, worried me. Should I shave the sproutings of a moustache or treat it as baby fuzz. And most of all, what the devil was happening between my legs.

Fresh Start

Author note: This is a revision of some earlier submissions

My professional career spanned the last third of the twentieth century and completed its tenure in a year identified with three zeros, that number not occurring since the last millennium or until the next. I decided to avoid gainful employment any future year with even one zero. Back to work in year 2111.

First major life style change, a move to Las Vegas.

Laurie, my wife, asked, “Why Las Vegas?”

I shrugged. “No particular reason other than, like Mt. Everest, because it’s there.”

“Okay. I’ll pack my bags.”

Like a snake, I slithered out of my winter skin and entered a world sun-bleached and desert-brown from Minnesota’s alternating green and white.

My first foray into one of many active clubs in Del Webb Senior Community led to Sun City Writers Group. I have collected over one hundred of my creative writing exercises to selectively publish on my blog.

Day one, I set out to write the Great American Novel. Within the decade, I over achieved this goal by half: three American Novels and one set in outer space, all good but none great. Since then, a short play and two memoirs with a third, my own, in progress, of which this is a part.

Parallel to my literary pursuits, a musical challenge, specifically singing in St. Andrews church choir, followed by trying out with the Sun City Music Makers, a choral harmony group.

“What range do you sing?” A logical question from the director.

“The last time I participated in a choral group I still sang soprano.”

Without cracking a smile, he said, “Let’s hear you sing the scale.” To the pianist, “Give him a C.” Her name wasn’t Sam.

I sang up and down, each time to a higher and lower note.

“You’ve got a two-octave range. Good. Can you read music?”

“A bit.” My memory slid back to Sister Margot who taught weekly half-hour sessions for each of eight grades and directed our high school choir.

“If I told you to go to D flat on measure ten, could you find it?”

“You mean those little black things have names.”

A muffled chuckle. “Maybe you should re audition after a few sessions with the Silvertones.”

Eight years I participated in the suggested sing-along group, three of them as their president, before joining the Music Makers. I continue singing with both choral groups and the church choir, expecting to continue throughout the next decade.
My concert exposure reintroduced me to acting on stage, dormant since high school. Drafted into a Sun City Community Theater musical, I have since taken roles in half a dozen plays, ending my career by drinking poison.

My literary involvements exceeded singing and acting performances: two book discussion groups, two writers’ groups, and two local critique groups and one on the internet. I continue to write and edit my previous works to publish on my website/blog, currently a story about a five-year-old boy sent to Minnesota on the Orphan Train in 1899.

Regrets, I’ve had a few, too few to mention, not always my way. My philosophy of life, I may not always get what I want, but I usually learn to want what I get.

A breakdown of my anticipated eighty five years alive on this planet:
25 years preparing for a career
35 years in that career
25 years beyond my career (10 more anticipated)

Any remaining years beyond eighty-five, I intend to just idle away, probably lying on my back with life support tubes invading my body.

Tribute to Mom (Dad)

My parents wedding announcement and a memory of my mother


St. Cloud Daily Times
Monday, May 30, 1936

Rosalene Diedrich , Paul Storkamp Wed, St. Mary’s Cathedral.

Pastel shades of peach and aqua in billow net and the elaborate white silk of the bridal ensemble were the colors seen in the gown of the bridal party when Miss Rosalene Diedrich and Paul Storkamp exchanged nuptial vows the 9 a.m. Saturday before a host of relatives and friends. Rt. Rev. Msgr. Edward Mahowald was the officiating clergyman at the ceremony that took place in the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception.

The bride entered the church on the arm of her father Mathew Diedrich who gave her in marriage. A crystal rosary gift of the bridegroom, and a sheaf of calla lilies tied with white streamers that extended floor length were accessories of the bride who was lovely in creation of white silk net that had a tailored lace inset in the bodice and stand-up collar. Net covered buttons closed the front bodice and puffed sleeves added the final note of quaintness to the gown. Bridal illusion was held in place with three gardenias and flared in three graduating lengths over the shoulder extending in a long train. Valenciennes lace edges the three tiers and veil proper to give it an accent of richness. Long white lace mitts completed the bridal attire gowned in Aqua and peach.

Miss Marie Storkamp, sister of the bridegroom, and Miss Winnie Mueller, a friend were bridesmaids gowned alike in aqua blue and peach net. Net models respectively made with Bouffant skirt and ruffled hems. The lace in the bodice received the same tailored treatment seen in the bridal gown. Lace belts finished the waistlines. Talisman roses blossomed on the waist length ruffle trim veils that matched the hue of the dresses. Talisman roses and sweet peas were arranged in colonial bouquet tied with bows with streamers extending floor length, and were of the shade to contrast with their ensembles, peach for Miss Storkamp and aqua .
Peach and aqua and white streamers made the place of the reception festive of the day. Mrs. Arthur Diedrich, sister-in-law of the bridegroom,, made the three tier wedding cake that was frosted in peach white and aqua and centered with a tiny bridal couple. A dance was given at the Granite City Coliseum in the evening.
Live in St. Cloud.

After returning from their wedding trip into northern Minnesota Mr. and Mrs. Storkamp will be at home on June 5, at 101-14 avenue north. The recent bridegroom in engaged in the road construction work.


Pierz Woman Dies Suddenly
Pierz—Mrs. Paul Storkamp (Rosalyn) Storkamp, 49, Pierz, died unexpectedly this morning at her home apparently of a heart attack. Mrs. Storkamp was owner and operator of the Pierz Café.
She was born Sept. 30, 1919 in St. Cloud and had lived in Pierz since 1943.

Surviving are her husband, Paul: four sons, Roger, Glen, Jerry, and Charles at home; four daughters, Mrs. Charles (Joelle) Fuhrman and Mrs. Roman (Kathleen) Block both of Pierz; Jacqueline and Paula at home; eight grandchildren, her mother, Mrs. Rose Diedrich and two brothers, Arthur and Roman, all of St. Cloud.
Funeral arrangements are pending at the Virnig Funeral Home in Pierz.


Decade Two: Exploration of My Body, Mind and Environment
Herb, Larry, and Art

Of my sixteen uncles my dad’s brother, Herb; my dad’s brother-in-law, Larry; and my mother’s brother, Art, had unique and important impacts on my personal development. Also, two non-relatives influenced my childhood, Renie Konen, and my teen years, Earl Bayerl.
Herbert Storkamp: My relationship with Herb, briefly touched on in the childhood section of this memoir, went deeper than ordinary day to day interactions, almost to a spiritual level. In the eighth grade I selected him as my conformation sponsor. Herb embodied qualities of deep thinking, quiet suffering, and unfortunately, alcoholism. He’d approach a problem with serious concentration and a beer in hand, as if they were indispensably linked.

A tragedy from his past surfaced when I set his tractor on fire by refueling with the engine running.

I sensed a problem when vapors rose from the manifold and stepped back just before the fire roared up and around the gas can, its spout still stuck in the tractor’s tank. I grabbed a shock of grain and tried to beat out the fire, a dangerous and foolish action of a panic stricken fourteen-year-old. However, Herb’s adult but slightly retarded brother-in-law knocked the can free with a pitchfork and bragged about his bravery.

After the firemen came and left, my uncle restarted the tractor, ripped off the remnants of the seat cushion, and said, “It’s best to get right back on before you think about it and lose your nerve.” The remainder of the day, my bottom bounced on the iron seat and my hands blackened from the charred steering wheel.

That evening he admitted, “I shouldn’t be one to scold after the fire I caused.” He didn’t mention or need to tell me that his former wife and two children died in that fire. I couldn’t then nor now imagine the constant pain he suffered.

Herb’s brother-in-law got a second chance to prove his bravery that summer when I might have caused another tractor fire. We had been pitching oat bundles into the thrashing machine when one must have dropped onto the flat belt and rode back to the tractor powering the machine. Again, heat off the manifold ignited the soft straw.

That evening over bottles of beer—my first and most memorable—he reported to the crew, “I jumped off the wagon and ran so fast I could’ve kicked a jack rabbit in the ass.”

I laughed with the rest, not realizing until later that Herb probably assumed I, not his brother-in-law, carelessly dropped the bundle onto the belt. Both fires occurred nearly back-to-back involving a teenaged nephew, the same age his son would have been had he not perished in a fire.

Years later, I asked Herb permission to name our newborn Daniel, the name of his deceased son. He merely nodded his consent. He already had a second daughter name June.

Not until my isolation during treatment for chemical dependency had I analyzed our relationship in the context of alcohol. I believe he self-medicated to relieve pain, whereas I, according to my therapist, self-medicated to keep my high in check. We had much in common.
Larry Taufen: My contact with Uncle Larry was less direct than with Uncle Herb. (I regret not addressing them as uncles, but my parents established the custom of using first names.) Larry was my godfather, and I claim his Christian name as my middle name. He always addressed me as Rogerus Lawrencibus, a Latinized version proclaimed by the priest at my baptism. To me it was proof that he witnessed the event whenever I panicked that my parents might have accidentally forgotten to have me baptized and faked that they had. Going to Hell loomed throughout my adolescent and early adulthood. Since then I learned that Hell is something we inflict upon ourselves while still alive.

Larry gave me birthday and Christmas presents until the year I was confirmed, probably passing that responsibility to another sponsor, Uncle Herb. The one present imbedded in my memory, the tricycle airplane I mounted on a swing. His hoisting me nearly to the ceiling and threatening to push me through an invisible hole must have been an early memory. He couldn’t have lifted a pudgy a six or seven year old.

In 1948 Joelle and I were invited to spend a couple of days with Uncle Larry, Aunt Tally, and their three children younger than our ages, seven and nine. Friends of our family drove us to South St. Paul and dropped us off at Larry’s business, the Haas Livestock Commission Co. where he managed the office. Fascinated, I gawked as Larry’s fingers seemed to dance across the keys of an adding machine, a trucker who had delivered a load of cattle stood over him. They seemed to agree on the sum, and Larry told an office worker to write him a check. He showed us his sound booth in the attic from which he announced the cattle and hog prices each morning, included in that report one January morning in 1965, the wedding of his nephew, Roger Storkamp, and Barbara Mack in Minneota, Minnesota.

On the way to his home at lunch time he said, “Look for the biggest house on the block.” We pointed and he pulled into the driveway. “Mother and I expect a lot of children,” a prediction fulfilled to match that of my family of eight siblings.

While our aunt prepared lunch, Larry pointed to what looked like a radio with a window. He said, “Later this afternoon you can watch television when KSTP begins broadcasting.” Half an hour before Laurel and Hardy began, we stared at the glass fascinated with the NBC test pattern. As promised, Stan and Ollie performed their antics as college students bungling through a hedge-maize.

That evening I fell asleep in their living room, the last I remember a man clinging beneath a railroad car, probably escaping some greater danger. The next morning I awoke, having wet the bed.

I didn’t get to visit the holding pen at Haas Stock Commission Co., nor did I realize that end of his business until I revisited when I student taught in a neighboring suburb fifteen years later. When I hinted at a job with his company, he cautioned me to avoid agencies because customers were starting to bypass the middle man. Richard Boser proved that point when he established farmer-direct cattle marketing in Pierz.

Uncle Larry approved of my career choice and expressed his pride, adding that he never doubted I would be successful. I didn’t have the presence of mind to admit nor had I fully realized how much of a mentor he had been to me.

Art Diedrich: My relation with Uncle Art was even more indirect than with Uncles Herb and Larry. His interest in my well being didn’t manifest itself until my sophomore year in college, my first at St. Cloud State University. He had built two successful businesses, Granite Inn and Sportsman Bar, according to my parents with the help of Fat Nick.

Uncle Art became my mentor in an enterprise greater than any business venture I could ever pursue, my college education. I approached college like most adventures in my life, just jump in and see what happens. To add to that fault, I redo a lot of second guessing past adventures. My psychiatrist during treatment for alcoholism, the same one who declared me manic depressive and prescribed lithium, advised me to avoid looking back at events that can’t be changed.

I defended, “I do it to learn from my mistakes.”

She shook her head and said, “Your behavior appears to be more compulsive and just reflective.”

For that she went to graduate school for twelve years? Since then I’ve taken her advice, somewhat. This memoir is not an exercise of my what if compulsion, but rather taking ownership of my past, and the amusement of my readers.

Specifically, Uncle Art gave me a job cleaning the Sportsman Bar and stocking the coolers early each morning. Larry Stewart, a future mentor of mine, complained over a glass of brandy that his assistant manager at the Paramount Theater quit unexpectedly. Uncle Art recommended and vouched for the integrity of his twenty-year-old nephew, not an usher or ticket taker, but full assistant manager. I was thrust into a suit and tie career, wardrobe Uncle Art loaned me the money to purchase. He put his reputation on the line for me and I didn’t let him down, mostly. My immaturity and false sense of achievement occasionally interfered, but after two years I had worked myself to full manager of the Hays Theater. A negative spin off, my college class work suffered, taking nearly six years to earn a teaching degree with marginal grades.