Saturday Night

In the 50’s, before the big box store and franchise waves destroyed nearly every Main Street in small town America, villages were alive with thriving small businesses built on a farm economy.  But it was no cake walk for businessmen. The five day forty hour week was a futuristic concept.  Six times a week, workdays began at 7:00 AM and ended at 6:00 PM, except for Saturdays during the summer, when stores reopened from 7:00 PM to 9:00. For a kid, and probably for adults too, summer-time Saturday nights in Lowry were exciting.  Country and town folk alike cleaned up and “went to town”.  My father would knock off work early at 5:30, clean up and have a quick supper and head back to the hardware store. Bib overalls were exchanged for a “uniform”, matching shirt and trousers in army green or navy blue - no tie.

By 7:30 there was not a parking place to be had on Main Street. Joe the butcher’s popcorn machine was pinging away outside the meat market.  The Dahl House Cafe was doing banner business with hand-scooped ice cream cones at a nickel a scoop - chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. The tavern was SRO.  And the gossip flew.  More talk than money exchanged, except perhaps at the tavern while at the hardware the bulk of commerce was free advice.  But, this summer ritual was an important part of the area’s sense of community.

Saturday night was “Great Expectations” for kids of a certain age.  Something interesting and dangerous was sure to happen.  

My first order of business was to walk Main Street east side and back on the west side checking out cars.  I am told when I was 5, I could name the make and model of every vehicle on main street. This “talent” even got me a mention in "The Beachcomber" column in Pope County Tribune one slow news week.  

In the 50’s cars were not all indistinguishable clones.  Big finned Plymouths, 3 hole Buicks, classic ‘51/‘56 Ford and ‘57 Chevy, but nary a Cadillac. Lowry folk would not be so pretentious, or so foolish with their hard-earned money, although Doc Lee drove a ‘55 T-Bird to the clinic on his twice a week office hours in Lowry. It was a wonder.  

Some of my older buddies seemed much more interested in who might be in these cars than the styling though.  Sparking was not something I was at all ready for. 

But another reason for my fascination with cars was the fact we didn’t have one. We went everywhere in dad’s work pickup, four of us packed in. Made me wonder if we were poor. Who didn’t have a car?

Come Saturday night, some of the more incorrigible gang members would look for opportunities for mischief – climbing the water tower, firecrackers, water balloons, ….  The east side of main street had no empty lots and it was possible to go the length of the block from south to north on rooftop, making wonderful water artillery locations.  I never had the nerve.  

The standard entertainments included a pinball machine in the Dahl House but there was always a waiting line on Saturday night, so although my grandmother would have disowned me had she known, occasionally, I would sneak into the tavern with Big Time to play the bowling game or cards (hearts or rummy). Daring stuff.

At 8:00, the whistle would blow, signaling the big event of the evening - “The Drawing” - held usually at McIver’s Store, the local mercantile. To enter, all that was required was to “do business” in town, but you had to be present to win. Lowry’s forerunner of the Chamber of Commerce, the “Commercial Club” sponsored the drawing and gave away prizes of $25, $10 and $5 each week – good for trade at any local business - “Lowry Bucks”.  In addition, McIver’s offered up a free bag of groceries.  The people packed into the store while Howard picked names out of the barrel and gave the winners' some grief. I suspect the tavern redeemed most of the “bucks”.

Saturday night was also the opportunity for young trapper entrepreneurs to redeem the week’s bounty of gopher feet with the county agent – 10 cents for striped gopher feet, 25 for pocket gophers. Pocket gophers created dirt mounds in farmers’ fields and were a nuisance.  Savvy trappers managed to cajole an additional quarter from the farmer on whose land the rodent met its demise, doubling the take. I tried this trapper business a few times. Big Time taught me how to find the hole in the mound (at the cusp), dig it out and set and anchor the trap.  But even at 50 cents a gopher, getting up at 6:00 AM and riding my bike 5 miles into the country to check my traps every day was way too much work. Perhaps an early indication of a lazy-boy attitude?  And my mother really didn’t appreciate a can of gopher feet in the refrigerator. I preferred extorting money from friends and relatives with fast, sloppy lawn-mowing jobs.

After the 8 o’clock drawing, the crowd slowly thinned – 6 AM chores with church following loomed. And for the gang, perhaps bicycle chase in the dark or a stealing apple escapade until the 10 o’clock whistle blew.

Baseball

In the 50’s, baseball was king.  No other professional sport had a following like the 16 Major League teams.  Baseball was indisputably “America’s game”. Up until 1958, and the so called “greatest game ever played” - the sudden death Colts over the Giants win - the NFL was small potatoes, although I must admit I always hoped for decent TV reception for annual the Packer - Lion game on Thanksgiving Day. The NBA had franchises in Syracuse, Cincinnati and Fort Wayne for heavens sakes and was dominated by the Minneapolis Lakers - yes, Minneapolis Lakers.  And the NHL had but 6 teams dominated by the Montreal Canadiens with a lot of players with french sounding names.  Hardly made the sports page.  And there were no “W” leagues.

In ‘57, the hated Yankees had appeared in 8 of the last 10 World Series, and won 7.  The others were won by Cleveland in '48, Giants in '54 and Dodgers in '55. (That’s the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers). So perhaps it was really New York City’s game.  But Willie, Mickey and the Duke debates were national and everyone had a favorite team.

Baseball was my passion.  It consumed my thoughts and my time throughout the summers. Summer saturday afternoons were dedicated to the Game of the Week with announcers Buddy Blattner & Dizzy Dean.  My mother would wince at Dizzy’s “ain’t gonna get nobody” or “he slud into second” or "he shouldn't hadn't oughta swang" grammatical constructions, but Dizzy kept things interesting even when the picture went haywire. Of course this was black and white TV, but the beauty and grace of the game came through just fine.

The Cleveland Indians were my favorite team - I not sure why, perhaps because they were the only team that seemed a challenge to the Yankees.  It annoyed me that the Yankees used Kansas City as a farm club. Whenever they needed shoring up at some position or someone emerged as a talent in KC, off went some over-the-hill veteran to KC and the next superstar moved to New York.  (Think 36 year old Hank Bauer for Roger Maris). My favorite Cleveland players were Rocky Colavito and Herb Score.  I would imitate them in our pickup games. I would point the bat at the pitcher like I was sighting in a rifle just like Rocky and when pitching, I would follow-through and fall off the “mound” just like Herb.  I decided that wasn’t such a great idea when Herb took a career ending line drive in the eye off the bat of Gil McDougald, so I changed my pitching style to match Warren Spahn’s, finishing facing the plate with the glove ready. 

I loved those Indians and I even ordered an “official” Indians baseball cap from the back page ads of Sport Magazine, dark-blue with the classic C above the bill, not the obscene Indian.

But I divorced the Indians for the Milwaukee Braves (the fact that the Braves beat the Yankees in the '57 World Series made the transition much easier, being the front-runner that I was). Cleveland had unbelievably traded Rocky to Detroit for Harvey Kuehn and I couldn't forgive them. Heck, I had traded a Harvey Kuehn, a Rocky Bridges and a Pee Wee Reese (I had two) for a Rocky Colavito. 



I had a major-league major league baseball card collection and the bubble gum cavities to prove it. Except for Sunday School offering and an occasional Sugar Daddy, every nickel I could scrounge went for those penny-a-piece bubble gum cards with pictures of heroes inside. I think I single-handedly kept Vrooman's Grocery in business. I could recite statistics like no tomorrow.  I knew every batting average, ERA, slugging percentage, win-loss record and all the teams each player had played for.  I would spend hours sorting and studying those cardboard treasures – and plotting some way to sucker someone into trading me a Jackie Robinson or Whitey Ford. I'm sure I could have retired years earlier if my mother had not trashed that treasure trove.

Offseason, APBA Baseball fed my addiction as well as my obsession with baseball statistics.  With this game, each year you received a set of cards representing each player’s performance for the year prior and statistically guaranteed that through the magic of the roll of the dice, that this performance would be reproduced in your game setting.  APBA allowed you to “play a season” of games.  By managerial strategy, I had the power to change history. I diligently kept statistics on every player as I went through the games – without the aid of a computer, I might add.  

Another outlet for my passion was the local “town team”.  Until Major League baseball appeared in Minnesota, virtually every town with any self respect had a town team. Every summer Sunday afternoon I’d either bike to the town team field on the edge of town or cajole my parents or my uncle to drive me the to the away game.  My dad was the groundskeeper. After church, he dragged the infield with a makeshift wooden contraption loaded down with cement blocks and pulled behind his pickup. The infield was dirt and my job was to follow behind and pick up any rocks the dragging dragged up. Anything to avoid those bad hops. I rarely missed a Lowry ball game. I tried to get there early enough to watch BP. King was the official batboy, but occasionally, I’d get a chance.  Wow.  I even had a uniform with “L” on the chest and #10 on the back. #10 was Jerry’s number and he was the pitcher and shortstop, the positions I aspired to.

Lowry was in the Resorters League and played Brandon, Evansville, Kensington, Millerville, Miltona, and Holmes City for the right to advance to playoffs. These guys were pretty good and usually were near the top of the standings and occasionally advanced to the state tournament.  The players were local guys who spent their week farming or bricklaying or clerking at the bank with a few high school players mixed in to fill out the roster. I loved those games.  Glenn, Geener, Gary, Donuts, Jerry, Davey, Georgie, Ben ... I knew all their statistics too. At home games, kids would scramble after foul balls or the occasional home run, because whoever retrieved the ball got a nickel from Uncle Dave. Baseballs were a buck apiece, so losing one was a financial setback for the club. The field itself was not quite major league caliber. The infield was dirt, the outfield fence was a snow fence and right field sloped so severely that you could just see the upper half of the right-fielder from the stands. Of course, there were no batting helmets then and one of the scariest moments I had yet experienced in my life was when Glenn was beaned by the Millerville pitcher and was taken away by ambulance.

One of my fondest childhood baseball memories was going to a Minneapolis Millers game at old Nicollet Park.  My dad and a couple of uncles who lived in the Twin Cities took me to a night game against the Indianapolis Indians. The Twin Cities had two Triple A teams. The Millers bounced between the New York Giants & the Boston Red Sox farm team and the St. Paul Saints were the Brooklyn Dodgers team.  They played in the in the American Association, the last step on the road to the majors. Most didn’t get there, but lots of future stars came through these teams – Ted Williams, Willie Mays, Duke Snider, Roy Campenella, Ray Dandridge, Carl Yazstremski.

I can remember almost nothing about the game itself but the setting is seared in my memory. We had seats on the first base side under the overhanging second deck. I had never seen a night baseball game and flood of incredible light amazed me. Used to the dirt infield of Lowry park, I gasped at the incredible greenness of the place.  The players looked super human to me in their crisp whites and their amazing speed and agility.  When I saw the movie “Field of Dreams” with the scene where Kevin Costner and James Earle Jones were sitting at Fenway Park – along the first base line, no less – I said “That’s it, that is Nicollet Park 1957.”  That movie scene captured for me that same beauty of the game. The visit to Nicollet Park also confirmed the wisdom of my career choice - major league shortstop.

But my real joy was “playing baseball”.  My most treasured possession was my six-fingered Eddie Matthews’ model baseball glove.  I wasn’t a Boy Scout but I was “always prepared”.  The glove hung from the handlebars of my bike at all times.  I fancied myself a pretty slick fielder and envisioned my career as a shortstop, but since my hitting tended to lack some punch, a 4-eyes Roy McMillan model.

In a town of 250, organizing a baseball game called for some creativity.  There just weren’t eighteen guys available to play a real game, so most of the games were four on four affairs at best, played on the skating rink with the stone chimney of the rink house serving as a backstop. That stone chimney was brutal on a real baseball, so most of our baseballs had had the cover knocked off and were wrapped with black electrical tape - and weighed about a pound - so usually we used a 15 cent rubber ball - the kind with seams like a real baseball - so we could toss our “curve ball”.  We used only two bases.  Home plate doubled as second base while first & third shared a gunny sack behind the pitcher, so the pitcher was positioned midway between home and first.  A Brit might have mistaken this game for cricket, but to us cricket was something to catch and put in a mason jar.

One major problem with the rink diamond was that just across the alley was Hank’s garden.  I’ve got to admit it was a pretty spectacular vegetable garden, but for us it was a terrifying foul ball hazard.  We used the warming house as the backstop, but invariably someone would foul one off into the garden.  Now as I said, it was a pretty spectacular vegetable garden with sweet corn six feet high and carrots and string beans and leafy stuff that would devour the ball. It took a lot of courage to venture across that alley into the garden looking for the lost ball. If we weren’t quick enough, Mr. or Mrs. Hank would come barging out his back door screaming bloody murder and we would run for our lives.  Hank had a pretty fine collection of baseballs.  

For some reason, Dubshay had no fear. Courage or stupidity?  Most of us were pretty sure.  So, although his baseball skills weren’t spectacular, he was a valued team member because he was always willing to forage for foul balls.  I remember one memorable exchange between Mr. Hank and Dubshay:  

“What the hell you doin with that bat?”  

“What the hell you doin with that pail?”

On the rare but treasured occasions when we could muster ten or so of us, we would head over to the schoolyard and play on a “real diamond”.  We played without a first basemen, and used “cross out” for the plays at first. If an infielder (or an outfielder) fielded a ground ball and could throw the ball between the runner and the first base bag, the runner was out. This tended to keep you alert running to first base, and also inspired some extra hustle.  It was mighty embarrassing to be thrown out at first from the outfield. This rule did cause the flow of the game to be a bit disconnected because we were forever retrieving that cross out ball. Right field paralleled the highway, and it was paved and sloped sharply downhill, so when a ball got to it, it tended to go for a while.  The team at bat had to have someone on a bike as designated retriever. As a disincentive, and since we had only 1 guy who batted left-handed, any ball hit onto that highway was an out.  We had the shift defense long before the major leagues.  But there was a line of trees bordering the highway, so if you were daring you could hope that the ball would ricochet off a tree trunk and stay in play. The batting team always had to furnish the catcher, which frequently spawned vigorous discussions when a dropped throw at home allowed a runner to score.  In our league, you could strike out but there was no such thing as a walk. Swing the bat! If we only had a few guys, we’d play workup.  You kept batting until you made an out and then you went to the outfield and everyone moved up a position.  We only allowed 2 batters so if you hit a single you had to score from first on the next kid’s hit or it was out in the field with you.

My love of baseball has not faded over the years, enhanced by arrival of Major League baseball in Minnesota in 1961.  It is still the most beautiful game and I still hate the Yankees.

Hoplin & Nelson Hardware

The fact that the hardware was owned and operated by my family does not alter the fact that the hardware store was the most interesting business place in town. It had loads of interesting stuff. This was a business that had been in continuous operation since the 1890’s and except for the 1953 addition to the south and the refurbish of the front façade to add brick facing, large display windows and a canopy, it was little changed in 40 years.  

 

It was purchased from Stark & Anderson in 1916 by my grandfather and his Nelson brothers-in-law, hence, “Hoplin & Nelson Hardware”, although initially it was called Lowry Hardware, Furniture & Machinery Company (and Undertaking), although undertaking did not appear on the letterhead. Small town diversification principles suitable for a Harvard Business School case study. Here you could buy nails by the pound, a single screw or bolt if that’s what you needed - in hundreds of size/length combinations, a hog trough, a manure spreader, a vice grip, udder balm, bailing twine, a 4-10, dynamite, a Schwinn bike, a gopher trap, a P-trap, a pitchfork, a shotgun can, a can of paint - and linseed oil to stretch it, Melmac dishes, a spatula, a depression glass bowl, a Maytag ringer washer, ... and have your broken window or torn screen repaired while you waited.  Or a coffin.  And you could charge it without having a credit card. This was full service hardware, open 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Saturday - except for closing at 3 p.m. on Good Friday and Christmas eve. Customers didn’t worry whether something was in stock. They knew this place would have what they needed – or, if not, some kind of workaround. 

In the late 40’s, the undertaker business had been spun-off and was thriving in the county seat, if thriving is the right word to describe a funeral home.  A successful spinoff a la Happy Days & Laverne & Shirley. Also, in the late '40s, a sister store was established - Hoplin & Nelson, Brandon - the town where the Hoplin and the Nelson immigrants landed, from Norway & Sweden respectively. The two stores were pretty much carbon copies but the Brandon store was new, roomier and more well scrubbed than the Lowry version.

The hardware was also an institution of learning. People didn’t come in just to make a purchase, they needed instruction as well.  A trip to the hardware store was a chance to be educated on the intricacies of plumbing or electrical wiring or how to deploy ditching dynamite.

“How much paint does it take to cover a 9 x 12 bedroom? Should I be using latex or oil base?”  

“Do I need the ½ or ¾ inch galvanized roofing nails.”  

“Why is this green baling twine better and why the heck should I pay an extra 50 cents for it?"  

Or scarier - “How much fuse should I use for this ditching dynamite?”  “Depends on how fast you can run” was the stock answer.  

One unfortunate dynamiter tried getting rid of his mongrel dog with a stick of dynamite tied to the tail. Effective, but the dog ran under the front porch.  Back to the hardware store with a side trip to the Lumber Yard.

It was like a dime novel – every customer with their own story, arriving looking forlorn, holding pieces of a P-trap or wondering whether it they needed 14-2 or 14-3  UF or NM wire to hook up that light in the chicken coop. And by the way, how do you do that?  And frequently, the desperate phone call at 5:55 pleading for the store to stay open – “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.  I’m out of fuses and I’ve got cows to milk.”

But perhaps just as important, a trip to town afforded an opportunity pick up a bit of local “information”.  This was a little different forum than the restaurant, less raucous, less public, more subdued, with the conversations usually involving Martin or Dave and one or two customers at a time.  The customers were mostly men but Marian was there to help the ladies and she knew her stuff – she was actually the “handyman” of the crew.  She generally handled assembling the hog troughs & bicycles, cutting glass and repairing broken windows and torn screens.  I learned some valuable lessons about attitude from her – the willingness and fearlessness to tackle new tasks with the confidence that “we can figure this out”.  

The store was a classic farm oriented hardware – a long and narrow space with islands holding segregated merchandise - the plumbing island, the electrical island, the farm island, the kitchen island, etc. No space was unused, with pitchforks, shovels, V-belts hanging on the walls and shelves of paint to the ceiling.  The ceilings were high, and, I would have to say in retrospect, with beautiful porcelain lights dropping down from the knob & tube wiring.  The floors were worn and warped oak slats with sweeping compound nuzzled into every crack and cranny.  (Every day at closing, the place was swept out with a healthy dose of that red compound put down to keep the dust under control).  And above the front door, painted words in five languages: Thank You,  Danke Schoen, Tusen Tak, Tack så Mycket, Děkuji.

The hub of the action was the nail counter holding a dozen or so bins with nails of the most popular sizes built to hold a full keg. The nail scale, the rolls of wrapping paper, bag racks and the cash register sat atop the counter.  Here was where the banter from the customers occurred. And I was amazed that Martin never had to use an adding machine, even when the charge list spanned pages.

The most imposing feature of the store was the north wall, a massive hand built oak cabinet structure with doors and drawers and cubby holes that held items for sale whose purpose was often a mystery to me, but endlessly interesting to explore. “What’s a zerk and why are there so many different kinds?”  “Why do you need a dynamite cap? And why are they locked up?”  I also innocently provided entertainment by asking what I thought were well reasoned questions like “What’s a ballcock for?”  “Why are they called male and female couplings?” No answers, just chuckles. The north wall also had a wonderful oak ladder that rolled on a track and allowed clerks to climb to the upper reaches of the wall to retrieve the low demand items stored there.  And it was taken for a ride along the rails quite regularly.

At the very back of the store and up three steps was the office, a tiny 10 x 12 space with a classic rolltop desk, a wall safe, ledgers, and the posting machine.  Almost every hardware purchase was on credit and the daily routine included posting charges to the accounts of the patrons.  

Here was where checks were written – to United Hardware, FOK, Janney Sample Hill, making sure that payments were made by the 10th so the 2% discount could be taken, the monthly payroll, Lowry Telephone Co., NSP, etc.  And generally a daily bank deposit prepared and hand-delivered across the street to the Lowry State Bank. It was also where the traveling salesmen presented their wares and got their orders taken.  No computerization - face to face.

But the visible part of the store was only the half of it. The upstairs held the seasonal merchandise, stashed away until its due time.  The most interesting seasonal merchandise was the Christmas merchandise, that is, toys.  In Lowry, odds were you could scout out your Christmas present in advance by visiting the hardware store in December. The electrical shack out back had all kinds of curiosities that the electricians seemed to have some use for. The gas dock held dozens of 100 lb. tanks of propane that could be delivered to your farm or residence. Or you could return the empty and load the refill in your truck yourself and save the dollar delivery fee. The main warehouse across the alley held the big stuff that took up too much room to display – conduit, soil pipe, and appliances. 

The empty lots to the north and south held the farm products – manure spreader, hay rake, hog troughs, chicken waterers and the like.  The store offered the "Minnesota Line" of farm equipment, rakes and manure spreaders assembled at the state prison in Stillwater, along with treated and untreated baling twine, also courtesy of the prison population

And, then there was the dynamite shed, a tin shack behind the store with sandbagged walls and a padlocked door, holding several cases of 40%, 60% and ditching dynamite. In those days, farmers used a lot of dynamite for blowing drainage ditches, removing rocks or tree stumps from fields – it was just part of farming. I never heard of any injuries other than to pride when some dirt clogs rained down on the explosive experts who were crouched behind the tractor - a case of being a little too close to the action. There was a second similar but larger structure a couple miles out of town holding the bulk of the dynamite supply. I guess a half a dozen cases of dynamite in the middle of town wasn’t considered a serious threat to public safety. There was never a theft that I knew of.  

I cannot testify as an eyewitness to this story, but I have it on good authority that Dave, being a creative practical joker, challenged the town’s braggart marksman to a shooting contest and set up bales of straw with targets in a farm field.  Except, behind the braggart’s target there were several sticks of dynamite – with some resultant entertainment value for the watching crowd.

Another interesting feature of the place was the burning barrel. This was a 6-foot high barrel on the back lot, positioned on a metal grate and its fires consumed everything combustible, especially the hundreds of cardboard boxes that brought the freight to the store. There were some amazing flames from that contraption. The grate was raised so air could get to the fire from below and it burned hot and high. Put the fear of hell into me.

Every year between Christmas and New Years was inventory time. For tax purposes, every item in the store and its warehouses had to be recorded and priced. Invariably the weather turned bitterly cold, so the outside work was brutal. At age 10, I was given the job of counting the items in all the drawers and leaving a slip of paper with the total so someone could come along and record it. 76 #10 wood screws. 64 boxes of 22 long rifle shells. Six 1 ½ x 4 nipples. 42 feet of canvas webbing. Deadly boring stuff, but a lesson in stick-to-it-iveness. And Uncle Dave usually saw to it I got a few bucks to put toward my baseball card habit.

I’d like to believe the place had the makings of a good sitcom.  At least as good as Cheers.

St. Pauli

Church attendance was mandatory and your flavor was determined at birth.  I happened to be predestined to be Lutheran. (There were no Presbyterians in Lowry). Lutherans are a fractious sort, with denominations to suit every hungry soul. We had the ALC, LCA, ELC, ELCA, Missouri Synod, Wisconsin Synod, Swedish Lutheran, Norwegian Lutheran, German Lutheran...  It is ridiculous. In Lowry, the church was St. Pauli - not St. Paul’s, to make clear the Norwegian heritage I guess.  ELC. The Swedes went to Norunga or the Gospel Hall.

The Catholics had it all over us on this front.  They stuck together. In our fair village, there were just four Lutheran churches to choose from, if you include Indherred, which was 4 miles south and technically in the Starbuck sphere of influence. St. Pauli was the only Lutheran church in the city limits. Even it had been moved from its location the 3 miles west of town to a site on the near west side, pulled on rollers by horses long before my memory. The cemetery remained where it was – too macabre to consider moving lock, stock and barrel I suppose. All four Lutheran churches were different “synods” so there was no chance of merging and little inclination toward cooperation. Outside of church people got along just fine, but when it comes to religious doctrine, there's no compromising.  I never understood the theological differences - it seemed to me the biggest difference was the color of the hymnal.  

There were also two other Protestant varieties in town – the Gospel Mission and the Covenant Church, both smaller but more fervent than the Lutheran varieties.  There was also one Mormon family in town.  What they did on Sunday God only knew. 

The largest church, however, was the Catholic Church, located 6 miles north of town in the heart of Bohemian country.  What was happening out there was not to be delved into, but I knew it involved wine and incense so it was mysterious and couldn’t have been good.  In point of fact, what we did was a mystery to me as well.

Our pastor was actually was responsible for four churches, called a “parish” - ours in Lowry, a second, 6 miles west in tiny Farwell, and two country churches farther north, Solem & Trysil.  Each Sunday he would conduct services at 8:00, 9:30 & 11:00 at three locations, driving like he was under God’s protection - and I suppose he was - to make the next service on time.  Since 11:00 was the most desirable, the times rotated on a weekly basis. Once a month, there was no service, but there was still Sunday School - no rest for the wicked.  

The pastor was expected to be the spiritual guide, crisis counselor, youth director, confirmation instructor, bible study leader, lead the church council, conduct  Wednesday night Lenten services, be the business manager for all the congregations, perform funerals and weddings and be present at all church functions, including guest appearances at the Ladies’ Aid and Sewing Circles. But he did get Monday off.  The pastor’’s wife was expected serve as the volunteer choir director, sing and accompany solos, lead Bible Studies, attend Ladies Aid, and never do anything that could be remotely criticized.  

The pay, even by 1957 standards, was dreary, but there were some perks – a “parsonage”, a run-down, three story, drafty old house in Farwell owned by the church; mileage ($.03/mile); plenty of foodstuff gifts and invitations to dinner and always being respectfully addressed as “Reverend”.  And of course, suffering the preacher’s kids.  A noble calling indeed.

The church service itself centered on the sermon – usually a 15 minute exposition which, unfairly, was the basis for most members’ assessment of his competence.  But in general, people were pretty tolerant as long as there were plenty of scripture references. There was always doctrinal controversy swirling about, but a preacher would have to screw-up pretty badly to lose support – although that did happen occasionally.  Running off with the church secretary doesn’t sit very well with Scandinavian Lutherans, so that was grounds for dismissal.  Members would sometimes up and walk out because the preacher said “Jesus wept” or some such thing.  But they usually discovered they weren't comfortable at the country church and would come slinking back to where they knew everyone’s foibles and they theirs.    

We happened to be in the throes of introducing a new hymnal – a red one. That didn’t make the pastor’s life any easier.  Being forced to surrender the old compact, familiar black one for this new, gaudy and untested one with completely new liturgies and hymns wasn’t something to foster great enthusiasm with these stoic parishioners.  I sided with the conservatives and preferred to stick with the tried and true black since I knew all that liturgy by heart. And who authorized changing words of the Apostle’s Creed and the Lord’s Prayer, words Jesus dictated directly to King James.

The service itself was unvarying.  Announcements, liturgy, 3 hymns accompanied by the Hilma on the organ, the sermon, some “special” music – the choir or the kids’ choir or some brave member coerced into a solo - the collection (collection - not offering), long prayers, the benediction and the ringing of the dismissal bell. But ritual is a good thing, eh?  My attention span was tested.  I was waiting for the ushers to appear to pass the collection plate.  I watched closely, because I was hopeful that chance would one day come. Only high schoolers were given this awesome responsibility - solemnly walking up the center aisle, accepting the brass collection plate from the pastor and passing the plate from pew to pew. But the usher duty I really envied was ringing the bell at the end of the service. It was always three groups of three rings – followed by the benediction.  "Go in peace and serve the Lord".  I was tempted many a time to sneak into the church and give that rope a pull, but I never did.

Except for the summer months, half of Sunday morning was Sunday School – also mandatory. While the adults sat down to coffee, cookies and conversation or a Bible study in the church basement, the kids were off to "opening exercises" followed by classes centered on bible stories.  Every cranny and nook of that church served as classrooms, from the boiler room to the sacristy.  Some very brave, committed and devout members volunteered to teach 1st  through 6th grade classes every Sunday morning.  

The boys tended toward inattention and hi-jinks but I learned my Bible stories well.  God was just, so some of the stories bothered me.  Jacob stealing his brother’s birthright. Abraham about to put the knife to Isaac.  Joseph sold to slavery and then tormenting his poor father by hanging onto Benjamin in Egypt.  Some were pretty thrilling.  My namesake knocking over Goliath with a slingshot. Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace.  Jonah in the belly of the whale. Joshua bringing down the walls of Jericho just by marching around the place.  (I suggested to the gang that we try that with the schoolhouse, but they were unbelievers).  And, some stories didn't get covered in Sunday School. David and Bathsheba.  The 4 horsemen of the Apocalypse. Salome and John the Baptist. Jacob working 7 years for Rachel and snookered with Leah, so 7 more years to get Rachel, wife number 2.  Wife number 2?  What’s with that? The Song of Solomon, hmm.

At 7th grade I would be entering 2 intense years of confirmation study under the stern guidance and instruction of the pastor himself, leading to full communion rites.  I was not looking forward to that. However confirmation classes were combined with the Farwell kids, which meant a class with the pastor’s daughter, who was mighty cute.

Frequently, there was a Sunday night service as well, but these were more informal and social gatherings, sometimes with homemade ice cream.  But during Lent things got really serious. There were special Wednesday night services, often including a speaker from the Luther Seminary in Saint Paul journeying to lecture on the seven stages of the cross or the events from Palm Sunday to Good Friday to Easter.  And again, attendance was not optional.  Grim really, with the somber minor chord music and the emphasis on your worthlessness.  I believe this did me little good and probably some harm. The good thing was there was cake after the service.

And then of course, every November, came pledge month.  A time to examine your heart and realize that you are simply a caretaker of your possessions, reinforced by a sermon on tithing and the widow’s mite. I was pretty oblivious to all this.  But I always regretted that this campaign was timed just prior to the attendant marvels of Christmas.  

I truly enjoyed church at Christmas, the Christmas carols, the spirit and bounce in everyone’s step, but I resented the Sunday School Christmas program. Not only the dread of reciting that verse from memory in front of the entire congregation, but having to sacrifice every Saturday morning for a month preparing for the thing.  What I really objected to (silently) was the role I was coerced into every year.  There was the obligatory memory recitation of course, but the part that really annoyed me was the duet.  You see there was a classmate of mine, and I liked him, but he stuttered so badly that asking him to recite in front of the congregation would have been cruel and unusual punishment by anyone’s standards.  But he could sing beautifully and flawlessly without a hint of stutter.  So hence, a vocal number - “We Three Kings” or “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”.  But why a duet? Isn’t it just as cruel and unusual to force me to stand up there singing my falsetto just so he’s not feeling lonely?  Man, I resented being dragged into good deeds. It wasn’t my nature.

Would you believe the church was never locked?