While we wait for spring ...
This has been a long, hard winter for many of us, and from the sound of things, as I write this, Minnesota is still expecting another snowfall...here's hoping that will be the last of it, for those of you who are still living there.
Information about the Hopkins mural at the top of the page can be found at http://www.hopkinsmn.com/shop/index.php and prints are still available, for those who are interested.
Claudia has requested suggestions as to where/how to celebrate our 70th birthday party, and asks that they be sent to her email at firstname.lastname@example.org. She will bring them to the planning committee's meeting in May. The celebration is expected to be held in September.
I would like to thank Karey Love, Tani Webster Witter, Cheryl Heinecke Hradecky, Mary Zakariasen McLeod and Marlene Iverson Frankson for their contributions to this newsletter. Dick Rippe is taking a break this month, but plans to continue to provide us with insight into economic issues in the future. Again - please think about writing something for our newsletter. It is interesting to read about the different paths we each have taken, since graduation.
I would also like to send condolences to Kathy Johnson Oleson on the loss of her husband, Ray.
A Trip Down Hopkins Memory Lane
by Cheryl Heinecke Hradecky
I was reading my husband's copy of the Sokol Newsletter of New York recounting the history of the Czechs living in Yorkville and it started me thinking about my own history.
My family moved to Interlachen Park in Hopkins in 1950 - it felt like it was in the "sticks" at that time. We had a one car garage and got along just fine with one family car. I could play outdoors and my Mom didn't know where I was until I came home for lunch or dinner.
Jasperson Dairy was within sight to the north of us. Diane's father delivered the milk to the local schools and we begged for more days when they would serve chocolate milk. Simple pleasures.
Excelsior Blvd ran west behind our house to Glen Lake and beyond. Some of my memories are of the Arness gas station on the corner of Blake Road and Ronny's Bar and Restaurant across the street where I could buy 5 cent cokes and a bag of Cheetos.
You may remember the short life of "The Green Door" - a very exciting place in the era of American Bandstand. It was behind Ronny's and we'd meet there to have a coke and, hopefully, a dance.
Continuing west was the Eastside Market where we bought penny candies when walking home from Harley Hopkins School. Across the street was a gas station and I swear I can remember Sue, Mary Jean and me pooling our coins and buying gas for about 21.5 cents per gallon. One dollar and we were good to go for the night. Oh, and we never left the car - an attendant filled the tank, checked the oil and washed the windows.
Driving across the railroad tracks the Red Owl was on the right and a little further and you'd see the Justus Lumber Co. on the left with a large rotating clock, if my memory serves me right.
I remember the Milk House, which I believe was owned by Ronnie Vista's family (?) - and then one of my favorite places - the Hopkins Theatre. I met my friends there on many a Friday night. I also worked there - my first real job. All the popcorn one could eat! One afternoon a kid threw up all over the front entry area and my dear friend, Charlotte, cleaned it up. I told her I couldn't do it without contributing more to it!!
Matt's Cafe was a longtime favorite "hangout" on Main Street. And It was fun checking out the windows at Daniel's Photography. The displayed photos were always of someone you knew.
I loved growing up in this town because we had our favorite businesses and we knew the families that owned and operated them. Kokesh Hardware - where a member of the family was always available to help you find whatever you needed. Nelson's Shoes - they had great sales downstairs. And Nygren's - I bought some fun pieces there.
Smetana's owned the drug store on the corner in the 50's and across the street was another drugstore with an old fashioned fountain - can't remember the name of it. All this was before Alcott's and Bridgeman's opened. Still love Cherry Cokes and Peppermint Bob Bon ice cream! Before Hovander's, too. I so miss their bakery and Swedish meatball mix.
Some might even recall the old bowling alley on Main Street - it was upstairs and the pins were set manually by local teens.
Did you ever go into the Dow House, a beautiful old house that served as our public library? What a cool place that was! Or admire a Thunderbird at Dahlberg's Ford?
I had a slumber party in 9th or 10th grade and all of us girls snuck out and went to the National Tea Warehouse and Bakery across the highway from my house - in our Baby Doll pajamas. We came back with our arms full of bread! Pretty much the extent of our wickedness.
I attended Job's Daughters meetings in the Masonic Hall in the middle of town where the front wall was a spot for teens to sit and watch the street cruisers. Remember the raked (sp?) Chevys and the rumble of their pipes?
Gethsemane Lutheran Church was an important part of my teen life I shared with many of my classmates. We were fortunate to have enjoyed a wonderful youth program and we loved Pastor Stohl and his family.
A favorite place for many of us was, most certainly, Shady Oak Beach. That was a must for the first day of summer vacation. The big dock, the Snack Bar, and groups of friends - and baby oil on our white bodies.
Hopkins was a wonderful place to grow up - where, as kids, we could earn money berry picking in the summer and enjoy sleigh rides with our friends in the winter.
I fondly remember so many aspects of growing up in the Raspberry Capitol of America (or was it the World?). Marching in the Raspberry Parade twirling batons with Ginny. I could go on and on. What are some of your favorite memories?
Cheryl Heinecke Hradecky
My Life as a Logger in the Yukon
By Karey Love
We are quite a group of interesting people, aren’t we? The same gaggle of grade schoolers, grow up (eventually) and spread throughout the world, achieving, failing and existing in infinite ways. We should share our stuff before the fat lady sings. It was so interesting to hear from a handful of our classmates at the reunion. So many stories. So little time. Karen Stenback asked me about a particular snippet of my life I had mentioned and suggested I write a story about it, so, settle in; here goes!
I envied my classmates who knew what they wanted in life and seemed to just dig in and do it. No wasted time for them, just a beeline to accomplishment. (Of course, we tend to compare our insides with other’s outsides, which isn’t either fair or accurate, and I know I have been guilty.) I have always been a late bloomer, painfully late! More coasting than accelerating. Embarrassingly immature. One of my darkest high school memories was when I was selected to be in the school play, Rapunzel and the Witch. Tony Steblay was the director who selected me to be Prince Eric. I won the part! Why me? Because, he said, I was perfect for the part….just what was needed....an immature boy to play Prince Eric! Groan! Not what a blond, smallish, pimply-faced high school boy wants to hear. But, Tony’s definition of Karey foretold the next 10 years of my life.
I’m going to tell you about my life as a logger in the Yukon Territory of Canada, I promise, but thought a bit of background may help explain the journey so far from our auditorium stage. I graduated with a solid C average – my goal. There was an expectation in the air that college was the next step to success, so I followed that thought. Off to the U I went. Jerry Johnson had the car and I had gas money so we partnered, he driving (or aiming) and I rode shotgun. I don’t know why we rushed so but Jerry was on a mission to have the shortest Hopkins-to-University transit time in any record book – anywhere. He prided himself on aggressive driving and fearless abandon. He drove like a madman (R.I.P. Jerry, you were quite the guy!) Unbelievable speeds, screeching tires, close calls and what must be a Minnesota record: 12 minutes from Hopkins to the campus. We had a favorite lot, free and not too crowded. Once there, the dialog was unchanging. “Wow, amazing time Jerry! …. OK…. What’s next?.... Got a class?.... Yeah, You?.... Yeah, but……… Yeah, me too…..but…… whatya say we skip it for today and goof off?..... Sounds good to me, wanna eat lunch? After devouring our bag lunches, we left the campus at near legal speeds and frittered the day away doing something…but, for the life of me I can’t remember what. All I know for sure is that was not the recipe for success. I flunked out of my first quarter at the U and think Jerry did the same.
Now what? Self talk comes up with, “OK, so I’m an immature looser, (Tony was right on), undisciplined, a flunk-out goofball, in too heavy with my girlfriend and on a disaster course to somewhere not so good. “ Think! Think!” It was good friend Craig Peterson who came up with the answer: Let’s join the Air Force and grow up! So we did and we eventually did.
I’ll get to the logging, I promise, but you need to be patient. The Air Force has a specialty of squeezing the stupid straight out of one and filling the vacuum with life experience, perspective and a bit of hope. It did a pretty good job, although painfully slow moving, to set me on a course of accomplishment. Not great accomplishment but better than previous disasters and impending disasters. My four-year Air Force stint earned me the GI bill that paid for my four-year college degree that took me 10 years to complete, start to finish. Degree in hand and a new wife by my side , the adventure began. But, a sobering thought arose.
Life progresses through a predictable passage: attraction, marriage, children, a mortgage, 20 years of parenting, a few mini-adventures, a week’s vacation somewhere every year only to work another year and do it again. This realization prompted us to make a vow: Let’s have an adventure before we settle down! Geez! Was I STILL a kid?
We were 27-and 23-year old hippies that shared a love of adventure, a distaste for what was happening in the USA (the war in Vietnam was in full swing) and a need to do something significant. We had been reading Bradford Angier’s book, How to Build Your Home in the Woods and knew right then and there that we were going to live off the land from the labor of our hands, eschewing all the “civilization” we knew and all that we had (except for my Frostline tent, sleeping bags and backpacks). We would hitchhike to wherever the dart on the map told us to go and we would create our meaningful life. Thunk, the dart penetrated our wall map near Watson Lake, Yukon Territory, Canada. (I was aiming for Alaska). The die was cast! Destiny calls! Life begins for us! “Farewell Mom, we’ll be OK. See you in a year!”
One mini-adventure morphed into the next as we learned the Zen of hitchhiking, the alternation of despair and joy, of trust and betrayal, of anticipation with disappointment – all stories in themselves but chapters that would delay my intended story: Logging in the Yukon. We hitched our way straight to our heroes, Bradford and Vena Angier, authors of many back-to-the-land books, in Hudson Hope, British Columbia. Their book-printed invitation stood for all, “Come and visit us. We’ll help you all we can. We’ll share our wisdom with you. You can live from the land just as we do!” This was the anticipation that we lived and breathed every day. It was our constant companion. It hatched a plan and was fed by our determination. Off we went, $500 in life savings, thumbing rides. Finally, a week later and after many hitched rides, some of them scary, some unsafe and some joyful, we arrived at the tiny burg of Hudson Hope, BC. The general store clerk received our query of “We’re here to see the Angiers. Where would we find them?” with “Oh, you mean the authors? Oh, ……they live in California now” – disappointment sunk our spirits. We felt lower than a pregnant ant.
But the dart cannot lie. We pushed on to our goal of Watson Lake, Yukon Territory, Canada. There will be a place for us there. We will make a life! I should mention that we were not what Canada did not want: draft –dodging, welfare sucking, good-for-nothing ne’re-do-wells without skills or benefit to the province. If we were to spent a year in Canada, we needed to be sanctioned and welcomed. Before thumbing our way North, we had completed the process of becoming Landed Immigrants – barely. Canada had a policy of screening potential immigrants to assure a benefit and to minimize their social and economic risk. So many points were required to score L.I. status. Pass and you’re in. Fail and “Sorry buddy, you’re not what we need”. So far, in Thunderbay, Ontario, Immigration Officer Gervais wasn’t impressed with my lack of fluent French, my minimal work history at a desirable trade or profession, at my scruffy beard or hippy wife. It wasn’t looking good for us. But an essential lesson in life was playing in the background of my personality. Somewhere I learned that if you are friendly, have fun, listen to people, smile and hang in there, life gets better. Mr. Gervais warmed up to us after 30 minutes or so. His serious officialdom slowly morphed into a helpful “I like you kids” attitude and he found ways to bend the rules for us. No French fluency? No problem. You want the Yukon, right? Heck they don’t speak French up there anyway! No two-year experience working in your field of physical therapy? So what, they’ll be glad to have you! He liked us and Canada will have to also - because we were in!
Once in Watson Lake, it didn’t take long to realize that a simple lifestyle in the Yukon Territory wasn’t so simple. Life’s necessities became apparent. Food, warmth and comfort weren’t free and didn’t come easily. Living off the land wasn’t even remotely possible for us city kids. We needed a roof and we needed food and to score those, we needed a job! Our $500 grubstake was about gone. I asked a few of the locals in Watson Lake about temporary work and was told to lookup Bill Kryzinowski, the logger. He always needs help. Bill was easily found. “Need a worker, Bill? I’m strong” (and hungry). “Well,…… I’m supposed to hire natives for my logging business, they have precedence, but, dang! they don’t return after their first paycheck. Sure, you’re hired. Show up on the south bank of the Liard River, follow the trail going South of the Indian village of Upper Liard to my camp and I’ll put you to work for $3.50 per hour”. Yahoo! Approaching despair switched to instant hope and adventure. Now we just needed to get the 7 miles from Watson Lake to Upper Liard.
Watson Lake has that iconic sign post feature at the town’s edge. You may have seen it in person or on their travel brochures. Stolen signs from everywhere (mostly from the USA) were posted on totems, trees and posts to proclaim the origin of the thieves’ hometown. This was the hitching starting point to leave Watson Lake for points Northwest, including Alaska. Want a ride? Start here. The next morning we walked to this spot and met a lone hitch hiker that gave us the low down on Watson Lake, the hitch hiking impossibility and ways to spend our days while we waited in certain desperation and certain failure to EVER get a ride out of this GX#*&!, F^#((**& Town! It was morning and he was hungry so he bid us adieu while walking across the highway to the bar/breakfast joint. “I’ll tell you more when I come back” were his parting words.
“Now what?” We wait. We had learned the lesson all successful hitch hikers must learn if they are to endure charity travel by thumb. Along our journey from Minnesota every passing car dealt us a psychic blow in the form of rejection and disappointment. “ Hey, buddy, why didn’t you stop for us?” You have to let go of the need for instant gratification and the freedom of transportation in your own car, anytime, anywhere, in comfort, punching the buttons on your own radio, playing the tunes you like and on your schedule. Julie and I learned to let go of all that and focus on the beauty, the sounds, smells and aura of a new adventure. Life was better if we let go of expectation and just accepted “what is”. Hey, Eckart Tolle was still a kid and we were doing his (to be published) thing! So, we used this accumulated wisdom at the Watson Lake sign village. “Here comes a truck! Quick, jump on my back, let’s do a piggy back hitch and have some fun!” Two hippies, piggyback, thumbs and arms waving, with big smiles and not a care in the world was just what that driver needed. On came his brakes, window lowered with an invitation to hop in . “Where you crazy kids going?” It was only a 7 mile ride to Upper Liard but a trip to the moon wouldn’t have been more profound. What would that mentor-hiker think when he returned from breakfast and found a missing couple? How did that happen? The first truck, the first try, in a few minutes, unbelievable! By the time we arrived in Upper Liard, I had the answer: People like people who like themselves, who exude joy and wholesomeness. That driver was probably bored stiff, was needing some variety and we didn’t look the least bit threatening; a young man and young lady all smiles and full of life. Who could resist? We arrived in Upper Liard, our new home for the next 9 months.
Upper Liard is a village of mostly natives, a bar, a Catholic church, just a few white guys and some great stories that’ll have to wait for another time. We found the trail/road skirting the southwest bank of the Liard River and walked about a half mile to the logging operation. Our two-person backpacking tent was set on the bank of the rushing river and we were alone in heaven. That fall, the sandhill cranes filled the skies with their incessant calls as they journeyed south. I learned their call and have never forgotten it. When I hear them now, overhead at our Wisconsin farm, a smile is an automatic response. I relive heaven again.
I don’t recall how many days or weeks Julie and I lived in that tiny tent, cooking on our gas camp stove and hiking into “town” for an evening of beer and stories with the natives. Eventually, winter replaced fall and seriousness replaced joyful ignorance. Snow and cold will do that. My employer saved the day by offering us a 12 by 17 foot wooden shack on skids that had been just vacated by an Indian couple who had moved on in their life. It was un-insulated, had no coverings over the windows, had no stove, electricity or water but it was our new home. It’s amazing how large a 12 by 17 house is after living in a backpacker’s tent!
Wife Julie, a good sport!
I was assigned the job of “bucking”. It’s what the new guy gets to do to keep him away from dangerous machinery (except for the chainsaw that’ll remove fingers and flesh instantly.) One guy felled the 100+ foot spruce trees , one guy skidded them into a landing and I cut them into 10-12-14 or 16 foot lengths. Another guy used a fork lift to pick up the pieces and stacked them for winter use at the sawmill. I think the most dangerous job belonged to the tree feller. He chose which tree was next to die and kneeled at its base while pulling the trigger on his Stihl chainsaw. Rather than watching his saw cut into the tree, he kept his eyes on the top of the tree, watching for “Widow Makers” – loose branches that fell and lived up to their name. Besides, watching the tree top was the best indication of when to stand up and step away from the slow motion crash to earth. Ron was paid by the tree and out earned the rest of us but I bet his body is a wreck today – IF he’s still alive. My job was monotonous but I seem to gravitate to monotonous work. My days were filled with marking the trees to the best lengths to minimize waste and then firing up the chainsaw to cut them. This was physical work that paid off when the serious cold weather arrived. I kept warm by my physical work while the poor guy on the Cat and skidder froze to the bone. Sitting in these machines of cold steel sucked the heat out of the body. I was glad to be the “bucker”. Besides, I learned to be an expert saw sharpener and a fair mechanic.
Julie was early into nutrition and had been reading Adele Davis’s book, Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit. She loaded me up on protein for every breakfast with eggs, liver, milk, peanut butter and toast. All I remember is that I often had 40 grams of protein in me and I stayed warm and energetic until noon. The other poor guys were eating their entire lunches by morning break.
The Music Man
The days became shorter and darker. I left our shack in the dark and arrived back at twilight. Julie busied herself with insulating the cabin with a filling of sawdust after scrap boards were used to make inside walls. We put a double layer of plastic over the window openings and used a barrel stove that was offered. I made a kitchen cabinet to hold our scrounged dishes. I built an elevated bed to keep us as high off the frozen floor as possible. The barrel stove either cooked us to sweaty discomfort or needed relighting in the morning after a night of freezing silence. We kept a water hole open in the Liard River all winter by covering it with a plywood board topped by a layer of snow. A 5 gallon bucket transported the water 200 feet to our shack. It froze every night we left it on the floor. If we wanted water in the morning, we had to store it on a table overnight. Julie learned how to bake bread in a makeshift oven she made. An inverted 5 gallon steel pail on top of the barrel stove placed next to the vertical chimney worked adequately if you attended to the temperature and time. We ate! We survived! Life was good. We were living our (highly modified) dream.
by Tani Webster Witter
Years & years have gone by, and I'm feeling in awe of the many remembered people who'll read this newsletter that Karen so effectively inaugurated. I was Tani Webster when we were at Hopkins High, now Tani Witter. This is a brief account of my expat years, most of them in New Zealand (which used to be a lot more British, rather colonial and extremely hard to adjust to). During my first year, 1964, I thought I'd return before too long, but that didn't happen until 1971, another seven years. By then I'd been married for six years and was visiting America with a baby son on my hip. My youngest sister was 9, the other four had grown up, the folks had silver hair, and I was changed too!
I'm still far away, but can give no solid reason for coming here. The original dream adventure that my parents had talked me out of - was to study in Paris. But dreams have a way of morphing don't they? So, when I enthused that NZ was agriculture based and English speaking "just like Minnesota", AND the university in the capital city would enroll me as a foreign student for an incredibly low fee, AND an ocean voyage would halve the cost of transport (imagine!!) - my poor parents had run out of arguments!
I soon met Richard Stockton Witter, another American foreign student, whose ability to create an uproar fascinated me - in our first encounter, he had so distracted partying students that everyone was yelling at him, and at each other. He'd declared New Zealand wasn't a true democracy because the Queen had right of veto over Parliament! With him, I experienced human over-reactions many times, including my own! Years after his death, controversial legislation passed by Australia's Parliament was vetoed by Queen Elizabeth II . . . mmm!
It's now 50 years since I left America. Two formative years were spent elsewhere, 1967 in Rajasthan, and 1968 in Sydney, then back here to finish BAs. 1971 a son was born, 1974 we started a publishing business - true to form, creating a furor. We didn't think an illustrated book for schools, a history text, Trade Unions in New Zealand, was anything more than needed, but it made front page nation-wide headlines! The same happened when we published a book about the university system here! By the time our daughter came along in 1976, we'd built a rambling house with wonderful views and knew we'd probably stay.
While we were in the process of applying for New Zealand citizenship, I forgot one night that we were trying to stay out of politics; I'd joined Quaker Friends in a protest against nuclear armed ships coming here - oops!
However, we made it through some tough screening, and the invitation came to receive our new status as Kiwis.
I might add, I was determined to keep my American citizenship and expressed this on all the margins of the bright orange State Department form we were sent to fill in, leading us to relinquish who we were born to be. (Thousands gave it all away with their signatures.) Needless to say, those margin-arguments 'rewrote' the form, and when I signed, I made it very clear that I was NOT agreeing to relinquish my citizenship!! That amused my dear husband - he allowed me to do the same with HIS form, and he signed the contra version.
He didn't live to see this resolved. When we made an extended six month trip to the Sates in 1978, our children (registered at birth as having American parents) travelled on full US passports - but we could only get temporary ones! There were times I might have returned for good, but just as it dawned on me NZ must be where I'm meant to be - the State Department sent a letter recognizing what I'd put in writing: that by naturalizing here I was not intending to give up being American. I'm fortunate to have DUAL citizenship (and his was granted in retrospect).
1983. I'd been caregiver 8 months, that much longer than the prognosis given for a rare brain cancer usually occurring in children. Doctors hadn't thought he'd last a week, but wonderful things can happen within a terminal diagnosis, and we had a big share of them!
At 39 I was a widow with children aged 11 and 7 who'd been rather eclectically home schooled. There were many changes to be made. I wound up the publishing, made a trip to the States and as always caught up with family and significant friends Cheryl Walsh Bellville and Susan Shwalm Lueck (class of '63). Life back here seemed bleak and isolated. Margo's visit to New Zealand is a cherished highlight. She discovered (many do) a new freedom here - a joy to remember, a sorrow to know she and others are gone.
My degree allowed me to pursue an accelerated teacher training course, which led to a new career in a vocation I loved. I've taught adults, high school, and for years - primary school.
Now, in addition to my son and daughter, there are in my life a daughter in love, a soon to be son in love, and three grandchildren. There is also my husband's brother who married a Kiwi and produced another tribe in the South Island. The Witters can fill an extremely long table at Christmas!
Last year I retired, then trained as a School Chaplain. I see lovely things happen for children simply because someone provided safety, listened, maybe suggested choices. I work within my skill level with professional supervision & accountability. I don't presume to be a counsellor. The bar is being raised across New Zealand so that all chaplains have a professional code, to ensure there is help, not damage caused by people acting out of ignorance and presumption. Actually, although it's a different role, Chaplaincy fits, an organic next step after teaching.
Things I want to be doing are at my fingertips - art, maybe travel, writing; they're waiting to be grasped with both hands!
I have a feeling I'm not alone in this. Our generation still looks forward, onward and upward, right? I guess the small difference is, I do it here.
Tani Webster Witter
Papakura, Auckland, New Zealand
by Mary Zakariasen McLeod
Telling our stories is the single best thing any of us can do for our loved ones suffering from mental illness. My son, Matt, was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was 21. He had done nothing but live his life as he was supposed to: playing, growing up, studying hard, mowing the lawn, being a reasonably obedient son with a benevolent attitude toward the world. And yet, while he was 3 1/2 years into an engineering program, depression and then schizophrenia dropped into his life and settled there permanently.
So, I’ve chosen to go out of my way to mention Matt’s illness. When new acquaintances ask what I do, I tell them, “I retired from practicing law when my son was diagnosed with schizophrenia.” When asked about my interests, I tell them I’m writing a book about my son’s mental illness. Unfailingly, people respond well. Then, many tell me about their family’s similar struggles, and sometimes their own. (I welcome yours, also.)
Each time we tell our stories, we give permission to others to share their experiences, and the stigma steadily recedes, nearly imperceptibly, but always in the right direction. It takes a fierce love. It can’t cure schizophrenia, but it can help a lot, and it can make things happen.
Mary Zakariasen McLeod
In Defense of Spam:
by Marlene Iverson Frankson who lives in Austin, MN, the home of Spam
Lloyd - my husband, mother- in- law and I throughly enjoyed your "Minnesota" article. But, I feel I must enlighten everyone concerning SPAM! True, Hormel does produce 6 million cans of SPAM every year. We DO EAT it! Oh yes, Spam burgers, Spam kabobs, Spam and scalloped potatoes, to name a few. There are Spam appetizers, salads, soups and stews. Some Spam recipes are State Fair winners. Contrary to popular notion, Spam is made from pork shoulder, and has NO unnessasary ingredients in it. Did you know? Spam stands for"Spiced Ham." It also comes in many different tastes: low sodium, lite, jalopena, black pepper, cheese, among others.
I invite anyone of you to come to Austin, look me up, and I will take you to the Spam Museum. Yes, Spam has museum en- tirely dedicated to that little blue can. Why, even George Burns and Gracie Allen liked Spam! After the tour, you can go to the Spam gift shop where you will find all kinds of Spam memorabila. Come on down to Austin, give me a call (507-437-3596) and I will show you the museum. Then, we'll go to my house and have Spam burgers!!
Now Lloyd, lutefisk is a different story! I don't eat that!!
Marlene Iverson Frankson
Remembering Clellan Card:
Birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon my windowsill,
Cocked his shining eye and says:
What did you do with that big lemon -- squeezer?
That's all, folks! The next newsletter will come out June 2nd.
If you are interested in contributing to the newsletter, please
email me at HSS62@outlook.com
Karen Stenback, Editor