Tuesday, February 4, 2025

When You were Young and I was Poor

It was the only tangible, written legacy my mother left my sister and I before she died. Ten pages, single spaced, documenting a lifetime of hard work, unbroken faith in her God, loss, rejection, betrayal and heartbreak. There was also a tremendous (though hidden) pride in her own survival and personal accomplishments.

The title she had scribbled on the top of the first page, almost as an afterthought, was so well crafted, it took me years to understand that it’s brevity spoke volumes.


There was no mention of meeting her second husband, Erwin, or the thirty wonderful years they had together before he passed at age 104 and she a little later at 92. References to my father were few and cryptic and left me nothing tangible to hold on to.

Fortunately, my sister conversed more with my mother in her later years than I did. Unfortunately, my mother’s strong rural German Catholic legacy of never bringing up the past and keeping secrets had rubbed off on me. She never talked about her past and I never asked.

Now with that written admission, confession, revealing document I could finally gleam some of her and my own history during those early years; hers and mine.


Hildegarde only went as far as the sixth grade in the small hamlet of St Martin, Minnesota. She dropped out to take care of the chickens and other livestock. Since she was the youngest it was expected that she would stay home to help out her aging parents and work the farm as her siblings gradually left for greener pastures.


My mother grew up a beautiful and ambitious young woman. The Twin Cities of Saint Paul and Minneapolis proved irresistible to Hilde when she cautiously toe-stepped away from home for the first time. She was hungry enough to break free of the life-choking reins of farm work by testing herself in the cities. But with just a sixth-grade education, the only work she could get was house-keeping for wealthy clients, odd jobs as a seamstress and cooking. She became a maid on Summit Avenue. Not quite Downton Abby but close.

Despite the occasional homelessness, abject poverty and lack of support from relatives, my mother soldered on, and with the help of one brother, actually built her own house in a tony neighborhood in town.


I never felt poor growing up. Part of that I’d attest to the fact that we lived in a house not an apartment. My classmates in grade school all came from the same lower to middle class background. High School was a little different with more solid middle-class kids but few if any who showed their wealth.


Micky, my best friend, lived across the street. He had three brothers, a mother with issues and a father who worked for the post office. They had no car like us and didn’t take family vacations either. They didn’t feel poor either but at least Micky had a father.

At some point later in life, I came across some photos of my father and myself. Of course, I’d seen those photos before but back then my inexperienced eyes were vacant and mind-closed. This time around I looked at those glimpses of my past with a much different attitude. All of my friends had fathers growing up; some good, some present, some never talked about but there nonetheless.


For me, it’s always been a vacuum in my memory bank that’s never been filled-in. There were no pictures or other mementoes of him ‘ever’ in our house. It was as if he never existed in the first place. By the time I had finally matured and became curious about my lineage those memories of her distant past had become a fog clouding my mother’s mind. About the only thing I could be sure of was that I once had a father and he died at a (relatively) young age. End of story.


There were clues in those pictures…in the clothes, mannerisms, posture, location and a hundred other enounce that spoke volumes about the man that gave me life. By reading into them with the inquisitiveness of a writer and a curiosity of past traits passed down to me, there are answers (unconfirmed, of course) in what those pictures were saying.

So, without being clinically antiseptic, I began to study the clues some unknown photographer presented to me. There were stories in those images that said so much and yet revealed so little. I did my surgical inspection without the benefit of that brief written journaling pasted down from my mother. I was also cognizant of her refusal to recognize that part of her past life. If there was any prejudice, hard feelings or hidden shame in their relationship it had slipped away with her last breath here on earth.

So, who was this man that was a part of my life for less than two years then was gone forever? Who was this Arthur LaComb whose lineage could be traced back to Quebec, Canada but little else beyond that?


I’d been told that my grandmother (on his side) was in our lives for a brief period of time but she never a part of my life afterwards. My sister said she visited us once then disappeared after her son died.


Turns out, I have a step-sister. My mother remarked once back in the eighties, “Oh yes, you have a step-sister who lives in a trailer park in Florida. She came to visit us once.’ I guess I was in the fourth or fifth grade at the time but I don’t remember her visit. We never heard from her again.


The story of my parent’s breakup has been clouded by time and my mother’s selective memory. As the story goes it was a Catholic priest who declared that their marriage wasn’t valid because my father’s first marriage hadn’t been properly annulated in the eyes of the Catholic Church. The priest declared that therefore they couldn’t live together...in sin. My mother, being a devout Catholic, complied. She told me there were no jobs for a short order cook after the war and thus my father had to move away. That was in 1945. When I asked my mother if my father ever wrote or sent money to her over those four years that he was gone, she said no.

The story of his death is also a vapid cloud that kept changing tones and colors as it was retold over the years. It seems that in the winter of 1948 my father was traveling back from the West Coast to be with us for Christmas when he stopped in Missoula, Montana. He died of a massive heart attack the next morning and was buried there. My sister’s been to his grave. Neither my mother nor I ever have.


Growing up, I was vaguely aware of other nuclear families that had a father and mother. But we had our home on Randolph Avenue and that was our abode; minus all the trappings of Ozzie and Harriett and the Cleavers. It never registered to me what a real family might be like.


Martin Noll, my grandfather, died seven years before I was born. That’s really a shame. I’m guessing he would have been one hell of an influence on me had he lived long enough. So, it was left up to his youngest, my mother, to show me the value of hard work and steel hard, forged determination to get ahead. A legacy that has driven me all of my life.


I’ve had a good life. I’m married to a wonderful woman, fifty-three years and counting. I’ve got great kids and wonderful grandchildren. It’s been ‘all good.’ And for a very brief period of time back on Smith Avenue in old Saint Paul it looks like we were a family… a family just like everyone else when I was young and mom was poor.

Tuesday, January 28, 2025

Speaking to Me in Many Tongues

Each morning I’m greeted by dawn in the desert. The beautiful sunrise brushes finger-thin rays of lemonade pink against the still sleeping mountains. Occasionally there are fleeting glimpses of coyotes on the golf course returning from their nocturnal hunt. Those hours just after dawn seem to draw out an interesting assortment of desert characters (human and otherwise) intent on enjoying the cool of morning before the heat of the day.

Dawn in Minnesota presents a different picture. The Midwest is less dramatic and more serene than California. For me, it’s two different two points of view, each speaking in many different tongues. Yet there is a similarity there for me. It’s a comfort zone where I can think and feel as I wish without judgement from others. It’s a far cry from the strict, regimented ‘follow the rules’ upbringing of my youth.

Geographically, California and Minnesota are thousands of miles apart yet they are still connected by out-of-the-box thinking and a deep-seated pride in pioneering frontier values and driving ambition. There’s a common thread running between the two with openness for all and acceptance of different points of view. Both offer a realistic view of the world and not a closed-minded myopic wish for what used to be. They focus on what could be and not what once was.

On the night America took a sharp turn to the right my two adopted states continued a long tradition of progressive thought and action. Certainly, there were blips along the way. Neither party got everything they wanted but the human fabric and soul of both states remained intact.


I started out last summer with high hopes for a continuation of my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions. Very quickly, reality crept into the picture and several past participants choose to go their separate ways. My remaining cerebral partners and I shared a wonderful summer, meeting up at parks, beach fronts, patios and coffee shops, to engage in a wide variety of verbal bantering, mental jousting and comradery.  A wonderful salon for an exchange of ideas, thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Then last fall, as always, my tenure in Minnesota is challenged by my West Coast other-half knocking on the door of residency. Now that I’m part-time Californian, my perspective about my home state has changed. I love California. It appeals to my restless youth, errant and wandering mind, free soul, sometime corrupt and tranquilizing imagination.


I have had a long and fractured romance with California. Its part delusional, part opportunistic and part magical. Mostly it’s a comfortable relationship that seems to bring out the flip side of

me that a lot of folks never see. It is at once my friend, advisor, irritator and councilor. It forces me outside of my Midwestern comfort zone.


It’s the cradle from which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and enlightened ideas, concepts and storylines. It inspires me and mocks me at the same time. It’s the flip side of that routine called lifestyle. If ever there were a strange balance in my life it might be labeled the Minnesota-California connection.


I live in two different worlds and I’m comfortable in both. One is progressive, adventurous and sometimes a bit outrageous but always leaning forward. For half a year I wear my Southern California flip-flops as comfortably as any other seeker. But I also live in the Midwest and I’m darn proud of that too.

Yet I know for a fact that come next spring, the same magical force will once again draw my attention back to Minnesota. There’s a quote I love that goes something like this: “At some point in the journey, you realize it’s time to head back home. It doesn’t matter where you are in the journey, the Gods begin calling and you must return home.” I think there is something about that mysterious force called ‘home’ that calls to all of us. It happens to me every fall and then again in the spring.


Both states have become home in more ways than one. They’re like a cradle upon which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and sometimes enlightened ideas, concepts and storylines. It’s the flip side of that routine called your average lifestyle.


What can I say; it works for me. I’m born and bred Minnesotan with a strong streak of California to taint my mind. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Tuesday, January 21, 2025

Name Tags and Placemats

Getting reacquainted with old friends, associates and casual acquaintances can be an interesting time travel into one’s past. Over the years, I’ve had the pleasure, disappointment, and soul-satisfying experience of revisiting my own past lives through those encounters. Each reunion is different and each revealed as much about myself as it did them.

As we’ve all travel through life, we’ve encountered other folks, aside from family, that have impacted us in one manner or another. For me, it was a couple of guys in high school, my barracks buddies in the Army, a couple of strays in Denmark as lost as I was, and work place encounters that lasted only for the duration of the job itself.



My fiftieth high school class reunion was a classic example of this. I graduated on May 31st of 1961 and, with rare exception, never saw my classmates ever again. That is, until our class reunion fifty years later. The event was well orchestrated with a handsome binder of memories, mass (which I didn’t attend), and a class only gathering in the old high school gym. The next day there was an afternoon picnic at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, spouses, girlfriends, and others invited.


My reunion with some of my old classmates had begun weeks earlier with several phone calls wanting to reconnect. Coffee encounters afterwards solidified our pre-reunion/union and paved the way for future dinners with the wives and solo coffee salons. Surprisingly, we seldom brought up our high school years and, instead, focused on our past fifty years and the miles traveled. While some of those folks have now passed on, the bulk remain good friends and coffee companions.



My years at the Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting were among the most cherished of my working career. Several friends from that era of the early-to-mid-seventies are still Facebook friends and blog commentators. Our collective miles traveled haven’t diminished their or my enthusiasm to talk current events, personal trials and tribulations and reflections of that ‘chamelot’ period in our lives. It’s almost as if time has shrunk and we’re both back to our old routines and bad habits; cherished or hidden as they may be.


Occasionally a name from my past will connect with me on Facebook. Curiously enough, after my welcoming response, most of them disappear and are never heard of again. Why did they bother in the first place; beats me?

Another side of that ‘So, how have you been?’ encounter have been several unexpected meet ups that led to disappointment and self-examination. These are the folks who, undenounced to me, turned out to be simply name tags and place settings from my past lives. There’s sometimes a fine line between being mildly interested and really caring about past connections. Each question, statement, or pause can be a test to be passed or failed based on the sincerity felt by the other party.


The art of conversation could be seen as a test. Words say a lot. Conversations mean something. Real conversations are priceless. I thrive on substance and not empty calories. These folks seem to have traveled a different pathway than I have. We may have once strolled the same lane but the divide that drew us apart has never left.

While some folks are willing to let you back into their lives, others aren’t so kind. My conversations with them, sparse as they’ve been, are all surface chatter, much of it contrived, and all very safe. It’s as if they’ve wrapped themselves up in this impenetrable armor that won’t let real emotions, true feelings and honest appraisals of our past lives become part of the conversation. To be honest, I can get more intimacy from a band-aid or Vaseline.


Photo Credit: Bob Getterz

Some of my coffee companions have chided me for caring about those lost connections from my past. ‘Let it go, it’s ancient history,’ they say. I disagree with their appraisal that the past is better left unearthed. Sometimes those past encounters can fill in the spaces where memories fail and questions still linger. Those encounters, while scotch taped with weak smiles and dishonest head nodding, are still a part of my past that interests me.

All those past connections with friends and casual time-sharing associates are glimpses into a younger me; good, bad, confused and trying. Under the crown of elder or senior, I find myself on an interesting journey of self-discovery. How did I get here? Why did I end up like this? Although I can’t change the past, how can I embrace what once was, accept that all friendships don’t last forever and recognize that as humans we all change, evolve, and hopefully grow in our own ways.

While I’d love to think that all past acquaintances, friends, associates, and casual encounters will be around forever, I know that is not the case. Relationships come and go; some longer than others. If we have just a couple of true, honest friendships that pass the test of time, we are damn lucky.


In that sense, I’ve been a very lucky man. I’ve had some great folks pass through my life and enrich me for the time spent with them. For those name tags and place settings, I wish them the very best. I have my memories of our past, real as I think it can be, and that’s what I’ll hold on to. Foolish or not, I want to remember the good times and accept the not so good as my reality when I was a younger man.