The first of many subsequent church solos

I watched with fondness today as the little children’s church choir sang out their Christmas tunes. Brought me back to my childhood at The First English Lutheran Church Christmas concerts, while in my formative years.

It is a moment my sweet mother related to me years later. I was obliviously earnest and childlike at the time. Don’t really know how old I was.

A simple country boy, it was always special to drive the maroon Dodge into town for Church and Sunday School with the town kids. They always appeared to be better groomed, knowledgeable and cosmopolitan, but I didn’t mind. So when 30 of us  practiced for the Christmas performance, I was most diligent, appreciating the importance and privilege of this coming event.

When our director told us to memorize the words to the carol, I did. When she told us to practice singing very loud, I did.

The church was packed with the faithful that night, proud parents mixed with the devout. There were no cameras, recordings;  no buzzing, parishioners sat respectably with the bygone reverence so missing today. The sacred service began, and soon it was the turn of the children’s choir, clad in pink stoles, with big black bows. We rose to present our music, pre-schoolers? Don’t remember.

My late mother tells the story. It turned out that no one had memorized the words. No one sang loud.  Except Stanley, the Country Kid, oblivious to his surroundings, confidently belting out the words in a loud soprano. Aghast at the other few mumblers standing beside Stanley, the horrified director turned her sole attention to the only singer who had done as he was told.

lt was my first ever solo performance, sung before a proud mother and an amused Christmas audience. 

Happy Birthday Alex

 Friends, relatives and caregivers gathered for a special event Sunday: the 35th anniversary of the birth of Alex Rolfsrud. With a birthday so easily over shadowed because of its proximity to the birth of Jesus, we managed to push all that aside and have a hi -  ho time, with buffet, cake and gifts and a song. Many more, Alex!

Added attraction was his brother's special guest, and we managed to vet her thoroughly and pronounce her most worthy of his affections.

Charcuterie!

 Let the celebrations begin! Our holiday party went all out this year, free bar and a flood of food samples that made up for the years of want, when Covid prevented such congregating. An ugly sweater contest and copious Christmas costuming capped the proceedings, with winners and prizes to be announced tomorrow. Stan entered the contest with some doubts about his success, given that some resident's enthusiasm that included costumes powered by lithium batteries. All he had was a mere brass bell hung around the Holstein's neck.

Update! Stan won the Ugly Sweater contest, but sadly, some grinch stole most of the prizes before they could be awarded. All that was left was the first place prize of a blender and a blanket. In the spirit of the holidays and because he already owns a blender and a blanket, the winner donated them back for the owners of the less ugly sweaters, the losers, if you will. A win win. Stan has the prestige of the Ugliest sweater, the losers get prizes. All good.

It's Now Official!

 There's Black Friday, Advent, winter solstice, trees and lights, cards and concerts, but nothing that says it's holiday season more at our house than when Kathleen gets out the cookie press and starts popping out the little treats that say: "It is now Christmas!" May we be among the first to greet you for the holiday and invite you soon for a Cup of Christmas Tea and a little snack.

Cookie monster

 

Stan got bit trying to assemble a new cookie press acquired recently by Katie, the Christmas Cookie Queen. Fortunately, Nephew Aaron stopped by, and figured out the new Chinese beast, and then we slowly got it rolling, eventually cranking out the annual treats in jig time. 

In another nod to high tech, this year Siri prompted Katie when each batch was ready to come out. 

At right: It drew blood even before we started.

When can we get out of here??

After destroying her cheesy cardboard cat carrier and a subsequent jail break attempt, Bubbles meekly submitted to her annual rabies and distemper shots and exam today. Our local vet, Dr. J, then clipped her nails and pronounced her good to go. As is apparent, Bubbles was more than ready to return to her private digs on Tech Drive.

Christmas cat?

"All snug in her bed, while visions of sugar plums dance in her head?" 

Do cats dream? Do cats know what time of year it is? Do they notice the shorter days? So much to ponder.

Amendment

 

Melissa did not appreciate the previously selected Thanksgiving historical photo. It put her in a bad light, and she has since submitted photos that she finds more pleasing to her taste. In the interest of fairness, they are presented here, not to correct the record, but to improve it. 

She's right, you know.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Stan, Emily, Max, Marcy, Missy, Hoi and Kathleen.

The Godfather reminisces

The very best party the three bachelors ever threw at Parklawn Court in Edina was catered by Alex and Marian Vitali.

It was the fall of 1973, and brothers Virg, Steve and Stan had hosted their share of wine-women-and-song Saturday night events. It was time for something different. "The Godfather" had won Best Picture the previous year, spaghetti and lasagna is cheap and everybody likes it, so the brothers figured a sit-down Italian dinner with a mobster theme would be just the thing to impress dates and entertain invited guests.

"Mama" and her stallion.

Alex and Marian ran a photo business out of their Chaska home and had a contract with Stan's newspaper company for darkroom  services.  Always up for a good time, they were easily volunteered as a cook and a waiter for a fun fake formal dinner. It helped that Marian was a for-real great Italian cook and that Alex loved to be called "The Italian Stallion." Both grew up in traditional Italian families on the Iron Range.
When the dozen invitees arrived, they were told that dinner was being prepared in the kitchen by two recent Italian immigrants, Alex and Mama Vitali. They were a poor uneducated couple, but did know authentic cooking and the hosts were just trying to help them get a start in the new country.
Mama still spoke only Italian, though her husband did speak a bit of broken English. The guests bought it.
"She no speeka da Inglish," Alex confirmed, right on cue. This muted role suited Marian just fine, being very shy anyway, unlike her jocular, outgoing husband.
At the head of the table, Stan took on the role of Godfather, dressed in a black tuxedo rented from the basement of a vintage Dinkytown clothier, Al Johnson's. As the dinner progressed, from time to time a subservient waiter would consult with the Godfather in a fake Italian. The Godfather responded discreetly in fake Italian, to the amazement of those within earshot.

Heaping platters of pasta and tomato paste and bottles of chilled wine were delivered to the huge makeshift table, with a busy red-vested waiter constantly urging guests: "Mange, Mange!" The hoax was working. But the hosts had no idea how completely Alex and Marian had fooled the guests. They figured the diners all got the joke and were just playing along in the spirit of the evening. They were wrong.
After a sumptuous banquet finished with scoops of spumoni, it was time to confirm the joke and honor Alex and Marian for their superb acting and contribution to a fun evening.
The reveal set-up called for a heated Alex to repeatedly whisper to the Godfather that Mama Vitali was upset and insulted that people were not eating, despite urgings. He needed satisfaction for his wife's honor.
The Godfather encouraged the guests to please eat more, because, goodness, this is customary to gorge and if you are not gorging, there must be something wrong with the food and it was insulting to these immigrants. The guests were stuffed, so no one complied, of course. The back and forth continued until an enraged waiter returned for the last time to the head of the table, this time with a three-foot baguette in hand.
According to the script, Alex would break the bread over the Godfather's scalp in a fit of feigned anger. Our guests would then burst out laughing at this over-the-top slapstick performance, and the true identities of Alex and Marian would then be confirmed, as the good friends and good sports that they were.
That was not to be.
Right on cue, Alex smashed the loaf on the Godfather's head. But there was no outburst of laughter. You could hear a pin drop as the guests froze, stunned at this ugly, unseemly turn of events. It was now up to the Godfather to hurriedly explain, "Hey, we're just kidding. Really, Alex isn't mad. Mama isn't insulted. It's a joke. Get it? This is just Alex and Marian from Chaska. They've lived in Minnesota all their lives. They're just good friends helping out."
Most of the guests now got it, laughing with relief, but not all of them got it.
Later, as the happy crowd departed the festive mobster venue, a grateful but still confused guest approached Alex, who was standing beside Marian, and slowly and clearly asked just when she had left Italy and how did she like her new country.

Veteran's Day 2025

 My annual photo proving I still fit in the uniform issued to me on July 8, 1970.

First time voter, and mom

 The Blethen ladies got to the polls Tuesday.

 Our granddaughter cast her first vote, and we're so proud!

Korea

 Our world travelers are taking a swing through Southeast Asia. Their group is skipping Vietnam this time, but taking in three weeks or so of Taiwan, Korea and Japan.

He kept me at school

 For me, he is unforgettable.

John Helgeson played Casper, one of three wisemen in our small-town Christmas production of “Amahl and the Night Visitors.” I was the African wiseman, done up in blackface by the drama coach, perhaps killing any chance I would ever have at a future political career.

Earlier, Helgie had appeared as an out-of-place eighth grader on a local kiddie program. KCMT, boasting the tallest television tower in the Midwest, featured Jim Syrdal as Captain Space who, along with sidekick Monk Mooney, thrilled local kindergarteners and tykes with weekly hijinks and cartoons. John and his grinning buddy, Mark, sat amongst the dozen or so kiddie audience one week, sacrificing their dignity for dollars, and thus collected on a plethora of wagers from classmates, who foolishly bet that they would never dare do it.

A chance meeting years later at a Metrodome preview changed my life. I was struggling to stay in college to keep my student deferment until the Vietnam War would hopefully end. (Never did) I bumped into John, we chatted, and I shared that I needed a better job while I kept a required full load at the U. He steered me to a job he was quitting at the Minneapolis War Memorial Blood Bank. I quickly got the job as night attendant, moved into the basement, got paid, and dispatched emergency blood supplies to the city’s 17 area hospitals. Yeah, there were 17 metro hospitals back then and they included General Hospital, where gun shot victims and car accidents didn’t wait for business hours. My days were free for class. 

It was a legacy job. I lived there, got my friends and relatives jobs there. Expanded our roles. Ate all the donor pop and cookies my teenage friends and I could consume, and held fun parties in the absence of authorities. Eventually I graduated, got drafted, but when my service was over, I returned to the blood bank. Little had changed and my friends were still running the place at night. We celebrated. I don’t recall that we toasted John, probably not, but we should have.

John died near his home in Hawaii recently, where he and his wife of 44 years enjoyed restoring and tending six acres of dry-land native forest, not a surprising enterprise for a good man who did so much for others. He joins a growing list of important people in my life who never got a proper thank you from me for their critical impact on it. 

God bless you, Helgie.

Cantilever to Canada

A famous operable railroad bridge linking the U.S. to Canada was swathed in a morning mist as the Rainy River cooled in the lengthening night. Photo by Wayne's friend, who lives nearby.

Pumpkin tree at the Arboretum

A couple of 80 somethings took a fall tour through the nearby Minnesota Landscape Arboretum recently. Kathleen and Bonnie have been pals for decades. The day included a stop at the gift shop where, it is said, a secret purchase was made and set aside for Christmas giving. But that's just a rumor. This pumpkin tree was the perfect background for this souvenir photo.

Our 44th

 Almost as simple as the original ceremony 44 years ago. Our waiter congratulated us, brought us a complimentary brownie and ice cream, then snapped this photo. All good. On our way out, a sweet young couple asked us how many years? They were just getting started and looked very happy after 4. We did not offer any advice, they seemed quite satisfied with themselves so far.

Bubbles

We're cat lovers, so every once in a while we feel compelled to post a picture of The Boss. Please understand. As is said, boarding a cat is like living with fine art, that occasionally vomits on the rug.

 

Linda Engstrom Akenson

While stopping in Tucson to drop off the van, we faked this photo of me and some lovelies, hard at work poolside, for the amusement of readers back home. Linda is at my left.

________________

How I remember Linda. . .

 We hatched our plot in the bathroom at an Augsburg beer party, the only refuge from the cacophony. I had worked long enough by then to earn a vacation and a tricked-out Dodge van. She had just finished college and a relationship.

“Wanna go to California?” I shouted over the noise of the 1975 revelry. She was game for anything. Seems she always was. So almost on a dare, we soon set out on a six-week journey from Seattle to Mazatlan. We weren’t exactly hippies, but I had a beard and hair then, and she had a free-spirit that would open doors for us, all down the West Coast, on this obligatory rite of passage. 

Norwegian Lutherans both, we were not known for our daring-do, but Linda’s bright personality would enrich the road trip immeasurably. She had spunk, curiosity, and guts, and it didn’t hurt that she was attractive, blonde and perky.

A blizzard in South Dakota, and a slide down the icy Rockies of Idaho, were all dutifully recorded in our journal, a book I prize to this day. Expenses were kept there too, and we split them down the middle with an easy-going flourish.

Karl and Sue, high school classmates, showed us the Seattle fish market, in the days before clerks tossed the slippery wares around. We saw the newish Space Needle and tram. Gracious hosts with fond memories. It rained one day of course.

When we got to wine country, a friend of a friend had given us a Sonoma address to check out. As total strangers, we pulled in and asked if we could park overnight in their driveway, and “Hi from Rick and Linda!” That was enough to earn a couple nights indoors, showers, and a wine tour of the famed vinyards.

 

Alcatraz was just closing down then, we toured it, then had crab legs on a blanket in view of the Golden Gate. Haight Ashbury was a must-see, so we did. Neither of us were much for drugs, but we did recognize the wafting scent in the air. Peace, man.

Linda’s classmate, Mary Kay, was working was as a “foot model” in Hollywood and had connections with Mimi Hines’ young caretaker. Remember Mimi? She wasn’t there presently so we happily moved in for a couple days in a Malibu beach house, sorta like in “Two and a Half Men.” Carol King galloped past on the beach. Or at least we thought it was her. 

We gawked at Telly Salvalas at the Universal Studios, which was featuring an animated shark from the hit “Jaws” at the time. Telly was amused by our curiosity, a break from his role as Kojak.

Mary Kay also had a girlfriend who dated a Los Angeles Kings hockey player. Again, he was at an away game. So we squatted a couple days in his palatial suburban home, availing ourselves of all facilities.

Linda insisted we go to Mexico. I was a bit freaked by the idea of driving a van there, so we parked in Tucson at her friends, and took a train to Mazatlan. There she was an instant draw, a cute blonde on the beach in a nation of dark hair. We signed in to a hotel as a “Periodista, dos personas.” Stayed a week, while Linda befriended interesting people on the beach, including the middle-aged bi-lingual bachelor Mario, who had a dark-eyed mistress and called himself “The Ambassador,” because he was often called upon to translate and resolve harbor disputes between authorities and miscreant boat captains.

Without Linda, none of this would have ever happened, of course. But she had even more: Retired friends in Guadalajara, who took us through a new, sparkling mall, the pride of the city. We bused back to Mazatlan as Ugly Americans, taking the first class seats in an unheated conveyance braving the mountain roads. A chilly Linda didn’t know the bus had no working heater or the Spanish words for “turn up the heat!” The helpful driver obliged her gesturing by turning up the radio. “Ya-ta-ta,” boomed the mariachi band. He also had the disconcerting practice of turning off his night headlights, the better to see oncoming traffic rounding the curves ahead in the blackness of the mountain passes. We imagined what would happen if the oncoming driver was using the same trick.

Safely back in Mazatlan, we gathered our things for the train. Linda wanted to take two extra bottles of tequila across the border. Again, freaking me out, I was still unaccustomed to traveling with an attractive blond young woman.

But, alas, white privilege goes only so far. U.S. Customs is apparently immune to these charms so we were soon invited behind the counter to witness an agent as she poured two perfect bottles of the local product down the drain. Darn. Back to reality.

___________

Linda Engstrom Akenson died unexpectedly last month. I have always known her as full of life, perky, positive and a wonderful, platonic travel companion. My condolences to her husband, Tom, her sister, Carol, and the many dear ones who will miss her greatly. We shall miss her too, and hold tightly the memory of that unforgettable time in my life.

2024 Minnesota State Fair

 Look out, fairgoers, we're coming through. Kathleen turned in her walker for a scooter yesterday and we made our way about the fairgrounds. But crowds were so thick and the rain so regular that we aborted and returned to our Southwest Transit ride home a little early. The onion rings and hot dogs were good, we stopped in a couple of places, but agreed that spending the afternoon trying not to run into people got a little old. Will we try again next year? Time will tell, as it always does.

 

Everyone happy now!

A one-way mirror separates the little birdies from the top killer of song birds, the American House Cat. Not windows, not wind turbines. Bubbles' predation instincts come out in full force, watching the window mounted feeder, but fortunately, the one-way mirror film shields our feathered friends, and are none the wiser.  They eat calmly, inches from their nemesis.

Compassionate leave

 “Rolfsrud! Private Rolfsrud,” the mess sergeant bellowed. I had been in basic training for six weeks in a bewildering routine, which included a dreaded stint as KP in the massive consolidated mess hall. Report at 5 a.m. 

Breakfast dishes were being cleaned and stacked in a steamy backroom and my fellow recruits were stumbling through the chaos, harangued by the cook staff who delighted in pushing them.

“Here! Rolfsrud here!” I shouted back to the distant voice somewhere beyond this noisy hell.

 It was my savior.

“Report to the chaplain’s office now,” the mess sergeant commanded in softer tones.

Totally befuddled, all I could do was meekly follow the chaplain’s messenger outside and down the street, wondering what ever was going on. “Did somebody die? Was there an accident?” No one knew, of course, and didn’t care. Don’t ask, private.

I dutifully reported to the clerk in the chaplain’s waiting room, abuzz with dozens of draftees and volunteers, minding their own business.

“Rolfsrud reporting,” I said in my best military voice.

“Hmmm.” the clerk looked over his schedule. “Take a seat.”

I did. I found a comfortable spot in the corner of the air-conditioned waiting room. Aah. Missouri sounds like misery, and it had been for the past six weeks at Ft. Leonard Wood. This was wonderful. Bad news will wait, I decided. I had already been forgotten by the busy clerk. I sat there for a half hour. I should have prompted him, but didn’t. I decided to milk it and take on the role of the obedient draftee, doing what he was told and no more.

I sat almost motionless, wondering what misery I was missing back at the mess hall kitchen. The minutes passed deliciously.

I lost all track of time. Four hours? Five?

The chaplain finally noticed me and asked who I was. “I was told to report to the chaplain’s office and wait,” I explained. A stream of apologies came from the neglectful chaplain as he ushered me in to his spacious office. Then he explained that he was just a shirttail relative to me, had seen my name on a roster, and wanted to meet me. I had no idea who he was, but did everything I could to engage him and extend our meeting. We chatted amiably. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. 

There wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t override any of the demands of my conscription. He’d already maxed his powers, getting me off KP. I thanked him anyway. He wrote me a pass back to the mess hall. I walked slowly back to my duty.

They were just finishing up when I reported in to the new shift mess sergeant, who pretty much ignored me.

I  returned to the barracks, refreshed after my day off, not questioning what had just happened, or bragging to bunkmates.

To this day, I can’t figure out the identity of this fine young southern chaplain. A whirlwind of subsequent activity left him in its wake.

But now I still wonder: Who was that man? I’d like to thank him.

Missy's new camper

Ready to roll to a summer of fun, Missy just acquired a dandy pull-behind camper. Lots of storage and features. Air, TV, fridge, shower, stove, heat, canopy, microwave.

No. She's not selling her house.....although she could.  

Solveig writes from her California garden.. .

 Oh my, the energy of rain, a little warmth—and spring is lively with romance!  I’m not talking about mosquitoes trying to kiss my nose, no. Yes, although the Ladybug Invasion is over, I did spot two ladybugs, one riding the other, on a leisurely walk in the greens.  And then there was a pair of scrawny-looking dragonfly-like insects clutching each other in the honeysuckle vine climbing on the deer netting fence.  

But I’m going up another level. There’s a mourning dove couple now hanging around the lower gardens who demonstrated for me it’s possible a cat and birds might get along, so this pair is making my garden their home:

The ladies meet at the Outback...again

 Note that matching walkers are parallel parked in handicap zone.

Some things were great, others not so much

 

The ascendancy of basketball phenom Caitlin Clark to the Indiana Fever for a paltry $76,000, brought me back to the basement of a one-room schoolhouse. I had four classmates back then, I believe, and the most athletic and competitive was Lorlee.

We had seen a few games and now dueled in a basket-less concrete space, with a half-sized basketball, stuffing it into the hole over the center supporting pillar, to score two points. She ably guarded me under the seven-foot ceiling. Having no guidance, we wondered about the rules regarding dribbling. Was it okay to put your hand under the ball when dribbling? We would later learn that was called “palming” and a definite no-no.

As a boy, I would go on to play varsity basketball and experience the thrills, cheers and support from noisy crowds in a huge modern gymnasium. Lorlee would not.

_____

The baby boom forced the country school board to hire a part-time teacher to help the stretched full-timer instructing the eight grades. Simultaneous instruction took place mornings in that same basement, on a picnic table. For convenience, Mrs. Raap kept all her materials in an unlocked corner cabinet, then left us for the afternoon. Very efficient.

Word got out that persons unknown had peeked into that forbidden cabinet and surreptitiously looked at test answers or something equally scandalous. Brought to her attention one morning by her partner, Mrs. Raap swiftly dealt with the matter.

“Would everyone who went into my cabinet, please stand and apologize?” she said calmly.

That was that.  In an act of courage and honesty brought on by an overwhelming conscience and need for relief, three miscreants, I believe, stood and took full responsibility for their actions.

Nothing further was said or done.

It was the worst of times, and yet the best of times.

Now, at the Lake of the Woods. . .

This week's visitor to Hotel California fished the mighty Pacific today. The International Falls resident (left) guides others to Greater North walleyes, lake trout and such, but this was a bit of a busman's holiday, as he tried his hand at some deep sea fishing.  Wayne will be here for a week. Stan stays on for a few more weeks. The garden is just starting to sprout new growth and there's a project blooming in the garage that needs attention.

While still at sea, the fishing duo sent this report. Don't ask for any IDs on this fish. Could be anything. They ain't walleye.

 

The next game could be his "Last Hurrah!"

Ah, reminiscing again. I try to live in the present, but sometimes you can’t help but go back. I take you now, in the wayback machine, to the days when the entire state would be gripped in basketball tournament fever, and radio and tv play-by-play descriptions were followed with great interest. Popular intensity, since then, has moderated somewhat. 

Today my long-time doctor texted me a yellowed newspaper clipping of a ballgame in 1982. He had a younger brother playing in the game, and they still treasure the memories. I was writing occasionally for the Chaska paper back then. Lots of fun for the town, as they pressed forward with a winning team. Here’s my account of the hilarity added to it by one classic small-town radio play-by play icon.

___________________

Wednesday, March 24, 1982 – the Carver County Herald

Thursday’s game could be his last hurrah

Just when you thought there was no room left for one more star on the Chaska basketball scene, just when you thought nothing could be added to the excitement of Saturdays overtime victory—KSMM plays the Jonckowski tapes.

Some of us are still shaking. 

The Jonckowski tapes, for the benefit of the timid who never wander far from WCCO-AM, are the play-by-play reports of the Hawks games on KSMM radio, Shakopee.  KSMM is not allowed to broadcast after dark, so they can’t carry live night games. Undaunted, the station plays back a recording of the game a day later, and after you already know the outcome and the score.

Sound dull? Not when you’ve got a game for a state tournament berth, and you rarely get more than a two-point lead… And Dick Jonckowski is screaming out the play-by-play.

Now a word about our announcer. Dick is not your average plaid-slacked, mellow-voiced radio announcer. First, and above all, he is a homer. He’s a sports fanatic, his Shakopee man-cave houses a trove of memorabilia.

For a time he was banned from the sidelines of the Minnesota Vikings football field, by none other than the Great Bud Grant himself, who thought The Junker was just hot-dogging too much in his job as stadium usher. Bud, like many of us, just didn’t understand him.

Never a doubt about Dick‘s loyalties.

Dick Jonckowski’s abiding dream is to broadcast a state tournament game. How do I know this? Because he told everybody, between gasps, during Sunday’s broadcast. No one was surprised, just concerned that his heart will hold out long enough. When he excitedly dropped the microphone during the final seconds of regulation play this week, and all we heard was seconds of suspenseful dead air, well, some of us thought it might have been the Big One for ol’ Dick this time.

The tape is a classic. The whole town is talking about it. Neighbors are bringing it from house to house. Mrs. Young’s Third grade class listened to highlights. Dieters use it as a sweat aid.

In case you have missed it, we’ve written down some highlights for you here. It loses something in the transcription, of course, you must read it with intensity.

He cheers:

“Come on Chaska, let’s go! You’re going to have to start rolling. I had a dream that this would happen, but I really didn’t think it would. (The score is 6–0). 

“All right, come on now, here we go, Hawkers!” (6-6)

He coaches:

“Hurry, Whitey! Can’t get it across, He’s going to be called for 10 seconds. No! Just barely made it.

“They’ve got to do something about the big guy. I believe if they put Preiss down low, they could get more baskets. They should be able to get a few chipping in, nice shots.” (32-31)

He’s candid:

“I don’t know if anybody thought the game would be this close. I was sure hoping it wouldn’t be. Chaska, 45–44, in a game that has me almost in a nervous breakdown.”

He didn’t like the officiating:

“Oh, no! They called it for an elbow. I don’t know where they’re seeing these fouls. I can’t believe this, I don’t believe some of the calls. I don’t understand it.

"Now they called charging! Come on, I’m sick and tired of this officiating. That’s the fourth on Lommen and Ronnie has been making all the calls. I can’t believe some of these calls.”

It was the final 25 seconds of play that just about did Dick in. Spectators reported seeing Jonckowski throwing his earphones and disappearing from view in his booth, then jumping up and down in his bright red shirt.

We pick up the play-by-play in progress. It’s loud and intense.

“Pass-in to Lommen with 25 seconds. Preiss up the floor to Dalhke. Dalhke holds it. Gives it to Lano. Oh, Lano was fouled twice, three times, and now he throws it out of bounds. They rule it was last touched by Chaska! They rule that Chaska touched it last! Lano threw the ball and thought it was deflected out by Fairmont, but they rule that Chaska touched it last!

“So they ruled that Lano last touched it, so Fairmont has a shot at the last chance for the last shot. -- Rosenberg, 29-footer, no good! Rebound, no time left on the clock, 8-foot shot, no good, that’s the game! Oh, a called. . . . .

(At this point, there is an unintelligible muffled word, emanating from the announcer’s booth. We won’t speculate.)

“I can’t. I think he called a foul! I think he called a foul with one second left. They’re calling a foul with one second left on the clock. That ball was just loose. You couldn’t tell who had it, you couldn’t tell who had the ball, either way you couldn’t tell who had it, just an unbelievable call, just typical of the way the whole game is gone with these officials.”

“ Oldencamp shooting for Fairmont. Free throw. If he misses  it’s overtime or if he makes, a loss for Chaska. Either one, on a very questionable last second call, very questionable last second call and Chaska wants a time out.”

Mercifully, we break for a commercial.

“At the Line is Oldencamp to shoot another.”

(At this point there is a microphone clunk. A full five seconds of silence elapses, leaving us to wonder if Oldencamp wins it for Fairmont or what? Then, gratefully, Dick is back)

“…..over.  Oldencamp at the, there’s only one second left. If he makes it, it’s over. Here’s his free-throw, it’s up, it’s no good. Overtime! Overtime! He missed it! Oldencamp choked. He choked. He choked, and we have overtime!”

Will he live long enough for state?

In deference to your blood pressure and our space, we’re withholding the play-by-play during the three minute overtime. Suffice to say that Jonckowski worked himself into a lather, reaching new heights of excitement. We pick it up at the end of overtime:

“It’s Chaska‘s ball and they win. Chaska wins another state tournament berth. Another state tournament berth for the Chaska Hawks. Oh, my God, unbelievable. Fairmont loses. They lose it. Chaska wins it”.

(Now we hear a gasping, and the ominous sound of deep breaths blowing across the top of the microphone.)

“Oh, I’m out of breath. (Gasp). I can hardly talk. Oh, I’m out of breath. Unbelievable win. Unbelievable win for the Chaska Hawks. (Gasp). Fantastic. I can’t believe it. I just hope I live long enough to go to the state tournament, unbelievable, oh I can’t believe this. This is fantastic. It might be the biggest thrill I’ve ever had because I’ve always wanted Chaska to go back to the state so bad, so I could be there. (Gasp). Unbelievable and the fans are on the floor, they’re going crazy. And I’ll try and be back with a wrap up.

“Holy man, I just can’t believe it. I’m just exhausted. “

We were too, Dick. Good luck now in the state tournament and Thursday’s afternoon live broadcast. Thanks for backing the Hawks, but take care of yourself. 

Please folks. Pray that the Chaska Hawks take an early 10-point lead and then hold it.

It could save a life.

——————————————

Forty-two years later, this is still one of life’s precious moments for me, the doctor and his brother, who won a berth that year in Minnesota’s Big Show.

It’s okay to reminisce.