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