A capital idea

 It was in the bowels of the Indianapolis Star that I saw my first photo typesetting machine. The Army has lots of Temporary Duty Training opportunities and I grabbed at this one, even though I knew I would be out of service by 1973, God and Nixon willing.

The machine was as big as a refrigerator, and inside its light-tight chamber, a couple of font strips spun madly around an axle, faster than a clothes dryer. A sharp beam of light, timed by something called a computer, shot through the spinning font strip, perfectly timed to expose photo paper with a single letter of the alphabet.

Our squad of Information Specialists from around the country gasped as eventually a cartridge of photo sensitive paper was run through a light-tight box of chemicals, resulting in a column of newspaper type.

Photo offset, huh. A miracle of ingenuity. Little did I know it would be life-changing.

Heretofore, my only experience was akin to that of Johann Gutenberg, stamping ink on paper via letterpress. As a high school newspaper sports editor, I had watched Bud Akers (I think that was his name) manipulate heavy lead slugs into a page of news at the Lake Region Farmer. I couldn’t help notice that a career of heavy metal machines and saws had apparently left Bud missing a few fingers.  I didn’t ask. 

The same Compugraphic refrigerator box was grinding and overheating at the Chaska Herald when I got out of the service and took the only job available to me: an editor at $6 an hour.

The emerging technology and the fast-growing suburb would create a space for me to grow and raise a family. Timing is everything. The new efficiency and innovation of the industry forced the consolidation of smaller papers, collectivizing them into chains and corporations, changing forever the ownership of local news, with profits leaving the community, after expenses were paid.

I was part of that revolution and benefitted from it, the ultimate result of capitalism and its mandate to merge and grow.

I innovated and took advantage of every opportunity presented by the digital age and it brought me a good life. Eventually, all typewriters were replaced, telephones were replaced, paste ups were replaced, floppy disks were replaced.

And then local newspapers were replaced.

Self-publishing enterprises on the internet followed new rules. It was the end of an era, spanning my entire career, lasting just long enough to retire me in comfort.

All the newspapers that I ran are gone now, there are new voluntary groups emerging who have realized what a hole in the quality of life they have left behind in their communities. They are bringing local news to the internet in a whole new way. I wish them well.

Invitation to players

High atop the Southwest Station within the deeper reaches of the Greater Minneapolis-St Paul Metropolitan area, gamblers unite Wednesday morning for an epic display of wit, strategy and rust.

The focus of this happy event will be renewal of friendships, introductions and polite exchanges. But don’t be fooled. Buried within each player burns a competitive spirit, eager to scorch his neighbor, and crush the entire table of hopefuls, with a flourish of inspired play.

Bad beat stories are restricted to the Loser Lounge, where sloppy joes mingle with sad tales of what could have been.

The action begins at High Noon, Wednesday, January 22 in the Letnes Luau casino, Room 601. Five hands will be dealt, unless plans have changed. Registered players are No Tell Bartel, Seattle John, Long Shot Laurie, St.Paul Katie, and No Name Theis. Unable to play are Trip Queen, Nanners, Grampa Gary, Miss M’liss, Little Bro and others, but they plan on making future appearances to take on the winner. An open seat remains at the table, and, if plans have changed, another player would be a welcome addition.

According to Maitre ‘dHotel Stan Schmenge, house rules prohibit spitting, smoking, cheating and cat kicking. Proper attire required, to include bowling shirts, Hawaiian garb. Straw hats and leis provided. No trump means No Trump talk allowed and will be enforced.

Early birds welcome to discuss rules and procedures and count chips. 

Front door at 12900 Technology Drive is open, Elevate to the sixth floor. Keep your shoes on. Welcome. Aloha.

It makes a difference

Experienced cooks know the difference between Big T and Little t. There are three teaspoons in a tablespoon. Baking powder makes batter light and airy. This knowledge was gained over time by my sisters as they learned mandatory culinary skills.

Once upon a time my father fancied himself a writer’s studio and contracted Mr. Clair Helgeson to build it. Mr. Helgeson was a member of our church, and therefore eminently qualified to build a suitable edifice, one that was sure to draw the inspiration needed to create a best seller. Roger Sharp was among the carpenter crew that summer day, using nothing but hand tools and saws, since there was no electricity at the site. Healthy appetites resulted.

They were now ready for a break and an afternoon snack, courtesy of the host family. My sisters had been detailed for this task; baking a plate of cookies for a crew of hungry men was definitely women’s work. I, of course, was at the job site with the men, picking up manly nails or some other child’s task. The girls set about their duties in the home kitchen, about 300 yards away.

Exactly at the appointed time, the pre-teen girls proudly delivered their creation to the men: a plate of freshly-baked cookies and a beverage, probably a sugary Kool-aid. Sadly, it wasn’t long before a critical discovery was made: The girls had used a Big T and not a Little t when measuring the baking powder. Baking powder, I am told, raises the batter, making the cookies light and airy. The men immediately detected the mistake, there was enough air in these cookies to fill a balloon.

Roger Sharp was an excellent carpenter; he was also the father of a daughter who was Solveig’s age and he was no doubt aware of the sensitivities of these earnest young cooks. While the rest of us politely declined to finish the offering, he declared the cookies to be the best ever, and exuberantly helped himself to another dreadful mistake.

Roger didn’t die that day, he went right back to work. But he had just taught Little me a lesson about how to some day be a Bigger Man.

 

Ante Up!

It's been a long time since these poker chips have seen any action. Pre-covid probably. Time to get them out and fill a table's worth of players for the Southwest Station Invitational! Six chair cushions have arrived by special delivery and will complete the table, now eased for the long-play seniors.

A list of prospective players, many of them former table mates, but some new faces as well, will make up the Inaugural Texas Hold 'Em Revival entrants.

Contact St. Paul Katie or Stand Up Stan if you're interested in joining the fun. All in on the Turn! You can Buy Back.

Fight winter blues with Hawaiian luau

 Aloha. If you are a relative of my dear sister Linda, you are invited to the exclusive "Letnes Luau," a gathering of three generations of her progeny all in one room, a rare occurrence given scheduling conflicts these days. Details will arrive later, but with the preponderance of vegans, vegetarians, animal rights people, Jews and Moslem friends, and just plain fussy eaters, let it be known that no pigs will be harmed in the production of the Hawaiian feast, despite tradition and expectation. A special ukulele artist has been secured to provide authentic atmosphere. Hawaiian shirts, etc encouraged. Leis provided. No beach balls please.

Christmas box replaced

Sharing some Christmas memories with my big sister today of our “under privileged” childhood, before our parents took regular paying jobs, but produced a gaggle of needy children, nonetheless.

Dad was a struggling, self-employed author at the time, and shipped out his own books. So often we didn’t have a tree, but instead decorated a large “Christmas Box” made from a used shipping carton. We put our little gifts inside it for our brothers and sisters.

Mom taught piano and voice; parents drove their children out into the country for $1.25 a lesson and were billed for it monthly from her Royal Typewriter propped up in the sewing room. We had to stay quiet so as not to disturb the lessons being taught on the baby grand in the music room.

Some years, my creative sister would produce original skits for our parents, the creaking hallway sliding double-doors served as curtains, while the next act readied itself. I produced a fake adjustable mike for shorter siblings: sliding yardsticks sleeved in tinfoil.

Gifts opened, off to bed; mom headed to town to sing in the annual night time “Jingle Bells” Christmas radio fundraiser where callers would request performances in exchange for pledges. Too late for us to listen in on KXRA, mom eventually cooled on her volunteer gig when she learned that (gasp) some of the emcees had taken an alcoholic drink!

These Christmas eve memories come in a mash-up of years and conflicting recollections, but one I hold true:

Upon learning that the Rolfsruds wouldn’t have a real Christmas tree, a parent of one of mom’s students drove by briefly, and tossed a fresh Christmas tree onto our front lawn. We quickly grabbed it and decorated it with tinsel and bulbs. Wonderful, such a neat gift. Such a beautiful addition.

But it would be years later that I would grasp and appreciate the true beneficiary of that unexpected kindness; it was not us, but the thoughtful giver who would have been undoubtely endowed with that Super Feeling that comes with the True Spirit of Christmas.

May you all experience that on this blessed day.

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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.