- NEW WRITERS’ CIRCLE FALL CLASS“A CREATIVE WRITING THINK TANK““You can’t know where this writing will go. All you can do is follow this strange impetus to see the world from your character’s eyes...”Tine L. LeeThrough exercises, readings and discussion, this class will teach you practical tools and techniques to get what you know and what you want to say into a story, essay or memoir that you can feel good about. We’ll SPARK ideas, PUNCH & POLISH your imagination and PREPARE your work for publication. Future classes will expand this knowledge.You’ll create characters and scenes so real, you’ll be compelled to write so readers can’t wait to turn the page to see what happens next. EMBELLISHMENT can add spice to your words.Zoe Whitten, writer of dark and weird fiction: “Creative writing excels in relieving stress. After all...you can kill everyone who has ever p***ed you off, and you’ll feel zero guilt...”This THINK TANK class will also help you know WHEN TO QUIT REVISING, a major dilemma for many of us writers.“You can revise the life out of something so much that the spark of your original inspiration disappears.” Esther PorterPAT SPILSETH will host a 4 week “THINK TANK” class*Wednesdays, Sept. 18, 25, Oct.2 & 9*2 hour classes with discussion, 1-3PM Wednesdays
- location: 3233 Casco Circle, Wayzata, MN 55391
- fee: $95 to Pat Spilseth at above address
- RSVP by Sept. 7 PLEASE
Sunday, August 4, 2013
NEW WRITERS' CIRCLE FALL CLASS: "A CREATIVE WRITING THINK TANK"
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Brazen Broads of the Sixties
FROM WHERE I SIT Brazen Broads of the Sixties JULY 3, 2013
PAT DEKOK SPILSETH
Fireflies light up the night around our screened porch where I sit relaxing, enjoying the calm waters on the lake. You can’t beat lake living, especially in the summertime! Tonight, I can see the constellations Orion and two Dippers, and hear a pair of loons crying their haunting calls as sailboats drift lazily past my dock. Finally, summertime has arrived and the livin’ is easy.
Balmy evening breezes have my thoughts drifting back to school days in Glenwood. I remember the stone wall at Mount Lookout overlooking Glenwood. Fireflies lit up the dark skies as friends about to graduate sat reminiscing about our school days, sharing dreams of what we were going to be when we grew up. Back then, we still believed those tales of Princess Minnewaska, who, supposedly, was buried at Mount Lookout. We believed that treasured, though painful, ritual for brides to collect a stone to wear in our wedding slippers when we marched down the church aisle. It was supposed to bring good luck to brides. Sometimes the stone worked...
Summer meant grabbing one of Mom’s old bath towels, a swimsuit and riding my 3-speed Schwin bicycle to the beach to meet my pals. Swabbing my body with baby oil to tan, I’d get a great burn. The lifeguards used a real tanning cream like Coppertone and swabbed a white paste of zinc oxide on their noses to keep from burning. At that time kids knew that we needed to first get a good burn in order to get a deep tan. We didn’t know about skin cancer in those days, and we looked soooo good with a tan as we danced at Lakeside’s Teen Hops. At the Ballroom, popular bands played the twist and the stroll on romantic, moonlit evenings. How exciting to be dancing with our latest “crush”.
Remember those musty, moldy smells of wet concrete floors and sticky, damp swimming suits in the changing room at Glenwood’s beach? Around the corner, the snack bar always drew me and a crowd of candy lovers to the melting chocolate Snicker and Milky Way bars. A flash from the past jolted me as I recalled the panicky feelings in my tummy when it was my turn to dive off the high dive. I remembered diving in, doing a magnificent belly flop. Ouch! Part of my bathing suit was missing! What a miserable embarrassment for a teenager. Drowning seemed like it would be a lesser evil.
After working one Friday evening at Setters and Stradtman’s Corner drug stores downtown, Diane, Jan and I met friends at the beach to cool off by swimming out to the farthest tower at the beach. Giggling, we’d dare each other to skinny dip. Ohhhh... We shed our modest one piece suits and dove in with the spotlight shining directly on us. Our shrieking squeals must have been heard for miles. What brazen broads we were back then in the sixties!
The Danter twins, Dean and Dale, created a place they called Rockin’ Tree Canyon, where they’d escape to adventures the rest of us wanted so badly to share, but hadn’t the courage to enter the dark woods near the golf course road. But I loved swinging on those scraggly Tarzan vines at Monkey Vine Palace where I became a swingin’ Jane of the Wild Jungle. That was my favorite getaway until some bigger kids discovered it, and their weight pulled down the vines. Why couldn’t they have stayed picnicking at the Giant Chair and Table up the hill?
Canoeing out to Priests’ Point in Jimmy Gilman’s canoes was another summer treat. We’d paddle out to the Point and shiver with thrilling chills recalling the stories we’d heard about the priest who had lived there with his housekeeper. We earnestly believed tales of the lonely housekeeper, who hung herself in the rafters of the attic when her love was not returned by the priest. I wonder how many of those tales were true.
Gas was so cheap in those days. I could get around Lake Minnewaska from Glenwood to Starbuck in Dad’s little, white, Ford Falcon on 25 cents of gas. What a deal! My friend Lu and I would check in on Dad’s two-way radio to hear any police calls coming in. After all, we didn’t want to be caught by the cops at the party on Halvorson’s Point, where our friends were waiting for us around a bonfire, playing guitars and probably drinking a bit of beer. Lu and I were on our way when we heard Dad’s voice on the radio calling the highway patrol cars to meet him and raid the party at Halvorson’s Point. Someone had snitched or been broken by parents to fess up about our party.
We HAD to warn our friends. Pressing the foot petal to the metal, we flew that car out to the party on the lake! Julian, my cohort at the drug store, grabbed the keg and ran into the woods; his sidekick Marv nervously tried to start his boat, but it flooded and stalled. They were sitting ducks for the cop cars speeding onto the Point. Our little Falcon passed the raiding cars as we sped down the dirt road, away from the party. Dad didn’t even notice us in his Honda car. Later, Dad laughed when he heard about our escapade.
What a great world we grew up in during the fifties and sixties. We swam in Lake Minnewaska, swung on Tarzan vines at Monkey Vine Palace, skated figure eights at the football field’s ice rink, and met pals at the Carnegie Library where Mrs. Serrin shushed talking kids and told me certain books were off limits until I was older. We were so lucky to have two parents and neighbors who cared that each and every kid was safe and grew up with good values and a good work ethic. LIfe was good.
1004 words
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Men Are From Mars
FROM WHERE I SIT Men Are From Mars June 2, 2013 Pat DeKok Spilseth
Let’s face it. I don’t mean to be sexist or politically incorrect, but men and women are wired differently. Remember John Gray’s book MEN ARE FROM MARS. WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS? From cave man days, men were taught to provide and protect. Women nurtured their children and were in charge of the home. Today, those images are somewhat passe. In my experience, dads are problem solvers. Moms are the ones we talk to about feelings.
“It doesn’t matter who my father was,” Anne Sexton wrote, “It matters who I remember he was.” It’s interesting how each kid in the family remembers Dad for different reasons. Often the older kids in the family didn’t get as much time with Dad: he was working long hours, building a career, wanting to provide for his family. By the time younger kids came along, usually Dad had more time to spend with them.
No matter if we grew up in the 30’s, 50’s, 80’s, or recently, Dads make a huge impressions on their kids. Many girls want to marry a man just like dear old Dad. Boys want to be Mr. Fix Anything, an athletic Superman or a brain whiz like their father.
Many men enjoy building, fixing things and mowing their lawn so it’s the best looking lawn in the neighborhood. They like to shoot baskets, throw the football, play tennis or tinker with cars. Guys seem to be more interested in action activities; they’re uncomfortable talking about feelings.
Girls want to talk. We are so different than guys. We want to talk about school, books we’re reading, friends, places to travel, our dream guy and what we want to be when we grow up. Guys want to fix things, find solutions to a problem; they don’t want to discuss feelings. Girls do. We want to dream and analyze everything.
Maybe my desire to know more about life and why I felt the way I did were some of the reasons that Dad and I had very few conversations. I could have talked with Dad most any day in his office, which was next to our family’s kitchen at the jail. But I remember very few talks. I do remember four conversations that made an indelible impression.
1. When I got upset about something my band director said, Dad stood up for me, called the instructor, and my problem with that person was solved.
2. When I misbehaved, he’d send me to my room to “think about what I’d done.” After he’d given me time to cry and feel totally terrible, he came upstairs to tell me how badly I’d disappointed Mom and Dad. He wasn’t a cuddlier nor did he talk about love. That was supposed to be understood. Love wasn’t verbalized.
3. When he dropped me off at Luther College, my first time away from home for any length of time, he told me “to remember who I was” and to “stand up for what I believed.” He was a very principled man. He expected others to be that same sort of stand-up, ethical person.
4. When he was ill with cancer, dying at the Veterans’ Hospital in St. Paul, I’d sit with him in companionable silence. But he did rally strength to forcefully tell me to “Get out there and do all those things you want to do before it’s too late.” Dad had things he wanted to do, but his job took his time, energy and health. At 61 he died, unable to enjoy retirement, travel, and never knew his grandchildren.
Dad’s life was mostly work, either at the sheriff’s office, plowing fields on his farm, or driving trucks carrying cattle or feed to market. My Dad was quiet, but I remember that most men weren’t big communicators in the fifties and sixties. Today’s dads seem more open, spend more time with family. Many women have returned to the work force so dads are expected to help out more with family and household duties. Life is no longer just about work; today, relationships seem to be a higher priority in our lives.
My children’s dad has been a wonderful companion and cheerleader to his children. Dave enjoys water skiing, tennis, boating, and going to the movies or sports events with his kids; he could spend hours shooting hoops with Andy and biking with Kate. He attended all their sports games and music concerts if he wasn’t at his job flying airplanes. When he was home, Dave became the referee, settling arguments and solving problems. But when it came to talking about their troubles and hurt feelings, it was Mom’s turn.
Girls and guys are wired differently. Dads and Moms have different strengths and weaknesses, but as mates, we try to fill in each other’s empty spaces and be good influences for our children. June 16th is Fathers’ Day. Tell your Dad how important he is in your life. 839 words
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Backyard Enchantment
FROM WHERE I SIT Backyard Enchantment Pat DeKok Spilseth
When summer arrives in full bloom, there’s a special kind of enchantment. Summer breezes smell extra fine. Grass feels softer. Waves gently lick the shore. Hammocks swing slowly between backyard trees, and we fall into a deep sleep.
Remember when your mom told you to go out and play? You did. Kids got up a backyard ball game and played ante ante over the shed storing rakes and mowers, winter skis, skates and toboggans. Little tykes blew bubbles through the wire wand of the bubble bottle, chasing them in until they burst far up in the clouds. Some created plays on backyard stages. You stayed outside all day long until the supper whistle blew, then raced home to eat with the family at the kitchen table.
Do people still take time to enjoy relaxing in their backyards? I hope so, but with both Mom and Dad working; the kids in day care or school, and grandparents living many miles away...who uses their backyards anymore? Kids’ schedules are crammed with supervised lessons in every sport, music and language. Do children today have free time to play? Is the backyard another sign of oblivion like the front porch?
When I was a kid, we used to play dress up with neighbors’ cast off hats, trailing bridal veils, and bridesmaids’ bouffant, pastel dresses. We paraded with measured steps, pretending to be part of a wedding party. Some backyards had a swing set and a slide. Jeanie Zimma’s grandparents had a play house in their yard for us to have tea parties and play with our dolls. My backyard had a sweeping, weeping willow tree where I would sit with my pals on a high branch, lean back against another branch, and swap tales. No parent or neighbor could see up through the leafy tendrils hanging to the ground. How cool the shade felt on hot summer days sitting in the tree sharing our dreams.
When Dad was sheriff, my backyard at our jail home was across the street from the red brick Lutheran church. Kids would gather before choir practice and confirmation classes to roll down our huge, grassy hill, squealing with delight. We’d pick dandelions and braid the yellow weeds into crowns. Lazy summer afternoons we’d stretch out on the sweet smelling grass and search for four leaf clovers to bring good luck. If we were lucky, we’d find one or two, press them into the thick Webster Dictionary, and save them in a special box. On the cement sidewalk, we’d draw hopscotch squares with chalk and jump from one block to the other, scattering those nasty, sandy ant hills with our white tennis shoes.
Mom’s laundry was hung on our backyard clothes lines on Monday, her designated wash day. Her clothes pin bucket was a tiny dress whose skirt held the wooden clothespins anchoring clothing to the lines strung between metal posts. White bed sheets flapped on the two outside lines; panties, slips and bras, BVD underwear, night gowns, and pajamas were hung on the inside line. No one was supposed to see these “unmentionables”.
We created a camp out tent by pinning Dad’s gray, wool, army blankets to the clothesline. Though we wanted to spend the night outdoors, often we got too scared or rambunctious in the tent telling ghost stories. The pins holding the tent would pop, and the blankets collapse on giggling girls underneath. When we remembered that the jail prisoners were only a few feet from our tent, it spooked us. Our imaginations, the starry black night, and those unidentifiable monster sounds frightened us so thoroughly by midnight that we’d abandon our tent and run to the safety of the back door.
Mom and her friends enjoyed coffee and cookies while they visited in the backyard’s metal lawn chairs, which could get blistering hot. The soft grass cooled our feet, especially after the Courthouse caretaker Herman Quist mowed the lawn, making the air sweetly scented with newly mown grass. His helper, friendly Lee Sorset, would often stop to visit with us until Herman appeared; then Lee tried to look busy once more.
Dad liked to relax with a cigarette in the evening. He sat in a lawn chair in the backyard watching the traffic on Minnewaska Avenue. He could see who was walking down the sidewalks towards downtown, veterans going in for a drink at the Legion Hall, someone being booked at the police station, and ambulances bringing bodies to Hoplin’s Funeral Home. We had quite the view!
Sitting in the backyard on Sunday mornings, we could see who was coming to church services at Glenwood Lutheran Church. Of course, we also noted who wasn’t coming to church. It was a thrill to watch brides in their veils and long white gowns, bridesmaids with their big skirts and bouquets, and the groomsmen in their black tuxedoes. Photographer Vernon Hegg would shoot pictures of the guests throwing rice at the bridal couple. I loved hearing the couple’s car with tin cans and noisemakers attached making a huge racket as they drove away for their honeymoon.
As a kid, possibilities seemed endless when it came to wasting away a summer day. Finding a soft patch of grass under a tree to lie on my back, I’d gaze dreamily into the floating clouds in the sky. English politician John Lubbock wrote, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
I love perfect summer days in my backyard, hearing neighbor’s grandkids laughing as they jump off the dock into the lake. Summer doesn’t last forever... Take time to dial back to those empty days of a simpler time. Give yourself the luxury of enjoying summer in your backyard. 991
When summer arrives in full bloom, there’s a special kind of enchantment. Summer breezes smell extra fine. Grass feels softer. Waves gently lick the shore. Hammocks swing slowly between backyard trees, and we fall into a deep sleep.
Remember when your mom told you to go out and play? You did. Kids got up a backyard ball game and played ante ante over the shed storing rakes and mowers, winter skis, skates and toboggans. Little tykes blew bubbles through the wire wand of the bubble bottle, chasing them in until they burst far up in the clouds. Some created plays on backyard stages. You stayed outside all day long until the supper whistle blew, then raced home to eat with the family at the kitchen table.
Do people still take time to enjoy relaxing in their backyards? I hope so, but with both Mom and Dad working; the kids in day care or school, and grandparents living many miles away...who uses their backyards anymore? Kids’ schedules are crammed with supervised lessons in every sport, music and language. Do children today have free time to play? Is the backyard another sign of oblivion like the front porch?
When I was a kid, we used to play dress up with neighbors’ cast off hats, trailing bridal veils, and bridesmaids’ bouffant, pastel dresses. We paraded with measured steps, pretending to be part of a wedding party. Some backyards had a swing set and a slide. Jeanie Zimma’s grandparents had a play house in their yard for us to have tea parties and play with our dolls. My backyard had a sweeping, weeping willow tree where I would sit with my pals on a high branch, lean back against another branch, and swap tales. No parent or neighbor could see up through the leafy tendrils hanging to the ground. How cool the shade felt on hot summer days sitting in the tree sharing our dreams.
When Dad was sheriff, my backyard at our jail home was across the street from the red brick Lutheran church. Kids would gather before choir practice and confirmation classes to roll down our huge, grassy hill, squealing with delight. We’d pick dandelions and braid the yellow weeds into crowns. Lazy summer afternoons we’d stretch out on the sweet smelling grass and search for four leaf clovers to bring good luck. If we were lucky, we’d find one or two, press them into the thick Webster Dictionary, and save them in a special box. On the cement sidewalk, we’d draw hopscotch squares with chalk and jump from one block to the other, scattering those nasty, sandy ant hills with our white tennis shoes.
Mom’s laundry was hung on our backyard clothes lines on Monday, her designated wash day. Her clothes pin bucket was a tiny dress whose skirt held the wooden clothespins anchoring clothing to the lines strung between metal posts. White bed sheets flapped on the two outside lines; panties, slips and bras, BVD underwear, night gowns, and pajamas were hung on the inside line. No one was supposed to see these “unmentionables”.
We created a camp out tent by pinning Dad’s gray, wool, army blankets to the clothesline. Though we wanted to spend the night outdoors, often we got too scared or rambunctious in the tent telling ghost stories. The pins holding the tent would pop, and the blankets collapse on giggling girls underneath. When we remembered that the jail prisoners were only a few feet from our tent, it spooked us. Our imaginations, the starry black night, and those unidentifiable monster sounds frightened us so thoroughly by midnight that we’d abandon our tent and run to the safety of the back door.
Mom and her friends enjoyed coffee and cookies while they visited in the backyard’s metal lawn chairs, which could get blistering hot. The soft grass cooled our feet, especially after the Courthouse caretaker Herman Quist mowed the lawn, making the air sweetly scented with newly mown grass. His helper, friendly Lee Sorset, would often stop to visit with us until Herman appeared; then Lee tried to look busy once more.
Dad liked to relax with a cigarette in the evening. He sat in a lawn chair in the backyard watching the traffic on Minnewaska Avenue. He could see who was walking down the sidewalks towards downtown, veterans going in for a drink at the Legion Hall, someone being booked at the police station, and ambulances bringing bodies to Hoplin’s Funeral Home. We had quite the view!
Sitting in the backyard on Sunday mornings, we could see who was coming to church services at Glenwood Lutheran Church. Of course, we also noted who wasn’t coming to church. It was a thrill to watch brides in their veils and long white gowns, bridesmaids with their big skirts and bouquets, and the groomsmen in their black tuxedoes. Photographer Vernon Hegg would shoot pictures of the guests throwing rice at the bridal couple. I loved hearing the couple’s car with tin cans and noisemakers attached making a huge racket as they drove away for their honeymoon.
As a kid, possibilities seemed endless when it came to wasting away a summer day. Finding a soft patch of grass under a tree to lie on my back, I’d gaze dreamily into the floating clouds in the sky. English politician John Lubbock wrote, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
I love perfect summer days in my backyard, hearing neighbor’s grandkids laughing as they jump off the dock into the lake. Summer doesn’t last forever... Take time to dial back to those empty days of a simpler time. Give yourself the luxury of enjoying summer in your backyard. 991
Monday, May 6, 2013
the Marlboro Man
FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
The Marlboro Man of Pope County
FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
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