Uncle Jim and the Rat in the Beer Bottle

One of dad’s older brothers, James Lee Torkildson, grew up to be a butcher who worked at the Red Owl Supermarket in New Brighton, Minnesota, for over thirty years. And he was a happy butcher. In fact, I’d say he was, without doubt, the happiest butcher in Minnesota. And here’s why:

One mellow spring day Uncle Jim and my dad, whom he called Barney for reasons now lost in the mists of time and beer, drove over to the Grain Belt Brewery near the Hennepin Avenue Bridge leading into downtown Minneapolis. Their purpose was simple -- their wives each wanted a gallon of the sweet spring water the Brewery had on tap for the public, free of charge, running out of a spigot on the south wall of the building. My mother said it made for the best coffee in the world. And, of course, dad and Uncle Jim would also each pick up a wooden carton with a dozen brown Grain Belt Beer bottles in it. No sane man would drive several miles just for WATER, for gosh sakes!

They filled their water jugs and bought their beer. And then they decided to take advantage of the park-like grounds that surrounded the brewery, complete with large shade trees and picnic tables, to relax and hoist a few lukewarm bottles. It was when Uncle Jim was ready to uncap the second bottle from his carton that he noticed something unusual through the amber glass.

“Hey Barney” he asked my dad, “what the hell does that look like to you?”

Dad, who felt obligated to drink three beers for every one beer that his older brother drank, sent a juicy belch into the spring air before gazing somewhat unsteadily into the depths of Uncle Jim’s bottle.

“Damned if I know” he grunted. “Could be a rat.”

“Holy Hannah, you’re right!” shouted Uncle Jim. “There’s a rotte or mus or something in there!”

The two men looked at each other a moment, completely nonplussed. Then with a shrug Uncle Jim started to uncap the bottle -- rotte or not, he was still thirsty. But my dad stopped him.

“Wait a minute, drittsekk. Don’t open that thing! Let’s take it up to the president of the company and see what he’ll give us to shut up about it.”

A few moments later they were ushered into a wood paneled office that smelled of beeswax and hops. An elderly gentleman, dressed in a salt and pepper suit with a tall batwing collar, bade them sit down and asked to examine the bottle in question. Dad said they never heard what the man’s name was, but since he had not one but two brass spittoons in his office he must have been awful important.  

The spiffy dresser did not take long to make up his mind. After finding out that the bottle was bought by Uncle Jim, not my dad, he offered Uncle Jim a lifetime’s supply of Grain Belt Beer -- as much as he wanted and delivered as often as he wanted right to his doorstep. If Uncle Jim would remain silent. He offered my dad nothing. This upset dad, but nobly thrusting aside any sibling resentment, he demanded the bottled rat back just as the awful important gentleman was easing it into a drawer in his mahogany desk. Reluctantly, he returned it to Uncle Jim.

As my dad never tired of repeating to me and my sisters (my mother never stood around long enough to hear this part -- once he started on this saga she shot her eyes to the heavens with a weary sigh and headed for the nearest exit) he figured that if Uncle Jim kept that thing in the bottle safe and sound the Brewery would never renege on their promise of free suds.

And so it came to pass that Uncle Jim never drank a glass of milk or cup of coffee or a sip of tap water. Ever again. He had beer for breakfast. He had beer for lunch. He had beer for dinner. And when he wanted a nightcap before bed, he had a cold Grain Belt waiting for him on his night stand.

By rights he should have been plastered every day by ten in the morning, but outside of a yeasty miasma that hung over him like swamp gas, he never showed any ill effects from all that beer. He never lost a finger at his job as a butcher. Was never in an auto accident. Never grew argumentative or maudlin with friends and family. I went ice fishing with him on White Bear Lake once and asked him straight out how he kept from becoming a sloppy drunk like my dad did when he hoisted a few too many. With a wink and a grin, he pulled out a package of Ry Krisp crackers and offered me one.

“I snack on this stuff all day long, Timmy. They soak up the alcohol like nobody’s bizness. Your Aunt Annette keeps these all over the house and in the garage and in the car and I got a big box of ‘em at work. I’ll get Barney a big box of his own -- maybe that’ll straighten him out.”

Before he died in 1994 Uncle Jim took me into his basement to show me the famous rat in the bottle. It had sat undisturbed amidst half opened wood putty cans and cankered hand tools for nearly three decades, and when I looked at it there was nothing to see but some indistinct shreds of matter that settled to the bottom after I gave the bottle a gentle shake. Whatever had originally been in that bottle had long ago dissolved. But -- and this is the fairy tale part -- the free beer just kept coming for Uncle Jim. When he finally kicked the bucket I doubt they had to put any formaldehyde in him -- he had been embalming himself for a good thirty years already!

It's Official: The 'news' on Facebook is gossip and hearsay

In doing so, the company becomes the latest

publisher to feel the effects of a decision announced

by Facebook in January to prioritize posts published

by users’ friends and family members and de-emphasize

those posted by news organizations and publishers.

From the Wall Street Journal

The only news people will read

Is gossip and hearsay indeed.

Reporters who write

With truthful insight

Their fam’lies can no longer feed.

message de ma fille missionnaire en Californie

Bonjour tous le monde!! Cette semaine a été super géniale! Je continue d'apprendre chaque jour à quel point je suis imparfait, mais combien Dieu m'aide à devenir la personne qu'Il veut que je sois. Je pensais avant ma mission que j'étais sans moi-même, patient et gentil avec tout le monde; mais j'ai depuis appris combien il me manque dans ces domaines. La vérité est, il y a toujours plus que nous pourrions faire pour aider, aimer, et soutenir les gens autour de nous que ce soit la famille, les amis ou les étrangers. Je ne dis pas ces choses pour me mettre ou pour faire tomber quelqu'un d'autre, mais c'est une bonne chose de reconnaître qu'il y a toujours place à amélioration! :) Et comme c'est merveilleux que nous ayons l'opportunité d'apprendre et de grandir pendant que nous sommes ici sur Terre. Parfois, la croissance est douloureuse, mais elle en vaut toujours la peine à la fin. Et quand nous demandons de l'aide pour trouver la force de changer, Dieu nous la donne. Je sais qu'Il le fera parce qu'Il l'a fait pour moi. Il n'y a aucun moyen que je puisse être là où je suis en ce moment sans Son aide et l'aide du Sauveur. Dieu nous donne tellement plus que ce que nous pourrions Lui donner. Tout ce qu'il demande, c'est que nous le suivions et que Jésus-Christ soit son fils. Soyez gentils avec les autres, aidez les pauvres et les nécessiteux, aimez votre prochain, aimez-vous, servez les autres, enseignez à vos enfants de bonnes manières de vivre et aimez Dieu de tout votre cœur, de tout votre pouvoir et de toute votre force. Parfois, cela semble beaucoup à faire, mais je sais que lorsque nous essayons de faire tout ce que nous pouvons pour faire ces choses, nous recevons l'aide du ciel et de nombreuses bénédictions à compter. Je sais que Dieu voit les efforts que nous faisons chaque jour pour le suivre, et je sais qu'il nous bénit pour eux. Nous avons beaucoup de gens que nous enseignons en ce moment, c'est merveilleux! Obtenir de voir comment Jésus-Christ change la vie des gens est un cadeau que je chérirai toujours. Cathy, une femme que nous enseignons, a eu une crise cardiaque la semaine dernière et est toujours venue à l'église dimanche! Elle est tellement incroyable et si prête à suivre Dieu. Elle a vécu des choses très difficiles, mais sa foi est solide comme le roc. Elle sait ce que c'est que de vivre sans l'évangile de Jésus-Christ, et maintenant ce que c'est que de vivre avec elle et elle dit qu'elle n'a jamais été aussi heureuse. On ne sait jamais quand un acte de gentillesse, un sourire, un câlin ou même des brownies peuvent changer la vie de quelqu'un. Laissez Dieu vous utiliser comme un instrument pour le bien et soyez toujours prêt à atteindre ceux qui vous entourent :) C'est génial d'être en vie, et même plus grand d'être missionnaire! Je vous aime tous tellement, continuez à combattre le bon combat! Amour, soeur Torkildson

Whatever Happened to the Vita-Goodie Lady?

As a younger man I had tremendous powers of persuasion. That’s the only explanation I have as to why my trusting wife Amy allowed me to sell our house in Minneapolis and move us kit and kaboodle to Utah so I could write the Great Mormon Novel back in 1992 -- when we already had six children.

I had been obsessed by this literary willow-the-wisp every since my first ‘real’ job after being blacklisted from Ringling Brothers Circus for brawling with Michu, the World’s Smallest Man. I ended up as news director at radio station KGCX in Williston, North Dakota, with plenty of time on my hands. This was in 1981. So I began a novel on my trusty Olivetti-Underwood portable typewriter. It was called “The Camera Bug,” and it was about a returned LDS missionary on the make for a bride while earning a degree at BYU. A comedy in the classic mold, it ended with the protagonist marrying a beautiful and temple-worthy young lady who loved taking photographs -- hence the title. I meant it as a light-hearted comedy of manners, in the manner of P.G. Wodehouse, and when I showed it to Amy she giggled in all the right places and told me, between makeout sessions on my couch, that I was a pretty good writer. That’s all the encouragement I needed. I applied for and got a small writing grant from BYU, and we spent our honeymoon in Provo getting ready for my undoubtedly imminent academic accolades.

Sadly, the money ran out long before any kind of accolades or degree hove into sight, and there were no more grants to be had. So I shelved the novel and we took off for North Dakota, where I worked in radio again and then went back to work as a circus clown. But I never forgot the fine feeling of coasting along on my typewriter, creating characters and dialogue full-blown as if I were Zeus and the smithy were opening my skull to bring forth Athena. (That’s the kind of overripe stuff my writing was full of back then -- and still is today, come to think of it.)

Ten years into our marriage I’d had enough of sawdust and sorry temp jobs to see us through the winter months when the circus laid off. I had a new idea for the Great Mormon Novel. A biting satire on the cult of supplements and nostrums that LDS women love to dabble in. Over the years I’d noticed time and time again that if you scratched a stalwart LDS lady, you’d find an Amway or Shaklee dealer underneath. Even my beloved, level-headed Amy had succumbed to the blandishments of an MLM scheme involving Melaleuca oil products. I finally convinced her to drop it, but only after we’d been mulcted of several hundred dollars worth of useless inventory purchases. Too bad you couldn’t cook with the damn stuff.

I told Amy that all I needed was time and a typewriter in a quiet corner, and in six months I’d be sure to have a masterpiece that would win a Pulitzer and set us up for life. Instead of boxing my ears for spouting such arrant nonsense, she got the moving van and arranged for us to stay with her sister in Orem -- for the local LDS color and to save on rent -- while I sold our house and put the money (not as much as I’d hoped) in our joint checking account.

Once settled in Orem I scampered into the basement, set up my typewriter, and sailed into my magnum opus with unmitigated enthusiasm. No such thing as writer’s block for me! Each day saw the production of twenty or more pages of sparkling dialogue, compelling plot twists, and ever more engaging characters. As promised, in six months’ time “The Vita-Goodie Lady” was done.  It detailed the adventures of a newly wed couple, Brad and Cindy West. He was studying to be an engineer at BYU and his loyal wife Cindy was bound and determined to help pay the bills by consorting with a variety of discombobulated supplement sales schemes, finally settling on the Vita-Goodie Company as her main source of hoped-for income. Needless to say, comedic complications ensue.

Meanwhile Amy’s sister was unsubtly indicating that our carefree days of loafing about her house were drawing to an end. She changed the lock on the front door without telling us. An ugly note appeared in the bathroom Amy and I used, informing us in no uncertain terms that tp cost money and that if we wanted any more we could jolly well buy it ourselves. It was time to move out. Obviously. But first I had to get a hefty advance on my novel.

With breathtaking audacity and even more remarkable naivete, I simply handed the manuscript over to Amy, telling her blithely to find a publisher PDQ -- because, you see, I already had another book swelling up inside me like a bad case of indigestion.

That’s the thing about writing -- once you get going you can’t stop yourself. After finishing “The Vita-Goodie Lady” I couldn’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs -- I had a habit to feed, an obsession to surrender to. So I wrote my clown memoirs, all two-hundred-and-ten pages of them, in a matter of six weeks. Just for something to do, to keep busy, mind you -- I expected nothing from such a minor taradiddle -- which I called “Clown Notes.” Just for a lark I entered “Clown Notes” in the Utah Original Writing Competition under the category of autobiography -- and dang if it didn’t win Honorable Mention and a brunch invite from then Governor Norman H. Bangerter up in Salt Lake. Amy and I enjoyed his company, although neither one of us knew what to make of the skimpy little broiled lamb chops we were served that had white paper cuffs on them.

Amy has always been nothing if not enterprising. When traditional publishers like Deseret Books and Sunstone refused to be overwhelmed by my obvious genius, she took a less traditional route. She got her brother Ben to simply buy the rights to my book outright, for cold, hard, cash. Ben had been at BYU when WordPerfect got its start and was one of its first investors and employees. So he was loaded to the gunwales with the green stuff. He wrote me out a check for a cool 17 thousand dollars. And took ownership of the manuscript. Which he has to this day. And which he never intended to have published by anyone. It was just a tax write off engineered by his accountant, done as a favor to his sister. But I’m not complaining -- that money got us a place of our own and a new van. Once the family was all settled in I went back on the road with the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus out of Delano, Florida. I just wasn’t cut out to be a bestselling author. Like the shoemaker in the old proverb, I’d stick to my last.

I did self-publish “Clown Notes,” by the way. Sold about fifty copies over the years, all told. Last time I checked, it was still listed on Amazon.com, under the heading “Out-of-Print: Limited Availability.” I don’t even have a copy of it myself -- most of my manuscripts and personal copies were destroyed by a basement flood years ago.

Xi Jinping

Xi Jinping decided that his country needed most

A leader who could lead so well all others would be toast.

He looked among his countrymen for such a pioneer;

At last he said unto himself “It must be me -- oh dear!”

“For no one else doth understand the subtle Chinese folk;

I peel back all their secrets like the layered artichoke.”

And so he gathered up the politicians made of wax,

The soldiers and industrialists and literary hacks --

To rubber stamp his policies and keep him screwed in place.

His photo was on walls, latrines, and Samsonite suitcase.

If there was but a whisper of dissent from men or girls

They’d disappear as quietly as oysters making pearls.

He ruled his country steadily for many, many years --

Producing lots of protocols and many, many tears.

At last the day arrived when he no longer could conduct

The bizness of a strongman -- like a chicken he was plucked.

As he faced the gallows for malfeasance and bad breath,

He said “I wish the rule of law replaced the rule of death!”

Ledes & Limericks. Monday February 26 2018

Police Chief spits swear words on journalist

From Ghana Web

Cops and reporters don’t mix;

The first gives the second rough kicks.

They’re natural foes

Who always oppose

Each others’ procedures and tricks.

How Do Pundits Never Get It Wrong?

Call a 40% Chance

A pundit is someone who picks

His words with discerning chopsticks;

He don’t really say

What is the right way --

Which seems to impress all the hicks.

Railroads Embark on Apology

Tour to Make Amends for

Hunter Harrison’s Ways

It isn’t the money you make

That drives customers to forsake

Your services, but

The fact that you butt

Heads with them till they all break.

L'UPS américain demande 2 milliards de dollars à l'UE pour une décision antitrust renversée

Les avocats du siège d'United Parcel Service Incorporated à Atlanta, en Géorgie, viennent d'annoncer qu'ils ont intenté une action contre l'Unité antitrust de l'Union européenne pour 1,74 milliard d'euros (2,15 milliards de dollars), avec intérêts et frais de justice, pour décision à Bruxelles il y a cinq ans, qui a mis Kibosh sur les plans d'UPS de fusionner avec le géant néerlandais de la livraison de colis TNT Express. Les documents judiciaires ont été officiellement déposés ce matin, le 26 février, à Bruxelles.

La Commission européenne, qui supervise toutes les activités antitrust de l'Union européenne, a exprimé sa profonde inquiétude quant au fait que le système de livraison de colis pendant la nuit serait la proie de la fixation des prix par UPS et TNT Express. Le seul autre service de livraison de nuit disponible pour la plupart des expéditeurs européens aurait été Deutsche Post, qui n'est pas équipée pour gérer plus qu'une fraction de l'activité de livraison de nuit en Europe occidentale et n'est pas équipée pour effectuer des livraisons rapides à l'étranger.

Mais cette décision d'interdire la fusion a été annulée par la cour d'appel de l'Union européenne à la fin de 2017, invoquant des erreurs procédurales commises par la Commission européenne dans sa gestion de la décision initiale. La Commission européenne fait appel de la décision de la cour inférieure, mais les experts sur les lois antitrust européennes disent qu'il y a peu d'espoir que la décision sera jamais rétablie.

Les avocats d'UPS affirment que la décision initiale de la Commission a eu un effet négatif sur les stocks de la société et ont considérablement réduit leurs marges bénéficiaires au cours des trois dernières années.

Baptist vs Mormon

In 1988 I teamed up with clown Don Bursell for a tour with the Starr Brothers Circus. Our show would swing through the Western United States and Canada, playing mostly rodeo grounds and a few stray hockey arenas.

Don is an excellent juggler, unicycle rider, and magician. Me, I can do some pantomime and play the musical saw. So we were the perfect match.

Except in one area. Religion. Don is a dyed in the wool evangelical Baptist, and I, of course, am a true blue Mormon. Since we traveled in Don’s car, and lived in a collapsible trailer he pulled with his car, our close quarters gave us many opportunities to discuss the finer points of our respective religions. Always with courtesy and good humor.

“You dumb Bible thumper!” I yelled at him early in the tour. “Baptists break the Sabbath every week by going out to eat at some fancy restaurant after church. Just read the Ten Commandments, you hypocrite!”

“Listen, you lousy Danite” he replied heatedly, “at least I’m never going to have more than one wife at a time or steal somebody’s name to fool around with in some gaudy temple!”

We paused a moment to catch our pious breaths.

“Listen, Don -- I’m sorry. I just got carried away. The Baptists are fine people, but . . . “

“Yeah, I know, Tork. There’s really nothing wrong with Mormons either, but sometimes . . . “

We stopped. Neither one of us wanted another argument -- but we were just itching to prove to each other that we had the best religion. Finally Don started up again --

Hey Tork, I got an idea.”

“Yeah, what?”

“I’m willing to bet you a big steak dinner that by the end of the season I can prove to you that Baptists are better people than Mormons because they’re more friendly. How about it?”

“What? You think your Baptist buddies are friendlier than Mormons? Huh! That’ll be the day. How you gonna do it?”

“Well . . . “ he rubbed his pointy chin. “How about we alternate churches -- go to my church one week, and yours the next, and see which one treats strangers like us better -- the Baptists or the Mormons. Sound good to you?”

“You’re on!” I said, shaking his hand. “And I’m going to make you pay for the most expensive prime rib there is -- not just a lousy steak!”

I felt pretty smug. I remembered how when I had joined the LDS Church back in 1971 while clowning for Ringling I had been overwhelmed by the warmth and bonhomie of the members, no matter where I was. I was sure things had not changed any in the intervening 17 years.

That first Sunday of the bet we attended an LDS service in Lubbock, Texas. The Bishop and his counselors were at the chapel doors, welcoming everyone in with a firm handshake, direct eye contact, and a twinkling smile.

“You boys with the circus?” boomed the Bishop after we had introduced ourselves. “Well, that’s just terrific! Lemme have Brother Jensen here guide you to a seat up front!”

An elderly gent, wearing a bolo tie that had a chunk of turquoise in it the size of a manhole cover, took our elbows to steer us up front. Men, women, and children sitting around us leaned over to shake our hands and exclaim in wonder at our unusual profession.

This was going to be a slam dunk, I thought to myself.

In Sunday School they made a big to-do about us again, asking us to stand, introduce ourselves, and tell them something about our act under the big top.

After church was over Don and I stood in the foyer, smiling and nodding, as all the Latter Day Saints filed out to their cars to drive home to a nourishing Sunday dinner. We didn’t get any invites. So we headed over to McDonalds for a Big Mac attack.

The next Sunday we were in San Antonio and had no trouble finding a Baptist church. Before we even got in the door a burly gentleman wearing a blinding white Stetson set upon us like a maniac, getting our names, finding out our jobs, where we were from, and when he discovered that Don was a member and I was but a lowly Mormon he literally roared with pleasure:

“Y’all are most welcome here, brothers! Why, we dote on the stranger and the infidel . . .”

“Just a moment . . .” I began.

“Never you mind, sweet brother” he roared back at me. “You gonna find our little ol’ church is just going to love you to death! C’mon in and take the Visitor’s Chair up by the pulpit!”

And so while Don was seated in a front pew, I was escorted up to the pulpit and placed in a red and gold brocade chair that looked like a spare throne for Queen Elizabeth. The preacher and deacons swarmed about me like bees round an ice cream cone on the sidewalk, crushing my hand, asking dozens of personal questions about me and my family, and slapping me on the back with hearty encomiums about how fine it was I had such an open mind for an infidel to come visit their little ol’ church. And when the service began the preacher used my first and last name in welcoming me to their little ol’ church and said I was a credit to my cult.

But there were more amazing things to come.

When it came time to pass the plate the preacher held up his hand for attention and, nearly as I can recall, said:

“Now brothers and sisters -- we all just are tickled pink to have this good man, Tim Torkildson, come visit our little ol’ church, even though he don’t believe a single word he hears today. We love him anyway. And I want you to know that this man is a family man, and he’s got a wife and six chilren back home in Minnesota that he supports on his modest circus salary. So we gonna do something to hep him out today. Today, that plate we are passing is not going to our own church needs -- but is going to be given die-rectly to this Mormon man to send on home to his family for their comfort and relief. So brothers and sisters -- give like you never give before and maybe this beloved brother, already a steady family man, just maybe he’s gonna want to see the light and come to Jesus here today!”

My head was sunk onto my breast in an agony of embarrassment as the congregation sang “Rock of Ages,” while the passing plate grew heavy with bills.

I got over $250.00 from those people. And at the end of the service the preacher had Don and I over for a sumptuous dinner of roast pork, homemade applesauce, whipped sweet potatoes dotted with marshmallows, pickled okra, fresh green beans from the preacher’s own garden, biscuits, biscuits, and more biscuits -- and then a huge slice of warm apple pie swimming in clotted cream.

That night, after we had packed up from the evening show and were driving to the next town, I asked Don when he wanted his steak dinner -- I was throwing in the towel. Don didn’t want me to spend any of that $250.00 his Baptist colleagues had just handed me, so he said he’d settle for tamales and refried beans at the next cantina we passed. I still don’t know if he was being truly humble, or rubbing it in . . .

Don Bursell, my partner

The Temptation of Evelyn Gagne

My mother: Evelyn Marie Gagne

In 1933 my Aunt Ruby ran away with a sailor, according to her sister, my mother. Ruby met this nameless pirate while he was on leave from the Great Lakes Naval Training Station just outside of Chicago. Ruby was a willowy and winsome 19 -- just barely of legal age. But my grandmother Daisy was determined to nip these nautical nuptials in the bud, so she used her meager savings to board a bus to Chicago to track down the miscreants and have the marriage annulled. She succeeded in doing so, and brought Ruby back home, safe and relatively sound. But while she was gone my mother was left to her own devices -- and the devil came calling.

The devil, in this case, being her estranged father Joseph Philippe Gagne. Soon after my mother was born Joseph took off for parts unknown and never came back. He had some wealth and apparently increased it in the intervening years, for when he appeared at my mother’s drab doorstep in ‘Nordeast’ Minneapolis he was nattily attired, with a diamond pinky ring and pearl buttoned spats. He drove a brand new LaSalle. And according to my mother he never supported his bride and young children whatsoever after he deserted them -- leaving the three of them to sink lower and lower into mortifying poverty as the Great Depression continued to throttle the country.

My mother says he was suave and persuasive, which is why she did not shut the door in his face once he identified himself. He invited himself in, dusted off a rickety wooden chair with his silk handkerchief, and sat down to immediately begin enticing my mother to come back with him to his comfortable apartment located along the Gold Coast of Chicago.  

He offered no apologies for his heartless behavior and neglect. All he wanted, he said, was to take his daughter Evelyn away from her poverty-blasted situation and introduce her to something better, much better, in Chicago. Would she come for a summer visit and then consider staying on with him indefinitely?

Mom looked around the cramped and shabby room that she and her sister and her mother called home, with its warped linoleum floor, single gas ring for cooking, peeling wallpaper, and meter that took dimes in exchange for the cooking and heating gas. She agreed to go back with him, but only if he would leave her mother some money. He gave her fifty dollars from his calfskin wallet, which mom put in an envelope along with a brief explanation of where she had gone and left it on the gateleg kitchen table. Then she packed her modest belongings in a cardboard suitcase and left with her father for Chicago.

I never got this story in one whole chunk from my mother. Rather, she let it out in dribs and drabs during my childhood years -- usually after dad had blown a sizable wad at Canterbury Downs or in a pinochle game. At such moments she would sit down on the salt and pepper  corduroy couch in the living room to fan herself with a copy of Good Housekeeping, while recalling briefly and bitterly that one magical summer of luxury with her father in Chicago.

He took her to Marshall Field’s State Street store, where she gaped at the Tiffany Favrile glass ceiling. He bought her dresses made of such smooth and soft material that they fell about her young shoulders and clung to her body like a shower of warm water. He let her pick out a delicate bracelet of turquoise -- her birthstone. There were endless bags of Frango Mints.

Along with his elegant wife, a former Ziegfeld Follies showgirl (whose name my mother could never bring herself to pronounce), they dined regularly at the Stock Yark Inn on Halstead -- feasting on thick cut steaks and pork chops so exuberantly juicy that each diner was supplied with a starched white bib the size of a small tablecloth.

They went dancing at the Trianon Ballroom near the University of Chicago campus, where bands like the Hotsy Totsy Gang were experimenting with Swing.

And Evelyn’s father made her a promise: If she decided to stay on in Chicago he would finance her education at the University of Chicago in any field she chose. (Mom was an outstanding student at Edison High School back in Minneapolis; she had even written the school song that was used until 1940.) She could have her own apartment, her own car, plus a generous allowance. All she had to do was stay in Chicago. In other words, my mother explained to me years later, she was to promise to abandon her mother and her sister back in Minneapolis.

Her mother, of course, had responded immediately to mom’s note the minute she got home with Ruby. She simply wrote that it was good of Joe to take her in for the summer, and that the fifty dollars was a godsend to help stave off neighborhood creditors. She hoped Evelyn was well and looked forward to her return in the fall.

What mom read between the lines, apparently, was that her mother was terrified of losing her daughter like she had lost her husband years before. As tempting as her father’s offer was, mom opted to take the bus back to Minneapolis at the end of August -- and never saw or heard from her father again.

Once back in that cramped and musty room with her mother and sister, mom took a six month secretarial class at the Minneapolis Business College, working in a bakery to pay for it. But there were no secretary jobs to be had after she graduated, and so she remained at the bakery for the next several years until she met dad and they were married. She already had a son, my half brother Leonard, from a previous and very brief misalliance, who dad grudgingly agreed to support, but not adopt. Mom then left the bakery and stayed a homemaker for the rest of her life. She eventually persuaded dad to invest in a mortgage on a three bedroom house in Southeast Minneapolis, where I grew up, and where she lived for over forty years.

I think mom eventually came to have some regrets about her decision during that summer in Chicago. But she never changed her opinion of her father -- he was a reprobate. I’ve come to wonder, though, having lost my family in a bitter divorce and then been estranged from my own children for nearly 20 years, what really happened between Joseph Philippe Gagne and Daisy Ellen Bedelle all those long years ago. Was it an open and shut case of desertion and neglect -- or were there other factors that I never heard about? As I recall and record these bits and pieces of family narrative, I’m hoping to get a better understanding of these, to me, mythic figures from my past. To maybe grant them some of the sympathy they appear to have been denied during their brief stumble across the arena of life . . .

 

Mon grand-père canadien-français - Joseph Philippe Gagne, de Trois-Rivières

Joseph Philippe Gagné, père de ma mère, était canadien-français, de la région de Trois-Rivières au Québec. «Gagné» signifie «fermier» en français, et est un nom commun le long du fleuve Saint-Laurent au Canada, où de jeunes hommes robustes de France sont venus pour la première fois commercialiser des fourrures avec les Amérindiens dans les années 1630. Les historiens rapportent qu'au départ, ces jeunes hommes étaient encouragés à épouser des femmes amérindiennes, à s'installer, à convertir leurs femmes au catholicisme romain, à avoir de grandes familles, à défricher les forêts denses, à semer des choux et des chèvres. L'idée avait peu d'attrait pour la plupart de ces jeunes hommes vigoureux, qui préféraient continuer à patauger dans la nature vierge pour échanger des fourrures et prendre leurs plaisirs éphémères là où ils le pouvaient. Des ancêtres de mon grand-père Gagné, très peu de généalogie concrète a été faite; mais son ton de peau sombre indique, au moins, que certains de ses ancêtres

 ont pu aller cette route.

Puis, en 1666, le roi de France a décidé de prendre part au jumelage. sous ses auspices des centaines de femmes, dont certaines étaient des femmes en détresse, certaines hérétiques protestantes emprisonnées, et d'autres simplement des marcheurs de rue, furent envoyées en Nouvelle-France, avec des instructions pour se conduire et obtenir un homme. Lorsque ces Filles du Roi arrivèrent à Québec, les autorités interdirent à tout homme de moins de trente ans de quitter la ville en tant que voyageur jusqu'à ce qu'il puisse montrer qu'il avait «compris» l'un de ces hoydens importés. Ce sont les ancêtres blancs de lis que la famille de mon grand-père a décidé d'embrasser. Pas les marcheurs de la rue, remarquez, mais certainement les gentilshommes embarrassés.

Je n'ai jamais rencontré la mère de grand-père Gagne, mais ma propre mère l'a décrite comme une vieille hache redoutable, enveloppée dans une bombazine noire, qui a frappé les oreilles de quiconque suggérant que la famille Gagné n'avait que du sang pur gaulois dans ses veines. Même si, dans les mots mémorables de ma mère, elle était elle-même «aussi brune que le jus de tabac».

En tant que scion d'une famille prospère de propriétaires de scieries et de scieries, le grand-père Gagné aurait sans doute eu son choix de mademoiselles éligibles. En effet, avant la Première Guerre mondiale, il était courant de faire en sorte que les familles canadiennes-françaises envoient leurs fils en fin de siècle en France pour y voir des cousines éloignées en Bretagne ou en Poitou. Mais le grand-père Gagne a choisi de tomber amoureux de la femme de chambre, une Daisy Ellen Bedelle, de Swanscombe, Kent, Angleterre. Et ainsi un grand drame a commencé

Ayant épousé Mme Bedelle contre la volonté de ses parents, le grand-père a été traité comme un paria pour avoir accompagné l'aide contractée; lui et sa nouvelle épouse anglaise n'étaient plus les bienvenus dans le cercle de la famille Gagne. Et ainsi, il l'a emmenée dans un nouveau pays. Minneapolis, Minnesota, aux États-Unis. Il y avait alors des usines de bois et de papier à Minneapolis, et il s'est très vite très bien débrouillé, d'abord en tant que directeur d'usine, puis, dans un éblouissement de carrière, en tant que meilleur vendeur pour Pillsbury Flour.

.Bien que je n'en trouve aucune preuve dans les annales de l'histoire de la minoterie, ma mère a toujours insisté pour que le grand-père Gagné propose un procédé de blanchiment de la farine de blé qu'il a vendu à Pillsbury pour une somme fabuleuse. Il y a une centaine d'années, les consommateurs recherchaient de la farine complètement dénaturée de toute fibre ou couleur (ou nutriments). Cette poudre déracinée fabriquait des biscuits et du pain si légers et moelleux qu'ils flottaient presque par la fenêtre de la cuisine. Quoi qu'il en soit, le grand-père Gagne avait fait sa pile.

Mais hélas, la pression du voyageur en lui signifiait que pendant ses longs et ennuyeux voyages dans le Midwest, il n'avait pas été aussi chaste qu'il aurait dû l'être. Il s'est avéré, selon ma mère, que le vieux quatreflusher avait plusieurs paramours cachés dans des villes comme Chicago, Des Moines et Milwaukee. Une fois que l'argent a commencé à affluer, le grand-père Gagné a quitté Daisy Ellen Bedelle et leurs deux enfants, à plat. Il s'installe à Chicago, avec une ancienne showgirl de Ziegfeld Follies, pour goûter aux délices des années folles. Un homme rusé avec un dollar, il a évité les manigances de la Bourse et a investi strictement dans l'immobilier Windy City et plusieurs stations de lac dans le Wisconsin. Donc, quand la Grande Dépression a frappé, il est resté confortablement solvable.

La même chose ne pouvait pas être dite pour Daisy et ses deux filles, Ruby et Evelyn. Apparemment, le grand-père Gagné n'a jamais envoyé un sou pour aider la femme de sa jeunesse. Ils ont lutté dans une série de chambres louées à 'Nordeast' Minneapolis, souvent sans plomberie intérieure - maman et sa sœur aînée Ruby subsistant sur des tranches de pain barbouillé de graisse de bacon et surmonté d'oignons verts volés dans les jardins voisins. La pauvre grand-mère Daisy travaillait dans un atelier de misère, à coudre des pièces, jusqu'à ce qu'elle développe un dos voûté qui la raccourcissait à quatre pieds dix avec un astigmatisme sévère - de sorte que quand je la connaissais, elle semblait être une vieille dame avec d'énormes lunettes qui glissaient sur son nez chaque fois qu'elle riait. Et, curieusement, je me souviens d'elle en train de rire beaucoup. Pour moi, un petit garçon très incertain de sa place dans le cœur de ses parents, son sourire était aussi chaleureux et réconfortant qu'un sundae hot fudge de Dairy Queen.
Ma mère, Evelyn, ne se souciait pas de parler de son père à moi et à mes soeurs. Je ne l'ai jamais rencontré. Mais puisque j'étais ce qu'on appelait un «petit lanceur avec de grandes oreilles», j'ai entendu un peu sur le vieux coquin et sa famille. Un de ses frères s'est étranglé sur une arête de poisson au cours d'une friture dans l'État de New York - et c'est pourquoi nous n'avons jamais eu de poisson dans notre maison, à l'exception des bâtonnets de poisson insipides; il y avait trop de danger de répéter une asphyxie de la piscine.
Un cousin éloigné de Gagne a également déménagé à Minneapolis à peu près en même temps que grand-père, pour devenir policier. Il n'approuvait pas l'abandon de sa famille de Minneapolis par son cousin, et aidait sa grand-mère Daisy à payer le loyer et l'épicerie sur le maigre salaire de son patrouilleur. Son fils a trouvé son revolver de service dans le placard un jour terrible et accidentellement tué avec lui. Mon grand frère Bill était un fervent chasseur de canards et de cerfs, mais tant qu'il vivait à la maison, il devait garder ses fusils de chasse chez des amis - ils ne devaient jamais être vus dans la maison.
Et puis il y avait Verne Gagne, le lutteur. Son lien avec Joseph Philippe Gagne reste ténu, à l'extérieur du même nom de famille, mais apparemment il connaissait et aimait Joseph Phillippe et Daisy Gagne - et quand il a connu le grand succès sur le réseau Dumont TV au début des années 1950, il a toujours quitté sièges ringside pour elle quand il a joué Minneapolis. Grand-mère Daisy n'est jamais allée le voir lutter, je crois, mais elle a recueilli et vendu les billets pour aider à payer les factures médicales - comme pour ma mère Evelyn, qui souffrait d'un cas de polio persistant dans la quarantaine. En tant que bébé, je ne marchais pas à l'âge de deux ans. Papa a dit que j'étais juste paresseux et aimé être transporté. Mais la grand-mère Daisy a escaladé des tickets pour un combat entre Verne Gagne et Gorgeous George pour payer mon examen par un spécialiste, et ensuite pour les chaussures orthopédiques qu'il m'a recommandé de porter, puisque mes pieds étaient congénitalement évasés. Au bout d'un mois de les mettre, je courais joyeusement comme un poulet dont la tête était coupée.

Lorsque le grand-père Gagne est décédé en 1961, ni ma tante Ruby ni ma mère ne sont allées à l'enterrement. Pas plus que Daisy Ellen Bedelle Gagne, sa première femme. Le sillage s'est déroulé dans un chophouse de Lake Shore Drive, à Chicago, et a apparemment continué pendant plusieurs jours, jusqu'à ce que le maire Richard J. Daley appelle l'équipe anti-émeute pour le démanteler. Son testament a été invalidé par la Cour des successions après qu'on a découvert qu'il avait négligé de divorcer légalement chacune de ses quatre femmes avant d'épouser la suivante. Il était techniquement un bigame. Mais ses seuls enfants légitimes étaient maman et tante Ruby, et ils ont donc embauché un avocat, voyagé à Chicago, et sont revenus avec un bon morceau de changement. Tante Ruby a utilisé son argent pour un acompte sur une grande et gracieuse maison à Edina. La part de maman, comme je l'ai écrit ailleurs, finit par financer l'intérêt de mon père dans une boisson peu recommandable appelée les Gay 90's.







mon lointain cousin, le lutteur Verne Gagne