In the summer of 1969 I discovered a statue of my ancestor, Ole Bull, in Loring Park. I was in high school, taking a summer acting class at the nearby Minneapolis Guthrie Theater, and we often went to Loring park for fencing lessons in the great outdoors. Bull swaying on his plinth was a figure ripe for the mocking, until I casually mentioned to my dad that there was a funny old Norwegian statue in Loring Park.
“You mean Ole Bull?” he said.
“Yeah, maybe” I replied, with a teenager’s habitual reluctance to reveal anything at all to a parent.
“We’re related to him,” he announced, puffing importantly on his Salem cigarette.
“How?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Oh, your Grandma Lena is his cousin a few times removed” he replied. “He gave money to poor Norskis like us back a hunnerd years ago that he made playing’ his fiddle.” A calculating look came into his eyes. “Mebbe he’s set up a foundation for Norwegians or something -- you should check it out to get something for college, cuz I ain’t gonna send you there -- that’s for damn sure. No hard feelings.”
None taken. I didn’t plan on going to college anyways -- I had in mind a jaunt out to California to become an international movie star, or, lacking that, a concupiscent pool boy for Ann-Margret.
The next time class was held out by Bull’s statue I grandly informed my fellow thespians that Ole was a dear departed relative of mine, and that undoubtedly part of his millions would be given to me as a grant or an outright gift by a grateful and generous committee -- something along the lines of a Nobel Prize.
I was immediately hooted down as a pretentious nincompoop, so, in an artistic huff, I dropped the subject with them completely -- the acne-riddled philistines.
But I developed an obsessive, if silent, respect for Ole Bull. I read up on him at the public library. He was considered a rival of Paganini. And Franz Liszt was one of his biggest fans. Plus he married a buxom teenage bride when he was old enough to be her grandfather. He was quite the guy. Quite the wealthy guy. Generous, too. He bought a whole state park and gave it to Pennsylvania, or at least it turned into a state park after he couldn’t make it go as a farm.
My loyalty to cousin Ole was put to the test in August, when our acting class ended and we had a little party at the Guthrie that featured a chaste selection of Hostess cupcakes and lukewarm RC cola. The after party was held, unbeknownst to our instructors, at Loring Park, and it featured several styrofoam coolers filled with Hamm’s beer. Our debauch had not proceeded very long before several of the more beefier class specimens decided they would have to relieve themselves -- and would do so around the statue of Ole Bull.
“This cannot be!” I told them righteously (or words to that effect -- my memory is a bit muzzy on the subject, since I’d had a few Hamms myself.)
“Aw, gwan, beat it!” was their reply.
I stood in their way, barring the path to my noble kinsman. They had no trouble knocking me down and stepping on me on their way to do the evil deed.
And I never found any groups or committees that would give away any of Ole Bull’s money. I had taken a beating for nothing. So I was forced to do yard work around my neighborhood and then said to hell with it and hitchhiked to Florida to join the circus.
So Ole Bull can kiss my F Holes . . .
