August 1946

I was born on August 11 in a Methodist hospital in Minneapolis, Minnesota, of Norwegian, Swedish, Scots-Irish (the last name) and Danish (or what I grew up thinking was Danish) parents. My father was anything but a religious man, but in the case of my birth, he insisted that I be born and baptized as a Methodist even though the faith would not be followed up on subsequently. After my birth, my mother and grandmother returned me to the family home in Columbia Heights, a close suburb of downtown Minneapolis. Years later, I found out that my father wasn't present. I was never told why, and I never pressed for an answer. From a young age — and continuing — I would ask many questions, mostly from an inquisitive nature, that would go into deaf ears, except for a few superficial answers I heard. It always was enough as I was not an insistent kid. My parents would sometimes reminisce about the past and tell me about leaving Grandma's house and moving into their first home, which was this very modest, converted old service station made into a rental house. It was a one-roomer within the city limits that they had laughs over. My sister Judy was born while living there.

My first memories, however — at perhaps two to three years old — go back to my grandmother's house, the same one that would change hands many times within the family over the subsequent years. It was just this one incident when I was very young. My aunt Christine was at the keys of the piano in the living room. I distinctly recall my mother, nicknamed "Babe" by family and friends, lifting me up and putting me on the top of the piano. My other aunt, Marilyn, both my mother's sisters, were fussing over me and smiling as Chris started the chorus for "That Lucky Old Sun" by Guy Mitchell. She played while I sang a little good hunk of the lyrics:

That lucky old sun has nothing to do but roll around heaven all day ... Toll for my money, beg for my pay ... till I'm crippled and gray ... But that lucky old sun has nothing to do ... but roll around heaven all day

They laughed while I soaked up the attention. Then I remember Chris, I believe, picking me up and putting me down on the floor, where I would choreograph the lyrics with body movements, accenting the working phrases "toll for my money, beg for my pay, till I'm crippled and gray." I remember the adoring laughter and adulating eyes. I guess I was quite the miniature entertainer at that tender age. My showbiz career was short-lived although my dad enjoyed many performances as well. But I left the stage behind — except for a whimsical stint in Hollywood many years later — to just grow up and be a typical mud-and-puddle kid. I was a huge Hopalong Cassidy fan when young and had the entire garb: scarf, cowboy shirt and hat, pant leggings/straps, and complete Hopalong double six-guns and holsters. This was just another young boy's desire to be a cowboy, Soldier, or warrior of some kind, fighting for right and justice, much like my hero example. But it was innocent as no matter how many bad guys Hopalong shot and killed, the hero always prevailed, saved the day, and the episode ended positively on a high note, always with some subtle message that good overcame evil.

Years later, my dad always brought up the story of how he lost me at around two to two and a half years of age. He would repeat this tale often over the years. It was during his full-time upholstery years around Minneapolis. As the story went, he took me with him to follow up on some upholstered chairs he had done. Although it was not like him at all, he knew he'd be gone for just a moment or two, but he left me locked in the car while he quickly ran in. He came out and I was gone. Missing. Someone could have taken me, he thought. But he quickly figured that I had watched him lock the door with the pull-up and push-down little knob and had simply pulled it up and left. Anyway, he nearly fainted as his heart dropped, realizing all the traffic on the road he parked on and the close proximity of the mighty Mississippi River.

He dashed around from neighborhood storefront to storefront, asking if they had seen a little boy with a cowboy hat on and bib coveralls. One lady told Dad she saw this little boy fitting that description running down the street toward the river, laughing all the way. He ran after me, caught me, and I acted as though it was all a big funny game. But it was a potentially fatal learning experience that my dad admittedly never got over. Even retelling the tale made him cringe, although he'd chuckle too. He said he never let me out of his sight after that. Well, as it turned out, as I grew out of that cute little boy stage, he reneged on his words and seldom seemed to know or care where I was or what I was doing.

A particular baby story he always repeated was me being stuck in the penis with a diaper pin by mom. He said even the doctor bawled her out. But I lived through it and used the penis very successfully.

Several years passed, and we lived on the east side, close to the Mississippi River dividing Minneapolis from Saint Paul, in a tiny tar paper house. It was in the fall, and while rather cold, it had not snowed yet and the river was running full strength. I was always the explorer, with my two-year-old younger sister Judy always in tow. I was probably three and a half or so. We went down to the Mississippi for a look- see — and a memory that will haunt me forever.

There was this huge angled embankment edging the river, maybe covering fifty feet. I started to walk down the embankment while Judy hesitated. I took her hand and assured her it would be okay and I would protect her from the whatever-it- was-worth-blind-coaxing- the-blind-into-unfamiliar-territory department. The Mississippi had an earned reputation of being unpredictable and dangerous as it was deep, fast, and full of buried debris. My dad and mom constantly warned me to stay completely away from it. Of course, the more they repeated that warning, the more enticing it became. Away we went down the embankment — sliding, really — until we reached the river's edge. I recall the details from this point on very vividly. I noted the water running much faster than when I was looking at it from afar. It looked scary. Suddenly, the sand on the river's edge under Judy's feet started crumbling, pulling her feet up to her ankles into the cold, murky water. As she cried, I panicked — but I reacted. I had the sense out of sheer fear to lie down against the angled embankment and dig my heels into the side's loose sand.

Now, I had both of Judy's hands and arms in my hands and held on for dear life. I'll never forget the look of terror in her face as she looked in my eyes. I felt like crying myself but didn't have time. While I continued digging in, I felt the power of the water starting to drag her lower. I knew I had to act fast and pull as if my life, and hers, depended on it. I yelled, screamed, at her not to let go no matter what. I could feel her little hands clutching mine as I kept digging my heels in and back- crawling my body up totally flat. Every inch was a fight, but I finally got her out of the water and the ensuing current. Now, despite being overwhelmed, I had to keep on my back and continue inching up. It was like it would never end, but we made it. We were standing at the very top. I can't really remember...