CHAPTER 1

Beginning Time Remembered

Recollections of past events are, at best, subjective, and thoseimages I remember become distorted by time, experiences, andattitudes acquired, giving me a biased view of a scene related tomy past history. As that may be, I have been as candid as possible inpresenting my reminiscences as I recall them.

There is the theory that everything you have experienced isrecorded in your brain. Total recall, known as eidetic memory (theability to recall all sensory experiences), would be fantastic. Being ableto recall in detail any pain, pleasure, or event that had happened toyou would give you a perspective on life different than the fragmented,subjective view your memory gives you now.

My memory works in mysterious ways. Sometimes a past eventwill just pop into my mind, as though it had bubbled up from thebottom of my memory milieu, and I have a dialogue with myself abouta remembered past.

The beginning of my remembered time starts in a small town inNorth Dakota. That was over three-quarters of a century ago. Myfirst day on this earth was May 7, 1934. The place was Williston, atown in the northwestern part of North Dakota near the confluenceof the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers. The town, surrounded by flatprairies and vast acres of wheat fields, is today the center of one of thelargest oil fields in the United States. Oil was discovered forty milesnortheast of Williston in 1951, and in 2010 a new oil boom in thenorthwestern part of North Dakota (in a formation known as Bakken)has put Williston on the map as a leading economic oil center in theUnited States.

My mom and dad were hardworking, conservative parents;although they believed in traditional ideas and behavior, they werealways open-minded. They always listened to what my brother andI had to say about what we wanted to do with our lives. Since therewere no television or computer games to amuse me, my entertainmentwas made-up games that were limited only by my imagination. Books,radio, and movies were the influences that prompted my play acting. Iwas an extremely shy child, easily embarrassed by the slightest mishap,but my shyness didn't limit my curiosity. I was curious about everynatural and man-made object and investigated them with scrutinizingdetail as long as I could do it on my own terms—alone. I was anincorrigible introvert.

My parents gave me clear guidelines about work and play. Thechores I was to perform were well defined.

When I was young, one of my responsibilities was to make sure thedrip basin under our ice chest was emptied before water overflowedonto the kitchen floor. Our ice chest was a handsomely crafted, ornatewooden cabinet about as high as I was at six years old. A block ofice would fit in the top compartment to cool off the interior of thecabinet where food was stored. As cool air descended from the blockof melting ice, water would drip down a drain pipe into a basin placedunder the chest.

One day, I was forgetful in my duties, and water overflowed thebasin and spilled onto the kitchen floor. Mom was too late in noticingthe flooded kitchen floor as she came up the stairs from the basementwith a load of laundry. She stepped onto the kitchen floor, slippedon the wet linoleum, and landed on her back. She had really hurtherself. I had just come into the kitchen to witness this. Realizingmy negligence was the cause of this accident, I was embarrassed andstarted to cry as I tried to help her up off the floor. I wasn't punishedfor my neglect, but I was given a lecture on the obligation to one'sduties. Not fulfilling my duty, consequences were to be paid. I'veconstantly carried that lesson with me.

Our first electric refrigerator towered above me like a hugesmooth, white monolithic icon. My most vivid memory of our fridgewas not the appliance itself—it was the cardboard container the fridgecame in.

The refrigerator's corrugated container was gigantic—theTitanic of cardboard boxes. That carton provided me with weeks ofentertainment. It was magically transformed into a fort, a tank, a pirateship, and a B-25 bomber. Last, but not least, the cardboard containerwas cut, bent, shaped, and taped into the image of a stagecoach, whichwas mounted on my little red wagon. Painted on the sides in beautifulscript (lettering by my dad) were the words "Overland Stage Coach."I would give neighborhood kids rides across my imaginary untamedprairie full of Indians, outlaws, and wild animals. That stage traveledmany miles through my fantasy world (around my neighborhood).

In many of my childhood's invented games I would emulate theroles of my cowboy heroes. Riding my imaginary horse, wearingmy real bearskin cowboy chaps, I'd fire my Red Ryder BB gun atimaginary desperadoes. Sometimes, to the disapproval of my mother,I'd shoot blossoms from their stalks in her beautiful flower garden. Iwas a crack shot with my air rifle.

I was always bumping, falling, scraping, cutting, or bruising somepart of me. It wasn't as if I was reckless or clumsy or did not havegood parental supervision; I was just always super active and had aninquisitiveness that threw caution to the wind (I guess in a sense thatwas being reckless).

Considering all my catastrophes, I was fortunate to survive myjuvenile years.

It was a macho thing to have a...