Chapter 7
Two years later, late winter 1958
Bjorn
I felt uncomfortable being in the school building, being a drop-out and all. But I wanted to be with my buddies, and they wanted to be at the basketball game to support Ozzie. It was Friday night and the Fighting Chiefs were up by three points with a few minutes left in the fourth quarter.
“Sure hope he doesn’t foul out again,” Shu said. “He hardly ever makes it to the end of a game.”
Pope said, “Yes, his dad says it is because he plays aggressively. I hate to say this, but I think he plays dirty. If Coach Dietrich was not also the baseball coach, I doubt he would put up with Ozzie’s attitude.”
Just then Ozzie leaped for and grabbed a rebound with both elbows churning. He crouched down to protect the ball and gave the Panther’s number twelve an elbow shot to the balls.
The ref didn’t see the blow.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” I could read number twelve’s lips as he took a haymaker swing which Ozzie managed to duck.
The ref saw the attempted punch, blew his whistle and ejected number twelve, the Panther’s leading scorer. Ozzie turned away from the ref, I suppose so the ref wouldn’t see him laughing. The Fighting Chiefs won by seven points.
Our plan was that the four of us would meet at Schwalbe’s Café after the game for a burger and a malt. Trudy was going to be there with her girlfriends. After eating, we would split up. Shu would take Trudy home, Pope had to get up early to go to an advanced solid geometry class at the U, and I had to get home to work on the plan with Dad. Ozzie figured he’d land a date after the burger.
Tommy Weber, the starting center, approached our booth after the game. “Ozzie said to tell you guys he can’t make it tonight. Something about stuff going on at home.”
Pope said, “All right, thanks, Tommy.” After Tommy left, Pope looked at us. “The Lord only knows what that meant. Ozzie’s home life has to be really tough on him. I pray for him. The rest of us are lucky.”
I looked at Shu. “Speaking of stuff at home, turkey, how’s the argument with your old man going?”
“Just cause I want to switch our farm from dairy to turkeys doesn’t make me one,” Shu said as he elbowed me in the side. “And I wouldn’t exactly call it an argument . . . more like a discussion. Now the discussion has gotten hotter ’cause I think we should buy the Schultz farm next door.”
“Jesus, kinda throwing a lot of stuff at your old man at one time, ain’t ya?”
“Mr. Schultz’s health isn’t so good. I think they’re ready to sell. Dad just shakes his head. In June, I’m done with school. If we don’t get more land, I’ll have to move off the farm and get a job in the city.”
He sighed and went on. “Maybe workin’ on an assembly line or carrying cement to a bricklayer is okay with you guys, but goddammit, I love farming. Being on the land, raising crops and turkeys, that’s my idea of a good future.”
Pope said, “Good luck with that. I envy you knowing what you want, but please watch your language.”
Shu asked me, “And what do you and your old man have going tonight that’s so damn important? Can’t it wait ’til mornin’?”
I said, “Can’t say.”
Shu said, “Kinda tired of all your secret shit. Oops, sorry, Pope.”
“Okay, Shu. We are all thinking the same thing,” Pope said.
I knew I couldn’t keep the plan secret from my buddies too much longer. “Hey, cool it. I’ll explain the secret as soon as I can.”
***
When I got home that night, my pa and me worked on our plan ’til after midnight. We did it again for three hours on Saturday after I got home from work at the lumberyard and again most of Sunday. Ma helped on Sunday too. Over the past two and a half years we had spent hundreds of hours working on the plan. Tension was building. Everything had to be ready for our 10:00 a.m. meeting on Monday.
I wonder how I deserved my parents. Olga, my ma, and Karl, my dad, were salt of the earth folks and now treated me as a partner after raising me from a pup. I am an only child, but I don’t think I’m spoiled. I did get my rear end pounded a few times, but that was always followed with a hug and an “I love you.” I wondered why I didn’t have brothers or sisters, but I never asked.
Even before Pa’s injury, we never had much money. Ma cooked for the Lion’s club meetings every second and fourth Wednesday in the winter, did the books for the oil co-op and cleaned some houses. She’s a sturdy Swedish blond. Everybody depended on her and she didn’t let anyone down.
Dad’s work at Honeywell was kinda full time, but he was laid off quite a bit when there was no work even though he was their best machinist.
He was the player-manager (third baseman) of the town baseball team before the accident and was the go-to guy for every household in town for handyman repairs. He took me along whenever possible, be it as the bat-boy for the team or to hold his tools when fixing someone’s kitchen sink. He’s tall and lanky. kinda has a regal bearing—stands straight and holds his head high, even now when wearing the eye patch.
He rebuilt and maintains our old Plymouth, and it runs like new even though we have to baby the worn tires. I spent a lot of time under the hood with him. We also rebuilt that old power mower I use to mow other folks’ lawns.
They have a quiet social life now pretty much like they did before dad’s injury. Many times I’ve seen them sit side by side on the couch in the evening with her reading to him, all the while holding hands. Our family is not one of the church-going type. We probably hit the Lutheran pews (Pa prefers cushion ones) four or five times a year. That doesn’t mean my folks aren’t good people though.
***
“Let’s go. We can’t be late,” Pa said about 9:40 on Monday morning. Even though it was February, cold and windy with snow flurries, we walked the two blocks to the Community Bank of Victoria. Ma stayed home. Said she was too nervous to go along. Pa and I each carried a thick, blue, three-ring binder in our gloved hands.
Our overshoes made scrunching sounds in the snow. No one else was out and about except in cars. The green, hooded parka Ma found for me at the second-hand store did its job of keeping me warm. Wind still got to our faces though, and there was a drip of snot hanging from Pa’s nose.
The bank was on Main Street in a two-story, red-brick building. An outside stairway, covered with what looked like a wood tunnel, led to four bachelor apartments on the second floor. Shorty and Belle’s combination barber shop and beauty parlor was located in the right half of the first floor and the bank was on the left.
A bell tinkled as we opened the frosted glass door with gold lettering. The only teller, Shirley Schmuck, looked up from what appeared to be a romance novel. She was a well-kept fortyish lady with a friendly smile. Her metal teller’s cage was painted forest green, but some rust spots showed through the chipped paint. A crack ran diagonally through the white marble counter.
“Hi, Shirley,” Dad said. “We have a ten o’clock appointment with Harvey.”
“Oh, hi, Karl, Bjorn. Ya, I know, but Mr. Cline called from the main office in Waconia a little while ago and said to tell you he’d be here as soon as he could. He might be a little late ’cause of the icy roads. Sorry. Magazines are over there. Would you like some coffee?” She tried not to stare at dad’s eye patch and red forehead scar.
“Thanks, no cream or sugar,” Dad said. We hung up our parkas on the hall-tree. We both were wearing plaid flannel shirts under the parkas.
Dad sipped his black coffee, but we were too nervous to look at the magazines. We reviewed our material, then looked around the room at the embossed metal ceiling and small, white octagonal tiles on the floor.
We also reminded each other what Dad’s boss at Honeywell had told us about asking bankers for loans. “Just because they pass gas through pinstriped suits and you fart through denim doesn’t make them better or smarter than you. You have a great plan to talk to them about; it’s a good business opportunity for them. You need them, and they need you. Don’t beg. Just present your case.”
A slight smell of hair perm solution came from the beauty shop, and once in a while Shorty’s cackling laughter filtered through the wall.
At ten after ten, Mr. Cline burst through the door, stamping snow off his rubbers. He was in his mid-forties and getting thick around the middle and thin in the hair department. “Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late. Looks like more snow’s coming. Bjorn, don’t forget my driveway and sidewalk.”
Why did he feel he had to say that? I’d been doing his shoveling, mowing and weed pulling for four years. I’d never forgotten to do my job. I liked Mrs. Cline. She always gave me a nice tip and lemonade or hot chocolate. But Mr. Cline liked to play the big shot. He was the only guy in town who wore a coat and tie on weekdays.
“Come into my office and have a seat,” Cline said as he nodded to Shirley and hung up his overcoat.
I had expected more of an office. A six-foot-high, gray safe stood behind his desk. It was flanked by green, four-drawer file cabinets. Cline’s oak desk was plain, and some of the blond finish was worn off where his elbows rested. There were no windows, and with every move he made his wood swivel chair squeaked.
“Well, what’s the occasion? Why did you ask for this meeting?” Cline asked, but he seemed rushed. I was surprised he didn’t start with a little small talk before getting right to business.
“Ah . . . Harvey, we appreciate you takin’ the time to see us,” Dad said as he reached down to pick up the two binders.
“My son, my wife and me been workin’ darn hard for a little over two years on this plan. You know us. You know our history.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“In fifty-six, Bjorn drove me to Honeywell ’cause they called me in to train a couple’a guys. After the training session, the vice-president of the division, Jim Harms, called me into his office. After my accident and loss of my eye, my life hasn’t been easy. After Harms talked to me, I thought my life was gonna be over, that I’d be useless to my family or anyone else.”
“Why in the world would you think that?”
“’Cause he told me that in a year or two, they wouldn’t be needing me to come in and train guys anymore. Even though I only did that a few times every other month, at least I felt I was still of some use. He said Honeywell had bought some land in St. Louis Park for a new plant. The company was gonna totally retool his division. All of the equipment I knew so well would be scrapped.”
“So why couldn’t you train guys on the new equipment?”
“They bought new high-precision machines from Switzerland, next-generation stuff. Even some automation. Out of my league. They’ve decided to go after aviation controls and government contracts for guidance systems, so they have to show they have the equipment to do the high-precision jobs.” Dad threw up his hands to show his disappointment.
“Okay, but what’s that got to do with this meeting?” Cline said, looking between Pa and me.
Dad cleared his throat. “We left that meeting, and I was a mess. Bjorn could tell I was as far down in the dumps as he had seen me since the accident. He drove us about five miles. All of a sudden he did a U-turn in the middle of four-lane Highway 12. I asked him what the hell he was doing. He pulled off the highway. He said he had somethin’ to say.”