Category: My Family and Friends

Sometime in the early 50’s, Leo Fortier’s uncle was a member of the Civil Air Patrol, so Leo knew all about enemy aircraft. He said that his uncle had an assigned time every week, where he would sit on the roof of his house and watch for enemy planes flying over. 

“The attack could come at any time, so we have to be vigilant,” Leo said.

I asked him was vigilant meant. “I don’t know, but it’s important,” he answered.

One summer day, we were out on the St. Peter’s School playground playing 500. This is a game where one guy hits fly balls to kids in the outfield. If you catch a fly ball with one hand, you get 200 points. If you use two hands, you only get 100 points. Catch the ball on one hop, 75 points. Two hops, 50 points and grounders were 25 points. If you drop a fly ball, trying to catch it one-handed, you forfeit 200 points.

The first fielder to get 500 points wins and then he gets to bat. The first batter goes to the field and the game starts over. Each person was responsible for his own score, so there was plenty of arguing over just what the real score was.

Well, on this particular afternoon, a really big plane with four propellors (two on each wing) was flying really low right over the playground. Leo told us guys (Davey Cournoyer, Carl Olson and me) that the plane was a Russian bomber and we would all be toast in the next five minutes. There was nothing we could do about it since nobody in North St. Paul had a bomb shelter.

About this time, maybe 1954, we had regular air raid drills and fire drills at school. During fire drills, we walked out of  school and crossed the street. We waited there, in front of the church, until the bell rang and we could file back into school without a word being spoken. For some reason, fire drills only occurred on nice Spring and Fall days.

The air raid drills were different. Sister Evangelista came over the loud speaker and shouted, “Air raid drill! Get under your desk immediately. Duck And Cover!”

We all jumped up, crawled under our desks with our heads facing forward and our butts in the air. We were told to lock our hands over our heads and close our eyes until we got the all clear from the loud speaker. I did everything right but I didn’t close my eyes because I could see Germaine Pierre’s white underpants straight ahead, where her uniform dress was hiked up.

The same year, there was a new house on the corner of Prosperity and Carpenter Avenues, across from the Jewish cemetery, and it was supposed to have a bomb shelter in the basement. We drove by the house every other Sunday on our way to our Grandma’s house for dinner. Every time we went by that corner, I would ask my did if we were going to get a bomb shelter. 

Dad knew better than to say no, so he would answer, “Maybe someday.”

I would ask him what food and soda pop we would have in it. “Can we invite some people to stay with us?”

“This is just for our family,” he would say.

Then I would beg him to let Leo Fortier come and stay with us. He would hear about how Leo’s uncle was in the Civil Air patrol, and he’d say, “OK. Leo can come, but that’s all.”

When I asked if Leo’s mother could join us, his answer was, “She’s the last person in the world who would get into our bomb shelter.”

By this time we were almost to our grandmother’s house and the conversation was over until the next Sunday, in two more weeks, when it started all over again.

After two summer vacations in Minnesota, my mother was ready for something more. She wanted a road trip.

My father’s sister, Gwen, lived in Riverton, Wyoming and my father suggested a trip to see her, Uncle Neil and their family. It was an ambitious trip, with stops in the Badlands and a visit to Mount Rushmore. I had never heard of Mount Rushmore but I was happy at the thought of seeing my Aunt Gwen again. It was 1957. I had just turned thirteen and was going to high school in the fall.

In spite of having a houseful of children, Gwen wrote to my grandparents every week. She was a wonderful writer and was wickedly funny. I missed hearing from her after my grandparents died. Gwen’s letters were an early version of blogs ~ full of good news and funny anecdotes. 

In preparation for the trip, my mother fashioned a board on hinges to put in the back seat, so my brother, sister and I had room to move around. Our cooler and luggage fit under the board. We put blankets on top and added pillows and games. I brought along a lot of books to read. My mother’s intent was to keep us quiet so we wouldn’t argue with each other. I’m not sure that worked. 

My father always drove and my mother was the navigator. My father was a safe, patient driver but had no sense of direction. My mother was a wizard with a map. Without her, we might have ended up on the east coast.

Our trip through the Badlands was remarkable for the shear number of Burma Shave signs and advertisements for Wall Drug. My parents promised that we could stop at Wall Drug. We were so hyped-up, you would have thought we were going to Disneyland. We counted the miles to Wall Drug, getting more excited with every mile.

Finally we pulled into the dry, dusty Wall Drug parking lot, which was packed with cars. When we got inside, we were horrified to see aisles full of junky merchandise. That was all there was. We bought ice cream cones and ate them outside as we looked through chicken wire at an exhibit of snakes in a box. We got back in our car and headed for Wyoming.

I loved seeing my Aunt Gwen and Uncle Neil again but we didn’t stay long. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because there was a uranium mine in the distance, which my parents said was full of uranium dust.

“You can play in the front yard, but don’t go in the back yard. The dust could kill you if you breathe it in.”

After three days,  my mother decided we needed to give Aunt Gwen a rest. Mom wanted us to drive up the mountain to have a picnic. So much for uranium dust! Uncle Neil told my father that when it was time to come down the mountain, he should turn off the car and coast all the way to the bottom “to save gas.” My father did just that, breaking only on the curves. My mother was terrified and screamed all the way to the bottom. We left the next day.

The trip home took us to North Platt, Nebraska, where we stopped at the Buffalo Bill Trading Post. We shook hands with Buffalo Bill Cody, Jr. (or maybe the third) and he looked just like the pictures in our history books. When we asked if we could buy something at the trading post, my mother’s answered with a swift “No. You kids have enough stuff already. We need to get going.”

The final leg of our trip was through an Indian reservation. It was the most desolate place I’d ever seen. We stopped when we saw an Indian man sitting on the side of the road, dressed in native clothes including a beautiful headdess made of feathers. We thought he must be the chief. He sat with a sign that said, “Pictures. 25 cents.” My father paid the man a quarter, grouped us children around him and snapped a picture. Our road trip was finished.

As we drove through the reservation, on our way back to Minnesota, my parents reinforced how lucky we were to live in a nice home, go to a good school, and have green grass and flowers all around us. We were ready to go home. We knew we were lucky indeed.

Hearing aids are a staple in my family. Nearly all of us need them.  How do you know when it’s time? Here is a story my brother, Bob, told me.  He swears it’s true.

Bob was a dentist in downtown St. Paul for forty years. Forty years of hearing his dental drill constantly buzzing in his ear. At least fifteen years of asking his wife, Sandy, to repeat herself because he couldn’t quite catch what she was saying. His girls began to raise their voices to a low shout, in order to have a conversation with him.

A few years ago, Bob and Sandy were invited to the wedding of a close friend. The bride, a native of Alaska, wanted a “cowboy wedding.” The cake was topped with a cowboy bride and groom. Flowers were placed in mason jars on the tables. The music was loud and there was laughter, clinking glasses, and plenty of dancing.

Some of the guests dressed for the occasion in cowboy clothes but Bob and Sandy were dressed as they normally would for a wedding. They don’t own any cowboy clothes.

Suddenly Sandy spotted a friend, the mother of the bride.

Sandy turned to Bob and said, “Here comes Diane. She had her boobs done.”

“Really?” my brother answered. “That’s news to me. Why did she have her boobs done?  I thought they looked fine the way they were.”

“Bob! I didn’t say she had her boobs done.” Sandy shouted above the noise. “I said, Here comes Diann with her boots on!”

Bob made an appointment with an audiologist the following Monday.

Here is another story from long ago. A story that I haven’t told very many people. 

It was August, 1964. I had spent another wonderful summer living in the woods of eastern Iowa. working as a camp counselor at Camp Hitaga. It was an idyllic experience ~ with great friends, horses, a swimming pool, and canoeing on the river. I was stationed in the nature cabin although, in truth, I knew very little about nature. I was there because I knew even less about horses and canoeing. 

At the end of the season every year a few counselors traveled to Ely, Minnesota, at the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Area for five days of camping and canoeing.

I talked my way onto the upcoming trip because my family was willing to host the group at my house in North St. Paul, about halfway between Cedar Rapids and Ely. I had never canoed before but I loved being outdoors. I was excited about being part of the group.

There were six of us, all together. My friend, Jymie, who spent the summer operating the camp store was also part of the trip. She had never been canoeing either. Luckily, the other four counselors knew what they were doing. They were experienced canoeists and had taken this trip before. They were strong and hardy. They knew about scientific phenomenon like weather and currents. Most importantly, they knew how to read a map.

Our first stop was to find an outfitter in Ely to sell us enough food to last the entire time we would be away. We rented three large canoes, a big tent, and six sleeping bags. The outfitter drove us to the drop off point. We climbed into our canoes and paddled out into the water.

The Boundary Waters is a series of lakes, along the Minnesota-Canada border. Canoeist paddle from lake to lake, and portage (carry) their canoes and equipment along trails that go from one lake to another. Portaging is hard work. Although the trails are well marked, sometimes they are long and steep.

A few counselors were able to put a canoe on their shoulders, and meander down the path. Jymie and I, both skinny back then, usually carried bags of equipment. Often it took several trips, back and forth along the path before we were able to drop our canoes back in the water and paddle for an hour or more before it was time to either portage again, or stop and set up camp for the night. 

Not only had Jymie and I never been canoeing, we had never camped before. Setting up camp meant putting up the tent, building a fire, and deciding what to cook for dinner.  After dinner we tied our cooking utensils and remaining food in waterproof bags, and hung them high in the trees so bears couldn’t reach them. We hadn’t seen any bears while we were canoeing, but one counselor pointed out a pile of bear poop along the trail as we were setting up camp. We knew we had to be careful.

We bedded down for the night, snug in our tent and our sleeping bags. About midnight, we heard a horrible racket outside. 

“It’s a bear,” someone whispered.

“What’s it doing?” I asked.

“Shhh… I think it found our food.”

And then we heard rustling outside our tent. Accompanied by heavy breathing. Heavy bear breathing! The bear was right outside our tent, brushing up against our sleeping bags  as it circled the tent.

As a group, six young women stopped breathing. I was terrified. The bear was right outside. It looked in the window of the tent and took a long look at us before finally ambling off into the woods. 

The next morning we checked for damages. The bear had eaten everything we had. It ate whole loaves of bread. It ripped open a can of peas, and guzzled it down. The bear ate our eggs, cans of tomato paste, and opened packages of pasta. Everything was gone! Coffee and sugar. Oatmeal and lunch meat. There was nothing left.

One of the experienced counselors knew there was a small frontier store somewhere along our route. We stopped another group of canoeists to ask for directions. We had enough money with us to buy more supplies ~ mostly bread and peanut butter. Maybe a package of cookies.

From then on, we tied our provisions even higher in the trees. We continued our trip, grateful to be back on the water. And now, more than sixty-five years later, I am especially grateful that I am here to tell you the story of how I survived. How I was almost eaten by a bear.