As the years have passed, it has been quite interesting what former students, now long-time adults, even friends, will recall and reveal to their former teacher or principal. Adulthood has obliterated the line between the kid full of hi-jinks and the authority figure who might have called him or them into accountability. This story from Episode #2 (1967-70) came to me years after its occurrence and humorously related by an unremembered witness.
It was the evening of the Christmas concert and Vera Miller was vocal instructor. Custodian John Torgerson had placed the school’s risers near the east end of the new gym. Mrs. Miller had arranged the students in customary fashion, boys in the back and girls in the front. She had everything under control (as far as I knew) so I, as principal, simply faded into the crowd to enjoy the music.
The glee club was well into its concert with Mrs. Miller using her baton to direct their voices. As an aside, it is very possible that the young lady at the piano that evening might have been the one to whom I now send my stories, hoping she’ll catch the typos I may have missed! If so, she’s Wanda (Senska) Swenson.
(Editor note: Wanda did accompany choruses in high school, as did Gwen Senska and Darla (Feistner) Kempf, so it was undoubtedly one of those three accompanying that night.)
To continue the concert story, in the back row stood a young man with white shirt and tie looking poised and proper. He assumed a part of a well-rehearsed choral group but was actually the epitome of deception and the maker of mischief. Some few inches ahead of him stood a row of lovely 15, 16 and 17-year-olds, all dressed in their finest—long, colorful formals, most of them closed in the back with zippers from neck to waist. It was too much for that young lad to resist. I would suppose he continued singing or at least mouthed the words as he raised one finger and placed it on the zipper of the girl ahead of him. What she thought of that subtle pressure, she alone knows. Without moving the zipper, he slowly traced his finger down her spine until he reached the end of the zipper. What she could not know, she imagined.
Picture the young couple, isolated in public view, momentarily engaged in an unthinkable interlude. She in front with distraction, fear and panic, not daring to disrupt the music. He in back enjoying his part in the concert with the knowledge that she would do nothing. He also knew he was doing nothing destructive, physically painful or immoral. But she could picture her gown falling in a heap at her feet in the public of her peers, as well as parents and friends.
Now, it was true that her gown was in perfect shape and her torture lasted but a few minutes. It was equally true that it would have been a huge and startling curtain closer had she whirled around in the middle of the song and slapped that youthful male alongside the head! From my inconspicuous position as a spectator, I would have been astounded, along with several dozen other viewers. But looking back, what a delightful and satisfying ending to the total picture that would have been! What would Mrs. Miller have done? What should I have done?
In reality, Mrs. Miller knew nothing, the principal knew nothing, most of the students knew nothing, and I suppose everyone has lived happily ever after. As Kelly Larson and I relived that ludicrous event a few months ago, he told me what I had not known—the name of that rascal. The feminine singer he did not recall, but the boy he did. And I might now ask, what is your version, Billy Zell?

Dear Pastor Mindy,
May God bless you and your family as you move on.
You have no idea who we are, but we have been reading your writings in the Sanborn Weekly. We feel you have a special gift in writing. Several of your articles we have clipped to save. Thanks.
We will miss reading your articles.
Our church is not meeting our needs. We continue to attend but the five-minute talk leaves us wondering. We are past 80 and find it difficult to change churches now. We’ll continue to pray for improvement in service.
Again, God go with you to the new place.
Hope this note finds you.
Sincerely,
Russell and Verna
Cochran
Rapid City, SD
P.S. Russ grew up in Woonsocket.

GAY POSES with her favorite pumpkin.

We were sad to leave Georgia behind, but she was suffering from a bad case of “Renter-itis.” Ask her about it!
Gay and I were supposed to pick up Anastasia at 7 a.m. Thursday morning, but being the early birds we are, we arrived at 6:30 a.m. We rang the doorbell, knocked vigorously and, with our faces pressed to the door windows, we used the cell phone. A female form came flying by in a “state of disarray,” shall we put it. Anastasia was furious at us, but Gay told her, “I live for moments like this!”
Pam had called earlier in the week to see if I had the reservations intact. I related that we were flying by the seat of our pants. The line went dead — both Gay and Pam are the organizers of our group. They dislike my chaos. First stop was Rochester, Minn., where we were sucked into the downdraft of the Apache Mall. We arrived in Winona, Minn. that night and found rooms were sparse. I was waiting to be berated if we ended up at the Sugar Loaf Motel. (Thankfully, not.) It was at Winona that I posted a picture on Facebook of a rock cliff that I said we climbed before breakfast. Actually, we were in a shoe store.
Next stop was Wabasha, where they have an Eagle Education Center to visit and the whole downtown is decorated with pumpkins, scarecrows and Halloween cats, witches and corn shocks. It was excellent and Gay is thinking we should do the same in Woony to be more festive. (Heather did point out that when they put pumpkins on the street in high school, they got in trouble.) Plus, Minnesota pumpkins lying around were weighing in the range of 200-1,000 pounds. Kahuna is not into stopping at rural business places with decorations. At one such spot she sarcastically commented, “Well, this is a happening place, they have a porta-potty.”
We pooped out on Friday night and stopped at Red Wing, Minn., where we barely got a room! Seems there was a pumpkin festival on Saturday that draws in 30,000 people. We did make time to stop at Falconer Winery for some tasting. Our wine guide was a complete “ditz”. The tasting was $6 and Kahuna gave her a $10 bill for pop and cheese curds, too. She had to go to the till three times to figure it out and then read each description off the wine bottle to us like school children, even though it was on the paper in front of us.
That really rattled us, so we went downtown and found the historic St. James Hotel that was built in 1875. We discovered the old bar on the fifth floor (elevator) had comfy chairs and Bloody Mary’s, and we got our “chat” in gear. Drinking always leads to eating, so we found Smokin’ Oak Rotisserie Grill, popular evidently, with a long line. Kahuna waltzed right up to the hostess and told her that we had called for a reservation 45 minutes earlier. They say “the truth shall set you free,” but by golly, a little white lie comes in handy.
Later that night, we were trudging up to our second floor room when Gay’s suitcase had a mind of its own and cartwheeled end over end back down the stairs. Esther said, “I think you were aiming for me!” Gay replied, “Sometimes I think you know me better than myself.”
Saturday arrived with a brisk wind and we were up early to beat the festival customers. I had a revelation while watching Pam eat a banana, that there really is no proper way to eat one in public, unless you cut it up with a fork. We had a hey-day looking at about 200 vendors. (They said 500, but that’s doubtful.) Kahuna had purchased a fluffy bag of kettle corn and I had an irresistible urge to kick it like a football. Kahuna dampened my urge by saying, “Try it and find out what happens.”
We traveled on north and dabbled a bit on the Wisconsin side, happily munching on cheese curds. Next stop was Stillwater, and it was jammed with shops and antique stores. Once again they were having a pumpkin festival by the river with vendors, music, pie-eating contest and the giant pumpkin weigh-in. (I’m telling you, pumpkins are exciting to Minnesotans.)
We found our niche to sit on the porch of the old Waterstreet Inn, which had the BEST Bloody Mary’s and smoking-hot — at least a three alarm fire in the mouth. We witnessed the weigh-in on the biggest pumpkin—2,185 pounds. We were so overcome with emotion that Kahuna sat down at the baby grand in the lobby and played a bit of “Beautiful Dreamer.” We will now refer to her as Piano Jan.
Pam took the wheel from our steadfast driver, Gay, and guided us the rest of the way into Minneapolis. Much to Esther’s surprise, she discovered her friend Bev, from vo-tech and her wedding personal attendant, was one floor above us in the same hotel. Our group had a quiet last supperm since we all knew we would be returning to the real world by Monday.
Breakfast is our favorite meal and we dined at one of the best “Hell’s Kitchen.” Take the time to check it out if you happen to be in the city. Three of us just had the giant pecan caramel roll as our meal. Coffee is very bold and could almost grow hair on your chest. (Cream to the rescue.)
Trizzle, trizzle, trazzle, trone…Time for this one to go home.          – Dee Baby