1967 - The Summer of Love (and adventure)

After a little of reflection, I recall this photo from a Sunday afternoon in August 1967 – the infamous “Summer of Love”. It was named for the emerging hippie movement, the new access to birth control (12.5 million women worldwide), and the great music (Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin). It also had a dark side with the Vietnam War ramping up, some race riots in major cities, and baseball’s first American League free agent (Ken “the Hawk” Harrelson). This photo is important to me for several reasons. Ron was on leave from the Navy (or just finishing Boot Camp) and soon to ship out on the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt. I had finished my junior year at the University of Illinois in Urbana having just switched to pre-med, and just returned from an ill-fated hitchhiking expedition to San Francisco with my fraternity buddy, Ted Bayer (more about that later). And Ken must be junior at Barrington High School, where he was BMOC (pick your own abbreviation). This picture was taken in the backyard of our house in Barrington during a Sunday afternoon family get together.

It’s memorable to me because it’s one of the few times I saw daylight in August 1967. During the school year, Ted Bayer and I discussed the possibility of spending the summer working a tramp steamer to and from Australia, and spending a few weeks in between enjoying the topless beaches “down under”. We planned to hitchhike to San Francisco where we would enlist as deck crew on a steamer. Finally, the day to leave arrived. Toward the end of June, with one small suitcase and a cardboard sign that read “STUDENT”, mom gave me a ride to the junction of route 59 and interstate 55 (then just route 66). I hitchhiked from there to Lincoln, IL where I met Ted. Over the next 2-3 days, we had perhaps 20 different rides to Oklahoma where we were finally picked up by a sailor from Norfolk heading to San Diego to see his pregnant wife and he would then return to Norfolk. He’d been driving for 36 hours and needed us to keep him awake and share the driving. He had an old '59 Chevy with no A/C and a heater that stayed on all the time. Across the Mojave Desert we were toasted and kept drinking sodas like no tomorrow - tossing the cans out the window. One can hit the car windshield behind us and we spent 6 hours in the California State Police station in Bakersfield before finally being released because they "couldn’t prove it was our can". We then made great time to L.A. and stayed overnight with Nana Jensen in Santa Monica. After a day or two in LA seeing Disneyland and other sights, we walked to Highway 1 and immediately got a ride with a guy in a Corvair Spyder heading to Yosemite. It was dark when we arrived at the park but he was going pretty fast to meet his friends before it got too late, when “Wham!” a deer ran across the road and he totaled his car. We had some bumps and bruises but no serious injuries. He waited for the Park Police to come and we just said “so long” and walked into the campgrounds. We felt a little guilty just leaving him, but.... We didn’t have a tent or sleeping bags, so I think we must have just slept on a picnic table. The next morning we caught a ride into SF and were dropped off at the Haight-Ashbury YMCA, and got a room to share. Little did we know that this was a "gay" YMCA hotel, but we figured that out pretty quickly in the communal showers that they had. SF was an amazing place that summer…lots of marijuana and lots of hippies everywhere. We looked pretty straight by comparison.

The next day we went to a steamship office to “sign on” with our passports in hand. The burly guy at the counter asked if we’d ever worked on a dock or steamer before (answer: negative), and then asked if we had a letter from our local chief of police saying that we weren’t wanted for any crimes back home (answer: negative). He said that would be mandatory. Then, he asked if we knew that we would have to work a round trip and only get off in Sydney for the unloading and loading, and then return to SF. If we jumped ship, word would go out and no one else would hire us for the return trip. Damn! Lacking of proper planning killed us…again! We spent a several days enjoying the sights in SF and then headed back towards home with tails between our legs. It took us 5 days to get back to Illinois with one major adventure with a schizophrenic guy who drove us across Utah during the night and kept stopping every 50 miles to "check his tires" and he would also check the gun he had under the seat….scary!

I finally arrived home July 20 having earned no money for tuition to go back to school. I got my old job back on the loading dock at a factory in Elk Grove Village ($125 per week), but this would not be enough, so I got a second job at the 24 hour gas station in Barringtom working the 11-7 shift. So for the next 6 weeks, I pumped gas from 11 pm to 7 am, quickly had breakfast and drove to Elk Grove where I worked in the 100 degree loading dock until 4 pm at which time I would drag myself home, eat a quick bite of dinner and sleep until 10:30! Ugh!!

So this photo is one of the few really good memories of Barrington that summer…..not a summer of love for me, but certainly a summer of high adventure and lessons in the art of planning ahead.

Growing Up- Haircuts

Growing up with paper routes, we learned the value of money. One of the things mom and dad taught us was if you saved your money, you could buy something you REALLy wanted or put it away and invest it in a savings account for something in the future. Mom and dad practiced what they preached. If we saved on a few costs, we could take that trip to Colorado this summer or fishing in Minnesota.

This meant home haircuts. Since the beginning of our time on earth, dad was the master barber. When it came time to cut your hair, you would follow dad to the basement where a chair would be set up in the laundry room and a towel or old shirt for catching the clippings. You held it as tight as you could or you knew the consequences. I can still feel the tiny cuttings that fell down my neck and on my back after a moments distraction. You hung in there as still as possible till dad was done or you knew that his work of art could become "modern art". After, dad would brush you off and off you go as he cleaned up the salon. Dad was so good, that we carried on this tradition well into high school.

Now, when dad wasn't able and it was an emergency, mom would gladly jump at the chance to pinch hit. More than one occassion, we all had disagreements on hair styles. Hey, this was the 50's, 60's and 70's! Dad would generally follow our desires. Mom, on the other hand, knew she had you once you were strapped in. Before you knew it, she had her style in process before you could even wimper a challenge.

On the plus side, the old refrain of " Don't worry, it will grow out" was true. However, everyone at school knew when you had a good or no so great haircut in the Jensen barber chair, hence the coining of "bad hair day.".

Rockford-"Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"

It might seem strange every year watching "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" between Thanksgiving and Christmas that there is an element of reality.... at least for the Jensen kids.

I can't help but think back to the small store, much like the movie, that was next to Highland Elementary School. Store-bikeracks- school.... Walking in the squeaky door, there were cases of candies.. no, I mean everything! The movie IS that store! Jawbreakers, baseball cards, strips of paper with dots of flavored mints, lickamaid, straws with the most acidic flavors, bubble gum, canisters of sheer "JOY". For pennies, you were good to go on the walk home. A small bag could last til dinner.

But let me go back to baseball cards. This was the place to get Mickey Mantle or other scarce players you kept in a shoe box. Each team was separated and each box was the American or National Leagues. Scarce card duplicates were trades with a sellers advantage. Whole line ups were spread out on a table or the bare ground to find any lineup gaps to fill. Summers were occupied by listening to games with the player cards spread out like the game in progress. Imagination at work.

Then there was the "Corner." In today's speak, this means taking dogs out for a walk. Back in our day, it meant going through the backyard, down the hill to the corner store. It was a fantasy place that many called "Gyper Jack's." He had candy, toys and other kid stuff , basic home needs, but also candy. Rumor had it Jack was an ex con so we were all on guard. But hey, when it came to picking out candy, everyone is our friend.

It is burned into my memory a time I bought a toy pistol and put it on mom's "charge". Bad idea. Not only did I lose the pistol, I could not go to the Corner for a week or buy anything EVER on credit. Ah, the lessons I learn from my mom.



DJ comment: We were in Rockford in 2009 and I took this picture of "Gyper Jack's" as it looks today.........

Springfield.... Detention..........Yikes

A downside to being a student at U.S. Grant Jr. High was the strict controls over behavior. Bear in mind, U.S.Grant.....Springfield, Illinois, home of Lincoln. They played "Marching Through Georgia" before morning announcements!

Detention was for scofflaws, those students who couldn't cover their tracks or were too stupid to get caught.

Interestingly, after lunch, everyone went to the gym. DO NOT RUN UP AND DOWN THE STANDS. What did I and a friend do? Just that. In front of the gym teacher. we were showing off for the daughters of then- Governor Kerner, who, surprisingly also got detention.

Detention meant that 1 hour before school, 1 hour after school and all during lunch you were confined to a room lined with chairs. Hands on knees, look forward, backs straight- no talking. Lunch meant going after everyone else had gone through the lines and you and the rest of the inmates would walk "chain-gang" fashion through the lunch room and eat. How humiliating in front of the Gov's hottie daughters. Often your friends would say, "Hey, Ken, what did you do?" You would attempt to answer and POW! This lasted one week and was burned into kid memory.

Whatever happened to good old corporal punishment in schools?

Springfield- Campaign - Public Office

U.S. Grant Junior High School was the BIG step between grade school and high school. We had 7-9th grades. Seventh graders were expected to participate in all of the extra curricular activities. Well, Student Council was one of them. Each homeroom had a delegate to sit on the council. By process of elimination and willingness, I won. HOWEVER, that wasn't the best part. Seventh graders were required to nominate a student council treasurer. Eighth graders were expected to be secretary and ninth graders- president and VP. OK, you get the picture. Well, since we had four homerooms, we had four candidates for treasurer. Moreover, each candidate was required to give a speech on why they were the best candidate.... oh, god...write a speech.

I worked with dad on a speech where I highlighted "Honesty and Integrity "as the required moral bearing of a good treasurer for U.S. Grant Jr. High School. I felt my class would receive it pretty well.

The day came to give the speeches. They said we need to line up and go to the gym. IT WAS THE WHOLE DAMNED SCHOOL IN THE GYMNASIUM! Yep- you got it, every candidate had to give their speech to the student body and they would elect the best candidate. SURPRISE!

Seventh graders went first. The first speech was pretty good, but I was faint so I don't remember much. I was second. Oh, poop. We were asked to dress professionally, so I should have caught on, but a seventh grader has more important things occupying those areas of kid mind. I wore my trusty red blazer with a generic crest ( probably SEARS family) on the chest, clip on tie and dark trousers.

Well, up I go, with my 3x5 cards trembling, I headed to the podium (way too high for me so I went off to the side) and into the the speech. Looking back, it would have given me pretty good cover.

I understand from observers, I got louder as I travelled through the speech, giving emphasis to HONESTY and INTEGRITY, just as dad had suggested. What I did not realize was that my left arm was swinging wildly at my side. In retrospect, I must have looked like a Coldstream Guardsman on palace duty. The rest is a total blur.

As it turned out, I won. Again, I think the pathetic sales tactics I learned in Rockford were paying off dividends!!!! Public Office and wide acclaim as a "swinger."

Springfield-WKMJ

One of my boyhood chums in Springfield invited me over to his house one saturday afternoon. He lived on McArthur Blvd., a nice area with large homes. Mom dropped me off and soon we were up in his second story bedroom with a great view of the neighborhood out the back. Better yet, he said he had his own radio station. Oh, yeah, right. Well- against the two big windows was a desk with gauges, a turntable and two microphones. I asked where and how he broadcast. His dad helped him set up a PA system on steroids. For the rest of the day, we played records, interviewed each other and just plain goofed off over the air. He had a record library and a reel-to-reel tape player all inter-connected. How cool. I had to have one too.
Never thinking about neighborhood impact studies.


Well, a few weeks later, I had a plan and dad was on board. He helped out with just about any hair-brained idea I came up with. I think just to keep me busy and hope that someday it may lead into a career. He got a kick out of some of the kid creativeness. I think he chuckled himself to sleep on more than one occasion.

Anyhow, an old black and white TV, whose usefulness was well past, was my speaker. With proceeds from my paper route, I bought a fantastic black and aluminum microphone and stand. Dad helped wire the microphone, through the TV to a speaker in the window well in the back of the house. ( Now it all makes sense why he didn't have too many objections) The mic, as we in the industry call it, was on my desk in my basement bedroom. WKMJ was on the air. For a few weeks after the paper route, WKMJ took to the airwaves playing old 45's dating to the 1950's and more recent stuff, but those were pretty few. Interviews were pretty limited to commentary, mostly about things at school and other topics of riveting interest to the neighbors.

I never received notice from the FCC of competition and regulatory concerns. Nor any fan mail, but with a limited platform, I was running out of program ideas. So I guess, it was time for the final sign off and farewell broadcast on a Saturday afternoon. WKMJ is now a memory and a part of Springfield media history forever as those programs are still out there in space, somewhere.

Merle "DAD" Jensen

Sitting back and reading the stories of “Growing up Jensen” I smile, chuckle a little, and think of my dear “Father-in-Law”, Merle Jensen. There are no two families alike, just as there are no two people alike. As I entered this new family, as in my own family, the one constant, and confidant had been my Father, and so it was in Family Jensen. Both fathers were the stabilizing force in these worlds. It was interesting as the outsider to sit back and view through the picture window this world of Jensen. Eileen was, and still needs to be the center of attention; just her personality. Merle on the other hand was the wing beneath her wings. He supported her, balanced her sometimes unorthodox logic, and gave total unconditional love. Merle always took second stage, not only to his wife, but to his children and grandchildren as well. He could fix anything from wiring on a stove that mice had decided to make a home in while stored in the garage, installing fencing, planting a garden, and working on car transmissions. He was a listener, a study in observance and then action. Never failing to call a son or daughter late in the afternoon as his work was winding down, just to see how the week had been, to find out how those special “someone’s” in their lives were doing. Ready at a moments notice to help move one of his kids from apartment to apartment or new house, to drive to kingdom come on a whim to see the Mississippi River, go to church on a Sunday morning 2 hours away or drive to Minneapolis to do whatever the dear “Deighton Girls” needed. He could pack a car or truck and get more in than any professional mover could ever dream of, and drive cross country on 2 hours sleep.

Dad sat back at family gatherings and took simple pleasure in watching his children, now all adults, joke, laugh, play practical jokes and laugh some more. He possessed a wonderfully dry sense of humor, a jovial belly laugh when something struck his funny bone, always ready to make the next Mai Tai, or grab a beer from the fridge, he was the perfect host. A small town farm kid that went to college, had a long successful career with IBM, a self made man of many attributes, but the most endearing was the love of his children. He glowed in their success, because it was his as well. Dad was the balancing scales in Family Jensen, a gentle and loving patriarch who could dish out discipline fitting the crime, but was also the guiding light by which all four children flourished in his love and respect. He was practical, logical, funny, caring, full of mischief when the time came, and most of all loving.

If nothing else Dad was a constant, so much like my own Father. The day that I became a Jensen my own Father was in the hospital waiting until I “became a married lady” to have surgery. Merle had called me two days prior and volunteered in his own sweet and sensitive way to walk me down the aisle. I was so shocked and surprised by his thoughtfulness. My brother walked me down the aisle, but it was Merle John Carl Jensen that was the first to take a small town country girl in his arms on her wedding day, give her a hug and kiss and proclaim, now I have a third daughter. Yes, this was a man of many attributes, depth of soul and heart, of love for his family, a constant in all our lives; and a man who loved his children more than life itself.

SHS Cross Country and State Meet 1962

After my sophomore year in high school, I realized that distance running was what I did best and would be my fastest way to a varsity letter. In those days, earning a varsity letter was a major accomplishment as these were not given out as "paticipation" awards as so many things are today. This had to be earned at the varsity level and had strict requirements. So that summer of 1962, I trained very hard. I ran almost every day with my best buddy, John Prillaman, in Washington Park, Illini Country Club and Pasfield Park Golf Course. In spite of the hot, humid summer weather, we logged up to 50-60 miles each week. When the season started in September, we were ready. We had a great team. John was by far the best runner and maybe one of the best in the state as a junior. We had a couple of seniors, including Allen Ice, juniors which included Prillaman and myself and one or two sophomores. We were deep, and we cruised through the early dual meets. We stumbled a bit at the Peoria Invitational, but still finished high and were regarded as a possible state meet contender. We won our Big 12 conference meet and placed 1st or 2nd in the district meet to secure a team spot at state. This would be coach Cochran's first time to the state meet with a team, and he was excited. The meet would be at 10 am Saturday morning at Urbana Country Club.

We left Springfield in two cars, with John, Allen Ice and myself with coach Cochran in his station wagon. He didn't say too much, which told the rest of us how nervous he was. When we arrived in Champaign, he stopped at a traffic light which was green. John nudged me and winked, nodding toward the traffic light. When the light then turned red, coach proceeded to go through the red light. We cracked up laughing so hard....lucky there wasn't any cross traffic. We stayed at a small motel outside town (lest we be enticed by the nightlife of a college campus) and had an early dinner at the Redwoods Inn which was an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord. In spite of a curfew, we horsed around till late at night with our own nervous energy.

When we arrived at Urbana Country Club the next morning, we all began to realize what a big deal this really was seeing all the other teams in their fancy sweats...New Trier, Evanston, Rockford East, Oak Park - schools three times the size of ours.  Coach told us about the course and emphasized that about 400 yards from the starting line we would have to go almost all the way around a green before heading nearly back the way we came. He said that if we didn't get around that green with the leaders that we would be strung out too far behind. So when the starting gun fired, all seven of us tore away like the hundred yard dash and we were all within the first 20 people around that green! Then we crashed! Lactate production sky-rocketed, legs became heavy and breathing labored. Prillaman still did reasonably well, but not as well as he might otherwise have done with a more controlled start, while Allen Ice and I finished 157 and 158 out of 164 runners....brutal!! Our senior year we returned to the state meet and did much better, and John received all state honors. To this day, I think cross country is one of the best sports for a kid - comraderie, shared pain and exhilarating finishes.

Springfield - Sports

Left: Lou displaying her swimming trophies
Middle: DJ running X-Country for SHS
Lower: KJ (third from front-"Squints" Jensen)
None of RJ: no evidence, no crime

Ah, I see we are jumping to Springfield..methinks to avoid any more embarrassing takes, but we will retreat down the road.

Well, where to begin, but SPORTS! All of us were involved in a number of sport teams in Springfield. Lou was a terrific swimmer and diver. DJ a decent to average swimmer, but magnificent distance runner ( see I told you fighting wasps had its plus side) and baseball, RJ continued as a swimming phenom and women's water polo star. Me, well, too short for the local popular sport, basketball. I ran track for the Jr. H.S team- distance, but my proud moments were in baseball. That brings me to our family sporting motto, " shake it off or you are gonna get IT." There it was again, the IT word. But, again, I digress.

One summer Friday evening Lou and I and some local kids were running around the house- probably playing tag. In sprinting over the concrete tiled patio, I slipped and fell on my right hand. My brain said a well-rehearsed line:"Shake it off...."

The next day, Saturday, my hand was throbbing, but hey, gotta ball game this evening . As I was considered in most circles a whining kid ( mostly due to losing rubber band and acorn fights), my complaints received a cool reception around the house. Think Randy in Christmas Story. He had me pegged.

That evening, my hand was swollen like a softball. At the game, noticing my injury, the manager decided to take me away from shortstop (I am left handed) and put me at first base where all I really had to do was catch the ball. What he forgot was that I was left handed and my right hand, yes, the injured one, was my glove hand. Well, a lot of guys got on base that first inning. Every hard throw to first hit my glove, ricocheted up my arm to my scalp, where hairs jumped wildly under my hat.
I was taken out of the game. Everyone thought it was a bad sprain, so "shake it off."

Monday morning, I strolled into class at Hay-Edwards sixth grade homeroom. We had to do something that required both hands, maybe move desks, but memory fades at this point as the pain to the scalp hit again. The teacher came over to take me out of the fetal position and realized how badly my hand was swollen. I was given a pass to the school nurse. She immediately could see it was a broken hand. Instead of the expected, "shake it off" and get back to class, it was go back to class, I am calling your mother to come pick you up and take you to a doctor. Well, we only really went to doctors or hospitals if we were in near death situations. Otherwise good old home remedies worked just fine.

For a long time mom and dad had a hard time talking about the incident, especially since now I was now wearing a cast on my right hand and half way up the arm.

I just told them to "shake it off."

Springfield: First Day at US Grant Jr High

If you asked 100 kids whether they wanted to move towns when they were in the 9th grade, probably 101 would say, "No way!"(there would be another kid sneaking in just to say "Hell no!"). At first, the thought of moving from Rockford to Springfield was typically nightmarish. However, upon further reflection, I came to realize that there could be a silver lining. In junior high, I was a dork...and a geek....(probably like most 8th graders feel) with loser friends, no girlfriend, and no immediate prospects for a girlfriend...and probably typecast as such. How bad could starting over really be?

So in September 1960, we moved to Springfield and bought a house in Pasfield Park, and I was enrolled at U.S. Grant Junior High in the 9th grade. I got a cooler haircut (flattop), cooler clothes (nice jeans, a nice belt and yellow cotton button-down sirt), and tried to act really cool as I entered US Grant on my first day. School had been in session for a month already, so the Assistant Principal showed me to my first period class - Social Studies - and I took a seat in the back row. The teacher did not introduce me or comment on the new kids arrival. I did have a textbook, but had no idea what page we were on, so I leaned over to the cute girl in the next seat, and very coolly asked what page we were on, when "Bam!" I was hit right in the temple with a piece of chalk. The teacher glared at me and said that there would be no talking in his class unless I was called upon. "Yes, sir" I answered....meekly and embarassed and very un-coolly. Welcome to Springfield, Illinois!

Popcorn: Incident One

In our house in the 1950’s mom, like most, did the grocery shopping about once a week. If packaged and processed food existed in the 50’s, it certainly did not exist in the Jensen household. Snacks consisted of apples, carrots or raisins. Getting hungry between meals and looking in the refrigerator for something good to eat was really an exercise in futility. Mom always told us that if you did not want carrots or raisins, you simply were not hungry. You were pretty sure you were hungry, but wise enough to know better than push mom to show you all the perfectly good food in the frig that you could be eating if you were truly hungry. Hence, popcorn, being inexpensive and sold in a large enough quantity to actually last in the house for any period of time, was the snack food of choice. Mom would make us popcorn as an after-school snack or we would have it on Sunday nights while watching The Wonderful World of Disney.

There was a definite art to the making of the popcorn. You had to use the popcorn pan for starters. This pan was really used for no other purpose. It was an old, beat up looking saucepan that I could never conceive of as being new. You had to add just a bit of oil or Crisco to the bottom of the pan along with the popcorn and wait for the oil to heat the corn and start the popping process. The key was that you had to shake the pan the entire time the corn was popping and remove the pan immediately from the hot burner once the popping stopped or you would burn it.

Well, one night mom and dad went out and left DJ and RJ in charge of KJ and me. Ken was probably about 7 at the time and I was around 4. KJ and I decided it would be okay to make some popcorn. We had seen it done and were sure we were entirely capable. Self-sufficiency over safety was our motto. Who knows where RJ and DJ were, obviously not watching us. Not able to reach the top of the stove, we had to push a chair over to stand on while we cooked. Ken was the cooker and shaker of the popcorn. I think I was the assistant, getting the bowl, etc. When the corn stopped popping and we knew it needed to come off the burner post haste we encountered our first problem. Where to put the hot pan? KJ took the pan off the burner and carefully got down off the chair and took the pan from the stove and placed it on the chair. These were our chrome kitchen chairs with a padded back and seat ~ very deco. Mom had just that day, or the day before, finished reupholstering them in a trendy pink vinyl embedded with what appeared to be flecks of silver glitter. We did not have a lot of new furniture in our house and mom prided herself on reupholstering what we had to make it look up to date.

Oh…the horror! KJ and I stared in shock at the seat of the chair upon lifting the pan. Where there was new pink vinyl there was now a seemingly gigantic hole with stuffing protruding and the now slightly blackish pink vinyl melted to the bottom of the pan. I think we immediately put the pan back over the gaping abyss hoping that we could somehow reverse the damage. This I believe was my first brush with pure panic. An entire eternity eclipsed waiting for mom and dad to get home. The waiting was really the worst part of any punishment. The phase of the Jensen house for such impending doom was, “boy, are you going to get it!” Even at my tender age, I knew that whatever “it” was, I certainly did not want it. KJ and I thought of trying to cover up or hide this disaster only to decide that throwing ourselves on the mercy of court was really the best option. I do not remember if we got punished, because as luck would have it, mom had some leftover vinyl and was able to redo the chair. A stroke of luck that saved us from the much dreaded “it”. I am not sure what I thought was going to happen to us as we were never punished with any severity, but I learned about the power of fear. This is only one popcorn incident of many. Stay tuned.

Rockford - Wasps vs. Kids

Left: Wasp and hornets nests next to driveway further to the left on the sloping hill just behind wall along sidewalk.

Some kids burn critters with magnifying glasses, but the Jensen kids and a few ad hoc friends every summer would pit kid guts, hoses and brooms against an angry nest of hornets and wasps in a small hole next to the driveway and the sidewalk. The front of the house looked like the fire department had just arrived. Hoses, like anti-aircraft guns, caught targets coming out, going in and airborne. Bringing them down, they would be immediately swatted and killed- or we hoped, but not always the case. It just made a few even madder.

Great fun and certainly is the reason the Jensen kids had the best hand-eye coordination in the neighborhood. Also, another reason we could really run FAST.

Left: Running, but disclaimers abound on many levels with this picture.

Rockford- Early Learning - Salesmanship

With paper routes came the necessary need to "build your route." Well, this meant more customers, right? In Rockford, the Chicago Daily News had periodic sales contests for various items based on number of new customers during a period of time. In so doing, your District Manager would pick you and a few other carriers up after dinner and escort you to different parts of town- or so you hoped was still Rockford. Unfortunately, this wasn't voluntary as we know it today. I refer to it more as conscription. There were parts of town that were downright scary to a 9 year old. Hey, our own neighborhood was a bit iffy after 8PM!

We canvassed in teams of two. One taking one side of the street and the other.. you get the idea. From 6PM to 9PM we went house to house until we finished an area. Then, the manager would return and take us to another street. Oh, joy, another dark street housing complete strangers that could have knives and guns ready when a kid comes up the walk.

On weekends, you went solo in your own route area. Well, patience pays off. One night, our manager called us all in to his office ( dad had to take me). The "Big Kahuna" of all Chicago Daily News contests was here: an all expense trip to Puerto Rico for 50 lucky Chicago Daily News carriers in a 3 state competition. For 3 months, I sold my butt off every night and weekends. No one in church, school and the neighborhood was untouched. In fact, our close neighbors, Connie and Virginia had multiple subscriptions as did the pastor and many others- maybe even RJ and DJ- who COULD read by that time. I tried multiple sales techniques: aggressive, sensitive and pathetic. Pathetic was selling and pretending you weren't sure what you were selling, but trying really hard. Hey, it worked in a couple of instances!

Every week, the paper listed the carrier standings across all 3 states. Everyone watched it closely to see where we stood against some pretty tough competition in Indiana. By the end, I finished 10th and the rest is kinda legendary. What happens to a 10 year old in Puerto Rico stays in Puerto Rico, unless you take a boatload of slides. More on that later..... during the Travels Segment blog

Growing up Pekingese

As the grandchild of Merle and Eileen Jensen, I've grown up hearing numerous stories about these fantastically eccentric and brilliant family dogs. Mostly, the breed happened to be German shepherd; German shepherds that would do funny things like eat false teeth or cruise the neighborhood visiting neighbors before returning home with a fresh and bloody steak in the jowl.

I never knew my grandparents when these famous (or at least notorious) dogs were around and, instead, am left with memories of Nana's "replacement breed," the un-brilliant and grunty (maybe eccentric) little Pekingese. My cousin, Kristopher, called them "the whistle pigs." Because the breed is Chinese, they always have had names that are, at least in Nana's opinion, culturally compatible: Ty-Ling, My-Ling, Mee-Shoo,Me-Too, Mai-Thai, etc. Of course, I have no idea how to spell these names, but you get the picture. Nana and Bobob called them "the kids" and every morning-before daylight- Bobob would wake up and walk "the kids." It was the ritual start of his daily routine at the house in Grand Junction.

As a child, I never understood why he got up so early to walk dogs that looked like their faces had been smashed into a brick wall. He had these retractable leashes that would click in the hallway as he'd tip-toe past us sleeping in the bedrooms, but the little dog grunts would always wake me up. He was never gone long, but it was usually light out by the time he returned. And now that I have learned to rise with the morning light like my Bobob used to, I finally understand that even if it's just to take "the kids" for a walk, the light on the Colorado National Monument during sunrise is the most magical and warming light a human can feel. My grandparents live in a sacred place. I wish I could have gone for those morning walks with Bobob and the little "whistle pigs."

Thanksgiving Disaster and Christmas Revenge

Thanksgiving circa 1957 was held in Genoa City at Derold and June's house. These were always great family events. Their house was in the country, down a dirt road and about 1-2 miles outside of the town. The house was at the end of the road in a great forest, but with a farmer's field within walking distance behind the house. As boys, we would hunt rabbits and squirrels with their .22 caliber rifles, although almost never actually wounding anything, and we would go exploring in the woods.

When we arrived this year on Thanksgiving morning, we didn't initially smell the turkey cooking, but later we did and just thought this was aunt June getting the turkey in the oven late. She was being very secretive and wouldn't let others help her in the kitchen. Around 2 o'clock, we all sat down for Thanksgiving dinner and were totally ready to feast (picture upper right)! However, instead of bringing out the turkey and trimmings, June brought out individual turkey TV dinners (Swanson?). An audible gasp was heard...almost like a scene out of Christmas Story ("No turkey dinner! No turkey leftovers! No turkey sandwiches!"). June and Derold then told us that a poor family in their church could not afford a Thanksgiving dinner, so they gave that family ours, including all the trimmings and dessert, and then bought TV dinners for us. I remember him saying that it was a day not only to give thanks for all that we had, but also to help others who were less fortunate.

However, this did not sit well with mom, who was looking forward to the real thing, and she let it be known that she wasn't amused. Derold laughed it off (as did most of the rest of us) while Eileen stewed and plotted revenge...

....continued at Christmas 1957 in Rockford!

Everyone was invited to Rockford for Christmas that year and mom plotted her revenge like Eisenhower planned the Normandy invasion on D-day. She surprised us with a turkey dinner a week or two after Thanksgiving, saying it was for the one we missed in Wisconsin. Then, she carefully stripped all the meat off the bones and cleaned and bleached the carcass. She then painstakingly glued sequins and glitter all over the caracass and carefully wrapped it as a Christmas gift. On Christmas morning, as we were all opening gifts, she mentioned that she had a very special gift for her dear brother Derold, and brought out this large and beautifully wrapped present..........

Rockford- Paper Routes- RUBBER BANDS!!!

"Necessity is the mother of invention" and in the paper delivery circles of the 1950's, this had a direct application. Early on, we found that the three-fold and roll- fold papers did not work, as DJ has indicated. It took considerable time to pre fold papers before sticking in them gingerly (?) in the canvas paper bags. Unless they were tight (I was about 7 years old, so tight was a misnomer), when thrown, the daily blab would open it's wings about mid flight and leisurely spread out over an entire lawn. Think snow flakes. Worst of all for me was the huge Saturday paper with comics and magazine inserts. What a colorful display. Well, this was perplexing and the answer was found in a huge box of rubber bands. Simply slip it over the paper and voila! Time and many anxious moments saved.

HOWEVER, there was a downside and unforeseen consequence to this strategic development, rubber band fights. Normally, these would occur mili seconds after mom and dad would leave the house for a party. Sides would be drawn- RJ and DJ vs. KJ ( innocently playing with train set and unknowing sides had been called and an attack imminent). Lou would be like Switzerland and given neutrality. She was allowed a border crossing to the upstairs. The door to the basement would be blocked so no escape would be possible. Typically, RJ would take one area and DJ another so they could triangulate a "killing field of fire" directly on the "unsuspecting." Well, you can conjure up the horrific scene. They had a box of rubber bands. I was left to scrounge for bands that had been targeted at me or hit the mark. Each hit left a dainty little red mark. Over time, I looked like I had come down with chickenpox. Little cover was available so I was left to my best defense- screaming and crying "THIS IS NOT FAIR!". Oh, that worked out well......

The battlefield was always cleaned up afterward so no evidence could be tracked. Heck, we needed those rubber bands for the next day's paper route. CSI would have been proud. "Suggestions" of bodily harm further prevented a security leak to mom and dad. They were in the dark. Ah, the hijinks we got into.
Well, more to come on other atrocities, no, childhood memories, but these fond recollections were conjured up just wistfully thinking about PAPER ROUTES.

Left: "Carnage Corner" in the basement - site of many futile last stands

Paper routes

I think all 3 boys had paper routes in Rockford or Springfield and Lou was the pinch hitter. We initially had afternoon routes in Rockford delivering the Chicago Daily News to about 30 customers.  Then, because of sports, we switched to morning routes delivering the Chicago Tribune and Chicago American. A truck would drop off the papers in a bundle on our drive, and we'd get up at 5 or 5:30 to bring them in and fold them.  This was a real art before the days of the plastic wrap and before we discovered rubber bands.  You would fold it in thirds and then tuck the first two thirds into the last one and then smash it a bit to keep the seams tight.  When the papers didn't have too many pages, they kept together pretty well when tossed.  However, if the papers were bulky, or if you didn't fold them tight enough, sometimes they'd "open up" in flight and pages would be floating everywhere.  Rubber bands saved the day. 

After we folded the papers, we would place them carefully into a canvas carrier that would fit over your head and had front and back bags.  In the winter, we'd walk our route and in the spring and summer we'd attach the bags to our bikes and ride.  Sometimes dad would take pity on us if it snowed and give us a ride in the car, but this was rare. Disaster was when the canvas bag was loose and would get caght in the spokes of the bike and you'd fly over the handlebars!

The absolute worse part of being a paperboy wasn't the early mornings, or the walks, or the bad weather....it was collecting!  Every week, we would have to go to every house on our route and collect the money owed us and then we would pay the paper route manager.  We had a large metal ring which had cards for each customer and we would punch a whole for each week we collected from them.  I hated this for so many reasons;  hated asking anybody for money...hated wasting part of a Saturday morning doing it....and most of all, hated the mean people.  The mean people were the worst. Sometimes, I would just skip their house because I didn't feel like facing them.  All this did, however, was make the next week even worse yet because now they owed twice as much. This was clearly hell for a 10 year old kid.

Rockford Cars

Well, as anyone knows, a family travels in its car. We were no exception. Dad loved his cars and kept them in tip top shape. If you couldn't find dad in the house, he was always under the hood of a car.

Our early Buick became a family art project (far left). When the body needed a "freshen up", dad rented a power sprayer, blue and white auto paint and plenty of masking tape. The paint scheme created was unlike anything else on the road, white below the trim line and roof and blue above. To top it all off, we painted whitewalls on the tires. Dad may have been the catalyst for the single color cars and blackwall tires of today.

I will leave the Corvair legends to RJ and DJ, but the family trukster was always a 9 passenger station wagon (center). Every year, it was a family event to cruise dealers and crawl though, over and under all the new models of cars. Of course, when the year hit that we needed a new car, we got really serious. Brochures and active talk about the best one-we all knew it would be a Chevy so who were we trying to kid?

The rear seat on the 9 passenger looked back and was a bit smaller than the front and middle, but boy it was cool. You could roll down the ELECTRIC back window while driving, yell or throw all sorts of stuff at the cars behind and then make a face like it was a total accident... and you were sorry. Mom and dad would be none the wiser. Heck, they were miles away in the front seat looking forward!

The tail would flip down and was great when you needed a lift to deliver papers. RJ, DJ and KJ all had paper routes at one time or another in Rockford. But, I digress. You would stack the papers on the floor, sit on the tailgate, dangle your feet over the tailgate and toss papers indescriminately (but within a short and healthy walking distance from the subscriber's front door or a nice opportunity to get to know your shrubbery) until out of ammo while mom cruised your route. Again, clueless of the winged messages flying from the back of her car like ducks off a lake.

DJ comment: Yes, the '52 Buick straight-8 with 3 on the column was a tank!  RJ and I both learned to drive in that car and we learned to drive stick by gliding up and back in the driveway in Springfield. I think KJ learned to drive stick on a Ford Fiesta somewhere in Wales :)

Rockford Summers

One of the thrills of summer was to be able to sleep in the backyard. Not tents, but jungle hammocks. Dad bought two from army surplus. Putting them up was a bit of a chore since all of the lower limbs on the trees had been cut or broken off. Lou and I usually slept in them and, speaking for me, didn't get a wink of sleep all night. The hammocks could be unsteady unless you were situated just perfectly center. RJ, the WWII history buff, would reminds us of how the Japs would bayonet our soldiers in jungle hammocks. Oh, great..... After dark, RJ and DJ would creap out in the dark and scream into your netting. After that, your mind worked overtime thinking about things crawling around under you- or maybe inside the netting already. If you did get sleep, you awoke with your face planted clearly in the mosquito netting staring down at the ground and any bedding is all over you as if you were a passenger on the Titanic at the time of hitting the iceberg. But, looking back, it was great fun.

DJ comment: Yes, Japanese sneak attacks late at night were a hoot! Almost better than the pink box. Banzai!! But RJ and I also had a few sleep outs in the jungle hammocks.  Most of all, I remember feeling that when I zipped the mosquito netting closed that I was zipping the mosquitos in with me! Plus, the netting allowed almost no breeze, so you would sweat and swat mosquitos all night.  So yes, no sleep at all....

Rockford then and now

This photo is when Bob-Bob and Nana Jensen were visiting and we had our picture taken in front of our house. Bob-Bob must have been taking it since he's the only one not in the photo (deductive reasoning)

Here we are picking them up from the station, I think at Davis Junction.

KJ and Lou in front of the house waiting for first day of school (I guess)

This is the house today...now with a garage, but still a very nice neighborhood. It seems to have improved after we moved out

Rockford- still 1955ish

Far Left: DJ getting "air" at the jump

Left: Mom "gliding?" the slope very ladylike

Well, Rockford got its fair share of snow in winter. We built igloos in the snowdrifts in the street (no one bothered to tell us it could be dangerous), sledding down the hill behind the backyard, and a special treat would go to the big hills at a park. We would race down the frozen hills. RJ and DJ would take candles and wax the runners on their sled. I didn't, hence leaving a long orange trail behind me as I leisurely coasted to the bottom. In this case, I froze and missed the jump at the bottom of the hill. To my credit, however, I did not miss the telephone pole.

DJ comment: Yes, we made sledding trails through the trees in the house behind ours with jumps and banked turns. The photo above is a classic, but might have been from the hill in LaGrange Park...don't know for sure. RJ would remember. How cool, though, that it gets the immediate moment of impact.

On the right is the hill behind our house, although one doesn't appreciate the precipitous slope in this photo...

Rockford- 1955ish

Rockford was a great place to grow up. We lived in a colonial home, nee frat house, at 729 Paris Avenue. The neighborhood was established, with nice homes and well kept yards. Rockford was known as the Forest City for all of the trees covering the city. It was always shady in the summer. It was beautiful until the Dutch Elm disease took most of them .
As a young boy, I came to enjoy trains since that was basically how company came to visit. It was exciting to see trains come in from far off places and drop off our unknowing and soon to be unforgiving relatives who spent time with the Jensen "flying monkeys". We took them to exciting places like......Sinissippi Park and Starved Rock State Park. Truly rivetting for our guests to tell the folks back home.

DJ Comment: "Enjoy trains"?!?! Now there's the understatement of the century! Do you remember your model train layout in the basement? I'm not only sure that you do, but willing to bet that you can recreate it from memory! You had this mountain scenery in the one corner with a tunnel going through it....very cool and realistic. So RJ and I would occasioanlly put an old shoe in the tunnel and then wait for you to scream when your train derailed in there.

Early memories 1950...possibly 1949

My earliest memories, such as they are, are from around age 3 or 4, from the house at 4801 S. Mayfield in Chicago. We lived upstairs and the grandparents lived downstairs. I have vague memories of laying on ther floor in the sun room and drawing pictures with a crayon on the underside of the coffee table. I believe that my punishment was to take a tablespoon of castor oil, although I'm told today that it was cod liver oil. Either way, it was a gross form of punishment.

I also remember Ron and I going in to the bedroom to sing "Down by the Station" to our nana who was dying of stomach cancer (linnitus plastica for those medical types).

I recollect mom bleaching my hair with household bleach to keep it "blond", since I was a towhead.

Finally, I remember playing on the swing set when Ron fell and broke his arm. I'm not sure, but I think while playing cowboys and Indians, I may have tried to "hang" RJ....not sure.

Uncle Harold and aunt Dottie lived nearby and I can remember going to their house to watch TV on a small black&white screen. They also took me to the drive-in movie with them to see High Noon when I was 5 or 6. It's the first movie I remember and I was blown away.

1954

The Indian Guides Pow Wow was an annual event in which 8  year old boys recreated an Indian village complete with Indian dress, spear, shields and war paint. We made (or at least our parents made) an actual teepee and a totem pole in addition to our "authentic" Indian garb....or should I say "native American garb".  In looking back, this was politically incorrect on so many levels. We ran around speaking in fake Indian tongues..."Me want wompum or me scalp white man" and raising our right hand and saying, "How!" when we'd meet another of our tribe.  

My Indian name was "Little Iron Star" and I still have the wooden plaque which I made using thumb tacks to spell out my name....very cool! The hair was a particularly attractive and authentic part of the whole personna and was made of coarse and very itchy black wool and was braided. I think we look quite fearsome... Custer met his match with this tribe.   Everyone got in on the act, even Squaw Woman, KJ and Lou.  Where's RJ?

 

Growing up Jensen

This is a blog site dedicated to telling the true occasionally true but unabashed stories of the Merle Jensen family of Chicago, LaGrange, Rockford, Springfield, Barrington, Grand Junction, and all points in between. Okay, so not all stories are true, but at least one person in the family BELIEVES they are true...and this counts. After all, revisionist history is in our DNA..... at least half of our DNA!

Picture at top is from Kelly's wedding from 2008. Ken, LouAnn, mom, DJ and RJ

Picture in middle is from Rockford...probably Christmas. Back row: mom, Darold and dad (in shadows); middle row: RJ and Isabel (his date); front row: Carol, Knucklehead, Darolyn, DJ, Jim, Lou. I think that's Jeannie with just the top of her head.

Bottom picture: KJ, RJ (I think I recognize that ski jacket) and Robert Redford...notice the rugged good looks.