Scoutmaster Arne Erickson
I missed a funeral this week. I didn’t want to miss it but I didn’t have much choice.
The only thing you have to do is die and pay taxes…
That’s an over-used phrase that isn’t really true, at least with respect to the taxes part. You can choose not to pay taxes. The consequence is a meeting with the IRS and maybe some time in prison.
But on Tuesday morning, when they laid my former Boy Scout leader Arne Erickson to rest, I was thirty miles away from the Piedmont neighborhood in Duluth where I grew up and where Arne volunteered his time in scouting and raised his three kids. I had a calendar in the Lake County Courthouse in Two Harbors involving dozens of complicated criminal and juvenile delinquency matters, all of which are assigned to me. Most times, when there’s a funeral or other emergency that pops up during the work week, I can get a brother or sister judge to cover a calendar. But not on Tuesday. Because the cases were individually assigned, it meant I had to be there, which meant I missed Arne’s final send off.
But this blog isn’t about Arne Erickson per se. It’s about a topic I’ve danced around the edges in blogs, speeches, and casual conversation over the later portions of my life. This essay is about mentors: folks that make a difference in the lives of children by living and acting in exemplar fashion. Arne Erickson was one of my mentors. There have been many others, some of which I’ve spoken of before, some of which I have never mentioned in public. I take this public billboard to remember Arne and the other adults over the course of my growing up who made a difference, who helped form the fiber of my being. I’ll forget mentioning some folks but not by intention: I am simply an old man with an old memory.
Mentors come in all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, genders, ages, religions, and political leanings. Often times, children know very little about the person providing them with instruction and guidance. We only know that someone is spending time away from their own home, their own family, trying to help raise us. Hillary Clinton’s phrase “It takes a village to raise a child” applies in spades to adults who coach, teach, supervise Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, lead confirmation and Sunday school, and the like. I experienced great role models, for that is essentially what a good mentor is, in all those facets of my young life.
My parents of course, were my first and most thoroughly engaged mentors. My mom undertook reading to me at a very young age, instilled a sense of responsibility and order in me by assigning chores, and made sure I was grounded in faith by teaching Sunday school and leading the youth group of our tiny Episcopal congregation. When I was twelve and on the verge of puberty, Mom also made sure that our church participated in a Christian-based sex education class (which included Arne Erickson’s Baptist future son-in-law in the mix). My dad took me fishing and hunting, taught me about politics and law, and, at least until he realized I stunk as an athlete, coached me in Little League. My mom’s cousin Lizette took over the church youth group when I was in high school. Despite the small number of teens in our congregation, she spent considerable time and energy making each monthly gathering, whether at a cabin on a distant lake for a weekend retreat or in the basement of the church, a spiritually fulfilling event. My mom’s sister, Susanne, put in her time with me as well, encouraging my fascination with the written word (turns out, she’s a writer too!) when I would stay with her during the summer at her home in tiny Benson, Minnesota. Susanne’s second husband, Paul, a former WWII aviator, a dead ringer for Clark Gable, and a staunch Republican, provided a counterpoint to my father’s Liberal view of the world. I sat in awe many nights at Paul and Susanne’s rambling house in Benson or at their tiny lakeside cabin listening to Dad and Paul go hammer and tongs about politics. My uncle Willard of course, both as a family member and as my boss when I worked for him at his West Duluth motel, gave me not only additional political mentoring; he was a man so handy with tools, his example filled a void in my practical education because Dad has no interest, and utterly no talent, when it comes to home maintenance or repair. Then there were my grandparents, all of whom, however briefly, I was blessed to know and learn from. Some of those lessons, like Grandma Munger’s loitering around the restaurant of the Willard Motel (she lived in an apartment next to the office) when I was a senior at Denfeld High School and my girlfriend at the time, a cute, smart kid named Karen, was hanging around while I watched the motel at night, were a bit over-the-top. But now I understand Grandma’s insistence in playing cards with us until, as the clock neared ten, Karen decided it was time to go. Grandma just wanted to make sure her grandson knew she was watching and that she knew what two teenagers were thinking.
Teachers and coaches. From Miss Ness, my kindergarten teacher at Piedmont Elementary who made the wise decision to put me and three of my hooligan cohorts in separate corners of her classroom nearly every day, to Marv Heikkenen, my high school football coach and one of my favorite teachers at Denfeld, who recognized in my scrawny determination something of value that he called to the attention of my teammates, to Dave Griffin and Jean Endrizzi and Miss Cohen and Judy Infelise and Gary Ames and Mr. Childs and Miss Hollingsworth and Mr. Merry and Mr. Nyquist, all of whom spent considerable time redirecting my enthusiasm to more productive pursuits; they all were instrumental in the formation of my character, as imperfect and flawed as it may be. There are many more I could name but one person in particular came to mind as I thought about Arne Erickson who has now joined my other departed Scoutmaster and mentor, Ed Salveson, in that great campground in the sky.
His name was Coach Nelson. That’s it. No first name. Honest. I even checked my Lincoln Junior High yearbooks to find his first name. It’s not listed. The caption under a group photo of teachers simply reads “Mr. Nelson”. Why am I mentioning a guy whose first name I don’t even know as an important impact on my growing up, especially when I’ve left out many, many fine folks, relatives and teachers and adult friends and religious leaders who had a hand in my formation? Here’s why.
1970 Lincoln Vikings 9th Grade Basketball Team
See the guy in the glasses and white shirt? No, that’s not me. That’s Roger Wedin, team manager. I’m the little guy to his right, the shortest guy in the photograph. If I was five feet tall the day this picture was taken, well, I must have been standing on a brick! Anyway, back to mentoring. I started playing ball in fourth grade because Eddie, that would be Ed Salveson’s son Dave, my best friend, wanted to play. We weren’t very good. Eddie couldn’t dribble but he could shoot. I couldn’t shoot but, with my head down and the ball in my hand, I could dribble like a whirling dervish. Not productively, you understand. Mostly in circles. Whatever. Anyway, we played together through Piedmont Elementary and into Lincoln Junior High. I’m not sure why Eddie’s missing from the 9th grade team photo. Maybe he was sick the day the picture was taken. Or maybe he didn’t play that year. I’ll ask him about that the next time we’re together. But here’s the point of the photograph: By the time 9th grade rolled around, and basketball tryouts were taking place, my meager abilities on the court hadn’t progressed, hadn’t kept pace with my contemporaries. When the dreaded day for posting the team roster came and I walked into the locker room, found the listing, and saw I had been cut, I cried a river. Don’t know why. I knew then, as I know now that I wasn’t a ballplayer. But being cut still hurt. Damn it, it hurt. I managed to wipe away the tears, pull my gear out of my locker, and take the bus home to Piedmont without a major melt down in front of my classmates. My basketball days were over. It was time to move on.
But then an idea came to me.
Despite his Marine drill sergeant hair cut, deep voice, and scary demeanor, Coach Nelson is really a pretty fair guy. Maybe if I asked to simply practice with the team, he’ll let me.
I have no idea where the courage to knock on Coach’s office door came from but the very next day, I did just that. I stated my case. Coach Nelson, who had been a drill instructor in the Corps and maintained all the skills of intimidation that such a position requires, looked me up one side and down the other.
“Alright. You can practice. But you’re not on the roster and you don’t get a uniform.”
From the photograph it’s pretty obvious something changed. I showed up so determined to work my ass off, so dedicated to making an impression, that eventually Coach Nelson said “What the hell. You’re on the team. Here’s a uniform.” In fact, he actually put me in a crucial game against Stowe where I ended up guarding the team’s star, George Knezovich. In a packed Lincoln gymnasium, George knocked me down when I grabbed a rebound and tried for a layup. What the hell a four-foot-something guard was doing in the offensive paint, I have no idea. But somehow I got the ball and lobbed it towards the hoop just as George whalloped me. I got two free throws in front of the hysterical crowd. They all knew my story and were yelling my name, cheering me on. I missed both shots. But that’s not the point of this tale. Coach Nelson had no reason to let me practice with the team, less reason to put me on the roster, and absolutely no business having me guard the other team’s star. And yet, in a show of compassion to a scared little boy, Coach Nelson taught me the meaning of being a mentor.
It’s a lesson Arne and all the rest of his kind reinforced. And it’s a lesson and an example that I try to emulate every time I’m called upon to lend a hand on the playing field, in church, at home, or in Scouts.
Peace.
Mark
(That’s Coach, second from the left, second row.)
