Core of Conviction : My Story (9781101563571) (5 page)

It's a shame now, especially for children, that in the 1960s we started to lose those protective frameworks for families. It's vital that children be allowed to grow up in an environment of innocence, protected from inappropriate adult situations. How foolish it is to hurry children into premature crisis by exposing them to mature themes. Kids need to master the basics as they grow up; they need book learning, plus, of course, strong values. If kids are prematurely pushed into adulthood, oftentimes adult problems will ensue.

So some things should just wait—or never be seen at all.

For example, I went to kindergarten at Hawthorne Elementary School on Franklin Street, just a few blocks from my house. The neighborhood was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks, but back then, nobody worried for my physical safety. I walked to and from school, and the worst I'd see was beat-down old houses and beat-down old cars and rowdy taverns.

Today, it would be different. A neighborhood on the wrong side of the tracks nowadays isn't just physically beaten down; it's morally beaten down. Kids can handle scarcity, but they can't handle depravity. If our failed institutions produce young people, and then adults, who lack values and a moral compass, no neighborhood will ever be safe. And if those same failed institutions are also revolving doors of recidivism, then inevitably some neighborhoods will become war zones. No American child ought to live like that.

When I was in kindergarten, my parents moved out to the suburbs, to Cedar Falls. It was a three-bedroom rambler, as they called it, but you couldn't ramble very far, because it was no more than eight hundred square feet for the six of us. Still, compared with the old house, it felt like a palace.

My dad worked, and my mom took care of us at home full time. We walked to school, came home for lunch, then walked back to school, then came back home at three thirty. Or back
toward
home, I should say, because mostly we played outside after school.

I always liked school. I loved learning about words and numbers and holidays and music. Once, in third grade, the teacher asked us who didn't know how to tell time. I was the only kid who raised my hand. My teacher sent a note home to my mother, who had just assumed that I knew. But the teacher was nice; she gave me a clock to study, and soon I mastered it. I will always be grateful to her for that extra bit of kindness.

I learned of larger events too, along with my fellow students. All of us in the postwar generation—packed, as we were, thirty-five or more to a classroom—shared experiences, especially those brought to us by television. I happily remember, for example, sitting in the school gymnasium, watching the NASA Gemini program, as the rockets launched and the astronauts spacewalked—all on a single little black-and-white TV.

One day in school, I looked up from my second-grade schoolwork to see that my teacher, Mrs. Whitmeyer, had stepped out of the classroom and into the hall, speaking in serious but hushed tones with another teacher. I could tell immediately that something important was happening. Probably something bad, because both women were crying. Without saying a word, Mrs. Whitmeyer walked back into the classroom and wrote on the blackboard: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” Then she turned to face the class, tears in her eyes, and said, “Children, the president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, has been killed.”

Mrs. Whitmeyer continued, “Now I want you each to pull out a piece of paper and write down these words and remember them, in honor of our late president.” Then she dismissed us, and we went home for days of national grief and mourning. That was November 22, 1963. The news made us little six- and seven-year-olds sad—and sadder when we came home and saw that our parents too were crying. Indeed, the whole world was shocked and stunned by the terrible loss of the dashing young leader.

And yet the powerful images of ceremony, duty, and grace stay with me, even now. The riderless horse. The little boy, John-John, raising his tiny hand to salute his father as the funeral caisson passed by. And Jackie Kennedy, regal in her gauzy black, demonstrating dignity and essential decency as she led her children, and the nation, through the proper rituals of honor and respect for her late husband.

Overall, my Iowa childhood was happy. As I grew older, I read more and more, the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mysteries being favorites; even then, in my own adolescent way, I loved piecing together forensic and legal puzzles. That was my idea of an extracurricular activity in grade school—to be curled up with a book. Yet most of the time, I was playing with my brothers or the neighbor kids. For fun we might play tag or hide-and-seek or run through the sprinkler. Eventually, I even figured out how to ride a bike; I've never been much of an athlete.

On a rare occasion, we would see a movie. Our parents took us to see two Disney movies,
Flubber
and
Son of Flubber.
That was a big deal, such a big deal that Mom sewed new outfits for me to wear. Just so we could go to a movie! Once a year we would go to the Cattle Congress, a combination amusement park and state fair at Waterloo.

My parents bought a 1959 Edsel station wagon; I remember it as two-toned white and lime green, with a powerful V-8 engine. To a little girl all that machinery was impressive, powerful, and shiny. My brothers were proud of our big, fast station wagon; from the backseat, we would beg Dad to drive it faster.

When I was in sixth grade, Dad took us on vacation and drove us up to Rainy Lake, Canada, for two weeks of fishing. He loved the sport, and from him I too learned to love fishing.

Our family of six piled into our new car, a tiny little Volkswagen Beetle, packed with all our luggage, gear, food, and even a boat motor. My older brother David and I, plus heaps of stuff, squeezed into the backseat. And my two little brothers, Gary and Paul, wedged even more tightly into the tiny cubby slot behind us; that slot was better suited for maps than for children, but it was all the room that we had. From Iowa all the way to Canada! On that trip we were an exceptionally close family, and not by the kids' choice!

Sometime during the sixties, I heard that wonderful Beatles love song, “Michelle.” But it always confused me that the song title was spelled “M-i-c-h-e-l-l-e,” with that double
L
. Why the two letters? Both ways of spelling are accepted, of course, but when I was little my mother teased me, saying that my father had given me my name and had not known how to spell it!

I was one of the seventy-six million or so baby boomers, the generation born between 1946 and 1964, when classes were big, cars had high tail fins, and national hopes were even higher. Thanks to the ingenuity and sacrifices of our parents, we boomers grew accustomed to a better life—yet a life all too often defined, unfortunately, as simply having more things. In fact, some of my generation felt increasingly entitled to more things, and then
demanded
more things.

Of course, there was much that was wrong with America in the sixties, but there was more that was wrong with the world. America could always be better, but the United States has always been a force for good. Yet by the end of the sixties, the American framework that had nurtured me had been shattered, ripped apart by the Vietnam war and its protesters, several tragic assassinations, racial concerns, crime and strife in the big cities, and, strangely, sometimes-violent protests staged by some of our most privileged young people. I can remember puzzling over some of those protests at universities. How did they think it would help to throw insults and rocks at the police?

When I think about America, I think about making it better. And I think of Melchior and Martha Monsson, who led their family to a new promise in a new land. Or of Halvor Munson, who volunteered to fight in what is still the bloodiest war in our history. Or the Sullivan brothers. Or my grandparents, who worked hard all their lives, gave a lot more than they received, and yet never complained.

I don't mean to sugarcoat this history. None of these folks were perfect; they had foibles and flaws. But if it's adversity that reveals character, then they all look pretty good. They never gave up, and the proof of their work remains with us to this day. My grandparents—Oscar and Laura, Jesse and Anna—are all buried in Iowa. My roots are with them. There could be no other way. Wherever I go, my Iowa childhood will always be a secure grounding for me.

And the same is true for my three brothers: David has had a great career in corporate finance; Gary is currently a television meteorologist for KCTV5 in Kansas City, Kansas; and Paul, having earned his MD, is now a forensic psychiatrist in Connecticut.

But please don't mistake my happy memories of growing up in Waterloo for a pining for the past. I know it's impossible to turn the clock back. Always mindful and respectful of the past, I want to move forward, maintaining trusted principles while reaching out for new possibilities.

The official state motto of Iowa is “Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain.” Those words are always worth hearing, and yes, the principles they embody are worth fighting for. But a newer slogan for the Hawkeye State is worth hearing too: “A state of minds.” Those words are a tribute not only to such great Iowa scientists and inventors as Norman Borlaug and Lee De Forest but also to such wonderful artists as Grant Wood and Glenn Miller. Those great Hawkeyes and their achievements are an inspiration to the next generation of Hawkeye achievers. The meatpacking jobs may never come back to Waterloo, but there's something new and even better in my hometown's future. I am sure of it—if we continue to encourage innovation and transformation.

We can do it. It just won't be easy, that's all. The American Dream is not a sure thing; it is a well-founded hope. Yet I believe that if we are mindful of all the hard work and sacrifice of our ancestors, if we keep faith with the hopes of those who came before us, then with God's grace we will see an even greater America in the twenty-first century.

So as we take the bumpy ride into the future, we might seek comfort in these words from the Epistle of James: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James concludes with a note of hope: “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”

Yes, wisdom will be given to us. And from there we must add our own perseverance. Because as a great president once said, “Here on earth, God's work must truly be our own.”

CHAPTER THREE

Minnesota to Israel to Winona

ONE day when I was twelve, as I was playing in the basement of our home in Cedar Falls, Mom came down and said we were moving to Minnesota. Dad had gotten a good new job in Minneapolis.

From a logical point of view, this was good news for the Amble family—it meant more responsibility, more money. My father was, after all, smart and talented; the first in his family to attend and graduate from college, he had worked his way through school, and now, having earned his engineering degree, he was ready to move ahead. A white-collar job at Honeywell, a big multinational company. A bigger piece of the American Dream.

But all that logic was lost on me and my adolescent mind. My thoughts raced:
We aren't really leaving, are we? I don't want to leave Iowa. I love living in Iowa. Iowa is home—everything I know. It's family, friends, church. A happy place. A wonderful place. I never want to be anywhere else. And when I die, I want to be buried in the Garden of Memories Cemetery, alongside my grandparents. We can't go to some faraway land with no relatives nearby.

Of course, Minneapolis is just a little more than two hundred miles from Waterloo—but to a twelve-year-old mind that seemed an unfathomable distance.

I started crying. Then I gave what I thought was a good argument: “But I've never even been to Des Moines! Our state capital!” Yet my reasoning fell flat and we moved.

That was 1968. For the nation as a whole, it was a grim year of war, assassinations, and riots. America was being torn apart. And my world too would soon be torn apart.

Minnesota, of course, is a wonderful place to live. Yet after this drastic change for the family, it took a little time for the Gopher State to feel like home. For one thing, it was colder. Now, over the years, I have come to love the outdoor winter sports of Minnesota, including cross-country skiing, ice-skating, and, of course, hockey. It just took some getting used to, that's all.

We moved into a four-bedroom, split-level house on an acre of land nestled in the pleasant Minneapolis suburb of Brooklyn Park. In terms of material possessions, we had a far better life. Our VW Beetle, for example, was soon joined by another car, a Ford LTD. I thought we were the richest people in the world.

At first the other kids in sixth grade teased me for being different. They thought I said “thank you” and “please” too often. They were good kids, but they asked, “Why are you so polite?” Well, maybe I was always polite, although I like to think that good manners are something that most parents teach their kids. Being polite at all times was one habit that our mother insisted we never break. And certainly a nation of polite people is preferable to a coarsened culture.

I was a good student—I got mostly
A
s. How did I do it? I worked hard and read a lot—it remains my favorite pastime. I like to say that I learn with my wrist. That is, I write everything down, and as I write things down, the words and ideas become imprinted in my mind.

We settled in, and we even bought a brand-new exotic machine called a snowmobile. It was gold and black and gorgeous. Our dad pulled our toboggan behind the machine as we went racing through the snowy woods and over the frozen lakes; we kids thought we had really moved up into an exciting new world of technological luxuries. So while I still missed Waterloo, I began building up a store of fond memories from my new life in Minnesota.

But then, in 1970, everything in our happy little home changed. Our parents made a decision to end their marriage of nineteen years. We knew no one in our family who had divorced. Security was gone. Stability was gone. And our dad was gone. I will always honor both my father and my mother, but the fact remained that our family was irretrievably broken. Dad moved out, and we didn't see him again for six years. It's one of the oldest stories ever told, and it's been played and replayed many times, but it still hurts. Dad moved to California, and just five days after the divorce from Mom was finalized, he married another woman. Now I had two new stepbrothers, but six years would pass before I got to meet them.

And so I resolved that I wanted, more than anything else in life, to have, someday, an intact and happy family. I told myself that I would marry a man who would be committed to me and to our family—and we'd have lots of kids! And we would stay together, happily ever after. And so in my teenage mind, I resolved to turn something bad into something good. Four decades later, that determination—which I now share with my husband and children—still burns inside me.

When Dad left, the economic impact on the rest of us was immediate. Overnight, we literally fell below the poverty level. For nearly two decades, Mom had been a full-time homemaker, taking care of us kids; now, all of a sudden, she had to go out and find a job. Sadly, she had few marketable skills. She hadn't stayed long enough at Luther College to get her BA, because when she married, she had followed Dad out to Colorado when he was in the Air Force. She had only a one-year teaching certificate, and that wasn't worth anything in the Minnesota job market.

But she was willing to work, and work hard. We qualified for welfare, but Mom wouldn't think of it. She did not consider herself a political conservative; she just didn't see us as poor enough to take government help. She knew she could get a job. And so even if we were barely getting by, she was sure she wasn't going to rely on the government to provide for us.

So Mom got a sales job at a department store, then found better work as a bank teller—for $4,800 a year. She did her absolute best for us, but it was still an uphill struggle. Soon, it was obvious that we couldn't afford to stay in our home in Brooklyn Park, and we had to move out. In the small apartment we were moving into, in the farther-out city of Anoka, there wasn't much room, and because we desperately needed money, Mom held a garage sale. I remember gazing at many of our nicest belongings—my mother's wedding gifts, all the china—just sitting there on a card table in front of the house we were leaving. People would pass by, looking for bargains, and then snap up something for fifteen cents, or maybe a quarter or a dollar. I remember thinking to myself,
That's our whole life going away.
All these years later, I am a relentless bargain hunter at yard sales, but even so, when I see something that was obviously someone's treasured heirloom, I feel a twinge in my heart.

My parents' divorce in 1970 was a mile marker in our lives; nothing was the same after that. Our relationships with our extended family changed, and our support structures were altered. Millions of families go through this trauma with disappointed, disillusioned spouses and children who are deprived of the daily support and presence of both parents. Some divorced parents, to be sure, manage their duty to their children with a sense of sacrifice and service—and some don't. Either way, it's nearly impossible for the kids to come away from the experience without a sense of loss. But Mom had the blood of all those sturdy forebears running through her; she came from strong stock. And thanks to her, and the child-support checks from our dad, we all survived—and ultimately thrived.

As the oldest child still living at home, I helped care for my two younger brothers, Gary and Paul. So to inspire them to do their share of the chores—or maybe sometimes more than their share—I developed a point system, scoring various activities, such as doing the dishes or picking the weeds in our itty-bitty garden. Earning points, I assured my little brothers, was a good thing. And what did they get for piling up points? Well, that was a tricky question—because in truth, I didn't have anything to offer them, except . . . more points! And, of course, compliments, smiles, and hugs. They thrived on sisterly praise. You don't always have to have material things in life.

My mother's mother, Laura—the petite widow who had carried huge trays of bacon around the Rath meatpacking plant in Waterloo till late in her life—would come to visit, bringing canned food and hams in the trunk of her car. I can remember seeing her beige Ford Fairlane, bearing those black-on-white Iowa license plates, and thinking of happier times back in Waterloo. My grandmother had been widowed with seven children before her fiftieth birthday. She was poor before her husband's death, and after, of course, it was even harder on Mom and her six siblings. Grandmother was resilient, that's for sure. She was one of the hardest working people I have ever met, she saved her pennies, and yet at the same time, she was generous and kind. Pure love. She was always a lady, but she was always strong. Indeed, she was both ladylike and strong at the same time: When she was eighty-three, she changed the snow tires on her car in her garage while wearing one of her favorite Shelton Stroller dresses. She was ever a lady!

Meanwhile, I was working. I started babysitting; the going rate back then was fifty cents an hour. I took every babysitting job I could get, because by ninth grade, I was growing conscious of my appearance. In those days, girls had to wear dresses to public school, and if I wanted pretty dresses, I had to buy them, because Mom couldn't afford them for me; she couldn't afford lunch money. I remember during my parents' divorce I asked Mom for ten cents for some activity at school. Her face was pained; she didn't have it in her purse. So she looked through her dresser drawer and eventually found a dime, which she gave to me. After that experience, seeing the look of pain and loss on her face, I vowed to never ask her for money—or much of anything else—again. If she had had it, I knew, she would have given it to me, but clearly our lives were reduced to about as low as we could go.

I quickly realized that expenses were piling up faster than my earning power, so I taught myself how to sew. I went to summer sidewalk sales at the local fabric store, picked up a pattern and small swatches of marked-down fabric, and then figured out how to vary the pattern so that I could make two dresses for the coming school year. But I wanted to do better. I had always been a hardworking student, but after the divorce my mother had told me, “Your education is one thing that can never be taken away from you.” Those words inspired me to work harder than ever. As they say, adversity can either break you or make you—and I was determined to make it.

After all, I was now in high school, and I could see a path to my future life and career. In fact, I was fortunate enough to be at Anoka High. Go, Tornadoes! Anoka is the alma mater of Garrison Keillor, of
Prairie Home Companion
fame. His politics are very different from mine, but I love his gentle, knowing humor. Keillor understands Minnesota, from Lutherans to lutefisk, and his ability to squeeze laughs out of serious-minded midwesterners makes him a legend. The way he writes, it's as though he was present at our grandmother's Sunday table. Clearly, looking at his skill, he received a good education at Anoka—I know I did.

Anoka High offered a wealth of academic, vocational, and extracurricular activities. I joined everything. I was in seemingly every club and every group, and I had at least a small part in every play. I knew I might not be the star, but I could always learn something and contribute something.

But I soon settled on a big goal: the cheerleading squad. I have never been athletic or well coordinated, and yet I knew I wanted to be a cheerleader more than anything. So I practiced, practiced and practiced. I was a disaster at first, and I rehearsed my cheerleading routines in our living room with the shades down in order to avoid humiliation in case anyone saw me, even though our apartment was on the second floor! My brothers poked fun at me as I crashed around on the carpet, but I kept at it until I mastered the Anoka Tornadoes fight song:

 

Fight, fight, Anoka, fight;

Go, go, Tornadoes!

Win, win, maroon and white

We're with you tonight, Tornadoes!

Fight, fight to victory,

Team, team, it's your game.

Score, score, score and then

Score some more

Tornado men!

Astonishingly I made the cheerleading squad! I even made the varsity cheerleading squad. And to top it all, I was football cheerleader. A girl who tripped, who couldn't run, who couldn't play normal sports without embarrassing herself—I had made the squad.

Fortunately, I could lead the Anoka cheers without really being able to see beyond the girl next to me—or the girl standing on my shoulders to make the Anoka
A
. I had always had poor eyesight. I couldn't read anything without my glasses; indeed, I can barely see my hand in front of my face—I need my glasses. For cheerleading, I could take my glasses off, but the rest of the time I was a hopeless four-eyes. And as I got older, my glasses had to be thicker and clunkier. Not good.

So what to do? I knew that I needed to see, but just like every other teenage girl, I wanted to look my best. The answer? Get contact lenses. But such vanity was not in our budget, and because we as a family couldn't borrow or print money—as the U.S. government could always do—I had to be both thrifty and strategic.

So I worked even harder to save up money. Happily, I loved babysitting; I loved being around children, watching the way they learn and grow up. So babysitting was a wonderful way for me both to make money and to prepare for a family of my own. I had a little jar on my dresser for keeping the coins and dollar bills that I had earned. Once a week, I sent my earnings to the bank with my mother, where she made a deposit. It was exciting to watch my bank balance increase, week after week, month after month, year after year. After three years, I had saved up three hundred dollars, and now I could pay for my contact lenses.

So I made an appointment to see the eye doctor, and he measured me for contact lenses. I was so excited! Another step on the path to adulthood.

But back in those days, in the early seventies, contact lenses were hard, not soft, as they are now. People don't know what that's like anymore, but back in the days of hard lenses, putting in a lens felt like putting a sandbur into your eye. And so for two weeks, it was just sheer pain, until my corneas built up calluses. I remember weeping and weeping for those two weeks, because it was so painful to have the lenses in my eyes. But I had worked for three years to get them, and I wasn't going to give up.