The missing year - 1964

That was the year my Grandpa Halvorsen died. In April. I was with him. 

I had been home by myself, my parents were at the country club, I don't remember where my sister was, probably with friends. The phone rang, it was grandma, she was in a panic, crying, terrified. Grandpa had fallen and was not getting up, could I come. They lived about half a mile away, I could have run or ridden my bike but instead I jumped in my mom's 1956 Chrysler New Yorker and drove to their house. Only five minutes. My grandfather was laying on the bathroom floor, twitching violently. I went to touch him, to do something, I'm not sure what. My grandmother screamed to not touch him. All I could do was watch him shake. In 1964 in Huron, SD, there was no 911. When you called for an ambulance you were actually waiting for a doctor. Thirty minutes later the ambulance came, about the same time my parents arrived. I'd called them before I left home. By then, my grandfather had stopped shaking. Stopped breathing. Stopped living. I was closer to him than I was to my own father; I remember the next day watching the world continue...didn't anyone know he'd died?

That summer my family went to California to visit my Uncle Bob and Aunt Edith and their three kids. The drive was a long one, about 1,700 miles. My dad drove a Chrysler Imperial, sort of a land yacht, long and smooth riding. The first day we made it to Denver, Colorado. I was following on Mobil Road maps and was happy about the progress, three states (SD, Nebraska, and Colorado) in one day. So much for progress, my dad looked at the maps and saw what he thought was a short cut, the route through Ouray looked more direct and much shorter than taking the main roads south to Santa Fe. Interstates were few and far between in those days and there none where we were going. The next day we got up early, our destination was Santa Fe, New Mexico. The roads were narrow and winding and without guardrails. My mother was terrified and made me sit in the front. I was not so happy either. The drop offs were thousands of feet without shoulders or rails, very scary. Our progress was maybe 30 miles per hour at best, probably less. At the end of a ten hour day we arrived in Ouray, elevation 7,792 feet. Back then Ouray was a quiet little town with quaint log cabin motels and lodging. It was beautiful. The next morning deer were grazing in the motel yard. We started out with great hope but the roads were the same, winding, steep, scary but now all downhill, very hard on the brakes. We made it to Durango and stayed the night. What a change, three days in one state.

I hadn't really been out of South Dakota, these lands were all new to me. I'd read books, watched TV, and seen movies about these places, none of it real. My experience with the west was, well, westerns. Driving through New Mexico and Arizona was hot...hot...hot. The high point was stopping at the Grand Canyon which was absolutely stunning, spectacular. But God, was it hot. I noticed that many people had canvas water bags hanging down from their hood ornaments covering part of their grills. I was told by someone at a gas station that was to cool the air going into the engine compartment and just in case you broke down you could put the water in the radiator because most people got stranded from an overheated engine. I became obsessed, we had to have one. My dad said, "No." Every time we'd stop for gas or food, I'd point out all the cars that had them and every time I brought it up, he'd just shake his head. 

But then all of a sudden I was seeing signs about the Death Valley Desert! Along the roads we were seeing warning signs to ensure we had enough gas and water to make it from Blythe to the other side of the desert. We stopped in Blythe for gas and my dad finally relented. We had a canvas bag with water strapped to the front of our car. At last.

We spent 2 weeks in San Diego with my aunt and uncle and three cousins. We all had fun, saw the San Diego zoo, the San Diego beaches, the harbor, the harbor walk, it was a great time. To my parents dismay I had bleached my hair just before the trip because I wanted to be like the Beach Boys I saw on record covers and in surfer movies. My cousin Bruce introduced me to the latest California rage, the skateboard, something that hadn't yet gotten out of California. I bought one and learned to skateboard. When I returned to Huron, I was an oddity...surfing in the street with bleach blond hair. Oh my.