New Life

memoir and essay
by Greg Larson

The odd-shaped pieces of oak caught my attention as I peered over the edge of the dumpster.  Many of the pieces were curved, with the color and finish of antique furniture.  My curiosity was aroused, so I found an opening into the odorous bin and carefully stepped through the maze of trash to inspect the discovery.  Someone had discarded the parts of an old wooden chair with a curved back, vertical stiles and serpentine arms. The scooped wood seat and legs were intact.  One of the arms was broken and a portion of it was missing. It was the type of chair used in old courtrooms or police stations.  Its life as a piece of furniture had come to an end . . . or so it seemed.

Questions rolled around in my head.  When was the chair built, and where? Who used it, and in what setting?  I don’t know why, but something compelled me to resurrect it.

At that time, in my early adulthood, I had minimal woodworking skills, but I thought what the heck, I might learn something.  It was my hope that I could put the pieces of the wooden puzzle back together, and repair or replace the broken parts to make it whole and functional again.  

The process was slow.  I started by removing the layers of dirt and grime from each piece.  Then I stripped the finish and sanded all of the surfaces.  I could smell the distinctive odor of the oak as the sawdust filled my nostrils.  I sensed the chair coming back to life again. 

The most difficult task was replacing a portion of the curved arm that was missing at the connection to the back. The grain and finish of the new piece didn’t match the old chair, and the repair was crude by professional standards. But I was excited to have a chair - one with character.

Over the years, I’ve found old pieces of utilitarian furniture to save, or discovered ways to build something from discarded pieces of wood.   Our house has an eclectic mix of furniture.  It’s the variety that makes life interesting. 

As I’ve collected and repaired things, I’ve come to understand the American culture of marketing and consumerism doesn’t resonate with the patient and methodical re-use of discarded items.  We receive a daily drubbing of advertisements that advocate using things and throwing them away.  We’re supposed to be in a hurry.  The implication is that time is money, so it’s okay to buy new stuff.  The infomercials tell us so.

With the downturn in the economy, the public attitude has shifted, and that’s a good thing.  People are finding ways to repair their cars, and re-use furniture and other accoutrements found about the home.  I hope we continue to value those items that still have life left in them.

Sadly, there are people in our society who end up like the discarded pieces of furniture - used up, worn out, and left behind.  But these people are not inanimate objects. They have lives with feelings and emotions.

In my volunteer work at the Learning Center at City Union Mission, I assist men who are re-educating themselves to become productive members of society.   Many of them came from fatherless homes, or at best, dysfunctional homes.  Most of these men were addicted to drugs or alcohol, and they have low self-esteem and a limited education.  Although they want to change, they don’t know how to go about it.  They have a distrust of authority figures, and their spiritual life is almost non-existent.

Over several months, The Christian Life Program at City Union Mission helps the men rebuild their lives one piece at a time, from the inside out.  The professionals at the Mission provide them with counseling, medical attention, customized learning plans and spiritual guidance.  The men are put on a path to graduate from the program, get a job and a find a place to live.

My part as a volunteer is small, but I look forward to seeing the men each week.  I show them how to work on the computer, answer their math and English questions, and help them with their writing skills. I also like to memorize their names and faces as quickly as possible so that I can look them in the eye and greet them by name.  Showing that I care helps build their self-esteem.

I’ve seen men come into the program with hardened hearts, bad attitudes, and bruised emotions covered by their physical veneers – to the point that I thought there was no hope of rebuilding their lives.  But over time, the City Union Mission staff goes about helping the men turn things around.  I also know God is working within each man.  Over the weeks, their hearts appear to soften, and a calm and peaceful facet of their demeanor begins to appear.  Eventually, some come to greet me with a smile and they thank me for being there.  I see their true happiness as they graduate and tell me they’ve found a job and will be moving out.

My role as a volunteer has helped me see people as people, not just as figures on the street.  This last Christmas season, one of the men took the responsibility to find a Christmas card and walk it around to the other men in the class to sign. I remembered him as one of the toughest men with a bad attitude when he came into the program several months ago.  At the end of the class, he handed me the card and wished me a Merry Christmas.  Then he thanked me for coming each week. 

I know his best days are ahead.  Instead of being discarded by our society, he has a new life.

Simple Things

Simple Things

essay

By Greg Larson

     The clothes dryer had been dismantled by the repairman, and parts were strewn about the basement washroom.

     While he efficiently replaced the broken belt and pulley, I commented, “Looks pretty complicated to me.”

     “Actually, you have one of the simple older models,” he replied.  “The new models have a lot of electronics, and they are much more complicated.  They cost more, too.  But the crazy thing is people are buying them like hotcakes.  Go figure.”

     Whatever happened to the simple way of doing things?  Electric dryers didn’t exist for centuries.  You know, the sun does a pretty good job of drying clothes.  I guess I could stretch out some wire in the back yard, as long as the neighbors don’t complain.

     Simple tools, simple solutions, simple designs . . . I like things with few moving parts, especially those tools or appliances that don’t have a motor.  Clearly, there are motorized gadgets and electronic inventions, computers included, which help us complete our tasks more quickly and efficiently.  I’m all for that.  But sometimes we become slaves to their operation and maintenance.

     I’m sure you can think of those simple things to which you’ve become attached: an apple slicer handed down through generations, or a saw or chisel which fits like a glove when you grasp it.  I get a Zen-like feeling when I’m using a simple hand tool in the kitchen, the yard or the quiet of the workshop.  While working on a task, a functional and emotional bond develops between me and the tool.  We become one.  Maybe it’s the cave-man genetics taking control.

I wonder if the patent is still pending.

     Since man began using his brainpower, there have been those inventors out there in the far corners of civilization who experienced revelations of utter simplicity; solutions that were far from being complex. There is a functional aesthetic to these conveniences.  The inherent beauty shines through because there are no frills, no wasted parts.   Someone was confronted with a problem to be solved – such as hiking in snow – and a solution of necessity was created:  wood and leather foundations strapped to the feet.

A functional aesthetic

     Another simple device is the wire candle-holder.  The curved and spiral shape is pleasing to look at, and the wooden plug and pin at the base of the candle allow the user to raise the candle as it burns shorter.  This function keeps the flame at its high point.  Another version of this candle holder was used by the gold miners.  It had a horizontal spike at its base for anchoring into the walls of the mine tunnels. Of course, now we use electricity for light bulbs of every size and shape imaginable . . . another complex subject with political overtones that I’ll not tackle here.

     One of my favorite tools is the patented Stanley saw-blade handle that hangs on my shop wall. It is one of my most valuable tools, and it’s worth its weight in gold.  There’s not much to it.  You won’t see any multi-million dollar marketing campaigns to sell it, because there’s not any profit to be made.  I think it came as a freebie with a more expensive purchase.  But it is one of the best problem-solvers that I have.  I can trim metal, wood, drywall, caulking . . . you name it.  The saw blade fits into very tight locations, and it is possible to use very short blade strokes while sawing.  Try doing that with a power saw. 

Worth its weight in gold.

     I appreciate good design, but I don’t want to try and overthink it.  Then it would be complex instead of simple.  After bonding with the tools, it’s nice to relax and have a beer.  I like the old ales that have bottle caps which require a tool to pry them off.  The twist-off caps are ingenious, but I’ve cut my fingers on them.  The wall-mounted bottle opener leaves nothing to chance.  The bottle opener which I’ve mounted on the wall has instructions on how to use it, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.  That’s the beauty of the design . . . it’s so simple.

It's so simple.

Different Places

Different Places
memoir
by Greg Larson

     We were only a few miles from home, but it seemed like a third-world country.  The signs on the buildings along Central Avenue in Kansas City, Kansas, were in Spanish.  The surviving businesses had bars on the windows.  Boards covered the windows on the businesses that had closed.  Sirens and their echoes were constant, a fact of life in the neighborhood. 

     A friend of mine from church, Rich, invited me to help him on a Hope Builders project.  Their motto is “Helping others live in safety, comfort, and dignity.”  If I had been asked to come up with the motto, I’d have called it, “Handy-man SWAT team for the needy.”  If you are retired and good with tools, it’s a great volunteer opportunity.  Two of the most important things for those living in the inner-city neighborhoods are to have a door that locks, and to have the cracks in the walls insulated.

     This was our second trip to help Rita, an older Hispanic woman.  She lived on a side street, in a narrow two-story white house with clapboard siding and a covered front porch.  The fenced front yard was full of figurines, statues, and pots full of colorful plastic flowers.  Tucked near the porch was an arched shrine to St. Mary with an American flag hooked to the arch and fluttering in the breeze.  Her dog, Pogo, a mutt with unkempt hair, barked and looked at us as if he were saying, “I don’t trust anyone but Rita.” 

     A protective dog is good to have if you live alone in this neighborhood.

     On our first trip a couple of months ago, we replaced a rotted door jamb to the basement storage, and trimmed the edge of the old door so that it would shut and lock.  Today we were going install a new storm door on the back of the house, to replace the one mangled by burglars.

     “I never expected you to come back,” said Rita.  “You are an answer to my prayers.”

     Rich measured the rear door and was off to Home Depot in a flash.  I painted the basement door jamb, and then went to the front porch to wait for his return.  It seemed surreal, sitting in the warm sun on the November day in a place that seemed so far away from my own neighborhood.  The sunshine warmed the houses on the hillside, and I was comfortable sitting on the porch in the wire chair with the flower-print vinyl cushion.

     “Hola!” a neighbor yelled across the fence.  Rita walked over to her and chatted briefly in Spanish. The neighbor handed her some papers, then Rita walked back to the porch steps.

     “I translate their legal papers for them.  It’s the least I can do.  I just tell them I need to read it carefully so that I can explain it correctly.”

     She re-arranged some of the plastic flowers by the shrine and said, “Thank God for such a beautiful day.  Did you celebrate Veteran’s Day last week?  I feel so sorry for the men who have to fight in these wars.  All my brothers and uncles were in the military.  They were so proud to serve our country.”

     I was embarrassed that I hadn’t given it much thought.   I said, “The weather was nice  on Veterans Day, wasn’t it?”

    That was when I realized she had placed the flag at the shrine to celebrate Veteran’s Day.  It was her way of showing appreciation and respect for those who served our country.

     “I really like all the statues and flowers you have in your yard,” I remarked.

     “I don’t throw anything away.  I find the bargains at the garage sales and flea markets, and I store a lot of things in the basement.”

     That was an understatement. I’d seen her basement.  

     “I wash these flowers and change things with the seasons,” she said.  “I like to put out stuff for the children . . . for them to see when they walk by.”  She walked over to the fence and repositioned one of the black cat silhouettes left over from Halloween.  Then she turned and grinned wide enough that I could see the spaces where some of her teeth were missing.

     I don’t think I’ve met a happier person living in such rough conditions.  She has no car.  She barely has enough money for groceries and utilities.  The newspaper is one of her few connections to the outside world.  But she is happy.

     Rich returned and we carried the new storm door to the back of the house.  I tore open the carton and we mulled over the eight pages of instructions.  It took us about two hours to install the door, but we enjoyed the camaraderie and the warm sunshine.  We went about our business, all the while joking about the instructions and what type of sadistic person had written them.

     Finally, the door was in place and it actually worked.  Rich picked up as many tools as he could carry, and went to load them in the van.  I cut the cardboard carton into smaller pieces.

     “Rita, I’d be glad to take the old door and the cardboard to the front yard to make it easier for you to put out the trash,” I offered.

     “Oh, no!  The city will fine me for putting it out before trash day.”

     The front yard was full of yard art.  How would they ever know?

     I worried that she would try to move the door herself.  “Okay,” I said, “Be sure and find somebody to carry that door.  It’s too heavy for you.”

     As we were leaving, she talked to Rich.  “How can I ever thank you.  God bless both of you.  Who can I send a letter to thank them for what you’ve done?”

     Rich patiently wrote out an address and gave it to her while I loaded some tools in the car.

     We said “good-bye,” and as we drove away, I looked back at Rita and Pogo, standing in the front yard.  That’s when it hit me:  We all live in different places, different houses.  We also live in different places in our minds . . . places from the hand we are dealt and places of our own choosing.

     Some people find happiness wherever they may be.  One of them is Rita

Grandma Beck's Ghost of Christmas

Grandma Beck's Ghost of Christmas

memoir

by Greg Larson

        It was the waning hours of Christmas Day in the early ‘90’s.  My brother, Tim, and I were in a state of semi-sleep, on the living room floor listening to the ten o’clock news. We’d had a long day, from the kids getting up early in the morning, from opening packages…too much TV football, too much turkey, ham, and pecan pie.  The day’s activities had worn us out.

     The KAKE-TV news was broadcasting into the living rooms throughout the Wichita viewing area, filling the Christmas news void.  You know the kind of news on Christmas day: feel good stories, Christmas soup kitchens, and regurgitated stories from throughout the year, packaged as “the best of.” It was not your action-packed newsworthy type of day.

     A segment titled “Hatteberg’s People” was on the air.  Larry Hatteberg, KAKE’s star reporter, routinely interviewed people around Kansas.  He had a knack for connecting the viewer with ordinary people and their circumstances, and one could learn some regional and Kansas history as a side benefit.

    We stared at the ceiling and listened to the TV as if it were a radio broadcast.  Mr. Hatteberg was interviewing people, asking them to reminisce about celebrating Christmas during their childhood.

     All of a sudden, the voice of our deceased Grandma Beck filled the room.

     “When I was a small child, my family was poor.  Our usual Christmas presents were some fruits and nuts that my parents gave us.  We had no Christmas tree, so we decorated a chair and put our little presents underneath it.” 

Tim continued to stare at the ceiling.  “TAKE ME, JESUS!”  he declared.  Evidently, he thought the rapture had begun.

     We looked at each other and then looked at the television.  There was Grandma Beck, smiling at us from the nursing home lounge.  Tim and I were speechless.

     Grandma continued, “One Christmas, Santa brought me a little rag doll, and it was my happiest Christmas ever.  I had a little girl to take care of, and it was so special.  I sat close to the stove in our farm house, and hugged and hugged my doll.”

     It seemed like her ghost had come to visit us in the living room.

     The stories were rebroadcasts of tapes from years past.  Grandma’s nursing home was located only three blocks from the KAKE-TV studios.  Our conclusion was that Mr. Hatteberg had found the nursing home as a convenient place to interview people, at a time when our grandmother had been lucid and smiling.

     I like to remember the Christmas present Grandma Beck gave us that year on Christmas Day . . . years after her time on earth.  It brings a smile to my face, and the tears well up in my eyes.

Ecclesiastical Wonder of Wichita

Preface:  As I wrote this essay, I realized it was as much a memoir as it was a document of the mid-twentieth century history of the church.  It is a deeply personal remembrance of a place of huge significance in my life.

I want to give a special thanks to First United Methodist Church and to Polly McMillen, volunteer church archivist, for allowing me to research, scan, and use some of the photos and information from the church archives.

I’ve taken the liberty to condense the name of First United Methodist Church to “First Church,” which is how I’ve always remembered it.

Ecclesiastical Wonder of Wichita
Architectural essay and memoir
by Greg Larson, AIA

Crown begins journey to top of tower

     I was one of the ten-year-old children standing on the sidewalk in downtown Wichita in the summer of 1961.  Our vacation bible school teacher corralled us into a safe spot, across the street from the church, away from traffic and the construction site.  Squinting in the daylight, we all looked upward and watched the construction crane lift the modern, giant crown towards the top of the new church tower.  Before our eyes, an architectural wonder was taking shape to create a new urban sanctuary for First Church. 

Sanctuary and tower under construction 1961
(south edge of old sanctuary is on the left)

                                                                                              

     It was a fertile time of growth for Wichita and our church.  The post-war economy was booming.  Agriculture, oil and gas exploration, and the aircraft industry were all fueling the expansion of the city.  Young professionals and their growing families came to the church to worship, to create lifelong friendships, and to find a place to nurture their baby-boom children. 

     After sitting and squirming in Sunday school as a young boy, I would play with the drinking fountains in the hall and run up and down the stairways with my friends.  Words of our actions would travel through the “mom” network back to our mothers.  After church, while my dad drove us home, I was given a stern lecture on what constituted proper behavior in a church.  Even so, I knew that our church was a special place.  The church school teachers treated me with love, as if I were one of their own.

First Church building completed in 1923

     In the late ’50s, more church-school classrooms were needed, and the neo-gothic style sanctuary, finished in 1923, was too small to fit the growing congregation.  The young, energetic pastor, Dr. Ronald Meredith, and the building committee began to develop plans for the church expansion.  At that time, there was a keen interest in creating a bold, contemporary building for the urban setting.  The church leaders organized a chartered train trip for the congregation to visit the recently completed modern-style St. Luke’s Methodist Church in Oklahoma City.

     To proceed with a contemporary design in the late 1950s was a brave decision, and somewhat controversial.  After the group of church members traveled to Oklahoma City, they decided it was time to embrace the future, and asked the building committee to proceed with a modern design.  Glenn Benedick, an architect and member of the church, began to develop final plans.  Martin K. Eby, a well-known contractor and member of the church agreed to build it.  Mrs. Olive Ann Beech, wife of the deceased aircraft pioneer Walter H. Beech, was a major benefactor.  The new sanctuary with a seating capacity of 1,400 was built to the south of the existing church. Once the new sanctuary was functioning, classrooms and administrative offices were built on the site of the old sanctuary.

   As the church sanctuary neared completion, our Sunday school class was led on a tour by a church member who was knowledgeable about the symbolic elements within the design of the building.  I was just a young boy, but the tour made a huge impression on me, touching both my interest in art and my faith.

Fish and dove ceiling

Abstract window at the nave

     I was struck by the brightness and newness of the space.  The bold colors in the giant window at the nave of the church created an abstract arrangement of lines and chipped glass on a large framework.  Our guide turned our attention to the ceiling above, which was formed in the shape of a fish.  As I looked closer, the fish turned into a dove with wings.  Every direction I turned, there was something unique, from the curved brick walls and modern pews to the gleaming white floors around the altar.  We viewed the pulpit shaped like the prow of a ship, which appeared to float above the congregation.  Above the choir, open circles were arranged on a white curved wall in front of the organ pipes, creating a giant honeycomb appearance.  On the right side of the sanctuary, vertical windows with prismatic colors washed the walls with a pleasant glow.

Abstract stained-glass side windows

     We toured the narthex (lobby area) where light poured through the window wall facing Broadway.  Medallions of jeweled glass were strategically located along the front windows where they created contemporary symbols from nature.  The colorful and playful images of worms, fish, ants, and roosters made me smile.  Our guide told us the images symbolized God’s creation and love of all things.  It was an epiphany for me. As a ten-year-old pipsqueak, I figured there was hope that God loved me, too.

Nature Medallions

"Jewels of the narthex"

     On May 6, 1962, the congregation attended the inaugural church service in the new sanctuary.  The Wichita Eagle newspaper included a full page spread of pictures with an accompanying article to announce the newly constructed building.

     Above the main entrance at Broadway, a 24 feet high by 70 feet wide sculptural mosaic mural was taking shape with swirling symbols for the universe, God and man.  Designed and installed by Bernard “Poco” Frazier, the mural was entitled “Be Still and Know that I am God.”  Over 70,000 glazed mosaic tiles were fabricated from Crawford County clay, fired and used for the mural on the façade of the church.  Poco and his assistants continued work on the mosaic for two years after the building construction was completed.  More than 14,400 man/hours were required to select and install all of the tiles.

"Be Still and Know That I am God"
Sculpture mosaic by Bernard "Poco" Frazier on the church facade

     Our family moved from Wichita in 1964, and my parents often traveled back to visit and maintain friendships with many of the church members.  In 1973, my parents returned to Wichita and First Church.  For five years I was a member in the 1970s when I returned to Wichita after graduation from college.

     The sanctuary has now been in use almost fifty years.  In a culture of impermanence, the edifice remains as a tribute to God and the bold vision of the church leaders of the ’50s and ’60s.  First Church continues to be a vital and active part of the city.  In 1975, it began televising and broadcasting the Sunday morning services.  The weekly broadcasts continue today, sending out the Word to Wichita and the South-Central Kansas viewers. Due to the broadcasts, many viewers think of First Church as Wichita’s Church.

     I visit Wichita occasionally, and when I walk into the church, the memories wash over me like the biblical flood.  I recollect the times I stared into the abstract window in the nave during the countless sermons, trying to think of all the things I could see in the colorful glass.  I remember hearing my older brother singing in the choir, and my younger sister as a member in the youth choir, The Free.  In 1978, my oldest daughter was baptized at the font in the nave.  The sanctuary was also the place where our family and friends said good-bye to my mom and dad when they each passed away.

     As an architect, I now see the church design through trained eyes, and understand the quality and significance of the details.  Modern design in the mid-twentieth century reduced the elements and materials to a raw and abstract state.  The design of this church reflects the basics: a circular building, a triangular tower, a honeycomb wall, and an abstract window.  Even the colorful side windows are symbolic of light broken into the separate wavelengths of pure light.  The multiple surfaces and curved walls assist in creating a balanced acoustical effect. 

     When it is properly executed, good design has a timeless quality.  Although my view of First Church is somewhat subjective, I truly believe the contemporary church passes the test with flying colors.  I never had the privilege of discussing the design with Glenn Benedick, but it is apparent to me that he poured his heart and soul into this church, from the crown on the tower to the stitches in the designs of the altar cushions. Every corner of the new facility was designed with loving care.

    When I walk into First Church in Wichita, I always feel at home.  It’s the place where a seed was planted for my interest in architecture, and a place where my love of God began to grow. 

Bibliography:

To the Glory of God, Wichita, KS, First Methodist Church, 1961 budget summary.

J. Lester Hankins, Ten Adventurous Decades 1870-1970. Wichita, KS, First United Methodist Church, 1970.

Harvesting Our Heritage, 1970-1995 Wichita, KS, First United Methodist Church, 1995.

“First Methodist Church Services to Be Held in New Sanctuary Sunday.” The Wichita Eagle, 6 May 1962:  A14 – A15.

Beccy Tanner, “Sculptor left mark on state.” The Wichita Eagle, 22 May 2006, 1B

Nightmare on Pine Street

Preface:  Some of you might have read this memoir in its earliest form.  After some condensing and editing on the story, I entered it in one of the largest writing contests in the country - the Annual Writers Digest magazine competition.   There were 11,300 entries in 10 categories. 'Nightmare on Pine Street' was entered in the memoir category.   Recently, Writers Digest notified me that the story was awarded 58th place in the memoir category.

Nightmare on Pine Street

“Greg, please bring your books and come with me.”

     My high school English teacher’s command in her soft, southern accent broke my streaming daydream and rudely confronted my senses. The class was almost over, so I couldn’t imagine why Miss Riggs insisted that I grab my books to go somewhere.  My friends looked at me with shrugs and frowns.

     In the hallway I saw a man in a suit.  He had a crew cut and his arms were folded across his chest.  Miss Riggs wore a concerned look and said, “This is Mr. Harding, the county juvenile officer.  The vice principal, Mr. Olson, has instructed that you go to the court house with Mr. Harding for some questioning.”

     My heart raced and my palms became sweaty.  Why would a juvenile officer take me from the school?  I was treading into Twilight Zone territory and I began to wish I could wake up from a bad dream.  I had no idea why they would want to question me.

      In the late '60s, I was an honest, church-going teenager from a straight-laced Midwestern family in Garden City, Kansas.  We ate together at the dinner table each evening, just like the Cleavers, and went to Sunday school each week.  My mom and dad complemented each other in their parental upbringing tasks.  Mom doted on each of us siblings, and Dad was the provider.  The time he spent with us is what I would call instructional time.  He taught us how to play golf, and he took us fishing and camping.  I cherished the time I spent with Dad, although he could be stern and tough when there was a teaching moment.


The alleged criminal is on the left

     To be a teenager in Western Kansas was akin to being banished to Siberia.  Books, Music, and art helped divert my attention from the bleak existence.  I planned to go far away to college once I had finished high school, and leave what I considered to be a God-forsaken land . . . a land of tumbleweeds and sandy roads, a land of flat fields, irrigation pumps and giant green circular fields that dotted the arid high plains.  It was a land where the few trees that survived were stunted and deformed by the unceasing south winds.  My nature-loving older brother once said, “This land has a beauty all its own.”  I looked really hard, but I couldn’t see much of anything to call beautiful.

     Mr. Harding did not waste any time.  “Come with me.  We’re going down to the courthouse.  I want to ask you some questions.”    

     Questions? About what?  What deep dark secret had they uncovered?  What could I have possibly done that would warrant an interrogation?  Had they seen me hop out of a car trunk with my friends a few nights ago at the drive-in theater?  Was this some kind of divine pay-back for an unknown and grievous sin I had committed in a past life?

     Mr. Harding marched me to his car, parked in front of the school.  The sidewalk, located just outside the classroom windows, made my exit visible to the students in the building.    

     As Mr. Harding drove towards downtown, he told me they had reason to believe I was involved in a recent car theft.

     “Sir, you have the wrong person!” I exclaimed.  Then I asked, “Would it be okay for me to call my mom or dad?  This is a mistake.”      

     “We’ll let you call them eventually.  First we want to ask you some questions,” replied Mr. Harding as he looked straight ahead. 

     He had a “no nonsense” air about him, somewhat of a Marine-in-a-monkey-suit kind of look.  A sense of terror overwhelmed me.  I was afraid I might lose control of my bodily functions.  Oh, the horror of it all!

     The sunny March day began to grow very dark to me.  Mr. Harding drove to the courthouse at Eighth and Pine, and pulled into an angled space reserved for the sheriff’s cars at the rear of the building.  He escorted me along the courthouse sidewalk as shadows of the elm trees danced eerily in front of us.  The cold wind buffeted my body, which already shivered with fright.

     We entered the rear of the Finney County courthouse, brought to life in Truman Capote’s book, In Cold Blood, the story of the senseless murder of the Clutter family.  Was I walking down the hallway where the murderers, Hickok and Smith, had walked to trial?  Would I be thrown in jail and surrounded by vicious criminals? 



Finney Co. Courthouse - the torture chamber lies within

  The interrogation room was just like those in the movies.  A single light bulb burned beneath a small metal lampshade suspended in the middle of the room . . . a room so dark I could not see the perimeter walls.  There were two government-issue gray metal chairs for the detectives.  Six feet away from the chairs was a short stool with a hard seat.

     I sensed that a lot of sweat had been expelled in this dreary room.

     “Have a seat over there Mr. Larson,” said Mr. Harding as he motioned towards the stool.  “My partner, Mr. Jones, and I want to ask you some questions.  Do you know anything about a stolen car that was put on the railroad tracks and hit by a train last week?”

     “I saw the picture and I read about it in the newspaper.” I offered.

     Mr. Jones looked directly into my eyes and boomed out in a loud voice, “Greg, you’re going to have to tell us the absolute truth about what happened. If you lie, or if you don’t tell us what you know, you will be in bigger trouble.”

    “I’m telling you, I’m not the person you are looking for.  I didn’t have anything to do with the car.  I don’t know anything about it!”  I began to quiver and shake.  The warmth of the high school and the friends in the hallways seemed a world away.

     This was a tag team event for the two detectives.  Mr. Harding took his turn. “Greg, you’ve got to tell us the details, and tell them to us now.  If you don’t confess to everything, your life is going to get much worse.”

     Tears started streaming from my eyes. 

     “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I blurted out. “You’ve got the wrong person.  I want to call my dad.  He’ll help get this all straightened out.” 

     I was sure by now that if they didn’t hear what they wanted to hear, they would lock me up in jail.  They continued pressing me for information for what seemed like an eternity.  They wanted names of all the people who were involved.  They wanted details.

     Mr. Harding paused for a moment and then he rubbed his chin. “Nick Slade is the man who says you were involved.  Do you know him?”

     I tried to keep from rolling my eyes.  Nick Slade was the toughest, meanest hoodlum in the school.  He had a greaser hairdo and wore a leather jacket. He was short, but everyone was afraid of him.  His look was a mixture of a sneer and a grin, and it never changed.  I vaguely remembered we were both in the Junior High choir.  I suspected Nick must have picked the name of the most innocent kid in school and then gave it to the detectives just for jollies or as a stall tactic.

     “I know who he is,” I told the detectives, “but I don’t know him very well.  We were in a class together years ago.  That’s all I know about him.”

     “Mr. Larson, we’re going to take you to a room where Nick will be able to look through a window and see you, but you will not be able to see him.  We want to know if he still says you were involved with the stolen car.  Come with us.”

     I should be the one to see Nick the snake.  Why should he be able to see me?  Is he going to have a big laugh when he sees me upset like this?

      The detectives walked me to a small holding room that had a smoked glass pane about six inches square in one end of the room.  They told me to stand there for a moment and they left.  In a couple of minutes they came back and said, “Nick is now saying that you are not the suspect, and that he was mistaken.  We’ll call your parents and have them come and pick you up.  How do we contact your mom or your dad?”

     The tide had turned in this nightmarish affair.  They didn’t know that now I had the upper hand. 

     For the first time in the entire ordeal, I looked Mr. Harding in the eye.  “Wallace Larson is my dad.  He’s a Special Agent with the U.S. Treasury.”

     The blood drained from his face.

     He’ll have to answer to a Fed now!  And that Fed happens to be my dad.  This detective is an amateur, and now he’ll have to deal with a professional!

     I’m glad I wasn’t in the room when Dad arrived and talked to Mr. Harding.  My dad did not swear, but he could scald you with his words until you felt smaller than a piss ant.  After confronting Mr. Harding, Dad was still hot under the collar when we left.

     “Are you okay?” he asked.

      I nodded.

     He fumed all the way home, “I can’t believe it!  Mr. Olson goes to our church.  He knows our family.  Why, for the life of me, didn’t he stop them from taking you out of school?  Why didn’t he call your mom or me before they took you from the building?  He knows where I work.”  Dad’s face flushed with rage as he slammed his fist against the steering wheel, “He knows we’re not a bunch of criminals!  This is not right!”

     He took me home, and as soon as he assured Mom that I was okay, he made a phone call to the high school.  They quickly left to meet with the principal and vice principal.  I had no doubts about who controlled that meeting.       

     As for me, I was none the worse for wear.  As soon as school was out, my friends called me at home to hear what had happened. 

     “There were stories all over school within the hour that you had been dragged out of the building and taken to jail!” they exclaimed.  “Wow!  Did they handcuff you?  Let’s go to the A&W and you can tell us the whole story!”

     Some excitement had come into my life that day.  Western Kansas didn’t seem so boring after all.  The warm sun streamed through the car windows while we ordered the root beer.  And even though the cold wind swirled into the car as we grabbed the frosty mugs, it felt good.