ARE-4 (eBook)

1.

Early June in Central Minnesota is quite spectacular. The temperature varies between light jacket and short sleeves, while the foliage slowly and seductively dons its fresh vibrant-green outfit. The lakes have finally flipped and the cool waters are crystal clear. Polluted air from the urban areas to the south and east is well diluted by the time it wafts this way. And that relative pureness creates a deep, cerulean daytime sky which accents the whitest clouds imaginable. At this time of year, in this part of the world, one truly feels close to the sky.

Rare is the native adolescent—born into it, surrounded by it—who routinely appreciates this wonder. It’s simply the way the world is.

But these young Minnesotans were different. Very different.

“I hate disco.” she said in a low, snarky voice.

After an hour or so of drinking and chatting with their mates, they had wandered away from the gala and were lounging on an outcropping of large rocks at the shore. The discordant sounds through the trees from the larger group evidenced the party was in full swing. There was a Bee Gees sing-a-long by the fire while the pungent odor emanating from the east signaled a different group was supplementing their developing beer buzz with a kicker from Mother Nature. And, of course, a few couples strayed into the darker areas for closer “conversations.”

Party central was inside a hastily fashioned semi-circle of cars parked each facing the budding bonfire. Too much dry wood was gathered and staged earlier in the day while the kegs were purchased by someone’s older brother with money from admission costs collected over the last week of school.

Bruce Anderson painstakingly handled all the critical party details. His father purchased this spot along the southernmost shore of Burnt Camp Lake back in 1967. The body of water was situated in the southeastern quadrant of the twenty-five thousand acre rectangle-shaped Pillsbury State Forest located in the almost exact center of the state. His family had yet to begin construction on their little dream cabin because Mr. Anderson’s on-the-job injury at the Burlington Northern maintenance yard eight years ago impacted his health even more than his income. The spot had been used in the ensuing years as a staging area for family and friends from which they could hike and camp in the warmer months and snow mobile/cross country ski most of the year. Twice it had been utilized, with glowing reviews, for this very event by Bruce’s older siblings, Margaret in ’71 and ‘Cheeky’ in ’74.

The twin kegs were established in their place of honor and The Warriors flag firmly planted between them. Music from the battery-powered cassette boom-box set up on a stump by the fire pit gradually got louder as beer flowed and inhibitions dwindled. The flames came to life as the growing, sinking sun softened the sky from brilliant yellow to soft peach. A few headlights were turned on, but would soon be extinguished as the party thickened and the fire grew. The early-summer temperature had peaked in the mid-seventies and was quickly dropping through the fifties. The dark woods blackened outside the blazing firelight.

The annual Brainerd High School, Non-Sanctioned—yet permitted—Students-Only Graduation Party was ratcheting up to its full potential. The gathering had become a tradition over the years and parents and school officials, of course, knew all about it. The always relatively remote location was altered each year and, with the exception of 1967’s blow-out, was simply a bunch of kids having fun celebrating their entry into the real world under the not-too-close, but close-enough, watchful eyes of their elders.

The infamous June 4, 1967 soiree got out of hand when Steve Higgins and Tim Helgaard ingested a few too many magic mushrooms and wandered off with torches that would eventually start the now famous “Crow Wing State Park Forest Fire”. After that, the authorities felt compelled to crack down—which, of course, simply forced the event underground. A few parents with a broader view of the situation realized the party was going to happen either way and it was probably better to know the location in the inevitable event of another “incident”. So by 1970, with a wink and nudge, the officially unofficial graduation party was back in business and thriving.

Jeff knew the very concept of “Disco” was something Megan completely detested but he felt like talking and, as usual, enjoyed agitating her.

“Why, Meegs? Cause you can’t dance worth a shit?”

“It’s just a beat,” she said, louder than she wanted to. “There’s no message! And bite me, you dick, I can dance quite well, thank you.” Then, after a slight pause to reposition her Twins cap over her Son of Sam haircut, “People simply forget about all the shit going on in the world and just dance! I mean, isn’t it more important to use that energy to try to make things better? You been reading about Love Canal?”

“Yeah, they say the babies up there are born all deformed and stuff.” Mike said after lighting a Winston and loudly clicking shut his treasured Zippo.

“It’s just crazy what’s going on! And it feels like people are OK with it!” Megan was starting to roll into one of her legendary tirades the group knew only too well. She loudly zipped up her down vest as she said, “We have way too many people on this planet and we’re gonna run out of food; the Russians are determined to make us have a nuclear war—I just know it—and we keep polluting the ground and air with crap that will probably kill us and nobody seems to give a shit!” She stared out over the lake, then, “It’s all about ‘what makes me feel good’ and ‘somebody else should do something.’ And what about fairness? Everything is unfair! Blacks finally have more legal rights but they’re still treated like shit! And women? Not even close! It isn’t fair!”

Megan Shaw, Darryl Gunderson, Martin Burchfield, Jeffrey Stewart and Michael Kendrick all began life at St. Joseph’s hospital in this small central Minnesota town in 1960. Because they grew up within eight blocks of each other, they attended the same schools. Because their parents were Catholic, their families attended the same St. Francis Catholic Church every Sunday. There were plenty of other kids in their lives, and while each would spend time with others in some activity like Little League or Scouting or Debate Club, they would inevitably gravitate back to each other—back to a comfort level they had developed from years of togetherness.

It was more than that, though. Since each of them was an only child, the natural and powerful sibling bonds that develop within families coalesced within this group. Each felt a part of a larger whole—one that would be less than complete if any of its parts went missing. They understood each other so well they would finish each other’s sentences. They even cultivated a kind of common language and private sense of humor that frustrated others at school and sometimes alienated them from the larger crowd.

“Somebody want to get Meegs another beer before she blows a tire? She’s starting to spin out.” Darryl said.

“I‘m not ready for a beer yet, but I will take one of your smokes, Mikey”

“So what the hell can we do Meegs?” Martin said kicking some dirt and watching a small rock fly off in Darryl’s direction. “I mean everybody knows about all this shit you’re bitching about. Hell, even we know about it—a bunch of stupid midwestern high school nimrods. What the fuck are we supposed to do?” He pulled a wad of his shoulder length brown hair back away from his face, then continued, “Maybe people like that Disco shit because they don’t want to think about all that other crap. Maybe it’s their way of avoiding all the bad stuff. Give it a rest, will ya?”

A large hoot from the main gathering sprung up as KC and the Sunshine Band loudly declared “I’m Your Boogie Man.” With a quick look back toward the source of the noise, Jeff said, “Or maybe they just don’t care.” He had an ability to listen to the chatter and then, with a simple sentence or phrase, take the group to the next level. He would typically steer the discourse to a decision after he saw all the options and nuances were aired. Jeff facilitated but rarely judged. Because of this ability, when he did offer a view or make a point, his friends knew it was both well considered on his part and worthy of consideration on theirs. He provided what passed for wisdom in this small group of juveniles.

“I think people mostly just worry about things that affect them personally,” he continued. “Like we studied in history class. A lot of Americans didn’t want to get into World War II until Pearl Harbor, then everyone jumped on the band wagon. And the people in Cleveland didn’t seem to care about all the crap in their river till it caught fire and the city got a bunch of bad publicity. Maybe there’s just too much other shit to worry about inside their own world and they don’t have the capacity to pile on more. Maybe they just don’t care about things that are outside their own lives.”

Darryl jumped in, “I think now its like if it doesn’t hurt my pocketbook, I’m OK with it. Let some ‘do-gooder’ worry about...