Slide 41

The Slide: Dad at Cathedral Grove

The Date: Summer 1966

The Photographer: Me (age 14)

My father stands against a sweeping arc of stone block at the entrance to Cathedral Grove, a shade dappled, twelve-hundred seat amphitheater gracing a hillside of fragrant Redwoods in the California, Santa Cruz Mountains. We’ve been to church evidenced by the fact that, while on vacation, dad is wearing a white shirt and tie. Cathedral Grove is located inside the Mission Springs Conference Center built early in the last century by The Swedish Missionary Association. That explains why we are here. We too are Swedish.

My father and I hiked the steep road and arrived at the entrance before my mom, and sisters. After snapping the picture, I handed the camera to my father and ran to the top seats. He followed. The view from above was impressive. The empty wooden benches hung to the hillside’s graceful curve narrowing gradually to the bottom and the focal point of a small platform stage.

I thought to myself, “One day this place will be full of people and I will walk on that stage to thunderous applause.” But that’s not what I said to my father. Instead I said, “Hey Dad. Can you imagine how cool it would be here at a concert with this hillside covered with people?”

“That would be something,” he replied.

The reason I didn’t say what I was thinking is the same reason we were visiting Cathedral Grove. I didn’t say what I was thinking because I’m Swedish. By this I mean I am of Swedish descent. It has been so all my life. My paternal grandfather spoke with a strong accent that made him impossible to understand. When I was very young he said something to me about, “Wiking blood wunning through my weins.”

After my mother translated the phrase I wondered if Viking blood was different from any other kind. I suspected it was. Once while savoring a boiled potato with dill, I bit my cheek and it bled profusely. I noticed a slight fishy taste. Later as a young man, when entering small coastal villages I often felt an urge to rape and pillage but that may have been true of non-Swedes as well.

It was confusing because there were some aspects of my Swedishness that did not seem to fit with Vikingness. All the Swedes I knew were quiet people who did not abide boastfulness nor believe they were better than anyone else. Not to be too alliterative but they were predominantly peasant people from particularly poor parts, picking pea sized potatoes from piles of rock. Not a showman in the bunch. Even now, I can hardly think of a Swedish artist or star. Oh there was Abba but they sang almost entirely in English. The one exception might be the long locked tennis star Bjorn Borg. Borg was the rage, not in spite of his Swedishness but because of it. Borg never screamed at the referees, never threw a fit or tossed his racket at a ball girl. Bjorn was stoically Swedish in the way he quietly destroyed his foes. Sadly, he and his tightie whities are hardly remembered by the younger generation. All of this to say, I felt confused about my Viking blood.

“One day this place will be full people and I will walk on that stage to thunderous applause.” That’s what I was thinking but I felt too embarrassed to say it. I did not have it in me to say it. Apparently, that kind of blood was not running through my veins.

Seven years later, the summer I turned twenty-one, I returned to this place as a staff member at the conference center. By that time I’d had four summers of counseling experience in New York State so, despite my young age, I was given a lot of responsibility. I over saw all large group gatherings, spoke at all youth chapels and did a bit of entertaining too. But most notably this summer of ‘73 was the summer I met Tommy.

During the first week, our director received a call from a pastor in the Bay area. “I’ve got a young man in my youth group who really needs something to do this summer,” he said. “He’s fifteen, Dysfunctional family. Nice boy but definitely at risk. I’m concerned he’ll end up on the streets and that would be very bad. Do you happen to have an opening on your staff? He’ll do anything.” Our director explained that we didn’t have an opening, but if the boy was willing to work without pay we’d be happy to take care of him.

The next morning I met Tommy. He was a shy lanky kid who looked like he may have spent the last year growing too fast. He didn’t know a soul and hid his scared eyes beneath a mop of curly brown hair, staring toward his high top sneakers. The director welcomed him like a long lost son.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Tommy said brightening.

“Well then, let’s head over to the dining hall and get you something to eat. I’ll introduce you to some of the staff and they can show you where you’ll be bunking.” And off they went.

I finished up some work and twenty minutes later entered the dining hall where I was shocked to find this formerly shy boy now boisterously delighting several tables with a ‘chew and show” of potatoes, peas and boiled wiener. He had everyone’s attention and was enjoying it. By all appearances he was a gifted teacher. Most of the young campers around him had already learned that they too could be funny by mixing a variety of foods and yelling wide mouthed at their friends. Even a couple younger counselors were seduced by this pied piper now smiling widely while forcing an ooze of lemon Jell-O through his teeth. I had no choice but to step in and ruin the fun. The children responded quickly but guffawed again watching Tommy roll his eyes in mock exasperation. And so our relationship began.

“Tommy,” I said one morning. “You know that sound you make with your hand in your armpit?”

“You mean this one?” he said pushing his arm beneath his shirt and beginning a crude rendition of “It Only Takes a Spark.”

“Yeah, that’s the sound,” I said. “Listen Tommy, I want you know I recognize that is truly a gift. And I don’t want to discourage you from using the talent God has clearly given you.” My sarcasm was not missed and his eyes began the roll again. I continued calmly. “But Tommy,” I said, “I find it distracting when I’m speaking in chapel and you punctuate the ends of my sentences with those sounds. I’d like to ask you to not do that anymore. By “anymore,” I mean “EVER AGAIN.” He didn’t respond.

His behavior was the result of unmistakable charisma and uncontrollable immaturity. As I watched him that summer I wondered if he’d be Ok or if he’d end up on the nightly news another victim of poor choices. What makes one kid go right and another turn bad? How many bad decisions does a kid have to make before it’s too late? These were questions I asked while watching Tommy during the summer of ’73.

And then one day I saw of flash of something brilliant. I sat in the staff lounge on a Saturday afternoon. The campers had departed and the new batch were not expected for another day. I was listening to Neil Diamond’s new live album Hot August Night. The record was huge that summer. On the cover, Neil’s frizzed hair is longer than shoulder length, his face glistens with sweat and he poses suggestively as if holding a woman in a lewd, passionate embrace. “Solitary Man” blared from the speakers and Tommy walked in the room. He stopped for a quick moment before shouting like a rock and roll announcer, “Would you welcome Neil Diamond and Hot August Niiiiiiiight!”

It was funny and I was smiling. Then he struck the pose… perfectly! His brown curls fell over his face, his arms embraced the woman, his face distorted and he became Neil Diamond! Tommy disappeared and Neil Diamond stood writhing before me. It lasted five seconds. It was something like genius. I applauded and cheered.

I don’t remember saying goodbye at the end of the summer. I didn’t think to look for him nor he for me. We just left.

I returned twenty years later to perform on the fourth of July. I walked up the hillside to Cathedral Grove. It was very nearly filled with people. I walked on the stage to thunderous applause. I wasn’t even surprised. It seemed as natural as could be.

Tommy’s life took a different turn.

When my sons were young I told them this story and one of them asked, “Dad, do you think he would remember you?”

“He might,” I said. And that’s the truth. He might. I can’t say it with any more certainty than that. I can no longer know or even imagine what goes through the mind of a man who is no longer the Tommy I knew. Time has transformed him into someone unable to experience life like the rest of us. Maybe unable to even recall it. Who can say what a man like Tom Hanks remembers?