Dr. Vilhelm Johnson
“One of my favorite gnome stories,” said the wizened old gnome storyteller to a gathering of the little people “is the story of the gnome who never left us”. As was traditional, all the gnomes gathered in Riverside Park, seated in the “Gnome moon” formation. This is the story about “Doc Bill.” Doc Bill was born in Gnometown in August, 1914. His real name should have been Wilhelm, but a few days after he was born, a war stated with “Der Kaiser” (Wilhelm). His mother Clara rushed right over to the hospital and changed his name to Vilhelm. “It was the best I could do”, Clara said. “The ink was already dry on his birthday certificate, so I just changed the ‘W’ to a ‘V’. No little gnome of mine will have to have the Hun for his name-sake.” Gnometown didn’t like that name either, and they called him “Bill” growing up, and later “Doc Bill”. Bill played basketball and football for Gnometown and was pretty good at it and everyone liked him. In 1932 he headed for Macalester College in St. Paul. He almost didn’t make it. As his father, Dr. H.M. was dropping him off at the college, a big black limousine screamed down the street closely followed by six units of St. Paul’s finest, guns blazing and sirens wailing. (H.M. didn’t believe in ceremony and had literally dumped Bill off on Snelling Avenue.) Bill ducked into Kirk Hall and narrowly avoided meeting up with a bullet on his first day of higher education. Bill studied hard at Mac, later transferred to the U of M Medical School, and then did his internship in Connecticut. Some of Gnometown worried that the siren call of fat bit-city fees and top-notch medical facilities of the east would lure newly minted “Doc” Bill away form Gnometown. But he was just in the big city long enough to learn to be a first class surgeon and take himself a wife. After all, ducks, dogs, the noble walleye and of course the good people of Gnometown, well, they have a siren call too! “Don’t they Elder?” said the storyteller to the white-haired gnome, who appeared to nod off. Doc Bill took a wife alright, in 1941. But he didn’t get far on his honeymoon. No, sir! The MPs met him on the highway and headed him for Appleton to examine the troops. A new Kaiser, this time a short little mean one named Adolf, had changed Doc Bill’s life again. Later, when the real fighting started, Doc Bill was Gnometown’s doctor again, in North Africa, in Sicily and up the spine if Italy. Once again, Doc Bill was getting an education while dodging bullets. After the war, Doc Bill came back home to be Gnometown’s doctor, along with his uncle, Dr. C.M. The years after the war were good ones for Doc Bill, but busy. There was a hospital to run, a clinic and a new hospital to build, and a medical practice that sometimes had four doctors, and sometimes only had one. He also managed time for four children. He used to say that only 20% of the information needed for a good diagnosis came from the tests; the other 80% came from the patient. He listened and he observed, but more importantly, he explained the course of the treatment to the patient so that it couldn’t possibly be misunderstood. Once, a stubborn old man living in the hotel came into the clinic complaining of leg pains. Doc Bill asked him to remove his trousers and get up on the examining table. “’Oh my God, this is serious. We will have to do surgery at once! Ina! Donna! Come quickly,” he barked down the hall, “and bring a large surgical scissors!” With his faithful nurses in attendance, and his patient quaking in fear, he neatly cut off both of the man’s too-tight garters. “There,” he said with authority only an experienced surgeon could muster. “For a minute there, I was afraid we were going to lose you, but you’ll be alright.” Doc Bill’s skill with the bureaucracy, which he picked up in the army, was legendary. The thousands of little victories over insurance companies, the state and federal bureaucracies, in many cases meant the difference between a patient’s rights and his bankruptcy. None of his politicking was more famous than with the State Certificate for Need Board. Doc Bill had been faithfully trudging down to St. Paul for months to meet with Mrs. Knutsen, who controlled the fate of Gnometown’s new hospital. Bureaucrats, being what they are, felt Gnometown’s medical needs could more efficiently be met in Willmar or Mankato. Of course, Doc Bill knew better, but he could make no headway with Mrs. Knutsen, and her recommendation to the board would be final. Then one day Shirley Wold presented him with a new tie which she had made. It was a beautiful tie with animals on it. Luckily, he wore it on his next trip to St. Paul. Mrs. Knutsen was completely captivated by the tie and they talked for hours. That day, she decided Gnometown would get its new hospital. “I always believed,” intoned the old gnome storyteller, “If you had a human bone in you whole body, Doc Bill could find it. But of all these busy activities and interests, he prized above all the study of birds, baseball, the Civil War, the companionship of his Gnometown fellows (especially Elder) and time spent adrift on Lake Lida. Every so often Doc Bill would slip off to the lake to stalk the noble walleye or hunt up a flock of canvasbacks. Less often, he would organize fishing and hunting trips to Canada and the Dakotas with Gnometown’s best (and worst) hunters and fisherman, but always he came back. As he got older, his health deteriorated. His neuritis made it impossible for him to be on his feet all day, so he took his meals lying down. He kept his pain to himself, but it got bad enough to make him consider on a=offer he received to run a large state hospital. It would have been a cushy desk job, but Doc Bill was no bureaucrat, and he couldn’t leave the Gnometown faithful. So he never left. Then one day, he left and didn’t come back. On a fishing/hunting vacation by himself one fall, he fell out of his boat and drowned in his beloved Lake Lida. A stunned Gnometown sent rescue parties to drag the lake, and finally, they found him, brought him back home and mourned his passing. “You see,” the old storyteller said, as he wound down his tale, “Gnometown never had to worry about Doc Bill coming back. He never really left us, even during the war. The best things he ever did, he did for Gnometown. So I figure it was almost as if he never left.” T.O. Vaala Many years ago the “little people” were gathered near Gnometown to honor one of their own for his commitment to the community. This was an annual festival that all looked forward to with great excitement, for it was filled with many fun activities. And so they were gathered, one and all, wearing red hearts on their sleeves that signified their kind spirit and willingness to give of themselves for the common good. As the time drew near for the storytelling to begin, the gnomes drank in the sights and sounds of their idyllic setting at Lac qui Parle State Park. It provided a perfect backdrop for the tale of Scouter T.O., a gnome committed to helping with the early development of some of the youngest “little people”. Some of the gnomes in attendance that evening were former scout gnomes and they were especially excited because they had actually shared in many of the experiences that were about to be retold. Visions of past spring and fall camporees began to stir their memories. “Now T.O. was born and lived almost his entire life in or around Gnometown”, the story-teller began. “He had been involved in a great many community activities over the years, but none seemed more important to him than working with the young scout gnomes. He began as a Cubmaster then Scoutmaster, Troop Committee member until 1979, and finally the Troop’s Advancement Chairman where he focused his attention for the next decade on helping many scout gnomes become Star, Life, and Eagle Scout.” As the storyteller continued, several of the past scout gnomes in the crowd began musing about their own experiences with Scouter T.O. here and in Manypoint Scout Camp, the World Jamboree, and Philmont Scout Ranch. One remembered how right here at Lac Qui Parle State Park during his first camping trip. T.O. had taught him how important it was to always leave the campsite in better shape than when you found it. He smiled to himself now when thinking how this simple rule had deepened his appreciation for nature. Another past scout gnome reflected on how T.O. had worked with him on what being a good citizen really meant and how earning those merit badges had given him insight into some of his capabilities. Another remembered how T.O. had emphasized physical fitness and, then, to show how serious he was about its importance, had taken up the challenge of one of the older scout gnomes and had beaten him in the obstacle course exercise. Finally, another past scout gnome remembered the just plain fun he’d enjoyed camping, swimming and canoeing at Manypoint Scout Camp. As the scout gnomes turned back into the words of the story teller, they heard him talking about the many scouting awards T.O. had earned over the years for his efforts with the boys, such as the VIGIL honor from the Order of the Arrow, the Silver Beaver, the highest award a leader can be awarded in scouting, a 35 year Scouting Veteran Pin, and the Lamb Award bestowed on T.O. by the Lutheran Church of America. In addition, Scouter T.O. was awarded WCCO Radio’s Good Neighbor Award twice, the Distinguished Service Award by the Gnometown Jaycee’s, the Lac qui Parle County’s Outstanding Senior Citizen Award and was named the State of Minnesota’s Outstanding Senior Citizen in 1989. “Scouter T.O.”, the story teller continued, “had played a role in helping more than 50 scout gnomes achieve the rank of Eagle Scout, a record not only in Gnometown, but far and wide. “Always leave the campsite a better place than when you found it; don’t ruin or waste anything in the environment.” This is what Scouter T.O. has also tried to do with the “human resources” he’s been privileged to work with. He has strived to help young gnomes learn some very important, simple truths and to experience a sense of accomplishment. Scouter T.O. ha in the way made Gnometown, too, a better place than when he first arrived. So heed Scouter T.O.’s philosophy: “Always leave the campsite a better place than when you found it; don’t ruin or waste anything in the environment.” Bertha Swenson Gnometown life isn’t always perfect, and things don’t always happen the way we want them to happen. But, sometimes, just sometimes, this makes for a hero or heroine. The dictionary says, “A hero is a figure renowned for exceptional courage and fortitude.” Gnometown has many heroes – the gnomes may be small, but their hearts are big, and loving and full of courage. The little girl didn’t know she would be a heroine. It was how you loved the journey of life that was important. She knew she would live it the very best way she knew how. Postmaster Bertha was born in Gnometown on a beautiful fall day, September 28th, 1894. Edward and Caroline Hestad, her parents, were very happy to live in Gnometown and proud to be from the Norwegian line of gnomes who made the journey from Stavanger, Norway. Just when the Hestads thought they couldn’t be any happier –they were – with the birth of their first child. When a sister and four brothers came along, the house on Fifth Street was bursting at the seams. The move to the farm was perfect. The farmhouse had a downstairs AND an upstairs. Bertha thought it was beautiful! The days were full. When chores were done there was the collie to play with and rides to be taken in the cutter. Papa had taught them how to harness their horse, Blindy. A ride in the bobsled with Papa was a real treat. The sleigh sailed across the white snow. You could feel the crisp air against your cheeks while the rest of you was all bundled up. Bertha enjoyed school and was a good student. For a while her class had to meet over the blacksmith shop. When she told Papa how afraid she and her classmates were of the rickety steps, Papa asked the school superintendent to examine them. He took one look and soon the class was meeting over the Goldstein building. Papa and Mama were a happy balance. When Papa said to do something, he expected it to be done. If he scolded, he did it and that was the end of it. Mama was kind and loving, always helping neighbors if someone was sick or hungry. Bertha was taught patriotism and respect for the flag from Grandma. Grandma had two brothers in the Civil War. One was a messenger, shot and left to die on the battlefield. He was taken prisoner and brought to Island #10, now a Memorial Cemetery and Hospital. Bertha learned the importance of freedom and of the sacrifices that sometimes had to be made. Holidays are important to gnomes. And Thanksgiving meant going to Grandma’s. Filled with excitement, aunts, uncles and cousins piled into the bobsled. From the roast the roasted chickens to bread and dessert, everything was produced on the farm. As the family sat down, all hands were folded to say the Norwegian table prayer. Bertha never wants to forget her heritage; she still says this prayer when she sits down to eat. I JESU NAVN GAAR VI BORDS: SPISE, OG DRIKKE PAA DITT ORD. DEG GUD TIL AERE OSS TIL GAVN, SAA FAAR VI MAT. I JESU NAVN. It was a wonderful time for everyone in the family giving thanks for another good year. High school was filled with studies and get togethers with friends. One day her girlfriend, Mildred, said she had invited a boy from Boyd to her birthday party. She asked Bertha to be nice and talk to him. There were quite a few nice boys to talk to, but finally Bertha agreed. This was her introduction to Sam Swenson. Soon it was graduation, teaching school in Holloway, Minnesota and in North Dakota and working in the mercantile store in Gnometown. Sam went off to France to do his part in WWI. When he returned, there was a beautiful wedding and reception on the little farm outside of Gnometown. The Swenson’s lived several places, but settle in Gnometown. Three beautiful daughters arrived – Barbara, Virginia, and Effie. When Effie wasn’t even two years old, Sam became ill. It was soon apparent he wouldn’t get better, Sam died in 1936 and the Gonetown Sentinel recalled that Sam never failed to sing the praise of his beloved Gnometown in his travels throughout the state. This was a sad time for Bertha. The loss of Sam was difficult; it was also the years of the Great Depression across the land, and in Gnometown, too. Even though jobs were scarce, Bertha decided she had better quit crying and do something to keep them going. When a Post Office job opened up, Bertha took the Civil Service exam and passed with flying colors. She served first as a clerk and later was appointed postmaster. She served in the Post Office twenty-four years. There was never a lot of money, but there was a lot of love. Each girl had her household chores and the family was together. Bertha is proud of the girls, of all three of her sons-in-law and the way they raised her grandchildren to be loving and caring. Bertha can sit back and say, “Mama, Papa, Sam…I did it!” Life wasn’t easy, but it has been good. Though she has great difficulty seeing and hearing now, she feels well, she can still think and walk and she still lives in the charming brown house by the river. Her commission as Postmaster, signed by President Dwight D. Eisenhower, is hing proudly on the wall, along with her certificate as an Associate in Christian Education from the First Presbyterian Church of Dawson. Her mother was a charter member of the American Legion Auxiliary and Bertha served as Auxiliary President, District Chaplain and in many capacities. So, you can see, the real heroes are the ones that take life as it is and quietly and heroically make the very best of all that happens on the journey. Gnometown is very proud of Postmaster Bertha. Governor Theodore Christianson Jr.
Tell the Governor Ted story! Tell the Governor Ted story! Came the shouts from the “little people” seated on the bank of the river. The gnomes were enjoying one of their very favorite pastimes since they banded together from all over the world and made Dawson their home. The many tiny people were seated in the traditional “gnome moon”, right on the bank overlooking the Lac qui Parle River. The “gnome moon” is a sort of half-circle, with one person on each end and more in the middle, like a half-moon. The gnomes were excited because on this occasion the story teller was Editor Ken. He was owner, publisher and editor of the Gnometown Sentinel. All gnomes have wonderful memories you know, but Editor Ken was just full of stories he had read from way back in the Sentinel, and had heard told and retold about special Dawson gnomes. He wasn’t the first editor and publisher of the Gnometown Sentinel, Oh my no! The gnomes gathered here weren’t even the first gnomes in Dawson. The earlier ones had been mostly Scandinavian and, except for a few, were farm gnomes. Now, under the pointed, turned down hats were faces with beautiful, almond shaped eyes—the Asian gnomes. Gnomes with chocolate brown skin were from the African countries. East Indian gnomes had delicate features and thick, shiny, black hair that didn’t turn white until they were 200 years old. Some wore a touch of green to remind them of Ireland, or wore wooden shoes so they wouldn’t forget Holland. Others wore a pheasant feather in their hat to show they had their beginnings as Native American gnomes. Still, the most important symbol was the bright, red heart on their sleeve to show they were ONE and stood for kindness and good. Editor Ken raised his hand for quiet; a hush came over the crowd and so began the story. Many years ago in a small, sod dugout near the quiet village of Lac qui Parle, a farm gnome couple shared the joy of their first born son. He was a sturdy, happy child they named Ted. He was to be big brother to eight other children to come after him. He might have been a quiet little boy alright, when he was going up. But, he dreamed dreams, set goals, and always seemed to sort out what was important to make life better for all gnomes and what was not. He knew education was important, even though it was a mile walk to school and when it was done, a mile walk back home. That’s a long walk for a gnome! Farm gnomes work long hours too, so on holidays and vacations it was up at 4:30 am to work until 10:00 pm. There is a story though, that a neighbor once was puzzled because he hadn’t seen any activity for a long time where Ted was supposed to be working. When he quietly sneaked over to take a look, there was Ted, sitting on the ground at the end of the row reading a book! Ted studied hard in school. He was so quiet and shy it was difficult for him to even recite in front of other students. But he was determined to be a great speaker, so he made himself read out loud in front of the class. He liked to discuss public questions with his teachers; they even enjoyed arguing with him because he cared so much and had such good ideas. He could learn whole pages of lessons after just reading them once. Wouldn’t we all like to be able to do that?! The first time Ted entered Dawson was when he started school in the eighth grade. He carried with him his most treasured item; he had it with him constantly since he was very small. It was a bright, red bandana handkerchief. The first day, and many mornings after that, the school bully delighted in pulling it out of the pocket where Ted tried to hide it. Even so, Ted carried it with him as a constant reminder that his roots were in the farm land of Minnesota. Even when he was a grown man he felt it was a banner that guided his values. Ted always found a way to finance his education. In high school he cleaned the doctor’s offices and did chores around the hospital. He treasured, and used, the pocket watch the doctors gave him at his high school graduation. Public speaking contests and debates were popular at that time. Ted entered as many as he could, and won enough cash prizes to pay his tuition to Gnometown State University. In college he worked in stores and sold tickets to events in the area during evenings and weekends. This way he supported himself during these busy years. His daytime teaching job paid his way through law school at night. Oh, how he worked and studied. His dream was to one day buy The Gnometown Sentinel and be editor and publisher, and to practice law with his own people. His friends told him not to go back to his hometown because everyone would think of him as a little boy, not as a community leader. But, he just knew he could do well, he had faith in the gnometown folks. So, to Dawson he went for the second time and started taking part in community politics and then in state politics. One day he came home to Dawson for the third time. He was welcomed by 8,000 gnomes, all coming to show how pleased they were that he had won the Republican nomination for governor! Cooks worked all night preparing a barbeque feast. They served 500 loaves of bread, 900 pounds of beef, 25 large boilers of coffee and 60 gallons of ice cream. Never had there been such a celebration! The hometown gnomes had planned a parade of 200 cars to meet Ted and his wife, but he fooled them all by not arriving Friday but on Thursday night. No matter, the feast and merriment went as planned. Everyone worked together to help him get elected as Governor of Minnesota. On Election Day he voted in Dawson, and then waited at the Hanson and Dahl furniture store to hear the election results on one of the first radios in Dawson. When the returns came in he was “Governor Ted”! As governor from 1925 to 1931 he led the reorganization of the state constitution. As a gnome, he knew smaller was better. He saw to it that all departments were smaller and combined departments wherever he could. He wanted to have the state run more efficiently and to save money. We think of him whenever we picnic by the river or by Lac qui Parle Lake. He loved picnics, and always had a lunch kit ready to go on a moment’s notice. We remember him when we enjoy the park by the driving bridge in Dawson, named after him. We can’t forget him when we travel on Christianson Memorial Drive, the name given to State Highway 7. He is ours. His example helps us to dream of better things and work for better things, so we can enjoy better things. “Governor Ted”! Long live his memory. |
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