Growing up I never knew my father. A few men over the years have taken over the roll as "male figure" in my life. When I was little it was Scott and Kenny - two brothers, friends of my mothers. Scott and Kenny took me fishing, took me to their concerts (they had a band - still do) and even played catch with me. When I was six, they built me a doll house as tall as I was with working lights and stairs. After moving to this area, my grandfather took on the fatherly role - again, taking me fishing and hunting. Alongside my grandfather was Curtis. Curtis owned the Wood Lake News when we first moved to the area.

As a child, visits to my grandparents house meant many things. Grandpa, then a trucker, would show up in his rig to bring me to their house for the weekend. Rides in Grandpa's rig made me feel very small - barely filling 1/8 of the seat, playing with the CB in the cab - hearing the other truckers cussing and being shocked. Most visits to their home included a visit to Curts. Besides being the owner and publisher and sole contributor of the Wood Lake News, Curt owned a small gun and tackle shop. The shop was filled to the brim with stacks of newspapers from all over the world, stacks of magazines, antique fishing tackle and all kinds of odd trinkets he had collected over time. The building smelled of mildew and ink. It's a smell that you catch a whiff of sometimes in an antique shop that brings a round of nostalgia.

Curt always had a way with words. His stories kept me still in my seat, across the large table covered in old advertisements from newspapers. He sits in a wheel chair - as he has since he was 18. Shortly after his "big game" - his last as a senior football player at the Wood Lake High School. He was stricken with polio. It was the 50's. The polio outbreak was in this area. A few were hospitalized with the illness. Curt was one of those. He lived the next couple of years in a hospital, and never walked again. Stricken to a wheel chair, he decided to go about his business as usual anyway. He ran and was elected to legislature - the youngest ever. After many years there, and attending college to become a lawyer, he made the decision to move back to his hometown and take over the newspaper. Despite 20 kinds of hardships, he stayed in the business through letterpress printing, lineotype printing and finally computer printing only selling the newspaper finally and devoting his time to the tackle shop full time. He was getting towards retirement age then, but he never did retire. Instead, he sat in the tackle shop, open seven days a week from noon until 1 a.m. consorting, waxing philosophical and occasionally sending off a teenager with not only his first lure, but a plethera of advice for his first catch.

In 2003, I walked into his shop like I had many times before and said, "Curt, I'm opening a newspaper." He never doubted it either. He was behind me on everything, writing letters to old, influential friends, spreading the word, and singing my praises. "If anyone can do it, she can." he repeated to all. He even agreed, although I know he hated it, to be on television singing my praises as the office opened and news stations, radio stations and newspapers from all around decided it was a "good story" (p.s. - good story means that they capitalized on the fact that I was a 21 year old single mother starting - of all things - a newspaper).

Through the years I faced many a hardship. What kept me going was the visits to Curt. When I called the council to the carpet for their behavior and the hailstorm of controversy surrounded that move, Curt was there saying "Stay strong - you know you're right." When I ended up pregnant and a hailstorm of controversy surrounded that, Curt was there saying "Stay strong - it's nobody's business but your own. Be yourself and don't buy into the rumors by fighting back and everyone will see you're strong." Most days of the week, I and the two men I share a office building with, stopped in at Curt's building (next door to our own office building conveniently). Mike and Bruce grabbed their usual Mountain Dew from the 50¢ refridgerator (Curt refused to charge more - trying to stay in the past as much as he could). Of course, they had to gamble for it. Curt's rules - beat him at Blackjack, your drink is free. And of course, Curt carried the tea I drank, although I never bothered gambling, because quite frankly I stink at it (no poker face).

Most times Curt would get into a story. A lot of the stories are from the 40's and 50's. All of his stories would leave the room quiet and motionless, everyone leaning forward in their chairs so as not to miss a word. Political arguments would mean you would be sitting in that tin chair for the next four hours. Nothing ever stumped Curt in all the time I've known him. He didn't own a t.v. but he read - he read newspapers from around the world, magazines and books.

One morning the OPEN sign did not come on the door. I walked to the Post Office and back - Mike arrived looking concerned. Curt was in the hospital. The prognosis is not good. There is a large tumor in his stomach, and the cancer has spread to his colon. Curt has lived thorugh this same cancer before. I go into denial because I'm good at that. Curt will be fine.

For the next week I live in denial. Mike and Bruce give me updates as they've been to the hospital to see him. Aren't you going? They ask. No. I will see him when he comes home. He's not coming home.

One morning I come into the office and Bruce and Mike are sitting in the chairs in the reception area. They look somber. My heart stops for a moment. I arrive at the hospital. Walking through the hall... in the elevator... down another hall... there's a sound like wind in my ear and I feel short of breath. I stop at the nurses station, ask for his room. The nurse looks sad and points me there. The hospice room. Oh God. I worked at this hospital so I know what that room means. I walk towards the doorway. I stop. There's a nurse outside doing charting. "Is he in there?" I ask. "Yes." she says - looks at me like I should say more. "Is he alone in there?" I ask. "Yeeees..." she says, now appearing annoyed. I hope I've never given that look to anyone when I worked there. I walk into the room, knocking on the door as I walk in. There is a Twins game on - Curt hasnt watched t.v. in forever, so I wonder for a moment if he enjoys it. He turns his head - I've never seen him look like that. He says my name sadly. "Oh, Jessica." He looks sad for a moment. I forget what to do or say and just stand there for a moment. I sit in the chair next to the bed. He turns off the t.v. He tries his best to look nonchallant - "So what's new?" he asks. "Oh, um, not much" I say - the sound of all of the machines breathing and pumping and beating is distracting. His face is shocking - it is puffy and his eyes are swollen. They are milky and bleary and I can't tell if he's focused on me or not. There is a tube coming out of his nose, with a greenish substance flowing from it into a tub attached to a wall... a tub covered with an insipid knit cozy - probably made by some old lady that had to sit in a hospice room watching said tub fill up with goop and decided people would rather see some insipid knit tub cozy. He is no longer able to eat or drink. I watch him slowly try to maneuver an ice chip from his cup into his spoon and try to get it into his mouth. He is weak. His hand shakes as if the ice was a leaden rock. The muscles in his arm spasm from the effort of lifting the spoon of ice chips to his mouth.

We sit in silence for a long time. I glance at the t.v. "Well, now you know what those guys you read about (the Twins) look like in action."
"Yeah," he says. A pause... "I am going to give this an honest effort. That's the best I can do."
A nurse enters, sticks an needle in his I.V. She explains that she is giving him a sedative as he has just had a panic attack. A lump rises in my throat at the same time a rock drops through my stomach. My eyes burn and threaten to spill over. She leaves and we sit in silence a bit more. He starts to talk, but his voice is weak. His deep booming voice that has helped to change laws that have made our lives better today. His deep booming voice that sang my praises and got me where I am today, now barely above a whisper. He tells me what they've been doing with him in the hospital and what the diagnosis is. He tells me how he will go see the specialist. I am unable to answer or even shake my head, as the motion might make the tears spill over. I sit staring at his hands. Those large strong hands are now weak and frail, two flat white rags laid over his stomach motionless, stuck with I.V. needles. I'd always been fascinated by Curt's hands, as they are the one thing that remained untouched by polio and old age. No matter how shrunken his legs got over time in the wheel chair, no matter how slouched his shoulders, his hands stayed large and strong... to remind everyone that this was a man that before polio stood almost seven feet tall with broad shoulders and your typical football player build. A man of power. And there lay his hands, weak and nearly useless across his stomach filled with cancer.

I meant to tell him of all the friends of his that called me over the week. The calls came all day and half of the night. All of the friends he made over the years, calling to find out how Curt was doing. His column was missing from the paper. The only explanation I gave was "due to illness". How is he? What's going on? Oh no! Please tell him hello from Chief, Butch, Wanger, Pitbull, Pally, Sid, Hook etc.

I forgot. I just plain forgot. I only sat there staring at his hands, biting my lip inside so hard that I could taste the salty blood filling up my mouth. Soon he could talk no more. The sedative they gave via I.V. was taking over and he was fading in and out. I stood. "Well, I should go get the kids. They're probably being brats." "I'll see you soon." he said. "Yeah" I said - but even as I said it I heard the sound of disbelief in my voice. He closed his eyes and I left the room the tears spilling hot on my face in the elevator, so many you could smell them. By the time the doors opened on the first floor they were gone. I walked back out to the hot air and the traffic sounds, past the nurses having their smoke break, past the world to my car. All those people unaware that this man was dying. This man whose life affected so many.

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