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  “I can move my hand!” I yelled.

  The nurses came running, followed by Dr. Bevis. Triumphantly, I demonstrated my new skill.

  “Can she really do it?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes,” said the nurse.

  “Hooray!” yelled Tommy.

  Dr. Bevis beamed.

  No Olympic athlete ever felt more exultant at winning a medal than I did over moving the fingers on one hand.

  Slowly, I regained the use of my muscles. First my fingers moved, then my arms. Next I could sit up, and then I was able to feed myself.

  A month later, I was transferred back to the Sheltering Arms where I was placed in a room with four girls my age. A common enemy creates strong bonds, and Dorothy, Alice, Shirley, and Renée soon became my best friends. They knew what it was like to battle polio; my friends back home did not.

  Visitors were allowed on Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons. The one hundred miles between my home in Austin and the hospital in Minneapolis made Wednesdays out of the question, but my parents came every Sunday, regardless of the weather or road conditions.

  I was the only girl in the room who got visitors. Dorothy’s farm family couldn’t leave their chores long enough to drive several hours each way; Renée’s parents and Shirley’s also lived too far away to come.

  And then there was Alice. She had been at the Sheltering Arms for ten years. She had gotten polio before Sister Kenny developed her treatments, and as a result she had shriveled arms and legs as well as the condition known as “dropfoot,” which prevented her from standing. When Alice’s parents learned that she was permanently disabled, they realized they couldn’t care for her and the rest of their children, too, so at the age of three Alice had become a ward of the state. She pretended not to mind, but when I heard Alice’s story, I knew there were worse things than being paralyzed.

  My parents soon included my roommates in their visits. Dad took home movies of us, then showed the movies the next Sunday. Mother brought surprises and treats for each girl. My brother, Art, came from college and joked with everyone. The other girls looked forward to my family’s visits as much as I did.

  Friends and neighbors in Austin, hearing about the polio girls who didn’t get company, loaded my parents with potato chips and peanuts, brownies and cookies, all of which we stashed under my bed.

  Before long I got a wheelchair and learned to push myself around. I named the wheelchair Silver after the horse in the “Lone Ranger.” To the dismay of the staff, I learned to make Silver rear on his hind legs. I raced down the hall as fast as I could, then slammed on the brakes, causing the small front wheels to lift off the floor while I balanced on the large rear ones.

  The nurses warned me that this was dangerous, but each time the other kids asked me to do my trick, I waited until the grownups were out of sight and then tore down the hall and “popped a wheelie” in front of the door, where my roommates could see me and applaud.

  The wheelchair became my ticket to independence. After I learned to get into it and then back into bed by myself, I even passed out cookies in the dark, when we were supposed to be asleep.

  On my thirteenth birthday, I sat in Silver and blew out the candles on the chocolate cake that Mother had brought. I had only one wish: to walk by myself.

  My physical therapist, Miss Ballard, became my personal cheerleader, encouraging me to stretch and to work at my exercises. She believed I would walk someday, and her confidence made me believe it, too.

  The friendship of my roommates also sustained me. We often sang together after lights out at night. We told jokes and teased each other about boyfriends. Alice, Dorothy, Renée, and Shirley seemed like sisters, and the success of one of us became the success of all. When I got walking sticks and said goodbye to Silver, the other girls clapped. Even though none of them would ever get out of their wheelchairs, my progress was a victory against our mutual foe.

  Every Sunday Mother brought my homework, so in addition to attending the hospital school for two hours each day, I studied on my own, trying to keep up with my class in Austin. Between school-work and physical therapy, my days were full. But not so full that I didn’t get homesick once in a while. I especially missed Grandpa, who lived with my family. I missed B.J., too, although he wrote me funny letters, which I read aloud to the other girls. His letters were signed with a muddy paw print.

  In February, five months after I moved in with Dorothy, Alice, Renée, and Shirley, I was discharged from the Sheltering Arms. By then I could walk a few steps by myself.

  I continued the physical therapy at home, lying on the dining room table while Mother stretched my muscles. I practiced walking, trying each time to go one minute longer.

  In April, still using my walking sticks, I returned to school. Eventually I walked alone well enough that I no longer needed the sticks.

  The experience of being paralyzed and uprooted from my family changed me forever and continues to affect me now, half a century later. Polio taught me perseverance. I rejoiced over minor accomplishments and learned that success can come one small step at a time. Because I know that life might change or even end without warning, I appreciate each day. I cherish family and friends, and try to make the most of my time and talents.

  { 3 }

  High School Days

  While I recovered from polio, I read a lot. The summer after I got home from the hospital, I devoured an entire set of encyclopedias, from A to Z. I discovered the Louisa May Alcott books and read Little Women many times. Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster became a favorite.

  I had always loved to read, although I don’t remember being read to as a child. When I was growing up, I never saw my parents read for pleasure, yet I regularly sneaked a flashlight into bed and read with my head under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep.

  On bright summer days, I sat on the couch with my nose in a book until Mother insisted that I “go outside and get some fresh air.” Then I stretched out on the grass or in our hammock and read some more.

  I remember only one teacher who read aloud to the class. When I was in fourth grade, Miss Beck read us The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. I hung on every word and begged her to read more than one chapter each day. Miss Beck didn’t give in to my pleas, but she did encourage me to read other books. My school had no library, so she suggested that I borrow books from the public library.

  I took her advice, checked out a copy of The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and finished it ahead of the class.

  I became a regular visitor at the library. My parents let me read whatever I brought home. The only time they disapproved of my reading was when I used my allowance to buy comic books. Mother thought they were a waste of money, but she never forbade me to read them. My favorites were Little Lulu and Archie and His Friends.

  I loved the library so much that I even played library at home. Each of my childhood Raggedy Ann books has a yellowed 3 x 5 card taped on the inside front cover. On the card, written in my childish cursive writing, is the title of the book and lines for the borrower’s name and the due date. However, none of those lines were ever filled in. I pretended to be a librarian, but I couldn’t bear to lend out my cherished books.

  After polio, I read even more because my weakened muscles prevented me from swimming, bike-riding, bowling, and other activities that my friends enjoyed. Most people, including my family, did not yet have television. Radio, movies, board games, and sports provided entertainment.

  Although I loved to read, the Dog Newspaper had temporarily ended my hope of becoming a writer. That dream did not surface again until I was in high school.

  In my junior year, I signed up to work on the Austin Sentinel, my school newspaper. My first creative writing was published there. While the other kids wrote teacher interviews and articles about school games, band concerts, and field trips, I wrote an article about how buttons were trying to take over the world. It warned of an elaborate plot for buttons to pop off clothing at important
events, all perfectly timed and coordinated by the button leaders.

  I will forever be grateful to the Sentinel’s advisor for publishing my button piece. Because it was so different from what the school newspaper usually printed, it created a stir. Once again I received congratulations on my writing, and this time the feedback made me think seriously of becoming a writer.

  This was not a common goal for a girl growing up in the Midwest in the 1950s. I had never met an author. Since we had no TV, I’d never seen author interviews. Writing instruction in school consisted of lessons in grammar and sentence construction, not creative writing.

  Girls were expected to marry and raise families. After my button article was published, I wondered if it might be possible to do both. Could I be a wife and mother and an author? I wasn’t sure. My mother had never worked outside our home; only one of my friends had a mother with a job.

  Besides writing for the Sentinel, I volunteered to help with the school yearbook, the Austinian. There wasn’t much artistic writing involved, but I often stayed after school to do extra work—helping with layouts or writing photo captions. I even sold advertising to local businesses.

  Toward the end of my junior year, I had to choose whether to be on the staff of the Sentinel or the Austinian during my senior year. I chose the Austinian because I thought I had a good chance of being named editor. What an honor that would be! Because of my hard work and dedication, I felt I deserved the position, and I looked forward to the day when the announcement would be made.

  I rushed into the room that day and read the posted announcement. Editor: Gary Eppen. Associate Editor: Peg Schulze.

  After I congratulated my friend Gary, I tried to figure out why he was selected. I decided that he must be more competent and smarter than I was, as well as a better writer.

  Many years later, when I returned to my high school as a guest speaker, I confided my long-ago disappointment to a former teacher who had come to hear my talk. She told me, “But you could never have been the yearbook editor. Back then they always chose a boy.”

  Indignation streaked through me like a shooting star.

  Perhaps Gary would have been picked anyway—certainly he did a fine job as editor—but it was so unfair. No matter how hard I worked or how good my work was, I could never have been chosen as the editor just because I was a girl.

  The sting of not being selected was soothed when I landed my first summer job. Except for a few evenings spent baby-sitting, I had never earned any money, but I was determined to collect my own pay that summer.

  All my classmates, plus the graduating seniors and the college students who were home for the summer, were also looking for summer work, so the competition was fierce. Who would hire a girl with no experience and no skills?

  Instead of reading the Help Wanted ads, as my friends were doing, I thought about where I would most like to work. I decided that since I wanted to be a writer, the logical job for me would be at the local newspaper.

  Gathering up my courage, I walked into the offices of the Austin Daily Herald and said I was seeking summer employment. To my amazement, one of the newspaper’s owners, Geraldine Rasmussen, agreed to interview me. Mrs. Rasmussen asked why I thought I was qualified to work at the Herald.

  “I’m not,” I admitted, “but I wrote for the school newspaper, and I’m on the staff of the yearbook. I like to read and write.”

  She asked for some personal references. I gulped. Except for my parents, I couldn’t think of a single person who would recommend me for a job of any kind.

  “What about your English teacher,” Mrs. Rasmussen suggested, “or the teacher who supervises the Sentinel?”

  I gave both names.

  “Wait here,” she said. She went to the next room, and I knew she was making a phone call. When she returned she asked, “Have you ever done any proof-reading?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “We always proofread the Sentinel before it gets printed, and I helped proof-read the Austinian.”

  She nodded. “I need someone to proofread the Herald,” she said. “When can you start?”

  “Me?” I asked. “You want to hire me?”

  She managed not to laugh at my astonishment. “Your teachers recommend you highly.”

  She told me what hours I would work, and what my pay would be. Elated, I agreed.

  I had a job! And not just any old job; I was working at the Austin Daily Herald. A newspaper! My feet skimmed the sidewalk as I raced home with the news.

  I never found out which of my teachers Mrs. Rasmussen called or what they told her. I can only marvel that she trusted an inexperienced sixteen-year-old to do a job that many adults couldn’t handle.

  My duty as proofreader was to read the entire newspaper before it went to press and make sure there weren’t any mistakes. I read every word of the news stories, the feature stories, the garden club announcements, the classified ads, the sports page, and the obituaries.

  I read carefully, with a dictionary close by. I learned a lot about my town that summer, and I also learned the importance of accuracy.

  For the first three weeks of the summer, I spotted every error in time to have it corrected. Then one day I missed a mistake, and it got published.

  When I arrived at work the next day, Mrs. Rasmussen was waiting for me. She handed me seven telephone messages—all pointing out that in yesterday’s paper the word accused was spelled wrong. A copy of the paper lay open on my desk, with the error circled in red. Accussed, it said, right there on page six

  I knew there was only one s in accused, even without using the dictionary. How could I have missed something so obvious?

  Humiliated, I apologized for my carelessness and promised to do better. Then I held my breath and stared at my shoes, expecting to be fired.

  To my vast relief, Mrs. Rasmussen smiled. “Only one mistake in over three weeks is extraordinary,” she told me. “Keep up the good work.”

  I gaped at her. “I get to stay?”

  “You’re the best proofreader I’ve had in years,” she replied. “I’ll be sorry when school starts and you have to leave. I hope you’ll want to come back next summer.”

  Praise is a far better motivator than shame. Because I wanted Geraldine Rasmussen’s high opinion of my work, I diligently read and reread every word of the Austin Daily Herald each day, frequently checking my dictionary. I was determined never, ever to let another mistake slip past my watchful eyes.

  The paper was perfect for the rest of the summer.

  { 4 }

  Commercials, Cats, and Carl

  My senior year blew past like dry leaves on a windy day. Gary and I worked well together, laughed a lot, and were both proud of the 1954 Austinian.

  By April, with graduation fast approaching, my classmates and I began looking for jobs again. For some, it would now be permanent work. For me, it was another summer job, until I started college.

  I planned to call Mrs. Rasmussen and ask for the proofreading job back, but a teacher told me that the local radio station, KAUS, needed someone to write commercials. The station manager had called the school to ask about potential writers, and the teacher thought I would be a good candidate for the job.

  I made an appointment for Saturday morning. I ironed my white blouse and dark green skirt, polished my saddle shoes, curled my hair, and tried to look more confident than I felt.

  The only thing I remember about the job interview is my excitement at being inside a radio station. This was even better than a newspaper office!

  The manager must have asked me questions and I must have answered them, but our conversation has fled my memory. I do remember that before I left KAUS that day, I had agreed to work for two hours after school and three hours every Saturday morning until I graduated. Then I would work full-time all summer until I left in September for the University of Minnesota.

  My friends were bowled over by the news. Most of them had jobs scooping ice cream or lifeguarding at the community pool or taking t
ickets at the Paramount Theater. I loved telling people that I worked as a writer at the radio station. It sounded so sophisticated.

  At KAUS, I acquired skills that would serve me well for the rest of my life. I learned to write quickly. The station used a lot of commercials every day, so there was a constant demand for new material.

  I also learned to make something out of nothing. The salesmen who sold radio ads to local businesses often didn’t tell me much about what was being advertised. It was common for them to hand me a scrap of paper on which a few words were scrawled.

  One note, written on the back of a paper napkin, said, “Sale shoes Wall Sat.”

  This meant that Wallace’s Department Store would have a sale on shoes, starting Saturday. It also meant that I was expected to write words so clever and compelling about shoes that everyone in the KAUS listening audience would rush to be at Wallace’s Saturday morning, cash in hand.

  I needed a constant stream of fresh ideas, and I invented a technique to help generate them. I called this trick “Five Minutes of Nonstop Writing.” I still use it and recommend it to students.

  I discovered that if I wrote as quickly as possible, without stopping, for at least five minutes, I always thought of an idea that could become a commercial. I bought a kitchen timer and took it to work. I would set the timer for five minutes, and as soon as it began ticking, my fingers flew across the typewriter keys. Sometimes I began by typing, “I don’t know what to say; I don’t know what to say,” but no matter how desperate I was for words, I would not let myself quit typing until that timer rang.

  It worked every time. When the five minutes ended, I’d have the germ of an idea that could be worked into a thirty-second or sixty-second commercial.

  I wrote about cars, mattresses, clothing, and appliances. I wrote about mortgages and pet food. I made up jingles and invented dialogue.

  One ad for a sale on shampoo began like this: “Here is an important warning from the Poetry Association of KAUS.