It was thanks to our religion that we had exposure to the world at large as kids. Every year my grandfather would organize a trip to the Holy Land for his church, and we went to Israel several times. We’d usually combine those trips with visits to other locations, so one year we went to Egypt and another year to Germany.
When we went to Israel, we’d bring packs of gum and pens and pencils to hand out to the kids in poor areas. They’d see us coming, and within a few seconds we’d have a huge crowd around us. Many of them had never seen gum before. The 1970s were a very tense time in the Middle East, and even as young children we were aware of that. When we traveled from Egypt to Israel we went through heavily armed checkpoints and were all searched. The sight of men with rifles everywhere and the sense of constant danger made me appreciate our life back home.
My parents and grandparents often quoted the passage from Luke, “To whom much is given, much is expected.” And they showed us the world to give the passage meaning. It became an enduring theme of my life—the idea that I was so blessed and that I had to have high expectations for myself and give back as much as I could.
• • •
Even as a child, I tried to stand up for myself. I was an early reader, and my mom will tell you that she doesn’t even know how I learned to read so young. But by the time I went to kindergarten in the fall, I was quite good. On the first day of school our teacher, Mrs. Grosslein, divided the class into kids who could read and kids who couldn’t, and she put me in the group of kids who couldn’t read. All morning I kept raising my hand, saying, “But Mrs. Grosslein, I know how to read.” And she’d tell me to keep quiet. Finally I went up to her desk and cried, very upset, “Mrs. Grosslein, I know how to read!”
She hushed me and said, “No, no, we’ll just keep you where you are.”
I ran all the way home crying and slammed the door behind me, screaming, “I know how to read! I know how to read!”
I can still remember the agony of that experience—being able to do something and being told you couldn’t. My intense reaction was a precursor to the way I always pushed myself to achieve. I never wanted to be told I couldn’t accomplish something. So in a way, maybe I have Mrs. Grosslein partly to thank for some of my later fiery determination.
My best friend growing up—and to this day—was Molly Kinney, who lived ten houses away. We both lived on the Mississippi River. Her father was a doctor and she was one of six kids. We became best friends in first grade after we both showed up for the school photo wearing the exact same blue-and-white dress.
Like I said, I was chubby as a kid. Molly was skinny. My mom used to keep our kitchen stocked with all kinds of goodies, although she always had her eye on me. “Do not touch those doughnuts,” she’d warn. Then she’d leave the house and Molly and I would sneak in and eat a few doughnuts. When my mom came home and saw they were missing, I’d blame Molly—and Molly always went along with it. I was happy about that. The only problem is, I kept getting fatter and Molly kept getting skinnier.
I just loved doughnuts and pastry. Hans Bakery was right on the way to school, and I’d stop and get a doughnut or an elephant ear, a puff pastry confection, huge and flat in the shape of an elephant’s ear, flaky and sweet.
At the time I was a huge fan of Fran Tarkenton, the famous Vikings quarterback. I knew he didn’t sign many autographs, but when we went to Vikings games I’d wait in the parking lot in my snowsuit, hoping for a chance. One Sunday as dozens of us were swarming around Tarkenton and his car, he announced, pointing at me, “I’ll do one more autograph—for the chubby little girl with the pigtails.” I was ecstatic and didn’t even care that he called me chubby because I had his autograph—and still do. I’ve interviewed Tarkenton several times on Fox, and we always chuckle at the autograph story.
My mom had me on a diet constantly. She instructed my babysitter, future congresswoman Michele Bachmann (who was Michele Amble at the time), not to let me drink any sugary sodas, but Michele did anyway, and I loved her for that. Michele had long, straight brown hair, which I envied. Many years later she joked in an interview, “It was my Cher period.”
Our house was right on the Mississippi River, which made for a glorious childhood. We had wonderful times boating, but there was always a sense of danger because the current was swift. We were warned about how Grandpa’s brother had drowned in a river in southern Minnesota when he was in his early twenties. But we’d go out as a family on a big pontoon, stopping at small islands to eat picnic lunches. Sometimes Dad would let us float along in inner tubes while he followed us in the boat. Sometimes we fished. I was proud of being able to bait a hook and fish all on my own. We also dug for clams and hunted for agates. Agates were almost impossible to find—like a needle in a haystack. It was a huge sense of accomplishment to find one. We made many happy memories during those summers. Today I love sharing those simple pleasures with my kids, and take them back to Minnesota to do that—preferably in the summertime when it’s not twenty below zero! We water-ski, look for agates, and go horseback riding and fishing. Making s’mores and playing bingo are just as fulfilling, if not more so, than playing games on an iPad.
Anoka was small, but in terms of family and community it was huge. All my relatives lived less than a mile away. My parents knew everyone. We’d have big potluck suppers at the church, and everyone would bring a dish—meatballs, tuna casserole, Jell-O—simple foods. I remember that every person got accolades for their dish, and people glowed with the praise. It was a warm experience of extended family. When I talked in the Miss America pageant about growing up with values, I meant it not as an abstract idea but as a real-life experience that was embedded in my upbringing.
Of course, being Swedish was a big deal growing up. My grandparents still spoke Swedish to each other, especially when they didn’t want the kids to understand what they were saying. I loved the lilting sound of the language. I always felt proud to have this heritage that was me right down to the genes. It was something no one could ever take away. Our lives were influenced in many ways by Swedish culture, but mostly it was the food, especially around the Christmas holidays. That’s when you knew you were Swedish!
Maybe the one time it wasn’t so great was when the lutefisk dinners started cropping up on the family schedule. In Minnesota, you can find a lutefisk dinner every night of the week in December at some area church. Lutefisk is a Swedish “delicacy” that you can only get at a butcher shop around Christmastime. It’s actually cod, except that they soak it in lye for several days—that’s right, lye. The stuff you make soap with. My mom bought it at the butcher’s shop and kept it in the garage until Christmas Eve. Number one, to keep it cold. Number two, because it stunk so bad there wasn’t enough Lysol on the planet to deodorize the refrigerator once the lutefisk had been inside. It had to be baked in a foil pan because it would blacken any real dish. When it came out, it wobbled on the plate like jellyfish, with the bones still in it. We’d douse it in melted butter and a gluelike white sauce—all to try to hide the taste. By high school I had finally acquired a taste for it—kind of.
My mom always cooked Christmas Eve dinner for the whole family because Grandpa and Grandma Hyllengren were so busy at church. Meatballs with a light brown gravy, mashed potatoes, pickled herring, broccoli mold with a creamy mushroom sauce over the top, cooked carrots, lutefisk, and of course, lefse, a soft potato pancake cooked thin like a crepe. You’d roll it up and put butter and sugar in it. For dessert there was an impressive display of cookies: frosted roll-out cookies in Christmas shapes that we would help make (messy!); cinnamon thumbs; green cornflake wreaths with two cinnamon candies as the ribbon; krumkake, a rolled waffle cookie; and spritz with jelly filling. The adults drank glögg out of mugs. It was a very potent concoction of spiced wine and spirits.
After we ate and before we opened presents, we performed our own Christmas pageant. We’d play Christmas carols on our instruments, and then we’d do a N
ativity play where we’d take turns playing Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds. (Baby Jesus was a doll.) We were tired and overexcited by that point, so inevitably a fight would break out and someone would end up running crying to their room. Then my parents would have to settle us down and bring us back together to open presents. We opened presents from each other on Christmas Eve and presents from Santa on Christmas morning. Presents from Santa were never wrapped, and years later I figured out why. There was no way my parents could get it all done with cooking the food, driving us back and forth to services, and Dad returning to sing in the choir for the 11:00 p.m. service. I’ve kept the tradition of not wrapping Santa’s gifts. I love how it saves time!
In spite of the tears, I also came to treasure the tradition of a Christmas Eve program at home, and still do it with my family every year. Like all children, my kids are not so enthusiastic—they want to get to the presents. But it’s a lovely tradition, and one I know they’ll remember as meaningful their whole lives.
• • •
If faith was the centerpiece of our lives, music was a close second. My mom played the piano. My dad sang in the church choir and did solos. He had a beautiful voice, and he also played the piccolo and the flute. My grandmother played the violin. Eventually all four of us kids learned musical instruments. Kris played the cello, and my brothers played trumpet and saxophone. Even as a very little girl, I sat at the piano and plunked on the keys. (Ironically, my grandfather had no musical talent whatsoever. Sometimes when he was officiating at a service, he’d forget to turn off his microphone, and the whole congregation could hear him sing. It was awful, but also funny.) When I was six, I begged my parents to let me learn to play the piano. That was fine with them because they believed that learning to play an instrument was a good way for kids to develop confidence and self-discipline.
My parents took me to a piano teacher who lived just up the road. She took one look at my hands and said, “I’m sorry, but Gretchen will never be a good piano player. Her hands are just too small.” I was so disappointed I almost started crying. She suggested we go up to Fred Moore Junior High School and see if I could find another instrument. My dad took me because my mom was under the weather that day (a rare occurrence for her). The music teacher, Ken Davenport, looked around and by pure chance handed me a violin. I was thrilled—although the violin was almost as big as me. When I got home with my big new violin I ran up to Mom’s bedroom to show her. I was beyond excited, but the instrument really was too big for me. Soon after, Mr. Davenport found a quarter-size violin that was just the right size.
Someone once said that finding the right instrument is like falling in love. That’s exactly what happened to me. The first time my fingers slid along the strings, I felt an emotional charge, a happiness that was new and exciting. My parents asked Mr. Davenport if he would teach me, and at first he wasn’t sure he had the time. He put them off, saying, “We’ll see.” But when they took me over to play with him one day, he couldn’t let me go. He kept saying, “Just a little longer.” He was taken with me, just as I was taken with the violin. He finally agreed to work with me, but he told my parents, “She’s going to outgrow me before long.” I started going for lessons every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
I was full to the brim in my love of music. It felt familiar and right to me—a way to express my personality and emotions that was uniquely my own and that I could control. I mastered the basics very quickly, in part because I was able to sight-read the music, which is a gift. I was bursting with confidence, wanting to play for people every chance I got.
After I’d been playing for three months, as the Christmas season approached, I boldly went up to our church choir director, Donna Legrid. “Can I play violin with the choir?” I asked.
She looked down at me in surprise. “Didn’t you just start playing?”
“Yes,” I said with my six-year-old bravado, “but I know how to play.”
So I played “Are You Weary, Little Donkey?” with the church choir for the Christmas services. That Christmas I also made my first recording—a cassette of Christmas carols for my dad, with my mom accompanying me on the piano.
I had been studying with Mr. Davenport for only a few months when he took me to play for his junior high orchestra. I’m sure it was not a pleasant experience for the students to have a little girl held up to them as an example. They probably thought, “Who is this squirt showing us up?” When Mr. Davenport told them that I was going to be a guest soloist at their concert, I doubt if they were so happy, but I was oblivious. I was just excited about playing for an audience. I performed a Handel sonata, third and fourth movements, on my little violin. And the applause thrilled me.
About that time Mr. Davenport had me start studying with his daughter, Jeanette Simmons, who was a violinist. But it was becoming clear to him that I was progressing fast and needed a higher level of training. He got in touch with a friend who was a professional musician and arranged for me to see him to get his opinion. I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be an important turning point in my budding musical career.
Chapter 2
Little Girl in a Big Orchestra
The Flame Room was the best nightclub in Minneapolis. Set in the elegant Radisson Hotel, the Flame Room was meant to evoke an intimate New York City nightclub. This was the place where some of the greatest performers in America had played over the years—including Peggy Lee, Milton Berle, Sid Caesar, and Phyllis Diller. Nat King Cole once stopped by to perform with the house orchestra, the Golden Strings. Presidents and dignitaries visited the club, which was packed every night of the week.
And there I was. It was late evening, and the flickering candlelight bounced off of the flocked red tapestry wallpaper. I walked in from the lobby of the hotel, wearing a pretty dress with white tights, clutching my small violin case. I was seven years old.
Actually, it wasn’t the first time I’d been to the Flame Room. My family used to go to dinner there a couple times a year for fun. That’s where I first saw my uncle eat raw oysters, throwing his head back and swallowing them whole. I thought it was gross, but it made an impression on me. I remember too being mesmerized by the flaming entrees.
That night I was there with my parents and Ken Davenport, to play the violin for a very important person. Cliff Brunzell, who was known as a violin firebrand, had performed in the Minnesota Orchestra before he gave it up in the 1960s to lead the Golden Strings at the Flame Room. They were playing a lively jazz number as we came in the door, and I barely had time to glance at the stage before we were led through an entryway to a back room where we waited for Mr. Brunzell to finish his set. Mr. Davenport had asked him to listen to me play, and he’d agreed.
As we sat waiting, the music stopped, and moments later Mr. Brunzell swept into the room. He was tall and handsome, with a head of thick dark hair and a friendly smile.
He greeted me warmly. “Hello, young lady, I hear you’re going to play for me,” he said, with what seemed like genuine anticipation.
I grinned and stepped forward. At that time I didn’t know enough to be nervous or afraid. I’d been practicing my Bach Concerto in A minor with Mr. Davenport and Jeanette, and I was always happy to play for an audience.
Mr. Davenport motioned me to begin and I started to play, swept up in the music and feeling totally unselfconscious. I was vaguely aware that others from Brunzell’s string band began to fill the doorway listening. When I finished, everyone applauded, my mom hugged me, and I stood there grinning.
“How long have you been playing, Gretchen?” Brunzell asked.
“Almost a year,” I said proudly. “I’m in the second grade.”
“I see.” He studied me thoughtfully as Mr. Davenport explained that I had already surpassed his ability to teach me. I needed a higher level of instruction.
“Take her to Mary West,” Brunzell said. “She’s the best.”
Before I left
, Brunzell bent down and shook my hand. “It’s always a pleasure to hear another artist at work,” he said. I glowed. I was an artist!
Everyone told me that auditioning for Mary West was a big deal, as she was considered the top violin teacher in Minnesota. She taught at the University of Minnesota MacPhail Center for Music, in addition to having private students, and she was very choosy about her private students. I went to the university to audition for her. About a hundred students were crammed into the room when I auditioned. I played “Flight of the Bumblebee,” which is a very fast piece. Everyone clapped wildly, and Mary told my parents that she’d take me on as a private student.
Mary West would become the pivotal person in my life. She was a small, motherly woman of sixty, with big glasses and reddish brown hair that she didn’t wear in any particular style. She always wore comfortable clothes, like polyester pants with a long sweater and a big necklace. She was soft-spoken and very warm. Her big beaming smile gave me confidence.
I learned that before she married and settled down in Minnesota, Mary and her twin sister, Virginia, had been quite well known as the Drane Sisters, a traveling musical act. They even performed at the White House for Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt in 1938. But as Mary told me many times, she was a much better teacher than a performer. Teaching was her calling, and she would continue doing so until 2007, when she died at the age of ninety-seven, leaving behind thousands of devoted students who had been blessed to know her.
Mary had a gift for working with young children. She could spot potential and she knew how to nurture it in the youngest of us. In the hard-driven and competitive world of music, she was unfailingly gentle and encouraging. She had boundless patience, and in all the time I studied with her she never yelled at me or got frustrated. If I screwed up, she’d say softly, “It’s okay, baby. It’ll be better next time.” Her loving attention motivated me. She wanted to bring out the best in me, and I wanted to be the best to please her. I loved seeing her eyes light up when I played well. She was joyful, and being with her filled me with joy. Today, when I talk to other parents about how to motivate kids, I always think of Mary. Some people believe that the way to instill discipline and excellence is to be tough and uncompromising—to motivate through fear. I was blessed to have experienced another way. Through Mary, I learned that the greatest way to inspire young children is to tell them you believe in them and to make them feel as if they are the most special person in the world. When I was working with Mary, I always thought I was her favorite student, and I later heard from other students that they thought they were her favorites as well.
Getting Real Page 3