APRIL 27, 2024 – (Cont.) Dr. Borrud, his wife Shirley and their three daughters—Lori, Aleta, and Becky—replaced the Spurzems in the Tudor house. The stolid Norwegian doctor, a founding member of the American Academy of Family Medicine, was just 10 days older than my dad. Recruited to the (modern) clinic on Main Street at the east end of town, Dr. Borrud and his family came all the way from Williston at the west end of North Dakota.
My first encounter with Borruds occurred during the summer after my freshman year of college. I happened to be striding past the big yard when Aleta was walking down the long, shaded driveway. She presented a stunning image to a 19-year-old male and was within a suitable proximity of the street to permit said male to utter a socially appropriate greeting. The remarkably attractive girl with intelligent blue eyes and wavy, long bright blond hair looked as if she’d walked straight out of a Norwegian tourism poster. She responded favorably to the college boy’s salutation, and upon reciting her name, revealed that she was, in fact, of Norwegian heritage (“rud,” I knew, was quintessentially Norwegian).
What followed was a long conversation that eventually led all the way back up the driveway and into the Tudor house that had for so long piqued college boy’s curiosity. Aleta’s mother greeted the two young people at the doorway, and fortunately for college boy, he was sufficiently presentable to be afforded an invitation into the house and a seat in the elegantly appointed living room with its splendid river view.
As it turned out, Aleta was two years the college boy’s junior—approaching her last year of high school as college boy was about to enter his second year of college—but even as the “wise fool” he was about to become as a college “sophomore,” he was schooled enough to discern that Aleta’s knock-out looks were exceeded by her brains. Early in the conversation she’d mentioned that her older sister would be a senior at St. Olaf and going on to medical school, but as Aleta revealed her own genuine sophistication, college boy began to wonder if he’d heard things correctly. Maybe it was she, Aleta, who was on the threshold of her final year of college, followed by medical school.
The two love birds (into which they would soon enough be transformed) wound up spending lots of time together in those waning days of summer—and during college boy’s all-too rare and brief returns to Rice Street over the following year. In the interim, phone calls were sprinkled among a regular exchange of lengthy letters, and there the now ancient love story, as it were, will be left.
Decades later, college alumnus learned that his one-time amorous interest had gone to Smith, then medical school at Duke, followed by a career at Mayo before retiring and going into politics—none of which would have surprised college boy or college alumnus.
In subsequent years my parents and Aleta’s socialized together occasionally. Shirley was the more outgoing of the Borrud couple. Dr. Borrud was the polar opposite of Doc Spurzem—reserved but amiable; always welcoming and never offensive.
Dad told me the story of a dinner at our house following the Borruds’ return from a trip to Scotland. The get-together had been Mother’s idea when the two women had met on the street one day: a nice meal at our house followed by a chance to see Dr. Borrud’s “great videos” (according to Shirley) of Scotland.
Dad was very much up for the “great videos.” He himself had taken lots of trip movies/videos and the results reflected technical mastery over camera use and editing. Plus, he had seen the professional quality, full-length 16mm sound movies that Mother and Dad’s good friend Dr. Martin (a neighbor up river a few blocks off Benton Street) had produced featuring the Martins’ trips to India and the Far East. In other words, Dad had developed high standards for DYI trip movies and videos.
Dr. Borrud had a nice house, inside and out, and maintained a beautiful yard. His gait, attire, language and demeanor—all were refined. By all accounts he was highly skilled as a physician, and not to be underestimated, Chester “Chet” Borrud was Norwegian, which, Dad joked, was the next best thing to being Swedish.
But according to Dad, Dr. Borrud’s laudable qualities hadn’t transferred to the operation of a video camera.
Dad’s account of the evening’s entertainment was punctuated with so much cachinnation that by the end of the narrative he could barely get his words out. For starters, Dad explained, Dr. Borrud couldn’t acquire a firm grip on the (huge) camera. Constantly striving for a comfortable position, he kept swinging the machine this way and that until Dad at least, felt as if he were looking not at Scotland but at the grounds of the State Fair Midway from a high flying twirly top ride. For panned shots, which apparently were far too frequent, Dr. Borrud moved the camera at the speed of light, blurring images beyond recognition.
“But then came the best part—or the worst,” said Dad, “depending on your point of view.” By this time Dad was nearly in hysterics as he related the video show. “He’d forgotten to turn the camera off before slinging the strap over his shoulder while the tour group was walking up to some castle. Instead of seeing the . . .” Dad interrupted himself with more laughter as he reached for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, then continued. “. . . Instead of seeing the castle, we got to watch the sidewalk—for the 10 or 15 minutes it took them to get to the castle!”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Dad laugh so hard. “And the thing of it was that Chet didn’t fast-forward the video or joke about the sidewalk interlude or apologize for it or say anything about it—and neither did Shirley or your mother! They all watched as if this were a perfectly normal video.” Dad was laughing with all stops pulled.
By this time I was laughing hard too, as much over Dad’s own laughter as over his description of Dr. Borrud’s “great video” of the Scottish sidewalk.
Dr. Borrud died peacefully in his sleep at age 90. He outlived Dad by just under three years, and thus it could be said that as between the Swede and the Norwegian, the Norwegian got the last laugh—or at least got to laugh last.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
