APRIL 19, 2024 – In the enormous house on the other side of the Ridge (Roecker, Fenwick, Snyder) house first lived—during my life on Rice—the Perkins, followed by the Tobins, and the Joslyns. I spent lots of time in the house, especially under the Joslyn regime, since they had four sons, three of whom were my regular chums. The Tobins had six kids, five of whom were girls, one of whom was my first sometime girlfriend—with letters from her that I saved to prove it. The Perkins had two kids, “Butch,” who was in high school before I was even in school, and a daughter, Robin, my age.
Everyone was scared of “Butch” Perkins, mostly because he was big and loud—at least on the few occasions where he made a cameo appearance. Robin and I hung out a lot, mostly because our moms hung out a lot. Neither of Robin’s parents was a shrinking violet and neither was Robin. Her dad was some high-powered businessman, and Robin’s mom, “Mae” was, well, a very outspoken mom, with a voice as big and opinionated as her physique. Dad said she reminded him of Mae West, and when I asked who Mae West was, he told me she was a movie star from back in the day and did his impression of her. It made me laugh—and realize that he was making fun of both Mae Perkins and Mae West. Given how Mae Perkins commanded whatever space she occupied, including outdoors, she was the kind of character who invited Dad’s mimicry.
When we played inside Robin’s house, she was decidedly the boss of us two, and when she played at our house, she was perfectly comfortable sustaining that well-established role. The best example of her bossy ways was one day when she decided what we should play and who should play which role: “Let’s play church,” she said out of left field. “I’ll be God and you can be Jesus.” As God, she then told me what to do, and as Jesus, I pretty much followed her directions.
About the time we finished kindergarten, Robin’s family moved to an impressive house and grounds on Lake Minnetonka. Mother, Jenny, and I visited Mae and Robin several warm summer afternoons. Their place reminded me of some of the plantations we visited on our family road trip down South during Christmas vacation in December 1959.
Later on a Sunday afternoon one cold, overcast early spring day our family escorted the Cregos down to the Perkins’ house on Minnetonka. The Cregos were Cuban refugees sponsored by our church. The parents didn’t speak a lick of English, and the kids, Maria, a fifth-grader, and Greg, some years older, had about 10 words of English between them. The dad, also named Greg, had been a salesman before the revolution but had been marginalized and ostracized until the parents decided to flee to America. The visit with Perkins had been instigated by Mother and Dad in the hope that Mr. Perkins could see his way to hiring Senor Crego. I have no idea what business Mr. Perkins was in or in what capacity the Cuban would’ve worked. For the visit to the Perkins, Senor Crego looked quite dapper, in black trousers, a stylish gray blazer, and black tie. I don’t think the job interview, such as it was, led to employment by Mr. Perkins.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
