THE NEIGHBORS (PART XVI – “The Thurstons”)

APRIL 23, 2024 – Next door to the Benzians lived Harlan Thurston and his wife, and next to them, Harlan’s brother, Clayton and his wife and son, Gladys and Charlie. If I was ever inside Harlan’s house, it would’ve been ever so briefly—seconds, maybe—and in the company of my mother in connection with some fund-raising effort that she and Harlan had been working on; perhaps Mother dropping off a packet full of contributions she’d collected.

Apart from their big gracious house and grounds—so big they hired out the lawn work—and their late model Buick Electra, Harlan and his wife were a complete mystery to me. He always wore a dark suit and a hat like the one worn by the really old man who rented garage space from Judge Green. His wife always had very white hair. They had sufficient resources to establish a foundation, the main purpose of which was to provide college scholarships to worthy graduates of Anoka High School.

Harlan looked so much older than Clayton that I thought they were a father-and-son team. Only after Clayton died was I informed that no, they were brothers. Gladys and Clayton were my younger sister’s God parents, which in retrospect was a bit surprising. As most of the town’s citizens, the Thurstons were active members of Zion Lutheran Church on the other side of town—the “cool” Lutheran congregation, as opposed to the “ultra conservative” Lutheran church on our side of town. (I’d later learn that the latter was part of the Missouri Synod.) Though Dad and his parents, being 100% Swedish, were nominal Lutherans, Mother, who was a protestant from “out East” was an Episcopalian, and therefore, so were my sisters and I. In retrospect, I’m surprised that Mother recruited Jenny’s Godparents from outside our church, though her choice certainly reflected the strength of her friendship with Gladys.

In any event, I remember well the moment I learned of the untimely and shocking death of Jenny’s godfather. I was in the front seat of a neighbor’s car—you’d think I’d remember whose, but I can’t—on the way to school. The car was packed with kids, and for some reason we weren’t walking. We weren’t talking much either, after the neighbor-driver informed us that Charlie’s dad had died overnight in the hospital. As I understood it, he’d gone in for a fairly routine operation and had come out dead. I remember being totally shocked and overwhelmingly sad for Gladys, who was such a nice person, and Charlie, who was younger than my oldest sister but older than my next oldest sister.

Charlie, like his mom, was a nice person and never loud or out of control. When he got his driver’s license, though, the otherwise reserved Charlie Thurston shocked the entire neighborhood by acquiring a super-duper juiced-up, souped-up street rod, with a jacked-up back end and shiny hubcaps. It was so out of character for the bookish kid, I figured that maybe it was his way of expressing continuing sorrow over his father’s early death.

Because of our age difference, I never hung out with Charlie, but whenever I encountered him, he greeted me with a friendly smile and rewarded me with meaningful conversation. One day when I was home on vacation from college, we ran into each other on the street when I was walking by and he was checking the mailbox. He invited me back to the house for an extended conversation, and I readily accepted.

There was no sign of the street rod, which typically had been parked in front of the house beyond the bend in the 100-yard driveway that sloped ever so gently back from Rice Street. Charlie was genuinely interested in my college experience, particularly what I’d chosen for a major and what other courses I was taking. Naturally, I was curious about his own course of study and wasn’t surprised to learn he was working on a master’s degree in library science. This disclosure further highlighted Charlie’s uncharacteristic ownership of a street rod.

Our conversation lasted long enough for a beer—Old Milwaukee, to be exact. I remember the brand, because when Charlie asked if I wanted a beer, I oafishly asked, “What kind?” Still slightly self-conscious over our age difference, I was trying to sound sophisticated, but as the question left my lips, I realized how gauche the question was—like asking someone, “What are you serving?” when invited to dinner.

In any event, Charlie didn’t betray any negative reaction. Spontaneously and nonchalantly, he said, “Old Mil.” Yet, again, revealing my lack of social intelligence if not my lack of social grace, I said, “Old Milwaukee? Sure!” to show that I knew what “Old Mil” meant.

Because Mother was a good friend of Gladys, or “Gladdie,” as she was called, I spent a lot of time in Thurstons’ gracious home with the beautiful view of the river. Often present was a foreign exchange student hosted by the family. I was fascinated by these people from abroad, and in my parochial mind the fact that Thurstons would invite into their home for a whole year some exotic person who spoke a foreign language and came from across one ocean or another greatly elevated the status of these neighbors.

One morning in the winter of 1962 we heard the awful news that rocked our town. The night before, four prominent Anokans, including Gladys Thurston, had been involved in a horrible car wreck. Also in the vehicle were Peggy Delong, Mary Helen Cutter, both close friends of Gladys, and Leeds Cutter, Mary Helen’s oldest of eight children. Leeds was the shining light of his generation. He was driving on that fateful trip to a concert of the Minneapolis Symphony at Northrop Auditorium on the University of Minnesota Campus, 20 miles southeast of Anoka. On the return trip, a drunk driver crossed the centerline and collided head-on with the Anokans. Leeds was killed. Peggy Delong from across town and mother of three, was also killed. Mary Helen and Gladys were severely injured. For weeks, I remember, after being released from the hospital, Gladys wore a neck brace.

Yet Gladys seemed invincible, or perhaps because of the accident and her irrepressible cheer and positive outlook, she made herself invincible. I’d always respected her, but after the tragic collision I had real admiration for her. She would live to be 94.

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson