And Frank Is Still Alive

The Table

I was glad to discover that Frank was not dead. Not a given, since I hadn’t spoken to him in 30 years and by my tentative calculations he would be nearly 80.

Something about the current state of the world had me in a nostalgic mood, thinking back to when I was in my mid-twenties and a student at Luther Northwestern Seminary in St. Paul, studying to be a preacher. It was darn pleasant to be so certain of my place in the world and to discover that my classmates felt the same way. Then one of our professors wryly observed that seminary students seemed to be enjoying their second adolescence. Rude!

The third year of seminary studies was spent on internship in a parish. Excited over making the next step in my theological career, I drove up to the small town of Cook, Minnesota to take a gander at my new posting and meet Frank, the pastor who would be my supervisor. I can still remember walking up the steps into the sanctuary of Trinity Lutheran for the first time, looking about with what I deemed to be a cool, professional interest. My future supervisor was easy to pick out, being the only fellow in a dog collar. “You must be Sally! I could tell by your wide-eyed stare!”

My last name was Nelson then, so Frank decided to call me “Nels”. I think he knew it ruffled my feathers just a little bit. Such would be our relationship over the course of that year. Me, full of the dignity of my calling. Frank, calling me back to reality. It was a good year. A difficult year, a triumphant year, a challenging year.

It was, I think, what internship is supposed to be. Frank made it so with a kindness that prevailed over exasperation and with stunning generosity (He let me preach every other Sunday, though he was required to only allow me one Sunday a month. But he didn’t like to preach, so there’s that.) When I left Trinity, I was sad to say good-bye to many who had become friends and mentors. There was Russ, a loud and proud Italian who once confided in me that it was tough being in a congregation of Swedes: “You never know what they’re thinking!” I learned that the church secretary was indeed called Toots--her given name of Dolores was only to be used for the purpose of annoying her. The youthful and gangly director of Camp Vermilion had his office in the church, and the stouter, grayer fellow on his current Facebook page puzzled me a moment. There were many, many more who have, regretfully, faded from my memory.

Frank and I kept in touch for five or six years after I graduated and was ordained, but with moves and changes, I lost contact. Then life was so different I could hardly imagine that he would have an interest in reconnecting. But then life went absolutely upside down, so what the heck.

Thanks to the magic of Google, when the Covid Lockdown Blues had me remembering the bright moments of my youth, I was able to look Frank up and find an email address. I emailed him. He emailed back, asking for my phone number. A few days later I answered the phone and heard a familiar voice exclaiming, “Nels!”

Internship Salad

When my internship year was over, the congregation at Trinity gave me a collection of recipes that would be suitable for potlucks. Thirty years later, I still have this one for a wild rice salad that makes a nice side dish, or the main course on a day when you don’t want to heat up the kitchen.

Cook, rinse and chill:

2 cups uncooked wild rice

Add:

8 oz. can water chestnuts, drained and cut into slivers 6 or 7 oz. can of chicken or turkey 4 oz. package of cashews You can also add things like minced onion and/or celery, dried cranberries, chopped apple--but it is also very good with just these few ingredients.

In separate bowl mix together: cup mayonnaise 2 tablespoons sugar ¼ teaspoon salt 3 tablespoons milk 4 teaspoons apple cider or vinegar Stir dressing into rice mixture and serve.

Sally Rasmussen lives in rural Taylor County with her husband, Tom.