The Larson Family

My lovely wife Rebecca set up a birthday date for me last month and not only did she pull off a surprise party with a bunch of my former co-workers, but she suggested we try a new restaurant — Stella’s in downtown Fargo. Let me tell you, it was delicious.

The ambience is authentic mixed with historic. Original brick walls and arches, soft lighting, and they weren’t too busy either. The clientele seemed to be a mixture of young and old; a good cross-section.

I ordered the Ravioli, and it was fantastic. A very light marinara sauce on a cheese ravioli — not heavy at all like some of the other Italian joints people “speak” of. Rebecca ordered a Balsamic chicken which was so good, she’s now fixated on balsamic everything. Anytime we go somewhere that has a balsamic anything on the menu, she orders it. But I don’t think anyone has measured up to Stella’s yet.

Stella’s had a nice selection of wines and Italian beers to choose from, and the price of the meal was just north of forty bucks. We highly recommend you check it out.

Stella’s is on First Avenue, right across from the Fargo Avalon. Their dress code is “casual but don’t be a slob.” — Troy

Have you ever had an experience that you can’t explain? My life seems to be full of these. Anyone who listened to Y94 when I was on the morning show heard plenty of stories about a haunting which seems to come and go in my house. But I have dozens of strange experiences in my life — experiences many would call supernatural — that go back as far as I can remember.

I’m gonna tell some of these stories in this blog, and I’ve decided I’ll tell them chronologically. So for this first installment of the unexplained category, I’ll start with the earliest ones I can remember.

I was about six or seven years old. My parents had a trailer house in a park called Minot Mobile Estates about five miles east of Minot, on the outskirts of Surrey. This was the first real home I remember. Before the trailer, we had lived in a string of rental properties.

I distinctly remember having a lot of weird sleep-related episodes when we lived in our trailer. I walked in my sleep. I talked in my sleep. And sometimes more.

I remember one time waking up in the middle of the night, not feeling good, and calling for my mom. It’s weird that I can remember it, because I’m pretty sure I was sleeping. Anyway, I recall my Mom coming into my bedroom to ask me if I wanted a drink of water. I don’t remember what was said, but I do remember my Mom yelling for my Dad. I also remember her telling him, “He freaked me out. His eyes were open but it was like he was looking right through me.” Then I remember my Dad came in and tucked me back in. When I woke up in the morning, my Dad gave me a good ribbing about how my eyes had looked black as oil in the dark room (I can only assume because my pupils were dilated in the dark) and how I’d scared the hell out of both of them. He drew the conclusion that I was in some kind of waking sleep state.

There were many other times I did strange things in my sleep, and one story I’m just too embarrassed to tell. But there were lots of them when we lived in this trailer. There was one thing though, that didn’t have anything to do with sleep.

My Mom was having some kind of get together at the trailer. I don’t remember if it was a birthday party or what. But there were a lot of people there, and some had brought their kids. So I was doing my regular thing, trying to be the center of attention, when the party ended. People were coming and going, carrying packages and food trays to their cars. And as she often did, my Mom put me on door duty — opening and closing the door for people whose hands were full.

There was a knock on the door and when I opened it, there was a woman standing there. I still remember what she looked like. She had very long, straight blonde hair. She was young, in her twenties I’d guess, and had the thin wire-rimmed glasses with oval lenses — like John Lennon used to wear. I didn’t recognize her, and I didn’t remember seeing her at the party. So I asked her, “Are you Missy’s mom?” And she said, “No. Can I use your bathroom?” I let her in.

She took off her sandals in our shed and went back to the bathroom. I remember it was odd that she was wearing sandals, because it was snowing outside. I went back to doing whatever I was doing.

Some time later my Mom called me into the entry and said “Whose shoes are these?” The woman’s sandals were still there. I said, “The lady in the bathroom.”

There was no lady in our bathroom.

Who was the lady? And where did she go without her sandals… in the snow? I don’t know, but it’s the first time I remember having an experience that I would call truly unexplained. — Troy

The most recent near-death experience I can think of happened in about 2005. Somewhere around there.

A co-worker and I have a project to photograph North Dakota ghost towns, and we went on a trip to Central North Dakota to check out a few towns. It was late fall, but it hadn’t snowed yet, so we took a chance. Well, it began to snow. Ten miles from our first destination, we had to turn back. The gravel roads were getting slippery and muddy, and we were in a little Ford Escort station wagon.

Ten miles outside of Devil’s Lake, the engine on the little Escort seized up. For good. We got a tow back to our hotel and pondered what to do. We had about a hundred bucks between us, and no vehicle.

That’s when I went to my hole card… my cousin Brad. He’s actually my ex-wife’s cousin, but we get along well, and he’s always been there for me when I’m in a jam. I called him and asked if he would drive from Fargo to Devil’s Lake and pick us up. I heard him say “You wanna go on a road trip, Chris?” Two hours later, Brad and his friend Chris showed up in Devil’s Lake to pick us up. Brad was driving his wife’s brand new Subaru WRX All-Wheel Drive.

It had started to snow pretty good by that time, and the wind was blowing it horizontally across the highway. Plus, the sun had gone down, so it was freezing on the road. Conditions weren’t the best.

Now, a little background on Brad. He’s a motor-head — likes cars, and likes to go fast in cars. I wouldn’t say he’s reckless, but if you ride with him, don’t be afraid of a little excitement.

So, we’re zipping down Highway 2 toward Grand Forks, Chris in the front with Brad, and me and my friend, Rat, in the back. The headlights are illuminating two swaths of glazed road in the horizontal blizzard. Brad’s pretty confident considering we’re in an all-wheel drive, and driving about the same speed you would on a normal sunny day.

Suddenly, there’s a very slight rise in the highway. As we go over it, you could feel the car squat down on it’s suspension, and when the suspension springs back on the far side of the hump, all four tires broke loose. My stomach turned over at the feeling of the car sliding down the slippery highway, slowly rotating clockwise. If we were to hit a patch of dry pavement, we would be in danger of rolling over.

I’ll never forget this. The car had rotated clockwise about twenty degrees. The headlights were shining at the ditch. And my cousin Brad, both hands on the wheel, shrugged his shoulders and in a real low voice said, “Well…” A moment later, he turned the wheel, stepped lightly on the gas, and drove the car down into the ditch. First lucky circumstance — it was a wide, flat-bottomed ditch with a slight grade. Second lucky circumstance — it hadn’t snowed much yet, and there was only about a half inch of snow on the ground.

Next thing you know, we’re in the ditch going sixty. Rat and I are both leaning to the center, staring out the windshield from between the bucket seats. I distinctly remember thinking, “This could be it. Is this the end?” It was dead silent in the car. A second later, Brad let off the accelerator and very gently turned the wheel back to the left. The little blue Subaru went right back up onto the road. The rear end fishtailed a little bit before Brad got it under control, but he did. Suddenly, we were back on the road and driving along like nobody’s business. It was still dead silent in the car.

I said the only thing that came to my mind. “Good drivin’ Brad.” And he said, “Thank you.” The silence returned for a few moments until our adrenaline caught up with all of us. Soon, we were laughing nervously and thanking God. Oh my God dude, I thought that was it. Me too!

It’s been a couple years. I hope that doesn’t mean I’m due. — Troy

Just a quick update on Gizmo after his “fix”. After two days of sleepiness and hiding in the basement, Poo Poo has come around. He’s no longer staggering, seems to be more awake, and has returned to harrassing Tigger. Now he’s walking around the house with his normal disdain for everybody (except Cole, his buddy) and — I’m knocking on wood vigorously here — he has not sprayed on anything. We cleaned like crazy while he was gone to get rid of any residual smells, and that seems to have helped. Hopefully, he has turned over a new leaf. — Troy

I’m workin’ tonight. My boss, Ed Schultz, is holding a town hall meeting in Seattle and I’m here at the studio in Fargo on Recording and Production duties.

If you’re nerdy enough to be interested, this is what I’m doing.

Through the miracle of modern technology, I connect our studio in Fargo to the venue, Seattle Town Hall in this case, where an engineer is on hand to pipe the sound of our studio through the sound system at the venue. We do multiple checks to make sure the audience will be able to hear the sound I play through our control board in Fargo, and that I will be able to record the audio coming through Ed’s mic and multiple house mics.

About an hour before the show, the on-site producer arranges with the engineer an onsite spot where they will each stand so they can see each other. Ten minutes before the show, I call the engineer and give him the ten minute warning. He holds up ten fingers for the producer, who relays the warning to Ed. At five minutes before the show, the engineer relays the five minute warning.

When I get down to thirty seconds, I give the warning to the engineer, and I hang up. At exactly 8:05:53 I play an Ed Schultz Show intro customized for the Seattle Town Hall. It is heard instantly across the country at Seattle Town Hall. the audience applauds, and Ed comes out and does a progressive talk presentation for an hour.

At the end of the hour, I call the engineer and repeat the five minute countdown. We finish the hour when I send a ten second music bed down the line to Seattle. When Ed hears it, he knows he has ten seconds to wrap up the hour. We take about eight minutes off, then do it all again for the final hour of the town hall.

Tomorrow morning I will spend most of the morning taking those two recorded hours and breaking them up into ten segments of specific length to make room for commercials and network breaks, two hours of radio talk show. Then at 11am Central, I feed the produced show down the line to Denver, who in turn send it out to nearly one hundred affiliates nationwide.

It’s in the Pacific Time Zone tonight, which means a later night than usual for me. — Troy

In my previous blog – A New Beginning – I told part of the story of my Uncle Jim, incarcerated for the last thirty-two years, convicted on the charge of second-degree murder. He will be released on December 16th.

My mom printed out that blog and sent a copy to my Uncle Jim and shortly thereafter I received a letter from him. Since I was short on facts, he corrected and informed me on a few things. An excerpt:

[Your blog] like your letter to the parole board, reached a deep spot not often awakened. I’d like to correct a number of misconceptions in your blog. I correct these things not in any harsh way, only so that you have more facts to base things on.

Despite Jim’s sentiment that he wasn’t correcting me in a harsh way, I was a little worried that I had overstepped some boundary by getting the facts wrong. The last thing I wanted was for my uncle to be upset with me before we even get a chance to know each other in person. He continued:

I was arrested and tried for the case I am about to be released for in 1977, a little over thirty-two years ago.

I don’t know where I got the idea it was 1973, but if you read my previous blog, you can now know, it was ‘77 and not ‘73.

I had three separate trials, the first two trials resulting in 1) a mistrial as the jurors could not agree — nine voted in my favor that time, and 2) a mistrial, as the prosecutor made inflammatory statements to the jury in his closing arguments — things he legally could not say. He did it on purpose, as he felt I would not be convicted that time either. The third trial, two years later, lasted three to four weeks and the jury finally convicted me of a lesser charge [of second-degree murder].

It was my belief then and now, that the jury compromised the last time, thinking that I must have done something — so they found me guilty of something.

Nice, right? Don’t ever let anybody tell you that the American legal system protects you from multiple trials with laws against ‘double jeopardy’.

The only evidence against me was all circumstantial — no one even so much as saw me with the man who ended up being killed.

I did not kill — nor did I help anyone to kill — the man who ended up dying. There was a drunken fight in a motel room and the man was killed. My only involvement at the time was being in the room. I never helped, nor even so much as laid a hand on the victim. But I did help the man who did it afterwards… to get away, and gave him a place in Pittsburgh to rest for a few days. Now you know my involvement.

I had heard much of this story from my Uncle before. What was he doing in the hotel room? Who was the man who died? I got a letter from him many years ago which explained in some detail, but I don’t have it anymore and I’m not sure I can remember the details. I can say my Uncle Jim has admitted being involved in dealing weapons to groups like Posse Comitatus and the American Indian Movement, both of which were quite active in the seventies. I’m not sure that the ‘meeting’ which ended with a man dying had anything to do with these activities, but it at least gives you an idea of how three guys in a motel room could have wandered down such a dangerous path.

As I said in my previous blog, my Uncle doesn’t downplay or shirk responsibility for the acts which ended with his imprisonment. He fully admits that he’s done — and was doing — things he should not have been doing. If I’m reading between the lines of his letters correctly, what he does have a problem with — and I do too — are the legal shenanigans which kept him behind bars for so long.

The original charge was first-degree murder, and I was found guilty of the lesser charge of second-degree murder, and given a parolable life sentence. That last is very important.

It is my understanding that those in Michigan who received “Parolable Life Sentences” served, on average, twelve to seventeen years. Perhaps my relation to Jim is coloring my judgment, but that seems like a sufficient amount of time for a man like my Uncle — a man who was essentially in the wrong place at the wrong time, involved in things he should not be doing, yes. But not a killer. So, how did he end up getting so much time?

Years after my imprisonment, the state of Michigan and some of its politicians decided that they wanted to make a new law regarding lifers, saying in 1992 that “Life Means Life.” And they went a big step further… making their new law retroactive to include all lifers, parolable or not.

So while I started out with a parolable life sentence, given to me by a jury… the state gave me a sentence that three juries couldn’t give me, with the stroke of a pen.

Can you imagine? Our justice system is built on several key principles. That you have a right to trial by a jury of your peers is a big one. And the jury’s decision, and the judge’s subsequent sentence, are binding. And yet a politician can essentially overrule the decision of a jury and the sentence of a judge because it’s politically popular? “Vote for me. I’m tough on crime.” Get off my johnson, Mr. Politician. Everybody is tough on crime. Have you ever heard a politician say “Nah, you know, crime doesn’t bother me so much”? Saying it, and campaigning on it, is just a way to appeal to people who are angry with their own lot in life.

I will go into detail on how my Uncle ended up being released in a future blog. — Troy

We went to Island Park to take our Christmas Card photo today. November 14th, and no snow on the ground. Maybe my memory is deceiving me, but I don’t recall many winters as a kid where we didn’t have snow on the ground halfway through November. Not that I’m complaining… it is a beautiful day.

For any family members who might want a printable copy of this photo (this means you, Mom), just right-click it and save it. It’s hi-res and printable quality, sized to 4 X 6. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all. — Troy

Yesterday was zero day for Gizmo. Neutering time. The vet I spoke of in my previous blog–This Kitty’s Gone Nuts–works out of his home, and I was pretty suspicious to be honest. He lives here in North Fargo, and offered to come by the house and pick Gizmo up for a ten dollar fee. Things being tight and all, I thought I’d drop him off and save the ten bucks. But no matter what I said, this vet insisted on coming to pick him up. He even knocked off the ten bucks, and still came to pick him up. Makes me wonder if this guy didn’t want me to see where he lives for some reason.

Yesterday afternoon the vet shows up, writes me a receipt and proof of vaccination slip, and leaves with Gizmo. As he was leaving, he said he might bring Gizmo back in a few hours, depending on how he’s recovering. Well, he called me last night to tell me a few things. First, Gizmo peed all over inside his kennel after his ‘procedure’ and then rolled around in it. So he was kinda stinky. At about ten o’clock, he called again to say Gizmo was still pretty groggy from the sedative and could barely walk, so the Vet was gonna keep him overnight. He said he’d bring him back at eight-thirty in the morning.

So, seven-thirty rolls around and the doorbell rings. I vaulted out of bed, threw some clothes on and answered the door to find the Vet standing there with Gizmo in his pet carrier. He looked terrible. The Vet said he had a hard time giving Gizmo the antibiotic tablets, so he just gave him a shot instead. He then requested I return the handful of antibiotic pills he gave me yesterday since the shot would supposedly handle the chance of infection. We shook hands and he left.

I crouched down and opened the pet carrier and Gizmo wouldn’t even come out. Poor kitty was so groggy he could barely walk. I picked him up lifted him out, and that was when I realized it looked my kitty had gone through Vietnam. He must have been rubbing his face on the cage all night, trying to get out, because he rubbed a bare spot on his nose. I set him down on the floor and he wobbled his way into the dining room, hid under a futon for a bit, and then staggered his way downstairs, all the while walking with his hind legs a foot apart. He looked like a cowboy that just got off a horse after a three month cattle drive.

I haven’t even gotten a chance to check out his stitches yet, because he’s so fragile, I don’t dare mess with him. Hope everything is OK with him… he’s spent most of the day hiding in the basement. — Troy

A former roommate of mine pointed out to me once that I have a lot of stories about stupid things I did that could have killed me. He then went on to list all the stories I told him about “the time I almost died” or the “time I could have died.” And I realized he was right.

We had many jokes about it, thought it was quite funny, but now I have a son. And I see a lot of me in him. And I really hope he’s not as foolish as I was.

You want an example? OK, how about this… I remember one year, I couldn’t have been more than twelve, it had been a VERY cold winter. I grew up in Minot, ND, home of the Souris River which we locals called the “mouse” river. In the winter, it would freeze solid after a couple weeks of sub zero temperatures, and we thought nothing of walking and even sledding on the ice.

Well that year it had been very cold, but like North Dakota weather so often does, we experienced a dramatic turnaround in temperature that spring. It went from below freezing to fifties and sixties in the course of a couple days. I remember being at my friend’s house–I’m thinking his name was Shawn–which was right on the river. As young boys will do, we climbed the fence in his back yard and went down the riverbank to check out the ice breaking up on the river.

We were thrilled to find huge chunks of ice floating around, like mini Titanic-busters. There were so many of these chunks of ice on the river that they were floating around, bumping into each other with just inches or a few feet between them.

What do boys do when they see such a scenario? Well, they jump to the nearest block of ice and try to cross the river without getting wet, of course. So that’s what we did. We had a great time, jumping from block to block. I managed to avoid getting too wet, although there were a few times that I jumped on a block of ice only to have my weight lift the other end of the block out of the water, soaking my shoes.

Our fun ended when my friend Shawn jumped on a block of ice, and the edge broke off, dunking him in the dirty Mouse river. Luckily, he was near the riverbank and only went in to about knee-depth before he hit bottom. I think we realized then that what we were doing was very dangerous. And I could have died.

Oh, there are lots more of these stories to come. Playing on the freight trains… playing in the abandoned water treatment plant… and much more. Stay tuned. — Troy

About a year ago, a co-worker brought a box of farm kitties into work. We didn’t intend to get another cat–we already have one, Tigger, seventeen years old–but one of these little kittens looked up at me with sweet little green eyes… Oh, he was so cute. He was even the same color as Tigger. Charcoal gray with a white belly and paws.

So I sent my wife a text and asked if she wanted another kitty who looked just like Tigger. Big mistake. A twenty mile drive later, we were on our way home with a new kitty. A farm kitty no less.

After some debate, my suggestion for a name won out. We decided to call him Gizmo, although my wife and son have taken to calling him Gizzy Poo Poo, or just Poo Poo. And he was oh-so-sweet… for awhile.

Before too long, Poo Poo had appropriated my son’s favorite stuffed animal, Bob the Pop Tart Monkey (that name is another story), as his humping buddy. And man does he hump it. That poor monkey has taken it in the pooper more times than a forty-year-old adult film starlet. And he loves to do it in the middle of the room too. Gizmo has taken to picking the monkey up by the scruff of the neck and bringing him into whatever room we’re in, just so we can watch him work. And he makes this weird noise when he’s doing it too… it gets pretty old hearing that in our bedroom at night.

The humping isn’t the worst of it, though. Now Gizzy Poo Poo has become Gizzy Pee Pee. He’s begun to spray, or mark his territory so to speak. And it stinks. And we’re doing the laundry like ten times per week to keep the smell down. Not to mention chasing him around the house and yelling at him every time we catch him.

We’ve had our fill of it now, and it’s time to get this kitty neutered. But neutering is really expensive these days. I called to set up an appointment for him today, and was astounded at what they’re asking. A pre-surgical exam–fifty bucks. Vaccinations–fifteen bucks per shot. And the neutering itself–one hundred thirty to one hundred fifty dollars. I mean, I was probably looking at two fifty to three hundred by the time I was done. Plus they wanted me to jump through all these hoops. First I had to bring him in with a stool sample for the pre-surgical exam. Only when the Doctor gave him the go ahead for neutering would I have been able to set an appointment for the neutering on a separate visit. I don’t know about you, but I’m busy. “Yes, um, could you just cut my cat’s nuts off without all the paperwork please?”

So, I called another joint… same deal, although a little cheaper. And then I found someone else. A vet who was listed only by name, not affiliated with an “animal hospital”. When I called, he answered the phone by saying “hello?” loudly. Not the most formal greeting. Turns out, he’s a retired vet who now works out of his house. Is this even legal? Who knew? You know, I once called the city to get some information about the health regulations for running a hot dog cart. And I was shocked at how strict the regulations were to boil some hot dogs. But this guy can run a veterinary business out of his home?? How would you like to be his garbage collector?

Anyway, he’s a lot cheaper, actually comes to your house to pick up ‘the animal’ as he put it, and no annoying exams or vaccination records required. After an overnight stay and some antibiotics, little Gizmo will be back home, licking his wounds no doubt. And Tigger, who was neutered long ago, will be wearing a big smile on his face. And Bob the Pop Tart Monkey will be getting the last laugh over this kitty’s gone nuts. — Troy