Getting Real Read online

  And I’ve always tried to stand up for myself, because being myself is the greatest gift God has given me.

  Chapter 1

  “Sparkles”

  My heart was beating in my throat. My hands felt clammy. Waiting in the wings for my name to be announced, I closed my eyes and repeated the words to the Lord’s Prayer once again. At thirteen I was about to give the biggest performance of my life.

  The Minnesota Orchestra was onstage at Orchestra Hall playing the rousing piece Fanfare for the Common Man by Aaron Copland. The music was fast-paced and uplifting, with trumpets blaring. I was up next to play the first movement of Édouard Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole.

  When the soundproof doors opened, a rush of cold air came at me and I began the long walk across the stage, violin in hand. I was a chubby girl, awkward in my floor-length white dress, but on that day I was also a concert artist, who would lead an entire orchestra in a performance.

  Although it was only 10:30 in the morning, the auditorium was full for the orchestra’s popular Coffee Concert. This was a venue for some of the most famous soloists in the country, and today the stage belonged to me. I took my position, fighting nervousness, and everything became silent. The oboe player gave me an A note to tune to. And I began to play.

  Just like that, the nervousness fell away and I was lost in the music. I was always a very physical performer, and I poured my heart into interpreting the uplifting Spanish melody. It was not only a matter of technical skill. It was an emotional experience, a feeling of euphoria I’ve never experienced in any other setting. By the time I was done, my dress was damp with sweat, as if I’d just run a race.

  The audience rose to its feet cheering. I heard, “Bravo! Bravo!” The applause seemed to go on forever as I left the stage and returned twice more for encore bows. It was a thrilling moment, and then it was over. Normal life resumed.

  Back in the dressing room I changed out of my long white dress, and then my mom drove me to school. I got there in time for math class, where we had a test scheduled. My fellow students didn’t even know where I’d been that day. To them I was just one of the kids. They didn’t understand the other me—the one who had just performed with the Minnesota Orchestra.

  That dichotomy was the story of my young life. I was a girl who lived for my music, and I spent much of my time in the hallowed circles of great musicians. But I was also engaged in a constant quest to be a regular kid. It was a sometimes frantic, sometimes confusing double life, and beneath my normally sunny exterior there was a nagging loneliness when I felt that my friends couldn’t really know me or be a part of my life with music.

  Those two sides of me were in conflict many times over the years. Looking back as an adult, I’ve come to see that both were a gift of my remarkable upbringing in a small Minnesota town, where exceptionalism and normalcy were valued in equal measure.

  • • •

  From the time I entered the world—almost three weeks late—I made my presence known. I had a big personality as a baby, one that demanded attention. My dad always said that he’d rock me asleep, and the minute he took his hand away my eyes would pop open and I’d start yelling. I believe what they say about personality, that it’s there at birth. Mine sure was. I liked having an audience. I was a born ham.

  Early entries in my baby book provide clues to my personality:

  “Gretchen loves all food and gobbles it down as fast as you can feed her.”

  “Gretchen talks like crazy.”

  “Gretchen can turn somersaults!”

  Eating, talking, and performing. My most notable characteristics before the age of two. But my personality was more complex than that. I was born on June 21, on the cusp between Cancer and Gemini, and I chose to be a Gemini because I personified the mix of yin and yang. Both outgoing and reserved. Both lighthearted and intense. Both a spitfire and a person who fought for self-confidence. Both a serious musician and a regular kid. The two sides of my personality were on display in everyday life.

  I grew up in Anoka, Minnesota, a town that could have come straight out of a snow globe. It’s a wonderful little place whose claim to fame is that it’s the Halloween Capital of the World. Garrison Keillor is from Anoka, and it was an inspiration for Lake Wobegon, so that gives you an idea.

  My parents and both sets of grandparents are of Swedish descent, and Anoka is a town with a heavy Scandinavian influence. When Mom stood on the front porch and called me and my best friend Molly in for lunch, all the schnauzers named Gretchen and the black Labs named Molly came running. From a very early age I knew an important fact about myself: I was 100 percent Swedish. This was a point of pride because even in my small town it wasn’t common for people to be 100 percent anything.

  My grandpa Hyllengren gave me a nickname that he thought fit a talkative, feisty child. He called me “Sparkles.” When he said it in his affectionate tone it came out “Schparkles.” I loved that nickname then and I still do. It was a gift from my grandpa, something all my own. I was a short, chubby, willful kid. But to Grandpa I was Sparkles. I used to ask him, “Why do you call me that?” And he’d answer in a soft voice, “It’s just the way you are, Schparkles.”

  Grandpa Hyllengren was a Lutheran minister who grew up in a small farmhouse in Vasa, Minnesota, the son of immigrants from Sweden. His life story is a testament to the value of perseverance, which was embedded in my family story. It was passed on as the theme of my life—to never give up no matter how difficult things were. Grandpa was the fourth of five children and the only one in his family to go to school past the eighth grade. He was determined to go to high school, which was twelve miles away, and after he secured a position as right guard on the football team, he lived with the coach so he could attend. He eventually won a football scholarship to Gustavus Adolphus, a private college in Saint Peter, Minnesota, that was founded by Swedish immigrants. He played on the football team for four years, but it was the church that called him.

  When Grandpa became pastor of Zion Lutheran Church in Anoka, it had 850 members, but under his inspirational leadership it grew to 8,500, becoming the second largest Lutheran church in America. He built his congregation the old-fashioned way, by visiting every new family that moved to Anoka and inviting them to be a member of his church. He told people he was selling insurance for eternal life. He worked incredibly hard and never took a raise.

  Grandpa was quite liberal and Grandma was a Republican. We used to ask them why they even bothered voting, since they canceled each other out. But Grandpa never preached politics from the pulpit. He preached about values that transcended political ideas. These were simple homespun messages, using anecdotes from culture and life. To this day I dislike it when a minister preaches politics from the pulpit, and I learned from my grandparents that you could love someone who had different ideas. What a revelation, right? I think we forget that sometimes.

  My mother was a high-spirited, outgoing girl, an absolutely beautiful natural blonde. She knew her own mind, and she was very smart. She skipped three grades in elementary school and went to college young. She attended Gustavus Adolphus College, her parents’ alma mater, for a year and then transferred to the University of Minnesota. She graduated at age nineteen and became a teacher. Mom had her share of suitors, including the guy she was “pinned” to when she met my father.

  The story of my parents’ meeting is cute. She was home from college during Christmastime, and her mother was having a tea and had invited people from church and the neighborhood. My father’s family lived right down the street and attended Zion, but she had never met Dad because he’d been away in the service. Mom walked into the living room, and standing at the punch bowl was a handsome young man who caught her eye. His name was Lee Carlson. She went right back into the kitchen and told her mother that Lee Carlson was the man she was going to marry. Her mother probably laughed, but you have to know that my mother has always possessed an extreme level
of determination. If she set her sights on Lee Carlson, he didn’t have a chance.

  But my dad played a bit hard to get. That’s where my mom’s strategizing skills came in—how to get him to ask her out. In the spring she put on her hottest two-piece bathing suit and started lying out in front of the house in a lawn chair just when she knew Lee Carlson would be driving by to go home for lunch. Quite racy for the minister’s daughter! Dad would whiz by in his red convertible, and I guess he took notice. He finally asked her out.

  At first my grandfather didn’t approve of Dad because he thought he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But he soon came to see what a hard worker Dad was. He worked at Main Motors, the car dealership that had been in his family since 1919. It’s one of the oldest family-run businesses in Minnesota, with a storefront showroom on Main Street. It was originally owned by my dad’s great-uncle, and he sold Chevrolet cars and trucks, and then added Oldsmobile, Buick, and Cadillac. In 1934, the year my dad was born, his father, LeRoy Carlson, bought the dealership from his uncle.

  My dad started pumping gas at the dealership when he was ten years old. Dad did every job, from laboring in the service and parts department to selling cars. “He worked like a slave,” my mother once said. No sign of a silver spoon. When his father died in 1966, Dad took over the dealership with his brother.

  Dad worked a lot, often returning to the dealership after dinner. Car dealerships are very volatile businesses, closely tied to the state of the economy. If there’s a recession, or even a hint of one, sales dry up. The 1970s were an especially difficult time because of the oil crisis.

  Family always came first with my parents, and their four children were the center of their lives. My sister, Kris, was first, then two and a half years later I made my entrance, followed by my brothers Bill and Mark. We all had our unique personalities. Kris was a pretty girl with a lovely personality. I always envied her beautiful long hair, because my hair was thin and brittle and when I was young, I wore it in a short shag that was almost boyish. (At one point my mother started getting my hair permed, and trust me, it wasn’t a pretty sight.) Unlike Kris, I was a tomboy. I preferred to hang out with my brothers and their friends. We’d congregate and roam around the neighborhood, playing army in the woods or football on the lawn. There was nothing I liked more than to play dodgeball or watch golf and football on TV.

  My dad was raised in a traditional Swedish environment of strictness and stoicism, but he ended up being the most sentimental, loving person I know. There wasn’t a lot of emotion in his upbringing, but Dad can be a virtual waterworks of emotion, crying at movies, sporting events, and sad or happy stories.

  My dad’s father was definitely the head of the household while he was alive, but after he died Grandma Vi really came into her own. I knew her as an amazing, independent woman who traveled the world with girlfriends. In my eyes she was a trailblazer. She was also somewhat eccentric, with her own style. She never changed her hairstyle during her whole adult life, wearing it in a short pageboy. She got a kick out of me. Whenever I walked into a room, she’d announce, “Here comes trouble with a capital T.”

  We also spent a lot of time at Grandpa and Grandma Hyllengren’s house and always had fun. Grandpa was a religious man but he had a great bawdy sense of humor. His favorite TV show was The Benny Hill Show. He was also a big jokester. We’d beg him to tell jokes, but he never did it on demand. Instead he’d surprise us with one when we were least expecting it. We loved his elaborate schemes. On Easter he would organize a giant Easter egg hunt. He’d hide candy all over his house and then write elaborate clues that were very convoluted. We loved the challenge of figuring out his clues. Grandpa would get frustrated with me always guessing the clues first, so he would announce, “Now, this next one is for everyone except Gretchen.”

  Grandma Hyllengren was a very mild-mannered woman, almost meek, but love poured from her. She was beloved by the congregation, and I always felt that we had a special connection. She wasn’t at all like me, but she seemed to understand me and accept me for who I was. I was drawn to her peaceful nature, like a reprieve from my more aggressive spirit—and my mom’s too. She had played violin in college, so she was especially proud of me when I started playing “her” instrument. Grandma had never played seriously, but I liked that we shared this bond through the violin.

  Grandma Hyllengren was my sounding board. If I had a fight with my mom, I’d get on my bike and go over to her house. We’d bake cookies together and drink Fresca—the only soda my grandparents bought. She’d listen to my woes, and she’d even defend me to my mom. She once said to her, “You can’t stop Gretchen from being Gretchen.”

  My mother was as outgoing as her mother was shy. She was the social force of our family, and the life of the party, with a gregarious nature and a great laugh. She was a terrific cook and loved to entertain, and her parties were popular. Kris and I were enlisted to dress in cute matching outfits and carry around hors d’oeuvres. The guests ate and ate, and we returned to the kitchen many times for refills. Eventually we’d get tired and complain, but Mom would just say, “Get back out there and put a smile on your face,” and back we’d go until our trays were empty.

  • • •

  Faith was a constant in our lives. It seemed as if we were always in church. It was the centerpiece of every week, especially on Sundays. Our whole family pitched in. Kris and I sometimes performed for all three services, playing violin, cello, and piano, often in duets. We also sang in the choir, and I taught Sunday school in high school. Mom taught Sunday school and Dad sang in the choir. If I was playing for more than one service, I liked to sit in the sacristy—a little room off the altar. It felt like being at a private club during church, because I’d see Grandpa each time he came back during the service. The church was like a second home to me.

  Having Grandpa in the pulpit was like watching a rock star. He was a dynamic and inspirational preacher, and he had an amazing way with people. He made church personal for me. I remember going up to the altar for Communion and kneeling down. He would brush his hand (slightly curled from the arthritis he refused to have treated) softly across my cheek before giving me the bread and grape juice, as if to say, “You’re my girl.” I still get tears in my eyes thinking about it.

  I always say that my wonderful grandfather gave me the gift of faith. He baptized me, married me, and baptized my daughter, Kaia. Sadly, he died just three weeks before my son, Christian, was born. But Grandpa’s gift is still alive inside of me. As curious as I am about so many things in the world, the one thing I’ve never questioned is my faith. No matter what goal I have tried to achieve in life, I’ve always known that God is right by my side.

  In our household, being a Christian was more than going to church on Sunday. We weren’t Bible thumpers. We practiced a daily Christianity that was as practical as it was spiritual. My father always told me, “Gretchen, people will know you’re a Christian by the way you act.” He was a perfect example of that. It was important for him to be a good person in the community. My mom, too. Growing up, I just took it for granted that everyone had warm and charitable hearts. It made me admire my parents even more when I learned how special their kindness was. Mom was a regular volunteer in the church and in the community, participating in Meals on Wheels and making Easter baskets for those in need. Dad belonged to the hospital board and Kiwanis. That spirit of involvement is not as prevalent today. People say they’re too busy. But my parents were also busy, running a business and raising four kids. It comes down to priorities—and to caring. People always comment on how nice Minnesotans are. But that niceness is practiced in action. That’s the way I was raised.

  Today when I speak my mind, the topic is often Christianity. I’m not a “God-clutcher,” as William Goldman depicted me. That’s not the way I was taught. I was taught to be accepting of our nation’s diversity, including its religious diversity. I often get criticized for supposedly not
liking people who are atheists. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s a free country. But I feel compelled to speak out when I see society veering off course to an unhealthy extent—on the one hand becoming more tolerant of diversity and on the other hand trying to marginalize Christianity. Sometimes it’s downright crazy. Take the recent debate about a cross at the World Trade Center memorial site. When the World Trade Center collapsed, there appeared in the rubble a seventeen-foot cross-shaped beam. That cross wasn’t created by people—it was naturally formed in the collapse. A lot of Americans found it comforting. For me it was a sign from God that we can find unity as a nation and a world after a horrendous act of terrorism. But whether you take it that way or just see it as two beams in the rubble, it’s a historical artifact. It actually happened that way. I covered Ground Zero as a reporter and saw it for myself. But an organization of atheists challenged a plan to include the cross at the 9/11 Memorial Museum on the basis of its being a Christian symbol. They later lost in court, but I just shake my head in amazement at these kinds of antics. It bothers me that some people express an antipathy to Christianity. The American notion of freedom of religion doesn’t preclude celebrating your faith.

  I come to these views sincerely after a lifetime of religious practice, but I also want my children to have the opportunity I had to fully celebrate Christianity without its meaning being hijacked by people who don’t really give a rip. Rituals and symbols of faith were essential to my life growing up in Minnesota. They anchored the lessons my grandfather preached from the pulpit, and I know they made me a better person, more compassionate and giving.