Zenith City: Stories from Duluth

The Tree

“the tree” was a column I cowrote with Mike Zempel for the Duluth Air National Guard’s th Fighter Squadron monthly newsletter . It didn’t begin as a column, nor was it our intention to turn a small notice of a car for sale into a journalistic feature. The squadron was undergoing its annual summer training at Volk Field near Wisconsin Dells during the last two weeks of July . Mike and I had unhappily been assigned by the guard as personnel specialists. That might sound impressive, but our duties mostly consisted of filing and dispensing forms and, in our case, sometimes misfiling them. We certainly were not specialists and were frequently bored with our tasks. One morning Mike and I decided to initiate a prank on Don Kallberg, a gentle, soft-spoken man who was the assistant administrator in the personnel office. We would put Don’s car up for sale, well below market value. We typed a for-sale notice with Don’s phone extension and tacked it to the squadron bulletin board outside the headquarters building. But as we headed back to our office, a captain stopped us, saying the for-sale notice was not authorized. “The bulletin board is for military announcements only.” We were ordered to remove it. “Then where can we post this, sir?” I said. The captain shrugged. “Not on the bulletin board.” Mike and I stood for a moment, looking for another spot to place the for-sale notice. Several yards from the bulletin board was an old oak tree, the breeze gently rustling its leaves. We tacked the notice to the tree and returned to the office. Within minutes we observed passersby stopping to read the posting on the tree, while almost no one was reading the bulletin board. the tree 109 110 | The Tree Fifteen minutes later Don answered a call from a prospective buyer. But instead of telling the caller that there was a mistake, that someone was joking around, he calmly answered questions. “The tires are practically new,” he said. “About , miles,” he said. “No, it isn’t air conditioned.” Finally, “Well, I’ve decided not to sell it.” When he hung up, Mike and I were limp from laughter. Don said, “Did you guys put my car up for sale? I don’t want to sell my car. What gave you that idea?” Before we could respond, his phone rang again, and he once more politely answered inquiries, terminating this call with “I think I’m going to keep the car after all.” He fielded several more calls, then noticed a cluster of airmen before the tree. “Is that where my car is listed?” Don said. He marched outside and tore down the notice, returning and tossing it in a wastebasket. “What gave you the idea that I wanted to sell my car?” “I think you said something about it the other night,” Mike said. “I did not, and even if I did, I wouldn’t sell it for . It’s worth at least twice that.” “We figured you would dicker with the buyer,” I said. “It’s not for sale,” Don said with finality, but he still had to deal with another half-dozen calls throughout the day. Because of the notoriety of that announcement on the tree, Mike and I began writing whimsical and farcical articles to post. We hastily flitted through our official duties in order to spend time composing material for the tree. We justified ourselves with the argument that no one read military forms, but airmen clustered around the tree throughout the day. Many of our readers weren’t aware they were reading confabulations , like the time we printed a review of a nonexistent lecture in the chapel on Native American art and crafts by Sergeant Gil Sidney. We tabbed the event as must-see and that those who missed it last night should call the sergeant for information regarding this evening ’s presentation. After answering many phone queries, an agitated Sergeant Sidney came to our office, chiding us not only for the prank but for doing it on duty time. The otherwise sweet-natured sergeant didn’t The Tree | 111 threaten us with disciplinary action, or perhaps that hadn’t come up yet in our conversation. He was interrupted by a major—the base chaplain—who told Gil how much he anticipated the...