This essay originally appeared in the Summer 2021 issue of the Scandinavian Press magazine in tribute to my father who died May 2, 2021 at 91 years old. My dad wrote a column for the magazine called “The Wayfinder” and the editor asked if I would write a tribute to him that would be published next to his last column he wrote before he passed. In honor of Father’s Day, I share it with you here.
Most mornings, my father, Larrie Wanberg, would navigate a six-foot path from his bed to his desk where his computer and keyboard sat ready, waiting for another story to spill from his mind to the screen. He always ended his writing session with a succinct pressing of the print button so he could touch the paper his words laid upon.
The importance of hearing the printer reeling and feeling the texture of paper between his fingers was not only a visceral acknowledgment of completion— he learned to write the alphabet in a small North Dakota town during the Great Depression — it was a medium of transport, a way to carry and share his story. He would place the story in the seat pocket of his walker and have it at the ready during community meals in the dining hall of the assisted living center where he lived, and for his numerous doctor visits he would attend during the week.
My father witnessed 91 years of living and felt compelled to make sense of life by stringing words together so others might share in his curiosity of the world and find meaning in their own lives.
As a child, my father would tell me and my siblings bedtime stories, not reading from a book, but from his imagination, a free-flowing fantasy tailored to each one of our interests. I had the unusual habit of eating open-faced mayonnaise sandwiches without any toppings. One night he told me the story of "The Mayonnaise Kid," a wannabe gunslinger from Dakota Territory that struggled to pull his six-shooter out of his holster fast enough to compete with Black Bart, the reigning local gunslinger. After lathering his holster with thick, oily mayonnaise, the Kid became the fastest gun in the West, and with a little bread, always had a meal at the ready.
By encouraging my own imagination as a child by visualizing the stories he told, I built a strong visual language that later served me well as a photographer and video storyteller. He continued to encourage me my whole life and was very engaged in any project I was working on, including several short films we worked on together.
As the son of a country minister that took his call to serve in 1919, my dad learned early the power of story to inspire others as his father preached from the pulpit and his mother played the pump organ. He learned how a shared heritage, like his Norwegian family history, could connect cultural affinities, but also help weave similarities from other cultures into a shared humanity that brings us all together.
As an academic with a PhD in social planning, he could see the workings of community in intellectual terms. He studied Native American values and spent years listening to and bridging gaps between tribes and the government. And as a Colonel in the U.S. Army, working as a mental health professional, he was able to use his role in a large organization to humanize each soldier and their families.
He was a pioneer in family services, especially childcare, and was a leader in bringing POWs home from their traumatic imprisonment in Vietnam, helping them assimilate to life at home. He worked with wounded veterans by establishing experiential counseling, like equine therapy for amputees and assisted skiing for the blind.
In all his work, including storytelling, he honored the unique personality of people he met by recognizing their dignity and their boundless potential for living a meaningful life. In this way, he made the world a better place.
There was no retirement for my father. He didn't know the word. He spent most of his retirement pay on projects he believed in, not himself. He had strong family values, but his work took him to distant places around the globe, and when working from home his thoughts would often carry him far away from family activities.
I found that if I wanted to know him, I would have to catch up with his whirlwind thinking, generally on a road trip with long stretches of open road. Then the stories would flow, including the retelling of "The Mayonnaise Kid," and I would feel fortunate to know Larrie Wanberg as a father and friend.
Beautiful piece. So glad I had the opportunity to share stories with your father.
What a great story of a great man. Very nice to read this on Father’s Day. I sure miss him, it’s hard to believe he is no longer with us. Happy Father’s Day to Lassa!