In the summer of 1968, I was ten years old and standing on the edge of my very first life transition.

We were leaving Aurora, Minnesota — a small, tight-knit mining town where everyone seemed to know your name, your parents’ names, and probably what you had for supper the night before — and moving to Winona, Minnesota. To a fourth-grade boy, that felt like relocating to New York City. I had just finished third grade. I had my friends, my bike routes memorized, and the comfort of familiarity. Now we were packing up and heading south to a town that felt enormous by comparison. Winona had hills. It had bluffs. It had traffic lights. It felt big and mysterious. And when we arrived, we didn’t even have a house yet.

So our first stop was the El Rancho Motel. I can still see the sign in my mind — and more than that, I can see the towering Happy Chef statue outside, smiling down like some kind of fiberglass guardian of our temporary home. That statue seemed enormous to me. It stood there holding a hamburger high above its head like a trophy, welcoming hungry travelers and, in our case, one slightly anxious family of five. Living in a motel felt adventurous for about the first 24 hours. After that, it just felt cramped.

My brothers, Tom and Chuck, were four and five years older than I was. At ten years old, that made them giants in my world. They knew things. They had confidence. They walked like they owned the sidewalks. I mostly followed. And like any three boys with time on their hands and a new town to explore, we set out on foot to “learn the lay of the land.” Aurora had been small enough that you could throw a rock and hit three people you knew. Winona felt sprawling. We wandered down streets we’d never seen, past houses that weren’t ours, stores that weren’t familiar, and sidewalks that didn’t yet feel like home. At one point we came across a huge open field of grass off the main highway.

That’s when we saw the church.

There’s something about a church building that feels both welcoming and slightly intimidating at the same time — especially when you’re ten. It had that solid brick exterior, tall windows, and behind it stood a rectory. And there, like a flashing neon sign for curious boys everywhere, was a door slightly ajar. Now, I want to make something very clear.  We were not criminals.  We were not vandals.  We were just curious.  But curiosity, in 1968, still had consequences.  We looked at each other.  No words were spoken, but an agreement was reached.  We stepped inside.

The hallway was quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your sneakers sound louder than they should. We walked slowly, glancing into rooms, whispering, fully aware that we were somewhere we probably shouldn’t be — but not fully aware of what “probably shouldn’t” might lead to. And then it happened.  Voices.  Female voices.  Authoritative female voices.  Nuns.  They had spotted us.

Now, if you’ve never been a ten-year-old boy unexpectedly discovered in a rectory by nuns, let me explain the emotional progression:

1. Confusion

2. Fear

3. Sudden sprint reflex

They wanted to know what we were doing there.  We didn’t have a great answer.  So we did what any brave young explorers would do. We ran. We bolted out the door and down the sidewalk, hearts pounding, adrenaline pumping. At first, it felt victorious. We were free. Crisis avoided. Until we heard footsteps behind us.  They were following us.  Three nuns.  Following three boys.  Through the open field.  Now the situation had escalated from “mildly concerning” to “legendary.”  We quickened our pace. They quickened theirs. I remember thinking, This cannot be happening. We are being pursued by nuns.

At one point, we spotted a drainage pipe along the roadside — the kind that runs along main highways and under small bridges. In a moment of tactical brilliance, we dove into it and crouched inside, convinced we had outsmarted them. We held our breath.  Silence.  Then their voices echoed from outside:  “You might as well come out. We have both ends covered!”  Now, even at ten years old, I knew that was mathematically impossible. There were three of them and the two ends were probably miles apart. But logic takes a back seat when you’re hiding in a pipe from women in habits.

We crawled out.

They weren’t yelling. They weren’t furious. But they were determined. They believed we had done something wrong, and they wanted to speak with our parents.  That was the moment things became serious.  They began escorting us back toward the motel. I walked beside them, listening quietly, feeling the weight of impending doom. My older brothers walked ahead. I was trying to be the good one — the cooperative one.

And then, without warning, Tom and Chuck did what older brothers do best. They ran.  No signal. No countdown. No eye contact.  Just gone.  And there I was, still walking respectfully beside the nuns, when I realized my leadership had evaporated.  I hesitated for maybe half a second. 

Then instinct took over. I ran.

The problem was that my brothers were faster, taller, and far more athletic. They vaulted over fences like Olympic hopefuls. They cut through backyards like seasoned fugitives. I was ten. I scrambled. I stumbled. I tried to keep up. I remember jumping a fence and wondering mid-air if this was the day my short life would end at the hands of holy women.  Somehow, despite our athletic display, the nuns were persistent.  They caught up with us again with the aid of some other children on bicycles.  At that point, the fight had gone out of us.

We surrendered.

We would show them where we were staying.  So we marched — three dusty, slightly winded boys — back to the El Rancho Motel beneath the watchful gaze of the Happy Chef.  And then came the final twist in the story.

They asked for our father.  When they learned that our dad was going to be the new principal in town, everything shifted.  Their posture changed.  Their tone softened.  Embarrassment replaced suspicion.  Suddenly, we weren’t “suspicious intruders.”  We were the principal’s sons.  They had chased the principal’s sons through backyards.

It became awkward in a hurry. There were polite exchanges. Apologies, perhaps. Explanations. The whole thing dissolved into an almost comical misunderstanding.  And just like that, one of my first memories in Winona was sealed forever. Over the years, that story has been told at countless dinner tables. It grows slightly more dramatic with each retelling. The fences get taller. The pipe gets smaller. The nuns get faster. At some point I’m in the back singing “Kumbaya, my lord” with the nuns. Ok, maybe that’s true.

But what stays the same is how it felt.  That was my first taste of Winona.  My first experience of being new.  My first lesson in curiosity, consequences, and older brothers who don’t always give you a heads-up before they take off running. Looking back now, it feels like a Norman Rockwell painting in motion — three boys mid-sprint, habits flapping behind them, a fiberglass chef smiling in the background.

It was innocent.

It was ridiculous.

It was unforgettable.

And in many ways, it marked the beginning of a new chapter — fourth grade, a bigger town, a father stepping into leadership, and three boys figuring out where they fit in a place that didn’t yet feel like home.

Funny how a chase through backyards can become a cornerstone memory.

But that summer of 1968, for one ten-year-old boy trying to keep up with his brothers, it was the moment Winona truly began.