In the summer of 1962, Sherri Finkbine of Phoenix, Ariz., discovered that she had inadvertently taken thalidomide during her pregnancy. Fearing her fetus might be deformed, she decided to seek an abortion, first in Phoenix, then Japan and finally Sweden. Finkbine’s story drew intense national coverage and prompted the Minneapolis Tribune to send a reporter to North Dakota to interview a 12-year-old boy with the kind of birth defect that led her to seek an abortion. An August 2008 interview with him follows this Tribune report.

Johnny Kemp, left, played marbles with a neighborhood friend, Phil Carufel, in Bismarck, N.D., in the summer of 1960.

Armless, Legless N.D. Boy is a ‘Pretty Lucky’ Young Athlete

By JIM HICKS
Minneapolis Tribune Staff Writer

BISMARCK, N.D. – While Mrs. Sherri Finkbine was in Sweden last week, Johnny Kemp – a boy she does not know – was in Bismarck, doing the things that most 12-year-old boys do.

He was eating his breakfast, brushing his teeth, playing third base for the Midget League “Milwaukee Braves,” telephoning his friends, swimming and getting ready to work his Sunday newspaper route.

Mrs. Finkbine, from Phoenix, Ariz., underwent an abortion yesterday. She had taken the now-dreaded drug Thalidomide, and she was afraid the child might be born without arms and legs.

Like Johnny Kemp.

THALIDOMIDE was unknown when Johnny was born Oct. 10, 1949, and the stunted-limb deformities now being blamed on the drug were extremely rare. But Johnny’s deformities, said his doctor, orthopedic surgeon Paul Johnson, are “exactly the same kind of thing” now afflicting thousands of newborn children whose mothers took thalidomide in early pregnancy.

Johnson described Johnny’s condition as “congenital absences of portions of all four extremities.” His arms end above the elbow, one leg above the knee, the other at the knee.

A wave of fear has swept the world since thalidomide has been blamed for an epidemic of deformities in Europe. In Belgium, a mother stands accused of murder for giving her new born, deformed infant an overdose of sleeping pills. Mrs. Finkbine’s quest for an abortion has made headlines across the United States.

“THIS IS a little unfortunate,” said John B. Kemp, Johnny’s father. “The situation is not at all hopeless. It’s far from hopeless.”

“When Johnny was born that way,” said Kemp, “it was just one of those things. Nobody knew why he came that way but we immediately elected to make a good home for him, to make him happy.”

Johnny’s mother died in 1950, leaving Kemp to care for Johnny and his two normal sisters.

By the time he was 3 years old Johnny was wearing artificial limbs. Learning to use them was not easy for the child.

“HIS FATHER did the right things,” said Johnson. “Parents can be over-sympathetic. His father made him learn. He said, “You put those on and you’re going to leave them on.”

At 7 Johnny was playing baseball. He now plays football and basketball, and caddies at Bismarck’s Apple Creek Country Club.

Johnny had to work out some things for himself. He uses a catcher’s mitt at third base and after much experimentation finally devised a way to hold it with his mechanical hands.

HE MUST grip his bat at almost the middle of its length, which means that he has to be almost on top of the plate when hitting.

“So what if I crowd the plate?” asked Johnny. “Some of those batters in the majors do too. Like Rich Rollins, he crowds the plate.

“Most of the other teams have caught on to how I hit, so they play up close. It makes me mad. I hit pretty well last year and I have been only one for 14 this season, because they know where I’m going to hit.

“Boy, someday I’m just going to line one right through them.”

THERE ARE THINGS that Johnny has not learned to do. His attempts to ride a bicycle have been unsuccessful so far. “When I fall the bike comes down like a ton,” he said.

“I don’t care though. There are some kids that can’t do anything. I think I’m pretty lucky to do all this stuff,” he said. Two years ago he was the national Easter Seal boy and saw many children hopelessly crippled.

When school starts Johnny will be in the eighth grade at St. Ann’s School, where, he said, he is an average student (“They keep telling me my penmanship isn’t too good.”)

RIGHT NOW his goal is to improve his kicking in hopes of becoming a conversion specialist for Bismarck’s St. Mary’s High School football team in a few years.

“Dad said he’d buy me a pair of spikes if I kick all right this year,” he said.

Johnny said he would like to become either a priest or a doctor, but right now his mind is full of baseball.

“I don’t like the Yankees at all,” he said. “But Mantle – with all those injuries, he can hardly run. I feel sorry for the guy, even though I don’t like the Yankees.”

AUGUST 2008 UPDATE: The subject of this story was easy to track down. John D. Kemp, 58, is a partner with Powers Pyles Sutter & Verville, a Washington, D.C., law firm that specializes in disability issues. He’s a nationally recognized expert on disability law and a co-founder of the American Association of People with Disabilities. He and his wife, Sameta, live in a condo 10 blocks from the White House. He rides a three-wheel scooter to work each day.

Before our interview, I e-mailed him a copy of the 1962 Tribune article. He’d never seen it before, and didn’t recall talking to a Minneapolis newspaper reporter that summer. But he welcomed the chance to “walk back through time” and hear again the voice of his father, John B. Kemp, who passed away two months ago at age 89.

“My dad was a very fair and loving man,” Kemp said. “Very positive, very careful about ethics and commitment and hard work.”

Being born with no arms or legs “is far from hopeless,” he added, “and that’s the way I was raised — my outlook on life was formed by my dad.”

	John D. Kemp

The story doesn’t explain what caused Kemp’s birth defect. Does he know more now?

“No, not much more,” he said. “It was a birth anomaly. It was probably a morning sickness drug that my mother took, DES. Years later there was litigation, but we never thought about litigating it. My dad was all about moving on.”

Despite his disability, Kemp’s education was strictly mainstream, from elementary school in Bismarck, N.D., to high school in Frankfort, Ky., to college at Georgetown and law school at Washburn University.

How have prosthetics improved since he was a boy?

“Oh, my goodness,” he said. “The materials have changed dramatically. They’re much lighter weight and durable and functional. I wore thick leg braces then, and now I wear lightweight leg prosthetics, maybe 2 pounds each. Carbon fiber and a little bit of metal. My artificial arms are still very much the same as I was wearing back then. I still wear clamps. It’s what I’m used to, and they’re easy to repair.”

Did he ever learn to ride a bike?

“No, I never did. I probably stopped right about then. I couldn’t hold onto the handlebars and keep my feet on the pedals. I waited till I was 16 and got a driver’s license. I’m as bad a driver as anyone else – or as good.”

How about high school football?

“No, I never learned how to kick well enough. But I was a student manager and earned seven high school letters for various teams, track, swimming and basketball” in Frankfurt, where his family moved in 1963.

In photos, Kemp looks pretty fit more than 45 years after the Tribune interview. Does he still play sports, exercise, work out?

“I swim a lot, and I try my hardest not to gain weight,” he said. “I like good food, good wine.”

I asked him what advice he might have given that summer to Sherri Finkbine, the “Romper Room” actress whose thalidomide-related abortion prompted the Tribune to do a story about his life.

He thought for a moment. “I would have said … it would have underestimated the value and quality of the child’s life to terminate it before it had a chance to grow and develop. [The abortion] was a radical and unfortunate procedure. Life with a disability can be quite rewarding and fulfilling.”

He paused again: “I have had a fulfilling life. … I didn’t know then I would work in the disability field, and I have done that work all my life. It has been fantastic. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

Mr. and Mrs. Harlow Ross, two satisfied Minneapolis Star subscribers, took the time to write this letter to the editor, praising their “newsboy” for her professionalism and good cheer.

Before turning to adult carriers in the 1980s, newspapers touted paper routes as a way for kids to build character and gain valuable business experience. I wonder if the young carrier celebrated here would, in hindsight, agree. In trying to locate her earlier tonight, I regrettably disturbed the wrong Debbie in Edina (sorry, Ms. Hammer!). The real Debbie would be in her mid-50s these days, and of course she might have a different surname. Do you know a Debbie who delivered newspapers in Golden Valley in 1964? I’d love to chat with her.

Good Girl Newsboy

To the Editor: In these days, it seems that only the scientists and the astronauts receive public recognition. Perhaps it would be well if we all stopped a moment to reflect upon the acts of those who perform the little jobs of our everyday world.

In the two years we have resided at our present address “Debbie” Hammer has been our “newsboy.” She has performed promptly and with a smile on all occasions, and now that she is leaving her route, we know she will be missed for the usual efficiency she gave to a mundane task. Our newspaper was always neatly inside the door, and rain or shine her delivery varied little in time.

Our deliveries will continue, but as we pick up our evening Star, it will, somehow, lack the flavor that Debbie seemed to lend.

Thanks to our special newsgal, and good luck!

Golden Valley. –Mr. And Mrs. Harlow Ross.

The Star and Tribune building in about 1960, long before McClatchy and Avista came to town.

Google “freckles contest” and you’ll find that complexion-related competitions haven’t faded from the festival landscape more than a half-century after this cautionary tale appeared in the Minneapolis Star. The young contestant, James Busterud, survived the ordeal and eventually settled in Merrill, Wis. An update follows the original story.

Freckle Contest
Training Has
Consequences

It’ll take more than a touch of sun-stroke to keep 12-year-old James Busterud, 247 SE. Bedford street, out of the running for the title of St. Frances Cabrini parish freckle king.

Playmates had to haul the youngster out of the glaring sun and apply cold packs to bring him to, after an overdose of sun while he was “training” for the contest to be held as a feature of the parish lawn social Sunday from 2 to 9 p.m.

But after some parental discipline, Jimmy went back in more restricted training again, with his sister, Sally – who can count even more freckles than Jimmy – in the race for freckles queen.

Governor and Mrs. Youngdahl and the Rev. Francis Burns, pastor of St. Clement’s church, have been selected as judges of the freckles contest, the Rev. Henry Sledz, pastor, said.

The St. Lawrence band will provide music at the festival on the church grounds, 1501 Franklin avenue SE. Ed Cirkl and Mrs. Katherine Priebe are co-chairmen.

St. Frances Cabrini Church, site of the freckles contest, was founded in 1946. Here’s what it looked like in September 1948. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

AUGUST 2008 UPDATE: James Busterud, now 70, is a retired restaurateur in Merrill, Wis. He and his wife, Angie, ran a supper club there called South of the Border. He has two sons. His wife died earlier this year.

I asked him how he ended up out in the sun that day in 1951. He said he was planning to enter the freckles contest against three other boys and had heard that extended exposure to the sun would give him an advantage. He really was working on his freckles, then? “Yes,” he said with a laugh, “that was a long time ago.”

How did he do in the contest? “I finished second,” he recalled instantly. “My sister won the girls’.”

This United Press report appeared in the Minneapolis Sunday Tribune:

Women Not Really Better,
Just Act So, Says Editor

Their Moral Superiority Is Laid
To Double Standard of Morals.

San Francisco, Cal., Aug. 1. – Did God make women to be morally superior to men? Prof. Thomas W. Shannon, president of the Single Standard Eugenic movement and editor of “Practical Eugenics,” thinks not. And, he says, unless men rise to the higher plane of morality which obtains among women, then women will soon sink to the lower plane of morality prevalent among men, or both sexes will meet on a compromise plane of morality, threatening the vitality of the human race.

Prof. Shannon, who had come on from the headquarters of the Movement, Delaware, Ohio, to attend the recent International Purity congress, remained in the city a few days to see the fair.

“In every land, in all ages, among all races,” he said, “barbarous and civilized peoples have held a higher standard of morals for women than men. In our penal institutions seven times as many men as women are found. Men drink a barrel of whiskey where women drink a pint; they then sow their wild oats, where women sow purity and love. Are these social and moral differences conclusive evidence that men are more inherently more depraved than women? For ages men’s selfish interests have led him to affirm this. Women’s acquiescent nature and fondness for compliments have led her to accept the opinion.

“That women have been and are better by practice than men I cheerfully admit; that they are inherently better, I positively deny.

“A perverted public sentiment tolerates and fosters the inconsistencies of profanity, tobacco alcohol and vice in men and condemns these habits as unpardonable sins when indulged in by women. By practice men are less consistent than women for no other reason than that public sentiment permits them to be; women are better than men for no other reason than that public sentiment compels it.

“If the double standard of morals is responsible for nine-tenths of the inconsistencies practiced by men, and these habits are responsible for nine-tenths of race degeneracy then the teaching of a consistent standard of morals is the only practical and rational solution of these problems.”

A switchboard operator at the Minneapolis Journal lived up to societal expectations, appearancewise, back in 1915. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

Men weren’t afraid to get their hands — or faces — dirty in 1915. Here a crew worked a mine near Eveleth. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

Day in, day out, the Minneapolis Star of 1939 was packed with ads touting a variety of entertainment options, stretching from Lake Minnetonka to the St. Paul border. Which one catches your interest here? How about listening to Rudy Vallee at the Orpheum? Dancing till 1:45 a.m. at the Marigold Ballroom? Or watching Barbara Stanwyck in “Union Pacific” at the Avalon?

I’m partial to Excelsior Park. As kids, we got free rides there based on the number of A’s, B’s and C’s on our report cards. Yes, back in 1967, before grade inflation, a C actually meant something — about a third of a spin on the merry-go-round, as I recall.

Excelsior Park (1925-1969) had it all: Rides, speedboats, amusements, death-defying acts — and fresh walleyed pike at the Blue Line Cafe.

The Star Tribune of 2008 is appalled by the racially insensitive terms used by the Star Journal of 1940 to describe the two women in this story. Consider yourself warned.

WANTED: GYPSY TO ‘BLESS’ JAIL CELL

The gypsy who unfolded the fortune of a 28-year-old Negro woman here neglected to tell her the experience was going to cost her something over $200.

The woman told her story to police last night after the gypsy failed to return from an expedition in which she was to “bless” a rug, radio and clothing.

The gypsy came to her home July 27, she said, and offered to tell the woman’s fortune for a quarter. She would have none of it. But the gypsy woman kept on talking, letting drop certain facts about her intended victim’s life.

When she mentioned the victim had had marital difficulties, and she knew what to do about it, the woman agreed to a reading.

The gypsy told her, among other things, that two men were desperately in love with her, and advised her which one to accept.

Then she asked for money to bless. A quarter was tied in a silk handkerchief, “blessed” with a sprinkling of salt and considerable mumbo-jumbo, then suspended around the victim’s neck

THE NEXT DAY THE GYPSY RETURNED, LOOKED OVER THE QUARTER, FOUND THAT THE BLESSING WAS REALLY HOT STUFF AND SAID SHE HAD TO HAVE MORE MONEY TO BLESS.

The victim produced $13, which was tied up in like fashion and blessed in the same way, then suspended around her neck.

* * *

The gypsy returned again the following day, grunted again in satisfaction at the way the blessing project was working out, and said that for the business to be really efficacious, some larger, more valuable articles should be brought in for blessing.

* * *

The woman bought a $32.50 radio and a $150 oriental rug, both on time, and the gypsy woman examined them with satisfaction.

FOR SUCH FINE ARTICLES, SHE SAID, NO ORDINARY DOMESTIC JOB OF BLESSING WOULD DO.

They would have to be subjected to an extra special blessing project at a location where the gypsy woman hangs out (a detail which police today would like to know).

The victim helped the gypsy load the rug, radio and $14 worth of clothes into a taxicab to be taken away for some Grade A blessing operations.

When the gypsy failed to return the articles the next day, the seed of suspicion was sown. When she failed to return also the day afterward, it sprouted.

The victim untied the silk handkerchief with the $13 in it.

No $13.

There was only some old cloth and a sprinkling of salt.

* * *

Her loss amounted to $209.50, a large part of which she still must pay on the rug and radio.

Police are going to ask the gypsy woman, when they catch up with her, to bless a jail cell, a very intricate and long-drawn project.

Sometimes a fortune teller can’t get a word in edgewise. The woman having her palm read in this 1940 photo appears to be recounting her entire life story. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

From the Minneapolis Morning Tribune:

A Scene in the Municipal Court.

Three lads, ranging in age from 10 to 15 years, were brought into the municipal court Friday, charged with the larceny of five handsleds. The lads were arraigned and admitted their guilt to the extent of one sled each. They were sent into an anteroom and the business of the court proceeded.

Finally there came a lull, and Judge Cooley, a gray-haired, pleasant-faced gentleman, passed into the room where the lads were waiting to learn their fate.

	These members of the Minneapolis Journal newsboys club probably earned enough money hawking newspapers to buy their own handsleds. Or perhaps a pair of shoes. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

Taking a seat in front of the little culprits, who were seated in a group looking very much frightened, the judge said: “Boys, this is a sad business. You have pleaded guilty to a crime the penalty for which is a term of years in the reform school. It is probably best that you be sentenced to that institution. If you are given your liberty it will only be to go from bad to worse, and you will finally commit some much graver crime. I am sorry for you. Your position is a sad one indeed.”

Then to the youngest: “Do you want to see your mother before you go down?” The lips of the lad, who was a clean-faced, bright-eyed, curly-haired little fellow, quivered at the mention of his mother’s name, and he could hardly control his voice to answer, “Yes, sir.”

The same question was asked the second, a lad of 12, a trifle more stolid in appearance, but there was a tremor in the voice as he too answered earnestly in the affirmative.

“And you, my lad?” to the oldest, whose unkempt appearance must have prompted the question which followed. “Is your mother in the city?” “No, sir.” “When will she be here?” “Tomorrow.” “Where is your father?” “I don’t know – in Milwaukee, I believe.” “What is he doing?” “I don’t know, sir.” “Do you want to see your mother before you go down?” “Yes, sir.”

The kindly face of Judge Cooley was very sober as he looked at this lad. “It is a sad case,” he said in aside to Clerk Stevens, “and it will be a kindness to the boy to send him to the reform school, where he will have a home and care.”

The lad has a history that is calculated to win for him the sympathy and pity of all but the most depraved. The father and mother separated years ago, the former apparently no longer takes interest in his child’s welfare. The mother is a woman of bad character, “though,” said Clerk Stevens to the reporter, “it can be said to her credit that she does her best to hide her misdeeds from the lad; but a boy of his age sees enough and hears enough from his companions to know that all is not right.”

“Boys,” said the judge, who had been very attentively studying the faces of the two younger lads for some moments, “if I permit you to go home now, will you report here tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock to learn the final disposition of your cases?” Both little faces brightened and both quickly responded, “Yes, sir.” “Can I trust you?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, you can go.” “Now?” “Yes.” And they were off like a flash.

“Wait, my lad,” said the judge to the oldest, who had started with the others, “you must stay with the officer until your mother comes. You are older than your companions, and appear to have been their leader in the commission of this crime. I shall send you to the reform school, but you shall first see your mother.”

The boy resumed his seat, and for some minutes his sobs only broke the stillness. Judge Cooley looked sober. His duty was evidently a painful one. The court officers seemed moved by the peculiarly sad lot of a boy who had been deserted by his father and who was worse than motherless.

“I will talk a little farther with the younger lads in the morning,” said the judge, “and suspend sentence. It is probably their first criminal act, and may be their last.”

In 1882, Minnesota’s bad boys landed in the State Reform School near Marshall and Hamline in St. Paul. Plagued by overcrowding in its later years, it was relocated to Red Wing in 1891. (Photo courtesy mnhs.org)

This ad for the Walker-Ankeny auto dealership in Wayzata introduces Minneapolis Star readers to the BMW brand with an unusual pitch: Our car is better than a VW – but not quite as good as a Mercedes. Oddly, there’s no mention of the blurry swimsuit model included with every sale.

Maybe the Big Three automakers could revive this pitch.

Another in our series of stories on children who narrowly escaped serious injury: 5-year-old Roberta Sandgren of Robbinsdale was watching her mom make a cake when her “flying pigtail” got tangled in the mixer. Thanks to a quick-thinking parent and a patient policeman, no harm was done and the little kitchen aide went on to earn a degree in home economics at the University of Minnesota. Following this report from the Minneapolis Tribune, you’ll find an update based on an e-mail exchange with her and a phone conversation with her mom.

Minneapolis Tribune

ROBERTA SANDGREN, 5, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Robert C. Sandgren, 3659 Halifax avenue, Robbinsdale, was truly unhappy Monday after her flying pigtail became involved with a whirring electric mixer. Roberta was helping her mother mix a cake when her hair got into the recipe. The youngster’s right thumb and left ear also became entangled. Robbinsdale police were called to pry the pigtail from the mixer gears. The cake? It was a mess. But such mishaps are annual with Roberta. She swallowed ant poison at 2, was hit by a car at 3 and swallowed a penny at 4. First aid fixed her up each time.

JULY 2008 UPDATE: Roberta Hemley turned 60 this month. She lives in Germany and works in the marketing department of Innogenetics, a biotechnology company. Her parents, Robert and Violet Sandgren, still live in Robbinsdale. It’s been more than 54 years since the mixer incident, and neither mom nor daughter remembers much about it.

	Roberta Hemley in 2008

“I was baking something, a cake, and you know kids,” Violet said. “She stood on a little chair and was going to help. I had my back turned for a second. Then she leaned over [and got her hair caught].”

Did she cry?

“No, I don’t think so. I doubt it was painful.”

Violet turned off the mixer and called the police for help. She credits the officer who responded with saving her daughter’s locks: “The policeman tried to undo it by twisting hair out of it. If he hadn’t been so patient … I bet another policeman would have just used a scissors to cut it.”

Roberta has lived in Germany since 1971. She and her husband, an Englishman, have two children, Valerie, 26, and Adrian, 24. Roberta is fairly sure her mother was making an angel food cake that day.

“And like most kids,“ she wrote, “I used to stand on a chair and watch her. I must have turned my head abruptly and that’s how my pigtail got entangled in the mixer. Mom said that it took the policeman about half an hour to free the pigtail. After that I didn’t have any more childhood mishaps!”