Love was in the Austin air in 1935 when my parents met. Actually, they seemed destined for each other in a kind of providential devine-bovine sort of way. You see, from the dating get-go my father claimed that besides her charming looks and svelte figure, the thing that really turned him on to Mom was the awareness of her gorgeous capacity to consume a steak of commendable proportions all in one eating. Could anything be more wondrous than that, he opined dreamily?

As the two beef magnets gazed at each other from across a small Wagon Wheel Steak House table, Mom gave Dad a look you could have poured over ice cream. And with that, they rhythmically masticated their way into white hot romance.

So, how did these two find each other, you may ask? Well, it was Jay and Germaine Hormel who started it all by introducing them. “Yes,” the Hormels thought, “those two would make a great pair.” And they did! For up until that introduction, Gene McLaughlin (my dad), had been living with the dreaded possibility of having to share his gastronomical Square Deal Grocery appetites with a woman who wasn’t of a similar comestible mindset. It would have been unthinkable.

But, as fortune would have it, in Margaret McDonell he found a most compatible food aficionado. And if that were not enough frosting on his cake (or in their case, marbling throughout the sirloin!), Margaret was also a cook extraordinaire. Why wouldn’t she be? After all, her teacher had been Victor Croes, the Hormels’ private chef whom Germaine had brought from France to Minnesota. This causes me to wonder if, perchance, the gourmet Germaine did not find the Midwest noodle and tuna hot dishes to her liking?

In all respects, marrying Margaret was like hitting the matrimonial jackpot. Actually, in more ways than one. For despite being a rather demure girl, Margaret also had a spirited side. Before the couple knew it, her tantalizing and oft repeated words of, “Oh, Gee-eee-ne, where are you?” turned into, “Oh, no, Gene! Not again!” after they produced four children in the space of less than four years.

Mary was born in July, 1936; David in September, 1937; Peggy in July, 1938; and Neil in September, 1939. All four of us were delivered at St. Olaf Hospital by Dr. Garfield Hertel. It was heard tell that Dr. Hertel (couldn’t resist that!) was giving serious consideration to hanging a reserved-for-Margaret-McLaughlin-only plaque over one particular obstetric room for four Julys and Septembers in a row. It is my personal belief the births ended abruptly when Mom purchased her very own chastity belt and did not give Dad the key!

When we were sick, we went to Dr. Hertel’s home office on North 2nd St. (the former 701 North Greenwich), where he practiced from 1917 to 1953. I swear not one iota of change has been made to the outside of that home during all the ensuing decades. Handsome then. Handsome now.

In 1940, Mom and Dad purchased the Holtz Pharmacy home at 509 North Sixth St. (currently 509 10th Street, NW). Its architecture was unique to Austin in having a touch of Spanish flair. Harvey and his wife built it, but only lived there a few years. They had no children and used just three rooms: the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. In all the rest of the rooms, the furniture was covered with sheets. The undisturbed tranquility of that quiet retreat was shattered when a family with a boisterous 1, 2, 3, and 4 year old moved in. It must have felt as if it had suddenly been injected with a caffeine-laden shot of adrenalin. From that day on, until 1975 when it was sold, its walls never stopped reverberating from the energy of its robust rollicking occupants.

I heard someone remark recently that in Austin, homes are not known by who presently lives in them, but rather by their longest running former owners. When we moved to Austin one year ago, my husband and I purchased such a home. I expect it will never really be ours, but will always be known as the Huntting home. So be it.

In the 1940s and 50s, 10th Street Northwest was a knock-dead-gorgeous street. Its beauty was all about the dense maple trees lining it. In autumn they were so psychedelically vibrant you were stunned over the marvel of it all. One summer day the men from the power company came through and like a scythe through a wheat field, cut them down. I vividly remember the day. I was about age 7, and I stood angrily on our boulevard with my feet planted apart defiantly daring those men to cut our trees down. The scene was sort of like the Chinese fellow who refused to move from in front of the tanks in Tianmen Square. Well, sort of.

Naturally, the workers ignored me, a little kid, and broke my heart by cutting them down anyway. Trust me when I say, the street has never recovered its former glory. It was all about those trees.

Keener grew up in Austin, moved away for 58 years but later returned to town. Keener published her memoir, “Potato In A Rice Bowl,” in 2010 to outline her experiences living in Japan in the 1960s while her husband was in the military. Peggy Keener invites readers to share their memories with her by emailing pggyknr@yahoo.com. Memories shared with Keener may be shared or referenced in subsequent editions of “Full Circle.”