ANDREA HEARS ABOUT ANDRE THE GIANT

I'm a promoter, just like my favorite president. That fire got lit back when I was pastoring a little church way up in Mohall, North Dakota—practically kissing the Canadian border. After a wildly successful Billy Graham film festival at the high school, I figured, why stop? So I started booking an event every single month.

In January 1978, for the third Sunday, I scheduled a revival with my dad—an absolute beast of a preacher and soul-winner. He was supposed to drive straight up after his morning service all the way from Indiana. What I didn’t plan on was the monster blizzard of ’78 that roared in from the west and barreled east across the Dakotas like it had a personal grudge. I don’t know what kind of hell they caught down in Indiana (though I’ve heard rumors), but trust me—we won the misery contest up north.Down in South Dakota one farmer had to feed his cattle by climbing a snow embankment to the top of his hip-roof barn, then dropping hay bales through a hole he’d dug in the roof. Yeah… it was that kind of storm.Now, a quick love letter to the VW Bug—Hitler’s brainchild or whatever. That thing had one genius feature: a completely flat under-paneling that turned it into a sled. Other cars would bury themselves in drifts. Bug drivers just laughed, gunned it, and surfed right over the top. Beautiful.To cut to the good part: late that afternoon my dad was hammering down the road at 65 mph when he saw what looked like blinding snow straight ahead at the railroad tracks north of the air base. Nope. It was a six-foot (or better) drift. He hit it like a rocket, the little Bug rose up, rode the crest, and slid all the way across. When it finally stopped he jumped out, walked around checking if the tires were still attached and if he was still alive. Miraculously, both answers were yes.But at the 90-degree corner sixteen miles south of the border? That’s where the fun really started. He spent the next ten or twelve minutes doing baby turns because the wheel wells were packed solid with snow. The car could barely crawl. By evening they finally cleared the highway to Minot, so the next day we jumped in my vehicle and went full promoter mode.I was basically a local celebrity in Mohall. I’d lined up interviews with every TV station and the lone radio outfit. The big one was the noon slot—prime time because all the farmers came home for lunch. The interviewer, Mark, comes out full of apologies: “Hey, would you mind giving up fifteen minutes of your half-hour? We’ve got Andre the Giant coming on for a wrestling bit.”Andre the Giant. Seven-foot-four. Hands like oversized third-base mitts. My dad and I—both over six feet—felt like middle-school kids standing next to him. I shook that massive paw and grinned like an idiot. Of course I gave up the time. You don’t say no to a legend.Anybody want a peanut?
Fast-forward forty-eight years to last Sunday, June 7th. I’ve been battling brutal lymphedema, but this year I finally felt good enough to fire up the electric chariot and roll all the way from Garden Court East down to River Park. That’s when I stumbled into a full-blown celebration. A beautiful Mexican family had basically taken over the entire park for their daughter Andrea’s graduation open house—except it wasn’t just an open house, it was a full fiesta. The kids are thriving in Plymouth’s excellent schools, and the whole scene was pure joy.I caused a bit of a sensation rolling up. When things slowed down, Andrea and her best friend came over, and we talked for a good while. Naturally, I dropped the Andre the Giant story. They loved it. I had the absolute time of my life—because let’s be honest, I never need much encouragement to tell stories.Open house for Andrea and her graduation in Plymouth Indiana from high school
(And yes, that’s why I’ve been on a hot sauce kick the last few days. The salad had just enough sneaky spice to wake everything up—even if I never actually saw any hot sauce.