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Tuesday, June 29, 1965: Buried alive in Bloomington

Posted on June 29th, 2008 – 1:18 PM
By Ben Welter

My sister Clare has a history of falling into holes. As a child, she fell 6 feet into a construction pit near our home in Richfield. In her mid-20s, she tried to cross what she thought was a big puddle in a Minneapolis street but suddenly found herself paddling in a temporary lake caused by a broken water main. In her late 30s, blinded by the sun on the back porch of an unfamiliar house, she became entangled in a dog chain, tripped backward and fell about 8 feet into an uncovered cellar. She survived each fall mostly unscathed, suffering only a few bruises in the final spill.

Forty-three years ago, Jeanmarie Louise Frazier of Bloomington survived her descent into a hole with hardly a scratch, as well, thanks to quick thinking on the part of her little sister, three neighbors and a construction worker. Her story landed on the front page of the Minneapolis Star the next day. An update follows the original account.

‘LIKE GOPHERS’

Men Dig to Save Buried Girl

Sister Yells Help

Two men — a reporter and photographer — appeared at the Frazier house the next morning. “One was asking questions, and there was one taking pictures,” Jeanmarie recalled in an interview last week. “I remember saying, ‘I was scared.’ ” She barely remembers returning to the excavation for this photo of her and Suzanne, right.

“My sister’s in the hole … my sister’s in the hole …”

This alarm, sounded quick and loud by 5-year-old Suzan[ne] Frazier, 8308 17th Av. S., Bloomington, produced a chain reaction about 8 p.m. Monday.

Tony Koval, 45, 8313 17th Av. S., who was fixing his fence, saw the girl running across the street from a storm sewer excavation.

Koval understood. He dropped his hammer and ran toward the excavation shouting for help at the same time.

Raymond C. LeValley, 8301 17th Av. S., dropped his newspaper and raced through his front door. Bruce Swenson, 8337 17th Av. S., was talking to Marvin Goulet, 580 Holly Av., St. Paul, a contractor’s man keeping an eye on a pump.

The two men broke into a sprint. By the time they and LeValley reached the spot, Koval had discovered a speck of Jeanmarie Louise Frazier, 8, almost completely buried by an earth cave-in inside the excavation.

“First I saw a hand, then I could see her eyes,” Koval said.

The four men got down on their knees and dug with their hands “like gophers,” releasing the girl before emergency equipment arrived.

Jeanmarie, flustered and frightened, ran home unhurt.

JUNE 2008 UPDATE: Mrs. Harold Frazier had forbidden her children to go near the excavation that summer. How did Jeanmarie end up in that hole, buried alive by a cave-in, unable to breathe, her nose, mouth and throat filling with dirt?

“I never obeyed my mother,” said Jeanmarie Rosenthal, now 51 and living in St. Paul. “I was a very stubborn child. I always wanted to do my own thing. My daughter is actually the same way.”

Jeanmarie Rosenthal is an ordained minister, small-business owner and novelist.

And so Jeanmarie and Suzanne found themselves on the edge of the sewer-line excavation that night, throwing rocks into the hole, when suddenly the earth gave way and swallowed the older child, covering all but her right arm. At least, that’s the way Jeanmarie remembered it in our initial interview.

But memory is a funny thing. She called me back 30 minutes later to set the record straight, after consulting by phone with her sister, now 49 and living in Bloomington. What really happened won’t surprise any parent — or any kid: The two children had climbed into the hole to play. On the way back up, Jeanmarie grabbed onto a root that gave loose and started the cave-in that buried her.

“I couldn’t hear anything,” she recalled. “I just remember thinking, “I’m gonna die, help!”

Luckily, Suzanne made it to safety. But she didn’t shout, “My sister’s in the hole! My sister’s in the hole!” Like many 5-year-olds, she had trouble with the word “sister.” What she shouted was: “My scissors in the hole! My scissors in the hole!” She ran home to get her mother as three neighbors and a workman raced to save her sister.

“I could feel movement above me, so I knew that there was somebody up there,” Jeanmarie said. “I think it was a miracle that my arm was even up there, because if that hadn’t been there they wouldn’t really know where I was.”

The men dug frantically and pulled her out. A neighbor told her she’d been buried for about three minutes. Another three minutes without oxygen and she would have suffered brain damage.

Mr. Koval, one of the neighbors, helped her home. Her mother, alerted by Suzanne’s shouting, met her in the street. “She hugged me at first to make sure that I was OK,” Jeanmarie said. And then? “I’m sure I got a scolding,” she said.


Have you ever survived a brush with death after disobeying a parent? I invite you to post your memories in the comments section below.

2 Responses to "Tuesday, June 29, 1965: Buried alive in Bloomington"

andrea mauer says:

June 29th, 2008 at 6:00 pm

“Stay off the tracks!” That was our warning we always ignored as walking the railroad tracks was the quickest way to get “uptown” in Albert Lea. I was about 8 was reenacting how someone could possibly get their shoe caught in the tracks and then actually did get my shoe caught. Naturally we heard the whistle and a train was approaching just like in the movies. I started to cry and my older sister pulled me out of my shoe and up a bridge enbankment and we climbed to the top under the bridge. I cried now out of fear and now to see my precious bag of “hot cashews” tumbled down the concrete to the tracks.

Dave Sours says:

June 30th, 2008 at 9:08 am

Similar warning. “Stay off the trestle,” meaning the Arcola trestle on Lake Minnetonka. On August 26, 1970, when I was 10 years old, a friend and I were walking on the trestle. It was a hot day and I was barefooted, so I was concentrating on keeping my feet out of the tar on the ties. I turned around to see how my friend was doing, and the train was there instead! It had been honking, but I was concentrating too hard to notice! I tried to get over to one of the supports that stuck out from the sides of the bridge, but it was too late. The train knocked me off the bridge and into the channel, face down and unconscious. A fisherman saw it happen and rowed over and pulled me out. I woke up in the boat on shore and looked up to see the train stopped on the trestle. I tipped my head back and saw a bunch of people lining the rail on the highway 15 bridge. I figured out what had happened, and the first words out of my mouth were, “Don’t tell my mom! She’ll kill me!” She was already there. My friend had climbed down the support posts and biked home (full of slivers) to get help. I had 56 stiches in my back, a couple of fractured ribs, and a knot in the back of my head that still hurts when I push on it. The story may have wound up in the Minneapolis Star or Tribune. I remember a reporter coming to our home to interview me a few days later. Then there was the time I got hit by a car on highway 12 after my mother had warned me not to bike along highway 12…

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