Autobiography

Ancestral origins
In 1862, Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act, a bill opening one half million square miles of territory in the western United States for settlement. The Homestead Act offered new arrivals from other countries the opportunity to stake and develop farms of 160 acres by simply working the land for five years. Although they were only in their teens or early twenties, my great grandparents individually left their villages in Norway and Sweden between 1875 and 1885 and migrated to western Minnesota and South Dakota. Similar to the protagonists in the epics of Ole Rolvaag and Vilhelm Moberg, they worked the rich farmland, married, raised families, and achieved prosperity unattainable at that time in Scandinavia.

Things changed for my parents' generation. My father, Courtland Agre, and his two sisters grew up in Wallace, a hamlet in eastern South Dakota where his parents ran the general store. Wallace was also the hometown of Hubert Humphrey, and while my aunt Pearl remembers baby-sitting young Hubert, my father, an ardent Republican, claimed that they never met. To accommodate their educational needs, my grandparents moved the family to a larger town and ultimately to Minneapolis where Dad earned his B.S. and Ph.D. in chemistry from the University of Minnesota. He contributed to the U.S. effort in World War II by working as an experimental polymer chemist for the 3M company. My mother, Ellen Swedberg, was the sixth of eight children. Her upbringing was more severe. She was only five years old when her mother died; later her father lost their farm in Twin Brooks, South Dakota during the Depression. At age 18, Mother moved to St. Paul in order to support herself. Despite eleven years difference in age, Dad and Mom met at a Lutheran church social, fell in love, and married. I was never certain how much their families approved, since even small differences in geographical origins are taken very seriously by Scandinavians. The Agres were Norwegian (Osterdalen and Trondelag), while the Swedbergs had mixed origins - Swedish (Skåne) and Norwegian (Telemark).

Childhood
Following WWII, my parents moved to Northfield, a town 40 miles south of Minneapolis where Dad was recruited to the chemistry department at St. Olaf College. Dad was energetic and, with the help of his St. Olaf students during the summers, he built our house across the street from the college athletic fields and meadows. We could look up at the college from our living room. As was the tradition, Mom had babies and took care of the family. Preceded two years by my sister Annetta, I was born on January 30, 1949 and received the anglicized name of my grandfather, Peder. My closest sibling, James (Jim), was born one year later, followed by Paul, Ruth, and Mark. We had an idyllic childhood. Grandmother Agre lived nearby and coaxed us to speak rudimentary Norwegian in return for cookies and other bribes ("Jeg liker Bestemor's mat!"). Northfield was in many ways a new-world enclave of pre-Ibsen Norway with 19th century religious and socially conservative values. My friends had family names like Lunder, Finholt, Berglund, and Fredriksen. We schoolchildren all sat on the hillside waving our Norwegian flags when King Haakon visited St. Olaf. He was chauffeured from the train station to the college in the only Cadillac in town - owned by the local plumber. We always had lutefisk for Christmas dinner, after which Dad read from the Norwegian Bible. During the summers, he welcomed us into his laboratory at St. Olaf where he rigged simple "experiments" for us such as changing the color of solutions containing indicator dye by adding acid or base. As a youngster, it was obvious to me that I would follow my father's career path, since he was my greatest hero.

Courtland Agre in his lab at St. Olaf College.

Life changed for our family while I was in the third grade. Grandmother Agre died, and Dad decided to take a sabbatical year at the University of California. Dad had high aspirations, and through the American Chemical Society he became acquainted with renowned scientists. Berkeley was an amazing change from Northfield, and Jim and I attempted, with limited success, to demonstrate our Norwegian athletic and scholastic superiority to the smart and culturally heterogeneous Berkeley youngsters. It was at this time that my brother Paul was recognized as mentally retarded, and my sister Ruth began to exhibit her lifelong personality disorder with lack of impulse control. While they never fretted openly, these problems must have caused my parents profound heartache.

Following the year in Berkeley, we returned to Minnesota. Always eager for a challenge, Dad accepted a professorship at Augsburg College, a small Norwegian Lutheran college in Minneapolis with a chemistry department in need of help. We lived in a beautiful, large brick house on the banks of Lake Nokomis and went to the public schools. My inconsistent academic performance was usually well tolerated, as I tried to amuse my school classes with my practical jokes and amateurish wit. As in Northfield, my teachers were the kindest and nicest people imaginable. It is impossible to overestimate the importance of a teacher in the life of a child, and my all-time favorite was my sixth grade teacher Richard Hughes whose kindly personality and gentle sense of humor inspired in us the idea that learning is wonderfully fun. This impression was shared by many. My classmate Julia Lofness remains a close personal friend and still cheers me by retelling events from our days in Mr. Hughes' class.

My brother Jim and I spent many wonderful summers working on dairy farms in Wisconsin owned by Mom's cousins, and as members of our local Boy Scout troop. Scouting was a particularly important activity for us, and through the generous instruction of our Scoutmasters, Harold Neuendorf and Francis McMahon, we learned the resourcefulness needed to camp out even in Minnesota winters. One of our happiest times was in 1964 when Jim and I received our Eagle Scout Awards together - Dad carried that snapshot in his wallet for the rest of his life. Dad's presence was always palpable. Needing a medical doctor to perform physical examinations before summer camp, Dad always arranged for one of his former St. Olaf students to serve. One summer, Dr. Charles Mayo, grandson of the Mayo Clinic founder, examined the boys of Troop 185. Also as a Scout, I developed a deep interest in the culture of the Ojibway Indians of Northern Minnesota and explored the Canadian wilderness by canoe - an activity that I still undertake with family members each summer. In retrospect, another remarkable experience was the several-days visit to our home by Dad's friend Linus Pauling who presented lectures on physical chemistry (subject of his 1954 Nobel Prize in Chemistry) and the dangers of nuclear arms (subject of his 1962 Nobel Peace Prize). In person, Pauling was jovial, confident, and more engaging than anyone we had ever met. Dad always raved that Pauling's accomplishments were the greatest, and he instilled in us his view that the Nobel Prize is the closest thing to the Holy Grail.

High school and college
My years at Theodore Roosevelt high school were notable for reasons other than academics. Like other adolescents, I developed a strong attraction to girls and discovered that my parents' ideas were not the least bit interesting. I earned money as a concession salesman at the Minnesota Twins and Vikings games. At this time I developed a lifelong love of cross country skiing and long distance bicycling with my close friend and classmate Tom Page, an aspiring artist and fellow adventurer. Following my junior year in high school, I went on a camping trip through Russia in a group led by Horst Momber, a young language teacher from Roosevelt. This permanently sparked great enthusiasm for international travel in me. After my return, I gravitated in a Bohemian direction. Fancying myself as some sort of Bolshevik, my senior year in high school went badly in terms of conforming with my family's expectations. Rebelling against the establishment, my friends and I self-published an underground newspaper, The Substandard - a parody of the Roosevelt High School Standard. Our foray into newspaper work caused much delight amongst everyone except the school administration. Facing dismissal, I withdrew from school in the winter of 1967 when my grade in chemistry had dropped to a "D." Nevertheless, I finished my high school degree in night school, and I studied Russian language at the University of Minnesota during the day. I worked the evening shift and drove a truck for a factory making dummy land mines and parts for military equipment destined for the war in Vietnam.

This experience in the real world was far less appealing than I had anticipated, but Dad's faculty position offered a logical solution. I swallowed my pride and enrolled at Augsburg where I majored in chemistry in preparation for a career in medicine. Living at home, my social life was restricted to bicycle rides along the Mississippi River and around the lakes. My closest friends Tom and Julia remained in Minnesota for college and were generous sources of support. My second year at Augsburg was enlivened when brother Jim and I organized and played for the varsity soccer team. I also worked part time delivering flowers for a local florist. Although I was not sympathetic to the Lutheran affiliation of the school, I developed my first real academic self-discipline at Augsburg. I greatly benefited from excellent faculty, especially John Holum, the organic chemistry professor, and from the warm and friendly personalities of the other chemistry majors. Unlike many campuses, Augsburg lacked an overly competitive pre-med atmosphere, and all eight of the premedical chemistry majors in the class of 1970 were accepted into medical school. My brothers Jim and Mark also attended Augsburg and went on to medical school. Annetta graduated from Augsburg before marrying and raising her family; her daughter Christina has also become a medical doctor.

Early medical career and marriage
The long, cold Minnesota winters instilled in me a fascination for exotic far off places; I aspired toward a career in tropical diseases and world health problems. Johns Hopkins is highly regarded in these areas of research, and I was ecstatic when I was accepted into their medical school. Having enough credits to finish Augsburg early, I left Minnesota in the winter of 1970 to travel alone throughout Asia for several months. This was an eye-opening experience, and after hitchhiking throughout Japan and Taiwan, I journeyed to Laos where I traveled up the Mekong River and explored the hills of northern Thailand by motorcycle. Determined to visit Angkor Wat, I entered Cambodia and eventually arrived in Pnom Penh just as the U.S. Air Force launched its 'Parrots Beak' offensive against Vietcong east of the city. Advised by the U.S. Embassy to depart immediately, I boarded an evacuation flight to Vietnam where I viewed the U.S. forces in and around Saigon for several days before leaving for the calm and verdurous Malay highlands. Following a counterculture passage through Ceylon, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran, I eventually arrived in Istanbul, weakened from multiple travelers' ailments including viral hepatitis.

I began my medical studies at Johns Hopkins in September 1970. After being footloose in Asia, I found it difficult to concentrate on medical school, and my best efforts seemed barely enough to earn passing grades. I concluded that my presence at Hopkins fulfilled some sort of affirmative action quota for a Scandinavian student from Minnesota or the Dakotas. My medical school roommate, Vann Bennett, was from Hawaii, and he was thoroughly committed to surfing and laboratory science. Unlike most Hopkins medical students, Vann and I led severely ascetic lives, inhabiting a series of dilapidated rooms. We enjoyed touring the countryside by bicycle, and I made some long rides through Mexico and Canada. I maintained my counterculture image by always making my return trips to Minnesota by hitchhiking.

Johns Hopkins introduced me to two defining events in my life: commitment to biomedical research and meeting my future wife, Mary. It was known in 1970 that most traveler's diarrhea was caused by a protein similar to the cholera toxin secreted by certain strains of E. coli. I began a summer project to purify the E. coli toxin in the lab of Brad Sack in the Infectious Disease group at Johns Hopkins. At Vann's suggestion, I performed some of the biochemical studies in the laboratory of Pedro Cuatrecasas in the Pharmacology Department. The project fascinated me so much that I stayed in Pedro's lab during my final year in medical school, 1974, and put in an additional year as a postdoctoral fellow. I even