Christmas 2010

It was a different Christmas. With two dogs in the house Terry did not want to put the packages under the tree for fear they might tear into them. So the packages were in a pile up in our sleeping loft bedroom. When we woke up at 5 AM as is our wont, I went down and made coffee, let the dogs out for their morning pee and checked out what had happened on face book the night before. I took the insulated carafe of coffee with two cups upstairs and Terry suggested she and I open our gifts up there instead of carting them downstairs and then back up again. I like that woman's sense of economy. So we did. It was really rather nice, intimate, cozy and a fun experience sitting near the bed watching each other open our gifts to one another.

The rest of the day was fairly normal. Jessi and her friend (ex-husband) were here and in and out. Terry spent a lot of hours in the kitchen preparing the Christmas feast. We had baked ham, beef brisket and a hearty gumbo that seems to delight our guests as it goes in a hurry. Chips, dips, barbecue baby sausages, along with assorted condiments made for a festive meal.

We served 10 for Christmas dinner. Gift opening when the family is together is a mishmash of paper flying, ohs and ahs, and laughter.

We had very light snow flakes stirring the air throughout the day making the spirit of the season a little more meaningful for me as I grew up with white Christmases. So my 66th Christmas passed on into history. Another day of being with loved ones, sharing some food, drink and gifts. We are not a religious bunch so there is no church going or thoughts of Jesus. But the season is celebrated and the fun of talking with loved ones on the phone, the joy of being with family are probably more what Christmas is about than religion.

I especially enjoyed Terry's new found freedom from work a source of pleasure. There was no great fatigue from having worked Christmas Eve, there was no race to make the meal and clean up afterward because she had to go to work on the 26th. Her time is her's and it is nice to see the pressure and worry of having to go to work removed. This was a good Christmas.

It is almost here!!

This is a recopy of an email I sent my two daughters on December 23, 1999.

Dear Jen & Kris:
I am assuming you are both working today and will be off tomorrow. I just wanted to type a few lines because I know I will be talking to you over the weekend. It is odd, Christmas for me as a kid was a real exciting time. When I was about five or six my Dad ordered from Western Union a telegram from Santa addressed to me telling me he was on his way and would drop by our house later in the night. I can still remember that Christmas Eve night when the knock came to the door. It was dark out, our Christmas tree lights were on and the house was decorated. Dad opened the door and announced that I had a telegram. I went to the door and the man gave me a genuine Western Union telegram in the official envelope. Upon opening it the telegram was indeed genuine, the teletype tape had been cut and pasted as real telegrams were done. It was even in the official language. DEAR TOM STOP I AM LEAVING THE NORTH POLE NOW STOP I WILL BE STOPPING AT YOUR HOME LATER TONIGHT STOP MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR STOP

I cannot tell you the thrill that came over me. It sure put all those doubting playmates to shame. I'll bet they didn't even get a telegram from Santa. The excitement it created in me and the anticipation were almost more than I could bear. I took my telegram to bed, just to make sure the message didn't change.

In the morning our tradition was we could not go downstairs by ourselves. Of course Carol and I were the only kids there. We only had one bathroom, Dad had to go in, wash his face, potty, and otherwise consume eons of time while I tried to sit still with Mother in their bedroom. Then Mom's turn in the bathroom came. Dad sneaked downstairs and turned on the tree lights while I paced and plead with Mother to hurry up. Finally, with Mom leading the way down the stairs we came and whoopee, Santa had actually come. The evidence was overwhelming, the milk had been drunk and the cookies partially eaten.

I could not begin to describe the presents. I am sure they were plenty, and I am sure I had asked for things. In my mind's eye, today I remember the anticipation and excitement, and the feeling of being with family. During this time of year I often find myself thinking of some of those days. I don't remember too many Christmases, however I remember the excitement. There are those who say it isn't healthy for a child to get excited over avarice, but it was more.

On Christmas Eve, as I grew older, there was the evening church service when the altar looked so nice, we sang Christmas carols, and everyone seemed to take a little extra time and wish each other glad tidings. Mom, Dad and I would pile into the car, with me in the back seat. You could eventually feel the heat flow under the front seats, and warm your feet. We would ride around town looking at the lights people had decorated their homes with. I have no idea of the style of decoration, but the lights seemed brilliant and almost blinding.

Other times after church we would stop and the Gibson's or Bakkum's. We would admire their trees, I would drink pop while the grown ups got the hard stuff. We would visit and I would feel like things were all right with the world. So my real remembrances are of people, the decorations, the anticipation excitement, and the music. I remember that on Christmas day after the presents were opened an anticlimactic feeling as the day started to assume the mantel of just another day. However, that all changed in a few hours when friends came, coffee was made, Stolen was sliced and conversations took place. It is those types of memories I wish for you. I guess it simply revolves around security, love and joy. So may your Christmas Eve and Day be as exciting and fun as possible. I love you both very much.

Dad

I wish you could see what I saw!

The walk started about 5:45 this morning. It began as it usually does, me sitting in my chair on the porch trying to put my walking shoes on while two large dogs try to sneak licks in while I have my head down lacing my shoes. After much good natured admonishment they stand aside quietly to let me finish. Then up, fire up the stop watch, and off the porch we go.

Quickly the dogs smell an unfamiliar scent up near the gravel driveway. Heads down, alert they frantically search for direction, they are absorbed in this new scent and don't follow me down the road right away. Jack tracks the scent down the road, Molly catches up half way to our turning point that leads us out on the lawn. The breeze is steady from the South, it is 62 degrees and the air smells sweet and moist.

We turn North, the dogs with tails at full alert are like to white apparitions drifting in the early light in and out of trees, shrubs and checking those spots on the lawn that serve as markers for them. As we turn North I look West across the lawn toward the cabin and there hung in the sky like some giant light bulb is the moon. It seems to be protesting its descent to the West, but it still casts a strong white light over the landscape. There is a tall tree line behind the cabin and the moonlight glints of the branches of the trees. Fast moving clouds march to the North under the moon which illuminates the tops of the clouds. It reminds me of the old moving pictures where they moved the scenery to give the illusion of actors on the move.

Turning the corner to the island the moon ducks behind the tree tops and seems to play peek-a-boo with me. The dogs still quietly move ahead exploring the edge of the field and ducking down trails they've worn among the honeysuckle disappearing behind a hummock just to reappear as if by magic on the other side. The quiet search they make and the movement of their feed on the leaves and grasses give me reassurance that they are protecting my stroll.

Heading back East down the island the skyline is pink, red and all shades of blue as the sun begins its journey. Still not showing its face it is surely announcing its coming. Once again the low fast moving clouds from the South make the scene ever changing and almost mesmerizing.

So goes the walk. Each succeeding lap shows the moon's retreat and the sun's advance. Finally after 25 minutes the moon has vacated the field and the sun, victorious now begins to shows it jolly red face. The dogs are hanging closer now, Molly stops from time to time to get reassurance from me that everything is OK. Jack is busy chasing a leaf or chewing on a newly found pine branch. We head back for the house to finish our morning chores of refilling the bird feeders and putting fresh water in the kennel.

The walk ends as it began with me sitting in the chair pulling off my shoes, two dogs sneaking in licks while my head is down and anxious for breakfast. There are many good artists, but only one Master - Mother Nature.

Thanksgiving Day in Racine, WI

Our family lived in Racine from 1971 until 1982. During that time I established a Thanksgiving tradition with a good friend. Andre Carrielo and I worked at J. I. Case and while neither of us worked for the other, we were in the manufacturing area and were colleagues. Andre has a knack for noticing things and suggesting a change, he isn't shy about doing it either.

Around 1976 Andre suggested I buy a shotgun as he knew I used to hunt and we could go out to Bong, which was an old SAC airbase that had been closed for years. The Wisconsin DNR had a "put & take" pheasant program there. They stocked the birds on Tuesdays and Thursday and you could buy a tag for $0.50 per bird and hunt them up after they had acclimated for a day or so. It was enjoyable, a cheap source of game birds and good exercise for the dogs.

Well, it got to be habit that he, I, his son Dom and cousin John would go out to Bong on Thanksgiving morning for a hunt. It was a good outing, exercise, and made me feel like I was in touch with the pilgrim's searching out the food from the land.

I had a big, blue 1976 Ford station wagon. One Thanksgiving, probably about 1978 I packed up a cooler with some good Wisconsin cheese, sausage, crackers and I bought a bottle of Port, plus some soda for those who may partake of that. After four hours of hunting, a couple of birds, and a lot of watching the dogs work we closed the hunt and went back to the cars. I dropped the tailgate on the wagon and brought out the cheese, sausage and wine and we kicked back for about an hour eating, drinking and talking about the day, the dog's work, the possibilities and all of those things I had dreamed of since I was a lad.

There were two dogs, Captain, my big male Golden Retreiver and Andre had a small Llewellyn Setter whose name I have forgotten. The dogs lay in the tall grass by the side of the road. We had water and some treats for them, so they lay there exhausted from the morning's effort while we looked over the fields and built a fine memory of the day.

We did that several more years until 1982 when we moved from Racine to Sheboygan Falls, WI. I still went back once to join in the Thanksgiving hunt, but it was almost two hours from the Falls and just broke the day up too much. So I continued my own tradition by hunting out in the Kettle Moraine area with Captain scaring up an occasional Ruffed Grouse.

Andre and I spent many a lazy morning or afternoon hunting at Bong. We even cultivated a farmer nearby who let us hunt his property. Andre would take him a big smoked salmon every Christmas as an appreciation gift. The man owned 80 acres, but it actually gave us access to some larger property we kind of drifted onto. Wisconsin pheasant hunting is not like hunting in the big grain states like Illinois or the Dakotas. It is tough walking through tall marsh grass and hummocks of dried grass, but the effort makes each bird worth it.

I still try to take a long walk of some sort on Thanksgiving morning as a reminder of the pilgrims, their out door adventures and my own.

Early New Year's Eves

In the mid-60's my first wife Bonnie and I spent several New Year's Eves in the Munising, MI area at her parents home. It was an old home attached to a general store that also housed the town's post office. Located in Shingleton, MI the home was a short distance from the wilderness that began just east of Shingleton and was known as the Seney stretch. At one time M-28 the highway that ran East/West through Shingleton had the longest stretch of highway with no curves or hills. It ran from Shingleton to Seney, MI for about 25 miles without a break.

On several New Year's Eves I would take a pair of snowshoes from the house and set off down the railroad tracks to the Hickey Creek that ran in a North/South direction and would snowshoe at night along the creek at the edge of the field. Even though there may not be a moon there was still light from the reflection of the stars off the snow. It was dim light, but was a magical period of time. The snow lay unbroken by tracks or footsteps. Diamonds sparkled among the flakes and made the field almost shimmer. In the winter you don't hear the splash of water in the creek, the sounds is more like a gentle bubbling that seems to slide along your senses. You end up wanting to see the creek in the night to watch the water glisten in the reflected light of the snow and disappear into ink black spots as it passes under fallen trees or undercut banks. The snow in places forms hillocks as trees block that air passage and snow falls in the lee of the trees and piles up in cotton ball shapes along the edges of the creek. It is a peaceful time. It is as though nature and God were whispering songs of solace and comfort. I often wished Bonnie had not been so afraid of the woods and I had someone to share this spiritual experience with. Often I found myself simply standing, looking at the snow blanketed forest, observing the quiet movement of water in the stream, and then scanning out to the field and wondering at the beauty of the scene. It was always cold, but I was bundled and I think the setting provided its own warmth of spirit. I often spent several hours in the woods and then would return to the Dolaskie home.

Coming in from outside felt so good. Bonnie and her mother had made snacks and there was usually cold shrimp cocktails to nibble on while my hands and feet thawed. We would watch the New Year come in, then climb the squeaky stairs to a small bedroom with a soft bed and many blankets. We had a window that looked out on the intersection of M-28 and M-94, there would be a flashing red light suspended over the intersection that seemed somehow comforting. If the wind would pick up in the night you could hear it rounding the corner of the house and sighing up against the garage. It was a wild setting in God's great outdoors and one I shall remember and cherish the rest of my life.

By the way, on more than one trek I would fall into the Hickey Creek and get wet. There was no danger of drowning, the creek was small and very shallow. It would cut my revere short however, and I would traipse back home to be received with grins from Tom & Glady at the antics of their son-in-law. That is also part of the good memories.

Ode to Lily

May 2009 Lily and Molly came into our life. Terry and I struggled with two active, curious pups and at times wondered if we shouldn't find a better home for them. So active, so playful, so rambunctious, they were a real handful. A year ago, Labor Day weekend 2009 I laid about 2300 feet of wire connected to a transmitter that put out a signal that would give the dogs a mild shock if they crossed the line. Molly and Lily still had about 5 acres of land they could explore without being shocked, and it now gave Terry and I a great deal of peace because instead of having to be right with out pups we could let them out to play and not worry about them going to the neighbors.

As time passed and the pups grew their personalities became unique and distinct. At times however their actions were eerily synchronized. I took that to be evidence of them being litter mates. It was a rather unique opportunity to see these wonderful animals develop and one Terry and I looked forward to observing.

It is gone now. Lily passed away from some unidentified malady September 2. The symptom was anemia, but we could not find the underlying cause to treat. Two months she declined, rallied, declined until finally her body quit working and she left us.

She was such a delight. Sometimes when I was sitting in my recliner working on the computer she would lie on the couch across from me. If I looked at her she would get this intense stare and her head would come up and she'd just fix my eyes with her gaze. Then all of a sudden she would emit this strong, full throated BARK! I'd yell back, WHAT! Lily would come off the couch, over to me with some want and we'd hug and I'd stroke her then we'd try and figure out what she was trying to communicate and satisfy that want if she could make me understand. Other times she would come along side my recliner and just thrust her head down on the arm and look up at me with a look that made you know she wanted something.

Lily seemed to recognize that Molly was the energy dog and tolerated that exuberance. However, if she felt Molly were getting a little too much affection Lily would softly push in and get her share.

I guess what will always haunt me is both Terry and I were really looking forward to sharing our lives with both of them and watching the interaction between the two sisters. That is lost now, forever. I doubt we will ever pick up two pups from the same litter. We've talked about getting another dog so Molly will have company, but it still would not be the same. The spiritual connection that existed between the two sisters is broken.

Lily will be missed, and Molly will be a constant reminder of what could've been. Ours will be a sweet journey however as Molly is an extremely affectionate dog, but I will always wonder.

Lily will be missed for many years to come.

Oh Lily!

The outlook for Lily is grim. She has an anemia that has decreased her red blood cell count from 25 on June 30 to 22 on July 23, to 11 on August 4. She is exhausted, however she still tries. She gets up to greet me, she has eaten a little and drunk some water. The Vet has told us that we need to take her to Memphis for a transfusion, right away, it is critical. The Animal Hospital in Memphis wants $1500 to 2000 up front to treat her. The transfusion is a treatment that will buy us some time for further diagnosis. We are not going to opt for that treatment.

Lily is a sweet dog. We cannot replace her. Terry and I have been in tears today and will be in the near future. Lily is not in pain, just tired. We will continue to give her the treatments we have from our local vet. No one has a clue as what is wrong or what is the cause. Perhaps her body will take over and a recovery achieved, but our hopes are dim.

So for right now our household is sad. Our hearts heavy as Lily seemingly is fading from our midst.

John Wooden's Passing

John Wooden, the legendary coach of UCLA and a modern day philosopher is dead at age 99. I read an article about his legendary status, plus I've seen some interviews over the years. There is no doubt that Wooden was a leader, scholarly, and a man of deep resources.

The article I read talked about how do know success? Basically we know it when we see it, but it is hard to put descriptive details to.

Years ago when I was going to graduate from college, the first time, in 1967 I got caught up in the interviewing process. It was a big deal. I went to Chevrolet, Saginaw Steering gear, Republic Steel in Chicago, and other various locations including J I Case, the company I eventually went to work for. One of the interviews was with either B.F. Goodrich or Goodyear Tire in Dayton, OH. I'm pretty sure it Goodyear. Regardless it was a huge factory that produced many types of tires. I was interviewed by the plant manager, a man whose name I cannot recall, but whose interview was memorable.

He asked me if I played on successful high school athletic teams. Unfortunately I did not, however I was a standout in football and basketball. He asked me a number of questions that were looking for natural leadership talents, people skills or potential management skills. However, towards the end of the interview he asked me there were one thing I could have in my life, what would it be? I hemmed and hawed. We talked about wealth, but there are a lot of wealthy people who are truly unhappy and misdirected. We talked about health, but there are people who have severe handicaps and/or afflictions who seem to lead full productive lives. Finally after some minutes of a deer in the headlight stare he said how about "peace of mind."

We talked about that and through the years I've kept that story in my heart and head. John Wooden came to the same conclusion, only Mr. Wooden's went a bit further by expressing the idea that peace of mind comes from knowing that you have tried your very best, you've given all. You may not have become rich, I did not. You may not have happiness all of the time, I've been divorced and am a recovering alcoholic. So there are some aspects of life I have fallen somewhat short in. But, what I am good at is managing people and organizations. There I have given my all. I am confident in my capability, I have lead a number of organizations and have received accolades from the people in those organizations. I have peace of mind that I tried, I gave my all, I am a successful man. God Bless you John Wooden and thanks for the outstanding character you've shown all of us through these years.

Dreams Do Come True

I have never had a dream about where or how I wanted to live. Often living on a lake or stream is appealing, but I've pretty much made do wherever I've lived and usually found good things at every location. Our first home was in Sturtevant, WI a suburb of Racine. Our home was a starter home and had great neighbors and a good place for young children to grow.

Our second home was what our family refers to as the Globe Heights home. It was a beautiful three bedroom home on a residential lot in a nice neighborhood. The home was large, had a nice family room with fireplace and the basement was huge and allowed me to have a work shop for the first time.

We moved to Sheboygan Falls and a large split-level home that eventually got tedious constantly going up and down stair to get from one level to the next. However the real charm was the neighborhood and the opportunity for our children to participate in school events and form close bonds that remain to this day twenty plus years after we lived in that home.

Divorce broke up the string and to some degree I started over again. I was an apartment/rent home dweller for a few years as the marriage broke up and I moved to the South to follow a dream that never materialized in the form I had hoped and planned on at the time.

Finally twenty-two years ago I bought a little log cabin on five acres of land in Arkansas. About nine years later I bought an additional five acres adjacent to our property with a home that we rent out. The property has matured, the field is now a young forest as the trees take back the land. The adjacent property is a mature woodlot with a variety of land form to explore and gives me a feeling of being back in the north-woods at times.

I have never made a list of desires when it comes to a home. However I always found the lifestyle of my first father-in-law appealing where he had property to care for, could work out of doors in an area that was quite large and he could do what he wanted. I also found a rustic life style very appealing where you grow food you eat, and provide some for yourself. I found the log cabin appealing but became unhappy with the one I own because it fell into disrepair through my own neglect. I like living in a small town, while it may not offer great conveniences or restaurants it is good enough.

In the previous post I talked about the evening my wife Terry and I had sitting by our new fire pit enjoying an open fire and the cool evening air. Looking around at the tall pines on our property, the log cabin that has been renovated, the fruit and nut orchard we've accidentally developed and the garden holding blueberry bushes and raspberry canes I realized if what I have desired is a dream then I've realized that dream. I don't have a lake nearby, nor does a stream go through our property. I do have ten acres to enjoy, woods to walk in, a path to enjoy a seasonal variety of plants and trees, a garden to provides us with some fruit and vegetables and a work shop I can go to anytime I wish. So sitting by the fire last night with the woman I've come to love dearly, looking over the tall pines, the large yard, the renovated log cabin, the orchard and gardens filled with flowers and other plants I realized that dreams do come true.

A New Memory

Terry never expressed much interest in an outdoor fire pit. I've never really felt inclined to have one either. There were some neighbors who made a pit with some concrete blocks next the our access road and sat there in the evening drinking wine and watching logs burn. Their fire pit sat in an ugly part of their property and a drainage ditch ran right next to it, not a nice setting at all. So there was not much motivation for us to build a fire pit.

However, in recent months Terry has started to mention the idea and frankly it took on some interest in my mind. So last week while we were on vacation I rounded up some field stone we had collected over the years and built a fire ring about a foot high out of loose rock.



We broke it in on May 30, 2010. Zeb and daughter Tracy came over and we "ignited the fire pit and charred some mammal flesh." Zeb was exhausted after a day in the sun fishing and riding in a boat so they left about 7:30 PM. To my surprise Terry stayed by the fire until we finally came in at dark, about 8:45 PM. We had a great evening sitting there talking and just enjoying the peace of the evening.

The view of our yard was very different than from the porch. For one thing I hadn't really thought about how our yard slopes down going northward from the driveway. The pines looked taller and we had an unfettered view of the tree tops which is cut off by sitting on the porch. The orchard of fruit and nut trees was rather impressive.

We talked about having some cooking implements out there and perhaps making a breakfast over the open fire. We talked of how comfortable it will be in the fall when cooler temperatures make sitting out more pleasant. We talked about a Christmas fire, even a Christmas tree by our now designated, "Outdoor Living Area." Terry got a poker and played with the fire moving logs to have a small flame going much of the time.

It was as pleasant an evening she and I spent together in a long time. I am sure we will find other evenings equally pleasant and a small investment in time and resources already on the property made for a lovely setting and evening. One thing for sure, after last year's ice storm, we've plenty of fuel.

Flatulent Florias

I guess this should be added to the repository of history this blog is meant to collect. My family, the Floria side, has long had a love affair with farts. While for some the subject is gross, disgusting, and generally a subject left for the porcelain throne, for the Floria clan it has been a rich source of relief, pleasure and down right slapstick humor. One of the funniest books in my collection is a Dictionary of Farts given to me by my daughters years ago at Christmas. It still makes me laugh when I find it and read through some of the definitions.

My Dad always enjoy a good fart. He would tell the story of the time when my brother Dean was a young boy. This had to be in the late 1920's or early 1930's. Dad would put his socks on while sitting on the floor. In the summer the floor felt cooler on his bottom and he would sit down on the floor to moderate the summer temperatures. One day, while sitting on the floor he happened to pass some gas. Well, it was not a quiet passing but to quote my Dad, went "Bango." It shot across the floor and hit the baseboard on the opposing wall with quite a whack. Dad said he could hear Dean in the bedroom next, say in quiet admiration, "WOW!"

One day, coming out of his office at 410 W. Superior St. in Munising, MI he felt the urge to break wind. Checking around to see if there were any passersby and feeling that he was quite alone he fired a cannon shot down Superior St. Only to hear the familiar voice of Rosemarie Froberg, an old family friend say, "Well, Vern, you shot me." Apparently she had just stepped out of the door that lead to upstairs offices above his office and appeared quite suddenly after he had checked for witnesses.

One day in our apartment at 812 W. Superior when I was a kid, I was startled by what I thought were three separate and distinct loud hand claps. I raced from the kitchen to the living room to find out what merited such loud and distinct applause. I found my Mother, doubled over, holding her stomach, with her legs crossed. In her later years, my mother would tinkle slightly if she laughed very hard and had to assume a protective position to keep from embarrassing herself. She was laughing, silently, too over come to talk at the moment. Finally, after several minutes of quiet glee she settled down enough to tell that she had passed some gas. My mother was a rather heavy woman and always wore one of the "horse collar" girdles to control her appearance. Apparently the girdle held the cheeks of her butt closed that the fart when it emerged separated into three reports and resulted in what I thought were three distinct, powerful hand claps. A feat remembered from time to time in our household with some reverence.

I do not know if my Grandmother Toot was a gas passer. However, one must wonder where she got the nickname Toot. My lovely, college educated, sophisticated daughters apparently are not immune to the Floria talents. It even sounds like my Granddaughters enjoy a good toot from time to time. So perhaps that earthy humor will survive for some generations. I hope so, there is nothing more funny than a resounding fart to bring a smile to my face.

Moods of the day

It is 2:20 PM Mother's Day, 2010. Terry and I are stirring after a short afternoon nap. The morning was busy, daughter Jessi and Tracy were here along with their kids and Zeb, Tracy's boyfriend. We had a mid-morning brunch of biscuits, eggs, sausages and gravy. Then everyone stuck around for a couple of hours and got haircuts from Jessi and just visited. It was fun. I get a little overwhelmed by the busyness, but I found myself visiting with grandson Tim and had a nice morning.

So the mood of that part of the day was pleasant, family and busy. After they departed Grandson Sam headed to the trailer to watch TV and perhaps nap. Terry and I headed upstairs to lay down. The day is cool, not even 60 yet, and air fresh and clean. As I woke after a nap of indeterminate length I lay there with puffs of air blowing in the window at the foot of the bed washing over me. It was very refreshing. I was transported back in time. I recall the fresh sensation you can get from being along Lake Superior. I felt like I was standing on the commercial fishing docks of yore in Brown's Addition just west of Munising. As kids we could walk there. Joe Hase and I would often take our fishing rods and walk the mile to that area of Brown's Addition and explore the piers the commercial fisherman owned. No one objected to our being there. In the spring we had great hopes of catching an abundance of Perch, perhaps some Menominee or Whitefish. Usually were were skunked, I think occasionally we caught a Perch but most of the time we spent watching the water, listening to the talk of the fishermen and looking at the catches of Lake Trout they brought in from their nets. The fish were bound for the markets of Milwaukee and Chicago to be sold to restaurants and dined upon in those pleasant places.

In the meantime the breezes off Lake Superior would be chilling and oh so fresh. It was kind of like a soft cold cloth brushing your face and penetrating your clothes that made you momentarily shiver but felt so good. Mixed in might be the smell of diesel as a small fishing tug came to dock or the smell of fresh fish that added to the overall sensation. As I lay there this afternoon I could close my eyes and be transported to that time when the lake was swaying to the swells of motion and the tugs moved in a tippy fashion approaching the dock. The fresh air and cry of gulls, the breeze and blue skies were enough to make a young boy fall in love with his home. So it was this afternoon. I longed to be in that northern home I so dearly love and would like again to stand with my face in the breeze and my nose sniffing the cool clean scent of Northern Michigan.

Early influences

My family was always fairly athletic. My father played semi-pro basketball back in the 1920's. The team traveled throughout the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and into northern Wisconsin playing other community teams. In fact, at one time they played Michigan State University. My mother was not athletic to my knowledge, but enjoy sports.

My oldest brother was an all round athlete, he was legend in our small community. He played basketball, football and I suppose he ran track. My sister Phylis ran track. So I grew up in a family where there was expectation of participation in athletics. The funny thing is, I think my Dad would've been OK if I hadn't played sports, but I never asked. There seemed to be an unspoken sense that I would follow in my brother's foot steps.

When I was in 8th grade, Joe Hase and I were like brothers. He lived two doors down from me and we 1hunted, fished, played, and hung out together all of the time. However, we got into a routine of being a couple of young smart asses. Whenever we would see Larry Hilberg, Russ Hemingway, and other high school seniors that played sports we would taunt them. Oh my, we should not have done that.

There was no football for 8th grade and below, however there was basket ball and Joe played for the Sacred Heart school, I played for Mather. We had played in a number of memorable games and the played in the county tournament and competed in the finals. We had a lot of good players and the community had already marked out class as a promising group of up and comers.

The fall of 1957 began my freshman year. I went out for football. Joe went out for football. The coach was a man named Ted Wodzinski. He was a graduate of the naval academy and tough as nails. His idea of coaching was to test your manhood or boyhood in our case. Joe and I were invited along with a couple of other freshman to begin working with the varsity. The first days of practice, two-a-days, were held on an old playground just behind the school. It had little grass and was mostly sand. It was hot, we were in pads. We had to run a lot, which I was not accustomed to. After a couple of days of running, and calisthenics we donned our pads and went to hitting drills. That is when our taunting came back to haunt us. The upperclassmen looked huge in their pads. We had one particular drill call bull in the ring. A player was surrounded by other players. They numbered off. Then the coach would call a number and that person would attack you, try to block you out of the circle. You were expected to fight him off. It was brutal and possessing no training on how to handle oneself I was beaten unmercifully. Joe was a quarterback and the backs did not participate in this drill so I took a hell of a beating all by myself. At least that is how I saw it.

In the locker room were were taunted, teased and made to wait while the upperclassmen showered and cleaned up after practice. Fortunately after two weeks JV practice started up and were were sent to the J.V. program. At least we were with kids our own age and had the experience of getting the shit kicked out of us for two weeks earlier.

I developed a dislike for football. Coach Wodzinski was an "in your face" kind of guy and kids then were simply young adults not kids. I was yelled at, hit, I would get so angry I would cry which then brought another form of taunting. I tolerated football and that would be my means of surviving football I tolerated it.

Coach Wodzinski left after our freshman year and a man named Tom Schwalbach became our coach. The world changed. Coach Schwabs as we called him was a focused man. He had been the starting quarterback at Northern Michigan University and was from Escanaba some 70 miles south of Munising. He had a tryout with the Boston Patriots and did not make the team. But he was skilled and liked to play a pro style of offense with lots of passing.

While I tolerated football, I was actually a good athlete. My sophomore year I made all-conference. I was an end and had great hands. Joe was the quarterback and if he could get the ball within 3 feet of me I would most often catch it. I was not fast. Usually my "yac" yards after catch were a few steps and I was down. But if we need yardage for a first down, I was the man. I was written up in the local newspaper, the regional newspaper made mention of me and my Dad was proud, so was my Mom although she worried about me getting hurt.

In the meantime I was gaining notoriety in our community and was firmly ensconced as a "jock." However, I harbored this secret that no one knew, not even Joe. I hated football. I played because I felt I had to. People in town would tell me they remembered my brother Dean. In fact, Dean's legacy was so firm that a number of people in town called me Dean. It pissed me off. I wanted my own name. So, while I hated football, I excelled at it at the high school level.

My Junior year, more passes, more press, and I was named all-conference for the second year and even was named honorable mention all-state. My Dad was proud. He would tell stories about me to other adults while I was present. He and my Mom came to every game, rain, sun, and snow. My Dad would relate stories he had over heard from other people who were fans of the other team or just spectators about the pass catching capability of number 88.

My Senior year was the best ever. Again for three years running I made all conference and again honorable-mention all state. When you consider that Michigan has huge athletic areas down state in the Detroit region, Lansing, Grand Rapids and Muskegeon I was traveling in some pretty rare company.

People now were talking about Tom not Dean. I was no longer mistaken for Dean, I had created my own legend.

Then came college. I still hated football. But I got a small scholarship to play football at Albion College. I was a true small town kid. I loved Munising. I loved my Mom and Dad. I loved my girl Bonnie Dolaskie. She was a year ahead of me and had gone to Albion before me, but I was going to have to go alone. I don't do alone well. Never have. I was going 400 miles away, and I hated football.

The first few days at Albion were intimidating. I made friends with some of my peers and we hung around together. They were good guys, they seemed to love football. The first two days were pictures, running drills, calisthenics and fun. The afternoon of day three was the last of the no pad work. The third days it was to be pads. A big guy, blonde was sitting in the locker room toweling off and said, boy I can hardly wait for the pads tomorrow. Hitting, blood running down your face, bones crunching. It scared the hell out of me. I went to Morley Fraser the head coach, and told him I wanted to quit. Three days, that is all I got in. I spent the night wandering the campus, wandering parts of the town. I ended up in a small chapel off the main Methodist church that dominated the campus and prayed for guidance. No voice spoke to me. No light illuminated some answer and the next day I walked in to the training room and turned my pads in.

I called my Dad with tears in my eyes and my voice. I asked permission to come back home. There was no hesitation, a hearty strong voice came back to me saying we'll be down tomorrow to get you. Of course you can come home, this is home. I was humiliated, beaten, embarrassed and heart-broken.

When I got back to Munising I went up to the football field to see some of my friends still on the high school team. Coach Schwalbach asked what I was doing back in Munising. I told him I had quit. He got angry, he told me that he had written a letter in support of my scholarship and acceptance to the Albion program and that by quitting I had made him look like he didn't know what he was doing. A high school coaches reputation is made by the quality of the players he sends on to the next level. I did not know that. I hurt some more.

I returned to Albion with Bonnie who three years hence would become my wife. I was not a good student. I did not have good study habits, nor was I focused on a career, or anything. College was for fun, drinking and I had direction. I was a C+ student.

For years after I felt the sting of quitting college football. I felt inadequate, humiliated and I regretted more than anything that decision to quit. For years that emotional fracture remained unhealed.

When I finally got my career going at J I Case in the early 70's I began to have success at managing people. Oh, it was tough. I won't go into the early stories of my career here, but I went through the school of hard knocks head first. I do have the ability to be introspective. I learned, I listened and I had men who helped me come to understand there are skills to management. I began to excel. I got on a fast track and moved quickly up the ladder until I ran the assembly division for the Agriculture Tractor Divison of J I Case. I was responsible for the $500 million in tractors sold to American farmers. I was recognized at Case, and I became a legend in the assembly division and the agricultural division of Case.

It was then I forgave myself for the decision I had made. It was in the early 80's that the weight of guilt lifted from my shoulders. I had become a success in what I call the toughest kind of management there is in the world. The production of capital goods in an industrial setting where there is no forgiveness, there is no friendly competition, where the meanest son-of-a-bitch means exactly that. I was successful. I was my own man. I fought internally with the powers to be, I guided people, I lead people and I manipulated people to accomplish outcomes that on the surface seemed impossible. I battled the union, I beat them in arbitration, and I bested them on the floor of that plant. I earned the respect and admiration of my organization, the begrudging respect of corporate powers who know the rough world of industrial management, and I stood tall. I am confident now. I don't shrink from problems. I am analytical, I am damn good at what I do. One of the best.

However, had I not quit football in college, had I made the team and excelled in the game I also know I was too immature to handle success then. I would've been an arrogant ass and my career would not have been what it was. I didn't get rich. I don't have many friends, after all you are not a "change agent' in an organization and make a lot of friends. Friendship to me is deep. I do not allow myself many friends, friendship is not frivolous but carries responsibility and duty. The friends I do have walked that halls of risk and reward with me. They contributed to my success and I to theirs. We are a band of brothers who labored in unrewarding toil that required great sacrifice. It did forge deep bonds that 30 years has not broken.

I am not rich. I don't even have a lot of money. But I know I am good. I know what I did, and I take responsibility for the mistakes and credit for the success. In the end, I am a unique man who has traveled a rough road and at the sunset of my career enjoy its fruits and look back with satisfaction that I survived and overcame.

Was Captain smart, or what?

Talking with my daughter Jenny last night she asked I add to our family remembrances some story about Captain, our first family dog.

Captain was a handsome male Golden Retriever. A smart dog, a loving dog, a wonderful family member and great companion. There are many stories about Captain, but his ability to open doors was legend.

Somewhere along the line Captain became extremely fearful of thunder storms. We first noticed it in Sheboygan Falls. It may have existed earlier, but we did not pick up on it until Sheboygan Falls. I think what may have contributed to it was the requirement that he spend his nights in the garage. He was not an indoor dog, my wife wouldn't allow it. The kennels he lived in at our other homes were open so he could see outside, yet go into a sheltered dog house for protection from the elements. In Sheboygan Falls he simply slept on a concrete floor in the basement. He did come into the house at times, but usually for short periods.

When a thunderstorm would come up, Captain wanted to stay close to someone. He would put his head under your hand to be reassured that everything was OK.

One time in Sheboygan Falls my wife and I were hosting a company manager's reception. We had a large home. During the gathering a thunderstorm blew up. In fact it took one of our dining room windows almost off. Captain had been confined to the garage which was located down a short run of steps below the family room where the reception was being held.

During the height of the storm the president of our company noticed the doorknob slowly rotating on the door that opened up to the basement or garage. We all watched, astounded by what we saw. Slowly the knob turned some more, all of a sudden the latched opened, the door swung open to reveal Captain. Captain strode into the room, tail up and wagging and greeting our guests as though he had just come in from a little outing and was delighted to see them.

Later after the party had broken up I got to examining the door knob. The door knob was one of those small, compact but solid brass knobs. It was crushed. The crushing had come from teeth. Captain had apparently crushed the knob so he could get a grip on it and then turned his head thereby opening the door. Now how he figured that out is beyond me.

The story doesn't end there. My wife and I divorced, I got fired, and moved to Arkansas to a new job. Captain came with me. Apparently I forget to tell him to leave his fear of thunderstorms in Wisconsin.

Living on 5 acres of land in Arkansas I left Captain outside much of the time I was gone. On hot days I would leave him in the house, but cooler weather he could stay outside and explore the acreage. I noticed as time passed that the door frame on my front door was being gnawed by Captain and so was the wooden screen door. There we times I would go to work in the morning and come home in the evening to find my front door standing wide open and Captain inside, when he had been outside at the beginning of the day. For the life of me I could not figure out how he opened the door. The screen door was held by a latch held in place by gravity, and old fashioned type of latch. The main door was a solid wood door with a thumb operated latch that you had to press down on to open the latch. When I was home, Captain simply stayed with me and as a result he never revealed the secret to me of his skill in opening doors.

One day I was out some distance from the house raking some debris. I heard a thumping and turned to see Captain standing at the front door with his right leg extended into the hole he had gnawed in the frame and screen door. He hooked his paw around so he could shake the screen door violently. He did this a number of times until the latch worked its way out of its keep and the door swung open. Then he jumped up, crossing both paws and put downward pressure on the thumb latch until his weight opened the door. With both doors wide open he strolled into the house and sat down to await my arrival. That was the only time I ever witnessed him opening the doors. But there were numerous times while at work a thunderstorm would blow up and I would come home later in the day to find Captain inside with my doors standing wide open.

My next door neighbor told me that frequently when a storm would blow up during the day that she would walk into their garage to watch the down pour and there would be Captain. He would stand by her until the storm was over and then come back home.

One day the neighbors were not home and their garage door was down. A particularly fierce thunderstorm blew up and I usually wondered about Captain and hoped he didn't eat the log cabin while confined. I got home that evening after the storm had moved on and nothing was amiss. All of a sudden the phone rang. It was a neighbor who I did not know, who lived in a home along our private drive, but was some distance from the house. He asked if I had a large Golden Retriever. Yes, I said. He said, "your dog scared the hell out of my wife and child. They were standing in the kitchen watching the storm when all of a sudden their back door opened and in came your dog." I apologized and said I would pay for any damages, which calmed the man down. I went to the house to see what had happened and sure enough I found their back door knob crushed bearing tooth marks. Captain had become so afraid that he went to their home and opened the back door. You could imagine the fear when all of a sudden a 100 pound Golden opens the door and walked in.

The man never replaced the door knob and some years later that family moved. The next family told me about the door knob and it was still there. A few years later another couple moved into that home. I knew this couple. They also wondered about what had crushed the door knob.

Captain has been gone some 19 years now. I think that within the last five years that door knob on that home was replaced. The door of our home still bears the chewed hole in the door frame and door body that Captain put their to open the door when he wanted. I don't think I'll every replace it. It is pretty personal now.

And dog's arent' smart. Hah!!!

Marble weather

In Munising Spring would start to show its face in April . The sun obviously stood a little higher in the sky. It rays began to pack some strength. We still had snowstorms, but the old adage of April showers bring May flowers is especially true along the southern shores of Lake Superior.

While the snow banks still were quite tall their appearance became ugly. The means of keeping streets passable during the time of winter was to plow the road and spread sand for traction. As time wore on and plows continued to pile snow on the banks there was a build up of sand mixed in with the snow. As the snow melted the sand was exposed and you got this dirty brown appearing snow bank. The sand could become so heavy that it retarded the melting of the bank. So often time the snow in the yards might melt to bare ground yet along the streets the snow banks remained several feet high.

Water running off the streets under cut the ice along the curb and a combination of freezing and melting made for quite an ice build up in the gutters. As a result we kids made a game out of walking along and breaking small ice shelves by stomping on them with our feet. The broken ice would form a small dam and the water would back up, refreezing at night and the process would begin anew the next day.

It is in this setting that my favorite spring rite took place. The playing of marbles.

There were two types of games as I recall. One was called circles the other pots. Circles was simply a game with a circle of sufficient diameter drawn on the soft ground and then kids took turns using a "shooter" to knock marbles out of the circle. There was an ante, it was usually some agreed to number of marbles each play put at risk in the circle. You had to get the "shooter" to roll out of the circle after knocking a marble out of the circle otherwise you had to put the marble back in the circle. You shot until you missed. There were two primary shooting techniques. One involved holding the "shooter" between your index finger and your thumb and throwing the marble with some force at the intended target. There was another version not often seen in my generation as I think it was used in generations before us. It involved curling the index finger into a semi-circle then lodging the marble in the arc of the semi-circle. Placing your index finger, knuckle first on the ground you used your thumb like a pinball flipper and shot the "shooter" at a target. I tried this technique but was not nearly as successful with it as the thrown technique.

Pots involved digging a depression in the soft earth with the heel of your shoe going round and round to create an even depression two or three inches deep. Then you rolled marbles along the ground into the "pot." Kind of like a reverse horseshoes, or curling. I'm not sure of what winning was, but I think that you took turns rolling marbles. The first one to get all of his marbles into the pot won the pot. I'm not sure but I cannot for the life of me think of another winning rule that makes sense.

I was quite good at marbles. My Dad usually staked me to a fairly generous supply to begin the season and as I remember a year or two my previous seasons winning were sufficient to tide me over into the next season. I usually had a fairly big cloth bag of marbles. There were the normal glass marbles, cat's eyes, and occasionally the older clay versions. "Shooters" were also called Joners. There was a version of a "shooter" called a "steelie." A steelie was a ball bearing we would find by scavenging the scrap yard of the Munising Foundry located across Munising Ave. from Lincoln School. The foundry was owned by the Hanson family and they lived in a home that fronted Superior St. but ran along an alley that bordered the western property of Lincoln. I do not recall Mrs. Hanson, except to say that I think we thought she was mean. I think she was just old.

Regardless, many a time was had going to school in the morning, on the way to and from lunch, and after school playing marbles. The Benzing family lived on the corner of Munising Ave and Hickory St. They had a garage behind their home with a gravel driveway. It was that gravel driveway that seemed to shed snow first. Often there was a cold breeze. We are talking weather here in the 30's and 40's. In the morning on the way to school it would be 20's. We are talking about shedding jackets and gloves to be able to get into the proper position to shoot marbles. We are talking about hand numbing, bone chilling cold tolerated because it was spring. There was a cold that blew up the back of your shirt or down the neck of your tee shirt as you hunched over to shoot a winner.

When you were done shooting marbles, hustling to get to school on time the jacket and gloves would warm to your exertion so that by the time you got to school you had broken out in a mild sweat. Those were glorious days. The promise of spring brought forth marbles. The marbles brought forth the feeling that winter was losing its grip. We proved how tough we were by still playing marbles during the occasional spring snow storm. We proved how tough we were by coming home after school with our jacket slung over our arm, our hands dirty from the effort of honest toil, and a marble bag heavy with booty. A hot cup of hot chocolate that warmed the tummy, the warmth of the house, and mother cooking dinner proved that we were men among men and that things were all right in the world.

Well Crap!

It is January 8. Here in Arkansas it is 6 degrees. It is Friday. I'm still in my bathrobe and pj's listening to Christmas music. Why? My speakers on my computer system some how got reduced from the five speakers to just two and the fidelity of the music was thin over the holidays. I just didn't enjoy the music. I found the problem, some how the wrong speaker configuration was selected and the rear speakers, sub woofer, and center speaker were turned off. So, I'm making up for the loss of full rich sounds I missed during Christmas. I've mothballed my big stereo system for a period and the computer's sound system filled in just fine, until the past holidays.

What does that have to do with adding a post to Rambling & Remembrances? I love Christmas music. The fact that it might be the TransSiberian Orchestra or Mannheim Steamroller is of no consequence. I've even got some old standards playing by Harry Connick. It is the feeling and memories that the music gives life to. I find myself getting a little emotional. I am wishing for days gone by knowing they will never be again, even if you recreated the events with the same people it will be different. This time of year I enjoy, fight and have to deal with a high level of nostalgia and sentimentality. That is part of my make up.

Now I find my self recalling the time when my first wife and I with two small children occupied a duplex on the north side of Racine, WI. We had bought some types of playthings that had to be put together. I do not exactly remember what they were, but I do recall that we had to put them together after the kids had gone to bed. I think at the time it was frustrating. With time however the edges of the picture soften and you wish you could do that again. There is no doubt that Christmas is for kids. I get tears in my eyes thinking about my little tykes rushing to the tree, eyes shining in excitement. The oohs and ahs made the experience so wonderful. Brewing coffee, eating coffee cake, playing with the gifts, watching the little ones shiver with excitement are still warm thoughts.

We always tried to have a big Christmas for our kids. There were times that I thought I would like to just go to a cabin in the north, hand make gifts, and try to connect with the spirit of the time instead of the materialism. It would not have worked, none of us really wanted that experience. Besides, I now live in a log cabin and there are just two of us on Christmas morning. It is fine, it is OK, there is no greater or lessor emphasis on the season. But I do miss the little ones, my little ones.

The fact of the matter is that I do not believe that our family practiced over consumption of material goods as the kids were growing up. There was a balance struck between need and practicality without going to excess. So I don't think Christmas spoiled the time. It enhanced the season. I talk with God just about everyday and God is not out of my thoughts for long. I have a strong sense of the presence of God. I say that because I think too often people end up critical or have a hard time dealing with the commercialization of the season. I don't. God is present in my life 365 days a year, I don't need a day in December to recommit or to be aware of God's majesty. So I don't have a problem with creating a day of excitement and pleasure for my children. They deserved it, after all they had to put up with me for all of the days of the year after that December 25th.