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.

A Family Cheer?

My youngest daughter checks out my blog from time to time. I've been trying to record bits and pieces of family stories and history on this site. I am the youngest of the children born of Earl & Rebecca Floria, Vernon and Margeret Floria and Cecil and Lucille Floria. I am 62. In a time frame yet to be determined that unique threesome of Vern, Earl and Cecil's direct descendants shall be gone. With the passing of my generation a loss of wit, wisdom and history will disappear.
I do not have the energy or the will to write a history of the Burt and Nettie Floria progeny, but I do think that they represent times that are important and in some ways unique to our history. So I am attempting to write stories and pieces of history as I recall them.

One of the things that has fascinated me for years was the use of language by the three boys. They grew up in rough times, little in the way of toys, and of course in the early 1900's there was no TV, Radio, Movies, or entertainment open to their life style. So their imaginations had to fire up and provide them with what entertainment could be gleaned in a logging community on the shore of Lake Superior.

Some where, my Dad made up a saying, I call it a cheer that has always amused the family, but no one in the younger generation has taken up to pass on. The "cheer" is nonsensical, it is words put together, yet it could be recited by my father, Vern at the drop of a hat. I've learned it, and have attempted to pass it on but no other member of my family has picked up this little piece of verbal memorabilia. So here it is in all its insignificant, nonsensical glory.

Ra bic a bing, bic a bing bang bowow
Yip skiddley ay there, git there stay there.
Amen my brother Ben, killed a duck and goosed a hen.
Verily, Verily I say unto thee, so Mote it be.

The end comes from the Masons, but the rest is pure dad. I find it amusing to sit and picture the old man sitting down and with a serious face and a deep bass voice roll out the "cheer."