An Old Extended Family

Visiting on the phone with my sister Carol brought back a memory I had forgotten. A lady in our home town, Lillian Revord, recently turned 100. There was a reception at the Methodist church in Munising in her honor. My sister attended and met several members of that family that brought back this memory. Lillian is the mother and mother-in-law of the characters in this writing.

When I was 8 we moved from 802 W. Superior St. to 820 W. Superior St. Just a few houses, but we moved from a house my mom and dad were renting to an upstairs apartment. A young couple, Bill and Dolly Revord recently purchased the home and were renting out the upstairs to help offset the expenses of having the house. We lived in this apartment from 1952 until 1961.

I do not remember the year, but Bill and Dolly suffered a catastrophe. Dolly was diagnosed with Tuberculosis (TB). This was a much feared disease and we were tested every year at school for TB. It meant you were isolated and spent quite a bit of time in a sanatorium. I forget the name of the one in the Upper Peninsula, but Dolly was confined there for a year. Bill and Dolly had three young children at the time, Jackie, Iris and Sheila were there names, a son Billy was added, but I think Dolly was home when Billy was born. The tragedy was that it turned out Dolly did not have TB, it was a missed diagnosis.

Why Dolly was confined Bill had the role of raising the small girls. Jackie was about two years younger than I so these were kids probably ranging in age from 4 to 10? My mother became their surrogate mom. Every day my mother would go downstairs and get breakfast for Bill and the kids. Bill worked for the power company, which meant his day started early. Mother saw the girls off to school, made lunch and dinner for them and baby sat when Bill would go to Marquette to visit Dolly.

I had a case of jealousy. My mother was supposed to pay attention to me, yet she doted on those kids. I voiced my troubles once and a while, mother was patient with her youngest son and pointed out that I was old enough to take care many of my needs and they were just little kids. It still did not diminish my feelings, but I wasn't consumed by those feelings either, it just irritated me from time to time.

I am sure my folks got a break in the rent, or something for all that mom did. She really took care of two households for about a year. Bill was a good man, he cleaned his home, he took over care on weekends, and in general was a positive person in the kid's lives. There came a time about 1960 where their family was just too big, I was a junior in high school which meant that Jackie was entering high school, they needed space. So we had to move, but still I spent nine wonderful years in that apartment and a total of 16 years in that great neighborhood.

In a few later years Bill apparently had a stroke and passed away leaving a young family. It was a real sad time, he was a good provider, a good husband and a good father. Dolly picked up and raised her family and they went on. Jackie later married a classmate of hers, the young Ruhmor kid. Jackie ended up contracting cancer and passed away in her thirties. Dolly worked jobs for many years in Munising and I saw her quite often when I came back home for vacation or visits. I remember one time years ago when I saw Dolly in Munising she pulled out pictures of the kids. They were all grown and her nest was empty, but her heart was full.

The girls were gorgeous, young Bill was the spitting image of his dad. Dolly never missed a time to tell me how much she loved my mom and dad. The end of this little essay is that when Carol attended Lillian Revord's reception at the Methodist church two of Dolly's kids were there. Carol talked with Iris who now lives in Greendale, WI a suburb of Milwaukee, she also met Billy. Carol new of them, however had never met them as adults. Both kids remember my mom and dad, and even asked of my whereabouts. What really hit home with both Carol and I was their mutual love of my mother. Iris recalled the devotion mom had to taking care of those kids, making breakfast, and Iris especially talked about the wonderful "twice baked" potatoes mom would make. Her point was all the work it takes to make those dishes didn't deter mom from making delicious meals for the family. Billy didn't have such deep memories, except he definitely remembered mom's care.

I had forgotten about that period in my life. It wasn't a low point, just an event that slipped away. However it is an example of the love and care both my parents exhibited for their neighbors and others.

Da Forty Julie

My father always played with words. Dad and his brothers were accomplished in the art of uttering spoonerisms. An innocuous little phrase like, "My warts are numb" turns out to be "My nuts are warm." I have some of that play on words, making words sound differently. The title of my little essay is one of the examples, I am really talking about The Fourth of July.

I try to maintain a group email to all of the clan on the Floria side. Recently I wrote a brief paragraph or two about what the Fourth of July meant to me. This is a little longer.

When I was a youngster the Fourth was the number two holiday in my mind behind Christmas. Each holiday had its attributes that I enjoyed, but the Fourth was the most fun holiday. My little home town of Munising, MI sits nestled below some towering hills on the shore of Lake Superior. Munising is fronted by an island called Grand Island that sits 2.5 miles north of the dock in Bay Shore Park. The bay is also approximately 2.5 miles wide, it isn't square, but there are two channels one opening into Lake Superior in a westerly direction, the other opening into Lake Superior to the north.

One of the sounds I enjoyed during the summer months was a good old thunderstorm. If the storm came in from the northwest the thunder would roll into the bay, hit the hills and resonate with a deep tummy tickling rumble. I always liked that sound, it was a primitive sound and one that I took comfort in knowing had been around for probably 2.5 billion years.

The American Legion Post in Munsing always fired a fireworks cannon shell off at 6:00 AM the morning of the Fourth. Often it woke me up. I would roll over in bed, stretch an contemplate the day before me as one looks over a menu filled with tasty items for you to enjoy.

A parade kicked off about 9:00 AM. The high school band had about 70 members and sounded good, at least to me. There was a city band at the time, while they only had twenty to thirty members, being mature musicians they sounded good, real good. Many times there would be a band from towns nearby or once we even had a Black Watch Drum and Pipe Band from somewhere in Canada. The floats weren't much, logging trucks draped with bunting and crepe paper, the First National Bank always had a float that featured Miss Alger County, if often won first prize in the commercial division. There were three places in each division, often there were only three entrants in each division, so guess what, everyone won!

Clowns rode bicycles, handed out candy, shook hands with kids and adults and many times scared the heck out of the toddlers. Local politicians marched, and so they should on the Fourth. The local fire department, all volunteer, had uniforms and marched resplendent behind a fire truck. Some of the men were pretty old. They had a little crossing routine that they would perform as they marched through the streets that always brought a smattering of applause from friends, relatives, and tourists.

The parade was fun because you knew a lot of the people in the event. Young kids with hot cars drove in the parade and pounded the accelerator to produce the loudest rumble from their mufflers possible. Noise, people and sights to fill the senses were abundant. One year a marching unit from K.I. Sawyer Air Base in Gwinn marched. The crisp uniforms, the young men, and the color guard heading the unit brought everyone to their feet, women and kids and old men put there hand over their heart, men who had served in WWII and Korea rendered the best salute they could, It was touching. I still get tears in my eyes when the colors march by and people honor them by standing and saluting or putting their hand over their heart.

After the parade, and just about an hour later the Pet Parade would come down Elm Avenue and go down to the dock. Children dressed their pets up, had wagons with crepe paper all wound around and parents shepherding them down the street trying to make sure little Johnny or Shirley didn't light out in the middle of the parade because they felt self-conscious or saw their Grandmother on the sidewalk. The Pet Parade was always led by the Clown Band made up of City Band members who would make up like clowns and lead the kids down the street. So often a little dog would get all excited and romp around, and then want to run and chase kids who weren't part of the parade but were skipping along following the parade. Some of the big dogs walked and kind of hung their heads, I often used to think they were embarrassed by the "get ups" some were dressed in. I think they were just leary of the noise and confusion.

The dock, formally knows as Bay Shore Park was one block north of the downtown area of Munising and sat right on the shore of Lake Superior. The park would be filled with booths of games, a huge fire pit barbecuing chicken and hamburgers sold by people helping fund the Fourth. Some time around noon the greased pole contest and the greased pig contest were held. The greased pole was exactly that, a pole was mounted from the dock suspended over the waters of the Lake. Now this doesn't sound too bad, but you didn't swim in Lake Superior until late July or August. The water temperature might well be in the low 60's. Young men tried to shinny up the greased pole, ring a bell at the end without falling into the water. If they did, the got a dollar. The first ten or so usually ended up in the drink, however as succeeding boys tried to shinny out the grease was rubbed off until finally one young lad would ring the bell and then the ones who had fallen in the water would attempt a second time only to fail, not realizing that their body and clothes were grease laden and often put them back into the cold waters of Lake Superior a second time.

Families held picnics down by the shore, little kids waded in the waters, even as cold as they were. Relatives visiting from other cities or states would congregate at the Lake Shore Park and often old friends were discovered or class mates and impromptu reunions took place.

About 4:30, the siren at the Fire Department sounded. It was a piercing sound, you could hear it all over Munising as the wail bounced off the surrounding hills. It announced the renewal of an old tradition, the WATER FIGHT! Two of Munising finest pumpers would be brought to Elm St., the main North/South street in downtown Munising. The trucks would unravel hose and the hose would be hooked up to the fire hydrants. Then, two teams of fire men, remember these guys are all volunteers, would suit up in the fire fighting garb and man the hoses. There are always two men on a hose and one commander along side to direct their efforts. After checking the hoses and operating them so the crowd got a little wet the two teams would step back from the hoses and assume a "get ready" position. Upon the signal from the chief they would run to their respective hoses and turn them on, Then, from a distance of maybe fifty feet blasted the hell out of each other. The men on the hose were usually so inundated they could not see so they had to look to the side to their commander for signals on which way to point the hose, or they would have to try and head of a team as they stepped out of the spray and tried to sneak up on the opposition. Sometimes helmets when flying, glasses when flying. Once and a while a man would lose his balance and slide down the road from the force of the water from other team while the other man tried to corral the high pressure hose by himself. Finally, by whatever rules that I certainly did not understand one team was declared the winner of the round. Then the teams would take a break, reset the hoses, line them up and take a breather. After a few minutes it was back to the "at ready" position and away they went again. Usually the water fights lasted about half and hour. I think that is about all the pounding a man could take. At the end both teams ganged up on the chief and tried to flush him down the road. It was all in good fun, and I was always so impressed by the bravery these mean exhibited just for entertainment.

The evening began to settle in town. People still stood in the middle of the road talking with old friends while cars drove by. Some who had camps in the surrounding lakes regions headed back to camp to cook dinner and enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods after a day of hectic, noisy fun. Night came late this time of year. The longest day of the year was only about thirteen days past. So often the sun was not down and dark in place until 10:30 = 11:00 PM. Then the fireworks. They were, and still are launched from the dock sticking out into the bay at Bay Shore Park. The people who are going to watch start assembling, often about 7:00 PM to get a good vantage point. I loved the fireworks. I am sure they aren't much to those aficionados of fireworks, but they are ours. The cannon shells still reverberate in a special way through the hills surrounding our lovely little town. The sparkling lights flashing off the dark waters of Lake Superior add a visual dimension lost in large cities, or where fireworks are launched over a golf course. In 1976 my family and I were treated to being on the waters of the bay in my father-in-law's eighteen foot craft. The sound and sights were unbelievable. Every year the bay comes alive at night with small water craft assembling near the dock to listen and watch the show.

Thus, the Fourth of July, or da forty julie, ended for me. Even as a young child of 8 or 9 I tended to be on my own. That is the advantage of the year and the place a small town offers families. Assurance that people will watch out for your kids. I was often gone from the house in the morning for the parade, eat lunch with my mom and dad at the dock at noon, then to the nearest activity to watch that. Finally, when the fire works approached I reunited with mom and dad, we went to the park, sat on a blanket and I was tired. My father smoked these big R.G. Dun Panatellas at the time, and he would sit there with his head wreathed in smoke, talking with those he knew passing by. I would cuddle up next to my mom as often the evenings would get a little chilly, even though it was da forty julie. I came alive when the fireworks started, and then dad would light my sparklers and I would write my name in the air, wave them around, light another sparkler from the one that was about spent and then throw the dying sparkler into the air wishing I had some real firecrackers like the big kids did. When the fire works were over, the crowd struggle en mass to their cars, often parked downtown, and headed home. Another set of memories, another day of celebration, and there was always the day after when the rest of my neighborhood playmates and I would gather and talk about what we did on the Fourth.

The celebrations I'm referring to here took place in the fifties and early sixties. You know what though, they still go on today. The parade isn't as classy, the high school band is down to maybe twenty-five members, they don't even march in step, and there are no majorettes, but it doesn't matter. You see, it is our, no it is my forty julie! God Bless the U.S.A. and thanks to those who served, and blessing to those who gave it all. It is still a pretty good old country.

A Place in Time

Seguin's of Marinette, Wisconsin holds a special place in my heart. It is a small gift shop, liquor store and specializes in cheeses and various condiments. It is located just south of Marinette on US Highway 41. They have been in business since the late 60's and have been a favorite stopping point for our family for all of its years of operation.

Before my first wife and I had children it was a place to stop and pick up some locally made Wisconsin cheese, and crackers. Seguin's is located right next to a small rest area with bathrooms and picnic tables.

A few years later when we traveled north with our young children, Kristi and Jenny, we stopped on the way up, and back to pick up cheese, snacks, and stop at the rest area. The rest area has been re-landscaped and does not look like the old rest area. It still has bathrooms and picnic tables, but it doesn't have the same feel it used to. Years ago the rest area was filled with large trees, a small slope you could climb to the back of the area and a big old hand operated water pump for water. Our children's favorite activity when we stopped at Sequin's for our cheese and snacks was to pump water for each other and just wear off some excess energy not worn off in the car.

To this day I can close my eyes and see one of my most favorite pictures of all time. The kids were dressed for travel, we had stopped at Seguin's picked up some cheese and had gone across the parking lot to the rest area. It was sunny and the light was coming from almost overhead. The result was a sun dappled rest area with shadows interrupted by spotlights playing across the grassy area. The children had gone to the top of the slope exploring the rest area as they always had. I had my camera out and was piddling around with it while my wife set up our simple fare of cheese, crackers and drinks. The kids were called to the table, they both began to run down the slope, and soon gravity aided their stride. They ran down the slope with complete abandon. Those are the pictures I caught, the two children running down the slope, eyes sparkling and flashing with pure pleasure written across their face. Innocence and fun and excitement explode from their features. It is a scene I think of often, certainly every time I pass Seguin's.

Now my wife Terry and I stop there. She enjoys the gift shop and we almost always buy some cheese curds and string cheese to snack on in the car as we head back to Arkansas. I have bought Minnetonka moccasins there, still do. I know it is a gift shop, but I have priced Minnetonka moccasins in other retail establishments and on line and the price is about the same. So, why not trade at a place that has brought so much pleasure to our family over the years. My children often stop at Seguin's on their travels to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and they faithfully report it still has the same small business charm it had when they were young.

Oh yeah, the fresh cheese curds still squeak between your teeth.

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."

Tennis Anyone?

Recently a nephew appeared out of the mist and emailed me in response to a letter I sent him outlining a family email group that was getting some action. It has been years since we've communicated and it brought back memories.

His mother taught me to play tennis when I was perhaps 10 - 12 years old. This would have been in 1954 - 56. My brother and his wife Micky lived in Midland, MI. Dean, my brother, was a fledgling chemist at Dow Chemical and Micky his beautiful young wife.

Micky came from a family well known in the Upper Peninsula for its athletic prowess. I believe at least one of her brothers played for the University of Michigan tennis team. The father had built a tennis court along side the family home and business in little Traunick, MI. Micky's Mom and Dad ran a general store and U.S. Post Office in Traunick and raised a family of 9 children.

Micky was quite an athlete in her own right. I know my sister ran against her at the Alger County track meet where schools in the area met for a showdown each year in another little community called Chatham, MI. (My sister won)

I wanted to play tennis. I had made my wishes known to my father. Finally, when I made a trip from Munising to Midland to spend a week with my brother, my Dad gave me $25 to buy a tennis racket. I do not know when I went to Midland, but when ever these trips took place usually my Mother and Father drove me to Indian River, MI and Dean, my brother would drive from Midland and pick me up. We would likewise work the same exchange for the return trip. These were days before the Mackinac Bridge and the crossing from St. Ignace to Mackinaw City was made by car ferry.

Monday came and Micky and I set out for downtown Midland to buy a tennis racket while Dean set off for the Dow plant he worked at. Micky help me select a racket that fit my young frame and yet was large enough that I could grow into it in later years. I believe it was a signature racket and the name on the racket was Don Budge. It had a wooden head, and the small face typical of the rackets used in those days. I even got a racket press which added prestige to the whole show.

After that Micky took me to a park where there were tennis courts. She patiently taught me how to play. I remember spending a lot of time throwing the ball in the air just right so you could achieve the classic overhand serve. We spent what seemed to be hours volleying and Mick patiently exercise my young body. Micky was surprisingly good, she had the footwork down, a nice stroke and could place the ball wherever she wanted at will. Micky was a good teacher, maybe she missed an opportunity to teach tennis and who knows what her life might have been like.

After a week of daily practice and patient workouts I returned home. One of the hardest thing Micky had to do was teach me the scoring system. I have always thought Love a peculiar substitute for zero. In the tie games AD IN or AD OUT was another set of strange expressions. I got the hang of it though and returned to the U.P. having a good set of basics thanks to my sister-in-law Micky.

We had no tennis team in high school in Munising. About the most we had was down at the Bay Shore Park there were a couple of tennis courts overlooking Munising Bay where you could get a work out playing those in town who knew the game. I fared well, and always had enjoyment playing the game.

I never took up the game as an adult other than an occasional match here or there. However, I always remembered Micky's lessons, particularly on how high to throw the ball for the serve. In later years I did become a fair Racquetball player. I joined a club, took third in the Class B men's club tourney and enjoy many years of "Rollout Bleu!"

Now, I still think about playing tennis, it can be an old man's sport too you know. There isn't much opportunity here in Arkansas. The closest club that would have organized leagues is in Jonesboro some 25 miles distant. Other than that you'd have to play pick up games at the local parks here in Paragould and I don't feel the enthusiasm for that. So who knows, maybe some day before I'm too old I'll pick up a racket and play some again. I will always remember Micky if I do.

Why Do I Like the NCAA Basketball Tournament?

I have said before, I was born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. This is a remote area of the United States that is dominated by wilderness. My family never owned a TV until 1956 when I was 11 years old. Our child play was dominated by the creative fires of our imaginations. However, I did like the evenings after a long day when I curled up in my bed in my room that looked out on Munising Bay. Sometimes I would build a fort of pillows on my bed and pretend that I was Hopalong Cassidy or Lash LaRue taking care of the bad guys. Like those Saturday afternoon matinee's, my guns never ran out of ammunition.

One night I was in bed, had my fort built and was fiddling around with an old radio my father had given me. We did not get particularly good radio reception where I lived, but we could get Chicago and there were one or two cities in the UP that had stations. I have no idea how old I was. Knowing the address I was living at when this story I am about to relate I was older than 8 but less than 11.

In the mid-1950's the National Invitational Tournament (NIT) was "the" tournament. The NCAA tournament was leftovers. It was not until some years later that the NCAA tournament became the dominate tournament. As I lay in bed fiddling with the radio listening for call signs to see where I was drawing the signal from I happened on a basketball game. It was the St. Louis Bilikens vs the Maryland Terapins playing in the NIT. I became fascinated at the pace of the game. I am sure it was not as rapid as many college teams play today, but it seemed quick. The announcers added great color and their voices resonated the excitement of the moment.

I had no idea what a Biliken was, St. Louis was a large city I'd heard of but had no knowledge. Maryland, way out there on the East Coast, wow! These were places and names of schools I'd never heard of, yet here they are playing a game in a national tournament. It just seemed like such a huge event.

I do not know who won the game. In fact, checking past records neither of these teams were the champions of the NIT during this time period. However, the fact that teams from so distant places would travel to New York City and play a basketball tournament created quite an impression on my young mind.

Since that time I have enjoyed college basketball especially the "Big Dance." It is such an event, teams from all parts of the nation go to cities all around the nation to compete. Little teams have an opportunity and I am always looking for which Cinderella team will come forward and how far will they go. Many times I can have a NCAA game on, work around the house and listen to the commentary. When I can't see the TV and hear the announcers, often I get transported back to that little bedroom in northern Michigan listening to two teams I've never heard of playing a national tournament. What a thrill

It is one of those times that who wins isn't so important to me as the experience. I hope you have a good day.

An Old Fishing Buddy

Yesterday I had an opportunity to phone a childhood friend. His real name is Joe, really! Joe and I grew up two houses from each other in a small town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Munising sat at the bottom of a huge bowl formed by glaciated limestone hills. Munising is snuggly nestled at the base of these surrounding hills that rise perhaps as high as 350 to 400 feet above the bay. Munising Bay is one of only a few naturally protected deep water bays on all of Lake Superior. Sitting directly in front of Munising offering the bay shelter is Grand Island. The bay while it looks long and narrow is actually about two and one half miles by two and one half miles. The north channel takes you out into Lake Superior and you would be bound for the locks at Sault Ste. Marie, MI. The west channel likewise takes you into the open water of Lake Superior only you would be heading towards Marquette and Duluth, MN. Quite often when Lake Superior blows up as only Lake Superior can, you will find several large cargo ships anchored in Munising Bay on the lee side of the island.

Without making this much longer than the reader might be interested in, the subject of this story is a fine little trout stream that meanders through a cut in the hills surrounding Munising and eventually empties into Munising Bay in the southeast side of the bay near our only industry in town, the paper mill.

As a young boy in the mid-1950's Joe and I fished this river a lot. We lived in the West end of Munising, and were several miles from the trout stream called the Anna River. However, we locals always referred to the stream as the Annie River. River is an over statement, it was a stream, often no wider than fifteen or twenty feet. However, the stream ran from south of the hills surrounding Munising, through a cut in the hills and on into Munising itself.

Many times, after school on a Friday afternoon Joe and I would grab our empty Campbell soup cans and head up to Chipmunk Valley to dig worms. Joe had found a valley in the hill on the West side of Munising not too far from where we lived. It had silted in over the years creating an ideal cool moist soil that held and incredible amount of worms. So, after school off we'd go, dig two soup cans of worms, pack some dirt around them, and back home to wait for Saturday morning. Each of us would ready our fishing gear on our own and meet at an agreed to time in front of my house because I lived on the way to the stream.

In late May, early June the mornings were cool if not downright cold. However, a jacket sufficed and off we went on our bicycles. Just as we came to the end of Superior St. on the right hand side of the road was a gas station. We would stop there and I would buy a pack of cigars, Rum Soaked Crooks. A cigar I would still like to find and puff on from time to time to relieve the sweet taste and odor.

Then off again, another couple of miles to our "put in site." Our "put in site" was where we would walk our bicycles off the road, lay them down in deep grass then walk another half mile or so to where we would fish. The stream meandered so much we had four or five hours of fishing before we came to where we stashed the bikes.

We did not own waders so we had to walk the path that followed the stream. There was a rail road that used the same cut in the hills to service Munising so we often had the opportunity to cross the stream using the trestle to cross the stream.

The water was cold and pure. It was clear and you could see the sandy bottom easily. Pools that held our prey were a little blurry because of the water movement and depth, but our philosophy was if you could not see the fish, they couldn't see you. Water under cut the bank in many places forming pockets that you eased up on the tested for fish.

Our method of fishing was simple. We were bait fishermen, a fly fisherman would've had a real challenge as the stream meandered through forest and trees that grew right up to and mostly overhung the stream. It was beautiful, but I am sure a fly fisherman would've been frustrated. We used old spinning rods, but never really casted, most of our fishing was by what I call the swing method. You'd let out about seven feet of line holding the rod tip up so you didn't drag the bait in the water, then get as much slack line in your hand as you could extend your arm, finally by swinging the bait slowly and letting go of the slack line you could place the bait from twelve to fourteen feet from you if you were any good. It was a good technique for the surroundings.

Our bait was an simple single blade spinner with a fairly small hook on it. A split shot about six inches above the spinner allowed the spinner to work in the deeper pools and allowed us to get our bait down into the trouts lair unless we had a riffle that was of sufficient force that it just rolled the spinner downstream. The bait worked well. Some people used a ball of worms and had success, but from what I saw most who fished the small streams of the U.P. used spinners.

The size limit for trout was seven inches which Joe and I had marked off on our poles with electricians tape. We did not carry a creel (fish basket) as it made riding a bike more difficult to have the basket slapping at your legs. If we got some fish, which we did with some regularity, we'd carry them on a stick we'd pick up along the stream bank. Then when we were ready to go home we'd wrap the fish in a plastic bag we carried and put them in a jacket pocket. You had to be economical in how you carried your gear. We did not have bikes that had carriage racks and knew nothing of baskets, totes or any other equipment used to carry gear while riding a bike.

Many a day was spent slapping at mosquitoes, this was before mosquito dope like Off or Cutter's. The grass along the river smelled sweet, the stream was rapid and pure and burbled along through the woods making a sound like none I've ever heard. If we got thirsty we bent over and drank from the stream, if we got hot we splashed water on our heads. Life was simple, we caught Rainbow and Brook Trout, we didn't feed our families, however we did manage a nice trout meal from time to time.

When Joe and I were young this is how we spent a lot of time during the late spring and summers. Digging worms in Chipmunk Valley, riding bikes for several miles, smoking Rum Soaked Crooks, and slapping mosquitoes just seem like it was part of life's rhythm. Joe and I are good friends.