Christmas Tree Needles

When I was a young boy living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan my father and I cut down our Christmas tree out in the surrounding forest. My Dad had a small Real Estate and Insurance business and quite often travel about the county seeing clients or making business contacts trying to sell insurance. During these meanderings he kept his eye our for a likely Christmas tree prospect and would note the location. Sometimes he found one, other times we would simply hike back into areas on snowshoes and locate a tree under the snow.

Up until 1961, we always had to get two trees, one for our home and one for my Grandma Toot who lived in our hometown as well. I can still recall driving out into the countryside, usually we found our pickings along ridges and low lying areas surrounding swamps or bogs. My Dad taught me early on that we wanted a Balsam evergreen. It was short needled similar to a Spruce, but the needles were a little longer and we flat in shape rather than round. It was my Dad's opinion that a Balsam held its needles longer than a Spruce. You see, when my Dad mounted the tree on the tree stand there was no water, so the tree simply dried out over time and the challenge then was to find a tree close enough to Christmas so it didn't dry out and shed its needles leaving a skeleton of a tree for Santa.

We strapped on snowshoes, walked fields and woods, and inspect numerous trees until we found the "right one." As I became older my Dad would let me shake the snow from the tree, which usually meant some snow down my back. We had an old "Buck Saw" that we would use, or if the snow was too deep we might use and axe and trim the tree trunk later. Usually the tree had some bare spots that Dad would fill in by drilling a hole in the trunk, taking a branch and whittling it to a taper and then jam it into the hole to fill in the bare area.

Placing the tree was always a task. My Mother would direct Dad or myself to rotate the tree until the best side was facing the living room. Then it was Dad's job to place the lights. No one was allowed to help in that task. It is odd, but in later years when I had my own family that tradition became part of our household, I placed the lights on the tree. My wife would direct certain lights to insure we had the lights evenly spaced, but the task of attaching the lights to the tree was mine.

After the lights were on then came the ornaments, the tinsel and the other hanging decorations. This part of the tree trimming was left to the family. Our home/apartment took on a festive note. Christmas music became very meaningful, and often I would wake in the morning and come out in the living room to sit on the couch gazing at that beautiful tree with the lights on and ornaments sparkling. Of course I would be out of school so this was a special time for me. I would sit planning my day of skiing, sledding, walking in the snow, making a snow fort, or some other outdoor activity. In the meantime there was peace in the household and the strains of Christmas carols came from the local radio station.

Christmas is a special time of year. It always was and always will be, for me.

Yes, There is a Santa Claus

I was born and raised in Munising, MI. Munising is a small town on the southern shores of Lake Superior and I'm proud to call it my hometown. The first residence of remembrance for me was a home at 805 W. Superior Street. My folks rented this home which was an old two story home. It had three bedrooms upstairs, one bath, an old fashioned stairway that came down into the living room which extended pretty much the length of the house. To one side was a dining room that opened into the kitchen through an access door. The house was heated by hot water radiators and the furnace was coal fired. It was the kind of middle class home you seen in old movies and read about in books about the period.

I lived in this house until I was 8 years old then my Mother, Dad and I moved to an apartment two houses West of this home. I have several warm remembrances of the first residence. My Dad always went out into the surrounding forests and cut the Christmas tree for our home. Dad was in the insurance business and had to be out and about the county so during the fall of the year as he traveled the northern backwoods he kept his eye peeled for a likely Christmas tree candidate.

In later years I accompanied him and we usually would get two trees, one for my Grandmother Toot, and one for us. In my very young years my sister Carol was home. My other sister Phylis was away at nursing school, and my brother Dean was in WWII and then on to college at Albion, MI. So we were essentially a family of four until Phyl would come home from college.

Carol has always been a light in my life. She was fun loving, a good wit, and still is even though she is now in her 76th year. My dad always brought some pine boughs home to be used by my mother and sister in other decorations about the house. One of the things Carol would do is to use Ivory Soap flakes, sugar and a beater and make our version of artificial snow. She would line the stairwell with pine boughs intertwined between the stair railing cylinders, run a string of lights through the pine boughs and then spread this artificial snow mixture on the boughs. My recollections are of pure beauty. At night with house lights off, the tree lights on, the stairwell softly lit with lights and the pine boughs covered with snow made for one of those soft vibrant evenings that are easily imprinted on a young boys mind and embedded forever in his heart. Especially when your sisters can play the piano and play Christmas music for the occasions.

So, what about Santa Claus. Well amidst all this finery, and music Santa was the prime player in my fantasies. I dutifully wrote my letters each year, or dictated them to my mother when I was very young and could write legibly. My dad mailed them off to the North Pole and I felt sure my requests had been heard and honored. One Christmas Eve when the excitement of the time was on me in full force, and we were enjoying the sensations of the season, watching the neighborhood start to fall silent as the evening descended a knock came at our front door. My Dad answered the door and a man announced that he was from Western Union down at the train depot and had a telegram for Tommie Floria. My Dad called me over and the man handed me this telegram. I couldn't believe it, who would be sending me a telegram. I'd heard about them but never had seen one. I tore open the envelope and pulled the sheet of paper from the enclosure. The telegram had the ticker tape cut and pasted to the telegram sheet which announced the telegram to be a real authentic Western Union telegram. I can still remember the words even though some 55 or 56 years have passed. It read,
"Dear Tom stop, I am on my way and will visit your home later tonight stop. Have a very Merry Christmas stop. Signed Santa Claus.

A telegram from Santa, you bet there is a Santa Claus, Western Union wouldn't lie to a little kid.

Merry Christmas to all and God Bless us everyone.

The Boiling Point of Water

It has become apparent to me that water no longer boils at 212 F. The boiling point is apparently much lower. It became evident this morning when I made myself some oatmeal. I spooned it directly from the saucepan to the bowl, from there to the table and some milk and brown sugar and was able to eat it immediately.

I recalled when I was young and my Mother would make oatmeal that I had to blow on it to cool it. I would spoon a little milk into my mouth so I could pour more milk on the hot cereal in an effort to cool the mixture off. It would burn my mouth, it seemed like I had to wait forever for the cereal to get to a tolerable temperature.

Now, it seems to come from the saucepan at an edible temperature. Obviously the laws of physics have changed and water must boil at a much cooler temperature because at 62 I can eat my oatmeal right away without having to blow on steaming cereal. So much for the immutable laws of physics!

A Memory Revisited

The light fixture in our hallway went kaput. I decided to replace it with a track light so we could have illumination from the washer/dryer and up the stairs. Living in Arkansas I do not have much of an opportunity to watch my beloved Green Bay Packers, but from time to time they are televised nationally on Fox and I can see them then. I started to wonder this morning if that might be the case. Checking the online TV guide sure enough, they played Carolina and were on Fox. So I turned the game on and enjoyed working on the project while keeping track of the game. It made me think of a time long ago.

Our family lived in Sturtevant, WI from 1975 to 1980. We lived in a "starter" home. My Dad had not remarried and it must've been around 1975. It was the fall of the year and Dad had come down for a visit. We had gone to church and now were at home doing some fall chores, cleaning windows, raking leaves, etc. We had the Packer game on TV and a radio sticking out a window so we could hear the game while we worked outside. If something exciting happened during the game we would rush back into the living room to see the replay. A couple of times my father and I had to laugh because we would meet rushing into the living room Dad coming from the front door and me coming through the kitchen.

Today I was in the back hallway when Favre threw for a touchdown. Rushing back in to see the replay made me think of my Dad. I miss watching Green Bay play with my Dad.

Hunting the "Pat"

When I was a kid, probably ten years old or so my Dad took me "Pat" hunting. Now, to those raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan "Pat" stood for Partridge. However, we were not hunting Partridge, we were hunting Ruffed Grouse. The locals, me included called them Partridge, or Patridge, shortened to "Pat." Regardless, it is perhaps the finest upland game bird in America, and certainly a delight to hunt in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula.

Pats are an incredibly startling bird. Pats are hunted slowly, personally I've hunted them with dogs and without dogs. The problem with dogs is the make the process seem rushed, without dogs can lead to missed birds. Either way is fine with me, but when alone I do prefer without dogs.

If you hunt Pats without a dog the process is to move slow, stop, wait, listen, look, a few steps, pause, turn around and look. Why? Because Pats are not runners like a Pheasant, they will hold tight in cover and then when you look the other way, have a pine tree between you and them they flush in the most breathtaking flush I've ever seen. They do not cackle like a Pheasant, they explode from their hiding place causing the most experienced hunter to flinch, stumble and otherwise lose the composure. In the meantime they are rocketing away flying through trees putting as much distance as possible between he and thee.

Hunting methodically as I described above allows a person a number of pleasurable experiences. First is the enjoyment of the woods. Pats like Aspen or Poplar tree areas. They do not seem to reside in what one would call the true upland setting but along ridges, fields, thick stands of scrub Aspen. Usually they are found in areas where they have easy access to gravel so they can get grit for their crop after a late afternoon feed.

There is more I may describe later, but the greatest experience is being in the woods hunting them. The rustle of the leaves as you walk on them, the smell of a fall day in the northern woods, the sounds of branches rubbing, leaves being moved, birds calling in the distance make the experience spiritual. Many "Pat" hunters will say, I almost don't mind if I get a bird, just being out in the woods is sufficient reward.

My first Pat was taken just off the Ridge Road outside of Munising, MI. My Dad did not hunt, he did not carry a gun. I had an old Steven's 16 Ga. single shot. I believe it was my Grandfather's gun. The old timers didn't need pumps or automatics, a trusty single or double (side by side) was sufficient for their purposes.

We had parked the car and were walking back into a little clearing off the edge of the road. An apple tree had been broken over and was leaning at an angle to the ground. The branches had been broken or rotted off so the tree trunk was exposed and looked kind of like a pole leaning on a post.

I had just walked to an area in front of the broken apple and was standing there when this bird ran up the trunk of the apple preparing to take off. It was a Pat! I pulled up, cocked the hammer, oh yes, the gun had a hammer that had to be pulled back before you could shoot it. The gun came up to my shoulder, I looked to the barrel and let fly. (That means I fired the gun.) The bird keeled over and I excitedly walked over and picked up the first Pat I'd every shot. I wanted to examine it, I wanted to look at its markings and the beautiful tail feathers. I could hardly wait to wear some of those tail feathers in my hat when I went to school the next week.

I looked for its head, no head. Just some grass ends sticking out of its neck where its head had been. It had been so close and the shot pattern so tight I had taken its head off and there were no other pellets in the body. I was shocked.

Needless to say we took the bird home. My mother ooh'ed and aahed, and I am sure wished I'd never brought it home. She did cook the bird for me, but she hadn't cooked a lot of wild game so it was just OK, not excellent like Pats are when cooked correctly. I was proud though. I relieved that first bird for many weeks, and from time to time fifty some years later I still can picture the setting and the experience.

I will always love Pat hunting and promise never to call it what it is, Ruffed Grouse hunting. Old Pat will really get your heart to pumping. Nothing but good memories.

The Lady Tries

I am very much in love with my wife. Terry and I will have been married 16 years this November 22, 2007. Rather than get all caught up in a love letter, there are characteristics people exhibit that that define their "style." One of the words that exemplify one of the characteristics I admire is summed up the phrase "she tries."

It has taken me some time to explain the word "try" in the context of Terry. Terry tends to be a very serious individual. She does laugh, she can appreciate humor but does not have what one would call a great sense of humor. Many things that break me up she sees no humor in whatsoever. As a result I would define her normal behavior as business like. This has lead some people to believe her to be cool, aloof, distant, and peculiar. Terry is a very private person. I find her to be warm, you just have to be tuned into her behavior.

Trying is a strength for Terry. I do not mean the word "try" in the sense of "trying new things." I mean "try" in the sense of making an effort to do the best you can given limited physical capability and strength. When shopping Terry will look things over, ponder and study trying to understand the features or contents always looking for the best value. Shopping for clothings leads to a close examination of seams, a search of the cloth for flaws. Always trying!

Working around the house means Terry often runs into problems with physical limitation. She is not physically strong, and being diabetic her stamina is a little short. But she tries! She is independent and hates to have to ask me to help her reach, hold, or lift something. Terry has a good understanding of her limitations and does not push herself too far. When she works on even things as mundane as yard work she is focused and tries.

I end up admiring her effort. She tries to understand things that may cause her some confusion. She tries to do work to lift burdens from me and be an equal of effective partner in our marriage. I don't ask that of her. All I can say is "the lady tries."

I love her for that.

Longing for security

I find myself sitting on the porch these days, drinking coffee and thinking about my childhood. I would characterize my life today as easy. The job I do is rewarding emotionally, it puts bread on the table and is as secure a job as I've every had. I will not grow rich, and I will probably have to work until my late 60's or early 70's to establish enough financial resources to protect our retirement. I do wonder about the long term outlook, my wife is a type I diabetic, but is remarkably symptom free according to her doctors. I recently had cancer surgery and the prognosis is excellent, no follow-up radiation or chemo-therapy was needed. Given what we know today Terry and I should live long, relatively healthful lives. However, that can change in a moment and what financial security we have be wiped out. It makes one think about the balance of saving for the future versus enjoying the fruits of a person's labor now. I'll still opt for the future.

This thinking makes me recall a time when security was the back seat of a car on a cold wintry night. Being from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and born and raised in a small community on the shore of Lake Superior I know snow and cold. My father owned and ran a small insurance firm and dabbled in real estate as he could. He never made much money, but I always had clothing, food and shelter and when you're young there is not much more than that.

My dad's brother lived in Marquette, MI some 50 miles West of Munising. My Dad's family were not close but several times a year we would journey to Marquette and have dinner with my uncle and his wife. The road (M-28) wound along the Lake Superior shoreline providing a spectacular view of the wildness of Lake Superior. One Sunday evening in particular, the year must've been around 1948-50, for I was quite small, we were returning from Marquette after spending the afternoon and evening with my Aunt and Uncle and cousins at their home in Marquette.

It was cold out. The kind of cold that especially penetrates clothing worn for a Sunday afternoon with relatives. In other words, were not dressed to be out in the cold for a long period of time. Driving back from Marquette in the dark one was aware of the isolation that exists in that part of the country. You do not pass many homes, and the shores of Lake Superior are not lit with street lights. The wind bites deep coming off The Lake and exposed necklines invite the cold breeze down your back.

In those days car heaters mainly warmed the front seating area. The warm air did flow over the front seat and warm the rear portion of the car, but as we know, heat rises. Therefore the floor board was usually cold making for cold feet. It was, as I said, a Sunday evening. I was full of good food, pleasant times and it was quiet int he car. Dad was smoking and R.G.Dun cigar and mother was sitting on the passenger side keeping watch for the unknown. The radio was on and on Sunday evening you would hear Fibber McGee & Molly, The Hornet, The Shadow, and other much listened to programs. The radio was tuned to the Marquette station and we listened to the Sunday evening fare. I was sitting in the back sea. After fifteen or twenty minutes the back seat area was warm enough to loosen your coat, but the floor was cold. So I lay down across the back seat with my feet up so I was nice and snuggy warm. There were a soft place for my head, my dad's cigar smoke gave off the familiar aroma, mom and dad talked quietly as adults do sometimes. The radio was providing entertainment and the instrument panel gave off a soft glow that slightly illuminated the front of the car, the back seat was dark. I lay in the dark traveling in our warm mobile cocoon, listening to the road noise, the sound of my parents talking and the radio adding to the background. It was nice, at that moment I remember feeling that nothing would ever happen that was bad. I was safe, secure and loved. It is a reassuring feeling and heartwarming at the same time.

As an adult when I've gone through rough times and had children of my own I remembered it was important for children to feel that security. To feel that things would be OK, even if Mom and Dad were a little unsure. I know that feeling, I return to it often in my thoughts. I appreciate that feeling and thanks to my loving parents knew peace and security at a young age. It is a shame that all can't.