Nuts In a Bowl

My parents kept a bowl of nuts around at Christmas time. So do I. I enjoy Filberts or Hazel Nuts and Almonds. My folks used to keep mixed nuts around consisting of the two I just named plus Walnuts, Pecans, and Brazil Nuts. I enjoyed them all. I can remember times when during Christmas Day my Dad would sit by the bowl located in the living room in view of the Christmas Tree and crack some nuts and enjoy a quiet moment of contemplation. Me, I made a meal of the nuts. I tried to crack them as fast as I could eat them. I couldn't keep up. So I might sit and crack half a dozen then stuff them in my mouth to enjoy the crunchy flavor for as long as I could while I furiously crack some more. Holiday nuts are as big a part of my Christmas past as the Christmas Tree is. So I keep nuts around to this day. A big bowl, only now instead of mixed nuts I have just Filberts and Almonds. Every once and a while I will buy a bag of mixed nuts just to enjoy the challenge of cracking a Walnut and extracting that sweet meat.

Anyway, having nuts around still honors the tradition that my family had when I was a young boy. Isn't Christmas about remembering? Some recall with great joy the birth of Christ. We personalize it by honoring the traditions we participated in as a child that were meaningful to us. So I keep nuts around, I'm about the only one that eats them. Still it means a great deal to me.

My Folks Made Christmas Happy

When I was young my parents got into the Christmas spirit. It was a happy time of year for them, mother enjoyed cooking and boy could she bake and cook great seasonal foods. Dad worked hard in his insurance and reals estate business and the holidays meant a time of good will, the end of the year, convivial visits with customers and good friends. With the tree decorated, shopping in full swing, music being played on the radio it was hard not to get caught up in the spirit of the time.

Where we lived we always had a white Christmas. It is funny, but the small babe in whose name we celebrate the season was born in a dry arid country yet we associate Christmas with snow. Anyway Mom and Dad joined into the festivities with a gusto. There were close family friends who dropped in to visit and share a cup of Christmas cheer. There were parties, gatherings, church bazaars and the annual Smörgåsbord at the First United Methodist Church.

I was out of school, I had friends to play with, sledding that had to be done on the snow covered city streets, skating on the ice rinks flooded by the city employees in neighborhoods throughout the community. We had to shovel walks, dig snow forts, have snowball fights, and in general spend enormous amounts of time out of doors coming home with ice encrusted cuffs on our blue jeans and most of the time soaking wet . It felt so good to sit in front of the tree wrapped in a robe with a cup of hot chocolate provided my Mom.

Our holiday season didn't end at Christmas, in fact, if anything between Christmas and New Years it picked up steam. There were always several parties held. My father was partial to Currier & Ives calendars which he dutifully delivered to clients between Christmas and New Years. An old tradition at several of the gas stations was to provide an open bar in one of the repair bays for the friends and long time customers to stop in have a bit of Christmas cheer as you went about your day.

Church, friends, snow, lights, and above all the good will expressed by the community made growing up in the little City of Munising, MI magic. Thanks for the memories.

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.