The 30/30 Feeling

I guess I was about 10-11 years old when this event took place. That would mean it was the early 1950's. There is a little community in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan called Rock. It sits on M=35 just north of Gladstone, MI. In the early 1950's community members formed a Lion's Club. My father was a member of the Lion's Club in Munising, just to the northeast of Rock and was a very active member.

Rock's Lion's club held a festival to help raise funds to develop some financial underpinning for the organization. So one Saturday my Mother, Father and I got in the family Ford and drove to Rock to take part in the festivities and support the fledgling club. It seemed as though my Dad always knew people someplace. It wasn't long before my Mother and Father were visiting with people, spending a little money on some games and had given me five dollars to try my hand at what games of chance I might enjoy.

My Dad always told me that whenever you see four Lion's together you'd always find a 5th. So I am sure there was a little imbibing going on. It was a good time. New territory, games of chance, small rides, and food. What more could you ask for in a small town.

I was deep into outdoor lore then. I had many magazines that extolled the excitement surrounding fishing and hunting expeditions. I read Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and other outdoor magazines with gusto. I could imagine being on a bear hunt in Alaska, prowling the swamps and hardwood forests of my native UP looking for the elusive whitetail. A shotgun in the crook of my arm as I ambled through the fall color hunting the startling Ruffed Grouse, known in my area as a partridge. My imagination flamed with the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the kill and the reward of the fine food afterward.

As I walked through the throngs at the festival I happened by the stage area. There was the object of my dreams, a Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. It was first prize in a raffle. A raffle ticket cost $1. I still had $4 in my pocket so I bought four tickets. I than set out on a quest. I found empty pop bottles that I could turn in at food vendors for a nickel deposit refund. I scrounged and begged and tried all I could to come up with more money. I knew nothing about statistics and chance, I just knew that the more tickets I had the more opportunity I had to win that rifle. I invested heavily (emotionally) in that rifle. My Dad gave me some more money. I do not think he knew what I was doing with it. I feel like had he known he would not have been so generous because while he bought a raffle ticket or two he didn't see much future in the game as an investment or a sure thing.

By the time evening came and the stage show took place I had accumulated probably between 15 and 20 raffle tickets. I was absolutely sure I had more tickets in the raffle than anybody else. I had spent the day investing time, effort and emotion in collecting items to turn in, scrounging money and buying raffle tickets. I was dreaming of stalking whitetail deer in the swamps of Alger County. I pictured myself aiming the rifle, is spoke loudly and I was deadly accurate. My hunting knife was fastened at my belt, I had the traditional red plaid wool jacket and cap on, and the snow crunched under my boots as I came upon my kill. God, I could imagine that scene, it still excites me to this day. So I stood with my parents waiting for the drawing for the prizes sure that my name would be called when that Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle was given away - to me!

There was the queen contest, the watermelon eating contest, gees my folks were making like we had to go. I persuaded them to stay till the drawing. I think they were beginning to see the level of importance this drawing had for me. Finally, it was dark, the park the festival was held in was lit with Christmas style lights and music played everywhere. The announcer intoned that the drawing for the raffle prizes would take place. I do not remember how many prizes were drawn for. I won none, and that was OK because I was going to win the rifle. The Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. When the person reached their hand into the drum to pull my winning ticket it seemed like the world stopped. A spot light came on and when my name was announced I would proudly walk to the platform, accept the rifle and receive the applause of many for my effort. Here it comes, the winning name, ME!

NOOOOO! It was someone else's name. Not mine, how could this be. I'm sure I had more tickets in the drum than anyone else. A mistake was made, but I knew there could be no redraw, no recount, no rifle, no Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. I was crushed. I couldn't show it. We turned and walked to the car. It was about an hour's drive home. I was in the backseat of the car with my dashed dreams of adventure and fun. I lay in bed that night working through my head what could've gone wrong. Maybe a few more empty pop bottles, maybe and another ticket, maybe, maybe, maybe.

I remember that feeling to this day. I remember wanting something so hard that it was a fervent prayer on my lips that needed answering. I remember the dreams and the desire so intense that it became the sole focus of my effort that day. I have had a few days in my life when I have had similar intensity in my wants. Not many, just a handful, perhaps less than 10. However I measure all similar situations against that one experience back in the 50's. I measure everything of similar intensity against what I call my 30/30 feeling.

As a postscript, on my sixteenth birthday my Dad and Mom gave me a Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 for Christmas. It was a thrill, I hunted with that gun and sometimes just took it and held it. It looked like the rifle used by Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Lash-la-Ru, John Wayne, Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart. It didn't have as many shots, but it looked the same. It's weight felt solid and secure and I hunted with it a lot. I never killed anything, but it went to the woods with me just the same. In 1966 my Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 was in a storage unit in an apartment in Milwaukee where my parents lived along with some other firearms I owned. It was stolen.

I have never replaced it. However, my Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 remains the gun of my dreams and I use that experience to measure all intense emotion I experience. I have thought about buying another, but I just don't think it would be the same. I have thought about going to gun shows and finding an older model and purchasing that. That idea has appeal to me, but it is not "the" gun. I do remember exactly, however, the 30/30 feeling.

A Recent Memory Made

This week, October 6-10, 2008 my wife Terry has been on vacation. She has had a pleasant week at home pretty much tackling chores she wants tackled. One of the chores has been the processing of apples. she has made four batches of apple butter which we packed into pint glass jars and processed through a water bath on Saturday. She was at chores all day Saturday ending in the evening with her cutting my hair. Finally we settled down for the evening. I took a quick shower to get rid of the aftermath of the haircut and she took a quick shower to freshen up and feel decent.

I roasted 18 of our fresh chestnuts from our trees. Wisconsin was playing Penn State on TV and she does not make a fuss when I watch college football as she knows I dearly love that sport. As I was sitting in my usual chair at my computer watching the game she came into the room after her shower in her pj's and sat in her favorite easy chair. Our dog Cilia was dutifully picked up and place in her usual position next to Terry. So here we sat, a small family in Arkansas with me enjoying my Big 10 game.

I glanced over at Terry and she had the recliner fully extended. In one hand was a magazine with recipes, next to her was Cilia and she was munching on one of our favorite seasonal snacks, fresh roasted chestnuts. I never said anything, I just watched her sitting there studying the recipes, slowly munching chestnuts. She was truly at peace and looked so comfortable. It was one of those scenes that makes sense of why we work so hard to provide for ourselves and our loved ones. The only other thing that would've been more traditional would've been to have a fire in the fireplace. However it was still about 80 degrees and we don't have a fireplace. The memory is burned into my long-term memory and it made for a fitting end to a pleasant week of vacation.

Remembering a Lip Warmer

It seems hard to forget but July 1969 I left the United States for a 13 month tour in Korea. It was called a hardship tour because family was not allowed to come along. Why couldn't it have been Germany, or some other place in the world where my wife and daughter would have had the experience of living overseas. Besides, my wife spoke German. Regardless the 13 months are etched in my mind with scenes of Korean life, way too much drinking, carousing, and friendships that did not last but were very important at the time.

It was while I was in Korea that I decided to grow a mustache, lip warmer, cookie duster, and crumb retention unit. I had that mustache until 2004.

Terry and I were sitting on the porch about 7 AM drinking coffee enjoying the cool morning air and the hint of the clear sunny day we should experience. We have a book called "The Book of Roses." It is a book we bought years ago when our flower beds were filled with rose bushes and we were into tending them. The book has activities associated with growing roses divided by months of the year. Terry in her own way has made the book into a little record of events that have occurred over the years. For example, when the Hummingbirds first show up in the spring is recorded. When we harvested our first chestnuts. There are no pages made for notes so her comments tend to be written at the head of a chapter or in the margins. Over the years when something happens of interest in nature or around the yard either of us will make an entry in the book. It does not contain too many entries but it is the kind of book that our children might come across when they clean up our estate after we are gone and become a personal memento of our time in this home.

Terry got the book out while were were sitting on the porch because it is about this time of year we take in the Hummingbird feeders and we were wondering if we had made note of the time of year they left in the book. We had not, only their arrival. However as we sat there drinking coffee Terry looked through the book and found an old Dear Abby article about things you mother taught you. It was tongue in cheek and humorous and we enjoyed it as she read the article. Then she came across a poem that my brother-in-law Chap had written. A short paragraph at the end of the poem mentioned he was saddened by the demise of my lip warmer. The note was sent in 2004. Terry and I remarked that it seemed a lot longer ago that I had shaved my mustache off. But it had been only four years. I began to think back, my children never knew my until they were in their 30's without a mustache. I wore that "cookie duster" for 35 years. I recall I debated with myself for several years about shaving it off. I always felt it looked a little unkempt and it had grown so white I thought it made me look older than I am. Shaving it off did not apparently help that. Anyway it is gone. I wore a mustache for over half of my life. I'm glad it is gone. I feel better without feeling that hair on my lip. It is amazing though how attached we can become to some thing.

A Sheboygan Marsh Adventure

From 1982 through 1987 I lived in Sheboygan Falls, WI. West of Sheboygan is an area known locally as the Kettle Moraine area that has many geological formations created by glaciation. One area that I spent some time at was the Sheboygan Marsh. It is a wildlife area and abounds with pristine marshland, excellent canoeing and some interesting hunting opportunities.

One of my favorite upland game birds is the Ruffed Grouse also known by locals in Munising, MI, my hometown, as the partridge or pat. I have hunted Ruffed Grouse in Sheboygan marsh with a friend and we had chased up a few, but they are sparse. That's OK, it is more about being out in the wild than the taking of game.

One winter day I decided to take my Golden Retriever Captain and go see if we couldn't chase some grouse for a few hours. It was in January as Grouse season stayed open until sometime in mid-January or the first of February. Regardless, we were into a good old Wisconsin winter. Snow lay on the ground and the temperature hovered around 18 degrees Fahrenheit. I was dressed with layers of clothing and what I know as snow pac boots which are a combination of leather and rubber with a felt insert for insulation.

Captain and I parked on a country road that bordered the swamp and walked a trail frequented by snowmobiles to get back into the swamp area. The snow was not deep, inches only. Captain and I got off the trail and started walking some woods and channels. I say channels because apparently back in the 1920's large dredges were brought in and an attempt to drain the swamp was attempted. Obviously it didn't work but you can get a flavor of what the intention was. All around the swamp area are neat Wisconsin dairy farms and field filled with corn and pasture land. As a result of the dredging attempt the marsh is crisscrossed by channels created by the dredging attempt.

I found it easier to prowl the channels because the snow in the marsh was deeper and the swamp grass made for difficult walking. I noticed black spots on the ice but did not pay them any attention. Captain and I were enjoying being together, the weather was cold but clear and the marsh land was gorgeous in its winter coat.

I was walking with my shotgun cradled in my arms enjoying the sting of the cold air and the crunch of my boots on the crusted ice. As Captain and I walked down one channel I noticed one of the black spots nearby and had to cross it to get to the bank of the marsh. As I moved across the ice a huge cracking sound reverberated in the winter air and the ice disappeared beneath my feet. I went straight down into the water. The only thing that kept me from being immersed was I leaned forward as I fell and with my gun acting as a cross piece I caught myself on the ice at chest level. From my waist down I was in the water and I did not feel any bottom.

Stunned by the sudden collapse of the ice I lay there a few seconds trying to analyze my situation. Captain had been thirty or forty feet in front of my when I went down and I looked directly at him. He immediately turned and started back toward me. I realized from the look in his eye that he was coming to save me. I do not know what he would've done but I immediately had a sense that his weight might be enough to further break the ice and we'd both be in the drink. At least half my body was out of the water, if I went in fully I was afraid the weight of my clothing would make my chances at getting out a real struggle. So, I called "Captain, Stop." I had to repeat the command several times and Captain finally stopped about ten feet away.

I kicked my feet, I could move but I was afraid to move too much of my upper body as I didn't know how thick the ice was under my chest area. I kicked my feet, rolled from side to side and the ice held. Captain stood ready to help. After repeated tries, rolling gently from side to side I began to inch myself out further and further on the ice. Finally after what seemed to be many minutes but was probably 90 seconds or so I was able to crawl up on the ice. At that point Captain came forward and checked me out. I used his neck to brace myself to stand up. Thank God for a powerful dog.

It was then that I remembered what the black spots on the ice were. The channels had been dredged 60 years earlier. The channels had silted in as the slow moving water brought silt downstream. Because the water was slow moving the silt settled slowly and did not compact. This happens a lot in northern lakes and slow water areas and the silt can be very deep. We home boys call it "loon shit." Deer traversing the swamp would use the channels as crossing areas. One reason the swamp could not be drained 60 years earlier was the area was populated by numerous springs. As ice formed the thickness of the ice would be much thinner over a spring due to the movement of water in that local area. Deer would fall through thin ice, and the "loon shit" would cling to their legs as they thrashed there way out of the water leaving a dark stain on the ice. I should've known.

Captain and I began walking back to the station wagon I was driving. I was wet through to the skin from the waist down. It was 18 degrees. We had about a 30 minute walk back to the car. As I walked I began to realize that my pants were freezing. My body was warm as the layered clothing I had on retained my body heat. I would be OK for some time from the cold, but my heavy canvas insulated coveralls freezing stiff were becoming more and more of a problem. A snowmobile went by, the driver was unaware I was in trouble and waved as he passed. I didn't realize I was in trouble so I didn't flag him down. On Captain and I went, both now quite tired from the emotional stress of the dunking.

Finally we got to the car. One of the first things I had to do was get my keys out. My pocket was frozen shut. I used my fingers and dug through the frost until finally after several minutes I could extract the car keys. My fingers were stiff and operated very slow. I got the car door open but I couldn't bend my knees to get in the car. I couldn't bend to get in the car. What the hell! Finally I leaned forward, caught the edge of the roof and leaned into the car. I fell forward so I was laying on the front seat. Then I could get the keys in the ignition and start the car. I turned the heater on full, and had to lay there for about 20 minutes until my coveralls thawed. I then took off my coveralls and was able to drive home in my long underwear. I was not worse for the experience, but I was so impressed with Captain.

I do believe that if I had let Captain come to me he would've grabbed my coat with his mouth and helped pull me out. He was a loyal and loving friend.

The Summer of 63 & Bear Hunting

I was fortunate and got a summer job at our local paper mill in Munising, MI during the summer of 1963. My best friend Joe Hase was similarly employed. Late in the summer Joe and I decided we would enjoy trying our hand at hunting bear. Black bear season opened in the late summer and we had a few weeks we could hunt before going back to school.

I consulted my girlfriend's father who was quite an outdoors man and any advice he could provide would be valuable. He told me of some areas bears might browse and told me that bears like apples in the fall of the year. Baiting an area with apples might induce a bear to frequent our bait. Joe and I traveled the countryside finding wild apples and chose an area north of the Carmody Road. Each evening before work we would take some apples and head to our bait site and check it out. Sure enough after a while a bear did start feeding on the apples because we could see bear scat and evidence of disturbance in the pile of apples.

When bear season opened we had dreams of bagging a big one. Now, what the hell we would've done with one is another question. My Mother and Dad ate fish but wild game was not a fare at our table. I wouldn't know how to dress a bear. Joe's situation was a little better off, his family did some hunting and perhaps they might take some bear meat, but I'm sure my mother would not have. Those thoughts did not surface in our consciousness.

The problem Joe and I had was we were working mostly the midnight shift and the only time we could really hunt the area was evening hours. We did not get off work until 7:00 AM and it was really too late by the time we got to the bait sight. Bears tend to be nocturnal and work interrupted our ability to bear at the bait during prime time opportunity. Nonetheless we would carry our guns in our cars, and dutifully head out to the bait area to check it out.

Joe got caught up in spending time with his girlfriend and soon was missing some of the excursions. This led to the incidence I want to relate. One evening before work I had driven out to the baited area, parked and prepared to hunt the area. I had a Winchester Model 94 Lever action 30/30. The gun would hold about six or eight rounds and was a sturdy gun that felt good in my hands.

As I walked the small two rut dirt road peering into the cover one could dream about the opportunity of a large black bear coming out onto the road and presenting me with a shot. Of course your mind could also envision an enraged black bear charging out of the brush intent on attacking and devouring me as it stored fat for the winter. When you are young, by yourself in the woods, and have a flamboyant imagination as I have that is where your mind tends to settle.

Dusk now began to close in. In the dimming light objects that are immovable become animated. Stumps begin to look like critters. You stand and look, did that object move, naw, its a stump, no by God it moved. Closer examination reveals a stump crouched down partially obscured by a hillock mimicking the appearance of a black bear about to pounce. Of course those sites and sounds heighten your excitement and your mind can really create all kinds of scenes you may not want to participate in.

All of a sudden three shots rang out. They were close by. In the distance I heard a voice drift through the hardwoods, "He's heading north." I am north! Holy Shit! The two rut road I was on ran mostly east/west and was fairly straight in the section I was on. So of course, my mind now has this wounded, enraged bear madly careening through the brush trying to escape its antagonists. It is ready to maul and kill any other potential assailant it runs into. Holy Shit!

As I crept along, finger on the safety, hair on my neck on end, every nerve quivering with fear and excitement I was poised to make my play. Annoyingly a thought kept intruding into my concentration that I was all alone. What the hell would I do if the bear came at me and I didn't kill it first? Holy Shit!

These thoughts grow in intensity at times like this. Your eyesight narrows and focuses on movement. Your become oblivious to things around you except for what you anticipate to be the source of the bear attack.

As I slowly, so slowly eased down the road about ten feet away, to my left and behind me a partridge flushed. Now a partridge in my home area is not truly a partridge, but a ruffed grouse. Their stubby powerful wings make a noise that will cause an experienced hunter to flinch even when they are hunting the bird and expect a flush. I was expecting a bear, not a bird. I cannot adequately describe the onset of anxiety, fear, and downright panic that took hold of me when that partridge flushed just behind me. Holy Shit!

As soon as I was able to calm down I jacked all of my shells out of the rifle, walked back to the car and got the hell out of the woods. I would like to tell you that Joe and I were successful that year, but we were not. I've never killed a bear and now have no desire to do so. I did learn fear that day, I also learned that I was able to function in that environment. However, I also learned that I can be humbled by a bird that weighs nor more than a pound or two. I will never forget that incident as long as I live.

Another Old Floria Word Game

My Dad (Vern Floria) enjoyed twisting or playing with words and sentences. From time to time he would walk around the house and mutter the following little poem.

The shades of night were falling slow
The old man slipped and fell in a hole.

Or, if there were no women around you might hear:

The shades of night were falling slow,
The old man fell on his asshole.

Or, you might hear:

The shades of night were falling fast
The old man slipped and fell on the grass.

Or, if there were no women around you might hear:

The shades of night were falling fast,
The old man slipped and fell on his ass.

Just a poem he apparently made up, at least I've not heard it any place else.

You're Never Too Old to Borrow Money

My father retired from a full-time job in 1987 at age 85. He worked as a dishwasher in a private tennis club in Milwaukee. When he retired he moved back to our hometown of Munising, MI. He took an apartment in the Windjammer Apartments. In 1988 his car gave out and he went to the Marquette area to purchase a newer model car. I had never thought about a person buying a car at his age, he was now 88. However, the old man toddled on up to Ispheming and made a deal. I do not remember how old the car was he bought, not too old. It was a large Ford or Mercury. He took out a loan to buy the car and the payoff period was 48 months, 4 years.

I was amazed. He and I joked about this event. I told him he was the ultimate optimist, because he would be 92 when he paid the car off. You know what, he did! He paid the car off when he was 92 and enjoyed the use of that car for all the years he had it. Mostly he ran errands with it and went down to The Navigator restaurant each morning to meet with some cronies and have coffee. I found it difficult to imagine that a person would buy a car and take on debt at his age. I found it equally difficult to imagine a bank loaning an 88 year old man money to buy a car with a 48 month payout period. Will wonders ever cease to amaze!