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.

My Dad's Nickname

My father passed away when he was 94 years old. He was born in 1901 in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and grew up in a small town called Grand Marais. Throughout his life he and his two brothers loved "spoonerisms." A dictionary defines spoonerisms as "A transposition of sounds of two or more words." My warts are numb is translated as my nuts are warm. A question asked when trekking in snow covered woods up north.

I picked up my dad's enjoyment of spoonerisms although I am not as adept at it as he was.

Through the years one of my uncles on my father's side would refer to my father as "Shinner." My dad would respond as though he knew what the name meant, but nothing was ever said how my dad came by this unusual moniker.

In 1980 my father, his two brothers, my brother Dean and I took a trip back to their boyhood village of Grand Marais. As we toured the village, looked at the old high school still functioning after all these years and even found the old home built by my Grandfather in Grand Marais the three brothers started spinning yarns. At one point my uncle Earl finally told how my dad got the name "Shinner."

It seemed when they were youngsters, probably about 1908 - 10 they would walk to the elementary school some mile from their home. This is remote area, Grand Marais is a picturesque little village sitting on the shore of Lake Superior and was once one of the main outposts of the great logging days. Woods abound and you can imagine the route to school as some two rut road traversing through wooded country. Just about every day my Dad had to step back into the woods and take a dump, bowel movement, the old #2. One of things you have to know is my Dad's name was Vernon or Vern. So when my dad rejoined the small band of children going on toward schools someone would say, "Vernie shit." Referring to the act.

Eventually through the application of spoonerisms this phrase became "Shinner Vert." You can then see that simply dropping the vert became my dad's nickname that old boyhood friends still remembered and used as he grew older.

Kids had fun regardless of the year, the times, or the conditions. So here's to old Shinner.

Kids As Role Models

I have described in another blog my trials and tribulations as I recover from Bowel Resection surgery. Needless to say, recovery is long, tedious and I am bored out of my mind. I read, I write, and I take care of some home business, but I don't get around to well right now, so I feel somewhat confined. Trapped is more like it.

I got to thinking today about how people handle depression. I have my ups and downs like most people, but I've never considered myself chronically depressed. However, this recovery is beating me up and it is tough. Then I got thinking about my youngest daughter Jenny. Jenny has taken some pretty stiff blows in her life and always seems to be able to rebound and carry on.

I got to thinking today about an event that occurred in 1982. Jenny was in grade school, maybe fourth or fifth grade. I had taken a new job in Plymouth, WI and we were going to move from Racine, WI to Sheboygan Falls, WI. We had a nice home in Racine, we lived there for only two years and we had hoped to be there for many years. Circumstances prevented that.

As the time to move approached we were all a little apprehensive. I had been working in Plymouth for about three months so mentally I had moved, just not to our new home yet. The kids however were living in Racine with their mother and still had the neighborhood attachments and moving was causing some problems.

I came home on weekends, it was only about a three hour drive from Sheboygan, WI to Racine. My wife and I were asleep in our bedroom one Saturday morning when we woke at 6:30 AM to the sounds of something thumping outside our bedroom window. Looking outside I could see Jenny with a garden hoe in her hands hammering the ground viciously. The garden had been harvested, there were no vegetables of any kind that need hoeing or tending. Yet, here was Jenny attacking the ground as though we were getting ready for spring planting.

My wife and I did not do anything at the time. We settled back in bed, listened to the ground attack and woke up. My wife talked with Jenny later and found out that Jenny was quite upset about the move. Jenny had not been able to sleep well that night and woke early. Her method of handling stress/depression was action, get up and do something. Doing something may not have a purpose, but it does take the mind away from your issues and gives you some physical outlet for your frustration.

To this day action tends to be Jenny's response to stress, tension and bouts of depression. So I to am taking action. I'm putting these thoughts down in this blog. I am going to drive to work tomorrow and do what I can. I get out and walk. I am physically not able to do a lot of lifting or physical work yet, but I am starting to work on that. I shall follow my daughters lead and work myself out of this blue mood.

Yes, kids can be role models, thanks Jen.

Dad

An Old Canoe Trip

Some 48 to 50 years ago when I was a lad of 12 to 14 I had the opportunity to accompany my brother-in-law on an overnight canoe adventure. I was raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in an area filled with trout streams, small inland lakes and large expanses of forest. The forests, though extensive were all second growth forests due to the passage of the lumber barons around the turn of the century. But, streams ran clear, and because of the passage of glaciers many of the lakes were deep and clear. It was a fine place to grow up.

My father was not an outdoors man. We did not own a boat like the bulk of the population in our area. Much of the fishing I did I did with a boyhood friend. So when my sister and brother-in-law came to visit for their annual summer vacation it was an event I always looked forward to. Pete, my brother-in-law, had worked summers in fishing camps in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan and had been an counselor at boys camps on Torch Lake. Pete had extensive canoe experience.

Pete suggested we rent a canoe and take an overnight trip down one of the many rivers in the area to experience nature first hand. We rented a canoe from Bill Ryan at Forest Glen Resort. Pete and my sister were staying in a log cabin my grandfather on my mother's side had built by hand back in the 1930's. The cabin was situated along the shore of a small inland lake so we spent one day paddling around the lake so I could learn the technique. The next day was the start of our grand adventure.

We chose the Big Indian River as our challenge. Actually, the Big Indian is a fairly small river that flows through forested lands and meanders about 25 miles to a little village called Steuben. The river has no white water or rapids to speak of which makes it an excellent river for a beginner like myself.

The day began clear, a few clouds just enough to offer some shade from time to time. The temperature was comfortable, I was fine in blue jeans and a sweat shirt. As we left our departure point where the Big Indian crosses Federal Forest Highway 13 it did not take long for us to lose touch with man made road noise.

Perhaps an hour down the river we came upon an inlet where another stream entered the Big Indian. The smaller stream seemed passable so we paddled up the stream and a few hundred yards up the stream we entered what is known as Straits Lake which is one of a chain of five lakes, uniquely called the "Chain of Lakes." Each of these five lakes are connect by a small outlet that eventually empties through Straits Lake in the Big Indian River. We enjoyed an hour or two of lake paddling and we toured Straits Lake, then exited the way we entered, via the small outlet. It was peaceful, and gave one a good idea of the interconnection of some of the waterways.

Back on the river; now you have to remember, this is a small river, perhaps fifty to eighty feet wide, some what shallow, but almost all sandy bottom. At one point the heat of the day and the quiet passage of time made us warm. So we beached the canoe in one very sandy stretch and skinny dipped for a period of time floating and wading and in general enjoying the coldness of the water versus the heat of the day. It was refreshing.

A shore lunch of bologna sandwiches and some sodas renewed our strength and we pushed on. At one point we came to an area where what I know as Tag Alders grew along the river's edge. The river ran a little deep and we tied up to some of the Tag Alders as an anchor point. Out came my fishing rod, Pete didn't fish. Soon I landed a nice twelve inch Brown Trout. Ah, fresh fish to accompany our dinner. What a life!

I don't know what time we put ashore for the night. We weren't really interested in make distance, you could really make Steuben in one day of hard paddling. So we pulled out along some sand bluffs that were maybe twenty feet above the river and found a large spreading pine tree to make camp under. The canoe served as a head board and we had bedrolls instead of sleeping bags. Dinner was canned beans, some meat dish I do not remember, fresh trout, and for desert we had the makings of "S'Mores. We also had bacon and eggs in a cooler for breakfast the next morning, and a little thin steel frying pan.

We ate dinner, had desert and just laid back in the wilderness watching night come down. If you've spent time in the woods you realize that the sun doesn't set so much as disappear. As a result I describe it as night comes down. The woods grow silent in stages. Birds do not go to roost all at the same time. The small birds seem to disappear first, the Chick-a-dees, Juncos, sparrows all seem to twitter and announce the fact that they are calling it a day. Then the Jays seem to have to call and stir up a little noise as they settle in. Finally you hear crows and ravens announce their departure from the daytime activities. Finally a"hush" settles in. Light from the sun climbs the trees getting ready to depart, shadows start to deepen and a quiet overtakes the forest. There are a lot of nocturnal creatures that will come out, but they rely on stealth to search for food, as a result you don't hear much. Frogs, however, create a racket. This night, the frogs were off in the distance around some small ponds celebrating the emergence of their favorite insects.

Pete and I sat listening to day's end. Enjoying what desert we had, some coffee brewed over the fire and trying to figure out how to clean a badly burned frying pan. Off to the west we heard a distance rumble. At first we thought about someone's truck trudging down an wilderness road returning to camp or going to some inland lake for some night fishing. Then again, a soft rumble. This time we knew it was thunder. Thunder in a forest has a special sound. The rumbling seems to echo and spread as it moves through the forest until it is like someone playing out the last notes on an instrument before he has to take a breath. The thunder starts soft, gentle and almost comforting. This thunder was West of us. Storms go from West to East in the Upper Peninsula, just as most places. We were east. So we sat and listened as the thunder grew in intensity, soon you could see the flashes of reflected lightening off invisible clouds overhead. Well, eventually the storm came. It was after dark, probably around 8:30 - 9:00 PM.

You can hear the rain coming through the trees. It makes quite a roaring sound, like a waterfall about to engulf you. When the rain hit it was heavy. We hunkered down under the canoe prepared to wait out the summer storm. Now, we had chosen as out campsite an elevated area, but it was a large flat area elevated from the river, not a high spot that would shed water. A Pine tree isn't bad cover either, as it takes a while for the rain to work its way through the branches. Within a half and hour it was raining as heavily under the tree as it was in the open. The water had started to run through our campsite and there was no way we could keep dry.

Finally about 9:30 - 10:00 PM we decided to abandon camp, and walk to a road that was a little ways from our campsite and start heading back to the Forest Glen Resort, probably by now some ten miles distant. We hoped to come across a camp, or home that would offer shelter, but there are none in this area. After walking in the drenching rain, soaked to the skin a car came along pulling a camper. It was a family from Ohio likewise flooded out. They were kind enough to take two soaked rats to Forest Glen, which was still open. Once there we could call my home and my father came out and picked Pete and I up.

When we got back to my folk's apartment we interrupted a bridge game my mother had put together in honor of my sister's visit. After saying our hellos we disappeared, stripped off our clothes and dried off. My legs had turned blue from the die in my new jeans. Anyway, to bed we went and nursed our damaged pride.

The next morning the summer sky was clear and blue. My father took us back to our abandoned campsite, we enjoyed a good bacon, eggs and fresh coffee breakfast and continued on our way. Needless to say it had turned out to be a fantastic adventure. One I have not forgotten for some fifty years. There is one final episode that deserves some description.

During the first day Pete had occupied the stern of the canoe and guided our passage downriver. In the turns we always were on the inside track, we smoothly negotiated small rapids and for the most part he kept the canoe in the middle of the river. On the second day Pete relented and allowed me to take the stern so I could learn the skill of maneuvering a canoe in a river current. I didn't to badly as long as the river stayed straight, but who has ever seen a straight river. I almost ran us ashore on some sharp bends, but with sandy bottom and small bluffs surrounding us there was little danger. Some ways down the river we came to one of those areas where Tag Alders grow in the river along the edge. The river also became somewhat deep, maybe eight to ten feet in average. There was no problem as long as the river stayed straight. Then we came to our first bend, sure enough not having the understanding of how to steer from the stern I put Pete smack into the middle of some Tag Alders. That was OK, a few words of advice on how to begin the turn before you get into the bend and how to pick a line and on we went. Then came another bend, and Pete visited the Tag Alders again.

Over the years we have developed a family joke about Pete and his short prayers. For example, one of my nephews hit Pete right in the shins while playing golf. Not a nick, but a full follow through that caught him flush on the shins with a driver. Pete quite loudly uttered, Jesus Christ! So, the family jokes of these sudden short prayers was born. Well, I was treated to a few of these small short prayers as time after time I drove Pete into the Tag Alders. I did notice that as time went on the prayers got longer, such as, "For Christ's sake will you keep me out of the Goddamn brush!" Try as I might I still kept him in the brush until he started to look like an early Christian practicing self-flagellation.

Finally, we found a place to stop, Pete took over the stern and we finished the trip in peace. So that's it, no roaring rapids, no spills, no attacks by wild bear. Just an outing with some side events that added challenge to an otherwise peaceful trip. After all of these years it still brings back good memories, is fun to discuss at family gatherings, and I am sure gets embellished with each retelling.

Thank you for letting me share this memory.

So It Begins

I have never done this before. I am a real newbie. However, I have always felt like I have something to say. I have been urged by members of my family to take up writing. However, I always felt that was like the family cook that specializes in barbecue who is urged by family members to open a restaurant. So he/she does and promptly goes out of business because there aren't enough family members to keep the business going.

One thing about this avenue of information, I can pretty much say what I want and if no one reads it, so what. The words are out there, and they are mine.