Early influences

My family was always fairly athletic. My father played semi-pro basketball back in the 1920's. The team traveled throughout the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and into northern Wisconsin playing other community teams. In fact, at one time they played Michigan State University. My mother was not athletic to my knowledge, but enjoy sports.

My oldest brother was an all round athlete, he was legend in our small community. He played basketball, football and I suppose he ran track. My sister Phylis ran track. So I grew up in a family where there was expectation of participation in athletics. The funny thing is, I think my Dad would've been OK if I hadn't played sports, but I never asked. There seemed to be an unspoken sense that I would follow in my brother's foot steps.

When I was in 8th grade, Joe Hase and I were like brothers. He lived two doors down from me and we 1hunted, fished, played, and hung out together all of the time. However, we got into a routine of being a couple of young smart asses. Whenever we would see Larry Hilberg, Russ Hemingway, and other high school seniors that played sports we would taunt them. Oh my, we should not have done that.

There was no football for 8th grade and below, however there was basket ball and Joe played for the Sacred Heart school, I played for Mather. We had played in a number of memorable games and the played in the county tournament and competed in the finals. We had a lot of good players and the community had already marked out class as a promising group of up and comers.

The fall of 1957 began my freshman year. I went out for football. Joe went out for football. The coach was a man named Ted Wodzinski. He was a graduate of the naval academy and tough as nails. His idea of coaching was to test your manhood or boyhood in our case. Joe and I were invited along with a couple of other freshman to begin working with the varsity. The first days of practice, two-a-days, were held on an old playground just behind the school. It had little grass and was mostly sand. It was hot, we were in pads. We had to run a lot, which I was not accustomed to. After a couple of days of running, and calisthenics we donned our pads and went to hitting drills. That is when our taunting came back to haunt us. The upperclassmen looked huge in their pads. We had one particular drill call bull in the ring. A player was surrounded by other players. They numbered off. Then the coach would call a number and that person would attack you, try to block you out of the circle. You were expected to fight him off. It was brutal and possessing no training on how to handle oneself I was beaten unmercifully. Joe was a quarterback and the backs did not participate in this drill so I took a hell of a beating all by myself. At least that is how I saw it.

In the locker room were were taunted, teased and made to wait while the upperclassmen showered and cleaned up after practice. Fortunately after two weeks JV practice started up and were were sent to the J.V. program. At least we were with kids our own age and had the experience of getting the shit kicked out of us for two weeks earlier.

I developed a dislike for football. Coach Wodzinski was an "in your face" kind of guy and kids then were simply young adults not kids. I was yelled at, hit, I would get so angry I would cry which then brought another form of taunting. I tolerated football and that would be my means of surviving football I tolerated it.

Coach Wodzinski left after our freshman year and a man named Tom Schwalbach became our coach. The world changed. Coach Schwabs as we called him was a focused man. He had been the starting quarterback at Northern Michigan University and was from Escanaba some 70 miles south of Munising. He had a tryout with the Boston Patriots and did not make the team. But he was skilled and liked to play a pro style of offense with lots of passing.

While I tolerated football, I was actually a good athlete. My sophomore year I made all-conference. I was an end and had great hands. Joe was the quarterback and if he could get the ball within 3 feet of me I would most often catch it. I was not fast. Usually my "yac" yards after catch were a few steps and I was down. But if we need yardage for a first down, I was the man. I was written up in the local newspaper, the regional newspaper made mention of me and my Dad was proud, so was my Mom although she worried about me getting hurt.

In the meantime I was gaining notoriety in our community and was firmly ensconced as a "jock." However, I harbored this secret that no one knew, not even Joe. I hated football. I played because I felt I had to. People in town would tell me they remembered my brother Dean. In fact, Dean's legacy was so firm that a number of people in town called me Dean. It pissed me off. I wanted my own name. So, while I hated football, I excelled at it at the high school level.

My Junior year, more passes, more press, and I was named all-conference for the second year and even was named honorable mention all-state. My Dad was proud. He would tell stories about me to other adults while I was present. He and my Mom came to every game, rain, sun, and snow. My Dad would relate stories he had over heard from other people who were fans of the other team or just spectators about the pass catching capability of number 88.

My Senior year was the best ever. Again for three years running I made all conference and again honorable-mention all state. When you consider that Michigan has huge athletic areas down state in the Detroit region, Lansing, Grand Rapids and Muskegeon I was traveling in some pretty rare company.

People now were talking about Tom not Dean. I was no longer mistaken for Dean, I had created my own legend.

Then came college. I still hated football. But I got a small scholarship to play football at Albion College. I was a true small town kid. I loved Munising. I loved my Mom and Dad. I loved my girl Bonnie Dolaskie. She was a year ahead of me and had gone to Albion before me, but I was going to have to go alone. I don't do alone well. Never have. I was going 400 miles away, and I hated football.

The first few days at Albion were intimidating. I made friends with some of my peers and we hung around together. They were good guys, they seemed to love football. The first two days were pictures, running drills, calisthenics and fun. The afternoon of day three was the last of the no pad work. The third days it was to be pads. A big guy, blonde was sitting in the locker room toweling off and said, boy I can hardly wait for the pads tomorrow. Hitting, blood running down your face, bones crunching. It scared the hell out of me. I went to Morley Fraser the head coach, and told him I wanted to quit. Three days, that is all I got in. I spent the night wandering the campus, wandering parts of the town. I ended up in a small chapel off the main Methodist church that dominated the campus and prayed for guidance. No voice spoke to me. No light illuminated some answer and the next day I walked in to the training room and turned my pads in.

I called my Dad with tears in my eyes and my voice. I asked permission to come back home. There was no hesitation, a hearty strong voice came back to me saying we'll be down tomorrow to get you. Of course you can come home, this is home. I was humiliated, beaten, embarrassed and heart-broken.

When I got back to Munising I went up to the football field to see some of my friends still on the high school team. Coach Schwalbach asked what I was doing back in Munising. I told him I had quit. He got angry, he told me that he had written a letter in support of my scholarship and acceptance to the Albion program and that by quitting I had made him look like he didn't know what he was doing. A high school coaches reputation is made by the quality of the players he sends on to the next level. I did not know that. I hurt some more.

I returned to Albion with Bonnie who three years hence would become my wife. I was not a good student. I did not have good study habits, nor was I focused on a career, or anything. College was for fun, drinking and I had direction. I was a C+ student.

For years after I felt the sting of quitting college football. I felt inadequate, humiliated and I regretted more than anything that decision to quit. For years that emotional fracture remained unhealed.

When I finally got my career going at J I Case in the early 70's I began to have success at managing people. Oh, it was tough. I won't go into the early stories of my career here, but I went through the school of hard knocks head first. I do have the ability to be introspective. I learned, I listened and I had men who helped me come to understand there are skills to management. I began to excel. I got on a fast track and moved quickly up the ladder until I ran the assembly division for the Agriculture Tractor Divison of J I Case. I was responsible for the $500 million in tractors sold to American farmers. I was recognized at Case, and I became a legend in the assembly division and the agricultural division of Case.

It was then I forgave myself for the decision I had made. It was in the early 80's that the weight of guilt lifted from my shoulders. I had become a success in what I call the toughest kind of management there is in the world. The production of capital goods in an industrial setting where there is no forgiveness, there is no friendly competition, where the meanest son-of-a-bitch means exactly that. I was successful. I was my own man. I fought internally with the powers to be, I guided people, I lead people and I manipulated people to accomplish outcomes that on the surface seemed impossible. I battled the union, I beat them in arbitration, and I bested them on the floor of that plant. I earned the respect and admiration of my organization, the begrudging respect of corporate powers who know the rough world of industrial management, and I stood tall. I am confident now. I don't shrink from problems. I am analytical, I am damn good at what I do. One of the best.

However, had I not quit football in college, had I made the team and excelled in the game I also know I was too immature to handle success then. I would've been an arrogant ass and my career would not have been what it was. I didn't get rich. I don't have many friends, after all you are not a "change agent' in an organization and make a lot of friends. Friendship to me is deep. I do not allow myself many friends, friendship is not frivolous but carries responsibility and duty. The friends I do have walked that halls of risk and reward with me. They contributed to my success and I to theirs. We are a band of brothers who labored in unrewarding toil that required great sacrifice. It did forge deep bonds that 30 years has not broken.

I am not rich. I don't even have a lot of money. But I know I am good. I know what I did, and I take responsibility for the mistakes and credit for the success. In the end, I am a unique man who has traveled a rough road and at the sunset of my career enjoy its fruits and look back with satisfaction that I survived and overcame.

Was Captain smart, or what?

Talking with my daughter Jenny last night she asked I add to our family remembrances some story about Captain, our first family dog.

Captain was a handsome male Golden Retriever. A smart dog, a loving dog, a wonderful family member and great companion. There are many stories about Captain, but his ability to open doors was legend.

Somewhere along the line Captain became extremely fearful of thunder storms. We first noticed it in Sheboygan Falls. It may have existed earlier, but we did not pick up on it until Sheboygan Falls. I think what may have contributed to it was the requirement that he spend his nights in the garage. He was not an indoor dog, my wife wouldn't allow it. The kennels he lived in at our other homes were open so he could see outside, yet go into a sheltered dog house for protection from the elements. In Sheboygan Falls he simply slept on a concrete floor in the basement. He did come into the house at times, but usually for short periods.

When a thunderstorm would come up, Captain wanted to stay close to someone. He would put his head under your hand to be reassured that everything was OK.

One time in Sheboygan Falls my wife and I were hosting a company manager's reception. We had a large home. During the gathering a thunderstorm blew up. In fact it took one of our dining room windows almost off. Captain had been confined to the garage which was located down a short run of steps below the family room where the reception was being held.

During the height of the storm the president of our company noticed the doorknob slowly rotating on the door that opened up to the basement or garage. We all watched, astounded by what we saw. Slowly the knob turned some more, all of a sudden the latched opened, the door swung open to reveal Captain. Captain strode into the room, tail up and wagging and greeting our guests as though he had just come in from a little outing and was delighted to see them.

Later after the party had broken up I got to examining the door knob. The door knob was one of those small, compact but solid brass knobs. It was crushed. The crushing had come from teeth. Captain had apparently crushed the knob so he could get a grip on it and then turned his head thereby opening the door. Now how he figured that out is beyond me.

The story doesn't end there. My wife and I divorced, I got fired, and moved to Arkansas to a new job. Captain came with me. Apparently I forget to tell him to leave his fear of thunderstorms in Wisconsin.

Living on 5 acres of land in Arkansas I left Captain outside much of the time I was gone. On hot days I would leave him in the house, but cooler weather he could stay outside and explore the acreage. I noticed as time passed that the door frame on my front door was being gnawed by Captain and so was the wooden screen door. There we times I would go to work in the morning and come home in the evening to find my front door standing wide open and Captain inside, when he had been outside at the beginning of the day. For the life of me I could not figure out how he opened the door. The screen door was held by a latch held in place by gravity, and old fashioned type of latch. The main door was a solid wood door with a thumb operated latch that you had to press down on to open the latch. When I was home, Captain simply stayed with me and as a result he never revealed the secret to me of his skill in opening doors.

One day I was out some distance from the house raking some debris. I heard a thumping and turned to see Captain standing at the front door with his right leg extended into the hole he had gnawed in the frame and screen door. He hooked his paw around so he could shake the screen door violently. He did this a number of times until the latch worked its way out of its keep and the door swung open. Then he jumped up, crossing both paws and put downward pressure on the thumb latch until his weight opened the door. With both doors wide open he strolled into the house and sat down to await my arrival. That was the only time I ever witnessed him opening the doors. But there were numerous times while at work a thunderstorm would blow up and I would come home later in the day to find Captain inside with my doors standing wide open.

My next door neighbor told me that frequently when a storm would blow up during the day that she would walk into their garage to watch the down pour and there would be Captain. He would stand by her until the storm was over and then come back home.

One day the neighbors were not home and their garage door was down. A particularly fierce thunderstorm blew up and I usually wondered about Captain and hoped he didn't eat the log cabin while confined. I got home that evening after the storm had moved on and nothing was amiss. All of a sudden the phone rang. It was a neighbor who I did not know, who lived in a home along our private drive, but was some distance from the house. He asked if I had a large Golden Retriever. Yes, I said. He said, "your dog scared the hell out of my wife and child. They were standing in the kitchen watching the storm when all of a sudden their back door opened and in came your dog." I apologized and said I would pay for any damages, which calmed the man down. I went to the house to see what had happened and sure enough I found their back door knob crushed bearing tooth marks. Captain had become so afraid that he went to their home and opened the back door. You could imagine the fear when all of a sudden a 100 pound Golden opens the door and walked in.

The man never replaced the door knob and some years later that family moved. The next family told me about the door knob and it was still there. A few years later another couple moved into that home. I knew this couple. They also wondered about what had crushed the door knob.

Captain has been gone some 19 years now. I think that within the last five years that door knob on that home was replaced. The door of our home still bears the chewed hole in the door frame and door body that Captain put their to open the door when he wanted. I don't think I'll every replace it. It is pretty personal now.

And dog's arent' smart. Hah!!!

Marble weather

In Munising Spring would start to show its face in April . The sun obviously stood a little higher in the sky. It rays began to pack some strength. We still had snowstorms, but the old adage of April showers bring May flowers is especially true along the southern shores of Lake Superior.

While the snow banks still were quite tall their appearance became ugly. The means of keeping streets passable during the time of winter was to plow the road and spread sand for traction. As time wore on and plows continued to pile snow on the banks there was a build up of sand mixed in with the snow. As the snow melted the sand was exposed and you got this dirty brown appearing snow bank. The sand could become so heavy that it retarded the melting of the bank. So often time the snow in the yards might melt to bare ground yet along the streets the snow banks remained several feet high.

Water running off the streets under cut the ice along the curb and a combination of freezing and melting made for quite an ice build up in the gutters. As a result we kids made a game out of walking along and breaking small ice shelves by stomping on them with our feet. The broken ice would form a small dam and the water would back up, refreezing at night and the process would begin anew the next day.

It is in this setting that my favorite spring rite took place. The playing of marbles.

There were two types of games as I recall. One was called circles the other pots. Circles was simply a game with a circle of sufficient diameter drawn on the soft ground and then kids took turns using a "shooter" to knock marbles out of the circle. There was an ante, it was usually some agreed to number of marbles each play put at risk in the circle. You had to get the "shooter" to roll out of the circle after knocking a marble out of the circle otherwise you had to put the marble back in the circle. You shot until you missed. There were two primary shooting techniques. One involved holding the "shooter" between your index finger and your thumb and throwing the marble with some force at the intended target. There was another version not often seen in my generation as I think it was used in generations before us. It involved curling the index finger into a semi-circle then lodging the marble in the arc of the semi-circle. Placing your index finger, knuckle first on the ground you used your thumb like a pinball flipper and shot the "shooter" at a target. I tried this technique but was not nearly as successful with it as the thrown technique.

Pots involved digging a depression in the soft earth with the heel of your shoe going round and round to create an even depression two or three inches deep. Then you rolled marbles along the ground into the "pot." Kind of like a reverse horseshoes, or curling. I'm not sure of what winning was, but I think that you took turns rolling marbles. The first one to get all of his marbles into the pot won the pot. I'm not sure but I cannot for the life of me think of another winning rule that makes sense.

I was quite good at marbles. My Dad usually staked me to a fairly generous supply to begin the season and as I remember a year or two my previous seasons winning were sufficient to tide me over into the next season. I usually had a fairly big cloth bag of marbles. There were the normal glass marbles, cat's eyes, and occasionally the older clay versions. "Shooters" were also called Joners. There was a version of a "shooter" called a "steelie." A steelie was a ball bearing we would find by scavenging the scrap yard of the Munising Foundry located across Munising Ave. from Lincoln School. The foundry was owned by the Hanson family and they lived in a home that fronted Superior St. but ran along an alley that bordered the western property of Lincoln. I do not recall Mrs. Hanson, except to say that I think we thought she was mean. I think she was just old.

Regardless, many a time was had going to school in the morning, on the way to and from lunch, and after school playing marbles. The Benzing family lived on the corner of Munising Ave and Hickory St. They had a garage behind their home with a gravel driveway. It was that gravel driveway that seemed to shed snow first. Often there was a cold breeze. We are talking weather here in the 30's and 40's. In the morning on the way to school it would be 20's. We are talking about shedding jackets and gloves to be able to get into the proper position to shoot marbles. We are talking about hand numbing, bone chilling cold tolerated because it was spring. There was a cold that blew up the back of your shirt or down the neck of your tee shirt as you hunched over to shoot a winner.

When you were done shooting marbles, hustling to get to school on time the jacket and gloves would warm to your exertion so that by the time you got to school you had broken out in a mild sweat. Those were glorious days. The promise of spring brought forth marbles. The marbles brought forth the feeling that winter was losing its grip. We proved how tough we were by still playing marbles during the occasional spring snow storm. We proved how tough we were by coming home after school with our jacket slung over our arm, our hands dirty from the effort of honest toil, and a marble bag heavy with booty. A hot cup of hot chocolate that warmed the tummy, the warmth of the house, and mother cooking dinner proved that we were men among men and that things were all right in the world.

Well Crap!

It is January 8. Here in Arkansas it is 6 degrees. It is Friday. I'm still in my bathrobe and pj's listening to Christmas music. Why? My speakers on my computer system some how got reduced from the five speakers to just two and the fidelity of the music was thin over the holidays. I just didn't enjoy the music. I found the problem, some how the wrong speaker configuration was selected and the rear speakers, sub woofer, and center speaker were turned off. So, I'm making up for the loss of full rich sounds I missed during Christmas. I've mothballed my big stereo system for a period and the computer's sound system filled in just fine, until the past holidays.

What does that have to do with adding a post to Rambling & Remembrances? I love Christmas music. The fact that it might be the TransSiberian Orchestra or Mannheim Steamroller is of no consequence. I've even got some old standards playing by Harry Connick. It is the feeling and memories that the music gives life to. I find myself getting a little emotional. I am wishing for days gone by knowing they will never be again, even if you recreated the events with the same people it will be different. This time of year I enjoy, fight and have to deal with a high level of nostalgia and sentimentality. That is part of my make up.

Now I find my self recalling the time when my first wife and I with two small children occupied a duplex on the north side of Racine, WI. We had bought some types of playthings that had to be put together. I do not exactly remember what they were, but I do recall that we had to put them together after the kids had gone to bed. I think at the time it was frustrating. With time however the edges of the picture soften and you wish you could do that again. There is no doubt that Christmas is for kids. I get tears in my eyes thinking about my little tykes rushing to the tree, eyes shining in excitement. The oohs and ahs made the experience so wonderful. Brewing coffee, eating coffee cake, playing with the gifts, watching the little ones shiver with excitement are still warm thoughts.

We always tried to have a big Christmas for our kids. There were times that I thought I would like to just go to a cabin in the north, hand make gifts, and try to connect with the spirit of the time instead of the materialism. It would not have worked, none of us really wanted that experience. Besides, I now live in a log cabin and there are just two of us on Christmas morning. It is fine, it is OK, there is no greater or lessor emphasis on the season. But I do miss the little ones, my little ones.

The fact of the matter is that I do not believe that our family practiced over consumption of material goods as the kids were growing up. There was a balance struck between need and practicality without going to excess. So I don't think Christmas spoiled the time. It enhanced the season. I talk with God just about everyday and God is not out of my thoughts for long. I have a strong sense of the presence of God. I say that because I think too often people end up critical or have a hard time dealing with the commercialization of the season. I don't. God is present in my life 365 days a year, I don't need a day in December to recommit or to be aware of God's majesty. So I don't have a problem with creating a day of excitement and pleasure for my children. They deserved it, after all they had to put up with me for all of the days of the year after that December 25th.

Christmas Tradition

When my children were very young my wife and I and two kids left Racine, WI and traveled to Shingleton, MI to have Christmas with Bonnie's parents. It was always a joyous time. The grandparents were properly doting. Tom and I usually got to do some fishing. Glady ran the general store they owned and was quite busy, however in the evening we played with the kids and then played cards.

However, after one or two years of that we decided to stay home in Racine. Like many young married people we wanted to establish our own family traditions. Traveling at Christmas time just didn't lay down any roots. We lived in a small, three bedroom "starter" home in Sturtevant, WI. We would decorate the tree. Bonnie and the kids would bake Christmas cookies together which always led to the usual sister competitions and a sprinkle of candy color on the table, the floors and other locations of the kitchen.

Christmas eve meant church and coming home about 8:30 PM. We would sit up, watch the tree lights, play carols, and play with the kids. Then off to bed for the youngsters. I usually had some kind of a put together toy that Santa left. I always used to wish that Santa had written better instructions. The gifts got together though. I never did enjoy the taste of milk and cookies after scotch on the rocks, but there had to be proof of Santa's visit.

Christmas eve was a good time at our house. The kid's eyes shown with excitement and that excitement carried over to the adults. Their enthusiasm for the season was heartwarming and made you love them all the more.

So this time of year brings back many memories. They are all good.

Toot

My grandmother's name was Nettie Viola Firman Floria. I knew her as Toot. Others knew her a Fuzzy, but Toot was the name I called her. She was a strong woman. She was born in 1876 near Remus, MI and married my Grandfather Burt Floria around the turn of the century. She was 68 years old when I was born and lived another 16 years.

When I was a young boy my parents were gone quite often during the week. They might be at a mixed bowling league, some community activity, or other social engagement. As a result Toot babysat for me. Even when I went to the movies by myself I would walk back to Toot's apartment and spend the evening with her until my folks came by to pick me up and take me home.

Toot was a spry old lady. She was positive in her believe in Jesus and God and secure in the knowledge that she had done as good as she could and God would make a place for her. I am sure he did. I have no idea about the level of education she attained, but I wouldn't be surprised it was limited. She often told me that her father was an itinerant preacher who had an extensive library at home. She sometimes bemoaned the loss of that library in a house fire. Nonetheless Toot was an inquisitive soul who loved geography. When I was in elementary school at Lincoln in Munising the school would dispose of old textbooks at the end of the school year. Many times they sold these books for a couple of cents or a nickel. I would buy as many geography books as I could lay my hands on and take them to Toot.

Many an evening she I and would sit on an overstuffed couch made of a rough materials that was OK to sit on, but rough to the skin if you laid on the couch. She would drag out those worn geography books and we would sit and look at the pictures and speculate on how those folks lived, what they ate, how they survived? She had a lot of questions and would read and try to understand other people's circumstances around the world.

From time to time a traveling missionary would visit the local church and talk about the work being done in far off lands. Toot would attend those meetings and listen to the reports then speculate on how people got along in remote regions of our planet.

I believe my sense of curiosity was born in this old lady's apartment. As a young lad I enjoyed sitting and looking at those books with her.

She also had an old radio that had a shortwave feature. Many an evening we would turn that radio on to short wave and turn the dial. We would pick up radio broadcasts from various parts of the world and speculate on what language we were hearing. Perhaps we heard Spanish, Porteguese, or Russian. We had no idea. However, Toot wanted to know and would speculate about what was being said.

I think it is difficult to be in contact with that kind of curiosity and not have it rub off. I will always be grateful to that old lady of my blood. My good and gracious Grandmother, Toot.

Past Thanksgivings

It is hard to remember past Thanksgivings now. I have just completed my 64th. I have general impressions of family members being present, of the smell of the turkey roasting and the chatter of conversation that surrounds such events. I recall going to Midland, MI one year to spend the holiday with my brother Dean and his family. I recall several trips to Boulder Hill, IL to spend the day with my sister, her husband and wonderful family. I think through our adult years we, meaning wife and children went to some other relatives home for Thanksgiving.

For a number of years Thanksgiving morning meant a pheasant hunt in SE Wisconsin. The hunt ended with the dogs lying wearily in the grass by the side of the road. The hunters enjoying a glass of port, a beer and some sausage, cheese and crackers. It made for some memorable moments.

Thanksgiving in Munising when I was a kid were great. Sometimes we had snow and it seemed to lend a magical feeling to the time. Before I was 16 Toot, my grandmother Floria, would come for Thanksgiving. I can recall Toot working in the kitchen with my mother and Dad and I in the living room watching the Packers and the Lions play. Football, turkey, dressing and gravy all made for those moments we wish we could recreate but never seem to be quite the same.

Still I've had many memories and hope to generate many more. It is fun to take the day and cook some new foods and try something new yet tradition pretty much dictates that turkey be the mainstay. I do love the period. It doesn't seem as intense as Christmas, and a more relaxed time. I do love Thanksgiving.