Christmas 2007 Memories

Well, Christmas has passed. We are into the football bowl season, however I still have nuts in the nut bowls and cheese in the frig to work my way through before the holiday season officially closes. I end up reflecting each year on what has transpired in recent weeks. Presents have arrived via UPS, USPS, FedEx, or personal delivery. We have accumulated empty boxes that I always end up looking at thinking that perhaps I should save some so next year we don’t grow through the frustration we always do of not having the right size box to ship something in. I thought of that today as I burned the boxes in the burn barrel, too late.

Christmas is a time for children, thank goodness the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys. I had a nice Christmas, got some nice toys to play with. I have a digital stop watch so I can measure the elapsed time of my daily walks. I have some nice sports gloves to keep my hands warm on the cool morning constitutionals. I have a new pair of binoculars to examine our feathered friends at the feeders. I have a nice long sleeve red and black plaid shirt that brings back memories from my youth when I was so enamored with the look of the deer hunters that prowled Munising in the red and black plaid hunting outfits. Yes, that was before the advent of “hunter orange.”

This was the year I rediscovered our Christmas tree. Several years ago Terry talked me into an artificial tree. Seeing that we have a small cabin with a vaulted ceiling we found a tree that is ten feet tall but only three feet in diameter at the bottom. It doesn’t take up much room but extends upward. This is its fourth year and I vowed to be the last, it was just starting to look a little tawdry to me. However this year I put it up while Terry was at work and got piddling around with it. I found that a lot of the branches had been bent from repeated storage, so I worked my way around the tree slowly straightening the branches and rearranging them into the more traditional shape. It looked so good I decided that we shall continue the use of that tree for at least another season or two.

Christmas Day brought daughters Tracy and Jessi to our home for dinner. With them came their new boyfriends. Some grandchildren showed up, and even Geoff, our son came and enjoyed the festivities. The brisket turned out well, the scalloped potatoes were nice and cheesy and good. The conversation was filled with hunting stories, kids antics, discussion of clothes styles, trying on footwear, modeling new robes, and mugging it up for the camera. A success!

I have actually grown to enjoy the day after better than Christmas Day. Everyone is gone, the house is quiet, I can explore the gifts, clean up some dishes that had to soak, and still listen to some Christmas music with the tree lights on. There was even a bowl game on in the evening with Central Michigan playing Purdue. It made me think of the trip Carol, Phyl and I took several years ago through the Lower Peninsula. We stayed in Mt. Pleasant one night and ate at a nice restaurant. After dinner we drove around the campus of Central Michigan and enjoyed the college scene. That was the trip we stopped in Kalamazoo and saw Aunt Gertrude, and spent a night in Traverse City and went out to dinner with Aunt Ann and Uncle Hollis. The trip was four days and three nights, but we piled up some memories and are grateful for the opportunity to have seen Aunt Ann even though she passed away several weeks later. At least we got to laugh at some old memories and enjoy some time together. The same is true for Aunt Gertrude, we pushed her in a wheel chair to the local ice cream place and had a treat and talked of old times.

So this Christmas memories are a mixture of old and new. But isn’t that the way it is?

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.

The Lady Tries

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

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

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

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

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

I love her for that.

Longing for security

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old words

Meetia Tasia Poo Hoo! What the heck is that. Well, my Dad made that one up and it was a response to a question or a statement. For example, I might say at the dinner table that I really enjoyed the meal my mother prepared. My Dad would respond with Meetia Tasia Poo Hoo, interpreted Me Too!

Before the days of radio young person living in remote parts of our country had to find a means of amusement. My Dad and his brothers used the interplay of words creating somewhat nonsensical phrases that stood for simple responses. Each of the three boys were experts at spoonerisms and made games out of saying things then having the others guess what they had said. It took clever minds to rearrange words, syllables and emphasis to misstate the obvious. I was raised in such as house as were my brothers and sisters and to this day each of us carry some capability to do what my father and our uncles did.

I don't hear people play with words anymore. I don't hear people develop creativity by making games out of such antics. It seems to me we've lost a little something. Forshum, forshum.

Have a good day

Lessons we learn from out children

Through the years I think I've got a bit of a reputation for being a talker. Seems like if a void in the conversation occurs I will rush to fill it in. However, I also listen and think about what people say. I've learned a lot through the years from many people I've come in contact with. I can say I think I've grown to be a better person for the lessons I've learned from others.

My daughter Kristi taught me a lesson many years ago. Kristi took years of piano lessons and I always thought was quite accomplished. I had thoughts that some day she would be quite a performance musician. Early in her years, say 9th grade she participated in music festivals in Wisconsin. It got to a point that both she and our younger daughter Jenny participated and I really got to looking forward to those times. We would go to Green Bay where the competition for our region of Wisconsin was held and spend the day among kids, listening to their talent, listening to there talk, and have some family time that to me was quite important.

The first competition we went to Kristi was the sole family competitor, Jenny was too young. I became concerned that Kristi was focused on doing so well that if she didn't score at the highest level her spirit might be crushed. Kristi can tend to be a perfectionist and I think has lead to disappointments in her own capability that can plague all of us. As we were riding to Green Bay I began talking about the fact that she had worked hard in developing her performance, put a lot of time into practice, but even after all that work the possibility existed that she may score less than outstanding. I was trying to point out that much of the pleasure is in the competition not only in winning.

Kristi mulled my parental words of wisdom and then said from her position in the back seat, "Dad, I didn't practice all this time, or work this hard for second place, if I get a second place I'll deal with it then." Ah, the lessons we learn. Sometimes children are wiser than we give think. I always remember that little interchange, I hope I became a little bit more understanding and I know my daughter grew quite mature in my eyes that day.

Since that time I've come to believe through observation that competition is at the very root of all human behavior. We temper it, sometimes we ignore competition, but in the final analysis everything I can think of in the natural world or that of populated by the human race finds its roots in competition. Her in the wisdom of a 14 year old I found the understanding that trying is important, focus on the goal and deal with the outcome later. Thanks for the lesson Kris!

Her kids harrassed my Grandmother

My father told me a story worth passing on. My dad, his brothers and Mother moved from Grand Marais, MI to Munising via fishing tug back in 1913. Munising was not very old, I believe the town was incorporated in 1897. I am sure some buildings and people lived there earlier than that, but my Family moved to Munising just sixteen years after its incorporation.

I do not know all of the addresses they lived at, but I do know that my Grandmother had the task of raising three young, energetic, witty, fun living boys. My dad and my uncles were sharp, all the days that I knew them they had a way with words, I am sure they provided my Grandmother with laughter and amusement during their younger years.

One day my Uncle Earl walked through a room my Grandmother was in and mused to himself, out loud, "hmmmm, is it is souls or am souls." Then he would pass on into another room without a sound leaving my Grandmother pondering what he was up to. Then a while later another visit to Grandma's domain and another, "is it is souls or am souls?" Then he would leave the room. This went on for several hours. I am sure my Grandmother's curiosity was building. along with her urge to provide him with the answer. Finally on one more trip through the room Uncle Earl said "is it is souls, or am souls?" Of course my Dad and Uncle Cecil were waiting nearby to hear the outcome of this question. Finally my Grandmother blurted out, "is is are souls." Whereupon she realized she had just been had, grabbed a broom and chased all three boys from the house in punishment for their prank. My Dad said that he paused and turned around to look back just in time to see my Grandmother lean back against the door, chin on the broom handle and laugh herself to tears. What a time it must've been in that household so long ago. I would've like to have seen the action.

Imagine Reality

It is hot here in Arkansas. We were over the 100 mark for the fifth time in five days. I am watering the flower beds and a few shrubs and small trees that are heat stressed. We are heat stressed, it is just too hot to work outside for any length of time. In the morning when it is a little cooler I do my 40 minute walk to improve my overall health, but that is about it.

Sitting on the porch this afternoon with the late afternoon sun behind us and the heat warming our bones I got to reflecting on Gramp's Cabin. My grandfather built a log cabin on the shores of Ostrander Lake in Alger County, Michigan. Gramps built the cabin by hand with some mighty large logs. It was probably built back in the 1930's. Ostrander Lake is a nice lake, it had structure, held some fish and most people who owned camps on the lake were long time residents.

I was sitting in the afternoon heat thinking how nice it would be to sit on the front porch of that old log cabin on a day like today. First of all it would not be this hot. The next picture in my mind is me walking down an old path to the little dock. A small row boat is tied up there, and my fishing tackle is lying in the bottom of the boat. All I have to do is to loosen the line, push off and I'm fishing. I could row out a small distance, let the boat drift and lazily cast about, hoping not to catch anything so the mood isn't disrupted. Near the water I can see tall pines surrounding the shore of this lake. I can see cabins with camp fires and people toasting hot dogs, cooking steaks, or making "somores." A cabin door slams, laughter is heard floating on the slight breeze, the boat lazily turns this way then that way. A child laughs, people tell jokes, discuss problems, drink a cup of coffee, a beer, or pop.

In the meantime the sun is setting to the west, the sky is streaked with oranges, golds, and various shades of reds. The western shoreline is in shadow, the eastern side has some small hills and the sun is climbing the hill casting a shadow on the shoreline. A fish tugs at my line, I pull it in, a Bluegill, no sense keeping him that isn't the purpose of this fishing trip. I slip him back into the water and with a dark flash of his tail he's gone. Probably telling the other fish to watch out there some guy up there fishing.

It gets dimmer, the colors in the sky become pastel. A jet contrail streaks overhead, I wonder where those folks are going. From the direction maybe the plane is coming out of Canada and heading for Detroit. I hope everyone is OK on that flight. The contrail takes on an almost fluorescent look as the sun strikes it at an odd angle.

It is dimmer now, a slight chill in the air. My best girl, my wife, calls out and asks when I will be coming in and do I want some coffee. My answer is soon and yes. There is a kindred spirit back in that cabin, her company reassures me that I am loved and we have things to talk about. She is a diabetic but her health is fairly good and she is pretty much symptom free. God, I hope she stays that way, I do not know what life would be like without her and I don't want to think about it.

Along the shore I hear a splash, a raccoon, a deer, what? My eyes strain but it is becoming so shadowed I cannot make out anything. I imagine it was a deer coming down for a drink. Perhaps a big old bass came close to shore and grabbed a frog for dinner. Bass feed at night you know. The lights in the cabins start to shine on the dim shore like beacons calling me to safety. I know in the set of lights just in front of me there is coffee and warmth, and the smell of wood and cabin.

A screen door slams somewhere, I think of my youngest daughter who used to announce to us that she like the sound of a screen door slamming. This was her way of making sure her mother and I didn't yell at her for letting the door slam. You know though, there is a special noise an old wooden screen door makes when it slams that I like too.

Memories flood my mind, old memories, warm fuzzy memories. Children growing up, playing with cousins, reading books, talking about boys, and trying their hand at water skiing. Where did those times go, and why can't I enjoy them again. I can't that's all, I just can't.

So, my best girl gets up from her seat, gives me a kiss and heads back to work. She has to work late tonight. I get up, stare at the dry grass, the wilting flower beds, pack my memories back in my mind, and wish her a good evening. She leaves and I come inside, alone! Damn the alone! But memories of daughters, of the smell around a small inland lake, of friends and family now old, but still young at heart. Its OK, everything is just OK!

Ah Children!

While my wife and I were in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan my two daughters joined us. One day we went to Miner's Beach for some swimming, sun, sand and a picnic. My granddaughter Marissa joined us. As you can see above she enjoyed the beach. What tickled me was when we got back to my sister's home after the outing Marissa gave up and went to sleep. Kids play so hard, they just become exhausted. I can think of nothing more healthy than a child playing in the sun on a sugar sand beach, running, eating, and being held. Finally their little bodies have had enough and require rest. Limited stamina that shall increase until they can stay up with mom and dad. I really get a kick out of process.

Black coffee, a ham sandwich and memories

Years ago, perhaps 1954 or there about my father drove my mother and I to my brother's home in Midland, Michigan. This was no small task in those days for there was no Mackinac Bridge. You had to take a ferry across the Straits of Mackinac and the boat trip was about 30 to 40 minutes just on the water. This trip was in November, my mother was going to stay at my brother Dean's home for a couple of weeks and then dad and I would drive down, spend Thanksgiving in Midland and bring mom back home.

When we left the Upper Peninsula I do not think my dad was paying attention to the time of year. You see deer season opened in mid-November and went through the end of the month. The weekend we drove mom to Midland and drove back the next day was the weekend all the deer hunters were driving to the U.P. to go deer hunting.

Normally you did not wait long to cross the "Straits," perhaps half an hour or so. During the weekend before deer season waits of over 24 hours were not uncommon. It is hard to understand the lure of deer hunting in Michigan until you understand the obstacles people will over come to go hunting. In addition to bagging a buck many times you would see cars heading back to the Lower Peninsula with a deer over the front fender and a Christmas tree tied on the roof of the vehicle. It was a tradition for many and the start of the holiday spirit culminated in a Christmas dinner and venison steak.

Well my mother prepared some ham sandwiches for my dad and I from the left over ham we had for dinner Saturday evening. We set out for the "Straits" and encountered "the line" somewhere south of Cheboygan, MI. I have no idea as to distance except you were in a line of cars on the side of the road that stretched on as far as the eye could see and were were out in the woods.

People would get out of their cars, form small groups and talk about the prospects of deer camp. Men wore the traditional red plaid shirts and pants with boots and hunting knives hanging from their belts. Many wore suspenders and had red plaid hats. This was before hunter orange. The talk was of deer, trails, woods and things all exciting a mysterious to a young boy my age. Dad and I joined these groups of men standing along the road drinking coffee and telling tales.

All of a sudden the shout would wind its way down the line, "We're moving up!" Everyone would head for their cars and the line would move up some 60 to 120 car lengths. It meant a ferry had picked up a load and headed back across the straits and space was made in the parking lot and new cars filled in empty sections.

As soon as the line stopped engines were turned off and the groups of men reassembled. Again I would join the groups and listen with my imagination flaring up seeing red plaid assembled men stalking through deep northern woods in search of the elusive White Tail. I could imagine me with rifle over arm slowly proceeding among pines and hardwood forest, moving quietly along the edge of swamp or rivers. A light dusting of snow on the ground for tracking should you not down your deer but have to track it. We were actually along a forested road near Mackinac City and you could see the pines and as night settled in the lore grew even more intense.

I had never drunk coffee black. We had a thermos with us that had black coffee in it and I think we had a couple of sodas that I had polished off long before night fell. The night chill descended and we retreated to our car because we had fairly light clothing on. Nothing like the rugged outdoor clothing the hunters wore. Sitting in the dark dad would run the car to take the chill off and we would listen to the radio.

When the pangs of hunger caught us we would break out a ham sandwich, thick sliced ham on white bread with mustard. We would eat a ham sandwich and sip on black coffee and that leads me to the title.

Today at work I had a ham sandwich, I got a cup of coffee and sat at my desk and ate the ham sandwich with mustard on it and drank black coffee. Those tastes never fail to take me back those many years to that night I had to drink black coffee and eat ham sandwiches because that is all we brought along. Dad thought we'd be home long before we actually were and have a dinner at the Candy Kitchen. The best memories come from a thick slab of ham carved from a left over cooked ham and just some plain old French's mustard slathered on. That rich taste of the ham and the intermingling of the black coffee set my memory bells tingling.

As I remember the wait at the "Straits" was 24 hours or longer that night, but we made it in 12. When we entered the parking lot to take our place in these huge parking lots there was string of cars at the end of the lot going on a ferry. Dad gunned the motor and dashed down the lot, got in the end of the line and made it aboard. We halved the time and thank God we did, we were all out of ham sandwiches and black coffee.

Growing Up in Northern Michigan

My wife often refers to my description of growing up north as a storybook setting. It was, I have no way of describing it in any other terms. Munising sits on the shores of Lake Superior surrounded by hills. In front of the town is a large island, Grand Island that makes Munising Bay one of the few deep water bays on Lake Superior protected from the fury of storms.

Around the turn of the Twentieth Century there were blast furnaces on the shore where iron ore was processed into pig iron for further shipment to the steel mills in Chicago. Henry Ford began building Ford cars around 1906. As part of his strategy he knew it made sense not to ship iron ore to his factories around Detroit. The more refined the raw material the lower the shipping costs and the more economical the vehicle. Early Ford advertisements told of true Just-In-Time production, 30 days from iron mine to finished car.

With that in mind Ford started to invest in ore processing. Ford began construction of a power plant along the shores of Lake Superior at Munising, MI. Formerly blast furnaces used charcoal made from the trees of the surrounding area. As trees began to recede from the shoreline transportation of wood became a problem. With the advent of electricity blast furnaces became more efficient using that power form. So Ford's forward looking made the investment of a power plant in Munising viable. A deep water port, ore boats come from the Western end of the peninsula loaded with ore, boats coming from the east with coal to meet and refine ore into pig iron for more efficient transportation to Detroit.

Something happened and Ford stopped his project leaving the foundation of his power plant. This foundation became the play ground for we children growing up. It had a tunnel that went underground out into a nearby swamp and provided another route of escape when we played prisoner and guard. It was the task of the prisoners to escape and go up into the surrounding hills then reform and take over the prison. The guards became the prisoners and then their task was to escape. We played this game endlessly. It was played over a great area and went on sometimes for days. Henry Ford didn't make pig iron in Munising, but he provided a great play ground.

Today that foundation still exists. It is part of a storage area for a boat marina. It no longer fires the imagination of youth, it no longer offers youth the opportunity to exercise their creativity. It did exist, it did offer we kids some powerful opportunities to freely exercise our imagination and play at what ever we wanted. It was a fine experience.

A Radio Table

My mother and father were married in 1924, I believe. It isn't that important, but suffice it to say it was long ago. Those were interesting times, radio had first come out some years earlier and while a popular new medium for society you had to have electricity.

My Dad had a fascination with wood working. It would've been nice through the years if he could've had a home with a shop and puttered away at that hobby. Regardless, in 1926 Dad went to a woodworking shop class held in the evenings for adults. The teacher was the high school shop teacher, Mr. Henry Nelson. Turns out that in seventh and eighth grade some thirty years later Mr. Nelson was my shop teacher.

In 1926 the social events that occupied a Friday or Saturday evening was listening to the radio. Many couple gathered in homes, listened to the radio, danced, sang along, drank whiskey and beer and partied. My parents were no different. One of the activities that occupied peoples' time was developing a log to record various radio stations call signs on. According to my father it was an oft discussed topic where someone would tell of picking up a Pittsburgh, PA station, or and Indianapolis station, or Louisville, KY station. Much time was spent perfecting the tuning, listening to new frequencies and trying to pick up the call sign and location of the broadcasting station.

Dad decided to build a radio table in the manual arts classes offered at night. I have that table. It is beautiful, he turned the four legs on a lathe, the front and side pieces are mortised into the legs, the top is solid wood and has a decorative groove cut round the top. It has a center draw to hold the log book and writing instrument. It is beautifully finished although it suffered some water damage to the top some years ago that needs to be restored. On the bottom of the piece is my Dad's name, Vernon A. Floria, and the date in 1926 that he made the table. It is really a very nice piece of furniture.

Right now the radio table supports the sewing machine and is serving our needs in that way. It is very sturdy, shows no sign of weakening in the joints and I still like to look at it and think that 81 years ago my father made this piece of furniture.

Oh yes, the function. It looks like a desk, however in those days some radios were operated by a wet cell dry cell electrical arrangement. Where one would think drawers would be there is a solid front. That's because on the back side there are two large compartments. One compartment held the wet cell, the other the dry cell, and wires then ran to the radio from behind. The radio sat on top of the table, the one drawer held the log document and writing instrument and you were set for a Saturday evening's entertainment.

I'm proud of my father's skill, I am pleased that I have this heirloom. It connects me to a fine man who raised a fine family, and did the best he could for the 94 years he was allowed to be on the old earth.

Recent Memory

This little essay is about a recent memory, just made within the last thirty days. My wife Terry and I traveled to my home of Munising for the Fourth of July. Munising is now a small town of maybe 3500 sitting on the shore of Lake Superior. The people are brave souls who will not be bothered by the fact that a whim could close the paper mill and the town would lose it's major employer. Fact is, I don't believe the mill is the major industry in Munising anymore, I think it is tourism.

Munising has long held a Fourth of July parade, festival and homecoming for as many years as I've walked this earth and hopefully will many years after I am gone. This particular week in July was memorable for many reasons. First, Terry came with me. It is a long trip, almost 900 miles and has to be done in two days. Terry is diabetic and sitting during travel plays havoc with her blood glucose level. My wife worked hard at trying to control her glucose level, taking blood samples almost every two hours and adjusting her insulin input from her pump. Still her sugar rose almost to 400 and bounced around between 190 and 390. It was tough on her because she doesn't feel well when her glucose level is high. We made it, and once at my sister's home in Munising she got her glucose level in control.

This allowed us to enjoy looking around, a nice Pasty dinner, and walks about the neighborhood. On the Fourth itself we brought lawn chairs, sat along the parade route on Onota St. and enjoyed a parade as only Munising can put on. The first color guard after the four law enforcement cars with their sirens screaming were the Vietnam Vets. A small number, but a band of brothers that meet in and around the county to provide camaraderie and support. Don't forget, the guys coming back from Vietnam were received like a bunch of bums instead of heroes. An awful lot of those guys still carry psychological wounds that may never heal. I stood and with my hand over my heart had tears in my eyes. They tried damn it, they tried.

The parade was its usual entertaining obnoxious event that pleases all and leaves us all with our varied impressions of the quality of the event. I like it.

My daughters came and what made it so special was they came because I was there and they wanted to spend some time with their old man. God Bless'em! Jenny was sick with a cold, but you would not have known it, she did nap the afternoon of the Fourth and her loving sister took Marissa off her hands so she could get some rest. I am blessed with two daughters that truly love each other, and like being with one and other.

Kristi and I went down town to the fabled water fight put on by the local volunteer fire department. These guys stand about fifty feet apart and blast each other with water hoses coming from the pumper. Then the last part of the fight is to hose down the crowd. A lot of people show up to watch the event in bathing suits, everyone knows what is going to happen. What I get a kick out of is people who run into long lost friends or acquaintances stand in the enveloping water shower talking as if nothing were going on yet they are getting dripping wet. I don't know what draws me to the event, but I get a kick out of it.

As Terry and I settled into bed that night I closed my eyes and was serenaded by the whump, thump of the fireworks down on the bay. They echo through the hills surrounding the town and provide a fitting end to a nostalgic day.

Thursday the kids were in from Grandma's about 2:30 PM and we packed up a picnic basket and were off to Miner's Beach. Miner's Beach is a beach somewhat isolated, hidden by Miner's Castle along the beginning of the Pictured Rocks it doesn't get a lot of traffic. Yet it is a sugar sand beach as fine as any beach in the world. Lake Superior has washed the shore for thousands of years grinding the limestone into a fine sand and packing it firm. Erosion is not much of a problem for this beach. It was a gorgeous day, low 80's. If there was a breeze it was from the north so the black flies and mosquitoes were laid low. Terry or I didn't even put on any mosquito dope.

I brought a bathing suit and went swimming in the LAKE! It was cold, yet it is one of the most refreshing events I have ever participated in. Jenny, Marissa, and Kristi all waded a little bit. Terry stuck her toe in the lake and pronounced in unfit for swimming, too cold. I swam for about half and hour. I found some rocks worn smooth by the wave action and tossed back into the water by those persons trying to skip a stone across the surface of the water. Some of those stone now grace our coffee table in a wooden bowl made by Terry when she was in high school and had to take a manual arts class.

The picnic area just above the beach offered a prime view of the lake and beach. It consisted of a picnic table, a grill and a superb view looking through the pines. I love Lake Superior, I felt baptized by my swim, if any lake could be; this is certainly God's lake. We spent the afternoon roasting old fashioned hot dogs over the open fire, eating chips, and drinking tea, soda, beer and NA beer. We were quiet at times looking at the scenery and taking in the exquisite view of the beach and the Pictured Rocks. We picked up and left about 7:30, weary from the sun and air, full of food that probably isn't good for you but you wouldn't trade for a tenderloin because it was eaten in the fresh air of Lake Superior. Memories were made, memories were spoken of, and stories told. It was a great day.

A Friday night grilled fresh Whitefish dinner prepared by Carol and Chap made the send off on Saturday bittersweet. It was good to be going home, but the weather had been excellent, the company outstanding and the togetherness strong enough to make one want more. It is a memory I shall dwell on over the winter, and talk about with Terry and my kids, and I am sure it will always bring a feeling of well being and love to mind.

The last door Terry and I shut on our trip was a stop a Seguin's Cheese in Marinette, WI. It has been a haunt of mine since it opened 40 years ago. I have bought many pairs of moccasins at their outlet and many pounds of cheese curds and string cheese. Right next door was a state highway rest area. Years ago when my daughters were little girls my first wife and I had stopped with them to take a break, enjoy the cheese and crackers we'd purchased at Seguin's and begin our trip back to Racine, WI. The rest area then had a hill and at the bottom a little covered area with benches and a old fashioned water pump. The kids always liked pumping water from the pump and climbing the small hill. I took two pictures there of those girls laughing, the sun shining on the ground and their eyes sparkling with fun that to this day I can recall in vivid detail. The rest area has been modified, but the remnants of the hill remain and the little covered shelter is still there with the benches and a concrete patch over where the pump was located. Terry and I sat there, I thought of those days when daughters were young. Now I am growing old and was blessed to have time with those wonderful children again this summer. There is and ache in the heart, but it isn't bad, and I will carry that picture of my two delightful children, full of fun and innocence running down a hill near a water pump until the day I pass from this earth.

As Terry and I pulled away beginning our terrible, long trip back to Arkansas I pulled the door shut on that vacation, what we were going to undertake now was not part of the enjoyment of the week. Nothing bad can intrude on that fine time my beloved wife Terry, Kristi, Jenny and grandaughter Marissa had just spent together.

An Old Extended Family

Visiting on the phone with my sister Carol brought back a memory I had forgotten. A lady in our home town, Lillian Revord, recently turned 100. There was a reception at the Methodist church in Munising in her honor. My sister attended and met several members of that family that brought back this memory. Lillian is the mother and mother-in-law of the characters in this writing.

When I was 8 we moved from 802 W. Superior St. to 820 W. Superior St. Just a few houses, but we moved from a house my mom and dad were renting to an upstairs apartment. A young couple, Bill and Dolly Revord recently purchased the home and were renting out the upstairs to help offset the expenses of having the house. We lived in this apartment from 1952 until 1961.

I do not remember the year, but Bill and Dolly suffered a catastrophe. Dolly was diagnosed with Tuberculosis (TB). This was a much feared disease and we were tested every year at school for TB. It meant you were isolated and spent quite a bit of time in a sanatorium. I forget the name of the one in the Upper Peninsula, but Dolly was confined there for a year. Bill and Dolly had three young children at the time, Jackie, Iris and Sheila were there names, a son Billy was added, but I think Dolly was home when Billy was born. The tragedy was that it turned out Dolly did not have TB, it was a missed diagnosis.

Why Dolly was confined Bill had the role of raising the small girls. Jackie was about two years younger than I so these were kids probably ranging in age from 4 to 10? My mother became their surrogate mom. Every day my mother would go downstairs and get breakfast for Bill and the kids. Bill worked for the power company, which meant his day started early. Mother saw the girls off to school, made lunch and dinner for them and baby sat when Bill would go to Marquette to visit Dolly.

I had a case of jealousy. My mother was supposed to pay attention to me, yet she doted on those kids. I voiced my troubles once and a while, mother was patient with her youngest son and pointed out that I was old enough to take care many of my needs and they were just little kids. It still did not diminish my feelings, but I wasn't consumed by those feelings either, it just irritated me from time to time.

I am sure my folks got a break in the rent, or something for all that mom did. She really took care of two households for about a year. Bill was a good man, he cleaned his home, he took over care on weekends, and in general was a positive person in the kid's lives. There came a time about 1960 where their family was just too big, I was a junior in high school which meant that Jackie was entering high school, they needed space. So we had to move, but still I spent nine wonderful years in that apartment and a total of 16 years in that great neighborhood.

In a few later years Bill apparently had a stroke and passed away leaving a young family. It was a real sad time, he was a good provider, a good husband and a good father. Dolly picked up and raised her family and they went on. Jackie later married a classmate of hers, the young Ruhmor kid. Jackie ended up contracting cancer and passed away in her thirties. Dolly worked jobs for many years in Munising and I saw her quite often when I came back home for vacation or visits. I remember one time years ago when I saw Dolly in Munising she pulled out pictures of the kids. They were all grown and her nest was empty, but her heart was full.

The girls were gorgeous, young Bill was the spitting image of his dad. Dolly never missed a time to tell me how much she loved my mom and dad. The end of this little essay is that when Carol attended Lillian Revord's reception at the Methodist church two of Dolly's kids were there. Carol talked with Iris who now lives in Greendale, WI a suburb of Milwaukee, she also met Billy. Carol new of them, however had never met them as adults. Both kids remember my mom and dad, and even asked of my whereabouts. What really hit home with both Carol and I was their mutual love of my mother. Iris recalled the devotion mom had to taking care of those kids, making breakfast, and Iris especially talked about the wonderful "twice baked" potatoes mom would make. Her point was all the work it takes to make those dishes didn't deter mom from making delicious meals for the family. Billy didn't have such deep memories, except he definitely remembered mom's care.

I had forgotten about that period in my life. It wasn't a low point, just an event that slipped away. However it is an example of the love and care both my parents exhibited for their neighbors and others.

Da Forty Julie

My father always played with words. Dad and his brothers were accomplished in the art of uttering spoonerisms. An innocuous little phrase like, "My warts are numb" turns out to be "My nuts are warm." I have some of that play on words, making words sound differently. The title of my little essay is one of the examples, I am really talking about The Fourth of July.

I try to maintain a group email to all of the clan on the Floria side. Recently I wrote a brief paragraph or two about what the Fourth of July meant to me. This is a little longer.

When I was a youngster the Fourth was the number two holiday in my mind behind Christmas. Each holiday had its attributes that I enjoyed, but the Fourth was the most fun holiday. My little home town of Munising, MI sits nestled below some towering hills on the shore of Lake Superior. Munising is fronted by an island called Grand Island that sits 2.5 miles north of the dock in Bay Shore Park. The bay is also approximately 2.5 miles wide, it isn't square, but there are two channels one opening into Lake Superior in a westerly direction, the other opening into Lake Superior to the north.

One of the sounds I enjoyed during the summer months was a good old thunderstorm. If the storm came in from the northwest the thunder would roll into the bay, hit the hills and resonate with a deep tummy tickling rumble. I always liked that sound, it was a primitive sound and one that I took comfort in knowing had been around for probably 2.5 billion years.

The American Legion Post in Munsing always fired a fireworks cannon shell off at 6:00 AM the morning of the Fourth. Often it woke me up. I would roll over in bed, stretch an contemplate the day before me as one looks over a menu filled with tasty items for you to enjoy.

A parade kicked off about 9:00 AM. The high school band had about 70 members and sounded good, at least to me. There was a city band at the time, while they only had twenty to thirty members, being mature musicians they sounded good, real good. Many times there would be a band from towns nearby or once we even had a Black Watch Drum and Pipe Band from somewhere in Canada. The floats weren't much, logging trucks draped with bunting and crepe paper, the First National Bank always had a float that featured Miss Alger County, if often won first prize in the commercial division. There were three places in each division, often there were only three entrants in each division, so guess what, everyone won!

Clowns rode bicycles, handed out candy, shook hands with kids and adults and many times scared the heck out of the toddlers. Local politicians marched, and so they should on the Fourth. The local fire department, all volunteer, had uniforms and marched resplendent behind a fire truck. Some of the men were pretty old. They had a little crossing routine that they would perform as they marched through the streets that always brought a smattering of applause from friends, relatives, and tourists.

The parade was fun because you knew a lot of the people in the event. Young kids with hot cars drove in the parade and pounded the accelerator to produce the loudest rumble from their mufflers possible. Noise, people and sights to fill the senses were abundant. One year a marching unit from K.I. Sawyer Air Base in Gwinn marched. The crisp uniforms, the young men, and the color guard heading the unit brought everyone to their feet, women and kids and old men put there hand over their heart, men who had served in WWII and Korea rendered the best salute they could, It was touching. I still get tears in my eyes when the colors march by and people honor them by standing and saluting or putting their hand over their heart.

After the parade, and just about an hour later the Pet Parade would come down Elm Avenue and go down to the dock. Children dressed their pets up, had wagons with crepe paper all wound around and parents shepherding them down the street trying to make sure little Johnny or Shirley didn't light out in the middle of the parade because they felt self-conscious or saw their Grandmother on the sidewalk. The Pet Parade was always led by the Clown Band made up of City Band members who would make up like clowns and lead the kids down the street. So often a little dog would get all excited and romp around, and then want to run and chase kids who weren't part of the parade but were skipping along following the parade. Some of the big dogs walked and kind of hung their heads, I often used to think they were embarrassed by the "get ups" some were dressed in. I think they were just leary of the noise and confusion.

The dock, formally knows as Bay Shore Park was one block north of the downtown area of Munising and sat right on the shore of Lake Superior. The park would be filled with booths of games, a huge fire pit barbecuing chicken and hamburgers sold by people helping fund the Fourth. Some time around noon the greased pole contest and the greased pig contest were held. The greased pole was exactly that, a pole was mounted from the dock suspended over the waters of the Lake. Now this doesn't sound too bad, but you didn't swim in Lake Superior until late July or August. The water temperature might well be in the low 60's. Young men tried to shinny up the greased pole, ring a bell at the end without falling into the water. If they did, the got a dollar. The first ten or so usually ended up in the drink, however as succeeding boys tried to shinny out the grease was rubbed off until finally one young lad would ring the bell and then the ones who had fallen in the water would attempt a second time only to fail, not realizing that their body and clothes were grease laden and often put them back into the cold waters of Lake Superior a second time.

Families held picnics down by the shore, little kids waded in the waters, even as cold as they were. Relatives visiting from other cities or states would congregate at the Lake Shore Park and often old friends were discovered or class mates and impromptu reunions took place.

About 4:30, the siren at the Fire Department sounded. It was a piercing sound, you could hear it all over Munising as the wail bounced off the surrounding hills. It announced the renewal of an old tradition, the WATER FIGHT! Two of Munising finest pumpers would be brought to Elm St., the main North/South street in downtown Munising. The trucks would unravel hose and the hose would be hooked up to the fire hydrants. Then, two teams of fire men, remember these guys are all volunteers, would suit up in the fire fighting garb and man the hoses. There are always two men on a hose and one commander along side to direct their efforts. After checking the hoses and operating them so the crowd got a little wet the two teams would step back from the hoses and assume a "get ready" position. Upon the signal from the chief they would run to their respective hoses and turn them on, Then, from a distance of maybe fifty feet blasted the hell out of each other. The men on the hose were usually so inundated they could not see so they had to look to the side to their commander for signals on which way to point the hose, or they would have to try and head of a team as they stepped out of the spray and tried to sneak up on the opposition. Sometimes helmets when flying, glasses when flying. Once and a while a man would lose his balance and slide down the road from the force of the water from other team while the other man tried to corral the high pressure hose by himself. Finally, by whatever rules that I certainly did not understand one team was declared the winner of the round. Then the teams would take a break, reset the hoses, line them up and take a breather. After a few minutes it was back to the "at ready" position and away they went again. Usually the water fights lasted about half and hour. I think that is about all the pounding a man could take. At the end both teams ganged up on the chief and tried to flush him down the road. It was all in good fun, and I was always so impressed by the bravery these mean exhibited just for entertainment.

The evening began to settle in town. People still stood in the middle of the road talking with old friends while cars drove by. Some who had camps in the surrounding lakes regions headed back to camp to cook dinner and enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods after a day of hectic, noisy fun. Night came late this time of year. The longest day of the year was only about thirteen days past. So often the sun was not down and dark in place until 10:30 = 11:00 PM. Then the fireworks. They were, and still are launched from the dock sticking out into the bay at Bay Shore Park. The people who are going to watch start assembling, often about 7:00 PM to get a good vantage point. I loved the fireworks. I am sure they aren't much to those aficionados of fireworks, but they are ours. The cannon shells still reverberate in a special way through the hills surrounding our lovely little town. The sparkling lights flashing off the dark waters of Lake Superior add a visual dimension lost in large cities, or where fireworks are launched over a golf course. In 1976 my family and I were treated to being on the waters of the bay in my father-in-law's eighteen foot craft. The sound and sights were unbelievable. Every year the bay comes alive at night with small water craft assembling near the dock to listen and watch the show.

Thus, the Fourth of July, or da forty julie, ended for me. Even as a young child of 8 or 9 I tended to be on my own. That is the advantage of the year and the place a small town offers families. Assurance that people will watch out for your kids. I was often gone from the house in the morning for the parade, eat lunch with my mom and dad at the dock at noon, then to the nearest activity to watch that. Finally, when the fire works approached I reunited with mom and dad, we went to the park, sat on a blanket and I was tired. My father smoked these big R.G. Dun Panatellas at the time, and he would sit there with his head wreathed in smoke, talking with those he knew passing by. I would cuddle up next to my mom as often the evenings would get a little chilly, even though it was da forty julie. I came alive when the fireworks started, and then dad would light my sparklers and I would write my name in the air, wave them around, light another sparkler from the one that was about spent and then throw the dying sparkler into the air wishing I had some real firecrackers like the big kids did. When the fire works were over, the crowd struggle en mass to their cars, often parked downtown, and headed home. Another set of memories, another day of celebration, and there was always the day after when the rest of my neighborhood playmates and I would gather and talk about what we did on the Fourth.

The celebrations I'm referring to here took place in the fifties and early sixties. You know what though, they still go on today. The parade isn't as classy, the high school band is down to maybe twenty-five members, they don't even march in step, and there are no majorettes, but it doesn't matter. You see, it is our, no it is my forty julie! God Bless the U.S.A. and thanks to those who served, and blessing to those who gave it all. It is still a pretty good old country.

A Place in Time

Seguin's of Marinette, Wisconsin holds a special place in my heart. It is a small gift shop, liquor store and specializes in cheeses and various condiments. It is located just south of Marinette on US Highway 41. They have been in business since the late 60's and have been a favorite stopping point for our family for all of its years of operation.

Before my first wife and I had children it was a place to stop and pick up some locally made Wisconsin cheese, and crackers. Seguin's is located right next to a small rest area with bathrooms and picnic tables.

A few years later when we traveled north with our young children, Kristi and Jenny, we stopped on the way up, and back to pick up cheese, snacks, and stop at the rest area. The rest area has been re-landscaped and does not look like the old rest area. It still has bathrooms and picnic tables, but it doesn't have the same feel it used to. Years ago the rest area was filled with large trees, a small slope you could climb to the back of the area and a big old hand operated water pump for water. Our children's favorite activity when we stopped at Sequin's for our cheese and snacks was to pump water for each other and just wear off some excess energy not worn off in the car.

To this day I can close my eyes and see one of my most favorite pictures of all time. The kids were dressed for travel, we had stopped at Seguin's picked up some cheese and had gone across the parking lot to the rest area. It was sunny and the light was coming from almost overhead. The result was a sun dappled rest area with shadows interrupted by spotlights playing across the grassy area. The children had gone to the top of the slope exploring the rest area as they always had. I had my camera out and was piddling around with it while my wife set up our simple fare of cheese, crackers and drinks. The kids were called to the table, they both began to run down the slope, and soon gravity aided their stride. They ran down the slope with complete abandon. Those are the pictures I caught, the two children running down the slope, eyes sparkling and flashing with pure pleasure written across their face. Innocence and fun and excitement explode from their features. It is a scene I think of often, certainly every time I pass Seguin's.

Now my wife Terry and I stop there. She enjoys the gift shop and we almost always buy some cheese curds and string cheese to snack on in the car as we head back to Arkansas. I have bought Minnetonka moccasins there, still do. I know it is a gift shop, but I have priced Minnetonka moccasins in other retail establishments and on line and the price is about the same. So, why not trade at a place that has brought so much pleasure to our family over the years. My children often stop at Seguin's on their travels to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and they faithfully report it still has the same small business charm it had when they were young.

Oh yeah, the fresh cheese curds still squeak between your teeth.

A Family Cheer?

My youngest daughter checks out my blog from time to time. I've been trying to record bits and pieces of family stories and history on this site. I am the youngest of the children born of Earl & Rebecca Floria, Vernon and Margeret Floria and Cecil and Lucille Floria. I am 62. In a time frame yet to be determined that unique threesome of Vern, Earl and Cecil's direct descendants shall be gone. With the passing of my generation a loss of wit, wisdom and history will disappear.
I do not have the energy or the will to write a history of the Burt and Nettie Floria progeny, but I do think that they represent times that are important and in some ways unique to our history. So I am attempting to write stories and pieces of history as I recall them.

One of the things that has fascinated me for years was the use of language by the three boys. They grew up in rough times, little in the way of toys, and of course in the early 1900's there was no TV, Radio, Movies, or entertainment open to their life style. So their imaginations had to fire up and provide them with what entertainment could be gleaned in a logging community on the shore of Lake Superior.

Some where, my Dad made up a saying, I call it a cheer that has always amused the family, but no one in the younger generation has taken up to pass on. The "cheer" is nonsensical, it is words put together, yet it could be recited by my father, Vern at the drop of a hat. I've learned it, and have attempted to pass it on but no other member of my family has picked up this little piece of verbal memorabilia. So here it is in all its insignificant, nonsensical glory.

Ra bic a bing, bic a bing bang bowow
Yip skiddley ay there, git there stay there.
Amen my brother Ben, killed a duck and goosed a hen.
Verily, Verily I say unto thee, so Mote it be.

The end comes from the Masons, but the rest is pure dad. I find it amusing to sit and picture the old man sitting down and with a serious face and a deep bass voice roll out the "cheer."

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.