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.