Marble weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well Crap!

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Tradition

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

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

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

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

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

Toot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Past Thanksgivings

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

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

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

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

A new outdoor friend?

My second Dad, Tom Dolaskie, was as good a friend and mentor as a man could get. I learned a lot about the out of doors from him. I also learned a lot about how to act in life, how to live your life without being arrogant, and taking an observers view of the passing of time rather than worrying about it.

His son, Tommy Jr. is not an out door person, but is a good guy. As good as they get. He also seems to exhibit a lot of his father's style.

Now comes Tommy's son, Tommy Dolaskie the IV. I think I'll call him Tommy Quad, for fourth. I knew him as a little kid. I met him once as and adult. However I have observed him on Facebook and have come to admire and like his style. I believe he probably is a little more glitzy than his Dad and his Grandfather, but he seems to have a good heart. I have proposed a remembrance fishing trip next summer up in Munising. He seems to be for it. Perhaps I will have a new out door partner that treads lightly on my consciousness the way his Grandfather did. By that I mean we talked about trying new ways of hunting or fishing, but it was done as equals and neither of us felt dependent or beholden to the other to be in the field. We always walked as equals, but we weren't he was always the better man.

Here's to the future. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to return the favor and be an example for my 2nd Dad's grandson.

Why I didn't go

My 2nd Father died a few years ago. I did not go to the funeral. I live 800 miles away. I would've had to make the drive by myself. I did not have enough time. That's all bullshit.

Tom was as much my Dad as my Dad was. My father (real) provided me with food, shelter, love and encouragement. I was not a mistreated son, I was much loved and loved in return. However my 2nd Father was also a son's dream. A true outdoors-man. A skilled hunter, a skilled fisher, and a person who lived off the land for much of their food. There was much to learn, much to experience and too much to tell in this tale.

He died quietly as he lived. He died in his pickup truck getting ready to drive up to the road to get the mail. He passed quickly, peacefully, and with his wife of over 60 years nearby. He had just come off the ice of the inland lake he lived on after spending the last few hours of his life fishing.

I didn't go to his funeral. I cried at his passing. I cried in thanks for all of the wonderful memories he allowed me to participate in. I grieved because I missed him so much.

His oldest daughter and I were married. We were high school sweethearts. I had been fishing with Tom since I was 16 years old. I hunted partridge with him. We picked mushrooms, wild leeks, cranberries, blueberries, we cut trees and roofed garages and snowmobiled on Lake Superior. I was truly his son.

I was not close with the rest of the family. His wife Glady and I talked and I loved her in a fashion but there were issues and I probably more tolerated her than felt the love of a parent. My wife's sister Kathy, I loved her. I would not call us very close, but she was a nice person and I enjoyed visiting with her. Tom's son Tom and I were friendly. We did not do too much together, but I was around when he was a little kid. When he got older and married I didn't see him too often, but he was family. The last daughter, Lou I was not close with at all. I tolerated her because she was family but I didn't care too much for her. The oldest daughter, Bonnie. We were married 23 years. I loved her, what happened to that marriage would be speculation. I am sure I bear the bulk of the blame because of my alcoholism, but there are always two stories.

When Bonnie and I divorced I am sure I broke Tom's heart. He never said. He still called me his son-in-law, but I'm sure I hurt him deeply. His son didn't hunt with him, didn't like fishing, and was not much of an outdoor person. I was, and we were together constantly.

So when Tom died I did not go to his funeral. I couldn't face the hurt I had inflicted on him and thusly the family. The kids and I were not particularly close, but they all knew how Tom felt about me and how I felt about him. Bonnie and I spent hours playing cards, visiting, putting up with Glady's incessant meddling. We both loved Tom dearly. Me, I couldn't face the family.

My daughters encouraged me to come, after all I knew a lot of the stories. Brother Tom told others that I would show up, but I didn't. I couldn't face the consequences of my actions.

A few years before Tom died I made a trek back to the U.P. to go deer hunting with him. It cost me over $100 for the deer license for three hours of being in the woods with him again. We walked in an area that had deer sign but no deer. I knew we wouldn't see any, and I think he did too. It was an exercise in being together in the woods one last time. I came out the next morning to see if he wanted to go again, he couldn't his legs would not support him and he was in a lot of pain. But he pushed himself the day before so we could be together in the snowstorm lurking about in the woods. It was the last time in the woods for he and I. I will always treasure it.

The night before the point of no return I lay awake in the middle of the night debating with myself whether or not I should get up in the morning and leave for the funeral. I tossed and turned, fretted and worried. I was a coward. All of a sudden as I lay in the bed a soft warmth crept through my body. A sense of well being and comfort came over me and I knew it would be all right if I didn't go. Call it what you may but I think Tom's love understood my dilemma and told me it was OK. A parting gift from a man I dearly loved.