What is it with firefighters and fire, anyway? In comments to yesterday's post, you will find referenced the Australian rampaging fires of just a short while back, and the fact that at least some of them had been deliberately set by a former volunteer firefighter.
Those comments got me to thinking back and I remembered another occasion where a volunteer firefighter had deliberately set fires. Why? There wasn't enough fire-fighting business to suit him that he had to create more? Did he have a personal grudge against Mickey Gilley?
Yes, you read the name correctly. It was Gilley's, of Urban Cowboy fame, that was 'torched' in the late 1980's. Although Wiki has a pretty good writeup about Gilley's, it only mentions one arson fire. As I recall, there were two, but it was only after the second one that the culprit was discovered and apprehended!
And then I got to thinking about other strange incidents. Wasn't there one within the past very few years - in Colorado, I think - where it was discovered that a forest ranger had deliberately set a fire that got out of control? A woman, as I recall. Anyone remember that one? It was a shocker!
Fires hold kind of a morbid fascination for us all, in one way or another, don't they? In the little town of Munising, Michigan, where I grew up, there was a Beach Inn - at least, I think that was its name! ... a grand-looking* (from my memory banks) 3*** or 5***** hotel - whatever the highest rating was at the time - that sat perhaps 200' back from the Munising Bay waterfront. Once a week a cruise ship would come up to the dock and passengers would disembark to partake of lunch at the hotel and perhaps purchase a trinket or two.
But then, one year, the unthinkable happened. The Beach Inn caught fire and, despite the best efforts of volunteer firefighters from miles around, burned to the ground. I don't remember hearing anything about a suspected arson. There probably wasn't one. This would have been in the late 1940's or early 1950's.
I stood nearby, along with hundreds of other townspeople - tears streaming down our cheeks, staring at the blazing inferno. We were witnessing a vital part of Munising's history just disintegrating into ash-filled debris before our very eyes. The hotel was never rebuilt and cruise ships stopped coming into the bay. Sad.
Probably the most bizarre recollections I have of arson-related fires are those from the Keweenaw Peninsula, where my husband and I lived in 1959 and 1960. I've written a few posts about that area. Your best reference would be this one, which includes just a great link (click on "Portage Lake" in the second paragraph) to a map of that part of the world.
There had been a number of fires, all either arson-related or arson-suspected, within the past several years to historically-significant buildings - the latest of which had been the deliberate torching of the opera house in Calumet. (If you look at the map, you will see that Calumet is a little farther up the Keweenaw from Houghton/Hancock.)
Most people, unless they're from the far north, have heard very little and know even less about that part of our country. (I knew absolutely nothing about the Gulf Coast, for example, until I moved here in the early 1970's. But that's the way of it, isn't it?) That part of our country, known a century ago as "boom copperland", was a thriving and most noteworthy area. The opera house in Calumet was one of only three normally-scheduled stops in this country for famous singers - among them were Enrico Caruso and Jenny Lind ... the other two cities were New York and San Francisco.
And so, the torching of the opera house was just about the last straw for local citizenry. We were all up in arms! A massive investigation ensued and the culprits were discovered.
Who were they? They were kids! Twelve to fourteen years old - something like that. In order to become a member of the "gang", you had to burn down a famous or important building. Made us all sick just to think of such a possibility, but there it was and - worse yet - it was true!
*Grand-looking ... I've been looking back through hundreds of photographs, trying to find a good one of this hotel as it actually was. If/when I find one, I will amend this post and include it.
Showing posts with label Upper Peninsula. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Upper Peninsula. Show all posts
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Munising memories
Do you remember the days when all of the women wore hats?
This photo was taken at Pearl Cleven's wedding reception, probably either 1955 or 1956. She was one of my best friends when we lived in Munising.
That's me with the glasses on right in front of the bride and groom. Mom's coming up right behind me. Just click on the photo if you'd like to enlarge it.
Talk about a blast from the past! I wonder where she is now?
I've got my scanner back, obviously, and have been practicing like mad. Look for more stuff like this in posts to come.
This photo was taken at Pearl Cleven's wedding reception, probably either 1955 or 1956. She was one of my best friends when we lived in Munising.
That's me with the glasses on right in front of the bride and groom. Mom's coming up right behind me. Just click on the photo if you'd like to enlarge it.
Talk about a blast from the past! I wonder where she is now?
I've got my scanner back, obviously, and have been practicing like mad. Look for more stuff like this in posts to come.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My best game ever!
I have always loved to bowl.
Munising, the little town of about 4,000 where I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, had a little bit of everything ... a movie theater, a department store, a pharmacy, a hardware store, a supermarket, a couple of elementary schools, a high school, several churches, a bunch* of bars, and yes, a bowling alley!
[*I often heard people say back then - this would have been in the 40's and 50's, in an effort to try and encapsulate the inordinate ratio of bars to adult population in some of the smaller communities in the region, "Well, the worst are Hayward, Hurley, and 'Hell', and 'Hell' is Munising." Rather an ignominious distinction, wouldn't you agree?]
The bowling alley, as I recall, was located in the K of C hall ... four lanes at most, I would say. Every once in a while, Dad and I would go bowling there when they had open lanes. It was fun!
I don't think more than one or two people had their own ball and shoes. We rented the shoes (10 cents) and selected a ball from the rack that we could both grip and heft.
I continued my enjoyment of bowling sporadically over the years until, in the mid-60's, my husband and I moved to Ohio with our daughter.
I joined a ladies handicap league. We bowled once a week, and I really liked it. I bought my own ball (16#) and shoes. (Still have them, by the way!) I was encouraged to buy that heavy a ball by my mother-in-law, Mary, who was an avid bowler. Whenever she came for a visit, the two of us would go bowling at least once.
One summer I persuaded my husband to enroll us in a couples bowling league. That was fun! We both loved being with each other in different surroundings and circumstances, and enjoyed the camaraderie and friendly competition.
This one night was just magical. I started off with a strike. Then another strike. The third frame saw nine pins go down in a big clean swoosh with the 10-pin left teetering. Everyone was stomping up and down in a collective effort to try and get it to fall over, but it managed to maintain its equilibrium - all the while wobbling, even when reset.
I am right-handed. The 10-pin can be a right-hander's nemesis. I stood my normal distance behind the foul line, focused, concentrated, took my three steps forward and released the ball between the second and third step, which ends in a sliding crouch position just before the line.
I nailed that sucker! The 4th frame was a strike, as well as the 5th. By the time the tenth frame came along, my score sheet showed all strikes except for that spare in the 3rd.
No one was talking to me about my game. No one was wanting to disturb my concentration. I mean, there were the normal high-fives of congratulation when someone made a strike or a spare and groans of understanding commiseration when attempts failed, but no one was speaking out loud about the extraordinary game I was having. (My husband told me later that it was like I was in another world the whole time.)
All right. It's the tenth frame. I'm up. I deliver what I'm pretty sure is a solid strike ball. I feel good about it. There's this very satisfying swooshing sound at the other end of all the pins simultaneously going about their separate ways except - somehow or another, the 10-pin is still left standing ... teetering and wobbling like crazy, but standing!
I couldn't believe it! Sweat broke out all over my body. I kept wiping my hands on my shirt, my pants, my towel, whatever I could find to wipe my hands on!! The whole alley (all 16 lanes) was silent. I was all by myself here. No one could help me.
I tried to focus. Tried to concentrate. Told myself, "You've done this before. It's only the 10-pin. You can do it!" (The very last thing I wanted to do in a game like this was to have an open frame.)
Finally, after what seemed to me like an eternity, I delivered the ball. Hit that lingerer dead on and struck out! And so you now have the story of my best game ever, a 257!!
Some time later, after all the screams and shouting from the alley had died down, my husband went to the men's room. While he was in there 'doing his thing', the only other person in there (who happened to be one of the pin-setters) said to him, "Can you believe it? Some broad just bowled a 257!"
Hubby responded, "Yeah! That broad was my wife!!"
Munising, the little town of about 4,000 where I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, had a little bit of everything ... a movie theater, a department store, a pharmacy, a hardware store, a supermarket, a couple of elementary schools, a high school, several churches, a bunch* of bars, and yes, a bowling alley!
[*I often heard people say back then - this would have been in the 40's and 50's, in an effort to try and encapsulate the inordinate ratio of bars to adult population in some of the smaller communities in the region, "Well, the worst are Hayward, Hurley, and 'Hell', and 'Hell' is Munising." Rather an ignominious distinction, wouldn't you agree?]
The bowling alley, as I recall, was located in the K of C hall ... four lanes at most, I would say. Every once in a while, Dad and I would go bowling there when they had open lanes. It was fun!
I don't think more than one or two people had their own ball and shoes. We rented the shoes (10 cents) and selected a ball from the rack that we could both grip and heft.
I continued my enjoyment of bowling sporadically over the years until, in the mid-60's, my husband and I moved to Ohio with our daughter.
I joined a ladies handicap league. We bowled once a week, and I really liked it. I bought my own ball (16#) and shoes. (Still have them, by the way!) I was encouraged to buy that heavy a ball by my mother-in-law, Mary, who was an avid bowler. Whenever she came for a visit, the two of us would go bowling at least once.
One summer I persuaded my husband to enroll us in a couples bowling league. That was fun! We both loved being with each other in different surroundings and circumstances, and enjoyed the camaraderie and friendly competition.
This one night was just magical. I started off with a strike. Then another strike. The third frame saw nine pins go down in a big clean swoosh with the 10-pin left teetering. Everyone was stomping up and down in a collective effort to try and get it to fall over, but it managed to maintain its equilibrium - all the while wobbling, even when reset.
I am right-handed. The 10-pin can be a right-hander's nemesis. I stood my normal distance behind the foul line, focused, concentrated, took my three steps forward and released the ball between the second and third step, which ends in a sliding crouch position just before the line.
I nailed that sucker! The 4th frame was a strike, as well as the 5th. By the time the tenth frame came along, my score sheet showed all strikes except for that spare in the 3rd.
No one was talking to me about my game. No one was wanting to disturb my concentration. I mean, there were the normal high-fives of congratulation when someone made a strike or a spare and groans of understanding commiseration when attempts failed, but no one was speaking out loud about the extraordinary game I was having. (My husband told me later that it was like I was in another world the whole time.)
All right. It's the tenth frame. I'm up. I deliver what I'm pretty sure is a solid strike ball. I feel good about it. There's this very satisfying swooshing sound at the other end of all the pins simultaneously going about their separate ways except - somehow or another, the 10-pin is still left standing ... teetering and wobbling like crazy, but standing!
I couldn't believe it! Sweat broke out all over my body. I kept wiping my hands on my shirt, my pants, my towel, whatever I could find to wipe my hands on!! The whole alley (all 16 lanes) was silent. I was all by myself here. No one could help me.
I tried to focus. Tried to concentrate. Told myself, "You've done this before. It's only the 10-pin. You can do it!" (The very last thing I wanted to do in a game like this was to have an open frame.)
Finally, after what seemed to me like an eternity, I delivered the ball. Hit that lingerer dead on and struck out! And so you now have the story of my best game ever, a 257!!
Some time later, after all the screams and shouting from the alley had died down, my husband went to the men's room. While he was in there 'doing his thing', the only other person in there (who happened to be one of the pin-setters) said to him, "Can you believe it? Some broad just bowled a 257!"
Hubby responded, "Yeah! That broad was my wife!!"
Friday, February 13, 2009
Hither and thither
While checking out favorite sites, opening e-mails, and other times just plain cruising the net, I came across a few things I thought you might either enjoy or get a pretty good-sized laugh out of. Let's start with the Astronomy Picture of the Day.
Isn't that neat? This shot of a lunar halo was captured very early last Sunday morning in France. For a detailed explanation, go here.
For all of you Maxine lovers ...
(from Jennie) A husband is someone who, after taking the trash out, gives the impression that he just cleaned the whole house.
(from Dianna, a bridge friend) I'd consider hormone replacement therapy, but I've got a bunch of other things that need to be replaced first.
The second one reminds me of something I read very recently. Supposedly, in this country, more money is spent annually on breast enhancements and Viagra than on Alzheimer's research. As a consequence, it is theorized that by the year 2040 there will be many thousands of women with big boobies and men with high expectations, but few will be able to remember what to do with either of them!
Thinking of my friends in the frozen north ...
Steven has taken to searching for the least little bit of color outdoors to help assuage his color-deprived eyes, and he's found a speck or two here and there ... in a billboard, in the base of a tree where the snow has melted away enough to provide a tiny glimpse of decaying (but still somewhat golden-hued) fall leaves. Tammy has decided to spend a few days with her girls indoors, working with color. Just the other day she included a home video of their experiment with food coloring, milk, and liquid dish soap. You can find it here. I was fascinated by it!
Then, Jennie told me of a magnificent set of photos from Michigan, several of which were from the Pictured Rocks and Munising area, where I grew up. You can spend a bunch of time savoring these for yourselves, as you so choose.
I'm going to show you two. This first one ...
shows ice on Chapel Beach. And yes, that's Lake Superior. Brrr!
This second is titled, "Winter Trail".
Rrvit! That's not a "trail", peoples, that's a road!!
What happens if you meet another vehicle coming the other direction? Well, if the 'trail' isn't wide enough at that point, one or tuther backs up until it is, and then each - very carefully, and hopefully you've remembered to attach your chains (either that, or you have four-wheel drive capabilities) - moves to the side allowing only enough room in the middle to pass by the other without leaving side mirrors dangling in the snow. Ah yes, I remember it well!
I found myself absolutely mesmerized by these photographs, and followed many other of the links provided on this site, thinking all the while that I would do a post of my own today on Munising, the Pictured Rocks, Lake Superior, the Upper Peninsula, or the Keweenaw Peninsula - all of which titillated my imaginative memory banks!
Instead, I kept digging further and further, until - all of a sudden - up popped a name that resoundingly resonated (no doubt a terrible redundancy, but I like it!). The name came with an e-mail address - albeit one that was three years old - and so I sent an inquiry, identifying myself, not really expecting to hear any sort of response (much less a positive one) back.
Long story short, I did get a response back - and yes, it was positive. It's a small world, isn't it? More later!
Isn't that neat? This shot of a lunar halo was captured very early last Sunday morning in France. For a detailed explanation, go here.
For all of you Maxine lovers ...
(from Jennie) A husband is someone who, after taking the trash out, gives the impression that he just cleaned the whole house.
(from Dianna, a bridge friend) I'd consider hormone replacement therapy, but I've got a bunch of other things that need to be replaced first.
The second one reminds me of something I read very recently. Supposedly, in this country, more money is spent annually on breast enhancements and Viagra than on Alzheimer's research. As a consequence, it is theorized that by the year 2040 there will be many thousands of women with big boobies and men with high expectations, but few will be able to remember what to do with either of them!
Thinking of my friends in the frozen north ...
Steven has taken to searching for the least little bit of color outdoors to help assuage his color-deprived eyes, and he's found a speck or two here and there ... in a billboard, in the base of a tree where the snow has melted away enough to provide a tiny glimpse of decaying (but still somewhat golden-hued) fall leaves. Tammy has decided to spend a few days with her girls indoors, working with color. Just the other day she included a home video of their experiment with food coloring, milk, and liquid dish soap. You can find it here. I was fascinated by it!
Then, Jennie told me of a magnificent set of photos from Michigan, several of which were from the Pictured Rocks and Munising area, where I grew up. You can spend a bunch of time savoring these for yourselves, as you so choose.
I'm going to show you two. This first one ...
shows ice on Chapel Beach. And yes, that's Lake Superior. Brrr!
This second is titled, "Winter Trail".
Rrvit! That's not a "trail", peoples, that's a road!!
What happens if you meet another vehicle coming the other direction? Well, if the 'trail' isn't wide enough at that point, one or tuther backs up until it is, and then each - very carefully, and hopefully you've remembered to attach your chains (either that, or you have four-wheel drive capabilities) - moves to the side allowing only enough room in the middle to pass by the other without leaving side mirrors dangling in the snow. Ah yes, I remember it well!
I found myself absolutely mesmerized by these photographs, and followed many other of the links provided on this site, thinking all the while that I would do a post of my own today on Munising, the Pictured Rocks, Lake Superior, the Upper Peninsula, or the Keweenaw Peninsula - all of which titillated my imaginative memory banks!
Instead, I kept digging further and further, until - all of a sudden - up popped a name that resoundingly resonated (no doubt a terrible redundancy, but I like it!). The name came with an e-mail address - albeit one that was three years old - and so I sent an inquiry, identifying myself, not really expecting to hear any sort of response (much less a positive one) back.
Long story short, I did get a response back - and yes, it was positive. It's a small world, isn't it? More later!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Balancing the checkbook
The very first time I ever tried to balance a checkbook would have been in February of 1959.
We were living in the Portage Lake Cabins, described pretty vividly here. Actually, this post was the middle of a five-part series that concluded with this one just a day or so later. If you didn't happen to catch any of these, you might enjoy reading them from the very beginning.
For today, tho, my focus will be on the tiny 'cabin' we had. As I said in that first linked post, we had just the two rooms. I would have been working at the kitchen table - yes, the very same one that John finally decided he'd have to crawl under to get to the bathroom! - with my first-ever checkbook balancing activities. My husband would have been sitting at a plywood-type 'desk' (shelf, actually!) that was only minimally supported in the other room, studying.
Why had I never balanced a checkbook? Well, I'd never had a checkbook whose account I had to try and balance is the immediately obvious answer, and it's the truth!
As a kid, we'd had "allowances" - Do those still even exist nowadays? - of 50 cents or so a week, I forget the exact amount, but that's probably about right. We were expected to do certain chores to 'earn' our allowance. We would have had our piggybanks, our Christmas savings accounts, our savings bonds ... ... those things I only vaguely remember. (My folks kept track of everything.)
Then, when I went away to college, there must have been some sort of student account on campus that my folks would have set up for me. I do not remember ever having any great sums of money on me at any one time, and so I must have had local access to a few dollars if/when I needed them.
ANYway, I had never had a checkbook to balance. This would have been my very first ever 'go round' with such an activity.
And so there I was, sweating like a stuck pig in the middle of a very cold winter, trying my darndest (and my best 'darndest' was feeble, to put it mildly!) to balance what was now "our" checking account.
I couldn't get it to balance! I went back to the beginning and tried again. Another time, another, and yet one more. I could not get it to balance!!
I was almost frantic with worry. Money was tight! I mean, it squeaked, it was so tight!!
Finally I called out to my husband - in the most timid way one can possibly imagine, "Honey? Does it matter if you're a 'few dollars' off?"
Big long silence.
"How many dollars off?"
I could barely whimper, "$60."
I wanted to disappear completely. We couldn't afford to be sixty cents off, much less sixty dollars!
We were living in the Portage Lake Cabins, described pretty vividly here. Actually, this post was the middle of a five-part series that concluded with this one just a day or so later. If you didn't happen to catch any of these, you might enjoy reading them from the very beginning.
For today, tho, my focus will be on the tiny 'cabin' we had. As I said in that first linked post, we had just the two rooms. I would have been working at the kitchen table - yes, the very same one that John finally decided he'd have to crawl under to get to the bathroom! - with my first-ever checkbook balancing activities. My husband would have been sitting at a plywood-type 'desk' (shelf, actually!) that was only minimally supported in the other room, studying.
Why had I never balanced a checkbook? Well, I'd never had a checkbook whose account I had to try and balance is the immediately obvious answer, and it's the truth!
As a kid, we'd had "allowances" - Do those still even exist nowadays? - of 50 cents or so a week, I forget the exact amount, but that's probably about right. We were expected to do certain chores to 'earn' our allowance. We would have had our piggybanks, our Christmas savings accounts, our savings bonds ... ... those things I only vaguely remember. (My folks kept track of everything.)
Then, when I went away to college, there must have been some sort of student account on campus that my folks would have set up for me. I do not remember ever having any great sums of money on me at any one time, and so I must have had local access to a few dollars if/when I needed them.
ANYway, I had never had a checkbook to balance. This would have been my very first ever 'go round' with such an activity.
And so there I was, sweating like a stuck pig in the middle of a very cold winter, trying my darndest (and my best 'darndest' was feeble, to put it mildly!) to balance what was now "our" checking account.
I couldn't get it to balance! I went back to the beginning and tried again. Another time, another, and yet one more. I could not get it to balance!!
I was almost frantic with worry. Money was tight! I mean, it squeaked, it was so tight!!
Finally I called out to my husband - in the most timid way one can possibly imagine, "Honey? Does it matter if you're a 'few dollars' off?"
Big long silence.
"How many dollars off?"
I could barely whimper, "$60."
I wanted to disappear completely. We couldn't afford to be sixty cents off, much less sixty dollars!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Memories of my mother ... (part nine) ...
My earliest memory of living in a house goes back to Akron, Ohio, where Dad was working as a research chemist for either Goodyear or Goodrich - can't remember which one.
We were living there when Johnny was born. Mother was terribly weak for a long time after his birth - it was all she could do to take care of the new baby, and we had a live-in nanny who taught me how to knit German-style.
I can remember Mother often rolling my hair up in rags before I went to sleep. Old sheets were used for the rags. I can still hear the sound of the worn fabric being torn into strips. And actually they were pretty comfortable to sleep on! The next day I'd be this pretty little girl with ringlets. All little girls like to look pretty!
There's an old black and white photo of me around here someplace standing outside Grandma's cabin in Wisconsin brushing my teeth. Even though it's not in color, you can see the sun shining through the trees and lighting on my hair. I'm smiling as the picture was taken, and my head is kind of leaning forward so I don't drool toothpaste all over my clothes. Oh, the things you remember!
This was during World War II. Coffee was rationed. We re-used coffee grounds until they absolutely had to be thrown away! Sugar was rationed. Lots of things that we now blithely take for granted were rationed. We saved tin foil. Remember candy bars with the tin foil inside? We'd peel it from the paper and make foil balls. Everything went to the war effort! We were living in that house when Roosevelt died. I remember how sad everyone was. Schools were let out early that day, and we all stayed very close to the radio.
We moved to Munising, Michigan when I was in the 3rd grade. When we first got there, we lived in the Nebel Apartments. We were on the second floor of a pretty ugly stucco building. Anyone remember stucco? Mother was a little upset about our living situation, but there was nothing else available at the time that either Dad or she thought would be 'acceptable'. That didn't last long, however.
A new minister was coming to town to preach at the Presbyterian Church. He was a bachelor, and the manse became available for rent. I wrote in this post about a near disaster that occurred while we were living there.
One particularly fond memory I have of living in the manse is a birthday party. My birthday is in June, which is "iffy" weather-wise up there, but this year the weather was nice enough for one of Mother's patented (They weren't 'patented', but should have been!) outdoor games. She had two old suitcases crammed full with paper bags of clothes, shoes, jewelry, and whatnot. There were two teams. The first person from each team would make a mad dash to their respective suitcase, grab a paper bag that contained an "outfit", put it (along with all of its accessories) on, and then make a mad dash back to tag the next teammate in line who would then repeat the process until each team member had 'been there and back'. It was great fun!
We didn't have to move from the manse until after Reverend Steen got married and then, some months later, discovered that he and his wife were expecting twins! This was really good news. Everyone liked Reverend Steen and his wife, and were thrilled to learn of the soon-to-be doubling of his family, except -- it meant that we would have to find another place to live.
We were living there when Johnny was born. Mother was terribly weak for a long time after his birth - it was all she could do to take care of the new baby, and we had a live-in nanny who taught me how to knit German-style.
I can remember Mother often rolling my hair up in rags before I went to sleep. Old sheets were used for the rags. I can still hear the sound of the worn fabric being torn into strips. And actually they were pretty comfortable to sleep on! The next day I'd be this pretty little girl with ringlets. All little girls like to look pretty!
There's an old black and white photo of me around here someplace standing outside Grandma's cabin in Wisconsin brushing my teeth. Even though it's not in color, you can see the sun shining through the trees and lighting on my hair. I'm smiling as the picture was taken, and my head is kind of leaning forward so I don't drool toothpaste all over my clothes. Oh, the things you remember!
This was during World War II. Coffee was rationed. We re-used coffee grounds until they absolutely had to be thrown away! Sugar was rationed. Lots of things that we now blithely take for granted were rationed. We saved tin foil. Remember candy bars with the tin foil inside? We'd peel it from the paper and make foil balls. Everything went to the war effort! We were living in that house when Roosevelt died. I remember how sad everyone was. Schools were let out early that day, and we all stayed very close to the radio.
We moved to Munising, Michigan when I was in the 3rd grade. When we first got there, we lived in the Nebel Apartments. We were on the second floor of a pretty ugly stucco building. Anyone remember stucco? Mother was a little upset about our living situation, but there was nothing else available at the time that either Dad or she thought would be 'acceptable'. That didn't last long, however.
A new minister was coming to town to preach at the Presbyterian Church. He was a bachelor, and the manse became available for rent. I wrote in this post about a near disaster that occurred while we were living there.
One particularly fond memory I have of living in the manse is a birthday party. My birthday is in June, which is "iffy" weather-wise up there, but this year the weather was nice enough for one of Mother's patented (They weren't 'patented', but should have been!) outdoor games. She had two old suitcases crammed full with paper bags of clothes, shoes, jewelry, and whatnot. There were two teams. The first person from each team would make a mad dash to their respective suitcase, grab a paper bag that contained an "outfit", put it (along with all of its accessories) on, and then make a mad dash back to tag the next teammate in line who would then repeat the process until each team member had 'been there and back'. It was great fun!
We didn't have to move from the manse until after Reverend Steen got married and then, some months later, discovered that he and his wife were expecting twins! This was really good news. Everyone liked Reverend Steen and his wife, and were thrilled to learn of the soon-to-be doubling of his family, except -- it meant that we would have to find another place to live.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Brrr!!
It's only chilly here, not really cold like it is up north. Steven now, just the other day, wrote about how it was 25 below there. He was talking about Centigrade, not Fahrenheit. Still plenty cold! Frigid, even!!
Tammy, who lives in Idaho (Steven hails from Canada, by the way), wrote yesterday about how they had received 13" of the white stuff already with more falling ... 4-5 inches expected through the night with 40-50mph winds. Folks, that's a blizzard!
Her daughter Katie shot a video of the storm yesterday afternoon, and it's posted on her site (complete with sound effects). Brrrr!!!
I remember one time, when we were living 'way up there' in the frozen north, we were scheduled to fly out of Marquette, some 40+ miles away. We called the airport to make sure our flight was still scheduled. Why? Well, there was a blizzard going on, that's why!
The person who answered said, "Oh, we'll be taking off all right. Who's this?" When we identified ourselves, he then said, "You'll have to follow the snowplow up, eh?" (That's a UP-ism, the 'eh' - pronounced as in 'weigh'. Took me over twenty years to lose that!) We replied, "Yes." "We'll hold the plane for you," he told us.
You have to understand that this was in the late 1950's, and I'm talking small town here. I mean, small town!
So anyway, we 'crawled' directly behind the plow all the way. Couldn't have made it otherwise. The wind was howling from the north - directly off of Lake Superior - and that snow was drifting, drifting, drifting almost as soon as it was plowed.
When we finally made it to the airport, we were met at the gate by snowy figures carrying snowshoes for each of us to put on. No way could a car be driven inside! I don't remember having to carry our luggage. I think some sort of travois on a toboggan-type sled must have been provided.
We got out to the plane - a guide rope was strung so that none of us strayed, our luggage was loaded, and we climbed inside. It was nice and warm in there. Toasty warm! "You're the last ones," they said, and I thought, "Good! That means we'll take off shortly. I'm ready to get out of here!!"
But we didn't take off shortly. No, we just sat there, plane engines revving, nice and toasty warm, but not moving. I thought, "Well, the pilot's just waiting for a little clear space so he can see to take off." You could hardly see your hand in front of your face, it was that bad. Seriously!
As we continued to sit there, tho, I thought, "We're going to have to go back to Munising. We won't ever be able to take off in this weather!"
Then, all of a sudden, the door to the outside opened and this somewhat indistinct figure came in - blizzard coming into the cabin with it - bearing what looked like the bottom of a cardboard box filled with open containers of 'something' with steam rising from their tops.
First delivery was to the pilots. Next we each got one - it was either coffee or hot chocolate, I don't remember which. The figure went back outside, closed the door, and we took off. They weren't waiting for a 'little clear space'. No, no, they were just waiting for their hot beverage! Rrvit!!
[I hope you'll forgive me if I've told you that story before. I was pretty sure I had, but spent a lot of time trying to look up exactly where I might have done so and couldn't find it. It's far and away my favorite blizzard story. I have a lot of snow and cold weather stories, but I'll save those for another post - or two.]
Meanwhile, back here in Houston, we've already received our first snowfall - which made national news a couple of weeks or so ago, the first one in four years.
What happened four years ago really made history. We actually had a white Christmas! Galveston, I seem to recall, received their first snowfall ever and there were many pictures taken of residents and visitors alike outside in their thongs and shorts building snowmen and having snowball fights. I kid you not here.
What's happening right now? Well, it's raining. Nothing like Houston in January (except that it's still December) for yukky weather. Cloudy, windy, and rainy. Yuk! And it's supposed to continue like this all week.
At least snow is pretty! That is, until you have to shovel it, then shovel it some more, or have to first get out of your driveway and then try and get to wherever it is you need to go ... the airport, the store, wherever. Then your idea of what's pretty changes. I know. I've 'been there done that'.
Our biggest concern is ice. This might sound really strange to you, but it's the truth. In fact, in this post, published within the past two weeks, I wrote more than just a little bit about this problem.
My most toasty warm thoughts go out to all of you who are in the midst of winter already, although - officially - I think it has barely begun. Yikes!
Tammy, who lives in Idaho (Steven hails from Canada, by the way), wrote yesterday about how they had received 13" of the white stuff already with more falling ... 4-5 inches expected through the night with 40-50mph winds. Folks, that's a blizzard!
Her daughter Katie shot a video of the storm yesterday afternoon, and it's posted on her site (complete with sound effects). Brrrr!!!
I remember one time, when we were living 'way up there' in the frozen north, we were scheduled to fly out of Marquette, some 40+ miles away. We called the airport to make sure our flight was still scheduled. Why? Well, there was a blizzard going on, that's why!
The person who answered said, "Oh, we'll be taking off all right. Who's this?" When we identified ourselves, he then said, "You'll have to follow the snowplow up, eh?" (That's a UP-ism, the 'eh' - pronounced as in 'weigh'. Took me over twenty years to lose that!) We replied, "Yes." "We'll hold the plane for you," he told us.
You have to understand that this was in the late 1950's, and I'm talking small town here. I mean, small town!
So anyway, we 'crawled' directly behind the plow all the way. Couldn't have made it otherwise. The wind was howling from the north - directly off of Lake Superior - and that snow was drifting, drifting, drifting almost as soon as it was plowed.
When we finally made it to the airport, we were met at the gate by snowy figures carrying snowshoes for each of us to put on. No way could a car be driven inside! I don't remember having to carry our luggage. I think some sort of travois on a toboggan-type sled must have been provided.
We got out to the plane - a guide rope was strung so that none of us strayed, our luggage was loaded, and we climbed inside. It was nice and warm in there. Toasty warm! "You're the last ones," they said, and I thought, "Good! That means we'll take off shortly. I'm ready to get out of here!!"
But we didn't take off shortly. No, we just sat there, plane engines revving, nice and toasty warm, but not moving. I thought, "Well, the pilot's just waiting for a little clear space so he can see to take off." You could hardly see your hand in front of your face, it was that bad. Seriously!
As we continued to sit there, tho, I thought, "We're going to have to go back to Munising. We won't ever be able to take off in this weather!"
Then, all of a sudden, the door to the outside opened and this somewhat indistinct figure came in - blizzard coming into the cabin with it - bearing what looked like the bottom of a cardboard box filled with open containers of 'something' with steam rising from their tops.
First delivery was to the pilots. Next we each got one - it was either coffee or hot chocolate, I don't remember which. The figure went back outside, closed the door, and we took off. They weren't waiting for a 'little clear space'. No, no, they were just waiting for their hot beverage! Rrvit!!
[I hope you'll forgive me if I've told you that story before. I was pretty sure I had, but spent a lot of time trying to look up exactly where I might have done so and couldn't find it. It's far and away my favorite blizzard story. I have a lot of snow and cold weather stories, but I'll save those for another post - or two.]
Meanwhile, back here in Houston, we've already received our first snowfall - which made national news a couple of weeks or so ago, the first one in four years.
What happened four years ago really made history. We actually had a white Christmas! Galveston, I seem to recall, received their first snowfall ever and there were many pictures taken of residents and visitors alike outside in their thongs and shorts building snowmen and having snowball fights. I kid you not here.
What's happening right now? Well, it's raining. Nothing like Houston in January (except that it's still December) for yukky weather. Cloudy, windy, and rainy. Yuk! And it's supposed to continue like this all week.
At least snow is pretty! That is, until you have to shovel it, then shovel it some more, or have to first get out of your driveway and then try and get to wherever it is you need to go ... the airport, the store, wherever. Then your idea of what's pretty changes. I know. I've 'been there done that'.
Our biggest concern is ice. This might sound really strange to you, but it's the truth. In fact, in this post, published within the past two weeks, I wrote more than just a little bit about this problem.
My most toasty warm thoughts go out to all of you who are in the midst of winter already, although - officially - I think it has barely begun. Yikes!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Deer season
Chuck's post of Friday, where he described his little group of hikers having to go all the way to Plan E because three other of their favorite hiking spots were "Closed for deer season" - Plan C was a breakfast stop - first made me laugh, but then I got to thinking about deer season as it was when I lived way up there on Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
This was in the 40's and 50's, long before the Mackinac Bridge finally became a reality - opening in 1957.
Hunters from the Lower Peninsula would start lining up by the hundreds for a ferry to take them across the Straits as much as two days, sometimes, before the season actually started. Waits as long as 24 hours - particularly as the season's official beginning date grew closer - were not a bit unusual, and none of them wanted to miss the first hour of opening day.
[There's a really good shot of all the cars waiting for the ribbon to be cut so they can exit on the St. Ignace - Upper Peninsula - side of the bridge. I'll see if I can find it. Here it is!]
One year when I was in high school (early 50's) our basketball team qualified to go to the next level in Michigan's state competitions. A huge caravan of cars and buses carrying practically a whole town's worth of fans (I was on one of the buses) traveled to Petoskey in high hopes. A game later, we all returned back home with our tails between our legs. Lots of jubilant singing and shouts on the way down ... sadness and silence all the way back home.
I can distinctly remember how loud, joyful, and eager we were on the first leg of our trip. I have no memory whatsoever of taking the ferry across, altho we must have! It was the only way to get across the Straits at that time.
I don't know how many of you are even vaguely familiar with the configuration of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It extends approximately 300 miles from east to west, with a great percentage of the western side directly north of and abutting Wisconsin.
[There's an old story - don't know how much truth is in it - that Michigan and Wisconsin flipped a coin to decide which state would claim the peninsula. Michigan lost the toss.]
Before the Mackinac Bridge was built, the only way for folks to travel south by car from the UP - if they didn't want to wait for a ferry to take them across the Straits - was to go through either Wisconsin or Ontario.
I remember going through Sudbury, Ontario, more than once - what a bleak area! - on our way to New York. I remember thinking, as we got on the "King's Highway" for the very first time, that this would be a really neat thing. My imagination had it all tree-lined and filled with flowering bushes and shrubs. Ha! Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was pock-marked from years of heavy truck traffic with not a whole lot of regular maintenance, apparently, and only two lanes - one each direction.
We were driving a vehicle that could be best described as 'serviceable', and every once in a while I think of a truck on this one particular trip that we always seemed to easily pass going up a hill but then - coming back down, he'd be right on our rear end, pushing us to go faster. (Think our absolute top speed was around 80mph.) This went on for miles and miles and more miles, until - finally - we were able, inch by inch, to elude the monster.
I don't want to end this post without mentioning Mackinaw Island. You'll notice, if you investigate any of these links, that the spelling differs. That's because the 'c' in Mackinac is usually silent, except for the Straits of Mackinac and Fort Michilimackinac. There doesn't seem to be any uniform spelling code. Doesn't matter, really. Whichever way you want to try and Google more information about the area, it'll come up for you.
I was fortunate enough, as a member of Munising High School's marching band, to visit Mackinaw Island many times. Mr. Howlett was our instructor then. We were always invited to the island, where we stayed at the Grand Hotel, every June. Sweet, sweet memories!
[Did you know that the Grand Hotel's swimming pool was built specifically for Esther Williams' use in a movie? It was!]
Getting back to the main subject of this post, however - "Deer season" -, I spent an hour or so yesterday going back through many of my earlier posts trying to find one where I had written about Chuck Jensen. I couldn't find it. Thought sure I had already told you this story! (?) At the risk of repeating myself and boring you to death, here it is - hopefully not 'again'.
It was the first day of deer season. We never expected Chuck to be in class that first day. He lived out from town a few miles, and his folks always allowed him to miss the first day so he could try and get his buck. He was only given the one day. Then he had to go to school.
Well, it was the first day of deer season and there Chuck was, in class. He looked kind of embarrassed to be there, and we all wanted to know what happened! Why wasn't he out hunting?
It turned out that earlier than morning, Chuck had gone out into his backyard - armed with his license, deer-hunting clothes, and gun - and guess what he saw? A 10- or 12-point buck (I forget which) right in his back yard! Chuck shot him and his folks made him go to school.
This was in the 40's and 50's, long before the Mackinac Bridge finally became a reality - opening in 1957.
Hunters from the Lower Peninsula would start lining up by the hundreds for a ferry to take them across the Straits as much as two days, sometimes, before the season actually started. Waits as long as 24 hours - particularly as the season's official beginning date grew closer - were not a bit unusual, and none of them wanted to miss the first hour of opening day.
[There's a really good shot of all the cars waiting for the ribbon to be cut so they can exit on the St. Ignace - Upper Peninsula - side of the bridge. I'll see if I can find it. Here it is!]
One year when I was in high school (early 50's) our basketball team qualified to go to the next level in Michigan's state competitions. A huge caravan of cars and buses carrying practically a whole town's worth of fans (I was on one of the buses) traveled to Petoskey in high hopes. A game later, we all returned back home with our tails between our legs. Lots of jubilant singing and shouts on the way down ... sadness and silence all the way back home.
I can distinctly remember how loud, joyful, and eager we were on the first leg of our trip. I have no memory whatsoever of taking the ferry across, altho we must have! It was the only way to get across the Straits at that time.
I don't know how many of you are even vaguely familiar with the configuration of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It extends approximately 300 miles from east to west, with a great percentage of the western side directly north of and abutting Wisconsin.
[There's an old story - don't know how much truth is in it - that Michigan and Wisconsin flipped a coin to decide which state would claim the peninsula. Michigan lost the toss.]
Before the Mackinac Bridge was built, the only way for folks to travel south by car from the UP - if they didn't want to wait for a ferry to take them across the Straits - was to go through either Wisconsin or Ontario.
I remember going through Sudbury, Ontario, more than once - what a bleak area! - on our way to New York. I remember thinking, as we got on the "King's Highway" for the very first time, that this would be a really neat thing. My imagination had it all tree-lined and filled with flowering bushes and shrubs. Ha! Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was pock-marked from years of heavy truck traffic with not a whole lot of regular maintenance, apparently, and only two lanes - one each direction.
We were driving a vehicle that could be best described as 'serviceable', and every once in a while I think of a truck on this one particular trip that we always seemed to easily pass going up a hill but then - coming back down, he'd be right on our rear end, pushing us to go faster. (Think our absolute top speed was around 80mph.) This went on for miles and miles and more miles, until - finally - we were able, inch by inch, to elude the monster.
I don't want to end this post without mentioning Mackinaw Island. You'll notice, if you investigate any of these links, that the spelling differs. That's because the 'c' in Mackinac is usually silent, except for the Straits of Mackinac and Fort Michilimackinac. There doesn't seem to be any uniform spelling code. Doesn't matter, really. Whichever way you want to try and Google more information about the area, it'll come up for you.
I was fortunate enough, as a member of Munising High School's marching band, to visit Mackinaw Island many times. Mr. Howlett was our instructor then. We were always invited to the island, where we stayed at the Grand Hotel, every June. Sweet, sweet memories!
[Did you know that the Grand Hotel's swimming pool was built specifically for Esther Williams' use in a movie? It was!]
Getting back to the main subject of this post, however - "Deer season" -, I spent an hour or so yesterday going back through many of my earlier posts trying to find one where I had written about Chuck Jensen. I couldn't find it. Thought sure I had already told you this story! (?) At the risk of repeating myself and boring you to death, here it is - hopefully not 'again'.
It was the first day of deer season. We never expected Chuck to be in class that first day. He lived out from town a few miles, and his folks always allowed him to miss the first day so he could try and get his buck. He was only given the one day. Then he had to go to school.
Well, it was the first day of deer season and there Chuck was, in class. He looked kind of embarrassed to be there, and we all wanted to know what happened! Why wasn't he out hunting?
It turned out that earlier than morning, Chuck had gone out into his backyard - armed with his license, deer-hunting clothes, and gun - and guess what he saw? A 10- or 12-point buck (I forget which) right in his back yard! Chuck shot him and his folks made him go to school.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Memories of my mother ... (part seven) ...
My mother was a fabulous cook!
Her pie crusts melted in your mouth. The roasts could be easily cut with a fork, and the accompanying vegetables -- usually potatoes, rutabaga, carrots, and onions -- were cooked to perfection. She made her own stocks and gravies, and knew just when to use them.
I never did acquire a taste for rutabaga as a child, altho I later learned to appreciate its unique flavor in pasties -- delicious meat pies prevalent in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan. I don't think I had even heard of pasties until I lived up there. Certainly Mom never made them.
Home-made jams and jellies were stored by the hundreds in a damp and cool basement. Those were the days when wax paraffin was used to help seal the contents of the jar. Do people still use that method? I can vaguely remember pouring it into the jars. Daddy liked to grow stuff. Mom liked to do things with it in the kitchen. (And then, of course, he loved to eat it!)
One of Dad's favorite crops was rhubarb, which he grew in a small plot out back. To this day it is on my list of what not to eat ... tried it once, and just didn't like it. Mom and Dad both loved it, and she made lots of rhubarb pies just for the two of them.
Peas were sometimes served at our table, but never to Dad. In order to put himself through college, he worked in a pea canning factory, and often said that he thought he would probably never eat a pea as long as he lived. (And I don't think he ever did!)
All of Mother's cakes were baked from scratch. She had one very large flour sifter and a small one in case one of us kids wanted to help. (I almost never wanted to help. I was more interested in exploring and climbing trees. Peggy was interested in rescuing bugs and critters, reading, thinking, and writing. Johnny was so much younger than we that I really don't know if he helped or not when he got to be our age. Even if we didn't want to help, however, I can definitely tell you this much ... we ALL wanted to lick the spoon!)
After I was married, I tried to get Mother to crash course teach me what I could easily have learned over many years. I was an abject student.
However, I thought I made a more than passable chili and one time, when Mom and Dad were visiting us in Houghton, I made my prized dish especially for them. I was a little worried that it wouldn't have enough salt for Dad's taste. So, every once in a while I would sneak into the kitchen to put a little more into it. Then, I'd stir and give it the old taste test. Finally, it was ready to serve.
I did. Took the first taste and knew it had way too much salt in it! I could barely finish my bowl. Dad kept asking for more. I don't know how many bowls of over-salted chili he had, but all the while he was exclaiming about how delicious it was! I didn't quite know whether or not to believe him, but he was so exuberant in his praise that it was hard not to!
Some years later, Mother confided in me that they'd had to make several 'pit stops' on the way back to Munising -- some 140 or so miles. Dad had an upset stomach for another day or two, as well.
We told this story to the best mother-in-law of all time, who then told us one about how everyone kept sneaking into the kitchen to add more salt to the turkey because her husband had always complained that it didn't have enough salt. They had to throw it out. It was inedible. (In fact, I think that's what we did with the rest of that chili!)
When Mom got really sick and was in the terminal stages of lung cancer, we were up in Munising to visit and say a last goodbye.
I was really worried about Dad. He didn't even know how to turn on a washing machine, for crying out loud! And what was going to happen to all of those wonderful-looking vegetables that he was producing in what now was a pretty good-sized patch just outside of town?
I decided that I (yes, moi, the non-cook) was going to have to teach him how to cook vegetables. I mean, there were so many and they looked so wonderful ... I just hated the thought of him not being able to enjoy some of them!
And so we had a cooking lesson. I think we started with green beans. A pan of water. Some salt (not too much!!!). Bring to boil. Simmer. Dad asked, "How can you tell when they are done?" I answered, "Spear one and bite into it." That lesson was so successful that I felt I could leave and he would not starve. At the very least he would be able to cook up some of his fantabulous-looking vegetables!
The freezer in their refrigerator was always crammed full, everything properly labeled and dated. Mom kept a lot of information in her head, but also -- particularly after it was discovered that she was terminally ill -- wrote a lot of things down ... how to reheat this (all in the days before microwave ovens), how to use that, when to throw this other away ... just tons and tons of invaluable information.
I still have a bunch of her notes on my "to do" list of things to sift through. I'm not getting any younger. Need to do that. Don't want to have to make my daughter go through it. Besides, what she'll probably do (I would, if I were she) is simply take one look at the stacks and stacks of stuff and light a fire!
Her pie crusts melted in your mouth. The roasts could be easily cut with a fork, and the accompanying vegetables -- usually potatoes, rutabaga, carrots, and onions -- were cooked to perfection. She made her own stocks and gravies, and knew just when to use them.
I never did acquire a taste for rutabaga as a child, altho I later learned to appreciate its unique flavor in pasties -- delicious meat pies prevalent in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan. I don't think I had even heard of pasties until I lived up there. Certainly Mom never made them.
Home-made jams and jellies were stored by the hundreds in a damp and cool basement. Those were the days when wax paraffin was used to help seal the contents of the jar. Do people still use that method? I can vaguely remember pouring it into the jars. Daddy liked to grow stuff. Mom liked to do things with it in the kitchen. (And then, of course, he loved to eat it!)
One of Dad's favorite crops was rhubarb, which he grew in a small plot out back. To this day it is on my list of what not to eat ... tried it once, and just didn't like it. Mom and Dad both loved it, and she made lots of rhubarb pies just for the two of them.
Peas were sometimes served at our table, but never to Dad. In order to put himself through college, he worked in a pea canning factory, and often said that he thought he would probably never eat a pea as long as he lived. (And I don't think he ever did!)
All of Mother's cakes were baked from scratch. She had one very large flour sifter and a small one in case one of us kids wanted to help. (I almost never wanted to help. I was more interested in exploring and climbing trees. Peggy was interested in rescuing bugs and critters, reading, thinking, and writing. Johnny was so much younger than we that I really don't know if he helped or not when he got to be our age. Even if we didn't want to help, however, I can definitely tell you this much ... we ALL wanted to lick the spoon!)
After I was married, I tried to get Mother to crash course teach me what I could easily have learned over many years. I was an abject student.
However, I thought I made a more than passable chili and one time, when Mom and Dad were visiting us in Houghton, I made my prized dish especially for them. I was a little worried that it wouldn't have enough salt for Dad's taste. So, every once in a while I would sneak into the kitchen to put a little more into it. Then, I'd stir and give it the old taste test. Finally, it was ready to serve.
I did. Took the first taste and knew it had way too much salt in it! I could barely finish my bowl. Dad kept asking for more. I don't know how many bowls of over-salted chili he had, but all the while he was exclaiming about how delicious it was! I didn't quite know whether or not to believe him, but he was so exuberant in his praise that it was hard not to!
Some years later, Mother confided in me that they'd had to make several 'pit stops' on the way back to Munising -- some 140 or so miles. Dad had an upset stomach for another day or two, as well.
We told this story to the best mother-in-law of all time, who then told us one about how everyone kept sneaking into the kitchen to add more salt to the turkey because her husband had always complained that it didn't have enough salt. They had to throw it out. It was inedible. (In fact, I think that's what we did with the rest of that chili!)
When Mom got really sick and was in the terminal stages of lung cancer, we were up in Munising to visit and say a last goodbye.
I was really worried about Dad. He didn't even know how to turn on a washing machine, for crying out loud! And what was going to happen to all of those wonderful-looking vegetables that he was producing in what now was a pretty good-sized patch just outside of town?
I decided that I (yes, moi, the non-cook) was going to have to teach him how to cook vegetables. I mean, there were so many and they looked so wonderful ... I just hated the thought of him not being able to enjoy some of them!
And so we had a cooking lesson. I think we started with green beans. A pan of water. Some salt (not too much!!!). Bring to boil. Simmer. Dad asked, "How can you tell when they are done?" I answered, "Spear one and bite into it." That lesson was so successful that I felt I could leave and he would not starve. At the very least he would be able to cook up some of his fantabulous-looking vegetables!
The freezer in their refrigerator was always crammed full, everything properly labeled and dated. Mom kept a lot of information in her head, but also -- particularly after it was discovered that she was terminally ill -- wrote a lot of things down ... how to reheat this (all in the days before microwave ovens), how to use that, when to throw this other away ... just tons and tons of invaluable information.
I still have a bunch of her notes on my "to do" list of things to sift through. I'm not getting any younger. Need to do that. Don't want to have to make my daughter go through it. Besides, what she'll probably do (I would, if I were she) is simply take one look at the stacks and stacks of stuff and light a fire!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Memories of my mother ... (part six) ...
Two months and three days since I published part five. Kind of hard to believe it's been that long since I have added to this series.
What prompted this post are three accidents (including one very near-miss, in Steven's case) that occurred just within the past few days to people in my immediate or blogger family. I hope that the 'cycle of 3' has now been completed.
I was reminded of a time when, upon returning from a trip to San Antonio and then down to Brownsville -- where my folks enjoyed visiting and playing bridge with friends (then retired) from many years back -- and back to Houston, my mother announced, "I was almost killed!"
That got our attention! We asked, "What happened?!?"
Well, it turns out that Mom had gone into a drugstore in San Antonio and heard about the shop being robbed two weeks prior. In that incident, someone had gotten killed.
It was her version of being 'almost killed'.
Mom had an imagination that would not quit and was prone to exaggeration at times, obviously. BUT, if you ever wanted someone to plan a children's party, you had to look no further!
My mother was a very proud person.
She had always dreamed of being a teacher, but it wasn't until after Peggy and I had both graduated from college and moved on in our lives and Johnny was in high school that Mom obtained her GED (she'd had to drop out when she was in high school to work and help support her family).
She then enrolled as an undergraduate student at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan, some 42 miles west of Munising. She commuted back and forth daily her first couple of years, taking the maximum number of courses allowed each term and even added summer schools so that she could finish in the minimum amount of time possible.
[I had been a student at NMU, as well, and it was a lot of fun for me to discover that she and I both were (or in my case, had been) students of Dr. Hilton -- English. An aside here ... I wrote to Dr. Hilton a couple of years ago, asking if he remembered us. He wrote a very nice note back. I don't think he did remember us, actually, but the note was nice!]
Upon graduation and certification, Mother obtained a position as an English teacher at Mather High School in Munising and was in 'seventh heaven'.
Dad and she, for probably the first time in their lives, had 'extra' $$, and were very much enjoying themselves. He really didn't like to travel, but Mom did, and she and Gladys (a friend of many many years) planned a lot of trips together.
A sad note. I HATE sad notes, and have thought long and hard about including this one here, but have decided to do so.
One or more students, who decided that they didn't like the way my mother was teaching -- or perhaps the discipline she was enforcing in the classroom --, thought that it would be fun to "egg" her house. Hubby and I were both there to help her try and remove the awful stuff.
To this very day I think, "How cruel!"
Life is not always happy events and memories. You have no idea how much I wish that this had not happened to my mother, who worked so hard to achieve her lifelong dreams!
What prompted this post are three accidents (including one very near-miss, in Steven's case) that occurred just within the past few days to people in my immediate or blogger family. I hope that the 'cycle of 3' has now been completed.
I was reminded of a time when, upon returning from a trip to San Antonio and then down to Brownsville -- where my folks enjoyed visiting and playing bridge with friends (then retired) from many years back -- and back to Houston, my mother announced, "I was almost killed!"
That got our attention! We asked, "What happened?!?"
Well, it turns out that Mom had gone into a drugstore in San Antonio and heard about the shop being robbed two weeks prior. In that incident, someone had gotten killed.
It was her version of being 'almost killed'.
Mom had an imagination that would not quit and was prone to exaggeration at times, obviously. BUT, if you ever wanted someone to plan a children's party, you had to look no further!
My mother was a very proud person.
She had always dreamed of being a teacher, but it wasn't until after Peggy and I had both graduated from college and moved on in our lives and Johnny was in high school that Mom obtained her GED (she'd had to drop out when she was in high school to work and help support her family).
She then enrolled as an undergraduate student at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan, some 42 miles west of Munising. She commuted back and forth daily her first couple of years, taking the maximum number of courses allowed each term and even added summer schools so that she could finish in the minimum amount of time possible.
[I had been a student at NMU, as well, and it was a lot of fun for me to discover that she and I both were (or in my case, had been) students of Dr. Hilton -- English. An aside here ... I wrote to Dr. Hilton a couple of years ago, asking if he remembered us. He wrote a very nice note back. I don't think he did remember us, actually, but the note was nice!]
Upon graduation and certification, Mother obtained a position as an English teacher at Mather High School in Munising and was in 'seventh heaven'.
Dad and she, for probably the first time in their lives, had 'extra' $$, and were very much enjoying themselves. He really didn't like to travel, but Mom did, and she and Gladys (a friend of many many years) planned a lot of trips together.
A sad note. I HATE sad notes, and have thought long and hard about including this one here, but have decided to do so.
One or more students, who decided that they didn't like the way my mother was teaching -- or perhaps the discipline she was enforcing in the classroom --, thought that it would be fun to "egg" her house. Hubby and I were both there to help her try and remove the awful stuff.
To this very day I think, "How cruel!"
Life is not always happy events and memories. You have no idea how much I wish that this had not happened to my mother, who worked so hard to achieve her lifelong dreams!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Memories of my father ... (part two) ...
Today is my father's birth date. Actually, if he were still alive, this would be the first anniversary of his 100th birthday. I thought it might be kind of fun to share some tidbits about him.
Television ...
When we got our first television set, there were only one or two stations that we could get with any sort of clarity. The rest was 'snow' and a lot of noise. If you wanted to watch another channel, you had to walk over to the set and manually turn a knob.
Remote control gadgets came out while I was in college. Daddy thought those were the best things invented since Mom's cooking. One particular feature he just loved ... the mute button! He and Mom both hated commercials, so we always knew when one was on by the silence.
He was a football nut and followed the National Football Conference's Central Division voraciously. It didn't really matter which team was playing -- Bears, Lions, Packers, or Vikings -- if it was on TV, he was watching. And, he wasn't to be disturbed.
It was in the late fall of 1958, a Saturday morning. My boyfriend drove down from Michigan Tech to pick me up in Marquette, and then we had continued on to Munising. He had something very important he wanted to ask Dad.
However, Saturday had gone by without an opportunity presenting itself, and now it was Sunday. A football game was on. He knew the 'rules', but time was running out. We had to leave in less than two hours.
He said, "Sir?" No response. A little louder, after clearing his throat, "Sir?" Dad said, "Yes?" "I have something very important I want to talk to you about." Dad said, "Wait until the half."
[Where was the rest of the family? Well, Mom was in the kitchen making not the teeniest sound, ears straining to hear every word. I was sitting at the top of the stairs, ditto with the ears. Johnny was out playing with friends, and Peggy was in Spain.]
"Wait until the half!?!" Can you believe it? So anyway, there the two of them sat, watching the game and waiting for the half. Half-time FInally came, the mute button was applied, and boyfriend asked Dad for his permission to become part of the family.
Word games ...
I'd have to say, that of all the word games played in our family (and there were a bunch!), that anagrams was the all-time favorite.
Anagrams is probably one of the forerunners of Scrabble, the game with a board that has grey and pink squares authorizing 'double' and 'triple' letter and word scores and comes with 'x' number of tiles with numbers on them that are usually placed on a convenient little holder.
Mom and Dad had a set of letter tiles to be envied, I kid you not! They kept them in a large tin box. [After they were both 'gone', I tried very hard to locate and retrieve that magnificent set of wooden tiles. They were nowhere to be found.]
Anyway, the game begins with each player (minimum of two) drawing 'x' number of tiles from the box, sight unseen. I forget how many were in that initial draw, sorry. Probably seven, altho I'm not sure.
OK. Each player now has 'x' number of tiles. Who goes first? (Daddy always let everyone else go first. He was probably going to be the eventual winner, anyway, no es verdad?) Can a word be made? It had to be of at least three letters in length. (It could be of only two letters, but those words can so easily be changed and thereby 'stolen' that I think we changed the initial word length rule to three.)
If you held a 'q', 'x', 'v', or even 'w', you endeavored to incorporate those letters into one of your words as quickly as possible. Such words are often difficult to change (and thereby 'lose').
[You could only 'steal' a word from another player by creating another word entirely. Simply adding an 's' would not work. For example, you could 'steal' the word 'are' by adding a 'c', making either 'care' or 'acre'... 'race', even. The word 'care' could be stolen by adding an 's' to 'acres', or vice versa for 'acre' and 'race'. And then, of course, any of those words could be stolen by adding another 's' to make 'caress'. How about adding a 't' to produce the word 'cater' or 'react'? Two different letters could be added at the same time in the steal, making either 'care' or 'acre' 'career', for example, 'careen', or even 'crater'. Many, many, many other examples could be used, but I hope you get the idea. You could even steal two words at once, combining them with the addition of another letter to form a third. ALWAYS, a letter had to be added and the meaning changed.]
Our games usually ended when one player had accumulated seven unchangeable words.
Silly songs ...
I scream for ice cream, we all scream for ice cream, rah, rah, rah, sis, boom, bah!
I don't think I'll forget that little ditty as long as I live! That was one of Dad's favorites.
Knock knock jokes ...
Mom always hated these, and with good reason. Two of Dad's favorites were, "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Ida." "Ida who?"
Mother's name was "Idabelle", OK?
The two possible responses to "Ida who?" that Dad used were "I da know" and "I'd -- or I've -- a bellyache."
Both responses, actually, were terribly unthinking and unkind. I really don't think that my father realized how badly he was hurting my mother's feelings when he kept repeating that joke. He was thinking only of himself and how much he loved word games, I truly believe.
Actually, my daughter is named after my mother, which caused almost no end of consternation, as you might imagine. See this post, fourth paragraph, if you would, for just a touch more detail.
Card games ...
Now THERE was something that could be played while we ate (after the invention of card holders, that is!).
Dad never wanted to stop playing a game ... ANY game! He would always say, "One more for the championship!"
ANYhoo, wherever you are now, Dad, I hope that you are playing 'One more for the championship!' Happy birth date.
Television ...
When we got our first television set, there were only one or two stations that we could get with any sort of clarity. The rest was 'snow' and a lot of noise. If you wanted to watch another channel, you had to walk over to the set and manually turn a knob.
Remote control gadgets came out while I was in college. Daddy thought those were the best things invented since Mom's cooking. One particular feature he just loved ... the mute button! He and Mom both hated commercials, so we always knew when one was on by the silence.
He was a football nut and followed the National Football Conference's Central Division voraciously. It didn't really matter which team was playing -- Bears, Lions, Packers, or Vikings -- if it was on TV, he was watching. And, he wasn't to be disturbed.
It was in the late fall of 1958, a Saturday morning. My boyfriend drove down from Michigan Tech to pick me up in Marquette, and then we had continued on to Munising. He had something very important he wanted to ask Dad.
However, Saturday had gone by without an opportunity presenting itself, and now it was Sunday. A football game was on. He knew the 'rules', but time was running out. We had to leave in less than two hours.
He said, "Sir?" No response. A little louder, after clearing his throat, "Sir?" Dad said, "Yes?" "I have something very important I want to talk to you about." Dad said, "Wait until the half."
[Where was the rest of the family? Well, Mom was in the kitchen making not the teeniest sound, ears straining to hear every word. I was sitting at the top of the stairs, ditto with the ears. Johnny was out playing with friends, and Peggy was in Spain.]
"Wait until the half!?!" Can you believe it? So anyway, there the two of them sat, watching the game and waiting for the half. Half-time FInally came, the mute button was applied, and boyfriend asked Dad for his permission to become part of the family.
Word games ...
I'd have to say, that of all the word games played in our family (and there were a bunch!), that anagrams was the all-time favorite.
Anagrams is probably one of the forerunners of Scrabble, the game with a board that has grey and pink squares authorizing 'double' and 'triple' letter and word scores and comes with 'x' number of tiles with numbers on them that are usually placed on a convenient little holder.
Mom and Dad had a set of letter tiles to be envied, I kid you not! They kept them in a large tin box. [After they were both 'gone', I tried very hard to locate and retrieve that magnificent set of wooden tiles. They were nowhere to be found.]
Anyway, the game begins with each player (minimum of two) drawing 'x' number of tiles from the box, sight unseen. I forget how many were in that initial draw, sorry. Probably seven, altho I'm not sure.
OK. Each player now has 'x' number of tiles. Who goes first? (Daddy always let everyone else go first. He was probably going to be the eventual winner, anyway, no es verdad?) Can a word be made? It had to be of at least three letters in length. (It could be of only two letters, but those words can so easily be changed and thereby 'stolen' that I think we changed the initial word length rule to three.)
If you held a 'q', 'x', 'v', or even 'w', you endeavored to incorporate those letters into one of your words as quickly as possible. Such words are often difficult to change (and thereby 'lose').
[You could only 'steal' a word from another player by creating another word entirely. Simply adding an 's' would not work. For example, you could 'steal' the word 'are' by adding a 'c', making either 'care' or 'acre'... 'race', even. The word 'care' could be stolen by adding an 's' to 'acres', or vice versa for 'acre' and 'race'. And then, of course, any of those words could be stolen by adding another 's' to make 'caress'. How about adding a 't' to produce the word 'cater' or 'react'? Two different letters could be added at the same time in the steal, making either 'care' or 'acre' 'career', for example, 'careen', or even 'crater'. Many, many, many other examples could be used, but I hope you get the idea. You could even steal two words at once, combining them with the addition of another letter to form a third. ALWAYS, a letter had to be added and the meaning changed.]
Our games usually ended when one player had accumulated seven unchangeable words.
Silly songs ...
I scream for ice cream, we all scream for ice cream, rah, rah, rah, sis, boom, bah!
I don't think I'll forget that little ditty as long as I live! That was one of Dad's favorites.
Knock knock jokes ...
Mom always hated these, and with good reason. Two of Dad's favorites were, "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Ida." "Ida who?"
Mother's name was "Idabelle", OK?
The two possible responses to "Ida who?" that Dad used were "I da know" and "I'd -- or I've -- a bellyache."
Both responses, actually, were terribly unthinking and unkind. I really don't think that my father realized how badly he was hurting my mother's feelings when he kept repeating that joke. He was thinking only of himself and how much he loved word games, I truly believe.
Actually, my daughter is named after my mother, which caused almost no end of consternation, as you might imagine. See this post, fourth paragraph, if you would, for just a touch more detail.
Card games ...
Now THERE was something that could be played while we ate (after the invention of card holders, that is!).
Dad never wanted to stop playing a game ... ANY game! He would always say, "One more for the championship!"
ANYhoo, wherever you are now, Dad, I hope that you are playing 'One more for the championship!' Happy birth date.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Close calls
I was doing some editing and proofreading a day or two ago, and came across a sentence where the author was describing his closest brush with death.
It reminded me of when I was 17 years old. I was driving my parents' car to Marquette, some 42 miles to the west. I don't recall my reason for going.
Traffic is normally very light in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I would say that it was not a bit unusual at that time to see no more than four vehicles in either direction the entire trip.
For the most part, the highway is flat and travels parallel to Lake Superior. There are a few places, however, where the road goes around curves and up and down pretty good-sized hills. Double yellow lines, indicating no passing zones, predominate in these areas.
I was coming around one of these curves, intending to continue on up a hill, when I saw a fully-loaded logging truck in my lane, passing another truck illegally and coming right at me at 60+ mph.
There was only one choice to make and a split second to actually do it. I went off of the road. It was either that or hit one or the other truck head-on. There were no nice broad shoulders in these spots, only steep embankments. Ten feet or so down the embankment was a wire fence that, supposedly, would prevent one's vehicle from continuing on downward into the ravine.
Well, the logging truck roared past me. Somehow or another, I was able to keep the car under control and not go so far as to hit the fence. I kept my foot off of the brake the whole time and concentrated, with both hands gripped tightly to the wheel, on maintaining control.
I did, got back on the road, and continued my journey. That was my closest call ever! I don't think I told my folks about it, either.
In all of my nearly eighteen years of taxicab driving, when I put 1,000 miles each week on the car and where I was witness to a lot of accidents, this one incident from 54 years ago stands out in my mind as potentially the most deadly.
You know, as soon as I make a statement like that, it seems, I think of another. Well, there was one other, and it occurred when I was driving a taxi.
I was sitting on Bellaire, heading west, stopped at a red light at Beltway 8 along with other vehicles. I was going home. Five lanes of traffic, the two farthest left for left-hand turns (I was in the 2nd from left) and three others for continuing straight.
I was first in my lane. There were vehicles behind me. There was a vehicle to my left that was first in his lane. The same to the right. Other vehicles behind them.
The light turned green. Nobody moved, which was strange enough in itself, but -- stranger still -- nobody honked, either! Another couple of seconds passed. Still no movement, no horn-honking, nothing!!
Then, going northbound on the feeder, came this huMONgous 18-wheeler just barreling through a light that had long since turned red. I don't know how fast he was actually going, but it had to have been well over 70mph!
After he had cleared the intersection, it took all of us a while to tentatively take our feet off of our collective brakes and inch ahead. I think that, if any one of us had tried to accelerate when the light initially turned green (or even a few seconds afterwards), that people would still be finding bits and pieces of body and car parts!
None of us stopped to exchange information or offer a prayer, but I swear by all that's Holy that the strong arm of God came down and saved us all that day!
It reminded me of when I was 17 years old. I was driving my parents' car to Marquette, some 42 miles to the west. I don't recall my reason for going.
Traffic is normally very light in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I would say that it was not a bit unusual at that time to see no more than four vehicles in either direction the entire trip.
For the most part, the highway is flat and travels parallel to Lake Superior. There are a few places, however, where the road goes around curves and up and down pretty good-sized hills. Double yellow lines, indicating no passing zones, predominate in these areas.
I was coming around one of these curves, intending to continue on up a hill, when I saw a fully-loaded logging truck in my lane, passing another truck illegally and coming right at me at 60+ mph.
There was only one choice to make and a split second to actually do it. I went off of the road. It was either that or hit one or the other truck head-on. There were no nice broad shoulders in these spots, only steep embankments. Ten feet or so down the embankment was a wire fence that, supposedly, would prevent one's vehicle from continuing on downward into the ravine.
Well, the logging truck roared past me. Somehow or another, I was able to keep the car under control and not go so far as to hit the fence. I kept my foot off of the brake the whole time and concentrated, with both hands gripped tightly to the wheel, on maintaining control.
I did, got back on the road, and continued my journey. That was my closest call ever! I don't think I told my folks about it, either.
In all of my nearly eighteen years of taxicab driving, when I put 1,000 miles each week on the car and where I was witness to a lot of accidents, this one incident from 54 years ago stands out in my mind as potentially the most deadly.
You know, as soon as I make a statement like that, it seems, I think of another. Well, there was one other, and it occurred when I was driving a taxi.
I was sitting on Bellaire, heading west, stopped at a red light at Beltway 8 along with other vehicles. I was going home. Five lanes of traffic, the two farthest left for left-hand turns (I was in the 2nd from left) and three others for continuing straight.
I was first in my lane. There were vehicles behind me. There was a vehicle to my left that was first in his lane. The same to the right. Other vehicles behind them.
The light turned green. Nobody moved, which was strange enough in itself, but -- stranger still -- nobody honked, either! Another couple of seconds passed. Still no movement, no horn-honking, nothing!!
Then, going northbound on the feeder, came this huMONgous 18-wheeler just barreling through a light that had long since turned red. I don't know how fast he was actually going, but it had to have been well over 70mph!
After he had cleared the intersection, it took all of us a while to tentatively take our feet off of our collective brakes and inch ahead. I think that, if any one of us had tried to accelerate when the light initially turned green (or even a few seconds afterwards), that people would still be finding bits and pieces of body and car parts!
None of us stopped to exchange information or offer a prayer, but I swear by all that's Holy that the strong arm of God came down and saved us all that day!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Portage Lake Cabins ... #2 ...
This will be the conclusion of what has turned out to be a five-part series of posts, not necessarily consecutive or with the same titles.
If you'd like to get the complete picture, I recommend that you begin with this one. From there, I go directly to "Setting up housekeeping". I was doing well until I started looking at maps of the area. Then my mind just went every which way, and the post ended up having nothing whatsoever to do with housekeeping! Those are the first two, OK?
A couple of unrelated posts got published in between the first two and the next one in the series, called "Setting up housekeeping -- really!" Now, if you had already read the first two, you might have thought after reading the first paragraph that you'd read this post before, but you would have been mistaken. This post actually does talk about setting up housekeeping and describes the 'cabins', etc.
The first three are chronological. If you think you might have accidentally skipped over the third one, you might want to give it another glance.
The fourth one was published yesterday. It's called "Portage Lake Cabins ... #1" and talks about Mabel and Harry Doyle, our very 'colorful' landlords. Today I'm going to talk about two of our neighbors, Mel and Gloria Visser, and a few of their friends.
Mel and Gloria were really friendly, and always seemed to be smiling and laughing at something or another. My husband just loved to 'make up' stories to tell Gloria. She believed almost anything he said. Her eyes would get all round and wide and she'd say, "Oh, really?"
He didn't start out fabricating events. It just sort of evolved. But then, you know, he found himself unable to resist. The stories would get more and more outlandish until even Gloria knew they couldn't possibly be true. He had a lot of fun while it lasted, tho.
Mel was in a fraternity, and some of his buddies would frequently come out and visit. They had some wild parties!
This one night, not too long after we'd moved in, we heard lots of grunting, gasping, shouting, and swearing going on directly behind our cabin. We thought, "What the devil!", and looked out. There were Mel and a few of his friends furiously trying to lift a VW 'bug' off the tracks before the train came through (scheduled in the next few minutes).
Hubby went out to help, and I went next door to ask Gloria what the devil was going on! Well, it seems as tho the driver (who, as per usual -- along with his buddies -- had been drinking) thought that Harry must have shoveled down to the front of the cabins and took the newly-shoveled 'road', marveling that Harry had been able to get that much snow cleared after the blizzard and very heavy snowfalls we'd been experiencing.
Of course, Harry had done no such thing! Upshot of this story is that they were able to get the car off the tracks and to relative safety just before the train came barreling through at 80mph.
Spring. No snow, cars all parked in front of the cabins, and another party. Hubby and I did not usually attend these parties. Well, I should correct that by saying that we often attended and usually stayed for a while, but we didn't make 'all nighters' out of it.
We were sound asleep. All had been quiet for some time. Then we heard pounding on Mel and Gloria's cabin door. Pounding, pounding, pounding!! We could hear this plaintive voice calling, "Mel, my car's in the lake!"
It was probably the same person who had driven his car onto the railroad tracks. We didn't get up to go out and help. Instead, we giggled softly and went back to sleep.
There'll be another post later on down the road on life in the Keweenaw Peninsula. I've made a bunch of notes. It'll probably be titled something like, "Baby, it's COLD outside!"
If you'd like to get the complete picture, I recommend that you begin with this one. From there, I go directly to "Setting up housekeeping". I was doing well until I started looking at maps of the area. Then my mind just went every which way, and the post ended up having nothing whatsoever to do with housekeeping! Those are the first two, OK?
A couple of unrelated posts got published in between the first two and the next one in the series, called "Setting up housekeeping -- really!" Now, if you had already read the first two, you might have thought after reading the first paragraph that you'd read this post before, but you would have been mistaken. This post actually does talk about setting up housekeeping and describes the 'cabins', etc.
The first three are chronological. If you think you might have accidentally skipped over the third one, you might want to give it another glance.
The fourth one was published yesterday. It's called "Portage Lake Cabins ... #1" and talks about Mabel and Harry Doyle, our very 'colorful' landlords. Today I'm going to talk about two of our neighbors, Mel and Gloria Visser, and a few of their friends.
Mel and Gloria were really friendly, and always seemed to be smiling and laughing at something or another. My husband just loved to 'make up' stories to tell Gloria. She believed almost anything he said. Her eyes would get all round and wide and she'd say, "Oh, really?"
He didn't start out fabricating events. It just sort of evolved. But then, you know, he found himself unable to resist. The stories would get more and more outlandish until even Gloria knew they couldn't possibly be true. He had a lot of fun while it lasted, tho.
Mel was in a fraternity, and some of his buddies would frequently come out and visit. They had some wild parties!
This one night, not too long after we'd moved in, we heard lots of grunting, gasping, shouting, and swearing going on directly behind our cabin. We thought, "What the devil!", and looked out. There were Mel and a few of his friends furiously trying to lift a VW 'bug' off the tracks before the train came through (scheduled in the next few minutes).
Hubby went out to help, and I went next door to ask Gloria what the devil was going on! Well, it seems as tho the driver (who, as per usual -- along with his buddies -- had been drinking) thought that Harry must have shoveled down to the front of the cabins and took the newly-shoveled 'road', marveling that Harry had been able to get that much snow cleared after the blizzard and very heavy snowfalls we'd been experiencing.
Of course, Harry had done no such thing! Upshot of this story is that they were able to get the car off the tracks and to relative safety just before the train came barreling through at 80mph.
Spring. No snow, cars all parked in front of the cabins, and another party. Hubby and I did not usually attend these parties. Well, I should correct that by saying that we often attended and usually stayed for a while, but we didn't make 'all nighters' out of it.
We were sound asleep. All had been quiet for some time. Then we heard pounding on Mel and Gloria's cabin door. Pounding, pounding, pounding!! We could hear this plaintive voice calling, "Mel, my car's in the lake!"
It was probably the same person who had driven his car onto the railroad tracks. We didn't get up to go out and help. Instead, we giggled softly and went back to sleep.
There'll be another post later on down the road on life in the Keweenaw Peninsula. I've made a bunch of notes. It'll probably be titled something like, "Baby, it's COLD outside!"
Monday, August 4, 2008
Portage Lake Cabins ... #1 ...
(continued from previous post)
Harry Doyle had been a shipbuilder by trade. He still had one large vessel in his garage that he was putting the finishing touches on. I'd like to say that he was in his 80's, but I don't see how he could have been and still do everything that he did. Certainly, tho, he had to have been well into his 70's!
By hand, he did all of the snow shoveling for a narrow footpath that led down to the front of the cabins from the highway. The day we first arrived was immediately following a pretty good-sized blizzard, so -- as I mentioned last post -- we had to snowshoe in. Mabel, his wife, took care of their parking lot. She towered above him by about a foot, and was an imposing figure. Both were tough as nails!
There was a 24-hour restaurant right next door to their house, and its parking lot was often full of fun-loving, hard-drinking, and very loud young people who would turn up the volume as high as it would go on their car radios and then either sing or dance and laugh the night away. The noise would sometimes drive Harry and Mabel almost crazy!
Well! This one night -- it was in the wee hours of the morning, actually -- Mabel decided that they had had enough!! She grabbed their 12-gauge shotgun and went next door in her flannel nightgown and cap, marched inside, slammed the shotgun down on the counter and announced, "This place is CLOSED!" (What do you think happened next? ... ... The 'patrons' scattered, the place closed, and Mabel and Harry got at least one good night's sleep!)
Another time, Harry decided to electrify their fence. Over the years, it seems, it had become well known that Harry and Mabel were more than a little bothered by the presence of the restaurant, and so some of the restaurant's patrons had cultivated the nasty little habit of tiptoeing over the fence and going into the Doyle's yard in the dead of night, scattering various remnants of their partying activities ... beer bottles, condoms, etc. (Keep in mind that this all occurred fifty or more years ago, OK? I hope you didn't think that this was a 'modern' trend. You didn't did you?? Tsk, tsk!)
Anyway, Harry decided to electrify their fence. I mean, seriously electrify! His intention was to keep unwanted persons out of his yard, only. He really didn't want to 'fry' anyone! And so, he went ahead and did it, posting signs everywhere along the fence.
Complaints were made, and the local law enforcement authorities made him remove it.
Mabel had a girlfriend that she liked to 'party' with. The two of them would, I understand, get seriously drunk and then see what kind of mischief they could get themselves into. (By the way, both of the following stories are true!)
This one time, Mabel and her fellow inebriate decided that it would be just a whole lot of fun to flatten out some cardboard boxes and 'sled' down Hancock hill. That part of the country, folks, is not what one by any stretch of the imagination could call 'flatlands'. No, no, no!
The problem with this idea, however, is that 'Hancock hill' is part of a State Highway! WONderful sledding, but you can't do it! At least, not without the danger of being run over!!
Another time, Mabel (all on her own) decided that it would be fun to flatten the tires of all the cars that were parked on Hancock hill. So, she made her way -- slowly but surely -- on down the hill, letting the air out of every car's tires as she went.
Sure enuf, she was caught in the act. Her punishment? Pumping up every single car's tires that she had flattened with a bicycle pump! (I kid you not.) Mabel confided in me later that she never did that again!
I do have just a few more stories to share with you from our time at Portage Lake Cabins, but those'll be in the next post, OK? Catcha later!
Harry Doyle had been a shipbuilder by trade. He still had one large vessel in his garage that he was putting the finishing touches on. I'd like to say that he was in his 80's, but I don't see how he could have been and still do everything that he did. Certainly, tho, he had to have been well into his 70's!
By hand, he did all of the snow shoveling for a narrow footpath that led down to the front of the cabins from the highway. The day we first arrived was immediately following a pretty good-sized blizzard, so -- as I mentioned last post -- we had to snowshoe in. Mabel, his wife, took care of their parking lot. She towered above him by about a foot, and was an imposing figure. Both were tough as nails!
There was a 24-hour restaurant right next door to their house, and its parking lot was often full of fun-loving, hard-drinking, and very loud young people who would turn up the volume as high as it would go on their car radios and then either sing or dance and laugh the night away. The noise would sometimes drive Harry and Mabel almost crazy!
Well! This one night -- it was in the wee hours of the morning, actually -- Mabel decided that they had had enough!! She grabbed their 12-gauge shotgun and went next door in her flannel nightgown and cap, marched inside, slammed the shotgun down on the counter and announced, "This place is CLOSED!" (What do you think happened next? ... ... The 'patrons' scattered, the place closed, and Mabel and Harry got at least one good night's sleep!)
Another time, Harry decided to electrify their fence. Over the years, it seems, it had become well known that Harry and Mabel were more than a little bothered by the presence of the restaurant, and so some of the restaurant's patrons had cultivated the nasty little habit of tiptoeing over the fence and going into the Doyle's yard in the dead of night, scattering various remnants of their partying activities ... beer bottles, condoms, etc. (Keep in mind that this all occurred fifty or more years ago, OK? I hope you didn't think that this was a 'modern' trend. You didn't did you?? Tsk, tsk!)
Anyway, Harry decided to electrify their fence. I mean, seriously electrify! His intention was to keep unwanted persons out of his yard, only. He really didn't want to 'fry' anyone! And so, he went ahead and did it, posting signs everywhere along the fence.
Complaints were made, and the local law enforcement authorities made him remove it.
Mabel had a girlfriend that she liked to 'party' with. The two of them would, I understand, get seriously drunk and then see what kind of mischief they could get themselves into. (By the way, both of the following stories are true!)
This one time, Mabel and her fellow inebriate decided that it would be just a whole lot of fun to flatten out some cardboard boxes and 'sled' down Hancock hill. That part of the country, folks, is not what one by any stretch of the imagination could call 'flatlands'. No, no, no!
The problem with this idea, however, is that 'Hancock hill' is part of a State Highway! WONderful sledding, but you can't do it! At least, not without the danger of being run over!!
Another time, Mabel (all on her own) decided that it would be fun to flatten the tires of all the cars that were parked on Hancock hill. So, she made her way -- slowly but surely -- on down the hill, letting the air out of every car's tires as she went.
Sure enuf, she was caught in the act. Her punishment? Pumping up every single car's tires that she had flattened with a bicycle pump! (I kid you not.) Mabel confided in me later that she never did that again!
I do have just a few more stories to share with you from our time at Portage Lake Cabins, but those'll be in the next post, OK? Catcha later!
Setting up housekeeping -- really!
And so, anyway, there we were, on our way back towards 'da Tech' with the now 'our' car just chock full of stuff, including the wooden clothes dryer rack (altho it was not around hubby's neck*, which had been my mother's 'perfect' solution as to how we could possibly fit everything in).
We were headed to the Portage Lake 'Cabins', just east of Houghton, Michigan on Highway 41. (Be sure to scroll down a bit from the top of the page to find Portage Lake and Houghton. That humongous expanse of water all around the Keweenaw Peninsula is Lake Superior!)
I had delightfully romantic visions rolling around in my head of a quiet lake, tree leaves rustling in the wind, an occasional deer, perhaps a moose or two, and rustic cabins.
Well! The reality was that the 'cabins' (three of them) were actually reconstructed motel units. Six units in all, initially. Harry Doyle, the owner and builder, had knocked out some of the interior walls so that each 'cabin' was composed of two of the original motel units. We were in the middle cabin.
Railroad tracks were right behind the cabins, no more than 20' away, between us and the highway. Everything would rattle and shake when a train went by! The ground sloped down from the cabins to the lake, maybe eighty feet or so away. It was beautiful, just not quite what I had imagined!
[It wasn't until spring arrived, tho -- April, at least, I should think --, that I could actually see the ground. We arrived in January, had to park our car across the highway at Mabel and Harry's, and then snowshoe in. Can you imagine unloading a packed to the rooftop car on snowshoes? Harry and Mabel both helped us, so it wasn't too bad. Besides, we were young and foolish and madly in love!]
Two rooms. In the second one there was the bed and dresser, a few shelves (one larger one where hubby studied) and a shower and toilet. I don't remember much in the way of a closet. It was probably more like one of those standing rack thingees. Not much room to move around, but it was sufficient for our brand-new housekeeping needs.
The first room, now, did present a problem, particularly if we had company. I remember one time when John Scully and another of my husband's buddies were over. We'd been playing cards and having a really fun time when John announced that he had to go to the bathroom. That was a problem! There was no way he could squeeze through the very scant space between the table and stove to get into the other room. We had all already gotten up and pushed our chairs in -- all, that is, except for the fellow sitting right next to the wall, who couldn't get out --, but there still wasn't enough room! If there'd been just the two of us, we'd have had the table flush against the wall.
SO! Three engineering minds trying to work out a solution, and me trying to keep from crying I was laughing so hard! Finally John said, "I know exactly what to do," and he got down on his hands and knees and went under the table to the other room. Problem solved. That was one tiny room, I wanna tell ya.
Harry was only 4'10", or so, and everything was built to his specifications. We had to duck coming in the front door and going through any other doorways. We leaned down to reach the light switches and door knobs. We alternated washing and wiping the dishes. If one of us did both things, that person would end up with a backache from bending over to reach the sink and countertop.
We were on the waiting list for married student barracks-type housing on campus, but one would not be available until September. In the meantime, this would do. (To be continued.)
*See "Memories of my mother ... (part five) ..."
We were headed to the Portage Lake 'Cabins', just east of Houghton, Michigan on Highway 41. (Be sure to scroll down a bit from the top of the page to find Portage Lake and Houghton. That humongous expanse of water all around the Keweenaw Peninsula is Lake Superior!)
I had delightfully romantic visions rolling around in my head of a quiet lake, tree leaves rustling in the wind, an occasional deer, perhaps a moose or two, and rustic cabins.
Well! The reality was that the 'cabins' (three of them) were actually reconstructed motel units. Six units in all, initially. Harry Doyle, the owner and builder, had knocked out some of the interior walls so that each 'cabin' was composed of two of the original motel units. We were in the middle cabin.
Railroad tracks were right behind the cabins, no more than 20' away, between us and the highway. Everything would rattle and shake when a train went by! The ground sloped down from the cabins to the lake, maybe eighty feet or so away. It was beautiful, just not quite what I had imagined!
[It wasn't until spring arrived, tho -- April, at least, I should think --, that I could actually see the ground. We arrived in January, had to park our car across the highway at Mabel and Harry's, and then snowshoe in. Can you imagine unloading a packed to the rooftop car on snowshoes? Harry and Mabel both helped us, so it wasn't too bad. Besides, we were young and foolish and madly in love!]
Two rooms. In the second one there was the bed and dresser, a few shelves (one larger one where hubby studied) and a shower and toilet. I don't remember much in the way of a closet. It was probably more like one of those standing rack thingees. Not much room to move around, but it was sufficient for our brand-new housekeeping needs.
The first room, now, did present a problem, particularly if we had company. I remember one time when John Scully and another of my husband's buddies were over. We'd been playing cards and having a really fun time when John announced that he had to go to the bathroom. That was a problem! There was no way he could squeeze through the very scant space between the table and stove to get into the other room. We had all already gotten up and pushed our chairs in -- all, that is, except for the fellow sitting right next to the wall, who couldn't get out --, but there still wasn't enough room! If there'd been just the two of us, we'd have had the table flush against the wall.
SO! Three engineering minds trying to work out a solution, and me trying to keep from crying I was laughing so hard! Finally John said, "I know exactly what to do," and he got down on his hands and knees and went under the table to the other room. Problem solved. That was one tiny room, I wanna tell ya.
Harry was only 4'10", or so, and everything was built to his specifications. We had to duck coming in the front door and going through any other doorways. We leaned down to reach the light switches and door knobs. We alternated washing and wiping the dishes. If one of us did both things, that person would end up with a backache from bending over to reach the sink and countertop.
We were on the waiting list for married student barracks-type housing on campus, but one would not be available until September. In the meantime, this would do. (To be continued.)
*See "Memories of my mother ... (part five) ..."
Friday, August 1, 2008
Setting up housekeeping
And so, anyway, there we were, on our way back towards 'da Tech' (see last post) with the now 'our' car just chock full of stuff, including the wooden clothes dryer rack (altho it was not around hubby's neck, as had been my mother's 'perfect' solution to how we could possibly fit everything in).
We were headed to the Portage Lake 'Cabins', just a terrible misnomer, east of Houghton, Michigan, where da Tech was located.
I had all these imaginary visions of a quiet lake with individual log cabins (maybe? hopefully?) sequestered amongst the many trees. Perhaps a deer or two appearing when they thought we weren't looking. How romantic, I thought!
Well! Nothing could be further from the truth. (Wouldn't you know it?)
[I have just completed a several minute on-line Google search of 'Portage Lake', and it is nothing like I remember the configuration! (So what else is new?) I'm going to try and give you the current link, and then pinpoint -- as best I can -- where those 'cabins' were.
Do you see where the green and orange highway lines cross, at Houghton? All right. Now, follow the green line back to the east less than five miles, and that's where we were going. I'm going to try and get you to see a little more of the bigger picture. Hang on, OK?
Aah! Now, this is better! Be sure and scroll down from the top a bit until you find Houghton. Gives you a much clearer picture of where we were going, doesn't it?]
I have become so distracted from the original intention of this post that I have just decided to go with it! Hope that's all right with you. (?)
The Keweenaw Peninsula juts out into Lake Superior for many, many miles. The Portage River was dredged and opened out on the northern side in the late 1800's to provide a 'shortcut' around the long peninsula and indeed, sometimes even a safe haven for ships trying to navigate around Lake Superior's most violent storms.
One really fine story that I remember hearing from 'back in the day' was that of a captain who was navigating his pretty good-sized ship either up or down the canal. There's a lift bridge at Houghton -- you know, one of those where the center of the span goes straight up and down. The ship radios to the harbormaster that he/she's coming through. The harbormaster lifts the bridge. The ship goes through. The harbormaster lowers the bridge. So what's the problem?
Well! This one night, it seems that this particular ship's captain had radioed, radioed, and radioed yet once again the fact that his vessel was coming through and he needed to have the center span raised. No reply. No response. Nothing!
FInally, after realizing that he was about to hit the center span headon, the captain ordered that all anchors be lowered, thereby dragging and thus consequently severing all lines of communication between Houghton and points south and Hancock and points north.
Not that many minutes later, when officials reached the person in charge of lifting or lowering the bridge, he asked (and it was obvious that he had been awakened from an extremely sound sleep), "What ship?!?"
We were headed to the Portage Lake 'Cabins', just a terrible misnomer, east of Houghton, Michigan, where da Tech was located.
I had all these imaginary visions of a quiet lake with individual log cabins (maybe? hopefully?) sequestered amongst the many trees. Perhaps a deer or two appearing when they thought we weren't looking. How romantic, I thought!
Well! Nothing could be further from the truth. (Wouldn't you know it?)
[I have just completed a several minute on-line Google search of 'Portage Lake', and it is nothing like I remember the configuration! (So what else is new?) I'm going to try and give you the current link, and then pinpoint -- as best I can -- where those 'cabins' were.
Do you see where the green and orange highway lines cross, at Houghton? All right. Now, follow the green line back to the east less than five miles, and that's where we were going. I'm going to try and get you to see a little more of the bigger picture. Hang on, OK?
Aah! Now, this is better! Be sure and scroll down from the top a bit until you find Houghton. Gives you a much clearer picture of where we were going, doesn't it?]
I have become so distracted from the original intention of this post that I have just decided to go with it! Hope that's all right with you. (?)
The Keweenaw Peninsula juts out into Lake Superior for many, many miles. The Portage River was dredged and opened out on the northern side in the late 1800's to provide a 'shortcut' around the long peninsula and indeed, sometimes even a safe haven for ships trying to navigate around Lake Superior's most violent storms.
One really fine story that I remember hearing from 'back in the day' was that of a captain who was navigating his pretty good-sized ship either up or down the canal. There's a lift bridge at Houghton -- you know, one of those where the center of the span goes straight up and down. The ship radios to the harbormaster that he/she's coming through. The harbormaster lifts the bridge. The ship goes through. The harbormaster lowers the bridge. So what's the problem?
Well! This one night, it seems that this particular ship's captain had radioed, radioed, and radioed yet once again the fact that his vessel was coming through and he needed to have the center span raised. No reply. No response. Nothing!
FInally, after realizing that he was about to hit the center span headon, the captain ordered that all anchors be lowered, thereby dragging and thus consequently severing all lines of communication between Houghton and points south and Hancock and points north.
Not that many minutes later, when officials reached the person in charge of lifting or lowering the bridge, he asked (and it was obvious that he had been awakened from an extremely sound sleep), "What ship?!?"
Memories of my mother ... (part five) ...
I hope that you all have had a chance to read parts three and four of this series, published yesterday. As we've just moved along from July into August, these posts are no longer listed individually on the "Blog Archive". If you just scroll back briefly from here, you'll find them.
Part four, by the way, is kind of a 'downer'. Maybe you should save that one until after you read this one?
Today, I'd like to focus on my mother as an "organizer", the PIC (Person in Charge).
A couple of good stories to share with you, both of which have to do with my first husband and me. I think you'll find them amusing.
The wedding reception ...
The wedding itself was held in Marquette, Michigan, in the church where I'd spent many a reverent and happy hour during my college years.
Then, we all journeyed eastward some 42 miles to Munising, where I'd grown up and the reception was to take place.
What a great evening! A lot of my now husband's friends had made the trek from 'da Tech' in Houghton, and a very large bunch of the locals were there, as well, of course. Presents were opened, cake was served, etc. You know, all that good stuff.
We made our exit successfully. No one followed us. We didn't know it at the time, but a large group of hubby's friends had tried to follow us out and possibly harass us for who knows how far or long.
They were stopped dead in their tracks on the stairs by none other than the PIC, who asked, "And just where do you 'boys' think you're going?"
Packing the car ...
Mother had to have been the world's best car packer. I can remember countless family trips where the trunk was absolutely loaded to the gills, but still it closed neatly and effortlessly, everything boxed up 'just so'.
Well, THIS one was a challenge! Bed linens (including pillows and blankets), silverware, pots and pans, dishes, wedding gifts, niceties and necessities of every sort, younameits ... Mother was determined that all of it would fit into the car on our way back up to da Tech to set up housekeeping for the very first time.
Where we seemed to hit a brick wall was with the wooden clothes dryer rack. It just refused to fit! We tried and tried, but there was no way that we would be able to take it along, it seemed.
But then, Mother (PIC) came up with the perfect solution. If hubby would just put his head through two of the racks, it would work! (Can you believe it? I can still see that picture in my mind to this day!)
Well, guess what? Hubby refused. We DID end up taking the wooden rack, but it was only because he was finally able to take it apart!
Part four, by the way, is kind of a 'downer'. Maybe you should save that one until after you read this one?
Today, I'd like to focus on my mother as an "organizer", the PIC (Person in Charge).
A couple of good stories to share with you, both of which have to do with my first husband and me. I think you'll find them amusing.
The wedding reception ...
The wedding itself was held in Marquette, Michigan, in the church where I'd spent many a reverent and happy hour during my college years.
Then, we all journeyed eastward some 42 miles to Munising, where I'd grown up and the reception was to take place.
What a great evening! A lot of my now husband's friends had made the trek from 'da Tech' in Houghton, and a very large bunch of the locals were there, as well, of course. Presents were opened, cake was served, etc. You know, all that good stuff.
We made our exit successfully. No one followed us. We didn't know it at the time, but a large group of hubby's friends had tried to follow us out and possibly harass us for who knows how far or long.
They were stopped dead in their tracks on the stairs by none other than the PIC, who asked, "And just where do you 'boys' think you're going?"
Packing the car ...
Mother had to have been the world's best car packer. I can remember countless family trips where the trunk was absolutely loaded to the gills, but still it closed neatly and effortlessly, everything boxed up 'just so'.
Well, THIS one was a challenge! Bed linens (including pillows and blankets), silverware, pots and pans, dishes, wedding gifts, niceties and necessities of every sort, younameits ... Mother was determined that all of it would fit into the car on our way back up to da Tech to set up housekeeping for the very first time.
Where we seemed to hit a brick wall was with the wooden clothes dryer rack. It just refused to fit! We tried and tried, but there was no way that we would be able to take it along, it seemed.
But then, Mother (PIC) came up with the perfect solution. If hubby would just put his head through two of the racks, it would work! (Can you believe it? I can still see that picture in my mind to this day!)
Well, guess what? Hubby refused. We DID end up taking the wooden rack, but it was only because he was finally able to take it apart!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Selective memories
The last time I saw Ken Erickson (see "All that jazz" post) was in 1976.
I was at the hospital in Munising visiting Lavinia Meyland (next-door neighbor when I was a kid), who'd suffered a number of debilitating setbacks to her health.
Ken was there, and we had a nice visit. He took me around and introduced me to a fellow patient (Why was Ken a patient? I don't really know.) who played the spoons. Have you ever heard the spoons played? Some sort of intricate combination of palm/hand/thigh/knee slapping that is quite remarkable!
I remember Ken intently watching my facial expressions as I listened to this incredible man playing the spoons. It was an unforgettable experience. To this day, if I try and listen very hard, I can still hear the clarity of sounds as I was treated to a private concert.
[Going back just briefly to the "All that jazz" post, particularly in re the basketball star who kept 'touting his own horn', Ken confided in me later that -- if he'd only realized that the guy really could play, he'd have had him sitting in on every session!]
I was a really good sight-reader. And, I could transpose almost any composition instantly. It didn't matter what key it was in, I could do it! There was a dearth of violas, for example, in the orchestra, so the conductor assigned me to play the viola parts on my Eb alto clarinet. (The alto clarinet, by the way, sounds very similar to a viola.) Up a major fifth, and assign two more sharps -- or was it down a major/minor fifth, and take away a couple of sharps (in other words, in a different 'key')? Who cares, anyway? The point was, I could do it! (And all without needing to transcribe the sheet music.)
The required music course that caused me the most anxiety in college was that of "Composition". I was not a Beethoven, who could hear an entire symphony in his head. Not even close! I was pretty sure that I would 'fail' out of the music program completely. The professor, unbeknownst to anyone but him, gave me an "A".
Meanwhile, Ken was busily composing, arranging, and re-arranging multitudinous original works. What a talented man! He has been gone from this life for many years now, and all I really have to say is, "God, You got a good one!"
I was at the hospital in Munising visiting Lavinia Meyland (next-door neighbor when I was a kid), who'd suffered a number of debilitating setbacks to her health.
Ken was there, and we had a nice visit. He took me around and introduced me to a fellow patient (Why was Ken a patient? I don't really know.) who played the spoons. Have you ever heard the spoons played? Some sort of intricate combination of palm/hand/thigh/knee slapping that is quite remarkable!
I remember Ken intently watching my facial expressions as I listened to this incredible man playing the spoons. It was an unforgettable experience. To this day, if I try and listen very hard, I can still hear the clarity of sounds as I was treated to a private concert.
[Going back just briefly to the "All that jazz" post, particularly in re the basketball star who kept 'touting his own horn', Ken confided in me later that -- if he'd only realized that the guy really could play, he'd have had him sitting in on every session!]
I was a really good sight-reader. And, I could transpose almost any composition instantly. It didn't matter what key it was in, I could do it! There was a dearth of violas, for example, in the orchestra, so the conductor assigned me to play the viola parts on my Eb alto clarinet. (The alto clarinet, by the way, sounds very similar to a viola.) Up a major fifth, and assign two more sharps -- or was it down a major/minor fifth, and take away a couple of sharps (in other words, in a different 'key')? Who cares, anyway? The point was, I could do it! (And all without needing to transcribe the sheet music.)
The required music course that caused me the most anxiety in college was that of "Composition". I was not a Beethoven, who could hear an entire symphony in his head. Not even close! I was pretty sure that I would 'fail' out of the music program completely. The professor, unbeknownst to anyone but him, gave me an "A".
Meanwhile, Ken was busily composing, arranging, and re-arranging multitudinous original works. What a talented man! He has been gone from this life for many years now, and all I really have to say is, "God, You got a good one!"
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Fireworks ...
... will soon be lighting up the skies across the country. Some will have been intricately choreographed to music and will be remotely set off by computers that have been painstakingly programmed beforehand to enhance the visual effects and provide the ultimate in entertainment.
Such will be the case here in Houston. Hundreds of thousands will line the banks of Buffalo Bayou just west of downtown where, in the daytime hours before darkness falls, there will be concerts on the various stages that have been set up and vendors distributing goods of all sorts -- foods, beverages, glowing wrist bands, flags, etc.
The fireworks themselves have different staging areas. Some are on top of hotels and office buildings and others on the ground. It is truly a magnificent sight.
[A photograph would have been really good here. I don't have that expertise yet, I'm sorry. Normally I would not be concerned about providing a photo, but this is definitely the place for one.]
I live in a small community called Glenshannon. It's not a separate town, just the name given to a housing development approximately 20 miles southwest of downtown.
Years ago, there was only one way in or out of Glenshannon. That was via Boone Loop Road, which was only accessible from Bissonnet to the east and Boone to the west. It was basically a closed, sheltered community, and it was not unusual to see residents walking down the middle of almost any street.
On the 4th of July, there would be a group of perhaps twenty of us who would drag our lawn chairs out to the end of Bexley (maybe a block and a half from my house) in preparation for an hour or so of enjoyment watching fireworks displays from first Sharpstown Mall, then Meyerland and, finally, downtown. If we looked closely, we could see those coming from Hermann Park.
Hermann Park, a story in itself, but I'm going to focus in this post on Miller Theater, an open-air outdoor theater at the north end of the park. It is now in its 80-somethingth year. All of the programs are free. (!)
It has been some time since I attended 4th of July festivities there, but I know that they still go on. The Houston Symphony used to perform a series of at least two concerts around the 4th of July every year, and the performance that ended with fireworks always concluded with the '1812 Overture' and was accompanied by live cannonfire on the hill. That was neat!
Have all of you seen a fireworks display? Do you remember your first one?
My family was still living in Akron, Ohio, when FDR died. We didn't relocate to Munising, a small town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, until I was in the 3rd grade. I don't remember any fireworks before then, but that was in the war years. Maybe there weren't any?
Munising, just a GORgeous city located on Lake Superior approximately halfway across the Upper Peninsula (UP). Fourth of July celebrations there were really something! Bands from all over the UP would come to march in our parade. There were kiddie parades, pet parades, children's games, watermelon eating contests (natch!), fire fights ... WHOA there, now ... fire fights?
Yes, sir, fire fights. Usually scheduled for around 5 or 6pm, they would draw huMONgous crowds! As you might have ascertained by now, the people were not all there to watch firemen fighting a fire. No, no, no, they were gathered to get wet!!
You could see the hoses lining the street when you arrived. As time went on (these things never start on time), the crowd would grow more and more impatient. FInally, the two teams would appear, dressed in full regalia. Huge cheers!
The hoses were turned on and began undulating. Before each team could get to its respective nozzle and control the increasingly forceful spray, ALL of the crowd in the immediate vicinity were soaked to the skin. Raucous cheers!!
The supposed object of the game was to get one team to withdraw because they were clearly dominated by the other and could not withstand the pressure. (Double entendre intended.) The REAL object of the game was to get everyone absolutely soaked! It was not at all uncommon for each team to intentionally turn its hose on various crowd members who looked 'dry'. Great fun, just great!
The fireworks usually began after 10pm. (In that part of the country, you have to wait that long before it gets dark.)
Munising Bay is a natural harbor, sheltered by Grand Island. The dock, which at one time hosted cruise ships (when the big hotel was still there), extended out into the harbor in an "L" shape. Imagine the bottom of the L, inverted, being the farthest out from land. That is where the fireworks were, ready to be set off.
It couldn't have been more than 300' from where we all sat waiting in eager anticipation. (I watched a NOVA program a short time back where they stated that the minimum area for safety is 840'! This in case a rocket accidentally fires towards the crowd, they said.)
I distinctly remember sitting on the beach watching men run back and forth along the bottom of the L, carrying their torches and individually lighting the fireworks.
Where will you be on this 4th of July and what will you be doing? For myself, I haven't decided yet. I might just decide to stay at home and watch everything on TV ... not nearly as much fun, but certainly safer.
Such will be the case here in Houston. Hundreds of thousands will line the banks of Buffalo Bayou just west of downtown where, in the daytime hours before darkness falls, there will be concerts on the various stages that have been set up and vendors distributing goods of all sorts -- foods, beverages, glowing wrist bands, flags, etc.
The fireworks themselves have different staging areas. Some are on top of hotels and office buildings and others on the ground. It is truly a magnificent sight.
[A photograph would have been really good here. I don't have that expertise yet, I'm sorry. Normally I would not be concerned about providing a photo, but this is definitely the place for one.]
I live in a small community called Glenshannon. It's not a separate town, just the name given to a housing development approximately 20 miles southwest of downtown.
Years ago, there was only one way in or out of Glenshannon. That was via Boone Loop Road, which was only accessible from Bissonnet to the east and Boone to the west. It was basically a closed, sheltered community, and it was not unusual to see residents walking down the middle of almost any street.
On the 4th of July, there would be a group of perhaps twenty of us who would drag our lawn chairs out to the end of Bexley (maybe a block and a half from my house) in preparation for an hour or so of enjoyment watching fireworks displays from first Sharpstown Mall, then Meyerland and, finally, downtown. If we looked closely, we could see those coming from Hermann Park.
Hermann Park, a story in itself, but I'm going to focus in this post on Miller Theater, an open-air outdoor theater at the north end of the park. It is now in its 80-somethingth year. All of the programs are free. (!)
It has been some time since I attended 4th of July festivities there, but I know that they still go on. The Houston Symphony used to perform a series of at least two concerts around the 4th of July every year, and the performance that ended with fireworks always concluded with the '1812 Overture' and was accompanied by live cannonfire on the hill. That was neat!
Have all of you seen a fireworks display? Do you remember your first one?
My family was still living in Akron, Ohio, when FDR died. We didn't relocate to Munising, a small town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, until I was in the 3rd grade. I don't remember any fireworks before then, but that was in the war years. Maybe there weren't any?
Munising, just a GORgeous city located on Lake Superior approximately halfway across the Upper Peninsula (UP). Fourth of July celebrations there were really something! Bands from all over the UP would come to march in our parade. There were kiddie parades, pet parades, children's games, watermelon eating contests (natch!), fire fights ... WHOA there, now ... fire fights?
Yes, sir, fire fights. Usually scheduled for around 5 or 6pm, they would draw huMONgous crowds! As you might have ascertained by now, the people were not all there to watch firemen fighting a fire. No, no, no, they were gathered to get wet!!
You could see the hoses lining the street when you arrived. As time went on (these things never start on time), the crowd would grow more and more impatient. FInally, the two teams would appear, dressed in full regalia. Huge cheers!
The hoses were turned on and began undulating. Before each team could get to its respective nozzle and control the increasingly forceful spray, ALL of the crowd in the immediate vicinity were soaked to the skin. Raucous cheers!!
The supposed object of the game was to get one team to withdraw because they were clearly dominated by the other and could not withstand the pressure. (Double entendre intended.) The REAL object of the game was to get everyone absolutely soaked! It was not at all uncommon for each team to intentionally turn its hose on various crowd members who looked 'dry'. Great fun, just great!
The fireworks usually began after 10pm. (In that part of the country, you have to wait that long before it gets dark.)
Munising Bay is a natural harbor, sheltered by Grand Island. The dock, which at one time hosted cruise ships (when the big hotel was still there), extended out into the harbor in an "L" shape. Imagine the bottom of the L, inverted, being the farthest out from land. That is where the fireworks were, ready to be set off.
It couldn't have been more than 300' from where we all sat waiting in eager anticipation. (I watched a NOVA program a short time back where they stated that the minimum area for safety is 840'! This in case a rocket accidentally fires towards the crowd, they said.)
I distinctly remember sitting on the beach watching men run back and forth along the bottom of the L, carrying their torches and individually lighting the fireworks.
Where will you be on this 4th of July and what will you be doing? For myself, I haven't decided yet. I might just decide to stay at home and watch everything on TV ... not nearly as much fun, but certainly safer.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Seventh heaven ...
... was the epithet generally accepted for where the music department was located at Northern Michigan University in 1955.
Located on the third floor (the uppermost) of one of the original buildings on campus, it was reached only by traversing a final set of steep stairs. If there was an elevator on campus at that time, I don't remember it.
I have a lot of memories of my time there, some of which I'd like to share with you.
Marching band ...
All members of the marching band had to be on campus at least two weeks prior to the start of the school year. Two reasons: 1) To become familiar with the music; 2) To get out onto the football field and begin learning the formations for half-time shows.
[Prior to enrolling at NMU, I had attended a couple of summer 'band camps', the memories of one of which I'd like to share. We had a guest conductor (can't remember his name, which is normal for me) who was heavy on the tummy side and always sat with his rear end kind of half-anchored on a stool.
He was pleasant enough. Perhaps halfway through the camp, however, he stopped the rehearsal and told us a story.
He'd been a guest conductor at a band camp many years before, he said, and had noticed a cornet player who didn't ever seem to have the instrument at his mouth. 'Paul' (that was his first name, still don't remember his last!) thought he'd see if the kid knew anything at all, stopped the rehearsal, and -- pointing his baton at the child -- asked what 'key' the piece was in. The student immediately replied, "The key of C."
Shocked (That was the correct answer!) almost beyond words, Paul asked, "How do you know?" To which the young man replied, "Because there's nothing there."
This is kind of an 'in' joke. I apologize to those of you who know nothing whatsoever about music!]
All right. I was now a music major at NMU, and we were in rehearsal prior to the start of the semester.
About halfway through the rehearsal, in walks this pimply-faced kid. "T Ray" (the conductor) stops the band, turns around and says, "Yes?" To which the PFK asks, "Is this the marching band?" T Ray responds, "Yes, it is. Welcome! What instrument do you play?" PFK answers, "I play the piano."
Folks, I kid you not!
Well, you could have heard a feather drop on the rehearsal room floor after that answer. I mean, there was DEAD silence!
Finally, after many interminable seconds, T Ray said, "Well, if you can figure out how to carry it on your back we'll find a way to fit you in."
PFK exited in extreme mortification, all red-faced. (I mean, what could he have been thinking??)
Mike Nichols and Elaine May ...
We were a pretty tight-knit group.
I can remember many times when we would all gather around either a piano or to the latest recording of Mike Nichols and Elaine May, trying our darndest to sing off key. (That's really hard to do, by the way, when you have perfect or relative pitch, as many of us had!)
How late is 'late'? ...
I think we're all accustomed, now, to waiting in line, waiting at the doctor's/dentist's office, waiting at the grocery/hardware store to check out, waiting at the post office, waiting, waiting, waiting!
When I was an undergraduate at NMU, it was not uncommon for students to walk out of a classroom (after a reasonable period of time waiting for the professor to appear). Classes were scheduled for one hour, normally, but it was 'assumed' that they would be only 50 or so actual minutes in length. (Time had to be allowed to 'commute' between classrooms.)
You didn't want to walk out too soon, or you'd have a negative mark on your record, which could ultimately affect your grade.
There was one music professor, in particular, who was notoriously late for his classes. And, wouldn't you know, he was the head of the department.
One time, someone (wasn't I, altho I'm sure you suspected as much!) asked him, "How much time should we allow for the teacher/professor to appear before we can take it upon ourselves to 'walk out'?"
His answer? Depends on the degree ... Bachelor's, Master's, Doctorate, post-,etc. ... the higher the degree the more time must be allowed.
Located on the third floor (the uppermost) of one of the original buildings on campus, it was reached only by traversing a final set of steep stairs. If there was an elevator on campus at that time, I don't remember it.
I have a lot of memories of my time there, some of which I'd like to share with you.
Marching band ...
All members of the marching band had to be on campus at least two weeks prior to the start of the school year. Two reasons: 1) To become familiar with the music; 2) To get out onto the football field and begin learning the formations for half-time shows.
[Prior to enrolling at NMU, I had attended a couple of summer 'band camps', the memories of one of which I'd like to share. We had a guest conductor (can't remember his name, which is normal for me) who was heavy on the tummy side and always sat with his rear end kind of half-anchored on a stool.
He was pleasant enough. Perhaps halfway through the camp, however, he stopped the rehearsal and told us a story.
He'd been a guest conductor at a band camp many years before, he said, and had noticed a cornet player who didn't ever seem to have the instrument at his mouth. 'Paul' (that was his first name, still don't remember his last!) thought he'd see if the kid knew anything at all, stopped the rehearsal, and -- pointing his baton at the child -- asked what 'key' the piece was in. The student immediately replied, "The key of C."
Shocked (That was the correct answer!) almost beyond words, Paul asked, "How do you know?" To which the young man replied, "Because there's nothing there."
This is kind of an 'in' joke. I apologize to those of you who know nothing whatsoever about music!]
All right. I was now a music major at NMU, and we were in rehearsal prior to the start of the semester.
About halfway through the rehearsal, in walks this pimply-faced kid. "T Ray" (the conductor) stops the band, turns around and says, "Yes?" To which the PFK asks, "Is this the marching band?" T Ray responds, "Yes, it is. Welcome! What instrument do you play?" PFK answers, "I play the piano."
Folks, I kid you not!
Well, you could have heard a feather drop on the rehearsal room floor after that answer. I mean, there was DEAD silence!
Finally, after many interminable seconds, T Ray said, "Well, if you can figure out how to carry it on your back we'll find a way to fit you in."
PFK exited in extreme mortification, all red-faced. (I mean, what could he have been thinking??)
Mike Nichols and Elaine May ...
We were a pretty tight-knit group.
I can remember many times when we would all gather around either a piano or to the latest recording of Mike Nichols and Elaine May, trying our darndest to sing off key. (That's really hard to do, by the way, when you have perfect or relative pitch, as many of us had!)
How late is 'late'? ...
I think we're all accustomed, now, to waiting in line, waiting at the doctor's/dentist's office, waiting at the grocery/hardware store to check out, waiting at the post office, waiting, waiting, waiting!
When I was an undergraduate at NMU, it was not uncommon for students to walk out of a classroom (after a reasonable period of time waiting for the professor to appear). Classes were scheduled for one hour, normally, but it was 'assumed' that they would be only 50 or so actual minutes in length. (Time had to be allowed to 'commute' between classrooms.)
You didn't want to walk out too soon, or you'd have a negative mark on your record, which could ultimately affect your grade.
There was one music professor, in particular, who was notoriously late for his classes. And, wouldn't you know, he was the head of the department.
One time, someone (wasn't I, altho I'm sure you suspected as much!) asked him, "How much time should we allow for the teacher/professor to appear before we can take it upon ourselves to 'walk out'?"
His answer? Depends on the degree ... Bachelor's, Master's, Doctorate, post-,etc. ... the higher the degree the more time must be allowed.
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