Gramps Remembers - cookie making time

 Yesterday, I delivered some Xmas cookie boxes for a friend. The driving around Burlington to deliver the Xmas cookie packages brought back memories of Xmas at our house when I was growing up.
 

From Thanksgiving to Christmas was a very special time in our home. My sister and I would hope for the 1st major snowstorm of the season that would sweep in from the west, with big white fluffy flakes as big as boxcars that would pile quickly, all so that we could hear – “No School for Peshtigo Schools” announced on the local radio station. 

It was also a time when the temperature would plummet to 30 below if not more, for more than a fortnight and the river ice just outside the kitchen window would crack and echo off the limestone outcropping a mile way, much like a rifle shot in the middle of the night. 

The 3 tall Basswood trees in the yard stood as sentinels in the light of the full moon as we glimpsed neighbors’ lights off in the distance thru frosted windowpanes.

One of the memories of the season as an early teen happened in our home every night after supper as the table was cleared and we started making, shaping, and baking Christmas cookies and making fudge. Baking each night for 12 nights we created different cookies and fudge; 12 dozen to be stored in the containers – each with an apple to keep them moist. Russian Teacups, Spritz, Almond Snow Cookies, Bourbon Balls, Brown Sugar Cookies, Oatmeal Cookies, Sour Crème Cookies, Chocolate Fudge with walnuts, and many more.

 
Each night as the cookies were baked; some would be deemed worthy of bakers only and used as special treats with a large glass of ice cold milk. By the end of the twelfth night, we had accumulated a mountain of cookies and then the boxing started. In each box would be loaded with a sampler of 6 cookies of each flavor with an apple wedge added and wrapped in the festive paper of the holiday. 

 

With the wrapping and labeling now completed - the next step was to plan the route by mom. We would awake bright early the Saturday just before Christmas Eve; eat heartily to add fuel to our inner furnace, bundle up to stay warm and head out to deliver cookies with my mother at the wheel. Extra blankets were placed in the car, and the boxes of cookies placed in the back seat as well as the trunk. 

Dad chose to stay home to keep the fires burning as we would not return until well after dark. As each package was delivered; old friendships were rekindled, stories told, coffee or tea offered shared along with conversation about how blessed we all were to have friends like each other.

Gramps Remembers, Being a helper

Being a helper

November 20th, 1964, the day before deer hunting season opener, my friend, Lee received a phone call while in wrestling practice that his sister would be picking us up soon because his father was in a car accident on Hwy 64, not far from the cedar swamps. A deer had darted across the road and Lee’s father had swerved to miss it but was hit head on by a west bound car.

We arrived at the scene of the accident and found out that dad had been taken to a chiropractor by his request for some adjustments. So, we headed there and picked up Lee’s father, took me home, and then they went home. Later that evening Lee’s father started coughing up blood so they took him to the hospital for an evaluation. The impact had moved his internal organs and he was bleeding internally.

He was there for a few weeks, when I received a call from Lee just before Christmas 1964, asking for a favor. He said that his dad was being transported to a Madison Hospital as his internal injuries were life threatening. So, could I and my father take care of the farm and milking the cows while they were gone.  I said yes. Lee said to meet me at the barn, and he would show me what to do. That night, we did chores together and he left for Madison the following morning.

Later that night, my dad said he could help me, and I replied that I could do this and thanks for the offer. Just give me a ride over in the morning at 5AM so I could get the feeding the cows and milking done by the time the school bus came to pick me up. Then pick me up in the evening when I was finished with the evening chores. Included in this was taking care of 2 cocker spaniels which included feeding and letting them out morning and night.

Dad would drop me off in my work clothes at 5AM and we would head to the barn. Feeding the cows was 1st in the list and that meant climbing up the silo to pitch silage down for loading up the feed bunks and added mash to it, then \then we moved onto setting up the milking machines. Prior to milking each cow, I would clean the udder and teats to attach the milker and bucket. While the cows were being milked, I would clean the gutters and aisle and empty the milking buckets into a large milk can. The system was run by a vacuum pump that sucked the milk out of the cow’s udder into the milk bucket.

As each cow was milked, the milk can would fill up and when filled it was moved to the milk house and a new milk can brought into the barn. After the all the cows milked, cows fed, and barn cleaned I headed up the house to feed and let the dogs out. While the dogs were out, I cleaned up and changed into my school clothes. Then I let the dogs back in and ran to catch the bus to school and dad would go home.

That evening, I was dropped off by the bus and the cycle continued for the next 4 weeks. I was becoming quite familiar with doing the milking chores on the farm.

Then Lee called me and told me they would be home the following day. Lee’s dad passed away Friday, January 13, 1965 in Madison Wisconsin. I did the last round of chores the next morning and Lee resumed doing them Saturday evening.

Lee stopped going to wrestling practice and other sports as he was busy keeping the farm together.

Later that spring, Lee stopped by on a Saturday and dropped off a package of beef, a cocker spaniel puppy,and his varsity letter jacket as a thank you gift. The pup took to dad immediately as they became inseparable.

Lee graduated from high school, sold the cattle, enlisted in the Navy Seabees as a heavy equipment operator.  He did two tours of duty in Vietnam before returning home.

After his last tour of duty,  he went to work at Badger paper mill and worked the farm planting crops. By this time I was a senior and had just graduated from high school, and I had a summer job at Jitterbug Sander Company in Menominee Michigan. I was also enrolled at the University of Minnesota. That summer, I would help Lee on the farm and we often double dated going to movies on weekends.

40 years later, we are still in contact with each other and friends. While I like building bird houses

and feeding birds, one of Lee's hobbies is collecting tractors.

Gramps Remembers

 Whispers

Each day that passes, I learn something new. I learn from the people around me. I learn about patience, love, courage, wisdom, kindness, perseverance, strength, laughter, endurance, faith, and oneness. I learn to be still…..and listen to that small voice within. With each lesson that I learn I feel something tugging gently on my heart. It whispers to me promises of a secret so profound and wonderfully waiting for us.

Autumn brings with it a change in seasons, a hint of color here, a splash of dazzling brightness there, the solitude of a small cabin on a lake of in the midst of a forest glade. As the season moves into full bloom, the winds move thru the branches whispering thoughts of endings and new beginnings. The leaves fall to the ground in a deep and colorfully quilted blanket covering the earth in preparation for colder days ahead and deep snows. Under the snows, the leaves continue doing what is required, releasing nutrients to the soil for the spring and rebirth that is already whispering its arrival. It is a season of change.

My thoughts take me to another time when I skied at night across the winter snows, hearing the whisper of the skis on the snow, much like lovers whispering sweet thoughts in the night, speaking promises of things unseen and secrets to be revealed.

“The Master would often say that Silence brought transformation. But no one could get him to define what Silence was. When asked he would laugh, then hold his forefinger up against his tightened lips - which only increased the bewilderment of his disciples. One day there was a breakthrough when someone asked, "And how is one to arrive at this Silence that you speak of? "The Master said something so simple that his disciples studied his face for a sign that he might be joking. He wasn't. He said, "Wherever you may be, look where there is apparently nothing to see; listen when all is seemingly quiet."”

Anthony de Mello, SJ

Some days I become so caught up in the whirl of life that when I finally get a moment to be calm and quiet I don't know what to do with myself. My mind quickly becomes filled. At these times, I forget and resist, fighting the whirl of life and expending energy and do not listen to the whispers in the gifts and challenges; thinking sometimes it would be nice to see beyond the veil, into the future so I can plot my course…then the “whispers” remind me that all my needs have been taken care of. Yet, I cannot help but ask, especially when riding the wave to new places and change.

At these times, I remember that I need I slip away into a quiet world, away from all the noise and chaos, away from designing small house plans, building small cabins, and Tiny Green Cabins, away from the whirl of life; and listen for the “whispers” beckoning me forward. I know that my heart is filled to the brim overflowing as remembrance of all the many blessings in my life flood my being. Yet, there are so many things that I hope and long for. It's difficult to be patient, especially when my heart keeps pulling me toward some strange new future.

What “whispers” in life are you missing?

 

Never really Dull

 

My Mother penned this in 1964 for the writers contest and it was published in that year as a contest winner

 Under the Ledge

Or Never Really Dull

Our acquittance with the northeastern corner of the Town of Grover, in Marinette County, known familiarly as “Under the Ledge” came by shear chance. As discontented city-dwellers we spent our free hours wandering side roads in the hope that we would meet our vision of an abiding-place face to face.

This particular Sunday, we came down a gravel road toward the Peshtigo River, the old iron-bridge approaches were overshadowed by tall elms & maples, almost fostering the belief that a covered bridge from pioneer days lay ahead. As we crossed the bridge, we saw a weather-beaten barn on a rise overlooking the river with a small house nestled among some huge trees. Our thoughts quickened! Could this be the fulfillment of our dreams? We hastened around the corner onto a shrub lined narrow gravel road. There was the gate, open and inviting. So, we followed our hearts and approached closer. The dream became reality. Big basswoods marked the yard. The orchard, old and gnarled, spoke a quiet welcome. The red pump suggested cooling refreshment for a warm day. Yes, this was the dream and shortly the land was our piece of “Under the Ledge.” The limestone outcropping has become a familiar friend. Life is never really dull here. We have many visitors and friends to mark the seasons.

Spring is heralded by the marsh hawk, literally harrying his way across the fields. And once we are privileged to watch a male performing his aerial acrobatics for his lady-love. Such grace! Such sheer joy! The meadowlark calls before the frost is gone. The redwings’ notes sound while patches of snow remain. The kildeer utters its lonely cry, and a little later the Wilson snipe calls as twilight deepens to night with a hint of coming warmth in a soft breeze. Hearing a raucous series of sounds one spring morning we rush to the riverbank to see a pair of Canadian geese patrolling the far bank. They are our guests for a few days, breaking their long trek northward.

Another day with a hint of snow in the air we drive down from the Ledge and slow as we turn the corner. There, on a low branch, above the corner midden and among the potsherds of our local neighborhood sits an immature male summer tanager. Another red-letter day! Only much later do we learn that he is a rare visitor her. 

Time  speeds on and bird sounds grow louder as homes are built and territories staked out.  The phoebe whisks furtively in and out of the garage; a nest hangs against a rafter; and we try to be furtive as she so we can see too.

  
The bluebirds seem completely uninhibited when they arrive. Did someone say rare? Not here, by observation. They fight the tree swallows for homes and try almost any opening for size. A white can with a proper hole is as intriguing as a green birdhouse. Even the chimney is a target. Our eyes sting with smoke because the chimney won’t draw and upon investigating, we find a dead bluebird. How crazy can they get?

The tree swallows chatter and whirl. They, too, are temporarily bereft of sense for the transformer looks like a desirable house site. Suddenly, the male plummets like a stone to earth! The female waits around sorrowfully for several days before going husband-hunting.

Before long we notice barn swallows hurtling and sailing over the garden toward the pump. Then we note they’re building on an open rafter on the back porch. So they settle down to housekeeping, even though we don’t exactly appreciate using the front door instead of the kitchen door.

On our way to town, we see upland plovers and their chicks madly tearing around the highway intersection. We stop to look and even chase some out of the way of oncoming traffic. When we return, we see there has been a bloody carnage at the corner and wee blots lie around the intersection. 

The season plunges onward into summer. On a walk to the point behind the barn we wee a tall plant standing like a flare and almost as tall as the owners. Yes, deep summer is here, for the cardinal lobelia is in full bloom and the season will fade shortly into haze and fall.

 has brought some of our shyer neighbors into the yard. The hayfield has been cut and in the corner of the yard a disposed woodchuck alternately cowers and chatters defiance. He’s just a small creature and not at all as we had pictured him when reading about him. Finally, we convince the dogs he is just a harmless visitor. By late afternoon he has found himself a new home, we hope. 

Another time we are not so charitable.  There is an excited yapping while we are at dinner. The din becomes so vociferous we feel forced to investigate. There, under the car, baring his teeth, scooting around and screeching, is a mink. While we always try to be tolerant, we feel that he is presuming too much. A mad chase ensues around and around the car. Where’d he go? Open the hood! There his malevolent glare greets us from his hiding place in the motor. Finally, we win the contest, dislodge and dispatch him. We look askance at the sorry piece of fur left. Could this have been that wildly fighting fury?

The ducks have been extremely busy all summer chasing bugs. Insect collection suffers from their activities, even without the help of kittens, who have already consumed two sets of 4-H insects. So, we betake ourselves to “Flutterbut Corner” to replenish the collections. Even the large dragon flies rest themselves there. One day there is one at least five to six inches long. He looks like a small branch, but we cannot net him. Just recently we learned why. Butterflies and dragon flies are not disturbed by seeing us but by the movement of our shadows. We are not equipped to approach the big blue dragonflies which laze along like bluebirds over the river.

‘Twill not be long until the harvest is completed so we snatch eagerly at a last fling with summer. The moon rides high; the southerly breeze is soft and warmly caressing. We take our can of worms, poles, and buckets and choose our favorite rocky seat at the bend where the fishin’ hole lies. Indeed, the wind blows the bait in the fishes’ mouth, and we ardently pursue our pastime for we shall certainly appreciate these panfish on a cold winter day.

    The season moves on. The Aurora lights the northern sky at night. Suddenly there is a real display. The shimmering waves of golden light roll like a surf to a semi-circle at the Zenith. Roman candles in shades of green tinged with rose and golden flicker, flare, and depart.

    There is a distinct chill to the night air. An evening stroll takes us to our favorite point above the river. The stars and huge and close. A splash here disturbs the reverie of sky – water – stars. Which are the stars and which the reflection?

    The next day a big northern takes the bait and our frog-pond inlet becomes still. The bottle gentians are long gone. A flock of geese honks noisily by. The summer visitors have departed. An occasional “dee” flirts” through the yard. Before long we should have winter callers.

    The moon is full. The corn is dry in the adjoining field. There is a swish of many rustling wings, accompanied by a sudden screaming honk, wild geese! They may have been misled by the moon on the bend our Peshtigo, but they stay awhile to rest, eat, and discuss among themselves. In about an hour they are on their way south.

    Taking a walk to see what’s new at the frog-pond we go over the rise by the point and hear branches breaking ahead of us. We have noticed our dairy goats standing on the crest looking down the far side. So, we look around, too. Yes, there is a cedar with “buck markings”. So, we do have deer out here. We see a path through the deep grass along the edge of the pond. Closer to the house we see a large depression in the grass, so we presume the deer have been sleeping close by. Later we notice that they have also visited the orchard. 

    After the first snowfall all the small glacial rises show, and thoughts go back in time. Surely before this valley was partially tamed it must have been breathtaking, for it is still awesomely inspiring. Some neighbors, whose parents came as homesteaders, tell us of the Ledge with its streams of water running from between the chinks in the limestone. These streams are dry now. The springs which our predecessors on our small piece of land used for water are undiscoverable. The heavy rains carry any loose soil into the river, thus continuously stealing from an unprotected field and covering springs. Our frog-pond entrance, which was very wide when we found our piece of “Under the Ledge”, is now narrow and shallow. The sandspit beside it has stretched about 7 times is original length and is so built-up it provides a beach of sorts for sunbathing and swimming. The river is still wire at times, but what it must have been in years gone by?

    The season wears on. The river has been up and out. Ice covers the river flat. Upon a sudden turn in the road a doe stands revealed. We open a window, and our voices disturbs her. The quiet of the night reverberates with sound as she crashes her way frantically along the river flat.

    One late winter afternoon the air is filled with chirring’s in such quantity we go see the makers. The back orchard is brimming with a flock of bohemian waxwings gorging on frozen greenings. 

    Another time the cedar in the yard houses many little birds. We investigate and see pine siskins, just like the picture in the book.

    Again there is a change in the air. It rains; the river rises and overflows it’s banks. We stand at the bridge and see an animal straight out of a Walt Disney book. Is it an otter? It must be, for it has no flat tail. When we do get the boat out onto the river, we row over to the bank into what is the frog pond. We see a popple lying in the water. It wasn’t there last week. After the usual family accusations and denials, the subject is dropped. Later inspection reveals we had at least another visitor. Only a beaver could have done that! Then a neighbor reports a brook with a beaver dam where there had been a beaver dam fifty years ago. 

    Soon the spring will be here full tide and another stream of visitors, furred, feathered, and otherwise will be upon us. Who will be the next stranger we meet? Life “Under the Ledge” is never really dull.

Gramps Remembers

Fisheries 4-H Project

My parents moved from the city of Marinette in the summer of 1960, and the following year I joined 4-H. The 4-H programs included livestock, poultry, gardening, sewing, insect collecting, soil and water conservation, and forestry projects.  

The 1^st year of 4-H I did gardening, insect collecting, and soil conservation projects. The following year I expanded to forestry and received 300 trees from the county to plant on my parents farm. I received 300 red pine trees each year until 1968 when I aged out of 4-H.

My 3^rd year, one of my topics was fisheries, and on the list of projects was to build a minnow box. Since we lived on the Peshtigo River, I asked dad for advice, and we concluded that my 1^st build project would a fish trap/net that could sit in the Peshtigo River. We decided we could anchor in the shallow water off the sand bar.

Dad said to create it, design it, figure out the lumber list, and build it. He would take me to town to get the materials and loan me his tools. I next purchased then 2x2x8 lumbers, fiberglass screen wire, and fasteners from a small lumber yard in Peshtigo, WI. Now my project was ready for me to start.

I used the left-over screen wire to create a small seine for catching minnows, and stocking the minnow box.

The minnows were sold for some pocket change to the neighbors that lived nearby. The neighbors often invited me along to fish on the lower Peshtigo River.

Pictured is me building the fish box to hold the minnows that I would seine from the river.

Gramps Remembers

 

Kayaking adventure 

 

Six years ago, a friend and I decided to take an evening kayak paddle on Lake Gervais in Little Canada. It was a great time with lots of water time as we paddled the length of the chain of lakes and under Hwy 36.

 

When I purchased the kayak many years before, the salesman from Midwest Mountaineer said that I should learn how to egg roll and practice wet water exit because some day I will need to know how to do them. The best place to learn would be in a pool with an instructor showing me the right way to do each.

 

On this night 6 years ago, I was also able to cross off my list of things done by me and inadvertently rolling my kayak upside done and safely exiting it underwater. This was a 1st for me, and I do not remember exiting the kayak once it rolled over. Just the sheer thought of panic as I rolled over for, as I never learned how to swim!

 

I had locked my feet into the stirrups and me knees were wedged into the gunnels, sides of the kayak for balancing.

 

A rule of mine is to focus on balance in rough water and this night the sheriff patrol was on the water with their boats practicing water rescues along with diving practices.  A few were creating a lot of wakes on the other side of the lake by the boat launch having fun.

 

There were also speed boats pulling skiers and I got caught in the wave action and as I came down the 3rd crest, my fellow kayaker spotted eagle and said to look up to see it. I was distracted by looking up for the eagle as a wave caught me off guard.  As I tipped to meet the wave my balance was thrown off rolling over as it passed me under me. 

 

Instincts kicked in and I accomplished an underwater exit from the kayak and grabbed for the surface. I popped up, saw the kayak, and grabbed for the gunnel side and with kayak in tow, wishing I had donned my life jacket that was in the netting on the kayak, I started to dog paddle to a near by dock and shallower water.

 

My friend grabbed the paddle and met me on shore. By the time I got there, my legs felt like rubber, so I relaxed a bit, put on my life jacket, and emptied the kayak of water. She informed me that once I rolled over, I was underwater for a wee bit before surfacing. After getting back in the kayak, I started paddling towards the boat launch hugging the shore the all the way there.