Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 8

Hit By Over 20,000 Pies

Television made its debut in San Francisco in 1927, designed by Philo Taylor Farnsworth. In 1946, about 8,000 homes had TV sets, with nearly 46 million by 1960.

It’s safe to say that TV shows influenced my life, entertained me and educated me, and besieged me with commercials for every product that sponsored a program.

Over the years, many of my favorite shows changed—Superman, Popeye, Flintstones, Bewitched, Star Trek, Doctor Who—but one program stands out as my all-time favorite, from elementary school days onward.

Soupy Sales.

Back in the olden days, kindergarten was a half-day, and I hurried home to have “Lunch with Soupy Sales.” Mom often matched his menu—peanut butter-jelly sandwich and Jello, but I wasn’t lucky enough to have Soupy’s sound effects whenever I swallowed.

I was introduced to the Soupy Shuffle, White Fang and Black Tooth, Pookie the Lion, the arm at the door, and the Words of Wisdom.

When a man writes a song in his automobile, it’s called a cartoon.

Milton Supman, “Soup Bone” or “Soupy” was born January 8, 1926 in North Carolina, and died October 22, 2009 at the age of 83, beloved by many.

He earned a master’s degree in journalism at Marshall College (now University), and performed in nightclubs as a comedian, singer, and dancer.

When I watched him, he wasn’t a one-man show.

There was Black Tooth, “the biggest, sweetest dog in the USA,” who’d grab Soupy for a slobbery kiss off-camera, with him protesting, “Don’t kiss.”

White Fang, “the biggest, meanest dog in the USA.” White Fang was part of Soupy’s radio DJ program in Cincinnati, and whenever Soupy introduced his dog in those days, he’d play a recording of the Hound of the Baskervilles howling.

Pookie, who called Soupy “Boobie” and scrunched his face to spit off Soupy’s kiss. Who sang, danced, and did skits on “The Pookie Theatre Presents.” In the early Detroit shows, he didn’t speak, but whistled to communicate. His mimes were priceless, and his plays included Hippy the Hippo, who I thought was a mute lion with no mane.

The camera crew laughed at the puns, jokes, and skits, and in later years, when Soupy read the days’ Words of Wisdom and turned to us to say, “What do we mean by that?” the crew would all shout, “Yeah, what do you mean by that?”

I wanted to be on set and watch Soupy’s antics.

There was another hero on Soupy’s shows, Clyde Adler, who was responsible for the voices and puppets, including the “man at the door.” “You gotta help me…it’s my wife…”

Clyde Adler was not a comedian, but a film editor at the Detroit TV station where Soupy’s show was hosted, and assigned to assist Soupy. They made an incredible team.

For the Detroit TV shows, all sound effects were recorded. The “moo” when Soupy ate a hamburger, the gunshot when he was hit with a pie.

On one episode, the sound man couldn’t find the record for White Fang, so Clyde Adler jumped to a microphone and did his now-famous “Reh-o-reh-o.” Soupy and the crew burst out laughing, and Mr. Adler stayed as part of the show.

Pookie the Lion was a puppet from the prop box. No wonder I couldn’t find one for myself.

“Being funny is a very serious business,” Soupy said. “A lot of people grew up watching me.”

I did.

Oh, and Soupy’s first pie in the face happened in Cleveland in 1951 during a skit, and was unexpected. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he said, as he wiped off dripping cream.

Detroit. Los Angeles. New York City. Guest stars like Frank Sinatra, Tony Curtis, Jerry Lewis, Judy Garland, Sammy Davis Jr., B.B. King…so many more.

And yes, on a 1965 New Year’s Day show, Soupy agreed to ad lib the show's closing. He told his young viewers to tiptoe into their parents’ bedrooms and send him the “funny green pieces of paper.” He meant it as a joke, but received thousands of dollars, Monopoly money and real. The latter was donated to charity and Soupy was suspended for two weeks.

He had loyal fans of all ages.

I search for episodes and skits on YouTube to relive the magic of Soupy Sales and his memorable sidekicks.

I suspect he and Clyde are still entertaining in the Blessed Realm.

Maybe without the pies this time.

"Trick or Treat"

I’ve shared my memories of Halloween in the Heights several times. With trick-or-treaters due in a few days, I had a rush of nostalgia to relive my own Halloween nights.

We’re back when Mom and Dad were young. Mom’s at home, getting us ready for the six o’clock fire station whistle. Dad’s at work, since he works second shift at Pontiac Motors, Plant Eight supervisor.

Every year we fussed about our costumes—mainly homemade, but sometimes we talked Mom into buying one of the thin silky sets that looked so enticing on the package, but rarely made it past the night. Masks were dangerous in dim light, which took away most of the effect, so homemade costumes were best.

Eyes on the clock, we fussed with finding and pulling on our disguises, and claiming our bags for the tons of anticipated candy.

Six o’clock whistle.

Every porch light snapped on—at least, for participating houses—and doors banged open as children poured out.

I tend to forget how many cold nights there were, even frosty or rainy, and occasionally, with snow flurries. We usually wore winter jackets under our costumes. Ballerinas and princesses were buried in clothing or blue with cold.

When I reached high school age, I took my sisters and youngest brother around for their trick-or-treating, but in elementary and junior high, I walked—ran—with my best friend, Kay.

My brothers couldn’t wait for us, since we insisted on stopping at every house, even those set far back in yards. They dashed ahead, intent on getting as much candy as possible in the allowed hour.

I rarely got off Caroline Street, since I was as curious about house interiors as I was about the candy offered.

One elderly woman gave pennies, and Mom explained about limited incomes and kind intentions, so Kay and I knocked on her door, too. The Hall’s, across from our house, with the rooms I was most curious about, gave full-sized chocolate bars! Heaven!

We collected candy I ate only on Halloween. I remember Tootsie Rolls, Good n Plenty, Mallo Cup, Oh Henry, Clark Bar, Mars Bar, Heath Bar, PayDay, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, 3 Musketeers, Boston Baked Beans, Sugar Babies, Bit O Honey, Bun, Chuckles, licorice—black and red, and of course, Milky Way, Snickers, and anything from Hershey’s and Nestle’s. Undoubtedly, I’ve forgotten many.

It was dark enough to imagine a mad scientist in the woods, or witches on broomsticks flying past the moon. We liked to pretend that anything was possible on Halloween.

At seven o’clock, the fire whistle blew again and porch lights switched off.

Households helped pay for Fourth of July fireworks by purchasing flares that were lit at the ends of driveways. We rushed home to deliver sacks of candy and head for part two of Halloween—cider and doughnuts at Auburn Heights Elementary. And costume judging, which was second in importance to me.

Mom was welcome to anything licorice in my candy. Each of us dug in our bags for favorites before we headed for the school.

Walking in the dark was a rare treat, especially with so many red flames flickering up and down streets we passed. Sometimes, if we were lucky, Shovel’s corner store was still giving out full-sized chocolate bars.

At the school, a crowd of ghosts, witches, and monsters hung around tables with cups of cider and trays of doughnuts. The air was crisp and the night, magic.

Since we always did our trick-or-treating on October 31st, there’d be school the next day on many years. Classmates who didn’t live in the Heights bragged about trick-or-treating for hours in other communities, but I rarely envied them. Our hour, framed by the fire whistle, was satisfying.

Halloween is a children’s holiday, second only to Christmas, with nighttime excursions, mystery, legends, and of course, candy. Yet whenever I pass out miniature candy bars to knee-high movie characters or those taller, I recall the spark of Halloween excitement in the Heights. The same traditions my children enjoyed for years, as well.

“Trick or treat!”

It was always a treat.

He Went for Faygo

“Which way did he go? Which way did he go?”

“He went for FAY-GO!”

Except for Publix commercials, none can reproduce the magic of our childhood TV ads, some national, many Detroit-based.

The ones I remember the clearest were shown in the 50’s and 60’s, between Saturday morning cartoons or during prime-time favorite weekly shows. And, of course, on Sunday nights around The Wonderful World of Disney and Kraft-sponsored specials.

We loved the Kraft commercials because there was a glass bowl, a wooden spoon, and some delectable being prepared, with the recipe offered at the end of the program. To this day, I get the same scrumptious feeling I did then when I see a wooden spoon stir something in a glass bowl.

We couldn’t record anything. If you missed a show, or part of it by leaving during a commercial, it was gone for good. Unless, of course, it was an annual event, like the Wizard of Oz movie on Thanksgiving night, or the Christmas specials.

We had few stations—ABC, NBC, CBS, and the Canadian CBC (with Mr. Dressup and The Friendly Giant), and later, Detroit’s channels 50 (WKBD) and 62 (WWJ).

Walt Disney Presents (and The Wonderful World of Disney) were must-sees. We all had our favorites—Davy Crockett, Zorro, movies like The Swamp Fox, The Shaggy Dog, The Prince and the Pauper. Series that starred Mouseketeers, and, of course, cartoons. Chip and Dale, Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, and Goofy’s memorable cry when he fell off a cliff.

Jiminy Cricket taught me how to spell “encyclopedia” and sang about safety with his “I’m no fool, no siree, I want to live to be ninety-three. I play safe for you and me, ‘cause I’m no fool.”

We begged for Jiffy Popcorn, which always burned.

Hung on every toy ad, especially close to Christmas.

“It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky, for fun it’s a wonderful toy. It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky, it’s fun for a girl or a boy.” The jingle was written by three men in 1962 (Johnny McCullogh, Homer Fesperman, and lyrics by Charles Weagly), and was the longest running jingle in advertising history.

The toy was invented in 1943 by Richard James, a naval engineer, but our Slinkies had trouble with our stairs, and tangled soon after we got them.

Other commercials stuck in my memory.

“Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener, that is what I’d truly like to be…” Written for a contest in 1962, aired in 19 countries, and memorized by countless children.

“In the valley of the jolly—ho ho ho—Green Giant!”

“Rice-a-Roni, the San Franciso treat.”

“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is!” sung by Speedy, the mascot (Dick Beals). Speedy showed up in magazine ads, store displays, and TV commercials, was originally created as a puppet and insured for more than $100,000.

Advertising copywriter Judy Protas wrote the Crackerjack commercial in the 60’s—“…Lip-smackin’, whip-crackin’, paddy-whackin’, knickin-knackin’, silver-rackin’, scoundrel-whackin’, cracker-jackin’ Crackerjack. Candy-coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize, that’s what you get in Crackerjack.”

We inhaled ads for Silly Putty, Etch-a-Sketch, Mousetrap, Rock’em Sock’em Robots.

Brylcreem—A little dab’ll do ya.

“Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t…” for Mounds and Almond Joy.

Snap crackle pop Rice Krispies.

“Choo Choo Charlie was an engineer, Choo Choo Charlie had a train we hear. He had an engine and it sure was fun. He used Good n Plenty to make the train run.”

Russ Alben, who wrote the jingle, also came up with Timex’s “It takes a licking and keeps on ticking.”

Mr. Belvedere did “good work.” Mel Farr Superstar could fly. Highland and Fretter Appliance competed. And we all knew that you’d…

“Stay on the right track to Nine Mile and Mack, Roy O’Brien trucks and cars, make your money back!”

No, I don’t see commercials like those anymore.

The Best Part of History Class

My favorite history lessons came in the fall from our Michigan history texts. No dates, no inventions, before battles, but sharing daily life of our first residents.

As the air grew crisper and leaves changed color, the first frosty nights warned of winter snow and cold. How could anyone live outside in that climate?

I was fascinated with bark-covered teepees and winter lodges. Moccasins in the snow. Cooking fires in the cold air. My brothers and I played at living outside in the fall weather, but as winter moved in, so did we, unless we were well bundled with hot cocoa waiting afterward.

The lessons didn’t last long enough and covered only a few pages in our textbooks, but have stayed with me through the years.

Michigan was home to several tribes, and the three largest were the Ojibwe (Chippewa), the Odawa (Ottowa), and the Potawatomi (Bode’wadmi). Our famous Chief Pontiac was of the Odawa tribe. They shared language, customs, and beliefs, and called themselves the Anishinaabe, “original people,” creating a partnership called the Three Fires.

Ojibwe were “keepers of ceremony and song.”

Odawa were “keepers of the trade.”

Potawatomi were “keepers of the fire.”

They lived in dome-shaped houses in the warm months, hunted and fished, built birch bark canoes, wove fishing nets, planted and harvested crops. In the winter, they also trapped and fished through the ice. Beaver fur was the most sought, but trading pelts included deer, raccoon, fox, otter, muskrat, bear, and marten.

Their seasoning of choice was maple syrup.

By 100 A.D. the Ojibwe made ceramics and perfected fishing techniques, becoming experts in seasonal fishing. They migrated with the seasons for fishing, hunting, maple syrup tapping, and harvesting wild rice. Birch bark was useful for housing and canoes.

I was most fascinated with the production and storage of maple syrup, and with harvesting wild rice, which we used sparingly at our table.

The return of spring was celebrated with a maple moon festival. Finished syrup was packed in mokoks made of birch bark, holding 20-30 pounds of maple sugar, and buried for storage. Since maple trees were plentiful, maple sugar was used to season meat and fish, and preferred over salt. One method of turning sap into syrup was to freeze it several times and remove the ice.

After sugar production, most of the tribes traveled to Kepayshowink (Saginaw) for a celebration that included dancing, games, and competitions of strength.

Wild rice, manoomin, grew on the water and was a staple, gathered by women. A cousin to rice, manoomin is a grass that seeds itself in lake and rivers two-three feet deep. One person paddled the canoe, a second bent stalks and brushed them to drop rice kernels into the boat. Kernels were dried, cleaned, and roasted in a kettle over a fire, stirred constantly. Once dry, chaff was removed, and the grains simmered and stored.

Villagers also planted corn (roasted or made in hominy), squash, pumpkins, beans, and tobacco, and gathered wild berries and apples. To the Ojibwe, corn was more than a crop, but played a major part in their legends and stories, as well.

The first Michigan inhabitants appeared 10,000 years ago from Asia or South America. Their descendants worked with copper, and established hunting and fishing communities around the Great Lakes.

Rivers and lakes were highways. Many paths and trails, created by bison, are still used. Saginaw Trail is Woodward Avenue. The Clinton River accounts for the city of Pontiac.

All this was captivating to me as I stood at a window looking out on snowbanks, or walking narrow paths in autumn woods. Once we began to memorize dates of wars and inventors, my interest in history flagged. I was more interested in the day-to-day activities of people who lived in and with the world around me, long before highways, electricity, history textbooks.

Whenever I savored maple colors on a fall walk, or poured maple syrup over pancakes, or added wild rice to a casserole, I recalled those early history lessons. The crisp autumn air, first frosts, and snowy woods sparked a respect in me for people who lived in and with our Michigan world.

My kind of history lesson.

Pumpkin or Mince?

For Thanksgiving, Mom always made her pies from scratch. Well, I say from scratch, but only one year do I recall her actually cutting a pumpkin and using it for the year’s pies.

My brother was a fan of mincemeat pie from his earliest age. Mom bought the None Such mince mix in the box, although she also made mincemeat from scratch, including the suet, which she bought from the hardware store in the Heights. She made bird treats with suet and seeds for the birdfeeder, and for years, used suet in her plum pudding.

Mince from the Latin minutiare, means to chop finely. English recipes called the mixture mincemeat because not only was suet used, but “meat” was also a word for food, in general. In the 1600’s meat, fruit, and wine were the ingredients, with spices like cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon later additions. Once sugar was added, the pie turned from a dinner course to dessert.

But my choice was pumpkin pie.

Where I live now, sweet potato pie is the preference. Sweeter, lighter in texture, sweet potato pie is enough like pumpkin to satisfy, but my happiest Thanksgiving memories are on Caroline Street when Mom baked her pies days before, and spent Thanksgiving morning stuffing and roasting a turkey, making mashed potatoes, gravy, squash, and serving Ocean Spray cranberries or cranberry sauce.

Pumpkins mean fields of pumpkin patches or Jack-O-Lanterns. The carved, lit pumpkin faces (meant to frighten away evil spirits on the prowl during Samhain) were originally carved from turnips, but our American version were part of Halloween fun on porches or in windows.

We always roasted the seeds, an annual treat.

By the 18th century, Thanksgiving was an on-again, off-again holiday in New England, with pumpkin pies the favored dessert. In 1863, Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving, the last Thursday of November, a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who Dwelleth in the Heavens,” with a prayer to heal the wounds of the nation.

We can use that prayer in our own time.

In 1870 President Ulysses S. Grant declared Thanksgiving a federal holiday in Washington D.C., and by 1942, Congress had declared the fourth Thursday in November the formal date for our national holiday.

The official day of pumpkin pie, to my mind.

Mom snorted at the baking directions for the pie.

“Forty to sixty minutes?” she’d say. “Double that, most of the time.”

Until a butter knife came out clean of mixture meant that our pies always baked longer than the written time, but once cooling, the holiday had begun.

Of course, we used whipped cream on the slices, although there were many Cool Whip years, too.

Never had room for pie after dinner, but later, when it was dessert time (before the turkey sandwich and dressing snack later), a slice of Mom’s pumpkin pie topped with fluffy whipped cream was blissful.

“A smidgen of both,” Dad would say, and my brother Dave echoed that to have a slice of pumpkin and mince.

Every year I tasted the mince, declared it delicious, but requested pumpkin.

Thanksgiving dinners are not the same without Mom bustling around the kitchen, and the divine aromas wafting through the house. Excitement about switching between the Detroit and Macy’s morning parades. The Pied Piper movie in the afternoon with Van Johnson.

Hunger pulling us into the kitchen to snitch stuffing from the roasting turkey when Mom wasn’t looking, or hang over the pies until we were shooed away, anticipating the feast.

Yes, I know it’s not even Halloween, and here I am drooling over Thanksgiving dinners from long ago, but I came across an article comparing sweet potato and pumpkin pies, and was transported to a kitchen that created so many crisp, vivid, happy holiday memories, I could almost taste that first bite of Mom’s pumpkin pie. I can hear Dave insisting that mince was just as good.

Now? I’ll take a smidgen of both.

I Don't Do Soprano

Who doesn’t love to sing?

My favorite experiences have been with a partner or in a choir.

I sang in the Glee Club in high school, but the choir classes were held in high esteem. Yet one of my crispest musical memories from Avondale is an assembly where Ken and Bill harmonized with guitars, and Ken sang a solo. We were silenced by their magnificent voices. I wasn’t the only one convinced they had a music career ahead of them.

I was part of Sacred Heart’s choir, our church on Adams Road. I sang alto, and although I couldn’t read music, I could count beats and sound out notes because of early piano lessons.

Mom sang soprano, alto, tenor, and read music. She also played piano and organ, although our regular organist chose the music and led the choir.

Mom chose soprano, and assisted altos and tenors with difficult spots in the music. We had one tenor, Stu, with a powerful voice and a quirky sense of humor. Invariably, after working hard on a difficult hymn, we’d go over it one last time to satisfy our director, and on the final chord, Stu would deliberately sing a wrong note.

“Stu!” we’d moan, but our organist never realized he did it on purpose, and we’d have to start again.

Singing in a choir taught me how to blend, how to work with partners, how to maintain my own part against the movement of others.

And the end result was satisfying.

My sister JoAnn and I began singing together when I was in charge of a “guitar Mass” at Sacred Heart. Our first attempts were “hootenanny” services with folk tunes like “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” “Today” (Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine…), and “Kumbaya,” which was used at Communion because it had so many verses. Hardly liturgical, but popular at that time.

Music for Mass got better afterward, and JoAnn and I learned many hymns, new and old, and developed impressive harmonies.

We went on to write our own songs, for fun, and met every week to sing folk tunes, originals, bluegrass, early rock tunes—whatever caught our fancy. “The Wayward Wind.” “Bye Bye Love” which we blended into “You get a line and I’ll get a pole, honey…”

I prefer singing with partners.

Recently, I retired from the guitar choir at St. Anne’s. My partners—JR on guitar, Sandy with her lovely soprano, and Paul on his 12-string—and I sang old hymns and new, spirituals, and polished harmonies that made our offerings prayerful, yet fun. “I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses…” and “The Old Rugged Cross” were two favorites.

One December, a couple came to our parish to “save our little church” with their fresh ideas.

The leader produced an impressive electric piano, but had no sense of prayerfulness during services or of the congregation’s role at Mass. He wanted to put on an impressive Christmas program during the Mass, with no participation by the people. Hmmm…

Our deacon convinced me to be part of that one-time choir, so I agreed to a practice. Our guitar choir was already serving at Christmas Eve Mass, where the congregation would be singing familiar carols with us.

That practice turned out to be one of the most amusing evenings I’d spent in some time.

The music was passed out, nothing familiar and everything requiring four-part harmony. Our gathering was small, but we were willing to try. Unfortunately, the leader’s wife was so eager to help, she sang every part with us, wrong, in her bluegrass twang, so we couldn’t hear the piano notes.

We struggled along a while when behind me, a woman suddenly wailed, “No! I can’t! I don’t do soprano! It says soprano.” The leader stopped and turned. “Who said that?” We all turned. The woman was wild-eyed and distressed. “But this part isn’t soprano,” the leader said. “We’re singing in unison and the notes are within the alto range.” He paused. “You do know what unison means?”

But she continued insisting that she couldn’t sing soprano, and if a soprano could sing it, she couldn’t. “I can’t, I can’t,” she cried, and added, “I can only sing two notes.”

That got his attention. “Two notes? Only two?” Irritation and curiosity battled before curiosity won. “Really?” he said. “Which two?”

We never managed that Christmas choir and the couple left shortly afterward.

But our guitar choir served for years with favorite hymns and lovely harmonies.

I miss those days, and even more, the years of playing, writing, and singing with JoAnn.

It’s no fun to sing solo after that.

And by the way, I don’t do soprano, either.

The Two Faces of Autumn

There’s a scene in ET where the alien child releases his connection to Elliot so that the boy won’t die, as well. That moment of separation, poignant and memorable, is the difference between fall in Florida and Michigan.

I remember autumn in Michigan.

Naturally, we always looked forward to fall colors in the woods and neighborhoods in Michigan. The sugar maple on Caroline in front of the Key’s house looked as though it caught fire. From green to orange, red, and yellow, depending on the kind of tree, vibrant colors swept over the forest in the U.P. by early October, and moved south.

Cider mills offered fresh cider and cinnamon doughnuts. Apple orchards produced Jonathan, McIntosh, Northern Spy, Cortland, or golden and red delicious, among other Michigan varieties. Generations of cultivation gave you the choice of sweet or tart, depending on whether you preferred pies, apple crisp, or biting into one newly picked, with or without caramel coating.

(I learned that apples were domesticated 4,000 to 10,000 years ago in the mountains of Central Asia, and transported along the Silk Road to Europe, bred with crabapples on their journey. Crabapples. Now, that’s another story.)

Pumpkin patches popped up, offering large, orange winter squashes for pies, seeds, and jack-o-lanterns on Halloween. A patch of pumpkins on the vine triggered the essence of fall for me, no matter how many times I saw one.

Indian or flint corn was another symbol of harvest, especially at Thanksgiving. An American food from pre-Columbian times, it was used in hominy, popcorn, and table decorations.

Frost was expected any time with crisp, cold mornings. Sweatshirts and sweaters reappeared. We dug out corduroy pants, and giggled at each other at the swish-swish sound when walking.

The sky turned bright blue on clear days, a different color than in springtime. As the sun moved lower on the horizon, the amount of Rayleigh scattering changed, producing the deep, vibrant blue.

Squirrels were busy collecting, digging, preparing for winter.

We packed away our summer wear and unboxed our winter clothes.

Songbirds flew south.

Wind blew across fields, calling you to follow.

Many friends and family chose autumn as their favorite season.

Central Florida offers pumpkin patches near Halloween, and pumpkins do show up on porches. Live oaks lose their tiny leaves all year long, but a few trees do change leaf color—sweetgum, blackgum, and cypress—and green fields turn dull and olive in shade.

Florida children add jackets and reluctantly choose long pants over shorts, but a typical sight in chilly weather for a Florida native is a parka with flip-flops.

Autumn in my new neighborhood is a slow blend of summer into what passes for winter. Yes, we get frosts and freezes, and yes, there are cold snaps, but they don't last, and birds sing year long.

All of that is a blessing when I remember the blast of winter days, but I miss Michigan autumn. The brisk air, the falling leaves on wooded paths, the first frosts on the lawns, cider mills, and drives to see sweeps of bright sugar maple and oak color.

I haven’t worn corduroy since I was in high school, decades ago, but still look forward to pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, and brag about Michigan fall.

May the joy of autumn offer you taste, color, and perfume.

I enjoy my memories, but would prefer a fresh glass of cider.

Long Distance Family Reunion

I missed my niece Christin’s wedding this weekend in Michigan because of family requirements here in Florida. I was sorry about that, especially since I miss seeing my brother Dave, who was to pick me up at the airport.

My brothers and I shared the same world, especially Dave and me. He was less than two years younger, so we had the same upbringing, TV shows, meals, family traditions, and memories. We also had friends in common, then and now.

For years, Dave has owned a lovely, small house in Pontiac with a long front yard of oak trees, insisting that squirrels deliberately throw acorns at him. (Investigated and yes, they do throw acorns or sticks at whoever they consider a predator!) In the backyard, in remembrance of Great-Grandma Miller, he planted currants, holly, strawberries, and every flower we knew in our childhood.

This was the house that scintillated every Christmas—decorations, treats, family and friends, enormous twinkling tree, and carols. We all gathered on Christmas Day for the celebration with roast goose, turkey, and every side dish and dessert connected with the holiday. He also made Christmas cookies for all of us for decades.

Those Dickens’ dinners echo around every Christmas season. In fact, for many years, Dave drove to Florida and reproduced his dinner at my house for the Florida family until health, COVID, and circumstances prevented it.

We shared the same family camping trips, summer and winter visits to the trailer in Kalkaska on our parents’ ten acres, Detroit Zoo outings, Henry Ford Museum, Greenfield Village, the Detroit Art Institute, and Detroit’s Historical (Hysterical) Museum. Treats at A&W when the baby glasses were free.

Explorations of Grandma and Grandpa Schaffer’s back yard on Pontiac, where we played summer-winter with the turning of the gas meter. Where I picked her morning glories, turned them upside down, and pretended they were elegant ladies in ball gowns. Where we stood beneath the poplar tree to hear the crackling of the leaves. Where Dave learned about perennials and annuals.

When we were grown, we kept our love of reading and libraries. Dave is even a more voracious reader than me, and we recommend authors and favorites, give each other books for birthdays and Christmas, and for a time, chose a Saturday to visit various Michigan towns—their libraries, diners, and countryside.

With three friends, we took turns choosing a monthly outing—fortune telling, movie, restaurant, park, museum.

Our friend Mona regretted one outing to the Detroit art museum to see medieval Nativity paintings. Dave would study Joseph’s expression in each painting and offer suggestions for what he was thinking. I was already laughing too hard to be amenable to Mona’s suggestion we go through the modern art wing.

I’m a philistine regarding modern art, I admit, and warned her it would be better if I waited for them. No, she insisted, and I’d rarely enjoyed myself more. “What? A white board with a black stripe?” “What? A chair glued to the wall?”

I was shameless and so amused at my snarky comments, the guard followed us into the next room. “Don’t touch the artwork,” he reminded us. “I won’t, if I see any,” my brother muttered. I repeated that in every room. Yes, I enjoyed the modern art wing immensely.

I miss those outings. I miss Dave’s company. I miss seeing Michigan through his eyes—walks in the woods, blackberry patches, wild mushroom stories, small up north towns, sharing memories of family in Manistee. Of staring at a camping plate with Spam. Of the horror of powdered milk, or the delight of potted meat sandwiches, grilled hot dogs, marshmallows.

Of Christmas Day magic.

I was looking forward to sharing some of that this weekend around the wedding and family gathering.

Since I couldn’t be there, I wanted to pass on a taste of these reminiscences here.

Brother Dave, in honor of the years of shared memories and happy times, I dedicate this to you.

The Maples on Caroline Street

For the best grade in every fall’s leaf collection, we didn’t have to leave Caroline Street, other than a trip to the First Woods for sassafras leaves. We could claim nearly every tree known in the Midwest in our Caroline yards.

Ours contained apple trees, a plum tree, cherry and pear trees, a locust, the black walnut, and a catalpa, the “umbrella tree,” as we called it.

Every house had a box-elder, until, one by one, they were cut down or fell on their own during strong thunderstorms. Our backyard box-elder, besides producing endless trails of box-elder bugs, came down behind the garage, and was a forest of adventure until cut up and hauled away.

The most famous box-elder on Caroline Street, though, was three doors down, between two driveways. “The Tree” was our communal climbing tree. I was a coward and never got higher than the first level of branches, but my brothers and their friends got as close to the top as they could, and rocked branches back and forth in great daring. Danny fell out once and broke his arm, an exciting event for the rest of us.

Shirley and Bruce had a weeping willow in their back yard, although I was too shy to venture through their gate for leaves to iron under waxed paper for my notebook.

Until I moved to the Heights, I thought there was one type of every tree. Who’d guess that there are 600 species of oaks around the world, and 10 kinds in Michigan, all a variety of red or white. But maples get my vote.

Although there are only seven maples in Michigan—the dreaded box-elder, red, silver, striped, Amur, Norway, and sugar—sugar maples offer the showiest fall colors. Across North America, including Cranbrook and the Troy nature center, sugar maples are tapped for sap to make syrup. We didn’t make any on our street, but claimed sugar maples, silver, red, and Norway.

My favorite sugar maple was in the Keys’ front yard, the announcer of seasons. It was the first to show red buds in the spring, when winter lasted forever, and dandelions and green lawns were far ahead. During summer, the green leaves danced in the wind, produced lovely shade, and warned of coming storms by flipping backward.

Why? One theory is that wind from an incoming storm goes against the prevailing wind, causing leaves to flip. Another says that the increase in humidity preceding a storm is the cause. Davey Institute scientists, experts in tree care, insist that these are myths, and the leaves don’t flip backward before rain.

Hmmm. Our Caroline Street trees did, and before a thunderstorm blew through.

In the fall, that tree glowed red and orange, as if on fire, a glorious sight. And as of 2019, it still stands in that front yard, I’m pleased to report.

Other than fall colors and the fame of maple syrup, the best part about maple trees to kids were helicopters.

Late spring to early summer, samaras or helicopter seeds sprout and fall. Also known as winged seeds, spinning jenny, whirligig, whirlybird, or wing-nut, the seed is a dry fruit surrounded by papery wings. When you tossed them, they twirled as they descended. We played with so many helicopter seeds, I’m surprised our street isn’t a maple forest by now.

The five tall maples across the street in Hall’s yard weren’t sugar maples, but maybe silver maples—elegant, delicate in appearance, and producing lovely shade for the front porch of the much-admired house and yard. They’re still standing, as well.

The only deciduous tree addition to our yard was a sycamore behind our kitchen with enormous leaves—a water thief capable of breaking pipes and cracking basement walls with thirsty roots. And no wonder. The sycamore can grow to 100 feet tall and is the largest deciduous tree in North America. Our tree was determined to reach that record. In its favor, the fallen leaves were so large, it was easy to produce a jumping pile with a minimum of labor.

Trees will soon be changing color and dropping leaves, and the sugar maples will be putting on their autumn performance. Since I won’t be able to enjoy it in person, I wanted to recall the trees of my childhood street as a tribute.

Wouldn’t mind tossing a few helicopters, while I'm at it.

What I Learned in School

Most lessons from my school years couldn’t be graded.

In Kindergarten, I walked to school as part of self-reliance. Up Third Street (Pontiac), right on Joslyn, left on Beverly to the scary two-story brick LeBaron Elementary. It wasn’t until years later I learned that Mom followed me, out of sight, to make certain I arrived safely. The next year, and until we moved, my brother and I walked together.

I can still see the playground equipment behind the fence on my way home, watching the big kids play baseball. I used to ask myself questions. If I had one wish, what would it be? After careful consideration, I decided on a plastic cereal-sized Tupperware bowl, with lid, that magically refilled with M&Ms. Still think it wasn’t a bad wish.

I also wondered which would be better—to be able to always say the perfect words to someone in need, but not feel anything, or to share their pain, yet not be able to express empathy. Decided I’d rather feel, even if I couldn’t say so. Not a bad choice, either.

In Fourth Grade, we moved to the Heights. Mrs. Parr assigned homework of writing multiplication tables, 2x2 through 12x12, 100 times each. Memorized them for all time. Always partial to redheads, I had a crush on a boy named Mike. No idea about his last name, and he certainly never knew it.

Mom advised me to give a Valentine card to an after-school bully—ignoring my arguments that she’d be planning my funeral—and he was so surprised, he never bothered my brother and me again. My first lesson in the power of kindness.

In Fifth Grade, I rode a school bus for the first time—scary. I chose the bus stop at Shovel’s market since the roughhousing boys congregated at Squirrel and Bessie.

Learned that teachers weren’t always right.

Mrs. Love kept a table of Scholastic books at the back of her room for us to read once we finished our classwork, in order to keep quiet and not disturb others. By the end of the year, I’d read all her books. Did that please her? No. She told Mom I’d never amount to anything because I read too much.

Sixth Grade was spent at Sacred Heart Catholic school on Adams, an alien classroom world. We had to stand to answer a question. Our teacher lacked even one drop of the milk of human kindness, although our math teacher, Sister John Andrew, could outplay any boy in baseball, and taught us how to solve nearly any problem with ratios.

One young sister was found weeping after school when she learned that her former boyfriend had died. We kids were shocked. Nuns were real people under their habits, with families, backgrounds, feelings, and lives outside of their convent.

Middle School, or Junior High, as we called it, was a wakeup call. Mr. Fensch, my civics teacher, taught me to follow directions when faced with something new. He did this by assigning a timed quiz with questions on both sides of the sheet. The directions? To reach each question before beginning, but he stressed the limited time we had to complete the test and challenged us to succeed. Ding! Scratch, scratch, figure, calculate. The last question was to write our names on the top right of the front page and set down our pencils. One boy in my class passed the quiz.

Ms. Ahearn threw chalk and erasers at students mouthing off or asleep, but never missed a sports event. Mr. Strayer’s science lessons included a marshmallow in a vacuum bell jar, and demonstrated the Doppler effect by starting at one end of the second story hallway and hollering as he ran, up the hall, through our science doors, and to the far end, his voice increasing and decreasing in volume.

I learned that a common tragedy could unite adults, regardless of previous differences, and saw it demonstrated the afternoon an announcement was made about the assassination of President Kennedy.

At a school dance, Mom advised me to find a moment to step away from my friends, and give any shy boy the opportunity to approach me. My crush, Donald, was my first dance partner.

High school was more of a preparation for real life than I realized. Facing a hectic cafeteria while looking for friends, reciting in class, tests, rushing to your room before the bell rang, and navigating the high school caste system were the first steps toward a life of job interviews, bosses, coworkers, and learning to make decisions with whatever you knew at the time.

Courage was stepping away from the majority and refusing to tease or be cruel, a difficult lesson in those days, as our substitute teachers could attest. Best friends didn’t last forever, yet always stayed part of our hearts, even when they didn’t know it.

Once grown and in the world, any classmate is family.

Happy memories and shared experiences are gifts for each of us.

And as my electronics teacher would say at Lawrence Tech, after introducing a new concept, “Now, wasn’t that worth getting up this morning for?”

Yes, Ken, it was.