Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 9
August 26, 2023
Travel Back in Time to Great-Grandma's House
My sister Janet treated me to an Ancestry DNA kit. My results varied from hers, showing I inherited more from our mother’s side. Fun stuff. Found out I’m 35% Scottish, due to Great-Grandma McDonald-Tanner-Beavers-Miller.
Great-Grandma Miller was a kind and patient woman who never said an unkind thing about anyone, and had an unwavering faith.
To a child, she was already old, and lived a quiet life on her own on North Grant in Avon Township. I visited there often, spending one or more nights in her tiny house. Barely remember my great-grandpa, just images of an old man sitting in the living room.
I say, living room, but her house had begun as a one-room cottage, with two lean-to’s added later for the kitchen and bedroom.
Outhouse. Hand pump in a dry sink. Tiny stove with an on-off oven. Doll-house sized china cabinet for dishes. She didn’t get cold running water for many years.
Her house was quiet, especially after eight of us in constant commotion. There were the sounds of clocks ticking. The faint fragrance of lavender.
We visited often as a family, too. My brothers and I strolled around the house, avoiding paper wasp nests, peeking in the tiny windows, and daring each other to get closer to the scary shed. Mom assured us it contained only hoes, shovels, rakes, wheelbarrow, and mower (rotary), but we knew there were hobgoblins and other nightmares waiting to grab a bold child. “Ghoulies and ghosties, long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night…”
Grandma planted perennials around her house, hens-and-chicks along her driveway, and at one time, had vegetables and berries in a back garden. She kept chickens in a coop with a fenced area when Mom was young—which later was the spooky shed. She canned fruit and vegetables, made pickles and jam, and stored everything in a root cellar at the back of the house. I saw the inside once, when she went down the steps to retrieve potatoes for a meal. Dirt floor, dark, cool, moist.
She wouldn’t let us check it out on family visits. Warned us away from the shed, afraid we’d trip over tools and garden implements—although we knew there were worse dangers—and reminded us not to walk on her hens-and-chicks (sempervivum or houseleeks). We said we wouldn’t. We always did to hear the squeak-squeak under our shoes.
Grandma had a fold-down cot for me when I spent the night, and the silent house and ticking clocks made me homesick for familiar family sounds, but in the daytime, I loved to run through her yard, open the doors of her child-sized china cabinet, or stand at the edge of the mown section and gaze into her field at the back of her two acres. It was an experience to pump water in the kitchen, too, although the outhouse, beyond the shed, was no treat.
I knew very little about her background, although we met her half-sisters once at a family reunion. Old-fashioned farmwives, we thought, when they set up long tables outside the house with every kind of dish and dessert possible. “Take what ye want, but eat with ye take,” they told us. My brothers and I thought that ‘ye’ was hysterically funny.
Thanks to Ancestry, I’ve learned that Great-Grandma was born Anna Elizabeth McDonald in Blairsville IL June 20, 1886, had four half-sisters and a half-brother, married three times, lost a son at birth, and had a daughter (my grandma). Those years contain a treasure chest of stories I’ll never know.
In 1922 she married the man I knew as Great-Grandpa Miller, and they moved to Pontiac, and later to the tiny house in Avon Township.
What I did know about her was that she never grumbled about her difficult life, even though family stories included hardship, abuse, and abandonment. She lost the sight of one eye as a girl while making soap with lye. She must have been lonely after her last husband died, since they considered each other the loves of their lives.
She showed me a photograph once of her as a girl. “When I go to heaven,” she said, “that’s how I’ll look.”
She was close to Mom, and Mom cherished her the rest of her life. As did I, and was sorry she missed the birth of her first great-great-granddaughter, Anne.
Every year on our birthday, Grandma gave us jars of homemade jam with our name on the label—a real treat in a large family—and untouchable by anyone else. Every year she apologized for the gift, and added that it might be the last time she could wish us a happy birthday. We’d cry and Mom would remind us that she’d heard the same thing, every year, as a girl.
Whenever I see a pale blue sky through the branches of a flowering apple tree, I think of Great-Grandma Miller. Whenever I see hens-and-chicks, I’m tempted to walk on them. I’ll never be as forgiving and kind as she was, although I try.
And I’m still convinced there were ghouls and goblins hiding in the dim corners of her shed.
Great-Grandma Miller was a kind and patient woman who never said an unkind thing about anyone, and had an unwavering faith.
To a child, she was already old, and lived a quiet life on her own on North Grant in Avon Township. I visited there often, spending one or more nights in her tiny house. Barely remember my great-grandpa, just images of an old man sitting in the living room.
I say, living room, but her house had begun as a one-room cottage, with two lean-to’s added later for the kitchen and bedroom.
Outhouse. Hand pump in a dry sink. Tiny stove with an on-off oven. Doll-house sized china cabinet for dishes. She didn’t get cold running water for many years.
Her house was quiet, especially after eight of us in constant commotion. There were the sounds of clocks ticking. The faint fragrance of lavender.
We visited often as a family, too. My brothers and I strolled around the house, avoiding paper wasp nests, peeking in the tiny windows, and daring each other to get closer to the scary shed. Mom assured us it contained only hoes, shovels, rakes, wheelbarrow, and mower (rotary), but we knew there were hobgoblins and other nightmares waiting to grab a bold child. “Ghoulies and ghosties, long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night…”
Grandma planted perennials around her house, hens-and-chicks along her driveway, and at one time, had vegetables and berries in a back garden. She kept chickens in a coop with a fenced area when Mom was young—which later was the spooky shed. She canned fruit and vegetables, made pickles and jam, and stored everything in a root cellar at the back of the house. I saw the inside once, when she went down the steps to retrieve potatoes for a meal. Dirt floor, dark, cool, moist.
She wouldn’t let us check it out on family visits. Warned us away from the shed, afraid we’d trip over tools and garden implements—although we knew there were worse dangers—and reminded us not to walk on her hens-and-chicks (sempervivum or houseleeks). We said we wouldn’t. We always did to hear the squeak-squeak under our shoes.
Grandma had a fold-down cot for me when I spent the night, and the silent house and ticking clocks made me homesick for familiar family sounds, but in the daytime, I loved to run through her yard, open the doors of her child-sized china cabinet, or stand at the edge of the mown section and gaze into her field at the back of her two acres. It was an experience to pump water in the kitchen, too, although the outhouse, beyond the shed, was no treat.
I knew very little about her background, although we met her half-sisters once at a family reunion. Old-fashioned farmwives, we thought, when they set up long tables outside the house with every kind of dish and dessert possible. “Take what ye want, but eat with ye take,” they told us. My brothers and I thought that ‘ye’ was hysterically funny.
Thanks to Ancestry, I’ve learned that Great-Grandma was born Anna Elizabeth McDonald in Blairsville IL June 20, 1886, had four half-sisters and a half-brother, married three times, lost a son at birth, and had a daughter (my grandma). Those years contain a treasure chest of stories I’ll never know.
In 1922 she married the man I knew as Great-Grandpa Miller, and they moved to Pontiac, and later to the tiny house in Avon Township.
What I did know about her was that she never grumbled about her difficult life, even though family stories included hardship, abuse, and abandonment. She lost the sight of one eye as a girl while making soap with lye. She must have been lonely after her last husband died, since they considered each other the loves of their lives.
She showed me a photograph once of her as a girl. “When I go to heaven,” she said, “that’s how I’ll look.”
She was close to Mom, and Mom cherished her the rest of her life. As did I, and was sorry she missed the birth of her first great-great-granddaughter, Anne.
Every year on our birthday, Grandma gave us jars of homemade jam with our name on the label—a real treat in a large family—and untouchable by anyone else. Every year she apologized for the gift, and added that it might be the last time she could wish us a happy birthday. We’d cry and Mom would remind us that she’d heard the same thing, every year, as a girl.
Whenever I see a pale blue sky through the branches of a flowering apple tree, I think of Great-Grandma Miller. Whenever I see hens-and-chicks, I’m tempted to walk on them. I’ll never be as forgiving and kind as she was, although I try.
And I’m still convinced there were ghouls and goblins hiding in the dim corners of her shed.
August 19, 2023
Walking to Auburn Heights Elementary
We didn’t walk uphill to school both ways. We walked one-third of a mile each way along shady, pleasant South Squirrel Road to Auburn Heights Elementary. I can see our route as clearly as if that trip was last spring.
In truth, I only attended Auburn Heights Elementary one year, fourth grade (Mrs. Parr). The year before we lived in Pontiac and walked to LeBaron School (7/10 of a mile), and the following year, I rode a bus to Stone School (Mrs. Love).
But that one school year was pure magic.
“They walked three miles to and from school, uphill both ways,” comes from the Tallahassee Democrat newspaper, September 29, 1956.
Walking to school was no hardship. My friend Kay and I strolled or rode bikes to the Heights’ downtown on a regular basis, and we all headed for the School Hills, across from the school, winter (sledding) and summer (especially on the Fourth of July for fireworks).
My brother Dave and I were one year apart in grade, so walked to school together, picking up friends as we went.
Dave never wore a hat. Never. Even in the coldest winter weather, he stuffed his hat in a bush somewhere at the top of the street, and picked it up on the way home. I didn’t like to zip my coat, and we were all embarrassed by mitten strings. Kids are funny.
Our school was built in 1924 on the corner of Squirrel Road and Waukegan Street—and consisted at that time of four rooms. There was a second level when I attended in 1959. My mother-in-law was the last graduating class there, and I saw her class photo twice—once, in the basement of the school, and once in the archives of the Auburn Hills Historical Society. Young Evelyn Ward, with her senior class.
I recall leaf collections due in the fall, with leaves we’d plucked from local trees ironed between sheets of waxed paper and bound in a folder. Rock collections in the spring. Did my brothers have insect collections? Shudder.
Tonette classes for music, which I loved as a child, but must have been a nightmare for our visiting music teacher. All those screeching sounds trying to play a melody.
Many years later, as an adult, I worked at an elementary school in Florida, and was giving a new student and her parents a tour before her first day. We visited her grade-level classroom, the art room, the playground (always a favorite stop), and the music room. A tonette lesson was underway. I stood at the back of the class and made faces at Alice, the teacher, who was unable to respond, since she was showing her happy face to the enthusiastic class.
Auburn Heights Elementary was famous for the annual fall festival.
Duck pond with the tiny prizes, the cake walks, cotton candy and hot dogs in the cafeteria, and best of all, the White Elephant room, filled with knickknacks and undiscovered treasure to haul home.
But we were most famous for Mrs. Potbury, next door, who told Bible stories at lunchtime, baked bread, and sold seedlings for children to give mothers on special occasions, or grow in bedroom windows for future gardens.
Her house had been the Adams farm tenant house, and our neighborhood was once the Adams’ farm—Henry J Adams, grandchildren Caroline, Margaret, and Henrydale, and wife Bessie, the names of our streets.
My brother and I took turns choosing favorite houses on both sides of South Squirrel during our walks to and from school. The Potbury house isn’t red anymore and our school is gone—as are the School Hills—but on my last visit to the Heights, the houses we once passed on our way to school or to the Heights (downtown) were still recognizable.
Maybe, on some chilly fall mornings, my brother and I can be seen making our way to the ghost of our beloved school.
I like to think so.
And we’ll bring home one of Mrs. Potbury’s seedlings.
In truth, I only attended Auburn Heights Elementary one year, fourth grade (Mrs. Parr). The year before we lived in Pontiac and walked to LeBaron School (7/10 of a mile), and the following year, I rode a bus to Stone School (Mrs. Love).
But that one school year was pure magic.
“They walked three miles to and from school, uphill both ways,” comes from the Tallahassee Democrat newspaper, September 29, 1956.
Walking to school was no hardship. My friend Kay and I strolled or rode bikes to the Heights’ downtown on a regular basis, and we all headed for the School Hills, across from the school, winter (sledding) and summer (especially on the Fourth of July for fireworks).
My brother Dave and I were one year apart in grade, so walked to school together, picking up friends as we went.
Dave never wore a hat. Never. Even in the coldest winter weather, he stuffed his hat in a bush somewhere at the top of the street, and picked it up on the way home. I didn’t like to zip my coat, and we were all embarrassed by mitten strings. Kids are funny.
Our school was built in 1924 on the corner of Squirrel Road and Waukegan Street—and consisted at that time of four rooms. There was a second level when I attended in 1959. My mother-in-law was the last graduating class there, and I saw her class photo twice—once, in the basement of the school, and once in the archives of the Auburn Hills Historical Society. Young Evelyn Ward, with her senior class.
I recall leaf collections due in the fall, with leaves we’d plucked from local trees ironed between sheets of waxed paper and bound in a folder. Rock collections in the spring. Did my brothers have insect collections? Shudder.
Tonette classes for music, which I loved as a child, but must have been a nightmare for our visiting music teacher. All those screeching sounds trying to play a melody.
Many years later, as an adult, I worked at an elementary school in Florida, and was giving a new student and her parents a tour before her first day. We visited her grade-level classroom, the art room, the playground (always a favorite stop), and the music room. A tonette lesson was underway. I stood at the back of the class and made faces at Alice, the teacher, who was unable to respond, since she was showing her happy face to the enthusiastic class.
Auburn Heights Elementary was famous for the annual fall festival.
Duck pond with the tiny prizes, the cake walks, cotton candy and hot dogs in the cafeteria, and best of all, the White Elephant room, filled with knickknacks and undiscovered treasure to haul home.
But we were most famous for Mrs. Potbury, next door, who told Bible stories at lunchtime, baked bread, and sold seedlings for children to give mothers on special occasions, or grow in bedroom windows for future gardens.
Her house had been the Adams farm tenant house, and our neighborhood was once the Adams’ farm—Henry J Adams, grandchildren Caroline, Margaret, and Henrydale, and wife Bessie, the names of our streets.
My brother and I took turns choosing favorite houses on both sides of South Squirrel during our walks to and from school. The Potbury house isn’t red anymore and our school is gone—as are the School Hills—but on my last visit to the Heights, the houses we once passed on our way to school or to the Heights (downtown) were still recognizable.
Maybe, on some chilly fall mornings, my brother and I can be seen making our way to the ghost of our beloved school.
I like to think so.
And we’ll bring home one of Mrs. Potbury’s seedlings.
August 12, 2023
Wish for a Lighthouse
Aren’t most of us fascinated by lighthouses?
Michigan has 129 to choose from, the most remote being Stannard Rock Lighthouse (Lake Superior), 24 miles from Keweenaw Point and 44 miles from Marquette.
I enjoyed visiting the cozier Grand Traverse Lighthouse, (inside the Leelanau State Park), built in 1858 and remodeled in 1901 to accommodate two families.
Dave and I camped in the Bay area one summer, ate fresh cherries, and toured the lighthouse. At that time, a gentle, elderly woman stood near the back door of the house with a booklet she’d written about her life there as daughter of an assistant keeper, and would compose a few verses inside the back cover, if you had time.
We had time. She described bath times, winter, school, wash days, and the hard work the two men did to keep the light shining. But no more difficult work than that of the wives and mothers.
By 1910, there were 1,500 lighthouses constructed in the U.S. and 850 in operation, 267 of those on the shores of the Great Lakes. Michigan had 140, with Maine second in number at 80.
Michigan’s oldest lighthouse—Fort Gratiot—was built in 1814 to guard the St. Clair River and Lake Huron. Named for the construction engineer, Charles Gratiot, the fort would be occupied by the U.S. Army until 1879.
Early Egyptian lighthouses were built to identify harbors. The Pharos of Alexandria (280 BC) kept an open fire burning at the summit to welcome ships. Most of Scotland’s lighthouses, however, were designed by four generations of Robert Louis Stevenson’s family, on rocky islands, to create warning lights for sailors during storms.
Fires on hillsides gave way to coal or oil lamps backed by mirrors at the top of a lighthouse. But on dark, stormy nights, ships were unable to avoid crashing into coastlines until the early 1820’s, when Augustin Fresnel, a French physicist, invented a new lens—crystalline prisms arranged in a faceted dome to reflect refracted light. One lamp could be seen for many nautical miles. (One nautical mile is over 6,000 feet.)
During another magical summer, Dave and I toured the Upper Peninsula, from Whitefish Point to the Pictured Rocks shoreline. Of course, we saw Tahquamenon Falls and Marquette, and hiked through a cool forest (we won’t discuss the demonic black flies) to see the Au Sable Light Station.
I fell in love and never recovered. The entire time we walked around the brick house, oil and fog signal buildings, and the lighthouse, I imagined living there one year, summer to summer—with regular supplies, naturally—to write an amazing novel. Ghost story? Mystery? That didn’t matter as much as being so close to the crash and thrill of Lake Superior against the cliffs.
Built in 1873, the 86-foot tower extends 23 feet underground, anchored by bedrock. By 1909, an assistant keeper was hired, and two families lived in the house, one upstairs and one down. The Fresnel lens at the top of the tower was fueled by lard oil, and later, kerosene, and shone 17 miles.
It was a much-needed lighthouse since the sandstone reef at Au Sable Point was only a few feet below the surface in spots, and thick fog was common due to cool lake air and warm currents from the sand dunes. “In all navigation of Lake Superior,” reported the Marquette Mining Journal, July 29, 1871, “there is none more dreaded by the mariner than that from Whitefish Point to Grand Island.”
That would have made many exciting nights, safely tucked away in the brick house while waves crashed, the light flashing overhead, the Great American Novel underway.
Since keepers were required to keep light station journals, most of the entries concerned weather. From the Au Sable Light Station Journal, December 8, 1876:
“A.M. South light brees, cloudy, Snowing and freezing.
P.M. 5 oclock almost a hurricane frightfull Storm it blew down fifty trees or more close by the light house and tower would blow down as they shouk like a leafe the wind was N.W. by West Snowing and freesing it was the worst Storm I ever Saw on lake Superior” N. Beedon Keeper
The only other lighthouse I visited, and climbed, was in St. Augustine, a whooping 165 feet tall with 219 knee-knocking steps. Grand Traverse, home to the lovely poet lighthouse daughter, is 41 feet tall, but with a narrow winding staircase. No husky keepers need apply.
The last civilian lighthouse keeper in the U.S., Frank Schubert, died in 2003. The last lighthouse maintained by Coast Guard personnel was made automatic after 1998. Maybe the State Historic Preservation won't object to my living in the Au Sable lighthouse for one memorable year, after all.
I’m game!
Michigan has 129 to choose from, the most remote being Stannard Rock Lighthouse (Lake Superior), 24 miles from Keweenaw Point and 44 miles from Marquette.
I enjoyed visiting the cozier Grand Traverse Lighthouse, (inside the Leelanau State Park), built in 1858 and remodeled in 1901 to accommodate two families.
Dave and I camped in the Bay area one summer, ate fresh cherries, and toured the lighthouse. At that time, a gentle, elderly woman stood near the back door of the house with a booklet she’d written about her life there as daughter of an assistant keeper, and would compose a few verses inside the back cover, if you had time.
We had time. She described bath times, winter, school, wash days, and the hard work the two men did to keep the light shining. But no more difficult work than that of the wives and mothers.
By 1910, there were 1,500 lighthouses constructed in the U.S. and 850 in operation, 267 of those on the shores of the Great Lakes. Michigan had 140, with Maine second in number at 80.
Michigan’s oldest lighthouse—Fort Gratiot—was built in 1814 to guard the St. Clair River and Lake Huron. Named for the construction engineer, Charles Gratiot, the fort would be occupied by the U.S. Army until 1879.
Early Egyptian lighthouses were built to identify harbors. The Pharos of Alexandria (280 BC) kept an open fire burning at the summit to welcome ships. Most of Scotland’s lighthouses, however, were designed by four generations of Robert Louis Stevenson’s family, on rocky islands, to create warning lights for sailors during storms.
Fires on hillsides gave way to coal or oil lamps backed by mirrors at the top of a lighthouse. But on dark, stormy nights, ships were unable to avoid crashing into coastlines until the early 1820’s, when Augustin Fresnel, a French physicist, invented a new lens—crystalline prisms arranged in a faceted dome to reflect refracted light. One lamp could be seen for many nautical miles. (One nautical mile is over 6,000 feet.)
During another magical summer, Dave and I toured the Upper Peninsula, from Whitefish Point to the Pictured Rocks shoreline. Of course, we saw Tahquamenon Falls and Marquette, and hiked through a cool forest (we won’t discuss the demonic black flies) to see the Au Sable Light Station.
I fell in love and never recovered. The entire time we walked around the brick house, oil and fog signal buildings, and the lighthouse, I imagined living there one year, summer to summer—with regular supplies, naturally—to write an amazing novel. Ghost story? Mystery? That didn’t matter as much as being so close to the crash and thrill of Lake Superior against the cliffs.
Built in 1873, the 86-foot tower extends 23 feet underground, anchored by bedrock. By 1909, an assistant keeper was hired, and two families lived in the house, one upstairs and one down. The Fresnel lens at the top of the tower was fueled by lard oil, and later, kerosene, and shone 17 miles.
It was a much-needed lighthouse since the sandstone reef at Au Sable Point was only a few feet below the surface in spots, and thick fog was common due to cool lake air and warm currents from the sand dunes. “In all navigation of Lake Superior,” reported the Marquette Mining Journal, July 29, 1871, “there is none more dreaded by the mariner than that from Whitefish Point to Grand Island.”
That would have made many exciting nights, safely tucked away in the brick house while waves crashed, the light flashing overhead, the Great American Novel underway.
Since keepers were required to keep light station journals, most of the entries concerned weather. From the Au Sable Light Station Journal, December 8, 1876:
“A.M. South light brees, cloudy, Snowing and freezing.
P.M. 5 oclock almost a hurricane frightfull Storm it blew down fifty trees or more close by the light house and tower would blow down as they shouk like a leafe the wind was N.W. by West Snowing and freesing it was the worst Storm I ever Saw on lake Superior” N. Beedon Keeper
The only other lighthouse I visited, and climbed, was in St. Augustine, a whooping 165 feet tall with 219 knee-knocking steps. Grand Traverse, home to the lovely poet lighthouse daughter, is 41 feet tall, but with a narrow winding staircase. No husky keepers need apply.
The last civilian lighthouse keeper in the U.S., Frank Schubert, died in 2003. The last lighthouse maintained by Coast Guard personnel was made automatic after 1998. Maybe the State Historic Preservation won't object to my living in the Au Sable lighthouse for one memorable year, after all.
I’m game!
August 5, 2023
The Miracle of an Aunt
When our children were young, and even when they grew up, my sister JoAnn was their favorite person. Aunt JoAnn knew everything and was the best company. She delivered laughter, hugs, advice, and an ear to anything needing to be shared.
She was wonderful company to me, as well, and to my friends and coworkers.
As an aunt, she shone.
My sister Janet—her twin—had three children who adored her, as well, and could relate as many or more funny stories about their time together.
Aunts are a gift from God. Not quite a mother, sister, or grandmother, they’re closer, more accessible. I know, I have a favorite aunt, too.
When I was very young, my father’s sister was the only girl in their family, and younger than Mom. She went through terrible hardships when she got throat cancer in her twenties and had her larynx removed. She had to learn to speak by gulping air, and with a newborn and toddler.
Mom and Dad were her support system, and that awful experience bonded them. Mom and Aunt Patsy were friends. My Dad was her adored big brother, and they remained friends all his life.
Aunt Patsy is a life warrior in her gentle, ladylike way, an excellent role model. Of course, as a child, she was grown up to me—elegant, beautiful, and with an enviable house on South Cass Lake Road—wood floors, old-fashioned air, glorious living room and dining room, flower-filled yard, porch, and spooky basement. At Christmas, every room sparkled. In the summertime, it would have made a perfect bed-and-breakfast.
When I was old enough to work and raise children, we shared tea and books, and met at JL Hudson’s café during lunch hours.
To my mind, Hudson’s was also elegant and beautiful, outside my price range for regular shopping, but the perfect place for special occasions or quality items.
Their café was wonderful. My aunt and I would walk down the line to choose our entrees, and find a table overlooking the shopping wonderland below. I’d dive into chicken salad and tease my aunt about her penchant for selecting pasta salad.
I apologize to all you pasta lovers, but never saw the attraction for tasteless blobs of slippery noodles—macaroni-and-cheese is the worst—although I love potatoes. I realize I’m alone in this opinion, and each to our own, but Aunt Patsy loved her pasta salad from Hudson’s, and voted it excellent.
When her children grew up and left home, she and my uncle sold their house in Waterford Township and moved to White Lake. I drank tea with her at her kitchen table to share family news and favorite books, while spring peepers trilled from nearby ponds and woods.
Wonderful background music.
JL Hudson’s is gone, the café with it. JoAnn is gone, entertaining God and family in the Blessed Realm, and Aunt Patsy lives in a lovely assisted-living apartment in Pontiac. We share letters, tea bags, and favorite books, but I wish we could sit together at her table and listen to spring peepers, or even better, order cold salads from Hudson’s café.
I wouldn’t even tease her about pasta.
I can and do write her about those memories, but how can I express my gratitude and pleasure of those precious moments on paper?
The friendship of an aunt is a gift from God. Just ask my children.
Or me.
She was wonderful company to me, as well, and to my friends and coworkers.
As an aunt, she shone.
My sister Janet—her twin—had three children who adored her, as well, and could relate as many or more funny stories about their time together.
Aunts are a gift from God. Not quite a mother, sister, or grandmother, they’re closer, more accessible. I know, I have a favorite aunt, too.
When I was very young, my father’s sister was the only girl in their family, and younger than Mom. She went through terrible hardships when she got throat cancer in her twenties and had her larynx removed. She had to learn to speak by gulping air, and with a newborn and toddler.
Mom and Dad were her support system, and that awful experience bonded them. Mom and Aunt Patsy were friends. My Dad was her adored big brother, and they remained friends all his life.
Aunt Patsy is a life warrior in her gentle, ladylike way, an excellent role model. Of course, as a child, she was grown up to me—elegant, beautiful, and with an enviable house on South Cass Lake Road—wood floors, old-fashioned air, glorious living room and dining room, flower-filled yard, porch, and spooky basement. At Christmas, every room sparkled. In the summertime, it would have made a perfect bed-and-breakfast.
When I was old enough to work and raise children, we shared tea and books, and met at JL Hudson’s café during lunch hours.
To my mind, Hudson’s was also elegant and beautiful, outside my price range for regular shopping, but the perfect place for special occasions or quality items.
Their café was wonderful. My aunt and I would walk down the line to choose our entrees, and find a table overlooking the shopping wonderland below. I’d dive into chicken salad and tease my aunt about her penchant for selecting pasta salad.
I apologize to all you pasta lovers, but never saw the attraction for tasteless blobs of slippery noodles—macaroni-and-cheese is the worst—although I love potatoes. I realize I’m alone in this opinion, and each to our own, but Aunt Patsy loved her pasta salad from Hudson’s, and voted it excellent.
When her children grew up and left home, she and my uncle sold their house in Waterford Township and moved to White Lake. I drank tea with her at her kitchen table to share family news and favorite books, while spring peepers trilled from nearby ponds and woods.
Wonderful background music.
JL Hudson’s is gone, the café with it. JoAnn is gone, entertaining God and family in the Blessed Realm, and Aunt Patsy lives in a lovely assisted-living apartment in Pontiac. We share letters, tea bags, and favorite books, but I wish we could sit together at her table and listen to spring peepers, or even better, order cold salads from Hudson’s café.
I wouldn’t even tease her about pasta.
I can and do write her about those memories, but how can I express my gratitude and pleasure of those precious moments on paper?
The friendship of an aunt is a gift from God. Just ask my children.
Or me.
July 29, 2023
Graham Cracker Sandwiches and Overlapping Memories of the Heights
In our house we made our own frosting for cakes and cupcakes—either buttercream with butter, confectioner’s sugar, a drop of vanilla and water; or for special occasions, cream cheese frosting. No wedding cake fluff for us.
If there was any left, Mom let us make graham cracker sandwiches—two squares sealed with icing. Always welcome, like Rice Krispie treats or no-bake cookies. (Remember those?)
Certain scents and foods can transport me back to my childhood in the Heights.
Surprised my grandson with graham cracker sandwiches this week which triggered memories of Mom’s large kitchen and her horde of sugar-hungry children.
Mom was a great baker—homemade bread; cookies; cherry, rhubarb, or apple pies—and taught me how to make them, too. Rhubarb was picked from houses near us as it first appeared, excellent for sauce or pies, especially with fresh strawberries.
Tart (Montmorency) cherries showed up frozen, canned, in pies, in jams. One bite of cherry pie and I’m back on Caroline Street, moaning about picking another bucket of cherries for Mom (who was, by the way, slaving away in the kitchen with our deliveries).
Oatmeal cookies with maple extract were a wintertime favorite, along with Ovaltine or Bosco chocolate milk.
The aroma of roasting turkey stuffed with dressing is a time travel technique for reliving The Pied Piper of Hamelin movie with Van Johnson in the afternoon and The Wizard of Oz at night, after dessert. In those days, favorite holiday movies and programs were available once a year.
The only time appetites were more robust was when we went camping. We were always ravenous in the outside air. Could hardly wait for that frying bacon and eggs on the Coleman stove to be transferred to our camping plates.
The smell of newly-mowed grass takes me back to Tiger baseball afternoons in the endless summer days, or so they felt.
The Heights wasn’t always a childhood home, though. Dave and I married, bought my parents’ house, and raised our children there, as well. Seeing the Auburn Heights Elementary fall festival through adult eyes was like reliving the magic. Same for Halloween trick-or-treating and flares that lit the edges of yards up and down our streets.
We had our Christmas tree in the same spot as Mom and Dad’s, and pine scent means the excitement of the season and the anticipation of Christmas morning.
Lilacs in the late spring wind together the girl, wife, and mother. Angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream frosting means another birthday. Bread fresh from the oven calls for apple butter. Hot dogs split and grilled with cheese are Dad’s Saturday Dreams. I didn’t realize at the time how young he was, how young both my parents were.
Time doesn’t only march forward. It can wind around and return to younger days with one whiff of something from childhood, or one bite of an old favorite.
All this from spreading frosting on a graham cracker for my grandson this week.
Graham cracker sandwiches, the key to time travel.
If there was any left, Mom let us make graham cracker sandwiches—two squares sealed with icing. Always welcome, like Rice Krispie treats or no-bake cookies. (Remember those?)
Certain scents and foods can transport me back to my childhood in the Heights.
Surprised my grandson with graham cracker sandwiches this week which triggered memories of Mom’s large kitchen and her horde of sugar-hungry children.
Mom was a great baker—homemade bread; cookies; cherry, rhubarb, or apple pies—and taught me how to make them, too. Rhubarb was picked from houses near us as it first appeared, excellent for sauce or pies, especially with fresh strawberries.
Tart (Montmorency) cherries showed up frozen, canned, in pies, in jams. One bite of cherry pie and I’m back on Caroline Street, moaning about picking another bucket of cherries for Mom (who was, by the way, slaving away in the kitchen with our deliveries).
Oatmeal cookies with maple extract were a wintertime favorite, along with Ovaltine or Bosco chocolate milk.
The aroma of roasting turkey stuffed with dressing is a time travel technique for reliving The Pied Piper of Hamelin movie with Van Johnson in the afternoon and The Wizard of Oz at night, after dessert. In those days, favorite holiday movies and programs were available once a year.
The only time appetites were more robust was when we went camping. We were always ravenous in the outside air. Could hardly wait for that frying bacon and eggs on the Coleman stove to be transferred to our camping plates.
The smell of newly-mowed grass takes me back to Tiger baseball afternoons in the endless summer days, or so they felt.
The Heights wasn’t always a childhood home, though. Dave and I married, bought my parents’ house, and raised our children there, as well. Seeing the Auburn Heights Elementary fall festival through adult eyes was like reliving the magic. Same for Halloween trick-or-treating and flares that lit the edges of yards up and down our streets.
We had our Christmas tree in the same spot as Mom and Dad’s, and pine scent means the excitement of the season and the anticipation of Christmas morning.
Lilacs in the late spring wind together the girl, wife, and mother. Angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream frosting means another birthday. Bread fresh from the oven calls for apple butter. Hot dogs split and grilled with cheese are Dad’s Saturday Dreams. I didn’t realize at the time how young he was, how young both my parents were.
Time doesn’t only march forward. It can wind around and return to younger days with one whiff of something from childhood, or one bite of an old favorite.
All this from spreading frosting on a graham cracker for my grandson this week.
Graham cracker sandwiches, the key to time travel.
July 22, 2023
Coffee from Kenya to a Porch in the Heights
Freshly-brewed, hot and steaming, the rich aroma drifts around the kitchen—there’s nothing like that first cup of coffee in the morning.
My brother Dave, who shudders at the thought of drinking it, teases me when I call it the “drink of the refined" by murmuring, "Rosie’s Truck Stop.” But some of the best coffee is brewed at diners.
Don’t (can’t) live without it now, but I didn’t crave coffee until I was expecting our second child, and had to wait until he was born to enjoy it. Smelled heavenly as a child, but I couldn’t understand how adults could drink something that didn’t taste anything like the fragrance.
I was wrong. It does.
At the first sound of thunder from Caroline Street, Dave or I would hurry into the kitchen to start fresh coffee. We carried steaming mugs to the front porch and settled to watch the storm gather, roll through, and head for Rochester.
Birds fluttered ahead of the rain. Rain fell around the covered porch. That was good for at least two cups of coffee. When the sky began to clear, birds sang again, and the performance was over for us.
Until the next time.
Like a wine aficionado, we've tried various blends of beans—from Kenya, Guatemala, Columbia, the Island of Hawaii—with preferred brands and roasts. Dark but not bitter win most tasting contests, nor do we have to buy specialty brands. Folger’s Gourmet Supreme and Black Silk were and are favorites. Starbucks Veranda Blend. The no-longer-available Millstone Foglifter was the best.
But even more important are the settings for this fragrant, brewed delight.
Kitchen tables with my daughter Anne sharing family events, funny incidents from jobs, wishes, plans. My niece Jenny offering a refill as she relates another hilarious family story. My writing table in the morning, journal open, sunlight streaming through the window, pen dancing.
I had a coffeemaker in my office at the elementary school where I worked in Florida. My waitress friend April popped in for a cup whenever possible, and didn’t care if the coffee had been on the heater too long. “Waitress coffee,” she’d say, “I’m familiar with that.” She’d pull up the rocker and share moments of real life before her class returned from art or music.
Africa is known for the world’s best coffees, with South American and Hawaii on the list. The evergreen, flowering coffea arabica was the first cultivated coffee bean and still the dominant source, discovered in South Ethiopia.
And how did this popular beverage begin?
An Ethiopian legend tells of the goat herder Kaldi finding his goats eating small red berries and jumping with unusual fervor. He took a handful of the berries to a nearby monastery who called them a devil’s creation and threw them into the fire. The roasted seeds produced an enticing aroma, so were stirred into hot water and savored.
The truth is probably that the chewed berries were eventually imbibed as a liquid, as well, and made their way to Arab tribes in Yemen, where the beans were roasted in the drink we know. Coffee trees were brought to Hawaii in 1813 and grown as a crop by 1850.
Over two billion cups of coffee are consumed daily around the world, and I do my share.
For morning journal time, an afternoon break, after dinner treat, in a thick, handled mug or a bone china teacup on a saucer, I cherish my coffee.
When I hear the rumble of distant thunder, I pour a cup and relive those happy moments from our front porch on Caroline Street, neighborhood and town around me, the home that one day I’d miss more than I could know at the time.
I make fresh coffee when I write Anne a letter to share news from my table to hers. In the afternoon when I feel wilted. After dinner. Before breakfast.
I anticipate superior roasted beans in the Blessed Realm when my time comes. In the meantime, I’m pouring a refill in my Old Country Roses teacup, and collecting pen and stationery to visit Anne.
No doubt she’ll be sipping her local blend when she answers me.
“A day without coffee is like…just kidding. I have no idea.”
My brother Dave, who shudders at the thought of drinking it, teases me when I call it the “drink of the refined" by murmuring, "Rosie’s Truck Stop.” But some of the best coffee is brewed at diners.
Don’t (can’t) live without it now, but I didn’t crave coffee until I was expecting our second child, and had to wait until he was born to enjoy it. Smelled heavenly as a child, but I couldn’t understand how adults could drink something that didn’t taste anything like the fragrance.
I was wrong. It does.
At the first sound of thunder from Caroline Street, Dave or I would hurry into the kitchen to start fresh coffee. We carried steaming mugs to the front porch and settled to watch the storm gather, roll through, and head for Rochester.
Birds fluttered ahead of the rain. Rain fell around the covered porch. That was good for at least two cups of coffee. When the sky began to clear, birds sang again, and the performance was over for us.
Until the next time.
Like a wine aficionado, we've tried various blends of beans—from Kenya, Guatemala, Columbia, the Island of Hawaii—with preferred brands and roasts. Dark but not bitter win most tasting contests, nor do we have to buy specialty brands. Folger’s Gourmet Supreme and Black Silk were and are favorites. Starbucks Veranda Blend. The no-longer-available Millstone Foglifter was the best.
But even more important are the settings for this fragrant, brewed delight.
Kitchen tables with my daughter Anne sharing family events, funny incidents from jobs, wishes, plans. My niece Jenny offering a refill as she relates another hilarious family story. My writing table in the morning, journal open, sunlight streaming through the window, pen dancing.
I had a coffeemaker in my office at the elementary school where I worked in Florida. My waitress friend April popped in for a cup whenever possible, and didn’t care if the coffee had been on the heater too long. “Waitress coffee,” she’d say, “I’m familiar with that.” She’d pull up the rocker and share moments of real life before her class returned from art or music.
Africa is known for the world’s best coffees, with South American and Hawaii on the list. The evergreen, flowering coffea arabica was the first cultivated coffee bean and still the dominant source, discovered in South Ethiopia.
And how did this popular beverage begin?
An Ethiopian legend tells of the goat herder Kaldi finding his goats eating small red berries and jumping with unusual fervor. He took a handful of the berries to a nearby monastery who called them a devil’s creation and threw them into the fire. The roasted seeds produced an enticing aroma, so were stirred into hot water and savored.
The truth is probably that the chewed berries were eventually imbibed as a liquid, as well, and made their way to Arab tribes in Yemen, where the beans were roasted in the drink we know. Coffee trees were brought to Hawaii in 1813 and grown as a crop by 1850.
Over two billion cups of coffee are consumed daily around the world, and I do my share.
For morning journal time, an afternoon break, after dinner treat, in a thick, handled mug or a bone china teacup on a saucer, I cherish my coffee.
When I hear the rumble of distant thunder, I pour a cup and relive those happy moments from our front porch on Caroline Street, neighborhood and town around me, the home that one day I’d miss more than I could know at the time.
I make fresh coffee when I write Anne a letter to share news from my table to hers. In the afternoon when I feel wilted. After dinner. Before breakfast.
I anticipate superior roasted beans in the Blessed Realm when my time comes. In the meantime, I’m pouring a refill in my Old Country Roses teacup, and collecting pen and stationery to visit Anne.
No doubt she’ll be sipping her local blend when she answers me.
“A day without coffee is like…just kidding. I have no idea.”
July 15, 2023
Water Pumps and Potted Meat Sandwiches
Years before Mom and Dad bought ten acres in Kalkaska, they packed a tent, sleeping bags, camping groceries, and six children in the car to head for a campground.
Those were the days before reservations, when Dad’s two-week vacation in the summertime meant fighting that last mosquito in the tent, swimming in the campground lake, toasting marshmallows around the campfire at night.
On the way to the chosen campground—State Forest for semi-civilization or National Forest for the more rugged at heart—we’d stop at one of the roadside parks for a picnic on the way.
We didn’t have the luxury of diners or restaurants. Mom packed lunch in a basket with plastic tablecloth, bread, peanut butter, jelly, cookies, plastic glasses, and potted meat. The same children who whined and gagged at Spam gobbled potted meat sandwiches, with butter or on plain bread, like voracious locusts.
I still enjoy them. Helps me relive those early memories.
Roadside parks were scattered around Michigan roads. Those were also the days before freeways, so our routes ran through small towns, past forest patches and lakesides, with designated picnic areas, the earliest rest stops, for meals along the way.
They offered an outhouse, a rustic picnic table, and a hand pump. Once my brothers and I were old enough, we were assigned the task of filling a pitcher with cold well water. There was at least one roadside park that offered mineral water, which made us wrinkle our noses, sure we were being poisoned.
No meal tasted better than those picnic breaks with sandwiches that melted on the way down, chips (New Era or Charles Chips), and chocolate chip or oatmeal cookies.
Michigan created the first mile of concrete road, painted the first highway centerline, and invented the roadside park.
Herbert Larson, Iron County’s Road Commission manager, made a trip in 1918 to northern Wisconsin with friends, intending to picnic on the way, but only private resorts were available. He decided to do something about that in the U.P. when he returned. He convinced the county commission to buy wooded land four miles east of Iron River and designate it a roadside park. He added the picnic table to invite travelers to stop.
Expressways and rest stops are commonplace on treks, with shaded tables for picnics, but they can’t compare with the quiet, peaceful spots against the woods and water of my childhood, Mom spreading sandwich filler, the squeak of the water pump.
My sister JoAnn and I relived the pleasures of a summer afternoon picnic—at the Heights library grounds with egg salad sandwiches, iced tea, and Pepperidge Farm cookies. At Cranbrook House gardens on the stone balcony overlooking woods. Downtown Dade City in Florida with traffic slipping around the park.
One of my favorite picnic memories was a sunny afternoon when our daughter Anne was very young. My assignment was to take our new van to a detailing shop for a roof vent, and wait until it was done. I packed a traditional picnic lunch, found a spot in the wildflower field next door, and let Anne explore the area.
Now, our daughter was always ready to check out new surroundings, new people, new food, new experiences, so she marched around the tablecloth, picked flowers, and studied the wilderness with the intent focus of a scientist. Somewhere in our family pictures is the snapshot I took of her, head down, shoulders back, delighting in the new setting.
Just like the six of us at a roadside park, lunch ready, camping ahead, savoring Michigan summer.
Throw a red-and-white checked tablecloth over a picnic table, pour a cold drink, unwrap the bread, pop open the potted meat, offer cookies and chips, and I’m a time-traveler.
I can make myself a potted meat sandwich and still enjoy it, but you know, it’s not the same. Guess it takes a child’s appetite and Mom to pass me one.
Those were the days before reservations, when Dad’s two-week vacation in the summertime meant fighting that last mosquito in the tent, swimming in the campground lake, toasting marshmallows around the campfire at night.
On the way to the chosen campground—State Forest for semi-civilization or National Forest for the more rugged at heart—we’d stop at one of the roadside parks for a picnic on the way.
We didn’t have the luxury of diners or restaurants. Mom packed lunch in a basket with plastic tablecloth, bread, peanut butter, jelly, cookies, plastic glasses, and potted meat. The same children who whined and gagged at Spam gobbled potted meat sandwiches, with butter or on plain bread, like voracious locusts.
I still enjoy them. Helps me relive those early memories.
Roadside parks were scattered around Michigan roads. Those were also the days before freeways, so our routes ran through small towns, past forest patches and lakesides, with designated picnic areas, the earliest rest stops, for meals along the way.
They offered an outhouse, a rustic picnic table, and a hand pump. Once my brothers and I were old enough, we were assigned the task of filling a pitcher with cold well water. There was at least one roadside park that offered mineral water, which made us wrinkle our noses, sure we were being poisoned.
No meal tasted better than those picnic breaks with sandwiches that melted on the way down, chips (New Era or Charles Chips), and chocolate chip or oatmeal cookies.
Michigan created the first mile of concrete road, painted the first highway centerline, and invented the roadside park.
Herbert Larson, Iron County’s Road Commission manager, made a trip in 1918 to northern Wisconsin with friends, intending to picnic on the way, but only private resorts were available. He decided to do something about that in the U.P. when he returned. He convinced the county commission to buy wooded land four miles east of Iron River and designate it a roadside park. He added the picnic table to invite travelers to stop.
Expressways and rest stops are commonplace on treks, with shaded tables for picnics, but they can’t compare with the quiet, peaceful spots against the woods and water of my childhood, Mom spreading sandwich filler, the squeak of the water pump.
My sister JoAnn and I relived the pleasures of a summer afternoon picnic—at the Heights library grounds with egg salad sandwiches, iced tea, and Pepperidge Farm cookies. At Cranbrook House gardens on the stone balcony overlooking woods. Downtown Dade City in Florida with traffic slipping around the park.
One of my favorite picnic memories was a sunny afternoon when our daughter Anne was very young. My assignment was to take our new van to a detailing shop for a roof vent, and wait until it was done. I packed a traditional picnic lunch, found a spot in the wildflower field next door, and let Anne explore the area.
Now, our daughter was always ready to check out new surroundings, new people, new food, new experiences, so she marched around the tablecloth, picked flowers, and studied the wilderness with the intent focus of a scientist. Somewhere in our family pictures is the snapshot I took of her, head down, shoulders back, delighting in the new setting.
Just like the six of us at a roadside park, lunch ready, camping ahead, savoring Michigan summer.
Throw a red-and-white checked tablecloth over a picnic table, pour a cold drink, unwrap the bread, pop open the potted meat, offer cookies and chips, and I’m a time-traveler.
I can make myself a potted meat sandwich and still enjoy it, but you know, it’s not the same. Guess it takes a child’s appetite and Mom to pass me one.
July 8, 2023
Bluegills Biting and All's Well
By high summer, bluegills were no longer on their beds, which made fishing for them include rowing around the lake, tossing lines, and watching for bobber action.
When I wasn’t admiring the scenery.
Highlights of a Michigan summer.
Clouds would gather and the wind turn still. Light, breezy weather after a storm was no time to promise a panfish dinner. Ruffled water and fresh air, however delightful for the angler, kept fish away from our lines. But before rain or a thunderstorm, when falling barometer readings sent birds darting from tree to tree, we could return to shore with enough fish to fill a skillet or two.
We’d find a weedy area near a drop-off and take out a fresh nightcrawler. Yes, I managed to bait my own hooks, unless we used crickets.
Not for any money.
Those little buggers escaped their cage and hopped around the boat, so even when Dave set my hook, I spent half my attention watching for six-legged invaders jumping in my direction.
I miss fishing on a Michigan summer morning, afternoon, or evening.
Dave was a true sports fisherman. He preferred the challenge of hooking largemouth bass, lurking on the lake edge near logs or water lilies, dawn or dusk, and experimented with various lures. Since bass hunted in dim light, pre-sunrise and post-sunset were the best times to trick them, or on an overcast day in light rain.
I enjoyed the setting, but was more likely to be gazing at the treeline or cloud colors, inhaling fresh air, and daydreaming across still water.
We spent many hours on Pontiac Lake in Waterford Township or Wildwood Lake at Holly’s State Park. At the campground one afternoon, a tent neighbor taught Dave the best way to fillet fish, and he passed on the secrets to me. I even had my own (small) fillet knife, and from that time on, filleted everything I caught, regardless of size.
Instead of peeling rib bones from fried fish, I dipped fillets in pancake flour, frying them in butter and oil. Popped them in—mouth-watering.
The best inland lake fish for eating, though, were yellow perch. Nothing matched their firm, distinctive flavor, and they win my vote for the best-eating fish possible.
They were also excellent for ice fishing, since they stayed active all winter, shallow or deeper, and could be found in inland lakes, the Great Lakes, Lake St. Clair, Saginaw Bay, eastern U.P, and across southern Michigan.
Bass were more of a challenge, and the goal was to win the battle with the biggest largemouth in the lake, not shared, of course, by the irritable piscine fighter.
The record for a largemouth bass in Michigan was in 1934, William Maloney, who caught a 11.9-pound bass, 27 inches long, at Big Pine Island Lake in Kent County. (The average largemouth bass is around two-four pounds).
Our most memorable bass fishing night was in the Kalkaska area, at a small lake near my parents’ ten-acre property. The night was still, the moon full, and there wasn’t another human for miles.
Or so we thought.
Dave was preparing to toss his line again at a mess of weeds when someone threw a boulder at our rowboat, barely missing us. Splash! I inhaled so hard, I squeaked, but there were no voices and no one on shore. A moment later, it happened again, a thunderous noise, on the other side of the boat.
We’d threatened the local beaver, who slapped the water with his tail to warn us away.
It worked.
I’d have been contented to fish inland lakes forever, but Dave discovered the thrill of walleye fishing, and we spent most of our time on Lake St. Clair where he aimed for the limit, while I apologized again for catching my hook on one of the underwater blocks.
One afternoon, when my hook jammed, I opened my mouth to request moving the boat when my line tightened and moved.
“I’ve got something,” I said, “and it’s heavy.”
“Keep the line tight, not too tight, let it run…”
I could barely hold on to my reel when the monster leaped from the water, spit out my bothersome hook, and splashed into the lake.
A sturgeon.
The thing was bigger than our children.
Yes, it was thrilling, but no, I didn’t reel it in. In fact, it bent my pole and stripped the reel.
Walleye (yellow pickerel) were as exciting. Predators with teeth, the largest of the perch family were plentiful and migrated, so finding moving schools was part of the challenge.
They snapped up live bait or lures, and weighed from three-seven pounds, or more, so made the attempts to land one memorable. Good eating, too—tender, flaky, almost sweet when fried in our cast iron skillet.
I’m sorry, but fish in warm Florida lakes can’t compare to the fillets we gobbled in those Michigan summer days.
I miss Michigan summer afternoons. Miss sitting in a rowboat, line in the water, waiting for the bobber to promise action, and inhaling leisure and views of water, sky, and lush trees.
And anticipating fish dinner.
When I wasn’t admiring the scenery.
Highlights of a Michigan summer.
Clouds would gather and the wind turn still. Light, breezy weather after a storm was no time to promise a panfish dinner. Ruffled water and fresh air, however delightful for the angler, kept fish away from our lines. But before rain or a thunderstorm, when falling barometer readings sent birds darting from tree to tree, we could return to shore with enough fish to fill a skillet or two.
We’d find a weedy area near a drop-off and take out a fresh nightcrawler. Yes, I managed to bait my own hooks, unless we used crickets.
Not for any money.
Those little buggers escaped their cage and hopped around the boat, so even when Dave set my hook, I spent half my attention watching for six-legged invaders jumping in my direction.
I miss fishing on a Michigan summer morning, afternoon, or evening.
Dave was a true sports fisherman. He preferred the challenge of hooking largemouth bass, lurking on the lake edge near logs or water lilies, dawn or dusk, and experimented with various lures. Since bass hunted in dim light, pre-sunrise and post-sunset were the best times to trick them, or on an overcast day in light rain.
I enjoyed the setting, but was more likely to be gazing at the treeline or cloud colors, inhaling fresh air, and daydreaming across still water.
We spent many hours on Pontiac Lake in Waterford Township or Wildwood Lake at Holly’s State Park. At the campground one afternoon, a tent neighbor taught Dave the best way to fillet fish, and he passed on the secrets to me. I even had my own (small) fillet knife, and from that time on, filleted everything I caught, regardless of size.
Instead of peeling rib bones from fried fish, I dipped fillets in pancake flour, frying them in butter and oil. Popped them in—mouth-watering.
The best inland lake fish for eating, though, were yellow perch. Nothing matched their firm, distinctive flavor, and they win my vote for the best-eating fish possible.
They were also excellent for ice fishing, since they stayed active all winter, shallow or deeper, and could be found in inland lakes, the Great Lakes, Lake St. Clair, Saginaw Bay, eastern U.P, and across southern Michigan.
Bass were more of a challenge, and the goal was to win the battle with the biggest largemouth in the lake, not shared, of course, by the irritable piscine fighter.
The record for a largemouth bass in Michigan was in 1934, William Maloney, who caught a 11.9-pound bass, 27 inches long, at Big Pine Island Lake in Kent County. (The average largemouth bass is around two-four pounds).
Our most memorable bass fishing night was in the Kalkaska area, at a small lake near my parents’ ten-acre property. The night was still, the moon full, and there wasn’t another human for miles.
Or so we thought.
Dave was preparing to toss his line again at a mess of weeds when someone threw a boulder at our rowboat, barely missing us. Splash! I inhaled so hard, I squeaked, but there were no voices and no one on shore. A moment later, it happened again, a thunderous noise, on the other side of the boat.
We’d threatened the local beaver, who slapped the water with his tail to warn us away.
It worked.
I’d have been contented to fish inland lakes forever, but Dave discovered the thrill of walleye fishing, and we spent most of our time on Lake St. Clair where he aimed for the limit, while I apologized again for catching my hook on one of the underwater blocks.
One afternoon, when my hook jammed, I opened my mouth to request moving the boat when my line tightened and moved.
“I’ve got something,” I said, “and it’s heavy.”
“Keep the line tight, not too tight, let it run…”
I could barely hold on to my reel when the monster leaped from the water, spit out my bothersome hook, and splashed into the lake.
A sturgeon.
The thing was bigger than our children.
Yes, it was thrilling, but no, I didn’t reel it in. In fact, it bent my pole and stripped the reel.
Walleye (yellow pickerel) were as exciting. Predators with teeth, the largest of the perch family were plentiful and migrated, so finding moving schools was part of the challenge.
They snapped up live bait or lures, and weighed from three-seven pounds, or more, so made the attempts to land one memorable. Good eating, too—tender, flaky, almost sweet when fried in our cast iron skillet.
I’m sorry, but fish in warm Florida lakes can’t compare to the fillets we gobbled in those Michigan summer days.
I miss Michigan summer afternoons. Miss sitting in a rowboat, line in the water, waiting for the bobber to promise action, and inhaling leisure and views of water, sky, and lush trees.
And anticipating fish dinner.
July 1, 2023
Fireworks in the School Hills
We’ve shared our memories of the fireworks display in the School Hills on the Fourth of July, but Independence Day draws me back to my childhood in the Heights. Since I'm reliving family and community traditions, I wanted to share them with you again, as well.
Of course, there was our annual parade. My brothers and I walked up Squirrel Road to Auburn to get our best view of the band, local dignitaries, mounted sheriffs, our firetruck and volunteer Fire Department, Jaycees, and more that blur in my mind. Horses, majorettes twirling batons, waving flags, and the sound of drums remains the most vivid.
The parade went on, regardless of weather, but I recall many more sunny days than rainy ones.
Mom put together a picnic supper for the late afternoon’s trip to the School Hills. We packed dinner, blankets, drinks, and our youngest in a wagon and pulled it down the sidewalks to get the best spot for the festivities. That meant a hilltop, if possible, although the area for the firemen to light fireworks was out of bounds.
Someone in the community donated a decrepit shed every year for the Fire Department to set ablaze. They demonstrated their speed at procuring water hoses and dousing the flames. Boys tried to get as close as possible to the water spray, but the performance was managed every year without youthful assistance.
Not everyone could walk to the School Hills, so cars were parked along the roads. In my memory, the slopes and hills were crowded with moving color and happy noise.
Dusk to darkness lasted an eternity. Mosquitos flew in. Children ran, quarreled, and played on the slopes. Parents gossiped. We gobbled our sandwiches and Kool-Aid as we took in the sight of countless families settling for the evening show.
Once it grew dark enough, lucky children were allowed to swoop sparklers and draw pictures in the air. The flashing yellow-white lights danced around the School Hills. They burned out quickly, but for those moments, we held sparking fire in our fingers.
As the sky darkened, excitement grew, and when it got dark enough, we watched for the telltale red flare which meant the fireworks were being prepared. Noise hushed and people settled to be sure and see every explosion we’d supported with Halloween flares.
Since Dad was one of the men who lit the fireworks, we Russell children anxiously watched each dark figure run with the red flare to ignite the displays.
Always competitive, my brothers, sisters, and I would claim the next burst. The lucky ones got Roman candles, my favorites, and we were convinced that every loud bang without a shower of color was a dud, a firework promise that failed. That kid would get elbows and jeers until the next possibility was claimed.
Twinkles, shimmers, sparkles sprayed the sky, scattered overhead, and fell to the ground.
Occasionally, a small fire burst from the grass and every child near enough ran to share the excitement. But not before a fireman made certain there was no danger.
The oohs and ahs were heard from one edge of the Hills to the other, until the grand finale—the American flag, lit to flare and burn in red, white, and blue while the National Anthem played.
Ah, those were the days of celebration, when patriotism was within the community, as well as nation-wide.
I miss those days, that community, those fireworks.
I wish each of you a glorious celebration of our nation, 247 years of Independence Day commemorations, whether you share a family picnic, watch fireworks, or simply stop to recall the birth of a nation.
Even John Philip Sousa in Washington DC couldn’t compete in my memory for the best Fourth of July evenings.
To all of you who grew up in the Heights, you know exactly what I mean.
Happy Fourth!
Of course, there was our annual parade. My brothers and I walked up Squirrel Road to Auburn to get our best view of the band, local dignitaries, mounted sheriffs, our firetruck and volunteer Fire Department, Jaycees, and more that blur in my mind. Horses, majorettes twirling batons, waving flags, and the sound of drums remains the most vivid.
The parade went on, regardless of weather, but I recall many more sunny days than rainy ones.
Mom put together a picnic supper for the late afternoon’s trip to the School Hills. We packed dinner, blankets, drinks, and our youngest in a wagon and pulled it down the sidewalks to get the best spot for the festivities. That meant a hilltop, if possible, although the area for the firemen to light fireworks was out of bounds.
Someone in the community donated a decrepit shed every year for the Fire Department to set ablaze. They demonstrated their speed at procuring water hoses and dousing the flames. Boys tried to get as close as possible to the water spray, but the performance was managed every year without youthful assistance.
Not everyone could walk to the School Hills, so cars were parked along the roads. In my memory, the slopes and hills were crowded with moving color and happy noise.
Dusk to darkness lasted an eternity. Mosquitos flew in. Children ran, quarreled, and played on the slopes. Parents gossiped. We gobbled our sandwiches and Kool-Aid as we took in the sight of countless families settling for the evening show.
Once it grew dark enough, lucky children were allowed to swoop sparklers and draw pictures in the air. The flashing yellow-white lights danced around the School Hills. They burned out quickly, but for those moments, we held sparking fire in our fingers.
As the sky darkened, excitement grew, and when it got dark enough, we watched for the telltale red flare which meant the fireworks were being prepared. Noise hushed and people settled to be sure and see every explosion we’d supported with Halloween flares.
Since Dad was one of the men who lit the fireworks, we Russell children anxiously watched each dark figure run with the red flare to ignite the displays.
Always competitive, my brothers, sisters, and I would claim the next burst. The lucky ones got Roman candles, my favorites, and we were convinced that every loud bang without a shower of color was a dud, a firework promise that failed. That kid would get elbows and jeers until the next possibility was claimed.
Twinkles, shimmers, sparkles sprayed the sky, scattered overhead, and fell to the ground.
Occasionally, a small fire burst from the grass and every child near enough ran to share the excitement. But not before a fireman made certain there was no danger.
The oohs and ahs were heard from one edge of the Hills to the other, until the grand finale—the American flag, lit to flare and burn in red, white, and blue while the National Anthem played.
Ah, those were the days of celebration, when patriotism was within the community, as well as nation-wide.
I miss those days, that community, those fireworks.
I wish each of you a glorious celebration of our nation, 247 years of Independence Day commemorations, whether you share a family picnic, watch fireworks, or simply stop to recall the birth of a nation.
Even John Philip Sousa in Washington DC couldn’t compete in my memory for the best Fourth of July evenings.
To all of you who grew up in the Heights, you know exactly what I mean.
Happy Fourth!
June 24, 2023
An Afternoon Like Michigan June
Nothing can compare with June in Michigan.
The past week or so I’ve been following Jerry’s travels, complete with tantalizing pictures, especially during his trek across Michigan. Inhaled vicariously his drive and stops. And I thank you, Jerry.
Dave and I were rewarded with a trip to northern South Carolina to visit Anne, our daughter and her family. Now, I haven’t seen her face-to-face in a while, so longed to sit at her table with freshly-brewed coffee and share daily events.
The ten-hour drive each way was more pleasant than I’d anticipated, even through Atlanta, and our visit was everything I’d hoped for, a gift.
Yes, we had our coffee and iced tea at the table. Yes, we talked, laughed, shared. Saw grandchildren and great-grandchildren in a happy chaos of meals, noise, and family stories. In a way, it was like going home to the Heights. The weather was as lovely as a June afternoon in Michigan.
Anne’s house is spacious, with open rooms—perfect for her and Bernie, for any combination of overnight and visiting grandchildren, two (large) dogs and three cats, and is surrounded by seven acres of green yard lined by forest. Beautiful.
When Anne had to leave for work, Dave and I sat on the front porch and inhaled the view, breeze, birdsongs, and sight of Bernie mowing his enormous lawn, in sections.
We could have been back in the Heights.
Wind in the treetops, cardinals and blue jays calling, and miracle of miracles for me, the lilting warble of a robin. I haven’t heard a robin sing in years, since they’re silent on their way through our Florida neighborhood to nesting grounds farther north.
Father’s Day was a family dinner with the Shank-famous raspberry steamed pudding, homemade in a clever version of a double boiler.
Perfect.
When I don’t see family members in person regularly, children pop up, almost unrecognizable, from visit to visit. On my last trip to see Anne, the temperature dropped 40 degrees from Florida, with chilly rain, a shock to my system.
Anne doesn’t change. She’s still the perky, energetic, saucy, clever, talented, devoted woman she’s been since high school. She’s earned an impressive degree, worked at one of the most difficult jobs available, yet is still able to see goodness in life and people. Did I tell her how proud I am of her and her family?
Nope. Instead, I gossiped, laughed, shared family stories and memories, and sat speechless at how grown the great-grands are.
And savored every moment of that visit.
When I close my eyes, I can find myself on her porch with a warm breeze, birds singing, and fresh coffee available, delighted that she has the husband, home, and life she deserves.
We could have been back in Michigan on that mild, green afternoon.
Even when I can’t get back to the Heights, there are times when it finds me, anyway.
Once a Michigander…
The past week or so I’ve been following Jerry’s travels, complete with tantalizing pictures, especially during his trek across Michigan. Inhaled vicariously his drive and stops. And I thank you, Jerry.
Dave and I were rewarded with a trip to northern South Carolina to visit Anne, our daughter and her family. Now, I haven’t seen her face-to-face in a while, so longed to sit at her table with freshly-brewed coffee and share daily events.
The ten-hour drive each way was more pleasant than I’d anticipated, even through Atlanta, and our visit was everything I’d hoped for, a gift.
Yes, we had our coffee and iced tea at the table. Yes, we talked, laughed, shared. Saw grandchildren and great-grandchildren in a happy chaos of meals, noise, and family stories. In a way, it was like going home to the Heights. The weather was as lovely as a June afternoon in Michigan.
Anne’s house is spacious, with open rooms—perfect for her and Bernie, for any combination of overnight and visiting grandchildren, two (large) dogs and three cats, and is surrounded by seven acres of green yard lined by forest. Beautiful.
When Anne had to leave for work, Dave and I sat on the front porch and inhaled the view, breeze, birdsongs, and sight of Bernie mowing his enormous lawn, in sections.
We could have been back in the Heights.
Wind in the treetops, cardinals and blue jays calling, and miracle of miracles for me, the lilting warble of a robin. I haven’t heard a robin sing in years, since they’re silent on their way through our Florida neighborhood to nesting grounds farther north.
Father’s Day was a family dinner with the Shank-famous raspberry steamed pudding, homemade in a clever version of a double boiler.
Perfect.
When I don’t see family members in person regularly, children pop up, almost unrecognizable, from visit to visit. On my last trip to see Anne, the temperature dropped 40 degrees from Florida, with chilly rain, a shock to my system.
Anne doesn’t change. She’s still the perky, energetic, saucy, clever, talented, devoted woman she’s been since high school. She’s earned an impressive degree, worked at one of the most difficult jobs available, yet is still able to see goodness in life and people. Did I tell her how proud I am of her and her family?
Nope. Instead, I gossiped, laughed, shared family stories and memories, and sat speechless at how grown the great-grands are.
And savored every moment of that visit.
When I close my eyes, I can find myself on her porch with a warm breeze, birds singing, and fresh coffee available, delighted that she has the husband, home, and life she deserves.
We could have been back in Michigan on that mild, green afternoon.
Even when I can’t get back to the Heights, there are times when it finds me, anyway.
Once a Michigander…
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
We love books, love to read, love to share.
- Judy Shank Cyg's profile
- 10 followers
