My Darling Brother part 1

Those of you with an older brother can probably relate to the following tale. And the older brothers will probably get a big laugh out of it too.

I had the misfortune of being born 28 months too late and became the second son in the family.  And so my life was destined to be that of  "John's little brother".   Even though I love my brother dearly, let's set the pattern to future events.  My earliest memory of my big brother was of him helping me up on a kitchen chair and telling me to stick my tongue between the two metal cooling trays on our old refrigerators freezer.  I had to stand on my tippy- toes to do it.  So there I hung, screaming,  while he laughed.  My mother soon arrived to see what all of the commotion was about.  She hurriedly grabbed the tea kettle off of the stove and dumped the overly warm water all over the freezer and me.  This having failed she grabbed a butter knife and used it to pry my tongue loose while adding the warm water.
To this day I don't think that I ever convinced her that it was John's work and not my own stupid idea.  He of course denied the whole thing.    I am told that shortly there after I stabbed a fork through his cheek.  Sadly however, I have no memory of this and he has no scars to prove it.

My next memory was of walking around the side of the house and seeing my brother swinging  his metal Tonka truck's blue car hauling trailer around his head on a wire. And just as I was coming around the corner it either got away from him or he let it loose.  Either way the results were the same.  The end of the wire ended up scratching the pupil of my left eye.  Mom rushed me inside and laid me on her bed and applied cold washcloths until my dad came home from hunting.  I remember him entering the room with his shotgun and two pheasants. He sat them down and came to see me.  They rushed me to a hospital but there was nothing to be done. I had permanently lost the sight in that eye.  Now I may have said things as a child to hurt his feelings, but I have never held him responsible for that accident.  Both of these incidents happened when I was about three years old.  Now lets skip ahead. Near the end of the school year when I was in the fourth grade I had another accident..

There was a gravel pit on the land adjoining the trailer park where we grew up.  On this beautiful spring day John and I had taken a walk "out back" (as we called all of the surrounding lands) and on our way home we came through the "pit".  Someone had taken out the end of the big hill.  There we stood at it's edge looking straight down.  About 15 feet below us was a small pile of loose gravel which had dislodged  from the wall and it appeared to be about 3 ft. deep.  John suggested that we should jump.  I said "No Way" about the same time he said "You First" and pushed me over the edge.
Of course John told Mom and Dad I jumped before he could stop me.
The doctor said I must have landed toes first which caused my feet to stay deeply embedded while the rest of  me flopped face forward on the ground.  There were no broken bones but everything in my feet and ankles was either torn or strained.  I would walk again, but I spent the whole summer on crutches.

Just about one year from that date I again had another accident.  John and I were fishing down to the river.
It being a windy day we weren't having much luck in getting our fishing lines to the spots we wanted them from the top of the railroad trestle.  So John decided WE were going to walk out to the pier that held up the center of the span and fish from the footings.  Now there was only one problem with this.  I had just gotten a new pair of shoes.  Not  big deal to many, but I had extra wide feet with high insteps and the only shoes I could wear had to be special ordered and cost a fortune.  Needless to say my parents were always telling me to take good care of them.  Getting them wet was NOT an option. I never owned a pair of tennis shoes as a kid, it was either dress shoes or barefoot. So it had to be barefoot.  But what about the glass?  What glass?  Why the generations of people fishing usually brought pop or beer and bait and the glass containers usually ended up broken on the rocks under the bridge.  Well big brother had a solution to this. Just step where I step.  SURE, the minute your foot steps in the water the silt gets riled up making it impossible to see anything in a 2 ft. diameter from where you step. Just come on and be careful.  DANG IT......
There is no pain like glass cutting bone.  It was the top of a broken Miracle Whip jar....stuck in the bottom of my foot.   I have never seen so much blood without it spurting from a wound.  We are a mile from home with one bike.  My darling brother told me to ride home as he continued fishing.  I had to climb up the gravel to the top of the trestle get on the bike and ...pedal ???  I made it from the bridge to the road when I saw dad's car coming.  Luckily he decided to come check on us boys with the rest of the family.
John told the parents that he told me not to come in the water.
The cut was too deep to stitch closed and after debriding the wound of dirt, stones and grass without the help of any anesthetics or pain killers and putting in a few stitches to re-attach everything the doctor said it would heal and I would walk again.  But I spent the whole summer on crutches... again.

Now we will dance ahead to another incident I well remember.  When my brother turned twelve my Great- Uncle Joe gave him a Stevens single shot 12 gauge shotgun.  He got to go hunting and I got to be his dog.  One day I begged him to let me shoot it just once.  Finally he decided to let me, but first he was going to show me how to load it.  First he emptied the live shell out of the gun. He let me hold it while he showed me the workings of the gun, how to break it open and close it, how to shoulder it and then he showed me how to pull the hammer back to make it ready to fire.  And admonished me to never pull the trigger without a shell in the gun as it could damage the firing pin.  Now we will load it and let you shoot it.  He was standing facing me and the gun was between us pointed safely away from either of us.  He pulled out a shell and dropped it into the chamber. Then he put his hands over to mine as we snapped the gun closed.  KaBOOM!!!  Someone had forgotten to release the hammer before we loaded the gun.  (I didn't know about this until MUCH later)  My brother yelled "You tried to shoot  me."  I showed him that my fingers were nowhere near the trigger and his hand was still over mine, I couldn't have pulled the trigger.
The first words out of his mouth when we got home to our parents was how I tried to blow his head off.

I was in trouble, again, for doing just what my parents had always told me to do...."Listen to your brother and do what he says."  All he had to say was, "But I told him NOT to" or "Who are you going to believe, me or HIM."  Well for some reason they always believed him.  I guess age has it's privileges.

April Fool's

In honor of April Fool's Day I have a little story to tell. Back when my wife and I were dating I had a prank go bad. It was unintented prank, but the circumstances just fell into place and I opened my mouth without engaging my brain first.


We were waiting for a local theater to open and were browsing in nearby pharmacy when she spotted a display of cheap "cubic zirconium" jewelry and was enthralled by it's beauty. I of course told her to pick out what she wanted and I would buy it for her. Lynn chose a large ring that rivaled a 2 carat diamond. She put it on and it looked great. We laughed about it looking like an engagement ring, She had an idea about shocking a friend with "the news" as we proceded to the theater.

After the show it was still early and we decided to pay a visit to my parents. As luck would have it, my brother and his wife were there too. We had hardley got in the door and sat down when my sister-in-law spotted the ring. She grabbed Lynn's hand and said "Holy Shit is that real". (OH MY GOD, WE FORGOT ABOUT THE RING !!! ) Before Lynn could say anything I said "Of course it's real" and before I could add "cubic zirconium" all hell broke loose. My brother was pounding me on the back congratulating me, my sister-in-law was immediatly screaming and as women will asking how much a "rock" that size cost, comparing it to her much smaller engagement ring/wedding band. And my parents were in a state of shock. My mother was crying and my dad just sat there dumbfounded. Both of them were NOT happy. (Lynn and I hadn't even been dating for a year and I had only brought her over to the house a couple of times.) Their son was engaged to a girl they didn't know and he hadn't even discussed anything with them. I am sure they both thought she was "in trouble" and we had to get married.

Well it was too late to back out now. I could see Lynn was embarased, but like a trouper, she went along with my lead. We had to play this thing out. After a multitude of questions, not one of them was "IF" or when we got engaged. Did we have a date set? No Lynn was still in school. When did we get the ring? Just today we picked it up. How could I afford it? I had been saving my money. Etc. etc. All answers were more or less the truth. Then we beat a hastey exit. I WAS IN DEEP TROUBLE ! Lynn was torn between being mad at me and appologising for forgeting she had the ring on. And I was torn between forgetting about the ring too, and for starting the mess we just went through. I took her home and then went back to my home, to face the music from my parents.

Suffice it to say that I was right about my assumption concerning my parents. A lot of things were said that made it impossible to to tell them the truth. At this point in our relationship Lynn and I had not even discussed marriage. However after this incident it did become a topic of discussion in a lighthearted sort of way. As time went on my parents cooled down and I began taking Lynn over to see them more often.

Months later, I did pop the question. However at that time I could not afford a proper diamond ring. My future wife told me that it was alright. One engagment ring was enough.

My parents are both gone now, so it is safe to tell this story. Well...maybe my sister-in-law is in for a big surprise!

Reloading & Muzzle Loading

A few days ago the subject of reloading came up and what started out as a simple email turned into this blog instead. My original plan for this blog was to share with my family my life experiences, especially my younger years. So this counts.


Reloading is a fun hobby and there is a lot less to learn about it than you might think. My brother and I started reloading 12 ga. shotgun shells around the age of 16. He ordered a Lee Hand Loader from the local hardware. It came with everything needed except the powder, shot, wads and primers. He upgraded it with additional powder and shot measuring cups and an attachment that fit on a drill to heat seal the crimped folds on plastic shot shells that were just coming out then. At first we followed the instructions and made many reloads by the book. It was very simple to do. First you had to check the empty shells for damage (i.e. - cracks, dents, dirt, corrosion) anything that was suspicious was tossed and dirty shells were cleaned up and checked again. The you removed the old primers with the included tool and cleaned the primer pocket (pipe cleaners worked well for us). Following that you carefully installed a new primer using the included tool. Next you add the right measure of gunpowder, (before starting you must consult the charts for the proper brand and type for the load you want to make and choose a shot size) followed but wadding or shot cup, and then you add the proper weight of shot (I liked using #5 shot size because of the larger BB size and the increased killing power at a distance. This also meant that each shell held fewer BB's. My brother on the other hand liked using #8 shot, filling the air with dust sized lead balls). Finally you crimp the shell and Viola !! You have just reloaded your first round. Make a few more and then go out and try a test shot and chart the pattern. Repeat a couple of times for consistency. If you weren't happy with the outcome you could try a different recommended powder, primer or shot size on your next batch. If you were happy, it was time to go hunting. We loved our new hobby.

After a while we started customizing shells for our own purposes, you could do that back in the day of paper shells and felt & cardboard wads. I used too make ultra light loads with less powder and less shot but more wadding, to get squirrels without tearing them all up and it was pretty quiet too. As a matter of fact instead of a bang it sounded more like someone blowing down a length of plumbing pipe. We also made some magnum type loads for bird hunting. When I think back on it, I am amazed that we never got hurt messing around like we did. A little knowledge and a teen-age attitude towards danger made for some scary loads, I would give you some examples but I am afraid someone might try them out. But we were smart enough to test fire our wildcat loads with the gun tied down to a tire and a LONG string on the trigger with us behind good cover. Kind of like the coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. Maybe the new one piece plastic wad/shot cups are a GOOD thing.

Anyway LEE PRECISION CO. still makes those inexpensive loaders in most rifle and handgun sizes. And they work pretty much the same way. (Unfortunately they no longer make them for shotguns. But they do make an amazing inexpensive shot shell loader. I have had mine for years and punched out many rounds.)

I do have a British .303 cal. rifle hand loader but would like to upgrade to a set of dies for my loading press to get better accuracy and to better crimp the shell to the bullet to get factory load power. But since I don't hunt with it, I don't really need to.

Plus I can buy military surplus ammo cheaper than I can make reloads for it. But there is a certain satisfaction in shooting your own loads that makes it fun. It's kind of like fine tuning a black powder rifle. Getting the right primer, to the right powder, to the right wad, to the right lead, so you can get the most power and the best accuracy out of your gun. And that is why there are so many people who are fanatical about reloading. It only has to be as complicated and expensive as you want to make it.

And speaking of black powder, when I was shooting Muzzle Loading competitions (something my brother talked me into, as I suck at shooting paper targets with any gun, but give me a challenging shot and I'm there), it took me years to get the right combination (at that time I lived in town and worked too many hours to get in much target practice). I had a .58 cal. almost smooth bore musket, an Italian reproduction of the Civil War era Remington Zouve. It had an over sized bore so would not fire the standard minnie-ball that it was designed for, so I had to use a round patched ball. I got it to the point where I was consistently shooting in third place in competition with rifles, but I wanted more. I knew it wasn't me or the gun, I just hadn't found the right load combination yet. I had bought enough sights for it that I also new that wasn't the problem (I used fixed sights to match my shooting style). I tried different patch thickness and ball diameter combinations without any luck, finally settling on HORNADY .560 soft lead ball with a .58 cal. plastic "POLY PATCH" that was available at the time. I could only buy one brand of black powder or use "PYRODEX". I tried that and didn't get good results, so I tried using FFF instead of FF sized powder. (Either was recommended for use with my musket but FF was the preferred charge). Black Powder is graded to 4 sizes, from cannon powder F (the slowest burning) to FFFF or flash powder (the fastest burning, used for charging flintlocks and flash pans for very old cameras). I had even less success with that, so I hunkered down to to minute changes in the ff black-powder charge. As with all of the charge change attempts, I also tried using a variety of available caps including musket caps (which are way larger). Still no joy. Finally I came across an article in a magazine about homemade (made partly from chicken manure or women's urine) and mixing grades of black powder. Now that is something that anyone will tell you is a definite No-No, but since both FF and FFF were recommended for my gun I was desperate enough to try it. (different size powders cause different pressures along the barrel.) It didn't take me long to find the right combination. (I based this on the lowest recommended charge of FFFand gradually omitted some and replaced it with FF and blended it together.)

At the next competition I came in second at the 35 yard standard targets, I finally out shot my brother (on paper targets) with his black powder double 20 ga. using a round patched ball.
Then they had a buffalo shoot. They put up life size cardboard buffalo targets at 500 yards and invited us to try to hit them. This was a surprise for all of us. I knew that the Zouve musket had the ability with a minnie ball and that using a Poly Patch was close to it, as they stuck on the ball throughout it's flight. So I gave it a little Kentucky windage and elevation and let 'er fly....completely missing the target. I wasn't the only one, as a matter of fact only one person managed to hit the cardboard at all. Next round called for a little more elevation....same results. Now I was beside myself with disappointment. Then a light went on above my head, when I was target practicing at 50 yards my ball flew a little high. Dummy....at 35 yards my sight was set on the up curve of the flight trajectory...I was shooting way too high. My next round I aimed for the front leg where it met the bottom of the body and placed my round in front of the knee. BINGO!! I had the range...next round with correction on elevation and windage was a little high but a lung shot anyway. My final round was deemed a heart shot. Second place again. First place went to 3 lung shots and a body shot, by the guy who's idea it was to shoot the buffalo targets (he claimed that he didn't get in any practice shots...huh). He also took first place in the 35 yard shoot, but then he always did whenever he showed up.

I then went on to shoot at an axe-blade driven into a cedar post with a board behind it supporting clay pigeons on either side. The idea was to split the ball and break both targets. This was supposed to be just a fun target but no one had tried it. When the competition was over the judge asked me to give it a shot. How could I say no. At 35 yards I did just what was asked, I shot 4 more times with the same results. A crowd had gathered and they were shouting at me to keep going, so I did....19 times in a row, standing, reloading as fast as I could. I could have done more but by this time my gun was so fouled up with lead and powder deposits I could hardly get a ball down the barrel. After I was done everyone else had to try it. No one else even came close to my record, (a few did manage to split a ball though) even with their fancy rifles. Proud....you bet. But the only first place ribbons I ever got were for moving targets, odd shots, knife and tomahawk throwing, but that's for another blog.

Sadly after this competition, the guy who started it passed away. He was the owner of the local black powder gun shop and an amazing friend. Several people tried to get it going again but it never happened, nobody had the heart for it. After many years of sitting idle I finally got rid of my gun. They had quit making Poly Patches many many years ago for some obscure reason. I bought up any I could find, but my supply was running out. And it was getting hard to find the round lead balls for it anymore, the New Wave in black powder shooting is sabot rounds and pre-measured powder formed into a solid pellet. I could have bought some ball molds and made my own, and reworked my load recipe. But it is too cold for me to go out and sit during muzzle loading deer season anyway. If I ever get another muzzle loader it will be a small  .36 or .22 caliber, just for plinking. They sure are fun to shoot.



Owen's Snowmobile



Doesn't he look sweet.

Owen's other Grandpa races snowmobiles so naturally he had to get his grandson one. 

He made the long trip down here to deliver it last weekend. 







Dad trying to show him the ropes.



Notice how it has been personalised with his name between the racing flags = 01.



Owen and his other Grandpa.

Yes he really loves his Grandpa and enjoys every visit. 

It is too bad that he lives over 300 miles away.

I am sure they both enjoy more playtime together.



Haming it up for the camera.

But speaking of snowmobiles, I hope Owen has better luck than me.

I have only been on a snowmobile a few of times and only as a passenger, that was way back in my teen years. Once on a short ride in Boy Scouts to get me to a location in a hurry. It was in the spring with slushy snow and my back got drenched and I was wet and cold for the rest of the day. Another time was with a neighbor's son who raced them, on a very modified super fast snowmobile. It was a fast ride that ended in near disaster.

He wanted to find a field of snow to try his latest modifications out in, and I told him where he could find one, but he insisted that I go with him. When we got to the field he hit the gas and the runners never touched down. As we neared the end of the field I tried to warn him that it was nothing but ice, but by that time we were going so fast that the ending was inevitable. At the end of the field was an old barbed wire fence some small trees and bushes and of course a rock pile. As we hit the ice I managed to holler "FENCE" but the runners had no purchase on the ice an he couldn't turn, he hollered "DUCK".

Luckily the snow had built up at fence/tree line and we managed to clear all of the bigger trees and most of the rock pile. I remember flying through the air thinking "this is going to hurt" and then strangely, "how pretty the frost and snow was on the trees in the nearby woods", just before hitting the ground.

There was enough snow on the other side to help cushion the fall. Neither of us were hurt seriously but the snowmobile was a mess. The windscreen was torn in half and the guys snowmobile suit had a big tear in it, and my hat, was gone. I think the fence got them. The runners were torn off, the fiberglass hood was shattered and debris was everywhere. The remainder of the sled landed about a foot away from the driver.

Needless to say we were both lucky to be alive and without any broken bones. As we limped home about a mile away, he told me we were going in excess of 100 mph before I warned him about the ice and he tried real hard to slow us down. My extra weight was something he didn't take into consideration when he hit the throttle, and it was all he could do to keep us from flipping. With me holding on to him and pulling him backwards he couldn't release the throttle, and he didn't think we slowed down all that much until the rock pile. He and his dad later retrieved the snowmobile and he went on many more years of racing.

I on the other hand, while not afraid of them, choose not to participate in the sport of snowmobiling. Many years of working outside in the winter has left me with a better way to spend my leisure time, INSIDE where it is warm.

My wife has mentioned a few times over the years that it would be nice to have one, especially when we would get snowed in for long periods. But somehow we have never gotten one.

Ok, let's try this again...



Brady & and me





I have been away from here for far too long and now I don't know how to start or where.

So first I will tell you a little Christmas story:

When I think back to my childhood and realize just how close my parents families were, and weekends were spent visiting relatives, I wonder what happened. Some of my best memories as a child are from those weekends and it is sad that my children never had an opportunity to know their cousins as I did mine. For my part it was because I worked 7 days a week usually for more than 70 hours. But my brother and sisters families never adopted the weekend visiting tradition of our parents either.  We do try to get together on the last sunday of the month, but since my Dad died we haven't done a very good job of it. What with illnesses and vacations and work schedules or other "more pressing" issues, it seems we just can't all make it. Now it is hard just to get all of mine, my brother and sisters' families together for Christmas. Yes, much can be blamed on the economy or the social changes brought about by the electronic age, or whatever. But I wonder how my parents could find the time for all of these visits and I can't? Even though I no longer work. Still I think it comes down to choice and habit.

At our annual Family Christmas Eve Celebration this year, I sat back and marveled at how well all of the grandchildren got along with one another. And how our children mingled and reforged family ties. I even spent a few minutes on the floor with a greatnephew throwing a ball back and forth. Not such a big deal, maybe...but it was the first time that he showed any interest in me and I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass. Three year old Brady was playing with a ball as I was walking by, he bounced it high and I made a quick save as it headed over the stairwell rail. I rolled it back to him and he quickly rolled it back to me...an open invitation to play...I couldn't resist even though I knew I was going to have a heck of a time getting off the floor. As I was getting myself down to his level, my son asked if it was such a good idea, as he didn't think he would be able to get me up (his back was bothering him, (another family tradition). I told him that I would crawl to the stairs if neccessary. Brady and I had a blast rolling the ball back and forth. His outbursts of giggling prompted me into making faces and other foolish things. Soon other children came to join the game and I left after a while. (I even managed to get myself up unassisted.) The glow in that childs eyes and his laughter made it all worth while.

Opportunity and Choice...what wonderful things.

   

  And now for the obligatory family photos....

Our family, minus our youngest daughter, who moved to Florida last summer. 





My brother's family.



 



 

The eldest of my sister's family with our step-mother.

  

My youngest sister and her husband.



Our 2 oldest grandchildren.



And our youngest.





Brought to you by the letter..."P"

After reading Warren's blog about this game, I decided to join in the fun. He was right....it was harder than it looked. If you want to play along...be my guest!

Here are 10 things I love that start with the letter "P" ( well okay, I cheated a little).


Phition: (for those phonetically challenged, that's fishin') for Perch
& Pike. Two of my favorite catching and eating types of fish.





And speaking of eating I might as well add Prawns, Portabellas ( love that fungus), Pears (very firm ones), Peas and Potatoes (fresh from the garden and in cream sauce), Pickles and Peppers (I love canning these two together for hot pickles), Pork-chops, ribs, steaks, ham, sausage & roast, Porcupines (only from hardwoods), Pickled Beets, Pizza, Pumpernickle Rye Bread, Poached eggs and Pancakes.




Planes: horizontal & vertical (I love architectural drafting) and air (I am an aviation nut), I like to build model airplanes and I would love to learn how to fly a real airplane, and of course own one.



Poultry: like raising and eating all types. I would like to try raising some Pheasants.

After my first year of hunting them, I quit because they were too few and looked better than they tasted. Also they were too easy to hunt, I preferred Partridge or Ruffed Grouse.



Pine Trees & Scouting: I grew up playing in the woods, and evergreen trees became my favorite. The big old white pines were landmarks and shelter from the elements, but the smell was the greatest. I spent many hours in the woods practicing to become a Boy Scout. I had found a Boy Scout Handbook and not only memorized it but tried to do everything in it on my own. I finally joined the Explorer Scouts on my birthday at age 13. I was a finally a Boy Scout ( in the old White Pine District and our local Scout camp was named "Camp Pine Acres". It was in Scouts that I received the name "Lone Wolf" from our District Supervisor Ken Meyers. When my Scout Leader, Chuck Reed, heard that Ken desperately wanted an Explorer Scout in the Eagle Program he took me to see him. Ken was amazed by my knowledge of Scouting and tested me on many subjects. Ken did his best to get me into the Eagles and went all the way to the District Committee to get me through as a "Lone Scout", all was going well and I attended the next Eagle Ceremony. But they never called my name, at the last minute they had turned him down as I hadn't been in Scouts the required amount of time (Which kind of went against the whole concept of the Lone Scout). Ken was so mad he could barely contain himself, he took off his own Eagle Medal and presented it to me. Of course I wouldn't accept it, as it was not earned through proper channels, but I sure appreciated the gesture. After that Ken always went out of his way to show me off as his "Lone Wolf" (Wolf as in smart and cunning) and throw it back in the committees face when I would refuse to try to get the Eagle Badge after that. And when I was turned down for the "Order of the Arrow", Ken threw in the towel and quit Scouting. I was very saddened by his decision, but understood his frustration.




When I joined the Explorer Scouts, we were a "Service Post" that supervised the local Boy Scout activities and were in demand at the District Camp, "Camp Rotory" to run the activities there. I taught Gun Safety and Marksmanship from Cub Scouts on up to visiting parents. I also taught Archery, Knife Care and Sharpening and Traps and Deadfalls as part of the Survival Course. I was an Explorer Scout for 5 years until forced out at age 18.




When my son was in Cub Scouts and they needed a new Den Leader, I volunteered for 3 years and then was the driving force to start a new Boy Scout Troop when it was time for him to join them. As a Scout Leader I took the name of "Grey Wolf", for the obvious reason, and it sounded better than "Bald Wolf" or "Mangy Wolf". Due to my job I could only become the Assistant Scout Leader and served that post for another 3 years before my health deteriorated. During those 6 years I pushed for the rebuilding of the lake at Camp Pine Acres that had been destroyed during a flood in 1986 and a few years after I resigned, my dream was finally fulfilled. Camp Pine Acres was restored to the condition it was in when I was a Scout.



Pine is also my favorite choice for woodworking projects. I just love it's smell and softness.

I even planted many pine trees on our little 5 acre farm on the east and west ends.



Projectiles: bullets from guns, arrows from bows, stones and marbles from slingshots, pellets and BB's from air rifles, knife and tomahawk throwing. I love hunting, competion shooting and target practice.


Parks & Public Access: I love nature and getting to it.

Pointe aux Barques Lighthouse Park: We discovered this little known park and campground and immediately discovered a love for lighthouses. We camped there for many years in comfort unknown in any of the other lake shore campgrounds either public or private. The rustic or tent camping grounds were hardly used while just a few miles away they were packed like sardines. The lighthouse was turned into a maritime museum which we visited frequently. Since then we have visited all of the accessible lighthouses on Michigan's shores (Michigan has over 110 lighthouses many on Islands or built up on shoals). And I have climbed all of the ones open to the public.








Praise: Of course I love it, who doesn't?


People: I am a people person. Some of the best jobs I have had have been the ones where I had to deal with customers.


Plymouth's & Dodge's: My first vehicle was a 1963 Plymouth Valiant that I bought from a guy that was going to race it at the local Dirt Track. It had a 195c.i. slant 6 motor and 4 on the floor. He had put a racing cam in it and high performance pistons. He made a few other engine modifications, cut the wires to the running lights and installed a roll bar, jacked up the rear end by installing 6 inch shackles on the springs and put in a heavy duty suspension. I blew all of my available funds $100, on it. Before I could put it on the road I would have to splice all the wires back together and put in new floorboards as they had rusted out. About halfway through making it roadworthy my dad talked me into buying my grandmother's 1965 Dodge Dart. It had a 225 slant Super 6 engine with a Rochester single barrel carb and an automatic trany. I din't want to do it, but I had to. Grandma needed the money since Grandpa died and I needed a car to get me back and forth to my first job (making$1.65 an hour). I soon fell in LOVE with that car and treated like a rental. I had a racing engine that I could drop in it anytime. I raced my brother in his new 1972 Chevy Nova with a 350 c.i. engine 15 miles from Caro to Cass City. At work that night he got to talking big and since it was a Sunday morning at 7a.m. I agreed to race him ( I had beat a new Ford Mustang the week before in a 5 mile race and was feeling cocky myself). That Nova passed me like I was standing still, and disappeared fast. But it had a top end of only 104 mph. I kept my old Dart floored and got sight of him again about half way. One mile out of Cass City I finally passed him. Yes, that little 6 cylinder beat his BIG BAD 350. We repeated the event a couple of more times and the results were always the same.

I made that trip once without coolant when a radiator hose burst and another trip out of oil when I was at the drive-in movies and the seal on my brand "NEW" STP Dual Action oil filter failed and all of the fresh Quaker State 10W30 oil I had put into it a few hours before ran out on the ground. Back then nothing was open at night. Both times the high speed 15 mile trip had no ill effects on that motor. I just let her cool down overnight and made the repairs and filler her back up and off we went like nothing ever happened. I finally gave up on using the motor out of the Valiant and sold it for a $25 loss.

And that was the start of my love affair with the slant 6 engine and the Chrysler Corporation. Oh, I've owened Fords and Chevy's, but given the choice it's MOPAR baby.

Me and my '65 Dodge Dart Wifey and her '66 Ford Galaxy 500



my first new car '79 Chevy Monza Coupe - Last new car '82 Buick Skylark - first truck

My favorite mini-van -The CRIP-MOBILE -My Dodge Ram

These a just few of the vehicles I have owned.

I even owned one of them P.O.S. Nova's. Here's my 1973 hatchback.

I still have the canoe, but that Nova left me stranded and I was forced to scrap it!

On A Morning Such As This.....

Last night we had a fresh snow. This morning the wind is calm, the temperature is 40 degrees.
All is quiet in the house. The wife is asleep, as are all of the pets. While I sat here at my computer waiting for my S - L - O - W internet server to respond and allow me access to the internet at a crippled snails pace, I gazed out the window and was drawn back to my youth.

On any given weekend 40 years ago, I would not have been found in the house on a morning like this. My favorite gun, knife and I would have been out in the woods. Hunting was a reason I frequently used to escape to the solitude of the woods. The crunch of the wet snow under my uninsulated green rubber hunting boots, could be felt by my wool stocking covered feet. The whisper of the wool of my WWI calvary riding pants made at each step. I would be over warm in the Navy Pea Coat and Black Watch Cap given by and old family friend Harry Ross, who was a Submariner in WWI & II. My Marlin .22 caliber model 150M semi-automatic rifle loaded up road lightly in my Jersey gloved hand, and a few extra shells in my pocket, I was ready if I chose to use it.

On a morning such as this, I would forgo the cedar swamp and head down the old railroad bedding and back towards the river. My destination about a mile and a half away. Along the trail I might spot rabbits or partridge or ringneck pheasant or maybe even deer. But my quarry for today would be squirrels. I would follow the riverbank back towards the direction of home. Stopping along the way to sit and listen for the sound of rustling branches, and watching for fast flitting movements both on the ground and in the branches overhead. This area was my home and I knew every tree and rock and trail. I probably spent more time here than at the trailer house we lived in. An 8 x 36 foot box to contain the 6 of us. Along with my parents, I had an older brother and 2 younger sisters. The box was a madhouse. Here I had all of the room and peace and quiet I could ask for. The serenity to dream my dreams.....what was that?

Movement .....and the sound of claws scurrying on bark.

There.....a squirrel scampering around a tree. It's a big Fox Squirrel in range of an easy shot, I slowly raise my gun. I sight on his head and ......"BANG"!!!

The squirrel jumps as if hit by lightning.....

and runs flying off the branch it was on to another tree, and another and another.

I am laughing at the sight......No, I did not miss or even wound it.

As a matter of fact I did not even shoot.

My yell of "BANG" was more satisfying than any squirrel dinner.

Today I was not hunting for food.

I was hunting for something else. And I found it.

My peace and solitude over, I head back home.... to reality.

My River - Part #2

While the Cemetery Road Bridge was being dismantled, I went up river to the Elmwood Road or Dump Bridge as we called it. Downriver the water was muddy because of the constant truck and loader traffic in the river to remove pieces of the old bridge. It was called the Dump Bridge because the land between the north and south branches of the river where they met was used as a town dump. The bridge was a small narrow affair only about 2 car lengths long and barely wide enough for 2 cars to pass. People normally only crossed it one car at a time.

About 10 years ago they replaced that bridge too, after a young woman was killed there when she drove off the side of the bridge. It sat in the middle of a tight "S" curve on an old gravel road. It had happened before in about 1969 in the middle of winter. My brother and I were hunting nearby and heard a strange noise, a little later we heard sirens, and so started walking down the river on the ice. When we came in sight of the bridge, we saw a car with it's front end in the river and it's rear bumper resting on the bridge, almost standing straight up & down. The police and fire department were there and they had just put the driver, an elderly man, in the waiting ambulance. He was injured but okay. After this accident they put strong guardrails on the bridge and approaches. This last time they moved the road, built a new bridge with almost no curve and paved the road. The new bridge sits a little to the east of where the old one sat.

The following photos were all taken during the normal mid-summer low water level.

The area where the new bridge sits was once a snapping turtle egg laying ground. I had watched many of them laying eggs in the sand there and saw the hatchlings emerge and head to the water for the first time. The stones at the base of the pilings almost fill what was once a deep pool of water in the very shallow river. I had caught many pike by casting near those bushes that extend over the water.

The river ran a little deeper and stronger on that side and those branches effectively hid the pike waiting in ambush.


These photos show what lengths a young fisherman will go through to get out to the big stones in the middle of the river, to get better access to prime fishing spots, without getting his feet wet. Underneath the new bridge are two large stones that I used to catch tons of rock bass and bullheads from underneath. The bullheads were a favorite of my mother.


This photo shows the only spot on the river where I ever caught chain pickerel. (After I discovered wading to fish with lures.) These photos are all from the east or up river side of the dump bridge over the north branch of the river.

Here is the red barn from part#1. Behind the barn is the south branch of the river.

Here is a closer view.

This is the west or down river side of the bridge. To the left is the old dump and to the right is the OLD Elmwood Road. The water is deeper here and is home to smallmouth and larger rock bass.

The old bridge sat almost on top of this area, it is a deeper pool that my brother and I helped create by adding more stones to the rapids in the upper portion of the photo. After 45 years of spring run offs, the area around our dam has filled in with smaller stones and gravel.

Somewhere in these two photos is a pike fingerling about 6-7 inches long. I know it is there somewhere, but all of my photoshop skills failed to bring it out of hiding.