I AM A COUNTRY BOY

 

Dear George, 

 I mentioned on my blog post last week that our summer poetry group took up the task of writing about “where I am from”. Katja wrote about growing up in center city Philadelphia in a poem titled “I Am a City Girl”. I wrote about growing up at our home on the Menominee River and adopted a parallel title: “I Am a Country Boy”.  It’s fun to view the two poems in comparison, and it’s hard to imagine such different backgrounds for a couple who celebrated their 62nd wedding anniversary yesterday. 

Love, 

Dave 

I AM A COUNTRY BOY

In 1946 my father returned 

from occupied Japan, 

and our family moved from town to

my grandfather’s Norway Pine cottage 

on the banks of the Menominee River, 

a mile outside the city limits, 

the first residents ever to live 

on Riverside Boulevard. 

Looking across the river from our front yard, 

we could see the local cemetery to the east, 

grand sunsets to the west,

and wild pigs on the island to the south. 

My grandfather had died in 1942, 

and the house had never been finished, 

no electricity, 

no phone, 

no indoor plumbing. 

We bathed in the river, 

used an outhouse by the garage, 

carried water to the kitchen from an outdoor pump, 

and lit kerosene lanterns at sundown. 

I was 9, Steven was 5, Peter was 1, 

and Vicki was yet to be born. 

We shared our property with native species, 

chipmunks, red and gray squirrels, 

garter snakes, grass snakes, water snakes, 

frogs and toads and box turtles, 

snapping turtles in the river, 

crayfish, bloodsuckers, mud puppies, 

Luna moths and hordes of mosquitos, 

wayward deer and wild turkeys, 

foxes, porcupines, otter, 

dead skunks flattened on the road, 

pheasants and woodpeckers, birds of all sorts, 

mice in the pantry, bats in the attic. 

Six-foot pine snakes hid underneath the house. 

In summer we children virtually lived 

in the river and the forest, 

building rafts of dead white pine logs,

camping along Little River at Mason Park,

scouring the woods for deer antlers and snakeskins. 

Our parents taught us the names

of the trees, the flowers, the birds. 

I gathered wild strawberries for breakfast, 

collected cicada skeletons from the river bank, 

made ashtrays for my mother from river bottom clay. 

We rowed our boat to Indian Island for picnics 

with our Irish Setter Mike paddling along behind. 

Steve and I had acorn fights in the autumn, 

wrote messages in ink on birch bark, 

pressed red and yellow leaves in thick books, 

and, with the first winter storm, 

held barefoot races in the snow. 

The river froze over in December 

and we ice-fished for perch, 

shoveled off a skating rink, 

hiked to Pig Island with snowshoes, 

and followed deer tracks in the snow. 

My father tied the toboggan to the Lincoln’s rear bumper 

and towed his squealing children at terrifying speeds. 

We chopped down our own Christmas tree. 

made strings of popcorn and cranberries, 

and tried to stay awake to see Santa. 

My mother cooked whitefish, 

Texas Tommies, and potato sausage. 

When the ice melted and flowed out in April, 

my father named the tinkling sounds 

“Chinese Bells Day”. 

In spring the rainfall turned the road to mud 

and some days we got free vacations from school. 

Steve and I played basketball after dark, 

lighting the hoop with a desk lamp. 

At 16 I built a hidden camp in the woods 

from the trunks of alder trees and vowed 

to live there by myself forever. 

My father gave me Thoreau’s Walden to read. 

Like Tarzan or Robinson Crusoe, 

I had become a creature of the forest.

"I Am A City Girl" (by Katja L.)

 

Dear George, 

This summer Katja and I have been attending an informal OLLI-initiated poetry group that meets on Thursday mornings. Last week one of our members suggested that we write a poem about “Where I am from.” People responded with enthusiasm. Katja’s and my poems could not be more different. Hers about growing up in center city Philadelphia; mine about growing up in the country outside Menominee. I’m posting Katja’s here, will follow with mine in a week or so. 

Love, 

Dave 

             I Am A City Girl 

                by Katja L.  

I am a city girl 

Born from a flurry of sounds and smells 

Father and mother — two people and a 

four year old singing their way through 

the Blue Ridge mountains in a boxy 

old Chevy 

from Roanoke to our forever home — Philadelphia: 

     “It’s a long, long trail a winding 

     Into the land of my dreams 

     where the nightingale is singing

     and the white moon gleams “ 

I am a city girl 

Raised in a noisy, colorful world 

of trolley cars that clickety clacked 

across the cobblestone streets; ten 

cents to get me across town to Spring Garden School 

Lining up outside in perfect lines 

Eager to hear the buzzer — signaling 

our race to “home room” and snacks 

Apples, Twinkies, peanut butter and grape jelly, no crusts 

Every Monday lunch: 

Boiled Hot Dogs 

Boiled Sauerkraut 

Steamed Baked Beans 

Milk 

Junior High — so far away 

Trolley car, subway, bus — twenty five cents 

Eighteen hundred students 

Pushing, jostling, cursing, angry 

fourteen years old 

Algebra, English, Phys Ed 

So many smells 

Don’t forget homework, papers, deadlines, 

food, money! 

Missed the bus 

Wait until 4:30 for the next one 

Home by 5:30 

Help Dad with the animals. 

Clean cages. 

Hold the Tabbies. 

Feed the pups. 

Mom upstairs — home from her job. 

Tired and grouchy. 

The smells from the animals wafting 

up through the air vents — mixing with the aroma of hamburgers 

and onions frying. 

My father’s veterinary practice on the 

first floor 

My mother’s domain on the second 

a combination that drove the two 

of them into perpetual angry retreats 

Center City Philadelphia 

     The border between the ghetto and the Gilded Age. 

    Saturdays were the best. Grandfather

came and took me to the movies. 

Betty Grable in technicolor or 

Randolph Scott in a double header. 

Lassie Come Home 

National Velvet 

Popcorn and chocolate covered mints. 

My mother’s beloved father 

kind and gentle. A tailor from the 

“old country” living in a new world 

that had no need of bespoke tailored 

suits and, thus, had little need of him. 

Germantown — a large niche in the 

fabric of Philadelphia. 

His business was on the first floor — in front. The 

smells of dry cleaning fluid and musty 

fabric mixed with the aromas of his 

kitchen where my grandmother made 

borscht and black pumpernickel throughout 

the week. 

     Some Saturdays we would sit 

together in the kitchen before an old 

wooden cased radio listening to the 

Metropolitan Opera, marveling at the 

drama taking place before 

us — in our very own kitchen. 

Upstairs — the parlor. 

Covered in dark, prickly, plush 

fabric 

on the walls, two large black, velvet 

pictures of oriental ladies wearing 

pink geisha girl costumes — beckoning 

the onlooker in knowing ways. 

I would caress their velour bodies and 

wonder at their softness. 

 I am a city girl. 

     Years of piano lessons — another 

subway ride to Little Italy and Miss Theresa’s house. 

     The smells of Braciola and Ragu 

permeating my embrace of Grieg 

and Tschaikowsky while Miss Theresa, 

totally blind since birth, reminded

me to sit up straight and try “pianissimo”. 

 I am a city girl 

     Walking through Rittenhouse Square —

     pushing brother and sister in a royal 

     wicker pram up to Mickey’s Garage 

     where I stand — gorging 

     on gas fumes that left us swooning. 

 I am a city girl 

     I come from holiday dinners and loud, noisy eaters — each trying 

to capture the last matzoh ball 

or lightest knish. Three months of study 

with Rabbi Jacobs over in a blink! I ask 

the four Seder questions and am showered 

with gilded chocolate coins. My reward 

is candy and loud murmurings of 

“congratulations”. 

     I am the result of Sunday dinners 

at City Line Horn & Hardarts. 

Chicken a la King, Mashed Potatoes, 

Creamed Spinach, and cherry jello topped 

with real whipped cream for dessert. 

     I am a survivor of the Philadelphia 

High School for Girls. A test to get in — a test 

to get out! Rules, discipline, competition. 

Miss Wilhemina — Geometry. Failed again. 

Told to try harder — or else. 

     On to Shakespeare, French, Physics, Phys Ed. 

An opening in the orchestra. 

Hallelujah! Out of the gym, into the symphony. 

A percussionist. Big noisy me! Father comes 

every Friday to the school’s back door and off we go with the 

Timpani, snare drum, tambourines, and 

castanets to our little home where I 

practice like crazy. Poor Mr. Finkelstein 

and Mrs. Alberti next door. 

     Terrified of being cast back into 

     Phys Ed, my percussion skills improve 

     and warrant a solo performance in the 

     Girls’ High “Olympic” band. 

     My roots are in the city — 

     I come from a flurry of smells and 

     sounds that form the moving screen 

     of my life. 

     I am a city girl.

GOOD TIMES IN WATER WONDERLAND

Me, L, Katja, and A at Farm

Dear George, 

Katja and I are just back from our weeklong trip to the U.P. and Northern Michigan. Our son J persuaded us to come up to our family farm in Menominee. He and his family were there, along with our nephew Jacob, his wife Kazandra, and their kids August and Delphine, all of whom had come from Brooklyn. We had a great time. It was a treat to see our grandkids, and we hadn’t seen Jacob and Kazandra’s family in over a decade. Their twelve-year-old daughter Delphine overheard me saying that my sister Vicki and I rarely talk on the telephone, so she called Vicki and said I was on the line, then told me that Vicki was on the line for me. Vicki and I had a nice talk, and it wasn’t till later that I learned that Delphine had arranged the whole thing to repair our fragile brother-sister connection. 

I’d had my 85th birthday just two weeks before, and J arranged for a family birthday celebration at Berg’s Landing, our favorite Menominee restaurant. My grandkids, A and L, gave me thoughtful and fun presents that they’d bought in New York City, and my grand-niece Delphine gave me an artistic birthday card that she’d drawn. I don’t think I’ve had a birthday party with a family group since high school, so it was a memorable occasion. 

As always, we had a good time in Menominee. This included visits to Henes Park, the marina and historic district, the House of Yesteryear and Main Street antique malls, the Rusty Wolfe art gallery, the Goodwill and St. Vincent de Paul stores, the Menominee County Museum, the Stephenson Library (with its bargain book sale), and meals out at the Watermark, Culvers, and Mickey-Lu Bar-B-Q. I found being at Farm very peaceful. I think it’s because I associate it so strongly with our parents and with wonderful family get-togethers over the years. Everybody was happy to be there.  My cousins Ann and John Buscher came to Farm for lunch, and Ann brought along her amazing family genealogy book.  Then Jacob interviewed me about our family history, an interesting and fun conversation. 

After four days in Menominee, we drove up to St. Ignace where we had whitefish at the Village Inn and stayed overnight at the Budget Host. Katja bought her supply of Murdick’s Fudge for friends, and then we crossed the Mackinac Bridge, driving down the Lake Michigan coast through Petoskey, Charlevoix, Traverse City, Manistee, Pentwater, Ludington, Grand Haven, and South Haven. These are such pristine towns, filled with boutiques and restaurants, and offering magnificent views of Lake Michigan. We stayed overnight in Ludington, did an eight-hour drive back to Cincinnati, and picked up our little dog Iko the following evening.  Now we're resting up and enjoying happy memories.  

Love, Dave 

CONFESSIONS OF A PROFESSIONAL HOARDER

Dear George, 

I retired from my faculty job at the university in 2009, but, thanks to available space and a generous departmental policy, I’ve been able to maintain an office there since that time. It definitely eased the shock of retirement, since I still found myself continuing to go to my workplace four or five times a week. Though I was no longer teaching or doing research, I used the office for writing tasks on the computer, including working on this blog and later poetry projects. Over time my use gradually dwindled, and the pandemic drastically reduced my time on campus. Recently I was notified by the department head that the university was shutting down the entire 16th floor that my office was on and that he was looking into alternative space. I told him that it wasn’t vital to me to have an office, but he persisted and, much to my surprise, came up with a larger office than my current one, all my own. The university’s moving date will be August 15th. 

This left me in a quandary. When I retired I disposed of about half my books and some of my files, e.g., old exams, grad student projects, faculty meeting notes. However, I held on to five file cabinets full of documents related to my career: e.g., all of my lecture notes, all of the xeroxed articles I used in teaching and research, published and unpublished papers, research data, even a couple of undergraduate college papers, my grad school class notes, and the materials from my dissertation project, now 55 years old. I haven’t had the need to use any of this material for the past thirteen years — I don’t think I’ve even opened most of the file cabinet material drawers. If all of this material vanished overnight, it wouldn’t have any tangible impact on my existence. 

To make my decision still worse, the deparrment put a large recycling bin in the hallway outside my office for use by myself and two of my emeriti colleagues who are also moving. What to do? I could get rid of all of the stuff, half of the stuff, or none of the stuff. While all that paper material had no practical value for me, it had a lot of sentimental value since it documented the entire course of my career (plus representing perhaps ten thousand hours of effort on my part). As astute reader probably knows the answer to my dilemma. I decided to keep everything, down to the last paper clip. So far I’ve boxed up my five file cabinets into 22 sizable cartons, and next I have to work on my books, desk, and table, saving all that as well. It was just too disturbing to say goodbye to my entire career. I’ll force myself to throw a few things out the next time they tell me to move. 

Love, 

Dave