Why They Call It a Stress Test*

Dear George,

Years ago the University’s contracted with the world’s largest fast food chain to install one of its burger restaurants in the student union, the first such franchise ever to be located on a college campus. Some of the health-conscious faculty protested against poisoning the student body, but I was impressed that our institution was such a progressive world leader. Soon I started buying a Double Super-Duper cheeseburger and large fries every day for lunch. After one year on my daily burger diet I left a faculty meeting and felt a momentary twinge in my chest. I thought it was due to my colleagues’ irrational behavior, but I checked with my family doctor just in case. He too didn’t think it was anything, but he proceeded cautiously and referred me to a cardiologist named Dr. Zink. Dr. Zink did an angiogram on me at a local hospital. Much to everyone’s surprise, one of my arteries was clogged with what I later interpreted to be quarts of cheeseburger grease. Dr. Zink did an angioplasty to clean it out, crushing down the fatty goop with a high-pressure inflated balloon.

I’ve gone to Dr. Zink’s office every few years since for a follow-up treadmill stress test. Since I’ve cut Super-Duper burgers by 90% or more, the results have always turned out fine. In fact, getting my stress test has become one of the more rewarding events in my life. It’s because the technician always tells me how amazingly I’ve done and what good shape I’m in, saying reassuring things like, “Many men your age can’t even walk on a treadmill.” I noticed on my calendar last year that I was overdue for another stress test. I made an appointment, but then I got a letter from the doctor’s office saying they’d changed their billing practices, that stress tests were now considered hospital outpatient tests, and that I should check with my insurance company about payment. My insurance company, of course, said that the charges would be applied to my deductible, and they wouldn’t be paying anything. The doctor’s office was a little imprecise, but it was clear that it would cost me something like three or four thousand dollars. Since I was feeling fine, I cancelled my stress test. The billing person got agitated, implying that I would probably die within weeks if I didn’t get their test, and offering to work out a plan for payment over time. I didn’t do it.

When Katja retired in June, we switched over to Medicare and a new gap insurance policy. Surely, I thought, Medicare would want me to live for a while and wouldn’t defraud its clients. I called Dr. Zink’s office, and a man who sounded like a temporary employee said yes, that Medicare covers nuclear stress tests. So I scheduled a new appointment for 9:30 on a recent Tuesday morning. When I arrived, the receptionist claimed she couldn’t find any record of my appointment. She retrieved my file, then said in a crabby voice that I hadn’t seen Dr. Zink for a long time. She asked who had authorized my test. “Dr. Zink,” I responded, “he told me to have another test in three years.” The receptionist got crabbier. “You’re supposed to see him every year for a checkup. You can’t just walk in here like this.” I probably looked a little dumbfounded. Since I’ve had no symptoms, I never think of going to the doctor. The receptionist got up and left for a few minutes. When she came back she said that Dr. Zink had, in fact, authorized my test. She repeated that my behavior was very irregular. Then she said that they hadn’t pre-certified my test with the insurance company, and, since it was likely that the insurance company would refuse to pay, I’d have to pay the entire bill out of pocket. “Please call them,” I begged. It turned out that the insurance company would cover a nuclear stress test, though I’d need to pay $500 toward the deductible. I gulped and said I’d like to go ahead.

The receptionist put me in a waiting room and gave me a glass of water to drink. She said first they’d take pictures of my chest, then put me on a treadmill, then take more pictures with my heart under stress. Then a tall, dark-haired woman with angular features named Roxie came in and took me to a lab room. She hooked me up with an IV and injected radioactive fluid into my veins. She was pretty untalkative and surly, explaining that everybody in the office was upset with me because I hadn’t followed the rules. I didn’t say anything, but I started thinking that my stress test was going very poorly so far. Roxie lay me down on a platform in a big rotating machine like a CatScan and took pictures of the interior of my chest for fifteen minutes or so. At the end she pushed the platform I was lying out out from under the machine and banged it against its end-frame. She apologized for the sharp jolt, though I suspected this was how Roxie gets back at patients who she’s irritated at.

My nuclear treadmill test came next. I’d been working out at the fitness center for a couple of weeks to boost my treadmill speed and endurance, hoping that I could set a new patient record at Dr. Zink’s. A technician named Meg administered the test. She didn’t smile at all. I told her I do treadmills all the time and I’d have no difficulty. Apparently having been already informed that I was a problem patient, Meg was unresponsive. She rapidly increased the speed and incline of the treadmill. After nine minutes I’d reached a heart rate goal of 130. I said I’d be glad to do more, still thinking to myself that I would like to try for the office record, but Meg slowed the treadmill down and shut it off. No praise, no rewards, no exclamations of joy -- just silence. Then Roxie came back, injected some more radioactive fluid in my veins, and put me back in the Catscan machine, taking pictures of my racing heart for a second time. Once again she banged my platform against its frame when she was done. I got up, and Roxie cursorily said they’d call me in a few days. No so-longs or best wishes. Roxie did call a few days later and left a sixteen-word voice mail message saying, “This is Roxie. He reviewed your test last night and it came out normal. Take care. (Click.)” She didn’t invite me to call back with questions, come in next year, etc. It didn’t seem like very much information for an ultra-expensive test, probably around $250 per word. However, I didn’t complain. Instead I went to the fitness center the next day and started working out on the treadmill so I could force them to give me some praise the next time around.

Love,

Dave

*Pseudonyms used in this story.

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-15): Dave, Well, I'm glad you are OK. Give people a little power and..... You told this so well - I laughed out loud because we've all encountered these people. Phyllis

-Vicki L (7-9): Hi Dvd, I'll congratulate you, and heartily! You've looked healthier than any of your siblings for at least 10 years, despite your 'elder' status…

Loved your blog. Vicki

-Donna D (7-9): oh david, that's so sad. why do you need praise from these people? its all about doing the best you can do and that's what you're doing. give yourself a lot of praise!

Orgasmic Camping

The lake at Miami Whitewater Forest

Dear George,

With all the rain we’ve been having, it’s been a long time since I’ve gone camping with the sheepdogs. We finally got a good forecast last week, so I took Mike and Duffy to Miami Whitewater Forest for an overnight outing. I was worried about crowding because of the upcoming Fourth of July Weekend, but it was only about 15% full on Thursday, and I got one of my top picks in campsites. I always look for a secluded spot where there will be maximal peace and quiet. In this instance there were only two other occupied sites as far as I could see. There was a thirtysomething couple next door to me, about 75 feet away, with a fancy blue and white umbrella tent. The guy waved and yelled “Hi” as I was setting up my tent, and I yelled “Hey” in return. There was also an RV across the road from me with a dad and two boys, around 3 and 5. The kids came over to say hello to the sheepdogs. They seemed like typical kids. There was nobody else in the vicinity. It was sort of like being alone in the forest.

I put up the dogs’ playpen enclosure first, then pitched my tent and got the rest of my gear organized. By the time I was finishing up, the children across the street had begun running through the trees like wild Indians, screaming at the top of their voices. It’s amazing how piercing and intense a sound can come out of small children. It probably has evolutionary significance by virtue of generating intense emotional responses from adults. Not being their parent, I found it created painful vibrations in my central nervous system, and I hoped their vocal cords would get exhausted soon.

Our campsite (#113)

I made some lunch, then sat down next to the dogs’ enclosure and started reading some New Yorker essays by James Thurber. They were very amusing, but after two or three I started nodding off in my chair. I’d read a four-page story, then take a brief nap, read another story, nap some more, etc. Suddenly I woke up to a loud noise that sounded something like “Per-choog-a, Per-choog-a, Perchoog-a, etc.” I looked up, and it was the friendly guy next door pumping up his air mattress with a manual pump. He was doing it very vigorously, and the sound of the pump resonated throughout the campground. It seemed like an odd time to do your air mattress, but I just went back to reading Thurber, then fell asleep again. The next time I woke up, it was to human moans and groans, punctuated by oohs and aahs and occasional shrieks, coming from the blue and white tent next door. I won’t go into the lurid details, but it took about one second to figure out what that was about. While the children’s screams had been annoying, the adults’ moans were embarrassing and uncomfortable. I stuck my fingers in my ears to drown out the sound. When I finally took them out, the campground was entirely quiet, except for one chirping bird.

About twenty minutes later, the Park Ranger pulled up in his pickup truck and stopped in front of my neighbors’ campsite. The friendly camping guy, now bare-chested, walked over to meet him. They had a discussion that seemed civil enough from a distance, and the ranger nodded, got back in his truck, and drove off. I started reading my book again. Before I knew what was happening, the man and woman had taken down their blue and white tent, loaded all their gear in their SUV, and driven away. That was unusual. I speculated that the man with the kids had called in a complaint. I wondered exactly what the park ranger had said to them. The sheepdogs and I walked past their empty campsite, and it looked like they’d left in a hurry. Several bags of garbage were still sitting there, a bath towel and a pair of socks lay on the ground, and they’d even left their manual air pump leaning against a tree.

Our neighbors’ garbage

After supper I checked the posted rules on the bulletin board at the campground entrance. It said that the park ranger could terminate campers’ occupancy at any time if they don’t abide by the rules. There were quite a few rules – no firearms, no alcohol, keep your dogs on a leash, don’t gather wood from the forest, don’t pick flowers, etc. However, I didn’t see a single rule about erotic noises in the afternoon. It did say that quiet hours begin at 10 p.m., and people shouldn’t make noises that can be heard on adjoining campsites. I decided that must mean that whatever it is that people do in their tents after 10 p.m. they should do it very quietly. Apparently this rule extends to mid-afternoon as well. So the people got kicked out for breaking rules that aren’t spelled very clearly. I guess you’re just supposed to know these things.

There were a couple other noisy episodes during our stay, though these all came from Mother Nature. At dusk we heard the bullfrogs doing their chorus of mating calls at the pond. And some unknown water insects were going “Clackety-clack, clackety-clack,” almost like castinets. After dark at our campfire some creature in the forest started saying “Shu-ba-la, Shu-ba-la” in a high-pitched voice. I didn’t think it was a bird because the noise was so loud, but it was unlike any animal I’ve ever heard. Maybe a bearcat or a laughing hyena. The sound seemed to be getting closer to us, so the dogs and I got into our tent and zipped up the door. Actually Mike and Duffy turned out to be the best campers in the whole place since they didn’t make a single noise the entire time we were there. Here are a few more photos of our stay.

Love,

Dave

The forest from our campsite.

The dogs like to be in their playpen.

Hiking on the Oak Leaf Trail.

The ceiling above our tent.

I actually cooked this supper myself.

We got scared by strange noises at the campfire.

The dogs’ favorite time was getting in the car to go home.

As usual, we wound up with a treat at the Dairy Corner.

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-15): Dave, Do the dogs eat ice-cream too? Or do you order it for them and eat theirs? Maybe the couple couldn't afford a hot sheets motel. Phyllis

-DCL to Phyllis (7-16): I thought of that too. The campground is cheaper than a motel, but not as private.

-JML (7-5): Typical conservative Ohio Republican run campground. Down here in New Orleans, you get expelled from the campground if you don't make orgasmic sounds.

10 BEST MOVIES WE'VE SEEN IN 2011 (SO FAR)

Dear George,

Really good movies are few and far between these days. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the writer’s strike of a couple of years ago, or perhaps Hollywood is tailoring its products mostly for its huge youth and foreign audiences. We go to the movies every week, usually to Cincinnati’s art theaters, the Esquire and the Mariemont. We also take in selected mainstream Hollywood movies at the Rave. Here are my picks in rank order for the best so far in 2011. Since we try to go to the best movies in town, our sample is necessarily biased. Plus this is a pretty subjective ranking.

Love,

Dave

1. Bill Cunningham New York. An intimate, inspiring documentary about the 80+ year old New York Times photographer who, for years, has been riding his bike around Manhattan and recording fashion trends on the street by day and at New York’s social functions at night for his weekly columns in the Times. Rotten Tomatoes: 97%; Blog: A.

2. Midnight in Paris. Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams. A warm, loving fantasy written and directed by Woody Allen about a man who is a tourist in Paris with his unpleasant fiancé and her parents and is magically transported at nighttime to the 1920’s world of Hemingway, Picasso, and Gertrude Stein. Yahoo critics: B+; Blog: A-.

3. Another Year. Jim Broadbent, Lesley Manville. Tom and Gerri, a happy couple in their sixties with a grown son, deal with the emotional upheaval of their friends and relatives over the four seasons of a year; makes you laugh and cry. Yahoo critics: A-; Blog: A-.

4. Water for Elephants. Robert Pattinson, Reese Witherspoon, Christoph Waltz. An old-fashioned romance set in the thirties in which vet school student Jacob loses his parents, jumps a train and joins the circus, then falls in love with equestrian star Marlena, eliciting the wrath of her husband, ringmaster August. Yahoo critics: B-; Blog: A-.

5. Waste Land. Vik Muniz. Documentary of artist Vik Muniz’s collaboration with the pickers of Jardim Gramacho, the world’s largest landfill outside Rio de Janeiro, as he recreates photographic images of them out of recyclable garbage and reveals their dignity and despair. Rotten Tomatoes: 96%; Blog: A-.

6. The Fighter. Christian Bale, Mark Wahlberg. A gritty, distressing, documentary-like picture of the early years in Lowell, Mass., of boxer “Irish” Micky Ward and his brother Dick Eklund who helped train him before he went pro in the mid-80s. Yahoo critics: B; Blog: B+.

7. Hanna. Saoirse Ronan, Eric Bana. In a film involving nonstop action, suspense, and a teenage super-heroine, Ex-CIA man Erik raises his daughter Hannah in the wilds of North Finland to become the perfect assassin, then recognizes that she needs to go out in the world for the first time to deal with her family’s unfinished business. Yahoo Critics: B; Blog: B+.

8. Incendies. Lubna Azabal, Melissa Desormeaux-Poulin. When Nawal Marwan dies, her twin son and daughter receive from her will a pair of letters to deliver to a father they thought was dead and a brother they didn't know existed, leading to an incredible, suspenseful journey through their family history in the war-torn Middle East and their discovery of the tragic fate and remarkable courage of their mother. Rotten Tomatoes: 91%; Blog: B+.

9. Bridesmaids. Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph. A funny comedy on the surface and a serious drama at its core, maid of honor Annie tries to bluff her way through the expensive and bizarre marriage rituals with an oddball group of bridesmaids, but creates one disaster after the next. Yahoo Critics: B+; Blog: B+.

10. Super 8. Kyle Chandler, Ellen Fanning. With Jaws-like themes and suspense inspired by producer Steven Spielberg, a group of teens are filming a Super-8 movie when a pickup truck derails a speeding train, setting in motion a reign of terror by a creature from outer space in their small southwestern Ohio town. Yahoo critics: B; Blog: B+.

ALSO RANS: Buck (B+); Cave of Forgotten Dreams (B+); The Conspirator (B+); Biutiful (B+); Rabbit Hole (B+); X-Men: First Class (B); Jane Eyre (B); The Tree of Life (B).

NOT SO HOT: The Lincoln Lawyer (B-); Source Code (B-); Everything Must Go (B-); Unknown (C+); True Grit (C+); Blue Valentine (C); The Adjust Bureau (C); Thor (C-).

YOU COULD SAY AWFUL: 127 Hours (D+).

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-1): Dave, I'm so impressed that you see so many movies. I think I'd seen four of your total. I know Bill Cunningham's work very well. He's got at least one book out. I hope Blockbuster gets the movie; it sounds great. P

-Vicki L (7-2): Hi Davey, Thanks for the thumbs up and down. I'm so out of the loop I need all the help I can get! Do you subscribe to Netflix or only to what's current on the big screen. Love the movies. Sis

Facebook Dithers*

Dear George,

I’ve been friends with Melodie Petrocelli for close to a year. It began when she invited me to join her social network on Facebook. I’d never heard of Melodie before and still don’t know how she found me, though we do have a mutual friend in June M. I said o.k., and then I heard from Melodie on Facebook every day for ten straight months, sometimes two or more times a day. In fact, she’s been a more frequent communicator to me than my wife, my sister, and all of my other Facebook friends put together. Melodie’s usually excited about something happening in the local music world. She also writes about chocolate, peonies, and her cats. I’ve never commented about one of her posts nor responded that I “liked” them, but I have read each one faithfully. Then one day, for reasons that are hard to pinpoint, I decided to pare down my Facebook links and I “unfriended” Melodie. Just like that. Even though she was my most reliable message-sender, I didn’t miss her for very long. In fact, in a couple of days, I forgot about her altogether. That was about a five weeks ago. Then last week I got a new e-mail request from Melodie to become Facebook friends once again. I don’t know if she was hurt because I had unfriended her or whether my name had simply cropped up again in some kind of automatic surfing operation. I did notice that Melodie currently has 3,812 Facebook friends. That made me uncertain if I’d get any personal attention from her. I put her invitation on hold. I hope I’m not making her feel unwanted.

Even though I check it daily, I don’t really have the hang of Facebook. I don’t have that many Facebook friends -- about a tenth of the numbers that my son and daughter-in-law have. Plus mine is such a motley group. I’m Facebook friends with numerous family members and several real life friends, but also with casual work acquaintances, associates from thirty years ago or more, and some people I barely know at all. Yesterday I made a detailed list of all my actual real-life friends I could think of from age 13 to the present. Less than five percent of my past and present friends on that list are in my Facebook group. On the other hand, nearly half of my Facebook friends didn’t show up on my list of real friends at all. Thus if I post a message on Facebook, it’s addressed to a mysterious group that’s such a mix that it’s hard to know who will get it or what I might say.

My other problem with Facebook is that I rarely hear from most of the people that I’m closest to. My sister and my sister-in-law would be good examples. With some notable exceptions, it seems generally true that the better I know someone and the closer I feel to them, the more likely that I never hear from them on Facebook. At first I found this puzzling. Then I decided that it’s because (a) I’m probably connected to non-techy and/or introverted people; and (b) my distant ties on Facebook are persons who recruit huge numbers of acquaintances and send out large volumes of messages.

One thing that’s happened over time is that I’ve added links to various organizations out there in the world from whom I regularly get interesting inputs. The best example is my hometown newspaper, the Marinette-Menominee Eagle-Herald, which posts a headline news story every day and provides a link to their front page and photo galleries. I also get stuff from the Green Bay Packers, the Cincinnati Zoo, our local art museums, NPR, the Cincinnati Enquirer, Antioch College, the Daily Show, the Bengals, Sociological Images, the NY Times, David Sedaris, the Huffington Post, and several other sources. It’s a little unsettling, but I’m forced to conclude that many of my best friends are corporations.

Last weekend Katja and I went to a concert with our friend June. At one point June called us over and said, “Oh, I want you so much to meet my good friend, Melodie Petrocelli.” Katja said, “How nice. My husband has been Facebook friends with you for a long time.” Melodie and I looked blankly at one another, neither of us showing any hint of recognition. It was sort of awkward. I worried that she might say something about my unfriending her, but she didn’t even seem aware of my disappearance. Despite a year’s worth of Facebook messages (admittedly all one-way from Melodie), we didn’t have anything else to say. Instead Melodie turned to Katja and said, “I hope you’re my Facebook friend too.” Katja said, “Oh no, I don’t do the computer.” Melodie just said “Oh”, then moved on to find somebody more in the mainstream.

Love,

Dave

*Pseudonyms used in this story.

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-15): Dave, I think you are the Jane Austin (commenting on society and people) of Cincinnati. I am left wondering what Melodie looked like? Phyllis

-Gayle C (6-26): David. U r so right about face book. I am just a vey private person. I rather respond via e mail. But face book is great for getting messages out for work and of course for keeping in touch w everyone in the entire world. :). My goal in the. Near future is to frequent face book much more than I do now

Much love to you all

:) G

-Donna D (6-26): funny. is that last paragraph made up? donna

-DCL to Donna (6-26): Nope, it’s entirely true (except “last weekend” refers to when I initially wrote the story). You, of course, were one of the close friends or family members who I rarely hear from on Facebook.

Going for Baroque

Dear George,

Katja and I have been going to lots of classical music events lately – the symphony, the chamber music series, University opera, etc. I usually find it pleasant and relaxing, but it permeates the very core of Katja’s being. She grew up going to see the Philadelphia Orchestra with her parents and has a sophisticated understanding of classical music. I’m pretty lowbrow by comparison. Growing up in the North Woods, I was mostly exposed to polka music and 1950’s pop hits, supplemented by my parents’ addiction to Louis Armstrong and Dixieland jazz. I still enjoy Louis and Benny Goodman more than Mahler or Mozart, but we go to hear classical music more than anything else. It might be because Katja is the one who buys tickets for things.

Recently our friends June and Ed invited us to a Baroque music concert at a church in Northside. Two musicians played sort of primitive 17th century instruments while a tenor sang in Italian. Everybody clapped excitedly at the end. I’m sure it was of high interest to the music historian, but it sounded sort of clinky and clanky to me. Though there was a reception at the organizer’s home afterwards, I begged Katja to skip it, and we got home early.

I thought that would take care of my culture quota for a while, but then Katja said that there would be a film sponsored by the very same Baroque people at the Art Museum on Thursday evening. The blurb for the film promised the integration of Baroque music with Caravaggio’s paintings. That struck more of a chord with me. I had enough vague familiarity with Caravaggio to know that I’d enjoy his paintings, and having them set to the background of music from the same era sounded promising. We met Ed and June at the museum, along with an intellectual-looking, mostly gray-haired crowd of 50 or so. It was the North American premiere of an Italian film which was titled Voluptas Dolendi: I Gesti del Caravaggio. That should have given me a clue, though I mistakenly thought the film would be about a voluptuous Dolendi. It did feature a fifty-something black-haired dancer in a sort of sack-cloth outfit who flitted back and forth on a dimly lit stage, accompanied by a harpist offscreen playing Baroque music. Every now and then the dancer would stop and give a short speech in Italian, translated by English subtitles which still didn’t make any sense to me. Plus I didn’t see any Caravaggio paintings at all. I started dozing off. The film went on for a remarkably long sixty minutes, all of it consisting of the back-and-forth between the dancer dancing and the dancer talking in Italian while the harpist harped away.

At the end everyone clapped enthusiastically, and I did too. Then the emcee said they were going to have a panel discussion. She invited two other panelists to the stage, one a curator from the art museum and the second a local Baroque harpist. The panelists didn’t seem to have anything to say at the outset, so they just started off by taking questions. The sound system was poor, and I probably grasped about thirty percent of what was said. I wanted to sneak out, but we were locked into our second-row seats. One audience member asked the art curator what the film had to do with Caravaggio’s paintings, and he shrugged his shoulders and said he didn’t know. The harpist had brought her new baroque harp up on the stage, so people started asking questions about it. After a short while nobody ever mentioned the film or Caravaggio again and all the talk was about the new harp, e.g., where it was made, when, etc. As we were walking out I told Katja that perhaps I’d dozed off too much, but I never saw any paintings by Caravaggio. She said there weren’t any paintings. She said that the dancer was doing a choreographic interpretation of the paintings. The filmmakers took for granted that the audience would be visualizing Caravaggio’s paintings while she interpreted them through her dance. After a short pause I said that this was the worst event that I had ever been to in my life. Then I said in a grim voice that from now on I was going to pick all the events for us to attend. Then I said it was the last time I would ever come to any more Baroque events. I said that twice. Katja said she enjoyed the film somewhat, but that she wouldn’t care to see it again. We didn’t say anything else all the way home.

Love,

Dave

G-Mail Comments

-Vicki L (6-23): My brother! I'm so proud of you for being such a good sport…. You're a generous soul .... and get to have all sorts of experiences to boot. Good for you. (And for Katja). Love, Sis

-Ann B (6-22): I finally got on your blog today and had great fun looking at the pictures and reading your entries. If you had your fill of classical music you could have come up here and enjoyed the Porterfield Country Festival. Have you ever gone to a Drum and Bugle Corp show. Try goggle DCI. John and I really enjoy catching some of the top corps at the end of the summer. Their shows are amazing…. Take care, Ann

-JML (6-21): Indeed that sounds like an awful night. Nothing worse than having to pretend to be interested. Rule of thumb: never sit in the second row when you know it's going to be boring.

Archive: Menominee Postcards #3

Electric Square, Menominee, Michigan

Dear George,

This posting is the third of three archives of “Menominee Postcards” that have previously appeared in the righthand column of this blog. I’ve changed the Menominee postcard images once a week since July 2009, and, because they aren’t otherwise stored on the blog, I’ve decided to save old ones here for a new viewer’s potential interest. To access Menominee Postcard archives #1 and #2, one should go to the list of “Labels” in the blog’s righthand column and click on “Archives”. There is also an archive of “Marinette Postcards” there (Menominee’s twin city across the river in Wisconsin), as well as an archive of our father’s family photos taken mainly in the Menominee area from the mid-1930’s to the 1950’s (“Vic’s Photos”). I’ll be adding further archives of each of these topics in the future.

Love,

Dave

CHERNEY’S FAMOUS HOMEMADE CONES

Cherney’s was before my time, but Menominee and Marinette were definitely ice cream centers in the 1940’s and 50’s. The Ideal Dairy, whose ice cream cones cost two dips for a nickel, was on Highway 577 on our way home to our family’s house on the Menominee River, and the Producer’s Dairy was a few blocks up Sheridan Road from my grade school. When I worked at the Marinette drugstore I was in charge of making ice cream cones at the soda fountain for the neighborhood kids, and I’d make them for myself as well. My most thrilling childhood memory was when our father would take my siblings and I to the Menominee drugstore after hours and let us create and eat whatever sort of sundaes we wanted. A fantasy dream come true.

COMMERCIAL BANK

The white building with the tall columns is the Commercial Bank, one of two bank in downtown Menominee and our family bank when I was growing up. I had a savings account there as a grade schooler and bought Xmas club stamps at school each week for a nickel or dime which were then saved in the bank. Later I deposited portions of my drugstore salary checks at the Commercial Bank and accumulated $600 by the time I went off to college. I never learned to be much of a money manager, though the Commercial Bank tried to do its best for its children customers.

NORTHWESTERN FARMER

This is the office of the Northwestern Farmer, a newspaper publication based in Menominee. Past issues are currently available on microfilm from Michigan Tech for 1907-8. The photo is of interest because my dad was born in the twin cities in 1908, and it’s likely that my grandparents, as local business people, would have been aware of the firm and the publication. It looks like really old times in Menominee.

DEER YARD AT HENES PARK

Henes Park was (and is) a community treasure. It’s located on the Green Bay shore, just off M-35, and offers a bathing beach, picnic areas, and its own mini-zoo. The deer pen has deer and buffalo co-existing, and we were always amazed as children that buffalo, which we associated with the Wild West, actually lived in Menominee.

ICE BERG, GREEN BAY

When we moved to Cincinnati, we found the winters unimpressive. Moderate temperatures, occasional snowfalls that quickly turned grey and speckled from air pollution, and sidewalks covered in slush. Upper Michigan and Wisconsin had much more real winters. While the ice floes in this postcard image were undoubtedly at their peak, the Green Bay shore would become lined with miniature mountains of ice each winter, and we children would climb around on them like arctic adventurers.

MENOMINEE HIGH SCHOOL

I have lots of rich memories of Menominee High because of friends, classes, teachers, activities, sports, and silly happenings. I was pretty much a good student, participated in the class plays, won a letter on the varsity tennis team, and was on various student councils and similar bodies. When I went off to Antioch College, my classmates were from much larger and more sophisticated schools in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, etc. But, despite my being the only Antioch student in history from the U.P., MHS had prepared me well enough that I survived my freshman year and beyond.

VICTORY BEACH

This is one of the parks on Sheridan Road just north of downtown Menominee. It’s on the Green Bay shore. Uncle Kent, Aunt Millie, and my cousins lived across the street from Victory Beach, and I’d pass by it each day on the way to school. Despite its name, Victory didn’t have a swimming beach, so we didn’t hang out there.

PAPER MILL By the time I was born the logging boom in the Menominee-Marinette area had been long gone, but paper production remained one of the towns’ main industries. One of the paper mills was right next to the Hattie Street bridge over the Menominee River, and I would ride my bike past it each day on my way to work at the Marinette drugstore.

SHERIDAN ROAD Sheridan Road, pictured here, is one of the two major streets in Menominee, running along the Green Bay Shore from the Menekaunee Bridge to the northern side of town at the opposite end. Our family lived on Sheridan road while I was in grade school, first in a house toward the north end of the street, then in a second-floor apartment downtown during the war. Some of my friends who lived on this street included Jimmy Jorgenson, Sally Henes, Marvin Forton, Sammy Wells, Hal Rosene, Wally Jones, Peter and Dinah Johnson, and my cousins, Thor, Kurt, and Stewart. Important places on Sheridan Road included the Producers’ Dairy, the Silver Cream Brewery, our family physician Dr. Sethney, my dad’s law office, my grandfather’s Menominee Drug Store, the town’s two banks, the Montgomery Ward department store, the police department, Van’s Bar, the GI Surplus Store, our dentist Dr. Mead, the Five and Dime, the Spies Public Library, the Lloyd Movie Theater, Reindl’s Restaurant, the Marathon Paper Mill, the Carpenter Cook building and docks, a gas station, the Marina and Bandshell, the Vogue women’s clothing store, and a bunch of other shops. This was clearly the main drag in Menominee.

FERNSTRUM BOILER WORKS

The Fernstrum Boiler Works was down toward the west end of Ogden Avenue, about halfway between my friend Sally Fernstrum’s and our family’s two-story house and Boswell Grade School. Sally and I attended kindergarten at Boswell. On our half-mile winter walks to school, Sally and I would stop each morning at the Boiler Works where we warmed our hands and feet at the potbelly stove in the office and replenished ourselves for the second half of our harsh and challenging kid journey.

MENOMINEE DRUG STORE

My grandfather founded drug stores in Marinette and Menominee. When he retired he gave the Menominee store to my Uncle Kent who was also a pharmacist. The drug store was a half block away from Washington Grade School, so I spent a lot of lunch hour and after school time there, catching up on all the newly published comic books for the week. Kent’s fellow pharmacist Lucien always told me to enjoy my current childhood age because it only gets worse as you grow older. Lucien’s advice made a big impression on me, though I’m still not convinced he was right.

AERIAL OF DOWNTOWN MENOMINEE (circa 1940)

This is downtown Menominee, with the breakwater extending out into Green Bay and the picture centered on Electric Square, the hub of the business district. VAL Sr.’s drugstore was in the building in the foreground, and the First National Bank is just behind it. The Carpenter Cook (grocery distributor) Building is at the front right. We lived up the street (to the left) on Sheridan Road for several years during my childhood, and my daily walks to and from Washington Grade School took me through this intersection for what now seems like thousands of times.

BANDSHELL

The bandshell is in Marina Park opposite the police station on First Street and on the shoreline of the Green Bay marina. My strongest personal association with the bandshell came from adulthood when my dad was one of the people instrumental in establishing a summer music series at the bandshell. When we’d come home for family reunions each August, we’d regularly take in a concert there at the Waterfront Festival.

HENES PARK

We spent a lot of time at Henes Park as kids. Located on Green Bay with forested hiking trails, it was Menominee’s best known landmark. The O’Hara’s summer cottage was an eighth of a mile north on M-35, so we’d walk down to the park along the beach. There was a large buffalo and deer pen and, years later, a tiny “zoo” containing a black bear, raccoons, and other local animals in small barred cages. The children’s playground was our favorite spot, with swings, a tall slide and a smaller slide, a teeter-totter, and a merry-go-round type apparatus that you ran around and pushed to get started, then jumped onto. As teens, we picnicked at Henes Park, played softball, and swam at the beach. Years later Katja and I always took J to Henes Park on our family vacations home.

JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL

Menominee High School had two buildings, one for junior high and one for senior high. Making the transition from sixth grade at Washington Grade School to junior high was a major life event, e.g., shifting from the top of the pack to the bottom of the pack, a sequential role change which was to be repeated throughout life in various ways. I spent half of each school day in the 7th grade in a “core” class under the tutelage of Mr. Robare who was young, thin, had a crewcut, wore glasses, and had a funny sense of humor. I became good friends with Sally H. and Bob A. in Mr. Robare’s class, and we are still good friends to this day, though our reunions are infrequent.

GRANT SCHOOL There were four public elementary schools in Menominee, as well as a parochial school, St. John’s. Boswell was on the west side of the city, and Sally Fernstrum and I went there for kindergarten. Our family then moved to Sheridan Road, and I attended Washington which was in the southeast quadrant of the city. Roosevelt was south-central, and Grant School served northern Menominee. All of these were feeder schools for Menominee High School, and, when I moved on to seventh grade, I soon developed many of my friendships with kids from Grant School, i.e., Bob A., Sonny K., Bob R., John F, Eugene B., and Bob G. We played touch football on the high school lawn during Autumn lunch hours, then shifted to lunchtime basketball in the winter. By the time this photo was taken, Grant had shut down, as had Washington Grade School (which looked just like Grant), and a big new elementary school had been built by the airport.

POST OFFICE

Toward the end of World War II my mother, my brother Steven, and I lived in a second-floor apartment just two doors east of the Post Office. Every month or so my mother would send me there to buy some stamps, and it made me feel very grown-up.

OGDEN AVENUE

This is a view of 10th Avenue (formerly Ogden Ave.) shortly after one comes off the Interstate Bridge and heads east toward downtown Menominee. Ogden Ave. and Sheridan Rd. are the town’s two major streets. This postcard was published in the 1970’s. On the opening day of Taco Bell (pictured at the right) my parents and a group of their 60-something friends had a party there to spoof the fast food chain’s arrival in the wilds of the north. As it happened, my mom became a great fan of Taco Bell salads, and my father would regularly pick up a takeout order for her lunch.

G-Mail Comments

-John Y (6-20): Just stumbled across your blog today. Exceptional. I haven’t read all of the blog yet, but I got a big hoot and a lot of nostalgia from what I’ve read so far. Re the “Aerial View of Downtown Menominee” I think that’s the Spies Building not the Carpenter Cook Warehouse which was down by the Menominee Paper Mill by Dormer Fish Company…. Will write more later after I’ve explored the entire blog. John

-Wayne M (6-20): Hi, Wayne M***, class of 57 here. I just wanted to tell you how great your blog is. Sure brings back some memories of the greatest place in the world to grow up. While reading the information under the photo of the boarded up Grant elementary school I thought I would just recall from my deteriorating memory the following. There were eight elementary schools in Menominee. I noticed this because Lincoln wasn't mentioned. Lincoln and Roosevelt were identical in construction. It was located on the corner of 14th street and 28th avenue. The other two schools were parochial, St. Ann's and Epiphany. I remember this because we had an eight team rotation for grade school football and basketball. What wonderful memories!! I had Mr. Robare for 7th grade core also. The thing I remember about him was the yogi. He would walk up behind a person who was goofing off and with the center knuckle extended, bonk you on the head. Thanks for sharing. Wayne