undercover radio

At Grandad & Carolyn's, Ross and I would stay in the guest bedroom where there was a large bed that we had to share. There was a little folding stand which could be unfolded to accommodate a suitcase. On the far side of the bed was a little alarm clock radio on the bedside table. The ceiling slanted down to meet the walls where roof sloped into the space of the room. The bed was comfortable and the room seemed a little formal and cozy at the same time somehow. One summer when we were there, Grandad gave Ross Ivanhoe to read, but thought it was too advanced for me. He gave me a strange old book, probably from the twenties or earlier, with a green cover, like a boy's adventure book, set in ancient Egypt. Ross and I would sometimes read our respective books in bed for a while after we were supposed to be asleep. I was a little jealous of Ross's book, and was quite sure that Ivanhoe was not too advanced for me, especially when Ross would read a quote like this to me, "No silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten down thy avaricious throat—no, not a silver penny will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damnation thy whole life has merited!" which was already familiar to me, since Grandad had recited it on more than one occasion. But I enjoyed my book too, if for nothing else, the fact that it was old and hard covered, with brittle yellowed pages, and ancient looking type. And I have a vague impression there was a boy throwing a stick on the cover. I think Grandad gave me the book, and I may still have it somewhere. But sometimes, we would get caught with the light on much later than we were supposed to be awake, and then it was really time to turn off the light and go to sleep. So we would turn the light off and wait a while for the adult to return to bed, or to go back downstairs, then, whoever was on the far side of the bed would reach over and turn the AM radio on the clock radio on, and with the volume low, would search for something distant and interesting on the radio. The more distant it was, the more interesting it seemed. Sometimes we would get a Milwaukee station, or Chicago, coming in strong, and we would drift away from those, searching for New York or Boston or somewhere in Texas, a remote and wavering signal, we would strain to listen to the news, or some music, until it gradually faded out or became too staticky. It seemed magical, the sounds drifting in across the ether from some faraway place, late at night. And it seemed slightly, yet deliciously, surreptitious, since we were supposed to be asleep long before. I remember wondering if my dad and his siblings had done similar clandestine radio listening in the same room in the distant past. And we would get tired, and eventually fall asleep, sometimes waking later to turn off the radio, which had been jazz music, or an old time fire and brimstone preacher, or news from the east coast, but was then only a low shhhhh of static.

antenna

Grandad & Carolyn's house had a sort of balcony on the second story which was accessible via a door at the top of the stairs. This door was always closed and usually locked. But nothing interests young kids as much as a place they're not supposed to go, so we always wanted to go out on the balcony. It didn't matter so much that we were told the roof might not support us and we could come crashing down through the balcony into the kitchen. We were sure that we could be careful and step lightly and enjoy viewing the yard from on high. We did manage to go out a few times, and perhaps a good scolding made it seem that we shouldn't try to open that door again.
The house also had a large television antenna. There was a control inside which controlled a motor on top of the antenna to point it towards Chicago or Milwaukee or wherever there might be a television station for better reception. It was a great marvel to us, since we had mostly experience with rabbit ear antennas and we often looked up at in wonder.
At some point, we noticed that the television antenna tower passed very close to the balcony, and to us, the structure of the tower looked very much like a small ladder. After some consideration of the merits of trying to climb this ladder, we came to the conclusion that it was a good idea. I think it was Ross who first carefully stepped over Carolyn's flowers, tried out the handhold, then the foothold and began to climb. It looked easy and exciting and fun so I was quick to follow. It became more difficult as we climbed. And when we came next to the balcony, it didn't seem likely that we'd be able to get over to it, so the logical thing to do was to continue climbing up. We had a great view of the yard, front and back, and I think it was sometime around this time that we began to realize how high up we were. I also have a vague memory of trying to go down, and feeling empty space under my foot when I began to take a step down and not liking that at all. My arms and legs were getting tired, and I was wishing there was a way to get down without having to take all of those backwards steps into potentially empty space.
I'm not sure if it was Grandad or Carolyn who noticed that we weren't around, but Grandad came out and called us, and we watched him look out front, then come around back. We were so proud of our accomplishment that we didn't stop to consider that our accomplishment could get us in trouble, so we said, "Hi Grandad!" and waved to him. He looked around and couldn't tell where we were so we yelled some more and he finally looked up and we waved again. Perhaps fortunately, we were to far away to see the expression on his face, but for some reason he didn't seem as pleased about what we had done as we were. Carolyn had come out, and went inside to get the camera, and took a picture of us up on the antenna, and Grandad commanded us to come down.
Suddenly the fear of putting my foot down onto a rung of the improvised ladder that wasn't there seemed a minor thing compared to the fear of further stoking Grandad's quite evident ire (though, could it be that he also laughed for some reason?). We descended as rapidly as possible, to meet our doom at the hands of the Judge. I don't remember the exact nature of the punishment, but it could have been as bad as a long lecture of safety and common sense.
I haven't seen that picture for many years. In fact, I sometimes wonder if it ever existed.

Fat Man's Misery

When Ross and I went up to Wisconsin to visit Grandad one summer, we were there for a pretty long time. Grandad thought up several things to do to keep us busy and interested so we wouldn't find too much trouble to get into. When he announced that we were going to a place called the Wisconsin Dells where we would take a boat tour, it sounded supremely boring to my young mind, not to mention the two and a half hour car ride to get there from Racine.
Under protest, we went along (with Grandad, you always went along in the end) and endured the long summer drive to the Wisconsin Dells. There was much talk about glaciers on the way there. Moraines, and hogback ridges, and how the geography of Wisconsin changes abruptly along the line of the furthest reach of the glaciers in the last ice age were topics of conversation. Or at least topics of monologue. In fairness, monologue leading to speculation, questions, conversation.
When we arrived, the place seemed rather touristy and gaudy, in the cigar store Indian vein, which was marginally fun, in a carnival kind of way, but didn't seem a good omen for our boat tour. When we got in the boat, it seemed slightly more interesting and kid fun, and we began to think that this outing would be at least tolerable. The weather was pleasant and we started to see some really remarkable rock formations. We saw colorful curved rock formations (formed by glacial action) and swallows nesting on rock overhangs. The trip was turning out to be quite enjoyable and fascinating. After a tour by water, the walking part of our day began.
We walked along wooden walkways, with beautiful curved sandstone walls towering above. Sometimes we'd bake in the hot summer sun, and other times rock walls would shade us from the sun and cool humid air would drift from wet sandstone, with water trickling down the rock faces. A stream was rushing by one walkway, and a waterfall sprayed us with mist. We laughed at the touristy names like Witch's Gulch, Witch's Bathtub and Cold Water Canyon. We were surprised and amazed at how cool this place was.
We were appalled to learn that a dam had been built in the early twentieth century, covering over what people had said were even more amazing rock formations. In a store or visitor's center we saw early photos and sketches of some of these sites, like Boat Cave and Bass Cave. We thought maybe we could get some scuba diving equipment and look at them all underwater, or cover one of the amphibious boats and make it into a submarine. We'd heard of glass bottomed boats in Florida, and wondered if the water was clear enough to see anything that way. We were enthusiastic converts to the wonders of the Wisconsin Dells. We imagined blowing up Kilbourn Dam so everyone would be able to see these sites again.
One of the highlights of the Wisconsin Dells trip was running ahead of Grandad to see a spot in the path labeled "Fat Man's Misery." We laughed and went ahead a ways and waited for Grandad to catch up, watching him slowly progress toward the narrowest part of the path. When he was near the spot, we saw him glance up at the "Fat Man's Misery" sign and chuckle. He had to turn sideways and inch his way through the small gap. He chuckled again as his ample belly squeezed through. We didn't say anything and we tried not to laugh.
I happened to see some H. H. Bennett Stereo Views for sale on an auction site recently. Some were of the Wisconsin Dells, which reminded me of this trip. I thought of Grandad chuckling as he squeezed through the "Fat Man's Misery" and found this old postcard for sale on another site and bought it.
The back of the card reads: Through much of COLD WATER CANYON the rock walls are very high, and the passage between them vary narrow. The narrowest point is called Fat Man's Misery.

jet

Grandad and Carolyn came to visit us when we lived in Buffalo. I was probably five years old and Ross was six or seven. I think they flew there from Racine via Milwaukee or Chicago. When they left we must have gone to the airport to see them off. I don't remember it, but we might have left the airport building, driven to an observation spot and watched for their plane to take off. That's something my dad might have enjoyed, knowing which airline they were flying on, which kind of plane it would be and which runway they'd be taking off from (if there was more than one runway in Buffalo at the time) so we could watch their plane take off and maybe wave to them. So that's the occurrence that I don't specifically remember, but what I do remember is that after that visit, every time Ross and I saw a jet flying over, we would stop what we were doing, wave and yell, "Hi Grandad and Carolyn!" No matter how high the jet was or how far away it was, we'd do that. Of course we knew that Grandad and Carolyn weren't on any of those planes, or at least I think we knew that, but we always wanted to say hi to Grandad and Carolyn, so that is what we did.

outboard

When my brother and I went up to the shack with Grandad and Uncle Bill that summer, Grandad brought along an old green outboard motor. I think it was four or five horsepower and it might have been a Johnson. Ross and I were quite excited on the day we mounted it on the back of the aluminum rowboat. Even though rowing was a more than adequate means of locomotion to get to any part of the lake, going under power was much more appealing to us as adventuresome kids. Grandad and Uncle Bill mixed the gas and oil, connected the fuel lines and got the motor started after a few adjustments. I think we motored around the lake a few times at a moderate rate with Uncle Bill at the helm. He gave us a few safety pointers about how you can't stop a boat immediately like a car or bike, how you have to watch out for branches or logs floating in the water and reminded us that the propeller protrudes into the water further than the bottom of the boat, so one must be careful when motoring in shallow water. When we returned to shore, we were given detailed instruction on how to start the motor, stop the motor, keep the fuel going while it's running, use the throttle, raise the engine if we went into shallow areas and other general operating procedures. It was then that I learned that I was not to be the captain of this vessel. My brother was a year and a half older than I, which meant that he was qualified to take the tiller, while my age relegated me to mere passengerdom. I made known my displeasure at this arbitrary decision, but to no avail. However, I wasn't about to let this disqualification ruin my fun, and I knew I might be able to revisit the issue at a later time.
When we got into the boat without Grandad and Uncle Bill, I noticed how much the bow of the boat was raised out of the water. The boat had previously been ballasted by the weight of one large and one small adult, in addition to the two kids, so it hadn't been an issue. With the lighter cargo of two kids, the relatively heavy motor caused the stern to ride low and the bow high. This condition was compounded by having the slightly older and therefor larger and heavier kid in the stern to operate the motor. We pushed off and made our first cautious run under the watchful eyes of Uncle Bill and Grandad. As soon as we started to gain speed, the bow of the boat rose up even more, frighteningly so. The bow completely blocked my view in the direction we were traveling, so I knew the captain of the boat wouldn't be able to see in that direction either. He was already slowing down, and we decided that I should move to the front seat to try to keep the bow down. This worked well enough for us to motor to the head of the lake and back at a moderate speed. We returned to the inlet by the shack and were congratulated by Grandad on having become able seamen.
We had a few chores to do, maybe stacking wood or sweeping floors, which we did as quickly as possible so we might have a chance to return to the fun of motoring around the lake. We were allowed to go back out for a short time, and we went a little bit faster this time, gently weaving back and forth across the breadth of the lake as we traversed the length. If we started going very fast the bow would rise again even with me in the front seat, which was still a bit scary, so we didn't dare go too fast on our second outing.
The next day, we had a much longer time to spend on the lake, and the fuel tank was still nearly full, so we began going a little faster, and doing a few more curves, and getting closer to shore. We'd occasionally see Grandad or Uncle Bill by the cabin as we motored by, so we felt a bit restrained by distant supervision. We came in for lunch, and had a few more chores to do before eating. I remember Grandad giving me some helpful advice about sweeping. It was something along the lines of, if you're going to do a job, you should do it well, and not just half-ass it so you can go do something fun. I think it might have been a commentary on the quality of my work on the previous day's pre-motorboating chores. This time I tried to sweep as quickly as possible without giving the appearance of doing a half-assed job. After our chores were done, we were back out on the lake. We were a bit more confident and for some reason we started spending more time at the head of the lake, which coincidentally was more difficult to see from near the cabin. We experimented with figure eights, weaving back and forth and tight curves. We occasionally made less exciting journeys to the lower part of the lake, and on one of those journeys, we noticed that our erstwhile supervisors were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were inside the shack and were watching from the windows, or perhaps they were just behind some brush or trees and we couldn't see them. We knew they were probably around somewhere, but the fact that we couldn't see them somehow made us bolder. Now it felt like the whole lake was ours. With additional test runs, we found that we could travel the length of the lake at full throttle if the captain leaned forward and I crouched down all the way in the front of the bow. I'd be raised up in the air, and even small ripples made it a pretty rough ride, but the speed seemed worth it. We were doing a few tight curves at speed, and went into a tight figure eight and the captain decided it might be fun to do some very tight circles at near full throttle. I had a hard time holding on, and I think he did too and when I looked back, I was pretty astonished to see that the motor was pushing on the boat so hard that the back edge of the boat was below the level of the surrounding water. We were going fast enough so the water couldn't catch up of course, but I thought if we had to stop suddenly the boat might be swamped, especially if I lost my grip and fell back towards the stern. We weren't swamped though, and while the feeling of danger stunned us at first, we soon realized that it had been quite fun, so we did it some more, at perhaps a slightly reduced speed, until we were dizzy enough to feel something akin to seasickness.
We might have continued our adventures, had we not run into one of the cruel realities of motor sports. Having emptied the fuel tank, we were forced to take the oars from the bottom of the boat and use them propel the boat back to the inlet using old fashioned muscle power at what seemed like an incredibly slow pace.
After we returned, Grandad had thought up a few more mild chores for us to do. By the time we finished those, dinner was ready. After we ate, it was still light outside, but it was starting to get a little bit darker in the shack, so Grandad lit a kerosene lamp. After he lit the lamp, he sat back in his chair, cleared his throat and said, "You know, when you're out on the lake in that boat, I really want you to be careful."
I thought he or Uncle Bill must have come out and seen us after we forgot about the existence of our supervisors. I also suddenly thought of the fact that the motor was a lot louder when it was at full throttle, so maybe they hadn't even seen us and had just heard the motor running at top speed for extended periods.
I expected to be scolded and maybe not be allowed to use the boat by ourselves, or get a big lecture on how we could be hurt or ruin the motor. Instead, he solemnly said something like, "I told your mother I'd take care of you boys while you're here, and if anything happened and you were hurt or killed, I'd hate to have to write that letter to your mother. I would hate to have to write something like, Dear Jackie, Today I found the boys' bodies floating out in the lake."
I forgot about the prospect of punishment or lectures as I looked at the flame of the kerosene lamp so I wouldn't have to look at Grandad. I imagined my own body floating out in the lake next to an overturned boat and pictured Grandad's hand writing that sentence, and then my mother reading it. I felt a weight of responsibility shift from him as our guardian and caretaker to us as independent beings. I had often thought of the risk to myself when doing stupid things, or the risk of getting caught and getting in trouble, but I hadn't often thought about what I might be doing to someone else.
There was no lecture or punishment or removal of privileges, there was just matter of fact presentation of potential consequences. Then I realized maybe we hadn't been 'caught' at all. Maybe he just said that because he knew what kids were like and that if we had been screwing around, we'd know what he was talking about, and if we hadn't, we'd go on on being careful.
The next day, we took the boat out again, but this time we had fishing poles. There was still room for a few figure eights and some fast runs between attempts at fishing, but maybe we didn't have to open the throttle all the way.

armored vehicles

One evening after one of Carolyn's tasty dinners, we retired to the living room. Some logs were added to the fire and after the appropriate amount of stoking and adjusting, the fire perked up and was giving off a relaxing warmth. Coffee was served and a great feeling of well being and satisfaction seemed to settle down over us. Grandad sat for a while with his eyes almost closed, taking occasional drinks from his coffee cup, then perked up a little bit as the caffeine took effect. We started talking, and somehow we got on to the subject of ancient Roman warfare. That led to the subject of Roman ruins and fortifications, which eventually led to the trench warfare of World War I. Grandad said there was one thing which really changed the style of warfare during World War I, and it was a great invention. It allowed the troops to advance over the no-man's land and even over trenches while being protected from bullets. He said, "Now this thing really turned the tide, and it was like a great metal box with tracks that moved it along. Now what were those things called? Do you know?"
I kind of felt bad for Grandad because he didn't seem to be able to think of that word. I thought maybe he's just getting old, poor guy, but I know what he means and I'm sure he'll be impressed that I know and I answered with perhaps a hint of self-satisfaction, "Tanks."
"You're welcome!" replied Grandad.

collision mats

I wrote earlier about some breakfasts of overcooked fried eggs that grandad cooked at the shack. Those breakfasts were not very good. I was talking to my dad about that, and he remembered that the fried eggs would be cooked so much that the yolks somehow took on a green color and an unpleasant smell. The only way he could eat them would be to completely cover them with ketchup.
But not all breakfasts that grandad cooked at the shack were such a struggle to get down. I remember being quite pleased when grandad announced that there would be pancakes for breakfast. I like pancakes, and while they can be overcooked, or undercooked, there are usually lots of them, at least some of which are neither blackened nor soggy.
One thing I like about pancakes is their names. Pancakes have many names, and all of them seem to have a nice ring. Some people call them hotcakes, some call them flapjacks, others call them griddle cakes. Grandad told us that in the navy they were called collision mats. He asked us if we knew why they might be called collision mats. I tried to think of some clever answer, but nothing I came up with made any sense, so I answered no, and my brother did too.
Grandad explained that a collision mat was a large flexible mat with ropes attached to the corners that was lowered over the side of a ship if there was a hole below the water line, such as might be caused by a collision with another ship. The collision mat would be placed over the hole, and secured by means of the ropes attached to it. Hopefully the water pressure and ropes would keep the mat over the hole, and stop the water coming in, or at least reduce the flow enough to keep the ship afloat. It might work well enough to allow the ship to get to port, or to make some other more effective repairs.
Of course collision mats had to be made from extremely tough material in order to keep the sea from pouring in through a hole in the side of a ship. Sailors, dissatisfied with the lightness and fluffiness of navy pancakes, came to suppose that they were made out of the same material as collision mats, and could probably serve the same purpose, and share the same name.
It was always nice to have collision mats for breakfast at the cabin. If we were lucky, grandad would have remembered to bring a bottle of pure maple syrup which is a wonderful complement to a buttered hotcake. Sometimes we'd have to make due with a store brand pancake syrup left over from some previous expedition. Grandad would assure us that once we got rid of the mold from the surface of the syrup, the rest would be just fine. I was also fond of pouring a moderate amount of blackstrap molasses over my flapjacks.
After a tasty pancake breakfast, my brother and I would be assigned the task of cleaning up. To preempt any grumbling, grandad told us the story of the "pan cleaner."
It happened at a summer boy's camp, and I think he might have been one of the boys attending the camp, but I'm not sure. At any rate, they had pancakes for breakfast every morning at this camp. After breakfast, a couple of the boys were selected to help clean up. They would wash the pancake batter bowls, clear the table and wash the dishes, but they wouldn't bother washing the pancake pan. The next day, the cook would just make one huge pancake in the pancake pan. This pancake would soak up any left over grease and bake in any leftover burnt crumbs from the previous day's pancake making. This pan sized pancake would then be discarded and the normal pancake making would commence. This pancake was known as the pan cleaner.
When it was his turn, one of the boys refused to help clean up after breakfast. I think grandad said this boy was from a wealthy family and considered cleaning up to be beneath him. He was asked several times, but refused disdainfully.
The next day, everyone came to breakfast as usual. As a reward for refusing to clean up like everybody else, this boy was served first, and with the largest pancake. As the reader might have guessed, he got the pan cleaner. The rest of the pancakes were served directly to the plates of the other boys so he would not have to opportunity to get anything other than the unappetizing pan cleaner. He didn't eat the pan cleaner, so he ate nothing.
Perhaps he thought the pan cleaner was his punishment for not helping to clean up, and that he had paid for his crime by going hungry that morning, so he didn't bother to help with the clean up. Maybe he was surprised the next day when he got the pan cleaner again. The second time he got the message, and decided to help clean up after breakfast that morning, and hope for more pristine pancakes the next day.
Not that we would have considered refusing to help clean up, but we might have put it off until later in the day, to do something more fun, then accidentally forgotten about it. We understood the implications of this story though, and got right to the clean up, with a minimum of fiddle farting around.
When I came up to the cabin with Jörg and Paul, I told them about pan cleaners and collision mats as we were making pancakes for breakfast. We cooked up a nice stack of griddle cakes and took them outside to a large wooden cable spool that someone had set on its side in front of the cabin. It was the perfect height and size for a stand up table. It was a sunny but cool and breezy morning. We had a wonderful breakfast of hot collision mats and coffee as we stood around our makeshift table while the breeze rustled the leaves and spread ripples on the lake.