pump

When visiting the shack one had to think about the things which are modern conveniences which one can easily take for granted. At home one might turn the tap on for a drink of water, take something out of the refrigerator to eat and turn on the stove to cook it. At the shack, there was no running water. There was usually a gas stove there, but there may or may not be any propane in the tank to run it, and it may or may not be working. A mouse might have built a nest inside it, so turning on the oven if there was gas might be risky. As long as I could remember there was a refrigerator there, but I don't recall it ever working. For a long time I thought it was just there as a big inefficient cooler to put ice in to keep things cool because I had no idea that there was such a thing as a gas powered refrigerator. There was also an actual ice box on the porch. And every time one visited, it couldn't be assumed that any particular thing would be there or working. There was a jar of sugar on a shelf in the kitchen which Grandad told me probably had pre-war sugar in it because they would just keep dumping more sugar in it when it ran low. There would often be cans of food there but sometimes they would have been through many cycles of freeze and thaw and be completely ruined. There might be tea or coffee in a can or jar or box but it might have no flavor left or might taste vaguely of desiccated mouse. There was no electricity so you had to bring your own in the form of batteries. There was often a radio or two but if there were batteries they'd likely be dead and if they were still in the radio they might have broken and leaked and ruined the radio. There were usually Coleman gas lanterns in the attic but they might be out of white gasoline and the mantles might be full of holes or gone completely. There were some kerosene lamps but they were often empty or had short wicks or no wicks at all. There was no running water, so you had to bring water too, unless you were prepared to drink lake water. And even if you were prepared to drink lake water, you had to draw it out of the lake somehow and wading into the mud on the shore would make for some not very clean water unless you went far out and acted quickly and then the mud would take a while to settle so you'd have to adjust your position or go further out next time. And there would be pots and pans and even a few milk cans for water, but they might be greasy from some ancient food, or have a dead mouse inside, or an old dry snake skin, so you'd need to clean them to put water in them, but you'd probably need some water to clean them. The lake might be frozen over in which case you could walk out a ways if you were sure the ice was thick enough, chop a hole in the ice and get water that way. Or if it was not winter, you could see if the boat was ok and turn it over and drag it down to the edge of the lake and hope that the oars were under the bunk bed where they usually were and hope there was at least a matching pair. So a visit to the shack took some planning and then often dealing with some surprises and then some work to make things comfortable if you were staying more than one night. When my brother and I were young we visited the shack for a while one summer with our mom and dad. Our aunt and uncle and cousins and some other people were also visiting. We actually called it "the cabin" in our family. Others in the family called it the shack and I eventually started using that term too. There was even a wooden sign someone made with "The Shack" engraved on it so that seemed more official somehow. But even quite young, the collection and use of fresh water made an impression on me. I can still remember the milk cans full of fresh water stored under the counter in the kitchen and the clink of the metal ladle against the side of the can when getting some water to drink or cook with or clean with. I think some people had arrived there before us during that visit, so they'd already cleaned the milk cans and started filling them with fresh water. Sometimes there would also be some jugs of lake water for cleaning and some jugs of fresh water for cooking, drinking and brushing teeth. A few times when we were there that summer, my brother and I would be involved in refilling the milk cans. There was a hand pump somewhere a short drive away. We'd get the cans in the car and take them to the pump. Somewhere near Musser Lake I think, perhaps not far from a campground or boat ramp. Then my brother and I would vie for the privilege of operating the hand pump to fill the milk cans. Once they were full they would be very heavy and I think we had to rely on some adult to move the full milk cans back to the car for transport back to the shack. We really liked that kind of productive work and it was almost like a game, pumping away at seemingly nothing to get the water up and then the satisfying sloshing of the fresh clean cold water from underground into the clean can once it created enough suction to actually start pumping water. I later learned that at some point there had been a hand pump on the kitchen counter in the shack. I don't recall if someone had sunk a pipe right there in the kitchen or if it had been outside somewhere close with a pipe leading into the kitchen. I was jealous of those people back in the day who could pump water right up into the kitchen. I think someone told me it eventually got clogged and stopped working. When I stayed at the shack years later I found the pump handle and body under the kitchen counter when I moved everything to re-chink the logs and briefly fantasized about getting it back into operation but I had no idea how to even start that particular project. The re-chinking was difficult and I made some progress, but I was surprised how heavy the plaster was and started running out of plaster and jute. I experimented with a recycled paper chinking by filling a bucket with old newspaper and water and mashing it with a big stick until it was pulped. Once it dried into place, it seemed remarkably tough and lightweight, but I have no idea how long it lasted. I used lake water for that. I don't recall whether there were any milk cans left under the counter at that point.

 

not heaven

One day when I was up at the shack with Grandad for hunting season, it started snowing heavily in the afternoon. I went outside and took a photo of the shack as the big fat wet clumps of flakes started falling. It snowed a lot and it was a thick damp snow. I was sure that the snow would show up in the photo, but later when I developed the film and made a print, I was a bit disappointed that it wasn't too obvious how heavily it was snowing in the photo. There was still some snow on the ground at that point from a previous heavy snow which had mostly melted. The snow kept coming and was eventually pretty deep. In the kitchen I found a can of Borden's condensed milk, of an unknown vintage, and decided to make some snow ice cream. I got a big mixing bowl and added some snow and poured in some condensed milk. The snow was still kind of wet and it just became sort of lumpy and slushy when I stirred it. I added some more snow but it didn't help too much, so I added some more milk which also didn't help too much. I think it just wasn't cold enough to get a sort of ice creamy texture that I'd hoped for. Eventually, I cleared some space on top of the old ice box which had been moved out onto the porch by then and set the snow ice cream bowl there to freeze overnight. I went back into the warm shack and forgot about my bowl of snow ice cream and enjoyed a nice dinner, loaded up the wood stoves and fell asleep in my sleeping bag. In the morning I went out to see how the ice cream was doing. Oddly, with a low thick cloud cover, it seemed to have gotten warmer overnight rather than colder as I expected. The snow outside was even more damp and melting. My snow ice cream had completely melted and in the middle floated a little furry lump. Overnight a mouse must have smelled the enticing smell of condensed milk and somehow jumped from the top of one of the old paint cans or the bird seed pot into the mixing bowl to find itself in a slushy heaven of snow ice cream. I hope it got to enjoy its fill of condensed milk slush before it realised it the sides of the mixing bowl were too steep and slippery to get out and the slush didn't provide a solid enough springboard to jump from. Or, I suppose the intended ice cream might have already been just diluted condensed milk when the mouse got into the bowl, in which case it would have immediately been in trouble and met its sad fate after swimming and scrambling to try to get up the sides of the bowl, eventually succumbing to the cold in the wet or perhaps drowning when exhausted. I was a bit disappointed that my attempt at snow ice cream was a failure, if not due to the mouse then due to the unseasonably warm night. When I had taken the mouse out of the milky liquid, I set it down on the table on the porch. It had stiffened in the posture of the mouse equivalent of a dead man's float so it sat upright balanced on its stiff hind legs and tail. It seemed an odd and serendipitous natural taxidermy of the poor creature in a curious or perhaps aggressive stance and I thought I would memorialize the moment with a photograph which I present below.

 

 

by the dozen

I think it was late 1996 or early 1997 the last time I saw Grandad. He and Carolyn were travelling by car to or from somewhere on the East coast. Now the memory is somewhat vague. I found on old email dated 8 January 1997 with this summary, "meet mother and vernon at barretts seafood restaurant to have lunch with grandad and carolyn. nice to see him. he eats raw oysters and she crab soup and a whole dish of tartar sauce. has jumbo martini. i have the salmon. grandad still himself but hair seems impossibly white and he seems to be aging over the years. how old he must be, say eighty five years." I don't recall if he had two or three dozen oysters. I think I drove my old Mercedes 300D there but the memory fades in and out. We both needed a cane by then. I had an old Zeiss camera which shot an an uncommon film size. I don't recall now where I got the camera, maybe a yard sale? I don't recall where I got the film either. Maybe I had to get a different type, 126 perhaps, unwind it from its spool and re-wind it onto the old Zeiss roller in the dark. Maybe I did that in the bathroom with no windows and a towel blocking the light from coming in under the door. Later in that email I wrote, "o i attempted to take photographs. sent film to bruce for development." By April 1997 I must have received the film back and scanned it. The jpeg file is dated 13 April 1997. It was the last photo I ever took of Grandad. And Carolyn. Who was looking stylish as ever. I'm not even sure I took it. Maybe I got Ross to take it. I wonder where that camera is now. Probably sitting on a shelf somewhere. I wonder if it still works. Now I've just found another email which proves definitively that this last meal and photograph occurred maybe the day before, of, or after Christmas. In yet another email I wrote about this photo, "with grandad is often carolyn, wife of grandad, eager holder of cigarette after nonsmoking lunch." Although I don't remember it specifically, I can visualize her holding the cigarette discreetly while the photo was being taken, waiting until after the shutter clicked to light it.

the cast iron skillet

Some of the best fried chicken I ever had was at Grandad and Carolyn's house. It was home cooked, but not by Grandad or Carolyn. It was made by their cleaning lady. I think it must have been the summer we took the train to Chicago where Carolyn picked us up. I have this vague memory of having to go the wrong way to Martinsburg to catch the train, then later passing by the way we had just come. Another indistinct memory of the trip is of factories, smoke and flames as we passed Gary, Indiana on the approach to Chicago. It was roads, bridges and steel structures, with a sooty darkness and a chemical smell that seeped into the train. It was like things we'd seen in movies, but real. It was an exciting journey for two young boys alone. But back to Racine. When the cleaning lady came, we were away, perhaps running some errands, and I'm pretty sure, picking up some kringle on the way home. She was nearly done for the day when we returned. She was just straightening up in the kitchen, and there was a cast iron skillet of the most perfect looking fried chicken sitting on the stove and a delectable smell of good cooking in the air. She seemed almost apologetic that she was still there when we arrived. To me then, she was an older woman, but now, looking back, perhaps she was in her forties or fifties. She was black, and had kitchen gloves on, an apron and a dress with flowers on it, nothing out of place, very well put together and proper. Along with her immaculate neatness, she had the look of a very warm and caring person, but she had a certain coldness towards us as she quickly finished up. I don't recall if Carolyn then took her home, or someone arrived to pick her up, but I have the impression she didn't have a car at the house. I noticed how clean and tidy everything in the house was. It wasn't ever dirty or unorganized, but there was an aura of professional cleanliness hovering over the house. Everything had a clean smell and there was no speck of dust or smudge anywhere. Before long, even though the sheen of clean was like a forcefield which encouraged the use of coasters and napkins, my brother and I soon smudged and smeared things back to normal. We had the fried chicken for dinner, warmed up, with something on the side I don't remember. Kentucky Fried Chicken up until then had been the pinnacle of my fried chicken experience, but this fried chicken was on another level. Even after being warmed up, it was perfectly crispy on the outside and succulent, tender and juicy on the inside. The Colonel's blend of secret herbs and spices had nothing on whatever magic formula this woman had used. It was a subtle blend that seemed to bring out the flavor of the chicken. We enjoyed it very much and I think everyone at the table would have eaten another piece, but we'd finished all of it. During our extended summer visit, we hoped to have the chicken again but it never came to pass. I think the day the cleaning lady came again, we were out doing something or other and didn't see her and the cast iron skillet was sadly not left on the stove when we got back home. Thinking back on it now, there seemed to be some uncomfortableness around the cleaning lady, as if we weren't supposed to have encountered her. I had no idea why that could have been back then. My mother had hired a cleaning lady at home for a time, perhaps more as a favor to an acquaintance who needed the work, and it seemed a normal thing to us. We thought it was pretty cool at home to have slightly fewer cleaning chores for that period, and anything that would help ensure we weren't burdened with cleaning chores during our summer vacation was a-okay in our book.

the bomb

"You know, we ought to tell the Russians to go ahead and drop the bomb on New York. Do us all a favor and kill a few million liberals," said Grandad one evening at dinner. He laughed, and others laughed for the same or different reasons. He was very conservative. I remember talking to him in early 1991 just after the end of the Gulf War and he mentioned they were having a victory party. I had ridden about 10 hours in a van full of students to Washington DC to march against that war. It was strange to hear about a victory party for this war which I thought was unjust and politically motivated. It just didn't make sense to me to celebrate such a thing. I remember now people spoke of the redemption of the military with this victory after the loss in Vietnam, and wondered if this really meant that much to the conservative mind. I thought back to visiting in the summer and being there on the fourth of July for fireworks, cookouts and parades. I wondered if the victory party would have flags, fireworks and cocktails. It seemed so removed from this remote war that was waged on TV. Recently I remembered this and I wondered how Grandad would have thought of the current administration. I wondered if he would have been a "never Trumper" of the old guard, or if he would have embraced the bellicose America first attitude of President Trump. Previously, I came to the conclusion that being a judge and taking the law seriously, he might have taken a dim view of how the Trump administration did what it wanted even when it might not be within the law. But when I remembered his "drop the bomb" joke, I wonder if he wouldn't have supported the "let's show the liberals" tactics of Trump. I wondered if he would have supported efforts to stop counting votes, or to discount mail-in ballots, or to just sue for anything in any state which is close to get a case before the Supreme Court with its conservative majority. It's easy to make a joke about killing a few million liberals in a stable society where such a thing would never happen.

redemption upon maturation

When considering what to do after high school, I applied to and had been accepted at several institutions of higher learning, but my preferred school would have cost more than $15,000 per year to attend. They generously offered me $250/year in financial assistance. That left a significant deficit (perhaps near $30,000 in today's dollars). Somehow I didn't qualify for any federal grants or loans, so I ended up accepting the offer of another school which had actively recruited me. They offered a scholarship which paid for the bulk of my expenses which left me with a much more manageable deficit. But I was still short on the amount I needed for room and board. When I told them about this shortfall and explained I was considering attending a different school nearer home, the school told me about a special loan they had which would cover the difference. Naively, I assumed my educational financial worries were over and I would get the loan again for subsequent years, but after the first year, they said it was just for first year students. This was something they'd failed to mention when I was deciding where to go to school. I felt a bit manipulated and had the sudden need for additional moneys for room and board the second year, which I had to pay in advance. I asked Grandad for a loan and had to specify terms to pay it back. I think I said I'd pay it back within five years of graduating. That summer, through nepotism, I got a reasonably well paid job in the office of a construction company. Due to circumstances beyond the scope of this reminiscence I did not have to pay rent during the summer and was able minimize other spending. I ended up being able to save a bit more than I had expected. Then when I returned to school, I got a part-time job in the computer lab as a student support assistant. It was minimum wage, which was very minimum ($3.35/hour?), but it also took up time which might have otherwise been spent engaging in activities which incurred additional expenses. During that school year, I had saved enough to pay off my loan to Grandad. I told him I would be paying him back early next time I saw him. I think it was summer when I saw him. I don't recall if it was at his house, or somewhere else we met. I also don't recall if I had cash or a check. But I remember taking a slightly orangey brown kraft Manila envelope which had somehow gotten a few small black grease marks on the right side out of the glove compartment in my car and handing it to him. He thanked me and expressed gratification and admiration at my industry and thrift to be able to pay it back seven years early. Then he handed me back a thick envelope. He said this is a reward for paying it back early. It was an envelope full of U.S. Savings Bonds of the equivalent value of the repayment I had just made. He told me to save them and redeem them when they had matured. I kept them for a while but ended up liquidating them before they had matured due to circumstances beyond the scope of this reminiscence.

great? first once?

I remember Grandand & Carolyn came to visit me while I was in school in Indiana. They brought a relative who I thought was a great aunt somehow, who I had either never met, or had not seen in years. Or maybe she had driven there to meet us, I'm not sure. I just looked at a chart explaining relations and now I think she is my first cousin once removed. Grandad always liked to have a good meal and he seemed to know about where to go for that even when they were travelling. That doesn't seem too much out of the ordinary now because one can do an internet search and look at various ratings sites, but I wonder how he did it back in 1988. I happen to know it was 1988 and April 24th, 1988 in fact, because it's noted on the back of some photos my cousin once removed sent to me a few weeks later. But how did Grandad know that one of the best places to eat near my school was Turkey Run Inn when he lived hundreds of miles away. Not only was there no world wide web to check then, but Grandad once proclaimed, proudly I would say, when he learned I was familiar with computers and had a job in the computer lab at school, that, he "wouldn't know a computer from a bale of hay." He said it was a nice place so I tried to dress so I looked somewhat "presentable" in my favorite threadbare blue wool sweater, thrift shop khakis and brown leather shoes I had happily received as a gift from my girlfriend when it turned out they fit me even better than they'd fit her. It had probably been too long since my last haircut and I may have been accused of looking like a "portable brush heap," but it was good enough for the semi-fancy Turkey Run Inn. I think the dinner we had was indeed good and I may even have had some wine, which would have been illegal at the time. I have various memories of taking a walk along Turkey Run and Sugar Creek, walking over a covered bridge, posing for some photos, walking too far to find the parked car, riding back to school, and receiving an invitation to visit my cousin once removed in a neighboring city.