Generally speaking, in my long lifetime I’ve made of number of decisions that I think would border on Mensa ability. Randy, my good fishing buddy, said that he’s never seen a person with judgment like mine. When he made that comment, he had what resembled a smirk on his face. I think, though, it was probably just gas because Randy’d eaten several bowls of hot chili an hour before he said it. Randy’s mind borders on Mensa ability as well.

Yes, I’ve made many good decisions and only on a very few occasions could my judgment have been considered questionable by anyone. But as unlikely as it may seem, one such rare occasion did occur just about one year ago.

You see, at that time, my son Stan asked me if I wanted to meet him at our cabin for a Saturday of late season doe hunting. I, of course, readily agreed. Anxiously agreed, in fact. I needed to atone for a bit of bad luck that I experienced during bow season. I’d drawn back on a nice doe and an ant bit me at precisely the wrong instant and I lost my concentration and my fingers slipped and my arrow fell off the bow string. The doe merely stood there for a while, watching me. Then she snorted, tossed her head and went bounding away, big white flag waving farewell. I know deer biologists will tell you that deer aren’t capable of laughing, but I swear I heard that doe make a noise that sound a whole lot like a giggle as she disappeared behind some scrub oaks and pines.

An unseasonably warm December Friday afternoon, the day after Stan called, found me packing my tan Town and Country minivan with a day’s worth of deer hunting equipment and clothing.

Now understand that there are certain things that I feel a deer hunter absolutely must have or he/she simply cannot hunt deer effectively. If you don’t believe that, you may want to refer to a Cabelas or a Bass Pro Shop catalog or read the ads in any hunting magazine or watch some deer hunting programs on cable. Heaven knows, ads always speak the truth!

For example, besides his rifle and shells, a deer hunter must also have an extra gun in case the preferred firearm doesn’t work.

So, into my van went two guns, along with two boxes of shells.

With the outside temperature hovering around 40 degrees F, the sky bright blue and cloudless and just a smidgen of snow on the ground, what should I take along to wear? Hmmmm. It’d be colder in the early morning tomorrow so I’d need to pack my 40-below, Arctic Sorrel boots. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so cold so I’d need my 0-degree La Crosse boots too. But, if it did get really cold I’d need my sooper dooper heavyweight woolie socks. Though if it wasn’t so cold I’d maybe need some lightweight nylon ones. So I packed them all.

And I needed to bring jersey gloves in case it was warm out. And thinsulate gloves in case it wasn’t. And mittens over gloves in case it was even colder. And mittens with built-in pockets for inserting heating packs in case it got really cold. And a pair of waterproof gloves in case of rain. I also had to have three sets of jackets and pants, one for very cold, one for moderate and one for warm, and a blaze orange poncho in case it rained. I needed blaze orange caps in three different weights. Then another set of non-hunting clothing in case I decided to go out to eat that Friday night instead of munching on microwave popcorn and shelled peanuts for supper in our cabin.

And so into the van went the clothing.

For other equipment: let’s see…besides rifle and spare gun and ammo. I’d need a hunting knife and knife sharpener. And a compass. Then another compass in case the first one couldn’t be trusted. Then a third compass, because what if the other two didn’t agree with each other? Best to go two out of three. Just to be on the safe side, I should also take a GPS in case none of the compasses seemed to be getting it right. Unfortunately I hadn’t figured out how to use the GPS but that’s beside the point. If I got lost and somebody accidentally found me, we could maybe figure it out together.

Of course, no deer hunt would be possible without a spray bottle of human-scent killer, and a squeeze bottle of talcum powder to test the wind direction, and a glass bottle of doe-in-estrous liquid. And some felt pads to apply the liquid to and hang on a tree branch.

As the reader can obviously see, to hunt deer properly… I mean really properly… you must have an IQ at least within shooting distance of the 98th percentile!

Not only would I absolutely need that equipment, I’d also need a drag rope for the deer I expected to get. And a small, scrunchable roll of TP for special occasions. A small tupperware container for water. Some power bars for munchies. A pair of 10 x 42 binoculars. Three different deer calls because at least two of the three would more than likely malfunction due to the cold weather and make noises resembling either a very sick cat, a hungry human baby or an angry billy goat, sounds not exactly conducive to luring an intelligent, suspicious whitetail into shooting range.

I’d need my canvas folding stool for sitting on the ground and my strap-on-a-tree stool in case I didn’t want to sit on the ground. And my climbing tree stand in case I couldn’t use the folding one or the strap-on one. And a strap-on-a-tree umbrella to put above my head if I was sitting on my strap-on-a-tree stool and it started to rain. And, of course, a very large backpack to carry much of that equipment in.

As for the cabin, a big Coleman cooler, just in case I might find a use for one (no deer hunting excursion is complete without a big Coleman cooler), and a water jug would do.

What if it got really chilly that Friday night and the cabin furnace didn’t work? I’d need to have a cold weather sleeping bag along, maybe two sleeping bags. And several sweatshirts and caps of various weights to wear so I wouldn’t freeze to death while asleep. And I should also pack my cell phone and cell phone battery charger. And a digital camera and camera battery charger. I mean, after all, this trip was going to involve one entire day of deer hunting!

But three things I would never bring along when I went deer hunting. I would never bring a bar of soap, a wash cloth and a bath towel. In fact, I once heard of a deer hunter who brought those things to camp with him. Now, even years later, when old timers are sitting around a campfire at night, killing a couple of six packs and telling hilarious hunting stories about the good old days, they still tell the funny tale about when the foolish young hunter brought soap, a wash cloth and a bath towel to deer hunting camp. So I vowed I’d never to do it again.

With these thoughts in mind, I went outside to ponder the available storage space in the van. Upon further review, I decided I’d best remove all the van seats, except for the front ones, and temporarily store the removed ones in the basement. And so I did.

* * *

I braked to a stop on the unpaved driveway, just 20 feet off of the gravel road that led to our cabin. Van still running, I stepped out, unlocked the aluminum pole gate across the driveway entrance, swung it open, got back into the van and drove the remaining 75 yards through the woods to the cabin. I was to meet Stan here an hour before sunrise tomorrow. He had to work ’til nearly 7:00 tonight so he’d be driving up to meet me in the morning.

I stopped the van by the cabin door and got out. I was already anticipating a nice quiet evening in the cabin, getting everything organized, planning tomorrow’s hunt. A hot, microwaved meal, a good book, a nice cabin. Then into the sack I’d go, my dreams to be filled with pleasant memories of past hunts and eager anticipation of tomorrow’s.

A few short strides and I was at the cabin door. I reached into the pocket of my jacket for the cabin keys.

“What? Where’s the keys? Must be in my pants pocket.” I tried the front pockets; no keys. The back pockets; no keys. My stomach and throat began to tighten. “Maybe the keys’re in the van?” Back to the van. Look in the console. “Oh crap! No keys.”

My heart sank. I could feel sweat begin to form under my arms, on my brow. The keys must be somewhere in the back of the van, under all that stuff. A half an hour later, minivan emptied, every piece of equipment and clothing examined and re-examined and re-examined again, the truth hit me like a sledgehammer. I’d left the cabin keys at home.

In a near panic I reached into my duffel bag for my cell phone. Maybe my wife Babs could tell me, for sure, if I’d left the keys at home. Then I wouldn’t have to keep looking. “Oh NOOOOO! Where the heck….? OMG, I bet the cell phone’s still sitting on the kitchen table at home, too.”

I plopped down on the cabin porch. What to do? Don’t panic. Think. What would my friend Randy do?

“Well, I suppose I could drive to the nearby town and call from a pay phone. But come to think of it, I don’t think that town even HAS a pay phone. I could drive home and get the key, but that would mean two hours home, another two hours back. *groannnnnnnnnn*

“I guess there’s only one thing I can do. Write a note to Stan and tack it to the cabin door, then go to a motel and rent a room for the night.”

“Stan … I forgot my cabin keys. I’m going to stay overnight in a motel. In case I’m not here when you get here in the morning, I’ll meet you here about 6. Dad”

I needed to write the note. And so I did.

* * *

The motel room was cheap and the bed was lumpy and the room was drafty and cold and I hoped that given enough time it would warm up some. But it sure beat the heck out of driving an extra four hours last night.

I parked the minivan right outside the room door and prepared to spend the night.

5:00 a.m. After a fitful night’s sleep with my stomach all tied up in knots, I finally gave in, rolled out of bed, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. It was still quite dark outside and I could hear a strong wind, gusting and ebbing. I went to the bay window and opened the blind. Bare oak tree branches, black jagged skeletal fingers against a dimly lit sky, were moving in the strong breeze. I, sighed, took a deep breath, set Mr. Coffee to perking to calm my nerves, and decided to head to the cabin now instead of waiting ’til 6.

Last night I hadn’t bothered to bring all my equipment into the motel room, but I did bring a few things inside…my guns and ammo, my Patrick McManus book, “A Fine and Pleasant Misery” and a few other odds and ends. So I decided to pack my few items back in the van and head to the cabin to wait for Stan to arrive.

I opened the motel door and started up the van. Figured I may as well let it warm up while I packed. When I got to the cabin, I could probably sit in the van and stay at least a little bit warm until Stan arrived. I brought “Misery” and my other items out first and, with my back to the motel door, I put them in the van. Then I turned to go inside and get my guns and ammo.

SLAM! A sudden gust of wind slammed the room door shut.

My room keys were still in the room. And the door was locked.

“Oh my god, now what? What would Randy do?”

I took several deep breaths. Then it came to me. “I know. Simple. Go to the motel office. Get another key. Open the door. I’m saved.”
The sign on the motel office door read: “Office opens at 8 a.m. If you want to check out earlier, just leave the room key in your room and lock the door.”

* * *

New sign tacked to our cabin door: “Stan, don’t wait for me at the cabin. I’ll be at the place where we hunt about 8:15. Will explain later. Dad”

Old sign, now a piece of crumpled paper residing in my jacket pocket.

* * *

8:15 found me arriving at our hunting area. Stan was already there, waiting, a questioning look on his face.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t ask.”

Having been around me for nearly 40 years, Stan didn’t ask.

We got out of our vehicles and uncased our weapons. Stan had a 12 gauge, Remington 870 pump action shotgun. I had my .308 Remington 7600 pump. We started to load our guns. Stan put one slug in the chamber of the 870 and fed three more into the magazine. I reached into my jacket pocket for the four-shot clip for my .308. Empty pocket. I tried my other pocket. Empty. Tried both my hand warmer pockets. Nothing. It wasn’t there.

“Oh geez,” I thought. I wonder if I left that on the table at home too.”

I took a single shell out of my pocket, fed it directly into the chamber of my rifle and snapped the action of the rifle shut. I breathed a sigh of relief. Stan didn’t appear to notice. Phewwww.

The two of us headed down the logging road where we were parked to the top of a ridge overlooking the Peshtigo River. We’d hunted this general area before but we never hunted at the bottom of the ridge, in the flat between the river and the ridge.

I was wearing my ultra cold weather clothes. Blaze orange, sheepskin lined jacket. Heavy mittens with hot packs inside. Arctic Sorrel boots. It was about 20 degrees out though the sun was shining brightly now and felt a bit warmer than I’d expected. The wind had died down considerably since 5:00 a.m. But still, it was 20 degrees and I had intended to sit in one spot for a long day and I hadn’t wanted to get cold. I had my folding stool tucked under my arm and my rifle slung over my shoulder.

“Steep ridge,” Stan said.

“Yep.”

“Long, too. Must be 125 yards from top to bottom.”

“Must be.”

He gave me a knowing look. I gave him a knowing look in return, though I wasn’t quite sure what I was knowing. He nodded in agreement as though he knew what I was knowing. Which put him two steps ahead of me.

“I’m going to head west from here,” Stan said. “I’ll follow the top of the ridge for maybe a quarter of a mile. Then I’ll swing south through the pine plantation and make a big circle back to here. Maybe I can push something out to you.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “I’ll hang around this area somewhere. Maybe go east for a bit,” I added. “I’ll see you in maybe a couple of hours or so?”

He nodded, shrugged, then turned and walked west down the oak ridge, his 12 gauge cradled over his left arm. When he was about 30 yards away he stopped and looked back at me. I was still standing in the same place. He walked another 30 yards or so, stopped and looked back again. I hadn’t moved. He stared for a few more seconds, shrugged again, then continued in a westerly direction until I saw the back of his blaze orange jacket and rectangular chartreuse-colored backtag disappear into the thick grove of 15′ white pines.

I turned in the opposite direction, along the ridgetop. Crisp fallen oak leaves crunched under my feet. A light skiff of snow partially covered the ground, enough to whiten things up just a little but not enough to make for good tracking. The wind had died to a light whisper. An occasional rifle ka-POW! sent echoes reverberating through the woods. A lone raven glided over the oak tops, its strange sounding “awwk” cry every few seconds marking the raven’s progress over the woods.

Hadn’t walked far when I came to a logging road that ran from down near the river, across the flat and up the ridge past where I was standing. Someone had driven on it sometime in the past day or so, as witnessed by a lone set of tire tracks in the leaves and snow.

The crisp potato chip leaves made the woods too noisy for pussy-footing along. I was starting to get a bit warm. Maybe I shouldn’t have put my arctic clothing on after all. A white breasted nuthatch landed on the trunk of a nearby oak and began its strange headfirst creeping toward the ground in search of insects or seeds. I admired its black cap, white face and blue/gray wings and back.

I decided to stop and watch the bird’s antics for a minute ’til it gave a soft chirp and flitted away, taking its food search farther down the ridge. The kids used to have a nickname for nuthatches. They called them “assup birds.” I grinned at the thought. Those kids of mine have their mother’s sense of humor!

Then a thought struck me. “Maybe that nuthatch was a good luck omen! Hmmmmm.”

I pondered that for a few seconds. Then I unfolded the steel frame canvas stool, set it on the ground next to the oak the nuthatch had been on, sat down and leaned back against the trunk. My omen stand overlooked the logging road and that single set of tire tracks in the snow. I felt like a giant blaze orange toad sitting there but, truth be told, I did feel a lot more comfortable than if I was trying to walk and was sweating up a storm. A whole lot quieter too.

Two hours on a deer stand can be a long time when no deer are sighted. A lone gray squirrel came scampering from tree to tree ’til it scrambled its way up a big white pine a few yards downhill from where I sat. The critter saw me, sensed that something was wrong, scuttled to the other side of the pine trunk and peeked its head out from behind the tree. One big, dark liquid eye in an upside down head looked me over thoroughly for a couple of minutes. Then the gray, deciding I wasn’t a man to trifle with, leaped to an adjacent tree and disappeared near the top in a clump of pine boughs.

A bald eagle soared overhead, searching for carrion to feed on. A red squirrel appeared, dug in the dead oak leaf understory ’til it found a pine cone. The squirrel held the cone in its teeth, jumped onto an old stump, sat up, held the cone in its front paws and proceeded to vigorously attack it for seeds, leaving a small pile of pine cone detritus on the stump before discarding the cone remnants and resuming its search for more food.

In the next two hours I discovered that one white pine branch, about a foot long, contained 635 individual pine needles. If I took my time with a fern frond and separated each individual part, it took about five minutes to completely disassemble it. Two square feet of forest floor under my oak tree omen stand contained an astounding number of dead twigs. Incredibly, at least one species of moth seemed to be immune to winter. A small, beige colored critter with transparent wings fluttered around atop the snow. And so my Mensa-like mind attempted to occupy itself with facts and observations.

And then the doe appeared – at the foot of the ridge below me. How she managed to cross 50 yards of relatively open timber to get to where I saw her was a mystery. And with me concentrating so hard and all! But luckily for me, all I needed was that one lone bullet in order to gather delicious, low cholesterol venison for the winter dining table.

I had just finished doing what needs to be done once a deer is on the ground when Stan appeared at the top of the ridge, 125 yards above me. I just happened to glance up and I saw him standing there. I thought he’d be happy about my success. Instead, he appeared to be frowning. His shoulders sagged. He just stood still for several minutes, watching me.

“Hey Stan, look what I got!” I yelled happily. “She’s a real big one! I’m guessing she’ll go 200 or better. Come on down and see,” and he reluctantly trudged down to see.

“Dad, did you ever wonder how we’d be able to get a big deer UP that ridge if we shot one at the bottom of it?” he frowned.

“Nah, shouldn’t be a problem. It’s not that far.”

“It’s more than a hundred yards. That has to be a 55 degree slope!”

For the first time I took a good look uphill. Ok, well I agreed that it was pretty steep but I’d be willing to bet it wasn’t a degree over 45 and I said so.

Stan sighed. Here I thought he’d be proud of his dad but all it seemed to do was make him upset. Kids these days!

“Well I guess we better give it a go,” he said resignedly. He took a tow rope out of his backpack. “Do you have your rope?”

I gave him mine and he put both ropes over the deer’s head. “Here, you grab your rope. I’ll take mine.”

So we grabbed our ropes and started uphill. Or at least, we tried to start uphill. Thirty feet and five minutes later we were both on our knees, breathing heavily, faces wet and bodies soaked with perspiration. We took off our gloves, took off our caps, unzipped and took off our jackets. We unslung our guns from our shoulders and set them on the ground. We needed to strip for some serious work action.

Ten minutes more and another 25 feet we stopped again. Then 20 feet, then 15. Then we couldn’t go any farther. That 500 pound doe just plain wore us out… not more than a quarter of the way up the ridge and we still had another 90 yards to go! We did consider quartering her and taking her up in pieces but we didn’t think you could legally register a deer if it was in pieces and lord knows I didn’t want to get arrested.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Oh Dad, what now?”

“Well, you see those tire tracks on the road? Somebody musta driven down here. If somebody else can do it, why can’t we?”

Stan grimaced but he was too tired to object.

Up the hill I went. Got my van. Through the woods, creating my own road to the logging road, down the hill. We loaded the doe into the back of the van, put our guns and the clothes we’d taken off into the van, closed the back and up the hill we went… sort of. About halfway up I could feel it and hear it.

“Zszszszszs.” The tires began slipping on the logging road. Leaves wet with snow. Little traction. We stopped.

“Guess we need a running start maybe?” I said. Stan was silent but it wasn’t hard to read his face expression.

I backed down to the bottom of the hill, then back another 20 yards. I floored it. Away we went, with a good head of steam this time. Slightly more than half way up the hill. “Zszszszszs.” And we stopped again.

We tried one more run and we understood. It was no use. We just wouldn’t be able to get up the hill.

Back to the bottom again. Now what? I didn’t have my cell phone so I couldn’t phone for help.

“If you want to babysit the van and the deer, I saw a farm up above there, a mile or so from where we parked. Maybe I can walk over there and get the farmer to give us a tow?” Stan was silent, sullen. I took that as meaning “yes.”

Wordlessly I began my trek. The next half an hour was a walk of pure misery. I was dressed in ultra cold weather clothing. My arctic boots weighed about five pounds each, but by the time I finally got to the farm they seemed to weigh ten times that much. I was wringing wet. Sweat ran down my face into my eyes, down my neck. I’m sure I could have taken my undershirt and almost wrung the moisture out of it.

I crossed the black top road and headed toward the farmhouse. Suddenly, I found myself surrounded. Teeth, big nasty looking teeth. Snapping teeth. Furry bodies in black, and black and white and brown, and white and brown. BIG, noisy, nasty furry bodies. Farm dogs. Guard dogs.

I was paralyzed with fright. One of the frothing beasts edged its way up to me, its growling, snarling muzzle no more than a foot from my crotch. The other two moved in closer, circling from behind. Then just as suddenly as they appeared they were gone. A diminutive little lady was coming down the lane from the farmhouse to the road, smiling as she came.

“Don’t worry. They’re just big noisy babies. They wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she laughed.

“I’m not a fly,” I managed to gurgle out between gasps and sobs.

We made the arrangement. For $100 her hubby would come with his tractor and pull us up the ridge. “Happens all the time,” she smiled. “It’s how we get make our vacation money. Why just yesterday some darned fool in a van…”

* * *

So, as I said at the beginning, I’d never pretend to be a genius, but in my long lifetime I’ve made of number of decisions that I think would border on Mensa ability.

Even though my one day doe hunt did cost me $75 extra for a motel room and $100 for the tow up the hill, and just a smidgen of unnecessary trouble, I still managed to end up with a full year’s supply of venison. Of course that’s minus a hind quarter I had to give the farmer’s wife in return for her calling off the dogs and another hind quarter and one tenderloin backstrap I gave Stan, just to let him know his dad really cared and, incidentally, to help him relax just a little bit.

But, and this is the topper, when I got home I found the price of gasoline was 5 cents per gallon more up north than it was at home. Instead of filling my gas tank up there, I’d waited ’til I got home to fill up and I actually saved $1.25! Now THAT, my friends, is what I call real good thinking. My good fishing buddy Randy is proud of me.

Old Geezer Goes Christmas Shopping
by Tom Bridenhagen

Geezer woke with a sneezing. The sun it had set.

His feet they were freezing. “Ain’t seen no deer yet.

“Guess winter’s a comin’; guess I’ll just head home.

This Earn A Buck’s bummin’. I’d rather just roam …

“When weather is warm, and trees they are buddin’

and birds are a charm.” But all of a sudden …!!!

It dawned on him then,

that Christmas was coming. In days, only 10!

He’d not done his shopping! No presents yet gotten.

He’d better get chopping. He really felt rotten.

“Tomorrow for sure I’ll shop with a reason,

with heart clean and pure. For this Christmas season.”

So …

” ‘Twas the night before shopping and while he’s abed,

no visions of sugar plums danced in his head.

He tossed and he turned as nightmares came flying,

of daddies and mommies and little kids crying.

Of loudspeakers blaring out songs of good cheer,

while tempers were flaring. You could barely hear!

He woke with a start; his heart it just sank,

when he saw his shop list… the list it was blank.

But off to McDs/ for cold egg Mcmuffin,

his mind in a freeze. His will had to toughen.

“I can do this really,” he said to himself.

“But not touchy or feely. I’m not Santa’s elf.”

He hopped in his van, drove off to the freeway.

Just hoping his wifey would give him some leeway…

To buy her some presents. Not simple or plain,

but fluffy and furry (a male shopper’s pain!).

To Shopko, to Walmart, to Pennys, to Kohls.

To Target, to K-Mart, then Dunkin for rolls.

In the mall parking lot there ‘rose such a crash.

He slammed on his brakes; his head bumped the dash.

Two cars mooshed together, but he said with some glee,

“I’m glad it was them. It could have been me!”

By the door of the store, two teenage girls giggled.

While ringing their bells, their bodies they wiggled.

They flirted and smiled, all cutesy and charmy.

For the bells they were ringing, were Salvation Army.

Into the store, Old Geezer did scurry,

just hoping he’d finish this chore in a hurry!

“Should I git’r some perfume, a blouse and some flowers?”

But shopping for those could take hours and hours.

And then in a twinkling, he knew in a flash,

to ‘lectronics he’d go, in one desperate dash.

And buy her a camera, or a video, you see.

Of Regis and Kelly (or is it Kathy Lee?)

Or Oprah or Phil or one of the others,

that women just love, especially mothers.

40 TVs did play, loudspeakers did shout.

“Merry Christmas to all…what this is about…

Just spend and spend more, more presents do buy.

Because if you don’t, our sales they will die.”

Two women argued, their babies were crying.

Their shop carts collided; their fists nearly flying.

“This is just madness,” Old Geezer was thinking.

“Christmas is spirit? My spirit it’s sinking!

“I must get right out. I just can’t stay.

My toe nails will thicken. My hair has turned grey!”

With stomach in knots and sweat on his brow.

“I have to get out. I have to leave NOW!

“I know what I’ll do, before I go bonkers.

I’ll git’r a gift card, a gift card from …. Younkers.”

Away to his van he limped in a flash,

left that ol’ park lot, left in a dash.

And back on the freeway, a sigh of relief.

“There’s no Chrismas spirit; there’s nothing but grief!”

He spoke not a word. Raced straight up the highway,

to Younkers in Manty. “I will do this my way.”

Then laying a finger, long side of his nose.

And giving a nod, up a nostril it rose.

Late afternoon found him, back out in the wood.

Where life is so peaceful. Where life is so good.

No gun at his side. No rope for to drag.

No reason to rush. No reason to brag.

And, once again…

Next to that stump, as twilight came creeping,

a snore it resounded. Old Geezer was sleeping.

Tom Bridenhagen was born and raised in Sturgeon Bay and now resides in Manitowoc with Bonnie, his wife of more than 40 years. They have four grown children and eight grandchildren, all Wisconsin residents. He is a retired high school teacher who still enjoys teaching on a weekly basis at Manitowoc’s Senior Center. He was also a sportswriter and remains an avid outdoorsman, fishing, hunting, snowshoeing, XC-skiing and hiking enthusiast – along with his latest interest, geocaching. Tom has written two unpublished books and writes numerous articles, poems and short stories, many of which we hope to present here on a regular basis.

Joe opened the door to McD’s, strode to the counter top and with a little smile, ordered, “One senior coffee, please, Abby?”

“You want caff or de-caf?” the cute, dark ponytailed 20-something clerk asked.

“Caffeinated, please. I need my morning drug fix. And one cream on the side.”

He accepted the coffee with a slight smile, set 53 cents – exactly two quarters and three pennies – on the counter top, turned and went back outside. He got into the light blue minivan and turned the key to “accessories.” Immediately the red airbag warning light came flashing on to the dash display. Again. Cripes, there goes another hundred bucks if I have to fix that light,” he grumbled. He turned on the radio. Talk radio.

“It was another wild day on Wall Street,” the irritating voice was whining. “Two weeks ago we had the worst drop in the history of the stock market. Yesterday it was up more than 920 points. Today it took the second worst beating in history, more than 700 points. Virtually wiping out all of yesterday’s gains. The question no longer is, ‘Do we have a recession? But instead, the question now is, ‘How long will the recession last?’ ”

“Oh jeezez” Joe said outloud. “There goes my 401K again. By the time this mess is done, I’m going to be working ’til I’m 80.”

The Voice continued, “John McCain is being widely criticized for his negative campaign ads and his failed, apparently politically motivated attempt to temporarily suspend his campaign and go back to Washington to supposedly fix the economy. And McCain’s being quoted as saying he’s ready to nuke Iran, if necessary. Not to mention, can we really afford eight more years of George Bush’s policies?

The Voice went on, “And ACORN, the voter registration group, is now being investigated in more than 11 states, most of them swing states. Barrack Obama at one time served as an organizer and trainer for ACORN. And as their attorney he even sued several major U.S. financial institutions, among them CITI Bank, for failure to give enough sub-prime loans, according to the terms of the Community Reinvestment Act. And Obama has had ties to former terrorist William Ayers and Chicago convicted felon Tony Rezko.”

And in almost the same breath, “Aren’t we, the American people ever going to get a good candidate from either party to choose from?”

Garmin’s hands and arms were tingling. He picked up the small, thimble shaped dairy creamer container peeled off its paper lid with a fingernail. The container in one hand and his coffee cup in the other, he tried to pour the creamer into the cup. He was successful… mostly… except for the quarter sized wet spot that now graced the front of his sweatshirt. He swore lightly under his breath, futily attempting to wipe away the new stain.

Yesterday afternoon Joe and his wife Polly had gotten a phone call from their oldest son in Madison. “Kelly has stomach cancer,” Simon had told them. Kelly, Simon’s daughter, was only 15 years old. Oh my god, what next? I mean she’s just a kid, a little kid! I’ve lived a long time already. I wish it was me instead of her. She’s got her whole life ahead of her yet.

Joe could feel his face reddening and a light film of sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand. Oh man. All these things gone wrong. The whole world’s messed up; this whole deal is really getting to me. I gotta git away to get someplace where I can take a deep breath.

So two hours later, just before 3:30 pm, 61 year old Joe Garmin turned the minivan onto an unnamed gravel road in Oconto County. The words of Martin Luther King came to him and he spoke outloud.
Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” And he heaved a deep sigh of relief.

As Garmin drove down the one lane road, the gorgeous autumn woods closed in around him. Maples in bright shades of orange and red and yellow. Oak trees with their rust colored leaves, a more subdued counterpoint to the brilliant maples. Sumac bushes, leaves flaming red above the sunny east shoulder. Clusters of sandy brown ferns accenting the woods on both sides of the road. The colors, all set against a mid-green background of five-needled white pines. Above, a pollution-free, deep, cloudless, azure sky.

And best of all, no noise except for the quiet scrunching of the van’s tires on gravel. No trucks, no motorcycles, no lawn mowers, no leaf blowers. And no talk radio hosts to intrude on his thoughts, to send him to yet another bout of depression and melancholy.

Near the end of the short road, Joe turned left onto an unpaved, ungraveled remnant of an old logging road from the ten year old cutover. The road was now the pathway to their upnorth cabin and mental escape at last, temporary though it would probably be. A person could relax and enjoy the colors and aromas and soft autumn breezes and recapture his spirit. At least for a while.

The home made cabin wasn’t very big but it was nice. It had started out as a 12′ x 24′ storage shed for their boat and popup camper. Then Joe and his three sons added another 12 x 24 slab to the first one, tore down the east wall, extended the north and south walls another 12′, added a fourth wall to replace the one he and his sons had removed, and they had their dream cabin, upnorth Wisconsin. Six more years of from-scratch labor and their comfortable retreat, their refuge from the troubling world was mostly finished.

Joe entered through a doorway on the northwest side of the cabin and stepped into the living-room, dining-room area.

A couch/hide-a-bed, an old tweed LaZBoy rocker that had once belong to his father and a dark brown, lightly stuffed arm chair furnished the main living room area. A large, handsome, antique-framed print of a strutting male ruffed grouse drumming on a log in its spring mating ritual, hung on the wall above one end of the couch.

Behind the living room, ending on the east wall of the cabin was a dining area, a kitchen table and chairs. Above them, a wooden, chandelier-type light fixture. The light fixture had once illuminated the kitchen table in his home but now stood ready to shine its homey glow above the table and whoever had the good fortune to sit there. To the right of the dining area was a small bedroom with bunk beds for kids. And to the right of the living room, sharing a wall with the small bedroom, was a kitchen dinette area with electric stove, refrigerator, microwave and sink.

On the ceiling between the living and dining areas, a heating duct, enclosed by a framework of tongue-and-groove, “car siding” boards ran the 24′ length of the building. Several sets of deer antlers, mounted on red or blue or green cloth bases and attached to wooden plaques, ornamented the framework. The entire first floor was faced with the same kind of knotty pine boards. The total effect was warm, friendly, comfortable.

Windows graced the walls all around the first floor area, picture frames for Nature’s wooded outdoor bounty. Nature’s own pictures artworks changed with each day, each season, each year. No picture was ever the same twice.

A set of wooden stairs, with one landing, rose in the southwest corner of the cabin. Upstairs in the sleeping loft, three older mattresses, each with a pillow and bedding, were neatly arranged along and under the west slope of the roof.

The whole place gave a person an immediate home away from home, friendly feeling from the moment he stepped through the outside doorway, and Joe could feel his tension begin ebb away already, if ever so slightly.

He unloaded the van, put the sub sandwich, he’d purchased at a Subway shop/Shell station in Coleman on the way north, into the refrigerator of the cabin. Fifteen minutes later, bedding all ready for a good night’s sleep, van unloaded and cabin windows opened to let in the fresh air, he picked up the book he’d brought along and went outside to sit at their picnic table near the simple, brick campfire ring, ready for Nature and a good book to bring the gift of their healing power.

“The Testament” by John Grisham was an uncomplicated but insightful story about basic human values, about a real love between a man and a women, and about one man’s battle with alcohol addiction. Joe began to read. And relax.

A light breeze drifted through the trees around him. An occasional gust of the wind sent showers of dancing, spiraling maple leaves drifting down from above. A pair of raucus bluejays came “jaying” through the woods and landed in a pine just a few paces to his left. Joe sat perfectly still, his book momentarily forgotten, as one of the jays landed on a branch no more than a dozen feet above his head. The jay flicked its tail several times, cocked its head to one side to give Joe a good once over. Satisfied that Joe was no threat, the jay picked away at something or other on the branch, perhaps some brown-head, black-bodied wood ants. A few seconds later, the pair of jays went screeching away through the trees once more.

Garmin sighed deeply. He could seldom read any book in the woods for more than just a couple of minutes. The sweet-musty aromas of wet autumn leaves, the beauty of trees and bushes and sky, the softness of a light breeze in his hair and on his face, the noisy jays, the croak of a raven, the cawing of crows, even the chip, chip, chipping of pesky red squirrels, soon had all his attention. He closed his eyes to drink in the sounds and smells.

Then it began. “Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!” The piercing bark of a neighbor’s border collie, seventy five yards away, shattered the quiet. “Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! ” On and on the shrill barking continued. Oh god, I hope that thing doesn’t bark for long. But bark it did. And bark. And bark.

Joe looked at his watch. 4:00 pm. He got up from the picnic table and went to the fire pit. He picked up the old ash axe handle they used to stir fires and ashes and rearranged several small, charred remnants of wood in the pit. The dog continued. Joe sat back down and picked up the book. The words blurred in front of his eyes. He read a paragraph. Couldn’t remember a word he read. He read it again. A third time. “Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! ”

Maybe if I go in the cabin for a while?
He could feel his tension beginning to build again. He went inside. The noise knifed through the windows. He closed them. The barking penetrated the walls of the cabin. Joe turned on the TV. “Judge Judy” was railing at a couple of defendants: “I’m smarter on my worst day then you’ll ever be on your best day!” and “You’re an idiot! A moron! You think you can talk over me!?” He switched channels. Ellen was gushing over a guest. A Channel 2 newscaster was describing a motorcycle accident in which a drunk cyclist ran into a deer and was killed. He turned the TV off. 4:30.

“Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!” Joe went to the refrigerator, got out his sub sandwich, poured himself a tall glass of milk and sat down at the table. He bit into the turkey club but he couldn’t swallow. The bite lay like a lump on his tongue. He tried to wash it down with a drink of milk. He managed to swallow the milk but he just couldn’t get the food lump down his throat.

His forearms and fingers began to tingle again. He picked up his book and tried to read. Try as he might, he could not shut out the sound of the barking. He got up, rearranged his bedding. Went to the fridge and got out a red plastic can of Folgers, then stepped to the cabinet for a coffee filter. He filled Mr. Coffee with eight cups of water, placed the coffee in filter in the percolator receptacle and pushed the “on” switch. In a few minutes the coffee was perking. Joe tried to read from the Green Bay Press Gazette that he’d bought at a convenience store on the way upnorth, but even the words of the newspaper blurred. The tightness in his arms, legs, body, face, mind grew more and more intense. He felt like a pan of water that was trying to boil, with its lid held tightly in place. The pressure just could be contained no longer.

At six o’clock, Joe stepped outside. The dog was still yipping.

“SHUT UP, YOU DUMB MUTT” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The dog continued to bark. “SHUT THAT SON OF A BITCH UP!”

And thank God, the dog stopped barking. For the first time in more than two hours.

I can’t believe it! Ted must have been there all that time, right by that mutt and he never said one word to shut it up! Joe fumed. Angrily he stalked down the driveway to the gravel road, then south on the gravel road to neighbor Ted’s place.

Ted was standing outside by the woodpile near one end of his doublewide home. He was 60ish. Short and squat. He had on a dirty tan baseball cap and a red/blue plaid shirt, frayed at the cuffs and elbows. His work jeans, snugged under a protruding belly, were held up by a pair of dirt-gray suspenders.

His red face was tight, angry looking.

Joe was boiling inside, but he forced himself to keep his voice volume somewhat under control, even though its tone was deeper than usual and much more intense.

“Ted, do you have to have let that dog bark on and on like that? He’s been barking continually for more than two hours”

“He ain’t been barking that long,” Ted growled.

“Yes he has. He started barking just after 3:30 and he’s been barking ever since. We bought this place because we wanted to get away from noisy trucks and lawn mowers and barking dogs. And we come up here and this is what we get. It would be so nice if we could just relax for a while on a beautiful evening like this and enjoy the quiet.”

“Yeah, well I moved up here because I wanted to get away from guys like you who don’t like barking dogs. It’s my property and I can do what I want on it.”

“True, you can do what you want, but the noise your dog makes doesn’t stay on your property. Look, we get up here so seldom and you’re here all the time. You live here. Can’t you accommodate just a little bit? Just let us a escape a little from that kind of thing, just once in a while?”

“I ain’t gonna argue with ya.”

Joe Garmin stared for a few seconds at the very belligerent Ted, then turned on his heels and headed back to the cabin. At least the dog was quiet. Shut up in Ted’s doublewide. For the time being.

But the good mood was gone, spoiled. Still fuming, Joe got into his minivan, drove eight miles to the nearest gas station/convenience store, bought a six pack of MGD and headed back to the cabin. Four hours, six cans of beer and several chapters of “The Testament” later, Joe turned off the Mister Coffee and went to bed. The carafe remained untouched.

* * *

Garmin slept fitfully all night. He finally gave up trying to sleep or rest and rolled out of bed at first light, 6:30 am. Nearly exhausted, he poured a cup of coffee into a ceramic mug, placed the mug in the microwave and set the timer for 1 minute, 35 seconds. While the coffee was re-heating, he rolled up his bedding and assembled the meager supplies, including the three full days worth of food and water that he’d brought with him yesterday to their cabin in Oconto County.

Coffee re-heated, he poured it into a plastic insulated cup, put on his tan, lined Carhartt hooded jacket and stepped outside into the 34 degree air. There was no breeze at all, no animal or bird sounds. Nothing was moving. The dew point had been reached during the night and a very light frost covered the platform landing outside the door, the roof of his van and the picnic table top across the yard.

The east had brightened into a rainbow of colors. Nearest the horizon, the sky was a reddish orange. Orange melted into yellow, yellow into green, green into blue. Joe hiked the 1/6th mile path he kept mowed around the perimeter of their seven acre property. The cool air was crisp and refreshing and, together with the coffee he sipped along the path, served to awaken him somewhat. He wasn’t the least bit proud of his actions yesterday and that only made his melancholy worse. He felt that he should have somehow maintained better self control. But what’s done is done, I guess, he thought. But he had no intention of going over and apologizing. After all, it wasn’t his dog that had been barking.

Early morning came and went, and 10:30 found Joe on the state highway 141, cruise control set at 68, heading south on the way back home once more. No point in staying here by myself and brooding, he mused.

Traffic was light, this Sunday morning, and more out of habit than anything else, Joe reached out and turned on the mini-van radio. But this time he was in no mood for news, weather and sports and talk show hosts. He did something rare for him…he switched to FM radio and punched the “seek” button. A country and western station. Except it sounded more like Beyonce screeching to a heavy rock beat instead of Emmylou Harris or LeeAnn Rimes or Alison Krauss or Trisha Yearwood. Punch the seek button.

Some noisy sports host on a nationwide talk show, pontificating about some college football team in the deep south ranked #1 instead of one of the Florida teams or California teams that (everybody knows!) should be the top team in NCAA Division 1.

Punch the seek button again. 99.7. Sturgeon Bay. “I heard it Through the Grapevine” by Marvin Gaye. 1968. A memory of purple dancing raisins came back to him…wrinkle-faced, egg plant shaped figures. Mickey Mouse-type white gloves. Colored tennis shoes. Dancing “the swim” to a rock ‘n roll tune. Advertising the California Raisin brand of raisins. Joe’s tension-filled face cracked slightly, a small grin, at the memory. He turned the radio up just a bit.

1968. Wow! What a year that was, he remembered. Wasn’t that when Martin Luther King and Bobby K. were shot and the riots outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago? I think that’s when that Tet offensive happened, too. Nobody ever thought the North Vietnamese would even be able to fight much longer, let alone overrun things the way they did. I was a senior at the old Sturgeon Bay High that year. I remember I was scared to death I might be drafted. We all were. The little smile disappeared again.

“Miss American Pie,” the rock classic by Dan Maclean was next. Joe’s right index finger began to lightly tap time on the steering wheel. What a strange song that was. Still is. A lot of it we could figure out… like the part about Buddy Holly and the music dying in 1959. And John Lennon. And JFK. And Mick “Satan” Jagger. And The Jester Bob Dylan and The King Pete Seegar and The Queen Joan Baez. And “the Chevy to the levy…” the three college kids, civil rights workers who were murdered and buried in one of the new levies.

But there was a lot of things that weren’t really clear either. I heard once that Maclean was talking about how the old way of things in the 50s changed to the new way of things in the early 70s. I know it wasn’t a happy song by any means. I still love the sound of it, though. Joe’s left foot began to lightly tap on the van floor as well. He adjusted the bass just a little to give the songs a bit more throbbing beat.

“Cat’s in the Cradle,” was next. And there was Harry Chapin and brother Tom and the rest. Somewhere around 1974. “When you coming home Dad?/I don’t know when/But we’ll get together then, Son/We’re gonna have a good time then.”

And the haunting refrain of the last two stanzas… “When you coming home son?/I don’t know when/But we’ll get together then, Dad/You know we’ll have a good time then.”

Joe felt his eyes tear up. Dad, his own very best friend, the man he admired more than anybody else in the whole world and always wanted to emulate… was gone. Passed away in 1987. I can’t believe that’s more than 20 years already. Incredible. And you think you’d get over it eventually, but you never do. At least not completely. I’d give anything to have him sitting next to me now, but…

1974. I think that’s about the year when Nixon resigned.

Joe sighed. Breathed deeply. The van seemed to be driving itself. He glanced to his right and saw the exit ramp to the village of Coleman zip on by. He had no idea he’d already driven this far.

Then, on a lighter note, “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison. 1967. I always liked that song. A local rock band, Rod Something-or-other, always plays that one and some Jimmy Buffet and Kenny Loggins at the 4th of July picnic in town Joe cranked the radio up to near full blast. His head began to bob up and down to the beat. He felt just a bit self conscious, wondering what people in other cars thought of a 61 year old geezer bouncing up and down to music. But he didn’t care. It felt GOOD!

1967. I was in Madison then, at the U., he thought. The DOW Chemical napalm riots. Tear gas. I hated that whole scene. All those kids filling up Bascom Hill, from the statue of Abe all the way down to bottom on the hill. Scratch ‘n sniff tear gas button in my yearbook. I wonder if that button even has any smell left to it any more. Bunch of no good, long hair, pot smoking hippies getting beat up, we thought back then, most of us anyway. Til a few years later when a lot of us, too, became protesters of sorts in many different ways.

And the radio beat went on.

And the miles flew on by.

And in delightful succession: “Magic Man,” by Heart, “Lost in You,” with Rod Stewart. “Without You,” U2.

And one of Joe’s all time favorites, Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”

“Buddy you’re a big boy make a big noise
“Playin’ in the street gonna be a big man some day
“You got mud on yo’ face
“You big disgrace
“Kickin’ your can all over the place
“Singin’

“We will we will rock you
“We will we will rock you

“Buddy you’re a young man hard man
“Shoutin’ in the street gonna take on the world some day
“You got blood on yo’ face
“You big disgrace
“Wavin’ your banner all over the place
“Singin’

“We will we will rock you
“We will we will rock you

“Buddy you’re an old man poor man
“Pleadin’ with your eyes gonna make you some peace some day
“You got mud on your face
“You big disgrace
Somebody better put you back in your place

“We will we will rock you
“We will we will rock you”

Fabulous, touching memories came flooding back to him. The year he coached a boys high school cross country team that almost won the WISAA Class B state championship. Only to lose, finish second, when the team’s two best runners got sick just two days before the meet.

Members of the boy’s and girls’ teams always sang that song on the bus on the way to CC meets. The bus just rocked with the wonderful quality and exuberance of their voices. And after nearly every meet, all season, they also sang Queen’s “We are the Champions” in celebration of yet another hard won first place trophy at that meet.

Til the State meet. And the devastating loss. When, by all the rights, the top trophy should have been theirs. They deserved it. It was just so unfair.

And afterward, on the bus, total silence. Overwhelming, somber sadness. For several miles.

Til one little voice began to sing, a tiny spark in a deep, dark wilderness:

“I’ve taken my bows
“And my curtain calls -
“You brought me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it -
“I thank you all -

Another voice joined in. And then more.

“But it’s been no bed of roses
“No pleasure cruise -
“I consider it a challenge before the whole human race -
“And I ain’t gonna lose -

And then they all sang together, their young voices crescendoing, proud and renewed and happy and strong.

“We are the champions – my friends
“And we’ll keep on fighting – till the end -
“We are the champions -
“We are the champions
“No time for losers
“‘Cause we are the champions – of the world -”

And everything was ok again. They were healed. Life, love, rewards, losses, refusing to quit, open to the many challenges that still lay ahead in their young lives. Great things yet to accomplish. And accomplish, many of them had. Joe still saw and heard them in his mind’s eye. And some of his greatest joys still came when he met one of them, somewhere, and they just stopped for a minute or two to say “hi,” to reminisce, to remember that magical season and that magical bus ride home from the State cross country meet. Two of his own kids, a son and their daughter, were on that bus, all grown up now and moved away, 40-somethings, married, with their own lovely families and life accomplishments.

Joe was nearing Green Bay now. He switched to AM radio. The Packers were playing at Lambeau Field today. He listened to Wayne Larrivee and Larry McCarren and their pre-game show. Then Larrivee announced, “And now we’ll have the National Anthem. And we’ll have an U.S. Air Force flyover at the conclusion of the anthem.” Joe swung around the on-ramp, leaving Highway 141 and exiting onto I43.

A quick glance in his mirrors told him that he was alone on the highway, nearing the approach to the Leo Friggo Bridge over the mouth of the Fox River in Green Bay. To his right, through a light haze, he could see Lambeau Field. He slowed almost to a stop and rolled down his windows. On a hunch he glanced to his left. To the north.

There they were! Small dots at first, then larger and larger. Four beautiful F-15 fighter jets in perfect formation. Headed right toward the stadium. Joe pulled the van onto the shoulder. The jets loomed larger and larger. The sound of the National Anthem coursed through the van. Then the jets thundered directly over him, no more than 200 feet up. Gorgeous deep blue fuselages against a light blue sky. The jets, the anthem.

And exactly on cue, the planes passed over Lambeau Field to a rousing ovation from 72,500 Packer fans. Joe marveled at the precise timing and formation of the planes and their masterful pilots. The jets continued over the stadium, then swung to the south, then southeast, til they became just tiny dots and then disappeared altogether in the light blue hazy sky, heading in the direction of Milwaukee.

Joe felt an overwhelming sense of the goodness of his life. Of knowing that no matter how bad things may seem, there’s always good, if you look for it. There’s always something to look forward to. Life always goes on. Every age has its rewards. You just have to seek them and focus on them.

Forty-five minutes later, Joe Garmin pulled into the local McDonald’s. He opened the door to McDs, strode to the counter top and with a broad and happy smile, put a dollar bill on the counter top and ordered, “One senior coffee, please.” I feel good now, like I knew that I would now. James Brown.

Joe felt mentally well again, for the first time in many days. With a big smile on his face, he headed home to watch the rest of the Packer game on TV. Life was good.

How different from the way adults used to deal with such disagreeables many years ago!

Which, in turn, reminded me of Sister Mary Mean Genes and the fly.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like nuns. I mean, I really do like nuns. The wisdom of age, such as it is, has led me to understand that the good sisters’ way of dealing with annoying critters like myself at St. Joseph Catholic School in Sturgeon Bay many years ago had two motivations:

1. They really, truly wanted me to learn something, and
2. They acted in self defense.

Distractions, such as I sometimes (?) caused in the classroom made it difficult for them to teach. When I came full circle and actually had the privilege of working with numerous nuns in my later years, I got to know and enjoy them as real, dedicated people.

But, I digress. Back to my point: How different from the way adults used to deal with such disagreeables many years ago!

Which fact, in turn, reminds me of the good old days in parochial grade school, and inkwells in desks, and girls with braids. Of course, back in the days of which I speak, schools had come to understand the sad fact that having black, liquid ink in inkwells in desks occupied by 10 year old boys wasn’t necessarily a good idea. So inkwells were no longer used for that purpose. But they were still in the desks and were by no means useless (speaking of the inkwells, that is; not the boys).

I mean, an inkwell…what a great place to deposit worn out, chewed gum. Provided Sister Mean Genes didn’t catch a young scamp furtively chewing it first, ruler his hand and call his dad.

Or what a neat place for a towheaded, bored young man to take a long braid of the sweet young lady who sat in front of him, put it in the inkwell and close the trap. When Ms. Pink Cheeked Cutie tried to stand up and her braid was caught in the inkwell, she’d utter an overly loud, calculated shriek of protest. Which, in turn, would quickly bring the sadistic Sister MG and her ruler on the run. Not to punish the girl, of course, but to smack the hand of the exasperating boy directly in back of the innocent young thing (a method that eventually lead to arthritis in ones right hand, many years later, by the way… or so old men sometimes tell me).

Which also, in turn, brought a smug smile to the face of the sweet innocent.

But best of all, that inkwell was a perfect place to store live house flies, skillfully plucked off a desk top by that same mischievous young man. With the boy using his very creative imagination, that same braid served as a perfect source for a fly leash, provided the boy could manage to pluck one of those long hairs out without bringing Sister Mean Genes and her ruler on the sprint.

But if the young scamp was successful the reward was well worth the risk. If you’ve not seen a young man walking around the hallowed halls with a fly buzzing around on a leash, while an appreciative audience of laughing and giggling 10 year old male classmates admired his prowess, you’ve not been truly exposed to the best old parochial school tradition of yesteryear.

Rumor has it, though, that for some mysterious reason that same young man never was able to get a date with that same girl til they were seniors in high school. Hard to fathom, I know. But true.

I also learned, after all that time, that nuns shrank. The redoubtable Patrick McManus once nicknamed one of his parochial school nuns “The Seven Foot Nun.” Well, I once had a second grade nun who was a seven footer. Sister St. Gabrielle was her name. Thirty five years later I again met Sister St. Gabrielle. She had “shrunk” from a gigantic 7′ 0 to mere 5′ 3″! Incredible! Instead of looking way up to chat with her, I had to look down to chat with her.

I just want to reader to know that while Sister Mary Mean Genes at St. Joe’s Catholic School in Sturgeon Bay sometimes seemed to earn her nickname when dealing with such as me, I’m certain that she had a good heart and good intentions and was justified in her actions. Heaven surely has a special place for such as her (I do still wonder what her name really was, though).

And, finally… yes, that boy and that girl are still married to each other. Nearly 50 years later.

p.s. The reader need not ask my wife about my veracity in telling this tale. I’m sure she would just say that I made the whole thing up anyway.

After profoundly meditating on the situation for a while, I eschewed the mundane and, instead, I chose the yam for the vegetable that best represents me after a little poem just popped into my head. Here ’tis.

“I Yam”

by Tom Bridenhagen

I yam what I yam

As Popeye would say.

I’m not my tomorrows.

I’m not yesterday.

But the me that is me,

The me you can’t see

Is the sum of my past,

What they used to be.

Is the sum of my past.

The things that I’ve done.

The places I’ve gone;

The races I’ve run.

The races I’ve run.

The people I’ve known.

The things I’ve done well.

Decisions I’ve blown.

But, I yam what I yam

No big deal, ’tis true.

I just am what I yam

I’m different from you.

I Yam.

We fished on a chain of seven lakes, with various degrees of angling success to show for our efforts. We fried out, consumed a few libations together, dined out one evening, even sat around a small table at our motel, eating a continental breakfast and sharing story after story, every fish tale the-honest-to-God’s-truth, of course.

Take this one, for example:

Saturday was our first full day to go fishing. We’d planned to meet in the motel lobby around 6:45 am, but at 5:15 I was awakened (at least I think I was awakened; maybe I dreamed it all?) by a strange series of noises seemingly emanating from the hallway.

You see, Friday night, arrival night, when it was Old Timers’ sack time, I thought everybody was permanently sleeping by 11:15. But I was wrong… maybe? I’ll let the reader be the judge because here’s what I heard from the night clerk. Now he may have been exaggerating, or maybe it was only a dream he had but…

According to him (please don’t tell his boss… aka owner’s daughter, girlfriend Veronica), at around 5:15 am, Saturday morning he was blissfully dozing in front of the computer behind the counter. Suddenly he was startled awake by the sound of the front doors rattling. Now he’d locked those doors (he says it was for security reasons, but… maybe he just wanted to sneak a nap) when he thought everybody was sleeping.

So, he got up, stretched, rubbed his eyes, somehow avoided stepping on the two old, grey whiskered, chubby, snoring beagles on the lobby carpet and let in the door-knockers. He says (now this may just be in his dream, mind you) that there were two very happily giggling Old Timers ladies standing there. After giving him huge hugs, putting their index fingers to their lips and loudly whispering, “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. We don’t want to wake anybody up,” off they went down the hallway.

In the back of their hair… BIG eagle feathers standing straight up. Their purses were clinking and clanking (he said it sounded like a bunch of quarters). And they were loudly singing “Happy Days are Here Again,” and “God Bless America.” When they reached the door to their room, they turned back to him, blew good night kisses to him and retreated to their room for the night.

So, did he dream that? Or did it really happen? I’ll let you decide. But you may want to consult with Old Timers Mary and Sharon before you make your final judgment.

* * *

At any rate, Saturday morning found my fishing partner, Randy, and I at the boat landing, ready to launch. I know the reader will find it absolutely incredible, but… our wives, Whip and Babs, actually decided that there are other things in life that’re more fun than fishing with their hubbies! Unbelievable.

So there the two of us were, Randy and me, devastated that we wouldn’t be able to spend the day untangling our wives’ rat’s nest monofilament lines, baiting their hooks, removing caught fish from their lines and trying to be sure we didn’t drive our boats too fast or too slow to suit our fraus. Fact is, there wouldn’t even be anyone along to tell us to be sure to put on suntan lotion! Sad. Lonely.

Now Randy is a bear of a man, a soon-to-be-retired OTR truck driver. Reddish face, white walrus moustache, blue eyes, a deep gravel voice, a great sense of humor and, above all, a natural born navigator. Randy is a veritable fish-finding machine. In short, except for the blue eyes, he’s everything I’m not.

I’ll give you an example of Randy’s navigational and fish finding skills.

He took one look at our Hotspots Fishing Map and, intuitively knew where we should fish! I looked at the same map. Nothing.

The lakes on our chain, in order, were lakes Lookout, and Duck; Nada, Ziltch, the twin lakes of Noway and Goway, and the last lake of the chain, Sparkling Diamond. None of those names meant a thing to me. One look at the map by Randy, though, and he knew… Sparkling Diamond would be our destination.

Without further delay we launched and headed out for the day. Now Randy, being wise in the ways of the world but especially knowledgable about the wiles of fishermen and fisherwomen, decided that we should leave a false trail to our destination. Foil the fishing spies. Those who knew nothing about fishing, totally unlike my partner. Those who would stop at almost nothing to find out good places to fish. Randy, of course, didn’t inform me of this ploy of his until we actually reached Sparkling Diamond Lake. Guess he figured that if I really knew the truth, I might try to fake my actions and inadvertently let the cat out of the bag. Maybe even catch a fish or two, as unlikely as that may be.

So, 2 1/2 hours later, we arrived at Sparkling Diamond Lake. In the meantime, we pretended to fish at numerous locations. Fact is, we even tied on real lures and made a show of trying to catch something. But, of course, we didn’t catch a fish.

We even cruised around a couple of the lakes twice, zigging and zagging. Pretending we didn’t know what we were doing or where we were going! Would you believe it?

At one point, two musky fishermen caught up to us and actually began casting their lures right across our bow, intending to steal our fake fishing spot, I guess. Randy, being the quiet mannered trucker that he is, politely informed them in the mildest possible trucker language, that they were in our spot. They ignored us and kept right on fishing there, much to Randy’s scarcely concealed delight, he later informed me.

On the way back to the boat launch at the end of our fishing day, those two musky hunters were still there , steaming mad! I swear I could see smoke coming out of their ears as we passed them. Their arms and shoulders looked very tired. They were audibly gnashing their teeth. Randy and I waved and grinned but they wouldn’t return our waves. Barely even glanced our way. RUDE! Ungrateful welps! Ha! Serves’m right.

At another fake fishing spot, and in full view of a couple of eager spies sitting on the porch of a nearby cottage pretending to eat their breakfasts while, in reality, spying on us, Randy complimented me on what I thought was a major fishing mistake on my part! You see, I took a fishing lure, put a bait on it, picked up my fishing pole, tossed the bait overboard, and watched it sink out of sight. But lo and behold, I neglected to tie the lure to the fishing line first!

I was mortified. Red faced. Embarrassed. Until… Randy told me that he often uses what he calls “the phantom knot” technique when he’s pretending to be fishing. That way you’re absolutely sure that you won’t catch anything. I have to admit, I would never have thought of actually doing that on purpose. Randy is my hero. Randy is my mentor.

* * *

And did we catch fish! I mean, we really caught fish on Sparkling Diamond Lake. We caught a walleye (though someone back at the hotel later on asked us, “What’s that thing?” We replied, “It’s a walleye, of course!” To which the curious innocent replied, “Oh, that’s what it is? I’ve never seen one that small before). She, of course, was joking.

We caught rock bass, a couple of bluegills, a pumpkinseed, several perch, some beautiful crappies and even a 17″ smallmouth bass! What a great day we spent on Diamond Lake. Randy took pictures of our catch on his digital camera and he’s even going to post some on the Internet.

Now that worried me. I mean, if a viewer wasn’t really discerning, that viewer might actually think that our fish were much smaller than they appeared in the pictures. And, horrors! They might even think that maybe Randy used his zoom lens to distort reality, something that Randy would never consider. Or that I maybe held the fish closer to the camera lens with me standing farther back. Fact is, that same viewer might even think our 18″ bass was actually smaller than it appeared!

So, being the computer geek that I am (a fact well known among the Old Timers) Randy asked me how to post those pictures, especially pictures of me and my fish, on the Internet. I told him what to do with his digital camera. I said, “Push the REV button. That means that you will be reviewing the pictures. Then scroll to the picture that you want and push the DEL button. That means that picture is DELightful. Then press the OK button. If a message comes up that asks if you really want to DEL that picture, push the OK button.”

I”m glad I told him the right thing to do. Sure wouldn’t want to take a chance on losing pictures of our fish, especially the one of the 19″ bass!

* * *

Back at the boat launch, we decided to release the 20″ bass rather than bring it back to the motel to show it off. I mean, all those people handling and oohing and ahhhhing over one fish might damage it and kill it, so we released it.

Evening came. We all gathered at a member’s home and he treated us to a delicious meal of grilled steak and tons of beans, salads, cakes, pies, pickles, cakes, pies, grilled mushrooms, cakes, pies, fruit salads and cakes and pies. Way too soon, 10 pm rolled around and it suddenly dawned on us. Our fish were still in the cooler! We hadn’t cleaned them yet!

Oh myyyyy. What to do? Well, it just so happens that one of our members, Kyle, is a fish cleaning expert. But it was very dark outside and there were no lights by the fish cleaning bench. Hey, no problem. We’re VETERAN outdoorsmen. Two of the guys, one being Kyle, remembered that they had head lamps in their trucks (never mind the fact that those headlamps had been in the trucks since the end of the deer season last year, sometime in early December). Fortunately the headlamps, though quite dim, still worked.

Kyle, with Randy’s assistance and my expert advice and supervision, began to clean the fish.

Problem was, Kyle is left handed and he only had a right handed filet knife! What to do? I mean, it was quite dark outside despite the dim headlamps. Nevertheless, Kyle began to do the fileting. Now anyone knows that you can’t really filet well if you’re using a right handed filet knife left handed. Soon, after seeing Kyle wipe a torrent of nervous perspiration from his forehead with the back of his wrist, Randy and I began to offer helpful suggestions.

“You should cut closer to the hilt of the knife,” suggested Randy.

“Maybe you should tip the fish over,” I opined. Then I wisely added, “Also, instead of cutting from the head toward the tail, maybe you could cut from the tail to the head?”

Randy whispered (somewhat furtively and secretly, I might add) a couple of other instructions to Kyle, instructions that I… being hard of hearing… couldn’t hear. Shortly thereafter, Kyle whipped confidently through the rest of the fish and soon earned an A- (“Nobody gets an A+,” Randy said) from Randy and me.

We walked back inside the hotel to the lobby, with Kyle carrying a newspaper full of fish offal in one hand and a pile of fish filets (amazingly, about three times as many filets as you usually get from that many fish) in the other.

Suddenly one of the women shrieked, “Get a doctor. OMG, get a nurse. Call Babs. She’s a nurse!” and she pointed at Kyle. But not to worry, though. It was just a false alarm. What she thought was a bit of bloody skin hanging from the tip of Kyle’s nose was actually just a bit of fish filet, deposited there when Kyle wiped the perspiration from his nose with the back of his wrist.

Somehow, though, that was the culmination, the coup de grace as it were, of an outstanding weekend with the Old Timers Fishing Club. Now we need to start planning our next event. Maybe a January excursion to Little Sturgeon would be in order. We’ll be sure not to post the dates, though. We’re afraid that everybody would leave the ice, knowing that we’re coming. I mean, why spoil somebody else’s fun just so us Old Timers can have ours, right!

So with that in mind, last year he went hunting for an antlerless deer during Wisconsin’s special, temporary Zone-T, herd control season. The following is his story.

I’m certain that the astute, discerning reader will recognize that this tale is not autobiographical! (and if you believe that…)

Old Geezer’s Deer Hunting Lament
by Tom Bridenhagen

There’s really no justice
A deer hunter knows.
When you’re hunting for bucks
You only see DOES!
When you’re hunting for does
(and this really sucks)
Instead of seeing does
You only see BUCKs!

The morning was cool. Zone T, said the State.
Hunt only for does. A doe would be great.

So off to the woods, with hopes oh so high.
There are lots of does. Old Geezer would try…

To fill his doe tag, meat for the freezer.
Burgers and brats, and steaks for the geezer.

Retired, he was, with time on his hands,
For fishing and hunting, on waters and lands.

Retired indeed! He’d show all the rest.
Though frost on his rooftop, he still was the best

At filling deer tags. Meat for the freezer.
Respect for his age. Not bad for a geezer!

So on his deer stand, that October day.
Deer hunting so grand, the Wisconsin way.

The cedars so dark, the birches so white.
In just a few minutes, it soon would be light.

Geez sat by a stump. The morning was foggy.
His knees they were aching. His brain it was loggy.

The sun it was late. The sky it was cloudy.
Time for some daylight! Time to say “Howdy”

To squirrels and crows and bluejays and tweeties.
Good thing (he knows) he’d eaten his Wheaties

Or else oh so soon, his stomach would growl.
Just when the does would be on the prowl.

But time it did drag. The does didn’t show!
“Where the heck are they?” he wanted to know.

Seven, then eight, and then half past 9.
“It’s already late. The hunting’s not fine.

“How can I show’m, that I can still do it?
“So come on ol’ does, let’s really get to it.

“Go for a stroll, head for your bed.
“Before this old troll is sleeping,” he said.

Then, just like a ghost a deer, it came gliding.
Not stumbling or jerky, not slipping or sliding.

But smoooth, just like silk, it slid through the fog.
No cat or no turkey, now cow or no dog.

But a deer, what a beauty!
But just Geezer’s luck

Not the doe that he wanted
But only…. a buck.

With rack like a tree, all pointed and high.
A trophy to see. It made Old Geez cry

To see that buck strut, so strong and so cocky.
Like Sylvester Stallone, the intrepid Rocky.

It scraped and it pawed, sign posts for females.
Old Geezer was awed. But he wanted not he-males

But does, not this buck, no buck for his freezer.
“I’m hunting a doe. So git now!” said Geezer.

The buck it did turn. Looked him straight in the eye.
Old Geezer it spurned, with not even a sigh.

As if just to say, “I’m boss here, you know.
“And if you don’t like it, then you can just go.”

When you’re hunting for does
(and this really sucks)

Instead of seeing does
You only see BUCKs!

The hours did drag, came creeping so slowly.
Geez’s eyelids did sag, getting so lowly.

But Geezer was TUFF. He shook his head.
“I ain’t had enough. I’ll git one!” he said.

Then off to his right, he saw a deer running!
Through his scope sight, he’d go a gunning

To shoot that old doe. But such was his luck …
It wasn’t a doe. ‘Twas only a buck.

With body so strong and antlers so nice.
Geez’d waited so long. He had to look twice.

But sure as the dickens. ’twas only a he-male.
He’d gotten up with the chickens. But nary a female!

When you’re hunting for does
(and this really sucks)

Instead of seeing does
You only see BUCKs!

The afternoon waned. The sky it turned red.
Old Geezer was drained. He nodded his head.

“Gotta keep sharp. Fill up that freezer
“Don’t wanna eat carp. Just deer,” said the geezer.

Then what to the wandering eye should appear?
Sneaking so slowly. A dainty doe deer!

A dark, silent ghost. She came through the brush.
50 yards at the most. She came with a hush.

Nearer and nearer, her nose to the ground.
He surely would hear’r, if she’d make a sound.

But…
No sound did she make. She just slid right on by.
The ground didn’t shake. The birds didn’t cry.
That sly little lady, just trotted away.

Not a wimp or a fraidy. She just didn’t stay.
Off safely she went, off through the birches.
The birds they were silent, looked on from their perches.

And next to a stump, as twilight came creeping.
A snoring resounded. Old Geezer was sleeping.

There’s really no justice
A deer hunter knows.
When you’re hunting for bucks
You only see DOES!
When you’re hunting for does
(and this really sucks)
Instead of seeing does
You only see BUCKs!

Low pressure moving in, he thought. Mare’s tail clouds two days ago. Maybe four, five o’clock before the snow starts. Might be some lake effect coming. Best keep an eye on things. He flipped open his two-tone grey Motorola Razr cell phone and, shading the face of the phone with one hand, he looked at the time. 11 am.

Tee had an hour and a half drive ahead of him yet this afternoon and he knew all about lake effect from having lived almost his entire 70 years near the shore of Lake Michigan, first Sturgeon Bay, then Kewaunee and finally, for the past 40 years, Manitowoc.

Often when the wind blew out of the east during a snowstorm, the wind would pick up extra moisture from the lake. When that happened, a routine snow squall could turn into a dangerous storm, with a foot or more of soft, powdery snow flakes falling, making the drive home hazardous at best, downright dangerous at times.

The bobbers on his ice fishing line had moved to the west side of the holes in the ice now and the breeze blew almost directly into Tee’s face. He zipped up the collar of his old, blaze orange fishing jacket, the one with the patch on the front were he’d learned a good lesson. Don’t move up against the manifold of a power ice auger. It’s hot and it can ruin a good jacket, or at least a jacket without any previous holes in it!

He picked up his yellow plastic ice fishing shelter and moved it to the other side of the 8″ diameter holes in the ice, putting the wind at his back. That oughta keep me warm for a while anyway. Sure wish I’d get a bite pretty soon. This keeps up, I might as well pack it in.

As if on cue, one of his yellow and white, pencil-shaped bobbers moved upward a half an inch. Then again. Smelt! Or schmelt, as Chirpy would have called’m. Smelt would take a minnow differently than other fish would. They’d grab the bait and swim upward with it, creating a momentary bit of slack in the line, which would translate into a bobber popping up instead of down.

Tee took off his well-worn buckskin mittens, grabbed the light blue monofilament line a foot above the bobber. Get ready. Be ready. Not yet. Not yet. The bobber continued to move around in the hole, then almost imperceptibly it pulled downward just a tiny bit. Now! Tee jerked the line upward and the smelt was hooked.

In a matter of seconds, Tee raised his right hand high, slid left hand down the line to the water, deftly lifted and the slim, silvery, frantically wiggling fish came sliding out onto the ice. The old man grasped the smelt firmly and extracted the hook and torn minnow from its gaping mouth, slid his glasses up on his forehead and raised the little fish up to his face for a better look.

The smelt was about 10″ long, give or take, almost as slim as a snake and shaped like a barracuda. Its glistening silver sides… when you looked at a smelt closely and in the right light… had almost a rainbow colored hue to them.

Tee inhaled deeply. Uncle Joe always said a winter smelt melt like waterlemons. Tee grinned to himself, then slipped the fish back into the hole. With a quick flip of its tail the smelt disappeared into the crystal clear depths. Woulda took 15 of them schmelt to make a dozen, Chirpy would’ve said.

Old Chirpy Farr. I wonder whatever the heck became of him, he thought. Probably buried in a potter’s field somewhere, if he got buried at all. Always down fishing off Grover’s Dock. Man, did that guy ever know how to catch perch. Always had time for a kid. Always had something interesting or funny to say. A lot of it I never dared tell Mom!

* * *

Early May. Tee was back home from college at the U.W. Madison again. The phone call had come. The funeral. And three more days. The others had all gone back to the sanctuaries of their homes, all except Tee. And Dad.

But you couldn’t talk with Dad. Start a conversation, about anything, try to take his mind off of it and Dad’d start crying.

“Mom and I, we were always so perfect together, Tee, you know? I remember the time when…” and Dad was crying again, unable to finish what he was saying. Dad was a devastated man and Tee felt totally helpless. He always remembered Dad as such a strong, confident man. And now…

…it was early-summer warm now. Two weeks had dragged slowly by. Dad was still in bed, doped up with whatever Dr. Grover had given him to help him sleep. Tee went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a package of bacon and a carton of eggs. Over easy is the way she liked’m too and the bacon had to be just right, firm but not burned, he thought, and he fried the eggs over easy and did the bacon just right.

He brought a tray into the bedroom for Dad who was just beginning to stir. Tee knew that when he came back an hour or so later, the breakfast would be cold, untouched. He sighed, frowned, then returned to the kitchen, downed the simple breakfast he’d made for himself, wiping the remaining egg and bacon pieces from his plate with a slice of home made bread, taken from the freezer and thawed out in the toaster. Probably the last slice of home made bread I’ll ever have, I guess.

Tee stepped out through the screen doorway and onto the back porch. From there you could see the bay of Sturgeon Bay. The many moods and blues and greys and multi-colors of the bay always made you pause and just look and drink in its beauty before you moved on with what you were doing or where you were going.

Tee was at a loss what to do. He couldn’t just leave Dad like this. How the heck can Dad even go back to work at Peterson Builders and supervise all those other guys when he’s like this? Tee could imagine an empty refrigerator, an un-made bed, an un-mowed lawn. Dad just sitting there, wasting away.

Should I go back to school, or stay here a while and help, or what? Torn, confused and hurting, Tee descended the porch steps. Two more steps across the sidewalk brought him to the old pump. A tin cup dangled from a thin length of chain by the pump’s water spout. Tee began moving the pump handle up and down. Somehow the squeak of the handle was soothing this morning.

Mom had asked Dad to hang that tin cup there years ago. The pump was well known throughout the neighborhood. The water that gushed out after 20 or so cranks of the handle was ice cold and delicious. The cup was there because anyone was more than welcome to stop by and partake. And lots took advantage of it. Even the guys on the garbage truck that cruised through the alley that separated their house from the neighbors to the south stopped by for their weekly cool one and a minute or two of friendly conversation with her.

Tee took a deep, slow drink of the refreshing liquid, then smiled. He distinctly remembered the time when Mom had to pour warm water on his tongue one cold winter day when, for some kid reason, he’d decided to lick the pump handle. Kinda hard to yell for help when you can’t use your tongue, he chuckled.

What to do? He glanced to his right, toward the broad stump, all that remained of a giant box elder. One thunderstormy night one of the horizontal branches had crashed to the ground, gouging a deep hole in the lawn. The rest of the tree had to be taken down.

Got old, like everything does, I guess, he mused. I sure miss that old tree though.

Tee remembered how he could look out the window of his upstairs bedroom right into the nest of a pair of cedar waxwings. The young waxwings, when they got a bit older, would line up on a branch, wings partially spread for balance, beaks wide open, begging for food from their olive colored, black burglar-masked, harried parents. Gone now. Like everything. Eventually.

On an impulse, he decided to stroll down to the bay… to the point… the boat docks… to Grover’s dock where Chirpy… Chirpy? I wonder. Nah, that was a long time ago. Still…

He had to see.

The street was blacktop now. Glad they finally got rid of the gravel. Dusty. You couldn’t play ball on it. Had to pick your way across it barefoot. Tough to even ride a bike on it. Tee was almost uncomfortably warm, despite his beige shorts and white, sleeveless t-shirt, and he could feel the heat of the blacktop through his sandals. The air even smelled warm.

Across Memorial Drive, onto the grass by the bay. Tee’s eyes swept from west to east along the bay. To his right, Peterson Builders shipyard still looked the same. Allie brothers fish tug tied up to their dock, pond nets on wooden cradles drying in the sun, still there. Dad’s boat… well, a little bit bigger one now. Round bottom. Kit boat, but nice, bobbing at anchor by their little plank dock next to the point.

The point of land, extending 50′ or so out into the bay… no ducks or seagulls there right now. The smells still the same. Dead seawood, mossy rocks, a bloated fish or two. To the east… the other yacht and small boat docks and…

…My gosh! Can it be?

Seated on the end of Grover’s dock, half a block away, sat a solitary fisherman. Faded red, shapeless cap on his head, overalls despite the warm weather. Legs dangling over the end. Cane pole hanging out over the water.

Chirpy Farr! Man, it’s been a long time, Tee thought as he half-walked, half-ran along the shore toward Grover’s Dock. He remembered Chirpy as being mildly profane. He wore old, patched clothes and when he spoke, which was rarely, you never knew what would come out of his mouth next. Picked up the nickname “Chirpy” because folks said when he was a kid he could whistle like a bird. Nobody ever seemed to know his real name.

Kids liked him, especially young boys, because Chirpy dressed and talked exactly the way moms and dads said a guy shouldn’t. And old Chirp always had time for a kid. But when high school came long, Chirpy lost his appeal to younger boys because then they all acted and talked like Chirpy. So kids kinda forgot about him. Down there, alone, on the end of Grover’s Dock.

Tee hesitated for a few moments when he got to the dock, then slowly moved out past Dr. Grover’s big Chris Craft yacht toward where the old man sat, the sound of Tee’s sandals and the slight swaying of the dock preceding his arrival. A good ten years had passed since Tee’d been there last.

“Hey, Chirp!”

“Hi kid. Siddown. I saved yer seat.” Tee sat down, to the left of the old curmudgeon.

“Been a long time, Chirp.”

“Yep. Been a coon’s age. Ya grow’d a bit since I see ya last.”

“I guess so. I didn’t think you’d even remember me. Pretty warm out here today.”

“Yep, hotter than a two-peckered goat.”

Tee giggled. Same old Chirpy.

“Hey Chirp, ‘f it’s so warm, how come you still have your long johns on?” Tee could see the longies past the cuffs of Chirpy’s pants and tucked into his socks.

“Simple. Keeps the cold out in the winter. Keeps the warm out in the summer.”

Tee pondered on that one for a moment. All of a sudden, he thought of something unusual, something he’d never noticed before. Chirpy didn’t smell bad! The ladies of the small town always said that “tramps” like Chirpy didn’t work and didn’t brush their teeth and they always smelled bad. Chirpy’s cap and overalls were old but he wasn’t dirty at all, not even under his fingernails. I wonder why I never noticed those things before, Tee puzzled.

“How’s fishin’, Chirp?”

“It’s ok. Nothin’ like it used ta be, though. I ketch 10 perch it’s a good day now. Used ta ketch me a hunnert a day sometimes.”

A slim, two-inch long insect, fluorescent blue body, almost transparent, settled on the end of Chirpy’s cane pole. “Dang darnin’ needles!” he grumbled, shaking the pole and chasing the delicate critter away. “Should mind their own business and leave my pole alone.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“My mom died, Chirp.”

“I know’d.”

“Pretty tough on my dad.”

“It allus is, when a man’s wife goes.”

Tee paused to watch a sleek, white, 16-foot wooden lap-strake boat go zipping by out in the bay. Lap-strakes planed so beautifully when they had the right size outboard motor on them. Lots of folks like the way they looked but Tee always thought they appeared, with their overlapping planking, like they’d been made from the siding of a wood frame house. He did have to concede, though, that they surely ran nicely out on the water.

“She runs nice, don’t she, Chirp?”

“Goes like a paper devil,” the old man grunted. “Some of them boats is rougher than a whore’s mattress.”

Like a paper devil. I wonder how a paper devil goes, Tee thought, laughing to himself, a little grin at the corners of his mouth. And I wonder how rough a whore’s mattress is.

Then, “Guess I don’t really know what to do, Chirp. I don’t think he can handle it. All he does is sit and cry. Don’t know if I should quit school and stay home or go back and wish I was home, helping out.”

Chirpy removed his cap and scratched his head. He put his cap back on.

“Hey Chirp. You got hair!” Tee had never seen Chirpy with his cap off before. The light reddish locks were sparse and wispy to be sure, but Chirp had hair.

The old man turned his face toward Tee, lifted one eyebrow in mock scorn and snorted, “Course I got hair, idjit. Even a nun got hair but you ain’t never seen a nun’s hair neither, have ya?” He turned back to watching his cane pole.

He’s got a point there, I guess!

Then, “Did you know Mom, Chirp?”

A long pause. “Yep, I know’d ‘er. Everybody know’d yer ma. She was quality. Most everybody knows real quality when they sees it.”

“But we didn’t have any money, Chirp. We always had old clothes and shoes and such.”

“Kid, quality don’t depend on money. Quality isn’t what you has; it’s what you is.”

“Did you ever meet her, Chirp?”

Chirpy chuckled. Tee had never, ever heard Chirpy chuckle before.

“Well, did you?”

“Well sorta, in a roundabout way.”

“Meaning what? Don’t keep me in suspenders.”

I had to throw that one in for you, Chirp, Tee smiled to himself. Come to think of it, lots of things Tee said and did every week seemed to be linked somehow to old Chirpy Farr.

Chirpy took a deep breath, looked away from his cane pole and up to the late May blue sky.

“Well, I remember one spring day, a day pretty much like this one, ya know,” he began. “I was just walking up and down the streets with my burlap sack, just collectin’ thing, ya know. Lots of folks throw things out in the spring. I come by yer house up there and there was lots of things out by the curb. Junk things. Like they come from an attic or basement or somewheres.

“Anyways, some of them things was in a old, beat up-looking wagon. I figgered the wagon was for the junk man, too, so I just grabbed a holt of ‘r handle and away I went up the street.

“Well yer ma, she must seen me cuz she come runnin’ down that sidewalk breathin’ fire. ‘HEY!’ she yells, ‘Where you going with that? That wagon belongs to the kids!’” A trace of a grin flashed quickly across Chirpy’s face, then disappeared just as quickly.

“Well sir, she didn’t have ta say it twict. I dropped that there handle and away I went and I didn’t never look back neither cuz it was like ol’ Satchell Paige, he was a nigger baseball pitcher you know, a real good one, too… anyways, ol’ Satch he said, ‘Never look back. Somethin’ might be gainin’ on ya.’ So I didn’t.”

Tee was struggling to contain himself. He wanted to roar with laughter so badly but at the same time he wasn’t quite sure that Chirpy found it all that funny. Come to think of it, he kinda remembered when that incident happened. He hadn’t witnessed it but he remembered Mom, at the supper stable, still steaming mad, telling four fascinated kids and Dad all about it.

“I used to drink outa yer pump sometimes, too, ya know,” Chirpy went on.

“You did? I never saw you there.”

“I did. I know’d she didn’t like me none, but sometimes if I was walkin’ by and I seen the car was gone and nobody was around, I just kinda walked up there kinda nonchalant like and helped myself. Everybody else did, ya know. She didn’t like me none, but I liked her. I seen she done a good job a raisin’ you kids.”

Tee smiled. He was, as Chirpy would have said it, “gabberflasted.” He never knew Chirp was a sometime visitor in their yard and drank at their pump. He wondered what else he’d never known about the old guy.

“I don’t think Dad can make it, Chirp. I never saw him like this.”

“He’ll make it ok, kid,” Chirpy replied. “Just takes a while. Ya know, kid, women is kinda like dogs in a way. Ya get a bad one and she just wears on ya and never leaves ya alone and sooner or later one of ya gotta go. Sometimes ya kin tolerate the dang thing, but mostly, with a bad one, it’s either you or it.

“But ya gits you a good’n, now that’s a different thing altogether. Git a good’n and everythin’ jist seems to fit jist perfect. Can’t really ‘splain it. It’s like… ummmm, with a good woman it’s almost like the two a ya’s only got one mind. Even when yer sleepin’. You move, she moves. She moves, you move. It’s almost like a song ‘cept ya never git tired a hearin’ it.”

Tee sat, stunned. Chirpy talking like this. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined it.

Chirpy went on. “Yer ma, now. She was a good’n… a real good’n. Ya could see it in the way she was to people. The way she raised you young’uns. The way she was with him. Ya know, jist settin’ here on this here dock, many’s the time I seen her, when you and him were out fishin’ in the boat and gone away… just like… almost like magic. I could tell when yous was comin’ home cuz down the street she come. And out on yer little dock there, by the point where yer pa keeps his boat. And she’d wait and purty soon, ’round the bend by the boatyard yous would come.”

Tee’s eyes teared up. He brushed the tears away with the back of his wrist.

“Ya know, kid, when a man loses his wife, ‘n she’s a real good’n like that, there ain’t nuthin’ like it. I mean, ‘f yer friends die it’s bad. Yer kids go, it’s even worse. Lose a good wife… ain’t nuthin’ like it. Tough to get through it. Takes time. He’ll get over it, kid… ‘ventually. Tell’m to go fishin’. It helps.”

Tee’s eyes moved to Chirpy. The old man, just sitting there, day after day, staring at his cane pole, ketchin perch. Feet dangling off the end of the dock. Shapeless cap and patched clothes. Then, on impulse, Tee looked down. There. On Chirpy’s left hand. Third finger. Ring finger. The finger was smaller between the first and second knuckles. the way a finger gets if it’s worn a ring for a long long time. Tee’d never known. He’d always thought Chirpy Farr was just a grumpy old loner.

Off to the left a ways, on the next dock toward The Lake, Rueben Muess was getting ready to go fishing by himself. Chirpy always like the name Mr. Muess. Rueben, a widower who lived right across the street from the bay shore, had a pretty little Thompson Speed Demon, a 12-footer, with a big, green Mercury outboard bolted to the transom. The foredeck on the Thompson was sparkling white. Its gunwhales, seats and trim were made of beautifully polished mahogany. Right in front of the middle seat was a bright red steering wheel, the only steering wheel Tee had ever seen on a small boat.

“Howdy, Chirpy,” Rueben Muess called out.

“Howdy, Mr. Miss,” Chirpy replied, without even a trace of mirth. “Ain’t much doin’ today, but maybe ya kin ketch you some perch out there in them weeds. More than I got in here anyways.”

“Hope so,” Ruben replied, setting his two casting reels and a can of nightcrawlers down on the shiny, varnished floorboards. He cranked up the Mercury and soon the Speed Demon was moving away, leaving just a small wake behind it. Rueben didn’t look back.

“Hey, Chirp. You got any kids?” Tee asked. Somehow it never had dawned on him that maybe Chirpy had a family.

“Got a couple. One I ain’t seen in years. She moved away sommers. Have no idea where she is now. T’other lives in town here. Big house. Never comes to see me neither, though. Too busy or something, I guess.”

They were silent for several minutes.

“I don’t know what to do about Dad, Chirp,” Tee continued at last. “I mean, there’s no way he can take care of himself the way he is.”

Chirpy Farr took a long look at the young man sitting next to him down there on Grover’s Doc, lifted one eyebrow the way he always did when he was going to say something worth listening to.

“Well here’s what ya do, kid. First, ya got a couple a sisters in town here, right? Jist make sure they drop in on ‘im once in a while. Then ya gotta make sure, somehow, that he gits outa the house some. A house will just haunt ya to death sometimes when yer hurtin’. Make sure he gits out where there’s people… people and water. And kids. Kids are the best thing. Don’t even have to be yer own, necessarily. Just somebody’s kids.

“I ‘member when I was hurtin’. Long time ago. I come down here. Always some kids ketchin’ crabs or fishin’ or skipping stones or somethin’. One kid ‘specially helped me a lot. Blonde kid. Bright blue eyes. Smart. Come to think of it, the kid looked a lot like you. Ain’t seen’m in many a year now, though. All grow’d up and gone and too busy now, I guess.”

Tee swallowed hard. I never knew. I never, ever knew, he thought. All the time, I thought he was helping me.

The sun was higher in the sky now. Dad would be up and around, and if he wasn’t, somebody had to get him up and around. Talk him into going back to work and getting out of the house some. Maybe even get him to go fishing a little bit.

“Thanks, Chirp. You’re a big help. Tell you what. The next time you see that blue-eyed kid won’t be nearly as long, not nearly. You’ll see him again a lot sooner this time. I promise.”

“Well, we’ll see. I heard that one a’fore. I’ll save this here seat for him, though. He’s welcome any time. Any time he can make it.”

“He will. He will… and Chirp, can I ask you a question before I go?”

“Sure kid, shoot.”

“How hot is a two-peckered goat?”

A twinkle came into Chirpy’s eyes, then he grinned broadly. “Damned hot, kid. Damned hot.”

Epilogue

* * *

And Chirpy had been right. Dad did make it, though the sparkle was gone. He never really regained the ready smile and the joy in life he once had. He went back to work and put in his time ’til his retirement. He remarried, to a widow-woman from the north side. She was nice and she was a companion, but she wasn’t a real love. Dad and his lone remaining brother spent many hours fishing together on the bay.

Fact was, in just a small 14′ boat, the two of them landed a huge king salmon, that held the Wisconsin state record for that species for quite a few years. The two old timers landed the monster without even the benefit of a landing net. That must have been a real “Grumpy Old Men” moment, perfect for another movie that could be made with Walter Matthau playing the part of Uncle Joe and Jack Lemon playing the part of Dad.

Then Uncle Joe passed away, too, and as Dad often told his Tee, “When Joe died, I died.”

Twenty years short ago this May, Tee’s Dad passed away as well. He lived 25 long years after the death of Mom, the love of Dad’s life.

How can years be so long, and yet how can they rush by so quickly at the same time?

* * *

It was getting to be around noon, out there on the ice of Sawyer Harbor. Off to the east, not far from the home where he grew up in Sturgeon Bay, not far from the the house and the point and Peterson Builders and Grover’s Dock, the sound of the shipyard noon whistle from PBI came echoing across the ice from the city. The wind was picking up now. Time for Tee to head home.

He gathered up his equipment and trudged through the ankle deep snow to shore, to the parking lot.

When he got to shore, Thomas “Tee” Marik stopped. Turning toward the city, he paused for a long moment. Then, quietly, he spoke just one short phrase:

“Thanks, Chirp and Mom and Dad. You were a great help. Tell you what. The next time you see that blue-eyed kid won’t be nearly as long, not nearly. You’ll see him again a lot sooner this time. I promise.”