Michigan, Again

8/9/2019 Michigan, Again

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Michigan, AgainFrom My Father, Myself; A Memoir

By Richard Humphries

1960

Walloon Lake was still as glass as my brother

and I each handled an oar, sitting side by side on the

varnished maple center bench of the wooden row

boat. The sun had broken as we shoved off from

shore twenty minutes earlier.

My father, in a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled

up, sat on the aft bench, baiting hooks for the three

of us.Boys, oars up. Let her drift now and well get

to fishing.

Dad needed to be outdoors and Michigan suited

him just fine when I was nine, brother Jim eleven.

He knew how to do everything a guy needs to know

how to do.

We caught lake trout, perch and bluegills that

summer at the cabin. Returning, wed find my


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mother making a pot of coffee on the wood-burning

stove in the odd kitchen.

Mom was a sport, a perfect parent for boys.

Shed run a footrace with you.

And really race you.

Maybe even beat someone once or twice.

We ate fried fish and eggs and potatoes for

breakfast.

Behind the cabin, the earth turned to sandy

loam, sprouting Birch trees with bark to unroll. My

parents were always happy and kissing each other.

Jim and I sat on the wooden pier, chubby but

growing taller, smirking at the camera.

. . .

1961

A cabin paneled in knotty pine. Dad makes a

great fire in the stone fireplace as the sudden

summer evening rain blows against the picture

window.The waves lap loudly against the narrow sand

beach at the edge of the deep lakeside lawn.

. . .


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This was a good place for us to stop on our way

to hunt deer with Dad.

We had checked in at a few taverns on the way

where people lit up at meeting Ralphs sons.

And final, going to the man with the two boys.

Yessir, you there, for one hundred dollars.

Dad paid for the rifle and a box of bullets and a

thermos of coffee, two hot chocolates and a bag of

Frito-Lays.

It was a British Enfield .303 with the old Army

shoulder strap running its length. The barrel was

blued and long, a huge bolt ready to get a bullet sent

on the way to a target.

Perfect for killing a deer. Perfect. One blast and

pow! Not a chance.

Dad pinned the clear plastic holders with our

deer licenses to the backs of our matching red

parkas. The cornfields were nearly frozen in late

October. The air was sterling clear. One scent andevery deer within the county would know.

Quiet.

Quiet.


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We stopped for a breather at the top of a rise

overlooking a pond. Other areas would call it a lake.

But we were from the true Land of Lakes. It was a

pond and sported a huge tree stump in its very

center.

Fellas, Dad said, we have to discuss this deer

hunting idea.

Jim and I were always open to follow the Old

Mans lead. He always had ideas we wouldnt think

of.

The choice being, his hand reflexively reached

into his red wind-breaker, seeking the inside pocket,

we can hike around all day and bag a deer.

It didnt sound all that fun, actually.

And then wed end up, he was fingering in his

inside pocket, with a dead animal. And wed have

to deal with that. A dead animal. Because we killed

it, right?

Right, Jim and I said. When Dad asked Right,you said Right.

Right?


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Or, he pulled a panatela from his pocket, we

could shoot the hell out of that stump and I could

enjoy a cigar.

It was amazing fun taking turns shooting the

gun with my brother, exploding the stump thump!

that afternoon, the sound of the shots from our old

rifle and smell of Dads cigar warned off every deer

within thirty miles.

. . .

1963

We were the X-15s, named for the famed new

Air Force plane. Our equipment was the absolute

best; real cotton flannel uniforms, long socks,

signature gloves, Louisville sluggers for each player,

caps with an embossed X-15 airplane.

Dad was our coach and had the great idea of

having every kid on the team sell raffle tickets to

raise the dough for all of it.

The grand prize was a one hundred dollar UnitedStates Savings Bond.

Jim and I were both present at the grand

drawing in the basement rec room of our house on


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Wenonah Street. Dads pal Uncle Paul won, happy

with twenty bucks.

. . .

1964

I delivered telegrams every day after school,

into the evening, and on weekends.

Sitting in the basement of the Western Union

office on Saginaw Street, I would wait for the bell to

ring, go upstairs, receive the telegrams, find the

address on the map, mark each yellow envelope with

the zone number so that the check-out lady could

assign the allotted time and then peddle off on the

companys bright yellow, theft-proof, ugly ass,

embarrassing, wide-tired and beat-up Schwinn.

My father and mother were getting divorced and

I needed to make some money for myself. It was an

early dark winter and the mid-November air froze

your nose.

The really red Buick pulled up to the curb as Iwas opening the thick glass door against the wind.


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Rick, my father called as the cars passenger

window was powered down, get the Hell in the car.

You dont need that crappy job.

We went to the Elks.

Men came by our table to shake Dads hand and

he told each man my name, that I was his son. They

would laugh, take a cigar, have a drink, hand me

some cash to spend on my girlfriend.

Dad put his arm across my shoulders and the

world was warm for the last time between us.

Nearly fifty years ago.

And I wish I were in Michigan, again.

. . .

Cover Design: ryanhumphries.com

Cover Photograph: Sunrise, Lake Superiors Whitefish Bay near Paradise, Michigan

By Steve Begnoche. See Steves work at: hubpages.com/Yard+of+nature

Copyright/All rights reserved.
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Michigan, Again