Michigan, Again

From 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 we’ll 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, we’d find my
mother making a pot of coffee on the wood-burning
stove in the odd kitchen.
Mom was a sport, a perfect parent for boys.
She’d 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.
. . .
 The pier runs straight into the warm sunshine
for twenty wooden feet.
Stand on the edge of the final plank, the sun-
polished oak hot against your pale feet, hold your
nose and plunge, straight and deep into the cool of
the lake. Push against the clay bottom and stroke
your arms up and down, palms propelling the force
of water as your face breaks into the air and you
gasp with happiness in your new strength.
. . .
1962
“Fellas,” Dad said, “we’re going to stop here and
buy some food and some ammo and maybe a gun.
So let’s get hopping.”
Jim and I were happy as hell to get hopping.
The drive straight up North from Pontiac had lasted
for freezing forever. The donuts were stale, our legs
were going crazy from being cooped up and I had to
pee.
The big white Auction Today barn offered a
counter of hot drinks, hot dogs and chili and chips.
 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 Ralph’s 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 and
every deer within the county would know.
Quiet.
Quiet.
 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
Man’s lead. He always had ideas we wouldn’t 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 didn’t sound all that fun, actually.
“And then we’d end up,” he was fingering in his
inside pocket, “with a dead animal. And we’d 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?
 “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 Dad’s cigar warned off every deer
within thirty miles.
. . .
1963
We were the X-15’s, 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 United
States Savings Bond.
Jim and I were both present at the grand
drawing in the basement rec room of our house on
Wenonah Street. Dad’s 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
company’s 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 I
was opening the thick glass door against the wind.
 “Rick,” my father called as the car’s passenger
window was powered down, “get the Hell in the car.
You don’t need that crappy job.”
We went to the Elks.
Men came by our table to shake Dad’s 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 Superior’s Whitefish Bay near Paradise, Michigan’
By Steve Begnoche.
See Steve’s work at: hubpages.com/Yard+of+nature

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