THE TWO LISTS

 

“Ready for number seventy?” 

my reunion letter asked. 

Two lists of classmate names were enclosed. 

 “Still Here” and “Gone”. 

I found myself in the “Still Here” list 

along with 88 other classmates. 

The “Gone” list had reached a new pinnacle of 114. 

They compile these lists every five years. 

This was the first time 

that the “Gones” have out-numbered the “Still Heres”. 

I checked out the “Gone” list first. 

More startling, more immutable. 

I couldn’t figure out why people 

were on one list versus the other. 

Both lists had star athletes, 

bright kids, dumb kids, 

health nuts, fast food addicts, 

religious types, nerds, trouble-makers.

Impossible to predict who’d wind up where. 

Eight of my friends were “Gone”. 

Grant, Gus, Nancy, Rick, 

Turry, Huntz, Jerry S., Hal. 

Eight others were “Still Here”. 

Carol, Toddy, Earl, Jerry B., 

Butch, Sally F, Sally H, Duke. 

At least I’ll have some chums to talk to. 

What all this boils down to 

is that the Menominee High School class of 1955 

is slowly but surely shutting down. 

There is a steady flow from “Still Here” to “Gone”. 

Nobody ever goes the other way. 

We might have one more reunion, 

possibly two, 

but after that there will be only one list left. 

The most that I can say 

is that we’ll no longer be split into separate groups.

Just one big class together again.

THE WINTER STORM

 

At noon a whirling flake or two 

but by nightfall the world 

was obscured by a thick blanket of white. 

The lawns, the rooftops, the sidewalks, the shrubs. 

Sparse traffic on our street, 

creeping along, fifteen miles per hour, 

no stops for red lights. 

I put on my new winter coat, 

Green Bay Packers knit cap, 

sweater, scarf, gloves, boots. 

The snow came up 

to our Miniature Schnauzer's chest 

so we sludged down the street 

in the ruts left by cars, 

the salt burning little Iko's paws. 

In the morning I shoveled the drive 

so we could get to my wife's doctor appointment, 

then the porch steps for the mailman. 

Huffing, puffing, 

heart thumping, 

eyes tearing from the biting wind. 

Thrice-daily forays with Iko, 

freezing in the morning, 

dark nights the worst. 

The sidewalk paths 

quickly turned to ice. 

Two slips, two tumbles into the snowbank. 

The neighborhood homeless woman 

set up her sleeping shelter on the bus stop bench. 

Twelve degrees, I feared for her life. 

A cruel winter storm, 

alien, inhospitable. 

Nature turned against her own progeny. 

A stark reminder of one's mortality.

CRUISING THE LOOP

When we turned sixteen,

my best friend, Butch Johnson,

was the first kid in the tenth grade 

to have his own car, 

a 1939 Ford coupe,

seating three in the front seat, 

three in the rumble seat, 

and two on the running boards. 

Our gang cruised the loop 

on weekend evenings, 

circling the main streets 

of twin cities Menominee and Marinette, 

starting at Electric Square, 

so named because it was Menominee’s first intersection 

to have electric lights. 

We’d pass the churches and the courthouse 

on Ogden Avenue, 

whistling at the girls out for a walk. 

Talking about teen stuff, 

mostly sex, which nobody

knew anything about 

though it was still more than I knew. 

When we stopped 

at Menominee’s sole traffic light 

and another kid drove up 

a drag race was obligatory, 

with the two cars accelerating 

down Ogden Ave. 

up to fifty miles per hour. 

Then we’d stop for gas at the 

Zephyr station next to the Interstate Bridge, 

nineteen point nine cents per gallon 

except when a local gas war was on 

and it dropped to nine-point-nine. 

Each rider chipped in a nickel or a dime, 

plenty to cover fuel expenses

for the evening. 

The half-mile Interstate Bridge 

spanned the Menominee River, 

connecting the two towns,

terminating at its south end 

in downtown Marinette at Dunlap Square 

where we’d see our twelfth-grade high school 

social studies teacher, Ferdie Davis, 

strolling with a fellow teacher 

and discussing literature or philosophy. 

We might stop at the A&W in Marinette 

for a root beer float. 

Passing my grandpa’s drug store, the Dew Drop Inn, 

and the Salvation Army on Main Street 

we entered Menekaunee, 

originally a fishing village 

and now notorious 

as the region’s toughest neighborhood, 

including a strip 

of six rough-and-tumble bars 

where it was rumored 

that someone would get murdered 

almost ever weekend. 

Then we drove across the Menekaunee Bridge, 

a drawbridge that opened when sailboats 

left Green Bay and headed for their river harbor, 

an irksome nuisance for impatient teenage drivers, 

and headed north on Sheridan Road, 

passing Menominee’s finest homes along the bay shore, 

and returning to Electric Square 

where we would start our trip all over again. 

Now, some seventy years later, 

each time I visit my home town 

the first thing I do is to 

cruise the loop.

OUR NEW REFRIGERATOR

 

To me, our old refrigerator was good enough. 

True, the ice-maker was jammed 

and one drawer had a crack in it. 

I could have lived with that 

but Katja said 

it’s always advisable to replace things 

before they go bad. 

I learned early on 

not to question this line of reasoning. 

The new refrigerator 

was scheduled to arrive on Thursday. 

Wednesday night we emptied out 

the many pounds of food. 

The freezer contents alone 

filled a Coleman ice chest, 

two styrofoam coolers, 

a large Fed Ex box. 

The refrigerator guys 

arrived on time in the morning 

and dragged our old refrigerator

out to the driveway. 

But then, horror of horrors, 

the new refrigerator 

was one inch too tall for its niche. 

“Call your construction guy,” 

the delivery man said. 

“Sand down the board by one inch.” 

We have an old freezer in our basement

and I decided to store the frozen items down there. 

When I checked, though, the freezer 

was filled to capacity. 

Our basement is dark and dingy, 

so Katja rarely goes there, 

and food can remain in the freezer forever. 

It’s like Siberia for frozen foods. 

I checked the dates on the packages, 

2018, 2019, 2020 — pre-pandemic purchases. 

My AI chatbot told me 

that meat can stay frozen for years, 

but the taste goes bad 

after 6 to 12 months. 

We started throwing packages away. 

Turkey, beef brisket, lobster tails, 

steaks, lamb chops, shish kebob. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of dollars. 

The construction guy came the next morning 

and promptly pulled off the wooden bar 

that had blocked the refrigerator. 

No sanding needed, 

With our new refrigerator in place, 

we started filling it up. 

We’d thrown so much away

that it actually looked reasonably stocked 

and not crammed to the gills. 

The new start of a sensible

though temporary food phase in our life.

DON'T DESPAIR, OHIO IS NUMBER ONE

 

What with J. D. Vance, 

the rightwing state legislature, 

and the Trumper majority, 

I’ve become more and more disheartened about the state I live in. 

Searching for positives 

I asked Gemini, my AI chatbot chum, 

what Ohio ranks number one in. 

You will be surprised. 

It’s not smoking or obesity or child poverty. 

No sir, Ohio ranks number one in one major area: 

the production of buckeye nuts. 

I should have guessed. 

This is, after all, the Buckeye state. 

Buckeyes, while attractive to the munchkins, 

are bitter to the taste. 

Eating one results in nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, cramps. 

Eating excessive buckeyes 

one will first be paralyzed 

and then one dies a painful death. 

Despite this annoying side effect, 

our founders selected the buckeye 

to be the Ohio State Tree. 

If not for this, we wouldn’t be number one at all.

TIMES OF OUR LIVES

 

Whenever I dropped by Uncle Kent’s drugstore 

Lucien, the pharmacist, would tell me 

“Cheer up, this is the best time of your life 

“You’re as free as you ever will be” 

I didn’t believe Lucien for a moment 

I guess I was a most mopy youth 

But now I’ve made a list from those childhood days 

Holy mackerel, Lucien was telling the truth 

Crawl right through a barbed wire fence 

Overnight camping, pitch pup tents 

Boardwalk, Park Place, such huge rents 

Capture fireflies in a Mason jar 

Ride the toboggan behind our car 

Search the heavens, there’s the North Star 

Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, a cool double feature 

Bring a spring trillium to my teacher 

That’s a porcupine, a weird weird creature 

Press autumn leaves inside a book 

Catch wiggly tadpoles in the brook 

Dribble, dribble, shoot a hook 

Cops and robbers in the yard 

Twenty Questions, that’s so hard 

Love that Groucho, what a card 

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back 

Two oreos for an afternoon snack 

Put a penny on the railroad track 

Listen to neighbors on the party line 

Eat green grapes right off the vine 

Tie pine logs with heavy twine 

Ride no handsies on my bike 

Swim the river with our setter Mike 

Make a hole in the ice, fish for pike 

Laugh at Jack on the Benny Show

Bury two peach pits, hope they’ll grow 

Make an angel in the snow 

Turn a turtle upside down 

Go trick or treating as a clown 

Triangle Park, I score a touchdown 

Climb to the top of the willow tree

Spread mud on the bite of a bumble bee 

Tease little sister, so much glee 

G.I. Surplus, buy some gear 

Grade school football, give a cheer 

Sixth grade’s coming, one more year 

Ten cents for the matinee 

Make a jar from river clay 

Snapping turtles, stay away 

Poke the ant hill with a stick 

Easter morn, get a new chick

Back from hiking, find a tick 

Catch a crayfish by its tail 

Dick Tracy wristwatch, check the mail 

Put fishing worms in the pail 

Summer’s here, YMCA camp 

Night-time basketball, use a desk lamp 

Joe Louis, Brown Bomber, he’s the champ 

Acorn battles with my brother 

Make a valentine for my mother 

Eat one carrot, then another 

Headfirst on the slide at Henes Park 

Secret messages on birch bark 

Tell a ghost story in the dark 

Buck Rogers serials, endless fun 

Cowboys and Indians with my cap gun 

Ring a doorbell, turn and run 

Skip a stone across the lake 

Santa’s coming, stay awake 

Beautiful Mary Jane, first heartache 

Now I realize that Lucien was right 

All those fun things that I used to do 

A long time since I did any of them 

Perhaps I’ll go back and try a few

I'M JUST CRAZY ABOUT THE LAWRENCE WELK SHOW

 

I’m embarrassed to admit it 

but I’m absolutely crazy about the Lawrence Welk Show. 

When the champagne starts bubbling 

my heart starts beating in rhythm. 

There’s the maestro himself 

with his cool hairdo, 

his quasi-European accent, 

his sincerest of grins. 

Jo Ann Castle hammering at the piano, 

Myron Floren, accordion wizard, 

the Lennon Sisters, their voices like angels 

Lawrence and I both hail from 

rural towns in the North Central U.S. 

His ancestry is Polish, mine Swedish. 

We could easily be cousins. 

And all that wonderful big band music 

from the Great American Songbook. 

Plus Bobby and Cissy, 

so smooth, so flawless, 

the finest ballroom dancers since Fred and Ginger. 

When the camera shifts 

to audience members dancing, 

lots of oldies in suits and ties, 

nineteen-fifties hairdos, 

polka dot dresses, 

hearing aids, bifocals. 

My kind of crowd, 

all grinning to the camera, 

all thrilled to be there. 

Some know-nothings complain 

that the Lawrence Welk show is corny. 

That’s ridiculous. 

And even if it were true

there’s nothing wrong with corny. 

Corny is good old-fashioned Midwestern fun. 

My wife claims I watch the Welk show 

just to irritate her. 

There is a speck of truth to that 

but I also watch when she’s not around. 

 I’m just crazy about the Lawrence Welk show.