HOOPS MANIA

I’d barely heard of basketball 

But then at Washington Grade School 

Our sixth grade class formed a team

Bobby and Dick, Tommy and Gundy,

Kenny and Jim, also Roger

My parents had no interest

But my grandfather, my sweet Swedish grandfather,

Insisted that I join the team

I cried, I complained

Procrastinated, sulked

I’d never even touched a basketball

But Grandfather forced me to do it 

 

The smallest kid on the team 

All the others, quicker, tougher 

We practiced at the Presbyterian Church

I sat at the end of the bench

…as far from the coach as possible 

Praying he’d never notice me

I played in games every now and then 

I don’t recall that I ever scored

one — single — point

Probably I never took a shot

 

After the season ended

My grandfather put up a hoop

Over the garage door in our driveway 

My brother Steven was my practice partner

I was four years older and six inches taller

But Steven was fierce as a wolverine

We played horse, twenty-one, and one-on-one

Dodging, spinning, rebounding

Dribbling the ball on the loose cinder

After many weeks

We started making a few shots

 

The snowstorms arrived in late fall

We shoveled the court and played on the ice

Shedding our coats in the freezing U.P.  temps

 Slipping and falling but bouncing back

After dark we brought out the desk lamp

Hooked it up to the extension cord

And aimed the light toward the hoop

We’d stay out till bedtime

Sweaty and exhausted

In junior high our gang played in the school gym at lunchtime

Then I’d go to the D.A.R. Boys Club after school

Deeny-Boy was my practice partner

I dreamt I might be drafted by the Minneapolis Lakers

If only I could perfect my twenty-foot shot

This dream, like most others, never worked out

But still I learned many life lessons

How to win and lose with humility

 That developing skills is an endless process

That victory takes a lot of hard work 

I owe a big debt to my grandfather

Kids need some help to find their path in life

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.

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

UNALTERABLE JOY

 

Every five or six months

my father would bundle us up 

and take us after hours

to my grandfather’s Rexall drugstore

on Electric Square. 

Inside the dark store he’d let us loose

behind the soda fountain, 

encouraging us to create any ice cream 

concoction we wanted. 

The only rule: if we made it 

we had to eat it. 

As the oldest of four 

I always constructed 

the most mammoth sundae.

Six giant scoops of ice cream, 

a mix of vanilla, strawberry, 

chocolate, and butter brickle. 

Then the tongue-teasing syrups:

butterscotch, cherry, raspberry, 

chocolate, strawberry, 

peppermint, caramel, 

Topped off with globs of whipped cream, 

a fistful of crushed nuts, 

and three maraschino cherries. 

Maybe even a banana. 

So magnificent, so delicious. 

If we finished and were still hungry, 

we’d simply make another. 

Holy moly cajoley. 

These were the most thrilling 

moments of my youth. 

My father was a stoical man, 

born of Swedish Lutheranism 

and hardly taken to extremes, 

but he’d suffer uncharacteristic 

lapses into hedonism, 

and his offspring 

were the fortunate beneficiaries.

FATHER'S DAY

 

My father died in 1993. 

It’s been very strange all these years. 

not having a father. 

Actually kind of scary. 

My father took us to the drugstore after hours 

to eat all the ice cream we wanted. 

Towed us behind the car on the toboggan. 

Introduced us to Louis Armstrong and Benny Goodman. 

Bought the World Book Encyclopedia to enlighten the youth. 

Also a Hammond Chord Organ. 

Let me charge all the gasoline I wanted 

at Cooney’s Standard Oil station. 

Taught me how to do water color and oil painting. 

Rowed the boat when 

we swam across the River to Pig Island. 

Hid quarters and dimes in the sofa 

where my siblings and I found them. 

Took our Christmas trees to the body shop 

and had them painted red or blue. 

Bought me my first camera, 

my microscope, 

a tape recorder. 

Took our family in the boat 

to Indian Island for picnics 

with our dog Mike swimming behind. 

Also to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. 

And the Chicago Art Institute. 

Erected a basketball hoop above the garage door. 

Took Steven and me on a trip to Mexico. 

Hired me as a drugstore clerk 

and paid me 25 cents an hour. 

Paid my way through Antioch College.  

Treated Katja and me to a French Riviera stay.

Held family reunions at Farm every August.  

I have to say Vic was a terrific dad. 

I miss you.

MY MOTHER

 

My mother grew up in the flapper age 

The Roaring Twenties, the Charleston the rage 

Her life path was shaped by that stage 

My mother could have been a Hollywood star 

Her beauty cream was kept in a porcelain jar 

The fairest of the P.T.A. mothers by far 

My mother raised four kids in all 

A rowdy bunch who thought life a brawl 

When gobsmacked, she smoked a Pall Mall 

My mother was enamored of flowers 

Cultivating her garden for hours 

Her green thumb had wondersome powers 

My mother taught us all the birds’ names 

Bird-watching was one of our games 

Wild turkeys and pheasants, our aims 

My mother had slogans galore 

“Eat your beans Suzy,” and more 

Her goal was to shape up her corps 

My mother was a razzmatazz cook 

She mastered Irma’s joyous cookbook 

Broiled whitefish, our extremities shook 

My mother enjoyed a big party 

Sipping cocktails with Jackie and Marty 

Costumes, poetry, swing music, so arty 

My mother would boat on Green Bay 

Mike and Jean, the whole gang for the day 

Fish Creek and Egg Harbor, on the way 

My mother wasn’t keen on affection 

Straight and narrow was her predilection 

For the most part she admired perfection 

My mother’s main value was fun 

She fretted if her children had none 

Told her daughter she oughtn’t be a nun 

My mother saved our Irish Setter Mike 

Who fell through the ice on a hike 

She risked her own life for that tike 

My mother was an avid jazz fan 

For her, Louis Armstrong was the man 

Play some Louis, she’d dance the can-can 

My mother would spank me with a stick 

If she thought I was being a dick 

I wailed so she’d get it done quick 

My mother saved my life at Green Bay 

In deep water, age five, not okay 

No mother, I’d not be here today 

My mother’s whole circle liked to drink 

The Jim Beam sat next to the sink 

Two sips and her cheeks would turn pink 

My mother now and then would go crazy 

If her children proved fractious or lazy 

My memory of those moods gets more hazy 

My mother’s worst habit was smoking 

“Lung cancer, please tell me you’re joking” 

We were scared about surgery and croaking 

My mother and dad loved their Farm 

She decorated the cabin with charm 

A family escape, safe from harm 

My mother adored Lovey, her cat 

White Angora and just a smidge fat 

Lovey’d jump on her lap for a chat 

My mother expired, Eighty-Six 

Of afflictions the docs couldn’t fix 

My plan: Meet for lunch near the Styx

WHERE I AM FROM

 

I was born and grew up in Menominee, Michigan,

the seat of Menominee County, 

on the Michigan-Wisconsin border, 

the gateway to the Upper Peninsula, 

halfway between the Equator and the North Pole, 

population about 10,000 in 1940, 

the fourth largest city in the U.P., 

bordered by the Menominee River to the south 

and Lake Michigan’s bay of Green Bay to the east, 

twin city to Marinette, Wisconsin, 

172 miles north of Milwaukee, 

120 miles south of Lake Superior. 

5.2 square miles, I could reach any 

point in town on my bike in ten minutes. 

Menominee has always enjoyed perfect air, 

its stars glisten at night, 

its water quality is excellent, 

summer temperatures in the seventies, 

and winters enjoy an average 

annual snowfall of 48 inches.* 

“Menominee” means “land of wild rice”, 

the staple of the Menominee Indians 

who originally populated the region. 

The world capital of logging in the 1890’s, 

Menominee was destined 

to become a manufacturing town: 

paper products, wicker furniture, auto supplies. 

The business district spreads along the Green Bay shore. 

Montgomery Ward, the A&P grocery store, 

the Five and Dime, the G.I. Surplus store, 

the Vogue for women’s clothes. 

Once home to fur trappers, lumberjacks, and Great Lakes seamen, 

Menominee in my youth was a man’s world. 

My mother and her women friends 

each raised three or four children, 

managed their households, 

tended eye-catching gardens, 

and were skilled at hostessing 

grand parties in their homes. 

Men were breadwinners and captains of the ship, 

fanatic about the Green Bay Packers, 

spent days at hunting camp each November, 

played poker weekly, drank 

too much, told raunchy stories. 

As boys we learned that males 

should be strong, independent, 

athletic, emotionally unexpressive, 

and disinterested in school. 

Boys took wood shop and auto shop, 

girls took home ec and typing. 

As a small town in a rural region 

Menominee had no art museums or galleries, 

no community exposure to classical music, 

no professional theater, 

a low percentage of college graduates. 

One traffic light, two movie theaters, 

one public and one parochial high school, 

eight taverns, fifteen churches. 

Two dips of ice cream cost a nickel at the Ideal Dairy. 

Diversity was an unknown concept. 

Ninety-nine percent white, 

ninety-nine percent Christian 

(among those professing religion). 

A blue-collar Democratic stronghold in my youth, 

65 percent of residents voted for Trump in 2020. 

High school football reigns supreme. 

The M&M (Menominee-Marinette) game 

is the oldest interstate public school rivalry in the nation, 

and the Menominee Maroons have won three state championships

in their division in the last 25 years. 

Crime was infrequent, and parents never worried 

about letting their children run free in the neighborhood. 

Menominee’s most attractive features 

have to do with its outdoor life. 

It’s an important Lake Michigan port, 

hosts a thriving marina, 

and many locals own sailboats or power boats. 

Menominee County has the largest 

deer population in the U.P., 

and schools closed each year for the first day of hunting season. 

Nearly every family owns guns, 

and the annual murder rate is almost always zero. 

Green Bay beaches are numerous, 

and Menominee has some of the best bass fishing in the nation. 

There are seven golf courses in the area. 

 Camping, swimming, hiking, biking, 

snowmobiling, skating, ice-sailing, cross-country skiing. 

 It’s a good place for kids to grow up 

although a majority usually leave for more cosmopolitan places. 

 *Stats from: www.city-data.com

LEMON FLAKE

 

If I were to live my life over 

And could choose just five things to repeat 

My very first choice would be Lemon Flake 

Since age ten it’s my number one treat 

They made Lemon Flake at the Ideal Dairy 

They charged just two dips for a nickel 

All of their flavors were scrumptious 

Pineapple and Peach, not to mention Butter Brickle 

 On Sundays my dad brought us to the Ideal 

 Just up the road on Route Five-Seventy-Seven 

 He let us order all the dips that we wanted 

 For kids this was better than Heaven 

 Lemon Flake, of course, was always my choice 

 So creamy and tangy and rich 

 I’d drool at the very thought of it 

 One lick, my nose started to itch 

I’d stop after school, buy a six dip cone 

Ride home on my bike with one hand 

Six dips would last the entire mile 

Who could imagine anything more grand? 

The Ideal shut down after I moved away 

I’ve searched for Lemon Flake every year 

Not in Chicago, New York, or Green Bay 

Gone forever is my doleful fear 

The Day I Tackled Abber Murphy

In Miss Guimond’s sixth grade class 

I was one of the goodie goodie students, 

raggedy penmanship 

but number two in spelling 

and decent at arithmetic. 

At recess on the playground though, 

a different kettle of fish. 

I was the littlest sixth grader, 

the youngest, the scrawniest. 

When picking sides for football, 

I always stood there waiting till the end. 

Come November’s first big snowfall, 

the boys turned to “Tackle”. 

A simple game, just one rule: 

one boy was named the runner,

the others’ job, to tackle him. 

Two dozen scalawags, 

hooting and hollering, 

chasing the runner from here to there. 

He who tackled the runner became the new runner, 

and the game began all over again. 

Runners zigged and zagged, 

dodged and stiff-armed, 

but the playground was only so large 

and the runner always got cornered. 

The only question was how 

long he could stay on his feet. 

The runners, nearly always the same: 

Abber, Gundy, Jimmy B, 

John John, Deeny Boy. 

Abber Murphy was the champ by far, 

the fastest toughest kid in our school, 

the fullback on the football team. 

One time we surrounded Abber at the back wall 

and he turned around and 

he looked me straight in the eye 

and I thought to myself, 

“I knew it, he’s going to kill me.” 

I crouched down, stretched out my arms,

shut my eyes, held my breath. 

Abber slammed into me head-on and, 

wonder of wonders, he lost his footing 

and we both tumbled into the snow. 

All the boys started cheering 

(at least that’s how I imagine it), 

and Abber said, “Good tackle, Bud!” 

So I was the next runner 

but I only got eight feet or so 

before somebody knocked me down. 

It didn’t matter, my heart 

was bursting with joy. 

Though I never got to be runner again, 

I’ll never forget the time 

that it was me who tackled Abber Murphy.

Water Beasties at River House

There were zillions of minnows in the river 

They lolled in the shallow warm water 

Their lives were not without peril 

 Being favorite snacks for the otter 

Our clams lived next to the river bank 

We’d step on them when we’d go in 

When bored we’d pry their shells open 

An act which I now think a sin 

The crayfish dug holes in the sand 

They’d dart in their homes when we neared 

Their claws made them look like fierce lobsters 

Even so it was humans they feared 

Some of the frogs had homes in the field 

And the other frogs swam in the river 

Easy to catch frogs in either place 

When we grabbed them they’d croak and they’d shiver 

Snapping turtles swam in the river at dusk 

Steve shot a huge buck with his bow 

We hauled it to shore behind our green boat 

Turtle murder, the lowest of the low 

Mudpuppies were the weirdest of creatures 

They’d rest on the deep river floor 

Sometimes I’d spot one right through the ice 

They sure are an ugly eyesore

Quicksand Terrors

The Best of Times

When I was just a kid in forty-nine

The world was a much more hopeful place 

The automat — the finest place to dine

Bob Hope and Jane starred in “The Paleface”

Our town had yet to see a TV set

Our telephone was on a party line

One penny, you could buy a cigarette

We viewed the House and Senate as benign

We rode our bikes to school every day

And milk arrived in bottles made of glass

We whiled away the hours at croquet

Latin was the language used for mass

Those times now seem the best of all and yet

How did we live without the Internet?

The Best of Times

My father came home from the war

but we still didn’t have any money

so we moved out of town

into my dead grandpa’s cottage on the river.

Set among the great oaks

the only house on the whole River Road.

No electricity, no telephone

no running water, no indoor toilet.

In the winter it took the county

three days to come and plow.

Our own private school holidays.

We pioneers of the Great White North

like Daniel Boone or Paul Bunyan himself.

My job every evening

was to light the candles

and the two kerosene lanterns

on the living room mantle. 

Our water came from the pump out front.

I carried the buckets to my mother

to fill the dog’s bowl, to brush our teeth.

Before bedtime I walked my little brother to the outhouse

keeping an eye out for creatures of the night. 

We took our baths in the river

even my mother and father

though I learned many years later

that our river was dirty. 

My happiest times in those years on River Road

were walking with my dad to the city dump

a half mile up the road

pulling my red wagon behind us

to carry home the treasures we found. 

I searched for bottle caps

to add to my collection

while my dad looked for household furnishings.

A bedside table with a broken leg

a discarded flower vase

an ashtray from somebody’s Florida vacation

rusty old tools.

We lacked this and that but

we loved our life on the river.

The swimming, our green rowboat

with its one horsepower motor,

birches and pines, expeditions to Pig Island.

After two years the Meads and the Orths built houses nearby

and the county installed electric lines on River Road.

Our world would never be quite the same.

Sibling Limericks

Four kids, we were much like a flock of sheep

A fractious bunch, even with Bo Peep 

Our mother watched over this frisky lot

Like ewes in the pasture, ready to trot

Sweet memories when I’m going to sleep 

  

Steven is like a New Year’s Eve blast

A rowdy youth, his chums called him fast 

He imbibed a strong drink

Gave the girls a wink 

And never lamented his past  

Peter is like a museum of art

A passion for beauty runs through his heart 

A photo artiste

Paint and brush, he’s a beast 

A Renaissance man from the start 

Vicki, our sis, like a jazz quartet 

Soulful music though sometimes she’ll fret 

A minor’s her key

Her riffs give us glee 

Such vocals we’ll never forget 

David is more like a cemetery at night

Moody, morose, often poised for flight

Quiet as a tomb

His mind toys with doom

But with siblings he feels less uptight

As a family we’re sort of a Swedish stew

All these fine flavors go into the brew  

True, no two are alike 

A happy medium we strike  

And that said, I will bid you adieu

Hoops Mania

I’d barely heard of basketball 

But then at Washington Grade School 

our sixth grade class formed a team

Bobby and Dick, Tommy and Gundy,

Kenny and Jim, also Roger

My parents never noticed  

But my grandfather, my dear Swedish grandfather

insisted that I join the team

I cried, I complained

Procrastinated, sulked

Scared out of my wits 

But Grandfather forced me 

The smallest kid in the class

All the others, tougher, more confident

We played at the Presbyterian Church

I sat at the end of the bench

…as far from the coach as possible 

Praying he wouldn’t notice me

I played a few minutes in the middle of each game

I don’t recall that I ever scored

one — single — point

Or even touched the ball 

After the season was over

my grandfather put up a basketball hoop

over the garage door in our driveway 

My brother Steven was my practice partner

I was four years older, six inches taller

But Steven was as fierce as a wolverine

We played horse, twenty-one, and one-on-one

Dodging, spinning, rebounding

Shooting free throws from out near the oak tree

Dribbling the ball on the loose cinder

After many weeks

we’d make a few shots

The snowstorms arrived in late fall 

We shoveled our court and played on the ice

Shedding our coats in the freezing temp

Slipping and falling but bouncing back up

After sunset we brought out a desk lamp

Hooked it up to the extension cord

And aimed the light toward the hoop

We’d stay out till bedtime

Sweaty, exhausted

Happy, excited

In junior high our group played in the gym at lunchtime

Then I’d go to the D.A.R. Boys Club after school

Deeny-Boy was my practice partner

I dreamt I might play for the Minneapolis Lakers 

If only I could perfect my twenty-foot shot

This dream, like most others, never came true

But still I learned many lessons

How to win and lose with humility

            to move on from painful losses

That playing by the rules is important

That success takes a long time

and hard work  

I owe a big debt to my grandfather

We always need help 

to figure out how best to live our lives 

Circa 1949: An Anaphoric Poem

I remember icicles that stretched from the roof to the ground

I remember pulling bloodsuckers from between our toes after swimming

I remember lugging my red wagon to the city dump with my dad to bring home good stuff

I remember capturing garter snakes from under the rocks in my mother’s garden

I remember swimming across the river with my dad following in the rowboat

I remember listening in on the neighbors on our party-line phone

I remember a flock of pheasants parading through our front yard

I remember stealing carrots and blackberries from Mrs. Mead’s garden

I remember when our road turned to mud in the spring and we couldn’t go to school

I remember climbing with my siblings to the top of the willow tree

I remember being scared of quicksand when we walked in waist-deep water to Mr. Shaver’s

I remember slashing my thumb with a hatchet on a Pig Island camping trip

I remember biking to the Ideal Dairy to buy lemon flake ice cream, two dips for a nickel

I remember the six-foot pine snakes that sunned in our front yard

I remember when our Irish Setter Mike fell through the ice and my mother rescued him

I remember poking sticks into an anthill and watching the ants go crazy

I remember my eating mother’s whitefish, pot roast, and potato sausage

I remember counting “I love you, I love you not” with the petals of a Black-Eyed Susan

I remember running barefoot races in the snow

I remember my dad towing us behind the car on our toboggan

I remember listening to Jack Benny and Duffy’s Tavern on Sunday night radio

I remember emptying dead bodies from the mousetraps

I remember when they opened the dams and drained all the water out of the river

I remember finding lost change under the sofa cushions (which my dad had

deliberately put there)

I remember when I threw acorns at my brother and he fell out of the oak tree

I remember singing “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall” at the outdoor fireplace

I remember my parents and their friends drinking Silver Cream beer

I remember when we killed the flying bat in our living room with a cast iron frying pan

I remember loving Captain Marvel comic books

I remember when the ice went out on “Chinese Bells Day”

I remember my uncle Karl urging me to dig up the “Indian burial mound” in our

back yard

I remember when Steve and I spilled red airplane dope on our brand new carpet

I remember being scared of the ghosts while riding my bike past the cemetery at night

I remember blowing milkweed seeds into the wind

I remember when Steve shot the snapping turtle with our bow and arrow

I remember my mother telling me I wasn’t perfect

I remember our dog swimming behind the boat when we traveled half a mile for a family 

picnic on Indian Island

I remember when we saw a mud puppy through the ice on the river’s floor

I remember collecting nightcrawlers for fishing on the cemetery lawn after a heavy rain

I remember when our dog Mike got porcupine quills stuck in his nose

I remember when Steve and I lit the hoop with a desk lamp so we could

play basketball at night on the frozen driveway

I remember when we shot at tin cans and bottles in the river with the twenty-two

I remember everything about being twelve years old