My Summer of '62

by John B. Anderson

I had just finished the book, “My Summer of '42.” It was a tale of a young lad, coming into maturity, during one summer's vacation. This was not different for me, as the summer of '62 was a large adventure.

I had worked at “The Surf” restaurant for the previous seven summers, starting as a dishwasher when I was 12, then becoming a cook when I was 13. During that time, I had learned a lot about cooking, and I had considered making the restaurant business my life's calling. As you know, life changes dictate a lot of things – shit happens. During the summer of 1960, my boss, Nat Dellis, promised to financially help me with my college education, if I were to attend the Michigan State Hotel and Restaurant program. When I accepted my scholarship to the University of Chicago, and entered the business program there, Nat wasn't too pleased. Nat scheduled me to work a split shift during that summer, so I had to get to work twice each day during the summer of 1961. That pissed me off, so I searched for employment elsewhere for the summer of '62.

One day, I was talking with my Aunt Thelma on the phone. She suggested that I could get a job where she worked at Atlantic City Hospital in New Jersey. Aunt Thelma was a dietitian in charge of special patient diets at the hospital. She said that I should apply for a cooking job to Mr. Herrliman at the hospital, as he was in charge of the whole hospital kitchen. Mr. Herrliman was a French chef, who the hospital had recruited from one of the large Boardwalk hotels. My aunt said that I could sleep on the couch in her apartment in Ventnor City, and catch the bus to work every day. Mr. Herrliman said, “Yes,” and I said, “Yes.”

I took the Greyhound Bus from Manistique to Atlantic City – 27 hours for 27 dollars. It wasn't a bad trip, only long. I sat next to Jimmy Miller, whom I worked with at The Surf. Jimmy was on his way to Ohio, just before Cleveland. When I got off the bus in Philadelphia, I took a small bus to my aunt's apartment in Ventnor City. Ventnor City shares an island with Margate and Atlantic City. My aunt's apartment was two blocks from the Atlantic Ocean either west or east. The boardwalk was supposed to come out to Ventnor City from Atlantic City, but most of the boardwalk had been destroyed by a hurricane in the spring. It wasn't that I was going to walk the boardwalk to work anyway, because it was about 10 miles to the hospital in Atlantic City.

Atlantic City was the Monopoly board. The Boardwalk was, obviously, the most expensive property in the City and Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues were the least expensive, (ghetto). The hospital was on Michigan Avenue – easy enough to remember, right? I didn't have to be to work until 10:00 a.m., On my first day, I was given three sets of whites, and I was told that I couldn't have three new sets until the following week. If I were a sloppy cook, I'd have to wash them in between. When I arrived at the kitchen, I was introduced to Mr. Herrliman, who introduced me to the rest of the staff. It turned out that, out of all the cooks, I was one of two pale men. Most of the cooking staff had originated in Georgia, and had come north seeking employment. Their language was different. I was pretty used to Black city talk, but the cooks spoke rural, Black, and southern. I learned to cope.

The patients at Atlantic City Hospital ate better than any that I had heard about. Thursday was steak night, for example, with all other meals equally impressive. Even the special diet folks ate well. I was in charge of the nightly soup. The soup was prepared in a giant steam kettle. I started with two pounds of melted butter, added one heaping soup of flour, poured in about 5 gallons of chicken or beef stock from the cooler, and a heaping amount of “Accent.” “Accent” makes everything taste really good, but as it turns out with subsequent research, we were actually poisoning our guests. My regular jobs included a lot of prep work, such a peeling potatoes, washing asparagus, breading pork chops, or peeling carrots. On Thursdays we prepared salads for the hospital staff. The cole slaw, potato salad, pasta salad, carrot salad, were all hand decorated with different colored vegetables, such a boiled egg yokes, pimentos, green onion tops, sliced carrots into sunflowers, ships on the ocean and sunsets. Sometimes the designs were so beautiful, that the doctors and nurses would beg us not to cut into the salad to serve them.

There was an assembly line to serve up the patients' meals. The line started with a hot kiln that shoved a steaming hot plate on to the conveyor belt. The dietitian would call out what meat, potato, and vegetable was to be placed on that plate, and whether it was to be salt free or regular. We cooks would man our individual stations down the belt, and fill the plate with the correct food as it passed by. The completed plate was placed into an insulator, and placed on a tray so that with women dietitian staff could add the salad, the beverage, the silverware, and the dessert. We would eat after this and clean up the kitchen. A guy named Ike washed all of the pans. When Ike was done with the pans, and the kitchen staff had left for the day, he sprayed the whole kitchen with steam, killing anything that was moving.

We would finish our cleanup chores about 8:00 o'clock. Sometimes I would walk down the boardwalk for a ways, just to look at the crowds. Women from New York and Philadelphia would parade down the boardwalk, showing everyone how rich they were with their jewelry and firs. I found out later that most of these items were rented from certain boardwalk shops. Those women probably thought that I looked equally stupid in my kitchen whites. Most of the time, when I finished work, I would simply get on the city bus and head for home. Sometimes, I would get a beer from the 'fridge and just relax.

GET A BEER FROM THE FRIDGE? I was only 20 years old, and the drinking age in New Jersey at the time was 21. My aunt didn't care, and she had told the local grocer that I was of age. I didn't care for Eastern beers, though. The only Midwestern beer that I could buy was Millers, so that became my choice. Some evenings I would sit on the back stoop with Elaine, (younger), or Cassie, (older), and just shoot the breeze. They lived with their dad, a New Jersey State Cop, in the apartment below. I asked Elaine to go with me to see Paul Anka at the Steel Pier one evening. The performance was great. I was ready to go back home, but Elaine said that she was staying to see if Paul would kiss her hand after the show. She was swooning over Paul, so I left with an under the breath suggestion as to what she could kiss, and I headed home. I ran into Cassie on the back stoop, consumed a few brews, made out, until my aunt came looking for me. That wasn't the first time that Aunt Thelma had interrupted a fun evening.

Actually, Aunt Thelma was a fun-seeking lady herself. She would get herself all gussied up, complete with a large hat, and we'd head for the Club Harlem for a night on the town. I pretended to be her gigolo, escorting this older woman around town. The singers and dancers at Club Harlem were always spectacular, and the comedians were really funny. One comedian, Irwin C. Watson, I later saw on television.

Even in 1962, without the casinos, Atlantic City brought in top performers. Ray Charles regularly performed at the Black Orchid, the Four Seasons were a steady act at Steel Pier, and James Brown inspired the troops at the bottle club. I bought tickets to see Dean Martin and his “Italian Friend” at the 500 Club on opening night. Dean had no idea, (apparently), who his “Italian Friend” was, so, after a couple of Dean's songs, out walked Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr. onto the stage. The show was supposed to end at 2:00 a.m., but they kept going until 6:00 in the morning. Frank didn't like the ice cubes in Atlantic City, so he, (supposedly), sent his pilot to New York to get some good ice cubes. I didn't bother going home to change; I just picked up another set of whites at the hospital laundry and went to work.

One day at work, I was assigned to crack eggs all day. Mr. Herrliman was making a 7- foot wedding cake for the hospital administrator's daughter's wedding. I learned that I could crack 4 eggs at a time into the huge pan. After the cake was baked, Mr. Herrliman decorated it by hand with squeeze bags – all 7 feet of cake. On the day of the wedding, we were issued new white uniforms and chefs' hats. A delivery truck pulled up to the loading dock, and we wheeled this 7-foot wedding cake onto it. It was our job to keep the cake from tipping while the delivery truck drove us to the Marlboro-Blemmin Hotel on the boardwalk. When we wheeled the giant cake into the huge ballroom, all of the wedding guests applauded. We were the heroes of the day.

Halfway through the summer, Mr. Herrliman hired a young man named William Oates. I discovered later that his nickname was “Sweet Thing.” His was an interesting story. Sweet Thing had been married in Florida the month before. The day after he was married, he went to his job which was harvesting clams, and fell in love with another woman. He tried to keep both women happy, but his wife eventually discovered his transgressions. She threatened Sweet Thing, so he ran away to his sister's home in Philadelphia. Fearing that his wife might find him there, he made his way to Atlantic City to find employment at the hospital as a cook. I know that you're not thinking so right now, but he was really a smart dude. We became friends.

About three weeks later, Sweet Thing's wife had tracked him down. She came into the kitchen one morning, picked up a knife and went looking for her estranged husband. One of the other cooks, “Johnson” wrapped his enormous arms around the young lady until hospital security came to take her away.

Sweet Thing and I used to drink in the ghetto bars. As I was one year under age, this was the safe way to do things. I was the only white person for blocks, so the bartenders served me without question, figuring I was mentally ill. Some evenings, after work, we would catch the crab guy at the corner, and buy some crabs from him. The were smoked and wrapped in an old newspaper, but really good. We would take the crabs into a bar on Atlantic Avenue, crack them open, and enjoy crabs with our beer. The bartender didn't complain, as we were good at cleaning up our mess. On evening, (probably drunk), we tried to integrate one of the boardwalk bars. This didn't go too well, so we had to leave quickly. Another night, we went to a gay bar, and tried to dance with a couple of lesbian women. That didn't go well either.

My summer of '62 was drawing to a close, when the Miss America Pageant started. Tuesday is the night for the parade down the boardwalk. I yelled at the previous year's winner, Nancy Fleming, a gal from Whitehall, Michigan, and she waived at me. Wednesday, I bought a Miss America general admission ticket at Convention Hall for $1.00. I figured that I couldn't get much of a seat for $1.00, but I watched this large lady run up the escalator to the balcony seats. I figured that she had been here before this, so I followed in quick pursuit. When I sat down, I was directly above Bert Parks.. Wednesday's pageant consisted of 1/3 swimsuit competition, 1/3 talent and 1/3 of the girls modeling evening wear. I discovered that there was a complimentary spot for Miss Atlantic City. In her evening gown, she looked like they recruited her from the Baltic Avenue Red Light District. Miss Michigan, that year, was a pretty girl from Roscommon, who recited a poem about fly fishing – lame! I missed the next three nights of the pageant, because I was on my way home, you know, 27 hours on the bus for 27 dollars.

The trip home had its good points. A lady got on the bus at Cleveland with three children. The baby was fussy, and the other two were restless, so I volunteered to entertain one of the older kids – my good deed for the day. When I got off the bus in Chicago at 2:00 in the morning, two of my college friends, Dick Dolnic and Kevin Krown, met me, and took me to breakfast at Dick's home in Winnetka. Dick explained that his family was the first Jewish family to move into Winnetka. After breakfast, Dick gave me a ride back to the Greyhound Bus Station, so I could catch the bus to Escanaba at 11:30. Dick was stopped for running a stop sign on the way, but he said, “Don't worry about the ticket. My dad will square it with the alderman on Monday.”

I've been to Atlantic City four times since that fun summer of '62. A couple of years ago, I asked the hospital staff if I could see the kitchen again, but the answer was, “No.” I haven't heard from or seen Sweet Thing since that summer. I hope that his wife never caught up with him. I went to Western Michigan University without a penny to my name, so I had to take out a student loan that following semester. The summer was worth it.

A Conversation with Frank Wills, Guard at the Watergate

I graduated from Western Michigan University in 1965. Sargent Shriver was our commencement speaker, who urged us to join the war on poverty, “The Great Society.” A month after that speech, I was still without a job. My friend, Tom, called me and said, “Tomorrow, go to Fort Custer at Battle Creek to the Job Corps Center, and tell them that you want to be a, Group Life Foreman.”

“What the hell is a Group Life Foreman,” I inquired.

“Never mind. Just tell them that's what you want to be.” So I did, and all of a sudden, I were one.

The Job Corps Camp at Fort Custer was an urban training facility for 1500 corpsmen from all over the country. After the 16 – 21 year old men attended vocational and academic classes each day, they came under the supervision of the group life department. It was during these after class hours that I met Frank Wills. Frank was a particularly nice young man from rural Georgia, I believe. Frank graduated from the program a couple of years later, and he was placed in a job at Chrysler in Detroit. That's the last that I saw of Frank, until a number of years later.

After a 7 year stint with Xerox Corporation, I returned to Michigan to work as a finance director for the Community Action Agency in Battle Creek. At CAA, we administered a lot of manpower programs including Neighborhood Youth Corps, Operation Mainstream, CETA, and others. The national CAA group called a manpower meeting in Washington, DC. The boss couldn't attend, so he sent me in his place. During the noon break, the CAA director from Boston introduced to the group, a very famous person, Frank Wills, the guard who discovered the Watergate break in. We all stood and applauded.

Frank looked at me, “John! John from Battle Creek! Hug time. Frank and I decided to have lunch together, so he could tell me his tale.

Frank told me that he had to leave Chrysler, because the company had placed him in a stamping plant. His asthma couldn't stand that, so he quit. Frank's cousin called and told Frank that he could get him a job where the cousin worked as a security guard.

Frank and his cousin worked as play cops at the Watergate. One day the cousin said, “Frank, let's call in sick tomorrow, and play some poker.”

The famous day arrived, and Frank's cousin really was sick, so Frank didn't call in, and he went to work as usual. As Frank was making his usual rounds through Watergate, (a complex with pricey apartments, along with a few offices), he noticed that a side door was taped open. He thought, “Damn those guys from Xerox, they were moving in copiers, and forgot to take the tape off the door.” Frank removed the tape, and continued his rounds.

After a short break, Frank started his second round of apartment checks and office checks. He approached the same side door, and found it taped open again! Frank returned to the office to get his boss. Frank and his boss, then, started checking all doors to all apartments and offices. When they got to the office of the Democratic National Committee, they found the door ajar. They, cautiously, entered the outer office. They heard some scuffling in the inner office. “What do we do, boss?”

“Well, we don't have guns,” he whispered. “Let's try this.”

The boss flung open the door. “WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?”

In the darkness, Frank heard, “Clunk, Clunk, Clunk, Clunk, Clunk,” (five guns hitting the floor.) Frank whispered, “What to we do now?”

“Get their guns! Then we'll call the cops.”

The rest of the story has been written. Frank was puzzled, “From the moment these five guys dropped their gun, at every step, each guy squealed on the guy on the next higher level. That was strange.

I said, “You have to remember, Frank, they're all Republicans”

I've lost touch with Frank over the years. At that time, Frank was unable to secure employment in DC, as most jobs were government funded, with the funding controlled by a Republican government. For a short time, he supported himself by telling his story to CAA sponsored gatherings around the country. A later magazine article, (Life?), showed Frank returning to his roots in rural Georgia, still one of the nicest persons around.

Heroes

by John B. Anderson

I'm sure that we've all had heroes as we were growing up. One of our relatives might be a hero, perhaps a neighbor or a coach. This is a story about two of my heroes from my formative years, Frank Provo and Dick Berger.

Frank, Ronnie's dad, was probably one of the greatest hunters ever. Frank was so skilled that he kept meat on the table for a lot of years. A couple of us boys went with Frank to his cabin on the Stonington Peninsula one time. As we rode to the cabin, we passed fields with 50 to 100 deer in each field, (maybe fewer, but it seemed like a lot of deer.) At one farm, the garden was protected by a 20-foot fence. This is where most of the deer were hanging out. Frank explained that this was the game warden's house, and that the deer knew it.

That night, after supper, we had a campfire then off to bed. Frank told us some hunting tales about a friend from Escanaba, Dunky DuBoer. Dunky liked to play cards, but he was never known to carry a full deck. The other hunters would place Dunky on a snipe trail, with a bag, to catch the snipes when they started running at night. Dunky would usually give up around midnight and go to bed. The hunters also would have Dunky sleep on the beach, on a board, so he could be there at dawn to shoot the ducks and geese. When Dunky would fall asleep, the others would lift the board with Dunky and put it in the woods.

The next morning I looked from my bed at a plaque on the wall. I didn't have my glasses on then, so all I could read was the first word, “Vy,” in large letters. I thought, that's cool, Frank has a saying about his wife Vy, or Vivian, hanging on his cabin wall. I put on my glasses, and discovered that the plaque completely said, “Vy ist der more 'orses asses den der ist 'orses?” Oh well, that's cool too.

After breakfast, we were introduced to the .22 Hornet. I had fired a regular .22, but the .22 Hornet was twice the gun that the regular .22 was. That woodchuck did some fancy jumping 100 yards away.

Ronnie had obviously learned a lot from his dad. During the spring, Ronnie, Bill and I went to the woods in search of a fox den. At that point in time, The Conservation Department would pay a bounty for foxes and coyotes, ($5.00), male wolves, ($15.00) and female wolves, ($20.00). Ronnie found a den. We set a trap near the entrance of the den, covered it with wax paper, leaves and twigs, and left it to come back the next day. The next day, apparently, the mother fox had sniffed the trap, and she started digging about three feet away. We figured that the litter must be just below where she was digging, so we started to dig at that spot. As I was going down this narrow tunnel, I had visions of mother fox coming up the tunnel and biting off my face. As it turned out, she was outside the den. When I reached the bottom of the tunnel, I found 5 little black foxes. Red foxes are black when they are born, I discovered. They had died during the night. We put them into a box, and took them to town.

When we got to town, we ran into Mr. Barkley, the biology teacher. He told us that these weren't foxes at all, but little puppies. We took the little guys to the conservation department, where they pretty much echoed Mr. Barkley's analysis. The conservation officer said that he couldn't pay us the required bounty, until he could verify that they were really foxes. He said that he would mail them to Michigan State for verification. We were, of course, disappointed, but what could we do? After about a month, we got a nice letter from the Department of Conservation. It contained a check for $25.00, and a notification that these were the smallest foxes ever submitted for bounty.

The following year, after we discovered another den, we set a trap at the den's entrance. The next morning, mamma fox was in the trap. We quickly disposed of her, and started digging. We recovered 4 of the little guys in the den. When we took the foxes to the conservation department this time, the officer wrote us a check for $25.00.

Ronnie also taught us to fish for trout with a hook and line on a stick. We caught a few small trout from Gor Gor, (George Orr) Creek. We would take them up the hill and cook them over our campfire. Really good!

Another one of my Manistique heroes was Dick Berger. I always thought Dick was the finest basketball coaches ever. It might have been the fact that Dick taught us when we were at the learning ages of 15 and 16, but I still felt that he was a great coach. Dick believed in conditioning. Each practice we would drill, drill, drill. We would dribble, pass, and run the length of the floor at least 50 times every practice. Dick's belief was that the team that was in the best shape at the end of a close game, would win the game every time.

I embraced that philosophy when I coached St. Francis elementary to an undefeated season. St. Francis even played Cooks that year, to make us county champs.

We had shoot-around at the beginning of every practice. Dick would stand in the center of the floor and announce, “If you can sink more buckets from the center of the floor than I can, you won't have to run laps at the end of practice. We all ran laps, but we got better from the center of the floor. The proof of this was when Ronnie Provo sunk the final winning shot against Marquette Graverett. The shot was from the free throw line at the opposite end of the floor. I played in the pep band at the time. I blew my trombone as hard as I could, but, because of the crowd noise, I couldn't hear my horn. I'm surprised that the roof remained on the gym. You, like WLUC, (With Luck U See), Marquette tv station, thought it was a fluke. It was just another day at the gym for Ronnie.

What's for Lunch?

by John B. Anderson

Lunches during my career at Lakeside were pretty uneventful for the most part. My mom was at home then, so I always got a good meal at noon. I remember a couple of walking home to lunch incidents that were adventuresome. When my family lived on Manistique Avenue, we had to walk down Oak Street and down the hill to get home. We kids had to walk past old lady Heron's house everyday. She was cranky. On day, she yelled, “You kids stay off my lawn!” Then she picked up some dog turds and threw them at us. We told our parents what had happened. It wasn't long after that we heard that old lady Herr on was vacationing at the Newberry Funny Farm.

My family moved to Arbutus Avenue, so I went home to lunch another way. One day, Pat Boynton showed me his middle finger and asked, “Do you know what this means?” I answered in the negative. He said, “It Means, 'Suck the Bag'!”. I filed this information away for possible future use.

Bill was a late comer to Lakeside School. On Bill's first day, Ron explained to Bill who was King of the Playground. To reinforce that assertion, Ron said that he would explain it further on the way home to lunch. I said, “Bill, I know a short cut. We sneaked through Curley's back yard from Oak Street to Manistique Avenue, then through Cowman's back yard to Michigan Avenue – Bill's house. After all of that sneaking, Ron was waiting for us at Bill's house. Bill acknowledged who was King of the Playground. Bill and Ron became life-long friends at that point.

Lunches at junior high and high school provided many options. Lunch hour was 11:30 to 12:45, so we could hike the mile to home, eat lunch, and hike the mile back to school. (This is the part where my boys would say, “...and it was uphill both ways, right Dad?”). The first option was when Bill and I rode our bikes to school. I had to cook my own lunch, which amounted to rotating a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, a can of Beanie Weenies, of a can of roast beef hash. After consuming these culinary delights, Bill and I would rush off to school, trying to get there early enough for a little pool hall time.

Another good option was to eat lunch at the drug store. Inez Coffee would fix me an egg salad sandwich with lettuce. Super good. I, then, would read all of the comics that the drug store offered. I loved Inez when she told me that I looked, “intellectual,” when I wore my glasses. I even ate hot lunch with Cerona and Larry sometimes. I remember being bored in college prep English, when we could clearly hear the garbage truck outside. We softly said, “Hot lunch is being delivered.”

One of the best options for lunch, was to take a bag lunch. This might consist of a big bologna sandwich with lettuce, (really wilted by lunchtime,) and mayo. Liver sausage was another favorite, but the go to lunch was peanut butter and jelly. These were accompanied by a fruit of some kind. We would consume our lunches on the bleachers in the old gym, then Dick Berger would break out the basketballs. These pickup games were rough. The country kids didn't understand about fouls, so, when anyone went up for a shot, he might have two opposing players hanging on him. It was good practice for us in a real game. I have to say, at this point, that the master of making a bucket with two people hanging on him was Phil Carlson. Phil was bleeding profusely, when he scored a bucket against Munising.

The long lunch period provided an ample opportunity to catch up on things at the pool hall. I didn't smoke at that time, as I was playing sport, but there was plenty of second hand smoke to go around. As we got older, we graduated to the other side of LaFoilles, so we could talk to the girls.

The Road to Powers

by John B. Anderson

The forties, fifties and sixties brought many miracles in the field of medicine. When I attended Lakeside School, we received smallpox vaccines. (I don't know whether or not the parents had to sign waivers.) Dr. T. from Ti-County Public Health lined us up and shot us. Most of us didn't experience a reaction to the inoculations, except for one of the La Vance girls, who had to wear a protective plastic cup on her arm for awhile to allow the spot to heal.

Junior High brought the polio vaccines. The teachers would parade us to the old gym, line us up, and the nurses would shoot us. A couple of the kids didn't cotton to needles, and they passed out. Some of the kids were brave, and watched as the needles were driven home – not me. I never have liked needles.

When we got to high school, the t.b. Inoculations changed the lives of the Anderson family forever. Sandy and I both tested positive for the tuberculosis germ. The positive test didn't mean that a person had t.b., it meant that we had been exposed to someone who had t.b., and that we had develop antibodies against it. People who test positive with the skin test will always test positive with the test, so we are relegated to getting a chest x-ray every couple of years. All of our family went to the clinic, initially, to get our chest x-rays. Dad was suspect. He went to Powers Sanatorium for a gastric test, which turned out positive.

Our lives were turned upside down. Dad went to stay at the Powers San., isolating him from the general public. We weren't even allowed to see him for the first couple of weeks. At that point in Dad's treatment, we were allowed to see him on the weekends. We made the trek from Manistique to Powers every Sunday, 180 miles, for two and one half years. Mom did all of the driving, until Sandy and I got our licenses, but, even then, it was mostly Mom. I learned the names of every named creek and river between Manistique and Powers. I could also tell you every curve and turn in the road.

Sandy and I sometimes walked around Powers while Mom stayed with Dad. We visited Ann Nelson, who worked at the Dairy Cream. We sometimes got a cheeseburger at, “The Hut,” a quanset hut restaurant. We would take bets as to whether the owner was a man or a woman. We could never decide, even with Mom's input. We even walked to the Old Cedar swimming hole. One Sunday, Joyce Ann joined us on the Powers trip. Mom allowed the girls to join some boys from Spaulding to go swimming there. The boys invited the girls to the Spaulding Theater that evening, thus making our trip home much later than usual.

Some times the drive home at night was eventful. One night the sky around Big Bay-De-Noc were filled with bay flies. The car wipers couldn't clear them fast enough from the windshield to see, and the pavement was so slippery, that the car went down US-2 sideways. On another night, the highway, just west of Cooks Corner, the road was filled with deer. I don't know how Mom did all of that driving for all of those Sundays.

After the first year, Dad was granted off-site privileges. We drove to Powers, picked up Dad, and drove to neighboring towns. We visited Hermansville, where Dad had previously worked for the Earle family, in their lumber yard. (The Earles went on to buy and create Blaney Park.) On other Sundays, we visited Iron Mountain, Escanaba, Menominee, Stephenson, Norway, (where we saw the giant Aslen milk bottle office), and other towns. My restaurant choice at that time was a good cheeseburger. My two winning restaurants in that regard were The Stone House in Escanaba and a little pink house restaurant in the village of Daggett.

Things at home were a challenge. Thank goodness we lived in Manistique, for all of the support that we received from other folks. Mom went back to teaching at Cooks. She even became superintendent after a year. (The wages weren't much, and she got a raise by eventually going back to teach fifth grade at Fairview in the Manistique system.) Fred Hahn at First National gave us a loan, to be paid back when my father returned. Johnny Vaughan said that we could charge groceries at his market until my dad returned. Our neighbor, Gus, brought us buckets of smelt. Our relatives helped out, as well. When my mom got pneumonia, Aunt Hildur took us in until my mom got home from the hospital. I worked at The Surf, Sandy worked at Denny's and Sunny Shores, and we pitched in to keep us going.

A miracle drug! The new drug would gather the t.b., and transport it into a lesion in the lung. A lot of patients had the lesion removed, if it were small enough. My Dad's lesion was too large, so he was sent home with a promise to limit his activity, so not to break the lesion. We were a family once again. Dad was as fast as he was previously, but he was with us.

Manistique Mind Musings

by John B. Anderson

(Dick Graphos said that I'd better get busy, and write another story about Manistique, so here's some musings.)

One winter's day in Manistique it snowed like crazy. Then it snowed all night and into the next day. By the time it was done, we had at least four feet of snow on the ground! Dan, Art, (a kid who lived above Liz Orr), and I walked over to Crow's Cliff. Crow's Cliff was about 15 feet high, and it was located across from the hospital. During the summer months, it was a rock climber's challenge to climb up the face of the cliff to reach the cedar trees at the top. The cedar trees provided us another place to pee, as we had many of those places around town. On this particular day, however, the cliff provided us with an opportunity to do the unthinkable, jump into the snow beneath the cliff. After we boosted our courage, we ran off the top of the cliff, and landed in the four foot banks of snow below. That's when we faced our next problem, how to dig ourselves out of the snow. Dan and Art finally were able to free themselves, but I could not. They threatened to leave me there, stuck in the snowbank. That motivated me to try harder. I finally dug myself out.

Crow's Cliff became passe' when Dr. Wehner built his huge house on the property. That was about the same time that he bought his new Corvette. Dr. Wehner told my dad once, that one of his goals in life was to be a million dollars in debt. The Corvette put him over the top. My sister babysat for the Wehner's upon occasion. When she had a conflict, I had to fill in. It was good duty. The kids were in bed by the time that I arrived, and they never uttered a peep after that. The Wehner's had a beautiful stereo, and mny records, so I could amuse myself until they returned. Also, the Wehners paid 50 cents an hour for babysitting, as opposed to the usual 25 cents paid by other parents. When Doc and Mrs. got home one evening, Doc asked me if I had ever driven a Corvette. I said, “No. I'm only 15, so I haven't driven anything.”

Dr. Wehner gave me the keys, and said, “Here, you drive us to your house.” It was a foggy night; I couln't see very well. We made it all the way to my house without incident. That was the last time that I drove a Corvette.

Doc figured that his car was the fastest car in Manistique. One day he was making a house call out of town, down U.S.2. A black '57 Chevy passed Doc, which, in Doc's eyes, never should have happened. Doc floored it, and burried the needle at 120 mph. He couldn't catch the Chevy. I think that the owner of the black Chevy was George MacNamara(?). We found out later that George had never been beaten. He had gone through three clutches, before the Chevy garage installed a truck clutch.

There were a lot of fast cars in town. My parents had a '53 Pontiac, straight eight. It was really a pig. Bill's parents had a Chevy Yeoman station wagon. Bill discovered that, if he would back up across the Copenhagen Bridge, slam it into first, floor the accellerator, he could squeel the tires all across the bridge. Neither Bill nor I won any races. When my folks traded for a stick-shift '58 Pontiac, I won a beer from Mike Harbin. I had a heck of a time finding second gear, but when I did, Mike was in the dust. Ray Roussin sometimes drove his step-dad's new Plymouth. The Plymouth had a push-button transmission. We were out on the Tannery Road, when Ray said, “Watch this!” Ray pushed reverse, backed up fast, pushed the drive button, and hit the gas. The car went, “Clunk,” and didn't move. Ray said, “Oh, s**t! Willard's going to be mad!”

Don Lindroth securred a stick-shift Pontiac Bonneville from his dad's dealership, at that became the fastest car in Manistique for a little while. One evening, a young man from Milwaukee showed up at the pool hall with a 1936 Ford truck. The young man asked for the fastest car in town, and we all told him about Don's Bonneville. The challenge was issued, and the race was on. Don was no match for the young man and his truck. When they returned to the pool hall, the young man revealed the engine. The engine was hard to look at, as it was all polished chrome. A real beauty!

Joe Brown got into a discussion with Jimmy Stewart one night, about the relative speeds of Jimmy's Dodge versus Joe's Lincoln. The race was down Range Street. When we got to the stop sign at Arbutus Avenue, Joe hit the breaks, and fish-tailed to the stop sign. Jimmy, disregarding his life, sailed through the intesection. I was glad that Joe didn't have a death wish that evening.

Church Groups

We Methodists didn't really get anything going, as far as the Wesley Youth Groups were concerned, so we tended to flow to the other church groups in town The First Babtists had an active group and the Presbyterians were active as well. The Lutherans had Luther League and the Catholics had C.Y.O. I hung out with the Lutherans for awhile, as they had a lot of fun projects, and because a lot of my friends were part of the Luther League. They had ice cream socials and pancake suppers, all geared to finance a trip for the youth to a rally in Texas. At on pancake supper, a pudgy man for Riverside showed up for his unlimited pancakes. This particular gentleman always wore a three-piece suit with breakfast drippings still on his vest. I volunteered to wait on him, as everyone else said, “I'm not waiting on him.” The man kept me running with more pancakes half the evening, and I left with maple syrup joining the breakfast assortment on his vest.

Later on, I really liked C.Y.O. This group held dances. Lots of fun. One dance was held with the C.Y.O. Group in Newberry. Again, lots of my friends went to C.Y. O.

Elementary School Abuse

I don't know who got abused more, the teacher or the student. One day, Mrs Cookson had had enough for Jenks Jensen. She called him to the front of the room and asked him to put out his hands. He did, and she smacked them with a ruler. Rather than cry in front of his classmates, Jenks picked up a book, smacked Mrs. Cookson on the ass, and ran out the door. The room was quiet and tense. I think that Mrs. Jensen home-schooled Jenks from then on.

John Herlik met a similar fate at St. Francis. One day, Sister Anthony called John to the front of the room for discipline. She hit John with a ruler, and John smacked her across the butt with a book. That was John's last day at St. Francis. His mom enrolled him in public school after that.

Elementary Sex

by John B. Anderson

Girls, apparently, mature faster than boys. That became clear in the sixth grade, when we shot baskets during recess at Lakeside School. Mary and Joanie started hanging out by the basketball court, trying to engage us boys in conversation. That made it hard to concentrate on shooting, and it was actually irritating.

Finally, Dan couldn't take it any more, so he asked Mary, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you pregnant?” That worked! Mary and Joanie left, and we were able to continue shooting without a disturbance from the girls.

The only trouble was, Mary went home and told her mother. Her mother called Mrs. Cookson, our teacher and principal, and asked Mrs. Cookson to do something about it.

The next day, all of the fifth and sixth boys were summoned to the auditorium to meet with Mrs. Cookson. We were all pretty nervous. She started out my saying, “You all understand that there is a connection between the male and the female to make a baby.” (That kind of shot holes in Lloyd's theory that babies came from pills, as he had heard from his sister, the nurse, but we were past that anyway.) “...But, I don't know where you got this word, 'Pregnant'. You boys can't be talking that way at school, or there will be consequences.”

To wrap up the meeting, she added, “If you boys have any questions about sex, you may ask them now, or at any time.” Every head was bowed. All of us thought, if anyone raises his hand, we'll beat the crap out of him after school. No one spoke.

All the fifth and sixth grade boys were called to the auditorium by Mrs. Cookson one other time. It seems as if Rodney and Jerry had been caught by Mr. Krause, the janitor, trying to urinate on the ceiling of the boy's bathroom. At that discussion, we learned about the do's and don'ts of bathroom etiquette. Almost all of us learned that to be careful when Mr. Krause was around.

After school, we walked outside behind Rodney and Jerry. Jerry said to Rodney, “Ill bet Muriel couldn't piss on the ceiling.”

Further Adventures with Pat

by John B. Anderson

As Snoopy said, “It was a dark and stormy night.” …..No moon, really dark. Pat, John R. Kelly and I were, “loitering with the intent to commit a felony.” Actually, we were engaged in planning for creative mischief. Pat was always the most creative in this regard. He came up with the best idea ever, “Let's raid Mr. Olson's plum trees.”

What a great idea! It would have been, but we didn't know that Bill Matlin and friends had raided the trees earlier in the evening.

We sneaked down Michigan Avenue and into Mr. Olson's yard. Pat and John R. climbed up one tree, I climbed up the other. All of a sudden, I saw a black shadow coming from the porch toward us. Oh, Oh, Mr. Olson! I saw the shadow head toward Pat and John R.'s tree, so I dropped to the ground.

Mr. Olson tackled me, and threw me to the ground. He slapped me hard on my head.

“I didn't mean it!”

[SLAP!]

“I didn't mean it!”

[SLAP!]

Just then, Pat and John R. saw their opportunity, and they dropped to the ground. Mr. Olson jumped up and lunged for those two.

I got up and started running as fast as I could. I figured that he was old, and that I could run faster and further.

I ran to Pat's house, where I found Pat and John R. They had escaped unscathed. They were also kind enough to share a plum with me. That was the last time that we even considered raiding Mr. Olson's plums trees.

Who's on Your Block?

By John B. Anderson

After I left Manistique, it seems as if I moved a lot. When I graduated from Western Michigan University, the three of us, (Sally, Eric and I), moved to Parchment, MI, into our first home. From there, I decided to climb the corporate ladder, which required that we move to Springfield, IL, this time Peter joined us in our journey. What we discovered in central Illinois was that, if you liked corn and soy beans, Springfield was a wonderful place to live. With Christopher in tow, we moved back to Michigan to the village of Sherwood. From there, we quit making kids, and moved to Allegan, MI, and that's where we stayed for the next 30 years. Each of these moves happened every three years, and we lost some of our household goods each time that we moved. For the kids sake, we characterized each move as a new adventure, but they were really a pain in the butt.

When I grew up in Manistique, I only moved once. I started out at 552 Manistique Avenue, at my grandmother's house, born into my Aunt Marjorie's bed, (Aunt Marjorie wasn't in the bed at the time, which was good. My aunt was cool, but my mom was a whole lot cooler.) My grandmother, Alice Bretz, delivered me, as she had delivered many Manistique babies. She was a licensed midwife in the State of Michigan. She kept records of all of the babies she assisted with, but I can only recall Bernie Fish and Myrna Fish. Many moms didn't go to Shaw Hospital to have their kids, they just called the doctor and my grandmother.

My grandfather, Charlie Bretz, operated a general store in Rudyard, another in Engadine, before coming to Manistique. He had a greenhouse which yielded many blue ribbons at the Schoolcraft County Fair. He also worked for the city, keeping the flowers around all of the monuments fresh. Grandpa's true love was his eighty acres near the Seney Game Refuge. Grandpa would go to his cabin three weeks at a time, sometimes stealing my dog. I loved it when Grandpa would take Sandy and me to the cabin. The deer would show up in the morning, and we'd let the dog out to chase them. Grandpa could shoot a penny out of the air with his .22, and, at 50 paces, he could shoot the tines of a fork, one tine at a time. Mom worried about what we kids would do, if Grandpa had a heart attack, while we were at the cabin. He said, “Don't worry, Faye, McCauley's cow comes by once a day, and I've trained John to follow the cow.”

My folks rented a house at 538 Manistique Ave. from Mrs. McCauley. The main furnace burned large chunks of coal, and the kitchen stove was a wood stove. We would get a load of wood from the handle factory, and, in later years, it was my job to keep the wood boxes full. I did my grandmother's wood box as well. That's when I learned the expression, “Lazy man's load.” I loved to fill grandma's wood box on the days that she would make donuts. I got the holes. She fried them in lard.

Next door, to the west, were Leona and Jack Williams. Jack was the Miller High Life distributor and you remember Leona, the eighth grade English teacher. Leona and Jack had an old garage that they didn't use, so Pat and I would steal carrots from my dad's garden, haul them to the roof of the garage, and eat them. We dubbed the roof our, “Carrot Company.” The back part of the roof was harder to climb, so Pat and I removed a few shingles to make it easier to climb. On day, we ran into Ray Roussin and Duncan Reese. We invited them up to our carrot company. Just then, Leona and Jack pulled into the driveway, and spotted Ray and Duncan on the roof of their garage. Pat and I were still on the ground, so we hid behind some trees next door. Ray and Duncan got a tongue lashing from the Williams for ripping off the shingles.

Mrs. Williams got me back a few years later. When I was in the seventh grade, I went to my first dance at Lincoln School. I stayed on the sidelines, (typical seventh grade boy's behavior,) as I was too scared to touch a girl, let alone dance with her. Mrs. Williams grabbed me, and paired me up with Ann Cowman. I must say that Ann was gracious, and didn't make me look bad. After that, I didn't mind dancing the slow ones.

Ann and her family lived just past the Williams, before they moved across the street from us. Ann's parents were Earl, (“Turk”) and Nora. Her brothers were Jackie and Jimmy. When World War II ended, Mr. Cowman took out his hand gun and shot it many times into the air. At the same time, I remember the town's siren blasting continuously. On another day, Jackie was hitting pop flies to Jimmy when I got too close to Jackie. When Jackie swung the bat, it conked me on the head. (I haven't been the same since.) Jackie and Jimmy were popular with the young ladies. I remember “Newsy” and Mary Ann used to come sniffing around once in awhile.

Most of my adventures on Manistique Avenue included Pat Radgens. I've known Pat for 73 years, he says 72, but who's to quibble. We wiped out on our trikes coming down the pump hill. We put together concoctions in our kitchens to poison the ants. One day, Pat fell out of a tree, hit a wire fence, and bounced back up, caught a limb, and avoided breaking his back on some rocks below. Pat and I had two hideouts, one behind Robertson's garage, and on behind our garage. These provided good places to pee, so we didn't have to go into the house. We never wanted to into the house, as our moms would put us to work.

We stayed on Manistique Avenue until I was eight years old, when we moved to Arbutus Avenue. That was also the year that Grandpa died. We purchased this monster house at 644 Arbutus, from Art Drevdahl for $8,000. The Drevdahl family was related to Liz Orr. The house was a three-story house, if you counted the attic. The only way to get to the attic was up a steep ladder, but the attic ran the full length of the house. We didn't go up there much, as it would disturb the bats. Upstairs was a three-room apartment, complete with its own utilities and a shared bath. The living room was huge, a perfect arrangement for parties.

I'm going to tell you about the 600 block of Arbutus Avenue, but that really wouldn't cover the whole neighborhood. I have to include part of Cataragus, Stuben, Michigan and Garden Avenues to be complete. The west end of the 600 block of Arbutus was the Kelly residence, but, kiddie-corner to them was the Lakeside Grocery. John R. Kelly and I used to sit on the front steps of the grocery to eat our “Dreamsicles” and our “Dixie Cups.” Toward Michigan Avenue was the Bernier's basketball hoop. Almost all of the neighborhood played basketball at Bernier's. This included Kenny Bernier, Fran Bernier, Wayne Gunderman, Connie Anderson, John R., Bill Malloch, Ron Provo, Lloyd Miller, Sharon Sitkoski, and Janet Ott. One time, Sharon got really pissed at Bill, so she threw the basketball at him, catching him just below the waist. Just before Bill pounded the crap out of Sharon, he realized that she was a girl, so he just groaned for awhile.

Berniers had a mean German Shepard named “King.” “King” was tied near the basketball court. Whenever the ball was knocked over by “King,” we had to get one of the Berniers to fetch it. “You go get the ball” “No, you go get it” One time, Chris Curran got a little too close to “King,” and “King” bit Chris in the cheek. Chris ran to Malloch's, where Mr. Malloch got Chris to medical assistance.

John W. Kelly, (dad), Monica Kelly, (mom), Mary Ann, John R., and Frankie, lived in the corner house. John W. sold insurance, was a Colonel in the army, and was Manistique's postmaster. Monny was an excellent bridge player. At one point, the older boys called John R., “Little D.I.” John used to say, “Damn it” all of the time. We had a clubhouse in the rafters of Kelly's garage. Members included Wayne Gunderman, president; Bill Norton, vice president; John Anderson, secretary; and John R. Kelly, bouncer. When Frankie was in the 6^th grade, he was the captain on my St. Francis basketball team, which went undefeated against every elementary school in the county, including Cooks elementary.

Grandpa and Grandma Malloch lived next to Kelly's. Grandpa Malloch smoked “Marvel” cigarettes. He would give Bill a quarter, and send us to Lakeside Grocery for some “Marvels.” Bill was allowed to spend the change, which he shared with me. Mr. and Mrs. Cook lived in the next house. Their son, Dave, “Young Muff,” used to hang out with us younger guys sometimes. Wayne Gunderman lived right behind the Cooks. The families had a passageway among the cedar trees, so the kids could pass through from Arbutus Avenue to Michigan Avenue. Apparently, too many kids used that passageway, so one of the families ran some cord across the opening. Following that, on a dark night, Steve, (“Skinny) Jewett and I were throwing rocks a the streetlight by Kelly's corner. Suddenly, we noticed a car coming up Arbutus with its lights out. Cops! Steve and I ran through Cook's yard. We made our way through the cedars, knowing the opening was wired, and we headed for my place. Joe Davis, the cop, hit the cords that covered the opening. Such language! Steve and I laughed all the way to my house.

Next to Cook's were the Vassau's, Deal and Fran. Deal was a sister to Mrs. Eugene Johnston across the street. Mrs. LaFranier was next. Mrs. LaFraniere was really hard of hearing. Her telephone number was 181-W, when ours was 181-J. She was the other end of our party line. We would be on the phone, when we would hear, “122-J, please.”

“Mrs. LaFraniere, we're on the phone now.”

“Eh?”

(Louder) “We're on the phone now!”

“Eh?”

Mrs. Swanson live in the next tiny house. I accidentally broke her window, when I threw a snowball at Billy Allen. That cost me 50 cents.

Gus and Myrtle Hahn lived next door to us. They were family friends from Engadine. Gus was terribly gregarious and generous. It was midnight when Gus fired up his snowmobile and did circles around our house and his. Mom said that she would deal with it the next day when Gus was not in his cups. He had a wonderfully prolific garden every year, and he shared many vegetables with us. Gus also shared his smelt. He would catch a washtub full of smelt, and we would get a pail full. Super good eating. When Myrtle died, Gus became pals with Ray (“Dude”) Ranguette, who lived around the corner. “Dude” was a good pal, as he was the Hiram Walker distributor for this part of the woods. After palling for awhile, the lady who lived behind Gus befriended him; they got married, and she straightened his ass out. I guess “Dude” straightened out too.

You know who lived in our house, but you didn't know everyone. Our three-room apartment was first rented by Ernie and Betty Kralic. When baby, Kenny, came along, the family built a house on Riverside. Our next renter was Ward and Arlene Goodney. When baby, Anne, came along Ward and Arlene bought a house in Marquette. Much later, Ed, (“Butch”), Carlson stayed at the Goodney residence in Marquette the night we lost the basketball game to the Escanaba Eskimos in the regional finals. Ed and I had to take the college entrance exams, (the S.A.T.), in Marquette the next day. Ed and I shared a bed. After discussing the game and the upcoming test, we turned out the light. Ed coughed, then spit. I ducked my head under the covers, when he farted. He said, “Don't hit me. That's just an old Swedish trick.”

“You're still a son-of-a bitch!”

The Johnstons were the next apartment dwellers. Myron, “Pike,” Johnston and his beautiful wife, Laura, took up residence there. “Pike” had to go to Germany to serve his time in the army, so Laura became part of our family. Laura complained to my mom that I didn't clean the tub very well. I couldn't remember cleaning it at all, so, to keep peace in the family, I added tub cleaning to my repertoire. When “Pike” returned from Germany, he hauled lumber out of the woods with a pair of Clydesdales. Then he operated the gray Inland buses to and from the quarry and Port Inland. One bus would pick up Mr. Anderson and Mr. Gunderman at the Lakeside Grocery.

Glen Johnston and his wife, Carolyn Nelson Johnson, rented the apartment for about a year. Carolyn was a beauty as well. She had been football queen a couple of years before. One day when Carolyn was about six-months pregnant, she came downstairs during breakfast time, when I was eating my usual bowl of oatmeal. She said to my mom, “When my baby is born, I'm going to feed it oatmeal every day, so it can turn out as smart as John.” There it is – validation.

The corner house had a lot of different families with different kids. Billy Allen lived there for awhile. His family was followed by Jack, “Puss gut”, Rorick's family. I didn't like Jack so much. His dog bit me when I was beating up Jack. Jack's dad ran the Studebaker dealership in town. Margaret Arrowood and her family lived there. Clyde Strassler was their milkman. He called Margaret, “Tootsie.” An indignant Margaret replied, “My name's not, “Tootsie!”

Bernard “Skeezix” Tobin lived there, as well. Doctor and Mrs. Chauvin moved in with Jimmy, Peter, Bobby and Mary Pat. The last family that I remember were the Jorgensens. Ellie was their daughter. Mrs. Jorgensen was on the Selective Service Board. When I was in college, she called my mom to tell her that the board couldn't honor my college deferment any more, so was my wife, Sally, pregnant? It turned out that Sally killed a frog, and my orders to report to Fort Wayne were rescinded.

I'll drift away from the 600 block of Arbutus. Helen McLaughlin lived on the next corner. She and Mrs. Pointer from downstate, were sisters. Mrs. Pointer had two lovely daughters, Hope and Rae. Donny was their brother. I was smitten by Hope. I ran into her at WMU years later, but the infatuation had waned. She was a sorority girl and I was a G.D.I., (an independent).

Across from Mrs McLaughlin was an empty lot, next to Weber's house. We played baseball in that lot with Bob and Fran Weber, until Ardith Nelson's uncle and aunt bought the property and built a house on it. We moved the baseball field to next to Chauvin's house on Park Avenue. Doc and Stella had purchased the St. Francis parsonage, and had it moved to Park avenue.

At the corner of the 700 block of Garden Avenue, the Eck/Ott family resided. This was too many beautiful women in one place. Lloyd Miller and I used to serenade the girls. The theme from “High Noon” was a good choice. We weren't singing to any particular girl, “Punky, Pee Wee, Janet, or Joann,” were all good choices. Kiddie-corner and down the street were the two neighborhood bad asses, Jimmy Stewart and Bob Archambeau. Fifty percent of that combination is now a friend. Down Garden Avenue to the west, were Ronny and Roberta Johnson, a good pitcher and another georges girl.

Going down the street was the Davis house, Joe and Irma, JoNell and Joey. Irma was another on of our many moms. We went out by the Big Spring, picked 6 quarts of blackberries, and brought them to Irma, who made us two blackberry pies. Good mom.

I peddled the Milwaukee Sentinel to Ivan Slough across the street from the Davis house. Ivan was in the hospital getting his plumbing repaired at the same time that I was in for my appendectomy. I puked a lot following the surgery, so they kept me in bed for two days. Ivan stopped by to see how I was doing. I told him that I was in serious pain in my gut. He said, “Start running in bed.” I did. I farted so long and so loud that, if there were ever a farting marathon, I would have won. Thank you, Ivan.

Back to the north side of Garden Avenue. Bill, “Goat” Norton lived there. He was part of our gang, until his family moved up to Terrace Avenue. Then came the McDonough's, with their kids, Ronnie, Joann, Jimmy, and Danny. Joe, the dad, would hold poker sessions in the basement with uncle Gerald “Giggles” Walstrum. It was tougher to win there, because, unlike the poker games at Radgen's house, the older guys weren't drinking. I dated Joann in the spring of my senior year. Joann was my date at the senior prom, (“Theme from a Summer Place”). Both of us had been outside on that gorgeous spring day, and got really sunburned. In all of the pictures, we were both red-faced. After the prom, I spent the night with Joann, (No, not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.) Joann and I stayed up all night watching family movies. Funny thing, all of the movies showed someone eating. It was probably because they kept the movie camera in the dining room.

I left Joann's house at 5:00 am the next morning. I walked home, washed my face, then I left for Riverview, MI. John and Mary Moffit picked me up, along with Bill Grace, to participate in mayor exchange. Riverview is down river from Detroit, so it was a long journey. I missed a lot of the trip, because I was sleeping. I represented the senior class, and Bill represented the junior class. When John and Mary went off with city officials to tour city hall, Bill and I were taken on a tour of Riverview High School. We met a quarter-miler who could run the oval in 49 seconds. We also met the student body. She lived up to her moniker. We joined the Moffits for a tour of a plant which stamped wheel rims from a sheet of steel. Impressive, but loud.

After a great lunch, we toured an Ajax missile site. They let us touch the rockets, but not the controls. With our mayor exchange duties completed, we headed north. We stopped at the giant crucifix at Indian River, then it was on the St. Ignace for a juicy steak. Thanks to the taxpayers of Manistique.

…....but I digress. The corner house on the south side of the 600 block of Arbutus belonged to Chet Rivers. Chet drove a snowplow for the State of Michigan. He got up early many a morning. The next house was Leach's, when we first arrived on Arbutus. Chucky and Elizabeth were the Leach kids. Chucky was sweet on my sister, Sandy. Following them were Jim Sangraw and his wife. Jim took over Barney's grocery when Barney retired. Jim was almost as nice as Barney.

The Burrells owned the third house from the corner when we moved to the neighborhood. One day, Pat Burrell set up a movie projector and a screen in his garage, and showed me movies of our dropping the atom bomb on Japan. Pat's dad was assigned to take movies of that horrible event, and he had kept a copy for himself. Later residents of this house were Wes and Arlene Turan. George, Anise, and Rodney Carney were in the next house. George worked as a mechanic at Lunstrom's Garage. Rodney had a sister, Anise Hinkson, who lived in Escanaba. She was pretty. When Ronnie Provo said that he had a girlfriend in Escanaba, I told him that I did too.

House number five sheltered the Woods, Mr. and Mrs. They went to our church. Next came the Johnstons. There was Eugene Sr., Marvel, Eugene, Jr., Myron, (Pike), Glen, Myrna and Milton, (Mootsie). We hung out with Myrna and “Mootsie” a lot, playing hide and seek, among other games. Grandma Malloy lived in the next house. That's how I met Pat Malloy. We traded comic books. “Bud” Ulyses Malloy, (Pat's dad), had his sign shop behind Grandma's house. “Bud” would stack up his old signs against the barn, and we kids would hide out there.

Herliks lived in the next house. There was Vic and Vickie, Johnny, Bobby, and Eddie. I'll tell you a story or two about Johnny in future publications. I think the last house on the block was DeHuts, but I don't know. I just didn't have contact with those folks.

Sorry, if I murdered your name, but I don't have any reference books with me in Florida. Let me know and I'll correct them when I get home.

Who was on your block? Write me a story.

[Coming up: “Further Adventures with Pat”, and “Elementary Sex”]

The Surf

by John B. Anderson

The Surf restaurant was a dream of George Babladellis. George and his brothers Pete and Louie operated The Liberty Cafe in downtown Manistique for many years. George and Louie handled the kitchen while Pete and his chewed-up cigar, took care of the customers out front. We kids always hit The Liberty after a football or basketball game for a burger and french fries with gravy. The food and the service at The Liberty were great, but George's dream was to create the finest restaurant in the U.P.

…..and he did. The Surf was located about a mile east of Manistique on U.S.2. I became interested in The Surf when friend, Clifford, told me that we would be getting jobs as valets, parking cars for The Surf customers. Wow! For a couple of 12-year-olds, these were the best of all jobs. Clifford said that the valet jobs were a sure thing, as Clifford's dad worked at The Surf. (I found out later that Clifford's dad removed the garbage from The Surf twice a week.)

I didn't hear anything about the jobs for quite a while. My mom served as dining room hostess at The Surf during the next summer. She had asked George about the valet jobs, and the sad news was that there were no jobs of that kind available, nor were there any planned. They did, however, have an opening for a dishwasher, so I decided to take that. Prof. Olson gave me a work permit, so I started washing dishes the next night. My first night was tough, as I was too shy to ask for a break from the dishes to get something to eat. Kay Bowles, one of the dining room waitresses, told George to send me home, as I was sick. The next night, I wasn't so shy.

George ran the operation my first couple of years of working there. His wife, Stella, was hostess and cashier in the grill. The two sons, Nat and Nick joined the management team later. Nat had been christened, Ignacious Babladellis, but he shortened his name to Nat Dellis. Nick also shortened the last name. Nat took over a lot of the paperwork, freeing up George to concentrate on the kitchen functions. Eventually, the Babladellis family purchased the other two fine restaurants in the U.P., The Knife and Fork at the Sault, and the Chalet in Marquette. Nick spent most of his time at the Knife and Fork.

Most of the patrons were tourists. We didn't get much town trade during the summer. Buck Williams, from The Breakers Motel down the street, would stop by in the evenings to have a drink with Nat in the bar. The Surf was comprised by six rooms: The grill, which served breakfast, lunch, and less expensive supper, the bar, two dining rooms, the prep kitchen and the main kitchen. Smaller rooms included the office, two walk-in freezers, two walk-in coolers, and two bathrooms.

If you were to stop for dinner at The Surf, you were in for a real treat. The cocktail bar was well stocked, so you could order just about anything to drink and expect to get it. Next came George's famous hot hor d'ourve of barbecue meatballs. This was followed by the most magnificent salad bar that I had ever seen. The salad bar included a mixed green salad, salad fixings, pickled peaches, pickled crab apples, cottage cheese, 3 pasta salads, mixed pickles, along with other items. Next came the bread basket, including heated dinner rolls, garlic bread, and bread sticks, all freshly made by Ester Bloomquist, the baker. (Ester became head chef later, but that's another part of the story.) One of three homemade soups was also served at this time.

The dining room menu was eight pages. It included:

Beef Pork and Lamb: Club steak, Sirloin steak, T-bone steak, (looked like porterhouse to me), sirloin tips , (featured in “Ford Times” magazine), shish-ka-bob, Prime rib, Pork chops, Lamb chops and Leg of lamb. I discovered why we served mint jelly with the leg of lamb. Lamb tastes horrible.

Fish and Sea Food: Fresh White fish and Lake trout from King's in Naubinway. Lobster, scallops, and shrimp from the ocean.

Chicken and other Fowl: Pan-fried chicken, Cornish hen, Brandy chicken, and Duck.

Sides included baked, mashed, and french-fried potatoes.

The grill breakfast menu was pretty traditional. A single egg required either three pieces of bacon or sausage, two eggs would require four pieces of each. Eggs were any style, scrambled, sunny-side up, over easy, boiled and poached. We saved our bacon grease in which we cooked our eggs, (except for Mrs. Babladellis' eggs, which were cooked in olive oil). We also served waffles and pancakes. The Surf Breakfast included three pancakes, wrapped around grape jelly, topped by two strips of bacon.

The grill lunch and supper menu included chicken salad and tuna salad plates, a fisherman's platter with whitefish, shrimp and scallops, and assorted sandwiches The hamburgers were especially good, as they were made from beef round and fat scraps from the dining room steaks. We had tuna fish, egg salad, fried egg, and ham salad sandwiches We also served a club sandwich, a three-decker with chicken bacon, tomato, lettuce, and mayo.

I hated making that club sandwich. At the end of my first summer as a dishwasher, I asked George if he would teach me to cook. He said, “Sure. Come in on the weekends, and we'll teach you. Weekend cooking in the Fall was different from the summer cooking. Most of our customers were old people, touring the peninsula looking at the colors. Old people love club sandwiches I made so many club sandwiches that Fall, that I decided that I hated old people.

Some of the people that I worked with over the seven years at The Surf included Babe Garvin, Vickie Herlik, (Vickie used to sneak me cokes from the grill),Ruth and Sue Olson from the grill. Kay Bowles, Fran Bernard, Nancy Klagstad, Kathy Reed, Cerona Christensen, Lorna LaVance, Kay Atherton, Jimmy Chartier, John Herlik, Ralph Miller, and Donny Russel from the dining room. One one occasion, we sprayed for bugs in the kitchen after all the meals had been served for the evening. John, the busboy, came into the kitchen and remarked, “It smells like mothballs in here.”

Fran, (who wouldn't say it if she had a mouthful,) “Gee, Johnny, I didn't know that you could get their tiny legs that far apart to smell.”

Ester was our baker, none better in Manistique. She make all the pies, breads, sweet rolls, dinner rolls and breadsticks. Ester's sweet rolls were so good, I used to eat them when I took inventory in the walk-in freezer. One evening, the boss came to us and said, “Ester you're now the head chef and John, you're the sous chef.” The three cooks whom the boss had hired from Michigan State Restaurant program, came in drunk that day, and were immediately fired.

So....Ester was the baker, then head chef, then baker, Tommy Dufour was head chef, then transferred to The Chalet in Marquette. Beverly Rogers worked the grill side in the evening, Vivian Miller, Jim Miller and I worked the breakfast and lunch crowd in the grill. Sometimes I worked in the evenings as well. One evening, someone left the pork loin out on the meat saw. It had become sweaty and slippery. I had to cut two chops, but my hand slipped and my knuckle went into the saw blade. Bill followed me around with a mop to clean up the blood, until someone could take me to the clinic to get stitched up. After the stitches, I went back to work to finish my shift.

Every Spring, we would get a huge shipment of canned goods from John Sexton Company in Chicago. Sexton's, at the time, were of the finest quality. About the same time, Armour would ship us barrels of beef ribs packed in dry ice. The dry ice was always fun to play with. Our regular supplier of meat was the Swift Company, again, out of Chicago. There was no bridge, then, so most of our supplies came from Chicago or Milwaukee. Local suppliers included Harold from the Cloverland Creamery, Lionel Tyrrell from Bunny Bread, and King's who brought the fish. The produce came from Escanaba.

Nat assigned me to take inventory every month. I would put on George's ratty old green sweater to count and weigh the meat in the freezers. Each beef rib had to be weighed and counted. The two coolers weren't quite so bad. We kept two large bins in the cooler, one for steak scraps for the hamburger, and one for other meat scraps for the meatballs. I weighed all the open booze bottles in the bar, figuring an liquid ounce of liquid equaled an ounce on the scale. I counted all of the cans of dry food in the basement storage area, as well as all of the full bottles of whiskey, which were locked in the liquor closet. There was one open bottle of tequila in the liquor closet. I thought that I would try that one day as I was taking inventory. I took a big swig, choked it down and ran for the stairs. We had no running water in the basement. When I got upstairs, I threw my head under the faucet and turned on the cold water to stop the burning. Ester said, “I see that you found the tequila!”

When Nat joined us, he had just finished his stint in the army. He was proficient in the culinary arts, so the army put him in charge of a squad of tanks. He had kept his sidearm, a .45, so we practiced with it on slow afternoons. Lots of fun. A couple of times during the summer, after closing time, Nat and I stripped the tile floors in the grill, the bar and the kitchen. We usually finished between 2:00 am and 3:00 am, then went to breakfast.

Nat said that he would help with my college expenses, if I had chosen to attend the Hotel and Restaurant Management School at Michigan State. I elected, instead, to accept a scholarship at the University of Chicago. That ended my career at The Surf, so I took a job working for a French chef at Atlantic City the next summer. I am forever appreciative of all that I learned at the U.P.'s finest restaurant.