Deer season in the Berg family was always an important time of the year. Back in the mid-1940's, my dad, my uncle Don and others bought a good piece of land out in Gordon, WI and created the "WEMISSUM" deer camp, a place that was an important part of my life.
As a kid, I remember the excitement that coursed through our household as deer season approached. My dad and brothers fancied themselves as the great white hunters, I think, and back in those days, I thought they were, too. All that orange (or red) clothing came out of storage; the car trunk was packed with food, rifles, shotguns and booze. The end of the work week would finally approach and as soon as dinner was cleared from the table on Friday night, dad was out the door and on his way to the camp, not to be seen or heard from (by the women-folk) for the next 8 days, except for a possible hour or two on Thanksgiving.
It was an unspoken tradition that wives and children alike were not allowed at deer camp during deer season. The men needed their bonding time, not to mention time to come up with some pretty whopping stories to tell or leave untold. There was no phone at camp and the only way to get intouch with the men in an emergency was to call the Buckhorn Tavern in the Town of Gordon and leave a message.
During the week of deer season, our house was bustling to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Grocery shopping, homemade breads and pies baking, and a polishing of the silver took place. Mom would work herself half to death to make the house gleam, which in itself was ridiculous, because back in those days, she was a stay-at-home mom with a Type A personality and finding a speck of dust in our house at anytime of the year was a more than rare occasion. Strangest thing about that was... there wasn't a room we weren't allowed to really live in. The kitchen and living room were often decked out with kids lounging around on the sofa or fixing a sandwich or snack, watching TV or listening to the stereo.
One deer season, in particular, stands out in my mind. I had turned 12 in October and the year was 1966. All the usual goings on of that week occurred, leading up to Thanksgiving. I had become the official silver polisher, along with chief table setter. I was taking Home Ec that year in school and table setting was one of those learning curve things. At any rate, I thought that table was probably the most beautiful table ever that year.
My dad and brothers were coming into town that afternoon and we were excited about it, because at that time, my brother Bill lived in Chicago and we didn't see him often enough. They walked in just as dinner was being set on the table and with them arrived a stranger to the rest of the family. His name was Ron Perik and he was my brother Bill's best friend and work buddy at Colley Elevators in Chicago.
Now, this stranger swooped in that day and made himself completely at home at our dinner table. For more than a couple hours, I don't think anyone else but Ron got a word in edgewise. He was so funny, so entertaining and beyond all of that, he was and is a really genuine, good person who quickly grew to be one of the family. My point is, though I meant to impress with my table setting skills that day, I learned quickly that there were more important things, like the friendships we gain and cherish.
There were other memorable deer seasons. Like the year my first husband, Fred, shot his first (legal) buck while hunting with my brothers. Man, did they ever scare the bejeebers out of Freddie that year! After hanging that deer in our garage to wait for it to bleed out, Freddie had to go to work and while he was gone, my dear, sweet brothers decided it would be fun to play a joke on him and roped me into the plot, as well, after considerable coaxing. Then, they set off on their mission; cutting the deer down and making off with it.
Now, you have to understand a bit of a hunter's passion and excitement when they've just scored their first (legal) buck. This deer had a nice, though not overly large, rack on it's head and more than enough venison to feed a family of four for the winter, which was more important to me back in the day.
I remember that day so clearly, it's like it just happened. Freddie got home from work in the early evening and the first thing he did was to go into the garage to check on his prize. Oh, how I wish my brother's had been there to see the look on Fred's face when he walked in the backdoor. Never had I seen such a shade of pale on a person's face as I did that night. He didn't even stop to say hello to me, but picked up the phone and called my brother, Barry, and was so close to tears as he told him that his deer had been stolen, that it surely would have broken my heart if I hadn't known better.
Of course, Barry, being one of the ultimate jokesters of his time, played right along with the ruse until he just couldn't let Freddie suffer any longer. What is now known as getting "punk'd" these days had been successful and Freddie finally learned that his deer was now being cut up and packaged in Bill Walton's garage. The crowning glory of it all was when my brothers presented Freddie with his deer rack, beautifully mounted on a plaque with an engraved piece beneath, declaring it his first "legal" buck.
If memory serves me, that rack still hangs on the wall at the deer camp. Today, sixty plus years after my dad, uncle and others first organized "WEMISSUM", my brother Bill is the last of the Berg family to still be a member. Ron Perik still travels up from Illinois each year for deer season and a few years ago, I broke tradition and actually visited the camp during that oh-so-sacred week of male bonding. I could almost hear that famous Tim Allen "Hooo Hooo" cry as I drove into camp that day, but was welcomed graciously by the men of "WEMISSUM" and enjoyed my own bonding time with my brother.
The number of members has dwindled over the years from upwards of 20 men to a handful at best now, but the memories are still as sweet. Happy hunting, brother... don't forget the Petri!
xxxJBDxxx
Friday, November 16, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Ramblings of an aging woman... Chapter 1
Mom was pregnant with me when they built our house on 21st and Lamborn; the place I called home for the first 9 years of my life. I was a happy kid there. I didn't have the weight of the world on my shoulders and my biggest worry was how to get my older sister to be nice to me. I had 3 older brothers too, but they had been like a first family for my mom and dad. Jane, myself and Joanie all came later and the boys were basically grown by the time I was 5. I don't remember mom being pregnant with Joanie. I was almost 4 years old when she was born, but she never was able to come home from the hospital. She lived a mere 8 hours.
There were a lot of kids in our neightborhood and back then, everyone's kids played outside - summer or winter. We would go to Pattison playground during the day to play baseball or box hockey and in the winter it was ice skating for hours. At night we'd play kick soccer in the alley and only go home when our parents had called us with that tone that said.. you better get home now. And it wasn't all the parents calling their kids either.. if one parent said "time to come in" that meant everyone's kids had better hightail it home.
We knew everyone of our neighbors on our block and most across the streets from us, too. The Leazott's lived next door to us - an elderly couple, at least they seemed elderly to me when I was a kid, and they had a son who was probably around the same age as my brothers. Mrs. Leazott was such a nice lady and always had a treat for me when I would come to their back door for one reason or another.
My mom used to tell me how she could set me out on the back porch step after breakfast while she did her housework and that I'd still be sitting there when she came to find me for lunch. I was a dreamer and the sights and sounds of the neighborhood were enough to keep me occupied in those early days.
As my sister and I got a bit older, our playing range widened too. Unfortunately for my sister, who was four years older than me, she was often strapped with having to let me tag along on her adventures, and she most often let me know that she wasn't particularly happy about it. It was great for me, however, because I got to see other parts of my hometown that I probably wouldn't have gotten around to discovering on my own for awhile yet.
We would bike out to Billings Park or to the museum in East End and spend the whole day exploring. We played at the college too, around Old Main, though I don't recall exactly what we were playing. When the synogogue was being built up on Faxon Street, I remember my sister and I, along with the Higgins twins and the Buchanan girls playing hide and seek inside of it.
Sometimes we'd take the bus over to Goldfines (by the bridge) on weekends. My sister must have been in 7th or 8th grade about that time and her specific reason for going was to buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine by the front door. Thus, one of those important lessons I learned about becoming a teenager! Of course, this particular outing was always precluded by the usual threat from my sister, which went something like "if you even dare to tell anyone I'm buying cigarettes..." That was all she had to say.
I don't have a lot of memories of my brothers from when I was very young. The stories I have heard have become family folklore now. Barry running away from home and how frantic my mother was; Bill putting his arm through the back door window. Bobby, well... he was the oldest and my first memory of him was when he was getting married in 1961. I was in the wedding, so it makes sense that it left an impression on me.
My brother Bill was my hero when I was a kid and still is. We used to wrestle on the living room floor when I was maybe 4-5 years old and he often let me win the match. Then Bill joined the Navy and I remember going to the Duluth Airport and standing out on the observation deck, watching his plane taxi out and take off. It was nighttime and windy and cold and I cried for a long time after he left.
Of all of my siblings, Bill and I are the most alike, I think. We were the black sheep, the screw ups, or so it felt a lot of times. We didn't excel in our studies or our careers or even in our marriages. We made due and never let our pocketbooks do the talking for us. But the one thing we both have is a lot of heart and family has always been our center. Now our passion is our grandchildren, along with the Green Bay Packers. Rarely a week goes by that we don't call each other and just talk about... whatever. Content never seems to matter. It's the love that is poured into those conversations that speaks volumes.
I guess the memories we do hold onto have a way of shaping things in our lives. I'm so thankful for those memories and for having the time now to share them with my children and grandchildren. xxxJBDxxx
There were a lot of kids in our neightborhood and back then, everyone's kids played outside - summer or winter. We would go to Pattison playground during the day to play baseball or box hockey and in the winter it was ice skating for hours. At night we'd play kick soccer in the alley and only go home when our parents had called us with that tone that said.. you better get home now. And it wasn't all the parents calling their kids either.. if one parent said "time to come in" that meant everyone's kids had better hightail it home.
We knew everyone of our neighbors on our block and most across the streets from us, too. The Leazott's lived next door to us - an elderly couple, at least they seemed elderly to me when I was a kid, and they had a son who was probably around the same age as my brothers. Mrs. Leazott was such a nice lady and always had a treat for me when I would come to their back door for one reason or another.
My mom used to tell me how she could set me out on the back porch step after breakfast while she did her housework and that I'd still be sitting there when she came to find me for lunch. I was a dreamer and the sights and sounds of the neighborhood were enough to keep me occupied in those early days.
As my sister and I got a bit older, our playing range widened too. Unfortunately for my sister, who was four years older than me, she was often strapped with having to let me tag along on her adventures, and she most often let me know that she wasn't particularly happy about it. It was great for me, however, because I got to see other parts of my hometown that I probably wouldn't have gotten around to discovering on my own for awhile yet.
We would bike out to Billings Park or to the museum in East End and spend the whole day exploring. We played at the college too, around Old Main, though I don't recall exactly what we were playing. When the synogogue was being built up on Faxon Street, I remember my sister and I, along with the Higgins twins and the Buchanan girls playing hide and seek inside of it.
Sometimes we'd take the bus over to Goldfines (by the bridge) on weekends. My sister must have been in 7th or 8th grade about that time and her specific reason for going was to buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine by the front door. Thus, one of those important lessons I learned about becoming a teenager! Of course, this particular outing was always precluded by the usual threat from my sister, which went something like "if you even dare to tell anyone I'm buying cigarettes..." That was all she had to say.
I don't have a lot of memories of my brothers from when I was very young. The stories I have heard have become family folklore now. Barry running away from home and how frantic my mother was; Bill putting his arm through the back door window. Bobby, well... he was the oldest and my first memory of him was when he was getting married in 1961. I was in the wedding, so it makes sense that it left an impression on me.
My brother Bill was my hero when I was a kid and still is. We used to wrestle on the living room floor when I was maybe 4-5 years old and he often let me win the match. Then Bill joined the Navy and I remember going to the Duluth Airport and standing out on the observation deck, watching his plane taxi out and take off. It was nighttime and windy and cold and I cried for a long time after he left.
Of all of my siblings, Bill and I are the most alike, I think. We were the black sheep, the screw ups, or so it felt a lot of times. We didn't excel in our studies or our careers or even in our marriages. We made due and never let our pocketbooks do the talking for us. But the one thing we both have is a lot of heart and family has always been our center. Now our passion is our grandchildren, along with the Green Bay Packers. Rarely a week goes by that we don't call each other and just talk about... whatever. Content never seems to matter. It's the love that is poured into those conversations that speaks volumes.
I guess the memories we do hold onto have a way of shaping things in our lives. I'm so thankful for those memories and for having the time now to share them with my children and grandchildren. xxxJBDxxx
Saturday, November 10, 2012
For our Country's Heroes...
My Gramma Gen instilled a deep sense of patriotism in me from an early age. It wasn't necessarily in the things she said to me, but rather in how she conducted herself at various times of the year. Memorial Day, Flag Day and Veteran's Day were important days to her. She would sell poppies each year and if people didn't buy those sweet, little red, papery flowers, she would give them away and donate her own money for each one herself. That, most likely, was quite a hardship on her, because she lived modestly on a limited income, drawing wages from the drapes she would meticulously sew for my Dad's drapery business.
I remember, as a child, I asked her what the poppies were all about, and she told me the money went to hospital work and relief. It wasn't until many, many years later, long after my Gramma had passed away, that I began to understand what it all really meant to her.
You see, she had two brothers, Harry and Bernard Kelly, who served during World War I and a son, Robert Holmes, who served during World War II. She was one of the fortunate who didn't lose her brothers or son to a war. She paid homage to their dedicated service to our country by involving herself fully in the Ladies Auxiliary - Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 847... so much so, that she even sat as President of the Henry S. Bloomberg Auxiliary between 1943 - 44.
Now, my Gramma Gen was a humble woman and was never known for sounding her own trumpet, so it came as quite a surprise when I found a scrapbook she had kept with every, single Superior Evening Telegram newpaper clipping about her involvement in the VFW Auxiliary. It was lovingly kept in order of events for that year and then, no doubt, she tucked it away and went on supporting our service men, year after year, selling those pretty little poppies.
Today, someone told me they were ashamed of our country - The United States of America; this beautiful country and it's people who have been courageously protected by the men and women of the United States Armed Forces during too many wars and conflicts and times of peace; this grand Land of the Free that millions call home.
I take offense to that statement, so easily bandied about, by people who are intolerant of our elected officials. Surely, this person was not taking into consideration what day we will commemorate this weekend, but also of all the fine warriors of our great country, past, present and future. Yes, that statement offended me greatly, and in answer, I would simply say to people who feel that way... "YOU should be ashamed of YOURSELF". xxxJBDxxx
I remember, as a child, I asked her what the poppies were all about, and she told me the money went to hospital work and relief. It wasn't until many, many years later, long after my Gramma had passed away, that I began to understand what it all really meant to her.
You see, she had two brothers, Harry and Bernard Kelly, who served during World War I and a son, Robert Holmes, who served during World War II. She was one of the fortunate who didn't lose her brothers or son to a war. She paid homage to their dedicated service to our country by involving herself fully in the Ladies Auxiliary - Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 847... so much so, that she even sat as President of the Henry S. Bloomberg Auxiliary between 1943 - 44.
Now, my Gramma Gen was a humble woman and was never known for sounding her own trumpet, so it came as quite a surprise when I found a scrapbook she had kept with every, single Superior Evening Telegram newpaper clipping about her involvement in the VFW Auxiliary. It was lovingly kept in order of events for that year and then, no doubt, she tucked it away and went on supporting our service men, year after year, selling those pretty little poppies.
Today, someone told me they were ashamed of our country - The United States of America; this beautiful country and it's people who have been courageously protected by the men and women of the United States Armed Forces during too many wars and conflicts and times of peace; this grand Land of the Free that millions call home.
I take offense to that statement, so easily bandied about, by people who are intolerant of our elected officials. Surely, this person was not taking into consideration what day we will commemorate this weekend, but also of all the fine warriors of our great country, past, present and future. Yes, that statement offended me greatly, and in answer, I would simply say to people who feel that way... "YOU should be ashamed of YOURSELF". xxxJBDxxx
Friday, November 9, 2012
The winters of my life...
Every year, the same nostalgic feeling comes over me, pretty much at the same time each year too. The days are shorter; darker and the impending end of... something permeates the air. I watch the grass turn from emerald green to a sickening shade of brownish-gold. The flowers in my garden wilt and clouds make ominous shadows on the walls.
I yearn for a simpler time now; perhaps my childhood, I'm not sure. I do know that until I was about 9 years old, I had never experienced any painful life events that I can now recall. I had a happy and fortunate childhood, filled with lots of family and friends and happy times. As children, I think we're wired to not let things like the death of a grandparent affect our lives too much. Though I recall the passing of my Gramma Ruth like it was yesterday, I seemed to get passed it rather quickly at that young age.
A year later, my parents sold our family home and we moved into a house just a few blocks down the street. I remember making a huge scene, more than one time, about not wanting to sell our house. It was big and beautiful and it had been the only home I'd ever known. My entire childhood had been centered around that house. It was my comfort zone and to this day, I wish we hadn't left it, but I've also come to realize that it isn't necessarily the places we were that we yearn for, but the people we spent those times with.
So many of those people are gone now... my parents and grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and dear friends. It was at this time of year that we often were all together, celebrating around the dining room table with a wonderful meal, or in the living room, talking and laughing and there was so much love surrrounding us all.
I had the good fortune to come into all of the old reel to reel home movies that my grandparents and parents took of those early days in my life. I think I'll get out that old projector soon and share some of those happy times with my family... my children and grandchildren; those who are here for me to love now.
xxxJBDxxx
I yearn for a simpler time now; perhaps my childhood, I'm not sure. I do know that until I was about 9 years old, I had never experienced any painful life events that I can now recall. I had a happy and fortunate childhood, filled with lots of family and friends and happy times. As children, I think we're wired to not let things like the death of a grandparent affect our lives too much. Though I recall the passing of my Gramma Ruth like it was yesterday, I seemed to get passed it rather quickly at that young age.
A year later, my parents sold our family home and we moved into a house just a few blocks down the street. I remember making a huge scene, more than one time, about not wanting to sell our house. It was big and beautiful and it had been the only home I'd ever known. My entire childhood had been centered around that house. It was my comfort zone and to this day, I wish we hadn't left it, but I've also come to realize that it isn't necessarily the places we were that we yearn for, but the people we spent those times with.
So many of those people are gone now... my parents and grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and dear friends. It was at this time of year that we often were all together, celebrating around the dining room table with a wonderful meal, or in the living room, talking and laughing and there was so much love surrrounding us all.
I had the good fortune to come into all of the old reel to reel home movies that my grandparents and parents took of those early days in my life. I think I'll get out that old projector soon and share some of those happy times with my family... my children and grandchildren; those who are here for me to love now.
xxxJBDxxx
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