School Days

After graduating Lutheran High East in 1965, I spent a couple summer months “proving myself” at Concordia College (now University) in Ann Arbor, Michigan. They weren’t sure a guy with perfectly average high school grades could cut it in college, so I had to take a summer course to show I could handle it. Mission accomplished, thankfully.



Concordia University, Ann Arbor, MI

As it works out, I only completed one year at Concordia, due to a change in direction rather than poor grades. Originally, I had it in my mind to enter the teaching profession. After learning more about what that entailed, I felt it was not the right career path for me to follow. Unfortunately, as is the case with so many 18-year-olds, I had no idea what direction I wanted to head. I enrolled in the Business Administration curriculum at Macomb County Community College in Warren and moved back in with my parents.

Macomb County Community College

A part-time job at Simco Pattern Co. helped pay the school bills while I helped build dies for the auto industry. The time at Macomb CC was good, but being this was 1966-67 the draft for the Vietnam War kept nipping close at my heels. During this period I was married, but that didn’t help my deferment status either.  So, having no desire to take the “walking tour” of Vietnamese jungles, I signed up for a four-year stint in the U.S. Air Force and entered active duty in March of 1968.

The Air Force years will be discussed in another entry, but suffice it to say that the time spent there qualified me for the G.I. Bill, which would help tremendously with educational expenses after my discharge in December 1971. Actually, the G.I. Bill payments for attending school amounted to very decent income which I used to enroll at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. Ah, but the lure of making more money pulled me away from school after just one semester, regretfully.

Oakland University

I didn’t return to college until after moving to the west side of Michigan in search of work. In 1975, I began my employment with Dykema Office Supply in Kalamazoo, moved to Allegan soon after and then enrolled at Kalamazoo Valley Community College, where I spent two years in part-time general study.

Kalamazoo Valley Community College

This disjointed ramble from one school to another didn’t qualify me for an actual degree, but fortunately the jobs I’ve held did not require a “sheepskin”. Looking back, I enjoyed the various schools and programs, but I do regret not having put together a well-planned journey that would have resulted in a formal degree.

The Early Years

Heeding his father’s advice to “leave these Kentucky hills, there’s nothing for you here”, my dad and mom left Kentucky with my sister and followed a number of their siblings to find auto industry jobs in Detroit. This was about 1939-40, just prior to the U.S. entering World War II.

Dad did go off to support the war effort, serving his country in the U.S. Army in the Pacific theater on the island of Saipan but spending most of his time in the region on Peleliu (in the Palau island group), east of the Philippine Islands, due north of Australia.

His return home in 1946 made possible my entrance into the world the following year. Mom and my older sister were living near relatives on Webb Avenue in Detroit. When I was still a toddler, we moved to “the ‘burbs” in Center Line, into a cooperative development called Kramer Homes. This move took us around 10 miles north of downtown Detroit and into a very nice, middle-class area.

My earliest memories are of those years in Kramer Homes, playing with Bobby McIssack, Billy Sheridan, and my best friend, Tom Marley. We rode our bikes everywhere, played ball in the summer and ice hockey in the winter whenever we had free time. During those years of our youth it seemed we had nothing but free time.

During my year of 5^th Grade, my parents decided to transfer me to a parochial school. We were relatively new members of Trinity Lutheran Church in Warren. In fact, I was nine years old when I was baptized, since we had not been attending any church until then. I didn’t like leaving my school buddies, but I soon found there were many more friends to be made at Trinity School. I have no doubt I received a much better education due to the smaller class sizes and more difficult curricula offered by the parochial schools I attended.

My Roots...My Foundation

Back in the early 1990s, I set off on a search for my family history. It was an extremely interesting and informative journey.

My roots from relatively recent history can be found in the coal-rich hills of southeastern Kentucky. Both of my parents and my oldest sister were born there, as were their parents.

I treasure the following photo; it was taken around 1920 and shows my grandfather, either on his way to work or having just come home from the coal mine (note the carbide lamp on the brim of his cap), along with a few of his children. The young one in his arms is my father, at around age two I would guess.

My great-grandfather also was born, lived and died in those Kentucky hills, but unfortunately my genealogical search ended with my great-great-grandfather. I found him living in Kentucky as a young man, but could not trace his life back further to his birthplace, hard as I tried. Rumor has it he came there from North Carolina, but I could not find evidence to support that claim.

Looking back to those Kentucky hills, I find it gratifying to know I come from good, hard-working stock—people that etched out a livelihood by risking their lives going underground day after working day. Knowing that fact makes the heavy traffic of my commute to a warm, comfortable office seem much less problematic.

Let’s get even more basic, I keep a photo of a “back house” in one of our 3 bathrooms to remind me of how easy I have things today.

There’s nothing like the smells, the little creatures, the cold seat and the necessary walk to a back house to help you appreciate the comforts of home and to make all those petty problems of life melt away.

The People that Touch Our Lives

I don’t know about you, but it amazes me that I have a hard time remembering the name of someone I met last week, yet a name from 50 years ago is right there waiting to be retrieved from its memory cell.

I’m talking about those people that made a huge impression, those that touched my life in such significant ways they’ll never be forgotten. Let’s trip back to 1953 and kindergarten class led by Mrs. Ross. Black hair brushed straight back and formed into a bun and the type of kind personality that helped a scared and confused kid get settled in his first class.

Fast-forward to third grade and Mrs. Carey comes to mind; a rotund lady with perfume that announced her presence from across a crowded classroom. She, too, made a difference in the life of this kid just beginning to grasp the intricacies of solving a seemingly complex math problem. Those two teachers at Kramer Elementary in Center Line, Michigan touched my life in very positive ways and it appears I’ll never forget them.

The one teacher that holds the first prize for “making a difference” is Clayton Hufnagel, my instructor (and mentor) through four years of English classes at Lutheran High School East in Harper Woods, Michigan. Mr. Hufnagel instilled a love of language and impressed upon a young teen how important expressing oneself clearly would be throughout life. Know what? He hit the nail on the head. I tried to throw him a curve when we were assigned the task of memorizing a “classic” poem and reciting it in class. I chose a very short excerpt from Chaucer’s Prologue to the Canterbury Tales and can still let it flow at a moment’s notice…in the original, Middle English, of course:

     Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
     The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
     And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
     Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
     Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
     Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
     The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
     Hath in the ram his halfe cours yronne,
     And smale foweles maken melodye

Enough of that, you get the idea. I can still remember Mr. Hufnagel standing at the back of the room, smiling, and his question, “so what does it mean?” when I finished. Whoa! Talk about a frozen moment! I took my best shot (guess) and must have done all right judging by the A+ grade received. He made me learn, to think and to remember. Great teachers and memorable folks will do that. Thanks, Clay.

The Joys of Deer Camp

For the past six years, my two sons and I have met in the woods of northern Michigan's Benzie County for a week or ten days of great camaraderie, hunting, delicious food and drink. Our old friend, Rob, always joins us for a part of the week to add to the fun and enjoyment. We usually hunt the property at first light for a few hours, and then mid-afternoon until dark, but it's being together during the rest of those days in camp that really appeals to each of us.

Whether we're playing euchre, a game of checkers, arguing over the most efficient caliber of rifle to take deer, preparing and sharing a wonderful meal, or just talking around a roaring campfire, each of us treasures those times. During those discussions, I've learned so much about the antics of those boys during their younger years...and I thank God I didn't know about those things back then!

Maybe these photos will give you a better feel for our camp and what types of things take place:

Our home away from home.

PBRs and steaks...required fare for deer camp.

The ever-present campfire.



Steak night, with Mel's cheesy potatoes, of course



The guys.



Dogs over an open fire.



My son and grandson at the campfire.

This last photo really says what its all about:  passing on traditions from generation to generation. My grandson spent some time with us at camp this year and it was a fantastic time together. As they say, "Jis don' git no better'n that!!!"

You can see that we had no snowfall this year, but you never know what to expect from Mother Nature up there. In fact, my profile photo was taken at our first deer camp in 2005, during a snowstorm that produced about 20 inches of new white stuff. In northern Michigan, November weather can be warm, frigid and anything in between.

Thanks for the memories, fellas; looking forward to many, many more.