Ace Wisdom

The City Club Rooms in Plymouth is where I spent my life growing up. It was a large building with all kinds of interesting rooms and hallways. None of the rooms was more interesting than the huge basement.
Steven Spielberg is good at playing with your imagination. E.T. The Goonies. One that you Grasshoppers remember is “Duel” where Dennis Weaver plays mind games with a pyscho tanker truck driver. My point is that Spielberg knows how to get into your head. Once inside, your imagination doesn’t need further help. The boogie man can take over.
Grandma Myrna told me stories about rats. Sewer rats. Rats as big as “tom cats”. The City Club had a major connection to the sewer located in the front of the basement with a large perforated plate covering the sewer hole. Somehow, someway those erie little bastards found there way into the City Club on a regular basis. Big deal you say? Well, Myrna told me they were having smell problems in her “back” apartment. Also funny noises. She and Chalk searched the basement with flashlights. They found a space under their apartment that could be entered from the basement. They thought they saw something moving in the crawl space. They were right! Her count was 32 rats the size of tom cats. Whoa! I know they used rat poison and traps. They had to be careful because food was served in the City Club and there are limits to what you can do. From the movies I’ve seen, packs of rats attack little kids (like me) and devour them. At least they would in a Spielberg movie.
I don’t know why Myrna told me that story because from that day on, everytime I went into the basement I deserved hazardous duty pay. I went into the basement a lot. I would stoke the furnace. I would take garbage to a large open area of the basement to store until garbage day. I would bring cases of soda and beer up from the basement for stocking the refrigerated storage cabinets behind the bar. You get the idea. It was not an area you could avoid. The basement was a series of passages to different areas, not one huge open basement.
I thought that I was the only one that had been told the “rat story” but I found out sister Addie also had heard it.
So you can imagine this little kid (me) being told to take the garbage from our apartment down to the basement. It was dimly lit. There were shadows. There was that damn story.
So I would summon up my courage, grab the garbage bag and move with quick steps. I walked down the center of the aisles. I checked the pipes and rafters located over my head so that a rat would not drop down on my shoulder. If noise was created like a storage freezer kicking in, my pace quickened. Heaven help me if I saw a shadow.
The worst, and I mean the worst from a wild imagination standpoint was when somebody turned off the lights at the top of the stair entry. The rule was “keep the lights off when not used”. So people would yell down to the basement “is anybody down there?” and if they heard nothing, they flipped off the switch. If you were deep in the bowels of the basement, people couldn’t hear you respond. When the lights went out it was pitch dark.
I remember being in the garbage storage area (where rats could find food) many times when some idiot would flip off the light. Sometimes I thought it was brother Jack playing games. The only way to get out of the basement once the lights went out was to feel your way along the different passages. Your first thought is what a–h— turned off the lights. Your second thought was panic. Your third thought was to stay cool and work you way back to the entry stairs. Everytime you touched something for a bearing, a rat might be waiting to greet you. Every time you tripped over a piped plumbed across the floor and almost fell, there could be a rat waiting for you. As you successfully felt your way back to the stairs, there was always a chance a rat could fall on your shoulder. What would you do? What would you do? And then finally, you would find the stairs, make your way to the top and turn the light back on. You survived the crypt. Then you mother would ask if you “took the garbage into the basement”. My response would always be “yep”.
The reality is that in 15 years of living at the City Club I never saw a rat. Not even a shadow.
I don’t know why Myrna told me the story. I think she just wanted to make me aware there was a problem and if I saw a rat I’d be prepared. What she did is trigger my imagination. It made every trip to the basement an adventure. Reflecting on her story today reminds me of scout leaders telling a ghost story around a late night campfire. Nobody sleeps that night!
So Grasshoppers, tell your stories carefully. You never know which one will take your offspring on a journey of fear. There are enough fears in our everyday lives.
Love,
Dad

Today I am going to share one of my inner most thoughts with you. I will let you in on a fantasy. Something I’ve always wanted to do. It is really kind of silly.
I would like to play the piano. I’ve always envied people that can pound a piano to “toe tapping” kinds of music. No, not “long hair” concert or opera kinds of music. I’m talking boogie woogie, rhythm and blues, or rock and roll kinds of stuff. I’d love to go to a party, notice they have a piano and start twinkling the ivory. Of course I would sing with the music.
My sister Addie, brother Jack and myself took singing lessons from Doris Dietsch when we were kids in Plymouth. None of us stayed with it but I’m sure we missed out on crooning greatness.
I remember my uncle Bob playing the piano at the City Club. The piano was used with some of the Music Acts that entertained from time to time. Bob could not read music. He memorized a few tunes and if you asked him to play he could pop out a few upbeat selections. Very impressive. For a few minutes while he played, he was the center of attention. Bob shunned being center of attention. Yeah, right!
Then I remember Liberace being on early black and white TV. He was gay. He scmoozed the old ladies. He was a schmuck. And, he played the piano magnificently. The only reason I watched was because occasionaly he would hammer out the Beer Barrel Polka and I would think wow.
I know daughter Kelly took piano lessons. She was never inclined to pursue it but she did like my uncle Bob. Kelly memorized a few tunes and I think even today if you asked her to play some music, she could entertain you for a few minutes. I don’t remember how much razzle dazzle is in her tune selection but for the moments she plays, she again is the center of attention.
Willie Nelson plays lots of country music (which I know Shelby Jr. hates) but he has selections featuring a piano with upbeat tempo. Willie would take his mistress on the road, feature her on the piano and have a lovefest on stage. If you listen real close, you can hear her romancing Willie. At least, that is the way my fantasy leans. Love that piano.
Well, daugher Debs cut a CD of 1950’s music for her mother and I discovered it by mistake. As I walk each morning, I have been playing that particular CD. It has three selections by Jerry Lee Lewis playing the piano. It starts with “At the Hop, follows with Chantilly Lace and ends with Whole Lot of Shaking Going On”. By the time Jerry Lee finishes those songs, I’m flying past all the old timers. Of course, Jerry Lee not only “plays” the piano, he kicks it, sits on it and I think has lit a few on fire. I really don’t want anything that spectacular.
Several years ago, I decided to pursue the piano fantasy. I did take lessons from a rigid, stern, German lady who started with the basics and was about as much fun as lancing a boil. I grew tired of the practice sessions. I let it die. I needed a teacher like the young flame that Willie Nelson had in his band.
Of course I have all the wrong characteristics to be good at the piano. I do not have the long slender fingers everybody talks about, I don’t carry a tune well to add in some singing and I don’t have patience. I won’t use age as an excuse.
But for a few moments every now and then, I picture myself sitting at a piano surrounded by friends (wait a minute, I don’t have friends) and playing a boogie woogie. Obviously the friends start to dance and wiggle around and enjoy themself thoroughly. Toe-tapping is the order of the day. And when I’m done, I get a standing ovation and lots of accolades. The cry is for more!
OKay, I know the whole thing is kind of stupid but what the hell. It is my fantasy and it is fun to dream. Maybe somewhere in another life, I was a piano player that brought lots of joy to lots of people.
Allow yourself to dream!
Love,
Dad

The silence is deafening. I haven’t received one memory from you Grasshoppers about Cottage No. 2.
The newer cottage sandwiched between Jankes and Thiels relied on water supplied from a “sandpoint”. The water was used for drinking, showers, washing dishes and yes, flushing toilets. At the time we bought the cottage, sandpoints were “grandfathered”. If you had one, you could keep it. If you needed a new water supply, you had to drill a well. Jankes had a well and it broke. They drilled a new well and paid many thousands of dollars and still had “hard” water with propensity to rust everything. You could smell the minerals in the water.
We had a water pipe extending out onto our beachfront and it was attached to a pipe (sandpoint) that had been pounded down into the sandy beach. The pipe extended down into the sand 30-40 feet and had a screen at the bottom that filtered lake water. Since Crystal Lake is one of the cleanest lakes in the state of Wisconsin and fed by spring water, filtering through the sand and then the screen in the 40 foot deep sandpoint made for excellent water. I had the water tested by the State several times and it was rated superior. I always worried about the ice jamming the pipe on the beach in the spring time and breaking off our water supply. So I had to come up with a better idea.
I didn’t want a drilled well (like Jankes) with lousy water. Also, I couldn’t hire some-one to put in a new sandpoint because that was illegal (plumbers wouldn’t touch such a project). I could however, put in a new sandpoint by myself.
I found an expert on sandpoints, pumps and wells named Jack Siegl. He lived in Plymouth and was a cantankerous old bastard. He did offer to come out to the cottage and direct the efforts of anyone putting in a new sandpoint. He could not work himself because that was illegal. He would accept a cash donation.
So I hired my supervisor Big Jack and sent my crew from Appleton down to put in the new sandpoint. My crew was Paul and a buddy named Scott Nutting. Paul must have been a junior in high school and so was Scott. Neither of the two were known to like physical work. I offered enough money to get the two them to go. I mean, these two worker drones usually avoided work situations at all costs. Scott was known for doing flaky things both legal and illegal. For all I know Scott still does flaky things.
Now picture the scene. Big Jack, Paul and Mr. Nutting. It was a hot, hot day in July. The new sand point would be placed inside the boathouse and it was pretty simple. Paul and Scott would pound four 8 foot sections of pipe down into the sandy soil under the boathouse. They used a tool provided by Jack that let them pound the pipe slowly, so very slowly down into the earth. I wasn’t there, but my understanding was that Paul and Scott found it hard to “pound pipe” for more than a few minutes at a time. Then they would run to the end of the pier and jump in the lake to cool off. Jack would have to beg them to get back to work. You get the idea. Jump in the lake! Pound pipe! Jump in the lake. And so it went.
The new sandpoint got installed. I paid Scott and Paul more than I should have because my sense is they were having more fun than working. Jack Siegl got paid for just standing around waiting for the swimming episodes to stop.
Every spring thereafter as I activated the cottage water system, I would think of Paul and Scott working feverishly to install the “inside sandpoint”. I had solved the spring ice problem and preserved a very good water system.
I have trouble shaking the memory of two young “worker drones” using the lake to cool off. It does bring a smile to my face.
Love,
Dad

I promised to continue the cottage saga. We had just sold the first cottage we and “we were moving on up to the east side”. It was 1983. There was a sitcom called the Jeffersons in the 70’s that had a family moving up to the affluent east side of New York. The “moving on up” music still haunts me.
No, we hadn’t hit it big financially but the equity built up in the first cottage helped make the second cottage more palatable. It had one of the best locations on Crystal Lake. Great lake frontage. We had one of the few boat houses on the lake (new construction was not allowed). Being on the east side of the lake (technically the north-east), the winds moved sand to the lake front so we had a sandy beach. The cottage itself was old and needed lots of help. We considered tearing it down and rebuilding something more substancial but we lacked one thing. Money!
Did I mention when we moved up to the east side we inherited new neighbors. On the one side were the Yankes. Marge had a limitless supply of bathing suits for every occasion. Lance had a neverending supply of cold martini’s. Good friends.
On the other side we had Floyd. Yes sir! Mr. Congeniality. I know that we have pictures of Floyd raking weeds and debris from his lake front onto our beach so that we would have to get rid of it. I know that Christopher, who is a forgiving soul, had heated arguments with good old Floyd. It didn’t change anything but Chris felt better.
Since it was 1983, Debbie was in Milwaukee with husband Lee, Kelly was going to school in Madison, Chris was hauling something and Paul would have been 11 years old and Margaret 6. The three older kids were visitors but for Paul and Margaret it became part of their lifestyle.
The cottage itself was seasonal. It had a sandpoint for a water supply and heat was electric. We would close it down from November through March.
The first thing I did (alone) was tow the raft that Grandpa George had built across the lake from the old to the new cottage. Because it was so big and heavy, it was awkward to anchor and keep from drifting. So I decided to take raft apart, nail by nail, board by board. It took me 8-10 hours to disassemble. I put the treated boards behind the cottage where they sat for 5-6 years. I gave the boards to Christopher (or he took them). He reminded recently that he used the boards to build a deck on the back of his house and they are still being used. Grandpa George’s raft is now Grandpa George’s deck.
The gold-flecked glastron boat looked great moored to our long pier. It almost appeared like we belonged.
I will say that that day we closed the deal to purchase 192 Crystal Lake Drive, I remember the drive out to Crystal Lake to look at the new property. It was Mom, Paul, Margaret, and myself. It was a warm sunny summer day. I had the keys. It was exciting.
I’d like to say that there was a lot of insight of purchasing a cottage for an investment but that never entered my mind. It was a place that the family could enjoy in the summer. It conjured up thoughts of fun and fantasy.
Let the fun begin! Next time? The personal stories. You are invited to e-mail your good memories.
Love,
Dad

Last Wednesday night, grandson Nevin had to go before the Council of Honors of the Boy Scouts of America. He played down the significance of the inquisition but his journey to become an Eagle Scout hung in the balance. His Mom and Dad were present and the philosophic questioning lasted about a half hour. And the result was …….
But wait, scouting is not an Andrews tradition. Chris was in scouts for awhile when we lived in Sheboygan and his scoutmaster was Bob Schmidt. Bob was a burly policeman who was proud to have his own son in Scouts. Chris earned a few badges and I remember attending an award ceremony for some achievement. Chris did not make scouting a passion. He did other things like pound drums in the Top Hat marching band and chase girls (I think one was Shelby Jr.)
My personal scouting experiences were not good. My Cub scout troop met in the basement of the local old three story elementary school in Plymouth. The cub scoutmaster would come to the school, open the doors and lead us to a room in the basement. His rules were that we were to stay in the room, no exceptions. Well one night my buddies and I thought it would be great to play “hide and seek” through out the old building especially when it got dark. The scoutmaster noticed we were gone from the room and he was furious. He found each of us “rascals”. We got a personal escourt to the front door, a real boot in the butt and told not to come back. I think my body left the ground when he booted me. My story to my parents was that I didn’t like cubscouts and I didn’t want to go any more. They never pushed the issue but some-how I think they knew what had happened. Scouting was not in my future.
Now back to Nevin. He has a temper and sometimes puts it on display. He does things that you’d like to say to Nevin “what the hell were you thinking”? Then he turns around and accomplishes something that brings a tear to your eye and you shake your head in disbelief. Wednesday night completed his scouting journey. He did what no Andrews has ever done. He achieved the rank of Eagle Scout. He passed the Council’s inquisition. It is a significant benchmark in his life and it is loaded with good stuff. Citizenship training. Community Service. Character Development. Personal Fitness.
So my personal congratulations go out to Nevin Andrews. He has built himself a tremendous foundation and he has the right to feel really proud. He has achieved what few scouts ever achieve. He joins James Lovell, one of the first NASA astronauts as an eagle scout as well as a long list of other famous people. He is the best of the best.
Nevin can spread his wings and soar like an Eagle. Go Nevin!
Love,
Dad (Just Chas.)

June 16, 2005. John Hollander died this date. Cancer
I cried today because I’m a little selfish. I enjoyed doing things with John and that has been taken away. I’m not much on self-pity so I wiped away the tears.
I cried for Kelly because I know there is going to be a profound change in her life. Kelly was born with a fiesty spirit and I know she will carve out a great life for her family. No doubts! So I wiped away the tears.
I cried for Grant and Mitchell who will not be able to share their achievements and successes with John. Kelly and Carlos will provide all the encouragement needed. Grant and Mitchell are in good hands. So I wiped away the tears.
I cried for all the friends and family that John touched. He was a kind, giving, and gentle soul. He could not help but make all our lives a little better. He liked sports, gardens, flowers, John Deere tractors and things that reminded him of his early farm days. How can you be disheartened having known a man like that. So I wiped away the tears.
John lives in all of the memories that linger in our hearts and minds. He lives in a better place. I can’t help but think that John will reach down occassionally to nudge the ones he loves in a positive way. So I wiped away the tears.
I will not say good-bye because I know we will meet again. That thought consoles me and once and for all, I wipe away the tears.
Love,
Dad

A catchy song from my childhood keeps racing through my head to the lyrics “Beardstown Ladies sing your song, doo-dah, doo-dah”. I don’t know why! Perhaps it has something to do with the subject of investment clubs and a group of elderly female statesmen from Beardstown, Illinois (a bunch of old broads) racing toward their goal of getting rich. I think the original song was “Camp Town Races”.
As most of you know, Christopher organized a group of buddies from work along with a few “outsiders” to form an investment group called the “9-Wannabees”. It is not difficult to figure out the intent of the group name. They all “wannabee rich”. More about how Chris’ group is working out in a minute.
Back to Beardstown. In 1983, 15 women from Beardstown, Illinois organized an investment group called cleverly “The Beardstown Ladies”. They were mostly retired school teachers, home-makers, bank employees and farmers. There were a few actively employed insurance agents and real-estate sales reps. They met monthly and each contributed $25 per month. For those of you who don’t know stock market history, 1983 was the beginning of a 17 year good bull run with stocks averaging over 20% growth per year compounded. These wise old ladies probably could have picked stock by throwing darts at a dartboard and been successful. In the year 1991 they grew their fortunes by over 59%. Incredible numbers. When they met, they shared research of potential new stock purchases. They ate cake and baked dishes that they brought along. They talked. They ate. They talked. They ate. Did I mention they talked. It was like an old fashioned quilting bee and they were making money besides.
In 1994, a newspaper reporter found out about the successful investing of the Beardstown Ladies and got a few of them scheduled for the Donahue Show in New York. The rest is history. They became famous and have now published several books. The first book called the “Beardstown Ladies” sold over 500,000 copies. Not only were they making money on investing but now they were making it on selling books and also being paid for personal appearances. Could life get any better.
Well it turns out that the investment returns were not quite a good as people thought. The Beardstown Ladies were not real good with math and they included the $25 per month they were each investing in club as “investment return”. You can’t do that. That is like Deb investing $10 one month and when she invests $10 the next month, she calculates 100% rate of return. They is no return on her investment, she has just set aside $20. So the Beardstown Ladies got it wrong. Never-the-less, they were still very successful and they will tell you it was the best thing they ever did.
In my view, an investment club is a way to (1)save money on a regular basis, (2)learn about the stock market, (3)make investments that hopefully lead to solid growth of your investments, (4)share stock research with others, and (5)did I mention having fun.
Chris’ investment group (9-wannabees) started in January of 2003 and it invests money on a weekly basis so that parting with the money is easier because it is small chunks. After 2.5 years, one member has dropped out and the club has picked up a few new members. I think there are now 10 members called “the 9-Wannabees”. Huh! There are about 14-15 different stocks owned by the club. There have been winners and losers. After the first two years, the average annual return to the club was over 10%. The biggest winner is Sunoco which was purchased at two different times and on a $2000 investment is worth over $4000. Now listen to this, Sunoco sponsors NASCAR racing in a big way and one of the members figured that of all the oil companies we could buy, Sunoco might have an advantage. Hey! It worked.
Investment clubs can be formed in many ways. With todays computers, electronic communication is a an “instant away”. Families could form investment clubs. Your mom has suggest forming an Andrews family investment club, pooling money and learning together. Silly! Silly!
Investment clubs can be interesting but they are not for everyone. There can be some very heated meetings especially when there are strong personalities involved.
Beardstown Ladies worked.
9-Wannabees is working.
Just thoughts!
Love,
Dad (Just Chas.)

To make up for all the times I did not read my kids a bedtime story, this is for you.
Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Oz there was a pretty teenage girl named Addie who lived in a small village called Plymouth. She lived above a tavern in less than privledged conditions. She dreamed of more. Maybe she was switched at birth because she always felt like she destined for something better. Royality maybe?
Around her 18th birthday, word spread throughout the Kingdom that Cheese Derby Day was coming and they were looking for a Queen. The pretty girl, saw her chance. If she could get elected Queen, she could claim her rightful throne and everyone in the Kingdom could see she belonged. But how do you get elected?
Lo and behold, it turns out that there were 3 consultants ready to help her. One was her step-grandfather Chuck Andes along with his comrades Rolly Leonhart and Al Ratke. The acronym for this consultanting group was CAR (Chuck, Al, and Rolly). Their name could have been “Frick, Frack, and Fruck” or the “Three Stooges”. They preferred CAR. It turns out that all teenage contestants for Queen had to sell $1 dollar buttons. The one that sold the most buttons would be Queen.
Well sir, The CAR group knew every tavern in OZ. They traveled far and wide in the Kingdom to frequent as many “bars” as possible. And, they sold buttons! Did they sell buttons? It turns out the more they drank, the more buttons they sold. They drank themselves to a victory for the pretty teenager. She won. Addie was the official “Cheese Derby Day Queen”. Finally, she would claim her rightful throne.
When Cheese Derby Day arrived, all of the Kingdom of Oz was alive. The subjects were all there. A parade began and Queen Addie was the royal representative. She had reached her dream. She sat on the top of the back seat of the longest Cadillac in the Kingdom. She was beautiful. Her dress was made with magic thread and it glowed. Angel dust was sprinkled in her hair to create a halo effect. She wore her sparkling tiara. The subjects waved. Queen Addie smiled and waved. She belonged here.
I don’t know if the consulting group CAR watched the parade. As far as I know, they were in some bar still selling buttons and probably celebrating. They should not be forgotten.
And then it was over. The next day arrived and Queen Addie wondered what would happen now. She had a trophy and lots of pictures. It was intoxicating. How could she ever go back to her life above the tavern? But wait! She remembered that her Queen title was for a year and her dream would go on. For that matter, just like in the Wizard of OZ, the royality was always within her. It would be there forever. She would always be a Queen to the people who know her.
The Kingdom rejoiced and everybody lived happily ever after.
So you see Grasshoppers, to achieve your dreams just look within yourself and reach for the brass ring. You can make almost anything happen. Just like Addie. You will have to find your own consultants.
Love,
Dad (Just Chas.)

Alice Helen (Stiller) Andrews. She was my mom. She could be soft, insightful and caring. She could be tough. She was a survivor.
My sister Addie asked why I hadn’t written about Alice. Alice has been on my “short list” of intended subjects. A recent discussion with Addie brought back memories of the difficult time when my Dad died unexpectedly at age 37 with a family including 4 children. I was the oldest at 17 and a senior in high school. Jack was 14 going on 21. Addie was 13 and Jerry Lee (he never liked having the “Lee” in his name) was 11.
Alice herself was 35 years old. She had a job at Plymouth Industrial Products located at the end of Mill Street and ran equipment making black plastic injection molded products. It was hot around the equipment and “black”. If you’ve ever been around black powdery high density polyethylene or propolene, it is insidious. It permeates every pore in the body. She hated the job but she knew the family needed the income. She always dreamed of moving into an office position with opportunity for personal growth and obviously more money. It remained a dream!
When my dad died the family had nothing. I mean nothing. No life insurance policy. No savings. The biggest asset the family had was the 1956 two-tone, black and white Dodge automobile. It became an asset because the loan was automatically paid when he died. There was not enought money to bury Bucky.
So put yourself in Alice’s place. Four kids. No money. A job she hated. Alone! Her biggest support group was her mother-in-law who owned the City Club where we lived and her mother, dad, and younger brother “Big Jerry”. Her Mom and Dad lived in northern Wisconsin near Cable, Wisconsin so they were not really active in her life.
Funerals are an interesting phenomena. Immediately after Bucky died, we were surrounded by family, friends and acquaintances. There is a swirl of activity. And then? And then, there is empty, cold reality. All the friends that you expect to stop by to visit never really did. The reality that you have to figure out how to survive sets in.
Alice never shared any self doubts. She never waivered as she went about supporting her family. Her dislike for the plastic molding job got greater because she didn’t feel she had any options. Her dreams of a different job faded.
When you talk of successful characters in life, Alice is at the top of my list. She raised four children without help and they all were successful in their own ways. She found a way. We found a way.
As Alice was placed in this impossible position of being mom and provider, she toughened. My children do not know her as a “warm fuzzy” but more as an interesting character. She became a champion of the underdog. She silently rooted for my daughter Debbie, Valerie Klokow, Johnny Andrews and somehow my brother Jack always made that list. And there were more. It didn’t mean she loved others in her life less, it was just that she knew how difficult life could be and if she perceived you had been dealt a “bad hand”, she would be there to support you.
My wish was that Alice would someday find a companion in life that appreciated her qualities and would finally take care of her. It never happened and she ended up fighting right to the end.
All I can say is that I know what she accomplished. She really is my hero. Thank you mom. You did it!
Love,
Just Chas.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t spend time on cottage life. The first cottage was a “starter, fixer-upper” located at 492 Bay Road. It was on the edge of Lilly Bay sheltered from cool breezes. The beach had some sandy parts but weeds were everywhere. We had a short pier and a row boat. Looking straight out from our beach about 100 yards there was a sandbar just a foot or two below the surface of the water. There were many occasions when a speed boat would come around the island at full speed not knowing about the sand bar. Their engine would go from a throaty roar to putt, putt, putt and then nothing. To my knowledge, the sandbar was never marked to alert boaters but it was a constant source of entertainment.
I know I immediately had a new well system installed so we had good drinking water. I didn’t plan that when we bought the cottage.
The next spring we had a sliding door system installed to open up the cottage to the patio. Then it was patio furniture and later we had the kitchen remodeled to be “functional”. I hadn’t planned that when we bought the cottage.
Along the way, Grandpa George built the 10 foot square raft. That was special. I hadn’t planned on installing a raft.
Did I mention we bought a little red boat. Chris and I went to Sheboygan Falls answering an ad for a family speed boat. It was fiberglas with a 65 horsepower Mercury engine. We didn’t know it but the transom holding the engine had been damaged and was a weak part of the boat. We bought the boat, motor and trailer for $1400. I hadn’t planned that either when I bought the cottage.
After a couple of years, it was obvious that our little red boat was an embarrassment to lake royality and one summer afternoon I got a call from Chris and your Mom. They were looking at a gold flecked Glasstron 15 foot ski-boat at a local Sheboygan dealer and for $2700 and trade, we could step up in quality. I can’t believe Chris conned your Mom into looking at boats and I don’t believe that I would leave work to investigate. Mom looked, I paid and Chris got every kids dream. I must have been temporarily insane. I didn’t plan this when we bought the cottage.
Did I mention the gas for the boat. Plastic containers held 6 gallons of gas and I bought extra containers to make sure that everytime I went to the lake I had 10-12 gallons for my pleasure. You kids used most of it. But I kept buying more. Talk about stupid!I didn’t plan that when I bought the cottage.
The cottage tweeked everybody’s fantasy. It represent a place to take friends and proved to be a base for swimming, water skiing, wake jumping, and sunburn. It was a constant source of new experiences. Our dog Pepsi almost drown because she was too stupid to swim back to our shore. Kelly had to save her. Our little red boat sunk during a rain storm and Grandpa George loaned me a pump to get it raised out of the water. Kelly would bicylce from Sheboygan to the cottage to get in shape for the coming Marching Band season at UW. And parties. Some I encouraged. Some I didn’t know about. I do know that someone walked through my sliding screen door to the patio and threw beer cans on the neighbor’s roof for everyone to see.
After all these experiences and many unplanned expenditures, you’d think I’d learned my lesson. But no! We bought another cottage and for a while owned two places on Crystal lake. Imagine that. We eventually moved up to the east side. I hadn’t planned that when I bought the first cottage.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. If you think about it Grasshoppers, you all took some form of emotional ownership of the cottage and had a role in making it family fun. Good memories still linger.
I’ll continue the journey next time! Help me!
Love,
Dad