Ace Wisdom

No, this is not about blonde, voluptuous “trophy” girl friends or wifes. It is about excelling at something so well that they award you a medal or a trophy (a sculptured piece of wood with a figurine mounted on top). The trophy goes on a shelf to gather dust and testifies that for one brief moment in time, you were the best.
For those of you that haven’t read son Paul’s blog, he did get to witness his dad getting a hole-in-one on the third hole at Whispering Springs in Fond du lac. There has always been this emptiness in discussions with other golfers that at age 65 I never achieved a hole in one. I had shots that rimmed the cup or stopped just short, but it just never happened.
The emotion of achieving a hole in one is really kind of hollow. You hit the ball, it goes in the hole and then you move on to the next hole. I think Paul got more excited than I did. It was nice to get that blemish off my record. Now I can brag too.
I remember my brother Jack and I did a lot of ice-skating until I was about 14. We had “racer” skates with long blades. My dad would take us to various skating meets and we would compete in different age groups for short sprint races up to one-quarter mile. Jack won a race in Fond du lac. He got a trophy and I didn’t. That trophy sat on top of our bookcase at the City Club for years. The tough part was all the bullshit humiliation that went with the kidding that Jack was the only one to ever have won a trophy. I will say it bugged me.
So wouldn’t you know, it took until I had graduated from college and bowled in the Allis-Chalmers Engineers Bowling League that I finally got a trophy. It was harder earned than Jack’s because it was for bowling 167 average for the year. It was bigger that Jack’s. So for a while, I put that trophy in every prominent place I could find in our house and Shelby kept putting it some place less obtrusive. For “one season in time”, I had achieved a semblence of excellence and I could prove it.
And then over the years I went on to win some 20 golfing trophies for various things. The largest trophy was for some insignificant Company outing. So slowly all my trophies have found boxes in the basement and we fall over the boxes everytime we look for something. Really important trophies, huh?
So this last Christmas, we had a “white elephant” game where everyone brought a gift that they really didn’t want. I was going through boxes in the basement and found that first bowling trophy. It says on the plaque “C. Andrews, 167 Average”. It would be my gift. Well the white elephant game allows multi-exchanges of gifts so that if someone sees a white elephant gift that to them would be special, they can claim it. Grandson Collin claimed my trophy because he is in a bowling league with his dad and wouldn’t you know his first initial is the letter “C”. So on a shelf somewhere in his bedroom, there is a trophy that says “C. Andrews, 167 Average”. How special is that?
My hole-in-one is kind of like that trophy. You always want one because of all the stories you hear and it seems like it would validate your life as a golfer. After you’ve put that “1” on your scorecard there is some kidding and slowly, like that trophy, it gets put in to mothballs and people go on to whatever else there is in life that is more important: which is just about everything.
But for one moment in time, I got a magnificent shot that I will remember for ever. Hot damn! I wonder what box in my brain I will bury that memory.
Thanks Paul for attesting to the occurance.
Love,
Dad

The rats were real! Even though I never saw a rat while living at the City Club I knew the little bastards were there. You could feel it.
My Uncle Bob (Bucky’s brother) now lives in Florida/North Carolina recalls the rats. His story is too precious to lose forever so I am going to copy his e-mail verbatim recalling an attempt to catch a rat.
You can’t dream this stuff up. This is Uncle Bob’s story.
“Even though I’ve been gone many years, your story about your experiences in the basement of the City Club brought back memories as though they happened yesterday. Once you’ve lived in the City Club it will be part of you forever.”
“The bartenders Roy Koebel, Bob Awe, Harry Strobel, and me had seen a rat in the basement several times. This is how I remember the exiting actions that took place. Maybe if someone sat in the furnace room and the lights were turned off for a few moments, there was a chance the rat could be seen and shot when the lights came back on. A hell of an idea. There were no immediate volunteers but Roy said it wouldn’t bother him sitting in the dark so our plans were set up. Roy would get comfortable on a box in the furnace room, facing the coal pile with his “22” (I don’t remember if he had a gun or not). When he was set, I would go upstairs and turn off the lights for a time. When the time was up I would turn the lights back on and Roy would have a chance to see and kill the rat. It didn’t quite work out that way.”
“After about ten minutes I turned the lights back ond and waited for the shot. Instead, I heard a lot of hollering and commotion going on downstairs. When I got to the furnace room I found Roy with both his hands clutching his leg and crotch area with death grips. He was helpless in this position. He had a death grip on the rat and his pants leg and since a rat has teeth he wasn’t about to let loose to take his pants off. A bite in this location could have been fatal!! I loosened his belt and pants and we carefully removed Roy’s pants while Roy kept his security grip on the pants and the rat. Once the pants were off, the death grip on the rat had solved this rat problem. When the lights had come on the rat was near and headed for the nearest hiding place which happened to be Roy’s pants leg. Nobody ever volunteered to do this again”.
Thank you Robert Jack. Great Story!
Love,
Dad

The people that passed through the City Club were always interesting. A particular “roomer” for a year or two was named Victor Toniello. With a name like that, he had to be Italian. He was built like your local pizza shop owner. Short. Rotund. Happy.
There were nights that we would open our apartment to him and he would cook up a spagetti entree with some special sauce. His offerings were spectacular and without calories.
Victor wasn’t exactly surrounded by good looking “chicks” but he had some Greek friends in Sheboygan. They had a cousin, Maria, living in Greece that wanted to get to the United States. Victor married her sight unseen. Maria was also a little rotund and happy. They did have one child Tony that became good friends with brother Jerry Lee.
Now to my story. Maria would work at the local Stokely Canning Company in the summer. She would operate the machines that placed peas into a can from a hopper and then capped the can off. Her job was to make sure that peas maintained a constant flow into the cans. Since peas were always flowing into the hopper, the job was mostly visual checks to make sure peas were dropping properly. It got a little more tricky as a batch of peas would be ending. She would climb to the top of the hopper and push peas down that “were hanging” up on the sides of the hopper. At the bottom of the hopper was a slicer gate that was extremely sharp. You guessed it. Maria got her index finger down too low in the hopper and the finger got sliced off at the second knuckle.
Because it was a noisy environment, it took a minute or two before anybody could hear Maria scream. By the time people realized what happened, several thousand cans of peas had been processed. One of those cans contained a finger.
Stokely as a matter of normal procedure immediately cooked the peas in pressure cookers after canning. By the time they analyzed the accident, Stokely decided that even the potential cans that held the severed finger would be cooked. So at least the consumer that purchased the can containing the finger couldn’t be harmed by bacteria. Then they opened thousands of cans of peas and never found the finger.
My story is that some poor, unsuspecting domestic Goddess like Debs would open the can and freak out (or breakout into an uncontrollable laughter). If Stokely had been responsible, they would have isolated all production from that day and disposed of it. I really don’t know what they did.
This was the 50’s. McDonalds and Wendy’s didn’t exist. Litigation was not a prevalant as it is today. Concern was about health, not money.
Maria was a sweet lady. She recovered. She had trouble pointing out directions after that (I couldn’t resist that).
Somebody literally might have had “finger food” for dinner.
I keep trying to make this blog a “teaching”. I guess my teaching here is “keep your fingers out of places they shouldn’t be”.
Love,
Dad

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