Category Archives: Memories

Up North: the series ::The beginning:: Two Rivers

Memories,

I’ve got Wisconsin in my blood. No, really, I do. My great grandmother’s family settled there after emigrating from Germany sometime before the US Civil War. I’m not sure where the man she married, Silas Koeser, was from, perhaps Michigan since my grandmother was born there, but he eventually moved to Two Rivers, the town where his wife was born. She bore nine children and died when some of the children were very young. Silas remained in Two Rivers the rest of his life, as did most of his children.

Henry Theide
An Early Wisconsinite

As many times as I’ve been to Wisconsin, I’ve only been in Two Rivers once. When I was about three years old.  And had a bad case of the measles. I don’t remember it at all, but I’ve seen photographs of me at a beach, and perhaps a video or two. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized it was not an ocean beach in the photograph, but Lake Michigan.

A beach in Two Rivers -- see, looks like the ocean.*
A beach in Two Rivers — see, looks like the ocean. *

Starting this summer, I want to visit some of the places in Wisconsin that have meaning for me. I might not start with Two Rivers, but someday I’ll go back and see where I’m “from”.

*Neshotah Beach photo originally uploaded by Lester Public Library

Stay tuned for the rest of the story…

Death, Memories, People, ,

I’m going to be writing a series on Wisconsin as soon as I have time to do it, but one timely Wisconsin memory for me is listening to Paul Harvey.

I discovered this morning that Paul Harvey died on Saturday. I knew very little about him, except for his love of storytelling and his voice. I didn’t know what he looked like, how old he was or where he was born.

I know more about him now — He was born in Oklahoma and spent most of his life in newsrooms. He looked much younger than his 90 years.

I remember hearing Paul Harvey throughout my life. His “the rest of the story” is as comforting to me as grilled cheese and tomato soup. The last few times I’ve heard Paul Harvey, since we don’t listen to whatever radio channel he is on in our day-to-day lives, was in Wisconsin at my parent’s house, or else on the way to Wisconsin.

In my parent’s “cabin” in Wisconsin they have one television channel which comes in fuzzy most of the time. They don’t have Internet and my cell phone does not work there. But they have radio. We get our news and entertainment mostly from an old stereo system that sits under the soon-to-be useless television in the living room of my parents lake home in Hazelhurst, Wisconsin.

During the day I have the stereo on and tuned, usually, to the local public radio station, but when there is nothing interesting to listen to on public radio (shocking but true — we can only listen to so much polka) I switch channels. The next radio station that comes in clearly there is WMQA — an ABC affiliate. ABC airs Paul Harvey and when we’re in the house, we listen to him. If we are getting ready to go somewhere, we”ll wait until we hear the whole story he has to tell for the day. His stories are usually saccharine sweet — something one might find in Reader’s Digest or the Chicken Soup books, but something about being in the Northwoods makes us a little more receptive to that kind of storytelling.

I’ll miss his voice and his stories — but since I’ve only heard a fraction of what he had to say, maybe they’ll replay them — like the peanuts comics — and I’ll still get to hear his voice in Wisconsin.

Root Beer

Memories

Of the thousands of things I’ve tasted over my life, root beer holds the distinction of producing the strongest memories for me. Most, if not all of the memories are from the first six or so years of my life.

When I was very small we spent a lot of time at my Aunt Pat and Uncle Don’s tiny house on Stewart Avenue on the east side of Elgin. When we were there, I was allowed to have a glass of root beer. The root beer was always served to me in an aluminum tumbler. Most of the families I knew had a set like this — each glass was a different color aluminum and the rim flared out a little — I can still remember the feeling on my bottom lip. I think the aluminum must have made the root beer taste slightly different.

My Aunt and Uncle smoked. A lot. Their walls, ceilings, furniture and appliances were always covered in a not-so-thin film of tobacco. I imagine that also made the root beer taste different.

Another of my root beer memories is of going to the A&W or the Dog-n-Suds. These were drive-in restaurants where you’d drive up to a space and a waitress would come to your car. She’d take your order (all I ever remember ordering was root beer) and bring it back on a tray that attached to the side of your car by hanging on the partially rolled up window. My mom and dad always got big mugs of root beer and I always got a small one. We’d drink our root beers, maybe talk a little, then Dad would call the waitress over and she’d take the tray away. The root beer at the drive-ins tasted fresh and crisp and smooth and cold. The mugs had thick rims and I remember the feeling of those too.

I don’t remember when I stopped liking root beer — but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with the filth of my Aunt’s house. After Uncle Don died she quit taking care of her house and possibly smoked more — at least smoked more in the house since she didn’t go out much. I must have associated root beer with Aunt Pat’s house and lost my taste for it. The thought of drinking it could bring on a gag reflex.

In the 7th grade my science teacher, Mr. Schwarzkopf,  had the class make our own root beer. I don’t know if the finished product tasted like real root beer because I couldn’t bring myself to try it.

In the past few years my kids have been ordering root beers at restaurants and I’d taste theirs to see if I still hated it. It turned out I didn’t hate the taste at all — in fact I liked it and even liked the memories it brought.

This afternoon I poured myself a glass of root beer — this time in a glass tumbler — and enjoyed it so much I had another and thought about the house on Stewart Avenue and the drive-in restaurants with the busy waitresses. And even Mr. Schwarzkopf — but only in passing since I didn’t actually drink the root beer we made in class.