August Geisert

It occurred to me when I got the batch of family pictures from Uncle Babe that there was no way that we could divide the pictures in any satisfactory fashion. Since I was putting together a Geisert pictorial history for the Washburn Historical Museum, I decided to get copies made of both sides of the family and to try to write a history so that all of us would have some information about our heritage.
Some of the pictures had notations on the back helping me to identify and from reading over the obituaries, I was able to form some sense of timing.
Throughout this short famy history, I will refer to people as they relate to me. For instance, Grandpa Geisert will be August Geisert and not Lawrence Geisert. It could become somewhat of a hodgepodge if I don’t establish a format.

August seated with his father

I can’t believe the first picture because it is identified on the back as August Geisert and his father”. I don’t know what his father’s name was. Since the picture was processed in Eau Claire, lm able to make some observations about Grandpa Geisert’s life. I knew that he was born in Pennsylvania, but I thought he and his brothers moved west when he was a young man. Now I know that his whole family came to Wisconsin when he was a young boy. It looks like he’s about eleven or twelve on this picture.

August was born in 1856 and married Amelia Salle (pronounced Sylee} in the late 1870’s. The bride’s hometown, Reed’s Landing, Minnesota, was the site of the wedding. They settled in Rice Lake where we know they lived for several years because their first four children were born there. Somewhere in-the mid 1880”s they moved to Washburn, living in the rather big house on 6th St. that many of you remember. I don’t know what August did for a living except that for awhile he ran a tavern.
August had two brothers that I know of, Louis and Chris, both of whom lived in the Park Falls area. I don’t think that either of them had any children. Louis died in1935. August died on December 20,1921, his wife’s birthday.

The second picture, the one on the right, is of August when he was a young man, somewhere in his 20’s it looks like. His face has slimmed down a great deal and is quite angular. There are a couple of pictures of him as an older man, maybe in his 50’s, where he is very hefty with a full face.

August Geisert as a young man

When you consider the dates of the Civil War (1861-1865), you wonder if the fear of the war is what prompted the early Geiserts to leave Pennsylvania. Whatever the reason, their departure was a wise one since Pennsylvania became quite a battleground.

Amelia Geisert (August's Wife)

There were no portraits of Grandma Geisert, only a few snapshots and this one seemed the best. I mentioned earlier that she was born in Read’s Landing, Minnesota, a community that no longer exists, I guess. At least I couldn’t find it in any atlas. I’m guessing it was a small Mississippi River town near the Twin Cities because Grandpa Geisert was from the Eau Claire area and that wouldn’t be too far away. Grandma is flanked by her two brothers, Charlie on the left, and either George or William on the right. A notation on the back of the picture says; look at the grin on Uncle Charley. Oh, he is a devil. We have a circus.

Grandma was born in 1859 and died in 1945. After her youngest son, Leslie, died in 1931. she retired to her bedroom and seldom left It. I can remember my dad carrying her downstairs on occasion, maybe for Christmas. but other than that I always remember her in her bedroom, usually in bed, but sometimes In a chair. Since both Uncle Otto and Aunt Hazel worked, they hired a housekeeper to take care of her. I know that one housekeeper was paid a dollar a day. In the summer months when Aunt Hazel stayed home, (she taught In Ashland) my brothers and I had to take turns sitting with Grandma when Aunt Hazel had to leave. It wasn’t something I looked forward to. We couldn’t have friends over, and Aunt Hazel would insist that we sit upstairs and talk with Grandma. She was somewhat defensive about her German heritage and couldn’t understand what the Nazis were all about. I guess I remember this because I laughed when she referred to the Nazis as Nassies.

Lawrence and his brothers

August and Amelia had seven sons. George died when he was a young boy, and his gravesite is not in the family plot. I found his grave in the old Washburn cemetery many years ago. I couldn’t find it again when I looked a few years ago.

This picture of the surviving sons was taken in1921, I believe, when the boys served as pallbearers for their father.

Standing in the back row are Leslie, Lawrence, Earl; in the front are Otto, Will, and Roy.

I faintly remember Leslie who died of pneumonia in 1931 when I was four years old. The wake and funeral were held at the family home, and my brother Don and I were there and had to be lifted to view the body in the coffin.

My dad is next. He was born in 1897and died in 1981. He lived in Washburn all his life and worked for DuPont for over 40 years. He was commonly known as Spot, a nickname that resulted from his skill at bowling. He had difficulty finding competitors unless he spotted them some pins.

Earl lived in Superior where he worked as an electrician. He had a son, Richard, who probably still lives in Superior. Earl died sometime in the 1970’s.

Somehow Otto picked up the nickname “Hoppy” and generally was called that. He worked for Ungrodt’s Hardware for about 55 years. He and Aunt Hazel maintained the family home until his death in the 1970’s.

Will was the oldest son who was a self taught engineer and worked for many years for the Fitger’s Brewery in Duluth. He had three children, Harriet and Howard who live in Duluth and Carol who passed away around 1990. I visited him and his wife often when I was a student at Superior, and I remember both he and Aunt Louise were kind, friendly people. I was a student when he died of a stroke in 1952.

I never really knew Uncle Roy very well. He lived In the Twin Cities and worked as an electrician. He had one daughter, Florence, who did live with Aunt Hazel for awhile after her parents were divorced. She died several years ago, and Roy died in 1973.

Hazel and her sisters

There were three daughters who are pictured here. Nellie is on the left and was the oldest. She died when she was 37 or 38 from complications from an ulcerated tooth. There was always a huge picture of her hanging in the hallway in Grandma’s house, and we would comment on how beautiful she was. She had two daughters, Charlotte, who died young, and Maxine who I remember because she was almost as old as my dad, and would come to Washburn for visits. I know Maxine has a daughter, Jacque, who lives in Minnesota and also a son.

Aunt Angie (Evangeline) was a teacher in Superior. I think she taught Home Economics. She was responsible for the houseful of antiques that were in the family home, and she also directed the construction of the fireplace. She became ill in the late 1930’s with what the family quietly referred to as a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized In Minneapolis for many years before her death in 1947.

The remarkable thing about Aunt Hazel is that she earned her B.S. degree from Northland College when she was in her late 60’s, a year or two before her retirement. She had earned credits at a teachers’ college in Ashland, and picked up additional credits in summer school. Her good friend was attending summer school at Northland to earn her degree. Aunt Hazel was kind of jealous and negotiated with a Northland professor who agreed to grant her the final three credits she needed for a degree. Her responsibility was to provide a lengthy term paper on children’s literature. I remember this well because I proofread the paper for her and typed the final copy. She lived alone for several years after Uncle Otto died. My dad took care of her shopping needs and visited her twice a day as she approached the age of 90. She did suffer from senility the last years of her life, but was alert enough to know what a nursing home was and refused to even consider moving to one. She died in 1977 at the age of 92.

The Doucette's

Now we go to the other side of the family. This is a picture of my mother’s mother and her step father, Pauline Duguay and Jerome Doucette. My mother’s father died when my mother was very young, maybe when she was two or three years old. I think his name was Pierre Landre’. My grandmother had a brother Peter Duguay, living in Washburn and he wrote to her and told her that he knew a French Canadian man in Washburn who had six children, had lost his wife and was looking for a new wife. So my grandmother came to Washburn with her two small children and married Jerome. Several of his children were old enough to be on their own and my mother was raised with two step sisters, Lil and Pearl, and her brother, Uncle Joe, and a half sister, the only child that Pauline and Jerome had together. My Aunt Mae is the only surviving member. She’s about 88 and lives in Rice Lake.

Grandpa Doucette earned a living by working in the box factory which was located near the flowing well. He died in 1966 or 67 think. My mother always felt that he was good to his step children and regarded him as her father. My Uncle Joe and Aunt Leah moved in with him after my grandmother died and took care of him the rest of his life. He and Pauline generally spoke French to each other, but after her death he was pretty much limited to English, sometime with funny results. After he finished building a row boat, we laughed when he asked us to go down to the lake with him to lynch the boat.
A funny thing about my grandmother is that she was bald. The story was that her head was scalded and she lost all her hair except a few whisps around the temples. She always wore a wig with a bun on top and tucked in the few strands of hair that were her own. This technique held the wig in place and helped to give a more natural look. A short time after her death In 1938, I saw a couple of candy boxes on her dresser. I expected to find some sweet treats and was disappointed to discover that the candy boxes were where she stored her extra wigs.

Angeline (Grandma Nin)

This picture of my mother was probably taken in the 1920’s. When Todd saw it, he remarked that now he knew where he got the big nose. I think he’s got to look elsewhere for that distinguishing characteristic because I don’t remember that my mother’s nose was big. The lighting in the picture might be responsible for highlighting the nose. My mother was born in a small New Brunswick community that we eventually spelled as Puckmouche. I can’t find It in any current atlas although I thought I found it years ago. Recently I found a Buctouche and wonder if we lost the real pronounciation throughout the years. Her name was Angeline Mary Landry and she came to Washburn with her mother and her younger brother, my Uncle Joe, when she was about three years old. Joe was a twin, but his brother died as an infant.

My mother retained some of her French, but was very nervous when my brother Babe was learning to speak and many of his early words were in French because he was around my grandparents so much. We lived with them for a few years when Babe was born so there was very close contact. I remember once when my folks came to visit, we thought we’d prepare something fancy, thinking ragu was special because it was French. My mother wasn’t impressed because she knew that ragu meant stew.
While many of the French Canadians in the Washburn area had Indian blood, my mother insisted that she had no Indian blood in her. When I was in high school, I learned that the French colonized the new world by emptying out some of their prisons and sending the convicts to the new world. Few women came, so many of the men married Indians. When I announced this new discovery to my mother, she slapped my face and in anger said, You are nothing but a German African, and you’re damn black too.
My mother was born in 1900 and died in 1972, struggling with congestive heart failure for about ten years. She had a severe heart attack in the early 60’s and did recover somewhat, but went into rapid decline after Ken’s death.
I think this is a touching story and says something about my mother’s love for her family. I know my mother was in and out of consciousness the last few weeks of her life because I was with her for four days two weeks before she died. When my brother Don visited her on February 11th, she didn’t respond to anyone. My Aunt Lil was there trying to arouse her, but she remained still and silent, totally inert. Don came to her side and quietly whispered in her ear, Mom, do you know what day this is? She opened her eyes and said, “Yes, it’s your birthday”. She never spoke again. She died on Valentine’s Day, three days later.

Ken, Don, Ron and Babe

1943, I think. Ken was home on leave, and I suppose my parents wanted a family picture just in case. Our country was in the midst of World War 11, Ken was in the military, and there were two more sons who probably would have to serve in the Armed Forces. My dad would have been 46, my mother 43, (not much older than Paula is now). Ken , 22, Don 17, Ron, 16, and Babe, 14. A friend of our family had a son who was in service and sold one of his suits to my mother for $10.00. That’s the suit I’m wearing. It turned out to be my graduation suit as well. As it turned out, Don and I both had to join the military. Don was in the Navy for a short time, but he was medically discharged when it was discovered that he had a heart condition. The Navy must have considered it serious to discharge him in the midst of a war. My parents did try to get him to seek medical advice, but he felt good and didn’t regard his situation as dangerous. I didn’t want to wait for the draft and face the possibility of being a foot soldier. The Navy sounded more attractive so after high school graduation, I went to Ashland to get information from a Navy recruiter. I found out that I had to enlist right then. The recruiter covered a wide area throughout Northern Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota. He would not be back in Ashland until after I was 18, and that would be too late for me to enlist into what they called a minority cruise. A candidate for this plan had to be 17 years old and was guaranteed discharge before his 21 St birthday. My mother had to take the bus to Ashland to sign for me since I was underage. I went to Ashland to get information and came home a sailor.

I had some lofty idea about pursuing a medical profession eventually so I enlisted in the medical corps. I did my boot training at Camp Perry in Virginia, my corps school training in San Diego, and was sent to the Great Lakes Naval Hospital. After several months working on wards, I was assigned to death desk duty because I knew how to type. Handing serious and critical lists and making transportation and burial arrangements for deceased sailors was bad enough, but fingerprinting the corpses became very depressing. I gladly accepted the transfer to the School for Medical Practitioners on Guam. I spent a year on this war torn tropical island working with students from all over the South Pacific. True to its word, the Navy discharged me just before I turned 21, and I returned to Wisconsin. After a year at Northland College in Ashland, I transferred to Superior State, earning a BS degree with majors in history and English.
The rest is current history.

Ken joins the navy

A little bit about Ken and his family. Ken returned to Washburn after his discharge from the Navy. Our worries about his welfare during the war were somewhat unfounded I guess. Despite the fact that he was aboard ship in the Pacific throughout the war, he never faced any serious threat from the Japanese. His greatest anxiety resulted from the typhoons he experienced In the China Sea.

After his marriage to Lois Thorsen of Washburn and the birth of Tom and Richard he moved to Flint, Michigan where he spent the rest of his life working for General Motors. His sad death at the age of 50 in 1971 was a shock to all of us.
Another touching anecdote. My mother was too ill to travel to Flint for Ken’s funeral and she asked my dad to order white flowers from the family with one red rose to represent her. The bouquet was placed on a stand just to the side of the coffin. At the wake my dad pointed out to me that the white flowers were standing straight and tall in the vase, but the red rose had slightly drooped, almost touching Ken’s right shoulder. My dad could only comment that it was an odd coincidence. I knew that Dad, not one for romance or sentiment, felt that it was almost supernatural.
I can’t identify many relatives in this picture, but I know that Tom is on the far right. His son, Mike, is to his left, and his wife, Sandy, is in front of him holding the sign. Greg is fourth from the end with the beard and sunglasses. Jeff is farther to the left; sunglasses and a moustache single him out. Lois and her husband George are in the front, holding the sign. I can only guess where Debbie is (on the far left holding the sign?) and I can’t identify any of the rest, Help!

After I distribute these albums, I’m going to ask each family to add details and to distribute them to each of us.

Swivel Hips

Here are Don and the women in his life. If you add his four granddaughters, you’ve got a real harem. It’s ironic when you realize that he came from a family of five sons, and that his father came from a family of seven Sons (and three girls). This seems like a genetic foul up.

Don was the athlete of our family. He particularly liked football, but played basketball because he thought it would help him with movements on the football field. A column in the Ashland Press referred to him as “swivel hips” Geisert when he played football for Northland.
Don was a long time student at Northland because he interrupted his studies several times to work for the Chun King company in Duluth to earn money to return to college. Perseverance paid off eventually when he earned an education degree with biology major. Despite his Interest in pursuing a teaching career, he returned to Chun King, married Bernice Wallin, fathered these beautiful girls, and moved from Duluth to Jackson, Ohio and then back to Duluth. Maybe the old diagnosis of heart problems caught up with him because he suffered from congestive heart failure the last years of his life. Additional health problems contributed to his death in1993.
I’d like to mention something about Don’s interest in holidays. Any holiday, of course, was an excuse for him to exercise his culinary skills. Christmas, however, was something else. For many years he
played Santa Claus to many children in the Duluth area taking time away from his own family festivities. This holiday tradition of his became well known enough that he was interviewed on Duluth T.V.. We have a picture of him, all decked out in his Santa Claus costume, hair and beard
authentically powdered, that we put out each Christmas.
The girls in the picture are lined up chronologically: Lynne, Michelle,
Terry, Sharyl, and our God child, Andrea. One granddaughter, Heather,
belongs to Lynne, and three call Terry mother, Courtney, Kaitlyn, and
Chandler.

Cedarburg

Here is the Cedarburg bunch, the children of Ron and Mary Jane (Rodkewich). Todd, the oldest boy is on the left. He graduated from Whitewater with a degree in business and lives in Muskego with Cindy and their daughters, Kelly and Laura. He is a sales rep for a Chicago packaging company and travels a bit throughout Wisconsin and Michigan. He’s been named salesman of the year several times. He and Cindy are whizzes at throwing parties. If you’re in the area, you’re invited.

The bearded one is now clean shaven. Donn, our youngest son, graduated from UWM with a degree in criminology and earned a graduate degree in international business at the American Graduate School of International Business in Arizona. He has a glamorous job selling air conditioning motors to sweltering customers in exotic places such as Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Egypt, and to clients in South America. His summer in Chile as an AFS student introduced him to the beauty of the Spanish culture and language, an interest that propelled him into international business.
The beauty in the middle is our oldest. Paula also graduated from Whitewater, majoring in English, and is the busy mother of Rick and Elizabeth. She manages a tight schedule working three days a week at the corporate headquarters for Family Services of America. She and
Randy and their children live close by in Cedarburg making it easy for us to babysit and enjoy the kids.
For rent. Quality apartment in desirable location In Chicago. Parking available. Call Peter, our middle son, who’s become somewhat of an entrepreneur investing his resources and time in the Chicago real estate market. He graduated from UW, Madison, in bacteriology, I think, and spent several years selling apparatus to blood banks throughout the country. After a couple of years in California, he returned to Chicago and eventually decided to try his skills in buying rental property. He’s become quite skillful in carpentry, plumbing repair, and in solving all those problems that hound property owners with renters. There’s no Mrs. yet, but there’s a beautiful chocolate lab called Mocha.
Mary Kay McGuire. We’ve got to get used to that new name since Mary Kay exchanged Geisert for a more attractive Irish surname when she married Kevin in October, 1995. Not only did we inherit a new son-in law, we added two grandchildren, Patrick and Kelly. Mary Kay is another Whitewater graduate, majoring in teaching the severely retarded. Upon graduation she ventured to the desert in Tucson, Arizona where she spent five sunny years. Eventually the call of family and seasonal change lured her back to Wisconsin. Retaining her job with Waste Management in the move, she now throws her weight around as office manager. She’s an authority on recycling, not a bad field when you consider the present interest in the environment.
In addition to these five we did have two more additions to our family. Two AFS students called Lilac Lane home for a school year, Mauro Zocchi Switzerland in 1976 and Mahen Karthigesan, Sri Lanka in 1981

Fred Astaire of Bounce

We’re at the tail end with this picture of Babe and his family. Roger, the world traveler, Leslie Stephens with her son Jake, Gerry and Babe. Babe’s given name is Leslie Earl (after two of my dad’s brothers and he has followed DuPont from Barksdale to Eveleth, Minn. to Morris, Ill. The plant has changed ownership a couple of times in recent years, but Babe continues to work for the new owners. Roger is a troubleshooter of sorts for a computer company, and Leslie works for Daytons. They both live In Bloomington, Minn., the home of the big mall.

I was in the navy the last two years of Babe’s high school career, but I do know he broke his arm playing football, and also that he reigned over the high school prom as king. What I remember most, though, is his amazing skill on the dance floor, a regular Fred Astaire of bounce. I was in the crowd several times at Washburn taverns when women, young and old, lined up to get the next dance. The dance floor expertise has not diminished with age because Babe won a bottle of wine for some fancy footwork at Mary Kay’s wedding.

Letter from Lawrence to Ron

This album was created in the winter months of 1995 by Ron Geisert. There are additional family pictures that could be duplicated for anyone who wants to add to the family history. I hope that the Minnesota, Illinois, and Michigan Geiserts will add more details about their families so that we all have a more complete picture of the whole clan.
I’m including this letter from my dad because it was written on February 13th, just four days before his death. He mentions lettuce and cream which in a way announces the importance of that wonderful wilted lettuce that was always so much a part of the Geisert menu.
After the letter I’ve included several Obituaries. They’re interesting to read because they do give details that I don’t include in the short histories. Some list the mourners who are relatives that I don’t mention. Two of them (Nellie’s and Leslie’s) are very elaborate and make a statement about the change in journalism techniques throughout the years.

Beauty Contest Smackdown: Hazel vs. Angie

I guess I can’t quit. Now it’s the Tuesday before Christmas and some more thoughts come to mind. I hope this isn’t tedious reading, but there are some anecdotes that you might get a kick out of.
Earlier I mentioned that we often gazed at a picture of my Aunt Nellie that hung in the hallway of my grandmother’s house. She was beautiful. Not so of Aunt Angie and Aunt Hazel. Once the two of them had an afternoon party that my mother was invited to, I was the only kid there so I think I was five years old. Don must have been in school, and maybe Babe was at Grandma Doucette’s. He was their pet so I wouldn’t be surprised if he were there. Anyway, I was dressed in short summer pants, sitting in a chair on their glassed in porch, bored to death. Both Aunt Hazel and Aunt Angie came over to me and asked me which one I thought was the prettiest. I remember cringing in the chair, looking up at one face and then the other, studying their expressions, wondering if this were some kind of joke. I kept silent. They tugged at my arm, repeated their question, and insisted I answer. I kept silent. They refused to accept my reluctance to answer such an impossible question and continued their badgering. I guess I sensed they meant business so I shyly pointed my finger at one. It’s still a mystery to me which one I picked since neither one could have been called pretty. On the way home my mother scolded me and said that I should have called them equally pretty. I remember thinking,” Now you tell me. Where were you when I needed you?”
Some Christmas thoughts. My mother worked like a dog over the holidays. For years she made rosettes, futemon, and sunbuckles, (I spelled the last two phonetically). These two were Norwegian sweets of a sort so I don’t know why they became a tradition at our house. My mother also made cream puffs for every Christmas when I was young. Christmas dinner, of course was a feast, often with company. Uncle Joe, Aunt Leah, and Grandpa Doucette were there for many years, and Aunt Mae, Uncle Art and their two kids were often there. My mother made the entire meal with little help. No little task when you think that she was up most of the night, wrapping presents and filling stockings. When we were older, we often had Christmas dinner at Aunt Hazel’s.
Christmas morning when I was a youngster was hectic, of course. I guess we’d wake up about five o’clock, not long after my parents got to bed. Once I remember my mother telling my dad that a man was pacing back and forth in front of our house. It turned out to be my Uncle Joe who lived down the block. He didn’t want to miss those first few minutes when we rushed to the tree.
My dad always insisted that we had to line up on the stairs, oldest first, and wait there until he got the fire started. Uncle Joe was guard at the door, holding us back until Dad decided that it was warm enough to begin the onslot. It was his way of heightening the excitement; we didn’t care about icy air.
Each of us kids had our own spot to hang our stocking. My dad actually pounded nails in the woodwork around the doors. He kept track of our growth that way. Each year he’d remark how much higher he’d have to put the nail. The socks were filled with candy, nuts, an orange and an apple. it never changed.
When were older, Grandpa Doucette always gave each one of us a dollar. We always gave him two dollars. He had a 100% return on his investment. His hands actually shook with excitement when he opened his envelopes. Never a surprise but always a thrill,
Up at Aunt Hazel’s house, Christmas was more sedate, almost rigid. We were older but still missed the joy of Christmas afternoon at home. The tree was always in the corner near the fire place, and the gifts were always wrapped in red tissue, It looked attractive, but we knew that tissue paper was also cheap. Aunt Hazel was frugal. Gifts HAD to be opened one at a time, and each person was given a long agonizing minute or two to respond. Uncle Otto’s gift was usually something he got from the hardware store. Once my mother got poker chips even though she seldom played poker, and another time she got a dish without the cover. We knew that the cover was broken in shipment so the set couldn’t be sold.
One time, when we were quite young, Aunt Hazel gave us old toys that she had around the house for us to play with when we came to visit. She suggested that we leave the toys there for future playtime I took mine home because I was afraid I’d get them again for a later Christmas. Eventually Aunt Hazel became more generous, and we looked forward to the $20.00 that she gave each of us.
Now I’m not going to write anymore. This is Christmas 1995. I wish each of my kids, their spouses and their children, a very Merry Christmas, one filled with happy memories. TIMBER!

Dupont and Sonny

Some afterthoughts ....Today is 12/18/95. I finished putting the albums together on Sunday, worrying if I’d get then done in time for Christmas. I did. Now that I’ve got the chance to read things over, I’m thinking that some things sound dumb, and I should have included other things. It’s too much work to change anything, but I can add things.

I mentioned that my dad worked for DuPont for over forty years. World War 1 was on, and Dad wanted to earn big money so he lied his age and got hired. Washburn was a boomtown of sorts because the plant manufactured explosives. Many years later I worked at the plant during a few summers. Sometimes I’d be on a crew where some of the workers didn’t know who I was. Dad was a foreman at that time and they’d complain about him because he wanted the work done by the book. He respected the danger of working with explosives and didn’t allow any shortcuts. After the explosion around 1950 when six men were killed, (the one Grandpa John survived) my dad was the foreman those guys wanted to work for.

I worked at the plant for college money at first and for family income later on. Workers were required to buy steel toed shoes. Since I wanted to avoid the cost, my dad would search around the plant for a discarded pair. Once I got a pair where one shoe had a loose sole. I used masking tape to hold it together, adding new tape every few days. The company was strict on safety and one day called for a shoe check. All the workers stood in line and were told to put one foot out. I put the good foot out, thinking I’d surely get caught as the inspection continued. The foreman yelled out, “Now stick your other foot out.” I pulled my good foot back and then quickly stuck it out again. I passed and saved myself a few bucks.

Also I want to mention that my parents had five sons. The oldest was a junior and was called Sonny. I think he was six years old when he died of cancer in 1925. Doctors wanted to experiment with radium, a new drug at the time. My dad said he didn’t want him to be used for a guinea pig. He was very ill and just before Christmas doctors told my parents to take him for the holidays because he wouldn’t live long. When he took a turn for the worse, my mother ran to a neighbor’s to call for help. He died while she was gone. My dad said at the moment of his death, a crucifix fell from a far wall, landing in front of him breaking in two. I have the crucifix and don’t know what to make of the story. His death occurred on December 21. Just this time of year. Sonny’s Christmas present was to be a pedal car that my parents could ill afford. I think they saved the car for Ken who was a baby at the time.

Did my dad clasp Sonny’s body close to his chest, with its limp arms dangling, its cold fingers tracing patterns in the linoleum and run to the far wall? Did he reach up, one eye on his dead son, one on the crucifix, grab it, throw it to the floor, pick up the two pieces, run back to the stove, and stand quietly there, waiting for his wife’s return to tell her that her son had died seconds before the crucifix flew across the room?

Or did he shove the butter dish aside, place the silent bundle on the kitchen table like a loaf of bread, run for the crucifix, grab the body on his return to the stove, hurrying to arrive before my mother returned from her five minute rescue call?

Or did the old frame house shift suddenly in the bitter cold Wisconsin night, disengaging the nail, propelling the crucifix across the room?

Lawrence the Russian

“Why forr you not eat my food?”, he asked, squeezing my shoulder for emphasis. His voice was firm but gentle, and I wasn’t afraid sitting there in the big, black leather chair. I hesitated though, searching his face, wondering how I should answer. His wrinkled brow hinted of his distress, and his soft blue eyes, focusing on mine, questioned me more than his words did. I broke the visual tug-of-war for a minute to glance at the two gray drumsticks sitting on the kitchen table, indifferent to the small drama taking place, and looking little like the brown, crispy chicken that my mother prepared. My eyes returned to Lawrence’s stare that showed more hurt than anger.

Maybe ten or fifteen seconds passed with our eyes locked in suspense. He spoke again. This time his heavy Russian accent, slowed to a monotone with a slight emphasis on each word, staccato like, half coaxed, half begged, for a response. “Why forr you not eat my food?” I wet my lips, stalling for time, but before I blurted out an answer, he bent over, still peering into my eyes and giving my shoulder another little squeeze with his thick fingers, said:
“I tell you why. Forr somebody say I trry to poison you.”
Poison! My God, I thought, whatever gave him that idea? “No. No. I’m just not hungry, Lawrence. I’m just not hungry,” I lied. I really was hungry. If my mother, my aunt, or the lady next door offered me chicken, I’d have wolfed it down in a minute. But this was very different. This chicken was cleaned, cooked, carved and served by Lawrence the Russian, an old man who lived in a shack by the railroad tracks. And he was a bachelor. A wild thought entered my head. Would I eat if he got married? Would the vows of Holy Matrimony restore my appetite? Would conjugal bonding negate my nyet? Would I run down the aisle waving two drumsticks screaming, “Soup’s on. Soup’s on”?
Sanity returned and so did the heat of the moment. Once more I lied, “Lawrence, I’m not hungry.” His fingers relaxed their grip. He backed up, shuffled over to the table and dropped his pudgy frame into the straightback chair. After an awkward pause, he said: “Alrright, I eat them myself.”
Usually when Lawrence offered me food, no tension occurred. Usually I ate. I had no problem with the oranges that were the most common treat. I had to peel them according to his instructions, though. After making the initial penetration, I held the orange firmly in my hand, rotating it slowly in one direction. Thrusting the thumb nail of my free hand under the skin and sliding it with a continuous motion in the opposite direction, I separated the peeling from the pulp. Voila! One long, twisted curl fell to the floor. Sometimes I ‘ci dangle the springlike coil in the air and with a flick of the wrist setting it in motion, I’d watch it bounce and spin, a miniature mobile.
And tins of crushed pineapple were no problem, either. After all, the pineapple was packed away in a tight container secure from the dangers of any Bolshevik sabotage. Quietly slipping a spoon into my pants pocket and quickly sterilizing the utensil on the lining, satisfied my fear from any kitchen subterfuge. The tin can, an amateur iron curtain, did its sob. Bring on the sardines, bring on the Spam, I rationalized. I was Lawrence’s errand boy. I delivered his mail, bought his groceries, and picked dandelions for his dandelion wine. No minimum wage guaranteed my salary, but a day or two after his pension check arrived, he dropped a handful of Coins into my hands; no quarters, only pennies, nickels, and dimes. This magic moment made me feel like a big shot, proud to be gainfully employed. The fringe benefits were impressive as well. I realize now that he was a lonely man, plying me with food that had to be consumed on the spot. He was buying companionship. Many times I was a somewhat reluctant guest, preferring to fool around at Thompson’s Creek with my friends. The bait worked, though, because Lawrence knew how much I liked oranges, pineapple and watermelon.
Watermelon. I think we had two a year at home, one on the Fourth and one on Labor Day. Each time I’d share one with my three brothers and my parents while my mother issued orders on the proper disposal of the seeds and rinds.
Lawrence wouldn’t know Emily Post if he slept with her; he didn’t worry about formality. We not destrroy the joy of the moment,” he said when he hauled out the watermelon. I was surprised at this rather sophisticated philosophy coming from a Russian peasant, but I jumped up and moved to the chair facing Lawrence. He chopped slice after slice. Juice dripped, seeds flew, and rinds fell into a small pyramid in the center of the floor. For a half hour or so, there were two kids, one with a moustache, quietly contented with their simple joy. When the last piece disappeared, out came the mop and broom and a mild cleaning frenzy took place. The melon melee ended, but I could never understand that the man who objected to small bits of orange litter was the same man who invited a watermelon free-for-all.
Summer faded into autumn. Winter arrived. With the passing of time, my minute man mentality faded. The watermelon Maginot Rinds marched off to the rubbish with the empty pineapple cans and dozens of orange spirals. My guard was down when Lawrence launched a new attack. The chicken had flown the coop. Who would think that raspberry jello would roost in its place? Lawrence retreated to the rear of the
room, reached up and retrieved a small bowl from the cold cubbyhole in the attic area he used as a makeshift refrigerator. A satisfied smile stretched across his face as he approached me, and he proudly placed the bowl in my lap. He thrust a spoon from the cluttered table into my hand. “Now you eat,” he ordered, “it’s good for you.”
I scanned the contents of the bowl, again stalling for time. I hesitated. Lawrence waited. Suddenly I remembered watching my mother make jello. I heard her say that firm jello required very hot water. This jello was firm. The water had been hot. The bowl was sterilized I surmised, and the hot water would have prevented Lawrence from contaminating the preparation process. I scanned the contents once more,
marveling at the intricate scalloping design that encircled the edge of the jello. I again thought of my mother, selecting molds with a grape or fish pattern to add a festive touch to her dessert.
“Why, Lawrence”, I thought, “Who’d ever think you’d bother to decorate a bowl of jello?”
Once more I slid the spoon into my pocket, the denim autoclave. With precautions completed, I stabbed the center of the jello mold. Lawrence’s eyes widened in dismay. He leaned over, his face inches from mine, and yelled: “No! Not No! You must eat arround the edges wherre l”ve been eating!”
I stopped, frozen in silence, then slowly dropped my hand to my side. The spoon stood straight in the firm jello, rigidly pointing upward ,an exclamation point to my misdeed. A deep gash destroyed the elegance of Lawrence’s oral artistry. I pushed the bowl aside, watching the jello quiver. “Gosh, Lawrence, I’m full. I’m not hungry. I’m just not Hungry. Honest.” I lied.