I WAS BORN IN A SMALL TOWN…

There’s a great song by Van Morrison called “Hyndford Street”, and in this song Morrison gives in to the self-indulgent wanting of nostalgia from his childhood in Ireland.  “Take me back,” Morrison croons, “take me way, way, way, way back to Hyndford Street, where you could hear the silence at half past 11 on long summer nights.”

For me, it’s the long, hard winter of 2011 that has taken me back.  There’s more time in the evenings for contemplation and recollection, and there’s something about the dead of winter that makes me think back to my childhood.  If you’re reading this blog and you grew up with me in Cass City, I think you’ll be impacted by some of the fond memories I am about to recall, none of which involved, computers, smart phones or chain department stores.

KRITZMAN’S DEPARTMENT STORE & OLD WOOD DRUG  – In Cass City, there was not a single chain or franchise store (other than a Ben Franklin five and dime).  When my Mom identified a clothing need for me or my two brothers, she drove us four miles to see Bill Kritzman at Kritzman’s Department Store on Main Street.  Either Pat Wells (a lady from our church) or Bill Kritzman himself would show us pants, help us try on shirts, and especially fit us into shoes.  My feet still hurt today to think of Bill Kritzman shoving my feet into a size 8 hush puppy, pulling the laces tight enough to cut off my circulation, all the while smiling hugely and asking my mom about life on the farm “out in the country.”  We almost never bought clothes anywhere but Kritzman’s, because they were local and our friends worked there.  When we needed medicine or greeting cards, we did not have a Walgreens or a Rite Aid.  We had the Coach Light Pharmacy and – right next door – The Old Wood Drugstore.  I am still not sure today how Cass City supported TWO drugstores, side by side.  But it did.

WE WERE SPANKED IN SCHOOL – My elementary principal was Jackie Freiburger, and today she would have passed for a WWF sidekick.  She easily went 250 lbs, and she roamed the halls (with little space left for us second graders) seeking whom she may devour.  I was scared to death of her and several times was called in to her office, turned over her knee, and briskly spanked on my bottom by her pudgy paws.  When I graduated to Junior High, the raspy-voiced Mr. Stickle was my principal.  Anyone back then who was slightly problematic was introduced to Mr. Stickle’s wooden paddle.  Crafted with great care in an Industrial Arts class, Stickle’s “Swat Machine” was approximately 20 inches long, four inches wide, and had small holes drilled into it for maximum pain administration.  More than once Mr. Stickle invited me into his office – all the while dragging on an unfiltered Camel cigarette.  He would give me his best Good Cop-Bad Cop questioning, find me guilty and then instruct me to bend over, where he would forthwith unleash four to five violent swats.  I’m not gonna lie – it hurt.  And you remembered the pain for several hours, until you and your buddies laughed about it after school and compared your swats like a badge of honor.

RIDING THE SCHOOL BUS – If you grew up in the country like me, riding the school bus was not just an option, it was your only way to school.  Riding the bus was like getting on a carnival ride every day, complete with knife throwing contests, bearded ladies (the driver) and loud rock music.  I saw my first naked woman on a school bus (Steve Peters brought Playboy from home).  I was first punched out on the school bus (Derek Harmon beat on me for days).  My most famous moment came when Rob Hartwick and I cut off the hair of the girl in front of us and were expelled from the bus for three days (sorry to Kaylene Brown, if you’re out there, I really am sorry).  My parent’s decided to leave me to my own vices, and I rode my bike four miles one way to school, early in the morning, as restitution.  Can anyone imagine making their kids do this today?  Of course not, but it was completely safe and reasonable in 1978.

MEMORIAL DAY PARADE – When I was between the ages of five to 12, The Cass City Memorial Day Parade was still a day that culminated in honoring veterans.  If you grew up with me in Cass City, do you remember:   1) decorating your bike spokes with red, white and blue streamers, or making “click-clacks” by inserting baseball cards into the spokes?  2) Hundreds of us queuing up with our bikes at Croft Clara Lumber on the west end of town? 3) Slowly following behind the War Veterans as they were saluted by hundreds of people on Main Street who cheered them for their valor? 4) Riding all the way to the cemetery on the east end of town, where a 21-gun salute was followed by a prayer for the fallen soldiers?  5) And then, the greatest payoff of all?  The veterans broke open about a dozen coolers where anyone who rode their bike received – wait for it – a free can of Faygo pop.  Red Pop, Cream Soda, Rockin Rye, etc.  It was one of the few times in a year I would get my own can of pop, and it was a highlight of my young life.  No lie.

MY HEATLESS BEDROOM – The House I grew up in – the house my parents still live in today – did not have heat in the upstairs.  The scientific way to heat such a space was to simply open the upstairs door – but not until about 7pm, just a few hours before bedtime.  As any good farm family knows, heat rises, and in those last few hours before bedtime, a resourceful person could raise the temperature from say the low 60s to the high 60s just before bed.  Seeing my breath in the mornings was not an altogether uncommon experience.  Other priceless facts about the two bedrooms my brothers and I occupied:  1) My brother Dave (a reader of science fiction novels) kept McDonald ketchup packs above his bedstand in the event of an apocalypse; 2) I rented a wall from that same brother for $1 per year in order to adequately display my life-size posters of Walter Payton and Julius Erving.  3) My Dad had no tolerance, however, when I tried to join the KISS Army and displayed a poster of the Greatest Rock Band of the 1970s on my wall.  It was summarily torn down and I was told:  “No kid of mine is joining the KISS Army.”

BIG CATHOLIC FAMILIES – We grew up in a town somewhat divided along denominational lines.  I was regularly scorned for being a “Baptist”, mostly because my family and others in our local church held to the tenants of Biblical separation, which precluded us from attending movies, going to dances and partaking in alcohol of any type.  Not so for my Catholic friends who attended St. Pancratius Catholic Church.  I first learned what catechism was from them, and I also learned that – even though my Mom and Dad did not drink alcohol – the priests in the Catholic Church did!  Also, Catholic weddings were legend in the Thumb area, with most of the receptions being held at a Polish club (Dom Palski Hall) or Bowling Alley (Charmont), and hundreds of gallons of beer being consumed.  I still remember being amazed at stories on a Monday morning after a big Catholic wedding weekend.  My friends from 7^th grade on up were regularly sneaking booze and getting plowed.  Also, I remember several Catholic families who had over ten children, one over 15.  If you’re last name was Rabideau or Langenburg, I think you know what I am talking about.

OUR SUMMER JOBS – Growing up in Cass City, one would not find great opportunities for employment.  There were a few choice jobs available  -- working at the Koo-Koo Cow, Quaker Maid, Pizza Villa, or Charmont were considered decent gigs.  Less likely and less available was a summer job at Walbro Corporation (the lone manufacturing plant in Cass City which employed most of the town).  However, summer jobs at Walbro were basically reserved for the children of the executives who worked there, and my Dad was no such executive.  What my Dad WAS was a guy who owned a farm, and that meant no end of jobs from him and from neighboring farm families.  For several years we raised two acres of sweet corn and sold thousands of ears of corn on the side of M-53 to folks fleeing Detroit and heading to the Lake.  We also picked rocks, de-tasseled corn, milked cows, and perhaps most famously – hoed beans.  Hoeing beans was best done in groups of 4-6 people.  The task was simple:  Begin at 7am in a 50 acre soybean field that measured a half a mile in length.  Walk one way, watching the two rows to your left, and the two rows to your right, and eradicate corn tassels or milkweed plants from last year’s crop.  Repeat this ALL DAY until about 3pm.  You would pack a lunch and a thermos, and you would hoe shirtless (with no suntan lotion) for eight hours, passing the time laughing about all the dumb things your friends had done the night before.

(TEACHABLE MOMENT:  The above scenario is the root of the phrase “a tough row to hoe.”  You would know this if you ever hoed beans for a summer)

I’ve only scratched the surface of my remembrances.  I didn’t talk about going sucker spearing, about skipping school during the first day of pheasant hunting season with my friends, about the Winter of 1978 when we missed ten straight days of school due to three feet of snow, or about the night Marsha Goslin died in 7^th grade.  There’s also stories of fast pitch softball, playing high school football, hating on Caro, going to Caseville, listening to Bob Seger Live Bullet on LP vinyl, cruising town for hours with Jeff Loomis, and swimming in the gravel pit on Ritter Road (before several fatalities forced its closures). 

All in all, it was a rich existence, and I am not afraid to admit I long for those days and for the feelings they gave me.  Yes, I know it means I am growing old.  Nostalgia can be both a good thing and a bad thing, but I am here to tell you those were the finest, most carefree days of my life and I just hope a few of you read this and tell me you feel the same.

Talk to you AfterWords…