Reflections on Growing up Olsen

(On November 11, 2009, I videotaped my uncle, Eric RP Olsen telling stories about his life in Marquette, Michigan. This post is but a segment of this recording and in Eric Olsen's own words.)

I have learned that if I become a success it’s because of my parents.

I was born on July 17, 1939 to Emil and Edna Olsen. My dad came to this country from Norway on a whaling vessel when he was 14-years-old back in the days when kids worked. On his second voyage on the Whaler he got sick and they put him off in New York City and he ended up on Ellis Island, recovered and made his way to Minnesota and from there to Chicago where he met my mother. Dad sailed for years on barges on the Great Lakes. 

In 1918, everyone had the flu and this killed an awful lot of people. Dad quit his job on the Great Lakes as a skipper to come home to take care of the family. 

I had four brothers - Clayton, who died of diphtheria at two-years-old, Donald, Richard who retired as a skipper on the Great Lakes ... who became a pilot on the Great Lakes, Russell who had nothing to do with the water. My brother Don (the Barefoot Norwegian's father) was raised his first couple years on board a ship - back then you could be on these vessels. He walked the decks of these Great Lakes freighters where my mother was a cook and my father a chief engineer. When Donald was about three-years-old he got off the vessel and had to learn to walk all over again. As he got older he still didn’t walk very well. He had walked decks too long. I also had two sisters - Janice and Betty.

I was born just before the start of WWII and it was 4-5 years before I got acquainted with my brothers. My sister Betty was a different matter. My mother became sick and lost her eye sight for a short period of time after I was born so Betty quit school and took over raising me. My first remembrance of her was that she was like my mother, she took care of me.

My father worked at the Cliff Dow Chemical Company for a short period of time so we had a company house down in the Furnace location in Marquette. It was quite a life. My favorite memory of growing up in the furnace location was the start of my life of crime. 

My friend Paulie Pringle and I were about three-years-old and we use to go lay under the porch. When the women put the milk bottles on the porches, Paulie and I would take our cut of the money in the bottles. Then we would head up to the north end tavern where they sold these little packages of six cookies for 3 cents apiece. We would spend all our money on these cookies. I’m sure Paulie talked me into it - it just doesn’t seem like a thing I would do, but I did.

We moved from there out to the farm in Big Bay where dad got a job with the Ford plant and got back into his old field of engineering. He was the operating engineer at the plant and kept the steam engines running. 

We lived on the farm for a short time and there are a lot of memories there. I was about four-years-old and I remember my mother being a wonderful person - to me she was a saint and took good care of us. But she had one failing – she loved to play poker. We lived in the country and were 20 miles from the nearest town and a mile from the nearest neighbor. My aunt and uncle, Dupra, owned a place up the road and they use to sponsor a poker game once a week and my mother would go play. My younger sister and I would have to traipse along with her. 

One day we were coming back home and there was something in a cherry tree right behind the house. My mother did the lady-like thing and went in and got the shotgun. I held the flashlight and she shot what she thought was a bear, and thank God it wasn’t my dad up there. It was a porcupine. We washed it out and the next morning we had some rather suspicious meat on the table, which I am sure was porcupine.

 After about six months we got a company house.

Living in the Upper Peninsula we ate some strange things. Porcupine, never ate a skunk, but we had muskrat because my father trapped these and we regularly ate and loved them. He use to shoot geese and I didn’t like eating a goose because I hated to clean them.  We lived on wild game and it was amazing – everything from snapping turtles to venison.  Some people say it was a terrible way to live but I learned to really appreciate a good beef steak now, or even a poor beef steak. 

After living on the farm for a while my dad got a company house in Big Bay. I remember the day we arrived in Big Bay - every kid in town was in the front yard. Dad had been there for six months living in a little shack down in a place called Squaw Beach. He made every kid in town a sling shot and sling, like David used to shoot Goliath. My dad was unusual in that he could use a sling and was good with it. Every kid in town had a sling in his back pocket along with a sling shot. The kids were all just waiting because they knew I must have been something special to have a father like dad. Those were some wonderful, formative years and I was learning things that I never realized would come in handy later in my life.

The first thing I remember my dad doing is taking me with him on his trap line when I was about six-years-old because I was interested in that. He came home and had half a dozen muskrats and he said  

“you watch me trap enough you should know how to do this.” 

So, I started setting my own traps in a ditch around the Ford plant – a place I could walk to. The first year I caught about 30 muskrats and that’s when they brought in $2.50 to $3.00 apiece. I was the best paid first grader. The other kids were living on a quarter allowance, if they got an allowance. Some of these people never saw a quarter, or a beef steak.  But I was making pretty good money trapping.

Now my mother was a very frugal person and when I got my first check from Sears and Roebuck of $18.75 I had to buy a darn war bond. This continued for many years and even in high school I was buying bonds. The benefit of this story as when I bought my first car I cashed in bonds and paid for it. Mom had that in mind when she made me buy these bonds.   

Those were interesting days and Big Bay was an interesting place.

 

 

Birdman of Small Acres Lane

As I review the "trees" of my childhood, I find myself ruminating about my maternal grandparents who lived in a farm-y home at the end of a short dirt road. These memories light up this tired ol' soul. 

Please take the journey with me. 

Turning south off a busy road, you are immediately met with a tall hill lined with tombstones. To me it was a place of quiet and time with grandpa. The cemetery was a sacred place my grandfather, known and written about as The Birdman of Small Acres Lane. Grandpa sported a goatee, always wore bib overalls with a one piece "union suit", and a weathered wide brim "farming" hat. He would sit with his back against a gnarly tree tenderly petting his beloved dog, thinking or reading, while I wandered around reading the stones. Next to the cemetery was the Red Cedar River, which he told me to view but admonished me about getting too close.

Following this dusty road toward their home, we pass Sadie's woody and partially hidden home on the left and Lilah's small cottages on the right. Rumor back then was that grandpa and Lilah were good friends and that Sadie was peculiar and exotic.

Continuing down the road you would walk over a small bridge above a creek with the Red Cedar River to the left. To get to the river you had to walk down a steep hill, through beds of nettles, and find the muddy bank where I found hours of delight bamboo pole fishing. Along the bank, away from Sadie's house, there was a small wooden dock, where I would lay holding a worm in the water inevitably attracting a hungry sunfish.

About an acre of thick "magical" woods was on the opposite side of the road. Our family and the neighbors played there for hours. At one point and only for a short while someone strung a long rope from a tree near the edge - long enough to swing on as we played Tarzan and Jane. To the right of the woods was the Hagerman home ... alongside their outbuilding was an unplugged freezer filled with yummy worms where I'd get my fill for fishing in the river.

Onto the road again and 25 feet more was a white house on the left filled with my childhood friends. Evenings would find us sitting in their multi-window back room, which overlooked the river and woods, playing hours of card and board games. Then we'd go to my grandparent's house and play aggravation on the red metal table that overlooked the gardens and chicken coop.

My grandparent's rustic brown and yellow home was filled with bird houses built by grandpa. Perched on poles, trees, in the gardens, on the lawn, these houses attracted a multitude of birds. 

 

Grandpa and I sat on chairs in the front yard as he taught me the practice of twiddling our thumbs -- entwine your fingers together leaving the thumbs to fend for themselves as you focus on circling your thumbs back and forward. Quite a calming activity he was found to enjoy as the silence brought out nature sounds. Grandpa was a successful gardener and loved eating warm tomatoes with salt fresh off the vine, roasting sunflower seeds, eating grapes, and tending his chickens in the little coop along the side of the garden. He was also quite a musician playing accordion, violin, harmonica among some of his instruments. We were told he wanted to attend a music school but was denied by his parents because he had to help on their potato farm in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

Behind my grandparent's house was a long garden bordered by a huge hill, a place where my siblings and I spent hours. A piece of cardboard served as our sleds. The steep hill was scaled over and over as sliding down was fast and exciting. Occasionally, the sharp grass would slice into a finger but didn't seem to bother anyone. I'm sure my mom tried and tried to scrub the grass stains and smell of grass off our blue jeans in her ringer washer but to no avail.

At the end of the road  - the railroad tracks. When I spent the night I'd sleep with my grandmother under bed sheets that were cool and clean and fresh smelling from the clothes line. Every night grandma would lean over and wind up the round alarm clock which would jangle us awake in the morning. But during the night the haunting sound of trains passing by and rattling the windows soothed me as they raced to destinations I couldn't ever fathom.

I spent weeks with my grandparents, every minute I could, and know they helped form the hopeful and good part of me.

 

In the Arms of Mother Nature

I believe, I believe, I believe in the healing power of Mother Nature and spend as much time with Her as possible. She helps me sort through emotions, feelings, thoughts – even revealing hidden gems to explore on my path in this life.

  

Into the Woods

County, state and local parks provide a healthy way to explore life and to engage with family and friends. Mother Nature soothes concerns, problems; accentuates action plans, goals; allows for mind-half or mind-full-thinking.  Find rejuvenation on the plethora of paths throughout Michigan. 

Mother Nature makes my complicated and sometimes painful life appear simpler and more stimulating. Communing with the animals, birds, leaves, water, mud, snakes, and even walking through the swarms of freshly hatched bugs, gives me nourishment for the multitude items on my invisible schedule – my life blood is enriched.

I am a verbal processor, or, storyteller – embellisher of life -- it IS who I AM. My feelings, thoughts and memories are verbalized or put on paper allowing me to look at the words, ruminate, categorize, act or dispose of them. Maybe you are like me? Or perhaps you like to keep your words snuggled in your brain with the ability to search through your thoughts and make sense of life and pain and trials in a quieter manner.

Either way of communicating is acceptable.

Why would you want to fool Mother Nature or ignore Her? She understands why you seek Her and will embrace you with peaceful clarity. She accepts me … just the way I am! Give Her a chance.

This year think about parks you can visit, lakes you can toss up a lawn chair to be close to the lapping of the waves, perhaps a picnic? But, pick up your litter when you leave. Mother Nature loves those who care about Her.

I choose the road less traveled.

Time and Art During Covid-19

Staying Safe at Home

I appreciate, even adore, a quiet day where naps are there for the taking, books fingered and page marked, design shows on the DVR, a fresh journal begging for my attention. A quiet day is a gift to cherish. But (always a but in there somewhere) with "enforced" quietude - these "free" days seem different, perhaps more of a challenge, but also magical. COVID-19 quarantine and its horrid and lasting effects acknowledged, we are staying safe at home, Zoom and FaceTime visiting, and distancing ourselves on walking trails or engaged in other outdoor activities. I'm seeing more families walking together, dogs are getting good workouts and trot by with their tails curled up in happiness.

Quiet and inaction are not words in my vocabulary. I'm more of a go-go person. Always doing suits me fine and is more to my liking. When we were given the mandate to stay-safe-at-home, my heart literally skipped some beats - what, no coffeeshop writing, bookstore haunting, family gatherings? I wondered how to meet this challenge with grace. 

Reaching Out

I began posting on FB what we were doing and our challenges, and asked my FB friends how things were going and could they share ideas for activities within the state guidelines. Responses poured in - lot going on with these friends - but over time, felt a staleness in my posts, so am on a break. 

Thinking -- how can I/we reach out? I began sending cards, some homemade, to family and friends; dropped a meal or two off at a neighbor's house; supported mask-makers, one of whom was a daughter; and began buying lunch once a month for the ICU staff at a local hospital. My husband and daughter planned their gardens and spent hours preparing, digging in the earth - the smells musty and full - now are planting.

Art Journaling -- why not?

I am not classically artistic, but found my art journaling project not only challenging but strangely liberating. Taking a poem I wrote a couple years ago, I pasted, wrote, painted, cried, smiled, and drank coffee as I worked the art journal around its theme.

This project totally absorbed me, made me think, took my mind off the world pandemic, and allowed me to reflect on what is important inn my life and why do I gravitate toward the urgent. I've discovered a volunteer opportunity which I think will speak to my spirit and talents - all from quieting my busy, busy brain.

Start to Finish, my process

My art journal is not professional, nor do I expect it to be -- I rather like its many flaws as each one is now a part of the final project, a warm memory. The journal is an accomplishment and has kick started me on other "artistic" endeavors. 

What I did was--

• Pulled an old, unused multi-media notebook from my um, craft closet.
• Gathered my rubber glue, Elmer's glue, Gesso, colored pens and pencils, and old coffee cards to use in smoothing glued pictures to the page.
• Cut pictures, quotes and words from old magazines and added them to my collection (of hundreds of previously clipped pictures). 
• Scoured my poems and chose which poem spoke the loudest to me. 
• Painted some pages with water color, acrylic streaks, chalk or added a full page graphics to the page and worked pictures and quotes and my poem around the page.
• Wrote, pasted, created, listened to music, and found my missing MOJO.

Art Journaling is relatively cheap. You can use tea bags, coffee or berries to stain pages, old pens and pencils to draw, and pieces of literally anything to adhere to your artful expression,

Everyone has a story to tell, a poem penned on a slip of paper – do you have one you might want to work into an Art Journal? 

The Monster of the Hawaiian Islands

I grew into a love of writing and had my mother, Fritz, as my unofficial, and at times unsolicited, editor. But boy, did she love to edit and I allowed this pleasure as it felt right. 

Memories surrounding my first story are both painful and warm, and for me an unfortunate change in my dreams of being an author. 

My 10-year-old self, wrote The Monster of the Hawaiian Islands while on a family visit with my grandmother in Marquette while sitting on the cool, soft feather bed in the front bedroom along the long porch which surrounded two sides of her house. I had a new sharp pencil and lined paper … which smelled heavenly.

My story was centered around a monster on the islands and a ship named "The Olivia" - my grandmother's middle name. Clever and fun to write I gave my "final" draft to my grandmother to read … she was ecstatic, "ye gads" this needs to be published! 

As my grandmother was a person of action, walked my story down to the local paper, The Mining Journal, on Washington and Third. I remember a feeling of dread and even fear that she would have my story put in the paper. 

That's it! The end of my memory -- I never saw the story again. 

My *father did not encourage my writing and seemed to think it a lazy person's activity. In my later years I wondered if it were he who might have tossed my story. As a young person with this passion, which was not exactly allowed, I think my soul for writing was crushed ... it took a number of years before I wrote again. 

Until I was in a college creative writing class. This "secret class" I kept from my father, yet mom knew and approved. My teachers, my adored teachers, wrote wonderful things at the end of my writing - in red! I've kept the little bits of stories for my memoirs. "Ye gads!"

Writing has been a positive outlet for my feelings, projects and thoughts. My mother, may she rest in peace, encouraged me, would carefully read the sentences, advise, and hoot with laughter, as only a mom is allowed to do, at my word choices. Her absolute favorite thing was finding gems of misspelled words, a tasty morsel for her (which occasionally I'd place to please her). 

Fritz was raised in Michigan's Upper Peninsula where schools awarded students for good penmanship … my mom received many awards. She also took Latin, and became an exceptional crossword puzzler and Scrabble player. I valued her and the significance of her abiding encouragement and attention to detail in making me a better writer.

Happy Mother's Day, moms. You make such a difference.

*Dad, may he rest in peace, died young from heart disease and left seven children and a wife. Going through his memorabilia, it was discovered that he developed "Shell Shock" (PTSD) following the war. He was a soldier in many battles, including Normandy's Battle of the Bulge. 

His sister shared that before the war, dad was a peaceful, sweet man. In my heart-of-hearts, I have a greater understanding and have respect for my father and the horrid situations he encountered in the war. I thank him deeply for his service to our country, keeping us safe and free. He was a great man!