I Survived In Spite of Myself

The Power of Prayer

2009-10-25T23:12:00.004-05:00

My father taught me an important life, and spiritual lesson one day, and I wonder if he even realized he was doing it.

When I was around eight or nine years old, we got a new female puppy. She was more or less a heinz 57 (or so my father would say). She was just basically a mutt short-haired dog. We named her Snoopy.

Now, I am an animal lover, and I used to love spending time with puppies. I sort of claimed Snoopy as my own. I would carry her around on my shoulders, and just wile away my time playing with her. In some ways, it seemed to me it was sort of an unconditional love. I mean, I have ADHD, but did not know or understand even what that was until my oldest son was in first grade. I used to do a lot of acting out, and be obnoxious to friends of my brothers and sisters. I could not sit still, and could not concentrate on one thing for very long. Sitting the long days in school was especially hard for me. I remember daydreaming a lot. So, having a puppy was some comfort when it seemed (to me) that everyone else looked down at me.

So, all my acting out, and not thinking about many of the things I would do, often caused me to get into trouble. I used to think my parents didn't love me, or that others were just out to get me. I never connected the two until I became an adult with my own children.

Having animals to spend time with gave me some sort of comfort from the outside world that "didn't like me so much." Animals always liked me. I have always taken comfort spending time with them.

Snoopy and I were best pals. One day I was carrying her over my shoulder, and for some reason she slipped and fell to the ground. She must have hit her head or something, because suddenly she was paralyzed. I was very scared, and did not know what to do. It must have been a Saturday, or an early evening, because my father was home.

I went directly to my father, and explained to him that I did not know what happened, but that Snoopy fell and was now not able to move. I was very scared, and thought I had permanently injured her.

I was surprised that dad did not yell, or run out to see what had happened. Maybe he didn't think I was serious, or didn't know what I was talking about. Maybe, since I had eight or nine other siblings at the time, he was just preoccupied with keeping the peace. He simply looked at me, and calmly said something to the effect, "I guess you better pray, and ask Heavenly Father for help." A bit surprised I didn't think of that myself, I figured that if anyone could help Snoopy Heavenly Father could.

I went back outside where I had left her, then found a spot in the yard where I could be alone for a few minutes, and prayed my heart out. I do not know what I said, other than to ask Heavenly Father to help my little friend. I am sure I told Him that I was sorry, but did not mean her any harm.

Anyone reading this is going to think I simply made this up, but I tell you within a few minutes Snoopy began to move her limbs. She stood up, and was finally back to her jovial puppy self. And I was a humbled little boy who has believed strongly in the power of prayer ever since. It was a powerful lesson with a tangible result.

Snoopy went on to live another 13 or 14 years, having had numerous litters of puppies, having had numerous run-ins with porcupines and skunks, and just living out the life of a country dog. She finally succumbed to something that caused her to have tumors all over her body. I suspect it was a form of cancer.

I'll always be grateful to that little puppy, and to my father for reminding me of what I could do about any situation in my life. I have a firm testimony of prayer, and that God truly does answer them - when we are humble, and sincere. I have many more examples of answers to prayer that I may someday share.

Just a Rambling

2009-03-04T01:01:00.010-06:00

Like most people, I did a lot of goofy things growing up. I mean, let's face it, growing up near a small town left a teenager with lots of time to waste, and cook up things to do.

For instance, my friends and I would get bored at football games, and since you had to park on the street at the school for games, people were not in sight of their cars. We got the idea one time to just go and move the car of someone we knew. We would just move it from under the street light to a dark shadowy area nearby. Or, we would move a car around the corner from where it was left. These were the days when most high schoolers had cars from the 60's that did not have steering wheel locks. So it was pretty easy to get in and move them. Lock the car? Shoot, it was a small town. People didn't mess with other people's cars (except us).

Well, we thought it was a hilarious thing to do. We could just imagine the car owner coming out to where they "thought" they left their car, and it wasn't there! Of course, we never stuck around to see the result. We were too chicken that some of our enemies would find out and kill us.

My best friend growing up was Brian. He lived in town, while I lived out in the country. Even for a small town it felt like a big difference between living in the country and living in town. For one thing, when push button phones came onto the scene, I thought it was the most ingenious thing that you could just punch buttons to dial someone's number. The most fun part was learning to play songs by punching the different numbers! I mean, out in the country we still had a party line. We had just gotten a dial phone not too many years previous. That was a huge improvement over picking up the phone, waiting for the operator, and giving her the number you wanted to call.

In any case, Brian and I were always looking for something new to do. We had a few other friends in town that we would play fox and hounds with using our cars, but when it was just the two of us, we needed to find something simpler.

Around the time I got my driver's license, Dad picked up a 1966 Rambler Classic automobile. It was probably a $300 find. I mean this car was a tank! It had a huge steering wheel, because it did not have power steering. It took three arms to turn the wheel when maneuvering in a parking lot or turning around. It also had a three-speed stick shift on the steering column, and a switch on the dash to turn on or off the overdrive function (for fuel economy). I remember you had to get it up to cruising speed, then let off on the gas a for a few seconds for overdrive to kick in.

The Rambler could seat 6 teenagers quite comfortably. It was pretty big. It had a 6 cylinder 232 cubic inch engine that was solid as they come. On County Highway G just north of Eagle River there was about a 2 mile straight stretch, where you could really wind a vehicle up if you wanted to. One day I decided I wanted to see how fast this Rambler would go. I got it up to 105 mph on that stretch, then realized that a wheel bearing could go out, or one of the old nylon front tires could easily blow out. I quickly slowed down. Needless to say I never did that again.

Back to Brian and I looking for something to do. It was winter of '74-'75, and we were just driving around bored out of our minds. I pulled into the bank parking lot, and got to looking at the snowbanks betwen the parking lot lights. I wondered how hard it would be to get up some speed and drive right through that bank. So, I told Brian to hold on (I think we decided to put on our seat belts). I backed up, got up some speed, and blasted right through that snowbank. Snow went flying as if a bomb had just gone off. We couldn't see a thing out the windshield for a few seconds.

Now THAT gave us a thrill! So, I started plowing through more spots in the bank, and ramming them even faster. We were just laughing so hard we couldn't see straight. I know, I know, it doesn't take much to amuse some teenagers. But, hey, at least we weren't out doing drugs, or going to beer parties and such. After awhile, I noticed I couldn't see the road too well. We figured we'd better get out and check the front of the car. You guessed it, snow was packed so tightly into the headlights and grille that it took us awhile to unpack it.

To this day, I'm amazed the police did not see us doing this, or that someone in the area didn't report us. I mean, the lot was lit up pretty well. Of course, there weren't houses around, and the town literally shut down after 6:00 pm. We were just content to get our thrill by blasting through those snow banks and watching the snow just explode all over. For some reason we began talking like we were asian, and chanting, "Prow snow! Prow snow!". We just snickered at the thought of people coming to work the next morning and seeing the snow pushed all over the parking lot.

We never did get caught. In fact, this is the first time I've really recounted this story in over 30 years. I wonder if Brian remembers it the same as I do.

The "Expert" Novice Skier

2009-01-25T22:25:00.007-06:00

I could write volumes about my snow skiing exploits. My mother was born and raised in Park City, UT. However, it was not a ski town when she was growing up in the 30's and 40's. She did manage to obtain skis and hike up the mountains and catch the ski bug at a young age.

So, when I was 10 years old, my mother obtained some old ski equipment and helped us get into the sport ourselves. It was one of the most fun things she ever instilled in me. I loved it from the first day, albeit I got a bit too cocky. Fortunately, there weren't many there to witness that event.

It was during the winter of '68/'69. My oldest brother, Kevin had already gone skiing a few times before, so he was "an old hat" at it. He was going to hit the slopes of a tiny hill near Eagle River called the Chanticleer. He was going with his friend Mike Gough (I believe). I asked if I could tag along.

I got outfitted with some old wooden skis, with "hanging in the straps" bindings (meaning they had long leather thongs that wrapped around the old leather boots in a crisscross fashion to hold the skis on - it also meant they didn't come off when you fell, very dangerous for a leg bone). They were straight out of the 30's or 40's. The boots were leather lace-ups, with a squared toe to fit into the metal toe piece. They resembled hiking boots of today - well sort of. The poles were made of bamboo with metal points, leather straps for the wrists, and a basket made of leather and a metal ring. (The ski pole basket is to keep the pole from driving down deep into the snow when planting the pole for turning.)

So, here I am going with my brother and his friend for this big day of skiing. Now, the Chanticleer Inn has been around Eagle River for years and years. The ski hill was just a large hill on the property that was maybe 50 feet vertical to the top, and maybe 200 feet run off. It was really dinky, but was good enough for me to have fun. It was actually perfect for a beginner. Well, except for the rope tow to get us up the hill.

Rope tows are not the easiest things to learn, because you have to put your poles in one hand, pick up the wet moving rope (a rope that is about 1 1/2 inch in diameter that drags along the snow when no one is using it), then try and grab it slow enough that it doesn't jerk you forward and right off balance. Years later, when I became a professional ski instructor, it was always difficult teaching beginners how to use the rope. Usually children learned it quicker than adults.

We arrive at the hill excited to get the day started. To our delight there is no one else there! Kevin helped me get my equipment squared away, and we were off to tackle the terrain. He gave me pointers on how to use the rope to get to the top. He explained that there was a safety rope that would shut the tow off should I get caught, or be unable to release myself soon enough. It was a fairly simple concept, but just took some coordination to get used to.

I made it to the top of the hill (it seemed giant to me, being from the midwest and all). Kevin also gave me a few pointers on how to go down straight, and how to turn. At first I just went down straight until I stopped. I would go to about the parking lot and stop. Then back up for another go at it. I found it exhilirating to say the least! I mean, I can go fast without tons of effort. What could be more fun than that, right?

Soon, I experimented with wedging my skis out to stop, and putting more pressure on one than the other to turn one way or the other. I began to get quite confident. I was becoming an "expert" skier (at least I thought I was). I was getting so confident, that I started going over the snowbank that was between the ski run and the parking lot. Then, I started lifting up while going over and found I could get some air! My confidence was building. Each time I went over I landed better and better. I was also beginning to get quite a bit of air.

By this time, Kevin and his friend were oblivious of me. I was having so much fun riding up and skiing down, that I didn't care if anyone else was there or not. Finally, having jumped several times with success, I determined that I was going to try a trick. What trick would one postulate that a 10 yr old would come up with (I mean never having watched skiing before)? Of course, it would have to be an attempt at a full forward flip in the air. After all, I was good at what I was doing. Why not go for the hard stuff right away?

I'm at the top of the hill, staring down the path to my most excellent jump. I'm determined to get up as much speed as I can muster to obtain the lift I need for the flip. I push with my poles, and I'm off. Pushing harder and harder to get up speed. Then I tuck my arms in, and crouch down for optimum speed. I hit the approach to the jump, and suddenly I'm airborne. A quick tuck of my head, and I'm dreaming of flipping all the way around. THWACK!!! I come crashing down on my head, and the rest of me crumples down in the hard snow of the parking lot. Did I just break my neck? It sure felt like I did - well, at least at first it felt like it. I gathered my composure, and it looked like my brother and his friend never even saw what I just did. Whew! What a relief to be spared the ribbing I would get.

To quote a famous cliché, I had to jump back on the horse and ride it again. I finished out skiing the rest of the day (and loving it), but not trying any more flips. Even with that awful crash landing (and subsequent scraped forehead), I was exhilirated and excited to find what would become my favored sport of all time. I recounted the experience of my first day skiing many times over the years.

P.S. I didn't succeed with flips and other tricks until years later when I had had many ski runs under my belt - oh, and much better equipment conducive to that type of abuse.

Fire! Fire! Or The Blame Game

2008-11-25T00:41:00.006-06:00

During my earliest years - in the early 1960's - the Gough's lived across the street from our house. But, one day (what seemed to me, anyway) they up and moved. I mean, they didn't just move themselves and their belongings, but they moved their entire house! So, the property across the street lay vacant never to have a house stand on it again. That meant that our next nearest neighbors, the Glembin's - who lived about 1/4 mile to the south of us - were the only people around who had any children our ages. Early on, we were good friends with them, but as we grew, we grew more distant. I think it was mostly because we attended public school, and they attended the Catholic school. The Vilas - Oneida county line also ran between our properties, so when they went to High School, they went to Three Lakes instead of Eagle River.

One fine late summer day, Kurt was out in our field playing on a rock formation that we used to pretend was our fort, or a ship, or whatever we came up with at the time. This rock formation was sort of in the middle of a field bordered by trees. The grass was tall, and the summer had been quite dry. Thus, the grass was very flammable.

Kurt had been out there playing army with his army men and toys. I think Kirby and Karson had been playing there with him as well. Kurt thought it would be great fun to try and use firecrackers and make it seem like his army men were really being blown up (yes, we usually had some contreband firecrackers from South Carolina around). Well, as one can imagine, with the wind blowing and the extremely dry grass, and if one is not careful a fire can get away in a hurry. I can imagine the horror that must have run through Kurt's mind as he frantically tried to stomp out the fire, but the flames would just jump to more grass until it was way too big for him to control.

I was maybe 10 or 12 at the time, and saw the smoke billowing up from out in the field. I ran and told Dad, then grabbed one of the fire beaters he had around the place and headed out to start stomping out the flames. Dad, Kevin, and anyone else who was around grabbed the fire extinguishers, and other firefighting equipment and drove out to the location. We fought frantically for about 10 - 15 minutes before all the flames were extinguished. It was the closest I ever care to be to a forest fire.

When everything was settled down, and we were certain no more flames would crop up, attention focused on Kurt, and how the fire started in the first place. He began to relate a story of how the youngest Glembin boy - I believe is name was John - came over and started lighting matches willy-nilly around the place until the grass caught fire. He began to elaborate on how John wanted to get him into trouble, and didn't care what he did with the matches.

Well, Kurt's story didn't make sense, because we didn't have much interraction with the Glembins by that time, and it didn't make sense that suddenly one of the boys would think to come over to our property and just be malicious. However, Dad was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Then along came supper, and Kurt was told he had to stay in his room to figure out what had happened.

In the end, Kurt finally fessed up that HE was the one playing with matches and that one got away from him in the wind. He did feel bad he was not able to put it out, but then instead of coming to get help he tried to run away and let it all go. I think it was a life-changing lesson for him that day. We all grew a little bit that day. I felt some responsibility of a grown-up, because I just responded by grabbing the firefighting "whomper" (as I used to call it) and was a big help in getting it put out.

Lions, and Tigers, and Bears...

2008-10-28T08:18:00.007-05:00

I'm guessing that each one of us, at some point in our lives, has to learn to face and overcome fears of our youth. I had one such encounter with my fears when I was about 11 years old.

My older brothers, Kevin and Kory, and I decided one fine summer day that we wanted to go camping up the river from our house. There weren't many houses along the river at this time. There were more on the north side than on the south side, which was where our house sat. That was due partly because we owned between 1/4 and 1/2 mile of frontage property along that side of the river. There was an area maybe 1/4 mile up river that was vacant land, and had a nice flat spot up the bank to camp on. It was definitely a different day and age, when you didn't need to seek out who owned the property and obtain permission to just camp. We never defaced the property, and always took (or burned) any trash we had.

Well, since we were going by boat on this campout, we figured we had better determine all the supplies we needed for one night. I don't believe we bothered to take a tent, because we loved sleeping out under the stars. That brings me to my one fear that plagued me all during my growing years - fear of the dark.

I don't know if it's because the darkness can hide all sorts of things that makes one fearful of it or what. In my belief system, I believe that Satan has power over the darkness. As evidence look at all the evil things that take place at night. People tend to become more decadent in the darkness. I mean, there's a whole different world that lurks in the darkness. So I think that is part of where my fear came from. To this day, I'm still not the most comfortable in the deep woods at night, but have at least arrived at the point where I can stand to be there and not tremble in fear. For me, I always conjured up images of bears, or badgers, or other mean animals seeking me out in the night. Any noise would get me wondering what was out there watching us, or waiting to tromp on us.

So, I knew that if I was with my brothers, and was sleeping between them it would be more like safety in numbers for me. I gathered up my things - which probably consisted of maybe a sweatshirt and a sleeping bag - and lit out with Kevin and Kory on our trek. We arrived at the campsite before dark, and set up what we needed to set up. Then we got a fire going. By this time it was getting dusk. I grabbed the hatchet and began chopping on a log - mostly to keep myself occupied. Suddenly, Kory decided he needed the hatchet to chop down a larger branch or something. I was kneeling near the log I was chopping on, and he just reached out to grab the hatchet as I was swinging it down. It veered from the log and hit me in the left knee with the sharpened edge. Needless to say I was devastated, not to mention that I also had a sizeable gash in my knee.

Kevin took pity on me, and helped me down to the boat and ran me home. We didn't have much to do with doctors in those days, so Mom was the doctor/nurse. She cleaned up the wound with water and peroxide (much to my displeasure and pain), then put two or three butterfly bandages on the wound and I was good as new. I was a bit sore and limping, but decided to go back out and finish the campout.

Things settled down between Kory and I, and after having marshmallows or hot dogs or something, we were just sitting on our logs around the fire enjoying the night. By this time it was plenty dark.

Suddenly, I began to hear rustling in the ferns and woods around us. I'm sure that Kevin and Kory knew I was afraid of the dark, so they began conjuring up stories about bears being around and watching us. Well, the hairs began standing up on the back of my neck, to be sure. Then I hear more rustling, and I was sure there was a bear or wolf just waiting to attack us. Heck, I may have even thought it could have been a werewolf. Then, I start hearing some growling sounds. Well, it just about did me in at that point, and I think I just froze where I was and couldn't even breathe!

Whoosh, "Roar", and out pops this figure in the dark from the bushes, and runs up upon us! I about nearly wet my pants, until in the light of the fire I could see it was Dad who had snuck his way up the river in a canoe . He had come to check up on us. I said, "Thanks, Dad!" facetiously. That pretty much did my nerves in for the night, and I had to go back home with him to sleep safe and soundly in my own bed.

I've often reflected back on that experience, and wondered if anyone really even knew the extent of my fear of the dark. I guess that's why I'm more self-reliant than most, because I just learned to overcome things like that on my own. It does make one stronger to go through such experiences.

Playing Chicken

2008-10-01T23:04:00.006-05:00

My next younger brother, Kurt, and I were almost always in competition with each other. We always considered it a challenge to try and one-up each other. Shamefully, I recall being more mean to him, or even taking advantage of him at times to suit my purposes. I will always regret those times, and hope he will have the heart to forgive me for being that way.

Still, one-upmanship was generally the norm with us. Along with that one-upmanship, we were constantly trying to see who was more daring. Usually I would win out - mainly because I was bigger and older. I thought I was always smarter, or wiser than Kurt as well. However, it just might be that he let me win out on so many of the competitions.

When we would try and build forts in the woods, we would start out on one together, then I would get too bossy or persnickety and he would get tired and go build his own. He generally finished ahead of me. I always went for fancy schmancy, and he went for practicality. I generally never finished mine.

One area where Kurt far excelled was when it came to firearms. I never really got into them too much, and he went full force into getting his own reloading equipment and making his own shells. He became quite expert at firearms.

Well, our quest for one-upmanship played into almost everything we did. We had a road that went west from our road for about three miles. The road began at the top of a fairly steep hill, then went down and up another hill about half the size of the first one. In our earliest years the road was made of gravel, which would wreak havoc on sled runners. Eventually, the township paved the road, and boy did it make for some fantastic sledding. The surface would ice over making it a perfect run for a runner sled. Car drivers travelling on that road didn't appreciate us too much, because they would have to slow down since we were often on the road. Come on, it was our private sledding hill! The drivers would sometimes lose too much momentum for getting up the big hill when they had to stop and wait for us to clear the road. Then they would have to back all the way up the smaller hill to get a good run at the large hill. Fortunately, there weren't too many people who used the road.

One day when I was about 10 or 12, I went out to the hill with Kurt. We decided
he would go down first on HIS sled and see how far he could go up the smaller hill without stopping. He went down in a flash, and in watching him I could see that he did not want to go up the smaller hill, because then it was a long walk back up the big hill. Somewhat reluctantly, though, Kurt walked up the smaller hill and got himself ready to go down and climb the big hill. I decided it would be a perfect opportunity to go down the large hill and see who could go faster.

Down I go, and picking up speed ever so quickly. I figured I was going about 30 mph, but in reality was probably doing about half that. By this time Kurt had started down the smaller hill. I kept a steady course, and steered straight into his path. So, here comes our oneupmanship...neither of us veered in either direction. By now we were steering straight for each other, and Kurt was now picking up speed. Closer and closer we are speeding towards each other, still neither of us veering off course.

Suddenly, when it felt like I was doing about 60 (but in reality probably only about 15-20) we collided. Since both of us were laying down head first on our sleds, where would our heads go but to slam into each other. Kabam!! There was nothing left but to pick up the pieces. I think Kurt got a bloody lip and some loose teeth out of the incident, and I just bumped my head. I think we were both totally amazed we weren't maimed with our skulls cracked wide open.

What this incident proved was how very determined each of us were at besting the other. I know I had no intention on steering out of the way. I figured that since he was the younger brother HE would be the one to veer out of the way. I guess, in the end, we were just too dumb to know how hard we would collide, and how much it would hurt. Neither of us won that day - or did we both win? At any rate, we're left with an interesting memory.

The End of the Spear

2008-08-03T21:54:00.006-05:00

Speaking of homemade weapons... We spent countless hours making slingshots, bows, arrows, spears, toy guns (including rubberband guns) - just about anything we could come up with. Heck, we would even take the galvanized garbage can lids and use them as shields as we gathered up pockets of acorns or even small pebbles for our throwing fights. Yes, we would literally throw those objects at each other. It wasn't just a light lob to let them know it was coming their way. No, no! We threw them at full force. Thus, the need for the shields.

Anyway, we spent a great deal of time working on those weapons to get the arrows as straight as we could, or make sure the bow was strong enough to pierce thick cardboard at about 50 feet, or whatever we could think of to make them more "real".

When we made a spear, we tried to keep it for as long as we could (providing it didn't break in playing with it). We came up with our own unique markings to identify our individual spears. At first, for the tip, we would just use a hatchet and chop it into the sharpest wedge we could make. However, eventually we would tire of that and want it to stick into more things at which we would throw the thing. So, we would take a knife and whittle away at the tip to round it, and make a nice tapered and sharp point. But, even that got tiring, because when we threw it at something the point would usually break off and we would have to sharpen it all over again.

Eventually, we figured out that we could slightly burn the tip then rub it on a river rock to sharpen it. Not only would it get sharp, but it seemed to harden the tip more than it was naturally. That was nice for awhile, but it soon became old hat. Besides, we didn't always have a campfire to use to keep sharpening the tip when it got dull.

As would normally be the case with us, we began experimenting. Now, if my parents always knew what we were doing, they would have suffered many fits over our antics. However, Mom would send us outside most of the time, because in the house we either got in her way, messed up the house, or just roughhoused too much. We didn't mind, though. We loved spending countless hours outside, winter or summer, playing all our games, or just looking for some new adventure. As I was saying, we began experimenting with our spear tips. What did we come up with? Tin! Yep, those tin cans were finally proving useful for something. All we needed to do was to cut out the round tin top from a can, then cut a slice to the center. Since the spear tip was round and tapered, a round tin can lid fit almost like a glove - well, as long as you could tap a glove onto your hand with a hammer and tacks.

It was important to take our time while installing this tin tip to the spear. We wanted it to be as sharp as it could be. We finally hit pay dirt! The spear would stick in wood and pierce through that thick cardboard like it was butter. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Yes, we would even play our "Hunter and Hunted" game with these metal tipped spears!

One fine summer day, we were out playing our game of "Hunter and Hunted". Kory was the hunter. He had just newly tipped his spear with some heavy-duty tin. Low and behold one of us ran by the twenty-one foot travel trailer that was stored in the back yard. (Not only was it great on long trips, but it served as an extra bedroom when we had more company than we had rooms in our large house.) Well, as I said, Kory wound up and let that spear fly from where he was stalking in the field. Whomever was the target of that spear was so very lucky, because it sailed straight and true - right into the side of that travel trailer! He threw it with such force that it penetrated the side of the trailer, and stuck part way through to the inside! We were quite impressed - and also knew that Kory would suffer the wrath of Dad when he found out what had happened! It was a priceless moment! It also pretty much ended our modified, metal-tipped spear experiments.

Hunter and Hunted

2008-07-27T23:06:00.009-05:00

I like to think I was so creative with so many things while growing up, but I really wasn't. I would usually take an idea someone else came up with and make it my own.

One such idea was a game we came up with called, "Hunter and Hunted". The rules were fairly simple. We would divide up into two teams. One team was the Hunter team, and of course the other was the Hunted team. The Hunted team usually had until the count of 100 to go out and hide in our expanse of field and woods. That's where our country property came in very handy. In fact, we usually had to set boundaries so no one had to spend all day searching for those on the Hunted team.

Our tools (weapons) were fairly simple. We would cut down birch or maple saplings for spears. We spent a great deal of time getting their tips sharp so they would stick well into the ground when being thrown. We worked hard at finding the correct balancing point so they would fly the farthest and stick in the ground rather than hit tail first, or flat. We also took either saplings, or green branches of birch trees to make bows out of. If needed we would shave the bow down some so it could bend easier, then notch the ends for string. We usually would use twine for the bowstring, but it didn't last long. We would also try taking regular string, waxing it, then making multiple strands twisted together. That would make for a longer lasting string. For arrows we would use young saplings from poplar trees, because they usually grew fairly straight. We never messed with trying to put fletching on them. We weren't too awful accurate anyway.

So, the way it would work was that each member of the Hunted team would go out and find a good hiding place. Sometimes that would be up in a big tree. While other times it would be to find a depression in tall grass or ferns, and just try to blend in. Did I mention that we would often create loin cloths to be more like "Tarzan" or "Indians" while playing this game? It would help us blend in better to the environment.

After counting, the Hunter team would go out and search for the other team. Now, the Hunted team members did not need to stay put. They could move around all they want as long as they weren't spotted by the Hunters. If memory serves, there was no real goal to reach. The Hunted team just wanted to spend the most amount of time without being "caught".

Speaking of "caught", the way a Hunter caught a Hunted member was by throwing a spear, or launching an arrow at that person. If the weapon landed within two feet of the Hunted person, then they were caught and would then join the Hunter team. Sound dangerous? I suppose, but we were pretty good at shooting arrows, and throwing our spears without hitting someone. To this day, I don't ever recall anyone being hit or wounded by one of our crude weapons.

On one particular late summer day, I was on the "Hunted" team. I usually liked that team, because I loved to see how creative I could get with my hiding places. I thought I was pretty good at it. Anyway, on this day, I chose a depression between a couple of mounds in tall grass to hide. This spot was quite open, but with the tall grass, and my ability to lay flat, I was pretty invisible. I was quite pleased with the fact that no one saw me, when suddenly I heard my brothers scrambling around closer to me. I began to think I might need to move from the spot. I held tight, though, and just listened more intently. Suddenly I heard some footprints coming from my right side. They did not sound so loud or heavy as my brothers, though. Just then, I looked up and saw this brown figure leap right over the top of me. I thought, "Could that be?" I got up just in time to view the white tail of a deer bounding into the woods. I just sat there stunned. Imagine me lying there in wait for one of my brothers to try and find me, and a whitetail deer gets scared up and leaps over me to run away. I believe it was a once in a lifetime experience. I wish there had been some way to record that event, but I can only describe it in words some 30 odd years later.

Victims of a Different Sort

2008-07-06T22:15:00.007-05:00

In thinking back over the times we had growing up, it is sometimes amazing the things we came up with to keep ourselves occupied at 'Branham's Damsite'. Goodness knows who came up with the original ideas. The fact is, even if the ideas were not our own, we would always modify the rules to fit into our extreme way of doing things. We always loved thrills, chills, and spills.

One such game was called "Ambulance". The premise was that one person was selected to be the ambulance driver (the player no one wanted to be). The other players would go around the property with our bicycles and/or whatever device we creatively used, and get ourselves into a position which displayed some sort of accident we had been involved in. The idea was to be the most creative we could be to get into odd and awkward positions to make it the most difficult for the ambulance driver to retrieve us and take us to the hospital. (Thus, the ambulance driver being the least enviable position to have.)

So, the ambulance driver would usually count to about 100 to allow the other players to get into position. Then he/she would go around the property with the ambulance (the trusty Radio Flyer) and search for the injured parties. They would usually be crying out, "Help, help me!"

Since there were many trees on the property with low branches, it was especially fun to try and hook a bicycle tire on a branch, then the bike rider would be hanging upside down - sometimes tangled in the bicycle itself - and have to be retrieved by the ambulance driver. The object was that the victim could not help the driver in getting loaded into the ambulance. It was always a lot of fun to observe the unlucky person who was the driver try and wrestle the victim down from his or her position and place them in the ambulance, then transport to the designated area for the hospital.

One drawback for being creative, though, was that sometimes it was especially difficult for the driver to retrieve a victim, and it would take quite some time to accomplish. All the other victims had to wait in their postion until the driver reached them for retrieval. Some of my siblings would get bored of waiting and just quit before the game finished. Needless to say we didn't play that game too many times in one day. We would play it often, though, because we always tried not to be the driver. Usually, we would be in a group and someone would yell out something like, "Hey, let's play ambulance! I'm not the driver!" Whomever was the unlucky one to be last to yell out usually ended up being the driver.

Toadstools, or What to do with Fungi

2008-06-26T22:40:00.009-05:00

Extreme and excitement were the key words when we were looking for something to do around our homestead. A few of us had ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder), including Mom, so we got bored easily.

Now, our property ran along the Wisconsin River approximately a quarter of a mile or so. Most of the property had a high hill you had to descend before reaching the river. It made for some fantastic views - especially in the winter when all the leaves were off the trees.

The property consisted of a large open field surrounded by wooded areas which met up with the road running along the property to the West and South. There were pockets of pine trees where nothing would grow on the ground but mushrooms. We had an especially fun grove of pine trees that lined the driveway leading up to the house. On the South side of the driveway it was almost like walking into another world blanketed by tree canopies. We spent a lot of time playing in and amongst those trees. On hot summer days, it was always so much cooler in there that we tried to linger and play as long as possible.

In our quest for something fun and exciting to do, one day Kory, Angé, and I (I don't remember if anyone else was involved) decided it would be a great time to gather up some of the rather large mushrooms that grew in and amongst the pine trees. The idea, then, was to ride our bikes around and throw them at each other to see who could last the longest. Far be it for us to ever check to see if the mushrooms were edible. We were pretty much certain they weren't. We didn't like eating mushrooms anyway.

We gathered our ammo and were soon riding willy-nilly around the property attempting to land a good one on each other. Well, as it usually goes with children, things got a bit heated. Then suddenly, Kory landed one big mushroom right in Angé's face and mouth! She likely would have died! I mean, it plastered her from one side of the face to the other, and a big chunk of it was in her mouth. It was a sight to behold.

I'm not sure if her biggest fear was that she thought she was poisoned, because of getting that non-edible mushroom in the mouth, or that her ego was just damaged for getting hit (and in the face) in the first place. We were a bit scared for her, although I believe Kory and I had a pretty good laugh over it. Nevertheless, it calmed us down, and Mom didn't have to worry about us rough-housing for the rest of that day. Funny how a good scare would do that to a person.

I haven't checked with any of my brothers and sisters lately, so I don't know if Angé ever lived that one down. It made for a great memory, though.

To Air or Not to Air

2008-06-10T23:11:00.008-05:00

The great outdoors was a great place to grow up. We loved being on the river, and all the property on which we had to roam. One would have thought we would have become avid fishermen and hunters, but in reality we didn't get into much of those activities. I think it was partly because getting the right gear was quite expensive, and we were not ones to be able to afford a lot. I mean, since we were right next to a power dam, the low side of the dam made for great fishing. Many people would fish there in the summer. We would go out and cut down a birch or cherry sapling, and that was our pole. Then, when we saved up enough money, we would buy some line, hooks, sinkers, and a few bobbers. We would go down to the river and fish right alongside those fishermen with the expensive equipment. Usually we would come away with more fish than they did. Of course, all we caught were panfish, bullheads, and succerfish. Those guys were after walleye. Nonetheless, that was how we were usually outfitted.

It was a happy day when we started to get BB guns. We loved shooting everything we could find - and we had lots of room to do it, too. Kevin and Kory got the Daisy air rifles, while Kurt and I got Marksman Repeater (model 1010) air pistols. Our pistols didn't have much power, so we were always envious of the rifles. We just loved playing with guns, anyway - real or not. We even made guns from cutting out boards in the correct shape, and going around playing army, cowboys and indians, or just pretending to hunt on our own. When we got a toy air rifle, it was still pretend, but the thing looked more like a real gun.

One fine summer day I was out with the air rifle playing on the bridge that crossed the power dam. I was enjoying myself (alone - as I usually was, even in a big family) pretending to shoot "enemies" all over the place - especially down in the water. Lo and behold, along comes Kory and decides it's his turn to play with the air rifle. I was maybe 10 or 12, and Kory is about 3 1/2 years older than me.

So, here we are standing on this bridge with just a horizontal rail about 2 1/2 feet off the ground to keep people from falling into the river. Kory grabbed the rifle and wanted to take it from me. We began to wrestle with it pretty hard. Our struggle continued for a bit when suddenly we're leaning over the rail and the rifle just flies out of both our hands. Kersploosh! Into the rushing current it went - never to be seen again. I think I just stood there for awhile in amazement, and sorting out what had just happened. I was disappointed in losing that air rifle. I don't remember if it was a general property item, or if it belonged to Kory. No matter, it was lost, and with it I lost my power of imagination for that day.

I don't know if we ever did get another air rifle, but I have always reflected on how quickly we lost something (precious to me at that time) by selfish desires and not being courteous amongst each other. That experience has always stuck with me over the years, and maybe it's just now that I realized the lesson to be learned from it.

I love all my brothers and sisters, and Kory was one of my heroes. We did a lot of extreme sports together. He was my hero. Even in his 50's he's still doing many extreme sports. Maybe one day we'll get together and reminisce about the air rifle episode, and compare what lesson we have learned from it (if he even remembers it).

In the meantime, to borrow a couple of phrases from Red Green, "Keep your stick on the ice" and "if the women don't find you handsome, at least they'll find you handy."

Technorati claim blog

2008-06-05T14:58:00.002-05:00

This is an entry to claim my blog from Technorati. I hope by this post it will help promote my blog around the world. At least it will be a start.
Technorati Profile

Everyone with a blog should try this. It's only one directory, but anything helps to promote it. Just go to www.technorati.com.

Of Motorcycles and Men II

2008-06-01T22:50:00.028-05:00

(Part I was posted on my blog at www.myspace.com/kerrybranham)

I've loved motorcycles since I was very young. I mean, when I was around 9 or 10, we began pretending we were riding dirt bikes around our property, or our vacation property at Hodag Lake near Rhinelander, WI. We would grab a stick about the size of a set of handlebars and run helter skelter all over the place pretending we were jumping, skidding, and even wiping out on our dirt bikes. We even had the sounds down with shifting and everything. As we got more bold, we began using our bicycles as dirt bikes - riding on dirt trails, jumping (I mean really getting a fast run and jumping over high road embankments). We're talking well before BMX bikes existed. We would strip down our Hiawatha's, taking the fenders and all other unnecessary items off so they were as light as possible. The only thing better would have been that they were motorized (we just didn't have the resources or know-how to do that).

My father was the real impetus behind me loving motorcycles, though. He used to tell us about a Harley 74 he had back in the '40's or '50's. A Harley 74 had a 74 cubic inch motor (around 1200 cc) - quite large for the day. It would have had a suicide shift (hand shifter along side the gas tank) instead of a foot shifter. He said he had it up to about 90 mph on a dirt road once, and it scared him to death. I don't know how long he had it after that, but he didn't ride motorcycles again until the early '70's.

In 1971 Dad got the bug enough to get a new bike. I guess by that time all my siblings and I were here on the earth, and they must have determined they weren't going to have any more children (must have figured 10 was enough). He went to the nearest Honda shop and brought home a brand new Honda CB350. That bike was much smaller than a Harley 74 (about 1/3 the size engine wise), but I guess he figured that after so much time of not riding a bike, he was better to start off small and work up. I thought it was the coolest thing (albeit it is quite a small bike to me now). I mean, I had never really been up close to a motorcycle let alone ride on one. I remember he paid something like $841 for it, which seemed to me like a million dollars back then.

Well, Dad and my older brothers all cut their motorcycle teeth on that (now) piece of history. He even taught my mother how to ride it - that was a nerve-racking proposition (and thing to watch). Us smaller children loved to go for rides on the back. The only mishap with it was when Kory laid it down in the gravel along a county road somewhere. I don't remember why he ditched it, but I remember Dad was pretty upset with him over it. Kory has always been quite adventuresome, and he always pushed things to the limit. I took after him in that department somewhat.

Well, the next summer Dad decided he was ready to move up to the big boy's toys, and he came home one day with a brand new Suzuki 750GT. It was the hottest bike going at the time. It was affectionately known as the "Water Buffalo", because it was a water-cooled motorcycle. No one had built a water-cooled production bike before, and this one just screamed. I remember it was purple and white in color, and it looked fast just standing still. It had a 2-cycle engine (at the time 2 cycle engines had much more power and speed than the 4 cycle engines had). All fast Japanese (called rice-burners) bikes were 2-cycle at the time. (For those people who don't know engines, the difference between a 2-cycle and a 4-cycle engine - commonly referred to as 2-stroke and 4-stroke - is that a 2-cycle engine has only 2 strokes of the piston for it to complete a "cycle". In other words, the piston goes up once for the air/gas mixture to be compressed for igniting by the spark plug on one side of the cylinder as it pushes the exhaust from the previous igniting out the exhaust port on the other side of the cylinder. The plug fires when the pistion gets to the top of the cylinder, which pushes the piston back down for the power stroke, and to take more air/gas mixture into the cylinder for the next cycle. A 4-cycle engine takes four up and down movements to complete the same thing. The 2-cycle engines do not have oil in their crankcase. The oil has to be mixed with the gas in order to lubricate the engine. 2-cycle engines have a distinct sound to them as well - a sort of extended wauh sound. Smaller 2-cycle engines have more of a wing-a-ding-a-ding sound to them.)

Well, this screaming purple people eater would easily top 100 mph. In fact, Kory (of course) and I were riding on it one day (I think just for a joy ride), when he ask if he should punch it. I told him to, "Go for it!" We were doing 103 mph in no time flat! Now, we're talking well before the days of the crotch-rockets most youngsters have nowadays. This bike would have been coveted by most of them by today's standards.

Dad had one major mishap on the Water Buffalo. One night, he was travelling home from a church meeting some 22 miles away from home. Remember, we lived in the woods, so all his driving was through wooded countryside. He was just 2 miles from home, and turning onto the road that goes by our house. He was coming in the back way, and the road was more of a "Y" than a real turn, so he did not have to slow down much - just lean left and he would be on the road. Just as he was about to bring the bike back upright, he saw a dark flash in front of him, and "POW" he was down and all over the road! Fortunately for him he had installed highway crash bars to help protect his legs, and he was wearing a motorcycle jacket (even though it was vinyl, it still protected him pretty well). All riders were required to wear helmets back then, so he was wearing his headgear. He had hit a coyote. Had the bike been more upright, he might have survived not having to go down on the pavement. No one really knows what might have happened. I think it cost something like $350 to put the bike back together again, and it was as good as new. I wish I could have said the same thing about his motorcycle jacket. However, Mom put some vinyl patches over the worn through holes, and he was good to go again. He eventually got a new leather jacket and handed that patched one down to me.

Over the next couple of years Dad ended up selling the Suzuki (maybe he thought it was just too dangerous - I don't know). He bought a 1972 BMW 750, which was much better suited for travelling - which is what he started to do with Mom. In 1974, he traded off the Honda 350 and bought a new Honda 500. That was one of the best bikes I ever drove back then, but I ended up totalling that one out (not my fault), but that's a story for another day.

To this day I still love getting out and riding a motorcycle. Part of the reason is that all during my teenage driving years, during the summers at least, a motorcycle was my main mode of transportation. In 1976, I wanted to buy a car of my own. I was planning on college in the fall, and wanted a car to use out there. I had picked out a 1968 Mercury that a friend wanted to sell. It had just 80,000 miles on it (a lot for cars of those days), and he only wanted $250 for it - something I could actually afford. Dad didn't really want me to own my own car (I've never really figured out why.). He began to elaborate on expenses - insurance, maintenance, etc. He encouraged me to consider a motorcycle instead. I was greatly disappointed that he didn't support me in getting a car, but I reluctantly looked around for a motorcycle. It wasn't reluctance because I didn't want a motorcycle, we already had two or three in the family, and I could have access to one just about any time I wanted, but it was because I really wanted a car. I found and settled on a little Yamaha RD200 that had been owned by an elderly man who didn't drive it like a 2-cycle motorcycle should be ridden. In those days, Yamaha made some of the fastest street bikes around. Since they had 2-cycle engines, they had to be taken out on the road and really wound up periodically to keep from having carbon buildup in the engine and exhaust. To make a long story short, the bike ended up being a lemon for me, and I was finally able to sell it a year later. I've owned a few other bikes in my time, and lamented not having one during the years when I didn't have one. Spring was especially the hardest time, because the warm weather would bring out the bikes and I would get "spring fever".

I have a newer bike now (2001 Kawasaki Vulcan 750), so I am at least content to be able to get out and ride on the open road. It's not my ultimate ride, but it's great for commuting back and forth to work, and for short trips on nice weather days.

Update: I sold my Vulcan 750 in April 2010, and bought a 2003 Kawasaki Vulcan VN1600. Lots more leg room, much bigger bike for long trips, and electronic fuel injected. I've already put more than 13,000 miles on it, and am riding it on good days in the winter.

Wagons Ho!

2008-05-26T23:00:00.007-05:00

Radio Flyers have been around for ages, haven't they? We certainly had our share in my day. These wagons had to be nearly indestructible, because we were so hard on them. I mean, they had to take an impact from rolling down the hill, on the road near our house, at full speed - without any means of stopping other than just plain crashing into the embankment. They had to be able to handle loads of dirt, rocks, wood, animals, or any other thing we could think to haul in them. Our wagons were veritable utility vehicles for us.

We did find time to use these wagons for fun as well. In fact, we loved to put on a wagon train periodically. Now this was no ordinary train. It usually ended up being a circus train where we would literally tie wagons, tricycles, bicyles, and any other object that would roll, together in a train and see how well we could roll the whole thing around our driveway.

Now, up until the late '60's it was more difficult to do since our driveway was made of gravel. However, sometime in the late '60's my father decided he had had enough of the constant puddles and potholes that formed in the gravel (sometimes by our doing), and he had the whole thing covered in blacktop. We thought it was the neatest thing since sliced bread. I mean, such a smooth surface for riding bikes, roller skates, or unicycles. The best was the surface it created for our pogostick marathons.

So, back to our wagon train...we loved to see how elaborate we could make our "cars" of the train. Sometimes a wagon would be a conestoga wagon; sometimes it would be a cage car carrying tigers or lions. The key was to avoid being the engine car, because that person had to pull the whole shabang - usually from a bicycle that had everything tied to it. Needless to say it didn't usually go too far.

I think the most joy from making our wagon train was the actual process of making it. Making it go was always short lived, because what we loved best was the creative part of making it as elaborate as possible (in our own way). Our parents tried to get us to do activities other than to sit around and watch television. My mother would regularly tell us, "Go outside and do that!" Of course, since we loved any opportunity to play outside, we would jump at that one as well.

That type of creativity is lost on youth today. With more television programming all the time, video games, computers, and so much more, it's no wonder our youth are going into adulthood with little to no creative juices flowing.

Stilts and the Polecat

2008-03-09T21:46:00.009-05:00

Ever wonder what makes children tick? I mean, we know they are human beings, and we know what generally motivates the natural man, but sometimes one can wonder what really motivates children to be as creative as they are.

Growing up in the boonies of Northern Wisconsin gave us plenty of time to be creative. I mean, even though I had 9 other siblings, we did not have other friends around much. So, we felt the need to figure out things that would help us get thrills and chills. One such activity that the older of us siblings used to like to do was to make our own stilts. I don't know why we thought we could do this, but we played around cutting down young poplar saplings, then stripping off the bark, nailing a couple of 2" X 4" wedges to them and figuring out how to walk on them.

Of course, like anything, we were not very good at it immediately, but it did not take long to figure the things out and walk around on the short ones. We would use the picnic table as our platform to start off from. The foot rests were usually at that height. We would cut the spars long enough to fit into our arms to support them as we walked. I always wondered how stilt walkers in circuses and parades were able to walk around without that type of support for their stilts. Later on, I saw their type of stilts - ones that went up the calf and were supported by a strap around the top of the calf. Once I tried them they were actually quite easy to manipulate.

Well, never satisfied with just the usual routine things, we always had to take things to the limit. We wanted EXTREME thrills! So, we sort of broke up into teams to see who could make the tallest stilts to walk on. I think Kevin and Kory got the most bold on this effort. They made a pair of stilts that were at least eight feet tall for the foot rests! These things were monstrous and heavy, so only the older siblings were able to even attempt them. The good thing was that they were so large at the bottom that they helped the person steady his/herself.

For these tall stilts, we had to use the garage roof to start off from. Kevin and Kory got to using them pretty well. I don't much recall if I ever mastered them. I do recall walking on taller stilts, but don't recall if they were these giant ones. We spent countless hours playing with our stilts. The thrills we got from going taller and taller were eventually satisfying for us.

On one particular nice summer evening, we had been out walking around on our stilts. It was getting towards dusk. The cool evening air began rolling in, and the sky was quite clear. The moon was nearly full, and we could see quite plainly without the aid of any artificial light - albeit not as plainly as during the daylight. The back yard extended east from the house towards an expansive field. we mowed the yard a ways into the field, then the tall grass jutted out. We always had all sorts of critters roaming about the place since we were out in the woods. We even saw a bear from time to time. Of course, stray cats would often wander near the place. We usually had a cat or two of our own roaming the place. We never really believed in having to tie our animals up. Since there was so much room to roam, they knew where home was.

On this particular evening, Kory had been walking around on some stilts when out towards the field, just beyond the sand pit we used for a sandbox, Kevin spotted a cat. It just sat there looking at us. He walked up to the animal wanting to pet it. When he got close, the cat rolled a bit and suddenly Kevin saw the white stripe going down its back. He knew in an instant he was completely mistaken about what the animal was. He flew from there like a rocket ship! I think it startled the skunk as much as it startled Kevin! We had the most uproarious laugh from that experience. I think Kevin learned to always check and see what he was approaching from that time on. We never let him forget how he almost became a skunk perfume bag that night - how he so wanted to be kind to his polecat pet!

Humble Beginnings

2008-02-28T23:07:00.002-06:00

I learned alot just reading this opening blog. I didn't know we had so many lakes around us, and I didn't know what our home was previously used for. I didn't know a lot of things! I'm not sure if it's because I didn't care to know, or if I just grew up in a different time period than the older siblings, and we younger ones just 'lived' and took things for granted. It was a beautiful place to grow up, and I loved so much room to explore. That is my best memories- being free to explore and feel so free and so close to nature, which in turn made me feel closer to God. I have many happy memories on our land.

Slingshots

2008-02-17T20:18:00.010-06:00

UPDATE:
I just found a great video that goes right along with this post. Check it out:

Slings and slingshots have been around since Adam. Remember David slew Goliath with a sling? Slingshots are also pretty much a first weapon for a young boy growing up. The advent of the low-cost wrist-rocket with surgical tubing has pretty much meant the demise of the homemade slingshot, but fond memories do abound.

We were masters at making slingshots. We always had one to carry around with us. You would find the best fork from an oak, maple, or birch sapling, cut it out, peel off the bark, and make the notches for the sling to mount onto. Everything was hurridly, but carefully carved so as to have the perfect weapon when it was done.

In those days, bicycle tires had real rubber inner tubes. Those worked best for a sling. They were very elastic. We had to be careful not to make the sling too wide, because it would then be too hard to pull back. Too thin and it broke easily. You had to find that just right balance - usually 3/4 to 1 inch was about right. We would then seek out the best pebbles to use for our ammunition. Of course, if someone came across some ball bearings or small marbles, well that was absolutely the most perfect ammunition!

One day, my older brothers and I were sizing up a couple of birch trees that were growing in a nice "V" pattern out in our field overlooking the river. We got to wondering, "What if we got ahold of some car inner tubes and made a giant slingshot?" So, we scrounged around for a tube large enough to make a decent sling. I think we made it about 4 inches in width. With the sling mounted, all we needed to do was test it. We set out to find some nice size rocks for our test. We probably had 20 3" - 4" sized rocks. Then, one by one we began launching them towards the river.

Now, the Wisconsin River that ran along our property was slow moving. It was probably anywhere from 5' to 10' deep in most places. There was a fair amount of tree stumps and grasses along parts of it, indicating that it must have been narrower in an earlier time. You always had to be careful navigating down the channel, because you did not want to hit a stump with your propeller. They did, however, provide great spots for anglers to toss their lines.

The spot we picked for this giant slingshot had a pretty open view of the river, and was probably 20 - 30 feet above the river on an incline. There was a very large boulder next to the trees, which gave us a spot to sit down, and to gather our ammunition. When we launched one of these rocks, it would fly almost like a golf ball way out into the river. We had constructed an awesome giant weapon!

We also had an old wooden rowboat we liked to use for fishing, and just rowing up and down the river. I don't remember where it came from, but it was the heaviest thing to pull out of the water in the fall. We always disliked bailing it out of water whenever it rained. So, sometimes it would sit half sunk tied to the shore.

On one particular nice summer day, Kory and Greg Krogel (I believe) were out goofing around in the rowboat. They may have been firing off their BB guns or something. Kevin and I decided we would surprise them. So, we found some nice ammunition and met at our giant slingshot. We loaded up one of the 3" rocks, and waited until the rowboat came into range. We had the sling pulled back as far as it could go without pulling us with it. When the time was right, we let loose of the sling with it's solid ammunition. It sailed almost all the way to the rowboat, then "Kersploosh!" It landed so close to the boat that the occupants got sprayed by the splash. We didn't wait for a response, and loaded up another rock and let it fly. Again, "Kersploosh!" It nearly hit the boat again. We were rolling on the ground with laughter as Kory and Greg rowed with frenzy to get out of range of our "cannon"!

Needless to say, after that incident we decided to rethink our idea of the "Ultimate Slingshot". Fortunately no one was injured, and the boat was not sunk! Thank goodness for small miracles!

Humble Beginnings

2008-02-17T15:38:00.007-06:00

In this modern day of technology, fast-paced lifestyles, and never-ending schedules, many people long for the laidback life of the country along a lazy river. It just so happens that more than 50 years ago, my parents were able to provide just that for their soon to be brood of 10 children.

Somewhere around 1955 or 1956 my parents moved into a large house along the Wisconsin River just a few miles west of Eagle River, WI. It had once been a sort of bunk house for the workers of Wisconsin Public Service Corporation, because it was built right across the road from a power dam that had served as the main power source for the entire area in the early 1900's. My mother affectionally named it "Branham's Damsite". The house was of adequate size for a growing family, but what made the place a goldmine was that it had nearly 21 acres of land running along the river on the high side of the dam. What that meant was that you could start by boat from our place and be linked to a chain of 28 lakes which dotted the landscape all around the area. The land also bordered on hundreds of acres of County land that we had free access to. It would have been a virtual Eden for most people. There was ample fishing, hunting, trapping, tree climbing, trail riding, and so much more just from our place.

Our neighbors across the street, the Gough's, were friendly. My oldest brothers were friends with their boys. Somewhere in the mid '60's the Public Service Corporation bought them out of their land. They decided to move their house just about 1/2 mile up the road along State Highway 70. However, the dam was in the way of moving the house the short way, so they had to go about 3 miles around the other way to get the house onto the property where it now stands. With our nearest neighbors, the Glembin's, about 1/4 mile away we had loads of room to roam.

This blog is going to serve as the catalyst to recount the exploits of my brothers, sisters and I as we grew up in that little slice of heaven. Since we were so isolated from town and everywhere else we had to use our imaginations to wile away our time when we weren't going to school, studying, playing sports, etc. We found numerous ways to be creative - sometimes funny, sometimes dangerous, but almost always fun (to us, anyway).

Here is a brief introduction to the cast of characters:
Arnold H. Branham - Dad, a product of the Northwoods of Wisconsin as well. 6' tall, slender build, a mostly serious and religious man with a dry sense of humor.
LaRae M. Branham - Mom, born and raised in Park City, UT. A petite woman - about 5' 2" and 98 lbs soaking wet. She had a zest for life and health, was sometimes on the neurotic side, but was always the ultimate hostess.
Kevin R. Branham - Eldest brother, always full of ideas, somewhat eccentric, but way intelligent. He would always come up with ideas that challenged us to think.
Korin (Kory) A. Branham - Second oldest, an adventurer and all-around jock. He was one of the most popular people in school. He is also highly intelligent, having been selected Salutatorian behind younger sister, Angé.
Angé (pronounced Angie) Branham Workman - Oldest sister. Since she was the only girl amongst 6 brothers she had to fend for herself. She held her own in the roughest of circumstances. She is highly athletic, and loves the outdoors. She is also highly intelligent, graduating from High School a year early, and being selected Valedictorian at that!
Kerry I. Branham - Me, myself, and I. I was always the tag-along. My older brothers and sister were always doing things that I was too little for, but I always wanted to tag along. They were my heros, and I truly looked up to them. I sort of had a chip on my shoulder for much of my early life, which caused me to feel more of a black sheep in the family. I have always been adventuresome - mainly because my older siblings were.
Kurt C. Branham - Fifth sibling - a middle child. Kurt was always into hunting, fishing, trapping, and the outdoor arena. He didn't focus as much on academics. He could tell you anything about guns. He also loved motorcycles.
Kirby L. Branham - The other middle child. He had deep red, curly hair, and hated it all while growing up. He's the tallest of the clan, and was always into guns, hunting, fishing, trapping, motorcycles along with Kurt. Kirby is another intelligent, but humble soul - he's a thinker. He always tries to do what was just and right.
Karson M. Branham - Youngest boy. I think that sometimes comes as a curse, because you are oftentimes too young to do things with your older brothers. Karson is a mechanical minded person. He learned to fix cars, motorcycles, guns, airplanes, etc. He loved shooting with his two older brothers.
Amber Branham Anderson - The tallest of the sisters. Amber is a sweet, sensitive soul. She took things very personal, and thus was not necessarily always happy with her childhood. Her three next older brothers (and sometimes myself) would tease her and her younger sisters to no end. She always loved babies, and never wanted to disappoint our Heavenly Father. She is also very musically inclined.
Apryll Branham Walker - The redhead sister - well more redhead than the others. Apryll was always very happy and popular while growing up. I hate to admit it, but she seemed to be the favorite of my younger sisters. I always cut her more slack than the others. She used to make me laugh a lot. She has a lot of musical talent.
Aurora Branham Brandaris - The blond sister. What can I say about the baby of the family. We spoiled Aurora (at least I think we did), because she was always a cute child. She has a bubbly personality, and loves children. She is also very musically talented. She was only about 16 or 17 when Mom passed away. I'm sure that was difficult on her.

Through it all, my siblings and I have all grown to have a deep love for the Savior, and for following God's plan for us on this earth. We will be ever so grateful that our parents raised us in the true Gospel of Jesus Christ.