You know, I'm kind of happy to know that my family has its roots in the Holy Land (Note: not that Holy Land. This one’s in Fond du Lac County Wisconsin). I've always felt some ill-defined attraction for that place and never knew quite why. It goes deeper than the memories of spending that summer at Albert and Florence’s farm, or the fish dinners on Friday nights at Steffes' Tavern in St. Peter. It's almost as if the land itself had some metaphysical allure that went beyond the shallow experience of merely driving through it's winding roads and admiring the rugged scenery. Rather, to me, the red till on the backs of the rolling drumlins seems to say that they have been shaped by that scrappy horde of my ancestors who felled the trees and cleared the land so long ago. And I suppose that Great-Uncle Jake got his incredible toughness from that effort at defining the land and not from long hours spent dreaming about a better life as he dozed on the wicker chair on his front porch.
And believe me, Jake was tough! I remember that cold day in January, 1964, when a storm blew through Fond du Lac and walloped the city with 16" of snow. Nothing was moving that day. The streets were too deep in snow to permit anyone but the really foolish or the really hardy to venture out of their homes. And yet, as I trudged those four blocks to the tavern to tend bar that day, I kept thinking how utterly useless it was to leave the comfort of the house to go to a tavern that surely would have no customers. I had to walk down the middle of Main Street to get there, knee-deep in snow, and if it wasn't for the fact that a stiff and snarly wind was blowing straight out of the north, I would have turned and walked back home. And I wouldn't have felt guilty at all.
A few minutes after 8:00 o'clock in the morning Uncle Jake was beating on the door of the tavern and demanding to know why I hadn't unlocked the door. He had walked some eight blocks from over on North Park Avenue to the tavern. He was the only pedestrian on the streets that day. His face was fiery red from the biting wind. But he was his usual impish self - that special impishness that only Uncle Jake could display. "Where the heck is everybody, Billy?" he asked. "They aren't nuts like you and me, Uncle Jake," I said. "They're home standing on the register instead of flopping around in the snow like a bunch of clowns." He was about eighty-six years old at that time. Toughest man I ever knew!
He had a full head of dark hair and he used to challenge people to grab a hold of his hair. "Hang on tight," he'd say. And he would pull you over the bar if you hung on long enough. He was one foxy sheepshead player and used to embarrass a lot of wannabe players who mistook him for a doddering old man. "Kid can't play," he'd say. "Guess the old man showed him how, didn't I, Billy?" Ah, yes, that he did!
He had a reverential way of talking about his wife Annie. You could tell at once that he deeply loved her. He told me once, "I rode the rails from Iron Mountain, Michigan and then I married Annie." I pretended to appear stupid, "You just got off the train and then you married her? Didn't you court her first?" "Of course I did, you darned fool," he'd say. And then he would tell you about his wonderful bride. "Oh, what a woman my Annie was!"
And believe me, Jake was tough! I remember that cold day in January, 1964, when a storm blew through Fond du Lac and walloped the city with 16" of snow. Nothing was moving that day. The streets were too deep in snow to permit anyone but the really foolish or the really hardy to venture out of their homes. And yet, as I trudged those four blocks to the tavern to tend bar that day, I kept thinking how utterly useless it was to leave the comfort of the house to go to a tavern that surely would have no customers. I had to walk down the middle of Main Street to get there, knee-deep in snow, and if it wasn't for the fact that a stiff and snarly wind was blowing straight out of the north, I would have turned and walked back home. And I wouldn't have felt guilty at all.
A few minutes after 8:00 o'clock in the morning Uncle Jake was beating on the door of the tavern and demanding to know why I hadn't unlocked the door. He had walked some eight blocks from over on North Park Avenue to the tavern. He was the only pedestrian on the streets that day. His face was fiery red from the biting wind. But he was his usual impish self - that special impishness that only Uncle Jake could display. "Where the heck is everybody, Billy?" he asked. "They aren't nuts like you and me, Uncle Jake," I said. "They're home standing on the register instead of flopping around in the snow like a bunch of clowns." He was about eighty-six years old at that time. Toughest man I ever knew!
He had a full head of dark hair and he used to challenge people to grab a hold of his hair. "Hang on tight," he'd say. And he would pull you over the bar if you hung on long enough. He was one foxy sheepshead player and used to embarrass a lot of wannabe players who mistook him for a doddering old man. "Kid can't play," he'd say. "Guess the old man showed him how, didn't I, Billy?" Ah, yes, that he did!
He had a reverential way of talking about his wife Annie. You could tell at once that he deeply loved her. He told me once, "I rode the rails from Iron Mountain, Michigan and then I married Annie." I pretended to appear stupid, "You just got off the train and then you married her? Didn't you court her first?" "Of course I did, you darned fool," he'd say. And then he would tell you about his wonderful bride. "Oh, what a woman my Annie was!"
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