Archives

Mystery Furnace

Sep24

Snow underfoot squeaked with each step I took. It was a sound I learned the meaning of as a kid. It was too cold to play outdoors. Brutally cold breezes moved mist-fine snow particles from place to place in my backyard. Turning toward the woodshed where my husband’s outdoor furnace stood, my breath sent a column of mist into the air. The stovepipe above the furnace sent smoke into the wind as if mimicking the mist.

I didn’t like this furnace. When my husband built it, he promised to take care of its feeding and cleaning. And he did, except when he had to be away like today. Unlike the wood furnace we once had in the basement of our house, this one was large and took huge chunks of wood. I dragged three logs closer to the furnace door and struggled to lift them into the red ember-lined firebox. Having fed an entire tree to the monster, I returned to the house.

Arnie must have not liked the outdoor furnace either. We only used it for two winters. One day, I found him in the basement installing a new furnace. I hadn’t even known he was shopping for a new one! He never told me who he bought it from and unfortunately, I never asked. The brand new, shiny machine was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Arnie admitted, “With the outdoor furnace, we lost too many BTU between the fire and the heat converter in the house.”

This furnace, wherever it came from, burned wood pellets that came in forty-pound bags. A large hopper on the side of it could hold three and a half bags. That usually took care of heating the entire house for a day and a half, but when it was very cold, it needed to be refueled every 12 hours. Arnie took care of most of the refueling of the furnace, but he did all its cleaning and maintenance.

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Fumes

Sep17

Cicadas sighed long, hissing calls from the treetops. I stood a few moments on the back deck, listening to them on that hot, late summer afternoon. The sound of cicadas in August makes me think of bacon sizzling in a pan. When bacon fries, the fat is rendered. Cicadas announce that the fat days of summer are coming to an end.

            I heard Arnie working in the shed. A moment later I peeked in and saw him applying his welding torch to one side of a metal box he was constructing. Realizing I was standing in the doorway, my husband turned off the welder and flipped open his welding helmet. His ruddy face was beaded with sweat and smudged with soot. The acrid smell of hot metal filled the air. A radio in the back of the shed was playing a country western song.

Grinning, Arnie asked, “Have you heard this new song by Toby Keith?”

The voice on the radio sang, “I like talking about, you, you, you, usually. But occasionally, I wanna talk about me!”

I laughed, “That’s a cute song.”

Inspecting his weld seam, Arnie grumbled, “It’s clever, but it isn’t country western although they call it that. Country is starting to sound like pop music. I don’t like the change.”

Glancing around the workshop and seeing large metal plates of various sizes, I asked, “What are you working on?”

Arnie happily explained, “I’m making an outdoor furnace with a water jacket for us. The fire box will have several angles to its roof to efficiently heat the water. The hot water circulates underground into the house where it goes through a heat exchanger and then it comes back to the furnace to be reheated.”

I didn’t know we were getting a new furnace! Seeing my surprise, Arnie hastily explained, “We won’t have to put anymore wood into the basement. The wood can be kept outside in the shed next to the furnace.” I made a face, thinking about middle of the night furnace feedings when it was cold and snowy. As if reading my mind, Arnie added, “We would only have to stoke it once or twice a day. I’d do it before and after work.”

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A Special Treat

Sep3

The alarm clock buzzed and progressively became louder until I slid out of bed to turn it off. Only the light of a waxing moon and a sprinkle of stars illuminated the darkness outside our bedroom window. Arnie turned on the bedside lamp and quickly slipped on blue jeans and a plaid shirt. He glanced at me, still in my nightgown and standing next to the bed, rubbing my eyes. He urgently advised, “Hurry up! Get dressed. Gene and Thelma will be here in half an hour.”

“Who are you?” I snapped grumpily. “You certainly can’t be my husband. He never gets up without a fight.”

Pinching me playfully, Arnie happily explained, “We’re not getting up for work. We’re getting up to start our vacation!”

Our two-truck caravan, each pulling boats, reached the north shore of Lake Superior just as the sun started to rise above the horizon. I spotted a breakfast diner and sighed, “Breakfast, at last!”

Seven hours later we stopped for lunch at a Canadian café. Poutine was on the menu, so of course we ordered some. Gene dug into the gravy drenched, cheese-curd-dotted, French fries and announced with a shrug, “It’s a weird way to eat French fries, but since we’re in Canada, we should give it a try.”

The next two days, Thelma and Gene fished from their boat while Arnie and I fished from our boat. They often quietly sat with bobbers floating on the water. Arnie preferred trawling through bays and inlets. We all caught fish.

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Fishing For Memories

Aug20
The best fisherman guide…ever!

Placing a box filled with family photos on the floor next to my chair, I assured my daughter, Tammie, “The picture you want will be in this box.” Reaching in, I pulled out an envelope marked “2006”.

Looking over my shoulder, Tammie shook her head and declared, “It’s not in that envelope. Those are from the fishing trip that Daddy, you and I went on after I earned my master’s degree.”

Quickly shuffling through the first few pictures, I slowed down to study ones that were taken while on the boat, right after catching fish. I sighed, “Weren’t those fishing trips to Canada with your Daddy wonderful?”

Sitting on the footstool next to my chair, Tammie agreed, “I loved the fishing vacations I got to go on with you. The place we stayed at was so beautiful, and we always caught fish!”

Chuckling, I pointed out, “I think Arnie took great pride in his fishing guide abilities when his wife and daughter caught fish.”

Studying a picture of herself holding a walleye she’d caught, Tammie asked, “What ever happened to that resort we stayed at?”

I shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. The man who owned the resort was a bricklayer from Minnesota. Terry worked at home during the winters and then spent the summers in Canada at Moose Tracks Cottages. Around the time your Daddy died, I heard that Terry had sold the place.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun to go fishing again?” Tammie asked wistfully.

I nodded and admitted, “When I was younger, fishing seemed so boring. But the fishing trips we took to Canada were fun once I learned how to fish.”

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Panning for Gold

Jul9

I carried two cups of tea into the dining room and placed one on the table in front of my daughter Tammie. Glancing up at me, she questioned, “Did you put sweetener in mine?”

Sitting down across from her, I admitted, “Your tea might be sweeter than you like.”

Taking a sip, my daughter raised her eyebrows and chuckled, “It is pretty sweet!”

I offered, “Would you like me to get you a fresh cup?”

“No, it’ll be fine.” Tammie assured me. “I want you to stay at the table with me so we can discuss where we will go for our vacation this year.”

Cupping my cold hands around the warm mug of tea, I confidently suggested, “This is the year we should go to Alaska.”

With a broad smile, Tammie commented, “We’ve talked about going to visit Alaska for the last dozen years. Somehow, it just never happened. Why do you suppose that was?”

Nodding, I admitted, “The idea of going there has always appealed to me, but we never could agree on what we wanted to see or do while in Alaska. We talked about going salmon fishing on the ocean, but I felt really reluctant about it. This year I’ve finally realized that fishing would be fun to do if Arnie were still with us, but not for us to do alone. A fishing trip like that was something he would have absolutely loved, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it! We also talked about Alaska’s gold rush history and how much fun it would be to try panning for gold in a stream. We never investigated finding a guide for that.”

             Tammie added more reasons why our plans to visit Alaska other years just never worked out, “We never could come to an agreement about which cities to visit, where to stay, nor how long to stay.”

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What Was That?

Jul2

The loud, frighting bang against the living room window and a flash of light happened simultaneously. Something had entered the house and zipped past me into the dining room, then I heard what sounded like shattering glass.

What had come into my house? Although I didn’t exactly see whatever it was, my eyes had tracked its movement as it entered the dining room. Where was the broken glass? I got out of my rocking chair to investigate.

Earlier in the evening, ominous dark clouds had filled the sky. The air in my backyard was still, like it often is right before a storm. Standing at my back door, I studied the dark, roiling clouds overhead. Then my cell phone buzzed, and a business-like woman’s voice announced, “Attention please! Tornado warning in this area until 7 P.M. Take shelter now! Check media.”

Having to deal with something scary like an approaching tornado makes me think of my late husband. If he was still with me, he’d probably would’ve stood on the back deck and not retreat to the basement unless he saw, with his own eyes, a funnel cloud approaching. I didn’t want to sit in my unfinished farmhouse basement for three-quarters of an hour, so I compromised by wrapping up in a blanket and sitting in the stairwell to the basement. Fortunately, the power didn’t go out, so I had lights and WIFI.

The worst of the storm passed, so I returned to the living room where I sat down in a rocking chair across the room from the room’s large window. The drapes on the window were open a few inches so I could still see the flashes of lightning. On the television, a meteorologist was pointing to a map, showing where tornadoes had been sighted.

I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, but by chance I glanced at the big window just as a ball of light, about the size of a basketball, struck the center of the window with a bang and I sensed something zipping past me into the dining room and nearly simultaneously hearing glass break.

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Weird Sense of Humor

Apr23

I felt totally comfortable with my husband and often shared funny asides and comments about life when we were together. Arnie usually laughed at my observations, but sometimes exclaimed to me, “You and your weird Altmann sense of humor!” Despite his negative description of my family’s humor, I got the distinct impression that Arnie loved it, was sometimes bewildered by it, and even, at times, secretly admired our outlook on life.

A sense of humor is a personality trait that allows people to understand funny things, appreciate jokes, and in general, see the funny side of life. I don’t think living a perfectly happy life necessarily produces happy, joke-spewing people. If you have a sense of humor, it will show up even in the darkest of times. When I gave birth to a baby with an obvious birth defect, I joked, “At least we know we brought the right baby home from the hospital. There was no way there could have been a mix-up. Ours looks different!” This is an example of ‘dark humor.’

Does everyone in a family share the same type of humor? Not always, but I know my daughter Tammie shares my dark humor abilities. She once said she never worries about anyone stealing her winter coat from public coat hooks because, “Not many people can use a short-armed coat!”

Is a sense of humor trait something people can learn, soak up, or discover like a treasure? I’m not sure, but can verifiably report that, if that is possible, that is what happened to me and my family. During the 1950’s when the lean years of the depression and war was over, Daddy bought every Donald Duck comic book written by Carl Barks as they were published. At first, each of these comic books cost only five cents a copy, which was very affordable for our farm family.  

We loved these comic books because they contained references to geography, history, literature and science. The humor Carl Barks infused into the duck family’s experiences was sublime and clean. We read and reread each issue. Our meal-time discussions sometimes centered around the duck’s latest adventure. One of our favorite, playful family insults was taken from one of the stories. The horrid Beagle Boys had been outsmarted by the wily old duck once again.  Holding Scrooge by the feet, upside down, Beagle Boy number 716-617 angerly shouted, “You rich pig of a duck!”

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Another Once-in-a-Lifetime

Apr9

I stood by the night-darkened window, watching rain drops gather and trickle down the screen. I sadly asked my husband, “Why does it always seem to rain when a person has something nice planned?”

Arnie irritably responded, “You can’t change anything by watching it rain. Get back into bed and forget about it.”

A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder accompanied my return to bed. Needing to unwind before going to sleep, I pointed out, “This rain is coming too soon after we almost got trapped in Canada by gully-washing rainstorms. It’s hard to believe that we got home from that experience just one week ago!” A gentle snore made me realize Arnie wasn’t listening.

I usually love lying in bed at night and listening to a summer thunderstorm passing through the countryside. Watching the flashes of lightning and listening to the gentle rolling thunder and pattering rain on the windowpanes make me feel cozy. But tonight, it just made me feel uneasy.

The event that I was worried the rain would ruin wasn’t just a simple occasion that could be postponed to another week. This weekend the church Arnie and I attended was celebrating 125 years since its formation. A picnic with lots of food for all the parishioners was planned. Someone had arranged games in the park across from the church for the children to play. The parish was celebrating our patron saint’s name day in conjunction with the quasquicentennial anniversary. In preparation, the church building was given a much-needed restoration leading up to the occasion. In addition, I was excited about the debut of the parish history book that I’d worked on for the past year. I looked forward to seeing it in print!

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Escape Plans

Apr2

When the alarm clock rang at five o’clock in the morning, I lifted my head off the pillow to moan, “No, no, no!” My husband, Arnie, grunted unhappily, but sat up on the side of the bed.

Reaching over Arnie gave me a shake. He growled, “Come on, get up! I’m tired too, but I want to get to Canada before it gets dark tonight.” After having worked so many hours in the last few weeks, we were both tired. All I wanted to do was to start our vacation by sleeping in.

Our drive north began silent and grumpy, but as the sun rose higher into the sky, tiredness left us. Cheered by the anticipation of spending the week fishing together, our happy comradery returned. Passing through International Falls into Fort Frances we stopped to buy bait for the fish we planned to catch.

At a bait shop on our way out of town, Arnie bought four dozen minnows. The shop owner put them, along with a great deal of water in a large, clear plastic bag. This clammy, bag-o-fish ended up riding on my lap so I could keep it safe until we reached our destination.

I’d gone fishing in Canada with Arnie for the last three years. This time we were going to a new location. The cabins we usually rented were always very basic and plain, having no luxury features, so I wasn’t expecting anything different this time. Arnie had made the reservations for this trip without having ever visited the camp or lake. After turning off the main highway onto a side road and driving a long way, I asked, “What’s the name of this resort and the name of the lake?”

Stopping to study a map, Arnie said, “The place is named ‘Moose Track Cottages’ and it’s on Lake Despair.” The name of the lake didn’t sound promising. Seeing the disconcerted expression on my face, my husband quickly added, “The man who owns the place is a bricklayer in Minnesota during the winter and runs this place in the summer.”

We pulled in at Moose Track Cottages at 4 in the afternoon. Terry, the owner was there to greet us. Bright, early June sunshine made the lake shimmer, and a gentle breeze caused the tree leaves above us to rustle soothingly. Pointing to a small building near the shore, Terry said, “That’s the fish cleaning house.” Close to it was a brand-new dock extending out into the lake. It seemed unnaturally long-legged and stood high above the water. Terry explained. This part of Canada has been having a drought, so the lake’s water level is low right now. I hope we get rain soon.”

Leading us to a cabin that had a small deck along one side and a big one on the back, Terry opened the door, and I stepped in. My jaw dropped open. The place looked fantastic! The kitchen had a modern, full-size refrigerator, stove and dishwasher, lots of counters and cabinets. A gas fireplace in the living room was flanked by two sofas and rocking chairs. Through a sliding glass door, I saw a gas grill we could use on the back deck. The cabin had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I gasped, “I love this place!”

Arnie had our boat in the water by 6 P.M. and was ready to go fishing. I caught the first fish, a small northern we didn’t keep. Arnie pulled in a walleye we kept. I felt relaxed and happy. In the quiet, we heard the water lap against the boat and birds in the trees singing. An eagle screeched in the distance. Looking up at the sky, I commented, “I see mare’s tail clouds overhead, and on the horizon, there are thunderheads. My brother, Billy, would say this means it’s going to rain.”

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The Tapioca Incident

Feb19

Holding her largest mixing bowl, Mom vigorously stirred the batter. As if making cookies wasn’t enough work, she was multitasking by making our evening meal at the same time. Glancing at the stove top, Mom grumbled under her breath, “Tisk, why isn’t that burner heating up?” Impatiently, she put her right hand on the electric coil and instantly pulled back with a yelp. It was hot, just not glowing red.

Jumping up from where I had been sitting at the kitchen table, I questioned, “Mom! How badly did you burn your hand?”

Running cold water over her hand at the sink, my mother ruefully commented, “That was a stupid thing to do.” The imprinted rings of the burner could be seen on her fingers and palm, but other than the skin being tender, the burn was surprisingly superficial. Allowing the cold water to continue running over her hand, Mom instructed, “Put the pot of potatoes on that burner.”

I usually never cooked or baked with Mom while I was growing up. I always had the feeling that she preferred to work alone. She never asked for help, even when she was rushed or trying to get other things done at the same time. For years I sat at the kitchen table watching her work and assumed this would help me know what to do someday when I had to make meals.

I know for certain that I did learn a few things. With Mom’s hand burn incident, I learned two things. One was how to injure yourself without saying a single bad word. The second thing I learned was to never touch the stove top, even if it didn’t look hot.

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