A New Read

A New Read

Just in time for your summer read – a new book from  . . . Me. Available at Roscommon library, me, or Amazon.com.

The book is “Uncle Charley,” the story of a notorious relative from the Tudor clan who sampled life at both ends of the legal spectrum during Prohibition and the Roaring Twenties.

Here is a sampling from the opening chapter.

Uncle Charley

William Tudor

A biographical novel detailing the remarkable story of a man’s struggle to overcome obstacles thrown his way in the first half of the 20^th century. Despite hard times, racist attitudes, and the problems of Prohibition, he persevered and thrived beyond the expectations of his entire family, including those he loved and those who loved him.

Part 1

“Sometimes you’ve got to run away from home to get there”

Stephanie Zacharek, journalist

1

Billy

Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house was a big deal for a kid like me growing up in the small town of Bluffton, Indiana. This year it was especially big – Uncle Charley was visiting, probably the first time in several years. Grandma said a large part of the family would be gathering for this year’s big dinner at her farmhouse. Because of Uncle Charley, I wanted to be at Grandma’s early in the morning, but Mom said no, that I’d just be in the way. “Grandma is working hard in preparing our dinner,” she said, “and besides, Grandma’s sister Goldie and her husband Willard is at Grandma’s house and that is enough what with Charley there.”

I moped around until she finally relented, about 10 AM Thanksgiving morning. But, the bad news was, Mom said I had to take Linda with me. I wasn’t too happy about taking my little snot-nosed sister anywhere, especially since I wanted to spy on Uncle Charley. Alone.

My sister and I walked down the alley and across the street to Grandma’s farmhouse at the edge of town. When we opened the door to the back porch, Grandma was just inside the door wearing her ever-present apron, leaning over her big black-iron fry pan.

“Billy,” she said. “I was hoping you’d come soon.”

It was warm in her back porch even though it was unheated. Her iron skillet was hot and steam was clouding the air from another pan as well. The entire porch smelled like bacon, courtesy of hot lard that sizzled as it escaped the heat of the pan. I could barely make out Grandma’s words over the noise. Aunt Goldie was also in the porch, layering pieces of chicken with a flour and egg mixture that was transformed into a golden-brown crust as my Grandma Nellie turned the meat from side to side in the hot grease.

Grandma Nellie was nothing if not careful about having enough food. She had a pile of chicken beside her but there was still another, even larger pile yet to be fried. She had pulled out all the stops on this important day with green beans, mashed potatoes, home-made noodles, pickled beets, salads, homemade bread and desserts that I hadn’t yet seen. My Grandma liked fried chicken. I thought it was awful how she had to kill one or two of her chickens at every holiday.

“I was hoping you’d be here ‘cause I could use your help.” Grandma said. I puffed up as I knew my sister had heard. “I need you to feed my chickens,” she said. I deflated. She handed me a galvanized bucket of potato peels and other food scraps from her morning’s work. I retraced my steps out the back door and headed toward the large chicken coop and the adjacent pen as my sister disappeared, as usual, leaving the work to me.

Feed the chickens. Double darn. Those nasty birds would be attacking me as soon as I entered their pen. Maybe they would leave me alone this time, I thought. No such luck. The ugly white leghorns must have known I was coming as six or seven attacked my ankles as soon as I let myself in the gate. I hurried, hoping to outrace them. As soon as I could, I lifted the bucket to shoulder height, tipped it forward and then spun in a circle, tossing the scraps in a large arc. With a smug grin, I noticed that I had smacked two or three of the running hens with several flying potato peels. It made the job almost enjoyable. I snuck out as the birds attacked the food bonanza.

Grandma replaced the empty galvanized bucket in its place against the wall in the back porch.

 “Is Uncle Charley about?” I asked.

“No, he and the other men took the truck. They went to see the old farmhouse where Uncle Charley lived when the family first came to Bluffton. I reckon they’ll be back soon enough.”

Grandma must have sensed I didn’t know what to do since there was no one for me to play with or talk to. “Why don’t you go give the calf a handful of corn and then open the gate to the pasture field. You can curry her also, if you want to,” she said, knowing that I liked the latest of their young cows. I nodded my head and left the house for the barn.

By the time I finished with the calf and came back to the farmhouse, Uncle Charley and the other men had returned. The rest of the family were arriving and slowly migrating toward the dining table that was now laden with covered bowls and Grandma’s best plates and stemmed glasses.

The dining room was crowded. Grandma had managed to seat all of us in the dining room around two tables that had been pushed together. I barely got seated before Grandma took charge and announced that Willard would begin the dinner by offering prayer. Willard deserved the honor since he was Grandma’s brother-in-law and the ranking religious man in the family, a Wesleyan Methodist preacher.

Willard stood erect with his long wavy hair carefully combed and spoke with authority for several minutes. We all knew he was running out of steam when he reached the telltale ending that I had heard maybe a thousand times before, “. . . and thank you for this food for the strength of our bodies.” He paused for one moment before his ‘Amen’ came tumbling out. Grandma must have been watching Willard carefully. Unexpectedly, she launched into a second prayer before anyone had a chance to pick up his fork. I put the dish back that I had grabbed for. We all bowed our heads a second time.

Grandma Nellie made a good show of her prayer, even though she prayed aloud rarely and only for important occasions like this one. When I couldn’t detect any sign that Grandma was wearing down, I quietly lifted my head and stole a look at the people sitting opposite me. I was surprised to see Uncle Charley doing the same. He caught my eye and winked. I tried to respond, but all I could manage was to scrunch one side of my face up with both eyes becoming mere slits. Uncle Charley smiled and we both bowed our heads before we were caught. I knew Grandma sometimes watched for slackers during prayer time.

It must have taken an hour or more to make a dent in the food that had been laid out for us. I stole several glances at Uncle Charley, hoping to remember everything about him so I could I repeat it all to my friends. The reason for the intense interest in Uncle Charley was because he was so different than we all were, even though he was family and he had grown up in the area. The main thing was the rumors that Charley had been a member of a criminal gang, that he had earned a lot of money in the formerly illegal trade in alcohol, and that he now called a big city in Michigan his home.

The rumors seemed incredible because of the way Charley looked. He was a normal-looking man with clear skin and he didn’t have that perpetual flushed look from too many hours in the sun that seemed common among the men in my family. Some might have said Charley was handsome. He was certainly different with his pencil thin mustache and he seemed younger than my Grandfather Ora and better dressed than any of the other men around the table. And maybe most important, he had a big, expensive Buick parked in Grandma’s driveway. If he was indeed a gangster, he didn’t fit what I had seen in the movies. He seemed to be quiet, perhaps even shy, and his speech was occasionally peppered with a bit of a stutter. Besides, Charley had winked at me between his smiles.

After dinner the men retired to the adjacent living room while the women moved to the kitchen and began cleaning up. My sister and brothers and I put our coats on and moved to the front porch. There was an argument about who could sit on the swing but I avoided that and sat where I could look in the window to watch what was going on inside. It seemed only minutes before Uncle Charley came to the window and beckoned to me. I jumped up and ran inside.

“Wanna help me pack up, Billy Boy?”

“Yessir,” I yammered. Charley turned on his heel and made for the stairway leading to the upstairs bedrooms. I followed him up the narrow stairway where he turned into the smallest bedroom that overlooked the driveway down below. I followed him in and saw something in the room I had never before seen. A bedroom used by a man for two nights with the bed carefully made up; no clothes thrown about, no papers left lying on a table, nothing out of place. A suitcase was lying in the precise center of the bed. Next to the suitcase was a small leather valise, also zipped closed. Uncle Charley went to the closet and disappeared for an instant only to return wearing a fashionable grey overcoat with a matching fedora.

“Time for me to go,” he said. “You take the valise.” He looked at me as he reached in his pocket and then positioned something on his thumb and forefinger. As I watched, he flipped a shiny coin in the air toward me. I reached out and snatched the coin as he had intended. It was a shiny silver dollar, a rare treat in those days. “For me? I asked. Charley shook his head and smiled as I stuffed it in my pocket. Something to show my friends.

As he bent over to reach for his suitcase, something tumbled from his pocket. It made a loud thump as it hit the floor. He and I looked at the same time, although he must have known what it was. A shiny black pistol was lying on the floor beside him. Charley quickly retrieved it.

“Pretend you didn’t see that,” he said, as he shoved the pistol back in his overcoat pocket. I was too surprised to answer aloud so I nodded my head. Charley gave me another wink and started down the stairway with his suitcase while I grabbed the valise.

I stood in the knot of people who gathered at the driveway to wave goodbye as Charley steered his Buick from the driveway and onto Wayne Street. The car had barely reached the corner before my Grandmother offered her opinion. “I don’t think that boy will come to a good end,” she said, ignoring the fact that he was about the same age as she.

Willard was a little more philosophical, “Maybe the good Lord will make him see the error of his ways.” As we turned back toward the house, my father offered his assessment, “He sure has a nice car, though. I’ll bet he paid a pretty penny for that machine.”

As the party ended, my family gathered for the short walk from Grandma’s to our house just two blocks distant. As we began walking I decided this was my chance to learn more about Uncle Charley. I was full of questions for my father. I decided on trying some innocent questions first and reserving the more important questions about Charley’s gangster background until later. I was going to be careful not to ask anything that might hint that I had seen his gun.

“Where is Uncle Charley living in Michigan? I began, when I really wanted to ask if Charley had ever been found guilty of some really big crime. Linda decided to ask something else at that exact same moment. The result was that my question went unanswered. It was a typical lapse. As usual, nobody told me nothing. They never did. I didn’t even learn that Charley wasn’t my uncle at all until much later.

Stacking Firewood UP

Stacking Firewood

As promised, here is my regurgitation about stacking firewood; a topic of vital importance for us North Woods men, as will become apparent from even a casual perusal of the following.

As you must know, stacking firewood is the last step in a lengthy process in acquiring a supply of that which is a treasured accompaniment to cocktails or wine during winter evenings spent indoors with a good friend. Of course, I’m talking about sitting next to a cheery fire that helps one forget that snow is piling up outdoors.

The process for a dedicated woodsman begins by selecting trees, cutting them down, sawing the logs, splitting the chunks into a size suitable for the wood stove, transporting the wood to the rick and finally, stacking the finished product for drying and subsequent use. It is an up and down process.

The trees are cut DOWN, logs are sawed UP, the sawed pieces are split DOWN to firewood size, gathered UP, sorted and transported, then finally stacked in the rick with the trust that in a year or two the firewood will be ready to burn. A foul UP on any step of the process can ruin the entire effort, resulting in poor quality fires and ruined friendships during winter evenings with beer instead of wine by the fire. A single example of a sorry foul-UP will suffice.

An unnamed North Woods man of my acquaintance decided to acquire his firewood using the process that I described above. He had a large supply of dead and dying trees in his part of the north woods and a suitable wood rick, but little else in the way of qualifications for the project. He went to the store to buy a chainsaw. The salesman had a large inventory of saws. The salesman told my friend that he recommended the top-of-the line saw, saying that the saw would save time and money since he could saw UP ten cords of firewood in one day by using the top-of-the line saw. My friend was convinced. He purchased the top-of-the-line chainsaw. He took the saw home and, anxious to begin his project, began cutting DOWN trees that very afternoon. He worked hard, but by dinner time, he estimated that he had sawed UP only a single cord of firewood.

He decided that he needed to start early the following day to achieve the ten-cord result the salesman promised. He began work the following morning at nine AM sharp. [Like me, he is retired]. He worded steadily all day long until nap time followed by cocktail hour. [Like me, he is retired and approximately my age]. After cocktails, he went outdoors to survey his work results. He was no-where close to the ten-cord result promised by the salesman. He decided to return the chainsaw to the store and ask about his disappointing results thus far.

The following day he left home early and arrived at the chainsaw store about 10AM [like me, he is retired]. The salesman seemed surprised at his inferred complaint about the result of his work. “Let me see the saw,” he asked. My friend handed him the elaborate carrying case that came with the expensive chainsaw. “It looks like new,” the salesman said as he pulled the cord to operate the engine.

“What is that noise?” my friend asked as the engine fired UP.

So, back to stacking firewood.

Rule #1. Stack the firewood so it doesn’t fall down. That means having all the stacked pieces about the same size and laid in such a way that the pieces can nestle together. I can’t describe what this means but you’ll know it when you see it. (See also Rule # 2)

Rule #2. Stack the wood with plenty of air space to allow the wood to dry before use. Make the void around each layer of wood large enough so a mouse can pass thru the stack but small enough so the cat chasing after him is unable

Rule # 3. Don’t stack pieces that are too heavy on the top. (Also see rule #4)

Rule #4 [The most important of all the rules] Don’t stack the firewood higher than the wife can reach. Explain that you’ll pour the wine while she keeps the wood bin filled. Offer to help her with her coat while she treks outdoors to the wood rick.

    

Bill's Wood Rick

For those of you unskilled in the ways of the North Woods, a wood rick is a storage shed for firewood. Ricks are required, of course, for those of us who think sitting in front of a wood stove in the winter is suitable entertainment for weekends while snow builds up to impossible depths in winter. My old rick had become an embarrassment. It was too small, leaning precariously, and most shameful of all, it allowed snow and rain to occasionally contaminate my supply of firewood. And so, it was thus I found myself this spring, with my supply of firewood reduced, and the shameful condition of my old rick, virtually forced to construct a new rick if I wanted to continue calling myself a North Woods Man.

As winter’s snow began to diminish, I began to plan construction of a new rick. But the new rick would be different than my old one. I would build it larger, (big enough to accommodate a year’s supply of firewood), and straighter, (maybe I would even use a level to begin construction). And so, as winter’s snow began to diminish in mid-March, I began building my brand-new rick, [using old lumber that I salvaged from my old rick, of course], but with a plan this time, involving use of a level, concrete blocks and, wonder of wonders, plywood and shingles to keep out snow and rain instead of the more customary blue plastic tarps.

Here I am in the final stages of construction.

Surprisingly, the rick was strong enough to support my weight on the roof. The job of shingling the roof was temporarily interrupted by a snowfall that lasted two weeks into April. As the calendar plodded onward, I finally finished the building the rick and began the job of filling it with a new supply of firewood. Here I am with the rick about 1/3 full of oak firewood for next winter.

Stay tuned for my next blog as I explain about the critical nature of stacking firewood for retrieval next winter.