Ed Herder : Shepherd of Refuse

This sketch probably looks pretty strange ... It's a sketch of a lone chimney stack, left standing after a house burned down when I was about 12 years old. I don't have a real picture, so the sketch will have to do ... Here's the rest of the story :

I grew up in the country outside of Polar, a small village in Northern Wisconsin. One of the biggest events in that community’s history happened about 1982--second only to the restaurant and bar burning down the week after they’d finished building a new volunteer fire house not 50 feet away. This event I’m talking about was another fire …

Across the road from our house lived an old hermit named Ed Herder. He was an old man who collected and saved everything other people didn’t want. Now, we’d recognize him as a hoarder. He really did keep the area free of litter. I only found out how much he’d done after he was gone.

His dark house was a ramshackle old thing, with no electricity, no plumbing. I think even the stairs leading to the second floor had probably fallen down years before. His yard was overgrown with lilacs and sumac and other brushy weeds I couldn’t identify. The wood siding had weathered to a dark gray long ago. We kids were ordered to NEVER GO EXPLORING over there. Aside from stepping on rusty nails or other hazards, he was suspected of booby-trapping some of his space. My parents just did not want us to get hurt.

Herder must have been about 70 years old, though he may have looked older than he actually was. He always wore a ratty old dark wool coat. Even in the dog-days of August, there he was at the side of the road, hitching a ride to town in this smelly old wool coat. I’ve heard that wool is warm in winter and cool in summer. Maybe this was the proof? Or maybe it was easier to hide things that he shoplifted?

He had lived through the Depression years and learned the ethic for conservation. For a while he actually owned two houses. The other was next to the saw mill right in Polar, also without modern amenities. When that house burned down, I remember people who helped him salvage his belongings, saying that they saw mayonnaise jars stuffed full of money. He didn’t trust banks at all. He’d lived through the Great Depression, remember, when people lost their life savings. At that time, Social Services set up an account and made him put his money in the Credit Union, for his own good, so that he wouldn’t be subject to burglaries.

I remember one day when I was 6 or 7, I walked out to the mailbox with my little brother and my baby sister. Herder was just returning home from a forage through the dump. It must have been a good day because he seemed really happy. He greeted us and offered a pair of old creme-colored pumps to the beautiful lady I was with. She was unimpressed. After he turned to go home, so did we and she commented that he was a “creepy old man.”

Well, after Herder's first house burned down, he lived across from us. When winter got too cold, he would ask us for candles, matches, or a loaf of bread to tide him over until he could catch a ride 10 miles to Antigo to get supplies. We also let him draw water from our outside faucet. We always knew when he was around because the pipes would shudder and ache through the house to announce his preasance. It was this sound heard 2 times daily for so long that we missed first one day, then another, and another.

On the third day, Dad really started to worry and decided to go over and check up on him. Grappa Eddie went with him.

They returned about 20 minutes later with news that the old man was dead in his chair next to his wood burning stove. Ma called the county coroner while Dad and Grappa told of all the junk and newspapers and jars he had piled up there, leaving only a rabbit trail to wheedle through the monstrous piles of stuff. He even had an old piano there with no strings in it! The man seemed to save everything! It had taken them so long to find him because Herder had boards piled up outside his house which were hidden by the quack grass. Some of them still had nails in them, so they had to be careful where they stepped. Dad seemed to be pretty affected. He said the body was already starting to fall apart with the warm August weather. Back on our porch, he could still smell Herder’s rotting body, though the rest of us smelled nothing amiss.

Not long after, the coroner arrived, asked a few questions, and trekked off across the road with a few things and a black plastic body bag. Dad led the way.

Anyway, after many weeks of legal permits and red tape, the house was officially condemned and legally set aflame. The fire trucks came in the evening with a very fine misty rain to help contain it. Twelve of us, family, friends, and neighbors, sat on the porch with drinks and soda pop watching the event.

The wooden parts of the house came down first, leaving a brick chimney which stood like a tower for several more days before it finally fell. Herder had died sitting next to that chimney. Perhaps it was his spirit and energy that worked so hard to keep it standing for a few days more.

We found out that he actually did have some family. Two nephews in Milwaukee came up and parked a boat next to the rubble for a few years. They said that he’d led a hard life and had been abused by his father. They also said that he was French, after which, Dad always referred to him as Ed Hertier to make him a little more upscale than he was. The nephews posted a sign attempting to sell the land. Seven years later, they were still trying to sell it. Mr. Herder had collected everything nobody wanted, and now nobody even wanted his land.

I should say that Mr. Herder, Shepherd of Refuse, lived as he did because he wanted to. He had plenty of money, and no debts. He lived alone, though he could be around people when he desired. That’s real freedom--to live the way you want, even if it’s outside the norm.

After her died, I noticed a lot more garbage at the sides of the road. No one bothered to stop and pick up the aluminum cans any more. They were only worth something to an old hermit.

Note : This story was originally worked up for Anne Lundin's Storytelling Class in 1997 when I was still in Library School.

(Another) Fishing Story

"Out Fishin' " by Norman Rockwell

When I was a kid (about 8 yo), I got to go to Gramma Matucheski's for a few days--by myself. That was cool. She had a lot of grand kids, and we were the youngest, so it was kind of neat to be there by myself. They lived on a dairy farm in northern Wisconsin, way out in the country.

One day, I decided to go fishing. So I found a stick, and asked Gramma for some string. She gave me a ball of cotton string pieces "too short to keep." I tied them together until I had enough line to fish with.

Then I asked for a safety pin to use as a hook. Grappa Matucheski heard that -- I don't remember him saying much to me ever -- but this day, he convinced me that a real fishing hook with a barb would work better than just a safety pin. He tied the hook onto my fishing line.

Gramma helped me dig some worms for bait, and away I went (no Coca-Cola as in the Norman Rockwell picture above) ... I started off across the road and fields to the Eau Claire River. I found an old tree stump next to the river, I sat down, and baited my hook and dropped my line in the water. I felt just like Tom Sawyer.

Lots of fish were checking out my hook, but none were biting. I waited patiently. Then along came a big ol' bumblebee. I didn't want to get stung, so I pulled up my fishing line and ran away from that bumbling bee.

When I was safe from the bee, I looked at my fishing pole. I had caught a fish! I'd left in such a hurry, I snagged the poor fish by his eye. (Ouch!)

Just the same, I was proud of my catch. And I showed it to Gramma when I got back to the house. She said, "Ah, yes. Very nice." I thought we'd eat it for supper. Gramma knew it was too small, and she buried it in the garden.

Oak Drop Sindle : Artifact of Family History

Back when CL and I were "an item," back in our courting days at Summit Ave. Coop, I took a workshop to learn spinning wool into yarn. At the time, I was a poor graduate student, too poor to buy a bona-fide spinning wheel. Drop spindles were an economical alternative. CL offered to make one for me.

I remember looking on--horrified--as he rigged up a drill in some non-recommended manner to sand the oak whorl of this drop spindle. I didn't want him to get injured trying to impress me ... I couldn't watch the making of this drop spindle.

In the end, this is what he produced. It's pretty, but not at all practical. Oak is too heavy and the whorl too wide (5 1/4 inches and 3/4 inch thick) to be a workable/usable drop spindle. The fibre always broke before it had enough twist to be strong. No wonder I never liked spinning with drop spindles!


My first ball of yarn, spun more than 10 years ago and dyed with Kool Aid (makes a good acid-based dye for small quantities). It's good to keep samples of these first efforts--you can see how far you've come with practice.

The Popcorn Trout Incident

Just look at that gorgeous Rainbow Trout skin! Is there anything prettier in this world?


Me with one of the beloved rainbow trout.

At our house, CL does most of the cooking. But every once in a while, I get back into the kitchen just to prove I can still make a favorite meal.

One weekend, we'd gotten groceries, and I wanted to make trout ... We'd also purchased popcorn, and CL transferred it from the plastic bag to a glass jar for preservation, but it didn't all fit. So I left the remainder in the bag on the stove as a reminder to pop this batch of corn later that evening ...

Later that day, I got the trout ready and put it in the oven to bake. After a while, I heard a popping noise and checked the fish. I saw popped white popcorn kernals in the bottom of the oven with more popping by the second ... Puzzled, I asked CL, "Why is there popcorn in the bottom of the oven?" By then it had started to smoke ... I turned off the oven and went for a walk to sort all this out.

The bag with the remaining popcorn melted from the hot air coming up through the vent on top of the old stove. The loose popcorn fell down the vent into the hot oven and popped.

I cleaned out the popcorn and finished baking the fish a little while later. We had a nice trout dinner--sans popcorn.

Ma and Pa Meet (Twice)

A little known fact about Carl Jung is that he collected coincidences. He was working on an equation for the theory of relativity, so to speak--synchronicity. Well, I wonder what he'd have to say about my parents?

This is a photograph from the 75th anniversary parade of the town of Antigo, Wisconsin. This is my mom at about 4 years old, sitting in the buggy with her parents pushing her. They were sponsored by the Uptown Cafe, which was owned by Grappa’s sister, Vlasta.

I was 8 years old when Gramma Pickles pulled this photo out. When they showed it to me, I asked, “Where’s Dad?”--not being able to conceive of a time when my parents were not together. The maternal side of my family laughed at this question and replied, “They didn’t know each other then. Oh, how cute!” Then they told Dad that I wanted to know where he was in the picture. He smiled and started looking at the crowd at the top of the photo. And darn it all if he didn’t find himself there standing at the sidelines staring at his future bride. There he was just about in line with the photographer and my mom in the buggy. Dad and his brother Tom were there, along with a headless sister. They were tow-head blonds with crew cuts in those days. On the original photograph, they’re both wearing Indian Head nickel t-shirts, which he remembers quite clearly. [Click on the picture to see a larger version with Frank and Tom circled in the crowd of bystanders.]

Maybe that explains why my parents met and married after knowing each other only 2 months--and No, Ma was NOT pregnant.

Anyway, the next time they met was at the Dixie Diner (used to be the Uptown Cafe) about 14 years later. The same restaurant had changed hands. Ma was a waitress there and Dad came in often for coffee. The electrician Dad was working with at the time knew that Dad was thinking about moving to California, and he wanted to keep Dad around because he was a good little apprentice. So Tony Michelson pointed at Ma and said, “Hey Frank. Ya see that girl over there? She likes you.” That was in November. Ma was supposed to go to the Harvest Ball with a guy who later became a successful optometrist. At the time though, he was going to school in Eau Claire, about 3 hours away. So Dad and this guy sat in a booth at the Dixie during one of Ma’s shifts and discussed who should take her to the dance. Well, they decided Dad would be better because he lived there in town and we all know how hard long-distance relationships are to maintain ... Two months later they got married.

Another example of the strange connection my parents have was when we took a family trip to Norfolk, Virginia, to pick up my brother’s car. He didn’t want it anymore. On the way back, I was riding with Dad, and my sister was in the other car with Ma. We were going to meet at the hotel in Columbus, Ohio, that evening. Ma tends to drive with a lead foot, and Dad tends to go the speed limit. Needless to say, we lost ‘em.

When we got to Columbus, we couldn’t find the hotel, or Ma. Dad had drunk almost a case of Mountain Dew that day. He said it kept him “regular” on long trips. As far as I could tell, the caffeine only added to his agitation. A thunderstorm was coming; It was getting dark; We were low on gas; Ma had the money and credit cards; We were stressed out by the traffic on the Doughnut encircling the city. The atmosphere was anxious in that car.

Finally, we got off on a little country road through some farm fields and found a gas station and used up my $8 contribution on gas. Here we were feeling like we wouldn’t see Ma again until Milwaukee at Aunt Marge’s house.

By now, though the rain had stopped, and the sun was coming out again. So we headed back for Columbus determined to find our Comfort Inn. Well, an hour later, we stopped to see if we could call the hotel and get directions, or if Ma had found the place. Dad asked the counter clerk if his wife had checked in yet. The clerk of course asked him to spell it and as Dad did, the clerk said, ”Matucheski? One moment please.” And a second later, Ma got on the phone. She was at the check-in counter at the precise moment Dad had decided to call! Dad was mad and crabby, but still greatly relieved to hear Ma’s voice.

Coincidence? I think not! I think these two have some kind of psychic connection, or knew each other in lives past.

Nearly 39 years later, they’re still each other’s best friend and contentedly married. It’s a tough act to follow in this day and age. For a long time I didn’t know how I’d manage to meet anyone and know that they were the ONE I’d be with the rest of my life--and after only 2 months!

[This story was originally written for a Storytelling Class in 1997. It still holds up pretty well!]

Gramma Pickles : The Person

She's got a sparkly sweater, sparkly glasses, and red finger-nail polish (and usually a sparkly beer, too). She's the coolest Gramma I know!

Why do we call her "Gramma Pickles"?

Soon after my son was born, we were trying to figure out how to differentiate MY grandparents (now Great-Grandparents) from my parents who were first-time grandparents. Gramma had given us a huge jar of her famous pickles. We lovingly referred to the pickles as "Gramma Pickles" whenever we pulled them out to accompany our lunches. So the next time we saw her, SHE became Gramma Pickles, and the name stuck.

This is a jar of the current batch of Gramma Pickles (See the Recipe) :

Christmas Traditions : Family Stories

My Mom was born on Christmas Day back in the 1950s. That's why she was named Holly. For 10 years, she was an only child. Christmas has always been "big business" for her.

My Dad, on the other hand, was the youngest of 6 kids, born into a poor farm family. He always has a hard time with Christmas. When he was a kid, he and his brother got a new shirt and had to share it between them. He also tells the story of how he saved cereal box tops and sent them in, but his prize never came--until one Christmas morning. Someone intercepted the Halloween balloons he had ordered and given them to him for Christmas. He didn't really appreciate that. He never liked spending much money on Christmas presents either.

Christmas morning, we kids could get up and open our stockings whenever we woke up. But we had to wait for the adults to get up and assemble before we opened presents.

My Dad would stall as long as possible. First, he had to start a fire (so we'd have heat), then he had to have his coffee, then he had to take a rail-roader. One year, he even tried to go out and feed the pigs before we could open presents. We absolutely protested at that idea. He could do the pigs later--Bah-Humbug!

Dad used to jokingly threaten that Santa would give us nothing but a stick (we burned wood, not coal) if we weren't good. I actually put a stick in his stocking one year--but I felt so bad about hiding all the stuff Santa had brought him, that I put it all back WITH the stick.

I was telling Oliver this story the other day, and he's already heard it enough times to finish the story. Time to write it down!

Family Stories : Seth is Born

Photo from 1972 (or thereabouts). Seth, me, and Auntie Cindy with Toto(?) as a pup.

My brother Seth was born only 51 weeks after me. Yes--Irish Twins. On October 8, 1971 (Great Grappa Ingalls' Birthday), the family took Holly to the Antigo Memorial Hospital. Once there, the hospital staff told Gramma and Grappa Pickles to go down to the cafeteria to have supper, because it would be a while before the baby would be born. When they came back, Dad said, "A Seth! We have a Seth!"

Gramma Pickles ran down the hall yelling, "A set! A set! Twins!"

Dad had to explain, "No--just one--a boy. His name is Seth." My parents had not yet explained their choice of names. They originally wanted to call him Scott, but there were several other Scott babies in their apartment building in Stevens Point at the time. Seth was the next name after Scott in the name dictionary.

Family Stories : Holly Loves Garlic

My mom, Holly, spent a lot of time with her grandparents from Bohemia before she went to school. Even now, she speaks Bohemian in her sleep, though she says she can't remember it in her waking hours. Great Gramma Smitmajer, who never learned much English, would fill Ma up with lots of garlic and onions. Then when she went back to her own mother's house, Gramma Pickles (Violet) would send her back across the yard to Great Gramma's because Little Holly stank so badly of garlic, Gramma couldn't stand it.


Great Gramma Josephine Smitmajer also had these enormous chickens and roosters that would knock down a 3-year old Holly and peck at her. Ma hated those chickens. Great Gramma loved her chickens:

What's in a Name? - Matucheski, Pt.2

I didn't change my name on my wedding day, June 19, 1999. That last week, it became an identity crisis for me : Would I change it , or not? Would I give up the name I'd had for nearly 29 years to become Michele Long?

My mother was telling me, "It will make it much easier to tell if you're a family. What about the children?" She works in public health, and sees all manner of blended families where it is difficult to tell who belongs to whom.

Well, in my mind, in the family CL and I would create, the kids would KNOW they belonged. That was never an issue for me. Growing up, my best friend Janna lived in a house with 3 last names (Campbell, Kerska, and Bettis), and none of them seemed to have any kind of an identity crisis.

The morning of the wedding, my mother-in-law told me, "You should really change your name. You'll save a lot of time just writing your signature for the rest of your life."

The efficiency argument didn't move me either.

What did move me was losing my identity. I'd spent 29 years building up that name with good academics, good character, good credit, and a career as MM. It had been good to me.

Who was Michele Long? No one with no past ...

If I had gotten married at 18, it might have been a different story. My identity would not have been so precious at 18 years of age.

After I finally decided to keep my given name (at the very last moment of signing the marriage license), it was a tremendous relief to me. It's been almost 10 years since I made this momentous decision, and I know it was the right decision for me.

I did unofficially change my middle name from Leigh to Long, but the government doesn't know that.

There are benefits to having a long Polish-Americanized name :
* It's unusual.
* People HAVE to look at it, so they usually spell it right.
* They don't know how to pronounce it, so they usually ask.

What about the kids?
CL and I decided that boy children would take the Long surname; girl children would take Matucheski. We had a boy who we named Oliver Long, with eyes as green as mine. There is no doubt he is my child (and he knows it, too!).

What's in a Name? - Matucheski, Pt.1

Thomas Matucheski, my Polish Grandfather, had a small dairy farm in Deerbrook, Northern Wisconsin. He did the work, but his brother kept getting his milk check. He solved this perplexing problem by changing the spelling of his name.

Matucheski is the American phonetic (sound-it-out-and-say-it-just-the-way-it-looks) spelling of Matuszewski.

To this day, half the family still spells it the old way, and half of us spell it the new way. But we're all still related.

From the little bit of research I've done, the old spelling is a very common name in Poland. I think it may be translated as Matthews. If anyone reading this knows different, please tell me.