SQUEEDUNK "(a little bit of "life")
These are short stories that are very true, going back to my own life experiences with my family. Kind of like the "Waltons" or "Little House on the Prairie." Well, I don't mind sharing these times with readers, I mean, there is nothing so private that I can't share. So, if you want the whole book, all you have to do is leave a message. The Book is free, no charge, no strings attached. there are "longer" short stories in the book, so you can read those at leisure. So, here's a story entitled "Squeedunk".
What in the world is a “squeedunk,” one might ask? Is it some kind of animal? Something to eat? Or a place tucked away in some remote corner of the world?
Well, I can sincerely say that it is a “place” perhaps not mentioned on a map, but definitely a “place”. It is a place that I often visited when I was young, a place where my aunt Solveig lived. She was my father’s sister, whom we lovingly called “Tante Mackie”. A place in the city of Hackettstown, New Jersey, a rustic little area which also carried the name “Rustic Knolls.”
It was a place that still exists in my mind's eye, with about 10 metal mailboxes at the entrance of a long, dirt and gravel road. Mailboxes with the names, “McDonald”, “Petrocelli and Rullo”, “Montalvo and Lugo”, “S. Petersen”, “Catcher”, and other names which now elude my memory.
My mother and father would often visit Mackie during the summer months or a Thanksgiving vacation. We would drive down from New York in our 1960 red Studebaker, passing the supermarket on the main road, past old Joe Paddock’s place where the residents of Rustic Knolls would visit to fill their water jugs with fresh well water, as Joe was the only one with a well in those days.
We would make a right turn on that rustic dirt road and head downhill. We would pass a nice-looking house with spacious property on the left. It was owned by a lady who had a lamb. Sometimes the lamb would be tied up outside when the weather was nice.
Once past the “Lamb lady's” house, the forest took over. There was a wooded area on both sides of the road. The road would bend and curve this way and that. Halfway to Mackie's place, my father would honk the horn to warn any cars coming in the other direction that we were coming, as there was little room to pass on either side.
Once we got to the bottom of the road, the road would fork into two directions. The road to the left would go upriver, and to the right would end at the swimming hole. The river that ran near my aunt's house was (and still is) the Musconetcong River, meaning “rapid stream” in the Native American language. It is a river with a rocky bottom that would attract fishermen during the Spring, as the Hackettstown Fish Hatchery would stock the river with trout.
I remember fishing in front of my aunt’s place. I never caught any trout, though, only sunfish. A few times, I would venture across the river, either wading across the rock dam that residents would build to separate their properties from their neighbors'. A few times, I crossed over in an inflatable rubber raft, which was fun.
Across the river was a wooded area that went uphill. I remember somewhat of being a small mountain. I never reached the top, though, I just explored the land to the right of my aunt's property dam. I remember an old rusted car with a lot of bullet holes in the middle of a small clearing, a memory of the Bonnie and Clyde days.
Around the edge of our neighbor's part of the river was a huge boulder where a Korean boy named Lee, a friend of the MacDonald family, once caught a very big largemouth bass. My aunt showed me the newspaper clipping of that event.
My aunt's house was built with foundation stones, which she and old Joe Paddock got from the river. The two of them built it with these stones and fashioned wooden planks for the walls. It was a cozy little house, with two bedrooms and a sleeper sofa, which was in front of the dining room table. I can close my eyes and still see it.
There was a stone fireplace with a driftwood mantel, shelves on which were stored many volumes of National Geographic magazines, whatnots, a few pictures of grandfather, one with him holding “Ousi,” his pet cat, and a painting of a fly fisherman in a river.
A porch was constructed outside, with a far-sighted view of the river. There was a little “frog pond” where a few spotted leopard frogs found their way to, a sign above the pond with the word “Timberdoodle,” which my father had made. My aunt also had a tool shed, which was close to a large white hammock, tied between two large trees.
The property, instead of green grass, had white gravel, which made a crunching sound beneath my feet when I ran outside. Out there in the fresh, country air, I would play with “Ingeborg,” my aunt's little black Dachshund, whom she lovingly called “Inky”.
My aunt would sometimes tell us of local happenings, of different people in the area. She told us of the “Tyner boys,” whom she called “no good lazy louses”. One of them returned from Vietnam with a snake in his rucksack, she claimed. She always spoke good of old Joe Paddock, who helped her build her house, and of “Sophie,” her best friend, who a lovingly called “Aunt Sophie” and lived down the road near the swimming hole.
Sophie was a stout sort of woman who I always saw wearing farmer's overalls. Sophie's house was similar to my aunt's. Her house also overlooked the river, and she had a hammock strung between two trees. Inside her house, there was a stuffed moose head on the wall mixed in with a lot of ornaments of nature.
And so, it was in that small section of the world called “Squeedunk”, that little place tucked away next to a quiet rocky river, surrounded by woods and nature's wild things.
I remember it was one summer morning when mom, dad, and I were there visiting that my dad woke me up very early in the morning. It was still dark outside, and my dad and my aunt got together some fishing gear and a heavy box-like lantern. It was one of those 60s lanterns that you could open and put in one of those big, heavy batteries. It had a handle with which to carry it and swing it here and there. I got dressed and put on my favorite “Sock-it-to-me” shirt, which reminded me of the TV show, ‘Rowen and Martin’s Laugh-in’
We started walking down the dirt road that ended at the swimming hole, and that's where the road ended. Yes, it was kind of scary dark, at least it was for a young teen like me. My dad reminded me, “Keep your eyes on the light, walk in the light of the lantern, and you'll be safe, you won't trip and fall.
So, we walked down the road to Sophie's place first to do a little early morning fishing, and after that, tried our luck at the swimming hole. There we were, the three of us, three pairs of shoes, walking in the beam of light that came from Mackie's lantern. Mackie and Dad talked about, well, things that adults talk about; work, friends, and about the times with “Momsen and Popsen” (their mom and dad). I just listened and walked with them.
I was reminded of the scripture, which speaks of light, of walking in the light, the light being God's Holy Writ, the presence of the Almighty God among us, that substance which chases away the darkness. That early morning fishing walk reminded me of 1 John 1:7;
“BUT IF WE WALK IN THE LIGHT AS HE IS IN THE LIGHT, WE HAVE FELLOWSHIP WITH ONE ANOTHER, AND THE BLOOD OF JESUS HIS SON CLEANSES US FROM UNRIGHTEOUSNESS”
Yes, indeed, we did have a nice walk that early summer morning so many years ago. My father, my aunt, and I, walking down the dirt road, fishing gear in one hand, lantern in the other, walking and talking, just having a nice early-morning time for fellowship. I remember that we caught a sucker. We threw it back into the river on account of it being a “garbage” fish. My aunt had baited the hook with some pieces of bacon fat. Well, what can you expect? Not-so-kosher bait brings in not-so-kosher fish.
So many years have passed, yet this memory is as clear as glass. Mom, dad, and Mackie are all buried, but their memories are still alive, their teachings still alive, and the love and respect I had for them remain in my soul.
“Tante Mackie” 1970, ............................... crossing the river” 1962 .......... Early morning Fishing
These are short stories that are very true, going back to my own life experiences with my family. Kind of like the "Waltons" or "Little House on the Prairie." Well, I don't mind sharing these times with readers, I mean, there is nothing so private that I can't share. So, if you want the whole book, all you have to do is leave a message. The Book is free, no charge, no strings attached. there are "longer" short stories in the book, so you can read those at leisure. So, here's a story entitled "Squeedunk".
What in the world is a “squeedunk,” one might ask? Is it some kind of animal? Something to eat? Or a place tucked away in some remote corner of the world?
Well, I can sincerely say that it is a “place” perhaps not mentioned on a map, but definitely a “place”. It is a place that I often visited when I was young, a place where my aunt Solveig lived. She was my father’s sister, whom we lovingly called “Tante Mackie”. A place in the city of Hackettstown, New Jersey, a rustic little area which also carried the name “Rustic Knolls.”
It was a place that still exists in my mind's eye, with about 10 metal mailboxes at the entrance of a long, dirt and gravel road. Mailboxes with the names, “McDonald”, “Petrocelli and Rullo”, “Montalvo and Lugo”, “S. Petersen”, “Catcher”, and other names which now elude my memory.
My mother and father would often visit Mackie during the summer months or a Thanksgiving vacation. We would drive down from New York in our 1960 red Studebaker, passing the supermarket on the main road, past old Joe Paddock’s place where the residents of Rustic Knolls would visit to fill their water jugs with fresh well water, as Joe was the only one with a well in those days.
We would make a right turn on that rustic dirt road and head downhill. We would pass a nice-looking house with spacious property on the left. It was owned by a lady who had a lamb. Sometimes the lamb would be tied up outside when the weather was nice.
Once past the “Lamb lady's” house, the forest took over. There was a wooded area on both sides of the road. The road would bend and curve this way and that. Halfway to Mackie's place, my father would honk the horn to warn any cars coming in the other direction that we were coming, as there was little room to pass on either side.
Once we got to the bottom of the road, the road would fork into two directions. The road to the left would go upriver, and to the right would end at the swimming hole. The river that ran near my aunt's house was (and still is) the Musconetcong River, meaning “rapid stream” in the Native American language. It is a river with a rocky bottom that would attract fishermen during the Spring, as the Hackettstown Fish Hatchery would stock the river with trout.
I remember fishing in front of my aunt’s place. I never caught any trout, though, only sunfish. A few times, I would venture across the river, either wading across the rock dam that residents would build to separate their properties from their neighbors'. A few times, I crossed over in an inflatable rubber raft, which was fun.
Across the river was a wooded area that went uphill. I remember somewhat of being a small mountain. I never reached the top, though, I just explored the land to the right of my aunt's property dam. I remember an old rusted car with a lot of bullet holes in the middle of a small clearing, a memory of the Bonnie and Clyde days.
Around the edge of our neighbor's part of the river was a huge boulder where a Korean boy named Lee, a friend of the MacDonald family, once caught a very big largemouth bass. My aunt showed me the newspaper clipping of that event.
My aunt's house was built with foundation stones, which she and old Joe Paddock got from the river. The two of them built it with these stones and fashioned wooden planks for the walls. It was a cozy little house, with two bedrooms and a sleeper sofa, which was in front of the dining room table. I can close my eyes and still see it.
There was a stone fireplace with a driftwood mantel, shelves on which were stored many volumes of National Geographic magazines, whatnots, a few pictures of grandfather, one with him holding “Ousi,” his pet cat, and a painting of a fly fisherman in a river.
A porch was constructed outside, with a far-sighted view of the river. There was a little “frog pond” where a few spotted leopard frogs found their way to, a sign above the pond with the word “Timberdoodle,” which my father had made. My aunt also had a tool shed, which was close to a large white hammock, tied between two large trees.
The property, instead of green grass, had white gravel, which made a crunching sound beneath my feet when I ran outside. Out there in the fresh, country air, I would play with “Ingeborg,” my aunt's little black Dachshund, whom she lovingly called “Inky”.
My aunt would sometimes tell us of local happenings, of different people in the area. She told us of the “Tyner boys,” whom she called “no good lazy louses”. One of them returned from Vietnam with a snake in his rucksack, she claimed. She always spoke good of old Joe Paddock, who helped her build her house, and of “Sophie,” her best friend, who a lovingly called “Aunt Sophie” and lived down the road near the swimming hole.
Sophie was a stout sort of woman who I always saw wearing farmer's overalls. Sophie's house was similar to my aunt's. Her house also overlooked the river, and she had a hammock strung between two trees. Inside her house, there was a stuffed moose head on the wall mixed in with a lot of ornaments of nature.
And so, it was in that small section of the world called “Squeedunk”, that little place tucked away next to a quiet rocky river, surrounded by woods and nature's wild things.
I remember it was one summer morning when mom, dad, and I were there visiting that my dad woke me up very early in the morning. It was still dark outside, and my dad and my aunt got together some fishing gear and a heavy box-like lantern. It was one of those 60s lanterns that you could open and put in one of those big, heavy batteries. It had a handle with which to carry it and swing it here and there. I got dressed and put on my favorite “Sock-it-to-me” shirt, which reminded me of the TV show, ‘Rowen and Martin’s Laugh-in’
We started walking down the dirt road that ended at the swimming hole, and that's where the road ended. Yes, it was kind of scary dark, at least it was for a young teen like me. My dad reminded me, “Keep your eyes on the light, walk in the light of the lantern, and you'll be safe, you won't trip and fall.
So, we walked down the road to Sophie's place first to do a little early morning fishing, and after that, tried our luck at the swimming hole. There we were, the three of us, three pairs of shoes, walking in the beam of light that came from Mackie's lantern. Mackie and Dad talked about, well, things that adults talk about; work, friends, and about the times with “Momsen and Popsen” (their mom and dad). I just listened and walked with them.
I was reminded of the scripture, which speaks of light, of walking in the light, the light being God's Holy Writ, the presence of the Almighty God among us, that substance which chases away the darkness. That early morning fishing walk reminded me of 1 John 1:7;
“BUT IF WE WALK IN THE LIGHT AS HE IS IN THE LIGHT, WE HAVE FELLOWSHIP WITH ONE ANOTHER, AND THE BLOOD OF JESUS HIS SON CLEANSES US FROM UNRIGHTEOUSNESS”
Yes, indeed, we did have a nice walk that early summer morning so many years ago. My father, my aunt, and I, walking down the dirt road, fishing gear in one hand, lantern in the other, walking and talking, just having a nice early-morning time for fellowship. I remember that we caught a sucker. We threw it back into the river on account of it being a “garbage” fish. My aunt had baited the hook with some pieces of bacon fat. Well, what can you expect? Not-so-kosher bait brings in not-so-kosher fish.
So many years have passed, yet this memory is as clear as glass. Mom, dad, and Mackie are all buried, but their memories are still alive, their teachings still alive, and the love and respect I had for them remain in my soul.
“Tante Mackie” 1970, ............................... crossing the river” 1962 .......... Early morning Fishing
