By Cindy in San Jose, CA on Wednesday, April 20, 2005 - 07:03 am:
I was reminiscing my childhood with a friend and recalled having some great times staying at Gitchee Gumee Bible Camp. Born in the heart of Chicago, it was a real treat to get away from the city and spend vacations at my grandpa's chicken farm in Dollar Bay, not far from Gitchee Gumee.
Can anyone verify if my memory is fact or fiction? I recall taking a sleeper train to Dollar Bay from Chicago. There were numerous stops along the way. I seem to recall that the train actually let us off across the highway from my grandpa's farm--almost as if it was a special stop just for my mother, brother and me. I wonder: Is this a memory of a child, distorted over time? Would a train actually make a special stop?
I recall the cold, cold waters of Lake Superior, the tiny church we attended on Sundays, and hearing a frequent whistle. Maybe it was a train whistle.
I remember the abandoned factories along the Bay. When I returned in 1960 on my honeymoon, those abandoned and rusting factories were still there. Surely, they must be torn down by now.
My grandpa, Emil Juntunan, cooked on a woodburning stove. Confined to a wheelchair, my grandmother was limited in the chores she could perform. I was told she had multiple sclerosis.
The kitchen had a fascinating large pantry. One had to pull on a rope to open the large trap door in the pantry floor. It opened to the basement where grandpa candled the chicken eggs. A heavy weight attached to the end of the rope held the door open. In the cool, dirt-floored basement, the eggs remained fresh until delivery time.
Grandpa's house had an enclosed porch that stretched across the full length of the house. Along one end of the porch, there was a window seat, big enough to seat at least a dozen people. Lift the seats and one would find potatoes and wood for the stove.
Grandpa's sturdy rocking chair occupied center stage on the porch. I never tired of my wild rocking. Sometimes I would try to see how fast and far I could rock without actually going off the rockers. Could that be how the expression "off your rocker" originated?
My Uncle Stanley, a handsome fellow with wavy brown hair, deep irrisistible dimples, and a serious stutter, helped grandpa work the chicken farm. He never married nor left the farm.
My Uncle Fred lived up the gravel road from my grandpa's farm. Several people lived there. It was grand to join with everyone on a Saturday night for coffee and cakes after an authentic sauna. My mother threw water on the hot rocks, the steam roared up, and I yelled that she was going to "cook" me--or so my mother told me.
I remember the feel of the soft evening air as my brother and I chased up and down the rolling hills catching fireflies and smearing their lighted bodies on ours. For a while, we wore glowing earrings and were covered by numerous tiny lights.
With a child's perspective, it seemed that my grandpa owned great lands. I followed creeks and wandered through the woods for what seemed like hours. Oh what freedom to explore, to be free and imagine.
Just the other day, I recounted to my grandchildren my love of climbing. We went to Pinnacles National Monument here in northern California. All of us--yes, me, too--climbed the rock walls, looking for toeholds and edges to grip to make our way. "I remember," I said, "spending a lot of time climbing trees on my grandpa's farm, I could sit forever in his apple tree, eat apple after apple, and watch a mother bird busily feeding her young."
Was it 1972 when grandpa died? I don't remember. Uncle Stanley followed around 2001. I imagine the farmhouse and chicken outbuildings are long gone. I wonder if anyone remembers the Juntunans.
Cindy
