Marriage Memoir by Ron and Crystal Meinstein

As will be obvious upon reading our yet to be published memoir, Crystal and I grew up in totally different families. Oh our families had the same middle class, home oriented, Christian values. But that’s where the similarities ended. For Crystal, Christmas was all about visiting neighbors, church members and about two thousand relatives (possibly a slight exaggeration), in several states.

My family consisted, for the most part of my mom, my dad, and me. While pleasantries and an occasional glass of mom’s lethal eggnog, and a rum ball or two, were shared with neighbors (within walking or stumbling distance), to me Christmas meant going downhill skiing. Almost every year, from the time I turned ten until my late teens, dad would take Christmas week off and we would head north. This was a chance for us to connect and share an activity that we enjoyed together. We would spend the whole week, including Christmas day, on the slopes and get back a day or so before New Years. We would then celebrate Christmas on one day, including the all important gift exchange, and then bring in the New Year the next. We were finally officially back on schedule.

Our Christmas sabbatical destinations would vary from year to year. We went to upper Wisconsin, or Michigan, and even to Colorado. In the Midwest, my favorite destination was the upper peninsula of Michigan. It was a really long trip by car. The whole first day and last day were dedicated to the trip. It was worth it. The ski lodges like big Powder Horn and Indianhead Mountain (probably called NativeAmericanhead by now) boasted some of the longest and best varieties of runs in the Midwest. Also, you never had to wonder if there was snow. There was, and how. With Lake Superior to the north and Lake Michigan to the south, it snowed practically every day. Someone told me that the average snow fall was around two hundred inches.

That brings me to my story. It was Christmas morning of around 1968. It had snowed all night. The weatherman said eight to ten inches. When we left the motel the streets were already plowed. They were always ready for another big snow. Plus, since the peninsula was only about five miles wide, there were only a few roads to plow up there back then. I couldn’t see the street from our room because of about five feet of plowed snow on each side of the road. I was excited and couldn’t wait for mom to finish breakfast. I think she was one of the world’s slowest eaters. Of course, I only complained whenever I was waiting for her. When we got to the slopes they were still shoveling the parking lot, but there were almost no other cars. Of course I had to walk with my parents to the lodge. We would formulate plans for lunch, occasional meetings, etc. Once on the slopes mom was easy to find. Dressed in her thick bright orange coat, she would be on an easy slope or back at the lodge, where she spent most of the day. She would rather sip something hot around the fire and watch people. If I wanted to, I could usually find dad. I was a faster skier and could go up and down until I finally caught up with him. But most of the day I would be on my own.

That day I shot out of the lodge strapped on my skis and was off. Going was tough. The new snow wasn’t the light powdery stuff all skiers love. It was more of the heavy, slightly damp type. However, I couldn’t believe my luck. It looked like I was the first skier on the lift. That had never happened before. Others had to be opening presents or still watching dancing sugarplums. I got to the lift and away I went, the only one on the lift. It was beautiful and serenely quiet. The trees were almost all white with the fresh snow. It wasn’t even that cold, by skiing standards. I remember almost falling at the top. I wasn’t used to getting off a lift into that much unpacked snow. The reality still hadn’t hit me. Heavy new snow presented problems until it got packed down. I’m sure the locals knew that. That was probably another reason I was alone. It didn’t matter; I was on top of the world. The air was clean and crisp. The whiteness was almost blinding, even with my tinted goggles. I kicked off to start my descent. Immediately, I noticed a problem. I had no control. Somehow, I leaned like I normally did but my skis went straight. I stopped to contemplate the problem. Of course, I just needed more speed. At a higher speed I would float out of the deep snow and regain some control. This was no problem for me. I loved going fast. Again I kicked off straight down the hill. The slope increased and I gained speed. At I would guess, twenty to thirty miles an hour I had some control. For a while it was great. Then about half way down I stopped, as I frequently would, to catch my breath and enjoy the scenery. After another minute, I again kicked off. Surely I would have maneuvering speed before I got to the next curve in the slope. The snow seemed somewhat thicker where I had stopped. I finally got some speed but now would need a rather sharp turn. I leaned but nothing happened. Just as I reached turning speed I also reached the edge of the forest and deeper snow. In an instant the snow went from a foot to two feet and then close to three feet. Whew, that was close as I missed the first tree on the left. Then one went by on the right. I thought what an adventure. I might get lucky and just dart through this section of trees and back on the slope. Just as my optimism peaked, you guessed it. I started heading directly toward a ten to twelve inch diameter thick Ponderosa Pine. I tried leaning to miss it. I had absolutely no control in the three foot drift. So I did the only thing I could, protected my skis, one ski to the left, one to the right, one stupid skier in the middle. I was able to shift my body slightly to protect my face and family jewels. My hands caught the tree first, then, smack, or thud, or some other noise from a Batman comic book. I literally bounced straight off that evil tree into the cushion of fresh snow behind me. As if to add insult to injury, the tree then dropped a huge pile of additional snow on top of me. I quickly wiped my face clean so I could breathe. For a while I just lay still. I looked up through the hole I had created in the three foot drift. Finally some color, I thought, as the tree now could, thanks to me, show off some of its green needles. The sky was blue and pretty. Wait the sky shouldn’t be blue with my tinted goggles. Oh good, they were right behind my head. I continued to assess the damage. Outside of having the wind knocked out of me, I was OK. The next order of business was to save my pride. I didn’t want anyone to see me stuck in the wood. After all, I was too good of a skier for that to happen. Over the years, I had helped numerous lesser skiers out of predicaments. But that couldn’t happen to me. The first step of the procedure was to stand up. This usually simple process was somewhat hindered by the tree, the slope, and the excessive snow. Fortunately my clever skis knew enough to jump off my feet to safety. I dug them out and started backtracking the nice path I had made back to more level ground with a little less snow. I put my skis back on and carefully skied down to the lodge.

The rest of that day I think I spent more time in the lodge than was customary. Mom was thrilled. That evening as we dressed for dinner, I showed her and dad the black and blue tree shaped marks on my chest and told them the story. The main topic at dinner that night was how intelligent I was (or wasn’t) and what a great decision maker (or not). I really miss family Christmas ski trips.

I can’t find a skiing picture, but at least this one from last winter has snow, a hill, and a tree.

Like Ron, I also remember working for quarters in order to be able to buy penny candy.  We had a candy store right across the street from our school and there was a drug store on the way to school that sold candy bars and penny candy.  I would rake leaves and shovel snow and do odd jobs for neighbors to earn money.  My sister and I also wove potholders on a loom and tried to sell them door to door. Unfortunately, in our neighborhood there was an abundance of potholders, so we were not successful.  My friends and I would also go caroling in our neighborhood around Christmas time.  We were given oranges, cookies and sometimes candy.

My favorite penny candy was red licorice which was made into a long strand called a whip.  My sister and I also like the candy necklaces and would wear them when we had our tea parties which was quite often.   We baked tiny little cakes, pies and cookies in our Easy Bake oven.  I remember giving my Dad a tiny piece of cake.  We had made two little cakes, frosted them and then cut them into quarter pieces.  He couldn’t believe how little it was and also what a mess we made to make tiny cakes.  My mom also taught us to bake real cakes, cupcakes, and cookies.  I think my Dad was happier when we were using the real oven.   Our tea parties were quite elaborate with our toy dishes and a table cloth.  We would dress up and wear hats and use English accents.  Our dolls also attended.  My baby doll, Charley Ann, (which I still have in my living room) always came to our tea parties. My sister, who named every doll Susie, always brought one of them.  We also had matching 15 inches tall lady dolls dressed elaborately from our grandmother Kampman.  We would have them sit next to each other.  I have a lot of good memories of raking leaves, burning them in the alley behind our house and roasting marshmallows.  Also, we use to kick the leaves when we walked the mile to school every day.  On Fridays in October, our Junior High School sold Caramel Apples for a quarter.  To me, those were the best Fridays of the whole year. You never saw so many children smiling on their way home from school.

Another thing we use to do in the fall is gather the pretty leaves.  Some of them we would put in the phone book to preserve in wax paper.  Other ones we would place on a piece of drawing paper, draw around them with one color crayon and then fill in the shape with a different color.  We would use most of the colors in our crayon box.  We continued to trace and fill in until the whole page was filled with the colors.  The pictures became very colorful; and it was fun to use most of the crayons.  My mom would put our pictures up on the refrigerator or maybe in a window.  She liked everything we made and encouraged us to be creative. Sometimes I worry about what we’ve lost, when I see my grand kids and kids in general, sitting for hours and playing games on their phones. I just hope that when my grand kids grow up they have better memories than the high score on some video game they played as a kid.

Another of Ron’s favorite old barns that got knocked down this fall.

P.S. he takes more barn pictures than he does of me.

The other day my youngest daughter Lisa and I were working together bagging the abundant supply of maple leaves from our huge tree (about twenty bags in all). After all that work and bonding time with my daughter, I was tired and a little sore. Things aren’t quite as easy at sixty years old as they once were.

That made me think. I remember my early days living with my parents back in Oak Lawn, Illinois. Back in the mid1960s, between the ages of about ten and fourteen I got a quarter or maybe fifty cents a week allowance. I had no real expenses so that was fine. My most frequent use for my funds was my very favorite food, candy. You would think 25 cents couldn’t buy a lot of candy. But you have to remember that back then most candy bars (chunky, Hersey’s, Baby Ruth) were only five cents. I, however, wasn’t interested in those bars. My great allowance day ritual included about a mile long bike ride to the pet store. After spending abundant time petting the puppies, kitties, and Guiney pigs, I would take a tour of the exotic fish and reptiles. At the end of the tour, I got to the glass cases at the front of the store. These cases were filed with a myriad of yummy treats known as penny candies. They were actually priced between one and five cents. You could get wax lips, candy necklaces, giant jaw breakers (I know why they are called that), salted sunflower seeds, malted milk balls, black and red licorice, gum balls and many more too numerous to mention.

My allowance days were great, however, they were never enough. While it may be true that boy does not live on candy alone, I always wanted to test that theory. I needed additional funding to test my theory. When frequent attempts to upgrade my allowance failed, I was forced to desperate measures. I found work. I would go from door to door asking for jobs. I spent at least some of my spare time those early years mowing lawns, raking leaves, and shoveling snow. I was young and strong and could work in any weather.

Unlike the other day, I never remember getting sore or tired enough to stop before the job was done. When the work was done, after a clothing change and warm up in the winter, I would gather remaining energy to ride or walk to gather my true reward. Somehow, when I had to work for it, that candy tasted a little sweeter.

That leads me to my present question. Where have all of the penny candies gone? Also, and more pertinent to my present needs, where have all of the entrepreneurial youths gone? I’ve got leaves, snow, and a lawn. Maybe the problem is security. Times aren’t as safe as they used to be. Possibly the lack of willing child labor is a motivation problem. Today it seems that whiney complaining children have money thrown at them instead of being handed a rake and shown the door.

I know I sound cynical and that’s not really who I am. Blame it on my sore back. So let’s just say the problem is the lack of pet stores selling penny candies. Those candy days and the memories associated were some of my fondest of my childhood.

There is Lisa. She loves blowing leaves and listening to tunes.

Lately I’ve been too busy to worry about this blog, our book, or much of anything for that matter. A couple of weeks ago my dad broke his hip getting out of his apartment’s pool. Since then things have slowed down a lot. Rehab is a painfully slow and tedious process. Dad is used to bouncing back from any physical problem quickly. He has realized that, at ninety-three, this is no longer going to happen.

I try to see him at least two out of every three days. Our girls see him as often as they can. Over the same time Crystal has been struggling with an infection. The phrase ‘can’t catch a break’ come to mind. However, I realize that, life’s not all about me. In life, there are times to take and times to give back. The way I see it, giving back should not be a burden but an opportunity.  Dad is a proud man, but at this point he is understandably frustrated. He is, however, grateful for all of the people, Drs., nurses, therapists, not to mention me and our family, that are dedicated to helping him.

Yes, dad is a proud man. He has a lot of reason to be so. He has lived a great life. Our book One Hundred Fifty Years of Marriage details some of it. From his youth in Germany where he saw Hitler in a parade, to his trip to America at thirteen, to his return at twenty-two to fight against his original homeland, in dad’s early life he overcame much. He met mom after the war, fell in love, and married her. Their marriage lasted for 64 years. That is a rare accomplishment at any time in history. I was around for most of it. Through all of that time, I saw a man who struggled and worked hard, as a provider, father, husband, and role model.

I owe him everything, including my life. I know there is no way to pay back your parents for all they do. I only hope that, I can be the son he hoped for, and pass on some of my gifts to our girls. I have every confidence that dad will, at least to some extent, recover from this latest challenge. Things will continue to slow down. We will be there for him. He will be here until God is ready for him. At that time, he and mom will have left ripples in life’s pond, which will continue to affect our family, and potentially many more, for many years to come.