Pearls from clam shells?

Here's another little essay from Uncle Joe's "Tales from Ten Oaks." Lake Pepin clams (more accurately, freshwater mussels) once fed a booming "pearl" button industry, but that industry faded when cheaper plastic buttons became widely available. Another change just since this essay was written -- Lake Pepin clams are endangered now by a number of factors, including silt, pollution and invasive zebra mussels. You can read more about clamming on the Mississippi River here and here.

THE PEARL

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

A small memento box hangs on the wall of my home in Lake City, Minn. It contains nothing of value, unless one were to count the thousand memories it can generate. Some are sad, but there are also many happy ones that are reminders of hunting, fishing and trapping experiences that we -- Ed, LeRoy and I -- shared as brothers.

One item in particular arouses the curiosity of those who spot it. It is a clam shell with a series of perforated holes, each about the size of a dime. Those in the "now" generation are often curious about what made those holes.

There are still a lot of old folks around who can recall the days of the pearl button industry here in Lake City. The buttons were made from the shells of clams harvested by the ton from Lake Pepin to supply button factories.

My older brother, LeRoy Sprick, who picked this shell up from the lakeshore years ago, knew something about the industry. He knew that the clams would have been steamed open.

It wasn't just button material that people sought from the clam shells. Occasionally a pearl was found in one, and a few of those pearls were valuable -- very valuable.

LeRoy and I fished together on many occasions, often over a clam bed. He preferred to use a heavy sinker and to fish the bottom, while I worked a jig tipped with a minnow. His method of fishing explains why he would often come up with a live clam on his line instead of a fish. He would open the clam and check for a pearl.

One summer day in 1980, he found a pearl measuring a quarter of an inch in diameter. His reactions was about the same as what you might see in the holder of a winning lottery ticket. A photo of his pearl appeared on the front page of the local newspaper, the Lake City Graphic.

The pearl was neither perfectly round nor pure white, but it made his day. He had it mounted on his dad's wedding band and gave it to his wife, Violet. She wore it for several years before passing it on to her daughter, Leah Sprick Davidson, who values it above any diamond.

The clammers are back today, but they are a new breed. They dive for clams instead of dragging hooks, as was done in the old days. A hard day's work might result in a sackful of clams.

If LeRoy were still with us, he would probably be out there clamming too, checking each one for pearls.

I know of a fisherman who checks the stomach of every fish he cleans. I'm not sure what he is looking for, but I bet he has never found a pearl.

Ode to a granddaughter: Tanya, the teen queen

Another sweet tale from Uncle Joe's "Tales From Ten Oaks." Tanya Cook is all grown up now, a professional and the mother of three, but the traits that her grandfather celebrated in this essay endure.

TANYA, THE TEEN QUEEN

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

They sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" a cappella, and they sang it like they meant it. It was a good feeling to be part of the crowd that packed the school auditorium that evening.

The small town of Cadott, Wis., was having its annual community celebration, starting off with a beauty pageant. A queen would be crowned to represent her community over the coming year. The candidates would be judged on talent, modeling and public speaking ability.

Several queens from past years were introduced. Among them were nurses, consultants, computer programmers, college professors and office managers. They came from families with a strong work ethic, the kind that keeps people up until 3 a.m. working on a float for a parade that will be enjoyed by young and old alike.

Over the years, the judges had done a commendable job of selecting those who were proud to represent their community. In turn, the community was proud of them.

Like this new queen. Just a few years back, she'd been a tomboy in blue jeans, spending a lot of her vacation time with her grampa, fishing and riding horses. Back then, her long brown curls didn't fit under the Jones hat she wore, and there were holes in both knees of her blue jeans. A giant wad of bubble gum usually got a good workout as she concentrated on catching fish.

And could she catch fish!

Some fishermen seem to sense the precise moment to set the hook. At age 8, Tanya could catch spooky bluegills on a spring bobber or fussy crappies on a jig with the best of them.

Her grampa could find a lot of reasons to proud of her.

She had determination. It showed the first time she fell off a quarterhorse into the snow. She got up, brushed herself off and climbed back into the saddle.

She had dedication. It showed when she maintained a straight-A average and became salutatorian of her class.

But it was her thoughtfulness that gave her grampa his proudest moment. In her final appearance as Cadott's queen, Tanya chose her old fishing buddy, Grampa, to escort her up to the stage. There she remembered to thank all those who helped her along the way.

Whether Tanya pursues academic goals or decides to be a homemaker, her grampa will always be proud of her, because he believes that whatever she does, she will make a positive difference in this world.

He sensed that from that day many years ago when he saw his little tomboy climb back into the saddle.

A brother's tribute

THE GHOST

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

He loved to fish, but his most enduring legacy will be as one of the Americans who helped hold a shaky world together in the middle of the last century. Most of his life was spent playing the hand he was dealt, a hand that often meant sacrifice, hardship and pain.

World War II took him far from the peaceful waters of southeastern Minnesota's Lake Pepin, where he loved to fish, and from the surrounding hills and woods he'd roamed as a child and young man. He never talked about the Purple Heart stored in an old shoebox in his closet. He'd been wounded at Normandy, but had recovered enough to rejoin the fight, to face the bitter cold and hard-fought campaign across Europe.

Near the end of the war, a German sharpshooter shot a hole through his canteen. For some reason, he thought the miss was intentional.

After the war, he bought a boat and motor so he could go fishing on Saturdays and Sunday afternoons. He caught a ton of fish that he filleted, froze and shared with friends. He supported his widowed mother and bought nice things for his nieces and nephews -- a new bike, even a Shetland pony. Other times, he bought them clothes or paid their medical bills.

He owed no one and was generous to everyone. At Christmastime, he gave each member of the family and his close firends a large ham or turkey.

The fishing rod he used was not expensive, but he worked magic with it. He usually caught the first, the biggest and the most when fishing with others. Then he would let them take their pick if they wanted a meal of fish.

In later years, suffering from lung cancer, he survived several major operations and also endured crippling arthritis that made it difficult for him to walk. The last year he was able to fish, he rolled into and out of the boat to and from the dock. He used to say, "Any day you can fish is a good day."

In his tough final months, those who were not close to him did not understand what he was going through. They just considered him another cantankerous old fisherman.

His name was not important, except to those who knew him. History will record the date and place of his birth and the date he died, but little more.

For a few years after his death, his ghost occupied the empty seat in my boat. The ghost would seem to say, "Let's try it over here for a while" or "Cast over toward that weed bed."

I often wonder if the German sharpshooter who spared his life survived to return home to help hold his part of the world together.

I hope so.

The ghost, of course is Uncle Edward Sprick, older brother of the author, Elmer William "Joe" Sprick, who died on Jan. 20, 1985. That's Uncle Ed in the top photo, fishing with niece Mary Catherine Miller (now Northrup) in the 1960s. The blue medal is the Combat Infantryman's Badge, a mark of courage if ever there was one. And the bottom photo is Ed doing what he loved best, fishing.

The worm turns: From fish to roses

From Uncle Joe's book "Tales from Ten Oaks," written a few years back. The characters in this Burnt Wienie tale are Uncle Ed (Edward Sprick), the fisherman, and Grandma Maria Augustine Sprick, the lady of the house.

GRANDMA SPRICK'S ROSES

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

The rain stopped falling shortly after dark. It was a perfect time for the nightcrawlers to spend some time topside on the grass and do whatever it is that nightcrawlers do.

A fisherman cautiously moved across the lawn, flashlight in hand. He picked up the nightcrawlers, one by one, before they could retreat to their burrows. The harvest was bountiful.

If all went according to the fisherman's plan, the nightcrawlers would spend some time in a pail of rich black soil he kept in his garage. Within a few days, most of them would be used as tempting morsels to hook a walleye, catfish or bluegill.

Now, the lady of the house was in her mid-90s and not always aware of what went on outside after dark, as she retired early in the evening. In spite of her advanced age and failing eyesight, she managed to keep house and cook for her son, as well as to grow some beautiful roses. On bright, warm days, she would go outside and give her roses the tender, loving care that roses need.

Her newest rose bush had not yet been planted. Some potting soil was needed before the plant could take its place alongside of her other roses. By some good fortune, there in the garage that day appeared to be just what she needed, a bucketful of rich, black dirt. She concluded that it had been placed there by her thoughtful son, who had gone fishing early that morning and probably hadn't had a chance to tell her about it.

She planted her rose bush next to the house with the others, using the entire contents of the pail of black dirt. It was a good day for her, the roses, and especially for the liberated nightcrawlers, which she didn't even notice.

The fisherman returned to find his empty bucket sitting on the garage floor. When he found out what had happened, he made the mistake of telling some of his fishing buddies about it. They were short on sympathy and long on laughter.

The lady of the house didn't escape completely from recognition for her deed. Later that year, at the annual family reunion, she was presented with the traveling trophy given to the member of the extended Sprick family who committed the biggest goof during the past year.

The master of ceremonies at that Burnt Wienie gathering asked the recipient, "And how did your roses do, Grandma?" With a twinkle in her eyes, she replied, "They were the best roses that I've ever had!" But it was her son who had the last word: "I never promised you a rose garden!"

Grandma receives the Coveted Burnt Wienie Award from Uncle Hart (Harter Kulseth).

Life on the Sprick family farm, circa 1930s

Uncle Joe is an exceptional essayist, although in keeping with his modest Sprick nature, he would dismiss and deny that. But we (your scrapblog editor, that is, a bona-fide, big-time professional editor, or at least she likes to think so) know better. And so we will, over time, print what we deem to be his finest essays (otherwise available only in the self-published books he keeps for his lucky grandkids), as we have time to type them in. Decades from now, when we're all long gone into the next world, we expect that Sprick descendants will be Googling these pieces for school papers and family histories and saying to themselves, "Wow, that old fella was wise indeed." Joe wrote this one a few years back.


THE FARM

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

As a forester, I might describe that piece of land in southeastern Minnesota as the E 1/2, W 1/2, SE 1/2 of Section 22 and the NENW, NWNE of Section 27, all in Township North Range West of Wabasha County.

But to me and the other children of Claus Sprick and Maria Augustine Sprick, it was home, a 240-acre farm in West Albany Township about 10 miles south of Lake City, off Wabasha County Road 4. It was home to me the first 14 years of my life.

I was born on Aug. 22, 1927, during threshing season. A midwife neighbor, Mrs. Sass, delivered me, the 11th child in a family of 12 children.

What was it like growing up during the Great Depression in a family of 12 children? It was great for me, because I was at the age where I was spared many of the hardships that faced my older brothers and sisters.

There was always enough food to eat. It was good food -- home-smoked ham, bacon, sausages and freshly butchered meat. Quite often on a Saturday, I held a big rooster over the chopping block for my dad [Claus Sprick] while he cut off its head with an axe. We often had a rooster for Sunday dinner. We also had homemade bread and fresh vegetables from our farm garden, and homemade ice cream on July 4 and Christmas.

My older sisters looked out for me at the one-room country school we attended. By the time I reached eighth grade, my youngest sister, Kate [Catherine Sprick Kirkwood] and I were often the only ones in school besides the teacher. We received a lot of attention. Our teacher even taught us how to drive her car, a model A Ford, when I was in the eighth grade.

My favorite thing to do was to ride our bronco mare out to the south 80 of our farm. The land there was mostly wooded, with steep bluffs and ravines that ran down into Hungry Hollow. The Zumbro River ran through Hungry Hollow, as did a railroad track with whistle stops at Lakey, Keegan and Suttons. The railroad and whistle stops disappeared in the 1930s, but the Zumbro keeps rolling, producing some excellent fishing and interesting canoeing.

Without really understanding why, even then, I loved the woods and the Zumbro River bottoms. In retrospect, I realize that it may have been the peaceful escape they provided from milking cows, feeding calves, filling the woodbox, slpping hogs and hoeing thistles.

I earned my first money trapping gophers and woodchucks. One had to cut off all four feet of a trapped animal and tack them to a board. In the fall, we took the board with its feet to a township official who paid bounty money for them. I made my first $5 as a bounty hunter and trapper and opened a savings account with it. As far as I know, that $5 is still in my savings account today.

My world was pretty small. I often got to church on Sundays with my parents. The service was usually conducted in German. About once a year, I went to the dentist and the shoe store, usually before school started in the fall. During the summer, I went barefoot.

By the time I was in eighth grade, I had never been more than 35 miles from home, had seen only three movies and one carnival. But I had been at a lot of family gatherings where there was lots of good food.

The year I turned 14 marked a turning point. I might well have spent the rest of my life on that farm had my dad not decided to sell it and move to town [Lake City, Minn.]. His decision provided me with an opportunity to go to high school and eventually college.

Not only was I a lucky boy, but I became a very lucky man, husband and grandfather. I am especially thankful for my 11 siblings, a good wife, two children and five beautiful grandchildren.

The sage in the deer stand

BLOWIN' IN THE WIND: Thoughts Entertained in Chilly November, While in the Deer Stand

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

Fall 2010, near Lake City, Minn.

A chickadee landed on a nearby buckthorn bush. It spoke three times in a faint voice and then fluttered off. The woods fell silent for a moment. Somewhere -- perhaps not very far away -- there was a legal buck, one with four or more points on one antler. In this heavy cover, when would I see it? In five minutes, five hours or five days? Or maybe not at all?

Dressed in warm clothing and sitting in a brush blind with my back to a tree, I was quite comfortable playing the waiting game, one I hoped to win. But winning would require patience, a little skill and a lot of luck.

It took a lot of years to learn patience, to learn that the deer have the home court advantage. After all, they live in the woods 24-7, giving them the edge. Will there be venison steaks on the grill or maybe venison meatballs in the crock pot? I tried to remain optimistic.

While playing the waiting game, I entertain rambling thoughts. Some are of an older sister who recently spent her 90th birthday in the Lake City Nursing Home, one who devoted her life to teaching first-graders the basics [Anna Sprick Smith, pictured below with surviving siblings Joe Sprick (the author), Florence Sprick Bye and Katie Sprick Kirkwood]. Many will remember her, but her memory has faded in the past year; she now recalls only the names of a few of her siblings. What does she dream about as she sleeps through the nights and most of the days? We will never know.

A friend described memory loss in these words: "The name of the author is first to go, followed obediently by the title, the plots, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel, which suddenly becomes one you never read, never even heard of."

On a more positive note, I thought about our five grandchildren, four of whom have now graduated from college. The youngest, Katie Jo, is a freshman at the University of Minnesota, my alma mater, home of the Golden Gophers. What will her major be? Whatever it is, will she do well in her field?

Thursday of that week would be Veteran's Day. I remembered a brother who suffered shrapnel wounds and bitter cold going from Normandy to the Elbe River, just short of Berlin [Edward Sprick, pictured below]. I thought also of a forester friend who was captured in the Battle of the Bulge and suffered from cold and hunger in a POW camp. It's difficult to comprehend the intensity of the suffering they endured. They are my heroes.

What was it like for Howie Hillger, a survivor of the Bataan Death March, who recently participated in a Honor Flight to Washington, D.C.? There he joined thousands of other veterans who viewed the World War II Memorial, built in their honor. We can never really know his thoughts as he shared tears and laughter with fellow veterans.

A mile or so away as the crow flies, one can hear the train whistle as it speeds through Frontenac Station. The train stopped there in 1876 with my grandparents, my dad, his older brother and sister, newly arrived from Germany to begin a new life in America. What if they had decided to stay in Germany? Would I have become a forester-meister in the Schwartz Wald? Not likely, because foresters there are secondary only to God.

I thought of surviving classmates at our most recent Lincoln High School (Lake City, Minn.) class reunion, our 65th. We are a fortunate generation. Having survived the Great Depression, we learned to make do with what we had and grew up without credit cards. Will history repeat itself, given the nation's current economic trials? The actuary tables remind us that we probably won't have to worry much about that, but we worry about our grandchildren -- we have had the opportunity to learn to accept the things that we are powerless to change. We have worked hard so our children and grandchildren can have easier lives than we did, and yet there may be some disadvantages to an easier life.

A string of 18 wild turkeys go by, following their leader. Forty years ago, ruffed grouse were far more common. Now they are seldom seen. The forest cover remains the same. What happened to them? Are the hen turkeys more capable of defending their nests against predators than grouse are?

For where I am sitting, I can clearly hear the sounds of a backhoe, chainsaw and jackhammer as the modest retirement home we built in the 1970s is remodeled by the new owner, our family doctor. Will he and his wife enjoy living in the woods, watching the birds and wildlife, as much as we did for 20 years?

Each morning, a squadron of geese flies overhead toward their favorite cornfield, then returns to the lake in late afternoon. Their flyover is timed like clockwork, signaling the beginning and end of hunting hours.

At the end of the day in the woods, I think of friends who have joined the saints during the year. Howard Lyons left us with two beautiful wood carvings that adorn our fireplace mantle. They are reminders of his friendship. Maynard Midthun, our former pastor in Eau Claire, Wis., helped us over some bumps in the road during our earlier years, and Alton Larsen, a retired pastor from Old Frontenac, Minn., was our Bible study leader through our retirement years.

When Alton was asked difficult questions about God at Bible study, he would respond with, "There are many questions without answers -- and there are many answers that are questionable."

A lot of the answers are still blowin' in the wind. Meanwhile, I wait for that elusive buck -- with four or more points on one antler.

Jesse Ventura rocks Frontenac

THE GUV COMES TO FRONTENAC

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

Every year, around the middle of March, the migrating bald eagles do their thing over and along the shores of Lake Pepin. We sometimes see as many as 30 or 40 during a 5-mile ride into town. But this day in 2000 was different, because in addition to bald eagles, another bald head was attracting crowds of sightseers to Minnesota's Hiawatha Valley. Our newly elected governor, Jesse Ventura, was coming to town!

"Hurry up and get dressed if you're going to the Whistle Stop with me," Mavis advised. I was not quite fully awake after a short power nap in my lounger. The morning's workout of cutting wood and a big noon meal had set me up for a needed rest.

The Whistle Stop is a small cafe in New Frontenac (also called Frontenac Station), Minn., about a mile from our home (at the time, at Ten Oaks) as the crow flies, assuming a crow can fly in a straight line. The village boasts a population of about 100 good citizens and a few rednecks. This day, the population would triple in size with locals eager to see Jesse "The Body" Ventura, now Jesse "The Guv" Ventura.

It wasn't the first visit from a governor to the Whistle Stop. Several years before, a governor who served several terms in office stopped in for a cup of coffee. But no one recognized him. He lacked Jesse's panache.

The Whistle Stop is no place for one with allergies. If the greasy odor from the deep fryer doesn't get you, the cigarette and cigar smoke from the truckers and railroad workers who eat there will. I chose to remain outside. Why "The Guv" chose to stop there is beyond me.

The parking lot was full when we arrived. Mavis went inside to reserve some seats. It was cold outside, but the air was much better, and I was appropriately dressed in my ice fishing clothes.

Shortly before "The Guv" arrived, two Goodhue County sheriff's patrol cars arrived. Although the deputies were in uniform, they carried no belts with the usual gear -- a Glock, a baton, radio, handcuffs and the like. Maybe there were just curious onlookers like me.

Then three Minnesota Highway Patrol vehicles pulled up. Four officers, three men and one woman, got out, all dressed in full battle gear. Less conspicious was an unmarked car that parked some distance away. A tall, slim, dark-skinned young lady got out dressed in man's garb and high-heeled boots. A profiler might have marked her as a terrorist, but I suspect she was a bodyguard of sorts. Only time would tell.

As Jesse's bus pulled into a reserved spot, she took out a cellular phone and gave an "all clear" to Jesse and his entourage. They emerged from the bus and walked by me on the way to the cafe. "The Guv" exchanged pleasantries with us in his unmistakable booming, loud voice.

Inside, Mavis and my sister, Alverna Sprick Miller, listened to Jesse interact with the crowd. Alverna asked him if he had seen the bald eagles along the shores of Lake Pepin. "Yeah," he replied. "I saw five of them sitting in one tree. It made me feel glad that I wasn't a rodent."

While it would not become one of Jesse's better-known quotes, it was one of his few that didn't offend anybody.

Like most politicians, Jesse's popularity was at its peak at the time of his election. Prophets supposedly in the know predicted that he would self-destruct within two years. That may have been wishful thinking, as he remained in office for a full term (1999-2003), albeit with popularity that diminished weekly.

Jesse will not go down in history as a great Minnesota governor, but he never left doubt about where he stood on an issue. Maybe that is why he got elected in the first place.

And now he is a local landowner, having purchased two prime lots adjacent to the golf course in the Mississippi Jewel development in Lake City -- a big dog in short grass. And he has a new look -- black hair and a braided beard. Sports commentators give him little recognition except to say: "Jesse is present -- but not presentable."

The bald eagles, meanwhile, endure.

Best of the wurst

Here's another fine essay by Uncle Joe (Elmer William Sprick), from his book "Fish Stories and Other Lies." Your scrapblog editor's extensive Google image search discovered no photo of this historic and allegedly delicious family delicacy, so the one we're using here may be of some other kind of wurst. We wouldn't know.

GRITWURST

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

I received a phone call from Herb Anderson, a gentleman in his 80s. He'd made some gritwurst for me and wanted to drop it off on his way to Red Wing. "I put some extra ingredients in to make it really good -- tongue, heart and raisins," Herb said. "I want you to know I appreciate all the fish you and Doc [Knudsen] have given me."

Herb worked at several jobs over his lifetime, including cook and butcher. I was confident that whatever he had made was a quality product, and I looked forward to having some gritwurst soon for a noon meal.

Mavis was less enthusiastic. "You can give my half to someone else," she said politely.

Gritwurst has been described as a soul food that connects people with their unique heritage. But you aren't likely to find it on a restaurant menu unless you happen to live in a German-American community. And you won't find the word "gritwurst" in a dictionary.

There is probably a good reason one seldom finds gritwurst on a menu. It contains a lot of animal fat -- not the kind of food one wants for breakfast, unless it's a cold winter day and you have been out doing chores for an hour or so. Even then, you should consider splitting wood for the rest of the day. It's the kind of food that "sticks to your ribs," as old-timers say. Today we are more likely to apply that expression to oatmeal.

Gritwurst brings back fond memories to some of us who grew up in rural southeastern Minnesota in the 1930s. We relished a breakfast of gritwurst, fried potatoes and maybe a fresh egg, over easy. A little homemade ketchup could spice things up a bit too. But gritwurst disappeared from the menu when we left our West Albany, Minn., farm to move to Lake City, Minn., as teenagers.

Maybe if we are lucky, we can still find some at our local butcher shop -- or if we still have a friend like Herb.

Our grandchildren would be about as eager to try gritwrust as they would be to attend a lutefisk dinner at a rural Lutheran church. They can choose from 100 different kinds of cereal and pizzas. Our choices as children were far fewer, but the food our mother [Maria Augustine Sprick] made always tasted the best.

If one is reluctant to try a meal of gritwurst, perhaps knowing how it is made will discourage one completely. First, you take the head off a freshly butchered pig and boil it in a really large container until the meat falls off the bone. Sometimes other parts of the pig are added, such as certain organs, hocks or other "spare parts" that one cannot put to a higher and better use. The meat then is ground up and the water that was used to boil it is poured over steel-cut oats, which then are allowed to sit for an hour or so.

A word of caution: Don't try this at home unless you have a good ventilation system!

Once the steel-cut oats have soaked up about as much water as they can, they are mixed with the ground meat, and salt and pepper are added. Those with a more sensitive palate might add a handful of raisins to the mix. It's then baked for an hour or two. With the old wood-burning kitchen stoves, a temperature that got up to 300 to 400 degrees seemed to do the job.

There were several reasons why gritwurst was made in the winter. One very good one was that most rural homes had no electricity for refrigeration. The gritwurst was set out on the back porch to cool, cut into meal-sized chunks and allowed to freeze. On our back porch, it was set alongside a large wooden keg of herring soaked in salt brine, which provided a little variety in a dinner menu that often featured fresh pork chops and sauerkraut or fresh beef steaks and mashed homegrown potatoes.

A good friend, Bob Becker, wrote a book of nostalgic tales about the past. We can identify with his boyhood memories of life on the farm during the 1930s. But why he failed to mention gritwurst in his chapter about farm breakfasts remains a mystery. It's a soul food that connects people with their unique ethnic heritage. You betcha!

Postscript: Herb left us a few years ago for a better place, but once in a while we stop in to give his widow, Ginny, a meal of bluegills. Like Herb, she insists on responsing with an act of kindness -- a gift of raspberries in the summer or a bottle of wine in the winter.

The old man and the deer

As he does every November, Uncle Joe (Elmer William Sprick) went deer hunting last week, but didn't take a deer. From his deer stand near Ten Oaks north of Lake City, Minn., he observed plenty of wildlife and smaller deer, but the one meant for him did not pass by this year.

In his honor, we're going to reprint a very fine story he included in his 2005 book "Fish Stories and Other Lies" (we've taken note that all of the stories are not just true, but authentic). This story is called "One on One." Not unlike the scrapblog editor, Uncle Joe likes to refer to himself in the third person in his stories, and in this one he calls himself "the old man." We most certainly don't think of him as old, unless it means venerable and wise. Joe's story:

ONE ON ONE

By ELMER "JOE" SPRICK

JUST OUTSIDE LAKE CITY, MINN., 2005

The old man recalled something his mother [Maria Augustine Sprick] told him many years ago, when she was well into her 90s: "You are only as old as you feel." She didn't feel her age.

But he was now beyond the life expectancy of a male Caucasion, and at times he wondered why the good Lord had blessed him with such a long life and good health. There wasn't anything he could think of that he had done to deserve it, although he tended to practice moderation in most things. When asked the secret to his longevity, he would honestly say that he owed much of it to the loving care of a good wife of over 50 years [Mavis Lamont Sprick].

Each autumn he was aware that it might be his last year to hunt, even though he still felt able to endure the cold of a November morning, the opening day of deer season. And he was confident enough that he might still score with his old 12-gauge shotgun. Purchased more than 50 years before for the sum of $25, it had served him well through all his hunting. He never felt that he needed any other gun, although he also owned a British .303 rifle, a souvenir from his days in the Navy during World War II.

Whether he shot a buck or a doe didn't matter to him, but he preferred to hunt the early season when the weather might be a bit milder. Getting a set of antlers to hang on the wall seemed unimportant. The hunting shack he'd once owned, as well as most everything in it, had long been recycled. He'd kept only one set of antlers for sentimental reasons, those from a 10-point buck taken during his last hunt with a now-deceased brother.

There was no need to set the alarm clock for opening morning. He had a built-in clock that usually awoke him about 5 a.m. After a breakfast of hot cereal, he loaded his blaze-orange rucksack and shotgun into his old station wagon for the short drive to his hunting spot.

It was not yet daylight as he left his vehicle. As he entered the woods on the same narrow path he had walked for the past several years to his stand, he flushed a flock of wild turkeys that had been roosting overhead. Their wings clashed loudly against the treetops, breaking the morning stillness. He counted about a dozen flushes as he proceeded with the aid of a small flashlight. It was not likely that there would be anyone else hunting in the immediate area, but the flashlight gave him an added sense of security.

Leaves covered with white frost crunched underfoot. He was thankful that there was no wind, and the frozen leaves would enable him to hear whatever might be approaching.

He was not indoctrinated in the uses of sprays to mask human odor and deer scent attractants. There was a faint odor of fish on his coveralls, and he reasoned that it might well overpower any human scent. Dumb luck and a lot of patience had always been his best allies.

In his younger days, he had enjoyed hunting with a bow from a portable tree stand. He fully realized that hunting from a tree stand gave the hunter an edge. Although still agile enough to climb into a portable tree stand, he chose not to take the risk of a fall, especially when hunting alone, as he usually was. He had a problem with permanent tree stands, having seen many with piles of litter underneath, and nearby young trees hacked off for unsightly shooting lanes. Sometimes the tree stands had bait on the ground nearby, a practice considered unethical as well as illegal in his state.

He preferred to see the woods in a natural condition with little evidence of man save for a trail or an occasional stump. Having spent the best days of his career in the woods, he held the belief that natural areas were tonic for the soul.

As daylight approached, a wild turkey from the scattered flock flew to a treetop on a nearby ridge. It began calling, as if to gather the scattered. Although there were faint responses from turkeys on the ground, they seemed content to stay grounded.

By 8 a.m., a slight breeze became noticeable from the north. A few critters were moving about, mostly gray squirrels. An unusual one with a pure white tail was being chased by a red pine squirrel that objected to the invasion of its territory. A pileated woodpecker flew over in its unmistakable flight pattern, loudly announcing its presence to the world. Chickadees came and went in the bush a few feet away. After looking things over, they seemed to sense that a blaze-orange object didn't belong in that setting.

The walnut grove behind his stand was semi-open, quite void of undergrowth. The old man recalled something he had read about walnut trees producing a toxin from their roots the prevented growth of an understory of other species. If one were hunting with a rifle, he might elect to face the semi-open area. But he chose to face the opposite direction, closer to heavier cover of buckthorn brush. His experience through the years had taught him that bucks tend to come through heavy cover, usually with their noses to the ground, when the rut is near or at its peak.

By 9 a.m., there had been no discernible shooting in the area. It was quiet, the way he liked it. In his younger days, he had participated in deer drives with shooters posted at strategic spots and sometimes with irresponsible shooting. He had no quarrel with those who still chose to party-hunt, but for him, at his age, patience and solitude were preferable -- the one-on-one hunt. Perhaps subconsciously he had developed his own ethical standards, or what some sportsmen refer to as the rules of "the fair chase."

Only the old man's head showed above the brush pile that he used for a natural blind. With his back to a tree, he slowly moved his head from side to side as he scanned the brush for any movement.

One of the characteristics of his aging was of some concern to the old man. He had a growing tendency to talk to himself in a low but audible tone. The presented no problem when he was fishing or doing chores around the house. But in the deer woods, where silence is golden, he was hopeful that he could remain mute.

The buckthorn shrubs were inclined to retain their leaves, even after a hard frost, but the leaves were not thick enough to screen the movement of an approaching deer. First a white throat patch flahsed, then antlers. The buck moved closer to his left. As it entered a small opening, the old man uttered a soft, "Baa."

The sound had the desired effect. The buck stopped and turned its head to look in his direction.

It was the buck's last mistake.

It occurred to the old man that a trophy hunter might have let this buck go and waited for a larger one. To each his own. Perhaps he had evolved to the point as a hunter where it didn't even matter to him whether it was a big buck or an adult doe. Just having the opportunity to hunt at his age was satisfaction enough. When he was fortunate enough to get an adult deer and some venison for the freezer, he considered it a bonus.

Field-dressing a deer was no hardship for the old hunter. He had done it many times in the past, not even necessarily the deer he'd shot, but rather illegally killed deer he had been required to salvage as a field man for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.

He'd learned to carry all the right stuff in his rucksack -- a knife with a saw blade, a pair of rubber gloves, a hunting license with a struck for affixing the license to the carcass, a drag rope, a whistle and a colored cloth. He no longer carried a plastic bag for saving the heart and liver; times had changed.

Although he had a cell phone for emergency purposes, its legal use while hunting was still a gray area for him. Once out of the woods, he used it to call on younger muscles for assistance in dragging the buck out.

The drag was not much over 100 yards, but it was down a narrow path through a dense thicket. He knew of a roundabout way to drive to the pickup point across a cornfield and down a woods trail. The three different landowners had been previously contacted and all had graciously granted the old man permission to drive in to pick up a deer if necessary. He would repay their kindness with a stick of venison sausage.

At the deer registration station, the old man was greeted by a team of biologists with knives in hand. "Yours is the first deer to come in this morning," one said. "Do you mind if we take some samples from the head to test for chronic wasting disease?"

"You can take the whole head if you want to," the old man replied. "I'm mostly concerned with the hindquarters and some meat for sausage."

The biologist gave him a cooperator's patch to sew on his jacket or cap and entered his name in a drawing for some hunting gear donated by sporting goods companies and assocaitons. The odds might not be good, but certainly better than the lottery. There wasn't anything the old man needed, but if he won something, he knew of several young hunters who would appreciate a new gun or bow for Christmas.

Over the years, the old man had learned that there was no such thing as bad venison if the animal is shot up front, properly dressed out, the meat deboned and promptly cared for. He preferred to keep some steaks for himself. The remainder of the boned-out meat went into sausages to be given as gifts. It seemed to him that a venison steak wrapped in bacon and fixed on the grill, served with a baked potato, would be far superior to a lutefisk dinner.

Fortunately, the old man had a very compatible fishing partner who was equally fond of venison. His partner volunteered to help with the butchering, with the old man accepting his offer under the condition that he take half of the deer. Some years it was the other way around.

Thanksgiving Day soon followed, and the old man had much to be thankful for. It may have been his last hunt, but no matter, he could see beyond that. There were grandchildren and great-grandchildren he could still take bank-fishing. If he became a shut-in, he might be able to write some more fish stories, a hobby he enjoyed. And there were sunrises and sunsets over the lake that he viewed from his living room window. But until that final sunset arrived, he would be thankful for some good memories -- including the camaraderie of bygone days at his hunting shack with hunting partners who are long gone.

It may well have been the old man's last hunt, but it was a good one -- just the way he wanted it -- one on one.

"Ethical hunting reaffirms a person's principles. Knowing and intentionally staying within the law keeps the moral compass pointed north. Hunters must not only abide by state and federal regulations, but they must develop their own ethical standards."
-- Tim Eisele, outdoors writer

A sermon by cousin Chats

Now and then, the scrapblog editor's esteemed little sister, the Rev. Dr. Mary Catherine Miller Northrup, sends me one of her thoughtful sermons. Chats is senior pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Wichita, Kan. From time to time we'll post some of those. Here's one that tackles two topics near and dear to the Miller family, theology and journalism:“Theology and Journalism”

Psalm 53:2-3

October 17, 2010

This past week, we have all relied on journalism to tell us the story of the rescue of 33 miners in a mine in Chile. In past weeks, we despaired when we heard of the loss of the 33 men, we had a glimmer of hope when it was learned they were alive, and we held on to that hope through the efforts to drill toward them and get them out. Many of us watched, at the same time joyous and misty-eyed, as the first miner came to the surface, and as the last miner was brought up.

I suspect that preachers all over town, indeed all over the world, are using this story in their sermons this morning. It’s one of those stories we preachers hear and think “that’ll preach!” Think of the sermons this story would yield---the bringing of persons from darkness to light; the comment of one of the miners that, as with the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, there were not 33 people below, but 34—God? Jesus?; the power of prayer and hope and God’s grace---and so many more sermons. I use the story this morning not in those ways, however, not as a primary image on which to preach, but rather as an example of journalism, the collection and reporting of news to the public. Reporters, print and radio and television and internet, were all there to tell us, and to show us, the events as they happened. There was the journalism which was the “direct presentation of facts or occurrences with little attempt at analysis or interpretation,” that is, the story, its background, the humans involved and so on, the things that involved “current interest or wide popular appeal.” [1] There was also journalism which involved overt analysis and interpretation, what we might call commentary or something like editorials, expressing opinions.

While some of us may tire of what are now constant 24/7 news cycles, and the proliferation of pundits and commentators about the news, we yet in some way rely on it, perhaps at times even depending on it, to tell us what is going on in the world. I, for one, am always interested in what is going on in the community and our world, and I guess I was probably raised to feel a kind of responsibility to know as well. I still read newspapers and news magazines, and I watch various news shows on television; I have not yet progressed to reading the news on the internet that much, but I do dabble in it there, too. I can see the practical importance of knowing the news-----such as knowing about last week’s marathon on Sunday and knowing which route I might have to take to church----to the larger importance of knowing what is happening in various countries politically and militarily, or even in the case of natural disasters, so as to be able to pray or give or do something else.

In addition to all this, most of you know that both my sister and my brother are journalists. My sister has at times been in various roles from reporter to editor, and in various areas, from the beginning beat most reporters have on crime and government, to faith and values, and even book reviews. My brother has been in various roles as well, but his major interest has always been sports reporting and commentary, and that’s what he does. I see what my sister and brother do, and I value it. In fact, last time my sister visited Michael and I here in Kansas, she taught a special session in Michael’s college Ethics course on journalistic ethics, covering a whole gamut of issues faced by journalists in their work.

So having established what journalism is, and why it is important to us, the question then becomes: does theology have anything to do with journalism? I am going to claim this morning that it does, in fact, that theology adds theological substance to the statement that journalism is important and that we as persons of faith might even see journalism’s role as theological in some respects.

First, the theological substance. A professor of mine in seminary used to say that the presence of sin in humans is one of the most obviously self-evident theological truths. Our text for today states it explicitly. Psalm 53 reads “God looks down from heaven on human kind to see if there are any who are wise, who seek after God. They have all fallen away, they are all alike perverse; there is no one who does good, no, not one.” It is almost identical to Psalm 14. The simple translation I recall from my youth is this, “The Lord looks down from heaven to see if there is any one righteous and he finds that there is no, not one.” What is this text saying? Simply this: the human condition is that we are all sinful. Without God, we have no hope.

As Christians, God has come to us in Jesus Christ and offers us salvation, grace, forgiveness. We recognize this grace in the act of baptism in the church. It is a sign of the grace that comes from God. Today, we baptize an infant as a beautiful symbol of God reaching out to us before we can even respond to him. Yet, as adults, we are called to respond to God’s grace in our lives as Christians. We are called to love God and neighbor. We know, though, that we fail; we are still sinners who must rely on God’s grace.

Theologian Paul Tillich, as did other theologians, developed from this basic concept of human sin, even after baptism and God’s grace, what became known as the Protestant Principle. Another theologian explains, “He meant by this that no individual, nor group, and quite specifically no church organization can claim divine dignity for its power, its decisions, and its various activities. The prophetic spirit begins not with the criticism of society but with self-criticism. To be a Protestant is to be critically self-critical. The human tendency to claim sanctity for one’s self and for one’s own organization is so great that Tillich went on to argue that Protestantism requires a secular reality over against it to puncture its pretension and correct its errors. Protestantism cannot desire a monopoly or totalitarian control. Human nature being what it is, Protestantism requires external criticism for its own health.”[2]

Thus, this theologian offered theological substance to journalism and went on to add what might be seen as the theological role of the journalist in the image of the journalist as “independent.” He argued that society needs a “free press,” as we Americans know it; all societies need this. The government and the press cannot be one and the same. He went on to argue that the church, too, needs a “free press.” It cannot rely only on denominational statements and news reports, it needs an independent press. Those of us in the PCUSA have historically relied on The Presbyterian Outlook, a publication that is in our church library, for this independence. Like all human beings and human institutions, it is not perfect, nor perfectly independent, but it does seek to be. Those of us in the church also rely on many other publications to give us the news of our church and of other churches.

I would like to offer two additional images of the journalist that have theological substance. These images do not originate with me. One is the journalist as prophet. This takes the role of independence one step farther. It suggests that the journalist isn’t simply to be separate from what he or she reports, the journalist perhaps should be investigative and lift up news that shows wrong, whether secular or theological. One scholar even offers a Ph.D. dissertation which is described by this abstract: “Judeo-Christian ethics and tradition provide a philosophical underpinning of the moral imperative for a free society. A truly free society rests on the foundation of the primacy accorded the protection of free speech rights in any society. The role of the press is integral to preserving this kind of social entity. In particular, the traditional prophetic office in Judeo-Christian history provide a paradigm for the way that journalists do their jobs. This thesis seeks to explicate the specifically Judeo-Christian theological foundation for the work of journalists who, in a high sense, continue to tell the human story in the manner of prophets and scribes of old. Alternative media, defined as that press which is contra-wise to the status quo, especially reflects certain quality of the prophetic office and demonstrates the moral goodness of a distinctly Christian notion of creative-responsive love.”[3]

The other image is the journalist as witness. Those of us who are in the Wednesday evening “Jesus in the Gospels” class have recently discussed the concept of witness with respect to the role of John the Baptist in John’s gospel, and with respect to the role of preacher.[4] One scholar has explained this concept with respect to the journalist, with particular emphasis on broadcast journalism.[5] She writes, “What does it mean to be a witness? To be a witness has to do with having first received a message before mediating that message to others. The concept of witness and witnessing is integral to the fields of journalism and Christian theology. Within these fields, the concept of witness has a stake in truth and truth-telling, and therefore, witness is concerned with justice. To be a witness is not just an empirical narration of facts, but a conviction that the testimony matters. Witness as testimony connects witness to a juridical understanding which implies a level of adjudication and calls for verification and authentication of testimony. With shifting epistemologies from universals to particulars, contemporary authentication of testimony comes from the witness who bears out testimony on his body. A paradigmatic example of this found in broadcast news journalism is the embodied testimony of the war reporter, complete with flak jacket and explosions in the background. The war news judges as worth the risk of the reporter’s safety. In Christian theology, providing witness through the embodiment of testimony is an established theme since the beginning of Christianity. Within the first few centuries of the religion, the Koine Greek word for witness, martyrion, had less to do with eyewitness observation and more to do with providing embodied testimony, that is, martyrdom. In the Christian tradition, the witness provides the news of the story of Jesus Christ, not simply as narration of facts, but from the conviction that this particular story matters.”

So, for persons of faith, there is importance to journalism, and we can even see a theological role for journalists in that they are independent, and can function like prophets and witnesses. But persons of faith cannot simply conclude here. For if our text for today is true, as we believe it is, that all persons are sinful and continue to sin even after receiving baptism and salvation, then journalists and journalism as a whole are subject to that same Protestant principle, that just as Christians and churches can never declare themselves a monopoly or declare themselves exempt from criticism, neither can journalists and journalism. We are---all of us---called by God to be, through the Spirit of God, better persons, more Christ-like, less sinful, and yet, while we are yet in this life, we remain, sinners, none of us, not no one, righteous on our own. Together, however, perhaps we can better keep each other honest and accountable than we could alone.

Amen.

---

[1] See “journalism,” The American Heritage Dictionary, p. 707.

[2] John Leith, Pilgrimage of a Presbyterian, p. 328.

[3] Earl Thomas Moreland, “Journalism and Judeo-Christian theology: Alternative media as the new Isaiah,” UMI abstract.

[4] This concept with John the Baptist is emphasized in John’s gospel. This concept with preachers relied on Thomas Long’s book, The Witness of Preaching.

[5] Amy Richards, “Witness: A Shared Concept within Christian Theology and Broadcast Journalism,” All Academic Research.