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.