Fishing With Flip-flops

By Cathy Schoon

Fishing with Flip-flops is a collection of the most memorable, often time humorous stories, of growing up as street kids in the small Indiana town of Lowell in the '60s. Living behind their parents' florist shop, the five siblings survive by wit, pure luck, and each other. When they move to a little cottage on the Wildwood Bayou off the Kankakee River, the family finds out that there are more characters out in the world than they ever dreamed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329397866

Book preview

Fishing With Flip-flops

Fishing with Flip-flops

Fishing with Flip-flops

The adventures of growing up and surviving in a small town

~~~~~

Cathy Schoon

Ami Regnier, Editor

The Red Chair Publishing

Copyright

The Red Chair Publishing

©2015 by Cathy Schoon

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author, Cathy Schoon.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information within these pages, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

For more information, photos and stories about Fishing with Flip-flops, please visit fishingwithflipflops.com.

Cover Design: Cathy Schoon

Editor: Ami Regnier

Photography: Cathy Schoon & Errin Wolf

ISBN-13: 978-1-329--39786-6

The Birch Copse

"When I can go just where I want to go,

There is a copse of birch trees that I know;

And, as in Eden Adam walked with God,

When in that quiet aisle my feet have trod

I have found peace among the silver trees,

Known comfort in the cool kiss of the breeze

Heard music in its whisper, and have known most certainly that I was not alone!"

Father Andrew, The Birch Copse

Dedication

Dedicated to my siblings Tom, Jane, Bonnie, and Bob. Without all of you, this book would not exist, and growing up would not be near as fun, but I would have a lot more pop and chips.

My Tree

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My Tree

Preface

I grew up on the streets. As harsh as that may sound, I do need to explain. I grew up on the streets of a small town in Indiana, during a time when free-range children were the norm. Our time was not filled with planned activities, camps or schedules. Our parents loved us, and fed us, but we discovered our childhood by ourselves. I have two sets of siblings: an older brother and sister and a younger sister and brother. I am smack dab in the middle. We always remark that it was like two families: hard times with the oldest two and good times with the youngest two. I was lucky enough to have experienced both. The thought of writing a memoir was prompted by three things:

I became the guardian of boxes and boxes of old family photos. The photos told me nothing of relatives’ stories or experiences. One day, as I sat on the floor going through the contents I found an old letter. It was written to my grandfather from his father: my great-grandfather Pepaw. I knew his face through stiff, posed photos, but nothing of the man. The letter spoke volumes. PePaw was extremely witty and downright funny just as my grandfather was. His written words told me more about him than any photo could.

The second reason was to document the stories that my siblings and I recant every time we get together. We love them, but our spouses get a glazed over look and take off to another room. Every year the five of us get together for a week of vacation. The older we get the more we appreciate our carved out time.

Last summer during our sibling week, someone commented, We need to write these stories down. I seemed to be the chosen one. I was retiring from photography at the end of the year and the transition from photos to the written word seemed slightly prophetic.

The final reason was although we were a pretty average family growing up, our stories needed to be documented. But we are unusual because we possess a bond that has withstood the test of time. I cannot think of four people on this earth that I feel more comfortable with and enjoy more.

On a Saturday night all five of us brothers and sisters sat around a dining room table littered with empty wine bottles, glasses, Jane’s spicy pretzels, and loose sheets of this book in embryo form. We are now in our 50s and 60s, and our childhood memories are still vivid. We took turns reading our history documented through my eyes. It was raw for me. This was not only my life growing up, but my brothers and sisters’ lives as well. I needed their blessing and the reassurance that I got it right. As we read, some parts couldn’t be finished because emotions seized our voices or laughter took our breath. We yearned for Mom and Dad to be sitting with us. All in all, this book has five authors: Tom, Jane, Bonnie, and Bob. We have the same roots, but like branches on a tree, we have grown in different directions to make a beautiful and strong tree.

Clarence (pepaw) Fate

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Clarence (pepaw) Fate

‘….Had a fight on Joliet Street this afternoon. I had a ring side seat – My Joliet Windows. Sam Valdman VS A big Butcher who works for the Crown Point Packing Company. Cause – Sam jipped them by giving a calf plenty of water selling it by the pound. Fought furiously for 5 minutes and not a blow landed. Both fighters gasping for breath and fight called account of darkness or postponed account of failure to land any blows.

…..like hell I did. But as it seems to be the stuff among the better class of folks – those who bathe regularly Saturday nights and have two shirts – too write a letter to be received and read just as the last hanky is waved at the statue of Volstead*, why of course I must abide by custom and write my little boat letter…..’

[August 29th 1927] Clarence P. Fate (Pepaw)

*Andrew Volstead creator of the Volstead Act (National Prohibition Act of 1919.)

Pepaw was a drinker.

Chapter One: Maple Leaf Beginning

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I knew it was coming. Dad pointed out the car window like I had never seen it before. There it is, he said. During every drive through the town of Shelby, my dad would take the detour to check on his tree. As bored as I was, it really was impressive: a big, massive spread of a pine tree growing in the backyard of someone’s modest home. As always, the story played along with the tree sighting. He told it like I had never heard it before. He told it as if he didn’t care if anyone heard it but himself. I hauled that sapling back home on my bike when I was just a little shaver. I planted it and watered it and fussed over it and look how big it is! He could have been talking to himself. His face was lost in the memory. I was glad he didn’t notice my expression of faked enthusiasm.

As I grew older my attitude began to equal his pride towards that tree. I found myself from time to time taking the detour and truly admiring it without Dad in the car. I think mortality does that.

At my father’s funeral service the pastor mentioned his tree and how it lives on as Dad lives on in our hearts.

George’s tree: strong and growing just like his children. His family. His tree. His legacy. All of us, Tom, Jane, Bonnie, Bobby, and myself were moved. Jane leans over and whispers, What tree?

I could not think of a better representation of life lived than that of a tree that you can call your own. It seems throughout my life there has always been a tree to anchor me. I am not sure, but maybe this tree thing is genetic or a heredity condition. My grandkids know what will be coming when we take a walk or drive up to the front field, they know it’s coming. I will be pointing out my tree; my big sycamore tree that stands tall and alone. I didn’t plant it or water it, but I do fuss over it, and it’s mine.

Shelby

George Jr., my dad, was born and raised in Shelby, Indiana in the little house that is sheltered by his pine tree. He was a surprise baby for his parents, Sarah and George. They were in their mid-40s with two grown daughters and grandchildren. They thought these baby days were over. It was the spring of 1924 when Old Doc Tate came across the river from Thayer by horse and buggy to deliver Sarah’s baby. Fortunately, the floodwaters had subsided and the road was passable.

The town of Shelby sits on the edge of the mighty Kankakee River. The only annual event the town holds claim to is its spring flooding. There is a ton of beauty up and down that river. During the