Michigan City: Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and Cousins

The Breadwinner 

Andrew J. Wentland ( 1865-1943)

Dad’s father Andrew had worked for years at the Pullman Plant in Michigan City, Indiana. He earned good money and was able to see to putting food on the table, shoes on his children’s feet and tuition money in the collection at St. Stan’s for the education of the five children he and Frances (Nodalski) had brought into this world—Stanley (Stash/Shaver), Walter (Katz), Frank (Duke), Paul and Florence. 

Although I was almost six years old before DjiaDjia Andrew died, I can surmise from the patterns of my uncles—and my Dad when visiting Michigan City—that his weekend pastime was to join his friends at St. Joseph’s Social Club on Franklin Street, just four blocks from their home at 215 W. Williams Street. The drink of choice for any good Pole employed at the Pullman Plant was a “boilermaker”—a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser. Andrew was born in Poland—Pozen we conjecture from family legend as well as from the historical record on the website of St. Stanislaus church. https://www.sanctusstanislaus.com/about-us

By reputation it’s said he could hold his own among his peers consuming boilermakers—one at a time depending on the night of the week and how it went at the Pullman factory that day.

Stanley (aka Stash and Shaver) was a first generation US-born Pole. He had learned from his father that hard work brings rewards of a salary to raise a family. He always had work. Even with the sale of Northwest Market after fourteen years, he had friends who offered him part-time work. He was a hard and constant worker. Like his father and mother who showed their dedicated love in actions, he chose, it seems, to demonstrate his love for us by being the breadwinner—a loving dedication as deep as anything he did for us.

The Politician-Artist Brother

Shaver’s oldest brother, Frank A. [b. 8/27/1897 d. 12/28/67]—Duke, as he was known—was an extraordinary man by the standards of any era.  Five years older than Stan, he had a disability that precluded his taking part in sports—an extreme curvature of his spine. That didn’t keep him from being an accomplished artist and a two-term city clerk of Michigan City, Indiana. . . to say nothing of his being quite the dapper lady’s man. His wardrobe always included a bow tie and spats. And he wore them well. 

 Uncle Duke was also an artist. His many works of art--still life, scenes of the Dunes of Lake Michigan around Michigan City, scenes in surrounding towns, and portraits of his parents—have been presented to friends and relatives by Uncle Duke of later by Aunt Florence. A number of his unsigned pastels—executed with chalk on sandpaper, practice pieces portraying the lake dunes in their former pristine condition and a couple of watercolor still-life studies—are treasured by my brothers Tom, Stan and me. As I think of my uncle now, it fascinates me that he combined this talent for art with his being a politician, and all this while being what many in those days would have considered handicapped. I wonder if Michigan City has an awareness of the important contribution of my uncle in these two areas.

As a child, I can remember his works hanging in the home of my grandparents. I also remember seeing him in his dapper dress. 

One of my favorite pictures (at left), dated September 3, 1943, is of my Uncle Duke, Dad, Stan, Tom, cousin Jimmy and me on the lawn in front of the home of my Dziadjo Andrew and Bucia Frances—the only home they ever lived in. The retaining wall served as background as Mom took the picture with our Kodak Brownie. Later in my young life, I thought it was fun that I grew taller than Uncle Duke at the young age of 12. His hump-back never seemed to occur to me as a child. I just reveled in his being a shorter adult so I could grow taller than he was. 

Only after more than fifty years did I begin to consider the significance of my Uncle Duke’s life and work—a well-dressed gentleman-politician and artist.

My Uncle Duke—Frank A. Wentland—was city clerk when I was young. When I look back now, I think of the accomplishments of a man many today would consider handicapped being elected to public office. And city politics anywhere being what they are, handicaps were not the thing that got you elected. As a child in my prime, I don’t remember anything of his term of office. But I remember hearing his animated conversations, more like diatribes, with his brothers, Katz and Shaver--Walter and Stan to the rest of the world, my uncle and my Dad to me——about his struggles with the pols of his time. I can only remember one election campaign poster with his name on it. It must have been kept from an earlier campaign. I saw it in 1944.

Recently after researching the Internet, I found archival town council reports signed by Frank A. Wentland in the years he served as Town Clerk. 

What I remember most of all is his artwork in the living room of the old homestead on William St. The oil on canvas of poppies in a ceramic vase (rich blues, reds and poppy orange) hanging prominently in the living room greeted every visitor to the home of Andrew and Frances Wentland. That work was handed down to us and after Dad's death, Mom wrote into her will that her grand daughter Ruth was to receive it. 

In later life when we’d get together and page through the family album, we’d highlight Uncle Duke’s special qualities. He was a dapper gentleman with a flair for clothes and an eye for beautiful women, the story would go. And while he never married, he never seemed to lack companionship. Today one would marvel that this was an era when a gentleman politician was not involved in some shady scandal.

Our stories about Uncle Duke reflect only a man whose hallmark was his spats, cane, his dating ability and his ability at painting still life and scenes of the dunes and harbor of his beloved Michigan City. 

Vacations in Michigan City

Michigan City, Indiana, was the place. It was the place of vacations to which we traveled from Rockford to the lakeside. Every summer there was anticipation of our family’s trip there to visit our relatives. Mom and Dad, my two brothers, Stan and Tom, and I, the youngest, would get in our Chevrolet sedan, 1938, or later, 1946 [Dad and Mom were Chevy people for most of their lives] and travel South and East across Illinois, often on U.S. Route 20 (U.S. Grant Highway) from Rockford. The Illinois Tollway System was completed and opened only in 1958—the first segment opened was what is now known as the Jane Addams Memorial Tollway between Devon Avenue and Elgin on August 20, 1958 at 3 p.m. Before that, sometimes Dad would calculate other routes around Chicago, like Routes 64 to 72 to 83. We never knew which route he’d choose. Sometimes the route was dictated by the hour of departure, to miss the rush hour around Chicago. For most of the trip, when I was younger, I was either sleeping or reading in the back seat, so I never really noticed which route Dad took. Only when I was older did I recognize the many distinct paths to Michigan City. Sometimes there’d be a diversion along the way—Dad stopping at one of their favorite “watering holes” for a “rest stop” or our seeing an overturned truck, like the egg truck on its side on the southwest corner of Routes 72 and 83. We’d get around Chicago and cross the Indiana state line through Gary and Hammond with the heaviness of their steel and petroleum industries strongly assaulting our noses. You can imagine the comments of 10-, 8- and 5-year olds about the smell. There’s always be the warning: “Hold your noses!” when we approached. Mom and Dad were familiar with the area since they were both born in Michigan City. We’d weather the smell since that was a signal that we were closer to our visits with grandparents, uncles aunts and cousins. All their siblings were still living there.

Tom reminded me that we’d always know we were coming into Michigan City when Mom asked us, “Do you see the prison smokestack?” I suspect Mom’s question was motivated by some exasperation since, after almost 3 hours of traveling, I had probably already asked a dozen or more times, “Are we there yet?”

Tom’s recollection catches the flavor of our vacations in Michigan City: 

 Truly, Michigan city was a kid's spa, complete with a zoo and an oompahpah merry go round, and a grandparent's home with a flag pole, and horses to deliver milk -- and you could walk wherever you wanted and have a dream day on a dime.

You know, bro, that if God had given me a chance to pick my parents, I would have said:  Thank you, but I'll stick with the ones you gave me.   –Email received on May 2, 2010

 Walking Down Franklin Street

 The main street of Michigan City typified for me the physical and geographical significance of what our childhood vacationing in Michigan City meant. The places supported with the substantial what our relatives supplied in the intangible. Tom’s recollection of Franklin Street is about the  . . . 

landmarks along the way:  The Lido theatre, dime stores, a barbershop where I took a note and $2 for a bet on the horses, the bank [ed. Citizens Bank, shown on the left with remodeled façade, in one of the sketches the bank commissioned] where Aunt Ruth worked, the city hall to visit Uncle Duke. Was it Kreb's Bakery where Mama Westphal worked?  There was an insurance office on W.  9th at the corner which always had photos of car accidents and a drug store on the corner that had a device where you'd drop a penny in the top and it would bounce across nails and end up at the bottom in a slot where you might get back more than a penny's worth to spend.

The reconfiguring of Franklin Street into a cityscape mall dubbed “Franklin Square” was conceived  in the late 60’s and, after the city fathers recognized that failed attempt to compete with Marquette Square, was ultimately opened up to one way traffic flowing north in later years. And with the construction of the LIbrary and Municipal Center, the whole north end of what was Franklin Street is totally different.

I can remember these landmarks and others, including the Lido Theater where Grandpa “Candy” worked for a short time as usher, letting us kids in "free." Later on as I recalled this “getting into the movies free”as an adult, I began to suspect he paid for our admissions once we were in the show. That way he'd not arouse the ire of his employer for his nepotism, being sure to keep his position, while at the same time keeping the admiration of us grandchildren.

Additional stops along Franklin were the Merchants Bank on the southwest corner of 6th Street to see Uncle Katz and visiting Cousin Don at the offices of NIPSCO [Northern Indiana Public Service Co. - http://www.nipsco.com/About-us.aspx] [Don, of course, was there much later in our lives]. My remembrance of visiting Uncle Katz at the bank was his appearing a bit ill-at-ease having us "little kids” visiting him there. Perhaps that was because of his thinking his position as a bank executive didn't allow him to be the "warm uncle" while at work. He never seemed quite so "stiff" at home. But then, the Wentland stoic Slavic response to us boys was always in contrast to the Westphal's warm and joyous Germanic embrace. The next generation of Wentlands--Aunt Betty and Uncle Paul, Aunt Florence and Uncle Mick and Cousin Don and Charlotte--was much warmer.  

Baking by Two Grandmas

    Our Jaja and Busha [our spelling for the Polish for Gramma and Grandpa, generally rendered correctly as Diadzio and Babcia—see note on page 5] never struck me as warm and affectionate grandparents. Perhaps as a tradition from the old country, their way of showing love was by what they did. On summer vacations, whenever we would arrive at the 215 W, Williams Street home where Jaja and Busha  lived—the self same house in which Dad and his siblings grew up—there would be a freshly baked apple pie cooling on the window sill of the kitchen, freshly baked in the wood burning stove Babcia used up until about 1946. The aroma of Babcia’s apple pies--tantalizingly cinnamon-fragrant with crispy baked crust—comes to me just thinking about those visits. The summer's heat and humidity made no difference to her--no home air conditioning in those days. Her Stash and jo and their family of three boys were coming to visit.

My fondest memory of those days was our arrival. No sooner had we driven up to the house over the brick-paved street in our 1941 Chevrolet, than Bucia, wiping her brow, was welcoming us and immediately inviting us in Polish-accented English to sit down while she cut each of us a piece of pie to serve us with an accompanying glass of cold milk. What may have seemed a less than affectionate grandmotherly warmth from this Polish Bucia  was more than made up for by that warm-apple-pie-love-in-action. I look back in wonder at how she accomplished such delicious results in a wood burning stove.

And for a number of years, Grandma Westphal was working at Krebs Bakery on Franklin Street just north of W. 9th.  Since we usually slept at Westphals when we were in Michigan City, it was always a real breakfast treat when Grandma would tell us to come down to the bakery to get some fresh breakfast rolls. We never refused that invitation. Between our two grandmas, we boys received the best of treatment.  

For our part, Dad and Mom would always see to packing boxes of groceries from the store for their parents. The picture shows nine-year-old Stan carrying a box of goodies into the home of Bucia and Dziadzo.

Fishing with my Grandpa: The End of an Era

 My Grandpa Westphal taught me to fish. Herman Calvin Westphal was a man with a sense of humor. He had to have a good one to even consider taking me, as a young child, fishing with him. Perhaps that just added to his fun, because fishing, even alone, was an adventure.

Michigan City, Indiana, was the place. It was the place of vacations to which we traveled from Rockford to the lakeside. The pier was where we went with Grandpa Candy. Everyone knew him as Candy. I remember one day asking him why “Candy”? He always had a way of deflecting such questions. It’s not that he wanted to avoid answering. He just enjoyed the suspense. One time he told me that the “C” for his middle name was for “Candy.” On another occasion he told me, “It’s because I’m so sweet,” with a sheepish Lou Costello expression on his face. He was quite good at doing an impression of a Costello expression. It was much later in life that I found out the “C” was for Calvin.

This particular morning I remember being awakened by the “clop-clop-clop” of the horses pulling the milk wagon down the paver-brick street of the 200 block of W. Ninth Street, between Wabash and Washington Streets. Getting up and ready to go, Mom made sure I had enough sun lotion on; no SPF ratings in those days; just sufficient grease to bake the skin. As a child I burned a lot rather than tanned, fair skin going along with blond hair. We got all the fishing gear together in the Westphal car and drove down Franklin Street through the entrance to Washington Park and to the left to the parking area near the pier. Grandpa Westphal had me carry the stringer line—probably just enough to give me a sense of participation. At eight years old I was too small to carry the bait bucket. My ten-year-old brother Tom carried that. We stopped at the bait shop near the pier.

Tom’s recollection from an email May 2, 2010:

I recall walking only up (north) on Wabash, then crossing to the bridge over the river [ed. note: Trail Creek] (Smith Bros. on the left and a boat which was always there (and I have a Frank Wentland rendition of it hanging on my wall) and an occasional Coast Guard cutter docked there also, through a parkway, stopping at a shack on the edge of the marina to buy bait, then a short trek to the right of the marina and onto the massive concrete pier.  We fished at the southwest side of the pier because the water was calmer and its bulk, which you characterized accurately, deflected the wind. 

When we got to the bait shop, there was talk between Grandpa and the bait man about the relative size of the minnows seined earlier that morning. “Smaller were better,” Grandpa said, “because they attract the better size perch. The larger the minnow the more likely the perch will just nibble at them. But the smaller ones they’ll swallow whole along with their hidden hook. “

 Once the minnow bucket was stocked, it seemed to my small legs as if we’d walked miles to the perfect spot on the pier, though it was only a couple of blocks from the parking to the location where the concrete pier jutted out into the lake.

  The pier was a concrete breakwater built to protect the harbor and its boat moorings from heavy waves from the lake. With a wide deck on the inside of the structure and a narrow walkway on the wave-breaking side of the pier, this pier had a six-foot high center wall with oblique sides facing the wave breaking side. Up and above this center wall was suspended a catwalk of cast iron with erector-set like square posts set at about 30 feet intervals.  This concrete structure had been preceded by a wooden break-water in earlier days.

 About a hundred feet out in the harbor, the pier angled to the left ending at a lighthouse. Beyond the light house was another pier, protecting the harbor from waves from a northwesterly direction, running perpendicular to our fishing pier. Grandpa referred to it as “Government Pier.” Only later did I become aware that name resulted from its origins: that pier was built as a project of FDR’s WPA in 1930’s. That meant nothing to me at that time. It was 1945. World War II was winding down after VE day—something else I never adverted to then. War was not on my mind, only this fishing adventure from the pier with Grandpa. I remember seeing some fishermen out on Government Pier.

“How do they get out there, Grandpa?”  

“They pay someone to take them out there on their boat.”

That was enough explanation for me.

 Once we were on the pier, Grandpa began getting all the gear out. He’d done this a hundred times, yet he let us help. I look back in wonder at his patience with Tom and me. The mode of fishing at the time was “trolley fishing.” A piece of broken concrete on the pier served as an anchor for one end of the line. An anchor at the other end of the line was thrown in the lake. A yard high wooden X suspended the line to receive the trolley with four hooks baited with minnows that would be let down the suspended line. The theory was that this method brought more of a catch at a time. And it seemed to work. To tell the truth, I was more fascinated by the trolley contraption than by the fishing. Still, Grandpa would give me a pole to hold with the instructions, “If you see the bobber move and feel the rod vibrating, wait a little to let the fish swallow the minnow. Then, give it a yank to set the hook.” That would keep me busy, at least for a while. I remember the first time I had a bite. I paused for what seemed to me long enough for the fish to swallow the hook. When I pulled the line, the whole bobber and sinker at the end of the line came flying back at me.  The hook almost impaled itself in my sleeve...

“Whoa, hang on,” Grandpa exclaimed. No making fun of my inept effort at fishing, just a corrective suggestion.

“Just pull it a little,” was his counsel as he re-baited the hook, empty of minnow due to perch’s fast and coy bite of breakfast, as well as my forceful yank. 

After what seemed an eternity, I caught maybe one perch which was too small to keep. It was hard for me to have to throw that perch back in the lake—my only catch of the day so far—especially after fishing for what seemed an eternity. Grandpa explained the rules to me, and I assented with my head, but my heart was hurting at the loss. “You’ll catch a bigger one” wasn’t much of a consolation. And the prospect of sitting and waiting for bites from fish I couldn’t see was not something this eight-year-old relished. After a while I reeled in the line and went walking the pier. 

Grandpa was a wise man. “Walk quietly so you don’t disturb the other fisherman. And stay where I can see you,” Grandpa whispered so as not to disturb the fish. He knew I needed to have something to do to keep me from running up and down the pier. That would disturb the fish and keep them from biting . . . and incur the wrath of the other fishermen. I think the latter as more important to Grandpa since he didn’t want to be the target of criticism from them when he’d be fishing with them long after we’d gone back to Rockford. It seemed to me, as I look back, that our fishing area had something sacred about it, something veteran fishermen respected.

Staying within sight of Grandpa, I just had to climb the steel rungs of the ladder protruding from the concrete wall to see what the other side looked like. Once my head was over the top of the wall, I was fascinated watching the regular collision of the waves with the breakwater. I was surprised to feel the cool breeze from the wind driving the waves. While I was fishing down below, the wall served as a wind-breaker, keeping the fishing area warm.

After a morning of fishing that seemed interminable even with the curious exploring of a little boy of eight, we gathered up all the trolley gear and poles, packing it up and heading home with the catch. Then it was time to clean the fish. I was too young to do this part of the fishing process. But I enjoyed watching Grandpa using the yellow-handled knife he’d had for years to clean the fish--removing the scales, cutting off the head and then gutting the fish before putting it into the bucket of water, the last step before wrapping the fish for packing in ice to travel back to Rockford with us to make delicious meals on a few occasions.

Dad always relished the taste of the lake perch. At that time, I was more excited about the memory of the fishing expedition than by a meal of fish. Still, as I look back, I remember that taste and long for the flavor of pan-fried lake perch prepared by Mom.

But the fish we caught in Lake Michigan—rainbow trout, croppies and the treasured perch—are rare or absent altogether.  Coho, Steelhead and other Salmanoid species dominate. With the passing of years and various efforts to preserve sport fishing on Lake Michigan, an imbalance of aquatic life resulted from the introduction of non-native species which thrived in the lake waters, to the detriment of the Lake Perch we knew. According to the website 

http://users.netnitco.net/~rbmc/MichiganCity/Shore.html

 Seasonal movement of the Salmanoid species dictate popularity during spring, summer, or fall runs. The species include Coho Salmon, Chinook Salmon, Atlantic Salmon, Steelhead "Skamania" Trout, Lake Trout, and Brown Trout. Remember when Pier fishermen would use the effective and efficient cane pole to have less snags when dangling off the rocks and pull up the Lake Michigan Yellow Perch, a notable Midwestern "delicacy".

 And in a “Note,” the same website mentions:

 While the natural instinct of the Salmanoids is to perform their spawning runs, the streams of Indiana are not suitable to sustain natural reproduction. During the spawning run of the Steelhead Trout, the DNR sets up fish weirs (or traps) to catch the Steelhead. The stripped eggs are then taken to the Mixsawbah State Hatchery to be raised into fingerlings. At this size, they are then carefully transported back to streams for stocking in the spring. The DNR announces an annual 2 week period when the streams are closed to fishing to allow the fingerlings to migrate into the lake. This program provides hundreds of thousands of fish for Lake Michigan.

If you have never had a powerful Steelhead grab your hook, you are in for a thrilling experience, with leaping acrobatics in an attempt to escape, heart-pounding anxiety during the battle, and sweaty palms. Casting provides the thrill not found with trolling or bait fishing, because you are holding the rod when the hungry monster strikes. To simulate the "hit" of a Steelhead, cast a hook into a moving freight train, and hold on. You will not always be victorious. Make sure your line and equipment are in top notch condition for any of the Salmon/Trout species.

HINT: You may have seen some of these fish that are almost as big as the young fishermen. Little people seem to produce great big smiles. If your adventure includes children, please don't disappoint them if you lose the "catch of a lifetime" by using a Snoopy Rod. Your only memory will be the demolished equipment you can mount on the wall, a kid without that smile, and some unfortunate stains in your pants.

All this says that the fishing experience off the pier in Michigan City as I remember it with my Grandpa Westphal is a thing of the past. There was sport fishing from large yachts during our childhood, no doubt. But having had my fishing experience with Grandpa without all the warnings and awareness of the technology proliferating today remains a cherished memory. And if I were to have a dream of fishing on Lake Michigan or on any other body of water, fulfilling it could never compare with my memory of those days on the pier in Michigan City. 

Washington Park, the Tower, Zoo and the Ballroom

Washington Park had amusement rides which we loved to go an in those days, merry-go-round, tilt-a-whirl (or octopus, ferris wheel and all the other rides of the time, There was also a zoo with we’d visit regularly, mostly to visit Monkey Island. We’d purchase peanuts to throw into the free-ranging pen and watch as the little critters scampered to retrieve them. One of my Aunts commented one time, in gest I’m sure, that the antics of the monkeys reminded her of the Wentland boys at meal time.

The park’s observation tower, Rotary castle and pathways were all made through the WPA and have been maintained since. Under Franklin Delano Roosevelt' s New Deal, which offered programs to combat the effects of the Great Depression of 1929, the Works Progress Administration was created. The agency, which was later renamed the Work Projects Administration and lasted from 1935 to 1943, created temporary jobs by using skills of the unemployed for community projects. Washington Park's zoo is the beneficiary of the people employed through that program.

The Ballroom at Washington Park was a great venue during the big band era for dances. Uncle Bumpy (Herbert C.) played the saxophone and clarinet as a member of the Richman Band that played there in the 1940's.