“In our busy and complex world, we often forget how to enjoy simple pleasures of life. Second Age takes us to a time when eating oatmeal and raisins, having a warm house, hearing red-wing blackbirds calling, meeting new people and seeing new places are enough to deeply touch the heart, mind and soul. There is a place in each of us that needs to know the importance of appreciating what you have in your life.
Second Age is simply written, and you live the author's adventures mostly along the upper Mississippi and other places just as he re-lived them while he was writing about them. You experience a joy and a depth in what life has to offer and in what it has to teach.”
Second Age has interesting and real descriptions of the Upper Mississippi in the early 1930’s, bits about life during the Great Depression, San Francisco and the Bay Area of the early 1930’s, reminiscences about working on a luxury passenger liner, visiting ports of call and appreciating other cultures, all viewed through the eyes of a curious young man who cared deeply for everyday people and who understood life’s realities. The writing is not pretentious and the writing lends itself to readers who just like to enjoy a good book.
The Search Inside feature offers excerpts.
Part I
The Floating House
Downriver
Across Lake
Pepin to Wisconsin
River Ice Begins
Winter in the Shelter of the Wing
Dam
Spring Thaw
Farewell to the Floating House
Part II
Out to San
Francisco
The President Coolidge
Through the Inland Sea
Under the Southern Cross
Last Voyages on the President
Coolidge
A Little about People and
Times
Ancient philosophers, wise in
many things, have informed us that there are four ages in a person’s life:
first, that of childhood; second, that of learning, of testing, and adventure;
third, that of service; and fourth, that of the Golden Age.
I am now in my Golden Age writing
about a long ago Second Age. To guide me I had a detailed map of the Upper
Mississippi and could refer to a published book written by Clarence.
Practically all other information has been lost.
Finally getting started, I began
to write this letter and was amazed and delighted that scene after scene would
be recalled in my mind, sometimes with crystal clear clarity that would also
arouse my feelings. I was literally reliving these experiences and one time I
became so excited that I had to get up and walk around the room to calm myself
and my beating heart.
You will probably notice an
absence of specific dates. The timetables have been lost and I do not like them
anyway; they are of no value here.
What I have written about covers
a period of two years. Most of this time was spent among people of little
wealth and making do with what they had.
The ship period was among opulence, riches, the best of everything, and
famous people. I liked a little of each and strove toward that goal in our
Third Age.
You will wonder why I didn’t
write about girls. Well, I was just so
interested in traveling, adventuring, and pursuing my goal that I just did not
want any diversions. Sure, the main topics of conversation and the jokes and
the ogling was of the opposite sex, and I had desire and opportunity, but I
kept “steady as she goes” as a sailor would say. Who is to say that my actions
were wise, but for me, I thought I did well.
Now here’s my story…
Part I
The Floating House
In the beginning, there were
three of us: Shorty, Clarence, and me, all students
in our second year of college at the University
of Minnesota at the Saint Paul
Campus. In this winter of 1931 we were
living in a rented summer cottage on the shore of beautiful Lake
Johanna, which was approximately
four miles north of Saint Paul. We
had two cars; mine was an old model A Ford with a rumble seat.
This enchanting lake was perhaps five miles either
way and surrounded by trees to the north, a country road with many cottages to
the west, and to the east a Catholic school for emerging priests where, in
addition to the handsome buildings and grounds, they had a short, finely
crafted wooden bridge connecting to a small island. This small island was
heavily wooded, and at the top of its hill and accessible by path only, stood a
small but majestic chapel whose melodious bells we could hear at the
cottage.
To the west, and across the road,
was the Ernest Sanders Farm. Great people---we made arrangements to buy a quart
of milk from him each day for ten cents. So each morning, when he was hand
milking his cows, we would go over with a dime and a one gallon pail. Many
times we would return with almost a full bucket. On one or two occasions we
milked his herd for him, so I guess in the end, we all came out even
