The Roots Run Deep Chapter 1

My Memoir

I have written a few musings throughout my adult life and feel that this is good place to put those writings. I begin this project by publishing a memoir that I recently completed and expect to add other writings as time goes on.

I completed this project mostly for my children and grandchildren but others might find some value here as well. Let me know if you do.

Thoughts on Writing my Story

When I began this project, it was to carry on the tradition that my father began when he wrote his life story, Tall Corn.

When one ponders his life and doesn’t want to leave an 800-page tome for his heirs, there is a lot you have to leave out. My desire was to tell my story as honestly as I could, relaying my inner struggles and to concentrate on those moments in my life that were pivotal to my life’s trajectory.

Some may find that I left out a lot of the good times that my relationships enjoyed, and there were many of those in my life, but this is my story, my journey, and it has been a story that I have tried to be honest with myself in portraying.

I have always had a difficult time in expressing my deepest thoughts and feelings verbally, but it always comes easier when I can ponder and put my thoughts into words. As a result, some of these thoughts may be new to those I love as I was never able to express them when it would have made a difference.

The other revelation is that I have always taken the triumphs and successes in life and let them be a part of me in such a way that I am unable articulate them later. This has always made it difficult to create a compelling resume as I often leave out accomplishments that should be included.

My goal is not to be humble but to be honest in what I have written and I hope that comes through in what I have presented here.

Vimeo Link: The Roots Run Deep - Intro and Early Years (vimeo.com)

Introduction

There are many books out there about peoples struggles and challenges growing up in dysfunctional families and how they overcame those challenges.

This is not one of those books.

Life has a way of clarifying one’s perceptions and ideas as one advances in years and has the opportunity to actually look back and observe the roads taken and the lessons learned. No one’s life is a perfect straight path and if it was it would be profoundly boring. It is the little choices we make and decisions we act on that give our lives color, magic, pain, pleasure and meaning.

I am profoundly grateful for the choices I have made and the paths I have taken for it has led me on a wonderful journey full of simple pleasures, learning opportunities and relationships that are both rewarding and enriching.

Each life that has touched mine over these last 70 plus years has contributed to who I am today and I can say, truly, that I have loved them all. There is a poem I have always love that expresses my life in the best way.

Reason, Season and a Lifetime

By: Brian A. “Drew” Chalker

People always come into your life for a reason, a season and a lifetime. When you figure out which it is, you know exactly what to do.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed outwardly or inwardly. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, or to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally, or even spiritually. They may seem like a godsend to you, and they are. They are there for a reason, you need them to be. Then, without any wrong doing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they just walk away. Sometimes they act up or out and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled; their work is done. The prayer you sent up has been answered and it is now time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON, it is because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. They may bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it! It is real! But, only for a season. And like Spring turns to Summer and Summer to Fall, the season eventually ends.

LIFETIME, relationships teach you a lifetime of lessons; those things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person/people (anyway), and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas in your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. Thank you for being part of my life…..

To those of you who are named in this book and to the thousands of others who have touched my life for a reason, a season or a lifetime, I dedicate this book to you. Thank you for how you have touched my life. I can only hope that I have been able to touch yours as well.

I was fortunate to be born into a loving family in middle America in 1951 at the beginning of an era of great prosperity and general peace in the United States. I entered that world and arrived when my father was coming into his own, building a successful grocery business and sharing that prosperity with his growing family.

This is a story of optimism, love and growth during a time of reawakening consciousness. A time when teachers still taught history, language, writing skills and responsibility. A time of Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver and The Lone Ranger. TV was wholesome and people still cared about being good. Neighbors watched out for neighbors and the ever-watchful eye was another adult, not the state or ever watchful technology.

I hope I am able to use my words to convey my personal history and give the reader a sense of how and why I see the world the way I do. I am under no illusion that your view of the world will in any way conform to mine, but I do feel that there is value in sharing it, nonetheless.

I will warn you that my memories may not conform to exact reality, and I have a poor memory for names but the stories and musings to follow are what have formed my life philosophy and my attitude toward life in the 21^st century. My view has always been one of optimism and faith in that guiding hand that was my mother’s ever faithful God.

So, if you are game, let’s get started.

Marc E Cram

Spring 2024

The Early Years

I was born on March 4^, 1951 in LaCrosse Wisconsin. The 7^th child of Harold and Elena Cram.

I am one of the fortunate ones. I have only my life to compare to but I feel blessed.

We were an intact family with a breadwinner, entering his high earning years, and a stay-at-home mother. We lived in a middle-class neighborhood in the middle of this great country in a comfortable 3-bedroom home. I had a mother who encouraged me from the moment of birth, who always had words to let me know that I was special… at least in her eyes. And that was all that counted.

Dad was immersed in his business when I came along, so being the 7^th child and 5^th son, I could be slightly ignored. Not that I was conscious of any of this. I was just discovering my world.

The family in 1951- Ramon, Judy, Divid, Linda, Roger, Norm and Marc

Mom told me that I was very independent from the start. At 3 I insisted on tying my own shoes and was always ready to tackle new experiences, not always smart ones, but ones of my own making. When I was old enough to climb on the furniture I would climb up on a dresser in the bedroom and jump off head first. I’m not sure what prompted that behavior but I ended up with a visible ridge on the back of my scull. Maybe all those falls gave me an attitude of confidence that everything turns out in the end.

We lived in a small Cape Cod style house in LaCrosse Wisconsin and at that time, the house was occupied by 6 of the eight Cram children; Judy, Roger, Norman, Linda, Stanley and me. I don’t remember much of Judy and Roger but I have pictures of Judy babysitting and Roger shoveling snow in the winter.

The two older brothers were already out of the house and into the world. Ramon was married and off to Korea, defending America. David was off to college and medical school and I would never have a close relationship with either one of them as they were old enough to have fathered me in an earlier generation.

322 N 23rd St, LaCrosse WI

I remember the boys had one room upstairs and the girls had another. Somehow Norm got a bedroom in the basement when I was probably in 3^rd or 4^th grade. I remember because the room was finished in knotty pine and Norm, Stan and I spent one afternoon shellacking the wood in his room.

This room had some small windows high up the wall with window wells and we set about slapping on the shellac without ever considering the effects of the vapors the chemicals were giving off. We began to notice our voices changing pitch and we started acting a little goofy which was the result of working in a closed room with whatever the solvent used to make shellac. At one point all 3 of us simply passed out. Thank God mother always knew something was wrong when things got too quiet with her boys. She saved us by opening the windows and getting us out of the room before much damage was done.

23^rd Street was my only exposure to living in a city, albeit a small one, until college and beyond. Stan and I spent many hours exploring the alleys and the Mississippi river that was not too far away. Stan was my little brother and I knew he looked up to me but it did bug me that he always wanted to tag along. I think I even punched him once to express my frustration, but as it turns out he and I have always been close and have many wonderful memories of growing up together.

We did have some interesting adventures. Even though mom reminded me how smart I was, there were a few times in my life that I did not live up to those expectations. One of the dumbest was the time Stan and I decided to add a cardboard stove to our little club house next to the garage.

We found a great box and drew burners and cut an oven door in the front, which we stuffed with a good amount of newspaper and lit on fire.

Once again mother came to the rescue with the garden hose and saved the garage. She must have had special ESP because she managed to keep all of her children alive to reach adult hood.

After incidents like this she would often punish us by sending us to bed but would never fail to come in and offer us a popsicle or ice cream, after a short time, to make us feel better. Not that she was incapable of real punishment. Mom and dad were definitely “spare the rod and spoil the child” parents. Mom was mostly our disciplinarian but we had heard stories of the beatings the older boys had suffered at the hand of Dad. Stan and I almost escaped this completely until one fateful day when we were living in Brownsville. Stan and I had been out riding our bikes down the river road and came home a little later than Dad thought we should have. He made us stand in the basement, facing the wall and proceeded to pummel us with his belt until he felt we had been cured. We never did know what had precipitated this reaction from him or why he felt it necessary to take out his frustration on us.

Another stupid move happened later in Brownsville when I put a cherry bomb in the mailbox expecting it to blow the door open, only to discover that the entire mailbox was blown off and landed across the highway. That one cost me $12 hard earned dollars when I had to purchase and install the replacement.

We lived in the house on 23^rd Street in LaCrosse Wisconsin until I finished the fourth grade. At that time my dad found a great house along the Mississippi river five miles south of Brownsville Minnesota. I have fond memories of living on the side of a bluff, along the Mississippi in the mid-60s. It was an idyllic life with the woods right outside our door and the river at the bottom of the hill.

We were isolated from the world and it was perfect. Five miles from Brownsville, a town of 500, and isolated from everyone except our neighbors next door, the Rood’s and the Prindle’s.

We were 4 siblings when we first moved; Norm, Linda, Marc and Stanley. Norm was with us until he married Joan in a private ceremony in 1965. He had a second, church ceremony later that year, which I was not able to attend as I was away at Wayland Academy for my freshman year of high school.

When he was home, Norm was always somewhere else in the Corvair that he got when he graduated from high school. Norm was always getting himself into trouble growing up by taking dad’s cars out for drives and somehow, always having accidents in them. It probably was a good thing he got married early.

Roger left for the navy shortly after we moved to Brownsville so I never got to spend much time with him until I was in college and got him high for the first time (I’ve always been a connector).

Linda was a year ahead of me and determined to graduate and get married early like mom. She always had a boyfriend around and Stan and I always tried to make trouble for her. The worst was the time one of her boyfriend’s left his collection of 45 records with her and Stan and I used them for target practice in the back yard. That may have been a contributing factor for that relationship ending badly.

School in Brownsville was fun. The Brownsville school, built in 1874, was a 4-room brick building, with a basement, in the middle of town. There were 4 teachers teaching 2 classes each. 1^st and 2^nd, 3^rd and 4rth, 5^th and 6^th and 7^th and 8^th.

I did 5^th and 6^th with Mrs. Spinner. She would teach the 5^th graders their lessons for 15-20 minutes and then move to the other side of the room and teach the 6^th graders. There was an advantage of already being familiar with the material when you got to 6^th grade.

We spent many happy days hiking in the woods above the house and exploring and fishing on the river. One winter during the fifth grade I came up with the idea of becoming a commercial fisherman, so I built 2-100 hook set lines in the winter of 1963.

I started with a 250-foot roll of white nylon cord, 200 hooks, 400 swivels and 20 cork bobbers. I spaced the hooks a foot apart, installing the swivels, down lines, swivel and hook. It took me most of the winter to finish both lines but when summer came, I was ready to put them in the water with the flags and poles.

When the day came to put the lines out Stan and I jumped into the boat and headed out on the river. Now, back in those days the Mississippi was crystal clear. You could see to the bottom at 10 feet and I even saw my uncle, Arlan, catch a fish one day by putting a chewing gum wrapper on a hook.

We found 2 good spots and dropped the poles and lines, and after we got the lines set, we decided we had done enough for the day and headed in without baiting the lines.

When we returned the next morning, we were very surprised to find channel cats on both lines. We ended up with about 11 good sized cats. We were supper excited to show Dad what we had caught.

When dad got home, we showed him our days hard work and anticipated the expected praise.

That was not to be.

Dad asked where we got the fish? We told him that they were on our lines.

“Did you bait the lines when you set them out?”

“No”

“There is no way you could have caught those fish on empty hooks; therefore, you must have stolen them off of someone else’s line.”

We pleaded our case as forcefully as we could but he was having none of it.

“Did you bait the lines today?”

“No”

“Good”

“We will go out and check your lines in the morning and if there are no catfish on your lines, I will know that you stole those fish.”

That was pretty heavy for me, even knowing that we did not steal the fish there was a lot riding on the next morning.

“God, please let there be fish on our lines in the morning, please God, amen.”

Morning came and we headed out to the lines, praying and hoping the whole way.

Thank God, there were fish on both lines and we were saved, I was saved (charmed life, not the first time and definitely not the last).

That summer we ran those lines, baiting them most days but always catching fish. I sold my daily catch to Dad and he sold them in his Iowa stores. This was my first entrepreneurial endeavor with many more to come.

It was while we lived in Minnesota that I fell in love and got married for the first time.

Yes, I have never been without female companionship for any length of time. In 5^th grade, at recess one day, we held a wedding ceremony out in the school yard. I married Connie Sears, one of the 5 girls I had crushes on in 5^th and 6^th grade.

Before Brownsville, I had my first traumatic love experience in 1^st grade. We always walked to school as there were always neighborhood schools back then. One day I wanted to walk Maggie Durst, my first crush, to school and headed off to her house, or where I thought her house was. We lived about 3 blocks from our elementary school, Emerson.

I do pride myself with a good sense of direction but not on that day.

I somehow got turned around and realized I was already late for school before I had even found her house, so I changed directions and headed to school.

Unfortunately, being late, I was held after school and got home late that night. Of course, it was allowance night and I had to ask my dad for my weekly 25 cents. This is where he asked me “the question”.

“Why were you late getting home from school?”

“I was late to school this morning?”

“Why were you late?”

Now this is embarrassing. On top of having to humiliate myself answering this question, I knew I would stutter getting the answer out.

Whenever I was pressed to say my name or answer a question, I would take a deep breath and try to get the first word out of my mouth but it never would come out smoothly. My brothers would tease me mercilessly saying wh,wh.where does daddy put the paint. Mother always said it was because my brain was thinking way ahead of my mouth. Luckily, I outgrew the stuttering by the time I finished high school.

So, standing in front of my father and having to tell him that I was late to school because I wanted to walk my girlfriend to school and got lost was worse than any kind of torture for me. To be honest, I don’t remember what I actually said or how hard it was to say, but it still sticks to me that even though it felt like being burned at the stake I survived to live another day. Unfortunately, that fear of authority would haunt me for years to come.

When I finished the sixth grade in Brownsville I moved on to the Junior/Senior high school in the big town of Caledonia, Minnesota.

This was my first time in a school where you had to go from class to class and it took a little getting used to. I had a friend named Mike Ryan who was a Mad Magazine fan like me and we used to trade Mad books back and forth. He was kind of a strange boy and in the 8^th grade I found out that he had died in his sleep. This was very strange to me and something you would hear happen frequently as the 60s progressed.

In eighth grade I had my first real kiss with a girl. Her name was Mary Jo Benneke and it was during the summer of 1965. I don’t remember exactly where it was, but somewhere outside. I remember coming home and laying on the couch, puckering my mouth and trying to relive the sensation I had just experienced. That relationship might have been something that could have carried on but this was just a few weeks before I was to start my high school years at Wayland Academy.

Beverly Besse and Mary Jo Benneke