a son’s perspective*
by Jay Asquini
celebrating 55 glorious years
September 15, 1951-2006
Bellaire, Michigan
September 9, 2006
*Every precaution has been taken to keep the facts
from interfering with this good story
© 2006 J. Asquini
 Our story begins May 24, 1924, with the birth of Valentino Luigi Asquini. His parents, Giona and Carolina, had emigrated separately from the northeast corner of Italy known as Friuli, then met and married in Detroit. They brought their son home to their modest house on the far west side of Detroit where he would be in the company of his twin cousins, Ezio and Aldo, who were just six weeks older than Tino and lived a few doors down St. Mary Street.
Though populated by some Italians, the neighborhood wasn’t exclusively Italian. There was a mix of immigrants. It was my grandfather’s plan to assimilate into the culture of his new country as soon and as well as possible. So, Tino was raised with a strong American sense, but also – at home and with relatives – learned to speak the remote language of their native Friuli.
Even if times were lean, life on St. Mary Street was not without its pleasures, though one had to work for them. My sister and I, and all of our children, can tell you the story of how my father would sometimes choose to walk the mile and a half to and, coincidentally, another mile and a half home from school so he could save the bus fare and buy blueberry pie in the cafeteria with the money instead. Ask any of us about blueberry pie. “It’s to die for.”
In spite of – or because of – his special diet, Tino grew tall, strong and fast. He took naturally to the game of football and excelled at it. As a senior at Mackenzie High School, he played the positions of offensive and defensive tackle and place kicker while captaining his team to an undefeated year and a city co-championship. He was also president of his senior class. My dad was a big guy in high school. As if the game ball with all the scores of that championship season painted on its side, proudly displayed on a shelf at home weren’t enough to tell the story, convincing proof was provided to me years later by someone attending this celebration.
Jump ahead for a moment to about 1972 or 73. It was at the resort of Schuss Mt. that I met Cathy Heaphy. When I stopped by her family’s chalet one night and her mother, Martha, heard my last name she said, “You aren’t, by any chance, related to Tino Asquini, are you?” “Why yes, he’s my father,” I answered. “Not THE Tino Asquini,” she fluttered, “from Mackenzie High?”
As I recall, it was about 10 months before I had the opportunity to introduce Martha and her husband Jack Heaphy to my parents. Martha, who had been a freshman when my dad was a senior, immediately began chatting it up about Mackenzie High with him. My mom looked left out. So, she turned to Jack and said, “Let them go on about Mackenzie, Jack. We can reminisce about Redford.” His jaw dropped. “I went to Redford!” he said. Turns out he used to pal around with my mom’s brother. Needless to say, the Heaphys and my folks have been fine friends ever since.
But now, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Back to the football field.
Tino was offered a scholarship to play football at Michigan State, but turned it down when he visited the campus in the spring and found that the team practiced all year long. That was taking football way too seriously for him. He chose to attend Wayne University instead. He had dreamed of becoming an architect, but felt he lacked the imagination for it. So, he pursued a degree in business administration, played football and was given a series of jobs to pay for his education. Everything was humming along fine until a little social disturbance called World War II got in the way.
On April 1, 1943, after just one year at Wayne, Tino stepped into the army. Following basic training, he was one of just two men from the thousand in their group chosen for officer candidate school. But, at 19 years old, Tino believed he was too young to be an officer. The Army agreed and sent him to language school at Ohio State University instead. There, he was immersed in Spanish language courses for what was supposed to be a year. But that ended early when the program was discontinued. Tino was moved over to the Signal Corps in Missouri where he found himself shimmying up and down telephone poles stringing wire. The experience was enough to inspire him to inquire about the old offer of officer candidate school. And, yes, the offer was still available, so off he went for OCS and cryptography training. He actually had top secret clearance and was operating a decoding machine here in the States before the Army decided to ship him to Brazil.
Many people don’t realize Brazil’s position in WWII, but it was a major departure point for US troops moving across the Atlantic into Africa. The first thing Tino learned about Brazil was that they had no need for a cryptographer there. So, he was assigned to the management of the base’s public exchange. At the time, it was the largest PX in the world, selling a million dollars worth of goods every month. And that’s where First Lieutenant Asquini served until his discharge in September of 1946 and his return home to Detroit and to Wayne University where he could resume civilian life and take up his much more familiar position on the gridiron: Number 16 on the scorecard, number one in the hearts of the fans.
As far as I can tell, football was a wonderful experience for my dad. The only time he speaks with any regret is when a respected scout came to watch him play for Wayne against the University of Detroit. After the game, the scout told him he’d “played a good first half, but stood up in the second.” Curt words that hurt. Still hurt. Standing up meant he was tired. Standing up meant it was easier for the opposition to push him around, even though he was playing his heart out. The lesson in the story was clear enough for me to learn it when I was just a young boy. Concentration should have taken over, but . . . . My dad said he couldn’t argue with the assessment, a silent “what if?” implicit in his tone, in his shrug.
Then, years later – many years later – came the redeemer. Jimmy The Hatchet David, all-pro player with the Detroit Lions in the 1950s – the last time they were champions – became friends with my dad through business in the 1980s. When Jimmy learned of Tino’s college football career he spoke to a few of his friends who had played against my dad. “They remember you,” he told Tino. Short words. Sweet words. Sweet, indeed . . . . Thank you, Jimmy . . . . And, if I were my dad, I’d be certain to put them on my résumé in big, bold type.
Now, my football story: When I was in ninth grade I got my first and only chance to play organized football. Because there were so many kids in school in those days, they had both a real, heavy-weight football team and a light-weight version for all the small guys like me. I was a starting running back. I was a fairly fast runner, but I got the job because I was also the first guy on the team who could remember all the plays. My dad was fast when he played and was even fast when he was in his forties. He proved it one year at our neighborhood’s annual Labor Day party by beating the fastest big kid on the street, Craig Gaal, in a sprint. He proved it again to me during one of our little-weight football games. I had caught a screen pass and was running down the edge of the field in front of our bench. At the far end of our players, just across the sideline from me was my dad. When I neared him, he took off running. It was a 40-yard dash to the end zone, but I didn’t stand a chance. Running in his brown business suit, tan raincoat and leather-bottom shoes, just on the other side of the stripe from me, he easily pulled away. I couldn’t see another player on that field, just my dad out of bounds in those dress shoes running away from me, raincoat tails and belt flapping.
It’s fitting I recall what he was wearing that day on the field, because one of my father’s first part-time jobs was as a sales clerk in Harry Suffrin’s men’s clothing store. Ask my dad and he’ll tell you that wearing his high school letter sweater to the interview helped him land the spot. After graduation from college, with that old retail experience and a fresh bachelor’s diploma in hand, Tino hired on with Montgomery Ward in their store management training program. After a month in the Ann Arbor store, he was sent to the Montgomery Ward store on the corner of Greenfield and Grand River Avenue in Detroit. It was the flagship store of the chain, doing – coincidentally – a million dollars of business a month. And we’ll leave him there now, managing the basement level of that store, as we pick up the tale of our other celebrant.
(But while football is still fresh in our minds – and whenever you need a good laugh – ask Tino to tell the story of how he and a teammate both broke their noses when the quarterback they were attacking from opposite directions deftly stepped forward just before impact. Oh, those football guys in the good old days before face masks.) |
II
 On May 25, 1928, exactly four years and one day after Tino was born, William and Natalie Block celebrated the birth of their second child and only daughter, Betty Lou. The Blocks also lived on the west side of Detroit, just a couple miles or so from the Asquini home, but literally on the other side of the tracks, on Glastonbury Street, in the stately Grandmont neighborhood.
Betty’s father’s family had emigrated from Germany when Bill was a young boy. Born in 1900, Bill was clearly a man of his times. Self-taught, self-assured and talented, he became the first designer Henry Ford hired and was involved in such diverse Ford projects as crafting a personal speed boat for Henry, overseeing the lay-out and construction of Greenfield Village, and outfitting Admiral Richard Evelyn Byrd’s South Pole expedition airplane. But Bill wanted to design cars. And he frequently found himself on a collision course with the headstrong guy whose name was on the building. So, he moved on to General Motors where he became a principal designer for Oldsmobile, earned a patent for the modern design of the Greyhound bus, and participated in the creation of the Corvette. He’s the undeniable source of our family’s artistic talent and a major source of our independent minded-ness. (Though there was no shortage of opinions from my father’s side either. No surprise, right?)
As a young lad in Chicago, Bill and his pal, Eddie Burns, used to tap dance for tips on the hardwood bowling alleys where they were pin boys, coins ringing down around them from appreciative bowlers. (It’s a nice image, isn’t it?) And, as a grown man, Bill could leap straight up into the air a surprisingly and delightfully long way. My sister and I would beg him to do it again and again when we were kids. Not conventional sports, to be sure, but proof of athleticism nonetheless and abilities Betty clearly inherited.
Betty’s mother, Natalie, was born in the States to German immigrants who first settled near Cleveland, Ohio, where they established themselves as bakers. While Natalie was still young, the family relocated to Gladwin, Michigan, and became farmers. An avid baseball fan all her life, Natalie’s radio carried every Detroit Tiger’s game. Certainly, a love of sport was instilled in Betty Lou by her mother.
By 8th grade, my mother’s athletic prowess was established. Betty Lou was the pentathlon champion of Peter Vetal Elementary School. In college she played field hockey. And those of you who know her now must have vivid images of her on the tennis court tiring out the much younger girls (“They’re too tired to pick up the balls,” she’d tell me, “so I run around and get them all the time”), tap dancing and clogging, or slicing a slalom course to shreds on her skis. (Incidentally, when she and I raced in the mother-son slalom races at Schuss Mt. my job was easy since I had the fastest skiing mom on the slopes. The cards were stacked in our favor. I just stayed even with the other sons and let her do the rest. We won every time.)
My mom’s an athlete. That’s obvious. A few years ago, when she was getting a book autographed by Gordie Howe she mentioned that they were the same age. “Yah, but I wish I was in your shape,” Mr. Hockey told her. (This is the guy who played professional hockey longer than anyone in the history of the game! That’d go on the résumé too.)
Once, when I was over in Italy, I got a letter from her. In it she uncharacteristically complained. My dad was dragging her to a University of Michigan football game. “I’d rather play it than watch it,” she wrote.
No kidding. And she’d be the best mom out there if she did play. That’s my mom.
But now, I’ve charged too far ahead again. Back to the story line.
Betty Lou grew up in the quite waters provided by the wide wake her adventurous brother, Dick, created. He is her only sibling, two years her senior. While testing the boundaries of life and social behavior, Dick was never less than a loving brother, always providing for and looking after his little sister. Case in point: When Betty Lou was 16, Dick secured a summer job for her next to him aboard the SS South American, a Great Lakes cruise ship that traveled from Buffalo to Duluth and around to Chicago – quite an assignment for a 16-year-old. Then, one sorry Sunday, he was cool-headed enough to yell to her from the deck to “take a bus to Port Huron” when she stood frozen in her yellow summer dress, clutching her little white purse as the SS South steamed away from the Detroit dock without her. It was a good plan and good entertainment for all the passengers when they passed by Port Huron and watched the captain pull this same young girl in the pretty yellow dress by her hand from the tiny mail boat that had matched pace with the big ship. How she managed to get on the mail boat so she could transfer to the SS South without it slowing down is something she worked out all by herself. Not bad for 16.
Loaded with artistic talent that matched her athletic skills, Bettly Lou completed two years as an art major at Albion College. But for reasons that are now lost to history, in the fall of 1948 she chose to take a job back home in Detroit instead of returning for a third year of college.
Hired to decorate the display windows at the Montgomery Ward store on the corner of Greenfield and Grand River Avenue, Betty Lou Block quickly became the attraction herself, catching the eye of the basement manager, a sporty, self-confident young man named Valentino L. Asquini.
Though it was strictly against company policy for co-workers to date, these two managed to sneak off for lunch together, only occasionally getting caught. But once they found each other, a little thing like corporate regulations weren’t about to slow them down.
III
The restrictive atmosphere of Montgomery Ward proved too much for both of my parents. Soon, they each left in search of more suitable employment. As usual, the path to the ideal wasn’t direct, but it was poetically intertwined.
Betty Lou tried her hand at selling office furniture to doctors and quickly learned that it wasn’t her thing. So, she went looking again and found not only a job as a secretary with the Ford Motor Company, but also a life-long friend in Sunni Sundstrom Scollard, the young woman who hired her. Betty had no way to know it at the time, but her new position there would have long-term significance for Tino as well.
Tino had taken a job with a chain of stores that sold auto parts. When his new employers discovered Tino also possessed carpentry skills (which he had picked up assisting his father who had become a builder during the war), they quickly occupied him building shelves in all the stores. That didn’t sit well with Tino. It was a far cry from what his college degree had prepared him to do. So, he quit that operation and went to work with his father until he could track down a better opportunity.
Ford was hiring. Bright and early one day he found himself standing in the lobby of the Ford Motor Company Administration Building on Rotunda Drive, face to face with a man who seemed determined keep anyone from advancing beyond his post to an actual interview.
Coincidentally, the ‘Ad’ Building was also where Miss Betty Lou Block worked. As she passed through the lobby that morning, she greeted Tino. “Do you know Miss Block?” the determined man asked. “Yes, she’s my betrothed,” Tino answered. “Then, you go see that man over there for an interview.”
Tino was in.
And their lives were falling into place. Imagine. Returning from war. Finishing school. Falling in love. Landing a solid job. It was exactly how life was supposed to be, except for one little snag.
IV
Apparently, Tino had done such a good job in World War II that President Truman insisted he come back and lend a hand in South Korea.
Shucks. (Or something like that.)
He reported for duty in June, 1951. But, there was still time for a wedding before he shipped out in December, if Tino planned the event himself.
It wasn’t a big wedding, but what a night it was. The open-air dining at the Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, Officer’s Club matched the elegance of the color guard escorts who lined the way with sabers drawn. Tino had pulled it off. It was a September 15th to cherish and remember.
Then, all too soon, came December and the ship bound for Korea. In the story of Tino and Betty, 1952 can only be described as The Long Year. The details are too much for this story, but I think you’ll be able to fill in the blanks when I tell you that by the time 1952 came to an end my dad didn’t ever again have any interest in camping, cribbage, large motorcycles, or outdoor latrines.
V
It’s fitting that we celebrated Tino and Betty’s 55th anniversary on the shore of Lake Bellaire. They have been enjoying this beautiful corner of Michigan since their first stay here in 1953, right down the beach at the Fisherman’s Paradise resort.
To call Fisherman’s Paradise a resort is a bit of a stretch by today’s standards. There was a two-story, log lodge with a large, fieldstone fireplace and chimney in the dinning room. A wide set of creaky stairs led to the cozy rooms on the second floor. Fanning out behind the lodge were a number of small wooden cottages. Behind them – immediately, ground-shakingly right behind them – were the still active railroad tracks. Fieldstone-and-mortar sidewalks linked the cottages to the lodge, the lodge to the fieldstone-and-mortar birdbath, and further on to the sandy beach and the shallow east shore of Lake Bellaire. Sit on the dock or in the warm water with painted toenails dipped in the lake and the minnows would nibble away at the bright color. The sand was perfect for sand castles. The dock ideal to tie up a fishing boat. It was paradise. Or really close to it. Just not for fisherman. Or, at least, not my dad. I don’t think he ever caught a fish there.
(Those of you who have ever gone fishing with my father won’t find this surprising. He once took an exclusive, guided fishing tour to Iceland and didn’t catch fish there either. Another time we waded the famous Au Sable for three days: no fish. But one day during that trip, my dad sank a hook deep into his own finger, and, on another day, took an unplanned swim in his waders.)
As a young family, we visited Fisherman’s Paradise two summers in the late 1950s and always enjoyed it. So, it was a logical area for us to investigate for real estate opportunities when that became the assignment in 1967. Without so much as a peek at the place by my mother, my dad purchased the old Karginian farm on M-88 just down the road from Lake Bellaire toward Mancelona, a quarter mile east of what was then called Stover Pond Road (now Schuss Mt. Road). Schuss Mt. had opened for skiing just a couple days earlier. The chairlift was 2.2 miles from our front door and beckoned with promise. This all fit perfectly with my dad’s plan to diversify his investments, my mother’s ambition to keep us all on skis, and my sister’s and my growing addiction to the sport.
Before they were married, Tino and Betty used to take weekend ski trips with the Thunderbird Ski Club. In 1965, they took Mickey and me out to Alpine Ski Valley for the first time. In 1966 and ‘67, we took family trips to the Gray Rocks Ski Resort in Quebec which was renown for its ski school. We were hooked. (My sister won the slalom race each year. A chip off the ol’ Betty Lou Block, wouldn’t you say?)
Prior to skiing, we had taken family vacations to Atlanta, Georgia, to visit our former next-door neighbors, Wes and Leda Noble. That was 1960. Then, in 1962, we made the drive west through Silver City, New Mexico, where my mother’s parents had retired, before traveling on to see Uncle Dick and Disneyland in Anaheim, California. In 1964, we made the Silver City trip again. Each time, we made glorious excursions though national parks and great cities of the west. But these road-trip vacations came to a screeching halt as soon as we found the Mancelona farm house. And no one complained one bit. In 1987, Tino upgraded the farm for a chalet within the Schuss Mt. resort. Their grandchildren don’t know what life is like without The Mountain House, as we call it. And Mickey’s family has a beautiful home down the road there as well. Our kids have grown up on the slopes, bitten by the winter bug.
This paradisical corner of Michigan has gotten under our skin and after 50 years, feels like home. So, it should be no surprise that the auto-pilots on Tino and Betty’s cars, our cars, and our kids’ cars will all guide you unfailingly to Antrim County in any kind of weather. Need a lift to paradise? Hop in. |
