In Wisconsin, where I was born and raised, the warmth of summer was welcomed and cherished. After the bitter months of winter, and a spring that threatened to abandon new life and hope, the few weeks of summer heat were precious.

Summers were a celebration. For a few days we could come out from beneath our protective clothing. Under the sun everything was sensuous and fine.

Our town, well-trimmed and spotless in the Germanic tradition, sat on the shores of Lake Michigan. The lake gave up its fish lake trout and perch and northern pike and even smelt to feed us. The waves breaking the land into the finest sand set a rhythm to our lives. And in those warm, woven days we would swim the lake, with the water, even in days of high summer, so frigid that diving below the surface contracted our bones with such ferocity that we could hear the crackling of our skulls.

It was a place of extremes.

Like my life as a child.

In memory I see clearly now. I am healed from the wounds of that time, and truly understand the lessons of my childhood. And I remember the teachers. There were many. But right now, in a time of transition and great change in my life, I remember one teacher most often.

I would like to introduce her to you.

I remember one particular day.

One of those summer days.

I came out of the water shivering. No matter the temperature of that summer day, when the air touched my skin it was cold. I wrapped a towel around me. My teeth were chattering just a bit, and my voice was only a little shaky as I called to my two cousins who were walking across the beach away from the water, toward home.

Wait, you guys. Hey, wait!"

My cousin, Alice Marie, several years older than I, motioned impatiently for me to come, and my cousin Edith, who was exactly my age, about eight, looked back but didn't stop walking.

They thought I was obnoxious

"Come on, you guys, wait for me!"

I ran awkwardly across the beach, wrapped in the towel and trying desperately to keep the soles of my feet from spending any time in contact with the fine white sand which had absorbed the sun's fire and was causing, I was sure, thousands of blisters to pooch out on the tender skin of my feet.

I tried not to holler. I swallowed the pain but little peeps popped uncontrolled from my lips.

"Oop, Ahhp! Ohhp, Ahhhp!"

Between the sunbathers I ran hopping and peeping, past the refreshment stand where you could get a cold drink for a nickel, and an ice cooler for three cents. In one last burst of energy and courage I covered the last stretch of sand between the stand and the safety and solace of the first of two sculptured grass hills that led from the beach to the city street above.

I reached the sweet, cool grass and my cousins at about the same moment. Ah, what relief. I still hopped from one foot to the other, moaning under my breath.

Alice Marie started up the hill, pretending she wasn't with me at all. Edith just shook her head and started up the hill after her sister.

Miraculously, my feet weren't blistered and by the time we got to the level stretch between the first and second hills, my pain was just a terrible memory.

As we started up the second hill, I caught up with my cousins and asked, "Let's stop at Debraal's, O.K.?"

They both smiled: yes, that was a very good idea.

"I'm hungry," I added for emphasis.

"Me, too," Edith said.

Alice Marie was still pretending we didn't exist.

We hiked up the last bit of hill, carefully manicured grass tickling our feet and cooling our soles.

Broughton Drive was a ribbon of cement dividing the city from the beach. My cousins' house, my second home, was one block further into town.

The cement was not quite as hot as the sand, although the tar that covered cracks left in the pavement from the past winter was soft to the touch. It was hot enough to make for a lively, light-footed crossing as we made for the grass between the Girl Scout meeting house and Deland Park, where kids were playing in the late afternoon sun.

Between the park and the Girl Scout house was an alley that was mostly a trail for neighborhood kids to get from the lake to the residential street one block over. It was paved but, mostly, it belonged to the kids, just like Broughton Drive belonged to the grown-ups.

Along the edges there were shadows and green places to which we jumped and danced, keeping our feet cool. The alley stretched for a block and we would play it like a giant game of hop-scotch.

But not today.

Behind the knoll upon which the Girl Scout house stood, there was a line of low-slung shanties. Unpainted, gray-eyed, their first impact was olefactory - not visual. The shanties and the gravel-and-dirt lot around them were an island of sweet, rich smells.

Each shanty had a skinny, gray stovepipe poking out from the roof. Each stovepipe trailed a thin wisp of smoke into the quiet afternoon sky. It was hard to believe so much good smell could come from those skinny little pipes. But it did.

Debraal's was our town's fish smoker.

Hours before first light, Mr. Debraal and his sons and sons-in-law would take their boats out into the lake. Out of sight of land, Lake Michigan being a mighty body of water, they would harvest a daily catch of fresh water fish. The waters were pristine in those days, the fish healthy, and a joy to the palate.

By late afternoon the Debraals would be back. In each shanty the fish would be hung on horizontal poles stretching from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

My cousins and I stopped in front of the first shanty. It was quiet. No one was inside. We listened at the second. No one was there. At the third shanty we got lucky.

We could hear someone moving around inside, whistling quietly.

We opened the door wide enough for the three of us to see inside.

If the wondrous smell of fish smoking was powerful outside, the rich, sweet smell inside was almost a physical presence. While approaching the shanty my mouth watered. Now my stomach rumbled.

The almost dizzying aroma was only part of the spell under which we immediately fell.

The inside of the shanty was lit by narrow windows running the length of the front wall. They were up high, close to the roof.

The late afternoon sun slanted through these horizontal slits, lighting rows and rows of fish.

The fish were smoked golden. Light reflected and refracted off their scales and the fish were clad in vestments of gold. Golden light was everywhere. The bright light angled down on the fish, sharp and defined, like the first ray of sunshine streaming through the last of a thunder cloud.

The air between the fish and the high windows seemed filled with golden motes dancing and weaving before disappearing into the dark shadows the light could not touch.

Light reflected by the fish bore pinpoints of red, borrowed from the sun and a burnished brown that, near the shadows, looked almost blue.

And if we looked very closely we could see golden drops of moisture gathering as the fish gave up their oil.

We stood in the doorway, transfixed and hungry.

Mr. Debraal looked up and smiled.

"You kidtz here again, nuh?" he said, in the accent and rhythm of his German/Scandinavian heritage.

"Yup," I said, "here again."

"Bet you kidtz is hingry, enso?"

"Yup, very hungry," I said.

"Come, come." He motioned us in and as we came close to him the door creaked shut and the light was less strong, but not less beautiful.

Mr. Debraal tore off a piece of brown paper from a roll on a small bench next to him. He quickly divided it into three.

Then with one hand on his chin he seemed to study the row of fish closest to him, touching one here, another there. Nodding slowly, he selected three plump, golden beauties, and placed them on the brown paper.

With swift, deft fingers he broke off the heads and tails and effortlessly peeled the golden skins from the fish. In seconds he had finished.

What was left on each brown paper patch was gleaming white, succulent fish flesh.

He handed each of us one.

"Be careful of dem bones, nuh?"

We were already busy picking, peeling the flesh from the bones and popping it into our mouths.

The fish, and the thank-yous, and the reassurances that we wouldn't strangle on a fish bone, were all jumbled in our mouths together. Somehow the words and the fish sorted themselves out enough for each to go in the appropriate direction.

We were again out in the sunshine, standing in the sun smacking and pickin', pickin' and smacking. We didn't talk until, all too quickly, the fish was gone and all each of us had was a headless, tailless skeleton. Oh, it was very good.

As we dumped our bones and paper into a pail provided by Mr. Debraal, Richard Popenfoos came up the alley from the direction of the beach.

"Been begging fish from Mr. Debraal, huh?"

Richard was maybe a year or two older than Alice Marie. He was almost a teenager, so sometimes he talked with us, other times he had more important things to do. He lived in the house next door to my cousins.

We were busy licking our fingers, so no response was necessary.

"You seen David?" he asked.

Actually, I don't remember who Richard was looking for that day. Maybe it was David.

"Nope." We all shook our heads.

"Well, when I find him I'm gonna knock his block off!" Richard went on to identify his problem with David. I no longer remember the details.

I do remember Richard dancing about, shadow boxing, throwing lefts and rights, and jabs and upper-cuts, showing us what he would do to David when he found that unlucky soul. I also remember thinking he was more interested in showing off for Alice Marie than he was in finding David.

We were in the alley now, slowly walking toward home. Richard was really into it.

Flailing his arms about, he began to make me feel uneasy. It felt like Richard wanted more. Sure enough.

"Come on, Billy!" He danced toward me, bobbing and weaving. "Put up your dukes." That's what guys used to say in those days.

I felt a cold fear knot my stomach.

It was all in fun. I could see that. But even at that age, I knew things could turn ugly for no apparent reason.

"Nah. I don't want to."

"Come on, Billy. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Nah. I don't want to."

"Come On, Billy!"

There it was. One of those moments every male has lived through. On the edge of something. Cornered.

"I really don't . . . ."

"It's OK, Billy. Just put 'em up. Like this." Richard put his two fists up beside his head. His voice sounded lighter, less threatening.

I felt a little better, but not much.

Tentatively, I put my fists up.

Richard whizzed several rights and lefts toward my head, purposely missing first to the left, then the right. He circled, I turned.

Richard rained punches, showing off. None came near me.

He wasn't satisfied.

"Take a swing, Billy. Go ahead, smack me one!"

I stuck out a fist, then drew it back.

"Ah, come on, Billy."

I did it again.

"Whoa there, kid," Richard said, grabbing my fist. "Let me see what you're doing."

He held my arm by the wrist, looking at my fist.

"Lookie here, what you're doing."

He was pointing at my thumb.

I had it tucked under the first two fingers of my hand.

"You can't go hitting somebody like that," Richard said. "You'll just break your thumb."

Richard took hold of my thumb and curled it around the bottom of my fist.

"There. See?" He popped my fist into the palm of his hand. "You can smack 'em good now."

Richard was actually paying attention to me, really trying to help me.

"Come on, Billy, let's see you put up your dukes."

I tried to emulate Richard. I sort of bobbed, sort of weaved, punching out awkward little punches from my skinny, sunburned arms.

Richard laughed and danced.

"Attaboy, Billy. Smack 'em good, you smack 'em good."

Then I was into it just like Richard had been. I stopped noticing how awkward my punches were, how weak and ineffectual. All of a sudden I was smacking 'em. I was smacking 'em real good.

I charged up the alley flailing and punching, the summer afternoon gone from me and the pavement no longer burning my feet. Richard moved beside me, cheering me on and laughing.

Alice Marie and Edith had fallen behind, not at all impressed by boys and their crazy carrying on.

When we reached Fourth Street, the block on which Richard and my cousins lived, Richard broke away. He lived in the house next to the alley, my cousins in the next house down.

"See ya, Billy. Smack 'em good, smack 'em good." He was still laughing when he jumped the steps to his porch and disappeared inside.

I stopped throwing punches, but maintained my fighter's stance as I approached my cousins' house. I was happy. I was excited. Boy, I had really learned something.

As I reached the house I looked into the big bay window which faced the street. It was the window of her bedroom. My grandma. Sena.

I could just make her out, sitting back from the window a bit in her rocking chair. She was looking out toward the street.

She could see me.

I would show her.

I bobbed and weaved. I threw lightning punches, power punches to smack 'em good.

Then it was too much. I needed to tell her. Let her see close at hand what I had learned.

I broke into a run, bound around the side of the house to the back entrance, which was the only acceptable entrance for children in those days. I leaped to the porch, just like Richard, and flung open the screen door.

I shouted a greeting to my Aunt Pearl as I made a dash for the front bedroom and Grandma.

She was waiting for me.

She was still in her rocking chair. She wore a dark floral print dress, a light half-apron, and in her lap she held her crocheting.

The same late afternoon summer sunlight that had so mysteriously lit the interior of the smoke shanty now flooded in the bay window, back-lighting my grandma. Sena.

The light was no longer golden. It was blood red and purple. The room around my grandma glowed with renaissance colors. Quilts and blankets and upholstery lent opulent earth tones and burgundies and blues.

Backlight separated Grandma from the rest of the room somehow. Her aura of white hair aglow, she seemed both the center of everything in the room, and yet removed from it. It was a painting by Rembrandt, lighting by God.

It stopped me for a moment. But only a moment. I was too filled with my new self.

"Grandma, Grandma, guess what?"

"Billy, you're back from the beach." Her eyes were wide and blue-gray behind her spectacles. There was always a quietness about her.

It caught me up short. But only for a moment. I was much too filled with myself.

"Grandma! Guess what?"

"Come here, Billy."

I shrugged and tried to contain myself, frustrated and wanting control.

"Come here."

I came to the edge of her chair.

She put her hand on my cheek. It was dry and warm. She patted me, barely moving her hand.

"You must have had a big day. You tell me all about it. Take your time." She said it deliberately, almost as if she could slow me down with the measured gentleness of her words.

I couldn't be held back.

"Wait'll you hear, Grandma. Richard showed me. Just now on the way home from Debraal's."

"Did Mr. Debraal give you a smoked fish?"

"Grandma! Yes he did. But listen. Do you know what Richard did?"

It wasn't quite a sigh she gave then but, looking back, I know she gave a sign of letting go.

"What did Richard do, Billy."

The words tumbled out helter-skelter. About my thumbs, and putting up my dukes, and about throwing punches left and right.

"Look, Grandma," I said as I backed away from her chair.

I took my fighter's stance for real then. I crouched low, bobbing and weaving, fists flashing blows damaging and dangerous. If I was awkward or my punches ineffectual, I did not know.

My fists were clenched, my thumbs wrapped safely around the bottom of my fist.

"I can smack 'em good," I hollered. "I can smack 'em good."

She waited out the punches and the words.

When I was finished she reached her hand to me.

"Come here, Billy."

Her hand was on my cheek again, then on my shoulder. I was standing with my legs against her thigh and her face was close to mine and she was still very quiet.

"Billy?"

"Yes, Grandma?"

"You know when Richard started fighting at you?"

"Yes." I had residual adrenaline, a reservoir of energy floating in my blood, and I had trouble letting go. But everything was all right. Standing there with Grandma's hand on my shoulder and our legs touching, everything was all right.

"When Richard started fighting at you, Billy, what happened?"

"He showed me how to hold my thumbs, and then I could."

"I know, Billy."

She looked at me with that quiet, patient way about her.

After a few seconds of silence, "Billy?"

"Yes, Grandma?"

"When Richard started fighting at you, first started fighting at you, what happened?"

Somewhere a valve seemed to open and all the adrenaline was gone.

Grandma's hand was back on my cheek and I could smell the faint aroma of lilies of the valley.

"What happened, Billy?"

The knot of fear was back, because it had never really left. And the dread was there like a sickness in my chest and in my bowels.

"I was afraid, Grandma. I'm afraid."

She pulled me close then, and held me for a long time. When I was finished holding on to her, she held my face in both her hands.

"It's right to be afraid, Billy. It's right to feel bad when people are hurtful. And it's OK to go on past the fear, even though the fear hasn't really gone. I think the fear only really goes away with loving. And it can always come back. It's OK to be afraid."

I knew then that it was. But I sure would have rather felt like I did when I was bobbing and weaving and throwing lightning punches, damaging and dangerous.

While I was considering all this, she reached down and took my hand. It was still curled into a tight little fist, with the thumb safely tucked around the bottom.

Gently she pulled my thumb away. She uncurled my fingers and held my open hand in one of her own. With her other hand she rustled deep in the pocket of her apron, which held a never-ending supply of miraculous things, and withdrew a tiny piece of hard candy - orange, which was my favorite.

She put the orange-drop in my hand and I could hear the paper make its crinkly sound and the candy gave off an aromatic hint of the pleasure that was to come.

"You're gooder 'n gum, Billy," she said. "You're gooder 'n gum."

Grandma Sena was only in my life a few more years after that day. She taught me other lessons - many of them more dramatic and traumatic in those days and years of extremes.

But this is the lesson I remember today. Clearer today than when I was twenty.

When people ask me about Sena Foundation and our name, and when I tell them about Sena, I try to make them understand. She taught about loving without fear, and about not fearing to love.

Sometimes I'm afraid they just don't understand. But I will never forget.

Sena. My teacher.

Copyright©Bill Schaefer, 1992-1997

Bill Schaefer, founder and president of Sena Foundation, and his wife, Lee, grew up near Lake Michigan in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, where his sister and cousins still live .

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