The Bob Chronicles

During a recent discussion about baby names, a wise friend of mine recently said, “Robert is just a Bob with no friends.” His remark got a few chuckles and got me thinking about the Bob I have known the longest—my whole life in fact. That Bob is my father, Robert Joseph Jokinen, who is turning 80-years-old this year. I can safely say Bob Jokinen is one of the friendliest and kindest people I am lucky enough to know and love. I’d go so far as to say my dad is the epitome of a Bob.

Although it is unnatural for me to call him anything aside from dad, for the sake of this essay, I will henceforth refer to my father as Bob. Of course, I mean no disrespect.

Bob is rarely at a loss for words. It is nearly impossible to capture a photograph of him with his mouth closed, as he’s always in the midst of telling a story or a joke. Bob Jokinen was telling dad jokes long before dad jokes were a thing. As a kid I remember spending weekend afternoons at the Copper Country Mall walking around with my parents. The mall was literally known as, “the center of things,” back then as this was their actual motto. Sadly, these days it’s a modern day ghost-town mostly comprised of long empty stores. The days of the annual Cheerleading Challenge at center court and the old hot dog stand are long gone, though, if you try really hard you can still catch the subtle whiff of stale hot dogs. Back in its heyday, trying to walk through the mall with Bob at my side was tough, as he’d constantly be bumping into someone he knew and would have to stop and talk. I recall thinking he must know everybody in the Copper Country. And yes, of course I thought it was terribly embarrassing.

Bob is well known among family and friends for his stories, most of which I have heard multiple times over the years. Many go back to his days at Hancock High School in the late 1950’s. Bob would be the first to admit he was never a very serious student and judging by his stories, I imagine he was a bit of a greaser. He and his friends enjoyed fixing up hot rods and by the sound of it may have been involved in some rather reckless antics. This may explain his eternal love of the movie, “Back to the Future,” which I totally share with him.

Many of Bob’s stories are about his time in the Navy serving on the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga and on Midway Island in the Pacific. He likes to talk about how bad the food was, so much so that he’s gone out of his way to avoid chicken most of his life. I can’t imagine food being so bad that it turns someone off from something as basic as chicken. Bob’s harrowing experience with Navy food may also explain why I completely failed to pull off my Navy Halloween costume idea in junior high when I found it impossible to squeeze into his old uniform. I was pretty skinny in junior high, but nowhere near Bob skinny.

Just as he was getting ready to be discharged from his stint in the Navy, the Cuban Missile Crisis happened and his service was extended. Thankfully, like his father—and lucky for us kids—Bob avoided wartime. After he was finally discharged from the Navy, Bob drove back home to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan from the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington state in two days, with nothing but two ham sandwiches and a six pack of Coke, in some old car without a heater. As he tells it, he was anxious to get back home to the place he loves most and his mother’s cooking. He was so determined to make it home he would stick his head out the window to stay awake. Incidentally, Bob likes to mention it was on this trip he heard the music of Barbra Streisand for the first time and has loved her voice ever since.

Back in Hancock and working at a gas station, Bob met his future wife, Betty LaRoche, of the Laurium LaRoche’s. Bob was always a car guy, with a special affinity for Corvettes—his first being the 1958 white Vette convertible he owned when he met Betty. Although the car was quite the babe magnet, Bob would ultimately sell it so he could marry said babe and the couple would settle down in the provincial little town of Dollar Bay, taking up residence in a small trailer home near the high school. My brother David was born in 1967 and was quickly followed by my sister Chris, in 1968. Six years later, in 1974, the couple finally got it right with the birth of their third and final child, Michele. By the time I was born, they had bought a house a few blocks away on Avenue G, smack dab in the middle of the block between the Baptist and the Lutheran church. Bob still likes to joke about how much that Corvette would be worth if Betty hadn’t “made him” sell it. I may be biased, but I think he made the right choice.

Bob's three loves - Betty, Lake Superior and his 1958 Corvette.

The Jokinen kids - Avenue G Dollar Bay, Michigan.

Bob spent a year working as a police officer for the Hancock Police Department. He wasn’t required to take any kind of proper police training—they just handed him a hat and a gun. Although he did not work as a police officer for long, the job would provide him with a wealth of stories. I’m not great at remembering them all, but I guarantee you most of them begin with a high speed chase on the Hancock Canal Road or involve exterminating some bothersome vermin out at the dump. The police force was great for stories, but Bob left to take a job as a linen service route driver, a job that offered more stability, regular hours and would support our family through his retirement. He delivered uniforms, towels, sheets, rugs, and other items to businesses across the region, spending his days on the road and carrying heavy loads. The job was physically demanding and he often had to deal with harsh U.P. winter weather and truck breakdowns. Like his time on the police force, Bob collected stories from the route and all the people he met while working. He would stick-up for his customers when the company would try to nickel and dime them and he had an incredible work ethic. It is worth noting that when Bob retired he was replaced by not one, but two young men.

As the youngest in our family, I often fell victim to Bob’s tall tales and teasing. While traveling back home from a family vacation in Florida, Bob went on and on about his plans to pick-up an old Navy buddy of his in L’Anse—a town about 30 miles from our home—and give him a ride up to Hancock. Bob said the man’s name was Mugsy Malone. Mugsy always wore a big fur coat and was not too fond of bathing regularly. Bob said Mugsy would be riding right next to me in the back seat of the car. As a very, very gullible 10-year-old, I was horrified and scared at this notion. I, of course, hoped he was joking, but sure enough, when we got to L’anse we pulled into the parking lot of an old motel and Bob went to meet his old friend Mugsy. Imagine my surprise and relief when he came back to the car with the cutest Alaskan Malamute puppy and the pure joy when I found out we were taking him home with us. As it turns out, Bob had met the puppy while working his route and was able to convince my mom that we should adopt him. I’m still not sure why he named the dog Mugsy Malone. 

Playing with Mugsy Malone, long past the puppy stage.

Bob, with the help of Betty, created a home environment that felt safe, warm and comforting—the kind of environment every kid deserves, but so many lack. When I close my eyes I can perfectly picture our ugly orange shag carpet, the dark wood paneling and the plastic sheeting that covered the picture window in the living room all winter long to keep the draft out. Bob’s Lazy Boy chair sat in one corner and I’d periodically search underneath it for the nickels, quarters and dimes that would inevitably fall out of his pockets when he sat in the fully reclined position. If you were so bold to sit in his chair and not move when he was ready to relax, you were guaranteed to get smooshed when he’d sit on your lap. Many evenings we’d watch the Red Wing hockey game together on the television, listening to the rantings of Hockey Night in Canada’s Don Cherry while eating popcorn out of a giant yellow Tupperware bowl. When I was younger and bedtime rolled around, I was told it was time for the blanket show — which was always such a disappointing production. As I grew older, Bob would simply say, “hit it, kiddo,” and I knew no matter how much I whined, it was time to head upstairs.

Bob’s love of classic cars would persist throughout my childhood and much to the chagrin of Betty, he’d often bring home old cars he’d find in the junkyard with the aim of restoring them to their former beauty. The hobby gave him an excuse to escape to the garage in the evenings and was great fun for us kids, as we loved riding in the cars when they were finished and making the neighbors jealous. My favorite of Bob’s classic cars—one he actually bought in good condition from a high school friend—was a 1966 white Ford Mustang convertible. If there is one parenting decision of Bob’s that I now question being a parent myself, is that he let me drive that car. Not just once or twice, but often. At night. With my friends. And after my older brother and sister had put many miles on it before me. I’ll always be grateful for those summer nights riding around with the top down while listening to the broadcast of the Tiger’s baseball game on the AM radio. It was a sad day when Bob sold the Mustang, my Mustang, to make some money to construct his dream home on Lake Superior. I understood and eventually forgave him. In true Bob fashion, he sold the Mustang to the person he thought would best take care of the car, and not the highest bidder. 

Myself and some neighborhood kids with one of Bob's works in progress.

The day Bob's 1966 Ford Mustang convertible was sold.

Bob’s love of Lake Superior is something he managed to instill in all of his children. He tells a story of a particular summer in his youth spent at a friend’s cabin on the big lake. Bob and his buddies never needed a match to rekindle their beach fire all summer long. For many years, our family went camping at McLain State Park on Lake Superior in an old pop-up camper. It was my job to fill up water bottles as we setup our camp site. I grumbled about the task at the time, but loved the whole state park camping experience and McLain’s in particular. The lake was beautiful and in the evenings we’d sit around a campfire roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. During the day there were always tons of kids to hang around with and places to explore. We’d walk to the concession stand at the breakers to get ice cream sandwiches, go swimming in the frigid water and walk out on the breakwall. 

The old camp - before it was torn down to make way for the new house.

In the mid-80’s, Bob inherited some money from an uncle who had no immediate family and my parents decided to take the plunge and buy some lakefront property on Lake Superior not far from McLain State Park. The property included a modest old cabin and a two-seater outhouse. The small, musty cabin sat precariously on the edge of a sandy cliff, and rickety stairs led down to a rocky beach. I was 12-years-old when they bought the place and we traded our state park camping permit for outings at the cabin—or “camp” as Yoopers call their homes away from home. The decor inside the camp included a privacy curtain to separate the bedroom from the kitchen, a long makeshift table consisting of saw horses and plywood, a wood stove, an old couch and a giant 8-track playing stereo console. The plan was to eventually build a home on the property and tear the camp down. As a gangly awkward kid, I’d spend hours pestering Bob on the beach while searching for agates, constantly asking him the age old question, “is this an agate?” over and over again. Bob always had the patience to tell me, “nope, keep looking kid.” Later, in high school, my friends and I had fun at the camp doing all the things that high school kids like to do—namely having a space away from the prying eyes of adults. As far as I know, Bob was okay with our antics, for the most part.

My wedding day in 2009 and Bob's last Corvette. The wedding was at the lake home.

As an adult, my appreciation and respect for Bob has only grown. I have met many people throughout my life who grew up with terrible parents. Listening to their heartbreaking stories certainly makes me grateful for my experience growing up and the fact that Bob wasn’t a terrible parent. But it’s more than just not being terrible. Bob’s the type of guy who would stop by Hancock Beach and bring me a Subway sandwich and a big gulp Coke during my lifeguarding shift without me asking. Bob’s the type of guy who would call and talk to his elderly mother on the phone every day and stop by to mow her grass in the summertime. Bob’s the type of guy who would automatically get up from his cozy chair and help my mother unload groceries from the car. Bob’s the type of guy who would go through a painful procedure to donate bone marrow to a complete stranger. Sure, he’s also the guy who might embarrass you just a little when he yells, “some of us have to work in the morning,” at the loud guys walking down the street of your little town at 2 a.m., but all in all, Bob is pretty damn fantastic. 

As the mother of two boys—Oskar, 8, and William, 3—I often worry about raising them to be kind and empathetic humans in a world that seems to have gone completely off the rails. I like to joke that I purposely set low expectations for them—no serial killers, no republicans—so I’m not disappointed. In my heart, I know I would not be disappointed if they grow up to be like their Grandpa Bob.

I’d like my boys to be a Bob, not a Robert.

Unfortunately, my first choice for a gift for Bob’s 80th birthday fell through. I couldn’t get his old celebrity crush—Loni Anderson from WKRP in Cincinnati—to jump out of a giant birthday cake. Sadly, she was unavailable due to recent hip replacement surgery. So instead, Bob will have to settle for this long, drawn out essay. Happy birthday dad. I love you. 

Grandpa Bob with his youngest grandchild, my son William - on the Lake Superior beach of course.