Carl Oleson Jr. A man for all seasons of life and nature

By Bob Berning
Sun contributor
A tribute from a friend … (first anniversary of his death approaching)
Carl Oleson Jr. and his wife Ruth, who still lives on Glen Lake, ran the tackle/bait shop in Glen Arbor for many years before they retired. He loved to fish — doing so about 360 days a year after retirement. He caught the unofficial (he was never much for dealing with the DNR if he didn’t need to) record splake, lake trout and possible rainbow trout out of Gle Lake, as well as numerous sizeable small mouth out of Little Glen. He may have the record there, as well. He had a small, aluminum boat (with oars, no motor) he hauled on the bed of his small pickup truck, and always was one of the first to drag his little shanty out on the ice — and one of the last to take it off. I helped his son, Carl III, take the shanty off Big Glen several years ago when the ice was “ripe”, not an unusual occurrence. Carl Jr. loved to tell his tales of fishing, the big ones he caught, and the ones that go away. He was a live bait fisherman exclusively, and sneered at my artificial lures more than once the several times I went fishing with him. I think the Olsons ate fish at least once a day. He loved the perch he’d catch.
Carl Oleson Jr.
A man for all seasons of life and nature
What defines a life?
How is a legacy made?
What makes a man unique?
Why are some answers vague?
It’s clearer when there’s a partner
Someone who’s shared his time
A Ruth perhaps, a rock herself
Who claimed the man as mine
It’s clearer when there’s children
Three daughters and a son will do
A Shari, Sandy and Candace
And one with the same name too
It’s clearer when there’s more
Grand and great they’re called
Lineage who remember
The man who began it all
It’s clearer when it can’t be said
In just an inch of obit
All Leelanau/Glen Arbor mourns
The loss of its Moby Dick
It’s clearer when the absence
Of the man of North and South
Makes the water seem empty
Though full of trout and small mouth
It’s clearer with the memories
Of bait and ice and fish
Of the little boat and shanty
Fulfilling his every wish
It’s clearer when there’s tales
Of denizens of the deep
Of the tide under the bridge
Solar-lunar high and neap
What makes a man a legend?
The answer is not forgiving
It’s clear now that he’s gone
It’s the time he spent on living