WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

When I left on my walk this morning, it was downright chilly! Dark clouds loomed overhead and the sun obviously slept in.  The sky looked as if it would open up any moment and pour down raining, so I took along an umbrella, hoping not to get drenched.  I walked pretty fast to get my four miles in, but it never did rain.

The neighborhoods were quiet and I was happy for that – less cars to watch out for, plus, I could gather my thoughts for today’s blog post.

I am sure you’ll agree that it was another sad week, as the world has grown weary with such events as the memorial service for the Dallas police officers Tuesday, and the tragedies in France Thursday and Turkey yesterday. I travelled a lot when I was younger and visited Turkey while on a Mediterranean cruise back in 1981.

A few countries remain on my bucket list and France and Italy would be two destinations that I’d like to visit someday. Any chance of conversing in French with the natives would probably not happen though.  I studied the language of French in elementary school in Canada, then later for several years in college, but those vocabulary words are long gone from my brain, so I’d hardly admit to having spent endless hours memorizing genders, words and conversations from my French books.

After the tragedy on July 14^th, I couldn’t help but remember a young French girl who spent a Summer as a runner at the first law firm where I worked. A family member was a legal secretary at the Firm, having emigrated to the U.S. from France many years before.  The young lady quickly fit in and her English was a little halting, but there were absolutely no communication issues.  I made the mistake of admitting I had studied French and she immediately launched into a lively discussion, and I had to stop her to sheepishly admit I only caught about one tenth of what she said.  For Bastille Day, the support staff decided to throw her a party, so we pooled our money to buy croissants from Jacques Patisserie and a sheet cake festooned with an outline of the Eiffel Tower.  We decorated the conference room with balloons and streamers in her country’s colors of red, white and blue.  She uttered the words “Mon Dieu” and happy tears leaked out and rolled down her cheeks as she took it all in.  I vaguely remember the words “Fête de la Bastille” rolling off my tongue that day and sounding pretty impressive – that’s because there were no “Rs” to trill … I never could trill my Rs which made my conversational French a little lame.

I thought of that little get together on Thursday evening after the news broke, and, then again this morning as I strode purposely and quickly down the Boulevard.   I gave a little smile as I passed the place where some kindly soul had placed a huge boule on the sidewalk in front of their house earlier in the week.  The birds and squirrels have been having a lot of fun with that big bread bowl.  I happened to walk by shortly after it was deposited on the front sidewalk.  It was still very fragrant in the warm and humid morning air and I instantly hankered for a piece of crispy bread as soon as I smelled it.  As boules go, it was extra huge and had been “gutted”, then chunks of soft white bread “innards” filled the hollows of that otherwise crispy French bread.

At the time, I wanted to say “ooh la la” as I approached and saw the squirrels and sparrows feasting greedily on this baked treat. While some sparrows were perched up top nibbling delicately on the crusty bread, I saw other tiny brown bodies buried in the soft pillow of bread inside the boule.  Of course, a squirrel stalked nearby, occasionally running up to scare the birds and grab a chunk of soft bread or even trying to gnaw on the crunchy exterior.

So, I’ve monitored the progress that the “gang” has made on this boule on the Boulevard, so that as of today, the sparse remnants are probably hard as a rock, but are still a draw for the critters.

Tomorrow that boule will be history – au revoir au bon pain.

[Image by Couleur on Pixabay]

It was a hot one today, wasn’t it? Those Dog Days of Summer officially kicked in on July 3^rd and will end on August 11^th, so that means there will be a whole lotta sweatin’ going on in the next month.

I guess I’m just a malcontent because I enjoyed the mild Winter thanks to El Nino, but we’ve sure paid the price with this hot and dry El Nina Summer.

I laughed out loud when I heard a weatherman describe the return of the muggies as “air you could wear” … he got that right. I wore the barest minimum to keep cool and sought out a shady pathway to the railroad tracks and back, and, it was quite sticky out by the time I finished up my four miles.

Tonight is the All-Star game, so that means we are halfway through baseball for 2016. The Boys of Summer are on a brief hiatus, except for the superstars who were in the Home Run Derby or will participate in the big game tonight.

Summer, just like the baseball season, is slipping by all too quickly. You wouldn’t know it from the temps outside today, but sure enough, Mr. Sun is lazier in the morning and sleepier at night.  I have been watching the sun rise later and depart earlier since the Summer Solstice.  Yup, the times they are a’changin’.

I wanted to share this picture of Pam and her pooches, two English Bulldogs who routinely walk with her on the Boulevard. I’ve mentioned this trio in previous blog posts.  Pam and I are like two ships passing in the night – sometimes on the same side of the street and sometimes the opposite side.  We always wave or call out “Good Morning” when we pass.  Sometimes, depending on how early I begin my journey, I may see Pam running up and down Emmons Boulevard because she is training for a marathon right now, but, most of the time I see her walking her two fur babies Chessie (top) and Sophie (bottom).  On hot days, she stops every so often to give them a big swig from their water bottles, then they mosey on.

Whew! Dog days indeed – we’re not even to August yet!

It seems that Papa Robin gets the last word when it comes to humans intervening with Mama Robin and the babies.

This morning, I packed my camera, then meandered over to Marge’s magnolia bush to get a picture of Mama Robin sitting on or near her babies, as a follow-up to Saturday’s post.

But, when I leaned over, at what I considered a respectable distance away, lo and behold, along came Papa and “chewed me out” but good. He stood his ground on the City property, while making his presence known.  First he scowled, then scolded me with some rapid bird chatter.  I said “alright already – I can take a hint”, so I left for my walk.  I decided to abandon any future picture-taking escapades, because the patriarch of the little robin family was pretty mad at me.   Four miles under my belt, and about 45 minutes later, I returned to see that little devil had left his calling card in splats all over my garage and front door.

Hmmmm – that’ll teach me.

Evidently, the bird gets the final word.

I was going to make this post only about the robin and my walk, but I’m going to tie this bird theme to the upcoming All Star Game and some reminiscing about Mark “The Bird” Fidrych.

My pals who hail from Detroit, as well as other baseball enthusiasts, who follow this blog, will remember Mark Fidrych, the pitching sensation who made his debut as a rookie in 1976. “The Bird” will be featured in a documentary that airs tonight on the MLB Network at 10 p.m.  ET.

While, I’m not really a sports enthusiast, by osmosis I pick up a lot of scores and stats from the radio, as well as sports human interest stories, gleaned from listening to the Mitch Albom Show. A few weeks ago, one hour of the radio program was dedicated to this documentary about Mark Fidrych.  Mitch played some audio of game highlights, a Fidrych interview, plus a few sound bites of his mob of adoring fans from that special season forty years ago.

I remember that rookie season well.   Mark Fidrych made his debut in a Tigers uniform, a cap with the old English “D” plunked down on his golden curls.  He was tall and lanky with a perpetual infectious grin.  His nickname was coined after a coach said he resembled Sesame Street’s “Big Bird”.  All around town, especially on the radio airwaves, the chant in the Summer of 1976 was “The Bird is the Word”, that 60s song having been resurrected in honor of this pitching sensation who won Rookie of the Year and was the starter at the All Star Game.

Not only was “The Bird” a pitching sensation, but his antics enthralled old and young alike. Every time young Mark Fidrych spoke directly to the baseball, or got down on his knees to re-arrange the dirt on the pitcher’s mound, it was documented in the sports section or highlighted in the nightly local news.

“The Bird” was especially big in the Downriver area where I live. This is because, at one time he lived in an apartment in Riverview.  Whenever he got those lovely locks shorn off, there were a gaggle of giggly girls eager to retrieve those curls from the barbershop floor.

During the Summer of 1976, I was working every day at the diner since I was on school break. The conversations between the customers buzzed about “The Bird”, so much so, that Jack and Bernice Loveday, owners of the Dairy Queen, just a few blocks away, contacted his agent to arrange a guest appearance at their store.  The Lovedays were daily customers at Carter’s, and promised my co-worker Leslie and I, the chance for a private meeting with “The Bird” before they turned him loose in the parking lot to the general public.  Well, Leslie and I were all gaga over this anticipated encounter, and talked about it for days, as we waited for his agent to get back to the Lovedays.  But, when the agent finally responded, the appearance fee was so exorbitant that the event never happened.

Of course we were bummed out, but it was fun thinking about it anyway.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Despite the phenomenal rookie season, the next year Fidrych suffered a knee injury, then arm pain, so he was sidelined and on the DL most of the time, and never improved in successive years , eventually leaving the Tigers in 1980.

After his early retirement from baseball, he bought a farm in his native Massachusetts. It is there that he died in 2009, after a dump truck fell down on him on him while he was doing some maintenance on that vehicle.

Back here in Detroit, his fans mourned their idol’s untimely death. Interviews and images on social media helped us all to relive that magical Summer, that not only celebrated America’s Bicentennial, but a boy wonder who wore the #20 and made us beam at the baseball park and beyond.

[Image from Open Clip Art on Pixabay]

It’s been a tumultuous week.

For me, it started with that big bang … that explosion that happened at 3:00 a.m. a week ago today.

You’ll recall, I wrote that in the moments after the big bang, many thoughts crowded my mind, until I could determine where that explosion and fire originated, and how close to home it really was.

Then, there were a few angst-filled nights as firecrackers exploded every which way. From inside the house, I imagined them whizzing by and plopping smack onto the crispy grass, or perhaps catching fire on any gutter debris.

Alas, the 4^th of July was over, but the firecracker extravaganza lingered on, though not as active as around the holiday, but still there, nevertheless.

Just call me a worrywart – that’s okay, I’ll accept that moniker.

But, as the week meandered along, the turbulence was still there … this time in the form of the deadly incidents in Louisiana, then Minnesota.

Then, the killing of five police officers in Dallas, Texas.

Would there be no end to this horrible week?

No … violence of another kind was on the agenda, in a storm, in the wee hours of Friday morning when Mother Nature decided to provide a tumultuous event of her own. “You wanted rain – I’ll give you rain!” Mother Nature cackled, sounding very much like the Wicked Witch of the West when she addressed Dorothy and her pals.  It rained so much that flooding occurred as the pelting water could not settle quickly enough into parched grounds.  I was unscathed by that storm – others were not so lucky.

For anyone who pranced around in a rain dance fashion, it worked.

But, wait – there was more to come.

We knew last night’s big storm was coming as the meteorologists had been crowing about it all day, and this time, unlike other times, the severe weather was indeed going to happen. At 7:25 p.m. there was boisterous thunder and the mottled gray sky opened with a torrential downpour and tempestuous winds that raged at over 55 miles per hour.

The storm lasted about 30 minutes and then it skedaddled to Canada.

In its wake, there were power outages, toppled trees and downed wires. Once again we were lucky, but in neighboring cities, there was extensive damage and a young boy was electrocuted.  Clearly, Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with, and, we should respect, if not fear her.

On my walk this morning I headed down to the River, stopping along the Boulevard several times to take a look at some tall pear trees that had been sliced in half from those wicked winds. In one case, half of the tall and leafy tree remained; the other half had been snapped off and now was resting across the driveway, having taken down several bushes and hanging baskets as it fell to the ground.

I could smell the fresh wood where the massive branches had snapped off.

Leaves and small branches littered most lawns and sidewalks, as the wind first pummeled, and then stripped, them from the trees as it raced through the subdivisions.

Given the heat this past few days, I think we were lucky the storm was not more volatile.

On a happier note, the birds were in their glory. There were puddles galore to explore, baths to be had and drinks to be savored.  In fact, the robins were pretty savvy about where they could quench their thirst today, as well as this past week.  I watched them make do, with not enough birdbaths to provide fresh water, and gutters crammed full of elm and maple seeds and no measurable rainfall, thus that resource, too, was gone.  Those birds were innovative, as  I saw several robins basking in the spray from the sprinklers, wetting their feathers, burying their beaks in the grass blades to sip water droplets and trying to dredge up some worms from the moist lawns.

The robins and their brethren are all set now – for a few days anyway, ‘til the temps reach the 90s again on Tuesday.

I returned home after my four-mile round trip and my neighbor Jeff hurried to catch me before I went into the house. “C’mon, I want to show you something” he said.  We went over to a magnolia bush and peered through the branches.  A robin was sitting on a nest and all we could see were tufts of downy feathers beneath her belly and the dark nest of twigs and mud.  Her eyes were wide open and stared straight ahead and I can only imagine she was probably quivering, thinking we were there to harm her and her brood.  We stepped back a bit.  Jeff whispered “she has four babies and is sitting on them to keep them safe and warm and the Dad’s nearby” and, as if on cue, a scowling male robin redbreast alighted on a nearby bush to warn us to stay away.  We quickly backed off.

Jeff sent some pictures of the babies, one which is above. I like the little guy who is whining “more worms please” if Mom or Dad were within earshot to hear his cry.

Yup, Mother Nature has her tender moments too ….

That raging storm last night shook the house, the kitchen light fixture was creaking and the lights dimmed a few times. I held my breath.  I was scared, as we have big, old trees behind us, and, if one comes crashing down, it would be the end of this house I am sure.

But, if I was scared, can you imagine that fearless Mama Robin with her brood tucked safely beneath her, while that raucous storm rocked the magnolia bush with winds clocked at 56.4 miles per hour?

Mother Nature – you’re powerful in some ways and tender in others.

It seems as though 2016 has been a year for monumental anniversaries for me … today, is still another.

We moved to the United States from Canada on July 8, 1966, so that means that I have lived here in the U.S. for 50 years as of today.

I am reminded of my mom on this anniversary, because every July 8^th, she would announce to her friends, rather tongue-in-cheek, that it was “the luckiest day of your life that I moved here!”

Over the years, I tried saying that phrase to friends, or, at work to bosses or co-workers, but no one pumped my hand and said “congratulations”, nor did that expression even elicit a smile, so I finally quit saying it.

As to “the big move”, for me, at just ten years old, I was heartbroken to leave my friends and school chums and move over here. I loved school and did well, even getting double-promoted two different times, so it was all about me and how this move would impact my young life as I knew it.  But, I suffered silently and couldn’t lament too much about my apprehensions or sadness over the impending move, or thereafter, since my very strict parents would not have allowed such an expression of my feelings; you know the old adage that kids should be seen, and not heard.

My mom was adamant that we should return to Canada one day – my dad promised her in ten years we would, but, of course, that never happened.

My father was a tool-and-die maker that was transferred from Ford of Oakville to Ford’s Woodhaven Stamping Plant – apparently they were in dire need of this type of tradesman, so it was Ford that sponsored our move.

We left mid-day on the 8^th, having said our goodbyes to family and friends throughout the course of the week.  There was a hang-up at the border getting processed with our paperwork, and we got to the new house much later than planned, as did the moving van which didn’t arrive until the next day because their truck developed mechanical issues.

Luckily, my parents had the forethought to put sleeping bags and air mattresses in the back of the car, left over from the one and only time our family had gone camping, so these became our respective “beds” the first night in the U.S.

On Saturday morning July 9^th, we all woke up a little stiff and cramped from sleeping on the floor.  We were hungry, so my father remembered seeing a donut shop in the neighborhood, so off he traipsed to Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks away.  He came home bearing a ½ dozen of jelly donuts, coffee and some cocoa for me.

Then we waited.

And waited.

Finally, in the early afternoon, the movers arrived, and, they too, had been waylaid at the border. They made quick work of filling up the house with our furniture.  I still recall my mom, standing at the front window while watching the movers transport the furniture from the van to the house.  She was aghast to discover the neighbors in the corner house had plunked themselves into webbed chaise lounges on their front lawn, and settled in with cold drinks and binoculars to watch the parade of furniture going into the house.  (Really?!)

Fifty years! It doesn’t seem possible to me.  I hooked up with a few people from Oakville, Ontario after I found a Facebook site for my old grade school, E.A. Orr.  You may recall that I discovered and relived some early memories with a classmate from kindergarten, Maggie Rust, and wrote about that encounter https://lindaschaubblog.net/2015/01/28/on-this-cold-january-day-i-took-a-stroll/

In the past I Googled my old street address and it looked so different from what I could recall in my mind, and through black-and-white photos in the family albums. So, I mentioned it to someone on the E.A. Orr school site and gave them the address.  They were kind enough to send me a video of the interior of the house which had recently been up for sale, plus take some still shots of the front of the house as well.  Wow!  Nothing looked familiar and I was told that most of the homes in this subdivision, which was brand-new when we moved there in ‘59, had since been razed and much larger homes built in their stead.

Now, I have no family left in my homeland, so I’ll likely never visit there again. My mom wanted her ashes scattered in Canada.  An acquaintance of mine did this as a favor to me and chose a quiet rural area near a stream in Amherstburg … Mom loved her ducks and birdcalls, so she would have approved this natural setting as her final resting place.

Happy anniversary to me!

[Images from Pixabay]

Hot and sultry. No, not me silly … the weather the past few days has been pretty steamy out there.

Walking is not much fun when the temps are over 70 and the humidity is a gazillion percent in the early a.m.. But, I went anyway and did my four miles and then took the car for a spin to cool off with the A/C at full blast.

I saw a garden full of beautiful daisies this morning. Nothing is cheerier in a yard than a Shasta daisy plant with its bright-yellow middle and white delicate petals surrounding that sunny-looking face.  I used to have many daisies in the yard, but I lost most of them after those two recent brutal Winters. It’s too bad because I had those Shasta daisies for decades.

Gardening is a sort of trial-and-error task sometimes, especially when you are a novice. When I first started gardening in 1985, I bought some Gerbera daisies to put in planters and pots around the yard.  They were cute and perky and perfectly formed, so I scooped up several plants in various colors at Johnny’s Nursery.  All too quickly, I discovered they were extremely high maintenance.  Even in a pot, shaded by trees, the plants having been well watered before I left for work, had fainted  dead away by the time I got home around 6:00 p.m.  I hurried over to give them a big drink from the watering can.  They perked up immensely, but, the next morning when I went out to water, they were listless and sorry looking once again.  Even propping them up with skinny garden stakes AND their a.m. drink of water, they were doubled over by the end of the day, their petals kissing the dirt in the pot.  When they eventually bit the dust, that was end of Gerbera daisies at this house forever … live ones anyway.

About ten years ago, when I had more patience, and before the walking “bug” bit me, I painted a pout chair to match the house. Still enamored by those Gerbera daisies, I decided my chair needed a pot of flowers, so I “planted” silk Gerbera daisies.  They never droop or lose their petals … they look perfect 100% of the time.

Sunny too, so I think Mr. Rodgers would be crowing about it as well.

The 4^th of July is the one day of the year that you can indulge me so I can tell you that “I took a constitutional” without sounding all archaic and stuffy.

Actually the bunting, bows and all that red-white-and-blue swag has been prevalent since Memorial Day, but many more flags were present today. I made a small collage to show some of the decked-out homes.

It was just a petite stroll for me today – the weather was nice enough, but those pesky weeds called to me when I walked out the door, so I figured I’d better heed that call, since I’ve ignored them far too long already. If I stayed away too long, for sure I’d say “pffft” to that task.

While on my constitutional, and ruminating about the 4^th of July, I found myself reminiscing about Independence Day 1976 in particular.

Of course that was the year that America celebrated its big Bicentennial.

I was working at the diner while on Summer break from college. Many of my customers clamored for those special Bicentennial coins that were circulating that year, especially the Bicentennial quarters.  The goal for avid coin collectors, as well as many others, was to collect as many of the individual state quarters as possible and slide them into special slotted holders.  Many of my customers were collecting them for their grandchildren.  So, the little black apron I wore with my white uniform was chock full of those Bicentennial quarters at any given time, since they frequently were tendered when I was working the cash register or received as tips.  I had to keep a list of what state quarters were still needed and by whom.

The events leading up to America’s celebration of the 200^th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence were varied, as you may recall.

There was a parade of tall ships commemorating the Bicentennial, and, thus the Christian Radich was docked here in Detroit.  Friends and I went down to Hart Plaza for a look-see, and, a week or so later, when fellow waitress Leslie and I spent a week in Toronto, we discovered that this Norwegian square-rigged ship was at the Canadian National Exhibition, so we boarded her there and took a tour above and below deck.  Most of the sailors were tow-headed teens, following in their father’s footsteps.  They spoke no English, but had wide smiles for everyone they met.

I can’t forget July 4, 1976 as I was mowed down by a drunk driver, and that particular incident comes to mind every year. It was a Sunday and I got off work at 3:00 p.m.  I went home and changed into a red-white-and-blue, stars-and-stripes motif top and red shorts, and I was feeling festive for the big holiday as I set out on the bike, intending to get a long ride in before dinner.  Little did I know as I was riding along, minding my own business, that a woman would be leaving Leone’s Bar, totally disregarding the stop sign.  She knocked me down, but, except for some bruises on my legs and a little road rash, the bike took the brunt of the damage – the front end was mangled, the tire flat as a pancake.  She never stopped, but went on her merry way.  I picked myself and the bike up, and carried it two blocks down to the police station.  Luckily I was able to memorize part of her license plate and I could give a good description of her and the car to the police, who made a special point to catch her for leaving the scene of an accident.  The police were especially helpful because I knew many of the squad since Carter’s prepared the prisoner meals three times a day and the officers often stopped by to pick up the meals.  The diner also offered the proverbial coffee and donuts free for our LP cops.  The next day they had tracked her down – she said the sun was low on the horizon and she stopped to give me aid, then moved on since I was fine.  We were given a court date and I spent my day off at the courthouse, as the Lincoln Park judge ticked off each case on his busy docket.  Our matter was near the end.  When we were finally up, the Judge gave her a moving violation for going through a stop sign.  That was it.  I’ve never climbed aboard a bike again, though insurance paid to have it restored to its original state – now I do the exercise bike … it is safer.

Hope your Fourth was full of fun, family or friends and good food – enjoy the Independence Day holiday and be safe everyone!

Yesterday’s kaboom event plum tuckered me out, so I was tucked into bed by 10:00 p.m. However, it was rather foolish on my part to think I could recoup those ZZZZZZs I was deprived of due to Saturday’s 3:00 a.m. natural gas blast.  Why?  Because at 10:01 p.m., the fireworks in the ‘hood began in earnest.  Sleep eluded me, so, finally, I got up and jammed Kleenex into each ear canal as the booms and whistles from pre-holiday fireworks persisted.  The local dogs didn’t like it much either, as evident from the howling and barking as each firecracker sizzled or crackled while it sailed through the air.

I set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. today, and, just as soon as the buzzer sounded, I promptly shut it off with a little groan. “Just a few more minutes I told myself” as I snuggled down and got comfortable once again, and soon I drifted off … bigtime.

Eventually the sweet tweets of birds on the windowsill behind my head, coupled with the sun streaming through the gap at the bottom of the blind, caused me to emerge from dreamland. I did not need to be an egghead to know that songbirds aren’t nocturnal and these weren’t owls.  Hmmmm.  I opened my eyes slowly and it was light in the room.  “Well great … just great!” was what I muttered under my breath.  I grabbed the alarm clock and peered at it – 8:15  a.m.  I guess the yolk was on me for turning that alarm clock off … what I needed was a three-minute egg timer!

But, I scrambled out of bed in record time, got dressed, laced up my shoes, grabbed my gear and got goin’.

It was a sunny Sunday – in fact, that sun hovering in the sky reminded me of a sunny-side up egg … bright yellow and perfectly round.

On this middle day of the long holiday, I saw just a handful of folks out and about – a few people walking their pooches and couple of joggers, but that was about it.

I walked to the tracks and back, surpassing my 350-mile walking goal for Independence Day and then set a lofty goal for Labor Day of 500 miles. I think it is doable – we’re supposed to have a very hot summer, with little rain that will spoil the daily walk.

So, unless I melt away first, here’s to 500 miles by Monday, September 5^th.

[Image by Alexas _Fotos from Pixabay]

Today was a long day – in fact an extra-long day.

It began at 3:00 a.m. when an explosion in the neighboring city of Melvindale rocked my house.

That big bang was unlike anything I’ve ever heard, or felt, before and thereafter there was a long rumble in the still of the dark night.

I sprang up out of the bed with a start and hit the ground running to see what happened, holding my breath the entire time that it was not nearby and an evacuation would be in order.

With legs that felt like lead, and sleep still in my eyes, I hustled to the front door. Enroute, of course I imagined the worse … a power plant explosion?  Or a flare-up at the Marathon refinery which is only about four miles away?   Perhaps it was a stray firecracker landed near gasoline in someone’s garage?  I’ve been on pins and needles from all the fireworks that have been going off since before Memorial Day, especially of late, given our drought-like conditions.

I switched on the light and opened the front door to see a horizon featuring a bright-orange sky and great plumes of white smoke billowing high into the dark night.

“Oh my God, oh my God” was all I could say.

I stayed at the door about two or three minutes, while watching the lit-up sky and smoke as I kept waiting for the wail of sirens, but didn’t hear any. Why was everything going in slow motion?  Thinking I should contact the police or fire department, I raced back to the kitchen, and tried to do so, but my hands were trembling so much that I could not punch in the numbers, long committed to memory.  I think I finally got the fire department’s number, but it was busy. I don’t know why  I never thought to dial “911”.

Finally, I put on the radio and WWJ’s weather report was on – all was right with the world at 3:09 a.m. or so … that is, the world beyond Downriver.

I hurried back to the front door – a vivid sky and more smoke, but finally there were sirens that were sounding so shrill in the early morn. Finally at 3:18 a.m., WWJ’s traffic reporter and the news anchor said they were both inundated with tipster calls about an explosion, smoke and sirens, then slowly the story began to unfold.  At that time, speculation was that the event was an explosion at the nearby Marathon refinery.  Soon emotional eyewitness accounts of evacuation and close calls with the burning inferno encompassed the entire newscast.

I finally shut the front door, and made a cup of strong coffee, nursing it as I listened to the details as more first responders appeared on the scene.

It was gripping.

It was horrible.

And, it sure was scary.

I discovered the kaboom was a natural gas explosion after a car ran into the line.

I made and ate breakfast and kept the radio on, as a reporter headed to the scene, giving us more details to help fill in the blanks and bring empathy for those who left the sanctity of their home clutching children and cellphones … and each other. People fretted for their pets which were left behind as they beat a hasty retreat.

Later, when I left for my walk, it was coolish – cardigan weather again. The sky was a mottled gray.  I don’t think I heard a single weather forecast, uncharacteristic for me – did they have the meteorologist on during the time I listened to the newscast … or was I just not tuned in to him or her?  Was it going to rain, or was it just dark from all the smoke earlier today?

As I headed out, it was a sleepy Saturday morning in the neighborhood. Either everyone had left for the North country for the long holiday weekend, or had rolled over for a second snooze after their sleep was interrupted by the explosion.  I stopped to chat with a man hand-watering his flowers in front of his house.  We talked about the explosion … and the fear of the aftermath.

I needed that walk to clear my head. I was hoping to walk five miles today, but I guess I didn’t have it in me.  However, I am “bearing down” on 350 miles walked thus far in 2016, so I am happy about that because that was my goal for the 4^th of July.

The events of the morning made me feel old – I’m sure I lost another five years off my life, and snagged a few more gray hairs. Though I’m not a salt-and-pepper hair color like “Baxter”, the bear from my collection that is featured above, a few more Saturday starts like this one might just make me resemble that ol’ bear.

This morning was absolutely beautiful … even a little on the cool side, so I decided that a trip to the Rivers Edge Marina in Ecorse should be my destination.

At first, that northerly breeze made me wish I’d taken along a cardigan, but once I got about a mile into my trek, it became pleasantly warm with the sun in my face.

I think a lot of people must be on vacation this week as there wasn’t much traffic and my mind was free to roam while I wended my way through Wyandotte to the Detroit River. As I crossed the footbridge, the songbirds were competing with one another to see who could sing the loudest and a bullfrog chimed in too, as if his rumbling croaks would add to their pretty melody.  There wasn’t even the blaring horn of any approaching train, followed by the rumble of its heavy cars as they roll slowly along the tracks, so it was a peaceful walk indeed.

On the bridge overlooking the marina, while shielding my eyes from the sun, I saw a few pleasure boats drifting by on the Detroit River. The sky was a brilliant blue canvas, marred only by a gull who dared to have the gall to swoop down really low near a sailboat.  That big bird glided effortlessly, diving closer and closer as it set its sights on that sailor’s donut or bagel brought on board.

Below the bridge, suddenly a turquoise-colored paddleboat emerged, startling me. It quickly sliced a path down the middle of the water, and that slight motion made the ducks who were congregating near the pier, scatter momentarily as they rode out the gentle waves.  It was a peaceful scene – relaxing even, as I watched the ducks regroup by the pier once again.

Unfortunately, my morning foray to the marina had to remain in my mind, and not become an image caught by the camera, since the sun was out in full force making it difficult to take any pictures. Who can focus with this point-and-shoot camera when all you see is your own face?  Ah well.  Truthfully, I knew I had at least a dozen photos at home of the very identical scene, so I just put the camera back into the case and enjoyed the view.  I am indeed using a picture from 2015 for today’s blog post.  Could you tell?  I didn’t think so.

All too soon it was time to get going. Once again I was lucky to miss any of the regular morning trains as I scurried across the tracks to begin the long trek home.