WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

It was back to reality this morning, after Mother Nature momentarily put Winter on ice.

After yesterday’s torrential rain, the temperatures soared to 56, and we broke the old record of 53 set way back in 1882!

I assumed that the ferocious wind overnight huffed and puffed all that moisture away, thus, I was confident that neither black ice, nor snow, would put a stick in my spokes, and I’d be able to walk at Council Point Park.

So, with that destination in mind, I packed a bag full of goodies for the critters. There were bite-sized bagel bits that were surely as hard as my head, but, I figured the geese and ducks could dunk ‘em in the Creek water, plus, a pack of peanuts to dispense to my squirrel pals.  And, after missing that photo op of the ducks and geese on the ice the other day, I also packed my camera.

But, as I set out, I soon discovered that Tuesday’s all-day rain sure took its toll on the sidewalks and streets, leaving muddy puddles everywhere, and, surprisingly, a few spots of snow were still dotting the grass. There was even a thin veil of ice on some sidewalk cracks and the potholes.

So, I failed to throw caution to the wind on this chilly and dismal morning and head to the Park with its perimeter path that is prone to black ice. Instead I opted to go to my usual stomping grounds at Emmons Boulevard and feed those ducks and geese.  At the footbridge, there were just a handful of male mallards paddling along in the ice-free Creek, so it was their lucky day.  Those fortunate few got a lot of bagel bits, and they eagerly grabbed them as they bobbed along in the murkier-than-usual water.

I walked to the railroad tracks and back, the pack of peanuts still stashed in the bag that dangled from my coat pocket. I didn’t stop to tender them to the street squirrels, deciding to save those treats for the Park furry friends instead, since they savor their peanuts more and always show me some love (smile).

I was rounding the cross-street on the last leg of my trip when I saw the substitute mail carrier – I stopped him and asked for Jenny, since I’d not seen her in the ‘hood the past few weeks. He told me she took a nasty fall on someone’s icy porch and had been out for two weeks recuperating. He said “you know that you can’t be too careful with the black ice … you can’t see it, and next thing you know, you’re on the ground.”  Twice, he told me to be careful, and said he had just about wiped out today, a few blocks away in the same neighborhood where Jenny met her fate.  Yikes!

Somebody up there was watching out for me this morning and whispered in my ear to switch destinations.

[Image by Mariamichelle from Pixabay]

Location, location, location!

While that mantra is usually associated with real estate, for me, it is the weather which factors into the locale for my daily walk. Today’s fog and sogfest sure put a damper on my morning constitution, so, it was neither Emmons Boulevard, nor Council Point Park, but, instead making the short journey downstairs to the exercise bike, where surprisingly, I have logged in many more pedaled miles, than walked miles thus far in 2017.

On the plus side, the bike is a boon to the exercise regimen, since pedaling permits me a moderate workout to feel better about myself. The disadvantage is, that from my perch on my bicycle seat, even by the light of a solitary table lamp, I’ve got a great opportunity to scope out the basement, which looks even more ravaged than usual, since I’ve been cleaning like crazy upstairs. That makes me feel badly about myself.

You’ll recall from prior posts, I’ve been busy fulfilling my New Year’s resolution to clear out the clutter and organize the house, so that I know what is in every single cupboard, closet, chest, dresser or drawer. Upstairs that is.  Downstairs will be a job to tackle this Summer, because, it seems that, in an event to declutter upstairs, many items have been relegated to downstairs.  It is a catch-22 situation, because my mindset as to purging items is not so great.

The basement hasn’t always looked this way. I take responsibility for the disorderliness, which is no badge of honor, believe me.

For years, my mom would go downstairs to do laundry twice a week, and, between loads, she’d mop and dust the basement and vacuum the carpeted area and braided rugs. Then, as her mobility issues increased, and she had difficulties getting up and down the cellar stairs, the task of keeping the basement neat and tidy fell on my shoulders.  Continually, she would admonish me with “I hope you are doing a good job taking care of the basement because I don’t want anyone to think we are slobs.”  “No Mom”, I would assure her while crossing my fingers, “it looks great down there, really.”

But, I am sorry to say, I was the ultimate con artist, who would ensure that as far as the eye could see, that is – when my mom would peer downstairs from the landing to the basement – that area was clutter-and-dust-free and up to snuff.

I recall, when we were on the cusp of the infamous Y2K event, with all the dire predictions of what calamities were in store for all of us, Mom made me promise that the basement’s pantry and laundry rooms had been scrubbed and waxed, and, in the larger part of the basement, the furniture was clean and dust-free. She fretted over cleanliness constantly, and, in this case, it was because she had extended an invitation to our neighbors across the street, that they could hunker down in the basement, since they had no basement of their own, should some tragic event befall us at Y2K.

Mom had a cardinal rule, similar to that old adage that “everything has a place and a place for everything”, so, as a result, for years I could go downstairs, at any given time, and find anything within a minute.

Rule number two was that for any new article of clothing brought into the house, an old article of clothing would be put aside in a bag to give to the Salvation Army. Of course, sometimes there were exceptions, like garments which could be repurposed for yardwork, or painting jobs, but that was how we kept orderliness at all times.

Sadly, all that orderliness has departed in the last decade, and, while looking around the basement in the semi-darkness this morning, I wondered when order would once again be restored? Not to disparage my mom, but I am just not as persnickety about keeping a clean house.  My regimen is relaxed … perhaps too much so, and the result now is abysmal.

How disappointed she would be in me – how disappointed I am in myself!

But, I do deserve some kudos since, true to my resolution, I have organized upstairs to a point, where I now am left scratching my head where I put stuff , since I was so diligent in ensuring that there is no visible clutter anywhere. Containing clutter obviously has not been my strongpoint, though I have reluctantly parted with some things, abiding by all the magazines and internet site suggestions about the purging-your-stuff- rule, i.e., if you have not used it or worn it in one year, then toss it.  Hmmmmm – I wonder why my mom never preached that rule to me instead of the in-with-the-new-but- out-with-the-old edict?

I conceded to some of Mom’s purging stuff mindset, though, in desperation, many times I tried pointing out that the “good china” and “fine glassware” had perhaps worn out their welcome since they went unused year after year, in favor of the more durable and easily-accessible earthenware tableware. After all, who needs a gravy boat and silver ladle when there are no guests at the dinner table, but us?  And the salt-and-pepper shakers with their silver lids that required annual polishing?  So, why should these fancy-schmancy items get dragged down yearly, just to wash down the top shelves of all the kitchen cabinets, then wash and dry the items before replacing them, only to repeat that effort the following year?  Unfortunately, my plaintive arguments just fell on deaf ears, or, more often than not, garnered a sharp retort like “I never knew that I raised a lazy child Linda”, so, I dropped my plea to avoid raising Mom’s hackles, resulting in a stony silence for the balance of the Labor Day weekend, when we usually spent that three-day holiday refreshing and revitalizing the kitchen.

A friend of mine once told me the secret to properly declutter your house, was that you needed to carry five trash bags to the curb every garbage day. Then, after you winnowed your bags down to just the weekly accumulated trash, and only then, have you have achieved success in containing clutter.  Well, suffice it to say that I’ve been making our garbage men earn their wages at my house bigtime since the beginning of this year.

Location, location, location. In the end, it not only makes or breaks a walk, but, it is all about where you choose to stuff your stuff.

In the meantime, until the day I can take that white glove test downstairs and pass with flying colors, going forward, for each foray to the basement, I’m taking a flashlight with me, so I will avoid that guilty conscience and not see Mom’s shadow, looking over my shoulder, with arms folded, while clucking her tongue at me in disappointment.

… Nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh-no.”

Except, of course, a little ice.

I found myself humming that 80s tune, “Break my Stride” by Matthew Wilder, on my Sunday stroll today, and decided to make it the title for this blog post.

I made no plans to go to Council Point Park, knowing that the snow would not have melted since yesterday’s trip, so, I planned my usual jaunt down Emmons Boulevard to the tracks. I am still on my house-cleaning-and-organization-kick, and worked from 6:00 a.m. until noon, so when I finally finished up, I figured I deserved a long walk for all my efforts in the house.

Gone was the brutal wind chill, and, in its place, were tolerable temps and the sun even put in an appearance as well. Like Saturday, about one in every ten sidewalks was still snow-covered and slick with ice from the two snowfalls last week, and, that caused me to detour and walk in the street to get around those occasional pain-in-the butt patches.

I continued on my way until I got to the footbridge, where I paused to see if the ice was still frozen solid, as it had been yesterday.   I knew that ducks and geese were nearby, as I heard their bellowing, er … quacking and honking, as I neared the borderline of Lincoln Park and Wyandotte.

So, as I crossed the footbridge, I looked left and right as I usually do. One side, was frozen solid, and, on the other side, there was a large group of ducks and geese atop the surface of the frozen Ecorse Creek. In all the times I’ve crossed the footbridge in the Winter, I’ve never come upon such a sight.  I watched for the longest time, as the sure-footed ducks waddled along, but the geese were much more timid.  Some geese had pecked the ice to make a hole, then plunged their head, way up to the neck, into the icy cold water, while other geese were content to plop down onto the ice.  Brrrrrrr!  But, though you might think the ducks and geese with their wide, webbed feet would have become acclimated to the icy surface eventually, often their legs were giving out beneath them, and down they went.  It was comical to see, yet, the bleeding heart that I am, I felt sorry for them.

How I wished I had a camera with me, as I might never see such a sight again.

The actions of the waterfowl at the Creek, and their trepidation on Mother Nature’s ice rink, really reminded me of myself and my first outing with my new ice skates I got for Christmas one year when I was a very young girl.  The skates were bright white boots with a zillion eyelets.  They had shiny double blades and came with bright-yellow blade covers.  On that first trip, and several thereafter, my father would take me down to Oakville’s ice arena on Saturday afternoons.  I was never very athletically inclined, and, as soon as I took the blade covers off, despite those double runners, I’d get anxious, certain that I would topple over and end up in a heap on the ice.  Just like the other fathers who accompanied their children to the rink, my father would stand there, in his boots, with outstretched arms and say “C’mon Linda – skate over to me” to which I’d shuffle along a few feet, then stop, until prodded to try again.

I guess my fear was falling forward and knocking out what precious teeth remained in my mouth, essentially already a wide-gapped smile, the result of some permanent teeth coming in stages, and baby teeth already confiscated by The Tooth Fairy for one thin dime. (This was the early 60s mind you.)

Probably, the biggest treat of each Saturday skating session, was slipping the skate guards back on, and, once on solid ground, sipping hot chocolate bought at the concession stand at the back of the arena.

So, my feathered friends … I share your pain.

[Image by Thomas Wolter from Pixabay]

Well, even though we are still in the icebox, the sun beckoned me to venture out for a walk anyway.

Thus far in 2017, I feel as if I can’t win for losing, since the daily walks have seemed to be thwarted by one weather event or another. Several overnight snowfalls put the kibosh on the morning walk, and, if pesky snow or ice were not present, then it was brutally cold.  If there was no snow, ice or frigid weather, it was raining.  Or foggy.  Sigh.

Thankfully, it is only February 4^th, so eventually my 2017 walking miles (43) will catch up with my car miles driven (59).

On the bright side, the days are getting longer, so now I might squeak in a short walk after taking the car for a quick spin, even during the workweek.

Before walking this morning, I took the car out, even though I drove it yesterday, because of this extremely cold weather. But, today was a different story, since it marked the first day of the shutdown of Southbound I-75 for the big River Rouge Bridge Project.  The media has been warning everyone about this construction project which will last until November 2018.  Downriver residents are upset about the detour which involves substantial miles, and also the extra traffic along Fort Street which already underwent a significant revitalization just a few years ago.

Either way you look at it, it is going to be an inconvenience.

When I take the car out, when there are no errands on my agenda, I generally make a big loop from my house to Outer Drive, then to Northline Road, and then home. That is about six miles.

The traffic along southbound Fort Street was already busy and crawling with vehicles, including many semi-trucks, so, I can only imagine how congested it will be during the workweek.

Back in the driveway, some six miles later, I was nice and toasty from the seat warmer and the heat cranked up to 74. I really hated to get out of the car, let alone set out on a walk, but I did so anyway because I was bundled up with two layers of clothes under my down jacket, plus two hats, two sets of gloves and a big scarf.  I felt like I was five years old and shoved out in the backyard to play in the snow.  But, hey –  I was ready to take on that 14-degree air temperature and single-digit windchill.

I had stuffed a pack of peanuts into my pocket as well, figuring that if the perimeter paths were clear at Council Point Park, I could feed some hungry squirrels on this cold Winter day. But, I quickly discovered, once I neared the grounds, that although the parking lot was clear to the cement, those snowfalls on Tuesday and Wednesday had left their mark bigtime inside the Park.  Mounds of snow were everywhere and the paths were snow covered, which was a little disappointing, and, essentially stopped me in my tracks, but there was beauty to behold anyway.  Though footprints were evident, without boots, I was not going to attempt a walk along the pathway.  Besides, I think my furry buddies were undoubtedly tucked in their nests with their significant other, as I didn’t see a single squirrel.  No humans were stomping around the perimeter path or grounds either.

I was wistful that my walk could not include the nature nook aspect that I so enjoy at Council Point Park, but, nevertheless, I meandered through the parking lot, enjoying the Park’s peace and solitude on a cold, but sunny, Winter morn while ambling along the edge.

[Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay]

When I went outside this morning, I was reminded of the old John Denver tune which begins “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy ….”

Yes, indeed – there was sunshine on my shoulders and also glinting off my eyeglasses. Even the snow was sparkling.  And, that’s all good, right?

Yesterday we were blessed with sunshine as well, and, it was wonderful, even though I was bundled up to the hilt and hefting another couple of inches of snow.

We sure deserved to see some of the sun’s rays because we only had two days of sunshine the entire month of January.

But, as the title of this blog post proclaims: “Good news, bad news …” so, now for the bad news.

Today is Groundhog Day and Philadelphia’s Punxsutawney Phil waddled out of his burrow at Gobbler’s Knot and saw his shadow, which, as you probably know, means Winter weather will continue another six weeks.

Whether you believe in this folklore or not, face the facts … we are in the heart of the Winter season and Winter weather is not exiting soon.

This is disheartening news to those, like me, who aren’t Winter sports enthusiasts, or, are Winter wienies about driving around in the white stuff. This morning, once again, I left the house in lug-soled boots, not walking shoes, due to black ice conditions, so, it’s back to the exercise bike to tide me over to the next walk, whenever that might be.

Of course, all the meteorologists like to laugh off the whole business of Groundhog Day and the furry rodent’s annual prediction.

Well, they might laugh at ol’ Phil’s record (with just 39% accuracy), but, they should not pooh-pooh Michigan’s own furry weather prognosticator, Woody the Woodchuck, who lives in the Howell Nature Center, and has a considerably more accurate record as to wintry weather predictions than does Phil. That fact might bruise Phil’s ego because Woody is actually a “she” – so there!  Phil, a rather grouchy varmint, gets all the notoriety, and, is quite the media sensation, along with his handler, (who always dons a top hat and tails for the occasion).  I’ll bet this duo garners a bigger audience than T.V.’s Dr. Phil.

This year Woody concurred with Phil, so we doubly assured Winter is here for the long haul.

Whether you get your weather info from a groundhog, woodchuck, Click on Detroit or The Weather Channel, it’s a fairly good bet that we have not seen the last of Winter’s characteristic snow, ice and cold temps.

Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour.   ~ John Boswell

Mother Nature rebooted Winter and shook up her snow globe a bit as well.

I was just as happy with the status quo, even though that piddling amount of snow every day was getting somewhat annoying.

Perhaps I am just a malcontent.

The news media had us all geared up for this snow event, so there would be no big surprises … two inches of snow overnight and maybe another one or two inches by noon. Well, that was a big oops by the weather folks, because when I went outside this morning, I expected to find two inches of snow, but it was twice that amount and heavy and wet as well.  I would later discover we had a 4 ½-inch snowfall overnight.

Though the snow is a pain you know where, there is no taking away from its pristine beauty as it is banked up on bushes, bare branches and even birdbaths. After a snowfall, I especially like looking at the tall fir tree a couple of backyards away, as its boughs are laden with the heavy snow.  I remember the owners planting that tree decades ago and it now towers way over the nearby housetops.

While I would have liked to linger and marvel at the scenery, I had to hunker down and get to work. My lug-soled boots help me get a grip onto the cement, and, the blade likewise had a death grip on the snow, refusing to turn it loose, so it took twice as long, having to tap the blade with each shovelful of snow.  Grrrrr … what happened to the half-can of Pam I used to prevent this problem?

By the time I got done, the driveway was clear to the cement, even though it wasn’t mild. Perhaps it will all disappear for tomorrow morning, or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

Once inside the house, I was still battling that snow that stubbornly stuck onto the blade, so muttering to myself, I bolted downstairs to swipe it off into the laundry tub as it would surely overflow the boot tray.

While dispensing of my many layers of clothing, I realized I was ravenous, having downed my oatmeal about 5:00 a.m. (Do people even say “ravenous” anymore?  I know you never hear the expression “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse!” – what happened to those quaint expressions anyway?)

Well, I digressed a tad.

I imagined what I WOULD like to eat, but my usual post-walking or errand-running snack of yogurt and three Clementines didn’t excite me one iota.   The cupboards and fridge aren’t bare, but they don’t hold anything too exciting or tasty either.  Come to think of it, all the food in this household is boring and blah, the result of trying to eat healthy.

As I sipped my coffee, wrapping my still-chilled fingers around the cup, I was musing over a story I heard on the radio this morning. The Bloomberg Business Report was touting the HBO documentary tonight “Becoming Warren Buffett”.  By his own admission, the second richest person in the world eats like a child, chowing down on whatever suits his fancy.  He loves those canned potato sticks, which he snacks on all day, washing them down with five cans of Coke per day.  Buffett often makes a meal of just ice cream.  Every morning for the past 54 years, enroute to the office, he stops at the drive-through at McDonald’s.  The type of breakfast sandwich he chooses is contingent on how his morning is going – no, this doesn’t depend on what side of the bed he gets up on, or if he is running late.  His breakfast sandwich depends on whether the market is up – then he springs for the $3.17 Egg McMuffin with bacon, cheese and egg, or, if the market is down – he goes with the cheaper $2.61 sausage biscuit.  And he always pays the exact amount of cash for his purchase.   Now that story just tickled me when I heard it … frankly, I kind of figured him to be more of a Eggs Benedict kind of guy.

I love the mindset of the quirky billionaire Buffett, as well as the reason he follows a cholesterol, sodium and sugar-laden diet, the likes of what a six-year old might eat if left to their own devices. His reasoning is simple and straightforward:

“I checked the actuarial tables, and the lowest death rate is among six-year-olds. So I decided to eat like a six-year-old.”

Here’s a thought: maybe we all need to live a little more on the edge like the eccentric 84-year-old Buffett – what do you think?

I think the balmy weather departed for the short term, and, in its wake, was a windchill of 15 degrees, gray skies and graupel, those icy pellets that stung my face and hopscotched along the sleeves of my down coat as I trudged along.

I took the car for a little spin before I left for my walk, and, upon my return, I glanced at the odometer, and discovered I have driven more miles than I have walked so far in 2017!

Well, perish that thought, so …

Must. Walk.  More!!!

Those annoying little ice pellets made me pull my scarf up around my face to keep warm, and, I decided to forego the planned trip to Council Point Park in case the asphalt path was icy. So, the peanuts packed in my pocket went untouched, and, I just did my old standby of Emmons Boulevard instead.

The Canada geese were plentiful as I paused on the footbridge. Some were walking on the nearby grass, but most were in the water.  They were honking loudly, their noise sounding rather loud and obnoxious like your first tricycle’s toy horn that you tooted incessantly, which used to drive your parents crazy.

When I got up this morning, I switched on the news first thing, as I usually do. I heard the strains of the theme song from “Perry Mason”, and immediately knew that someone must’ve died from that show.  Sure enough, it was Barbara Hale, who played Della Street, Perry Mason’s loyal secretary.

How my mom loved that show. She didn’t watch much television, but she wouldn’t miss “Perry Mason”, a black-and-white T.V. series about a brilliant defense attorney.

Did he ever lose a case? I doubt it.  I was too young to enjoy and appreciate the show, but would sit in front of the T.V. with my mom to be companionable, and watch that great, Canadian-born actor, Raymond Burr, battle it out in the courtroom every week.

While dwelling on Della Street’s demise over my morning oatmeal and coffee, I heard a story on the radio about an antique appraiser, Dr. Lori, who is in town for the Novi Home Show. Dr. Lori was running down a list of vintage items which are surprisingly in demand these days.  One of those vintage prized items was a Royal typewriter, circa 1950s, which goes for $75.00 to $100.00, unless you are lucky enough to find one for a song at a garage sale or flea market.

Depending on your age, you may never have used a typewriter, let alone a manual one. My mom had an old Royal portable typewriter, left over from her business school days.  She kept it for correspondence and I used that machine throughout high school for term papers and school projects.  It opened up like a piece of luggage, and you left the typewriter inside the case to use it.  Whatever surface you plunked that typewriter case onto, once your fingers began pounding the keyboard or smacking the carriage return, that typewriter vibrated like crazy.  It sometimes made it difficult to type as accurately and with perfectly poised fingers, as persnickety Miss Miller, our ninth grade typing teacher, had preached to us about.

By the time I got to college, there were many more term papers to write, so my parents traded my mom’s old Royal in on a refurbished manual Smith Corona, a large stationary machine, which sat on its own metal typing table. It was slick and efficient, but, I kind of missed the rickety Royal, with its red-and-black spool ribbon and old-fashioned high keys which were spaced wide enough apart for your fingers to occasionally poke through the empty spaces as you were clipping along.

Just as the death of Mary Tyler Moore pulled at my heartstrings, Barbara Hale’s character, Della Street, also gave me cause to pause.

For several years, I had the pleasure of working alongside a woman attorney who came to Wise & Marsac in the mid-90s. While she was a “newbie” associate, she was not fresh out of law school.  While working her way through law school, Juliet clerked for an appellate court judge, and, upon graduation, she continued with that judge until she was elevated to a supreme court justice.  Juliet decided she needed a change and came to our Firm and worked directly under my boss.  I took her under my wing, helping to guide her through those treacherous straits of  defense insurance litigation, a job description decidedly different from her prior duties as an able appellate court clerk/research attorney.

Juliet proceeded to ask me a million questions, and, I made just as many suggestions to her. For what she deemed my “tireless efforts”, I was rewarded with a wonderful friendship and her often-expressed gratitude.   (That, and a gift of an enamel keepsake box of Rosie the Riveter in her famous pose, proclaiming “We Can Do It!”, from the Smithsonian Museum Gift Shop. )

A fond memory for me is that Juliet liked to say I was her Della Street – in fact, she even referred to me as “Della” more often than by my given name.

I was rather amused by that moniker, and not insulted in the least. In fact, I told her that at the first law firm where I worked, the most-senior partner contacted a colleague of his one day and was told by that lawyer’s secretary that he was out of the office.  He then inquired if the woman was “Mr. Smith’s Girl Friday?”   She gave a harrumph, hung up on him, and once her boss was back in his office, he returned the phone call, prefacing their business by stating “you are never to refer to my secretary by that title ever again!”

Juliet was a tireless worker bee who lived in Ann Arbor and arrived at our downtown Detroit office every morning at 8:00 a.m. and never left before 6:00 p.m. She was married with two teenage boys and the grind of the commute and the long hours finally got to her and she resigned.  She took a job at a small law firm in Ann Arbor, where, as she told me with glee, “now I can walk to work, and go home for lunch, and putter around weeding my garden with my sandwich in my hand, then return to work with a clear head for the afternoon duties” – she loved her new life.  Because this was a time prior to e-mail, or other social media, eventually our phone calls dwindled, the Christmas cards became non-existent, and sadly, we have lost touch altogether.

I resolve that after I finish this blog post, I will check the Michigan Bar membership directory and find out where Juliet is these days, just to say “hey” again.

Memories … you gotta love ‘em when they infiltrate your mind sometimes.

Hmmm … I wonder if back in the day, the dutiful Della Street typed Perry Mason’s legal briefs on a black Royal typewriter just like the one pictured above?

[Image by StillWorksImagery from Pixabay]

The month of January is speeding by, despite our collective weariness with these dull and dreary days of late. It’s the middle of the week already and February is in sight.

I told myself that I wasn’t going to write another blog post bemoaning the weather for a while, but, in mid-Winter, the weather often sets the tone for everyone’s day, including mine.

Fog made me fretful on Sunday. I waited patiently for that very dense fog to lift, then went outside at 1:00 p.m. and still couldn’t see the main drag, nor the cross street, so I thought better of going on a Sunday stroll.

That murkiness continued into Monday, and Tuesday was drizzly, so, I held out a wee bit of hope that Wednesday would give me some walking time.

And, it did.

But, first things first … once daylight arrived, the car had to go out for a spin before I could go on my walk.

Unfortunately, today was a work day, so that limited enjoying a leisurely walk.

So, I was running the car in the driveway, sitting aimlessly, but with an eye to the sky, where a pale sun filtered through the clouds. “Well – how nice” I thought.  Perhaps it will erase this gray and gloomy panorama that has been present the past few days.

One particularly strong ray of sunshine momentarily pierced the window, making a mini prism, so I reached for the sunglasses before backing out of the driveway. I was 100% sure the sun was not that strong, and, sure enough, that big orb seemed reluctant to hang out for too long.  Within a few minutes, it quickly hid behind the clouds and never appeared again before I got home.

After taking the car out, I was left with precious little time for a walk, so I went over to Ford Park and did a few laps around the grounds … that would have to do for today.

Reluctantly I headed home, and, as I came up the walk, a flurry of activity sprung from my neighbor’s bushes and trees. It was a blur of birds, since all the sparrows in the City apparently were scoping out the door wall, waiting for Marge to emerge, birdseed or bread in hand, to provide their  breakfast.  But, apparently they were lost in thought because, after I turned the corner, they suddenly saw me and instantly the whole gang flew up at once, taking new positions on higher branches.

Really? I wanted to tell them not to fear ME, of all people, a nature lover – especially of birds.

As I fumbled with bulky gloves to retrieve my keys, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that, one by one, those sparrows returned to their original posts, the prospect of fresh seeds or treats, outweighing their fear of the big, bad stranger.   They were darting in and out of the bushes, and along the cyclone fence, warbling and chirping noisily.  Momentarily, I got caught up in the noise, and the sight, of those animated of brown bodies and stubby tails, evoking memories of my little Buddy, and I found myself hurrying into the house to avoid the sting of incredible sadness that had begun to settle in.

A few hours later, a different kind of sadness permeated my thoughts when I switched on the news and heard about the grave condition, then sudden death of actress Mary Tyler Moore.

Throughout the afternoon and evening, the news casts and social media have been filled with sound bites of the themes to her two T.V. series and some memorable lines from those shows, especially “The Mary Tyler Moore Show”.

That soon got me reflecting on her role in my life many years ago. Just like other young women in the 70s, I considered her a role model – a career woman with an exciting job at a TV station  where she helped produce the evening news.  Collectively, as young women, we admired her exuberance, spunk (as Mr. Grant termed it), loyal friends and co-workers, business wardrobe, even her wheels – but most of all, we were impressed with her independence.  We rejoiced as that single woman with the big-time career sent her beret airborne in the theme song.  I recall, as a college student majoring in journalism, sitting in front of the television mesmerized, wishing “if only that could be me” and  buoyed by the theme song’s line “you’re going to make it after all!”

Now, all we can do is fondly remember the character who is the answer to the query “who can turn the world on with her smile?” Well, that character was Mary Richards.  Tonight, a legion of women feel a smidge of sadness about their idol a/k/a Mary Tyler Moore.

Last weekend, we witnessed a sea of pink caps donned by many of the half-million women who attended the Women’s March on Washington. Tonight we recall one knitted beret tossed into the air by Mary Tyler Moore.  To generations of both men and women, these actions will never became “old hat”, so, a big thank you ladies for being you!

[Image by ArtsyBee from Pixabay]

Did your folks ever use this expression when you were growing up?

Perhaps Mom was commenting on the ketchup as it took forever to make its slow journey out of the bottle, while her French fries were cooling off too quickly.

Or, Dad was bemoaning the poor counter clerk at Bob-Jo’s Frozen Custard in Wyandotte, as he tried to herd the neighborhood kids together, while she tended to an endless stream of customers on a hot Summer evening.

Or, maybe … your folks were being critical of you and your pokey ways, equating you to a slug, or, perhaps a tired brown bear at the end of a deep sleep during the Winter months.

Well, today there were a couple of things that made me think of the expression “slow as molasses in January” …

The first was that fog that hung around forever.

Before I suited up around 9:00 a.m., I peeked out the door and couldn’t see across the street. The weatherman had been saying 3/4s of a mile visibility, but, I had to verify it for myself.

Well, they got that forecast right. Nope, I was not going anywhere for a long time.

Since I am still on this cleaning and organization kick, I put myself into gear to while away some time, until I turned the news on again at 11:00 a.m. Okay, now 1/4 of a mile visibility.  Well, that was more like it.  I got dressed and finally departed around 11:30.

I had been so intent on the fog report, however, I neglected to pay much attention to the air temperature.

When I stepped out the door, I saw my neighbor’s window was open, the curtains blowing in the breeze. I thought about going back and changing into a lighter coat and said to myself “well, now how warm can it really be?”

Plenty warm – believe me!

Besides the still-murky conditions, it was humid and extra mud-puddly as well. I had to step around the puddles, and mud-caked sidewalks from the recent rains.  The leaves, still left on lawns and sidewalks from Fall, were slick and slimy feeling, and glommed onto the bottom of my shoes with each step I took.  But, it wasn’t ice, nor snow, so it was basically good walking weather.

I aimed to walk the entire perimeter path, i.e. both loops at Council Point Park, when I set out. But, it wasn’t my furry friends at the Park that shortened that walk, but I was to blame since I got overheated.  First, the coat came off, then the gloves seemed to be burdensome without the coat, and then … there were no more layers to remove as I wearing a heavy turtleneck sweatshirt.  I eventually headed home, extremely overdressed, since I passed people in tee-shirts and shorts in the neighborhood.

This balmy weather even brought out the motorcycles, plus a bicycle or two.

And Marge wasn’t the only person welcoming in some nice fresh air. I saw many house windows were raised, vehicle windows were lowered, and the radios blared, not unlike that first warmish day in March, when everyone enjoys just being outdoors, after being cooped up over the long Winter.

The fog was not the only item on today’s agenda that was slow as molasses in January.

The U.S. Mail gets that moniker as well.

I saw Jenny, our mail carrier, had been by, so I grabbed the mail and rifled through it while walking to the door.

I was surprised to find a Christmas card that was mailed one month ago today from one of my mom’s friends who lives in Toronto.

I had worried about Rose since I never got an Easter or birthday card from her in 2016, and, when no Christmas card arrived, I had thought the worst.

She mailed it somewhat timely, as mail usually takes a week to get here from Canada, and the Christmas rush may have made it tardier, but a month from door to door?

So, do we blame Canada or the U.S. for the slow-as-molasses delivery of the mail?

Thus, this was a day that evoked memories of another one of my mom’s favorite sayings over the years, and, that saying also reminded me of her cure-all, a sticky tonic passed down from her mother and grandmother. It was a big spoonful of blackstrap molasses daily, all year round, to keep you healthy.  It was mixed into warm water, and merely tolerated, but surely not savored by me.  She and her kin touted it as a “cure for all that ails you”, and, in the Winter months, that daily tablespoonful of molasses was the “chaser” to the equally liberal tablespoonful of cod liver oil malt that greeted me every morning before breakfast.  Cod liver oil malt was a sticky concoction, with the consistency of honey, that contained a big dose of cod liver oil, guaranteed to ward off the sniffles and flu, those maladies that I was sure to bring home from my grade school classmates.  My mom would dip the spoon into the tall, dark-brown bottle, and twirl the gooey substance around it, then say “open up quickly before it drips all over!”  I obeyed because that stuff, for all its nasty taste, did the job – I never got sick, except for measles and chicken pox which I got on my mom’s birthday and Mother’s Day, respectively, the same year.

I hear the fog will creep back in overnight and settle into the neighborhoods once again tomorrow morning.

I shall try to be less impatient and keep my foot-tapping and arm-crossing to a minimum, dress appropriately and rejoice about the near-tropical temps we will enjoy on the 22^nd of January.

[Image by Steinchen from Pixabay]

Well, I thought I’d preface this post by saying I was continuing with the circus theme by using this headline. But first, I Googled to see if I had correctly used P.T. Barnum’s quote, only to find out that he never uttered those words, but the quote has been merely attributed to him for well over a century.

I’m still using the headline as it fits the subject … and yours truly.

Earlier in the week, I stopped at Meijer for a few groceries and picked up a bag of peanuts to feed to the squirrels at Council Point Park, now that I have resumed walking there.

I stopped myself from loading up on several bags of peanuts because I’m a realist – after all, we live in Michigan and this spate of nice weather is not going to last forever. There will be many more days to walk at the Park down the road, once Winter has passed.

Because I am not only a nature lover, but an animal lover as well, I just couldn’t resist those squirrels on the Park’s perimeter path bounding over to greet me, or scrambling to line up at my heels, tagging along like a faithful puppy dog, hoping that I’d acknowledge their presence with a peanut or two.

Besides tagging along behind me, they love dashing in front, or scrambling over by my feet, sometimes begging by raising up on their haunches. Even a flick of the tail, and those plaintive eyes just do me in.  You, too, would succumb to such animal adoration.

I’m such a soft touch, and, I admit – yes, they give me the warm fuzzies, because it’s like having a pet, without all the emotional ties that go into being a perfect pet parent.

So, today as I set out on my walk, a small Ziploc bag of unsalted peanuts stuffed into my coat pocket, I said a silent prayer that the squirrels did not hear that it was “National Popcorn Day” and perhaps think I’d let them down by not proffering those puffed treats to them instead of peanuts in the shell.

I got one entire asphalt loop walked, added 3 ½ miles to my total miles walked, made a few more furry friends in the process, plus went home with a silly smile on my face.

Yup, there IS a sucker born every minute.