WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

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.

This Monday morning was hot and steamy, but the good news is we are steaming toward a long holiday weekend … a weekend that promises Summer warmth and abundant sunshine.  The latter two items were in abundance today as I set out to pound the pavement and put another four miles under my belt.

I took a different route this morning, bypassing portions of the Lincoln Park leg of my Emmons Boulevard jaunt in favor of a few shady spots, then I eventually ended up on Fort Street, and that is where I spied this street art. Unbelievably there were six large sidewalk sections, and each was devoted to a different chalk scene, but I liked this sidewalk pane the best because it was so cheery looking.  I suspect some kids got bored at Cruisin’ Downriver, so they knelt down on the concrete sidewalk, fists full of colored chalk and went to town.

Like me, no one else has stepped on these colorful designs as they remained intact, with not even a smudge around the edge. So, while you often look down when you’re walking (to avoid a trip and fall on uneven payment), you are unlikely to discover a rainbow at your feet.  However, if you keep looking up … there may be a rainbow waiting for you.

Today is “Cruisin’ Downriver”. It is the 17^th year for this annual event, a downsized copycat of the granddaddy of them all – the Woodward Dream Cruise.

It’s an all-day affair, and, between the cruisers and the car enthusiasts, some 300,000 people will have taken to the streets in four Downriver communities (Lincoln Park, Wyandotte, Southgate and Riverview) before the sun goes down.

It is an event, that, if you’re not a vintage or classic car enthusiast, you might want to stay off Fort Street as it tends to get a little crazy.

I always plan around the cruise so my car stays in the garage, but, today I had to take it out.

My week was a little out of the ordinary … not just the agenda of walking if possible, coming home and then plunking down in front of the computer for work.

First, I had a yearly allergist visit on Thursday. It is a mandatory appointment to review your allergy symptoms and is also a mini physical to boot.  So, I passed with flying colors.  In fact, Dr. Shah gave me an “atta girl” for being healthy, having a good blood pressure reading and walking the 718 miles in 2015.  In fact, he told me “Linda, if all my patients were as healthy as you, I’d be out of business” … so I preened just a little about my good health and his compliment all the way home.

On Friday, I went to the eye doctor – not so great there. Along with the regular eye charts, Dr. Dearing tested my eyes by using computer images (Optomap).  This is great as dilation drops are not necessary, thus no blurriness and I’m good to go as soon as the exam is done.  Just as I expected, my eyes were worse than last year and I needed stronger lenses.  So, I asked “too much computer time ya think?” and the answer was “well, yes … step away from the computer to take breaks and remember to blink more … uh, it also could be your age”  – age … well, that was a tough pill to swallow, so I was a little less smug about my visit with Dr. Dearing than Dr. Shah.  Since I had anticipated needing a stronger prescription and thus new lenses, I took along a spare pair of glasses with a prescription from three or four years ago.  I paid and left with the expectation that the updated spectacles would arrive in about ten days.

I drove home, stopping for an errand or two along the way, then parked the car in the garage (never an easy feat as there is only about four inches of space on either side of the car). I then went inside the house.  No problems – I could see perfectly.  I could see all my parts (smile) and shame on me if, at sixty years old, I don’t know where everything is.  I could see Buddy.  I could see the computer.  But, when I looked on the screen, everything was a blur.  I shut one eye … then the other eye.  It reminded me of when I first needed bifocals about ten years ago while I still wore contact lenses.  My contact lens practitioner did his best to experiment with “readers” and other remedies, ‘til we finally settled on monovision – one eye had a contact for distance, the other had a contact for close-up – presto … I could see again.

Well, I stared at the screen and even enlarged the document to 140%. I moved my head back as far as I could, feeling like a chicken as I rotated my neck back and forth.  I even chuckled to myself as I remembered laughing at my mother as she struggled to read a menu one time with her outstretched arm.  She finally gave up and handed the menu to me to read the items off to her.  Guess the laugh’s on me now Mom.

I called the eye doctor’s office later in the day and told her “better make a brand-new pair of glasses and I’ll find my way over there through the cruisin’ crowd and pick up my current glasses – I simply cannot wait ten days to see clearly again!”

This morning dawned beautiful, so, I thought about walking to Lesnick Optical, an easy four-mile roundtrip for me, but I figured there was just too much traffic to be on foot on Downriver’s busiest and most-congested traffic day of the year.

But, before I made that pit stop to retrieve my spectacles, I was revved up and rarin’ to go at 7:15 a.m. I got in a four-mile walk, pounding the pavement with my feet, instead of rolling along on four wheels.  Believe me, I stayed far away from the maddening crowd, which, at a glance, I could see was already assembling along Fort Street, reclining in webbed lounge chairs or hunkered under canopies.  Though I had my camera in hand, (just in case a cool car happened by on the Boulevard), nothing classic crossed my path.  All I saw was a baby bunny, and he bolted before I could get the camera in focus.

While driving home from the eye doctor, as I neared my street, I merged into the queue of classic cars which were already meandering along Fort Street. I was thinking how boring I was with the window rolled up, the A/C on and listening WWJ news.  I wasn’t revving my engine in a ragtop, listening to tunes from back in the day or burning rubber!

I stopped by Memorial Park to check out “Ponies in the Park”, a collection of classic Mustangs from all eras. These ponies were hardly the velvety-soft type that are fueled by oats instead of gasoline, and which nicker softly as you approach.  These Mustangs, from a range of years, were gleaming and polished to perfection … not a dent or a chip nor a scratch or a smudge on any of them.

Alas, all these vintage models were timeless, and not weathered by the years, unlike this writer.

Feelin’ nostalgic about the song “Jeepers Creepers”?

Jeepers Creepers.

Where’d you get those peepers?

Jeepers creepers.

Where’d you get those eyes?”

Check out the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0lgswGOgrs

[Image is called “Old Timer” by 43833 from Pixabay]

I know it must be Wednesday because I saw a Calder Bros. Dairy delivery truck tooling around the neighborhood while I was out walking. You really can’t miss that big ol’ step van with the images of cute black-and-white Holstein dairy cows cavorting  along the sides and back.  Those splotches of black and white look like the old Gateway computer logo.  Meanwhile, back at the Dairy on Southfield Road in Lincoln Park, similar black-and-white cow patches are emblazoned on outside benches, planters and across the perimeter awnings as well.

My all-time favorite logo on the Calder’s step vans is the one that depicts an original delivery truck, as is pictured above. When we first moved to Michigan in 1966, those trucks were always zipping around nearby since many of our neighbors enjoyed milk delivery service.  The Calder’s milk man would arrive at the door, toting a wire basket with glass bottles filled with fresh milk that clinked together as he set them down on the porch or stowed them in the milk chute.

Milk chute – now there’s an old-fashioned word. Houses built after the 60s no longer have milk chutes, those clever little pass-through doors where the milkman stored the milk, butter, cream, sometimes eggs … and even his bill.  He delivered on one side of the door and Mom retrieved the goods from inside the house.   Well chute!!  Chances are that you might never have seen a milk chute if you live in a more-modern neighborhood.

Seeing that delivery truck always sends me on a mini nostalgic trip because we were one of many stops for the milkman back in the early 60s when we lived in Canada. I recall that we had a milk chute with a pale green painted door.  I’ve always loved milk and can distinctly remember my mom swiping whatever dried “milk moustache” I was wearing with her Kleenex and a dab of spit when I was just a little nipper.  How I hated when she did that!   I would protest “Mommy don’t!”, but she did it anyway.

I was reminiscing about those days this week when I read that Calder Bros. Dairy is celebrating its 70^th year in business.  Their egg nog and ice cream is to die for.  Calder’s ice cream was a big treat for Mom and me back in the mid-70s, especially if I stopped by the ice cream parlor, and my friend Carol was scoopin’ cones in the back part of the dairy.  Carol scooped her way through college and then moved on, so there were no more triple-scoop peach ice cream cones, so we had to settle for a single or double of their delightfully creamy and rich treats instead.  On a hot Summer’s day, people stand in lines that snake around the entire Dairy … and then some.

As we creep toward Cruisin’ Downriver this Saturday, as early as Thursday or Friday, those cruisers will emerge in their classic cars, circa the 50s through the 70s, and will reign on Fort Street. Who knows –  just maybe one of Calder’s original milk trucks might sneak into that queue alongside the parade of shiny cars.

On this cool and refreshing morning, I sure was moo-ving. I walked four miles before I went home to chug down a tall glass of chocolate milk.