WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

This photo I selected from the site “Unsplash” perfectly depicts the dismal and dreary day we have and it is a great vintage shot of an old Olds.  The classic car enthusiasts, who were looking forward to today’s Cruisin’ Downriver event, are now no doubt at home catching up on chores or reading a good book as I write this post.  The incessant rain, 60-degree temps and gusty 25 mph winds have prevailed since the wee hours of the morn and will continue through early Sunday.

Last night, I shut down my computer after sending out the blog post about the upcoming cruise.  It was already well after dark and I heard alot of street noise.  Worried at first, I soon realized the cruisers took to the street.  They probably saw Saturday’s soggy forecast and figured they’d head over to Fort Street and join their classic car comrades.  I guess the police didn’t interfere, because long after I heard the clock’s midnight chimes go off, there were still some revved-up engines and the occasional snorty-type noises those classic cars make.  Missing were the squeals of tires and delighted onlookers, and, of course, the vendors and bands were absent as well.

Today and tonight’s events have been cancelled, and the only official activity that took place was the Parade of Mayors, wherein the mayors from each of the four cities which participate in the cruise event ride in a mini convoy of classic cars.  I guess no one volunteered their bright and shiny baby as this year the mayors rode in police cars.

Hopefully the inaugural “Ponies in Park” collection of classic Mustangs will convene for next year’s Cruise.  Meanwhile, the grass and flowers are happy, but everybody else … not so much.

[Image by photographer Neil Thomas at Unsplash]

I just switched off the news halfway through the weather report, because once again Mother Nature threatens to wreak havoc with our weekend – that is … if the bad weather happens as the  prognosticators say it will.  This week several times the predicted showers and storms didn’t happen – that’s fine by me.  But how can they all be wrong?  When the bad weather doesn’t materialize, the weather folks blame it on the models.  I think Mother Nature just doesn’t like people stating her intentions and trying to read her mind.  I know that tomorrow’s all-day rain will put a kibosh on Cruisin’ Downriver, and I was looking forward to the congregation of 200+ classic mustangs at Memorial Park.  Owners of classic cars aren’t fond of dragging their babies out in the inclement weather and there sure isn’t an umbrella big enough for a convertible.

I decided to walk along Fort Street this morning and see if any cruisers were out already.  Since our local cruise began in 1999, the classic cars are out and about as early as Thursday evening, and on Friday, the day before the actual cruise, there is always a trickle of classic cars because their owners simply can’t wait another day to strut their stuff.

I passed one lime-green Mustang, circa 1965, as it looped around the cruise route, and I couldn’t help but scratch my head over the bright color … obviously not the “real deal”.  Just as someone looks at a blonde woman and wonders if her hair color is natural or from a bottle, I wondered about the original color versus the Earl Scheib $99.95 paint job.  Back in the day, a good friend owned the same model car.  She bought it used and it was the ugliest pale green color, so she saved her money and got it painted powder blue at Earl Scheib.  In just one day that pitiful little car got pizazz with a capital “P”.  Well, we thought we were pretty cool riding around in it, windows rolled down, wearing our dark sunglasses pushed up on our heads like a headband and letting the wind blow through our long locks.  I loved my VW Bug, but it was not as exciting as that sporty little ‘stang.

I kept walking ‘til I reached Yum Yum Donuts, knowing that this busy corner retreat was the donut shop version of the man cave.  This sweet spot is always a favorite hangout during the cruise where drivers go to refuel with a cup or two of Joe while their car engines cool off a bit.  Most of the drivers are talking “shop” and sipping and swiveling on the stools at the same time, to ensure no one is messin’ with their wheels.  The Mustang was a no show but how about this old timer you see above?

Radio station WOMC 104.3 and Channel 7 banners are lined up and down Fort Street and the police have put up the no parking signs already.

So, everyone is all ready and rarin’ to go, that is … as long as Mother Nature cooperates.

Today’s weather was just glorious.  While Tuesday morning felt like a calendar page from the “Dog Days of Summer”, today was more like a late Spring day.

I left earlier than usual to take advantage of the cool morning and got 6.2 miles, or the equivalent of a 5k route, under my belt.  I am dogged in my goal to have walked 500 miles by year end.  I must admit racking up alot of miles in 2015 has been rough.  I prefer walking in the a.m., and all these rainy mornings not only are no-walk days, but then walking errands pile up, then grocery shopping must be done eventually.  Tomorrow morning the HVAC guy comes to check the A/C and it is supposed to be raining cats and dogs, so they may just reschedule the appointment, as they did before, making that still another no-walk day.   And, of course, don’t forget about dealing with those ever-present weeds … so there goes still another morning.  After hearing on the news that the City of Farmington Hills has obtained a weed-munching goat in an eco-friendly attempt to clear overgrown, invasive plants in a storm water detention basin, I am thinking that might be a viable option for me too.  Hmmmm, I wonder if my neighbor Marge would approve?

It sure is hard to believe that nearly half the year has passed already.  I had set a mini-goal to have walked 250 miles by 4^th of July, figuring half the year would be gone, thus I should aim to have half the miles toward my 500-mile goal walked already.  But I’m not even to 200 yet … though I am close to getting there.

In today’s walk I zigzagged around … first along Fort Street, then through a couple of parks and over to the Harrison Street Bridge to see if any ducks were congregating there, but there were none.

I passed by this tree with its comical face and took the picture mostly because it resembles my boss.  There are other trees that line Emmons Boulevard with similar character faces, but this is really his doppelganger, er … if a tree could be someone’s likeness.  I make my case since Robb has a handlebar moustache and when he teaches his labor law class, he often dons his wire-rimmed specs which make him look much more professorial.  I e-mailed him the above picture and asked what he thought – suffice it to say he believes I am barking up the wrong tree.

Speaking of pooches, today I saw the pair of English bulldogs and would have liked to get an up-close photo of them next to their very slender owners, but they were way ahead of me down the block.  I did not think a pic of a pair of waddling bulldog backsides would do much for this blog post.

My friends in North Carolina and Virginia are suffering in a heat wave where the scorching-hot temps have been way over the century mark.  Evelyn, who lives in Richmond, tells me when the family comes home from work, their red tick hound Ginny is rarin’ to go on her pre-dinnertime walk.  They, however, are only too glad to be home and in the cool A/C and not too eager to traipse out for a walk in the heat, so they spend half an evening convincing her to stay put while she positions herself near the front door, next to where her leash is kept.

As I turned up my street, I saw Jenny our mail lady and told her I just finished over six miles, was pooped and I truly didn’t know how walks eleven miles on her daily route.  She confessed that yesterday’s heat and humidity took its toll because she was so dog tired, she only sat for a moment on the couch, then promptly fell asleep.

I wished I could have extended my walk, but that would have overdone it and I would be asking for shin splints for sure, but it was hard to tear myself from the perfect day to go into the house.

Mother Nature, I’ve got a bone to pick with you – no more rain and give us more perfect Summer days like these please, because I’d really like to achieve my 500-mile walking goal this year– after all, every dog has its day.

This morning, it was so humid you could cut it with a knife.  Ugh.  I put on a tank top and a gauzy shirt to protect against the skeeters then headed out.  I needed to clear my head after the weather events last night.  There was such a sigh of relief when I awoke this morning and was assured we were unscathed by Mother’s Nature’s fury.

Yesterday marked the first full day of Summer.  It’s a time to be thinking beach toys and Beach Boys and we await the return of Jimmy Buffet who is in town at the tail end of the week.  But that first Summer day was marred with the threat of severe weather and possible tornadic activity was on the agenda as well.  I worried throughout the day with each more dire forecast, because I am a bigtime worrywart when it comes to storms.  The wicked weather was brewing for most of the day, and caused our Freedom Festival fireworks extravaganza to be moved from 10:06 p.m. to 9:06 p.m.  To take my mind off the weather predictions, I logged onto Click on Detroit and found myself marveling at the event as the brilliant colors lit up the still-dusky Heavens instead of the usual inky black sky we are accustomed to.  Even the idea of going to bed when a tornado watch was in effect until 3:00 a.m. today was a little unnerving.  I thought about our City, which is in financial straits and with an E.M., and hoped, that the person who is in charge of sounding the tornado siren was not one that was laid off.   I tried to recall the last time I heard the practice siren, the first Saturday of each month at 1:00 p.m. sharp … but my memory failed me.  So, I said my prayers, turned out the light and hoped for the best.

The all-clear was sounded by dawn and I walked out the door to a mottled-looking dark gray sky, but I toted the camera along anyway.

I figured it would be too humid for the Park so opted to take my trek down Emmons to the train tracks and turn around – a nice, even four miles.  Before I started my journey I took a quick trip around the house to ensure everything was in order, and, yes it was, so I was grateful for that.  The only item out of place was the garden flag which had twisted around the bar on the flag stand.  I flipped it over a few times and straightened it out and off I went.

I passed Ford Park and noticed the huge branches that had snapped off a Park tree a few days ago, as pictured above, had been reduced to a pile of mulch.  Now that huge tree is lopsided and misshapen looking.

The sights and smells on the morning after a big rain were the usual …

The robins and sparrows were savoring their ablution in a muddy puddle in the road – their swimming hole was fashioned from a pothole.  They were flipping their wings and enjoying themselves immensely.

Big fat juicy worms slithered out of tall grass blades to make a fateful journey across the sidewalks.  Like the chicken who crossed the road just to get to the other side, you have to wonder why they leave their safe haven of moist earth beneath the blades of grass and make themselves a target for hungry robins?  One such robin landed close by.  I shooed him away but knew that as soon as I turned my back, he went in “for the kill” with me out of the picture.

The smells were prevalent as I walked along on this moist and humid morn.  I passed the corner house on Emmons with the great gardens of lavender and breathed in deeply.  Luckily this smell was still in my nostrils when I crossed the bridge over the Creek that separates Lincoln Park and Wyandotte.  The foul-smelling odor of the brown-colored Ecorse Creek was overwhelming.  I paused and stole a quick glance to see if Mama Duck and her brood were there, but they were absent again, so I hurried along, eager to breathe some fresh air again.

In the next block I passed a huge blue spruce tree and inhaled deeply, its fresh scent evoking memories of Christmas.  Then a few houses down, someone must have a garden full of mint as that smell overpowered the air.  I breathed in deeply, suddenly immersed in the Christmas spirit, with a blue spruce and mint plants masquerading as a Christmas tree and candy canes.

Suddenly the sun burst out of the clouds like it was running late for the bus.  All of a sudden it was not only humid but warmish, so I slipped out of my shirt and looped it around my waist.  The wind had picked up a bit and I could feel the shirttail flapping in the slight breeze behind me.

I got to the tracks, and there was no train to thwart my trip to the River, but I decided to just turn around and come home.  As I passed Ford Park for the second time today, a large City dump truck stopped in the middle of the street.  The driver stayed put, but the passenger door opened and the worker hopped out.  He called out “good morning” then grabbed his shovel to pull some icky and sticky asphalt from the truck bed to pack into a pothole.  I asked “well, now where are the birds going to bathe?”  I got  a hearty laugh from my question and he suggested that I contact the City to ask them the answer.

The breeze worked wonders and I suddenly felt  a little refreshed and could’ve walked another mile or so, but I turned up my street to get home and ready for work.  As I walked up the driveway, I noticed that silly garden flag had somersaulted once again and was hanging askew.  Exasperated, I fixed it again and walked into the house.

I had no plans for any Father’s Day celebration, though I did think of my father, albeit briefly, while I gathered my tools for tackling the weeds.  Too bad that today’s task was more than just twisting and turning the mulch around to free the roots of those pesky elm and maple seeds.  Those gigantic weeds returned, almost Andromeda-like, spoiling the clean look of my gardens, as well as a long Sunday stroll.

My #1 go-to weeding implement was my Ames Co. hand weeder, the most-valuable tool in my “tool collection”.  It has a history of sorts which I thought would be fun to share with you today.

When my father departed for parts unknown in January 1984, I suddenly inherited alot of his tasks, among them shoveling snow as well as gardening and yardwork.  While I was no stranger to helping around the house to earn my allowance in my formative years, I never wrestled with weeds, nor mowed the lawn, due to my allergies.  Besides … my father considered those his responsibilities as the “man of the house”.  Quite truthfully, back in the early 80s, you didn’t see many women outside shoveling snow or doing yardwork anyway.

After my father left, Mom and I had a heart-to-heart chat wherein she asked me if I thought I could assume his responsibilities?  “Why sure” I replied, without skipping a beat, then added “why not?”  Perhaps I was a little overconfident about my yardwork abilities, as she did look a little skeptical when I answered.  Of course, to my vain self, my idea of roughin’ it outside meant lawn seats at Pine Knob for the Summer concert series.

Spring 1984 was the first test of my mettle.  The joy of Springtime’s warmish days was tempered by dandelions galore.  Mom pointedly suggested I pull them (since I hadn’t yet ventured out to deal with them on my own).  I distinctly remember asking “how, by hand?”  I certainly didn’t want to break a nail.  “Yes, by hand, or use a knife” she said.  So, off we went to the now-defunct Frank’s Nursery to buy garden gloves to preserve my manicure and a weed tool to dig those little buggers out.

Thus, that hand weeder, a long metal “picker” with a forked edge and a bright-yellow handle, was my first garden tool.  On the way home in the car, Mom said “if you really work hard out there, I’ll buy you something nice for Father’s Day since we won’t be spending any money for a special Father’s Day dinner and cake this year” … “that’s a deal” I replied.

Well, my first big “yard gift” arrived much more quickly than Father’s Day.

I had not seen the inside of our small garage in many years because my father’s baby, a 1972 Chevy Impala, was parked inside the attached garage and only accessible via the garage door.    He used a VW Fastback for work, but every Sunday, barring bad weather, he and Mom took the Impala for a spin.  The only other time the car exited the garage was for him to access the yard tools.  It was a tight squeeze pulling in and out of there, so after his departure, I ran the car every night, but didn’t dare pull it out myself for fear of scraping it.  By word of mouth, we had a buyer for the Impala and Mom asked a trusted neighbor to back the car out of the garage so we could finalize the sale.  I wasn’t about to clip the sides of the car, which was in mint condition and the odometer read less than 1,000 miles.  I’d only driven it once, to take my driver’s license road test, and my father installed curb feelers so I wouldn’t damage the whitewalls beforehand.

As soon as the car was gone, I quickly investigated the contents of the garage, but didn’t see the mower.  Perhaps, my father already knew he was going to leave, because at the end of the Fall 1983 mowing season, he stored the mower in the metal shed, so it was rusted and unusable.  Off we went to Livonia to a store that specialized in electric mowers.

Well, I felt pretty special the first time I cut the lawn.  Several male neighbors stopped by to help lift the mower out of my Pacer hatchback, admiring it while I was unravelling my neon-colored, 100-foot cord.  The neighbor across the street sauntered over and drew in a long breath, then whistled at that bright-red Toro mower and said “wowee” just like he was admiring a shiny, classic automobile.  I’m sure the event rivalled the fanfare of Henry Ford’s first horseless carriage!

I finished mowing and went to the screen door and beckoned Mom to come to see how nice it looked.  My pride was zapped when she asked “what about trimming around the edges Linda?”  “What do you mean?” I asked (clearly irritated).  She suggested I use the hand clippers on the wayward blades the mower didn’t reach.  I found the hand clippers, and an hour later I was still hunching down, clip-clip-clipping away at the over-long blades of grass.  Later, over a tall glass of lemonade, I whined that I would be susceptible to carpal tunnel syndrome after all that clipping, so Mom promised to buy me an electric weed whipper for Father’s Day.

So, that started a trend because each year thereafter for Father’s Day, I acquired another helpful gardening gizmo until my yardwork repertoire was complete.  The following year it was an edger after I protested that my father’s edging tool, which looked like an overgrown pizza cutter, tore up the grass and didn’t give the desired manicured lawn look.  The next year I got a Toro leaf vacuum which helped eliminate hand-picking the feather-light maple and elm seeds out of the ornamental rocks.  Next, I became the proud owner of a 24-inch sweep hedge trimmer so I could abandon the manual one I’d been using.   Those electric gifts preceded the four-wheeled dolly, a spreader, a push mower for when rain thwarted using the electric mower, a stool on wheels, a “Weed Hound” weed grabber, a large metal hose reel and a nice quality unkink-able Swan hose which I still have to this day.

By then yardwork was second nature and much more tolerable.  I  thought I was “living the life” out in the yard and was even starting to enjoy myself.  By then we had replenished all the small hand tools as well.  I sure felt like one lucky gal gardener.  The very last tool that I added to my yard tool collection was the pole cutter that I got for Father’s Day 2000 after my neighbor Marge brought over hers to help trim an out-of-control Pyracantha bush.  I came into the house afterward and Mom said “I know – you want a pole cutter for your Father’s Day present, right?”

It’s fun for me to have a lookback at such a trivial subject of yard tools, despite overcoming those obstacles way back in the day, while trying to get acclimated to gardening.  Like when Mom handed me some money and suggested I go the nursery and get bark to top off the gardens.  “Sure – no problem” I said, so off I went.  I drove over to Johnny’s Nursery, where one of the older men came to greet me at the door and asked if I needed assistance.  I said “I need to buy some bark please” and then he asked “what kind?”  Stymied, I stammered and said “just bark” … he took me to a corner and showed me the samples of at least a dozen types of bark or mulch available.  I had no conception of what type was needed, nor did I understand how to compute cubic feet for bags of bark to buy.  I had to return home to get a sample of my garden bark since I had no clue.  It turned out to be pine.  Well, who knew?

Sure, I’ve learned alot over the years, though the pleasure of gardening is no longer there.  I redid the back and front yard landscaping in 1985, but I’ve lost many of my plants and bushes which has soured me on the whole ordeal, and since I began the walking regimen, I’d rather commune with nature on a walk, instead of slugging it out with the weeds and mosquitoes in the yard.  As to the collection of yard tools and garden gizmos, they, just like their owner, have aged, and gotten a little worn out, but are otherwise still in good working order.  I really surprised myself a few weeks ago when my next-door neighbor, Jeff, and I were chatting over the fence.  He was holding onto the sleekest, long-handled, bypass loppers I’ve ever seen.  Wow!  They made my smallish, wooden-handled pair look like something a kid would use.  He reached over the fence to nip a large elm “tree” which had embedded itself in a barberry bush, and lopped it off at the base, without skipping a beat in our conversation.  I couldn’t help myself – my eyes kept sliding over to admire the shiny aluminum finish and obviously very sharp, carbon steel blades.  There were even grips on the handles.  I blurted out “Jeff, your loppers are awesome and put mine to shame.”  He agreed saying “yes I saw yours.”  Red-faced, I realized I must be suffering from lopper envy, so I pinched myself to “get a grip” because I really only use loppers once a year, and I reminded myself “Mom’s not gonna buy ‘em for you, so be satisfied with what you’ve got.”

I am ending this longish post, which I hope you found a tad funny, and not too awfully boring, by conceding that sometimes, the old and faithful tools ARE just as reliable.  For nearly fifty years a pegboard has hung on the back wall of the garage.  It has the usual row of screw-on caps which bottles are brimming with nails or tacks and dried-up hose washers.  A few items, like a level, or a long-necked gasoline funnel, I’m sure I’ll never use.  Likewise, in the category of cast-off tools that I’d never used are a neat row of saws, hanging on their respective pegs.  Now, I’ve never given much thought to anything on the pegboard – it was just not my domain.  But, when I had to cut my holly bush down a few weeks ago, I eyed those saws and wondered if one would be up to the task.  I know nothing about saws or which one to use, so, like Regis Philbin used to suggest, I had to “phone a friend” … I got the scoop on the saw for the job and it worked perfectly.

So, the way I see it … I came; I saw(ed); I conquered.

Well thankfully, the early morning was rain-free, and I had just completed my five-mile round trip when it started to drizzle.

This morning’s journey took me down to the River.  While that particular trek is not so much of a nature walk, it is a good five-mile trip and a chance to walk through three cities in one fell swoop:  Lincoln Park, Wyandotte and Ecorse.  The trip through Wyandotte is probably the longest leg of the trip, because once I’m down at Biddle Avenue, it is just a hop, step and a jump to the Ecorse city limits and the Water’s Edge Marina.

Just like the last time I was there, the rowing club members were congregating around their rig, and some were sipping hot beverages as I could see the steam rising from the cup.  It was a little nippy at the marina and there was even a chill in the air.  There was a man in an extra-wide paddleboat skimming silently over the still water.  I paused at the bridge over the most-scenic part of the marina, but there were no events that I had not already captured on my last visit, so I kept the camera tucked inside its case.  I stayed a short time, then headed off on my 2 ½ mile trek home.

Both coming and going, I checked to see if anyone was outside the home with the big tree house, but all was quiet.  I tilted my head up to the sky to see if I could see any more progress since my last visit, but it was status quo, probably due to all the rain we’ve had so Dad couldn’t work on it much in his spare time.

You might recall that I stopped and chatted with the homeowners a few weeks ago and they told me all that remained to finish up the tree house was putting in electricity.  I marveled at that statement, but, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised since that tree house is a work of art.  If you look at my blog post, “Woodn’t it be nice?” from August 10^th last year, https://lindaschaubblog.net/2014/08/10/woodnt-it-be-nice  you’ll see just what a masterpiece the tree house has become.  Check out the front porch.

This year, Dad has added a real spiffy back entrance and a sign that says “Welcome to our Tree House” … there will be no shimmying up the tree or using the largest branches as a foothold for those who wish to escape and get away from it all.  Nope, they’ll simply tell their parents “see ya later” and walk up the stairs using the railing for good measure.  And, those youngsters will not be tucked away from the rest of the world and not know what’s happenin’ on the street, because there are windows to look out of.  I must ask the homeowners if Wi-Fi and a big-screen TV will be included as well.

Several years ago I wrote a post about this Dad after he hung up a rope swing with a cherry-red wooden seat from the big tree out front.  I would have given anything to have a rope swing to while away the hours when I was a kid, but … first, we didn’t have a tree, and second, my skid marks on the grass would not have gone over well with my father who prided himself on his perfect lawn.

So, kudos to this dad for catering to his kids and making this house a home away from home, er “Tree House, Sweet Tree House”.

It was just a picture-perfect morning.

The sun was out, the sky was blue, the heat and humidity took a hike … so I did too.

I closed the door and zipped right past those weeds that were ripe for the picking, but I did not stop to do so.  Not only should I have yanked those pesky weeds, but the new growth on the bushes should have been nipped off as well, but there were paths to traverse and late Spring sights to savor, thus yard maintenance quickly was relegated to the bottom of the agenda.  After all, a day this pretty was what we’ve all dreamed about throughout the cold Winter and coolish and rainy Spring, right?

My feet were on autopilot and found their way down to Council Point Park posthaste.

I started on the first loop and saw the big bunny pictured above immersed in the tall grass.  He and his bunny buddies must be in their glory since the Park grass was overdue for a mowing, as you can see.

When I first came upon him, he was down on all fours nibbling away and oblivious to me.  He looked so soft and furry that I would have liked to pick him up and cuddle him in my arms.  But, I stopped in my tracks, and then backed up a little because I wanted to take his picture and thought the sudden movement of taking the camera from the case would startle him.

Well, he raised his head from his snack and those tall ears, almost translucent in the morning sun, twitched ever so slightly.  His eyes were as big as saucers.  He didn’t move a muscle, so he must have been petrified of me.  Without looking down, my right hand unzipped the case and slowly drew the camera out, just like an old Western where the cowboy draws his gun from his holster out on the dusty street in front of the saloon.  That bunny stood perfectly still so I quickly captured his very wide-eyed look .  Suddenly, all I saw was the flash of a furry white tail, as he bolted for greener pastures, where hopefully he’d enjoy those extra-long and tender blades of grass and be undisturbed by humans.

While I concede I am not as fleet-footed as my furry friend, I suspect I travelled more miles than that bunny hopped because I added 5 ½ miles to my total today.

Wow – two days in a row without rain … so far anyway.  Yesterday I had a few errands to run, but today I decided a long walk was in order, plus a return to Council Point Park.  Mercifully, this Wednesday morn was without the muggies or mosquitoes and there were no mayflies threatening to descend into my personal space.  Whew!

I headed down to the Park, anxious to get back on the perimeter path after another extended absence of over two weeks.  That’s because I’m not so inclined to show up there the morning after a big rainstorm because it is a little buggy due to the proximity of the Creek and the bushes and reeds where those skeeters like to lurk, hoping for someone tasty to feast on.

I tied a plastic grocery store bag containing a smaller Ziploc bag of peanuts onto my fanny pack so I was ready for any hungry squirrels who decided to venture out of their hidey-holes for a meet-and-greet, but they were obviously content to just sleep in once again … “well, it’s your loss guys” I muttered to myself as I marched along.

The trees and bushes have all leafed out and the reeds are tall now so they tend to block my view of the Ecorse Creek in some places.  I took the camera out of the case so it was handy, then sauntered over near the Creek banks, hoping to catch a glimpse of a family of ducks or geese, but there were none, so I climbed up the steep incline and got back on the walking path.

There were a few bike riders and a jogger, but no walkers that I recognized … perhaps I was too early … or too late.

I did one entire trip on the circular path, then returned to the more-dense area of the Park and did a follow-up trek there, while hoping to catch a glimpse of a critter whose image I deemed worthy of capturing for today’s post, but, though I heard a few peeps and cheeps from the Park birds as they seemingly followed me around the trail, I didn’t spy one single goose or duck.  Well, no harm – no fowl sightings because I’ll just catch them another time.

On the way home I passed a car that was displaying two Detroit Tigers flags, one on each window plus a J.V. decal on the rear window.  Our baseball team sometimes forces us to be fair-weather fans.  They lose eight in a row, and then we fans tend to disparage them.  Then they’ll get on a tear and do well and the garden flags, pennants and banners come out of hiding once again.  I guess we fans are a difficult lot to please sometimes.  We have our favorite players, and teams, but I do think our common thinking is that the game of baseball should be a level playing field.  We shudder to hear of the St. Louis Cardinals accessing the Houston Astros confidential info or strategies, or that the Kansas City Royals fans have voted for their favorite players to attend the All Star Game just a few too many times.

Baseball today has sort of run a-“fowl” of the way things ought to be, don’t you think?

Today is Flag Day across the U.S.A. Unfortunately, the many people who ensured their flags were out to honor the holiday, will not find them flapping or unfurled in the breeze, but, instead the flags are hanging limply since they are soaking wet.

As I write this post, there is still another torrential rain storm going on out there – the third one today, and wicked weather is nearly at our doorstep.

The rain wreaked havoc once again with my walk. I heard the pitter patter of raindrops on the patio roof which quickly morphed into a steady downpour.   It woke me up just moments before the alarm went off. Angrily I shut off the alarm and the back-up alarm, and rolled over where I quickly fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake up ‘til 9:30 which is very late for me. I bolted out of bed when I saw the time and quickly peered out the door to see gray skies but no rain. I got dressed, took out the garbage and ran the car. I was sorely tempted to go back and change into my walking shoes to head out for a quick walk, but, I felt guilty when I saw all those weeds that have sprouted in the mulch. Mother Nature is mischievous because I am sure those rain clouds not only contain water, but Miracle-Gro as well. Those maple and elm seedlings have just gone wild since my last weed-pulling session. Sigh. I resigned myself that I’d just hang out close to home and pull some weeds since they’d be easy to grab in the moist mulch, but, before I could get a bucket to throw the weeds into, the rain started back again – at first, a few drops, then a downpour. Disgusted, I shut the garage door and headed back inside.

So far, I’m not too impressed with the Spring weather. We waited so long for the cold Winter to finally finish up, then Spring was a late arrival and it’s been a sopping mess most of May and thus far in June. Tomorrow half of June is over. Next Sunday is the first day of Summer and then sadly the daylight hours will begin to shorten as we head toward Winter (gulp).

As if I didn’t already recognize that the days are slipping by, and likewise my walking goal of 500 miles by December 31^st looks to be in peril, I went to the mailbox yesterday to find a 2016 National Wildlife Federation calendar. I quickly put it aside – not only is it bad luck to open next year’s calendar in the current year, but I’m sure not ready to think that far in advance.

Dealing with the present is bad enough sometimes.

So often the workweek passes us by with nary a cloud in the sky … but then the weekend arrives and it rains, putting a big damper on our plans.

Such was the case this morning.  I got up early, rarin’ to go for a walk, and I was ever-hopeful, even though it was raining lightly while I was having breakfast.

So, I busied myself with some tasks, glancing occasionally out the window, but the cloud cover hung on making it dreary-looking and there was that incessant drizzle.

Finally, rather reluctantly, I abandoned the idea of a walk, and settled in with a second cup of coffee.

I drained my cup and rinsed it out and went in search of a mouse … no, not the kind with tiny ears and a long tail, because I’d never look for one of those, and, I hope one of those never looks for me either.  I needed to find my corded mouse, because my wireless one went wacky yesterday.  I replaced the battery, but it still acted erratically and finally gave up the ghost.

So, I pondered a minute, wondering where I last stashed it.  It seems that I used to be much more orderly and organized when I shared space in the house, but … now, for some reason, I have even encroached on myself, if that is possible.  My “stuff” seems to be everywhere and these days there is no rhyme or reason to locating lost items.

I did have an idea where to find it though … in the oldies but goodies cabinet.

For years the kitchen corner cabinet has been the depository for items that are still functional, but are either obsolete, or have been upgraded to a more-modern version, like my wireless mouse.  I can zip around without tangling my hand up with a long cord.  Unfortunately that corner cabinet looks deceiving as to how much stuff you can really store in it.  The shelves accommodate more in the middle sections than the sides, where items can slide off and fall down onto the floor when you swing open the door.  Also, this wooden cabinet is tucked way into a corner, and because the kitchen is small, to access it, you must move a chair and pull the table on its braided rug away to crouch down to reach the shelves.  This is why only the gone-but-not-forgotten-but-seldom-if-ever-used items repose on its shelves.

Once inside the cabinet, you have to empty it to find anything because it is dark inside.  I found a transistor radio with a Ziploc bag of batteries beside it in case the table radio goes kaput, a Princess-style phone which was stashed in there after I got caller I.D., a few incandescent bulbs for the kitchen swag light just in case the 11-year lifespan CFL bulb bites the dust and my corded mouse, which I put there when I bought the wireless gizmo.  Wow – I even found a paperback dictionary and thesaurus … now when was the last time you physically opened up one of those books, especially since it is too easy to Google info online.

I grabbed the mouse by its tail, er USB plug, since the cord was wound around it and the plug was sticking out a little.  As I gave the plug a tug, some small books threatened to fall off the shelf.  I used to generate a daily thought for the day for years and years, and figured it was one of my many quotation books on various subjects.  I reached in and grabbed a few of them.  I wasn’t too comfortable, all hunched and scrunched down, while I flipped through the books reading some of the pages of quotations I had put sticky notes on to be used for various holidays, so I put the books back, lest I get stuck in this uncomfortable position.

I was about to shut the door when I spied my mom’s autograph book and I rose up and carried it over to the table.  I’d seen the book in the past and read through it, but it had been years, so I got another cup of coffee and sipped it while I idly flipped through the worn and brittle pages where careful, slanted writing with a blue fountain pen expressed good luck wishes and held a treasure trove of whimsical poetry like:

The thunder roared, the lightning flashed,

The whole world was shaken,

The little pig curled up his tail,

And ran to save his bacon.

***

It’s hard to find a good boy when your heart is full of hope,

But it’s harder to find a bath towel, when your eyes are full of soap.

***

He was teaching her arithmetic,

He said that was his mission,

He kissed her once – he kissed her twice,

And said “now that’s addition.”

And then he added smack for smack,

With silent satisfaction,

‘Til timidly, she gave one back,

And said “now that’s subtraction.”

But Pa appeared upon the scene,

And snorted with derision,

He kicked poor John ten yards away,

And said “that’s long division.”

How the autograph book found its way from my mom’s room to the cabinet, I’ll never know.  I’m sure she was not reading and reminiscing about the fellow patients who penned those verses which gave me such a chuckle.   She got the book the day she left the Hospital for Sick Children in 1941, having spent the previous four years there in a ward after being hit by a car at age 11.   Some of her ward mates wrote such poignant notes as “lucky you to be going home Pauline – I hope to see you again one day” … sadly, that wishful thinking probably remained just that.

I recalled my own autograph books, whose location right now escapes me – they are probably in the box with all my yearbooks, tucked away for safekeeping in the bottom of a closet in the TV room.

When we graduated from junior high school in June of ’70 we collected one another’s autographs, not only in little flip-style books, but we donned a white heavyweight tee-shirt and collected autographs from our peers which they scrawled and did flower flourishes in colored ink.  We thought we were pretty darn cool.

When we graduated from high school, which coincidentally was 42 years ago today, we had advanced far beyond autograph books and white tee-shirts and merely collected our fellow student’s sepia-toned, wallet-sized photos.   Of course the more popular you were, the larger the stack of photos you gathered.  Then, you carried them around, tethered together with a rubber band, flaunting them like a kid with a treasured collection of baseball trading cards.

I wonder if graduates still share their high school graduation photos?  Unlike LPHS’ 600 plus graduates in June 1973, which class photo is featured above, today’s class of 2015 will stay connected via social media for as long into the future as they want.  We had no Facebook status updates to keep in touch with one another – what we did have was reunions at every five-year mark where large portions of our class got together to update one another as to their families, higher education or livelihood.  But, as time progressed, each reunion found the ranks had dwindled, either due to lack of interest, relocation out of state, or, even death.

I’ve wondered the past few weeks if the 2015 grads even celebrated their graduation from high school because I only saw one car decorated, a white Hummer with the words “Class of 2015” painted in neon orange on one window.  There were no antics like wild and crazy honking or cars brakes and girls squealing while tooling down Champaign Road.  I saw no leaning out the windows and saluting one another with your mortarboard as its orange and royal blue tassel was swinging erratically.  Where did all those good times go, or, is that just something that the oldie-moldies did?

I must admit that I feel old when I looked at the pictures of the recent grads featured in the local paper.  I know that sometimes it seems like just yesterday that I was walking across the stage at Cobo Hall to get my high school diploma.  It was hotter than blazes that night, and I unzipped my heavy gown, and when we began to finally assemble to cross the stage, I discovered the zipper was broken and I needed at least a half-dozen of my pals working on the tracks to get the gown zipped back up again.  Good thing my last name begins with the letter “S” and I was near the tail end of the 600 plus grads.

This year I know two graduates from the Class of 2015.  I met them as little boys and they have both grown into fine young men.

Though they don’t know one another, they have had many similarities in their young lives.

Both had divorce rear its ugly head when they were very young.  But unlike many youngsters from a broken home, neither of the boys gave their respective families one moment of heartache – they were always obedient and stellar students.  Each young man was raised for many years by a single parent, but eventually had a step-parent come into their lives and provide alot of love and support to them, just as if they were their own flesh and blood.

Both excelled in football in high school – in fact, both were defensive lineman.

Both graduated with special certificates acknowledging their academic skills.

Both will further their high school education by matriculating toward their eventual goals and college degrees.

Frank Aiello is my neighbor Marge’s grandson, and, whom I still think of as “Frankie”, a little boy running around barefoot in the backyard and jumping with a big splash in the wading pool.  He friended me on Facebook a few years ago and recently he posed for a picture holding his diploma from East Valley Institute of Technology, having completed a course as a Certified Nursing Assistant.  Frank is a grad from Apache Junction High School where he was #64 on the Prospectors football roster.  He will continue in the medical field, specifically nursing, with his end goal to be an R.N. and eventually be enrolled in the Master’s Degree program at University of Arizona.

Greg Schlimmer is a former bus buddy’s son.  Sharon proudly posted a picture of her son Greg holding a certificate touting him as “Roosevelt High School’s Journalist of the Year for 2014-2015” and he was #54 on the Bears football roster.  He will study film production at Grand Valley State University beginning this Fall.

Congratulations and Godspeed to Frank and Greg in your studies and through life.

You have brains in your head; you have feet in your shoes.  You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. ~Dr. Seuss