WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

When I stepped out the door this morning to leave on my walk, it was downright chilly. I glanced over at my neighbor Marge’s big thermometer and it was a double nickel degrees … 55 on the 3^rd of July! Glad I decided to wear my sweat suit today. Beyond the thermometer that hangs on the side of the deck, I could see the new swimming pool in her yard – it hasn’t seen much activity yet this Summer between the rain, chilly temps and the incessant mosquitoes. For sure, this pool will see no skinny dippin’ action today.

I decided a trip to Council Point Park was in order and as I began my road trip, I started at mile #201, having racked up nearly 4 miles yesterday while grocery shopping. Too bad that I set my sights to be at the halfway point of my 500 yearly miles by the 4^th of July. I fell short of that lofty goal for sure. But onward I’ll tread and hope for the best.

It was sooooooo quiet as I walked through the neighborhoods enroute to the Park. The big trek northward started mid-afternoon yesterday and continued long into the night. There wasn’t even the hum of an A/C unit since everyone was enjoying the cool fresh air.

It was equally peaceful at Council Point Park, and I arrived so early that I didn’t see a single soul until I was on the second go around, and then I didn’t recognize any of those walkers. Camera in hand, I left the trail to walk to the water’s edge after I heard a few plops and saw the still water shimmying with concentric rings that remained after a few spectacular splashes. Each time I heard a splash, I swiveled my head around, wondering if it was a fish flopping, or the elusive frog splashing around in the murky water. I didn’t hear him calling for his mate in the deep baritone burps he usually makes. I kept my eyes trained on the water in the open areas, as well as between the reeds and bushes, as I circled around the perimeter path, but whomever was enjoying the chilly water, they were nowhere to be seen.

I have to share some cute photos that my friend Leslie posted on her Facebook page over the last week or so. She has a frog that lives in her backyard. Unlike me, she does not have to go looking for this little guy – he just shows up in the funniest places. Yesterday, as you see above, he was staring down this big ol’ frog. Still another time he hopped aboard a giant tortoise.

And look – here he thinks he is incognito in the flower garden on this large Hosta leaf. But, it’s not easy being a different shade of green when you don’t blend in.

As to these Kermit capers – this little guy is like Waldo … you never know where he’ll turn up. He has made himself right at home while sunning, or maybe he is just hanging out, hoping Leslie will take him into the house to be a little brother to her kitties.

After two loops on the Park path, it was time to meander home. Today’s expedition took me 90 minutes and yielded 5 more miles toward the ultimate goal, and by the time I reached the end of my route, 66 was the temperature – now that’s more like it!

I had counted on a walk today, and, just as I silenced the alarm next to my bed, the still of the morn was interrupted by a long rumble of thunder.  I sighed, and would have rolled my eyes had they been open.  Then, I had a horrible thought as I slipped into my moccasins ‘what if that rumble was another earthquake like the one we had yesterday?’  Well, I got up anyway, and was glad I did, because that rumble was not the precursor to anything.  Go figure.  The weather folks are predicting four perfect days stretched ahead of us, with nary a raindrop and only blue skies.  Well, we’ve all glommed onto that good news prediction and hope they are correct.

It took forever to get light enough to leave as the dark clouds seemed to hang heavy and low in the sky, giving the impression I could reach up and touch them.  I decided to just walk in the ‘hood and take an umbrella along so I didn’t get soaking wet should Mother Nature turn on the faucet while I was out and about.

There are definite pros and cons to all this rain we’ve had.  The homeowners in a corner house on Ferris Street laid some new sod nearly a month ago – could they have picked a better time to do so?  The sod strips have already grown together and the grass is dark green and lush.  On the other hand, the budding sidewalk chalk artists have finally thrown their hands up in exasperation and said “enough” because every time they create a drawing, the rain comes along and washes it away.

I’ve passed alot of homes that have those wrinkly looking pocket hoses hanging haphazardly on a gate, or perhaps slung over a shepherd’s hook.  They remind me of my leotards I’d used to wear back in the day.  I’d peel off my big old snow boots when I got to school and that in turn tugged down the leotards ‘til they would gather in rolls up and down my legs, eventually pooling at the ankles.  That would require a quick dash to the little girls room to yank them up and smooth them to look presentable again.  I’d bemoan how they looked, but all us girls wore them with our school dresses, in a putrid beige, royal blue or black.  Well, I think of those horrid leotards every time I see a pocket hose.

I’m happy to say I’ve only used my hose twice this year and that was to spray down the cottonwood from the grille of the AC unit.  It seems that every time I set out to fertilize the roses and perennials, they are calling for a torrential rain, or stormy weather, so I figure ‘why let all that goodness end up as rivulets in the yard’ so I’ve not fertilized yet.  None of the plants look any the worse for it.  In fact, I’m really proud my holly that has risen from the ashes since I cut it down over Memorial Day weekend.  After I nipped, pruned and sawed it down, it looked really terrible, but it has alot of new growth and is coming around.  It will never-ever be the beautiful globe that it once was before the original Polar Vortex struck it down, but it is getting’ there.

Finally, as I was walking up my street to go home, the sun came out – so, I never needed the umbrella after all.  Well, you could’ve fooled me because it was a mighty ugly sky when I left; it is Murphy’s Law that you only need an umbrella, the day you have left it on the umbrella stand at home.

Time is on my mind this morning as we prepare to turn the calendar page to the second half of 2015.  There is also much chatter about today’s “Leap Second” and the question of how to spend that extra second that you gleaned today after scientists added it to help keep the nation’s clocks in sync with the earth’s rotation.  Those same scientists also hope the Leap Second will not cause a mini Y2K.  That statement caused me to reflect on Y2K and all the preparations  at home and at work.  At home, there was food and water storage preparation, topping off the gas tank, charging the cellphone.  At work, our law firm got an entirely new computer system as there were concerns our former one would just crash and burn.  We were all unscathed then, mercifully, after millions, perhaps billions of dollars was spent to ensure the transition from 1999 to 2000 went smoothly.

But what really transcended me back in time this morning was hearing  the resurgence of “The Faygo Song” on the radio.  That commercial speaks to childhood days, long gone, but fondly remembered and was all over the airwaves decades ago.  I hadn’t heard the song in years and found myself singing along to all the words to this 70s commercial, embarrassing even myself.  For those e-pals who follow my blog, but are not from Detroit, here is a link to that song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQqyDj7RX6Y

You, too, will feel like a kid again, plus you’ll have an earworm the rest of today.

Enjoy your Leap Second.

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.