WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Well, it’s nearly Summer, and, unless you’re really buff, you don’t want to risk looking out of shape for the world to see every time you walk out the house.  Just sayin’.

I had a doctor’s appointment at 10:15 today and it was just a tad too warm to walk two miles one way to his office, so I opted for an early a.m. walk and drove to the appointment.

When I left the house, it was already a little sticky out.  I figured I’d just head to the railroad tracks and back for a quick four-mile jaunt.  I took the camera with me … just in case.

While walking home, I couldn’t help but notice a big, fat robin standing on a tall statue of the Virgin Mary smack in the middle of a large garden.  It did make me smile, though a robin standing on the Blessed Mother did seem a little sacrilegious.  He stayed there, perched on the top of her veil, for the longest time and I must admit I was sorely tempted to pull out the camera and snap his rather irreverent pose, but I did not.

As I moseyed along the Boulevard, thinking about that robin and the statue, a bicyclist came by just then and did a shrill wolf whistle.  I looked over, knowing full well it wasn’t directed at me, then had to stifle a giggle as the statuary above caught my eye.  I see them every time I go down Emmons Boulevard, and, in the past, I’ve mentioned this pair that a homeowner stationed on opposite ends of the porch.  As you can see, they are life-sized statues and one must take a second glance when you first come upon them.

My garden has some statuary as well, but just the usual – St. Francis, a turtle, a squirrel and some bunnies.  I didn’t put my usual collection of large cement deer out there this year – no, not because I could barely move, let along lug them around on my four-wheeled dolly, but it started to rain and I already had out various garden knickknacks strewn all over the lawn, awaiting placement in their usual spots.

The bicyclist continued on his way to Wyandotte, and I hustled home to get cleaned up and ready to go.

I decided to get a little more dressed up than usual to see the allergist.  Since I’ve worked off site since 2009, I admit that I’ve gotten lazy about getting dressed up anymore.  I love comfy clothes and figure why not wear ‘em – I spent too many years squashed into pantyhose, buttoned up shirts and tight waistbands.  So, I love my sweat suits and have lightweight ones for in the house, and heavier ones for outside, especially for when I walk.  Likewise for shorts or lightweight pants for the house or outside.  But they are all elastic.  So, I went to my closet this morning and pulled out a pair of red capris and a matching striped top.  The set was brand new when I bought them in 2008, in fact, I had to cut off the hangtags.  I slipped on the top – no problem there.  But the pants – oh, the pants.  Well they zipped up okay … but I felt like a stuffed sausage.  I unzipped them and returned them to the closet for something clean and comfy, then thought “nope, perhaps this will shame you … just go suffer in them!”

Now mind you, I’m not heavy for my height which is 5’9”, but, admittedly I sit too much.  So, I lamented long and loudly “oh no – it happened to me, that dreaded secretarial spread” (or maybe it is bloggers backside).  Smile.

Off I went to the doctor for this annual visit.  I go once a month for my shots, but must see the doctor once a year.  So, I was escorted into an office where a nurse took a history, keying in my data on her laptop.  She departed and the doctor arrived.  He smiled, shook my hand and asked how I was doing today.  My reply was: “Well, Dr. Shah – I can’t breathe.”  His wide smile quickly faded and he raised his eyebrows – after all, this is an allergy and asthma clinic.  I saw his concern, laughed right away and said “no, my pants are too tight – I can’t breathe” and he laughed out loud as well.  He remembered me telling him before I loved to walk and he said “but you walk daily – 500 miles a year, right?” … “yup”, I said, “but it isn’t doing any good for my waistline or these pants are sized wrong.”

It sure isn’t my diet – I eat properly and haven’t had sweets, treats, fried food or fast food in over four years, so I’ll just blame it on that downward spiral as I head to 60 years old – or, maybe I need to let it all hang out more often and be more body conscious.

June is the month for dads and grads and weddings.  That should provide plenty of fodder for folks on social media to yak about.

As to Father’s Day, well there is not much for me to say about dads anymore – at one time I might have been Daddy’s Little Princess, but those days are long gone, thus any vignettes recounting special times with my father will be few and far between in this forum.

I have, however, been thinking alot about school over the past few weeks.   In fact, my head and my computer contain an unfinished post reminiscing about the conclusion of high school which I hope to post later in the week.

My handyman has been here doing assorted tasks yesterday and today, so I didn’t venture out for a walk either day.  My boss has been getting ready for a business trip, so I’ve heard more news than probably necessary and had more time on my hands than usual.

There was a report in this morning’s business journal which really took me aback.  The story told about today’s college grads’ expectations for their first real job after graduation.  They had some stipulations about their career.  Just like a home-cooked meal versus going to Mickey D’s, these 2015 college grads don’t want to waste alot of time simmering in some small potatoes job and delay reaching the height of their career.  They want instant gratification.  They want the big bucks and prestige to happen now.  They sure don’t want to start at the bottom and work their way up, nor do they want an internship with the expectation that the free gig will get their “foot in the door” for a more promising and rewarding career with the same company down the road.  They don’t want to work alot of extra hours because they want “a life”.  They want to make at least $20,000.00 more to start than the career counsellors suggest was the starting wage for a person with their degree.

Well, that is quite a list of stipulations isn’t it?

So, I wonder if the college grads these days are go getters or greedy?

Maybe I didn’t try hard enough after I finished up at WSU, and my career in my chosen field of journalism stalled out as there were simply no jobs to be found.  So, I chose the next best avenue – a clerical position at an advertising agency, with the expectation of working my way up the ladder to a job as a copywriter.  While that long climb probably would never have guaranteed eventually sittin’ pretty in the corner office, it met short-term expectations anyway.  Perhaps college grads in ’78 were a more easy-going bunch.  We were young adults and ready to take on the world and I really think we were more accepting of the demands placed on us.

We were adults after all.

But then, how do you define an adult?

It isn’t just the age you can legally drink.

Or vote.

And maybe you reached that pair of pinnacles and still are not an adult anyway.

What is the cutoff point that you quit being a kid, and transform into an adolescent who then morphs into an adult?

I can’t really say that being an adult has been all that tough on me – perhaps it is because I grew up with older parents and had no siblings.  My parents were 30 years old when I was born, and that was considered old to be starting a family … well, that was the thinking mid-century anyway.  So, I guess I was probably a little more mature when I got to my teens than my peers, and not so silly or frivolous because my parents didn’t tolerate stupidity or childishness – even when I was a child.  They were very strict, and I never had an older sibling to say “well they got to (fill in the blank here)” … alas, I had to forge my own paths with my parents because they rarely would waver in their beliefs.  It was their way or the highway.

Thus, having toed the line for so many years, I guess it wasn’t very difficult to morph from kid to adolescent and eventually into the adult I am today.  No, I wouldn’t want to be a recent college grad, a learned young adult poised on the brink of a new and exciting career, but in today’s world.  It all seems a little tiring to me … not at all like back in ’78, though I do specifically recall from time to time when I used to bemoan studying for a test or working until the wee hours of the morn on a term paper, my father’s quick retort to my bleary-eyed look or grumbling about school was “wait until you’re an adult and you have to go to work day after day”  … well, maybe those words were true.

Perhaps that’s why when we reminisce about  our youth or speak about when we were younger, it is so satisfying to us.  That’s because we tend to gloss over the rough patches and the tarnished areas, instead giving glowing reports about how life used to be “back in the day”.

But then we were easy to please.

During those carefree days of our youth, a childish pleasure was sharing a twin grape Popsicle with your best friend while the two of you poured over the latest “Nancy” comic strip in the Sunday funnies.  Oh, how we loved to cheer spunky Nancy’s crazy antics.

Heck, we would spend hours and hours in the meadows and creek at the tail end of our street catching pollywogs – I think Americans call them “tadpoles”.  We’d scoop them out of the swampy water with our bare hands and deposit too many of them into a clean pickle jar, then cup our hands to ladle some more creek water into the bottle.  The water would be sloshing back and forth as we trudged home and then we’d stash the dripping wet bottle in a corner of the basement hoping our moms wouldn’t find them.  The next morning all those tadpoles would  be stiff and gray and belly side up.  They never got a chance to grow up – to morph from tadpoles into toads.

Our more sedate pastime was coloring to our heart’s content for hours on end.  We would sprawl out on the grass, on our stomachs, feet lazily kicking the air, our coloring books spread open and crayons working frantically to keep the colors contained within the lines.

Those were simple times and unfettered fun for kids.

So, interestingly, on today’s news I heard that the cable show “Game of Thrones” will launch an adult coloring book this coming Fall.  It will consist of 45 black-and-white images, just waiting for you to tackle them with your Crayolas.

No, this is not an adult-themed coloring book, but a coloring book made specifically for adults.

Why do adults need to color in a coloring book?

Really?!

Just what we need in this crazy world … life takes us two steps forward; coloring books for adults take us one gigantic step back.

Now, you probably just read that headline and wondered out loud – why is Linda writing about the “One and Only Wonderbra”?

Maybe she is referencing the unmentionables that Caitlyn Jenner donned to create that bosomy look for her famous photo shoot with Annie Leibovitz.

No, no, no!

It is not that at all.

“Lift and separate” is simply my method to deal with those gazillion &%$ mini weeds that were growing everywhere in my mulch this morning.   Weeding is no uplifting experience to be sure.

But … first I had to deal with the big fellas.

If you follow my blog regularly, you know I laid down 30 bags of mulch over Memorial weekend.

I’ve only recently recovered from that ordeal.  I spread that mulch around (oh my aching back), and I no sooner put the rake away, when thousands of those elm seeds some refer to as “eyeballs” and an equal number of those pesky maple seeds everyone calls “helicopters” descended from the trees, fluttering down and settling onto my mulch.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

It was just a matter of time before those little buggers sprouted.  No surprise there – we had the second soggiest May on the books and June is looking to best that record.  As I write this post, we are having the fourth rainfall of the day and I am hurrying to finish up here and beat the thunderstorms which are on the way.

Yesterday, when I returned from my long walk, my hand clasping the camera with those hot little 121 photo images that were begging to be uploaded to the computer, I thought I’d take some pictures of the yard for my pal Ann Marie who asked to see my gardening handiwork.

Well, I took one look at the gardens – there were weeds galore, so no pictures were taken.  In fact, as I stood there gazing at the weeds, some as high as my ankles, I made a mental note that this would be Sunday morning’s agenda – an hour tops of weed-pulling, then a walk.

Two hours later I was still pulling and tugging, and alternately stabbing, some very gargantuan weeds – thistles, dandelions, purple nightshade, dock weed and wild ivy.  Then, despite that destructive group’s efforts to mangle and strangle each of the perennials and roses in the backyard, and infiltrate the mulch as well, who can forget that cad, Creeping Charlie, which is all over like cheap underwear?

And, all this happened in two weeks!

Of course, that’s not even counting the teeny sprouts of elm and maple “trees” … well, I wasn’t going to pull those out by hand, nor by using my hand weeding tool.  No way!  I took my hand rake and long-handled rake and just rumpled up the mulch, ripping them out by their tiny roots and returning them to the earth, hiding them beneath the mulch.

Out of sight – out of mind.

So, while I immersed myself in that horrid weed-pulling chore, the mosquitoes insisted on having their way with me.  It sure was muggy and buggy back there, and, despite being clad in my garden boots and a sweat suit, they insisted on biting me on the arms and legs through the heavy material.  I swatted them away, of course, but, bloodthirsty little buggers that they were, they went right for my neck – it wasn’t even Halloween for goodness sake.

So, between swats and swear words, I wondered what Noah was really thinking to include a pair of mosquitoes on the ark?

Well, I missed my walk, but communed with nature anyway, so I guess that is not so bad, especially after lamenting long and loudly about the cold and brutal Winter and vowing to have no complaints come Spring.

At least the pit bull terrier slept in this morning … thankfully.

I decided to indulge myself in some extra “me time” this morning to try to master this new camera.  I am struggling to get used to the “point and shoot” feature as opposed to peering at the image through the viewfinder.  Since practice makes perfect, I had my work cut out for me.

When I left the house, the sun was up and not a single cloud marred that brilliant blue sky.  Today’s trek target was catching a glimpse and a photo of the Detroit River from my vantage point at Emmons Boulevard and Biddle Avenue, then moseying over to the River’s Edge Marina in Ecorse.

It was exceptionally quiet as I traversed the neighborhoods to reach my chosen destination.  The coolish morning found homeowners welcoming the fresh air with screen doors and wide-open windows, so missing was the usual hum of the A.C.  In fact, the only noises I heard were the quick click-clicking of the camera shutter as I practiced a few shots along the way and the occasional plaintive call of a mourning dove.  It was so quiet that the crunching sound of my shoes when I stepped on piles of weather-beaten maple seeds seemed intensified.  Those dilapidated “helicopters” cushioned my steps, and made me feel as though I was walking on a bed of soft pine needles in the forest.

I didn’t speak to a soul during my 90-minute trek, with the exception of a quick stop to chat up a couple who live on Emmons.  Their home, with its big porch and welcoming country décor, has been the subject of several blog posts in the past.  I have written at length about the rope swing with the cherry-red wooden seat which hangs from the big tree out front and also about the tree house in progress in the backyard.  I told the gentleman today I might just nominate him for “Father of the Year” as I’ve been watching that state-of-the-art tree house he has built and will be finished once he puts in electricity!

I said goodbye, then continued to amble down the Boulevard while enjoying the solitude of my walk.  I noticed even the pooches were absent and wondered about the pair of English bulldogs who generally go for their Saturday promenade right about the same time as I do.

Suddenly I heard the sharp blare of a train whistle and then the railroad crossing gates started clanging.  Perfect timing for me as I was just nearing Alfred Street, which is adjacent to the train tracks.  The train had time to race through and I spied the caboose so I knew momentarily the gates would lift and I could continue my travels.

Once across the tracks, I shaded my eyes with my hand to see the River.  The sun glinted on the water, making it sparkle and shimmer.  Soon a pleasure boat drifted slowly by in my range of vision.  I crossed Biddle and tried to get as close to the water as possible since the boat-launching area and surrounding grounds are private property.  I hung out a few minutes, just long enough to admire the few boats in the harbor.  Gulls filled the sky and suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge Canada Goose swooped down right in front of me.  You can see him (or her) in this picture.  I was momentarily startled.  It nearly clipped me as it seemingly dropped out of the sky and continued down the narrow stretch of water.

Next I made a mad dash across busy Biddle and stood on the bridge which juts out over the marina.  It was such a beautiful day and the setting was so picturesque.   In the background, still another train was passing through the marina area.  A few ducks dotted the still waters and the only other activity seemed to be the members of the rowing club, who were milling about on the deck next to their long, narrow rig while the oars were neatly criss-crossed nearby.

I lingered there awhile, taking in the peaceful scene and clicked off a few more pictures, then started to head for home some 2 ½ miles away.

On the return trip, once again I had to cross the railroad tracks.  But, this time, a police cruiser was coming from the opposite way.  The officer slowed down to cross the tracks and glanced over at me just as I was picking my way slowly across the four sets of tracks.  I wondered if he thought I was lost, or perhaps was a kook walking along the tracks, but I smiled and held up my hand, while flashing the camera toward him, just to reinforce my credibility, and so he knew I was “on assignment”.

After I meandered my way back home, I was thinking about today’s Belmont Stakes and wondering what the outcome would be for American Pharaoh.  This horse is blessed with a famous lineage – his  great, great, great grandfather is none other than Secretariat.  So would he wow the crowd and take home the big prize?  If he won, he’d get an atta boy and be rewarded with some extra oats in his feedbag tonight, just as I rewarded myself with a tall glass of chocolate milk when I arrived home.  No atta girl for me though.  And what gives with that … he’ll only run 1 ½ miles – what about me – I walked over 5 miles?  I suspect he would work harder though and might just be a little more pooped than me tonight.  I was happy to finally reach that 5-mile mark on one day’s outing.  It’s been a long time coming.

I don’t even remember the most-recent triple crown winner, Affirmed’s victory back on June 10, 1978.  Was there alot of hoopla then as well?  He won the big prize the night my parents celebrated their 25^th wedding anniversary – the day before the actual date.  They had a small dinner party at a local restaurant for three other couples and me.  I packed up that two-tier cake in the hatchback area of my Pacer, hoping that the hot weather would not cause the delicious buttercream frosting to ooze into a gooey pool on the cake cardboard stand.  I remember I had worked at the diner that morning and came home and scrubbed the “fried-food smell” off and managed to get a few hours’ worth of study time in before we left.  I had final exams at WSU the following week – the last exams I’d ever take or school day I’d ever attend.  I’m guessing that particular horse race was probably the furthest thing from my mind that night.

* * *

I just watched the highlights from the race – what a beautiful animal.  While my eyes are getting heavy as I am typing this post, he is likely still prancing around, basking in the attention of the crowd of 90,000 and enjoying the well-deserved praise.

“He’s a happy horse” his owner said.

I’m a happy human … moving a little slower, and a little bit older, but life is good.

For the third day in a row, I did not follow my feet directly past “go” and head to Council Point Park.  I suspect I was still smarting over the lack of interaction with the critters and the resulting kibosh of photo ops the last time I was there.

I decided to just make some tracks by heading to the River and find another time to be creative with the camera, so I left it behind.

The sun was barely filtering through the clouds as I closed the door.  After a block or so, I realized I should have left the jacket behind as well, because the humidity made it really sticky out.

I decided to take the long way around and stroll through Memorial Park first.  I saw that silly smiling Mr. Sun on the moving marquis and between hopping and bopping across the screen it proclaimed it was 59 degrees.  Well, that sure wasn’t what the weatherman said – so query:  whom do you trust, the guy with all the meteorological education or some animated figure on the park marquis?

It was a moot point really, as I already felt warmish, so I quickly shucked off the jacket and looped it around my waist.  While knotting the sleeves in place, suddenly in my peripheral vision  I saw something brown and furry scurry past me.  I came to attention immediately, remembering the roly-poly critter I saw here last year.  Well, there he was, down on all fours, whisking by me.  I watched his fat body and stubby legs made a beeline to a very large hosta plant.  He ducked behind it, and after the big hosta leaves stopped moving, all was quiet.  I walked in his direction to see if I could rouse him from his protective cover, for whatever reason I don’t know … after all, I had an agenda and was without my camera.

When I told my friend Marge about this critter before, she suggested it was a gopher.  So I Googled “gopher” images and sure enough that’s what he looked like.  Well, I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just as still as a church mouse.  Soon he dashed from the safe haven the hosta provided and he hurriedly ducked behind a wrought iron trellis, just covered with pretty purple clematis, which were winding up the scrollwork.   Well, he was a go-getting gopher for sure, and I wondered if he was truly terrified or just in a hurry to return to his burrow.  I figured I’d be best be on my way too, so I looked over one last time to see him on his haunches looking me straight in the face.   “Safe at last from the big bad human” is what he seemed to say, though his beating heart probably told him otherwise.  I decided not to create any more angst for this creature today, though I was kicking myself for not taking the camera … the zoom lens could have captured his displeasure with me for having upset his Friday morn.

I took one quick trip around Memorial Park and decided then to wend my way down to Wyandotte.  It was still early and perhaps I could make it to the River and back.

I thought about stopping home first and losing the jacket and grabbing the camera, but the sky, intermittently a mottled light gray color, didn’t look so great for picture-taking anyway, so I stayed on course, heading east.

There was still another park to pass enroute to Wyandotte and as I walked on by, I saw a Canada goose grazing near the baseball diamond at Ford Park.  Nothing remarkable about that, except, as I approached the area, he began flapping his wings wildly at me.  Perhaps he thought I was about to encroach on his breakfast.  Angry again at myself for not bringing the camera, I watched his antics from afar.  With wide webbed feet he waddled over to home plate for a minute or so, then gazed around – no doubt looking for greener pastures to grab some grubs or other goose delicacies, then slowly he walked to first base, where maybe the pickin’s were better.  He nosed around a bit, using his long beak to scratch the dirt, then finding nothing good to nibble on, he proceeded to walk in the direction of second base.  Perhaps he aspired to be a Detroit Tiger, and maybe he’d do better than the real deal who struggle after succumbing to their recent seventh straight loss.

I continued on my journey and admired the porch pots and planters that decorated most of the stately homes as I travelled down Emmons Boulevard.  The canopy of trees provided some welcome shade as I strolled along, but the humidity had already crept in, as evident from the lawns laden with heavy dew and my glasses, which kept slipping down my nose.  Every so often I had to zig zag around someone’s lawn, or even cross the street, to avoid being soaked from a too-ambitious pulsating sprinkler – tame that bad boy would you!

At the railroad tracks I was forced to abort the trip to the River when I heard the train rumbling down the tracks in the distance and who knows how many cars long that train might be?  Maybe tomorrow, but this time with the camera in tow.

I turned and started for home and just before finishing off today’s four-mile trek, I purposely walked past Ford Park again.  I just couldn’t help myself so I stole a glance at third base to see if my little friend had made it to that position yet – he had indeed.  I hope he finished up soon before the Little League players arrived and hit a “fowl” ball in his direction.

(In progress “ducks”)

Artwork by Maggie Rust

Today, I really didn’t know how to act … it’s been ever so long since my feet found their way to Council Point Park to travel my favorite Park path.

It’s been weeks, not even days.

So you’d better feel my forehead to make sure I am okay.

But, the last few weeks have just not been conducive for walking … there were errands, then a five-day stint out making the front and the backyard look presentable.  Then more errands, followed by two days of constant rain.  Then grocery shopping.  And, don’t get me started on the war I’ve been waging with the robins who keep building nests and I keep tearing them down.

The errands, albeit walking errands, garnered a few miles toward my end goal of 500, but they were nothing special to write about.   I’ve even managed to miss my Easter, Memorial Day and end-of-May mini walking goals that I’d set for myself many months ago.

Well, I put it all behind me and decided I just had to venture out and take that newfangled camera with me.

This morning I aimed to make it “all about me” and return to the Park where I suspected that the goslings were already sporting an awkward teenage look and the ducklings were probably swimming in a neat row after their mama and diving for tadpoles.  Somehow, I missed the whole baby scenario.  The last few years I’ve meandered along the Park path and been lucky enough to see the Canada geese parents with their offspring toddling around behind them as they grazed.

And last year I oohed and aahed along with the other Park walkers as I came upon the ducklings close on their mama’s tail and I snapped pictures of all of them.

So, today I left the house, clad in a warm coat as it was only 47 degrees out.  I packed the coat’s cargo pockets full of peanut packs on one side, and the other had torn-up bread in a plastic produce bag spilling out of the other.

And, of course, I took that new camera, eager to christen it at the Park, but not before I had to quickly re-read the operating directions and finally thread the wrist strap into its proper place.

So, off I went, hoping the experience would be everything I’d pictured in my mind … that would be Mother Goose and her brood posing prettily while I zoomed in and out until I was happy with the photo.   And, in my mind’s eye, the squirrels would follow me, as they have in the past, just like I was the Pied Piper and I’d be doling out treats with one hand and happily snapping their pictures with the other hand.

I’ve been inspired the last few days by my childhood friend, Maggie Rust, who has been creating duck drawings and posting that artwork on Facebook, where her friends have delighted in watching the nightly progression of her duck work.

So Maggie’s ducks inspired me to go to seek out the real deal and get some pictures for this blog.   Well … that’s how I envisioned my morning anyway.

Unfortunately, it fell short of my expectations after I arrived at the Park and no mischievous squirrels came running over to greet me.

As I walked along, I realized the geese had gone AWOL as well.

And, it appeared that I was up a creek, because the ducks and their wee ones sure were not swimming in this one.

Even that lazy old heron that fell asleep in the old dead tree for a few hours last year while I was shooting its picture was not present and accounted for.

So what gives?

Did all the critters leave and go to another park perhaps?

Musing on that thought, I did another lap with nary a songbird trilling and thrilling me in the crisp morning air.

No really – where did everyone go?  It seems they all ducked out on me.

Slowly I slid the camera back into its pouch, somewhat disillusioned over my long-awaited return to the sanctuary and started to walk home slowly.

Just like Maggie’s duck drawing, my visit seemed as yet unfinished … a work in progress.

And, like Maggie’s duck drawing, the best is yet to come.

Maybe tomorrow.

Those who follow my blog regularly know that my favorite trek is the one to Council Point Park where, for a brief time, I can walk the perimeter path and commune with nature at the same time.  Whether it is just an inquisitive squirrel or a sparrow streaking by, I always leave with a sense of peace after being infused with the natural surroundings.

This past week I have been absent from this forum as I have been communing with nature all right – out in the front and back yards doing the annual “getting the yard presentable ritual”,  a chore that seems to take longer to pull off as each year passes.  Unfortunately, it was longer and more protracted this year, since I had to buy 30 bags of mulch and lay it.  Now, I realize that the perimeter of the house or the front and back yards have not gotten larger, but instead, it is me, who sadly has gotten older.   It seems the spirit was willing – the body … not so much.

Summoning the energy to get ‘er done seemed more and more difficult to do as each day passed.  Looking around the yard, it seemed inconceivable to me that I created the present landscaping from scratch back in 1985, lugging home many 8 foot by 4 inch landscape ties, bags upon bags of dirt and mulch and small shrubbery in my AMC Pacer.  I wrecked the springs on the car that Summer, but I remember that it seemed like I had endless energy to do the massive landscaping project which took me that entire season to complete.

Since my boss left for the cottage in Canada last Wednesday mid-day,  I set my sights on going out from 7:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. every day ‘til I had whipped the yards and gardens into shape again.  No walks.  No fun stuff … just getting down and dirty in the yard with my garden tools.  Little did I know that besides whipping the garden into shape, I would find many long-underused muscles that would also get used and abused over the course of the next five days.  And to think I had been complaining about the two thorns deeply embedded in my finger from the weekend before when I stooped to pull out those aggravating forget-me-nots and hastily raked my ring finger over a rose bush thorn.  It sure hurt and involved “minor surgery” with a safety pin to extricate those little buggers so I could type.

* * * * *

Thursday, May 21^st.

“T” is for “Thursday” and also for “tenacity” … no, not me, but my holly bush.  I was up at the crack of dawn and dressed warmly to go outside in temps that flirted with the 50s … the low 50s that is.  But 50 was not so nifty when a glance at the calendar tells me a mere month from today is Summer.  I hustled out and just stood, gazing at the panorama, really and truly unsure where to start first.  Everything looked overgrown, neglected … and unloved.  Plus, we’d had a light drizzle on Wednesday night.  I grabbed my tools – hand pruners and loppers and decided to tackle taking down the holly first.  It died during the Winter of 2013-2014, from one of the Polar Vortex events, because last Spring it was as dead as a doornail.  I heaped “Holly-Tone” aplenty on this huge bush last year in an effort to revive it, but sadly it was all sticks and twigs with no greenery.  But today, while I wiggled my pruners through the dead branches, suddenly I saw the light – or perhaps I should say the green, because there were many fresh, green holly leaves and supple branches at the very bottom of the bush.  “T” is for tenacity that this big holly bush should live after all and again grace this garden.  There are enough new shoots after using my saw to lop off the large, thickish branches to start anew.  “T” is for trimming – I trimmed everything out the front and kept running down to the curb to ensure I didn’t over-trim, kind of like my parents did when they were in charge of my bangs back in the day.

* * * * *

Friday, May 22^nd.

“F” is for “Friday”, for “feeling less than frisky” and for those “fluttering and flying” elm and maple seeds.  I woke to the alarm feeling like someone took a steamroller across my entire body.  Feet planted firmly next to the bed, I started to stand up – oops.  Clearly my feet didn’t want to support my legs that felt jelly-like.  I pushed myself off the bed with arms that also felt wobbly, but managed to shuffle down the hall to the kitchen with as much enthusiasm as the commercial of the guy going to make the donuts at Dunkin’ Donuts.  I was out the door by 7:30 a.m.  The trimming out front was done, so next on the chore list was fixing the landscape edging … good thing it was still nippy out as I was working up a sweat.  This task must be done each Spring as the cold air makes the edging heave out of the ground.  Sigh.  Taking my trusty spade I had to make new tunnels up along the side of the house.  It was good that the bottoms of feet, which were clad in short boots, were the only thing on my body that didn’t hurt since I had to keep stomping down on the spade to widen the tunnel.  I heard a car start up, glanced over and saw my neighbor Marge backing out of the driveway and raised my arm to wave.  Uh oh – I needed to support my arm with the other one to raise it up, so it was a half-hearted attempt at a wave – she smiled and she understood.  She’s been there too.

The wind was gusting mightily by now and after I completed the arduous task of laying the mulch in between all the shrubs in the front, same which required some artful calisthenics on my part, I watched the paper-thin elm seeds and maple helicopters that were fluttering and flying around in some kind of frenzy settling down all over the freshly-laid mulch.   Just great … we have a week of rain and high humidity coming up – those little suckers will be weeds in about two weeks’ time.

Once in, hydrated, cleaned up and feeling human again, I sank into my chair and turned on the computer.  Ahhhh – bliss.  When I stood up two hours later, I nearly collapsed from shaky legs.  Can you say “un-limber”?  I revisited my computer later that evening, thinking I’d write a blog post detailing my unexciting, but labor-intensive day, but soon my fingers skittered all over the keys and I nodded off – that is, until a big kaboom of a firecracker close by startled me and woke me up.

* * * * *

Saturday, May 23^rd.

“S” is for “Saturday” and “S” also stands for “stiff”, “sore” and “sunburned” – on my nose anyway.   Today was a solid morn that stretched into early afternoon of trimming, nipping, pruning, then scooping stuff into yard waste bags … and oh, the weeds.  I was embarrassed by them being that big so early in the season.

I thought I’d worked out all those kinks by Day #2, yet I still felt like I went a half-dozen rounds with Floyd Mayweather  and he won.  My shoulders were so sore, that the blouse with the light shoulder pads I was wearing in the house hurt them.  Oh my goodness what a wuss I am.  And what the heck is aggravating me outdoors (besides all the work to be done)?  This is the third day in a row I’ve come inside sneezing and coughing up a storm.  Spring allergies I guess, but I hope it is some aggravation other than the mulch because it is staying put!

* * * * *

Sunday, May 24^th.

“S” is for “Sunday” and also for “sixteen” more bags of mulch to lay.  At 7:30 a.m. I came trudging out of the house (with as much energy as I could muster) and was ready to lay the mulch all around the backyard which I had trimmed to perfection yesterday with pruners, hedge clippers and my pole cutter.  In the cool air I started out by picking up the first group of  those 2-cubic mulch bags and hauling them to their final destination and slitting open the respective tops.  But some of the bags were filled with wet mulch, so soon I was dragging the bags to haul ‘em along to the other side of the yard, occasionally losing the bag right out of my grip.  I think I was losing my grip as well.  Grrrrrrr.

I had a wide area to fill where the former shed had been and taken a tumble in a bad windstorm  last November.  So I now can see the yard behind for the first time since the mid-60s … well, look at that, a black and white pit bull giving me the stink eye.  Yikes!   “S” is the first letter of the word “shovel” which I was using to move the mulch over to the area where the shed stood all those decades.  Suddenly, either it was my disheveled appearance or my big shovel, that critter’s ears laid straight back, and he bared his teeth at me in an angry snarl.  He lunged at the fence and began non-stop barking.  “Nice doggy” I muttered to him, but believe me, he was not a  nice doggy at all.  I quickly backed off to the other side of the yard – yup, your bark is not worse than your bite and I’d rather not end up as a statistic on the evening news.

* * * * *

Monday, May 25^th.

M” is for “Monday” and “Memorial Day”.  I didn’t make my usual trip to Memorial Park to pay tribute and say a prayer for our City’s war dead, deciding instead to head out and finish up this five-day outdoors extravaganza by putting my yard ornaments, pots, planters and flowers out in the yard.  I backed the car out of the garage, took out my miscellaneous and sundry stuff and laid it all out when it started to drizzle.  Well hell’s bells – everything was all over the place so I worked in the rain.

When I FINALLY finished up and came into the house, later in the evening I turned on the computer to weave my tale about working in the yard the past few days.  Much to my chagrin, I nodded off right at the computer.  I wonder if I was snoring?  I looked around – Buddy was watching me, and he burst into song.  I’ll bet he was snickering at me as well.  Don’t laugh young’un  – you’ll be old one day too.  I got up and walked around the kitchen a bit, visited with Buddy, had a snack and sat down again, but I was a goner a few minutes later.  So, I deferred this story about a mad gardener’s shenanigans ‘til I was wide awake and knew this post would be suited to a “T” (that would be for  “Tuesday” of course).

Besides the obvious reason why we celebrate Memorial Day, this upcoming weekend is also the official kickoff to Summer.

Here in Michigan, we always proclaim this holiday as the gateway to Summer, even if we have traipsed some 300 plus miles to get up North to a cottage where the temps are so cold that we must sit shivering inside, or, if we venture outside, we are clad in sweats and a heavy jacket.  Newberry, a city in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, had snow flurries this morning.

Whether Michiganders go camping, trek to the cottage, or even just stay home for the three-day holiday, there is the usual shopping trip that will leave us salivating in anticipation of all the gourmet grilling.

I took a fast trip to Meijer today, hoping to beat that crowd that was stocking up on everything from sunblock to S’mores fixings.  You sure can’t miss the displays featuring packages of those plump, pillow-like marshmallows, crisp graham crackers and melt-in-your-mouth Hershey chocolate bars.  And, of course the endcaps are crammed full of condiments and munchies as well as hot dog and burger buns.

The last items to pile into your shopping cart would be the meal’s main attraction:  the burger meat, wieners, kabobs and/or rack of ribs.

Is your mouth watering yet?

I must admit that grilling these days is nothing like it was when I was growing up.  Most long holiday weekends, my parents and I would pile in the car and cross the border on the middle day of the holiday and our destination was Holiday Beach on the Lake Erie shoreline in Amherstburg, Ontario.  We’d find a nice spot on the beach, drag out the cooler and my father would fire up the hibachi by feeding it charcoal nuggets and crossing his fingers that it would work well enough to cook the hotdogs or hamburgers we’d brought along with the cold salads and cut-up melon.  That hibachi wasn’t very large, so even with just three of us, or occasionally when I brought along a friend, we’d have to eat in stages.  There was swimming to work off the calories from the picnic lunch, then we’d stop at the Boots and Saddle ranch for a little horseback riding.  There were many nice memories from the long holidays back in the day.

Eventually, we graduated to a kettle grill, which was a fairly standard item on every homeowner’s back patio in those days.  There was alot of fanfare just to cook your meal, and, of course you had to wave off all the flies and ants in the neighborhood who were hanging around looking for a nibble.

It’s so easy now with a gas or propane grill, but, if you are of a certain age, you can probably remember mom or dad hauling out that big paper bag of briquettes and dumping them into the concave grill bottom.  A cloud of black dust would erupt from the charcoal nuggets as those briquettes tumbled out of the bag and settled into the recesses of the grill cavity.  Then it was a couple of squirts of lighter fluid to get it all going and soon there was a raging fire.  I know I always stood way back in case an errant spark grabbed onto my pony tail.  The backyard was always filled with dark smoke and in the midst of that smoke fest, my mom would be slamming shut the bedroom windows lest the black dust settle on all those perky cream-colored Priscillas.  Then, there was the post-meal scrub down of any crud that caked onto the grill grates.  My mom would have spent most of the Friday before the holiday boiling up potatoes to make potato salad or cutting up green and red cabbage and carrot slivers to make coleslaw.  It was only in her later years that her lazy daughter would finally convince her to buy store-made cold salads or head to “The Boneyard”, a famous rib joint here in town, where all the work required was daintily dabbing our mouths and fingers with a napkin to remove the grease and BBQ sauce that squirted everywhere as you feasted on that meal.

So, remembering the good ol’ days of family grilling, I had to chuckle when I heard a radio ad yesterday touting the new Hardee’s “picnic burger” which is available starting tomorrow.  The concept is that you can have all your holiday picnic fare between two buns.  This gastronomical wonder has an official name:  “Hardee’s American Thick Burger” and consists of a layer of potato chips, a 1/3 or 1/2 pound burger, topped with a split wiener and all the usual burger toppings.  One burger is 1,030 calories and has 64 grams of fat.  Really!?

But hey –  look at all the time you’d save shopping, grilling and cleaning up.

P.S. – The Hardee’s here in town closed up two decades ago and a Wendy’s opened in its place.  I guess that’s a good thing for my waistline.

The fog crept in on little cat feet once again this morning.

I always liked Carl Sandburg’s description of how the fog landed, stayed awhile, then just sprang away.  However, the early morning fog in my neck of the woods wasn’t so quick to leave.

I hung around the house waiting, but it hung on as well.

Early Sunday mornings in the neighborhood are already deserted enough without walking around in a fog … the atmosphere that is, not the walker.  (Or, maybe there is a little of both.)

When you get to the Park on a foggy morning, the trees and bushes make it seem a little spooky.  I’ve gone there on other murky mornings when I can see the geese grazing in the middle of the soccer field, their bodies seeming to glide along on a misty cloud, since you can’t see their squat legs or wide webbed feet.

This morning’s sky was tinted like a two-day-old bruise and so gloomy looking that I left the new camera, (which still remains to be christened in the great outdoors), at home.

I carried an umbrella instead, but of course since I brought it along it didn’t rain.

I decided there are a few sure signs that the Memorial Day holiday is on the horizon, among them:

#1 – the gas prices are rising;

#2 – the picnic tables have been placed under the Park pavilion; and

#3 – the neighbors are already shooting off fireworks.

Just as I stepped onto the walking path at  Council Point Park, suddenly the hugest rabbit sprang out of nowhere.  In whatever hidey hole where he had been lurking on this murky morn, it was obvious that he was oblivious to one 5 foot, 9 inch human who came strolling along into his territory.  He did that bunny hop out of a patch of tall grass just a few steps away from me, and when he realized how precariously close I really was to him, a look of sheer terror was in his eyes.

But, to tell you the truth … he startled me as well.

Perhaps we were both a bit spooked by the fireworks extravaganza last night and were still a little on edge this morning.

Or, maybe this “May” hare was late to a tea party, since he entered and exited my personal space at the speed of sound!

Even if I had toted the camera, he was much too quick for me, since this bunny bolted away and quickly disappeared into a thicket of bushes which have leafed out quite nicely so that they hid his big bunny body and tall ears so that I could no longer see his beating heart, nor could he see mine.

From the confines of my cozy bed, I listened to the news and debated whether to even go for a walk, on this day two of a four-day, rain-filled sogfest.  The 6:00 a.m. news meteorologist reported we had 95% humidity, no doubt due to the non-stop rain we’ve received in the past 24 hours.  Why not create a bucket brigade all the way to California because we have plenty of water to spare here in Michigan?

Though I was inclined to skip the walk, there is my 500-mile mileage goal to be mindful of, and, besides …they said no rain was coming ‘til the 9:00 o’clock hour.  So, I got up and at ‘em and headed out by 7:30.

Whew!  It was humid, just like an August day.  I glanced at the dark and drab sky with the thickening clouds and knew rain threatened in the not-too-distant future, despite their ETA prediction.  But, having taken the effort to get dressed and attach my miscellaneous walking paraphernalia, I set out anyway, taking care not to stray far from home, lest a sudden soaking downpour drench me from top to toe.  I’m not one of those gals glorified in the e-mails that circulate from time to time that proclaims “life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s learning to dance in the rain” … nope, that’s not my M.O. at all.

I headed down toward Wyandotte and the many fog horns filled the moist humid air and sounded like a herd of cattle lowing in a pasture.  It reminded me of when I travelled with my parents to Bavaria this time of year in 1979.  We stayed in a sleepy Alpen town in a small chalet where the owner kept his cattle out back of that bed and board.  During our one-week stay, every morning he let the cows out as soon as the sun was up.  Paying no mind to the early hour (nor his guests), he guided those critters up the mountain, but first they had to pass the chalet, and they did so with their big hooves clomping and clattering along that narrow road.  Each step brought a clanging from the big bell slung on a wide leather collar around their respective necks.  Those cattle lowed from the time they left the barn, all the way up into the mountainside where they were left to graze until the sun sank low on the horizon – then the journey was repeated in reverse.  At least everyone was awake by then.

As I neared the Lincoln Park/Wyandotte border a few spits of rain landed on my glasses, then started dotting my clothes, so I turned around and headed for home which was about a mile away.   As the drops intensified into a light drizzle, I hurried along, hastening my trip by taking a speedier, rather than a more-scenic route home.  I came upon a corner lot where lilac trees in various shades of purple and cream lined the privacy fence.  They towered way over the top of the fence and spilled over, their aromatic blooms filling the humid air with an overpowering scent, just like opening a fresh packet of potpourri.  I would have liked to linger a little longer but I walked quickly to avoid getting soaked.

But, soon the sky opened up and I got rained on – bigtime.  So, there was no need to hurry anymore as I was soaked.  When I arrived home, I went into the backyard to check out my own lilac trees that finally have bloomed, but are now too tall and not within reach to snip off enough bloom-filled branches to make a bouquet to take indoors.  Out back, the air smelled faintly of lilacs, though not as intense as that corner house where the height of the trees was about par with my nostrils.

I took stock of my own backyard, which, right now is largely overgrown and raggedy looking from the recent spate of 80-degree heat and all the rain, plus everything is in “new-growth mode” … uh, where did all the Forget-Me-Nots come from?

Last year, on the opposite side of the yard, I planted a couple of seed packets of Forget-Me-Nots, thinking only 1/3 of them would take and actually grow into plants, and what did thrive would brighten up the early Spring garden and complement the lilacs and clematis.  I must admit I was swayed by the seed packet’s picture of an old-fashioned nosegay and decided the Forget-Me-Nots would be a pretty and practical addition to that small, bare corner of the backyard.  But, as you know … you can’t judge a book by its cover, and the same goes for the illustration on a seed packet.  Just like a few years ago, when my Russian Mammoth Sunflowers that had promised 10 or 12-foot stalks with 1-foot wide sunflowers, and got to maybe 5-6 feet at best with punier flower heads, these plants were also a disappointment since they are not contained in one small area of the garden, but instead are so invasive that they have encroached all over the entire yard in just a matter of days.  They are worse than the wild ivy or Creeping Charlie and already reach my knees.  What the …?  They were here, there and everywhere but where they were supposed to be. …  on the opposite side of the yard.  I caught them climbing up the side of the air conditioner as well as hunkering down in between the roses and hydrangeas and seemingly choking them.   I grabbed a few handfuls of those blasted blooms that were tickling the grille of the A/C and the rest I’ll banish later.

For now, I’ll let them think they have outsmarted me … this time.  Yup, the biggest garden misnomer of all are Forget-me-nots because they are sure forgettable.