WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

It was another Saturday morning to savor and put in the memory books for when the weather turns ugly down the road. I left early, and it was still a little chilly, but nothing like yesterday, so I made the big concession of leaving the gloves at home, but I wore the sweat suit.

I headed down to Council Point Park and it was nearly deserted, which I thought was odd since it was such a beautiful day. I heard the birds singing loud and strong as I strolled along, while the geese were grazing quietly in the baseball field. The squirrels might have been sleeping in because I never saw a single one, and I had tucked a Pink Lady apple with a tiny worm hole in it in my pocket just in case my favorite furry friend crossed my path.

As I merged into the second loop, where it is more open, and finally, after walking solo on the trail for a good 15 minutes, I saw a woman walking the opposite way. I asked her where everyone was and she said “they were here earlier – I’ve been here since around 6:30” … hmmm, well – it was only 8:15 and I really didn’t think I was too awfully late, and I hardly would have termed myself a “slacker”. Nevertheless, we chitchatted a bit about walking and the weather, and I decided to turn myself around and walk the way she was going rather than stand there with her growing moss, especially when we there for the purpose of walking. We finally introduced ourselves and our conversation went here, there and everywhere and we covered alot of ground, both dialogue-wise as well as on the Park path. We kept pace and went around one complete turn, then she was going to leave to drive home, but we were so engrossed in our topic, she said she’d join me for another loop. She finally left for her car and I stayed on the path, checking my pedometer, as I walked. I had already done about 3½ miles so I decided to embark on another go-around. This time I met another nice woman and we launched into a conversation that branched out after discussing the weather (always a common topic amongst the walkers), and, as we were walking along we spied some movement ahead of us on the path. She grabbed my arm when she recognized it as a garter snake. Well, we didn’t shriek or shout “eek!”, but we delicately picked our way around it, then watched it from afar as it slithered slowly along the perimeter path. It got a mite too close and I noted we both unconsciously picked up the pace at bit, lest he decide to join us. We parted ways and I decided to head home.

While walking home I mused about my conversations with my two fellow walkers. We all go to the Park regularly, yet we’d never met before, and none of us knew the name of other walkers whom we see regularly. Park walkers reference others by names such as “The Pole Walker”, “The Rollerblader”, “The Jogger”, “The Chocolate Lab Walker” or even “The Couple Who Push Their Dogs In a Stroller” … interesting. I wonder how others perceive me? Am I “The Picture Taker”, “The Bird Whistler”, “The Squirrel Feeder” or “The Geese Provoker”? Good question. Everybody has a nickname of some type – my parents never had a pet name for me but I was known by “Little Sister” in my close-knit group of high school girlfriends since I was the baby of the six of us. As to monikers and nicknames, I thought about Elvis, as he was on my mind having heard some snippets of his most-famous tunes on the early news this morning, as they marked the 37th anniversary of his death. He had many monikers – he was “E”, “EP” and “The King”, and, of course, sometimes he was just plain old Elvis. I guess he didn’t need a last name, like most of us do.

By the time I made it back home, I was pooped. I walked six miles today and didn’t even realize it ‘til I glanced at the pedometer. Today’s steps took me over the 300-mile mark. I have walked 303 miles in 2014 and only driven my car 168 miles. Onward and upward as I strive to stride 500 miles before year end. Hopefully there will be many more beautiful mornings like this one to get ‘er done, though I’ve watched the leaves on many of the trees in the Park slowly turning a golden or red hue, as you see in the above picture. I’d like to prolong Summer forever, but that can’t be done, so in the meantime I’ll just enjoy it one day at a time as Calvin and Hobbes suggest below:

“We’re so busy watching out for what’s just ahead of us that we don’t take time to enjoy where we are.” – Calvin & Hobbes

I hustled out of the house this morning when it was 51 degrees – not bad for the 15^th of September, but not ordinary for the 15^th of August.  I wore my sweat suit, and slipped on a pair of gloves before I departed, but I skipped the hat because I thought it would look dumb (but my ears were cold!)  Today’s excursion was pretty uneventful; a four-mile round trip to the allergist for my allergy shots, thus I was pounding the pavement along Fort Street.  I’ve been busy at work this week, so I looked forward to getting away for a walk, no matter the locale.  Enroute to the doctor’s office I passed so many empty buildings … once-thriving businesses that I can remember patronizing over the years, now long closed and with bedraggled-looking storefronts.  It was a little sad to see.  At the doctor’s office a lively discussion had ensued about the cold morning and predictions for the Winter.  Two people claimed their respective dogs’ heavy shedding of their coats last Summer was a precursor to the long and brutal Winter we had.  Both women stated their dogs’ hair was already coming out by the handfuls, so they have already decided, whatever the meteorologists or “The Old Farmer’s Almanac” suggests will happen, is not as accurate as hair loss by a collie or golden retriever.  We all laughed about it, but I do subscribe to their theory.  Well, we went our separate ways and I trekked home on the opposite side of Fort Street for a little variety.  To get back home, I must pass through Southgate, Wyandotte and then Lincoln Park.  As I looked down each street in Southgate, nearly every homeowner had massive piles of garbage in front of their home –soiled carpet, furniture, electronics and black plastic garbage bags by the score.  I felt sorry for them as I passed each block and this continued for many neighborhoods.  By the time I got close to home the sun was shining bright and all of a sudden, those sweats that I insisted on swapping my lightweight walking clothes for, were starting to make me very warm.  I walked up the side of the house,  thinking about the tall, cool glass of chocolate milk that awaited me, when I saw it – a large caterpillar inching its way across my neighbor Marge’s bright-colored bricks .  At a distance I thought it was a Woolly Bear caterpillar, until I got up close and inspected him.  He looked almost neon-like with his bright-yellow, bristly body, but he was no Woolly Bear.  I knew I’d look him up in my butterfly and moth book when I got in the house.  He will grow up to be an American Dagger Moth, those huge moths you see flitting around outside after dark with the brownish-gray powdery wings.  When I was a kid growing up in Canada, we had alot of Woolly Bear caterpillars and I can remember my friends and I plucking them off trees or cedar bushes and letting them walk along our outstretched palm, then up our arms, giggling over the tickle of their bristles on our bare skin.  Folklore suggests that the Woolly Bear’s stripes are a good indication of predicting the Winter ahead – the wider the black stripes, the worse the Winter will be.  Well, this caterpillar was just ordinary; he had not earned any stripes, nor would he, because he was from another family.  For sure, he was not out to stir up any weather lore or bad vibes … he was just roamin’ around and gettin’ some sun and a walk … just like me.  I hadn’t planned on a nature walk today, but I got more than I bargained for with this brush with Mother Nature in the most unexpected way.

When I left for my walk this morning the welcome sight of the sunlight filtering down on my head felt good, despite the brisk breeze. The only item marring that brilliant blue sky was the vestiges of our recent Super Moon, which, although it was fading fast, was still rather impressive. I figured I’d be stepping around puddles as I walked to Meijer to pick up some produce, but most of the streets had dried up already. Many sidewalks and driveways looked like low tide because street sand and dirt had washed up and left their residue when the rainwater, which had flooded way past the curb, finally receded. I enjoyed stretching my legs after two days inside and the grocery store run is a three-mile plus trip for me. It seemed Monday’s torrential downpours and the aftermath was the topic of conversation at Meijer and the regular clerks or cashiers I usually kibitz with had horror stories to tell of customers making umpteen trips on Tuesday for more cleaning supplies to sop up, mop up and sanitize their basements. After walking home and then heading up my street, I heard the hum of a small plane overhead and looked up just in time to see silver wings dipping way down, then going on an angle, then next aiming high for the sky like a huge bird. I blinked fast as I didn’t want to miss anything. So, what was next … a loop de loop? I stood in place shielding my eyes from the bright sun with my outstretched hand waiting for an encore. I think he must have been a stunt pilot of some type, because, just as quickly as that plane zoom-zoomed in and began its acrobatics, it had vanished again, and all that was left was the perfect sky, a series of contrails and the slight hum of that silver bird’s engine in the background.

These days, it’s not just fries and soda that are super-sized! Well, yesterday I wanted to write about Sunday’s Super Moon and my walk on Monday morning, however, my boss, who was wending his way back from the Upper Peninsula, had a work emergency, so we began our Monday at 7:00 a.m. with over-the-phone dictation. We finished up, and, though I had an agenda, one quick glance outside told me the rain was moving in earlier than the mid-afternoon time frame the weather folks had predicted. I didn’t even go walking, and, when the rain started a short time later, as you know, it never stopped. I think I counted three, if not four, back-to-back torrential downpours, and, as I write this blog post, still another storm is brewing. I feel for the people with flooded basements as we lost alot of furniture and belongings when we had a bad storm like yesterday’s in the late 60s. I wonder if the weather forecasters look into their respective crystal balls and see any more super-sized weather disasters besides the dire predictions that I’ve already heard for this coming Winter? It seems we will plunge into another polar freeze, but not as much snow. Sigh. Speaking of super-sized phenomenons, even the moon goes into that category. I hope you caught a glimpse of it Sunday evening because the conditions sure were not wonderful to see it last night. I took a picture but it didn’t do it justice. Our next Super Moon is September 9th and I sure hope there are no other fractious weather disturbances simultaneous with its arrival. Looking at that big ol’ moon, it seemed like you could reach up and touch it – it was that close. It kind of made me wonder why, as a child, I really believed my folks when they told me the moon was made of cheese. Hmmm. Swiss? Pass the crackers please.

Music has the ability to take you back to another time and place … so also would this wooden tree house.

The Beach Boys are back in town … they are at Freedom Hill in Sterling Heights tonight. Back in the 70s my friends and I got tickets to see them every year at the old Pine Knob, and in 1976 I went to see them twice that Summer – at Pine Knob and the Canadian National Exhibition. The Beach Boys and their music were on my mind today as the past few days I’ve heard snippets of their most-famous songs in anticipation of their concert, including one of my favorite songs “Wouldn’t It Be Nice?” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD4sxxoJGkA

Whenever it rains, I’m reluctant to go to Council Point Park for a day or so, due to the soggy ground and the mosquitoes, so for awhile there, I was wearing a path down Emmons Boulevard in the direction of the Detroit River. Sometimes, as you know from following my blog posts, I’ll just end up at the railroad tracks and sometimes I make it all the way down to Emmons and Biddle at the River. Without fail, whenever I pass the above house, I always look to see what new items have been added since my last foray down Emmons because their house, porch and front yard have a definite country flair and there is always some new doodad. About a month ago, I noticed the makings of a tree house had sprung up rather suddenly. It was located in a very tall tree and was fairly large. I snapped a picture of it at the time, thinking it was a wooden platform and a ladder and that was it. But, over the course of the last few weeks, incredible enhancements were taking place to this wooden tree house. Finally, it is complete – with a roof, porch, front door, windows, and even a sign that says “Follow Your Dreams” … well, I had to smile when I saw the finished product. The next time I see the man who lives in that house, I will give him an “Atta boy”, just as I complimented him on his cherry-red wooden seated rope swing he made for his kids and hung it from a big tree in his front yard last year. I even wrote about it in a blog post. He must be a super dad, huh? Although the Beach Boys are quick to lament being too young to take off with their main squeeze, and wishing they were older in the song “Wouldn’t It Be Nice?”, it would be the reverse for me after seeing that tree house, because I looked at it, just a little wistfully, thinking how fun it would be to climb up there, away from the rest of the world and just be carefree like a kid again. It seems we spend many years of our lives wishing we were older and all grown up, then we get to be older and have regrets for the paths we never chose, or the things we didn’t get done, though it’s really never too late to follow your dreams, just like the sign says.

I could even apply that logic to my walking regimen. Just a mere three years ago, when I began walking, I was triumphant over a trek that encompassed a five-block radius. Then I thought it was a big deal if I walked a mile. This morning I walked the equivalent of a 10K course, or 6.2 miles. For many years, I’d stand out on Fort Street waiting to board the suburban bus to take me downtown to work. I’d often see walkers as I waited on the bus and we’d pass the time of day, and, as I waved goodbye to those walkers to board the bus, often I’d wish I could catch up with them and leave the normal everyday routine behind me. But, I knew that one day, probably when I was retired, I’d be living the dream and walking as much as possible. Well, here I am now, not yet retired, but I still am able to follow that dream.

Today, I was up bright and early because over breakfast I decided I was going to turn my walk into a 10K trek. I figured I was in good shape to accomplish this feat since I’d walked at least five miles each day over the past five days. I got down to the Park and did my usual tour around, but today I did an extra loop, plus the mileage accumulated going and returning from the Park, so my pedometer registered right at 6¼ miles when I got home. I sure was whipped but I was proud of my accomplishment and said to myself “not bad for an old girl”, and, since my oatmeal from breakfast was in my toes already, I rewarded myself with a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich followed by a large glass of chocolate milk, delicious … and probably the meal of choice for a five-year old. But, as I enjoyed my little snack, I must say I felt like a kid again.

It dawned bright and beautiful again and I was happy to be blessed with another great walking day. I ate breakfast and was headed out the door by 7:30 a.m., donned in lightweight clothes, as well as blinders, as I blithely blitzed past the dust bunnies that called out to me as I closed the door. Maybe I’ll tackle them tomorrow, because on this early morn I was going to see the real bunnies and whatever else flora and fauna was waiting for me at Council Point Park. There, I found the usual fellow walkers or joggers as well as furry and feathered friends as I started along the perimeter path. I paused for a brief minute at the fork in the path, pictured above, as I pondered whether I ought to live recklessly and start on the left side instead. Nope – leaving the dust bunnies behind was reckless enough for one day, and, so I let my feet guide me as I entered the trail as usual on the right side. It was very humid and a large gaggle of geese had gathered at the baseball diamond and appeared to be resting quietly between eating gigs as none of them were grazing or even strutting around. By the time I finished the two complete loops, the sun was high in the sky and very bright and it was getting sticky out. The trail was also getting pretty crowded by then as well. There is a runner that I see every weekend and he reminds me of Sylvester Stallone’s “Rocky” character in the movie by the same name. No matter the temperature, he runs in several layers of clothes and always has a wool hat on his head. It makes me warm and worn out just watching him as he huffs and puffs as he goes ‘round and ‘round the Park perimeter path. Another guy ran past me several times as I made my way around the trail and he was tethered to an iPod, or some type of musical device, and had earbuds jammed into his ears. As he flew by, the music was cranked up and I could hear what song was coming from his ears … he, however, was singing so loudly to that music that he was oblivious to everyone and everything happening on the pathway. Besides the usual exercise devotees getting in their morning laps, including dogs, there was alot of activity going on near the more-open portion of the Park. Canopy tents were set up everywhere on the soccer field as well as a huge, authentic-looking teepee and a big metal stand which held eight canoes. I wish I could say they were birch-bark canoes, but they were just made of ordinary red metal. There were many Native Americans on the soccer field as well. I asked one of them what event was taking place and was told it was an American Indian Movement Pow Wow. The field sure was bustling with activity just as I was getting ready to leave and head home. It was getting very hot and humid as I walked up the driveway and I was glad to be heading inside, with no other agenda today, save downing a tall glass of ice-cold chocolate milk and enjoying a welcome sit-down.

I left as soon as the sun was up as I aimed to make a five-mile trek today. I had to divvy up my morning between a pleasurable walk followed by long-overdue yard work. When I left the house, the sky was a dappled, dark-gray color and it appeared as if it would rain, but the weather folks claimed the dismal-looking sky was just the result of the wildfires in Central and Western Canada. For my entire walk, it stayed hazy, and the sun kept holding back, hesitant to peek out, and instead, hiding behind those gray clouds, so it wasn’t very picturesque. I shot down to Council Point Park and found many of the regular fellow walkers already up and at ‘em. The middle-aged woman, who regularly rollerblades along the perimeter path, was lacin’ ‘em up as I passed her at the pavilion. I walked two complete loops and it was a rather unremarkable trip, save for a place where a catfight had taken place last night … oh, the fur must’ve been flying as there were tufts of thick, cream-colored fur everywhere … I wonder who won? The straggly looking weeds in the Park, growing untamed and wild with all the recent rain, looked out of place – even in this venue. I had to admit they’d rival some gargantuan weeds that awaited me when I returned from my walk. I waved or said my goodbyes to everyone standing near the parking lot, some whom I had passed at least three or four times on the trail. I walked slowly, in no great hurry to get home and tackle the grass, and my weeds. I changed to garden shoes and went out. The backyard was all abuzz with mosquitoes and bees and I kept swatting away at my face, (the only place where skin was showing), as I’d hear incessant buzzing about my head and hair and I wasn’t sure which pest it was coming from. I hoped they wouldn’t travel back into the house with me when I left their domain. It seemed that many mosquitoes were ganging up and honing in for an attack and no matter what I did, they landed and lingered with their pesky proboscis drilling right through my long-sleeved shirt. The incessant buzzing had me stopping to whisk off mosquitoes or wave away bees, and then I determined the buzzing was coming from the direction of my coneflowers. I keep hearing about the honey bee shortage nationwide this year … I’m here to tell you to look no further. The bees are back in town and they are in my backyard. A few chased me around the yard when I interrupted their breakfast and I swatted at many mosquitoes and interrupted their breakfast which was me. The yard work done, I dragged myself into the house and got cleaned up. After that, I don’t know where the day went … I looked at the clock when I came in from outside and it seemed the next time I glanced at it again, it was time to eat dinner. I perused Facebook and caught up with today’s e-mail and here I am at this late hour … well, it is a late hour for me as I am an early riser. I was proofreading this post and nodded off, awakened by a loud noise, probably a firecracker in the neighborhood. I started upright, shook my head, read faster and decided it was off to bed pronto so I may recharge and be ready to take on the world, one step at a time, in another eight hours.

I returned to Council Point Park this morning after an absence of over a week. I missed going there. Though the trip to the River is nice, I do enjoy my escape to the little nature nook stuck in the middle of the Big City, plus the resulting peace and tranquility I get from visiting there. It was very early when I arrived, but the perimeter path was already filled to capacity with walkers, a jogger pushing a baby carriage, a rollerblader and a bicyclist or two. Even a few squirrels scurried along the path looking for handouts, and I briefly felt remorseful that I had left their Ziploc peanut pack behind on the deacon’s bench when I dashed out the door.

The air was alive with the usual Park songbirds, and the trees were atwitter with whistles and cheeps as I walked along the familiar path. But, suddenly I heard a new and different tweet as I swiveled my head around to determine where the pretty melody originated from. I was lucky enough to see a beautiful goldfinch jumping on a nearby bush. His bright yellow body and striking white and black markings stood out like a beacon in the drab green foliage, and he hopped from branch to branch, warbling his song. I tried to match him tweet for tweet, but could not, and so he quickly abandoned me, probably in search of a better whistler to accompany him than me. He reminded me of my little Buddy sound asleep at home, and I sighed heavily because I knew I was going to ruin Buddy’s day with a trip to the vet later in the morning.

I finished my path loops and headed for home. Suddenly, I heard a rhythmic clicking noise and laughter behind me. My curiosity piqued, I had to turn around and see what was happening. It was a middle-aged couple riding along Electric Avenue on a bicycle built for two. Well, they looked pretty darn happy, pedaling all their cares away, and the woman’s laughter just lit up the still morn. They almost looked like twins in their black bicycle pants and powder-blue tees and they even sported matching black fanny packs. The man, who brought up the rear, was now laughing too, and trying hard to tip a water bottle to his lips at the same time. Their gaiety was infectious and I was sorely tempted to start singing, or at least humming, a few bars from “Bicycle Built for Two”, having memorized it during my accordion lesson days.

All too soon I was home, and got cleaned up and swigged some chocolate milk, then went to wake Buddy to get him ready for his vet visit – just toenails clipped today. As a general rule, just as soon as I remove Buddy’s covers and carry his cage out to the kitchen from the den where he sleeps, he immediately comes to life and breaks into non-stop singing. Then, after his initial serenade to me, I say “well good morning back to you little one.” For the second time today I felt guilty – me, with a natural high, just fresh off my nature walk, but I knew his bubbly nature would soon be dashed and his happy bubble would burst, when we strayed from our familiar morning routine. I started removing a toy and a treat which hang on the access door so that the vet could reach in and grab that little nipper to nip his toenails. Uh-oh … Buddy’s radar was up immediately and he got quiet. He knew he was going somewhere and he was suddenly subdued … so was I. He had a five-minute visit with the vet, and he must’ve squirmed as there were three large wing feathers laying on the floor of the cage, and soon we were back home to begin our regular ritual. I think it takes more out of me than Buddy, who the vet tech said was singing away in the back room and entertaining the staff. What a ham!

Once we were both settled back in, and throughout the day, I thought of that middle-aged couple on the bike built for two, and their unbridled joy in such a simple pleasure as pedaling along and just loving life.

My boss left for the U.P. today, a trip that will take him some seven or eight hours, and nearly 500 miles one way to reach his destination. Whew! Well, that’s more mileage than I’d accumulate on my car in two or three years’ time. In fact, this year I’ve only driven 168 miles which is way below what I’ve already walked in 2014.

Once again I decided the River in Wyandotte, at the foot of Emmons Boulevard and Biddle Avenue, would be my destination. I left early enough to beat the train going as well as returning. Last night the weather folks predicted fog for this morning, but there was none, although it was extremely humid.

Before I took off, I walked into my backyard only to groan audibly over the yard work that needed my attention – I’ve not mowed the lawn in three weeks due to all the bouts of rain and while the front yard looks okay, the backyard is getting long, but it was way too wet today to deal with it. I checked out my roses and they smelled heady … their petals were damp with dew and the moist air in the backyard smelled like perfume. (I wish I could turn my above picture into the scratch-and-sniff variety, but you’ll just have to imagine the fragrance.)

I shut the gate, and started on my trek, and, as I walked through the neighborhoods enroute to the River, I glanced at the various political yard signs on many of the homeowners’ lawns. I thought wryly that most of these people featured on the vote-for placards did not prevail past yesterday’s primary elections. I figured by the time I made my return trip home, most people would have slunk out and retrieved their yard signs and hid them in the garage or backyard ‘til next week’s trash. Oh well … better luck next time.

Man … it was humid and I could feel the clamminess as I strode along. At one of the houses I pass when I walk to Wyandotte, there are always two Rottweilers in a corner backyard. They are big and sleek and they stand guard near the fence. They always snarl at me and stare me down when I near their turf. I generally cross the street so I don’t go anywhere near them, and, as I usually do with any of the large or vicious-looking dogs on my route, when I near their territory, I grab my lanyard which carries my keys, pepper spray and big whistle, and I hold it in my hands until I pass them. Otherwise these dogs just go nuts when they hear the jingle-jangle as I walk along – they obviously associate the noise with dog tags and feel the need to defend their turf. When I grabbed the lanyard, I was surprised to find the keys, pepper spray canister and whistle were moist with condensation from the humid air. Even my shirt felt clammy.

On my trip today, the humidity, plus a bit of a breeze allowed many smells to linger longer than usual – like when I passed the large lavender garden on Emmons Boulevard. On moist or humid mornings like today, the smell of lavender assails your nostrils in a very pleasant way. I would like to co-mingle some of that lavender with my rose petals and preserve it for the Winter months – I know that just a sniff, or a whiff, could get me through that long, cold season.

I passed one home from which the smell of fresh biscuits wafted from a large kitchen window – ah, heavenly! A short time later, I passed a house with the screen door propped open and a bad odor filled the air – the unmistakable smell of burnt toast. Oops! Well, I’ve done that myself a few times and that odor does linger forever, doesn’t it?

While it didn’t smell like worms despite that torrential downpour we had yesterday, my nostrils detected what I determined was “Step 3 of Scotts Turf builder’s 4-Step Annual Program”, and soon the fertilizer nuggets which crunched under my walking shoes verified what my nose had predicted. Just another pungent aroma on this sticky morn.

As I meandered home, I mused about how I heard that it was “Wiggle Your Toes Day” and though I would not be flexing my little piggies on a sandy beach to commemorate the event, I sure gave them a workout as I walked through Wyandotte and my home town of Lincoln Park on this wickedly clammy Wednesday morn.

I left early enough to head down to the foot of Emmons and Wyandotte to catch a glimpse of the Detroit River. I figured I’d beat that train that comes through around 8:20 or so … and I did. The air was still and it was very humid and I had overdressed again, so I rolled up my shirtsleeves a few blocks from home. As usual, my mind was a blank canvas as I strode out of the house, ready to ruminate, reflect and recollect on whatever came my way. I’ve often told you that, depending on what I see on my morning walk, I may have that day’s blog post written in my mind, headline included, before I come back into the house. Sometimes I need to jot down my notes, lest I forget a good idea before I get a chance to sit down at the computer. This morning, however, as I walked along to and from my river destination, my thoughts kept returning to the Lawrence DeLisle story. It was a hot August night, 25 years ago yesterday, that Lawrence DeLisle piled his family into the car and drove off a pier in Wyandotte after nightfall. It shocked the Downriver residents and beyond – it made national headlines in fact. I can recall, just like it was yesterday, watching the 11:00 o’clock news that night. There was a media frenzy then, as well as in the following days and months, as the authorities obtained evidence and facts of that horrible night. The public glommed onto every detail. Of course, there was no internet coverage back then, and so we waited for news tidbits that came on the radio, T.V. or newspaper. This past weekend, WWJ featured an interesting recap of the accident and a series of interviews aired last night to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the tragedy. The interviews involved all the main players from the story, including eyewitnesses, the primary investigating detective, defense attorney, prosecuting attorney and even the judge who presided over the case. A series of articles, including a letter from Lawrence DeLisle, who declined to participate in an interview with WWJ’s Robert Jasina, was posted on the radio station’s website, and, for me, it served to bring that tragic story back to life. It also brought alot of memories back to me, especially seeing that photo of the four innocent children, immortalized forever after they lost their lives August 3, 1989 when the family car plunged into 30 feet of water at the foot of a pier in Wyandotte. Downriver residents discussed this case ad nauseum. My next-door neighbor at the time had been diagnosed with cancer, and his son, who had just completed his second year of law school, came home from Ohio to help take care of his father. So, this up-and-coming lawyer, and me, a former journalism student and legal secretary, had a friendly nightly debate about Larry DeLisle’s guilt over the backyard fence while tending to our respective yards. This went on for months as new evidence surfaced. Ultimately, the jury made its decision, but to this day, some are doubtful it was the right decision. Larry DeLisle writes that he has been crucified for something that was an accident and he has had to bear the grief of losing his four children all these years. Alas, many tidbits about the case weighed on my mind as I trudged slowly home from that same river, in the buggy, muggy atmosphere on this Monday morn. But, though I was warmish and swatting a few mosquitoes along the way, my mind was not on my creature comforts, but instead it was on the fate of those four beautiful children and their watery death all those years ago.