WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Whew! It was wicked warm when I departed the house in minimal clothing. The heaviest items I was wearing were my shoes, and, I felt like I was clump, clump, clumping along, like an old horse. I generally like to walk when it is cooler, but today I wanted to check out the Lincoln Park Farmer’s Market and it doesn’t open until 11:00. The LP Farmer’s Market has downsized since the last time I was there about six years ago, and they have moved to a new location. Back when I was a frequent visitor to the Market, it was a hoppin’ place on Sunday mornings and the pickings were best if you arrived early. My mom loved those tiny new potatoes, and she often said she could make a meal out of them, hot out of the pot, opened with a fork and slathered with butter and a shake of salt, so I often picked her up a basket or two of them. She also enjoyed slices of beefsteak tomato piled high on a piece of crispy toast, so come August, rather than drive miles out to the country to the roadside stands, I’d often head over to the Farmer’s Market and load up. Well, it is a new type of market I noticed – different vendors and more crafts for sale than in the past. I was told some of the vendors come as far as Flint or Saline to sell their wares. I guess it is still early in the growing season for fruits or veggies, and, in fact – some of the vendors were still selling veggie plants. If you hesitated to buy your flats or hanging baskets as you thought we might still have another hard freeze, do not despair since you could pick up some deals on some hardy flowers at the Farmer’s Market. There were bottles galore of Sam’s BBQ salsa and even samples of chips and salsa courtesy of Jar Head brand. People were happily dipping their chips into the hot salsa, raising their body temp to “scorching” despite being under the cooling canopy. Homemade zucchini bread, cornbread cake and wedges, sweet potato pie, plus Maggie’s 7-Up Pound Cake seemed to be in abundance so they must be hot items at this venue. The Summer sun glinted off the translucent jars of honey which were lined in neat rows on that vendor’s table making the setting homey and inviting and a quick trip under the canopy was a nice break from that searing sun. Perhaps food is not the reason you want to frequent a local farmer’s market? Well, if crafts are your shtick, there were plenty of items like hand-made jewelry, crocheted wearables, wood items and candles … looks like there was something for everyone, all crowded into one small corner parking lot at Fort and Southfield. I came home empty handed as I really only went there for a destination and a quick look-see. I meandered around City Hall and past the police station and courthouse and took the long, long way home to get me to four miles. Well, I’ve visited all the sights around my fair town over the course of the last few days, so I hope for a return to Council Point Park at the tail end of the week when the stormy weather has subsided and cooler temps are back once again.

… were all words bouncing around in my head as I walked the Lincoln Park portion of Cruisin’ Downriver this morning. The clock was turned back in time as cars cruised incessantly along Fort Street to the delight of onlookers. It was already sticky and hot when I left the house and I was a weary road traveler after walking four miles in the sun. I was ready for a respite and looked for a shady tree near the grandstand in Memorial Park. I slowed down, then slowly merged into the row of rubberneckers who were watching this retro event, now in its 15th year. Heads were swiveling as people didn’t know which classic car to focus on – and near the grandstand, the vehicles, as colorful as peacocks on parade, preened to their onlookers, laying down some rubber, tooting their sometimes odd or bizarre-sounding horns and gunning their motors. The crowd cheered in response or oohed and aahed and often held camera phones high above their respective heads to capture the image of classic cars as they rolled by. It was truly a picture-perfect day, a tad hot, but people had staked out their viewing location in the dawn, or even pre-dawn hours, and brought along canopies, folding chairs and coolers of fluids to stay hydrated. A church group was offering free bottled water to the people that lined the sidewalk by their canopy which was set up in the church parking lot. No one seemed to be complaining about the heat though, as they bopped to the tunes heard blaring from the radios of the cruisin’ cars, and most of the drivers cranked up the radio a few decibels as they whizzed by. Great puffs of exhaust filled the air nearly choking you at times, but people seemed fairly oblivious as they were so caught up in the ambiance of the cruise. I passed umpteen placards and banners advertising oldies station WOMC 104.3 along the cruise route and it seemed everyone was tuned to this station as oldies were pouring out of car radios, boom boxes, bars, restaurants and strategically placed loud speakers. The familiar music beats and songs were infectious, stirring most people to sing, or at least mouth, the lyrics to the featured tunes – me included. In fact, I could sing most of them from heart having listened to oldies station Honey Radio AM 56 for years and most recently to WOMC. There were the usual sights: bright-colored muscle cars with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror, sleek, long and low-riding Caddys that seemed to stretch forever and many classic Corvettes and T-Birds. Taking advantage of the superb weather to roll back their respective roofs, a multitude of cool-looking convertibles kept zooming by, their proud owners and guests waving like celebs as they drove past us. It is cheap entertainment for the onlookers – not so much for vehicle owners who are paying dearly at the pump for the pleasure of cruising past the crowd that was burgeoning, especially after the event officially got underway at 10:00 a.m. The cars pictured above were my favorites from Cruisin’ Downriver in the 9:00 o’clock hour and the photo will give you a flavor of the various old cars. There were so many retro cars, but those vehicles must drive the speed limit of 35, so it is not always so easy to get a decent shot of them, unless they are at a stoplight or fueling up. I watched the cruise for about 30 minutes after I got to the grandstand at Memorial Park and then I headed home. I stopped to chat with an older gentleman who had parked his pale-yellow classic car at the end of my street. I probably surprised him when I asked if it was a Studebaker and told him I thought I recognized the model from pictures in the old family album of me as a baby sitting atop the hood of my father’s pride and joy, his two-tone blue 1955 Studebaker. Well, I was spot-on because it was indeed a ’55 Studebaker and for my curiosity, I got a tour under the hood, revealing a pristine and gleaming engine and I sure wouldn’t have kicked those tires … they had bright-white whitewalls despite having just travelled 700 miles to compete in cruise events in Elkhart, Indiana and Flint. Since the owner realized he had captured my interest, just like a proud father, he whipped out a packet of photos of his other five classic cars which he exhibits and drives in cruises all through the U.S. As I walked home and up the driveway, finally the smell of exhaust was no longer in the air, and the squeal of tires was just a memory, but that silly song “The Name Game” by Shirley Ellis has lingered in my brain all day long.

Linda, Linda – bo Binda,
Banana, fanna – fo Finda,
Fe, fi – mo Minda – Linda.

On this fine-lookin’ Friday morning, even more classic cars were rollin’ along the cruise route that follows Fort Street from Southfield Road in Lincoln Park to Sibley Road in Riverview. To boost my walking mileage, I decided to travel via foot power to my allergist appointment. That trek took me from my home in Lincoln Park, through Wyandotte and then to the office which is in Southgate. It is a four and one-half mile jaunt roundtrip. I figured the walk along Fort Street would also afford me the opportunity to get a glimpse at more of the cruisin’ cars. Absent was the Model T from yesterday, but, while I walked, I saw many of the cars that my friends owned back in the 70s – compact cars, mostly in the primary colors found in the Crayola carton, without a hint of iridescent paint on any of those vehicles. I saw a bright-yellow Torino, a candy-apple-red Mustang, a grape-colored Gremlin, a dazzling orange Duster and a brilliant green Pinto. I even saw a black original-model VW Beetle sporting flower decals all over the body and the words “Flower Power” embossed on the hood. Well, that cute-as-a-bug-in-a-rug VW Bug reminded me of my first car, a brand-new VW Super Beetle, that my parents bought me just before I started college. My father, who hailed from Germany, insisted that my first car had to be a VW Beetle. I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, and though he drove one, he would not teach me how to drive it, protesting all the while that I would be stripping his gears in my attempt to learn to drive. I still do not know how to drive a stick shift car to this day. We hi-tailed it to Seaway Motors and settled on an automatic stick with no clutch – you only had to shift to second gear when going over 55 mph. Well, that sounded easy and breezy, and, I fell in love with the Biscay Blue color and later had it jazzed up with wide and narrow white pin stripes at a local detailing shop. I worked at the diner through college and though it was a mere five blocks from home, I insisted on driving the car there. Buying gas sure didn’t break the bank because I could fill the tank for just $3.00 and only purchased gasoline twice a month. Unfortunately, my little buggy was “buggy” from Day #1. We brought it home from Seaway Motors on a Monday night and I parked it in the driveway intending to take it for a spin to show my friends after I finished dinner, however, the neighbors across the street called to announce my car had slid down the driveway on its own and was sitting in the middle of the street and leaking fluid all over. My bubble had burst on this brand-new Beetle and it had to be towed ASAP to the dealership. I didn’t get it back ‘til later in the week. But, while it no longer slid down the driveway on its own, it was prone to stalling out without rhyme or reason, and a trip to Ben’s Foreign Car Service had him shaking his head over what the problem was. The mechanic recommended I park the car backwards in the driveway to ensure it would always start. That puzzled me, but Ben’s theory worked … most of the time, unless it rained or snowed because then the engine got damp and sometimes the car would not start. I was forced to mollycoddle this car, by covering the engine with a baby blanket any time inclement weather was in the forecast, or else I’d be late for school or work in the a.m. or left at the HFCC parking lot waiting for Allstate Motor Club to arrive to give the car a jump at the end of the school day. I kept that car ‘til 1977 after dealing with a string of never-ending fits and foibles. My father decided, despite that great German engineering, the Bug was a dud and not safe for me to drive, so he took it over and I got an AMC Pacer. By then I was attending Wayne State University and getting to and from school by bus. Some things just are unforgettable – especially your first set of wheels, and despite its idiosyncrasies and issues, I still have fond memories of that Beetle. I posed with the car in the background the day I graduated from HFCC with my Associate’s degree – and there it was, with its Bicentennial year license plate and pretty pin striping, but parked backwards as usual.

A beautiful day dawned and I was up and at it, just straining at the bit to get out and enjoy a nice long walk. I targeted my journey for the neighborhood streets instead of the Park, hoping to ward off any mosquito bites due to those pesky critters that might be lurking in the dense brush near the Ecorse Creek. As I walked along Fort Street, a Model T passed me up. It looked to be in excellent condition, and seemed to be tooling along at the same speed as the other cars. Well fancy that – a horseless carriage right before my very eyes! My guess is that Model T’s owner was probably scoping out potholes in advance of Saturday’s Cruisin’ Downriver event. I also saw several roadsters, some muscle cars and a few very old pick-up trucks. Ahhh … the prelude to the Cruise begins earlier and earlier every year. The good ol’ days and nostalgia make for big events and big bucks nowadays. Everyone wants to wax nostalgic about an era that might have been before their time, or maybe they just want to relive the “good old days”. We’ve all received those e-mails or Facebook posts that start out “remember when?” and they speak about a simpler life – a life devoid of electronic devices, sitting around the supper table with your family, playing outside with your friends or cruisin’ with your buddies because cars were king. There were no locked doors, one black-and-white television set which everyone crowded around and people respected one another. Everyone longs for the good ol’ days and it seems the phrases “back in the day”, “Throwback Thursday” or “Flashback Friday” have crept into our everyday vocabulary, almost too much sometimes. Do you and your social media pals post old-time pictures of yourself, family members or friends on “Throwback Thursday” or “TT” as it is sometimes called? I often reflect on good times growing up and like to choose pictures from my youth, or as a young woman, to accompany my posts. Most of the pictures are treasured family memories or glimpses of past events or places I have visited through the years. On one occasion, the former Community Editor of the hyper local news site “Patch” sent me an e-mail: “Linda, I just love when you use vintage pictures with your posts.” Ouch!! Well, Joanna is only 28 years old after all. Through gritted teeth I thanked her for the compliment, though I didn’t know whether to cringe or bristle at the word “vintage”. Now, I certainly don’t feel like vintage material and the photos were circa mid-1950s and beyond. Nonetheless, that comment, even though it was meant as a compliment, smarted somewhat and really didn’t sit too well with me. I had that same empty feeling I get when I take a survey and must plug in the year I was born. In that drop-down menu, now I must scroll down and keep scrolling and scrolling ad nauseum until I reach 1956. Well, as the saying goes “you are only as old as you feel” and I feel young at heart, so the word “vintage” does not apply to me. My interpretation of a vintage picture is some of those crinkled-up, creased, black-and-white photos of my great grandparents standing in front of the wagon they hitched up to their horse Mable to go to church every Sunday or maybe my grandparents on their wedding day. Those old photographs paint a picture of life on a farm or in a rural town. This picture that I’m using for this “Throwback Thursday” blog post is from a venue called “Frontier City” in Oklahoma where I visited with my parents back in the mid-60s. Frontier City was a town recreated from right out of the Old West and you could watch a gunfight, take in a rodeo, sip a sarsaparilla in the saloon with some cowboys and their cronies, or have a go on the “bucking” bronco. The photographer, decked out in such garb as an old-fashioned morning coat and high-buttoned boots, took this vintage-style picture above, using a huge box camera à la Matthew Brady. It was all great fun. That photographer tinted the picture in sepia tones to make it look old and rustic – no Photoshop or Pic Monkey to enhance photos back in in those days. Ride ‘em cowgirl!

A quick glance at the sky confirms that more rain is on the way. I sure wouldn’t want Mother Nature’s water bill these days. I just took a short stroll … got up later expecting to see and hear torrential rains and rockin’ and rollin’ thunderstorms respectively, but our Tuesday weather, thus far, has been tame. The threatened severe weather did not materialize last night and the only booms and lightshow in the sky were the result of the fireworks on the Detroit River. Last night I was working on a document for work and finished up at 10:00 p.m. so I hopped on Click on Detroit to watch the extravaganza with the “sunshine” theme. Wow!! I enjoyed the fireworks immensely, but I still think I’ll watch them from afar on my computer screen rather than in person. I took this picture at Bishop Park early on Sunday morning. It was overcast from the recent rain and dark gray streaks were still prevalent in the sky. Well, I’m no Ansel Adams, but I thought it would be fun to tweak the picture to a black-and-white format to really highlight that angry-looking sky hovering over the trees with the pier in the foreground. I’ll close this post by this awesome quote by the aforementioned B&W photographer Adams: “Sometimes I arrive just when God’s ready to have someone click the shutter.”

I’ll preface this post by paraphrasing the old saying “seven days without a trip to Council Point Park makes one weak” … I figured since we are having a spate of stormy weather over the next few days, I’d best take a trip down to the Park while the conditions were dry before my feet forgot the way. I grabbed my camera and a Ziploc pack of peanuts to take along for the trip. Now that I am no longer wearing my coat with the big cargo pockets, I’m at a loss how to carry all the peanuts that I like to toss out to my squirrel buddies along the path. On days when the mercury is creeping high on the thermometer in the a.m. and the humidity drags you down as soon as you step outside, a coat sure is not needed. I keep my camera in a pouch on my waist so it is handy and my pedometer is affixed to my waistband on one hip. Carrying a bag is awkward if you want to take a picture, so I tied a larger bag onto my belt and off I went. As soon as I got to the Park, a squirrel came bounding over to see me, leaping high in the air over the fields of clover and coming to a stop at my feet. I tossed out some peanuts and he just sat there. No expectations I guess. Since I’d made this peanut pit stop and he was just looking at me, I pointed at the peanuts on the path and said “those are yours” … he just continued sniffing at my shoe and sitting by my feet on his haunches. Well, who could resist that wistful face, so I tossed out some more peanuts, but not before I snapped his photo. This young fella suddenly seemed intent on climbing up on my shoe, and since I’m not looking to have a squirrel for a pet, I stepped aside and continued on my way so he ran over to grab some goodies. There were no more squirrel encounters today, so technically I think you could call my gregarious little companion my “sole mate”.

Sure there is “Detroit River Days” happening along the riverfront this very weekend. But for those of us not inclined to travel to Detroit to worship the river, there are plenty of walkways along the water Downriver as well.

Today, I got up at the crack of dawn … well, once again it rained last night and I peered outside at daybreak and the cement was still damp, the grass was soaking wet and it was rather gloomy looking. So, Wyandotte became my destination for the day. As I got dressed and ready to leave, my intention was to walk all the way down to Biddle Avenue to get a glimpse of the Detroit River after hearing about all the hoopla happening at River Days. What I didn’t know was that Trenton and Ecorse and their waterways were also in the cards for me.

I left the house about 8:30 a.m. and was moseying along, checking out a tree that literally looked like it was covered in polka dots because its bark was peeling off, when suddenly, I saw a car slowing down. It was my friend and neighbor Marge. She was headed to Wyandotte, breakfast beside her on the seat, to just relax and watch the world go by from her favorite primo vantage point near Bishop Park. Now Marge often goes down to watch the sun rise in this very picturesque setting, and we had planned a “date” of sorts for some time, but the rain and other things seemed to always interrupt our plans. “Hop in” Marge said and I was happy to do so. Our mouths were running a mile a minute catching up on unfinished e-mail chatter and soon we were in downtown Wyandotte and at Bishop Park. Marge waived off strolling on the sidewalk that runs parallel to the Detroit River, electing to enjoy her breakfast from the comfort of the car, so I took off for a brief tour of the early Sunday morning setting along the Detroit River. I hopped out of the car almost as soon as it stopped because a huge heron was perched on the guard railing. His silhouette was striking in the very gloomy, darkish sky. Figuring he’d spy a fish and take off on me, I snapped a few pictures of him from afar. He looked like a still and solemn sentry watching over the waterfront. Before I could get any closer, and just as I predicted, he flew off, huge wings helping to propel him off that railing and glide effortlessly in the bruised-looking sky. The pier was abuzz with several fishermen stationed along the guardrail. Most were casting and re-casting their respective lines, while simultaneously being mindful of a second fishing pole, which, in most cases, was propped up between a tackle box, a five-gallon bucket of water and a makeshift bait container. Those “virtual fisherman” likewise patiently waited for a nibble. I do think most of the fishermen were strictly there for the sport of it this morning, as I didn’t see any small or big fish being reeled in, nor did I see a pile of silver bass being anyone’s catch of the day. After meandering along the river’s edge sidewalk, I headed back to the car where Marge was enjoying the view while savoring that last sip of coffee.

She then asked “how about if we go to Elizabeth Park?” Well I was game for that as well, so off we went, winding our way along Biddle Avenue which morphs into West Jefferson Avenue, until we drove through downtown Trenton and straight through to the entrance of this very scenic park. By now, the sky had brightened and people were arriving in their cars or atop their wheels – be it bicycles or rollerblades. There were walkers and joggers galore as we made our way slowly around the perimeter of Elizabeth Park. Looking down by the water, we saw many ducks and geese had congregated under beautiful large weeping trees which cast stupendous reflections upon the clear water. It was so scenic and peaceful and my head swirled around and around as I tried to take it all in. My digital camera was overworked as I sought to capture the beauty of Elizabeth Park, and, in reviewing my many shots, some which I will share with you in later posts, those photos simply do not do justice to this pretty place. After we travelled once around the Park’s perimeter, we started on the journey along Jefferson Avenue toward home.

Then Marge said “it is also pretty at Ecorse Park and sometimes there are swans there” so we just kept going and going until the road twisted and turned and we arrived in the City of Ecorse. Marge pulled over and the same ambiance was at this Park – many families and more fishermen, all out enjoying the first full day of Summer 2014. We drove through Ecorse where Marge was born and raised and she shared some stories about the people she knew back in the day and we drove past their houses before we headed home.

I enjoyed my unexpected sojourn today to these beautiful Downriver parks which border the Detroit River. There is something soothing about seeing the buoys bobbing amongst the waterfowl in the sparkling water and hearing that water lapping up in waves as each power boat zooms by in the distance. Time is forgotten while fishermen while away the hours, patiently waiting for a tug on a line, and if that wait takes several hours and produces no fish … well, … so be it. A trip to the river’s edge makes us all richer for our time is well spent enjoying any one of these natural gems.

Downriver Daze – Part 2 will happen next weekend when our 15th Annual Cruisin’ Downriver takes place next Saturday, June 28th. I plan to walk the length of the Lincoln Park portion of the route that day.

Summer finally arrived at 6:51 a.m. Hallelujah … how many times during the Winter did we long for this day? When I awoke to the shrill sound of the alarm, I found myself swaddled in blankets – it got a little chilly during the night. I glanced at the thermostat as I padded down the hall to the kitchen, and it was 73 degrees, so I nudged it up a smidge to run for a couple of cycles to ensure the little nipper, fast asleep in the den, stayed warm and cozy. It was still a little foggy when I looked out at daybreak. When I set out at 8:00 a.m. there were puddles everywhere and the sidewalk was still wet so we must have had another shower overnight. Due to the damp conditions, I decided to skip the trip to Council Point Park again and opted for a long walk to “The Dot”, i.e. Wyandotte, instead. As I walked down Emmons Boulevard toward the river, I noted that the lawns were soaking wet and dew drops dripped from porch awnings, then trickled along railings. The smell of the large Pine and Blue Spruce trees in front of the stately homes on that street emitted a strong scent, making it seem as if it were two seasons ago and I was strolling through a Christmas tree lot. As I kept walking, I heard a train whistle and the sound was long and drawn out in the still morn and I knew it had to be close as I could hear the wheels clickety-clacking as the train rattled along the track. By then I had reached Alfred Street, the crossing gates were slowly being lowered and a long train with no caboose in sight was imminent. I turned around and headed back up the Boulevard toward home. A friendly group of older cyclists rode by, each waving and calling out “good morning” as they passed me. All were clad in various fluorescent-colored shorts and tees, their collective heads all sheathed in protective helmets. A handful of hounds were out for a walk, tugging on their leads as their masters and mistresses followed close behind. I was forced to hug the lawn as these grinning pooches, pre-occupied with spending some quality time with their owners, were wont to hog the sidewalk. Quite frankly, you would not be expecting to need to give wide berth to the Fox Terriers and Chihuahuas, but they are the worst offenders. They march straight down the middle of the sidewalk exuding much confidence, leaving me to sidestep them. A few joggers and walkers passed by as well, but noticeably missing were the mayflies, which I understand are slow arriving on the scene, due to the cold Winter. I didn’t miss them. Mayflies are a fixture this time of year in Wyandotte and they were also absent at “The Crick” near the small bridge which is the boundary of Wyandotte and Lincoln Park. As I entered Lincoln Park, the sky suddenly brightened and the sun popped out. Well, hello Mr. Sun … it’s nice to see you again. It got very sunny in a matter of minutes and I checked my pedometer to find I had already racked up nearly four miles wending my way to and from Wyandotte. By now, the sun was beating down, so I detoured to walk through Ford Park, seeking a little shade from the large trees there. I stopped and removed my light jacket, looped it around my waist, intending to finish off the trek in a short-sleeved shirt. While looking for a shady tree for a brief respite, I saw a large shadow on the grass. The shadow was me and it was so sunny that my shadow was very dark. With the ¾-length coat sliding down from my waist and looking much like a long gown, and my hair fastened into a bun atop my head, my shadow looked every bit like the matronly Mrs. Butterworth whose likeness is shaped into a syrup bottle. I recognized her immediately since this is the syrup I use every morning to sweeten my bowl of oatmeal. Betcha didn’t know Mrs. Butterworth was such an awesome gal to take her own selfie did you?

The rain is slated to make another appearance later today. I believe we’ve had rain every day this week. In that 24-hour period from Tuesday through Wednesday night we logged 2 ¼ inches of rain and I was ready to grab a hammer, nails and some two by fours if it didn’t let up soon. Did you see the pictures of the flooded-out Lodge with vehicles slowly rolling along? Scary stuff! Yesterday, it finally brightened up but today is nothing special … rather cloudy and dismal looking to close out this final day of Spring. Again, no trip for me to Council Point Park as I figured it would still be too soggy and perhaps the reeds and bushes by the Creek might be laden with mosquitoes. So, like yesterday I trekked along the sidewalks in the neighborhood and along Fort Street – not as picturesque, but it gets the steps and eventual mileage done. I was able to get in three miles today. All the neighborhoods in my area appeared to be unscathed from the wind and torrential rains from Tuesday and Wednesday and I saw no fallen trees or large limbs on the ground. I was fortunate to not lose power, or have flooding downstairs, nor in the street, though I can’t speak to the neighbors’ basements. We sure lucked out, especially after hearing about and seeing all the tornado damage that wiped out two small towns. The neighborhood sights are not nearly so fun, nor photo-worthy, as a trip to the Park and since it was so cloudy I didn’t even take along my camera, so for today’s post I’m sharing my picture of the Mama duck and her ducklings I found while peering through the reeds at the Park about a week ago. I was checking out the little family and nearly lost my balance and landed into the muddy water as the banks of the Creek were a little slippery from the wet grass and some mud. Oops! There is always something wondrous to take away from a trip to the Park … it is just necessary to keep your mind and eyes open to each of those blessings. In that vein, I’d like to share a favorite quote with you:

Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This morning I went walking with the worms. Well, first let me clarify – it isn’t as if I invited a worm, or two, or three to join me in a walk on a dreary, drab, misty, rather murky-looking morning (just pick your adjective … they all describe the conditions I encountered in my early a.m. walk). The worms, unlike me, didn’t lace up their walking shoes, strap on a pedometer and set out to muddle along and gain some mileage for the ultimate goal. Nope, it is more like they owned the sidewalk and I was sharing THEIR space. There were worms everywhere just like “The Worm Song” says: “short, fat, juicy ones; long, slim, slimy ones” … they were slithering out of the lawns and stretching across the sidewalk, inching slowly along to parts unknown. Their journey may have taken them to another grassy area or perhaps eventually into a robin’s stomach, because out of the corner of my eye I watched several intrepid robins licking their chops hungrily and just waiting for me to get out of their way. Those robins had it figured out that I was the early bird who was there to catch the worm and thus intruding on their meal … not I fellas, not I. Now, worms have never bothered me and many times I’d be out weeding or deadheading my annuals and I’d see a worm deciding to cross the sidewalk, and I’d pluck it from the cement and stick it into the soil, probably saving its life. How silly of that old worm to think the grass was greener on the other side of the sidewalk, thus risking dehydration or becoming a robin’s breakfast. I do remember from all those years ago in middle school Biology class, that a worm can be bisected and the side with the head remaining will live on without its tail end … what a fate, but a fascinating factoid nevertheless. Unlike my fear of crawling insects, I can deal with worms, probably because they move slower than me. So worms have never really scared me, even the stiffer-than-a-board dead ones sprawled out on the dissecting tray in 8th grade. My lab partner and I heard our teacher’s chilling words “pick up the blade and slowly slice the worm down the middle, then open it up and pin each side of the skin onto the dissecting tray” … oh, now that was a bad memory. My lab partner shook her head vehemently, and, with tears welling up her eyes, silently mouthed to me “no, I can’t do that – you do it” so I had to be the brave one to do the “slice and dice” … a few weeks later this same lame, lily-livered lab partner also couldn’t dissect the frog, nor that cute fetal pig. Now, honestly, couldn’t we just have watched a film about these critters’ innards – more humane, less gory and less stinky. The whole lab reeked of formaldehyde and our clothes smelled of it after bending over that dissecting tray for an hour or so. I wonder if Biology teachers still subject the middle school students to these horrors? Seeing all those night crawlers in the early a.m. made my skin crawl a little and got me thinking all these years later of that silly class and its dissecting sessions and anatomy lessons and I regretted their appearance caused me to dredge up that sorry can of worms from circa ’68. Unfortunately, I can’t produce a photo of me slicing up that little bugger some 45 years ago for “Throwback Thursday” so you’ll just have to be amused by this stock photo instead. While I strolled along on my walk, albeit a short one, I struggled to concentrate on a more-pleasant subject, but the musty smell of worms in the extremely humid air kept assailing my nostrils – yuck! Plus that silly “Worm Song”, which I first learned as a youngster while attending day camp for two weeks back in the early 60s, kept coursing through my brain and has become an ear worm which has stuck with me the rest of today.