WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Well, it sure was brrrrrrrrrrrrisk this morning and that’s putting it mildly. I’m reluctant to concede that today’s weather is a harbinger of what lies ahead. Because Robb was out of the office most of the day, I piddled along taking my time waiting on some sunshine to materialize, but that never happened, so I finally left the house. It was a bruised and angry-looking sky and I wondered while I walked if I should have toted my umbrella, but I didn’t go back. It seemed to me alot of people must’ve gone pickin’ pumpkins at the pumpkin patch or the farm market because I saw a plethora of those huge gourds sitting pretty atop hay bales or adorning porch steps. Those big pumpkins will surely not spoil now with all this coolish weather. I walked down to Council Point Park and still there was not a single ray of sunshine so it seems the only beaming done this morning was by the happy Tigers fans. I did my two-mile loop around the Park’s perimeter, and there was only one other person on the trail, and he was so engrossed in his music that he tuned me out for sure, so it was as close to solitude as you could find. No train whistling or clacking along the tracks; nary a quacking duck, honking goose or burping frog. There was, however, an abundance of beautiful birdsong which was magic to my ears and once again I heard that mystery bird singing his heart out. I tried to whistle back but my lips were too cold to purse them and make my own music – I must find out who belongs to that voice. After leaving the Park, I took the long way home, looking to bank up more miles to compensate for my poor performance earlier this week, and I was about one mile from home when it started to sprinkle. Oops. Well, that put some speed into me to try to get home before getting sopping wet. I walked about four blocks and suddenly that overhead spigot was shut off thankfully, sparing me any further rain misery and soaking-wet clothes. I wasn’t going to tempt fate and take any more detours so I did not pass “go” and just went directly home, with a four-mile walk under my belt. The warm house was welcome and I was eager to come in and remove my soggy sweats and set a spell with my hands clasped around a warm cup of coffee. Brrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Am I the only one counting down the days ‘til the time change? It is November 3rd when we “fall back”, but it is not soon enough for me. On November 3rd the sun will rise at 7:08 a.m. plus we get an extra hour of sleep … a big-time bonus! But, on the downside, we’ll begin losing about a minute a day as we go full steam ahead toward Winter (ugh). More people I know despise the early evening darkness once the time changes – on November 3rd the sun disappears at 5:23 p.m., so yup, that’s a little depressing to be sure. This morning felt a mite tropical and misty and the muddy puddles had me just muddling along without that usual spring in my step. I was straining at the bit to get going since it took forever to get light out, and I didn’t want to be late getting back to start my work day, so I only eked out a measly two miles. I’d leave earlier but I don’t like to walk in the dark; that’s probably why I’m not a sleepwalker – I do hate things that go bump in the night. I’ve got some shorter, alternate routes for the dreary Fall mornings to maximize the walking experience. There are two fairly large parks within two blocks from my house – one complete loop around each is a mile. They don’t come close to Council Point Park in ambiance, but the blocks are longer and not as many cars to watch out for. Unfortunately, this morning between watching for cars backing out of driveways and scanning from side-to-side for uneven payment and/or wayward critters, my head was swiveling instead of looking directly before me and I walked through a huge spider web, the after-effect which felt like a big, gooey fishnet had been dropped over my body. I had the heebie-jeebies for the duration of my walk. Perhaps it is just the Halloween season which amplified the eek factor, but I felt like a mummy trying to claw out of its bandages before I could get home and look at my head and shoulders, then shed and shake out my sweats. It looked like no one travelled along for the ride with me thank goodness!

Squirrels are little buggers sometimes. I was walking this morning and came upon a squirrel … well, the hind end of a squirrel with his big, fuzzy tail flared out making the rotund gourd look like it had donned a Daniel Boone coonskin cap. The squirrel was bent over, rummaging around inside the pumpkin, and I don’t know why he bothered to go through those machinations, when clearly it was him who either bashed in or ate through the cut-outs representing the pumpkin’s eyes, nose and eerie grin. He could have merely walked through what was formerly the face. There was fresh pumpkin rind pieces everywhere. My lanyard with its whistle, pepper spray and house key jangling as I walk, usually makes the squirrels scram as soon as they hear me. They bolt for the nearest tree and clamber up to the highest branch, until I’ve walked past them and it is safe to come back down. But this squirrel was enjoying his treat so much, he was oblivious to me.

My neighbor, Marge, and I used to complain more about the squirrels because no matter what type of bird food we’d put out, the squirrels managed to finagle their way into the feeder. We called one such mischievous squirrel “Sammy” for no particular reason but it was easier to refer to him by name, instead of “critter”, “varmint” or other unmentionable monikers which shall not be shared in this forum.

In exasperation, I finally decided “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” and gave Sammy his own supply of raw peanuts in the shell. Every morning when I fed the birds, he got his quota of peanuts which I placed in a low dish on the porch. He promptly scurried over, grabbed them and squirreled them away somewhere, then returned to gorge himself on the birdseed. No matter where we hung the bird feeders, he was industrious and would shimmy up the shepherd’s hook then tilt the feeder with one paw and scoop out the contents with the other paw, all the while clinging to the pole with his hind feet. What an acrobat he was! Sammy liked corncobs too, but he knew the birds wouldn’t bother with those, so he would abandon the corncob and only return for it when the birdseed was gone. He dearly loved suet. He would scramble up Marge’s deck and inch along the top deck rail or hang upside down from the gazebo to wrest apart the cage to remove, then slurp down the waxy suet cake.

Sometimes, Sammy was amusing to watch, but most of the time we’d shake our heads in disgust at him, especially when we found out he played a prank on me making me look rather foolish. One particularly cold, snowy Winter I started putting three peanuts out every day just for the blue jay. I spotted him sitting in a tree one day and purposely laid the three peanuts in a row on a brick ledge by the garage door. I made a point of putting them there and looking at him, assuming he would know this was his special treat. He was no bird brain and “got it” and over the next few days, I watched him swoop down from the big plum tree to retrieve one peanut at a time. I continued this ritual through the long Winter, all the while happily thinking I was making this blue jay’s day. However, one very sunny Winter morning, Marge raised the blind in her computer room, and while looking at the monitor, she saw some movement out of the corner of her eye. It was Sammy scaling the wall vertically and reaching up with his paw blindly to knock down the peanuts. She watched him over the course of a week’s time, and as soon as Sammy saw me put the peanuts there and then go into the house, he went over and helped himself. What a sly little piglet he was! Sammy is long gone now but I’m sure his offspring still linger about. The advent of the rats in ’08 and to date has restricted our feeding and watering of the birds. Marge is a good soul and still has some feeders out, but I abandoned food and water entirely after decades of taking care of my wild, fine-feathered friends year-round.

As for the pumpkin mishap, you can bet the pumpkin artiste will be mad tonight when he sees the squirrel’s handiwork. Next time he’ll decorate his porch with whole pumpkins and use fake jack-o-lanterns.

Today is Columbus Day and Canadian Thanksgiving. I’ve lived here for 47 years but I am still a Canadian citizen, and though I am just as Americanized as you, I simply cannot ignore my homeland’s Thanksgiving Day. Dinner certainly will not be an elaborate table setting or a multi-course meal, but perhaps a turkey potpie and some pumpkin spice pudding. It will be a quiet time to be thankful for the few special people in my life and my little companion, Buddy. The other day I wrote about being thankful for being blessed with good health … my mom suffered with poor health her entire life and her later years were fraught with excruciating pain from her many medical maladies, so being healthy is important to me. This post is dedicated to my neighbor Marge Aubin. I am thankful that she encouraged me to write again, and if not for her insistence, I would never have started blogging, nor been able to achieve today’s 172nd post at WordPress. But Marge was always there for my mom and me through the years.

Let me take you back to Canadian Thanksgiving – October 9, 2000. Despite having lived in the U.S. for some 34 years as of that date, my mom still would insist on making the traditional holiday fare, even though it was just the two of us now – turkey breast with all the trimmings and homemade pumpkin pie. In her later years, my mom did acquiesce and get fruit pies from the grocery store, even Christmas mincemeat pie. She finally reluctantly decided that lemon meringue pie from “the outside” passed muster. But not pumpkin pie – that simply would not do. She did not cook up the pumpkin pulp, and, like most cooks, opted for Libby’s canned pumpkin, but she mixed in her own version of spices and her other must-have was made-from-scratch cream-cheese pie crust. Mom had been salivating over the taste of this anticipated pumpkin pie, which she made for both the Canadian and American Thanksgiving holidays. The day before, I asked if she would like me to make the pie and received raised eyebrows from her, which was not unexpected since I’d never made a pie in my life. My query really meant “would my assistance be appreciated?” and I thought my question was reasonable given the fact that my mom had had carpal tunnel surgery on Labor Day and at only six weeks post-op, her dominant hand was still a little shaky. She shook her head and vehemently said “I’m fine, really” so the subject was considered closed.

When I left for work that morning, Mom was mixing up her ingredients, and the kitchen smelled heavenly, just from the raw ingredients mixture. But the rest of the story with the pumpkin pie was nothing short of miraculous.

After making the pie crust bottom from scratch and pouring in her pumpkin mixture, she popped the pie into the hot oven. This stove was fairly new and my mom didn’t really care for it. She had started relying on her cane more and more in the house, and the lower oven was hard to reach into with ease. For years, we had a double oven and the bottom oven was used merely for storing pots and pans. The timer buzzed and my mom opened the oven door and grabbed her oven mitts. As she pulled the very hot pie out of the oven, the Pyrex dish slid across the shiny cookie sheet and because her dominant hand was not 100% due to the recent surgery, the pie plate and its contents went crashing to the floor, the hot gooey mess miraculously missing my mom’s legs by mere inches. Besides her multiple orthopedic issues, my mom had battled cellulitis in her legs for nearly 30 years. The smallest scratch or break to the skin on her legs would immediately cause a strep infection, treatable only by potent antibiotic pills or sometimes I.V. infusion, so she had to be very careful not to let anything come in contact with her legs.

Miraculously, what was left of the hot pumpkin was running all over my mom’s shoes, the kitchen floor and the colonial braided rug, but her legs were unscathed. Unlike you or me, my mom could not simply remove her shoes and walk down the hall to slip on another pair to begin cleaning up the mess. Due to her many orthopedic operations when she was younger, her feet were fused and she could not stand on her own two feet without wearing her hand-made orthopedic shoes. So, still shaking from the ordeal and the reality of what damage the hot pie could have caused to her legs, she walked carefully over to the phone, trying not to slide on the floor and called our next-door neighbor Marge. We had exchanged house keys years before and luckily Marge was home and was over to the house in less than a minute after receiving the call. Marge merely threw on a robe over her pajamas and let herself in the door. Aghast at the mess, and seeing my mom, who was still so shook up over the incident, Marge immediately went into action. She threw off her robe and it landed on the deacon’s bench and she helped guide my mom over to the table where they scraped the pumpkin pie mixture off her shoes before it could stain them. Next, Marge asked for a scrub bucket and rag and bent down on the floor to gather up the remnants of pumpkin, pie crust and shards of glass, which stretched across half the kitchen. The mess was cleaned up and despite my mom’s protestations, Marge even scrubbed the kitchen floor and sponged off the braided rug.

After that episode, all pumpkin pie-handling in and out of the oven was done by the able and willing assistant, a/k/a me. My mom was eternally grateful to Marge for helping her out that morning, as was I. For years, she would tell Marge that only a true friend would rush over so quickly and bail her out, and scrub her floor clad only in dainty little baby doll pajamas. That was a Thanksgiving that neither of us ever forgot.

We study and analyze the stats of our local sports teams to death. It is too early in the season to make playoff predictions for the Wings, and the Pistons are still in pre-season play. But, how about those Lions and Tigers!! Each of them is fresh off a win and we all hope our ferocious teams keep up the momentum. Since each of you have your favorite players’ stats memorized already, I’m going to indulge in a little self-promotion and share my own stats after today’s walk – check ‘em out:

Grand total miles walked this year as of 10/13/13: 350

I have walked 27 more miles than I’ve driven so far in 2013!

The above picture of Tigger and yours truly was taken sometime in the early 90s. My mother and I attended a grand opening of Forest City, a home improvement store which has since gone out of business, but would be comparable to a Lowe’s or Home Depot. One of the event’s promotions that day was the opportunity to be photographed with Tigger the Tiger. We drove to Redford, Michigan and found the queue for the photo op stretched half-way across the large store. Although Tigger had two handlers, plus another gentleman sitting close by with a large cooler of raw meatballs and a tranquilizer gun (just in case), Tigger was on his best behavior. His fur was sleek and very soft and my mom and I commented to each other that he reminded us of a tiger pajama bag that sat on my first real bed, after I outgrew the convertible crib. Tigger laid there motionless while the photographer posed his subject and then bustled about with his portable strobe light and Polaroid camera. After each photo session, Tigger received a little ear scratching and one raw hamburger meatball. I decided to wear this safari-suit outfit to make the picture look authentic, but too bad I didn’t don a safari hat as well, eh?

Ahh … such wonderful warm and fuzzy memories. Here’s hoping our Tigers make some special 2013 memories as well.

Sunup was early and so was I, so off I dashed out the door at 7:40 a.m. to my usual stomping grounds, Council Point Park. Enroute to the Park, as I cut through the subdivisions, a few people were sitting on the porch, including the older woman who generally sits huddled beneath a polar fleece comforter on her big rocker every morning. Today she had cast it aside and was sitting in a housecoat drinking a steaming beverage. She waved hello and we exchanged the same pleasantries about the beautiful October morning as we have all week. The Park was entirely empty when I arrived, plus most of the time on the pathway. I was walking and scanning the Creek for waterfowl with which to share my offerings … just a few tidbits of bread, when the sudden, loud whistle of the train and the rattle of its wheels grinding along the tracks on nearby Emmons Boulevard, startled me out of my reverie.

As I walked along the edge of the Creek, the sunbeams literally lit up the park and shone down upon the water. I wish I could say I looked into the water and saw my reflection, but that would be a falsehood. The truth is the waters of the Ecorse Creek are muddy and murky and you would not want to be dipping your toes in there. When I gaze through the bulrushes and reeds to see the geese or ducks, I suppose it is like donning a pair of rose-colored glasses. I do not see the murky water, nor do I see the huge cement boulder in which black spray paint proclaims that “Rick Loves Lisa”. I am also oblivious to the large tree where someone, no doubt the same clever artist, has emblazoned “Marks The Spot” in bold, black letters. I can’t help but wonder what happened to the “X” part of the sentence. Unfortunately, Lincoln Park is in financial straits so bare-bones maintenance, i.e. grass cutting and clean-up of the picnic shelter and restroom area, is about all that is accomplished at the Park. From time to time, the Mayor calls upon her constituents to spend a morning with her doing clean-up with their own rakes and gloves, and it is then that a crumpled Cheetos cellophane bag, or an old candy wrapper and all the wayward empty plastic water bottles disappear from beneath the bushes along the water’s edge. Because I’m a glass half-full kind of person – yes, you could call me the eternal optimist, I see right past the graffiti and litter and take comfort in the beauty that is really there and you don’t have to look hard to find it.

I am not the only person who is soothed or takes comfort in those 27 acres of woodland area. As you walk along the looped path, there are dozens of memorial trees of every size and variety planted throughout the Park. A square memorial stone accompanies these special trees, which bears the honoree’s name, birth and death date. As the seasons have progressed from Spring to Summer and now Fall, I have watched the various adornments placed at the base or on the branches of these memorial trees. I would liken the trees to gravestones in a cemetery, with the decorating usually done with equal solemnity. I guess I am unique in that I’ve never been to a cemetery for anyone in my family nor my circle of friends. I have done charcoal etchings at the historic Oakwood Cemetery in Wyandotte and visited Arlington Cemetery and Flanders Field, but the latter two occasions were as a tourist. My grandparents both passed away in cold weather and burial was not done after the funeral ceremony. My mom’s ashes were scattered in a woodland area near the water in Amherstburg, Ontario.

So, in these three seasons I have walked through the Park, there have been many poignant remembrances to loved ones such as trinkets or flowers laying alongside the memorial stone or a wreath hanging on a branch of their loved one’s memorial tree. Flowers in cone-shaped holders with a placard honoring Mother’s Day and Father’s Day or a flag near the tree’s base for Memorial Day or Fourth of July are also heartrending tributes to lost relatives or friends. But today, I saw a remembrance that took me aback somewhat. As I approached a small elm tree I first smelled, then saw the freshly mounded, dark cypress mulch around its base. A small scarecrow was sticking out of the mulch. It caught my eye right away as did the new harvest-décor wreath which was suspended from a branch. Despite the soaking wet grass, I strode over to read the stone. It was a young woman – Erica, born March 9, 1987 and died on December 27, 2008. Only 21 years old. I felt sorry for the parents whom I never met and their daughter whom I would never meet, who died two days after Christmas. It made me feel sad, despite the whimsical scarecrow standing guard over the stone and tree.

Also sad and sentimental, was the gathering of my fellow grads from the LPHS class of June ’73 who assembled at Council Point Park this morning to collectively view the small maple tree where a stone memorializes the thirty students who have passed away since graduation. On Facebook I have perused last week’s 40th reunion pictures and the list of our deceased classmates, in addition to the commentary and reflections on their deaths. The group no doubt paused at the inline skating rink which is dedicated to David Ward, our classmate and a Lincoln Park firefighter. But Dave, who passed away in 1999, did not die in the line of duty –cancer took him, just as it claimed the lives of many of the others. I departed the Park before this group wended their way along the path while they revisited old memories and paused to remember their friends’ passing.

When I finally left Council Point Park I walked a near-identical trek as yesterday, only this time I meandered around Lions Park, instead of merely marching past it. It was the first time I ever visited this particular park since its dedication in 2010. Lions Park also has a paved, perimeter path that runs parallel to the Ecorse Creek and is a mini version of Council Point Park but the playground equipment is geared for handicapped and special needs children, and a sensory garden has been created where blind people can walk through and smell and touch the flowers and hear the birds. The entire park is an elaborate set-up to make special needs kids feel as normal as any other kid at a playground. Thank you to the Lions Club for seeing this need.

As I walked home, I reflected on how blessed I was to have had a normal childhood, not touched by illness or pain, walking around unencumbered by a wheelchair, walker, crutches or braces like these poor kids. My own mother was hit by a car at age eleven and spent the next four years in a pediatric hospital and underwent over forty orthopedic-related operations in her lifetime. This was all because Pauline did not look both ways before she crossed the street and made an impetuous dash in front of an automobile on July 12, 1937.

Today, I felt very lucky. I walked 5 ¼ miles on healthy legs, heard the beautiful birdsong, witnessed the leaves turning colors and smelled the semi-musty odor of the leaves on the wet grass. In reflecting on my life, I know I have an awful lot to be thankful for. I leave you with this song, circa early 70s. I remember listening to it on my stereo with huge headphones as I was not allowed to blast my music in the house. The song was insightful then and now just as much. I was thinking about this song while walking this morning. It is by The Marmalade and entitled “Reflections Of My Life”. Have a listen and see if you are moved by it as well: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVppxyO6HwQ.

Feelin’ ducky after my trip to Council Point Park this morning. It was reminiscent of many hours spent tossing chunks of bread to my feathered friends at the water’s edge in High Park, Toronto when I was very young. Esteemed doctors will tell you most people have no memories of any events before they were three or four years old. I would beg to differ with that statement because it seems like I have vivid recall of such treasured childhood memories. Perhaps they are engrained within my very soul.

I very clearly remember being a toddler and visiting beautiful High Park, which was smack dab in the bustling city of Toronto. Before we moved to Oakville, when I was two years old, we lived in an apartment in the City. My father worked six days a week and so nearly every Sunday, weather permitting, we’d leave the apartment and head over to my grandmother’s house for a quick visit, then on to High Park. When I was very young, I’d be all bundled up and off we’d trundle to the great outdoors as I took in the world from my stroller. The old family photo album is also full of black and white pictures of me sitting on a blanket with my mother or toddling after my father. My mom was handy with her Baby Brownie camera, using it to capture many shots of me holding my father’s hand as I sometimes squatted down to scatter the crumbed-up bread to the eager ducks or swans near the water’s edge. Though my parents were not wasteful with food, there were always the dry heels of the bread and a few extra slices scammed from further down the loaf , which my mom would break up and bag so her little girl could feed her feathered friends. I delighted in that simple joy then, just as I do now. In fact, I bet we were headed to High Park on the day this picture was taken – just look at my big gummy grin. Even after we moved to the suburbs, a visit to Toronto usually had my grandmother joining us for the expedition as we picnicked, or simply walked and talked and threw out crusts of bread to the ducks and swans in the large ponds found throughout High Park.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy my walks at Council Point Park so much … it evokes those pleasant childhood memories of going to High Park, which is similarly a large natural park, found in an urban setting. A big plus any day is if I get to see or hear some wildlife as well; today, much to my delight, there were lots of ducks … so, I felt like a little kid again.

Yesterday, while I was at the Park, I saw a handful of mallards swimming in the Ecorse Creek and I’d also seen the pair the day before. I didn’t mention my duck discovery in yesterday’s post because, well … you know – felines and fowl shouldn’t cross one another’s path, even in a blog post. (Smile) Seeing so many ducks two days in a row prompted me to check the freezer last night for some stale bread I’d put aside for the birds, and I defrosted, then broke up, about ten slices to take to them this morning. I laid the chunks of bread on the counter-top all night so they’d get a little stale and would float on the water’s surface. I looked forward to getting as close to the Creek’s edge as possible (without falling in) and skittering some dried crumbs out to them. I figured if the ducks weren’t there, my Canada Geese buddies would enjoy it.

I snaked along the perimeter path watching for ducks, and I heard them before I saw them. They were quacking noisily, all gathered in a marshy part of the creek. I hid behind a bush to watch them. There were easily three dozen ducks – all mallard males and females clustered amongst the Creek reeds. I’ve never seen so many ducks at one time at the Park. Once again, there was some ground fog, and the vapors rising out of the water made the scene look a little hazy. I got as close to the water’s edge as I dared without slipping and falling and tossed the bread to them in several handfuls. They immediately congregated at each site where the crumbs landed. I watched them nibbling hungrily as they alternately quacked noisily and gobbled quickly. Then suddenly the morsels were gone, and soon they disappeared downstream as well, so it was time for me to be on my way. It was a peaceful interlude in my Park perimeter trek.

Much too soon I concluded the perimeter path, and, though I longed to stay and do a few more loops, I reluctantly left the ambiance of the Park. I prolonged my promenade by following River Drive all the way to Lions Park and then finally, regrettably decided to head home. I walked 100 steps shy of five miles so I will be one tired little papoose as this night wears on. It sure was easier when Mom pushed me in the stroller and she did all the work!

I glanced at the clock as I stood impatiently tapping my foot, fully dressed and ready to go. I crept out the side door just as the sun burst through the clouds, which, up to 7:45 a.m., had been throwing dapples of shadow but no promising big bursts of light. The air had a definite bite to it and I hunched further into my sweatshirt cardigan and dug my gloved hands into the pockets. I made a mental note to drag out still more woolens from the cedar closet this weekend.

I stole down to Council Point Park and the sun hit me full in the face as I walked toward the start of the pathway. Once again, the fog permeated the low-lying soccer and baseball fields and eerily hovered over the vast grassy areas. Perhaps the mysterious extra-large, wet paw prints I saw yesterday on the perimeter path belonged to the feet of that feline fog that Carl Sandburg writes about. For sure those big paw prints were not from “Paws”, the Detroit Tiger’s mascot, hoping for an early a.m. photo op.

In the early morn, the media was conflicted whether they should be more abuzz about today’s Kilpatrick sentencing or tonight’s Game 5 of the ALDS series. The Tigers seemed to be the happier subject though, especially after our boys clawed and scratched their way to a win in Game 4 Tuesday night. That victory helped the somewhat dubious and fair-weather fans to once again proclaim them as OUR Tigers. I’ve enjoyed seeing the Photo-shopped pictures of a tiger chomping on an Oakland Athletics’ bat throughout this series, yet no images were to be found to accompany this post. So, will JV do well? Will the Tigers prevail or will we see you next Spring boys? Go get ‘em Tigers! Everyone should sing along, even if you’ve not yet perfected “the growl”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzmAuKXfhP4

The Tigers hoopla got me thinking about big ol’ striped tigers of the warm and fuzzy variety causing me to remember my bus buddy, Pat Quinn, who works amongst these beasts. Pat and I rode the suburban bus to and from Detroit for eons. Fifteen years ago, Pat decided to take a week’s vacation to Arkansas. She was an animal lover with a pet house cat and decided to tour the big cat preserve called Turpentine Creek in Eureka Springs, Arkansas (www.turpentinecreek.org). Turpentine Creek, then as well as now, is not a zoo but a refuge for rescued big cats and they later added other non-feline wildlife to the mix. Well, Pat was instantly enamored with the compound and its inhabitants. Turpentine Creek was sorely in need of volunteers and Pat was invited to bottle feed the baby tigers and later to give them some exercise by walking them around the compound, under the watchful eye of another more-experienced volunteer. She was ecstatic and asked what else she could do to help. Well … the cages needed cleaning. Pat was game. They also needed someone to help with some administrative duties in the office. Pat had worked as an executive assistant at a large bank in Detroit for years so she was more than qualified. She went in and met the owner/operator of Turpentine Creek, (before mucking out the cages of course), and they talked cats, credentials and pipedreams … a story he had in his head and wanted to create into a memoir about his experiences at the compound. Was she game to join their little family? As infatuated as she was with Turpentine Creek, it was a big step to take. Pat told him she needed to mull it over and he told her to take her time. A handshake and the “interview” was over but Pat visited the compound every day for the balance of her vacation, communing with nature and the baby tigers plus doing alot of oohing and aahing over the big, beautiful cats.

The following Monday, she recited her experience to me enroute to Detroit and I said “wow, I’d go for it Pat” and she said she was still conflicted. That night on the bus trip home, she told me she gave her boss, a banking exec at Comerica Bank, two weeks’ notice and she had alot of plans to make. A long-time divorcée, with her kids now grown and on their own and no other family, she had no strings to hold her here. Within a month her house was up for sale and she was living in Arkansas. Pat took her computer with her and a makeshift office was created for her to do her administrative duties for Turpentine Creek. But not all her chores kept her office-bound. While she no longer opted to muck out the cat cages, she still found time to walk the baby tigers who were now growing in leaps and bounds. She knew each of the big cats by their name and would call out to them as she walked through the compound. She told me she was never scared as she thought of them as “just big kitties”. At night she worked with her new boss on the manuscript to memorialize his life-long dream. We’ve kept in touch via e-mail through the years and she never regretted her decision. She had a house built on a big hill, just a stone’s throw away from the wildlife sanctuary. She is now semi-retired and only works two days a week. Think of the stories she could tell – perhaps one day she will write her own tale about mingling with the big cats.

This morning was simply gorgeous – brisk, bright and it had a glad-to-be-alive feel to it. My destination was Council Point Park to get a dose of nature, and thus a peaceful start to what promised to be a busy work day. I chatted up some of the “regulars” and we compared cold-weather gear and bemoaned the length of time to get suited up and out the door compared to a few short weeks ago. Conversations with fellow walkers are usually short as everyone is there on a mission – their morning constitution blended with Mother Nature’s offerings. I reversed my path perimeter direction this morning as I saw two huge flocks of geese flying in formation overhead and I had nowhere to duck for cover and I wasn’t wearing a hoodie. Thankfully, they passed by without incident leaving my head unscathed by goose plops.

I couldn’t believe how bare some of the trees were since I was last here. The green leaves were now in the minority, with red, orange and yellow hues quickly encroaching. The Park grounds were cloaked in heavy dew and I saw some interesting footprints on the pathway. I eliminated any kind of birds right away, and they were too big for squirrel paw prints, so what was lurking out there? There were several sets of four paws that were running or hopping. Hmmmm. I looked around and saw no one walking a dog. I abandoned the idea of any wild thing running through the Park and continued on my way.

I rounded the curve and soon I was walking parallel to the Ecorse Creek. There was no breeze whatsoever, and, as I peered between the bulrushes and reeds, the water was very still and leaves littered the surface. I rounded the second curve with the view of the Creek still to my right, but this time, I saw a mallard drake and his mate swimming down the very center of the water. Each was silent and, but for their straight path and tiny ripples in the water, I would have thought they were decoys. Rather than swimming companionably side-by-side, the drab, brown-mottled female swam behind the multi-colored male; her acquiescence to pull up the rear annoyed me just a little. I watched them as they continued gliding through the murky waters until I could see them no more.

To my right, next came the baseball diamond which is enclosed by a chain-link fence and here was a rather amusing sight with three Canada Geese. Two were waddling around the field, alternating between grazing and making a horrible honking noise, in fact altogether too much noise for just two birds. But … on the outside of the fence, looking in, was a solo goose. I want to say he was looking at his counterparts wistfully, like he wished he was joining them. Crazy as that sounds, in the duration of time that I watched him, he walked around the entire fenced area and kept looking it. Don’t you know that I just wanted to go over and give him a boost over the fence? Then, the tender soul that I am, started to worry he was injured and could not fly. I stopped, thinking if he was hurt, I’d call the Animal Control officer when I returned home. In the blink of an eye, the secret password was exchanged between the trio, and they simultaneously lifted off and flew up in the air together. A little goose attitude going on there perhaps?

I heard a new birdcall – very strong and a pretty warble. I searched the trees overhead for the mystery singer, but could find no bird up there making such sweet music, yet it continued through the last leg of my journey. Phantom singers and phantom critters making fresh, wet paw prints. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.

Before I knew it, the two-mile trek was over and I was back at the parking lot. I hated to end my walk so I continued along River Drive to the Lincoln Park/Wyandotte border for a last glimpse of the Creek then headed home. I shed my warm weather clothes and perused the pedometer and was pleased to have packed in 7,595 steps, or a scoch over 3 ¾ miles, during my peaceful promenade, especially at Council Point Park.

Well, today’s perfect weather more than made up for the past few dismal days, but how about those chilly temps? Time to throw another cozy comforter on the bed and dig out the well-worn flannel shirts. Or, if you’re so inclined, get some wood to throw another log on the fire. That always sounds so warm and comfy, even though my electric fireplace in the living room merely glows orange embers and doesn’t emit heat; in fact it is not even plugged in. When we repainted and wallpapered several years ago, we were weary of the mess and pushed everything back and later realized the cord was buried inside the guts of the fireplace, so it merely lends a touch of holiday ambiance as a place to hang your Christmas stocking.

I started my morning with a furnace tune-up and the tech proclaimed the furnace in good shape and ready to use any time. I told him I am a hovering pet parent who babies her canary and I’ve already had the furnace on multiple times through the month of September on those chilly morns. To test the furnace, he had me crank the thermostat to 80 degrees. I thought he would never tell me to shut it off and I could hardly wait to get outside and cool off when he was all finished.

If you follow my posts, you know I aim to get my walking miles accomplished any way I can get ‘em and today was no different. My boss was out of the office until late afternoon and was headed to the Tiger game, so my day was programmed for productivity instead of keyboard interaction. When the Flame tech departed, I wavered on just taking a walk or running the car and opted for both by going grocery shopping. I’m happy to report I drove three miles roundtrip and walked three miles in the store and hauling in the groceries so I’ve still got the car mileage beat by seven miles. We have a week of beautiful weather stretching before us, so I must work hard to make up for the last few “slacking” days.

I did several tours of the entire store, marching along all the while to the tune in my head – the earworm of my favorite spooky song, “The Monster Mash” by Bobby Boris Pickett. I love that song and always look forward to hearing it this time of year. The Michigan Lotto has a commercial running for “Monster Cash” using a close variation of the original song, so it has infiltrated my brain and has been running non-stop through my head since the ad campaign launched.

For years I’ve heard that Halloween is fast becoming the second most-decorated holiday. Today the Halloween candy was out … all miniature sizes, which is supposed to make you feel better as you hand out one goody, and unwrap another goody for yourself. The time to buy it is now, and then tuck it away lest it be gone by Halloween evening. I gave up sweets for Lent a few years ago and have not touched any candy or baked goods since, but I also no longer buy M&Ms either. I could tell tales about having those small bags of M&Ms too close in proximity. I always had candy on my desk at work and we dishes of M&Ms around the house for all the holidays and plain or peanut – they were always my downfall.

Round and round the store I continued, pausing briefly at the pet department when I saw all the costumes on display. There was quite the array of Halloween costumes for your pooch or cat. It seemed that roly-poly chenille pumpkin costumes came in every size, and how about this get-up for a husky who wants to collect treats masquerading as a piñata? Talk about morphing your holidays together. Hmmmm.

A mere fortnight ago, the dregs of the gardening supplies and knick-knacks were still stocked on Meijer’s store shelves and today they are missing, the shelf stock having morphed into holiday fanfare. Hopefully no slugfest happens in your garden in the near future as the bug-fighting gear is now relegated to the storerooms as the Christmas decorations are slowly appearing on those same shelves. This morning, half the offerings were sitting on shelves or hanging up, while heavy, four-wheeled dollies were groaning with corrugated boxes, marked “wreaths”, “stockings” and “bulbs” with those boxes emblazoned with a “Fragile!” warning.

On the heels of the holiday décor section, and with visions of sugarplums now dancing in my head (thankfully replacing the strains of the “Monster Mash”), I finally grabbed a cart and stopped to pick up a small case of mac-and-cheese for my contribution to Buddy’s veterinarian’s annual holiday food bank collection. Meijer had a super sale so I loaded up on “Sponge Bob Square Pants Kraft Mac-and-Cheese”. Who knew Sponge Bob Square Pants’ mug is now featured as squishy orange squares dripping in cheese? Don’t get me wrong; I love mac-and-cheese and make it sometimes, except I am prone to standing and eating a large portion right from the pot after stirring in the cheese without at least delivering it to a bowl first. I could wax nostalgic on my mom’s baked mac-and-cheese, chock full of three cheeses and crumbled bread on top that got to be an oh-so-cheesy baked crust. I wouldn’t attempt this feat, since, as I’ve mentioned before, the baking and cooking genes passed me over long ago.

I’m glad to be back walking and tomorrow I’ll set my sights on Council Point Park for it has been one week since I’ve been there and to paraphrase the saying – seven days without an infusion of nature in your life makes one weak.