WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Judging from last evening’s heavy rain, I suspected this might be a stay-in-the-house morning. Now I am certainly not made of sugar and won’t melt if I venture out in this rather sultry clime. I clapped on my radio headphones and curled up in my cozy bed to listen to the news of the day and the weather (of course) … temps in the mid-70s and 91 percent humidity at 5:00 a.m. sure didn’t beckon me to go for a walk, despite my mileage goals I have set for 2013. I hated to disturb myself from the comfortable position and content as a cat I remained there listening to various newsmen reporting on the celebrations taking place in Washington, D.C. to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech given at the March on Washington on August 28, 1963. Bells will be rung today at 3:00 p.m. to honor that infamous speech which I’ve heard hundreds of times in my lifetime, usually on the holiday set aside to honor Dr. King or the anniversary of his death on April 4, 1968. It is stirring to hear Dr. King’s voice, heavy with emotion, expound on his hopes and dreams, which sadly he never got to see to fruition. This morning I listened to various people recounting their impression of the speech because they were lucky enough to either be reporting on it or just one of many milling at the Mall. The question was asked by Paul W. Smith at WJR of his listeners “what is your dream?”

I wouldn’t have to think twice to respond to that question – “peace” would be my dream. To paraphrase the late Rodney King who asked “why can’t we all just get along?” – I wonder what is to become of our world. International strife, especially disturbing with the issues brewing in Syria of which we collectively hold our breath and hope war will not come about; domestic issues such as the Boston Marathon bombing or the senseless deaths like Trayvon Martin or most recently Christopher Lane, and of course here in our own backyard we have shootings every day and night in the City of Detroit. And foremost in our minds, who can overlook the domestic violence without a handgun of poor Damian Sutton? An innocent child’s life is over probably because he cried or annoyed his mother’s boyfriend. Very sad commentary on the state of the world and all the feel-good stories like the birth of Prince George, the return home of Sarah Murnaghan with new lungs or a collection of clowns who will kick off our local State Fair and amuse us with antics still will not make us forget the woes of the world.

I did not find the rainbow I was looking for yesterday and sadly there will be no “pot of peace” there for the taking. Whether or not you have realized your dreams or set them out before you, make it a great day anyway.

… for a rainbow in between bouts of stormy weather today and not finding one. It sure is dreary out right now after raining cats and dogs (and perhaps even frogs) earlier this morning. It thwarted my walk, but we sure needed the rain. Here’s a tune to put a smile on your face anyway – it always makes my smile turns upward. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSFLZ-MzIhM

The sun was high in the sky and as I rounded the corner, I was nearly blinded by a glaring light which bounced off my glasses. The object was shiny and the sun refracted from it. After taking a few steps to the side, I moved over to the shade of a tree and determined it was an open jewelry box that lay in the street. The jewelry box was pink on the outside and laying backward on its lid – the mirror in the lid caught the sun’s rays. The jewelry box was lined in pale pink velvet and had two shallow tiers and an indentation on which a stationary ballerina posed on one toe. As I got closer, I saw the jewelry box was empty and the velvet lining was a little torn and well worn, especially where dark smudges were on the slotted areas. The jewelry box sure looked out of place in the middle of the street and I was surprised a car had not come along and flattened it. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to take my foot and nudge it over to the curb and up onto the grass. I continued on my walk thinking about that little jewelry box. The garbage truck had already been down the street by virtue of empty garbage cans scattered haphazardly along the way. Query: Did the box fall out of someone’s trash? Or the garbage truck itself? Did a burglar break in and take the jewelry box, and realize later there was nothing valuable and simply discarded it? Did a young girl turn into a young woman and thought the jewelry box was now babyish and in a sudden act of defiance threw it into the garbage? I was just wondering all these things while walking along.

I think every young girl had a pink jewelry box with a tiny ballerina inside at one time in her life. I remember mine. It was my first jewelry box. Every time the lid was opened, the little ballerina, pretty in pink, wearing her flimsy tulle skirt, form-fitting leotard and with hair slicked back in a bun, would pirouette to the strains of Fur Elise. I used my jewelry box to protect my treasured initial “L” pendant my parents bought me and to store all my girlish trinkets, among them, my diary key which was on a narrow red ribbon.

When I was in my teens, wearing clunky rings on each finger was all the rage and huge oval “mood rings” were also a big fad. In ninth grade typing class the prim and proper school marm, Miss Miller, would go around the class to ensure all the girls had removed their “hardware” before typing on the rickety Royal manual typewriters. She said the “hardware” ruined our rhythm, wreaked havoc with our typing cadence and slowed our typing speed. We were rapped on the knuckles if we forgot to dump the rings in a pile next to the typewriter. (Those of you who ever used a manual typewriter back in the day are nodding your heads while remembering how you got into the rhythm when typing – you’d zip along, hear the “ding” then swing that carriage return lever back and away you’d go again … and again … until you got to the end of your document, or typing paper – whichever came first. None of that wraparound text like we enjoy today.) I digressed, but those chunky rings were not favored by my folks either – my mother said they were “cheap and distasteful” and my father said they might scratch the furniture, so mine were removed while in the house, thus those gaudy baubles would find their way into my jewelry box at the end of the school day and on weekends. Soon, a greenish/black residue marred the velvet tiers and similarly tarnished my fingers from the cheap metal.

I had my pink ballerina jewelry box for years, then my parents bought me my first grown-up jewelry box and the same year, the furniture store awarded all the female graduates from Lincoln Park High School a tiny Lane keepsake cedar chest. I gave my ballerina jewelry box to the Salvation Army along with other items I had outgrown, hoping someone else would likewise stash her beads and baubles and girlish trinkets in it and daydream while mesmerized by the spinning ballerina just like I once was.

I have an inquisitive mind, so silly me … hours later, I am still thinking about the owner of the jewelry box and reflecting on still another facet of my girlhood days.

It was a disconcerting morning today – some bad karma going on. I got up early with my destination of Council Point Park since I was having withdrawal symptoms … three days since I’d last been there.

Well the first thing was the funky bread. Now, I am not a picky eater, nor am I wasteful, but the new brand of bread I tried last week left me kind of unsatisfied … and hungry. It was “light” bread and I like something I can sink my teeth into, not read the newspaper through. I decided I’d treat my feathered friends at the Park and crumble up the rest of the loaf for them. I reached my hand in to grab some slices and felt something gooey. I pulled my hand out so quickly you’d have thought something bit me! I peered into the bag and it looked like a science experiment inside – white hairy stuff all over the bread. Not mold – just this white fluffy stuff that looked like cotton candy. Gulp …. Friday night I made a sandwich with it … how did all this gook happen in thirty-six hours? I crumpled up the bag, and tossed it in the trash which I was ready to take outside when I headed out. I must’ve washed my hands a half-dozen times and used the rest of the roll of paper towels.

Sure wish I had not opened that bag of bread.

I went outside, still reeling in disgust over the hairy-scary stuff on that bread, and got the garbage together to take out. I walked to the front of the house to torment myself with the big spider that lives in a hole in the brick next to the garage, two or three feet from the garage door handle, and on the driver’s side (of course). I’ve swept down the web countless times this Summer; you’ll remember I first wrote about this big bugger on August 2nd in my post “Webbing” (https://lindaschaubblog.net/2013/08/02/webbing/). I didn’t see it in about a week, but a new, thicker web had been woven. I walked over and there he was – a big, dark brown brute basking in the morning sun. He’s bigger than I last saw him; of course he’s been feasting on all the bugs he catches in that wicked, sticky web.

Sure wish I had not gone over to take a peek at that big spider.

I spun around and went to finish packing the garbage. While carrying the garbage bag to the curb, I heard a bird in distress. It was making the most-horrible screeching noise like it was in pain; it was very chilling and upsetting. I quickly suspected a cat had somehow surprised and pounced on an unsuspecting bird judging from the loud squawking noise. I immediately set the bag down to go investigate. I said a little prayer that the bird would not die in my yard. Soon, I realized that the noise was coming from above so I looked up in the air to see a medium-sized bird flying erratically with a significantly larger bird in close pursuit. As you know from following my posts, I am an animal lover and I like birds so this really made me feel sick. I knew the little guy was already hurt as it couldn’t fly straight and it was listing to one side and in immediate danger with this predatory bird on its heels. I couldn’t watch. It made me sad and repulsed and I turned my head away and resumed carrying the bag. There was nothing I could do – it was out of my hands and I departed. The screeching ceased before I left the neighborhood, but that horrible noise has been replaying in my head all day.

Sure wish I had lingered a little longer in the house before I went out.

The trip to Council Point Park was without further incident, thankfully. I proceeded along my usual route, still thinking about the misfortune of that bird. The Park was beautiful this morning and a pleasant interlude after the incidents at the house. I decided to take the long way back home to build up another mile. I went down a different street where I’ve never been as it was shady and it was getting warmish. As I neared the cross-street in the still of the morning, I heard the raised voices of a man and a woman. He was saying some pretty vile things and she was screaming tearfully back at him. A dog, obviously caught up in the commotion, barked incessantly. This dredged up some memories for me of my parents railing, ranting and raving at one another – louder and louder until my father would go shut the windows so the neighbors wouldn’t hear the argument.

Sure wish I had not walked down that street, or that they had shut the windows before lashing out at one another.

I checked my pedometer to see how far I’d gone and decided that a lap around the entire Memorial Park was in order to get me past the four-mile mark. I was strolling leisurely through Memorial Park by the cannon and veterans’ memorial; it was very peaceful and I felt better. I was still a little keyed up from the brawl a few minutes ago. Suddenly, in my peripheral vision I saw a dark object streaking through the sky. I stopped in my tracks and stretched my hand out to shade my eyes. It was a huge bird and it was circling the park. This was no crow and there was no cawing. I watched it alight on a lamp post and I took a long look at it. It was huge and sleek. Its back was mottled brown with black spots and its front was white with black spots. It had an extraordinarily long tail. I’ve never seen a falcon or a hawk except in pictures, but guessed it was one of those two choices and I figured it was the predator who attacked the smaller bird earlier. I decided to follow-up and hop onto the Audubon site when I got online.

Sure wish I had not seen this killer up close.

I resumed walking and was nearly home when I saw a neighbor from down the block walking his dog. I went over to Larry and told him my two bird stories. He has several dogs, which he takes on separate walks, and doesn’t drive, so he is always walking or riding his bike around the neighborhood. He told me he’s seen a hawk and a Peregrine Falcon and suggested the latter was what I saw based on the size, shape and wingspan. He concluded our conversation by asking “seen many pigeons this Summer Linda?” … “no” I responded and he then told me our pigeon population is finally under control because of these predator birds.

Sure wish I had not run into Larry.

I was grateful to turn into my driveway, open and shut the door fast and then just cocoon in the house for awhile.

When I finally got online today I Googled images of these two birds; the one I saw looks like the picture above. It is in the falcon family and named American Kestrel. I wish I could get the picture of predator and prey out of my mind. Call me a bleeding heart but the image of that bird in flight during the fight of his life was very disturbing.

Meanwhile, the media is reporting several sightings of a four-foot tall, exotic-looking cat in the Detroit area. Any big cat sighting Downriver will put a kibosh on this walker’s routine for sure. At least the bear that attacked the 12-year old girl who was jogging in the woods a few weeks ago was in its element. Thankfully she had her wits about her and was able to survive by playing dead because unfortunately, humans are no match for wild animals. We like to think in the ‘burbs we are isolated from all the trappings of the wild. Maybe not so much anymore.

Well you’ve followed this blog long enough to notice each post title is one word. I decided on day #1 that would be fun to do and I’ve kept up the trend. But my conundrum was whether I should entitle the post “Fare” or “Fair”? Funnel cake is fare to be eaten at the fair … not a earth-shattering dilemma of course, but I couldn’t decide so “Conundrum” it is.

This morning I decided to mosey over to Gregory Park for the annual Lincoln Park Days event. People had already staked out their picnic table and were lugging grills and oversized coolers to their area. As I walked through the grounds I took in the atmosphere of this event which combines great fair food and traditional carnival rides you tried out as a kid. There was even a Ferris wheel. Unless I missed them, I didn’t see the pony rides. I think the pony rides area was my favorite go-to place at any local fair or carnival. I’d head there in a heartbeat before I’d try the scary rides – I like to be in control. I also used to spend considerable time at the booth trying to win a stuffed animal on a stick or a goldfish – a couple of weeks’ worth of allowance blown on a $0.25 goldfish.

There were food vendors galore. The last time I was at a fair, probably the State Fair circa the late 60s, the food du jour was a hot dog with everything on it, a paper cone-type cup of fries and a large, freshly squeezed waxed cup of lemonade. The treats might have included cotton candy, an elephant ear and/or some funnel cake. After trying all the fair fare, I remember feeling like I couldn’t move and not so sure I wanted to climb onto any rides where I would be turned upside down like The Zipper!! I had to chuckle to myself because the vendors here were touting Mexican food like nachos and chicken or steak fajitas, all to be washed down with a smoothie. A little edgier fair fare than I remember. But elephant ears and funnel cake still both rank high as fair faves and touted on the menus of several vendors. Labor Day is looming large and the Michigan State Fair is next weekend – the unofficial sayonara to all things Summer.

I rather like the festive flair the above fair photo gives this blog post, and now that I’m blogging in triplicate, i.e. here at my original blog at WordPress, the hyperlocal “Patch” and my last four blog posts are featured with the Community Bloggers Forum at “Heritage Newspapers”, I should jazz up my posts with a photo to give them some pizazz going forward. In the past, I’ve peppered some personal photos throughout the blog and included an occasional picture that suits the topic of the day. I promise not to disappoint and hope to enhance my near-daily posts … hope you will agree.

Well Miggy has one commemorating his Triple Crown victory last year. JV and Prince have their own. Some of the Red Wings have ‘em too, and now that our Lions whooped the Patriots 40-9 last night, perhaps we should make a fast batch of Lions bobbleheads. Why am I talking about bobbleheads? Well, today was a long day. My boss was out of the office until 2:00 p.m. and I decided to finish up my grocery shopping for the Winter – yes, the Winter. I have been laying in pantry provisions for the Winter ahead, like a little squirrel stocking up on nuts. At least I don’t have to remember where I put my grub like the hapless squirrel who stuffs and stashes his treats all over the yard and then digs up half the garden or grass to find them. Oops. Oh, another oops. I wish he’d use Post-it notes like that ad suggests. As for me, all the canned items have been on sale the past three weeks, so I have stocked up and replenished my shelves so I only need to go shopping for fresh produce/dairy/bread items weekly; and even that is such a small amount that it is portable in a schlep bag if need be. But the poor car does need a run from time to time so out we went this morning, even if I am still determined to beat the car’s miles driven versus my own miles walked in the year 2013. At present, the car is still 56 miles ahead of me in this horse race.

Thus, I did not want to miss a walking day, so I laced up my walking shoes and hooked on my pedometer and left for Meijer. I walked four complete laps of the perimeter of the entire store (1 ½ miles) before I started shopping, then did my grocery shopping (3/4s mile), then toted it all to the end of the parking lot and finally inside the house (1/2 mile). Why can’t we just take a pill that contains all our nutritional needs instead of eating? It would be alot less bother when you think of it – no lists, shopping, shelving, preparing meals and washing dishes. Someone should get on that bandwagon and they’d be a millionaire. I got everything put away and Buddy up and finally made it to my computer by 1:45 p.m., my first time to sit down since the crack of dawn. I had a busy day at work and my boss and I signed off at 6:30 p.m. I shut down my computer to have dinner and relax a bit, then a return rendezvous to work on Robb’s chart and to write today’s blog post.

Well I relaxed all right. I turned on the radio to catch up with the news and found my eyes getting heavier … and heavier … I just couldn’t keep my eyes open and so I gave in and shut them for just a minute. That minute became 20 minutes and my head jerked down and startled me like that horrible falling feeling you get sometimes right after you drop off to asleep. I hate that feeling! I sat up straight with my back pressed against the chair back, and within a few minutes the bobblehead syndrome was happening again … my head was bopping and dropping and soon my chin was resting on my collarbone. My head felt like it was two times bigger than it should be – it just felt so heavy. I gave in and decided to have a little power nap. Next thing I heard Buddy, who realized he was essentially alone in the kitchen since I was not talking to him or complimenting him on his singing, nor did he hear me pecking away on the keyboard and he started singing very loudly. I mean really loud! It worked – I heard him and straightened up, sat up ramrod straight and thought I was awake … pretty soon my head snapped BACKWARD this time. Yikes!!!!! I was sure I sustained a major whiplash injury – I felt like my head fell off my neck and rolled backward onto the floor. Feeling ridiculous and somewhat like I had auditioned for Linda Blair’s role in “The Exorcist”, I then stood up and went for a little stroll around the house and sat back down again. My head and neck felt like they were jammed onto a big spring, all wobbly like a bobblehead doll.

I rode the bus for over three decades and I cannot tell you how often people would fall asleep on the bus – their head would bounce up and down, loll over to one side and pretty soon their body would just kind of meld against yours. They’d startle themselves at the body contact and wake up to find their head resting on your shoulder or worse yet, in the crook of your arm. They’d give you one of those deer-in-the-headlights stares, turn red-faced and make their apologies. It didn’t happen anymore on that trip (probably because they were pinching their arm or doing something to keep from involuntarily falling asleep and making another huge faux pas).

Remembering back to the good old days … oh, about ten years or so ago, I can recall power shopping at the mall all day, coming home and trying on everything I bought plus shoes and accessories and still being full of energy … perhaps I had a little shopper’s high going on. Are the years catching up with me? It leaves me a tad wistful but whimsical enough to offer a variation on ol’ Ben Franklin’s advice:

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a (wo)man healthy, wealthy but still TIRED.

On the inside looking out this morning since rain has thwarted my walking efforts. While I enjoy my daily walk, I could not muster any enthusiasm to walk in the rain in the 83% humidity. Did it rain last night at midnight or thereafter? I never heard it. This morning I arose at my usual time and was sitting eating breakfast, switching back and forth between WWJ and WJR news, and distinctly heard two different weathermen say that rain was expected late morning. Great, I thought – I can get a walk in. While sipping my coffee I heard the sky open up and it started pouring – back to meteorology school both of you! Well, I’m already up, so why not write a short post and maybe get back to my chart for work for an hour or so before I get up Buddy. Yesterday I was working on a huge chart with lots of names and lots of numbers … really alot of numbers, and I told myself I needed a little break to rest my eyes. Some telepathic communication with cyberspace must have happened then because when I opened my eyes a minute later, poof … my internet connection was gone. Now, I sometimes momentarily lose my connection at work and have to log in again, but this was my own internet connection. DOWN. I stared at the yellow shield, hovered my mouse over those dreaded words “no internet” but nothing would revive it. Sigh. I closed the lid and went down the hall, had a snack, came back – still down. Called Comcast to see if there was an area outage – nothing; asked for a signal boost – nothing. Called my boss to tell him my lifeline to the office was kaput. Well, I’m no computer maven, but based on past experience, I pulled all six plugs for my modem and router, counted out two minutes, held my breath … voila!!! Nice to be back in biz and the chart was there waiting for me. Perhaps it was a celestial thing. Why not blame it on the blue moon? That blue moon should have been around last Friday night for the eve of the Woodward Dream Cruise. Now talk about a missed opportunity!!

Mary, Mary, quite contrary – how does your garden grow?

On this morning’s walk, I passed a gorgeous group of pale pink shrub roses which lined the entire edge of a chain-link fence. The roses grew so abundantly on either side of the fence, you could barely see the metal. You don’t have to ask if I stopped to smell them; the scent was so fragrant I smelled the roses before they were in my line of sight. Contributing to the heavenly essence, was the high humidity and an automatic sprinkler system nearby which was gently misting the blooms. I would call it potpourri for the soul.

I have pink Bonica miniature shrub roses which bloom profusely year after year and never fail to disappoint with their ever-blooming pale pink buds and blossoms and very easy maintenance. I have a salmon-colored “Dream Cloud” rosebush which I bought for $1.00 at Frank’s Nursery. It looked pitifully small and bare and no doubt the store almost tossed it and was grateful to sell it for a buck. I am happy to say that my TLC caused this rose to rally and it is now nearly thirty years old. My group of red Knock Out “Home Run” shrub roses encompass half the length of the fence and tower over me. In the morning, the dew on the roses creates a scent so heady that it will take your breath away. I really do love roses.

When I was a novice gardener, I bought a half-dozen tea rosebushes because I thought delicate tea roses were the epitome of rose perfection – fragile, perfect colors or color blends and quite often named for famous people. However, I had no success with tea roses; it seemed it took forever for one or two buds to form and once they opened, they were spent within a day leaving the rosebush looking bare for weeks on end. Frustrated with their fleeting beauty in the yard, I pulled every tea rosebush out, which was no easy feat as they had big, established roots, were very thorny and extremely hard to grab and pull. I got ‘er done and immediately planted the Knock Out roses in their place. In 2010, I created a memorial garden for my mom who had passed away in January. For years I coveted climbing roses, so after studying the “Jackson and Perkins” catalog, I ordered an umbrella trellis and three “Stairway to Heaven” red climbing rosebushes. They were bare root roses – a first for me. They arrived via UPS and needed to be soaked immediately in a bucket of water for 24 hours, then planted and dirt mounded over the wild-looking roots, then watered. Good enough, except I planted them in the morning and we had a horrific torrential rainstorm that evening. I was afraid to go out the next day in case they had floated down to Fort Street. That was not their downfall, but the climbing rosebushes never climbed nor amounted to anything resembling the pictures touted by J&P in their catalog. They finally succumbed to black spot. I treated them for that disease on an almost-weekly basis but they always were leafless, looked stringy and scraggly and rarely bloomed, so sadly I discarded them and planted hardier Twist-and-Shout hydrangeas in their stead.

Well, enough of me and how my garden grows….

This post is mainly about Mary, my next-door neighbor from many years ago. When we moved to Lincoln Park in 1966, she was already in her 80s and an avid gardener. She had lived in her home since she first was married and her husband bought her one pale pink rosebush to celebrate their new life together. She often told us a tale of how money was scarce in those days. She stayed home with the kids, while her husband, a tailor in a downtown haberdashery, rode the bus to and from work for a menial wage. They never had a car, and she never learned how to drive. Her husband’s gift of the rosebush commemorating their nuptials and new house, was extravagant for them, because Mary said bills needed to be paid, food must be put on the table, and soon children came along, thus flowers were not a necessity, but a luxury, and one they could ill afford. It was understood that this one rosebush would suffice to beautify their humble home until they were “in the chips”.

Mary had such success with this rosebush, she decided to take cuttings, or propagate, from the established rosebush to make new ones. She told us that she effortlessly grafted and grew several new rosebushes. They thrived and soon there were tiny rosebushes dotting the back garden. Spurred on by her success on these fledgling rosebushes, she told us she spaded the grass out to enlarge the garden area, and persuaded her husband to get a load of good soil and soon she had small rosebushes lining the entire perimeter of her yard. When we moved here in 1966, there were very few empty spots of earth in her perimeter gardens to put one more pink rosebush, but still, you would see her “starting” a new rosebush, tenderly placing a cutting under a glass jar which acted as a hothouse in the searing sun. She was proud of what she considered “her own roses” but occasionally, well-meaning friends or relatives brought her a new rosebush as a present. She would accept the gift, but the new rosebush was relegated to a corner of her yard away from “her own roses” and it was almost as if she resented the rosebush intruding on her pink collection. There is still a huge cerise-colored rosebush tucked into the corner by my side door.

Mary was widowed in her early 70s and with her kids off and married, gardening became even more of a passion; that, and playing cards with the other seniors at the Lincoln Park Senior Center. She was remarkably agile for her age and she was out bending over almost to the ground weeding, or standing for long periods of time, pruning or deadheading her beautiful blooms at the crack of dawn. Here was this woman, throughout her 90s, with the strength of a mule, hauling the hose around the yard – no hose reel for her. Then she’d bolt into the house to get cleaned up and slick on some lipstick to trot over to the Senior Center around the corner to visit with her Hungarian friends. Often she brought her cronies back for a tour of the yard. They would all cackle at the top of their lungs in Hungarian, partly since Mary was nearly deaf, thus allowing her to hear them and then she would respond in kind. Sometimes it was deafening. She refused to wear hearing aids and shouted at everyone.

She was a large, big-boned woman with somewhat wild-looking curly hair and quite a presence. The neighborhood kids were scared of her because she barked at anyone who dared cross her front yard. She was polite to our family because my mom handed over occasional baked goodies and my father always shoveled her snow. She mowed her own lawn, until she went into the nursing home, unbelievably with a push mower. Our house must have passed muster with her as the only thing she did destructive was prune our hydrangeas which grew through the fence against her roses. The elderly neighbors on the other side had a row of plum trees which grew parallel to the fence. On the occasion when plums would drop off into her yard, she’d hurl them back over the fence, as if they were somehow offensive to her. She didn’t like teenagers much either. She once turned the sprinkler on a young teen neighbor’s lime green mustang which was parked in front of her house. The car had its convertible top down and she promptly put the sprinkler on just enough to soak the interior and make it a sopping mess. If you’ve heard the expression “an old bag”, well that definition fit her to a “T” – she was the ornery female equivalent of the late Andy Rooney.

This was the life of Mary and her daily Summer routine until, in her very late 90s, she became ill and had to go into a nursing home. She had been widowed so many years and her family did not live nearby and there was no one to help take care of her.

The picture above is my mom in Mary’s garden. The picture does not do justice to the beautiful yard; it is but one tiny snippet of the bounty of pale pink roses.

We never saw Mary once she entered the nursing home. The house was closed up, the mail stopped and a distant relative paid to have snow removal and lawn mowing done, both on a very occasional basis. Though the house now languished unkempt, unloved and neglected for over two years, that backyard of Mary’s flourished, and the rosebushes were just as strong and hardy, as they’d ever been. Sometimes I’d thread my hose through the chain-link fence and give them a good drink of water; after all it behooved us to keep such beautiful flowers alive to enjoy them vicariously across the fence, even if no one else gave a whit about them. A granddaughter and her boyfriend moved in for a few months, but she never set foot in the yard, and he mowed the lawn, quite reluctantly, at the speed of sound, then hurriedly stashed the mower in the hut and returned to the house and shut the door. Still the roses survived … and thrived.

Then, along came Jim, who sold his large parcel of land in Taylor and moved into Mary’s house. He brought large yard ornaments to his new digs: a full-sized trailer, a small camper and a boat, all which he stored in his driveway until he whacked down the ornamental fence, and all the rosebushes lining the entrance and side of the yard. He also cut down a huge tree so that he could work on his van in the yard. Such a waste of beauty – it made me sad to see the huge bonfire in the fire pit he made, as he tossed one rosebush after another into the blaze.

Today, some of those grand old rosebushes still grace my neighbor Marge’s yard … they are at least seventy or more years old now and still growing strong.

A single rose can be my garden…
a single friend, my world.
– Leo Buscaglia

Today is National Lemonade Day. I wonder how many kids set up lemonade stands anymore? All you need is a big canister of Country Time lemonade crystals, a jug of water, a big stir stick, some plastic cups and you’re good to go. That is, unless you’re a purist and insist on making your own lemonade, i.e. buying fresh lemons, squeezing them, grating the rind to make some zest and floating a few slices of lemon on top for added pizzazz. Kids: opt for the Country Time and make it easy on yourself, but do get that mixture just right … not too sour or you’ll have everyone puckering up, not too grainy where the crystals sink to the bottom of the jug like sand in the ocean, and please don’t be stingy when scooping or your lemonade will taste like the lemon ran through the water.

I never see any kids in the neighborhood hawking lemonade … we’ve got alot of parks with baseball games going on all the time or soccer practice – they could even set up shop at Council Point Park. I did hear on the national news awhile back that some kids were trying to make a few bucks with a lemonade stand and got ripped off by some bullies. The young entrepreneurs lost all their substantial profits as well as their faith in mankind. The audacity! It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, if you’ll pardon the pun.

I remember setting up a Kool-Aid stand with a childhood friend here in Michigan. We didn’t get much action though at our small table set up in the apron of the driveway, and at day’s end the ice had melted and watered down our product after hours of sitting out in the hot sun. Location, location, location!!!

I was never allowed to drink pop as a kid. My mom wanted to preserve my pearly whites against cavities so I was only given milk or freshly squeezed orange juice which was very tart. Once in a great while I’d steal a sip of my Dad’s Bitter Lemon drink when he left the bottle unattended. I don’t think I tasted lemonade until I was in my teens, if not later.

Well the people who create events like National Lemonade Day must have been prophetic to pick well in advance one of the handful of days it has actually been hot this Summer. Today was an Ozone Action Day and the heat and humidity have made their second cameo appearance this Summer … for a couple of days anyway.

Tropical is always topical when it comes to weather. At the grocery store, two complete strangers can strike up a conversation about the weather then just walk away. This morning, at Council Point Park, two walkers passing on the path, like two ships in the night, just have to pause to remark how hot it is and ask what happened to the refreshing weather we’ve enjoyed the last few weeks. I saw a few walkers toting water bottles and mopping their brow with a towel. Well folks, this is the reward for the people who whined that the Summer of 2013 had passed us by. I think they are in the minority, don’t you? I certainly don’t welcome the sticky weather, but when life gives you lemons, make lemonade – I went on a walk anyway. Halfway through my walk, I realized I had over-dressed and I was getting warm and had no layers to remove and still be decent. (Smile) I passed a tall spruce tree which was aromatic in the humid air, and even it could not evoke memories of Christmas, cold weather or sipping steaming mugs of hot cocoa with marshmallows. There was no chilling effect when I passed a huge snowball bush laden with snowballs either. It was too early for the Good Humor truck thus nothing could conjure up any cold images to cool me off and I came home feeling like a limp rag. I swigged down some chocolate milk, my daily treat when I return from walking, but you know … a cold lemonade would have surely hit the spot. I should have headed over to 7-Eleven where they were giving away bottles of Snapple lemonade today.

Today’s a big-time SPF day … so ASAP pick yourself a pair of protective sunglasses (or cheap sunglasses if you’re a ZZ Top fan), a floppy straw hat and slather on some sunscreen with a high SPF or sun protection factor. Hey, maybe even dab some zinc on the tip of the old schnoz. I usually wear long-sleeved shirts and pants while working in the yard or walking, and despite all the miles I’ve logged so far this year I’m still my same old pasty-looking self. I fried my skin enough when I was a teenager with sunlamps, artful positioning of aluminum foil to reflect on my face or just laying out in the sun for an all-body glow. Well, I can’t undo any damage I did as a carefree teen, but I can be careful going forward. Nowadays, I always slick on some 30 SPF lip protection because I can’t be having chapped lips – I enjoy the gift of gab way too much and besides how will I whistle back at the birds?

What’s with all the acronyms in the world anyway? I’ll admit the words “sun protection factor” have too many letters to fit on the side of a tube of lip gloss. While brevity is the soul of wit, shortcuts for words and phrases are OK most of the time, but sometimes acronyms can leave you scratching your head; e.g. – if you Google an acronym and that combo of letters has multiple meanings. OMG, now there’s a dilemma – what do you do now?

Acronyms are often the preferred way to communicate with people if you text a lot. I’m such a dinosaur about texting that I’ve never gotten into that fad. I have a load-as-you-go cell phone just for emergencies and I rarely, if ever, use my phone, let alone use it to send text messages. Very occasionally, I will text to a few friends or my boss when his Blackberry e-mail is down, but this is done from my computer. In order to whittle down my message to a mere 140 characters, I type the message into a Word document, click to determine character count, then decide what I need to remove (usually most of it) – LOL. It takes me forever to shorten up what’s on my mind using what pitiful few abbreviations I know. I’ve not memorized the gazillion acronyms or text message abbreviations that are out there.

This website has more than a few of them: http://www.webopedia.com/quick_ref/textmessageabbreviations.asp

Likewise I’ve not taken to Twitter either. I spend the bulk of my day in front of a computer screen between work, catching up on e-mail or social media sites and now there’s writing and posting blogs. Enough already! I hop onto Facebook maybe three times a day but don’t camp out there. I follow various news media sites for breaking news events and enjoy National Geographic, Old Farmer’s Almanac and some beautiful photo sites but that is about all. Twice I’ve hooked up with “Downriver Things That Aren’t There Anymore” then left the group as I was overwhelmed by so many posts. Alas, this ol’ gal is not wedded to social media, but I still feel like a new millennium woman because I am a virtual secretary. I work from home as a legal secretary and remote into my desktop 13 miles away. I love this arrangement!! I did volunteer to forward my work phone to home, but my boss said clients and colleagues are more apt to connect via e-mail these days if they are in crisis mode or hook up with him on his cell phone first. People rarely even send faxes anymore. Robb is a labor attorney for the management side so crises are often the order of the day. I am able to perform all secretarial duties except answer the door, post the mail and make coffee – unfortunately the “long arm of the law” does not extend that far. I can even tell my boss when to change the toner in the xerox machine or if the paper trays need to be filled up. (Smarty pants!!)

SYL (A/K/A “See you later”)