WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Enroute to Council Point Park, I pass a house that has a retro-looking Dutch girl standing all alone in her klompen in a backyard flower garden. I can’t help but wonder what happened to her counter-part? I know it sounds silly, but you only ever see the pair, i.e. the Dutch girl and boy, standing on tippy toes in their clunky wooden shoes puckering up with one another. So what gives? Did the kissin’ cousins have a tiff? Is the Dutch boy in another part of the yard? Did her Dutch buddy break? If you’ve ever had resin yard decorations and dropped them, you know they will shatter into a million pieces. So many questions; so little time.

The Dutch kissing duo used to be a popular item for yard art but I don’t see them much anymore. Perhaps they went the way of wooden whirligigs. But this particular solo Dutch girl has a retro look, unlike most of the more-modern Dutch kids kissing where both statues are short and stocky. This young lady is tall with very pale markings and is reminiscent of a pair that adorned my grandmother’s backyard many, many years ago. Nearly every day when I see this lanky Dutch figurine it takes me back many years to when I was a little girl visiting my grandmother. I Googled around for an image of a vintage Dutch kissing duo to display with this blog, and the pair above is exactly the same as my grandmother’s.

Today’s blog highlights my grandmother’s garden since I have now reached 240 miles walked in 2013. This mileage marker represents the same distance to travel one way from our house to my grandmother’s house in Toronto. The trip was accomplished in exactly four hours door-to-door. We left at 6:00 a.m. and arrived in time to coffee klatch with my grandmother and aunt who lived together, plus half the neighbors who saw us pull up and unpack the car. My grandmother would put on a pot of coffee and filled her huge steam kettle to brew some tea and we brought homemade goodies that my Mom had baked in anticipation of our visit. We gathered around the kitchen table, that is, those of us lucky enough to get a chair … everyone else propped up against the sink or stove to catch up on all the news since the last visit. Sadly, most of the group are now gone and the house has had new owners for decades.

My grandmother lived five miles from downtown Toronto just off busy Dundas Street. Her house was smack dab in the middle of a block of row houses, all attached and nearly identical, each with a postage-stamp-sized lawn out front. The backyards all were long and narrow. Out front at Nanny’s house, there was really no room for any yard art, flowers or creativity, plus a huge tree encompassed the entire front yard. The tree was great for shading the big porch which often welcomed half the neighborhood in the Summer for small talk and big bowls of ice cream, but it sure prohibited any flowers to adorn the front; believe me, the backyard well made up for it.

After I was born, my parents moved from an apartment in Toronto out to the suburbs, to Oakville, which was about twenty-five miles away. We’d go to visit my grandmother about once a month, and after the initial hugs and kisses, she’d always invite me outside to see her yard. She would take my small hand in her large callused hand and lead me down the main path in the backyard. Nanny was very proud of her collection of flowering “hens and chicks” which grew in reckless abandon up and down the sidewalk from the back door to the garage. As you stepped out of the back kitchen into the yard, you couldn’t miss those hens and chicks anymore than you could fail to see the Mama Rhode Island Red hen and her four chicks trailing behind her parallel to the sidewalk. The flat wooden barnyard feathered friends were a gift from a relative and added a touch of whimsy to the yard. Well, we’d weave through wooden hens and chicks and the plants as well, and occasionally Nanny would pull away from me to bend over close to the ground, nearly tipping over, to snag a weed that dared to spout in the sidewalk crack. She’d always carry a little paring knife in her pocket to clip off a few weeds or snap off a long stalk of fresh rhubarb for me to have when we got back into the house.

As we walked toward that rhubarb plant, at the very end of the sidewalk was a weathered, brick-red wooden garage which supported several rows of colorful Hollyhocks. Amidst the Hollyhocks, the Dutch girl and boy were in a permanent lip lock. In one corner was a plethora of peonies and the other corner was the many-decades-old rhubarb plant. A flat, wooden, ochre-colored bulldog with a menacing face “guarded” the rhubarb bush and had not left his post in more years than anyone could remember. Nearly every time we’d go out there, Nanny would point at it and tell me she’d had that bulldog since my mom was a toddler. Indeed, there are pictures, circa late ‘20s, in our old photo album of my mom standing next to the bulldog. Likewise, there are near-identical pictures of me at the same age, some thirty years later, standing next to him, screwing up my face like I was about to cry.

My grandmother had a green thumb and she always kept a few plastic baggies and some paper towels in her purse. Wherever she went, if she liked a houseplant or an outside plant, she’d take a “slip” and place that cutting in some moist paper towel and slide it into the baggie and stash it in her purse. She was relentless if she saw something she coveted. We once took her to Frank’s Nursery and she wandered away from my mom and I and eventually returned to our cart, her hand filled with “slips” – my mom was aghast, and well … Nanny was quite nonchalant about it. She brought them home, we put them in water, and by the time she returned to Toronto a few weeks later they had rooted. She had houseplants all over the sunny window ledge in her back kitchen and a massive Christmas Cactus sat proudly atop her ancient Singer treadle sewing machine – good thing she only did hand sewing as the plant was way too large to be disturbed. It got an abundance of sunlight on its perch and bloomed profusely every year … one Christmas she had a record one hundred blooms. I like to think I inherited my grandmother’s green thumb for flowers – I know I have a green thumb for weeds as I can grow them effortlessly. (Smile)

Don’t wait for someone to bring you flowers –
plant your own garden and decorate your own soul. – Anonymous

We’re on the brink of the long-anticipated Labor Day holiday, a/k/a as Summer’s last hurrah, though it feels more like the 4th of July with these steamy temps and high humidity. The cars have been gassed up and are ready to go, as are their owners, and a little spin in my buggy was also in order. I’d not had the car out in a week so we ventured out together. I glanced at the odometer and have amassed a whopping 2,500 miles altogether on my car which will be four years old on September 23rd … can you say homebody? Someday I will write a post about my beloved Buick Regal which was twenty-one years old when we parted; how it ended up with as many as 64,000 miles on it I’ll never know.

I headed to Meijer because I am able to give the car a run, plus I walk in the comfortably air-conditioned store, and I did in fact rack up another four miles toward my ultimate goal.

I had hoped to beat the crowd and arrived early but I was not the only one with that idea. Well, round and round and round she goes and where she stops – nobody knows …. I did multiple laps around the perimeter of the store before I made my first pit stop and started filling my cart with a few groceries. It was a great people-watching adventure this morning and I’ll share a few sightings with you.

The way I see it, three factions of shoppers arrived this morning: the back-to-school crowd, the picnic basket procurers and the canners.

First I saw the moms and their offspring looking to buy back-to-school supplies. Really?! The school supplies replaced the 4th of July paraphernalia and right now Meijer employees wait in the wings, tapping their feet to put out the Halloween trimmings and treats. Unbelievably, Meijer is sorely lagging behind Kroger who already is advertising pumpkins … where is the house on fire to get pumpkins and harvest décor on your porch may I ask? The pumpkins will be moldy before the long holiday is over. I doubt anyone is slaving over a hot stove baking pumpkin pies or roasting pumpkin seeds with temps hovering around ninety degrees!!

At any rate, moms and their kids were busy pondering over and picking up necessities in the school supplies section. These moms were all about getting ‘er done and getting those kids back to school (and out of their hair) and the kids were wearing a dazed look (either from the early morning hour or just recognizing that their 2013 Summer sojourn was nearly in the books). I overheard moms quizzing their charges on what supplies they needed and for the most part I heard one- or two-word responses like “dunno” or “don’t care” or I saw the perpetual shrugging of the shoulders. Note to kids: best be thinking about bullet points for the inevitable paper or recitation on “what I did on my Summer vacation”, that is – assuming it is shareable information. Notwithstanding the lackadaisical answers by her brood, most of the moms were simply muddling along filling their carts with school necessities: thumb drives, external hard drives, printer ink cartridges, laptop cases or backpacks and perhaps at the last minute, tossing in a lowly package of loose-leaf paper and a pack of pencils or pens, the latter items hardly used by today’s scholars.

School essentials for me back in the day were a new leather book strap, loose-leaf paper, binder, pens and pencils and maybe a compass or protractor – heck, we didn’t even have calculators back then because we had to rely on our noggins for math. I always had my trusty paperback Merriam-Webster Dictionary with me. Way back then there was no Google, of course, to type in a word to see if it was spelled correctly. I surely won’t bore you with the rigors of researching for term papers, which necessitated a nightly trip to the Lincoln Park Public Library to immerse oneself in encyclopedias, then with the information located, queuing up at the sole copy machine with a pocketful of dimes and copying all your info “to go”. Mr. Schaefer, our wonderful Lincoln Park librarian when I was growing up, would help you with any inquiries you had, but only after you scoured the library index card catalog, and you’d better know your Dewey Decimal System and have meticulously searched each aisle of books before attempting to secure his aid! Nowadays, modern school kids merely hop onto Wikipedia or eHow as a starting point. These students have it soooooooo easy – and no, I wouldn’t want to go back and start school anew.

Another faction, present and accounted for at Meijer this early a.m., was the people packing their coolers with goodies for the trek to the Great North. The pickin’s were fresh indeed and flyin’ off the shelves. Cold salads and grill fixin’s for the holiday weekend were being scooped up as if there were a fire sale. Cantaloupes were getting thumped and gimongous watermelons that would break your toe if they fell on it were piled into nearly every shopping cart. Ears of corn were shucked on the spot as customers peeked to check out the cob’s integrity and trails of cornsilk followed nearly every shopper as they whisked around the store.

In the canning aisle, a few women were engaged in a lively discussion of pickling spices and exchanging recipes on the fly. A few of them had a pencil and the back of their shopping list out, taking notes. Pickles seemed to be the predominant topic where an animated dialogue ensued regarding the virtues of garlic versus dill on at least two occasions when I sauntered by. Canning supplies filled their respective shopping carts and I heard the tinkle of Mason jars slamming up against one another when the clique of canners eventually disbanded. I could not contribute to the conversation because I’ve never “put up” preserves or veggies, nor did my mom. Oh, she would regale me with stories of her youth when her family members would slave for hours over a hot stove making red and green chow chow as they referred to what you might call tomato relish. They also made corn relish. This relish-producing extravaganza occurred every August. They would return to Toronto with a cache of tomatoes, onions and corn from my great-grandparents’ farm in Guelph where they travelled to help bring in the crops the last two weeks of August every year. Mom would tell me that she and my grandmother peeled tomatoes, chopped up green and red peppers and stripped corn off the cob for endless hours. My grandfather was relegated to their cool basement with a bushel basket of onions to peel and chop, (and probably cry despite the matchstick held between his teeth), as this was his contributing effort toward the family tomato relish. He was banished to the basement to contain the strong onion fumes. It was a family event and they bottled up a great stash of tomato and corn relish to last until the next year’s harvest. It was slathered onto ham sandwiches or plopped atop fried eggs. My mom said it was alot of work and she vowed to never embark on that type of project again.

Her only exception for “putting up” fruit, was blueberries and this was very simple preparation. Around this time of year Mom would pick up several quarts of fresh blueberries. She’d wash them and line them up, one by one, on her cookie sheets to freeze them. then tuck a Tupperware canister full of blueberries into the freezer. Once we were knee-deep in snow, she would whip up a big batch of blueberry muffins. Ahhhh, the smell of cinnamon wafting through the house and sitting in your jammies eating warm muffins brimming with blueberries is still another image for the memory book.

On my walk this morning I passed a corner yard and an older woman was in the midst of hanging her wicker basketful of laundry out on a clothesline. I could just imagine my mom watching her handiwork and cluck-clucking with her tongue that the woman did not know how to pin clothes on the line. Yes, the clothes were not hanging uniformly, but very haphazardly – one black sock here, a long-sleeved shirt with cuffs dragging on the ground next, then a red sock, followed by a nightgown suspended by the hem – my, but it looked like the person hung those items up while blindfolded … in my mom’s defense, even I was a tad amused.

Actually, I am surprised to see anyone putting their clothes out on the line to dry anymore, not with the ease of a clothes dryer – once and done and that chore is over. I know they don’t smell fresh and sweet like outdoors, but it really is the way to go. My mom never had an automatic washer nor a dryer for decades. She had a washboard in the basement for scrubbing, then washed the clothes in a wringer washer. It was a long-involved process, especially guiding a full-sized sheet through the wringer with one hand and catching it with the other hand and repeating this task several times to remove the excess water. The poor clothes would get flat as a pancake and you’d need to wrestle with them to open them fully to hang them up. In the dead of Winter, the clothes were stretched out to dry on plastic clotheslines around the laundry room, but the other eight to nine months of the year, they went outside on the clothesline. Poor Mom had bad arthritis already but insisted on pinning her flannel and cotton sheets out there on her pulley line and reeling them in a few hours later. The sheets and her fingers would be frozen stiff and she refused to wear gloves. My mom had gizmos to speed up the drying process which most people would never see in their lifetime. There were pants hangers where you put whole pants legs over metal bars which stretched the pants and created a permanent crease while drying. She had a similar device for pairs of socks – metal sock stretchers shaped like a big Christmas stocking which allowed the socks to dry faster. On a lark, I just went onto eBay and found vintage items of these stretchers for sale. We should’ve saved ours but we ditched them when we got the washer and dryer. This only goes to prove that you should always hoard everything and one day it will be worth something.

If the clothes washing was not enough of a chore, my mom ironed everything – even my father’s balloon boxer shorts and all our pajamas too. She would iron my uniforms and aprons from the diner where I worked and she told me the “greasy spoon fumes” emanating from the hot iron on those clothes made her feel nauseous. Anyone who has every worked in fast food or around grease will agree that at the end of your shift, you are saturated with a grease smell, from your skin and hair to your clothes.

Mom never had a steam iron until her later years and she would sit at the ironing board, with her water sprinkler and press cloth at her side to ensure every wrinkle was eradicated, including in corners. I can just picture her sitting at the ironing board, smoothing out every last wrinkle from the two sets of Priscilla bedroom curtains, despite my retrieving them still warm from the dryer set on “wrinkle release”. Our country kitchen at one time sported pretty cream and rust Priscilla-type curtains and each side was pinned back with a rust-colored sash. My mom would iron that sash and I had to climb up and fashion each bow so it looked perky and functioned as a tieback as well. Well, first off, I hate climbing up high anywhere and reluctantly I’d climb onto the stepstool and struggle to reach the rods over the sink, without breaking my neck, all in an effort to tie the bow just right. Both the sash and I started out perky but by the time we were done we were anything but perky – a little listless and bedraggled was more like it! You can see my efforts on the sash in the above picture and give me a grade of A through E.

Polyester and cotton-polyester blends eventually became our friends and slowly the need to iron everything slipped by the wayside. It has been decades since I even saw the iron – it is no doubt sitting in the basement with the other relics of “must haves” from years gone by.

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!!