WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Today’s tidbits from the tranquil trail …

So blessed to have yet another beautiful morning. When I arrived at Council Point Park it was still a little hazy out. There was a heavy dew, so heavy in fact that the park benches along the perimeter path had water droplets poised in lines along each slatted wood bench back. The grass was saturated with dew and smelled like a freshly mowed lawn in April. The mist was prevalent but finally the sun was strong enough to filter through the trees and the sunbeams looked like spotlights trained onto the path. This part of the path is in an open area and it was quite ethereal-looking to walk right through this sunbeam from Heaven. The sun was not really warm, but the rays permeated the Park and the phenomenon only lasted a few minutes. By then I was on the Ecorse Creek side of the Park and it was dense there so the sunbeam was no longer visible.

A lone male mallard duck glided through the still water, its wide webbed feet propelling it forward at a remarkable speed. Tiny ripples appeared as it traversed the exact middle of the Creek. Just then, a dragonfly flitted by me and flew toward the water and while I was watching it, I heard a splash, and looked to see the duck go kerplunk into the water and all I saw was a flash of tail and large ripples. I was curious what the duck found for his breakfast and I waited on him to resurface. I peered through the brush but the thick reeds obliterated him from my sight. By then the filmy, delicate dragonfly had also escaped my sightline so I travelled on.

A trio of squirrels scampered about and were seemingly oblivious to me as they chased each other up and down a tree then surrounded me briefly again. I couldn’t tell who was tagged “it” and I am not sure they knew either. I caught up with the trio around the bend where they were enjoying an unexpected treat, some corn which was scattered on the path. Evidently, some kindly soul had stripped a corncob and left the kernels of corn sprinkled in a row down the pathway much like Elliott did with his Reese Pieces to temp E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial, out of his hiding place in the woods.

The birdsong was simply magnificent and always is intensified on a quiet early morning. The tweets, whistles and warbles are a balm to the ear. I kept mimicking the bird calls as long I could, much to the delight of the birds and … well, I enjoyed it too! I made a mental note to check out my favorite birdsong website http://www.enature.com/birding/audio.asp and refresh my memory on the various birds at the Park. The site is a treasure trove of pictures, descriptions and audio of every type of bird imaginable. It sends Buddy into a tizzy whenever I listen though – he’ll cock his head and wonder where the heck the other bird is.

Every one of my senses was renewed by this detour from the city and brief escape to the country. I wished I would have brought my binoculars to get a close-up view of the dragonfly’s delicate wings but I saw him anyway with just my naked eye. Had I brought a camera along, I would have snapped a picture of those happy squirrels, but instead I’ve captured their crazy antics and corn-eating camaraderie in my mind’s eye and will carry that image along with me instead.

Carpe Diem – seize the moment and the day … I did.

It was a perfect day for any outdoor activity be it a journey to travel back in time or a journey to give others more time going forward.

The weather was picture perfect – let’s bottle this entire day up and uncork it on a cold, gray January morn when we have the mid-Winter doldrums and we don’t need the groundhog to confirm for us that Winter is still looming large.

I left for my walk later this morning and saw more folks than I usually do. I came upon a pair of pre-teen girls twisting to and fro while “working” bright pink hula hoops. The girls were spinning the hoops around their waist and were able to keep it in place alot longer than I ever could. The hula hoop spent more time encircling my feet than my waist. I complimented each girl and suggested they should throw on a poodle skirt and hike their hair into a ponytail and head over to the Dream Cruise as a diversion for the car enthusiasts. I got a couple of giggles for my recommendation to them, but, yes – they were that good.

The granddaddy of all cruises, the Woodward Dream Cruise, had a parade of classic cars gunnin’ their motors and rarin’ to go at 8:00 a.m. but you know they’ve been ready and trolling down Woodward Avenue all week, much to the chagrin of the locals. With no excessive heat or humidity today, the vintage vehicles rolled down the first paved road in America with convertible tops down and no overheating of the buggies or their occupants. I’ve been listening to radio station WOMC’s 104 favorite cruisin’ songs all day. Buddy has been singing at the top of his lungs to all the oldies too. He especially liked Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” but has a hard time perfecting that growl. (Smile.)

As I write this post, he is still singing, non-stop – he will sleep well tonight as will I since I got a four-mile walk under my belt this morning. I was enjoying my walk so much, I kept extending it a few more blocks until the pedometer said 8,000 steps. Yikes! Hopefully the extra steps will not cause me shin splints tomorrow.

Speaking of walking extra miles, on the other side of town a contingent of walkers are striding to wipe out breast cancer on Day 2 of the Breast Cancer Three-Day Walk. It is a grueling 60-mile course, with a goal of 20 miles per day. Blessings to the survivors and kudos to the walkers in this worthy endeavor. May the contributions you collected for your efforts this weekend go toward one day eradicating this dreaded disease. Keep the faith – sometimes it’s all we’ve got.

Garden flags are here, there and everywhere. No matter the neighborhood locale, garden flags seem to be more popular every year and nearly each home has one displayed in the front yard. What probably began as inexpensive yard art a few years ago has grown to be an opportunity to showcase a theme garden, celebrate a holiday or just say “Welcome”. Most of the garden flags are small but some are the size of a regular flag. I’m a person who is prone to reading bumper stickers, tee-shirt sayings and trying to connect the dots on sometimes obscure personalized license plates. I always try to read the sentiment on garden flags too. One flag I regularly pass features a glass of wine that says “Wine a bit – you’ll feel better” … now that tickles me. But, what really overwhelms me each time I see it is a large flag featuring a life-sized head and shoulders image of a youthful Elvis Presley along with the phrase proclaiming “Long Live The King”.

So, I thought it was only fitting that I should walk down this street today to see if any additional tributes to Elvis were apparent on this, the 36th anniversary of his August 16, 1977 death.

In my teenaged days, I loved Elvis, as did countless other women and young girls. I liked studying old magazine pics of the shy young Elvis who crooned “That’s All Right Mama” on Sun records, but I positively swooned over the man with the swagger, the curled lip, the perfectly coiffed hair and who oozed sex appeal. The fact that he could look like that plus belt out heart-wrenching tunes made me, the impressionable teenager, melt down to my toes. I spent alot of time at Kresge’s record department when I was a teen. I’d run down to get the WKNR Keener 13 Weekly Music Guide, maybe replenish my supply of yellow plastic 45 inserts to use on my phonograph or perhaps add a new record to my wish list. I would part with some of my allowance to buy Elvis 45s like “Suspicious Minds”, “In the Ghetto” and “Don’t Cry Daddy” … I spun those three records repeatedly on my portable record player and I wonder now how the grooves were still embedded in the vinyl. I memorized the lyrics and mouthed them along with Elvis while sitting cross-legged on my bed in my pajamas with pink curlers in my hair, or while dancing around the bedroom after slicking on pink bubblegum lip gloss in an effort to look as grown-up as possible. I often carried my mom’s old Hitachi transistor radio with me and would clap it to my ear whenever an Elvis song came on. I’d crank up the volume and the serpentine earpiece would vibrate and blast my one eardrum. I was not allowed to put posters or magazine pictures on my bedroom wall so I had to be content with thumbing through well-worn issues of “Tiger Beat” or “16” which were magazines that featured Elvis and other heartthrobs regularly.

For my 20th birthday, my parents took me to the Golden Nugget lounge where Wade Cummins, a/k/a “Elvis Wade”, was performing. Elvis Wade’s act was billed as the ultimate tribute to The King and the only Elvis tribute performance for which Elvis Presley gave a standing ovation. It was a wonderful evening – the lights and music mesmerized you into believing you were at a real Elvis concert. Elvis Wade looked and sounded like his namesake. His coal black hair was slicked into a perfect pompadour and he wore wide mutton chops. He donned a garish white jumpsuit and chunky jewelry, particularly Elvis’ trademark “TCB” ring and medallion. He gyrated on stage and occasionally stepped down into the audience to get up close and personal with the ladies, both old and young. We had a table close to the stage. Someone alerted him it was my birthday and he came over and pecked me on the cheek. I turned twenty shades of red and then he blew me a kiss and stepped away. Once he returned to the stage, he looked me right in the eyes while crooning “Teddy Bear” then threw me a sweat-soaked scarf. I caught it and clutched it to my bosom just like he was the “real deal” – for years I had that silly scarf and I think it is packed away with my scrapbooks and similar mementos. Yup, Elvis Wade perfected the moves, the charm and the charisma of “EP”; when he brought each recognizable song in Elvis’ huge repertoire to life, it was so very easy to get caught up in the moment.

Writing about Elvis Wade has prompted me to jump on YouTube to look for any videos of him performing and there were several. He also has a large website. Cummins has aged and is heavier (well … haven’t we all?) and he now resembles the later pictures we glimpsed of Elvis on the front page of all the tabloids in the months before his untimely death. Feeling further nostalgic, I then noodled around YouTube and found some of my favorite Elvis Presley tunes from concert videos. I watched them twice – once just to immerse myself in the whole Elvis experience and to sing along, miraculously remembering every lyric. Then, I watched the videos again merely to compare the pair – well, with a fresh eye, there is simply no comparison. There is only one inimitable King. Those concerts in the late 60s showed an Elvis so full of life, sweat pouring down his face making that perfectly coiffed pompadour droop just a little. Elvis’ pure sexuality – the swiveling hips, his deep-cut shirts exhibiting his bare chest and jewelry and his form-fitting jumpsuits matched that smooth-as-silk voice. I watched the females in the audiences in the various videos. They were alternately screaming or crying very hard if he even glanced their way with that curled lip and bedroom eyes. Mere mortal males could not even hope to come close to possessing the mystique and magic that Elvis exuded. Yup, Elvis was at the top of his game and then he slowly toppled off that pedestal and slid into an abyss and kept sinking deeper and deeper.

I was working at the diner as usual while on Summer hiatus from college when Elvis died suddenly. Everyone who worked at the restaurant but me was from the South as was most of the clientele. From the day he died until his funeral the talk revolved around Elvis. Dimes were popped into the diner jukebox to create a non-stop marathon of Elvis hits . Our manager made a special exception and allowed a tabletop radio to be placed in the center of the diner so everyone could listen to Elvis’ funeral service. Tears were shed. Tongues tsked-tsked about the fate of this rags-to-riches Southern boy … one of their own. People unfortunately had forgotten the good stories of this down-home country lad and now only spoke of a legacy filled with drugs, erratic behavior and desolation.

Elvis has not only left the building but departed this earth … The “Kang” will live on through his music for eternity. Thank you for making this young girl’s heart go pitter-patter all those decades ago … I enjoyed today’s trip down memory lane.

I did my usual jaunt to Council Point Park this morning all the while enjoying this beautiful crisp, cool weather to the nth degree. As a person who loves the Fall season, these temps are just perfect for me. On the way home as I neared the Mixter Elementary School grounds I saw a huge German Shepherd galloping across the grass. I must confess this is not the first time I have seen this large shepherd at this location. Last week I saw him loping through the schoolyard and it appeared he was headed for me so I made a quick detour down another street. I am not afraid of dogs but he looked like he was headed my way; today I realized he was not running toward me, but instead playing “fetch” with his owner whom I couldn’t see. I had to smile, but my fears were not unfounded … earlier this year I had a terrible scare with another shepherd, equally as large, from whom I hid behind a tree. In the still of the morning, I worry that a dog may attack, even unprovoked, thus I carry pepper spray and a huge whistle and I err on the side of caution when it comes to any animal.

At any rate, I watched the man throw a wiffle ball and his dog went running to fetch it. It was a large ball and the dog had to grab it in the side of his mouth to return it to his owner. Well at least the dog slobber slides through the holes. If you’ve ever played catch with a dog, the ball gets a little slimy after a few tosses. Ahhhh … pets.

It is always fun to watch animals interact with their owners. A pet that is loved and cherished by its pet parent will reward you a thousand times over with love and attention and you will never lack for companionship with your little friend beside you. It goes beyond Fido and Fluffy too – I know because I have a bird, a canary to be exact, and I have owned birds in the past (or perhaps I should say they have owned me). I know they owned my heart, as does Buddy now.

Today I will dedicate this blog post to a much-cherished parakeet named Joey, who died thirty years ago today.

Joey made such an impact on the family that I think about him every year on this anniversary of his death. His passing made us very sad and we decided on that fateful day that another pet would never again cross our threshold. But that is another story for another post.

Back in 1975, my parents were driving out in the country looking for late Summer veggies at roadside stands. While perusing and picking some produce at the long wooden table, out of nowhere, a Pomeranian pup came over and sniffed the bag my mom had in her hand. She stroked his ears and he wagged his silky tail appreciatively. They called to the vendor from inside the car that his dog was near the road as they didn’t want him to get hurt when they started the car since the dog trailed them to the car and didn’t want to leave. He answered back “he’s not my dog” and added “you’re my first customer of the day so I don’t know where it came from and it doesn’t belong to any of my neighbors, so it looks like you found yourself a dog” … a debate between my folks ensued whether to take the dog with them or not and they decided to take him and check the papers for lost dog notices. They put him in the backseat and away they went.

I came home from working at the diner that day to see a Pekinese in the yard as I walked up the sidewalk. I ran in the house to hear the whole story. My mom said we’d look Wednesday in the lost and found ads in the local paper and give it a few weeks, then keep him if no owner claimed him. But she added the caveat that it was doubtful he would end up being our dog as he seemed healthy with a glossy coat, very friendly and well-taken care of. He had no collar or identification. We nicknamed him “Dusty” since he was found on a dusty country road.

He fit right into the family, and he couldn’t decide whom he should cozy up to. He decided on my mom and trailed behind her constantly and never left her side when she was sitting in a chair. My mom did not work but stayed at home and so Dusty was happy to have a constant companion – the feeling was mutual as to my mom. We dreaded looking in the Mellus, our local paper, on Wednesday, but we did, and sure enough there was a plea for a lost Pomeranian. His real name escapes me now, but we called the number and reported where we found Dusty. He had run quite far from where his family was visiting friends. They had put him in a backyard with no fence and he made a run for it. The owners came right away to pick up their pooch, tears of joy and smiles all around to see him again. Dusty went right over to them and it was evident we had been mere substitutes. They offered a reward and we shook our heads “no” and said it was our pleasure to host him and we turned over a leash and some kibble that we had bought at Feed Rite.

Well then we were feeling a little despondent after Dusty’s departure. That night it was my mom who broached the subject that “perhaps we should get another pet” … we had not had any pets since moving to the States and had a rough run with three dogs while still living in Canada, and thus had decided against getting any more pets for awhile.

We decided on a parakeet. We went down to Feed Rite Pet Supply the next evening and picked out a turquoise parakeet whom we named “Joey”. We got a brass cage and all his necessities and brought him home. Immediately, my mom, who had had a parakeet when she was growing up, set to work on teaching Joey to talk. Since my mom spent most of her time in the kitchen, as did Joey, as her constant companion he never lacked for attention. Within a week, she had him sitting as close to the cage bars as he could to watch her every move. Every time she came near the sink, she would visit with him, and he soon knew that some of his favorite “people treats” came from the fridge and thus every time she opened the fridge, he would peep or jibber-jabber or hang upside down in the cage to get her attention. His reward was sharing a piece of fruit with my mom or getting a big piece of lettuce. My mom persisted in saying “Hi Joey” to him at least a hundred times a day but he failed to pick it up. He did look right at her, and sometimes cocked his head as if to say “okay already, I’m letting these words sink in – I’m gettin’ there mom” but he wouldn’t repeat the greeting back. My mom wanted to teach him just a couple of words then start working on longer sentences. In desperation one day she said “Hi Stupid” … and repeated that a few times as she was getting exasperated with him. Then she started greeting him constantly with “Hi Stupid”. One day she was rewarded with “Hi Stupid” back to a visitor at our house! Then it seemed he would not stop saying it. Trying a different tact, my mom went back to saying “Hi Joey” … within a few days, she went over to the cage and was rewarded with “Hi Yoey” … we realized that our little Joey was either Swedish or he couldn’t pronounce the letter “J”.

Joey would say “Hi Stupid” or “Hi Joey” at least fifty times a day and so my mom decided he should graduate to longer sentences. Soon he was telling us “he’s a good boy” or “he’s a bird” … the phrase had been “he’s a GOOD bird but somehow he didn’t remember to put the word “good” in there. We’d laugh and answer him back with “of course you’re a bird – what else could you be?” Joey’s vocabulary and phrases grew. He was finger-tamed within a month, and came out every day on my mom’s finger or shoulder. He was never allowed to fly around the house. We just dropped the cage door down and he walked out and my mom offered him her finger and he’d climb aboard . He was quick to climb on any of our fingers or liked to sit on our shoulders too. He was so loved by his family.

Then in August of 1983, suddenly our perky little boy became listless and unresponsive to his favorite treats or did not want to come out his cage. We were worried sick and got him into the vet as soon as possible on a Friday afternoon, the 12th . The vet, who was an avian specialist, told us it was just a little stomach upset and gave us some medicine to mix with his drinking water and also recommended giving him Pepto Bismol once a day in an eyedropper until was perky and acting like himself again. My mom had to reach in the cage and pick him up and cradle him to give him the Pepto Bismol. He didn’t like the taste and would shake his head back and forth and as a result hard, dried-up pink Pepto Bismol got caked on his mouth. Poor little thing. He did not respond well to the medicine and remained listless. A pall settled over the house and we hovered over him all weekend as if our well wishes and concerns would somehow transmit through to him and make him better. We decided on Sunday night we would return to the vet on Monday when I got home from work.

Sadly, my mom was giving him his Pepto Bismol Monday morning after I left for work and he passed away in her hands. She called me at work and we cried together. She put his little body in a small box and asked a neighbor to come and take the cage and accessories away and put them in the garbage as it was garbage day which she did. We took Joey’s body back to the vet and asked to have an autopsy done on our beautiful little blue boy. It was discovered that he had died of a tumor in his esophagus. I am sniffling as I am typing this, just awash in renewed grief In fact, on this 30th anniversary, I remember the sadness and it feels like it was yesterday. My father, not a very tender or demonstrative person, cried like a baby when he got home from work that night. We all cried together for a life snuffed out too soon – a little bird who brought us pure joy and we then vowed there would be no “replacement bird”, nor would we every do anything to sully his memory.

Rest in peace my little Joey – I must close this post now as tears are coursing down my cheeks and a teardrop has landed on my keyboard and I must wipe it off. But I will not wipe off the tears on my face – I am not ashamed to cry so hard for one little blue budgie named “Joey”. God bless your soul little one.

Back in the day I was a big fan of “The Mickey Mouse Club” – I even had my own pair of Mouseketeer ears I donned while watching the show. In later years I never lost my fondness for Mickey and his main squeeze Minnie and I owned several sweatshirts and tees emblazoned with their images. However, I need to set the record straight that “feeling the love” for mice stops right there.

I’ve already relayed the horror story of my rodent issues in a prior blog so I won’t go there now. It both sickened and saddened me to see a rat infestation in my garden paradise, and, though I may never see another rat in the yard, the experience has tainted me forever.

Thus, with the exception of Mickey and Minnie, I detest rodents. To me, mice are mini versions of rats. Of course, there has always been the occasional field mouse lurking about outside, especially since I fed the birds for decades. I’d see them scurrying to and fro, nibbling on the spilled birdseed, or trying to snatch a stale bread crust which I tossed to the birds. I always worry they’ll follow me into the house, especially when the cooler temps arrive.

This morning at Council Point Park, I was walking along minding my own business when a mouse came running out of the bush and missed my feet by a hair’s breadth. Whoa! This was way too close for comfort! I suspect that a bigger critter was chasing him and he didn’t even see me comin’. He momentarily startled me and I screamed. I was in a somewhat secluded part of the Park with no one near me, but I am sure every walker’s head swiveled around to see what the commotion was about. One or two people crossed my path before I left the Park and asked if I heard a woman’s scream and I was somewhat red faced when I answered “yes, I heard that woman scream … it was me; this five-foot, nine-inch person who had a three-inch mouse cross her path” … then with a wan smile I said “I’m really scared of anything that moves faster than I do” which garnered a few laughs as if I was trying to be a stand-up comedian. The old adage of “he’s more scared of you, then you are of him” is a misnomer.

The rest of the walk was spent studying every part of the path in front of me– I really must shake this terror as I enjoy my morning walk in the Park too much to stop now due to a silly old mouse. I tried to recall that cutesy rhyme our grade school teacher had us recite just to pacify myself and get past the incident. I Googled it when I came online later to read the entire poem. I’ll bet if you reach into the recesses of your brain, you will recall it too.

I think mice
Are rather nice.
Their tails are long,
Their faces small,
They haven’t any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white.
They run about the house at night
They nibble things they shouldn’t touch,
And no one seems to like them much
But I think mice are nice.

My high school chum and Facebook friend, Carol, lives in Honeoye Falls, a tiny rural village in New York. Her house butts up against a wooded area. She regales us daily with posts telling tales of deer and fox visiting her backyard, beautiful birds sipping and supping at her birdbath and feeder respectively, and gorgeous and unusual butterflies and moths native to that area flitting about her gardens. She usually substantiates her nature posts with pictures. Carol likes to sit on her deck at night and watch the bats. While I enjoy reading about her wildlife encounters and have suggested she compile her posts and write a narrative entitled “Tales From The Edge”, she laughs it off and says she is just a city girl captivated by the great outdoors. Well, I love animals just as much as the next person, but I’d be wary of deer or fox in my backyard and no way would I feel comfortable in the dark with bats flying around. I’ve told her so. When I had my rodent issue a few years ago, Carol offered to box up and send some “animal friendly” traps so I could capture the rats and set them free. Trap the rats? Pick up the trap and carry it somewhere with that little varmint inside and let it loose? Not a chance! I politely declined.

Living so close to the woods, Carol often mentions being plagued by voles. Not wishing to appear out of the loop as to the woodland dwellers, I Googled “vole”, took a peek and then asked her “what the heck is a vole versus a mouse?” “Just a chubby version of a regular mouse” she replied and added that they live in the shed where she keeps her riding mower and they won’t hurt you. I shuddered when I read that as I recalled the debacle with my garage mouse.

Years ago I found a pile of sawdust and gnaw marks on a fiberboard storage cupboard in my garage. I sprinkled some turquoise D-con mouse pellets, then prayed they’d eat it and go somewhere else to die. Well, no … one tiny mouse body was laying there the next time I went out. Sigh. I went to ACO Hardware for more mouse repellent and spied a glue mousetrap which touted the product was the most-humane way to dispose of unwanted vermin (as if there are “wanted vermin”?). I put the trap out in the garage and a few days later went out to go somewhere in the car. I backed the car out and when I went to close the garage door, there he was – this pitiful little mouse looking at me, its hind end submerged in the glue and its little body squirming and writhing to get out of the sticky trap. With eyes filled with tears at what I’d done, I ran over to my neighbor Marge’s house and asked her to pick it up and take it away. Being the solid friend that she is, she hustled over, picked up the contraption with a plastic bag, sealed the bag to quickly suffocate the mouse, and threw it into her yard waste bag. The next time she opened the yard waste bag our little friend scampered out of the bag and leapt onto the grass and ran away. Whew! That was the first and last time to use the glue method – certainly not humane, even if he did manage to get free.

As to rodents and creepy crawlies I try to put on my “big-girl pants” and deal with it … but I surely shaved another year off my life with this morning “MOUSESCAPADE”.

p.s. I went over the 200-mile mark today … now to shoot for 300 miles and supersede the car mileage.

T.M.I., or “too much information”, happens alot these days. It is a phenomenon, mostly found on social media, where people just chatter on and on about themselves just a wee bit too much. Once that chatter is out there on the internet, there is no recalling or deleting all that STUFF… but sometimes an oral recitation of what’s happening can be just as bad.

As I was walking this morning I went down a street where clearly an exodus to the great outdoors was in progress. This was the same family and scenario I encountered and recounted in a blog post earlier this Summer, and as before, they were about to embark on a camping trip. You might recall my conversation with the chatty happy camper who told me how excited he was to be making S’mores. Well this morning, this very amicable young man decided to chat me up again as his parents packed the final fixings for the camping trip.

In the span of less than five minutes he told me all his family’s business and described how the house would be left alone for the next two weeks. He started out by telling me: “The dog and cat are going to stay at the vet’s office because Snoopy, that’s our dog, got lost in the woods the last time we went camping.” Well that info about the pets was innocuous enough until he added: “Dad says he hopes the neighbors remember to watch out for our house and water Mom’s flowers until we come home because half the time they never water their own.” If a thought bubble appeared over my head it would say “good thing I’m not a burglar kid because you just gave me the details to when your house will be unoccupied” or “good thing I don’t want to snitch on you to the neighbors about what you think of them”… but he didn’t stop there. Then, parroting one of the parent’s comments no doubt, this came out next: “Dad’s car needed a new transmission last week and he said it cost a ton of money but we’re still going on this trip because we need to get away for awhile. Grandma will loan us money if we get into trouble and need help; she’s good for it.” I winced at the last statement. Was this child never admonished like most kids that whatever is said in the house stays in the house? Do the parents know about this little motor mouth spewing out all the family news and views? OMG. Way too much information kiddo.

Ahem … not that I was a little angel in this regard. I slipped up only once. My parents were thirty when I was born – that was considered old back then. I had no siblings, was never spoiled and never lacked for attention, but my parents were strict with me and I was basically an obedient child. I knew my place in the family. My parents never had to raise their respective voices when rearing their only child, but one time they really took issue with me.

My best friend in the world from our toddling days until we moved to the United States from Canada in 1966 was Linda Crosby. The Crosbys were our next-door neighbors and Linda was the eldest of three children. She was fun and a great companion about 75% of the time. When things did not go her way she was a brat and she’d throw a temper tantrum. If she acted up at our house, my mother banished her to her house immediately; my mom would not tolerate a whiny, screaming child. We played companionably but Linda Crosby always wanted to be “in charge”. She was famous for grabbing my toys and misappropriating them for her own – my large-sized tricycle was one of her favorite items to snatch from me, even when I was sitting on it. “Gimme your bike now Linda or I’ll beat you up” she’d say and I’d hop off and say “here”. My folks would witness this behavior and were quite miffed over it. When they had seen the recurring scenario happen one time too many, at dinner that night my father suggested he would give me a dime for every time I beat up Linda Crosby. “Really Daddy?” I was excited. (Of course a dime went a heck of alot further in the early 60s.)

It was a Saturday a few days later, when the nefarious Linda Crosby “played dirty” and demanded I get off my large trike and take her small one. I got off and went right over and pushed her chest hard. She was caught off guard and toppled backward onto the ground and immediately started wailing. I pinned each of her arms down with my knees and then sat on her, all triumphant. Both sets of parents came running outside when they heard the ruckus. I stood there and at the top of my lungs shouted “Daddy, I beat up Linda Crosby – can I have my dime now?” How’s that for a precocious child? I got a licking when I got inside for repeating family business outside the house. I couldn’t sit down comfortably for quite a few hours and the smack- down story haunted me for years. It was subsequently dragged out and retold countless times to family friends and relatives through the years. Oops!! P.S. – I never collected my dime either.

I’ve had an earworm the last few days … “Blame It on the Bossa Nova” keeps playing in my head. As you may have heard, Eydie Gormé passed away over the weekend. Each time the national news reported on her passing, they played a sound bite of her trademark song. I had a similar earworm after we lost Jean Stapleton from repeatedly hearing Edith Bunker’s shrill “Archie!!” plus the audio clip “Those Were the Days”, her duet with Carroll O’Connor on their iconic T.V. show “All in the Family”.

Well, we didn’t get that projected storm last night, and an early morning quick look out the window (my new low-tech method for determining the weather) told me the pavement was dry but rain threatened. I decided a trip to the backyard instead of Council Point Park was in order. Weeds are the bane of my existence and I had zero enthusiasm for dealing with them. I opened the door to go outside feeling like the Dunkin’ Donuts baker in the “Time to make the donuts” commercial as I trod out dejectedly to wrestle with the choke vine, tame the purple nightshade and tackle the thistles.

I started out simple – first, the front yard which was a breeze and took me maybe fifteen minutes. Last year I invested in very real-looking silk flowers for all my pots and baskets, so gone are the countless hours tending to all my annuals at the front and side of the house. Now we just deal with those sneaky little sidewalk crack weeds.

The backyard was not so easy. Maintaining the roses and perennials got placed on the back burner, especially since I’ve not been out back multi-tasking – deadheading and weeding at the same time I was watering; no need to water because we’ve had so much rain.

“Blame it on the Bossa Nova” kept running non-stop in my head as I was working on spading out some of the more-stubborn thistles. It was then I decided today’s post should be entitled “Sadie” because I could be singing “Blame it on the Basset Hound” … it is Sadie’s fault I am dealing with thistles, nearly ten years after her departure.

The couple who lived in the house next door had a big basset hound named Sadie. For me, any previous encounters with this breed had been a cardboard cutout of a basset hound at the shoe store while purchasing a pair of Hush Puppies. Sure that hound dog looked endearing with its sorrowful eyes and long floppy ears. But did you know that basset hounds have a mean streak and are aggressive? The new neighbors moved into the house in the Spring. On weekends when the couple was home, they put Sadie out in the yard and if I was out there gardening, she’d bark and growl at me the entire time. In frustration, I’d yell “shut up” and they would ask me why I was yelling at their dog. This went on every weekend during the gardening season. They also spent time in the yard, but evidently the barking didn’t annoy them. I really lost my temper one day and said I would call the police if the barking did not cease. They took Sadie in the house … ah, blessed peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn’t use that tact before.

But the peace and quiet was short-lived, because the next day, Monday, at precisely 4:00 a.m., Sadie was put out in the yard and she began barking. Her voice carried in the still of the night directly to my open bedroom window. The couple each had factory jobs and told me when they moved in that they left the house very early to go out for breakfast together before they went to their respective jobs. I laid awake and listened as Sadie barked constantly for 45 minutes and this became the new routine every morning until they left for work. I bought a pair of earplugs and I also cornered them in the yard that weekend and asked why they would do such a nasty trick and the reply was “because you don’t like our Sadie”. I threatened to bring the police into the fray, but they said “don’t bother – we’re moving soon and you don’t have to bully Sadie anymore” … true to their word, a “For Sale” sign went up and they were soon gone. But not before they left a calling card as a reminder of their neighborliness.

While they lived there, they fed every wild bird imaginable – they had at least a half-dozen or so bird feeders in the yard, all filled with different seeds to attract a variety of birds. I also fed and watered the birds, but they had these *&^% thistle seeds. The light-as-a-feather thistle seeds invariably would end up in my yard and I was constantly digging out the prickly thistle weeds. Before they left, I am sure they hung over the fence and dumped or flung several pounds of thistle seeds into my yard. I had a large crop of thistles still thriving by the first frost, but the following Summer, I could not keep up with those pesky thistle weeds– they were growing everywhere, right to the middle of the yard. Thistle weeds grow fast and they are sturdy and have rhizome roots. This means the roots grow horizontally or in clusters which you can never get the entire root out – you can chop it up in pieces and the little clumps will start growing new thistles on their own. It was horrible. I got a weeding device (coincidentally called a “Weed Hound”) which had an auger operated by pushing a handle to pop out the offending weed. It was guaranteed to grab and pull out any weed completely but even the “Weed Hound” didn’t work. Brush-clearing products did not do the trick either. Each thistle had to be dug out individually then you had to tunnel under the dirt to extract the entire root. It has taken ten years and I still need to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the thistles sometimes – today was such a day. To add insult to injury, I got 3/4s finished with the job and it started to rain.

My homeostatic condition at the end of each thistle-pulling foray is snarly, and I am prone to growling at anyone in my path, though my bark is definitely worse than my bite!

I’m somewhat conflicted. I’m vacillating between being responsible versus being irresponsible. Well, here’s my confession. You’ll hear it once so I get it off my chest. If a day in my life was divided up like a pie chart, I daresay my walking and writing have begun encroaching more and more into this pie of life (not to be confused with “Life of Pi”) … so, if you’ll pardon the pun, I’ve been cherry picking my chores. I do what is absolutely necessary – not always an admirable job, and defer the other pesky tasks ‘til tomorrow. I’ve learned to turn a blind eye to the little weeds in my sidewalk, or the ones that keep rearing their ugly heads through the mulch saying “pick me” or “pull me”, and I won’t even discuss the creeping and climbing choke vine which insists on overtaking the yard. Yup, I just put on my blinders. I once was meticulous about the garden, but now I hurry out the door, tripping along the sidewalk without a care in the world as I set out on a walk. Inside the house – well I know I could be doing a better job with my housework (which I hate almost as much as weeding), but oh well, here I sit typing away while I know that sadly I would not pass the “white glove test”. Hopefully on a scale of pass/fail I’d get a “pass” at least. I know that my mother is looking down from above with hands on her hips and clucking her tongue saying “I told you so” as she often told me housekeeping was not my strongpoint.

My mom was an immaculate housekeeper when she had good health and somewhat of a perfectionist. We used to do the big deep cleaning twice a year, in Spring and Fall, and for each of those seasons it encompassed every weekend for about a month until I protested that once a year would suffice. Spring cleaning and the start of yard work and the planting season just crashed into one another, leaving little opportunity to do anything pleasurable. I got my way and then I complained that Fall was our favorite season … a time to go for long drives in the country to enjoy Mother Nature’s palette, or buy apples or pumpkins or huge beefsteak tomatoes from roadside stands – anything but stay cooped up in the house doing cleaning chores. I made a valid argument and we negotiated Fall cleaning to occur in the month of August thus devoting every weekend through Labor Day to giving the house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom. We’d invariably argue about the top shelves in kitchen cupboards and taking out the good dishes and glasses to wash them when they were never used. I said “wash ‘em when you need them; we never entertain” … my point was taken and I prevailed. My biggest success was getting my mom to not wash dishes every night and to live with a rinsed-out mug or scraped plate in the sink when she went to bed. Mom mellowed out a lot in later years. (Smile)

So, when I left for my walk this morning thinking how liberated I was to leave the weeds and dust bunnies behind, I still had the nagging feeling of someone looking over my shoulder and wagging a finger at me. I went to Council Point Park and while traversing the trail saw some weeds there, which of course reminded me of mine at home. I lectured myself that there are other days and other ways to get the unpleasant agenda items dispensed with and it is more important to enjoy the special moments every day, no matter how simple the pleasure, and to always live life to the fullest. I was reminded of one of my favorite songs by Kenny Loggins which always keeps me grounded. I hummed it as I walked along and returned home feeling guilt-free and if not a bit footloose and fancy free as well. Here is “Return to Pooh Corner” by Kenny Loggins for you to enjoy too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9J5o1iVfAw

What is normally a sedate stroll from my house to Council Point Park, instead was filled with ferocity today causing me to beat a somewhat hasty path along the subdivision sidewalks.

I had MY early a.m. cup of java so I knew it was not ME who woke up with a burr in my paw.

Well, the walk started out quietly enough. I passed the house with the two dog beds in the front room window, and as usual, the pair of Yorkies were ensconced in their respective comfy pillowed baskets fast asleep. It always looks like two pies or large tarts sitting on the wide window ledge. In the next block I passed a house where a nearly all-black kitten sat staring out the parted living room sheers. As I sauntered by, one white-stockinged front leg raised up and pawed the window as if to say “hey”; I stifled the urge not to wave back, lest I lose my credibility. Silly girl.

A little further down, a cacophony of barks was about to ensue. It doesn’t matter whether it is a weekday or weekend, but after passing a particular corner house, the large hound dog spies me and telegraphs to his counterparts up and down the block that an evil human is about to tread near their turf and thus they should prepare to defend their property. Then, you see and hear each dog, in succession, whether they eyeball me or not, race to the front window or door or the gate and based on their brethrens’ recommendation, they bark continuously until I pass. I hate the corner lots where dogs run the fence or try to lunge at you as you walk by just minding your own business. Usually their irate master bellows for them to shut up or sometimes they are allowed to bark until the decibel level in the neighborhood becomes excruciating. Well enough of that noise! Suffice it to say I was grateful to be on the last leg of my sprint to the Park.

But wait, there’s more …

I can’t forget to mention the feral kitty across the street from the Park. No, … “kitty” is too polite of a word for this creature. I am sure it is a feral cat – long, skinny and unkempt with dingy-looking apricot fur. It sits in a driveway next to the side door stoop every morning. The first time I saw it I figured it escaped out the door or had gotten locked out of the house. Why? This cat had some major “CATitude” going on. I walked by and it immediately hissed and spat at me. It arched its back and flicked its tail into an “S” – this cat resembles one of those yard ornaments or pictures you see at Halloween of a black cat with the arched back and erratically swishing tail. It doesn’t like me and every morning I’m in for the same surly greeting when our eyes meet. My friend in rural New York has adopted a feral female cat and her three kittens, but they are banished to a shelter box on her deck as she has three indoor felines of her own. The feral charges receive food and water and she plays with the kittens but the momma cat is wary and watchful of Carol and her brood.

At any rate, this morning I was glad to get to the peaceful Park and happy to see the only creature at the scene as I entered the pathway was a single mourning dove; its low, plaintive cooing was soothing after the verbal assaults from the dogs and cats at the tail end of my journey to the Park.

As I walked the path, I mused that I, too, was a creature – a creature of habit. In my everyday jaunts to the Park I embark on the pathway at the exact same starting point every time; never once have I deviated. One can still take the 1.9 mile walk by going any of the other ways or crossing in the middle or starting in the opposite direction. Perhaps I am conditioned, just like Pavlov’s dog, to see the first paved path I come across and mindlessly follow it without any brain action on my part? Or am I just a creature of habit?

I stepped out the door to embark on a walk with 20 mph wind gusting this morning. I was prepared though; I stuck some cotton in my ears so the wind would not travel in one ear and out the other. It was so breezy the slate “Welcome” sign outside the door was wiggling, wobbling and slapping against the brick wall as each gust of wind caught it. Shhhhhh … Marge is still sleeping! In the distance I heard the gentle tinkle of my wind chimes from the farthest corner of the backyard. Often the clapper gets tangled in my Dream Cloud rose and silences the gentle, soothing sound, but not today. As I walked through the subdivisions enroute to the Park, I noticed the wind was wreaking havoc with many hanging baskets and some of them were swinging precariously. I passed many wind chimes, running the gamut from large with long pipes to smaller, more-dainty bamboo varieties. It is pleasant to hear the gentle noises emitting from the wind chimes in the early morning – it makes you feel at peace with the world. When I worked on site at Stroh River Place, at the center of the courtyard was a huge fountain and carillon bells which played on the hour. Stroh River Place consisted of an office building, apartment building and parking garage and wherever you were, the sound of the bells pealing was carried throughout the entire compound. It always seemed to me that this is what Heaven might sound like – soft music tolling on the hour … perhaps I am a dreamer sometimes.

Well this post could be entitled “All Things Alpine”. The noisy chimes this morning made me think about bells and I have an amusing story about cow bells which I must share. My parents and I visited Austria in 1979 and spent a week in the Austrian Alps. We went in May and the Alpine meadows were reminiscent of scenery from “The Sound of Music” and the beauty of the pristine, grassy knolls and colorful Alpine flowers everywhere made you want to sing out in joy. If you liked to walk or hike, this was the place to be.

We stayed in a quaint town in a bed-and-board chalet. There was a farm in back of the chalet where the farmer kept some chickens and a herd of dairy cattle. They used the milk for fresh cream to pour into mugs of strong coffee, churned their own butter and made their own cheese. The proprietors were a husband and wife – he did the farming and she made all the meals and they shared upkeep of the chalet chores.

Every morning at the crack of dawn, the farmer would stream the cows out of the barn and up through the narrow street to take them to the Alpine slopes to graze all day. He would reverse the trip at night to bring them back home. The cows wore very large, flat metal bells with monstrous clappers on a leather collar around their neck. If you got about 50-60 head of cows lowing and walking along with their bells in tow, it was loud enough to wake the dead as they walked past your bedroom window in the early a.m. The only plus to all that noise was sitting down to warm Kaiser rolls spread with fresh chunks of creamy butter. It seemed all the farmers led their respective herds through the tiny Alpine towns, and thus a miniature alpine cow bell hanging on an embroidered leather strap was a souvenir that a visitor to Austria could not pass up. I had one for years which hung from my rearview mirror until the fabric faded and it finally fell down.

One did not have to travel far to get to Grossglockner, the tallest mountain in Austria. At this tourist attraction, you can start at the base of the mountain in short sleeves and wind your way by car to the very top. Halfway there, if you got out the car to admire the view, you must have a sweater with you due to the snow. By the time you reach the mountain peak you needed a heavy coat as snow is everywhere except on the mountain pass road. We travelled to the peak by car but it was also a trip for hiking or walking enthusiasts who were everywhere.

Another souvenir from Austria that came home with me was an Alpine walking stick. Everyone in the Alps walks everywhere, no matter their age; most of them walk with a cane with a metal point on the bottom that is used to help navigate the steep hills. Walking or hiking enthusiasts collect badges or metal shields from every town in the Alps. The shields are about 1½ by 1½ inches and curved to fit on the side of the stick. They are nailed right onto the stick – the more towns you visit, the more shields you collect and exhibit up and down the walking stick. I brought home mine proudly displaying a half-dozen shields. I walked miles and miles that week, never tiring, and the stick was well used during my Alpine adventure. Thinking about it makes me want to break out singing with “Climb Every Mountain” from the “Sound of Music” … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spUpMv6PjXY