WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Befuddled and fractious with our weather woes again. Yesterday’s drippy morning kept me on the inside looking out. This morning I listened to meteorologists on two different stations and both predicted foul weather was afoot – the first round was destined for mid-day and then we would get smacked down a second time in the late afternoon/early evening. We never did have the storm yesterday (not that I am complaining) and I’m starting to second-guess these trusty weathermen – perhaps we have to go back to licking our finger and sticking it in the air or opening the window and looking up at the sky to figure out the day’s weather events. Hmmmmmm.

At any rate, there was no rain or funky weather at 7:45 a.m. so I ventured out to attempt to eke out a short walk and also take the buggy for a spin since it had been a week since it was out. I figured I’d do some errands by car, and then park the car at the pet shop, my last errand, and get a couple of miles walked as well. At the church parking lot, the sky looked a tad dark; I went to light candles and when I came back out five minutes later, the sky was very dark and menacing looking. Scaredy-cat that I am, I decided to drive right home. In that short, 3/4s of a mile trip, the sky darkened like nighttime and the street lights came on. A few industrial-sized raindrops plopped on my windshield. Lightning flashes were streaking the sky like a Ben Franklin electricity experiment. My sensor lamp in the front yard also was lit up when I arrived home. I got the car parked, walked out of the garage and unbelievably, in the space of a minute’s time, the sky totally lightened up and the sun came out. What this a figment of my imagination? Very bizarre weather!! It looked safe enough, so I did walk to the pet shop anyway – my order was not in yet and suddenly it was very hot and humid and I was sorry I had made the detour and not just gone in the house. Well, I got a two-mile walk in anyway.

As I write this post, it is rumbling outside and I will shut down my computer momentarily. The car got a run and so it’s good for another week at least. The other day I quipped to my e-friend Evelyn, who lives in Virginia and I’ve never met personally, that I bet I could get more miles walked than driven in the year 2013 at the rate I’m going. She laughed at that statement, but I glanced at my odometer this morning, versus the January 1st OnStar report, then tallied up the daily miles from my walking chart and did the math:

2,219 miles on car as of 01/01/13
2484 miles on car as of 08/07/13

265.00 miles on car in 2013 as of 08/07/13
183.50 miles for Linda in 2013 as of 08/07/13

Is this doable? Well, we’re not quite neck-in-neck, but I’ve decided it might be a fun new goal to set for myself. Wish me luck!
 

Now “Loopy” is not my moniker, nor is it a description of my personality. In the beginning when I started my walking regimen, every day I added an extra block to my distance walked and soon I set goals for myself of daily miles to be walked; now, I am striding toward a goal of yearly miles. Often, if the weather has been inclement and rain threatens, I would choose one of two small parks near my house and walk the complete city block, or loop, to get my exercise in. Memorial Park is a double block and walking one loop is 950 steps or nearly one-half mile … so, to eliminate being stranded miles from home and getting soaked in a sudden downpour, I just stick close to home and keep walking the same “loop” route. Not very exciting, but it gets the walk accomplished.

At Council Point Park, there are various paths or loops as well. The beauty of the walking path is you’re able to finish more miles in fewer time, plus the scenery is better. I’ve shaved off about twenty minutes from the entire roundtrip, since I started back in May. Unless I’m walking to do errands, it is now my daily “go-to” place … I previously reserved this destination just for weekends. It is so preferable to walking in subdivisions. Too many times I’ve been walking along in front of a house and had to stray to the middle of the street to avoid a wayward sprinkler or perhaps a car parked illegally over the sidewalk. And speaking of sidewalks, most of them in Lincoln Park are horrible – they are often old and pitted, buckled or sunken from large tree roots, or there are huge potholes in the sidewalk. Yikes! On Fort Street, people enroute to work, are either in a hurry, eating or drinking, grooming or talking on the phone – or worse yet, head bent down, no doubt reading or sending text messages. Often people just plain don’t pay attention and pull out or back out and are totally oblivious to you. So “loopy” is the way to go for walking in my opinion.

It was a very angry-looking sky which looked like a large fresh bruise when I embarked on my walk this morning. I didn’t carry an umbrella, but I sure picked up the pace as I pounded the pavement toward Council Point Park.

The first thing I noticed in the Park this morning was the Canada Geese had returned. While I, like others, were quick to ooh and aah over the fuzzy goslings, it is not so nice to keep your head down while travelling the paths to ensure you dodge the goose poop. I never understood what the hullabaloo was about in Oakland County with messy geese until I started coming to the Park on a regular basis … now I “get it”. Today, there were about a dozen geese milling around the picnic shelter area, no doubt looking for remnants from weekend picnics. They strutted and honked while they scoped out the shelter and under the picnic tables, but pickin’s evidently were slim as they collectively waddled over to the playground area. The last week or so, countless crabapples have been strewn all over the paths, but evidently those morsels did not grab their attention because the crabapples remained, both whole and crushed, all along the pathways.

I saw alot of baby bunnies bopping around this morning. The rabbits obviously have been busy doing what rabbits do best; yes, that other thing they do besides dispensing Easter treats. These brown-colored bunnies are very small and blend in perfectly with the stems and twigs of the bushes and the brown, crumpled-up leaves left over from last Fall. The bunnies’ ears are still very short, so that until you startle them and see those huge feet propel them into the air as they scurry off, all you see are furry brown blobs with cheeks moving slightly from dainty nibbles of clover or blades of grass. Their powder puff tails are still indistinguishable as well.

I completed my walk and headed home. As I neared my house, I heard the unmistakable honking of geese and so I looked up. It was undoubtedly the gaggle of geese I just left at the Park. It took forever for them to pass over me as they were not flying in formation but single file. Well that was different…. I made it home unscathed by goose plops or raindrops and as I walked up the driveway, the sun suddenly burst out of the clouds with the intensity of a rodeo bull out of the chute.

When I left the house this morning it was in the 50s. I was sure if I breathed into the chill morning air, a wisp of breath vapor would be present. Once again a light pair of gloves would not be out of the question. The wind kicked up, which stirred the trees and rustled the leaves and I knew I was not going to be shucking my sweatshirt cardigan until I was back in the house.

The sun was filtering through the clouds as I reached the house on the corner of Pagel and Ferris Streets. I saw the two pooches were out. They generally race over and run the length of the fence while I pass. Cheyenne is the elder of the two. He is an old beagle, with an almost completely white face. He was basking in the warmth of the sun, and squinting as the sun’s rays were going into his eyes. I got right up near him and there he sat, complacent and very quiet (for once in his life), while his companion, a toy poodle, ran circles around the yard, yip-yapping the entire time I strode by. I know Cheyenne’s name as his owners yell at him constantly to shut up whenever he is out in the yard. It is incessant baying every weeknight and all weekend, whether the owners are in the yard or not. Sometimes when I’ve spent an entire weekend day outside, I was sure I’d lose my mind between the baying beagle and “Turkey in the Straw” looping continuously from the ice cream man’s truck. I don’t know the poodle’s name … it spends its time frolicking in the yard or hopping up and down at the back door to get in. He lets Cheyenne make the noise for both of them. Ahhhh … pets.

I crossed the street and headed to Council Point Park on this very still and tranquil morning. I saw no cars or people the entire trip down there. There was no humming A/C units as most people had flung open their windows, and some screen doors were open as well, to let in the cool, crisp air circulate in the house. I am sure most people were still catching up on their ZZZZZZs.

Following up on the trials and tribulations of the MIA person who somehow became detached from his/her breakfast; well, you just know I had to steal a glance toward the parking curb in the Mixter Elementary School lot, the subject of yesterday’s blog post. There was nary a trace of any of the breakfast items that sat atop the curb yesterday. The wind no doubt whisked the paper bag, and waxy paper away and the cup is rolling around somewhere. Who knows what lucky critters enjoyed a yummy cinnamon roll for breakfast? I’ll look at the whole situation with a glass half-full attitude and hopefully there was never any need for consternation.

My boss is in the U.P. for a few days. I hope he took his long underwear with him. He has friends who own a huge lodge in the middle of the Hiawatha National Forest. He says the forest is so dense, you can barely see the lodge. It takes nine hours to get there but he says once he arrives in God’s Country, he breathes deep and just takes it all in; he says it clears his head and restores his soul. I told him I kinda feel like that when I visit Council Point Park, without the horrible long drive. He chuckled because he knows I don’t like to drive.

The Park was busy this morning with everyone taking advantage of the beautiful morning to run, jog, walk or bike. Everyone in the Park was solo like me, either mindlessly walking the path, tuned into their music or deep in thought. All these people noiselessly walking the tranquil trail, then you have that bleepin’ bullfrog. As I walked the twists and turns of the perimeter path that runs along the Ecorse Creek’s edge, I actually thought I heard more than one bullfrog. The creek looked a little brown and murky this morning, as I gazed between the reeds and across the water in search of the bigmouth bullfrog or his buddies, but I didn’t see them.

I can’t forget to mention there was a series of mini explosions interrupting the Park’s ambiance. The first one startled me out of my reverie, and then I heard another, and another … no one else looked worried. I am a perpetual worrier, and often a fatalist, tending to always expect the worst. The intermittent explosions continued … pop, pop, pop … and then a break, then another. This went on the entire time I was at the Park. I convinced myself that it was probably associated with the filming of “Transformers 4” in downtown Detroit.

When I returned to the entrance of the Park, I saw a couple of young boys looking skyward, transfixed on a kite that was dancing merrily in the stiff breeze. There was an older boy guiding the kite and he expertly made it rise and fall repeatedly. I stopped to watch the kite dip really low, then shoot for the Heavens with its beribboned tail gliding straight behind. I cannot remember how many years since I tried flying a kite – it has to be four, if not five, decades!! Oops, a lady never tells her age. It made me want to go out and buy a kite and give it a whirl. Well, you are only as old as you feel, and in the words of ol’ Honest Abe:

“It’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” – Abraham Lincoln

Here’s the facts – just the facts, Ma’am.

It was Saturday; 0730 hours to be exact.

I walked past my alma mater, Mixter Elementary School, which was shuttered at the close of the school year in 2010.

The grounds were empty as usual … even the playground paraphernalia was devoid of children.

And then I saw them.

Various items lined up like someone was about to take target practice:

a small paper bag laying on its side;
a few napkins;
a very large cinnamon roll sitting on a piece of waxy paper; and
a large Tim Hortons paper cup, 3/4s full of steaming black coffee.

No one was around.

This piqued my interest.

Who interrupted breakfast?

I swiveled my head around looking for the “owner” of the goodies, but there was no vehicle or bike in sight.

If it was “back in the day”, the next thing I’d look for was the Candid Camera crew watching my expressions and waiting to jump out at the appropriate time and yell “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!”

Er, … maybe Nature called and the person dipped behind a bush for a few moments.

My head told me to vamoose and get to my destination so I hurried along … after all, it was early morning and I had not seen a soul since I departed from my house.

Yet, uneasiness prevailed and, of course, I kept wondering about this little mystery as I wound my way along the walking paths at Council Point Park. People smiled, or waved, or uttered “good morning”, but no one stopped to chat me up so I just played the scenario over in my brain a few times, like any good sleuth would.

Well, what would Jessica do? … Jessica being Jessica Fletcher, the well-known amateur detective sleuth of Cabot Cove, in the T.V. series “Murder She Wrote”?

Hmmmmmmm.

Knowing I’d pass the schoolyard on my way home, I cast my doubts aside and decided it was all nonsense.

I finished up the path loops, left the Park and started for home. I glanced as far ahead as I could see from Pagel Street as I neared Electric Street and the schoolyard.

The set-up was still there!

Questions renewed in my mind.

Remarkably, the seagulls, with their radar for people food, did not stop and help themselves … to the cinnamon bun at least, the coffee not so much.

Query: what became of the person who left his oh-so-inviting breakfast intact in the parking lot at Mixter Elementary School?

Did his wife text or call him on his cell to advise she just went into labor and he dropped what he was doing, much like Hunter Mahan did?

Was he/she kidnapped just at the first sip of steamin’ brew or bite of savory cinnamon roll was about to be had?

Or was it just a kindly person who ate Timbits himself but left a tantalizing tidbit for the birds … (but coffee?).

Maybe it was an absent-minded maintenance person who now only occasionally services Mixter School and he came outside for a cigarette with his coffee and roll and he got called away?

Of course, my over-active mind has to sleuth this out, much like that abandoned bicycle chained to the tree on Fort Street several months ago.

I trek past here every day I go to Council Point Park so I will be curious to scope it out tomorrow.

Oh, just get over it Linda – it is another of life’s many mysteries …

Well we’ve flipped a calendar page over and have thus arrived in August. We are crawling a little faster toward Fall every day; in fact, I’ve been noticing the gradual later sunrise and earlier sunset times already. I’ve never been a fan of August, but then I’m not a hot-weather fan. I’m also not a fan of “webbing”, another phenomenon that happens later in the month of August. I hate going out in the backyard to water and there are fine spider webs everywhere. Because the early morning sun is not powerful enough to light up the dewy webs, you often walk blindly through gargantuan silky webs, seemingly spun overnight and which are suspended from bushes to plants throughout the yard. This just totally freaks me out. My butterfly bushes were a haven for spider webs – I was constantly pawing the air with my hose nozzle to clear a path to walk. Sometimes when I am out walking, I’ve run into a spider web strung across the sidewalk and I can’t see it until I walk through it –I get frantic to get the sticky mess off my clothes, lest its owner tag along for a ride. I realize once you leave the confines of your home, that anything goes as to critters – after all, they live outside and have as much right as you do to be there.

This morning I witnessed the most savage and barbaric act that I just had to write about it.

I’m sure when you were a kid you heard or read the poem “The Spider and the Fly” by Mary Howitt. This poem has been around for nearly two centuries.

The Spider and the Fly

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair
-can ne’er come down again.”

Well, that may be a cute poem on paper, or perhaps to recite, but I have to say I’ve never seen a spider take out a fly in real life. All this Summer I have monitored the wall near my garage where a huge brown spider lives. I sweep down the web and the spider returns the next day. The few times I’ve had the hose out this Summer, I’ve sprayed down the web; the next day the beast and his web are back. So, I just quit messin’ with it and have just bravely dealt with this spider the best I could. Whenever I have to open the garage door, I move as far away as possible, but he always sees me and scurries like heck across the web and back into his hidey hole which is behind the siding. I will tell you that if he strings a web to the garage door handle I’m visiting my next-door neighbor Marge and asking her to pack her patience and some paper towels and come over ASAP. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s come over to deal with a large spider for me.

For the past two Summers, I had a massive black spider living between the siding slats and he rigged up a web from behind the siding to the screen door handle and to the mailbox. It was huge. I used the jet spray on my hose nozzle in the area every day and the next day it was back … I’d go out around the house to get the mail with heavy rubber gloves on. In fact I still do this as it has always been a favorite spot for spiders to hide over the years, but so far there haven’t been any spiders near the mailbox in 2013.

This morning I returned from a long and refreshing 3 ¾ mile walk and went over to inspect the spider web, just to torment myself. As I walked up to the web, a fly flew directly into the sticky web and immediately got tangled up – he was kicking his legs and flipping his wings. Now mind you, I have no affinity for flies, but this was fascinating, in a macabre sort of way, to witness. Soon that spider scurried out onto the web and wrapped his legs around the fly who was kicking and hanging on for dear life. The spider paralyzed the fly somehow – the legs went limp and the thrashing stopped. Then, quick as a whip, the spider pulled its prey into the hidey-hole. I was horrified, then disgusted, by this savage act of cruelty. Close encounters of the worst kind. Was this act worthy of a few paragraphs in this blog post? Probably not, but all factions of nature spark my interest and this little interaction has been on my mind all day since I witnessed it. Admittedly, it is no different from the dog-eat-dog world of humans: in the minority are the backstabbers, the ruthless or selfish survivors … then, of course, you have the meek and mild or compliant ones who make up the majority. Happily, I fall into the last nomenclature. Sadly, the outside world can be a beautiful but cruel place to live in sometimes.

The moral of this tale of two of God’s creatures could be summed up in this famous quote as well:

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive!” Sir Walter Scott

With today’s entry, my published blog posts have reached the century mark. Wow!! Well, I told myself in the beginning I’d write a blog post for every day I walked. Sometimes, I’d have errands and squeak in a small walk just so I could post something. Other times, inclement weather for days on end, kept me on the inside looking out. I racked up alot of posts in June and July when I walked a total of 100 miles since I was not out watering the gardens thanks to all the rain. Well, I’ve still got plenty of tread on my walking shoes, plus a spare pair, and I am not out of blog post ideas either. On my walks, I always see items worthy of a comment, reflection or just to ponder on. Some incidents are funny, some are sad and many times I am reminded of people, places or things from my past. Memories are nice to drag out and reflect on sometimes.

I often come home from a walk, my head brimming with thoughts for that day’s blog. Sometimes I have to write down some of the ideas as I may not hop online for awhile. I jot my thoughts in a wide-ruled composition notebook, or a “scribbler” as my mom would call it. My mom faithfully kept the household books for years in a well-worn black-and-white marbled composition book, she referred to as her “scribbler”. I just Googled the definition of “scribbler” and all I could find was “a messy writer” or “a person who writes as a hobby”. Hmmmmm. Well both of those could classify this blogger. I shall continue to use and call it a “scribbler”. The fodder for future blog posts is endless as far as I can tell. That’s a good thing because last week I climbed aboard the Heritage Newspapers Community Blog train and now I am a blogging partner there. How exciting!!!! I’ve not written anything in nearly 35 years – it’s like re-inventing myself. I must say that I share the recently deceased Helen Thomas’ exhilaration about being hooked on writing (after receiving her first byline). She said:

“seeing my byline for the first time was an ego-swelling event, and soon afterward I joined the staff of the paper,” …. “I became dedicated to the proposition that this was the life for me.”

I heard that remark several times right after her death a few weeks ago. I always admired Helen Thomas and her tenacity as she pressed for the facts behind each story. We also share the same alma mater – Wayne State University.

I got my first byline in the Henry Ford Community College newspaper, The Ford Estate. With my fellow students in Journalism 31, under the direction of our teacher Louise Schlaff, we published a weekly newspaper. We got class credits of course, but the class was so much more than mere credits. It was a wonderful learning experience. I bonded with my fellow newspaper cronies and we became inseparable the two years we lived, worked and breathed everything about The Ford Estate. This dozen of guys and gals became the new group of inseparable friends and colleagues, quickly supplanting my high school girlfriends. We lived in the newspaper office between our respective classes and never ate in the school cafeteria; it was merely the place to purchase coffee, pop or food. We had breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner and drank gallons of coffee in the “newsroom” while pounding out our stories on a handful of rickety Royal manual typewriters on flimsy foolscap paper. There was no automatic correcting tape or White-Out, just those chalky little strips that you held behind the ribbon and white flakes came off everywhere. It was best to avoid the mess of correcting your errors and try to type for speed and accuracy whenever possible. Most younger people probably have never used a typewriter, let alone a non-correcting, non-electric model. We gathered the campus news and views, checked our facts (in the library of course – no Google or FactCheck.org for us), we honed our stories to perfection, submitted them for roundtable discussion and our editor Frank Merriam and Mrs. Schlaff would say “yay” or “nay”. We could have used word processing in those days as each rewrite had to be retyped from scratch. Once finalized, we then laid out the paper in skinny columns, intermingled with pictures and then affixed glue to the back of everything to do paste-ups of the newspaper. It smelled to high heaven of glue in the “newsroom” during paste-ups. Often we arranged and re-arranged to get the galley proof, then finally, one of us would scurry off to the local print shop on the way home so we met our Thursday publishing date timely. We did every step through putting the newspaper to bed and it was a tedious process – you have to remember this was eons before Desktop Publishing.

As soon as the paper went to the printer, work began on the next week’s edition. Assignments were handed out and divvied up. The roundtable sessions were the only time we all met together as a group. Then and when we went every Friday night to Bimbos in Dearborn to have some of their pizza and a mug of beer and sing along to the Red Garter Band and follow the red dancing ball on the wall. We’d also re-group in the Summer, when school was out and if work schedules would permit, to go to series shows at the old Pine Knob where we saw Beach Boys, Chicago and others annually. Those were fun times. We were all single, not seeing anyone and our mutual goal was getting leads, following leads to stories, taking pictures and putting the paper to bed. How proud we felt to see our bylines and our stories or to pass through the cafeteria or Student Center, and seeing fellow students flipping through the newspaper … our newspaper.

There were exciting moments: I wrote a story about a woman student, blind since birth, who was undergoing some medical procedures to try to give her partial sight. I interviewed her a couple of times to get the story. The second interview was conducted in the sunny Cafeteria. Sun was streaming through the windows and all of a sudden Doris stood up and said “praise be – I can see” – tears were streaming down her face and my face as well as I watched her. She kept shaking her head back-and-forth and we hugged, and after an emotional fifteen-minute respite, we sat down and resumed, then completed the interview. My story “We Walk by Faith, Not by Sight” appeared in that week’s paper. A fellow reporter and I did a tandem interview with HFCC President, Dr. Stuart Bundy. We went to the interview with trepidation. Mrs. Schlaff told us he rarely granted interviews and it was liking pulling teeth to get a story. But Joyce and I did not meet him in his office to query about school policies or budgets or some boring or mundane subject. We were there to quiz him about his brand-new baby boy. He opened up and joyously told us about this firstborn and believe me the interview was not like pulling teeth – he was so overcome with joy that he fairly hovered in his big chair. He pulled out pictures and laid them out, almost as if he was playing Solitaire. all across his huge desk. Our title of the story ended up being “Bouncing Baby Boy for Bundy” – he loved it! We also did a funny piece about streaking when it was all the rage. One of the male reporters and our photographer got to campus very, very, very early on a Sunday morning and Dennis photographed Gary in the buff from behind streaking in front of the Liberal Arts Building….shhhhh, no one ever knew it was a staged picture, and we all vowed to never tell. One of our male reporters went on to become the long-time editor of the Dearborn Press and Guide and now is Wayne County Commissioner. I don’t know if anyone else in our group is or was as renowned as Gary Woronchak. We all came from diverse backgrounds and various high schools around the Wayne County area – we studied hard, produced a good newspaper and even played football against Student Government to raise money for charity. What is odd is that as close-knit as we were for two years, each of us in this group of inseparable peers and friends, moved on to four-year institutions and never saw one another again.

University was a hard reality after community college – trimesters sped you from start to finish of class in 12 short weeks…you barely knew the name of the person who sat next to you in a large lecture hall. It was impersonal, not fun and a means to an end – graduating with a B.A. in Mass Communications. My print journalism internship was spent writing wire shorts at the Detroit office of Carl Byoir & Associates, a public relations service. They published a few blurbs with my byline, but it was hardly exciting or memorable. They only took me on, reluctantly as a favor to Wayne State University, because WSU required an internship during senior year and the market was flooded with journalism students and there were only so many local newspapers willing to take on non-paid interns.

So that was then, and this is now, some 35 years later. I only started this blog at the insistence of my neighbor, Marge Aubin, who enjoyed my daily “quote of the day” that I did for years and suspended in late 2010. She egged me on and said “write something already” and so the idea of a blog was born – a simple record of who, what, when, where and why walking and to document how many miles I walked. It means much more to me some one hundred blog posts later … and today as I post this 100th blog in 2013, I have 166 miles walked under my belt. I shall keep on stridin’ toward my next goal of 200 miles.

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

We’ve got some juxtaposition going on today folks: grass that is bright green like you see in Spring , a sky that is a brilliant blue like you see in Summer and early morning sweater weather like you see or feel in Fall. But melded together they made for a picture-perfect Kodachrome day and a most-pleasant promenade. Usually by the end of July, the lawn is crisp and crunchy, never as full and lush as it is right now. Today’s sky was a flawless bright blue with fluffy cotton-ball clouds and a sun peeking out as well. I thought the scene was reminiscent of “Bliss” which was my favorite desktop wallpaper in Windows XP. Don’t you agree? The grass and sky colors usually go hand-in-hand but these cooler temps are an anomaly, a software glitch if you will, but I wish they would linger until the “real Fall” sets in. I confess I ran the furnace just one time yesterday and today for the wee one. You’d think all that rain would have made everyone’s hanging baskets soggy and terrible-looking, but the baskets, pots and planters have indeed “recovered” and are flourishing with bountiful blossoms and vibrant colors. It seems to me, so many of the larger perennials are absolutely monstrous this year. I’ve mentioned the Empress Hostas in an earlier post – I’ve never seen them so large. It must’ve been the back-to-back heat waves, humidity and then cool weather. I’ve seen some massive Moon Flowers with open blossoms as big as your face and huge crimson Ornamental Poppies with black velvety centers and masks across their silky crimson “faces”. Even the sometimes raggedy wildflowers are so tall they have already reached their potential height and are starting to bend back toward the ground. There is so much beauty all around to savor; sometimes I feel like I should bring along a camera every day and preserve those images to gaze upon them wistfully during the dreary, seemingly never-ending days of Winter.

In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous. ~~~Aristotle

A friend of mine posted a pretty picture containing a quote on her Facebook status that said: “Nature nurtures your soul” and I just felt compelled to share these wise words with you in this blog post. Rachel has three kids under ten years old and nearly every day since school has been out, she posts a picture of her and the kids and their dog, Scarlett, cavorting in one of our many local parks. When I read the words in this picture, I thought to myself ‘well, this is what I’ve been crowing about with my trips to Council Point Park and how a little bit of nature nurtures your soul’. While my boss Robb enjoyed another day in Cape Crocker, I seized the opportunity to take a leisurely stroll at my go-to nature place, Council Point Park. The sun was out, but just filtering through the clouds, so there was a definite chill in the air and I appreciated my warm sweatshirt cardigan. I could have used a pair of gloves as well. Speaking of feeling like Fall, I was surprised to find some of the saplings that line the Creek’s edge, already had red leaves on them – not the entire sapling, but enough leaves to look like they were from Mother Nature’s Fall palette. Those little splashes of red and an abundance of Queen Anne’s Lace and Chicory were the only spots of color in the whole Park. I walked the entire pathway and didn’t hear any birds singing; they were probably huddled together trying to stay warm. The noisy bullfrog was absent this morning as well. There were quite a few walkers and bikers at the Park however, no doubt due to the beautiful cool weather. Most were walking briskly; a few strolled leisurely holding onto take-out cups of coffee – all strangers gathered at a common place to drink in Mother Nature’s beauty and improve their health at the same time. I waved at some of the “regulars” and while walking along, I was suddenly startled by very loud singing just a few paces behind me. I quickly turned around and there was a guy, singing at the top of his lungs, tuned into his iPod and oblivious to the outside world. I’ve done that myself many times, so I sure couldn’t fault him for enjoying his music. The only other noise intervening in the tranquil morning was the long and lonely train whistle that lingered in the background.

In walking around Lincoln Park, sometimes I’ll venture down streets where school chums lived years ago and it gets me wondering where they are now? It’s not hard to remember where my buddies lived as I may have walked to or from school with them, or more than likely rode my bike over to their house. Sometimes I will stroll past the former homes of family friends, every one of whom have sadly passed away. While walking this morning, I saw an ad for a garage sale tacked onto a pole. Somehow that address seemed familiar to me, and it was on the way home, so I decided to meander by. Sure enough it was the former home of my good friend and high school pal Rosemary. There were many people parked nearby and also milling about in the driveway looking for bargains, so I went over to mingle with the crowd.

I haven’t been to this house in over four decades, but during the last few years of high school, our group of six school chums, spent more waking hours at this address, than at our respective abodes. I glanced surreptitiously toward the back yard. There was the sidewalk where we probably stretched out and laid in the sun, scorching ourselves to get a hint of tan. How different the yard looked now, with an above-ground pool and an entirely different landscape theme. I moved closer to the garage and ample driveway, remembering where the old turquoise Galaxy, our primary means of transportation, was kept all those years ago. I looked at the display of bargains, pausing to pick up a few items to feign interest in the sale, then I eventually left. As I walked down the driveway, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder at the beautiful bay window out front – another new addition. If I were to close my eyes, I could picture all us girls lined up on the two white velvet sectional sofas near the picture window, incessantly yakking, as teenage girls do, and sharing a large box of chocolate-covered cherries between us. Rose remarked that we were like princesses sitting on a velvet tufted throne eating bon bons, and that image made us all erupt into laughter – just a fit of hysterical giggles. Somehow the box of syrupy, gooey chocolates teetered and got turned upside down onto the white upholstered pillows. Cherry syrup oozed out slowly from a crushed chocolate. Oops!! Well Rose leapt up to grab a roll of paper towels to blot the growing blob. Of course Rose’s younger sister, the perpetual brat, heard the commotion and rather than collaborating with us to get the stain out pronto, promptly announced “I’m telling Mom and Dad when they get home” … well thanks alot Kathy.

So much time was spent at this home with my girlfriends … we were inseparable the last two years of high school. Countless hours were spent clustered in Rose’s bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, under the large Burt Reynolds centerfold with the strategically placed arm ripped out of Cosmopolitan, and talking about our hopes and dreams for our respective futures and of course gossiping about our peers. Oh, to be that young again, full of expectation for wherever life’s path would take us. We girls had a brief reunion, just the six of us, in 1978 and we learned Rose and Kathy’s parents divorced shortly after Kathy moved out of the house and the home was sold.

I’ve touched on my relationship with this group of girls before in an earlier post: Rosemary, Diane, Sheila and three of us were named Linda. I’ve also written before that we soon lost contact with one another, within months of graduation from high school. There were only six of us, but we went in different directions – geographically or otherwise. Unlike young people today who keep abreast of one another’s adventures and day-to-day mundane activities via social media, in the early 70s, the only way to keep in contact was picking up the telephone or a face-to-face visit. No Facebook status posts, no Twitter or Instant Messenger or texting – not even the old Myspace. Of course, there was no e-mail forty years ago and cell phones were non-existent … in our circle, anyway. How easy it is now to multi-task, or chat on the cell phone while doing something else. But not in ‘73. Then we quit getting together – how sad. Rose met a guy, got pregnant and then soon married and moved to Plymouth. Diane moved out of the house to parts unknown. One Linda moved up North. The remaining “Lindas” worked and started school at local colleges, and Sheila, or “Sam” as we often called her, left for Ferris State University in Big Rapids, Michigan to begin the pharmacy program. She always called me “Little Sister” since I was the youngest of the bunch, barely seventeen when we graduated high school. Sheila was homesick for friends and family, and in the beginning her parents gave her extra money to permit her to call one of us every weeknight until she got settled in and adjusted to being away from home. My phone call night was Tuesday. I was a little peeved at that time since Tuesday was the night I watched “Happy Days” and this was before VCRs were available to record a program to view it later. Peeved – well, really, Linda. You pitted a television program against a friend reaching out to you? Eventually Sheila made new friends and quit calling. In retrospect, today I could probably catch up on those missed episodes on Nickelodeon, but I can never again hook up with Sheila Howard as she passed away of ovarian cancer nearly five years ago according to a friend of the family that I ran into at the mall. Too late smart would be the morale of that story.

Here is a nice quote about life that I send out to Sheila – may you rest in peace. ~~ Your Little Sister

“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is bliss, taste it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.”
—Mother Teresa

While out walking this morning I had to chuckle at the artwork in front of a house on Pagel Street. There were bright blue, child-sized handprints which looked like those above, all over the sidewalk. I’ll just bet the parents of the kid (or kids plural) saw the handiwork and were about as horrified as the Lincoln Memorial caretakers were yesterday when they saw the green paint defacing that national monument. I never got into poster paints or finger paints when I was growing up, nor did I ever dare to leave a handprint anywhere, especially on the wall. My parents were pretty strict – not that I am complaining; they did a good job “rearing” me and they did not spare the rod doing so. As to mischief, I did however watch my mom applying foundation and lipstick, and one day I decided to mimic her activity. I got into her makeup bag and squirted beige liquid foundation from the tube all over the sink and bathroom counter. I also had more lipstick on my lips and cheeks, then was left in the tube. For my actions I got a lickin’ – a swift swat on the butt and I never did it again.

In seeing the painted handprints on the sidewalk, I cannot help but recall what happened the first Summer I worked at the diner. The “City guys” – the collective group of maintenance workers for the water department, parks and recreation and miscellaneous services for the City of Lincoln Park, came into the diner twice a day on their breaks. It was a flurry of activity because they had a fifteen-minute break then had to be back on the job. Like clockwork, twice daily, after simultaneously surrounding the perimeter of Carters with huge dump trucks, sweepers or maintenance vehicles, they converged into the diner, and within minutes every available stool was occupied. Occasionally it was standing room only as they could still have their drink and enjoy the A/C. My boss bemoaned the loss of “regular business” as we all scurried around to provide lots of ice water, one coffee or cold drink and perhaps an occasional donut. The guys would joke and kid with us, and one another, and as soon as their cups and glasses were drained, they’d be on their way after the allotted fifteen-minute break. One day the Parks and Rec guys came in, with tar specks on their respective hands. It was a wicked hot day and they were stirring up hot tar, and then patching it onto bare spots of the City’s trees after pruning them. As one of the guys walked out the front door, he turned back and winked and said “X marks the spot Linda – we left you a present at your house” … I had no idea what that meant. Alot of the guys knew where I lived, since my day off was always a weekday, and I’d often be working out in the yard and they’d drive by and honk or stop to chat.

I finished work at my usual time, 3:00 p.m., and walked the five blocks to my home. When I approached the house, I saw a huge tar “X” glistening in the hot sun. I was horrified and knew in advance my father would have a conniption fit when he saw it. I went into the house, and suggested to my mom and grandmother, who was visiting from Toronto, to look out the front door. My mom looked at me in horror, and with hands on her hips, admonished me for encouraging them to pull such a stunt and warned that my father would not like it at all. My grandmother offered to mediate the situation at the appropriate time. When my father got home from work that night, he was very angry and insisted the huge tar “X” brought down the property value. I visibly cringed at that statement, but pled my case that I neither asked for, nor encouraged the City guys to place it there. However, being the irascible person that my father often was, he kept the subject a hot potato for several days. Finally, my mother intervened stating “enough was enough” which finally tabled the subject.

The tar “X” brought much consternation that Summer of ’73, and every so often the subject returned and was hashed out once again throughout the years. Four decades later, the “X” has faded and now is barely discernible and just a reminder of foolish youth and a long-ago, somewhat childish, prank.