WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

This cooler weather makes me just want to jump out of bed and get rollin’. It feels like Fall, my favorite season. My boss is out of the office for a few days, staying at the family cabin out in the boonies in my homeland, so I had a little more leeway this morning. I had an agenda with items to tick off and today those errands would not encroach on my walking time. I was like a whirling dervish in two short hours’ time. I slipped on my loafers and was out the door by 7:30 a.m., then home, packages unloaded, car parked in the garage and lacing up my walking shoes by 9:30 a.m. My destination was Council Point Park.

It was later than usual for me and there was a different crowd on the Park’s pathway. There were alot of moms paired up and pushing strollers or monitoring tykes on bikes and trikes.

I walked the path’s usual twists and turns and just had to check out if my bunny treats remained or were all gone. Amazingly, the carrots were in the same place I had strewn them yesterday! Aren’t carrots to rabbits the equivalent of M&Ms to humans? Maybe the bunnies are just too picky. I will give them one more try though.

Once I strayed from the Park entrance with its playground equipment and the moms and their charges, the Park pathway was very tranquil and I was by myself, save one lone jogger who blitzed by, tethered to and tuned into his iPod as he chugged past me. I was enjoying the solitude when suddenly an almost-eerie, loud humming noise interrupted my thoughts. I listened again and likened the noise to a bull moose call. Our family rented a cottage in Northern Michigan one Summer and had to endure constant bull moose calls for two solid weeks I knew there was no way a bull moose was loose in Council Point Park – there is simply not enough wooded area on the banks of this narrow creek. I knew it wasn’t a goose, as this noise did not resemble honking at all. I concluded it was a bullfrog, but certainly one frog could not create this booming noise! Besides, this was not croaking, it was humming. I peered through the thick bulrushes as the humming continued. The stillness of the marshy area, thick with reeds and cattails, just intensified the noise. I resumed walking, ears tuned in to the incessant hummmmmm, hummmmmm, hummmmmm. It sounded like a bullhorn and continued getting louder and louder. This was no Kermit singing soprano in “The Rainbow Connection” – no way; this was a frog on steroids!! Of course, no one was around to hear it with me. I completed the two-mile Park loop, then headed home. You’ll just bet, after I logged onto my computer I went directly to You Tube and searched for “bullfrog noises” – sure enough, that was what I heard!

You never know what you’ll see or hear at the Park. Today it was a big bullfrog singing bass.

I rounded the corner and watched the gray-haired couple tending to the birds. The man was standing at a work bench in the garage, scooping seeds into a trio of empty feeders, while the birds lined up nearby along the fence. A squirrel was poised just inside the garage door, so I suspect there was a can of peanuts or a corncob treat that would be dispensed to him as well. The woman was rinsing out a birdbath with her garden hose and spray was flying up everywhere. She tipped the birdbath to one side to empty it, then filled the enormous bowl. I called out to her “I hope it doesn’t become a skating rink before the birds get to enjoy it” and she smiled and nodded her head in agreement. This remark was apropos since it was another chilly, but glorious morning – a mere 55 degrees, and cloudy. Brrrrrrrrrrr. I grabbed a sweatshirt cardigan to layer over my shirt before I left the house and was glad I did. No complaints from my camp though … it is perfect weather for walking. I heard a squeaking noise as the couple sat down simultaneously onto a porch swing with a heavy thud, their job completed, and ready to enjoy the birds’ arrival and partaking of their offerings.

Well this morning I had my own offerings for the critters. Yesterday, I walked parallel to Council Point Park, still hesitant to go along the path near the water due to the frequent rain, humidity and fear of mosquitoes. But, it was so crisp and clear yesterday, that I crossed the grass and hurried along the path and eventually joined up with two older women. We kibitzed a bit about the recent heat wave and incessant rain, and they assured me they’d not seen a single mosquito all Summer. I walked along companionably with Mary and Veronica and told them I missed walking in the Park and it was always a bright spot in my day. I promised them I’d return today, which I did. There is always such a camaraderie amongst the Park visitors – each walker or biker who crossed my path this morning either praised the wonderful weather or hearty “good morning” greetings were exchanged. I stopped to chat with Mary and Veronica once again along the way. We are all mere strangers, gathered at a common place to drink in Mother Nature’s beauty and improve our health at the same time.

As to my offerings … this morning I loaded up with goodies to feed the critters I saw along the trail. Before I left I crumbed up a good-sized bag of stale bread for my feathered friends and had a half-bag of expired crudités for the bunnies. Sorry, I didn’t bring any ranch dressing guys, just a bounty of crunchy broccoli, cauliflower and carrots to offer to the bunnies, of which there are always many at the Park. The bread was soon scattered and subsequently enjoyed before I completed the full turn in the first loop of the Park’s pathway. It’s all about location sometimes; I heard some warbling and they no doubt saw me approaching with my bags. I saw two bunnies nibbling clover contently near some wild rhubarb so I stopped, stepped back out of their sight and fished out some carrots and tossed them across the path. After all, Bugs Bunny enjoys his carrots, why shouldn’t these guys, too? They both looked at me, with obvious disinterest, and went back to complacently chewing on their clover tips. A little further along the path, I saw some larger rabbits so I offered up the broccoli and cauliflower. I thought they’d come bopping over, but they likewise, just stayed put. Well I tried.

There was not a single Canada Goose in Council Point Park this morning – they must have all gone to Oakland County. The ducks were MIA from the Creek as well, but I did enjoy the birdcalls while I walked the path. I pursed my lips and whistled back at them for as long as I could. I enjoy doing that little game with the backyard birds too – if you start whistling back at them, they will keep going and going ’til your lips are so parched your whistler goes kaput.

It felt good to be back at the Park – a mere two-mile walk on the perimeter path, amidst Nature’s beauty was like taking a mini-vacation before heading back to reality.

“Improve your spare moments and they will become the brightest gems in your life.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nope, I did not transpose this word. Just feeling badly for the lack of beautiful butterflies this year. Recently the Warren Pierce show featured a Lepidopterist, or expert on butterflies, who advised that the Monarch butterfly population for Mexico City, their Winter migration home, was down by nearly sixty percent. The drought across the United States was not only hard on humans; it affected the butterflies as well. In my treks around town, or even to my own backyard, I noted the lack of these beautiful creatures flitting about, but attributed it to the damp and rainy temps. Butterflies like to bask in the warm sunshine while they take nourishment from the flower nectars you offer them in your yard; you won’t see them when it is damp or cold. I bemoaned the sudden loss of my three beautiful Buddleias, or butterfly bushes, this Spring. I planted them in 2010, and they flourished and attracted many types of butterflies. When it came time to prune them down, as I do each Spring, they were mere sticks with no sap. I was so disappointed. They were easy to maintain, save deadheading the huge spent blossoms, but they were butterfly magnets. I can only hope my Coneflowers will continue to draw butterflies as they did in the past. I worried about planting new butterfly bushes since the weather prognosticators said wild weather was in store for the Summer of 2013 – they had that right. This morning I had goose bumps while I did my nearly four-mile walk and I could have used a sweater!

In 2010, I decided to create a butterfly garden. I studied the online articles on how to attract different butterflies. I bought the three butterfly bushes and supplemented my Coneflower garden by adding about six more plants, since butterflies are attracted to the colors pink and lavender. I bought two butterfly houses for them to seek refuge from the damp or windy weather. I created puddling dishes, which is merely filling low clay dishes with sand and keeping the sand moist, to provide the butterflies somewhere to drink. I placed several large flat rocks around the yard for them to sun themselves. My neighbor, Marge, bought me a book about identifying butterflies and I settled back to enjoy the show. I snapped several pictures of butterflies clinging to the butterfly bushes. It was not difficult to take a photo since they’d alight and linger for long periods of time to enjoy the nectar of the delicate blossoms. I figured I must have followed the instructions correctly as I was blessed with a bounty of beautiful butterflies.

That same year, Marge was walking through the Wyandotte Art Fair and visited a tent where a woman was selling “ready-made Monarch butterfly kits” which guaranteed, over the course of a few weeks, you could watch your baby caterpillars grow, form cocoons and later you could release your own Monarch butterflies into your backyard. The kits were essentially a huge potted Milkweed plant, where a half-dozen Monarch eggs had attached, and mosquito netting wrapped around the plant and pot, plus a “how-to” pamphlet. Marge excitedly called me from the Fair to ask if I was interested and she’d bring one home for me. Sure I was game! After hanging up the phone, I had visions of Monarch butterflies by the dozens gently flitting around my head and landing on my shoulders while I worked out in the yard. I got my kit and kept it in the basement so no birds would try to peck through the netting and get to the caterpillars. The eggs hatched and the baby caterpillars emerged. We ended up having about eight baby caterpillars apiece. Monarch caterpillars ONLY eat milkweed and these little buggers started eating the milkweed plant with great gusto and soon stems of empty leaves littered the dirt in the pot. I watered the plant daily and monitored the progress of the caterpillars which grew in leaps and bounds. Marge and I reported on our “babies” daily via phone, e-mail or with over-the-fence chatter. Soon, it was obvious that the milkweed would run out before the caterpillars were ready to form their pupas, or cocoons. Oh-oh, now what do we do? The resourceful Marge contacted the woman who sold her the kits and in an effort to preserve the Monarch population, the woman rushed over with large handfuls of wild milkweed she pulled off the side of the expressway in Flat Rock. She brought enough for Marge to share with my caterpillars. Well, chomp, chomp, chomp – those caterpillars ate like teenaged boys. We neared the end of our milkweed stash and thankfully the cocoon process began with multiple greenish-gold pupas being formed. We had to “tie-off” each cocoon and suspend it on a thread in mid-air in a safe container, to guarantee the butterfly would not escape somewhere, before we could take the container outside and release each one individually. We followed the procedure to the letter and awaited the first emergence, with as much anticipation as the recent Royal birth.

Marge had one release that quickly flew out of the container, but who could tell if it returned to her yard or not? The Monarch butterflies do look the same, after all. None of my butterflies emerged. I had five cocoons left, and rather than risk all being “duds”, I contacted an Allen Park woman, whom the local newspaper had featured the week before. Karen Hofman turned her backyard into a haven for Monarch butterflies by growing only milkweed. She has nurtured hundreds of caterpillars through their release and documents their development and release with photos. I looked her number up and within hours I handed over my cache of cocoons and wished her good luck. She later contacted me to say three of the five had emerged and were beautiful. So our Monarch butterfly experience was a little bit of adventure, and somewhat of a debacle, but a learning experience nonetheless.

The caterpillar does all the work but the butterfly gets all the publicity.
~Attributed to George Carlin

I am a creature of habit. I like my daily regimen of rising early, having breakfast and catching up on the news of the day since I went to bed. I savor each sip of coffee, ponder the day’s agenda and then I’m ready to hit the ground running with whatever comes my way. But, this morning, it was not ME who decided to hit the ground running, but a centipede. OMG! Well, not to be a drama queen, but I do detest bugs!

So, here’s the scenario. I was sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast, when in my peripheral vision I saw something skittering across the blue braided rug in front of the sink. I stifled the urge to let out a scream and calmly set down my coffee cup. I reached for some napkins to place over the cup and the oatmeal bowl because what if this critter shimmied up the table leg, crossed over the tablecloth and dive-bombed into my breakfast? I sat motionless, frozen to my chair, and looking about, wondering what item in the kitchen was heavy enough to smash him with since I was wearing soft-soled moccasins, thus stepping on him was out of the question. I have never had the ability to simply smash and kill any kind of bug with tissues or paper towel, and quite honestly, even to squash creepy crawlies with my shoe makes my skin crawl. We out-stared one another for several very long minutes, and next thing, lickety-split he was off and running parallel to the lower cupboards, in a narrow space between the rug and the cupboard. Unfortunately, I finally had to blink and then I lost him. Oh no! My floor is colonial red and resembles bricks and there are black flecks throughout the colonial braided rug which made him hard to find. My eyes darted back and forth, peering for him to no avail. He then made one last dash and disappeared under the fridge. In the Summer I am not as diligent about my housekeeping, so I crossed my fingers that perhaps any lingering dust bunnies under the fridge will asphyxiate him. (Oh please, please, please let that happen.) I kind of lost my appetite, and it was soon time to go on my walk anyway, but gee – how I hated to leave him “at large” in the kitchen. I did not turn off the light fearing he would venture out when it was dark and he deemed the coast was clear. Entirely too much angst so early in the morning and sweat already enveloped me before I went outside into the near-one hundred percent humidity. I did an easy three miles, and upon returning from my walk, my eyes scanned every inch of the kitchen. Nothing! Whew! Was it safe to open the fridge door and get a cold drink or would that trigger movement and he’d run over my feet? More angst, but did it anyway; so far, so good.

Here’s how this story plays out. I spend ninety percent of my day in the kitchen since I work from home, thus it is important to know his whereabouts, or risk spending my entire day with one eye trained under the fridge and the other on the computer screen. The test will come early tomorrow morning when I flick on the kitchen light, which undoubtedly will cause him to run from his hiding place before my still, sleep-bleary eyes. I will ensure I don a pair of hard-soled, stompin’ shoes, I’ll try not to scream and I’ll take my yardstick to whack him with. Query: do you think this is what Teddy Roosevelt meant when he said “Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.”????????

This morning while walking down Emmons Boulevard, I strongly resisted the urge to plop down, push off and go airborne, as I walked past a mighty maple tree from which now hangs an old-fashioned swing. On the heels of my post about homes with a country theme, this place continues to be one of my favorites. The front yard is laden with clever country knick-knacks. A “clay pot man” has flowers growing in his hat and sits comfortably on the top porch step. The huge “Welcome” flag beckons you to come “set a spell” and have lemonade with the family on the ample porch. This morning there was a new addition to the house however. Hats off to Dad for climbing to a high and stealthy branch in this huge tree, tightening two thick ropes and knotting them to a cherry-red wooden slat. Voila!! You kids have got a new ride. This is not just any old swing, but clearly one that is homemade with lots of love. The huge knots on either side of the ample seat will give these kids plenty of room to grow, or perhaps for now, just sit side-by-side and swing to their heart’s desire. Not that a big tire hanging from a knotted rope in a tree isn’t just as efficient of course, but this just looks plain ol’ fun. I have to admit I am jealous. Is there any simpler childhood pastime than swinging on a swing? How carefree you felt; the sky was your limit and you begged your Dad to push you higher (no, higher Dad … higher!) I never had a swing or a swing set in the yard when I was growing up. My father was persnickety about his lawn, and though my mother and grandmother tried to advocate on my behalf, a swing set never found its way to my backyard. Oh well, I wasn’t hard done by and got my “swing fix” at recess in the schoolyard, or sometimes I enjoyed going down the slide or playing on the teeter totter with my school chums at E.A. Orr playground. We never had monkey bars and I never tried them until I came to the U.S.

The best part of recess and after school was jumping rope. My friends and I would jump rope for hours if permitted to. There was jumping with a solitary rope – well, that was easy. Then there was the intricate Chinese jump rope wherein you honed your skills of jumping in and out and not touching the elastic bands or you were disqualified and had to step away. There was skipping rope in tandem, or Double-Dutch”, and I’m not talking about hot chocolate or a Baskin Robbins flavor!! How fun that was!! Every jump or skip through the rope had you and onlookers chanting rhymes and ditties to keep you goin’ and goin’ ….

Enjoy your swing kids – too soon you will grow up and this swing and the other simple childhood pleasures will be cast aside when reality sets in.

I must confess to being a “peeker” … now, that sounds better than admitting to being a “peeper”. Many years of poring over Better Homes and Gardens or Birds & Blooms has led me to look for one-of-a-kind yard art or creative objects for my landscaping. I love to see how other homeowners design their gardens and property, and when passing by corner houses, I simply cannot help myself – I usually sneak a peek as I walk by. If I really like someone’s yard art or landscaping I always compliment the gardener if they are around. I know it always makes me feel good when I’ve been complimented on my yard.

There is the most interesting yard ornament in a backyard, done with a country twist, and as many times as I meander by, there is no one in the yard to compliment, or ask if this is their own creation. At first, I thought it was a very tall scarecrow. Then, I realized it was a prairie woman who stands high above the garden, much like a scarecrow would. She is essentially a metal frame, just a head and shoulders on a tall stake, and adorned with materials fashioned to resemble Ma Ingalls from the 70s show “Little House on the Prairie”. She is clad in a flowing calico dress that extends to her “ankles” and grazes the tops of the flowers. A slight breeze causes the filmy material to rustle a bit, as if she is walking. She is facing to the right. A huge bonnet is secured by a ribbon which flows down her neck and a sash holds it in place where a chin would be, and completely shields her face. Only one hand is visible and it is holding the handle of a galvanized watering can. She literally presides over the array of brightly colored perennials. Every time I go on a longer walk, like I did today, I make sure to make a detour to pass this house and marvel at Ma Ingalls.

Perhaps this yard ornament reminds me of my ill-fated Holly Hobbie more than three decades ago. For years I’ve alternated my garden theme between “Precious Moments” and country. I’ve always loved the character of Holly Hobbie and I always scoop up any items with her likeness that crosses my path. Years ago my mom and I frequented The Granary, a country store out in rural Newport, Michigan. There were many roadside vendors in Newport that specialized in cement statuary and wooden yard art. We had a favorite place where we stopped, and one day, while browsing, we spied a 3 ½ foot tall, solid wood Holly Hobbie ornament on a stake, which was similarly facing to the right. She was quite unique in that she was three-dimensional and she was pretty in pink, as that saying goes. Her vintage-type clothing was made of oilcloth. Her dress was a pale pink with cabbage roses throughout and she was wearing pink ruffle-edged bloomers. She evidently was bashful, as all you could see was a sliver of face beneath an enormous padded pink bonnet. Holly wore black boots studded with tiny buttons. Her arm moved up and down and she clutched a small watering can with a long spout. We bought this Holly Hobbie in a heartbeat, and while driving home we debated where to put her in the backyard. After much consternation, we decided she would look perfect between the pink rosebushes and the lilac tree.

When we arrived home, our kindly neighbor, Jim, saw us unloading Holly from the car’s trunk and came over to have a look. He immediately went home for a spade and a rubber mallet and told us to point where we wanted her to go “because a woman can’t hammer a stake that long into the ground without having the whole thing tip over” … we agreed and pointed where to stake her. Now, Jim was not a male chauvinist pig – he was simply a Southern gentlemen who thought women should stand back and let the men do all the work … and all the sweating. Well, we appreciated his effort and our new Holly just enhanced the backyard’s country theme. I ran in the house for a camera and we posed on either side of her.

The next morning I went outside to fill the birdbaths and feed the birds. I stole a glance toward Holly and noticed a huge blemish on the corner of her bonnet. Thinking it was a bird “plop”, I hurried over with the hose to spray it off. To my horror, the corner of her bonnet had been chewed and was on the ground along with wads of cotton batting that had been bonnet padding. I saw Jim in his yard and told him the squirrels had had a field day with Holly and handed the gnawed-off piece over the fence. He cussed softly, then told me he would fix ‘er up with epoxy glue and not to fret. He quickly restored Holly’s bonnet, then covered it with some brown wrapping paper so it would not be disturbed until it dried. The next morning, once again, I went out to tend to the birds, only to find the bodice of Holly’s dress had been ripped off and was hanging in shreds, with pieces of oilcloth strewn around the rose garden. I was furious! Again I whined for Jim who was enjoying coffee and the morning newspaper in his backyard. I beckoned him to come quickly. He tsked, tsked and promised to put her back together again, then suggested we borrow Bill’s BB gun to ward off that “dang critter” to which I agreed. Jim’s neighbor behind, Bill, a fellow Southerner, made no secret of the fact he routinely hunted squirrels in the large tree in his yard and used them to make a tasty squirrel pie. The third morning, I dreaded going out to the yard to check if the squirrels had once again wreaked havoc on the hapless Holly Hobbie. I was disgusted to find remnants of her high boots with gnaw marks scattered near the bird bath. Enough was enough! I asked Jim to remove Holly and put her out for that morning’s garbage pick-up before I changed my mind.

By the way, did I mention that I always put peanuts out for the squirrels and left them an occasional treat of a slice of bread slathered with a thick layer of crunchy Jif peanut butter? Never again after those squirrel shenanigans!!

[Photo of Holly Hobbie from Pinterest]

Alas, the heat wave has ridden out of here and soon will be replaced with some refreshing temps – ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. But, even if this sultry heat wave persisted until today, the Jimmy Buffet groupies, a/k/a “Parrotheads” would still be partying heartily at Comerica Park in advance of his concert. Since the Tigers are not in town this weekend, great efforts were expended to recreate “Margaritaville” by trucking in tons of sand, fake palm trees and other tropical-type paraphernalia into a lot near the ballpark, all to lend atmosphere to the annual free beach party. All day the Parrotheads have been sippin’ pina coladas and other parasol-type drinks and dancin’ around in grass skirts, colorful leis and coconut bras – and that’s just the men! Sure sounds like a lot of fun!!

I’ve always had an affinity for my feathered friends, as you know from reaching this blog, and that includes parrots. As a kid, I’d stop on the way home from school, or ride my bike over to Feed Rite Pet Shop to giggle at the antics of the two Amazon Parrots that sat on huge perches behind the counter of the store. They were each chained by one ankle to a wooden cross-bar, and no one could get too close to them, due to their sharp beaks and claws, but it was great fun to listen to their squeaks and squawks and massive vocabulary. It goes without saying that when they imitated YOUR voice, you wanted to slip one into your bike basket and take it home. But parrots, delightful as they are, are kind of messy and more high maintenance than a parakeet or canary. Years ago, our neighbors became the proud pet parents of a lime green Parrotlet named Herkimer, after their daughter graduated college, and met her future husband, who unfortunately was allergic to feathers. Oops!! Herkimer was her dorm room pet all through college, but soon adapted to life at his grandparents’ home and was an equally delightful, though much-smaller version, of his counter-parts at Feed Rite. Somewhere in my albums and scrapbooks, there is a snapshot of me, taken at Florida’s Parrot Jungle, my arms outstretched, looking like I was about to take flight. I was laden down with parrots of every color in the rainbow. Their trainer was standing nearby in case the photo opportunity turned bad when a hungry parrot tried to take a bite of an ear or a nose. The picture above was taken in 1982 in Nassau, one of the ports of call on my Panama Canal cruise. This pair of parrots were the guardians of the gate at the park and they were just as delightful as my little buddies back at Feed Rite so many years ago.

“If we weren’t all crazy we would go insane.” – Jimmy Buffett, from/Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes

Yet another tempestuous weather day is in the offing, and my thoughts have been occupied with the storm’s projected arrival and potential path of destruction Murmurs of tornadic activity, or even high winds worry me – we have many old, large and neglected trees in the yards behind. I’ve kept an eye to the sky and an ear to the radio, waiting, hoping it will fizzle out, and wishing for all the world I could turn the clock twenty-four hours ahead to better weather. I write this post early as clouds are already on the horizon and predicted volatile weather will keep this writer’s computer turned off and unplugged. I will, instead, stay hunkered down, listening … and waiting … and worrying … as this wicked heat butts heads with the cold front. I hope once again we remain unscathed; I hope everyone remains unscathed.

My walk this morning was semi-pleasant; great, if you like steam baths. On a humorous note, I have to admit that sweat and that hang-dog feeling is tolerable only if you are doing a pleasurable activity … selective sweating, so to speak. Chores in the sweltering heat – not pleasurable at all. Early Thursday morning I spent about an hour watering around the old homestead, just dragging the hose and inspecting if the sprinkler was properly hitting the intended mark, and I was sweating as soon as I began unrolling the hose from the hose reel. Sweat stung my eyes before I correctly placed the sprinkler, and the mosquitoes were relentless and swarming en masse. Yikes!! I worked quickly, but still I was a sitting duck for them, despite being clothed in long pants and shirt plus socks inside garden boots, they still got me. I refuse to use repellent as I worry about the chemical risks, so the skeeters bit me with a vengeance, leaving my neck looking like I could play “connect the dots” with the mosquito bites. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to sport the preppy look – collar upturned to thwart any neck nips, but that was unsuccessful since the humidity made the collar droop and flop over, much like the person wearing the shirt. I think they find my Lever Brothers soap inviting. The spate of stormy weather the past few days has left little pools of water that don’t get a chance to dry up completely and instead become a watering hole for mosquitoes to congregate, much like the proverbial office cooler.

I only accomplished a short walk today. My thoughts while walking, were divided between the impending weather and an equally stormy subject – the filing of bankruptcy by the City of Detroit. I followed the breaking news last night and early this morning as well. The airwaves were filled with commentary by various legal experts on the mechanics of Chapter 9 bankruptcy, as well as many comments from the common folk – the current residents in Detroit, the workers with City-related jobs, the retirees who stand to lose pensions and benefits, earned long ago and thought to be viable the rest of their lives … the fear was very evident in their collective voices.

I watched the slow decay of Detroit, from the time I began commuting to the City on a regular basis, when I started Wayne State University in 1976. I attended school, then worked in Detroit for more than three decades after my first foray into the City. I rarely drove, but usually took the bus. After September 11th, the usual route into the heart of the Downtown Detroit business district was detoured, so that the federal courthouse could be cordoned off; bus stops were removed and buses never resumed their regular routes again. The bus route strayed from Downtown proper, by just a few blocks, but it was then I witnessed the decrepit buildings, replete with graffiti and boarded-up windows and doors. These were once-thriving restaurants, or other businesses, as well as some former court-related or government entities, which similarly were not immune to the deterioration and destruction. Whole blocks looked like war-torn areas. In fact there are some places just off Fort Street and near Downtown Detroit, that are still ravaged by the ’67 riots, and should have been demolished years ago. I watched the slow decay of Detroit over the years, and I think that although Dan Gilbert may continue to collect Downtown Detroit property, that it will never be the jewel it once was. Emily Gail, the perpetually pig-tailed ambassador of good will for the City, had a credo, as well as many bumper stickers, mugs and t-shirts, proclaiming “Say Good Things About Detroit” … well Detroit needs all the help it can get now. The national news has featured the bankruptcy of the largest city in the United States as the lead story for nearly an entire day. The late night talk hosts shall have a field day with Detroit’s misfortune, not that they haven’t done so in the past. Today native Detroiters and those who work or are entertained there, are sad; a gigantic pall has been cast over the City of Detroit, and I believe the stormy weather is here to stay – this is not merely a tempest in a teacup.

The incessant Florida climate persists. I say this weather is for the birds. When I think of Florida, I think of several long-ago trips to visit that fair state. The landscape along the Sunshine State Parkway seemed a little barren to me – a palm tree here and there, but mostly tall trees from which Spanish moss dangled from every limb, and on those branches devoid of moss, many egrets perched, almost motionless. I also think of flamingos, who should be officially listed as Florida’s state bird. The very name “flamingo” brings a snicker to most people, who associate these gangly, yet graceful, hot pink birds with the kitschy yard ornaments, those plastic flamingos strutting around the yard on metal stakes, er … legs. My mom threatened to order “Flamingos by the Yard” for me when I turned 50 years old. This gag gift is by a company where someone sneaks over to your house in the middle of the night and places one flamingo to mark each year of your life on the front lawn, then leaves a huge sign wishing you happy birthday. I finally convinced her not to do it (thankfully).

I felt like I was living in Florida when I took my walk today – hot and steamy. I spied a planters box where a pair of pink plastic flamingos arose out of the cannas. At first glance, I thought it was part of the actual plant, but their bright pink color gave them away. The flamingos were gazing at one other as if deep in conversation, their long necks craned in a graceful “S”. I’m always looking at yard art during my walks. I’ve often seen artfully done metal flamingos gracing a garden; their feathers seem almost three dimensional and the coloring is more of a sedate pinkish-gray. They enhance the garden, but no … not hot pink plastic flamingos which are not a good look.

Another flashback is coming. I used to be the proud owner of an identical set of plastic flamingos a long time ago. I’ve spoken fondly before about my former neighbor Jim, who was like a father to me. He loved coming over to help in the garden, then when all his friends and family came to visit him, he’d lean over the fence and show them “our” yard. One day I came home from work to find Jim had stuck two hot pink flamingos into my front garden bed. I had just finished my planting over Memorial Day weekend and the garden was looking just the way I liked it, i.e. no room for improvement. I had my usual country theme going – my pink and white flower combos, my favorite colonial blue knick-knacks and baskets and my perpetual “deer family” scattered around the front and back gardens. A pair of kitschy hot pink plastic flamingos with steel stakes stuck in my front garden simply was not going to do! What would I say? I wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world. I didn’t have time to figure out just how to express my thanks, because as I rounded the side of the house, Jim came running over and in his Southern drawl said: “Girl: did you see your gift I got you from when were in Florida? I was waiting for you to get everything finished in your yard before I brought them over for you. Do you like them?” Gulp …what was I to say? Quickly, I crossed my fingers behind my back and told him they were absolutely beautiful; in fact, much too beautiful to put in the front yard because someone surely would steal them, or damage them, or what if they blew away down the street? I was breathless by the time I finished the possibilities and also my gratitude for the unexpected gift. I then assured him I would find a nice place in the backyard near my bright Pink Bonica Shrub Roses where they would be more striking and his special gift would be less likely to get damaged or stolen. He warmed up to that idea and said he would get them right away and pick a place to stake them in the rose garden. Whew, that was a lot easier than I thought.

The flamingos “lived” in the backyard for years, until they finally faded from the sun and looked pale pink, almost white. About the time I was thinking I could relegate them (finally) to the garage, Jim saw their putrid pale coloring and offered to paint them for me. Hmmmmmm. Again, I did not want to hurt his feelings so I asked if I could think on it and perhaps next year? I never had to worry again because soon thereafter he and his family moved to Monroe, and eventually to Roscommon, and I never saw him again. Well, a little white lie (or maybe in this case a pink lie) never hurt anyone.

Went for a wee walk this morning … it was just so warm and sticky out again. Oh, let’s not mince words – it was a jungle out there!! How do people ever adapt to this hot and steamy weather? Well, the good news/bad news scenario is that it was 102 degrees a year ago today which kind of makes our 94 degrees today pale in comparison. I liken our weather this week to the El Yunque National Forest in Puerto Rico where I visited during a stay with family friends, Werner and Alfonsa, in 1973. Our senior class trip locale was the Bahamas and I’d been on a cruise to the Islands with my parents the year before so my adventure was a ten-day trip to Puerto Rico. You really have to like hot weather if you visit Puerto Rico; it is an island, after all. Forget about island breezes – it is just downright hot there, breeze or not. The apartment where my friends lived was landscaped with huge cacti which was home to lizards, whose favorite pastime was sunning themselves on the concrete around the cacti during the heat of the day. When you walked past, there would be a flurry of leapin’ lizards activity as they ran for cover. It horrified me at first, and I would take great pains to go around the cacti, but what really done me in was going to the Condado, a Vegas-like strip of casinos, large hotels and similar neon and bright lights along the beach in Old San Juan. We visited a renowned hotel for dinner and a little slot machine action then left to go home near midnight. While Werner went to the parking garage to retrieve the car, Alfonsa and I waited in front of the hotel. Just as he pulled up, we watched a huge tarantula drop down from a tall palm tree onto the roof of the car. We watched in horror as it righted itself and on eight hairy legs climbed inside through the open window. We started screeching like banshees and refused to get into the car. Werner drove over to a brightly lit lot and looked everywhere for the huge spider which was nowhere to be found. Declaring we would not ride in the car until we saw a corpse, Alfonsa and I hailed a cab and left Werner to get home on his own, which was, after all, the manly thing for him to do. He returned home in one piece, shut the windows up tight and the next time we went out in the car, he proudly produced the creature’s carcass. (We hoped the darn thing had been asphyxiated in the hot car, and Werner had not just paid someone to find another tarantula, and killed it, just to lure us into the back into the car.)

As to hot and steamy attractions in Puerto Rico, one of the many sights we visited was El Yunque, the only tropical rain forest in the United States, where the over-200 inches of rainfall a year yielded the tallest trees I’ve ever seen. Standing amidst the flora and fauna in this paradise made you feel very small and insignificant … there was such magnificent beauty that you really could not drink it all in at one time. There were thousands of species of tropical flowers and plants, all which were simply gargantuan, probably because it rains at least once a day or more there. We visited twice and each occasion was extraordinary, plus rain-filled. The rain lasts just a few minutes, but it is a quite a soaker and there’s nowhere to dash for cover. Soon it is over, you’re drenched and post-showers, El Yunque is all the steamier. There were many jungle dwellers who just leapt out at you at every turn through the dense forest. Birds of every species serenade you with songs and calls that could never be imitated by our local warblers. The birds, with their brilliant and most-unusual plumage, greet you at every turn of the footpath that you follow. The birds’ coloring is seemingly duplicated by the multi-colored chameleons and cute little geckos that dash to and fro. Hopefully you conquered the phobia from the lizards in the cacti, because here were dozens of swift little critters running amok by your feet and across your path, as you continue your promenade through this amazing mountainous paradise. All through El Yunque, you see tiny frogs everywhere; they hop down from trees to inspect you, then just as quickly hop and bop away and are lost in the dense foliage in search of other more-palatable food than you. These cute little tree frogs, or “Coqui”, are considered lucky, and you simply cannot leave the Rain Forest or Puerto Rico, for that matter, without buying a Coqui good luck charm or trinket. The flora and fauna that exist in El Yunque thrive in that venue as do the many “keepers of the rainforest” who strive to keep this gem as pristine as possible. I guess those folks are accustomed to the hot and steamy clime. My heart goes out to people who must earn their living working in this heat; likewise, the seniors or disadvantaged who must exist without fans or air conditioning in their homes. Hopefully, Mother Nature will allow this heat wave to abate and restore our normal weather soon … perhaps this weather is just our “new normal”. Sadly, I believe Al Gore might really be correct.