WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

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.

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