WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

While wending my way down to Wyandotte this morning, from a distance I saw two silhouettes, walking side by side, carrying what was apparently fishing tackle. The taller one clutched the handle of a box of some sort; the shorter one was swinging a small pail and held onto a bag. They were clearly not in a hurry and I soon caught up close to them. From behind, the scenario was reminiscent of Andy Taylor and his boy Opie going fishin’ … so I guess I am showing my age as I recollect that image. I fought back the urge to start whistling the theme song to the “Andy Griffith Show”. As I suspected, the man and boy each held onto a fishing rod which was propped against their respective shoulders, and the lures were flipping about and tinkling merrily in the slight breeze. The man was carrying a tackle box and the boy was carrying what I guess was a pail full of nightcrawlers and a McDonald’s bag, breakfast for after they cast out the first line. I liked seeing them trudging along, each deep in thought and headed to the river to go fishing on a hot Summer’s day – how refreshing to see this father-son activity instead of them just hanging out playing video games. I’ve known several people over the years who arranged their work life around two or three fly fishing trips a year. These fisherman travelled with their buddies and each locale was more exotic than the last. My dentist and his fishing buddies went to a secluded spot in Alaska every August; they’d charter a plane and get dropped off in the wilderness and stay at a rustic cabin and fish to their heart’s content for two weeks. Now, there is a leisurely respite from the daily routine.

I was musing on the way home about my own fish story. I’ve only been fishing once in my life when my parents rented a cottage in Alpena, Michigan in August of 1968. The rental included a boat and dock as well. My father wanted to go fishing and bought all the trappings to do so – a fancy-schmancy rod and reel, a half-dozen or so metal lures and a tackle box to keep them in. My mom declined the invitation to go fishing and instead bought a few paperbacks to relax with. I was only twelve years old and my father bought me a kid’s bamboo telescopic fishing pole which had a tiny double-speared fish hook and a red and white bobber on the end. There were other neighbors near the cottage who were fishing at their docks or in boats up at the lake and all proclaimed “the muskies were running” and guaranteed we’d catch enough for a good fish fry. We went out the night before and dug up some long and juicy worms for bait and they were tucked into a few scoops of dirt in an old cottage cheese container. My mom packed us a lunch and sent us on our way. She handed me a half a bag of leftover popcorn from the night before as we walked out the door. My father had zero patience and tolerance for anything and my mom had suggested that fishing would be an unlikely hobby for him to pursue, but he disagreed and said he was looking forward to a relaxing time communing with nature. He rowed out a bit, we baited our hooks with wiggly worms and sat … and sat… and sat. Ho hum. Not alot of fun for me. After two hours the sun was high in the sky, and with nary a bite, I suggested we have a cold drink and eat lunch. I spied the popcorn in the bag and scattered some of it on the top of the water and I soon saw bubbles and activity as fish lips pulled in the yellow puffs. Excited, I decided to bait my hook with the largest popcorn piece I could find. Within minutes, my line was tugging and pulling and I showed my dad. Ever the pessimist, he said I’d probably hooked a piece of driftwood that was moving in the current. But, no, wait – it was pulling and tugging! I had no reel on my makeshift rod, so to appease me, my dad maneuvered the boat around and reached in and grabbed the line and the poor fish, who was gasping and flailing about. We got him into the boat and he continued thrashing around. We eyeballed his length at about a foot long. Our family were not big fish eaters (unless you count Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks), so we decided to throw him back into the water, but not before I handed my father my mom’s Baby Brownie camera to capture a picture of me and my trophy muskie.

P.S. My father never caught anything that day, nor the entire vacation for that matter. I didn’t go fishing with him again as I figured he would not enjoy my one-upmanship , though of course he later bragged about “all the ones that got away” while he was helpin’ me land MY big ol’ fish.

You’re the berries! Another cute, but old-fashioned expression to tell someone how swell they are. So far this season the Bing cherries have been much too dear and I’ve bypassed the strawberries as I’m awaiting the plump, ripe and luscious ones to have sans sugar, or shortcake; in fact, since I gave up sweets several years ago, fruit satisfies my sweet tooth now. Michelle Obama would give me a thumbs up. As to berry delicious fruit, my mom anxiously would await the arrival of red currants every Summer. There was only a small window of opportunity to buy red currants and not all produce markets carried them. Many people told my mom to hang out her shingle “Pauline’s Pies” as that was her specialty. Mom would bake a red currant pie to die for. Red currants are very, very tart though, so if you are a fan of sweeter fruits, red currants would not be your cup of tea. I think the number one pucker-up-your-mouth fruit would be rhubarb. My grandmother always grew rhubarb in a corner of her yard. She, like me, was not a culinary genius and she’d take her paring knife out to the patch, whack off a few stalks and just enjoy them au naturel. Whenever we visited her in the Summer months, we’d saunter down the narrow sidewalk in her long and sunny backyard, which paved pathway was dotted from end to end with “Hens and Chicks” which flourished without any TLC or special fertilizers. By the garage was the corner where her rhubarb grew. The patch was decades old and most plants had monstrous leaves and huge stalks which when lopped off would quickly fill a sizeable sack. No worrying about pesticides in the garden in those days so a quick rinse and the rhubarb was good to go. The larger stalks were juicier and a tad sweeter and we’d rinse those stalks in hot water, and then while the stalks were still warm, we’d dip ‘em into a sugar pile which sat on a sheet of waxed paper for a tasty, tart treat. We’d take some rhubarb back to Michigan, but first my mom would spend a day hovering over my grandmother’s gas stove, stewing down the rhubarb and a few quarts of strawberries. That mouth-watering mixture simmered the better part of a day in a huge cast iron pot and the result was a tasty topping for toast or ice cream. Yum!!

I’ve been experimenting with the different fruits available at Meijer this Summer. It seems that every year there are more and more hybrid fruits and veggies available. So far in the 2013 growing season I’ve tried peachines (peach/nectarine combo) and a variety of pluots or apriplums (plum/apricot hybrid) including dinosaur egg pluots and even those cute and fuzzy mini plumcots which are either yellow (Gold Velvet) or purple (Black Velvet). They are nearly bite-sized and very sweet.

So, go ahead, just call me by my nickname: Tutti-Frutti.

Here’s the perfect vocabulary word, albeit a little archaic, to describe a daily walk and it certainly is befitting for Independence Day. Today’s constitutional was a measly two miles. Big booming fireworks in the neighborhood started going off at 1:30 a.m. and beyond and kept me awake. When the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., I rolled over. Oops! I only like to walk when it is coolish and by the time I got going, it was just too warm to try to get alot of miles in. It was quiet this morning with just a hint of a breeze. Thus, Old Glory was not flapping in the wind, but was hanging rather limply in the still, humid air. You could not go down a street without seeing the Stars and Stripes proudly displayed somewhere and an abundance of bunting was draped and festooned on fences, gates, garages and even hung from window boxes on two-story homes. Americans all seem to rise to the occasion on patriotic holidays like Memorial Day and the 4th of July and indeed did Old Glory proud today.

There were not many people outside this morning; they were probably part of the Up North caravan that left Wednesday evening or maybe they stayed home and slept in. One house, however, bustled with activity. Dad was loading an SUV, which was already groaning with camping equipment stowed in the back and sticking through the windows. Mom was carrying out a Styrofoam cooler and a black lab was running in circles and barking noisily. Just as I neared the commotion, a young boy came flying out of the house, slamming the door behind him with his great gusto with a sneakered foot. He carried a large Meijer brown paper bag in front of him, nearly blocking his view. The boy came bounding over to see me, all aflutter and flashed me a grin (absent all four front teeth) then told me the family was going camping and he could “hardly wait” and they were about ready to go. “Wanna see my sleeping bag?” he asked.

I told him it was best to not pull his sleeping bag out of middle of the pile of supplies, lest his Dad be mad at him. He said “yeah, I guess so” and then he switched subjects and told me about making S’mores tonight. He set his paper bag on the ground and began rifling through it and pulled out a couple of six-packs of Hershey bars, three bags of puffy marshmallows and several boxes of Honey Graham crackers and said “we’re makin’ a fire and gonna have S’mores tonight and I am soooooooooo excited!” I laughed and told him they sounded yummy and he’d better make sure to get those S’mores softened up and smooshed down before he bit into them as they’d be darn hard to eat with no front teeth. He just grinned all the more at that comment as did his mom who was within earshot.

Well, we all have our favorite holiday treats. Today, most folks indulge in something tasty on the grill. Though I don’t eat them now, my 4th of July treat was always mouth-watering Southern biscuits and sausage gravy, guaranteed to clog your arteries, but boy were they tasty. This was my annual decadent treat my mom mad as a reward for washing the house down and cleaning the windows, the latter being one of my least-favorite chores. I’ve always hate to climb ladders; I’d climb to the second step, and the third step only if it was absolutely necessary and I was nervous the entire time that I’d fall off and break something. Thankfully it is a one-story house. So, imagine my delight when Windex came out with a house/trim and window cleaner that you used from your hose – aim, hit the toggle button for soap, then switch back to rinse. I loved this product as it didn’t even necessitate using a squeegee. Once and done and everything sparkled. I was happy. Mom was happy. Her one bugaboo was dirty windows which she hated and she was critical of any smear or streak, notably glaring when the sun came out and especially on the kitchen windows. Thus, the only good thing to come out of getting up at the crack of dawn on a holiday to wash down the house and windows before the sun came out and made a reflection on the glass was that my mom used to make me biscuits and gravy for my efforts. We adhered to a fairly healthy diet, and biscuits and gravy were a downfall, for me, anyway. I’d be salivating the entire time I was outside and then I’d rap on the window about a half-hour before the job was done and my mom would then whip up a batch of homemade biscuits and start the Southern-style gravy on the stove. The smell of hot biscuits was exhilarating. This year I am exempting myself from these chores; all these torrential rains lately let Mother Nature take care of this task for me. So, I don’t deserve this tasty treat which I’ve not had since the last time my mom made it for me. My dish du jour will be an All-American classic: hotdogs, beans and coleslaw … and yup, I’ll pass on the S’mores and have fruit instead.

“ Freedom is the last, best hope of earth. ” — Abraham Lincoln

I was up and at it very early this morning and hotfooted out the door at 7:00 a.m. hoping to make up for the lackluster miles logged the past few days. On WJR they were touting today as “Compliment Your Mirror Day” … I had to chuckle over that proclamation – a little narcissistic, eh? The humidity was already in the mid-90s when I shut the door so I felt “fresh as a daisy” for about five minutes because soon little sweat rivulets were causing curly tendrils at my temples and neck. Well, just a few more miles to go and the mirror would not be paying me too many compliments by the time I returned. (Smile)

Today I walked in three cities! I didn’t plan to do that but I headed first to the Ecorse/Lincoln Park borderline, then double-backed and walked parallel to Council Point Park, then kept walking and turned down Emmons Boulevard to the Wyandotte/Lincoln Park border and finally headed home. Whew!! Four miles and I hope I don’t pay for it tomorrow with shin splints.

Back to the subject of daisies … I passed a tri-corner perennial garden brimming full of waist-high Coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans. I realize all the heat and humidity have boosted their growth, but when I returned home, I inspected my own Coneflowers and Susans and they are not yet in bud. Hmmmmmmm. Better karma on Buckingham Street? Remember making daisy chains when you were a little girl and plopping them on your head like a crown? Or maybe you picked petals off a daisy à la “he loves me, he loves me not?” I wonder if young girls today still fill their hours with such simple pastimes?

Most all the perennials I passed this morning were humongous and unusually full of blooms for this early in the season. I saw many gardens where bright-white Yucca plants resembled a tall church spire and grew out of spiky bases. There was the most-gargantuan group of Empress Hostas with leaves that were easily bigger than an elephant’s ear.

My travels by foot or car often take me past a house which was finally condemned last year and the occupants are now long gone. The house and yard were a pigsty and the garage door had been defaced with graffiti and kicked in and hanging haphazardly off the tracks for months. The house remains vacant, yet a vine, chock-full of lavender blooms, twines and winds along and through the chain-link fence. These morning glories are the only sign of life amidst the pile of rubble that still remains in the backyard, no doubt a horror story to the neighbors. These perky little blossoms seem to wink and call out “Good Morning Glory”, as that greeting goes, as I amble by. I have never ceased to marvel at the many homes in Lincoln Park, that are empty and evidently abandoned. Drapes and curtains hang raggedly or venetian blinds are cockeyed, slats missing or simply torn and tattered and hanging on a cord across filthy dirty windows. Sometimes grass and weeds are so overgrown they rise to meet those windows. It is sad to think of the circumstances that befell the homeowner to just ditch their digs which were once their pride and joy. One such house I pass has a magnificent climbing rosebush which continues to climb and wrap itself around and over a dilapidated trellis. Just imagine the tenacity of this rosebush, solo and unloved, still blooming and thriving, thorns clawing the bricks to keep just ramblin’ along.

Flip flops are getting swapped for fur coats these last few days – and galoshes of course. Flashback to my childhood days when my mom bought me “puddlers” so my feet didn’t get wet going to and from school. I believe the American equivalent for puddlers is overshoes or galoshes. I hated those things!!! They fit snugly over your shoes and buttoned tightly across your ankles to keep the water out. They were hard plastic and made ridges in your shins when you walked, but worst of all they emitted this horrible plastic and fishy smell. Lastly, you had to tug and tug to get them on and off. But the thought was there Mom and my feet stayed warm and dry and I never missed school because I was sick (except for measles and chicken pox on your birthday and Mother’s Day respectively the same year – sorry about that).

We are having such bizarre weather. When I got up at 5:00 a.m. today, it was downright cold. I glanced at the thermostat and it registered 70 degrees and the humidistat reported a whopping 77 percent humidity. Well, the humidity didn’t surprise me, after all it poured non-stop for seven hours yesterday. I put the furnace on to warm the house for Buddy – after all, feathers don’t keep you warm and toasty on a cold July day. I switched off the heat after two blasts and as I write this, the temperature in the house is just starting to creep up. It was kind of nice with no cold air blasting onto my left shin all day while I was working at the kitchen table.

I’ve been listening to the accounts of the record-setting heat wave out West and it seems just incomprehensible to me. As is the norm whenever there is a heat wave, the annual time-lapse videos and pictures go viral on how to bake chocolate chip cookies on the car’s dashboard or fry an egg on the sidewalk. I remember my mom telling me about the Summer of ’36 when Ontario sweltered and wilted for two solid weeks as the thermometer hovered at 105 to 110 daily, only dipping down to the mid-90s at night. She recounted that over a thousand people died, most of them babies, children and older folks. Most people had to make do with a single fan for the entire house. My mom was just ten years old, but she vividly recalled her father leaving the house after sunset each night, pillow and blanket in hand, and walking down to Sunnyside Park where many men flocked to sleep on the boardwalk at the water’s edge, hoping to catch a small breeze from Lake Ontario. There were alot of factories in Toronto, and most of the workers toiled all day over heavy machinery or an assembly line in a large plant lacking any cooling amenities. My grandfather worked at the Guta Perka, a factory that made rubber boots; just imagine the heat and the smell of the rubber in that plant in the Summer! Likewise, my grandmother worked in the hot, greasy Planters Peanuts factory. During the heat wave of ’36, she and my mom slept out on the front porch every night to get out of the oven-hot house. How spoiled we are with our air-conditioned homes, perhaps a big ceiling fan or even a nice, cool basement and the convenience of a refrigerator. I know my grandparents’ house had a small cellar, partly a root cellar, a place which was unfinished, dank and damp and you sure couldn’t sleep down there and back in the day, they only had an icebox for their food.

Enough yammering about the weather which is often the focal point of my blogs. Errands encroached on my “walking time” this morning and I only eked out a mere mile, a shame since it was coolish out. I had to get my allergy shots. Usually by the 4th of July my Spring allergies have stabilized since all the trees have leafed out and the grass has gone to seed. But this rainy weather is not helping me combat my mold allergies. When I arrived at the Allergy Center this morning the line trailed from the door and snaked through the parking lot – I am obviously not alone in my sneezing! An older woman, dressed in garb resembling a nightgown that nearly touched her ankles and sporting black, high-top boots and wool cuffed socks, was grabbing the door handle with both hands obviously trying to will it to open. It would appear obvious that the queue was lined up BEHIND her and this place never opens the door even a minute early, so really her behavior was a little silly, just to be the first person in the door. It was not the after-Thanksgiving Day Sale for goodness sake. When the receptionist finally came to open the door and welcome in the patients, this little old lady nearly knocked her down to get to the sign-up sheet. Everyone looked at one another – the camaraderie of a shared strange experience; you know that actions speak louder than words sometimes to convey your thoughts.

Notwithstanding the skit at the Republican National Convention last year with Clint Eastwood and his “sidekick” chair, I too have a commentary on chairs. Hopefully, this post does not become the debacle that Clint’s chair chat was or sound like an Andy Rooney venomous diatribe.

During my walks I notice a lot of ordinary things along the way. Often I wonder about or ponder over such trivial items which sometimes become fodder for my blog posts. Chairs are such an item … specifically, the Adirondack chairs that I see on many patios and porches. Two cherry-red Adirondack chairs at two different homes got my attention and fascination this morning during my morning meander down Emmons Boulevard. Query: how the heck do people get in and out of them? I’d need a crane to drop my body into that low-slung wooden object and once down there, I’m pretty sure I’d need a crane or two hefty arms to assist me in climbing back out. You never see those Adirondack chairs with a comfy seat or back cushion either. I think they need a booster seat to make them workable because to me they look pretty torturous to be truthful.

Sadly, every time I see one of those chairs I am reminded of my mom who in later years could not get out of an easy chair unassisted. Once she plopped onto the easy chair cushion, she sank wayyyyyyyyyy down and nearly backwards. Eventually, she refused to sit in that chair and in order to watch TV in that room, was forced to take in her kitchen chair. BYOC – well, that’s certainly a novel idea. We stopped watching TV soon thereafter.

My neighbor Marge told a story years ago of buying a short reclining lawn chair which was probably made for the beach. She said she sank down into it and immediately worried how she would get back out. She was alone in the yard and said she had to go through several antics and calisthenics to climb back out onto the grass, all the while muttering “never again”.

Alot of people have those retro-look metal chairs with the twisted tubular legs. I’d probably sit down the wrong way and tip forward off the porch and into the planter’s box. And, what if it is hot out and you stick to the metal seat? When you get up, not only would you take the chair with you, but the chair would take some of your skin with it. Ouch!!! For years my father had plastic covers on the seats of his VW Bug. We went on back-to-back Summer road trips to Oklahoma in 1964 and California in 1965, and I sat in the back seat. We had no air conditioning, just an open window and the searing heat pouring in. I had a wool blanket placed across the back seat to keep my bare legs from sticking to the hot plastic and making the trip more miserable.

I used to have a little stool I’d sit on to weed and deadhead my annuals in my many patio porch pots. The stool was really low and I had difficulty rising up from it because I needed to grab onto something, like a railing, to pull myself up. The last time I used it I was sitting on the patio on the stool and saw something in my peripheral vision. I looked again and saw a huge possum standing in front of the hut looking at me. It stood there for the longest time, well alot longer than me, and I nearly broke my neck high-tailing myself off the stool and as far away from the patio as I could get. The stool now hangs in the garage and I don’t have porch pots, but artificial flowers “planted” in those pots instead.

In fact, I shudder to think of sitting on any outside furniture due to my irrational fear of bugs. My fear of anything creepy or crawly, both inside and outside of the house, would no longer permit me to comfortably sit outside in a lawn chair, though I did it for years. I couldn’t relax as I’d be scared something with more legs than I have was embedded in the chair and would run up my pants or shorts. For years my mom dealt with my irrational fear of insects and would often remind me that I used to lay out sunning myself on the sidewalk or in the yard on a towel and THAT didn’t bother me. In college my buddies and I had series tickets every Summer at the old Pine Knob and we always had lawn seats. Ah … youth.

P.S. – In conjunction with the subject of chairs, this is a sad postscript to an earlier blog post about the Fergusons, an elderly couple who live at the end of my street. For weeks I’ve noticed the absence of Mr. Ferguson’s big rocking chair on the porch. I thought perhaps that the weather had been fractious; too cool, too rainy, too hot – no happy medium. The Fergusons hailed from the South and still had kin there, so I told myself they might be vacationing, but as the days went by, the couple still were absent from their porch. Fearing the worst, this morning I perused the online recent local obituaries and sadly discovered Mr. Ferguson passed away last month. For years, a death on the street was marked by one neighbor volunteering to collect money for flowers and having a sympathy card circulated and signed as well. The last few years, many of my elderly neighbors have passed away and that nicety, it seems, is now non-existent. So, my conundrum now is wishing to acknowledge his passing to his widow, yet not wanting to admit I had to troll through the obit notices to determine his demise. I’m sure his widow will not sit out there without him –it is too soon and there are too many memories. It is sad to look at an empty chair – I know I stare at one across from me every day. It is a constant reminder of your loss.

I saw this rather archaic word this week on The Old Farmer’s Almanac Facebook site and decided to use it to describe a walk. The word “walk” sounds so boring sometimes. So, … this morning I perambulated to Meijer for produce for Buddy and me in order to beat the 4th of July crowd. I hustled out the door around 7:45 a.m. for this three-mile round trip, easy and breezy on this almost-coolish morning. It seems impossible that half the year is gone today and we’re ready to flip the calendar to July 1st already. My grocery list was in my head and before shopping I even added a few perimeters around the store for good measure. Of course, as usual, I strayed from my wanted items and picked up this and that and I soon knew I should have grabbed a handle basket, or better yet a mini-cart, since I was totin’ my load in my arms. Last year I bought this wonderful scrunchy little bag to schlepp groceries in. It has alot of roomy compartments, and a kangaroo pouch or two but that didn’t help in the store. I did the self-serve check-out and was on my way with room to spare in the bag. While carrying my grub home, I thought of a woman named Alice Barrow who, until her death, was a constant presence as she walked along Fort Street or Emmons Boulevard. She never learned to drive and walked everywhere. She lived with her elderly parents and when they no longer drove, you often saw her carrying bags of groceries from the local Farmer Jack supermarket. Before she retired, she worked for decades at a doctor’s office in the David Whitney Building in downtown Detroit, which necessitated two bus trips each way. Alice Barrow would forego the City bus in favor of a walk, trekking through downtown proper at least a mile to get to her job. She did this twice a day. She was skinny as a rail from all that walking and her year-round attire was a long, rust-colored trench coat, which was always flapping in the breeze as she walked briskly. Indeed, her tall, gaunt frame made her resemble the female counter-part of Ichabod Crane. Her iron-gray hair was shorn into a very short, mannish cut. She had high cheekbones, a long pointed nose and close-set eyes. Her very alabaster-looking complexion was totally devoid of makeup and she wore no baubles or bangles. You don’t hear the term “Plain Jane” used anymore but that would describe her to a “T”. Growing up, I remember the kids running along Fort Street taunting her or whispering and pointing at the “crazy, old spinster lady who walked all over Lincoln Park” … she never responded to any of their comments. My mom and I often commented to one another on her strange looks and one day we found out quite by accident she was the sister of our neighbor and my mom’s very good friend. So, of course we were relieved we never committed the ultimate faux pas of commenting about Alice to her sister Ann – whew! We never saw her visit Ann to possibly connect the two of them, however, one Summer, Alice Barrow and I were enrolled in an art class together. The class met on Wednesdays, which was her day off. I recognized her at once and befriended her. She was one of the nicest people I have ever met – rather a free spirit, independent thinker and I enjoyed her company very much. Of course, she was not at all like the picture my mind had painted after listening to everyone else’ comments or even my own observations. I only found out by accident when we walked out of our art class together, as she started walking the same direction as me and remarked she was she was going to visit her sister. Imagine my surprise when we discovered it was our good friend and neighbor. After that episode, I have tried not to form impressions until I get to know people. The old adage of not judging a book by its cover is true – Alice Barrow was a prime example. It is more important to interact with people instead of judging them on their appearance or demeanor or more importantly on the opinions of others. Who knows, maybe people now see me trudging along the streets of our City, in my well-worn sweats, my perpetual bun atop my head and my jangling lanyard, and they, too, scrutinize me much the same as they would have Alice Barrow. For so many years I was a slave to fashion and its trappings and it is good to just be myself, and perhaps I admit I am a free spirit as well. I march to the beat of a different drum, and like Alice Barrow, just shrug off any commentary that comes my way and march past it. And, as to perambulating, if I can manage to trek just a fraction of the miles that Alice Barrow trod in her days, I will be happy … perhaps I am truly following in her footsteps … and that ain’t half bad.

Well, Jeepers Creepers – Cruisin’ Downriver is upon us again. I went the inaugural year – 1999, and, while it was unique and fun to see all the old cars driving by, it soon got a little tiring – same old cars, incessant burning rubber, ad nauseum honking and one too many wheelies. It was a hot Summer day that year and the exhaust fumes got fairly intense and the air was clogged up and hard to breathe. The original Cruise had a carnival atmosphere at Memorial Park with oldies bands playing at the Bandshell and people dressed in 50s garb. There were vendors galore and I spent more time than I should have at the elephant ear cart. I’ve never gone back, but this event draws the crowds who flock to Fort Street, rain or shine and searing temps or not. Cruisin’ Downriver is our contribution to the annual cruise events, and is sandwiched in between Cruisin’ Gratiot and Cruisin’ Telegraph, and of course the granddaddy of them all, the Woodwood Dream Cruise. It was not hot today, nor was it sunny, and I suspect a lot of photo ops were lost due to the thick clouds and looming rain. With all this stormy weather, it will no doubt put a DAMPer on this event and not bode well for many of the classic coupes, notably the convertibles, as their owners keep an anxious eye to the sky. I started out early to beat the crowds, who, along with the classic cars cruising along Fort Street, informally start the event as early as Thursday night. I walked along the Lincoln Park portion of Cruisin’ Downriver but during my 3 ½ mile-walk I saw just a handful of classic cars. I have heard them all day, however, since I live only a few houses from main drag. I have always liked the 50s and if I could pick any decade in which to live, I would choose that era. I never missed watching the TV show “Happy Days” and loved the movie “Grease”. During high school, friends Dave and Ed Zelenak and Pete Tirpak, a classmate of mine, formed a 50s band called “Little Davy and the Diplomats” patterned after the great greaser band “Sha Na Na”. They played at the LPHS talent show and several school dances. Although we were not groupies of Dave Zelenak’s band, they were friends, and in our early college years a girlfriend and I occasionally showed up when the band played local gigs. We attended the dances dressed up as bobby soxers. We wore pegged denim pants, white socks and penny loafers and both of us scooped our long hair up high into ponytails. I bought an oversized white shirt and my mom embroidered an “L” on one shirt pocket and the other pocket sported a fuzzy poodle head. I guess you could say I looked like a cross between Laverne De Fazio of LaVerne & Shirley fame and one of Michael Jackson’s many fashion trends. Little Davy & the Diplomats has been playing well over 40 years and often show up at the Bandshell in the Summer or local fairs. I’ve gone to see them a few times, but it is not the same as back when we were all in college. Dave is now a judge in Lincoln Park and his brother Ed is the Lincoln Park City Attorney. Good times, good friends and now good memories.

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”
–L.M. Montgomery

My mom often imparted wisdom to me as I was growing up: “believe half of what you hear and all of what you see”, “if everyone else jumps off the bridge you don’t have to follow”, “be careful what you wish for”, “tuck a tissue in your purse or sleeve”, and who could forget “always carry two dimes at all times” (the dimes were to pay for two phone calls if needed, in case I mis-dialed and wasted a call, or dropped the dime on the ground. Gradually I had to carry more and more dimes, and then quarters and then I got a cell phone, thus obviating the need for telephone change at all.) But I digress as to my Mom’s wisdom which is not the entire subject of this post, just her first suggestion that applies to anything in life – gossip, the news and the WEATHER FORECAST.

I follow the weathercasters and their often ominous predictions to the point that I find myself in a constant tizzy over expected bad weather. I listen to two radio weather stations – WWJ and WJR respectively. Often their forecasts differ. I have to admit that I listen selectively, choosing to go with the forecaster who predicts the weather most in my favor. Selective hearing!! If I have something on my agenda I start listening several days before. But it seems to me anymore half of what they predict is wrong, wrong, wrong!! Witness this last week as an example. Sunday and Monday afternoon, thunderstorms and significant rainfall were predicted by both stations. “Widely scattered” they said (hint: this is just an all-encompassing term which essentially means hit-or-miss in your area); through the day they kept predicting rain before nightfall coming to the Tri-County area. Well, it didn’t happen Sunday, nor Monday. Tuesday a.m. dawned and no rain in sight – perhaps, thunderstorms and rain would happen Tuesday late afternoon which “most of us would see” – their words not mine. I didn’t trust them so decided to forego my walk and water instead. I donned my green garden boots and took my sprinkler and trudged around both back and front yards to give the bushes and perennials a good soaking. They got a good soaking all right. While I was finishing up, I felt rain droplets and before I knew it, a great boom of thunder and instant downpour. I got soaked before rolling up the hose onto the hose reel. I would liken that experience to the old theory of lighting up a cigarette at a restaurant and your meal will come sooner. Well, no harm, the pre-watering to the storm helped the rain water settle in better. It rained a good part of Tuesday and through the day dire forecasts of volatile weather with windstorms to 70 mph and hailstorms were on the horizon. They ominously predicted late day Wednesday we should be prepared for severe weather and keep our “eye to the sky” … well that got me worried. I hate storms. While I do not run around the house sprinkling Holy Water everywhere like my great grandmother did on her farm, and my grandmother would do in her home, I do worry about the large, very old trees in the area and what would happen if one fell on my small house? It would wreak havoc on the house, not to mention my life. So my fears intensified as the day progressed with each dire forecast. All day Wednesday I was fairly whipped into a frenzy about the impending weather … it never happened. The next morning the meteorologists did not even acknowledge their collective “oops” but instead said Thursday we might have afternoon storms, nothing to worry about. Don’t get me wrong – I’m relieved when bad weather doesn’t happen, but in any other job, if we were wrong that much of the time, we’d be standing in the unemployment line. Thursday late afternoon, I switched on the radio to catch up on local news of which there were many hot-button issues right now, especially in Detroit, and the first item I heard was the impending severe weather. Oh really? Looked out the window – everything looked calm and serene and innocuous enough, but according to them a storm was looming. By 4:45 p.m. a terrific rumble of thunder seemed to shake the house from its foundation and made me nearly jump out of my chair. Luckily for me, my boss was headed out the door shortly and I called to alert him I was shutting down due to the weather. I turned the A/C off and put on the fan in the corner of the kitchen, hunkered down and switched on WJR as that station gives weather alerts for storms as the particular city. The emergency alert siren signal was activated and the Tri-County area, including Wayne County, was placed in severe weather mode. Flash flooding was predicted as well. Our severe storm timeframe stretched to 6:30 p.m. Within minutes the sky opened up and torrential rains pounded the house and lashed against the metal blinds. I watched the blinds moving back and forth as the heavy rains pummeled the metal. I heard ping, ping, ping so assume that was the hail making its own assault. The sky just roared over and over with thunder. I have to wonder how much water is left up in the Heavens as surely we must have gotten several inches this week. The storms hop-scotched around the Tri-County area and Monroe and Lenawee Counties for several hours, with its heavy rain, hail and hefty winds and before it was over, there were well over 100,00 people with power outages – I feel their pain, having lost power one time for well over a week. Here, I am blessed – another bad storm and unscathed.

Climbing down from my soapbox … let me share a few tidbits from the trail this morning. The aftermath of all that wet weather was a jungle-like feeling. I persisted in completing 2 ½ miles on a misty morning just cloaked in humidity. Pools of rainwater dotted side streets where sparrows gathered to sip and a few enjoyed a quick bath in the larger pools. A few robins were playing tug o’ war with longish worms and one robin got one and he reminded me of a kid who purses his lips to slurp up his spaghetti noodles. I had to laugh out loud when I passed a large metal birdfeeder. Dew drops ran along the lip of the feeder and were dripping along the edge and dropping to the floor. I could see through the glass portion that the feeder had just been topped off and several chickadees were sitting on the mini perches which were strategically placed by large holes in the feeder. A pair of cardinals sat on a nearby shepherd’s hook anxiously awaiting their turn. But, beneath this huge feeder was, of all things, a female mallard. Obviously bored with the fare at Ecorse Creek, she was feasting on the soggy seed gruel that had spilled and mixed into the wet grass. But wait … occasionally she would tilt her head upward to grab some falling seeds, much like a person who positions a bag of peanuts to funnel into their upturned mouth for optimal enjoyment. I walked several laps around Ford Park as the sky was dark and I didn’t want to stray too far from home. The many dips in the Park’s grass had caused quagmires and very soggy turf where hundreds of button tops were visible throughout the grass. Hmmmmmm, I wonder if the mallard likes mushrooms?

No, not talkin’ about a foot fetish, nor “toes up” signifying a vacation and no, not sinking my toes into the sand or dangling them in the water at a beach venue. I’m talkin’ about dinosaur toes. Every time I leave the house, I must pass my small rock garden. No grass ever grew in this small patch of land so years ago I started collecting unusual rocks and placing them there. One small, flat rock was “donated” by my boss years ago to add to my collection. He found it at the family cottage near Collingwood, Ontario and thought it unusual as do I. The rock contains a very clear imprint of a fossil – it appears to be a toe of some type, long embedded into this otherwise boring-looking brown rock. In my mind I have fashioned a tale that this particular rock was probably a dinosaur’s baby toe. Indeed, the imprint looks like toe cartilage. Growing up, we did not have the mythical movie “Jurassic Park” yet I’ve always had this fascination for dinosaurs. Perhaps that interest was fostered by many elementary school field trips to the Royal Ontario Museum and their fabulous dinosaur display. Years later, I could hardly tear myself away from the impressive dinosaur exhibit at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History. Heck, maybe as a child I delighted in all things dinosaur simply because my father bought Sinclair gasoline – remember their famous mascot Brontosaurus? Perhaps my favorite childhood T.V. program, The Flintstones, with the family pet “Dino” lured me into the prehistoric world of these creatures. At any rate, I’ve always been convinced that this rock is a fossil of a Pterodactyl baby toe, so there!!!

I think to enjoy nature and nature’s gifts, you need to have a child-like wonder, awe and yes, even respect, for everyday natural things. I have always had such awe and appreciation of nature; I believe that curiosity and an ever-growing love for the simpler things in life will keep me from getting old and staid.

As to dinosaurs, perhaps their images are floating around in my brain these days due to a new fruit discovery. Last week Meijer featured “dinosaur eggs” which are just pale green and purple-speckled extra-large pluots. I tried them and they taste the same as a regular pluot, but with a twist. Aw shucks, I am just a kid at heart.

P.S. – In all my travels and trails, I’ve yet to see that legendary One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eater – perhaps he will be at this weekend’s Cruisin’ Downriver 2013 event. I will look for him and keep you posted.