WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

What oppressive weather this is – it just takes your breath away when you step outside of the air-conditioned house. I set out anyway, determined to reach my next goal of 200 miles this year. I may just melt into a pool before this gets accomplished – Whew! Enroute to Wyandotte, I went around a corner and came upon a scene right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Twin boys, who were the spittin’ image of one another, were standing barefoot, bare-chested and in identical long and saggy, baggy shorts with a large turquoise Tupperware bowl near their feet. The bowl, which was laying on its side like a beached whale, was about a quarter-full of cherries, and at least an equal portion had spilled onto the sidewalk and rolled down the driveway, no doubt to the delight of any passing critters. There was a ball of twine and a yardstick laying nearby. The scenario piqued my interest and so I stopped to scope it out. The boys, who were wearing identical, cherry-stained faces (and feet as well), had twine running horizontally across the sidewalk and fastened down with two bricks which served as “markers”. The gears clicked in my head: these two were having a cherry spitting contest! A quick glance did not tell me who was winning, but there were cherry pits everywhere and being stepped on as well – thus, the stained feet. Amused, I watched the technique of one twin and then the other to see which boy had the greatest aptitude for spitting the pits. One boy gobbled up a cherry, and as soon as his tongue sorted out that pit from the sweet, juicy pulp, with great finesse he aimed and fired with major velocity. The other twin inhaled and held a very deep breath and then whoosh … the pit flew out at the speed of sound and he nearly keeled over after that effort. Well up at the Traverse City Cherry Festival this is a big deal where they determine the winner for a “spitacular” feat – maybe here in Lincoln Park not so much. It was fun to watch them though. I decided to move on and get home as it looked like a winner was not imminent, and at the very least would not be declared until the bowl was empty. Ho hum … when you’re a kid, life sure is a bowl of cherries, isn’t it?

On the heels of the Independence Day holiday, this morning I noticed alot of flags a’flyin, and the red-white-and-blue themed decorations were still adding a patriotic flair to Lincoln Park and Wyandotte homes. It was a muggy morning as I did a three-mile stroll ruminating on the past holiday weekend and the Dominion Day celebration a week ago today. Last Monday I heard “O Canada”, that country’s national anthem, and it sent shivers down my spine. It still does, though I’ve lived in America more years than I lived in Canada, my homeland. We emigrated from Canada to the States on July 8, 1966. My father, a tool-and-die maker by trade, applied for a transfer from the Ford Motor Company in Oakville, Ontario where we lived, to the Woodhaven Stamping Plant, so essentially Ford “brought us over” or sponsored us in 1966. My mom didn’t want to move to the U.S. and protested, though it fell on deaf ears. She had family and friends she was leaving behind whereas my father fell short in both those categories. He promised her we’d stay here for a decade then return to Canada. The promise was never mentioned once we moved here; in fact the subject was never brought up again. Coincidentally, my father didn’t like his job at Ford, despite transferring from an identical position in Canada, and when he was rotated to the afternoon shift, he quit the position a few months later. The day we moved here, forty-seven years ago today, was not without incident. We had our paperwork in order, but there was a problem at the border and we were delayed for six hours. Despite that hang-up, we still arrived at the house a day before our furniture.

Once we were settled in, my mom pined relentlessly for her homeland. At first, we only went back to visit twice a year; in later years when my mom and I were alone, we travelled to Toronto as many as six times per year. My mom never lost her Canadian accent, nor did she give up her country’s idioms and continued stubbornly to call a woolen cap a “toque”, a sofa was a “chesterfield” and a napkin was a “serviette”. Whenever we visited my grandmother, she sent us back to Michigan laden with Habitant French pea soup, Red Rose sweet pickle mix, butter tarts, Smarties and Aero and Jersey Milk chocolate bars. The first Christmas we were here my mom watched the Eaton’s Santa Claus Parade on a local TV station and was moved to tears, and it made her all the more homesick. The following year was the Detroit riots. My mom’s friends and family were concerned for our welfare and the riots made her all the more despondent and wishing to return to Canada. We never had racial issues when we lived over there and so it was quite a shock for us when we first arrived here. After my grandmother and aunt passed away, we no longer returned to Toronto. My mom kept in touch with long-time friends by phone and correspondence and caught up with “back home” activity via vicarious visits only. We did not renew our passports since there was no reason to return to Canada. For many years, my mom reiterated her only request for after she passed away, that her ashes be scattered in her homeland. I found someone willing to take on this responsibility last year and am forever indebted to her. My mom’s ashes are now scattered in the Amherstburg countryside near the water, so unlike my father’s empty promise, I kept my pledge to her.

As to me, I really never looked back – it is what it is. There is no one nor anything to return to now. I am still a Canadian citizen but having lived here my entire adult life, it seems like I’ve always belonged here; yes, indeed – I am one of you. The word “alien” seems so dramatic to me. I certainly don’t feel like one of those aliens whose UFO crash-landed in Roswell New Mexico sixty-six years ago today, even though we share the same USA immigration date. (Smile.) Although I carry an alien card which identifies me as a Canadian citizen, I look like an American, speak like an American and heck, I’m just like you, … and you … and you. Our home has always been done in Early American décor, and yup, I know all the words to “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”, so there! Every July 8th, the anniversary of our landing in America, my mom would always tell friends “today is the luckiest day of your life because we moved here “x” years ago today” and that proclamation was always sure to get a smile. I used my mom’s line today on Robb and got a hearty chuckle. I confessed it was borrowed and not original. Yup, I know Uncle Sam wants me and I wonder at times why I still waver? The civics exam? I’ll go on wondering I guess until I take that big step and become an American citizen.

We learn early in life that everyone has responsibilities and the person with a c’est la vie attitude was either born with a silver spoon in his/her mouth or just doesn’t give a whit about what other people think. Well, I’m not here to chastise anyone in particular, but I just want to kibitz a bit about Mother Nature, Noah and some of God’s creatures. I think it is important to note that Mother Nature is messing up badly. She’s shirking her sun-time responsibilities of late. Instead of giving us warm, sunny days here in Michigan, she is substituting Florida’s tropical heat, humidity and daily rain or storm, just minus the hurricanes, for our climes. Just sayin’.

I hit the pavement early this morning as a warm-up to another backyard adventure. I thought a quick two and a quarter mile trip to Wyandotte would suffice for exercise before I came home and tried to tame the beast, er weeds, and neaten up my perennials and rosebushes. Well, no one was out that early – sure, they were sitting having breakfast in the air-conditioned house. My Wyandotte trek takes me past a tiny branch of the Ecorse Creek, and as I got closer I saw a fish fly, or two or more. Soon I lost count. I was wearing cream-colored pants and a light-colored shirt making me a virtual fish fly magnet. Within a few minutes a few wayward fish flies were clinging to my shirt. I flicked them off and they, or their buddies, boomeranged back and soon were hanging on for dear life to the length of my leg. Ewwwwww. Perhaps they wanted to go back to Lincoln Park with me. Unlike creepy-crawlies, I’m cool with fish flies, but I’d like to admonish Noah for thinking he should perpetuate these odd-looking insects who are born and die within a twenty-four hour period. I’m shaking my head at Noah’s lack of common sense as regards these insects. Notwithstanding the fish flies, I kept heading toward the river and collected a few more before turning around for the return trip.

When I got home, I headed straight to the backyard. The combination of heat, humidity and constant rain for two weeks straight made my weeds grow like crazy. I figured weed picking would be a cinch since the dirt and mulch was so saturated, and I guessed correctly. I got most of the weeds in record time and then I needed to hone in on the dreaded choke vine. Since my last entanglement with the choke vine, I found it now had a stranglehold on my Cone flowers and had wound its merry way once again through my Nelly Moser clematis. Now, this is no small chore separating the Clematis tendrils from the choke vine tendril, both who were in a dead heat to reach the top of the trellis, clinging to one another and wrapped around each of the ornate, wrought-iron curlicues. I would liken this garden chore to straightening out the mini-Christmas lights, which somehow always get tangled on their own since you pulled them off the gutter last year with freezing cold fingers and jammed them into their box.

The mosquitoes were flitting all over the yard, a result of the heavy quarter inch of rain last night and the ninety-three percent humidity this morning. A contingent of mosquitoes bombarded my ears with their incessant buzzing and I kept slapping and swatting alternately to no avail. I query why God made mosquitoes and also why He chose to give the female mosquito the bad rap, since male mosquitoes don’t bite. Noah, hear me out on this … I think you should have been more selective as to invitees to the ark; perhaps you could have looked the other way and left these pests behind.

My roses have been blooming profusely but most of the petals were spent from this wicked weather. I deadheaded and pruned my roses until my wrists ached and I was convinced I must have carpal tunnel syndrome. Please someone remind me why gardening was once my passion? As I crumpled down the yard waste bag, my eye caught the weather-worn slate placard that proclaims “one is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth” and then I chastised myself for railing at Mother Nature, et al. (If you will scroll to the end of this post you will find and enjoy this verse in its entirety.)

Okay, perhaps the morning was not so bad after all and I came away with a feeling of peace and bliss (and alot of sweat). I finished up as quickly as I could so I could get inside where it was cool. My reward for completing my self-imposed “honey do” list was two very large melon “smiles”.

ONE IS NEARER GOD’S HEART IN A GARDEN THAN ANYWHERE ELSE ON EARTH.
God’s Garden
THE Lord God planted a garden
In the first white days of the world,
And He set there an angel warden
In a garment of light enfurled.
So near to the peace of Heaven,
That the hawk might nest with the wren,
For there in the cool of the even
God walked with the first of men.
And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.
The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,–
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
For He broke it for us in a garden
Under the olive-trees
Where the angel of strength was the warden
And the soul of the world found ease.
~~~~Dorothy Frances Gurney

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.