WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Nope, this is not a post about the ongoing NBA playoffs. I’m not a basketball fan, or a sports fan of any type, for that matter. This is more like an “ode to a peach” (smile). This morning I had the most-luscious peach as a “chaser” to my oatmeal. Not sliced on top, not diced throughout; no, I just enjoyed that fuzzy little fruit by hanging my head over the sink and letting its juicy goodness dribble down my chin and into the drain. Well, that’s the very best way to enjoy Summer’s juicy fruits. Last week at Meijer I bought a half-dozen peaches that were as hard as my head and I used the old tried-and-true method of quick ripening them by stuffing them in a brown paper bag and crumpling down the top. Sure enough, four days later I opened the bag and presto-magic, the peaches smelled heavenly and were ripe and ready to eat. I had a small agenda of errands today, so I factored in my exercise by walking around Meijer about five or six times, stopping here, there and everywhere – I did rack up a mile and half of steps. I got some more peaches and some pluots – been meaning to try the latter hybrid which is supposed to be a cross between a plum and an apricot. Summer arrives a week from today, but Mother Nature’s sweet treats are already there for the tasting. While I like my fruit au natural, my mom could take any fruit, and after donning her apron and propping up her cookbook, she’d bake up a pie, cobbler or a kuchen that was to die for. Years ago my father worked for a small manufacturing plant that was built on the outskirts of a huge farm. The farmer sold the land and invited the plant’s workers to pick their own fruit from his orchards and corn from his cornfield. We often had fruit in brown bags, at various ripening stages, to be ready to eat or develop into a delicious dessert. When my mom wasn’t baking up goodies, she was stewing up applesauce and “putting it up” for Winter. If I shut my eyes, I can picture her making pear kuchen, a laborious process of peeling pears, arranging them onto a layer of fresh-baked shortbread, then ladling out dollops of heavy whipping cream which was then garnished with chocolate curls. Yummy! Or, perhaps she was serving up hot peach cobbler, with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon sugar on top. I’m wondering why I never packed on the pounds in those days; adolescent metabolism, I guess. … but I did tuck away a few peachy keen dessert memories to be sure.

Much earlier today I was peering out the window at the teeming rain and willing it to stop so I could go for a walk. The torrential stream finally abated, but the spigot continued to trickle so I made a second cup of coffee and sat down to write this post. It’s probably better for my allergies anyway. Last night I shut off the lights at 9:00 p.m. since I figured the neighbors with their incessant fireworks would be taking the night off due to the weather, so why not treat myself to an earlier bedtime? I woke up early this morning and put on my radio headphones then curled up in bed to catch up on what happened with the devechon that was expected to wreak havoc through the Midwest, including parts of southeast Michigan. Luckily, it appears it subsided in strength and velocity and ended up being a “flooding event” instead – well, flooding is no picnic either. I checked my basement and it was bone dry as it usually is since the sewer basins were repaired in the early 90s. Before that, however, our house had massive flood damage in the late 60s. Unfortunately, in August of 1969, my father had taken me to Germany to visit his relatives and my mom and grandmother were left here alone for three weeks. It stormed the first night and the sewer water flooded the basement up to the bottom step. The neighbor across the street came over to help pump out the mess and my mom and grandmother spent the next three weeks getting rid of the soiled and saturated rugs, pulling up tiles and when the water was completely gone, they had to wash the basement wall with straight bleach and then repaint it.

I read up on the term “devechon” yesterday; the definition seemed similar to an event we had here in the early 80s where we had straight-line, high-velocity winds that did a lot of damage Downriver. We were without power during a scorching mid-July. Many small and spindly trees in the Fort Street median sustained wind damage and were forevermore bent over, their thin stakes having been useless to support them in the high wind. Many, if not most of them, were eventually cut down. I remember our lawn needed cutting and you could see how the winds had blown through and just flattened the grass as if hair pomade had been combed down and slicked through it. I was working at a law firm downtown and our offices were on the 11th floor. The high-velocity winds caught the corner office and blew out most of the windows. As the wind raged, it was scattering the senior partner’s files, paperwork and mementoes around the office as well as whipping most of those items right out the window as we watched in horror. The soaking rain poured into the office doing significant damage to the carpet and curtains. At home we had no power for over a week. The power was out during the week of the Wyandotte Street Fair and thousands flocked to that street festival to find the stores were devoid of cool air and many shops never even opened. No one had a generator in place. There were very few street vendors as well. I Googled to see if there was anything on file about this horrid weather event. I was surprised to find a huge write-up and it was indeed categorized as a derecho. http://www.crh.noaa.gov/dtx/stories/1980derecho.php.

So this morning, I’m feeling very grateful that we sustained no damage and dodged this weather bullet. Devastating natural disasters always fill me with dread and sadness upon hearing the aftermath – I will keep these people in my prayers after their whole world has been rocked.

An uncomfortable muggy and warmish walk this morning but I got ‘er done and 2 ½ miles under my belt. When I opened the screen door, this monstrous rabbit jumped out in front of the door and fairly flew under the gate and into the backyard. All I saw was the flash of a white powder puff tail and huge feet after I startled him and then he was gone. Talk about a jackrabbit start!! And no, I will not admit he was more scared of me than I was of him. I think he had been sitting in front of the garden near the stoop, munching grass and contemplating life, when I opened the door and scared both of us. Cwazy wabbit!!

After my heart stopped pounding, I was on my way. It was an unusually tranquil morning and I suspect a lot of kids are already out of school for Summer vacation. I went a different route, seeking a little shade, and turned up a tree-lined street. As I walked up Capitol, I saw two objects on the front lawn of a small house. Since I wear my old eyeglasses from about ten years ago when I walk or exercise, the two objects were a little fuzzy. As I neared the house I kept squinting and straining to see what I thought was a bright yellow duck bill; no, wait – make that two duck bills, two duck heads. Nah, it couldn’t be. Thinking of the old adage “if it looks like a duck …” I kept walking closer and they never moved. By then I figured they were decoys and I could hardly wait to get up close to check them out. Surprise! Two very live mallard ducks – a drake and a female. They were huge and just plopped down on the grass and staring at me as if I didn’t belong there. I stood there mesmerized and then they looked bored and just waddled away to another patch of grass. I wished I had some bread to toss to them. Perhaps they were someone’s pets? I wanted to go scoop them up, tuck one under each arm and take them down to Council Point Park with their brethren, lest any harm come to them. They were so sedate, not quacking like their noisy friends. The male was stunning with his vibrant colored feathers, bright bill and iridescent head and the female’s coloring was drab and a mottled brown. This just made my day.
P.S. I hope Elmer Fudd doesn’t hear about these cwazy wildlife encounters this morning!

I almost didn’t walk today as I knew the ninety percent humidity would make it oppressive and clammy from the all-day rain yesterday, but wanting that energized feeling that I get from my walks, I trudged out anyway. I neared the Fergusons’ home, the very last house on the block, and thought I’d stop for a quick visit if they were out on the porch as they usually are every morning. The Fergusons have become permanent fixtures on that porch from May through October since retiring decades ago. When I worked downtown, I’d pass them every day, always stopping briefly for a quick exchange of pleasantries, commenting with a complaint or a compliment about the weather, then I hurried on to catch the bus. The Fergusons are in their nineties now, with children long grown and gone from their nest, and they are great, as well as great-great grandparents. They have had their share of sorrow with their children, including their daughter, a childhood friend of mine, who developed M.S. and a son who was a policeman shot in the line of duty and forced to retire early in his career.

After noting the absence of the Fergusons, my thoughts shifted to my own parents who would have celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary today. There was plenty to ponder about my parents as I walked – June 11, 1953 is merely a date on the calendar because theirs was never a marriage made in Heaven, but instead a union filled with heartache and despair. Had their marriage lasted, it would not have been one where after one spouse dies, the remaining spouse follows shortly thereafter as life has ceased to be worth living. My parents had bitter fights and there was much name-calling after which there were days, if not weeks, of the silent treatment. Neither would acquiesce; both were very stubborn. But my father had a filthy mouth and a volatile temper. My mother could hold her own, but without the swearing … or the temper tantrums … or the throwing. My parents were never demonstrative with one another, and I cannot recall ever seeing a hug, or embrace, or even a peck on the cheek initiated by either one. In fact, the picture above, which was taken at their 25th wedding anniversary dinner, is quite deceiving as they both looked happy. Their smiles were for show as I stood before them valiantly trying to create some memories with my pocket camera, while they toasted each another. There was a tiered cake with a happy couple on top and doves holding silver ribbons, rings, bells and trinkets. The gathering was at The Lincoln Inn and consisted of my grandmother and two couples, who were long-time friends of the family. For me, the celebration was wedged between cramming for final exams at Wayne State University and working a full shift at the diner both weekend days.

Fast forward to five years later. When the hourglass was only half empty, my father decided he wanted a “new life” and after thirty years of marriage he wanted out. He made this announcement of his impending defection on Christmas Day 1983, while we all sat amidst opened and unopened gifts. My mother, ever the pragmatist, told me to immediately round up all my father’s gifts from us and we would return them to the store and get our money back (which we did). The look on his face was priceless. Well, good riddance to garbage as the saying goes. His exit left no empty hole in our hearts or our minds.

My mother often said that the only good thing to come from the marriage was her only child. Unfortunately, my father had such little respect for my mother that he took every bit of money in their joint bank account and joint annuity account and then fled the country a few weeks later. Except for the financial hardship, my mother was none the worse for his mid-life crisis and hasty departure. We got steel doors on the front and side, just in case he decided he wanted to make a re-entry sometime and this would not be tolerated – a protective order filed with the Lincoln Park Police Department substantiated our wishes. We repainted, repapered and re-arranged the inside of the house and got new colonial blue siding to replace the putrid pea green/moss green combo that had been there before. I pulled out all the overgrown bushes and made perimeter gardens for the backyard, filling them up with beautiful rosebushes and colorful perennials. We also replaced every bush and tree in the front garden – by 1985, after all these renovations were accomplished, we had transformed our home to our liking and in the process erased all the vestiges of my father’s existence.

So, thirty years later, on the other side of the hourglass, my mom is gone, having lived twenty-seven years after my father left –peaceful years which were not filled with bickering, name-calling and heartache. Her many medical maladies were not the only obstacles she overcame. She was a survivor – one smart cookie who never crumbled.

Well, I’m creaking along on this Monday morning and feeling every bit my 57 years of age. Perhaps I am like those weekend warriors who try to cram too many sports or too much yard work into the roughly 60 hours, a/k/a the weekend. In my case, my boss was on business in Denver most of last week, so I took that opportunity, plus the cool and rain-free temps, to take longer walks. I am paying for it today. This morning I woke up stiff and sore and felt as though a Mack truck had run me over. Dare I admit to just plain getting older or is this creakiness merely the result of racking up too many miles in a short time period? The preferred version will be it is just a dreary, rain-filled morning wreaking havoc with my bones so Linda is less than limber. Maybe this malady goes along with those ever-creeping gray hairs that I am finding. In fact, I notice those springy little gray (and gulp … even white) tendrils that are clinging to my temples are getting more commonplace. I simply have ignored them thus far and because I have been coiling my very long, nearly waist-length locks into a neat bun, the top of my head has not visible when I glance in the mirror once the bun is in place.

I picked up my new glasses on Friday and the lenses are increased strength and I am now in trifocals. The ophthalmologist assured me I’ll be able to see anything and everything 100 percent better than before. Well, maybe I liked the former strength better or perhaps rose-colored glasses are even better still in this less-than-perfect world in which we live. Hmmmmmmm.

I went to have my hair trimmed Friday – lopped off was more like it. I’d not had a haircut in nearly a year so I let the stylist take off a good four inches. She dried my hair then handed me my eyeglasses plus a magnifying mirror to check out her handiwork from behind and the sides and top. Wow!!! I could not get past seeing all the gray hair woven through the top of my head. What a rude awakening!! Where the h*ll did all these silver strands come from? Surely, this was not me who looked back in the mirror? I complimented her on the haircut and hastily grabbed hanks of my hair, bent over and fastened a claw clip back around a quick and messy bun. This is what I call my librarian look – good to go in five minutes and less muss and fuss than hot rollers, curling irons and magic potions to create the perfect coiffure. I used to be so vain in my twenties and thirties that I would never leave the house without every hair in place, freshly manicured fingernails and toenails plus an hour’s worth of makeup, expertly applied to look like I was a natural beauty, not a young woman whose looks were enhanced by makeup. Ha ha. My mom told me I was too vain for my own good, but I just let that phrase go in one ear and out the other. Today, I have pared my beauty routine, such as it is, to a minimal amount of time. Gone are the hair combs, bands, or baubles and beads for my side-swept ponytail or French braid, as well as the jewelry, clothes and accessories that was my trademark look back then. Today, it is sweats and tee-shirts and shorts and I guess you can say that this is the real me. I am comfortable with myself now and vanity has taken a back seat.

A month before my thirtieth birthday, my mom read that a photography experience called “Glamour Shots” was coming to Southland Mall. Glamour Shots is a travelling photography studio that sets up several trailers in local malls and they have professional hairstylists and make-up artists and a variety of themed clothing and accessories for your head-and-shoulders Glamour Shots photo. It was a birthday present from my mom and I was so excited to go. The session sure was a lot of fun, just getting primped and fussed over for an hour and then photographs being taken. I chose a red leather top for one shot and the other was a blue well-worn denim jacket for the other. They mailed negatives a few weeks later and you chose your favorites. My mom picked out two and we had the portraits framed, one for my mom’s room and the other for the T.V. room. From time to time I’ll glance at these two pictures and wonder who that young girl was and ask myself if it was really me? I seemed so young and innocent back then. The last few years have been tough for me – my mom’s failing health and sudden death plus my work status all have taken their toll on me. Like a military man who earns his stripes as he progresses through the ranks, I’m able to account for each gray hair and line on my face. I know in my heart that I am made of stronger stuff than I was as I embarked on my thirtieth year. Thankfully, I am my mother’s daughter and have incorporated her personality and strength in my very being.

I’ll borrow Scarlett O’Hara’s famous line from “Gone With The Wind” which sums up my motto about housework: “I’ll think about that tomorrow – tomorrow is another day” – I love that line!!! My mom was a much more fastidious housekeeper than I shall ever hope to be and clearly the good housekeeper gene skipped a generation. Last night before going to bed, I set the alarm to get up very early but it rang and I rolled over and snapped it off; I didn’t even bother with the “snooze” function. Last night someone close by was shooting off firecrackers until past 11:00 p.m. and kept me awake. This morning, from the cozy confines of my bed, I decided that dealing with dust bunnies, so I could dispense with all my chores before leaving on a walk, could wait another day. At 7:45 a.m. there was a cool breeze and the sun was tucked behind the clouds, perfect to embark on the 3 ¼ mile round trip adventure to Council Point Park. Today I walked solo the entire walk along the Park perimeter path – there were no bicyclists either; just me.

Bunnies were everywhere this morning, munching on wild rhubarb leaves or savoring the lavender-colored wild morning glories that were laced throughout the grass. The bunnies generally bolt once they catch sight of me, but I guess I was not deemed a threat to them today so they stayed put.

The cottonwood was a’flyin’ this morning, and, while I peered through the marsh reeds, I saw hundreds of cottonwood polka dots drifting along the murky Ecorse Creek waters.

Around the bend I saw about thirty Canada Geese grouped together and pecking at the grass and the pathway for food. There were actually two families of geese and goslings – some goslings were still very young and others looked much older. I’m sure the younger family were “my” goslings I saw nearly a month ago and they’ve grown so big. While they still had their yellowish, fuzzy-looking feathers, they were not the cute little chicks that were toddling around after their mom. The second family of goslings had completely lost their fuzzy look and instead were pale imitations of their parents. They were gangly looking with necks and legs that were not in proportion to their body. In fact, they were kind of homely, not unlike a youngster’s awkward “tween” years. I’ve got several photos in my albums which I keep hidden just for that reason – my cat eye glasses, my hair is some type of frizzy hairdo gone bad or I had grossly uneven bangs. Just as I was wishing I had some dry bread to scatter for the geese, the gander came rushing ahead of the bunch with his dander up. He was squawking loudly and flapping his wings, clearly thinking his family was in danger. I get the same look from my canary Buddy, when I take out his fruits and veggies for the night when I’m ready to put him to bed – I call it showing me his fractious face. But this guy was bigger than Buddy and I quickly moved off the path and to a grassy area as I didn’t like the menacing look he was sending me.

Next, I passed an alcove with a footpath leading down to a small cement precipice which juts out over the creek. I’ve never gone down the path, but there sat a young boy, intent on watching the water where he had cast his line and a shimmering lure was bobbing up and down in the water. If I squinted, I could imagine him wearing a straw hat and clad in britches rolled up to the knees, bare toes dipping into the water, a’ la Huck Finn. I was tempted to call out “hey” to him, but he perched precariously on that square landing and I didn’t want to startle him. I suspect he won’t be having a fish fry tonight as it is likely he snagged more cottonwood fluff on that lure than anything else.

All too quickly I was back at the entrance of the Park and it was time to head home To me, I too had gone fishin’, but my quiet reflective spot to ponder life and commune with nature was the perimeter path around the Park. So, fiddle dee dee, I’ll catch up with those dust bunnies tomorrow –I had a chance to get up close and personal with real bunnies and the rest of Nature’s bounty.

… me up. I woke up early and was out the door in record time to arrive at Council Point Park before the Ecorse Creek cleaning crew volunteers arrived at 9:00 a.m. While walking the Park perimeter and deep in thought, the sound of quacking interrupted my woolgathering. I went to the water’s edge and stood behind a copse of trees. Soon, huge ripples appeared in the still water and a group of mallard ducks came out of nowhere. The leader of the pack was quacking noisily while the others were swimming placidly, not making a noise, queued up like a group of nuns walking to church and following one another in stony silence. From my vantage point I crouched down and opened the pocket of my sweatshirt and grabbed a bag of stale bread I crumbed up for them last night. I opened the bag and tossed out a few morsels, watching them skitter across the creek. Soon, there was a frenzy of activity as mallards started paddling fast and furiously to retrieve some morsels. In their haste to eat these unexpected treats, a cacophony of quacking began as they informed their pals that there was food, and not the usual bugs and grubs from the muddy waters of the Ecorse Creek. It seems they momentarily let their collective guard down in their glee to get at the goodies; they forgot that a human being might be present. Then, as if on cue, several of the ducks glanced around as if to say “thank you” even though their benefactor could not be seen in their line of sight. I reached into the bag and tossed another handful of crumbed-up bread and once again they look surprised but scrambled quickly, their wide, webbed feet treading and paddling furiously while quacking with great gusto. Some of the bread must have sunk down and I saw feathery butts making a quick duck dive to retrieve their breakfast. I wonder what reaction I might have gotten with donuts? It made me smile at their antics. My house is filled with ducks of every variety. My mom had an affinity for ducks and geese, which matched my affinity for teddy bears. Over the years, we visited every country store we could, and perused specialty catalogs as well until we amassed quite an assortment of resin, porcelain and wooden duck decoys in every shape and size which are now displayed throughout the house. The waterfowl doesn’t stop there – there are enough geese for a gaggle in the living room and the bedroom. Not everyone can say they have a red Pendleton tartan plaid, be-ribboned goose named Deloose guarding the hallway between the two bedrooms. And, because we ran out of shelves and tables for the ducks to sit on, there are pictures of ducks galore. As I watched the ducks feeding it made me feel like a kid again, back in High Park in Toronto where my parents took me on a Sunday drive to feed the ducks and swans. I got the same kick out of seeing them then as I did today. I tossed the third load of bread out and a resounding round of quacks thanked me for the effort. Feelin’ ducky after a 3 ¼-mile walk on an exhilaratingly cool day.

I was walking loops around Memorial Park today – the air was crisp and cool with all the feeling of a Fall day, with temps hovering in the mid-50s in this second week of June. While the sun worshippers stew, still others like me, are enjoying the refreshing cooler air, just perfect for walking or any outside sport. I know I racked up 2 ½ miles and felt cool as a cucumber when I got home. While walking the perimeters of both sections of Memorial Park, I watched in delight while a man and his golden retriever played in the park. The man unleashed his dog when he got to the park and the dog galloped around like a new foal’s first time in the paddock. I saw the man clutching a Frisbee in his other hand and he did not throw it right away. The dog, impatient with his master for taking so long to get going, nudged the Frisbee first, then put his nose near the man’s well-worn pants pocket, then finally sat down next to his master. The man was graying at the temples and similarly the golden retriever had a few silver streaks on his forehead and muzzle. They stood there companionably, a long-time master/dog combo to be sure, and I suspect this game of delaying of the Frisbee fun was a regular ritual. The dog gave a little bark and the man said “let’s go” and a second later a bright red Frisbee was sailing through the air. I watched this game of catch for about ten minutes. The golden was doing the job he is best suited for – searching and retrieving. Time after time he laid the Frisbee at his master’s feet. The dog was rewarded with an occasional Milk Bone treat from a stash in the man’s pocket; the man in turn, was rewarded with alot of wagging from a feathery tail and a short, somewhat impatient bark. Do you think dogs smile? You betcha! This dog was grinning ear-to-ear, tongue lolling and ears flying in the wind, just delighting in this game. Heck, it made me smile just watching him. The Frisbee was airborne again … going, going … gone.

A smile is just a frown turned upside down. I’m sure you have heard that phrase before. Perhaps your mom consoled you or cheered you up when you a child by saying those words and demonstrated a happy face by putting her fingers in the corner of her mouth until you made a big toothy grin. I don’t remember growing up with anything but a smile on my face; maybe I was just a happy child. I was an only child, and didn’t lack for anything, but I wasn’t spoiled either. Money wasn’t plentiful when I was growing up, but I never knew that until I got older. I was happy-go-lucky until age 10 when I was somewhat traumatized by the move to the United States because I had to say goodbye to my friends and I loved school. When I started school here in the U.S. in the Fall of ’66, I was placed in sixth grade and I found the schoolwork was way behind what I had learned several years before. I was very bored and I hated the teacher who ridiculed my Canadian accent, my use of Oxford English and my pronunciations of some words. Much to my chagrin, he made me read aloud to the class while he criticized me and my classmates howled in laughter. I despised Mr. Schreiber and was disgusted with my peers who often ganged up on me on the way home simply because I was different from them, i.e. a foreigner. The bullying continued in middle school on a near-daily basis in the girl’s bathroom at Huff Junior High, and this round still included a teacher, but this time I was paddled several times a week for things I never did or said. Many times on a whim, she would call me by my last name and say “out in the hall” and many times she paddled me based on the hearsay of my peers. Her class “pet” would report that while Ms. Barany was out of the room Linda Schaub did such incorrigible deeds as chew gum, throw spitballs, pass notes or talk while others were studying. The truth was I never spoke to anyone and stayed to myself, but that didn’t matter because the teacher returned, read the “list” and I was soon invited to step out into the hall and bend over. Then came the whack from her big paddle. While the paddle stung and smarted, “smart” was not the word that I was becoming, because while at Huff in seventh grade my grades dropped to an all-time low. My parents could not understand what happened because I was on the honor roll in Canada and double-promoted one entire school year. I had Ms. Barany for three and half hours a day: for English, History, Study Hall and Homeroom – it made my seventh grade school year intolerable. I muddled through each day the best I could and refused to tell my parents what happened at school and the kids never beat me up where bruises would be evident. One time they broke my glasses and my parents punished me for being careless and letting the frame break. My father had a volatile temper and I worried he would come to the school and all h*ll would break loose. On the Monday after Easter break, I went to school and before first period, Ms. Barany took me aside and said I would be expelled for making obscene telephone calls to her home on Easter Sunday. I asked to be escorted to the principal’s office where I called my mother and told her to have my father leave work right away and to come with him. We gathered an hour later – my father, not unexpectedly, exploded in anger alternatively between the principal, teacher and then me for not saying anything to him. My whereabouts on Easter was corroborated by my parents and also by a phone call with neighbors whom had invited our family to their house for the holiday dinner. So, it was not me, but my teacher, who was forced to end the school year that day. She did not return while I was still at Huff Junior High. Finally, the taunting by teachers and relentless pummeling by my peers was over.

I bring this story up because the whole event tarnished my school days from the Fall of 1966 through the Spring of 1968. Now, I cringe every time I hear the public service announcements on how to stop or report bullying. Especially poignant is the radio ad with teens talking about their rough times at school and the name calling by their peers. I empathize with the many kids who have to deal with school bullies. It ain’t fun. I think it is worse now because of social media. If kids were hurtful 45 years ago, imagine a world today when bullying is not just physical, but oral, or written, showing up as videos or posts on social media. Teenagers commit suicide nowadays, not only because of pictures or words on social media, but because they deem themselves unpopular because they lack as many Facebook friends as their classmates. It is a sad commentary on our society. These painful school days, or maybe I should say school “daze”, are fresh in my mind since walking past Hoover Elementary School on Tuesday and then past the Lincoln Park Middle School and High School yesterday, I glanced at and studied the faces of the many school kids I saw. It seemed to me the only kids who showed spirit, who were laughing and jumping around, and acting like “kids” were those at the elementary school. They were in high spirits in anticipation of their school day. The school bell rang at 8:00 a.m. and they streamed into the door, just unencumbered by anything but being a kid. Often, while walking, I come face-to-face with groups of teens enroute to school. They walk as a group, or some alone, and there is no laughter. They walk together, yet are alone – they are looking down at their phones half the time. And when they are not looking down they have a sullen look – an attitude. Why do all these kids look so d*mn angry? Why does it seem that every one of them is wearing a hangdog look? Why are perpetual pouts pasted on their young faces? Why are they wearing a scowl? What are you all so angry about? Their swagger and attitude belies their age. Where are the joyful expressions that these youths should be wearing since school is out in one week and a long vacation is just around the corner? Looking at these kids, day after day, makes me want to drag out the tired old expression from my father that was given ad nauseum whenever I complained about homework or tests. The perpetual lecture given to me was that “school is easy, you’ve got it made right now, so enjoy it while you can; just wait until you are an adult in the cold, cruel world” … well, that was probably the sole piece of advice that I ever received from my father. Once the cruel antics of my teachers and classmates stopped, I was finally free to enjoy the rest of my school years unhindered by those idiots who tormented me. I never again became the stellar student that I was in Canada – a culmination of all these events recited above never brought my scholastic aptitude back to that point, and I was just an average student going forward. But, all this heartache aside, I was never sullen or ornery and school was just one of those rites of passage that you had to do. I just shake my head as I look around me and wonder why this perpetual chip on the shoulder permeates the attitude of our young people? I saw students being dropped off by parents and before the car pulled up, the kids seem to sit in a semi-catatonic state, next to their parent, never even talking. The car stops, they hop out, slam the door and away they go – not even as much as a “goodbye” or “thank you” escapes their lips. Some kids want to be dropped off blocks before – that I see as well. I guess the lack of civility in the world bothers me a great deal because I would have never had the nerve to brush off or ignore my parents and “get away with it” so I conclude that respect is lacking in our world today. Kids walk along the street, either tuned in to their iPod or texting away, oblivious to the world around them. They walk along, hoodie-encased heads down and shoulders hunched. Yet, many times as I walk in the morning, older people pass on the sidewalk and there are always greetings and salutations. There is often a quick exchange of pleasantries, a comment on the weather or some similar topic. Maybe the art of conversation has been relegated to the older set now, and I include myself in that group. I shudder to think of the future young people after they are launched into the world and must meld into the workplace and interact face-to-face instead of via a digital device. It is indeed a scary thought. There is too much dissatisfaction among the masses. I think a lot of people take life for granted. I am reminded of a newspaper clipping my mom tore out and gave to me many, many years ago. She told me to read it and carry it around with me and one day there would be occasion to hand it to someone to “smarten them up” with a little advice. My mom was always dispensing wisdom but this little gem said it all. I folded it up and carried it in my wallet for years until it literally fell apart, but I have tracked this verse down on the internet and am putting it below this post. I wish everyone could read it and abide by it.

P.S. Before I climbed upon my soapbox to write this post, I managed to squeeze in a two-mile walk today, all the while fretting and stewing as I meandered along while trying to make sense about life’s SUPPOSED inequities. (Smile)

“The World Is Mine”
Today upon a bus I saw a maiden with golden hair.
I envied her, she seemed so happy. I wish I was so fair.
Then suddenly as she rose to leave, I saw her hobble down the aisle.
She had but one foot and used a crutch, as she passed she gave a smile.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine. I have two feet, the world is mine.
Then I stopped to buy some sweets. The lad who sold them was kind.
He said to me, “It’s nice to talk to folks like you.”
“You see”, he said, “I’m blind.”
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine. I have two eyes, the world is mine.
And then I saw a girl her eyes so blue. It seemed she knew not what to do.
I said to her, “Why don’t you join the others, dear?”
She looked ahead without a word, then I knew she had not heard.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine. I have two ears to hear, the world is mine.
With feet to take me where I go,
With eyes to see the sunset glow,
With ears to hear what I would know,
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine, I’m blessed indeed, the world is mine.
–Unknown–

During Tuesday’s walk, I saw a passel of cars loaded to capacity with teenagers hanging out every available window. Each occupant’s head was adorned with a blue mortarboard and attached orange and blue tassel swinging to and fro. It seemed each kid tried to out scream the next. I heard shouts of “we’re free at least!!!”, “no more school” and “we’re outta here now” plus similarly scrawled messages, including “Class of 2013”, were painted all over their cars. There was much maniacal honking in between the screaming – mayhem indeed. Lincoln Park High School seniors are ready to graduate. In fact, commencement is tonight. I may have wanted to plug my ears with my fingers, but it was not all that long ago that I indulged in the same crazy behavior. Ahem, well a mere four decades ago!! We had our clique of six inseparable school chums through the latter years of high school and we similarly celebrated the end of our LPHS days and were equally raucous and rowdy. Best buddy Sheila Howard borrowed her dad’s gold Montego and we collectively emblazoned every available inch of that car with LPHS’ school colors of orange and blue, splashed our school motto, our names, flowers – you name it, everywhere. We all kicked in for gas money and spent hours riding up/down Fort Street honking at all our class members – there was a helluva lot of honking going on because we had 613 in our graduating class … that was the June class alone. Our class had weathered six long years together ,three at Huff Junior High and the last three at Lincoln Park High School. We spent more time together as a group in the last week, then we probably spent in every assembly, talent show, school dance, queuing up on Bagel Day, etc., etc. There was Senior Skip Day on Friday, June 8th which was an all-day trip to Cedar Point; Baccalaureate on Sunday, June 10th in the school auditorium and lastly, the Senior Banquet was held Monday, June 11th . The Banquet was a chance to dress up in our finery, flaunt our best manners and break bread with our classmates in a grown-up setting, instead of the round tables in the LPHS cafeteria. Finally, the big day was upon us. We had so many seniors participating in commencement we had to go to Cobo Hall. It was a sickening hot evening and little if no air conditioning was present. I unzipped my gown a bit for some air as I awaited the “S” names to be called. Then the zipper got stuck and panic set in. Just before my name was announced, four people managed to put the zipper back on the track and I got myself together enough when I heard “Linda Schaub” to march across the stage in my three-inch platform shoes. (I needed those – I was already five feet nine inches tall.) After our graduation ceremony ended, with tassels flipped to the left side, the entire class headed back to the high school for our All-Night Party. We ate, we danced and we watched “Play Misty for Me” (us girls swooning over Clint Eastwood all the while). We were running on empty by then. Soon, after a night of cheers and a celebration of our years together, it was time for tears as the sun came up and our group gathered together to say our goodbyes as we uttered “Go Rails!!” on last time.

I’ve been thinking alot about high school the past month. Plans are in the works for our class’ 40-year reunion. I’m not interested to go at all. My five closest friends and I planned a five-year reunion of just us in the Fall of 1978 which turned out to be a debacle. In those days social media and cell phones didn’t exist and we soon lost touch with one another after being inseparable through school. During school, we had spent many evenings discussing how we would stand up in each another’s weddings or would name our first-born children after one other – I say this laughingly because three of the six of us were named “Linda” so it wasn’t an entirely impossible feat. At our reunion, we thought, rather stupidly, that we could duplicate one of our usual school-time Friday night events (dinner and a movie) as a great way to get together, reminisce and catch up. Sadly, we didn’t have enough in common to fill an entire evening of conversation. So, no – I won’t repeat that exercise by going to my high school reunion. In fact, recently one of my Facebook buddies who “friended” me last year posted an inquiry for all to see as to whether I would attend our reunion. I wrote him a private message back that I was not interested to see anyone and had not attended any of the prior reunions and he should not take that answer personally. Now, Bob and I had not communicated before now – we merely “friended” one another through Facebook, via old classmates. So we kibitzed a bit; Bob told me about his successful career, then asked what I was doing career-wise. Funny, but that seemed like an unusual question to me since most people who know me are aware I never fulfilled my dream of becoming a journalist (although perhaps this blog helps to fill that void – better late than never!!). No problem with the question – after all we had not been in touch for forty years. Well, I’m not embarrassed to say that I did not pursue my dream. You’ll not hear any apologies from me; no angst or inner turmoil exists in how I make my living, however, for some reason I did feel a little deficient when hearing about Bob’s career accomplishments versus mine. I am content with how my life has turned out – good health trumps wealth and is more important to me; all the money or prestige in the world cannot give you excellent health. As to school, you cannot put a price on education and no one can take your years of education away from you. That said, if someone were to ask me to impart some wisdom to the LPHS Class of 2013, it would be to follow your dreams and aspirations and never lose your spirit in the process. My spirit is still intact. At the end of this post are some of the highlights from MY commencement program.
Today’s walk marked the same trek I travelled circa 1970 to 1973, 2.4 miles round trip from home to my old stomping grounds and back. In fact, Huff Junior High was a mere stone’s throw away from the high school, so that round trip would have been about two miles. Six years, for nine months each year, I traipsed through snow, ice, rain, searing heat and similar inclement weather. No car ride for this kid. No wonder I was so skinny back in those days!! As I passed by LPHS today there was an aura of excitement in the air. The marquis touted tonight’s commencement. A few capped-and-gowned students were milling about, not clustered on the front steps as we might have done; now a six-foot high iron fence stands in the front part of the school. Times have certainly changed, but the exhilaration of new beginnings and the rest of your life stretching before you like an empty canvas has not. Also timeless – this morning I noticed the huge rock in the front of LPHS, which has had layers upon layers of orange and blue paint, still stands there festooned with the flourishes and comments by the graduating seniors….until the same time next year.
Class flower: Rose of Peace.
Class Colors: Navy Blue and Powder Blue.
Class Song: “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin.
Class Theme: “Beginnings” by Chicago.
Class Saying: “Run through the fields, be happy and free, we’re the class of ’73.”
Class Motto: “A million tomorrows shall all pass away ‘ere I forget all the joys that were mine today.”