Bill's New Book

I have a new book!

 

Letters From Roscommon took me about ten years to write as it consists of a series of letters that I wrote to friends and family after moving to Roscommon, Michigan. I chose to re-work and publish 34 letters that focus on my observations of life in and around our county, although I suppose they could have been written about your town or any place else for that matter. Here is a sample, chapter 18, My Colorful Neighborhood.

 

My Colorful Neighborhood

 

Dear Friends:

 

It occurred to me the other day that I have never told you about my neighborhood and the folks who live here. Since several of you haven’t yet visited here, I decided I had better tell you about the neighborhood before you come so’s you won’t be frightened when you do get here.

As you know, a large share of Roscommon County is forested and my neighborhood is no exception. My neighborhood consists of a thin layer of houses that hold back the forest on either side of a road that wends its way to the single nearby business that is on the main road, the party store.

The road winds from the party store, past my house until it disappears in the forest and circles back on itself for no particular reason. From the party store to the circle in the woods is a little more than one mile, a perfect distance for a morning walk. On my walks, I regularly see many of my neighbors and I wave to one and all. My waving has provoked several brief encounters and a few longer visits that have yielded a treasure trove of information about those who live nearby. Like any treasure trove, some of the pieces are better than others. In the case of my neighbors, some are more interesting and more colorful than others.

Sadly, in the short time of my residence here, we have lost a couple neighbors. Betty Hoover has left due to old age and general orneriness while Big-Breasted Bertha passed on due to her weakness for the frothy brew that she bought regularly at the party store. Betty was a transplanted hillbilly who served as the neighborhood police, gossip control officer, and caretaker of Roscommon moral standards. Bertha’s appearance and drinking habits led her to become the most colorful for several years running according to Betty.

With the recent departure of the two women, two men have risen to take over the mantel as our most colorful characters: Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos. Both are north woods men through and through. Bicycle Bill has a slight a mental deficiency, although that doesn’t count for much in the neighborhood. More important is Bill’s penchant for riding his bicycle winter and summer, through rain and sleet and snow, even though the snow may be a foot or two deep in the middle of the road during some winters.

Bill rides to the party store every day where he picks up his supply of beer. He stops frequently along to way to pick up any empties he happens to find to recoup some of his money via the bottle deposit. Bill and I are in competition to see who can find the most empties along the road, but I suspect he has an edge on me since he is recovering some of his own bottles and he can cover more ground on his bike than I can by walking.

Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos pretty much look alike except for Amos’s one arm. Both wear full beards, stocking hats much of the year along with hunting coats and camouflage pants when there is a hint of cold [about ten months of the year]. Actually, their wardrobe is like that of many of us Roscommon men so there is nothing to be gained in this description.

One-Armed bases his claim to the title of ‘Most Colorful’ by his unequaled delight in making jokes about his one arm. Recently, he had a large cast wrapped around his one good arm with only his fingers visible. He explained that he had received treatment for carpal tunnel. He nodded at his good arm with the bandage, “I’m getting this removed next week.” He waited a moment, then added with a grin, “Not my arm, just the cast.” On another occasion, Amos warned a young boy not to pet my little dog Marshall. “I tried it once and this is what happened to me,” he said, as he held up his stub.

The houses in the neighborhood are diverse from year-round homes like mine to small cabins that are used mainly by hunters. The two houses on the circle in the woods are owned by two brothers who used to run a saw mill in their backyard making pallets and lumber. The brothers are now retired and they closed their saw mill after the wind blew the roof down. They still have piles of lumber in their back forty and a pile of sawdust about the size of the Mount of Olives.

Next to my house are three cabins used only occasionally. Each sits in a wooded lot that abuts a swamp. One has indoor plumbing while the other two boast ‘a path to the bath’ – a local description of a cabin whose outdoor toilet sits atop a hole in the ground. Beyond those temporary abodes is a permanent home of a recently retired man who lived an entire winter in a small trailer while his house was being re-built following an invasion of black mold. I continue to hope that black mold is not contagious since my house is not too far distant from his.

Next to the black mold house is more forest, two ordinary houses and then the last house on the road that is owned by my retired friend (he is not particularly different than most with his beard, camo, and stocking hat) who fishes most days of the year. When he isn’t fishing, he and I meet at the party store for morning coffee after my walk. We are often joined by Amos, but never by Bicycle Bill since he is too busy drinking to sit idly and complain about the weather and poor fishing. We are often joined at the party store by two friends who teach at the nearby college.

Although they are both interesting, neither rises to the level of most colorful so I’ll dispense with more information about them except to say that one is a man with two first names and the second teaches math and computers. (I suspect he is not to be trusted.) The man with two first names teaches something about plants and he knows all about Stinkhorn, a smelly fungus that grows in the forest around me. I don’t know what else he teaches or what else he knows, but if something stinks in the woods, he is the man to see.

 

So, there you have it, a complete description of my neighborhood and it’s characters so you’ll recognize it in case you stop by for a visit. See ‘ya real soon.

 

 

Grandpa Bill

                                  

If you are interested in this latest linguistic adventure, the paperback book is available at Amazon.com for $8.95 or, if you are into low costs like me, it can also be obtained on your Kindle for $2.99. Alternatively, if we live nearby, give me a shout and I can obtain a copy for you at a lower shipping cost.

Bill's New Book

I have a new book!

 

Letters From Roscommon took me about ten years to write as it consists of a series of letters that I wrote to friends and family after moving to Roscommon, Michigan. I chose to re-work and publish 34 letters that focus on my observations of life in and around our county, although I suppose they could have been written about your town or any place else for that matter. Here is a sample, chapter 18, My Colorful Neighborhood.

 

My Colorful Neighborhood

Dear Friends:

 

It occurred to me the other day that I have never told you about my neighborhood and the folks who live here. Since several of you haven’t yet visited here, I decided I had better tell you about the neighborhood before you come so’s you won’t be frightened when you do get here.

As you know, a large share of Roscommon County is forested and my neighborhood is no exception. My neighborhood consists of a thin layer of houses that hold back the forest on either side of a road that wends its way to the single nearby business that is on the main road, the party store.

The road winds from the party store, past my house until it disappears in the forest and circles back on itself for no particular reason. From the party store to the circle in the woods is a little more than one mile, a perfect distance for a morning walk. On my walks, I regularly see many of my neighbors and I wave to one and all. My waving has provoked several brief encounters and a few longer visits that have yielded a treasure trove of information about those who live nearby. Like any treasure trove, some of the pieces are better than others. In the case of my neighbors, some are more interesting and more colorful than others.

Sadly, in the short time of my residence here, we have lost a couple neighbors. Betty Hoover has left due to old age and general orneriness while Big-Breasted Bertha passed on due to her weakness for the frothy brew that she bought regularly at the party store. Betty was a transplanted hillbilly who served as the neighborhood police, gossip control officer, and caretaker of Roscommon moral standards. Bertha’s appearance and drinking habits led her to become the most colorful for several years running according to Betty.

With the recent departure of the two women, two men have risen to take over the mantel as our most colorful characters: Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos. Both are north woods men through and through. Bicycle Bill has a slight a mental deficiency, although that doesn’t count for much in the neighborhood. More important is Bill’s penchant for riding his bicycle winter and summer, through rain and sleet and snow, even though the snow may be a foot or two deep in the middle of the road during some winters.

Bill rides to the party store every day where he picks up his supply of beer. He stops frequently along to way to pick up any empties he happens to find to recoup some of his money via the bottle deposit. Bill and I are in competition to see who can find the most empties along the road, but I suspect he has an edge on me since he is recovering some of his own bottles and he can cover more ground on his bike than I can by walking.

Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos pretty much look alike except for Amos’s one arm. Both wear full beards, stocking hats much of the year along with hunting coats and camouflage pants when there is a hint of cold [about ten months of the year]. Actually, their wardrobe is like that of many of us Roscommon men so there is nothing to be gained in this description.

One-Armed bases his claim to the title of ‘Most Colorful’ by his unequaled delight in making jokes about his one arm. Recently, he had a large cast wrapped around his one good arm with only his fingers visible. He explained that he had received treatment for carpal tunnel. He nodded at his good arm with the bandage, “I’m getting this removed next week.” He waited a moment, then added with a grin, “Not my arm, just the cast.” On another occasion, Amos warned a young boy not to pet my little dog Marshall. “I tried it once and this is what happened to me,” he said, as he held up his stub.

The houses in the neighborhood are diverse from year-round homes like mine to small cabins that are used mainly by hunters. The two houses on the circle in the woods are owned by two brothers who used to run a saw mill in their backyard making pallets and lumber. The brothers are now retired and they closed their saw mill after the wind blew the roof down. They still have piles of lumber in their back forty and a pile of sawdust about the size of the Mount of Olives.

Next to my house are three cabins used only occasionally. Each sits in a wooded lot that abuts a swamp. One has indoor plumbing while the other two boast ‘a path to the bath’ – a local description of a cabin whose outdoor toilet sits atop a hole in the ground. Beyond those temporary abodes is a permanent home of a recently retired man who lived an entire winter in a small trailer while his house was being re-built following an invasion of black mold. I continue to hope that black mold is not contagious since my house is not too far distant from his.

Next to the black mold house is more forest, two ordinary houses and then the last house on the road that is owned by my retired friend (he is not particularly different than most with his beard, camo, and stocking hat) who fishes most days of the year. When he isn’t fishing, he and I meet at the party store for morning coffee after my walk. We are often joined by Amos, but never by Bicycle Bill since he is too busy drinking to sit idly and complain about the weather and poor fishing. We are often joined at the party store by two friends who teach at the nearby college.

Although they are both interesting, neither rises to the level of most colorful so I’ll dispense with more information about them except to say that one is a man with two first names and the second teaches math and computers. (I suspect he is not to be trusted.) The man with two first names teaches something about plants and he knows all about Stinkhorn, a smelly fungus that grows in the forest around me. I don’t know what else he teaches or what else he knows, but if something stinks in the woods, he is the man to see.

 

So, there you have it, a complete description of my neighborhood and it’s characters so you’ll recognize it in case you stop by for a visit. See ‘ya real soon.

 

 

Grandpa Bill

 

If you are interested in this latest linguistic adventure, the paperback book is available at Amazon.com for $8.95 or, if you are into low costs like me, it can also be obtained on your Kindle for $2.99. Alternatively, if we live nearby, give me a shout and I can obtain a copy for you at a lower shipping cost.

To Recycle or Not, That is the Question

 

I have been a dedicated recycler for some while. It always seems a good idea to re-use things whenever possible so I dutifully collect paper, cans, and other reusable materials for recycling. Not everyone agrees as I have noticed when I snoop around the back doors of friends and relatives. Of course, it is an individual decision to recycle or not. Sadly, our national and state political leaders haven’t provided much help on the issue as they seem generally incapable and have too little time anyway what with the heavy demands of fund-raising. Most also don’t want to risk losing a vote by supporting something that someone, somewhere, may object to. Furthermore, the current call for no new regulations and freedom for all businesses to do whatever earns a profit, doesn’t bode well for any government emphasis on recycling. This is not true for my local politicians.

 

Our township recently signed a contract with our garbage company to pick-up recyclable materials from our neighborhood. Oh, what joy! How thrilled I was when I heard the news. It seemed a major event, on par with the Neal Armstrong moonwalk, or the news that Congress had agreed to avoid the fiscal cliff. The celebration of the contract signing went on for days, mainly from me, because managing our recyclables was an awful task AND IT WAS MY JOB. This responsibility, according to the Mrs., is a man’s job since taking care of recyclables is like handling garbage, which is clearly a man thing. Foolishly, I had never thought to argue the point.

 

The old practice BC (BC – before the contract) required that I collect and fold cardboard, sort paper, clean and pile up plastic, metals and glass, then tote the mess nearly 10 miles to the three large dumpsters for recyclables that our township provided. There, a sleeping guard would occasionally wake up and complain about everything, while me and other citizens unloaded our store of valuable, but used, miscellaneous materials. I was obliged to complete this job at least a twice per month, or more often if the pile of cardboard, cans and empty bottles threatened to overflow the garage.

  

The new contract voided the need for all that. Now, the newspaper reported, citizens would simply put their recyclables next to their garbage cans on garbage day and presto, a special recycling truck would appear and the recyclables would disappear. As simple as that, according to the newspaper. I could continue to help keep the planet clean, but with less effort. A gross simplification, it has turned out.

 

Shortly after the contract signing, a green plastic box appeared in our driveway with the letters stenciled on the side, RECYCLABLES. I proudly scooped up my new plastic box and headed for the garage when I happened to notice a little pamphlet that was entitled RECYCLING INSTRUCTIONS. I took the pamphlet to the kitchen and unfolded a three-page set of instructions that read like an income tax Form 1040.

 

“Separate white paper from colored paper.”

“Place white paper in a clear bag.”

“Remove plastic windows from envelopes.”

 “Fold cardboard into bundles no larger than 2 X 3.”

“No pizza boxes.”

“Wash glass containers and remove lids.”

“No green glass allowed.”

“Remove bottle caps, and toss.”

 Etc., Etc.

 

WHAT? The newspaper story didn’t mention any of this. This is going to be harder than I thought, especially since my boastful neighbor, who has a different garbage company, says his company gladly takes pizza boxes, green glass and bottle caps. 

 

 On the inaugural day for recycling, I carefully carried my box to the end of the driveway along with the assorted sacks for colored paper, white paper, envelopes without plastic windows, bundles of cardboard, etc., etc. Across the street sat other green boxes dutifully filled with all manner of recyclables although some had failed to use a clear bag for white paper. During my morning walk, I happily noted that most houses on my street had their green box filled, most to overflowing. Maybe the planet will be safe from garbage, I thought.

 

For some reason, the green box induced a sort of hysteria in our house. Suddenly, the Mrs. and I were recycling all manner of things, no matter how insignificant. We became addicts, searching the  house for things we could put in one of the bags allowed in the green plastic bin. Gum wrappers, used aluminum foil, brown cardboard toilet paper rolls, used paper napkins, and junk mail suddenly became discovered gold. Nothing was too small and the green box overflowed. Each of us became expert interpreting the Form 1040 and we felt real pain if the 1040 disallowed one of our finds. Soon, we quit buying wine if it came in an unrecyclable green bottle. The green box had unleased monsters in our house.

 

I noticed that things were a bit different around the neighborhood two weeks after the initial recycling spasm on garbage pick-up day. This time, only about half the houses had their green boxes at the road, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I also noticed that several green boxes were still sitting in the same place as when they were delivered several weeks earlier. Those people hadn’t bothered to retrieve their green boxes. Shame, shame, I thought. I stole one and carried it back to my garage to use for my white paper and envelopes without plastic windows.

 

Sadly, in another two weeks, there were even fewer green boxes along the road filled with recyclables. Judging from this reaction by several of my neighbors, apparently, this recycling thing isn’t going to be as big as I thought. I guess I won’t need to worry about unemployment at the dump. In fact, maybe recycling is a bad thing since it reduces the volume of garbage and we already have an apparent shortage. We overcome the garbage shortage in Michigan by importing supplies of garbage from Canada to help fill our dumps. (I always knew that Canadians were smart!) One of the benefits we Michiganians derive is constantly changing scenery as new garbage mountains pop-up everywhere with their flares of burning gas that illuminate the dumps.

 

About the time of the contract signing, I finished reading a new book about pollution in our oceans from plastic waste. (Plastic Ocean by Captain C. Moore) The author says we have begun creating new garbage dumps in our oceans. The dumps are thousand-mile long flotillas of floating plastic bits of garbage. The floaters end up in the ocean’s gyres, where the ocean currents congregate the plastic like a giant toilet, except they don’t flush. All sorts of plastic pieces are found in these dumps. One of the more common are the cast-off nets from commercial fishing vessels that find it more economical to carry caught fish back to port than cheap plastic nets. So, they dump the nets.

 

Who cares about plastic endlessly bobbing on the ocean’s waves as long as it is far away and out of sight? Unfortunately, sea-going birds and numerous ocean creatures do. Many creatures can’t distinguish between bits of plastic and food. The result is high mortality rates for many creatures in the food chain including some of our grandest soaring ocean birds who are feeding their young with plastic bits.

 

But all is not lost. One of the high points of Michigan recycling efforts is our bottle law that requires beverage sellers to take back empty bottles while consumers pay a 10-cent bottle deposit fee. That law is credited with helping keep our rivers and streets mostly free from the litter of empties lying around and improving recycling rates. Not that Michigan can claim credit for being the first to implement a bottle law. Ireland began a similar effort in 1799, so you’d have to say that progress in recycling has been slow. Efforts in the United States are mixed; we still have some 39 states that do not have bottle bills mandating payment for return of used containers. The beverage industry fiercely campaigns to defeat attempts at expanded legislation for recycling bottles and so plastic bottles continue to fill our landfills and some escape to rivers and then the ocean.

 

So back to the question, to recycle or not? I hope you’ll say yes for everyone’s benefit.