Bill's Christmas Message

 

 This year I decided to forego the usual Pablum that I spew forth for the holidays and replace it with some honest, hard-hitting facts about the way things really are. And, just to make sure ‘ya get it, I added interpretations to what I wrote. ‘Ya got it?

But wait, before I get into it, I want ‘ya to know that if ‘ya didn’t get a Christmas card from me, it’s not that I wasn’t thinkin’ of ‘ya, cuz I was. I figger I should think about everbody I know at least once a year, and this is your time. (Interpretation): ‘Ya probably didn’t get a card ‘cause I was too cheap to buy one and send it to ‘ya. What is postage nowadays anyway, 15 or 20¢ a letter? Anyway, here are the facts of the matter.

Snow blankets the north woods as I write this and things seem to have returned to normal after a short fall and an early winter. I like it. (Interpretation): I still have leaves on the ground under the snow and several of my lawn and gardening projects that I didn’t get around to are now hidden.

This is a busy season for us as we scurry about getting our last minute holiday things done. (Interpretation): Like most years, I’ll probably wait ‘til the last minute to get my Christmas shopping done since I’d rather watch football.

Marjorie and I continue to enjoy our existing hobbies. (Interpretation): We are too lazy to learn new hobbies. Marjorie spends time sewing and quilting and we both enjoy dancing. As you may recall, we practice ballroom dancing and square dancing on a regular basis. (Interpretation): If we don’t keep doing it regularly, we forget the steps. Marjorie also continues her hobby of brewing beer and [here’s a new word I just learned] vinification – the production of wine starting with the selection of produce and ending with bottles of finished wine. I do my part in this process by drinking, just to show my appreciation of her efforts.

I am also enjoying the fruits of another hobby; the use of my firewood since I am deep into the wood-stove fire-burning season. I spent several months cutting, splitting, and stacking cords of firewood so I could enjoy it this winter. There is nothing better on a cold winter’s night than enjoying the warm glow of infrared energy as you sit by the fire in your long underwear. (Interpretation): It gets real cold here and firewood is a lot cheaper than propane.

That’s about all our news for this year. Oh wait, I forgot to say Mary Chrissmus to you and yours. We are hopin’ you’ens will enjoy the holidays in spite of hearing the cold, hard facts about us staying up here in the North Woods. When I was thinking about you, I guessed you wuz probably planning your get-away to some exotic place like Disney or the Islands. I’ve been thinking about our own get-away, maybe we’ll spend a few days in Detroit this winter - just to change things a bit,

Ho Ho Ho.

Confessions of a Pill Popper

While I was gainfully employed as an engineer, I took my good health as a given and paid little attention to what I ate, how much, and my lack of exercise. In those days, I believed I only had time for family and earning a living. When my doctor prescribed pills for high blood pressure one year and then pills for elevated cholesterol the following year, I decided to take a more active role in my health care. I became a pill popper, uneducated, of course. It was an easy transition for me, since I had been admonished for years by my mother and father, “take this, or eat this, ITS’ GOOD FOR YOU.”

My first venture into self-medication was with vitamins. Somewhere I had learned that vitamins were GOOD FOR YOU, probably from subliminal television ads that were popular in those days. I became a vitamin taker – a one-a-day man. Although I saw no difference in my overall health, I was assured by the ads that positive results might take years, and besides, how would I know what terrible illnesses were being prevented by the vitamins. So, I kept taking them. As for cholesterol, a friend told me that the absolute prevention of high cholesterol numbers could be achieved by the use of flaxseed. I began a flaxseed regimen that lasted only a few days: My spontaneous emissions of gas were just too embarrassing.

When I questioned my friend sometime later about the problems with flaxseed he said, “Oh, you should have taken flaxseed oil, the raw flaxseed causes severe problems with excessive gas.” It was a case of too little information, too late, from my former friend.

As I recall, that was about the time the celebrated chemist, Linus Pauling, issued his incredible news about the benefits of Vitamin C. Having studied chemistry myself, I thought that even his name sounded impressive, LINUS PAULING, pH. D, Chemistry. The Nobel Prize winner said that C was positively a boon to mankind and might even eliminate the common cold. I added C to my diet. When I got a cold that fall, I made inquiries about my use of the vitamin.

“Oh, you weren’t taking enough. You need massive doses of Vitamin C to prevent colds.” I think that answer came from a marketer of the vitamin

When my annual doctor’s visits continued to show the need for blood pressure and cholesterol medications, I redoubled my efforts in self medications. I can’t remember all, but Vitamin D, baby aspirin, chondroitin, seaweed, pills for added dietary fiber, and maybe even Chia seeds were on the long list of things that filled my medication shelf. And tea – as a tea drinker I began a lifelong search for flavorful tea concoctions that, are you ready, ARE GOOD FOR YOU. Of course, those teas always seemed to be the most expensive ones on the shelf.

And how could I forget fish oil? It was something about Greeks or fishermen who had low rates of heart disease and they ate lots of fish. Surely, fish oil is the answer, screamed the ads on TV. I added fish oil to my ever-growing collection of pills, take daily, thank you very much.

There must have been others like me who didn’t find health benefits from our pills. I recall a growing disillusionment with the pronouncements of my idol Linus. Easily swayed, I gave up first on Vitamin C and then, one-by-one, most of my other pills except for fish oil, baby aspirin and the one-a-days, now the specialized version for men, and the more expensive version for seniors. And, of course the tea.

The news in recent month about over-the-counter pills has not been good. Two months ago, I learned of a study that showed no benefit to regular use of vitamins nor fish oil. “A waste of money,” the newsman said. And today, Yahoo reported on research showing no benefits for taking baby aspirin. It seems the major benefit for each of these concoctions is for the folks who make and sell them. Imagine that.

Even more disturbing was the report on television last night about the expanded problem of heroin use in Middle America. The report concluded that a large part of the problem stems from the use of Oxycontin, both as a prescribed and illegally-obtained drug. The piece included a previous statement from the maker of the drug that their product had been shown to be not additive in 99% of the cases - now known to be untrue as the product is highly addictive over time. It must have been an innocent mistake by the manufacturer.

And now I learn that sassafras tea may not be good for me. The Indian who said it was, probably didn’t know that sassafras can be toxic to the liver. Hmmm.

I am beginning to think the answer of ‘taking a pill for that’, may not be the right answer. But wait, have you heard about the new seafood diet? I’m thinking of trying it – I’ll let you know.

Understanding the Election

 

 

 

Those of us who live in North Woods where I do are a little different from most folks. Some would say odd. The recent election is an example: Michigan is a Republic State that predictably votes Republican in virtually every election; yet I drink coffee with a collection of old coots that are diehard Democrats. Our morning assembly of coffee-drinking loafers would be happiest if only Democrats were allowed to run for elected office. Of course, there was much mashing of teeth and predictions of gloom this morning after the election results were announced and Republicans once again swept most offices.

Our reaction was unlike the braggart who said there are two kinds of men: those who make things happen and those who watch things happen. In our case neither applies – we wondered what just happened. The only thing we could agree upon about the election was that the conservative majority managed something that scientists have been unable to accomplish throughout recorded history: Time just moved backwards several generations.

We flatlanders seem to be out of ‘sync’ with the wider population. I just read a news story that said we Michiganders even talk differently with our made-up words about Yoopers, the Mitten, and pasties. Some North Woods Types seek clarity by using plainer, simple words. I just had my septic tank cleaned and a new man came to inspect the tank. As he and I stood together looking over the tank and drain field he remarked that he would need his tools to manage the septage.

“Septage?” I asked.

“I need my hoses to pump the shit,” he explained.

Getting back to the election results, I should say that I was happy about the outcome of the ballot issue pertaining to Michigan wolves. The proposal was like many of our political questions, to go forward it was necessary to vote NO. The bottom line was that we protected our fledgling wolf population by voting no on the ballot proposal. One win for the North Woods.

Maybe having a Republican majority in both houses of Congress will mean that Congressmen can work to get a few things accomplished besides their re-election. Nah, since they only work two days a week and all seem to enjoy being nasty, it is unlikely that anything will be accomplished. But wait, maybe that’s a good thing.

An Autumn Bike Ride (or) 'Ol Poopy Butt

‘Ol Poopy Butt

 

This is a true story, although you might not think so. I had trouble believing it myself until it was confirmed by the son-in-law of the speaker. The teller of this tale was ‘ol poopy butt herself, a proper and refined lady about my age who told the story during dinner. After I got home, I wrote down all that I remembered and I have tried to faithfully record her story verbatim. Since ‘ol poopy butt may be known to some readers, I’ll use a writer’s prerogative and simply refer to her as Linda M in order to protect her from unremitting ridicule by our mutual friends. Here is Linda M in her own words as I remember them.

 

“It was a beautiful fall afternoon some years ago when my family gathered at Mackinaw Island for a last taste of summer. Our family group of six adults included my two grown daughters and their husbands for this one-day getaway on Mackinaw Island. I had dressed carefully for the trip, even wearing a new pair of stylish, light blue Capri pants. We had taken the ferry in late morning, planning to spend the afternoon exploring the island before returning to the mainland in the evening. As we walked off the ferryboat, the first thing we saw on our right was a huge bicycle rental place. We planned our trip on the spur of the moment: we would rent bicycles and spend the afternoon touring the island, then enjoy a relaxing dinner along the shoreline in a pleasant restaurant before catching the ferry for our return to the mainland. A perfect day for a fall afternoon, we thought, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.”

“My daughter Tammy was always the adventurous one. She decided that her rental bike just had to be a bicycle built for two. No one else seemed to share her enthusiasm, so I agreed to join her as co-pilot while the other four adults chose solo bikes for our trip around the island. Since Tammy is younger, bigger and stronger, I agreed to ride behind her. Our tandem bike was a boy’s style bike with the high cross bar connecting the two saddles. I stood on a curb and mounted the rear saddle while Tammy steadied the front end. Once aboard, I held the bike for her while she mounted the front saddle and then we were off!”

“It took but a moment for our group to find our way on Mackinaw’s coastal highway. Leaving town behind us, we began the long counter-clockwise route around the island. It promised to be an exhilarating ride with the cool breeze from the lake cooling my sun-warmed face as we formed a phalanx of bicycles and pedaled along the flat coastal road. After a while, I noticed that our tandem bike seemed to swerving back and forth across the road so I asked Tammy about it.

“ ‘ Oh, didn’t you notice the horse poop? I am swerving around the piles,’ “ she yelled to the wind that caught her voice and sent it back to me. I began looking down along the road. She was right! There was horse poop everywhere. I thought the island people cleaned it up. Apparently, there are so many horses they can’t keep up. I noticed that you could tell the older piles from the fresh ones since the older ones consisted of little poo apples that were congealing in the sun to form one large pie – something you certainly didn’t want to hit with the bike or step in.”

“The trouble began after we had ridden several miles on the coastal highway and decided the eight mile-long road around the island was too slow and too boring. Tammy was one of the ringleaders who decided it would be more adventurous to turn left at the next road and cut across the island toward town where we could visit the shops and tourist attractions. I was enjoying the ride, so it didn’t matter to me which way we went. I pedaled silently behind Tammy.

[Mackinaw Island is essentially a large rocky hill sitting in the watery straits of Mackinac. Over millennia, the waves and the wind have gradually worn down the hill at the shoreline to provide a flat perimeter around the island where the coastal highway is located. Turning inland, however, one encounters the hill that rises to a peak in the approximate center and then descends to the fort and the village on the southern shore. It was this rise in the land that allowed the British to capture the American fort during the War of 1812 when the British landed unobserved then climbed the hill overlooking the fort. The American commander wisely surrendered.

Automobiles were banned on the island in 1898 when local residents complained that the new-fangled contraptions were scaring their horses. The ban has remained in effect since then. The result is a picturesque society of exclusive horse transportation and an excess of horse excrement on every public road until the hardworking road workers sweep it up. Most folks don’t mind the horse offal, but most folks don’t ride tandem bikes either.]

 

“We didn’t realize the road across the island would be quite so steep, especially for those on a bicycle built for two. Within minutes of our turn, we were slowing down and Tammy struggled to keep our bike balanced. As the bike slowed, we began to wobble and I began to get scared of falling. When it appeared we were stopping, I leaned to my left and hopped off the bike … almost. I had forgotten about climbing on the curb. When I hopped off my left foot hit the pavement but my right foot got hung up on the too-high crossbar. Since the bike hadn’t stopped moving there was nothing to be done but hop forward on one leg while the unaware Tammy continued to valiantly pedal forward. By the time I had made three or four hops forward, my yelling finally got Tammy’s attention. She stopped pedaling one moment too soon. We had just passed a horse pile, the congealed type, and my left foot landed square in the center. It was slippery, too slippery. My left foot slipped forward while my rear went down. In the pile.”

“I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn’t hurt, but I found myself sitting in a pile of horse manure* with my right leg draped over the bike. I remember that the rear wheel was still turning and Tammy was standing in front still holding onto the handlebars with her end of the bike still partially upright.

*[Modesty prevents me from quoting Linda M directly at this point. The plain talking woman actually used other, more colorful language to describe the pile of excrement. I recall that it was a simple word of four letters, commonly used as a prefix to the word house.]

 

“Everyone else in our party of six heard my yelling and turned back to investigate. Presumably, my husband and family members deduced that I was unhurt. At least I hope so because all I saw was, at first, a few smiles and then uproarious laughter. Even Tammy joined in. I couldn’t cry and so I too, finally smiled. The worst part was when other bicyclists rode by and my family couldn’t desist in the laughter and simply pointed at me as the visitors rode by.”

“After the hilarity began to subside, Tammy managed to disengage herself from the bike and then helped me get my right leg from the downed bicycle. I gingerly got up, carefully leaning aside to avoid the pile. [Editor’s Note – see prior asterick].

Some portion of the pile got up with me, sticking to my backside and offering a noteworthy color shift to my light blue pants, almost like a bullseye [Editor’s Note – see prior asterick]. The hilarity began again, this time including me. We couldn’t quit laughing. Finally, our sides hurt from all the laughter, and one-by-one, we regained our sanity. It might have been Tammy, I’m not sure, but one of the family looked me and established a new and forever family nickname -

 

‘Let’s go, ‘ol poopy butt.’ “  

Atttending a 50th High School Reunion

For some unfathomable reason, I attended wife Marjorie’s 50^th high school reunion – the 1964 class of Pontiac Central High School. Even though friends warned me off the event saying I faced an evening among strangers intent on impressing their classmates, I decided to accompany her to the party. If all else failed, I reasoned, I could find solace at the bar. Attending the party involved a long drive, an overnight stay, and a buffet dinner in a dark, oversize banquet room. There were more than 100 oldsters of every size, color, and temperament squeezed into the room elbow to elbow. I didn’t expect much, but it turned out to be a hoot.

 

The party planners had arranged for a first-class DJ for the evening. He had asked graduates to choose favorite music with the result that the party grooved to the sounds of the Sixties via The Platters, Elvis, James Brown, and a host of other ‘60s rock stars. The dance floor was overrun much of the evening. It was a treat to see folks dropping their canes and walkers to bebop to the golden oldies. I was tempted to shake my behind to the grooves when I thought no one was watching, but then I realized that I didn’t know anyone, so what the hey. I joined the mass of bobbing bodies and occasionally found a groove I could keep time with. Nobody seemed to care about dance skills or a lack thereof, including me.

 

Behind the DJ was a screen with a continuous loop of old photographs and movie clips playing, each extolling the golden days when we were innocent and full of wide-eyed wonder. The pictures of muscle cars and historic buildings were interesting. I pretended to be thrilled when it came time for the school fight song and cheering the school teams. It turns out that their school, Pontiac Central, had many things to brag about including two Olympic gold medal winners: US Champion and gold medal winner in diving - Micki King (1972, Munich) and track star and gold medal winner Hayes Jones (1964, Tokyo). Both athletes overcame adversity on their way to record-breaking careers with Micki King becoming a Colonel in the Air Force.

 

The planners had also arranged for a professional photographer to circulate among the guests taking both candid and staged photos for any group of graduates who wanted. The photographer loaded  all the old photographs and the newly created pictures taken on the spot on memory sticks. And, here is the best part, each attendee got a free copy of the memory stick before the evening ended.

 

The party included a program where anyone who wanted had a chance to speak to the assembled group. Amazingly, several speakers turned out to be not graduates, but TEACHERS OF THE GRADUATES. Marjorie whispered to me that while she was in school she thought the teachers were all old, but now, they didn’t seem so old, after all. One of the speakers was my personal favorite, a guy named Joe Cool. Of course, he looked anything but. Surely, his name must have been worth a million bucks. Imagine going on a job interview, “Hi, I’m Joe Cool.” Marjorie’s class also had another person with the same name as a famous journalist – Ernie Pyle, the WW II correspondent.

 

Although I thought I knew no one, wife Marjorie knew most. After being prompted by the school photo’s that each wore around their necks, but she was able to recall most folks even though her class was more than 400 strong. It was a treat to learn the stories of various folks and how they had migrated from Pontiac to places around the world. I was surprised that several are still working and some are looking for work. Late in the evening, I recognized one fellow that I had worked with at General Motors and he and I had a chance to reminisce. We were given a booklet containing the graduating class statistics. They were a bit sobering; 78 of her classmates had passed and more than 100 were unable to be located for the party.

 

The evening ended after I pooped out early. Marjorie had a good time, I had a good time, and it was satisfying to see some folks who looked older than I look and couldn’t dance any better. So, if you are considering attending a school reunion, my advice is to go, maybe you’ll find an old friend or someone with a name like Joe Cool. Imagine that.

 

Paddling the Au Sable - Again

Paddling the Au Sable River – Again

 

(Editor’s Note - Michigan’s Au Sable River and its nearby neighbor, the Manistee River, bisect northern Michigan as the headwaters of each river nearly touch in the center of the state and then flow east to Lake Huron (Au Sable) and west to Lake Michigan (Manistee). Local Indians used the rivers for centuries as their highway across the peninsula on their way to either coast. After the end of the lumbering era in Michigan, the denuded river shores and surrounding lands were virtually worthless allowing a pair of enterprising brothers to purchase huge tracts of land and build a dam at the lower end of the Au Sable. The Foote brothers used the dam’s power to make electricity using a dynamo, that new-fangled machine that Michigander Thomas Edison had developed. The project was such a success that other wealthy lumbermen who owned large tracts of land along the river imitated the Foote brothers and created an additional four dams on the Au Sable. The result was the formation of Consumers Power, one of Michigan’s leading power companies, and the subsequent development of the Huron-Manistee National Forest.)

 

Marjorie and I paddled the 126 mile-long Au Sable River about 10 years ago during our annual canoe trip. This year we planned to repeat the trip in the company of our two sons, their wives, and two grandchildren ages seven and nine. After lengthy discussions, we decided that the only way to keep two little girls occupied during long stretches of paddling was to allow them to help paddle. This may have been a faulty decision. Ultimately, the decision about them helping paddle provoked another decision; we would rent four canoes to carry our party of six adults and our gear and the two little ones with the provisions they needed. I drew the short straw: I was assigned to paddle with one of the little girls (one canoe) while my son had the other child (2^nd canoe) and wife Marjorie paddled with their mom in the third canoe. Son #2 and his wife paddled the fourth canoe, all of which were loaded with food and camping gear for five days of camping in the Huron-Manistee National Forest.

 

We knew from our prior trip that paddling in the ponds created by the dams makes the trip considerably more difficult since these areas have virtually no current flow making progress slower and paddling longer. Accordingly, we decided to skip the first section of the river and the first pond thereby reducing the trip by 49 miles and eliminating one pond and one portage. Our trip with the two grandchildren would be a mere 77 miles, about 45 river miles and 32 pond miles along with four portages to carry our gear. We would end our week long excursion at Michigan’s east coast at the port city of Oscoda.

 

We began our trip at the canoe livery in Mio, Michigan just past the first dam. Everyone was in high spirits, especially the little girls. Just before we left I asked the owner of the livery about how many people make the trip to Oscoda as we had planned. He waited to answer until he and I were alone.

 

 “I rent canoes to quite a few people for that trip, but most don’t make it,” he said. I decided not to pursue the matter further, especially since he didn’t know about our grandchildren paddling in two of the canoes.

 

So we began. It was a big adventure the first dozen miles or so and then, you guessed it, the little girls lost interest in paddling and their dad and I became solo paddlers in canoes loaded with gear and little girls sitting in the front of our canoes. He and I made up the rear guard of our four-canoe flotilla (the grunt section) while the two boats ahead seemed to be merrily shooshing along. My granddaughter and I decided that it wasn’t our fault we were last; we were certain we had been given the slowest canoe in the livery – we named her ‘ol slowpoke.’

 

The first day was mostly river paddling. It was pleasant to paddle through the clear, cool water and watch kingfishers and the occasional Great Blue Heron lifting from the water. Nevertheless, it was a relief when we reached our first campsite and pitched our tents. (The Mrs. and I, as seasoned veterans of vacation trips involving paddling and camping, have learned to take our pleasures seriously – we pack the essentials for cocktail hour even when camping). Evening cocktails were especially pleasant that day after the long paddle - even when sitting on the ground. As I struggled to get upright after sitting on the ground, I was struck by just how much gravity had increased since our trip 10 years earlier. I didn’t know things like that happened.

 

The second day was a little more difficult than the first as we encountered the first of four ponds, the Alcona Pond and the absence of moving water to help carry us forward. Alcona is just over two miles long and forms a large U from its beginning to its dam on the east end. Along each bank of Alcona were campgrounds filled to capacity with campers at their ease. I could see and hear them chatting amiably as they sat in lawn chairs next to their luxury travel trailers and RV’s, enjoying campfires, gazing at the water and wondering about the fools paddling in the center of the pond. I tried to ignore them as I gritted my teeth and paddled onward, urging my granddaughter to dip her paddle occasionally. It was impossible not to think about my own perfectly comfortable RV sitting idly in my driveway at home, and I wondered more than once why I was paddling a heavy boat when I could have been watching some other fool paddle.

 

As all portages are, the Alcona portage was a grunt. Moving our gear and canoes from the pond to the river meant climbing up the 30 foot high impoundment then down the reverse side to a trail leading to the backside of the dam and its discharge of water to the river. I made four trips in carrying the canoe and the heavy rubber Duluth bags that contained our gear, including my carefully packed ingredients for the next cocktail hour. The bag was heavy, but there were some things I wasn’t willing to sacrifice. At the portage I was thrilled to show my granddaughter a beautiful brown mink that scampered along the shore as we climbed into our canoe.

 

One hour of paddling past the portage brought us to a campground along the river where we decided to camp. The Huron-Manistee campsites are primitive and most are perched on high ground next to the river. There are no handrails or steps. The best we encountered were tree roots protruding from the gravely soil that allowed a purchase when crawling to the top of the steep embankment. After paddling, no one complained of the climb although I admit to a few mumbled profanities as I struggled upward with forty pounds on my back and the need to climb back down for a second and third trip.

 

The dinner of dehydrated food moistened with river water followed by hot coffee and pudding restored us. The scenery was sensational as we looked out over the river to a stunning orange sunset. Tuckered out, we climbed in our tents to the sound of a barred owl who persisted in asking, “Who cooks for you?” Even he gave up as night fell. I remember drifting off to sleep even though the ground was hard and lumpy. Unfortunately, we had pitched our tent so that our heads were on the downward slope. We had to get up in the middle of the night to change ends to prevent our blood from rushing to our heads and causing an explosion – an unseemly event in the middle of a forest campground.

 

The next two days were a repeat of the first except that my granddaughter gave up paddling earlier in the day. As we entered the sluggish water of Five Channels Pond on the third day, I tried a little deceit to encourage her. Surrounded by acres of cattails on either shore, and trailing the other canoes, I promised to tell a story.

"But," I said, "this special story can only be heard by people who are paddling."

That worked for a while, but ultimately the story became so tedious that she didn’t care and she laid down her paddle. Next, I tried using the technique that the old French voyagers used; singing in unison to a paddling cadence. Unfortunately, I only know two songs that you can paddle to and “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” becomes paralyzing after all 99 bottles have fallen.

 

When we reached the six-mile-long Cooke Pond the fourth day and its promise of wind and waves against my feeble paddling, I became a little more desperate: I offered her money for paddling. It worked, although as time passed I was forced to up the ante. I think I got to a $100 bribe for 15 minutes of paddling before we reached the end of the pond. I didn't tell anyone about the money and I hope she has forgotten.

 

On our last day of paddling, we passed through Foote dam and then re-entered the river for the final 10 mile push to Oscoda. Here we encountered a number of other paddlers who were out for a pleasant and leisurely Friday afternoon float in the clear water with sandy beaches on several shorefronts . We passed most of these floaters as we pursued our schedule of meeting our outfitter who had promised to pick us up in Oscoda by 3:00 PM. One of the ‘floaters’ asked where we had come from as we passed by. When he heard we had been on the river for four days, he asked “On purpose?”

 

None of us knew how to respond. I was afraid my four day beard and stained and wrinkled clothes might frighten folks so I paddled on silently. Suddenly, there were homes along the river. We passed under an abandoned railroad bridge and the sound of automobiles assaulted us. We had reached Oscoda. The outfitter was waiting for us and we let the young man load our canoes and gear for the hour-long ride back to Mio in his van. I joined the granddaughters in a nap on the ride home. Some things are important regardless of your age. It was a good trip, again.

 

 

The bunnies are winning

The Bunnies Are Winning

 

For some reason beyond my understanding, this has been a banner year for bunnies around our house. Almost every day I see several of the little fur balls hopping around, seemingly oblivious to my presence. They go from one of my gardens to another to munch on my flowers, only scampering away if I make a threatening move at a distance of less than a few paces. Somehow, they seem to know I am no threat as they happily make mincemeat out of my plants while they keep a wary eye out for more serious predators.

We replanted some of our flower beds with specific flowers to prevent a bunny invasion. Conventional wisdom from gardeners has been that marigolds will prevent rabbits from entering a garden because the flowers stink. So, we planted a row of marigolds along one of our beds to foil the little nibblers. One day after planting them, one of our resident critters lopped off the bloom of every marigold in the row. Every one! It might have been a deer, but I am guessing rabbit since I see them every day and they know the lay of my land and they lay in wait for each time I plant something new.

 

One of the little buggers must be a momma because my population of the hoppers includes several babies bouncing around. Mother Nature protects these by making them too cute. I’m guessing that this is a year of few resident foxes or bobcats in our neighborhood, allowing the hungry rabbits to thrive. Maybe they are thriving because they also eat the cracked corn that I put out for birds. (Now that I mention it, I seem to recall an intense competition under the bird feeder between bunnies and chipmunks.)

Not only do the bunnies eat flowers, they love my tender vegetable plants even more. I have several raised beds for veggies, and I made the terrible mistake of not fencing all of them. My previous experience was that the long-eared critters only like certain plants. This year it has become apparent that my previous experience was faulty, the devils seem to like almost everything, especially the beans and peas that I was counting on but neglected to fence. Only the tomatoes and hot peppers have survived outside the fences.

The two fenced beds are doing OK and I will have more zucchini than we can possibly eat and more kohlrabi than anyone would want. The kale that was also in the fenced bed was attacked by flying critters of some sort, so I have pretty much written it off also. It was just an experiment anyway, since I’m sure real Americans don’t eat anything that begins with the letter K.

 

So, it will be another year where my expenditures for seeds will exceed my savings in growing my own vegetables. But so what, at least, the bunnies are happy. And besides, they are just so durn cute!

   

 

 

Walking Bailey

 

Walking Bailey

This is Bailey. He is my morning walking companion. Along with by beautiful wife, Marjorie, I hasten to add.

Bailey became our morning walking partner several weeks after the loss of our old dog Marshall. We were on the rebound, so to speak, as we walked by our neighbor’s small, fence-enclosure adjacent to the side door of his bungalow. Suddenly, we saw two dark eyes looking mournfully at us and a funny, curled tail tentatively moving back and forth as we drew closer.

We were hooked. We walked into the yard and up to the fence. The eyes lit up while the tail began furiously whipping the air. It was as if this little girl had been waiting for us since Marshall was put into the ground. The furball begged to be petted and we couldn’t resist. As we reached over the fence, the little bundle of energy jumped from one of us to the other. Our neighbor emerged from his side door that led to the fence.

“She is Bailey,” he said. She likes people.”

It was an understatement. Bailey loves people: Old people, young people, kids on bicycles, people in cars, people walking by his yard, skinny people and fat people. Especially fat people, including Steve, the middle-aged owner, who is too fat and too health-limited to walk Bailey. We talked with Steve, and he allowed as how, yes, Bailey would love to go for a walk with us.

That was last winter. We got into the habit of walking Bailey around the neighborhood on most mornings that our schedule allowed and Steve’s phone was working well-enough to give his consent. Bailey got used to the routine of the phone ringing (our morning call to arrange the walk) and her evacuation to the fenced yard, followed by us ambling by. Steve says that now as soon as the phone rings in the morning, Bailey runs to the door, waiting to be let out. By the time we arrive, Bailey is on her hind legs at the fence, making little pirouettes and, not barking, but whimpering in the way little dogs do when they just can’t wait for something, or someone, in our case. We connect Bailey to a lead and open the fence gate and she begins her walk after she has flagged us with her tail for a few minutes while we provide her mandatory petting.

My walk is shorter as I divert to a neighbor’s house for coffee while Marjorie and Bailey continue down our road before we meet up again for the walk home. Marjorie walks several thousand steps during her 45 minute stroll. Bailey walks a few million steps during the same time as her short little legs move almost too fast to be seen. She crosses the road several hundred times, stopping to smell everything that passed by the night before, including the dead snake that was struck by a car and that she pees on nearly every day. If we stop for any reason, she nuzzles up to our legs for a few caresses before continuing on the journey.

She is a treat. I think she adds something to our morning walk and we look for her most days. I think our old dog Marshall would approve.

    

Michigan's Ke-che-te-go Warriors

It is spring in Roscommon and I have a new book. This one is another about an Indian who lived nearby (Grayling, MI) in the mid 19^th century. Writing this book was a natural outcome of my earlier work about a local Indian, since the two men were friends and the Grayling newspaper frequently reported on their comings and goings.

So, in case you are interested, here is a copy of the Prologue to Michigan’s Ke-che-te-go Warriors, available in its entirety at Amazon. com.

 

 

April 1865, near the close of the Civil War

 

Big Tom Ke-che-te-go marched forward with the men from his regiment. No one spoke as they marched toward the crater – the big hole in the ground that the Union Army made by exploding 8,000 pounds of explosives under the rebel lines in front of Petersburg, Virginia. None of the men or officers in Tom’s outfit, the 1^st Michigan Sharpshooters, knew why they were attacking. The first troops sent in some 30 minutes earlier had not been heard from, so now, the Sharpshooters were marching forward, just behind the 30^th United States Colored Troops.

The line of march was ominous for Tom and his men in Company K, the celebrated all-Indian company. As Sharpshooters, his unit normally fought as skirmishers or snipers in support of other Union regiments. Both skirmishing and sniping required the Sharpshooters to be dispersed along the battle lines, often creeping close to the enemy using whatever cover the men could find. This time is different, Tom thought, as his regiment marched toward the enemy in parade ground formation. We must be headed to the front lines as reinforcements for the regular troops, Tom decided.

As they approached the crater, Tom gaped at the devastation he saw. The early morning explosion had obliterated the rebel fort that formed a salient in the rebel lines. What used to be a fort was now a widely scattered mélange of broken logs, twisted lumber and chunks of foundation materials thrown about as if a tornado had found a target. It was strangely quiet; Tom heard only the occasional sound of canteens striking ammunition boxes and the sucking sound of boots being pulled from the muck as the men marched forward, making a long thin line of Union blue. As they reached the crater, they could see grey and black smoke rising above the large mound ahead of them.

The men climbed the rise and Colonel De Land sent them over the sides. The lip of the crater was too steep, the men slid down its sides toward the milling mass of troops that were below. As soon as Tom slid down the steep bank, he knew they were in trouble, even the closest Union troops were being hit by rebel fire. Tom saw dead and dying men scattered about like cordwood. Just as the men were assembling into ranks, a shell landed nearby creating a flash of light and a shower of mud. The kaboom of the exploding shell proved that it was close. As Tom gained his feet and his equilibrium, four of his fellow Sharpshooters pushed him aside, carrying a wounded man. It was the Colonel, injured by the bomb. The four men carrying De Land began struggling up the side of the crater; it was the last Tom saw of them.

Pizzzz. A bullet whistled by Tom’s ear. He looked up, hoping to see a flash of light and smoke from a rebel rifle that would become a target for him. It was no use - there was smoke everywhere. The Lieutenant signaled Tom and the Indian company to follow him. The men ran forward in a crouch along the bottom of a ravine, past a company of colored troops who were trying to form themselves into a battle line a dozen yards to their right.

As they ran past, a shell landed almost in the middle of the line the colored regiment was trying to form. Some of the Sharpshooters stopped to attend to the wounded men, but the Lieutenant waved them on. Tom saw other Union troops to his right trying to find cover from the artillery shells and the bullets that were raining on them. He kept moving forward. They were traveling at a diagonal across the bottom of the crater until they reached its opposite side on the left. Here, the troopers began clawing their way up the steep sides until a rebel rifleman appeared above and fired into their ranks. Tom hit the ground and rolled away from the rifleman’s downward trajectory. Just above him was a broken log sticking out of the ground. Tom crawled toward it, hoping for a small measure of protection. He peeked around the log to see not one, but three rifles over the lip of the crater each with a head just above. Tom got his rifle in position and fired a shot at the head closest to him then jerked himself and his rifle back behind the log.

He tried to calm his labored breathing and listen for any sounds indicating the presence of the riflemen above. Instead, he heard a series of shots from men all around him – apparently, other Sharpshooters had found a way to fire their rifles also. He waited another moment. Hearing nothing, Tom peeked again. Neither heads nor rifles were showing. Tom decided that being at the top of the crater could be no more hazardous than his current position, so he crept around the log and resumed clawing his way up. Other Company K men followed. Tom and the Lieutenant reached the top about the same time. The Lieutenant pointed to the left, indicating a long trench down and away from them that must have led to the fort before the explosion. Tom started in that direction as another bullet found its mark. The Lieutenant fell back clutching his upper arm. Tom headed toward the trench as another man helped the Lieutenant back over the lip of the crater the group had just left.

Tom reached the trench and jumped in, hoping to be protected from the whiz of bullets that he continued to hear as he made his way to the trench along with a dozen other Sharpshooters. As soon as he dropped into the trench, Tom stopped and reloaded his rifle and snapped the bayonet in place on the end of the muzzle. He looked at the other men behind him and saw that all had followed his lead in checking their weapons. With Tom in front, they started moving along the trench to the left, walking warily in expectation of finding a line of rebels facing the front. The walk was short. After creeping forward a few minutes, Tom saw a rebel soldier with his rifle resting on the forward edge of the trench. He fired his rifle instinctively and the body in front of him twitched. Tom stepped backward two paces and pushed his back hard against the rearmost earthen wall, hoping he was out of the line of fire.

He waited a moment, heard nothing, and then crept forward to the reb he had shot. The body had not moved. Tom walked up to him, grabbed his arm and twisted the body around to see his face. He was shocked to see a young man, barely old enough to shave. Blood had streaked across his face and an empty eye socket showed where one bullet entered with another in his neck. Tom’s bullet was in his chest. He had shot a dead man. He turned back to the troops behind him and signaled them forward, then continued his cautious pace forward. The trench soon opened up into a room with six rebel gunners lining a front wall. Some were headless; others had equally gruesome injuries, all fatal, victims of a Union bomb blast. Behind them were stacks of guns and ammunition in disarray from the blast.

The Sharpshooters behind Tom were just filling the room when a shell landed close by, in front of the trench. A rebel artilleryman must have seen them through the smoke and fire. The men returned to the narrow trench they had just left. They gathered there, waiting for someone to decide what to do. Tom took a quick look at the men; all he could see were Indians and he was their Sergeant. He looked over the back ledge of the trench where he believed the rebel lines were. A bullet whizzed by, the rebs must have a bead on them. Tom considered their position for a moment and looked at the men, waiting for someone to say something. There was silence.

“Let’s go back to the crater and join up with the rest of the regiment,” Tom said. The troops were willing to follow Tom’s lead. They retraced their steps until they came to the open area next to the crater. Two hundred yards off to their left, they could see a line of rebel infantry coming forward with puffs of smoke issuing from their rifles. Several of the troopers took shots at the advancing line, but it seemed to have no effect. Several men turned to Tom, awaiting his orders.

“Let’s spread out. Head for the crater. Two men at a time,” he said in the Ojibwa language. “Go!”

Tom waved his arm and two men from the company sprinted forward. He waited for another moment and then repeated his command, “Go!”

He decided to watch the fate of those he sent forward before sending others. The first two made it almost halfway when one of the men seemed to jump backward. He had been hit. His companion grabbed him and the pair continued forward with the wounded man dragging one leg. Tom watched as they disappeared over the lip of the crater. As soon as they topped the ridge, Tom signaled the next two who were in line awaiting his signal.

“You two, go that way first before turning toward the crater.” He pointed toward the Union lines to the right. “Go!” When he saw those men make it halfway, he sent four men forward in the same direction. There was just one other man and Tom left. Tom looked at him. He was an Indian from Saginaw, Amos Chamberlain. They started together and finished together, both running as hard as they could. When they reached the lip of the crater, Tom yelled for Amos to jump.

They nearly landed on top of several Company K Indians who had made it to the crater ahead of them. These men were lying just below the edge of the crater and firing at the line of rebel soldiers who had been pursuing them. The Indians were calmly rising above the edge, firing their rifles and then falling back to reload. They were having the effect of slowing the advance, but there were too many oncoming soldiers and Tom knew that in a few more moments the rebels would be on top of them. He called out for the men to go down the sides of the crater and search for cover. It was an act of desperation because the crater below them seemed a hell-hole of crying, falling men taking rebel fire.The Indians began running, sliding and falling downward. Before they reached bottom, the whine of bullets indicated live fire everywhere around them. Tom saw a man in front of him fall down as he clutched at his back. There was a slight rise in the ground that Tom fell behind. It offered the barest hope of shelter from the rain of bullets that dug holes in the earth all around. Tom lay panting behind it, unable to see any Indians around him or rebel soldiers above him.

He believed he was taking his last breaths. When the advancing rebel soldiers reached him, he expected to be killed or captured. Maybe they would take his scalp – certainly his rifle. Whites craved Indian rifles with their ornately carved stocks that Indians worked on in camp, hour after hour. He should have told the Lieutenant where he wanted to be buried. Perhaps he would be lucky and his bones would be carried back to Saginaw to lie with his father’s bones as all his ancestors would want. Once again, he wondered why he was fighting this White man’s war as he waited for the sound of the coming rebels.

 

 

 

RV' ing

I

Old-timers with RV

I own a travel trailer. I have owned several over the years, beginning with a pull-behind I purchased when my children were young. After my retirement, I gravitated to a 5^th wheel version of an RV and continued camping. I have learned a lot about trailers over the years. The most important thing I have learned is that they eat money for both regular maintenance and unexpected repairs as they age.
 

The worst thing you can do if you own a trailer is to hook it to a vehicle and pull it on the road. Trailers don’t seem to like the bouncing, twisting and jarring ride that is inevitable on all the roads I travel. They rebel at this treatment, mostly by fracture of some esoteric part that causes the dealer to remark something like, “I’ve never seen one of these break before,” as he hands you the bill.
 

The second worst thing you can do to a trailer is to leave it outdoors. Trailers don’t want to be outdoors. Despite all the advertising that shows an RV parked on the shores of a secluded lake with a forest surrounding it and a mountain in the background, RV’s prefer being parked in a heated barn, with low ambient light surrounded by other RV’s, all of them near a camping dealership. The truth is that sunlight causes vinyl seals to crack and colors to fade, rain causes joints to leak, and cold, well, that’s another matter.
 

As I prepared to de-winterize my 5^th wheel this spring I decided to look inside before tackling the job. The door wouldn’t open. After giving a mighty push, I learned that the vinyl floor covering (aka as linoleum for you old-timers) in front of the door had cracked open in the shape of a long, thin volcano . As I stuck my head in further, I discovered that the volcano extended across the entire entryway, under the cupboard, out the other side and then approximately in the middle of the entire length of the vinyl flooring. A helluva crack, in the vernacular.
 

“This won’t do,” I said, just as the Missus came up behind me. “I’ll need to find my roll of duct tape.”
 

After a lengthy discussion, it became apparent that the duct tape-fix wasn’t suitable for my better half and that I had better get myself to the travel trailer place for repairs. Since I am on a first-name basis with the service shop at the trailer place, I called Mike and described my problem.
 

“Oh yes, we’re seeing a lot ot that. You are caller number six so far. It was too cold this winter, wasn’t it? ha, ha, ha.”
 

“So, Mike, old pal, how much are we talking about for repair?”
 

It turns out that old Mike wasn’t such a pal, after all. He said the repair would cost in the neighborhood of two or three thousand dollars depending upon whether I wanted to replace the bathroom vinyl that had been miraculously unaffected by the cracking agent. Another trailer repairman said he would ‘work it in’ over the next three weeks or so while he worked on (presumably) more important and more profitable jobs. ‘This won’t do,’ I said to myself as I began the process of looking for another old friend in the flooring business. After several phone calls, I learned that trailer repairmen have extraordinary chutzpah in demanding extraordinary bills for routine repair work. My trailer is now being repaired at a flooring store after a one day wait at a cost of less than $400.00.
 

I should point out In defense of the RV industry, that this type behavior is not unique to them and those in other recreation-based businesses have equal amounts of chutzpah. Did you know, for example, that the worst thing you can do to a boat is to put it in water? And don’t even talk about airplanes. Ha, ha, ha.



 

Gettin' Silly

 

   I may not have told you that the Mrs. and I are in an exercise group that has the imaginative name of Silver Sneakers. This is a program for seniors who have more time than sense and are willing to exercise for an hour on two mornings a week trying to coax our bodies to move. I believe the overall goal of the Silver Sneakers program is to convince us that we are once again young enough to dance to fifties-era music, as we often try to do. It has only been partially successful for me as I hop around trying in vain to find a beat. My favorites dance tunes are The Twist and YMCA, although recently I have taken to spelling out A A R P instead of Y M C A just to be silly. And that brings me to the topic at hand: many of us in the class amuse ourselves between sets of stretches, dances, and exercises by acting silly.

            It turns out that individual acts of goofiness are contagious. After someone acts out or says something completely silly, it is passed from one Sneaker to another and ripples of laughter circulate around the room. After that, a funny thing happens: the exercising becomes a little more palatable.

Fortunately, we have a teacher who puts up with our foibles. (We call her Annie Archy or sometimes Annie Achey if she has been too tough on us). The class is slowly gravitating toward most members being silly on a periodic basis. Not only are individual acts of craziness being lauded, now the entire class has begun conspiring to blur the line between sanity and, well, you know. At our last class meeting, we turned our chairs backwards so that Annie was facing our behinds. We thought it was hilarious. To our group of proper ladies and a scattering of grandpas, Annie said, "What the hell . . .?" As the next step in our ongoing joke, one of our members said he is going to arrive early at a meeting and move all our chairs outdoors.

            Fortunately, Annie has a profound sense of humor or she would have quit by now. The Silver Sneakers national organization doesn't seem to share her attitude in dealing with seniors who have a silly streak. One summer the organization sent a twenty-something fitness expert to evaluate our class. The assessment was a might critical,". . . the teacher doesn't seem to have control of her class." The report didn't bother our teacher and it gave us another thing to laugh about.

            I have come to understand that being silly is a valuable adjunct to growing older. If you are willing to say goodbye to your dignity, you can make a stiff joint or a sore hip a little more bearable. As one of our octogenarian exercisers who has her share of aches explained, "If it doesn't hurt, it must not be working." Another of our exercisers came to class with a broken foot that must have been painful. Yet, she drug her walking boot around and gamely tried various exercises, albeit with an exaggerated grimace. After each movement, in a fit of simulated agony she bellowed louder than an angry cow. Then she smiled while our class erupted in laughter. She's a treat. I expect her to milk the use of the boot for some months beyond her recuperation.

So, if your age has reached a point where you can detect pressure changes sooner than the weatherman and some of your joints need more lubrication than a 30 year-old lawnmower, my advice is to behave as if someone just told an uproariously funny story. Then, have a glass of wine and act like a clown. Forget the stretches and exercises, have another glass of wine, stick out your tongue and put on a silly face. You are bound to feel better. I've been obtaining the benefits of this advice for some while, besides, it provides cover for my most egregious behavior --that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

 

I been with Millie stompin' grapes and gettin' silly
Drinkin' wine, wine, wine
Pass a little ripple and you take a little sipple
Make me fine, fine, fine
There ain't nothin' in the place'll put a smile on my face
And take the worry off of my mind
Like me and Millie stompin' grapes and gettin' silly
Drinking wine

“Me and Millie" -- an old country song, lyrics by Bobby Goldsboro

 

 

New Spectacles

I just finished my biennial optometrist visit and the clever doc sold me another new pair of specs. He said the new spectacles should fix my problems in seeing close-up stuff and those pesky things at intermediate distances as well as enhancing my longer distant vision - just about everything, I suppose.

“You’ll be 20/30 again,” he said proudly, as if he had just developed a plan for world peace, ”if you buy the new glasses I recommend.”

Then he sent me to his girlfriend, the one who helps you decide about new frames and fits them to you. After that, she tells you about your bill. Before I retired and my employer paid for vision care, I used to get new frames each time I got new glasses. In those days, new frames were covered by my insurance, providing I chose frames designed during World War II. After my retirement and the loss of company paid insurance, I quit getting new frames at each optometrist visit and continued wearing my old WW II glasses, except for the few dozen times that I broke or lost my glasses.

The blonde girlfriend talked to me about new frames. She said the progressive lenses the doctor specified required a larger glass surface, hence a new pair of frames would be needed to accommodate the new lenses.

“But,” she said, “let’s first talk about some of the optional features you might enjoy.” For a small fee, she explained, I could get the new transition lenses that darken in the sun.

“Everybody is wearing them now,” she said, hinting that if I was anybody, I would surely require the transition lens regardless of cost. About then I noticed that she was wearing a low-neckline blouse that emphasized her bosom. She went on to tell me about this nifty coating they could put on the glasses that reduced glare. I shook my head yes. It was an ample bosom, by the way. Then she explained about the scratch-resistant coating – yes, and the lighter-weight plastic - definitely yes, I said. Finally, she came to the frames.

”It would be a shame to house these latest technology lenses into an old fashioned frame,” she said. “I think a person like you would want the latest design frames.”

By now, I was staring intently and I had forgotten all about WW II. “Why don’t you choose the latest style for me?” I offered, trying to look at her face.

She picked out a pair of eyeglass frames in no time flat. I assumed she had been saving them just for me. They reminded me of the glasses Bono wears. I told her they were wonderful and I admired her taste. She began adding up my bill. I was a little concerned when the tally for my bill stretched to a second page. The Bono style frames were about the same price as my first car. The total for the examination and new eyeglasses with all the optional features was only slightly less than my first house. She handed over the bill. Of course, I acted like the price didn’t matter as I stuffed the bill in my pocket and finally managed to look the blonde in the face.

I should be getting my new specs sometime soon and I won’t be going to the optometrist’s office for a long time, I hope not until he gets a new girlfriend. By the way, I’ll be posting a lot of selfies on Facebook soon.