Dog Sitting

If you are a grandparent, sooner or later you will become a dog sitter. If you happen to be one of those rare uninitiated persons, here is a hint: Dog sitting is kind of like babysitting except it’s harder. In the first place, you are dog sitting not for your children, but for your grandchildren. And their standards of required care for their beloved pooch are much, much higher. No tying the dog outside to a drafty old dog house, no siree, dogs nowadays are accustomed to sleeping inside, preferably on a bed – with blankets for those drafts that can suddenly arise from the night air. And, just so you don’t forget, the grandkids will be checking up on you, asking how Fido is enjoying your pillow.

Generally you’ll be dog sitting at home during the winter months while the kids and grandkids are vacationing somewhere that is warm, probably enjoying time on the beach. Meanwhile, you will be suiting up in your cold weather parka with you and the dog taking several trips outdoors so the dog can do his business. This can be annoying if it has snowed several inches and it is too dark to avoid stepping in a pile –  the dog won’t warn you about this either. Even more annoying is when you take the dog out and he doesn’t go …until later, when you don’t want to go back outdoors for the third or fourth time and you especially don’t want to be picking up frozen poop that was left on the sidewalk because the dog wouldn't trudge through the snow.

Dog sitting also means entertaining the mutt. Surely you didn’t think the dog only needs to be fed, watered, pooped, and put to bed, did you? High- strung dogs of today’s ilk need entertainment beyond a few simple dog toys; otherwise you can expect chewed furniture, broken lamps, upturned wastebaskets and other symptoms of doggy boredom, according to experts (and grandchildren who are knowledgeable in such matters). This means you must play with the dog, not canasta or bridge mind you, more like 'throw-the-stuffed-animal' or a game of 'tug' on the chewed, dog saliva-coated toy while the dog growls and jumps around your living room threatening to break the television. I've found dog games like these are not particularly enjoyable for older adults. Instead, I keep my parka handy for regular walks so the dog can sniff out secret places where other dogs have done their business and mark the same spot with his particular odor. It is kind of doggy Facebook and it keeps dogs entertained just like people.

So you probably have guessed that I am dog sitting just now. Here is my charge, Pocket. She is a pup – that means she is even harder to understand than an older animal.

 

 

This is her personal bean bag chair that she likes to make into a bed.

 

The cage provides her personal space.

 

She arrived with her own coat and luggage (the overnight bag) and lots of toys that now decorate our living room floor.

Here she is asking me when we are going outside again.

 

She really is kind of cute, don’t you think? I have to finish this blog since she just told me she is hungry, besides, she and I will be watching Jeopardy together after our walk.

Bill's Birthday Blog

Bill’s Birthday Blog

 

Since my 72^nd  birthday is days away, I decided to give you my thoughts on the matter. You may be surprised to learn I have thoughts – especially for one as old as me.

Aha – I saw you shaking your heads yes.

Well, the fact is that I have been doing research on aging and I have learned some startling facts about older North Woods men. I learned these things with great difficulty since no one knows just how old north woods men are - after around age 55, northerners begin to look the same and no one talks about their age. The men dress the same, host identical haircuts [for those of us with any remaining hair] and complain about the same infirmities. Hence, aging here in the north woods is something of a mystery. One of the north woods secrets I learned is that life becomes easier despite all the complaining and misinformation about aging. The misinformation and stereotypes about old men have become so ingrained in our society that even Facebook has regular features about the foibles of the older set. Let’s take these topics one at a time.

Yes, I’m turning 72 and I am neither ashamed nor embarrassed about it. Yes, my joints sometimes creak and I make other unexpected noises sometimes. Yes, I am surprised that I sometimes have trouble doing things that used to be a little easier, make that a lot easier. That’s the downside. The upside of my advanced age is that I have made so many mistakes over the years there are fewer things left for me to foul up, so the sailing is generally a little smoother.

For example, being an older north woodsman means having to make fewer decisions about what to wear on a daily basis. Winter’s uniform is blue jeans and flannel shirts with shorts and tee shirts being the preferred style in summer. North woodsmen can express our individual tastes by selecting colored tee shirts or colored flannels (only applicable to those who, unlike me, are able to distinguish one color from another) and/or shirts that have some advertising on the front and are therefore considerably lower cost. Dressing like this is easier for us decrepit old souls, don’t you see.

The misinformation about aging is everywhere on the internet. I can’t tell you how many times I have received stories about old duffers who have failing memories and likewise, failing body parts. Just today, I saw a story today about how men change the recreational games they enjoy as they age. In their youth they play basketball and football, then graduate to baseball and finally switch to golf. The author of this piece concluded that men progressively switch to smaller balls as their age increases and their testosterone decreases. Of course, I have no first-hand information on this and I suspect the topic needs more study.

Last week the internet furnished another story about aging. It was supposedly written by an old sod who was beginning to forget things. He detailed his day and told about working on one job after another that he failed to complete because some other job became apparent and took precedence. The many jobs around the house and their urgency prompted him to lose track of his tools and other things as he scurried from one job to another. He said he worked all day long and didn’t get much done. It was a symptom of his age-related forgetfulness the author seemed to say with a wink and a smile.

“Balderdash,” I say. The man wasn’t necessarily forgetful, he simply had too much on his plate. The fact that he couldn’t find his reading glasses for two days simply means he didn’t need them that badly or he wouldn’t have lost them. The man lost focus, I’d say. Any man with too many tasks and too little help from the distaff side is subject to similar problems, I think.

Our leaders in government don’t help. One of my pet peeves about aging is how we oldsters are assaulted by politicians who want to get their hands on the handouts the government has promised us. I’m talking Social Security and Medicare here, and how the politicos are suggesting so called fixes to the non-existent problems of these programs. Their suggested solutions inevitably end up with us getting less and them getting more. I think it is part of the “trickle down theory” where the cash trickles from us to them.

You may know that life expectancy for men has increased from 58 years by more than 20 years since the beginning of Social Security in 1930. Since I’m proud of the fact that I have reached the stately old age of 72, I plan to celebrate. My lovely wife and I are planning to travel to a dance this weekend and then we’ll have a nice romantic dinner on the way home. Beyond that, I don’t know, although I have some limitations. For one thing, I have been awfully busy with a number of jobs around the house. Furthermore, I need to find a few things I have misplaced that are essential for the jobs I need to do. I’ll let you know how everything gets straightened when I have a few thoughts and time for another blog.

 

Almost 72 year-old Bill  

Make Mine Yogurt

I can’t remember just how or why, but for some reason my lovely wife Marjorie talked me into attending an exercise class at our local gym some years ago. The class was Silver Sneakers and we found we liked it. Now we are veterans, having attended the class faithfully for several years, long enough to wear out two different teachers. We meet other “Sneakers” on Tuesday and Thursday mornings for an hour where an attractive young woman with an athletic build leads us through a series of aerobic exercises, lifting dumbells, and stretching rubber bands.

As its name suggests, the class is geared to those of us in the senior set. A requirement for attending the class seems to be grey hair or no hair; fortunately, I qualify in either case. Mostly women attend the class, a circumstance that I find pleasant enough since they provide little competition for me in the category of who is the largest dumbbell, I mean, who can handle the biggest dumbell in the class.

At a recent class, the teacher announced that she was offering another class – chair yoga, on the following Wednesday. “I’m in,” I announced to the assembled class. And so, it came to be that on the following Wednesday morning I found myself in another, smaller group of women intent on learning the secrets of yoga.

“Namaste” the teacher said at the front of the room. Her hands were folded in front of her chest in what appeared to be a position of prayer. Most of the women in the class repeated the same expression. I mumbled something like ‘Nah-maw- stay’ that I hoped sounded approximately correct.

After sitting silently for a while, our leader began breathing deeply while she continued her vacant stare. I panicked. I thought she was experiencing an attack of pleurisy or something. Soon, I noticed the ladies sitting around me were also breathing heavily. It dawned on me that we were supposed to imitate the teacher so I started breathing heavily and waving my arms  about like the teacher. We went from the arm waving to standing, balancing on one foot (I tried but faltered after two seconds) and then waved our arms some more. It was tiring. And that was just the warm up. Next, we saluted the sun and after standing in an impossible position for what seemed like an hour or more, she announced we were next to do the warrior pose. I don’t know which army these warriors were in, but I can tell you they were strong dudes. The class ended after many such poses and stretches. I was so tuckered out that I nearly went to sleep during the meditation at the end of class.

That was my first class. Yoga is still something of a mystery to me, but here is what I have learned after taking five of the chair yoga classes taught by our lovely teacher:

Yoga began more than 3,000 years ago in India after a yogi began teaching the way to immortal life by following his regimen of exercise and meditation. Both Hindu Swamis and Buddist Monks adopted the practice of proper breathing, exercise, meditation, relaxation and diet recommended by India’s yogis and it became part of their religious traditions. The exercise regimen that evolved became one of stretching and stressing muscles by adopting poses that are held until the exerciser cries ‘uncle’. At least, that’s how it seems to me. In America, yoga has become less of a religious practice and more of an exercise regimen, thanks in part to an American judge who ruled that yoga can by taught in schools for its health benefits that modern medicine now confirms.

I have to admit that the greeting ‘Namaste’ is still a mystery, however. It means something like “My heart honors your heart” or “I bow to the God that is within you” or some such thing. Until I learn more, I’ll be at the Wednesday class trying to remain upright while on one foot. See you there. Namaste.

Bill's New Dock

 

 

I had long thought that having a dock on my pond would be a nice addition to my landscaping. Besides, my granddaughters would surely enjoy using it as they frolicked in the pond using the plastic raft that I inflated and floated in the center of the pond each summer. Unfortunately, it seemed as though I misplaced my round tu it: the dock became one of those things that I never quite got around to doing. That was the case until this summer when I saw an ad in our newspaper for an $89 dock, a ten-footer, completely assembled and made of pressure-treated lumber, a humdinger if I ever saw one. All I had to do was install it. I began to see myself enjoying an adult beverage in the shade while the granddaughters played in the pond enjoying my new dock. I got a sudden boost to my resolve about the dock idea and shortly thereafter, I found my round tu it. 

I went to the lumberyard to talk with the man about the $89 dock and ask his advice since I had never installed anything in a pond beyond a blow-up toy. I learned there was more to the dock business than meets the eye. First, the durn thing was heavier than a team of horses, and second, it needed a system of supports to keep it upright. “And I have just the thing,” the friendly salesman said, pointing to a collection of pipes, collars, pinions, crossbeams, and assorted fasteners. When I asked why I needed such extensive support for a ten-foot dock, he explained about winter’s ice causing lifting and damage and what kind of bottom did I have by the way? I thought he was getting a little too personal until I understood he meant the bottom of my pond. When we finally sorted out what he and I guessed that I needed, the $89 dock had become a $300 dock.

Two men from the lumberyard loaded my new dock and the assorted pipes in the back of my truck. While I drove home I planned my strategy for a one-man installation of the heavy and cumbersome dock with the care and precision usually reserved for brain surgery. I would wear my shoulder-high waders and auger the pipes into the bottom soil of the pond until positioning the supports above the high-water mark. I would carefully make the dock level to the water by positioning a 12-foot board extending from the high water mark at the shore. Once the pipes were set, I would fasten the crossbeams and then slowly slide the dock in place avoiding any lateral force that might move the supports. It would be a carefully planned and executed bit of construction, fitting to my engineering background.

The big day for dock installation arrived. I decided on a preliminary investigation of the site I had chosen. I waded out in the pond measuring ten feet from the high water mark on the shore. The bottom was steeper than I expected: the water came perilously close to the top of my waders as I reached the ten foot mark. Too deep for my safety, it seemed to me. I decided to creep back to shore. Suddenly, I was struck by the fact my feet wouldn’t move. I had sunk into the muck and I was stuck. Furthermore, the effort required to free my foot was causing me to lose my balance and cold water was seeping over the top of my waders. In my mind, I pictured a cold, lifeless body firmly planted in the mud, weaving back and forth in the wind like a giant cattail. After a moment of panic, I remembered the shovel in my left hand that I had carried in the unrealistic expectation of digging a hole for the support pipes. I used the shovel for leverage to free my foot and keep my balance. I managed to waddle toward the shore.

Once on shore, it took me a split second to decide that the brain surgery idea was a loser. I settled on the approximation approach for locating the pipes --not at the end of the dock, but somewhere closer to the eight-foot mark where the water was a bit shallower and the muck a little less like quicksand.

I spent the rest of the afternoon measuring, augering, fastening and tugging the damnably heavy, stupid dock so it would rest on the support system. The approximation method seemed to work and the assembly went tolerably well as it was interrupted only once when I dropped a nut into the water and had to drive to the hardware store for a replacement. The clerk didn’t seem too surprised to see a man searching for a nut wearing shoulder-high waders. As he took my money, he affirmed my choice of pants for shopping, “Installing a new dock? he asked.” I nodded, unwilling to look him in the eye.

I finished the job after a long day. I peeled off my waders and called my lovely wife Marjorie to see the results of my labor. “Here it is,” I said, “a perfectly serviceable dock just a few feet from our patio extending ten feet into the pond. Our granddaughters will love it.”

Her response was unexpected. “Why are you all wet? Do the waders leak?”

I was too tired to explain. “I’m sure our granddaughters will love it. I expect they’ll laughing up a storm as they jump off the end of the dock and swim to the raft.”

“What about the ladder?” she asked. “They will need a ladder on the dock to climb out. Surely you don’t expect them to wade through the weeds to get to the shore.”

I didn’t tell her that was exactly what I expected. “Oh no, of course not. I just thought that …well, I’ll get a ladder tomorrow.”

Did you know that the only place you can buy a ladder of the type I needed is at a marina? The marina people seem to think that if you need a ladder with an extension at the top for climbing out of a pond, then you can afford a ladder that is three or four times more expensive than one from the hardware store that doesn’t have a top part. I purchased a small ladder at the marina, spending $129. As soon as I got it home, it was apparent it was too small – an unexpected but gross failure of the approximation system. My lovely bride returned to the marina for the next larger ladder while I tried to dry the insides of my waders with an air hose.

It turns out that marina ladders come in $50 increments. My dock was becoming as expensive as a used car. The new, longer ladder was also too short to reach the bottom that I couldn’t see because of the muck. I decided that enough was enough and I could put some concrete blocks on the bottom and let the too-short ladder rest on it instead of buying a longer ladder that would have made a $500 dock seem cheap. I put on the still-wet waders and slowly waded to the end of the dock balancing a concrete block in one hand. Using the approximation system, I dropped the dock to the bottom of the pond at the location where I believed the ladder would rest. Since the turgid water prevented seeing the bottom, after dropping the block, I gingerly felt for it with my toes while I held onto the dock for support. The concrete block was nowhere to be felt. It had completely disappeared. I puzzled over the disappearing block until it hit me – the muck had adsorbed the block. “Aha,” I said aloud. “all I need is another block to rest on the first.” I slogged my way back to the shore, slurp, slurp, slurp, as the muck gave up on keeping me in place. I then slushed to the back of my lawn where I store assorted concrete blocks and other material for emergency use in cases like the too-costly dock ladder. I decided on an assortment of block sizes to reach the end of the ladder from the bottom and I slogged in the water again. No longer trusting the approximation system, I went underwater to place the new blocks and position the ladder. I felt like an underwater construction-man as I finished attaching the ladder to the dock. Finally, I was finished. Although the dock project had cost more than anticipated and the work was harder than I had imagined, I was pleased with the outcome. And besides, the granddaughters were coming to visit.

They arrived the following weekend. It was a perfect day for swimming and our blue plastic raft beckoned while the dock seemed to invite us to splash our way into the water. Only one of the two girls put her swimsuit on and my urging to the absent eight-year-old about her swimming and using the new dock seemed to be having no affect.

“So Shana, why won’t you come for swimming with Grandma and me?” I asked.

She looked at me as if it were unpleasant necessity to explain things to an older person. “Do you expect me to swim in a pond filled with frog poop?”

My breathing became audible like air escaping from a giant balloon. I decided to start drinking early that day.

My Neighborhood

My Neighborhood

 

It’s time for a giant ‘selfie’ of my neighborhood. The last time I covered this topic, Big-breasted Bertha and Bicycle Bill were the principal characters, but they are gone now, each having died within a few months of the other from liver disorders caused by their fondness for the frothy brew. Here is an update on the remaining characters and critters who call my neighborhood home.

In case you don’t recall, I live on a lonely road in the north woods. The road is ¾ of a mile long, paved most of the way to my house and in celebration of that fact, it has two names instead of one. The first name, Maple Valley Road, covers the straight portion of the road and then, just as the road makes a curve from its north/south direction to become an east/west road, its name changes. Isn’t that special! My part of the road has much less prestige than Maple Valley since it is less than a ¼ mile long and is paved only for the first 150 feet of its length. The end of the pavement occurs just before my driveway, thus I live on the coarser end of the two-name pathway. My part doesn’t even have the privilege of being called a road; it is a trail, named after a former physician who practiced in Roscommon, Dr. Curnalia, hence my address is Curnalia Trail.

Let’s start our inspection of my neighborhood at the tony end of Maple Valley where it intersects with the state highway, M 18. Here lives one of my coffee-drinking buddies, ol’ one-armed Marty. His house, a trailer really, is just now under siege as result of the recent rainstorm. The sharp point of a falling oak tree has perforated his front porch roof. The tree is now looks about his immaculate lawn from its upright position in his porch. Behind his trailer is another oak that is leaning precariously over his trailer roof. Marty called his insurance adjustor for a look. The insurance man told Marty that he, Marty, should pay for the porch repair and the removal of the leaning tree. “After that we can talk about how your insurance can help you.” I told Marty it would be risky to bend over while the insurance man was around.

Next to Marty is another coffee-drinking buddy, Jerry Boone, he who counts Daniel Boone as his ancestor. Jerry is a long-time north woods man devoted to fishing and all manner of do-it-yourself  projects. He lives alone, a self-sufficient man who is proud to shun computers, mobile phones, and most everything else invented in the last 40 years. Jerry says he does just fine without those irritations, thank you very much, and besides, they are no more than passing fads.

Moving south and across the street from Jerry is Butch and Kathy, an odd couple who are also products of the north woods. Kathy is the 70’s-something mom, Butch is her 50-something son and the pair seem to get on well in their small cottage that I walk by on most mornings. I suspect Kathy is hard of hearing; she doesn’t speak to me as I walk by, rather she shouts even if I am no more than a few steps distant. It was probably a result of all those years spent operating a chain saw along with her husband and sons who were wood-cutters. It shows. Kathy and Butch use firewood for heating and Kathy has her stove going much of the year. The pair use a small mountain of wood each year, and they have been accumulating their wood pile over the last several weeks for this winter’s use. Here it is.

South from Butch and Kathy on either side of the road are several cottages owned by trunk slammers – those absentee owners who arrive on the odd weekend to clean their guns or fire up their snowmobiles or whatever. We are always alerted when one of our trunk-slammer neighbors arrives because he spends most of the weekend firing an automatic weapon. Bam! Bam! Brrrrrretttt bam. Most times we don’t hear the bullets fly by so I assume he points his weapons towards the forests. I’ve been watching the woods between him and me to make sure that he doesn’t knock down so many trees that the bullets have a free flight in my direction. Of course, I can’t complain since firing a gun whose caliber is anything smaller than a tank is considered acceptable in our neck of the woods.

Some of our trunk slammers seem to be unaware of north woods mores. One new cottage owner’s weekend presence is announced on Monday mornings by a white bag of garbage that he leaves by the roadside before leaving for his downstate home. He assumes that the township will pick up his garbage intact. (He is lucky - the township on his side of the road provides garbage pick-up each Wednesday morning, while the township on the other side of the road doesn’t do garbage.) No one in their right mind in the north woods leaves garbage sitting in a plastic bag unless it is sitting in a container known to be bear-proof, raccoon-proof, crow-proof, squirrel … well, you get the idea. Several times, I have been forced to clean up his scattered garbage on my morning walk. To add insult to injury, last week I saw a car leave his driveway while a crow was attacking a white bag of garbage that some other critter had dragged to the road. It became another clean-up job for me. You can see how animosity between neighbors gets started. Over time, a proper north woods man can become a downright curmudgeon.

Continuing further south, six homes are scattered on either side of our road that contain full-time residents and several dogs. Only one house owned by an older lady is dogless, while three of other five have two dogs each and the other two have one dog. For some reason, our neighborhood is devoid of cute, little fuzzy dogs, tending instead to oversize monsters with exaggerated canines. All except one, that is. Here she is, my lady-friend pooch named Bailey, carrying a turkey feather that she found along the roadside during our morning amble.

Bailey is the only friendly dog in our neighborhood. The others are all large black dogs including two Great Danes and two other large black dogs of no particular pedigree. One of the large black dogs named “Blackie” acts as though he wants to eat me every morning what with his barking and running toward me with teeth barred and his hackles up. Fortunately, he is chained and I enjoy watching him get to the end at full speed. He never learns. “Zoie,” the other mean black dog, also acts out the biting scenario toward me but so far his owners have called him on it as I pass by. “Zoie’s” predecessor at the same house nipped me in the leg last summer before his owners sent him away. I think he gave instructions to Zoie before he left.

So, there you have it. My neighborhood seems a little less colorful today than during the former days of Bertha with the behemoths and Bill with the bike. In fact, you could say things have gone to the dogs.

 

 

 

   

  

A Cruel Hoax

Some of my old buddies at the cabin were already on their second cup of coffee when I walked in.

“Mornin, Booger,” I said. I also nodded to Jerry, the cabin’s owner. Shorty was studying a puzzle laid out on Jerry’s coffee-stained oak table so I decided not to bother him. As I poured my coffee from Jerry’s old pot, Stinky walked in the door, also ready for his free coffee.

“Did ya see the temperature this morning?” Stinky asked.

Jerry responded before any of the rest of us. Since it is his cabin, we sort of give him the first chance at things. “I didn’t look at my gage – how cold is it?” he said.

“I had + 40 on the gage outside my kitchen window.” Stinky said.

“The radio said Grayling had 38.” Booger said. Booger always tries to one up everyone. I had 36 on my thermometer but I kept quiet. The talk about the weather seemed to interrupt Shorty. He looked up from his puzzle.

“Ya know, I think that just proves it,” he said.  “All this talk about global warming ain’t nothin’ but a hoax. We ain’t gonna have a summer this year. That little warmup we had in the spring was just a short interruption from winter weather and now it’s getting back to it. I reckon we’ve had all the warm weather were gonna have for this year.” Shortly paused for a minute and then looked straight at me. “That sort of blows your theory about global warming, don’t it?” he said as his rheumy eyes challenged me for an answer answer.

I had just taken a sip of hot coffee and Shorty’s comment caused a frothy black liquid to spew from my open mouth. “Wha …” Stinky stepped to my rescue while I was wiping coffee from my chin and snot from my nose.

“Actually,” Stinky began, “the disruption of our normal weather cycle, either too hot or too cold, is one of the symptoms of excess carbon compounds in the atmosphere that people are calling global warming. Carbon, mostly carbon dioxide, has been building up in our atmosphere since people began driving cars, but the biggest polluter by far is the  burning of coal to generate electricity. That’s why the EPA wants to ban the use of coal in some old power plants that don’t control carbon emisions.”   (Stinky likes giving us lectures and he was about to continue but Shorty interrupted.)

“Here it is almost the 4^th of July and my furnace comes on to warm up the house. Ya mean to say this whole thing about global warming is a cruel hoax …it should be called global cooling?” I saw my chance and jumped in.

“The problem is that air pollution acts as kind of a blanket over the globe and it mostly keeps the heat in so that’s why it’s called global warming. But, it isn’t the same everywhere. It’s like bein’ in your bed at night – even with a blanket, some spots are too warm and some spots are cold. Here in Roscommon we’re in a cold spot right now, but in a little bit we’ll be back in a warm spot and you all will be complainin’ about being too hot.” I sat back convinced that I had won my point about global warming until I heard something that sounded like a growl. “What’s that?” I asked. It was Booger.

“Wool,” he repeated. Ya need a wool blanket. That’s what I use on my bed and there ain’t no cold spots even when the temperature is 38 degrees in Grayling.”

No one had an answer. It seemed hopeless to me so I stood up and went to the coffee pot to replace that which had come streaming out my nose. ‘Maybe tomorrow we should take on world hunger,’ I said to myself.

 

 

 

Time for Gardening!

Some would say I am a slow learner. I dispute that. On the other hand, if measured solely by my dismal record in growing plants from seeds, I am forced to agree. This year was the eighth successive year that I failed in trying to create hardy vegetables and lovely flowers from seeds and then nurturing them to maturity. For some reason or other, my seeds don’t turn into healthy, growing plants despite having spent countless hours and dollars on grow lamps, germination benches, plastic trays and guaranteed seeds. Each year I have a seed germination rate lower than the tax rates paid by rich people.  I should have learned by now that success in this area is beyond me. MAYBE I AM A SLOW LEARNER.

As a cold, hard winter ended this year, once again, I dreamed of evening summer walks with a margarita in hand, strolling among bountiful gardens bursting with color and fragrance. In my reverie, the amble through my summer garden was always an enchanting pastime based on admiration for my own handiwork – working the soil, raising the plants, germinating the seeds – all done at little cost since I always imagined robust plants started from low-cost seeds. By late winter, my dreams reached a crescendo and I was salivating over seed catalogs that arrived at my door. As I poured over the glossy magazines, my lovely wife had the temerity to remind me that last year I swore an oath that I would never again try to coax seeds from their tiny hard shells into tender seedlings. Somehow, I managed to forget last year and I plunged forward into ordering new seeds.

In my defense, I should explain that this year I tried something different. No longer would I attempt to distribute tiny seeds the size of dust into plastic trays filled with soil that had clumps 1,000 times larger than the seeds. No longer would I fill the trays with water and float the seeds onto the floor. No longer would I cause tender plants to fall over when I missed watering them during a weekend trip. No longer would the cold nip those few that managed to survive when I sat them outside. None of that for me. This year, I said, I would only start seeds that are easy to grow; beans, peas, and zucchini, and maybe those free packets of mixed flowers the seed company gave me a couple years ago. Furthermore, I would start them outdoors in my new mini-greenhouse that I purchased at the hardware for a mere $30 - you know, the one with the clear plastic that had two zippers securing it over a thin metal frame. And, just to guarantee success, I would wait to plant them in my new little greenhouse until it was almost time for planting outdoors. “I can’t miss,” I chortled as I assembled the seeds, the plastic trays, the paper pots, the peat –filled soil, and then stuffed the whole mess into my new mini-green house and zipped the clear cover.

I found the perfect spot. My deck faces south and it has a stairway that shields the wind. I put the greenhouse against the wall of my house and against the stairwell. Full sun. Protection from wind. A new greenhouse. Easy to grow seeds. I couldn’t miss. As I planted the seeds, I almost tasted the fresh veggies and smelled the lovely flowers that would be sure to result.

Oh, did I watch over those seeds! Each day I checked their progress, unzipping the clear plastic cover to expose the trays that I carefully pulled forward for a minute observation. Every day or two I added more water. Nothing seemed to be happening even as I tingled with anticipation. The days stretched into weeks. And then, some ominous hints began to appear of things going wrong. First, the clear plastic separated from the zipper, leaving gaping voids. It wasn’t my fault. The manufacture of the greenhouse must have been faulty. I wondered if the wind could do some terrible damage to my seedlings, if they ever emerged. Next, the zipper failed. Now, the voids in the clear plastic were even bigger by the failure of zipper near the top where it refused to join its mate. Maybe it was a marital failure between the two sheets of plastic, I don’t know. I should have been tipped off by these problems. As the two week date passed, the seeds still hadn’t germinated despite the seed package’s confident statement to the contrary.  

I don’t know why the seeds didn’t germinate sooner. Maybe it was too hot: the sun warmed the greenhouse to something above a thousand degrees during the day. Maybe the seeds were too old (I had saved some of them from prior year’s). Maybe it was the unexpected cold that we had a few nights when the temperature dipped below freezing -- I don’t know. Several days after all the seeds should have germinated, I found that only the trays dedicated to lettuce had several tiny leaves emerging from the soil. They were so small to be barely visible. I waited two more days and then the weatherman gave a warning for a nighttime frost. Worried about those tiny leaves, I decided to move the entire assembly into my garage for warmth. It was heavy.

The next morning, since the weather forecast was positive, I picked up the heavy greenhouse in the garage and carried it a few steps from the garage into the sun, foregoing its former distant location on the deck. “It might be cold again,” I reasoned, requiring another carry to the garage. It was the kiss of death. While I was away that day, the wind came up. I came home that afternoon to find my new greenhouse lying on the ground, my precious seed trays upside down, the plastic trays and soil and invisible seeds now scattered in the grass. I prayed aloud for several minutes. Finally, I cleaned up the mess. I threw the soil and paper pots on my compost pile and folded the torn, clear plastic and cheap metal greenhouse for storage in my barn. It was a total loss, another failure that stretched my record to nine consecutive failed attempts at growing plants from seeds.

That night I must have dreamed about germinating seeds. I awoke with a new plan. I still had a few bean and pea seeds remaining in unopened packages and I sorely wanted fresh garden peas this year. I decided to forego the greenhouse route and plant the seeds in my garden. “Why not get a head start on seed germination?” I asked myself, since it was still a few days before June 1, the traditional day for planting in the north woods. I took the remaining peas and beans and a few other seeds, put them into a plastic cup, filled the cup with water, and set it upon my picnic table to warm in the sun, hoping to foreshorten the germination date and salvage what little pride remained in my abilities as a gardener.

The next day was close enough to June 1 for me and I decided to plant my peas and beans. I spent an two hours of hard work using my hoe and rake to prepare the soil. I went to the picnic table for my seeds. They were gone. The plastic cups were empty. I looked everywhere. It finally dawned on me - a foul and nasty chipmunk or squirrel had climbed onto my table and devoured every seed. None remained for me except a few beet seeds that were too small and hard too eat. Another loss. Another blow to my fragile ego. That night, the wind came up and tipped over the last cup with the beet seeds. They are now hidden in my lawn.   

 So, here is a request and the reason for this blog. Could you please send me an e-mail sometime next February and tell me that under no circumstances should I attempt to grow plants from seeds. Maybe I will learn.

 

New Technology

 New Technology Gremlins Can Hide Anywhere

During my engineering career at General Motors, I dealt with new technology all the time. Working with latest available developments and assisting with new part designs were a routine part of my job. Further, I was never reluctant to take on new assignments and I learned them about as quickly as any other Tom, Dick or Harry during my 37-year engineering career. You can see that I am not afraid of new technology since I spent most of my career dealing with it.

When cell phones became fashionable for an aging, but cultivated soul like me, I delayed buying one because I didn’t think I would use it. I thought there were few people who would want to call me and even fewer that I want to call while I was away from my telephone at home. It never occurred to me that I should make a phone call or answer one while mowing the lawn, riding a bicycle, watching a movie, standing in line, or doing any of the other thousand things that people do while talking on their cell phones. I suppose it would come as a complete surprise to some of the younger generation, but never once have I had the urge to call someone or answer a call while sitting on a toilet in a public restroom.

Meantime, my wife, children, and friends all became addicted to their mobile phones. On the rare occasion that I needed to communicate with someone while away from home, it was easy for me to hint as much and some obliging soul would invariably make a call for me. There the matter rested for several years, as I became outdated while others adopted the new technology and began talking at a moment’s notice without my limitation of needing wires for communications.

 This past Christmas I decided to become a part of this century by purchasing a cell phone for myself. Not just a cell phone, however. I bought a smart phone after telling myself that smart phones were another matter altogether since they provided so many capabilities beyond making telephone calls. I purchased my new phone in December and began the process of learning its basic operations. Now, some four months later, I’m still learning how to operate the danged thing. At the rate I’m going, it will be 2022 before I master it, if then.

Last week, for example, while I was raking leaves I received an unexpected phone call from a square dance friend. I managed to answer the call as I laid down the rake to avoid distracted raking. “Hello,” I said. The caller said she was returning my call and asked what the emergency was since I had called her three times that morning in quick succession. What? I hadn’t called her at all, but the dumb phone in my pocket had seen fit to dial her for some reason. The two of us finally decided that since her name, Alberta, was first on my phone list and since my phone didn’t enjoy being bounced around in my pocket, it decided to call her of its own volition. I talked to the lady in person some days later and she told me that the following day she received another call from me that she wisely ignored. My home phone would never do such a thing, but of course, my home phone doesn’t take selfies, either.

The phantom phone call is but one example of hundreds of miscues that I have made while trying to learn basic smart phone 101. It hasn’t been easy. For instance, I spent dozens of hours over several weeks trying to copy and then load music to my phone so that I could boogie during my morning walk. I had to learn about ripping, downloading, MP3 transfers and other things to convince the midget computer hiding in my cell phone to play my music. Of course, the glowing rectangle came with no instructions that were the least helpful. Apparently, makers of smart phones think younger people are able to sense the mystical steps needed to accomplish a simple task. I have a message for them -- some of us have lost our sensing capabilities when it comes to electronics with icons that make no sense at all.

After numerous difficulties in using my gadget, I think the problem is more than a lack of instructions and unexpected phone responses to my best efforts. Instead, I have come to believe my smart phone has a mischievous gremlin hidden within, one that is diabolically unwilling to bend to my commands. Either that, or there is the remote possibility that my smart phone is smarter than I am.

Last week I bought a new car, another Chevrolet Impala, just like my old one. As a faithful GM retiree, I didn’t bother to shop for a new car, I just stopped at the dealership and made a deal with the salesman while Marjorie chose the options and colors. There was no need for investigation or study of any sort because of my car background and the several Impalas that I have previously owned. ‘It will be a piece of cake', I thought. That was before I climbed behind the wheel and a computer touch screen flashed on in the center of the instrument panel. I opened the owner’s manual and looked for a section on computer screens in cars. Sure enough, there were several pages all about it. The section began with the precaution about avoiding distracted driving.

“Then why did you put a computer screen in my car?” I asked aloud.

When I tuned the ignition on, the screen came to life and several icons that seemed vaguely familiar began flashing. And then I knew: Smart phone technology had invaded my new car and was demanding my attention. Oh noooo! Arrrrrrgh!!!       

Genealogy - a Pox

Over the last few years, I have discovered that studying one’s genealogy can be an addictive sort of hobby, almost like a pox. This is a recent understanding: as a child growing up, I had little interest in family history. What interest I had in family matters extended only to my grandparents and a few cousins who lived nearby. I knew all other family members as ‘relatives,’ connected to my family in some mysterious fashion that provoked their attendance at the occasional family picnic. These were invariably held at a nearby park where old people sat talking for hours while I and my cousins got into mischief. I never knew precisely who Uncle Fred was or why Helen Hearn was a relative when her name was unlike any in my immediate family. Strangely, none of the relationships was ever explained to me and I never inquired, content to treat unfamiliar family members like a mysterious odor at a party – better not to know. Now, as my age is beginning to exceed my grandparent’s age when I was a youngster attending those family picnics, I am intensely curious to learn about those whose blood is mixed with mine.

After a few aborted attempts to learn about my Indiana forebears, I finally took a class in genealogy at our local library. I learned how to track down relatives using data from wide variety of sources, many available via the internet. It was like opening doors to the past as I found names, places and pictures of those who came before. In several instances, the data was like a storybook, detailing lives rich in joy and success while others were punctuated by the sorrows of early deaths due to illness or accident.

The stories formed a tapestry of life that was remarkably different from mine as the sands of time played out and technology changed us in ways unimaginable to our grandparents. Discovering the past in this fashion was like a treasure hunt and each finding was an inducement for more searching.

About a year ago, I decided to investigate wife Marjorie’s family history from her father’s side, a man named Leon Seaman. I soon found the Seaman family had a remarkable past with a long history in America. As I searched through the online data, provocative stories of interesting people filled my computer screen and urged further study.

One of the most interesting characters was a man who was an early leader of the Mormon Church before it began its long trek to Utah and Ill fame as a sect harboring polygamists. (The Seaman relative wasn’t one) The same Seaman Mormon and his wife also became known as the first white settlers of Michigan’s Drummond Island. Interestingly, after he passed at age 52, his former wife and family discontinued practicing the Mormon religion.

Other Seaman men were patriots and some became war heroes; one a Medal of Honor pilot during WW II, who subsequently ferried President Eisenhower in a Marine helicopter. Another Seaman became Canada’s most storied ace in WW I, credited with more kills than any other Allied Pilot. He became Air Marshall for Canada during WW II. Other Seaman men fought in the War of 1812 and the Revolutionary War including one Caleb Seaman, known for his undercover exploits with the British– a reputation that earned him a trip to Canada.

The father of the Seaman family in America came to our shores in 1630, succeeding those on the Mayflower by a mere ten years. He was fruitful – his 16 children became the source of many Seamans that settled throughout the US and Canada. The family members attributed to him numbered over 3,000 at the turn of this century.

It was an exhilarating study, so mesmerizing that I had to put it into words. The result is a new book, a labor of love now available at Amazon.com. Here it is:

Cold Walking

It has been a cold winter – about as cold as last year, according to the weatherman. Wife Marjorie and I didn’t let the cold weather change our regular routine of a daily walk. You may know that we are inveterate walkers from long practice. She took up the practice before me, completing a regular afternoon traipse with two or three ladies while I was at work. I always thought their fascination with exercise was enhanced by a corresponding fascination of a daily chit-chat. My walking routine devolved as a means of escaping my engineering office during lunch hour to relax from its constant burden. After retiring and moving to our retirement home, Marjorie and I adopted the practice of a morning walk that has become constitutional regardless of weather. This year we walked in bitter cold more often than most years, several times at temperatures below -10 °F and two or three times below   -20 °F. (No one has accused us of being overly bright).

The cold has been bearable during our walks; we have learned to layer our clothes and protect exposed skin, and most mornings we remain comfortable even during the coldest weather. In fact, we have learned that snow and wind seem to be more problematical than cold as the snow requires more energy – it becomes a trudge rather than a walk, and any wind above ten miles per hour at temperatures below freezing makes our skin vulnerable to damage. Since we already have our share of wrinkles, we are attempting to avoid more. We have also become more careful over time about slips and falls, equipping our winter boots with steel wires and/or cleats to prevent slips. Even with these precautions, this year’s cold weather has taught me few things about cold walking.

I have learned that walking in the cold changes things: you need to get used to frozen eyelashes, white-frosted eyebrows and silence. Silence prevails. Snow covered roads absorb sounds including those from oncoming vehicles. Bitter cold inhibits conversation: words come out but they instantly freeze and fall upon the ground before reaching a listener. I assume those frozen words will regain their activity when they melt in the spring and add to the general cacophony provided by birds and bugs. Of course, not all words freeze instantly; Larger words have more energy and are thus more durable, requiring more cold to freeze them. Sadly, I don’t know many words bigger than two syllables so I am unable to converse normally during our morning walk.

It surprised me to learn there is an exception to the freezing word business. Swear words seem to be immune to the freezing phenomena, perhaps because they arise with such a vile, thick coating and are thrust forward with an energy that prevents freezing. At least, that is how it seems since even a few mild curses from my lips provokes an immediate response from my spouse while my other, normally learned discourse goes mostly unnoticed and under-appreciated.

Lest you think the cold in the North Woods during the past two years invalidates global warming, you should know that on a worldwide basis, the last two years have continued the long trend of steadily increasing temperatures as our atmosphere gains in carbon gases. The North Woods has been an anomaly with our bitter cold this winter and last as we have been regularly colder than Alaska and other northern regions. In fact, the Iditarod was moved further north this year to find colder weather.

We humans continue to flirt with a catastrophe for our children and grandchildren as we ignore global warming and race toward disaster. Our government in Washington, D.C. offers little hope for combating the problem. A news item titled “The dumbest thing that happened in the US Senate today” shows the Chairman of the Committee for the Environment and Public Works, Sen. James Inhofe, R -Oklahoma, throwing a snowball during his speech on the Senate floor. The conservative Senator was trying to prove that global warming isn't really happening. “It’s unseasonably cold out,” he said, as if his snowball was proof that global warming is a mirage and the carbon based energy industry doesn’t donate to politicians. He must think we are dumber than he is.

I think we pay our Congressmen too much and I plan to expand on that topic during tomorrow’s morning walk . . . if it is a bit warmer.

Mark me down . . .

 

Mark me down in the category of the easily amused. Last night, for example, the weatherman on the evening news said that the space shuttle flyover would be spectacular, presumably due to the clear skies. “The spectacular flyover view will be from 7:46 to 7:50 PM tonight in the northwest skies,” he said. It was like pouring kerosene on a hot fire for me. Not that I am a celestial enthusiast, it’s more along the lines of my being easily enthused about practically any outdoor phenomena and I had a large unfilled hole in my evening schedule with no hope of being amused by television. Accordingly, I spoke to my better half and she cleverly observed that the flyover would follow-up nicely to an evening devoted to a Mexican dinner at the nearby Los Ranchos restaurant.

I was hooked. We made the 40 minute drive to West Branch, (cleverly named after the west branch of the Rifle River) to the aforementioned Mexican establishment. I ordered Chile Poblano (some kind of beef in some kind of pepper) and my clever bride ordered Pollo Mexicano (chicken with some kind of hot sauce.) The dinner was great.

We left the restaurant on time according to my schedule of arriving home just prior to 7:46 PM. Things seemed to be progressing nicely toward an interesting evening. The only possible hitch to my impromptu evening entertainment was the weatherman; the selfsame weather predictor who promised the spectacular view had also predicted a cold evening – Ummm. It had been cold all day. The mercury had hovered just under 0° F all day long despite the bright sunshine for much of the day. Could my inspired plan be derailed due to cold? Of course not, I said to myself, cleverly keeping such thoughts from my betrothed who sometimes fails to follow my inspired suggestions.

The drive home became ominous when I pulled from the restaurant parking lot with the last rays of the departing sun falling captive to the enveloping blackness of night. The subdued light of the instrument panel was in stark contrast to the temperature gage that flashed brightly, -5° F. I crept through the town to the north- bound expressway and the gage went to -7° F then -10°F. The temperature seemed to be falling faster than a turd in a swimming pool.

I pulled into my garage at 7:40 PM and -17° F on my new outdoor thermometer that some idiot had decorated with cardinals sitting on flowered tree branches. Surely only a fool would stand outdoors in the dark of night at -17° F to watch a tiny light speed across the sky amidst several thousand other tiny lights. “Here we are,” I said to my spouse as we marched outdoors in the darkness to await the space capsule’s reflected sunlight.

Despite being bundled up, by 7:42 PM the cold was beginning to penetrate my coat and stretch it’s lengthy tentacles past my socks, beneath my long underwear and northward toward my sensitive parts. By 7:44 PM, I was cold. I scanned the horizon and searched the northwest sky just above the row of spruce trees at the edge of my property. Nothing, other than a few thousand stars.

I waited another minute before checking the clock in my warm kitchen for the 4^th time. It was now 7:47 PM – the space shuttle must be late. My shivering made it hard to see as my eyeballs jostled around in their sockets, but I was sure nothing had come past my field of view. I stomped my feet, adjusted my collar and decided to look at the kitchen clock again: 7:51 PM.

“Have you see, see, seen anything?” I managed to stutter through my balky lips.

“Only one little light that zoomed just above the horizon a couple minutes ago,” she replied.

“That’s it, then. I’m going in.”

We re-lived our nighttime viewing in the warmth of the kitchen. She said the light she saw was a medium intensity light that appeared to be only a few inches above the horizon as it passed to the southeast. “I didn’t think it was anything at first, and then it was gone. But it must have been the space shuttle, since nothing else came into view.”

I missed the shuttle altogether since I was searching straight up and the shuttle was sneaking along on the horizon. I thought it strange that the shuttle would take the long way instead of zipping straight over, maybe the Russians were driving and they wanted to fly over their home. I also decided to blame the weatherman. I suspected he was a blowhard – it wasn’t a spectacular view at all. As I thawed out in front of the wood stove and straightened my fingers from the clenched balls they had become, I decided that the evening hadn’t been a total loss: the dinner was good, my new thermometer was working properly, and despite the awful cold, it had been a mildly amusing evening, at least for someone like me.

 

 

What da ya think?

I’m a skier -- both downhill and cross country. It is one of the things I do in winter to keep active and enjoy the outdoors. I ski downhill at local Michigan ski resorts, maybe four times a winter, and mostly out my back door for cross-country skiing.

My favorite downhill venue is Treetops Ski Resort as it is the closest to my home and they have a policy of allowing 70 year-olds to ski free. So far, I haven’t broken any bones, the exercise seems valuable, and since I own the skis and boots, the price is right.

On Monday, Martin Luther King Day, I went downhill skiing with my brother and two nieces. They were excited about skiing when we arrived at Treetops, but I wondered about the lack of vehicles in the parking lot. I asked the ski lift-lady about the few skiers on the hills and she said she was surprised, that she expected more folks since it was a holiday and since the resort rooms were nearly sold out. It was good news for the resort since they have had falling revenues from our still-shaky economy in northern Michigan. We had a good time skiing and I thought no more about it until the following day when I saw the television report.

The newscaster on TV said that Treetops had suffered serious losses due to vandalism. As the story unfolded, it seems that a fraternity from the University of Michigan had rented 50 rooms from Treetops for a skiing holiday. Apparently, Saturday night the collegians had a few beers too many and the celebrants went on a rampage of destruction. Treetops was the loser. The rooms that had been rented were seriously vandalized and the college students were ejected from the resort. The report noted that furniture was overturned, holes were punched in walls, cabinet doors were torn from their hinges and body fluids were used to redecorate many surfaces -- A $50,000 loss according to Treetops estimates.

I asked myself how could this happen? The only answer I could fathom is that the destruction was caused by drunken children who happened to inhabit adult bodies capable to commit the vandalism that was found. What’da ya think?

As I thought about my youth and time in college, it was impossible to imagine that I, or any of my peers, would be guilty of a similar outrage. We just wouldn’t have committed such senseless acts, not even in times of over-the-top celebrations or in the depth of despair over, say, a lost love. It just wouldn’t have happened because we were too preoccupied with our futures, our financial responsibilities and respect for law and order.     What da ya think?

It seemed to me that the Treetops thing was not a one-of-a-kind happening. Other news reports have indicated extraordinary happenings, criminal, senseless, or juvenile, that occur by younger folks. The examples can be mind numbing. The frequency of such reports indict our current generation of folks under 30.             What’da ya think?

I don’t know of any sociology studies, but it seems to me that youngsters today are less mature than we were at comparable ages. They are marrying later, having children later, making life commitments later, and failing to accept adult responsibilities until later in life. My generation began to think about work, families, and taking care of ourselves after high school, not after college or even later. I read recently that Italian men, perhaps I should say boys, are commonly living at home and accepting care from their parents until their 30’s. In contrast, the generations before mine seemed to mature even earlier than we did. For example, the Great Depression saw boys leaving home in their early teens to avoid being a burden on their parents. It must have been hard leaving home during the worst of times, but they accepted it as an adult responsibility.            What’da ya think?

I haven’t written this to denigrate the current generation of youth. They are probably more knowledgeable than we were, probably healthier, and they have better prospects for living longer, fulfilling lives than us if our planet hasn’t been trashed into oblivion by human disregard.             What’da ya think?   I’d like to hear from you.

Bill