Doughnuts

Doughnuts

I like doughnuts. I think they are best with coffee. Especially in the morning. But late morning is also good. When I have to drive long distances, there is nothing I like to do better than to stop early in the trip and purchase coffee and doughnuts ‘to go.’ It makes the trip a whole lot shorter to munch on doughnuts while watching the miles slide by.

The other times I like doughnuts are just before bedtime. My digestive system seems to need something to help me go to sleep at night; nothing does quite so well in sending me off to dreamland than a glass of milk, accompanied, of course, with a doughnut.

Actually, I think just about anytime is a good time for a doughnut. Today, for example, our power went off early in the morning. We wandered around the house for awhile, trying to grope our way to the bathroom and other essential places in the dark. Then one of us, I can’t remember if it was me or my favorite live-in companion, suggested making a trip to town to see if anyone in business had power. So, we did. Nearly all the shops were closed because of no power. To our surprise, our local purveyor of doughnuts was open, ready to sell us each a doughnut, which we couldn’t resist. Just so you don’t think I am fixated exclusively on doughnuts, I should tell you that we also ended up purchasing two fritters that we promised each other not to eat until tomorrow.

So, what is my beef that prompts me to write about doughnuts? My problem is spelling. As a wordsmith, I am obliged to warn that many people and businesses are polluting our language by no longer calling them by their rightful name, doughnuts, a perfectly appropriate name since they are made mostly from dough and sugar. Instead, our hurry-up society has found a shortcut; donuts. I think this name became popular when one of my favorite purveyors “Dunkin Donuts” began making signs all across the country that listed their products as ‘donuts.’ I believe the word doughnuts was too big for their signs.

The problem with donut is that it sounds too close to ‘don’t (eat) nuts.’ This is an anathema to me since one of my favorites is a nutty doughnut, although I like just about every kind of doughnut.

Sadly, doughnuts have a bad press. I think the medical profession in America is responsible. They seem to think that a product loaded with fat and sugar is bad for us. Especially for one of advanced age like me. I think it has more to do with the upbringing that most doctors were subjected to. My theory is that all doctors had demanding mothers who told them at least a thousand times, ‘don’t eat that, its not good for you.’ Not eating doughnuts must have been high on their list of things to avoid since they are difficult to make at home.

You probably don’t know what the Hippocratic Oath is: You know, that oath that all doctors have to swear that they will always tell their patients about. I don’t know what it is either, but I believe it has something to do with fat and sugar and doughnuts and arteries, and it says something like they heard from their mothers “If you eat this, you will begin to look like a hippopotamus.” At least, that’s my theory and I’m sticking with it.

Last Campout

Camping (Driving) Downstate

“I’m gonna retire up north and drive slow” – an old, but popular                        bumper sticker on cars from south-eastern Michigan

We used to live in Oakland County, Michigan. We lived in and around Pontiac and then Clarkston, Michigan, both suburbs in the automotive-dominated area of Oakland County. The County was populous when we lived there, and it seems to have grown further since my retirement. Since much of our family lives there, we occasionally camp at Pontiac Lake Recreation Area. We camped there last weekend and made two trips by car from the campsite to visit our family. On both trips, the traffic was extraordinarily heavy, and people drove too fast for my taste.

We enjoyed the wonderful fall weather during this, our last campout for the season. The only negative to our trip was the required driving to and from the campground. The traffic was horrendous. On each of the trips I made by car, I had two impatient drivers blow their horns at me because I was driving too slowly to suit them. This, in spite of the fact that the traffic was so heavy none of us could make much headway. I soon learned that to drive in Oakland County is to take your life in your hands. The traffic was so heavy I was forced to merge into traffic in a space approximately one inch larger than my truck. My strategy was to turn on my blinker, start to move to the next lane and then close my eyes. I learned this technique from other drivers doing the same. After returning to the campground, I met a man and asked him about changing lanes. He said he didn’t know as he had never been able to change lanes in normal daytime traffic. He said he once drove for two days straight because he couldn’t change lanes to get to an exit.

Not satisfied with his answer, I asked another camper for his advice in changing lanes. His advice was equally disconcerting. He said the only thing that worked for him was to buy the car in the next lane.

On my second trip from the campground, I decided that the appropriate driving technique was to ‘floor’ the accelerator after each stop, and also wherever the stop light turned green, no matter what my speed was. This strategy, of course, requires one to slam on the brakes whenever a red light flashes. The strategy seemed to work; other drivers quit blowing their horns at me, but my neck got tired from snapping back and forth with the brakes and accelerator.

After our campout, I was happy to get home to my part of the world where driving is much easier. We have less traffic and more patient drivers. In fact, our drivers sometimes stop in the middle of the road if they need to. Nobody cares.

I checked the internet to learn if others feel as I do about driving in congested areas. I learned that I am not alone. One man said that you can sit on congested highways forever. In fact, he said, some places have exit ramps where you can pull over and make a car payment. Another man said that congested highways have become insane asylums with turn signals. That seems about right to me.

Now that I have finished this piece, I think I’ll go for a drive and park on the road somewhere.

Gerrymandering

Gerrymandering

I have never been particularly outspoken concerning my politics. It has seemed to me that everyone is entitled to their own opinions, me included, no matter how screwy those opinions may be. Unfortunately, some folks become annoyed when your opinions differ from theirs. Accordingly, I generally keep my own counsel in discussions of politics (unless, of course, I happen to know that a brilliant conversationalist like you agrees with me).

It may thus surprise you that I have agreed to assist a “political” project aimed at revising the Michigan Constitution. The project is an effort to put language on the next state-wide ballot that will prohibit gerrymandering. Don’t know what gerrymandering is? That’s no surprise. Our politicians hope that you don’t know. It’s another egregious example of politicians finding ways to take advantage of voters. Here is a quick review.

Elections are handled by states, that is, the rules and laws covering elections are established by state legislatures. Let’s say that in Michigan a new party wins an election by a slim majority. Since this new political party has captured the most seats in their legislature, they are able to set the boundaries of voting districts that define local political races. They simply propose and then approve a new state law that defines those boundaries. Of course, the new boundaries are beneficial to their party and injurious to the old party that just lost the election. What the new party does is establish new boundaries that have nothing to do with geography but everything to do with how many voters from each party live in a particular area. Their object is to insure that in the next election, their party will have a majority of voters in as many districts as possible. Nowadays, politicians have powerful computer programs that can predict voting trends everywhere in an entire state. With this knowledge, it’s a simple matter to define new boundaries for each voting district to their advantage. It’s like politicians choosing their voters instead of voters choosing their politicians.

That, in a nutshell, is gerrymandering. It has become a political force that can turn the tide of elections. Once a party becomes dominant in a state, it is very difficult to dislodge them. Of course, your local party headquarters doesn’t talk about such things. If you would like to learn more, consult the following web page; votersnotpoliticians.com/ Michigan.

One of my friends told me about the Michigan effort to defeat gerrymandering. I was hooked after reading the web page and so now I am a Circulator, promoting a petition to outlaw gerrymandering by changing Michigan’s Constitution. I see it as our chance to teach the politicians a lesson.

Ah September

My favorite time of the year. A time for welcoming the cool mornings for a brisk bike ride, and then lounging in the afternoon sun to let the warmth slowly sink into my joints. During such moments, I can imagine I am young again, ready to play tennis, hike a five-miler without complaint, and paddle ‘til the sun don’t shine. Such is my imagination until I get up from the lounge chair.

September is the month when we hear all of nature telling us “Hurry, you only have a few short weeks remaining before I hide my green finery and cover everything with snow.” I was enjoying the warm weather with such idle thoughts when I decided to take a brief walk to the river where I noticed the oak trees were beginning to display rusty-red leaves and the ferns were midway in their transformation from green to yellow. Amidst this cacophony of color and change, I happened to come upon a mushroom in the path that was changing from its normal white coat to one that was a shiny mahogany color. In my reverie, I thought I heard the mushroom calling to me.

”Hey. You there. Why don’t you pick me and we’ll go have a beer together.”

I looked to be sure no one was listening before I dared reply. I spoke softly just in case. “Why should I,” I whispered.

“Its because when I get in a bar, I’m a fungi.”

I shook my head. Here I was, practically in a hallucinogenic state as I admired nature’s handiwork, and some dumb plant plays a feeble joke on me. It reminded me of Groucho Marx. He said that his favourite poem is the one that starts 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something.

September is the time of change. In my part of the North Woods, we are reminded that summer has come to an end and much of the natural world is engaged in preparation for the coming cold months. Most of our summer birds have left, and it is fun to watch migrants who stop for a brief rest before continuing their journey. This week we watched two Great Blue Herons pause at our pond until they got spooked by our presence. We think the Hummingbirds have left as the last of our flowers are fading and only tiny flying insects are attending to the last of the blooms. Although we haven’t had a frost yet, we have had several mornings with the temperature just above the freezing point while afternoon temperatures are sometimes 40 degrees warmer.

There are some things about September that I don’t like. I don’t like the furnace coming on during the cold nights to drink my propane. I think if there is any drinking to be done, it should be done by me. I also don’t like the reduced sunlight that shortens my days nor the reminders that I’ll soon be switching to long underwear and giving up my bikini briefs, Tee’s, and short pants. What a bummer. Maybe I’ll turn up the heat to imagine it is July again and sit in front of the TV in a bathing suit. It beats talking to mushrooms.

The Great American Eclipse of 2017

The Great American Eclipse of 2017

Monday, August 21, 2017

We had been talking about the eclipse for weeks. The reason was that my friend, Tom Dale, announced at our coffee klatch some weeks ago that he planned to be in Tennessee for the event. He explained how the sun and the moon interacted during the eclipse and that the path for the best viewing was along a thin strip of land from Oregon to South Carolina. He intended to be in one of those viewing spots, he said.

Despite Tom’s enthusiasm, I didn’t develop any plans for viewing the eclipse. I assumed that this event would be like other celestial events I have attempted to view; the recent northern lights flare-up comes to mind, that which prompted me to wander around outdoors in my underwear at 4 AM one morning. After a half dozen mosquito bites and not a single nocturnal emission (is that an appropriate description of the sun’s failure?), I went back to bed disappointed and itching. And so, my only plan for the Great American Eclipse of 2017 was to be at home, in my lawn, ready to marvel at the sudden daytime darkness and brag to anyone who would listen that I had stopped the sun on its normal path for a few moments just to demonstrate my powers. I got this idea for a bit of braggadocio from Tecumseh, the famous Indian who used the eclipse of 1811 to convince other Indians of his supernatural powers. [By the way, the subterfuge worked for Tecumseh, he convinced several tribes to join him in the battle against the invading Americans during the War of 1812.]

I went to my front lawn around 1 PM, planning to work in the lawn so that I would be readily available and aware of the sunlight aberrations associated with the eclipse. I didn’t have the required glasses for viewing, but Marjorie had convinced me that the system she used for children she taught in grade school would surely work since she had used it previously. Unfortunately, it turned cloudy as the afternoon wore on. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, rooting around in my front lawn in my ongoing battle with weeds that were more successful in populating my lawn than the cheap “Sunny Mix” grass seed I had planted and re-planted several times.

The hot sun seemed to relent a bit during my labors, but it was still too bright to look at even as it peeked at me behind the cloud cover. It was hot and the sweat began to bead on my forehead. At one point, Marjorie came out to show me the paper with the tiny hole. When she held it up to the sun, the light was projected onto a white paper that she held a few inches behind the small hole. The picture on the white paper appeared as a small dot. We both looked at the dot until it seemed silly to be staring at a dot that offered no clue what was happening to the sun that was still too bright to observe. She went into the house and I returned to my lawn.

Sometime later she called me in the house. “You should see this on TV,” she said, ”It is the last of the eclipse, as seen from South Carolina.”

“What?” I ejaculated. “What about our eclipse, don’t we get one?”

She explained that our eclipse occurred when she brought out the paper with the hole and we looked at the dot. I recalled how it did seem a little less bright and how it wasn’t quite so hot just then.  So there you have it, The Great American Eclipse of 2017, Northern Michigan style. I would call it “The Great (but narrow strip of land that happened to be in small portions of American) Eclipse in 2017.

The TV pictures of the eclipse were great, probably even better than Tom viewed amidst the several thousands who joined him for the actual event. I’ll be sure to tell him what a great view I had and how the traffic around my house was just about the same as it always is and I’ll point out that I had no risk of eye damage, unlike Donald Trump, who removed his shaded glasses to get a better view of the sun. 

Me and my bike

With the return of warm weather, I have mostly given up on my morning walk to a neighbor’s house for morning coffee. Now-a-days, my preferred practice is to climb aboard my new bicycle and pedal to the coffee hour. It has several advantages; it is easier on my arthritic hip, it is faster, and I can out-race the neighborhood dogs who occasionally object to my passing.

I like bicycle riding – especially in the warm weather on our scenic roadways. Many other Michiganders seem to think likewise. Michigan’s Department of Natural Resources (DNR) reports that bicycling in our fair state is an activity that is becoming increasingly popular. The DNR says Michigan is “Nationally recognized as ‘The Trails State’, with more than 12,500 miles of state-designated trails and 2,600 miles of rail trails, more than any other state in the nation.” This, despite of the fact that we don’t have the attraction of a Naked Bicycle Ride like Philadelphia, PA.

Michigan has two types of trails, Linear Trails [trails that go from point to point that are generally made on old railroad beds] and Mountain Bike trails. The Mountain Bike trails are not for the faint of heart as they a feature a variety of obstacles including jumps, rocks, tree roots and other impediments that mountain biking aficionados seem to prefer.

The linear trails are much more sensible for biking. The DNR managed linear trails are 10-foot wide with mostly smooth surfaces that often meander along shaded scenic trails with access to rest stops and restrooms. They are just the ticket for oldsters like me.

New bike trails are springing up everywhere in Michigan with many being managed locally as Michigan communities become aware of the benefits of biking. These trails may not meet the same standards as those managed by the DNR, but most comply with standards set by Michigan and/or the US League of Bicyclists. Michigan State University has studied the benefits of bike trails on property values. They found that being within a half mile of one of these amenities increased property values by 6% or more. They report that “Due to the increasing popularity of trails as a desired ‘must-have’ amenity, trails have become a valuable tool for both community revitalization and place-making as towns and villages across the state update their master plans.”

Many drivers don’t realize that biking is permitted on Michigan highways across the state and in most places, bikers have equal legal rights as motorized vehicles. Based on considerations of safety, the State Transportation Department urges bike riders to use low volume back roads whenever possible. The Michigan Department of Transportation has a website that lists recommended biking roads as well as those roads to avoid.

One of the works in progress will soon become the jewel of Michigan’s bicycle trail network. When it is completed, Michigan's Iron Belle Trail will be the longest bicycle trail in the nation, running from its beginning in Detroit’s Belle Isle Park through the entire length of the state and ending at the city of Ironwood at the western end of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula – some 2,000 miles in length. Who wants to go?

I expect that biking will continue to grow and our towns and villages will become more bicycle friendly. Who can argue with a convenient mode of travel for shorter trips that saves cost, avoids pollution, provides health benefits and maybe will help avoid global warming? Not me.

Watching Fireworks

Watching Fireworks

 

Marjorie and I, like most Americans, spent last evening watching fireworks at our favorite venue. Just as we have done for several years, we followed our practice of parking our ample backsides in lawn chairs in the parking lot of a nursing home that sits on a hill close to the park where the fireworks are lit. We arrive early. We know that it is almost time for the show when the door to the nursing home opens and the lady with the hot dogs and popcorn comes out pushing her cart. Things happen fast after that; another blue-coated aide comes out the door pushing the first of many wheel chairs and soon a line-up of nursing home patients are sitting in front of us at the head of the parking lot, patiently waiting for their dogs, popcorn and ice water. That includes us. We generally sit quietly until most of the residents get their fill before we slink up to the line with our hands out.

Last night was different. I could tell things weren’t the same when the cart-pushing lady came out the side door. Then, when the residents began to slowly emerge, other hints of a different sort became evident. More about that in a moment.

Watching fireworks has long been a sensuous delight for me. I find the lights and the sounds and colors and shapes of the exploding mini-bombs endlessly fascinating. Last night was no exception. It seems as though our local fireworks are bigger and better each year and I found myself oooohing and aaahing after a few moments. The 36 minute show began promptly at 10:15 PM, just as the long shadows from the distant trees disappeared into total darkness, save the silvery moon that cast a hazy image of the old folks lined up before us.

I don’t know who designed and developed the fireworks that I watched, but whoever it was did a bang-up job. The glowing embers above our heads offered all the colors of a rainbow in moving shapes that appeared as if by magic, one after another, in split second intervals. Blue circles enveloped red circles that instantly were transformed to green stars. Balls of color erupted across the sky. The darkness disappeared as the explosions lit up the sky for an instant, then slowly faded. The soft poof that announced the firing of another mortar was often accompanied by my personal favorite; an explosion of light in the shape of cascading willow tree branches followed by a sharp KABOOM that announced the end of that mortar’s show in preparation for another, even more spectacular missile yet to come.

I was sufficiently enthused by the display that I decided to take pictures to show you the incredible display, but my telephone/camera was fooled a solitary parking lot lamp. It was either that or the limited skills of the photographer. Over the course of the show, I must have taken 50 pictures, virtually all showing a black sky. Nothing else. Here are two that give a hint of the show.

 

The show was such a treat that I found myself transported back in time to my childhood when we all gathered at the 4H park for the annual 4^th of July celebration in our small town. Fireworks were the capstone of a busy afternoon at the park where all manner of fun and games were organized for adults and children. I remember the games for young boys: There was the competition to catch the greased pig that was turned loose to run about in a mud-filled, fenced enclosure. The prize for the youngster who corralled the pig in the allotted time was a shiny new quarter. An even bigger prize awaited the boy that could shinny up a greased wood pole that was planted firmly in the ground with a crisp one dollar bill tied to the top. Boys always took off their shirts for both these tests of masculinity.

Following the afternoon games, the beginning of the fireworks show was announced by what seemed to my 10-year old ears as the biggest KABOOM in recorded history. It was the signal for families to spread their blankets on the grassy field behind the firemen’s line who had the all-important job of managing the fireworks. As darkness fell, you knew the fun was about to begin when a barely visible fireman in his long rubber boots moved about with a lighted flare, bending over tubes that projected from the earth. We always sat as close as we dared. Sometimes the embers from the exploding fireworks slowly fluttered down to earth as their lights winked out just before our heads. Despite the pleas of parents, children had to jump up and run toward the embers with the fondest wish of finding a glowing piece of detritus.

In hindsight, the shows I watched in the 1950’s were pretty mild affairs. There must have been no more than several dozen mortars shot off during a 30-minute show, there being a brief interval between each shot as the fireman found the correct tube, lit the fuse and then retreated several steps as he plugged his ears. The waiting didn’t matter. The interval allowed us to whisper our oooh’s and aaah’s and breathlessly speculate on the next shot.

So, how was this show different? First of all, there was no popcorn. Also, when the lady with the hot dog cart pushed open the door, a man in a wheelchair came rushing out. His was the motorized sort and he barreled out the door and then came to my spot at the edge of the parking lot. I was surprised. We chatted for a moment while he explained he was waiting for this grandchildren that he expected any moment. He was right. In a moment three little waifs showed up.

“All right,” he said, “climb aboard.”

With that, the three little ones each found a perch on his wheelchair and he drove off, all four of them sporting big smiles. It was my best picture of the evening.

 

The Case of the Missing Peacock

 

I stumbled into The Case of the Missing Peacock quite by accident. I was minding my own business, pulling weeds in my garden when I suddenly felt a pair of eyes watching me. I looked about warily. Standing but three feet distant was a large peacock carefully eyeing me as if to inquire my business in the garden. Neither of us moved. Since I am not fluent in Peacock and the bird seemed equally inhibited in English, we simply stared. I was in my weed pulling posture, while he, in the best tradition of his regal parentage, proudly stood erect, the better to show off his royal blue feathers and the multi-colored finery of his elaborate tail. If you think I was surprised to see a large, ornate bird standing next to me in one of my gardens, you would be correct. I had seen peacocks before, but only in hot-weather preserves, mostly in Florida where I presumed they were wild. What was he doing in my yard?

 

I stood erect and moved ever so slightly in his direction. He seemed to take umbrage at my boldness; he strutted away until he was out of the garden and into my lawn. I waited a moment longer – he lost interest in me and resumed his search for bugs. He seemed to be having excellent luck as he pecked the ground and raised his head in a single motion, swallowing one bug after another every moment or two. I hopscotched from the garden into the house to alert Marjorie and test her intelligence on the matter. She had about the same knowledge and experience with big birds as me- virtually none We watched out the window as the big bird paced around our yard, pecking the grass at regular intervals. He seemed perfectly at ease.

When I got out of bed the next morning, I went to the window to check on our new visitor that I had taken to calling Charley. Charley wasn’t anywhere around the yard. We were both disappointed and somewhat sad. In a single day, Charley had captured our hearts with his regal coat of feathers and erect posture as he cleaned our lawn of those nuisance bugs. Now that he was missing, we worried that maybe a hungry fox or the badger we had seen, had caught him unawares while he was sleeping. It wouldn’t be the first time that we had seen bones and a pile of feathers on the path leading to the river. Around noon, the world changed; Charley was back, oblivious to our concerns as he resumed his bug search among the weeds and sparse grass that we call our lawn.

This was the circumstance for the next few days. Charley seemed happy, and we were happy watching him. He didn’t seem to mind our coming and going so long as we didn’t try to come too close. He continued his practice of disappearing each afternoon, only to reappear in late morning the following day. We worried about his absences, “What if he belongs to a neighbor child who is desperately searching for him?” And then Marjorie remembered – we had a neighbor some years back who had a large fenced pen in his back yard from which strange noises emanated. One day we investigated and determined that the source of the noise was one or more large birds, presumably peacocks. Maybe Charley was a descendant of one of those birds, searching for his parents … Maybe Charley was searching for a long-lost sibling from that flock … Maybe he was a lost pet … Maybe …, Well, that’s too many maybe’s. Like it or not, Charley had developed into a pet who seemed happy vacuuming our lawn.

Although we continued to worry about Charley’s regular absences, the novelty of having a large bird hanging around our lawn began to wear off. That, and my discovery of great gobs of bird poop on our sidewalks, made Charley seem a little less welcome. We began calling neighbors to learn if anyone had a missing bird and we debated about calling Animal Control. These considerations ended when a work crew suddenly appeared – those painters that we had contracted with some months earlier for painting our house. Charley seemed to take their presence in stride as he dodged their ladders, tarps and tools during his lawn work.

At the end of a week the painters had finished the painting job. As I paid the foreman, I asked if Charlie had been a nuisance during their work. “Not really,” he said, “and we learned a lot about Charley.” When I asked what they had learned, they said that the most important thing was that Charley’s favorite food was Dorritos. The painting crew was driving away before it struck me; They had been feeding Charley all week. It was no wonder the missing peacock had remained, given our endless supply of bugs and the painting crew’s supply of food from leftover lunches along with Dorritos for desert!

After the painters left, Charley became more of a bother and his droppings seemed to grow in size and number. (I should mention the old truism that little birds have little white droppings but big birds like Charley leave huge helpings of dinner-plate size poo.) The final straw was my finding of a dinner plate dollop of Charley do-do on our newly painted deck. Charley had roosted overnight on a log just above the deck. When I saw him in the morning, he was in no hurry to leave until I threatened him with a broom and he responded by slowly lifting off the log with his large wings fanning my face.

In a desperate effort, Marjorie made a telephone call to the owner of Cindy Lou’s Zoo. ’Why yes, the zoo would be willing to give Charley a new home and by the way, Charley might like the pea hen that already lived at the zoo. We made the necessary arrangements. Charlie is no longer a missing peacock. We plan to stop by the zoo sometime to visit him and his new mate. Maybe we should take him a plate of bugs.

 

 

Can We Learn From Wild Critters?

One of the interesting things about animals is that they refuse to live in their own filth. Momma dogs keep their puppies clean by eating the feces that their pups excrete. Older dogs try to avoid excreting their wastes in their living areas, however modest they may be. Cameras set up in bird’s nests show that momma birds collect their babies’ wastes and toss them outside the nest. Gorillas go to great lengths to keep their environment clean. The list of animals who keep their families healthy by their practices in dealing with waste goes on and on. Humans haven’t learned this lesson.

 

Sadly, too many of us believe the entire world is our wastebasket; from smokers who treat the streets as giant ashtrays, to undisciplined children and adults who throw trash out their car windows. The wastes that humans create foul our air, pollute our water, despoils our landscape, and has the capability to make us sick as we are constantly assailed by harmful chemicals of our own making. Notwithstanding those who don’t believe in science, there is no possibility that humans can long survive without dealing with the waste that we create. This lesson became apparent when humans first began living in cities and were forced to deal with excrement being tossed out upper story windows.

Although that problem is mostly solved, the general problem of waste disposal has become more severe as technology has enabled the creation of more and more products that ultimately become waste. Our solution to this growing pile of refuse has been to collect it and hide it somewhere, in hopes that no one will notice. Of course, it is a fool’s errand as you can see if you travel anywhere along our freeway system and notice the landfill-mountains that belch methane in an otherwise flat terrain. Inside the mountain is waste from our generation. Most of it will lay in wait for our children and their children to deal with, since only a small portion of it will be biologically converted to methane or something else.

The obvious answer to this growing problem of fake mountains is to recycle waste into useful products that can be re-used. Not a new idea, but one that seems to be taking hold very slowly. Recycling is a worldwide objective. Many nations around the world are better than we in the U.S. in dealing with this issue. We are better than Greece, Ireland and the UK in the percent of waste that we recycle whereas most of the rest of Europe are superior to us, especially Denmark, Netherlands, Sweden, Germany, Austria, Belgium, and Luxemburg. I saw recycling containers in Sweden 30 years ago in a McDonalds franchise, but we can't seem to manage them in U.S. franchises.

                                                    To Recycle or not to Recycle ?

 

But, we are getting better. Studies indicate that around 60% of all waste can be recycled and our current practices in the U.S. recycles 28% of our garbage, nearly doubling what we achieved a mere 15 years ago. We can do better. New York and other states in the east are recycling at a rate of around 40% while Alaska, Wyoming and Montana manage to recycle only around 9% of their refuse.

Recycling has many benefits beyond reducing pollution. Glass recycling provides an example: Recycled glass is always part of the recipe for new glass, and the more that is used, the greater the decrease in energy used to make new glass, thus lowering its cost. As energy needs are reduced, so is the pollution that results from burning hydrocarbon fuels in the glass furnaces. One ton of carbon dioxide pollution is reduced for every six tons of recycled container glass used in the manufacturing process.

Glass containers for food and beverages are 100% recyclable. In 2013, 41.3% of beer and soft drink bottles were recovered for recycling. Another 34.5% of wine and liquor bottles and 15% of food and other glass jars were recycled. In total, 34% of all glass containers were recycled, equivalent to taking 210,000 cars off the road each year. Unfortunately, in my area of northern Michigan we don’t have recyclers who will sort and use colored glass for recycling.

States with container deposit legislation have an average glass container recycling rate of just over 63%, while non-deposit states only reach 24%. Also, beverage container deposit systems provide 11 to 38 times more direct jobs than curbside recycling systems for beverage containers. Every state should have deposit programs like that Michigan implemented several years ago. Why shouldn’t our nation lead instead of follow in this important area?

It seems like such an easy thing to do. If muskrats can manage to keep a clean nest without harming their environment, why can’t we?

Snow and Ice in Roscommon Michigan

 

We decided to take a break from the snow and ice in Roscommon.

My bride and I have just returned from a two-week Florida/Caribbean vacation. We spent the first week on a cruise ship and the second week near Ft Lauderdale, and then a few more days at the opposite side of the state at Naples. It was a treat and the warm weather was a welcome relief from the foot-deep snow that we had when we left Roscommon in early February.

The occasion of the cruise was 1) to celebrate Marjorie’s birthday and 2) to enjoy square dancing while cruising. Yes, we did the old Alamand Left and Grand Right and Left on a cruise ship. There were about 100 of us square dancers who sashayed across the ocean and around the islands to the music provided by three very talented national callers. We danced every day on the ship, sometimes on deck in the cool of the evenings, or below decks during the daytime with its warmer temperatures. It was fun. Only one dance was a bit challenging when the ship was rolling about in the wind and the deck wasn’t where I expected it to be.

The ship that we cruised on was unlike any of our previous voyaging experiences. This ship, Royal Caribbean’s Oasis of the Seas, held the title of world’s largest ship until Royal Caribbean eclipsed their own size record by building two other ships a few feet larger. The size of the behemoth provided a few challenges: With its 6,700 passengers and 2,000 plus crew members, finding things and getting around the 16 decks, numerous dining rooms and an untold number of bars, was a major undertaking. One lady who waited with me at one of the numerous elevators told me she wouldn’t ever sail on this ship again. “I’ve been trying to find my room for the past three days,” she said.

I understood since I had just found my way to the elevator after a stint in the floating bar. That’s right, a floating tavern; a unique boat-shaped bar that I climbed aboard at its moorings on the sixth deck. No sooner had I ordered my beer and the bartender/captain cast us off and the boat/bar began to rise off the floor. Before I had drunk half my beer, I was staring over the gunwale some two floors higher, wondering if someone had slipped a Mickey in my drink. We made it safely back to the sixth deck and I hustled to our room, sobered by the sensation of apparent weightlessness but with no other injuries except to my wallet.

I did run into some good luck during the cruise. One afternoon, as my betrothed and I were finding our way to our room, we stumbled into the casino. Marjorie remembered that we had been given a $5 coupon for free play for each of us. We decided to test our luck with the $10. The casino was empty at that moment and the casino manager welcomed us as he must have wondered about the two hicks who were completely unfamiliar with all the machines. He helped us with our free $5 coupons and directed us to a machine to deposit our money and showed us which buttons to push. We did - push the buttons, that is. It was a two- cent machine. Two cent wagering-- it boggles the mind. Anyway, I pushed the button a dozen times or more, watching as the indicator showed my $5 dollars being slowly eaten by the machine with each push of the button. The pictures whirled, the bells dinged and another two cents went down the drain. I pushed on, one wager after another. Then, something different happened! To this day, I don’t know what it was, but the pictures in the machine suddenly began spinning, whistles blew, lights flashed, and the indicator showing my money flashed, and then began adding pennies to my stock of cash, two cents at a time, each time punctuated with a ding recalling the days when cash registers tallied your purchases. Then the dings changed pitch and the two cents became 20 cents at each ding. Finally, the dinger stopped dinging. My cash value was now at $5.26. And then the machine went quiet. It was as if the machine and I had been in deadly combat and then the machine gave up, and -- I won.

I turned to Marjorie. “I’m going to cash out,” I said.

Between us, we had parlayed our free $10 to a new combined total of $8.14. I stuffed the money in my shirt and we hurried out before the casino manager could object. When we finally found our room, we couldn’t stop laughing at our good fortune.

The cruise ended too soon and we found ourselves at Marjorie’s sister’s condominium where we celebrated both her and Marjorie’s birthdays. The $ 8.14 didn’t go very far, but at least we found our room every night.

We used our rented SUV that was loaded down with our bags full of dance clothes to travel from her sister's place at Ft. Lauderdale along Alligator Alley to Naples. I thought we had gone to another country. It seemed as though we had left the realm of ordinary America and somehow reached a new universe where everyone was rich. In downtown Naples, we saw only expensive cars; a Bentley convertible, several Ferrari’s, a few Corvettes and other European sports cars - most driven by old white guys with unusually dark tans. I was a bit reluctant to shop in Naples since I didn’t think that I fit in real well, with my white face, cowboy shirt and bolo tie. We stopped at a coffee shop for a doughnut and $5 coffee, then visited a downtown shop named Fresh Produce. They didn’t have any. Instead, the store featured women’s clothing. I sat on the curb outdoors and watched the Bentleys pass by while Marjorie shopped.

After visiting our friends and mooching off them as long as we dared, we left Naples and its 80 plus degrees for the airport and the trip back to Detroit. We arrived home to a surprise: Roscommon’s weather was delightful, with our first sunshine of the entire winter and the snow and ice mostly gone. Except for my driveway and the road in front of our house, of course. I murmured aloud about how we couldn’t have everything, and how it felt real good to be home where the coffee is much lower cost and you don't have to worry about Bentley's being in your way. 

Morning Walk

As many of you know, my every-day morning practice is to walk to a neighbor’s house where several of us like-minded loafers gather for morning coffee. The walk is normally a pleasant traipse along a paved road through the woods with the neighborhood birds offering summertime serenades. I am pig-headed enough to insist on my walk independent of the weather and time of year. Even when it snows most days and the road is unplowed, I insist on my free coffee. On the occasions of unplowed snow, I find myself a little less buoyant during coffee and downright grumpy by the time I arrive home. The reason: the pleasant walk becomes a tiresome trudge as I negotiate a path through the snow. Of course, I try to find the easiest path; following whatever car tracks allow the least amount of foot lifting over the mounded snow.

 

 

I don’t normally complain about the lack of vehicle traffic down my road. My isolated neighborhood with but a few scattered permanent residents among a handful of cottages has little traffic most days and I like that. Except in winter. When the snowplow is too busy clearing major roads, the lack of car tracks down my road is a definite disadvantage for a walker. During the holiday, our sparse traffic was even lighter, often with nothing more than a single tire track in the snow. My trudge became a balancing act as the track forced me to place each foot in front of the other, a gait for which I am unsuited. Even the recall of a Christmas Carol that coursed through my brain wasn’t enough to distract me. Just before arriving home, I had crated my revised tune and in my agitated state of mind I decided to uncaringly thrust it upon those of you who have so little to do that you are willing to read my scribblings. If you decide to finish it, let me know.

 

Recite the following aloud to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells Jingle bells, jingle all the way, O what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh … ‘

 

“Wintertime, wintertime, winter every day,

O my Lord, it snowed again for my walk down the roadway, hey

Find a track, find a path, trudge thru the mounded snow,

O my Lord this is hard, as down the road I go.”