Hunkered Down in Roscommon

Hunkered Down in Roscommon

Like many people across the country, Marjorie and I are pretty much staying home because of the corona virus that is sweeping the country. Our progressive, smart lady governor has implemented strict guidelines to keep Michigan people separated and safe from the bug by shutting down restaurants and bars. My own theory was that alcohol helped kill bugs, but I have to assume the governor knows best so we have been trying to follow all the rules and advice that we hear on our glowing rectangles. (I did, however, stock up on booze just to hedge my bets.)

 Since we have fewer things to keep us occupied, we have been watching a lot of TV. The national news seems to have a new story every day about how the disease is getting worse by the hour. They also offer tips on what to do to avoid getting dead. I’m not sure the advice is any good. Everything I learn about the virus makes it seem that the nasty little bug is out to get me. For example, the corona bug is hardest on seniors and is also guilty of sexual discrimination since it strikes down men at twice the mortality rate as women. Besides, I am having a hard time following all the rules about avoiding the bug. They said don’t touch your face so I gave up shaving. That only lasted one day since my unshaven beard itched, and I touched my face over a hundred times that day. I also was unable to give up my morning walk to the coffee klatch attended by two or three other old codgers like me.

Obeying the advice about social distancing is also hard for me. Staying six feet away from people during conversation is hard since my hearing aids seem to have a conversational range of just under five feet.
The prohibition against touching someone or, God forbid, breathing the same air as someone else, is also tough after a lifetime of hand shaking and breathing.

Although our state officials are trying to help, the Federal government offers no help at all and our poor President is completely out of his league when he tries discussing anything more scientific than bubble gum. Fortunately, the infectious disease medicine specialist Dr. Fausi is on hand for all of the President’s news briefings to contradict him at each of his misstatements. Fausi is unable, however, to assist with any reporter’s questions as the President is quick to jump in with his stock answer: “You are a bad reporter!”

Even my doctor didn’t offer any help for me. “You seem well enough to me,” he said, “let’s just skip your next appointment.”

I lasted almost two weeks in trying to adhere to the rules. But today, I had enough. For the first time in two weeks, I suggested to the wife that we drive to town and enjoy ourselves with a few of the diversions that our village of Roscommon offers, topped off by a nice brunch at a local restaurant. She agreed with a surplus of energy suggesting she too, had enough of corona virus isolation.

We left in late morning and drove the six miles to town in hot anticipation of our first day away from home in (it seemed like) several months. Our first stop was a surprise that the wife sprang on me. She insisted that we stop at the Rite Aid store in downtown Roscommon. “Whatever for?” I asked.

“Wait till we go inside and then I’ll surprise you,” she said coyly. It sounded exciting, so I followed her in.

The surprise was something we had been waiting for, but not something I really wanted. It was time for our second shot to finish the vaccination process for shingles. The first shot was several weeks earlier, but I still had the memory of a sore arm. Only the chance to shop for some badly needed provisions made the surprise shot in the arm a little more bearable. Jim, the pharmacist who administered today’s shot remembered me. “Oh yes, you’re the fellow who screamed at the first shot I administered. We lost a number of sales that day when several customers left the store.” He paused for my response. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, but I did look about to see if any other customers were nearby. Since no one was listening, I thought silence was my best defense and the pharmacist went ahead with the business of plunging the needle deep into my arm without a trace of compassion.

After our shots, we had a pleasant interlude of shopping for supplies for the continuing sentence of home isolation. More about that later. “Let’s go to the car wash and get the truck washed,” I offered since I wanted to continue basking in the glow of purposeful activity outside on my own four walls. We did the carwash and wonder of wonder, I still had the coupon for the lower-priced multiple car wash, having not lost it in the jumble of a man’s truck stuff. It was like hitting the lottery on your birthday.

Since the shop that had my broken chainsaw was closed, I suggested to Marjorie we skip that adventure and that it was time for the main event of our outing, our purchased brunch that needed neither preparation nor clean-up. We were both hungry and both excited for our first store-bought meal in some time. Further, since we had no reason to debate our brunch site selection, I pulled the truck across the street and into MacDonald’s carryout line. Another treat; no one else was in line. We ordered our Big Mac’s and fries and cokes. The former 45 cent meal had escalated in price; the change from a twenty-dollar bill was a few singles and some nearly worthless coins. We took our brunch from the drive-thru lady and drove the two blocks to park alongside the river in the warm, sunny day that had managed to almost reach 32 degrees. We lowered the windows on the truck until the snow began to creep in like dust in a neglected closet.

The Big Mac’s hit the spot. We gulped them down before beginning the drive home to finish the best part of our outing- the shelving of our carefully considered and purchased essentials that would help see us through the next phase of our confinement. I had the honor of carrying the purchases from our truck to the house and therefore the pleasure of enumerating and storing each of the several dozen candy bars, the gallon of ice cream, the blow-pop suckers and, not the least, the mustard flavored pretzels that would go wonderfully with the homemade beer. Since we already had popcorn stored away and I had purchased wine and liquor earlier, we agreed we were well-provisioned for another stint of hunkering down in Roscommon.

Stay healthy.

Winter Walking

Winter Walking

I may have told you that I walk to my coffee klatch most mornings despite whatever the weatherman throws my way. This morning walk follows my lifetime habit of walking whenever circumstances afforded me the opportunity to enjoy the outdoors and I had the time for a leisurely stroll. During my working days, I often used a portion of my lunch hour to leave the office and walk around the neighborhood of wherever place I happened to be. In the summer months, wife Marjorie and I frequently walked together in the evening around the neighborhoods of our Clarkston, Michigan hometown just for the pleasure of a brief respite from the cares of everyday life.

After our three sons began to participate in Boy Scouts, their activities provoked Marjorie and I to begin longer hiking trips into the back woods. For several years, we devoted some of our precious vacation time to backpacking trips, walking through the woods with our camping gear, food and water carefully ensconced in bottles and bags on our backs. It was on one of those backpack trips that I discovered that some walks are harder than others. One section of a hike on the Pictured Rocks hiking trail passed over a sandy beach. The beach sand seemed to suck in each footfall, making every step a challenge to stay erect and balanced given the backpack and its burden during the warm weather.

We haven’t walked the backpack trails in some while as the rigors of the practice and the resultant soreness now seem more severe than the pleasures derived. Since my retirement, however; I have continued walking for exercise and pleasure, finding solace in the woods and rural character of our current neighborhood. Besides that, I consider it my duty to keep an eye out for any apparent wrongdoing to fulfill my role as neighborhood curmudgeon.

So, you see I have lengthy experience in walking and sufficient chutzpah to offer this treatise about foot-based ambulatory excursions in the North Woods. The first thing I learned about walking here is that the pleasure derived is highly dependent on the season, the weather, and the conditions of the pathway that I choose to walk upon.

Mosquitoes and black flies are a substantial risk in spring time walking as the critters grow to proportions that make blood donations unnecessary in warm weather. Cold weather walking generally offers freedom from the aforementioned pests, but it also eliminates the pleasure of listening to bird songs and the calls of frogs and other vocalizing critters. The walks in summer and fall are only occasionally disrupted by neighborhood visitors who seem to think it is their duty to disrupt the peaceful character of our wooded area by ear-splitting, open-air machines that travel much too fast for a motorcycle, snowmobile, or four-wheeler, all of which are operated without seat belts or other attributes signaling a dose of common sense.

My morning walks to the coffee klatch necessarily involves walking on the paved road that serves as my pathway to the neighbor’s house. A recent February morning’s walk is instructive of one of the many walking hazards that need exposure by a curmudgeon like me. You should first understand that roads are not the exclusive domain of motorists. Most roads in our nation, especially in rural areas like mine, were planned and built long before cars existed. The traffic expected by those who planned our roads was primarily walkers and those who drove horse-pulled contrivances. Car and truck drivers were late arrivals who began using the roads only in the last century. The point of this discussion is to illustrate that walkers, bicyclists, runners, horse drivers and other road users have both preemptive and legal rights to use our roads just as much as do motorists. Now, back to my winter walk of last month.

The roadway was covered in snow, about six inches, and no more than three or four cars had passed by judging from the few tracks through the snow following the route that the drivers believed was the actual road. The temperature was in the teens and the 20 mile per hour wind added to the challenge. I thought back to the beach sand and decided that this walk was my second worst as I trudged along, trying to minimize the effect of the snow by walking in the tire tracks. I was content with the silence of the walk as the snow provided a blanket on everything and my headgear further insulated me from almost any sound. Thus it was that I didn’t hear the approaching vehicle that had also chosen the center of the road for his pathway. He was traveling way faster than me, too fast for a snow-covered road. Suddenly the sounds of his motor reached my ears and I turned to see a pick-up truck heading straight for me. I lunged to the side of the road as he whipped by me, making no apparent effort to swerve to the side, probably the correct approach as a sudden move would have likely caused a skid. It was too close for comfort. Had I had been able, I would have spoken sharply to the offending driver as befitting my role as curmudgeon, but instead the vehicle continued down the road, seemingly oblivious to the close call.

In hindsight, I realize the driver was not guilty of malfeasance. He (or she) was just going about the business of daily life, in a hurry, and guilty of nothing more than being unaware of a solitary walker making his way down a snowy road on a weekday morning. His and my life almost took a terrible turn but, in the end, continued without so much as a ruffled hat or slipped boot print.

And now on the eve of the arrival of spring, our road has mostly returned to bare pavement save for the ice in front of my house and driveway. I expect that it too will soon be gone and with it the reminder of winter and the frailty of life while walking on a snow-covered road. And yesterday, as a postmark to an eventful week, I went grocery shopping with wife Marjorie in a nearby Amish shop. As I waited near the check-out line, a little girl of three or four bobbed about while her slightly older brother wandered nearby. She must have noticed me because she soon tugged her brother around the corner to point me out. “Look at the old man!” she said, to the smiles and chuckles of several nearby shoppers. I couldn’t help myself from smiling also, although I did slink away as soon as I reasonably could.