My Colorful Neighborhood -Now

This blog is a follow-up to my previous blog covering my neighborhood. You may wish to consult that earlier blog for a reminder of the colorful characters that I reported on then and now...

I am long overdue in giving the current status of my neighborhood. The homes, roads, and other physical features in the neighborhood has changed little over the last 20 years despite two fires that totally consumed two houses. One of those fires occurred at my plumber’s house. He told me about his fire when he came for a recent service call at my house. I was curious about his fire since he lives in a log house in the woods not unlike mine. He said the cause of the fire was a red squirrel who was searching for a warm spot and settled on his chimney. Of course, the squirrel decided to redecorate his new chimney home with an assembly of sticks and leaves that burst into fire upon the plumber’s use of his wood burner last fall. There was no report about the health of the squirrel, but the house was summarily destroyed when the burning roof fell in and destroyed virtually all of the interior.

The second fire was at the end of our road, on the horseshoe portion of the road next to the woods. The cause of this fire was also not the fault of the homeowner according to his brother who lived next door, this, despite his concern that the lids on some of the paint cans had not been replaced as you could smell the odor of paint thinner next door. The next-door brother went on to say that his wood-working brother had numerous wood-working tools. He explained that his brother had recently complained that one of his numerous power sanders had been giving him problems that included sparking when it was connected to the household power. I concluded that maybe there was a hint in his account about the cause of the fire.

Neither of the two fires are now evident as both neighbors had the fire damage remedied by the liberal application of funds provided by insurance carriers.

More important than the fires have been the gradual loss of the colorful characters to the ravages of old age. Betty Hoover was the first to go. She had fallen ill and was sent to the hospital for recovery. While visiting her there, I happened to meet her son who I had never before seen at Betty’s house. Apparently, the son was interested not only in Betty’s health as he turned to me and asked, “Does Betty still have that big screen television at her house?’

I didn’t know, nor was I as interested in Betty’s possessions as was her son. Some weeks later I learned from Jerry Boone that the son had insisted that Betty should no longer live alone and that he would take care of her. Jerry Boone reported that Betty called him from a distant state, saying that the son had dropped her off at a nursing home and suddenly abandoned her. She died soon after her call to Jerry. Apparently, owning a big screen television can be risky.

Bicycle Bill and Big Breasted Bertha both died from risky behavior owing to an excessive fondness for the frothy brew. Bicycle Bill’s case was a little more complex than Bertha’s case. Bill was like the character in the famous movie Forest Gump. His line, “I am not a smart man” seemed a perfect fit for Bicycle Bill, also known as Bicycle Ric by some.

The Bicycle man’s relatives must have realized his inability to handle money and therefore arranged for a periodic stipend to be delivered to him, intended for his food and necessities. At one point, Bill spent all the money available and demanded more. The relative in charge of money deferred, causing Bill to threaten that he would “burn your house down.” The threat was credible, and Bill went to jail. His jail term did him no good and shortly after he returned home, he fell sick and was no longer seen riding his bicycle up and down our road on the way to the store. Bill died soon after as there was no one to look after him. His now dilapidated home sits silently in the neighborhood, just off the paved road awaiting its demise as the vines and shrubs gather to hide the memories.

One arm Amos and Jerry Boone had a similar fate. Jerry was fond of Amos and he fell into the habit of visiting him every morning after we coffee drinkers departed. Amos had become somewhat feeble, apparently unable to safely negotiate the steps into his trailer house. One day, Jerry didn’t visit Amos until later in the afternoon. On that day Jerry found Amos lying in the snow comatose, apparently due to a slip and fall which landed him near his front door. The emergency ride to the hospital was unsuccessful and Amos died later that day. Jerry lived on a few more years before his daughter observed his state of failing health and urged him to move in with her. Jerry lasted only a few months until he passed peacefully. The coffee club meetings at Jerry’s house came to an end when Jerry left the neighborhood.

There are now just three of us remaining who are graduates of the coffee club. Of course, none of us could be properly labeled as colorful, although some future blogger may have a different opinion. We’ll just have to wait and see. I may need to enlist another blogger in continuing the practice of reporting on our neighborhood happenings.

 

        My Colorful Neighborhood, Part One

 

Then

 After I moved to Roscommon in 2002, it didn’t take long to realize that I had moved to a place where my new neighbors were a different lot than those in my old southeast Michigan neighborhood. Probably the most obvious thing in Roscommon was that 2^nd homes were de rigueur, as the French would say. Either that, or some other reason prompted the observation that half of my neighbors lived elsewhere and rarely visited Roscommon, except for the two-week period of deer hunting season when the cabins were suddenly occupied.

I should have guessed the reason for the empty homes when the builder of my new home inquired if I would be hunting in the fall. When I answered in the negative, he seemed genuinely surprised as he responded, “Isn’t that interesting?” It was as if I was the first person he had ever met who wasn’t a dedicated deer slayer.

It took some time for me to realize that most men in the area were hunters and/or fishermen. A tip off to that conclusion was the sudden appearance of parked vehicles in every patch of forest land whenever the game laws allowed men with guns to meander everywhere in the area. It wasn’t until I joined a group of fishermen who drank coffee every day at a nearby party store before I realized that hunting and fishing seemed to be a favored hobby but also a favored topic of conversation. I met men from my neighborhood at the party store who met there daily before departing for a favored fishing hole. Two of the coffee drinkers went fishing every day after purchasing their essential supplies including coffee, before departing for their fishing expedition. One of the stated goals of the two was to fish in every lake, stream and water hole in the county.

I fell into the habit of joining them for coffee at the party store during my morning walk and it was easy to join in the conversation by the daily inquiry “How was the fishing yesterday?”

One of the coffee drinkers, a man named Jerry Boone, lived at the junction of my road and M-18, the major highway leading to the village of Roscommon. When the store changed owners and the new owners seemed unlikely to succeed, Jerry Boone suggested meeting at his home every morning for coffee. Boone had lost his wife to illness recently, and he was one of those men who needed male companionship to maintain an even keel. We all agreed to move our coffee drinking to Boone’s house and thus began my in-depth indoctrination into the neighborhood. In the next several months I learned about several of the colorful characters who lived in the neighborhood and I wrote a blog about them. *

·       I looked up the old blog. It was published in 2005 and entitled “Odd Characters in My Neighborhood”. In the event that your memory is as unreliable as mine, here is a brief recounting of that blog and some of its leading characters.

“Some odd characters inhabit my neighborhood. We have Big-breasted Bertha, Bicycle Bill and One-arm Amos” (each of whom visits the party store regularly since they offer beer for sale.) Another colorful female resident was Betty Hoover. Betty’s colorful personality came from her status as the unofficial neighborhood gad-about, that is to say, she was a consuming gossip, able turn up at our doorstep any time with the latest neighborhood news.

“Surprisingly, the neighborhood store was robbed recently by thieves who walked ½ mile to the store from their get-away car. After the robbery, the thieves began walking back to their car carrying their loot and shotgun. The police responded to the 911 call and arrested them as they walked back to their car. Apparently, the thieves didn’t think they would be obvious walking along a road with a shotgun in hand right after a robbery.”

“In the next town of Grayling, odd behavior takes a slightly different form. Grayling has the most unusual sporting event in the state: a canoe race that runs 120 miles that begins with paddlers on foot, carrying their canoes. The race requires at least 14 hours of paddling and includes carrying the canoes over five dams. In order to make the race a little more challenging, it is held at night.”

“The neighboring town of Houghton Lake has their own brand of strangeness. They have an annual winter festival on the ice. The most popular part of their festival is the Beer Tent. In the middle of winter folks line up go in the tent where it is 2 degrees warmer than the minus 10 outside so they can buy ice cold beer. Sometimes they have to heat the beer to keep it from freezing. Another popular event during the festival is the polar bear swimming contest.”

“Before, during and after the winter festival, the strangeness continues as folks drive their cars and trucks onto the frozen lake. They want to fish through the ice without pulling their supplies on sleds so they drive vehicles onto the ice and park them. I didn’t think this too strange until I saw several motor homes lined up on the ice.” (You should know that when and if a vehicle breaks through the ice, it is automatically not covered by insurance. Those who suffer this misfortune always seem surprised that they are required to arrange having their vehicle pulled from the lake bottom within a stated time period at their own expense. It is said to be expensive.

All of the colorful characters formerly in my neighborhood are now gone and no new ones have arisen to replace them, as far as I know. Since I no longer have Betty Hoover and Jerry Boone to keep me informed, I may be in error on this point, but if I find differently, I’ll be sure to let you know.

There are few physical changes in the neighborhood that have occurred since 2002 when I first arrived. My mile-long road has been paved and then repaved from M-18 toward my house. Unfortunately, the pavement ends just as the road marks the outer limit of my property. From there to my driveway and then to the end of the road is gravel This must be a measure of my political gravitas inasmuch as there is no logical reason why the road paving wasn’t extended to the end of the road. Past my driveway, the road ends in a horseshoe curve that must confound uninitiated drivers who find themselves heading backwards toward M 18 on the road just traveled. The absence of a completed paving job must be a north woods characteristic as a man in a different neighborhood told me he asked the county officials when he could expect to have his portion of a gravel road paved. He said the county official replied with a question.

“How old are you?” When he replied indicating his senior status the official gave an answer.

“Your road won’t be paved in your lifetime,” he said.

There are two dozen houses that interrupt the forest cover along the road I just described and about half of them are empty most of the time. I don’t know any of the people who come and go during tourism seasons, but when I see them, I’m not surprised to see them in camouflage clothing, carrying a gun.

The few physical changes in the neighborhood over the past 20 years have been widely separated in time. My new house was the first built here in several years according to Boone. He has to be believed since his ancestor was, you guessed it, the real Daniel Boone family that came north. Jerry said his forbearer was not Daniel, but Daniel’s brother Squire Boone, one who was not so famous as his brother. Just to set the record straight, our Jerry Boone was a pleasant fellow and not an Indian fighter like the senior Boone.

Watch for the next blog that speaks to the current neighborhood status.