Buzzards in Roscommon

 
At the very edge of our little village, on a slight rise, sits the village water tower. It overlooks a large field, the road, and then a grove of trees on the far side of the road. As befitting today’s technology, the top of the tower is adorned with any number of contrivances said to enable wireless communications. The top of the tower would look ugly and cluttered were it not for the regular visits of our town’s most striking avian guests, a venue of buzzards. [Venue – group of buzzards, as in a herd of cows]. The venue takes full advantage of the top of the tower as they rest on the assorted antenna and no doubt contribute their droppings to the array of electronic signals that are managed by the tower hardware. If you happen to receive an e-mail that seems full of it, my buzzards may be the reason.
 

    The buzzards are more properly known as Turkey Vultures – the most common vulture in North America but not the most beautiful bird you’ve ever seen if you come upon one as he feasts on rotting flesh. Even a close-up doesn’t improve his appearance as you can see,

although his red head (not shown in color here) may add a bit of drama for some bird lovers.

  

    But don’t judge the bird’s appearance up close, reserve judgment until you identify them on the wing. They are among the most beautiful of all birds as they soar overhead. Their graceful flight is almost effortless after they extend their wings and float on rising thermals. You can easily identify a turkey vulture by his graceful swirls in the air and his penchant for frequently tipping his wings in a seemingly drunken fashion to catch more air. Suddenly, sunlight catches his grey underside, turning it silver, and he becomes a flashing beauty, a majestic creature that can defy gravity.

 

 

     For me, the arrival of Turkey Vultures in spring heralds a pleasant escape from the rigors of winter. They appear to grace our countryside alongside the earliest arriving birds – about the same time as red-winged blackbirds and robins make their appearance, generally in mid-April. I’m always so pleased when they arrive I have a small celebration: one that centers on retrieving and then storing my assortment of snow shovels and moving the snowblower to the darkest, most distant corner of the barn in hopes that I won’t notice it for another six months. Of course, my celebration is nothing like that of Cleveland, Ohio where the entire town is invited to Hinckley Metroparks on March 15 to witness the arrival of the first vultures.

 

    The Hinckley Naturalist, a man by the name of Bob Hinkle, is the official buzzard spotter and he sounds the alarm when the first arrivals come to poop from their roosts on the edge of Hinckley Ridge. No one knows for sure why the vultures come to Hinckley, some old timers say they first arrived to feed on a dead Indian squaw who was left hanging on the ridge after being executed for witchcraft. Apparently she was tasty and so the birds kept coming back in hopes of finding more. That sounds fishy to me, although I did read somewhere that dead fish are the favorite foods for vultures.

 
     A typical adult turkey vulture is a big bird, averaging 30 inches in length, with a six-foot wingspread. But here is the kicker – an adult weighs in at only 2.2 pounds. 2.2 pounds! I did a quick calculation; even considering my superior brain mass, if I had the same physiology as a buzzard I should weigh no more than 17 pounds. Whoa! Back to the gym for me.
 
     We have about a dozen vultures that come yearly to the water tower. They leave our village every morning looking for food. They generally soar over open areas, watching for dead animals or other scavengers at work. I have seen them all around the county, several miles from the water tower. Unlike most other birds, in addition to eyesight, Turkey Vultures use their sense of smell to locate dead things. When they are in range of something dead, they fly low to the ground to pick up the scent of mercaptan, a gas produced by the beginnings of decay. As result of their superior ability in smelling, they can find dead animals below a forest canopy.
 
    But here is the best part; our buzzards return to the antennas on the top of water tower every evening to roost and talk over the day’s events. I like to think they are having cocktails before bedtime while they regale each other with stories about the big dead fish they found or the worst smelling skunk they managed to eat along the roadside. As the sun begins to set and shadows grow long, one by one, each of the big birds gently lifts himself from the tower with wings extended and circles a time or two to gain altitude showing off his beautiful underside. He then floats over the field, over the road and on toward the distant trees to disappear into the night without a single flap of his wings. A pretty good living, I think.

Wine Tasting

The Mrs. and I spent last weekend on Michigan’s Mission Peninsula. For those of you uncertain of northern Michigan geography trivia, the peninsula is the center (land) arm of a large W while the two wings of the W are the waters of Lake Michigan. A mile or so wide, this peninsula offers panoramic views of two unsalted blue oceans that can be seen simultaneously at some elevated spots. The region enjoys milder weather than most 45-degree latitude places in the world and has long been known as the center of Michigan’s cherry-growing region.

                The reason for our visit was a chance to mooch off friends who happen to own a lovely home situated on the northern tip of the peninsula. The specific occasion was the region’s annual Blossom Day (more about this later). The Blossom Day, we learned later, is on Saturday while on Sunday, local clerics head up an event known as The Blessing of the Blossoms.

                Blossom Day is a big deal that requires months of planning and coordination by a number of businesses on the peninsula. This year they hit it just right. On Saturday, the blossoms reached their peak and we were awed by the thousands (maybe millions) of cherry trees in full bloom as they sparkled in full sun on a day of perfect weather. The sea of pinkish-white cherry blossoms shimmered against a backdrop of blue while adjacent apple blossoms offered a slight concession to chlorophyll as their adjacent green leaves had just begun to form. It was a treat to drink in the view.

                Drinking is the second treat of Blossom Days. We learned that cherry-growing on the peninsula has a growing competitor; growing of grapes in the many vineyards has also become big business. Our activity on the weekend included wine tasting at several of the vineyards as they all celebrate Blossom Day. (I wanted to tell how many wine tastings I gulped down, but I lost track after the first seven or eight.)

All the wine was wonderful and I learned several things about winemaking from the head vintners who poured for us as some of the establishments. For example, did you know that the best wines are aged in white oak casks made from oak trees grown in France? Apparently, oak trees in the US are partial to whiskey [whiskey makers use US white oak] while exclusive wineries favor French forests. Further, wine barrels are toasted before use while whiskey barrels are charred and both are used only two or three times before they become bar stools in darkened pubs.

The most important thing I learned is that, contrary to my former belief, good wine doesn’t taste like grape pop. Rather, fine wines can have flavors like “a hint of pears and apples followed by a crisp finish with notes of bananas.” I never tasted the bananas. Perhaps it is because I have drunk too much dandelion wine that tastes like dandelions and rhubarb wine that tastes like rhubarb. Or maybe it is because the Mrs. ages her wine in used glass bottles instead of French casks, I don’t know. But, I did learn one thing; I will plan on more wine tasting even without waiting for Blossom Days.

               

Spring Break

For some foolish reason that I don’t remember, Marjorie and I invited our granddaughters to spend the first week of April with us. “Spring Break,” I believe it is called, a weeklong vacation for exhausted teachers who need to resurrect their sanity that expired in the interval after Xmas. I used to wonder about that, but no longer now that I have experienced and barely survived a week-long “vacation” with our two grandchildren.

 

                        Kylie (almost 8)          Shana (almost 6)

To be perfectly fair, I should say upfront that the two girls, aged almost eight and almost six, are well-behaved tykes without any particular phobias or issues that would render them ungovernable. On the contrary, they seem exceedingly pleasant and destined to do well in spite of their share of chromosomes that stem from my side of the family tree. It is just that the two of them seem to have unreasonable expectations - things like eating several times a day, avoiding naps and bedtime at all costs, and requiring Gramma and Granpa to be their competitors in the dozen or so games that were required each day.

 

It was exhausting. Most days I was too busy to indulge in my regular naps. That, and the vigors of the day-long activities just about did me in. In fact, during the days the little darlings were here, I had to extend my cocktail hour considerably to maintain my balance that is tenuous at best.

 

The week began with the obligatory egg preparation and follow-up Easter egg hunt. We decorated about a thousand eggs and then planned a menu of egg salad sandwiches for the next month or so. After that all-morning diversion, my job was to hide the colored eggs around the yard for the afternoon hunt. The task was problematic since snow covered about half the normal search area in what will become a lawn someday if the temperature ever gets above freezing. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the experience of finding eggs last most of the afternoon so I could tire them out enough for an early bedtime for them and a leisurely evening for me. To make the egg finding a little more difficult, I began putting eggs in the woods along the lawn. At first, I ventured just a few feet into the shaded area to deposit my eggs. Then, after I had a mere dozen eggs remaining and I had run out of good hiding places, I trekked deeper into the gloom, laughing fiendishly as I secreted the remaining globes among the pines. I was hoping for a devilishly long and memorable hunt for the little beggars.

 

It took me about 40 minutes to secret the eggs under leaves, behind trees and balanced on tree branches in the deep woods. When I finished, we gathered at the porch with the two little ones straining at my pant legs till I blew the whistle to begin. Off they went, chattering as they ran. I headed indoors for a hot coffee to warm my innards. Before I had finished my first cup, I heard the girls on the porch. They had finished the egg search. It took them ten minutes to find all my eggs. Ten minutes. Every egg. Apparently, my grandkids are the kind who can search out eggs by smell or some sort of X-ray vision as they hunger for the glory of the conquest and the sugar high from the chocolates in the plastic eggs. I looked at my watch. Another eight hours till bedtime. Marjorie suggested that we play a game. We played our first game of the day while munching on chocolate bunnies.

 

The next day was similar to the first with a trip to the swimming pool instead of an egg search. Except in this case, the reverse occurred as I finished swimming in about ten minutes while the girls were just getting warmed up. No one except me wanted to leave so soon. We compromised; the girls swam and cavorted in the big and deep pool while I lounged in the warmer kiddy pool, whining about having to stay so long. After the swim everyone was hungry so we headed to the nearest restaurant. Then it was back home for another kid’s game.

 

The games were a both a blessing and curse. Here is an example. By the fourth day of their visit, Wednesday evening, I was a little groggy since I was again too busy for my afternoon nap. Hence, I was less than enthusiastic when it was determined that we would play a rousing game of Cadoo! We decided on partners, the eight-year old and me, Marjorie and the six-year old (since the two of them speak the same language). Despite my groggy brain, my partner and I pressed our age and experience advantage to take a quick lead in the game that became spirited as the evening progressed. My grogginess disappeared as I scored point after point with cleverly drawn figures that allowed my perceptive partner to guess their meaning. Then the unthinkable happened - our opponents began to gain on us. The tension in the air became palpable as our lead began to evaporate, point after point. My team suspected the opponents were using unfair techniques. (Since the five-year-old was unable to read the game cards, Marjorie whispered the instructions from each card to her). It was OK as long as my partner and I were winning but when the tide began to turn, we suspected the whispering included forbidden hints about the answers. Surely, my loyal wife of 40-odd years wouldn’t stoop to such nefarious tactics!

 

Then it happened. The tenth point of the game brought us to a tie. After my partner and I had worked long and hard in making figures from clay and correctly acting out words, the opposing sneaks had managed to tie the score. The final and determining point of the game was at hand, their turn to act out a word, our requirement to guess the meaning. If we guessed the word, they would win.(This game is kind of backwards to normal scoring) The five year old and 65 year-old whispered intently while we waited nervously as the sand began to spill from the hour-glass timer. Suddenly, the little one stood as still as a statue while Marjorie began slathering her from head to toe with a make-believe something. Done with the slathering, she then made preparations to eat the little girl, her very own little granddaughter! We watched in silence, utterly confounded. Neither of us had a clue.

 

The last granules of sand dropped from the hourglass. It dawned on me that since neither of us had the  foggiest idea about the meaning of the charade, WE HAD WON! YES! I did a quick high five with the almost-eight-year-old while the almost-five-year-old looked on sadly. Our team, the almost-eight -year old and me, made a quick circle around the table for another high five, while we celebrated our win bowing to the make-believe stadium full of cheering admirers.

 

It took another half hour of discussing the game before we were able to convince the girls that it was bedtime. The almost-six-year old demanded a replay but I begged off with the ‘need our rest’ excuse.
By the way, the losing word the opponents were required to act out: corn-on-the-cob. Sometimes, the heavens smile on me, I murmured as I drifted off to sleep.

 

The rest of the vacation included climbing sand dunes, hiking in the woods and lots of restaurant time plus several get-even games involving rolling dice and figures on game boards. I drew the line at “Pretty Pretty Princess” although I think Marjorie and the girls were involved in that endeavor several times. The week sped by. I hope the girls have nice memories of their spring vacation. I hope to rest up before we invite them for our annual, ‘little girl’ camping trip. (We are brutes for punishment).

So You Think You've Got Problems

Marjorie and I just returned home from a vacation tour of South Africa and we learned that things are pretty good in the ol’ USA, despite my views of our Congress and its ineptitude. South Africa, on the other hand, has problems that make ours look like child’s play. Our 25-day tour, Highlights of South Africa, took us to their biggest cities as well as the requisite visits to several game preserves for photographic safaris. We came home enlightened and with a ton of pictures.

Our bus, boat, and airplane travels throughout the African countryside revealed a fascinating kaleidoscope of nature’s varied ecosystems. Deserts, savannahs, forests, mountains, and farmlands dot the country. It seems a big land. Most of the scenery away from the cities is of vast open spaces undefiled by ugly blots of man-made habitations since most people in South Africa live in a few large cities. One of the largest cities, Cape Town, is a beautiful place as it is flanked by Table Mountain and edged by the Atlantic Ocean. Most of their cities are like most modern cities anywhere with tall buildings of shiny glass and highways, cars, bridges and roads. Attractive, modern houses surround central downtowns in close-fitting arcs convenient to city parks and sports facilities.

But then we learned that most people don’t live in these convenient cityscapes. Instead, upwards of 70% of the people live in townships, those far-distant housing centers where blacks, Colored, and Indians live and commute daily to their jobs in the city where they cater to the needs of whites who live and work in the central areas. Townships were created during apartheid when all non-whites were forcibly moved from their former homes and sent to remote areas to live according to a government card assigned to each that defined their race: black, Colored, or Asian/Indian. Even though apartheid ended 19 years ago with the release of Nelson Mandela from prison, many former practices of subjugation continue. Nine percent of the people in South Africa (whites), largely control the remaining 91 % (black, Colored and Asian/Indian) through a variety of practices that are very slowly being eroded. An example, some in South Africa’s wine industry recently disputed the claim that they underpaid (black) workers in the vineyards. They paid full wages they claimed, even though 2/3 of the wages paid were in the form of wine for their workers.

Despite their disadvantaged position in life, all of the blacks that we met; hotel workers, drivers, maids, guards, waiters and waitresses, cooks, tour guides and those we talked with in the townships, all seemed pleasant, cheerful and optimistic that things are improving. The statistics don’t support their optimism. Time magazine reports that since the end of apartheid in 1994, whites have seen an increase in wages of 40.5% while blacks have suffered a loss of 1.7 %. The corollary is that less than 1 % of whites are in poverty while 40% of blacks are. South Africa has the world’s highest discrepancy in income with whites being very rich and blacks being very poor. So, what is the result of this domination of one race by another? One of the undoubted results is crime. The perception is that South Africa suffers from extraordinary levels of crime with theft, household burglary, and homicide being in the forefront with gun homicides 4 times higher than those in the US, which is saying something since we rank among the highest in the world. Like us, South Africa has a’gun culture’ with a high percentage of residents owning guns.

We saw the consequences of these statistics everywhere we visited. Virtually all property owners felt compelled to bound their property with tall fences or walls, many topped with razor wire. Those without walls used iron fences with each post tipped with sharpened lances. We had dinner at one home and the owner had to first collar his two German Shepherd guard dogs before we could enter the property. Each of the hotels we stayed in had guards at the entrances. Our tour guide cautioned us against traveling alone and using the money machines unless we did so in a group. A strange way to live, it seems to me.

South Africa’s other problems are equally disturbing. Their unemployment rate is 25% (of course, the highest unemployment is suffered by blacks) and their health care is woeful with AIDS being particularly virulent. One incredible statistic is that 20% of South African blacks suffer AIDS. We visited an orphanage and supplied fruit to children that were orphaned largely as result of the AIDS epidemic. Like little children everywhere, they were a treat.

We wondered why Mandelo and his ANC (largely black) political party hasn’t made more progress with these problems. The answer is that the problems are hard and the government is weak. The ANC has been wracked with corruption with several ministers having been found guilty of theft. Further, the competence of many of the leading officals is questionable, one has only a third grade education and another is a witch doctor. Really. Witch doctors are still in vogue among some of the indigenous tribes. It will be some while before politicians of their caliber are able to resolve their problems.

The plant and animal world of South Africa is the exact opposite of the human world as it is stupendous. We visited the best botanical garden I have ever seen, the most engaging jungle along a mountaintop overlooking the Indian Ocean, and oodles and oodles of creatures in the bush both big and small. One particular treat was the evening the elephants decided to visit our cottages and devour everything in the manicured garden area. That was after the local hippo had decided to use the swimming pool one night. Those big creatures have a way of doing whatever they want.

So, we had a good time on our vacation. Call if you want to come and look at a few thousand of our best pictures.

 

 

Old Dogs are like Old Men

Even though I have been a dog fancier most of my life, I am still learning and my dog Marshall is the current teacher. Marshall is an old dog, 13 years old as of last November, and he seems to be running out of patience in teaching me, especially when it comes to something that he wants that I don’t understand. In those cases, he stands directly in front of me and stares with his soft brown eyes holding mine in a steady glare. I always break. After a while, I get up and give him a cookie since that is his most frequent demand and, even if it isn’t what he wants, he accepts it as a substitute most of the time.

One of the things that Marshall has taught me recently is that old dogs are a lot like old men. For one thing, Marshall doesn’t suffer fools easily. If a puppy happens by, Marshall sniffs him a few times and then walks away as if to say ‘you aren’t worth my time’. And he won’t allow a puppy or a strange dog to give him a thorough sniffing either. After the obligatory sniffs at each end, Marshall demands that the stranger desist and he gives a warning bark to show he means business even though that is definitely impolite in dog-language. It is kinda like me hanging up the phone on a pesky salesman.

Marshall’s age is beginning to show. He likes spending most of his time on his bed and in the morning, he has a harder time getting up to start the day. I’m like that too. Some days, the bed just feels better than the cold floor. When Marshall finally completes all his yawns and stretches and decides to move off his bed, it is apparent that he has stiff joints. He moves gingerly at first, one step at a time, and then slowly gets his motor going to full speed which is only slightly above idle.

After Marshall finally gets going, I take him for a morning walk to the neighbor’s house where I drink coffee with other old dudes. Marshall is welcome at the coffee-drinking club and my buddies all take turns in handing out pieces of crumbled dog cookies to the little beggar. He had a high time begging cookies for several months until the vet noticed he had put on several pounds. “No more cookies,” the vet demanded. I tried explaining about the cookies to Marshall but he wouldn’t have any of it.

The vet suggested replacing cookies with carrots. It sounded like me trying to enjoy broccoli instead of a hamburger but I decided to try it anyway. And, just as wonders never cease, Marshall liked the carrots. He would gobble them down like hungry relatives at a wedding feast. I got in the habit of carrying a pocket full of carrots every day on our morning visit to the coffee klatch. The carrot ruse worked for several days until I learned that old dogs don’t seem to digest carrots so well when I found a generous pool of them along with green bile and other nasty -looking substances that Marshall had thrown up on his bed. After that, I put Marshall on a strict carrot rationing system.

One of the most telling symptoms of Marshall’s aging is his gradual loss of decorum in the matter of eliminating body waste. His ‘bathroom habits,’ as we would call them, have definitely changed. Marshall always used to have a delicate nature and he showed as much by being discrete in his manner of heeding the call of nature. Almost never did I have the distasteful job of cleaning up his poo as Marshall generally went to the woods at the edge of our lawn to do his business. Day after day he would find a different, but secluded spot to make his deposit. If nature called while we were on our morning walk and he was on the leash, he would walk to the edge of the road as the signal for me to give him more lead. Thus warned, I would loosen the leash and he would wander to the woods to find a suitable place for a deposit. I always looked away discretely and Marshall returned the favor by attempting to cover his deposit by kicking dirt over the soft brown mound before walking away.

As Marshall got older he spent less time in searching for the perfect place in the woods or alongside the road to make a deposit. Instead, he would head for the nearest patch of weeds, squat, make a few perfunctory kicks and walk away. Sometimes, he would even look me in the eye as he performed his routine, apparently unembarrassed by his performance in full view of onlookers.

This winter, Marshall’s age seems to have provoked him into to moving one notch lower in doggy world of ‘I don’t care who sees me poop.’ On many mornings during our walk, he stops me abruptly with a pull on the leash to squat. And then he poops. In the middle of the road. Fortunately, his lack of decorum matches my devil-may-care attitude and we both continue on our morning walk after he relieves himself, neither of us with a care in the world. Fortunately, it snows most days so that we don’t have to look at the prior day’s deposits.

Despite the title of this piece, I don’t have a direct parallel with Marshall’s poop habits although the wife would argue that my habits in choosing clothes to wear each day would qualify for an award in “least amount of care” category. She thinks my purple gloves are unseemly for a gentleman and my habit of wearing a baseball cap on most occasions is oftentimes a foul. I tell her that I am not playing that game any longer and I like my gloves and my priceless collection of baseball hats.

Marshall’s age and lower energy has made caring for him easier. His main focus is eating and sleeping and he excels at each. This focus is most noticeable in the evening during our television time. He lays on his bed in deep sleep until I get off my easy chair for a snack. My quiet movements seem to interrupt some sort of energy field he maintains; by the time I open the refrigerator door he is standing beside me. I don’t know how he manages to awaken from a deep sleep and move his aching bones so quickly, but he does. I generally stand looking at the open refrigerator and he stands looking at me. I always break and Marshall gets a snack along with me. He isn’t losing a lot of weight.

So the dog is changing as he gets older. Like me, he is not old, just older. Although he can’t run as fast nor jump as high as he once did and he is sort of prickly when things don’t go his way, he is still a loyal dog and I’ll miss him when he is gone. Just don’t make either him or me angry. We don't like being older in the first place, so it doesn't take much to make us angry.

Grandpa Bill

Bill's New Book

I have a new book!

 

Letters From Roscommon took me about ten years to write as it consists of a series of letters that I wrote to friends and family after moving to Roscommon, Michigan. I chose to re-work and publish 34 letters that focus on my observations of life in and around our county, although I suppose they could have been written about your town or any place else for that matter. Here is a sample, chapter 18, My Colorful Neighborhood.

 

My Colorful Neighborhood

 

Dear Friends:

 

It occurred to me the other day that I have never told you about my neighborhood and the folks who live here. Since several of you haven’t yet visited here, I decided I had better tell you about the neighborhood before you come so’s you won’t be frightened when you do get here.

As you know, a large share of Roscommon County is forested and my neighborhood is no exception. My neighborhood consists of a thin layer of houses that hold back the forest on either side of a road that wends its way to the single nearby business that is on the main road, the party store.

The road winds from the party store, past my house until it disappears in the forest and circles back on itself for no particular reason. From the party store to the circle in the woods is a little more than one mile, a perfect distance for a morning walk. On my walks, I regularly see many of my neighbors and I wave to one and all. My waving has provoked several brief encounters and a few longer visits that have yielded a treasure trove of information about those who live nearby. Like any treasure trove, some of the pieces are better than others. In the case of my neighbors, some are more interesting and more colorful than others.

Sadly, in the short time of my residence here, we have lost a couple neighbors. Betty Hoover has left due to old age and general orneriness while Big-Breasted Bertha passed on due to her weakness for the frothy brew that she bought regularly at the party store. Betty was a transplanted hillbilly who served as the neighborhood police, gossip control officer, and caretaker of Roscommon moral standards. Bertha’s appearance and drinking habits led her to become the most colorful for several years running according to Betty.

With the recent departure of the two women, two men have risen to take over the mantel as our most colorful characters: Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos. Both are north woods men through and through. Bicycle Bill has a slight a mental deficiency, although that doesn’t count for much in the neighborhood. More important is Bill’s penchant for riding his bicycle winter and summer, through rain and sleet and snow, even though the snow may be a foot or two deep in the middle of the road during some winters.

Bill rides to the party store every day where he picks up his supply of beer. He stops frequently along to way to pick up any empties he happens to find to recoup some of his money via the bottle deposit. Bill and I are in competition to see who can find the most empties along the road, but I suspect he has an edge on me since he is recovering some of his own bottles and he can cover more ground on his bike than I can by walking.

Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos pretty much look alike except for Amos’s one arm. Both wear full beards, stocking hats much of the year along with hunting coats and camouflage pants when there is a hint of cold [about ten months of the year]. Actually, their wardrobe is like that of many of us Roscommon men so there is nothing to be gained in this description.

One-Armed bases his claim to the title of ‘Most Colorful’ by his unequaled delight in making jokes about his one arm. Recently, he had a large cast wrapped around his one good arm with only his fingers visible. He explained that he had received treatment for carpal tunnel. He nodded at his good arm with the bandage, “I’m getting this removed next week.” He waited a moment, then added with a grin, “Not my arm, just the cast.” On another occasion, Amos warned a young boy not to pet my little dog Marshall. “I tried it once and this is what happened to me,” he said, as he held up his stub.

The houses in the neighborhood are diverse from year-round homes like mine to small cabins that are used mainly by hunters. The two houses on the circle in the woods are owned by two brothers who used to run a saw mill in their backyard making pallets and lumber. The brothers are now retired and they closed their saw mill after the wind blew the roof down. They still have piles of lumber in their back forty and a pile of sawdust about the size of the Mount of Olives.

Next to my house are three cabins used only occasionally. Each sits in a wooded lot that abuts a swamp. One has indoor plumbing while the other two boast ‘a path to the bath’ – a local description of a cabin whose outdoor toilet sits atop a hole in the ground. Beyond those temporary abodes is a permanent home of a recently retired man who lived an entire winter in a small trailer while his house was being re-built following an invasion of black mold. I continue to hope that black mold is not contagious since my house is not too far distant from his.

Next to the black mold house is more forest, two ordinary houses and then the last house on the road that is owned by my retired friend (he is not particularly different than most with his beard, camo, and stocking hat) who fishes most days of the year. When he isn’t fishing, he and I meet at the party store for morning coffee after my walk. We are often joined by Amos, but never by Bicycle Bill since he is too busy drinking to sit idly and complain about the weather and poor fishing. We are often joined at the party store by two friends who teach at the nearby college.

Although they are both interesting, neither rises to the level of most colorful so I’ll dispense with more information about them except to say that one is a man with two first names and the second teaches math and computers. (I suspect he is not to be trusted.) The man with two first names teaches something about plants and he knows all about Stinkhorn, a smelly fungus that grows in the forest around me. I don’t know what else he teaches or what else he knows, but if something stinks in the woods, he is the man to see.

 

So, there you have it, a complete description of my neighborhood and it’s characters so you’ll recognize it in case you stop by for a visit. See ‘ya real soon.

 

 

Grandpa Bill

                                  

If you are interested in this latest linguistic adventure, the paperback book is available at Amazon.com for $8.95 or, if you are into low costs like me, it can also be obtained on your Kindle for $2.99. Alternatively, if we live nearby, give me a shout and I can obtain a copy for you at a lower shipping cost.

Bill's New Book

I have a new book!

 

Letters From Roscommon took me about ten years to write as it consists of a series of letters that I wrote to friends and family after moving to Roscommon, Michigan. I chose to re-work and publish 34 letters that focus on my observations of life in and around our county, although I suppose they could have been written about your town or any place else for that matter. Here is a sample, chapter 18, My Colorful Neighborhood.

 

My Colorful Neighborhood

Dear Friends:

 

It occurred to me the other day that I have never told you about my neighborhood and the folks who live here. Since several of you haven’t yet visited here, I decided I had better tell you about the neighborhood before you come so’s you won’t be frightened when you do get here.

As you know, a large share of Roscommon County is forested and my neighborhood is no exception. My neighborhood consists of a thin layer of houses that hold back the forest on either side of a road that wends its way to the single nearby business that is on the main road, the party store.

The road winds from the party store, past my house until it disappears in the forest and circles back on itself for no particular reason. From the party store to the circle in the woods is a little more than one mile, a perfect distance for a morning walk. On my walks, I regularly see many of my neighbors and I wave to one and all. My waving has provoked several brief encounters and a few longer visits that have yielded a treasure trove of information about those who live nearby. Like any treasure trove, some of the pieces are better than others. In the case of my neighbors, some are more interesting and more colorful than others.

Sadly, in the short time of my residence here, we have lost a couple neighbors. Betty Hoover has left due to old age and general orneriness while Big-Breasted Bertha passed on due to her weakness for the frothy brew that she bought regularly at the party store. Betty was a transplanted hillbilly who served as the neighborhood police, gossip control officer, and caretaker of Roscommon moral standards. Bertha’s appearance and drinking habits led her to become the most colorful for several years running according to Betty.

With the recent departure of the two women, two men have risen to take over the mantel as our most colorful characters: Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos. Both are north woods men through and through. Bicycle Bill has a slight a mental deficiency, although that doesn’t count for much in the neighborhood. More important is Bill’s penchant for riding his bicycle winter and summer, through rain and sleet and snow, even though the snow may be a foot or two deep in the middle of the road during some winters.

Bill rides to the party store every day where he picks up his supply of beer. He stops frequently along to way to pick up any empties he happens to find to recoup some of his money via the bottle deposit. Bill and I are in competition to see who can find the most empties along the road, but I suspect he has an edge on me since he is recovering some of his own bottles and he can cover more ground on his bike than I can by walking.

Bicycle Bill and One-Armed Amos pretty much look alike except for Amos’s one arm. Both wear full beards, stocking hats much of the year along with hunting coats and camouflage pants when there is a hint of cold [about ten months of the year]. Actually, their wardrobe is like that of many of us Roscommon men so there is nothing to be gained in this description.

One-Armed bases his claim to the title of ‘Most Colorful’ by his unequaled delight in making jokes about his one arm. Recently, he had a large cast wrapped around his one good arm with only his fingers visible. He explained that he had received treatment for carpal tunnel. He nodded at his good arm with the bandage, “I’m getting this removed next week.” He waited a moment, then added with a grin, “Not my arm, just the cast.” On another occasion, Amos warned a young boy not to pet my little dog Marshall. “I tried it once and this is what happened to me,” he said, as he held up his stub.

The houses in the neighborhood are diverse from year-round homes like mine to small cabins that are used mainly by hunters. The two houses on the circle in the woods are owned by two brothers who used to run a saw mill in their backyard making pallets and lumber. The brothers are now retired and they closed their saw mill after the wind blew the roof down. They still have piles of lumber in their back forty and a pile of sawdust about the size of the Mount of Olives.

Next to my house are three cabins used only occasionally. Each sits in a wooded lot that abuts a swamp. One has indoor plumbing while the other two boast ‘a path to the bath’ – a local description of a cabin whose outdoor toilet sits atop a hole in the ground. Beyond those temporary abodes is a permanent home of a recently retired man who lived an entire winter in a small trailer while his house was being re-built following an invasion of black mold. I continue to hope that black mold is not contagious since my house is not too far distant from his.

Next to the black mold house is more forest, two ordinary houses and then the last house on the road that is owned by my retired friend (he is not particularly different than most with his beard, camo, and stocking hat) who fishes most days of the year. When he isn’t fishing, he and I meet at the party store for morning coffee after my walk. We are often joined by Amos, but never by Bicycle Bill since he is too busy drinking to sit idly and complain about the weather and poor fishing. We are often joined at the party store by two friends who teach at the nearby college.

Although they are both interesting, neither rises to the level of most colorful so I’ll dispense with more information about them except to say that one is a man with two first names and the second teaches math and computers. (I suspect he is not to be trusted.) The man with two first names teaches something about plants and he knows all about Stinkhorn, a smelly fungus that grows in the forest around me. I don’t know what else he teaches or what else he knows, but if something stinks in the woods, he is the man to see.

 

So, there you have it, a complete description of my neighborhood and it’s characters so you’ll recognize it in case you stop by for a visit. See ‘ya real soon.

 

 

Grandpa Bill

 

If you are interested in this latest linguistic adventure, the paperback book is available at Amazon.com for $8.95 or, if you are into low costs like me, it can also be obtained on your Kindle for $2.99. Alternatively, if we live nearby, give me a shout and I can obtain a copy for you at a lower shipping cost.