Mark me down . . .

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s it, then. I’m going in.”

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

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

 

 

What da ya think?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill

Bill's Christmas Message

 

 This year I decided to forego the usual Pablum that I spew forth for the holidays and replace it with some honest, hard-hitting facts about the way things really are. And, just to make sure ‘ya get it, I added interpretations to what I wrote. ‘Ya got it?

But wait, before I get into it, I want ‘ya to know that if ‘ya didn’t get a Christmas card from me, it’s not that I wasn’t thinkin’ of ‘ya, cuz I was. I figger I should think about everbody I know at least once a year, and this is your time. (Interpretation): ‘Ya probably didn’t get a card ‘cause I was too cheap to buy one and send it to ‘ya. What is postage nowadays anyway, 15 or 20¢ a letter? Anyway, here are the facts of the matter.

Snow blankets the north woods as I write this and things seem to have returned to normal after a short fall and an early winter. I like it. (Interpretation): I still have leaves on the ground under the snow and several of my lawn and gardening projects that I didn’t get around to are now hidden.

This is a busy season for us as we scurry about getting our last minute holiday things done. (Interpretation): Like most years, I’ll probably wait ‘til the last minute to get my Christmas shopping done since I’d rather watch football.

Marjorie and I continue to enjoy our existing hobbies. (Interpretation): We are too lazy to learn new hobbies. Marjorie spends time sewing and quilting and we both enjoy dancing. As you may recall, we practice ballroom dancing and square dancing on a regular basis. (Interpretation): If we don’t keep doing it regularly, we forget the steps. Marjorie also continues her hobby of brewing beer and [here’s a new word I just learned] vinification – the production of wine starting with the selection of produce and ending with bottles of finished wine. I do my part in this process by drinking, just to show my appreciation of her efforts.

I am also enjoying the fruits of another hobby; the use of my firewood since I am deep into the wood-stove fire-burning season. I spent several months cutting, splitting, and stacking cords of firewood so I could enjoy it this winter. There is nothing better on a cold winter’s night than enjoying the warm glow of infrared energy as you sit by the fire in your long underwear. (Interpretation): It gets real cold here and firewood is a lot cheaper than propane.

That’s about all our news for this year. Oh wait, I forgot to say Mary Chrissmus to you and yours. We are hopin’ you’ens will enjoy the holidays in spite of hearing the cold, hard facts about us staying up here in the North Woods. When I was thinking about you, I guessed you wuz probably planning your get-away to some exotic place like Disney or the Islands. I’ve been thinking about our own get-away, maybe we’ll spend a few days in Detroit this winter - just to change things a bit,

Ho Ho Ho.

Confessions of a Pill Popper

While I was gainfully employed as an engineer, I took my good health as a given and paid little attention to what I ate, how much, and my lack of exercise. In those days, I believed I only had time for family and earning a living. When my doctor prescribed pills for high blood pressure one year and then pills for elevated cholesterol the following year, I decided to take a more active role in my health care. I became a pill popper, uneducated, of course. It was an easy transition for me, since I had been admonished for years by my mother and father, “take this, or eat this, ITS’ GOOD FOR YOU.”

My first venture into self-medication was with vitamins. Somewhere I had learned that vitamins were GOOD FOR YOU, probably from subliminal television ads that were popular in those days. I became a vitamin taker – a one-a-day man. Although I saw no difference in my overall health, I was assured by the ads that positive results might take years, and besides, how would I know what terrible illnesses were being prevented by the vitamins. So, I kept taking them. As for cholesterol, a friend told me that the absolute prevention of high cholesterol numbers could be achieved by the use of flaxseed. I began a flaxseed regimen that lasted only a few days: My spontaneous emissions of gas were just too embarrassing.

When I questioned my friend sometime later about the problems with flaxseed he said, “Oh, you should have taken flaxseed oil, the raw flaxseed causes severe problems with excessive gas.” It was a case of too little information, too late, from my former friend.

As I recall, that was about the time the celebrated chemist, Linus Pauling, issued his incredible news about the benefits of Vitamin C. Having studied chemistry myself, I thought that even his name sounded impressive, LINUS PAULING, pH. D, Chemistry. The Nobel Prize winner said that C was positively a boon to mankind and might even eliminate the common cold. I added C to my diet. When I got a cold that fall, I made inquiries about my use of the vitamin.

“Oh, you weren’t taking enough. You need massive doses of Vitamin C to prevent colds.” I think that answer came from a marketer of the vitamin

When my annual doctor’s visits continued to show the need for blood pressure and cholesterol medications, I redoubled my efforts in self medications. I can’t remember all, but Vitamin D, baby aspirin, chondroitin, seaweed, pills for added dietary fiber, and maybe even Chia seeds were on the long list of things that filled my medication shelf. And tea – as a tea drinker I began a lifelong search for flavorful tea concoctions that, are you ready, ARE GOOD FOR YOU. Of course, those teas always seemed to be the most expensive ones on the shelf.

And how could I forget fish oil? It was something about Greeks or fishermen who had low rates of heart disease and they ate lots of fish. Surely, fish oil is the answer, screamed the ads on TV. I added fish oil to my ever-growing collection of pills, take daily, thank you very much.

There must have been others like me who didn’t find health benefits from our pills. I recall a growing disillusionment with the pronouncements of my idol Linus. Easily swayed, I gave up first on Vitamin C and then, one-by-one, most of my other pills except for fish oil, baby aspirin and the one-a-days, now the specialized version for men, and the more expensive version for seniors. And, of course the tea.

The news in recent month about over-the-counter pills has not been good. Two months ago, I learned of a study that showed no benefit to regular use of vitamins nor fish oil. “A waste of money,” the newsman said. And today, Yahoo reported on research showing no benefits for taking baby aspirin. It seems the major benefit for each of these concoctions is for the folks who make and sell them. Imagine that.

Even more disturbing was the report on television last night about the expanded problem of heroin use in Middle America. The report concluded that a large part of the problem stems from the use of Oxycontin, both as a prescribed and illegally-obtained drug. The piece included a previous statement from the maker of the drug that their product had been shown to be not additive in 99% of the cases - now known to be untrue as the product is highly addictive over time. It must have been an innocent mistake by the manufacturer.

And now I learn that sassafras tea may not be good for me. The Indian who said it was, probably didn’t know that sassafras can be toxic to the liver. Hmmm.

I am beginning to think the answer of ‘taking a pill for that’, may not be the right answer. But wait, have you heard about the new seafood diet? I’m thinking of trying it – I’ll let you know.

Understanding the Election

 

 

 

Those of us who live in North Woods where I do are a little different from most folks. Some would say odd. The recent election is an example: Michigan is a Republic State that predictably votes Republican in virtually every election; yet I drink coffee with a collection of old coots that are diehard Democrats. Our morning assembly of coffee-drinking loafers would be happiest if only Democrats were allowed to run for elected office. Of course, there was much mashing of teeth and predictions of gloom this morning after the election results were announced and Republicans once again swept most offices.

Our reaction was unlike the braggart who said there are two kinds of men: those who make things happen and those who watch things happen. In our case neither applies – we wondered what just happened. The only thing we could agree upon about the election was that the conservative majority managed something that scientists have been unable to accomplish throughout recorded history: Time just moved backwards several generations.

We flatlanders seem to be out of ‘sync’ with the wider population. I just read a news story that said we Michiganders even talk differently with our made-up words about Yoopers, the Mitten, and pasties. Some North Woods Types seek clarity by using plainer, simple words. I just had my septic tank cleaned and a new man came to inspect the tank. As he and I stood together looking over the tank and drain field he remarked that he would need his tools to manage the septage.

“Septage?” I asked.

“I need my hoses to pump the shit,” he explained.

Getting back to the election results, I should say that I was happy about the outcome of the ballot issue pertaining to Michigan wolves. The proposal was like many of our political questions, to go forward it was necessary to vote NO. The bottom line was that we protected our fledgling wolf population by voting no on the ballot proposal. One win for the North Woods.

Maybe having a Republican majority in both houses of Congress will mean that Congressmen can work to get a few things accomplished besides their re-election. Nah, since they only work two days a week and all seem to enjoy being nasty, it is unlikely that anything will be accomplished. But wait, maybe that’s a good thing.

An Autumn Bike Ride (or) 'Ol Poopy Butt

‘Ol Poopy Butt

 

This is a true story, although you might not think so. I had trouble believing it myself until it was confirmed by the son-in-law of the speaker. The teller of this tale was ‘ol poopy butt herself, a proper and refined lady about my age who told the story during dinner. After I got home, I wrote down all that I remembered and I have tried to faithfully record her story verbatim. Since ‘ol poopy butt may be known to some readers, I’ll use a writer’s prerogative and simply refer to her as Linda M in order to protect her from unremitting ridicule by our mutual friends. Here is Linda M in her own words as I remember them.

 

“It was a beautiful fall afternoon some years ago when my family gathered at Mackinaw Island for a last taste of summer. Our family group of six adults included my two grown daughters and their husbands for this one-day getaway on Mackinaw Island. I had dressed carefully for the trip, even wearing a new pair of stylish, light blue Capri pants. We had taken the ferry in late morning, planning to spend the afternoon exploring the island before returning to the mainland in the evening. As we walked off the ferryboat, the first thing we saw on our right was a huge bicycle rental place. We planned our trip on the spur of the moment: we would rent bicycles and spend the afternoon touring the island, then enjoy a relaxing dinner along the shoreline in a pleasant restaurant before catching the ferry for our return to the mainland. A perfect day for a fall afternoon, we thought, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.”

“My daughter Tammy was always the adventurous one. She decided that her rental bike just had to be a bicycle built for two. No one else seemed to share her enthusiasm, so I agreed to join her as co-pilot while the other four adults chose solo bikes for our trip around the island. Since Tammy is younger, bigger and stronger, I agreed to ride behind her. Our tandem bike was a boy’s style bike with the high cross bar connecting the two saddles. I stood on a curb and mounted the rear saddle while Tammy steadied the front end. Once aboard, I held the bike for her while she mounted the front saddle and then we were off!”

“It took but a moment for our group to find our way on Mackinaw’s coastal highway. Leaving town behind us, we began the long counter-clockwise route around the island. It promised to be an exhilarating ride with the cool breeze from the lake cooling my sun-warmed face as we formed a phalanx of bicycles and pedaled along the flat coastal road. After a while, I noticed that our tandem bike seemed to swerving back and forth across the road so I asked Tammy about it.

“ ‘ Oh, didn’t you notice the horse poop? I am swerving around the piles,’ “ she yelled to the wind that caught her voice and sent it back to me. I began looking down along the road. She was right! There was horse poop everywhere. I thought the island people cleaned it up. Apparently, there are so many horses they can’t keep up. I noticed that you could tell the older piles from the fresh ones since the older ones consisted of little poo apples that were congealing in the sun to form one large pie – something you certainly didn’t want to hit with the bike or step in.”

“The trouble began after we had ridden several miles on the coastal highway and decided the eight mile-long road around the island was too slow and too boring. Tammy was one of the ringleaders who decided it would be more adventurous to turn left at the next road and cut across the island toward town where we could visit the shops and tourist attractions. I was enjoying the ride, so it didn’t matter to me which way we went. I pedaled silently behind Tammy.

[Mackinaw Island is essentially a large rocky hill sitting in the watery straits of Mackinac. Over millennia, the waves and the wind have gradually worn down the hill at the shoreline to provide a flat perimeter around the island where the coastal highway is located. Turning inland, however, one encounters the hill that rises to a peak in the approximate center and then descends to the fort and the village on the southern shore. It was this rise in the land that allowed the British to capture the American fort during the War of 1812 when the British landed unobserved then climbed the hill overlooking the fort. The American commander wisely surrendered.

Automobiles were banned on the island in 1898 when local residents complained that the new-fangled contraptions were scaring their horses. The ban has remained in effect since then. The result is a picturesque society of exclusive horse transportation and an excess of horse excrement on every public road until the hardworking road workers sweep it up. Most folks don’t mind the horse offal, but most folks don’t ride tandem bikes either.]

 

“We didn’t realize the road across the island would be quite so steep, especially for those on a bicycle built for two. Within minutes of our turn, we were slowing down and Tammy struggled to keep our bike balanced. As the bike slowed, we began to wobble and I began to get scared of falling. When it appeared we were stopping, I leaned to my left and hopped off the bike … almost. I had forgotten about climbing on the curb. When I hopped off my left foot hit the pavement but my right foot got hung up on the too-high crossbar. Since the bike hadn’t stopped moving there was nothing to be done but hop forward on one leg while the unaware Tammy continued to valiantly pedal forward. By the time I had made three or four hops forward, my yelling finally got Tammy’s attention. She stopped pedaling one moment too soon. We had just passed a horse pile, the congealed type, and my left foot landed square in the center. It was slippery, too slippery. My left foot slipped forward while my rear went down. In the pile.”

“I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn’t hurt, but I found myself sitting in a pile of horse manure* with my right leg draped over the bike. I remember that the rear wheel was still turning and Tammy was standing in front still holding onto the handlebars with her end of the bike still partially upright.

*[Modesty prevents me from quoting Linda M directly at this point. The plain talking woman actually used other, more colorful language to describe the pile of excrement. I recall that it was a simple word of four letters, commonly used as a prefix to the word house.]

 

“Everyone else in our party of six heard my yelling and turned back to investigate. Presumably, my husband and family members deduced that I was unhurt. At least I hope so because all I saw was, at first, a few smiles and then uproarious laughter. Even Tammy joined in. I couldn’t cry and so I too, finally smiled. The worst part was when other bicyclists rode by and my family couldn’t desist in the laughter and simply pointed at me as the visitors rode by.”

“After the hilarity began to subside, Tammy managed to disengage herself from the bike and then helped me get my right leg from the downed bicycle. I gingerly got up, carefully leaning aside to avoid the pile. [Editor’s Note – see prior asterick].

Some portion of the pile got up with me, sticking to my backside and offering a noteworthy color shift to my light blue pants, almost like a bullseye [Editor’s Note – see prior asterick]. The hilarity began again, this time including me. We couldn’t quit laughing. Finally, our sides hurt from all the laughter, and one-by-one, we regained our sanity. It might have been Tammy, I’m not sure, but one of the family looked me and established a new and forever family nickname -

 

‘Let’s go, ‘ol poopy butt.’ “  

Atttending a 50th High School Reunion

For some unfathomable reason, I attended wife Marjorie’s 50^th high school reunion – the 1964 class of Pontiac Central High School. Even though friends warned me off the event saying I faced an evening among strangers intent on impressing their classmates, I decided to accompany her to the party. If all else failed, I reasoned, I could find solace at the bar. Attending the party involved a long drive, an overnight stay, and a buffet dinner in a dark, oversize banquet room. There were more than 100 oldsters of every size, color, and temperament squeezed into the room elbow to elbow. I didn’t expect much, but it turned out to be a hoot.

 

The party planners had arranged for a first-class DJ for the evening. He had asked graduates to choose favorite music with the result that the party grooved to the sounds of the Sixties via The Platters, Elvis, James Brown, and a host of other ‘60s rock stars. The dance floor was overrun much of the evening. It was a treat to see folks dropping their canes and walkers to bebop to the golden oldies. I was tempted to shake my behind to the grooves when I thought no one was watching, but then I realized that I didn’t know anyone, so what the hey. I joined the mass of bobbing bodies and occasionally found a groove I could keep time with. Nobody seemed to care about dance skills or a lack thereof, including me.

 

Behind the DJ was a screen with a continuous loop of old photographs and movie clips playing, each extolling the golden days when we were innocent and full of wide-eyed wonder. The pictures of muscle cars and historic buildings were interesting. I pretended to be thrilled when it came time for the school fight song and cheering the school teams. It turns out that their school, Pontiac Central, had many things to brag about including two Olympic gold medal winners: US Champion and gold medal winner in diving - Micki King (1972, Munich) and track star and gold medal winner Hayes Jones (1964, Tokyo). Both athletes overcame adversity on their way to record-breaking careers with Micki King becoming a Colonel in the Air Force.

 

The planners had also arranged for a professional photographer to circulate among the guests taking both candid and staged photos for any group of graduates who wanted. The photographer loaded  all the old photographs and the newly created pictures taken on the spot on memory sticks. And, here is the best part, each attendee got a free copy of the memory stick before the evening ended.

 

The party included a program where anyone who wanted had a chance to speak to the assembled group. Amazingly, several speakers turned out to be not graduates, but TEACHERS OF THE GRADUATES. Marjorie whispered to me that while she was in school she thought the teachers were all old, but now, they didn’t seem so old, after all. One of the speakers was my personal favorite, a guy named Joe Cool. Of course, he looked anything but. Surely, his name must have been worth a million bucks. Imagine going on a job interview, “Hi, I’m Joe Cool.” Marjorie’s class also had another person with the same name as a famous journalist – Ernie Pyle, the WW II correspondent.

 

Although I thought I knew no one, wife Marjorie knew most. After being prompted by the school photo’s that each wore around their necks, but she was able to recall most folks even though her class was more than 400 strong. It was a treat to learn the stories of various folks and how they had migrated from Pontiac to places around the world. I was surprised that several are still working and some are looking for work. Late in the evening, I recognized one fellow that I had worked with at General Motors and he and I had a chance to reminisce. We were given a booklet containing the graduating class statistics. They were a bit sobering; 78 of her classmates had passed and more than 100 were unable to be located for the party.

 

The evening ended after I pooped out early. Marjorie had a good time, I had a good time, and it was satisfying to see some folks who looked older than I look and couldn’t dance any better. So, if you are considering attending a school reunion, my advice is to go, maybe you’ll find an old friend or someone with a name like Joe Cool. Imagine that.