Ring!

The phone at the farm doesn’t ring very often.

That is neither good nor bad – just an observation. My work day has a reasonable amount of telephone time – no match for the emails, they remain steady up until late afternoon then lose their frequency. I’ll see 8-10 text messages a week.

The students have begun returning to Ann Arbor for the 2011-2012 academic year. Sure, there is a handful underfoot through the summer, but the real barrage started today – evidence: the growing traffic snarls on Hill, State, South University, and Liberty Streets. On an errand for work, I completely drew on 20 years of Ann Arbor driving experience, added ¾ of a mile to my trip and cut 15 minutes (he says smugly).

The thing that amazes me when I see the students is that they are always either talking on their phones or sending text messages. There are students who blindly step into the street while texting – I think deer show more developed survival skills when crossing the road. It is not unusual while walking back to the office from lunch (most likely from the Brown Jug – my frequent restaurant de choix) to pass some 30 or 40 students – all of whom talking or texting on their phones.

To whom are they speaking and texting? And what is the pressing commentary that must be shared constantly? In an earlier post, I admitted my Luddite tendencies, but I’m at a loss to understand the need for constant (insidious?) communication.

There were some recent news reports that some people manage to send 30,000+ texts monthly (or more!). I wonder if offering a running commentary on life threatens living one’s life; if the need to virtually connect will discount the joy of face-to-face connection; if living life through pixels on a screen will preempt the sights, sounds, smells, and face of the natural world.

Oh, sure, I admit a bit of drama in this observation. I do, however, believe in the restorative powers of solitude, in the comfort of silence, and the necessity of keeping some things to oneself. I also admit the irony (a much nicer word than hypocrisy) of bemoaning electronic communication whilst blogging.

Sigh, I wish the phone would ring.

(Special thanks to www.graphicshunt.com for the emoticon)

Grassroots civility

This is a suggestion I’m making to myself.

Some context: it seems that vitriol’s volume will not decrease as we come into this next election cycle. Collectively, each party – the lefts, the rights, the centrists, the tea party, the green party, etc. – have as much mud on their hands as their faces.

As Internet users, how many of us receive the various “gotcha” emails and how many do we forward? Celebration of YouTube videos (going “viral”) seems directly proportional to the level of cynicism with which they portray candidates and office holders. “Turn down the rhetoric,” seems to be code for “the other guys should shut up because we are right and they are stupid.” Whole groups of people are dismissed ad hominem because their views differ from our own (or those of the comedian de jour).

Yes, there are deep disagreements on the nation’s direction. I remember Tip O’Neill was Speaker of the House when Ronald Reagan was President. Publicly, they had some amazing quips about each other (O’Neill on Reagan: “Herbert Hoover with a smile.” Reagan on O’Neill: “[he is like Pac-Man], a round thing that gobbles up money".) But in President Reagan’s memoir, he describes their private relationship as always cordial - saying that they were friends after “6 pm.”

I worry that there isn’t even that "after 6 pm" collegiality any more – not only among the politicos, but also among us.

So, here’s my challenge to myself: for the entire election cycle, do not forward any “gotcha” emails, do not make broad indictments, encourage discussion by first listening, offer opinions when asked, expect that I can learn from everyone.

Even if I am 100% successful in my challenge, it may or may not affect the national debate . . . that still isn’t a reason not to try. Maybe, just maybe, it can affect three or four people who might inspire others.

Tomorrow, I'll have lunch with someone different.

Barn raising

Some five or six score’s worth of years ago, some hearty souls built the barn on my property. Close inspection of the workmanship reveals joints pinned together with wood pegs, oak logs tenon’d into tight mortises, massive beams squared by hand drawn knives, and a framework that stretches upward past varied height lofts to a ceiling well taller than most McMansions built today.

Barn raisings were not uncommon in the late nineteenth century. Neighbors would gather and help with the all the toils of framing, lifting, squaring, erecting, siding, painting. . . . Massive oaks were felled and turned into the beams and joists that would support farm activities for generations.

The trees were not hard to find as much of south central Michigan was oak savannah – lightly forested grasslands with oak trees as the primary timber. (There is a pretty good article in describing Midwestern savannahs here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oak_savanna#History)

It is not unusual to see a lone, mature standing oak in the middle of a farm field while driving through Midwestern farm country. I remember asking an old timer why a particular tree was left in the middle of a large wheat field. His answer: “they didn’t need it for a barn.”

The Blackdog Bog is a sixteen acre section of my farm that is permanently enrolled in the Wetland Reserve Program. This program, part of the USDA and originally enacted during President George Herbert Walker Bush’s term as president, purchases easements on marginal farmland and supports the restoration of the land to as near pre-settlement status as possible. Ten years ago, under the guidance of a former colleague and forever friend, Kathy Kos, the easement was secured, permits negotiated, engineering plans approved, and dirt began to move.

Some 20,000 cubic yards of dirt were excavated to create three ponds that are collectively just over four acres in surface area. After that excavation, native grasses were sown on the upland areas and, over the last few years, friends and I have planted over 300 trees.

A lion’s share of the of the funds I received for selling the easement went back into the barns – boards were restored, beams shored up, the exteriors were power washed and painted, and a couple got new metal roofs. Maybe it is the romantic in me, but I like to think that once again, the land provided the resources for a good old fashioned barn raising.

Garlic

 This year’s garlic was an exceptional crop. 

This is the second year I’ve grown garlic – thanks to the Mueller family who shared heritage cloves for planting. The garlic, when first dug, is purplish and its fragrance immediately reminds of favorite meals, good wines, first dates (that was a mistake – eating garlic, not the date!), and, of course, vampires.

Vampires were a muted terror when I was young. My exposure to the blood sucking undead ranged from 1922’s Nosferatu (directed by F.W.Murnau) to Sir Graves Ghastly, Lawson J. Deming’s campy caricature of the famous Transylvanian.  Mr. Deming hosted a Saturday afternoon movie program featuring cinema classics such as Godzilla, Rodan, and Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster. To a little boy in the 60s, the idea that someone could turn into a bat seemed awesome.

It wasn’t until 1984 that I became genuinely terrified of vampires –well, at least for an evening.

I was working swing shifts in the Romulus, Michigan terminal of a regional trucking firm based in Monroe, Michigan. Any given week, I could be midnight foreman on the loading dock, assisting dispatch on afternoons, or making dunning calls on the day shift. From time to time, I’d be lent to other terminals to cover vacations as a garage foreman, traffic clerk, or some other role.

One particular week, the shift was from 10 pm to 6 am – Sunday evening through Friday morning. Usually, I’d make the 35 mile drive back to Ann Arbor and fall fast asleep in my small (though beautifully appointed with yellow shag carpeting!) one-bedroom apartment on the south side of Ann Arbor. This Friday was no exception – I slept soundly from 7 am until about 3 pm. A friend had left a copy of 'Salem's Lot by Stephen King at my apartment and I decided to make a pot of coffee and begin reading.

A second pot - then a couple of cheap beers - propelled my reading through the afternoon. Somewhere around 6 pm, I remember reading this line: “The town knew about darkness.” (ch. 10, p. 208).

What followed was one of those occasions where an author sucks you in. Mr. King’s depiction of the dirty underbelly of a small town is disconcerting, iconic, and masterful. Reading this chapter offered a momentum that forced me to read to the end – all 427 pages. The story, for those who do not know, references vampires vis-à-vis human frailty Naturally, the vampires depict evil – but it is hard to cheer for the humans whose actions seem to nurture that same evil.

I finished reading around 3:30 in the morning and had as major a case of the heebie-jeebies as ever known in modern history. I turned on every light in the apartment, put a chair against the door – I was even lashing chop sticks together as crosses to defend myself from Kurt Barlow (read the book!).

Fear eventually melted to logic and I finally found sleep around 6 am.

Every so often, I start at chapter 10 and reread the account of Jerusalem Lot’s (the book’s fictional town) fetid underbelly. 

And that is why garlic’s reek is perfume-like and comforting.

Earthquake!

Very happy those friends and loved ones in Colorado and the East Coast did not get hit with “the big one” and wishing the best for those in the hurricane’s path.

As an aside, when I was living in the South, I learned a geographically-centric pronunciation for hurricane: herr-EH-ken – spoken quickly with an emphasis on the middle syllable. I also learned that pending storms (especially those that threatened snow) in the South are met with frenzied trips to the grocery for bread and milk. Apparently, loaves and udder juice are good luck talismans?

I remember hearing that my adopted home state Michigan is among the places on Earth least likely to have a natural disaster. We’ll have the stray tornado and, in my lifetime, two small quakes rocked the landscape, but don’t look for a tsunami forming on Lake Michigan or a volcano spewing in Marquette.

Michigan has unmatched freshwater shoreline, copper and iron ore, highly tillable soils, a bounty of timber, plentiful fishing and hunting resources, and miles and miles of natural splendor that contributes to its citizens’ quality of life and invites billions of dollars of tourism annually.

Lest I turn this into a “Pure Michigan” audition, let me offer balance. The recession started in Michigan years before it spread internationally. Urban unemployment rates are nearly as stunning as urban high school dropout rates. Infamously corrupt and quietly inept leadership have plagued pockets of Michigan. A quick scan of demographic tables shows that the citizenry has voted – not at the polls, but with their feet to find effective educational alternatives for their children, safe quarter for their families, and jobs in a number of other states. In short: Michigan’s natural disaster.

Romantics sigh and wish it not so; others harrumph and see it as inevitable behavior. Pundits pile plenty of pissy pity and polemics (nice alliteration, huh?). Maybe the situation in so many urban centers represents a most immediate and significant affect of global warming: human blood aboil with wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. Sound familiar?

Wrath fuels intolerance and hate; greed abandons love; sloth cheats the world of talent and industry; pride doesn’t reconcile; lust dehumanizes; envy deters accomplishment; gluttony steals the chance to share.

It isn’t difficult to inventory one’s own failings in each of these areas . . . that is actually the good news. As individuals, we are not powerless to act. We can begin each day with single steps to right our own ships and seek paths that inspire others. The old saw: “someone should do something,” takes on new weight: we are “someone.”

Random Kindness; Intentioned Gratitude

From an email I received today:


Hi Pete,
. . .

I do hope that all is well with you. I can tell you that I am on Social Security and seeking work teaching overseas. I remember you visiting me and helping me get the job at the trucking company. You are the only person who ever did either. So I am happy to learn that you seem to be doing well.
Again Thank You.

[name withheld]

It has been 26 years since I’ve talked to this friend – who ended up fired from the job referenced. As I recall, at the time, my friend must have been a little too embarrassed to remain in contact and the phone number I had was disconnected.

I wish I had invested more energy into staying in touch . . . three different jobs, two job relocations, and a whole lot of miles are reasons for not staying in touch. They are not, however, excuses.

One thing that does strike me is the power of what each of us may consider small actions. It was a cold December afternoon that I traveled to Lansing, Michigan in 1984 to visit. We had lunch; I saw where this friend lived and we reminisced about our time together in school – a rather unremarkable event.

That it still means something to this friend, is humbling.

Something else strikes me. How affected I am by receiving this email. That my perceived kindness didn’t stale and warranted a note of thanks nearly three decades later is a powerful thing to consider. I’m revisiting the many acts of kindness given for my benefit and going to make sure I’ve properly acknowledged each.

Let us go through life committing random acts of kindness while committing intentional gratitude.

Haiku

Many of you know I enjoy this poetry form:

Allegory of

the Cave – reminds all of us

perception isn’t.

Thanks Plato!

Huzzah!

I understand that Sleeping Bear Dunes on Michigan’s west coast was touted as the “Most Beautiful Place in America” by one of the network morning shows. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!

These “most,” “best,” “fastest,” “smartest,” etc. awards are especially gratifying when they acknowledge those things and places with which one has a connection – and are easily dismissed as “popularity” contests or rigged voting when one hasn’t a connection.

Case in point: Forbes Magazine recently published their best colleges or universities in the U.S. and listed my undergraduate alma mater as number 60 and my current place of employment (and where I attended graduate school) as number 93. It’s been fun playfully rubbing the nose of some in these findings, but all know that when the wind shifts, the measure changes, and the judges recalibrate their standards, all bets are off.

Regardless, I’ve just spent five days in Northern Michigan – about 60 miles north of the 45th Parallel – meaning I was closer to the North Pole than the Equator. No (as a note to my friends in the South), there were no igloos nor sled dogs. There were, however, vineyards, stellar golf courses, multiple star restaurants and gems such as the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.

Most importantly, I was in the company of some amazing people . . . two families allowed me to tag along as an adopted uncle, son, cousin, brother. As a private note to a few, thank you for your acceptance, generosity, and kindness!

My drive home today took me down the aorta of Michigan – US-127. Mostly a two lane expressway (well, there are a few areas where speeds are lowered and businesses abutted the byway), it was a delight to drive. . .especially since it (currently) had all of two quarter-mile construction zones – most unusual for a Michigan road in the summer (we kid that the most recognizable sign of summer isn’t “Leo” but rather, orange barrels).

Instead of going directly home, I stopped at friends on Clarklake – an area conveniently incorporated for the sake of property taxes that consist of a lake spanning a couple of miles wide, small coastal bars and convenience stores, and a number of homes ranging from multi-million dollar abodes to others that deserve a bulldozer and a rebuilding plan. My hosts, another virtual familial extension, treated me to a progressive meal of freshly imported olive oil and bread, a Venice inspired sardine plate, and a neighborhood potluck that brought gourmet goodies and down home fare . . . there was, of course, the mandatory “raft ride” around the lake more than partially fueled by libations!

I can only hope that any readers of these musings have the depth and joy found in the friendships I enjoyed this week. I can happily report that my face aches from smiling, my voice rasps from laughing, and my palate is purring like a kitten.

My arrival home was punctuated with discoveries in the garden and the promise of familiar pillows and linen . . . time for sleep. I hope everyone can anticipate a happy weekend!

Betrayal! Treachery! Perfidy!

When one’s capability to forgive is stretched . . . one’s heart wrenched . . . one’s soul stomped like a bug running across the kitchen floor. Grace under pressure a near impossible challenge.

Can a reasonable person even pretend to be civil to the perpetrator?

You may laugh at my rage, but last night was an evening of staring evil in the eye.

Eight of us were to celebrate an evening where departures were closely pending and we chose an old friend as our forum: _______ Restaurant in __________, Michigan.

Scanning the wine list, two wines caught our eye as affable additions to the evening. The white, a Pinot Grigio, was available . . . . our choice for a Cabernet was not – the only alternative was $90 per bottle. This was not a major “harrumph” but was a precursor to an evening of frustration.

Throughout the evening, we learned of varied staples of the restaurant being unavailable; including their signature scallop dish and (even!) proper red wine glasses. We were seated at dinner at 7:30 – food arrived at 8:55 . . . some proffered in stark departure from its description on the menu.

Yes, I’m being more than a bit whiny (as you have likely already concluded) . . . I did, however, experience a major service and food quality failure on Monday, 8/15 at another well-touted eatery . . .these failures are especially obvious when contrasted to the flawless pierogi service provided in between (August 16 post).

As I became more and more grumpy over the service (more so management problems than anything in the control of the server) I began thinking about what would be a soothing mantra. From the Merchant of Venice, by my buddy Bill Shakespeare:

“Let me play the fool:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? “

In other words, “shut up, Pete – smell some roses, enjoy the company you are with and consider your blessings.”

Still, I’ll probably eat in tonight.

Na Zdrowie!

Tonight, a meal fit for a Slav!

The menu featured varied versions of pierogi, golabki, bigos, kabanosy, kielbasa, and sauerkraut. The table was ringed by eleven friends all acquired in the last decade. We were pouring exotic brews with names like Zywiec, Okocim, and Dojlidy Magnat and other potables such as Kasztelanski Mead and Stawski Prawdziwa Zytnia Koszerna Vodka.

Conversation ranged from friendly banter (read, “the dozens”) to toasts of recently lost friends. By the end of the meal, this usually dessert-o-phile group was too stuffed to even attempt a bite of Berry Szarlotkal, let alone any of the other traditional Polish treats available.

While knifing through my kielbasa, I remembered a few meals at my paternal grandparents’ home on Bussendorfer Road in Hamburg, New York. Mary (nee Mazur) and Thomas Niedbala lived on a small farm where my father and his siblings were reared and my grandfather (as I remember) worked as a millwright and they kept a large garden and chickens.

Each year, the local paper would publish the photos and names of graduating high school seniors and my grandmother would review the list and circle the names of the “good Polish children” in that year’s class. My memories of “grandma” are mostly centered on food and her particular jingoism. Grandpa would show my brother and me the old chicken coop, his garden, and his various files, calipers, and other tools (many of which I have to this day).

I also remember my mother (a woman of pure Gaelic descent) trying her hand at various Polish dishes from time to time – usually with great success.

My garden has a healthy stand of horseradish with leaves approaching four feet in height. After the first frost, I’ll dig up the root, cut off the crown to replant, then bring these clumps of tear-inspiring-delight into the house for cleaning and grinding. If you’ve never ground your own horseradish, be sure to do it either outside or under a strong vent hood – and be prepared to enjoy a little bit of heaven.

Why do various tastes and smells arouse so many memories? I would expect each of us has a variety of sensory triggers that will stimulate seemingly random memories and emotions.

Polish food and horseradish obviously are some very positive triggers for me. Please pass the nalesniki.

Send "Lawyers, Guns, and Money"

Most of today, I’ve had Warren Zevon’s song “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” running through my head. If you haven’t heard it, there are a number of versions available on YouTube (I’m not posting a link because I don’t know if that is allowable in the Kingdom of Bloggerdom).

The song is fun – according to Mr. Zevon (on one of those YouTube videos), he wrote this song in Hawaii on “wet cocktail napkins after a long day of improbable and grotesque mischief.” Now, who can’t admire that?

Actually, consider the antic or the caper . . . the playful misadventure, naughtiness without malice, being bad to the extent that an apology is delivered to a laughing recipient. I recall being in New York City in the late 1980s with my pal Randy. He and I met in mid-town, had lunch at a place with an unpronounceable name, and intended a day in the city. He needed to do an errand, so he instructed me to wait for him at a place called The Monkey Bar.

True to its billing, the place was rife with images of apes – some climbing, some sipping from martini glasses, and others with a creepy gaze. My kinda joint!

Randy and I had this tradition that if one was kept waiting by the other, the one at the bar would order the missing rogue a martini and have it waiting. That day, Randy was more than a little late returning from his errand. I ordered a Heineken for myself and a martini for “my friend.” After a while, the Heineken evaporated, so I ordered a second – and a second martini for “my friend.”

By the time the third martini was ordered, it had caught the attention of a gentleman a couple of tables over. He had big round glasses, a receding hairline, and a charming smirk. I told him my invisible friend was thirsty – he laughed.

Shortly thereafter, Randy arrived. He fully expected one martini waiting, but three caught him off guard. He appropriately cussed me and we had a big laugh. The gentleman observing the scene laughed – and I’m certain looked a bit relieved.

As he and his party finished their meal, paid and left, the bartender said (in perfect Brooklynese), “Have a good day Mr. Simon.”

It was Neil Simon! And we made HIM laugh!

The balance of the day included blocks and blocks of city sights, smells, sounds, and other antics – including one that caught the attention of one of NYPD’s finest on horseback. Who knew it was a bad idea to steal quail eggs from Tavern on the Green and hurl them at buses? The officer shook his head and said, “wouldyacutdatout?”

If you do go TP your neighbor's house tonight, I won't tell.

Fore!

When the leaves are down, you can see my barn from the 16th tee of Reddeman Farms Golf Club. The club occupies the northwest corner of the section where my property partially fills the southeast corner. The course is mostly flat and wide open, but the back nine tends to tighten up and features a bit of roll.

As has been alluded earlier, my golf game isn’t stellar. I do, however, enjoy the game both as a participant and a spectator. Summer Sundays – especially when it is dreary at home – are ideal for watching the PGA, LPGA, or their respective senior tours. Today, watching the last major of the season: the PGA Championship.

Jason Dufner is (currently) leading with names like Hansen, Bradley, Verplank, Karlsson, and Toms sharing the leader board. Of this group, I only recognize Verplank’s name.

As a kid, I counted on certain names to continually emerge as leaders on the tour: Palmer, Snead, Nicklaus, Trevino, Player, Miller, Els, etc. And, the emergence of Tiger Woods as a force (former force?) on the tour has been (was?) exciting to watch. Mr. Wood’s troubles of late can be described as self-inflicted and karmic. I don’t know what is next for him, but I wish him no ill.

I do like, however, all the new names emerging in contention. To this fan, it suggests that there is a depth of talent unseen for a while on the tour.

At work, we have an annual alumni and friends’ golf outing that has grown from a nice little outing to a full day of fun, food, laughter, auctions, networking, and, yes, golf. One of the most gratifying elements of the day are the 60 or so student volunteers who come and invest a day helping the golfers, manning the hole-in-one contests, and adding an indescribable energy to the day.


Here's a shot from this year's outing (I'm the old guy in the middle of the front row):

These are students enrolled at the University of Michigan’s College of Pharmacy. They face a four-year, challenging curriculum that (hopefully) results in a PharmD degree (Doctor of Pharmacy). We graduate around 80 annually and many go on to additional education in the form of residencies, some enter the world of community pharmacy (think Walgreen’s) and others to a variety of other opportunities in the profession.

Earlier, I referenced the depth of talent on the tour. I can happily report a similar depth of talent among our students who, someday, will help contribute to the safety of the medications taken by our parents, children, friends, and us.

While a golfer can sometimes recover from a bogie (as I’m watching Dufner run a three hole string of them to erode his chances), our healthcare providers can’t miss a shot (pun intended). Sometimes, we need to recognize and appreciate the depth of talent that surrounds and assures our well being.

UPDATE - Well, Keegan Bradley ended winning in a play off. . .apparently, often errant shots haunt golfers too!

Victory salsa!

I got to do something kinda neat this morning.

I went back to my little peach grove and collected a couple dozen ripe, sweet, juicy specimens then swung by the garden to pick a few tomatoes, some banana peppers and a green pepper. Lastly, a trip out to my herb pots netted a handful of fragrant basil and a few sprigs of fresh parsley.

After halving and pitting the peaches, I placed them flesh side down on the griddle. Seeded and chopped banana peppers soon joined the peaches with a happy sizzle.

While the peaches and peppers seared, I chopped tomatoes and green pepper and mixed in minced basil and parsley.

Just after the peaches began caramelizing, I pulled them and the lightly charred peppers off the griddle. All were chopped and added to the tomatoes, green pepper, basil, and parsley. The mixture was tossed, lightly kissed with salt and pepper and is ready as my “dish to pass” at a friend’s gathering this afternoon.

The heat from the banana peppers contrasts nicely with the caramelized sweetness of the peaches – with a backdrop of the savory from the herbs.

What especially adds to the taste is that everything except the salt and pepper was sourced less than 50 yards from my kitchen. This is the second year I’ve had a garden and am finding it fun.

I remember years ago – in high school – doing a research project on the effort “back home” during WWII. People depended heavily on their gardens, on canning vegetables for use over the winter, and finding substitutes in the face of shortages. I interviewed a number of our then neighbors who were adults during that era and they told of collecting tin, buying war bonds, swapping gas rationing cards – never calling it a hardship, but rather, celebrating a chance to support the boys “over there.”

A friend’s mother worked alongside "Rosie the Riveter" at the Willow Run plant between Ypsilanti and Detroit, Michigan. From the Willow Run Airport website:

"Willow Run Airport has a rich history, dating back to 1941 when Henry Ford and Charles Lindbergh built the world's largest bomber facility at the airport.

During World War II, almost 8,700 B-24 "Liberator" bombers were built at Willow Run. During its peak production, the plant employed 42,000 people including 'Rosie the Riveter.'

I-94 freeway was extended to Willow Run by Henry Ford to ease transportation to the bomber plant.

After the war, the bomber plant was converted into a luxury passenger terminal. Commercial airline traffic was transferred from Detroit City Airport, and Willow Run became Detroit's principal airport.

In 1947, the federal government sold Willow Run to the University of Michigan for $1.00.

In the 1950's, some commercial air traffic began moving from Willow Run to Detroit Metro Airport. By 1966, all commercial airline traffic moved to Metro. Willow Run has been a cargo, general aviation, and executive aviation airport since.

In 1977, the University of Michigan sold Willow Run to Wayne County for $1.00.

Today, Willow Run is one of the largest cargo airports in the United States."
(www.willowrunairport.com/information/history.asp)

Now that I have a nephew taking his residence at Ft. Lewis in Washington State as a newly minted commissioned officer in the United States Army, thoughts about the boys (and girls!) "over there" take on a little more immediacy.  I'm proud of Mike and salute his wife Kelsey for their commitment to our nation.

Today, I made peach salsa from my own little “Victory Garden” and thought about the men and women protecting our freedoms.  It was kinda neat.

Favorites

I am generally loath to answer questions that start: “what is your favorite. . . .” There are so few elements of life and experience that can be ranked so simply.

For example, can one really determine whether Ella Fitzgerald scatting is better or worse than a Jimmy Page guitar solo? Is Monet objectively better or worse than Warhol? Does brunch at Commander’s Palace shine or dim when compared with dinner at K-Pauls? Is the feel of ermine sweeter than a child’s kiss? Does a rose smell better or worse than the aroma of cinnamon rolls baking?

When challenged to recall “favorite” experiences, I throw myself on the mercy of the court and ask if I can offer “top five” or “top ten” experiences within the topic at hand (lately, I’ve even asked for the caveat of experiences I remember!).

So, some top experiences by sense:

Taste: Mom’s “sticky buns”; Coney dogs and root beer at Monroe's Original Hot Dog; prime rib roasted on a spit; breakfast at 3 am with friends at the Pink Panther in Jonesville; a turkey sandwich on Friday after Thanksgiving; Silver Oak. . .

Smell: Apple pie cooking; coming rain, carnations, new cars, burnt tires and nitrous at the drag races. . .

Sight: a smile, a fawn, humming birds, Monet and Warhol, a shooting star, wild flowers, great architecture. . .

Touch: crisp cool sheets on the bed; a beloved’s hand; a congratulatory fist bump or high five; a hug; leather seats in a Mercedes . . .

Hearing: laughter; please and thank you; “good job”; Luciano Pavarotti, Bob Marley; that last school bell before summer; “you’ve made a difference” . . .

Please, sign in and let me know what I’ve missed.

Feasting

In 1993, I was flying from Memphis to Myrtle Beach and brought Hemingway’s A Movable Feast as my airplane read. If you haven’t yet enjoyed it, I fully recommend reading it – it is an account of his days as an expatriate in France in the 1920s.

Among the gems, there are a couple of chapters that describe his friendship with Scott Fitzgerald.  One, in particular, takes place over a lunch where Scott has a very personal problem that he shares with Papa. It was almost embarrassing how loud I was laughing on the airplane. I really recommend this book.

This edition was published posthumously (of note, it was 50 years ago this month that he took his life) and principally edited by his then wife Mary.

While stocking the Kindle, I discovered that a new edition has been issued (A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition, Scribner; Reprint edition, July 20, 2010). This one is edited by Hemingway’s grandson and features a forward by Patrick Hemingway – his son.

Patrick was half brother to John (Jack) who fathered the two actresses Margaux and Mariel and a third daughter. Patrick at one time owned a safari business during his 25 years living in Tanzania and is currently in Bozeman, Montana – where I got to meet him.

A very affable gentleman, he was full of wonderful stories including one about older brother Jack who at one point parachuted behind enemy lines during WWII – woefully distant from the mission. Patrick told us that Jack simply pulled the fly rod out of his pack and fished for a few hours. Jack eventually was wounded and captured by the Nazis.

I am currently reading this restored edition and enjoying every word. The stories related in A Moveable Feast and those shared by Patrick are of a different time. Of a time when men and women were immersed in the arts and their debates were over Cezanne, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and their passions were mid-American – hunting, fishing, sports, and finding gems in the rough. A time when honor was valued and defended and political correctness would have laughed away.

Hemingway also shares tips about writing in this book as well as other sources – one will always resonate with me. I paraphrase: begin each story or novel with the most simple and truest declarative sentence possible. As an example, the first line of The Old Man and the Sea:

“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.” 

I’m not sure if one can become an expatriate anymore – globalization may have stolen that opportunity. There is no reason, however, why we can’t augment our lives with literature, art, great food, and memorable conversation.

Where do you live?

About 20 years ago, several of us were in a friendly debate as to what constitutes a happy life. Many comments related to having sufficient resources, being self-determinate, readily accessing fun, and several other ideas ranging from the base to the spiritual.

As most moot exercises go, broad agreement was fleeting, yet – in a flash of Occam’s razor – a perspective emerged from Jerry Graf, a colleague during my Domino’s Pizza days: happiness means one can say “yes” to two simple questions.

Are you living where you want to live?
Are you doing what you want to do?

These are wonderfully grounding questions that can give comforting clarity or challenge one to make a change. Today I remembered these questions and began the process of answering them again. For such simple questions, it’s a tough process to reach a definitive answer. I did, however, challenge myself to at least address the first question this evening.

After parking the truck, I harvested some beans, tomatoes, and peppers from the garden and grabbed the digital camera (fair warning: my photographic skills mirror my ability to golf – you can tell I’m playing, but you wouldn’t want to study my form!). In about fifteen minutes, I encountered some pretty strong arguments that the answer about where I live is a resounding yes:

 Looking through the corn at the upper pond

Memories of seasons past


An abandoned milking station on the bottom level of the big barn

Ripening peaches



Queen Anne’s lace growing wild in the Bog

I wish I could take a picture of the peace and calm this farm offers me or digitally share the sweetness of the peaches and tang of the tomatoes. I guess it is only fair to offer an open invitation to my readers to come, relax and laugh. Just bring a dish to pass!

Yes, I do live where I want to live.  How about you?

Buzz

Just for background: I hate mosquitoes.

Yes, yes, I know, hate is a very strong emotion . . . its usual application is made by and against bigots, in reference to “the worst president in my lifetime” (regardless of party and integral to personal bias), and generally in reference to Ohio State (couldn’t resist!).

In the last three days, the virtual mosquito tap has been open on high and the little bastards have made their presence known. Today’s water cooler chat had inordinate attention to the buzzing little devils. I am, moreover, fairly certain I am not alone in my odium. I have noticed in the last two nights, while pulling up my driveway, the swarms’ attempts at transfusing my truck. I didn’t dally on my scoot to the house.

I believe I was nine, maybe ten, and the city of Monroe (Southeast corner of Michigan – gateway to Lake Erie, on the banks of the River Raisin, and a short mall run to Toledo) embarked on a mosquito control program that consisted of trucks laying massive fogs throughout the streets, parks, and neighborhoods of our fair burg. The trucks were smaller pickups with a device bolted on their beds that literally created a lingering fog that would make most Londoners jealous.

In the late 1960s or early 1970s, little over-thought was applied to insecticides . . . who knows, was it DDT? Other happy mixes of carcinogens? Or maybe an innocuous potion that had a placebo affect on the residents. It didn’t matter – it was fun to ride our bikes behind the trucks at full pace as though we were pilots breaking through low hanging clouds on our way to the great blue yonder.

Oh, make no mistake, we panted and wheezed in the clouds of “mosquito orange” but figured a chug of water was all we needed. It was a kick to push our bikes blindly following the buzz of the aerator and (I think I remember) there were status points awarded to anyone who could ride close enough to hang onto the back of the truck.

Yes, dumb. Yes, foolish. Yes, fun!

Here is what I know about a few of us who dove into the cloud: two are judges, one a commercial real estate pro, a couple of teachers and coaches, most are parents and/or grandparents, and me . . . almost successful!

I would not ever consider allowing children to repeat our steps (pedals?) . . . it could not have been additive to our health. I do, however, relish a time when we could just be kids without the constant furor of caution or litigious action. Yes, I expect a few harangues from that last statement.

Some of you may be movie buffs . . . remember that scene in Scarface where Pacino yells, “Say hello to my little friend” ??

That will be me and my fogger this weekend.

Thoughts on a Summer Solstice

Today seemed like a sonnet kind of day - a humble attempt:

The Solstice passed in a warm summer’s breeze

Daylight shrinks like an unwatered plant.

Summers of youth! Towheads with dirty knees

Why does time our youth supplant?

Now it’s golf, sun screen and hats,

Water bottles and Gatorade.

Diets devoid of evil trans fats!

Sprayed-on tans promised not to fade.

Dye my hair or get a Botox shot?

Morning pills and evening elixirs

Waking up at night for a trip to the pot.

Sigh, I guess it’s time for vodka and mixers.

Would I trade years of laughter to be younger yet?

Not on my life, not on a bet!

Hopeful seeds

The combines have been collecting wheat that was planted last fall.  None of my property is in wheat this year, but I pass by a couple of fields nearly daily.  What looks like a newly seeded lawn March – June soon becomes the “amber waves of grain” come August.

This weekend, I got to be around three very different young men headed to their first year of college: one, to the Citadel, the other two to the University of Michigan.  I’m fairly certain that none know each other, but there was a commonality that struck me:   the glimmer of excitement in each young man’s eyes.  If eyes could talk, “let’s get going – I want to start” was the message.

Daniel, the youngest son of some of my longest standing friends (I am careful not to say “oldest friends”), his father and I played golf in Dundee, Michigan on Saturday morning.  The course is a nine hole, wonderfully maintained, moderately challenging, family owned gem.  Jim, Daniel’s father, and I were in kindergarten together and he honored me by asking me to stand has his best man.  During the round, I rode shotgun with Daniel who is a very good golfer – I am not.  I did, however, manage to thread an approach shot between two mature elms, over a cedar, and near the green.  Feeling pretty good about my shot, I walked to the cart – Daniel said, “you hit it a little fat.”  He was right.

Connor, the oldest son of a couple I’ve come to know and admire these last ten years, greeted me at his graduation/going away party with a hearty handshake and million lumen smile.  He’s already started classes over the summer with hopes of getting ahead of the game come fall.  I know Connor the least among these young men, but what impressed me was that nearly every teammate of a peewee squad of Connors came to the party.

When John was born, a friend and I found a Red Rider BB gun to give as a baby gift . . . I’m fairly certain that to the extent that John’s father was pleased, John’s mother was displeased.  Such began my “uncledom” with John.   I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this fine young man discover many of his talents and, perhaps more impressively, areas where he needs to focus.  He’s a strapping young man with every opportunity within reach.  I’ll miss him while he is in Charleston.

I’m happy to report that we are once again planting quality seeds this fall. . .while the potential harvest won’t be ready in one spring, I invite readers to share my pride, anticipation, and optimism that these young men are part of a great future for our communities.  Good luck, study hard!

Cane poles

Warning to the sophisticated angler: leave the chartreuse-diamond-encrusted-double-spoon-weedless-buzz-bait-lure of the year at home. Catching a fish in the “upper” pond requires three simple elements: a cane pole, a can of corn, and a child.

Four or five years ago, a friend, Marnie, brought Katie, her 4-year old daughter, to the farm for a “day in the country.” This was a hard working single mother – as I remember, she had two jobs and relied on her family for childcare and, I suspect, groceries. She was a waitress at the small diner on Ann Arbor’s west side where I earned my current dosage of statins. She was working on an associate’s degree at Washtenaw County Community College as a medical technician. She was a kind person.

One June morning, somewhere between my sixth and seventh refill of coffee, we ended up in conversation about her daughter. Marnie bemoaned her daughter’s schedule that took her from home to her grandmother’s home, to a half-day school of some sort, back to home. Very little of the child’s life was spent outdoors.

I don’t have children. I do, however, remember the importance that mud, grass stains, sunshine, breezes, bug bites, and dandy lions contributed to my development. I especially remember the investment my father made helping me catch my first fish.

I choose the word “investment” very carefully. From this side of childhood, I can now appreciate the hundreds upon hundreds of investments my parents made on my behalf. In the 1960s and 1970s, my parents weren’t tasked with the frenzy of minivan deliveries many of my peers seem to oblige their children (my brother and I rode our bikes or walked to school, practice, games, friends’ homes, the store . . .). Instead, Mom and Dad’s investments were to give us tools and give us independence. One of my Mother’s favorite lines is that she “taught us to walk, then taught us to walk away.”

Dinner meant that the four of us sat at the same table, napkins in lap, passing to the right, and asking to be excused. Grace preceded every meal and there was no debate about the menu – what was served was eaten. Most importantly, however, was the conversation: an unforced sharing of the day, lessons on civics and civility, business and budgets, life and laughter.

We weren’t a Norman Rockwell painting, but we had a solid, respectful, happy family. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Back to that first fish. There was a sprawling campus across the street from our house that was the headquarters for the IHM nuns and housed a girls’ preparatory school. On the grounds was a pond with an island in its center accessible by a plank bridge. One afternoon, my father – an engineer (but don’t hold that against him!) – took me to the pond to fish for bluegills. Dad had bought a child size Zebco casting rod for me and I carried a can of night crawlers gathered from our driveway after the previous evening’s rain.

After two attempts casting, I snagged my hook on (what I was certain was pirate’s treasure) a submerged log and managed to snarl the reel beyond recovery. My knee high memories won’t let me confirm, but I’m fairly certain that this was the first time I heard a swear word. The engineer reared and he began to disassemble, detangle and suppress cussing.

I think I went after a grasshopper.

Dad was very busy and I noticed the bobber twitching where the line was still in the water. I grabbed the line, pulled up my trophy three and one half inch blue gill and brought it to Dad. He was sweating, frustrated, dealing with snarls of line . . . he also smiled and said, “good job.”

On the Bog’s upper pond, Katie’s laser-like attention span let her focus on fishing for up to 35 seconds at any one time. Somewhere in the mix of juice boxes, rainbow ponies, and icky bugs, Katie hurled a hook full of corn a full six feet out into the pond.

She caught a four inch bluegill. I was never so happy to have my own personal record broken.

November 14th can be loud

Loud with laughter, stories, exaggerations, boasts, shaggy dog stories, and bourbon philosophy. To about 750,000 Michigan citizens, November 14th brings more anticipation and excitement than December 24th. Perhaps an explanation is in order: opening day of the gun season for deer hunting in Michigan is November 15th.

On the 15th, schools see heightened absenteeism (among students and teachers!), auto companies, mills, small businesses – even churches if the date comes on a Sunday – see similar absenteeism. There used to be more than 1,000,000 licenses sold in the state annually, but the number has stemmed over the years as the popularity of hunting has declined due to a number of reasons. I offer no forum here to debate hunting – this post is about friends.

My neighbor (and lessee of 20 acres) tells me that the farm was active with dairy cows and pigs as late as the 1960s. The barn shown in the blog’s title photo was principally for the dairy operation with milking stations on the lowest level and hay storage above. Just to the left of the big barn in the photo is the old pig barn – resurrected as “the party barn.”

Called variably the Dawg House or the Honky-Tonk, the party barn is a collection of . . . of. . . well, it’s hard to describe without visuals (I promise a photo tour in subsequent posts). More importantly, the party barn is a gathering spot on November 14th for hunters and non-hunters to enjoy some of the previous year’s remaining game harvest, a libation or two, and the good fellowship of friends and laughter. The usual evening ends early (9ish) as most will arise before 5 am for the opening day’s hunt.

For years, one of the traditional stories told was from a tag-team effort by two bandits I’ve known for 25 years . . .and their friendship went decades longer. Jack and Gary were the definitive Mutt and Jeff for years . . . each had the other’s back and had both physical and emotional scars of many battles fought side-by-side.

The story that comes to mind (usually offered after one that involved a pool table, bar fight, or other geste) saw the two in a Northern Michigan bar during hunting season. As I recall, at the time of the story, the two were in their thirties and out for some drinks, laughs and, maybe, just maybe, a chance to meet a fetching lass.

And that fetching lass caught Jack’s eye early in the evening. She, whose name was never shared, was with a bevy of girlfriends enjoying the band at a dive some place north of M-68. While usually sufficiently cocky, Jack was unsure of his best approach – Gary sensed Jack’s unease.

“The best approach,” started Gary, Jack’s trusted wingman, “is to ask one of her less popular friends to dance first. Then she’ll see you as a good guy.”

Jack thought this was a good idea. So, he gallantly asked his angelic idée fixe’s friend to dance. She accepted and Jack escorted her to the dance floor.

Shortly into the second refrain, Jack looked to his left and saw Gary dancing with his angel.

While this may not evoke the same roar as its retelling annually caused in the party barn, hearing the story was one of the traditions that told us things were alright and that we’d continue to laugh together for years to come.

Tonight I learned of Gary’s passing.

While this loss is sad, this post is not. The laughter from Gary and other friends will echo for years across Blackdog Bog. . .

The old cherry tree

A spring of record rains, mid-summer's gasping heat, and the recent deluge caused the farm to turn green, to wilt, and now, to roar.  The field corn, merely a polite sprout through June and early July, is now a full fledged privacy fence both north and south of the main residence.

This vibrancy makes me smile.  Just as the happy taste of the garden's first ripe tomatoes or the bite of the year's new garlic are miracles (this stuff, after all, somehow showed up out of the dirt for goodness sakes!), so too is the energy one feels as everything turns green.

The price?  This year's price is the old cherry tree.

The old man has spent the last decade in nature's hospice.  You might note the emerging branch from the pallid remains of a once noble tree - it never made sense that this tree returned each spring and offered its tart treats.  The scarred trunk screamed, "I'm tired!"

At some point in early July, quietly, without drama, without last rites, the old man coughed his leaves and moved from tree to standing timber.

Those readers looking for a clever or deep analogy, I offer none.  This tree grew, produced fruit, and died.  I think of that person who took the chance on a sapling however many years ago - I hope he or she enjoyed the cherries as I did.  If there is a eulogy, let it be a hearty thanks to the person who trusted and invested in the sapling.

I've taken measurements and gauged the best direction to fell this standing timber.  A very surgical, careful removal is in its future.

That isn't the end of the story.   The eulogy will continue as I take the old tree to the mill, return to Blackdog Bog with some rich planks of cherry and cause a final incarnation in the wood shop (a bar? shelves? surely something that will help welcome guests).  Perhaps a simple table on which to enjoy freshly caught walleye - smoked with the help of twigs and scraps from an old cherry tree.

Toe in the water

Six years ago, I pronounced that I was done learning new technology and that I had adopted the pose of a Luddite.  This was, in part, a reaction to the IT elves insisting on a complete retooling of the office software (where's the freakin' sort button?) and, in a larger part, to denying life's forward progress.

Forward can be scary;  if you don't understand forward.

From the perspective of those days, forward meant aging, loss, disappointment, discomfort, change, dismay.  Forward meant losing what seemed happy, warm and safe.

I pause - I promised myself that this blog adventure wouldn't be full of maudlin introspective crap. . .looks dangerously headed that way.

Let me tell you about Shakespeare.  Maybe you met him; if not, you would have liked him.  Big dopey black lab who would fetch the remote, pounce on a dropped ice cube, greet each friend as the most wonderful part of his life, greet each stranger as the most wonderful part of his life. I got to share 14+ years with him and smile with every memory.  The blog isn't about him, but he did inspire the blog's name:  Thoughts from Blackdog Bog. 

The Bog is actually 16 acres of of a small farm I'm blessed to occupy just west of Ann Arbor, Michigan.  The 46-acre farm features moderately rolling topography, three ponds, wildflowers, rotated crops, and lots of laughter.  Since moving here in 1999, I estimate that I've had over 2,000 guests. . .yes, some repeats in there, but isn't that a good sign?

So, back to being a Luddite.  Never intended to be a blogger. . . the idea that my observations on life could be of any interest to others seemed a bit egotistical if not ridiculous.  However, after receiving some positive feedback from notes and quips on Facebook - and being ringmaster to a few Haiku-a-thons - I figure that putting some ideas forward (gasp, that word!) might provide a small service to some, a moderate service to a few, and a generally positive service to myself.  I will not, however, subscribe to the Twitter phenomenon - something I see as hourly updates on banal activities by those genuinely interested in being the center of the universe.

I just like living in the center of the farm.