What hero has changed your life?

Take a second. Who are the teachers, mentors, friends – accidental acquaintances – who changed how you think, challenged your values, and made you better?

These are the small “H” heroes. They may not have capes, masks, or six-shooters. They may not be among the widely acknowledged capital “H” heroes who serve in our military or in service to the public welfare (and yes, often not widely acknowledged enough). Your life may have been saved, altered, redirected, enhanced, affected, humbled – bettered – because the small “H” heroes came into your life.

In my personal scan, I can name several people – and have acknowledged some in this enterprise. I’d like to tell you about one gentleman who taught me that joy exists.

Bob came to work early every day. His uniform was always pressed; his hat worn a bit too low on his head. He had thick glasses, was often difficult to understand, but wanted to please. Bob was about 35 years old, African American and had Down syndrome.

I had been given charge of the warehouse and fleet operations for the equipment distribution division during my tenure at Domino’s Pizza.  We stocked and shipped ovens, uniforms, pizza peels, and promotional items – anything that wasn’t food and was necessary for the pizza stores. It really was a plum job as the quality of the warehouse team, the delivery and service drivers (I had a rule against using the term “truck driver”), and the technicians was such that my role was to provide tools and resources and stay out of the way. Hence, I had some time to research additional ways to fulfill our mission – one that included being an example of a business a community would treasure.

Enter Bob. Through a service organization in Washtenaw County, there was an initiative to place adults with disabilities into jobs. Job coaches would be present during the first week or so of the placement and then come back periodically to check on the individual’s progress.

As an aside, I’m certain that among the job coach’s most important functions was to teach people like me that disabilities were not contagious – that I wouldn’t, through contact with these men and women, somehow “catch” Down syndrome. Yes, I admit idiocy.

Bob was placed with us mid-summer in the late 1980s. His orientation seemed to go well – he was to assist our technicians in our used equipment division (these magicians would refurbish pizza ovens, coolers, etc. for resale to stores with limited cash flow). He was charged with sweeping, emptying trash bins, and generally being that extra hand needed during the course of business.

After the first week, Bob’s coach stopped coming into work with him.

The ensuing Monday, I happened to be on the warehouse floor and didn’t see Bob. None of the technicians had seen him – I'm embarrassed to say that we too quickly assumed that without a coach, Bob wouldn’t be a productive part of our team.

Coffee got the best of me and I headed to (well) the head. In the restroom was Bob – smartly ironed, hat too low, and seemingly frozen. I’m pretty sure the conversation went this way:

“Hi Bob, are you coming out to sweep today?”

“My coach isn’t here.”

“That means you can do it on your own.”

“I can?”

“Yes, you have my permission”

I’d never received such a heartfelt and spontaneous hug prior and haven’t since. And, he went off to work.

That became part of the morning ritual – he would seek me out; I’d tell him he could do it; he’d hug me.

Two weeks later, Bob’s first paycheck was delivered to my office. It seemed appropriate to call the team together to present this check. We assembled near the reception area and I asked Bob’s immediate supervisor to bring him to us.

Without undue fanfare, I presented Bob with his check. Did you know that there was such a thing as a paycheck dance? I learned it that day and will never forget its exuberance and joy.

Someone asked, “What will you do with your check?"

Bob, with immediate and certain voice said, “I’m taking my mom to dinner.”

There wasn’t a dry eye present – and two are tearing as I write. Thank you Bob.

For information about Down syndrome, see:  http://www.ndss.org/index.php

Blessings and Calories

Tomorrow, I will begin my fifty-first year. I find it remarkably unremarkable in terms of self-assessment and personal world view. No angst, no feeling that I’ve lost my youth – instead, a happy calm and excitement for the future.

I think I know why.

With no formal birthday celebration planned, quite a number of friends reached out with invitations to gather and mark the occasion while sharing a meal.  This past Wednesday, I had a delightful evening downtown Ann Arbor with Bruce and Laurie (Martinis, Mussels, Scallops, Wine).  Since then, I’ve had a social schedule Paris Hilton would envy.

Thursday, I shared dinner with Don (NY Strip, Wine), Friday morning saw Rich, Jeff, Lori, Betty, Brad - colleagues from around the University – gather with me for breakfast (Eggs Benedict, Birthday Cupcakes) and well wishes. Friday dinner (Lobster) with Frank, Bev, Grant, Anne, Mark, and Don was followed with an afterglow in the party barn where Curt joined us (Assorted Stinky Cheeses and Wine).

After an energizing field trip with some of our students Saturday morning, I returned to the farm to await Vicki – a friend since 1979 who drove up from Cleveland. Vicki brought a key lime cake, a sassy dip, and the well wishes of my adoptive family back in Ohio. Oh, and if you get to the farm, you will likely notice a new sign! During the day we watched Michigan post a victory (Taramosalata, Crackers, Beer).  Over dinner (Martinis, Lamb, Potatoes, Garden Veggies, Cake, Silver Oak!), we remembered many friends from years gone by and laughed more than a little too loudly!

Today, Sunday 9/25, I was hosted by friends at their home in Dexter, MI for lunch (Enchiladas, Taco Salad, Corn Salad, Fruit, Carrot Cake, Wine). Looking around the table at Craig, Denise, Jack, Dianne, Patty, Vicki, Bruce, and Laurie it started to really sink in how blessed I am with so many incredible friends. Adding another layer of happy is the barrage of well wishes hitting the FB page, the cards arriving from throughout the country, and the phone calls reminding me that, like George Bailey, I'm the richest man in the world.

Tomorrow, breakfast with Mom (Bob Evans – what do you think, sausage gravy?), followed later by a gathering of bandits I’ve gotten to know at my “stop on the way home” place on the west side of Ann Arbor – while I asked for mercy (please, don’t bring a cake), I think my call will go unheeded. I have plans to see other friends on Tuesday evening, Thursday evening, and hopefully through next weekend. Also, I'm anticipating all the reunions scheduled the weekend of October 7th at my undergraduate homecoming events.

I truly am blessed with the friendship and love of many wonderful people.  "It's the thought that counts" is a true, true statement.  I hope every reader can identify with this feeling.

There is one gift I should have put on the wish list: a new belt. This one is getting a bit snug.

UPDATE:  Big smiles from happy hour with the bandits - Linda, Greg, Melissa, George, Danny, Pam, Tammy, Howard, Dave - and my other friends who joined the fray:  Elaine, Paul, Fanny, Sonia, Karen, Heidi.  Oh, and we noshed well (Bruschetta, Ribs, Tapenade, Cabernet and Chocolate Cake)!

Bikes and bombs

When I was a kid, we could get anywhere on our bikes. Of course, the length and width of our town’s borders were, at their furthest, a scant five to eight miles. On weekends or over summer, we’d possibly ride some 10 or 20 miles just in the course of our day – it wasn’t exercise (as a goal), but it was how we negotiated life, friends, events.

My childhood was spent in Monroe, Michigan – a sleepy little town between Detroit and Toledo that was once a hub for paper mills and housed a Ford Motor Company plant. From the official website of the City of Monroe (http://www.ci.monroe.mi.us/):

Founded in 1785 and the site of a War of 1812 battlefield, Monroe is a community that has a shared vision that seeks to balance the opportunities of economic development with the stewardship that is required for historic preservation. Monroe is also Michigan's third oldest community. With a population of nearly 23,000, Monroe is located about 17-miles north of Toledo, Ohio and about 35-miles south of Detroit. The City of Monroe was incorporated in 1817 and is also the county seat of Monroe County.

Monroe's location on the west shore of Lake Erie and its River Raisin made it a natural crossroads for food and transportation that attracted the Potawatomi Tribe of Indians who first lived here. Later, French missionaries, fur trappers, and settlers came for the same reasons. Residents and visitors today continue to find Monroe to be a welcoming crossroads of historic and natural treasures. The city is home to the National Register of Historic Places War of 1812 River Raisin Battlefield. Monroe's natural environment is showcased and preserved by having the 260-acre Eagle Island Marsh unit of the Detroit River International Wildlife Refuge located in it. And the inland sea of Lake Erie offers boating, swimming, camping, wetlands exploration, hiking, and fishing, at the 1,300-acre Sterling State Park on the shores of Lake Erie.

Two days ago, a car bomb exploded in Monroe, Michigan.

This so doesn’t make sense. Car bombs explode in the Middle East, Northern Ireland, portions of South America, and, in the case of domestic ideology or foreign malfeasance, in city centers such as Oklahoma City or New York. Car bombs do not explode in Monroe.

I reckon that this was just over two miles from my childhood home. This wasn’t Beirut, Belfast, or Baghdad. This was Monroe.

OK, I’m probably being way too naïve believing that bad things can’t happen in our sacred spaces – in my case, my childhood haunts. I’m also trying to balance feelings of anger with a hopeful belief that this isn’t real.

Seriously, a bomb that injured two children in addition to their father?

OK, deep breath. Bad things happen and there are bad people in the world. Prudent awareness has a place in our lives – as does hopefulness that good will prevail.

This is a very selfish post – not written for my readers, but for me . . . thanks for your indulgence . . . and, if you are inclined, for your prayers for this family.

In like a lamb. . .

When I started this enterprise, I made a pledge to myself to avoid “woe is me” prose and I sought to eschew ranting. I believe I can still remain innocent of the former, but am about to become state’s evidence for the latter.

I have little or no patience for crude table manners and overall boorish behavior.

Oh, I am far from being Emily Post’s ideal, but I’m fairly certain I could eat with the Queen without becoming a page three scandal. Credit my parents with imbuing my brother and me with a solid foundation and general respect for civility.

I invited a fellow who has been very generous with invitations to various events at his home - typically gatherings that feature kegs, bands, roasted swine, and shots of Jack Daniels – to come to dinner with his date. The menu featured simply roasted lamb and fresh garden vegetables tossed with whole wheat pasta. I had planned a reasonable Cabernet to pour as well. Drinks set for 6; dinner at 7.

A 4 pm call revealed that his date became unavailable and that he would be headed over around 5:30 – perhaps then driving to pick-up a replacement date some 30 minutes away. . .could dinner be as late as 7:30? Sure.

I guess it was the beer cans falling out of his truck upon his arrival that forebode the evening. Bubba (not his name, but seems apropos) alit from the truck, flicked his ciggie butt into the driveway and proceeded to “take a leak” next to the garage all while downing a long neck (actually, I kind of wondered how he managed all with such aplomb!).

The next hour was a train wreck of cussing, misogynistic remarks, belches, and texting each of the two women he was dating. He clearly didn’t need to drive some 60 minutes round trip to pick up his replacement date – and to his credit, he accepted that advice.

Oh, during that hour, he invited a friend of his to come over and join us for dinner. The fellow was nice enough, but I hadn’t known I’d be hosting a new friend.

Throughout this, I really tried to keep my inner snob in check, and told myself to relax and remember that these fellows were hard working and good guys who take care of their friends and families and would be there in any emergency.

It was during dinner that I had my biggest challenge. As I was sautéing the vegetable mix, Bubba asked “what is that sh*t?” and wanted to know “where’s the f*ckin’ Jack?” I pretty much decided not to decant the Cabernet at this point.

Dinner was served style de la famille around the island in the kitchen (I decided that the dining room would invite too much stress). Watching my guest use his fork to spear the chops to his plate and scrape additional pasta was really a good incentive for my diet. I did, however, earn the compliment, “this sh*t doesn’t suck.”

I do need to note that each did carry his plate to the sink and punctuated their pleasure with the meal with a hearty belch. I guess I need to take positives as they come.

I feel as though I’m whining a bit. One of my favorite things is having people to the farm and enjoying conversation over a meal. While I’m not crazy about repeating this evening, I do know that Bubba is a quality person in so many ways. I do, however, have that debate going on inside of my head as to what is the higher road to take: being true to my values or accepting people as they are.

Values are currently leading.


(Image reported to be in the public domain - acknowledgement to website:  http://elainefindlay.suite101.com/how-to-make-horseradish-sauce-vinegar-and-gravy-to-go-with-game-a226994 for the lamb chop image)

The convention is in town

As summer fades and nights turn crisp, a coven of coyotes arrive in the bottom lands west of the bog and announce themselves through yips, yaps, howls, and some improbable sounds that suggest the occult.

Well, not really – but I do think there is something more than accidental in this coyote flash mob. I’ve been here through twelve autumns and, give or take a week or two, these canine cousins predictably whip themselves into an audio tizzy that must be heard to be appreciated.

Usually solitary hunters with a range of some 15-20 miles, coyotes are basic opportunists. Carrion, grasshoppers, rodents, nesting waterfowl – even small pets – are on the menu. Increasingly, these predators are finding their way into urban centers and suburbs.

There are some well researched opinions that credit the loss of wolves with the increase of coyotes. Wolves were among the mammals at the top of the food chain in North America for centuries and became subject to eradication as livestock farming increased. Knocking off the top predator does have consequences – the lower predators then become more prevalent. Skunks, raccoons, opossum, and the coyote have flourished without the wolf packs. These “lesser” predators seek different meals that especially include the eggs of ground nesting avians.

I remember, during my tenure at Ducks Unlimited, significant arguments among learned biologists as to the appropriate response to this situation. A school of thought argued for predator control – determined eradication of the “lesser” predators from principal breeding grounds to allow more nesting success. Another school argued that if habitat was restored in large sections (that is, nesting grounds were not fragmented), nesting waterfowl would have sufficient success.

I listened respectfully to both sets of arguments and can appreciate both – not so much regarding nesting success, but more so because there is a broader application.

Often, well intentioned actions can be the first domino in a string of causality that inevitably works antithetically to the initial goal. We want to help someone, we become an enabler; we want to remedy a situation, and we deprive someone of personal growth; we demand peace and all we do is find a temporary truce without addressing fundamental issues.

Centralized social engineering is a dangerous thing – I don’t know that any person, committee, or legislature can fully anticipate the fallout of well-intentioned social fiddling. In the early 1900s, there were factions advocating eugenics in our country – that is, the forced "hygiene" of the human race where the mentally or physically impaired were prevented from procreating in an effort to improve the gene pool. I hope you are as aghast reading this as I am writing this.

Back to the bog. For some reason, the coyote gather and hoot and holler as summer ends. Their abundance is arguably due to the eradication of wolves. Additional predators abound as well. When there is a determined effort to affect a population, unintentional results soon follow. Let’s stop trying to centrally control things.

(Image reported to be in the public domain - acknowledgement to website http://www.wpclipart.com/animals/C/coyote/coyote.png.html for the coyote image)

Return to Splendor

A week of news cycle emotion can exhaust. Last week, the build-up to the 10th commemoration of the attacks in New York, Washington, DC, and Somerset County, PA may have, for many, overshadowed the actual hallowed memories of that day. Who is invited to “ground zero” and who isn’t? Who should get what place on the podium? Who speaks first and who will feel slighted without sufficient time at the teleprompter?

Protocol and opportunism seemed to cast a tall shadow over raw and honest emotion.

In a sleepy little burg in southern Michigan, a ceremony on September 9, 2011 dedicated a mural that came about through broadly based community support. Near the corner of North Howell and West Bacon Streets in downtown Hillsdale stands a newly added 30’ x 22’ mural titled “Return to Splendor.” The image is homage to Mrs.Wilhelmina Stock and her vision to create a park on their property in the early 20th Century.


From the City of Hillsdale website (http://www.cityofhillsdale.org/departments/recreation/mrs-stocks-park.aspx):

History of Stock's Park
In 1869, Frederick Willhelm Stock moved to Hillsdale and purchased the original gristmill established by John Potter Cook and Chauncey Ferris in 1837. The mill became the largest family-owned plant east of the Mississippi.

F.W. Stock's wife, Wilhelmina, established an extensive park in the lowlands behind their 1902-built home with the entrance facing Bacon Street. Built partially to assuage her grief over the death of four children, the originally named “Willow Park" was transformed with the planting of hundreds of trees and plants, including choice varieties from Europe. Later dubbed, "Mrs. Stock's Park," the gardens, with its two artificial ponds stocked with hundreds of goldfish and connecting bridges, became a Southern Michigan showplace.

Thousands of shrubs and plants were placed along the St. Joseph River and a formal garden with prize roses, azaleas, orchids and many more unusual flowers were placed in the center of the park. Three large water tanks were buried at ground level and filled with beautiful water lilies. Six majestic white swans and six beautiful black swans swam in the ponds. Fountains, forced up by a pump near the gate, flowed along the millrace. And the notorious purple loosestrife was first imported and introduced by Wilhelmina in the park.

The park, maintained by the Stock family, employed mill employees, three gardeners and several Hillsdale College students. It was open to the public night and day. During mornings and evenings, visitors would crowd the fence to watch mill hands feed hundreds of wild ducks residing near the powerhouse cove. A vine-covered rustic arbor was a favorite place along with the tennis courts and the redwood and stone shelter house built by Mrs. Stock's son, Alex.

I attended the mural dedication because the artist, Mary Thiefels, is a friend from the Ann Arbor area. The dedication was a mix of gratitude to groups and individuals; children skipping among those honored; community members taking and posing for photos; and the constant waving away of bees drawn to the lemonade and cake served to the nearly 70 people in attendance.

The community was integral to the creation of the mural as all were invited to paint parts of the mural (Mary had literally turned the wall into a massive “paint-by-numbers” opportunity) and funding for the project came from diverse sources.

There was nothing but happy at the dedication – no politics, no posturing, no egos – in short, no protocol run amok.

Splendor is not a word that I’ve used more than a handful of times – ever. It is, however, one that I will reserve for special times like this dedication, like the small cluster of American flags I saw on a mailbox with the address 911, like the countless quiet tributes that were earnest memorials to those lost that day and in subsequent actions necessary from that day. Splendor is not the pomp and circumstance of vote mongers and media sensationalists.

I like to think that throughout this country, pockets of splendor are growing and the goodness of our citizenry will outweigh the spin-engineered and focus group tested messaging of opportunists.

Congratulations Mary – beautiful work; congratulations Hillsdale – equally beautiful work.

Why today is special

Two years ago, sustained winds ripped the aluminum top of the silo from its mounts. The concrete portion of the silo, an idle monument to a past era, still stands majestically next to the barn. I wonder how many cattle were fed from this storage tower and how many gallons of milk resulted from years of its filling and refilling; funny how a storm’s damage can stimulate thoughts and feelings.

I’ll bet that anyone reading this can recount exactly where they were and what they were doing on September 11, 2001 at 8:46 am EDT when American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the north face of Tower One of the World Trade Center (WTC) at about 466 mph. I had finished breakfast with a friend and was driving home to pack and drive to Dayton, Ohio for a work function. That same friend, after returning to the office, got news that something had happened in New York and called my cell as I pulled into the driveway. I went into the house and turned on the television.

Only half of the silo’s roof came off during that initial storm. What was left resembled a bad hair lick in a 3rd grade composite photo. The part that was knocked away landed a scant five yards from hitting the garage and resembled foil one would peel from a street vendor’s Coney dog, crumpled and discarded. No one was hurt; no collateral damage.

At 9:03 am EDT, United Airlines Flight 175 hit WTC Tower Two at nearly 600 mph. I had just poured a glass of orange juice and sat down to see what Good Morning America could tell me about the strange accident in New York. Watching this plane hit the towers live shook me. I remember mental conjectures and prayers said aloud and I remember feeling sick.

It took all of 10 minutes to roll up the downed aluminum and load on my trailer to haul to the scrap yard. I think that, all told, the scrapper paid about $20 for the aluminum from the silo’s top.

At 9:37 am EDT, American Airlines Flight 77 hit the western side of the Pentagon. I heard a foreign sound outside of my window – the lawn crew had arrived and started mowing. I ran outside and signaled them to stop and come into the house. I think I said, “History is happening.”

Just before 10 am, Tower Two of the WTC collapsed.  A scant three minutes later, United Airlines Flight 93 is crashed by its hijackers when faced with brave and bold citizen resistance to terrorism – it impacts about 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in a Somerset County field.

The guys go back to mowing. I wonder if I should drive to Ohio. Mom called – she wanted to hear my voice and asked that I try to find my brother. I do manage to reach him on his cell phone as he was biking out of Chicago – far from skyscrapers that may still be targets.

At 10:28 am EDT, Tower One of the WTC collapses. I call Mom and let her know that I reached my brother. I decide not to go to Ohio.

The first bids I received to replace the top of the silo were in the five figure range – laughable by the insurance adjuster’s tables. Subsequent bids were far more reasonable.


Why is it a natural tendency to define disaster as what “it means to me?” I didn’t lose anyone I knew on September 11, 2001, but I’ve thought long and hard as to how it affected me. I’m embarrassed that it took too long before I considered what that day of infamy (parallel purposeful) meant to those families directly affected. I don’t know the count, but I’d bet more than a few babies born anytime in 2001 have never known their mother or father; that many of today’s 'tweens are hearing both “America First” and “America’s Fault” narratives.

With the exception of some annoyances at the airport and disallowed packs and purses at sporting events, few of us have had much of our lives upended from that day. So many families’ lives were more than upended that day – and in extension, so many families of military heroes.

 I’m taking a couple of minutes out of my day to reflect and pray. As we mark the 10th anniversary of the horror of September 11, 2001, I think I’ll make the bald silo my personal and daily reminder of how lucky and blessed I am.


(Photos of the tower collapse and the spot light memorial reported to be in the public domain.  Credit NYC Police Authority for the photo of the tower collapse and credit the U.S. Department of Defense for the memorial photo)

Dancing wildflowers

In the uplands just east of the bog, there are about three and a half acres of native grasses punctuated with some 200 species of wildflowers. Each year, it is a surprise as to which flowers will emerge and which will stay dormant for another season. I don’t know enough about botany to name many of them; I do know that their blooms are smiles on the landscape.

About eight miles west northwest of the bog (as the proverbial crow flies), is another stand of smiles. The Tree of Life Cultural Arts Studio (www.treeoflifestudio.org) sits just north of downtown Chelsea and is a tapestry for the senses. Its proprietors, Jenabah and Sundance, offer lessons in dance and drumming, Thai massage and other healing arts, entertainment and community gatherings, internationally sourced merchandise, and they make a mean fruit smoothie!

Their Friday drum jams are a happy cacophony for the soul. Sundance leads a circle of drummers in West African sourced rhythms that offer such primitive sophistication that even to my untrained ear, I nearly trance in appreciation. Jenabah, other instructors, and students will dance to these rhythms with a wild abandon and subtle grace that I wish I had words to describe.

Can you tell I’m a little enamored?

Tonight, I was among 20 devotees of the Center who gathered to discuss the future of their performance troupe: Tree of Life Drum and Dance Society (TLDDS). The Society’s performance art is shared at festivals, schools, senior homes, recovery centers, and a further miscellany of venues. Also, each year, a cabaret of sorts is held where the instructors and students share their craft for the local community. Dubbed their “Showcase,” this event is a mixture of exposition, community outreach, and good old fashioned recital for family and friends.

The Showcase loses a bunch of money for the Center – part of the reason we gathered. The idea is to separate the TLDDS from the Center and create a non-profit. This would, our thinking expects, allow the troupe lower rental fees at performance venues, grant seeking opportunities and healthful collaborations. Our theory continues that the troupe could extend its outreach to school systems, senior centers, homeless centers, prisons – to any audience who can’t afford performance art.

Now, no illusions, this may very well be a tall order. What I do like, however, is the approach: let’s connect potential benefactors with skilled artisans for the benefit of the community. The artisans realize that support is not entitled, but must be inspired.

I again must admit ignorance: I certainly don’t know enough about dance and drumming to tell you why their efforts are of such quality, but I happily attest so.  One other thing I do know: their passions are genuine and their goals are earnest.

Feelin' blue

Auburn came back in the final minutes to defeat Utah State in both’s opening game of the 2011 college football season. The key was a perfectly executed onside kick that allowed Auburn to keep the ball after a score brought them back from the brink of losing.

I really didn’t have a dog in that fight and, as such, I backed the underdog. Not sure why, but that is my natural tendency while watching sports. There is something gratifying when a upset occurs – hearing the proverbial thud as Goliath topples. Of course, this doesn’t happen all that often (acknowledging the collective sighs of bookies across the nation) and I’ll find myself at least momentarily blue at the end of the contest.

Where I am happily blue (notice the clever literary transition?) is when it is spelled with a capital “B” as in GO BLUE! I am a proud partisan for the University of Michigan.

The ultimate Maize and Blue!

The mighty (we hope this year) Wolverines have just kicked off to Western Michigan University’s Broncos who have taken it fifteen plays down field for a score.

Funny how when the underdog bests your team, it is more than a little disheartening – think Appalachian State’s upset of Michigan in 2007.

Why do sports evoke such emotion? Why are there more than 100,000 people packed into Michigan Stadium on a day with soaring temperatures? It is both amazing and inspiring to see the passions of fans for their teams. Win or lose the fans stay true – think of another Michigan team: the Detroit Lions.

Despite a 0-16 season two years ago, Ford Field still hosts large crowds and hope springs again and again. I mean, c'mon, it only takes a couple of shocks and a rat learns not to press the red lever!

What is this resilience? I can’t think of anyone I know who has abandoned his or her team on a permanent basis. Sure, you do hear boos and jeers but the fans keep coming back. There is a lesson here somewhere.

If only we had such persistent belief in ourselves, and the ability to forgive ourselves when we fumble or meet an insurmountable opponent, little could stop us. Something to ponder.

Oh, and Michigan received the kickoff and marched down the field to tie the game – feeling a little more hopeful!

UPDATE:  After severe thunderstorms caused the officials to "call" the game, Michigan is declared the winner 34-10 with just over a minute remaining in the 3rd quarter - first ever called game in Michigan football history.

SECOND UPDATE:  University of South Florida Bulls!  Way to go underdog!

Duck, duck, duck, goose!

There is a rather loud hen mallard protesting something on the upper pond.

In the mid-1970s, a gentleman named Woody Haley helped establish a chapter of Ducks Unlimited in Monroe, Michigan. Ducks Unlimited (DU) is a waterfowl conservation organization founded in the 1930s in response to the threat to migrating waterfowl populations by the “Great Dust Bowl” drought. In their history, they’ve conserved over 12 million acres throughout North America. Their revenue comes from government grants, personal donations, membership dues, and fundraising events. I worked for the organization for nearly eight years – first in Memphis, TN then in Ann Arbor, MI.

Woody owned a home furnishing store in Monroe and I went to work for him in 1975 – dusting furniture in the showroom, uncrating deliveries from manufacturers, helping with home deliveries, then later installing drapes, blinds, and other window treatments. It was a great job through high school and I became close with the entire Haley family (in fact, Woody’s grandson spent a good portion of the summer living here as it was closer to his summer internship).

As the annual DU fundraising dinners approached, I’d often open the packages of auction items delivered to the store. Marvelous wildlife inspired items including framed art prints, ornately engraved firearms, specialty knives, and various species of duck decoys were my introduction to DU.

Years later – while in undergrad – I came to discover that a friend’s father, Bob Ryland, carved duck decoys. His studio, like Bob, was modest. I remember that his eyes would light up as he described the process of taking discarded telephone poles and turning them into both working decoys (ones that could actually float in a pond to lure birds) and decorative decoys (ones made for display). Bob and his wife Judy were active in various decoy collector and carver groups and I got to attend a couple of these gatherings in Westlake, OH. I’ve included some pictures of decoys Bob carved that I now treasure.

These two men helped ignite my passions that eventually spawned Blackdog Bog. I became enamored with the idea of duck hunting when I was young through Woody’s stories and accompanying him to his marsh. Bob introduced me a community of men and women who tied their passion for duck hunting with their aesthetic. A series of other life events and good friends got me into the blind and eventually introduced me to the leadership of DU – less than 3 months later, I was working for them.

It was a great run – I was part of the major gifts team as well as involved with licensing and corporate partnerships. We hunted some remarkable marshes from California to Arkansas and I got to meet some very successful, passionate men and women.

It was relocating from Memphis to Ann Arbor that led to purchasing the farm and discovering later that a portion of it may qualify for the easement program described in an earlier post.

Every time I hear a hen fussing or a watch skein of geese splash into one of the ponds, Woody and Bob come to mind. Each has passed away. I do know, however, that their memory lives in many of us.