Ducks, Apples, Gravlox, Update

It isn’t often that events affirm life choices – this week has afforded me such an affirmation.

Nearly fifteen years ago, I “bought the farm.” In this case, however, the literal rather than the dreaded figurative applies to that phrase. When I moved back from Tennessee, I ended up on this property and it’s helped provide too many blessings to share.

Saturday morning three of us eased through the morning fog toward the “big pond” (the western most impoundment of “Black Dog Bog”). I stalked the south side while Bruce and Laurie slipped to their post on the north end. Within 30 minutes, we had a full limit of ducks, wet asses, and that happy adrenalin of success. We retrieved our quarry and slogged back up to the house for hot coffee, dry clothes, and to handle the post hunt duties.

Fast forward about five hours. Twenty-five friends aged 4 – 64 gathered on the farm to press some 35+ gallons of apple cider. Our happy gang picked apples from my tree to mingle with apples from the others’ trees; we washed, sorted, chopped and pressed a cider that is as sweet as laughter. I got a couple of chances to look up and see so many happy hands contributing and knew that all the work the farm demands is balanced by the joy from days like this.

I got the chance to tell Howard about the day – yes, I’ve not mentioned him for a few months because I’ve not had the chance to catch him at home. I think I missed him six or eight times but did see him at a restaurant now and then. He’s doing ok. Still living alone, cooking, driving, going to market and sometimes out for a glass of wine. And still cranky.

He had a new pacemaker implanted but reports that his doctor wants to replace it with a device called an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator (ICD) as he is at significant risk of sudden cardiac arrest (SCA). 

“I don’t like it,” bemoaned my friend. “They just spent $5,800 on a brand new pacemaker and this damn thing is probably $7,000. I told that doctor it was a waste of money.” Howard further railed that the doctor dismissed his objection because “that’s what insurance is for.”

“Those damn doctors have no sense of money and spend other peoples’ money too freely.” It was at this point I wondered if Howard was available to run the Department of Health and Human Services; I digress.

We talked about his family (his grandson just finished top in his class as a state trooper), classical music, how much we cherish our homes, and he shared his recipe for gravlax.

He and I discussed his financial situation and his living options. “I screwed up,” he began, but then quickly corrected himself. “I didn’t screw up – I wouldn’t do anything different – but meeting Lloyd C. Douglas changed my life.” (see Lloyd C. Douglas )

For those familiar with Ann Arbor, at the corner of Hill and South State there was a coffee and doughnut joint called The Chatterbox. Howard recounted going there as a young man and the place was packed. An older gentleman beckoned Howard to his table – Lloyd C. Douglas. Douglas was an ordained minister and, for a time, was at the First Congregational Church in Ann Arbor. He was also the prolific author who penned The Robe. “He told me to give to others less fortunate and I’ve done that my entire life. Sure, I was well off when I retired, but I need a little bit now to get through.” And it is being provided.

The timer for his dinner was buzzing and I knew it was time to leave. We’ll gather again soon.