Migration Surpise

Prior to my current role at the University of Michigan, I worked with Ducks Unlimited – a non-profit conservation organization begun before focusing on the environment was cool. From its website:

Ducks Unlimited is the world's leader in wetlands and waterfowl conservation.

DU got its start in 1937 during the Dust Bowl when North America’s drought-plagued waterfowl populations had plunged to unprecedented lows. Determined not to sit idly by as the continent’s waterfowl dwindled beyond recovery, a small group of sportsmen joined together to form an organization that became known as Ducks Unlimited. (http://www.ducks.org/about-du?poe=hometxt)

During my tenure with DU, I learned about conserving wetlands (inspiration for what’s happened here at the farm), waterfowl biology, how habitat fragmentation contributes to predator success, migration patterns and other duck-notes. I remain proud of my association with the organization and continue to attend various fundraisers staged by the group.

Today, the notion of migration patterns arose as I had a serendipitous event while deviating from my own migration pattern. Okay, it’s more like a nice surprise after changing my routine.

For years, on the way home from work, I’d stop at a certain watering hole where I met my friend Howard (who turns 89 next month) and numerous bandits, scallywags, pirates, and other folks I proudly call friends. Due to some management changes and what I considered ill-advised business decisions, I went from “regular” to occasional customer. So be it.

Today was one of those occasions when I was a customer. My pal Renae was tending bar, Jarret held court at the bar’s eastern end, Rob was to the north, and Tom, a long-time Ann Arbor restaurateur and friend, anchored the south side (obviously, a U-shaped configuration). I settled in with my pen and crossword, kibitzed with Renae about her children, Tom about U-M sports, and Jarret about how the day was treating us. The chat diminished and I focused on Will Shortz’s latest effort to frustrate us crossword nerds.

Howard, holding court flanked by Jarret, Karen, and his son.

Twenty minutes or so later, I successfully set the puzzle aside and started scanning the rest of the paper. Shortly thereafter, a voice beckoned, “Send that puzzle over so I can check your work.” There was only one person who routinely razzed me in that way: Howard.

Sure enough, my friend was being helped onto the bar stool by his son and his wink told me he was in good spirits and happy to be out and about. Renae chased around the bar to embrace him; Jarret was smiling ear-to-ear; I waited behind Renae for my own hug.

He complimented me on the soup I had dropped at his house and scolded assurances that I should stop by anytime. It was great to see him out, as hale as I’ve seen in a while, and enjoying the energy of a room full of well-wishers.

My phone rang and a small but important errand arose. I left as Howard and his son were starting dinner; Jarret and the rest of the bandits were in high spirits, and my smile helped guide me home.


Duck image reported to be in the public domain and available here: Duck Picture

Snow, Soup, and Howard

The great snow of 2015 clipped southern Michigan pretty well. Locally, we got 14.1 inches and with the spirited north winds overnight, drifts hit 3 – 4 feet on the roads surrounding the farm. Tonight is a calm, clear evening silenced by a blanket of white.

Friday and Saturday, weather forecasts were promising significant snowfall – so adamant were the news reports that several of us expected another instance of more hype than snow. As it turns out, the hordes panic-buying milk and bread prior to winter’s blast were vindicated.

I too made a quick trip to the grocery early Saturday morning. Yes, bought milk but eschewed bread; I did, however picked up the makings for homemade chicken soup. Nothing counters a howling blizzard like a cauldron of soup simmering on the stove.

Starting with a proper mirepoix, I built the broth over several hours on Saturday adding fresh roasted chicken as the vegetables and herbs released their goodness . . . no egg noodles added until Sunday morning. In all, I estimate that the soup had 6 – 8 hours on the stove before serving. Did I add that I’m incapable of making less than 2 – 3 gallons of soup at any one time?

With all the extra soup to share, I jumped in the truck and busted through several snow drifts to deliver some still-warm soup to my friend Howard. His house was dark when I arrived, so I left the container and a note on his porch.

I called tonight to make sure he found it and he was very grateful and insistent that I stop by. We had a great visit.

An oxygen machine occupies the space behind Howard’s chair and he complains of both a constant aching and danger of falling (three times in January!). He repeats his frustration that he’s ready, but for some reason, God isn’t ready for him. His son from Ohio visits weekly and his local son is there daily (though, he told Brent not to come by tonight – he had soup for dinner!).

Howard tottered to his “hi-fi” to turn down a recording of Dr. Henry Aldridge playing the piano – Aldridge was the longtime chief organist at the Michigan Theater (starting in 1972) and was a friend of Howard from church. Howard recounted many visits with Henry and a talent he so willingly shared.

We kibitzed over his health providers, the cost of health care, friends that have visited him or otherwise stayed in touch, his coming 89th birthday, the cost of going out to lunch. Nothing philosophic – just a chat between friends.

He looked good and was, as always, a most gracious host. He vehemently insisted that I come visit whenever (I’ve resisted when I’ve seen his son’s truck in the driveway) and thanked me for coming by.

Soup, snow, friendship, hope.