SNOW----NO!

The sunny May day retreats into shadows and darkness.  With nightfall, the loons cries wildly then a loud whooshing sound announces a change in the weather. Is it wind or is it rain?  Run down to close the car windows, or stay curled up in a chair?  It is only wind, until it turns into a torrent of rain setting off a scramble to close the windows after all.  The rain settles to a steady nightlong soaking conducive to green growth and deep sleep.

Morning reveals a cool misty world.  The path down to Round Lake is squishy wet.  Green grass and budding trees shout renewal in a fresh moist world.  The fog is thicker as the path nears the lake.  
 
Stop.      

No.   

 Piles of snow on the beach?  
 

Clumps of white stuff on the lawn march right up to the landlord’s house. 

No, not snow, but  evidence of a wild night. Wind on the shallow lake churns up wave action, which bubbles into frothy foam at lake’s edge.  Tuesday night’s wind and waves generated knee high piles of foam.   
 
Clumps were blown forty feet up onto the lawn and encroach on the garden swing.  The mounds of white stuff are a fluffy, funny sight once closer inspection certified they are NOT SNOW. 

It is spring and the crazy weather brings beauty and destruction.  Foam drifts, evidence of the strong wind, are soft and harmless compared to downed trees and destroyed homes.  The comical looking clouds of white stuff that trespass on the lawn make me laugh at the happy residue of the storm.   

I am glad there is no damage in my neighborhood.

And giddy with relief that it isn’t snow!
 
 
 
--Sireen

 

 

MARY, MARY, IT'S A GRAND OLD NAME

She was born in Detroit into a large Catholic family.  Irish ancestry figured prominently in the family history.  Nuns figured prominently in her education.  Looking back on her girlhood, she talked about shopping at Hudson’s downtown, Hot Fudge Sundaes at Sanders, and dressing up to go downtown.  That was life in a beautiful city--Detroit.

MARY HELEN IN 1945

She married, a young man she met at Catholic school and had six or seven kids of her own.  It was the 1950’s and she moved to the suburbs to raise her family.  A series of Easter snapshots shows the growing family dressed up to go to church, paused for a photo in front of the little house.  Another series features girls and boys lined up in First Communion garb, then, playing in the yard. She packed kids, diapers, bathing suits and sleeping bags for the whole crew into the car to vacation on the shores of Lake Superior every summer.

So many similarities and yet, two different women: one a decade or so older than the other.

Mary Helen, my mother, grew up during the Depression. She went to work during WWII and went back home to raise a family when the war was over.   She had the careful habits of many people of that era which served her well raising seven children on one income during the fifties.  She bought whole chickens and cut them up herself to save a few cents a pound.  She clipped coupons and compared sizes and prices.  She was frugal, but life was full of love, good food, and good times. 

Mary Helen’s Christmas dinners meant turkey, mincemeat pie, date pinwheel cookies, green-Jell-O-pineapple salad and sugar cookies decorated with candy sprinkles.  In the days leading up to Christmas, she knit snazzy sweaters for Barbie dolls and hid her handiwork under the covers if a child wandered near.  She led the troop on the big trip to K-Mart, where each child had a few dollars to buy Christmas presents.  This involved teamwork and budget negotiations that stretched limited funds to buy presents for nine people including Grandma.  

 

One year, the three youngest bought her bubble bath in a tall, elegant bottle with a purple flower blooming in the round base.  It was an awesome present, probably her favorite one ever.  Eventually the bottle sat empty on a bathroom shelf.  It was so beautiful she kept it for decades and it was still there when she passed away.  It fits nicely in another bathroom now and is a testimonial to the woman who singlehandedly “made Christmas” every year in magical ways. 

 

Mary Anne, the younger of the two Marys, became my mother-in-law when I married the eldest of her six children.  As is common in such relationships, some adjustments had to be made.   At first, I resisted alien practices like putting chunks of Italian sausage in spaghetti sauce and using mayonnaise instead of Miracle Whip in potato salad.  It may seem minor but it was major when I decided I liked her recipe for potato salad better than my own mother’s. Ditto her spaghetti sauce—well, I sort of combined them to make my own.

Mary Ann, ma belle mere, my beautiful mother, as the French say, had her own magical way of making Christmas.  She was the mistress of Christmas rituals in her Upper Peninsula home.  She made the best Russian teacakes and frosted cutout cookies ever.  As a child, I loved turkey dinners for Christmas, but Mary Anne patiently convinced me that standing rib roast could be delicious also!  Christmas deserts of pumpkin and mincemeat pie were wonderful but I learned to expect and enjoy apple pie and creamy chocolate desert at her cozy, magical, holiday home.  She was a hostess extraordinaire who pampered her guests from the moment they walked in the door.  Driving to Grandma's on Whitefish Point Road on any cold weather holidays we sang:

Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go.

The Dad knows the way, to drive the Caravan sleigh,

On an icy and winding road...........

When we arrived, Grandma rolled out the holiday in style.

Mary Helen passed on, but her traditions, her kindness and her love are still with her family.  When Mary Ann stopped baking those cookies and pie I know her daughters kept right on using and cherishing her recipes.  So when the spinach dip, the chocolate chip cookies and the bagels with salmonor the peanut butter sandwiches cut and arranged like a butterfly on a child's plate appear, it's a salute to Mary.

Mary, Mary, It’s a grand old name.  How fortunate I am to have known two such grand women!

 

 

 

 

 

PORCUPINE PREDICTIONS

Michigan is snowed in, iced in, and frozen solid.  There are beautiful sights  out there in Michigan’s Winter Water Wonderland, but it’s hard to spy all that beauty from behind the snow piled in the driveway.  There has been a lot of wintery weather howling, blowing, and falling gently, in the whiteness of the picture window view onto the world.  But each excursion out the door calls for bundling up, shoveling, scraping and extreme caution before venturing out onto the byways. 



               Where is the scraper ???
 



Optimistically, spring is just around the corner.  At least one of the porcupines featured on the February 2, breaking news channel, signaled that spring would come—eventually.  Late February is when even the most optimistic need some reassurance.  The longer days are nice—It was light until 6:30 this evening.  It gets light earlier in the morning—that’s a good thing.  Longer days are here to stay.  The piles of white stuff make the world white and somewhat bright even when the sun does not make it out.

But the piles of snow are getting a bit oppressive.   It’s time to go have another conference with that porcupine.   After consulting my wildlife locator book, I head out with a shovel to clear away enough snow to find the porcupine that’s been missing since February 3. 

When I find Phil, as I call all porcupines, I brush his bristly hide off gently.  I start in with the questions:



Snowy Porcupine



ME:      When can I put my snow shovel away?

Phil:   "No comment"

 

ME:     When will I see a crocus?

Phil:  “No comment” 

    

ME:    Are you related to anyone in the snow removal business?

Phil:  “Thank you for your questions—the question period is over” 

 

I’m sorry to disturb you Phil.  Just wait a minute while I shovel that snow back out of the way so you can go back into your hole for a while.  See you in the spring!

 

A NEW TEAM OF RIVALS--JOIN THE CAUSE

Dear Candidate for U.S. President,

Thank you for taking the time and initiative to run for president.  Thank you for the personal sacrifices you made to offer your services.  I believe you applied for this job in a spirit of service to country and your convictions about how to best move our country forward.

The pundits, pollsters and news media predict a close contest.  Only hours from now, you will either claim victory or concede to the other candidate. 

Whether you win or lose, remember that your opponent also earned the support of a huge number of Americans.  This signals that many Americans respect the financial strategies and approach to social issues that your opponent supported.  Whether you come in first or second in the election, do you care enough about America to reach out to your former rival and work with him to forge solutions?
 

Are you big enough, strong enough, American enough, to lead your party to work with the other side? Please reach out to work with your former opponent on our nations’ problems.  Be a leader in your  party and an agent for collaboration. 

Work for all Americans.

If you continue to serve by forging working relationships in Congress to tackle the many tough challenges our nation faces in the next four years, then we all win. 

November 7^th should not be a day for positioning political parties for the next race.  Make November 7^th, a day for positioning America for health, prosperity and security. 

--Sireen

LOUD TOWN HALL

LOUD Township Hall on M-33, between Commins and Atlanta, Montmorency County, Michigan, is an icon of American democracy.
This township hall is just as it should be.  Township halls should all be loud.  Loud voices should sound at meetings on a regular basis as citizens show up to argue loudly about what would be best for the town.  America was founded on loud voices debating ideas.  Democracy is a messy, noisy thing because human beings with different opinions interact. 

The town meeting is  a foundation of the Republic.  Before there was the Declaration of Independence—there was the loud town meeting.  Before there was the Constitution—there was the loud town meeting.  Before there was the English Magna Carta—there were loud meetings where the people decided to tell King John a thing or two. 

The American Revolution evolved from hot discussions at loud town meetings where colonists decided to tell King George a thing or two. Back in the day, people slogged through the mud, rode through the dust, and waded through deep puddles to get to the town hall to have their say.  Today, residents must drag themselves away from reality TV and tear themselves away from Facebook or Farmville to show up at real live town meetings. 

Many Michiganders do show up regularly.

The alternative is a quiet township hall.  When township halls are always quiet, when public meeting places are always empty—leaders have too much freedom to make rules and policies in peaceful deluded states.  Their good ideas or bad ideas are not subjected to the healthy tilling that weeds out the bad and forces the good to be strong to survive. 

Loud Township should be proud; proud to be part of an American tradition; proud to be part of a democratic tradition. 

In this 2012 election year, brick and mortar town halls, virtual town halls, mass media town halls, campaign stops at town halls, and citizen gatherings across the United States should ring with the sounds of loud voices debating what is best for America.

Just loud is not enough.
 

Debates should deal with issues, strategies and solutions.   Citizens should listen carefully to these discussions, ask questions, comment and then debate the merits of candidates and ideas again, and again, and again.  Discussions should be respectful, quiet, lively, controversial, emotional, factual, boring, repetitive, idealistic, courteous, and yes, sometimes LOUD.

        Happy Centennial Loud Twp.

                    1912 --2012

 

        
  
--Sireen

 

 

MORNING GLORY

 

In the morning--when I rise. That’s the time I love the best.    


June mornings start early. The sun announces its impending arrival in waves of color starting shortly after five a.m. First gray, then pink, orange, red, a ball of flame, then gold then forty shades of blue that paint water and sky. That’s the time to be up and about to enjoy the colors of morning.


The avian symphony starts even earlier.


The color show is in the warm golden stage with the sun a foot above the horizon as I stumble down to the beach to greet the day. The birds are well into their second or third movement. Far out on the water the loon calls. I scan the water and listen for laughter. The grey patch of bird floats warily along. I stand still knowing the loon will veer away if it sees movement. It rises from the surface and flaps its wings in that way loons have.


I walk down to water’s edge--it moves further out on the bay.


From the south, just outside the neighbor’s bedroom window apparently, the sand hill cranes that moved into the neighborhood this year, start cackling in their gulping, echoing way. A screaming gull flies by. It is happy, I think. From the woods out back, songbirds chirp, sing, tweet and whistle.


Sunshine on my head and arms and shoulders feels great. I walk around the yard barefoot in the grass to wake up my feet. The cultivated nature is coming along nicely too. Three pale pink peonies are in bloom and lo and behold there are two red-orange roses on a puny little bush. Daisies, that will not grow in the flower bed but grow well in odd spots in the grass, are blooming.


When the daisies bloom it is officially summer in the northland.


I thought to myself--what a wonderful world. Then I went back to bed.

Panoramic Pasty and MIA Paul

Roadside advertising can be an eyesore.

But I do have some favorites.  Really big Santa and Mrs. Claus waving as you drive through Christmas, Michigan are classics. The hay bales arranged along the roadside north of Alanson that advertised Romanik’s Ranch via one huge letter spraypainted on each bale were quite creative.  This was rustic advertising at its best and heated up to become a tempest in the Tip of the Mitt tea pot until the hay was pitched when Romaniks withdrew from the field.

               Where is Paul Bunyan??

                artwork by--Ben Scherphorn

Venturing into the U.P. recently, I again searched for that North American legend in advertising; Paul Bunyan himself.   Traveling west on U.S. 2 from Saint Ignace, Mr Bunyan proudly straddles the stubble off in a roadside field and greets hungry travelers with news of traditional U.P. pasties served up nearby in one of the small diner type establishments that punctuate U.S. 2.

Yummy!

A pasty is a manly meal prepared by women for centuries.  Pasties arrived here with Cornish miners who came to work Western U.P. copper mines.  The immigrants from Cornland—er Cornwall, on the southern portion of the British Isle brought their mining know-how, their womenfolk, and pasties. 

They shared all of these--well maybe not the womenfolk--with other miners.  Pasties, hearty meat pies, made of a crust wrapped around meat, potatoes, rutabaga, carrots and onions, were packed in newspaper or dish towels to keep them warm and carried as portable meals deep into the bowels of the earth. 

Other workers carry them also including storekeepers, government drones, students and even lumberjacks.  When prepared and packaged carefully they are a heavenly, hot, portable meal that is much sought after nowadays by tourists.

This voyage to the little town of Newberry brought to mind a previous trip there in 2008.    On the return leg of that trip I stopped at a pasty diner to sample the wares.   I’d buy one and take it with me to enjoy at the end of my trip when I got home to the other bowels of Michigan—south of the Mackinac Bridge.   

Stopping at a little diner I approached the counter.  A man in white 50’s style standard diner uniform was apparently the chief cook, cashier and bottle-washer of the establishment.  In what is now a rarity in take-out dining he seemed able to discuss the food, take my order, serve it up and take my money.  A true multi-tasker.  I, a savvy pasty consumer, had a few pointed questions before I would be shelling out my or my employer’s precious money for the wares. 

There were three people in the diner, the proprietor, me, and a tourist guy sitting at a booth but paying close attention to my pasty connoisseur discussion with the proprietor. 

“So, tell me about your crust; is it flaky and slightly crisp on the outside or is it thick and soft? 

“It’s substantial enough to hold in your hands but not doughy” he told me.

“Do you use Rutabagas or carrots?” I asked--this is an important factor.  

“Rutabagas, of course” He answered correctly. 

It may be a small detail but there is huge debate amongst pasty producers and consumers about which is better; Rutabagas or carrots.  I prefer Rutabagas, it’s one of the few meals you can buy that feature rutabagas actually. 

He had all the right answers; I was ready to make a deal.  He wrapped my pasty up in white paper; I gave him five bucks. 

The third person in the room, tourist from-who-knows-where, joined the conversation at this point.

“I was wondering how you pronounced pasty” he said.  “I wasn’t sure if it was pay stee or pass tee,” he said with a slight blush.  (I love it when a mature man blushes)

“Yeah," he continued, "I saw that sign a ways back, the big one with Paul Bunyan advertising the pasty shop.  I imagined Paul wearing rhinestone pasties.  I couldn’t get it out of my head."

The three of us chuckled at the image conjured by the traveler. 

I was still smiling as I hit the road east and south.  Soon enough, Paul’s brawny physique appeared on the horizon.  As I drove past I could see just what the out-of-state tourist had seen.  Paul’s plaid shirt was unbuttoned and there were pasties dangling strategically from his hairy chest.

I imagine this vision of him every time I drive on US 2 now—except he’s not there anymore. The sign is gone.  He’s missing.  What happened to him?  I really want to know.

If you know what happened to him or have a picture of the old billboard sign.  Let me know!

SIREEN