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

RUTABAGA RULES!

    

Ryan reveals an efficient method for reducing the super-hard rutabaga to mincemeat. 

Rutabaga lovers listen up.  For years, at rutabaga prep time, this weakling cook delegated the daunting task of paring and chopping the rutabaga to others.  This lovely vegetable, underappreciated by many folk, is tough to cut up leading rutabaga connoisseurs to plan and plot new strategies. 

There’s the microwave partially method… It doesn’t work.  There’s the pound on cleaver with hammer to divide method…Sort of crude and the cleaver gets stuck.  Then there’s the drop whole in boiling water to soften first method, which promotes wax floating everywhere.  Some methods work some of the time, but with a rutabaga you never know what you’re gonna get.  You can’t tell by looking, squeezing, or smelling it, how hard it is and how sweet it will be.

If you know something I don’t, know please clue me in.

Christmas morning, after opening presents, sampling chocolates, cooking the traditional sausage and refried beans meal and trying out a few gadgets, we got an early start on prep for the main Christmas feast.  As usual, I determined that the potatoes and rutabaga would taste best if someone else did the chopping and paring.  The rutabagas, two ugly little orbs, were waiting.  If they were really hard as I knew they could be, the son-unit should put some male brawn into the job. 

“Here, peel first, then chop it into one-inch squares” I directed, gesturing to the kitchen knife selection.

He disappeared into his bedroom where he has god-knows-what spilling out of muddy bags from his recent return from Hispaniola. 

I feared he might be ducking the job but he soon returned bearing his trusty 200-peso machete. It’d been his constant companion and multi-task tool for the past 27 month-- So of course he brought it back.  Who knows what he might run into back in Michigan! 

He quickly pared off the waxy skin and started chopping.  He hacked his way efficiently through those two baggies in no time at all.  It was better than a Ginsu knife. 

My Christmas shopping list for next year just got very simple; Machetes for everyone!

  

SAINT SEEN IN ST IGNACE TODAY!

A saint of sorts arrived in Saint Ignace today at noon.

The bright morning dims to another gray Northland day.  The Straits of Mackinac are bleak and dismal.  A Sheppler’s ferry streams in from “The Island” as they refer to Mackinac Island here.  There are no tourists or travelers on the open deck that’s for sure. There must be someone huddled inside or the boat probably wouldn’t have made the crossing. 

“Hmmm”   I say to myself.  (At least I think I only said it to myself)

"Just who is crossing to the mainland this time of year?"

Could be shoppers, could be islanders gathering parts and registrations for the fleet of snowmobiles that will roar to life once some snow falls.   It’s certainly not Jamaican workers—they’ve all gone back to another warmer island for the winter.

The water on the straits is all slate gray swells with occasional frosted tips of whitecaps.  Mostly just swells though.  The ferry is the only boat traffic I see. 

My mood, paralleling the highs and lows of sunlight levels, begins to slide down into its own gray trough.

When what to my wondering eye should appear,

But an elf dressed in red who walks right in here!

He shakes hands in the lobby and shares candy canes,

Then hands one to me as my gloominess wanes.

Santa Claus arrived in Saint Ignace today!  He looks great!   

His red suit is plush and his beard  is snow white and lustrous.   It doesn’t look like the economy or the recent turmoil in the world is affecting him at all.  He confides that he is moonlighting for a radio station though, so maybe he’s feeling the pinch.  The station that hired him is one that’s already switched to all Christmas music even though it's still early December.

They have the perfect guy for the job! 

Saint Ignace: You better watch out. . .

Santa Claus is here on State Street and he's watching you!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

MICHIGAN MEN

Where oh where are the single men?    Where oh where can they be?
  

Fit and mature Michigan Man. 



I’ve reviewed a few .  .  .  dating site profiles and know there really are single guys in Michigan.  Based on extensive sampling most have a sense of humor, like dogs and are easy-going according to their friends.  The smokers are trying to quit and they only drink socially.  They are fit and athletic, just average or have a few extra pounds. They all love Michigan and its beaches and sunsets. Very promising.

Just for fun mind you, I read further and look at pictures.  I just love the pics of guys on boats with the Great Lakes in the background. I also like pics of guys in Greektown, flying over the Mackinac Bridge or hiking the Pictured Rocks. 

My preferences: Intelligent, educated, physically active, active sense of humor, like to travel and eclectic taste in music.

My rejection triggers: Smokers with exhale-in-your-face attitude, machine heads, too religious--sorry, can’t string two words together, more than one pic on a motorcycle, only like country music, T.M.I. about sexual preferences.

It’s good to know that sex is still an interest and a possibility but really guys, should I have to Google tantric, ectosexual, etc. before we even exchange the first e-mail?  Call me old-fashioned but I like coffee and conversation first and not just as foreplay.   

On many days I look fairly young for my age but I’m turned off by guys who say,

“My friends say I look much younger than my age”



Cute and youthful looking but
I'd prefer more mature, wouldn't you?

 Think about it; this wasn’t good when you were 23 and looked like you were 11.  And it’s not attractive now that you’re 57 to pretend you only look like you’re 45 in the hopes that some woman who is only 33 will want to date you. 

Smugly, I wonder just what kind of 33-year-old-woman is attracted to an immature 58-year-old man who thinks with the mentality of a 23-year-old. If you find a 33-year-old woman who is attracted by this you must be made for each other. Congratulations!  I hope you live happily ever after.

Confession—I’ve smirked disdainfully at a few profiles but really it’s good that people expose foibles.  It helps to eliminate and that’s not a bad thing.  There are awesome, wonderful guys out there who I don’t want to date.  So if you’ve winked at me and I’ve ignored you--I’m still flattered that you noticed. 

When I signed on to the cyber singles site I was pleased to discover so many interesting guys.  If I were at a coffee shop and could talk to them I would.  There are many that I ignore.  If I were at a coffee shop I’d probably talk to them too but I wouldn’t give them my phone number.


I’m not kissing frogs or dreaming of a prince.  Someone human, alive and in-between might be just right.  But if a frog or prince or the King of Siam came along and sang to me I’d listen. 

Getting to know you,
Getting to know all about you.

And just maybe, after a few cups of coffee, a rendezvous, a glass of wine, a walk in the park, some shared sunsets and conversation, things would roll around to:

You are precisely,
My cup of tea.

In the meantime, I’d better go tweak my dating profile.

Pure Michigan Thanksgiving

The biggest travel weekend of the year is upon us as 1.3 million travelers hit the roads.  Auto travel is definitely a Michigan tradition from the first concrete paved stretch of road in the U.S., Woodward Avenue M-1 in 1909, to the spider’s web of well-traveled highways reaching every nook and cranny of Michigan today.

Wednesday November 23, 2011:     I and my fellow Michiganders are on the road. 

              Over Bear River and through the Emmet, Antrim, Otsego woods…

To Rochester Hillbillies house I go.

My car knows the way,

AND NO DEER WILL I SLAY,

And the road is not drifted with snow. J

At midnight I enter the embrace of Dutch-ancestry relatives with sharp horns and witty but not-too-sharp tongues.   The countdown to Turkey Day dinner has started.  The Moe is threading a large needle to truss the 26- pound turkey once it is stuffed in the morning.  The brother-family who sprung out of Harbor before me, have already deposited their dinner offerings of trifle and other delicacies in the fridge.

My contribution, sauce from Whitefish Point cranberries picked by a friend who wisely harvested cranberries BEFORE the ten-inch snowfall blanketed Paradise last week, is snug and cool in the trunk for the night.  Thanksgiving has become a springboard for Christmas so my other dish, spinach dip, makes for a nice green and red holiday offering.

Thursday morning:      The big day arrives.

The advantages of sleeping on a soft couch in the living room on T-Day are many.  From this nest I witness the day unfold.

I wake in early morning darkness to the sound of little sis scurrying down to her kitchen to truss the turkey and stuff it into the oven.  Luckily, as I achieve enough consciousness to think about offering to help, she flicks the lights off and heads back up to bed.  Shucks.  I’d better get some rest so I can offer to help with the dishes.

Strange stirrings from the dog crates rouse me and I drag myself up and out to give the host dogs some relief.  Standing on the lawn in my zebra outfit hoping the neighbors are not looking I spy another 21^st century Thanksgiving tradition: The carcass of a large lawn turkey deflated on the grass.  It’s a colorful sight but which is odder, Zebra woman or asphyxiated turkey carcass??? 

Give the dogs their early morning snack then back to couch for more shuteye.  I really should make coffee like a good guest.  Shucks again!  Before I can lift a hand, the Alpha Male host concocts a lovely brew and serves me a cup in my living room nest.  And a second cup!  I’m in heaven.  And conversation about Thanksgivings past and the new tradition of people who are not truly homeless but camp out starting on Wednesday to get door buster deals on Black Friday!! Crazy.  But we all have our traditions that we love.

This couch perch view of Thanksgiving unfolding is great.  One negative, the turkey is wafting luscious scents throughout the house and I’m hungry.  Can I stand this lovely scent for seven more hours??

The traditions to come: 

* Chestnut soup from Antrim Ridge Farm nuts harvested in October by the migrant siblings at Farm Party Weekend.

The Moe tends the Turkey

* Roasted beet salad with feta and those awesome candied sweet potatoes prepared by the vegetarian siblings in their nearby warren. 
* The hillbillies from Farmingtown are bringing the apple walnut salad that we have come to treasure.
* Pumpkin pie and pecan pie ala Moe are resting on the table already.
* Large quantities of potatoes and rutabaga are peeled and ready to simmer on the stove.
* Turkey

I’m reeeeaally getting hungry

O.K., it’s not just about food it’s also about more.  The parade is forming on Woodward, television celebrities-for-a day are perched above Detroit to incite home viewers.  The ultimate traditional anthem of the day, Alice’s Restaurant, is coming around again on the radio.  The newspaper is full of touching stories of love and family and an inch or three of advertising for our holiday shopping planning pleasure.  I’m anticipating a series of Thanksgiving parade walks around the hilly neighborhood with gangs of family.

Then, when all the people and food are here, we’ll pause to give thanks for all that we have.  We’ll pause to remember all those who have passed on but passed traditions down to us.  We’ll pause to be thankful for the love and nurturing that empowers us to create beautiful new traditions.

It must be the powerful smell of turkey that is making me sentimental. 

Gotta go.    Santa just arrived in Detroit and I have to hear his words of wisdom.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Fall Falls Into…

Gray emptiness envelopes the northland.  As the leaves are beaten off the trees by days of late October rains and winds, the tourists disappear. 

Main Street,  Harbor Springs.  The first Sunday in November though, is a late-season gift of the gods.  Sunny,  golden, mild and desolate.  Volunteers pull up wooden framed planters around the trees growing through the sidewalk.  A few oddball groups of real human stragglers wander about. Most shop windows feature closed signs with a few valiant exceptions.

The waterfront docks are fenced over.    No admittance.   Huge blue, plastic-wrapped boats stud the landscape.   The atmosphere is peaceful, placid.   

Could it just be weeks ago that we wandered here from beach to beach chasing elusive purple fish and wallowing in warm water?  Was it only weeks ago that  we jockeyed for  a  waterside table at Dudley’s and tracked  minnows and gulls even while devouring tasty luncheon treats. 

Male tourist hogs September limelight
in front of indulgent female relatives.

September, then October, slipped away into a beautiful but quieter November Sunday.

The walkways, where Tomas hammed it up in the center of each shot and always in front of Maris, are empty.  

The air should ring with the sounds of kids laughing and calling. 

If this were a movie I'd make the air echo with the remembered childsong but today, in reality,
it is silent.

November: Real and surreal.

Winter:  Even now gathering forces to obliterate the straggling golden days.  Whooossssshhhhh!!!