Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 13

Pied Piper, Oz, and Turkey with Stuffing

When I was young we only had turkey and stuffing once or twice a year, so Thanksgiving was about all about the dinner.

Early in the morning, Mom started her preparations—rinsing the turkey, making stuffing, peeling and cooking potatoes and sweet potatoes. After breakfast, we kids were shooed into the living room where the slow, drifting perfume of roasting turkey triggered appetites. Christmas wasn’t the only holiday to produce anticipation intense enough to match the actual event, in this case, turkey dinner.

To amuse ourselves, we celebrated annual routines. Early in the afternoon, we watched Van Johnson’s The Pied Piper of Hamelin (1957), a musical with melodies based on Grieg’s classical music. We were familiar with those because Mom and Dad played piano, and owned an impressive collection of classical records.

“Flim flam floo, flim flam floo, the world is full of wonderment and magic,” the Pied Piper sang.

But the crowning piece of music was the Pied Piper’s lure to first, the rats, and later, the children, In the Hall of the Mountain King, played on his magic flute. Now, in our family, we were well familiar with the tune, and I never found it frightening, as the adults in Hamelin described it, and I would have followed the Piper anywhere.

Dinner was a gathering of Mom’s parents, Dad, and our horde of hungry locust-children, with pumpkin or mince pie afterwards, and of course, a mountain of dishes.

Thanksgiving evening was The Wizard of Oz, where we knew the words and melodies to every song (since we owned the soundtrack), and savored the familiar scenes and story.

“If I were King of the for-est…”

“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz.”

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

There’s no place like home.

In those days, we believed our Thanksgiving routines would last forever.

When I was married with growing children, the year came when I took over the Thanksgiving dinner and invited Mom, Dad, and the rest of our family. Over time, as we moved away from each other, traditions changed, yet when I think about Thanksgiving, we kids are still hoping to open the oven and snitch a pinch of stuffing, savor the coming delights of turkey, cranberries, pie, and enjoy, once again, two of our favorite movies.

Years later, when Dad was gone and Mom was in a nursing home, I would have Thanksgiving lunch with her in the communal dining room, where favorite dishes were served on linen, with flowers, and Mom and I could share memories of our long-ago Thanksgiving feasts.

I miss Mom most at Thanksgiving.

Many of us have lost family members, in the past or recently, and Thanksgiving may not be the family reunion we once shared or wish we had.

For me, it’s no longer about the meal. Of course, I can stuff and roast a turkey, serve pie with whipped cream, and sit down with children and grandchildren, but I admit Thanksgiving is about my childhood family, no longer available.

“Home, home…” Dorothy says at the end of her adventure, “and you’re all here…and oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.”

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving to all of my family.

And Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, whether it’s through past memories or while gathering with family and friends.

Thanksgiving is about gratitude for family as much as it is remembering any historical event.

After all, no matter where you are today, there’s no place like home.

Turtles Have Fairs and Other Reptile Surprises

Remembering visits to the Detroit Zoo brought to mind an unusual incident in that area. Five o’clock on a weekday afternoon near the intersection of Ten Mile and Woodward Avenue, traffic was steady and heavy. As I waited for an opening to pull out of a side street, we looked down and saw a turtle trying to cross Ten Mile. It would put out one clawed foot and retreat as soon as a car whizzed by.

“That will not end well,” I told the kids in the car.

I got out and nabbed the turtle, brought it to the back of our car, and popped open the hatchback. When I slid into the driver’s seat, the turtle was thumping around the space, angry at being captured. Three small heads in the back seat squealed as the neck stretched to reach them, the snaps barely missing their hair.

“Why was there a turtle at the side of the road?” Anne’s friend said.

“She’s on the way to the turtle fair,” I said.

My two started sighing at the inanity of their mother. In the rearview mirror, I could see eye-rolling. The little girl’s forehead was puckered. I managed to find an opening in the traffic, and we were on our way home as I considered which route would take us past a likely pond.

“You know, it takes turtles a year to get to the turtle fair,” I said. “Just think about how much time I’m saving her.”

“But how do you know we’re going in the right direction?” the girl said.

Think fast.

“Because she was facing this way.”

A long pause.

“Turtles have fairs?” the girl said.

We took Woodward to Long Lake Road, and turned north on Squirrel for one house with a lovely pond beside it. Pulled into the driveway and got out. I knocked, but no one was home, so we decided to cross the lawn, anyway, and access the water. David requested the honor of freeing our passenger and carried her with care, legs swimming in the air, to the edge of the pond. Splash!

“You’re welcome,” I called, and we returned to the car.

“But what about the fair?” the little girl said.

Anne and David stared at her. Was she serious?

“This will be a lovely rest stop,” I said.

Maybe that event triggered David’s love for reptiles.

He and his friend Brad spent a lot of time exploring the forbidden woods at the end of our street, and once, were gone long enough to cause Mom alarm. I was busy hollering when I picked up a paper grocery bag and stuck in my face.

“And what’s in here?” I demanded.

Yikes! Snakes. Garter snakes, rat snakes, brown snakes, coiled around each other and filling the bottom of the bag.

“You let those go in the backyard RIGHT NOW and wash your hands for dinner!”

We didn’t see a toad the rest of the summer.

One day, at the dinner table, I heard something thumping down the stairs.

“My turtle got out again,” David said.

He’d brought home a snapper and tried to keep it in a box in his room. The turtle would climb out, fall down each step until it reached the living room, and dart for the couch or a chair to hide in the shadows. Snap! Anything that walked by was attacked.

David was delighted that his pet could break pencils, but we insisted that it be set free. Turtle Lake (real name, Mud Lake) was the perfect home, and on the next fishing trip, the snapper was relocated.

I took David to a pet store and he chose a western box turtle. We set up a box on a stand with plexiglass sides, bought bakeware for a pool, a heat lamp, and a sun lamp for “Trisha.” I'd picked up a turtle care booklet, and on Page One was the warning, “Most box turtles in captivity die the first year.” Great.

We were determined that Trisha would have a long and happy life, and no, I was not interested in hibernating her in the refrigerator, so she lived in perpetual summer.

Loved nightcrawlers, ate them like spaghetti noodles, so David brought his friends over for the grisly performance. Loved raspberries, hamburger (not good for her), grapes, lettuces. If offered something she didn’t like, she’d bump it with her nose and walk on it. At night, when her lamps were switched off, she’d walk into the corner to sleep and we’d cover the box with a blanket.

Trisha lived with us for many years, until I found a man who was an expert on them, and owned several that he kept in a large room with various enclosures and pools. He happily accepted Trisha, and promised that if she didn’t care to mingle, she’d continue to live in happy isolation in her own area.

Since they can live 25 years or more, I’d like to think she may still be enjoying her nightcrawlers and raspberries.

David never outgrew his love for reptiles, particularly snakes, and dreams of having a python. Maybe not a good idea with our cats.

As for me, I miss Trisha.

I wonder if she ever attended the turtle fair?

Detroit Zoo Bear Fountain and Train Ride

Our family camped every summer until Mom and Dad bought 10 acres near Kalkaska. We visited the art museum and historical museum in Detroit, Greenfield Village and Henry Ford Museum for special outings.

But our favorite excursion was the Detroit Zoo. We packed a picnic lunch and piled into the car for the Woodward Avenue trek to animal magic.

In a list of historical facts about the zoo, I learned that it first opened in 1883 on Michigan Avenue with animals from a traveling circus. When that lost funding, some of the animals were moved to Belle Isle.

The Royal Oak setting opened in 1928 with new lion cubs and rides on Paulina the Elephant for a nickel. (She retired in 1940 after a half-million riders.) The designer Henrich Hagenbeck simulated natural habitats with moat designs and the fake rocks we know.

In 1939 the Rackham Memorial Fountain was installed, sculpted by Corrado Parducci. This famous landmark of the two bears, 10-foot tall and bronze, splashed with water, and surrounded by turtles and frogs, with seals farther in the pool, was our first stop on every visit.

When I was young, we watched the chimp performance, with western wear and bicycle riding. The shows lasted 50 years until it was considered cruel to the chimps. Once, on a visit to the zoo before the performances ended, I was inside the old great ape exhibit, and when the music began outside, one of the old chimps, behind her cage, began to run through her routine.

We were excited in 1960 when the reptile house opened. With the pterodactyl statue outside, I was initially disappointed that there weren’t any on display. The gators, snakes, and lizards were fascinating, though.

In those childhood days, the exotic bird house under its glass dome (opened in 1928) was a tropical paradise, with birds free to fly and wade. In 1968 the Penguinarium opened, and we marveled at how fast the penguins were underwater. The great apes were moved to a wilder setting in 1989, with a few locations to see them living as naturally as possible.

The zoo once offered free admission, and one of my friends, as a child living in Pleasant Ridge, would walk to the zoo regularly, and wander the walkways.

We loved the bears, tigers, lions, elephants, giraffes, zebras. The bears would rock and wave for marshmallows in the olden days, and by the time we reached the zebras, we were usually hot, dragging our feet, and whining. It was a treat to ride the zoo train back to the entrance until the next time.

The miniature railroad (Tauber Family Rairoad) was donated by The Detroit News in 1931, with two trains of six coaches (and a standby). The locomotives were donated by the Crysler Corporation in the 1950’s, and renovated in 1982, and again in 2008 with new coaches, rebuilt engines, gears, gauges, wheels, and bodies. We (and half a million people each year) enjoyed the train stations, especially the African station, near the zebras, when we finally sat and enjoyed the perimeter of the zoo.

My youngest brother loved the flamingos. I admired the tigers, and once, heard one call out “Hoc-roo…hoc-roo,” instead of growling. Everybody liked watching the bears dive. Monkey Island was a favorite stop, and we all had our animal check-off list.

Over the years, animal safety and preservation changed the inhabitants and settings, so much of my childhood zoo is gone, but however much disguised, life in a cage can be cruel. Still, cotton candy, snack stands, souvenir shops, and the sight of creatures from other lands made every zoo outing memorable.

One friend helped support the zoo over the years with memberships, and attended the various functions, including the dinosaur exhibit one year, opened at night to members. She took her daughter around to see the realistic prehistoric beasts, life-sized and moving, but was annoyed by a man, under the influence, who spent the tour complaining loudly that the animals presented were not caged or contained in any way!

I once wrote a handful of songs and jingles for the zoo, and received a kind letter of regret that there was no way to use them.

Grown and living in Roseville, I bought myself, and later, my daughter, an annual pass for visits anytime. Volunteer gardening groups had claimed spots around the zoo to plant flowers and greenery, so the Detroit Zoological Park really was a park and garden with animals. I savored my walks around the enclosures, relived childhood memories, and enjoyed the setting.

I would enjoy visiting the zoo again. In the meantime, I can go back in my memory to when all six kids elbowed each other and complained we were starving, Mom and Dad were young and alive, and summer lasted forever.

Like the bear fountain.

Elves, Middle-earth, and the Heights

The Rings of Power, another visual episode from J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, the ultimate fantasy adventure, is available through Amazon.

I remember my first introduction to hobbits, Gandalf, and Strider. A friend in high school loaned me her much-read copy of Fellowship of the Ring with a strong recommendation. “You like to read. You’ll love this,” didn’t always prove true, since I’ve never been into bodice-rippers or true crime, but this time, I had a winner. For the first time in my life, I was so absorbed, I even propped the novel behind my textbook in class to continue Frodo’s journey.

Naturally, I continued with Books Two and Three—The Two Towers and The Return of the King. Since that first discovery, I’ve read the trilogy so many times, I’ve nearly memorized the words until my eyes slide across the pages. I used to read the entire story every autumn, since that’s when Frodo begins his quest, but had to put it down for longer periods to keep the story fresh.

Wrote my own music to every song in Fellowship. Read, of course, The Hobbit, and took a stab at The Silmarillion. So why do I bring this up?

Because this past year, I learned from their sister Jane (who’s a fine artist herself) that the Brothers Hildebrandt (Greg and Tim Hildebrandt), who produced the gorgeous Lord of the Rings calendars, graduated from Avondale.

They were my heroes. Their artwork captured the beauty, mood, and impact of the characters, the action, the depth of Tolkien’s masterpiece. I hung their calendars in the kitchen, and used the pictures as mini-posters or bookmarks afterward.

I was amazed to learn that they did more than Lord of the Rings, much more—album covers, book covers, comics, Magic: The Gathering, the first Star Wars film poster (the one I remember), The Sword of Shannara. The list continues, as they worked together and separately. Their sister told me that they were and remained very close, and although Tim died in 2006, Greg continues to dedicate his work to his twin brother.

Amazing. And from Avondale, which I didn’t know when I devoured the beautiful paintings in my calendars, or I’d have boasted to my friends, and basked in the glory of such wonderful talent from my high school.

When the hobbits and Strider make it safely to the last homely house east of the sea, Elrond’s elven home Rivendell, I picture it as the Brothers Hildebrandt showed. When Frodo meets Galadriel in Lothlórien, the woodland realm of the Galadhrim elves, I see the painting from my calendar.

It’s time to reread The Fellowship of the Rings, with Greg and Tim’s paintings uppermost in my mind as I relive the story.

As Bilbo sings to Frodo, before the two hobbits part,

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago,
And people who will see a world
That I shall never know.

Thank you, Greg and Tim Hildebrandt, for your artistry, and for sharing it. I’m delighted to be able to claim you as fellow Avondale alumni.
Hail to Old Avondale!

https://www.facebook.com/brothers.hil...

Sitting on the Front Steps of Stephen Foster's House

Time travel isn’t limited to fantasy books and movies. There’s a real place in Dearborn, Michigan dedicated to traveling through history.

Greenfield Village.

Yes, I know there’s an indoor museum, too, the Henry Ford Museum, and when I was young, for special treats, Mom and Dad took our family to one or the other. (For an indoor historical museum, though, we preferred the one in Detroit across from the Art Institute. “Oh, good, we’re going to the Detroit Hysterical Museum!” we’d holler, on those outings.)

At the Henry Ford Museum, we climbed into enormous trains, saw rooms of inventions that improved over time, and walked down the hushed hallways admiring another way of life, but we kids danced in excitement whenever we went to Greenfield Village.

What genius to create a town with roads, sidewalks, trees, farms, and a town center filled with actual homes, shops, mills, and factories of historical places. Slave cabins, the Wright Brothers’ cycle shop. A covered bridge, bandstand, and windmill. The Edison homestead. One-room cabin schoolhouse. Town hall. Jewelry and general stores. Tintype studio, chapel, post office. Sawmill. Pottery shop.

We were fascinated by the Cotswold Cottage, the oldest building in Greenfield Village, with beautiful flowers around the house, originally built in 1619 in the Cotsold Hills of southwest England. The grass and garden, yellow-brown stone, gables and steep roof drew us inside, to be silenced by the dark interior, wood beams, and musty atmosphere.

Henry Ford bought Rose Cottage in 1930 for $5,000, dismantled, and shipped it. He also bought the barn and stable, originally used for storing and threshing grain, and housing a cow or ox.

And that’s only one of the marvels offered. We walked through history, entered houses and imagined life there, and were silenced by seeing the beginnings of inventions we now consider commonplace and necessary.

We were also drawn to the stunning carousel, built around 1913, with its brighty-colored, hand-carved zebras, dogs, goats, storks, horses, and frog. It was used in Spokane, Washington from 1923 to 1961. I remember riding on it. (Although carousel and merry-go-round are interchangeable, we were taught that carousels turned counter-clockwise.)

The working farms were alluring. Children don’t see hours of labor and weather-dependent success, but animals and barns and farmhouses. I used to announce that, when I grew up, I intended to marry a farmer and have ten children!

We crowded into the town center and waited for the moving figures (Gog and Magog, and two golden angels) of the Sir John Bennett tower clock to hit the bells on the hour. We thought the clock tower enormous, but when it was built in London in 1730 at the top of a five-story building, spectators must have been awestruck.

As an adult, I preferred to walk along the shady streets of old homes—where Robert Frost wrote in the 1920’s, Noah Webster’s house during the publication of his dictionary, Luther Burbank’s birthplace, the farmhouse of Thomas Edison’s grandparents, the frame houses with sidewalks and porches that invited visitors.

Some we were able to enter on a Christmas tour, with a stop at the Eagle Tavern for hot cider. Memorable.

Yet my personal favorite was Stephen Foster’s house, believed to be his birthplace, moved from Pennsylvania. I’m drawn to his sad life and brilliant musical talent for capturing a time in American history, as well as popular tunes our children still sing. “Camptown ladies sing this song, doo dah, doo dah…” Oh, Susanna, Old Folks at Home (Suwanee River), My Old Kentucky Home.

For me, though, he lives in his sad love ballads. Beautiful Dreamer, Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair, and my favorite, Ah! May the Red Rose Live Alway. When he died at 37, alone, his wallet held 37 cents and a scrap of paper that read, “Dear friends and gentle hearts.”

At Greenfield Village, I walked around his house, peered into the windows and stared at the piano in the parlor with sheet music, waiting for him to come home and play. Or compose.

When I think of Greenfield Village, I can go back in time to my memories of seeing homes and mills and shops, industry, wealth, genius, and poverty—all real moments in history, captured by the buildings where people lived, worked, created, traded.

But my memory always ends with me sitting on the steps of Stephen Foster’s house, waiting for him to come home. I’d have so much to tell him about the effect his music has on history, on our nation, on me.

Ah! May the red rose live always
To smile upon earth and sky.
Why should the beautiful ever weep?
Why should the beautiful die?

An Autumn Visit into the Past

Yesterday morning was cool and crisp, a promise that even in Central Florida, autumn is here and summer heat’s packing for the tropics.

I stood at the end of my driveway and listened to cardinals and mockingbirds, but my thoughts traveled to the Troy nature center for an afternoon walk.

I haven’t visited the educational center for years, and even wrote about it for you. Wanted to see it again, so I took myself to an early autumn day, when the leaves were changing and the air smelled like wine.

I know the nature preserve has changed over the years—the sight of white-tailed deer was a rarity in my time—but the path I followed was in the past. Turned right from the educational center into groves of young trees that led to the marsh, on the wooden walkway, and later, a deck for studying murky water. The field on my right hinted of the former farm and the stream hurried ahead.

I never hurried, but inhaled sights and sounds—bubbly water, birds over the meadow, leaves rustling (and falling), the crunch of feet on the path. Like Bok Tower Gardens in Florida, the Troy nature center was a self-contained garden of God, but wilder.

Always stopped on the small bridge over the stream to gaze into the water, like Pooh and Rabbit playing Poohsticks. From that spot, sky and hilly field and woods blended into a complete, miniature world, far from traffic, jobs, or housework.

I headed toward the woods—tall oaks and maples—with more meadow views. When I climbed the slope to a wooden bench, I leaned on the pole fence and gazed at the sight of field lined with trees, hills, and sky. My favorite view. I settled on the bench to relax, daydream, plan my week, and pretend that my house was within walking distance.

Occasionally I shared the haven with someone special—my brother Steve, a friend, my grandson Alex—but most of the time, when I needed a few hours of renewal, I went on my own.

Some places remain in the memory, as crisp as when they were discovered. Forests, water, and fields along Squirrel Road. The curves of Adams Road toward Meadowbrook before it was made wide and straight, when patches of woods contained every tree Michigan could boast.

The woods at the end of Caroline, Bessie, and Henrydale, where Kay and I tracked down the sassafras patch to chew on leaves, or hickory nuts under the old tree between the First and Second Woods.

Why the fascination with Michigan autumn? I don’t have to explain to any Michigander, do I?

My favorite season is, and has always been, summer—green fields, sunlight through leaves, birdsong, afternoon thunderstorms, and later in the season, Queen Anne’s lace, my favorite flower. But there’s enchantment in autumn, and not only the brilliant colors of sugar maples, but frosty mornings, the scent of burning leaf piles, Halloween, Thanksgiving.

I admit that, from my warm setting, the memory of frosty mornings is more pleasant than the sharp bite of reality. Winter crowds fall which makes the autumn season precious, and I push away mornings of scraping car windows, or driving to work in gray, slushy crunch.

Memories are for enjoying, for returning to moments of happiness.

For walking along the paths at the Troy nature center.

In any season.

Walk in the Autumn Woods

After the outer bands of Hurricane Ian passed through our community, we had two stunning days of Michigan autumn. Windy, cool, and cloudy weather carried me back to the Heights while it lasted.

Fall in Central Florida is like an old county town up north—blink and you miss it—so that summer blends into early spring, and back to summer. Yes, I miss autumn.

How to explain to my current neighbors that Michigan has (at least) three autumns, each with its delights.

Apple cider time. Apples are ripe and the cider mills draw lines of eager customers. There’s nothing like biting into a fresh, ripe McIntosh, or buying a bushel of Jonathans.

My great-grandparents had a small orchard in their yard outside their Michigan farmhouse in Rochester (long gone), and Great-Grandma kept bushels of apples in the pantry off the dining room. She’d offer us an apple on every visit. (Don’t recall which variety, but I’ll bet my brother can.)

Out of curiosity, I looked up Michigan apples on the internet, and was stunned at the number of choices—Braeburn, Cortland, Empire, Evercrisp, Fuji, Gala, Ginger Gold, Golden Delicious, Honeycrisp, Ida Red, Jonagold, Jonathan, McIntosh, Northern Spy, Paula Red, Red Delicious, and Rome. For me, McIntosh can do all of the above.

Leaf changing time. Yes, I was surprised to learn that the orange, red, and yellow colors are always part of the leaf, overtaken by green from chlorophyll, the trees’ nutrients. As daylight hours shorten, soft tissue in the leaf stem hardens and blocks chlorophyll. And so, the magic.

One perfect sugar maple halfway down Caroline Street produced flames. Maples and oaks for red. Hickory, ash, tulip trees, beech, birch, and sycamore for yellow. The sight of those bright colors against the blue autumn sky was an annual gift.

This included the labor and pleasure of raking leaves. When I was a kid, it meant jumping into the piles afterward. As a mother, it wasn’t as enjoyable, although I recall one Sunday afternoon, when the kids and I were…well, shall we say…coerced into raking. Each of us groaned and left what we were doing to get it over with.

“Don’t FALL,” I said, as we maneuvered rakes. Giggle, giggle.

“Can we LEAVE when we’re done, Mom?” Laughter.

The backyard outside the kitchen and deck held a locust with tiny leaves, and a sycamore, with enormous ones, perfect for a quick rake, an enormous pile, and a few happy jumps afterward.

Once the leaves fall, paths in the woods crunched under your feet, and the scent of fall was a divine blend of wine and loam. Branches became bare, and the first frosts created crunchy grass and brisk (cold) mornings. Mornings could be still or windy, skies could be bright or cloudy. Invigorating. We dug out gloves and heavier jackets. There was always a threat of snow.

Pumpkin weather. Pumpkin patches and Indian corn. Haunted houses and Halloween candy. The fun of imagining witches on broomsticks flying past the full moon. Jack-o-lanterns with candles lit inside. Hay rides. Football games and cocoa.

From the sight of fox squirrels burying nuts around the yards, to high school cheerleaders freezing in their skirts at a high school game, from apple cider to pumpkin pies, from walks in the woods with bare branches to falling leaves and cold weather, autumn in the Heights was a season to rival late spring blossoms, summer vacation, or snowy Christmas weather.

I miss it.

For those of you there, inhale the scents of autumn for me and project the season 1,162 miles (337 leagues) to my front porch in Ridge Manor.

I’ll be waiting.

Best Doughnuts in the World

Yeast, milk, flour, butter, sugar, salt, and eggs.

Doughnuts.

We can debate the best—Krispy Kremes (especially in the South) or Dunkin Donuts or the local bakery. We can argue fried or baked, jelly- or cream-filled.

Plain, frosted, sprinkled, maple-topped. Cider mill doughnuts. Sour cream. Doughnut holes. And even if cinnamon rolls can be included on the list.

But I once tasted the best doughnuts on the planet.

Even better than Dawn Donuts, easily recognized by the happy young baker in white holding his tray of doughnuts. (In those days, the nearest bakery was on Perry Street in Pontiac.) And yes, even better than Krispy Kremes.

And I don’t recall the name of the shop.

It was a local bakery in the Heights, located on Auburn Road in the small downtown area, open early to offer fresh doughnuts made on the premises.

There was a time when my son and I stopped every morning for carry-out breakfast and frozen burritos (from the cooler) for his lunch. My favorite choice was the honey wheat doughnuts. With fresh coffee, they were heaven.

My cat Micky thought so, too. If I brought any home, she’d prowl around the table, waiting for the phone to ring so she could jump onto my chair and eat mine. When I hollered, she chewed faster, so that by the time I got back to my plate, my treat was fragmented with cat spit. (When she was younger, she’d eat one bite out of each hamburger bun in the package, which made us drive back to the store, since we couldn’t bring ourselves to serve company cat-bitten rolls.)

My first full-time office job was Civil Service downtown Pontiac, several floors above a doughnut shop. All morning, the scents of spices and hot oil wafted to my desk.

Two jobs later, in the Highway Department on Featherstone, our group paid for coffee with change, so that every Friday, a large box of Dawn Donuts was carried in from the profits. First grabber got the maple-frosted cinnamon bun. Last in line picked through fragments.

Doughnuts have always been a treat, regardless of health warnings on their invisible labels. Fresh-pressed cider…winter cocoa…and best of all, brewed coffee call for the traditional yeast cakes.

Dawn Donuts created the first commercial donut mix in Jackson, Michigan, 1920, but doughnuts, in one form or another, have been with us since fossil times.

The first Dutch immigrants brought their “olykoeks” (oily cakes) to Manhattan, and in the 19th century, a ship captain’s mother made a deep-fried dough with nutmeg, cinnamon, and lemon rind from ships’ stores. Her son, Captain Gregory, claimed that he invented doughnut “holes” by cutting them with the top of a round tin pepper box.

According to David Taylor of Smithsonian Magazine (March 1998), doughnuts were popular with WWI troops in the trenches of France, served by women volunteers.

The first doughnut machine was developed in 1920, New York City, by Adolph Levitt, a refuge from Russia, for his bakery, an invention that made him wealthy.

In the 1934 Chicago World’s Fair, doughnuts were announced as “the food hit of the Century of Progess” because they could be made automatically.

Frenchman Joe LeBeau traveled from New Orleans to Kentucky, and because of hard times, sold his secret recipe and the trade name of Krispy Kreme to Ishmael Armstrong. And history was born.

Still, I maintain that the Heights bakery offered the best variety and flavors, and the freshest doughnuts.

Although, second in line would be the tiny bakery, run by Byzantine Catholic monks, near Jacob’s Falls in Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. They also include jams and coffee, and the afternoon we stopped on an impulse, the soft-spoken bear of a monk sold us the tastiest bread with rich, dark roast coffee.

But oh, for a honey wheat doughnut this moment, even if I had to share it with my cat Micky. By the way, she lived to be 19, so maybe doughnuts are healthier than we’re told.

Brew the coffee. I think I’ll have a maple-covered doughnut with it.

Care to join me?

Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden

Last week, Debbie reminded us of a Nancy Drew anniversary, which triggered memories for me. No, I wasn’t around in 1930 when the first Nancy Drew mysteries were published. But they bring back a specific time in my life, one filled with new surroundings and the adventure of moving to the Heights.

Our family unpacked on Caroline Street July 11th when I was nine, and everything about the Heights in summertime seemed vibrant and full of color, like Dorothy stepping out of her Kansas house into Munchkin land.

Over the next few years, I started collecting and devouring Nancy Drew mysteries, starting, of course, with The Secret of the Old Clock.

Mysteries.

Life was full of mystery, the puzzle of learning a new neighborhood. A street full of more tree varieties than I knew existed. Seasons in a new town with local parades and bike rides to our cherished downtown. Best friends, playing outside until dark, the fire whistle calling us home to dinner, and streets full of friends of all ages.

If you’d asked me about being a teen or even growing up, I could have told you about roadsters, maids, and fine clothes, all of which I knew absolutely nothing, then or now. But Nancy Drew did, and we lived it with her.

In truth, one mystery was how my brother Dave managed to loan, book by book, every one of my Nancy Drews to our friend Rebecca without me ever being aware of it, until they confessed years later.

We were obsessed with mysteries and solving crimes, using clues, of course. For a week or two one summer, my brother and friends and I were convinced that the key and scrap of paper with measurements we found (near a construction site) were a code to be deciphered, and created possibilities between us that Carolyn Keene would have recognized.

Carolyn Keene, a pseudonym of several authors hired to kick out Nancy Drew adventures, was created by the publisher of the Hardy Boys, Edward Stratemeyer. Those stories continued until 2003, with 175 novels.

No, I didn’t have that many, but cherished the ones I did own, and read others from our library.

When I was about twelve or thirteen, I turned my attention to Trixie Beldon. Now, there was an author who understood what it felt like to be a girl that age. Secret clubs, dreams of having a horse, solving mysteries with a secret club (the Bob-Whites of the Glen, in Trixie’s case). I wanted to be Trixie Beldon, and poured over the chapters and pictures.

The first six stories were written in 1948 by Julie Campbell Tathan, and later, a pseudonym of various authors called themselves Kathryn Kenny. As important to me as the stories were the illustrations in the books, the first six by Mary Stevens, the next seven by Paul Frame. All I have to do is see one of Mary Stevens’ drawings, and I can be thirteen again, with mysteries brimming in my neighborhood.

The only other creators who nabbed that age correctly were the writers of Leave It to Beaver, one of the first primetime shows to show life from a child’s eyes. Writers Joe Connelly and Bob Mosher based their plots on their children, and nailed them.

Jerry Mather may be two years older, but Beaver was the same age as my brother and me. We understood his feelings, his confusion, and his choices. Our family was no Cleaver household, but that didn’t bother us. We knew his family wasn’t real. But Theodore “the Beave” Cleaver was.

And who, from that generation, didn’t learn to recognize an Eddie Haskell, then and now, in your life? “Gosh, Wally…”

Life is full of mystery, and not all unanswered questions can be solved by Trixie or Nancy, but memories of following clues with both still gives me pleasure.

On the far side of childhood, I’m more drawn to Nancy Drew than Trixie Belden, and prefer the crusty, devoted Bub of My Three Sons to the Cleaver family, but can’t deny the spark I feel when I see the covers of Nancy Drew or Trixie Beldon books.

Yes, there were other mystery series, but those two were my favorites. When I graduated to Agatha Christie, I thought I’d never look back, but I’d love to reread those stories, as they appeared then, to see if I could be lured, once again, into following clues that lead to danger and, of course, a successful and happy ending.

Let me know if you're missing inheritance papers, or a will from a cousin promising wealth. Nancy and I will see what we can do.

Never Forget

We will never forget.

You remember where you were the morning of September 11th in 2001 when the unbelievable happened.

I was at Moton Elementary in Brooksville, Florida, off the front office when the horrific news reached us. We watched the nightmarish events on the TV in the front office, but with classrooms full of children, the teachers had to keep calling us for updates, or try not to be obvious checking their phones.

Over the past 21 years, we’ve heard many stories of courage and heroism, loss and tragedy from survivors or families of those killed, of phone calls during the attacks, of first responders killed during duty. There are no words. Each story is a hologram of the entire catastrophe, where the individual patterns recreate the whole.

At Mass Saturday afternoon, our pastor asked us to choose one name at random from his Flag of Honor, where every name lost in the attacks was listed. 2,977 people between the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, four planes, and Pennsylvania. 2,977 family members lost to hatred and violence. I copied Alison (Allison) Marie Wildman into my notebook.

30-year old stockbroker on the 92nd floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center loved her job and was close to her parents. “She called me shortly after her tower was hit,” her mother said. “She told us they’d been hit by something. She lost her purse and cell phone. She said the office was filling with smoke. She said, ‘Tell Daddy to come and get me. I don’t have anything.’ That was the last we heard because a short time later, the towers collapsed.

“Arthur Wildman said his daughter never missed a day of work because she ‘loved her job so much.’ A 1993 graduate of Rider University, Allison worked for Bloomberg Financial Services and Fuji Bank before joining Carr Futures.”

She lived in Manhattan and visited her parents frequently on weekends, but wouldn’t miss Mondays at work. A beautiful woman, “funny, witty, and full of life.”

Just one of the irreplaceable hearts and souls.

The loss that we recall on this devastating memorial day, with every ring of the bells to commemorate the names, with every name announced, with every moment of silence, can remind us of “one nation, under God, indivisible,” since there were 58 nationalities involved, and the attack was on our mainland, in our largest city.

In our Avondale classrooms as I grew up, we stood at the beginning of the day to pledge allegiance to the flag. First written in 1892 by a minister, Francis Bellamy, “the Flag of the United States of America” was added in 1923, and “under God” in 1954 by President Eisenhower.

It’s a powerful reminder of all we believe as Americans, and I’m proud to repeat the words.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

May we be one Nation and indivisible, today and from this memorial forward.

God bless the lost victims, their families and friends, those killed attempting to help, and our entire nation.

Under God and indivisible.

And may we never forget.