Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 14
September 4, 2022
Marionettes and the Meadowbrook Mall
Window shopping is a lost art in our area.
Of course, everybody glances into storefront windows as they pass, but the days of browsing shop display windows with no intention of buying faded with the indoor malls, unless you live in a city with a downtown.
No local mall offered the pleasure of window shopping with atmosphere more than the Meadowbrook Mall with its cobblestone floors and vintage shop fronts.
My daughter Anne and her husband Bernie celebrated their 22nd wedding anniversary this week, and Anne reminded me of a trip to the Meadowbrook Mall the day before their wedding to pick up wedding favors, and sit down to a mother-daughter dinner at Max & Erma’s. By the way, Bernie, I couldn’t have chosen better for my precious daughter if I’d searched the galactic glories. You gave me memorable life lessons, too—“Never say ‘no’ to coffee or a meal.” And showed me the Cow King level.
Anne sent me a link to a history of the Meadowbrook Mall, and we relived many happy memories there.
I didn’t know that it was originally a fox (silver fox) farm for furs. Brrr. In 1973, Avon Township approved an enclosed 155,000 square foot shopping center with an 1800’s village theme. In 2002, a new shopping concept was created, and the magic was gone.
But back to our Meadowbrook Mall.
Camelot Music, where my sister JoAnn and I spent many hours shopping for favorite albums (remember those days?) in the compact store. Once, I saw Gary Danielson across from me, quarterback for the Detroit Lions. As I recognized his face (and the ‘Gary’ on his team jacket), he momentarily frowned at me, so I didn’t interrupt him. But I was thrilled to share the moment with JoAnn.
The perfume of freshly-baked waffle cones from the ice cream store at the far end of the mall. Once, in a fit of impulse or inanity, I talked the kids into riding our bikes from our house to the Meadowbrook Mall for a waffle cone. Five miles each way down Adams Road (at least, on the way there, with a cut through Meadowbrook’s golf course on the way home, where I promptly got us lost). The views never noticed from a car were small compensation for the hard work, but we enjoyed our ice cream. None of us ever forgot that trip.
The puppet show near the front of the mall. Marionettes, actually. The mall opened in 1975, and our children were young and fascinated with the puppet shows. Once, when the puppet theater was dark and unused, I flipped back the curtain so we could peek at what the puppets were doing when nobody noticed. The carved, painted faces of the marionettes were too close to my son, and he leaped back in terror. They are frightening close up, and trigger that “clown fear” we all have, if we’re honest.
Over the years, I spent many happy Saturday afternoons wandering through the Meadowbrook Mall with my children or sister. Bookstores, tiny water wheel for the cider mill, later Coffee Beanery, clothing and jewelry shops, specialty stands. In fact, over 100 different stores came and went over the years, offering a multitude of delights.
One other memory stands out for me.
Kruse & Muer restaurant with its outside door, a restaurant for special moments, although once, early Saturday evening, after a long day of bookstore wandering in Detroit with my brother Dave, he suggested we stop for dinner. Picture us—faded jeans, worn sweatshirts, and I remember stains on his well-loved sweatshirt. Ragamuffins, to be sure.
“They’ll never let us in,” I said. “I believe there’s a dress code.”
“Bah, never mind. It won’t be crowded.”
We walked through the door, and I wondered if my brother was a magician who cast a spell on the staff. The dining area wasn’t crowded, but the greeter rushed up to show us to our table. “Was this to his satisfaction?” “Would he like to try new dishes not yet on the menu?”
Our service was phenomenol. Our server stood nearby—he couldn’t have had a napkin over his arm, but that’s how I remember it—and rushed to refill glasses and check that everything was acceptable. It was a wonderful dinner, and the chef sent out bites of this or that for my brother’s approval.
When we left, I tapped his arm. “I’ll bet anything they think you’re the Anonymous Gourmet, and will be going through the papers looking for your review.”
After all, who else would dare show up dressed in ragpile clothing?
“They’ll look a long time,” Dave said.
I thought about my brother’s knowledge of foods and cooking, about the conversations between him and the server regarding spices and flavors.
“Are you the Anonymous Gourmet?” I said.
“Bah, have you seen my bank account?”
Maybe Kruse & Muer was disappointed not to get a sterling review for their service and meal, but I won’t forget that magic dinner.
I won’t forget the Meadowbrook Mall, either. The finest miniature grouping of shopping, outings, enchantment, and afternoon getaways ever designed.
And, as a postscript, according to the online article, Kruse & Muer still stands at the same location. Maybe, if I walk out the door of the restaurant and close my eyes, I can timetravel back to an afternoon on cobblestone floors, heading for waffle cones and freshly-brewed coffee. I’ll treat Anne again, we can meet JoAnn, and enjoy the puppet show with David and the next generations.
Can’t you see it, if you close your eyes, too?
Thank you, Avon Township. You got that one right.
Of course, everybody glances into storefront windows as they pass, but the days of browsing shop display windows with no intention of buying faded with the indoor malls, unless you live in a city with a downtown.
No local mall offered the pleasure of window shopping with atmosphere more than the Meadowbrook Mall with its cobblestone floors and vintage shop fronts.
My daughter Anne and her husband Bernie celebrated their 22nd wedding anniversary this week, and Anne reminded me of a trip to the Meadowbrook Mall the day before their wedding to pick up wedding favors, and sit down to a mother-daughter dinner at Max & Erma’s. By the way, Bernie, I couldn’t have chosen better for my precious daughter if I’d searched the galactic glories. You gave me memorable life lessons, too—“Never say ‘no’ to coffee or a meal.” And showed me the Cow King level.
Anne sent me a link to a history of the Meadowbrook Mall, and we relived many happy memories there.
I didn’t know that it was originally a fox (silver fox) farm for furs. Brrr. In 1973, Avon Township approved an enclosed 155,000 square foot shopping center with an 1800’s village theme. In 2002, a new shopping concept was created, and the magic was gone.
But back to our Meadowbrook Mall.
Camelot Music, where my sister JoAnn and I spent many hours shopping for favorite albums (remember those days?) in the compact store. Once, I saw Gary Danielson across from me, quarterback for the Detroit Lions. As I recognized his face (and the ‘Gary’ on his team jacket), he momentarily frowned at me, so I didn’t interrupt him. But I was thrilled to share the moment with JoAnn.
The perfume of freshly-baked waffle cones from the ice cream store at the far end of the mall. Once, in a fit of impulse or inanity, I talked the kids into riding our bikes from our house to the Meadowbrook Mall for a waffle cone. Five miles each way down Adams Road (at least, on the way there, with a cut through Meadowbrook’s golf course on the way home, where I promptly got us lost). The views never noticed from a car were small compensation for the hard work, but we enjoyed our ice cream. None of us ever forgot that trip.
The puppet show near the front of the mall. Marionettes, actually. The mall opened in 1975, and our children were young and fascinated with the puppet shows. Once, when the puppet theater was dark and unused, I flipped back the curtain so we could peek at what the puppets were doing when nobody noticed. The carved, painted faces of the marionettes were too close to my son, and he leaped back in terror. They are frightening close up, and trigger that “clown fear” we all have, if we’re honest.
Over the years, I spent many happy Saturday afternoons wandering through the Meadowbrook Mall with my children or sister. Bookstores, tiny water wheel for the cider mill, later Coffee Beanery, clothing and jewelry shops, specialty stands. In fact, over 100 different stores came and went over the years, offering a multitude of delights.
One other memory stands out for me.
Kruse & Muer restaurant with its outside door, a restaurant for special moments, although once, early Saturday evening, after a long day of bookstore wandering in Detroit with my brother Dave, he suggested we stop for dinner. Picture us—faded jeans, worn sweatshirts, and I remember stains on his well-loved sweatshirt. Ragamuffins, to be sure.
“They’ll never let us in,” I said. “I believe there’s a dress code.”
“Bah, never mind. It won’t be crowded.”
We walked through the door, and I wondered if my brother was a magician who cast a spell on the staff. The dining area wasn’t crowded, but the greeter rushed up to show us to our table. “Was this to his satisfaction?” “Would he like to try new dishes not yet on the menu?”
Our service was phenomenol. Our server stood nearby—he couldn’t have had a napkin over his arm, but that’s how I remember it—and rushed to refill glasses and check that everything was acceptable. It was a wonderful dinner, and the chef sent out bites of this or that for my brother’s approval.
When we left, I tapped his arm. “I’ll bet anything they think you’re the Anonymous Gourmet, and will be going through the papers looking for your review.”
After all, who else would dare show up dressed in ragpile clothing?
“They’ll look a long time,” Dave said.
I thought about my brother’s knowledge of foods and cooking, about the conversations between him and the server regarding spices and flavors.
“Are you the Anonymous Gourmet?” I said.
“Bah, have you seen my bank account?”
Maybe Kruse & Muer was disappointed not to get a sterling review for their service and meal, but I won’t forget that magic dinner.
I won’t forget the Meadowbrook Mall, either. The finest miniature grouping of shopping, outings, enchantment, and afternoon getaways ever designed.
And, as a postscript, according to the online article, Kruse & Muer still stands at the same location. Maybe, if I walk out the door of the restaurant and close my eyes, I can timetravel back to an afternoon on cobblestone floors, heading for waffle cones and freshly-brewed coffee. I’ll treat Anne again, we can meet JoAnn, and enjoy the puppet show with David and the next generations.
Can’t you see it, if you close your eyes, too?
Thank you, Avon Township. You got that one right.
August 27, 2022
Frosty A&W Root Beer
Oh, Joanie. As soon as I saw your picture of the window tray with A&W root beer, I was transported in a flash back to early childhood.
The excitement of Dad driving into the Pontiac A&W drive-in. “Flash your lights for service.” He’d open his window for the tray with the foaming mugs of ice-cold root beer, in adult, child, and baby sizes.
In a growing family with limited means, having a heavy, cold mug all your own was a luxury. The littlest got tiny mugs of root beer free in those days, and could keep the mugs. We had a small collection.
Don’t recall too many food orders. My brother mentioned hot dogs once, and I think we shared fries, but the root beer was filling, and more delicious than root beer has been since.
Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors, so family outings were usually planned (the Detroit Zoo or museums, which deserve their own future memories), but when we went to the ice store in Pontiac, or had some other errand, a root beer stop was a memorable event.
My brothers and I decided that the carhop girls had the best job ever, since we were convinced they could eat and drink whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. A job perk, for sure.
A&W came into being in 1920 from Roy Allen and Frank Wright, (which explains the name) with a formula Mr. Allen bought in 1919 from a pharmacist named Charles Elmer Hires. That recipe included 25 herbs, berries, and roots in carbonated water.
Every root beer probably has its own “secret recipe.” Ingredients can include allspice, bark, coriander, juniper, ginger, wintergreen, hops, burdock root, dandelion root, sarsaparilla, vanilla beans, molasses, and licorice.
None of that mattered to me. What I remember is the cold, sweet, rich flavor of sarsaparilla and vanilla and magic.
Where I live now in Hernando County, Florida, there is, at least, one A&W drive-through restaurant, although I'm not usually in that area. I doubt I could reproduce the enchantment of Dad ordering mugs of root beer, passing back the heavy glasses to each of us in the back seat (“Don’t spill, now”), and letting everyone take as long as we wanted with our sipping. (Never lasted long, though. We were locusts when it came to foods and treats we liked.)
I’m sure that our parents also experienced childhood memories long vanished from the world my brother and I knew, and my children will never experience the same excitements I did, when Pontiac was a busy town with General Motors plants and downtown stores.
Family lived around the area. Grandpa worked at Fisher Body. We walked to LeBaron school when we lived on Third Street. Shopped at Sim’s downtown Pontiac, walking on wooden floors, and following the giant painted footsteps. Considered the Riker Building and Pontiac State Bank skyscrapers. Enjoyed the Christmas parade on Thanksgiving, all before I was nine, when we moved to the Heights.
All those memories rushed together when I saw Joanie’s picture of the A&W tray on the car window. Yes, Joanie, it certainly did bring back memories.
Can’t say it was an easier time, but it was a different world.
One I miss.
Thank you for sharing that magic moment! I can almost taste that first sip of root beer now.
The excitement of Dad driving into the Pontiac A&W drive-in. “Flash your lights for service.” He’d open his window for the tray with the foaming mugs of ice-cold root beer, in adult, child, and baby sizes.
In a growing family with limited means, having a heavy, cold mug all your own was a luxury. The littlest got tiny mugs of root beer free in those days, and could keep the mugs. We had a small collection.
Don’t recall too many food orders. My brother mentioned hot dogs once, and I think we shared fries, but the root beer was filling, and more delicious than root beer has been since.
Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors, so family outings were usually planned (the Detroit Zoo or museums, which deserve their own future memories), but when we went to the ice store in Pontiac, or had some other errand, a root beer stop was a memorable event.
My brothers and I decided that the carhop girls had the best job ever, since we were convinced they could eat and drink whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. A job perk, for sure.
A&W came into being in 1920 from Roy Allen and Frank Wright, (which explains the name) with a formula Mr. Allen bought in 1919 from a pharmacist named Charles Elmer Hires. That recipe included 25 herbs, berries, and roots in carbonated water.
Every root beer probably has its own “secret recipe.” Ingredients can include allspice, bark, coriander, juniper, ginger, wintergreen, hops, burdock root, dandelion root, sarsaparilla, vanilla beans, molasses, and licorice.
None of that mattered to me. What I remember is the cold, sweet, rich flavor of sarsaparilla and vanilla and magic.
Where I live now in Hernando County, Florida, there is, at least, one A&W drive-through restaurant, although I'm not usually in that area. I doubt I could reproduce the enchantment of Dad ordering mugs of root beer, passing back the heavy glasses to each of us in the back seat (“Don’t spill, now”), and letting everyone take as long as we wanted with our sipping. (Never lasted long, though. We were locusts when it came to foods and treats we liked.)
I’m sure that our parents also experienced childhood memories long vanished from the world my brother and I knew, and my children will never experience the same excitements I did, when Pontiac was a busy town with General Motors plants and downtown stores.
Family lived around the area. Grandpa worked at Fisher Body. We walked to LeBaron school when we lived on Third Street. Shopped at Sim’s downtown Pontiac, walking on wooden floors, and following the giant painted footsteps. Considered the Riker Building and Pontiac State Bank skyscrapers. Enjoyed the Christmas parade on Thanksgiving, all before I was nine, when we moved to the Heights.
All those memories rushed together when I saw Joanie’s picture of the A&W tray on the car window. Yes, Joanie, it certainly did bring back memories.
Can’t say it was an easier time, but it was a different world.
One I miss.
Thank you for sharing that magic moment! I can almost taste that first sip of root beer now.
August 21, 2022
Jack and Jill or Highlights
Remember when magazines were part of everyday life?
Mom and Dad read Time and the Saturday Evening Post. We all read Reader’s Digest (including the Condensed Books).
We kids looked forward every month to our mailed version of Jack and Jill, “The Better Magazine for Boys and Girls.”
We giggled at the riddles. “Why is a boy being spanked like a thunderstorm? One roars with pain while the other pours with rain.” Imagine that being printed today!
My brother and I loved the Baba Yaga stories, with her long-suffering cat. The Russian witch was crabby and scary, but she and her cat lived in a house on huge chicken legs, which was fascinating.
I loved the picture each month of the Three Silly Kittens, drawn and written by Margot Austin. Cute.
Of course, each issue was full of stories, illustrations, letters from readers, drawings, puzzles, other riddles, and articles.
Jack and Jill began in 1938 by the Curtis Publishing Company from Philadelphia. In 1962, the magazine used advertising, but the issues I remember had none. By 2009, Jack and Jill merged with Children’s Digest.
Every doctor’s office had the Highlights magazine, and we read those anytime we were in a waiting room. We Russells were loyal to Jack and Jill, but any magazine for children was of interest, even Humpty Dumpty issues.
Highlights for Children started in 1948 by Garry and Caroline Myers in Pennsylvania, and used the slogan, “Fun with a Purpose,” with hidden pictures, riddles and jokes, crafts, puzzles, stories for children, and of course, pages of submitted drawings (including the age of the artist) and letters.
I have faint memories of Boy’s Life, the Boy Scout magazine, published since 1911, with stories, articles, and comics related to Boy Scouts, but don’t recall if my brothers received or read it.
For a brief time, Mom cleaned the apartments of my grandmother’s friends, in old brick apartment buildings near downtown Pontiac. Not sure why I accompanied her a few times, since I was school-aged, but remember settling on a chair to look through the stack of Ideal magazines with their focus on seasons.
First published in 1944, every holiday and season had an issue. Creator Van Hooper meant the magazine copies to be keepsakes, and filled them with large, crisp photographs of nature scenes and illustrations (many by artist George Hinke). Ideals promised “…clean, wholesome, old-fashioned American ideals,” according to an editorial comment in the 1945 Christmas issue.
Yes, I was entertained browsing the pages, but my strongest memory comes from discovering Hans Christian Anderson’s story, “The Little Match Girl” in a Christmas issue. I’d never heard or read it before, and I sobbed at the sad ending. The poor child, nearly frozen in the snow on New Year’s Eve, trying to sell her last matches, lights them instead, and sees wonderful visions—a warm stove, a table with roast goose, a Christmas tree, and finally, her dead grandmother who collects the girl.
“She took the little girl in her arms, and both of them flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor fear—they were with God.
“But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the little girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. The New Year’s sun rose upon a pathetic figure. The child sat there, stiff and cold, holding the matches, of which one bundle was almost burned.” (Translation by Jean Hersholt)
I sobbed a long time.
Arghhh! No wonder I preferred the three little kittens, and Baba Yaga’s cat, and corny riddles.
One year, nestled in my birthday package from my brother Dave was a July 1957 issue of Jack and Jill, in near perfect condition, with the kittens and Baba Yaga, stories, puzzles, letters from readers, the old-fashioned drawings, and verses.
Whenever I’m playing with others
There’s one thing I don’t understand—
Why is it that toys look better
When they’re in another child’s hand?
(Andre Ross)
Cover price, 35 cents. Brought back memories of seeing our issue in the mail and breathing down each other’s necks to get it next.
“Jack and Jill magazine for a merry-go-round of reading fun that lasts all year long!”
In my memories, it has lasted longer than that. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Mom and Dad read Time and the Saturday Evening Post. We all read Reader’s Digest (including the Condensed Books).
We kids looked forward every month to our mailed version of Jack and Jill, “The Better Magazine for Boys and Girls.”
We giggled at the riddles. “Why is a boy being spanked like a thunderstorm? One roars with pain while the other pours with rain.” Imagine that being printed today!
My brother and I loved the Baba Yaga stories, with her long-suffering cat. The Russian witch was crabby and scary, but she and her cat lived in a house on huge chicken legs, which was fascinating.
I loved the picture each month of the Three Silly Kittens, drawn and written by Margot Austin. Cute.
Of course, each issue was full of stories, illustrations, letters from readers, drawings, puzzles, other riddles, and articles.
Jack and Jill began in 1938 by the Curtis Publishing Company from Philadelphia. In 1962, the magazine used advertising, but the issues I remember had none. By 2009, Jack and Jill merged with Children’s Digest.
Every doctor’s office had the Highlights magazine, and we read those anytime we were in a waiting room. We Russells were loyal to Jack and Jill, but any magazine for children was of interest, even Humpty Dumpty issues.
Highlights for Children started in 1948 by Garry and Caroline Myers in Pennsylvania, and used the slogan, “Fun with a Purpose,” with hidden pictures, riddles and jokes, crafts, puzzles, stories for children, and of course, pages of submitted drawings (including the age of the artist) and letters.
I have faint memories of Boy’s Life, the Boy Scout magazine, published since 1911, with stories, articles, and comics related to Boy Scouts, but don’t recall if my brothers received or read it.
For a brief time, Mom cleaned the apartments of my grandmother’s friends, in old brick apartment buildings near downtown Pontiac. Not sure why I accompanied her a few times, since I was school-aged, but remember settling on a chair to look through the stack of Ideal magazines with their focus on seasons.
First published in 1944, every holiday and season had an issue. Creator Van Hooper meant the magazine copies to be keepsakes, and filled them with large, crisp photographs of nature scenes and illustrations (many by artist George Hinke). Ideals promised “…clean, wholesome, old-fashioned American ideals,” according to an editorial comment in the 1945 Christmas issue.
Yes, I was entertained browsing the pages, but my strongest memory comes from discovering Hans Christian Anderson’s story, “The Little Match Girl” in a Christmas issue. I’d never heard or read it before, and I sobbed at the sad ending. The poor child, nearly frozen in the snow on New Year’s Eve, trying to sell her last matches, lights them instead, and sees wonderful visions—a warm stove, a table with roast goose, a Christmas tree, and finally, her dead grandmother who collects the girl.
“She took the little girl in her arms, and both of them flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor fear—they were with God.
“But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the little girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. The New Year’s sun rose upon a pathetic figure. The child sat there, stiff and cold, holding the matches, of which one bundle was almost burned.” (Translation by Jean Hersholt)
I sobbed a long time.
Arghhh! No wonder I preferred the three little kittens, and Baba Yaga’s cat, and corny riddles.
One year, nestled in my birthday package from my brother Dave was a July 1957 issue of Jack and Jill, in near perfect condition, with the kittens and Baba Yaga, stories, puzzles, letters from readers, the old-fashioned drawings, and verses.
Whenever I’m playing with others
There’s one thing I don’t understand—
Why is it that toys look better
When they’re in another child’s hand?
(Andre Ross)
Cover price, 35 cents. Brought back memories of seeing our issue in the mail and breathing down each other’s necks to get it next.
“Jack and Jill magazine for a merry-go-round of reading fun that lasts all year long!”
In my memories, it has lasted longer than that. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
August 13, 2022
Wisdom from Galaxy Quest
“Never give up, never surrender.” (Commander Peter Quincy Taggart)
It’s a pleasure to share happy memories of earlier years, but life isn’t always simple or happy. Struggles and setbacks and tragedies find all of us, especially as we look back on our lives. Maybe it's even true for you today.
“Nobody gets out of here without singing the blues,” we learn from Adventures in Babysitting, and it’s true. I used to wonder why women cried at weddings. Now I know. Those bright-eyed brides, who believe in “happily ever after,” have yet to meet the reality of change and growth and twists from daily life. The rest of us, who’ve experienced them all, know better.
Yet, in the midst of every family disaster, there’s been at least one moment of something beautiful, something touching, something comforting, something funny.
When our family was gathered because my sister was dying from complications of multiple sclerosis, I remember standing outside the hospital in Central Florida, praying while I listened to the most beautiful bird song I’d ever heard, a mockingbird offering his best courting song. I felt encouraged, and my sister did rally, mainly due to prayer and her nurse friend who spent the night in her room, singing Amazing Grace over and over.
Now, you have to understand that each of my family has some quirk. JoAnn despised the song. “How can you not love Amazing Grace?” we’d say, but what can you expect from someone who also hated watermelon. Really? (But then, I shudder at mac-n-cheese. As I said, we all have our quirks…) And, by the way, I sent flowers to Dawn and thanked her for our sister’s life.
Children fill our hearts, but can break them, too. There was a time when Dave and I made a weekly trip to the Ann Arbor area, a difficult and sad time. An hour’s drive each way with anxiety and sorrow crowding us in the car. I’m a notorious daydreamer, so tried to find comfort in the scenery. And it is beautiful countryside near Ann Arbor.
There was a town that we drove through each week, an old town with small houses in quiet neighborhoods. We passed one yard with a scattering of teddy bears, all sizes, on a tablecloth, having a picnic.
Whoever had arranged them saw to every detail. They were dressed in summer attire, a picnic basket was open, with plates and cups set out.
The next week, I looked for the same house, wondering if they were still on the front lawn. They were, but this time, it was a birthday party, complete with party clothes, balloons, gifts, and a large cake.
During the weeks we made that drive, I looked forward to the teddy bear picnic scene. One week they rode tricycles in a circle, another, they played near a plastic pool, dressed in bathing suits, with plastic buckets and shovels.
One Saturday, it rained hard and I was disappointed not to enjoy the sight of the teddy bears at play, but nope, their owner was prepared with slickers and umbrellas and yellow plastic boots.
“The show must go on.” (Commander Peter Quincy Taggart)
We survived that difficulty, as we always do, with the help of family, friends, and God. At the time, though, happy endings didn’t feel guaranteed.
“Well, forget it! I’m not doing it! This episode was badly written!” (Lt. Tawny Madison)
We never do anything alone. We never suffer alone, unless we choose to.
“By Grabthar’s Hammer, you shall be avenged.” (Dr. Lazarus)
In the midst of happy memories of childhood and years in the Heights, in Michigan, surrounded by family and friends, occasionally it’s important to stop and remember that the mixture of dark and light, sorrow and laughter are part of real life. And none of us gets out of here without “singing the blues.”
Still…
“As long as there is injustice, whenever a Targathian baby cries out, wherever a distress signal sounds among the stars, we’ll be there. This fine ship, this fine crew. Never give up…and never surrender.” (Commander Peter Quincy Taggart)
God bless you all.
And He does.
It’s a pleasure to share happy memories of earlier years, but life isn’t always simple or happy. Struggles and setbacks and tragedies find all of us, especially as we look back on our lives. Maybe it's even true for you today.
“Nobody gets out of here without singing the blues,” we learn from Adventures in Babysitting, and it’s true. I used to wonder why women cried at weddings. Now I know. Those bright-eyed brides, who believe in “happily ever after,” have yet to meet the reality of change and growth and twists from daily life. The rest of us, who’ve experienced them all, know better.
Yet, in the midst of every family disaster, there’s been at least one moment of something beautiful, something touching, something comforting, something funny.
When our family was gathered because my sister was dying from complications of multiple sclerosis, I remember standing outside the hospital in Central Florida, praying while I listened to the most beautiful bird song I’d ever heard, a mockingbird offering his best courting song. I felt encouraged, and my sister did rally, mainly due to prayer and her nurse friend who spent the night in her room, singing Amazing Grace over and over.
Now, you have to understand that each of my family has some quirk. JoAnn despised the song. “How can you not love Amazing Grace?” we’d say, but what can you expect from someone who also hated watermelon. Really? (But then, I shudder at mac-n-cheese. As I said, we all have our quirks…) And, by the way, I sent flowers to Dawn and thanked her for our sister’s life.
Children fill our hearts, but can break them, too. There was a time when Dave and I made a weekly trip to the Ann Arbor area, a difficult and sad time. An hour’s drive each way with anxiety and sorrow crowding us in the car. I’m a notorious daydreamer, so tried to find comfort in the scenery. And it is beautiful countryside near Ann Arbor.
There was a town that we drove through each week, an old town with small houses in quiet neighborhoods. We passed one yard with a scattering of teddy bears, all sizes, on a tablecloth, having a picnic.
Whoever had arranged them saw to every detail. They were dressed in summer attire, a picnic basket was open, with plates and cups set out.
The next week, I looked for the same house, wondering if they were still on the front lawn. They were, but this time, it was a birthday party, complete with party clothes, balloons, gifts, and a large cake.
During the weeks we made that drive, I looked forward to the teddy bear picnic scene. One week they rode tricycles in a circle, another, they played near a plastic pool, dressed in bathing suits, with plastic buckets and shovels.
One Saturday, it rained hard and I was disappointed not to enjoy the sight of the teddy bears at play, but nope, their owner was prepared with slickers and umbrellas and yellow plastic boots.
“The show must go on.” (Commander Peter Quincy Taggart)
We survived that difficulty, as we always do, with the help of family, friends, and God. At the time, though, happy endings didn’t feel guaranteed.
“Well, forget it! I’m not doing it! This episode was badly written!” (Lt. Tawny Madison)
We never do anything alone. We never suffer alone, unless we choose to.
“By Grabthar’s Hammer, you shall be avenged.” (Dr. Lazarus)
In the midst of happy memories of childhood and years in the Heights, in Michigan, surrounded by family and friends, occasionally it’s important to stop and remember that the mixture of dark and light, sorrow and laughter are part of real life. And none of us gets out of here without “singing the blues.”
Still…
“As long as there is injustice, whenever a Targathian baby cries out, wherever a distress signal sounds among the stars, we’ll be there. This fine ship, this fine crew. Never give up…and never surrender.” (Commander Peter Quincy Taggart)
God bless you all.
And He does.
August 6, 2022
Dog Fight Party at Algoe Lake
Once upon a time, we could camp at Algoe Lake in Ortonville.
It was part of the Ortonville State Recreation Area. No electricity. No swimming. For that, we drove to Big Fish Lake. Small campground, yet perfect. Yes, even with outhouses and only one water pump.
Perfect.
Dave and I packed our kids, tent, Coleman lantern, and camping supplies to head north many times. Occasionally, Dave drove back and forth to work from the campsite.
I don’t remember a playground or amenities, but no one was bored.
Of course, Dave brought the rowboat and we fished. He was the serious fisherman and went out early in the morning or at dusk for bass, but my sister JoAnn and I went out in the middle of the day for bluegill.
One afternoon we caught a ton and proudly rowed back to shore, unfortunately forgetting to pull in the live net. The entire thing was gone before we docked. I moaned about the poor fish caught in the live net, sinking to the bottom of the lake. JoAnn regretted the fish dinner (and the confession of the loss of the only live net packed).
Obviously, not serious fishermen. In fact, together we were a comedy team.
“Where’s the other oar?”
“You were in charge of the oars. I brought the poles and life jackets. So, where is it?”
“Oh oh.”
We rowed in circles around the lake with one oar, laughing too hard to go back and retrieve the other.
From that incident on, one of us would accuse the other of rowing with one oar, which, of course, made it sound as though we were accusing each other of mental deficiency. On the other hand…
Ortonville in the summertime was, is, a paradise. We saw bluebirds and gorgeous sunsets, sat around campfires wishing summer lasted forever. In my memory, it never rained or got cold, but that couldn’t be true. In fact, tornado warnings were not uncommon in the Holly area, and once, when both sisters came to spend the day, the sky turned yellow-gray, the wind blew stronger and stronger, and the temperature dropped.
Should we go? Should we pack up the tent or leave it? While we were still deciding, we three sisters decided to make a last outhouse run. The wind blew so hard, one had to lean on the door to keep it closed. By the time it was JoAnn’s turn, it took Janet and me to push on the door.
“Wow, is the wind ever strong.”
“And listen to it howl. Lean harder.”
It wasn’t the wind. It was our sister, pounding from the inside, begging to be released.
I brought my guitar once to play around the campfire in the evening, not an easy task in spite of all the camping pictures. You can’t sit too close to the fire without harming the front of the guitar, and sitting too far back could get so chilly at night, fingers turned into hot dogs, which made picking or strumming difficult.
Still, that night we drew a trio of camping neighbors, drawn by the sound of the guitar.
After a few songs, the couple prodded the third man to do his party trick.
“No, no,” he insisted.
“He can throw his voice,” one said. “It’s amazing.”
Really? We begged him to show us. A few minutes later, sounds of a party rose from the other side of the campground.
“See?” one said.
What? We weren’t convinced. After all, it was Saturday night. The man sighed and parties began breaking out all around us. It was amazing. His friends urged him to do the dog fight. That took a lot more convincing and a few more beers before he agreed.
We watched him make the sound of dog growls with his hand and mouth. First, one dog, and the second. Their challenge grew until they were in full battle mode. Before we could congratulate him, every dog around Ortonville joined the excitement. That din didn’t fade for some time.
Now, that could be a useful party trick.
I miss camping at Algoe Lake. I miss the days when summer lasted forever, and we and the kids were young, and the fish were biting.
I’d love to have the opportunity to row in circles around the lake with my sister and one oar again, since she’s gone now.
Memories of laughter in her company live on.
Like camping at Algoe Lake.
It was part of the Ortonville State Recreation Area. No electricity. No swimming. For that, we drove to Big Fish Lake. Small campground, yet perfect. Yes, even with outhouses and only one water pump.
Perfect.
Dave and I packed our kids, tent, Coleman lantern, and camping supplies to head north many times. Occasionally, Dave drove back and forth to work from the campsite.
I don’t remember a playground or amenities, but no one was bored.
Of course, Dave brought the rowboat and we fished. He was the serious fisherman and went out early in the morning or at dusk for bass, but my sister JoAnn and I went out in the middle of the day for bluegill.
One afternoon we caught a ton and proudly rowed back to shore, unfortunately forgetting to pull in the live net. The entire thing was gone before we docked. I moaned about the poor fish caught in the live net, sinking to the bottom of the lake. JoAnn regretted the fish dinner (and the confession of the loss of the only live net packed).
Obviously, not serious fishermen. In fact, together we were a comedy team.
“Where’s the other oar?”
“You were in charge of the oars. I brought the poles and life jackets. So, where is it?”
“Oh oh.”
We rowed in circles around the lake with one oar, laughing too hard to go back and retrieve the other.
From that incident on, one of us would accuse the other of rowing with one oar, which, of course, made it sound as though we were accusing each other of mental deficiency. On the other hand…
Ortonville in the summertime was, is, a paradise. We saw bluebirds and gorgeous sunsets, sat around campfires wishing summer lasted forever. In my memory, it never rained or got cold, but that couldn’t be true. In fact, tornado warnings were not uncommon in the Holly area, and once, when both sisters came to spend the day, the sky turned yellow-gray, the wind blew stronger and stronger, and the temperature dropped.
Should we go? Should we pack up the tent or leave it? While we were still deciding, we three sisters decided to make a last outhouse run. The wind blew so hard, one had to lean on the door to keep it closed. By the time it was JoAnn’s turn, it took Janet and me to push on the door.
“Wow, is the wind ever strong.”
“And listen to it howl. Lean harder.”
It wasn’t the wind. It was our sister, pounding from the inside, begging to be released.
I brought my guitar once to play around the campfire in the evening, not an easy task in spite of all the camping pictures. You can’t sit too close to the fire without harming the front of the guitar, and sitting too far back could get so chilly at night, fingers turned into hot dogs, which made picking or strumming difficult.
Still, that night we drew a trio of camping neighbors, drawn by the sound of the guitar.
After a few songs, the couple prodded the third man to do his party trick.
“No, no,” he insisted.
“He can throw his voice,” one said. “It’s amazing.”
Really? We begged him to show us. A few minutes later, sounds of a party rose from the other side of the campground.
“See?” one said.
What? We weren’t convinced. After all, it was Saturday night. The man sighed and parties began breaking out all around us. It was amazing. His friends urged him to do the dog fight. That took a lot more convincing and a few more beers before he agreed.
We watched him make the sound of dog growls with his hand and mouth. First, one dog, and the second. Their challenge grew until they were in full battle mode. Before we could congratulate him, every dog around Ortonville joined the excitement. That din didn’t fade for some time.
Now, that could be a useful party trick.
I miss camping at Algoe Lake. I miss the days when summer lasted forever, and we and the kids were young, and the fish were biting.
I’d love to have the opportunity to row in circles around the lake with my sister and one oar again, since she’s gone now.
Memories of laughter in her company live on.
Like camping at Algoe Lake.
July 30, 2022
Two Weeks in a Tent
Regardless of how long Dad’s vacation was, he used two weeks every summer to go camping in Michigan.
We set up our tent at Holly, Loon Lake, Hudson Lake, Ludington, Manistee, near Fort Michilimackinac…you name it. State Forest campgrounds. National Forest campgrounds, which were wilder and more rugged in those days. We left Caroline Street in excitement, waving at admiring throngs (tree branches in the wind) like the Queen of England, and returned tanned, tired, and satisfied.
We hiked and visited sand dunes, Hartwick Pines, Lake in the Clouds, the fort at the top of the Lower Peninsula, lighthouses, Tahquamenon Falls with their rusty-looking water from cedar tannin, and watched sunsets on Lake Michigan. We swam, ate at picnic tables, sat around campfires at night, slept in sleeping bags inside tents where you learned never to touch the sides when it rained.
And with at least one persistent mosquito that managed to hurry in with us, in spite of spraying the tent and zipping it closed to kill any biting insects, that buzzed in your ears until you buried yourself in your sleeping bag.
Those were days before the easy-to-set-up tents, with poles on the insides that invariably fell over on one side while Dad tried to arrange the other. “Hold it still,” he’d say, but there was always some distraction, or we weren’t tall enough, strong enough, or patient enough.
We ate s'mores and hot dogs from sticks held over the flames or in the glowing embers of the campfire. We gobbled pancakes as they came off the griddle, eggs and bacon with toast made from a metal contraption that burned one side and left the other white.
Unfortunately, no matter how hungry I was, I couldn’t manage the inevitable Spam.
After the tent was set up, cots and sleeping bags were next, and finally, the Coleman stove, at one end of the picnic table, with the plastic red-and-white tablecloth covering the rest.
We had plastic camping dishes—you remember those—and a coffee percolator that made memorable coffee, cast iron skillets and cheap aluminum pans that stacked inside each other.
National forest campgrounds always had outhouses and pumps for the water source. One kid pumped, the other arranged the teakettle or bucket under the spout, and how many trips was balanced by how heavy a load we could handle, several times a day. I can still hear the squeak of the pump handle from various campers, day and night.
Night. Did you leave the flashlight on inside the outhouse and draw the creepy crawlies to you, or snap it off and imagine them? Or worse, snap it on to see an enormous spider heading your way?
After dusk, we processed to the outhouses before zipping ourselves in for the night. One night, trying to stem the whining and “he tripped me” tattling, Mom decided to interest us in natural beauties and the wildlife that lived in the woods. Really, Mom? Where? We were unconvinced, even when she pointed her flashlight at the dirt road to look for prints, until we turned around to return to the campsite and saw the large hoof prints of a stag, who must have been behind us the whole way, since an enormous body hurtled itself into the trees when we turned.
We were convinced. Unfortunately, that incident instilled a fear that the entire forest population was curious about the Russell kids. Ha! With all the arguing and laughter and shoving, no other wild animal would have come near.
Except black flies on summer afternoons. Those voracious beasts wouldn’t be ignored and slashed holes in their victims. The only way we knew to rid ourselves of our buzzing followers was to move closer to a sibling and race away, leaving the cannibal with a new target. Would we do such a thing? (All’s fair in love and war…)
Dad lit the Coleman lanterns at night and set them away from wherever we were sitting due to the instant draw of moths and mosquitos. I never failed to be amazed at the silky mantles that glowed with the light, yet didn’t burn to a crisp.
We picked blackberries on the edge of forests, where the berries were thumb-size and also coveted by deer and, once, a black bear. My sisters and the bear came around the same bushes, saw the other, and took off with crashes and shrieks.
Ice chests. At first, the ice kept everything cold, but ice melted quickly, and we had to constantly replenish, like firewood for evening campfires.
Highlights—playing outside all day, swimming more often, potted meat sandwiches.
Down side—powdered milk, Spam, trying to find a flat-enough site for the tent, cots that collapsed during the night.
We camped many summers until Mom and Dad bought 10(000) acres near Kalkaska, hauled in a trailer, and used it as our summer and winter getaways. The ten acres they owned. The rest was State land which bordered ours, a swath of land left after lumber camps moved through.
My best memories of that property include the week between Christmas and New Year, when you could hear the silence at night, see every star across the cosmos, and stretch the week so that it felt much longer.
Michigan, a State of wonders.
Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice…If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you. Our State motto is right.
But it doesn’t totally describe the vibrant memories of camping in a tent with family, a family who’s no longer here or together.
Still, memories live on.
Find your sticks for the marshmallows. The fire's ready.
We set up our tent at Holly, Loon Lake, Hudson Lake, Ludington, Manistee, near Fort Michilimackinac…you name it. State Forest campgrounds. National Forest campgrounds, which were wilder and more rugged in those days. We left Caroline Street in excitement, waving at admiring throngs (tree branches in the wind) like the Queen of England, and returned tanned, tired, and satisfied.
We hiked and visited sand dunes, Hartwick Pines, Lake in the Clouds, the fort at the top of the Lower Peninsula, lighthouses, Tahquamenon Falls with their rusty-looking water from cedar tannin, and watched sunsets on Lake Michigan. We swam, ate at picnic tables, sat around campfires at night, slept in sleeping bags inside tents where you learned never to touch the sides when it rained.
And with at least one persistent mosquito that managed to hurry in with us, in spite of spraying the tent and zipping it closed to kill any biting insects, that buzzed in your ears until you buried yourself in your sleeping bag.
Those were days before the easy-to-set-up tents, with poles on the insides that invariably fell over on one side while Dad tried to arrange the other. “Hold it still,” he’d say, but there was always some distraction, or we weren’t tall enough, strong enough, or patient enough.
We ate s'mores and hot dogs from sticks held over the flames or in the glowing embers of the campfire. We gobbled pancakes as they came off the griddle, eggs and bacon with toast made from a metal contraption that burned one side and left the other white.
Unfortunately, no matter how hungry I was, I couldn’t manage the inevitable Spam.
After the tent was set up, cots and sleeping bags were next, and finally, the Coleman stove, at one end of the picnic table, with the plastic red-and-white tablecloth covering the rest.
We had plastic camping dishes—you remember those—and a coffee percolator that made memorable coffee, cast iron skillets and cheap aluminum pans that stacked inside each other.
National forest campgrounds always had outhouses and pumps for the water source. One kid pumped, the other arranged the teakettle or bucket under the spout, and how many trips was balanced by how heavy a load we could handle, several times a day. I can still hear the squeak of the pump handle from various campers, day and night.
Night. Did you leave the flashlight on inside the outhouse and draw the creepy crawlies to you, or snap it off and imagine them? Or worse, snap it on to see an enormous spider heading your way?
After dusk, we processed to the outhouses before zipping ourselves in for the night. One night, trying to stem the whining and “he tripped me” tattling, Mom decided to interest us in natural beauties and the wildlife that lived in the woods. Really, Mom? Where? We were unconvinced, even when she pointed her flashlight at the dirt road to look for prints, until we turned around to return to the campsite and saw the large hoof prints of a stag, who must have been behind us the whole way, since an enormous body hurtled itself into the trees when we turned.
We were convinced. Unfortunately, that incident instilled a fear that the entire forest population was curious about the Russell kids. Ha! With all the arguing and laughter and shoving, no other wild animal would have come near.
Except black flies on summer afternoons. Those voracious beasts wouldn’t be ignored and slashed holes in their victims. The only way we knew to rid ourselves of our buzzing followers was to move closer to a sibling and race away, leaving the cannibal with a new target. Would we do such a thing? (All’s fair in love and war…)
Dad lit the Coleman lanterns at night and set them away from wherever we were sitting due to the instant draw of moths and mosquitos. I never failed to be amazed at the silky mantles that glowed with the light, yet didn’t burn to a crisp.
We picked blackberries on the edge of forests, where the berries were thumb-size and also coveted by deer and, once, a black bear. My sisters and the bear came around the same bushes, saw the other, and took off with crashes and shrieks.
Ice chests. At first, the ice kept everything cold, but ice melted quickly, and we had to constantly replenish, like firewood for evening campfires.
Highlights—playing outside all day, swimming more often, potted meat sandwiches.
Down side—powdered milk, Spam, trying to find a flat-enough site for the tent, cots that collapsed during the night.
We camped many summers until Mom and Dad bought 10(000) acres near Kalkaska, hauled in a trailer, and used it as our summer and winter getaways. The ten acres they owned. The rest was State land which bordered ours, a swath of land left after lumber camps moved through.
My best memories of that property include the week between Christmas and New Year, when you could hear the silence at night, see every star across the cosmos, and stretch the week so that it felt much longer.
Michigan, a State of wonders.
Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice…If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you. Our State motto is right.
But it doesn’t totally describe the vibrant memories of camping in a tent with family, a family who’s no longer here or together.
Still, memories live on.
Find your sticks for the marshmallows. The fire's ready.
July 24, 2022
Summer of the Lawn War
I lost count of the number of times I mowed our lawn on Caroline Street.
Dave and I raised our children in the house where I grew up. Those were busy days. Dave worked overtime and rebuilt engines for his muscle cars. I worked full-time, bought groceries, made meals, did laundry, and oversaw children’s schedules, so requested the task of mowing the lawn in the summer.
To be able to get outside in the fresh air, the perfume of freshly-cut grass following me as I pushed our stubborn mower was a treat.
Stubborn? Only in starting. Once it was running, to let go of the handle meant an hour before it would fire up again, so any interruptions—“Mom, there’s somebody on the phone”…”Mom, can I have…?”…”Mom, can I go…?”—had to wait until I was done.
Bliss.
One summer, new neighbors moved into the Turner’s house next door. Franklin was a true Southern gentleman, young and industrious and friendly. Neighborly. His wife was a shy, soft-spoken, pretty girl who planted flowers, and took care of house and child.
Franklin introduced himself and his family, and offered any assistance he could at any time. A man with manners. A man raised well who knew what was right.
A man who knew what was proper.
It didn’t take long to learn that a woman mowing the grass was not proper. It was a man’s job.
Made no difference when I explained why I enjoyed it, why I chose to do the task, why I wanted to mow the grass.
It wasn’t proper.
First, he sounded out Dave on the topic. Dave shrugged and repeated that I insisted on taking over the job. He didn’t mention that I was well known for my, well, we won’t say stubborn ways. We’ll just say I knew my mind.
Drove Franklin crazy. He tried to discuss it again with me, without success, so he moved to Plan Three.
I drove home from work one summer afternoon to see Franklin pushing his mower out of our yard, the lawn neatly cut. Now, I won’t say I didn’t appreciate it, because it was a kind act, but I knew how much time (an hour) and gasoline it took to cut the grass, and I was raised well, too.
I thanked him and reminded him that I did enjoy the activity, so not to worry about it. Ha!
And so, began the mowing war. I had to mow sooner and sooner before Franklin got the job done. Our twice a week chore turned into a race to see who could get to my yard first. He was pleasant about it, but he was determined. Well, so was I.
As the summer went on, our neighbor on the other side watched the shenanigans with amusement. Neither she nor Tim cherished mowing their lush grass. “How do you get him to do it?” she said. “Get him? I can’t stop him,” I said, and Laurel offered their lawn instead.
Nope. Franklin had seen Tim mow a time or two, so he was obviously capable. Franklin was too polite to discuss Dave not doing it, in spite of our attempted explanations.
There was only one solution. Dave had to mow the grass at least twice, and be seen doing so.
It worked. Once there was a man in the house capable of mowing the grass, Franklin relaxed and returned to his yard.
He didn’t live there long enough to laugh over that summer in later years. I’m certain that no matter where he moved, his generosity and ethics benefited other neighbors.
He was a man who knew what was right.
May we all be as principled in our lives.
Oh, and it’s time to mow the lawn.
Dave and I raised our children in the house where I grew up. Those were busy days. Dave worked overtime and rebuilt engines for his muscle cars. I worked full-time, bought groceries, made meals, did laundry, and oversaw children’s schedules, so requested the task of mowing the lawn in the summer.
To be able to get outside in the fresh air, the perfume of freshly-cut grass following me as I pushed our stubborn mower was a treat.
Stubborn? Only in starting. Once it was running, to let go of the handle meant an hour before it would fire up again, so any interruptions—“Mom, there’s somebody on the phone”…”Mom, can I have…?”…”Mom, can I go…?”—had to wait until I was done.
Bliss.
One summer, new neighbors moved into the Turner’s house next door. Franklin was a true Southern gentleman, young and industrious and friendly. Neighborly. His wife was a shy, soft-spoken, pretty girl who planted flowers, and took care of house and child.
Franklin introduced himself and his family, and offered any assistance he could at any time. A man with manners. A man raised well who knew what was right.
A man who knew what was proper.
It didn’t take long to learn that a woman mowing the grass was not proper. It was a man’s job.
Made no difference when I explained why I enjoyed it, why I chose to do the task, why I wanted to mow the grass.
It wasn’t proper.
First, he sounded out Dave on the topic. Dave shrugged and repeated that I insisted on taking over the job. He didn’t mention that I was well known for my, well, we won’t say stubborn ways. We’ll just say I knew my mind.
Drove Franklin crazy. He tried to discuss it again with me, without success, so he moved to Plan Three.
I drove home from work one summer afternoon to see Franklin pushing his mower out of our yard, the lawn neatly cut. Now, I won’t say I didn’t appreciate it, because it was a kind act, but I knew how much time (an hour) and gasoline it took to cut the grass, and I was raised well, too.
I thanked him and reminded him that I did enjoy the activity, so not to worry about it. Ha!
And so, began the mowing war. I had to mow sooner and sooner before Franklin got the job done. Our twice a week chore turned into a race to see who could get to my yard first. He was pleasant about it, but he was determined. Well, so was I.
As the summer went on, our neighbor on the other side watched the shenanigans with amusement. Neither she nor Tim cherished mowing their lush grass. “How do you get him to do it?” she said. “Get him? I can’t stop him,” I said, and Laurel offered their lawn instead.
Nope. Franklin had seen Tim mow a time or two, so he was obviously capable. Franklin was too polite to discuss Dave not doing it, in spite of our attempted explanations.
There was only one solution. Dave had to mow the grass at least twice, and be seen doing so.
It worked. Once there was a man in the house capable of mowing the grass, Franklin relaxed and returned to his yard.
He didn’t live there long enough to laugh over that summer in later years. I’m certain that no matter where he moved, his generosity and ethics benefited other neighbors.
He was a man who knew what was right.
May we all be as principled in our lives.
Oh, and it’s time to mow the lawn.
July 16, 2022
Raspberry Steam Pudding and Fresh Cut Grass
Bite into a ripe, juicy raspberry and every sense comes alive, including memories.
Summertime in the Heights was full of memory-creating moments, and particular scents can bring them back to me faster than a lightning strike.
Even though our old plum tree was damson, with dark purple, juicy fruit, a bite into any plum returns me to that gnarled tree against the Turner’s fence, as I savored the last fruits the tree would produce.
When we moved to Caroline Street, my brothers and I jumped in delight at the fruit trees in the backyard and the black walnut in the front. Definitely the Garden of Eden. Steve climbed the banana cherry and hung in the branches like a simian diner, eating those delicious, sweet yellow cherries with the blush of pink.
Both brothers ate enough green apples to develop stomachs of iron casings.
I chose the plum tree, although it was old and produced few plums by the time we moved in. I can still taste that fruit from the first summer or two. They tasted purple, and there was an aroma of rich summer with every bite.
Fragrance.
Lilac bushes in the back, the big, pale orchid-colored flowers with a scent to equal orange blossoms. They didn’t bloom long, but who could forget that perfume?
Pine needles and cedar sprays. I’d rub the cedar between my fingers and inhale that bright, spicy memory of the cedar chest Grandma gave me, my “hope chest.”
Fresh-cut grass. I’ve tried, over the years, to find a cologne to capture that bright scent, but the closest I came was one that smelled like celery. Not even close.
From the time I was a kid, walking past a newly-cut lawn made me slow down and inhale, and when I lived in the same house as an adult, I volunteered to mow the grass. One, I got out of the house into fresh air. Two, our lawn mower, once started, couldn’t be stopped or it flooded and wouldn’t start again for almost an hour, so no one could interrupt me. And three, I mowed emerald stripes across the backyard while I daydreamed.
Once, though, I was mowing away, humming to myself, when I felt something buzz inside my jeans. Something big. Something droning with intensity. Yikes! I let go of the mower handle and started brushing my leg, trying to knock free whatever had joined me. Out of desperation, I was kicking and jigging in place. I nearly dropped my jeans when an enormous bumblebee hit the ground, stunned. We both shivered before it came to its senses and flew away.
I turned, relieved, to find my daughter staring at me.
“Were you dancing?” she said.
Aromas. Bouquets. Perfumes.
One summer, Mom got all of us kids scented pajamas. I couldn’t identify what mine reminded me of, but it was fresh and exotic. The floral smell lasted through several washings, and I associated it with an open window, reading “The Jungle Books,” and listening to night sounds in the neighborhood.
Slide. Hiss. The sound of a steam iron slapping clean, dry cotton as Mom ironed in the living room. Now, there was a fragrance and sight that lives only in my memory.
Brought home fresh raspberries the other day, and was transported back to the picnic table underneath the sycamore behind the kitchen. Mom Shank had made raspberry steam pudding, a summer favorite, and brought some to share. We sat outside, devouring the soft, warm, cake-like dessert with a little sugar and milk, trying to make the moment last. “Spoon-clanking,” we called the dessert, because of the sound of spoons against the bowls.
Thank you, Mom Shank, for the recipe and the memories.
Thank you, Anne, for not being surprised at your mother slapping her leg and doing some kind of square dance in the back yard.
Thank you, Mom, for scented pajamas and homemade cherry jam and applesauce from our own Macintosh apples.
For every lawn mower and lilac-picker, for every scent that transports us to another time and place, celebrate summer in the Heights, no matter what age.
Shank Raspberry Steam Pudding
1 egg
1 cup butter
1 Tablespoon butter
¾ cup sour milk (milk with Tablespoon of vinegar or lemon juice)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon baking soda
Enough flour for stiff batter (about 2 cups)
Pinch of salt
1 cup fresh raspberries (fold in gently after mixing the rest)
Place mixture in small pan, place pan in larger pan, cover and steam one hour.
Serve warm with milk and sugar. Spoon-clanking good!
Summertime in the Heights was full of memory-creating moments, and particular scents can bring them back to me faster than a lightning strike.
Even though our old plum tree was damson, with dark purple, juicy fruit, a bite into any plum returns me to that gnarled tree against the Turner’s fence, as I savored the last fruits the tree would produce.
When we moved to Caroline Street, my brothers and I jumped in delight at the fruit trees in the backyard and the black walnut in the front. Definitely the Garden of Eden. Steve climbed the banana cherry and hung in the branches like a simian diner, eating those delicious, sweet yellow cherries with the blush of pink.
Both brothers ate enough green apples to develop stomachs of iron casings.
I chose the plum tree, although it was old and produced few plums by the time we moved in. I can still taste that fruit from the first summer or two. They tasted purple, and there was an aroma of rich summer with every bite.
Fragrance.
Lilac bushes in the back, the big, pale orchid-colored flowers with a scent to equal orange blossoms. They didn’t bloom long, but who could forget that perfume?
Pine needles and cedar sprays. I’d rub the cedar between my fingers and inhale that bright, spicy memory of the cedar chest Grandma gave me, my “hope chest.”
Fresh-cut grass. I’ve tried, over the years, to find a cologne to capture that bright scent, but the closest I came was one that smelled like celery. Not even close.
From the time I was a kid, walking past a newly-cut lawn made me slow down and inhale, and when I lived in the same house as an adult, I volunteered to mow the grass. One, I got out of the house into fresh air. Two, our lawn mower, once started, couldn’t be stopped or it flooded and wouldn’t start again for almost an hour, so no one could interrupt me. And three, I mowed emerald stripes across the backyard while I daydreamed.
Once, though, I was mowing away, humming to myself, when I felt something buzz inside my jeans. Something big. Something droning with intensity. Yikes! I let go of the mower handle and started brushing my leg, trying to knock free whatever had joined me. Out of desperation, I was kicking and jigging in place. I nearly dropped my jeans when an enormous bumblebee hit the ground, stunned. We both shivered before it came to its senses and flew away.
I turned, relieved, to find my daughter staring at me.
“Were you dancing?” she said.
Aromas. Bouquets. Perfumes.
One summer, Mom got all of us kids scented pajamas. I couldn’t identify what mine reminded me of, but it was fresh and exotic. The floral smell lasted through several washings, and I associated it with an open window, reading “The Jungle Books,” and listening to night sounds in the neighborhood.
Slide. Hiss. The sound of a steam iron slapping clean, dry cotton as Mom ironed in the living room. Now, there was a fragrance and sight that lives only in my memory.
Brought home fresh raspberries the other day, and was transported back to the picnic table underneath the sycamore behind the kitchen. Mom Shank had made raspberry steam pudding, a summer favorite, and brought some to share. We sat outside, devouring the soft, warm, cake-like dessert with a little sugar and milk, trying to make the moment last. “Spoon-clanking,” we called the dessert, because of the sound of spoons against the bowls.
Thank you, Mom Shank, for the recipe and the memories.
Thank you, Anne, for not being surprised at your mother slapping her leg and doing some kind of square dance in the back yard.
Thank you, Mom, for scented pajamas and homemade cherry jam and applesauce from our own Macintosh apples.
For every lawn mower and lilac-picker, for every scent that transports us to another time and place, celebrate summer in the Heights, no matter what age.
Shank Raspberry Steam Pudding
1 egg
1 cup butter
1 Tablespoon butter
¾ cup sour milk (milk with Tablespoon of vinegar or lemon juice)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon baking soda
Enough flour for stiff batter (about 2 cups)
Pinch of salt
1 cup fresh raspberries (fold in gently after mixing the rest)
Place mixture in small pan, place pan in larger pan, cover and steam one hour.
Serve warm with milk and sugar. Spoon-clanking good!
July 9, 2022
Dilly-Bum-Dally and Star Songs of Long Ago
Stephen Earl Russell
(July 11, 1954 - July 6, 1996)
“The Martian Delegation vetoes the bill.”
My brother Steve would grab his face, contort his features, and announce the vote in an alien voice. It never failed to make us laugh. He was the best imitator of voices and faces, and his daughter Christin inherited the talent.
Steve was also the most creative person I ever knew. Blew me out of the water. He wrote poems and music, painted, sketched, and played with computers. He was van Gogh returned, including the tragedy of moods high and low, so that his life was a mixture of joy, faith, and torture. He loved his family, his daughters, and his one true love, and, in fact, was able to heal that rift in a miraculous way.
Dilly-Bum-Dally.
When he was very young, he loved Dairy Queen Dilly bars, and was branded with that nickname for years.
He introduced me to many musical artists, and to a radio series called “Ruby the Galactic Gumshoe,” something he discovered during a radio disc jokey stint in Chicago, late at night. I gave him Jon Anderson singing Vangelis’ “I’ll Find My Way Home,” and he told me that he’d start the song on his commute to work in Chicago, and that by the time Jon sang, “My sun shall rise in the east, so shall my heart be at peace,” the sun would be rising through the train windows.
I miss you, Steve. We all miss you. Your daughters celebrate every part of their life with you, brief as it was.
Steve would have celebrated his 68th birthday this year. I believe that his heart is at peace where he is, and that his sun has risen, but we miss his voice and rubber face, artistry and laughter. He never stopped trying. He never stopped reaching. He never stopped loving.
After his tragic death, I had a vivid dream of Steve showing me a store in the old part of Chicago with every toy our family ever owned, new and pristine. I turned to him. “Where did you get these?” He said, “I’ll show you.” The dream was in vivid color, and he drove us in a convertible until he made eye contact, and said, “I’m happy now. I just wanted you to know.” I woke up, comforted, and shared the dream with his family.
Many of Supertramp’s songs remind me of Steve. “The Logical Song,” in particular.
“When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
A miracle, oh, it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees,
well, they’d be singing so happily
Oh, joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they sent me away to teach me
how to be sensible,
Logical, oh, responsible, practical.
Then they showed me a world
Where I could be so dependable,
Oh, clinical, intellectual, cynical.
There are times when all the world’s asleep
The questions run too deep
For such a simple man…”
(Richard Davies, Roger Hodgson)
I meant this post to be funny, because he could be, but his life didn’t start out beautiful. Maybe magical. He had eye operations when he was an infant, and had trouble with his vision his entire life. Steve was a prayer warrior, an artist, a comic. Yet filled with wisdom.
I was fortunate to enjoy his company when he was grown, and in spite of his trials, we all admired him and wanted him to stay, needed him to stay.
I’ll leave you with his own words from a letter he wrote to me years ago, and lines from one of his poems.
“When we leave here, we will come away with growth, understanding and compassion. It might seem nice sometimes to wish for an uneventful life, but without these lessons, sometimes very painful, we would leave here in the same state that we started with, and there is no greater sin that a wasted life…Remember the lesson of the wasted life. Use what you have, and not just for family, but for all those poor souls who yearn for messages from ‘home.’”
Steve, yours was anything but a wasted life, just too brief.
Happy divine birthday, brother, father, husband, son. We love you.
Star-songs of long ago
Bathe my heart in their heavenly glow
There’s just one thing I want to know
One thing I ask of Thee
When, oh when, Lord, are You going to call on me?
(July 11, 1954 - July 6, 1996)
“The Martian Delegation vetoes the bill.”
My brother Steve would grab his face, contort his features, and announce the vote in an alien voice. It never failed to make us laugh. He was the best imitator of voices and faces, and his daughter Christin inherited the talent.
Steve was also the most creative person I ever knew. Blew me out of the water. He wrote poems and music, painted, sketched, and played with computers. He was van Gogh returned, including the tragedy of moods high and low, so that his life was a mixture of joy, faith, and torture. He loved his family, his daughters, and his one true love, and, in fact, was able to heal that rift in a miraculous way.
Dilly-Bum-Dally.
When he was very young, he loved Dairy Queen Dilly bars, and was branded with that nickname for years.
He introduced me to many musical artists, and to a radio series called “Ruby the Galactic Gumshoe,” something he discovered during a radio disc jokey stint in Chicago, late at night. I gave him Jon Anderson singing Vangelis’ “I’ll Find My Way Home,” and he told me that he’d start the song on his commute to work in Chicago, and that by the time Jon sang, “My sun shall rise in the east, so shall my heart be at peace,” the sun would be rising through the train windows.
I miss you, Steve. We all miss you. Your daughters celebrate every part of their life with you, brief as it was.
Steve would have celebrated his 68th birthday this year. I believe that his heart is at peace where he is, and that his sun has risen, but we miss his voice and rubber face, artistry and laughter. He never stopped trying. He never stopped reaching. He never stopped loving.
After his tragic death, I had a vivid dream of Steve showing me a store in the old part of Chicago with every toy our family ever owned, new and pristine. I turned to him. “Where did you get these?” He said, “I’ll show you.” The dream was in vivid color, and he drove us in a convertible until he made eye contact, and said, “I’m happy now. I just wanted you to know.” I woke up, comforted, and shared the dream with his family.
Many of Supertramp’s songs remind me of Steve. “The Logical Song,” in particular.
“When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
A miracle, oh, it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees,
well, they’d be singing so happily
Oh, joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they sent me away to teach me
how to be sensible,
Logical, oh, responsible, practical.
Then they showed me a world
Where I could be so dependable,
Oh, clinical, intellectual, cynical.
There are times when all the world’s asleep
The questions run too deep
For such a simple man…”
(Richard Davies, Roger Hodgson)
I meant this post to be funny, because he could be, but his life didn’t start out beautiful. Maybe magical. He had eye operations when he was an infant, and had trouble with his vision his entire life. Steve was a prayer warrior, an artist, a comic. Yet filled with wisdom.
I was fortunate to enjoy his company when he was grown, and in spite of his trials, we all admired him and wanted him to stay, needed him to stay.
I’ll leave you with his own words from a letter he wrote to me years ago, and lines from one of his poems.
“When we leave here, we will come away with growth, understanding and compassion. It might seem nice sometimes to wish for an uneventful life, but without these lessons, sometimes very painful, we would leave here in the same state that we started with, and there is no greater sin that a wasted life…Remember the lesson of the wasted life. Use what you have, and not just for family, but for all those poor souls who yearn for messages from ‘home.’”
Steve, yours was anything but a wasted life, just too brief.
Happy divine birthday, brother, father, husband, son. We love you.
Star-songs of long ago
Bathe my heart in their heavenly glow
There’s just one thing I want to know
One thing I ask of Thee
When, oh when, Lord, are You going to call on me?
July 3, 2022
Leaf Lettuce and Lifelong Friends
We’ve all had a best friend.
What I didn’t realize is that in our life, we’ll have many.
Janelle at LeBaron Elementary in Pontiac, and Pat, at the end of Third Street, after school. Pat had “big” brothers, probably pre-teen to teen in age, who tried to trip anybody up with their jokes. “Which is correct? The yolk of an egg is white or the yolk of an egg are white?” and laugh uproariously if they could talk fast enough to fool their listener.
At that age, I was more into the Jack-and-Jill magazine riddles—“Why is a boy being spanked like a thunderstorm? Because one roars with pain while the other pours with rain.” Imagine that joke being printed now!
When I moved to the Heights at nine, my best friend was Kay. We rode our bikes around the neighborhood or to the downtown strip, where she’d buy embroidery thread and hoops for her latest project. We hung out in each other’s bedrooms, fought over games, argued, and joined each other’s families for camping trips.
Jeanette, the sweetest girl I ever met. We walked back and forth to each other’s houses and talked about anything.
Caroline, in high school, who taught me more about boldness and striving and life than I could ever repay.
Linnea, with our letters about Star Trek in as much Spanish as we could manage, while we shared favorite science fiction titles. When she moved to the Ozarks, we wrote each other weekly for years, and recently, picked up as if no time had passed.
Rebecca, my dearest friend from late elementary onward. We lost touch until she was graduating from college, when we became inseparable. As couples, we played cards on Saturday nights, shared dinners (our house) and parties (theirs). She taught me about myself, lessons I still unwind and use daily, introduced me to Chinese restaurants and around-the-world cuisine. Treated me to outings for plays and ballets. We spent hours sewing together (I was hopeless), pouring tea and cutting slices of Sanders’ “caramel cake,” savoring potato salad, and discussing everything under God’s sky. (Still do, although now it’s phone calls and regular letters, the real ones you find in your mailbox).
Laurel, next door on Caroline Street, full of life and spontaneity. I was so impressed by her leaf lettuce garden outside the back door, I used it in a story. She shared a video tour recently of her back yard garden, surely the Garden of Eden. It carried me back in time.
My sisters, JoAnn and Janet, best friends in family and interest and support. My brother Dave, who grew up in the same world I knew, and though our paths shot off in different directions, we share a solid bond that nothing can shake. In one way or another, he shows up as a character in nearly every story I write.
My daughter Anne. Funny, when she was a teen, we couldn’t speak without arguing or eye-rolling (her) or bossing (me). Now we’re more alike in our goals and hopes than I’d ever have guessed, and I’m so proud of her and our friendship. It’s as if we’ve always been best friends. Pour the coffee. Time to share the latest news.
My nieces, Jenny and Christin, more than family, who pulled me out of black holes of hopeless situations, and lifted the worst days to amusing family stories around tables. Both heroes to me.
Aunt Patsy, who offered tea and shared lunches at Hudson’s during our working years, when she happily chose pasta salad, something I wouldn’t eat on a dare.
Humor, shared events, and the love of music bind my sisters to me. I miss JoAnn every day, while Janet brightens any moment, regardless of situation, with wit and laughter and support and encouragement.
Every cup of tea reminds me of Aunt Patsy. Every challenge overcome or faced reminds me of Rebecca. Every salad brings Laurel to mind. Every new book discovered is Linnea. Every kitchen table is Jenny. Every cup of coffee, Anne.
I tried embroidery when my children were young. Drew flowers on jeans or jean jackets, and learned enough stitches to add brilliant color to framed pictures or clothing. Those artistic products are long gone, but the tapestry of those I love remains brilliant and everlasting. Some of those threads are no longer available, but every color and pattern created a life of belonging.
From my table, far from the Heights and those long-ago days, I not only relive each moment, but feel the strength of every best friend.
When I think about it, love of country is just a larger tapestry of family and friendship and shared interests, including the challenges and growth and reach across time.
I lift my coffee cup and salute you all.
What I didn’t realize is that in our life, we’ll have many.
Janelle at LeBaron Elementary in Pontiac, and Pat, at the end of Third Street, after school. Pat had “big” brothers, probably pre-teen to teen in age, who tried to trip anybody up with their jokes. “Which is correct? The yolk of an egg is white or the yolk of an egg are white?” and laugh uproariously if they could talk fast enough to fool their listener.
At that age, I was more into the Jack-and-Jill magazine riddles—“Why is a boy being spanked like a thunderstorm? Because one roars with pain while the other pours with rain.” Imagine that joke being printed now!
When I moved to the Heights at nine, my best friend was Kay. We rode our bikes around the neighborhood or to the downtown strip, where she’d buy embroidery thread and hoops for her latest project. We hung out in each other’s bedrooms, fought over games, argued, and joined each other’s families for camping trips.
Jeanette, the sweetest girl I ever met. We walked back and forth to each other’s houses and talked about anything.
Caroline, in high school, who taught me more about boldness and striving and life than I could ever repay.
Linnea, with our letters about Star Trek in as much Spanish as we could manage, while we shared favorite science fiction titles. When she moved to the Ozarks, we wrote each other weekly for years, and recently, picked up as if no time had passed.
Rebecca, my dearest friend from late elementary onward. We lost touch until she was graduating from college, when we became inseparable. As couples, we played cards on Saturday nights, shared dinners (our house) and parties (theirs). She taught me about myself, lessons I still unwind and use daily, introduced me to Chinese restaurants and around-the-world cuisine. Treated me to outings for plays and ballets. We spent hours sewing together (I was hopeless), pouring tea and cutting slices of Sanders’ “caramel cake,” savoring potato salad, and discussing everything under God’s sky. (Still do, although now it’s phone calls and regular letters, the real ones you find in your mailbox).
Laurel, next door on Caroline Street, full of life and spontaneity. I was so impressed by her leaf lettuce garden outside the back door, I used it in a story. She shared a video tour recently of her back yard garden, surely the Garden of Eden. It carried me back in time.
My sisters, JoAnn and Janet, best friends in family and interest and support. My brother Dave, who grew up in the same world I knew, and though our paths shot off in different directions, we share a solid bond that nothing can shake. In one way or another, he shows up as a character in nearly every story I write.
My daughter Anne. Funny, when she was a teen, we couldn’t speak without arguing or eye-rolling (her) or bossing (me). Now we’re more alike in our goals and hopes than I’d ever have guessed, and I’m so proud of her and our friendship. It’s as if we’ve always been best friends. Pour the coffee. Time to share the latest news.
My nieces, Jenny and Christin, more than family, who pulled me out of black holes of hopeless situations, and lifted the worst days to amusing family stories around tables. Both heroes to me.
Aunt Patsy, who offered tea and shared lunches at Hudson’s during our working years, when she happily chose pasta salad, something I wouldn’t eat on a dare.
Humor, shared events, and the love of music bind my sisters to me. I miss JoAnn every day, while Janet brightens any moment, regardless of situation, with wit and laughter and support and encouragement.
Every cup of tea reminds me of Aunt Patsy. Every challenge overcome or faced reminds me of Rebecca. Every salad brings Laurel to mind. Every new book discovered is Linnea. Every kitchen table is Jenny. Every cup of coffee, Anne.
I tried embroidery when my children were young. Drew flowers on jeans or jean jackets, and learned enough stitches to add brilliant color to framed pictures or clothing. Those artistic products are long gone, but the tapestry of those I love remains brilliant and everlasting. Some of those threads are no longer available, but every color and pattern created a life of belonging.
From my table, far from the Heights and those long-ago days, I not only relive each moment, but feel the strength of every best friend.
When I think about it, love of country is just a larger tapestry of family and friendship and shared interests, including the challenges and growth and reach across time.
I lift my coffee cup and salute you all.
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
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