Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 4

Daydreaming in My Cabin in the Woods

Michigan will always be home.

But it’s true that wherever I settle, I make myself at home. Live oaks and palmettos, sugar maples and weeping willow, pine woods, fields, marshy ponds, small towns surrounded by cattle pastures, city blocks with favorite diners, fall cider, summer woods, snowy winter views, palm tree beaches.

Sometimes I get homesick for the Heights where I grew up and raised our children.

For walking to school, excited about the coming School Fair or Halloween or Christmas or summer vacation, sledding down the School Hills, planting ferns and snow-on-the-mountain around our Caroline Street house, Mom’s homemade bread hot from the oven with apple butter, taking snapshots of the children for their first day of school.

I’m satisfied to be surrounded here by live oaks, magnolias, and azaleas. Cardinals sing year ‘round. Something’s always green. Ocean breezes are no more than three hours east. Mangroves and sandy beaches an hour to the west, where pelicans fly past and dolphins chase schools of mullet.

I miss Michigan forests, late summer fields of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace, changing leaves, trilliums in early spring, our front porch on Caroline Street where we watched thunderstorms approach, dandelions.

Sometimes I savor my coffee picturing my favorite havens over the years—places I visited that summon a writing cabin in my imagination.

Cranbrook House and Gardens. My friend Mel introduced me to the Gardens when I worked with him on laser shows at the Cranbrook science museum. We’d hop the low fence and wander the grounds. Statues, fountains, forest patches, a (long gone) boathouse overlooking the small lake, terraces, manor house windows, Japanese garden with tiny bridge and island, daffodils in the springtime, white pines swishing in the summer wind. My sister JoAnn and I visited often, and I claimed the setting for a series of stories so my characters could live there.

The Troy (Stage) nature center. A former farm with the property preserved as a miniature Michigan. Paths through sugar maple, red oak, and beech woods, over a marsh, to a hill overlooking a meadow. Maples tapped for syrup early spring. Plentiful deer and the pleasure of an otter in the stream. My favorite spot was the wooden bench at the top of a hill, forest behind me, sky and field below. Shared it with my family, went on my own many times. Used it in two stories.

Algoe Lake. Years ago, it was a rustic campground with outhouses, water pump, and fishing lake. We camped there with our tent, Coleman stove, and evening campfires, caught and ate bluegill, relished Ortonville’s wilderness.

Bok Tower Gardens. Two hours from my house is my favorite place on our planet. Edward Bok, born in the Netherlands, created this haven in gratitude to the American people, hiring architects and artisans to plan garden walkways under enormous live oaks, lined with ferns and flowers, the majestic carillon tower, even a window-by-the-pond. Birds sing. Bells play music on the hour, and afternoon carillon concerts carry across the grounds.

The first time I stepped onto the path to the gardens, I was enveloped in serenity and peace, a gift of Mr. Bok’s vision. Often dreamed of living in the cabin once used as an educational center (now gone), so my daughter Anne and I wrote that into a story set in the Gardens.

On one visit to South Carolina, Anne took me to “Pretty Place,” Symme’s Chapel at the edge of Stone Mountain overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. From the front, there’s no hint of the breath-catching view through the open-air chapel 3,200 feet over the landscape below. Naturally, that site had to be included in another story.

Sometimes I consider renting one of the one-room cabins in Cross Creek at the Yearling Restaurant, close to the river and within walking distance of Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s preserved house and property on Orange Lake. I’d take my journal, pen, and coffee, maybe play with a story.

But even more, I wish I could walk next door again to Laurel and Tim’s house on Caroline Street, sip tea from a bench at their water lily pond, listen to birds singing, inhale fresh summer air, and enjoy Laurel’s yard and flowers.

The memory is so vivid, I could be there this moment.

Join me? Laurel won’t mind.

For the First Day of School

Any stationery store is a magnet for me, from the former Hallmark sections to aisles at Office Depot, Michael’s, Barnes & Noble, and The Paper Store.

Paper, stationery sets, pens, blank books, notebooks lure me to touch, dream, and buy.

Like school supplies for the first day of school.

In my time, pre-computer, we hoped for our favorite character lunch box with matching thermos, but what tickled my fingers were boxes of new crayons (24-count Crayola…only Christmas or birthdays brought out the enormous boxes with the built-in sharpener), #2 pencils, pink erasers, binder, lined notebook paper, and maybe a bookbag.

In elementary school, supplies were kept in our desks, and only our notebook went back and forth.

In my early school years, three-ring binders were blue canvas. By the mid 70’s, Trapper Keepers (Mead Corporation) were available, tested in Wichita, Kansas, and put on the market when they were sold out. In 2007, the Velcro strap was replaced by a magnetic closure.

Henry Sisson (American) invented the first binder in 1859 with a spring and tube to hold papers, but the familiar ring binder was developed in 1886 in Germany by Friedrich Soennecken, along with a paper/hole punch.

And lined notebook paper?

A machine capable of making lined paper was invented in 1770, and by the 1800’s the lines were blue to guide handwriting. Red vertical lines were added later to identify margins. Some sources reported that margins were created to keep mice from nibbling your work, since they rarely chewed past the outside edges. Really.

Crayola crayons (the only kind to buy) were invented by Edwin Binney and C. Harold Smith in 1902 of paraffin wax and nontoxic pigments. Mr. Binney’s wife Alice named them “Crayola” from the French words “craie” (chalk) and “ola” (oily). My sets had the peach/pink “flesh” crayon for years.

We all remember the communal classroom pencil sharpener, and the sound of school shoes tapping across the room, followed by the grinding sounds. By high school and college, mechanical pencils were required, created by Sampson Mordan and John Hawkins (Britains) in 1822. It was imperative to keep tubes of lead available since tips snapped off.

Backpacks. A knapsack (with external metal frame) was invented by Henry Merriam in 1878 for the US Army. By 1938, backpacks were used for hiking and camping, and satchels, closed with buckles and wrapped with a belt, hauled books to school. Gerry Outdoors claims the first nylon packs, now a school requirement.

My grandson enters second grade this year, and his school supply list included the standards: 1” 3-ring binder, composition notebooks, plastic pocket folders, scissors, colored pencils, wipes, yellow highlighters, computer headphones, dry erase markers, erasers, copy paper, index cards, and storage bags. A few staples haven’t changed.

Even shopping for pencils and notebooks brings out that tingle of stationery delight for me. No, it's not letter paper, blank journals, or scrumptious pens, but any writing tool is a toy for a storywriter.

And nothing stirs the creative spark like a new box of crayons or colored pencils, a pad of paper, and markers.

Oh, and if you happen to have one of these rare lunchboxes, it’s time to dust it off and cash in—1955 Lone Ranger ($1,250), 1968 Star Trek ($1,500), 1966 Beatles ($1,550), 1959 Knights in Armor ($1,750), or 1954 Howdy Doody ($1,787).

Me? None. We carried a red plaid lunchbox and matching thermos--$60 on eBay.

Goulash and Homemade Bread

Our refrigerator died. Mid-June, the freezer fan began squealing, but before the warranty group would send out a tech, we had to defrost the unit.

The squealing went away, but so did the cold air in the refrigerator until it was over 70 degrees. Freezer slowly warmed, if still functional, and I made another call.

Company ordered the wrong part, so the tech has to return when the correct assembly arrives. Dinner preparation has become challenging, since any leftovers must be frozen and reheated, and space is limited. Eating out or daily fast food is not a possibility, which creates a hardship.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because past meals have been dancing through my memory—tantalizing, teasing, whispering.

Looking over the menu for Mr. K’s Karry Out…charburger, footlong hot dog, or pizza? Always a difficult choice. The charburgers were thick, juicy, and satisfying. Glen toasted and buttered hot dog buns, and the finished product melted in your mouth. And the pizza? Always a perennial favorite.

(Elias Brothers) Big Boy sandwiches. Yes, Slim Jims were a favorite for many, but I could never turn down a Big Boy, fries, and a chocolate malt. Used to meet my sister-in-law Phyllis at the Big Boy’s on Opdyke Road with our babies, who made terrific messes with crackers, fries, and ketchup. (We tipped our waitress well because of it, but hurried out in embarrassment, too.)

The Clock (or Flame?) diner on Opdyke, heading north from Big Boy's, with the best hash browns in Oakland County.

Once, during a late-night visit with my sister Janet and her husband Dave, a momentary silence fell. Little ones were sleeping, we’d been playing cards, talking, and laughing when I had a mental image of piling into a car, babies and all, and heading for the Clock to savor a midnight breakfast.

“I’m hungry,” my sister said.

“Me, too,” Dave said, “and I was thinking about ordering pizza when I saw us in a diner ordering eggs and bacon, with our waitress pouring coffee.”

Food thoughts are powerful.

Thanksgiving dinner at home when we were kids. The turkey would have been roasting all day, with the perfume of turkey, seasonings, and cooling pies torturing ravenous appetites. The boldest would sneak into the kitchen and pinch off a chunk of stuffing…yum.

Mom’s homemade bread. Remember those enormous green Tupperware bowls with the snap-on lids? Perfect for raising dough over the pilot light on our gas stove. Once the dough popped the lid, was punched, and popped the second time, the oven took over. Ah, the smell and taste of freshly-baked bread slices spread with butter and apple butter.

I’ve never been a noodle lover, which my friends and family know, but I’d sit down to the family table for Mom’s goulash, buttered bread, and the typical arguments, debates, and nonsense (family discussions) that crisscrossed during dinner.

Within a week, our refrigerator should be repaired and working, and meals will be easier, but I still can’t order a charburger or Big Boy, or cut Mom’s fresh bread.

So I’ll enjoy them here.

Sunlight Through the Maple Forest

Growing up in Michigan made me a forest girl.

From wandering the First Woods at the end of Caroline Street to setting up family tents in State Forests, I developed an affinity for trees, shade, sunlight through rippling leaves, birdsong, and the perfume of woods after rain. When I think of forests, I think of Michigan summer.

Half of Michigan is forested, 20 million acres worth, giving a home to the gray wolf, black bear, migratory songbirds, hikers, hunters, campers, and dreamers.

The oldest forests include cedars on Lake Michigan cliffs (1,400 years old), U.P. red and white pines, and the Hartwick Pines 10,000-acre park with hemlock and white and red pine, 400 years old, giving a hint of Michigan as it was being settled.

Karen Michelson Hartwick bought the more than 8,000 acres of land in 1927, including 86 acres of old-growth white pine. She donated the land to Michigan as a memorial for her husband killed in WWI.

She stipulated that the land never be logged, and that a log cabin be built to commemorate her husband, Major Edward Hartwick, and lumberjacks during the white pine logging era, 1840-1910. Tragically, a 1940 windstorm blew down 37 acres of the original trees.

After white and red pine forests, with spruce, balsam, cedar, and birch; oak-hickory forests developed, including red, white, and black oak, chestnut, hickory, white ash, black birch, sassafras, and red maple. Following in forest development are beech-maple woods—including the stunning sugar maples.

The First Woods were made of oak, beech, and maple, with a patch of sassafras. Maples grew up and down Caroline Street—sugar, silver, red—and horse chestnut, sycamore, black walnut, catalpa, a Japanese maple, and an enormous weeping willow, as well as apple, cherry, and pear trees.

And countless box elders, an unwelcome maple since every heavy rain and windstorm brought down branches or whole trees across yards, garages, and porches, sending the horrendous box elder bugs in every direction.

But forests, complete with curving shady paths, marshy patches promising trilliums in springtime, spring peepers, frogs, squirrels, and mystery are so much a part of Michigan for me, especially Michigan summer, that I miss standing inside the line of trees, having picked thimble-sized ripe blackberries, ready to explore as I dream of a cabin in the woods.

I’ve savored royal palm trees on a beach at sunset, with the breeze rattling fronds and sounding like rain. Walked paths beneath live oaks 85 years old listening to carillon bells.

Watched sand pine leaves wave against the sky from a remote Florida road, inhaled the heady fragrance of magnolia flowers, picked tangerines, and stopped to catch orange blossoms on the wind.

Yet there’s nothing like gazing into the canopy of a Michigan forest when the sun slants through the branches, frogs celebrate somewhere nearby, and the path beckons.

Whenever possible, celebrate the beauty and serenity of a Michigan forest.

The memory stays with you a lifetime.

The Seasons of Frank's Nursery

“If a plant you buy from us fails, we will replace or refund it, no questions asked. It’s what we’re known for, and we stand by it.”

I miss Frank’s Nursey & Crafts.

Northwest Squirrel and South Boulevard had a small strip mall that was a buyer’s dream.

Pontiac State Bank was a stand-alone building at the far end, and on the corner was Kroger’s and Frank’s. I don’t remember which came first, but I do recall spending hours at Frank’s Nursery. I loved houseplants and ferns, and carried home countless pots of greenery.

One summer I bought two four-inch pots of asparagus ferns from Frank’s (asparagus setaceus) to decorate the front porch steps. Later, I returned for a half-gallon pot with a Boston fern and geraniums for the kitchen window ledge.

All summer the ferns brightened the front of the house, and by fall, I carried them indoors, repotted, to the (former) dining room with wide, tall windows for an eastern view, and no furnace duct to dry out branches and fronds.

Within the next few years, the asparagus ferns flowered, producing tiny red berries. If Darth Vader had taken up embroidery, I couldn’t have been more surprised. Yes, I knew the plants weren’t ferns, but never expected blossoms or fruit. While they bloomed, the room was filled with a delicious blend of jasmine and hot buttered toast.

Every summer the Boston fern was carried outside to the back deck Dave built, to stretch and thrive in the shade of the locust tree, being hauled indoors before frost. Each year it took more muscle to carry the container until the year that Monster Fern was forced to live indoors year ‘round.

Never had to return any of my plants to Frank’s.

Well, there was the year I bought my Christmas tree late from Frank’s, and drove it four blocks home. As I pulled it from the back of the hatchback, the sheet beneath the tree was covered in needles, and I stood up a Charlie Brown tree. Packed it, returned it, and received a better tree with an apology and no questions asked. A class act, our Frank’s.

Frank’s began in East Detroit in the early 40’s and thrived until 2004 with over 300 stores in 24 states. We appreciated our local stores—live plants, garden supplies, crafts, art supplies, and by December, Christmas trees and decorations.

In 1942, Frank Sherr and Max Weinberg opened Frank’s Market in northeast Detroit— “never closed and never undersold.” After a customer complained about the price of coffee, but spent more on a geranium, they added flowers, ferns, trees, lawn chemicals, and landscaping supplies, and later, opened a greenhouse.

Crafts were added in ’66. By 1980 they became Frank’s Nursery & Crafts, and by ’82 added converted A&P stores.

In 2004, Frank’s struggled financially, and filed Chapter 11, a sad event for all of us.

In 2015, longtime Frank’s executive William Boyd died, and his son Kelly, while scrolling on Facebook, saw a post showing a Frank’s handbasket with 2,500 likes, comments, and shares. He worked to regain the trademark, and in 2022, opened Frank’s as an online store with 40 growers to supply live plants.

“Beautiful things begin at Frank’s” has become “Beautiful things begin again,” with plans to add more merchandise “like the ‘old’ Frank’s,” and with the same guarantee offered in the past.

“We extend a warm ‘Welcome Back!’ to our longtime faithful customers,” Mr. Boyd says, “and look forward to serving you and your families again!”

Thank you, Mr. Kelly Boyd.

Thank you, Facebook readers for encouraging him.

Welcome back, Frank’s!

Old Fashioned Fireworks

This year’s Fourth of July is days behind us, but the Independence Day celebrations I enjoyed most in my life are decades in the past (over threescore, to be more accurate).

Fireworks and afternoon programs in the School Hills, in the Heights, those Fourth of July memories from my childhood, can never be bested.

Fireworks have improved, and there are spectacular sky shows unavailable to us then, true, fitting for our Nation’s birthday. But the most meaningful revelry came from our community gathering to share the holiday.

Of course, we had the annual parade. Our Avondale bands, local dignitaries, mounted sheriffs, firetruck and volunteer Fire Department, Jaycees. Horses, majorettes twirling batons, waving flags, and the sound of drums began the day’s excitement.

The best part of the day was gathering at the School Hills in the afternoon. We settled on and along slopes and hillsides with lawn chairs, blankets, and picnic baskets. Dad was a volunteer fireman, so was part of the excitement of setting fire to the annual donated shed, and putting out the flames with the immense water blasts from the hoses.

One year we donated the outhouse in our backyard. That was the year Disney released Darby O’Gill and the Little People. My brothers and I watched the trailer over and over, fascinated by the headless driver of the death coach, ghosts, banshees, and the miniature King of the Leprechauns with his pot of gold.

Since we didn’t see the movie in the local theaters, those images were enhanced in our imaginations until I decided that the King of the Leprechaun had a throne room in our backyard. Funny that I didn’t associate our (locked) outhouse with Great-grandma Miller’s, or the countless ones I knew from summer camping. Nor did I understand why Mom and Dad thought my title was so funny.

They bought a concrete birdbath and leprechaun King for our backyard, and donated the outhouse for its fiery Fourth of July demise.

Yes, it was thrilling to watch the blaze each year and the quick work of our fire department, especially since Dad was one.

Sparklers appeared around the Hills throughout the day, but especially as dusk settled, mainly to keep us amused until the fireworks program.

Jaycees and our fire department sold flares at Halloween to help fund our fireworks, so we Russell kids felt partial ownership in the explosions, claiming certain colors or effects.
We all wanted to own the shimmering golden showers, the most stunning sky color burst at that time.

We’d anxiously watch the torch lighting the rockets and the igniter race away as the whoosh-shooting streak rocketed up to burst in colors and bangs. Once in a while, there’d be no light and color, only the ground-shaking boom. “A dud,” we’d tell each other.

The conclusion to the show was the fiery American flag and our National Anthem, and another amazing birthday celebration was applauded before we all made our way home. Living only blocks away from the School Hills, we walked, pulling a wagon with our lunch basket and blankets.

I saw amazing displays on YouTube this year from drone-fireworks—the dragon, in particular—yet the sense of belonging, of community, of pride in our nation from those long-ago days has never been matched.

Happy birthday, America.

May you never lose, from the past, everything that made you magnificent.

The Amazing World Around Us

“Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky,” an Ojibwe saying reminds us.

Images and memories followed me this past week, so I decided to try and capture a few and share them with you. We’re all a treasure chest of wisdom and surprise, so here are some of mine—those that made me laugh, those that gave me a sense of gratitude.

Every White Elephant sale at the Auburn Heights Elementary school fair, where my donations were lackluster, but tables in the room held prizes to be carried home in triumph.

The annual surprise of Daffodil Hill at Cranbrook Gardens, the otherwise grassy slope near a patch of white pines dotted with daffodils in springtime.

Feeding four crows in my front yard after learning they travel in families—Alpha father, mother, and two juveniles who haven’t yet begun their own. Cereal, peanuts, bread—whatever I could find, I tossed. Since the crow family (crows, ravens, jays, magpies, rooks, jackdaws, choughs, and nutcrackers) is intelligent, especially ravens and crows, these learned to recognize me and announce any offerings.

One morning, while watching from my picture window, Alpha Crow walked from the oak at the corner of the yard to the window and trilled. He returned to his family while, surprised, I called back, “You’re welcome.”

One weekend at St Mary’s Retreat Center in Oxford, Dave and I stayed in a detached building, a former convent. Saturday morning, after leaving our room, I heard the sound of happy laughter, dishes clanking, and the blessed aroma of freshly-brewed coffee.

I hurried to the kitchen to beg a cup, but as soon as I turned the corner, sounds and coffee fragrance vanished, and I stood in a dark, empty room. When I mentioned it in the conference room later, I was told I wasn’t the only one to hear the “happy ghosts.” Still can’t explain it, but never forgot the experience. And yes, I did smell fresh coffee.

I’ll also never forget the woman in the wheelchair at a restaurant during the Oakland Mall’s glory days, after I opened the door for her. She stopped and gave me a beaming smile. We exchanged a wordless greeting before each of us went our own way.

“And that’s why I hired you,” my friend and boss said. “You pay attention to people.” Really? I thought everyone did. We should. She did.

An occasion I laughed so hard, I couldn’t retell the story was, surprisingly, because of a gathering at St John Fisher Chapel on Walton Road. No one told Frank or me why we’d been asked to go, and not one host explained the purpose of the meeting. Instead, they showed a film. Or tried to.

First came the attempt to locate switches and turn off lights. Ten minutes of, “Here? No, what about this?” set the mood, but when the picture and sound didn’t synchronize, it got worse. Music dragged and voices were pitched so low, words were lost.

Unfortunately, the man’s voice attached itself to the elderly woman until her mouth and his growling drawl began to match. By that time, I couldn’t look at Frank. His shoulders were shaking. The hosts must have decided to let the film play to the last droning end, because it went on and on. I tried to contain myself, but burst into a loud guffaw and bolted, Frank behind me.

We never learned what the purpose was, nor were we invited back. Go figure.

Surprises and amusements can pop up any time, with plenty of small pleasures to savor:
Rain against windows, the perfume of freshly-cut grass, walking into the (now gone) Crabtree & Evelyn shop at Somerset, inhaling. That first cup of morning coffee. Any view of Michigan wilderness.

The Au Sable lighthouse, where I wished to live for a year and write a world-changing book to the sound of the mighty Lake Superior crashing against cliffsides. A scrumptious new journal and pen.

Thinking about heroes I’ll never meet—Soupy Sales, Carl Sagan, Luke Skywalker.

The bright green grass snake on an asphalt road who coiled and began shaking at the sight of a human. Would work well in a tree or bush against green leaves, but not so much on the dusty road, although the performance went on until I took pity and continued my walk.

Think I’ll make a pot of grapefruit green tea and let the wonders of the so-called ordinary world entertain me.

Entertain is right. I still laugh when I remember the film of the couple and their poor old mother.

I still feed my current family of crows and wish to spend a year in that lighthouse.

What I Learned Along the Way

Looking back on more than three years of weekend posts, I realize I learned a great deal about my childhood town, my neighborhood, Pontiac, and Michigan. Some facts I collected while researching my topic, others came from the rest of you.

American leader Ralph Sockman states, “The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.”

Ghanian statesman says, “Knowledge is power. Information is liberating. Education is the premise of progress, in every society, in every family.”

The Heights family shares informative memories with love of our (former) home.

And what did I learn?

Among other things, the Clinton River is 83 miles long, from Springfield Township, north of Pontiac, to Lake St. Clair. Formed over 20,000 years ago from glaciers, which eventually melted to become rivers. It runs beneath Pontiac, but bubbles along the Heights and Rochester, pushing water wheels to run cider mills.

In the late 17th century, French explorers called the river Nottawasippee, Ojibwe for “like rattlesnakes.” British fur traders named it Huron River. On July 17, 1824 it was named after DeWitt Clinton, governor of New York (from 1817 to 1823).

Made Pontiac successful with mills that produced timber, flour, and women’s hats, while the lumber and mills created carriages, leading to cars, trucks, and buses. No wonder Pontiac has a Mill Street and Water Street.

Chief Pontiac (Obwandiyag) was chief of the Ottawa tribe, with a presence that commanded respect. He ruled tribes from Lake Superior to lower Mississippi, was fearless and ruthless, and believed that “these lakes, these woods and mountains were left to us by our ancestors. They are our inheritance and we will part with them to no one.”

He headed the Council of Three Tribes—Ottawa, Potawatomi, and Ojibwa—but was murdered in St. Louis and is reputed to be buried where the corner of Broadway and Walnut stand today (at a parking garage), with a plaque in his honor.

In spite of legends, he wasn’t buried on Apple Island in Orchard Lake, although he may have visited the island.

Grey Road in the Heights, between Adams and Auburn, was originally an Indian trail. An 1838 map shows its passage, probably a stagecoach route with stops.

Traverse City is the cherry capital of the world, with 90,000 tons produced annually, mainly Montmorency (tart) cherries. In the Heights, the Pixley Funeral Home, which I knew as the Harold Davis Funeral Home, was originally the Thatcher farm with 100 acres, including a cherry orchard. Explains the origin of Cherryland Street.

I grew up on Caroline Street, once part of Samuel J. Adams’ farm, which encompassed my neighborhood—the Oak Grove Subdivision—and the Auburn Heights School Subdivision. The Potbury’s home, next to Auburn Heights Elementary, had been the Adams’ farm tenant house.

The dead-end streets in my neighborhood were named for family—granddaughters (Caroline, Margaret), wife (Bessie), and himself (Henrydale)? (His son was John.)

Our Avondale fight song was written in 1936 by Paul Yoder, born in 1908, who composed more than 1,400 band pieces. His “Hail to the Varsity” became “Hail to old Avondale…” and I can still sing the words.

Michigan’s a land of glacier rocks, 200 million acres wide, from ice 10,000 years ago. No wonder our State has more stone varieties than anywhere else in the world. School rock collections were a study in ancient history with Petoskey stones, limestone, pudding stone, and quartz.

When we carried stones home from vacation, or dug them out of our yards, we were holding sedimentary rock, prehistoric coral fossils, and minerals from ancient glaciers.

These are only a scattering of facts I learned along the way. Michigan and our hometown of Auburn Heights (Hills) holds many more surprises, lessons, and wonders.

As the State of Michigan website promises, “The state of Michigan is blessed with the riches of unspoiled nature: the nation's longest freshwater coastline, lakes that feel like oceans, golden beaches, an abundance of fresh produce straight from the farm, glorious sunrises and sunsets and endless opportunities for living, working and playing.”

And that doesn’t include our local history and memories.

Now, this is a satisfactory way to enjoy history.

Our history.

What I Wish I'd Told You

Father’s Day, and although you’re celebrating with Mom in a more glorious home, we miss you, not only today, but every day.

If only we could have one more family dinner.

I’d beg you for more family stories.

I’d apologize for all the eye-rolling and sighing when you tried to tell me something I needed to hear. After all, inside I believed you knew everything.

Everything that mattered.

Now that I have children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, I wish we could share coffee and conversation one more time. I have so much to tell you, and so much to thank you for.

I wish I’d told you how much your work ethic and honesty influenced my life. God, family, and country were highest on your list, but you were a faithful GM employee, and taught that attendance was mandatory, and it was expected to give our best on every task.

I wish I’d told you how your love of reading gave my life a richness and sparkle, at every age, under any circumstance. You’d be proud of my stories and writing, I’m sure.

I wish I’d told you how special you made every Christmas and birthday, regardless of finances and number of children. After raising mine, I don’t know how you managed, but was never disappointed. Santa was good to us every year.

We were proud of our young, cultured parents, growing up with classical music, soundtracks, musicals, a grand piano in the living room, and books—our own and weekly library loans, and learned that class and taste could be enjoyed at any income level.

When you retired and took over meal preparation, you made world’s best meatloaf. And peasant soup—“I’ve been chasing peasants all day,” you’d say—English muffin breakfast sandwiches, and any recipe that caught your attention…and cleaned up the kitchen afterward.

You taught us love for nature—forests, ocean shorelines, mountains, hiking, camping, dogs, cats, and wildlife.

I wish I’d told you how proud I was that you never met a stranger, and always showed interest in everyone you came across. Still, you reminded me to use caution in the great wide world, because not everyone had my best interests at heart, or even their own. I envy your lifelong balance of acceptance and vigilance.

Your loyalty to your entire family was unshaking and endless, even though your father had deserted his wife and children when you were in high school, leaving you to help your mother. You stayed the supportive big brother all your life to my aunts and uncles.

I wish I could tell you all this, Dad.

I wish I could hear your voice offering advice.

Or tell you how many times I was helped by your reminders, “When you get sick and tired of being sick and tired, you’ll do something about it,” and “You are always doing the best you can; however, it is up to you to be on the lookout for better bests.”

I wish I could see that Russell family grin again and hear you laugh.

I even miss the snapping of your fingers which meant “Now!”

There’s no way to thank you, in words, for everything you sacrificed, bought, built, tried, and offered. I can only be grateful for what we had and pay it forward.

After all, that’s what you taught me to do.

Magic Sock and a Visit to the Dime Store

I want to use my magic sock to travel back to Shorts’ 5 & 10 in the Heights.

Mom told me that when I was eight months old, I started walking.

As long as I clutched my magic sock.

Somewhere there’s a black-and-white photo of a baby in a white dress holding a tiny sock and taking steps.

My imagination was alive and well from babyhood.

On a family trip to Milwaukee, she looked back to see me, from my car seat, pulling something invisible from the window and tucking it into my palm, over and over. “Strange,” she said, but thought no more about it until, a week later, on our way home and at the same location, I opened my hand and tossed something invisible at the window, again and again.

In kindergarten, my teacher called her and insisted I stick to “show” for show-and-tell, since I was frightening my classmates with scary stories.

I was meant to be a storywriter.

I traded my magic sock for a pen years ago, and it’s this pen (or keyboard) that transports me back in time to places that exist only in our memories.

Like the dime store downtown in the Heights.

Shorts’ 5 & 10 carried everything a child could imagine, including gift ideas for Mother’s Day.

Next door was Thomas Variety, usually beyond my price range, but with scrumptious clothing and handbags. One year, my great-grandma bought me a blouse for my birthday from Thomas Variety, and I treasured it for years.

My friend Kay embroidered flowers and puppies on pre-drawn fabric, and would invite me to ride to the Heights with her while she shopped for colored threads, new hoops, and needles.

I’d feast my eyes on toys, candies, stationery, school supplies, colognes—we bought Mom “Evening in Paris” every year because of the fancy bottle—doilies, dishtowels, pet supplies…the list was endless.

Of course, our family was familiar with Kresge’s dime stores. I thought the store downtown Pontiac was the height of elegance, and loved the lunch counter-soda fountain with the red vinyl pedestal stools, especially when I worked, after graduation, downtown Pontiac.

Originally, dime stores earned the name because everything in the store sold for a nickel or a dime.

S. S. (Sebastian Spering) Kresge (July 1867-October 1966) opened his Detroit dime store in 1899. The “five and dime” reality lasted until 1917 when Kresge’s had to raise prices to fifteen cents because of WWI inflation.

I remember when Kresge stores disappeared, replaced by Kmart. The first Kmart store opened in Garden City, Michigan in 1962. By 1977, S. S. Kresge Corporation became Kmart Corporation. (In 2005, Sears Holding Corporation owned Kmart and Sears, both now gone.)

But dime stores went on supplying household goods at reasonable prices for years. I don’t recall when Shorts and Thomas Variety disappeared. They were an important part of my childhood in the Heights, and a source for gifts and babysitting money for years.

I wish I could clutch my magic sock and walk through the door of Shorts’ 5 & 10, wander up and down the aisles admiring wares and treats, and ride my bike back home with Kay, while she planned her next embroidery picture, and I thought about our next trip to the Heights’ downtown.

All those stores are gone now, along with penny candy and nickel candy bars. I’d cherish an afternoon browsing downtown Auburn Heights in the 60’s.

But even my magic sock can’t manage that.