Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 6
March 23, 2024
Dreaming of Michigan Spring
“The pine tree dreams of the palm…” the poet Heinrich Heine says.
Many times, from my work desk, I’d gaze out the nearest window and imagine a job-free life on a tropical beach beneath a palm tree, or in a jungle hut listening to parrots and approaching rain.
Especially during early spring after fresh powdered-sugar snow covered the ground, courtesy of lingering winter.
From my window now, young live oaks are rich in bright green leaves. Highway phlox spreads purple, pink, and white flowers across fields. Azaleas burst out in their annual performance, and songbirds are trilling, nesting, busy with springtime business.
Jokesters insist that Michigan has two seasons—winter and summer—but in truth, springtime has many layers. So why am I drawn to Michigan memories where winter still grips March, and warm spring days seem a season away?
There’s something magical about every tiny hint of the end of winter, when temperatures swing from freezing to chilly rain, or March snowfalls cover yards overnight with mounds of white and melt within days.
What do I miss?
Maple syrup month in March. Trilliums appearing late April to early May. Early robins hopping across yards and beginning their lilting songs. The first grass stems reappearing through melting snow. Mounds of frozen, dirty ice on the edges of parking lots. Potholes reappearing in the roads.
Well, no, I don’t miss that last one.
Detroit Tigers Opening Day.
When an afternoon of 55 degrees feels balmy. Decisions being made about changing storm windows for screens, or does that still occur?
Official season dates are the same for Central Florida, Michigan, or the Ozarks, but from my house, spring begins early in February and melts into summer by late March. Every seasonal change is crammed into those weeks.
In the Heights, spring was a hope, a wish, so that any shift in winter temperatures or weather was noticed and discussed. Icicles fell for the last time. Heavy coats were replaced with jackets. Garden plans were discussed. Bulb flowers—irises, daffodils, jonquils, tulips, hyacinths, crocus—made their appearance.
I miss bulb flowers, trilliums, robins singing, and the true green of new lawns. The Monet paintings of new leaves on weeping willows, the red buds of sugar maples proving that winter does end.
I ordered a packet of Queen Annes lace seeds and planted them in two pots for my window container garden, between the red geraniums and sword ferns. Looking forward to a touch of Michigan summer.
But as March slips into April and I enjoy the green, floral, bird singing spring of my neighborhood, I still look back with longing on the end of winter in the Heights, and the first signs of spring.
To describe yearning, the same poet adds, “…and the palm tree of the pine…”
Happy spring to you, whenever it decides to begin.
Many times, from my work desk, I’d gaze out the nearest window and imagine a job-free life on a tropical beach beneath a palm tree, or in a jungle hut listening to parrots and approaching rain.
Especially during early spring after fresh powdered-sugar snow covered the ground, courtesy of lingering winter.
From my window now, young live oaks are rich in bright green leaves. Highway phlox spreads purple, pink, and white flowers across fields. Azaleas burst out in their annual performance, and songbirds are trilling, nesting, busy with springtime business.
Jokesters insist that Michigan has two seasons—winter and summer—but in truth, springtime has many layers. So why am I drawn to Michigan memories where winter still grips March, and warm spring days seem a season away?
There’s something magical about every tiny hint of the end of winter, when temperatures swing from freezing to chilly rain, or March snowfalls cover yards overnight with mounds of white and melt within days.
What do I miss?
Maple syrup month in March. Trilliums appearing late April to early May. Early robins hopping across yards and beginning their lilting songs. The first grass stems reappearing through melting snow. Mounds of frozen, dirty ice on the edges of parking lots. Potholes reappearing in the roads.
Well, no, I don’t miss that last one.
Detroit Tigers Opening Day.
When an afternoon of 55 degrees feels balmy. Decisions being made about changing storm windows for screens, or does that still occur?
Official season dates are the same for Central Florida, Michigan, or the Ozarks, but from my house, spring begins early in February and melts into summer by late March. Every seasonal change is crammed into those weeks.
In the Heights, spring was a hope, a wish, so that any shift in winter temperatures or weather was noticed and discussed. Icicles fell for the last time. Heavy coats were replaced with jackets. Garden plans were discussed. Bulb flowers—irises, daffodils, jonquils, tulips, hyacinths, crocus—made their appearance.
I miss bulb flowers, trilliums, robins singing, and the true green of new lawns. The Monet paintings of new leaves on weeping willows, the red buds of sugar maples proving that winter does end.
I ordered a packet of Queen Annes lace seeds and planted them in two pots for my window container garden, between the red geraniums and sword ferns. Looking forward to a touch of Michigan summer.
But as March slips into April and I enjoy the green, floral, bird singing spring of my neighborhood, I still look back with longing on the end of winter in the Heights, and the first signs of spring.
To describe yearning, the same poet adds, “…and the palm tree of the pine…”
Happy spring to you, whenever it decides to begin.
March 16, 2024
Dad's Words of Wisdom
When I think about my early years in the Heights, I relive childhood friends, school activities, holiday events, our house and yard. We’d entered a new world, one I would share with my own children decades later.
I didn’t consider what a refreshing change it was for Mom and Dad, as well.
They were young parents of five children in 1959 when we moved to Caroline Street. Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors and Mom taught herself how to cook, sew, bake, knit, crochet, garden, and manage laundry and children.
They were as excited by the move as we were.
Dad joined the volunteer fire department. Mom introduced herself to neighbors and joined the money-collecting or hot dish bouts for funerals and illness on our streets.
At that age, I believed that they knew everything.
At my (advanced) age, I realize that, in a sense, they did.
Dad carried his loyalty to family and nation to his job and employees. Loved music, was a man of strong faith and personal ethics, and taught me more than manners and personal responsibility.
In my mid-years, he put together a folder of wisdom he’d accumulated called “Acceptance: A Path to Personal Happiness,” and made a copy for each of his six children. He signed “Love, Dad” on the front cover, a priceless treasure to me now, especially since he and Mom have entered their Divine reward.
I miss them both. I even miss his advice, but have a written collection to help refresh my memory.
As a child, he often told me that people were no good. Thought he was wrong and cynical. I now understand that he was warning me not to give trust until it has been earned, not to assume that what was said was the same as what was meant.
I’ve been asked to share something of my father, so I pulled out his booklet of wise thoughts and reread it. Can’t do better than to share a few of those with you.
“If you compare yourself with others, you must remember that all comparisons are odious. It’s my recollection that either Plato or Socrates first said that, although it could have been Freud or Kant, or maybe even someone else. If you compare you are exhibiting a yen for the unnecessary, and you will always be either hurt or disappointed or both.”
“Start out each day with a clean sheet. Greet everyone as if you had just met them and do not carry the bad memories of yesterday into today. Bad memories are just illusions anyway. What happened yesterday is just a dream.”
“This is it. Today is all we have. Learn to forgive yourself, again and again and again…”
Dad had a sense of humor, too, and passed out “A Few of the Russell Family Rules Handed Down Through the Years.”
• When you go to the races, always bet on the gray horse, unless it is raining, in which case, don’t bet at all.
• If you go to a store and see something that you absolutely, positively have to get or you will die, wait for 24 hours before making the purchase.
• Never buy children any toy that is advertised on television.
• When you don’t know just what to do, DO NOTHING!
• If it sounds too good to be true, it is.
• You are always doing the best you can, however it is up to you to be on the lookout for better “bests.”
• It is much better to want what you have than to have what you want.
• Once in a while, eat dessert first.
• When all else fails, READ THE DIRECTIONS.
• If you ever meet a deadly nine-foot-tall robot, remember the phrase, “Gort, Klaatu barada nikto.”
• You can do anything you want, as long as you’re prepared to face the consequences.
Occasionally, he’d add (from The Court Jester), “The pellet with the poison’s in the vessel with the pestle. The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true.”
Dad lived his words. He loved his children, through dark times, without question, and most of all, he loved my mother from their first meeting through every moment of their lives. Was a man of honesty, integrity, morality. And a great reader.
Dad, this is for you.
Oh, and to close, “One additional piece of philosophy that should be preserved for the world to enjoy comes from an elderly, black philosopher named Mr. Robert Reid, who was a real gentleman in every sense of the word. When asked why he was happy with what few possessions he had, he replied, ‘Ah cain always gets me another dollar, but Ah can’t gets me another day, so Ah’s gots to enjoy de time Ah’s got left.’”
Amen.
I didn’t consider what a refreshing change it was for Mom and Dad, as well.
They were young parents of five children in 1959 when we moved to Caroline Street. Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors and Mom taught herself how to cook, sew, bake, knit, crochet, garden, and manage laundry and children.
They were as excited by the move as we were.
Dad joined the volunteer fire department. Mom introduced herself to neighbors and joined the money-collecting or hot dish bouts for funerals and illness on our streets.
At that age, I believed that they knew everything.
At my (advanced) age, I realize that, in a sense, they did.
Dad carried his loyalty to family and nation to his job and employees. Loved music, was a man of strong faith and personal ethics, and taught me more than manners and personal responsibility.
In my mid-years, he put together a folder of wisdom he’d accumulated called “Acceptance: A Path to Personal Happiness,” and made a copy for each of his six children. He signed “Love, Dad” on the front cover, a priceless treasure to me now, especially since he and Mom have entered their Divine reward.
I miss them both. I even miss his advice, but have a written collection to help refresh my memory.
As a child, he often told me that people were no good. Thought he was wrong and cynical. I now understand that he was warning me not to give trust until it has been earned, not to assume that what was said was the same as what was meant.
I’ve been asked to share something of my father, so I pulled out his booklet of wise thoughts and reread it. Can’t do better than to share a few of those with you.
“If you compare yourself with others, you must remember that all comparisons are odious. It’s my recollection that either Plato or Socrates first said that, although it could have been Freud or Kant, or maybe even someone else. If you compare you are exhibiting a yen for the unnecessary, and you will always be either hurt or disappointed or both.”
“Start out each day with a clean sheet. Greet everyone as if you had just met them and do not carry the bad memories of yesterday into today. Bad memories are just illusions anyway. What happened yesterday is just a dream.”
“This is it. Today is all we have. Learn to forgive yourself, again and again and again…”
Dad had a sense of humor, too, and passed out “A Few of the Russell Family Rules Handed Down Through the Years.”
• When you go to the races, always bet on the gray horse, unless it is raining, in which case, don’t bet at all.
• If you go to a store and see something that you absolutely, positively have to get or you will die, wait for 24 hours before making the purchase.
• Never buy children any toy that is advertised on television.
• When you don’t know just what to do, DO NOTHING!
• If it sounds too good to be true, it is.
• You are always doing the best you can, however it is up to you to be on the lookout for better “bests.”
• It is much better to want what you have than to have what you want.
• Once in a while, eat dessert first.
• When all else fails, READ THE DIRECTIONS.
• If you ever meet a deadly nine-foot-tall robot, remember the phrase, “Gort, Klaatu barada nikto.”
• You can do anything you want, as long as you’re prepared to face the consequences.
Occasionally, he’d add (from The Court Jester), “The pellet with the poison’s in the vessel with the pestle. The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true.”
Dad lived his words. He loved his children, through dark times, without question, and most of all, he loved my mother from their first meeting through every moment of their lives. Was a man of honesty, integrity, morality. And a great reader.
Dad, this is for you.
Oh, and to close, “One additional piece of philosophy that should be preserved for the world to enjoy comes from an elderly, black philosopher named Mr. Robert Reid, who was a real gentleman in every sense of the word. When asked why he was happy with what few possessions he had, he replied, ‘Ah cain always gets me another dollar, but Ah can’t gets me another day, so Ah’s gots to enjoy de time Ah’s got left.’”
Amen.
March 9, 2024
I Grew Up with the Beatles
In my early teen years, I babysat for spending money. Once I established myself, especially in the Orchards subdivision, I scheduled Friday and Saturday nights in advance.
Those were the days of 50 cents an hour, a dollar after midnight. Pizza for dinner, chips for snacks, and for the most part, well-behaved children with set bedtimes.
That left plenty time for TV watching.
Those were the days of Lawrence Welk, Gomer Pyle, Hollywood Palace, Gilligan’s Island, Addam’s Family, Jack Benny Show, Bewitched, My Three Sons, Donna Reed, Shindig, Bonanza, Disney’s Wonderful World of Color. And so many other favorites.
Occasionally I’d babysit on a Sunday night, and one Sunday, magic unfolded that changed my (musical) life.
And not just mine.
Ed Sullivan Show, famous for acrobats, singers, comedians, and ventriloquists, aired from June 1948 to March 1971. A true variety show, we all watched for memorable performances by the famous and the regulars—Topo Gigio, the mouse puppet, for instance—with surprising musical guests.
In spite of Sullivan’s intention not to invite Elvis on his “family show,” Steve Allen’s ratings shot up after an Elvis appearance, and since the two shows were competitors, Ed Sullivan changed his mind. So, on September 9, 1956, Elvis sang “Love Me Tender” with three other songs, and was watched by over 60 million viewers, 83% of the TV population, a television record.
In 1963, Sullivan was at Heathrow Airport where he witnessed a Beatles welcome and commented that it was like Elvis. He offered a high fee to Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager, for their appearance, and agreed to three performances at minimum payment for top billing.
On February 9, 1964, I was babysitting and, naturally, turned on Ed Sullivan to pass the time after the children were in bed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ed Sullivan said, “the Beatles,” and the group burst into “All My Loving,” followed by “Till There Was You” (a tune from the musical “The Music Man”), and “She Loves You.”
I fell in love.
I wasn’t alone. A record of 73 million viewers joined me that night.
Took my babysitting money and begged a ride to Grinnell’s at the Pontiac Mall to stand in line for my 45 of “She Loves You.” Next, my first Beatles’ album—Meet the Beatles.
That was only the beginning of my love affair with Paul, John, George, and Ringo.
In high school, we were “John girls” or “Paul girls” or “George girls.” George was quiet, John rebellious, Ringo shy, and Paul cute. After trying out the various personalities, I became and remained a Paul girl. All my life.
There was a “which is better” dispute at that time about the superior band—Beatles or Rolling Stones—but we Beatles’ fans held out that our choice would prove themselves over time. And were right, since the Beatles’ changing styles altered music in many ways.
“Yesterday” is one of the most-recorded songs in popular music history with 1,600 versions by 1986 alone. Chuck Berry said he wished he’d written it.
Every Beatles album shifted in style, from the early sounds of “Meet the Beatles” through changes in “Help” and “Rubber Soul,” to “Revolver,” “Sgt. Pepper’s,” and “Abbey Road.” I’ve always considered their White Album a collection of every style.
My brother recognized the genius of Motown early in its history and preferred those artists, but I was swept away by the British Invasion and the Beatles.
I grew and matured as their music did. I was married with children when they also went their own ways.
John created his own sound, Paul built a thriving career, George continued polishing his guitar work and songwriting, and Ringo performed and acted, as well as influenced other drummers, and was inducted into the Modern Drummer Hall of Fame in 1999.
Tragic deaths, losses, and four individual musical and personal lives can never erase the Beatlemania magic this band created when they shot into the American public with their fresh sound.
“Let It Be” is a prayer.
And my favorite? Difficult question to answer, but if I have to choose, it’s “Hey Jude.”
In fact, at the end of the song, Paul calls out my name, “Judy, Judy, Judy…”
Hold on, Mr. McCartney, I’m coming!
Those were the days of 50 cents an hour, a dollar after midnight. Pizza for dinner, chips for snacks, and for the most part, well-behaved children with set bedtimes.
That left plenty time for TV watching.
Those were the days of Lawrence Welk, Gomer Pyle, Hollywood Palace, Gilligan’s Island, Addam’s Family, Jack Benny Show, Bewitched, My Three Sons, Donna Reed, Shindig, Bonanza, Disney’s Wonderful World of Color. And so many other favorites.
Occasionally I’d babysit on a Sunday night, and one Sunday, magic unfolded that changed my (musical) life.
And not just mine.
Ed Sullivan Show, famous for acrobats, singers, comedians, and ventriloquists, aired from June 1948 to March 1971. A true variety show, we all watched for memorable performances by the famous and the regulars—Topo Gigio, the mouse puppet, for instance—with surprising musical guests.
In spite of Sullivan’s intention not to invite Elvis on his “family show,” Steve Allen’s ratings shot up after an Elvis appearance, and since the two shows were competitors, Ed Sullivan changed his mind. So, on September 9, 1956, Elvis sang “Love Me Tender” with three other songs, and was watched by over 60 million viewers, 83% of the TV population, a television record.
In 1963, Sullivan was at Heathrow Airport where he witnessed a Beatles welcome and commented that it was like Elvis. He offered a high fee to Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager, for their appearance, and agreed to three performances at minimum payment for top billing.
On February 9, 1964, I was babysitting and, naturally, turned on Ed Sullivan to pass the time after the children were in bed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ed Sullivan said, “the Beatles,” and the group burst into “All My Loving,” followed by “Till There Was You” (a tune from the musical “The Music Man”), and “She Loves You.”
I fell in love.
I wasn’t alone. A record of 73 million viewers joined me that night.
Took my babysitting money and begged a ride to Grinnell’s at the Pontiac Mall to stand in line for my 45 of “She Loves You.” Next, my first Beatles’ album—Meet the Beatles.
That was only the beginning of my love affair with Paul, John, George, and Ringo.
In high school, we were “John girls” or “Paul girls” or “George girls.” George was quiet, John rebellious, Ringo shy, and Paul cute. After trying out the various personalities, I became and remained a Paul girl. All my life.
There was a “which is better” dispute at that time about the superior band—Beatles or Rolling Stones—but we Beatles’ fans held out that our choice would prove themselves over time. And were right, since the Beatles’ changing styles altered music in many ways.
“Yesterday” is one of the most-recorded songs in popular music history with 1,600 versions by 1986 alone. Chuck Berry said he wished he’d written it.
Every Beatles album shifted in style, from the early sounds of “Meet the Beatles” through changes in “Help” and “Rubber Soul,” to “Revolver,” “Sgt. Pepper’s,” and “Abbey Road.” I’ve always considered their White Album a collection of every style.
My brother recognized the genius of Motown early in its history and preferred those artists, but I was swept away by the British Invasion and the Beatles.
I grew and matured as their music did. I was married with children when they also went their own ways.
John created his own sound, Paul built a thriving career, George continued polishing his guitar work and songwriting, and Ringo performed and acted, as well as influenced other drummers, and was inducted into the Modern Drummer Hall of Fame in 1999.
Tragic deaths, losses, and four individual musical and personal lives can never erase the Beatlemania magic this band created when they shot into the American public with their fresh sound.
“Let It Be” is a prayer.
And my favorite? Difficult question to answer, but if I have to choose, it’s “Hey Jude.”
In fact, at the end of the song, Paul calls out my name, “Judy, Judy, Judy…”
Hold on, Mr. McCartney, I’m coming!
March 1, 2024
In Memory of Barber Bob
Our friend Bob Lynn left us this week after struggling with crumbling health. He leaves a legacy of love and service, his wife Karen, his daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, family, friends.
He showed a positive face through it all.
This post is in honor of a fine man with an incredible life, I choose to repost a story I wrote in December 2021 after meeting him, for the first time, for lunch at Cracker Barrel in Florida. I was entranced by his memories and experiences.
Many of you knew him through the years, and I graduated with his brother Mike. Bob, Karen, and I met for lunch on another occasion (where we promised not to bore her with Heights memories, and we tried, we really did, but she was warm and forgiving, anyway).
There we were at that first lunch, two former residents from the Heights, trading memories and childhood experiences. Around us, the clanking dishes and scrumptious aromas of my local Cracker Barrel created a movie set for our visit.
Bob wanted to thank me for writing every week about our long-ago home, but I was so enmeshed and fascinated with his life adventures, I didn’t let him stop until the waitress offered refills so many times, it was time to leave.
Once Bob discussed a friend with a non-Heights local and was told, “You guys in the Heights are interbred.” No, but we’re all connected in some way.
I graduated with Bob’s younger brother Mike. His youngest daughter was named for my sweet sister-in-law Debbie. Another classmate played in golf tournaments with Bob and his brother.
That’s the Heights. A daydreaming poet and a successful, popular man of sports, charities, and business could spend hours with linked experiences, 1200 miles and nearly 50 years away.
Bob won a Michigan award for his work with the Jaycees, played sports for the high school and Boy’s Club, won championships.
Owned a barber shop, “across from Sheila Lynn’s barber shop, now an insurance agency” before he and Mike moved to the New Center in Troy.
He made friends customers, and customers friends. Visited the sick and dying in hospitals to cut hair, harvested hay, plucked chickens (and pheasants, with a clever technique to remove pin feathers easily), spent summers in Indiana on family farms. Could build, design, troubleshoot.
Never lost his fervor for celebrating life, in spite of health concerns that would quell a movie hero. Kept his interest in everybody of every age.
“Did you know Loretta Lynn?” he’d be asked, and could answer, “Well, we knew her husband,” but couldn’t introduce the eager fan since “my father didn’t like him.”
One vivid memory was hearing a little girl with a big voice sing for the first time on stage, “and I fell in love.” Brenda Lee.
I hardly remembered to eat my chicken tenderloins.
Bob also painted a picture of the Heights we both knew. Our neighborhoods were on opposite sides from each other. He lived near the old high school around Livernois, and I grew up on Caroline, off Squirrel Road, but we recognized the same families, teachers, schools, and downtown, although Bob was far more outgoing and active in the community.
He ran into Stewart’s Diner for a treat every time their baseball team won a game, so earned a shake every week, with the owner's praise. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d lost,” he said.
He knew the details of the diner becoming the upscale restaurant, The Shalea, where I once had an anniversary dinner I’ll remember until my brain freezes.
Bob spoke with warmth and respect of Sam Sheehy, the coach at the Boys’ Club who led the sports team and made a welcome center in our neighborhood.
We laughed over events in common, and pulled out favorites—parades, fireworks, fall festivals. He shared why the meaning of Christmas is real to him. He brought up names that painted pictures in my mind of friends and neighbors I knew, creating a true fountain of youth, since you never age in a memory.
I’ve rarely enjoyed a lunch more.
Thank you, Barber Bob, for taking the time to drive to my area and brighten my afternoon, for stirring memories, for bringing the Heights closer and more vibrant.
And I am honored to have shared some of your memories.
Karen, we are sorry for your loss.
Bob will be missed by many, many of us.
He showed a positive face through it all.
This post is in honor of a fine man with an incredible life, I choose to repost a story I wrote in December 2021 after meeting him, for the first time, for lunch at Cracker Barrel in Florida. I was entranced by his memories and experiences.
Many of you knew him through the years, and I graduated with his brother Mike. Bob, Karen, and I met for lunch on another occasion (where we promised not to bore her with Heights memories, and we tried, we really did, but she was warm and forgiving, anyway).
There we were at that first lunch, two former residents from the Heights, trading memories and childhood experiences. Around us, the clanking dishes and scrumptious aromas of my local Cracker Barrel created a movie set for our visit.
Bob wanted to thank me for writing every week about our long-ago home, but I was so enmeshed and fascinated with his life adventures, I didn’t let him stop until the waitress offered refills so many times, it was time to leave.
Once Bob discussed a friend with a non-Heights local and was told, “You guys in the Heights are interbred.” No, but we’re all connected in some way.
I graduated with Bob’s younger brother Mike. His youngest daughter was named for my sweet sister-in-law Debbie. Another classmate played in golf tournaments with Bob and his brother.
That’s the Heights. A daydreaming poet and a successful, popular man of sports, charities, and business could spend hours with linked experiences, 1200 miles and nearly 50 years away.
Bob won a Michigan award for his work with the Jaycees, played sports for the high school and Boy’s Club, won championships.
Owned a barber shop, “across from Sheila Lynn’s barber shop, now an insurance agency” before he and Mike moved to the New Center in Troy.
He made friends customers, and customers friends. Visited the sick and dying in hospitals to cut hair, harvested hay, plucked chickens (and pheasants, with a clever technique to remove pin feathers easily), spent summers in Indiana on family farms. Could build, design, troubleshoot.
Never lost his fervor for celebrating life, in spite of health concerns that would quell a movie hero. Kept his interest in everybody of every age.
“Did you know Loretta Lynn?” he’d be asked, and could answer, “Well, we knew her husband,” but couldn’t introduce the eager fan since “my father didn’t like him.”
One vivid memory was hearing a little girl with a big voice sing for the first time on stage, “and I fell in love.” Brenda Lee.
I hardly remembered to eat my chicken tenderloins.
Bob also painted a picture of the Heights we both knew. Our neighborhoods were on opposite sides from each other. He lived near the old high school around Livernois, and I grew up on Caroline, off Squirrel Road, but we recognized the same families, teachers, schools, and downtown, although Bob was far more outgoing and active in the community.
He ran into Stewart’s Diner for a treat every time their baseball team won a game, so earned a shake every week, with the owner's praise. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d lost,” he said.
He knew the details of the diner becoming the upscale restaurant, The Shalea, where I once had an anniversary dinner I’ll remember until my brain freezes.
Bob spoke with warmth and respect of Sam Sheehy, the coach at the Boys’ Club who led the sports team and made a welcome center in our neighborhood.
We laughed over events in common, and pulled out favorites—parades, fireworks, fall festivals. He shared why the meaning of Christmas is real to him. He brought up names that painted pictures in my mind of friends and neighbors I knew, creating a true fountain of youth, since you never age in a memory.
I’ve rarely enjoyed a lunch more.
Thank you, Barber Bob, for taking the time to drive to my area and brighten my afternoon, for stirring memories, for bringing the Heights closer and more vibrant.
And I am honored to have shared some of your memories.
Karen, we are sorry for your loss.
Bob will be missed by many, many of us.
February 24, 2024
The Sounds of the Heights
Winter grips my old home with spring a century away. Or so each day feels.
Living in the Heights, or anywhere in Michigan, means that every morning the weather is a factor in how to dress, how to drive, and whether the day will be bone-chilling or hint at springtime.
Looking back to my life in the Heights, seasons wrapped around like a quilt design. Patterns in the February squares included colors that told of warming days or nights dropping below zero, snow flurries, snow, light rain, and gray skies with hints of robin egg blue.
And that was one month, one square in the quilt.
Living in the Heights, seasons each had their colors—gray and white winter; pink, green, and purple spring; emerald and bright blue summer; and flaming orange and rust brown fall. The months offered scents and sounds, as well, identifying the time of year.
I’ve lived away from the Heights and Michigan for decades, and admit I miss the more-than-four seasons there.
Miss the wind which was a daily event, from pre-storm gusts to easy breezes.
Miss real grass, sugar maples, Queen Anne’s lace, dandelions, and weeping willows.
Miss the scent of lilacs and apple blossoms.
And miss the sounds of the seasons.
The dripping of thick icicles on roof edges during winter thaws, hinting of the end of early dusk and snowfall. The crack of the same icicles broken off by a concerned parent or child pretending it’s an ice cream cone.
The song of courting robins as they choose mates and build nests.
One year, I heard a trill of melody from the nest inside the bathroom awning. Robin? Nightingale? Mockingbird? No, it was a male starling sitting on the eggs, imitating other birdsongs.
Late spring brings children outside on bicycles, up and down the street, letting out pent-up winter (and school) energy.
Lawn mowers are the sound of summer.
As were various engines of muscle cars, built and tweaked in driveways and garages, tested on side streets, and heading for Woodward Avenue.
Ford—427 Cammer, 428 Cobra Jet; Buick—400; Chevy—409, 427 ZL1, 302, 454; Pontiac—421 and 455 Super Duty; Chrysler—413, 426, 426 Hemi…
I heard revving from fast engines. Gearheads (mainly teen boys, at that time) heard specific cars and engines, headers and exhaust.
It was another sound of summer for a different time.
And for non-motorized wheeled vehicles, the squeak of wheelbarrows hauled grass clippings, weeds, garden produce, and dirt.
By the end of summer, with falling leaves, came the scrape-scrape of rakes on driveways, or the crunch of leaves tossed on a pile.
Even the silent fall of snow in mid-winter on a cold, still night with the horizon purple-blue became a song.
Where I live now, mockingbirds sing in the spring and late summer, orange blossoms scent the air on a windy day for more than a mile. Birds sing year ‘round and tiny live oak leaves fall 365 days of the year.
Still, I miss the sounds of Michigan seasons.
The music of the Heights.
Living in the Heights, or anywhere in Michigan, means that every morning the weather is a factor in how to dress, how to drive, and whether the day will be bone-chilling or hint at springtime.
Looking back to my life in the Heights, seasons wrapped around like a quilt design. Patterns in the February squares included colors that told of warming days or nights dropping below zero, snow flurries, snow, light rain, and gray skies with hints of robin egg blue.
And that was one month, one square in the quilt.
Living in the Heights, seasons each had their colors—gray and white winter; pink, green, and purple spring; emerald and bright blue summer; and flaming orange and rust brown fall. The months offered scents and sounds, as well, identifying the time of year.
I’ve lived away from the Heights and Michigan for decades, and admit I miss the more-than-four seasons there.
Miss the wind which was a daily event, from pre-storm gusts to easy breezes.
Miss real grass, sugar maples, Queen Anne’s lace, dandelions, and weeping willows.
Miss the scent of lilacs and apple blossoms.
And miss the sounds of the seasons.
The dripping of thick icicles on roof edges during winter thaws, hinting of the end of early dusk and snowfall. The crack of the same icicles broken off by a concerned parent or child pretending it’s an ice cream cone.
The song of courting robins as they choose mates and build nests.
One year, I heard a trill of melody from the nest inside the bathroom awning. Robin? Nightingale? Mockingbird? No, it was a male starling sitting on the eggs, imitating other birdsongs.
Late spring brings children outside on bicycles, up and down the street, letting out pent-up winter (and school) energy.
Lawn mowers are the sound of summer.
As were various engines of muscle cars, built and tweaked in driveways and garages, tested on side streets, and heading for Woodward Avenue.
Ford—427 Cammer, 428 Cobra Jet; Buick—400; Chevy—409, 427 ZL1, 302, 454; Pontiac—421 and 455 Super Duty; Chrysler—413, 426, 426 Hemi…
I heard revving from fast engines. Gearheads (mainly teen boys, at that time) heard specific cars and engines, headers and exhaust.
It was another sound of summer for a different time.
And for non-motorized wheeled vehicles, the squeak of wheelbarrows hauled grass clippings, weeds, garden produce, and dirt.
By the end of summer, with falling leaves, came the scrape-scrape of rakes on driveways, or the crunch of leaves tossed on a pile.
Even the silent fall of snow in mid-winter on a cold, still night with the horizon purple-blue became a song.
Where I live now, mockingbirds sing in the spring and late summer, orange blossoms scent the air on a windy day for more than a mile. Birds sing year ‘round and tiny live oak leaves fall 365 days of the year.
Still, I miss the sounds of Michigan seasons.
The music of the Heights.
February 16, 2024
Sharing Pontiac Memories
Before I continue my weekend posts of memories and local events, I must stop and thank everyone who responded to my childhood tour of Pontiac, particularly the downtown.
I’m still overwhelmed by the rush of details and celebration of our city from all of you, and touched by the number of shares my post had with other devotees of Pontiac.
Your stories enriched my experience and taught me facts about Pontiac I didn’t know.
I didn’t realize that Pontiac State Bank housed doctors and optometrists.
One mother worked for a doctor on the 12th or 14th floor, and reported the sway of the building in gusty winds. Her daughter also recalls a tooth-pulling escapade involving a dentist there and three adults to hold down her four-year old self. Years later, when she ran across him again, he remembered her. No surprise.
Waite’s was a popular store for shoes, clothing, and employment. One reader worked there on a school retail program making signs for the floors. Another mother was a seamstress for over ten years.
One man’s family was interwoven into Pontiac. His grandmother was in charge of Pontiac General’s labor and delivery. His parents bought Judge Webster’s house near the courthouse, and when the property was sold, moved the house to Sylvan Lake down Saginaw to Huron to Telegraph.
Many parents and grandparents worked at the Pontiac State Hospital during its productive era which not only housed patients, but was a working farm for gardens, hay, dairy, and cattle breeding. The property had been the Woodward Farm (before 1874) and offered wells, drainage, and access to a railroad.
One mother worked at the hospital for 37 years as medical records supervisor and librarian, and the reader remembers walking through the old tunnels from her office to the cafeteria, as well as employee picnics on the grounds.
Another set of parents moved from the U.P. to be cook in the hospital kitchen and head groundskeeper, both retiring from there. A father was psychiatrist and acting medical superintendent during WWII.
My brother and I weren’t the only admirers of the Wyrick-Palmer house, and one reader had been inside to see the ten fireplaces.
I heard names I’d almost forgotten—Sander’s, Federal’s, W.K.C., Chili Bowl, Cunningham’s, Chili Bowl.
Learned about stores new to me—Harbor Garage, Crosby’s, Arthur’s, Pontiac Retail, May’s, Fennelly’s groceries on the south side of Huron (with the sign still on the current building), the Waldron Hotel (which I knew as Mill Street Inn), and Trasker’s, who specialized in Lionel trains.
That the Oakland County jail was once on Pike Street. That Osmun’s had a suit club. That Griff’s Grill had been a cigar shop in the early 1900’s.
One reader, as a boy, was able to check out new motels (from the basements) before they opened. Another had Dr. Riker for an optometrist, who was responsible for the impressive Riker Building, and remembers the lady elevator operator who always commented on the weather.
We shared the memory of downtown Christmas decorations—ribbons on the lamp posts, red bells and garlands.
One man even worked for my father at Pontiac Motors, Plant Eight!
Many family members worked for Pontiac Motors and Fisher Body.
We attended various elementary schools across Pontiac—LeBaron (closed 2010), Crofoot (closed 2010), Mark Twain (closed 2007), Webster (closed 2007).
That Christian Literature was owned by the Miles family, who also started and operated Fleet Ambulance, the first to use electronic sirens in their white Pontiac Catalina station wagons.
There were many memories around the theaters—Strand, Huron, Oakland, Eagle.
And excitement at Ace’s Diner, corner of Telegraph and Huron, when a semi-truck with trailer rammed through, damaging the restaurant and pinball machine (which the boys wanted to salvage for a space ship…totally understandable).
Buildings and businesses have changed or vanished. Neighborhoods have altered.
Mom and Dad’s first (and only) new house was built in 1956 on the corner of Third Street (now Avenue) and Ivy, and my grandparents’ house on East Columbia was new in 1955. I looked up that address to see a photo showing how enormous Grandpa’s poplar tree had become, and was stunned at the diminutive size of their backyard. I even questioned my brother about it. Hadn’t it been enormously long when we were children? It took forever to run from the house to the back fence in those days.
Our A&W on Baldwin is empty. Pontiac Motors is gone. Why, even the Rocket closed. No more “home of the monster burger.”
So, I want to thank you all for sharing your memories, events, and family stories.
You brought Pontiac back to life for me and I savored every comment.
Some things can never die, not as long as we remember and share them.
Thank you again.
I’m still overwhelmed by the rush of details and celebration of our city from all of you, and touched by the number of shares my post had with other devotees of Pontiac.
Your stories enriched my experience and taught me facts about Pontiac I didn’t know.
I didn’t realize that Pontiac State Bank housed doctors and optometrists.
One mother worked for a doctor on the 12th or 14th floor, and reported the sway of the building in gusty winds. Her daughter also recalls a tooth-pulling escapade involving a dentist there and three adults to hold down her four-year old self. Years later, when she ran across him again, he remembered her. No surprise.
Waite’s was a popular store for shoes, clothing, and employment. One reader worked there on a school retail program making signs for the floors. Another mother was a seamstress for over ten years.
One man’s family was interwoven into Pontiac. His grandmother was in charge of Pontiac General’s labor and delivery. His parents bought Judge Webster’s house near the courthouse, and when the property was sold, moved the house to Sylvan Lake down Saginaw to Huron to Telegraph.
Many parents and grandparents worked at the Pontiac State Hospital during its productive era which not only housed patients, but was a working farm for gardens, hay, dairy, and cattle breeding. The property had been the Woodward Farm (before 1874) and offered wells, drainage, and access to a railroad.
One mother worked at the hospital for 37 years as medical records supervisor and librarian, and the reader remembers walking through the old tunnels from her office to the cafeteria, as well as employee picnics on the grounds.
Another set of parents moved from the U.P. to be cook in the hospital kitchen and head groundskeeper, both retiring from there. A father was psychiatrist and acting medical superintendent during WWII.
My brother and I weren’t the only admirers of the Wyrick-Palmer house, and one reader had been inside to see the ten fireplaces.
I heard names I’d almost forgotten—Sander’s, Federal’s, W.K.C., Chili Bowl, Cunningham’s, Chili Bowl.
Learned about stores new to me—Harbor Garage, Crosby’s, Arthur’s, Pontiac Retail, May’s, Fennelly’s groceries on the south side of Huron (with the sign still on the current building), the Waldron Hotel (which I knew as Mill Street Inn), and Trasker’s, who specialized in Lionel trains.
That the Oakland County jail was once on Pike Street. That Osmun’s had a suit club. That Griff’s Grill had been a cigar shop in the early 1900’s.
One reader, as a boy, was able to check out new motels (from the basements) before they opened. Another had Dr. Riker for an optometrist, who was responsible for the impressive Riker Building, and remembers the lady elevator operator who always commented on the weather.
We shared the memory of downtown Christmas decorations—ribbons on the lamp posts, red bells and garlands.
One man even worked for my father at Pontiac Motors, Plant Eight!
Many family members worked for Pontiac Motors and Fisher Body.
We attended various elementary schools across Pontiac—LeBaron (closed 2010), Crofoot (closed 2010), Mark Twain (closed 2007), Webster (closed 2007).
That Christian Literature was owned by the Miles family, who also started and operated Fleet Ambulance, the first to use electronic sirens in their white Pontiac Catalina station wagons.
There were many memories around the theaters—Strand, Huron, Oakland, Eagle.
And excitement at Ace’s Diner, corner of Telegraph and Huron, when a semi-truck with trailer rammed through, damaging the restaurant and pinball machine (which the boys wanted to salvage for a space ship…totally understandable).
Buildings and businesses have changed or vanished. Neighborhoods have altered.
Mom and Dad’s first (and only) new house was built in 1956 on the corner of Third Street (now Avenue) and Ivy, and my grandparents’ house on East Columbia was new in 1955. I looked up that address to see a photo showing how enormous Grandpa’s poplar tree had become, and was stunned at the diminutive size of their backyard. I even questioned my brother about it. Hadn’t it been enormously long when we were children? It took forever to run from the house to the back fence in those days.
Our A&W on Baldwin is empty. Pontiac Motors is gone. Why, even the Rocket closed. No more “home of the monster burger.”
So, I want to thank you all for sharing your memories, events, and family stories.
You brought Pontiac back to life for me and I savored every comment.
Some things can never die, not as long as we remember and share them.
Thank you again.
February 10, 2024
Excavation of Pontiac Memories
Let’s condense a decade into a collection of scenes and events. The Pontiac of my childhood. A life before malls, when my parents shopped downtown Pontiac on Saturday, and took us to the library.
I won’t be going back as far as the city being Michigan’s first inland settlement, or the history of Chief Pontiac, leader of the Ottawa tribe, a powerful warrior who believed in peace and was a master at diplomacy.
Or to 1818 when the town was built where the Saginaw Trail crossed Clinton River, or even 1861 when Pontiac was incorporated.
No, we’re traveling to the 1950’s when I was a child and we lived in Pontiac, along with much of our family.
And the memories will be glimpses, snapshots, because that’s how I remember it.
Shopping downtown (before the age of strip malls or indoor malls).
Sears for tools, clothes, household items, and, as a treat, peanuts or popcorn, so that I associated the smell of hot butter with Sears, an aroma that met you inside the front doors.
Simm’s for shoes and clothes, a dark wood store that was half-scary, yet fascinating with its squeaking wood plank floors and giant painted footsteps leading you to various departments.
At the far end of Saginaw, Robert Hall for clothes. “When the values go up up up, and the prices go down down down, Robert Hall this season – will show you the reason – high quality, economy.”
My great-aunt worked as a sales clerk in the elegant Waite’s, but I was more impressed with the glass, marble, and wide staircases of Neisner’s and Kresge’s.
The grand master of downtown Pontiac was the State Bank Building. Fifteen stories high (181 feet), it towered over the landscape. At the top were statues of the Ottawa tribe in honor of Chief Pontiac, which looked Egyptian to my young eyes. It was built in 1929 when Pontiac claimed 65,000 residents. Since my parents had an account with Pontiac State Bank, we entered the hushed interior on occasion. Wide, tall, elegant—my first experience with the sound of money.
More familiar to our family was the Riker Building, also built in 1929 (by Dr. and Mrs. Riker), 10 stories designed for medical and dental offices. Our doctor (?) or optometrist (?) were there, so we made regular visits. Each time we begged Mom to take us to the tenth floor so we could look out windows over the neighborhoods of Pontiac, a tree of cities from that height.
Dad worked for Pontiac Motors as a supervisor at Plant Eight, and my grandpa (Mom’s father) worked at Fisher Body, so we were familiar with the buildings.
I was more fascinated with the castle setting of Pontiac State Hospital, the mental facility with tree-shaded grounds. It stood around the corner from the neighborhood General Motors built for employees, including Spence Street where my father was a boy.
Stops at A&W on Baldwin Avenue for cups of cold, frothy root beer. The thrill of pulling in and parking, Dad flashing his car lights, and the carhop girl coming out with the tray to prop against the half-open window. Sipping the treasure as slowly as possible to make it last before we had to return the empty mugs.
My great-grandparents still had iceboxes when I was very young, and Dad would make trips to the ice house somewhere in Pontiac. He bought huge blocks of ice, stored with straw, and delivered them, still smoking from evaporation. I have faint memories of a dim kitchen and the top of the ice box where Dad wrestled the ice and straw in place.
We visited the library every Saturday as a family. I was excited when I finally had my own library card signed with painstaking handwriting, and watching the librarian stamp my card and back of each book to make them mine until the next Saturday.
Thanksgiving Day parades with the scary giant heads bobbing over the crowd and Santa on his sleigh at the end, snapping his whip and calling out, “Merry Christmas.” He stood on wide steps (I didn’t notice at the time which building) to accept the enormous key to the city, with Christmas Carol at his side.
The Clinton River ran underground in Pontiac. We had family in various sections of town. My brother and I attended LeBaron Elementary for two (him) and three (me) years before we moved to the Heights.
I was curious about the tiny castles and mansions on the grounds of Oak Hill Cemetery, and wanted one for a playhouse, since I had no knowledge of mausoleums.
And my dream house was at 223 W. Huron, across from Pontiac Central. Built in 1848, it had seven bedrooms, three stories, and a fireplace, (6,446 square feet) and included outbuildings on more than three acres, but the tall, lace-covered windows and cupola at the top of the house caught my eye. The Myrick-Palmer House was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1970, I was pleased to learn.
Franklin Boulevard displayed other delicious manor houses and I peered out the car window at the splendor whenever we passed through.
Pontiac is over 200 years old if you consider the first settlements, and over 160 as a city, so there have been changes to my childhood home. Many of the buildings and landmarks are gone. Fisher Body closed and Pontiac Motors has been completely erased, once the backbone of the economy. Houses age, neighborhoods shift, and even street names change.
But the bones of the city are still there. Pontiac acknowledges its history and its namesake, and for me, the city of my childhood unfolds in crisp memories, more than I can record.
I’d be honored to give Chief Pontiac a tour of those memories.
He’d be speechless.
I won’t be going back as far as the city being Michigan’s first inland settlement, or the history of Chief Pontiac, leader of the Ottawa tribe, a powerful warrior who believed in peace and was a master at diplomacy.
Or to 1818 when the town was built where the Saginaw Trail crossed Clinton River, or even 1861 when Pontiac was incorporated.
No, we’re traveling to the 1950’s when I was a child and we lived in Pontiac, along with much of our family.
And the memories will be glimpses, snapshots, because that’s how I remember it.
Shopping downtown (before the age of strip malls or indoor malls).
Sears for tools, clothes, household items, and, as a treat, peanuts or popcorn, so that I associated the smell of hot butter with Sears, an aroma that met you inside the front doors.
Simm’s for shoes and clothes, a dark wood store that was half-scary, yet fascinating with its squeaking wood plank floors and giant painted footsteps leading you to various departments.
At the far end of Saginaw, Robert Hall for clothes. “When the values go up up up, and the prices go down down down, Robert Hall this season – will show you the reason – high quality, economy.”
My great-aunt worked as a sales clerk in the elegant Waite’s, but I was more impressed with the glass, marble, and wide staircases of Neisner’s and Kresge’s.
The grand master of downtown Pontiac was the State Bank Building. Fifteen stories high (181 feet), it towered over the landscape. At the top were statues of the Ottawa tribe in honor of Chief Pontiac, which looked Egyptian to my young eyes. It was built in 1929 when Pontiac claimed 65,000 residents. Since my parents had an account with Pontiac State Bank, we entered the hushed interior on occasion. Wide, tall, elegant—my first experience with the sound of money.
More familiar to our family was the Riker Building, also built in 1929 (by Dr. and Mrs. Riker), 10 stories designed for medical and dental offices. Our doctor (?) or optometrist (?) were there, so we made regular visits. Each time we begged Mom to take us to the tenth floor so we could look out windows over the neighborhoods of Pontiac, a tree of cities from that height.
Dad worked for Pontiac Motors as a supervisor at Plant Eight, and my grandpa (Mom’s father) worked at Fisher Body, so we were familiar with the buildings.
I was more fascinated with the castle setting of Pontiac State Hospital, the mental facility with tree-shaded grounds. It stood around the corner from the neighborhood General Motors built for employees, including Spence Street where my father was a boy.
Stops at A&W on Baldwin Avenue for cups of cold, frothy root beer. The thrill of pulling in and parking, Dad flashing his car lights, and the carhop girl coming out with the tray to prop against the half-open window. Sipping the treasure as slowly as possible to make it last before we had to return the empty mugs.
My great-grandparents still had iceboxes when I was very young, and Dad would make trips to the ice house somewhere in Pontiac. He bought huge blocks of ice, stored with straw, and delivered them, still smoking from evaporation. I have faint memories of a dim kitchen and the top of the ice box where Dad wrestled the ice and straw in place.
We visited the library every Saturday as a family. I was excited when I finally had my own library card signed with painstaking handwriting, and watching the librarian stamp my card and back of each book to make them mine until the next Saturday.
Thanksgiving Day parades with the scary giant heads bobbing over the crowd and Santa on his sleigh at the end, snapping his whip and calling out, “Merry Christmas.” He stood on wide steps (I didn’t notice at the time which building) to accept the enormous key to the city, with Christmas Carol at his side.
The Clinton River ran underground in Pontiac. We had family in various sections of town. My brother and I attended LeBaron Elementary for two (him) and three (me) years before we moved to the Heights.
I was curious about the tiny castles and mansions on the grounds of Oak Hill Cemetery, and wanted one for a playhouse, since I had no knowledge of mausoleums.
And my dream house was at 223 W. Huron, across from Pontiac Central. Built in 1848, it had seven bedrooms, three stories, and a fireplace, (6,446 square feet) and included outbuildings on more than three acres, but the tall, lace-covered windows and cupola at the top of the house caught my eye. The Myrick-Palmer House was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1970, I was pleased to learn.
Franklin Boulevard displayed other delicious manor houses and I peered out the car window at the splendor whenever we passed through.
Pontiac is over 200 years old if you consider the first settlements, and over 160 as a city, so there have been changes to my childhood home. Many of the buildings and landmarks are gone. Fisher Body closed and Pontiac Motors has been completely erased, once the backbone of the economy. Houses age, neighborhoods shift, and even street names change.
But the bones of the city are still there. Pontiac acknowledges its history and its namesake, and for me, the city of my childhood unfolds in crisp memories, more than I can record.
I’d be honored to give Chief Pontiac a tour of those memories.
He’d be speechless.
February 2, 2024
Please Repeat That
I don’t care what they say, we Michiganders do not have an accent.
But other regions sure do.
When I moved to Florida, my first job was at the Winn Dixie grocery store as cashier. I’d spent my entire working career in offices as a secretary, so appreciated the training. My partner was a friendly girl from North Carolina.
I couldn’t understand a word she said.
Now, I have the kind of mind that spells words I hear. This happens lickety-split, and I’m rarely aware of it unless my brain chooses the wrong spelling, when the sentence momentarily makes no sense.
I noticed it when conversing with Miss North Carolina. Her accent was so strong, I was several words behind in conversation as my brain tried to translate.
Didn’t go well. I gave up asking her to repeat and I’m certain she thought I was dim-witted.
Six months into the job, I accepted an office position at a nearby elementary school, but had a few verbal adventures before I left.
Tried to assist a lady one afternoon who asked me about the flower sale. I told her that mums were on sale. She stared at me as if I’d spoken Martian. I tried again. She asked again. We stared at each other again. Finally, the bagger sighed and handed her a sales flyer.
But the most embarrassing and humorous incident came behind the customer service desk. An elderly man shuffled up to the counter and mumbled something about “gold.” He waved a shaky hand at the chewing tobacco shelves, so I tried to identify anything with gold on the label.
No good. Too many choices. I turned back and asked again. He babbled and tried to point, but his finger wobbled. The line behind him grew.
I tried. I pointed to various choices. I started at one end and moved my hand. His mumbling grew more frustrated as he waved his arm around. By this point, I was mortified. Shoppers waiting started offering suggestions which didn’t help, since I was unfamiliar with chewing tobacco.
Finally, one man called out the brand wanted.
“He always gets the same one,” he explained.
My customers were too polite to laugh. At least, then.
Gophers to a Michigander are mammals. In Central Florida, they’re tortoises. And you can imagine my shock the first time I saw a sign advertising Pressed Cubans.
We won’t even start with British crackers or chips, or gardens, which means yard, and not the flower beds I imagined surrounding every house there.
Sometimes it’s a generation thing. My parents called refrigerators “ice boxes,” since their parents and grandparents actually had boxes that held ice and straw to keep items cold. My children blinked at me whenever I asked them to go to the ice box.
Or dial a number for me.
Or answer that we’d leave at quarter to.
My friend in Boston had a “cah-penter” husband, and bought a new “cah.”
It was common in Pontiac for someone to “axe you if you wanted to go,” though I learned that from the year 1000 through the Elizabethan age, “axe” in England meant to question, and the expression emigrated to the U.S.
I have a friend who’s always “fixin’” to do something, and when I once teased about repairs, she frowned, confused.
Michigan accent? We sound like Hollywood actors, while some announcers at the Weather Channel, in Atlanta, betray their Georgia accent.
Once, in California, though, someone guessed I was from the Midwest because of my accent.
Accent? Me?
Language is a fascinating study, from locations to time periods. My great-grandmother would “tote a poke” to the store, and had to translate for me as a child.
Houses in my neighborhood had couches, divans, davenports, or sofas—take your pick.
I won’t even start on slang since I’m generations away from communicating with my teenaged grandchildren.
Pollywogs or tadpoles? Fireflies or lightning bugs?
The English language has its own Tower of Babel.
But other regions sure do.
When I moved to Florida, my first job was at the Winn Dixie grocery store as cashier. I’d spent my entire working career in offices as a secretary, so appreciated the training. My partner was a friendly girl from North Carolina.
I couldn’t understand a word she said.
Now, I have the kind of mind that spells words I hear. This happens lickety-split, and I’m rarely aware of it unless my brain chooses the wrong spelling, when the sentence momentarily makes no sense.
I noticed it when conversing with Miss North Carolina. Her accent was so strong, I was several words behind in conversation as my brain tried to translate.
Didn’t go well. I gave up asking her to repeat and I’m certain she thought I was dim-witted.
Six months into the job, I accepted an office position at a nearby elementary school, but had a few verbal adventures before I left.
Tried to assist a lady one afternoon who asked me about the flower sale. I told her that mums were on sale. She stared at me as if I’d spoken Martian. I tried again. She asked again. We stared at each other again. Finally, the bagger sighed and handed her a sales flyer.
But the most embarrassing and humorous incident came behind the customer service desk. An elderly man shuffled up to the counter and mumbled something about “gold.” He waved a shaky hand at the chewing tobacco shelves, so I tried to identify anything with gold on the label.
No good. Too many choices. I turned back and asked again. He babbled and tried to point, but his finger wobbled. The line behind him grew.
I tried. I pointed to various choices. I started at one end and moved my hand. His mumbling grew more frustrated as he waved his arm around. By this point, I was mortified. Shoppers waiting started offering suggestions which didn’t help, since I was unfamiliar with chewing tobacco.
Finally, one man called out the brand wanted.
“He always gets the same one,” he explained.
My customers were too polite to laugh. At least, then.
Gophers to a Michigander are mammals. In Central Florida, they’re tortoises. And you can imagine my shock the first time I saw a sign advertising Pressed Cubans.
We won’t even start with British crackers or chips, or gardens, which means yard, and not the flower beds I imagined surrounding every house there.
Sometimes it’s a generation thing. My parents called refrigerators “ice boxes,” since their parents and grandparents actually had boxes that held ice and straw to keep items cold. My children blinked at me whenever I asked them to go to the ice box.
Or dial a number for me.
Or answer that we’d leave at quarter to.
My friend in Boston had a “cah-penter” husband, and bought a new “cah.”
It was common in Pontiac for someone to “axe you if you wanted to go,” though I learned that from the year 1000 through the Elizabethan age, “axe” in England meant to question, and the expression emigrated to the U.S.
I have a friend who’s always “fixin’” to do something, and when I once teased about repairs, she frowned, confused.
Michigan accent? We sound like Hollywood actors, while some announcers at the Weather Channel, in Atlanta, betray their Georgia accent.
Once, in California, though, someone guessed I was from the Midwest because of my accent.
Accent? Me?
Language is a fascinating study, from locations to time periods. My great-grandmother would “tote a poke” to the store, and had to translate for me as a child.
Houses in my neighborhood had couches, divans, davenports, or sofas—take your pick.
I won’t even start on slang since I’m generations away from communicating with my teenaged grandchildren.
Pollywogs or tadpoles? Fireflies or lightning bugs?
The English language has its own Tower of Babel.
January 26, 2024
A View of Home
January winter in Central Florida feels like spring to a Michigander. In fact, some afternoons lean toward summer weather, although temperatures drop to freezing, as well.
After decades in Michigan, any sign of fresh green or unfolding blossoms are a check-off on the springtime list, and from my window here “for lo, the winter is past.”
Cypress trees in the swamp around the corner are putting out fresh needles. Florida violets add tiny purple color to Bahia grass, and Chickasaw plum blossoms are appearing.
The red-shouldered hawks screech as they hunt across my neighborhood, and Woody Woodpecker punches holes in the oaks next door.
Cardinals and blue jays fill the morning with song, and yes, blue jays do more than screech. One summer afternoon in the Heights, I followed a curious bird call from one tree to another until I identified the creaky gate, “Stee-ve did-it” sound with the splash of blue and white from a blue jay.
For years, I dreamed about living in an exotic setting—a beach house in the Caribbean, a cabin in the Smokies, a jungle hut serenaded by monkeys and parrots. I considered my small-town house and neighborhood too common to be admired.
I was wrong.
It’s true that across Florida, you can find spots of tropical splendor, white beaches on two oceans, live oaks with trailing Spanish moss shading abandoned Cracker houses. Cattle egrets travel with the grazing herds, sometimes riding on the backs of their cow.
Sunsets from Pine Island on the Bay rival Lake Michigan’s, offering the crackling rain sound of wind through palm fronds over your head.
But in Michigan I daydreamed near the reflecting pond at Cranbrook Gardens while pretending I lived in the manor house. Inhaled the indescribable perfume of lilacs, or apples being crushed into cider as the mill water wheel squeaked.
Savored the sight of orange flares in the dark on Halloween, and shiny smelt wiggling in a net under the Blue Water Bridge. The blaze of autumn sugar maple woods.
White pine needles waving in the breeze. Cinnamon ferns in a white birch forest. Willows along the Detroit River in Belle Isle. Lawns bright with dandelions.
Apple and cherry orchards in bloom, with pies later in the summer from backyard trees.
Queen Anne’s lace and chicory in an August field. Morning sunlight through a tent door with the sound of waves lapping on the lakeshore. The perfume of freshly-cut Kentucky bluegrass-perennial ryegrass lawns.
Woodward Avenue on a busy Saturday. The splash of Bear Fountain at the zoo. Lighthouses along the Great Lakes. Shade across the street on Caroline from the tall maple over the front porch of a delectable frame house. A drive down old Adams Road near Meadowbrook, now real only in our memories. Hay rides in Romeo.
Icicles hanging from roofs long and thick enough to be weapons.
My husband Dave recognized a muscle car engine by sound streets away. I could identify most of the Michigan songbirds, and when robins filled the afternoon with their unique songs, you knew summer had arrived.
Ravens, since there are no ravens in Florida. Crows, yes, but none of my neighbors could imagine how large a raven is, or our fox squirrels, when compared to the spindly-tale gray species scampering up and down live oaks here.
We can visit Cranbrook, England in Bloomfield Hills, the Netherlands in Holland for a tulip festival, Germany’s Christmas in Frankenmuth, or Greece with an order of souvlaki in Greektown.
All in Michigan.
True, there are no palm trees, magnolia flowers as long as a ruler, or white ibises scurrying across the lawns of my street, but I was wrong to think that alluring, enviable settings exist only in distant locations.
Karen Blixen wrote her immortal Out of Africa from her home in Denmark, looking back on her coffee farm life. I share Michigan memories from my Florida house, visions of snowdrifts and dandelions from a sub-tropical setting.
Every home has its glamour, even when we see it every day.
I’ll trade you a sprig of orange blossoms for a vase of lilacs.
And still listen for the robin’s song to announce springtime.
After decades in Michigan, any sign of fresh green or unfolding blossoms are a check-off on the springtime list, and from my window here “for lo, the winter is past.”
Cypress trees in the swamp around the corner are putting out fresh needles. Florida violets add tiny purple color to Bahia grass, and Chickasaw plum blossoms are appearing.
The red-shouldered hawks screech as they hunt across my neighborhood, and Woody Woodpecker punches holes in the oaks next door.
Cardinals and blue jays fill the morning with song, and yes, blue jays do more than screech. One summer afternoon in the Heights, I followed a curious bird call from one tree to another until I identified the creaky gate, “Stee-ve did-it” sound with the splash of blue and white from a blue jay.
For years, I dreamed about living in an exotic setting—a beach house in the Caribbean, a cabin in the Smokies, a jungle hut serenaded by monkeys and parrots. I considered my small-town house and neighborhood too common to be admired.
I was wrong.
It’s true that across Florida, you can find spots of tropical splendor, white beaches on two oceans, live oaks with trailing Spanish moss shading abandoned Cracker houses. Cattle egrets travel with the grazing herds, sometimes riding on the backs of their cow.
Sunsets from Pine Island on the Bay rival Lake Michigan’s, offering the crackling rain sound of wind through palm fronds over your head.
But in Michigan I daydreamed near the reflecting pond at Cranbrook Gardens while pretending I lived in the manor house. Inhaled the indescribable perfume of lilacs, or apples being crushed into cider as the mill water wheel squeaked.
Savored the sight of orange flares in the dark on Halloween, and shiny smelt wiggling in a net under the Blue Water Bridge. The blaze of autumn sugar maple woods.
White pine needles waving in the breeze. Cinnamon ferns in a white birch forest. Willows along the Detroit River in Belle Isle. Lawns bright with dandelions.
Apple and cherry orchards in bloom, with pies later in the summer from backyard trees.
Queen Anne’s lace and chicory in an August field. Morning sunlight through a tent door with the sound of waves lapping on the lakeshore. The perfume of freshly-cut Kentucky bluegrass-perennial ryegrass lawns.
Woodward Avenue on a busy Saturday. The splash of Bear Fountain at the zoo. Lighthouses along the Great Lakes. Shade across the street on Caroline from the tall maple over the front porch of a delectable frame house. A drive down old Adams Road near Meadowbrook, now real only in our memories. Hay rides in Romeo.
Icicles hanging from roofs long and thick enough to be weapons.
My husband Dave recognized a muscle car engine by sound streets away. I could identify most of the Michigan songbirds, and when robins filled the afternoon with their unique songs, you knew summer had arrived.
Ravens, since there are no ravens in Florida. Crows, yes, but none of my neighbors could imagine how large a raven is, or our fox squirrels, when compared to the spindly-tale gray species scampering up and down live oaks here.
We can visit Cranbrook, England in Bloomfield Hills, the Netherlands in Holland for a tulip festival, Germany’s Christmas in Frankenmuth, or Greece with an order of souvlaki in Greektown.
All in Michigan.
True, there are no palm trees, magnolia flowers as long as a ruler, or white ibises scurrying across the lawns of my street, but I was wrong to think that alluring, enviable settings exist only in distant locations.
Karen Blixen wrote her immortal Out of Africa from her home in Denmark, looking back on her coffee farm life. I share Michigan memories from my Florida house, visions of snowdrifts and dandelions from a sub-tropical setting.
Every home has its glamour, even when we see it every day.
I’ll trade you a sprig of orange blossoms for a vase of lilacs.
And still listen for the robin’s song to announce springtime.
January 19, 2024
The Great Turtle and North of the Bridge
All my years in Michigan and I never visited Mackinac Island.
My parents camped around Michigan and crossed the bridge to the U.P., but we never bought fudge, rode bikes, or walked the porch of the Grand Hotel. I’m not likely to now, either.
What brought the “Great Turtle” island to mind was a mesmerizing book called The Loon Feather (Iola Fuller), a perennial favorite—a story of the fictional daughter of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee chief and warrior. The story’s set during the last years of the fur trade, and Oneta’s quiet heroism, patience, and understanding of the various people around her culminates in a life-saving gift from the lamented Tecumseh to his tribes.
But I don’t want to ruin it for you.
The Ojibwe called the island “Great Turtle” because of its appearance. In the 1600’s it was an Ojibwe burial ground before French explorers discovered it. In 1780 the British established a fort. The island became headquarters for the American Fur Company, and by 1887, offered the Victorian Grand Hotel (filmed in Somewhere in Time).
Eight miles in circumference, bordered by limestone cliffs, and rising to nearly 340 feet over the water, its forests have been a state part since 1895. Only horses and buggies, or bicycles, are allowed.
But if we never rode bikes around the island, we visited Fort Michilimackinac whenever we camped at Straits State Park, with the view of the Mackinac Bridge. We were fascinated by the wooden buildings of the fort and trading center, built around 1715 by the French.
After the French defeat in the French and Indian War, the British used the fort as a major trading post, but most of the residents remained French and Ojibwe, although British fur traders also lived in wooden houses inside the stockade fence. In 1763, angry Ojibwe tricked their way into the fort and slaughtered the British in retaliation for broken trade agreements.
Even in the heat of midsummer, it was possible to imagine winter in the snowy fort. I decided, during one tour, that I’d choose to be a baker. The cruel early rising (no pun intended) would be offset by warm ovens and access to freshly-baked bread.
We visited the Sault Locks that allow ships to travel between Lake Superior, Lake Huron, and the St. Lawrence Seaway, transporting 96% of US iron ore, 86 million tons of cargo on 10,000 ships a year, but were more impressed with the Tahquamenon Falls once we crossed the bridge.
The Upper Falls pour an average of 7,000 gallons of water per second, but the rusty color of the river was more impressive to us. The same tannin in black tea colors the water drained from cedar swamps.
The forest around Tahquamenon River was home to moose, bear, beaver, porcupine, otters and mink, fox, coyote, white-tail deer, and birds. They offered furs, meat, and campsites for the Ojibwe, and later, fur trading and logging by explorers, missionaries, settlers, and lumberjacks.
The beauty of the 50,000 acres of Tahquamenon Falls State Park, dedicated in 1947, brings to mind Tecumseh’s words: “Sell a country? Why not sell the air, the great sea, as well as the earth? Did not the Great Spirit make them all for the use of his children?”
At least, these lands are protected by state parks.
From the lakeside campground with a view of the magnificent Mackinac Bridge to Lake of the Clouds in the Porcupine Mountains, northern Michigan is a paradise.
I don’t ever expect enough income to stay in one of the Grand Hotel’s 397 unique guest rooms, or savor their tulip, daffodil, and geranium gardens. I doubt I’ll be fortunate enough to rock on the world’s longest porch (660 feet) and take in the view of the Straits of Mackinac.
If I could choose, I’d rather see the water, rocks, and island the way Tecumseh’s daughter described it in The Loon Feather:
“The straits lay before me in bars of blue and gray and transparent green, with each wave golden where it met the sun. A ridge of pines on St. Ignace made a green fringe between the water and the deep blue of the sky. High above sounded the call of wild geese on their way to the south…” (Iola Fuller)
Then again, maybe the view hasn’t changed and the Great Turtle presents the same allure the Ojibwe knew.
Aren’t we lucky to be, or have been, Michiganders?
Only our mitten state offers such treasures.
My parents camped around Michigan and crossed the bridge to the U.P., but we never bought fudge, rode bikes, or walked the porch of the Grand Hotel. I’m not likely to now, either.
What brought the “Great Turtle” island to mind was a mesmerizing book called The Loon Feather (Iola Fuller), a perennial favorite—a story of the fictional daughter of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee chief and warrior. The story’s set during the last years of the fur trade, and Oneta’s quiet heroism, patience, and understanding of the various people around her culminates in a life-saving gift from the lamented Tecumseh to his tribes.
But I don’t want to ruin it for you.
The Ojibwe called the island “Great Turtle” because of its appearance. In the 1600’s it was an Ojibwe burial ground before French explorers discovered it. In 1780 the British established a fort. The island became headquarters for the American Fur Company, and by 1887, offered the Victorian Grand Hotel (filmed in Somewhere in Time).
Eight miles in circumference, bordered by limestone cliffs, and rising to nearly 340 feet over the water, its forests have been a state part since 1895. Only horses and buggies, or bicycles, are allowed.
But if we never rode bikes around the island, we visited Fort Michilimackinac whenever we camped at Straits State Park, with the view of the Mackinac Bridge. We were fascinated by the wooden buildings of the fort and trading center, built around 1715 by the French.
After the French defeat in the French and Indian War, the British used the fort as a major trading post, but most of the residents remained French and Ojibwe, although British fur traders also lived in wooden houses inside the stockade fence. In 1763, angry Ojibwe tricked their way into the fort and slaughtered the British in retaliation for broken trade agreements.
Even in the heat of midsummer, it was possible to imagine winter in the snowy fort. I decided, during one tour, that I’d choose to be a baker. The cruel early rising (no pun intended) would be offset by warm ovens and access to freshly-baked bread.
We visited the Sault Locks that allow ships to travel between Lake Superior, Lake Huron, and the St. Lawrence Seaway, transporting 96% of US iron ore, 86 million tons of cargo on 10,000 ships a year, but were more impressed with the Tahquamenon Falls once we crossed the bridge.
The Upper Falls pour an average of 7,000 gallons of water per second, but the rusty color of the river was more impressive to us. The same tannin in black tea colors the water drained from cedar swamps.
The forest around Tahquamenon River was home to moose, bear, beaver, porcupine, otters and mink, fox, coyote, white-tail deer, and birds. They offered furs, meat, and campsites for the Ojibwe, and later, fur trading and logging by explorers, missionaries, settlers, and lumberjacks.
The beauty of the 50,000 acres of Tahquamenon Falls State Park, dedicated in 1947, brings to mind Tecumseh’s words: “Sell a country? Why not sell the air, the great sea, as well as the earth? Did not the Great Spirit make them all for the use of his children?”
At least, these lands are protected by state parks.
From the lakeside campground with a view of the magnificent Mackinac Bridge to Lake of the Clouds in the Porcupine Mountains, northern Michigan is a paradise.
I don’t ever expect enough income to stay in one of the Grand Hotel’s 397 unique guest rooms, or savor their tulip, daffodil, and geranium gardens. I doubt I’ll be fortunate enough to rock on the world’s longest porch (660 feet) and take in the view of the Straits of Mackinac.
If I could choose, I’d rather see the water, rocks, and island the way Tecumseh’s daughter described it in The Loon Feather:
“The straits lay before me in bars of blue and gray and transparent green, with each wave golden where it met the sun. A ridge of pines on St. Ignace made a green fringe between the water and the deep blue of the sky. High above sounded the call of wild geese on their way to the south…” (Iola Fuller)
Then again, maybe the view hasn’t changed and the Great Turtle presents the same allure the Ojibwe knew.
Aren’t we lucky to be, or have been, Michiganders?
Only our mitten state offers such treasures.
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