At first I wasn't sure what the brownish colored objects were as they bobbed slowly in the middle of a stubbled cornfield. Feeding deer? Tiny ostriches? Then I heard a strange, cackling cry echoing across the muddy, furrowed earth and I knew; the sandhill cranes had returned. One of the surest signs of impending spring.
It was a sun filled, wind-still day as I entered the fifth mile of an eventual six mile "wun" (combination of walking and running these days), and the old hips/thigh muscles don't always work as well as they once did. Rounding a corner into the last stetch of deserted country road, I came across another sure sign of winter's end; styrofoam coffee cups, thin plastic shopping bags, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of trash left behind in the roadside ditches by thoughtless people.
Usually, because I am already tired and sweaty, I will try and find someone's discarded white Walmart sack fluttering from a bush and do my small part in cleaning up the environment. As I stuff my container full on debris I wonder: Were the people drunk? Was it a carload of kids who just don't care? Why don't fast food restaurants serve take-out food in nothing but cardboard containers? At least those would biodegrade eventually.
The rest of this day would be filled with small treasures; a late afternoon cook out and camp fire with my wife, the air filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of crows calling out to each other from the tops of nearby pine trees; an evening of insanely exciting sporting events on t.v.. Go State!!!
On my next journey through the countryside, I will undoubtedly observe even more of nature's exciting happenings and this time, I'll already have a trash bag stuffed in my pocket. On an almost perfect day, it's just as likely a jogger will find more empty cigarette packages than he will sandhill cranes.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
BACK TO REALITY
My banana, in it's post breakfast form now occupies my little tummy...almost time to head out onto the country roads adjacent to the house for a good run. No more sugar-sand beaches, seagulls or huge gelatinous jelly fish to occupy my thoughts while jogging. It's all relevant to where you're at though isn't it?
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A LAST LOOK FROM THE BALCONY...and other thoughts
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
TIME TO GO HOME...ALMOST
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
THE KIDS HAVE GONE EXPLORING...
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
Thursday, March 4, 2010
THE KIDS ARE COMING! THE KIDS ARE COMING!
While my wife and I are excited beyond measure that my daughter, son and daughter-in law are coming for a visit on the beach, we are also sad because we both realize our time on the balcony is coming to a close. It is the beginning and the end of what has been a truly wonderful month away from the snows of northern Michigan.
That having been said, there is nothing that can replace time spent with your children, no matter how old they (or you) are these days. Here are some thoughts in song form that I have written over the years about what each of them means to me, beginning with the moment I realized my daughter was leaving home for good.
KARI'S SONG
Up the stairway, to her room
I walk softly,
In the fading afternoon-
And as I gaze upon the walls
A tiny tear drop falls,
Because I know my little girl
Will soon be gone.
The friends she loves,
Her high school letters-
Words she's written
Dancing pictures
All blur into my eyes
I guess all good daddys' cry
When its' time for grown up sweethearts
To say goodbye...
And I know her mom and I
Can accept the loss
As time goes by,
But a parent's empty hearts'
So hard to fill.
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my college-bound girl,
Oh you know we love you still-
Goodbye Kari.
Crowded closets, rock star posters
Plays shes' been in,
Draw me closer...
To this comfort that I feel
And I know that I must steal away
'Cause soon she might come home
And find me here,
And I know that she'd ask "Why?"
Not understand why daddys' cry
Until shes' had a sweet soft baby
Of her own,
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my once little girl,
Oh you know we love ya still...
Goodbye Kari.
We used to let her do anything she wanted to her small bedroom and in my minds eye I can still visualize the poetry, pictures and artifacts adorning the walls. Kari has become an amazing, creative and beautiful woman these days and yes, I'll miss her all over again after our last glorious week together (for this year), on this magnificent beach.
Two days after Kari gets here, our son and daughter arrive for the final, festive piece of this vacation extravaganza. My "little" boy and his wife's song will be the next entry in this blog, probably after they have already returned to their own home in the northland. It is past time to get my butt out of this chair and soak up each remaining moment in the sun and these days spent together will undoubtedly be the best of our entire trip. But you'll find out all about that...later!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
BILLY GETS HIS GROOVE BACK...SORT OF-
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
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