HIGH MEADOW

I wanted to hike and take photos. Just up Highway 22 from Glen Arbor, Michigan, the farm house and barns were picturesque and the fields roll up from Lake Michigan’s beaches to forested hillsides, left behind by retreating glaciers maybe 12,000 years ago. Near the driveway, a man was mowing on a tractor. I pulled up, he stopped and I asked if I could walk the property and take photos. He turned to me and said he thought that would be fine just as I saw the National Parks logo on his shirt. “It’s yours after all.” he said. So I walked and took photos with my little 35mm Sony, shooting Kodachrome 400 film. That was almost twenty years ago; I keep coming back. I take a lot more photos now with the Canon 60 D, at 18 mega pixels and no limit on how many frames I can take. 

The High Meadow is part of the old Dechow, family farm which was incorporated into the National Lake Shore. The buildings have been restored and maintained, and you can walk the property anytime. I came during a blizzard in February, 1998; shot 400 ASA black & white film. The photos were interesting and I still have the negatives somewhere. Today, clouds were broken but not much sun coming through. The tall grass was heavy with dew. Shortly my feet were sloshing and my jeans were soaked up to my pockets. A few years ago they removed trees from old fence lines and volunteer pines and maples that had invaded the meadow as well. It left the place scarred up with two-track, wannabe roads through the native grasses but the grass has healed itself and there was no dry place today to put my feet. 

There are old apple trees along the tree lines, seeded by birds from nearby orchards. Some of them are still making apples and the deer beds under their branches make perfect sense. Nothing goes to waste here. The tallest grass has stems six feet tall with gold inflorescence while the waist high variety has red seed clusters. The short, knee high stuff hadn’t gone to seed yet. I was pushing up hill on the far east end of the meadow, coming out of the red top grass into knee high stuff. I had been holding my camera up to keep water off the lens and watching my foot placements. Just as I put my foot down I saw a brown blur. The fawn had held its position, frozen by instinct until I was literally on top of it. It was full speed on its first leap and no taller than the grass. Several times, I saw its spots as it bounded away from me. Then it was gone and I was standing there, wondering where its mother was, confident that they would find each other, very soon. 

I’m sitting in the cafe at Cherry Republic, in GlenArbor. It’s tradition by now, something very cherry is very necessary, any time you’re in town. There are several types of cherry wine; we drank one bottle of Cherry Red last winter and I probably need to replace it. The chocolate covered cherries are right next to the cherry chutney and cherry salsa. You have to go over to the cafe to get the “Boom-Chugga” cherry soda and chocolate, cherry chip cookies. I’m taking a cherry muffin with me when I leave. I still have to go to the beach. I’ll look for Petoskey stones and make believe I’m as young as the woods and the beach make me feel.

 I’ll come back, maybe October for fall colors. The meadow will be loaded with orb weaver spiders, their webs stretched between tall grass stems like miniature sails on thousands of miniature ships. Milk weed will be done for the year but naked stems and dry seed pods will remain long after the butterflies have gone south. I’ll walk up to the sugar shack where Park Rangers demonstrate in early spring, how to make maple syrup. It’s in the high, far corner of the meadow. From there, everything is down hill unless you want to climb up the old, maple forested, glacial moraines. Sometimes I do that but it always ends up in a mosquito feeding frenzy. It makes more sense to curl up in the sun, in a deer bed and take a short nap.

EVOLUTION

It starts out simple but evolution isn’t satisfied with simple. Last spring, I was killing time just before heading out for Alaska. I decided I wanted a bird house in one of my back yard trees. My mother had wrens every spring in a little bird house, in the apple tree outside her kitchen window. They sang and flitted around outside while she flitted around the kitchen and sometimes talked back. One of the nice things about a wren house is, the hole is too small for other birds so you won’t get any bigger, nuisance birds. A wren house sounded like a good thing for my tulip poplar. I went down into the basement, found some scraps of wood and glued up a box with a hole in it. After the glue set, I painted it and hung it in the tulip poplar. When I got back in August, I had wrens. Fast forward through fall and winter; I’d been in Florida and came home to snow and freeze. My little green wren house did not survive the windy cold. It lay in several pieces in the snow. So much for throwing things together.

I liked having wrens so I started thinking about another bird house. This time I researched plans on the internet but didn’t like what I found. I had an idea, a small box with roof boards like cabins and barns you make with Lincoln Logs. I couldn’t do it all with glue, had to drill pilot holes and nail small brads to make the roof boards overlap. The first one didn’t look too bad, at a distance, but it was full of flaws and bad design. So I gave it away and made another one. It was better. I gave it to my son and daughter in law in Ohio. They had wrens in it right away. Each wren house I made got better. By trial and error, process of elimination, changes begat more change and the “Right” wren house was evolving. One of those evolutionary constructs is home for a wren family right now, in that same tulip poplar. 

I’m happy to announce that the bird house I finished today is “Right.” I’m sure evolution will keep provoking changes but this one is good enough that I burned my storytelling logo onto the side. If someone wanted to buy one, I’d take their money and feel like we both got a good deal. My friends tell me I should make up a batch and take them to a crafts show. Wouldn’t that be something? I will give what I have on hand away in the next few weeks as I will be traveling. Wisdom says to beware of Greeks bearing gifts. But I’m not Greek and my little boxes are too small for soldiers to hide inside. 

EVINRUDE

Yesterday I was driving on U.S. 63, west from Jonesboro, Arkansas. I was trying to avoid heavy thunderstorms that I could see in the distance, coming down from Missouri. The northern counties and Missouri’s boot-heel were under a severe weather warning and I didn’t want any part of the high winds and hail that were in the forecast. So, with cruise set at 65, good road and clear sky ahead of me, Van Morrison was making the music while I was putting down the miles. 

I recognized the sound immediately but the shadow crossing over took me by surprise; I guess I wasn’t paying attention. The land is flat and soil is fertile. Farm fields stretch as far as you can see and it takes a squadron of crop dusters to keep the pests in check. The yellow monoplane was on top of me before I heard it and I couldn’t find it until it was a quarter mile away, in a steep, climbing turn. I’m still a kid when it comes to airplanes, especially when they are loud and close to the ground. Crop dusters are the Hotrods of the sky, over powered and highly maneuverable. In the next mile I saw two more planes working different fields. I thought, if I don’t take a photo I’ll regret it, so I stopped and took the photo. 

The Bernoulli Principle is magic and it never grows old, the way air rushing over a curved surface creates lift. The small fuselage and deep, wide wings allow the plane to dive, climb and turn like a swallow, even at very slow speeds. I watched as it made a pass close enough to the deck to be mowing, then at the end of the field with only a hundred feet to spare, pull up to clear power lines. A split second later the pilot had the plane back down on the other side of the highway, a few feet above the vegetation. When you are at the right angle and distance, the combination of prop wash and engine noise give up that growling rumble that you would otherwise have to go to an old, WW2 movie to hear. So I wait for him/her to make the turn at the other end of the field, come back and I listen again. 

Watching the air show from the side of the road, something clicked in my head and I thought of Evinrude. Back in the 70’s, there was an animated Disney movie, (The Rescuers). The plot was predictable; little orphan girl gets kidnapped. Two mice and a cast of other creatures band together to rescue her. One of those characters was Evinrude, a dragonfly. He operated a ferry service on the bayou; his boat was an oak leaf that rolled up on the sides like the hull of a boat. Its petiole/stem curved up and back. Evinrude perched on the end of that stem and drove it like an air boat in the swamps. He changed speed and direction with such abrupt maneuvers it almost threw his passenger out. Every time the yellow plane lurched up or down, left or right, I wanted to believe there was a big dragonfly behind it, pushing on the tail and a mouse inside, trying not to fall out. I love my movies. In ’03, Robert Duvall and Michael Caine teamed up in a movie (2nd Hand Lions) about a couple of over-the-hill adventurers and their several-generations-removed nephew. They had an old, fabric covered, Stearman bi wing that they flew under bridges, terrorizing motorists and locals. In the end they died in the crash when Duvall tried to fly through the hayloft of the barn. The little yellow, Arkansas duster was turned up on a wing tip, coming back my way. 

I knew a crop duster in Michigan, back in the 80’s. He landed, refueled and topped of his chemicals at a rail spur just down the road from my house. He said it was just a job but when he explained how he gaged altitude and distance, how he managed the G’s, so close to the ground, his face would go through little, shape shifting distortions and end up in a grin where his eyes were laughing and I could see all of his teeth. So there you are; I was minding my own business, driving up U.S. 63, trying to stay ahead of the rain. Then, like a blue crab in the shallows when a heron shadow moves across him, the shadow was all the crab could think of. All day now, I’ve been thinking about Bernoulli, dragonflies, movie stars, the rhythm of straining propellers and that guy’s grin. I am of another generation, where we learned to entertain ourselves. This life has too many great stories and simple segues for me to be bored. 

THE AIR'S SO THICK AND SWEET

The song lyrics go;

I come back to New Orleans ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been,

where the air’s so thick and sweet it feels like lovin’ arms around me.

Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening,

to music oozing out of every door.

It’s like my heaven made to order, inside the border of the Quarter,

ain’t like no place I’ve ever been before.

The song was written by Owen Davis, a friend of mine who lived next door when we were kids. His devout Baptist upbringing led him to music and he followed its call to Nashville where he discovered Jack Daniels, loose women and life in the fast lane. He made a living there writing, performing and working a day job, as so many talented musicians must do. Most minor league baseball players understand they will never make it to the big leagues but forsake the security of a hum-drum, work-a-day life in middle America just to live on the margin, in the moment, just to be there and to have a toe in the water, even if they never get full wet. Some give up and go home after a few years but others hang on for as long as someone will give them a uniform and a turn at bat. Musicians are the same and Nashville is full of awesome artists who could prosper elsewhere but they hang on to their dream instead. Owen died three years ago. I was there, with his ex-wife, song-writing friends and his brother. His wife Deborah pulled strings and called in favors to spring him away from Hospice for a day. We ate ice cream, made music and relived old adventures and better days. John Mark Stone sang Border Of The Quarter and we all came in on the bridge; Owen sang along. That night we got him back to Hospice House just in time for him to slip away.

I was in the Quarter yesterday. It was hot, really hot, but that’s what you get in July. I walked Decatur Street, sat on a bench in the shade at Latrobe Park; Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville gift shop is closed now with a “space for rent” sign in the window. His restaurant was still going strong but I ate down the street at Misparrow’s. I went to all my favorite places and when it was too hot, ducked inside a gift shop for the air conditioning; bought trinkets in the French Market and took some photographs. The French Quarter isn’t really all that French. Napoleon couldn’t manage his wars in Europe and his business in French Louisiana at the same time so he agreed to let Spain administer New Orleans and its adjacent territory. Fires frequently destroyed large sections of the city and buildings that replaced the original structures were of Spanish architecture. The iron work and balconies are more, “Que pasa hombre?” than, “Cherchez la femme.” 

What I like most about the Quarter is its transparency. Tourists are what they are, spending money on everything from junk to diamonds, booze and spicy food. The locals are there to help them with a lot of charm but no mercy. Their purpose in life is to separate strangers from their money, but they like to leave you smiling. At Jackson Square, mimes pose motionless in the sweltering heat, in unnatural stances, making money the hard way. With their skin and costumes painted metallic gold or silver, they can’t sweat under the paint but they roast in the sun and notice every passerby. Occasionally a child will beg a mom or dad for money to put in the bucket. It’s all about putting money in the bucket. They block Royal Street off so musicians can sit there under big umbrellas and play Dixieland or Jazz in the middle of the street. Crowds stand in the shade, whichever side of the street the shade is on. But there is no pretense. “We are giving you what you came here to see, so put some money in the bucket.” I start with a handful of $1’s in my pocket so I can do that. Counter culture is entrenched here; so many provoking, bad tattoos, piercings and hair bombs you actually appreciate how your parents raised you but it’s their Quarter too. They come from all over the world just to put their toes in the water. 

By mid afternoon I’ve walked all I’m going to walk. This time I found some new Mardi Gras beads to hang on the hook in my living room and a couple of T-shirts. The slick, smooth, fresh dressed people from the morning have either melted into street urchins or taken refuge in air conditioned bars or hotels. I asked a lady, tour guide about her mule and buggy tied up at the water trough; “Hot enough?” She said, “This ain’t nothin’, wait ‘til August.” Well, I’n not going to wait ‘til August, but I will come back; ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been, where the air’s so thick and sweet, it feels like lovin’ arms around me. Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening, to music oozing out of every door. 

WHISTLE STOP

The water tower is dry and one business, the bank is still in business on the square. Hickory, Mississippi was never a "Destination" but it must have been busy, at least, once upon a time. If you pay attention, there are tell-tale signs that people come and go, still care. The lawn in the middle of the square is groomed and the parking lot at the Baptist church is freshly sealed. Unoccupied store fronts around the square have dusty, dirty windows but sun faded, pastel paint on their brick fronts leave not a clue to their stories. Clean, well kept homes nest under great old trees while just down the street, abandoned houses with darkened windows sag under the weight of kudzu vines and long fallen tree limbs. There is a small furniture show room just off the square and trains come through several times a day but they don’t stop. There was a time when Hickory was a Whistle Stop town but it’s all freight now and they pass through without slowing down. Once a few years ago, on the siding by the square, they parked two engines, engines idling there for several days. 

I’m in Hickory for the long weekend. The 4th of July here yesterday; there were a few fire crackers but it was celebrated more profoundly by woodpeckers drumming in the afternoon, horn blaring trains rumbling through town and the clanging-flashing crossing guard at the Main St. crossing. My friend has a house here. She bought it as a retreat, a place to get away, to go when hurricanes threatened her home in New Orleans. Now she’s put it on the market. We are scraping and painting, trying to improve the curb appeal. The wasps that live in the eaves don’t like us but the mosquitoes do. The house is over 100 years old, built by the town doctor. The sunroom was his reception area and he saw patients in what is now the living room; in through the side door and out the front. If you need a doctor now, her office is out on the old highway to Meridian. If you really need civilization, it’s a good 5 minutes out to the Interstate and another 20 minutes to Meridian with an air port, national guard armory, box stores, shopping malls and connections to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and Birmingham, Alabama. 

Go the other way and it’s only 10 minutes to Newton, Mississippi where they have stop lights and a Wal*Mart. But then, who needs Wal*Mart? Up on the highway, across from the Dr.’s office is a new building with a yellow and black sign - DOLLAR GENERAL. It’s what Wal*Mart used to be; a place to get whatever you need, at a low price. It’s where you find the locals. I’ve been there 4 times in 3 days and there has always been a line at the checkout. You can get yogurt, bug spray, paint, kids underwear, soft drinks, laundry detergent and things you didn’t know you needed. 

Hickory is not unique. Wherever Interstates bypass small towns, the culture changes. Little villages wither away and their stories with them. But I know Hickory and the stories that I’ve missed here are irreplaceable. I’ll just have to make up a few, maybe start up at Dollar General.