THE BEST WE CAN

In early spring, before yards need mowing, grass grows clumpy with bare spots here and there. Time flies and before you know it, little yellow flowers start popping up. So you tune up the mower and sharpen blades, welcome the change of seasons. The flowers are pesky weeds but still, you welcome them. Too soon, those little flowers have stretched their necks up and the yellow petals have given way a frizzy, fuzzy wig of gray dandelion seeds that gradually sail away, carried off one by one on even the gentlest breeze. 

Sixty years ago, (OMG that sounds like such a long time,) my high school classmates and I were wispy little dandelion seeds, fresh launched from the blossom, drifting like little parachutes through chain link fences, across streets, looking for a place to take root. You land somewhere and people don’t care where you came from, just, what are you doing here? We were only a few weeks into our great adventure; sixty years ago. Yesterday a small group of us got together to mark that milestone. There were 9 of us from the tornado class of ’57; a tornado destroyed our school the night before graduation. Include a friend from the class of ‘58, loved ones and one faculty member, now 96, she was our librarian and psychology teacher. Nobody at the reunion/picnic had to drive more than an hour or two to get there. They are all regulars or frequent drop-ins at our monthly lunch-bunch. There must have been 15 or 16 in the shade of the shelter house.

Without metaphors I don’t think I could describe or explain anything. I need them to model patterns and systems: it’s about me and the way my mind works. So the dandelion metaphor is spot on. From the way our hair turns gray and falls out, to the folly of thinking you can please everybody; life carries us along like wind blown seeds and we do the best we can.

I recently saw a program on PBS about a man in Kenya who nurtured an orphan lion cub. He kept the cub for over a year but his job and the needs of the animal required both return to the world they were born to. Then, 5 or 6 years later, the man came back to the wild life refuge and wondered how his lion-child had fared. With more hope than confidence, he drove out into the bush to see if he could find her. There were several different lion prides in the park that the young lion could have joined. He camped in his land rover and searched each pride's territory. He found a lion he thought might be his. She had two cubs. Approaching her would be risky so he called out to her from the vehicle and she turned at the sound of her name. Long story short, she recognized him; they wrestled and played like they had when she was his baby. She brought her cubs and clearly presented them to him. They played together all day, then went back to the way of life that had chosen them. 

Another metaphor I suppose: in our little group, nobody cares about your religion or politics. Like the man and his lion, we can set aside our instincts and priorities for a few hours, mindfully attached to another time, when the journey was new and unpredictable, before hard knocks had taken their toll. I replied to an email from a friend in the class of ’58. He participates in our class news letter and we keep him on our radar. I told him it may sound corny but the reason we keep-on keeping-on is that we actually care about each other. After all the years and the baggage we bear, we remind each other; we care. Even if we weren't the best of friends then, that was then and this is now. The psychology is pretty simple. You can’t go back, probably wouldn’t if you could. But lunch with well wishing litter mates who remember when, who only want from you what you are happy to share; it closes a circle and we all take some comfort there. 

It comes up occasionally, why more of our classmates don’t chose to come around. Once I was apologizing for not living up to someone else's expectation and they let me off the hook with, "No problem, something else must have been more important." I think that's the simple truth and it's not a problem. There must have been something more important. All I want from it is simply to know that you’ve made it. Knowing that you’ve made it is important. We break bread together and so far, the worst thing to come from that is I over eat and may have to skip dinner. 

THINGS TO DO

I drove all day yesterday, 680 miles from Grand Haven, Michigan to Kansas City, MO. If you do that very often it helps to have a good vehicle. I have a Mazda 3: it gets great mileage, it’s comfortable and dependable. I had the AC dialed up so I could wear long sleeves, keep the sun off my arms. There were 3 cases of fresh blue berries in the back seat and the cool air was good for them  too. I remember other days driving a 3 cylinder Geo Metro across the same 680 miles and it was like being in the paint shaker at Lowe’s with a million angry bees under the hood. They were good old days but not because of clunker cars. Not long ago I was pressed to count up all the cars I’ve owned; they wanted a number. When I finished, and it took a while, the number as of today is #43; #44 if you count the motorcycle. 

I’m good for about two hours behind the wheel, then I need a Necessary Break or at least get out of the car for a few minutes. I remember a radio program, an anthology of short stories called “Grand Central Station.” I was a kid, it was before our first TV. At the beginning of every show the announcer informed us, like an invocation, “the crossroads of a million private lives, a gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily.” Not unusual for me at rest stops or travel plazas, I think of that program. Strangers every one, at the same place, the same time for any number of reasons. We’ve all come from somewhere, on our way somewhere and for that moment we are extras in each other’s story. I overhear sound bites of conversations and notice logos on t-shirts, if they are happy or seem tired, if they’re in a hurry or ready for a break. “A thousand dramas daily.” I don’t have time to unravel their stories, mine is in progress and at hand but stories none the less. 

I avoid I-70 and St. Louis now, have for several years. The drive across Missouri on U.S. 36 to Hannibal is so much easier. It sits on the west bank of the Mississippi, between bluffs, the classic Mississippi River town. Then it’s a straight shot on interstate to Springfield, IL and into Chicago. Hannibal is a fuel stop both coming and going. It was lunch time yesterday and I weighed the options of a sandwich from the cooler at the service center or find a restaurant. The food factor wasn’t that important but was I ready to hammer the next 235 miles? Last year I stopped on S. Main street at a place named ‘Ole Planters Restaurant. It’s a mom & pop place with specials and lots of BBQ on the menu. To get there you have to go down stream a few blocks and cut over to the one-way coming back. Along the way you see Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer advertising, drive by Aunt Polly’s fence, the one Tom was supposed to paint but conned another kid into doing. In the 90’s we brought a bus load of middle schoolers to Hannibal for an over night immersion into the local history, Samuel Clemens, Becky Thatcher Cave and environmental issues with the Mississippi River. I have always been a Mark Twain fan. Being there was special. It sort of measures up like Christians wanting to visit the holy lands. Walking into ‘Ole Planters I couldn’t help but think that Sam Clemens had walked that street and that his river boat would have tied up at the landing just a stone’s throw away. 

I had a pork sandwich with more meat and sauce than I could juggle, had to cut it up and eat it with a fork. I recommend Hannibal for all of the obvious reasons. I’m thinking ‘Ole Planters will become as regular as the fuel stop. This morning I realized again, every time, how true the wisdom; there’s nothing like waking up in your own bed. I’m off the road for a while but that gets old as well. The older you get, the more important each day becomes and watching grass grow doesn’t ring any bells. I’m cleaning berries and getting them into the freezer today. I’ve never done a vinegar rinse on fruit but it makes perfect sense. The car is unloaded but needs cleaning. So I have things to do. 

LIVE MUSIC

I’ve always liked live concerts even though the last few have been painfully intense. It’s not that I don’t like loud music but I’ve discovered a crowd whose preference is more about sensory experience and less about music; masochists with rhythm. But I took a chance last night and sometimes you get exactly what you hoped for.  Meijer Garden is a great, small, outdoor venue in Grand Rapids, Michigan. You bring your own lawn chair, cooler, even dinner. Then you sit in the grass with maybe a couple of thousand sweet, music savvy, politically correct, most civilized people anywhere. Amos Lee; great concert. 

Lee is a youngish-looking, uninhibited, 40-someting who handles country ballads, New Orleans funk, soul, rock & folk scores with a great feel. He had a big band, horns and two keyboards but then the range of his play list required it. In the middle of the show, the band took a break and he did a one man show for 5 or 6 numbers. That was so cool. Think of the sound spectrum as a grocery sack packed full with samples of every food in the store, no space for even a grape, that is what their sound was like. Then it was just Lee and his guitar, clean, clear, simply elegant. 

When the band came back they went with fewer lyrics and more driving stuff that had everyone on their feet. I can’t remember when I’ve seen so many Dutchmen shaking booty like that. I was next to the isle which was full of people. Grand Rapids folks are usually too proper to stand in the isle but there you are. Two women were beside me, one tall and blond, the other short, brunette, both happy as great music and two beers can make you. In the break between songs I felt an arm go around me; I was getting a hug. I looked down at the little brunette who was all smiles. I asked, “How you doing?” She said she was fine and before we stopped, we were old friends. Judy is choir director at Forrest Hills High School. Music is her life and she can’t help herself. Turns out we know some of the same people and like the same things. She has reservations about retiring and asked if I had any regrets; if I had any advice. Wow: someone actually asking me for advice, about something more weighty than where to get a good taco. All I could share was a disclaimer about my gypsy life style and that she should honor her fears but muster some courage for the sake of balance. I told her, “No, I have no regrets.” I reminded her that if you don’t like speed bumps, go sit in an easy chair. My plan is to try, have a go at whatever it is you think you want to do; if you fall down, get back up. She thanked me, said she really needed to hear that. When the encore unfolded with a long fade and people started collecting their chairs, she gave me another hug, told me to say hello for her to Cerise and Connie when I see them but I said she would see them before I do. After the fact, on the drive back home, I thought of better words than the ones I had shared. I’d have told her that I don’t pray for a life full of Happy or a life full of Peaceful, I just want a life that’s full.  

This morning I’m drinking coffee at Coffee Grounds in Grand Haven. It rained early, still cloudy but Washington Street is full of families and college kids. Boats are making their way up and down the channel, to and from the big lake. I haven’t been out there yet but they are building sand castles where wet sand meets the dry and it’s just about time for chicken salad sandwiches and fruit to start coming out of coolers. I’ll get fresh blueberries this afternoon, probably 3 cases (36 lbs.), catch a movie tonight and be on the road early in the morning. 

M22

M22 is a stretch of black-top that runs up the Lake Michigan shore from Manistee, all the way to Northport. MDOT has trouble keeping road signs posted come summer as nearly every tourist wants an M22 sign for their college room or the wall at home. The towns on that route are low profile, tucked away from the main line. Nobody goes there by mistake. Glen Arbor is a main street village with one stop light but the summer crowd overflows. No way to tell who’s at the table next to you, maybe blue collars on a long weekend or Big-Wig high-enders from Chicago or Milwaukee. They know exactly where to go to get away. I do too. I’ve been coming here for over 20 years. 

Besides the big lake, there is Glen Lake and the Crystal River is easy floating. Bicycling is popular on the local roads, great shopping, great food and summer temperatures usually stay in the 80’s. Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore is named for a colossal sand dune between Glen Lake and the big lake. Old family farms from the early 20th century have been acquired and restored to period condition, open to the public, no charge. In 1996 I discovered one particular farm and have been hiking and photographing there ever since. The DeChow farm dates back to 1853. Most of its history is framed around dairy and apple orchards. I spent most of the day there; it has a soul centering effect on me, as close to spiritual as I can be. If I were religious I’d say I talk to God but in fact I’m just able to let things go, think out loud and be, just be. 

Native Americans have a universal expression that is appropriate for any respectful exchange; “Mitakuye Oyasin”. If you struggle with pronunciation it doesn’t matter. Translated it means, All My Relations or We Are All Related. In lieu of a prayer I engage the hard maples up by the sugar shack. I acknowledge the pine trees that mark the ridge between the lower and higher meadow. Wild sweet peas and weathered wood on the big barn require my attention. Down by the road there’s an old, half dead apple tree but it still makes apples. I knew and wasn’t disappointed, there would be fresh deer beds there. “Mitakuye Oyasin”. 

The Lake Michigan shore is about a mile away. In the trees at the end of a two-track they built stairs down to the beach. In the old days we had to scramble down the bank, hanging onto tree roots. Not much beach this morning, surf had pushed a lot of sand up on the berm with just a narrow strip of swash. Amazing how water works, in and out, rolling stones against each other until they are smooth and rounded. I bend down to turn one over and the one next to it is a Petosky stone; my lucky day. “Mitakuye Oyasin”. I study it for a few seconds and slip it in my pocket. Before I can move up the beach I find another one. I’ll give it to someone special. I’ve been here so many times you would think it would get commonplace but I never know for sure what it means or when I’ll be back. So I just let it happen, try to be in sync, up here on M22.

HUMAN NATURE

If I’m lucky, I get back to West Michigan 3 or 4 times a year. When I do, I always have more to do than I have time. I renewed my car license tags this morning and took breakfast at the best place I know, anywhere. Morning Star is on Washington St. in Grand Haven, just a block off of U.S. 31. I sat at the counter, had blue corn cakes with green chili and an egg on top. I watched the cook and her helpers. They really work; the plates of food just keep coming through the window and the servers have to run to keep up. 

When the day comes and I have to stay in one place, Grand Haven would be as good a place as any. When I think of home it always turns to Carl Sagan’s quote about home; “Look there, that’s home, that mote of dust suspended in a sun beam.” I live on Earth. Most people here want to hear something more concrete, like coordinates or a zip code. Beneath a civilized veneer we are tribal and that means; Who’s your mama? I dodge the issue enough it makes my family and friends uncomfortable. “Why can’t you just say something they can digest and move on?” I would like that but it would gnaw at me for hours. But I do love Michigan. The big lake is flat and blue this morning. Sail boats far enough out, all you can see are their sails. Mid July and people lounging at sidewalk bistros would rather sit in the sun than the shade. 

I fit in here, speak the language, understand the righteous bias. White privilege is so internalized, so systemic, no one has heard of it or else they think it is a sinful conspiracy. But in the next town where Fulton St. crosses Division, if you look south you’ll see poverty with its addicts and derelicts. But in Grand Haven, poverty is a myth and they might as well be comic characters in fairytale. 

I know a liberal minister here turned university professor who told me, “You didn’t screw it up and you can’t fix it. If you want to play Don Quixote and joust with wind mills, you can. But that’s all you’ll be doing. If you live within your means and do no harm, that’s all God can expect. Live as best you can, do what you can, it will be gone soon enough.” Sounds a lot like King Solomon don’t you think? I didn’t like his advice at first but over time I think he is more right than wrong. We are evolved to serve our own best interest on the one hand and likewise, evolved to take care of each other. Which way to lean, how hard to push, and how long it takes to realize you’ve gone too far: it’s a relentless tug of war called Human Nature. So I’ll keep coming back to Grand Haven and the good life here. But I know how the world turns down on Division St. and the difference between their fate an mine is timing and good fortune. My biggest decision for the rest of the day is whether to help split fire wood or help spread wood chips in the blue berries. I get to work as hard as I want, quit when I feel like it. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll drive up to Glen Lake, Sleeping Bear Lake Shore. Photographs and a hike will take all day. Then meet with my investments manager; who would have ever thought coins in a coffee can would grow up? Hang out with friends at a concert in Grand Rapids on Friday night and my week here will be nearly spent. I have a high school class reunion the next week - miles and miles . . . but I know how that works. 

COMMAS

I worked with a lady, a National Park Volunteer who shared a sudden, striking realization, an epiphany of sorts. What brings her to mind today, I don’t know. Her husband was retired military and their world view was predictably skewed, in line with the famous Stephen Decatur quote, “My country, right or wrong; my country . . .” Anyway, on that particular morning she had this radiant look about her and it was obvious she simply had to tell someone, what it was that made her so giddy. “I just realized,” she said, “we are our decisions.” She was so pleased with herself I was happy for her. But I’ve chewed on that bone so many times it has lost its zest. Certainly decisions matter and we must be diligent in the making but they are commas, not periods. Whichever decision you make must of necessity come from choices that are available. Your part in the choosing may be the tick or the tock of the mantle clock but not both. Does a raindrop decide how fast to fall or where to land? The world in general and people in particular put things in context and we don’t control that. I like the Zen quote, “Relax, no one is in control.” I think we are raindrops with attitude, going where the wind blows, believing we are self propelled. 

She had customers in the book store while my job that morning was to lead a guided hike and share the park’s story. My theme was: How does nature reconcile rocks born half a billion years ago with gnats that live and die in a few weeks?  I didn’t tell my audience what to believe, only how it works. Life begets life, seeking after itself. It occupies a loop in the grand scheme and we are part of that loop. Rocks, water and air have their own cycles. When things change, energy and mass, even people, everything naturally seeks some kind of balance: you know how nature hates a vacuum but the system is nearly infinite. So much pushing and pulling, balance is out of the question but that’s how nature reconciles, always a step behind, always responding to something new that needs attention now. I don’t remember her name and that’s alright. I forget names. They were nice people. I love my country too but then I love chocolate and Dr. Seuss. I light up to a different revelation: “It takes a village . . .” Sometimes change comes slow and like gnats, you may not notice it in just one lifetime. 

844

Road trips; I just got back from an over-nighter to Omaha, Nebraska and Council Bluffs, Iowa. In 23 hours I renewed two life-long love affairs; one with baseball, the game. It plays with a sense of saving grace, not unlike religion. Leaning forward, slightly crouched as the pitcher delivers, you pray when they hit the ball it comes to you. Grace: simple elegance, a divine blessing. The other love affair stems from wheels that go ‘round, that make noise and go fast. The history of railroads is marked as much by greed and exploitation as it is by progress but those fire breathing machines are irresistible. A good engineer could play the steam whistle as deftly as Van Cliburn played Chopin. The largest of all operating steam locomotives was in town. 

Union Pacific RR steam engine 844 had come to town from its home in Cheyenne, Wyoming to help promote the College World Series. It was parked across the street from the stadium on a spur, unhooked and separated from the rest of the train by only a few yards. A high fence required passing through a gate but the only restraints were signs posted, not to climb on the equipment or touch cables and hoses that ran back to the train. We walked up to the shiny, black behemoth and laid on hands. My partner in this adventure was another old man, old friend. Both of us had stories about steam locomotives from childhood, hanging onto that long, throaty wail, the modulating Wooo-uooo-Woooooo. We were transfixed like ancient sailors, drawn to the siren’s song. Our fate was of straining ears to catch all of the fading whistle-wail. Wheels on the track beat out a clickity-clack but it too would die off in the distance and we were left alone at the crossing with our bicycles.

U.P. 844 is huge. Engine and tender are over 100 ft. in length, the driver wheels are nearly 7 ft. high. The top of the boiler is over 16 ft. Built in 1944 for high speed passenger service, the information placard said it was designed for a top speed of 110 mph. One of the machinists who travels with the train told us the official recorded top speed is 120 but he had been on board when, by his stop watch and mile markers, they topped 130. OMG, to be onboard at 130 mph! That’s how fast jets are going when they lift off the runway. It’s flying low, any way you shake it. WOOOOOOOOOO-uooo! The connecting rods that turn the drive wheels would be moving so fast, . . . so fast. 

I took photographs and talked to the engineer until I ran out of questions. They were moving the train the next day, over to the U.P. yard in Council Bluffs. That meant with some luck I could get photographs of the train, doing what it does best. Checking Google Maps I noticed, the rail bridge across the river was adjacent to a high rise parking structure at Harrah’s Casino on the Iowa side. When we checked it out, sure enough, the rooftop was the perfect spot to catch the train as it crossed over the Missouri River. 

After viewing U.P. 844 at the spur location and watching University of Florida win the final game of the NCAA Baseball Championship, all that was left to do was sleep late, catch breakfast and wait on the rooftop for 844. Several times we heard its whistle and got a glimpse as it made its way south, under the bridge on the Nebraska side. It looped around, had to back up a few miles to switch over to the right set of tracks. At 11:00 a.m. the headlight came into view. The bridge seemed like such a long span; you would think there was plenty of time. When you want it to fly it drags, and vise versa. Engine 844 came into my view finder, the shutter tripped 7, maybe 8 times and it was gone, that fast. There must have been 20 or more, mustard yellow cars with red trim but who wants photos of pullman and domed observation cars? Those passenger slots are reserved for past and present employees, stock holders and VIP’s. You can admire, even lay hands on the train but you can’t buy a ticket.

Two love affairs in 23 hours; that’s a good day by any measure. I’m thinking about a steam train excursion tour; all day out and back with meals served in the dining car and a few hours to walk around Summerville Georgia. Southern Railway’s 4501, out of Chattanooga, built in 1911: somehow it survived the diesel era and avoided the bone yard. Not as big or powerful as U.P. 844 but its story is just as compelling. It has been restored and rebuilt three times, still burns coal and you can buy a ticket.