Woods, campfires and dogs

Jay enjoying a walk in the woods of Alabama.

I feel fortunate to have grown up in a rural environment. Behind our hilltop home in Southwestern Michigan my father owned twenty acres of rolling farmland where each spring he would plant fields of corn or wheat until the Feds offered to pay him NOT to plant fields of corn or wheat (it was a government thing, naturally). And just beyond those farmlands to the south was a vast expanse of virgin forest.

When not otherwise engaged, my younger brother and I and, oftentimes, our neighborhood friends, all accompanied by any number of family dogs, would spend countless hours entertaining ourselves in those woods. In fact, it was not uncommon for us to spend all day out there: picking wildflowers for Mom, playing hide and seek, building forts, chopping down trees, killing small animals, you name it.

Later, we became Boy Scouts and were taught how to survive in the woods without destroying it. We learned how to stay dry, start a fire without a match, pitch a tent and leave a campground in such condition that if one were to come upon it following our departure, it would hardly be known we had been there.

I retained my love of the forest into my adult years. My wife and my adolescent daughter and I would spend many a vacation night cooking over an open fire and sleeping in a tent in state and national parks from Florida to North Carolina. And banging the bottoms of pots with spoons in the evening to scare off the black bears, although I have a suspicion those bears considered that banging to be a dinner bell. It didn’t matter though, since at some point after dinner and before retiring for the night, my daughter would usually throw up somewhere in the perimeter of our tent apparently due purely to adolescent stress (my best guess). That worked better than the pots.

Some other members of my extended family up there in Michigan possess this same love of the outdoors. Hunting and camping and blowing up abandoned outhouses with black powder just for the fun of it. These activities are included among those that one can enjoy when spending time with these people outside the realm of most law enforcement agencies (seriously—I have the video).

I have reached the age when the mere thought of sleeping on the ground gives me a crick in my back. But I still love to get out there and get dirty once in awhile. Importantly, I have found that my penchant for the great outdoors is shared by my son, Jay. He and his friend, Jason, have gone on numerous hiking/camping trips to Cohutta Wilderness in Georgia, where one is still allowed to have a ground campfire. They are accompanied by Jay’s adopted canine, Wrigley (named for the friendly confines of the home park of the Chicago Cubs). And the three of them go up there to Cohutta and get, well, dirty—and tired.

 I think it’s a shame for kids to grow up without having had the opportunity to learn to appreciate where we all came from: the woods. You never know when we might be thrust back into that environment.

Batter up!

I must admit, following the conclusion of the Cubs’ World Series’ 7th game victory this past November, my appetite for viewing baseball games was completely sated: As you may recall, the game went ten innings and lasted nearly four-and-a-half hours. It was reminiscent of how I feel shortly after finishing the last bite of that last piece of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving Day—I couldn’t possibly ever eat another bite. And then six p.m. rolls around and its déjà vu all over again, as Yogi Berra would say. And so it goes for baseball, as we impatiently count off the days till the opener on April 2nd.

I hate this time of year for weeknight TV viewing: pretty much nothing on the tube but basketball. Maybe a soccer match from somewhere or other (soccer’s a sport, right?). And airings of the earliest stages of the golf season. But I refuse to watch golf this early in the year. Doing so disrupts my circadian rhythms and can lead to Seasonal Affective Disorder and depression caused by imbalanced serotonin levels (this condition is also caused by living in Michigan in the winter, which typically runs from early September through June). Golf doesn’t really start until Pebble Beach as far as I’m concerned.

In the meantime, I have been biding my time by watching some old baseball movies: “A League of Their Own” and “Bull Durham” so far. By the way, here’s a bit of trivia: You might find it interesting to know that some of the early scenes in “A League…” were filmed at Wrigley Field in Chicago (cleverly disguised as “Harvey Field,” as if no one would notice the ivied brick walls in the outfield).

In any event, the World Champion Chicago Cubs have been having an off-season blast, and deservedly so, with all the TV talk show appearances, media interviews and being invited to the White House to provide the president with yet another success-by-association photo-op.  But, before long, it will be time for these guys to dust off their spikes, sticky up their bats and once again stand with their caps over their hearts for the first of 162 renditions of the national anthem. And baseball every night. So, get your MLB.com subscription renewed and repossess the remote from your teenage daughter: it will soon be time to get your eye black on.

Turning corners


I have used a charcoal grill for my entire adult life, at least during those years when I had some place to store a grill when not in use. I long ago convinced myself that my grilled entree’s taste better when cooked over charcoal than when cooked over a blue, propane flame. In fact, I have convinced myself that it is so much better that it’s worth screwing around with all that ash removal and the setting of lit matches to jet fuel that is required to get it started. My son went to the dark side several years ago, buying a huge, stainless steel gas grill. His barbecue tastes pretty good. I may not be holding out much longer, but I have not yet turned that corner.

I have, however, turned other corners, not the least of which was the decision to forego the traditional hassle and expense of selecting and purchasing an actual North Carolina Scotch pine for Christmas and simply acquire a reusable, fake tree from Home Depot. This, of course, is contrary to one of my core beliefs in life that real is real and everything else is, well, not real. I have always been a purist at heart.

Despite that sentiment, I went ahead and paid forty dollars for this puny little tree. It’s only about five feet tall and came pre-wired with tiny, sparkly lights. But the good news is that all I have to do in order to get it set up for our annual Christmas festivities is to get the branches bent into some kind of natural-looking position and plug it in. And, since it goes into the attic in January instead of out to the curb, every year I use it I reduce my cost-per-year (that’s my Scottish genes at work).

Coincidentally, back in 2008, I made what seemed a practical decision to purchase my current residence even though its many features do not include a fireplace. That was a tough call in that I love fireplaces and over the years have enjoyed one in my home whenever I could. But, in this case, I didn’t want to pass up a really good deal on the house for lack of a fireplace that I would rarely use anyway (I do reside in Florida, after all). So, that was a corner-turn for me as well.

No fireplace.

As an alternative, I went on Amazon and bought a fireplace DVD. I have since, converted it to a streaming fireplace video that pops, snaps, crackles, and loops on my UHD TV screen, which is positioned just to the right of my little fake Christmas tree. And I have a really big TV, so it projects a really big fire. In fact, if the TV volume is a little too high, it sounds kind of like a house burning down. To put everyone’s mind at ease, I try not to get the little tree too close to the TV.

In the end, I find that together with this little fake tree, and all our gifts arrayed under it, well, around it, and my huge, rip-roaring, fake fireplace, it’s downright “Christmassy” in here. In a Walmart store sort of way.

And a merry Christmas to all.



Moon over Miami
Moon over Miami

For most of my boyhood I lived with my family in a house built by my father out in the countryside of southwestern Michigan. It’s perched on the crest of a hill about five miles north of Buchanan and surrounded by farmland and virgin forest. Five miles may not seem like a lot these days, but when we first moved in one would have to navigate a two-lane country road and then two more gravel roads to reach it by car or tractor. Later, the county would pave Glendora Road, but Aalf’s Road, where we lived, remains a graveled one-laner to this day.

We did not have air conditioning, so any time the furnace was not needed for heat pretty much all the screened windows in the house would remain open all day and night. I shared a bedroom and one of two twin beds with my younger brother with mine on the side of the room adjacent to an east-facing window.

One of my fondest memories of living in that house was the smell of the sweet, country air that would drift silently through those open windows in the wee hours of a summer night. There was no car noise, or unnatural sounds of any kind out there. Just crickets and cicadas. A barking dog in the distance somewhere. And I recall sometimes lying at the foot of my bed with my hands and chin resting on the windowsill watching as the moon began to rise into the dark and star-studded sky. As it lifted fully above the tree line on the far side of the cornfield the lone tree that stood in that field would begin to throw a moon shadow across the waist-high corn stalks. And, if it was a full moon, it would be “…as bright as a readin’ light,” to borrow a line from songwriter, Mike Burton, casting a soft, gray aura across an utterly peaceful and tranquil countryside. Sometimes I would fall asleep there.

You have probably heard the following story, or some variation of it, in a book or movie. For some reason, I remember it being in the context of an American Indian back in the days when the west was still being settled. In this version, an Indian brave was about to leave his family for points unknown for what was expected to be an extended period of time. His young son was deeply disturbed by this news and didn’t want his father to leave. So, the brave took the boy on his knee and told him that on the eve of every full moon to watch as it first rises in the east and he would do the same, no matter where he was. In that way, the two of them would be connected until his return.

It was a long time ago I heard that story and to this day this day I cannot cast my eyes on a full moon without thinking about it—wondering who all may be watching it along with me.

Still a few kinks to work out

I read an Associated Press article in the local newspaper this morning reporting that most of the violence witnessed at a recent Trump protest in Oregon was perpetrated by a group of self-described anarchists who elbowed their way into an otherwise peaceful gathering. As it turns out, these were the folks who were primarily responsible for the smashing of windows and other mayhem that occurred at the scene. Well, speaking of anarchists…

Here’s some breaking news from Pryamukhino, Russia: Alan Cullison of the WSJ reports that Sergei Kornilov is having difficulty organizing his annual anarchist meeting. The gathering typically draws about 50 to 100 activists, many of whom end up skinny dipping in the river and dancing naked around bonfires. Other activities include some participants encouraging others to help in shoring up the deteriorating building used by the group’s organizers. But the structure continues to fall into disrepair as some anarchists objected to the prospect of other anarchists giving them direction.

Reported by Alan Cullison, At Annual Anarchist Meeting, Top Priority Is Getting Organized, WSJ, August 19, 2016.