Monday, April 24, 2017
When I was a kid, the term “Yooper” hadn’t yet come into existence. As far as I can tell, it entered mass circulation in the early 1970’s. Once out there, however, it crystallized a lot of people’s life experiences, providing a shared identity based upon place. Like being a Texan or a New Yorker or a Hoosier. A narrow definition of “Yooper” simply means somebody who lives or grew up in and identifies with the U.P. (Michigan’s Upper Peninsula). However, the meaning of the word is a lot broader, with associations to geography, climate, population, economy, rural/urban context, the natural environment, lifestyles, attitudes and values. I tried to capture some of what “Yooper” means to me in the poem below. Everybody’s associations to being a Yooper are to some degree unique, but this is my version.
Being a Yooper
Driving north on M-35
Green Bay is just to the right
Blue-green water glistening in the sun
Tipped by the whites of the waves
To the left, pine forests stretch for miles
A six-point buck pauses, darts across the road
Lunch stop at Paddy’s Bar, Cedar River
Butter burgers that melt in your mouth
Soon we’ll be in Escanaba
I grew up in the Upper Peninsula
The people there call themselves Yoopers
Yoopers are those who live in the U.P.
While Downstaters are known as Trolls
Trolls, of course, are beings who live under the bridge
The Trolls, we believe, are envious of Yoopers
So we let them cross the bridge in the month of July
The U.P., in large part, is a wilderness
Its forests cover millions of acres
Pine and spruce, cedar, maple and oak
Here a pristine lake, there a waterfall
A Great Blue Heron skimming over the pond
In hidden places a bear or a moose
My home town is named Menominee
“The Land of the Wild Rice Eaters”
Nine thousand, the U.P.’s fourth largest city
One stoplight, one high school, eight taverns
The Marina, Henes Park, the Interstate Bridge
It’s spread for three miles along the bay shore
People in Menominee are friendly and kind
They’re fanatic about the Green Bay Packers
Strong passion for boating and sailing
For hunting and fishing and camping
For Jim Beam whiskey, creamed herring, and pasties
Our family lived out in the country
In a house built of Norway pine
We spent summer days in the river
Splashing and swimming, diving off our raft
Searching for golden doubloons in the mud
Backstroking across the Pig Island
Our treehouse was in the great oaks
The willow was best for climbing
Steven and I had daily acorn fights
We raced barefoot on the gravel driveway
Searched for antlers in the woods
Shot at tin cans with the twenty-two
And played night basketball all winter long
Deer came to feed in our garden
There were porcupine nests in the maples
Huge pine snakes lived next to our chimney
The chipmunks stole seeds from the feeder
At dusk the snapping turtles swam by
U.P. winters were harsh
Sometimes zero, even ten below
Our cheeks got red, our noses burned
The snowdrifts reached three or four feet
My father towed our toboggan behind his car
Icicles stretched from the eaves to the ground
Snowbound, the county road would close, vacation time
At sixteen we went to hunting camp
Our dads played cards and drank Silver Cream beer
We rose at five to take our posts
Freezing, I sat motionless for hours
Waiting for a wayward deer
In high school we borrowed the family car
And cruised the Twin City loop
Drag-raced at the stoplight
Waited at the drawbridge
The girls walked in pairs along Ogden Ave.
Waiting for the boys to pick them up
Root beer at the A&W
Perhaps the 64 drive-in
Menominee was a blue collar town
Many grownups worked with their hands
College degrees were infrequent
And there wasn’t much gap between rich and poor
All of the teens went to Menominee High
Every one of us, I’d say, was a Yooper
I’m lucky I grew up in the U.P.
It’s a thoroughly remarkable place
Perhaps we were lacking in big city smarts
No ballet, museums, or opera
But people were warm and honest and caring
And as kids we were free and secure
Life was filled with high adventure
Who could ask for more than that?
Saturday, April 15, 2017
One of my various regrets is not taking up dancing in any concerted fashion during my first sixty years or so. Katja and I started doing ballroom dance classes at the start of the new millenium, and it was a revelation. Then, when I retired, I joined my Tuesday night line dancing class, and that’s become the high point of my week. We got a new instructor in January, and she’s been posting YouTube videos of various dance numbers (e.g., My Pretty Belinda). The videos have led me to practice a lot more during the week. At first I was doing this in front of the computer on our second floor, but Katja complained that I was shaking the pot holder that’s mounted to our kitchen ceiling. So I moved my practice sessions downstairs to the foyer, playing music from the Solid Gold Oldies channel on our cable TV.
Our fitness center also offers Zumba classes, and I’ve had my eye on that for some time. I’ve been nervous about it though. Finally I asked Google: “Should I do zumba if I’m quite old?” Google’s first piece of medical advice was a blurb about an 86-year-old great grandmother who does zumba every morning. That was definitely reassuring, and, when Katja went to a fancy party last week, I decided I should try the 7 p.m. Zumba class. I told the instructor that it was my first class and I wasn’t sure I would stay the whole time. He said that I should take a break whenever I felt like it. There was only one other man in the class (one of my line dancing compatriots), and a majority of the women looked to be in their thirties or forties. I did stick it out for the full class. It is much more aerobic than line dancing, and I worked up a good sweat. I was pretty awkward and confused compared to my experienced classmates, but I was able to follow the movements enough that it gave me hope. I plan to go back next week.
The dinner party that Katja went to while I was zumba-ing was one we were both invited to, but I talked my way out of it. It was in the fanciest section of town and was held in honor of the new music director of the Cincinnati Chamber Music Orchestra. It sounded overwhelming to me. Katja was sad and hurt that I didn’t want to go, but she RSVP’d for just herself. It turned out to be lots of wealthy philanthropic supporters of the Symphony and the Opera. Katja, who does substantially better at most social occasions than I do, had a good time. She said afterwards that it would have been awful for me. I think she was sympathetic to my social deficiencies.
Along with line dancing, my poetry writing class takes up a chunk of my spare time each week. We get a homework assignment each Tuesday, and I work on it all week long, usually writing two or three poems instead of the single poem that is assigned. I owe my poetry writing style to Miss Herscheid’s fourth grade class at Washington Grade School. We learned to write poems in rhyme and end each poem with the phrase, “The End”. I’m the only person in my current class who writes all his poems in rhyme with a fixed meter (or rhythm). In fact, as far as I can tell from reading lots of contemporary poems on the Internet, I’m the only person in the world who writes rhyming poems (except for children’s authors who are inspired by Dr. Seuss’s style). Hopeful of expanding my repertoire, I’m currently trying to write a poem in free verse about “Being a Yooper.” I have to admit that composing in free verse is much more free-flowing than my struggles to create rhymes. But I’m sure that either method keeps blood circulating in my brain.
I was working on my Yooper poem several days ago when all of a sudden our newish Mac computer went blooey. The word-processing screen is normally white, but now it was alternating between green, blue, and lavender, and all of the visual images that appeared on the screen were mottled and distorted. I went into a state of shock, attributing the problem to powerful viruses. I checked with a knowledgeable friend, and she said it sounded like to monitor was dying. Fortunately Katja had bought an extended service contract, and I called the Apple support number. The technician had me try several things with the keyboard and the power button, but none of them seemed to help. He finally scheduled an appointment for me to bring the machine into the store. An hour later, however, all the problems disappeared. I didn’t know if the technician’s suggestions had solved the problem, but I’m relieved and am holding my breath.
We’ve been watching a lot more TV since late January. I think it’s a matter of retreating into fantasy in order to escape from horrifying political news. Nonetheless, we seem to be drawn to hair-raising politically-oriented programs involving Washington dysfunction, conspiracies, Middle Eastern and domestic terrorists, Russian spies, and national catastrophes. Our favorites are Homeland, Designated Survivor, The Americans, and 24 Legacy. All of these programs have become jumbled together in my mind, and I can’t keep straight which good guys go with which bad guys (or even who the good guys are). It’s like there is just one single program: “24 American Homeland Survivor.” I do have to say that these fictional events are more dramatic than our relatively mundane lives.
That’s all the news from Ludlow Ave. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I’m going to go and get some Fitbit points.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Growing up on the Menominee River, we were well aware of the lore of the nineteenth century logging industry in our region. The best-known legends, of course, were about Paul Bunyan who roamed Northern Michigan and Wisconsin. Here are some of the Paul Bunyan tales, set to poetry.
The Ballad of Paul Bunyan
The most famous figure in my home town
Was Paul Bunyan, the North’s lumberjack
He dug the Menominee River
He could level ten pines with one whack
Paul Bunyan was born in Menominee County
He weighed over two hundred pounds
It took eight storks to deliver him
Six wet-nurses made daily rounds
Each time baby Paul rolled over in his sleep
He would flatten an acre of trees
His parents built a raft in the midst of Green Bay
But Oconto would flood when he’d sneeze
As a child Paul Bunyan was not only strong
He was faster than a lightning arc
He could turn off his light and leap into bed
Before his room even got dark
Paul found a blue ox in a snowdrift
Took him home and young Babe grew so fast
A crow took an hour to fly twixt Babe’s horns
When he burped, buildings crumbled from the blast
Babe could pull anything Paul asked of him
For example, their crooked logging road
Babe pulled on that road till it straightened out
And that new road carried ten times the load
Babe was in need of a watering hole
Paul Bunyan dug a hole with his axe
Today it’s the Lake called Superior
Pictured Rocks were formed by Babe’s tracks
Paul and Babe took a hike through Minnesota
Their footprints in the earth were so big
Those depressions became the 10,000 lakes
And Babe drank them up in one swig
A log jam blocked the Menominee River
Paul poked Babe’s derriere with a spear
Babe swished his tail and broke up the jam
And the river stayed clear for a year
The axe men in Paul’s camp were seven feet tall
And each had the same name of Sven
When Paul called out “Sven” the whole crew came running
Dragging sled-loads of logs from the glen
Sourdough Sam made pancakes at their camp
His griddle covered thirteen full acres
Twenty-five men with bacon on their feet
Greased that griddle to help out the bakers
Paul Bunyan enjoyed a pipe after dinner
And he blew his smoke far away
It floated westward over the hills
Creating the smog in L.A.
The winter of ’07 was so brutally cold
The axe men’s words froze in mid-air
Those words remained frozen until the spring thaw
Then they heard melting chatter everywhere
No one is certain where Paul is today
Some think he is at the North PoleBringing Babe for a leisurely stroll
They say he returns to the U.P. each May
They say he returns to the U.P. each May
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Image source: www.cincinnatizoo.org
Few things give me as much pleasure these days as baby Fiona. For those outside the Cincinnati area, Fiona is a two-month old hippopotamus born to parents Bibi and Henry at our zoo on Jan. 24, 2017. Thanks to wonders of the modern age, the zoo has provided video updates on Fiona’s progress since her birth. She was six weeks premature, and her early life was precarious. The previous lowest recorded birthweight for a hippopotamus newborn had been 54 pounds, but Fiona only weighed 29. Unable to stand to nurse from her mother, she was tube-fed in early weeks and only started regular bottle feeding in late February. The zoo staff has given Fiona 24/7 care since her birth. The wonderful news is that Fiona has made steady progress with her human care and is doing better every day. Fiona reached 101 pounds on March 21. She spends time in her pool about five times a day, and she’s more and more adept moving about her enclosure. To see Fiona in action, search “Fiona Cincinnati Zoo” on YouTube, and you will get a couple dozen videos: Fiona feeding, napping, floating in her pool, splashing about, playing with toys, running in her cage, stretching her jaws, eating hay, and enjoying life. I hope you’ll try one or two. I can’t think of a better pick-me-up for a rainy spring day.
SOURCES: www.cincinnatizoo.org: “Hippy baby arrives six weeks early — Cincinnati zoo staff providing critical care for premature calf” (Jan. 24. 2017); “Hippo Baby Fiona Updates” (Jan. 25, 2017).
Thursday, March 23, 2017
We’ve had an unusually mild winter. No big snowstorms — actually, hardly any snow at all -- and no ice on the sidewalks. But we’re still patiently waiting for spring. It went up into the 60’s for a week, the magnoliias opened up, and then the frost came back and did them in. In place of the great outdoors I went to the annual spring show at the Krohn Conservatory. It’s called “Blooms on the Bayou” and has a New Orleans theme, featuring camellias, tulips, and hyacinths. Here are some flower photos to help put one in a spring mood.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Our Old English Sheepdog era has come to its end. We lost Mike and Duffy over a year ago, but we’ve been lucky to still have had regular doggie time with their younger sister Sophie (owned by our friend Donna). The three dogs were a pack throughout their lives, going on frequent outings to Miami Whitewater Forest and elsewhere, and Sophie has been a regular visitor to our house since puppyhood. Donna called me last Saturday (March 11) to see if I were available to help take Sophie to the vet. Sophie hadn’t eaten for three or four days, had drunk very little, had diarrhea, and was very lethargic. The vet suggested that she was approaching her life’s end, and Donna made the hard decision to have her euthanized. Lot of tears.
Donna asked what was special about March 11, Sophie’s last day, and the one thing I thought of was that the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade was going on in downtown Cincinnati. When I googled St. Patrick a little later, it turned out that he had been kidnapped by pirates as a teenager and had spent six years as a sheepherder. There are dozens of greeting cards with St. Patrick and his Old English Sheepdog on the Web. The next day I joined Donna for a hike in Eden Park because we always took the dogs there each spring to see the magnolias in bloom. The temperature had dropped to nineteen on the night that Sophie died, and all the magnolia blossoms had died as a consequence. It felt as though the magnolia gods were also grieving.
Sophie was a great pleasure to Donna and to everyone else she came in contact with. She was a very smart dog, very loving, playful, and loyal. She adored Donna, and she felt at home at our house too. Sophie stayed with us every now and then when Donna made family trips to Nashville, and it has always been a treat to have her in the house. Our experiences with sheepdogs will stick in our memories forevermore. Here are a few pics from the last several years which are reminders of Sophie’s many looks.
Friday, March 10, 2017
One of my favorite words during my college years was “ennui”. Dictionary.com defines it as: “a feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest.” I’d sort of forgotten about this excellent term until recently when I started reflecting on my emotional state of emptiness and sudden need for naps. I’ve been unable to put my finger on the source of these feelings until I started thinking about what my typical day is like. It goes as follows:
- 9:30-ish: Read the latest Trump news in the Cincinnati Enquirer.
- 10 to 6: Check Google News 3 or 4 times during the day to get Trump updates.
- 5:30: Read all the New York Times stories and editorials about Trump.
- 6:30: Watch NBC News for Trump news.
- Evening: Check MSNBC or CNN off and on for Trump critiques.
- 11:00: Watch the Daily Show for Trump satire.
- 11:35: Watch Stephen Colbert’s monologue about Trump
- Midnight: Go to sleep and get rested for the next day of Trump-watching.
This sounds like a joke, but, in fact, it’s reasonably accurate. Talk about satiety. I can’t think of any time in my lifetime that the media has devoted as much attention to a new president. The connection between Trump and the media seems to be a symbiotic one. Trump feeds off attention, and the contribution of media attention to his popularity doesn’t seem to depend on whether it’s positive or negative in content. The media, at the same time, are thriving. Despite (or more likely because of)Trump’s constant attacks, CNN ratings are up about 40% from a year ago. New York Times subscriptions have increased 1000% since Trump’s election. The Times gripes about the media’s excessive attention to Trump, but they devote around 50% of their daily editorial space to heated criticisms of Trump and his administration.
I’d like to think that my excessive media habits mean that I’m doing my duty as a citizen by keeping in touch with current events. Maybe that’s about 5% of it. A much bigger chunk is something like obsessively watching a horror story. The administration’s actions have damaging consequences for major sectors of the American populace: women, immigrants and refugees, Muslim-Americans, gays and lesbians, the elderly, African-Americans, the poor, and, when it comes down to it, just about everyone else. It’s like reading about serial killings or terrorist attacks. It’s horrible, but it grabs your attention. Then there is simultaneously a comedy side. There is a weird cast of characters, and the administration is sufficiently chaotic that it’s a bit like watching the Keystone Kops. The late-night talk show hosts can’t keep up with all the material. However, humor can only go so far. At its core, this is the opposite of funny stuff.
So, going back to ennui, I’d say that my feelings of ennui are tied to my belief that we, as a nation, are teetering toward calamity. Following media accounts of Trump’s words and actions is sort of like breathing toxic air all day long. It’s no wonder that people feel terrible. Part of me says to simply tune it all out — turn off the TV, read the sports page instead of the editorials. I doubt if I’ll do that though. However, I’d like to be more aware of what I’m doing and why. I feel like I’m falling prey to Trump’s antics and the media’s highlighting of them. It’s time to try to get some detachment and perspective. Just how to do that is another question.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Growing up in the country, we were in much more immediate touch with various flora and fauna than we’ve been during our adult urban lives. The hummingbird was perhaps the most astonishing creature that lived on our property on the Menominee River. My mother had a garden that ran along the west side of our front lawn, and we’d frequently watch the tiny, brilliantly colored hummingbirds hover over a flower, then dart in and extract its nectar. Drawing from the sources listed at the end, here are some of the facts about hummingbirds that make them true wonders of nature.
- Hummingbirds have lived on earth for about 42 million years. They evolved simultaneously with nectar-bearing plants.
- Hummingbirds are native to the Americas: Central and South America, North America, and the Caribbean. There are 328 known species of hummingbirds. Most live in tropical regions of Central and South America, while 17 are native to the U.S. Only the ruby-throated hummingbird is found east of the Mississippi.
- Hummingbirds are among the world’s smallest birds. The smallest known bird is the Bee Hummingbird, measuring less than 2 inches in length. The Giant Hummingbird is nine inches long and weighs 0.8 ounces.
- Hummingbirds are named for the sound made by their tiny, beating wings. A hummingbird’s wings beat up to 80 times per second. Male hummingbirds’ wings give off a shrill whistle that can be detected by females over a hundred yards away.
- Hummingbirds hover in the air by flapping their wings in a figure-8 pattern. They are the only vertebrates able to hover. They are also the only birds that can fly right, left, up, down, backwards, and upside down.
- Hummingbirds can typically fly up to 35 miles per hour. The green violet-ear hummingbird can fly 93 miles per hour.
- Except for certain insects, hummingbirds have the highest metabolic rate of any bird or animal. Their heart rates can reach 1,260 beats per minute, and, even at rest, they breathe 250 times a minute. During flight, a hummingbird’s oxygen consumption is ten times higher than that of human Olympic athletes.
- Hummingbirds use their feet only for perching and not for hopping or walking.
- Hummingbirds drink nectar from flowers, supplementing their need for nutrients by eating flying insects and spiders. The average hummingbird eats half its weight in sugar every day. If humans ate as much as hummingbirds, they would consume 155,000 calories a day.
- Hummingbirds’ tongues have tubes which help them to drink nectar. They lick their food at a rate of up to 13 licks per second. Hummingbirds have been observed visiting up to 20 flowers a minute.
- Thousands of plants in the Americas rely on hummingbirds for pollination.
- Hummingbirds spend 10-15% of their time feeding and 75-80% sitting and digesting their food intake.
- Hummingbirds are very territorial and have been observed chasing larger birds like hawks away from their territories.
- Most U.S. hummingbirds migrate south for the winter, traveling as much as 3,900 miles (over 78 million times the body length of a 3-inch hummingbird).
- To conserve energy, hummingbirds go into a state of torpor at night, their metabolic rate dropping to 1/15th of its normal rate. Their body temperature drops from 105 degrees F. to 65 F.
- Like parrots, hummingbirds are able to acquire new songs through imitation.
- Hummingbirds take baths several times a day, splashing in shallow water.
- Hummingbirds use spider silk to bind their nests together.
- The Aztec god, Huitzilopochtli, is often depicted as a hummingbird. The Aztecs believed that fallen warriors return to earth as hummingbirds and butterflies.
- Many hummingbird species are listed as vulnerable or endangered due to habitat loss and/or climate change. 34 hummingbird species are threatened with extinction.
SOURCES: www.animals.sandiegozoo.org, “Hummingbird”; www.defenders.org, “Basic Facts About Hummingbirds”; www.hummingbirdsociety.org, “The Hummingbird Society”; www.nationalzoo.si.edu, “Hummingbirds”; www.wikipedia.org,