Urban Sightseeing

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 65 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks among the old houses.

I can't tell you how many nearby houses I would love to get a look inside. The styles of architecture (don't ask what the specific styles are called; I only know that different houses look different) are fascinating. There are squarish brick structures and clapboard homes, and thin ones and wide ones and ones with turrets. One wonders what imagination developed some of the sizes and variations on homes found in the old neighborhood. 

That thought this morning jogged my memory into the times, three I believe, where me Grandpa Joe and I went exploring old houses. He'd see an older and clearly abandoned home and half bark, "C'mon, boy" to me and we'd go check it out. I doubt me Mom would have approved.

It was keen though to see the insides and how they were laid out. Then, too, you could tell what rooms and shelves and whatnot had been cobbled in, that were not part of how the original interior had been set up. But I think the keenest thing was being in there with me Grandpa Joe, him just being a bit of a kid himself with a kid in tow.

I think he was a bit of a kid, honestly. And I mean that in a kind way. Yeah, he was ornery and demanding and gruff and arbitrary. But he was fascinated with the world around him. What was where, what was what, that sort of thing. Creation, if I may risk going way out on a limb, interested the man. That made for a few quiet and calm adventures between me and him as the days went on.

 

Dr. Haffner

Humility should, perhaps, prevent me from writing this. Yet it has been on my mind a lot lately and I want to talk about it, as it was one of the quickest yet most profound moments in my life. And I knew it at the time. So if you would kindly indulge me and ignore any hint of arrogance, I would appreciate it.

Dr. Haffner was my instructor in a college Education class called Reading in the Content Areas. My apologies but I do not remember his first name. I still don't actually know what the point of that class was either, but so be it.

We argued all semester, as our basic philosophies of education, our outlooks on life, were radically opposite. I won't bore you with details but it began with the fact that he taught that all things, all things, mind you, are relative and that there are no eternal, objective truths. As too many of you probably know by now, I firmly believe in objective truth. Life simply makes no sense without such a doctrine at the core of our actions.

Part of our grade rested on a 20 page term paper reviewing a book about education. I chose to write about The Abolition of Man, a spectacular little book by C. S. Lewis asserting that the doctrine of objective truth is at the center of any good and useful system of teaching. 

On the day of our final exams Dr. Haffner told us that he would give us back our reviews as we handed in our exams, and offer us a word or two on what he thought about them. The students who left before me, I had noticed, had a couple of minutes of quiet talk with him as they were given back their papers.

When I walked up he took my test and handed me my essay. But when I went to grab it he held on, so that we both stood there kind of staring at one other. It's melodramatic to say such things, but it felt as though a hush came over the room. Finally Dr. Haffner said to me, in a kind of quiet, thoughtful tone, "You really believe this, don't you?"

"Yes sir, I do," I answered in a subdued voice.

He released my term paper and offered me his right hand. "Good luck, Marty," he said with a great and deep sincerity. I simply said thank you, a very grateful thank you, and left.

I really feel, in that moment, we had truly understood each other and that we parted with an enduring mutual respect despite our adversarial stances. It was no more than half a minute, but maybe the most profound and sublime thirty seconds of my life. I actually choke up a bit when thinking about it.

I don't know where you are these days, Dr. Haffner. But I hope you are well.

Mother's Day 2023

The other day I took the last coffee pod from a box of 80 and, for whatever reason, it popped into my head that Mom was with me when I bought those pods last August. I sighed heavily. Strange how something as mundane as wanting a cup of coffee can trigger such a reaction.

Now, don't feel too bad for me, as I don't really mean to create melancholy. Yes, there was a sadness when it happened just as there is now as I type. Yet it was and is followed by a kind of contentment. 

I was fortunate to have had the last several years of Sundays to ride her around, seeing the countryside, cruising through old neighborhoods, eating cheeseburgers, and even buying coffee. We owe our parents that respect. I was glad to have the chance, and there were many great rides and reminiscent talks along the way. Whatever else I do today, I think I'm having a cheeseburger for lunch, and maybe buy more coffee pods.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Mom's Birthday

Mom would have been 89 today. Not that long ago I had every expectation she would make it, and beyond. For some reason 93 had always been in my mind. Ah well. She went quickly and she went at home, for both of which I am sure she's grateful. 

I don't feel as though it's really hit me yet. We're coming on five months now. Sundays have reverted to plain old Sundays. The pair of us no longer tool around, doing minor shopping and having all those lunchtime cheeseburgers. Most of the rest of the week feels like usual: work, write, travel a bit, have an occasional dinner out. When I do stop by her house, I always say hi to her front porch chair as I enter.

There's granola bars left in the console of my new old van, remnants of having them on hand for when she got the munchies. She probably ate more granola bars in the last five years of her life than most of us eat, ever. But she ate. That was the main thing. 

What is, is, I suppose. I just don't feel more than vaguely numb even now, and that worries me. 

A rather melancholy way to say Happy Birthday, ain't it? But, Happy Birthday, Mom. No doubt it's a good one. 

Doorknobs and DayQuil

While lazing in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, I found need to replace a keyed door handle. One would never imagine procuring such a presumably common impliment might be at all a difficulty. Yet neither hardware in nearby Cedarville offered such a commodity; even the Ace in Pickford all of 11 miles distant offered not what I had thought would have been a hardware staple. C'est la vie; such is life. As I was considering a trek to Sault Sainte Marie, the Soo, 35 miles distant from Hessel, I elected to consider whether I might discover such product in a place of business there. But tomorrow would suffice for that journey.

On the trail back through Cedarville I decided to stop at the Family Dollar for DayQuil (as I seem to be fighting a cold) and flavored carbonated water. I simply adore Family Dollar's Strawberry Kiwi and Wild Cherry water. Perusing the shelves of yon establishment I stumbled upon canned vegetables, among which was Margaret Holmes' Tomatoes, Okra, and Corn medley. As I likewise adore tomatoes, okra, and corn yet rarely enjoyed okra (a veg I particularly love yet rarely enjoy; Mom used to fry it rolled in corn meal and, to employ the vernacular, boy, that was good eatin') I presumed Margaret would be flattered should I purchase  a can for myself, to eat with the fish patties awaiting my dinner in the Hessel freezer.

Margaret's mix was good, but was galaxies removed from me Mom's recipe.

Be that as it may, before reaching the checkout it occurred to me that Family Dollars typically have small hardware sections. I didn't expect to find it there, yet lo and behold there was exactly one brand new keyed doorknob. I took it in my hands with a cackle. It saved a 70 mile round trip which may have been for naught anyway, there currently being a dearth of such commodities in the eastern Upper Peninsula for some reason.

Setting my items down at the checkout, the clerk began to scan them. Water, veggies, and DayQuil were scanned promptly and efficiently. Then she scanned the doorknob once, yea twice, each attempt performed unsuccessfully. "What's your birthday?" she demanded. Indeed, it was a command.

I drew back in confusion, asking incredulously, "You require my birthday lest I cannot purchase a doorknob?"

"No, I'm sorry, sir. I need it for the DayQuil. It won't let me scan the doorknob until I get it," she explained.

Okay, I then understood. I don't get why Big Brother feels need to protect me from daytime cold medicines, but perhaps that's another issue.

Cotton Pickin' Ella

As we drove past farmers' fields' in southeast Michigan yesterday which were just beginning to show growth, me Mom remarked over a huge one, "You could get a lot of cotton on that field."

She turned to me and asked, "You ever pick cotton?"

"No ma'am."

"Oh, it was hard work," she responded. "We had to pick it all by hand. And they was these sharp things all over it."

"The cotton come in a ball like this," Mom held out her hand in an upside down fist, "and then it broke open" and she opened up her hand, "and they was these needles" and with her other hand she tapped on the top of each finger of her open hand "that was sharp as all get out." 

"Then you had to reach in and grab that ball of cotton and try not to get stuck. I pricked my fingers a lot doing that. You had to be real careful, but you learned to be quick. I got pretty good at it. But I wouldn't want to do it no more. It was hard work out in the hot sun."

So I learned from me Mom how to pick cotton. But I believe the best thing was just hearing her tell the story.

Square back

I'm pretty sure I've written about this before but, hell, why not write about it again.

Me Grandpa Joe was cantankerous enough. I'm not overly proud to say that he's the only adult family member I ever raised my voice to; one should never, ever, raise their voice towards a parent, grandparent, or adult family member. You simply should not. Yet I yelled at Joe a few times. The damn thing is, I don't think he cared. I doubt it mattered to him one lick. We were just both mad at each other for an instance, and that was that. To be sure, it never seemed to affect our relationship.

He was a considerate man, when all was said and done, I don't care what no one says. Some of my most sublime moments involved him, indeed, came about from him.

I lost my first grandparent when I was 19. Me Grandmaw Hutchins passed away suddenly, I believe it was June 1979, while Mom and Dad were down there visiting. I've always been glad that Mom was there, that she had the chance to see her own mother one more time before she passed. As I understand it, me Mom was on the phone with one of her sisters and had turned to ask her mother about something. Grandmaw turned to answer, but before any words came from her mouth her head head turned down and she was gone. The doctor said she was dead before her chin hit her chest, the stroke was that bad.

Me Pops called us, as the three oldest of us had not gone south that summer. I'll never forget answering the phone, as I was home from the Shop for lunch. "Your grandmother passed away," was the first thing he said. Funny, I suppose, but he sounded the same way in 1991 when me Grandma Cosgriff left us in June of that year. Art, the man we rented a cabin from at the time, came to our cabin with his phone (there were no cells then) and said me Pops needed to speak to me. I was sure it was about Joe but Dad said, in the exact same way as he had said 12 years before, "Your grandmother passed away." His mother had died suddenly late one Sunday night.

As my wife and I walked out to the end of the dock that evening, the kids already being asleep in the cabin and me wanting a minute, we ended up sitting on a bench at the end. "Well, I always knew Joe would be the last to go, " I said somberly. Me Grandpaw Hutchins had left us at the end of May 1987. Joe, he didn't take care of himself at all, so of course he'd outlive the others.

Anyways, when I got back to the Shop Joe was sitting with a cup of coffee, so I made meself one too. And it was quiet, very quiet, and still. We was just sippin' at out coffee. 

Joe was draggin' on a cigarette. In a minute or two he said, and he actually choked up, pullin' hard on a cigarette, "I'm sorry about your grandmother." Obviously me Pops had called him too.

"Thanks," I replied. "Well, I'm lucky," I continued. "Ain't many 19 year olds get to know all four of their grandparents." I was lookin' him square in the eye. He was lookin' square back.

"Yeah," Joe said, dragging on a cigarette. And we just sat, I dunno, for most of the afternoon, drinking coffee, him smoking.  I really don't know where Zeke, me Uncle John, was. Likely just sitting on his tool chest as he always did when nothing was up.

But you know what? I ain't never gonna forget just sitting there with Joe.