Love and a limp

We joke about our dogs.  We love them, of course. In a short time, when they're new to us, they become family … and I’m convinced they eventually know as much about us as we think we know about them.

Last week, I took Linus and Riley for a walk around the block.  Typically, I’d take them for a 10-block walk to Briarwood, the elementary school that Zach attended and to this day includes a prairie-like field at the northwest corner, with a stream that runs through it … and lots of briars.

But on this night, I took them around the block.  I was nursing a knee injury from a hike we took weeks ago in the Arkansas hills.

First, you should know that when I take both dogs, alone, I’m using two leashes.  Each spins out or contracts, depending on the vagaries of the dog.  When the dog stretches the leash tight, it tugs.

Normally, that’s not a big deal.  I tug back.  But given the weakness of the right knee, I couldn’t tug as hard. 

Linus was oblivious to my problem, because he was on the left.  Riley, though … well, it was pretty amazing.

Halfway through our walk, as the tugs made the knee hurt, she – a Golden Retriever – must have sensed something different with me.  Early on, she was bounding ahead per usual.  She’d sniff the bushes, follow Linus, see a squirrel (where there was none, usually.) 

But now I was limping a bit.  And she must have noticed my different pace, that something was amiss.

My limp was like glue. Because now, she was at my side, step by step.  I couldn't spring her free.

“Go on, girl,” I’d say.  “Go get Linus!”

But she’d stay frozen by my side.  Only when I stopped walking, when my out-of-rhythm steps grew quiet, did she venture away to explore. 

And when I started walking again, she was again by my side.

It’s hard to know what dogs know – and don’t know.  But I do know that we underestimate a dog’s ability to connect with us.  We often dismiss them as spacey, hyper, goofy. (All things I’ve affectionately alleged about Riley.)

And sure, dogs are affectionate. 

But Riley’s actions went beyond mere affection.  Protection?  Maybe.  Concern?  I guess.  Loyalty?   I think so.

Said 19^th-century writer Josh Billings, “A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than you love yourself.”

Ahh, that would be it.

There's a lesson there for us.

Simple gifts

“What is it?”

I was staring at a black and red contraption – what looked like the blade of a large, plastic snow shovel glued to the back of two large, vinyl sleeves. The sleeves were bunched tight at each end with elastic.

It had the look of an industrial-sized diaper … the kind a baby elephant might wear should some pooped-out zookeeper ever invent it.

June, Cindy’s mom, looked up from the children’s squeals and flying gift wrap at the family Christmas gathering to explain … with her usual sly smile:

“Sled pants.”

Then she laughed … almost a giggle.

Huh? But then it all made sense. The sleeves were indeed pants; the blade, of course, the sled; the elastic was there to make sure the pants stuck tight to the waste and legs. It was genius, of course. A sled doesn’t get more portable than that.  You would simply pull the pants on, waddle up the nearest snowy hill, sit and go.

I tried them on for all to see, much to the delight of those in the room. I looked like, well, a baby elephant equipped for the road. Or, at best, a Shakespeare knockoff in plastic pantaloons.

Everyone laughed. And I, again, had fallen victim to one of June’s unique skills … her gift-giving prowess.

There was the other Christmas when I unwrapped some long, brown socks. I thought, “Why would June give me socks?”

I mustered up gratitude:

“Why, thank you June!” I enthused. “Love the long, brown socks.”

“They’re not just socks,” she explained. “They’re pocket socks.” Again, the laugh.

Sure enough, sewn to the back of each was a deep pocket … a good place for valuables, I suppose. Or better yet, food -- the space was ample enough to accommodate, say, two fat summer sausages. The downside: Your legs would then look, well, elephantine.

One was never quite sure where June found these things. She was a great fan of garage sales. She’d hold as many as she’d visit, it seemed. And her basement was always an adventure, packed from floor to ceiling with clothes, toys, books, old records, dishes and more.

I saw it all as a never-ending circle of zero-sum commerce: June would purchase items at garage sales, store the goods in the basement, bring them up to sell at her garage sales, then she’d venture out to re-supply.

The cycle would be broken only by Christmas or family birthdays.

As proof, there’s the Christmas sweater that June gave my niece, Robin. As Robin unwrapped it, I too-quickly remarked, “Hey Cindy, that looks like the sweater I gave you for your birthday a few years back.”

Of course it was the same sweater. Cindy had given June some of her old clothes to sell in a garage sale. June, in need of a gift for Robin, grabbed the sweater from her basement, saving it from the garage-sale merry-go-round.

I’ve often wondered what lucky souls first wore my sled pants and pocket socks.

Over time, I looked forward to June’s gifts. It was welcome relief from the more predictable gift-giving.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on what, perhaps, was June’s best Christmas gift, shown at the top of this blog post. Not just for me, but for all of my family. Stretched across our fireplace are four red and green Christmas stockings that June hand-stitched – Meghan’s first, in 1990, then Zach’s in 1993, then Cindy’s and finally mine.

Sure, June was a heckuva wheeler-dealer at garage sales. But when it came to cross-stitch, her work was her own -- splendidly done, crafted with love.

That is … original. Just like June was an original.

I think on Christmas day, I’ll pull from our own crowded basement my sled pants, put them on, don my pocket socks and stuff them with sausages, and wear both garbs proudly as we open our presents.

It’s a way to honor June’s gift-giving … and her many other, wonderful gifts.

I miss them all.

Artful thanks

We finished a late, full breakfast … pumpkin waffles, bacon, eggs.  After, I took the dogs for a much-needed walk.  Now I sit in Dad’s worn easy-chair with my laptop, next to the fireplace. The chair has the room’s best view of the lake. Cindy works a puzzle, Zach watches football and Meghan reads.

Thanksgiving Day at the cottage.

There’s risk in being here at times other than summer.  That’s because what has proved so magical over the years between May and September is far different the rest of the year … and so, perhaps, not as good.

But with this visit, different is good. 

First, the weather. Today’s a testament to its fickleness in November.  Yesterday, the sun poked through the clouds; temperatures were in the 50s – balmy for Northern Michigan.  By afternoon those clouds sunk low, a mix of fog and fine drizzle.  The lake was almost flat, the air nearly still. But by early morning Thanksgiving Day, winds rushed in from the north, beating back the timid, southern breeze.

So this morning, the waves are high, pounding the shore; howling gusts shake the birches. It’s cold and bracing outside, warm and inviting inside. A welcome contrast.

What you forget when you visit just once a year is that this place, and its people, exist year-round.  And the locals really own the entire experience; we merely sample it. Being here at Thanksgiving makes the point.

Last night we drove into Glen Arbor for dinner at Art’s Tavern. Along the way, we noticed how much easier it is to see through the woods.  The leaves are gone, the timber turned into fields of tall sticks – gray, brown and white.

Now we can see cabins and houses we never knew existed.  In some, the windows were lit – likely locals at home.  In others, the windows were dark, the buildings stark silhouettes.

Walking into Art’s is different, too.   In the summer it would be packed and loud, with even more folks waiting outside. Last night it was two-thirds full, the conversations more muted, but still warm and inviting. You could tell that most of the clientele were year-rounders.

Art’s owner moved from table to table, greeting friends.  His name is not Art; it’s Tim Barr. He’s a big-bellied man with white hair and a white beard and a cheery disposition. Last night, he wore a red shirt. A girl at the next table asked him if he was Santa Claus.  “Oh, no,” he chuckled.  Then he winked and said in a secretive voice, “But he’s my brother.”

Art’s is a tourist haven in the summer, with college pennants from every conceivable school wallpapered to the ceiling. I know where to find my favorites. 

But unlike other businesses that cater to tourists, Art’s doesn’t close up tight when the tourists go home.  Its rich, pine-paneled walls, its rustic booths and comfortable bar have served the locals well for years.

Few outsiders know how much history is in Glen Arbor. A touristy spot now, it was born of the lumber found in the heavy woods and the fish hauled from ice-blue Lake Michigan, which is just blocks away.

Settlers began coming here in the 1840s, doing trade with Native Americans camped nearby. But Glen Arbor really didn’t take shape as a fishing and lumber post until years later.

"By 1867, Glen Arbor Township had 200 people, three docks, two hotels, four stores, a blacksmith shop, and a cooper shop,” reports the Leelanau Historical Society. “Gordon Earle built a water-powered shingle mill in 1890, and J.O. Nessen erected a steam-powered lumber mill nine years later."

Frankly, Glen Arbor doesn't seem that much bigger these days. The population in the 2000 census was 788.  There's a main street – M-22 – and a smattering of quaint buildings on both sides of it.  The mills are long gone; small shops and newfound enterprises, such as food company Cherry Republic, dominate now.

Art’s Tavern is 75 years old this year. For years before that, it was called the Blue Goose Saloon by its founder, Frank Sheridan. It was renamed “Art’s” by Frank’s son, Art, who took over after his father was electrocuted in an accident in 1934.

Electricity has not been kind to the Sheridans. An electrical fire destroyed the tavern in 1950.  But Art rebuilt and reopened it the next year.  Tim bought the business in 2000.

Art’s, and all of Glen Arbor, takes Christmas seriously.  Tomorrow night there’s the township’s tree-lighting ceremony.  Tim has adorned the tavern outside with strings of lights, red-bulbed reindeer, a big “Happy New Year” and a giant peace sign.  Other businesses still open for the season also have decorated, though most feature simple white strands vs. Art’s eclectic, electric mix.

And there’s still plenty of cheer inside Art’s (beyond the paper "Ho Ho Ho!" affixed to the pine-paneled wall). Sure, times are tough in Michigan.  There are only 11,000 in this county’s labor force, and close to 1,000 are out of work – a rate of 9 percent.  But that compares well with the state’s overall jobless rate of 15 percent.

It’s the difference between summer and the rest of the year that is so good, so critical … that sustains Glen Arbor.  You see, tourist dollars flow heavily north in the summer, then recede.

Like the fishermen of old, the folks of Glen Arbor catch what money they can when the run is heavy.  And after, they come ashore and repair to Art’s, where they tip a few and watch the other seasons pass.

Last night, on Thanksgiving Eve, they seemed thankful to call Glen Arbor home.

When the couch proved cold

I was 12 years old.  It was 1966, and Dad and I had the habit of sitting on the couch in the living room in the morning, reading the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. He and I would sit starting at about 7 a.m.  He’d leave for work at about 7:30. Before 7, he’d share breakfast with Mom. Then read the paper, then  head to the job. I'd eventually head to school.

So the morning Globe was my morning ritual. Sure, the more prestigious, afternoon Post-Dispatch would arrive each day, though that was handled differently.  I might grab the comics after school, though the rest of the newspaper was untouched, unless Mom took a look.  Dad would collect it after work.

But the Globe -- reading it as the sun came up was how I acquired the newspaper habit.

I mention this for three reasons: 

One, as I find myself reading news feeds on my iPhone more and newspapers less, I feel both encouraged and guilty. More words, more sources … but my profession strains at the change.

Second, those moments on the couch with Dad were profound for me.  He’d sit on the far left of the couch, I in the middle.  He’d start with the sports section, then the front page, then the local section.  I’d read whatever he got through first, or whatever he hadn’t yet touched, in no particular order. 

That couch was my window on the world.

Third, we would read ancillary publications as well – magazines and such. And there is one in particular that haunts me to this day.  It was in Life Magazine or perhaps the Saturday Evening Post.  That’s foggy now.  But a magazine had published excerpts from the then-celebrated novel of Truman Capote, “In Cold Blood.”  I suspect the magazine sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, and I got hooked while waiting for Dad to give up a section of the paper.

If you don’t know the story, it’s gruesome and, ironically, somewhat local to me, now that we live in Kansas City:  Two drifters shoot to death a rural Kansas family, the Clutters. The 50th anniversary of the event is Sunday. Capote chose to explore each individual involved in the murders and the following investigation, and in turn produced one of America’s greatest literary works and perhaps the best example of the non-fiction novel, which ushered in so-called “new journalism.”

Of course, back then, I saw it only as a horrid tale of innocents being blown to bits by thugs in black leather jackets.  That Dad let me read the excerpts is interesting, though I can’t remember, ever, Dad or Mom telling me to not read something.

At the time, my bedroom was a small second-floor space to the left at the top of the stairs.  At each end were doors to an attic, on the same level, circling around my bedroom at the front side of the house like a tight belt.  The attic, as attics are, was dark, closed off, full of cobwebs and mystery.

The attic was creepy, sure. And after reading the Cold Blood excerpts, creepier still.  But I knew the threat wasn’t from someone behind those attic doors.  No, the threat was two guys in black leather, invading from without, then walking up the stairs of the house, armed, ready to blow my brains out. Exactly what happened to the Clutter family.

For months if not a couple of years, I had a ritual to prevent my own Richard Hickock and Perry Smith, at right, from climbing those stairs.  In hindsight, it was plenty odd.  But it did the trick. I’m alive, aren’t I?

You see, after the lights were out and I said my nightly prayers – which included requested blessings for all of my family, dog Judy and the guinea pig – I did this hand thing where I would stick my hand out like I was stopping traffic. I would bend the hand in different directions as I mentally tracked the path through my door, down the stairs, then right at the bottom of the stairs to the front door, then backtracking to the left at the bottom of the stairs to the back door.

The hand was my way of keeping evil from entering the house, climbing the stairs, doing the bloody deed.  My own “brick wall.”

Only after doing the weird hand motions would sleep come.

Clearly, Capote’s prose had chilled me to the bone.  If you read the book today, you’re struck by the succinctness of the author’s words, the ample-yet-tempered description, the obvious conviction on his part that the facts should tell the story, not the writer's thick prose. Check it out.

That a pre-teen could soak that up, enthralled yet terrified, to the point that I still vividly remember the details 42 years later, reveals the muscle, the fortitude of the written word, deftly done.

Dad was a voracious reader … of newspapers, magazines, and so many books. I’m sure he never knew of the profound effect Capote's excerpts had on me while I quietly sat to his right on the couch.

But I expect he’d approve.

That couch was my window on the world.  And the world isn’t always a nice place. 

The carriage-house haunt

We were in junior high school, he and I – called middle school by most folks today.  He lived about two blocks up the street from my house, in Webster Park, a part of Webster Groves, an older St. Louis suburb.

He was smart, cool … blond hair. He played French Horn, I played trombone in the band.

He used to boast that his house was part of the Underground Railroad.  Once he even showed us his basement, and a big hole in the wall. “That’s where they’d come in and out,” he said.  “They,” of course, were the slaves seeking freedom in the North.

I never quite believed the story. He tended to boast a lot, about a lot of things. But you were never quite sure.  He was smart, cool …

On this day, in October, he invited us to stop by the large garage behind his house. There were three stalls for cars on the first level.  But upstairs was an apartment of sorts – a living space a bit rough around the edges.  But clearly, a home behind the home for someone.

I and some friends assembled, and we climbed the stairs.  I remember it well – a simple space, wood-framed, with windows on both sides of the main room. A small kitchen sat at the east side; a door to another room on the west.

Remember the context here … Halloween loomed.

He asked us all to take a seat.  And we did.  It was immediately after school, so I’m guessing now maybe about 4 p.m.  So the sun was still up a bit; hardly close to dark.

Our host began telling an involved tale of the former residents of this carriage house. (Yes, it was a garage, but now he had elevated it to a carriage house.)

“They lived here many years, they were family of the residents of the main house,” he said.  Though it was still daylight outside, he had turned off the lights inside. And given the low angle of the sun, the interior had turned a dark shade of gray.

As he talked, he grabbed a flashlight.  And held it under his chin, casting deep and dark shadows up beyond his nose, highlighting his eyebrows but not much else.

Yes, creepy.

But sure, we were up for the game.  We knew he was smart, cool … manipulative.  But this was adventure, pure and simple. 

“Strange things started happening to the people who lived here,” he said, standing at the top of the stairs.  “Rumor has it that one was murdered …”

And then, slowly, drip, drip, a red substance began to fall from the ceiling.  We all saw it.  It pooled on the ceiling, then slowly descended to the floor, creating a small puddle.

“The authorities suspected an ax was the weapon,” he said.  “Right between the eyes.”

And then there were clanks and bumps – odd noises in the attic above the apartment.

“And it’s said that she haunts this carriage house today.  That she struggles to get free …

“In fact, I think she’s here now … and is about to speak!”

Suddenly, the windows on both sides of us flew up, one by one, entirely on their own!

“Oh, s---!!” I thought.

Never, in my life, have I been so startled and scared.  Without thinking, I hurtled myself through one of the open windows in the back. I landed with a thump, first on an out-crop of the back of the garage, and then, bounding over the edge, to the grass below.

I wasn’t alone. Others had jumped through the windows, or ran down the stairs. Like ants from a disturbed ant hill. All were, at least for a minute, terrified.

As I sat dazed on the grass, the laughter began bubbling from upstairs.

And then our cool, blond friend descended the stairs and boasted the classic “gotcha.” 

Yes, he got us, big time.  We hesitated to believe it though knew he was right.

He invited us back upstairs to explain his technique.

You see, it had all been planned. He had compatriots in the attic; they’d drilled a hole in the ceiling for the red liquid; they did the clanks and bumps.

But the windows … well, that was pure genius on his part.  If you know anything about old double-hung windows, you know that they are balanced by heavy, metal weights attached to ropes.  It’s a perfect system. You can raise and lower the window with ease, because the weights on the ropes will perfectly offset the weight of the window.

Yet, our friend’s genius was shorting the rope so that the gravity would make the weights “heavier” than the window itself.   Basically, the windows and weights were out of balance.

Normally, this would mean the weights would pull the windows wide open. But he drilled tiny holes, plugged by finishing nails attached to strings.  The nails held the windows closed and the weights out of balance; as soon as the nails were removed, the windows would fly open.

And that’s how he did it.  He tied string to the nails, and when the time came, the guys in the attic yanked on the strings, and up went the windows.

Illusion is powerful. This guy was a master. I wonder what he’s up to today?

I suspect a lot.

A fool and his laptop

(Photo at left … the Flint Hills of Kansas, taken with my iPhone yesterday.)

Okay, this is plain silly.

I am on furlough this week.  It’s the f-word in the workplace these days – a week away from work, without pay.

Newspapers and other companies have chosen this during the recession as a way to cut costs while avoiding more staff layoffs. I’m all for it. We’ve had to lose too many good people as it is.

But it’s proving to be an eye-opener for me.  I’ve never considered myself a workaholic … and I don’t think I am.  I enjoy my weekends, like to do stuff in the evenings, am hardly the early-riser-so-I-can-get-in-the-office-early kind of guy. So I’m no workaholic.

What I am, though – and this is a very painful conclusion – is an office-information addict.  Ugh.  Worse, it’s apparent that I don’t trust my staff enough to do what needs to be done while I’m not there.  Double ugh. The latter is entirely irrational, given their capabilities. 

Before I continue, I want to stress to my friends who are still seeking work after being laid off that my problem is a very nice problem to have.  I still have a job.  (At least, I expect to when I get back to the office next Monday.)

But here’s the deal: By law, when you’re on furlough, you’re technically laid off by the company. So, I’ve been laid off.  Yes, there’s the promise of my job come Monday.  But the fact that I’ve been laid off is sobering on its own.

Second, because the company can’t have it both ways – lay you off and not pay you for a week, yet expect you to keep on working from home or wherever – you can not have any contact with the workplace.  No email, no voicemail, no phone calls, absolutely none. Don’t even try to visit your office.

And that’s the rub. Especially with the advent of voicemail and, later, the Internet and laptop connections to the workplace, I have never – ever! – been out of touch with the office while physically being out of the office.

A weekend road trip?  I’d check my email in the hotel Saturday night.  Two weeks on the lake?  I’d admire the scenery … even blog about nature’s beauty.  But I’d also check my email and voicemail daily.  While in Ireland, visiting Meghan, my laptop would hum in the late hours as I checked email back home.

Worse, I now have an iPhone, fully capable of checking not just my work email but all of my email accounts 24/7.  Oh, how I use my iPhone!  It’s often the last thing I look at before sleep.

There are those of you who relish this connectivity.  I thought I did. 

But now that I can’t have it, it’s sobering – literally. I’m in withdrawal.  And, frankly, it disturbs me, because it demonstrates a huge loss of perspective on my part.

One part of me tells myself: “Well, guy, in the end you’re responsible to your boss for hitting your numbers.  So you shouldn’t apologize for wanting to know how it’s going while you’re away.”

That’s the devil speaking, I think.  Because the angel on my other shoulder is whispering: “Relax, let go.  You’ve hired good people, they know what they’re doing. They own the numbers, too. In the end, you’re not as important as you’d like to think. So accept that, and spend more time looking outside of work for what’s beautiful, real, important.”

Yesterday, my first furlough day, I drove west to Manhattan, Kansas, to visit son Zach at Kansas State.  I took the dogs, and he and I took them for a walk after lunch.  We caught up on how he’s doing.  I'm very proud of him and miss him.

I then headed further west to visit the U.S. Cavalry Museum at Fort Riley, traversing the Flint Hills to get there.

And they were gorgeous – vast rolling plains of rust-colored brown, with lines of trees of burnt orange, red and yellow.  The tree lines were like seams in a vast blanket.

I worked so very, very hard to soak up that beauty – to fill my heart and mind with it, in hopes of shoving aside any thoughts of the office.

It’s telling that I couldn’t do it.  Not completely.  Not yet.  But I'm working on it.

“My name is Doug.  I’m an office-information addict.”

“Hi, Doug!”

Pink shoes

I was driving the truck back to Kansas City from the trade show in Houston. Somehow, after my overnight stay in Dallas, I missed the turn north at I-45 and ended up farther west on I-35.

No big deal. It was dark and storm-filled that morning in Dallas; the traffic was a mess. Not a bad outcome, all things considered, since I-35 dances along the Flint Hills of Kansas – always a beautiful sight.

My delay out of Dallas, though, meant daughter Meghan and I wouldn’t be able to meet for lunch in Tulsa. So I was on my own clock.

As I neared Oklahoma City, I remembered I’d always wanted to stop at the site of "the Oklahoma bombing" – that horrendous day on April 19, 1995, when a non-descript guy named Timothy McVeigh drove an explosives-packed Ryder truck to the front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, parked it and walked away.

At 9:02 a.m., the truck and more than one-third of the building disintegrated into shards of glass, metal and cement dust. 

Killing 168.

It was America’s first major dose of contemporary political terrorism, this at the hands of the extreme right wing of the nation’s political culture – those who saw the events of Waco, Texas, and Ruby Ridge as a sure sign that America’s liberties were at risk. 

McVeigh, executed on June 11, 2001, believed as much. 

Today, the site is a remarkable memorial to the pain and destruction that rained down, literally, on this Oklahoma community as well as the nation.

I parked my truck on N.W. 5th Street, facing north. The memorial loomed ahead of me. It was raining slightly … had been all morning.

The nine-story building is gone now, of course, though foundation remnants remain – by design. In its place is a large, green field upon which sit nine rows of chairs, each chair representing one of the victims, each row representing a floor of the building. Because children were laughing and playing at the child-care center inside the building that morning, sixteen of the chairs are smaller than the rest.

McVeigh parked his truck directly under the child-care center.

Where once stretched N.W. 5^th Street upon which the Ryder truck sat, there is now a long, horizontal pool of water – placid, nary a ripple. Peaceful. And at each end of the memorial are the start and stop times surrounding the destruction: 9:01 and 9:03.

Of course, the destruction caused by the blast would go on for years ... goes on now.

After I walked around the memorial taking pictures, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go into the memorial’s museum. I have friends who did not go once they got here. But school children on tours were streaming in and out. Silly for me not to.

The museum is housed in the Journal Record building immediately north of the memorial. This building has been carefully maintained to show the damage caused by the enormous blast across the street. Layers of the building’s brick walls were lifted by the blast, and gravity slammed them back down – like layers of a cake. You can still see the cracks. The museum chose to leave one Journal Record office exactly as rescuers found it after the explosion. 

Inside the museum awaits an incredible, sobering journey. You take an elevator up, then move down floor by floor. At a key point at the start, you are ushered into a facsimile of a hearing room. And you listen to an actual recording of a permit hearing that went on that morning … the drone of the bureaucrat talking about the morning’s agenda.

At first, you don’t understand why you're in this room witnessing the conversation … and then you do. You know that you’ll soon hear the blast as it punched through the hearing room, hear the real screams of anguish and shock, then the silence.

I won’t go into the details of what follows as you emerge from that room. Just know it is wrenching, unimaginable, tortuous and so very, very sad. And yes, there’s tremendous anger, too.

On this day, school children were everywhere, moving from exhibit to exhibit, their attention spans incredibly short. Teachers, meanwhile, worked mightily to maintain a sense of decorum. At one film, the children would squirm, ready to run to the next station; the teachers would dab their eyes, fight back tears – perhaps they knew a victim.

I didn’t stay long – I couldn’t. It’s difficult in such a place to keep your emotions in check. The hardest stop for me was a room devoted to some of the victims and what they had with them that morning: their car keys, their wallets, their shoes.

I turned to the left at one point, and there in a glass case was a pink toddler’s shoe – the right shoe of one of the children in the day-care center. Her name was listed. The room spun a bit, and my eyes misted; the shoe was pure innocence colliding with the absolute evil of a twisted mind. “God!? …” I thought.

I remembered that Meghan wore such shoes; I wondered if I could even fathom sharing a shoe in such an exhibit.

As I left the museum, I walked by the fence where the public can still post memorials. Flags, personal messages, photos of victims adorn the chain link.

I then moved, again, past the site’s pool of water, looked again at the rows of chairs – the large ones and small. I thought of the pink shoe.

I wondered how many Americans have actually seen this site, have learned up close its painful lessons of intolerance and extremism. It’s distant Oklahoma, after all. Yet, in a sense this was our Sarajevo. It deserves attention. 

I climbed the long stairs to North Robinson Avenue, away from the memorial, and pulled myself back into the comforting isolation of the truck.

I took a deep breath … looked around the empty street.

And then, free now, I cried.

The break-in, Part 2

It seemed a useless expense, that door.  Not to mention an impediment to judicial efficiency.

I was sitting in the waiting room of the Johnson County District Attorney’s office in the Johnson County Courthouse, a blond-brick structure centered in Olathe.  I was summoned there by multiple subpoenas related to the break-in of my VW Beetle and other cars.

And every 15 to 20 seconds, the heavy metal door from the hallway into the waiting room would swing open, a cop or victim or office worker or vending-machine guy would pop through, and the door would SLAM! shut, rattling the walls.  SLAM!  SLAM!  SLAM!

And each time, we’d jump in our seats.

I would have killed for a doorstop.  Even in the D.A.’s office, I would have killed …

“We” were the small community of victims whose cars had been violated by an apparent small ring of car burglars. 

Their M.O. was always the same.  (If you know your cop shows, you know that M.O. stands for “method of operation.”)   The burglars would case a local gym – they seemed to prefer 24 Hour Fitness and Bally locations – spot a car that seemed promising, bust the windows, grab what they could inside, then split, all in a matter of seconds.

I counted five victims, plus myself, at this preliminary hearing.  We were there to testify, if necessary, that our car windows were smashed, personal goods taken, and hopefully project the anger to the judge that a crime victim typically feels.

We signed consent forms, then we marched as a group down to the courthouse a floor below.  It was kind of like old-home week, even though we didn’t know each other.  We shared a common experience, which made the conversations easier.

“Where’d your car get hit?”  “What’d they take?”  “What kind of car do you own?” “Do you have a car alarm?” “Did you turn it in to your insurance company?” “You prefer the elliptical or the treadmill?” “Does your gym smell as bad as ours?”

After we gabbed a bit in the hallway, an assistant D.A. handling the case emerged from the courtroom. She told us the odds were good the three perps would waive their rights to a preliminary hearing that day.

No, she didn’t use the word “perp.” I did. Interesting how an immersion into the criminal justice system makes you talk like you belong. Did you know cops call motorcycle officers “bucket heads?”  And a “homicide kit” is 12 donuts with an equal number of cups of coffee?  “Fat pills” also are donuts. A “Frankster” is a felony subject?  And a motorcyle is a “crotch-rocket.”

Imagine the conversations these officers have!  “Hey Bucket Head, me and my partner, we think that Frankster over there is the key perp in this case. Now hand me a fat pill from that homicide kit before I shoot the tires off your crotch-rocket.”

But I digress (a bad habit).  The A.D.A. then invited us into the courtroom, even though it was unlikely we’d have to testify.  She stressed that our trips to the courthouse weren’t  wasted – that the perps’ attorneys would see that the prosecutor had amassed a large group of willing-to-testify victims.  That, she explained, would convince the defense attorneys that it’d be smarter to seek a plea agreement rather than a trial.  More efficient for everyone.

We filed into the courtroom.  In the row ahead of us were eight different police officers from various jurisdictions, all sharing similar blue uniforms and crew cuts, also ready to testify.

And there, off to the right, stood the three perps.  Each handcuffed.  Each wearing prison garb featuring fat blue and white horizontal stripes. (Who designs prison garb? Are they Armani wannabes? How would they do on Project Runway?)

I won’t comment on the trio’s appearance, beyond a couple of points:  They were hardly intimidating … they seemed boyish, with quizzical smiles on their faces, amused by the proceedings. And they were small, as in short. Though I believe I already mentioned this was a small burglary ring.

Also, as I indicated in the first installment, if these were the guys who took my phone, they weren’t very bright, because they used it to place so many calls immediately after the theft.

In fact, we were told that they were arrested earlier on the car-burglary charges, then jailed, then were bonded out of jail, THEN immediately started knocking over cell-phone stores. 

What is it with these guys and cell phones?

Anyway, I’m trusting American justice to render a verdict and appropriate punishment.  It looks like us victims won’t be asked to testify.  The three indeed waived their rights to a preliminary hearing, which means they’re willing to admit to some fault in hopes of a lighter sentence.

All that said, one of the perps caught my attention.  He had bright red hair, seemed to be in his early 20s, and clearly had Eastern European roots.  His first name was Viktor.  He had a slight accent.

His face was cherubic, innocent. An immigrant gone bad?

Maybe. I’m guessing he was motivated by seeing so many cell-phone commercials on television … Sprint, Verizon, AT&T and more.  Then there are all of those iPhone ads pushing the latest apps.

It had to be phone envy.

We’ll know soon whether Viktor and his compatriots are locked up in a cell-phone-free cell for their alleged indiscretions. 

SLAM!

One part of me hopes so.  Another part looks at them and wishes they’d taken another path, especially in these tough times. 

It’s one thing to steal food to feed your family. It’s another, Viktor, to steal a phone to feed your street cred.

Oooh-ahhh!

I’ve been remiss about feeding this blog. Too busy of late, perhaps.  Ideas I have – plenty of them.  It’s the time that’s been scarce.

Not right now, though.  I’m back at the lake.  My sister, Linda, and I arrived on separate airplanes at O’Hare in Chicago, then we took a quick flight on a slender jet to arrive in Traverse City.

Mary Ann, sister No. 2, will arrive by car in an hour or so.

We’re here to close on the sale of the cottage.  That happens Monday, day after tomorrow. Today and Sunday, the cottage is still ours – still in the family.  Sure, we’ll be leasing it from the new owners – the National Park Service – for a year.  But that’ll be a twinge different. For the next 48 hours, it’s still truly ours.

It was striking flying in to Traverse City.  It had been years since I had done it, and then in the green sweep of summer.  Today, though, the trees were painted red, bright yellow, purple and ever-green - nature’s quilt, gathered and bunched against the deep blue of Traverse Bay.

We grabbed lunch, then drove the 23 miles northwest to the cottage, which sits on the south side of Glen Lake, just below Inspiration Point.

Typically by now, we’ve sealed the cottage for the winter. The power would be off, the dock pulled on shore, the windows locked tight. 

But this year is different.  We knew we’d be here to close the sale, yes.  But we’ve all thought of ways to extend our love of the place by planning off-season visits.  Personally, I’ll be back with Cindy, Meghan, Zach and the dogs over Thanksgiving.

It’s cold here now.  Not nasty cold … instead, a pleasant mid 30s.  But the cottage’s bones were stiff when we arrived.  We quickly started a fire and turned up the heat.  Our wood supply was low, so after Linda visited the grocery, I drove up by Empire Airport high atop the hills overlooking Lake Michigan.  I had remembered a roadside wood stand. 

“$4 a bundle,” said the metal sign.  You slide your bills into a rusty money box.  I bought four stacks.  It’s good wood … seasoned, slow-burning.

Though the sun shines and the lake remains its deep, crystal blue, just as in summer, the flecks of orange, red and yellow in the surrounding hills speak volumes of the season.  (That, and the giant inflated Halloween spider stuck on the side of Melba Ann’s Bakery at the Narrows.)

October at the cottage is so beautiful.  Sad to say we’ve rarely seen it, content instead to spend mainly summers here.  But October is the transition month on the aft side of the year – when summer yields to fall, yielding to winter.  Nature uses these splendid colors to celebrate that fact … quiet, slow-shooting fireworks extending from trunk to tree top, rippling in kaleidoscopic waves across the hills.

Next month, when we return, the trees will be muted, the temperatures frigid.  Perhaps there will be snow.  Animals will be fewer.

Then, we’ll rely more on the fire in the fireplace to brighten our souls. 

Today, though, we just need to look out the window and marvel at Nature’s pyrotechnics.

And say, “oooh … aaahh!”

The break-in, Part I

It was a dark night in the city that never sleeps.

Well, actually, they sleep a lot in Overland Park, Kansas. But it was dark. A cold, March night.

I was inside, in the gym, twirling my feet on the elliptical machine, listening to Tom Petty’s “Highway Companion” collection.

Outside, the two men moved fast … mighty fast. They dashed from their car and smashed the window on the driver’s side of my Beetle, the glass nuggets ricocheting within, nicking interior paint plus my seats and dashboard.

The dudes then grabbed my cell phone and L.L. Bean satchel, scooped out the change in the storage compartment under the armrest, ran back to their car and sped away. 

I’m guessing it took them 20 seconds, tops, to do the deed … the same time it takes Petty to sing his first line in “Saving Grace.”

(The photo at left ... my Beetle, at the scene of the crime today.)

Until then, I could count on two fingers the times I’ve personally been touched by the lawless element:

- Someone stole my criminal-justice textbook in college – thievery that was ironic, sure, but oddly fitting. After all, if you choose a life of crime, especially while in college, why not steal such a book! Good practice, plus good preparatory reading for the tribunals ahead.

- A few years later, while a buddy and I were on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, someone smashed in his car’s back window and took my camera. Why I didn’t have my camera with me I can’t recall. Given the rambunctious sights on Bourbon Street, it now seems negligent on my part.

But now a third strike – smashed glass, stolen goods, permanent scars on my trusty VW. On the scale of victimhood, I’ve gotten by easy, sure. But it still made me angry.

In New Orleans, where the city really does never sleep, the cops showed no sympathy. The officer, obviously impatient, ripped a sheet off a pad and handed it to me.

“Here’s a form to fill out, send it in and we’ll send you a report for your insurance.”

It was clear he had bigger fish to fry – a Creole gunfight to check out, perhaps, or something even more sinister in the lurid streets of the Big Easy.

“Any chance of catching the guy who did this, officer?” I asked, seriously.

The cop gave me one of those withering “what-an-idiot” looks, hopped in his car and left.

It was a far different story in Overland Park. After finding my car trashed, I went back inside, borrowed the gym’s phone, then called the cops. I also called my son Zach, who I knew would be home and could come help.

(A quick side story: I guess my family must think someday I’m going to have a heart attack and die at the gym. I reached Zach, who immediately drove over. But in so doing, I left the gym’s name on our caller i.d. at home. Cindy came home, found Zach unexpectedly gone with no note, then discovered what seemed evidence of an urgent call from the gym. “Doug’s dead!!” she reasoned.)

Very much alive, but very sweaty, I waited for the police outside. The officer arrived within minutes. He trained the police car’s headlight and floodlight on the violated Beetle. The car’s police radio barked in the background. It looked and sounded everything like a crime scene.

He was professional, courteous and very much on the case. He peppered me with questions: What was in the car? What’s missing? Did you see anyone suspicious when you parked? What’s your phone number? What kind of phone was it? Who’s this? (“My son.”) What’s his name? (“Zach,” though I’m thinking: “Why’s that relevant?”)

And still more questions: What was in the L.L. Bean bag? Does the bag have your address on it? Where can I reach you? Who does your hair? (No, he didn’t ask that last one, but by that point I wouldn’t have been surprised.)

Officer Efficient then told me to back away from the car. He grabbed a forensics bag, meticulously opened it on his car’s front hood, put on white, plastic gloves, walked to my car and started dusting it for prints. Inside, outside, with utmost care.

By this time I was shivering, so I sat in Zach’s car to get warm. Then it dawned on me … Officer Efficient actually hoped to catch the culprits who did this!

After about 20 minutes of intense CSI forensics, the officer was done. He explained that there’d been other, similar break-ins nearby. These guys are efficient, he said. (He should know.) “Fast. They break in fast, get away fast.

“We’ll let you know if we learn anything.”

We thanked the officer; I drove the wounded Beetle home, the heat cranked up to offset the open window.

Yes, these guys were fast.

But also … dumb.

You see, almost immediately after stealing my phone, they began to make calls to local acquaintances. A call to Independence, one to Bonner Springs. Another to Kansas City, Kan. I could imagine what they talked about, surely laughing as they did so. “Hey, dawg, I got some free minutes, man. I busted some Beetle over in O.P. town.”

We knew the calls happened because late that evening I checked our Sprint account on-line. We had called Sprint earlier to shut down service, and I was outraged – at first – to see that whoever took my phone had used it. Of course, it then occurred to me that the cops might like those phone records.

Officer E. had efficiently left me his business card, so I called the next day and offered to fax him the Sprint records. He was elated.

“We’ll let you know if we learn anything.”

Five months later, we arrived back from vacation in Michigan. There, waiting for me on the kitchen table, were multiple letters from the Office of the District Attorney, Tenth Judicial District, State of Kansas.

They were subpoenas. I’d been told to appear on behalf of the prosecutor in the cases of two men facing multiple counts of vehicular burglary and criminal damage to property.

“They got the bastards,” I thought.

I was excited … which surprised me.

Justice served? We shall see.

Next: Shall we gather by the courthouse? Carrot-topped Viktor, the rules of law and other D.A. surprises at the hearing.

Go, teams, go!

MANHATTAN, Kan. - How interesting that as one grows older, one’s college allegiances seem to expand.

My sister Linda and brother-in-law Dick are a good example.  And let’s see if I get this right:  They both studied at Purdue, met at IBM but ended up at the University of Illinois working for a bit; Dick then worked for the University of Kansas, then at Stony Brook University on Long Island. Dick now works at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.  (Linda decided to retire after a stint at Stony Brook.)

I was reminded of this while walking today with son Zach on the campus of Kansas State University.  You see, Zach enrolled at the University of Missouri a year ago, but it wasn’t quite what he expected.

So he moved to K-State this fall; he loves it. It's a great place ... the school is pretty amazing.

As we walked the campus, we caught the spirit.  If you don’t know, K-State’s primary color is purple. You see it everywhere here – on police cars, on trash cans, on liquor-store signs promoting the new purplish Bud Light cans.  As you’d expect, we proudly donned new shirts that were as purple as a grape. 

This also meant adding another favorite school to my list.  This list is important, because the fall football schedule is heating up. 

Here’s how I now stand as a fan: First, I love the Fightin’ Scots of The College of Wooster in Ohio, where I started as a freshman; then there’s the University of Illinois, where I transferred and earned my journalism degree. There’s also the University of Missouri, because we have family ties there; plus Rockhurst University, where I earned an MBA; then the University of Tulsa, where daughter Meghan earned her geology degree.

And now, big-time, K-State.

Oh, I better throw in the University of Kansas, because I know some grads from there, plus KU is everywhere in Johnson County, Kansas, where we live.  

And maybe I should throw in University College Cork in Ireland, where Meghan spent a semester.  Plus Michigan State, because we vacation up there; and oh, the University of Wisconsin, because we lived in Milwaukee for a bit (and that’s where Meghan was born).

Then there are the “Fightin’ Roos” of the University of Missouri-Kansas City.  I’ve been swimming in the Kangaroos’ pool for exercise since arriving in town in ’87. (“Above Water,” remember?)

Goodness!!  I could go on …

I’m sure this is pretty typical.  As folks move around the country, they get exposed to new schools, new teams, etc.

Then again, a lot of folks decide on one school above others.  They become not just fans, but exclusive, flagrant fans.

I guess that’s okay.  For me, though, I take my victories when I can.  Any statistics guy will tell you that, the more teams in the mix, the better the odds of seeing a win on the ESPN scoreboard.

And the fact is, each one of these teams has a firm hold on a portion of my heart.  To elevate one over the other would be unjust.

So (big breath) …

Go Scots! Go Illini!  Tigers, too! 

Fly, you Hawks!

Blow ‘em down, you Golden Hurricanes!

Wildcats – scratch and claw!

Jayhawks?  Uh … better just listen to the big guy, Mangino.

Spartans! Slay those foes!

Take a big bite, you Badgers!   

'Roos … well, just bounce a lot.

Which leaves University College Cork.  I couldn’t find a team name for the Cork clan. So I’ve settled for “Corksters.”  

Probably not the best.  But then again, I can hear the burly chant now on those Irish “football” fields of green:

“Bottle up them boys, lads, bottle up ‘em tight.  Screw ‘em down tight, lads, before it becomes the night.

“’Cause we’re the Corksters from County Cork, where the Blarney Stone sits nigh.

“So by God we’ll be corkin’ their souls, ‘til we kiss their a - - - -  goodbye.”

Doesn’t quite have the ring of “Rock Chalk, Jayhawk.” 

But it makes the point.

The forever waves

We’re back at the lake again, here for just a few days.  So I’m writing this while sitting lakeside, the wind heavy on my back.   (Cindy's photo caught me talking to Meghan on my cell.  Ah, technology!) 

It had been a quiet visit until yesterday.  The lake was calm; wildlife that rarely appeared seemed to pop up more often – the blue heron, a pileated woodpecker, deer.  Plus the usual ducks. 

Part of the quiet was the absence of neighbors, especially those to the east, whose youngsters like to beep boat horns first thing in the morning. The busy tourist season here runs only to mid August.  After that, cabin dwellers are pulled home by the obligations of school and work. 

Sometimes that’s good. Nature’s residents then seem to take over. We marveled at the quiet.  At their quiet – the ducks' soft quack, the seagulls' distant call, the hum of the pair of hummingbirds.

Yesterday, though, a squall moved in from the north.  The rains fell, not in big drops, but in thin, diagonal curtains pushed hard by the wind.  It was a raw rain, accompanied by colder temperatures. 

Last night, I struggled to catch a fire in the fireplace; the winds were so stiff that the smoke puffed back down the chimney into my face.  We soon realized, based on the smokey clouds that soon hid the ceiling, that our fire alarms needed new batteries.

Eventually the fire blazed and the chimney warmed, creating a strong up-draft.  The cottage stayed comfortable … and yes, smoke-free.

It’s on such nights that I sleep best.  Outside, the winds howl; the water becomes a black frenzy of white caps. Inside, the waves soothe as they methodically come ashore, the sound muffled by the partly closed window. You can hear the broader ones march down the shoreline’s length, from west to east, echoing along the way - like quiet thunder rippling across a landscape.

Okay, a confession:  I need what’s known as “white noise” to sleep. Usually it’s a fan blowing in the summer; in winter, a humidifier.  When I have neither, and its loudly quiet, I turn to an “ap” on my iPhone that offers a variety of soft sounds – crickets, surf, trains, rain, etc.  Crickets are best.

But last night’s lake sounds were pure bliss. 

I’m reminded of trips to the ocean shore, sure.  But more than that, the surf is the cottage’s most tell-tale sound of place and purpose.  After all, the cottage exists precisely where it is – and holds so many memories - because the lake is a mere 50 feet beyond its door. 

Absent the lake, it would be a four-room, squat structure of little significance. Certainly Dad and Mom wouldn’t have bought it back in 1974.

It's a sign of summer's end that the winds this time blew from the north, bringing cold.  You can see the clues in a variety of ways:  Some trees already are ever-so-slightly turning color; the locals seem wistful about the coming fall.

As for us, we’re here because it’s Cindy’s 50^th birthday.  What better place to celebrate. Monday, we will hike the dunes all the way to Lake Michigan – a tortuous journey up slippery sand and down.  It’s our poke in the eye to the AARP and all the others who hasten the notion of “getting older.” 

   

You see, the cottage becomes a measure of time for us.  We were newlyweds here. We’ve seen our children grow here.  Today, we celebrate an important birthday.

Tomorrow?  Well, we know the cottage will be purchased, then eventually knocked down, so nature can regain its grip on this little plot of lakeshore. 

But the lake, and the pound of its waves, will endure.  Far beyond our own time.

There’s something very comforting in that. 

Paste, 55 and counting

Folks who follow the occasional nonsense on this blog know that I’m a fan of Paste Magazine.

It’s a great publication. Each month it gathers what its staff thinks are some of the more interesting new songs, mainly from Indie artists, and packages them in a sampler.

As a subscriber, I used to get the sampler as a CD in each issue. Now I get it as a download – Paste’s way of saving money.

Paste, in fact, has been forced to be a bit creative as it wrestles with the economic downturn. Advertising is way down, so Paste reduced the dimension of its magazine while also asking its fans to donate small sums so it could weather its cash-flow crisis.

I donated … and I think Paste will make it. I, and thousands of other subscribers, hope so.

But Paste is a topic today because Sampler No. 55 just arrived. It’s really good.

I’ve subscribed now for 13 issues – so 13 samplers. The first sampler I received remains the most magical for me, because it helped me learn about a range of music I’d been oblivious to for years. It also came at a time when I was just being taught how to share music.

But No. 55 has to be one of my favorites since. On it are 21 songs, most of which are simply great. Economists talk about “little green shoots” popping up here or there … economic statistics that show a slow rebirth of the economy. I liken this song collection to Paste’s own springtime -- a resurgence of spirit timed with a surge of fresh material, just when we thought Paste’s dark nights were going to continue.

So what’s on No. 55? A rich mix of rock, blues, country, folk.

Some favorites:

- “Highs and Lows” by Mindy Smith: Nashville has created a lot of female country artists who are so twangy it hurts, but Mindy leaves twang at the door. This is from her new album, “Stupid Love.”

- "To Kingdom Come” by Passion Pit: Ah, youth. Okay, the music video’s kind of hokey – love those mustaches! – but the music is solid and original. The keyboard work is, well, key.

- “The Walls Are Coming Down” by Fanfarlo: This United Kingdom band is full of fun … besides the usual guitar, drums, etc., you’ll hear horns, chimes, glokenspiels and more. But the lead vocalist is notable. A mature voice in a young lad.

- “Days Like This” by Kim Taylor: This Ohio artist calls her stuff country/soul. It is. What makes it work is her slight, just-a-bit rough voice and beautiful guitar work.

- “Coal War” by Joshua James: James is from Lincoln, Neb. – heartland boy! -- but resides now in Utah. He credits his folk style to something between Dylan and Neil Young. Paste swoons over this guy’s new album. As it should. Coal War has a negro-spiritual quality to it.

- “Song Up in Her Head” by Sarah Jarosz: No. 55 seems replete with country influences, this one included. But Sarah’s a young 18, a product of the Austin, Texas, scene. She learned the piano at 6 and the mandolin at 10; her voice, though, belies her youth – confident and rich

- “Ancestors” by Throw Me the Statue: This Seattle group got its name from a mix tape that band leader Scott Reitherman created for a friend. What’s fun in this tune is the lead guitar – a flipped-out backdrop to some good vocals.

- “Three Days in Bed” by Holly Williams: More country, but in this case a Paris fantasy involving a little danger and risk-taking, as she describes it. The lyrics are haunting; the tune also.

And there are a bunch of others in this mix, including Shawn Colvin doing a version of “Crazy.” Folks know Gnarls Barkley’s take on this tune best, but Colvin’s live version takes it in a different direction.

Paste – good for what ails you!

A brush with the mountain devil

“Now, you watch out for that cougar,” I was told.

Normally such words make you stop and reconsider a placid walk in the woods. Not then, though.

We’re up in Michigan now, at the cottage. Last night, I took the dogs for a walk along their favorite road. It’s a tree-canopied, isolated stretch of dense woods impassable during winter. But during summer, it’s a dog’s delight.

The cougar warning actually was made a few years back, as a send-off to the same walk with the same dogs along the same stretch.

That day’s walk could have ended so badly. It didn’t, which is testimony to luck, patience and the mysteries of a dog’s instinct.

First, the road. It’s single-lane and sand-covered, enveloped by tall, thinnish trees of towering green leaves and needles. The woods on either side are so tight-knit, the sun’s rays barely slip through. When they do, they project stark, spotty shadow puppets on the road, tree trunks and thickly-carpeted ground.

The road connects two county highways. Locals use it as a shortcut, though rarely.

The dogs – Linus and Riley – love it because of the freedom they have to run, plus the earthy smells of decaying wood, wet leaves and, probably, animals that foraged nearby.

On the day of my cougar warning, the three of us set out for a quick walk. We were to head back to Kansas City within hours, so this was the last chance to enjoy the road before a long trip in the car.

All along the lake, word of the cougar sighting had spread. Our neighbor to the west, whose cabin sits hard by the forest, thought he’d heard its fierce growl. (The sound of a cougar is indeed frightening. Try it.) Others heard of others who had heard of others who had actually seen it.

“Cougar!” Also known as the puma, mountain lion, mountain devil, the red tiger.

It wasn’t quite cougar-frenzy along the lake, but it was close. After all, we’re used to more docile wildlife up here – deer, the frisky beaver, occasional ducks, garbage-loving raccoons. Perhaps the geese are the most aggressive, but only if the dogs taunt them first.

A cougar, though – why, that’s serious stuff. Stealthy, strong, fast, with big teeth and sleek eyes … a capable and deadly hunter.

With that context, we began our walk. The dogs lept out of the car and raced up the road. I followed along.

Here I need tell of the two dogs’ different natures. Linus, the terrier mix, is small, quick, feigns to be fearless and is always on the hunt. On our walks, he immediately jumps off the road into the dense woods, occasionally popping out to look back to make sure I’m still in sight.

Riley, the Golden Retriever, sticks to the road. She races ahead about 50 feet, turns around, and races back to my side. Then does it again … and again. Rarely does she venture into the growth, and usually then only behind Linus.

All seemed fine this time. I was walking fast for exercise, though I was alert because of the alleged cougar sighting. Indeed, the road seemed more threatening this time – like I was Dorothy with my dogs Toto. “Lions, tigers, bears … ”

Oh my!

“Where’s Linus?” I asked Riley, who had just bounded back, sloppy tongue flopping about. I realized I hadn’t seen Linus the last three minutes or so.

I looked south, to where we were going, then north, to where we’d been. No sign of him. I listened hard, over Riley’s panting, for some snatch of Linus rustling through leaves.

Silence.

“Liiinuss!” I yelled. The forest soaked up the sound. I yelled again – this time, more urgently: “Linus … come here, now!!”

Nothing. No movement, no rustling … nothing.

Riley began to whine, sharing my concern. And I began to panic.

The cougar! I could imagine it had swiftly moved behind the woods’ shadows, following our trek south step by step. It would be silent … that’s its nature. And it would size up the dinner opportunities:

• The noisy man, arms flailing as he walked. "No, the meat would be too tough and gamey."
• The red dog, then? "No, it’s big and might put up a fight." (If the cougar only knew …)
• So the small dog? "Yes. He's only bite-size, but the convenience … he will come to me."

That was it, I thought. The cougar had Linus.

Okay, even at best, Linus was merely lost. But that was a huge problem. I had no cell phone. I couldn’t leave to get help. Linus might return, find me gone, then race through the woods in search of the cottage a mile away.

Plus we needed to head home. How could we get in the car without Linus and drive 16 hours to Kansas City knowing he might be wandering the Michigan northwoods alone? If the cougar hadn’t gotten him now, it surely would then. Imagine the torture of that trip …

I yelled some more … on and on for 15 minutes at least. I strained my ears over Riley’s whining in hopes of hearing twigs snap or the shuffle of leaves.

My despair grew by the second.

Then behind me – small, short, rapid-fire panting. I turned. There, looking up with wide, panicked eyes was Linus, clearly out of sorts.

“Linus!!,” I yelled, my voice a mix of anger and relief. “Where have you been?!!” My shouts compounded his panic. He knew he screwed up, big time. He looked frazzled, exhausted, now confused by my outburst.

Where he’d been is still a mystery. My guess is he did indeed get lost. Perhaps he picked up an animal scent, bounded ever-deeper in the woods, then suddenly found he couldn’t see his way out.

I suspect my yelling brought him home.

Of course, he might have encountered the cougar, and in a show of fierce bravery and loyalty, somehow convinced the cat to shop for dinner elsewhere.

I’d like to believe that. But I don’t think so. Because ever since that walk, Linus sticks closer to me. He ventures into the woods, yes, but perhaps 10 feet or so and no more. That was the case last night.

A true cougar-slayer, like a good scout, would fearlessly guard our flank along the cougar’s path, which we know is deep and beyond sight.

No, I think instead that Linus realized his limits that day.

I’m okay with that.

Linus is, too.

(To see more photos of the road, click here.)