A salute, Captain!

I owned a skateboard before most kids knew what they were.

I don’t say that with pride.  I really never got into the sport. I remember trying it out a few times on the neighbor’s long driveway up the road. I was maybe 8 years old.

I’d step aboard, squat low – my butt like a duck’s, my arms flapping, flailing, waiting for gravity to pull me downhill.

And I’d begin to roll, first inches, then feet, then yards, ever faster, now the wind in my ears … until my wheels would catch on a small dip in the asphalt. Or on a twig. Or a blade of grass. Even an ant.

It wouldn’t take much.

And I’d fly off, my arms really flapping now. Rarely would I land on my feet. I reached the driveway’s end maybe two times.

Santa-like to sailor-salty

How I got that skateboard, though, now that’s the story.

“Come on aboard, boys and girls!” 

He wore a captain’s hat and four gold bars on his sleeves. He had silver-gray hair and a handlebar mustache to match, both fake.

He was Captain 11, and we were on his riverboat.

Well, we were actually on the TV set of “Captain 11’s Showboat” … at KPLR-TV, Channel 11, in St. Louis. It was my first time on TV; I was a little nervous.  I was there with a birthday group, I believe.  Not my birthday, but a friend’s. 

The place was amazing. Giant klieg lights hung from the ceiling. Two cameras stood in front of us, as big as horses, their lenses like portholes.

At the back of the set was a floor-to-ceiling backdrop showing the Mississippi River. If I recall, it was on some kind of endless loop, so it looked like we were floating down the river’s mighty course.

In front of it was a long bench.  That’s where we would sit.

Off the set, on a wall, there was a large horizontal window. It was black behind it. A short set of stairs led to a door to its right. I assumed that was the station’s control room.

Captain 11 was our hero.  Like Corky the Clown and Texas Bruce – other TV hosts of other St. Louis kid shows – he introduced us to quality television programming. In this case, The Three Stooges.

“Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck!” 

Loved those guys.  Still do.

We filed in, and the captain gave us some quick instructions … to pay attention to the “On the Air” sign, to not speak unless spoken to, to stand quietly.  He was all business. He also was a bit grouchy.

Oh, on the air he was just fine. The sign would light up, and his voice would boom Santa-like “ho, ho, ho’s” as he welcomed the TV audience.  He’d interview a few of us, starting with the birthday boy, I think.

It’d go something like this. 

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Billy.”

“Billy, Billy … like a billy goat! Ho, ho, ho!”

Or:

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, Jimmy … well, Jiminy Cricket!  Ho, ho, ho!”

His schtick was a stitch, even to us kids. We loved it.

But off camera … well, Captain 11 became a sort of Captain Bligh. 

Not that us kids were even thinking of mutiny. But I wondered about the poor guys behind the big, black window.

You see, whenever we went to a commercial or a Stooges break, the captain would hurl invective at the window like a cannon blast off the port bow.  I don’t recall the specific words, but the captain’s language went from Santa-like to sailor-salty.

Why?  He seemed angry about something … at one point he even stormed up those steps, leaving us leaderless as the boat headed downriver.

We all sat frozen on the bench, our mouths agape. It was Jekyll-Hyde come to TV.

Which gets us to the skateboard.  The captain when nice would give away things to the kids. There’d be a drawing, resulting in one or two lucky winners on each show.  Today’s prize was the skateboard. 

Back on the air now, he held it in front of the cameras … it was bright red, with “Roller Derby” painted in white on top.  The wheels were silver steel, thin compared to the wheels on boards today. 

The skateboard itself was narrow … not more than 5 inches wide, I’m guessing. (I found a picture of one on-line, lower right.) Again, far narrower than today’s surf-sized skateboards.

Most of us had never seen a skateboard before.  It was gleaming, marvelous.

“Doug?  Where’s Doug?  Doug as a bug in a rug.  Ho, ho, ho!”

I won!! 

I jumped from the bench and walked to the captain as he held the skateboard high. I was elated, though I couldn’t help wondering if he might smack me on the head with it.  You know, given his mood. Like Moe might whack Larry. 

It's the one in the middle

Regardless, the cameras were trained on us … just the two of us. I was definitely on TV, in the spotlight! Only then did I notice his hat was a different color from his jacket.  But it didn’t matter; the show was in black and white.

“Here you go, Doug.  Ho, ho!  It’s a skateboard! Now you be careful!”

And I was.  I eventually realized my limits on that driveway.  The board sat unused for years.

Since, I’ve learned that Captain 11 was also a much-loved radio personality in St. Louis, Harry Fender.  Harry’s stints on KXOK and KMOX were glamorous ones … hosting live radio at the classy Chase Park Plaza Hotel, where he interviewed Hollywood stars and other glitterati.  He also did a live big-band show.

Maybe that was why he was grumpy.  Being Captain 11 was kind of a step down.  I mean, if it was me, which would I prefer?  The bogus mustache, wig, mismatched uniform and snotty kids? Or the tuxedo-and-bow-tie scene and the chance to rub elbows with Greta Garbo?

But I guess back then showbiz was hard to come by in St. Louis. A job was a job was a job.

Or maybe he was just having a bad day.

Today I salute the captain. He made us laugh, helped us love the Stooges and taught me an important lesson: You don’t mess with gravity. 

Not a bad legacy at all.

Oh, and because of him I can also say "nyuck, nyuck."

Not so blue Sky

This won’t take long. After all, it’s the eve of the Big Day.  Still much to do … packages to wrap, dogs to walk, firewood to bring in, Christmas tunes to hum.

It took Sky about 24 hours.

We're grateful for silent nights.

Of uncertainty. Of quiet.

But Sky’s always been a bird of confidence and resolution.  Since young, he’s loudly proclaimed, “I am here.”  His song is hard to describe.  Not simply a warble.  Unlike Sarah’s, whose quiet chirp rarely rose to full refrain, Sky’s full-throated onslaught is deafness a-comin’. 

Five years ago, we started the two birds in the TV room.  Then we moved them farther back in the house, to the sunroom, because they – mainly Sky – grew too vocal when the TV sound cranked up. 

It was especially bad during movies.

Mel Gibson’s William Wallace would ride into battle, and Sky would cheer. Harry Potter would zig and zag in chase of the quidditch snitch; Sky would zig, zag, too, but his tune would soar above even Harry and his broom – many octaves at least. 

Even during a movie’s tenderest moments – like, say, when the hero finds love – Sky would butt in with his own Hallelujah Chorus.

So when Sarah died, I think we all were on pins and needles.  It was Meghan who suggested Monday night that we bring Sky back to the TV room.  But, selfish, yes, we also knew such a move risked our movie-time sanity.

I’m happy to say Sky has remained in the sunroom and seems his old self.  Yes, he still flits his head back and forth, up and down, searching.  There’s still a void there.  And I imagine the dark nights are lonely for him.

But so far each morning, when I remove the cover from his cage, he’s joyfully greeted the light with high-pitched fervor, with his own Ride of the Valkyries.  And it goes on all day.

As I write this, I’m at the west end of the house.  Sky is nearer the east end.  There are  between us three rooms, a stair, a long hallway, a bend around the corner, and another room.

Sky is singing. And bless him … I can hear every note. 

Would that Sarah could, too.

A song after Sarah

We lost Sarah tonight.

She passed peaceably. But still, after five years of chirps and feathers rustling, of boisterous chitchat between her and mate Sky, it was far more than just a moment.

It was sad … doubly so, just ahead of Christmas.

From left, Sky and Sarah.

I feel most for Sky.

We found Sarah and Sky at a pet shop when I became enamored of finches after watching a half dozen live in a large cage at my mother’s assisted-living center.

I marveled at the birds.  They were quite social, yet their soft chirps fit well with the emotions I was feeling at the time: a need for calm, for quiet energy, a reaffirmation of life’s joy as I faced down the challenges ahead for my mother.

We named the finches Sky and Sister Sarah after a favorite Broadway show, “Guys and Dolls.”  We bought a cage and food.  The dogs were curious, but the cage was located high enough that they never quite knew what was going on “up there.”

From the beginning Sarah seemed the weaker of the two, though smarter.  Sky was clumsy and loud … always a beat behind … but full of life.  

Early on I adopted a whistle.  I’d make the noise, and the birds would respond.  They’d jump from their nest and sing their songs. I don’t know how much of it was them responding to me or responding simply to the shrill call.

Yet tonight, much older now, Sarah was in her nest breathing heavily.  And I whistled.  She replied with a soft cheap.  And then she painfully pulled herself from the nest, landed on the feeder and attempted to grab some seed.

That’s how I left her.  Two hours later when I returned, she was stiff at the bottom of the cage, her eyes open.

I removed her, her body still warm, and buried her in the back yard near our other past critters.  The dogs watched, fascinated by the little parcel of Sarah wrapped in paper towels.

It’s Sky we worry about now.  Sky and Sarah had been together almost 2,000 days.  They’d slept side by side in their reed nest, then they’d wake together, then go about the business of the day.  Always talking.

And now they are only one.  Tonight, as I bid goodnight, Sky’s eyes darted up and down, left and right, in search of his white-feathered mate. Sky’s song was now silent … and he seemed two-thirds his size.  This rambunctious, proud, loud bird was now mute. Unsure.

Tomorrow we consider bringing Sky’s cage into our TV room, where we like to congregate. Experts say there are two choices when one finch dies … introduce a new, younger finch, though sometimes the older finch rejects the new blood.  Or communicate more with the surviving finch, so that they see you as part of their flock.

We’re going to try the latter. My chance to be a bird.

Meantime, I’m taught again that we humans rarely consider the range of emotions animals can feel.  Sure, experts sometimes like to minimize the comparison, arguing, for example, that humans can reason while animals can not. 

Yet the loss that Sky feels seems just as legitimate, just as compelling as you or I would feel in identical circumstances.  Sarah’s chirps, her body’s warmth of 2,000 days, leave a void that Sky must somehow surmount.

Tomorrow we’ll see if Sky sings.  If he doesn’t, then his spirit clearly has been broken.

I think he will. ‘Tis Christmas, after all.

Star of wonder

Stars are incredible things. No, not celebrities.  I’m talking about stars – those marvelous spheres of burning gases that have shined above us for eons long before Tinseltown’s Earth-bound notables even considered themselves, well, stars.

And they’re all a bit unsettling.  Scientists tell us of their origins, although even these smart guys aren’t always sure. We know they’re truly alive, ever expanding, volatile.  And yet stars seem stoic.  They shine down, silently shout their existence, but remain locked in position from year to year, decade to decade, century to century.

Dependable, comforting, they are. Why else would we set our lives to our own star’s schedule every day?

My son Zach got me a star. Last year, at Christmas.  Like George Bailey offering to rope in the moon for Mary in “It’s A Wonderful Life,” Zach threw a lasso up and, just like that, pulled down Pisces RA Oh 43m 19s D 21˚17.31”. 

He nailed a name on it, “Windsong,” after the Michigan cottage.

It’s in the Pisces constellation … two fish, connected, floating between Aquarius to the west and Aries to the east. So fitting for the cottage.

I won’t belabor the passing of Windsong.  Done that.  But Zach’s gift was pretty special.

Sure, he and I both recognize the gift for what it was … sold through an Illinois company that has no official sanction from the scientific community.  My star is registered officially as “Windsong,” but only with this company; astronomers around the world could care less.  Actually, that’s not true. They tend to get their undies in a bunch about the very idea.

But that’s just noise to me.  I think the guy who started the business was brilliant. Reminds me of the family in Kansas that will ship you tumbleweeds as gifts. A way to bring the Wild West home.

“If they don’t tumble, we don’t sell them!” is their motto.

That’s because we need our stars … to inspire us, to pry us from our TVs and computers at night and make us look out – and up. And then soak in the miracle of what we see. You become so small at moments like that, and yet your heart swells – “three sizes that day” – as you realize you’re part of a very special order.

‘Tis the season for stars, of course. The Star of Bethlehem takes center stage at this time of year. “O Star of wonder, star of night ….”  And while astronomers debate whether it was truly a star or a comet or a meteor or nothing at all – my, they can be grumpy! – the Christian world, at least, accepts this star for what it always will be … a symbol of hope, peace and joy.

Bless them.  Because that’s exactly what stars should be.

Said Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh: “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” 

So thank you, Zach.  Thank you for Pisces RA Oh 43m 19s D 21˚17.31”.

My Windsong.

And to those who read this, ‘tis the season … to venture out on a cold, clear night.  To find your star, throw your lasso up, haul it in. Nail a name on it. And fling it back.  It’s yours. 

And then each night, give it a kind wink of “hello!”

And dream.

Merry Christmas.

Beauty and the rain

BELLINGHAM, Wash. - There are in this country distant edges that few Americans reach … where the people are scarce but the landscape is rich.

Northern Michigan is such a place. So, too, is Vermont.

Meghan and the San Juan Islands

And along the Pacific Ocean, there’s Northwestern Washington.

We’re visiting this week, thankful on Thanksgiving that daughter Meghan has moved to this verdant area to do graduate work at Western Washington University. We flew up Thanksgiving morning – Zach, Cindy and myself.

I’ve had brief glimpses before of the Northwest. We came to Seattle in 1995 for a convention and enjoyed tourist spots like Pike Place and, remarkably, five days of sun.

Then there was a trade show in Portland, Ore., in 2008, where the highlight – actually, a true joy – was a visit to Multnomah Falls. And a friend who lives in Bremerton, Wash., sends occasional photos via Facebook of his favorite Pacific Coast hiking spots. All so stunning.

But those were and are mere glimpses of the beauty this area holds. A closer look this week during hikes and other travels revealed not only white-faced mountains and massive, moss-covered trees that pierce the sky, but carpets of soft pine needles, blankets of green ferns, the smooth shadowy beauty of bay islands distant to the west and pure glacial streams where the salmon run free.

Yes, water … so much water.

Bellingham, just 30 miles south of the Canadian border, has all of those things, and much more.

The city, which started as a fishing, logging and coal-mining community, today often appears on those “Best Places” lists … best place to live, to retire, to re-create yourself. I especially understand the last one. It seems ideal for redefining one’s life – to slow down, reassess and, if necessary, begin again.

That’s because there’s a mellowness here despite all the coffee. People mind the speed limit, almost to a fault. There’s a quiet, cheerful confidence that abounds. Called the “City of Subdued Excitement,” Bellingham seems to embrace this nickname, not with embarrassment but with a quiet chuckle.

And while residents of other cities fight nature toe to toe – we curse the snow because it slows our commute, despise the hot because it burns our grass, fear rain because it floods our basements – here, life meets nature in a splendid dance.

Meghan and fiance Eric, tree huggers

“Green” in Bellingham isn’t some hot new branding technique embraced by Madison Avenue. It’s a way of life.

Ahh, you ask. But what about all that rain … and so little sun?

“Here comes the rain again,

falling on your head like a memory.”

Yeah, the song was originally done by the Eurythmics, but it's  enthusiastically sung by Death Cab for Cutie, a Bellingham indie band.

All the rain is true, although mainly in these colder months. But life carries on. You won’t find umbrellas here, because you’d be opening and closing them 50 times a day. The rain seems to come in small, gentle waves – often just a mist. So a hat, scarf, good water shoes and some sweater-coat-hoody combination will do.

There’s pride in the rain – it is nature’s sustenance, and so it is everyone’s.

Certainly, none of these attributes is unique to Bellingham. Much the same is said about Portland, Seattle and the rest of the Northwest. But Bellingham seems a microcosm of this region’s relaxed style.

Cindy and I talk a lot about a transition plan and other places to put down roots. We’re certainly not at the Bucket List stage of our lives, but we’ve been planted in the central part of the country since birth. We think change would eventually do us good.

And so we came to Bellingham with eyes wide open, not necessarily to consider this city our next stop. But certainly to consider the Northwest.

On the Fragrance Lake trail

Interestingly, we measure each new place against the yardstick of Northern Michigan and our beloved Glen Lake.

Meghan and Zach both commented when they first arrived that Bellingham reminded them of that home away from home … beautiful water, tall evergreens, cottages dotting shorelines.

It’s comforting that there are other places like Glen Lake.

It’s telling that it is so very hard to let Glen Lake go.



(Click here to see Fragrance Lake, up close and personal!)

The Great Apple Wars

It’s fall and apple-picking time.

Reminds me of the war zone we called our back yard while growing up.

First, the scene: As youngsters, I and neighbors Mikey, Bill, Tommy and Johnny made a habit of playing “army” in the back yard. We’d wield plastic guns, rubber knives, hollow toy hand grenades with the heft of a wiffle ball. It was not unusual.  Many kids still do it.

But our battleground included the entire southern half of our block … patches of territory separated by hedgerows and wire fences, all under the thick canopy of towering trees. For us, raised on the TV hit “Combat,” it was our own French field of fire.

But in the late summer and fall, things got serious.  Next door to the east were a couple of apple trees long abandoned by their owner.  By August and September, they would produce tight, round, green bullets perfect for throwing.  And just like when we shed our plastic weapons for bottle rockets around July 4^th, we eagerly took up J. Appleseed's ammo by Sept. 1st.

Military strategists know that as threats escalate, so must defenses.

So it was with us. We’d long ago learned our lesson: These green beauties can sting like a bee if they zip through the air and reach a leg, arm or your butt.

Take one on the head? Guaranteed shiner.

So we’d pad up. I remember Johnny favored shoulder pads and a football helmet. Tommy the same, though his helmet was the old leather style worn by some ancient gridiron great. Don’t know where he got that.

Me?  I had an old shell of an actual World War II helmet that I wore with pride … though it was about two sizes too big.  It fell off every time I’d reach down for a new apple.

But the best defense was something we called “the trench.”

A pause for gratitude: My folks tolerated a lot from me while growing up. Spook houses in the basement; spook houses in the attic; life-size Gemini spaceship mockups made of old chairs and sheets; a miniature golf course in the front yard involving scalped grass, leftover boards from the basement and the digging of nine strategically placed, 4-inch holes.

And the backyard “trench.” The word doesn’t do it justice.  Each year, we would spend multiple weekends with shovel and spade digging a hole at the back end of our lot to a depth not seen since Verdun. Only when we could stand up, our heads just clearing the surface, would we consider it deep enough.

As for surface dimension, it was always longer than wide … I’m guessing 6 x 3 foot.  And we’d cover the bulk of it with plywood, though we'd also leave a hole large enough for one of us to pop up, hurl an apple, and quickly hunker down again.

It was impenetrable. During the Great Apple Wars of Hawthorne Avenue, it was a game-changer.

Now, naturally, my parents’ tolerance for this backyard chasm had its limits. So we’d have to fill it back up each year once Armistice was reached.

But in the digging and filling, we learned a lot about the geology of that spot of ground.

Rumor had it that it was once a sinkhole – a place of mystery, really.  The word was that earlier owners of our house would toss junk into it. The hole then, like the toothy sand-pit monster of Star Wars, would suck down the trash, presumably to the depth of the Earth’s molten core, and render the rubbish to liquid.

It’s at least partly true. Although we never felt the hole’s vacuum grip as we dug, the digging was always easy, and on occasion we’d uncover an old tea pot, a busted tool or a rusty pie plate.

But the real prize was uncovered many years later.  I didn’t witness this but was told about it by my parents' neighbors.  The new owners of our house apparently were having some work done back there. And the ground burped up a hand grenade. 

Not the plastic sort.  A real one … vintage World War II.

This caused all sorts of consternation on the sleepy block.  The fire department and police were called. I believe the news crews, too.  I don’t recall whether the city of Webster Groves had a bomb squad –  doubt it – but they successfully removed it without a boom.

We speculated that our Uncle Bob might have dropped the grenade into the pit. Before we moved in, Bob had frequented the house quite a bit. He also was a World War II vet, and he had the no-nonsense personality to seek quick solutions to troublesome problems.

What to do with an old souvenir hand grenade?  Toss it to depths rarely seen.

I might have done the same thing.

Anyway, it’s all fitting.  To think that we were hurling green grenades while a real one lay buried nearby.

Imagine a blast from that baby. Talk about a game-changer …. 

Die vase ist verboten

The details are slipping out.  There’s already been much buzz about what’ll be inside it … talk of powertrains and dual-clutch automated manual transmissions and wheelbase platforms borrowed from current models.

Me, I’ve been waiting for the look.

Much is at stake here.  As I’ve noted, the Beetle is a small-but-mighty car, with much history.  Its powers are largely unexplainable.  So it’s not a casual thing for Volkswagen to remake this auto.

Earlier this month, Autoblog posted spy photos – real photos – of the 2012 Beetle that it snapped while the new Beetle spun through a German neighborhood.  You can tell it’s in Germany by the signs in the background.  Oh, and there’s a kids’ playground back there, too … er, they call it a “spielplatz,” I believe.

Ha! “Der Kafer … uh … fuhr durch … uh … den spielplatz!”  The Beetle drove by the playground! 

I’m sure that’s wrong.

Anyway, I don’t know quite what to say about the new look. Check it out.  It seems so … respectable, grown up.  Almost patrician. But in a very odd sort of way. When I first saw it, I thought of Alfred Hitchcock.  Lord knows why. He’s hardly German.

Maybe because I remember his mystery-show introductions on TV. With his massive round head, big nose and loose jowels, he would utter an aristocratic “Good eeeevening” as knighted Britishers do.

But then the fun would start … quirky shows featuring twists and turns and always a bit of dry humor.  There was much wry wit beneath Sir Al's veneer.

(Or maybe it's because if you take Hitchcock's signature line-art profile used in the show, flip it, then lay it on its back, it looks kind of like the car. See?! Weird.) 

I’m expecting the 2012 Beetle to be just that – a smidge of fun beneath the veneer. Not quite a serious man’s car – never that – but a step up in, sniff, respectability.  More mature. I’m guessing it’ll have more power, a better ride, a wider wheelbase and perhaps even be longer.  The photos suggest as much.

But no flower vase on the dashboard like my Beetle has. That would go too far.

Forbidden!

“Verboten!” 

And yes, hardly a bug.

And that’s the rub.

The bug always has been small, bumpy, childlike, nimble and clumsy both, a bit noisy, joked about, made fun of, dissed by the car crowd. Worth slugging your neighbor over.

No longer, it seems. This Beetle has a junior limo look to it.  Heck, Gordon Gekko could light a cigar inside and still feel secure.

Home, James! 

“Um das haus, James!”

I guess I’m okay with that. 

But can we stop by the spielplatz first?

It runs ... clear

GLEN ARBOR, Mich. – We floated the Crystal River today. 

The river’s name is well chosen … the water perfect, pure, the surface glass-smooth.  The salmon know that.  Today they were running upriver to spawn.  We saw them move under us, silently, as we marveled at their size.

Rivers are metaphors for so much of life.  And that’s hardly an original thought.  A good bar bet: Name 10 songs with “river” or a name or subject of a river in their title.  Okay, I’ll start:  the Doobie Brothers’ “Black Water.” Oh, and then there’s that Andy Williams guy.

Sings Adrienne Young: “I am a river, forever changing.”

But the metaphor is true.  Rivers, like life, move in an expected direction, but most of us are never quite sure what’s around the next bend.

They also speak volumes about popular currents, and being caught up in them while others aren’t – for good or ill. Today, tall, thin grass graced Crystal River’s edge.  But the Crystal must have moved higher, because some stalks of the same grass were now partly under water, on the left and on the right.

And those half-submerged stalks flicked rapidly and jerkily like wagging fingers, the water’s deep currents clearly in control. The stalks’ sideline kin could only stare and bemoan,  “There but for the grace of God go I …”

Exactly how I feel about politics right now.

But the Crystal evoked another message today … of beginnings and endings.

The Weaver siblings, all five of us, are here this weekend to bring to a close the 45-year life of the cottage that our mother dubbed WindSong. Last year at about this time, we sold it to the National Park Service, which next spring will remove all trace of it and let the land return to nature.

So far we’ve handled our emotions well, dutifully packing up memories, dividing furniture and wall hangings, coordinating with the Salvation Army to pick up the rest.

None of us, I think, is deeply unhappy about what we’re doing. Probably because we’ve had a year to grieve, each in our own way. 

But it may get harder in the next 48 hours, after which we depart this place, going our  separate ways.

That’s because losing WindSong is its own metaphor … like losing a friend, or a family member, or – heaven forbid – a dog. 

In this case, we’ve known that the final weekend would come since February 2009, when we met in Nashville to decide on this course. That it’s the right course doesn’t make it easier.

Oh, we’ve girded ourselves well. Technology helps.  WindSong may have its rustic attributes – a large stone fireplace, knotty paneling, cold bedrooms – but a wireless modem and 3g connections leave us in comfortable contact with our distant families.

Okay, perhaps to a fault.

Where once Mom would knit in the rocker, or Dad would read a book in his Lazy Boy, we find ourselves texting, or searching, or sending photos to our spouses and children on our laptops and/or phones.

Or, in my case, broadcasting a first-time video with background sound in full, extreme color on my new 32 gigabyte, 960-by-640 resolution, HDR-equippped iPhone 4 of Linda, Bill and me on  … uh, where were we again? Oh, yeah … on the Crystal River. 

River … rivers … life’s metaphor. 

We floated the Crystal River today.

We saw salmon going up river, passing below us, on their journey to reach Glen Lake.

We went down river … to eventually bid our good-byes to a lake that’s spawned so many memories – of family, many friends, sweet sunsets, nature’s bounty.

But here the metaphor ends.  For those salmon will return to the lake, spawn and, their job done, they will eventually die. 

We’ve all vowed to return as well, but we will come to again breathe deep the life that teems around Glen Lake.  To catch the sun. To hear wind’s song. 

That’s Crystal clear.
 

What's next?

ESTES PARK, Colo. – We’re in the Rockies this weekend. We’ve made camp in a small cabin on a slight hill overlooking the Fall River, which, with a quiet rush, lives up to its name by tumbling down and eastward from Rocky Mountain National Park to town.

Right now I’m on the cabin’s front porch, resting a creaky knee and writing fast before the afternoon shadows give way to dark. A mountain peak looms through the trees, its face catching the sun’s final glow … like a bronze, misshapen moon.

The cabin is spare; it’s called the “Preacher’s Cabin” by its owner.  It is two stories, though the second story is not much more than a loft. On the first floor, the main room, there’s a fireplace, a rocker, a comfortably creased leather chair that swallows you whole, and a couch. 

In all rooms, there’s the warmth of knotty pine and the slight smell of past fires built on colder days, when the cabin’s squat corner furnace wasn’t keeping up.

We’re unclear about the preacher reference, although there is a stern portrait of a serious man in one of the two bedrooms.  We chose the other bedroom.

It has been years since I’ve been to this quarter of Colorado – 40, to be exact. Then, my folks drove my brother and me in a caravan with two other families, tent trailers in tow, to camp in the park. 

I’ve long remembered specific things from that trip: the crystal streams that seemed to flow parallel along every road we traveled; the enormity of the mountains, whose majesty just couldn’t be captured on film; the two-day backpack journey we took down Chapin Pass, just off Old Fall River Road.

And Old Fall River Road itself – a one-way, one-lane, gravel trail that marches up to the sky in zigzag fashion, resting at last at a place more than 11,000 feet above sea level. There it intersects with the more “modern,” two-lane Trail Ridge Road.

The latter, built between 1929 and 1932, is the main highway through this national park and, when first built, was considered an engineering marvel.  Today, hundreds of thousands of cars traverse it each year, hugging tight to its painted lanes, its drivers forced to look at the road and not scenery – like high-wire artists avoiding the crowd.

But the granddaddy is Old Fall River Road. It was started in 1913, before this was even a national park, and not completed until 1920.  It is not much more than a logger’s road, although it was designed, even then, with tourist in mind.

Where the two roads meet is a land of no trees – only bare rock, alpine tundra, deep and hard packs of snow, winds that can surpass 100 miles per hour and vistas that leave you mute with awe.

We’re here because we have some catching up to do.  Our love of the Michigan cottage has been an incredible thing.  But that love, which sent us north each season, came with a price – an economist would call it an opportunity cost.  Sure, we have seen other things and other places in the world along the way.  But not much, and not very often.

And so we are here to get a brief, renewed taste of the Rockies … to climb where generations before us have climbed, and to listen again to the tumble of descending waters.

Yesterday, our first, we did some smallish hikes to get accustomed to the altitude. In the morning, we huffed and puffed more than we expected, but by afternoon we felt like mountain goats.

Today, we drove up narrow Old Fall River Road and, once at the top, walked along a long trail to the highest point easily accessible in the park. There a commemorative, bronze compass-like disk, fixed atop a craggy stand of rocks, explained all that we saw below.

And it was then that I realized it: As much as Nature is on show here, so are the visitors.  We weren’t alone on the barren trail, of course.  Dozens and dozens of others marched ahead and behind, braving the winds, seeking the 12,000-foot top.

Sure, we all shared a common mission – to soak up Nature’s surroundings. But I also think it was to test ourselves. When you arrive at this highest peak, there are signs warning of high altitudes and how they can harm you.   But young and old alike braved this final trail.  Okay, some moved more quickly than others.  But they all arrived successfully and left with the satisfaction that they had done it – reached a pinnacle that most others had not.

As Cindy and I climbed to reach the bronze disk, there was a group of five younger folks ahead of us.  Up here, the wind gusts were very strong. If you weren’t careful, they could nudge you over … cause you to lose your footing and tumble.

But these five would have none of it.  One member of the group photographed the other four – first in a traditional pose, shoulder to shoulder, their legs braced behind them to hold them steady.

Then they stopped fighting the wind and instead mocked it, flailing their arms as if being swept away.

I captured the moment while they did the same.

Their fun wasn’t a snub at Mother Nature.  No, it was more a playful embrace. 

As if to say, “Awesome, cool, Ma!”

And then …

“Okay, what’s next!?”

What indeed.

A mighty bug

They stood near the costume shop on Grand Boulevard.

He with a nose ring; she tattoos.  Then she slammed her fist into his shoulder.

“Slug bug silver!”  I could see her say.

Just a day earlier, I turned a sharp left, just ahead of my office parking lot.  There the woman, waiting at the bus stop, shot her fist into her guy-friend standing near.

Couldn’t tell what she shouted, though I could see he wasn’t happy.

I own a VW bug.  It’s a 2002 model – the “New Beetle,” says VW – and it’s a turbo.  They stopped making turbos after 2002 because they’re kind of dangerous. They go fast before you know they’re going fast.  I’ve always felt my car was superior over even the mighty semi trucks. Thus the photo taken a few years back on Route 66.  Sure, they’re big.  But my car?  Nimbler, quicker. 

Better. 

I love my car. Yet, I had forgotten completely about the “slug bug” shtick until a colleague of mine, following a recent lunch, emerged from my bug and whacked me in the shoulder.

“Slug bug gray!” he said.

Wha …?  Beyond the pain, I didn’t know what to say, though it eventually came back to me.  I remembered. I just hadn’t been paying attention.

Ever since, I’ve seen folks wailing away on each other as I drive by.  It’s like the waters parting. On either side of the street, folks glance my way, turn to the unprepared victim, then hit and shout.  Or shout and hit.  It varies.

I think they’re motivated in part by the new media campaign from VW that’s attempting to resurrect the slug-bug game but apply it to its newer models.

Check out the commercial that played on the Super Bowl telecast.

Ha! Love the ending with Stevie Wonder.

Retro marketing has had its effect, it seems.

There are varied versions of the game.  Folks on the East Coast tend to call it “Punch Buggy” and not “Slug Bug” like the rest of the country.

And the new VW commercial relies on “Red one!” or “White one!” ...  then the hit. Historically, though, “Slug bug red!” or “Slug bug white!” is more common and preferred. 

Plus you always want to add “No returns!” or “No backsies!” to make sure your partner doesn’t whack you back.

Now, I’ve always felt my bug was a powerful force in the universe precisely because of its universality.  It’s been one of the world’s most popular cars.

But it has its critics.

My kids scoffed at me when I bought the New Beetle … Zach thought I should opt for a Chrysler 300.  (Too smooth for me.)  Meghan just wanted me in something a bit more, uh, fatherly, I think.

Or maybe it was the guy thing.  After all, the bug has fought against the “wimp” title for years.  Car and Driver magazine calls driving one “the truest test of masculinity,” though it still likes the car.  And sure, what other car has a flower vase built into its dashboard?  (I’ve used it once – for some spring wildflowers picked by Meghan.)

But bugs and I go way back.  I took over my dad’s red 1968 Beetle when he moved up to a Super Beetle.

That car was such a simple machine.  So simple I could do my own repairs.  But it had its limits – not much more than a glorified go kart.  No air conditioning, of course. The heat barely worked.  And once in college I had to drive home in an Illinois snowstorm with my head out the window. The windshield wipers had stopped working, though it was okay; traffic was crawling at 10 miles an hour anyway. 

Oh … and then there was that whole semester in ’77 – kids, don’t read this – when I drove without brakes.  It’s amazing what you can do by working the gear shift and parking brake. 

But it was a good car, a sturdy car.

Eventually, the red bug gave out and I took over Dad’s blue Super Beetle when he moved up to a new VW Rabbit.  This bug had a sunroof and more room inside.  

But I don’t recall folks slamming each other on the shoulder the way they do now.  At least not in these numbers. So maybe today it’s a nostalgia thing.  Maybe in this age of YouTube and social networking, offbeat consumer habits become the norm and everyone just wants to have fun joining in.

My own theory?  VW announced that this year would be the last for the New Beetle.  What they’re selling now are “Final Edition” models.  It’s not clear whether the Beetle name will survive; we should know more in a year or so.

So I’m guessing this ripple of shoulder-thumping is cosmic. I think the hundreds of thousands of remaining Beetles out there are sending waves of energy through not just VW corporate headquarters but the broader populace as well.

Not a power play. Just a desperate call for help … to be remembered and to make sure the model lives on.

So I apologize for the pain caused when I get behind the wheel.  But there’s not much I can do about it. All cosmic.

Whatever the case, no backsies.

The Call

I put the burgers on.

Now, that’s not a casual thing.  Grilling burgers is a science … a crucial mix of commodity, spice, temperature and time.  If any of the four are mismeasured, well … let’s not even go there.

So when Cindy called from the house, I listened with half a brain, the other half monitoring the quartet.

“Doug, telephone!  It’s Eric. I think you’ll want to take this.”

“Huh?!” I thought.  Odd that Eric would phone and Cindy be so insistent. The burgers … she knows we can’t interrupt the burgers.  Plus she likes them rare.

Then I realized.  It was The Call.  We’d been expecting this at some point. Eric, my daughter Meghan’s boyfriend, was calling to ask the question.

Burgers or deal with The Call … the choice was clear. Eric’s question can wait, I reasoned. It’ll give him more time to think it over. Just to be sure. After all, if you’re lucky, you only pose it once in a lifetime anyway.  No need to rush.

“Ask him if we can call him back in 15 minutes,” I yelled.

* * *

If you’re a dad, your mind holds a box of memories for each child.  And if you’ve done a decent job, that box is so very full.

Meghan’s box, like son Zach’s, brims over … a rich mix of laughter, some tears, a dash of stubbornness, layered throughout with love – so much love.

There are many Meghans.  The young writer. The swimmer. The soccer player.  The singer and actor. Now the geologist. Soon, a grad student. Eyes so deep blue as a child that friends would marvel. Hair of tight curls when young but so much straighter today.

And such a dreamer … but in a very concrete way.  She chases her dreams, sure.  But unlike many of us, she catches them, consumes them with zeal and then dreams anew.

She already has seen more of the globe than I expect to see in my lifetime. She found Eric at a geology dig in the Turkish desert. Or Eric found her.  Either way, it was perfect.

One of my best Meghan memories involves the child carrier that I’d strap on my back.  It was of blue cloth, I remember, and an aluminum frame with legs so I could sit it on a table.

Meghan, a toddler then, loved it. I’d slide her in, turn around, back up to the table like a truck to a loading dock, and thread my arms into the straps.

Then I’d stand tall.  Meghan would grab my curls – I had curls then, too – like grabbing reins on a horse.  But being a good rider, she never tugged needlessly.

And the two of us would walk. That is, I would walk.  Sometimes to magical places; sometimes on very long treks.  And we would talk to each other along the way, especially about objects and new words. 

“See the bird, Meghan?” 

“Bird,” she would say in her soft voice.

“Did you hear that car honk, Meghan?  Can you say ‘honk?’”

“Honk!” she’d say, triumphant.

And such patience. Our walks could go on for two hours sometimes.  And Meghan would talk, then sleep, then talk some more. But never complain.

To this day I wish I could have seen her as she saw everything … to marvel at what she found marvelous. But like a horse, I could only face front, twitching my ears back to catch her every murmur. 

Today, Meghan is a woman of 24.  She and Eric are on the road today – two cars, boxes of clothes, two bikes and two bunnies – from Kansas City to Western Washington University, where both will be graduate students in the geology school. 

She left a steady job with a Tulsa energy company.  But Tulsa couldn’t compete with the wonder of the Northwest and the beauty of Bellingham, which sits just 90 miles north of Seattle on Bellingham Bay.

Those dreams again.

Plus there is the promise of a new field for her, coastal geology. So appropriate. Water sustains Meghan.  There was nary a drop in Tulsa. At Bellingham, water is its lifeblood.

Happily, her dreams this time include another – dreams she and Eric share.  

* * *

The Call came from Michigan.  Eric and Meghan were camping near the cottage a week ahead of our trip up there. Cindy, Zach and I would join them at the cottage for another two weeks.

Meghan and Eric love Michigan for many things, but especially the countless rocks rubbed smooth by Lake Michigan. The rocks layer its beaches, each rock a unique shape, texture, color.  Each rock a story.

Meghan will tell you those stories.  She knows these rocks – sifts through them easily, deftly lifting from the water the most interesting, most vivid.

She’s loved the rocks ever since she could stand on her own in Lake Michigan’s waves.

For Meghan, rock-hunting is like playing a never-ending game of Where’s Waldo, and Waldo is everywhere.

Her ultimate quest? Each visit, it’s the Petoskey stone, a piece of fossilized coral formed by Michigan’s glaciers. With its hexagon-shaped pattern, it is hard for me to find … though Meghan mysteriously has no trouble plucking them from the surf.

Last summer, Eric visited this part of Michigan for the first time.  This summer, it was the ideal place to ask the biggest question of his life.

But first, he had something to ask us.

* * *

I brought in the burgers and covered them tight with foil.  I knew this might take a few minutes.

“Okay, let’s give him a call.”

Cindy handed me the phone.  Zach was in the next room, watching TV but watching us as well – he had a slight grin … knew what was up.

“Don’t you want to get on the line, too?”  I asked Cindy.  I think she thought I’d want to go solo … you know, that dad traditionally gets fielded the question.

“Oh, yeah, I guess so,” she said.  She grabbed the other phone.

Then I found Eric’s number on caller I.D. and dialed it.

“Hello?” he said. 

“Hi, Eric,” I said. “It’s Doug and Cindy.”

He was nervous … you could tell.

“I have something I wanted to ask you … could I marr ...”

Now, before I go on, I need to mention two things:

First, that while Eric had been stewing the last 15 minutes, I was using the same time to prepare for this exchange.

Maybe it’s a guy thing or a dad thing – you know, just wanting to make sure Eric knew that I was the dad here and that these kinds of traditions don’t always pass easily. That I wouldn’t simply roll over.

Second, more important, that Eric’s a great guy – solid, smart, dependable, loving, curious about life. I like him a lot.

Anyway, now I was ready.

“I have something I wanted to ask you … could I marr ...”

“What’s that?!” I said, kind of loudly, like this was a B-grade phone commercial.  “What’s that?!  We can’t hear you … the connection seems … kind of bad.”

And he started again. 

“What’s that?  What??”

Needless to say, this couldn’t go on for long.  Cindy stepped in … put an end to my misbehavior, though in my defense just when I was going to fess up and truly listen.

Free now, Eric quickly got the question out, though I think he was a bit rattled.  My fault.

“I want to ask Meghan to marry her.”

We knew what he meant.

“Eric,” I answered. “You absolutely have our permission.” 

I added: “There’s not another guy out there who I would trust more with my daughter’s future than you.”

The words weren’t rehearsed. They were heartfelt … true.

We talked a few more minutes, then hung up.

Eric was relieved, I think; we were happy.

“Nice job, Dad,” said Zach, who always has his sister’s best interests at heart.

Time to eat.

* * *

Eric would later propose to Meghan, knee bowed, on the shores of Lake Michigan, at a favorite beach of ours called Esch Beach.  I can hear the surf now.

He was pretty clever about how he went about it, I hear.  But that’s for them to share, not me.

Oh … and Meghan would say yes.  Nice.

Now I wonder if I fully prepared Meghan for that moment.

I wonder if ever, with our word games, I fixed on that symbol of this all-important covenant between two people … the one that binds them with love, trust, integrity.  I think I did.

“See my ring Meghan?  Can you say ‘ring?”

“Ring!”

Just plain ducky

GLEN LAKE, Mich. – I share weather news up here because I think the folks who know the place enjoy an update. They’ve seen the lake area's moods shift in one day … the skies turn from angry gray to robin blue to crimson at dusk.  Or the opposite – from welcoming arms to thunderous fist.

When I’m back home, I get the same kind of reports from my siblings and imagine being there.

This morning, Nature did a 180 … actually, more a 120: Flat breezes from the humid southwest gave way to cool northwest winds.  The haze has lifted; white clouds now sail by like ducks or swans on parade. The birch trees salt the deck and my coffee with their fleur-de-lis seed buds – a summertime pain, but hey, the birches live here.  It’s their right.

And the waves … at last, there are waves against the shore, drumming a rhythm for the day. 

This summer is the cottage’s last.  I won’t dwell on that.  I have previously, and anyway there are still weeks ahead to reminisce. 

I did, though, do something when we arrived Sunday night that I hadn't done in years. The sun had set. The moon had climbed from the opposite horizon. And I stepped down the dock’s ladder into the dark, wet coldness, walked out to waist-deep, and dove in.

It’s been nearly two years since I started this blog. Today, for grins, I looked back at my first post. It’s too long, the sentences are too fat, and it’s damn too serious.  Professor Donald Trump, my freshman colloquium teacher at Wooster College, would have chopped it to pieces like a Benihana chef.  Then chided me for leaving out the wasabi.

It’s also clear I’ve fallen short on much of its mission.  When I first considered doing this, I remarked to a close friend and colleague that personal blogs seemed to me to be too … personal.  “They (the writers) tend to focus on just themselves, not on what’s going on around them,” I complained. “A lot of ‘me’ and ‘I’ and ‘my.’”

I vowed as the journalist to make this one different.  To write about others, especially those with an edge, and to take risks while doing so.

Hasn’t happened. At least not much. Instead, I've talked a lot about “me” and “I” and “my.”

Why?  Laziness.  It takes work, assertiveness, the ability to win over others, to bring their stories into this kind of forum.  It’s one thing to say you’re a writer with The Kansas City Star.  It’s another to say, uh, well, that I write this blog that a few kind folks read and that’s about it. It hardly impresses. Blogs are the zucchinis of the written word – a gardener's gift at first but less welcome as the bulbous things arrive in ever-larger numbers. 

Not that there haven’t been positives.  I’ve written some things here that have surprised me in a good way.  I don’t talk much, so when ideas and feelings bubble up, it’s both a relief and affirmation.  Like a burp after a good meal.

What has remained consistent, though, is this blog’s name and theme.  I still view water as a defining plane – adventure above, solitude and solace below.

So Sunday night I jumped in to our lake. (Hmmm … “our” lake.)  Sure, I could heap symbolism on the moment.  Write about sacred waters and a blog that’s gone full circle.  But that’d be tiresome.

Best to just describe the experience.

After stepping off the ladder, I found my footing.  The water at dock’s end is just above the knees and crystal clear.  But, it being dark, the clarity didn’t help.  Four steps in, I banged my left toe on a rock.  Then my right toe on another.

“Well, crap, this is going well,” I muttered.

I waited for my eyes to adjust; I could start to see a few, dark hazards below, which I now avoided.

The sandy bed of Glen Lake, on the south side, gradually deepens to shoulder-high – about 100 yards out – before falling to 130 feet below.  So for the average pedestrian, there’s plenty of room to wander before descending to the deep.

I walked about halfway out to the cliff, and then I slid below the water line.

It was like diving into pillows of warm and cold.  The water, relatively still, was warm toward the top because of the day’s sun.  The cold layers waited below.

And then I surfaced.  Not like a whale, spouting spray and noise.  But stealthily … slowly breaking the water with, first, the top of my head, then bringing my eyes just inches above the surface.

And then, like a submarine’s periscope, I turned 360 degrees and took in the sights … a smattering of pinpoint-yellow dots all along the shoreline, lake cabins and houses aglow; looking up, there were stars at a depth and number never seen in Kansas City.

And straight ahead, atop the water … the ripple of reflected light from our cottage.  It was warm, aflame and beckoning  – broad like landing lights on a runway, but far more inviting and fluid.

The cottage this night was in shadows and silhouettes.  But inside, brightly lit, was a legacy of life and living well-done.

It was a precious moment at a precious time.  

A duck’s eye view, I suppose.

Then again, no … it was my view.

My view, my moment, my time, full of “I” and “me” but ever thinking of "we" …

… that happened to be, with apologies, just plain ducky.