Random Life Lessons

I was going to call this Hard Lessons, but really I have not had many truly hard lessons in my life. Well, there’s maybe “don’t fall backwards on the stairs and crack a few ribs right up close to your spine.” That was certainly a hard lesson, but really, in recent memory that’s about it. But if it should happen to you, by, let’s say, missing a step while carrying a loaded laundry basket to the basement for your wife, tell everyone it happened in your most recent MMA cage fight. Tough match, but of course you won in the end, and you’ll probably retire soon. Addendum: if you do have cracked ribs, do not sneeze. For at least three months. I am not kidding.

Today’s list:

  • Don’t accidentally substitute glucosamine hydochloride for glucosamine chondroitin. If one works for you, the other won’t. It’s too expensive to leave it sitting in the cupboard until it expires then just throwing it away.
  • After nearly five decades of living as a mostly-independent, semi-responsible, quasi adult, I just bought my first kitchen fire extinguisher. Just in case. I should have one in the car, too, just in case I should happen to start a grass fire or something, which we don’t need to talk about.
  • When recycling cardboard that’s been sitting in the garage for a few weeks, check it for crickets before loading it in the backseat of the car. Seriously. And mice. I cannot stress this enough. Especially if it’s your wife’s car.
  • If someone asks if you’re busy next weekend, just nod and say yes, yes I am. You’re probably not going to like their option.
  • If you feed birds, don’t buy birdseed with cracked corn. That’s junk. Junk birdseed only attracts junk birds. Exception: go ahead and buy the cheap sunflower seeds. Those birds are pigs and they don’t care. They won’t even know. I mean, they have a brain the size of a pea. And they hate you and fear you and want you to feed them and just leave.
  • When someone says they enjoy talking to you, take them seriously. They enjoy talking to you, not listening to you. Or maybe that’s just me.
  • You only turn 65 once, but it is a year-long celebration of multiple daily phone calls from your dear close personal friends from all over the country who want to help you select the perfect Medicare coverage, whether you need it or not. Enjoy! Or better yet, get call blocking.
  • Check your spare. Not that one, the one in the back of your truck or the trunk of your car. If it’s one of those little skinny temps, it
    1. is good for only 50 miles at
    2. no more than 50mph.
    3. And it wants 60psi.
    4. Don’t be like this guy: https://jalopnik.com/i-just-got-the-weirdest-flat-tire-of-my-entire-life-1829064103


Camp, 2018, Episode 1

In late June I did a ghost town tour of the U.P. First up was Shelldrake, a few short miles north of Paradise. I couldn’t find it on my own, but my GPS did. Of course I always take anything my GPS says with a grain of salt. When she says, “In one-hundred-and-fifty feet, turn right,” it’s only after I’m practically stopped, and already turning. She’s pretty good with the Big Picture, but when she bores down into the details, her sense of distance leaves a lot to be desired. Shelldrake was not right on Whitefish Point Road, but a little to the east at the end of a dirt road, facing Whitefish Bay. Which is how I managed to drive right past it three times before the GPS convinced me to keep looking. (“No, you idiot–Turn. Left. NOW!“)

Truly, I woke up in Paradise that day. (Disclaimer: it’s not quite like they describe it in the Bible, although there were about as many people as I might expect to see there… I won’t suggest a (low) number.) Then I visited the Tahquamenon Falls, had lunch in Newberry, thoroughly enjoyed one luxurious night at the historic Landmark Inn in Marquette, then two more nights at my cousins’ camp, Wayne’s World on beautiful Lake Arfelin (see new header photo above), before heading out to a buddy’s camp a little closer to the next group of ghost towns.

That night was my most interesting. I visited my Yooper buddy—let’s call him D.—and claimed possession of his camp. I stayed there last year for nearly a week. It was, shall we say, modest. Barely livable, but acceptable and convenient. Better this year. Then D. and I did the usual that evening: rode around in his truck, hitting several dive bars, had a late supper, then….

He dropped me off back at the camp, I spread out my sleeping bag, put in my earplugs and went to bed. (I use earplugs even in the silent nights of the deep and dark U.P. Any little noise, like, oh, say, a bear tearing into the trash, will likely wake me out of a sound sleep. I’m not really timid, honest! but strange sounds in an unfamiliar, dead silent place in the dark of night do tend to get my inner cave dweller’s attention.)

I don’t know what time I woke up, but the moon was bright, and I could see an amber light flashing somewhere in the living room beyond the bedroom doorway. What the hey? Worried it might be my car alarm—or someone else’s… or maybe emergency lights going off (fire trucks? police raid? ICE?)—I popped out the earplugs. Dead silence. Got up to investigate. Okay, not a car, it was the clock on the coffee maker. Blinking 12:00, of course. Went back to bed. Woke up again later on, could hear something through the earplugs. Popped them out, hoping it was rain on the roof. Nope, clear sky and bright stars overhead. Listened, determined it was an animal somewhere, likely in the ceiling. I had one, probably a tree squirrel, scratching around above the bathroom ceiling on my last day there last summer. Not a big deal. Earplugs back in, went back to sleep.

But the scrabbling got too loud to ignore. Popped the earplugs out again to assess the situation. In the ceiling? Maybe. In the wall right next to my ear? Possible. I banged on the wall with my fist, without noticeable results. Oh well. I dozed for a while, but eventually I had to get up and figure this out. I found the noise was somewhere in or near the closet by the patio door. I hoped it was something outside that couldn’t get in.

Until I saw a furry tail scramble up and down the curtain. Crap.

So I got dressed—jeans, heavy shirt and boots in case we had to resort to hand to paw combat. Now, there was a very impressive deer hunting rifle right there in the closet, but I figured D. and the neighbors wouldn’t appreciate me using it. (It might be an elephant gun, for all I know. I imagine it would make loud noises and leave large holes in the cabin, probably compromising what little structural integrity it still has.)

As I was getting dressed I saw the tail shoot across the floor just outside the bedroom door.

Understand that I was a Boy Scout, even achieving the rank of Eagle Scout half a century ago, but I’m not a Yooper, and I’m not a truly competent or experienced outdoorsman, but I do know that furry tails are usually attached to furry bodies, and those bodies always have teeth at the other end, and generally in between are four legs and feet equipped with claws.

This was just a small squirrel. He dove behind the stove, which meant at least I could get to the patio, open the door, and give him an escape route. There’s a piece loose fireboard behind the stove that used to protect the paneling when there had been a wood stove there instead of a four-burner range. Squirrel was behind that, scrabbling around and up and down, and peeking out over the top at me.

I tried to pantomime directions to the door for him, be he just wasn’t getting it. I guess neither of us is very good at Charades. I probably looked like one of those guys waving an airliner into the loading gate. In this instance, I blame the pilot. Not having a carrot, I found a stick. (Once again after considering and rejecting the rifle.) The second or third time he popped out the top and tried to crawl across the ceiling I scared him enough that he dropped to the floor. Behind the stove again, of course. But a few more pokes and he shot across the floor and out the door. I closed it and locked it and went back to bed. The sun comes up at 6:01, and it starts getting bright a whole lot earlier than that, so it was a pretty short night. I determined not to actually get up until 7:00, however.

And I do now finally understand why my buddy drinks Busch Lite, which hardly seems worthy of human consumption. You don’t get very looped, there are no undesirable side effects, like hangovers, retching, or even fuzzy-headedness when you’re evicting squirrels at 4:20am. I was calm and competent throughout, and clear-headed in the morning.

I was dressed, packed, breakfasted, caffeinated and gone by 9:00, heading west to find the ghost towns of Donken and Toivola.

[UPDATE] D. has chided me for my inhospitable actions during this event: “That is just typical, I go to a lot of extra effort to make sure you have a warm cuddly room mate and what thanks do I get? In the future you can be assured that I will inform all the local fauna to refrain from trying to make friends with you. D.”


Random Musings

So I was trying to mow the lawn between monsoons today, and the mower wasn’t even up to its usual level of incompetence, so after fixing the first issue and still suffering the slings and arrows of disappointment, I decided I should go to the store and get some parts, and by “parts” I mean “beer.”

Continue reading

Coming Soon, Starting Now

The time is nigh for doing more regular updates to my blog. What follows is some fictionalized non-fiction reminiscences from my past lives. I’ve divided these things into the categories of Rants and Memoir. Most can be both.

Also, check my SHORTS (page) now for entirely new short stories of Tales of Life in Deathe.

Sad End of an Era

Interesting developments deep in the U.P.: the end of a lease agreement for people who have had camps on the Ontonagon Rive in the Ottowa National Forest. Now that the 25 year lease is up they have to abandon their camps and walk away. Still hurts, even though they knew it was coming.


Music and Muses

I enjoy good music on some good headphones while I write. Especially when I write in a public space, like at one of our Peninsula Writers weekend retreats. Earbuds just aren’t sufficient to dissuade interruptions by fellow writers who are more sociable than I am. One of my recent discoveries is an American band with an international flavor, Pink Martini. Smooth and delightful. I’m building up a suite of their albums. Or CDs. Or downloads, as the case may be. I was recently thrilled to find I could tune in a Pink Martini channel on my phone with Google Music– even more thrilled to find I can stream it on my 1.5mbs “high speed” wifi.

But my pick for theme music for Tales of Life in Deathe would be Joe Satriani’s The Forgotten, Parts 1 and 2: Continue reading