Grayling White Boys

Grayling Middle School 7th & 8th Grade White Boys Basketball will play Kalkaska in Kalkaska

-Crawford County Avalanche, 12/12/2009

The Grayling middle school boys basketball team has inadvertently initiated serious discussions about race in the city of Grayling, demographically over 96% white. For days now, the local newspaper has been receiving letters to the editor in protest of the teams name, the Grayling White Boys. Many community members defend of the name, which they consider a classification system based on the schools colors.

In the '90's, the Middle School basketball teams were dubbed "Team A" and "Team B." According to John Smock, these names did not cause any controversy. The names were later changed to "White Boys" and "Green Boys" by the school principal, who wanted the team names to reflect the school colors. "Most people feel that was a great idea, including myself," says Smock, supporter of the name change. Frustrated with the accusations of racism, the former coach writes, "Is that all people have to do is find something wrong with every little thing?"

Despite the controversy, the game will go on: the Grayling White boys play Kalkaska next Monday at 5pm, in Kalkaska.

X-treme sustainability

Here on Old Lake road, Phyllis and I take sustainability seriously. We are always aware of our ecological footprint, and given constant, unavoidable reminders on how to reduce our impact on the earth.

The key to our energy saving success is a weak circuit. I view the circuit breaker as a metaphor that sustainability is not an option, it is a necessity. It has taught me that what I once considered essential aspects of normal day-to-day functioning are really just excessive conveniences. Why have a lamp and space heater going at the same time when a candle will serve the function of both and not even require a plug? If we slip up and unnecessarily watch TV with the light on and the heaters going, the electricity shuts down. And every time that happens I say to myself 'size nine, live like a size nine' even though my foot is a size ten and a half.

Every energy expenditure is a tradeoff. Two space heaters, a computer, a bedside lamp, and a TV just cannot function at the same time. But when you take a closer look, why would they even have to? A computer screen can also function as a light. Simply tilt the screen towards whatever you are interested in seeing, and the screen will cast a moon-like glow on the target. Today, I took a comfortable walk around the neighborhood, despite the fact that it was thirty degrees. This was because I was dressed appropriately for the weather. So when I get into the house, I refrain from turning on the heater and simply leave the coat on. And the hat. Footprint just dropped half a size. This method also coincides beautifully with the Tao philosophy of conquering with inaction.


So maybe it gets a little cold at night, and maybe a toe or two go numb. But while you're just laying there, who needs 'em anyway? Like I said, we take sustainability serious. Dead serious.

Joe the Kid

I live with Joe the kid. He is the first person I see every morning and the last person I hear every night before I go to bed. For being around each other so often, we speak very little. Sometimes, but not always, I will say 'see ya' as I leave for work. Rarely, when I come home from work to see Joe the Kid and one of his girlfriends on the couch, I will say 'hey.' Communication between us has only once gone beyond these simple greetings.

It was a couple of days before the weekend before thanksgiving. This meant that in a few short days, Santa would show up at the Traverse City mall to hear the wishlists of the children of Northern Michigan. Elves would herd these children into orderly lines, and hand out candy canes and snap pictures and wrap packages in colorful paper. I could see myself as one of these elves, and I knew I had a shot at the job, Phyllis being the manager of the whole deal. She promised me that if Joe the Kid didn't pass the required drug test, I would have the job. So naturally, I was anxious to find out what the Kid's plans were. One silent afternoon, as the Kid was passing me in the kitchen, I decided to confront him about the situation. His blank application was mocking me from the kitchen table where it lay. "Say, Joe," I began, trying to sound casual, "are you going to be an elf at the mall with your mom?" He pretended he didnt know what I was talking about. "You know, for the Santa clause display." "Oh, that," he responded lamely, "I don't think I am going to do that." I believed him. I started to plan out my elf suit in my head, in case it wasn't provided.

Two days later, all of my hopes came crashing down. The Kid's aplication mysteriously vanished from the kitchen table, only to be replaced with a drug test form. And the next day, it was the roster. The Santa's helper roster, listing 'Joseph" as Santa's helper #3. I nearly choked on my Kimche.

Needless to say, that was the last time ventured to say any more than a 'see ya' or 'hey' to Joe the Kid.

The Amish Heater

There is nothing Amish about an Amish heater.For one thing, it is plugged into the wall. And from my understanding, the Amish tend to avoid electricity. In my case, the electric cord is stretched taunt from the back wall of the living room to bring the heater closer to the couch (or bed, depending on the time of day).

The cord is attached to a wooden freestanding 'mantle.' This mantle is wooden(or imitation wood, I cannot be sure because of the heavy sheen). It encloses a metal cage with a glass window looking out. Inside, a fake fire glows. It is like a diorama from a natural history museum a million years from now. "This is called fire. Humans used wood (a carbon-based material derived from large ancient plants called trees)to fuel the fire." Fake embers, probably fiberglass, glow as orange and red lights are projected onto a screen behind, twisting and spinning like a real old fashion Amish fire. The whole time, the heater emits a noise similar to a muted hair dryer, and blowing hot air in a similar fashion.

And that's how we will stay warm this winter. There is a fireplace (authentic wood burning) but it is broken. We may get it fixed, so that real fire can supplement the fake.

The Human-Beaver Conflict

I rode my bike to work on my first day. I arrived ten minutes early, so I decided to go to Goodales bakery for a cup of coffee. The same old guys were around the same round table they are always at. Surrounded by donuts and Nascar posters and pictures of old Ford pickups, they drank their coffee and discussed gas prices. Cupping my styrofoam cup of coffee in my hands, I looked out the window to the dark street and pretended not to listen. But how could I not? Their conversation turned to curse words. "You raise your kids a certain way, you know? And then you turn on your radio and hear all those bad words. And your kids can hear 'em too!" This mans kids had to be at least in their thirty's by now. These guys were here, in their exact positions, over a month ago when I came to Grayling for an interview. Now that I am here for work, nothing has changed for them. But everything has for me.

Three months ago I lived in a cabin in a forest in the middle of a city. Now I live in a house in a 'city' in the middle of a forest. I used to be surrounded by young people in birkenstocks and patagonia, now I sit outside a circle of old men in carhartt and flannel. I used to sleep in until 10 and party till 12. Now I wake up at 6:30 and turn my light out by nine. I was a kid. Now I am an adult who sits by the fake fire with Phyllis talking about how "kids just need to learn-- they cant go on chewing tobacco and skipping class forever."

Kickball

On Labor day, I told the Daniels' that I would be on their kickball team. I grew up watching these people play baseball with my parents every summer. Me and my cousins would sit around on the bleachers slurping freeze pops and daring each other to eat fish flies while they played their double headers. The team was old then. It was not uncommon for someone's legs to buckle on their way to first. 15 years since they put down the bat, they are back together at Kyte Monroe once again. And now, the game is just plain dangerous for them.

The first inning of the first game of kickball in the history of St. Claire Shores recreation went well for us. Most of the team had not played since grade school, (1960's for some of them). Besides some mild complaints about sciatica, sore legs, and stiff backs, we were doing pretty good and were actually ahead of the other team. But then Michael pulled his groin pitching. And George bloodied his knee sliding onto third. Jenny was tackled by someone at second. Another couple of knees were scraped, Micheal began to loose feeling in his left leg, Mary began to develop a limp, and things started to go south for us. We were beaten in the first game and mercied in the second. The whole time, Marge was on our backs to run faster, catch the fly balls, kick farther, etc.

The first game really wore our team out. I could not sleep that night because my kicking foot kept cramping up. People were still aching by the time our second game came around. Jenny had somehow sprained her leg last time, and she was first at bat. After she kicked the ball, which went about 6 feet, she began to limp/ hop towards second. First out. Next came Mary, later to be known by the other team as 'the bunter'. She swung and missed the first pitch. When she managed to get the ball into play, she limped to first clutching her leg. Second out. Now came George. He had arrived late, and when he got to the dugout was immediately send to the plate. One of our toughest players last game, we were all looking to George to redeem us. He had a great kick (it went past the mound!), but it took everything. He, too, staggered off the diamond, limping and wincing. But unlike the others, George did not stop at the bench. He stopped at the ER.

Things continued like this for the rest of the night. Michael went to his truck for a beer to help with the pain half way through the second game. I can't imagine what will happen next week. But playing with the Daniels sure beats winning!

here

I have taken to listening to books on tape while I work. This new habit has made me crave weeding opportunities so that I can venture to Hogwarts or the circus or Afghanistan. My body remains in the garden, working without realizing it. I just finished listening to ‘A thousand splendid suns’ by Khalad Hosseini. This book took me into the lives of two women in Afghanistan. And it made me so glad that I am here. That it’s only my imagination that has delved into the hopelessness, fear, and terror of war-stricken Kabul. My body is safe and free here in the garden. I have no fear that I will blow up at any second, or that anyone I love will be killed in front of me. I can walk through the streets without being beaten. I can eat if I am hungry, drink if I am thirsty. Life here is so incredibly, simply peaceful. As I bike home from my weeding job I see an old man making his way slowly towards the senior center with a cane. He is probably on his way to chat with friends, play some bingo or gin rummy. A woman jogs down the shaded, tree lined street with her baby in a stroller. Seeing through the eyes of the two women in the book, these images are miracles in themselves. The issues of violent death, fear, hunger or thirst rarely surface here. Why can’t people stop fighting, give up grudges and revenge and just let peace happen? Put your weapons down and go home and live! It should be so simple but we have tangled ourselves into such a ridiculous knot of jealousy and hatred and self-righteousness and pride and money and power that world peace seems like a distant dream. I wish I know how to help untangle that knot.

In the Pink

Today I was caught, mid mulch sling, in a beautiful, terrifying storm.
Right in the pink of it.
The kind of storm that makes me understand why people make gods of thunder and lightning. The thunder cracks so loud I can feel it in my chest, the lightning flashes so quickly and unpredictably that I half expect to be struck down at any moment.
The great maple trees swagger violently, gracefully, threatening to snap but swooping back up every time like a seiche.

Sitting on an old milk crate and leaning against a wheelbarrow in Carol H's garage, it smells just like Grandma Padalino's. I can think of no better place to watch this storm pass, dominating the landscape and humbling me yet again to the raw power of nature.

No one else is here, but these garage smells and summer smells and rain smells conjure up memories and I am not alone.

Thunder rumbles and cracks and rain beats all around me. I see flashes and the strong wind blows mist onto my perch in the garage.

And then the storm slips away with as little warning as it came. So too do my memories. I take up my wheelbarrow and roll back to the present.

Brainwashed

When parents send their children off to college, Mom and Dad hope they will return more cultivated, knowledgeable, and astute -- able to see issues from all points of view. But, according to Ben Shapiro, there's only one view allowed on most college campuses: a rabid brand of liberalism that must be swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

Shapiro shows how the leftists who dominate the universities -- from the administration to the student government, from the professors to the student media -- use their power to mold impressionable minds

-From promotional website of Brainwashed

I have never been a very 'political' person. As a kid, politics was just something that was argued on the radio, cocky voices making fun of the other party. A voice to fall asleep to on long car rides, the words never registering in my head. But now I wonder, what were those voices saying to me all those years? Did I survive being brainwashed by Rush Limabugh for eighteen years, only to come to college to be brainwashed by my professors?

I don't think so. In fact, I feel every bit as 'knowledgeable and astute,' if not cultivated, as Ben Shapiro thinks parents hope for. I know that global warming is a serious issue not because I saw a raging liberal out throwing eggs at passing Hummers from the tress, but because I have worked through the science meticulously, read the papers, seen the studies. It really hurts to know that people would discredit science, sound science, on the basis of politics. Politics, known and even expected to be corrupt, distorting the truth on both sides.

Radicalism scares me, liberal and conservative, but conservative in particular because that is what I am blogging about. To take any stereotypical liberal ideal and view it as the enemy, as some kind of menace that will destroy America. For example, I was reading the book 'Taking America Back' by Joseph Farah a while back. He devoted a whole chapter to the hoax of organic gardening. He exposed to his readers that in order to fertilize organic crops, manure is used. That's POOP people! Poop on your food! So eat conventional food, fertilized with loads of nitrogen and phosphorus (strictly not poop fertilizer) that will run into our rivers and lakes and create huge algal blooms that will die off and eat up all of the oxygen and kill the fish. The choice is yours. Which is more of a menace to America's future?

What I have learned from college is to ask questions. To be wary of what I am told. To seek the truth in a objective manner, to use science and not politics to guide me. If that's brainwash, I'm glad my brain is so clean.

The Good Arb

He had no articulate thought of anything; there was only this perfect sympathy of movement, of turning this earth of theirs over and over to the sun, this earth which formed their home and fed their bodies and made their gods.

-Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth

Luckily for me, the arb is a great place to drink and take off your clothes. Both of these habits are against the rules, and because of their prevalence I have a home in the caretakers cottage, arguably one of the most ideal habitations in the city of Ann Arbor. I make sure that all of this nonsense takes place in the bushes, well out of view and out of earshot. But my gain from these miscreants does not end there.

Yesterday, after a disappointing rejection from a minimum wage job hauling trailers of canoes between Argo Pond and Gallup park, I was fairly upset. Why am I not fit to perform this simple task? I was polite enough during the interview, I smiled and gave a firm hand shake and did not stutter. Was I too honest about my ideological opposition to clearing the river of trees, a process that is the third leading cause fish biodiversity loss? So I am still without a job, and as I walked through the sunny main valley yesterday, I began to wonder what would come of me. The words of Warren Zevon crept into my head "how you gonna make your way in the world if you weren't cut out for working..." And so I called my ma.

She told me to be more creative. To go ahead and write and draw and make some dandelion wine in the meantime. She said to think outside of the 'box,' and I realized that I was in a box and had to break free. So rather than mope in front of my computer hoping for a response to my pleas for jobs ('yes, we would love for you to walk our two chihuahuas four hours a week'), I decided to do something creative.

One of my duties as caretaker is to take out the trash. This can be a pretty unpleasant task, because the main ingredient in the trash bins is usually dog poop. Luckily, the trash containers are separated into general trash and containers recycling. My target was the containers bin. Thanks to all of the beer drinkers, I now have about fifteen dollars worth of cans and bottles on my porch. Sure, they took me two and a half hours to collect. And sure, it will probably be another two hours lugging the huge, sticky black bag to Kroger on my bike to return them. My legs and feet were covered in brown trash juice, which made my toes stick to my flip flops when I walked. But it didn't matter. I did something. Creative. And I found a nice sweater in the trash while I was at it.

In addition to the clothing and money, the arb has got food growing everywhere. A high percentage of the 'edible' food is actually carcinogenic or poisonous if not boiled three times over, but there is some nourishment to be found nevertheless. I have been nibbling on dandelion leaves and bittercress greens and redbud flowers. My garden is growing slowly but steadily despite daily bombardment by squirrels and chipmunks. Soon, there will be berries and cherries to eat.

So I tend to the arb with care and gratitude. Because the good arb has formed my home and fed my stomach and clothed my body.

Fragile in the Flesh

I used to be invincible. My body was once immune to petty colds, infections, or any small discomforts of the flesh. I felt that if something did happen to me, I would be able to take care of it myself, just eat an orange or add a few extra cloves of garlic to whatever I was cooking. Trips to the doctor were rare and usually for routine procedures like tooth cleaning. But that was back when I had health insurance.

As the last day of health insurance approached, my systems began to fall apart. My left eye turned red, and I was given steroid antibiotic eye drops which healed the eye but caused a series of many other types of physical distress (thanks, UHS). Soon after my eye healed, a speck of carrot was caught in my branchiopharengial shelf, which somehow gave me tonsillitis, a lingering cough, and copious amounts of snot. Again, UHS came through with a bag full of pills, a steroid gargling solution and all kinds of chemicals that intimidated me. I spent all of my pocket money on these drugs, which I ended up not taking due to fear of the side effects.

And then graduation happened. The very ceremony that cuts me off of my parent’s health insurance has left me fumbling and itching and limping. It started in the Big House. For some reason, the sun is very strong in there. I wore no sunscreen that day, and despite my efforts to shade myself with my cap, I ended up with a burnt face. I have suffered many a burnt face in my lifetime, but this one was different. I had no insurance, which my immune system must have sensed. Because it flipped out and gave me sun poisoning. My face, stomach, arms, and scalp were soon covered in mosquito-bite-sized bumps. I slept off the bumps, only to wake up with in internal itch in my hands and feet. My hands are swollen so that it is hard to make a fist, and my feet are so itchy that I shuffle along on the ground in a feeble attempt to sate the insatiable itch.

Are all of my ailments psychological? Is my body angry at me for failing to keep it insure d? Or is this just what happens as you age? Whatever the reason, I no longer take my health for granted.

Toad Pancake

The toads are horny. It was all of that rain that did it. Or maybe the electricity in the air. Or it could be the thunder that got them so excited. Whatever it was, the toads were emerging from the woods in masses in search of water to make babies in. These masses of toads would stop at nothing to find that water. Not even Plymouth road. The road was just hopping with toads, well, some of them were hopping. Many of them were pancakes.

I can’t help but wonder, what do these toads tell us about life? About freedom and the reckless following of your gut?

You put yourself out there. You let your instincts take over. You set aside common sense for a brief period of truth. And what happens? You get smashed. You end up a toad pancake on the road. Hence society. Hence embarrassment and politeness and awkwardness and formality. All to protect us from truth, instinct, and the inevitable smashing that will occur if we ever do let it all go.

But the toads keep hopping, every year. And they persist. So can we, I suppose.

Pollas Meat Market

I just finished college. I guess I am an adult now. Being an adult, it's pretty overwhelming. My future is a great unknown. Where will I be next year? Next month, even. Will I be as happy as I am now? Will I be able to make something of my life? The vastness, the blankness, and the uncertainty of it all has driven me to contemplate my past. The known, the familiar, my life as it has already been lived. When did that life become a memory, rather than a routine? When did trips to Pollas meat market stop happening, and why did it take me so many years to recall that they ever happened at all? Yes, the known and familiar past that I have chosen to remember in every fine detail are the trips to Pollas for lunch meat. On Kelley road? Off of seven mile? I don't remember. But here is what I do recall.

If we go to Pollas, maybe we'll see that nice guy who stocks the fruit and gives us cookies when we check out. And maybe we'll get ma to buy us those mini chocolate chip cookies that Miss Abrahms, the first grade substitute teacher, used to hand out if we were good. I bet ma will give in. When it comes to those cookies, she usually does. But she never gives in to the jello molds. Never. Towering in a fantastic rainbow of red, pink, green, and orange, the jello molds were forever a mystery. I still don't really know what they are, or what they would taste like, or if they are even for eating. Knowing that it would be useless to beg for one of these, I tear my eyes away and we are at the meat counter. Flies dart around, taunting the butcher and jumping from bloody bones to ham butts. On top of the counter, pickled pigs feet are lined neatly in jars, pink chunky hooves suspended in clear pink juice. If we are lucky, there will be a cheese sample next to the jars. I scan the counter for the red checkerboard paper dish. Bingo. Cheese cubes for everyone! Now it's time to get down to business. The butcher digs his finger deep into his ear, scratches it, and asks us what we want. "I'll take two punds of the Kraukus Poilish ham" says ma. He picks up the slippery pink cube of meat and flops it onto the slicer. "Very thin, please," says ma. When it is shaved paper thin you don't even remember the block it came from. And the white veins of fat are barely visible. I'll never forget the time ma got boiled ham by accident. Or maybe it was on sale and she told us she did it by accident. Either way, a boiled ham sandwich is much harder to get down than a Kraukus ham sandwich, no matter how thinly it is sliced.

Bread

I add sweet sweet
honey warm
to feed my little
yeasts

I wrote this poem on the sidewalk last summer after a baking streak that changed the way I look at bread. You would think bread is a pretty simple thing, right? Just water and flour and yeast. A substrate to make swallowing peanut butter and jelly easier. But a lot of care goes into making bread. And a lot of love. Those little yeasts are so helpful. They turn the process of baking bread from a chore to pastime. After making bread I feel as if I have just had a good time with an old friend. It is a lovely symbiotic relationship; I feed the yeasts and they feed me.

Annual Dig Up Grass Day

Today turned out to be my annual dig up grass day. This means that I go into a trance at around 6 pm and I do not stop digging my chosen plot of grass until it gets too dark to see. The ritual has been going on for three years now, and I always feel pretty good about myself afterwords. This year, due to unlimited resources at my disposal, I ended up with the foundations of a beautiful raised bed garden. It is amazing how invigorating it is to just dig up grass. To make a useless, scrappy, ignored piece of land into the life-giving center of an entire season! I already have carrots, beets, swiss chard, and sugar snap peas in the rich soil of this new raised bed preparing to germinate. But I worry about these little seeds. Barry Sanders the whistlepig has been my friend for the past couple of years. We have shared many pleasant, nonsense conversations. But I am afraid that his foraging habits and the quality of my little sprouts will put a serious strain on our friendship.

Just one Speck of Carrot

That's all it is; one speck of carrot. It probably only took a couple of hours to grow in the soil of Bolthouse farm. And now it is lodged in my sinus cavity. Just at the brink of that little shelf that separates the nasal cavity from the back of the throat. I have seen Oprah, I know what happens when you get a vegetable lodged in there. It begins to rot. And then you get chronic bad breath. And then people have trouble talking to you, so you either become a mute or you loose all of your friends. And then you get an infection and die, but it doesn't really matter because of what your life has become. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but it sure does make you feel pretty bad.

I Missed Out

Several great events happened at home this Easter. And I missed out on all of them.

1) Church in Greektown. This was the kind of church where you have to kneel to get communion. And they put a little paddle underneath your chin in case any communion dust drops off the host. And you don't touch the host, it is placed directly on your tongue. Well, Mary was kneeling with the paddle under her chin this Easter, and when the person handing out the body of Christ got to her, she stuck her tongue out just like she was supposed to. The only problem was, when he took one look at Mary, he knew she was a Carlin. And he grew up with the Carlins. In fact, Mark Carlin used to be one of his best friends. So as all of these thoughts were running through his head, Marys tongue was still hanging out. And you can only stick your tongue out for so long before it starts to shake. This is exactly what happened to Mary. Her tongue was shaking like crazy. She reports that in the end, she managed to get the host and swallow it.

2) Grandma M, after taking a coconut topped cupcake from Mary, declines a peanut butter cup offer because she is 'on a diet.' "How much weight do you want to loose?" Asked Grandma Padalino. "Oh, twenty five pounds," said Grandma Mancini. "Ten pounds?" "No twenty five pounds" "Oh, ten Pounds is not bad. Me, I can eat whatever I want to and I will always be the same, 135 pounds." Grandma M reaches for another cupcake.

3) Mary decided to start singing 'this little light of mine' at the dinner table. Grandma M, after refusing to sing and even laughing at Mary, decided to harmonize for her because she didn't know all of the words. So, when appropriate, she would chime in "i'm gonna let it shine."

4) Ma has been treating a callous on her foot as if it were a wart for over a week. She has been applying acid bandages to the bottoms of her feet, and realized on Easter that they were not warts at all, and now she has burned two holes in her foot. She wrote to me in an email, "Yes Liz, you have to be careful when treating imaginary warts."

All of these memories could have been mine. This is why you should go home for the holidays.

Trash Talk

Today the grass turned green. The daffodils bloomed. Barry Sanders the whistlepig was rooting around the back yard. Mike Kelley was pacing down by the river. When he saw me at the trash bins he nearly ran over to me, arms and legs swinging wildly to maximize speed. As usual, he told me what a great job I was doing with the invasive removal. And as usual, he dove straight in to offer advice in the art of ‘lolipopping’ these trees. ‘Using natural tools such as my hands or sticks, I prune the buckthorne to make vertical lines so that you can see the natural landscape,’ says Mike, advising me to do the same, and, above all else, consider the job an art project, the forest my canvas. He also reminded me to always remove the cut brush. ‘I find that as I remove the dead, living things replace them.’ I found this an interesting thing for Mike Kelley to say the day before Easter, and considered saying something like ‘I find that the living things rise out of the dead.’ I thought better of it, for there were only about four hours of daylight remaining. If you want to get into a discussion about life, death, Catholicism, and honeysuckle with Mike, you better start talking in the morning or else you will end up breaking the ‘open dawn to dusk’ rule.