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A Popsicle Saves a Friendship |
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Geezers Corner
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Back in the early 1950’s we were growing up in simpler times. WWII was just a vague memory for kids our age. Another war had already started in a place called Korea. Boys my age loved to play army! We scoured the local army surplus store buying canteens, helmets, and patches to sew on our army outfit. Our toy rifles and pistols looked just like the “real” ones that John Wayne used in the Saturday afternoon movies.
My pals and I admired our WWII Hollywood heroes and wondered if there would come a day when we would be in a war. We hadn’t even heard of Vietnam. Until then, we dug foxholes and bunkers in our back yards and fought pretend battles. In our young minds, it all seemed quite realistic.
At that age you had many friends, but there was usually one “best friend” you hung out with the most. Back then, my best friend’s name was David. We played army, rode our bikes and played catch. We camped out on each other’s front porches in the summertime and on hot days we ate watermelon to cool off.
One day while playing war games in David’s back yard, I mentioned how great it would be if we had a set of walkie-talkies. We could use them in our battles to outsmart the enemy. David beamed as he told me how his dad was a WWII soldier and had brought a pair of walkie-talkies home after the war. David proudly announced that he was sure his dad wouldn’t mind if we used them. He wasn’t certain where they were, but was confident we would find them. For the next two days we tore through boxes in their basement, attic and garage looking for the walkie-talkies. I was excited just thinking that the next box or trunk we opened would contain our new equipment! On the third day, my “best friend” sheepishly confessed he had made up the whole thing. There were no walkie-talkies and never had been!
Furious, I gathered up my army gear, got on my bike and headed for home; swearing I would never darken his door again. I told my mom all about it and declared that David and I were no longer best friends. The two moms must have talked and hatched a plan because the next day he showed up with ten cents and offered to go to the corner store and split a Popsicle. That Popsicle tasted so good! Soon we forgot about our squabble and by the time we took our last bite, we were “best friends” again.
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Eating
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So here I am living in Northern Michigan, almost 63 years old and I had never been in a kayak. I’ve been in my share of boats and canoes but never plopped my backside in a kayak. I can remember as a kid that kayaks were something that Eskimos (now properly called Inuit) used. They were constructed of wood and sealskins. I don’t know when they became popular. I suppose it was when someone discovered how much easier it was to make them out of fiberglass. I’m sure the seals appreciated that immensely.
The word “kayak” means “man’s boat” or “hunter’s boat” but they are no longer limited to just us guys. There are almost as many different styles of kayaks out there as there are tennis shoes, but that’s the topic of a future column. They have been designed for white water, surf, ocean, racing, recreational…the list goes on and on.
I have a good friend who I’ll just refer to as Dave. Dave and his wife live in a beautiful cottage along the Manistee River. Recently, I got a call from Dave reminding me about a previous plan we hatched to do a day trip down the Manistee River…. In kayaks! I had always wanted to try one but thought that a nice calm lake would be a better place to attempt my maiden voyage.
The big day arrived and Dave picked me up in his pick-up with our craft hanging over the tailgate. Life jacket in hand, my wallet and cell phone in zip lock bags, and a half-melted Snickers in my pocket, we took off on our adventure. We drove South on M-66 past Taffeltown and put in below the bridge in the old campground. I must admit I was a bit nervous thinking that I would dunked just getting in the thing. Dave said that “if” I made it all the way without getting wet, I should be proud. I didn’t like the “if” part.
At first I felt like I was sitting on eggs in that I was afraid to make any sudden moves. After a few minutes I became more confidant until the current grabbed me and before I knew it, I was proceeding downstream backward thinking that the end was near. Soon I figured the whole thing out, relaxed and took in the beauty of the nature that surrounded us. There were few cottages and even fewer people along our 8-mile float. It was totally quiet except for the sounds of our paddles dipping in the river and our conversation. If you’ve never experienced it, I encourage you to give kayaking a try. It’s another great way to enjoy outdoor Michigan.
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Where Did My Birdseed Go? |
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Geezers Corner
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Living close to the woods gives us many opportunities for viewing the local wildlife. My wife and I really enjoy feeding the birds and feel blessed that we have so many different varieties visiting our seven feeders. That may sound like overkill but each one serves a different type of customer. Some folks stop feeding the birds during the summer but we keep the diner open all year. I suppose the free lunch is why we have so many visitors. So far this year, the little guys have packed away 350 pounds of sunflower seeds, dozens of suet cakes and 30 pounds of thistle seed. Nobody goes away hungry!
As a side benefit, we get other guests at the dinner table besides the birds. The day shift includes red squirrels, gray squirrels, black squirrels and of course Tamias striatus. Our nighttime visitors include raccoons, rabbits, flying squirrels, possum, and an occasional red fox. We think the red fox is looking for some of the other dinner guests. So who is Tamias striatus? Well, most of us just call him a chipmunk. They happily scurry around the yard filling their cheeks with seeds that have fallen to the ground. Chipmunks really don’t do any harm except for all the burrows they dig around the cottage. During our first year we didn’t think about it too much, but it didn’t take long to notice the population explosion. Chipmunks usually have two litters per year. Each contains 4 to 5 young and they live for an average of 2-3 years. A mathematician could calculate how we became overrun with chipmunks in such short order!
After becoming enlightened, I began what I call the Chipmunk Relocation Program. I was hoping for some government funding but I quickly realized that I must wage this war on my own. I bought a Havahart trap and began the battle. Using the same seed as in the feeders, I met with instant success. I was catching so many that I constructed the Chipmunk Scoreboard, which proudly hangs in the garage. After each one is trapped, I take them on a ride. We drive two miles down the road where they are introduced to their new digs in the State Forest. So far this year, the count on the Scoreboard is 27 and I got a late start. One helpful neighbor has suggested that they are following me back home and I am catching the same ones over an over. Suggestions have been made about painting their tails red to see if I’ll recognize any returning guests. In six years I have relocated 162 chipmunks and although some are looking mighty familiar, the Relocation Program will continue.
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