I have missed declaring the summer count. I could review my timeline and see which days I've missed, but that would require time indoor with my computer. I also transitioned into a new phone, a Nexus X, happy to be rocking a G Phone again. My Virgin Mobile account rocking on a Rumor LG Touch served for a year; it made a great texting machine. Learning a new phone and spending my past week on a farm far away from cell towers caused my summer count program to collapse. On the plus side, it is easy to now take a picture and post it. So when I make a mileage report, I take a picture close to the car door. So, yes, Mr. Anonymous, the Harbor Theater is a block east, but I parked across street from Marine Tap Room. So MTR shows in the picture. While I'm talking to my anonymous friend, it's good to review some history of the Wilbo. I grew up in Detroit, and Detroit has many fields that once served as industrial properties. The fields just east of Watermark 920 are obviously old yards or foundations, and the field has a two stepped terrace, borders clearly marked out with concrete. Sun cast across the length of that field caught my eye, and I thought of Detroit and its ruins, returning to nature. Thanks for communicating and giving me a chance to clarify and expound. I wish more money could be made in clarification and exposition.
It's tough to report to the Harbor with the sun so pleasant and so near the end of its reign. It'll be easier in the fall and early winter. I enjoyed seeing Terrence Malik's Tree of Life, especially since I love the Live Oaks of Texas. I regret never driving down to Waco when I lived in Dallas, but I felt that Live Oak ambiance, accented by Spanish Moss, in Waxa, short for Waxahachie. I am pretty sure Tree of Life is what happened when Terrence Malik read Thomas Pynchon and then saw Matthew Barney's Cremester Cycle. The film will require another screening. I was just feeling impatient Wednesday night, although I did read the Wikipedia entry before descending into sleep. It is very Texan to sit on a porch and read a long novel, allowing the heat to rise up through the home's ventilation. I listened once as a Texas oil executive explained the ventilation system of a Texas farm house, all the hot air escaping through a cupola. I wish I had made notes right afterward. It makes reading on the porch a bearable activity, and long novels are required. That's why Thomas Pynchon is so popular in Texas. Does anyone write them longer than Thomas Pynchon?
I felt an urge from my "circadian rhythm" Tuesday night around 6:30 PM. It's a feeling that came with an imagination, that I was hearing a good marching band perform, such as the Spartan Marching Band from Michigan State University or the Waterford Marching Captians. It's the returning to school feeling, the fall harvest kind of feeling. I'm not ready to behold frost on pumpkins but I can see myself wearing a sweater in the cooler evenings. Last night, we saw 74 degrees at midnight. We've had at least one evening in the higher sixties. The sunset is occuring before 9:00 PM. There's a breed of maple, I believe, that has leaves reddening. To behold, it is maddening. My nights of late spring and early summer feel a part of a chapter from a lifetime ago. All the single waitresses at the Rendezvous are ripening with signs of summer love. I have averted my eyes from pairs of humans on Hoffmaster's beach at nightfal, humans reminding me of otters or sea lions. June and July have a heat I will remember, and we certainly burnt the perfume of lilacs and hydrangea in June and July this year. The dog days of August arrived as a weeping canine, and I had to leave my car windows open at work in order to dry my damp seats.
I haven't gone swimming enough. I haven't boated enough. I never bought that summer bicycle. I do feel last week that summer engulfed me, and I am still her thrall. I sit out late among the outdoor cafes of Grand Haven, last night talking with two German women, setting off on a two week out and back journey across the United States, staying with friends all along the way. Driving out by the way of St. Louis and then continuing to Sante Fe, New Mexico, talking the southern route to California. I remember calling my father from that drive in March 2007, when I crossed into Arizona and could see across the desert to a green singular mountain, a landmark I swear stood half a state away. I should have warned them not speed or forget their seat belts after crossing the Mississippi River going west. Western law men can spot an unbuckled driver from a mile away. I think the journey has tragic flaws; many days will require 500 miles drives, a ten hour chore. But, as one sister claimed, they had a good car and good music. I met her sister later, so I am willing to add, she has good company. Maybe they'll do six drive of a thousand miles. You can tell I am totally envious. But this is the European way, to return to nature during August, abandoning job and city. My entire office is on vacation, and I stand by my post, waiting for a phone to ring or an email to arrive, requesting help. I'll be laying down the code long and thick until it's time to drive up to the Howmet Theater.
I'll be out on the farm this weekend. I'll call my mother in the morning and ask pesky questions. My brother didn't drive over to cut the lawn Wednesday, but it can wait a day. Mom should naturalize about an acre of the lawn. Or we should sponsor a sculpture garden or build a labyrinth for people to walk. One of her neighbors is an 88 year old farmer and he paid a visit to her widow's parlor. I am sure he made an offer for the land. He probably doesn't realize I know our small land is subdividable now into acre plots, and with a view of a small lake, desireable. He has grandchildren to house, and most of the farms in Shiawassee County have four generations living on acre sized plots. It's bad enough my father allowed the son to tile the land and bury a pile of beautiful fields stones, some as big as a man. When he paid his first visit, he brought his wife and a dish for our family, and we squared off in our dining room, and he asked about my plans for my mother. My mother is very involved in making plans for herself, thank you, I inferred in very nice language. He inquired into our heating system. Oil heat, I answered, and my mom was paying for it month-to-month all year round, a program of Coffield Oil. This segued into a conversation about the best diesel fuel for filling up a John Deere tractor, and that is Standard Oil premium diesel. I recalled arrving to his house to play with his sons, and his sons sitting around the table taking his instruction, play canceled for the day. He learnedly discussed the flight capabilities of an Air Force jet; he had served in Aviation in World War Two, marrying his high school sweetheart at the end of the duration. I hope to look so spry and wiry when I arrive, God willing, to my eighth decade. Jack at the corner is gone this year. Ivan next farm west passed the year before. This farmer who has been paying visits has taken up cultivation of all their fields. I wander rather than set down roots. My favorite activity of my family's acreage has been tow alk across it. You can't walk through corn anymore because the hybrids can be sown tightly, almost as tightly as wheat or soybean. You can barely see the row patterns laid down by the cultivator.
That's one clan making their intentions known. The Irish clan came by with a dish of muffins and deviled eggs, delivered by the matriarch. Rose Kennedy has nothing on the matriarch of our neighboring Irish clan. She's in her eighties too, and she still leads a real estate empire, one of the county's leading brokers.. She has plenty of steam to carry her into her second century. I always remember when she attended Dale Carnegie and shared that information at the village cafe, sitting in the neighboring booth. I always remember when she started selling real estate, hinting at great rewards for a lead that lead to a listing. I heard one of the earlier bird dogs got good bottles of whiskey. I remember driving with her and her boys, east on Silver Lake Road to Meyer's Lake, Methodist Camp and headquarters for swimming lessons taught by the Red Cross. I always sat in the front street. The son of th clan acutally helped my father rebuild his porch roof. Snowmelt can dissovle a roof in less than three years..
Added to all this jockeying, my father's employer is trying to foist a three hundred dollar reduction to the pension. I think it's time to sic the union hall on General Motors. I anticipate putting my mother and I upon a call next week, trying to find the weak sentence in the documentation. There will be a reduction in Social Security too. At least father bought insurance on his car loan, the only plus-up news in her money situation.
Yes, I'll be out on the farm this weekend. There's no place to fully enter the world of summer than the farm where summer had one fully enchanted, when there was no alternative to summer. For eleven good years, summer had it's way with me.
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