When Selling Vegetables and Farm Goods at the Muskegon Farmers Market, It Pays to Pack Up Slowly After Two in the Afternoon

The farmers market officially closed at two in the afternoon. Several vendors know that taking a long time to pack up pays off. Crisp Country Acres sets its produce out across four stalls, and picks up last minute sales as the couple puts away what remains into their two trailers.

Jobey never misses a market, even in cold weather, and is the last to leave. She has the biggest jugs of maple syrup and honey plus the most brown, free range eggs.

Robert's Produce just has so many containers of seedlings, tomatoes and annuals. That's tons of earth to put away on the shelves of his vans. Everyone wore an extra layer today while shopping because today arrived cold. Tonight promises to be forty-four degrees, a cold comfort to gardeners and farmers. Over at the art museum, a gargantuan white tent has risen, to be filled with chairs and tables and then local gentry.

Over at the art museum, a gargantuan white tent has risen, to be filled with chairs and tables and then local gentry. Hope it warms up by the weekend so everyone can eat supper in comfort and bid on the donated art without shivering.

Saw three artists out last night tracing a "Wall Dog" styled mural on the Holiday Inn. It will have the same style as the two Wall Dog murals completed over the last few years. This one celebrates Muskegon's spring industry. The first mural celebrated forging and the second celebrated aerospace manufacturing. The mural is covered up against the rain, the cold and rainy turn delaying the three day job. Last night, using a projector, the team traced from the computer generated image to the panel. All these facts one learns by walking around town, not particularly useful facts.

Here's a less than useful fact. The Waxies are a loud and proud Irish American band that deserves an open air setting for its music. Friday night at Parties in the Park, the Waxies performed in the open air of Hackley Park. Hoping the power chords won't blast out the stained glass windows of nearby Hackley Library. This evening of free music lasts from Five to Nine, sponsored by the Muskegon Rotary.

I am reminded of this by a promotional place mat from Loring Advertising. Isn't that the guy, David Loring, who films all the community theater. Isn't that the guy who bought the huge B&B nearby Hackley Park? I saw him enjoying his front porch the other day as I drove on by. I honked. He waved. We never met. His daughter and her boyfriend says hello at Crane Wives concerts and art openings at the Muskegon Museum of Art. Small town.

Conversed with a woman who said with candor that she had three felony convictions for heroin related issues. This made me grateful that she was spared, alive and in recovery. Read an article in MLive today about two women who drove to Muskegon from Ludington to shoot up, one dying and one revived at the hospital. The scene took place on a street not far from the Station Grill. What a horrible scourge is heroin and now, no one knows if the syringe holds a deathly dose or not. Mile 3892.

Downtown Muskegon has Walker Arena and Frauenthal Theater, two spaces large enough to host a major graduation ceremony. Tonight, a high school wearing robes of green are loading the Walker. A young group of volleyball players had the two sand lots of the downtown site busy with serving and spiking.

Cyclists are arriving for the night ride at City Hub Cyclery. It's as big a deal as Eagles arriving for the fish fry down at the corner Friday nights. Mile 3846.

Walldog Mural of Foundry Frank

Photo Credit Eagle Alloy

Detroit Hustle ---- Amy Haimerl Restored the Historic Herzog House in Detroit's West Village to Break the Chains of High Rent in Brooklyn

Tuesday, June 7th, 2016

Loutit Public Library

Amy Haimerl and her husband, Karl Kaebnick, started out with a purchase of a thirty five thousand dollar house at the base of Van Dyke Avenue.

Four hundred thousand dollars later, the Herzog house was ready to welcome guests for another century.

Talmer Bank, with a branch in Grand Haven, appraised the house at three hundred thousand, the highest appraisal in the neighborhood.

Spend 435 Thousand and get back 300 Thousand? Amy Haimerl and her husband call that a bargain, the best she ever had. The couple paid three and a half grand to rent a place in Brooklyn, so the investment made economic sense. That's a payback in ten years because now the couple builds equity every month.

A journalist by profession, she also squeezed a great book out of their shared ordeal. She gathered material, writing frequent blog posts that accounted for every penny. Last night, she held an audience at the Loutit Public Library in awe for a lot longer than expected. So don't be afraid to book her for your event.

Restoring the Herzog House is an impressive feat in a city although for how long will such stories be amazing? It's been decades since that awful year when the city didn't issue a single building permit.

Photograph of Matilda by Amy Haimerl. This is a before photograph.

Saturday October 8th Began as a Perfect Day at the Muskegon Farmers Market and Continued Perfectly in Downtown Montague, Michigan

Muskegon Farmers Market

October 8th 2016

Muskegon Michigan

A man in an argyle sweater and khakis has set up shop, busking on a violin. He has seated himself between the children's face painting and the Power of Produce stall. He has chosen a location warmed by full sun, as robust a sunbeam as one will find today. He has also chosen a location right before four trash cans, empty trash cans but still trash cans. The staff giving children tokens to buy vegetables have been busy. It's too cold in the barn's shade to hold even a short lesson.

The La La Land girls have turned children into pixies and elves at at steady pace, amazingly face painting children for mere tips in a jar. Last night, children walked Western Avenue adorned in face paint, mimicking tigers and sprites and gesturing with ribbon streamer wands. 

Today, children walk the farmers market adorned again in face paint, mimicking a different ethereal creature than last night. The entire month has become Halloween in downtown Muskegon. Kids must love it, especially as fresh cider and candy apples await for purchase along the stalls, cherry turnovers too. Better choices than Halloween candy await at every turn.

The violinist didn't strike me as familiar. He moved to new location, hoping for better tips in his open, worn case. Maybe it's an unwritten rule, but buskers only work the ends of the market aisles. One of my friends has a doctorate in Philosophy, but he pays his small monthly bills by busking, Mandolin busking, at the north corner of the market's inner most aisle. He pulls a two hour shift by Aldea Coffee, Laughing Tree Bakery and the farmer who sells watermelon by the slice. My friend goes home with about a hundred in his frog waste basket, the better to secure those fivers that catch on the wind.

The main stage operates differently. A popular local musician named Kwame curates the buskers on the stage. When performing on the main stage, the busker is allowed amplification, and the music carries from the barn to the Morris Street Pavilion. Kwame always walks around, making certain all the guests are having a good time.

I was loving what I was hearing, and I emerged from my perch in the barn to hear more songs by a woman who had just taken the stage. It was a bit chilly out in the open, but the picnic tables around the stage enjoyed full sun and I was lulled into three songs, cover songs performed well with personal interpretation.

Kwame spotted me, and drew me into conversation. 

I quizzed him, "Kwame, what's up with this talent"?

"Well, she found the farmers market. She had just won a Detroit Music Award, so that was a green light for me. Her name is Mary McGuire".

"Nice pull, Kwame", and we hugged and went our ways. Mary McGuire sang, "Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone", as I rolled away on my Schwinn Admiral.

When I arrived at Unruly Brewing, where like Cheers everybody knows my name, I looked Mary McGuire up. Her Detroit Music Award couldn't be fresher, awarded in 2016. She even shared the stage for a duet awards night with perennial favorite, the polite, crowd-pleasing Jill Jack.

McGuire had plans to put plenty of miles on her boots after busking in Grand Rapids, seeking that ArtPrize gold. Later tonight, she'll cross Michigan on M-46, shortest route, to make a gig at a barbecue house in Frankenmuth. Tomorrow will find her at the Sunday Farmers Market in East Lansing, one of my favorites. Mary McGuire is proof that the best never rest. Catch McGuire this October as her tour touches a farmers market near you.

The Book Nook & Java Shop

Today, I took a county bus up to Whitehall. Most of the riders departed in North Muskegon. One stayed on until the south border of Dalton Township, and unloaded his Mongoose Ten Speed and headed west. He carried his necessaries in a backpack and he had recently had his hair cut back high and tight. Amazingly, the bus drove east to Lakewood Club and then went north to one mile south of the entrance to Blue Lake Fine Arts camp. You could take an early evening bus out to a week night concert and bike home after the show on the Fred Meijer Trail. 

The sand lot by the concert halls probably has plenty of chances to thumb a ride home with a family that loves music as much as you do. Plenty of Manistee National Forest surrounds Blue Lake Fines Art Camp, so bring a hammock or a pup tent and sleep until the morning runs begin. The music and theater at the fine arts camp will keep you comfortable through the night. But make sure you are squatting on federal land.

Then the bus zigzags through all of White Lake's shopping and industrial parks. Then it drops off once and only once downtown between Montague Foods and the Book Nook. The last ride back to the county seat picks up at 5:00 and 5:15 PM. Miss it and choices are walking and thumbing. In nine years of living in Muskegon County, I've counted plenty of panhandlers and almost zero hitchhikers. Volunteer as a designated driver at Jimmy's Bar and be insistent. They really need designated drivers at Jimmy's.

The last weekday bus south from Whitehall is right when the Book Nook closes. That's a fine time for a book lover and writer to call it a day. Today at the Nook I saw Robert Swan, violinist from the Chicago Symphony. I also said hello to the executive director of the town's chamber music festival and the man who bakes my bread in a wood fired oven, the Laughing Tree baker exploring the rows of books to a young daughter. I didn't see a popular Naturalist sipping wine at the all too high wine bar with her friends. It was too early for wine drinking; the Naturalist doesn't feed the rumor mill a single scrap.

I wrote. I drank coffee. I stood out front with my hands in my pocket searching for material. Sean France has a new ballet he's debuting, his dance school student fulfilling the Star Wars roles. I noticed that Mitch Copeland, Yogi and playwright, has a plan to take his tribe to Costa Rica for yoga in paradise. I wondered if he meant to write a reality TV pilot on the trip?

In Studio 2, the light inside invited me to open door and go inside. I found an instructor and her students painting sunflowers in the area softly lit by cloudy day sunshine sneaking in big bay windows. I declared the sunflowers to be greater paintings than any by Vincent Van Gogh. The class started trading ideas about Vincent's style and life. Rather than interjecting, I slipped out fairly much unnoticed.

I saw a new business in the PROFESSIONAL BUILDING, identified by block letters impressed in cement. Groove, a record store, had moved next door to the Senior Center, housed in the 1951 offices of Montague State Bank. As I stepped in, I discovered several albums of Fred Bear discussing his hunting technique. Those albums were close to the box of Motor City Madman's albums, Ted Nugent. I found a box of all of John Denver's albums and a box of all Harry Chapin's albums, and Chapin recorded more albums than Denver. Each man died tragically young in an accident, Chapin driving a car and Denver flying a plane.

I did not stay to meet the owner. I figured I had walked into a time warp and left before I couldn't leave. The owner does a mail order business and I noticed her walking packages of albums to the nearby post office. I decided to write two more scenes that afternoon, one for Chapin and one for Denver. Then, bus time arrived and I made a mad dash for the stop.

By Vincent van Gogh - National Gallery (NG3863), London, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=151970

Stan and Stella Saved for Years and Cruised The Caribbean to Celebrate Their Life Together

June 4th, 2016

7:16 AM

Muskegon, Michigan

My grandparents on my mom's side saved their money for retirement, and the two enjoyed a bit of the sweetness of life. Stan and Stella believed in savings bonds and stacked them up in the kitchen cupboard above the coffee, bread and pop tarts. Jar full of pennies filled up in the cupboard, coins to roll and deposit. 

Stella probably started to buy bonds during the World War II effort, after the Depression. She probably liked the idea of a bearer instrument one could hide in a mattress that had the backing of the government that won the war and paid back all those war bonds. GM sold them by payroll deduction and one could hide them in a mattress if needed. One time after toasting up a box of pop tarts for my brothers and sisters, she pulled down a stack and told us how the savings bonds worked.

Grandpa Stan had a long retirement from Generous Motors, and as the bonds matured, the two cashed the bonds for face value and gave themselves a trip. One Spring, Stan and Stella visited the travel agent and bought tickets for a cruise out to the Bahamas. The two came back with conch shells and embroidered bags and stories. 

The two were astounded that children would swim out to greet their cruise ship coming into a Bahamanian port and coax tourists at the ship's rail to toss coins in the water. Grandpa Stan was always good for change, as we learned when he took us to a five and dime for penny candy. Grandma Stella let him throw nickels, about a dollar's worth. If Stan had lived today, his grandchildren would have watched him win big pots on Poker Stars. He was that good at Poker 

He was that good at Poker. So he had a little loose change to toss for nickel divers to recover near the wharves of Nassau. I thought about them tonight as I visited the cruise ship landing built at Heritage Landing, soon to host about a cruise ship a week through the summer. I don't think we'll have any diving children working for quarters thrown over the rail. 

The passengers tonight would have witnessed a lively scene, families fishing or taking selfies as the sun drop became more and more colorful. Guessing they'll bring down trolleys from the Muskegon Trolley Company to ferry those who step off to the breweries or maybe Smash, the wine bar. It reminds me of the lucky month I passed in Key West in 2000. Cruise ships hit the port daily and I seemed like a likely bloke to buy a drink at Sloppy Joe's. I never bought my own drinks on a day when the cruise ships docked in Key West.

Dean Blue Hole

Long Island, the Bahamas

By Ton Engwirda - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13524568

On June 4, 2016, I Passed a Perfect Day in Downtown Muskegon, Meeting Restaurant Tycoons and Searching for Avian Avatars

June 4, 2016 

11:19 AM

Burger King 

Muskegon, Michigan

Eavesdropping is good today at Muskegon's co-officing facility with free coffee for persons with gray hairs. Man is wearing a "Ducks Unlimited" hat and he's holding court. He rings up friends and invites, "I'm at Burger King. Stop in and you can have what you want from Burger King". 

Men have stopped by his booth and he's regaled the visitors with stories. Before he departed to fight in World War II, he paid off his mother's house and still had three grand left. He put his brother-in-law in charge of his restaurant and lounge in Muskegon Heights, the Gay Nineties, where an offer of a free dessert packed in the diners. After the war, the brother-in-law offered to hire him. "But I own the business, son", was our war hero's answer.

He bought a funeral home for another relative, with a Greek man named George vouching for him at the bank. Actually, it's better than that. George visited the bank president and threatened to pull out his four million in deposits. Our man got his loan and his relative took over management of the funeral home.

Men and women who fought in World War II are treasures, great troves of historical lore. I would eavesdrop more, but he's taken off with one of his friends, a younger woman who sells trailers at a local park. "This is one of my many wives", he announces to his court, who chuckles. She holds the doors for him as he exits with help of his walker. She places the walker in her cargo and they drive off in a Buick minivan, nicely polished. Tail feathers shake in the second, third decade and even the tenth.

Our man holding court at Burger King is about to turn ninety-three, Monday the day, and he visits the hotel every morning to pick up his newspaper, bringing it by the King's air conditioned lobby to read. He uses a walker around the King's lobby. 

Apparently, a car brought him to the hotel. He couldn't have marched from his senior apartment near Ryerson Creek to the downtown hotel with help of a walker? Or could he? At Ninety-Two, he had his driver's license revoked, which accords with some law. He fought it through an established process, passing all tests with ace scores and receiving a clean bill of health from his doctor. 

I knew I liked this place, free wireless, free coffee, free electricity and a retreat from the heat a short distance from the lake. If the Frontier and the hospice building were out of the way, I could see the lake from here. 

During the week, it's where most of the releases from the county prison go to await their rides and maybe find a kind person willing to pay for breakfast. One morning, a man who had spent the day before in Muskegon and Oceana County's clinks borrowed my phone to call for a ride. He went outdoors with it, but I didn't follow him. Doubted he would run. Had to wave through the window to hurry him up because I didn't want to be late for a 8:15 AM appointment. 

From Burger King, I can see through the windows of the top row of cells from where I am sitting, just a glance to the right. Say, those cells have a lake view.

9:24 AM

I was driving Western Avenue, looking for new items to note. I had yet to note the absence of the four bird sculptures that were placed around town. Called the Avian Avatars, the Avatars returned to where Avatars return. I read the story in the Muskegon Chronicle. We had a year lease on the birds. Thus in a few seconds I won't see the Avian Avatar that had guarded the market. In February of the next year, I would find the Avians again along an elevated expressway in New Orleans.

I am about to walk there and mentally I am preparing for this "absence at the heart of being". On the Holiday Inn, a surface of white that could take paint has scaffolding around it. Could this be a sign that the Wall Dogs are about to paint their third mural in Muskegon? The panel is the right size. Splash Pad is sending up jets of cool clean water, and a few children frolic as parents look onward. I think I saw a plumbing truck driving away, maybe meaning a fix was made. 

How well I knew Muskegon in 2016.

An Avian Avatar by the Myth Makers, Donna Dodson and Andy Moerlein

On June 3, 2016, I Obsessed Over Finding A Patch Of Morel Mushrooms Out in the West Michigan Woods

Muskegon, Michigan

June 3rd, 2016

The conversation is good all the time at the Muskegon Farmers Market.

I talked morels with a woman selling mushrooms. Her partner and she grew button, portobellos and shiitake mushrooms on a farm in Grand Haven. They sold for ten dollars a pound and required careful cooking and I deferred on buying an allotment until I had a good recipe ready. This was the last Saturday in May, and I asked, "Any chance of finding morel mushrooms still this season"? 

I heard the lore. Once the ground warms up, morels stop producing. She said maybe. Last week, she had a customer ask to buy morels, and she had to say no. Then her cell phone rang and a contact had discovered a front yard full of morels. The front yard of a yard in Norton Shores had sprouted with morels. 

I had to imagine what happened next to the two hundred and fifty pounds of morels that were quickly harvested. A woman had walked up and tuned into our talk. "Did the yard have an elm tree recently struck by lightning"? "Well, there is an elm tree in the yard," said the mushroom farmer. "It had to be struck by lightning recently. It wakes up the spores". 

The old elm tree in my back yard apparently hasn't worked hard enough to attract a thunderbolt. Maybe I'll have to wrap the upper branches with tin foil.

I was talking with two men at a bar in Manistee two weeks earlier. That weekend, it had rained on Saturday. Rain spoiled their turkey hunting so they went walkabout for morels. They found a likely stretch and gathered almost three hundred of the funny looking fungus. I bought our threesome a round of Wild Turkey shots and the two talked about cooking morels, drying morels and selling morels. Didn't say a word about where to find the morels. Didn't expect more than a hint, but who is above a bit of whiskey persuasion? 

I've gone out walking on nature trails near Muskegon three nights in the last week, and so far nothing has aroused my attention, not even a puff ball. Searching parks and public lands, surely the more accomplished morel hunters had already cut the crop to the ground in the morning before my evening walkabouts. I really thought this would be the year as I heard plenty of stories about plenty of big finds.

An art historian even found one on her lawn in Grand Rapids, a discovery she trumpeted to Facebook, making me grovel in agony, hoping for a morel miracle. I'm going up north this weekend to a camp where I taught merit badges in the summers before college, and around Kalkaska, snow can be found in June in the deepest parts of the woods. Other than that, I've stood down the search until next year.

So I am searching for another Spring rarity. On the walk out to my outdoor living room, a bench at the western end of the Muskegon River Boardwalk, I noticed several couples of Canadian Geese strutting about with their goslings, goslings that had tripled in size since last week. I was trying to walk without disturbing the families, and still the group hustled away from my line of walk. 

The goslings are so hungry keeping up with rapid growth that the young beaks could peck at a blade of grass, uproot and chew while hustling. The adults can fly and the goslings are covered with a yellow fuzz that won't give lift. The adults picked a good spot to lay eggs as the grass and water has to do until the young can fly. The whole family is flightless until then.

I saw two large waterfowl fly up the river course, faster than Canadian Geese with a croaking call I failed to identify. I would hate for a pair of flying Canadian Geese to make a liar out of me. I downloaded a picture taken by rangers at the Sleeping Bear Dunes of two mated Sandhill Cranes and their young. On the theory that Sandies also hunker down until their young are fledged, I am planning to go looking for Sandies and their young once eBird confirms a family close to Muskegon.

Of course, this will be out at the large tract of land around Muskegon's Wastewater Treating facility. I have a friend who once a month drinks rare Scotch and attempts to teach me Gaelic at Hennessy's Irish Pub. He sips the scotch as he tests me for I put little enough time in on my studies between monthly sessions, as if a month isn't time for review. 

He also sits on Friday's at Unruly Brewing, his spot right at the front counter, drinking from the gargantuan stein granted to the mug club members and munching cashews he brings in a leather pouch. 

In the water leftover after flocculation, oxygenation and of course filtration, he grows algae to burn as a biofuel. On sunny days it grows like cropsy in the lagoons and ditches. So I bought him a fill of his favorite Unruly, and after a few choice Gaelics words, he told me exactly where to find the Sandies. It took the time to drink a gargantuan serving of his favorite, so I got him another one. Nothing like cultivating a source.

I felt the time had arrived to walk the boardwalk back to my car. The sun has set behind me at 330 degrees Northwest. The Mosquitoes were growing daring. A Blue Heron has landed in the shallows between the drop off and the bulrushes and doesn't know I can see him standing stock still.

Morel Mushroom in the Bialowieza Forest, Poland.

By Beentree - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3956273

In January 2020, I Enjoyed Lunches in the Dining Hall of St John's Church, the Sacred Space that Went Up in Flames During the George Floyd Protests

Monday, June 1, 2020 at 7:03 AM

Raccoon Groves

Streator Illinois

The White House became a flash point of protest on the last day of May 2020. The public heard that President Donald Trump moved into the bunkers of the mansion for his safety. Many have to wonder if we heard the true story. Why would the president of one of the most powerful nations on earth remain on the grounds of a mansion under siege? 

Could the fence keep out a squad of elite soldiers or a committed mob? The failure of the White House has made the silver screen in Olympus Has Fallen and White House Down. Surely, the Donald knows how to split the scene when the Secret Service posted on the perimeter begins to take casualties. I hope he bailed while he could evacuate easily. Every movement of the president requires the care of a military operation. Maybe we heard a cover story?

Sadly, a second place of refuge for the American President suffered damage on Sunday. St. John’s Church has awaited every American president a short walk away from the White House since the administration of James Madison. During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln would walk over from the White House to hear the evening sermon at the church on Lafayette Square. He sat in a rear pew, alone and left alone, leaving before the end of service. 

Every Sunday, twice a Sunday, the congregation prays for Donald and Melania, referred to by their first names. Arguably a liberal congregation, one will not hear a negative word said about the 45th president. I attended for four Sundays in a row, and the presidential pew remained open should the President and his wife desired to attend the early or late services. No matter his poll numbers nor his policies, the door remained open in welcome.

The protest around the White House sparked a fire at St. Johns. Set in the basement of the church annex, the fire was quickly suppressed. The video I screened this morning showed the room engulfed in flames. I’m relieved the flames were arrested in time before the entire annex building caught fire. The parlors above it must have been damaged by the smoke, a beautiful room hung with antique oil portraits and decorated in a drawing room style. The Togo West Parlor was always set with chairs Sunday for adult education after the morning service.

The paradox I have wrestled with today exists in that annex. On January 19th, 2020, David Garrow, leading biographer of Martin Luther King Jr., spoke in that auditorium and took questions from the audience. King advocated non-violence as a method for addressing racism and injustice. Garrow has worked diligently to understand King, a man who had transformed the non-violent message of Gandhi for American hearts. 

On that day, he spoke to an audience of Episcopalians, many of whom had worked with time, treasure and talent to heal the racial divide in Washington DC and the nation. Now, violence has made that chamber unusable for an indeterminate time. Why would fire strike at the heart of a building dedicated to understanding the path towards King’s dream? 

Thinking about that church basement saddens me. I enjoyed two splendid lunches in that room. A well-equipped kitchen empowered volunteers to prepare fundraising luncheons. The lunches were served not on paper plates, but on reusable Episcopalian china. I'm sure the plates have broken, antique plates left by a generation before the two world wars.

One lunch explored the possibilities of vegan and organic ingredients purchased from farmers in the Washington DC area. Notes explained the ingredients and recipes; listed sources let us follow up with the farmers. A team manned a table exhibiting all the alternatives to drinking straws and paper plates and plastic shopping bags. I had never dined among such earth-conscious people.

A few guests couldn’t afford the suggested five dollar donation, and no one bothered to ask. Other guests had thrown twenties, fifties and hundreds into the basket. I found the last open seat at a round table with ten guests and we grew acquainted. 

A couple from the suburbs had gone to work in DC a year ago and loved St John's Church enough to take the Metro to the Farragut north station. A man in his eighties charmed us with his conversation, but he spent most of his time talking to a young man, probably a sixth grader. We recognized that the older man was grooming the younger. A long time member of the congregation kept us entertained with stories from the last century at the historical church. All races were present in our circle. Why would I have to tell you which person was which? We broke bread together as family. Why has that good room gone up in flames?

Yes, the Episcopalians will rebuild their kitchen and dining room. Yet, a laboratory of racial understanding has been put out of use for a year and more. We need these liminal spaces where people from all the corners of the globe are welcomed and celebrated even more in the wake of George Floyd’s passing. For now, we have to remember the food we shared together and the ideas we considered among us. We must not forget the hall of fellowship that went up in flames.

Painting of George Floyd by Nada Odeh, Chief Curator of the Museum of the Palestinian People, Washington DC.

Can't Get Enough of the #RideSharePoems? Here's A Complete Set of Poems Written to Lyft and Uber Drivers

Jeffrey and I were soujorning far on safari. So we paused to buy him, #Uber driver, an Audi. I racked up a fine fare pursuing a scavenger hunt. Trees with peaches, apples, fruit were drooping in the sun. We cornered the farmer's market for sweet just picked corn. We sang salutations to water lotuses, blossoming this morn. 

Thank you,  Joseph, for your service this Memorial Day. That Airborne Cap worn proudly said all you had to say. How many friends and foes did your field medicine save? Under fire in a foreign land, you were compassionate and brave.

Alaa, my comfort paramount, you even pulled out my armrest, which revealed a cup holder for water to slake my thirst. I stared out the window, as happy as a hotel guest. I caught some rest like a bird in a nest as we headed east.

Carlos, he's with the infantry, but he gets his weekends free, so he explores Upstate New York, transporting we civilians for a fee. We took a detour along Lake Onondaga, really an educational spree. We shot the breeze as we pleased, a perfect buddy movie.

Patrick, Freddy Mercury deserves a ginormous hooray For composing a rhaspody sung outloudly by guys, sis or gay. "Such the unifying anthem", a tune for either Waynes and Garths. Drive your Toyota proudly blasting it loudly, all around the Earth.

Sandy, I think your turn by turn lady guided you in Portuguese.  You picked me up in Irondequoit, a land of inland sea and trees. We listened to Jackson Browne and Jethro Tull, the radio stuck on Seventies memes. We didn't have much to say. The ride proceeded like a musical dream.

Cheriyan, you could lift my bagged up burdens with a single hand. Car doors opened wide, open sesame, upon demand. Your Honda Odyssey could carry a six piece jazz band and instruments too, to concert halls, small, bigger and grand.

Ryan, I'm glad your family and you have put down roots inside the Hudson Valley, one of the most splendid landscapes ever plotted by Rand McNally. This weekend you shuttled brides and grooms to farm house hootenannys. I hope you live many years, years beyond tally, in this valley of plenty.

John, late night driving Don, I have not left the village since brought home, Sunday at One. You made it easy to indulge in late night fun. You gave me a safe passage home when my mischief was done. @ HiLo Catskill

Mahmoud,  we were stuck in traffic, car idling and still.  So you did a you-eee to save barrels and barrels of imported oil. We discovered a sweet, wide, and open road to a freeway ramp. Even better, we drove by peepers peep peep peeping in a springtime swamp!

Ridge, the app said you had mastered four languages, and yet we drove in silencio and listened to jazz. So instead of filling a picnic basket full of word sandwiches, we went forth through the twilight, sans .... razmatazz.

Shawn, I loved your lecture on aesthetics as you drove me home from an art show. Your open mindedness is much to your credit, seeing the miracle of art in the great works and the low.

Debashis, you rate as a total Late Night Hero. After four hours on the train, I was sure I looked a weirdo. I look neater now. I shaved the beardo. I hope this Uber driving makes you lots of dough.

Frank, you got me here to there. I rode safely and almost bored. Side chatter isn't your strong suit. Whatever your quiet thoughts, I hope those thoughts bear fruit.

Omar, you arrived dressed in a black cap and a cammie coat. You wore the garments correctly, so the outfit seemed bespoke. Your date tonight will soon arrive from Ontario, oh you lucky bloke. Thank you for a lift to the art musee. I'm really glad we spoke.

We discovered a cider mill haunted by a witch who throws hard candy at the kids, ouch! We didn't stop for cider, a fresh pressed batch. Return soon for a pumpkin,  plucked from the patch.  

Two wheels for a Harley and eighteen wheels on a Peterbilt, Yet this morning, you drove a four wheeled automobile. One wheel for unicycles and no wheels to help a hiker in a kilt. I listened to your spiel; I admired your hands on skills. A thousand wheels on a train and two wings on a plane, I had time to pick your brain; hope to ride with you again. 

You really want to ride in Lisa's Kia, lit up bright. You'll say, "Mama Mia"! What really makes the ride so cool, so fab? The interior light effects, just like Cash Cab. 

Karl, take up your guitar and busk. Drive a few rideshare runs if you must. Find a farmer's market, pluck those strings 'til dusk. Buskers never starve. Don't rust. 

Mural painted on the walls of Market Diner, Regional Market, Syracuse. @ Fayetteville Farmers Market CNY

Hi ho Hi ho hello, Ron found a city amidst the silos. Empty concrete tubes in rows are neato, visible if you fly low.   @ Duende at Silo City

Thank you Thomas for bringing back my phone. Even kinder, you brought it to my home. I'll  be more careful when I take another ride. I'll keep my cell phone always by my side.

When it's time for a little wander, page Eugene and his Jeep Commander. Eugene's on call before the break of dawn. Always alert on the wheel,  Eugene never yawns.

John and I talked history as we crossed the feeder canal. You kept up your part: you were never banal. In South Carolina, a plantation fed America with bountiful rice. Now a museum, I hope you visit a second time, twice.

Take off a cookbook that you trust, make a meal for queens from a chicken breast. As cooking should be your second career, spice dinner from a kitchen garden, thyme and lavender.

Sweet low, sweet Cheriyan, coming for to carry me home. Played low, the radio, softly singing Demi Lovato. 

Riding with Dwayne is safe and fun. Straight to my stop like a Hole in One. Great day to talk Golf with a big time Pro. Become an Insta star & golf yourself a show. 

Happy Thanksgiving wishes to your family and you, Macklin. Let Uber know Schenectady Station is now officially OPEN. I am happy to see as you drive today you won't be lonely. We have to teach our children how to make the money. 

Give the driver named Terrance a six figure paid in gold advance. He drove a car that felt like pure elegance; and he drove it keenly, guided by a sixth or seventh sense. 

You drove up smoothly, smoothly like a barracuda. I arrived at Nirvana, found satori, driven there by Buddha. I bought three cheeses at the mart, brie and blue and gouda. For the picnic out at Camptown Races, doodah, doodah, doodah.

Alden cruised on up in a black Crown Victoria with its trunk as mammoth as the Waldorf Astoria. While on Maundy Tuesday choirs sang "Gloria, Gloria, Gloria", you brought me home with groceries from Trader Joe's emporia.

I love how you get around. Nothing but nothing slows Stanley down. Thanks for the ride across town. You can be my wheels even though you're wheelchair bound. 

Thank you for turning off the music, letting me sleep. I arrived home late, the beginning of the week. I snored in your back seat, a tired bum in a heap. Until you brought me to my home, my street. 

Shanickqa, you delivered the news flash of a rail car detached from a train upon the Hudson's Shore. Passengers are rescued; now the story is lore. 

Camilla's Nana wrote six novelas, most hidden where no one can tell ya. But make the search a family drama. Redeem the literary rep of your dear Grandma. Writing is passed down from parent to child. When a family muse whispers, let it speak wild. 

Michael, that quick pickup saved my day. You saved my job, my pay, hurrah, hooray. I made my meeting at the stroke of Eight AM. You really are a ruby, a diamond, a pearl, a gem.

Loved the Hello Kitty mats for my keeping my booties from dripping salty rain waters and muddies inside your sedan so lovely, what a beauty. Late night hero,  you have done well your duty! 

Shanickqa, you delivered the news flash of a rail car detached from a train upon the Hudson's Shore. Passengers are rescued; now the story is lore. 

We drove up a two hundred foot hill, so thanks for a Sunday November thrill. I hope I did not appall when I said, "You remind one of Annie Hall". Riding in a rideshare means no regrets. Thank you for conveyance, fare thee well, Margaret. 

You drove forward a Ford Focus, mindfully and quietly like Zen. No bottle water offered, no loud musical hocus. We arrived in Chittenango, two silent men.

Alaa, my comfort paramount, you even pulled out my armrest, which revealed a cup holder for water to slake my thirst. I stared out the window, as happy as a hotel guest. I caught some rest like a bird in a nest as we headed east.

George knows Malta village well, so he knows what may befall a pair of fast snowmobiles on thin Lake Saratoga ice. Massive fail. He watched the sledders plummet. Took days to spot those men from Vermont. 

Congrats, Maxwell, on busting loose from Gotham. Now sell Upstate Houses at prices low, rock bottom. Aren't you glad you tried this experiment? Four times the home costs one half the rent. 

Krista drives a few around when she is free from training hounds. Her skills in obedience are quite profound. I was a more polite man when we reached downtown. 

Camera buff, preserve the subcultures in those rathskellers you hawk like a vulture. Beg, finagle or borrow a camera until your business matures. Be ready when you go down down down the stairs. Bring camera, flash and rescue flares. 

Oh my goodness, the brewery closed shut and Colden Street was as dead as Funky King Tut. Thanks for pulling my Monday Funday out of a deep, deep rut. You found the Ribworks, Riverfront, a wide deck and a Tiki hut.

The rideshare app was at Sixes and Sevens. You found us at the Church of the Brethren. We found Shakespeare by the Reflecting Pool Spa. Now I'm Shipwrecked, Tempest Tossed. Thank Ya! 

Thanks for the psychedelic trip. Chatting on topics cool and hip, we took off from the strip, a Twenty-First Century #JeffersonStarship, 

Chomsky is her komradski, so she has podcasts to last if she drives until three. She drives Uber so she can think free.

Hi ho Hi ho hello, Ron found a city amidst the silos. Empty concrete tubes in rows are neato, visible if you fly low. 

A Prius that never stops has priapus, and you drive your Prius like a bus. But when in Toyota you put you trust, you'll keep rolling in a car, little rust, 

Give the driver named Terrance a six figure paid in gold advance. He drove a car that felt like pure elegance; and he drove it keenly, guided by a sixth or seventh sense. 

Thank you Jorge for a ride in your air conditioned car. I loved how the salsa music sounded, lively and pure. So hot outside today; I could smell asphalt sweating beads of tar. We kept our cools, no sweating fools, two cruising players.

Sirajuddin, I would never give any driver a bad rating. But you couldn't find me at the Landing Hotel, waiting. Then, you dropped me off half a block from the pub, somewhat grating. But I must practice patience and gratitude, so I'll be tipping, placating.

 

A Man Vacuuming the Interior of An Automobile with an Elektron Vacuum Cleaner in the Netherlands, 1916

By Cornelis Johan Hofker (1886-1936)

I Dallied Too Long One Day in the Land Of Ludington, Magical Land of Sleeping Fawns, Whiskey Charmers, Ancient Barns and Pillars of Strength

May 31st, 2015

Redolencia Coffee, Ludington

Late morning coffee and a journal rest upon a table in a coffeehouse and hour north of home. A few ideas need coaxing into language. What I like about this coffeehouse: the young man who created this space lived in the fish hatchery house in Northville Michigan, a Victorian house on my runs and bike rides.

Shagway Arts Barn, Ludington

I arrived at the Shagway Arts Barn after fumbling through the woods, dunes and lakes north of Ludington. I heard about the arts barn a few weeks ago, thanks to Facebook. As I like arts and as I adore barns, I put the barn on my list for exploration this weekend. I had thought a road from downtown Ludington would take me here, but not so. So I ended up turning around in Ludington State Park. 

I also turned around at Barney Road right by a double decker outhouse, unsure if it was functional. The top outhouse labeled politicians, the bottom outhouse was labeled voters. This structure stood at the start of a Harley driving family's long driveway into the woods, as the Harley Davidson signs seemed to indicate. 

I turned around because Barney Road dog legged towards Lake Michigan as there was no way to cross the estuary of a stream that opened wide at the juncture with the big lake. So preferred it or not, I had to drive all the way east to Jebavy Road and along it north to Shagway Road. I was rewarded by the spectacle of a field of alfalfa, bright with sun and patrolled by six hawks flying spirals above its updrafts.

Shagway is one of a few roads south of the east west portion of Hamlin Lake, and this old renovated barn might predate the damming of the river, leading to Hamlin Lake's creation. I'm sure there's a grove of shag bark hickories near here as the road predates the Austin Powers movies. North of Hamlin Lake stands a land of woods and dunes that reaches up to Manistee, the only land declared a wilderness in the lower peninsula of Michigan.

A man and woman call themselves the Whiskey Charmers, first in a long line up of summer musical acts booked to appear at the Shagway Arts Barn. When I walked up, crossing a green sward of yard, the young woman was studying a spider that had descended on a long strand of silk before her eyes, as cute as the spider from Charlotte's Web. And then the spider excused itself and vanished. 

What word would a spider weave into a web for a woman traveling America with a man and a guitar and a banjo? Strum me? A guitar strung and tuned and a web have similarities.

The Whiskey Charmers have their music on Spotify; Pandora has rejected them. Pandora has gathered a reputation for some behavior that might tarnish its reputation. I am betting the two are in between bigger shows as the music is lovely, a handsome voiced woman singing, playing guitar, accompanied by a man on a steel guitar. 

I found a sturdy old chair up in the loft, the loft dedicated to a maker of tee shirt quilts. The quilt-maker had carried up a vanity and a work table. A door once used for laying up hay bales into the loft has been outfitted with a deck. The door flung wide open, the sunlight brightened the quarter-sawn floorboards of the newly refitted loft. That oak had to be aged oak recovered from old beams.

This is hardly my first rodeo with a West Michigan art barn. Last early summer, I attend a trombone concert at an art barn on Lamos Road south of White Lake. The owner had served as an officer in the Navy and he kept his barn ship-shape for its sailing journey over a grassy field onward to the future. 

He had installed a complete kitchen under the loft and he insisted on topping off my wine glass with Chardonnay three times, glass beading sweat. He seemed a touch hurt when I asked for a tip cup. And all who had arrived settled into Adirondack chairs, cedar boards, and witnessed a long concert by a trombone choir. 

The trombonists, all graduate students from Michigan universities had gathered at the barn for a trombone conference. That kind of musical singularity happens somewhat frequently in the White River Valley, with Blue Lake Fine Arts close-by.

The retired navy man introduced the concert program, telling about dawn that morning on his sandy land of fields and white pine forest. He was awakened not by the crowing of his roosters but the call of trombone answering trombone in bronze tempered calls. The musicians had stationed themselves around the grounds like so many Sandhill Cranes on the lawns, beginning the day with scales and études. Again, hardly a shocker if one understands the White River Valley.

The concert at Shagbark over, I walked back to my car parked on the edge of the freshly mown sward, freshly mown grass edged with white pines and tall Timothy grass. Looking over my dash, I saw a pair a brown ears, and thought, "Rabbit? Too short. Owl? In the stands of Timothy? The creature stirred itself and I saw white spots along the back of brown fur, a fawn bedded down for the day, awaiting a doe's return. 

I knew stirring meant fear and I was determined to frighten this fawn no more. So I left my door open, avoiding a startling slam and slid my car into neutral, allowing gravity to back me up ten yards. Turning they key in the ignition, I turned under power and made my way to the exit, not slamming the door until I had reached Shagway Road. I hadn't seen a fawn in the grass since I had turned twelve years old. 

Sacred Heart Church, Ludington

I copied these messages from each side of a weathered wooden post: Pillar of Strength; Bless Our Homes; Have Mercy On Us; Protect All Who Come By This Way. 3816 Fountain Boulevard, on the road to Fountain, Michigan, might or might not be for sale although there's a real estate sign in front of the sanctuary. Many listing services declare the property withdrawn. 

Sanctuary built in 1901, the roof on the convent, the church and the community hall are each three years old. The water arises from a well, also maintained and re-pointed in anticipation of sale. Buyer must subject themselves to intense scrutiny deeper than a credit check to buy this two acre plot of consecrated land, the grounds of Sacred Heart Church. 

The grass is high as it's been at least a week from the last cutting. Devil's Paintbrush, a Michigan native wildflower, and wild strawberries in blossom infest the lawn. The early evening sunshine shines through the church's stained glass from west to east, making the old, colorful glass glow from within the padlocked sanctuary.

I came this way, pillar of strength. I came this way.

Note: The property now serves as the home of Church of Christ, Ludington

The Pillar of Strength posted on the grounds of Sacred Heart Church in 2015

Four Years Ago, I Drove Rideshare All Night and Explored the West Michigan Lakeshore by Day, Logging Mileage with Prose Entries

May 30th, 2016--- A West Michigan day in writing

12:01 AM Grand Rapids

Casey Bemis is often thought of as a jewelry artisan. Thus, her paintings are jewels.

1:32 AM Grand Rapids

Late night Greek Yogurt fuels this moment. Mile 3076.

1:50 AM Grand Rapids

Panhandle after panhandle, panhandlers must never sleep..

2:20 AM Coopersville

The moon glows low on the eastern horizon, a scrap of dry orange peel. Coopersville, Mile 3092.

9:00 AM Muskegon

Muskegon has a new crop of businesses for Spring, including Oceana Vineyards Tasting Room in the Century Club. That's a win for us from the farmers market. The couple behind Oceana loved the leads and sales from the market, even in the dead of winter. Financed by a fund for Native American business, the Front Porch opened this weekend, offering "Antique, Vintage and Revised Goods". Now that's fascinating because Native Americans have revised European American culture since the days of Christopher Columbus and the purchase of Manhattan for a price paid in beads.

I missed openings for each and will play catch-up soon. Front Porch inhabits the upper north side of Muskegon's downtown, a place with vacant buildings and industrial supply companies with quirky inventory systems. It is a stone's throw from the Cheese Lady, so it's fascinating to see the city grow out to a natural edge. There is the United Way out here and Witt Buick, an auto dealership that even GM couldn't close. Wonder what can happen out here? Mile 3116.

High Noon    Rothbury, Michigan

Nature changes its creatures in size and form continuously. So I can be fairly sure an inch worm descending a thread of silk from the canopy of a tall oak came from an egg recently. The inchworm has tried the landing twice, finding the dryness of a concrete sidewalk a reason to try again. Mile 3136

Sundown     Stony Lake, Michigan

Sun is setting, now smack water on the horizon. Two beach fires are roaring, adults taking action against dusk's arrival by building fire. I had to move because one fire used light materials that raised streamers of smoke. That fire is burning cleaner now. And there we have it, sun ball to sun smack in a few minutes. The sun is here all season, sundown show starts at Nine. 

The sun hit the water at a point north east of me, moving northerly each day until the solstice. I've been coming to this spot longer than any Lake Michigan beach, brought here by my parent's Lutheran congregation. I found the waters of Duck Lake Channel to be delightful, excitingly rich with fish, fingerlings and perch, bass and trout. Clarity allowed me to see into the depths. The water here has given me concern.

The water here at Stony Lake Beach gives me concern, and it's not the creek that's flowing into Lake Michigan here that concerns me.  It's the shore of the big lake, the water close to shore. The shallows have visible algae, hardly a bloom and yet a sign of water too rich with fertilizer or worse, overflow from a septic tank. I frolicked in the creek instead, cold and turbid and pocked with the rings left by surface feeding fish. I found a bench and listened for bird calls as these no-see-ems tried to bite my nape, where my eyes can't see and my hands can reach only when I stop writing.