Rumors of Spring: Somebody’s Idea of a Bad Joke

It’s May 5 here in the Upper Peninsula  and the ice finally left our bay yesterday. Yes, I said yesterday.  There are still snow mounds in the woods–large enough to make snowmen, for God’s sake, but who thinks it’s fun to still be making snowmen in May?  (Put your hand down!  You!  What is the matter with you?)

Last of the Ice

It’s been a long, long, long winter. Last year, as everyone here remembers,  we had a short, short, short winter.  After an exceptionally mild winter last year our ice was out by mid-March and the Trillium were blooming a full three weeks early.

I’ve kept Ice-Out records since we moved here in the mid-90s and it looks like the middle of April is the average viewing of the last of the ice.  The latest date I have recorded is May 12, 1996, when the slush ice blew out of the bay and didn’t come back.  So there’s at least that.  We didn’t break any records this year.

We’re struggling with unprecedented low-water levels on the Great Lakes these days, as well–so low that even melting heavy snows and thick ice won’t do much to change it.  The state has finally given up on the idea that it’s just a phase and they’ve begun issuing greater numbers of dredging permits for harbors large and small.  The Fed has promised to help out with funding for some of the larger, commercial marinas but our local resorts and marinas are on their own.  Still, it has to be done.  This state depends on shipping and water tourism and it might be pretty embarrassing if boats couldn’t float in our waters.  (It’s always something, isn’t it?)

Tall ship and Ferry – St. Mary’s River

But the calendar says it’s spring and our spring migrants don’t seem to notice that it’s been acting a whole lot like winter out there.  The Sandhill Cranes are back and so are the finches and the mergansers, the goldeneyes and–rumor has it–the loons.  The peepers are so loud in the swamp we can hear them with the car windows closed and the radio on.

Flock of Goldeneyes

So I have it on good authority that tomorrow it all changes.  The prediction for tomorrow is 67 degrees.  In the sixties for the rest of the week, if we’re to believe NOAA.

I’m trying to stay positive.  I’m trying to believe that seven weeks into spring it may finally be here.  And I’m trying not to notice that white stuff in the woods across the road.

(A follow-up I never dreamed I would have to write:  Yesterday, May 13, we were caught in a white-out as we drove the 60 miles to what passes for our only city.  The winds were fierce, swirling the light snow across the fields and creating a white-out the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was very young.  We pulled into a driveway and sat there for 40 minutes, waiting for things to calm down.  Finally a snow plow rumbled by and we saw our chance and followed it into town.  Today the sun was shining but the remnants of our late snowfall hung onto the ditches and nestled in the deep woods.  In the middle of May.)

Hulabaloo at the Soo

Let me just say right off that when it comes to Homeland and border security, I’m all for it.

When it comes to appreciating how essential shipping is to the Great Lakes, I’m right at the head of the line.

When it comes to being in awe of the engineering feat that is the Soo Locks I am so in awe I can’t stand it.

The Soo Locks.  From Left: MacArthur, Poe, Davis, Sabin

So when I got back on my turf last week and read in our local paper that an investigation into a possible bomb threat had closed the locks just days after the spring shipping season opened, my first instinct, naturally, was to blame Gov. Snyder and the Republican legislators and then the Koch Brothers and the Mackinac Center. (Because they’re to blame for so much around here it’s hard not to blame them for everything.  I’m sure you can understand.)

But here’s what happened:  At 7:30 AM on the morning of March 29 a mailroom clerk at the Soo Locks was gathering up mail to be delivered to the boats scheduled to go through the locks on that day.  (It’s a most efficient mail delivery system, given that the boats are girdled into the narrow lock and mail bags can be cast onto their decks as they wait out the raising or lowering of the water in the lock.)  This person heard beeping in one of the packages and thought it might be a bomb.  He called the Army Corp of Engineers who then called the Chippewa County central dispatch, who then sent out the police to check things out.

The police set up a command post at the guard building at the Locks main gate.  From there (and I’m quoting here from the St. Ignace News, April 4, 2013 – not yet available online) :

“Sault Ste. Marie Fire Department, Army Corp of Engineers, Coast Guard, Customs, Border Patrol, Immigration, the U.S Post Office and staff from the International Bridge were also on the scene.  Police on the Canadian side of the St. Mary’s River were also advised of the situation.

The Coast Guard temporarily closed traffic on the St. Mary’s River and established a ‘limited access area’ in the vicinity of both the locks and the International Bridge while the investigation was in progress.

A Michigan State bomb disposal unit was brought in from Gaylord [A full 115 miles to the south of the locks, it should be noted] before both it and a MSP K-9 unit searched the mailroom, where no explosives or other hazardous material were found and no packages were heard to be beeping.  Several small packages were then removed from the room where the beeping originated and checked using a mobile scanning vehicle.

Following the scan the packages were opened with one providing the source of the beeping:  an alarm clock.”

It seems the alarm clock was set to go off at 7 AM (35 minutes before the mailroom clerk first heard it) and someone packing the thing either forgot to turn it off or neglected to take out the batteries.  (Admonition from Sault Ste. Marie police chief:  “Because of situations like this, the public is reminded not to include batteries in packages that are being sent through the U.S Mail.”) So in the course of that few hours of shut-down, 11 lakers and salties (ocean-going vessels) were laid up –six upbound and five downbound–anchored far away from any threat of explosion.

Every boat, big or small, heading into or out of Lake Superior has to go through the Soo Locks System.  In earlier times it was possible to portage around the rapids (there is a 21-foot height difference between Lake Superior and the St. Mary’s River) but nobody does it anymore.  Now we depend on the locks.  (Another note:  A new and bigger lock has been approved since 1989 to replace the obsolete Sabin and Davis locks but guess what?  The approval didn’t come with funding, and even though they finally broke ground for the thing 20 years later, in 2009, that apparently wasn’t impetus enough to free up some cash for it. (I would say that’s like promising a congressman an annual salary of $174,000 a year without actually providing the funds to pay it, but it isn’t.  It’s nothing like that.  So never mind.)

But back to the story:  Beeping from a package is a big deal.  (A thought here: Would a bomber really create a bomb that beeps?  Yes.  In the movies. How else would you know to be terrified that there was a bomb in there? Otherwise, probably not.)  Our locks at the Soo are a big deal.  So while I do admit that the Keystone-coppishness of that story tickled my funny bone, I’ve wondered at times about the vulnerability of the locks.  So I felt pretty good knowing our law-enforcement agencies are sort of on top of situations like these.

In this video (not mine), taken from the public observation deck at the Soo Locks Park, you can see how close the public is allowed to get to these boats.  The observation deck is glass-enclosed but there are other areas in the park where fences might keep humans out but bombs could easily be dispatched.  After 9/11, security was tight and we could only enter the park through one entrance, where guards with wands checked us through.  Now we can meander through unguarded gates at any time during open park hours without fear of bodily wanding.  Since that whole color-coding plan went bust, there is, it seems, nothing written in stone about Homeland Security.

A few of my own photos from the Locks:

MacArthur Lock in foreground; Indiana Harbor in Poe Lock

Algoma Transport downbound in MacArthur Lock

“Saltie” Whistler entering Locks channel downbound.  International and railroad bridge ahead.

Locks tour boat upbound in MacArthur Lock.  International Bridge in background.

Back in Michigan but not quite home

Just to let you know I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. We’ve been living out of suitcases for almost two weeks now as we worked our way north from our winter digs.  We’re in the U.P finally, on the last leg home.  Should get there today and I’m hearing bad news about a snow mound that still needs digging out before we can get to our door.  Should be interesting.

Our nephew plowed out our driveway but put his back out before he could shovel the walk.  Don’t know what we’re going to do with him but rest assured he’ll be punished for this.

Our house in winter

But the worst of it is that my brother Mike died suddenly of a heart attack on March 21.  He was 66 years old. My brother Chris and I are his only next-of-kin and we’ve been trying to do what we need to do to put his soul to rest and to clear up his affairs.  Someday I may write about him but for now it’s too soon.

Life will settle down soon, I hope, and then I’ll be back to doing what I love to do best:  Antagonizing the hell out of myself and others.

Mona

It’s Not Always a Day at the Beach

On clear mornings here at the beach I’m out on the balcony waiting, like every other early riser, for the sun to poke up out of the ocean. This morning I woke earlier than usual, while it was still dark except for a thin strand of pink beginning to stretch across the horizon.  I made a quick trip outside, shivering in my summer nightgown, dancing around in my bare feet, leaning over our fourth floor balcony rail to check out where the waves were hitting the beach.

It was high tide–so high the waves covered the beach to within a few feet to our building steps. Between the darkness and the tide it would be a while before the shell seekers would be out, but off to the north, just past our building, I could make out a figure standing in the water.  It was a man, fully clothed, dressed in black, and he stood firmly planted as the waves kept coming, splashing past his legs. His arms hung limp at his sides and even in the semi-darkness I could see that this was not the usual sunrise watcher.

On clear mornings the watchers sometimes line the beach waiting for the sun to appear on the horizon.  Some of them bring chairs, some set up their cameras on tripods, some do Tai Chi.  None of them stand in the chilly water fully clothed.

I was cold, my toes were freezing, I could smell the coffee and I needed it now, but I couldn’t turn away.  What was he doing? He began to move.  He walked deep into the waves, then back to the sand.  Over and over.  Through the binoculars I could see that sometimes he would stop and stretch his arms toward the water, palms up, as if to try and halt the sea.  Sometimes he would shake his fist at the sky.

I could see that he was wearing heavy black shoes.  I was convinced by then that he was going to commit suicide, and moments later he satisfied my worst fears by diving headfirst into a crashing wave.  I held my breath, but he came up and ran–I mean ran–back onto the beach–far enough where I could no longer see him.  I grabbed my cellphone and waited, ready to call 911, but he was gone.  Thank God.

I got my coffee, put on a robe and went out to the balcony again.  He was back.  This time he was  agitated and pacing back and forth, in and out of the water, but the waves had calmed, as they often do at sunrise, and somehow I knew he was safe, at least for this day.

The sun began to show itself and it must have been his cue to leave.  He saluted toward the east, picked up his things and walked away.

I’ve witnessed before how the allure of oceans and beaches draws more than just tourists; it draws odd characters and lost souls–those people looking to ease their sorry lives in the kind of replenishing beauty only found where the waves meet the shore.

On Maui the down-and-out sometimes live in caves conveniently carved out by the sea.  They come out to panhandle or to look for odd jobs but they pose no danger.  In fact, they’re probably in more danger every day than the locals or the tourists.  Still, the island police periodically route them out of their caves and send them off to find somewhere else to live.  After a few days they move back into the caves.  And a few days or weeks later the police get around to clearing them out again.  There is no real reason for all that upheaval except that there are some fabulous resort hotels farther down along those beaches and they don’t want their patrons exposed to bums.

Here, where the tourist digs aren’t anywhere near fabulous but are still money-makers, the police drive their SUVs down the beach at night, shining powerful lights under the decks and into the rocks, looking for people so down on their luck they have nowhere else to sleep.  They are people who are, for the most part, harmless, but the beaches aren’t for everyone, you see.

I don’t know anything about the man I saw this morning except that he was young and physically able, but hurting in a way that seemed desperate and near the edge.  I don’t know where he lives or what he does, or if he was contemplating suicide, but I know a troubled soul when I see one.  Even at sunrise on the beach on what promises to be a beautiful day, a troubled soul is visible from a great distance.

 

National Grammar Day: Well, La Di Da (or is it “Dah”?)

So I think I told you I’m working on a book.  I’ve changed the title again, so now I’m calling it “Living to Tell About It”.   (The sub-title may or may not be “How to tell your story when it gets to be That Time,” but don’t hold me to it.)

It’s a sort of a how-to on writing, with some real aspects of how-not-to, gleaned from personal experience.  In honor of National Grammar Day (started by Catholic nuns carrying rulers, no doubt) I present my own take on grammar and punctuation from my book-in-progress:  (As you’re reading this you might have to pretend you’re reading a real book.  It’ll make more sense that way, until the real thing comes along. I just noticed, too, that this chapter is mainly about pronunciation.  That’s how little I think–or know–about grammar.)

Grammar and punctuation: I don’t get it, so this won’t take long

“Grammar is a piano I play by ear, since I seem to have been out of school the year the rules were mentioned. All I know of grammar is its infinite power” — Joan Didion

I can almost guarantee that every person reading this book knows more about the rules of punctuation and grammar than I do. (Can I use “than I do” at the end of that sentence? I don’t know and I don’t care.) Writing clearly is our goal here and, yes, there are rules, but if you let yourself get bogged down by rules early on, there will be no later on. You’ll quit. We can’t have that.

There are hundreds of books out there that will tell you where you’re going wrong grammatically and punctuationally (Don’t use that word, I made it up) if that sort of thing means something to you, but, honestly, you’ll learn nothing new here. In fact, if you follow my lead you might find yourself having to unlearn whatever it is you think you picked up here.

A while back I commented on a website forum post using a quote within a sentence to make my point. Before I hit “publish” I went over my comment and everything looked fine to me, but within an hour I got a private email from one of the forum folk accusing me of tricking him into believing I was British because I had put the period outside the quote instead of inside. (The way any real American would know to do, I guess is what he was saying.)

Well, honestly? Until that guy with way too much time on his hands pointed it out, I had no idea there was that important regional difference between inside and outside periods. Now that I know, I will try not to ever, ever do it AGAIN.

Say this was the sentence: The one thing I can’t stand is when someone who doesn’t even know me has the gall to email me to let me know that “in America we put the period inside the quote, not outside, as is done in England, even when part of the sentence isn’t in quotes.”

So that’s the right way. Now picture the above last period outside the quotation mark instead of inside, where it apparently belongs here in America. How offensive would that be to you?

Thank you.

It’s that kind of thing. . .

But while we’re on quotation marks, there are people who just go nuts when they’re used wrong and unnecessarily. My college-educated grandson is one of them, and he has made it his life’s mission to point out just how misused they are in everyday life, especially in advertising signage. So this Christmas I had to bite my tongue not to point out to this darling man that, as smart as he is, he could have taken that little hobby and turned it into something useful, like putting together a book of examples of egregious and often hilarious usage on signs. That way he would be collecting royalties on the thing instead of receiving just such a work as a Christmas present.

A fine example of a writer having fun

 Then there’s that silly thing about how many spaces one should allow between sentences. (About “one should allow”: It’s snooty and not at all like me but it seemed to fit there because the subject is a bit snooty. It’s rare when I do that, and I hope it’ll be even rarer when you do.) There’s an ongoing argument among certain priggish internet denizens about sentence spacing. There are the one-space people pitted against the two-space people (that would be me), and I guarantee the definitive answer will still be floating around out there when the world as we know it ends and only the cockroaches are left. There are logical reasons for doing it both ways, but I like the way two spaces looks between sentences and that’s the way I do it.

The one-spacers argue that it’s us oldsters who keep muddying up the rule, since we learned to type on ancient typewriters that didn’t even automatically fix letter-spacing, so in the olden days it really did look better when there were two spaces between typewritten sentences. Now, with modern technology, we don’t need that extra space. So look how much space we could save if we would just learn to hit that space bar once instead of twice after that period. (I’m not kidding. That’s what they say. And do. And, okay, as much as I like that double-spacing between sentences, if you’re reading this book in published form and there’s just one space between, I either did what I was told or somebody went above my head and did it in spite of me.)  [Ed. note:  Apparently WordPress does it, too.  Everybody's a damn critic. ]

There’s also an ongoing argument about ellipses (those three dots at the end of that partial sentence four paragraphs above). I like the look of three of them separated by spaces. Others think there should be no spaces in between. Still others think ellipses should be eradicated from the face of the earth.

I like them. I like the visual effect of dots and dashes and ellipses and italics and parens and exclamations. They add drama and flair to otherwise dullish sentences. But I’ll be the first to admit there is such a thing as overdoing. I love chocolate and whipped cream, too, but if I allowed myself to gobble all I could ever hold any hour of the day or night I would be hurling (not a Fifties word, fer shur) before you know it.

I like partial sentences, too. There are times when I separate what should be a single sentence into two or even three partials. (See above paragraph. I could have reworked sentences 2, 3 and 4 into one sentence, but I didn’t. It would have fixed the problem of starting a sentence with “But”, which, again, is apparently a huge no-no. But I think that much white space adds more emphasis to each thought and it looks like I’m taking a breath. I like that.

So you see? Good thing this isn’t a text book or even a primer, because you wouldn’t want to have to take lessons from me.

But one more thing before we move on: I’m really glad to know that my generation knows how to spell the word “definitely”.  They’re spelling it “definately” these days and it’s one of those things, like “grammer” for “grammar”, or “loose” for “lose”, that just bites.

So thank you, my peers, for knowing the difference. It’s the little things, right?

________________________________

Really useful article about why grammar rules suck: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/Most-of-What-You-Think-You-Know-About-Grammar-is-Wrong-187940351.html#.UQVoAfGuBws.twitter

Me at the Oscars: Fabulous or Fizzle, 60 years and counting

When the first televised Academy Awards ceremony took place on March 19, 1953, I, a bedazzled 15-year-old movie fan, sat in front of our black and white TV set, riveted and no doubt pledging to never forget that moment as long as I lived.   Since then I have never (and I mean NEVER) missed a telecast.

It was the 25th such award ceremony but the first one televised. (“The Greatest Show on Earth” won over “High Noon” and “The Quiet Man”.  Go figure.) Bob Hope was the first TV host and of course we all thought he was just funny enough and perfect for the part.  But year after year he was the host, and, as you might expect, even the great Bob Hope lost his edge.  But I watched.  Every year.  No matter how long into the night they went on, I watched.

They began televising the awards in color in 1966 but we still had a black and white TV, so I missed seeing it in all its glory until much later. But since movies were still mostly in black and white it wasn’t like we knew what those stars looked like in color, anyway.

Off the top of my head, here are my highlights over the years:  (I’m doing this without looking anything up; I just want to see what’s still in my memory bank.)

Eva Marie Saint blurting “Oh, shit” into the microphone when she won for “On the Waterfront”.  Big news in the day, that cussing.  Especially coming from a woman and a PG one at that. (Pregnant, but nobody said the word out loud then.  It was always PG.  Or, in certain circles, knocked up.)

John Huston drunk as a skunk accepting a special award for something.

The actress in the indian costume un-accepting the award the Academy gave Marlon Brando for some movie.

A streaker running across the stage, stealing David Niven’s thunder for a second until Niven recovered and commented on the guy’s physique.  I remember it was Niven and not the streaker who got the standing ovation.

Laurence Olivier giving a speech that made me and almost everyone in the audience cry.  It was splendid.  Jon Voight’s reaction, caught by the camera, is etched into my mind. (I don’t know what happened to that Jon Voight.)

(Addendum:  Found the speech.  It’s here.)

Sammy Davis Jr.’s last appearance on that stage when everybody, including him, knew he was dying.

Elizabeth Taylor talking about aids when nobody was talking about it.

The year “Gandhi” swept the awards, winning almost all the big categories, and Ben Kingley’s speech.  I don’t remember a word of his speech, of course, but watching him up there accepting a most deserved award gave me chills.

Billy Crystal’s opening bit where he was wheeled on stage wrapped in restraints and hidden behind a Hannibal Lecter mask.  Brilliant.

Madonna’s astonishing stage fright night, where she sang shakily and off-key and danced as if she’d just had knee surgery.  I almost felt sorry for her.

Michael Moore talking against the Iraq war.

Rob Lowe “singing” with Snow White.

The little Italian actor who leaped over the seats to get to his Oscar.  (See?  I remember that but can’t remember his name.  So much for Oscar antics.)

I know there are many more if I really thought about it, but that brings me to last night, when Seth McFarland hosted the 85th Academy Awards ceremony. I watched the entire thing, from the red carpet to the sign-off, and there are a few moments that stand out for me.  Daniel Day-Lewis’s irreverent and funny acceptance speech,  Michelle Obama’s opening of the envelope and announcement of best picture (Argo), Ben Affleck’s not-so-subtle smack at the Academy for snubbing him in the Best Director category.

The opening bit was–oh, my GOD–so, so, long.  And bad.  Really bad.  Even Captain Kirk couldn’t save it.   It made James Franco’s performance as host in 2011 look just okay, which is, I hate to say, some feat.

The “We Saw Your Boobs” song might have been funny in a shortened version, but, as with everything in the McFarland script, it went on into the realm of the interminable.

The musical performances are what saved the night for me.  Adele, Shirley Bassey, Jennifer Hudson, Barbra Streisand–sublime, those ladies.

(Notice I’ve left out the last song–the duet between McFarlane  and Kristin Chenowith.  Yes, well. . .)

But speaking of Franco.  (We were, weren’t we?) this is what I wrote about Franco’s stab at hosting on the morning after that event two years ago:

If I could have timed my naps to James Franco’s appearances, I would have been almost as happy as I was when “The King’s Speech” won best picture.  I like the guy and I hate to add to the pile-ups on whatever the heck he thought he was doing up there, but man, he was dreadful.  (Anne Hathaway clearly saw she was in the middle of a train wreck and was trying not to panic, but there were moments when I thought she was going to tear off one of her many dresses and run screaming out of the theater.)

But for Franco, it wasn’t over even when it was over.  He got into a Tweet war with a 20-year-old fellow Yalie (He’s working on a Doctorate in English at Yale), and she posted this about him in her blog:  “Combined with his Oscars hosting performance and in accordance with the opinion of commenter’s [sic] on my last blog, I’m becoming convinced that James Franco’s whole life is a form of postmodern performance art. In that context, his Twitter fits right in.“    Oh, ouch.  That’s harsh.

Okay, maybe the hardest job in the world is hosting the Oscars.  It shouldn’t be, but considering the fails over the years with talent that should have been talented, I will cut those hosts some slack.  Because I love the Oscars, even when they’re bad.  There is nothing else like them at all.

I do love the Golden Globes and they’re my second best, as long as Ricky Gervais is nowhere in sight. (I know, I know–you like him; I just find his attempts at out-ickying himself feeble and far from funny.)  I love that everybody can drink at the tables, so that by the end of the night anything can happen.

But this is about the Oscars. Any  thoughts about the Oscars?  I’m all ears.  As you can tell, I can’t get enough of that wonderful stuff.  I’ve been at this for 60 years.  I can’t quit now.

(Cross-posted at Ramona’s Voices)

My guest post about writing Opinion Pieces. (Only My Opinion, of Course)

I had the pleasure of writing a guest post for Anne Wayman’s great website, “About Freelancing” and it was published today.  My four-year-old blog, “Ramona’s Voices” concerns itself mainly with political opinion, which means I tend to dive right into controversies on purpose–and often for fun.  So when Anne asked me to do a piece on writing about controversial subjects–well, of course I dove right in.

The piece is called “How to Survive Writing Opinion Pieces” and it starts like this:

When I began writing a weekly column for a small chain of suburban newspapers, I was thrilled that I could write about anything as long as it fit the space (600-800 words). I had happened upon a lazy editor hungry for content (and eager to pay me as little as possible) and he gave me a chance, even though my newspaper experience was just north of nil.

Ronald Reagan was president then and I was a flaming liberal feminist, so what started out being a column about kids and cats and lovely Liz Taylor’s appearance on General Hospital turned into an ongoing rant against the establishment.

I lived near Detroit at the time and the auto industry was dying. People were losing their jobs right and left. Food banks were emptying out as fast as they were filled, and the churches serving the poor couldn’t keep up. I began to attend emergency meetings on poverty and reported strenuously on the suffering I found.

I wrote about women’s issues, about religion, about civil rights, about the still-strong feelings over Vietnam. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when the letters to the editor began to take on a surly note, most of them directed at me. But I was. I was surprised. They hurt!

I would love it if you would go over to “About Freelancing” to read the rest.  And don’t forget to comment.  If you feel like it, that is.  Either here or there.  We both love visitors.

And we both thank you.

Mona