SWEETCORN AND WATERMELON TIME

It may be the only one of its kind. There are lots of Bean Days, I'd suppose. Maybe lots of Straw and Hay days, too. The Old King Coal Festival in West Frankfort is probably unique, too. But when MTV started the Sweet Corn and Watermelon Festival thirty or so years ago, who would have thought it would have lasted that long?

In small towns or in larger city neighborhoods, festivals or get-togethers are vital. They bring out the best in people and allow some to peddle their wares. Food and drink are the animus for celebration. Of sweetcorn and watermelon? You bet. What would Summer be without them? It's also a time for the kids to have one more bash before heading back to the classroom. What? School already started? Well, that's something that needs fixed. Labor Day to Memorial Day is long enough. But it's still a blast because I don't know where they go, but kids disappear in the Summer. You see them everyday of the other seasons. So much that you get tired of seeing the same old faces. But some of them cannot be found in June, July, and August.

Bring out the new clothes. Show off the new you. The dark suntan. The new attitude. The new determination. Celebrate the old. But break out the new. And enjoy the parade. Even if it is hokey.

WELL, IT COULD BE A MANNEQUIN



I didn't Google, but I did look for a picture of a mannequin. I found some, but they were all copyrighted, so this one will have to do. So why did I want a mannequin? I wanted to write about traffic and the HOV lanes, of course.

When I lived in MTV, I used to get so angry when I wanted to turn onto Richview Road and cars wouldn't allow it. My wife had to remind me more than once that it wasn't my road and my wait wouldn't be long. When I moved to AZ, the traffic (imagine this) got a lot worse. I used to think it was just seasonal, but no more. I used to think that the 5 as they call it in San Diego was the worst tie up I'd ever seen. Again, no more. And when the snow birds return, I just don't know what it will be like out West.

People drive a whole lot faster out here. I can attest to that after having spent 10 hours in a car in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota last week. No HOV lanes either. In California, they try to get by driving in a carpool lane requiring two or more by saying they're pregnant. Or by purchasing mannequins to sit in the passenger seat. Yes, there's a hefty fine for either. Some HOV lanes are approved for alternative fuel cars. Last year in Wisconsin we got behind one of those that ran on cooking oil. I used to drive a 1980 Pontiac that we called "the eggmobile" because of its odor from improper fuel burning. Well, this Wisconsin auto would have been "the French frymobile".

And my point is? Well, none. If you have to wait a little while in traffic, just do it. Breathe easily. Or talk to your mannequin in the front seat with you.

THE NIGHT WE NEVER MET

While I haven't seen this movie, I am intrigued by the title. Possibly the plot, at least the possibilities for a story based on the title.

Observing high school students for many years, I wondered how many of major life decisions were made in my classroom. A note passed. A shared smile. An inside joke. All could lead to so much more.

A schedule change that allowed someone(s) to meet. A seating chart made out by a teacher who didn't opt for alpha seating. A walk to the next class because it was in the same vicinity or direction. A group project. The possibilities are as limited as one's imagination.

So am I saying friendships/relationships are formed out of fate or chance? How about weather's role? I remember once walking with a high school girl I was interested in. It had been snowing and ice had formed typically before the snow. I slipped and fell right on the seat of my pants. I bounced right back up. But the damage to my psyche had been done. Even before she and others started laughing. I never asked her out after that. I was damaged goods, at least in my mind.

Close readers will notice I used a diversion so as not to answer my own question. But it is fun to think about it. How the hand of a guidance counselor, the stroke of a teacher's pen could change a person's life. Even a snowfall.

A GRIPE WITH THE ENGLISH, REPHRASE THAT, THE WORLD OUTSIDE AMERICA

Once I coached it in YMCA. At least for awhile. And I never played the game. I'm not from that generation. My kids both played. And my grandkids. Of course I'm talking about soccer.

It's the most beloved sport in the world. It's followers are ardent. So much that there are riots after huge game wins.

It's the cheapest of all sports to finance. Oh, a good field is paramount, but financially that's about it: it doesn't take a lot of cash for uniforms, at least compared to baseball or football.

And that's my gripe, right there. Why do they insist on calling the sport football? Still today? What's wrong with the term soccer? And when it's used, there's no question as to which sport one is referring. While I've never heard of the Footballers Wives as advertised in this BBC television show, I'm certain it's about soccer. So why disguise it? Call it what it is.

It's a soccer ball, isn't it? No one in the world calls it a football. So come on. If you think I'm over-reacting, you're right. But nomenclature is important. As is the correct name for sports. I mean cricket is cricket and not baseball, isn't it? Well, isn't it?

RIDING ALONG IN MY AUTOMOBILE...

I know. I've been gone. I've been deliquent in my duties of daily blogging. But I'm back from Minneappolis, Hurley, and Ironwood. Three states in three days. Ten hours of drivng. Another 6 1/2 in the Northwest skies.

When I returned Monday night to 112 degrees, I had started the morning at 44 degrees, a contrast to say the least. So while I didn't do all my traveling by car and my rental Malibu didn't much look like the Waverley pictured, there were highlights of my sojourn.

After an uneventful flight, and believe me, that is the kind I prefer, well there was this kid right behind my wife. He screeched in a high pitched scream that was sure to start a heaadache. I couldn't get too upset with him when I recalled the days that our youngest grandson would do the same. And for no apparent reason.

Our long walk through the airport in Minnesota added 30 minutes to our destination--Hurley, Wisconsin,, on the eastern border of Michigan and Ironwood in the UP or Upper Peninsula. We ate with the in-laws, Dave and Joann, well at least they were my in-laws, Joann being a sister to my wife. There I was re-introduced to 3-year old Charlie who called me Mr. Guy for some reason, and his sister Paige who called me nothing in understandable English. At one year of age, she was working on the art of conversation which came out converbabble, but her expressive cute eyes got her whatever she needed. Also a five year old dog named Maggie. She had been to obedient school, and I think, was probably puppy valedictorian. The only thing she did wrong all weekend was to walk through a sliding screen door that she thought was open and beckoning her.

We were also re-introduced to neice Gretta and her son Jude. Gretta ran a 4:19 marathon in her first attempt over hilly rugged terrain on an early, wet Saturday morning. Jude stayed with his grandfolks and played umbrellas with Charlie.

Saturday after the race, Dave and I played golf at Eagle Bluff Golf Course. We saw no eagles. Either in the sky or on the scorecard. But we did see some bears. As I was ready to tee off on number 12, I commented, "Well, there are my bears." About 100 yards in front of us was a mother with two cubs, David announced. Then a third cub, a straggler, came into view. They were really neat to see: much better than the alligators at Hilton Head.

Sunday morning found us at the only Baptist church in the immediate proximity, Havenwood Baptist Church. Approximately 20 were in attendance, counting the pastor and his wife and son. It was a very good service and a blessing to be there. A Sunday drive to Lake Superior where the kids and big kids waded and collected rocks looking for illusive aggates commenced. Followed by a huge picnic, enjoyed by all including Maggie, the dog.

Monday morning breakfast consisted of breakfast pizza made with 15 eggs, potatoes, and sausage. It's hard to go to the great North and not have sausage, and/or pasties. Saturday after the race, we dined on pasties--onions, potatoes, and beef stuffed into a pastry or bread dish, sorta like a pot pie without the goo. It was easier to eat, and very tastey as they say.

The drive back to the airport called for another stop at Culver's Restaurant. If you haven't eaten at Culver's, you should. And back to AZ to blog.

I've been blessed with great in-laws and their spouses as well. We may not agree on everything, but for the most part, you wouldn't know.