Bikin' at night in the D

We participated in a bike tour last night through the D to work off some of the vacation excess. However, I wouldn't recommend doing it on one of the busiest nights of the year downtown next time.

Our group took a three-hour ride past the new riverfront path (which I'll be excited to try out with my rollerblades after work one day) during the River Days celebration. It was a nice idea but much, much too busy for 40-some bikers to try to navigate.

And some drunk kid poured beer on one of our bikers.

It saddened me (and probably ruined the ride for a lot of bikers) and yet reminded me of the stupid things we did as kids. I remember how my brother, our little buddies and I used to toss crabapples beneath speeding cars as they drove past my uncle's home in Traverse City, Mich. during our summertime visits. Uncle John, who was really my mom's uncle, lived on a 40-acre farm off a two-lane highway, and we kids used to make a game of seeing who could smash the most crabapples beneath the wheels of the fast-moving cars.

One time, a crabapple thrown by our friend, Paul, took a funny bounce and hit the door of a car. And to our dismay, that car slammed on its breaks and pulled over to the side of the road. That's the last thing we saw before taking off through the fields, with the tall grass cutting against our legs as we ran past the first garage, past the second garage and all the way to the third abandoned garage. We hid on the roof of that garage -- our hearts thumping with fear -- until we were sure the people had left.

Of course, that didn't stop Paul's dad from giving us a good hollering-at, during which he claimed that if something happened to those people, they would've sued him, my parents and my grandmother. The fictitious lawsuits would've claimed the houses of those three parties.

On a side note: his message almost was lost on me when I realized that he didn't say Paul's grandma's house would've been claimed, too. After all, it was Paul who threw the errant crabapple.

Anyway, kids sure do some stupid things!

A stop in Toronto

A Clayton cafe

I am not Ernest Hemingway!

I'm back in the comfortable rolling desk chair in front of the glowing laptop at the Murphys' breezy house on Theresa Street. My feet are touching the soft carpet, and there's not a bug in sight.

I would say "hooray," but that would imply that I am glad to be done with our little overnight camping trip. Well, I am and I'm not. It's nice to be back, but it was nice to be there, too.


It was really enjoyable to wake up this morning to the sound of birds tweeting outside our tent, so I got the big idea that I'd do some bird-watching.

I saw one that I was sure I would be able to identify when I got back to the house because of its distinctive spotted chest and brown body.

I should've written more down because apparently there are many many birds with similarly spotted chests. Next time, I'll know to look at the beak, the wings, the head, etc.

I did a quick search on the Internet and thought "Ah ha! It was a song thrush." (See photo above.) Then I read an entry in Wikipedia that said, "It is commonly found in well-vegetated woods and gardens over all of Europe south of the Arctic circle, except Iberia. They have also been introduced to New Zealand and Australia. They are common and widespread in NZ however in Australia only a small population around Melbourne survives."

So I tried again. I thought, "Hmm. Looked an awful lot like a Northern Flicker." (see photo at right.) However, the Flickers I found on the Internet also had spotted wings and red feathers on their face.

Though I didn't do the best job of scoping out all the features of my bird, I'm pretty sure it didn't have spotted wings or a red-streaked face. (That being said, perhaps there are Flickers who don't have spotted wings or red faces. I don't know for sure, but I hit the search button again.)

I thought: could it be a Brown Thrasher, a reddish-brown bird with a spotted chest? Possible. According to enature.com, the birds "often feed on the ground, scattering dead leaves with their beaks as they search for insects." Maybe, but I'm going with the Hermit Thrush (below).

Here's his story (source: enature.com) "To many, the song of the Hermit Thrush is the most beautiful of any North American bird. Outside the breeding range it may occasionally be heard late in spring, before the birds head north to nest. This is the only one of our spotted thrushes that winters in the northern states, subsisting on berries and buds. During the warm months, however, it feeds largely on insects taken from the ground, most of the time under dense cover, hopping around and then watching in an upright position like a robin."

So I'm apparently not Ernest Hemingway or any of the other great nature writers. But I have a new interest in birds and will have fun using the binoculars we got for our wedding in the quiet of my backyard. And when I do, I'll be checking out this site.

Birdwatching by the berry bush.

Winding down in our tent...

We fished, barbecued, rollerbladed, fished again, made hot chocolate, and now we're relaxing in our tent.

Calm river

Homemade centerpiece

I just hope it's not made of poison ivy.

Fishing...

The sun is setting on Theresa Street.

I couldn't have forecast this one. Patrick's parents are selling their home in Clayton, NY, after almost three decades here. They need a one-story without all these damn stairs, I guess, that's a bit closer to the amenities in town. Me? I can't believe I won't see this old wood banister again.

Patrick's folks spent a lot of time cleaning out the attic while we were here. Pulling down the little hideaway staircase was like opening up a storehouse of cobwebbed memories that Mrs. M. dutifully dusted off and shared as the work wore on.

We uncovered a box of Patrick's baby shoes -- a half-dozen white ones, a few blue striped ones and a little cloth pair he wore before he needed shoes with soles. There were also boxes of baseball cards and matchbox cars and games galore, including ones I'd never seen before. We found a Charlie Brown dictionary and a little basketball hoop that was about two feet tall. Patrick said he used to run up and down that hall playing basketball with the little hoop and watching real games on TV. "That was when he could dunk," Mr. M. chuckled.

I went out to the garage this morning where Mrs. M was sorting through some stuff to take to their storage unit, or "the apartment," as they call it. She was untangling some silver Christmas tree garland that I'm sure witnessed many happy holidays in this house. I told her it all looked like a lot of work -- the packing, sorting, untangling, retrieving and tossing. But it wasn't to her. "I like recalling all the memories," she said.

Surely, they are going to miss this place. I am, too, because it became a serene home-away-from-home for me. Yes, we can always come back here to stay at a cottage or B&B and play the role of tourist. (It is a great little tourist town.) But it won't be the same.

So while I was reading my book on the porch today, I tried to make mental imprints of the sights and sounds of Theresa Street. My eyes traced the lines of the gray stucco walls and the way the green wicker chairs cast shadows in checkered patterns on the winding porch. I listened to the tree leaves rustling and the flags whipping from the neighbors' houses. I heard the creak, creak, creak of the porch swing and the swish-swish of my bare feet passing across the wooden floor as I rocked back and forth. I enjoyed the calm of this street where a car drives down just once every so often, punctuated by the occasional rumble of a tanker crossing the river.

But try as I might, I could not smell the fresh sea water blowing from the St. Lawrence. I love that smell, and I hope the scent is there tomorrow. After all, our days here are drawing to a close.

Our campgrounds.

We'll be staying near this spot at Keewaydin State Park Wednesday. I got my first fishing license ever just for the occasion (along with the aforementioned Coleman French Press coffeemaker). And what a coincidence! My brand new fishing pole is a Shakespeare. It apparently fits right in with the theme of this trip -- culture and relaxation.

But know this: I plan to try my best not to catch anything. And despite the fact that Patrick thinks I should be using worms or other live bait, I'm tempted not to use bait at all -- or even a hook. Instead, I intend to sit with my feet hanging over the edge of the rocks lining the river, casting my bobbered line on occasion, sipping some iced tea and reading my book. Really, I just want get the feel of being Ernest Hemingway without actually doing any work. The only temptation to actually use a hook is that I bought this adorable little pink and white fishing lure. We'll see how I feel about it tomorrow.

My home for the next few days.

No, not the house. I'm talking about the front porch, where I'll be hangin' with my book.

Ready for a cookout!

My first ever fishing license.

A little culture, a lotta relaxation.

Patrick and I are in the midst of a northern adventure: a vacation that began in Stratford, Ontario and has proceeded to Clayton, New York, in the Thousand Islands area (a.k.a the home of Patrick's parents, where I will spend a good deal of my time reading on a front porch swing while taking in a gentle breeze blowing off the St. Lawrence River a block away.)

We also plan a one-day camping trip at a New York State campsite, for which I bought a super cool Coleman French Press coffeemaker that can go right on the grill. At the end of the week, we will circle back through Canada and probably stop in Toronto for lunch before heading back to Mighty Michigan.

The week should consist of (as this post is aptly entitled) a bit of culture and a lot of relaxing.

The culture came first with our stop in Stratford, a cool little Canadian town that is, of course, well-known for its summer theater festival. We stayed at a B&B called the Puddicombe House in nearby New Hamburg, Ontario. We loved the giant four-poster bed with its extra plush pillow-top mattress, the jacuzzi tub and the wraparound porch, where I got a headstart on one of the two books I'll tackle this vacation. We also loved the on-site restaurant, which was pretty polished for being less than a year old. (I had a crab-stuffed salmon and broccoli-cranberry salad the first night. Scrumptious.)

We saw two plays: Of Mice and Men and Merchant of Venice, both starring Graham Greene. Both were terrific performances, and though I love and wildly appreciate Shakespeare, I preferred Of Mice and Men. It just does a wonderful job of tugging at the heartstrings. After all, what's so bad about carrying around mice in your pocket just for the purpose of stroking their little heads...even if they are dead? (We once had a couple of mice living in the birdseed container in our garage, and while I certainly don't want to encourage them to take up shop within a few 100 feet of us again, they sure were cute little fellas.)

The town of Stratford itself was a quaint little place lined with antique stores, bookshops, clothing boutiques, candy shops, restaurants, lush gardens, etc. A journalist helped launch the now-renowned theater festival when he realized that his hometown -- an old railway junction -- was destined to deteriorate without some kind of anchor. History has it that Tom Patterson decided to link Stratford, Ontario to Shakespeare's birthplace (of the same name) and build a theater festival around that tie.

Hmm. Perhaps Detroit could embrace its old title as the Paris of the West. While it's obvious that I love my hometown (and God knows you really can't top the Motown moniker, Greektown, Mexicantown or any of the many great attractions to the D), every city could use more escargots and French pastry shops.

Another successful B&B

New Hamburg, Ontario.

Hello. That's my suitcase.

Ummm, I'm trying to get ready here.

31st Street

The street where I was born.

I spent the first six months of my life on this street, as well as a heckuva a lot of days after school and many weekends. (A few months after I was born, we moved to Radcliffe Street on the west side of Detroit.)

Grandpa and Grandma Mrozowski lived on 31st Street in a giant, three-family home. And while the 31st is now mostly a series of burnt-out houses, vacant lots and weeds, I remember it as a beautiful tree-lined street. And my grandfather had the biggest garden you have ever seen. In fact, I don't think he had any back lawn. My dad just called it a vineyard, and I guess it was -- a vineyard in the middle of Detroit.

Basically, the entire backyard was turned into a garden filled with raspberries, cukes, tomatoes (of every different kind), black currants, dill, red currants and grape vines. There were also cherry and plum trees. When I was a kid, I don't think we ate store-bought fruit all summer.

Most of the family lived in one of the sections in the house on 31st at one time or another -- including us. It was the stuff of true immigrant family life.

Anyway, while the surrounding streets were apparently turning more and more crime-ridden, that house to me was a haven filled with white butter and jelly sandwiches, yellow tomatoes, liverwurst sandwiches, home-canned pickles and all types of pierogis. Happy polkas or Elvis often wafted through sun-filled rooms. Busy half-Polish half-English discussions were a constant, all seeming very important to a wee little girl munching on her strawberry wafer cookies or drinking homemade rhurbarb juice.

I loved going to the house on 31st because it was ever a bustling place. My grandma always had something cooking on the stove, (I dinstinctly remember a cow's brain in a pot. Yipes!) and my grandpa always had a ladder up somewhere. He was the ultimate handyman, and I think I got my love of gardening and tinkering from him. (By the way, don't try to tell me I can't fix a toilet or anything else. It's in my genes, people.)

I used to love sitting on my grandpa's lap and making tall horns out the remaining hair he had on his head. And he loved to take us down into his basement and show us all the different kinds of vegetables he canned or how he was repairing some appliance that anyone else would've thrown away. And it was so much fun to go grocery shopping with him, even though I seem to recall that either he and/or my grandma were crazy drivers. And I couldn't believe some of the things they bought (and I would eat). I remember a delicious cow's tongue that I later tried again in France as a delicacy. (I confess I never tried pigs feet. I actually now regret that.)

But that was the life in a Polish household in Detroit in the 70s and 80s.

And those are some of the absolutely wonderful memories I have of 31st. They are only slightly clouded by brief pictures of my grandpa repainting his corner garage over and over when it was repeatedly painted with graffiti... or incidents of crime I try to block out. Somehow, I don't even remember when my grandparents moved a few miles down to another street in Detroit that was a little safer.

No, I have mostly extremely happy memories of that house and that street.

Another nice day in the D.

Enjoying the architecture downtown.

Lunch time.

It's a lovely day for walking in the D.

Support local brewers

That's easy with choices like these. We have to get back to Foran's for a happy hour.

This blog is exhausted!

And so am I!

My mom had to go into the hospital Friday for emergency stomach cramping and dizziness. Long story short, it's been a frightening three days. She had to have surgery today after on-again off-again spurts of feeling fine and then miserable. Without offering the gory details, I'll just say that she's in recovery and feeling better but terribly tired and still in pain. She'll be there five more days... at least.

Without her here, I've been going over all the little things I'm missing about her, like having her call down to me several times a day to ask what I'm doing or if I'm hungry. Or hearing her talk to the cats. Or catching her summarily dismiss something my dad says. Few people get away with that!

And I tried to make my own fruit salad for lunch tomorrow, trying to follow her good example, and it just didn't look the same. I also couldn't figure out how she fits all the five fruits she manages to get in that little plastic container.

Then I was trying to string a neck band through the plastic loops in my new-ish binoculars, and it just wouldn't go. That's exactly the type of thing I would call my mom to do because she's got amazing patience.

Mostly, I'm missing how selfless she is. For instance, she recently agreed to watch my cousin's two-month-old baby once or twice a week (including one 12-hour day) and has decided she loves doing it. One of the first things she asked after surgery was: "Who's going to watch my baby this week?" My dad and brother are apparently stepping in.

My mom may be a tiny little lady, but she's a giant whirlwind of strength and organization. She's also the kindest person I've ever met. It was really seeing scary seeing her on that hospital bed today.

I can't wait until she's home.

Cornhole!

Mmmm. Cornhole! That's what Phoebe seems to be saying, huh? Well, we're saying, "Yay! Cornhole!"

The set was a huge surprise from Gina's dad. Thanks, Ray! We love it.

Those from Cincinnati are not surprised by the name of this quirky game, which sounds obscene. But some of you Detroiters are probably saying, "What kind of person is she?" So let me explain:

Cornhole (a.k.a. Corn Toss or Baggo) is a competitive game where players take turns slinging sacks of corn toward two platforms that are facing each other but quite a distance apart. The platforms -- often made of wood-- have a hole in them. (Sounds really obscene now. I'd be tempted to say Hey-o, or however it's spelled, but those who know me know I don't use that phrase.)

Anyway, Cornhole is so popular in Cincinnati that the Queen City is home to a national league, the American Cornhole Association. I kid you not, Detroiters!

The game has a ton of rules, so many that the Wikipedia entry is almost too long to tackle. There are innings, and rules about if you knock someone's bag in, and different point amounts for landing a bag on the platform versus getting one in the hole, etc. (I really should relinquish my title as a one-time West side Cincinnatian for not knowing the rules.)

I didn't get through all of the Wikipedia entry, but I did read far enough to learn there's a Michigan connection and that people here often play it at graduations, etc. They call it bean bag toss. I call that "lame." Sorry Michiganders. It's Cornhole. That's that.

P.S. I trounced Patrick tonight in Cornhole, but shhh. Let's not rub it in.

Sigh...

This home is adorable!!!

I don't understand why no one wants our lovely house.

Dinner @ Green Papaya

Shopping

Have I mentioned that my desire to shop returns whenever we're in Cincinnati?

Power is restored.

Who needs lights?

The lights are out, but it's no big deal so far. We already completed our yard work and simply are enjoying the quiet. (I am, at least. Patrick is probably dying for some basketball or baseball game to be blaring in his ear.)

I simply lunged into actions, searching the house for candles and lighting them everywhere. How romantic. Time to polish off the wine from yesterday.

Looks romantic in Cincinnati, huh?

Power is out!

Cincinnati storm!

Whoa! We had a mega-storm on the West side of Cincinnati. Trees are down everywhere.

Back in the 'Nati

We enjoyed the season's first blush before our night on the town for Gina's engagement party here in the 'Nati. The drive down was decent, and it's nice to be back in our awesome house.