6.30.2026 – loved true things but

loved true things but
knew it could be a very
dangerous mistress

It took Doc longer to go places than other people.

He didn’t drive fast and he stopped and ate hamburgers very often.

Driving up to Lighthouse Avenue he waved at a dog that looked around and smiled at him.

In Monterey before he even started, he felt hungry and stopped at Herman’s for a hamburger and beer.

While he ate his sandwich and sipped his beer, a bit of conversation came back to him.

Blaisdell, the poet, had said to him, “You love beer so much. I’ll bet some day you’ll go in and order a beer milk shake.”

It was a simple piece of foolery but it had bothered Doc ever since.

He wondered what a beer milk shake would taste like. The idea gagged him but he couldn’t let it alone. It cropped up every time he had a glass of beer.

Would it curdle the milk? Would you add sugar?

It was like a shrimp ice cream.

Once the thing got into your head you couldn’t forget it.

He finished his sandwich and paid Herman.

He purposely didn’t look at the milk shake machines lined up so shiny against the back wall.

If a man ordered a beer milk shake, he thought, he’d better do it in a town where he wasn’t known.

But then, a man with a beard, ordering a beer milk shake in a town where he wasn’t known—they might call the police. A man with a beard was always a little suspect anyway.

You couldn’t say you wore a beard because you liked a beard.

People didn’t like you for telling the truth.

You had to say you had a scar so you couldn’t shave.

Once when Doc was at the University of Chicago he had love trouble and he had worked too hard. He thought it would be nice to take a very long walk.

He put on a little knapsack and he walked through Indiana and Kentucky and North Carolina and Georgia clear to Florida.

He walked among farmers and mountain people, among the swamp people and fishermen. And everywhere people asked him why he was walking through the country.

Because he loved true things he tried to explain.

He said he was nervous and besides he wanted to see the country, smell the ground and look at grass and birds and trees, to savor the country, and there was no other way to do it save on foot.

And people didn’t like him for telling the truth.

They scowled, or shook and tapped their heads, they laughed as though they knew it was a lie and they appreciated a liar.

And some, afraid for their daughters or their pigs, told him to move on, to get going, just not to stop near their place if he knew what was good for him.

And so he stopped trying to tell the truth.

He said he was doing it on a bet—that he stood to win a hundred dollars.

Everyone liked him then and believed him.

They asked him in to dinner and gave him a bed and they put lunches up for him and wished him good luck and thought he was a hell of a fine fellow.

Doc still loved true things but he knew it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.

From Cannery Row by John Steinbeck (Viking Press: New York, 1945 – There is a note in the frontpiece that states: THIS EDITION IS PRODUCED IN FULL COMPLIANCE WITH ALL WAR PRODUCTION BOARD CONSERVATION ORDERS).

People didn’t like him for telling the truth.

And so he stopped trying to tell the truth.

Doc still loved true things but he knew it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.

If a man ordered a beer milk shake, he thought, he’d better do it in a town where he wasn’t known.

Way back when I lived through the summer of Mark Fydrich.

IYKYK.

It was the summer of 1976.

Also known as the bicentennial.

A local guy from Grand Rapids who had graduated from my Mom’s old high school, was President of the United States.

And it was the summer of Mark Fydrich.

He was this kid who pitched for the Detroit Tigers who would have ordered a beer milkshake regardless of where he was if that was what he wanted.

He pitched and just acted like he would have if he had been playing catch on a beach or in Tiger Stadium and because he won, the crowd fell in love with him.

He ran to mound and got down on his hands and knees and smoothed out the dirt.

He ran around and thanked everyone for everything.

He talked to himself constantly on the mound and since no one else was around to be talked too, it was reported in the papers that he must be talking to the ball.

He would say things that he didn’t like using a ball that had been hit.

He wanted that ball to go back in the ball bag and goof around with the other balls and loose the desire to be hit.

Back then, growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, my Dad subscribed to the Detroit Free Press.

Though the paper was written and printed in Detroit, 150 miles and 3 hours away by car, it was somehow written and printed and driven to Grand Rapids where our local paperboy had it on our front porch by 7 A.M.

I fail to see how the digital age has improved on this.

Dad’s routine was to get up, start the coffee then open the front door and take a deep breath of outside air, regardless of season.

He said it cleansed his lungs and got him ready for his day.

That was the extent of his exercise regime.

Then he would step out on the porch and pick up the paper.

He would get his coffee and go through the paper and who ever else was up would wait for him to finish and it wasn’t until he announced, “here you go”, did we have a shot at the sports section.

This one summer morning it was my brother Pete who got the paper first.

Most likely Dad had already announced that Fidrych won again last night but we needed details.

I was 16 and drinking coffee by that time so I would have poured a cup and maybe I grabbed the front section of the Free Press while I waited for the Sports Section.

I always suspected Pete of reading extra slow with me sitting there, including going over ever line of the box scores so I made a big deal of being interested in the front page and the editorials.

We were sitting next to each other on high stools along the kitchen counter.

Pete finally sat back and folder the sports section back together and slid it over to me.

“It say’s,” said Pete slowly, looking at me, “that after a game, Fidrych can’t wait for his favorite post game meal.”

I looked at him and waited, a little perturbed that he was telling me something I would soon read for myself, but still listening and looking at him.

Dad, looking over back sections of the paper with his coffee, paused and looked over from where he sat at the table.

“It say’s, said Pete slowly, looking at me, “that his favorite post game meal is a bottle of ice cold beer and a glass of ice cold milk.”

For some reason that statement hit me, Pete and Dad just the right way that morning and we all burst out laughing.

Milk and Beer!

Only that Fidrych.

It was one of those summer mornings where nothing was wrong and everything was funny both between ourselves and the whole world.

Miss mornings like that.

It was just normal, the way it was the day before and the next day.

They don’t seem to happen anymore.

Is it me?

Is it this crummy news cycle?

Maybe I need to order a beer and some ice cold milk.

If a man ordered a beer milk shake, I thought, he’d better do it in a town where he wasn’t known.

Doc still loved true things but he knew it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.

And so he stopped trying to tell the truth.

People didn’t like him for telling the truth.

6.21.2026 – my father paints the

my father paints the
summer, caught summer always
an imagined time

A smoky rain riddles the ocean plains,
Rings on the beaches’ stones, stomps in the swales,
Batters the panes
Of the shore hotel, and the hoped-for summer chills and fails.
The summer people sigh,
“Is this July?”

They talk by the lobby fire but no one hears
For the thrum of rain. In the dim and sounding halls,
Din at the ears,
Dark at the eyes well in the head, and the ping-pong balls
Scatter their hollow knocks
Like crazy clocks.

But up in his room by artificial light
My father paints the summer, and his brush
Tricks into sight
The prosperous sleep, the girdling stir and clear steep hush
Of a summer never seen,
A granted green.

Summer, luxuriant Sahara, the orchard spray
Gales in the Eden trees, the knight again
Can cast away
His burning mail, Rome is at Anzio: but the rain
For the ping-pong’s optative bop
Will never stop.

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.
Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.
There must be prime
In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find
Riding the palest days
Its perfect blaze.

My Father Paints the Summer by Richard Purdy Wilbur in The Poems of Richard Wilbur (Harcourt, Brace: New York, 1947).

About Mr. Wilbur, Wikipedia says, “Richard Purdy Wilbur (March 1, 1921 – October 14, 2017) was an American poet and literary translator, and one of the foremost poets of the World War II generation. Wilbur’s work, often employing rhyme, and composed primarily in traditional forms, was marked by its wit, charm, and gentlemanly elegance. He was acclaimed in his youth as the heir to Robert Frost, translated the verse dramas of Moliere, Corneille, and Racine into rhymed English, collaborated with Leonard Bernstein as the lyricist for the opera Candide, and in his old age acted, particularly through his role in the annual West Chester University Poetry Conference, as a mentor to the younger poets of the New Formalist movement. He was appointed the second Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1987 and received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry twice, in 1957 and 1989.”

About the photo, if I think about my Dad, I cannot but think of my Dad at what we called ‘The Cottage.”

In the Spring of 1964, when I was 4 years, my Dad but a piece of property on the shore of Lake Michigan, a straight drive out M-45 to the lake from Grand Rapids where we lived.

It became our summer place and our place for summer time and it is where my Dad painted the summer.

In a letter written home from Europe during World War 2, my Dad told the woman who would become my Mom that “He liked to live in the whole house” which I took to mean that in his home, there would be nothing for show, no rooms reserved for company, he would live in the WHOLE house.

You could not have described life at our cottage any better.

My Dad lived in the whole place.

Every inch of property, cottage and beach was set aside to be used and used pretty much for anyone’s personal enjoyment.

I have never been any where else in the world that I experienced such freedom to live, explore, read, think or do anything that came to mind.

There was a lot of trust involved here and for the most part, we repaid that trust and just LIVED the heck out of this place.

Look at the photo.

A large, ungainly structure covered with windows for viewing the lake, chairs for sitting, towels drying, toys scattered all over for playing, a grill for cooking, sails for the sailboat propped up against the stairs and thousands of footprints of the 100s of people that made up our summers at the lake.

All in a place provided by my Dad.

My father painted the summer with a big thick brush and broad strokes.

The year after my Dad died, Mom sold the place.

She said, and understand the entire time we had the cottage it was the Hotel Lorraine and everyone was welcome, she said, “It was my place to be with Dad.”

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.

There must be prime

In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find

Riding the palest days

Its perfect blaze.

Forgive but I have to repeat that line again where Mr. Wilbur writes, Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

Was it real?

Could it have been that way?

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

I am here to tell you, it was all too real and when I think about it, I think of my Dad and I say thank you for the gift of all those summers you painted for us.

6.16.2026 – avondvierdaagse

avondvierdaagse
no English words to describe
it’s just gezellig

Adapted from The Guardian article, Dutch children are unusually happy and healthy. Is it because of this walking ritual? by Hannah Docter-Loeb, an Amsterdam-based science journalist who primarily covers science, human health, and sustainability where she writes:

It’s the second night of Avondvierdaagse (which literally means “four-day evening walk”) , organised by a group of neighbourhood volunteers. It’s not a race, but if children complete every night, they get medals, a bouquet of flowers and, if they’re lucky, a lot of sweets. It’s not just Amsterdam; across villages, towns and cities in the Netherlands, hundreds of thousands of Dutch people are doing the same: every year, kids spend four evenings in early summer exploring their neighbourhoods with their school friends and parents as part of the Week van de Avond4daagse. Some places had celebrated earlier; others were walking the following week. A variation of the tradition has even made its way to Suriname, one of the Dutch former colonies. There are also four-day cycling and swimming events. According to the Royal Dutch Walking Association (KWbN), which helps coordinate the events, half a million people take part every year, in 700 locations across the country, powered by tens of thousands of volunteers.

Avondvierdaagse is such a positive event, it’s hard to find any downsides to it. Some have questioned whether the walks are inclusive enough – for people with disabilities, for instance, or those from different cultural backgrounds. In Amsterdam, especially, the events’ participants may not necessarily reflect the diversity of the population, appealing more to higher-income parents in the neighbourhood.

Dutch kids are consistently judged to be some of the happiest in the world. This year, a Unicef report again ranked them number one out of 44 western countries for overall wellbeing, and for mental health. Rich social relations were cited as a key factor. Research has shown that Dutch children have strong connections with their peers. In addition, many Dutch parents work part-time, so have more time to spend with their children. Children also have increased independence: parents let their kids roam more freely, and many start young, cycling to and from school by themselves.

As I leave, Joost Klein’s 2024 Eurovision entry, Europapa (another local kids’ favourite), is playing for the third time in 20 minutes, and no one seems to care, nor do they mind that the weather seems to be turning overcast and rainy. They are more focused on the party. There are no English words to fully describe the feeling of pure joy that encapsulates the area. It’s just gezellig.

I grew up with a dutch heritage as 6 of my 8 great grand parents were born in the Netherlands.

As I grew up in West Michigan, this was only unusual for the fact that I had some great grand parents who weren’t dutch.

My Dad would tell us stories of when he was a child his family would go out to visit the family farm in Jamestown, Michigan and his relatives would try to teach him dutch words and laugh and laugh at his attempted pronunication.

One story that stands out in my mind was my Dad telling how they were all standing around in the kitchen when one of his cousins came in. “Where were you,” Dad said he asked. His cousin responded (this being in the early 1930’s). “I had to go vote. I cast my ballot for Hoover.” Only reason I mention this story was its appropriateness for today.

But I digress.

Getting back to dutch words, what can you do with Avondvierdaagse?

I asked The Google.

Avondvierdaagse is pronounced roughly as “AH-vont-VEER-dahg-seh” in Dutch.

Because it is a compound word meaning “evening four-day walk”, breaking it down into its core components makes it much easier to say:

Phonetic Breakdown –

Avond (Evening) → AH-vont

Ah like the “a” in “father”.

Vont rhymes with the English word “want” (the “d” sounds like a “t” at the end of Dutch words).

Vier (Four) → VEER Sounds exactly like the English word “veer” or “fear” but with a “v”.

Daagse (Days long) → DAHG-seh

Dahg uses the long “ah” sound. The “g” is the tricky guttural Dutch “g”—a soft, raspy throat-clearing sound similar to the “ch” in the Scottish word loch.

Seh uses a short, neutral schwa sound, like the “uh” at the end of “sofa”.

Simple right?

No wonder my relatives laughed at my Dad.

It’s just It’s just gezellig.

Gezellig?

Gezellig (pronounced heh-SELL-ick) is a famous Dutch word with no direct English translation. It roughly means cozy, inviting, or charming, but is most accurately used to describe the warm, pleasant social vibe that comes from being in good company.

The term is central to Dutch culture and lifestyle, capturing any moment of togetherness that feels comfortable and heartening.

It’s a word like this that makes you wonder about growing up in West Michigan with its strong Calvinist traditions.

Calvinism was once described to me as the fear that somewhere, someone was having a good time.

Trying to square this with gezellig is what makes me wonder.

Then I remember.

My ancestors were the ones that left the Netherlands and came to the United States and increased the level of gezellig in both places.

Children set off from Westerpark in Amsterdam for the evening walk. Photograph: Judith Jockel/The Guardian

5.28.2026 – to shoot the wall clock

to shoot the wall clock
make it stop, better yet, keep
backing up slowly

It’s not so comic the way that clocks race themselves with us in fragile tow and it’s not enough to say “What are we waiting for?” or “Why are we holding back?” though that might occur to us later.

We are far less capable of those radical emotional moves advocated by magazines that specialize in puddle-deep psychologisms, the usual seven steps to a victorious emotional life, as if we could put ourselves on a figurative grease rack or automated assembly line for overhaul.

It was all so ordinary though I wanted to shoot the wall clock, over and over. Anything to make it stop or, better yet, keep backing up slowly.

From True North by Jim Harrison (New York, Grove Press, 2004).

I woke from a dream the other morning where all was as it was when I was a kid on the shore of Lake Michigan.

It was a disappointment when I woke and realized it was a dream.

It was all so ordinary though I wanted to shoot the wall clock, over and over.

Anything to make it stop or, better yet, keep backing up slowly.

You can’t can you?

5.25.2026 – land and people hold

land and people hold
memories they keep old things
that never grow old

The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches — among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain —they keep old things that never grow old.

Adapted from the poem, Cornhuskers by Carl Sandburg, as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg (Harcourt, Brace & Co: New York, 1950).