when he looked over at me, said, take a hike, son has a ring to it …
Adapted from these lines:
I remember once leaning over the dugout trying to tell Alvin Dark how great he was and how much I was for him and, well, maybe get his autograph too, when he looked over at me and said, “Take a hike, son. Take a hike.”
Take a hike, son. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Anyway, it’s become a deflating putdown line around the Bouton family.
Take a hike, son.
From Ball four plus ball five by Jim Bouton (Stein and Day, New York, 1981
60 miles of beach no people and no dwellings just beach and water
If you take out your Rand McNally you’ll note that the Upper Peninsula is a long piece of land, over 300 miles, and thickish in places. It is about 30 percent of Michigan’s land mass but contains only 3 percent of its population. Growing up in northern Michigan I was early on mystified by the Upper Peninsula even before I traveled there. In the 1960s I went up a number of times, and it did not cease to mystify me with its wildness. While camping I would study maps to try to figure out where I was other than within a cloud of mosquitoes and black flies, that irritating species that depends on clean water, of which there is a great deal in the U.P. There is little or no industry; therefore you could drink the water directly from Lake Superior — at least I always did on my long beach walks. There was a place near Grand Marais of nearly 60 miles of undisturbed beach, no people, no dwellings, just beach and water.
Climbing on Miner’s Castle near 12 Mile Beach, when climbing was allowed and it had two towers – me in the gold shirt and bell bottom jeans …
If you grew up in the State of Michigan’s lower peninsula or lower half (a designation that led to directions to the town of Gaylord … in upper lower Michigan) at some point your family most likely made a trip to the UP.
My family went often.
Drive across the Mackinac Bridge and up to the Soo and then left over into the wild that was upper Michigan and the Lake Superior shore.
We were all early on mystified by the Upper Peninsula and we weren’t quite sure what the UP was, as what it was, was mostly old or older, as if the 1950’s never stopped.
I could tell lots of stories of the UP with me as a kid or with me as a parent.
I could tell how fun it was to climb all over the Tahquamenon Falls when I was a kid and marvel at the lack of protective railings and at the same time tell you stories about being a parent and being grateful someone finally put some protective railings along the Tahquamenon Falls.
But the story on my mind is of the last trip I took with my parents and little brothers.
As it seems to me that it was me and my brothers Steve and Al, (Pete had a summer job and a girlfriend so he stayed home) and Mom and Dad.
I probably was about 17 and it was the last summer trip I went on with my parents.
It was the usual trip over the Mackinaw Bridge and then Paradise, White Fish Point then on to maybe Newberry and Seney and Grand Marais and Munising.
We got to Grand Marais and had dinner and stayed in a motel there overnight and had breakfast also in Grand Marais which more or less used up the dining options for Grand Marais.
Dad spotted an IGA Grocery store and put forward the idea that he could grab some cold cuts and a loaf of bread and some pop and we could have a picnic lunch at 12 Mile Beach on the shore of Lake Superior.
Mom said okay and we stopped at the IGA and Dad offered to run in and grab the food and Mom was happy to let him go and wait in the car, which she should have known better or maybe did know better but by that time in their relationship, she didn’t care anymore.
I can’t remember if I waited in the car or went in the grocery store to watch but in about 10 minutes Dad came out with two full grocery bags (there were, you recall, 5 people on this trip) which he put in the trunk.
Dad got in and we drove off and Mom asks, “What in the world did you get?”
“Just a little lunch,” was all Dad said.
We found 12 Mile Beach and drove into the park and Dad spotted a picnic table on the sand where it looked like the black flies wouldn’t be too bad and we parked and Dad unpacked his little lunch.
First he had a bought big table covering and plastic plates and silverware and cups.
I mean who wants to eat off a picnic table top.
Then he set out two or three loaves of bread (White, Wheat and Rye).
And a full pound of butter.
And a selection of of least 3 different cheeses (one was an unsliced big block of cheese, so he also bought a carving knife) and lots of different meats – Turkey, Ham, Roast Beef and I think an old fashioned ring baloney.
These were NOT the machine packed cold cuts of today, but sliced to order deli meat wrapped in white paper.
And he got out a jar of mayonnaise and two types of mustard.
I think there were two kinds of chips and there were crackers (for the cheese) and a bag of apples and a bag of oranges.
The store must not have had any watermelons or he would have bought one.
He got a gallon of milk and a case of Coke.
Mom watched and helped spread out this bounty.
Then there were the specials.
Dad was a sucker for small grocery stores and the local goodies they often sold.
Seems like there was small jar of pickled herring and a bag of Trenary Toast and two cold UP pasty’s wrapped up in paper and some fresh potato salad and maybe some cold pickled eggs.
So we sat down to eat.
Mom had us make our own sandwiches and offered up the chips and other sides.
Watching Dad make a sandwich was to watch an artist at work.
He once told me that he learned how to dress a plate by watching Army Cooks get dinner ready for the Generals in his unit during World War 2.
I do know from his letters home that he and the Doctor that made up the Medical Team assigned to the Headquarters Unit of the 12 Corps (Spearhead of Patton’s Third) would often find time to INSPECT the Generals’ mess just before dinner and the Generals’ Cook took good care of them – My Dad famously gained weight in the Army).
When Dad made his sandwich he would select his bread and lay it out just so, then the mayo and the butter and then the layers of meat and cheese and the sandwich would be assembled.
Then, and my brother Bobby said this was the magic part, Dad would take the biggest knife he could find and with the precision and grace of a surgeon, he would cut the sandwich into four triangles.
Bobby said watching Dad make a sandwich with ring baloney and a giant butcher knife was like watching a magician – cut – swoop – spread – cut and POOF – a baloney sandwich in bite sized pieces for little kids.
Using the tip of the knife, he would pick up each triangle of sandwich and move it over to his plate where the triangles would be arranged in an arty pattern.
Then potato salad would be added to the arrangement on the plate and chips and fruit all in the way that somehow made you hungry just to look at it.
Dad took as much satisfaction in the creation of the plate as he did in eating all the food on his plate.
And he enjoyed eating, boy, howdy!
And we ate.
And ate until we were just nibbling on fruit and chips to fill in the edges.
That’s when Mom surveyed the table and pointed out we were on 12 mile beach in the UP, miles from anywhere, with no cooler or anything like that, and asked so what did Dad plan to do with all this food, Mom wanted to know.
It seems like Dad, after thoroughly enjoying the food as well as the success of his picnic idea, just smiled and shrugged as Mom looked him in the eye and shook her head.
So we packed up best we could and Dad loaded the grocery bags back into the trunk and we started off.
We drove about mile through the park, past the park campground and there ahead of was a couple of Park Rangers and a young lady who was visibly distraught.
We slowed to stop as they were standing in the road by the Park Ranger’s jeep.
Dad’s window was open and one of the Park Rangers explained that the young lady had driven to the park and set up her tent and had been met by some friends and as these things will happen, the friends had just driven off with the young lady’s coat in their car.
The problem was the young lady’s car keys were in coat.
At this point, the visibly distraught young lady spotted Mom and saw a sympathetic face so she came over to the other car window to talk to Mom.
Mom had that effect on a lot of people.
The young lady had her tent all set up and was set camp wise but she couldn’t get in her car.
She pointed to her tent over in the campground, next to a picnic table.
She said she and her friends had driven over to the swimming beach and she had left her coat and car keys in their car and now, they had just left.
The young lady said that is wasn’t terrible as they were coming back the next day but she was stuck, couldn’t use her car and had planned to drive into Grand Marais to go the IGA for groceries.
But at that moment, she had no food and they, the Park Rangers, were trying to decide if one of them could drive her to the store.
Ding, Dong, Saved by the bell!
Dad put the car in park and said to everyone, “Nothing to worry about!”
He got out and looked at me and said, “come on” and he opened the trunk and we carried the two bags of food over to the picnic table.
The Park Rangers and the young lady just stared.
Who carries two bags of groceries in their car in the middle of summer?
We got back in and the the Rangers looked at Dad and said “thank you”.
The young lady started crying and Mom reached out the window and gave her as much of hug as she could and off we went.
Did I mention how big a smile Dad had on his face?
Mom too, had to laugh.
Mr. Harrison writes: There is also a tradition in the Upper Peninsula that you never pass by anyone needing help. An Ojibwa Indian once towed me 60 miles after I broke a fan belt on Fourth of July weekend. He seemed startled that I couldn’t install a fan belt. A gas station had a spare, which he installed. He wouldn’t accept money so I stuffed a C note in his wife’s pocket. She smiled, having more sense than he did. Where can you find someone to tow you 60 miles and install your fan belt? Only in the U.P.
I am sure somewhere to this day this is a lady who tells about the miracle of the food on her camping trip.
I still laugh when I try to picture that young lady’s face as she unpacked the bags and looked over that collection of food.
lady stands waiting decent person trying to survive a tough life
On my commute to work I pass a lady, standing on the side of the road.
I am sure she is waiting for a ride to work.
She is dressed in the uniform of a hotel housekeeper which isn’t unusual since my commute takes me out to resort island on the coast of the South Carolina low country.
Some mornings she is standing with a young boy about 10 years old.
Both wear backpacks.
I want to stop and offer her a ride but I don’t.
This morning I happened to be listening to an audio book (The Guardians by John Grisham) and just as I pass the lady standing and waiting, I hear the words, “… a decent guy trying to survive a tough life.”
Mr. Grisham was describing someone in the book.
But the words hit me, looking at the lady as I passed.
She is there everyday.
She shows up for work and if the traffic works, she shows up on time.
Probably not working for much beyond minimum wage.
Working.
Working hard.
Working hard to make things nice for people who are on the island for a vacation.
Decent person trying to survive a tough life.
Type of person this country was built on.
So why?
Why aren’t we trying to help this lady?
Why do so many people seem to hate this lady?
Decent person trying to survive a tough life.
Isn’t that a description that any one of us would want?
creampuffs for breakfast just one of the side benefits being sixty five
Way back in the forever never land of childhood, I read a book of Paul Bunyan stories and one of the stories was all about the lumber camp cookhouse and the head cook, Hot Biscuit Slim and his helper, Cream Puff Fatty, who made the desserts.
The story was how Hot Biscuit Slim planned the best Sunday Dinner ever and he claimed there would be so much food, the lumberjacks would have no room for dessert.
According to the book (Paul Bunyan Swings His Axe), Hot Biscuit Slim said, “Tomorrow, I am going to have the best Sunday dinner of the year. When the men are through eating my hot biscuits with jelly, spinach, cucumbers, young red radishes, and chicken pie, they won’t be able to eat a mouthful of dessert.”
A claim that Cream Puff Fatty took as a challenge.
The books says that Cream Puff Fatty called the dessert boys together and said. “We will make cream puffs that will melt in your mouth! Light creamy ones with whipped cream a foot high! We shall see if they refuse to eat dessert!”
After the dinner was served and the lumberjacks were stuffed full of hot biscuits with jelly, spinach, cucumbers, young red radishes, and chicken pie, Cream Puff Fatty went into action.
“Now is the time, boys!” cried Cream Puff Fatty. The dessert boys strapped on their roller skates and started down the long tables.
“Cream puffs! Cream puffs!” the men shouted as they saw large plates of fluffy white cakes topped with whipped cream. With a shout they picked up their forks and started eating again. Not a man left the dining room! Every single cream puff was eaten!
Well, sir but, Boy Howdy, I have had a weakness for cream puffs ever since.
Problem is that I never found any that met the mark set by Cream Puff Fatty.
That is until my wife started making them back years ago.
I have never seen her bake them, it usually happens when I am at work, but I come home to find a plate of them and I have to shout, “Cream puffs! Cream puffs!”
When the kids were in the house, we would all angle to get as many off the platter as we could and more kids fell for the HEY LOOK OVER THERE to lose a cream puff off their plate then I can count.
In place of a cake, the cream puffs are my birthday dessert of choice and this year was no different.
I came home from work to find a platter of cream puffs out on the counter but had to wait until after dinner.
For dinner we found a nice out of the way place along the Beaufort River in Port Royal and the waiter asked, without knowing of course, if we wanted dessert.
I shook my head and laughed and almost yelled that we were going home to have Cream puffs! Cream puffs!
Home and candles stuck into a cream puff with some of the kids on video call, I got to hear Happy Birthday sung as only my family can … and then it was time for Cream puffs! Cream puffs!
And so I turned 65.
I got up this morning and there in the fridge were something I didn’t see too often.
Left over cream puffs.
I took out the box and opened it and looked at into it for a minute.
Maybe less than a minute.
And I thought, what the heck, I am 65!
And I had cream puffs with my coffee for breakfast!
stars of my birthday favor me lucky star born nothing can stop me
Sunrise over Hilton Head Island – July 17, 2025
Come on, superstition, and get my goat I got mascots The stars of my birthday favor me The numbers from one to ten are with me I was born under a lucky star and nothing can stop me The moon was a waxing moon and not a waning moon when I was born Every card in the deck and both of the seven-eleven bones are with me So you hear them tell it and they mean if it works it’s good and if it don’t it costs nothing
From The People, Yes (53) as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.
According to my drivers license, I was born today … 65 years ago.
Some years back, my Boss had my team work through an exercise where we come up with THEEE word that best described ourselves and my word came up as lazy.
Today, I would choose another word and that word would be lucky.
The stars of my birthday favor me.
Oh so lucky.
I was born under a lucky star and nothing can stop me.
I was born in a big family and never ever knew the fear of want or need or poverty.
I was raised in a home where God and the love of Jesus was just a part of life.
Nothing was pounded into you, it was just accepted and while questions might come and go over the years it was always there as the simple faith of a child and I thank God for it.
I am lucky in life, relationships, work, schooling and the numbers from 1 to 10 are with me.
I don’t understand my luck.
But, Boy Howdy, do I appreciate it.
The moon was a waxing moon and not a waning moon when I was born and have enjoyed my luck.
I can’t explain it, so I don’t try.
Every card in the deck and both of the seven-eleven bones are with me.
Not that I haven’t screwed up, screwed up a lot and often but let me tell, it’s on me that I screwed up and caused my own problems and most of the problems I created for myself would not have existed had I not created them.
So you hear me when I tell it.
I mean if it works it’s good and if it don’t it costs nothing.
Born lucky and still trying to figure out how I got to 65,
No Haiku For You 