Family Business

First, a disclaimer. I love my family. All of them. Even the ones whose perspectives on life I don't really understand. I'm proud of most of them, and I try not to judge any of them. But I've learned a few new things about being family since my transformation to "idle savant".

It's often said that you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family. Eh, maybe. That may have been true years ago, when multiple generations often lived under one roof and people didn't get out or away from each other much. 

What I've found in our highly mobile and geographically dispersed families of today is that despite the fact that we can't choose family, we can and do pick and choose the family members we spend time with and look after, much the same as we do with our friends. So with one exception, I view family and close friends pretty much in the same light. That one exception is that if you decide to sever relations with a family member, there can be a lot of estate planning paperwork involved.

Another condition I've noticed is that aside from outward appearances (your mother’s nose, your father’s hairline), it’s often hard to believe that kids of the same family are from a common gene pool. I’m talking widely disparate interests, inclinations, beliefs and behaviors. Perhaps it’s the result of living in such an open and electronically connected society. The forces that influence each of us seem to be less clear and quite unpredictable, from an early age.   

So during this emeritus period of enlightenment, I have refined my position on "nature versus nurture".  My current thinking is that genetics, while likely determining an individual's potentials (intellectual, physical, emotional), is way less important than environment. This is mainly because the vast majority of us (yes, I'm speaking mainly of and for myself here) achieve far below our genetic limits. Rather, what we decide to try and find the will to see through to conclusion has much greater impact on our lives and those around us than anything encoded within our genes. 

Thus, while families can be said to give us our basic biological framework that defines the limits of our potential, how we each develop and navigate that potential is largely up to us. Not to say that individuals may not face obstacles in achieving their goals or, in some cases, just getting through the day. They certainly can and do. And some of those obstacles would undo the best of us.

But I’ve come to believe that for most of us, where we are today is due more to our choices than our origins. And tomorrow, we each have to make more choices (these days mine seem mostly to do with which meds to take at which meal and do I want my next specialist appointment in the morning or afternoon). The downside for me, unfortunately, is that having come around to this point of view I can no longer blame my shortcomings on my forefathers or on some cosmic particle that may have maliciously rearranged my chromosomes.  

One final thought on families. The idea of passing things down from one generation to the next seems to be gradually fading way. We all have stuff, sometimes a lot of stuff, from past generations that future generations may not have much interest in. I’m talking antique furniture, silver, china, crystal, collectible figurines, jewelry, wind-up clocks, art, old photographs – you get the idea.

Now I’m sure that some of our kids do value these items, want them, and will when the time comes give them nice homes. But today’s lifestyle is much less formal than that of our ancestors. Fancy dinners and formal family gatherings are few and far between, and for the most part have been replaced by family rooms full of Doritos and designer beer. Dragging out the Lenox and the flatware has given way to Chinet and finger food.

Don’t get me wrong. I love modern informality, and I don’t mind that the flat screen television has replaced the oak dining table as the center of family gatherings. I just think we have a lot more stuff from our own and previous generations that will have a hard time relocating when we take our turns in assisted living. I’m especially worried about my collections of laser disks and cassette tapes.

Grosse Pointe Charles

The Barn

I've been absent from the blogosphere for the last few weeks, heavily engaged in but not finding time to write about eminently blogable events - a trip to Florida, the annual Burk family picnic, hosting Floridians and Texans at Wiser Times, the 28th edition of the Spinner Invitational, another trip to Florida, and my 50th year high school reunion. During this time I've had very little time in front of my keyboard. And what I did have I indulgently used to rest my brain through one of my favorite activities - looking for more cowboy/dinosaur movies on ebay.

But finally, I've dropped out of warp drive and slowed to half-impulse, so it's time to catch up on a few things that need to be documented for posterity. Let's start with this way overdue item - The Barn.

When Nancy and I first acquired Wiser Times in 2005, it had two outbuildings. Both were extremely tired storage sheds. The first was in such bad shape that we had it torn down in the first few weeks. It was a roughly 8' by 10' wooden mini-barn that stood on the slab on the road side of the cottage now occupied by our grill-area picnic table. And as far as I can tell from a search of our extensive photo archives, we have no picture of this ailing structure (in this shutterbug-happy family, that's quite an affirmation of disregard).

The second outbuilding fared somewhat better. It was a rusted steel shed on a partially disintegrated plywood platform nested discreetly in the stand of pine trees between US 23 and the back of the cottage. Here is a shot from 2007 of this fixer-upper and its humble owner.

Note the fact that the door opening is approximately eight inches lower than the top of my head. This unfortunate fact dis-endeared me even further from this wretched assembly of sharp edges, exposed metal screw tips, splintered flooring and twisted metal hangars, most of which hung right about eye-level. The situation was further aggravated by the fact that I had way more stuff crammed into this chipmunk hotel than the designers had likely contemplated. My aging cranium survived frequent trips into the bowels of this man-eater only because I placed (after a number of wounds - slow learner) pieces from an old Styrofoam noodle around the most lethal of the threats.

Despite my rocky relationship with this killer shed, it actually survived for almost ten years. It's only redeeming virtue - that it was there - turned out to be a powerful force. That and the fact that it was going to cost more to replace it than the cash I was laying out for first aid supplies.

The shed even had a rebirth of sorts in 2010. During one of my reorganizing fits (see The Purge) I cleaned a lot of old stuff out of the shed and reinforced the floor a bit. Nancy even gave it a fresh coat of paint. Here's a shot of her handiwork.

This is as good as the old eyesore ever looked, but this minor restoration only postponed the inevitable. The shed was just too small, too flimsy and too full of hazards to accommodate our needs and health care budget as I was still bumping my head on a regular basis during ingress and egress (there was even a rumor that the odd wrinkles and dents in the doors were remnants from an incident involving a large hammer after a particularly painful head banging episode; after binge-watching Forensic Files a few times, I'm pretty sure no one could ever really prove anything).

So last year Nancy and I finally concluded that we needed a new shed. That brings us back to The Barn. We started out by surfing the Web for replacement sheds. Wood. Metal. Plastic. We checked them all out. Nothing really grabbed us. So we expanded our thinking. Perhaps our gazebo builder (a local contractor named Dave) would put up a shed for us. It would be more expensive, probably. But it would be nicer.

We then moved a little toward the edge of the box. We entertain a lot at the cottage. Maybe we could have Dave add a small room at the back of the shed that could accommodate the occasional overnight guest? Sort of a bunkhouse. Yeah. That sounds cool.

Soon we had one foot over the edge. How about a garage? We could make it big enough to house the car and all of the items we were keeping in the shed. Wow. Yeah. Cool. Now you're talkin'.

Then - it was cocktail hour, and we stumbled totally out of the box. After filtering our thoughts through a couple of pre-mixed Wiser's Manhattans, it all became clear. We NEED the garage, the storage space AND a room for overflow company. Sure. What could be better? We should have seen this right from the start. Dave - here we come!

Before you could say "holy building permit", this beauty showed up in our back yard.

Okay. It wasn't quite that fast. First there was the builder's contract, plans, and (oh yeah) a check. Then a couple of two-steps with "Miss Dig" (turns out there are gas lines all over my backyard). The formal courting of the Greenbush Township Zoning Commission followed, and then the best part - removal of the old shed. I asked Dave to be gentle. He was. At the proper time, he and his backhoe took the shed down and relocated it to some secret used shed burial ground out in the great North American forest.

So over the winter we watched the birthing and development of what we now call The Barn. We were able catch most of the work on our roadside security camera which overlooks the work site. Here are some (of the hundreds of) shots of the "rising", just to give you the complete picture.

First, the newly poured slab and footings - 16' by 22'.

The initial framing.

The Barn is pretty tall, owing to above ground footings raising the garage ceiling to 9' and a full 8' ceiling in the bonus room. Considering the second floor joists and the attic space, the whole structure is over 20' high. A nice benefit of this height is a great view from the bonus room windows of the lake.

Next came the exterior walls and roughing in of the bonus room (which is fully insulated on all sides).

Then the roof and the siding and the 3' wide stairway to the bonus room on the north side of the building.

Once the stairway was done, we had the builder finish off the bonus room, which we now refer to as The Loft. Here are some final shots of the completed loft, garage space and surrounding area as they look today.
 

So there you have it. From the top, on our transition from rundown shed to a brand spanking new
barn. In 98 simple steps.

It's good to be back. Talk to you again soon.

Grosse Pointe Charles

The Spinner Invitational - The Beginning

This post is way overdue. As such, I offer my apologies to the Board of Governors, The Executive Council, and to those dedicated souls who have called themselves Spinners for nearly 30 years. To make this right, here is their story.

In the '80s, the IRS was a hotbed of social activity. Sure, we scared the crap out of people just by showing up at their doors, snatched a few pay checks from little old ladies (who are much tougher than you may think), and upon occasion actually seized and sold other people's property to pay off their back taxes. It was an interesting but stressful line of work.

To alleviate this stress, we did many things. Partying was one. After-hours gatherings at local watering holes (I still remember Porter Street Station and the Lindell A.C.), softball games, picnics at Metro Parks, baseball games at Tiger Stadium, big time house parties - all were frequent occurrences. But one of the best team-building, stress-relieving, spiritually renewing activities for many of us were the golf outings. In some ways, they defined the social personality of the then Detroit/Southeast Michigan IRS operation.

These outings were special and very well attended, and for most included extended breakfasts catching up with work friends, 18 holes on a well-manicured course, and a rousing post-golf happy hour capped off with trophy presentations and a banquet approaching medieval gluttony. There was even an organization formed to schedule, administer and track the results of each year's events - the Internal Revenue Service Golf Association (or IRSGA).

At its peak there were five annual events as I recall, spread out from late spring to early fall. The first was the Data Center Open which was put on by a spring golf league sponsored by the old Data Center, a Detroit-based national IRS facility. That was followed by the Can-Am, an event jointly sponsored by the IRS Criminal Investigation Division and Revenue Canada and usually played at a favorite course just out of Windsor, Ontario. Then there was the Bigby, an outing started by and named after a beloved Collection Division Chief, Bill Bigby, and played at a variety of mainly west side courses, usually around mid-summer.

The oldest of all these outings, The Desedlo Open, followed in September. This outing, sponsored by the summer IRS golf league and named for a former Exam Division Chief, was usually played either at the Selfridge Air Force Base course or the Pontiac Country Club, whichever of them would have us at the time (owing to rumored disorderly behavior both on the course and/or at the banquet, the outing was at times banned from both of these courses). The Desedlo also had the distinction of breaking the local golf gender barrier when in 1979 a foursome of women was allowed to play. They were scheduled last off the tee and had to quit after nine holes due to darkness, but nonetheless made history. That foursome was made up of four Collection Division managers - Gloria Jean Boyd, Patty Cooper, Claire Brooks, and (you guessed it) one Nancy Louise LeRoy, who that next spring would become my bride.

This cycle of links revelry was then completed with a very popular scramble (teams of players with different levels of ability competing against each other) sponsored by staffers from the Collection Division and usually played at one of the downriver courses. All in all, each year was a grand golf ride with much fun, camaraderie and informal team building that promoted relations at work among key players from the various IRS divisions.

So what has all this to do with the Spinner Invitational? Everything. Due to some cosmic anomaly, I and my usual playing partners in those days were, shall we say, golf challenged. In previous posts, you've heard me describe my attitude toward golf. I would say that my bosom golf buddies (Al "The Bear" Morrison and Bruce "Sledge" Cooke) were of similar ilk. We loved the outings but were seldom in the running for any prizes, as the competition (unfairly, we felt) rewarded good golfers. But we (and our entry fees) were warmly welcomed by all, despite the character of our play.

Then things changed. It was during the Can-Am of 1988. I remember it vividly to this day. It had been a particularly difficult round of golf, played in brutal heat, that saw an impressive number of golf balls disappear from the confines of our foursome. Understandably, our scores reflected our performance. To add fuel to the fire, our entry fees for this event (and for most other IRSGA outings of that time) had been rising steadily, to of course buy fancier trophies for the good golfers. Suffice it to say, Bear, Sledge and Chico (my sports name - a story for another time) were not in the most gracious of moods.

And then it happened. When the person recording the scores for the tournament (who for purposes of this post will remain nameless) came to our card, he was overcome by the depth of our achievements and blurted out a few disparaging remarks about our (lack of) golfing prowess. And with more than one guffaw. Within earshot of us and several witnesses. We took umbrage. Way.

As we humbly huddled in the corner eating our overpriced, under-cooked steak, rubbing our aching and blistered fingers, lamenting our loss of little white orbs, and soothing our bruised egos, we began to simmer. Then boil. It was one thing to accept that the game we loved would always get the better of us. It was quite another for others who we deemed to be of doubtful lineage, to draw unseemly enjoyment from our plight. So as all oppressed peoples eventually do, we slowly turned our quiet rage into conviction, and vowed to each other never to be hungry for golf recognition again.

Being determined but cautious types, we needed a plan. So early the next week, I and my brother duffers met to begin sorting things out. We decided that for just a little more money and a modicum of effort, we could create our own golf outing. And the reduction in aggravation would be more than worth the investment. We started by picking a course far away from the IRSGA - Bay Valley, just north of Saginaw - and recruited a kindred spirit (Jeff "St. Jeffrey" DeNeen, who was working in the Saginaw IRS office at the time) to fill out our foursome. A couple of weeks later we headed up I-75, and as it turned out, into the future.

We had the best time golfing that day that we could ever remember (except for Jeff, who despite shooting an 86 remembers very little about that day due to a roughly 12-hour bout of Anheuser's Disease). We loved the course, which was challenging for a duffer but interesting and fair. It was a beautiful sunny day, and no one fell out of a cart (despite a fair amount of liquid encouragement - the beer cart girl did well that day). And we each actually had some good holes. Afterwards, we had a great dinner at a local pub and headed out on the 100-mile trip home sun-buzzed, renewed, and content. Now that's what amateur golf should be all about.

We had such a good time that day in 1988, that we decided to do it again sometime. And, we thought some of our other friends just might enjoy it, too. So that fall we formed the Spinner Board of Governors (named after our bowling team) and set about planning a full outing for 1989. But how do you get people interested in a golf tournament 100 miles away from home, that isn't really about golf? At least not about golf in the usual way.

Exclusivity seemed to be one idea that had appeal. Everyone likes to be asked. That's where the invitational part came up. We decided to only invite golfers that, well, we liked, and that generally shared our view of the true role of golf in the bigger picture of life. A little selfish, maybe. But, hey, it was our party (admittedly, this resulted in very small outings the first few years). To give form to this exclusivity, we ordered and mailed engraved invitations to the lucky few who survived the eligibility test.

Another challenge was how to generate a little friendly competition (we were boys, after all) that would give every participant a fair chance to win. So we came up with the now legendary prizes of the Turtle - most shots ending up in a sand trap, the Squirrel - most shots whose flight was affected by a tree (or other substantial golf course flora), and the Duck - the most shots coming to rest in water (non-casual, of course). With the heavy woods, many traps, winding river and ponds found at the Bay Valley course, even invitees with a degree of mastery of the game would have a chance to score one of these special awards.

To cap off the structure of the outing and solidify it as a true tournament, we created the Governor's Trophy. Honoring the Spinner spirit of participation over prowess, this trophy is awarded to the low net score of the day, calculating handicap at 100% of the difference between par and each golfer's average from previous Spinner Invitationals. This calculation represented a bit of a challenge the first couple of years, but with the right attitude and some fuzzy math, we muddled through. This approach to scoring has proved its worth over time as golfers at the middle and high end of the handicap spectrum have won about 80% of the tournaments. And the #1 seed (the golfer with the lowest handicap) has never won (poor babies).

But before I get into how the Invitational has unfolded and evolved through its 27 years, let me close this post and get it to press. That will correct my inexcusable tardiness in sharing the story of the Spinner Invitational's origins with those of you who have supported and/or suffered through it with us all these years. We'll explore the early days of Spinner history, complete with photo documentation, in my next post.

Until then, hit'em straight but watch out for those trees. They're not really 90% air.

Grosse Pointe Charles

Things I've Learned Since Retirement - Part 1

Or - facts of life that have gotten my attention of late. This is only Part 1 because I don't think the learning is over.

In an earlier post - 65 - I shared some observations about how I believe life works. These were derived from 65 years of getting up everyday and facing the world, including nearly 40 years of helping others tidy up personal relationships with their government. And in another post - One Year - I described how my life had changed since retirement, especially in the area of personal fitness. I've experienced nothing since the writing of those posts to change those beliefs. But now, after almost three years of not working for a living (thank you taxpayers of America), a few additional truths have revealed themselves to me. So I thought I'd pass them on.

Nothing is forever. This might seem like an easy one. But I have to admit, I'm really just getting it. I have been blessed with longevity in my life, in many ways. First, I'm in my late 60s, still basically living my life the same way I have since I was in my 20s (or at least my early 30s). The more cynical of you (you know who you are) are probably thinking that's because I was behaving pretty much like a 60 year old even then - avoiding risk, staying between the lines, enjoying the same activities over and over. And you'd be right. But I just think of it as finding my groove early and getting the most out of it.

So up until recently, my working assumption has been that the good friends, the parties, the music, the travel, and the overall good fortune I've enjoyed my whole life would be endless. But with the passing of my father last year, the loss of our troubled but beloved dog Kody in November, and a number of other less weighty events (cottage pine trees keeling over, old cassette tape players giving out, my favorite denim shirts frayed beyond repair) it's finally sinking in that life is more linear than circular, and that the only true constant is change.

But as is my nature, I see the bright side of this realization. And that is how really fortunate I have been in my family and friends all these years, and how thankful I should be for each new event and experience I still have before me. So I'm okay with this new found insight, and looking forward to what comes next.

Recharging time is directly proportional to age. Again, this might be a no-brainer for most. But there's a difference between knowing in general that people slow down with age, and realizing that your fingers won't actually close all the way in the morning until you've been up and around for 10-15 minutes. Fortunately, I don't normally have to grip a golf club or turn an ignition key until after this "re-booting" period has passed.

When I was working, and often running on six hours of sleep, I remember thinking about the good old college days when I could function successfully for several days on as little as four hours of sleep a night (I admit the term "function successfully" is subjective). Now, if I don't get eight hours in the sack I feel old and slow. Okay, I am old and slow. But with enough sleep I'm pretty good at deluding myself into believing everyone else is just in a big rush. And as we all know, delusions are critical to well-being.

I can still independently perform just about every physical task I want (or need) to. But I spend more time prepping (read - trying to avoid), employ prostheses whenever possible, and take more breaks (bathroom and otherwise - recharging takes many forms). But not to worry, as a retiree I have all the time there is, right? And, yes, those yellow senior tees are looking more inviting all the time.

Eventually, we all have chemical dependencies. You just have to have the right ones. Those would be the ones suggested by the array of physicians that usher us into our golden years. This reality came roaring into my consciousness when I had my little chest pain scare last September. It turned out that I had just strained a couple of chest muscles with an aggressive Frisbee toss. But having no prior experience with the discomfort I was feeling, I suspected the worst.

When you walk into an emergency room and utter the words "chest pain", several things happen. One of the more mundane is that somewhere between being thrust onto a gurney and becoming the victim of emergency diagnostic procedures, someone interviews you about your medications. Before this adventure, I thought medications only referred to expensive pharmaceuticals with 15+ letter names. Not to the staff of the Alpena Regional Medical Facility. They wanted to know everything I routinely ingest that comes out of a bottle. Low dose aspirin, One-A-Days, Vitamin D chews, the occasional Tums, "medicinal" alcohol - these ranked equally important in their eyes with the more exotic concoctions available only through prescription.

While I was reciting my list for the technician, I was struck by the number and variety of chemicals I actually do consume on a regular/semi-regular basis. I had never really thought about it in that way, and I had to ask myself why I was taking all this stuff. The answer, of course, was because each of these little chemical miracles makes me feel better. And at least to date, none of them has done me any harm. I've also noticed that upon occasion when I fail to take one of my regular goodies, I don't feel as well.

The net effect of all this pill-popping is that I've become much more aware of how my body works, how best to avoid taxing it beyond its current limits, and what chemicals can provide a little help when needed. So let's hear it for better living through chemistry.

You can never have too much garage. This fear was recently confirmed by my good friend Jeff Reinhart who has more garage than anyone else I know. Many of you know that Nancy and I have just added a one and a half car garage to our cottage in Greenbush. This project started out as an effort to replace our failing shed, and well, sort of got out of hand. (The full story of the new garage will be told at a later date, with pictures.)

But as I was moving all the stuff that used to be in my 10' by 10' shed into my 22' by 16' garage, complete with a second story bedroom, I felt things were just a tad cramped. Then I realized I had also relocated a lot of items previously stored in the cottage closets, the laundry room, and the front yard into the garage. And, yes, there were just a few new tools and garage maintenance devices hanging there on the walls as well. Before I was done, just about every nook and cranny of the new garage was in service as a storage space. And though I am completely happy with my new "barn", I can hear that little voice in my head whispering, "You should have made it just a little bit bigger".  

One car is enough. Now, I admit that my situation has evolved. At one time we had four cars crowding our driveway, each with a different principal driver. Now with the girls gone and me retired, Nancy and I decided to try going with only one car. The experiment began last summer. The logic went something like this. Less money spent on cars could mean more money for toys and fun. Being a boy, this argument for me was intuitive. And as Nancy shares my zeal for fun, she didn't take much convincing.

For us, the adjustment wasn't difficult. First, we are either at the cottage, on the road visiting friends or vacationing down south about half of a typical year. That's all "one-car" time anyway. When we are home, most of our outings are done together. That leaves only errands and the occasional girls or boys event to worry about. Potential conflicts regarding these activities are easily avoided through our regular Monday morning calendar sessions (I know, you're shocked. The Burks having a calendar session?) So basically, we couldn't see paying a few thousand dollars a year for a second car just in case Nancy wanted to go to the market at the same time I needed a haircut.

The trick, of course, is being willing to spend most of your waking hours in the presence (or at least the vicinity) of your spouse. But isn't that why we got married in the first place? To be together constantly? (Pardon me for a few seconds while I go pry my tongue out of my cheek.)

Scoring in golf is optional - perhaps even unwise. An ex-acquaintance of mine once asked, "If you can't get to the green in two, why would you play golf at all?" Obviously this soul was lost. But I have to admit that until the last year or so, I always found myself toting a scorecard, noting each swing, putt and penalty shot, hoping to score just a little bit better than my playing partner or at least better than my last round.

But I've entered a new phase. And while I still upon occasion will be obligated to keep score, it's not why I'm out there. The real beauty of golf is the variety of pleasures that it affords, the very least of which is using only as many shots per hole as someone you never met thinks you should.

First, there is the sheer beauty of most golf courses. Green with all sorts of flora. Deftly integrated into rolling hills, gurgling streams and thickly treed forests. And groomed daily by armies of groundskeepers.

Then there's the exercise value. Walking back and forth across fairways as you tack your way to the green. Slogging through ball-eating brush and cavernous sand traps to track down errant shots. And the deep-knee bends involved with sizing up those three and four putt greens.

But the best part of all is hauling back and crushing that little pill with all your might, driving the ball a full 40-50 yards at a time. It just feels good to purge that festering aggression you've been denying. Even better if you are able to picture the face of a favorite ne'er-do-well on the back side of the ball as you start your downswing. Whew. I get the shakes just thinking about it.

So scoring? Completely optional. And take as many swings as you need to work things out. There are few activities available to me and my peerage as attractive as an afternoon enjoying the multi-dimensional joys of golf.

Well, that's enough sharing for this round. As always, I would like to hear from any of you who have had your own learning experiences in recent months, about the golden years or any other pursuit.
  
Grosse Pointe Charles 

NFTL - Rdate 32.25

My Bride and I are touring Florida for three weeks, taking our leave of this troublesome winter. We'd have liked to take some of you with us, but after packing our necessities (clothes, computers, golf clubs, travel bar, meds) we barely have room for - believe or not - Coco, our new puppy, and her supporting equipment and supplies. My mother let it be known that we'd better not show up in Florida without Coco. Traveling further than the cottage with the family dog is a first for Nancy and me. Wish us luck. Here is a shot of Coco contemplating this newest of adventures from her mobile perch.

Now that I've had time to upgrade my attitude to a sunnier level, I thought I'd update you on recent goings on related to a few earlier posts, with an edition of Notes from the Lab (I must clarify, the mobile lab), 32 months and twenty-five days into retirement. So here goes.

Chores (7/29/12) - When I updated this post last September, I was reveling in our procurement of lawn care services and a sprinkler system, significantly lightening my summer yard care burden. Well, nature got her revenge with the near-record Superbowl Sunday snow-mageddon dumping of 14 inches at our house. That's what I get for buying a new big-honkin' snow blower last fall, supposedly as a deterrent (our old big-honkin' snow blower was done in by the heavy snows of 2014). Here are a few shots of my ordeal.

That's not really a smile on my face. It's a grimace, frozen in position during what was my fourth snow blowing episode in 36 hours - a personal worst.

And if all this snow wasn't trouble enough, we had a little pipe freezing incident. Our upstairs half bath has water pipes that travel about three feet through an area in the attic that is not well insulated. Here's a shot of me wading through about 15 inches of blown insulation, balancing on a couple of loose boards laid over ceiling joists, doing my best to clean debris away from the pipes and install heat tape - without falling through into the front entrance closet. It was the most fun I'd had since my last root canal.

Reading (10/2/12) - As I noted in my last NFTL, I was knee-deep into Roosevelt biographies, an adventure prompted by Ken Burns' The Roosevelts PBS series that aired last year. Since then I have finished H.W. Brands' fairly recent Franklin Roosevelt biography Traitor to His Class and Edmund Morris' The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, Part 1 of his Teddy Roosevelt trilogy. I'm now about three quarters of the way through a re-read of Theodore Rex, Part 2 of the Morris trilogy. I think both of these authors have done a fine job of detailing the personal stories behind the long list of historically significant accomplishments of both men, as well as reflecting on their battles with life-long personal demons. 

Somewhere in there between the Panama Canal and WWII, I was able to squeeze in a read of the recent Stephen King offering Mr. Mercedes. It's a murder mystery that's a bit more murder than mystery, as is King's way. It has several interesting twists and some very likeable characters, and a good dose of King weirdness. The best part is that the main character is a retired cop. I like stories about retirees. They afford me a good personal context. I can relate to the innermost thoughts of such characters. Another later period King novel about a retiree is Insomnia, a tome-ish story about death, after death, and shy little guys with lab coats that sort of manage the program. Insomnia also includes a brief brush with the dreaded Crimson King from the Dark Tower series. Both of these books are fun reads, and musts for King fans.

Baseball (10/12/12) - A highlight of every February for me is the incubation of a new baseball season. First pitchers and catchers, then the rest of the team including a host of names all but the most ardent fan has never heard of. The launch of the Grapefruit League also means a return to daily conversations with my mother about Miggy and VMart's latest surgeries, Iglesias' shin bones, the impact of Justin's love life on his fastball, and why Kirk Gibson is still not the Tiger manager (Kirk is a favorite of the Burk family women - go figure). So Mom fires up her MLB.TV Premium subscription, prints off the sortable season schedule for her three-ring binder so she can track game scores, and checks her HDMI connections to make sure there'll be no problems with streaming the games on her hi-def TV.

The start of the baseball season also marks renewal of our lunch bunch Tiger outings, the first of which this year will be on May 21st against the mighty Astros. Eh, what do you want for a Thursday afternoon? Watch for the invitation.

Disney (11/1/12) - First, an update on our family Disney (or as my granddaughter says, diss-a-knee) statistics:

Number of times the Burk family has checked into a Disney resort - 71.
Number of days involved with the 71 stays - 314.
Number of days at least one family member has visited a theme park - 77

A sharp eye would discern that since my last report our days at a theme park hasn't gone up nearly as fast as days at a Disney resort. That's because with the adulthood of our kids, more and more Florida days have been current generation only, dedicated to relaxation, basking in the sun and sampling "off-world" (that's "off Disney World") facilities. One exception to that trend was last week when all our kids and grandkids as well as my mother and two sisters all joined Nancy and me at Disney's Bay Lake Tower (the Disney Vacation Club facility at the Contemporary Resort) for a four generational week of fun. We did theme parks, a dinner show, a lot of pool time with the youngest members of the family, and a fair amount of mellowing out at in-room happy hours, rooftop bars and beer joints around the World Showcase at EPCOT (only those hardy third generation members were able to make all of these activities). Here are a few shots of the fun, starting with the family in line for the Thunder Mountain Railroad on Monday, our first theme park day. Here are Christy and I leading the way,

with Ted, Cathy and Matt close behind,

and Cyrus, Leili and Nancy (forearm only) lingering between.

And this is what we were all waiting for.

Not being much of a roller coaster guy, this was a big day for me. So after surviving the ride (that most eight year olds would consider tame), I proudly purchased an "I survived Thunder Mountain" pin for my (nerdy) Magic Kingdom lanyard.

In between theme park sessions the family retired to the Bay Lake Tower pool for a dip and multiple runs down the respectable slide. Here's a shot of the pool,

and the happy sliders, enjoying some fun time with dad.

Later in the day we returned to the magic Kingdom for a few more rides. Here is a pic of Cathy and Christy flying in Dumbo, with Matt in hot pursuit.

Cathy and Christy have a long history of sharing Disney adventures as this "teacups" shot from 1991,

and this pic in the "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" play area with Ted and Nancy, also from 1991, illustrate.

On Tuesday the family took the day off from theme parking with the third and fourth generations venturing to Joker Marchant stadium in Lakeland to see the Tigers and the first and second generations relaxing at Bay Lake Tower. That evening, a family dinner was held with all in attendance. Here are some candid shots of the action starting with Leili and Cyrus assisting Uncle Matt with some thorny Lego challenges.

And the full complement of Burk women catching up and sharing insights on family doings over cocktails. From left to right is my sister Cindy, daughter Christy, sister Wendy, mother Dolores, daughter Cathy and bride Nancy.

Of course several side conversations ensued through the evening, such as this father-daughter chat over a medley of chips,

and this first and fourth generation tete-a-tete over "I'd-sure-like-to-know-what". (For the record, I don't think that was Cyrus' beer.)

Progressing from happy hour to dinner, here is a four generation shot of the taco festival, another family vacation tradition,

orchestrated by our charming hostess.

Following dinner we assembled for a family photo to document this rare gathering of the extended clan. Sitting from the left are Cyrus, Ted, Leili, Dolores and Wendy. Standing from the left are myself, Christy, Nancy, Cindy, Cathy and Matt.

The next day, the third and fourth generations returned to the theme parks (the Animal Kingdom) while the first and second generations toured the resorts around the Seven Seas Lagoon, and shopped. Here is a shot of me with my mother and sisters on the balcony of the Grand Floridian lobby.

Later that day, the first, second and fourth generations took a boat over to the Fort Wilderness Lodge to attend the dinner show known as "The Hoopty Do Review", an all-you-can-eat ribs and chicken feast in a western style music hall complete with singing, dancing and comedy sketches. Here are a couple of shots of the crossing of Bay Lake.

A good time was apparently had by all although it wasn't obvious during dinner. Cyrus, who dislikes loud noises and has an almost-five-year-old palate, ate little and spent almost the whole evening with his hands over his ears. However, upon exiting the hall and walking to the dock for the return boat ride, he was overheard saying "That was a really good show." Either Cyrus has an unorthodox manner of expressing glee, or he's going to make a fine politician. When this story was shared with father Ted, he was not surprised. This it seems is typical Cyrus behavior. The lesson I took from the experience is that at this stage in my life I am better suited for benign grand parenting outings, where I only have to see that everyone gets home safely, rather than trying to match wits with Generation Z.

And speaking of wits and smarts, here is a typical shot of me sitting with my mother on the Bay Lake Tower veranda, sipping our morning coffee. She is sharing pearls of wisdom from her 90 years on Earth, in her fully coordinated lavender ensemble. I, in my Stewie-camo jams (a present from my mother) and Spartan tee, am listening intently as the dutiful son. All is right with the world. At least until lunch.

I'm still in Florida as of this writing, enjoying the company of our travel friends the Dyatts (Dave, Robyn, Jim and Mary) at South Seas Resort on Captiva Island. This afternoon I'm lounging on the lanai overlooking the Gulf, contemplating next Monday's return to the Great Lakes basin. Here's a pic of our little vacation club last night as we sat down for a traditional dinner of grilled steak, corn on the cob, green salad and key lime pie. Yum. (Look for a post later this year dedicated to our now 20+ year old Burk-Dyle vacation club for the full story on this august assemblage.)

That's it for now. Happy spring everyone! See you soon.

Grosse Pointe Charles.