Leaf Burning

I've been offline for while, traveling and, well, doing stuff.  But I'm back and ready to talk about an old tradition that has faded away from routine urban life.  That would be the autumnal burning of each new year's unwanted crop of fallen leaves.  At home, like good city dwellers, the Burk family brings to bear an arsenal of complex tools and an Herculean effort to rake, drag and stack what seems like billions of mostly maple leaves, moving the bulk of them from deep in our back yard, up across the garage tarmac and down about 90 feet of driveway to the curb.  Here the City of Grosse Pointe Woods graciously sucks them into a big truck with a vacuum hose the size of a water main and takes them to some secret place for the next step in the journey.  It's an efficient system, but pretty much devoid of fun.  However, the acquisition of the family cottage in Greenbush has given new life to the old ways.

Wiser Times is blessed with numerous trees.  On the beach side (which we choose to call the front yard) there are mostly pines, with the occasional tamarack and cedar.  These trees behave fairly well, except for the tamaracks, which have needles instead of leaves but still insist on throwing them all over the ground each fall.  A nuisance, but not much of a challenge.

The road side (or back yard) of the cottage is a different story.  Many oak trees.  With many, many oak leaves.  Big, brown leathery leaves that if left unattended, would lie in their above-ground graves for years.  They do not dry out and blow away.  I know this to be true because until two weeks ago, there were some oak leaves in our back yard in hard to get at spots that had been there at least since 2005 when we bought the place.  Old friends, sort of. 

For the first few years the new management of Wiser Times struggled with the annual fall of these leaves, raking only where necessary to save grass, shoving as many leaves as possible back under trees where they weren't so obvious, and at times even bagging these arboral monsters and carting them off for pick up and disposal by unsuspecting taxing authorities (who shall remain nameless).  But last year, after several November days at the cottage working on a magnificent jigsaw puzzle of a rural leaf-burning scene, Nancy and I had an epiphany.  Duh - what was our problem?  Let's burn those bad boys!

What ensued was a six-hour frenzy of raking, dragging, dumping and burning leaves in our driveway behind the cottage.  It lasted through lunch, mid-afternoon snack, happy hour, dinner and post-dinner cordials, all taken in lawn chairs strategically placed around the burn.  It was a blast.  As this was our first effort, we focused mainly on the new leaves and not on those we were hoarding from previous years.  We didn't want to overplay our hand.  Nonetheless, we emerged from that marathon event spent and smokey, but immensely satisfied.  Even giddy.  We knew we were on to something.

Earlier this year over cocktails one night, we happened to relate our leaf-burning adventure to our close friends the Dyles.  It was a fortuitous happening.  After hanging on our every word with nearly mesmeric attention, they announced that they wanted to join the fun and help us burn leaves at the next opportunity.  Yes!  Now that's what I'm talking about!  I mean....er....we said we would be glad to invite them up for the fun this year. They enthusiastically accepted.

So on November 15th after some would-be schedule conflicts evaporated, the Burks and the Dyles, reinforced with additional weaponry (new leaf rakes, combat-tested tarps and some fancy leaf-grabbing claws), struck out for Wiser Times and the battle with nature.

Friday the 16th was the day of reckoning.  Leaf Team One (as I refer to it) arose early, sort of, and went over the battle plan in the war room.  Well, I guess that isn't totally accurate.  More like we sat around in our jams drinking coffee (hot chocolate for some), playing on the Internet and feasting on a fab, bakery-grade coffee cake.  But we did mention once or twice that the leaves wouldn't burn themselves, so we had that going for us.  Fortunately, no photo record of this part of the gathering remains due to privacy and security restrictions.

By noon, we were fed, clothed, and ready to rumble.  Here is a shot of Leaf Team One, gear in hand, just before kick-off.  Sort of a Greenbush Gothic look.

Here's a second shot with a little perspective on the leaf population involved.

Step 1 in the battle was to recon the situation and round up the strays, starting with the front and side yards. Here are a couple more shots documenting the problem as well as one of Robyn and Dave routing out some stubborn mavericks from the corner by the deck.

Once the first patrols were in with prisoners, it was time to light-up.  Here are a few shots of the early stages of the burn.

 

And a few more pics covering the action as the afternoon wore on.  This first one records a slight problem we were having with potential hazardous road conditions.  Luckily, the local authorities were all burning their own leaves.

 

And in these shots, you can see that the full Tom Sawyer effect has emerged :-)

And here are a few shots of the results - a multitude of oak leaves vanquished.

And of course, at the appropriate juncture there was a timeout for the obligatory social hour.  After all, the cottage isn't named Wiser Times for nothing.

And though the leaves had all been gathered and led into the fire, they did not go easily.  They continued to burn into the night.

Around 8:00, with the last leaves thrust into the fire, the lawn chairs stowed and the remains of the burn-side pizza and wings shuttled to the kitchen, we declared victory and hung up our rakes.  Of course, the fire embered well into the night, as was expected.  The next morning the ashes were shoveled up and wheel-barrowed back among the trees to promote the continued growth that will help generate next year's crop of leaves.  Wiser Times is now patiently awaiting winter's first snowfall with a clear conscience.

And one postscript.  David was apparently under-worked during the leaf wars as while the rest of us recovered the next day by lazing in the family room, watching football and enjoying the lake view, David snuck out to the back yard and split about a half cord of wood.  Just for good measure.  With excellent friends like the Dyles, who needs household help.

Here's looking forward to next year.  Any new takers for the 2013 campaign?

The Art of the Dawdle

In our culture, dawdling is generally regarded as a bad thing. A waste of time, or as defined by the Free On-line Dictionary, "to spend time idly, to move lackadaisically, or to take more time than necessary". I submit that this is a somewhat narrow view. While I concede that in certain environments dawdling is not recommended (performing a critical business task, crossing a busy traffic intersection, moving through airport security), I also believe that the quality of life can be enriched through dawdling. So I offer the following in defense of this disrespected and misunderstood activity.

Dawdling is most often a term an observer applies to the behavior of another. Moreover, the term is usually used when the observer wishes that the observee were doing something else, something important to the observer. So perspective is important here.

For the most part, I believe dawdling is an unplanned event. People normally don't start out the day scheduling time for dawdling (although for advanced dawdlers - like myself - this can occur). Rather, people just find themselves in situations they aren't quite ready to leave, so they stay there. Not malicious. Not intended as an avoidance of some unpleasant task. Just....fortunate. The trick is to create an environment where the dawdling doesn't evoke a hostile response. So while dawdling itself has a spontaneous nature, successful dawdling requires a little planning.
 
A good dawdling plan has three parts. Part 1 is to identify those times when dawdling of any kind would have a negative impact on your well-being. This mostly involves situations that could be interpreted as blowing off the boss or failing to respond properly (and promptly) to the voice and/or needs of your spouse. Part 2 is to take steps to avoid these situations.

My suggestion for meeting these challenges is to introduce a little structure into the equation. On a regular basis (for me, weekly) review all expectations placed on you by others, especially family members, and set aside time to either meet them or gracefully wiggle out of them. Then stick to the plan. (For long-term well-being, I suggest you opt for the "meet" option more often than not.) All the time remaining after your expectations-driven tasks represents your dawdling potential. (And one caution - if you find yourself consistently facing more expectations than you would like, you need to take a look at the manner in which you are taking on expectations and consider making some changes. But that is an issue for a future post.)

Once you have eliminated (or at least reduced) the potential for negative consequences from dawdling, you are ready for Part 3 of the plan - creating a good dawdling location. Without an area that you can go to and "tune-out", you will find yourself sucked into the pitfall of using your new found gifts of time to work on practical tasks that look and feel a lot like the expectations you so cleverly dispatched in Part 2 of your plan. If you're serious about dawdling, these self-generated expectations really need to be treated and managed just like those placed on you by others.
 
A good dawdling location is relatively free from intrusion, physically and mentally comfortable, and within close proximity to your favorite toys. Within reach without getting up is best. The low intrusion component is critical to turning your default "what's next on my list" mental focus to one of "wow, look at all this cool stuff". And the nearness of the cool stuff allows you to act on the impulse before your brain can reset. We're talking here about a critical few seconds during which an escape to true dawdling can occur.

Once you're in, you can stay there with little effort for hours, until the painful but inevitable closure of the window by the outside world. And when the window does close, accept it willingly and reengage. You don't want to run afoul of an unforeseen expectation that may lead to nasty consequences. Just take comfort in knowing that your well-crafted plan is already working to create your next dawdling opportunity.

I have the good fortune of having a variety of excellent dawdling spots both in my home in Grosse Pointe and at our family cottage in Greenbush. At home there is the barrel chair in the living room next to the fire, where this post is unfolding. There is also my man-cave cockpit where I can sit surrounded by hundreds of favorite possessions (music, movies, books, old photos, games, puzzles) as well as an array of electronic devices that allow me to enjoy them.

At the cottage there is the rocker area of the family room with a great view of the lake and its own generous sampling of media offerings. And in warmer months, the gazebo has been a delightful dawdling spot. The important thing is to have at least one such location where you can be alone with access to whatever sets your mind free and makes you happy.

But enough of the mechanics of dawdling. Let's move on to its benefits. Number one in my book is just mental health. In our frenetic world it is not easy to step off the treadmill. We often find the pace at which we are required to move at work to meet expectations bleeds over to our private lives. That coupled with the complex responsibilities of family life (maintaining the household, after-school activities, elderly care) can at times make life seem overwhelming. My suggestion for taking back a little time for yourself is to work on that dawdling plan.

Another benefit is that dawdling can be great fun. Actually, I would say that dawdling done right is one of the most fun things you can do. You can sit and veg, explore interests that never seem to make your daily task list, re-experience a book or movie that you really liked (one of my favorites), solve a problem that nobody but you cares about (like getting all your Star Trek videos in star date order), or just sit and stare out the window (or another one of my favorites, sit in an Adirondack at the water's edge with an appropriate libation and contemplate just how long those waves have been lapping at the shore).
 
The important thing is that however you choose to dawdle, you have to do it without creating any stressful expectations for yourself. Just let yourself go and enjoy the freedom. It's good for you. Because while you are floating through your dawdle, using your imagination and memories and curiosity, the coping capacities of your psyche and your body are recharging. All on their own. All you have to do is give them some time off.

A third benefit of dawdling done right is that you will be more fun for others. The good feelings and renewal that you have provided for yourself through effective dawdling will show, and you will be more respectful of efforts on the part of others to do the same thing. Maybe even revising your expectations of them. You might even feel so good about your dawdling successes, that you start encouraging others (like through a blog post?)

A few other observations on dawdling. It can lead to fewer total things in your life that you enjoy more. Something to think about. The best vacations may be those to places where you can get in a good dawdle. Disney resorts are that for me. Despite the theme parks and other attractions, I generally spend at least half of my Disney time in the vacation home out on the veranda in a heavy dawdle. Also, it's good to teach kids to dawdle. In the busy world that is school these days, with record homework loads, sports, music, and the ceaseless world of social media, most kids would do well to learn proper dawdling.
 
And finally, dawdling can help you lose the guilt of not spending every waking hour on productive activity. If you have worked your dawdling plan correctly by screening the expectations you truly want to accept and meet, and then addressing those expectations as planned, you can make your jump to dawdling speed with a clear conscience.

One post-script is in order. You may think that this is an easy philosophy for an old retired dude to embrace, and you'd be right. My dawdling ship sort of came in on July 1, 2012. But my belief in dawdling is not new. I have lived the dawdling plan approach for most of my adult life. (As an adolescent and teenager I had no clue and spent much of my life in the dog house due to imprudent dawdling). I attribute much of my success at work, such as it was, to my dedication to regular and focused dawdling in between the stampedes that work life often became. And as I sit here in all of my retirement glory, I do so sincerely believing that I owe my safe arrival to the "another day in paradise" portion of my life to having mastered the art of dawdling.

As always, comments welcome.

And for the true of heart, a couple more offerings from the Lunch Poetry archives.

This first item is from April of 1997 and is set to the tune of Take Me Out to the Ball Game.  The Mac reference in Line 2, of course, refers to the Patrick V. McNamara Building that housed our offices.  I call this

The Old Bell Game

 

Take, me out to the Bell, gang,

Take, me out of the Mac.

Buy me some freedom from all this flack,

I don't think we should even come back!

 

So let's sign, for leave, and go home, team,

Or maybe out to the links?

Let's do three, six, nine holes of golf

And a few, cold, drinks!

 

This second item was written in May of 1997, set to the rhyme of the Itsy Bitsy Spider and poking a little fun at what I had considered to be a slight break down in service during a previous lunch outing.  I call it

 

The Itsy Bitsy Taco.

 

"This itsy, bitsy taco,

It's empty!" I did shout.

"No meat, no beans, no cheese," they said.

"We're sorry; we're all out."

 

Out came the manager,

Who barked, "What's wrong with plain?"

Despite that itsy taco,

I'm up.  Let's go again!

 

Until next time.

Disney

It's time I came clean about Burk family Disney activities.  You could call it an obsession.  I prefer to think of it as....a minor eccentricity?  First, some statistics.

Number of Burk family stays at a Disney resort - 58.

Number of days involved in the 58 stays - 259.

Number of days at least one Burk family member has visited a Disney theme park - 66.

Number of times I have been on Space Mountain - 0.  (Okay, that one's not so impressive.  So I'm a roller coaster wimp.  But my kids love them.)

You get the idea.  We like Disney.  The roots of this love affair come from several sources. There was the old Mickey Mouse Club when Nancy and I were kids, as well as the Walt Disney show on Sunday nights.  There was the long line of Disney animated films that crept into our lives and then those of our kids, first in theaters and later in videos, Laserdisks, DVDs and now Blu-ray (most of which are still within a few feet of where this post is unfolding).  With cable TV came the Disney channel.  And there was the family of stuffed animals that somehow made its way into our girls' rooms over the years, as well as a few other spots in our house.

Now, I realize Disney isn't for everyone.  You have to have a high tolerance for your fellow man, especially the little people.  It can be crowded.  It can be expensive.  People who have less consideration for others than you do (read - no consideration at all) are all over the place.  And there is a lot of walking involved.  But, it is also unique and very well managed.  The detail and quality with which attractions and rides are designed and presented is always impressive.  The performers at the many live shows are top-drawer.  And the variety of things to do seems endless.  So if you do a little planning, can outflank the crowds (and a fleet of strollers), and have any interest at all in people watching, it can be a great experience.  Anyway, that has been our family approach for years now, and it never seems to get old for us. 

But back to Memory Lane.  Our first visit to Walt Disney World, or WDW as it is commonly known, was in April of 1991.  We were neophytes.  We knew nothing.  We stopped by for a couple of days during a two-week Easter trip to Florida.  We stayed "off-World" as the Disney folks call it, which required us to drive a few miles to WDW and wait in line to pay for parking.  On the first day we even stopped at a sit-down restaurant for breakfast.  So we didn't actually arrive at our first theme park until a little before noon.  That's just nuts. 

But we had fun, exploring MGM Studios (now known as Hollywood Studios) and then the Magic Kingdom for the better part of two days.  It was sort of an introductory tour, learning where things were, when lines were long or short (they're mostly long, but with a little cunning you can outwit most of the other 40,000 people visiting the park on any given day), and what attractions lived up to their pre-visit hype and which really didn't.  We did go late into the night both days and went away somewhat awestruck and much more respectful of the challenge that is getting your money's worth out of a theme park.  This picture is the first one ever taken of the Burk family at WDW, specifically in the "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" playscape at MGM.  I think the family is sitting on a giant ant.

 

This next shot was taken just after boarding the WDW Railroad which circumnavigates the Magic Kingdom.  Christy is still a little distraught over discovering the "jam-up" geek, a theoretical person whom she blamed for causing the traffic delays at the motor entrance to the park (remember, we were staying off-world). 

 

Here we have a shot of the girls part-way through the day, hanging in the vicinity of Cinderella's castle.  Christy remains deep in thought about ways to avoid jam-up geek problems in the future.

 

This is one of my all-time favorite shots of the girls, lost in the ecstasy of the Teacups in Fantasyland.

 

 

And a final shot of the girls (big and small) at the end of our first trip, barely hanging on waiting for the electric light parade to end the evening.  As you can see, Cathy is snuggled up in Dad's jacket (while Dad is out of the frame doing jumping jacks to keep warm).  

 

 

This is a shot of the kids, recovering in the van (our first) the following day as we head on to our next adventure.  This scene was to be repeated countless times as the family vanned over a fair amount of the country through the mid-late 90s.

 

   

This first WDW visit was certainly memorable, but the "big bang" of our relationship with Disney occurred with our second visit in 1994.  Wow.  We had reworked and analyzed all the mistakes we had made the first time around, and came with a plan.  We spent five nights at the Polynesian Resort on the Seven Seas Lagoon and four solid days attacking the then three major theme parks, from opening at 8:00 each morning until midnight each evening, determined to see every attraction at least once.  Of course, we didn't quite make it to everything, but that visit still holds the record after all these years for the most activity during a Burk family WDW vacation.  Here are some highlights.

This first shot caught a few of us on the carousel.  Notice the tight grip Ted has, no doubt fearing that at any moment his noble steed may saunter off the platform and over the country side, a la Mary Poppins.

 

On a more regal note, here are the Burk princesses sitting on their matching thrones in the grand lobby of the Polynesian (with big brother in the background straightening his Dino Ciccarelli jersey after a hard day at the parks).

 

The most popular ride at WDW at that time (according to local lore) was Dumbo.  I came to believe it as whenever we cruised by Dumbo on our way from Tomorrowland to Fantasyland the lines were enormous.  Finally we decided to bite the bullet and tough out the wait to see what all the fuss was about.  Here is a shot of a few of us finally soaring on an elephant.  As you can see, Cathy and I were thrilled.  As for Ted, well, once you've ridden one elephant......

 

On the other side of the Magic Kingdom, in Frontierland, is Splash Mountain.  This water ride winds through the Brer Patch and ends with a 50 foot 45 degree slide into a pool - ergo the splash.  Many come off this ride a bit damp.  Some, soaked.  Like the three proud Burk kids below.

 

Another of our favorites is the Grand Prix cars.  Here are a shot of Ted (a precurser to his later days navigating a Jeep Wrangler through the streets of Dallas) and the girls, walking down the exit ramp looking for another turn to duel their way around the course.

 

And finally, there are the character meals, always crowd pleasers.  Here are a few shots from a breakfast with Chip and Goofy.  The first is me with the kids waiting for our seating (Ted was especially excited).  The second is of the girls with Chip (although I think his nose is really supposed to be black?)

 



Of course, the highlight of the trip was Goofy posing with, well....Goofy.



 

And a closing shot of Christy giving up that old Alfred E. Neuman "What - me worry?" look, after Goofy (the one with the hat) muckled in her milk, crushed her cereal box and dropped it into her bowl.

 



So this ends our first look into the Burk Disney history.  As noted by the statistics above, there have been a lot of great Disney times over the years that I will try to cover in future posts - family reunions, trips with my parents to the Vero Beach and Hilton Head Disney resorts, a cruise, spring break trips with close friends and/or a gaggle of college kids in tow, and more. 

 

Actually, next week Nancy and I are flying to Florida and heading over to Disney's Vero Beach resort for a few days with my parents.  That will be our 59th visit to a Disney property :-)

But for now, M-I-C - see you real soon, K-E-Y - why, because we (I) like you!  M-O-U-S-E.



Memory Lane

It's been fun so far, writing about the simple pleasures of my life - music, books, baseball, "up north", and the rest.  But there was another reason I started this blog.  That was to fulfill my obligation to document the family history.  True, a lot of my posts so far have included memories of a specific nature.  What I'm referring to now is a more orderly narration of life in the Burk family over the last 30 years plus.  And perhaps even a little further back into earlier Burk and LeRoy family history. 

In recent years Nancy has actually taken the lead on this quest with her own blog and her growing interest in digital photography.  But for many years, what I call the 35mm era, it was mainly my job to take pictures of family vacations, cottage visits, birthdays, and other special occasions.  As a result, I have a little over 7000 slides and several boxes of prints to review, remember, share and write about.  I am in possession of much of the photographic history of previous generations as well.  So this may take a while. But as I have often said, we have all the time there is.  I plan to take it in small chunks, mixing in the formal trip down Memory Lane with other posts on topics of interest on the order of what you have seen so far.  Wish me luck.

As an initial offering, I'd like to start at the beginning of the Burk/LeRoy branch of the family - the wedding of Charles Edward and Nancy Louise in June of 1980.  It was a grand affair, held with all the pomp and regalia that the judge's chambers of the Grosse Pointe Woods City Hall could offer.  Okay, so the pomp came later.  It was a small ceremony with only immediate family in attendance.  Small, but graceful, and memorable.  Here are a couple of shots of the moment of truth.  The handsome dude standing next to the other handsome dude is my best man, Bob, an old army buddy.  The matron of honor is Barbara, the Bride's sister-in-law.  The gent in the robes is the judge.  More about him later.  And the pensive observers in the first shot are Rae and Marge, the parents of the Bride.

This is a shot of the happy mothers greeting their new "children" immediately upon completion of the vows, with appropriate levels of enthusiasm.

And here is the first picture taken of the new couple.  Odd how the Bride looks timeless in her pretty dress, but the groom is, well, caught in the penumbra of the late 70s and early 80s, some would say to this day.  Nice hair.

And the wedding party later that day at the post-ceremony gathering at our first home on Huntington in Harper Woods.

 



A little later we held a dinner at a local restaurant attended by all the principals of the newly-formed Burk/LeRoy clan.  Here are a couple of shots of this august group, before dinner but after at least one glass of wine each.  This first one is of several from the Burk side, from left to right my baby sister Cindy, my parents Wendell and Dolores, my sister-in-law Sue and my brother Jeff.

Here we have my sister Wendy with Rae and Marge (who is gleefully contemplating having me as her son-in-law - for life).

Missing from the montage is Nancy's brother David who was behind the camera that day.  David will make his inaugural appearance in this blog a little further down the road.

Also you may have noticed that my best man had sort of a glow this day.  He claimed it was because of an especially sunny outing to Point Pelee the day before.  But I have another theory.  Just before the ceremony Bob gave me a bottle of Johnny Walker Red as a wedding present which I paid little attention to at the time as we were heading out the door.  The next day as I was putting the wedding presents away, I noticed that the Johnny Walker was only half full. Check it out.  He seems just a little too happy, don't you think?

And to wrap up this first step on the road to what is now 32 years plus, a final shot of me and my Bride, blissfully processing just what has happened on this day and feeling very good about the future. 

And now back to the judge. Apparently he was a chronic gambler whose addiction was slowly creeping into his personal and professional lives. About a year after our wedding the poor fellow committed suicide in his chambers. For years after that at family gatherings Rae would take me aside and mention that he was pretty sure there was a local ordinance that nullified all official acts performed by a city official who subsequently took his own life on city property. Being only freshly admitted to membership in the Pointes, I was initially concerned that there might be something to this. After all, to a Bay City boy Grosse Pointe can at times be a little weird (no socks, gated parks, special permits for operating a motor vehicle without an interior trim package, stuff like that). Over time, as I adjusted to Rae's dry sense of humor, my concern eventually faded. But I have to admit, I've never actually looked it up.

And for those of you who liked the Lunch Poetry post, here are a couple more invitations from the archives.

This one from April of 1997 is set to the tune of the song America.  I call it  My Taco, Tis of Thee.

We come each week, and see

Meals handled service free,

Our fears we bring.

Oh, God, the food we've tried,

Great globs of beans refried,

We co-ome de-ee-spite our pride,

We-ee need the fling.

 

And this selection from the same month is a rewrite of three popular nursery rhymes.  The first one features my partner in lunch-poetry management and delivery - Ms. Laura.  And in case you're a little rusty in this area, the second one is set to Rock-a-bye Baby.  I call the collection Father Goose.

 

Quite Contrary

Mistress Laura, see your aura,

How do you keep your glow?

With taco shells and "What the Hell"s

And lotsa friends in tow.

 

Rock-a-bye Paradigm

Rock the boat, maybe, you'll move to the top.

When the change grows, resistance will stop.

When the change takes, old thinkers will fall,

And down will come paradigms harmful to all.

Flocking Habits

Birds of a feather, flock together,

Especially men (what swine!)

But with steady voice, I make my choice.

You all and the Bell suit me fine.

 

Until next time.

     

Baseball

I have sort of a love/hate relationship with baseball, and its little cousin softball. The love part is the Tigers. The hate part is that baseball is the only sport that I've ever given the old college try and was just never any good at. It's even harder than golf.

I had some noteworthy successes with organized basketball, football and tennis in my school years, and have always been a slightly above average bowler. With the addition of my new big-honkin' driver my golf game is even coming around. But aside from being able to hold my own in a backyard game of catch, my baseball skills are abysmal. Ground balls scare the life out of me, any fly ball over 20 feet high will likely land at my feet, my throwing arm is wimpy, and for me the thought of standing in a batter's box waiting for someone to throw a small, dense object as hard as they can at a target a few feet from my head makes no sense at all.

Actually, I'm not even that good. My only real baseball experience was trying out for Little League, after which a well-meaning parent-coach suggested I try softball where the ball is twice as big and the pitcher has to throw underhand. Now true, top-of-the line fast pitch softball is as or even more difficult than almost any form of baseball other than college or pro. But that's not where I'm going. I'm talking slow pitch.

After failing to distinguish myself while playing on intramural slow pitch teams in college and in the Army, I was relegated in my adult life to the lowest form of the sport - blooperball - whose only similarity to baseball is that there are three bases and something that serves as home plate but looks much more like the flip side of a car mat. And I was even mediocre at that despite the fact that the ball is nearly the size of a cantaloupe. My lifetime batting average in the men's blooperball league I played in during my 20s was about .300 - impressive until you realize that most blooperball players hit about .800. Pathetic.

But enough of the dark side, which is immensely overshadowed by the upside - the Tigers. I have been a Tigers fan all my life. As a kid I remember listening from my bedroom window in Bay City as the play by play of Tigers games wafted through my window from the back porch next door, where the neighbors often listened to the radio broadcasts and played cards. Later when I received my first transistor radio, its most important job was bringing me AM 790, the local Tigers affiliate.

Now we have digital hi-def cable, XM radio, pod-casts, Game Day, Orb or Slingbox (Internet services that can send your home cable signal anywhere) and MLB.com. My offspring in Austin and Hoboken as well as my parents in Florida can and do follow the Tigers' every move with ease. But despite the geometric improvements in technology, the essential experience remains the same - waiting for and learning what happens on the next pitch.

The guessing game between the pitcher and the batter is the crux of baseball. This happens with each pitch (almost three hundred times in a typical game) and in my opinion offers more excitement and demands more of the serious fan than any other sport. When is the batter likely to swing based on his history? What pitches are working for the pitcher tonight and how is his control? What's the ball and strike count on the batter?  Where is the pitcher in his total pitch count? Will the runners be moving? Is the defense positioned correctly for the situation? All these questions are asked and answered for every pitch, decisions are made, and the pitcher goes into his wind-up or into the stretch if there are runners on base.  Will it be a 95 mile an hour fast ball on the outside corner (virtually unhittable), a nasty slider in the dirt that induces a swing that misses by a foot, or a 75 mile an hour hanging curve in the middle of the plate that ends up in the left-field bleachers.  For Tigers fans, picture Jose Valverde in the bottom of the ninth with a two-run lead, going into his goofy motion with runners at second and third and a 3-2 count on the batter (sound familar?)  I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

Then there is the righty-lefty thing. Conventional wisdom is that right-handed batters do better against left-handed pitchers, and vice versa, because they can see the in-coming pitch better and make better swings. And there is a vast body of statistical information (thank the advent of the personal computer) to support the theory. This leads to periodic fits of player substitutions and counter-substitutions in critical game situations that drive fans nuts. However, it also means that among major spectator sports, baseball is one of if not the most dependent on situational analysis and strategy, which for the knowledgeable fan can be mesmerizing.

But the beauty of the game is that it can also be enjoyed casually, just enjoying (or lamenting over) the results and ignoring all this thinking and plotting among the players. And the fact that there are so many games in a season (162) means that the value of each individual game is less than in any other team sport. Indeed, even a successful team can lose over 70 times in a season. So you can have a good time taking in a baseball game even if your team loses, knowing that they can make it up tomorrow. This may be a bit of sports heresy, but being able to enjoy the game regardless of outcome has a value. And it's easiest to do in baseball.

Of course all the warm and fuzzy stuff goes out the window if you make the playoffs. The post-season comes with all the angst of the Super Bowl or the Final Four, as the Tigers learned once again this week. The agony of blowing a two-run lead in the bottom of the ninth on Wednesday - and failing to put the Athletics away - was replaced with the ecstasy on Thursday night of Justin Verlander's masterful performance and the win that earned the Tigers a berth in the AL Championship Series. But no one who has followed the Tigers this year was at all surprised by these happenings, as this is how the entire 2012 season has gone.  Bums one day, heroes the next.

Despite the current ups and downs, my affection for the Tigers is secure as it is rooted in a lifetime of wonderful experiences. I remember my first trip to old Briggs Stadium (later known as Tiger Stadium) as part of a church youth group outing circa 1958. Later there were many Tigers trips with my school and work friends, often to take in double-headers (an extinct event these days - two games purposely scheduled and played back-to-back on the same day with about a 20 minute break in between, all offered for the price of one ticket).

After moving to the Detroit area in 1980 a trip to the ball park became a regular thing, many times with business associates from around the country who were in Detroit for training or meetings. Some of my fondest memories of Tiger Stadium were games with big-time baseball fans from New York, Cincinnati or Philadelphia, all huge baseball towns. Though our loyalties varied, a mutual appreciation of baseball added a rich texture to my personal as well as professional relationships with these individuals.

On one memorable occasion during the last season the Tigers played at Tiger Stadium, two of our party were the proud recipients of foul balls - from the same at bat. The first was hit directly into the glove of a devoted fan (Joe - you know who you are) who had announced not five minutes earlier that despite his many trips to Tiger Stadium he (then in his mid-40s) had never caught a foul ball. I swear - he barely moved his glove. And I can still see the ear-to-ear grin on his face. Truth is stranger than fiction.

A few pitches later another foul ball screamed over our heads (our seats were directly behind home plate in the upper deck), ricocheted off the seats and rolled down the cement steps where a friend from Brooklyn (another Joe) retrieved it and awarded it to my younger daughter, Cathy. Of course, as I was scoring the game, I noted both incidents in the margin and kept that score sheet on my office wall for many years. Can't tell you how many times I have told this story, complete with the score sheet as a visual aid. Upon our departure from our 24th floor office suite in the McNamara Building a few years ago I presented the score sheet to the first Joe as a keepsake. My guess is that Joe has since told this story himself a few more times.

Finally, no discussion of Burk family baseball history would be complete without at least a brief mention of the 1984 season. That was the year I attended the most games and from which I have many memories. A good friend of mine had a connection with a Tiger Stadium employee. Before the season started, I asked this friend of a friend to get the best seats he could for 11 different games, including opening day and the last game of the season. For some games I bought two tickets, but for most I asked for four. And as history has recorded, my advance purchase was a brilliant stroke of luck.

The Tigers led the league wire-to-wire in 1984, winning nine of their first 10 games, 18 of their first 20 and 35 of their first 40.  They went on to win 104 games and the World Series. The Burk family saw a lot of it in person. I remember one double-header with my parents (both avid baseball fans - my father always, my mother since Mark "The Bird" Fidrych hit the scene in 1976) where we sat about five rows back in the lower deck right behind home plate. As my mother was a huge Lance Parish fan (the Tigers catcher), this was a good time.  There was another game where we sat two rows back from the Tigers bull pen (along the third-base line in those days) and my son Ted ended up with a foul ball fielded by Randy O'Neal, a reliever who was warming up at the time. Of the 11 games I attended that year, the Tigers won eight. What a ride.

These days the tradition has continued for our whole family. Nancy and I have been to Comerica Park a few times this year to see the Tigers and once to Toledo to see the Mudhens, a Tigers farm team. I also made it to a Brewers game during my last business trip to Milwaukee (where I personally thanked the fans for sending Prince Fielder to the Tigers). In my own spaces I almost always have the game on the radio or TV, whether at home, at the cottage, on the beach or in the car - XM radio rocks.

My parents are also everyday baseball fans. My dad watches the Rays on local TV in Florida - he's become a Rays fan in recent years - and my mother catches the Tigers on a laptop web link a few feet away. Intense. And my kids in other parts of the country catch as many games as they can through the Internet or their cable packages. Whenever one of us is at a ball park we routinely text pictures of the field to each other, bragging about how much fun we're having (this has been known to happen simultaneously from multiple ball parks). The bottom line is that baseball, and especially the Tigers, remains a great source of Burk family fun.

Tonight as I complete this post, the Yankees have just defeated the Orioles. So it's off to New York for the Tigers and another series with the Yankees. We've beaten them the last two times we've met them in the playoffs, and we're looking for the hat trick.

So, GO TIGERS! And I'll see you at the ball park.

 

Reading

Given the voracious approach to reading that several of my closest friends take, I am barely qualified to comment on this subject. But since this is my blog, here goes.
 
One of my hobbies has always been reading. True, it has often taken third chair to two other media-based passions - movies and music. But it has always been lurking around, a full partner in the entertainment triumvirate and in some ways the senior partner. I was into reading before I even knew about movies and music, as any bright-eyed second grader should be (of course, that was the 50s. Now it's as any preschooler should be). I had the fortunate circumstance of growing up in an era and a neighborhood (the west side of Bay City, Michigan) where all the important places in my life were a few blocks apart. My trusty one-speed was all I needed to circumnavigate the universe. My elementary, middle and high schools were each about eight blocks from my house. My father's combination grocery/short-order grill business, where in my early teens I scrubbed floors and washed dishes, was only ten blocks from home.

Standing kitty-corner from my father's store was the public library, and it was a hallowed place. It had several creaky floors, endless rows of imposing shelves, heavy wooden reading tables and chairs, and just about all the books there were, or so I believed at the time. My elementary school was only three blocks from the library, so there were frequent visits during class hours to return and select new books. And there was a story hour on Saturdays during which one of the librarians would read books aloud to age-appropriate groupings. I remember those experiences vividly, and believe they were not only the roots of my love for books but also the seeds of my subsequent interest in movies - hearing stories through the words and interpretations of others.

Over the years I have observed that the habits of readers vary a great deal. There are readers who can't get through the day without communing with the written word at least for a few minutes but most often for much longer than that. They frequent libraries, they mine used book stores, they hold Amazon Gold cards, they hole up for hours at a time with first-day purchases from favorite authors. I'm not one of these people. While I still consider myself a serious reader, I take books (like I do most things in life) at a more leisurely pace. My intent is not necessarily to get through a large volume of material, although that is certainly an admirable pursuit for those who claim it. Rather, I like to read at an even pace, digesting the material thoroughly, and getting to know the characters in the story. Or if it's a non-fiction work (which is about 50% of my reading life) integrating the new material with what I already know about the subject and perhaps re-forming opinions. I often find myself rereading an earlier portion of a book to clarify a later part and make sure I didn't miss something. As such I'm what might be called a plodder in the reading world, completing a couple of books a month as opposed to several in my circle who no doubt put away a couple a week, if not more. Still, I love it so.

My earliest memories of being caught up in the world of words was a series of stories about a character named Freddy the Pig by Walter R. Brooks that I started reading in third grade. They were really adventure stories set in a barnyard where, of course, the animals could all talk to each other.  But atypically for children's stories of the time, these animals could also talk to humans when they chose to (Wikipedia has a nice summary of the series, which is available again after decades of being out of print). Here's a typical rendering of Freddie.

Brooks and his stories based on the plausible impossible had quite an impression on me as I still favor the world of fantasy and science fiction in both books and movies. I'm a Trekker (as opposed to a Trekkie) sporting a number of Star Trek novels on my shelf along with a little Isaac Asimov, Michael Crichton, Frank Herbert, just about everything Stephen King ever wrote, and of course the holy grails of fantasy past and present - Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (including the Hobbit and the Silmarillion) and J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. Can't help it. They are fun.

Of course, I have developed a lot of other interests over the years, especially in the non-fiction category. For the past several years I have read a number of presidential biographies, with a focus on the early years of the republic. I've also dug into the post-revolution war years (Civil, WW1 and WW2) as I find it fascinating to study how leaders in crisis managed their affairs and what they really thought (or at least what their biographers think they thought). One fact that has leapt off the pages of the history I've read has been how little has changed since the First Continental Congress. The divisive nature of our society and the politics that give it voice seem to be as old as the nation itself. Oddly, I take some comfort in that.  We're still young as countries go, but we seem to have a measure of resilience.  It sort of puts the political immobility of recent years in perspective as an era that will pass, as others have.

But back to reading. One of my favorite times in reading was the period I lovingly remember as the Ladies' Book Club at work. I'm not sure how I came to think of it by that name as there were other men involved. Perhaps the first time I attended I was the only one. The important thing is that I enjoyed the book club a great deal as it pushed me out of my niches. As a result I was reading all manner of fiction and non-fiction, even poetry, that I would have never selected on my own. And it was great.

The very first book I read for the club is still one of my favorites - The Song of the Dodo by David Quammen. It's a treatise on how the world of nature really works. It is based on a study of the accelerated evolution that has taken place in a number of isolated environments around the world. It's a tough read, as the author alternates narration of his field experiences with not-so-plain-English explanations of the underlying science, but well worth the effort. I've ploughed through it twice so far and will undoubtedly do so again. I've never quite looked at Planet Earth the same way since reading Quammen.

Unfortunately, repeated reorganizations at work and finally the move to a virtual office environment five years ago shredded what was left of the Ladies' Book Club. I miss it. I miss the books and the discussions.

But I've forged ahead on my own, mostly back in my niches. Recent reads I enjoyed and would recommend are Stephen King's 11/22/63, a clever story about time travel wrapped around the JFK assassination, and As time Goes By by Michael Walsh, a telling of what happens to Rick, Sam, Ilsa and others after the famous airport scene in Casablanca, crafted from the unused material developed for the seven different screenplays that were written for the movie. The book provides the backstories of the main characters and resolves the fates of all with a number of twists. Another recommendation for sports fans is Three and Out by John Bacon, the inside story of what really happened during the years Rich Rod was the Michigan football coach. The book is an interesting dissection of the politics of big time college sports. But enough of recommendations. I know serious readers already have a long queue of books they are just waiting to get to. But if any of you have a title or two to recommend, or have any interest in resurrecting some form of the old book club, please let me know. I seem to have more time for reading these days :-).

And an update on my earlier post The Purge. A few photos to demo how it really works. Here are a couple of shots during the phase known as "improvement mess". Note the deep involvement of the client.

And the new pantry, fully purged and ready for service. Note the room for growth.

 

I still work for food.