Unraveling while traveling; life between the windshield and the rear-view mirror

Aug 16 2014

Copper Galore

The approach to Houghton, MI., along the Portage Lake Channel is attractive, not breathtaking. However, the anticipation of a week on the shore of the Keweenaw peninsula is pure oxygen.

HQ of the copper boom lasting a century from 1845-1945, it is now home to the famed engineering Michigan Technical University (formerly Mi. School of Mines) with a noted alumnus, Julie Estep PhD, the prominent rhetorician. Ms. Estep quietly manages to avoid the public limelight in Chico, CA., along with her husband, Gary, and four dogs.

Add Norman Rautiola, now living in splendor, Montecito, CA, inventor of patented keyless entry into automobiles. He also developed the electromagnetic field which senses your approach and opens/closes doors and windows. Being the nation’s electronic valet became profitable, which Mr. Rautiola generously shares, in addition to his time and business savvy, with MTU.

In the future, sooner than imaginable, we’ll be traveling in driverless vehicles. Rest assured, his Nartron Corp. will own the patent.

L-R, Norm Rautiola, Mrs. and Mr. Al Gebeau (Ford Motor, ret.)
Aboard the Keweenaw Star, MTU in the background

Native copper ore, barely oxidized, MTU mineral museum

Unlike California, the planetary prune, which continues the unsustainable siphoning of the Colorado River, the Keweenaw is surrounded on three sides by Lake Superior, the deepest and largest supply of fresh water in the hemisphere.

Add these pluses:

birthplace of professional hockey
more Finns than a suburb of Helsinki
four times the annual snowfall of Buffalo, NY
pure water, clean air, no traffic
nearest interstate ramp 264 miles;Duluth,MN
Scandanavian indelicacy, lutefisk

Quoting* Garrison Keillor ” the purgatory of lutefisk, a repulsive gelatinous fishlike dish that tasted of soap and gave off an odor that would gag a goat….not edible by normal people. It is reminiscent of the afterbirth of a dog or the world’s largest chunk of phlegm”.

Lutefisk may have been solely responsible for the noticeable Lutheran inbreeding of Swedes and Finns. Who knows? What is important is that humans are all hybrids, just like our dogs, and you have to wonder…why can’t we get along?

Tribal battles flourish. In northern Iraq, the Sunnis slaughter the Kurds. In northern Michigan, factions of the Chippewa, Sault, Ojibwa tribes engage in turf battles for casino revenues. Everybody is a loser….prisons prosper; substance abuse and depression become the fast track industries. A solution might be to have warring factions spend a winter together, sharing firewood, skis, lutefisk, and ice fishing huts.

Population growth here remains at zero. No surprise when most activity, in or out of doors, revolves around ice. Californians may be proud of their tan lines, being on a first name basis with cosmetic surgeons, or thankful their homes have not been incinerated in a wildfire or on a mudslide headed for the beach.

No such problem in Houghton, as the natives have an unlimited supply of water to wash and wax the snowmobile in anticipation of another birth controlled winter. We, thankfully, plan a perfect summer week in the community owned waterfront RV park. The array of local activities has us mouthing at the frost.

Don’t change the dial………

* Pontoon, Aug 2008 Penguin Books®

©insightout2014

Aug 07 2014

Back Seat of a Greyhound Bus

Apology to the lyricist of “Ramblin’ Man”, we’re on US 41, imagining the early 1950s before Ike and the interstate system. This road is a north/south noodle, perpendicular to the overly glamorized Route 66. Having grown up less than a mile from 41, and only minutes from the view of Lake Michigan’s southern tip, this old highway is a mess; potholes, so deep, the water drains into the South China Sea, or at the least, burns a hole in your patience.

From the Indian Reservation in L’Anse, Michigan to the southern terminus in Miami, the most disgusting city north of Havana, the road is a life sentence with little punctuation. Perhaps an apostrophe for NFL fans in Green Bay, but little else. Highway tedium in search of a mood detector. Anxiety, depression, and aggression beg for the release of serotonin, unavailable from the Walgreen’s or CVS that litter the highway.

Headed north in Baraga County to the starting line in Copper Harbor, MI., however, is a traveler’s dream: 79 miles forward and 79 years backward in time. Copper Harbor is in a time warp; souvenir shops with local items made of cedar, the departure dock to Isle Royale N.P., and the ubiquitous physical adventure travelers. Helmeted.

You recognize them, shrink wrapped like colorful sausages, wearing plastic cycling shoes. They drive an aging Volvo station wagon with kayaks on the roof and mountain bikes on the trap door. Bumper stickers; Dukakis/Bentsen in 88, Greenpeace, ‘ I brake for mountain goats’. With temples beginning to grey, each armed with a personal electronic device, they leave behind the fingerprints of apps, the footprints of consciousness. No one has told them the news.

Roll over Beethoven.

We’re not ‘riding the dog’, as the title might imply. This is the first non-medical trip in five years, the Excella awakened from slumber and performing flawlessly, taking a vacation from retirement. Think of it as a 30 year old Airstream on a Medicare Advantage plan.

A stop for a nap in Champion, MI., pop. 297, is a highlight, the horse-pull capital of the Upper Peninsula. The only saloon, featuring a sign, both neon and alcohol-free, was closed years ago. The maple trees are tinged with yellow and red…fall arrives early north of 46º.

Higley’s, dressed for Christmas

Pretty in Pink

Headed north to Houghton, at 45 rpm, we’re off to tell Tchaikovsky the news…….

©insightout2014

Aug 01 2014

Lessons in Green Valley

Bridge for the aged. In a community where the dirt is younger than the residents, Green Valley, AZ.

The contemporary, 2014, game of bridge parallels grade school recess in the 1940’s. Playground pick-up games of Red Rover, Tag, and Hopscotch by exuberant adolescents allow the teachers to have a well-deserved, twenty-minute, coffee and cigarette break.

Dateline:

The Wallace School
Gary, Indiana
March, 10, 1949
Monday 8:15 AM

Hazel Markwalder, 5th grade teacher, former WAVE (Women’s U.S. Navy, W.W.II) is the declarer and on lead;

“Class, please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance,

then sing our chorus, with gusto“

O Columbia! the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free,
The shrine of each patriot’s devotion,
A world offers homage to thee

Curious I can recall the anthem, 65 years later, to the day, yet forget that a two club response over opener’s no trump is a request for a four card major. Stayman may as well have been Dustin Hoffman’s, Rain Man.

Being held hostage, without restraints, in a large recreational facility with 100+ senior citizens, is voluntary. The ratio, 4:1, women over men, is quite favorable. And, too, makes the room smell nicer. Estrogen and spanx vs. testosterone and athletic supporters will always end, legally or not, nolo contendere. We’re here to improve our game of bridge, without being spanked.

Substituting for Mrs. Markwalder is bridge guru, Brenda Sonderegger, a mixture of histrionics and humor laced with an accent residing somewhere between the south side of Brooklyn and the north side of Savannah. And, eh, a touch of Canadian.

L-R, Insightout, Brenda S.

She is patient, thorough, and has at her disposal the despised electronic gadget, PowerPoint®, but (insert smiley face) doesn’t need it. Look, most of us are at an age where we can’t read the Snellen Chart at the eye doctors’. The one that starts with the big E at the top. I’d rather stare at the Periodic Table of the Elements, where, unlike the dictionary, Lithium comes before Lead. So help me Duracell®.

Spicing her anecdotes with mild expletives, she emphasizes the serious nature of the game; whatever their contributions to society, bridge opponents can be an important source of protein.

Around the room, her unpaid elves, all experts, carefully ‘tsk, tsk’ over the shoulders of erring students, while patiently providing guidance to the strays. The atmosphere is electric. Mostly AC. The cost of this instruction….?….less than the price of a new undergarment.

Ms. Brenda is also a director of sanctioned* games, where everyone, expert and neophyte alike, is admonished to ‘listen up’ for announcements;

the hospital and necrology report
turn off your cell phones
no ‘snapping’ of cards (an irritation to the hearing assisted)
no perfume or cologne, please
watch the clock

Slow play. If you’re in a 3-way race with a snail and a turtle, and you finish 3rd…it’s time to speed up. She works the room like the emcee at a Born Again rally. Halleluiah, Sister B.

As for me, I look forward to the return of beginner’s class in 2015, as soon as I locate a Spanx for Men store. If unrecognizable, that’s o.k., just follow your nose; look for the artificially trim guy wearing a girdle and reeking of Chanel #5.

* sanctioned—an adult game, with rules = to tag, red rover, war, and hide & seek, only someone keeps score. A day at the beach, where every player has different sizes of buckets and pails, yet we all go home with sand between our toes. Adultery, an unsanctioned activity, down two and vulnerable, may result in a bad board.

credits:
“Bridge is the last game in which the computer is not better”…Bill Gates
Spanx® logo, by permission, Sara Blakely
PowerPoint®, Microsoft Corp.