Wandering off-road

“BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!”

From time to time – usually only when I was alone at the wheel – I would joyfully sing those four words. I loved my Jeep – my “four-banger.”

Toledo is the home of the Jeep and that fact alone endears this town to me.

When I was about 15, my folks bought a brand new GMC Suburban, with four-wheel drive. The thing towered above other vehicles, particularly our little 1959 Volkswagen, and looked like it could go anywhere.

And it pretty much could. We began participating in outings designed for off-road vehicles and I learned to thrill at fording streams that were eighteen inches or more deep, bouncing over rocks and other obstacles that would stop lesser travelers short and ascending and descending slopes that most folks wouldn’t even dare climb on foot.

I yearned for the day I’d have my license and would be allowed to drive this behemoth on wilderness trails – I dreamed of being allowed to take it on private outings with my buddies.

When I finally got my license, I quickly discovered that access to the family motor pool was going to be more difficult to obtain than it had been in my dreams.

I was usually relegated to the little Lambretta motor scooter my father had purchased for commuting the mile or so he traveled each day to work. Occasionally, I was allowed to take the VW out on an errand. The truck was pretty much off limits; on rare occasions, I was allowed to drive it, but not solo and certainly not off-road.

This torture continued through my entire senior year of high school and halfway through my freshman year in college. But then I got a job and was finally in a position to buy my own car; naturally, I opted for one with four-wheel drive: the original, the classic, a Jeep.

I don’t imagine there is anything like a young fellow and his first car – particularly if it’s a car of his dreams. I remember climbing aboard with no destination in mind and no cares in the world. I just drove – allowing the open road to be my guide. It was freedom like I’d never imagined.

I couldn’t fit three dollars worth of gas into the 10-gallon tank. I took my little beauty into Baja California, out to Colorado, into the mountains and over to the desert. I drove to the beach, the river, the valley and the hills. I took it too its horizontal and vertical limits. I towed a sailboat to the bay for aquatic adventures and packed the rear with gear for camping adventures.

I loved that Jeep so much that I bought another years later – despite the fact that I knew it was an impractical family car. I just couldn’t resist returning to yesteryear and once again powering up steep inclines and joyously singing, “BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!”

Look all around you

Daniel Boone was ill at ease

When he saw the smoke in his forest trees.

“There'll be no game in the country soon.

Elbow room!” cried Daniel Boone.

When he saw that smoke rising above distant treetops, Daniel Boone felt crowded. New settlers had arrived in the forest and it was time to move farther west.

Even though Boone couldn’t see the newcomers, the smoke from their stoves and fireplaces announced their presence and brought on a case of claustrophobia.

If that legendary explorer had been in the west rather than the east and Midwest, he wouldn’t have needed plumes of smoke to discover new neighbors; folks in the big sky country can see for miles and miles.

But here, in the former forest primeval, it’s hard to get the big picture. In the west, we seek higher ground for a vantage point from which to determine the lay of the land; in the east, you just can’t see the forest for the trees.

The view from my window features what appears to be the edge of a huge forest. But a Google Earth™ view reveals this “vast wooded area” to be a postage-stamp clump of trees. Houses and other objects are invisible to the ground-level eye, even though they may be plentiful and just a few hundred feet away.

News coverage of events in the east seems to feature urban vistas. Urban forests are not highlighted in close-ups of business and residential areas.

Only being here reveals the fact that the east is as much about nature as is the west. In one case, the natural element literally blankets the landscape and in the other, it’s spread very thinly over huge open spaces. Each has an appeal.

I love the trees; but I yearn for landmarks. I’m used to being able to spot the mountains and knowing they are to the north, or east. I long for vantage points from which I can see the valleys and shorelines that define the geography of eastern areas.

Google Earth™, mentioned above, offers a chance to get much-needed perspective. It is equally effective in less wooded areas and provides anything from near-ground level to bird’s-eye-view to a look-from-space.

When Google-like images become 3-dimensional and can be viewed as a “heads-up” display on one’s windshield, we’ll finally be able to look through obstacles and will actually be able to see the forest AND the trees.

You and I travel to the beat of a different drum
Oh can't you tell by the way I run
Every time you make eyes at me

You cry and moan and say it will work out
But honey child I've got my doubts
You can't see the forest for the trees

        -- Michael Nesmith

One day more

The man from the magazine said I was on my way.
Somewhere I lost connections, ran out of songs to play.
I came into town, a one night stand, looks like my plans fell through
Oh, Lord, I'm stuck in Lodi again.

If I only had a dollar, for every song Ive sung.
And every time I've had to play while people sat there drunk.
You know, I'd catch the next train back to where I live.
Oh, Lord, I'm stuck in Lodi again.
        -- John Fogerty, 1969

It felt a bit like groundhog day this morning in Flint, Michigan.

I woke up on the extreme edge of a quite expansive bed – as if staged for a rapid exit. Though I had taken some time yesterday to consider how best to utilize one more day here, I felt rather disoriented and couldn’t keep the notion that I had miscalculated and that today, not tomorrow, was “moving day” and that I needed to pack my bags and get ready to go.

The tiny and indistinct display on my watch seemed to read “7-15” and, in my continuing confused state, I couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that I have already lived through that day – and more – right here in Flint City…

It hasn’t been unusual for me to become a bit confused about my travel schedule. I actually left one facility a day early last month (fortunately, my next hosts accommodated me and I wasn’t faced with the options of retracing my path or staying in a local motel).

The plan has been rather simple this month – I move on the “fives and dimes” (dates ending in “5” or “0”). This is what made my misreading of the digit on my watch even more confusing.

Now, the confusion was short-lived. I double-checked the date on a larger display and soon realized that tomorrow is moving day – I have one more day here in Flint.

One day to a new beginning
Raise the flag of freedom high.
Every man will be a king.
Every man will be a king.
There's a new world for the winning.
There's a new world to be won.
Do you hear the people sing?
        -- Les Miserables, 1980

Every member of my family, save me, was born in the state of Ohio. Tomorrow, I return to that fabled land for the first time, I believe, since 1968.

It was in Toledo (tomorrow’s destination) that I learned that Bobby Kennedy had been shot and killed in Los Angeles. That event lent a sense of urgency to my life and a desire to get on with things.

Perhaps putting Flint in my rearview mirror and returning to my ancestral digs will lead to new revelations, events or other discoveries that will one day serve as milestones in my life.

I kind of doubt that Flint will achieve that status – but I’m giving it one more day…one day more!

Tornado warnings

Will we stay like this for a lifetime?
Gettin nothin right, gettin’ nothin’ right.
Why do we always have stormy weather?
Why do we have it so rough?
Is it so hard just to stay close together?
Why can’t we ever have love?
        -- Leo Sayer, Tom Snow


Just a few minutes after television and radio broadcasts were interrupted this evening to warn of heavy thunderstorm activity in the area, the wind picked up, rain began to fall and rumbling thunder morphed into sharp cracks signaling lightening strikes close to home.

Folks in Flint take summer storms seriously since a 1953 tornado raged through neighboring Beecher, killing 116. Another 844 were injured in what the weather service calls the deadliest twister in state history.

It took just 10 hours for the local newspaper (The Flint Journal) to get the story into circulation. The first 14 pages were filled with storm coverage including dozens of dramatic photos.

When the paper did a commemoration on the 50th anniversary of the tragedy, it spread dozens of stories, photos and other features over a week’s worth of newspapers.

One of the positive outcomes following the storm was vastly improved warning systems. Electronic sensors dot the landscape today and new technologies make timely warnings like the one we received earlier this evening possible.

I enjoy thunderstorms – the bigger and louder the better. But it an era of changing weather conditions, it’s comforting to know that experts are becoming better and better at predicting the future and lessening injury and loss of life.

One more day in Flint – a town that has been in decline since the Beecher tornado signaled the end of an era for a state long made prosperous by the auto industry. Hopefully a new wind will bring good fortune in the next half-century.

Out like Flint

Broken windows and empty hallways
A pale dead moon in the sky streaked with gray
Human kindness is overflowing
And I think it's going to rain today
        -- Randy Newman


At 7:05 this morning, the sun appeared in the eastern sky beyond the city of Flint Michigan. This, despite the fact that the golden orb had actually cleared the horizon some 54 minutes earlier.

From my third-floor perch several miles west of the city center, I endured 90 minutes of gray and gloomy skies between twilight and the time the sun finally climbed high enough to peek over a curtain of clouds that promises to keep sunshine from hitting downtown much before noon.

Does the sun hate Flint, or is it merely indifferent – as are most of the residents I’ve asked about their hometown? It will be “light” for more than 15 hours today, but the outlook is for continuous cloud cover, possible showers and near-certain boredom.

“Tell me something interesting about Flint.”

I’ve made that request of several folks over the past 40 hours.

“Well, it’s where I live…”

Believe it or not, some version of this reply is the most prevalent response, so far.

Home to about 125,000 souls, Flint is one of the oldest towns in Michigan. Traders began settling here near the beginning of the 19th century. A burgeoning lumber industry set the stage for the carriage trade…

No, I don’t mean high-end stores that cater to folks rich enough to drive carriages to market; I’m talking about factories that built actual carriages.

Later, when the horseless carriage was introduced, folks out here had the smarts to recognize that the times were a-changin’ and they made the transition to motor cars.

Flint thrived for decades, but has been in decline for a half-century. For a combination of reasons, the city has lost ground and people.

According to the most recent information I have obtained, the city’s tallest building now sits empty – a rather dramatic indicator of trouble in Flint City…

Needless to say, I’m not considering a move to Flint. But there actually is cause for hope, if not optimism.

First of all, the town has a rich history of success and of community spirit and activism. There are many artifacts of those better times that enhance the quality of life. There are plenty of libraries and other cultural centers; there are many sports teams and outlets for amateur athletes; the city has a fundamentally good public transportation system; the mass media are numerous and have a strong tradition; and the people tend to be well educated and knowledgeable.

No, I’m not going to move to or invest in Flint, Michigan. But an hour after my pessimistic prediction that the sun would not soon shine on this city there are signs that the skies are clearing and that this may be a beautiful day to explore Fabulous Flint, Michigan.

Who knows, I might just find something wonderful amid the rust and dust and dried tears.

Worst case scenario: I’m outta here in three days!

All right everyone! Break’s over

Stones beneath the surface of Platte Lake

After declaring my independence from this site on July 4, I’ve finally decided to return to duty and to make new contributions to the growing body of information.

A touch of the flu or something in the flu family wandered through my body during the past week, draining me of energy and diminishing my interest in communicating.

Things seem to be back to normal, now. I have been continuing my travels and have been out and about, as new entries to the photo gallery reveal.

I expected to experience a wave or two of nostalgia when I touched base with Platte Lake – the scene of many thousands of hours of family fun for Burkes, past and present. My father and aunt were the biggest beneficiaries, having spent their pre-war teen years at the cottage on the southeast edge of this mid-sized lake.

My last visit was in 1979 and I’m quite certain that I found the cottage. That makes me almost as certain the house that Burke built no longer exists – or has been modified beyond recognition.

The lake has changed over the past 20-some years – including removal of sections of road. Access to the cottages and houses that lie along the shore is now made via one of several entrances, each of which connects only to a short segment.

Driving at “trolling” speed gave me time to search carefully for a glimpse of the one-story building that was once a prized possession of our extended family. It also gave me a chance to experience lake-life as many people were out and about, enjoying a beautiful afternoon.

I had a chance to speak to a few folks. None of them “went back far enough” to remember any Burkes, not even those from the post-war era that included my two sisters, our three cousins and me.

I hope I get to see the oldest of these cousins in a week or so when I pass through Ohio. He no doubt has more clear memories of Platte Lake – and of our grandparents – than I.

As I have met more and more people who live in retirement communities, I have discovered that the more common reason, by far, that retirees settle in any given community is family. Even though few Americans live with their grandchildren, many clearly want to live near them.

Grandpa Burke died long before my 10th birthday. I don’t have any clear memories of fishing with him on Platte Lake, though I do recall awakening to discover that he had arisen long before me and was already out on the lake.

Revisiting the lake and considering what might have been had made my brief visit to Platte Lake a highlight of the trip. The lake has held a sort of mythical place in my life – I was allowed a taste of something special.

For the past week or so, I contemplated the idea of buying or leasing a cottage on Platte Lake – I confess that I even fantasized about discovering that “our” cottage was for sale and about buying it. My daydreaming went so far as canceling the rest of my trip and beginning a new life immediately, while it is still summer.

Crazy? Sure.

In fact, there are a number of properties for sale along the shore – several would be perfectly suitable for living-out-my-dream purposes. The lake was inviting; the weather was perfect; the people were friendly; the prices were affordable; and I knew there was no way in the world that I could risk ruining everything by trying to turn a dream into reality.

Platte Lake serves a greater purpose in my memory. There, life is nearly perfect; I live in an idealized time and place where things are as they should be. The only change I need to make is to get up earlier so I can go fishing with my grandfather.

Democracy: a work in progress

Independence Day, 2007.

… in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity …

Many of the original settlers reportedly came to the American colonies seeking freedom; but about 150 years passed before another generation finally declared independence.

Once independent from British rule, Americans began an effort to define troubling words like “freedom,” “rights,” and “government.”

Some of the most fundamental questions that remained unanswered by the founding fathers were brought to a head by the Civil War – and weren’t actually resolved until … Well, truth be told, they haven’t been completely resolved to this day.

The Bill of Rights offers a lot more detail, but for me, the key to rights comes down to a single sentence from the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all … are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

A good deal of attention has been paid to the “right to life” of late – those who oppose abortion and others who oppose the death penalty have put the phrase to effective use.

Outside those apparently irreconcilable matters – for which the “right to life” argument seems compelling to the same people in the case of one matter and not so compelling for the other (that is, folks who employ the right to life for opposing abortion tend to be unmoved by the argument that the same right should lead one to oppose the death penalty and vice-versa).

Perhaps the latter two rights – liberty and pursuit of happiness – can help find answers to questions now arising in arguments against “illegal” immigration.

Do those rights, which we hold to be self-evident and inalienable apply only to Americans. Considering our history – which can be defined by wave after wave of newcomers yearning to breathe free, it may seem strange to outsiders when the welcome at is removed and the latest pursuers of happiness are called “illegals.”

Is it enough to argue that open borders would result in a flood of unwanted new residents? Or is the principle (freedom) more compelling than such fears, particularly when it is obvious that immigrants have built our great nation – reinventing and refining it during each successive infusion of new blood.

These thoughts may seem to reflect too much idealism and could easily be labeled “pie in the sky.”

Rather like the idea of severing ties with the greatest empire in the world and claiming the right to self-government.

Second-hand joy in Fort Wayne:

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

None of the Wizards playing in their home castle were able to pull a Harry Potter performance out of their hat and turn defeat into victory Sunday afternoon. In fact, these young magicians seemed to be under a spell cast by their opponents, the Dayton Dragons.

It may sound a bit like a medieval pairing of mythical creatures and characters, but this battle between wizards and dragons took place “between the lines:” on a baseball field in Fort Wayne Indiana.

The Class A MidWest league spans six states and includes teams named Lugnuts, Whitecaps, Kernals and Snappers. They hail from rustbelt cities like Lansing, Michigan and farm towns in Iowa and Wisconsin.

Maybe my presence in the ballpark was bad luck for the local nine. I saw the bases loaded twice by walks and hit batters before any player actually hit the ball. Most of the runs were forced to the plate as pitchers failed to throw strikes.

By the second time the bases were loaded, I realized that there was something going on other than two teams doing their best to win a game. It was obvious to me that this pitcher was being left in the game for some reason or reasons that had nothing to do with a strategy to win one game in Fort Wayne.


Today, I had a chance to meet with Mike Nutter, the young general manager of the Wizards and he confirmed my suspicions during a very instructive 45-minute-long interview in his office.

The Wizards are a “low-A” farm team for the San Diego Padres. As such, they have a pretty specific role vis-à-vis their players. They operate at level just one notch above the “rookie leagues,” which is the testing ground for new players.

In the Padre hierarchy, the Eugene (Oregon) Emeralds occupy the rookie spot. The Emeralds play only half as many games as teams in the levels above and, basically, if a player can’t make it there, he won’t get a chance to make it anywhere – it’s “Oregon or Bust” for baseball hopefuls in the Padre organization.

Players who outgrow the “sophomore” league usually move from Fort Wayne to Lake Elsinore (California) where they join a “high-A” league. And, for the few lucky and talented men who actually do make it to the “bigs,” it’s on to double-A in San Antonio and then back to Oregon and the Padres’ triple-a farm team: the Portland Beavers.

The odds are against the rookies ever occupying that space between the lines in a major league game – about 10 to one, according to Nutter.

The young pitcher who walked so many Sunday night was being given a chance to show how he could handle stress and failure. What appeared on its face to have been an awful performance may have impressed the coaches.

In this league, winning isn’t everything – far from it.

Fans who understand what’s going on realize that there is a two-step process in play. First, they can celebrate their home team’s successes and enjoy watching future-greats play right here in River City; and second, they must bite the bullet when favorites are “sent up” to the next level and the team is weakened by that loss. Fort Wayne fans – like those of every minor-league team -- must take comfort from realizing that without the tempering process provided at the lower levels, baseball could never be the “Show” it is in the majors.

Few of the Padre fans out in San Diego realize the contributions made by hundreds of players like Sunday’s pitcher and dozens of workers like Mike Nutter.

Hooray for minor league baseball.

Let me Root! Root! Root! For the home team.
If they don’t win it’s a shame.
And it’s One! Two! Three strikes, you’re out,
at the old ball game.