Fabulous Fools Of Summer

No, this article is not about our politicians...

School starts next week and summer is over. I have mere hours to accomplish the remaining multitude of vacation undertakings that were elements of a colossal summer extravaganza I had meticulously plotted over the Memorial Day weekend. Based on the opinion of teachers, post-school information retention is very low. Kids need to keep learning fresh in order to prevent dim-witting themselves with too much fun in the sun, too much sleeping in, and eating too much BBQ.  Apparently these evil activities, not kept in check, can turn students into certifiable fools by the summer’s end.

Great ambitions and expectations were birthed in our house when school was dismissed last June. All children in the house would be home- schooled intensively every day and read books so advanced that all three of them would be able to skip a grade upon the arrival of autumn.  In actuality, the only words those kids read all summer were the appetizer selections at multiple restaurant establishments across the Upper Peninsula and Northern Michigan.

 My thirteen year old was able to jump start his Spanish as Friday nights at the Railside Bar and Grill were in fact, ‘Fiesta Fridays’ and there were many cultural offerings such as ‘jalapeño poppers’, ‘chicken burritos’, and ‘mini-tacos’ to read on the menu… I am confident he is dressed to impress his Spanish instructor come the start of that class.

In addition to linguistic triumph, mathematics was to become integrated deep within my young sons’ grey matter. After their intense learning, the boys would become known about town for their ‘Einstein-like’ abilities…whipping off of random algebraic expressions, solving quadratic equations for strangers on the street, and memorizing the first fifty-seven places of pi. Yesterday, the high school kid asked me “what the heck is four times seven?” …mission fail.

Speaking of pi, my youngest and I had planned to prepare gourmet meals every single day with seasonal fare purchased at the local farm market…We made brownies…from the box… just one time. It was not my fault, the farm market scares me.

Our mental growth was to be outshined only by the intensification of our athletic abilities. Being inspired by the Olympics, we were going to run faster, jump higher, and lift weights to become stronger…Well, we ran pretty fast when we thought we heard a bear near the U.P. camp while we were eating butter potatoes. We jumped higher only because we bought a trampoline for the backyard. Jumping, as women my age should never do sober, I severely injured my coccyx (yes, which is a real body part!). And the weights? The only ‘weights’ I have had this summer were for a table at the Railside Bar and Grill. Lifting that fork, up and down, down and up was the extent of our exercise.

Maybe it is not too late, maybe in these waning hours, I can introduce some vital knowledge to ensure that the too-fun summer was not awash in complete ignorance….

Who am I kidding? Currently, one kid is in the kitchen heating up a tray of frozen pizza rolls while another is drooling all over himself while napping on the couch.  The last genius of the family is trying to entice the dog to eat Cheetos out of the kid’s nose.

Me? I am parked here in the squishy chair writing this blog…it is simply too late for us all…

So happy we have great teachers in my town! Good luck with my certifiable kids of summer!

Bubonic Days

It is festival time in Michigan!

It is the height of summer and it is time to pay homage as we do in our great state each year to a variety of fruit, vegetables, meat, herbs, and cheese.  We gather by the thousands in almost every major city in the land to parade around town with our particular vegetable on our heads, contribute to the athletic association’s beer tent (best invention by the Catholics ever!) and eat fried food carried around on a stick.

Not to be excluded from the festiveness are an assortment of animals and fish.  We celebrate the brown trout, (not the rainbow….just the brown trout. To me, it seems like the rainbow people need to form a coalition around the discrimination and exclusion of the rainbow trout, maybe I should contact the current administration), salmon, moose etc… all are distinguished by the gathering of humans to make complete fools of themselves in the name of a good party. I maintain these activities are vital to basic happiness.

Some of the merriment is centered on celebrating a particular town’s ethnic heritage. Honoring the original settlers (other than of course the real original settlers, the tribes of many nations), I find myself at the mid-summer becoming Polish for a night in Boyne City, German for a night in Frankenmuth, and Greek in Detroit, denying my Scotch-Irish ancestry in a heartbeat for the sake of a good brat and some flaming saganaki.

So what of my home-town, Gaylord, Michigan? Well we all gather together once a year to pretend we are Swiss.  Every July, girls costume as Swiss Miss and the boys look like they hopped off a Hummel figurine in authentic lederhosen. No, we are not actually Swiss. I discovered this fun fact as I was curious as to why we have chosen to be Swiss each summer for over forty-five years. I discovered we were not settled buy a large population of chocolate and clock manufacturing pioneers.

Our county was first laid out in 1840 and given the name Okkudo; a Native American word for "sickly" or "stomach pain" by Henry Schoolcraft. I can envision the Okkudo chamber of commerce gathering together to discuss their first festival around this theme.

Zeke (Because most folks pre-1900 were named Zeke): “Well, I think our county is ready for a festival, we could use the tourism here in Okkudo”

Henry: “Yes, there are seven of us here now.”

Zeke: “This will be tough for marketing Henry. Come to Okkudo! The place to feel under par and vomit! Our celebration could be called Bubonic Days or Summer Small Pox Festival.

Henry: “That may have been a bad choice for a county name…”

Zeke: “No sh** Sherlock!”

Luckily, someone at a later date changed our name and found a sister city in Switzerland so that now we can be Swiss.

I have to go now…off to the Yale, MI Bologna festival to see who will be crowned the king and queen of Bologna. I hope they have Bologna on a stick!

….of course they do!

I Survived The Fourth of July

If there are lakes, they will come.

During the first week of July, one-third of the entire population of Michigan shifts approximately one hundred and eighty miles north. Without concern for public safety, speed limits, or personal space, vehicles from Ann Arbor, Detroit, and Grand Rapids come for the holiday.  One by one, travelers settle in Gaylord, Cheboygan and Harbor Springs. People who live in Gaylord, Cheboygan and Harbor Springs move north over the bridge into the Upper Peninsula.

Now this a truth for all in the state save the actual Yoopers, as they already live in heaven, and folks from Traverse City, as they are required to get permission from Michael Moore if they are to travel outside city limits and the paperwork gets backed up. (Ha! Oh settle down Traverse City, I’m just messing with you, don’t be so sensitive!)

I love this holiday, great purpose, great family time, and most of all I love a good parade.

This year it was extra hot, and the 4^th of July assemblage in Boyne City, MI paraded for an admirable extended amount of time in over ninety degree temps.

Four indications that your 4^th of July parade may be a tad too long:

1. Children are not crying with shouts of joy and wonder, they are simply crying.

2. The heat index on the spandex-encased woman on the curb across the street reads “T-M-I”.

3. The Veterans are taking a nap; their firearms precariously balanced just enough to make you nervous as they pass by.

4. The Shriners in their Fez hats are egging-on a fist fight between the Democrat and Republican running for county prosecutor.

Surviving the parade with a minor case of heat exhaustion, you move onto the local food fair. Nothing says happy birthday to our great nation more intimately and deeply than food on a stick. Everything simply tastes better skewered and carried around town. My personal favorite is a stick of butter dipped in sweet batter, deep fried, and then covered in powdered sugar and raspberry drizzle.   Of course, in order to purchase one, you must sign a waiver saying that you are okay with forfeiting three years of your life by clogging your carotid arteries. I signed. It was worth it.

The scorching sun compelled us to move toward the art fair and the covered tent store fronts. One particular booth that caught my attention donned a huge banner sporting giant letters that read ‘STONED’.  Interestingly enough numerous people (many of them wearing tie-dye shirts and Rastafarian hats) were clamoring to get into the enclosure. To the dismay of the Rastafarians, it was not a traveling medical marijuana salesman, it was an artisan who was selling multiple items covered in river rocks….lamps, bowls, tables, curtains, just about anything, yep, all covered in stones. The depressed left to find some munchies.

They had a great T-shirt I was tempted to purchase that simply had their logo printed across the front, but it would probably not go over well at the church picnic. I better stick with one that simply reads,

‘I survived the 4^th of July, 2012’.