That Old Time Religion— Part II

Continued from That Old Time Religion

Well, if the church elders had hoped to freeze-out the new pastor with their chilly reception, they were destined to be disappointed. Come the Sunday morning call to worship, Reverend Bare took his place at the pulpit. His hair had been brushed until it shined then gathered into a thick ponytail so that from his lectern you could hardly notice its length lest he turn a bit to one side or the other.

As he walked across dais at the front of the sanctuary, I saw his blue jean pant legs peeking from beneath the hem of his clerical robe and cringed for him. Wearing blue jeans in church was unheard of! The sharp murmurs that rippled through the parishioners in their pews did not bode well. In a small community like Fox Hill word spread like wildfire, and every one and their brother had come to church to bear witness to the young upstart for themselves. They were scandalized.

I'd be lying if I claimed to remember the message in his sermon that first Sunday, but I do know that when he stood in the vestibule to greet the congregation as they filed from the sanctuary, he was largely rejected. I shook his hand. His smile was warm and friendly, and he seemed to be genuinely oblivious to the glares aimed in his direction.

The very first change the young pastor brought to Wallace Memorial was to erect a basketball hoop and backboard next to the large parking lot beside the church. We'd see him out there in the evening wearing his cut-offs and T-shirt, shooting hoops. It was only a matter of time before a couple teenage boys from down the street came to play basketball as well.

Over the next few weeks, youth of all ages from the neighborhood began to gather around Reverend Bare and that basketball hoop until he had quite a substantial crowd down there most evenings. Unfortunately, Sunday morning services were still a very tense affair—and he still seemed oblivious. He had a wonderful smile and a warm way about him that no amount of disdain could dislodge. Bill Bare was a son of the south, after all. His soft drawl, polite demeanor and impeccable manners never faltered.

Then an amazing thing began to happen. Young couples started to bring their kids to church. Teenagers began to come as well. The elders' children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren began to fill the pews on Sunday morning. Reverend Bare had a message they could relate to, and they came to hear the good news. The membership in the UMYF (United Methodist Youth Fellowship) soared. The tiny Sunday school classrooms in the back of the church were crowded to capacity. I began helping to teach Sunday school to the little children because we were so short-staffed. Mom was helping to lead an adult Bible study group in the church annex that met each week while their kids were in Sunday school.

Now, I suppose every congregation has its matriarch. At Wallace Memorial, that would have been Miss Mamie. Miss Mamie was one hundred years old but didn't look a day over eighty. She lived with her son, dressed "like a million bucks" as mom was apt to say—still drove her car like a flippin' bat outta hell. She stood a towering four foot nine or ten and maybe weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, but that diminutive dynamo was a real force to be reckoned with in the church hierarchy.

Every Sunday Miss Mamie sat ramrod-straight, facing the front of the sanctuary in the pews reserved for the community's founding families. Because she never missed a trick, I'm sure she couldn't fail to notice that attendance most weeks had grown to include standing-room-only crowds. The service was often punctuated by a baby's cry or fidgety children as they squirmed in their seats. No one seemed to mind. Then after church one Sunday morning, Miss Mamie paused in the vestibule and embraced the young minister—ponytail and all!

Despite their best efforts to drive him away, Reverend Bare had breathed new life into her dying congregation. Her blessing on him finally brought the true acceptance he had endured so much to achieve.

Next Sunday as Reverend Bare entered the sanctuary and crossed dais, we stared in utter disbelief. He had cut his long hair until it just brushed his collar, and while he still wore a mustache, he had shaved off his beard!

I quickly glanced toward the pews at the front of the church where Miss Mamie was sitting ramrod-straight, a little smile teasing the corner of her mouth. Call me sentimental, but I figure this concession must have been his special gift back to Miss Mamie.

I often think of Reverend Bare and the miracle he made possible with a basketball hoop. I sometimes wonder if he stayed in the ministry; although if he did, after all these years he's probably retired.

...And BALD!

— Gee Vee

Our Local Loser!

It's been a year since Helen has been home to our small town. Although we've missed her, we know she's been very busy winning The Biggest Loser.

Tonight at 6 she finally arrived home to an "Up North" surprise party in her honor.





She sure looks great, doesn't she? If you caught the show on NBC, you know pink was her team's color, so I wore a pink shirt, and they decorated with pink balloons. I didn't film very long because I figure she's probably sick and tired of having cameras in her face. Besides, I wanted to go collect my hug too!

— Gee Vee

That Old Time Religion

On Friday, I wrote a little about living in Virginia in the early 70s. It opened the floodgate of memories, impressions from a different way of life—stuff I haven't thought about in a lot of years.

The history of my time spent in Virginia actually had its origins in 1958. I was born in Newport News when my father was stationed at Langley AFB the first time around. We lived "off base" in a small community which may technically lie within the borders of Hampton but had its own unique identity and played by its own rules.

Fox Hill was a very old, traditional enclave of southern hospitality—if you had the good fortune to be born to white parents serving our country. I don't remember my very early years living in Fox Hill. Most of what I know comes down second-hand, through stories my folks have told over the years.

The first thing that you learn about life in the south is that you absolutely MUST attend Sunday service at church if you want more than a snowball's chance in hell of finding any kind of social acceptance. In Fox Hill, my parents belonged to an old congregation that had worshiped for an untold number of generations at Wallace Memorial Methodist Church. I was baptized there, firmly rooted in traditions anchored by the weight of many years.

The church is still there today and will still be there after I'm long gone, I'm sure. I've fond memories of Wallace Memorial, the friends we made while attending church there, but the making of those memories would come later, when we moved back to Virginia in 1970.

In the summer of 1970, I'd just turned twelve when we returned to settle comfortably into a routine of Sunday school and church services in Fox Hill. Wallace Memorial was showing signs of age in its structure and in its congregation. The young people in the community just didn't make it to church with the regularity of their parents and grandparents. Enrollment was down.

Then, not long after we arrived, the old minister retired, and we, along with the entire congregation, anticipated the arrival of our new pastor. Rumor had it he was a young man, fresh from the seminary. The elders were wary, vaguely distrustful of anything remotely "new" and skeptical that a youth could rival their own ancient and abiding knowledge of the Lord's Word.

I'll never forget the day a large contingent from the congregation stood gathered on the front lawn of the parsonage, waiting to welcome the new minister. Reverend William Bare arrived in sneakers, wearing cut-off blue jean shorts and a t-shirt and riding a motorcycle. His long, strawberry-blond hair was a golden halo as it caught the sun, the riot of waves curling down the middle of his back. He sported a full beard and mustache in a deeper shade of russet. Looking back on it now, I think the fact that both were neatly trimmed was probably immaterial by that point.

We just stood there gaping, the elders clearly in shock. I stared because, to my eyes, he looked just like Jesus—well, if you've the imagination to picture the Lord in cutoffs and a T-shirt. He was beautiful!

Even from my vantage point behind the adults, I could hear the censure in their silence, see it in the rigid line of their spine. That first meeting was not an easy one. The Wallaces, Johnsons and Spencers, vintage families that were the bedrock of the community were clearly not impressed. Etiquette, however, demanded a certain level of civility, and good manners called for a welcome they clearly did not wish to extend. Still, through lips thinned in displeasure, they muttered their introductions and then turned for home.

After such a display, I wondered if the young Reverend William Bare would be brave enough to stand in front of the entire congregation gathered on Sunday morning. I was terrified for him. He was too unconventional, and in the South their traditional values were unimpeachable.

They were gonna chew him up and spit him out!



To be continued....


— Gee Vee

UPDATE: You can read That Old Time Religion-- Part II here.

Puppy Love!

Our Shorky (half Shih Tzu, half Yorkie), Maisey, has been... how to say this delicately... well, she's been feeling rather amorous this past week or so. We've been struggling with the decision of whether to find a beau for her when the time was right.

Well, last night we brought home our friends' Yorkshire Terrier, a "tiny" named Da Boo, for a sleepover. Needless to say, it was love at first sight. May I also state for the record that calling a small Yorkshire Terrier a "tiny" is a misnomer if I've ever heard one. Da Boo is not "tiny" at all. I was stunned. However, Maisey has taken it all in stride. They've had a grand time!

On the other hand, I'm not sure I'm really cut out for this matchmaker business. Try as hard as I might, I didn't sleep a wink last night for all the racket "the kids" were making on their honeymoon. Honestly, from one room to another to another, they have consummated their nuptials from one end of the house to the other. (Oh, to be that young again....) I'm exhausted!

This morning Da Boo looks exhausted too—poor little fella. I fear our Maisey is a very demanding lover. Even as I write this, the kids are rough-housing at my feet—a little friendly horseplay now that the serious business of courting has been...[ahem!] satisfied. Come to think of it, Da Boo is sounding distinctly peevish at the moment, snipping at her as if to say, "For the love God, lady, I said enough is ENOUGH already!"


[cue the dramatic soap opera music]


—Will James and Sherry and Dan and I be "grandparents-in-law" if the kids have puppies?

—Will there be a bitter custody dispute?

—Will Da Boo still be able to walk when Dan takes him home later this morning, or will he need to be carried out of here?

For the answers to these burning questions and more, stay tuned for the next exciting episode of Puppy Love!

— Gee Vee

The Buckroe Beachcombers

It was 1970. I was 12 years old. Although my father was in the Air Force, stationed at Langley AFB, we were living "off base" in Hampton Roads, Virginia. For the first time in my life I was attending a "civilian" school.

It was a time of deep racial tension in the south. I'd never really experienced that. Raised in the military, I'd grown up in a fully-integrated society. I didn't understand the big deal folks were making when they started busing the kids from our neighborhood to a "black school" some distance from our house in an effort to integrate the school system. Well, they called it "busing," but Buckroe Beach Junior High was actually within walking distance, maybe only a block or two further down the road from the "white school."

After they integrated Buckroe Junior High, there were still only about 10% white children in the school. We were clearly outnumbered, but I went to school every day kinda oblivious to the anger the local adults were feeling over the situation. It was probably just as well that I wasn't bothered by my new school. I liked my teachers and the friends I made there; I never had the difficult transition so many of the neighbor kids had.

Then came the great Osmond Brothers vs. The Jackson 5 debate.





It will probably come as no big surprise that the Jackson 5 were the overwhelming favorites among 12-year-old girls in my school. We loved Michael Jackson! I vividly remember attending my very first "boys and girls" birthday party at a friend's house. We were playing "Spin the Bottle" in the basement (God, don't tell my mom!) while spinning a 45 on the record player—Michael Jackson singing ABC.



Thank you for the memories, Michael.

— Gee Vee

Putting Politics Aside...

When they announced the controversial presidential hopeful, Republican governor of South Carolina, Mark Sanford, was gone MIA some days ago, I wasn't too alarmed even though his wife seemed clueless as well. Looking back on it, I probably wasn't alarmed because she wasn't alarmed. Okay, call us guilty of jumping to conclusions, but when one of his aides later stated that he was "hiking alone somewhere along the Appalachian Trail," Dan and I looked at each other and exclaimed, "He's having an affair!" That his "affair" was actually in Argentina was more of a surprise, I think.

Anyway, when I turned on the TV yesterday afternoon and just happened to catch his bombshell news conference, I was struck by an almost overwhelming compassion for the man. He has obviously made some huge mistakes in judgment, but as he spoke I had a very real sense of his depth of feeling for this star-crossed lover.

However, given the apparent ambiguity in South Carolina law regarding just who would take charge during his absence in the event of an emergency, he seriously screwed up. There was literally no one left minding the store while he was gone.

Ironically, I'm almost more ticked off at his wife who must have known he was in Argentina, or at the very least suspected he was out of the country, yet didn't speak up. What was she thinking?

"Maybe if he manages to get away with this, we'll be able to patch up our differences, and I could still be the first lady of this country some day."

I mean, seriously, why else would she cover for this guy when he's not only gone to South America cheating on her, he could also be putting the welfare of their state's citizens in jeopardy? Then this morning, some of his email to his lover are front page news. It certainly didn't take long for someone in his inner circle to leak those to the press. Surely he must have known that his little secret would never survive the intense scrutiny that a potential presidential candidate is subjected to—someone was bound to eventually spill the beans. He'll almost certainly be facing many hard questions in the coming days—like, did he pay for the trip with taxpayers' $$$?

So despite the fact that many of the women in this country will castigate the philanderer, I still find myself strangely sympathetic to his plight. Yesterday I saw a real person lay bare the demons in his soul. Unfortunately, the self-righteous among us are going to chew him up and spit him out. Meanwhile, I figure his wife probably sat up half the night wondering how they can possibly put the right spin on this debacle that will have him eventually emerge shriven of sin, politically speaking.

While I don't care for his politics, for his piling one lie on top of another on top of another, for his shocking lapse in good judgment in the administration of his obligation to the people of South Carolina, IMHO he looks an awful lot like a human being with human failings—you know, kinda like you and I.

Hmm... so perhaps the "spin" is already working?

— Gee Vee

Better Late than Never

I was sprawled on top of the covers in bed, wilting, with a ceiling fan and a pedestal fan running full-speed ahead when Jamie called on her way home from work last night. It was sweltering upstairs where the heat from the afternoon sun still lingered. When I told her how flippin' hot it was, she just snorted in disgust.

She was wearing 4 shirts in layers and had the heat on in her car as wind and rain from a nor'easter pummeled the Cape. I could sympathize. Summer was achingly slow arriving in Northern Michigan this year. In fact, here it is the last week of June, and the lilacs are still in blossom on the Straits. They're running very late.

The Straits of Mackinac and Cape Cod are not so different in many respects. Most obviously, we both rely on our seasonal tourist industry to survive. More than ever, this is particularly true during a fragile economy. A long stretch of bad weather can really hurt our bottom line.

So I can't really blame Eric Williams from CapeCast for trying just about anything to change their luck.



This morning, as the ceiling fan still valiantly struggles to move the hot, stagnant air, I'd happily share a little of our warm weather with them if I could.

— Gee Vee

"The Situation Room" in the News

"How can they say they are unbiased when their
TV channel is like a war headquarters?"

Hassan Qashqavi
Iranian Foreign Ministry

That was the second time in as many days that I heard a pot-shot taken at Wolf Blitzer's news forum, The Situation Room. The first occasion was a TV and radio correspondents' dinner President Obama attended the other night where he actually pulled off a couple of good one-liners.

In case you missed it, I'll post it here. God knows there's been precious little to smile about in the news lately, and, who knows, perhaps laughter really is the best medicine.

— Gee Vee

If you say tomato...

If you've followed the comments in previous posts, you've certainly noticed that Mike from Meandering Missives and Musings and I rarely see eye to eye on politics—oil and water, I guess you might say. You may have also noticed that his (very polite) voice of opposition has been conspicuously absent for many days as he and his wife enjoy the trip-of-a-lifetime vacation adventure in Alaska.

See? And you thought I just ticked him off so badly that he finally got disgusted and left. Heh!

Anyway, with Mike out of town, it occurred to me that NOW would be the perfect time to go on a verbal rampage, to finally tell the world how I REALLY feel on such sensitive subjects such as Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin and the GOP at large. I mean, I could actually indulge in a no-holds-barred RANT.

I could!

Well... except for the fact that for some reason it's just not any fun to go on a rant when no one is going to shout back. Now I have to ask myself, am I only tempted to stir the pot and argue simply because I'm just a contentious bitch by nature? Is the real reason that we never agree largely due to the fact that I forever cast myself in the role of the devil's advocate regardless of my actual opinion—you know, just for the sake of argument?

.....

Eh, no, I really don't like Rush Limbaugh, and just the sound of Sarah Palin's voice drives me up a wall.

It's just a lot more fun to wait until Mike is back to say so. ;)

— Gee Vee

Dad

DadJune 1, 1935-July 1, 2008

I miss you.

— Robin

A Long Day Ahead

I woke this morning to the sound of a whippoorwill singing in the rain. Rarely have I felt such... peace. I laid there for a long time.

When I did finally walk downstairs to start my day, I was reading online as Twitter and the BBC broke the news that Mousavi's wife had just announced on his website that the rally will go on in Tehran despite promises of harsh retribution from Iran's supreme leader. No confirmation from U.S. news sources yet.

The whippoorwill is silent now—the illusion of peace, shattered.

Time to get to work.

— Gee Vee

Braggin' Rights!

As you've probably noticed, I've given the topic of events surrounding the election in Iran a bit of thought these past few days. So when Jack Cafferty, from the Cafferty File, asked the question, "Should the U.S. do more to help the Iranian people," I definitely had an opinion to offer. When he read my comment on the air during CNN's, The Situation Room, yesterday afternoon, I actually hopped around the living room squealing like a little girl! I mean, honestly, you would've thought I'd just won the lottery or something.


Images Credit: CNN

(You can read his blog in its entirety here.)

I'm not sure if this qualifies as my fifteen minutes seconds of fame, but I thought I had better boast a little while I can, just in case. ;)

— Gee Vee

The Devil's in the Details!

It's just one letter. Most people wouldn't notice whether it was there or not, but the mystery of the second "s" in Moussavi's Mousavi's name has been driving me bonkers.

When I originally published my last post, I spelled the Iranian opposition leader's name "Mousavi." Then yesterday afternoon on CNN, I saw it spelled "Moussavi." Needless to say, I hurried right back over to my blog to mend the error of my ways.

Then I was reading the Telegraph this morning and found it spelled "Mousavi."

Aaarrrrrgh!

Reuters: Mousavi
NYT: Moussavi
MSNBC: Mousavi
BBC: Mousavi
FOX: I have no idea cuz I'm not goin' there!
Telegraph: Mousavi
CNN: Moussavi


You get the idea. So, for the time being, I've gone back and trashed the second s... which is how I had it in the first place!

Now, can you spell "anal retentive"?

— Gee Vee

The Tweets Heard Around the World

Like most folks, I've been watching the news and following events in Iran after their botched election process on 12 June. From what I've read, I don't really think Mousavi is necessarily any more progressive in his policies and politics than Ahmadinejad has been. However, I do think the U.S. State Department is hoping he might be marginally more receptive to their requests to step back from their intentions to create a nuclear warhead.

All of this seems a little futile given the fact that the real power in Iran lies with the twelve-member Guardian Council and the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. These clerics are clearly a force to be reckoned with, and we begin to appreciate that any president in that country must, ultimately, take his orders from them.

What I have found most fascinating is how the Internet and networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook have given the protesters in Iran an opportunity to coordinate their efforts, remain in contact with each other and relate events in that country to the outside world in "real time." This has been especially critical since the Iranian government has largely prohibited foreign journalists from covering the story.

Even as the protest rallies inside Iran swelled to include vast numbers of the country's citizens, the White House has been relatively mute, taking a "wait and see" attitude that has generated a certain amount of criticism from GOP, including some scathing remarks from Senator McCain. Despite these calls for harsher language from the administration, I understand Obama's position. Given the precarious relationship between Iran and the United States, he doesn't want to risk jeopardizing a more open dialog with that country; he needs to allow the Iranians, themselves, to take control of their destiny without appearing to have been an undo influence in the process that could hurt our credibility in the region down the road.

Then in a surprising move, the U.S. State Department asked Twitter to postpone a scheduled maintenance that would have closed that particular door to protesters struggling to disseminate information and communicate despite Iran's efforts to block access to the Internet.

Last night I sat for quite some time, following the avalanche of "Tweets" relating to the Iranian election. There were literally hundreds—thousands—of short messages coming up on my screen... too many to even begin to read through completely. I was also touched to see how many people have turned their avatars "green" as a show of support to the Iranian protesters.

It soon became obvious that there were simply too many messages scrolling by for them all to have originated inside Iran. THE WORLD was sounding off! It was incredible and awe-inspiring to witness the global outpouring of support for the protesters.

Which brings me to the point of this post. After watching the comments flooding in from around the world and knowing that our government is also watching, I have to ask this question:

Is the U.S. State Department actually hoping that Twitter could be the forum that inspires a revolution inside Iran? Could this huge groundswell of support from the global community actually be the catalyst to changes in leadership that go far beyond Ahmadinejad and Mousavi—perhaps even sets the stage for a coup inside Iran which could topple the oppressive Guardian Council?

Granted, it's a long-shot, but I think the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be very interesting to watch. The whole event may suddenly fizzle into obscurity as the status quo maintains the upper hand... or it could erupt in an explosion of pent-up fury with the ruling clerics that will be felt around the world.

— Gee Vee

Discover your world in a "Roundabout" Way

Since Jamie and Nick moved to Cape Cod, I've discovered a passion for Eric Williams. He's an absolute whack-job... but in a good way, you know? And when Jamie starts to whine that there's absolutely nothing left to discover on the Cape, I've no further to go than CapeCast to find something a little off the beaten trail for her to explore.

Ultimately, an adventure is what you make of it, and life is an adventure.



BTW, if you think that was fun, just wait 'til you have a chance to explore a traffic triangle near an expressway on-ramp! (Just step around the decaying deer carcass; scavengers will take care of that.)

Umm... okay, so that's five minutes of your life that you'll never get back, but c'mon, try to work with me here. It's a slow news day.

— Gee Vee

Just an observation...

The average unemployment rate in Michigan stands at somewhere around 12.9 percent. That figure is several percentage points higher here in Northern Michigan.

That said, I have to wonder why we're still "importing" so many guest workers from Jamaica, Russia, etc. to work in the service industry up north. I don't begrudge them the work so much as wonder why our numerous local unemployed aren't filling some of these jobs.

Curiouser and curiouser!

— Gee Vee

Will the Phoenix fly over Michigan?

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Amid the fallout from the worst recession since the Great Depression, we're seeing evidence of that old adage played-out in varying degrees all around us. Here in Michigan, it's particularly apparent in Flint where a friend of mine is the head of the emergency department at Hurley Medical Center. He was the first to describe to me the dire decay of entire neighborhoods inside Flint and that city's unprecedented efforts to combat the degradation.

He painted a bleak picture punctuated by the grim reality—block after block of abandoned foreclosure homes stripped by vandals of any residual value. Its devastation, ground-zero, where some neighborhoods might only have one or two families left in residence. He said the city finally decided to cut services to these areas and is now actively razing entire districts, returning the land to nature.

The decay of our urban centers isn't unique to Flint. Here in the "rust belt," it has been fairly widespread and part of a decades-long decline as suburbs blossomed. Although more aesthetically pleasant yet logistically disadvantaged, just getting to work from the 'burbs often involves a long, twice-daily commute on congested highways that has become standard operating procedure, a way of life for many people directly or indirectly employed by the auto industry.

Now, I have to wonder if we're about to see a reversal in this trend. We're already noting the decline of the shopping mall, the darling the 1970's spending experience and an iconic fixture on the suburban landscape. As the new global "gold standard,"oil prices seem destined to soar once more. The cost of fuel for our cars during the coming years is a very real concern. Will we begin to reconsider our decision to populate the outskirts of town, so far from the centers for employment, sporting events, health care, the arts and education?

If cities, like Flint, reclaim the land, refurbish crumbling infrastructure in aging urban centers and consolidate potential in a more attractive setting, will we eventually see a mass migration inward? Will we rediscover the splash of color the farmer's market brings to the cityscape? Will our cars languish at the curb as we bicycle to amenities offered in each of our unique neighborhoods? As razing cleanses as it cauterizes, will Flint rise, like a phoenix, from its ashes?

In that eventuality, will we be left, instead, with deeply-depreciating home values in the once-trendy hinterland, now deemed too far to warrant the cost of the commute? Or will we diversify our employment opportunities, create new industries that can sustain the vitality and viability of both worlds?

There's no real purpose to this post written on a quiet Sunday morning, over three hours' drive north of Flint and its desperate struggle to survive... just thinking out loud and trying to envision a happy ending to the story.

— Gee Vee

And you thought you were having a bad day?

These hot new toys remind us that no matter how bad things may seem... it could always be worse!


ROADKILL TOYS

"Twitch" the Raccoon
(Umm... the tire treads are a nice touch.)

"Splodge" the Hedgehog
(You won't even notice the quills!)

"Grind" the Rabbit
(This buck-tooth bunny could use an orthodontist... and an optometrist... and a neurologist... and a podiatrist...)

At 25£ (about $41 US), why not collect them all? Each Roadkill Toy comes complete with Death Certificate and an "I Love Roadkill!" bumper sticker.

— Gee Vee

Break Time

Make mine a DOUBLE!

— Gee Vee

Our Fate? To Hate?

I watched in horror and with profound sorrow as details of the events at the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. emerged yesterday afternoon. Then I was reminded once again of what Carl Sagan wrote for his famed Gifford Lectures, compiled in "Varieties of the Scientific Experience—A Personal View of the Search for God."

"A species that devours its young ceases to exist."

Why do we continue to test his theory?

— Gee Vee

Whiskey Circus

We missed seeing my sister's nephew, Phil (guitar), and his friend, Mitch (lead singer), at Hannah's graduation this year. Having two of the boys from Whiskey Circus entertain us at Kelsey's graduation open house in June, 2008, had been an unexpected pleasure.

Phil and Mitch met when they were both performing with the Young Americans, right out of high school, and have been best friends ever since. They live in California and are working hard, bustin' their butts to be "discovered" in the music industry. They've just come back to the states from an Australian tour, and their schedule gets a little crazy—trips home to Michigan are few and far between right now. Last summer I asked Mitch why he didn't take his amazing vocals to an American Idol audition. He just looked me in the eye and smiled, "Because we're a band."

What impresses me most about these guys is how well-centered they are. They're genuinely... nice. I talked to Phil on the phone for a sec a couple weeks ago when he called to congratulate his little cousin on her graduation. I thought it was pretty cool he remembered her big day. Most guys his age would blow it off, you know?

I'm going to post a video of a song they played for us last summer, but I hope you'll listen to their entire band and more of their music on MySpace or YouTube. On YouTube, they've actually posted a 3-part documentary of their efforts. Check it out.

(BTW, Jes, isn't Phillip a little hottie? I could introduce you sometime, maybe... [wink] )

— Gee Vee

Small Town Saturday Night!

Last night, friends from Indy (GO IU!) were in Northern Michigan at our local watering hole, Clyde's Place, part of a bachelorette party weekend. Jenna, my girlfriend's niece, is getting married on July 4. I thought their white ball caps trimmed in tulle were a fun touch! Entertainer,Wayne Faust, and our husbands really hammed it up for the girls. (Yes, there was alcohol involved, and it wasn't pretty.) I happened to be drinking club soda (designated driver!) so couldn't resist documenting a few of the show's highlights for your amusement here—the morning after.

— Gee Vee

Note: Because of the poor lighting, I suggest you click the full-screen mode icon (second from the right) on each video player.

The Canary in the Coal Mine

I published the following blog entry in December, 2007 on the original Aunt Robin's Story Hour. I don't have the exact date because I took down the blog in March, 2008. However, this "rough draft" has remained in the archive on my computer. I wrote it when the Bush administration was pushing hard to approve the first stimulus package to help our economy. (Remember those checks that averaged $600 per person or $1,200 for a couple?) That stimulus effort was eventually approved in February, 2008.

Given the state of our auto industry and the overall economy today, I took a look back at what I wrote a year and a half ago and thought I'd share it with you here.

==================

December, 2007

In 2005, a Detroit Free Press headline queried, “Delphi—the canary in the coal mine?”

Frankly, I was appalled by southern Michigan’s stunning lack of perception. Delphi’s financial woes represented the single largest bankruptcy in the history of our state. One of the largest companies in Michigan was floundering, and Lansing suddenly noticed? Incredible!

We, here in Northern Michigan where our primary industry is tourism, had been watching our business steadily recede for several years prior to Delphi's calamitous setback. Record unemployment, a struggling auto industry, and hundreds of small mom and pop enterprises either failing or leaving the state for greener pastures had meant that fewer and fewer families were traveling north to play with their snowmobiles and jet skis. We had already been tightening our belts and trimming the fat as best we could for two years before I read that headline.

In my humble opinion, Delphi wasn’t the canary in the coal mine. We were the canaries! We’d been struggling to stay alive for over TWO years. Many of us haven’t made it. A Delphi bankruptcy was HUGE!

Delphi was a coal miner.

Now, our nation's economy seems to be in a nose dive, and you’ve probably been hearing headlines touting Michigan’s “one state recession,” or “Michigan—the canary in the coal mine?”

So while the current administration suggests a band-aid to try and fix a dire condition that has been YEARS coming on, just take it from us here in Northern Michigan—you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet!

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You know, I hate to tell you that I told you so, but... yeah, I told you so.

— Gee Vee

The Carney

Sometimes life is a dizzy carnival ride that won't slow down and seems like it will never stop. You just close your eyes and grit your teeth, determined to stay with it until the end— or at least until the blur of scenery passing by comes in focus.

As obligations to my work, my family and the quarterly newsletter are met one by one, I hope to catch my breath this week... maybe even find time to smell the roses. Or will it be lilacs? I see they're in blossom now. Dan will be raiding a bush at the end of our lane for a bouquet to be put in the living room with, hopefully, enough left over for another on my nightstand.

We used to watch with high anticipation for the lilacs to bloom, considering their arrival the "official" end of wood stove season. I would shovel out the ashes, polish its glass doors until they shined and arrange my lilacs in a pretty vase on top of the stove. Although we don't heat with wood now, that wouldn't be the case this year. This has been one of the coldest springs I can remember, and last night I fell into an exhausted sleep to the hum of the furnace running.

I'm rambling, I know. But there you have it, the bits and pieces of my life that I can reach out and grab for you as the wild ride begins to slow a little. Hang in there with me. Perhaps I'll even be coherent later this week.

— Gee Vee