Define Oracle: According to Merriam-Webster, “2 a: a person giving wise or authoritative decisions or opinions.” I am a self-declared football oracle.
I love football, especially the Nation League Football games. Our family lived in Madison, Wisconsin, when I was young, so it was only natural that I would be a Green Bay Packers fan. Not to sound old, but Bart Starr was the quarterback, and their coach? The famous Vince Lombardi. I was jealous of my friend John, who had a green and gold #15 jersey. I also remember when the big sporting news was that the AFL and the NFL would merge. (Whatever that meant.) At ten years old, I didn’t really understand the game, but I learned more as time went on. 
I first played flag football in gym at Washington Junior High School. Man, I was fast. Whenever I got the ball, I ran it all the way into the end zone every time, and yet, I never scored a point. Apparently, when the opposing team tore my Velcro flag away, the play was over. 
By high school, I wanted to on play on the Junior Varsity team. “You’re too small,” Coach Clement said. “You’d should go out for track, or wrestling.” But those didn’t interest me. Not being able to play football, my focus turned to motorcycles, cars, girls, and a job at Pizza Hut to pay for all three. I lost interest in football, until 1983. 
My dog Harry and I were on a motorcycle trip to Colorado. Coming down from a snowy mountain top, I was listening to News Radio 85, KOA; home of the Denver Broncos. The announcers were talking about the new quarterback, John Elway. He was surrounded by controversary as he refused to play for the Baltimore Colts, so they traded him to the Broncos. It was his debut game at Mile High Stadium. To make a long story short, I ended up going to that game.
It was the first time I’d been inside an NFL stadium. The air smelled different, the field was greener than I’d ever seen on television, and there was vibe, an excitement about the fans. I was hooked on NFL Football, and the Denver Broncos would be my team. They still are over forty years later. (Although, I still have a soft spot in my heart for the Packers, it’s not soft enough to feel bad when the Broncos beat the Packers in Superbowl XXXII.) Being a Broncos fan wasn’t always easy; they had some rough seasons.
In 1990 my Broncos would be facing the San Francisco 49ers in Superbowl XXIV. Mom and I were supposed to be in Lincoln, Nebraska, for computer training on Superbowl Monday. We got to our hotel room on Sunday, in plenty of time for the game. We had pizza delivered, and plenty of snacks for the game – but no beers. I had to be sharp the next morning for training. As the game went on, things continued to get worse.
Mom, not understanding the game, had a lot of questions: “Why do they all keep picking on #7? He seems like a nice boy, but they keep knocking him down.” And “Why aren’t some of the other guys in orange shirts helping #7? Aren’t they on the same team.” 
I pleaded with my mother, “Mom! Please! No more questions. Just stop talking!”  
Her questions continued all the way until the end of the game. “Is the game over? Did the Broncos win? Is 55-10 a bad score?” It was the worst score in Superbowl history and Denver still holds the record today. As a matter of fact, the Broncos hold three of the top five worst beatings in Superbowl history. Like I said, it’s not always easy being a Broncos fan. But still, win or lose, a real fan supports their team, and I am a Denver Broncos fan; although, I do not bet on them, or any NFL games.
October 17, 1994, I bet my friend Doug that the Broncos would pummel the Chiefs at Mile High Stadium, on Monday Night Football. This was during Marty Schottenheimer’s era, when it seemed he just couldn’t beat John Elway and the Broncos. But for the love of me, the Chiefs came from behind and beat the Broncos at home. (Although, they kind of cheated to do so.)
The 49ers traded Joe Montana to the Chiefs. You remember Joe Montana? The QB who handed John Elway the worst Superbowl beating in history just four years before. I still get shivers just thinking about it. I went to give Doug the dollar I lost in the bet, but he would take the money. 
“If I remember correctly,” Doug said, “The bet was for 69¢ to be paid in exact change and the loser has to pay on his knees and admit defeat.” Boy that was an ugly loss for me. I never bet money on another football game, but it wasn’t the first time I placed bets with ridiculous stipulations. (I’m a slow learner.)
My younger brother Newell is also loyal to his long-time team, the Dallas Cowboys. (Where did I go wrong in raising him?) In 1993 the Cowboys beat the Buffalo Bills in Superbowl XXVII. The same two teams would meet again in Superbowl XXVIII. There was no way the Bills would lose to the Cowboys, two years in a row – let alone to lose four consecutive Superbowl games. But they did.
Tuesday following the game, Newell showed up at the Easter Foods Deli, with a shaving kit. He shaved off one-half of my moustache. The loser had to wear the half-stache the whole workday, until 5:00. 
Hey, if I lose a bet, I’ll pay up – but did he really have to come to the grocery store deli and publicly steal half my moustache? The little creep even called a local newspaper and had them there to cover the story. I haven’t placed a bet on football ever since. But it certainly hasn’t stopped me from talking trash. Smack talk is half the fun of football.
I’ll admit, I took an NFL hiatus for a few years. In 2024 Denver drafted Bo Nix as quarterback and I watched a few of his games, but I felt lost. Did the NFL add more expansion teams? Who were the Washington Commanders? Why isn’t the kicking team running with the ball on kick offs? Since when does a touchback come out to the 30-yard line. I guess a few things changed in the league during my absence. But one thing didn’t change: me, talking football smack, which is easy to do since my Broncos are first seed in the AFC Playoffs!
Last Saturday, was Wildcard Weekend, and I picked my teams to win, but placed no bets. I was torn. The Green Bay Packers and Chicago Bears, who share football's oldest rivalry, would play at Soldier Field on Saturday night. I still have a soft spot for the Packers, but my best friend Stuart is a life-long Bears fan. I picked the Bears to win because I didn’t think the Packers could beat them at home, and because Stu is a lot bigger than me and can beat me up. Go Bears!
I had a lot of errands to run in Duluth before the game. As long as I was in the twin ports, I decided to go to mass at Cathedral of Christ the King; I went to confession before mass: “Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it’s been three weeks since my last confession.” I told the priest my sins. He gave me my penance and absolution, so the sacrament of reconciliation was complete. 
“Oh, there is one other thing, Father.” He asked me what it was. “I want to make sure I have my facts straight; you were born in Wisconsin and raised on cheese, right?”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I picked the Bears to win tonight.” Father was silent for a moment, then I asked, “Am I still in good standing to receive Holy Communion tonight.” He laughed and said that I was, adding a funny comment. Then I said, “I was worried you would give me extra penance. If you were going to give me an extra Hail Mary, I was going to suggest you save it for the Packer’s tonight. They might need it.” 
“Yeah, we’ll see about that come Monday,” Father said. We shared a good laugh about that. 
I planned to bake cookies during the game Saturday and would take them to Father on Sunday morning. The game went back and forth and quite exciting all the way to the very end. I actually got distracted and burned the last batch.
On Sunday, I took a gift bag for Father to church with me. “I was going to call these consolation cookies; they have medicinal powers to heal your football woes. But after the Packers were smoking the Bears in the first half, I decided they would be concession speech cookies, admitting defeat. But then, the Bears came back to win the game.” I went on to say, “I didn’t like the Bears fans chanting, ‘Green Bay Sucks.’ I mean, couldn’t they just celebrate their victory without bad mouthing the other team?”
“Well, that’s the way football is,” Father said. I was glad for his good sportsmanship demeanor.
“I brought you a peace offering from the Bears fans. I couldn’t find any figs leaves, so I brought you these,” I said as I handed him a package of Fig Newton Cookies.” He smiled. Then I handed him a package of shredded cheese, “This is from the Chicago Bears. But don’t worry, The Packers are still a good solid, team,” I said. “They’ll be back next year as solid as this block of cheese.” (I handed him a block of extra sharp, cheddar cheese.)
“Thomas,” the good padre said. “You are bad!” 
“Well at least I brought Crystal Farms cheese, which is made ion Wisconsin.” We shared a good laugh about it all, then I gave him a bag of my homemade Ginger Crack cookies. 
I do love football fodder, but why do I call myself a self-proclaimed football oracle? Remember, on Saturday night, I told the priest, “If you’re going to give me an extra Hail Mary, you may want to save it for the Packers. They’ll probably need it.” 
Well, in the fourth quarter, with seven seconds on the clock, the Packers need a touchdown to win. It all came down to this final play. The ball was hiked; Love (the QB) dropped the ball! He managed to pick it up and scramble around avoiding the defense. The clock ran out, but the play was still alive. The end zone was full of Bears and Packers. Finally, Love launched the ball into the end zone – a Hail Mary pass! Unfortunately for the Packers, Kyler Gordan deflected the pass to the ground, ending the game, and the Bears advanced in the playoffs.
I’ve been laughing about my prediction ever since. Poking a Bear is one thing, (pun intended) but maybe I should be careful poking fun at a priest; he has connections much higher than even the NFL Commissioner himself.

It’s hard not to notice the waves on Lake Superior when driving north on Highway 61. Each wave that crashed against large rocks of cliffs resulted in a white plume of upward water spray. The wind and a grey overcast sky made it feel colder. “Ah, the gales of November,” I commented.
I began to think about the 50th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald; the memorial service and activities that would take place on November 10th at Split Rock Light House. Unfortunately, I would miss them as I would be out of town. Just then, a big gust of wind pushed hard against my car. I gripped the wheel and steadied the car in my lane. “Man, it’s a windy one today.”
When I got home, I baked a batch of Ginger Cracks, my signature cookie. The warmth from the oven and the smell of cookies baking sure felt nice on a cold dreary day. That night my wife and I watched a movie, then lay in bed listening to the wind chimes singing outside. Wind rushing through the treetops always reminds me of the sound of white-water rapids. Melissa commented, “It’s really blowing out there; I hope we don’t lose any trees tonight.” I hoped not, as well. Melissa asked, “Do you think it would be okay if I sent the rest of those cookies to Uncle Kenny for his birthday?" 
“There aren’t enough cookies to make it worth the shipping,” I said, and mumbled something about making more as I dozed off.
I awoke in the middle of the night. The sky was clear, and I could see some stars, but most were washed out by the brightness of the approaching full Beaver Moon. In the moonlight I watched the trees outside dancing in the strong wind. Their motion and the chant of the wind chimes lulled me back to sleep. 
The morning brought a completely different scene. Grey skies from the previous day gave way to sunshine, and blue skies. The wind calmed and warmer temperatures moved the thermometer up to 55°. 
I had planned to make more cookies for some friends, and to send off in the mail – but I wanted to make a different cookie, maybe Snickerdoodles. I thought back to a day on our honeymoon when my wife and I discovered a very scenic trail. 
Just off the Sawbill Trail, the narrow Honeymoon Trail parallels Highway 61. The autumn colors were spectacular that day! Near the far end of the trail, we followed signs to explore a place called Wild Country Maple Syrup. 

Nestled among the maple trees of Minnesota’s north woods, Wild Country harvests, refines, and bottles maple syrup right here on the north shore. It’s a fascinating operation with a classic log building as their sales and showroom. We feel their syrup is the best. I’ve taken a real liking to their B Syrup. Don’t let the name mislead you. Wild Country B Syrup is not a lesser grade, it’s a darker more robust, grade A syrup. 
I bought a bottle of this darker syrup and went home to play in the kitchen. I adapted a recipe I call Maple Nut Cookies. It’s similar to my Ginger Crack recipe, but I replace the molasses with B maple Syrup and add chopped walnuts. It took a while to get the consistency correct, but I’ve got it dialed in now, and it’s a very good cookie.  One day, Melissa told me she liked my Maple Nut Cookies better than my Ginger Cracks. I was aghast! “But Ginger Cracks are my signature cookie.”
Melissa comforted me, patting my back saying, “It’s okay. Now you have two signature cookies.” That made me feel better. I recalled that day and decided to make Maple Nut Cookies. 
I pulled out my KitchenAid mixer, the flour, sugar and all the ingredients. Then I went to the fridge; “Uh-oh.” I checked all the cabinets for a new bottle, then began to panic a bit. “No Wild Country B Syrup?” I planned to make the cookies in time to get to the Post Office before noon, so they would go out in today’s mail. 
I called Zup’s Foods. They had the regular Wild Country Syrup, but I specifically needed the B Syrup. I called the Finland Co-op; same story. I would have to go to the Wild Country Store – 54 miles each way. 
If I didn’t waste any time, I could get there and back, bake the cookies and still make the post office before noon. I grabbed the car keys and headed to the driveway. I haven’t been there for a while, so I entered the address in the GPS.
The GPS map said to go north on Highway 61 to the Caribou Trail. I knew I could save quite a bit of time by turning off Highway 61 in Tofte, taking the Sawbill Trail to the Honeymoon Trail, and over. “You’re a genius,” I said to myself while backing out of the driveway. 
Along the way, there is a Liquor, Hardware, and Camp store in Shroeder. If they had my B Syrup, I would save a lot of time. The nice lady said, “We have the regular Wild Country Syrup, but not the B Syrup.”  No problem, it was worth checking. “You’re still a genius,” I said to myself pulling back onto Highway 61. I was good on time, but I ran into a problem.
I wasn’t counting on road construction with single-lane traffic near Tofte. Of course, I arrived just in time to hit the red light. Darn it. Those lights are always slower when you’re in a hurry. Finally, I got the green light. The construction zone ended right at Tofte General Store on the corner of 61 and Sawbill Trail. I stopped in to see if they might happen to have it. The nice cashier led to the syrup display. “It looks like we have their regular syrup and the Wild Country Bourbon Barrel Aged Maple Syrup, but northing called B Syrup.” 
“That Bourbon Barrel Aged Syrup is amazing,” I told the cashier. I thought about trying it in my cookies, but this was no time to experiment, I’ll try it in a future batch. I turned onto the Sawbill trail and checked my clock. These extra stops were costing valuable time, but I could still make it. “You’re still a genius,” I told myself and drove ten miles north and then turned right onto the Honeymoon trail. 
The Honeymoon Trail is still a pretty drive, but most of the fall colors have blown down, especially with the high winds yesterday. About four miles into the trail, I ran into a snag. The high winds also dropped a sizeable spruce tree across the road; it was way too big to attempt moving it by hand and I didn’t have a chain saw in my pocket. “Way to go genius,” I cursed, not planning on the road being blocked. I was too far into this journey to return home empty handed. 
Honeymoon Trail was exceptionally narrow at this point. I was not going to drive the car in reverse for four miles, so I managed a five or six-point turn to begin maneuvering my way back to highway 61. The blocked trail added 28 miles to my trip, and I was no longer going to make the post office. Still, I laughed about a thought.
Maybe I should send the cookie dough unbaked with a note: ‘Some assembly required.’ Naw. Even unbaked, I still wouldn’t make the Post Office before noon. I drove several miles on Highway 61 to the Caribou Trail. “There better not be anymore down trees.” Eventually, I turned onto the east end of the Honeymoon Trail. Soon, I was driving down the long lane that leads to Wild Country Syrup. I was almost there. 
“There’s no way,” I said out loud as I stopped the car. A large tree was laying across the lane! It must have blown down in the high winds yesterday. The tree was way too big to attempt moving it by hand and I still didn’t have a chain saw in my pocket. “Darn it.”
The GPS said I was 3/10 miles from my destination: the Wild Country Maple Syrup store. It was an amazingly beautiful autumn day, especially for early November in northern Minnesota. I got out of the car and started walking in my short-sleeved shirt. I didn’t come this far to go home empty handed. 
Maybe I was turning goofy after all the events of the day. I was talking to myself, but the crazy part is that I was also answering. I laughed as I held my thumb up in the air. “What are you doing,” I asked. “I’m hitch hiking,” I answered. “What for? There’s no traffic out here, the road is blocked,” I said. “You never know, a car might come by. I’m going to be prepared,” I replied. We both shared a good laugh about that as we walked on.
In the showroom, I looked around at the shelves. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. There were plenty of glass bottles of the regular Wild Country Syrup, but no plastic jugs of the B Syrup. The shelf was marked B Syrup, but the bottles all looked the same. 
“Wait a minute, what’s this?” Some of the bottles had a little label on them, different from the regular syrup. ‘United States Maple Syrup. Grade A Dark Color, Robust Taste.’ I held the two bottles up to the light in the window, one was clearly darker. “This is it! This is the B Syrup! Glory Hallelujah!” I laughed deliriously. It took a lot of effort, but I finally had what I’d set out for.
I was so thrilled that I did a little celebration dance right there in the showroom! They must have changed the labeling so people wouldn’t think B Syrup meant b grade. I slid my money into the lockbox, and started back to the car. I hadn’t gone far when I turned around and went back into the store. I picked up a bottle of their newest product: Bourbon & Wine Barrel Aged Maple Syrup. “As long as I’m here, I just might make pancakes for supper tonight.”
The trip home was uneventful. I baked my Maple Nut cookies, then cleaned the kitchen. When Melissa got home, I asked, “How was your day?”
“Very Busy,” she said. “But I finished up a big project, so I’m really happy about that. How was your day,” she asked. “Did anything exciting happen?”
“Not really,” I said. “I made some Maple Nut cookies, but I didn’t have any B Syrup. Nobody around here had it in stock, so I drove to the Wild Country Store. I put together a package of cookies, with the card for your uncle. Can you drop it off at the Post Office in the morning?”
“Sure,” Melissa said. “I appreciate you doing that for me.” She went to the counter and took a cookie from the jar. “These are so good,” she said after the first bite. “This might be your best batch yet.” 
I just smiled, thinking, “They better be!” Wild Country Maple Syrup: it’s worth the effort to get the best.

“If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are you won’t.” A good lesson learned from my dad about flying airplanes.
One day, Dad and I were flying in a Beechcraft Musketeer; a small four-seat airplane, often used for training. I had only been a licensed pilot for short time and Dad was teaching me more about flying. He used to say, “No matter how many hours you have flown, every flight is new lesson.”
Dad was acting like the air traffic controller. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike is cleared for takeoff, runway 3-1 Ottumwa. Maintain runway heading, climb to 3,000 feet, then turn left to the Ottumwa VOR, continue climbing to 5,000 feet.” I repeated his instruction and then applied to power to take off.
As I neared 5,000 feet, “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, cross the VOR and turn heading 130°” We flew that direction for several minutes. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, descend and maintain 4,000 feet, turn right heading 360° to intercept the localizer, once established descend 2,800 feet to VOR, then clear to land runway 3-1 Ottumwa.” I repeated the instructions and executed the maneuver perfectly.
Shortly after crossing the VOR, Dad pulled the throttle, essentially rendering the engine dead! I freaked out, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Have you lost your mind?” I started to apply power, but Dad held the throttle tight.
“You just lost your engine, what are you going to do?” Dad was calm, I was frazzled. He repeated, “What are you going to do?”
“Um, um….” I stammered, “Glide speed. 78 knots.” I was trying to remember everything I learned in flight training. “Master on, mags on, fuel on, full tanks, 78 knots, 2,000 feet, attempt restart….”
“You’re out of fuel, the engine won’t start,” Dad said. “Are you going to make it to the runway?” Honestly, I wasn’t sure. “Stay calm and fly the airplane,” he said. Dad made a real radio call, “Ottumwa traffic, Beechcraft November 8-8-9-4 Mike is short final, runway 3-1 Ottumwa, simulated engine out.”
“I’m not going to make it to the runway,” I said. “There’s no traffic. I’m going to land on Angle Road instead of the bean field.” At this point, I was wondering if he was really going to let me land on the road.
About 500’ above the ground, Dad advanced the throttle to full power, “Let’s go to the airport.” When we got on the ground, Dad quizzed me, “What could you have done differently?”
I was still frazzled and didn’t have a clear answer. “You panicked,” Dad said. “Which clouded your decisions. You would have made the airport, but you hesitated before establishing glide speed and lost too much altitude.” He was right. Then he spoke those words I’ll never forget: “If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are, you won’t.” Words to be carried with me for life, and well beyond the realm of aviation. I wish Dad would have shared that wisdom with me years earlier when I was dealing with another kind of aviators.
One day several of my siblings and I were playing in the hayloft of our barn. Bees began swarming around us. We all panicked, swing arms and legs, trying to swat, kick, and do whatever necessary to save ourselves from the vicious pests. I think we all got stung at least once! One, by one, we hurried down the ladder and fled the barn to safety, but not before Gerard noticed where the bees were coming from.
Safe in the back yard, Gerard shared, “They were flying in and out, from under that sheet of corrugated metal roofing on the floor. They must be nesting under it.” We devised a plan.
Several of our troops opted to stand down while applying baking soda paste to their battle injuries. Those of us who regrouped for the counterattack, armed ourselves with fly swatters, shovels, brooms, and anything else that could squish a bee.
Our fearless squadron leader, Gerard came out from the garage with Dad’s Shop Vac. He brought three hard-tube extensions, the high velocity nozzle attachment, and an extension cord. “You lift the metal roofing, and I’ll reach in with the hose and suck them all up,” he said, assuring, “Victory and revenge will be ours.”
By the time we returned to the hayloft, the bees had settled back into their nest. When we turned on the vacuum, several of the insects reemerged. Gerard easily captured each of them with the powerful vacuum. Then he gave me the command, “Lift the metal.”
I set my fly swatter and house broom to the side and swiftly flipped the metal. It was heavier than I anticipated, and I dropped it. This time, I quickly pulled it away and then rearmed myself. Gerard was correct: the bees were nesting under the metal. Once exposed, they swarmed madder than before!
“I’m hit, I’m hit,” came the battle cries. One by one, our remaining troops retreated. I hit Gerard on the head a couple of times while swinging the broom trying to shoo the bees off him. “Put the metal back over them,” Gerard ordered.
 
I flipped the roofing back over the nest. The rigid sheet metal knocked the vacuum hose from Gerard’s hands, pinning it to the floor. Gerard and I ran, escaping down the ladder, but not before being stung a couple more times. The Shop Vac was still running. It didn’t occur to us that we could shut the vacuum off by unplugging the extension cord, which turned out to be a good thing.
I suppose close to an hour had passed. Somehow, we needed to retrieve Dad’s Shop Vac. Gerard, and I cautiously climbed the ladder with flyswatters, and one house broom. (Slow learners.) There was no sign of any bees. The vacuum was still running. We tip-toed over to the metal sheet. Gerard gave me the signal and I lifted the sheet, but still, no bees. Strange.
Gerard picked up the hose and turned off the vacuum. The canister full of bees was buzzing loudly. Soon, a couple of bees flew out of the hose and escaped through an opening in the barn siding. We turned the vacuum back on. As near as we could tell, the bees were being sucked into the vacuum while trying to return to the nest. Now what were we to do. Gerard sent me to the house to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
When I came back with the bottles (I found two partial bottles; more is better, right?), Gerard removed the hard extensions and explained a Shop Vac is a wet/dry vacuum. With the unit still running, he poured both bottles into the hose, then inserted the suction end of the hose into the exhaust hole on the vacuum to recirculate the air. The alcohol would kill the bees, in theory. Reality was a different story.
We shut off the vacuum after fifteen or twenty minutes. The canister was quiet. We carefully lifted the top and looked inside. I don’t think we killed any of the bees. Instead, they were stumbling around, crawling on top of each other, hundreds of them and all drunk as a skunk!
I don’t remember what we ever did with those bees, but thinking about Dad wisdom years later, I wonder if we had not panicked and started swinging at the bees, would they have left us alone?
I’ve learned a new appreciation for bees since my childhood days. Whenever a bee landed on me and I swatted at it, the bee usually stung me. Dad’s concept of remaining calm in all situations has been very beneficial to co-existing with bees. Now, when a bee lands on my arm, I greet them. “Hello little fella. How are you today?”
We had a large wild rose bush next to our back deck. More than once, when a bee landed on my finger or hand, I would walk it over to the flowers. “I think this is where you’d rather be,” I would say and place my hand where the bee could walk onto a rose. None of the bees ever stung me when helping them out. Now, you must make sure it is a bee.
Bees will sting only when they feel threatened, or they are protecting their hive. Wasps and hornets on the other hand, will sting you for sport! Still, your chances of being stung by a wasp or hornet are greatly reduced when you remain calm.
The other day on my morning walk with Nova Mae, I captured some nice photos of bees on flowers. I was able to get a photo of their legs gathering pollen. Afterwards, I was sitting outside having coffee with the neighbors. “Oh my gosh,” Dorothy panicked. “There’s a bee on your hand! Shoo it away! Shoo it away!!” Instead of shooing him, I welcome him.
“Hi, how are you, my man?” I remained calm while the bee crawled up my hand and across my index finger. Then he climbed over the rim and inside my coffee cup. “Help yourself to a sip of my coffee,” I offered. I saw this as another photo-op and took a couple of pictures. Unfortunately, while posing the little fella lost his grip on the cups smooth glaze and plunged into the coffee. The bee was doing a frantic backstroke, attempting to save his life.
In the absence of a tiny life preserver, I put a small piece of paper next to him, but in his panic, he wouldn’t climb on. I would have to dive in to save him.
I dipped my finger into the warm coffee. Raising my finger up under his back, I lifted him from the cup. He quickly got back on his feet, shuddered the wet coffee from his wings, and flew away. “That little son of a B didn’t even say thank you! That’s gratitude,” I protested.
“You’re crazy,” Dorothy said. “That bee could have stung you.”
“He can’t sting me,” I said. “He’s a male and male bees don’t have stingers.”
“How can you be sure it’s a male,” Dorothy insisted.
“Aside from lacking a stinger, I knew it was a male because he was out drinking coffee while the female bees (workers) were out gathering pollen from flowers,” I said. (Male bees, drones, don’t work.) “Yes indeed, that was a real son of a B if I’ve ever seen one.”

I drove by the Horace Mann School; they have two playgrounds. They have really fun looking playground equipment on one end of the building, and a small soccer field on the other. The soccer field has lights so the kids can play there at night. “These kids today have it so easy.” 
When I went to Horace Mann, there was an annex classroom on the north end. The playground was on the south end. We had painted lines on the pavement to play square ball, a tetherball pole, and a swing set. There was also a field for playing kickball. If you kicked the ball into the adjacent woods, it was kind of scary to go get it back. Much had changed around the school.
One thing that has not changed over the years is that balls still get kicked over the fence and onto North Court Road. We had to wait for a teacher to be present before we could retrieve the ball if it crossed the street, which consumed valuable recess time. Ah, the memories.
Friday night, I was coming around the corner by the school and saw a colorful yellow and grey soccer ball on the edge of the street. It was on the north end of the school yard, but the soccer field is on the south end. I stopped to pick up the ball, thinking I would toss it over the fence to the kids at the other playground, but the lights were not on; no kids were playing tonight. Just then a teenager came down the sidewalk toward me. He obviously saw me stop and pick up the ball.
“That’s my ball,” he said. But for some reason, I doubted him. I had already looked over the ball.
“Are you sure it’s yours,” I asked. He said it was, so I asked him, “What initials are on the ball?”
“I don’t always put my name on my ball, but it would be JR, if it’s on there,” he said.
“Wrong answer,” I replied. “The initials are NP.” Then, the quick-thinking kid said the ball belonged to his friend. I laughed, “I wonder if NP might stand for north playground.” I was going to toss the ball inside the playground fence, but the gate was open; I knew he would take the ball when I drove away. “Tell your friend I’m going to turn the ball into the school’s lost and found, and he can come get it on Monday.” I put the ball in the truck with me and drove away.
There was another larger ball in the street at the south end of the school yard near the church parking lot. I stopped to pick it up, too. The big blue rubber ball was also marked NP. It was about the size we used to play square ball. Back in those days, the balls were red. For a moment, the ball made me cringe!
I recalled playing dodgeball in junior and senior high school; half of the boys took their shirts off to form two teams; the shirts vs. the skins. I hated being on the skins team because those balls would sting when they hit my bare skin and often left red welts. Yikes! Since the blue ball had the same initials, NP, I put it in the truck also. I would return the balls to the school office on Monday. 
As I drove away with the two balls, I got thinking, “Maybe those balls do belong to someone else. “NP. They could belong to my brother, Newell.” When I got home, I checked with my brother. He said they weren’t his, so I posted a picture of the balls on social media, just in case. 
Several people responded to my post, some were teachers, others were neighbors or parents. They all said the same thing: The balls belong to Horace Mann. The NP stands for north playground. I smiled, knowing that I’d made the right decision.
Monday morning, I walked through the front door at Horace Mann. Talk about DeJa’Vu. There was a man talking to the lady through the office window. While I waited, I peeked around the corner down the hall.
The man was finished with his business, and I stepped up to the window. “I found these,” I said….”
The lady in the office was smiling. “I know, I saw your post,” she said. “They are ours.” We chatted for just a moment.
“Walking in here sure brings back memories,” I said. “To the left was the door to Mrs. Murphy’s kindergarten classroom. Down the hall to the right, and on the right, was the door to Mrs. Sales’ room; my first-grade teacher. Next to that was Mrs. Bear’s room; my second-grade teacher. Wow, the feelings and memories,” I said.  “It’s hard to believe that was almost 60 years ago.” I hand the two balls to the lady and she thanked me.
I walked out the front door and got into my truck. I felt warm and fuzzy about my good deed. When I looked up, there was a partial rainbow forming in the sky above the soccer field on the south playground. I gave my dog Nova Mae a rub on the head, “This is going to be a fantastic day!”

I headed back to the bridge. Right off, I ran into Rochelle and Andrea again, the mother and daughter who’d parked next to me in Mackinaw City. They asked if I’d just finished the walk. “Yeah,” I said. “But I decided I’m going to walk back to Mackinaw City.” They wished me luck, and I was on my way.
Not far into my return, I came upon a younger girl pushing a man in a wheelchair. She was a smaller gal, and he was a good size man. At this point we were on the incline, and she was struggling a bit. “Can I take a turn pushing for you?” She gladly accepted. “I’m Tom,” I said.
“I’m Ella,” she replied. I asked if the man was her grandfather. “He might as well be,” she laughed. “Mark has lived next door to my family my whole life. A few years ago, he told me about this bridge walk and said he always wanted to go but could never get a ride. I promised when I turned 16 and got my license, I’d take him. So, here we are.” I asked if they were going all the way across. “No, just halfway and then we’ll turn around. I kind of have some health issues of my own.” Mark turned around and said, ‘Ella, we’ve all got issues.’ As we got near the first tower, Ella asked “Is this halfway?”
I explained the halfway point would be the middle, between the two towers: about another quarter  mile. She asked, “Would it be okay if we turn around here?”
“You can turn around whenever you want, Ella,” I said. She was starting to look tired, so I pushed the chair over the center curb to the other lane.  I offered to push the wheelchair back down to the side where they started but Ella assured, she’d be fine. “You need to be careful; you’re going downhill now. Don’t let the chair get away from you.” We said our farewells and went our separate ways.
I decided to go back and push the wheelchair for Ella, anyway. When I turned around someone else was already pushing it for her. There are so many good people in the world; that warmed my heart. Ella was in good hands; I could keep walking.
Next, I walked with a man who was from Alabama. “I graduated college in 1991 and got my first job in northern Michigan,” Chuck said. “I was a loner, didn’t know anybody up here. So, one day a co-worker asked if I wanted to cross the Big Mac with her. I didn’t really know what that meant but agreed to go along and I loved it. I still work for the same company; they’ve transferred me a dozen times all over the country. No matter where I am, I’ve returned for the bridge walk, rain or shine. This is the 66th walk and 33rd - well actually only thirty-two because they cancelled the walk in 2020 for covid, but we still made the trek to Mackinaw City, so that counts for something.”
Chuck was very interesting. I asked if he ever saw the girl again who first introduced him to the walk. “I see her every day,” he laughed, “We’ve been married 31 years.” He went on to explain she wasn’t on the walk this year due to a knee injury. “But she’ll be back next year,” he assured. I wished his wife a speedy recovery and kept moving. It turns out Chuck was not the only person I would meet who had a first date on the Mackinaw Bridge.
I came upon a couple wearing matching shirts that read Snyder Crew. Scott and Candy were celebrating the 40th anniversary of their first date. “I hope you took her some place special,” I said to Scott.
“I did indeed,” Scott smiled. “We walked across the Mackinac Bridge forty years ago today!” I told him that I had walked across and was on my way back. “A double-crosser, eh,” he said, but I didn’t know what he meant. “When you walk across the bridge and back, they call you a double-crosser. Candy and I double crossed on our first date.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You ask a girl out and make her walk ten miles on your first date, and she married you anyway?” We shared a good laugh about that.
“I sure did,” Candy said. “All our kids have walked the bridge, and our grandkids, too.” Then she told me, “They’re not all here this year, but there are four generation representing Team Snyder today.” She went on to tell me her dad was here for the walk but decided to sit out this year. “He’s 92 and thought it would be best to stay back at the motel.” She quickly added, “He was 88 the last time he walked the bridge and he’s here in spirit.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I said. I met such a variety of people that day, that I wasn’t surprised at all to meet Ian.
Ian was a teenager who walked along filling the air with the distinct sounds of his bagpipes. His long reddish hair was tied back in a ponytail. He had a bellow that he compressed under his arm. “It’d be difficult to have enough wind to keep the bag inflated and walk five miles, too,” he said with a heavy Scottish accent. Ian went on to explain the technical differences between Scottish Great Highland bagpipes and the Irish Uilleann pipe. He was speaking way above my pay grade. I smiled and just told him I really enjoyed his music and then asked if he was from Scotland. “No. I’m from Chicago,” he said. Chicago? I questioned his lack of a midwestern accent.
Soon a lady stepped up next to me. With the same accent, she said, “Ian was born in Chicago. But I was born and raised in Scottland. He picked that accent up from his father and me. Now his brother, the one playing the guitar ahead of us, he speaks perfect Midwesterner.” We shared a good laugh about that. I was happy Ian chose to preserve the accent and dialect of his heritage.
I was past the halfway point on my way back to Mackinaw City, on the final stretch for home, or should I say, back to my truck. I remembered Melissa telling me, “Make sure you get a good selfie on the bridge.” I stopped under the south tower and snapped a photo. I started feeling confident as if I had completed the walk. But I wasn’t there yet, and I saw two more people I wanted to talk to.
A man in a wheelchair, in the opposite lane was on his way up the bridge. He was an amputee wearing a red, white, and blue bandana. A second man in similar patriotic colors pushed his chair. One of the men wore a T-shirt indicating he was a Vietnam War Veteran. I was feeling emotional and appreciative of their service. I approached the two men. We exchanged greetings and casual conversation about the nice weather and then I asked the man, “May I take a turn pushing your chair?”
The man in the chair questioned, “Why?”
 
“When you served our country, you served me, too,” I said. “I would be honored to push your chair to serve you for a while.”
The man in the wheelchair looked at me and said, “No, you cannot.” His reply caught me off guard. He went on to explain: “I wasn’t drafted to the Army; I enlisted to serve my country knowing full-well there was a war going on. I went to Vietnam, and I left my leg there. I didn’t serve my country expecting someone to someday return the service to me. So, No. You cannot push my chair.” He wasn’t angry when he said this, but he was direct and too the point. I respected his position. Then he repeated, “You cannot push my chair, but you can walk alongside us, if you’d like.” I accepted his offer.
As we walked, I told the men about the stories I wrote and asked if I could include him in a future story about the Mackinac Bridge Walk, and the people I met. “Sure, write whatever you want,” he said. Neither of the two would tell me their name or where they were from, “You don’t need that for your story,” he said. “And no pictures, either.” After walking with them for a short while, the man said, “I saw you walking the other way before you came over here. You probably should go back and catch up with your people.” He smiled and thanked me for walking with them. I thanked the two veterans for their service and headed back to the other side of the bridge. Even though it was just a short time, I truly felt honored to walk with them. As I was getting closer to the end of the walk, I picked up my pace to catch up with another person in uniform.
The man sat high in his saddle wearing a black uniform with white letters across his back that read SHERIFF. True to the days of the old west, he wore a white cowboy hat; the good guys always wore a white cowboy hat. The horse had a distinctive black blanket with white stripes across its rump and matching ankle boots.  It was one of the officers the grumpy lady pointed out in the morning. “That’s a beautiful horse,” I said to the lawman. He thanked me for the compliment, and I asked, “Did you have to arrest anyone today?”    
“No sir,” he replied. “We’re just up here to keep everyone safe.” I thanked the officers and continued. I was feeling that natural high coming back again when I saw the overhead sign: FINISH LINE.  Wow, what a thrill! So many people at the end of the walk looked exhausted and yet fired up at the same time; there was a great sensation of accomplishment.
I went back to the truck and opened the door to the camper. As always, Nova Mae was full of kisses and excited to see me. I had just walked ten miles, and Nova said, “Come on Dad, let’s go for a walk.” And so, we did.
Nova and I walked around downtown, I wanted to find a Mackinaw Bridge Walk Commemorative T-shirt. I told the salesclerk that I had walked over and back. “That’s awesome,” she said. “Would you like us to print ‘Double Crosser’ across the back?” Absolutely.
I called Melissa to tell her all about the day, “It was so cool, babe….” As I told her about all the fun people I’d met, she said she wished she could have gone with me. “Next year,” I said. Nova and I returned to the truck to go get the trailer from the campground, then to retrieve the motorcycle which was still on the St. Ignace side of the bridge. We still had about an hour before the bridge would be open to traffic, so we stopped at Wienerlicious.
 
Wienerlicious is a restaurant with a giant hot dog on their roof. I think they sell pulled pork sandwiches too, but I’ve only had their hot dogs. I found a space in their parking lot, which was really full and there a line was stretching outside the front door. Low and behold, who should I run into? The grumpy lady! “You ever eat here before,” she asked me. “They have the best Chicago Dogs in the world.”
“No,” I corrected her. “They have an excellent Chicago Dog here, but the best Chicago Dogs will come from a vendor with a hot dog cart in downtown Chicago.”
The grumpy woman said, “Why don’t you just go back to Illinois where you came from?”
I smiled, “Because I came from Minnesota.” The woman scowled at me and walked away. Fortunately, that was the last time I saw the grumpy woman – but there’s always next year. I was really hungry and ordered two Chicago Dogs, and one plain hotdog for Nova. We don’t normally feed her people food, but she had been an exceptionally good sport today. After lunch we went to load the motorcycle.
With the bike tied down on the trailer, we should have turned right from the rest area, but instead we went left – I wanted to drive the bridge one more time. The toll was six dollars because of the trailer, but it was worth it.
As we pulled out of Mackinaw City, onto the Mackinac Bridge, I pushed the play button on my tunes. Bob Seger started singing, ‘Took a look down a westbound road, right away I made my choice….’ I asked Nova Mae, “Should we head about twelve hours out of Mackinaw City and see if we can find that bar to stop and have a beer?” We shared a good laugh about that.
I looked in the rear-view mirror at my big two-wheeler riding on the trailer behind Willie. The last words of Bob Seger’s song Roll Me Away, are ‘Next time, we’ll get it right.’ I gave Nova Mae a rub on the head, “We got it right this time; I think Bob Seger would approve.”
 
 
 
 
     
 
 
 
 
 
 
             
 
 
 
 
      Grumpy lady “I enjoy it so much.”
Bob Seger would approve  Never paid off the bet
Drive back home around the big lake the call gitche gumee

Nova and I set out for Mackinaw City on Saturday afternoon. We drove Willie, our 1971 Ford F-250 Camper Special, with a vintage Alaskan Camper in the bed. We towed my 1977 Kawasaki 650 on a trailer. I would park the motorcycle at the rest area on the north end of the bridge and then ride it back to the campground after the walk. Willie had never been more than 100 miles from home, and I was excited about this trip. Pulling out of the driveway, we gave Melissa two toots on the horn and waved, “See you next week,” I said. “Woof, woof,” Nova Mae added.
Driving an old truck without air conditioning across northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s UP in August, was a little warm. With the wing windows open, we were comfortable with plenty of air. We arrived at Mackinaw City on Sunday and found our campsite.
I rode my bike around town, meeting all sorts of people: Stan was 77, he’s been coming to walk Big Mac for years. Jill’s husband had recently passed away. They’d walked the bridge many times together and this year she would walk with his ashes. I think she planned to scatter them, but she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. People from all over the country came to walk for lots of different reasons.
I finally trailered the motorcycle across the bridge and parked it in the rest area. I returned to the campground and discovered I had been double crossed! While I was gone with Willie and the trailer, someone set up in my campsite! It was after eleven and I wasn’t going to wake the camp host. I pushed my trailer into my site and chained it to a tree. Nova and I drove Willie downtown and found a place to park where there were lots of trees to keep the camper shaded the following day. We climbed into the back and went to bed. The only thing left to do was get some rest before the big walk in the morning, which wasn’t easy. I felt like a kid trying to sleep on Christmas Eve.
By 6:00 on Labor Day morning, Mackinaw City (population 875 people) was buzzing with thousands of visitors who came for the walk. Two ladies were talking in the parking space next to me. I got up and decided to follow them. Nova Mae wanted to walk with me, “Sorry, Nova. Dogs are not allowed on the walk. You’ll have to wait in the camper.” Being my first time on the bridge walk, I didn’t know where I was going or what to expect. The two ladies had already gone, so I followed the crowd.
The crowd made their way to the starting point. There were people as far as I could see. Nancy Sinatra’s song, These Boots Are Made for Walking, was playing over the PA System. The mood was festive on a cool, crisp morning, under a clear sky. Everyone was jovial except one grumpy lady and as luck would have it, she struck up conversation with me.
After some small talk, she complained to me about the cops on horseback: “Those horses shouldn’t be in this crowd. If they get spooked, they’ll trample people.” I told her the horses are well trained to be in crowds. She griped, “Pets aren’t allowed on the walk.” I explained, police horses are not pets, they’re working animals. “There are too many cops here. They’re just looking for reasons to arrest people,” she said. “Why can’t they just leave us alone.”
“The are here to keep everyone safe,” I explained. “You’d have to be doing something really stupid to get arrested here today.” For each of her complaints, I had a calm, logical response and she was getting frustrated with me.
 
“Blah, blah, blah,” she said. “Why don’t you just go back to Wisconsin where you came from?”
I smiled, “Because I came from Minnesota.”
The music faded and Michigan’s Governor welcomed the people, followed by a young lady who sang the National Anthem. The crowd join in full voice, “Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave, ore the land of the free, and the home of the brave." The applause and cheers following the anthem, were roaring loud! Although I was too deep in the crowd to see them, the governor’s entourage led the walk, and the crowd followed. The people I met on the bridge were amazing.
The first person I spoke with on the bridge was Ruth. I asked why she was wearing dress shoes; they wouldn’t seem uncomfortable. “I’m 78 years old and I always wear dress shoes for the walk. This is a special occasion, you know – being able to walk this bridge. People should dress up.”
The next people I spoke with were Rochelle and Andrea, a mother and daughter. They happened to be talking about an old ford pickup which they parked next to. “Was the truck green with a camper in the back?”
“Yes, it was,” said the mom. “You must have seen it, too.”
“Saw it? I drove it,” I said. We shared a good laugh about that and talked about how well organized this event was.
Three lanes were formed: the southbound lane was for people starting in Mackinaw City and walking north. The north lane was for people starting in Saint Ignace and walking south. Though it sounds a bit confusing, it makes perfect sense; when walking on a road, pedestrians are to walk facing traffic. The two center lanes were for emergency vehicles.
Before the walk, I read the rules: running was not allowed during the walk, for safety reasons, but the first people we met coming from the opposite direction were running. “There not supposed to be running,” The grumpy lady complained. (I thought I had ditched her.)
The first person was a sole runner, followed by a man and woman running with American flags; one in colors to support police. It was beautiful how the rising sun in the east illuminated the flags. The walkers cheered for Old Glory, Well, all but one. The grumpy lady complained, “All these cops and not a one of them will lift a finger to bust these people breaking the rules….” I picked up my pace to put some distance between us. A few firefighters ran in full gear behind the flag. Even on a cool morning, they had to be hot!
I later learned that up to 700 people can pre-register to run from St. Ignace to Mackinaw City. They leave first so that there are no walkers ahead of them.
The grumpy lady was correct, there were a lot of officers on the bridge walk, and their moods were as festive as the walkers. Not far into the walk, I met a State Trooper, “There sure are a lot of Troopers here,” I said.
He nodded. “They bring us in from all over the state.”
“If y’all are up here on the bridge, who’s protecting the rest of Michigan,” I asked. “It seems if one was to speed on the highway, this would be the day.”
“Oh, there are plenty more of us, and we have friends keeping watch,” the officer replied. “Say, do I recognize you from the side of the road?” We shared a good laugh about that. I met the friendliest people in uniform that day.
Four more officers were gathered and chatting in a small group, three of them were on bicycles, I mentioned that no bikes were allowed on the bridge. “We’re special,” one of the cyclists replied. Another pointed at him, saying, “He’s real special.” We all had a good laugh about that, and then I purposed an offer to the quietest bicycle cop.     
“As a law-abiding citizen, I would never bribe a lawman,” I said. “So, this is not a bribe, it’s a legitimate business offer: I’ll give you five bucks, cash for your bicycle.” The officer smiled and politely declined. I upped my offer, “Ten bucks for the ride, and I promise to return it when I get back from the other side.” The officer laughed but again declined. He said the bike belonged to the taxpayers and it wasn’t his to sell. “Man, some people just can’t be bought,” I said shaking my head.
Another officer said, “You should have offered twenty. I’ll bet he would’ve caved at twenty and you’d be the first kid on your block to own a real police bicycle.” Then he quickly added, “At least legally.” The officers had a real hardy good laugh about that and one of them seemed to be blushing. I imagine there was a story behind that, and I would love to have learned it, but I had a long way to walk and more fun officers to meet.
Officer Dennis Maura looked like an ordinary cop. He wore a unform with full gear, an old-fashioned policeman’s cap with the hard bill, and a florescent green safety vest for visibility. But he didn’t need the vest to be seen. A small crowd was taunting him, ‘Do it again. Do it again.’ The officer waived them off, momentarily, and then he did it again, a cartwheel. I caught a bit on it on a video. It amazed me that his hat stayed on his head, but his radio microphone fell from his shoulder. As quickly as he came upright, he sprung the mic back up into his hand, and clipped it to his shoulder; almost like a kid doing a trick with a Duncan Yo-yo. Not only was Office Maura quite the gymnast, but he was also a talented Yo-yoer; or is it Yo-yoist? (Are those even words?)
When I came to the suspension section of the bridge, I looked down through the open grate surface. The green steel structure below looked surreal against the bright blue water. It reminded me of something I built with my Erector Set as a kid. I got on my hands and knees to take a photo through an opening in the grate. I wondered if that was how this bridge came to be; some young kid was playing with an Erector Set and dreamed of one day building a mighty bridge. My daze was interrupted by someone touching my shoulder. “Are you okay sir?” I turned to see an officer standing at my side. I assured the officer I was fine and was just taking a picture of the iron work below.
The cop politely told me, “You have to keep moving.” (Loitering is not allowed and I was there for a few minutes.) “Be careful getting up,” she cautioned while offering me a hand. I was okay; I stood up quickly and found myself stumbling – almost as if I were drunk! The officer grabbed my arm to steady me, “The bridge is moving a lot today,” she said and wished me well as I moved along. The bridge is designed to move but I hadn’t considered how much.
The event featured several turnaround points for folks who wanted to walk shorter distances. A turnaround at the peak of the bridge served people who wished to walk five miles but didn’t want the hassle of finding a ride back. This is the highest point on Mackinac Bridge. I spoke with a trooper posted there.
The Trooper rocked back and forth, from one foot to the other. I inquired if he was dancing or just keeping beat with the movement of the bridge. “It’s to keep me from throwing up,” he said. “This bridge sways enough to make a person sea-sick if they stand still up here for very long.” Then he pointed to my feet, “Look at you.” I was subconsciously moving back and forth also. I asked the trooper if he’d like to dance. “Sorry, my dance card is already full,” he laughed, and I moved on.
I had now crossed the midway point. “Two and half down, two and a half to go,” said a man walking next to me with his young daughter on his shoulders. He was about two feet on the open grate. “This is Meghan. It’s our first walk.” His daughter waved at me and said hello. In the process, she knocked her dad’s hat off his head. He nearly froze in place. Naturally, I bent down to pick up the ball cap and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think I could have done that.” The man went on to explain that he was scared to death of open grates. “I decided this year I would face my fear and walk over the grates, but if I look down, I doubt I’ll finish the walk.” He wasn’t the only one facing fear.
I paused alongside a man standing in the middle of the paved lane looking at the vertical cables. The cables were making a high-pitched squeaking noise, almost like a gate with rusty hinges but much louder. “The bridge feels like it’s moving,” he said, seeming a bit panicked. “Why are those cables screeching? Are they going to break? Is the bridge safe.” I chatted with the man long enough to learn that he was crossing the bridge trying to overcome his fear of heights. I wanted to put his mind at ease.
“The bridge is supposed to move. is very safe,” I said calmly, “And it’s” Then I told him, “Those cables are making music, they’re singing to you, inviting you to dance.” I walked with him for a while. Once we were off the suspension part of the bridge, his anxiety eased, and he seemed relieved. Meanwhile, I was buzzing! I soon reached the north end of the Mighty Mac. I turned and looked back at the bridge, “That was just awesome,” I said.
I began walking toward my motorcycle in the rest area. It wasn’t quite 9:00 yet and the bridge wouldn’t reopen to traffic until noon. I knew ahead of time I’d have at least a three hour wait. To pass the time, I planned to ride the motorcycle forty-five minutes north on I-75 to Sault Ste. Marie. I can spend hours watching boats and ships pass through the Soo Locks. Maybe it was the dopamine my brain was releasing but I was still feeling a great natural high from walking the bridge. I second-guessed my plan. I can go to the Soo Locks anytime. I looked at the clock and then glanced back at that The Mighty Mackinac Bridge. “My feet might end up hating me for this, but I’m going to do it.”
Come back next week, for the thirds and final segment: Double Crossed – The Way Back

Sometimes I have trouble understanding the words and lyrics singers are singing. For example, I always thought Gordon Lightfoot was saying ‘the big lake, they call it Shagumee.’ After listening to and singing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald my way for about 40 years, my wife laughed and told me “The big lake is called Gitche Gumee, not Shagumee.” I was certain she was mistaken, and I think we even placed a bet on the correct lyrics. Well, it turns out she was right, but that wasn’t the only song in which I was unclear of the lyrics.
I first heard of Mackinac City, in Bob Seger’s song Roll Me Away. The song is about taking off on his motorcycle without a destination, trying to find himself. I loved the concept and thought I’d like to follow his lead and find the city of which he sang, but I wasn’t positive about what he was saying in the song. 
I found the lyrics to Roll Me Away on the inside sleeve of Seger’s album The Distance; “…12 hours out of Mackinac City, stopped in a bar to have a brew.” That’s odd. In the song, I thought he was singing Mackinaw City, but according to the written lyrics, he was saying Mackinac City. 
Since the song was about Seger riding his big two-wheeler, I wanted to ride my motorcycle to see what was there but never figured out where it was; I didn’t even know what state to look for Mackinac City, and it bothered me for years. (Keep in mind this was prior to the internet.) The Beach Boys sang about a place called Kokomo, an island which didn’t exist; Maybe Mackinac City was Bob Seger’s fictious paradise. At any rate, I gave up pursuing the town.  
Many years later, I was looking for a different route to get from Silver Bay, Minnesota, to Pennsylvania; a route that would keep me out of Chicago. No matter what path I took, there were two big puddles that had to be dealt with: Lake Superior and Lake Michigan. 
Researching my options, I found I could take Highway 2 across northern Wisconsin into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Highway 2 eventually ran into I-75 and from there, it’s straight south to Toledo, Ohio. Although the route was longer, it would bypass Chicago, and it was well worth the extra miles. Besides, if I get caught in Chicago traffic, and I always seem to, I would save time on this alternate route. I’d never been to the UP, but had heard it is beautiful, so that was the route I would take. My only concern was how to cross the water between upper and lower Michigan. Is there a bridge or a ferry? I zoomed in on the map. 
“I see,” I said, while looking at the map. “From St. Ignace, I cross over the Mackinac Bridge, into Mackinaw City.” I stared at the map. “Wait a minute, Mackinac Bridge and Mackinaw City? Could this have something to do with the place Bob Seger mentioned in a song, some thirty-five years ago?” Old sparks rekindled into new flames, and I was excited once again about Mackinac City, albeit confused. Maybe the reason I couldn’t find this place was the spelling. Is it Mackinac, or Mackinaw? I’ll try to unpack this; it’s an international, historical mess.
The Indians thought Mackinac Island was shaped like a big turtle and first named it Michilimackinac, meaning big turtle. The French later used the island as a fur trading post and shortened the name to Mackinac Island. In the French language, the last C is silent, thus it was pronounced it Mack-in-naw. 
Later, came the British, who built a fort at what is today, Mackinaw City. But the British spelled their new fort the way it was pronounced: Mackinaw, with a W not a C. The French and Brits pronounced it the same, they just spell it differently. Anyway, during the American Revolution, the British thought Fort Mackinaw was too vulnerable to attack by the colonist, and moved the fort to Michilimackinac Island, and named it Fort Mackinac…with a C, not a W. Good Lord, this is giving me a headache. No wonder I couldn’t find the town. 
I was becoming passionate about this trip that would take me through Mackinaw City for the first time. Unfortunately, because my departure was late, I would be crossing the Mackinac Bridge after dark. So, I pulled onto the shoulder of Highway 2, along the north shore of Lake Michigan, and stopped for the night. I set my alarm to get up at the crack of dawn. I rolled down the window and fell asleep to the sounds of the waves rolling into the shore. I hoped I would catch a sunrise over the bridge, but I slept through the alarm.
The warm sun shining on my face eventually woke me. I didn’t drive long before I was awestruck by my first sight of the bridge. Amazing! I was instantly taken by her majestic stance. The bridge was tall with two massive towers. Huge cables spanned between the towers and then back to the approaches on each end, connecting them to land. I was in awe.
I paid for my toll and drove across the bridge. The approaches are paved, but when you get to the suspended part of the bridge, the center lanes have open grates. I moved to the center lane; I loved listening to the sound of my tires rolling over the steel grates. I turned around in the town and drove back north across again. After I paid my four-dollar toll, I stopped in an area with a view to admire the bridge. Finally, I paid a third toll and crossed one more time to resume my journey eastward. I was in love!
I liked Gordon Lightfoot’s song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It had been nearly forty years since that boat sank deep into Lake Superior, which seemed like ancient history. But now, living by Lake Superior, I’ve met people who had relatives or friends working on the Fitz. The ships sinking took on a new perspective, far more meaningful than just a page from a history book. I wanted to learn everything I could about The Fitzgerald. Now, seeing the Mackinac Bridge for the first time, I wanted to learn everything I could about it
Construction began in May of 1954 and the Mighty Mac, or Big Mac as it is known, was open to traffic on November 1, 1957. Not only is she the longest suspension bridge in North America, it is also the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere. At five miles long, Mackinac Bridge is almost three times as long as the Golden Gate Bridge.
I had walked across the Golden Gate Bridge a few different times; now I wanted to walk the Mackinac Bridge. The bridge has very narrow sidewalks on each side, not suitable for foot traffic. But I soon learned that daily foot traffic (including bicycles) is not and never was allowed. But what about motorcycles? They must be allowed cycles; Bob Seger rode his motorcycle across this bridge, and now I wanted to ride mine over this beauty. In my research I learned the bridge is open one day each year to pedestrians. I immediately told Melissa, “I want to walk the Mackinac Bridge on Labor Day.”
“We can’t,” she replied. “We already have plans to go camping.” I suggested that we could change our camping destination to Mackinaw City. “There’s a lot of difference between driving an hour to Grand Marais and driving nine hours to Mackinaw City.” I wasn’t going to change her mind – at least not this year.
Over the next several years I had multiple occasions to cross Big Mac; each time increased my desire to walk that bridge. Finally, in 2023 I booked a campground and committed to the walk. Unfortunately, a family situation caused me to cancel. “I’m going next year, no matter what,” I told my wife.
In early March, I shared my plan to book a campsite in Mackinaw City and walk the bridge on Labor Day. “I’m not thrilled about the idea,” she said. “But we’ll see.” A few weeks before, I reminded my wife about the trip to Mackinaw City. “You can’t go now,” she said. “You’ll never get a motel room, or a campsite at this late date.” 
“I reserved a campsite last March,” I said. Despite my advanced planning, she was not onboard with the idea. 
“Traveling eighteen hours round trip, to walk five miles across a bridge with 35,000 strangers, doesn’t sound like fun to me,” she said. “And how are you going to get back across the bridge? They don’t offer any kind of shuttle or transportation.” I already figured that out, too. This trip was going to be a classic adventure, but I would be going alone. Well, Nova and I would go alone, we set out for Mackinaw City on Saturday afternoon….

To be continued next week; Double Crossed – The Walk.

In the fall of 2016, we pulled our Scamp fifth wheel halfway across the country on our way to Prince Edward Island, Canada. Along the way we stopped in Bar Harbor, Maine. For those who have never been there, there are no Rs when pronouncing Bar Harbor; it’s Bah Hah Bah. (The locals will help you if you pronounce it wrong.)
Two years ago, in Treasure Island, Florida, while walking our dog Nova Mae, I met a nice police officer. We struck up a conversation and I asked if he was native to the area. “No, I’m not sure anyone is from here,” he laughed. “All the people I know have moved here from other parts of the country,” he said. “I’m from Bar Harbor, Maine, myself.” He pronounced the Rs.
Since I’ve been there a few times now, I had to question him. “You pronounced the Rs. Are you really from Bar Harbor?”
“Yes,” he assured me. “I’ve been down here long enough to have lost my down east accent, but I am from Bah Hah Bah.” We shared a good laugh about that and then discussed the best places on the island to buy lobster. “I can tell you the lobster is much better in Maine than it is in Florida.” We shared another good laugh about that, and then Nova and I went on our way and let the man do his work. While in Bar Harbor, we got good advice from the campground host where to go for the best lobster.
“Where do you suggest we go for the best lobster without paying a fortune,” I asked our host. “Where do the local people go?” 
The campground host sent us to a restaurant downtown, on the water. “You’ll get good lobster anyplace in Bar Harbor,” he said. “But you’ll pay more in the downtown area.” We took his advice and tried the restaurant downtown. 
We both ordered the lobster dinner, which came with corn on the cob, roasted potatoes and garlic bread. When the waitress returned to our table, asking how our meal was tasting, I told her this was the first time I’d ever had lobster in Maine, and it was clearly the best I’d ever had. “And how about that corn on the cob? Isn’t that just the best in the world,” she commented. I smiled.
“We’re from southern Iowa,” I said. “You won’t find better corn anywhere than that which comes from the mid-west.” I probably should have stopped talking, but went on to say, “This sweet corn is very comparable to our field corn.” When she asked, I told her field corn was raised to feed the animals. But I quickly added, “The lobster we get in Iowa doesn’t hold a candle to this! This is amazing!” The smile returned to her face.
We ran into the host the next day and thanked him for his recommendation of the restaurant. I told him that the lobster was amazing. “If you think that was good, you ought to try Thurston’s Lobster Pound in Bernard, on the other side of the island. It’s a bit of a drive, but well worth it in my opinion.” The next day, we headed to Thurston’s for an incredible lobster lunch on the pier. As good as the lobster was in Bar Harbor, Maine, we found something even better! We returned to our Scamp and fed June her dinner before taking an evening walk. 
While on our walk, we ran into a real nice couple at their campsite and struck up conversation. Pete and Karen were their names. “Are you the couple that’s in that Scamp,” Pete asked. I told him we were. Our new friends had a slide in camper in their pickup. “We’ve been thinking about a different camper,” he said. “This is nice, but unless we unload the camper, we have to breakdown our campsite every time we want to go sightseeing.” 
I don’t honestly remember if Pete asked or if I offered, but we invited Pete and Karen to come see our Scamp. I could tell Melissa was a bit nervous about having company, not feeling like we were ready for company. “Just give us a couple of minutes to tidy up and make sure I didn’t leave my unmentionables laying in the middle of the floor,” I said. 
Pete and Karen really liked the Scamp. Melissa really liked Pete and Karen. We exchanged contact information to keep in touch. “Let us know if you ever decide to sell it,” Pete said. Eventually, Pete and Karen drove to northern Minnesota to buy our Scamp. We had them stay at the house with us, not as buyers, but as our house guests – friends. Since then, Melissa and I have visited Pete and Karen at their place in Virginia and stayed at their house. The Morrison’s are really neat people. They were both nurses; Pete was a helicopter life-flight nurse, and Karen worked in hospitals. Both have a great sense of humor.
Karen told us a story about a patient who was very demanding. “One day, when my shift was unusually busy and we were short-handed, this patient complained, ‘You’re late with my medicine.’ I explained it was not a time sensitive medication and they would be okay. But they kept complaining. ‘You’re five minutes late with my medicine.’ I finally turned around and said, ‘I know I’m a few minutes late, but did ya die?’” I thought I was going to die when she said that because I was laughing so hard! We visited them again at their farm. Anytime I complain about something, usually small and petty, Karen will quickly ask, “But did ya die?” It cracks me up every time she says that.
Despite the distance between northern Minnesota and south central Virgina, we’ve come to know the Morrison’s quite well. They have a hobby farm with a lot of goats. They also have cows, pigs, chickens, and I think a couple of sheep. For all I know, they might have lions and tigers and bears, by now - O my, but mostly goats. They have a couple of large
Great Pyrenees dogs to protect the herd. “Tom, stay a few feet back from the fence if you go near the goats,” Karen warned. “The dogs don’t really like men.” I asked why and she replied, “Who steals goats in the middle of the night, men or women?”  I guess that makes sense. But what about Pete? Do the dogs like Pete? 
“They keep a close eye on me when I’m around the goats, and I keep a close eye on them, too” Pete said. We shared a good laugh about that. I’ve come to learn there isn’t much Pete can’t do.
One time, I saw photos of Pete and Karen spinning honey, on their Facebook page. Come to find out, there was a swarm of bees in a tree. Pete (with proper attire) stood in the front bucket of their tractor. Karen raised the bucket so Pete could reach the bees. He retrieved the swarm and relocated them to a hive. Now, I am not afraid of bees, but I don’t go moving their homes, either! Since then, Pete has developed more hives and has become quite the beekeeper, which has been good for us. They’ve shared jars of honey with us on a couple of occasions, and it is the best I’ve ever had. In exchange, I will send cookies and such, but I know we’re getting the better end of the deal. Karen can bake, but I can’t make honey.
Sometime last year, we ran completely out of their honey. I offered to buy some from Morrison’s, but Pete said it had been a dry year, and the bees didn’t produce much. “We left what little honey they had in the hives for the bees to eat over the winter. We didn’t get any honey this year.” Boy, that was disappointing. What would we do without their fresh honey? We would be forced to return to store bought stuff. Karen assured me that I would be okay, but it was a long winter without our stash of honey. But I had bigger things to worry about than honey. I have a Scamp I need to get ready to sell. 
Yesterday, I was working on a Scamp in the driveway. The red stripes are faded, so I ordered new decals from Michelle at Scamp. “Those might still go out in the mail today,” she told me.
This morning there was a package by the mailbox. “There’s no way those decals could be here already,” I said. “I just ordered them yesterday.” Nova Mae and I walked swiftly in anticipation of finding my parts. The box label was facedown, and I was disappointed when I picked up the package; it was way too heavy to be Scamp decals. “It’s probably just shampoo and dish soap that Melissa ordered.” Carrying the box inside, I turned it over to read the label. I smiled and hurried to the house; the package was from the Morrison’s.
Before I even opened the box, I set the oven to 450° and pulled out the flour. I opened the fridge, “Darn, no buttermilk. Oh well, I’ll improvise” I said, and pulled out the heavy whipping cream. The dough texture was off, but in record time I had a sheet of biscuits in the oven. Next, I got a knife to open the package. “I’m going to be bummed if Pete sent me a box of Virginia rocks,” I said.
I dug through the Styrofoam peanuts and pulled out two jars of the best honey in the world! “Come to Papa,” I said to the honey. Melissa pulled out an envelope with a nice card from the package and read it to me. I pulled the biscuits from the oven, while thinking how long I had suffered with store bought honey. Just then Melissa showed me an embroidered patch that was in with the card (I’m sure it was from Karen), it read, “But Did You Die?” I had to laugh! I’m going to find a place to put that patch to remind me not to complain about the little things in life. 
I drizzled honey over a warm biscuit and took a bite. The honey was amazing! The biscuits had good flavor, but they were a little over baked and a bit flat, probably the difference between whipping cream and buttermilk. I smiled, because in my mind I heard Karen saying, “But did ya die?” Come to think of it, the biscuits were fine, too – so I had another

The leaves are beginning to change color. Temperatures are getting cooler. Dew gathers daily on the windshield of my car and a morning walk through the grass will get your shoes wet. As chilly weather sets in, so does the desire for a fire in the woodstove and a pot of chili simmering in the kitchen.
I like to make big pots of chili. We’ll eat some for our meal, put some in the refrigerator for lunches the next day, and a few quarts in the freezer for another day.
Through a combined series of misfortunes, distractions and sheer stupidity, I managed to burn two gallons of homemade chili in the pot. Sometimes I can recover the chili in the pan if I don’t disturb the burned chili on the bottom. But, this time, I really scorched it and that nasty charred flavor made its way through the whole batch.
I threw away the chili and scraped an inch of burned beans, meat and tomatoes from the bottom of the pan, exposing the hard, burned black stuff. Charcoal had nothing over the floor of this pan. I put some soap and water in the pan and left it to soak overnight.
I went back the following day and looked into the pan to assess the damage and see if the pot could be recovered. I tried to scrape the bottom with a spoon, but it was so charred I decided to just throw the pot away.
That’s when it happened. I heard my mother’s voice saying, “Don’t you dare! You get over to that sink and clean that pan right now.”
I sassed right back, "You can't tell me what to do. I am an adult now!" As I scrubbed on the pan, I tried to reason with her, “Look at this mess – let’s just throw the pan away and get another one.”
It was a fairly expensive pot, a nice stainless steel ten-quart pot with sturdy side handles and a vented glass lid. My wife bought it for me as a gift. I was sure it was ruined. “Keep scrubbing.” I heard the voice say.
“It’s not coming out” was my plea of defense.
“Use Comet” she replied.
I argued; “but it’s…”
“SCRUB!”
I scrubbed and scrubbed that pan with Comet and a green scratchy pad. I rinsed the pan, feeling it was clean enough and started to put it in the strainer, when the voice clarified “It is not clean. There is still more in the pan.” I thought again about throwing it out, but I was certain she was watching from somewhere around the corner to assure that didn’t happen.
After the final scrubbing, I rinsed the pan. I saw the bottom of a once again shiny stainless-steel pan. I am sure I felt a warm hand on my shoulder as I heard a softer voice asking; “Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t throw away that perfectly good pan?”
I took a quick look over my shoulder. No one was there. My fingertips were tender from scrubbing with the abrasives; my wrist ached a bit from the odd angle used reaching into the deep pot. I quipped to myself, “People should not be able to talk from the grave.”
The voice replied, “I heard that, too.”
As I dried the pan I thought about how much I miss those days in the kitchen with my mom and the lessons she taught me. They were lessons about cooking and cleaning, right from wrong, living, loving and believing.
It’s been over 25 years now since she passed away. From time to time, she still stops into my kitchen, offering me some remedial training. You know, people like Mom, who passed before us, don’t really talk from the grave – but they do continue to speak through the heart.
Melissa walked into the kitchen. I smiled showing her the pan and proudly said, “Look, I got it clean.”