Dog-Fighting Configuration

Jake with ears retracted for aerodynamic stability at high speeds.

Mary & More Mary

My sister, and that other Mary. She didn't always dress like that, it was Halloween. My sister, I mean, not that other Mary. She does always dress like that.

Potential Poi

Taro farm, Hawaii.

The Fastback Fish

Mom's 1968 Plymouth Barracuda, when it was brand-shiny-new. What a cool ride.

No Caramel In My Psychoactive Drink, Please

I was never really a coffee person until I had children. I loved the smell, but I had to put all kinds of sugar and creamer into it to make it drinkable for me. And it made me nervous and jittery since I wasn't used to it.

Lately however, this has all changed. I have developed a love for pure, unadulterated, black coffee. It has to be pretty good quality, since there is nothing to hide flaws in bare naked black coffee. But I finally consider myself a coffee drinker. And I have to admit I love when I am asked the inevitable question "cream or sugar?". I look the waitress in the eye, squint, and say in my best Clint Eastwood voice: "Black." Everyone in the room looks to see who the masochist is.

That's because nobody drinks black coffee in America anymore. In fact, much of what passes for coffee now is really a 650-calorie warm coffee-flavored milkshake.

Caramel? Chocolate? Nuts? Whipped cream? In COFFEE? I don't think so.

No, count me among the few purists carrying the torch of ages past, when coffee was coffee and a caramel sundae was...well...dessert.

40

It's Brian's 40th Birthday today! Good-bye "thirtysomething", hello back pain, heating pads, and Viagra!

Strangling Both Ends

Brian and I, with poor innocent cat.

Note: No cats were harmed in the filming of this blog.

P.S. Yes, I know, nice pants.

Lazy Saturday

We enjoyed a lazy Saturday morning in downtown Royal Oak. "People Watching" in Royal Oak is always interesting, you see some crazy things. And occasionally, a cute furry thing.

Clicking And Banging

As you can see, I have always had a fondness for both photography and music.

Mummy Math

Have you ever had to estimate the size of urn you'll need to hold someone's ashes? Believe it or not, there is a guideline for just such a grisly calculation. In this case, I want to get something for our departed dog Willie.

The first thing you learn is that there is a generally accepted word for the ashes of a loved one: Cremains. So, now that we have proper terminology in place, how do we go about this math? Let's get it over with...

According to one website that sells urns:

"Calculate one cubic inch of urn size for every pound of body weight. The average adult size is 180 cu inches."

Yikes, pondering it, I realize that most of us have a volume of potential ashes in us equivalent to the displacement of a small V6 engine. Kind of unsettling.

Of course:

"Some families prefer multiple urns so a loved one's ashes can be divided among family members. Using multiple urns means the ashes may be interned in several locations."

Wouldn't you always wonder if you got most of Grandpa's hip bone or hand, while your brother got the majority of his skull? I would.

In Willie's case, he was about 50 lbs, so the morbid rule of thumb gives us 50 cubic inches of cremains.

Reading further, I see they can provide what we need:

"Small urn sizes are available for pets."

Ok, good stuff. But the next line is somewhat shocking:

"Very large urns (1500 cu. inches) are available for equine use."

Can you just imagine having a garbage-can-sized barrel of your ex-thoroughbred's ashes on your mantle? Me either.

Perhaps spreading Willie's ashes would be better. Then he would be free, and we wouldn't have to think of him in "that jar" all the time. We'll see...it's Heather's choice.

"Intellects Vast And Cool And Unsympathetic"

I like reading to Zach at night. I get to introduce him to books that I love, usually old classic novels. And I love to see his wide-eyed wonder at hearing the story of Moby Dick or 20,000 leagues Under The Sea for the first time. It's like watching a little light go on. We just finished War Of The Worlds. He really liked that one. He set about building Martian pods and heat rays out of Lego's right away. Next up is The Hobbit.

A Life Well Lived

A 1920's-era REO sedan. I love old, rusted, broken-down things. They have such amazing stories. Or, they would have if they could see and remember and talk anyhow. I like to wonder what exotic times and places they have seen in their long lives, before coming to rest forever in some junk yard or dump. There was a time when this old car was new and proud, with a family that liked to show it off and take it on long sunny sunday afternoon drives. But that was long ago. Much has happened since then, to the car and to the world.

I think it is still a proud thing, this old car. It alone knows what it has been through, good and bad. And it's not telling. I think that's a little bit of a Mona Lisa smile I see on it. Or perhaps a hint of a wink.

Pitching Practice

We've been testing the tents too. This one seems to be doing its job of keeping the bugs out and the Zach in.

A Maddie On Her Back

Maddie is also on her way to hiking bliss, showing off her new luxury traveling pack. She loved it, smiling and playing with Heather's hair the whole time.

GORP

Zach showing off his Zion gear on a recent tryout. We're steadily getting ready for Utah. I only hope Utah is getting ready for us. Zach is excited about helping us make the GORP. If you don't know what GORP is, you should really get outdoors more :)

A Zoo, But Not In Mexico

Heather at the zoo last weekend.

Full Circle

Remember when life was simple? You got up in the morning and breakfast was all ready for you. After that, leave the mess at the table and head straight to the living room for some serious play. Maybe go outside if the day is nice and play some more. Then mom makes a nice lunch which you eat without a thought about how it got there. It's all fun, magical even. After lunch more play and maybe a nap. Then up for goofing around again before dinner. Outside after dinner for some bike riding and ball playing. Bath time with toy boats, where your every need is attended to by mom, even behind-ear washing. Bed time, ready for stories of far off lands and sleepiness turning to sleep...sleep to recharge the batteries for tomorrow's long day of play.

Not a care in the world.

Remember that? What ever happened to it? I know it's gone, but where did it go?

It didn't disappear, it just got passed along.

I see my kids play, now that they are in that time of life and I am out of it, and I am glad I can give it to them. I wonder if they have the slightest clue that it will end one day for them too? I hope not. I would hate to ruin it. Let them enjoy it. One day this will go full circle and they will smile when they see their children playing without fears or cares.

Schmoco

Coco, thinking up the next mischievous act she will unleash upon the world.

Tongues

Zach, practicing during a recent lesson at serpent school.

Tools Of The Tide

Surfboards, Waikiki Beach, Oahu.

Burggarten, Vienna, Austria 1977.

My father, dressed in his 70's splendor, seems to be saying to my mother "You're going to have to tilt the camera up if you want to get Johann's head in the frame."

"Dude's Car Got A Little Ding'd Up..."

Spring of 1983, on my way to the record store in the rain to get some concert tickets ("Drove downtown in the rain..."). A big old Chrysler ran a red light and hit me. My first car, a 1974 Dodge Dart Sport V8. Crunched. It was a sad day.

Another Kind Of Eye

A caiman watches with astonishing stillness, Detroit Zoo.

The Good Times Do Indeed Roll

We got a new jogging stroller. Technically, you are not supposed to roller blade while pushing it, but Heather is coordinated enough to get away with it. Maddie loves it, this thing really rolls! We took it out for a test ride to the gas station to buy some air for the tires (remember when air was free?). Maddie had a big grin on her pudgy little face, indicating her approval.

Also, Jake, who has been a little jumpy on his trigger-paw when it comes to protecting Maddie from other dogs and people, was very calm too. A good sign. No jogger's throats were torn out, and he hardly noticed all the dogs we passed. Note: squirrels must still beware.

Speaking Of Bellies And Buttons...

Heather starts her belly dancing class this week!

The Big Bad Button

When Heather was pregnant it became increasingly harder for her to turn off her reading light in bed. Just rolling over was an event of some magnitude with her MaddieBelly in place. So I set up a system that ran both bedside lamps through a Christmas tree footswitch, and hung the switch by my side of the bed. Then, one press and both lights would go on or off. The Big Bad Button, as Heather calls it, was so convenient for both of us that we still use it.

1958

This is my wonderful sister. I wonder if she had any idea back then that she would one day hike the Grand Canyon and Zion with her little brothers who wouldn't be born for another seven and nine years. Or that she would live in Harbor Springs one day. Or that Harbor Springs even existed.

Temporary Insanity

Jake, in the grips of something profound.

Summer Of '69

This is me, in 1969. No, I didn't still need training wheels by then. It was just for the effect.

"My Neck Is On Fire, How Are You?"

Pentwater. Charles Mears State Park. We went there almost every summer. We had a 19-foot trailer that was our home for the week. My cousins would often go at the same time, and we would have a blast. I have a million vivid memories of this place, perhaps more than any other place.

Heather's family also went there. I wonder if we ever met there, on the beach, or in the candy store. That would be crazy cool.

The trips happened thirty years ago, but I remember so many of the details so well. Here are a few scraps floating around in my head:

- After a couple seconds of complete confusion, I felt the cold embrace of Lake Michigan replace the hot feet and sun of the concrete pier. I never even heard the splash. Small fish, by the millions, swarmed around my body and leapt from the water in a mass panic. My feet hit the sandy bottom, telling me I wasn't in over my head. Laughter, from Brian and my cousins. There was no climbing out, the water level was well below the concrete top of the pier. Better to just walk in to shore.

- Running down Old Baldy, at a pace that was too fast for my legs to keep up with. Using all my visual power to avoid the sharp sticks implanted in the hot sand. They will hurt ya, bad. Running, running. Through some shade near the bottom, the sand felt cold in comparison to its sunny neighborhood. Sometimes falling, then you get to feel the sticks in your back. At the bottom, only one thing to do: climb back up for more.

- A sound louder than any I have ever heard came from the sky, like a banshee from hell. I ran toward the water, and as the seconds turned into hours and the volume became unbearable, I hit the sand like a soldier, face down. A jet fighter strafed the beach, just a hundred feet or so off the sand. Very fast, in ten seconds it was gone. I still think of it whenever I hear a jet engine.

- Keeping freshwater crayfish in a Styrofoam cup in the shade near the trailer. Sinking a nine-volt battery into the water of the cup, contacts down. The crayfish exploded into action and tumbled in the cup. Then they relaxed. Did they really get a shock from the battery, or did they just panic from a foreign object being thrust into their home? I still wonder. Even learning about electrolytes in college didn't really solve this one.

- Walking to the candy store, for the third time today. Got some more money from Mom, thank goodness. On the way a little boy my age is making the same trek. The parking lot asphalt is hot and there are sharp little rocks that hurt my feet terribly. I walk like a cripple. The other little boy has no problem with the rocks. He never wears shoes, he says, and so his feet are "used to the ground". He even demonstrates by pounding the ground with his foot. He is from the south, Mississippi, I think. Once at the store, we competed for the "Squirrels", "Mary Janes", and other tasty treats. This will keep us good for a couple more hours until it is time to see Mom again for more money. We knew the store hours by heart, indeed it was the only application in my entire childhood that provided a real use for knowing how to tell time.

- Fishing in a hole near town, at the base of the pier inlet. The water had a slick of oil on it that danced in a rainbow of colors under the sunlight. Every time a boat went by it smelled strongly of gasoline. I wondered where they were going to, all those boats. I had a fishing box full of lures and sinkers, extra line and rubber worms. I caught a small fish and pulled on the pole so hard out of excitement that I yanked the hook out - along with the fish's mouth, guts, and spine. I never saw the actual body of the fish, it stayed behind in the water. I didn't know fishing was like that, exactly.

- At the basement workbench at home before our trip, we created a whole array of instruments and tools we could use on a raft to get water depth and temperature, and to bring up sand samples from the mucky bottom far below for further analysis. We had a small anchor too, so our research vessel didn't drift away from our experiments. We never used any of it, because we didn't really want to go that far out, where the water is dark green and things might be alive below us...big things with eyes that are dull and black.

- Bill's Dune Rides, back when a thrill ride really was a thrill ride. Back before "liability" in other words. Riding in the big smelly V8 Dodge Power Wagons, with their huge smooth tires, purposely low on air. One giant useless lap belt stretched across four people on each wooden bench seat. Driving fast across the dunes, the sand burning our eyes. Listening to the shirtless long-haired driver talk through the tinny intercom about the sand dunes of Silver Lake and how they move and all about the cars all buried on top of each other, seventeen high. Which was all just a big distraction to give better effect to the sudden changes in direction, jumps, and backwards-downhill runs that gave the special ride it's name. And who could forget the obligatory rude drenching in the lake that everyone knew was coming but for which we were never really prepared?

- Roasting marshmallows at the campfire. We had metal skewers, but liked to make sharpened sticks instead, because it was more like camping and you got to use a knife. The roasting was serious business because there is a small margin for error. Too little and you've accomplished nothing, too much and you have a lump of sweet charcoal. My Dad was the unchallenged master of "mashmallowing", consistently producing the most gorgeous evenly light-brown treats - light as air and perfectly crispy. Ours were usually raw on one side and alight on the other. My brother Brian had a blistering flamer going once and in the process of waving the skewer in the air frantically to put it out, had the marshmallow soar off and stick to my Dad's neck. It was painful, judging by the scene that followed.

- Making patterns in the night air with waving sparklers, the sulfur smell everywhere, and the crackling sound completing the ambiance. We would run into the darkness and inevitably step on something really sharp in the sand: sometimes, ironically, a wiry old sparkler. This temporarily paused the fun, and added the possibility of tetanus to the festivities.

Some memories are more fragmented:

- Dad made me a sand board one year for riding down the dines. We waxed it up and it was fun, but somehow never as fast as I thought it should be.

- Seaweed in the lake, and the fish that lived in it. I hated the way it felt on my feet, and I avoided it. It wasn't until many years later, at a sushi bar, that I made peace with seaweed.

- An old smokehouse down the road that sold smoked fish that smelled strange and wonderful and weird all at once.

- Having a new respect for the pier and waves after learning that a boy drowned there the previous year.

- Wondering what the difference between "non-potable" water and regular water was, but not wondering enough to try some.

- Rolling big rocks down the forested hills, at great speed. Trying not to hit the tents down there, but wondering what would happen if we did.

Sea Monkey Hill

We were camping one year at a public campgrounds, I think it was Hoffmaster State Park, near Muskegon. Brian and I were heavily invested in a tree climbing hobby at the time, and, although there were no good climbing trees, we found a huge set of cliffs that looked dangerous, steep, and very scary.

In other words, they had to be scaled.

We didn't know the first thing about repelling, and our gear was homemade. But we had something better: ignorance. Neither of us had any real experience with horrible permanent injuries in real life. And we didn't even know what "C2 complete tetraplegia" was. So we had no idea what could have awaited us if we slipped.

There was an annoying red-haired boy there, who seemed to be devoid of any sort of parental supervision. He hounded us relentlessly, following us everywhere, even into the bathroom. We just couldn't lose him. He was all over us like a cheap suit. The cliffs were a sort of remote escape, hopefully he wouldn't find out about them.

We decided to name the cliffs we intended to scale. We gave them names based on what rewards we would give ourselves if we succeeded in climbing them. This is the story of "Sea Monkey Hill".

Everyone who is over the age of 30 remembers the ads for Sea Monkeys in the backs of comic books. They were depicted as tiny trident-wielding watery elves, complete with tools, societies, heck, even a king and queen. So they must be amazing creatures, we thought, perhaps capable of anything. The very informative advertisement said they could even be trained! We tried to imagine what a Sea Monkey training regimen would look like.

Sea Monkey Hill was difficult to climb, to say the least. We were pretty much on the verge of falling the whole time. Like leaning back on a chair and just catching yourself before you fall over backwards. Worse, our red-haired nemesis found us and started pestering us again. In fact, he tried to scale Sea Monkey Hill behind us. This slap-in-the-face gesture could not stand, clearly. We don't share Sea Monkey glories.

The details are a bit fuzzy, but Brian and I were standing atop the cliff watching "Red" climb, and just as he got a hand on the surface of the ground above the cliff, one or more of us may have casually stood on it. Accidentally, of course. Entirely the fault of gravity, therefore, Red fell and took quite a beating from the cruel terrain. We didn't see much of Red after that. Such is the way of childhood for boys. It's not something we are proud of, but it could have been much worse. It could have been us plummeting down the gravelly chasm to an uncertain future.

Anyhow, we made it up. So the reward was ours to clip, send, and receive. We ordered them as soon as we got home from the trip.

After an agonizing and unreasonable processing delay, we finally got our Sea Monkeys. There was a small tank, the Sea Monkey packet (don't eat it! You'll get Monkeys), a food packet, and even a small spoon to feed them with. Things were getting exciting! We followed the directions and, after a few days of almost inhuman anticipation, our Sea Monkeys finally appeared in the water.

Talk about false advertising. Sea Monkeys aren't really monkeys at all. In fact, being in reality a small species of salt-flat brine shrimp, they don't even come from the sea. There are no tridents, no crowns, no castles. No accouterments of any kind, as far as I could tell. There was no Sea Monkey language, and no discernible culture. Training, sadly, would prove to be impossible. On top of that, they smelled terrible.

So, we climbed a dangerous mountain and waited 6-8 weeks for delivery of a small colony of fish food that we had to grow ourselves, nearly killing an annoying but otherwise innocent little boy in the process.

Ahhh, but we'll always have Sea Monkey Hill.

Heather Talks Maddie

I would like to share Heather's latest monthly Maddie update letter and picture on here for everyone. Call it my first guest post. Enjoy...

Hi again everyone! Maddie is 9 months already--hard to believe:) She is a busy little one. She has perfected crawling and creeping on the furniture. We cannot stop her from standing up on everything possible. She can stand unsupported for about 5-10 seconds. She is going to be walking very soon! She still only has 2 teeth. I think she's been too busy exploring the world to waste her time growing more teeth :) She loves to eat, but not so much the baby food anymore. Now she'll have whatever you're having. She loves her daddy's cooking (who doesn't?). She hates having her face washed, putting her arms into her sleeves and sleeping (yes, we are always tired here at casa de Wild). I cannot wait to have her put her feet on the warm green grass and play at the park as soon as its warm enough. All in all we have a beautiful, fun, healthy and happy 9 month old:)

Next month its double digits baby!

Heather

Wet

Brian, after diving, Key West.

A Hands-On Approach

Pellegrino Princess

Lisa, well hydrated and ready to go.

The Only Cat That Likes Water

Tiger, after a swim, Detroit Zoo

Motivation

Maddie wants to walk. It's pretty obvious. She can crawl like a spider and stand like a tree. I think one day soon she'll just look up at us with a toothy smirk and stride off across the floor. That's when the real fun will begin...

Maia

Heather is a wonderful mother. I knew she would be. She seems to get it naturally. Oh, we have all the baby books and she has read many pages in bleary-eyed late-night no-sleep fests. But what she has doesn't come from books. She just naturally knows what to do, and although she doesn't always see it, everyone else does.

Mexican Accents

Fins

Style, 50's style.

Green Chaos

Waves. Go see some. It's worth it.

Still Shining

Tail light and bumper, Model T.

Ears Of Expression

Jake, Canis lupus familiaris

Chewing On Remotes

Maddie has been using her two teeth for all kinds of guinea-pig-like chewing. She has made short work of her crib sides, they look like a bear used them as a scratching log. We are trying to imagine what kind of things she could chew through if she had some top teeth. Makes us shudder. Coco has some serious competition, whether she knows it or not.

Maddie has also acquired an interest in electronic components, especially the fragile ones. I think she knows they are out-of-bounds, and that makes them especially juicy and desirable. Her toys, meanwhile, are not quite as "in-demand". I think all this means that she will either be an electrical engineer or a gopher when she grows up. I am torn, engineering pays better, but gophers get more respect.

Stuff That's Not David

There is an apocryphal story that one day the Pope came to visit Michelangelo in his studio while he was sculpting his "David". The Pope marveled at the partially completed work, and asked, "How do you know what to cut away?"

Michelangelo's response was, "It's simple. I just remove everything that doesn't look like David."

"I Want To Put A Dent In The Universe"

Zach has an arm. I mean, this kid can hurl a baseball. I did too as a kid, I pitched in Little Leagues and I was very fast. And sometimes very wild. Fast and wild together is a scary thing for batters, and as we recently found out, for Explorers. Zach and I were tossing the old bean around in the front yard and he wound up and tossed me a flamer that went wild to the right and banged the Explorer like it was hit with a sledge hammer. Loud thud, then silence. The car actually shook.

Although I didn't really want to know, inspection revealed a nice sized dent in the c-pillar area. Lesson learned: play catch in the park, away from nervous cars.

Vermicious Kid

Zach loves slimy things. I know, it's common with little boys, but I think this boy should be awarded an honorary doctorate in slimology. Our house is full of the most disgustingly creepy, cold wiggling things this side of the everglades. And they get paraded all over, sometimes coming to rest on the back of a neck, making us jump in horror. Other times they are just left on a chair to stick to an unsuspecting rear-end a little later in the day.

He has a vast array of slimy things: eyes, hands, and other body parts, bugs, snakes, worms, as well as many indeterminate, more horrifying forms. Basically, giant blobs of goo in all colors, but mostly a sickly tone of grey-green, pregnant with accumulated dirt and dog hair (this adds to their charm, of course).

And he never gets tired of these things. He will ogle and handle them for hours on end. We have a very strict ban on slimy, germ-infested things at the dinner table, but it doesn't stop him from trying to smuggle them in occasionally.

Maybe it's a phase. Or maybe we have the makings of a career here. Just don't talk about work at supper, ok, Z?

Baby Marketing & Feature Comparison 101

Today is our turn to host our parenting group. In case you have never been in one, a parenting group consists of ten or so couples who have recently had babies. The group meets once a week to compare baby features and milestones. Expect to be grilled on exactly what attributes your baby has acquired since last meeting, and get ready to defend yourself if you get caught in a hail of jealousy because your child happened to do some tiny thing early.

Of course our child is the best and cutest of all. Just ask us. Seriously though, we are far more laid back and non-competitive than the other children's handlers. I mean, parents. We realize babies do things at different rates and we don't get upset if Baby A rolls over to the left two days before Maddie tries it. I wish I could say the same for the other parents. Sometimes jealousy rears its ugly head and looks around the room for targets.

The other thing we do is worry about things. Generally, some parent will come in all worked up about some new Bad Thing that they read about on the web and everyone in the room imagines their babies with this affliction/malady/tragedy. This leads to other consequences and pretty soon a chain reaction of worry flows evenly through the room like the wave at a football game.

Oh, we also have dinner and a guest speaker, but those things are purely fluff to decorate the feature comparison and worry-fest.

Wide-Eyed Yoyo Sucker, Born Yesterday

My sister called yesterday and told me she broke her foot, which wouldn't be a good thing this close to a big hiking trip. Of course, I forgot that yesterday was April Fools Day, so I gullibly absorbed every crooked word of her fabricated tale. After learning of my duping, I tried to regroup, come back, and sell her on "Oh, we were just going to call you to tell you Heather is pregnant again..." but by that time, she wasn't buying.

Remembering Ice

Ice. Now a chilly memory for this year...I hope.

Jake In The Park

This was taken with my phone just after I got Jake. We were walking in the park for the first time, and he was digging it like cheesecake ice cream. This is his look for "Can one puppy really have this much fun?"

Lots Of Steering And Not So Much Stopping

My father was a toolmaker, back in the days when you apprenticed and worked your way up to tooling godliness. So he was a bit overqualified to make a go-kart, but I really wanted one, so we embarked on an interesting mission to create something smelly and dangerous and illegal. I "helped" as much as a ten year old can help a toolmaker with a metal project. Mostly he did the design and construction, and I operated the vice and held a wrench or two and mostly goofed off.

It (because I never named it) was constructed with an angle iron frame, with plywood for the floor. It was a very unusual mix of super low-tech, cast-off scrap parts combined with ultra high-precision milled aircraft quality components of my father's construction. For instance, the wheels were solid rubber wheelbarrow units (max rated speed: 5 MPH), mounted to a killer rack-and-pinion steering system that would make a Formula-One mechanic green with envy.

The engine was garbage-picked from the neighborhood, and once powered an old 3 horsepower Briggs & Stratton edger. It needed some work, but my dad had no problem getting the thing going. The stickler (because there is always a stickler) was fixing the coiled-up spring winding system. My father commented that getting that four foot long spring wound and back into the casing was akin to "Poking a wet noodle up a wildcat's ass". It took us a whole day. But once fully assembled, the engine ran well, and we linked it to a direct-drive gear and chain setup that required that you be ready to go when the engine was started, no excuses.

Despite high gearing, the kart really did go. You had to push it to get started but once you started you were off and running in high style. And there were no brakes, so the only way to stop was to reach back and kill the engine and hope you had enough coast-down distance before the next street. Running into a curb to stop was your "Plan B".

As fun as it was, it was a little ornery and temperamental. It started when it wanted to, and not sooner - usually just as your back was giving out from pulling the cord. Parts (important ones, like the drive chain) often fell off at very bad times. The steering was very, very fast, way too fast for the capacity of the wheels to communicate the intended changes to the ground. All of this gave the Kart a mean-spirited, dangerous feel. It didn't really like people hanging around it either, I was burned more than once on the exhaust and still have the scars to prove it. Loud, hurtful shocks from the ignition system were common too.

Still, it was about as much fun as a youngster could have outside a candy store. We had many adventures riding that audacious, raging chariot from hell around the unsuspecting neighborhood.

Unloading At Pipeline

Toasted

Cannon Chop Shop

Storage room, Fort Zachary Taylor, Key West.

Vows Said, Long Ago

This is the church my parents were married in, St. Patrick's, Grattan Township, MI.