traveling up and down the blind highway

As we continued our tour of the eastern Upper Peninsula, we found waterfalls in abundance. Water trickles from the western porcupine Mountains to the cliffs of sandstone to the overlooks and sand dunes of the lakeshore.

Our first visit was to the Lower Tahquamenon Falls. The bubbling brook was beside the boardwalk. As we approached the drop off, the notes of the moving water changed from high to low notes.

The lower falls are seen as steps curving to Lake Superior. They drop from 6 to 12 feet with the last one falling less than two feet. The total of 5 different waterfalls in a close space gives the listener a variety of musical notes .The runoff from the cedars give the lower falls the nickname ,”The rootbeer falls” for the brown foaming water.

The upper Falls is four miles upstream from the lower Falls. Unlike the lower falls situated in a cedar bog, the upper Falls cut through a forest of hardwoods. Trees are festooned with reds, yellows and orange leaves. The tannin from the tamarack trees color the water with a light golden color.

The Tahquamenon Falls is almost fifty feet in height and 200 feet across. The natural beauty of the site has been preserved as a state park.

In the winter, the falls can be accessed by snowmobiles or snowshoeing.

The setting of the Munising Falls is found in the heart of the city of the same name. The falls is accessed by a easy paved 400 foot sidewalk. The falls is located in a deep ravine.

There used to be a path to walk behind the falls, but a rock slide made it too dangerous.

The sound of this water fall is accented by echos of the water off the ravine sides. The falls gives one the feeling of hearing distant thunder.

We met a couple of women from Milwaukee at the Munising Falls, As my husband went to check out the rock slide, one of the women asked, “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“O that is sad,”

I smiled remarking, “I hear the musical notes of the flowing and falling water and my memory can fill in the rest.

Munising was displaying peak color of fall leaves. An occasional purple oak competed with the butter yellow of the birch and the orange and red of the maples forming a tapestry of colors.

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Nature’s Symphony

The falling water beats on rocks like drums.

Bubbling waters sound like horns as they pop bubbles.

Dripping adds the high notes of a flute.

The music is magnified by the ravines sounding board.

Living water is wild with life.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 11/2/2021

The upper Peninsula’s nickname is Yooper Country. The land situated between Lake Superior on the North and Lakes Michigan and Huron on the south is far different from the lower peninsula by lifestyle and politics. An independent surrounded by natural beauty and lake shores.

I have always found Whitefish Point a wild shoreline ,anchored by the Whitefish lighthouse. The rugged point has been the site for many a ship wreck. The lake is so cold that it is said that Superior never gives up it’s dead.

We went there early to see the sun rise. While on the point, we photographed a picture of a large freighter crossing the point. The currents and wave action makes this a dangerous sailing before the ship makes safe harbor in Soo Saint Marie, where the lake locks are located to allow ships into the lower lakes.

The morning I was on the beach at the point, the sand was littered with many ovel shaped stones all rounded by the wave actions.

I discovered that the Kirtland Warbler lays her clucth of eggs in the open on the beach. Her eggs look very much like the stones and are camouflaged from predators looking for eggs. The point is closed to people during the nesting season.

The morning I was there, the wind was strong enough to blow my hat off my head. The White caps were seen off shore and the breaking waves were three to four footers. The lake was crystal, icey blue.. The water was too cold to put your feet or hands in. They soon became numb and blue with the cold.

Why does this place draw me back time and again? It is the ancient play of waves, sand and stone to redefine the shore. The changes are in years but to the casual visiter, the area is timeless.

On this page is a photo of the point with a freaghter passing. Another photo is of the lighthouse all white and three stories high. It’s light can be seen in Canada on the far shore, five miles away.

I think of past travelers to these shores and I worry for the future of such wild natural places.

I return from this place centered and renewed.

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Lake Superior

Dark waters,

cold and deep in it’s depths.

Bordered by two countries.

Large waves slap the shores.

Depositing bits of the past on It’s beaches.

Could be a fresh water sea.

Source for Indian lore.

One travels it with apprehension.

The largest of the Great Lakes.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 28 2021

With coolness, there is frost on the pumpkin. Time to smell warming Pumpkin faces lit with candles. The sights of fall.

On our bike travels, I have smelled the aroma of pumpkins being cooked and processed for the past two months.

On the rails to trails from Montague to Hart MI, there is a large plant that has piles of pumpkins to be process into pumpkin pie filling. One can watch pumpkins conveyed up to the top of the building. The piles of the orange veggies don’t shrink as more trucks wait patiently in line to unload their cargo. When the wind blows from the northwest, the cooked pumpkin can be detected for miles.

The purpose of pumpkin day is a time to go and select a pumpkin or two from pumpkin patches. The rule when I was a child was,”If you carry it out, you can have it.”You would be amazed how heavy those pumpkins got!

This past weekend we went up to The Great Pumpkin growing area. I was on the quest for the biggest one my husband and I could carry and load into our truck. I had a mental memory of one of my family sitting in a cute pumpkin as a baby.

If you haven’t gotten your pumpkin yet, what are you wanting for? This is a banner year for large specimens of the orange vegtable. Go find a field, explore and find the one that calls to you. Have a little fum for October 31st.

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Plump and ripe it waits for you.

Under drying leaves and vines.

Many will not make the cut.

Pushed and mulched back into the ground.

Kids will pick the biggest one

I smile and help carry it.

Nothing like playing in the home of the Great Pumpkin.

carolaspot @aol.co

copyright 10/26/2021

Today, I received my new slim folio from Amazon. I have been waiting over a week to type easily using my I Pad. I was remembering our first typewriter. My Mother had a old Royal. It was big, heavy and totally dependable. I took personal typing the summer before ninth grade. I learned the key positions but I didn’t learn touch typing until I became blind. The practice with the Royal and piano playing have helped me to use most keyboards.

One of my writers friends wrote a memoir about his portable Underwood. Lennard gave me permission to re -post his essay.

Forever Underwood

I suddenly felt my stomach drop when I reached in to get my typewriter from the back seat of the Plymouth. My god, it’s not there. Then I saw, in my mind, an image of it on the University tarmac, waiting to be put on the back seat. Did I take it? Oh no, I must have left it there. I knew then it was gone forever.  Somebody would have found and claimed it by now. There was a whisper of hope that a good Samaritan would put it aside out of the way, where it would be safe for the owner to claim it. Who was I kidding? After all, this was the University of Florida. Someone had grabbed it, and I would never see it again.

It was not as though I could look for it now.  I hadn’t reached for it and found it gone until I arrived at my destination, which was 3 hours away in St. Petersburg.  I was visiting my girlfriend in my home town.  I wasn’t due to return until Monday, having left the University Friday evening.  Looking for the typewriter was the logical thing to do when I got back.  But, although hope blooms eternal, my hopes of ever finding it again were almost dead.

I tried to enjoy the weekend, but that faint hope was lurking behind to come to consciousness at every turn in my thinking, there to torture me with a great big maybe. Hope is the cruelest thing. I didn’t dare tell my parents about its probable loss. It had been in the family since I was about 6 years old. The Underwood typewriter was owned by my mother, who was using it to brush up on her secretarial skills.

I taught myself how to type on it. Some of my fingering was funky, but I became quite proficient.  She gave it to me when I went to college, and it was part of every study I did for every test. If I wanted to remember something I read in a text, I would type it out, restating the meaning in my own words. In other terms, it was invaluable to me. I couldn’t tell my mother about my carelessness.

The Underwood was in excellent condition and was a premier portable. I could never afford another one.  How I was going to get along without a typewriter, was a real problem.  I had no answers.

I managed to make it through the weekend and still enjoy it. When I drove back up to the University, my thoughts returned in full force to the Underwood sitting on the tarmac.  Upon arriving, I promptly searched the area around the parking area where I had left it. I was not surprised when I didn’t find it there. Then I rushed upstairs to my room. My roommate was there, and I told him what had happened. He only had condolences to offer.  No other searching offered any hope.

That day, I visited a used typewriter shop off campus.  I thought I might find one that I could afford if I skimped on some meals.  I saw one there that fit.  It was a far cry from a vintage Underwood. It looked like the first typewriter ever invented. Its action was much slower, and the quality of the print left much to be desired. The keys tended to jam, so your stroking had to be slower. It had no case to carry it in. However, it was the one I could afford. So, I bought it.

Through the years, I never had a typewriter as good as the one I learned on.  They stopped making manual, portable machines. The electric ones didn’t feel at all like the manual typewriters which I had grown used to. They would stroke with barely a touch.  Not for me. I found a local dealer in Charlottesville that could service and get ribbons for old ones, but I’ve never been able to find one half as good as the Underwood.

Nevertheless, the skill I develop using a keyboard has been invaluable to me.  Especially now that I am legally blind and unable to see the keys on a keyboard.  But I don’t have to.  Screen readers will echo my key strokes and read back what I write in all manner of details.  But when I use the computer keyboard, I think of the old Underwood, and how grateful I am at how it trained me. I hope it is still doing fine.  Maybe someday I will find it in a pawn shop.

tuchyner5@aol.com

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 10-21-21

As far as I can remember, my family was divided into the three older boys and myself and my younger brother Brian. There was a wide span of years between my oldest brother Bob and Brian.

Bob tells a story that he was called to the high school office to be told that he had a new brother. He was fifteen years old at the time. Like the other two brothers, they were soon gone to college and didn’t get to know their youngest sibling.

I was six years older and considered Brian my live baby doll. I was allowed to bath, diaper and change his clothes, with supervision. I would entertain him for hours, singing all the nursery songs. As a baby, his crib was in my room.

When he woke in the night , I would comfort him. If he awoke early in the morning, I would put down the side of the crib and cuddle with him in my bed. This created a close bond that comtinues to this day.

We shared the love of music. Brian was a good piano and later the trumpet. We would sing popular tunes of the 60’s and 70’s. We would sit for hours harmonizing while Brian improvized on the piano.

Like his older brothers, Brian excelled at sports. He was a swimmer, competing in the breast stroke and the butterfly. Later, he was a running back for a junior league football. He was good at catching and running with the ball.

That running had him join the cross country runners and track and field. Brian preferred the longest distances. He was always able to put on a burst of speed to end the race.

He and his best friend , John Monagle, did all the sports together. John became my second younger brother.

Brian had an early love of cars, especially of new Fords. He would know when a new arrival of Fords had been delivered. He would cajole our Dad to take hin to the Ford dealers and check out the vehicles.

When I got my first job, I needed new wheels, Brian read the used car section in the paper to find the perfect car. I think he was looking for an exciting set of wheels to borrow. Most of his selections, I rejected. Until he found a yellow Trans Am. I went with my Dad for a test drive. and I liked the way it handled. When I returned home,

“Well, what do you think of the car?” Brian asked.

“I like it, I am going to buy it.”

“Really, I will wash and wax it weekly and do the maintenance.”

The first week I had the car, Brian and John had an accident and he spent the rest of the summer fixing it.

We have always forgiven each other and shared many good conversations.

Last week, I had a strange conversation with him on the phone. I was relating my husband’s and I wiping out on the tandem bike. He started to tell of breaking his collar bone and ribs while body surfing. As I got off the plone, I realized our topics had changed with aging but the closeness and love will always be there.

Happy Birthday brother!

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Mr Mayor

You saw the service that our Grandfathers and Dad gave the their home town.

After twenty years of helping and caring for Dad, you had time on your hands.

You saw a need in the town that you loved.

Running for Mayor you were pitched into lock down due to Corona.

You kept the town informed with weekly updates and historical facts.

Now you have been relected. What will you do next.

I see Dad and Mom, smiling down at you.

Carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 10/19-21

I am sitting here at my desk after finishing a fellow author’s book, “Why Grandma Doesn’t Know Me.” But first , I want to tell you of an opportunity to put your name in for a drawing for my signed chapbook,”Leaf Memories.” Go to

http://www.handyuncappedpen.com/2021/10/giveaway-leaf-memories-by-carol.html

Just go to the site of the Handy uncapped pen and write a comment or put your name and email under the cover photo of Leaf Memories, to have your name in the drawing. While you are there, check out this blog source for writers with disabilities.

Now to my review of Abbie Taylor’s newest novel. The title refers to one of the characters, a Grandma with dementia . She fails to recognize one of her grandaughters. In a moment of clarity, she reveals a family secret that threatens to change the family forever.

I was in the room with Natalie when her Grandma in a moment of memory identifies her grandaughter and reveals a secret involving Natalie. I was a aide, listening at the door as the scene unfolded.

Later, the family members saying good bye to Grandma were touching. The character of the priest was used to prompt Marti and Daryl, to give Marti’s permission for mom to pass on. Daryl was asked to play Santa for his younger daughter’s Christmas party at her school

New people are added to the core family structure, threatening to topple years of lies. The characters are able to evolve and change, especially the oldest daughter Natalie.

A young puppy, found in the park adds humor and nostalgia for remembered and loved pets.

Ms. Taylor has woven a story using the perspective of the different characters. I was enthralled to the end.

To read more about this and other books by Abbie Taylor visit her author’s page at https://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/

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Authors

There are writers that write to amuse.

Others keep secrets in their diaries .

Some doodle with funny musings and thoughts.

The brave ones boldly put their writings in print.

for the world to read.

They are the authors.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 10/14/21

Each year we decorate the outdoors for All Hallows day or better known as Halloween. Not for us a simple gravestone and a couple of skeltons. We have thought of a different tableau for over 23 years.

Like stage sets, the displays are best viewed from the road.They don’t hold up under close scrutiny. Most hand made items end up in November’s garbage.

So, what can you do with a couple of skeletons, some bones and lights?

My theater staging kicks in to show a scene. For this year, We discussed a blood drive. It would be hard to see from the road. Skeletons have no blood. John came up with a bone drive.

We found a large black planter on clearence. Building a tripod, we used chains to hang the pot for collected bones.

A tall skeleton stands besides the pot, ringing a bell.

A large sign in the shape of a tombstone proclaims in cutout red letters, “bone drive today.” The top of the sign has a half dozen raven skeletons.

There are several skeletons bringing spare bones to the collection pot.

A small skeleton is walking her skelton dog on a leash and harness. The parts of the staging are lit with spotlights and colored lights at night. )See photo below)

Some of other displays were; The American Gothic with dressed up skeletons in a field of corn, a pirate ship hung with Mardi gras beads, Tahitian dancers tiki lamps with Tahitian drumming and a large rocking horse that rocked by itself.

Nothing scarey, just some fun to bring that second look from a child or adult.

Below are several scenes from past years. We will stop when we run out of ideas.

carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 10-12-2021

Today would be my Dad’s 102 birthday. Bruce Loyd Turnbull was a kind Father for five energetic children.

  With the boys, he was the coach of their basketball, football and boxing teams. In the fall, he would take them hunting and to explore in Northern Michigan.

  He had to come up with different activities with me. He found that we shared a love of music and singing popular tunes.

  The electric store was given many record albums to play on new stereos. Some of my favorite were songs from movies or stage shows.

  I would be able to take them home and play them on my blue record player. I learned the songs by heart and would dance and sing for hours.

  One day, my Dad asked if I would like to go to the movies with him. He chose a Sunday matinee. We went the movie,”Music man.” I had been singing with the record for over a month. I ignored our shared popcorn as I belted out all the tunes.

  When I was old enough to learn to swim, dad enrolled me in a beginning swimming lessons. I learned to float and perform the crawl stroke, but I didn’t learn to breath while swimming.

  On the last day, all the parents were present to watch their children pass their swimming requirements.

  I had passed all requirements except to swim the width of the pool. I took a large breath  and pushed of.. I swam until I was out of breath. I put my feet down only to discovered I was two feet from the edge. Failing, I saw an extended hand and grabbed it. It was my Dad helping me out of the pool.

  Why didn’t you breath? he asked.

  “I don’t know how,” I wailed.

“Don’t cry, I will teach you,” he replied.

  He had been a lifeguard in high school and college. He was true to his word and taught me so well, I earned my senior Lifesaving certification.

  When I was in college, my Father liked to visit each of his children and go with them to class. He would write grade each profession on his presentation and teaching methods. This scoring saved me from a reprimand when I received a D in earth science. The room was warm and stuffy. The professor had written the text book text. He referred to the text but did little in the way of explaining. Additionally, his voice was quiet and he spoke with a monotone. My Dad fell asleep in his class while in the middle of writing a sentence.

  In graduate school, my State and Local government professor invited Dad to talk to the class. He was the head of the local planning commission in Northville. There was a piece of property in the Northville limits that belonged to Detroit. Mayberry was an abandoned tuberculosis care center. The local people wanted it to be offered to the state for a park. Detroit wanted it for housing, even though it was twelve miles from the city.

  There was quite a discussion from several young men from Detroit asking my Dad tough questions about the decision. He was holding well, but the professor put a stop to the questions with a reminder that Mr. Turnbull was a guest.

  My Dad worked in downtown Detroit and didn’t show us any prejudice towards any group of people. He taught us to take each person individually. He did have issues with people from India. He was losing his hearing and the vocal pattern and higher voices made it difficult to converse with people with an Indian accent.

  In his later years, he would spin stories about his youth and early young adulthood. I never tired of hearing about his antics.

  So today, I raise a glass of beer, Gobel was his favorite and toast the treasure of stories. Thank you Dad and Happy Birthday.

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Father

A friend

Handsome in his suit

tall walking with his sons

his smile was quicker than his frown

lifesaver

This October, The APH,”In Sights” art contest is virtual for the second year in a row. On October fifteen, the winning art of blind children and indepdent artist will be displayed and discribed on the American Printing House for the blind website, http://www.aph.org after five thirty p m eastern time. The art wil be posted on the APH facebook page later the same evening. I am a blind artist that relies on my memory and sense of touch to knit and felt 3D tableaus. I work to portray a disability with a touch of humor while starting conversations about living with different challenges. My second goal is to create an art piece that can be accessed tactically.

The four photos show animals in daily situations.

The first photo is named “Chicken Run”. This art is featured in the American Printing House,”In Sights” calendar for 2021. The piece features a cream hen sitting on a clutch of brown eggs. Three of the chicks have hatched. Two of the chicks are under the wings of the hen in the nest. The third chick is on brass legs. The chick is joyfully racing away on her prosthetic legs.

The second photo is named”Blind Date” Two pink pigs are seated at a table conversing. The girl has a leader pig at her feet in harness.The boy has a white cane on the floor at his feet. They are sitting at a table with drinks and a candle for atmosphere. This art shows the blind engaging in an ativity that many take for granted. The art won first place in the craft division of the In Sights contest in 2019.

The third photo is “Knit Wit”. The darker humor looks at dementia in the older population. The tableau shows a gray sheep sitting and knitting a grey sock. She is unaware that her ball of yarn has rolled away. Instead she has started to knit using the fleece from the backside of her sleeping ram on the couch. It provokes discussions about dementia in seniors. This piece won honorable mention in 2020 and will be featured in the In Sights calendar for 2022.

The final photo is “Playing Cat and Mouse”. The piece is of a sleeping cat in a basket of knitting. The cat is a cream and dark brown with Siamese markings. There are three mice running around and in the basket. The cat is deaf and cannot hear the mice at play. This is a reminder of the disadvantage that the deaf and hard of hearing experienced this past year with social distancing and mask wearing. This limited their ability to lip read and see facial expressions. This piece won third place in the 2021 craft division in the American Printing House, “In Sights” art contest.

All the art is touchable by the blind and others.

photos

I am now working to produce replicas of working guide dogs. Guide dog Willow an all black british lab, poses in front of little Willow seated on the red chair.

carolfarn@aol.com

copyright 10-5-2021

We are having a new roof put on our house. Bright and early on Wednesday morning, we were greeted with five young people on our roof. They scraped the old shingles off and prepared the surface for new one.

But I was not prepared for the mixed signals that walking, scraping and pounding gave a blind person. Normally, I listen and feel the virbrations of walking towards me to tell me my husband was coming. I would turn to see what he wanted. Wednesday, I heard multiple feet in many places. My listening was overloaded!

I thought back to the musical, “Fiddler On The Roof.” The noise reminded me of the line, “Our lives are as precarious as a fiddler on the roof.” It doesn’t take much change to upset our day.

We are comfortably set in our ways. Perhaps we need a change in our day to shake us up.

I went through the day with more awareness of what who and what was going around me. Not only at home but when we left later in the day, the awareness continued.

Each of us need to be shaken out of our complacency.

I wouldn’t suggest the extreme of a new roof but trying to start the being mindful of what is around you rather than staying in your head. To be in the body and the here and now is harder than it seems.

To live in the moment can be a challenge. There will be time to think, recall and remember. Enjoy each minute of your lives. Even the fiddler’s music on your roof.

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Silence

Silence is golden , or so they say.

I can have silence anytime.

I turn off my hearing aids.

But I would miss the bird calling the woods.

Children laughing on the way to school

Even the workers on the roof.

I would miss living, for the moment of silence.

Carolaspot@aol.com

copyright 9/30/ 2021