7th Annual Author Hop & Merry Mitten Holiday Event
Our biggest event of the year! Meet area authors, chat over refreshments, pick up a new book (signed books make great gifts!). Mystery, memoir, contemporary fiction and local history will all be represented. Children’s authors & Illustrators will take over our annex for a concurrent Merry Mittens event in conjunction with the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators).
This year’s confirmed authors include Mark Nepo, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Joe Heywood and Kelly Fordon. We are also featuring children’s book authors and illustrators: Ruth Barshaw, Leslie Helakowski, Kristen Remenar, Matt Faulkner and more. Author Hop is an day long, multi-genre open house author event held annually at Kazoo Books’ Parkview location. Complementary groups of regional authors take to the floor in shifts, mingling and participating in casual Q&A. Readers get the opportunity to chat with their favorite authors as well as exposure to new work relevant to their interests. Over the years, Author Hop has been enormously successful, bringing in visitors from all over country. Kazoo Books is located at 2413 Parkview Avenue, Kalamazoo, (269) 553-6506.
Portage, December 5, 2016: From the Author’s Journals, Oct 23-25, 1987. My Editor, Joe Fox, wanted me to fly to Houston for the city’s annual Authors’ Dinner. On Random House’s dime, natch. I agreed and one of the Random House people called to “help with arrangements.”
The Random House facilitaor asked if I preferred to fly through Chicago or Detroit to get to Houston?
“Dayton,” I told her.
Silence on the other end. “The Dayton near Ohio?”
“No, the Dayton IN Ohio.” Outside New York is China.
“Okay, Kalamazoo (it’s real is it?) to Dayton. Then where?”
“Yes ma’am, Kalamazoo is real. Dayton to Houston and that would be the Houston NEAR Texas.”
Snigger. “I know Houston,” she chirps. “It’s IN Texas.”
Bravo. Thus endeth the exchange. Two weeks later, the tickets arrived with this route: Kalamazoo-Dayton-Atlanta-Houston. I called the facilitator at Random House. “Uh why Atlanta?”
“There are no directs from Dayton so we had to put you through Atlanta. No directs from Dayton? Our Chemical Division people were using just this connected almost daily. “It’s in Georgia,” she added.
I asked, “What about Dallas?”
“That’s not in Georgia.”
“Yes-ma’am, I know that. It’s in Texas.”
“I don’t get it,” she said, her voice betraying practiced patience, here a person who is accustomed to dealing with and “handling” authors..
“Houston is in Texas,” I told her, hoping she’d make the Dallas and Houston connection all on her own.
“You told me that last time,” she said.
“Houston, TEXAS. Dallas TEXAS. Get it?”
Long pause, caution in her voice when it finally issued. “The SAME Texas?”
She asked, very tentatively, “So, you want to go from Atlanta to Dallas to Houston?”
“No. Dayton to Dallas to Houston.”
“But there are no directs from Dayton to Houston.”
“That’s why I’ll go through Dallas.” Outside NY is China.
I ended up flying Kalamazoo to Dayton to Atlanta to Houston. You can argue with ignorant, but you can’t change what it is.
Someone in Dayton had scratched on the wall over the sinks, “Yolanda go back to Texas you Bitch.” I wondered if Yolanda had come north to Dayton through Atlanta. It never hurts to ask questions even when answers don’t exist.
This past summer Joe Fox (my editor at Random House) and I spent a week in the Upper Peninsula, which to the uninitiated is somewhat like West Texas, more space than people, weather so poor nobody ever bothers to talk about it anymore. The night before last they had 12 inches of snow. In August is was 90; people sat on their porches holding ice cubes in their hands, not to cool off, but as some kind of amulets.
We spent the night talking about Indians, gambled in a casino with Canadians, a place run by the Soo Tribe of Chippewas (which in their tongue translates to “original” or “spontaneous man.”) There is nothing spontaneous in outcomes in a casino. All the dealers were blond, naturally or chemically. We drank Jack Daniels from tin cups every day at 5 p.m., kept to two-tracks and tote roads.
Fox said, “Let’s talk about Native Americans.”
I said, they refer to themselves as Indians.”
He was astonished. In New York they’re always called Native Americans.”
Outside NY is China. “Because those in NY using that term haven’t bothered to look past the Hudson River. When we reached the Soo I took him past the main tribal office for the Soo Tribe of Chippewa Indians.
“Amazing,” he said, and laughed.
All that week we meandered with intent and without plan. I fished small creeks for brook trout. Fox sat in the Bronco scratching at the manuscript that a father has written about his chess prodigy son.
We had Jack in Tin Cups at five sharp daily.
We stayed one night at the Falls Hotel in Newberry, the hotel a leftover from logging days. We sat in the bar with some orderlies and nurses from the State Hospital and watched the Tigers on TV . The game went poorly. The Tiger short-reliever came up short; the drinking crowd decided to drive to Detroit to break one of the manager’s fingers – a mild yet emphatic reminder to never use “Willie” again. I gave them a $20 and told them to break two – for emphasis.
One night I fished the Fox until dark. That old faker Hemingway called the Fox the Big Two Hearted, but the actual Two Hearted is 50 miles NE crow-fly from Seney, where Fox and I were. Hem was just trying to hide the real location. He never willingly gave up such secrets. Hem made out the river to be wide and clear. He was half-right. It’s narrow, overgrown with bank tag-alders and the water, though clear, was stained by tannin from tamaracks all along the river.
That night, having a second round of Jack after I came back to the truck from fishing (released several small ones), Fox asks, “Are there bears around here?”
“Probably,” I said. We were standing outside the truck near a river floodplain, a favored travel route for bears.
“Shouldn’t we be goingm” Fox asked, “instead of standingout here in the dark?”
“Nah we’re good. These’re blackies –like big dogs – and they’re skittish and don’t eat Ford Broncos.”
“How big are these animals?”
“Up to five or six hundred pounds, but usually a lot smaller than that.”
“I’ve never seen a five hundred pound dog.”
Outside New York is China.
Joe Fox died after our second book together. Still miss you, Keed. That’s how he always referred to me, Keed this and Keed that. I was in my early 40s. He was one of a kind a good guy and a no bullshit, hands-on line editor, a dinosaur. I’ve had a lucky life and it’s filled with dinosaurs and one-of-a-kinds.
It is Wednesday, November 3, 2016, the final day of the two-week Michigan firearm deer season.CO Jeff Goss and I had just run a little trespass surveillance ferreting drill and went to a farm to talk to some probably suspects. As the interview progressed we heard a shot at 1730 hours and another at 1736. Since legal shooting ends in Calhoun Co on Nov 30 at 1731, that tardy shot was of some interest and it was relatively close and we had a pretty good fix on both direction and proximity (close, not far). Pinpointing shots at night is not an easy skill to master and it is one where more than one set of ears is better than one. Jeff terminated the interview and we rolled toward the sound and found us a POAL spot (Pull Over And Listen) and tucked our nose into a soybean field, where a doe grazed not 20 yards away. She was resolute and un-spooked by us standing near her. To hear shots it is best to be outside the truck when they happen. By 1745 hours, no further shots were heard and we jumped into the truck (Jeff jumps in; I clamber). We do have a solid fix on the 1730 shot, which was dicey light-wise, but legal and we went to look into that and as we circumnavigated the are we spotted headlights in the woods and pulled over and sat dark and watched a vehicle make its way out of the forest and when we saw where it was headed, we drove to the farm and talked to two men, an adult grandson (active military) and grandpa. The older man was distinctly unhappy to see us and immediately launched into an attack on license prices and how they are driving people out of hunting. Never mind that a CO has nothing to do with licensing pricing, he or she is the point person for taking the publics verbal kicks. Jeff let him vent and then asked, “Did one of you take a shot at 5:30?”
Grandson pointed at Grandad, who said something to the effect that “There were eight deer in front of me and one was a crippled or gimpy doe and I took a shot and missed.”
The point of shooting at gimpy doe seems sort of odd, but Jeff asks, “What time was that?”
Grandpa: “I could still see.”
Both Jeff and I think, “Right. So could we at that time but it was pretty dim light and the deer would have to be close. Jeff checks hunting licenses for both men and they are copacetic and we move on.
But before moving on, let’s backup. I met my partner at his home at 12:30 and he checked into service around 1300 and I loaded my gear in his Silverado, gave him a pound of frozen Michigan elk burger to make into elk-cheese sticks and we headed out and immediately made contact with two youngish men with an 8- point buck in the bed of a truck. I was tagged and in the course of hearing the hunting story (you always heart that) we got a tip that there was possible trespass hunting taking place on a property the two men identified for us. One of this pair, I would mention, once did jail time for beating a cop so badly that the police officer was forced to retire for medical reasons. Jeff has never had a problem with the person in questions, but he knows his history. Often when COs contact people in the field they don’t know anything until they run operators licenses and hunting licenses only then to discover an individual has warrants for his arrest (Jeff had one guy with 15 warrants that he arrested during a Belle Isle patrol), or worse an Officer Safety Caution, which may be only that, or may be more specific and instruct officers to never contact the individual in question alone or with fewer than two (sometimes three) law enforcement officers present. Good reminder that every stop, until you analyze and assess what you’re actually dealing with, circumstances can be potentially lethal. Every contact is a dice game and it ‘s a matter of good officer safety procedure to enter every contact with such a mindset.
Leaving this pair, Jeff said we had a busy agenda for the day with some very good cases developing and he started briefing me on them, one by one, including a man who posted a couple of nice buck photos on Social Media and made the point of remarking his Michigan tags were filled so he would have to travel to another state in order to keep hunting, and he named the state. My partner then came into information that the man subsequently killed a 9-point buck (if memory serves me) and that he was telling friends he shot it in the state he had named previously. Jeff called a CO friend in that state, who checked their version of Michigan’s retail sales system and the subject had not bought a license in the state at issue. After the third buck was shot the subject began sharing photographs and Jeff began reaching to other information sources. Jeff felt like he had enough evidence for a search warrant for the subject’s phone and to be sure he wanted to play what he had off one of the county’s assistant prosecutors, to whom he then placed a call as we proceeded to the Coldwater Michigan State Police Post. Last Friday night Jeff arrested a man who shot a big buck without buying a license and then called his daughter to buy one for him, which he then used to tag the buck and take it to a processor, which is where Jeff found it and looking back in RSS and seeing that the daughter had never bought a license, he was suspicious so he went to the man’s house and he confessed and also gave Jeff permission to search his cell phone. The man then signed a property transfer form (it may have another name) and Jeff took the phone to the Troops on Monday to download for him. Today we headed to the post to fetch the phone, so we could return it to the owner sometime during our shift. (I mean, a modern man NEEDS his cellphone, right?)
En route to the Troop post, Jeff placed a call to an assistant prosecutor (APA)
It took 45 minutes at the Troop post and by the time we rolled on, still no call-back from the APA.
As soon as we are moving again we have calls from confidential informants on several cases and a couple of contacts with other conservation officers. At one point Jeff contacts CO Try Ludwig in Eaton County about a possible case up there (two deer shot without licenses) and he sends photos of the deer via E-mail so Troy can take it from there. Also we contact Station 20 and ask their specialists to help us identify an unknown man in a photo with a very large deer. Still no call from the APA, so Jeff decides to call again and this time gets an APA who tells him, “I’ll call you back in three minutes.” Which she does. Jeff then lays out his case and what he has: photos, various text, hunt in another state, but no license in that state and other evidence. She listens and tells him she wants more. She does not say how much more, or what might be more compelling than what he already has and this response for search warrant for the phone being rejected pretty much puts this case on the shelf until he can think through his evidence tactics and strategies.
All of this done, we headed for our trespass complaint and property, a mile or so from the Kalamazoo County border and did our drill there, with Jeff the dog in the field and me the spotter with glasses to see if he flushed any human birds off the property in questions. He did flush some deer, but no humans and here we began the blog and are now leaving the house where granpa missed the gimpy doe.
We drive to the home of the man whose phone we have and he is not there. Neither is his truck, which is interesting. See, he’s suspended and can’t drive. Jeff calls his daughter (the one who bought a deer license for dad) and she doesn’t know where he is but has an alternate cell phone number which no-one answers. Jeff calls the woman back and asks her to tell her dad to call Jeff. He has dad’s phone but doesn’t’ want to make the long drive to return it until dad’s there. She said she will.
From here we pop in on a processor, but his biz is slow, only three deer in three days, two does and a buck. We check paperwork and look at some buck heads. The one buck which came in has a strange flat antler set with a small paddle on one end the whole thing looking like an elephant or dinosaur sat on the buck’s head.
We leave the processor and head south for a rendezvous with Jeff’s partner CO Jason McCullough and other COs at Pizza Hut in Coldwater – sort of a lower Michigan rendition of a UP officers’ post deer season “feed.” Such get-togethers are good for morale, stories and trading information and coordinating. Jason is acting sergeant for one of District 8’s (D8) areas and has put this together. I get to meet and dine with Jeff and Jason. I knew and worked with Jason before he transferred to Calhoun, Jeff, and Troy Ludwig (Eaton), Chris Reynolds (Hillsdale), Carter Woodwyck (Hillsdale), and Isaac Tyson (Branch).
They are a lively group, all tired from a long strange deer season and looking forward to some pass days (DNR jargon for days off). The firearm deer season ended at 1731 tonight. On Friday it’s opening day for black powder deer season and after that comes late archery season and late antlerless firearm season and when it’s finally all over around the new year, there will have been some kind of deer hunting in the state since mid-September.
Given my low (mostly no) fat diet since my gall bladder was yanked in late September, I’m still off pizza so I order a chicken Caesar salad, which takes forever to come and when it does, it’s a different salad, but the manager says, “no charge.” I managed to eat about 4 oz of cluck-meat in the salad and some lettuce.
After dinner we said our goodbyes and Jeff and I headed west and north. En route we spied one brief light sweep some tree tops and we stopped but saw no more and continued on our way. (It’s a lot more difficult to pinpoint light sources at night in the woods and fields than one might think).
Part of our dinner was taken up with a conversation among officers concerning dealings with the Amish communities in various counties. The Amish, as I understand it, are divided into local bishoprics, and in each of these organizational units the bishop’s word is final. Some bishops, it turns out, not just in Michigan, but in states all around the U.S. are saying it is a violation of their religious beliefs to wear hunter (international/blaze) orange. Case law around the country does not agree with this and points out that hunting is voluntary, and not a religious undertaking, and that wearing orange is a matter of safety concerning that voluntary activity individuals choose to pursue. Case law aside, some prosecutors in the state abide by bishops’ rulings. In one county there was a PA who was not honoring tickets to Amish hunters not wearing orange until shown photographs of the same Amish people wearing hunter orange life vests in fishing boats. The policy then changed. This Amish dispute is a good reminder of the wide range of social issues that conservation officers and other law enforcement personnel must contend with. It was a good discussion among thoughtful men who have to handle such squishy circumstances.
It was going on 2300 when I loaded my gear back into my truck and headed for home in the drizzle, which would turn to snow spits this morning. Home at midnight. Shakspder greeted me like his long lost quill had been found and he could get back to work.
Black powder season starts on Friday. Hunters and COs alike pray for snow to assist tracking. Being able to follow wounded deer reduces the number of wounded animals left to die slowly.
Back to manuscript. If you’re still hunting, be safe. Over
EVENT 1: My partner CO Jeff Goss (Calhoun Co)) meets me at our traditional rendezvous spot in a small town south of Battle Creek — about an hour-drive east of Portage. I chuck my gear in the truck and Jeff reports to Station 20 (The RAP Room in Constitution Hall in Lansing) that he is ” in service” and that he has a ride-along for all day.
Asks Station 20: “What’s the ride-along wearing?”
Jeff and I look at each other in puzzlement. Neither of us has ever heard this question asked of a ride-along. Jeff radios, “Uh, black boots, black hat, green pants, green coat, green shirt.” Tomorrow will be even weirder.
Thus the weekend begins. Jeff already has three deer heads in the truck bed from last night. We’ll pick up another pair today and another one tomorrow. I’m going to lay out this s this telling event by event to give you a sense of the rhythm of a CO’s deer season days . I’m not including everything, just the more notable happenings.
EVENT 2: Two or three years ago, Jeff and I caught a guy butchering 8 deer. He had no license or tags, had not bought any licenses. He was also clearly living on the edges of life. The courts hammered him with a $6,000 fine and took away his hunting privileges. Eight deer, of course, it seems is more than seeking to put meat in the larder, but there’s no doubt the man is hurting. Doesn’t matter how he got into such a compromising position. So that’s the backstory. Forward to now: a couple of weeks back Jeff bumped into his former client, listened to his tale of woe and told the man if he wanted venison and we confiscated some, we’d bring it to him. Jeff got some high-speed beef last night, ergo, our first job today is to take the venison to the man, who is celearlyh glad to have it. His living circumstances have not changed since last I saw him. the front yard of his trailer cluttered with old boats and parts of boats, all fronted by a TRUMP-SPENCE sign.
The theme for his year with violations seems to be, Shoot your deer, THEN go buy a license, which is, of course, the exact reverse of how the law says this is supposed to work. A resident deer tag costs us $20 bucks (less if we’re seniors). But if you shoot a deer before you have a license or tag it, you are in possession of an illegal deer. If your deer has 8 points, you are in possession of an animal for which law says you will be fined $6,000 and lose hunting privileges, perhaps lose your weapon and get sentenced to a jail. $20 and jail time vs thousands? How can this be so hard to adhere to? The people we contact on this issue, hunt with thousand dollar weapons, etc, so $20 bucks does not seem like a deal-breaker for them. There has to be some other logic here other than pure frugality. I can’t figure it out.
EVENT 3: Meat processor. We find a discrepancy in one of the carci. An original tag was purchased, but then a replacement tag wasbought the next day and the initial tag not voided, the result being the man now has two tags in possession. We’ll visit the gent sometime along the way and when we do we will discover that he bought the license under someone else’s driver’s op and shot a deer before he bought a license. Same old story with small wrinkles. Verbiage in the DNR bi-weekly LED reports say, “Appropriate law enforcement action was taken. ” Hereafter I’ll say: ALEAWT.
EVENT 4: Yesterday Jeff found a deer at a processor. Validated tag shows deer was killed before RSS (Retail Sales data base) shows license was purchased. This is the big No No. We go looking for the man’s address, and don’t find him, but we do locate him cutting wood in a nearby woodlot. woods, not too far from his rental trailer, which we discover later is parked behind a business a friend of his owns, and which we never would have found. Jeff has already arrested the business owner for trespassing a few years back and killing a ten-point, in-velvet buck on property he had no permission for. Now the man hates my partner. Our “woodsman” has a blue-healer mix dog with him. After some discussion he confesses tht he bought his license after shooting the buck. He has already served 9 months in jail for a non-violent felony and wants to cooperate lest he have more trouble. He confesses and ALEAWT.
We keep moving on.
EVENT 5: A man has shot an 8-point buck, then called his daughter and told her he can’t find his tags. He tells her to go buy a license and she does and when she gets home, dad is there with his big 8-point, slaps her tag on it and hauls the deer to the processor. But, as interviews and RSS research shows later, dad never bought y a license this year. In fact he hasn’t bought one since 2011, but readily admits to hunting every year. Hmm. Shoot first, buy later. A No-No: ALEAWT.
EVENT 6: We have had a tip that hunters are trespassing onto Battle Creek Unlimited property which is closed to all hunting. An old barefoot guy tells us where to find a blind and we head into the woods and discover a young man hunting in full camo in a camo blind, with a compound bow. No orange. We ask him to come out of the woods with us.
“You can’t hunt back here,” Jeff tells him.
“Everybody else does,” he said. (at least he doesn’t say “on accident.”)
Jeff: “It’s closed to hunting and there’s no trespassing allowed.”
The man: “I didn’t know, man. Honestly.”
Jeff says, “Of course you knew it. You’re dressed in full camo and you’re using a bow so no-one will hear you; you’re not wearing orange because you don’t want to be seen. To this, the suspect reacts by studying his boots. Jeff then says, “One, get your blind out of there tomorrow or you’ll see me again, and two, tell others that at the request of the owners the DNR is making this property a priority. If you hunt in there, we WILL get you. Spread the word.”
The guy then tells Jeff of other blinds and hunters in the restricted area. Jeff has already found the blinds the man tells us about. ALEAWT.
EVENT 8: We depart after the ticket is written and drive to a nearby park and ride which some hunters use for access to the property. Here we see a woman alone in a vehicle, motor running and shortly after we pull in, she leaves the area. Jeff has a hunch, watches her with binoculars and sees her turn into a truck stop a quarter mile north of us. Hmm. We follow by circling through a neighborhood and cut into the truck area running dark. Sure enough there she is, engine running and soon she bolts again. We watch her push into the same neighborhood where we issued the earlier ticket and we follow and set up black in a driveway. She makes four laps of the circular road in the neighborhood, but on the fifth lap she is flying and we go after her and can see her lights, but lose her almost immediately. Very, very weird. Most serious violators in this are drop someone, let them do their thin and await a cell phone call for the pickup. We figure she grabbed him near where we wrote the ticket, during her fifth lap. Damn. You can’t get them all, but losing even one irritates.
EVENT 9: We stop at CO Jason McCullough’s house. He is headed to Belle Isle for a graveyard shift patrol later tonight. We arrive just as U of M loses to Ohio State in two overtimes and he is miffed – to say the least. We show him some of the stuff we’ve picked up, talk about various items ahead, and depart. Jeff and Jason are partners in Calhoun Co. Sometimes they double up but mostly they operate alone, each keeping his partner informed and backing up each other as needed. Their personalities are different; their professional results are tops.
EVENT 10: We get a call from Station 20. A house in Homer has an ungutted, untagged buck on a trailer. Neighbors keep calling in. Our partner CO McCullough gives Jeff a telephone bump, says he’ll handle it. “Won’t take long, it’s a slam dunk.”
EVENT 11: We go to a taxidermist to look at his records, pick up one of our illegally killed antler sets. Jeff finds three more questionable deals which we will investigate later. By season’s end he may have a dozen or more illegal deer still to investigate — just from comparing tags at meat processors with RSS data. Later he’ll hit taxidermists and pick up more cases. We also check hunting social sites and Internet locations like FACEBOOK to compare RSS and buck photos. It’s surprising how many people make an illegal kill and then put it on social media, or enter it into a big buck contest. Defies logic.
EVENT 12: We hit another “questionable” and get the same result. Shot first, license bought later, ALEAWT. You know, over recent years we notice that more and more people treat traffic stop signs not as required-by-law stops but more as guidelines. Out front of our house 90 percent of people coming through roll through the stop sign or blow through without even a hint of a brake light. Maybe this deer licensing issue is similar. Same phenomenon with drivers who don’t dim lights at night when they are coming toward you.
EVENT 13: En route to another facility a vehicle passes us at high speed, in a curve area with double yellow lines. We light up the vehicle and pull it over. It stops. We get out. The vehicle begins to inch forward. We both yell for the driver to stop and he does and Jeff goes up to him and explains why he stopped him. We have here an elderly gentleman who says he lives with his sister in Homer and that she is not feeling well and he is hurrying to get home. Jeff explains to him that if he doesn’t slow down he’s not likely to safely get home to help her, and then where will she be? He issues a verbal warning and cuts the man loose. he slows to 35 mph on a 55 mph strip. Either he is really shaken up or being vindictive. At least he’s not speeding.
EVENT 14: We check out a fur-buyer operations and Jeff drops me back at my Ford. I am home by midnight. Tomorrow we roll at 0800. I’ll head his way at 0700.
EVENT 1: Rendevous, same spot. Jeff calls “in service, and informs 20 that he has a ride-along for the day. This time Station 20 asks, “What’s his name?” Jeff gives them my last name. We have heard maybe four or five other calls of ride-alongs over last two days. None have been asked what the RA is wearing, and none have asked or a name. Some sort of interplanetary malfunction harmonic? Minor but odd – and funny.
EVENT 2 Jason never got to the “slam-dunk” yesterday and he is on the way home from Belle Isle about now, so we head for Homer and locate the deer immediately and also see immediately that it is a road kill. We go to the door and a man answers. En route we run dirt roads checking various hunting spots, see only two vehicles. It’s prime time and no CO will spoil someone’s hunt by walking in, unless the officer already has evidence of a crime or problem. Same as yesterday, almost no hunters in the field.
Jeff asks him about the deer.
“Not mine, the man says. My son’s.”
“Is he here?”
“He don’t live here.”
From the inner house a female voice sings out, “He don’t live here no more!”
Jeff asks the man, “Where does he live?”
The man yells at the other voice, “Where DOES he live?”
She answers. “He don’t live here no more.”
Jeff asks the man at the door. “Do you have a phone number for him?”
“It’s real long,” the man says and again he turns to the voice in the dark behind him, “What’s that real long number?”
The female says, “It don’t work. I just tried it, and it don’t work. He don’t live there no more.”
He don’t live here, he don’t live there, let’s give the DNR the old runaround drill. No idea why. Some people just cop an attitude when the DNR shows up.
Why all this stonewalling we can’t begin to figure out, but while the female voice is yelling, the man at the door whispers the address in Homer to Jeff, and we depart and find the house and after knocking loudly and repeatedly for a long time a man steps out onto the porch carrying a toddler with no shoes or socks and the man confirms he picked up the roadkill, not for the meat but for the antlers (7 pt and broken), and he has a possession tag but he took it off because it was raining. He goes in the house and brings out the permit. No slam dunk here, no real violation, just curious human behavior. Jeff asks the man to do something with the carcass so that neighbors don’t keep calling in. Says he will. The horns on the animal are broken and or spackled by road rash from the crash that killed the animal. Will he mount antlers from the roadkill? Anything is possible. Just another strain of buckular dystrophy.
EVENT 3: Processor in Homer. Jeff introduces me to a fellow who calls himself Pimp Daddy Blue, great name, great character, garrulous and funny. No carci to check here, but it is stenchiforous beyond description and we keep moving, check a couple of deer being brought in, but find no problems, and we move.
EVENT 4: Another processor stop, different part of the county. I’ve met these guys before. They say their count is down from last year. Archery was up from last year, firearm down and in their own hunting they are not seeing any animals. There is of course endless discussion of such matters. Our own thought is that the deer have gone nocturnal, which sometimes happens after the shooting begins. We have talked to people who are getting photos on their game cams, but not seeing animals when it’s light. We figure most of the deer are hunkered in standing corn, or swamps of which there is a plenty of both in this county.
EVENT 5: Yet another processor. Guy is fiddling with meat grinder an spitting Skoal on the floor as he works. Yum. No carci, not new leads, we keep moving. Note to self: never bring meat here for processing.
EVENT 6: We head over to Marshall to follow-up on a lead we got at a processor last night. It turns out to be another shoot-first, buy-later case. The man confesses almost immediately. ALEAWT. Turns out that this guy’s wife HATES his hunting and so he sneaks around, which we suppose is supposed to excuse the fact that last Monday he shot a deer at first light and didn’t buy a license until 5 p.m. He’s a big fisherman and waterfowl hunter and has records for the past five years of fish and duck license purchases, but no deer license since 2012. Yet he claims to hunt deer a couple of times a year. When we point out that he has been hunting illegally, he hangs his head. Worse, on this year’s first tag bought after the kill, he validated the tag for the PREVIOUS day. Geez. We just listen. Jeff explains the ticket procedure, ALEAWT and we head out.
EVENT 7: We see a pickup towing a trailer with a tractor on the trailer and three is something on the back of the trailer, which seems about to fall off, so we pull the guy over and help him get squared away and continue on.
EVENT 8: En route to the Battle Creek Unlimited property we spy a bait pile behind the house in northeast Battle Creek. We’ll come back later to investigate. The corn pile is pretty big 15-20 gallons and the limit for feed/bait is 2 gallons for hunting or feeding deer.
EVENT 9: We head over to patrol of the BCU parcel. The blind from last night is gone, and there’s nobody in two other blinds, so we clear the BCU parcel and we press on to State Farm property, also along I-94, a well-known poaching spot. Nobody there. Just a dozen turkeys, who don’t care for our presence and ghost into a hedgerow.
EVENT 10: Now we head for the corn pile house. En route we pass the Post plant and drive the truck through a cloying sweet cloud of Fruity Pebbles scent, which is a strange comparison with raunchy overwhelming stench of a processor we visited in the morning. We get to the house, find a truck in driveway but house is dark and nobody answers. The bait pile is less than a hundred yards behind the house on a mowed field. A dog up the hill at the neighbor’s house is going “ape”over our arrival and presence. We check the house then the bait. And suddenly a woman pops out of the darkness, demands to know what we are doing on her property. Jeff explains the bait.
“We just take photos of the deer,” she says, “you want to see them?”
“No thanks ma’am, how much corn is out there?”
She says, “I don’t know, my grandson put it out there.”
Jeff explains the 2-gallon limit for hunting or viewing.
“I didn’t know that,” she says.
“Does anyone hunt here?” Jeff asks.
“My grandsons do.” So it’s not just for deer pictures.
“How old are they?”
“Thirteen and seventeen — but I don’t let them hunt unless an adult is in the house.”
Jeff listens as she explains how the boys hunt from the tree line. Her uphill house is directly across the field and both houses are within the 450 ft. safety zone, but she is the landowner, so this is all right. Jeff explains the laws governing juvenile hunting, that directly supervising does not mean being in the house but being with the young hunter.
She says, “I hunt with them.”
Hmm. She says she’ll try to get the bait piles down to 2 gallons tomorrow. We apologize for interrupting her dinner and she heads home. Jeff gets on the computer to see if the boys have licenses and if she does. Both boys are licensed but before we can check granny I see a flash of plaid behind Jeff’s window and the father of the boys shows up. This is damn good reminder of how easily you can be crept up on and shot if your head is in your computer or inside your vehicle. The man then gives us a long story about how he got served for divorce last Monday, how his wife of 18 and a half years wants to move to Florida and he doesn’t, “and my kids don’t neither. “Thanksgiving day my youngest son says ‘Dad I was looking at mom’s I-Pad and she’s got all sorts of divorce stuff on there. Are you guys getting divorced?’ No the man says. Later, he tell us, the wife attacks him. “So you want to divorce me and they sent the information to the wrong email? He says no. The following Monday, papers are served in her behalf at his workplace and he moves down to his mom’s second house. It is exhausting hearing people’s stories of woe. Jeff warns the man to knock down the bait pile size and explains how it’s supposed to be done. The guy tells us about court dates and work and so forth and maybe he can’t get this done till weds. Jeff says, “I drive by here all the time. It better be fixed next time I come by or I’ll have to take action.
EVENT 11: We call another processor to tell him we’re coming, but Jeff gets a cell phone call from a friend of his, a farmer, who has a sick or injured doe in his cornfield near Burlington. We roll down that way and find the deer. Her head is turned to her left and backward, looking up over her spine and she can only turn in tight circles. She has been in this field all afternoon. If she can’t straighten out, she will die of starvation. Jeff calls the district wildlife biologist who says he wants to look at her. No choice in this but to euthanize her, first to put her out of agony and secondly, to get her to the biologists for necropsy and tests to figure out wha’s going on. It could be almost anything. Jeff dispatches the animal as it shakes its head and circles. Her head silhouette agaisnt the cut corn is creepy. We load the dead animal in the truck. None of the three of us is comfortable with having to do this, but it’s the right thing to do. Being a CO is not all fun and games.
EVENT 12: On to our last processor of the day to seek Intel
Jeff drops me at my vehicle at 2030 and I am home by 2130. Two long, productive days. We have another half-dozen cases to investigate. Jeff will be working today as the firearms season draws to a close on Weds. I may join him Wednesday and meet some other district officers for a post-season feed and roundup.
Happy Thanksgiving. Still sorting files and journals here. On July 4, 1985 we were in South Bend for a soccer tournament (U-14). I picked up some tabloids at a stop-and-rob while replenishing team snacks: here’re the headlines offered: INSTANT COFFEE CURES HERPES/MENGELE STILL LIVES – AS A WOMAN/ GAY BIG FOOT GOES FOR LITTLE BOYS. Very weird and such garbage now is on the internetm where there a plethora of websites that specialize in such garbage, socially and politically and want to be thought of as “legitimate newsmedia” (e.g. journalism). Newp.
Randomly composing and thinking this morning, here are some random facts I picked up on that long ago South Bend trip:
Henry Ford was the first American to receive Adolf Hitler’s Supreme Order of the German Eagle;
Abner Doubleday was a gunner at Fort Sumter. As this one report had it, the rebs fired on the fort for several hours, but the Yanks took time to have breakfast before responding. Doubleday is said to have fired the first Union shot of the war. I bet he’d be shocked to learn that the war and some of its issues are still not settled. But the game he invented, baseball, is doing quite nicely, thank you;
The Liberty Bell cost $300 in 1752. (No wonder it cracked?) If you’re wondering, that’s $9399.26 in 2014 dollars;
James Madison, as an undergraduate at Princeton, was admired for his facility with pornographic prose;
The only Mainland American casualties of WW2 were a woman and her five children, who while on an outing near Klamath Falls, Oregon, happened upon a dormant Japanese balloon bomb, which exploded. This was sometime in 1945;
Back in 1872 a mosquito-borne virus killed 4 million U.S. horses (25% of the national horse supply). The virus was never named or identified. I am always amazed at the number of people who tell me they would like to go back in the past to live. Life for the average human at almost any time in history, anywhere in the world, was far more dangerous than it is now. I can’t imagine lack of santitation, danger of infectious diseases, lack of food, or spoilage of food, lack of health care or understanding of disease, poor shelter, and clothing, any of it, or all of it The past was nasty, not golden;
John Paul Jones eventually got promoted to the rank of admiral. In the Russian Navy.
The Revolutionary army to which the Brits surrendered at Yorktown was made up of 10,000 Americans and 30,000 Frenchmen;
May 10, 1775, the Brirs surrendered Fort Ticonderoga as Benedict Arnold and Ethan Allan argued over who was in command;
In 1942, uncited, unnamed authorities discovered that Adolf Hitler owned nearly 9,000 acres in eastern Colorado;
Among the force of Mexicans that overran the Alamo in 1836, there were quite a few 13 and 14-year-old military academy students. The CFA used similar students in its armed force and many were killed in the Civil War. Children have not always been the treasured package they are now — in some places. For most of history children were no more than labor to help get things done;
Among the $90 Billion in WW II surplus goods sold to the public after the war was 10 million pounds of contraceptive jelly. (There is at least a short story in this one.);
The army General Sherman’s armym marched 300 miles from Atlanta to the sea was 62,000-strong. He lost only 724 soldiers during the campaign, which suggests he had truly found the soft underbelly, if not of the Confederacy, then certainly of Georgia.;
The Pony Express was a financial disaster. It operated only from April 1860 to October 1861. It’s short life aside, its reputation has hung in there, once again, a real-life example of how perception and myth-building often override historical fact and reality, yet people take such myths as fact;
Between 1860 and 1889 (29 years) the population of Great Plains Bison fell from 50 million to 551. They were killed by commercial hide hunters, nor some sort of exotic bison disease;
Prior to 1935, the U.S. Supreme Court allegedly had no permanent home and reportedly “often met in taverns.” I wonder it f it might be a good idea to revert to simlar conditions for our own current Honorable Justices? Might be damn good for them to get out and mix with real peopled living real lives, rather than verbal jousting with never-ending line of intellectuals and theorists; and,
The first shot of the Spanish American War was fired at Guam.
At some point n July 5,1985, I said out loud, “Shit.” My son Trevor (ten days from turning five) looked up at me studiously and, seeing nothing extraordinary or inciteful, leaned toward me and shouted, “What was that shit for?)
On our way to South Bend it seemed every house along the Indiana border was selling fireworks which are illegal here. My friend and colleague Phil Sheldon (son Shane plays on same soccer team with my son Troy) took his kids and some others on a tour of a wholesale fireworks factory. Soon after arriving, the proprietress (his word) asked him if he was driving a silver vehicle, to which he replied Eh-firm and she said, “Would you please move it so the fire trucks can get it?” Phil guffawed, laughed, ukked while she turned nth-degree pale and finally it dawned on him maybe he’d better go outside and check so he led his flock back outdoors and there saw that the surrounding farm fields were ablaze with 5-7 ft. high flames and there was a jam-up of emergency vehicles trying to get into where he was parked. Call this a junction of random, serendipity, and sneaky old fate. Nobody injured, all out safely. No matter what age we live in, or where, luck plays one hell of a part in what happens to us and most people do not give this luck factor its due, especially those who climb to great levels of success in life.
July 7, I was hauling the boys various places and Trev was along for the ride. At one point he spotted a man with hooks for hands, driving a van, and he was fascinated. Trevor in those days had an imaginary friend (to us) he called Boonga, and seeing the driver he informed me that Boonga’s father had also lost both of his arms and hands, but they had grown back. Boonga, you should know, lived in a storm pipe in the dry reservoir behind our home. Trev informed me that that the pipe Boonga lives in “is so long that it reaches prehistoric times.” Dad’s don’t answer such questions, or ask for additional information. The image stands wonderfully alone. Far as I know, Boonga still lives back there and he may be what Shaksper barks at from time to time.
My word for the day is “hypegiaphobia.” (Fear of responsibility).
I close with this thought. I have no idea if any of the cited historical facts are accurate or not. I pulled them from the South Bend Tribune while we were at the soccer tournament. I have not really looked at them in three decades. Did not check accuracy before including in this blog and herein is the difference between a blog and real media. A legit media outfit has editors and fact checkers and lawyers to pour over information to be as sure as they can be that it is as accurate as possible, and that where it is opinion or estimate rather than verifiable fact, that this is noted. In today’s internet and cable and 24 hour news cycles and environments, we no longer know what a legitimate news operation is, and we tend to choose media that tell us what we want to hear, or which tear down those things we don’t agree with. We have come to an age where many people, perhaps most thing that feeling something makes it a fact or a truth. It may to the individual, but not beyond and as all this goes on we keep sinking into tribes, all trying to capture or burn away the souls of those who disagree. Hell’s bells, this is like living in the Middle Ages.
Drove to Lansing, yesterday and spent the day with our dispatchers in the Report All Poaching (RAP) room in Constitution Hall. After 16 years of hearing them from a truck radio, it was educational to spend time in the room. My biggest realizations: These folks block a lot of silly garbage from taking up the time of Conservation Officers (screening function), and they work really hard to get information from callers, many of whom want to remain anonymous and are hinky about the people they complain about finding out who called the DNR on them. The RAP room keeps everything anonymous and this is an inviolate rule for officers int he field and dispatchers in the Cave in Lansing. Each dispatcher is monitoring and using six computer screens and a telephon, plus monitoring colleagues to see if they need help. Supervisor Dominique Clemente (an 18-year vet of the op.) Her colleagues say of her that she has a Rolodex mind, can hear six conversations at once, and simultaneous to handling her own phone call, has the answers to the other six inquiries . I had the pleasure of meeting: Dominique; Cathie Smith; Autumn Shaffier; Nick Sparks;Rick Bierlien; Jill Behnke; and, Leann House. Thanks to all of you for patience for my questions and for helping me understand how you are a key cog in making cases in the field. The teamwork among dispatchers was and is impressive. Photos of the folks follow, but first a few “interesting” inquiries/calls they have handled:
— Man calls in and says he has a complaint and he wants to talk to the two female officers who came out to his place last time — the ones wearing pink bikinis and packing .45s;
— Lots of people also call in with bogus claims, for example a call with all sorts of details on a “vampire deer.” Dispatchers and Officers alike are sometimes forced to treat call seriously in case they overlook something that might later cause harm;
— Call and complaint about a Wyoming Lion shot in Wyoming and then hanging on a guy’s porch in Wyoming, MI. COs checked it out. The cougar was legally shot in the state of Wyoming, not in the Michigan city;
— Man calls in to complain that he was attacked by a coyote and when he shot at it, it attacked him a second time. No other details given;
— Call from a woman who wanted to know how to get rid of a bat, a conversation during which she she informed dispatchers she had sat on it, adding with exasperation. “It’s the second time I’ve sat on a bat.” Twice; You didn’t learn to look before you sit? Call Guinness (the record book, not the ale house);
— Or the person who applied for a job in the RAP room who listed his occupation as “Sandwich artist.” He also neglected to mention he was also a felon;
— A woman calls in to seek information on rabies. Dispatcher tries to direct her to a veterinarian or a physician, at which the caller says, “I AM a doctor,” but we don’t learn much about rabies in Medical School;
— Woman who wants to know if you can catch HIV-AIDS from a cat?;
— Caller insists there is a dead elk on Drummond Island. Dispatcher tries to nail down specifics, but has difficult time. Dead elk, (like dead moose, or dead Wolf) are words that mobilize law enforcement. COs make their way out to the island. The dead elk turns out to be a dead domestic sheep;
— A woman in Pine Rest (use your imagination) called the RAP room repeatedly, talking about doctors melting her insides;
— multiple calls from people reporting a person next door, or in the field has a gun an they are a felon. You know they’re a felon? “Everybody says so.”
— Person calls to report neighbors buring a vehicle in the driveway in order to collect insurance money to buy drugs; Police check it out. There is indeed a fire in a car. The fire happened on the road and the driver pulled into first available driveway and found a garden hose he was using to try to douse the fire. People live on their speculations and perceptions, none of which may coincide with reality. And,
— COs get their lulus too. CO Sean Kehoe had a contact with a woman who found several baby raccoons and was nursing them, because that is what their dead mother would have wanted. Not with bottles, but with her breasts. ISYN.
Photos follow. (Out this weekend for ride-alongs with officers):
Kazoo Books Author Hop/Merry Mitten Event is scheduled for Saturday, December 10, 2016. The store is located at 2413 Parkview Avenue, Kalamazoo. Drop by to shoot the breeze with your favorite authors, get books autographed, have a cookie and tea or coffee. Hang out. Lonnie and I will probably arrive a little before out 1 P.M. schedule and leave a little early. We have a wedding in Allegan later that afternoon. See you then.
Schedule of authors is as follows:
1100-1300: Ruth Barsaw, Leslie Helakowski, Kristen Remenar, Matt Faulkner, Heather Smith-Meloche, and Buffy Silverman.
1300-1430: Joe Heywood, Kelly Fordon, Bonnie Jo Campbell and Mel Starr
1430-1600: Mark Nepo, Maureen Dunphy, Phil Stagg, Andy Mozina, and Grace Tiffany.
PORTAGE WINTERING-OVER CAMP: Sunday, November 20, 2016 — Winter, after a long delay has finally showed its ugly mug. Snowed yesterday and it is dusting again this morning as the temperature has dipped into the twenties the last two nights and is forecast to do so again tonight.
We have the contract set on the next Woods Cop book, but publication will not be until February 2018. Meanwhile I’ll work on something else. And paint and draw.
Part of getting ready to write is getting “the room” ready, which entails a lot of filing and sorting through notebooks and ironically I found one journal with an entry 33 years ago from the exact date, in 1983. That Nov 20, like this one was also a Sunday. Here’s the entry:
Sunday, November 20, 1983 – Tonight ABC aired its controversial film The Day After. My generation and those who have followed behind us, have all grown up with the bomb. But even those of us who served in SAC, which was tasked with delivering bulk of the U.S.’s nuclear weapons in an all-out war – I suspect –rarely gave the aftermath much serious thought. The truth is that those flying bombers and tankers (B-52s and KC-135s) didn’t really plan to come back. There were, of course. Di rigueur contingency plans on paper directing us to “recover” in Milwaukee or Green Bay, where we theoretically would present ourselves to the local military commander and be at his disposal. (There were no women at such operational ranks in those days). The plans were of course, on paper, but nobody viewed the mission as anything but a one-way ride. In fact mission success was bolstered by such thinking. If our families were to be obliterated behind us, then we would damn well make sure the other side got a lethal dose. What we knew was that our country would never deliver the first strike and therefore we were assured that any strike we launched would be in retaliation for something done to us. Somehow that put the white hats on our heads.
The ABC program has created a tremendous public discussion and controversy that has run for several weeks at various levels of intensity. The Freeze/Disarmament people have tried to use the film to support their position; the militarists naturally have used it for their own position support. Business as usual among America’s special interest groups.
The Day After makes one think, that’s for sure, but in one sense the result of a nuclear exchange is almost immaterial: What I’m getting at here is that 25 million Russians died in World War II and Uncle Joe Staling and his henchmen hardly blinked. Ironically, while Hitler’s forces poured across the Bug River into Soviet territory, Stalin was still conduction mass transportation of political enemies to GuLAGS in Siberia., and it was hard for Soviet military leadership to convince the Soviet leader of what was happening. 25 million dead then, so what’s the biggie for the Soviets if they lose another 100 or 200 million bodies? Obviously their leaders realize their country would no longer exist in political terms so they, as our leaders, must factor all that in and what has prevented a lethal exchange so far seems to have been the strategy called MAD, Mutually Assured Destruction, which means nobody can “win” such a war in conventional terms, because both combatants will be obliterated, and there also will be all sorts of Massive collateral death and destruction in Europe and in the Soviet’a satellite countries, but these are government decisions, not decisions in the purview of common folks — those on the receiving end. For the fodder-folk, be it from nukes or conventional weapons the ultimate result is the same. Some will die swiftly, some slowly – and many, in the downstream from hunger and infectious diseases.
If Americans come “unglued” over this show, I’m guessing it will come from seeing Americans dying in huge numbers on their own land and in their own homes. It’s been a long time since our civil war — though emotionally the damn thing continues to persist and some who were on the southern side call the conflict The War of Northern Aggression. Weird. Massive human loss and societal destruction is a reality we’ve never had to deal with at the magnitudes Europeans and Asians did during World War II.
Despite what one hopes for, how does a “side” disarm in the face of those who would use their power either to dominate, or out of paranoia and fear in their leadership ranks. (Remember, Hitler repeatedly gave orders to fight to the last man, meaning old, young, male and female, military and civilian, everyone until no German was left alive to fight.) Like most thinking people the nuke thing disturbs me when I bother to contemplate it, but I don’t pay it much attention as long as the Cold War situation remains in some sort of stasis.
If I harbor a fear, it’s this: If one side feels critically threatened and has emotionally unstable leadership, such leaders might feel they have no choice but to strike pre-emptively, which is why we don’t need dozens of countries in the world with proliferating nuclear weapons programs. I don’t put my concern solely on the Soviets and smaller nations led by questionable personalities. Never mind the “Global Communist Threat,” the last big war was fought against European Fascist states – the far right of the political spectrum in those days, not the extreme left.
Leon Uris’s novel — Mila 18 was published in 1961 – my high school graduation year – and this novel compellingly told a story about circumstances in the Warsaw Ghetto during WW2. To some extent Uris looked at the philosophical question that involves the response to life-threatening aggression: Does one turn the other cheek, or does one fight back? Is not fighting back a matter of obedience to a higher religious ethos and principle? Or, when we are truly threatened, does it impinge on those being attacked to not willingly (or easily) surrender their life and liberty? In Mila 18 youth eventually rise up to take over defense leadership in the ghetto, intent on fighting back, no matter the cost, and if I remember correctly from actual history the survivors of this resistance movement emerged later to push the creation of the nation of Israel. Such questions will always be among thinking people, but the real concern here is not how the masses will act, because unless the enemy already has fallen upon us – the decisions are vested in a country’s leaders. God help us if we have an unstable soul with his or her hand on the “football.”
That concludes the journal entry. It’s fun and semi-instructive to look back and see what was rolling around in my empty coconut in those long ago days. Since I left college in 1965 and joined the USAF I have kept a journal, not daily, but regularly for some 51 years and looking back pleases me, makes me smile, and sometimes disturbs me. Once in awhile I even find a good idea I can use now.
Also, there are some notes from 1967 – 49 years ago– when the killing in SEA ramping up as it was rolling along; I was in training as a navigator at Mather AFB in Sacramento California then.
March 15 – North Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh demands that bombing be halted and the U.S. troops be withdrawn from SVN before direct peace talks can begin.
March 22 – The U.S. announces that Thailand has given permission for us to use bases for B-52 air ops; previously our missions and sorties had to be flown out of Guam, which is a long haul from South Vietnam.
April 4 – Martin Luther King Jr. says “the U.S. government is the greatest purveyor of violence in the world. He encourages draft evasion and a merger of antiwar movement with the civil rights moment.
April 15 – Antiwar demonstrations all across the country, 50,000 in SF and 100,000 that in NYC. Songs of those days were “All You Need is Love, and “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
Out at Mather AFB we paid no attention to Martin Luther King or to the demonstrations. We were focused on training to do a job and intent on doing it as well as we could. These were, to be sure, strange, strange times. Ironically most of the boys I went to college with never served in the military. They evaded in any way they could and frankly it was easy enough back then to get a medical excuse that would allow one to remain home while others stepped up to serve the nation and risk their lives and limbs.
Enough for today. Got real work to do Journalizing-blogitating, by any definition, is not real work, but such trivia keeps us writers writing and that’s always a good thing for us. Shot and a beer. Over
All the years I traveled around U.S. and elsewhere, I kept notes, some brief, some in depth. Been cleaning the studio, and organizing files, ran across some travel stuff. Not in any order, but this all took place during one Big Apple trip. This trip was strictly for biz, and on my dime to meet with my agent and editor to talk about The Berkut which will publish next year, and other book business.
Flew Blue Goose from Kalamazoo to Dayton to catch Blue Goose connection to New York. Our lead flight attendant has a rubber backside. Men lean into the aisles to watch her wake.
I went to my seat and sat down. Turned out I was the wrong address. I pulled out a 6-month old boarding pass and had to move. This is not unusual when you travel as much as I do.
After boarding our pilot announces the Air Traffic Control computer is down and we are on “an indefinite delay.” We sat for 30 minutes and when the computer came back on line were 8th or 9th in line for takeoff. We finally go wheels up 1+45 after we were schedule. Glad I’m not connecting at LaGuardia (LAG). Not too far from Jackson Heights where I attended St. Joan of Arc in first grade. My old man was station in recruiting down at Whitehall Street, once made the papers for swearing in Whitey Ford.
Someone in the back of our bird has a heavy wet cough – the sort that goes on and one with every indication that it will end with a lung flying down the aisle. It goes on throughout the flight.
When I fly I take turbulence personally and I do not like not being able to see the flight crew and monitor what the hell they are doing.
Grab quick minimalist breakie at LAG: Orange juice, coffee, milk, and a bagel. “That’ll be $8.”
The Libertarian politician Lydon LaRouche has his troops at a table at Laguardia. One LaRouche guy says to me, “Sir are you interested in a strong defense for Europe?” I keep walking and he says, “Hey, keep walking Mister, the stock market’s gonna keep going down.” Like that means something to me? I live paycheck to paycheck.
New York, New York, it just is.
My cabbie from LAG to Manhattan is named Luis. He wants to open a “good restaurant.” He tells me he’s Puerto Rican, does not like his Cuban cousins. Talked about the Feds, other drivers, Possible U.S Canada merger, Puerto Rico statehood, cheap Cubanos and his lazey son-in-law
On foot in Manhattan a block beyond a clump of stores I come upon an old black man clinging to a public telephone platform while singing, “America,” his free hand outstretched, the universal hit-me-with-some- green- gesture.
Lunch with my Random House editor Joe Fox. La Petite Marmot. Yellow walls, Waiters in white jackets, black trousers, one block from the the UN Building, Fresh flower baskets on the tables. Also baskets of cut veggies. Brown marble bar. Gold-plated dessert gurney. Deep green-gray carpet with short pile. Fox wants to talk about the future books, says, One word: “Loot. People love stories about treasure. Loot’s the ticket. “
At a nearby table a gorgeous lady in a skimpy black dress shouts, “Fuck you, you Latvian pig!” She is alone. There is nobody sitting close to her. Bad day, one presumes.
Styles in restaurants for the ladies: spike heels. FMR mainly, prominent breast architecture, most with hair that looks like they were prepped by electrocution.
OBSERVATION: Good restaurants never have clocks. And, those that do are interested in moving people through. Good restaurants let people be.
Out at the airport there is a call for pre-boarding. Exactly what does that mean? You’re either on or off the aircraft, right?
Outside the Glaziers’ Union Hall on Sixth Avenue, there is a gathering of people in satin union jackets and a tall black woman with flaming red hair, a decent six-five in her heels.
A Cabby’s reaction to my tip: “Three fucking percent” Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Dinner at Village restaurant. Our waiter has long black hair in a ringlets, a touch of rouge on his cheekbones, a falsetto, feminine voice.
In Greenwich Village after dinner. On the street under a yellow light lamp there is a young man and young woman locked in an embrace, weaving, off balance, their lust knocking their gyros out. She has her hand between his legs and is rubbing vigorously. My agent Betsy Nolan says,” Like I really needed to see THAT.”
We pass a shop in the village, the windows filled with what look like ancient travel posters from the USSR.
Betsy’s office and apartment are in the Korean Green Grocery district. She owns the upper floor of an old factory. On the ground floor there is a Korean-run hat shop. Davey Crockett hats are on sale, no prices given. The man, Betsy says, pays $10,000 mo. rent. To sell coonskin caps. Weird. One block north of us is the Furrier district, west is the garden district. Activity in this neighborhood usually starts around 0400,and shuts down by 1700.Across the street from her building is a brothel called, The Love Apple, all Oriental establishment, stocked with sporting ladies.
Betsy has a house guest. His name is X, a native San Franciscan, recently located to So California. He’s a decorator for a mannequin company, a business Betsy calls cutthroat. X’s former lover now works for a competitor and they hate each other. X, Betsy tells me, has had a tough life. His grandfather hung himself because an operation for one of his daughters went poorly. X’s uncle then hung himself; he was the husband of the woman whose operation failed, but his suicide note said he did it because his father hung himself. X’s father then hung himself and it was X who found the body. Thus, a father and two sons hung themselves until dead, all of them in the same room of the family home. So much for Ozzie and Harriet.
When Betsy lived in Paris in the early 1960’s she authored a book (in French) on the historical antecedents of the Vietnam War, but no U.S. publisher was interested. “It made about 15 cents,” she tells me and laughs.
Monday night Betsy went to a focus group. A writer friend had authored a book on the women’s movement. All the women at the meeting were 48-52. All related how the movement was the most important event/influence in their lives. One woman vehemently disagreed. She has M.S., as does her husband. She announced, “The woman’s movement doesn’t mean shit to me or to people like me, to the handicapped or seriously ill. When my first baby was born the State tried to take her away. “You can’t hold your baby,” they said, “and, therefore, you can’t properly care for her. This is what they told me. Bullshit! I fought them. You know what? Babies know. Mine knew I couldn’t hold her, so she clung to me – like a monkey. I took her everywhere and she just hung on. When her diaper needed changing, she lay perfectly still so I could change her. Babies know these things. They compensate. And the State wanted to take her! Where was the damned Women’s Movement then? Nowhere. They couldn’t care less.” Betsy said she was blown away by this. Me too.
I had a suite at the Helmsley at $300/ night. No idea who made the reservation. The price made me dizzy. The toilet paper was wedged so tight you had to take it off one sheet at a time. The stopper in the sink wouldn’t hold. The vanity mirror was loose and tilted down as if it had broken its neck. Couldn’t close the door to the bathroom while on the toilet. I love New York. Three bills a night. Ridiculous.
Heading out to LAG. The Cabby tells me of his exploits in North Africa with the Brits in WW2 (under General Alexander). Claims he fought against Rommel in 1943. I asked him: “Does it seem like a distant dream, or like yesterday?” He looked back at me, said softly. “Like last night.”
Betsy tells me she arranged a date for her friend X. She described his date (a man) as “lewd and Lascivious.” Said X,”Goody!”
En route to Dayton, the man beside me has white hair and is extremely stooped. There was a woman’s travel case on floor at his feet. Beside him sat a woman with her granddaughter a girl of 3 or 4, black-hair, bright eyes, delicate little creature. The man asked granny about the weather in Dayton. “It snowed a couple of days ago, but didn’t stick.” He sighed loudly. “I’m 72 years old and I’ve never yet seen snow.” Lucky man in my estimate. We’re bucking a 130 knot headwind going west. Time flies when you’re having fun. No snow when we land. This makes the man sad. Not me. I guess I lack an empathy gene,except when writing.