KICKAPOO ESCAPE

The Creator has a sense of humor. And is not one to let anything go to waste. Left-over bits and pieces from the creation of the Appalachian and Rocky Mountains were swept together to form the Ocooch Mountains in southwestern Wisconsin.
Excess silken shards from our country's great rivers were spliced into a shimmering skein, and embroidered, zigzag, down a tortuous valley, toward the Wisconsin River. Early Native Americans named this little river "He who wanders here and there." Usually a placid stream, occasionally a roaring demon, it has, down through the years, been alternately loved and hated, adored and worshipped, blessed and cursed--and all for sufficient reasons.
Boaters and water lovers find the waterway too small for large craft or for commercial traffic, but exceedingly "canoe-friendly," except when prodded, irked and irritated by prolonged heavy rainfall.
Landlubbers have learned to live with the meandering stream and share its beautiful valley. To travel there, they built Wisconsin State Highway 131--playing hopscotch with the winding river--erecting a bridge to meet its each and every errant whim.
An effort was made to control and domesticate the river just above LaFarge. But we fools and our money were soon parted. The giant recreational lake involving 6,000 acres never materialized. About 18 million U.S. taxpayers' dollars erected only half-a-dam. And half-a-dam is no better or worse than no dam at all. The stream still remains unfettered and un-neutered. The water still flows free...toward the sea.

KICKAPOO ESCAPE

In the little Ocooch Mountains

With their gushing streams and fountains

There is a place that's

Very near and dear to me.

A whole world of peace and quiet--

Were I a rich man, I'd buy it--

Where the Kickapoo

Flows gently toward the sea.

When pressures of city and town

Weary my soul and grind me down,

I find there's just no

Place where I would rather be

Than in this rugged, peaceful land

With its lush greenery so grand,

Where the Kickapoo

Winds gently toward the sea.

Pack some lunch, grab up your paddle,

Load the canoe, we'll skedaddle,

And go a-drifting

Down the river, you and me.

On this winding and wondrous stream,

We will find time to plan and dream

As the Kickapoo

Wends its way toward the sea.

PARK BENCH WISDOM

Most of even our tiniest towns have at least one comfortable bench where a weary traveler may sit down and rest. And where the local old-timers can gather and talk over all of the current events including all local, county, state, national, and international happenings.
Such benches are often located in a shaded, park area. Other times we may find them right on the sidewalk of the town’s main street. And just outside the front door of a local pharmacy, restaurant, pool hall, or tavern. When the older natives gather at the bench, we can often benefit from some of their high-level conversation. We can glean a lot of their hard-earned knowledge and wisdom, provided we can winnow the chaff from the facts. We may find that many of their old tales have been altered and contaminated by years of retelling and by dimming memories. Also deliberately distorted by exaggeration, politics, religion, prejudice, good humor, and/or just plain orneriness. Also the love of being able to tell and get away with a good lie now and then.

PARK BENCH WISDOM

The old cowboy sat and whittled

On a stick of soft white pine.

He said, “Though the world’s changed, your life

Will be much the same as mine.

“You will wake up lots of mornings

Kind of dreading the new day,

But it’s best to face up to it.

Don’t let time just waste away.

“When you go to work, remember

You’re not a boy, but a man –

Know exactly what’s required, then

Do the best job that you can.

“Don’t just shy away from troubles

Or new problems that you fear.

You will have to face them sometime,

Such things don’t just disappear.

“If you ask for my advice, Son,

This is what I have to say,

There just ain’t no substitute for

Doing today’s tasks today.

“Life’s like a badly spoiled bronco

When it hits its bucking stride.

We really don’t have much choice but

To just hang right on and ride.

“Whether we’re alive and kicking

Won’t concern the world a lot.

It will keep right on a-spinning

Whether we’re aboard or not.

“Now, when you’re dealing with others –

The Good Book says what to do –

Treat folks to the honest kindness

You would like them to show you.

“Never put too much importance

On just who you think you are.

“Sure, you’re no pro football player

And no famous movie star.

“But don’t ever get discouraged

By your lack of strength or size.

Focus on the whole picture, not

You, as seen through your own eyes.

“Avoid things foolish and stupid

As you travel down life’s way.

Mix your work and progress with a

Bit of pleasure every day.

“You can’t hide behind a bottle –

I’ve tried that out and I know –

Problems wait around to greet you

When you’ve lost that rosy glow.

“The next morning, when you’re sober,

Those troubles still lie ahead.

it ain’t easy coping with life

When you have an aching head.

“Of things I tell you, this may be

The most important of all –

Mountains have been moved by the faith

Of folks who were weak and small.

“Oh, sure, you’ll feel unimportant,

At times, in this wide world’s scheme,

But you can make a real difference

If you hang on to your dream.

“Live so that one day you’ll look back

On these bygone days, and smile

At a lifetime filled with living –

One that’s really been worthwhile.

MY REAR-VIEW MIRROR

People my age tend to complain occasionally. We find that tasks around the home and lawn now take longer. A job that once required one hour now uses up two. In addition to the several hours (or days) we spend convincing ourselves that the job really needs doing. Age often brings on some aches and pains. And more frequent bouts with assorted illnesses. And more trips to the doctor. Then there are the ensuing clinic and hospital bills. And the Medicare and health insurance forms to deal with. At times a veritable mountain of paper that we try to understand and make sense out of. And, before we know it, we are complaining that the “Golden Years” are not all that we were told they would be. Kind of like that new coin we call the “gold dollar” (or “millennium penny”), they look more golden from a distance than they do up close.
But then, age also has some good points. If we keep an open mind we start to notice some things we should have recognized years before. We suddenly find that much of what we once thought to be of the utmost importance really doesn’t matter at all. At one time it seemed almost a necessity to try to please everyone. At work, it was often fundamental to stay in the good graces of superiors, fellow workers, and our employer’s customers. But after retirement, we can re-think that one.
It’s a free country. And everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. If someone doesn’t like me, so be it. It is that individual’s privilege. I certainly won’t waste any time or lose any sleep worrying about it. Or trying to solve the problem.
I prefer to spend my time counting my blessings. My wife, family, my home, my writing, and all of the other things that make life worthwhile. And I am thankful for an ample supply of friends and probably the best assortment of good neighbors that can be found anywhere. Also tons of memories.

MY REAR-VIEW MIRROR

Days and years I’ve left behind

Tend to clutter up my mind,

Various memories and

Thoughts of days gone by,

Some times happy, others sad,

Good experiences, and bad –

I could not forget them,

Even if I’d try.

Trekking down life’s long, hard trail,

Striving to succeed – not fail,

Often my best efforts

Were not quite enough.

Times when persistence and pluck

Needed help from Lady Luck.

Looking back, some of those

Days were fairly rough.

Now and then nothing went right –

I’d have to hang in and fight.

At times, everyone this

Bitter cup must quaff.

Later on, I came to know

Time softens most any blow.

Looking back now at most

Bad times, I can laugh.

In our youth we crave and yearn,

Work and slave and save to earn

To buy things we feel we

Just can’t do without.

Age and years open our eyes,

Then, in time, we realize
What this thing that we call

Life is all about.

Each morning the eastern skies

Now are a treat to my eyes.

I’ve been granted one more

Chance to pass life’s test,

‘Though some things may go awry,

I’ll just give it my best try.

I’m sure I’ll be all right

If do my best.

If good fortune smiles today,

Or just bad things come my way,

I’ll smile and play all the

Cards dealt to my hand.

There’ll be actions I must take,

Some adjustments I must make,

I may need to “hang tough”

And take a firm stand

One fine day you, just like me,

Will smile and look back to see

Works and deeds you’ve done that

You can view with pride.

For, as near as I can tell,

If we have spent our time well,

Life will have been worth this

Rough and the bumpy ride.

STEP ASIDE

A silvery-haired fellow
Said, at work, one day,
“Son, you’d better get the
Hell out of my way.”

He said, “I just ain’t one
To move around slow
This day grows short – we’ve still
A long way to go.

“This work must be finished
Before setting sun,
We must get a move on
If we’d see it done.

“For me, time is fleeting,
So once more I say,
‘Speed up, or get plumb the
Hell out of my way!’”

-- Emil Schmit

LOVELIGHT

Every now and then I face questions like, "Hey, how come you don't ever write any love poems?" and "You claim to be a writer. Shouldn't a writer be kind of a romantic and write mushy, wimpy love stuff?" Or, "You always refer to yourself as a poet, but I never see any love sonnets, or anything even close. Why?"
Most likely it has a lot to do with the time I was born. Little boys who first saw light of day in the early twenties learned early in life that you don't wear your heart on your sleeve. Real big men stand tall. And they never cry. Expressions like ,"I love you," weren't commonly used (at least in public) by heroes of that time. And, to this day, they still don't come easy.
And then when it gets right down to the mechanics, or the nuts-and-bolts of the thing. We writers who use the English language have two-and-a-half strikes on us right from the start. We have only four words, five at the most, that rhyme with "love." French scribes have more than 40 words that rhyme with "amour."
Oh, I suppose I really am a romantic at heart. I have been known to cry at sad movies. And I wrote a real honest-to-gosh love poem once. A young nephew asked me to write something for his wedding and to read it at the ceremony. I later used the rhyme for one of these columns in 1996. And I felt honored when a minister friend who now lives in California asked for a copy of it. She considered using it for future wedding ceremonies.
I was once asked to put together and read a eulogy at an old friend's funeral. Some of this was in rhyme. Not exactly a love poem, but a labor of love. I received a number of requests for copies of it. Several of my more serious and/or religious, poems have "made it to church," having been used by ministers as pulpit-material.
When I started playing around with various computer programs, I really didn't have any intention of making my own greeting cards. And then one day I decided to design a birthday card for one of the grandchildren. Naturally, I had to include an original rhyme, a few Clip Art pictures and designs, and finish with, "With love from Grandma and Grandpa" (in flowing script, even). The first one was well received, so that required another for the next family birthday, and then another and another. Soon there were graduation cards, anniversary cards, and even Christmas cards. Now they all seem to be expected and much appreciated, and my expenditure of effort is well repaid with love.
For me, life, happiness, fulfillment, and all those good things depend pretty much on family and friends - warm, honest people - folks we can trust. The kind we feel comfortable with and whose company we enjoy. Some of my better greeting card efforts go into birthday and anniversary creations for my wife Gloria.

LOVELIGHT

The flickering candle's
Gleam lights up your eyes,
Makes a banquet feast of
Our burgers and fries.

Time we spend together,
Your love and your smile
Smooth out life's rough edges,
Make it all worthwhile.

We don't need a mansion
Or rambling estate.
Our dwelling may be old
But it suits us great

We've no need for limo
Or fancy sports car.
We're happy and pleased with
Things just as they are.

We don't crave to know all
The great queens and kings.
We prefer just common Folks,
and common things.

No champagne or truffles,
Pheasant-under-glass,
We're pleased with our plateau,
Pure plain middle-class.

We don't whine about things
we're doing without.
Contentment is what our
Life is all about.

We need to impress no
Folks we meet today –
Each Tom. Dick, or Harry
Who happens our way.

For us, fame and fortune's
No absolute must,
Or a host of friends,
half Of whom we can't trust.

We prefer the kind who
Are true from the start,
The ones we know have our
Best interests at heart.

Now, close as two peas in
A warm, cozy pod,
We count all our blessings,
And give thanks to God.

WOODLAND AUTUMN

Each year one of my more pessimistic friends says, "After the
Fourth of July, it's all downhill as far as summer goes." And I suppose he
is correct. Before we know it, it is time for the county fair and for the schools to re-open. And we look around to see a number of summer chores still undone. We recall plans for summer activities that we never got around to.
Sad to say, the older we get, the faster time seems to fly. Each year more and more of those wonderful plans have to be postponed, hoping we get around to them next summer.
So, ready or not, autumn arrives. About the only negative thing we can say about this season is that we know it will be followed by the ice and snow of winter. Occasionally a gray fall day can trigger a bit of sadness as we watch the summer plants and flowers wither and die. But this year it would almost be a pleasure to watch our large lawn turn brown. The frequent rains have kept it green and growing without letup. I don't remember a year when the grass required this much mowing.
Autumn here in the Midwest would be a difficult time not to enjoy, even if we tried. Temperatures are usually mild, neither too hot nor too cold. And the hills and river bluffs take on brilliant hues that are a welcome change after all the lush green of summer. We watch hills covered with maple trees turn red and orange. Oaks take on darker reds and browns.
At times, when walking through stands of birch and aspen trees on a dark, gray day, we almost feel that the bright yellow leaves are emitting a golden light of their own. Plain weeds like goldenrods are suddenly flowers, with their own special color. The red of the sumac decorates many country roadsides, and the leaves of the ivy vines that climb and twine their way high up into tall trees take on their own special eye-catching deep red hue.
I no longer hunt, and don't get out into the woods and fields as I once did. And I don't pick up and hull and dry black walnuts anymore. I wouldn't mind having a few butternuts, but those trees are no longer as plentiful as they once were. Harvesting hickory nuts always seemed to be a matter of beating the squirrels to them. Usually I came in second best. I remember picking hazelnuts when I was younger, and drying them until their fuzzy husks popped open, releasing the hidden nuts.
I haven't seen any of those plants for a long time. I wonder if any or many of the woodland pastures still have sizable stands of hazel brush.
In autumn, our migrating birds leave for warmer climes and the wild geese often honk at us as they fly by overhead. Hibernating animals put on an extra layer of fat to carry them through the winter. The ones that will be out in the cold weather grow denser, warmer fur. And we humans get our snow shovels around, or else tune up our snow blowers. Because winter is now on the way.

WOODLAND AUTUMN

Brilliant autumn leaves all muted
By low fog clouds, hanging gray,
And there's just a hint of winter
In the mid-October day.

Beaver have been busy cutting
Saplings for their winter feed.
Squirrels frisk through final harvest,
Gathering the nuts they'll need.

Red fox looking sharp and sassy,
Fur approaching winter prime;
Chubby woodchuck, fat and ready
To sleep through the wintertime.

White-tailed buck attacks the bushes,
Slashes a defenseless tree.
Soon his antlers will be burnished,
From the itching velvet free.

Somewhere in the hazy distance
Wild geese sound their haunting cry.
A great day for reminiscing;
One more summer has slipped by.

SMALL -TOWN DINERS OFFER ELEMENT OF SURPRISE

I am not impressed by big, fancy restaurants where the preparation of food often appears to play second-fiddle to advertising, decorating, and fancy menus, also, reprinting menus to keep ahead of constantly rising prices.
Fast food places are usually good and serve the purpose for which they were intended. But they usually lack variety and character.
My favorite stops are the independently owned small-town "beaneries" and "greasy spoons." They often furnish something that home cooking doesn't - the element of surprise. A bowl of chicken soup may be a large, full bowl with lots of meat, vegetables and noodles - a meal in itself. A week later, the same order might bring you half of a bowl of thin soup consisting mostly of canned chicken broth.
Coffee is almost always unpredictable and can rarely be described as good.
Usually it is either excellent or downright horrible. Scalloped potatoes might contain quite a bit of ham, or almost none. Tuna and noodles may contain lots of tuna, or be almost entirely noodles. Cooked rice might have an excellent taste and texture - or might just sit there in one big, solid glob. Beef tips over rice or noodles might be tough, gristly bits of meat, obliterated by strong, brown canned gravy, or might be a very tasty choice. Chili can often be a story in itself.
Some restaurants take on and reflect the character of their owners. If the owner likes
antiques, the walls will be decorated with old hand tools, crockery and other artifacts of
earlier days. If the owner has a sense of humor and likes bawdy stories, there will be an ample supply of printed placards and jokes. A truck stop I once frequented in Viroqua, Wis. was operated by a man who owned horses. His place was decorated with trophies, pictures and statues of draft horses. Usually the main topic around the tables was horse-pulling contests.
An owner in Ontario, Wis. liked to share beautiful and positive thoughts with her customers. She kept her bulletin board and counter top covered with clippings, greeting
card poems and hand-lettered ideas and rhymes she had copied from books and magazines. One busy restaurant usually had as many people shaking dice as they had eating breakfast each morning. It was a tad bit illegal, but the city police chief was one of the regulars in the game.
And then there are the rest rooms – equally as unpredictable as is the food. Some are well-marked, others almost impossible to find. Some neat, others long neglected. Looking for a bawdy joke or naughty drawing? You'll find them on the walls. Prefer humorous rhymes? They're there, too. Seeking religion? You'll often find where a disgruntled Christian has boldly inscribed: "Jesus Saves," along with chapter and verse for recommended reading for the scribbling sinners.
I've developed a great deal of admiration for many of the people who operate and/or work in restaurants. The hours are long and the work is not all fun and games. Yet these folks, young and old, get the job done. And they do it with a smile.

THE HUNGRY HERD CAFE

God, bless that dear old cook down at
The Hungry Herd Cafe.
She's just discovered a new way
To spoil fried eggs today.

She really loves to over-cook,
She's honed it to an art;
Her boiled rice and potatoes, mashed,
Are hard to tell apart.

For brewing coffee, she uses
No recipe or text -
One day it's thin as dishwater,
Removes varnish, the next.

Her bacon's tough as razor strops,
With ham like leather boots,
You cut your gravy with a fork –
Or knife, as texture suits.

German potato salad does
Not impress many Dutch.
Today's special, the corned beef hash,
Just doesn't taste like such.

Hot chili's a good winter choice,
Real tasty, like as not,
But till it's in your bowl, there is
No guarantee it's hot.

The silverware is bent and worn,
Check first for dirt or rust.
"Fresh, home-made pie" cringes and shrinks
Away from greasy crust.

It is not rare, at times, to see,
On bread crusts, flecks of mold.
On toast, we pretend it's just bits
Of tarnish on the gold.

The dishwashing machine leaves soap
To flavor coffee mugs.
Exterminator's sign tells when
They last fogged out the bugs.

The waitress shows the weight of age,
Her steps, painful and slow.
For waitresses, they say the feet
And tips, are first to go.

'Neath the cash register, a glass
Showcase holds wares to sell,
Like candy bars and chewing gum;
Antacids move real well!

Tomorrow morn, I'll crave caffeine
To start my brand-new day.
I’ll ride my favorite stool down at
The Hungry Herd Cafe.