Still more postcards from Chicago

 

Three teenagers wait for an Orange Line train at Roosevelt Station high above Roosevelt Road between State Street and Wabash Avenue in the South Loop at dusk. 

 

Chicago's Calder is called "Flamingo," and it's in front of the federal building.

 

 

A street musician jams after dark on Michigan Avenue at Congress Parkway.

  

Nobody rides trains anymore, right? The concourse at midday at Chicago's Union Station.

 

The Great Hall of the old station remains as beautiful as it ever was.

The passageway to the trains deep beneath the city's streets.

 

No set of postcards would be complete without a shot of Chicago's Water Tower.

  

Or the Tribune Tower, a remnant of the days when monopolies controlled the media and raked in enough cash to build giant edifices to their own power. 

Nick, a student at Illinois Institute of Technology, gave us a pedicab tour from the Loop to Streeterville. We tipped him well.

Chicago's extreme gas prices

The price of a gallon of gasoline in Chicago is enough to make you cry, but there are good reasons for it.
Chicago always has the highest gas prices in the Midwest. A variety of factors cause this:
• High taxes
• High overhead for retailers; city locations are expensive
• The requirement for an expensive-to-produce reformulated gasoline
These prices were at the tail end of a refinery shutdown scare, and the supply of that reformulated gasoline was still not where it should have been. Blame it on Adam Smith's invisible hand.
Who benefits from the less-dirty air? Certainly Chicagoans do, but perhaps more importantly, people who live downwind from Chicago do.
In other words, us.
This was brought home to me a number of years ago when I edited the Huron Daily Tribune in Michigan's Thumb. We did a happy-happy story about a toy helium balloon that was launched from a Chicago suburb and landed in Huron County.
How did it get there? It got carried on the very same air that had been in Chicago a few days before now was over the rural farm fields of Michigan's Thumb.
Who pays to keep the good Republican farmers of the Thumb from choking on dirty city air? The answer is right there on the BP station sign at 31st and Halsted.

More postcards from Chicago

 

The full moon shines over the Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park.

 

The fountain has been putting on amazing displays since 1927.

Two young lovers embrace by moonlight and the light of the fountain. 

Kissy Missy found the perfect bloody Mary at a sidewalk cafe on Michigan Avenue nearby.

Postcard from Chicago

Sometimes, a postcard just leaps out at you. Kissy Missy and I stepped off the train and went outside Chicago's Union Station. The scene just begged for a shot. The Chicago Sun-Times building is in the background. Please note, although I was carrying an iPhone, that was not the camera I used for this shot.

Le Tour de Mont Pleasant

 

Another edition of Le Tour de Mont Pleasant is in the books - and it's so much fun to shoot.

 

The racers are just incredible athletes, and they do it for the sheer joy of it.

This year, I concentrated on the downtown criterium races - closed course races that test athletes' endurance.

The course was changed slightly to add the roundabout at Main and Mosher, and to bring riders up the Pine Street Hill.

Temperatures were in the low 70s, winds a little bumpy and it was somewhat humid - but overall, it was perfect for a bike race!

The final of the Category 1 men's race - 75 minutes plus three laps - came down to a sprint to the finish. Incredibly, the same rider who won the 107-mile road race through Isabella County Saturday sprinted to the top spot.

After the event, Katherine talked to 44-year-old Kirk Albers from Upper Arlington, Ohio, who won both big races. She covered the event for the Morning Sun. Some folks get football games. She gets the bicycle races.

Spring? Not so fast

Our first softball players showed up on the Horizon Park field today. That's a sure sign of spring!
But we've still got a snow shovel on the porch. I'm not ready to put it away.

Really. It's not cold

Many years ago, when I was a Scoutmaster, we'd go camping in all kinds of weather. Inevitably, even if the temperature was like a summer morning, a Scout or two would complain he was cold.
"It's not cold," I'd tell him. And as summer moved into fall and into winter, I'd continue to tell him "It's not cold. It's a little nippy." Or, "It's brisk!"
Uh, huh.
The Scouts, bright kids all, were a little skeptical, but they played along. So did my own children.
They decided that perhaps Dad was a little deluded, but they weren't cold.
Eventually, I developed a formal scale, which, with some expansion and tweaking, is illustrated above.
One winter, we took a trip to Searchmont with the Scouts to go skiing, and the Great Lakes region had been enveloped in bitter arctic air. As we drove down into a valley in the Laurentians north of Sault Ste. Marie, I was watching the temperature readout on Kissy Missy's minivan. It kept dropping.
"OK. It's cold," I said calmly.
In the back seat, Katherine shrieked. We still went skiing.
Wind chill, by the way, counts. And tonight, with the wind chill, it will get cold.
But not cold enough to go inside.

And back to reality

I can only quote my colleague Herbert Jack Rotfeld, who teaches at Auburn:

I now return to the regularly scheduled reading of student essay tests in which sentences, paragraphs, punctuation and spelling are all accidents.


I try to make that a little better.

Happy 99th birthday, Dad

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Today would have been my father’s 99th birthday.
My dad, Oswald Ferdinand Ranzenberger, was born Oct. 10, 1913, in the house on Hill Street in Saginaw where he grew up. It was the same house where I grew up.
Dad was hard man to get to know. He was dedicated to his family, to God, to his country and to his duty to all of them. Dad didn’t talk much about these things. He just saw that approaching life this way was obviously the right way to do things.
Dad and I never really saw eye to eye. I admired him very greatly, but admiring Dad was not something he really allowed.
He was an accountant, and that was something he was made to be. I’m a writer, photographer, one-time disc jockey, sometime video guy, and doing that is what I was made to do. He never got that.
I’m outgoing, think-on-the-outside. I’ll put myself out there. Dad thought that was dangerous.
“The nail that’s sticking up,” he once told me, “is the one that gets hammered down.”
Yet I have to put it all into perspective. I’m now 57 years old. When Dad celebrated his 57th birthday on Oct. 10, 1970, he had a long-haired, rebellious son in 10th grade, just a year past Woodstock.
His world of family, God and country was coming apart. An era of questioning, challenging and defying the conventional wisdom was well under way. His own son was one of those hell-raising, dope-smoking rebels ripping apart everything Dad valued.
But I was his son, and a strong sense of family and duty kept him from completely cutting me off. He seldom missed an opportunity to let me know, subtly, often without words, how much I disappointed him. Even now, 27 years after he died, I’m still disappointed that I disappointed him, but I shouldn’t be surprised.
Still, I’ve never forgotten what he said to me more than once: An education is not to teach a person what to think, but teach them how to think. My education, as did his, came from everywhere, from all of our experiences. Mine was so much different from his, and it’s taken me a very long time to appreciate, or even understand, his experiences.
If I could say one thing to my father, I'd say that I’m honestly pleased with where my life went. His grandchildren – and he only got to meet one of them, very briefly – are amazing people. Yes, I did a lot of stupid things, but I survived. That taught me so much. I won’t call myself wise, but there’s some wisdom in there that I learned the hard way.
I don't know if Dad would understand this – but I learned that wisdom is judgment distilled, good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from not having good judgment.
I didn’t understand Dad's wisdom, and he didn’t understand me, either. One more thing I'd say to Dad: I’m sorry I disappointed you.
And yeah, there is just one more thing, Dad. You know that crummy little teachers college I chose over your Maize and Blue school? I think it’s worked out OK.
Happy birthday, Dad.

The end of the Oiler-eating pothole

Big equipment is in the driveway that leads from Mt. Pleasant High School to Preston Street, and I couldn't be happier.
I first began using this driveway about 2004, when Andrew was a high school freshman. That was a while ago.
The area right by the dugout featured a massive, car-eating pothole. Potholes like this come from a disintegration of the underlying roadbed. Sometimes something washes it out. Sometimes the roadbed just wasn't built properly. In any case, this giant pothole collected water, ice and the occasional student's car year after year.
Fixing this driveway wasn't the top priority of the school district. They had much more important things to spend money on, and I can't disagree with any of those decisions.
Now, however, Mt. Pleasant Schools has managed to scrape together the money to fix this. Repairing a problem of this sort isn't a case of just slapping more asphalt into the hole. That wouldn't last. Like any roadway that's been allowed to deteriorate to this point, the entire thing has to be reconstructed.
That's what's under way off Preston Street, with new sand and a solid roadbed going in. The asphalt we'll see at the end of it is just the obvious part, but the real work is in the roadbed.
I can't say I'll miss the car-eating pothole.

Applefest: Celebrating 25 years

This adorable guy was in the pumpkin patch.

I'm a Zonta boy. That means I'm married to one of the members of the Mt. Pleasant Zonta Club, which put on its 25th annual Zonta Applefest. 

There's a lot of behind the scenes stuff involved in Applefest, and I get to do some of it. The results: another successful Applefest. 

Even though there's an apple shortage in Michigan, Papa's Pumpkin Patch had plenty of Honeycrisp apples available.

John Martinez of Bridgeport laughs as he carves images into pumpkins.

Fiber artist Linda Ritz of Clare spins alpaca fleece into wool using a traveling spinning wheel.

The baked goods, as always, were a hit.

Different ... is good.

Hayrides are really, really popular at Applefest.

This guy is discovering the joy of pumpkins and Halloween - and Applefest.

Here's one maze is hard to get lost in.

A volunteer, a face, a pumpkin - it's Applefest.

Who built that? We all did

When I was an undergrad at Central Michigan University, I look a class in writing from Dr. Peter B. Orlik. He said something that stunned me at the time, but it turns out to be true: “There’s really nothing new. Creativity is just putting together things in different ways.”
I stumbled across this example. Our story begins 70 years ago, during World War II. Kay Kyser, “The Ol’ Professor of Swing,” had a hit record called “Jingle Jangle Jingle.”



It was a creative approach: It’s a cowboy song, arranged as big-band swing. It hit No. 1.
My mother loved this song. She would sing it while she did housework when I was a child.
In the pre-Internet age, it went where old hit records went – obscurity and the packages sold on late-night TV. But YouTube and digital archives brought it back: It’s for sale for 99 cents at Amazon.com.
Meanwhile, it found its way into a post-apocalyptic video game called Fallout: New Vegas.
A player known only as “Icky” got it stuck in his head. He also apparently was into something called “Electro Swing,” a sort of combination of swing samples and techno.
He turned "Jingle Jangle Jingle" into "Ring a Ding Baby." It’s cool:





At the same time, over in the DeviantArt community, people were fooling around with “My Little Pony” as a meme. They drew socks on them, made their own animations and had them sing terrible songs.
One of these artists, who goes by the name Tommy Xe, took Icky’s soundtrack of "Ring a Ding Baby" and turned it into a PMV: Pony Music Video.



And it’s just amazing.
Who made money off this? Maybe Google. Certainly the hardware and software makers who sold Icky and Tommy Xe the sophisticated machines they used to build these.
But mostly this is a path, an unpredictable path, through networks and open collaboration to something really creative. And according to writer Steven Johnson,  it’s really the answer to the question of “who built that.”

The stunning arrival of Fall 2012!

Fall made its brilliant entrance today, on a crisp, bright day.
The autumnal equinox, which marks the precise instant where the sun crosses the equator on its trip south, took place at 10:49 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.
I documented the effect of this for posterity.

The last moment of the summer of 2012, as seen from the Home on Horizon Park.

And the stunning arrival of the fall of 2012!

(In the competition for geekiness with my kids, I now have the lead.)

The 47 percent

I was once one of those 47 percent of Americans who paid no federal income tax. Yes, I was one of those lazy, shiftless individuals who wouldn’t take personal responsibility, part of this entitlement society depending on government handouts.
Um, really? I don’t think so.

Here’s how it happened: This was back right after the century started. I found myself as a single parent – this wasn’t my idea, but it happened – and I was raising three small children on my own. To make ends meet, I was working two jobs.

One was as the editor of a small, weekly newspaper. It didn’t pay much, and it folded eventually, but I did a good enough job that it got me hired as a reporter for the Morning Sun. I’m now the online editor, a position I’d like to believe I earned on my merits.

The other job was a part-time adjunct instructor at Central Michigan University. In those days, there was no union for temporary instructors. One had to prove one’s merit in the classroom to get a new contract. That sounds like a pretty solidly Republican idea to me. I’ve had consistent contract renewals for well over a decade now, so it would seem that I’ve proven my merit in that position, too.

But in the early days of those two jobs, there wasn’t a lot of money coming into the house. Interestingly, however, the Republicans had pushed through something called the child tax credit. This is a direct offset of taxes that otherwise would be owed. The idea was to allow me to keep more of what I earned, and allow me to spend it on my children the way I saw fit without having to filter it through the government.

That sounds incredibly Republican to me.

The more kids you have, the bigger the tax credit. In my case, the tax credit and other breaks for which an ordinary working guy like me qualified pushed my income tax liability to zero for a couple of years.

The first time that happened, my jaw dropped. Wow. Zero. During several more years, I paid a rate of about 3 percent after the credits and deductions.

Did I feel like a freeloader? Heck, no. I still was paying Social Security and Medicare taxes, as were my employers. I still paid state income taxes, federal and state gasoline taxes, state sales tax, state property tax, local property tax, federal telephone tax … I’m leaving out a lot. But I was grateful for the break the feds gave me. I didn’t have to ask for assistance. I could build a strong family. I was an ordinary guy, working hard and keeping more of what I earned instead of paying some bureaucrat to filter a little of it back to me.

This is a freeloader?

I no longer qualify for the child tax credit. All those kids are in college now and have jobs, showing me a terrific work ethic. I pay a lot more in taxes now. I don’t like it, of course, but it’s a lot more affordable now than it was back then when I was part of the 47 percent.

Yeah, tax the poor. Tax the workers raising their children without help. That’s the ticket to victory, Mr. Romney.

Together we are Maroon ... and Green

They called it "The Clash at Kelly/Shorts" - Michigan State playing CMU at Mt. Pleasant for the first time in history.
Some Spartan fans worried - after all, CMU has pulled the occasional upset against MSU. But this year,  the Spartans were ranked No. 11 in the country going in, and the Chippewas, well, were underdogs.
Michigan State is a huge draw, and people knew that this was something historic.
This wasn't a rivalry game. Leave that to the Spartans and Wolverines, the Wolverines and Buckeyes, or the Chippewas and Broncoes.
This was something else. There are so many ties between East Lansing and Mt. Pleasant - families, colleagues, friends - that this was a celebration, a great big party. 

I'm a Chippewa, and so are Kat and Robert

Kissy Missy is a Spartan.

Chippewas and Spartans mingled freely outside Kelly/Shorts

Spartan flags and Chippewa flags flew side by side.

Friends, family and friends, some old, some new gathered beneath the Ranzenbergers' maroon canopy.

We were joined by a few tens of thousands of our closest friends.

You've heard of the Blue Men? How about the Maroon & Gold men?

What's a party without a band?

The Spartan Marching Band filled the field.

Then the Chippewa Marching Band took over.

Robert marched with the Chippewa Marching Band.

And together, they played "America the Beautiful" at halftime.

Oh, and there was an actual football game. Michigan State won 41-7, and moved up to No. 10 in the AP College Football Poll.

Maroon and Green. Somehow it worked.

Music for the Elderly

I was listening to an oldies station while driving down Mission Street today, and realized this oldies station was playing stuff I had played for the kids during my radio career.
Sad.
I was on my way to the drug store. Once I got there, I smiled. The in-store background music was playing Steely Dan, followed by U2.
"Finally, some good music!" I thought, until I realized that a drug store is where old people go to buy their medication to keep from dropping dead.
Really sad.

Summer means blueberries

Every summer, we wait for a simple, single email to arrive from the Rhynard farm: The blueberries are ready!
The Rhynards grow some of the most fabulous, easy picking blueberries anywhere. These are high-bush blueberries, which mean the wonderful fruit is right in front of you. No stooping needed.
The family has, I'd guess, about 10 acres in cultivation, so that means, oh, about a zillion blueberries. 




A serious net overhead keeps out marauding birds, and beneath that, you can collect as many blueberries as you want.
I concentrated on one bush - one - and picked about 4 pounds of ripe, sweet, wonderful blueberries. All told, we came home with about 8 pounds.
There's a lot of blueberry cobbler, blueberry pie, blueberries on cereal, blueberries with cream ahead. I can't object.
It's summer in mid-Michigan, and that's something that makes it wonderful.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Santana!

 I thought Kissy Missy was crazy when she kept sending in entries for WHNN's tickets to the Santana concert at the Soaring Eagle Casino. She wasn't. She pretty much overwhelmed them on a Text to Win Wednesday, and she won. And the seats were fabulous! I had expected to get a place up on The Hill - but we gasped when we saw that they had given us seats in Row G.

The crowd was, well, interesting. We now have reached the point where rock concerts include a fair number of people who arrive with canes, walkers and wheelchairs, but they still wanna rock! The osteoporosis crowd still wants to boogie! But it wasn't just Music for the Elderly - other members of the crowd were as entertaining as Walgreen's After Dark. My favorite: a young woman wearing a dress in what can only be described as a crazy quilt of different paisley patterns. Watch out for the brown acid, man. Her tattoo matched her dress.

And the show was excellent. There's a reason Carlos Santana has been a headliner for more than 40 years. It was remarkably well produced, integrated video on a huge crystal-clear LED screen with musicianship from a jawdroppingly excellent band that went beyond first-rate. The show ran 2 hours, 40 minutes without a break, and won't be forgotten - even by the aging hippies.

A snake in the grass

Literally, a snake in the grass.
This little feller - a garter snake about 2 feet long - made himself known as he slithered across the warm sidewalk leading to the Morning Sun's employee entrance. He quickly made use of his natural coloring to blend in with the grass, but he popped up near one of the pine trees.
Isn't he cute?
Name him Cuddles.