May 31, 2014. Our Last Day in Door County - For a While.

May 31, 2014.  Our Last Day in Door County - For a While.  No trip to Door County would be complete without a trip to the Door County Bakery.  There, the bakers bake the famous Corsica Loaf, a bread with olive oil baked into the crust.  The pastries are goodness, laden with zero calories.  How can that be, you wonder?   Simple, my friend.  Calories don't count on a road trip.  And, there, we began our Saturday. 

We finished Saturday back in the small campground where we began this trip, Weborg Point.  This site is near the gate of the park and we can see the harbor of Fish Creek from here.  Sandwiched between beginning and finish was another bike ride, a harrowing accident, a near mortal injury and a completely unsympathetic Annie Farkley. 

I can see that you are uninterested in pictures, poetry and lectures culled from Wikipedia.  You want the gory details of my near-death experience, don't you?  Alright, dial it back you bloodthirsty mob, I'll  tell you.  As we were on the return leg of the bike ride, I noticed an interpretative marker off the shoulder of the road.  I wheeled into the grass and had the bike slowed to 2-3 MPH.  Suddenly the back wheel hit an object hidden in the grass and locked.  The sudden stoppage jarred me forward from my seat and I put my left foot on the ground to break my fall.  The fall was inevitable.  My weight was off center and I started down.  As I went down, the heel of my right foot scraped a sharp metal part of the bike, likely the pedal. 

I was up in an instant, less Annie become hysterical with concern for my well-being.  I need not have worried.  She was laughing.  The heartless woman was laughing at my misfortune.  "Arte Johnson," she said. 

Arte Johnson was a comedian who appeared on the Laugh-In comedy television show in the 1960s.  One of his skits involved riding a child's tricycle in a yellow raincoat, pedaling  furiously, stopping suddenly and falling over sideways with his feet still on the pedals.  Sure, that passed for comedy back in the 1960s but that was then and this is now.  That was Arte Johnson and I am Annie Farkley's faithful husband. 

"You looked just like Arte Johnson," she gasped between convulsions of laughter.  "You looked like you just stopped and fell in slow motion, just like Arte."

Indignant now, after showing so much concern for her bruised toe, was I.  I pointed to the gaping, bleeding gouge in my right ankle, and said, "How can you laugh when I am severely injured and will probably get lockjaw?" 

"Oh, now, Arte, come with me and I'll patch you up good as new."  And so, we came to the campsite and the tacky first aid job you see above is what I got.  No sympathy, no pampering, none of the excellent patient care I extended to her when she sustained a bruised toe.

Oh, I'll live.  But this sure has been a lesson to me.  Next time I am injured, I'll be sure to be alone so as not to be ridiculed by some heartless observer.

So, tomorrow, we will begin our trip home.  After a stop in St. Louis, we should be home Monday evening.  It has been a short road trip, but a good one.  Depending on the events of tomorrow, I may or may not write again this trip.  If not, Malachi will again put pen to paper when next the Farkleys temp fate in another of their death-defying adventures.  Until then, be safe.  If you do get injured, don't do it in front of Annie Farkley. 

May 30, 2014. Cherry-Stuffed French Toast at the White Gull Inn.

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 



May 30, 2014.  Cherry-Stuffed French Toast at the White Gull Inn.  Dave and Mary drive a sixteen year-old Class A Winnebago.  They are in the camping space across the road from us.  They tow a compact Honda SUV and have a travel dog that looks like Sandy from the movie, Annie.  Dave is a retired social worker and Mary is a retired physician whose specialty was OBGYN.  They travel the country building homes for the homeless through volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity.  They belong to a group called RV Care-A-Vanner.  All that's required is for you to volunteer for a "build".  You then take your own hand tools and drive your RV to the build location.  There, you spend two weeks building a deserving family a home.  You pay all your own expenses and, if so inclined, make a financial contribution to the local Habitat organization.  When Dave and Mary started ten years ago, they knew nothing about building or home construction.  Last summer, they completely remodeled their own home.   

 

Dave and Mary were telling us about the work they do.  They are excited and are in a recruiting state of mind.  I told them that the work they do is noble and we might be interested somewhere down the road. 

 

Dave then, as a reward for our interest, told us that the White Gull Inn has a cherry-stuffed French toast breakfast that is internationally recognized.  Well, when you have an opportunity to eat an internationally recognized breakfast, you seize it.

 

It was, without question, the best French toast I have ever eaten.  The "stuffing" is cream cheese and Montmorency cherries.  The garnish is powdered sugar and maple syrup.  If you are in Fish Creek, you should try it.  But, my advice is to do the half-order.  We didn't eat again for seven hours and the first three of those I was uncomfortably full.  But, the breakfast made us both feel forty years younger.  We also looked forty years younger, see above. 

 

After breakfast, we walked and biked and read and napped.  Dinner was steaks grilled out followed by S'mores over a campfire.  We then took our last bike ride of the day and broke down the camp.  Tomorrow we will move to another site and Sunday, we will start home.  We will make a slight detour through St. Louis to visit the RV dealership which sold Harvey to the guy we bought him from.  We are thinking about a slightly larger unit and thought we would see what's available.  No tears, we haven't ditched Harvey, yet. 

 

 

 









May 29, 2014. A Walk at Sunset.

 

May 29, 2014.  A Walk at Sunset.  Many of you have been kind enough to leave comments about the pictures and words you've found here.  Thank you.  The greatest disappointment for a writer is to write and hear nothing.  He doesn't know if anyone reads what he writes or if they read it and just have nothing nice to say about it.  If I have just described you, you have my permission to lie to me.  I don't care.  I'd rather be lied to than hear nothing at all. 

The number of readers of this page is finite.  That is the way I want it.  Only family and a few trusted friends know what nonsense goes on here.  If more people followed the quiet contemplations here, I would have to be more guarded, lest the men in the white jackets come for me with an oversized butterfly net.  So, if you are here, know that you are a member of a select group.  I'll bet you feel pretty important now, don't you. 

We took a walk along the trail by Green Bay tonight.  The pictures above depict what one might see doing what we did.  See, you saved the cost of the trip and get to enjoy the sights.  If I didn't establish my moron-ism yesterday with my story about Ace, maybe the fact that I drove 700 miles to see what you can see sitting at home will drive home the point.  Who said that?  I heard one of you say that no further demonstration is necessary.  It sounded like Annie Farkley.  She gets mean when a two-liter bottle of Pepsi falls on her toe. 

Tomorrow?  What will we do tomorrow?  We don't know.  That is one of the really nice things about a trip with the Farkelys.  There is no plan and no expectations.  Whatever we do, you will be the first to know.  And, it will cost you nothing.  Of course, that is probably what it is worth. 

May 29, 2014. Quiet Day.

 

 

 

May 29, 2014.  Quiet Day.  Mom and pop hardware stores are a man's fairyland.  We needed some AA batteries so I volunteered "to go" to the Ace hardware store in Sister Bay yesterday while Annie Farkley "looked around" in a clothing store across the street.  We both know that "looking around" is an euphemism for woman-shopping.  We also know that "going into" a hardware store is an euphemism for man-shopping.  Neither of us will admit to actually shopping, so we use other words to conceal what we are actually doing.  That is what 46 years of marriage will do to you.  You learn to speak in code.  Show me a comfortably old married couple and I'll show you two code-talkers the equivalent of Navajo soldiers during World War II.

So, I entered the hardware store and was welcomed by one of the several sales assistants whose name tag identified him as Ace.  I asked for batteries and Ace took me to the battery rack.  I asked for mosquito spray; he took me to aisle four.  A rubber stopper for Annie's bike's kickstand was on aisle seven and the electric tape to affix it was on aisle nine.  I was on a role and I am afraid I went a bridge too far.  I asked for a tiny screw which holds the crank for the TV antenna in Harvey.  Ace struck out.  It was on none of the aisles.  So, we trooped to the register and Ace gave me a small paper bag with my purchases and change from a twenty-dollar bill.  I thanked him and called him again by name.  I like to do that because it personalizes things with the salesperson.  "Uh, actually," he said, "Ace is the name of the hardware store.  I am Bob."

I am not sure that skulking is exactly the right word to describe how I left the store, but it sounds about right.  I left with shoulders slumped and eyes diverted like a small boy who farted in church.  Of course his name was not Ace.  Ace is the name of the store.  How could I have been so stupid.  Well, it is what I do.  That's me.  Egads. 

So, after a day of "going to" and "looking around" we biked through the Park as the sun settled.  I hope you enjoy the low-light pictures.  Want a good picture?  Shoot it in the hour before sunset.  It is hard to mess that up.  Just call me Ace.

May 28, 2014. The Colors and Sights of Door County.

 

 

 

 

May 28, 2014.  The Colors and Sights of Door County.  The tulips you will recognize.  The Trillium grandiflorum may be as strange to you as it was to me. According to Wikipedia, tres is Latin for three and lilium is Latin for lily.  Grandiflorum means large-flowered, hence the Trillium grandiflorum is a large, three-pedaled wildflower.  It is found in wooded areas and is said to be a harbinger of spring.   Obviously, the pedals are white so it is a three-pedaled white wildflower found in densely wooded areas of the central and eastern United States.  It is the official Ohio wildflower.  Don't let me hear you say that you never learn anything reading this blog. 

 

Tree stumps and tree trunks resemble a baby dinosaur that backed into a hot wood stove and Homer Simpson.  Moss covered roofs abound along with quaint dwellings made of logs and stone.  By the way, put one of those quaint dwellings on a waterfront lot and the seller will ask two million dollars for it.   Proud they are of their waterfront lots. 

 

These are the colors and sights of Door County.  There are more.  I will show you those in the days ahead.

 



May 27, 2014. Stone Fences in Door County.

May 27, 2014.  Stone Fences in Door County (and an ugly, swollen, fourth toe).  Robert Frost is my favorite poet.  We have visited his "Stone House" in Vermont and the Frost Farm in New Hampshire.  Both help the reader to understand the poet.  In the Stone House, he wrote Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening early one morning after laboring the night away attempting to write lesser-known works.  The New Hampshire farm became his inspiration for Mending Wall.  The stone fences along College Row, just outside of downtown Fish Creek could have been his inspiration.  Here's the poem:

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun,

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it

Where there are cows?

But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father's saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Now, the unsightly toe; I put a two-liter bottle of Pepsi in the closet by the bed.  Somewhere along the way here, the bottle jostled loose from its very secure placement.  When Annie Farkley opened the closet door, guess what greeted the forth metatarsal of her right foot?  She says her toe is broken.  I say it is bruised.  It is her toe, so I guess she can call it anything she wishes.  However, a bruised toe by any other name is still a bruised toe.

Now, the worst of it is that she somehow blames me.  I did not smite her toe.  It was smitten by a gravity compelled object which became unsettled from the safe place in which I put it.  It could as easily have been her fault for opening the closet door without shoes to protect her toes from falling objects.  See my point?  On this we agree; her toe is painful and someone must be blamed.  There, the agreement stops.