Thirty-one days ago I started this blog. I've shared some stories. I've punted a few times. Now I think I'm going to scale back. The digital footprint will always be out there waiting to be picked up and polished by some future readers mining the internet for nuggets the way my family walked the shores for bright, shiny stones.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Every rock has a story. Open the pewter ice bucket and I'll tell you one. --Me
Back in the 80s I was a member of the Oakland University competitive forensics team. We didn't compete against other universities and colleges to see who could solve a crime the fastest, although that does sound rather interesting. Forensics in this arena is a combination of competitive speech, interp, and debate activities.
I was an okay competitor. I had done an event called Radio Broadcasting in high school. I had thirty minutes to cut a news broadcast, one story of which was scrambled and I had to make it make sense. Collegiate-level forensics had some similar categories like Duo, Poetry, Prose, Informative, Oratory/Persuasion. It also had exotic events like After Dinner Speaking, Rhetorical Criticism, and Improv Pairs. Sometimes tournament directors ran special events. I decided to give Sales a try at the Wayne State University Invitational.
My product was a rubbery, pink-headed, stretchy stress reliever. The toy belonged to my high school girlfriend's brother. I asked if I could borrow it for a weekend to use for the competition.
The thing about a forensics tournament is you have no idea how the judges are scoring you. All you can do is your four preliminary rounds then wait for the posting sheets to go up announcing who was in semis. The cut off is usually the top twelve with contestants ceded by placement into two sections. You compete again and about an hour later, they post the top six finalists. I was shocked when I made semis. I was flabbergasted when I made finals, partly because I was only okay as a competitor, partly because my speech was a bunch of humorous anecdotes about stressful life as a college student, and partly because the product I'd built up as an indestructible aide to take out your aggressions upon, split apart the last morning of the tournament.
It was February. In Michigan. Negative temps. My pink-faced, rubber-headed, stress nerd froze in the few minutes we went from the car to the competition building. It was like holding a shot put or a softball-sized rock. There was shrinkage and it slipped from its plastic base. The frozen toy hit just the right corner of the car's bumper and split open.
I had my fourth prelim in the morning. I had put an adhesive bandage on the cut. It wasn't too bad. Semis were posted and I made it and by the end of the round, I could see the goo inside starting to seep out from under the bandaid. I tried running cold water over it, why I do not know. One of the girls on the team said I should take it outside and freeze it in case I made it to finals. Then we all laughed because I never made it to finals.
The sheet went up. I saw my name. I ran outside. No coat, and stayed there as long as I could before my coach told me to get to my room. I think what saved me in the final round was the ad-libbed line, "Virtually indestructible unless you're competing in an experimental event at an invitational event in Detroit in February when it is minus ten outside and your stress nerd freezes then splits open when you drop it getting out of the car."
I took second. A career was born.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
We went into the restroom. Two on the wall, two in a stall. The boys divided and conquered and ran from the building before I could finish. I hurried and of course, saw none of them outside the door. They ranged in age from six to nine and there were four of them.
I walked to the edge of the ravine and there they were, standing on the banks of the Paint Creek river, throwing large stones into the water while a couple of anglers practiced catch and release. They weren't too happy with the boys. I used my teacher-voice, corralled the group, and got the kids to the playground.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
“Civilization began the first time an angry person cast a word instead of a rock.” ~ Sigmund Freud
My mother became known for her landscape paintings. Mostly she painted trees. She had a little bit of the Bob Ross in her paintings only without the mountains. She used oil paints. Her collectors were our neighbors. She wasn't very good with portraits or people, though she did place third in an amateur art show at the GM Tech Center with a picture of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns.
When I was in college, I took some of her discards with me to decorate my apartment. My roommate and I had a gallery showing of her work and asked the guests to name the paintings. Young Innocent with Giant Duck Footprint is now part of a collection in the Museum of bad art. Variations of Bleak has been lost.
For a long time, my mother painted scenes on rocks she then gave as gifts. The last one I remember seeing was an oval flat stone with the Charlevoix Nuclear Power Plant painted on it. Apparently, rock painting is a big thing.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
As with other phases of nature, I have probably loved rocks more as I studied them.--John Burroughs
Today an old squirrel nest crumbled in a tree in my backyard. A bunch of bird eggs were in it. Doesn't feel like it's part of a squirrel's diet. I'm thinking a raccoon tried moving into it. Just what we need. It's probably hanging with the coyotefox running around the streets.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY.
Sticks and stones, my man, not Styx and Stones.--The Big Bad Coyotefox
During one trip to the property, I found a piece of red agate. The rock was just inside the waterline. Had it been up on the sand I probably would have skipped over. Most stones dry dull and gray in the sun. To find a stone's luster, we would lick a finger and rub it over the stone in several spots. If that didn't work, we dipped it in the lake. Most of the time we walked the thin beige line, that border between lake and rocky shore. Socks came off but shoes went back on when rock-wading. I spent many an afternoon with damp shoes.
The piece of agate I found was about the size of the tip of my thumb. I'm going to say it was a candy apple red that darkened from the opaque front to the tapered back. Concentric lines along the face formed almost perfect rectangles that appeared to recede into the stone. My mother took one look at it and snatched the stone from my hand.
Though we were not completely familiar with the Tolkien trilogy, we had seen the Ralph Bashki animated version of The Hobbit on television and the pseudo-live action animated version of Lord of the Rings, also by Bashki. In that moment along the shores of Lake Huron which could have been the banks of Belegaer, my mother was Schmiegel. Hunched over, hair blowing in the wind, a wet cigarette smoldering between her pale lips, all she lacked was a slurpy, breathy, squeaky declaration.
"My precious."
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
I mowed my front yard today.
In the grander scheme of things, maybe that doesn't sound all that impressive.
A year ago that would have been physically impossible. I could barely walk. I could handle going forward on a straight line. If I wanted to turn I had to progressively bend the line.
Turning around took ages. Standing up from a seated position and walking was a crap shoot. I had to grab the nearest surface to pull myself forward or balance myself to turn. I stood at the top of the stairs and experienced the telescoping pull of vertigo.
The Parkinsons was getting the best of me.
Physical Therapy gave me some weapons. 1-2-3-Step. Ah-ah-ah-ah-Walking-Now-I'm-Walking-Now. (Staying Alive if you're not hearing it.) Jazz Hands and playing Simon with light censors suctioned cupped to a mirror wall. Table exercises. Grape Vines. These exercises and activities and others kept my muscles from atrophying. I was grateful to be out, to be active, but I was also overly worried I'd have some sort of seizure or panic attack. Sometimes stepping out of the. bathroom triggered something inside of me and my heart would race. I couldn't understand why this would happen to me. One night, unable to sleep, I stared at the ceiling and I realized that for so long I had been this Bigger-Than-Life-Personality and when I developed Parkinsons I withdrew. I didn't know that version of me anymore. I retired because I didn't wan t to seem feeble. I had a real struggle with how people saw me now. Shaky hands and frozen legs. I pushed myself to keep up with PT.
Deep down inside, it didn't feel like I was getting any better.
You don't get better from Parkinsons.
During all of this, I was taking a blood pressure medication that made my legs swell. I was on a low dosage of a Parkinsons medication because the higher dose exasperated my gambling habit. I could barely walk and I was driving to my bank to deposit cash to cover my ass. My neurologist finally convinced me to go on a supplementary Parkinsons drug. At the same time, my primary care doctor switched my blood pressure meds. The swelling went down. The gambling stopped. My neurologist sent me to a movement specialist. I started walking our dog around the backyard. I went back to physical therapy and passed every test to the point my trainers said, 'We got nothing left for you. You've outscored all the previous tests. Find a dance class or something.'
Things improved.
I still have little bouts of anxiety. I'm not that guy who ran speech activities in Michigan any more. Maybe some day I'll find something that I can rock like I did with MIFA, MSCI, MASC. I don't think I need to but if I wanted to, I could.
Just like mowing my front lawn.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.--Norman Maclean
By the time STRIPES premiered in 1981, PJ Soles was as popular in my group of friends as Farrah Fawcett had been for us in middle school. CARRIE. HALLOWEEN. ROCK AND ROLL HIGH SCHOOL. If not for the advent of cable TV, this gem would have escaped most of us.
Not only did this teenploytation movie solidify PJ Soles as an It Girl for the tail end of the Boomer generation, it introduced us to the Ramones. This was the era of the new wave music explosion. Hip Hop. Punk. Glam Rock. Brit Wave. Madonna. ROCK AND ROLL HIGH SCHOOL brought it all home.
That's all I got.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
A film has to be like a stone in the shoe.
-- Lars von Trier
Every year at this time I'm reminded of the time I gave my sister Linda $10 to put on Jacklin Klugman to Show at the 1980 Kentucky Derby. Our middle sister was named Jacquelin and I was a fan of the horse's owner, Jack Klugman. I just figured it was meant to be.
Linda was going to the derby with a friend of hers. They were going to be on the lawn in a special 'got-to-know-somebody-to-go' section. Before she left I reminded her one last time.
Jacklin Klugman to Show. Here's ten bucks. Which horse?
Jackie Kugelman.
Jacklin Klugman. How much?
Ten dollars.
Which place?
First.
Third.
I wrote it on the ten-dollar bill.
The day of the derby my mother was watching to see if she could spot Linda in a crowd of 135,000 spectators. My dad was in his recliner. He woke up at the sound of the bugle. I was in my room. He yelled down the hall to me.
What was your horse?
Jacklin Klugman.
What place?
To Show.
How much?
Ten bucks.
You'd better come in here.
I watched the final turn to the finish.
Jacklin Klugman paid $4.40 times $10. $44.00 dollars.
These are 1980 dollars.
Linda came home late the next night. She said she had a great time. There was no mention of the $44.
Ever.
Years later Linda was hosting a Kentucky Derby party. She started talking about her trip. I finally asked her what happened. She said she was going to tell me she lost the ticket or she forgot to place the bet or she picked Jacklin Klugman to Win. The truth was her picks lost all day long. The only winning ticket she held was mine.
She and her friend drank it. In 1980, $44 bought a lot of drinks.
If you're looking for a connection to Stumpstone, the fifth-place horse was Rockhill Native.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
At the end of the street where I grew up there was a field. Each Sunday from May until October the Disabled American Veterans hosted a flea market/swap meet in an old barn it rented out for weddings, wakes, whatever.
One of the dealers sold second-hand comic books. I don't know where he found them but he had thousands. My friends and I would load up our pockets with dimes and we'd march through the field to the comic book guy. While digging through the boxes to find Gold Key Ripley's Believe It or Not Ghosts Stories, we came across Sgt. Rock. He was one bad-ass mofo.
We got to know the crew. Bulldozer. Little Sure Shot. Corporal Zack with the Bazooka Attack. The stories were exciting. Sometimes we prolonged the suspense by waiting to turn the page. When we did. Hoo boy, what a scene.
My dad was a WWII vet and the comic opened a door for us. He was in the navy so he said he had a different perspective of the war.
As we grew, Sgt. Rock aged. Then came the day of the final mission. It was said, but fitting.
STUMP STONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
There are two kinds of stones, as everyone knows, one of which rolls. Amelia Earhart
Mike and I took our bicycles north with us. I was supposed to give us some freedom to explore the scope of the community. The roads were gravel. Our bikes weren't cut out for the terrain, especially on hills. The bikes leaned against the tree, useless except for a trip to Mackinac Island.
One year Mike's dad had given him a flatbed go-cart. Red. Small engine on the back. Small wheels. Low clearance. Somehow my dad fit it into the trailer and it went with us. I remember there was an STP Oil sticker on the bed. For some reason, Mike thought that gave the go-cart some class.
We drove the hell out of that thing.
We had it with us at the beach access one day. The woods behind the farthest access had trails. We took turns going off-roading. At one point I hit a log and flipped the cart. It was the seventies. Helmets? Pffft. Seatbelts? Pishaw! Gigantic bruise on my torso from where the steering wheel struck me? Yep.
My mom had found a piece of chain coral the size of a cantaloupe. She didn't want to walk it back so she put it on the go-cart for Mike to drive it back. The journey was daunting. The rock rubbed over the sticker and the paint chipping both. Mike was not happy.
My dad later repainted the bed and collected a new STP sticker along with some others. Budweiser. AC Delco. NAAPA. Everything was fine.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
What are men to rocks and mountains?-- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
At the end of each summer, usually the weekend after Labor Day, my family went to a campground hosting a square dance jamboree. The barn was loaded with urban cowboys and cowgirls. The. older kids were farmed out to babysit the younger kids. I'm not sure where my sisters were. they might have been dancing. I was probably four on this particular trip. The daughter of a backyard neighbor babysat me.
At the time, this campground had no lake. It was in the process of digging a swimming hole. I think the plan was to either truck water, hit a spring, or let snow collect into it over the winter and fill the hole when it melted the way the Great Lakes formed during the last ice age or even longer ago than that.
There were huge piles of stones, at least to a toddler. A bunch of us kids started throwing stones back into the pit trying to fill it with rocks, which was about as likely as melting to snow to fill it. The plan fizzled within minutes.
I do remember the dance caller was a guy named Jerry. I thought he was hilarious. HE was younger than the parents who were doing the dancing. I remember Jerry stopped by our trailer on his way to call the dances. He asked me if I had anything to tell my parents. I told him, 'Yeah. Tell them I pooped my pants just now."
Jerry told them from the stage.
Rock is a great master of life. It teaches us this simple philosophy: Stay firm!
Michigan hosts a rather large Renaissance Festival. For several years it was on my 'to-do- list each fall. Then I had kids and my cosplaying came to a stop. I began to see younger than me guests spending hundreds of minutes and dollars at the various pubs, playing the role I once played. Overnight I became the ancient mystagog no one was interested in hearing speak his wisdom on the importance of saving money or following proper etiquette in social arenas. Now my kids are grown and I might go back and give it try.
One year a group of my college buddies and I went with dates. We took in more shows than we had in the past. Ate a lot. Drank more. I had a woman ask me if I wanted to look into her magic box. I lewdly said, "And how might I do that?" She told me to give her two dollars. I did. She told me to bend over and look into the hole in her box. While I did, she turned a crank and a little pan chased a damsel through a groves of trees. My date said I could look in her box for free then held up an empty popcorn container to my eyes.
Later we took in a joust. There was nothing simulated about this show. Those guys went full-on at each other. The show momentarily stopped when one of the knights toppled from his horse. It was obvious it was not part of the practiced routine. He stood and raised a fist. We thought it was a fist in triumph and everyone in the stands cheered.
He waved us off and opened his fist. He held a rock.
"This is a stone," he said. "Supposedly David killed Goliath with one. Someone here tried to do the same to me just now. Unlike the giant, I wore a helmet that protected me from this projectile." He dropped the rock to the ground and walked his horse from the field.
The joust show ended.
A week later, a different knight lost his grip on his sword and it impaled a man sitting in the stands in the leg.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Use the stones thrown your way as tools, not weapons. --Motivational Poster
Bit of a slag today. It's 11:35. Almost missed it.
Cold. Windy.
Miserable kind of day.
Thirty-one days ago I started this blog. I've shared some stories. I've punted a few times. Now I think I'm going to scale back....
