Have cold, will work

If you could see me right now, you’d probably stop reading this.

My eyes are swollen, my nose is both stuffed and running, my upper lip is raw from blowing, and I’m probably contagious through these very words. I haven’t had a cold for two years, so this one is making up for lost time by being the most miserable one I’ve ever had.

This isn’t about the cold, however. It’s about the perversity of human nature. My human nature. anyway. As soon as I’m sick and haven’t the energy to sit up let alone do anything constructive, something constructive is all I can think about doing.

Ironing, for instance. I don’t like ironing. I avoid ironing. But today there’s a stack of shirts fresh from the laundry that I’m just itching to get started on. In fact, I scratched that itch as long as I could remain upright–which wasn’t long, but I got six shirts done and am feeling mighty pleased with myself.

I’m also dying to hem the new jeans I just bought. Normally, a job like that sits around for a while because I’d much rather sew something new than make alterations. But now, when the job will sap what little energy I have at the moment, it’s all I can think about. Find the thread, thread the machine, cut off the excess fabric, press up the hem, listen to the delicious whirr of the Viking–and voila! Something new to wear. Now that I can’t do it, it’s all I want to do.

And that’s not all. I just finished a writing assignment that’s due tomorrow. Being above all else a procrastinator, I usually never finish assignments until the very last minute. Always on time, mind you, but with never a minute to spare. Yet here I am, a whole day early, with the story done and emailed to my editor.

Want more proof of my perverse nature? While blowing my nose, wiping my eyes and wheezing for breath, I’m sitting here writing this blog. I can’t wait to get well so I can get some rest.

Spring is for feeling and tasting

Spring is a season for the senses.

Until now, you wouldn’t have known that here in Door County. Spring has been LONG time coming. But today, finally, the temps neared 70, my early-blooming tulips opened for the first time, the grass is a vibrant green, the birds have a near-deafening chorus going on and I can smell the farms again. Heck, I can nearly taste them.

THAT isn’t a pleasant idea, however, so instead we opted for ice cream, the kind made on-site at Hilltop Dairy, where 500+ cows are milked three times every day. Getting there was half the fun.

First, even before getting in the car, had to shoot those tulips, their petals opened to the sun, shiny with newness, little red jewels in a still-mostly-brown garden. A triumph of spring over winter.

Then, off through the back roads. They don’t go through the cutesy little tourist towns that abound here. Instead, they head through the farm country where the real people live, where cattle and horses are raised, where corn and soybeans are grown, where cherries and apples are harvested every fall.

Some fields sport tiny green shoots, like peach fuzz on a teen boy’s face, while others host temporary lakes, water left over from melting snow and the recent fierce rains. In the distance, against the horizon, bare tree branches blur with the emergence of new leaves.

We rolled down the windows to let the wind rake its fingers through our hair, and were assaulted by the smell of newly thawed farms, that earthy, manure-and-fodder aroma that I don’t find the least bit offensive. It’s life at its most basic. It’s what puts food on our tables. We can do without interior decorators, real estate agents, developers and ad men–but we can’t do without the farms, with their placid faced cattle, rooting pigs and clucking chickens. The very sight of a farm anchors me somehow.

After half an hour or so, the big barns of Hill Top Dairy loomed on–yes, the hill–and we pulled into the parking lot. The little store had just opened today, and it didn’t take long for us to make our selections–cherry cheesecake for George, Heath bar for me–and then wander to my very favorite part, the glassed-in room that looks out onto the milking parlor. Most of the cows are milked three times a day, and give 80 gallons of milk a day. Those are some serious mammary glands!

The cows enter from end of the parlor, walk in and move down to the first vacant stanchion, then wait for the farmhands, working from a central, lower aisle, to attach the milking machines. When they’re done, up go the head stalls, and the cows head out, while the next batch comes in. I think the cows themselves could teach new farmhands

Photo by George Sawyn

how it’s done.

Fascinating. And the picture of acceptance and patience. No wonder I love cows.

We couldn’t stay long, though. We had two half-gallons of ice cream to rush home to the freezer–with a quick taste test first, of course. But along the way, I just had to stop to record the sound of a spring frog chorus we caught through our open windows. Hundreds of spring-peeper voices were singing their “advertisement calls.” This is the male frog’s attempts to attract females during the breeding season and to warn other rival males of his presence. They’re usually heard during the evening and at night, but at the peak of the breeding season, they can be heard even during the day. Today must have been the peakest of peaks. If it worked on me–after all, I did stop–then I’m sure there will be no unreciprocated love in that pond.

We wended the rest of our way home, stashed the ice cream until “ice cream night” on Sunday, and I sat down here at the computer.

Some people would say I didn’t accomplish a thing this afternoon. But if you’re still reading this, then you know different.

Sugar-bush stories–part 2

Two things I can’t resist. Well, more than two, if I’m honest, but these are pretty high on the list: I love a good story, and I love local history.

So, when George and I stopped at Jorns’ Sugar Bush for the first time, and walked into the tiny, crowded little store, I saw stories hanging on every wall and sitting on every shelf. My reporter’s nose quivered, and I itched to ask questions.

Lucky me. When Mrs. Jorns finally emerged from the back room, having given us enough time to load the shelves with tasty items we simply had to take home, I discovered that she loved answering those questions.

“Who is that?” I asked, pointing to a charcoal drawing of a starched-looking couple, and she informed me it was her 85-year-old husband’s grandparents, and then launched into the story about how Grandpa became a ship captain, sailing here, there and everywhere long before there were shortcuts dredged through inconvenient land masses. And, as might be expected, he died young.

She pointed out wedding photos of ancestors two and three generations back, and finally her own. She showed me a case of ancient cameras collected long ago by her daughter who, in high school, convinced the teachers to let her set up a dark room and study photography. All I had to do was casually point at something, or ask a simple question, and she had a long story to go with it. Like the story about the barn with the square, wooden silo.

When she was a young bride, that barn belonged to her father- and mother-in-law,

The old German-style barn, with the famous square silo.

but they hadn’t built it. A German family before them had put it up, along with unusual silo. Silage had to be added by hand by crawling up a ladder and carefully spreading it and layering it evenly to prevent the silage from molding and killing the cows. I tried my best, but I know I wasn’t quite getting it.

The rest of the story, a potential horror story, I got quite well.

“I told my mother-in-law that she should take a rest from the day’s work and let me go up in her place,” Mrs. Jorns said. “I told her she had trained me well, and I would do it right.”

So up the ladder she went, and stepped out onto the first landing–and froze. There was a hum that didn’t belong, a rather loud, ominous hum. Not knowing what she might find, Mrs. Jorns’ scuttled back down the ladder and ran for her father-in-law, who grabbed a flashlight and went up to investigate.

The stone house that started a trend.

What he found were bees, thousands and thousands of bees, on every single available surface, including the rungs of the upper ladder, the walls, the floor–everywhere. How so many had accumulated so quickly no one knew, but the narrow escape was almost frightening: Mrs. Jorns’ mother-in-law was very allergic, and might have died if she’d gone up and gotten stung that day.

Someone was called to try and get the bees to leave, but when that didn’t work, her father-in-law climbed up the outside of the silo, wrapped a chain around the entire structure, and fastened it to his tractor.

“He pulled, and the whole thing came down,” Mrs. Jorns said.

One of the house’s “fossil stones.”

Somehow, the bees were then disposed of, the wood was cleaned of wax and honey, and the lumber used to build a small addition to the barn with room for more cows. That was about 63 years ago, and the unique German-style silo is a forgotten memory–except to the Jornses. The barn is still in the family.

The story was no sooner finished than we heard the chug of an approaching tractor, Mr. Jorns perched on the seat, a big metal sap container following along behind. He was bringing in what he’d collected from the buckets hanging on the maple trees that dotted the hillsides. Eventually, he shuffled into the store, no doubt

Another of the house’s “fossil stones.”

to check out the owners of the strange car parked outside.

He was a slip of a man with big blue eyes, a face lined by long years spent in the outdoors, and a ready smile.

“Your wife’s been telling us stories,” I said, and he smiled even more.

Mr. Jorns bringing in the latest batch of sap.

“Oh yes, she’s got lots of stories,” he said, affection in each word. They glanced at each other in an unspoken exchange only they understood.

Then Mr. Jorns told me he’d built the store we were standing in, as well as the syrup making building–AND the charming stone house I had just admired. It seems that his sister had first built a stone house, and he liked it so much he painstakingly went to a quarry and hauled back a couple dump-truck

Heading back out for more sap.

loads of expensive stones to build his own. Then he asked someone about the process.

“Well, you’ll need a lot more stones than this,” he was told. Too much money, he decided, and then he remembered the piles of stones on his property, stones collected year after year after year, every spring, as the fields were plowed for planting. Free stones for the taking. And not even ordinary stones.

“They’re fossil stones,” he said. “You can see bits of shells and ancient bird tracks.” The stones told their own stories of an earth far different from the one we were standing on. But they didn’t just tell stories; they also set up  another, unexpected business for the Jornses: selling stones so other people could build stone houses, people who saw his and loved the unique materials. Far and wide he sold those stones, until supplies dwindled.

However, no matter what else the couple did, they always made maple syrup every year, with the help of a small crew. On this day, I didn’t see anyone but this wizened, wiry little man. The sun was getting low, persistent snowflakes were falling, and he was still planning to head back to the woods for another load.

Back in the corner, an old typewriter. An untold story, for sure!

He had more stories, I just know he did. So did his wife. But they had their work to do, and Lady was waiting in the car. It was time to leave.

Tomorrow, I’m making pancakes for breakfast–small ones, so we can sample all the varieties of syrup we bought besides the maple. And I’m going to think about the stories, and the history, embodied in one old couple who are still going strong.

Sugar-bush stories–part 1

It was the buckets that gave it away.

“Oh, look!” I said, excited at seeing something that was fairly uncommon where I used to live in Minnesota.

“Well sure,” George said. “Look where we are.” He pointed at the sign that said “Jorns’ Sugar Bush.”

George and I, our cameras and the dog had been exploring, one of our favorite ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. A back road here, an unexpected turn there, and always adherence to the car rules: Either of us can request a stop or a backtrack to get a photo or a closer look at anything.

This time, it was a quick right turn down a narrow, muddy lane, past a charming stone house, to a halt in front of another stone building where who-knows-how-many-hundreds of gallons of maple sap are turned into syrup every year and sold throughout the county. We’d bought many a jar at the grocery store. Now, we were at the source, and since our jar was running low…

The place looked dark, but the sign said “open.” Below it was another sign. “Ring the bell, come in, turn on the lights, and wait. Someone will be right out.” Going through the process made me feel a bit like a shopkeeper, opening up for the day.

That changed as soon as I walked through the door. I took one look at the shelves and became a shopper, one unacquainted with the word “no.” George was no help. As soon as I pointed to something, he said, “get it.” Apple syrup, maple syrup in an irresistible maple-leaf shaped bottle, pumpkin-ginger mix, cherry-almond syrup and jam… The items piled up, both arms were full, and I set things on the tiny counter. That’s when I saw the other sign.

“Working in back room. Blow car horn,” it said. George went back outside to do just that, and I began looking beyond the edibles to the things that were hanging on the walls: a set of moose antlers, a pair of snow shoes, old, old family photos, a drawing of a barn with an unusual square silo, a collection of ancient cameras. A feast for the imagination as well as the appetite in this place.

Then, a voice from the back room.

“Is anyone there?” she asked.

A quavery voice. Someone’s mother, sent to man the store, I assumed.

She appeared, heavier on the bottom than on the top, stooped, her hair covered by an old gray stocking cap, walking with some difficulty. She muttered something about turning off the huge tanks overhead according to her husband’s instructions.

“Wait half an hour, then turn them off, he told me,” she said, and plunked herself down on a stool behind the counter. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I assumed it had something to do with maple syrup.

She pulled off the stocking cap and patted at her hair, excusing herself for “looking a fright.” Her husband, she said, was off collecting sap from the buckets, and the job was taking longer than he expected. Here was no one’s mother simply manning the store. This was half the team responsible for the store.

“This is yours?” I asked, and she chuckled.

“My husband’s been sapping since he was 10, and that was 75 years ago,” she said, starting to add up our purchases on the counter.  85? The man was still collecting sap at 85? I hardly had time to marvel because she had seen me looking at the bits of history on the wall. That’s when the stories began, offered randomly, shotgun style, as they came to her mind. I wished I’d had a tape recorder. I didn’t, but I listened hard.

Stay tune to part 2 and I’ll share some of those stories.

Kitchen-sink stew

I could just as easily have called this “mutant stew.” Not because it’s about something abnormal, but because it’s about a stew that started out as a hamburger. Of sorts.

You see, there were these two Cajun brat patties in the fridge. I had thawed them out as a quick thing to fix, on our grill pan, for our noon meal on a day that started out at 4 a.m.  Add some pork and beans, a few chips, nice and easy.

Except halfway through the morning I decided I definitely was not in the mood for brat patties on a bun. Maybe that’s because that kind of a burger meal is more for summer, and we woke up this morning–yes, on April 10–to three inches of new snow and a car wearing a straightjacket of ice.

That, I think, is why the idea of a stew came to mind–the word stew having come from an Old English word that in turn came from Old French, meaning “confine.” The sprouting rutabaga sitting on the counter put the idea over the top. Time to gather up all the aging bits and pieces, confine them in a big pot and turn them into something new and fresh.

If I’d been following a recipe, I couldn’t have done this.

All it still needs is a little butter on the corn bread. Yum!

There surely would have been at least two or three ingredients I didn’t have. So, who says you have to follow a recipe, especially when making stew?

I started with a big, fat boneless, skinless chicken breast that was in the freezer, thawed it quickly in the micro-wave, cut it into chunks, and dredged it in flour to which I’d added garlic salt, thyme and oregano. I scooped up the pieces–grabbing lots of the extra flour, too–and added them to the pot where the grape-seed oil had heated. Then I cut up those two brat patties and added them to the mix.

While the meat was browning, I foraged in the fridge for other things to add to the sprouting rutabaga. I found two sprouting turnips (OK, I confess. I put things in there and forget them, quite frequently.) Some onion, celery, a few carrots, one potato and half of the egg plant (which I didn’t add to the pot until much later, since it cooks so quickly.) You see? Kitchen-sink stew. And if I’d had anything else sitting around, it would have gone in the pot, too.

I peeled, sliced, chopped and made a nice pile of goodies. Then I grabbed the one can of chicken broth in the pantry, left over from another cooking project, and put that in the pot. Added water and the veggies, brought it to a boil, popped the lid on (for confinement, you know) and let it simmer for a while.

Eventually, I took a taste test, added more garlic, some black pepper and some crushed red pepper flakes. We like things zingy. Opened and rinsed a can of black beans and threw those into the mix, and then decided I’d have to add a bit more flour water, since the flour on the chicken wasn’t quite up to thickening a pot this size.

Now, what to have with it? I was supposed to make bread yesterday and never got around to it, so… corn bread. Why not? I use a course-ground corn meal, and opted for whole wheat flour to flesh it out. That baked in the oven while the stew bubbled the final few minutes on the stove.

This was about the time when George, right on cue, followed his nose from the office to the kitchen.

“Oh heavens, does it smell good in here!!” he sing-songed. The table was already set and it took only moments to cut the corn bread and dish up the stew.

The best part of all this? I made a lot. I won’t have to cook again for a week.

I’m a boat nerd

I’ve got the twitches.

That may not be an ailment you’re familiar with. Twitches are what happens when it’s cold and crummy outside and warm and cozy inside–and I can hear boat whistles. I should be out there, I think. I should grab my camera and get out there.

It’s not a worry when it’s a random series of blasts. They must be testing something, I figure. Or when it’s a long, sustained sound, which means a boat is leaving dock.

The Wilfred Sykes comes into view, inching its way down the canal.

It could just mean it’s being hauled to the dry dock, or to another part of the Bay Shipbuilding yard.

But what I dread, when the wind is blowing and the rain is slanting sideways, is the three-long-two-short, or the one-long-two-short, which are the formal and informal salutes blown as a boat is leaving harbor. I’m a boataholic, and those whistles are siren sounds to me and my camera.

My ears have learned to recognize all the toots and whistles that come from the bay just a two-minute walk from where I live, and there are a lot of them. Whistles from the big boats, from the tug boats that shove them around, even from the draw bridges, three of them, that have to go up and down as the cargo boats and the tug boats pass through. But it’s only the big boats, most of them ore boats, that have the the deep, throaty expulsions of air that speak of size and power and mystique.

George and I have been known stop in the middle of fixing dinner,

Passing the Coast Guard station–and giving the salute I missed.

eating dinner, walking the dog, even driving to work, to chase a boat and get a new shot. Now, as April scurries along toward May, our chances are limited because most of the boats, which wintered at Bay Shipbuilding, are already gone, back to work for the summer season. Only two remain: the Walter J. McCarthy, the thousand-footer built right here in Sturgeon Bay; and the Algosoo, a 750-foot Canadian boat that was the last Great Lakes vessel to be built with cabins in the bow.. The Huron Spirit, a Canadian barge built in China, just arrived, so it may be here a while yet–but there’s no way we laymen can predict unless we have “in” with someone in the shipyard. (And I do have a few.)

Here in Sturgeon Bay, boats have two options: east toward Lake Michigan, or west toward the waters of Green Bay. Right now there’s still a lot of ice in Green Bay, so it’s the inconvenient three-bridge route they have to take. With two of the bridges only 750 feet apart, the boats, ranging in size from 600 feet to over 1,000 feet, are often passing under two bridges at once. Just picture it. You don’t even have to love photography or boats to want to shoot something like that.

The business end of the Sykes.

That eastern route is the most scenic, and most accessible, to photographers. Since we’ve taken a lot of shots of boats going through the bridges, I’ve been wanting to get a close-up shot of one of those behemoths sliding through the Sturgeon Bay ship canal. Last week, when the 634-foot Buffalo started belching and moving around the harbor, we hightailed it for the canal, trudged for 20 minutes through the woods until we found a break in the trees for a good view, then waited until I HAD to leave because of a previous appointment. When we got back to town, the Buffalo was still sitting there. We obviously didn’t listen to the whistles.

A few days ago, we were just about to head to the gym when we heard the whistle and got a call from a friend on the bay. The Wilfred Sykes was moving out, and it was heading toward the bridges. We looked at each other and grinned. Forget the exercises. This was far better. The 678-foot Sykes is one of the handsomest boats on the lakes, to my mind. I wanted a chance to ogle her a bit.

So,  back to the canal we went, opting for positions closer to the

Heading past the lighthouse and into Lake Michigan.

Lake Michigan entrance in order to save time. We needn’t have worried, though. The boats slow down considerably as the waters narrow.

We waited. And we waited. The wind blew, cold off the lake, but I didn’t feel a thing. And then, far down the canal, I saw it coming, feeling its way carefully down a waterway that looked too narrow to handle it. The Sykes isn’t the biggest laker out there, but it dwarfs that canal. As it drew closer, I fingered my camera, preplanning my shots, knowing exactly what I wanted.

They were exactly what I got–with one exception. I had hoped to do a short video when the boat saluted the Coast Guard station. I hit “record” when the blast came and then saw the flashing battery light that wouldn’t let me video. Of all the times to forget to recharge my battery! The spare was low, too. How unprofessional of me.

But there was enough charge to get photos, and get them I did. It was only later that I discovered my hands were nearly frozen solid, and realized what “the heat of the moment”

The Sykes rounds the bend and heads south. Safe travels!

really means. Everything feels warm when there are photos to be taken.

I get hooked on experiences like that. So although I chased a boat and shot those pictures just days ago, I’m anxious to do it again. I can hear whistles on the bay, and I’ve got the twitches.

Looking a gift fish in the eye

It’s been a long time since I looked my dinner in the eye.

Last Friday, I studied the two whitefish in my sink, gazing back at me with rather vacant eyes, and wondered if I’d remember what to do with them. As a kid, I cleaned many a fish that I caught myself. I even did a few now and then as an adult. However, it’s been a long, long time.

These fish were a gift. I was on the phone to my mother when the knock came at the door, and there stood a neighbor clutching a pail with the evidence–part of it, anyway–of his latest foray onto the frozen bay.

“You want a couple whitefish?” he asked. Have you seen the price of fish at the market these days? Of course I want a couple whitefish, and envisioned the tasty filets. Then he added, “They’re not cleaned.”

I gave him my best nothing-to-it smile, the phone still clutched in my hand, and he deposited them in the pile of snow on our deck. I had visions of eagles or seagulls swooping down as soon as my back was turned, so I cut short the phone call from Mom.

“My neighbor just gave me some fish,” I explained, and waited a beat or two. “I have to clean them myself.” She laughed. I knew she would.

So there they lay, side by side in my sink, full of all the innards that God gave them and covered in scales. I’ve gutted fish, I’ve scaled fish, but I’ve never fileted them, and I didn’t want to chance wrecking these. I should have checked one of the myriad of how-to videos online these days, but I didn’t think of it until I’d finished the job my own way.

Since I couldn’t filet them, I’d have to scale them. I seemed to remember scales flying “hell, west and crooked,” as the saying goes, so I approached the job with small but firm movements to keep them contained. Lucky for me, they came off easily and behaved themselves once they were loose.

Then I washed the fish carefully, and hunted in the drawers for the filet knife I acquired from the people we bought our house from. It was obviously well-used, but never by me. I tested the edge and quickly reached for the knife sharpener.

I slit the belly of the fish from stem to stern, pulled out the interesting goodies from the inside, cut off the head and the fins on the bottom, washed the fish again–and by golly, it looked pretty good. I’d rather have had a nice, slim filet for pan frying, but I knew I could handle a whole-bodied fish one way or another.

All the while I did this, I thought of my friend and fellow blogger, the Trout Whisperer. His name should give you a clue: he handles fish a lot. He catches them, he cleans them, I bet he even filets them. I can hear him now.

“Woman, you should just move over and let an expert do it.”

Yeah, well, there weren’t any experts around.

It was only after I had the two critters wrapped and in the freezer that I took a look at a how-to video. It really doesn’t seem too daunting, and now I’m hoping for another free fish so I can try it.  The video did inspire me, though, because even as I was cleaning these fish, I had a store-bought whitefish filet, with the skin still on one side, thawing in the refrigerator for dinner that night.

You guessed it. I figured I could get a head start on learning this fileting technique by starting with one that already had most of the work done. So I grabbed the filet knife again and stripped the skin off that nice white store-bought flesh. I suspect it won’t be quite that easy if I start with a whole fish, but now I’m a little more confident about doing it.

That night, I dipped the filet into some beaten egg, dredged it in flour, and added garlic salt, pepper and dill weed. Some people would insist on frying it in butter, but I decided that frying it at all was treat enough. I substituted a little grape seed oil, which is even healthier than olive oil and tastes good, too. The result was golden-brown yummyness. I’ll figure out what to do with those whole fish later.

Meanwhile, another viewing or two of that how-to video, and I’ll be ready to produce my own whitefish filet. Hey, neighbor. C’mon on back, y’hear?

Let the tugs stay

I took a good long look today because the scene is liable to change drastically tomorrow. Today, all but one of the winter lay-up boats are still here. In the next four days, eight are due to leave.

Right now, the ore boats, barges and a tug or two are crunched together in a marine huddle at Sturgeon Bay’s Bay Shipbuilding. That’s a pretty good trick when seven of them are a thousand feet long. Just imagine, along any shoreline, seven Sears Towers lying side by side, along with other “smaller” 600- and 700-hundred foot boats.

Although their placement has been arranged precisely, most of them carefully maneuvered by a private fleet of tugs, it can look pretty random, with a bow sticking out here, a stern there. Coming down Madison Street toward the bay, the boats appear to lie like scattered match sticks. It’s a view few towns can boast. It’s a view I love–and so do a lot of visitors and residents.

Some people in this town, though, don’t seem to appreciate this working harbor. They appreciate the jobs, of course. Bay Shipbuilding employs hundreds of men who do routine maintenance on lakers, tugs and the occasional cruise boat, as well as build new boats. Next door is Palmer Johnson Yachts–and I mean BIG yachts, at times. Yachts for nameless billionaires from foreign countries. A bit farther down the bay is Selvick Marine Towing, with a fleet that ranges from a hundred-foot tug to a small one that’s just plain cute.

The tug fleet lies between two of the bay’s three bridges. The Michigan Street Bridge, a scenic and historic span, was once due to be torn down, so, the Oregon Street Bridge was built a mere two blocks away. Then, because people protested the idea of losing their old favorite, it was granted a reprieve. With the Bayview Bridge a half-mile away to handle the highway bypass traffic, that gives drivers quite a choice.

The tug fleet is nestled at the west-side end of the old steel bridge. Near it is the big, retired tug, John Purves, which can be toured by tourists; and the fireboat Fred Busse, which gives cruises. They tie up by the Door County Marine Museum.

It all sounds scenic and cozy, doesn’t it? Well, the city’s harbor commission has determined that a three-year vision for the Sturgeon Bay waterfront should involve relocating the tug fleet so it’s more out of sight and building a “festival pier” for cruise boats, “tall ships” and commercial boats in its place.

As it stands now, that tug fleet is easily visible when crossing the bridge. I’m proud of these tugs who do real work, who break ice and maneuver boats, who act as the workhorses of our harbor. They, along with Bay Shipbuilding, are proof that this is a serious harbor for real people, not just an inlet full of window dressing for the tourists. I think those same tourists can appreciate that, too.

Would residents and visitors come to see tall ships? Of course they would. Would cruise boats dock there? That’s debatable.  None of them are worth the money, or the relocation of the tug fleet, as far as I’m concerned.

Not everyone will be against this, of course. Someone already suggested that it be an upscale, smaller version of Chicago’s Navy Pier. The idea makes me shudder. One huge stone monstrosity, aka hotel, already sits right on the water, blocking precious views. Another one is planned. Does everything have to be about shopping and attracting tourists?

Some city officials seem to think so. I bet, if they could, they’d move Bay Shipbuilding somewhere out of sight, too.

There’s no guarantee that this plan will ever come to fruition, even if the city council approves. I’ll cling to that slim hope.

Meanwhile, camera in hand, I’ll stalk the tugs as they go about their daily business. I’ll hope to catch the ore boats as they head out this spring, surprisingly quiet about their departures despite their size. If the working harbor is a bit gritty in places, I don’t mind. It’s about real people doing real work (not minimum wage hospitality jobs) and it tells a real story.

There’s a gift in all those flakes

The snow is falling thick and heavy, straight down, with no wind to pile it haphazardly in corners and walkways. Tree limbs are lined with it, and the car sits huddled as if in hibernation. It’s Christmas card snow, or the Christmas Eve snow that appears right on cue in holiday movies.

It doesn’t matter that it’s only two days before the first day of spring, I love it.

I suppose the birds don’t love it too much. Some of them are new arrivals, wondering where the bird feeders have gone and why the seed-strewn ground has disappeared. Squirrels are wearing mufflers and caps of white, and will soon vanish from site if they don’t keep moving.

I could have been one of the hundreds of people out there, shaking their fists at winter and shouting, “Enough!” Another day, another kind of schedule, I might have joined them, but not today. Last Friday I turned in an article to the newspaper. This morning, Monday, I emailed the special assignment that came in over the weekend. I don’t go to my part-time job until Wednesday. I have no meetings or appointments lined up, no interviews to do, no deadlines to meet, no obligations.

What I have is one of those rare days when I can sit back and enjoy what might have been an inconvenience or an irritant. I can revel in this snow day. I could walk the dog after lunch, when the snow was just starting, and laugh at the way it had accumulated on my hood and jacket by the time I got home. I even threw my head back and caught snowflakes on my tongue.

I could come inside, brew a pot of coffee, and settle into my recliner to read my book or say my prayers. I could bring my laptop out here with me, watch the silent snowfall outside the windows, and write or answer emails.

The snow falls quietly in our quiet cul-de-sac, where through-traffic never ventures and residents are all at work or staying home for the day. All that snowy motion, and no noise. It’s quiet inside, too. The dog is sleeping–under her blankie. George is doing something with headphones on in the office. The radio and TV are off. Peace descends.

There’s quiet inside my head, too. Oh, the words are there, words on the pages of my book or in my prayers, or words falling one letter at a time onto the computer screen. But they, too, are silent, and as unhurried as the drifting flakes outside.

The weatherman says this will turn into ice pellets and rain tonight. Not so scenic, and definitely not much fun. But that’s then. In this little bubble of time there’s beauty and quiet and delight. It’s this present moment’s gift, and I gratefully accept.

Want Pope news? Go to the right source

The Popes–outgoing, incoming and the candidates in between–are big news these days. Journalists are pouring into Rome and seldom does a newscast pass without some sort of sound bite on the whole event.

But, I have a suggestion. If you want the straight scoop, if you want to really know what’s going on, go to the horse’s mouth. Don’t rely on the secular media, most of whom are a little bemused by the whole thing and many of whom just don’t “get it.” Go to the Catholic media.

That’s not to say the secular media shouldn’t be covering this event.

Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, president of the Pontifical Council for Culture, greets media as he arrives for the first general congregation meeting in the synod hall at the Vatican March 4. (CNS/Paul Haring)

They should. It’s news. It affects the lives of huge numbers of their listeners, watchers and readers. But as someone said to me the other day, “It’s just another CEO getting replaced.” No, it’s not, and those who think that way don’t get it. Members of the media who think that way don’t get it, either–and unfortunately, there are a lot of them out there.

For one thing, the Pope is the spiritual leader of 1.6 billion people around the world, of all races, tongues, political beliefs and economic classes. He’s even looked up to by many non-Catholic religions. You won’t find a CEO or even government leader who is responsible for more people than the Pope.

But it’s not about numbers. It’s about who that person becomes once he’s chosen as Pope. He’s not just another duly elected leader. He’s the Vicar of Christ on earth. He’s the one carrying on the line that began with Peter, to whom Jesus said, “You are Peter, and upon this Rock I will build my Church.” He also said, “I give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth is bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth, is loosed in heaven.” (Matthew 16:13 and following)  The Pope acts with the rest of the bishops (successors of the apostles) but in the end, the buck stops with him.

You don’t believe that? Well, faithful Catholics do. They believe that if the cardinals are listening to the promptings of the Holy Spirit, the man God wants chosen will be chosen, and God will be with that man to guide God’s Church. The Cardinals talk to each other, and put forward, the men they believe will best do that job. It’s not the pick-me politicking the secular media likes to insinuate.

What faithful Catholics don’t believe is that the new Pope is going to suddenly change all the rules. Faithful Catholics don’t even speculate about it. Disciplines can change, yes, but doctrine can’t.

Ashley McGuire, senior fellow with the Catholic Association, wrote this in the Washington Post:

“Sorry to be a wet blanket, but the Catholic Church is not going to change its teaching on any of the fun stuff (contraception, female “ordination,” homosexuality, abortion, etc.) with the next pope…

“In layman’s terms: What the church’s critics, especially those now giddily wondering if Pope Benedict’s successor will shake things up, just don’t seem to understand, is that church teachings on these issues are unchangeable.

“Even if we entertain the human possibility of a rogue pope, the reality is such a thing is currently sociologically impossible. About half of the current College of Cardinals (the men who will select the next pope) were appointed by Blessed Pope John Paul II. The other half were put there by Pope Benedict XVI. As you can imagine, they are all orthodox, or faithful to church teaching. On everything.

“While most editorial pages have spent the last eight years harping on Catholic social teaching and running hit pieces on bishops and the pope, Benedict has been filling the ranks with shepherds who will continue the church’s 2,000-plus year tradition of holding firm on the most important social issues.
“And not only will the church remain orthodox with Pope Benedict’s successor, it should.”

But the secular media usually doesn’t get that, and they usually head straight for the supposedly controversial, divisive issues–and often, unfortunately, get their quotes from the Catholic lunatic fringe, the dissenters, and not those who actually follow the Church’s teachings.

What is it like to participate in a conclave? Two current cardinals who also voted in 2005 describe the trembling and prayer that goes with the responsibility of electing a new pope. http://bit.ly/WEufIR

Sr. Mary Ann Walsh, a blogger for the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops web site, gets her share of those questions. In a recent blog, she said,  “I did an interview with CNN on women in the church and pointed out there are many forms of leadership: moral, elected, etc. Everybody knows about Catherine of Siena and Teresa of Avila, for example, but few know who was pope when they were alive.”

Of course, the sexual abuse case scandal always rears its head. The secular media likes the titillating subjects. Sr. Walsh fielded those kinds of questions, too:

“The issue of sexual abuse was raised and Cardinal George spoke eloquently. He noted that while new cases are practically nil, there are still victims and the hurt is still in their hearts and minds. As long as it’s with them, it’s with us and that’s going to last for a long time, he said.”

In an earlier blog, she said, “The U.S. church has an impressive record on addressing the problem through extensive prevention programs and has seen new cases of abuse plummet. Over two million volunteers and employees, 52,000 clerics and 6,205 candidates for ordination have had their background evaluated. Sexual abuse is a horrific problem but the church addresses it responsibly. Sadly we’re stuck with the reality that never have so few people done so much harm.”

It’s the kind of well-reasoned comment we’re not as apt to see in the secular media. The secular media also doesn’t talk about the small, sometimes mundane, details Catholics like to read, like the report about how Pope Benedict XVI spent his first day back being plain old Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger. (Sorry, can’t remember where I read that one.)

Besides the USCCB web site, good Catholic sources of information include Catholic News Service, the Eternal Word Television Network (EWTN)  and Relevant Radio, which can be streamed live. For people in northeastern Wisconsin, there’s “The Compass,” the official newspaper for the Green Bay Catholic Diocese, by subscription or online.

If you’re Catholic, or even if you’re not Catholic but you want these stories told by the people who really understand the process, the issues, the doctrines and the spirituality, check out these sites. Get it from the horse’s mouth.