Bob Ike’s blog

We adoptees are lucky people.  We get lucky right off the bat when some family chooses to take us in, transforming us instantly into wanted children.  Some of us get lucky in a different way when later in life we meet up with those who gave us ours.  Such was my good fortune almost 13 years ago when I took the big yellow envelope full of the hand written adoption records my dad passed to me in the last year of his life on to a private investigator.  I had taken some stabs finding the people in there but got no further than maybe a maternal uncle, who later per Mom was probably already dead then.  The P.I. had more success.  Within 2 days I was on the phone with both birth parents.  I had in an instant gone from an orphaned only child to one with two living parents and 10 half brothers and sisters.  Over the course of the next year I got to meet them all, dragging my dear wife through it.  Fortunately they liked her a lot (everybody does) and nobody thought I was too weird.  My mother’s kids, kicked up from an occasional rough beginning to lawyer/CPA/pharmacist/surveyor thought my academic wife and I fit in o.k., but Dad’s side didn’t feature any academics, professionals (well, my baby half-sister had gone to Queen’s law school), or even sports fanatics (but baby sister loves her Jays), but we got along o.k. , maybe because we share some appreciations that Dick Spei (who had my original dad’s first name) had instilled deeply.  Dad (the second one) was quite the character.  Big for his time, he played linebacker for Michigan State, but played only one year, leaving the team after growing tired of being a tackling dummy for Biggie Munn.  He sired 5 kids by his first wife, divorced her, and in 1969 split for Canada permanently after becoming ever more wary of how things were going in the U.S.  Given the late 60s, especially in Detroit where he lived, who can blame him.  Not a draft dodge,  though, unlike so many US expats in Canada.  He continued to cross the border to vote, proud how he cast his vote in 2008 for our first African-American president.  He made a good living as a salesman.  He took the family to live a few years in France before he decamped to Canada.  All along, he was very much the gourmet.  When he married Grace Chen – mother of my baby sister entertainment lawyer Jazz – he expanded his palate to the East.  He taught his kids to approach every meal as if it were their last.  The Spei diaspora has learned their lesson well.   This large busy bunch like to get together at Christmas to feast, of course, but conflicts prevent convening anywhere around December 25^th.   Instead, well after even the most exotic churches have exhausted their Christmas calendars, as site and date are agreed upon after many email exchanges, the fun begins.  The traffic includes queries as to who brings what, declaration of offerings (some highly expected), and concerns about available cooking equipment and paraphernalia at the chosen destination.  My nephew Jake has been coordinating all this for the past several years.  We’ve moved the place from rental houses near my sister Suzanne in Hudson Ohio to the Cowboy Creek Lodge and Resort in Onstead Michigan.  Very empty in Winter, it likely fills with happy families in summer eager to take in the 50s retro Irish Hills experience.  It works fine for us, with lots of room and available stoves.  And it’s not too far from Ann Arbor.  Plus Kathy’s favorite former student, Michigan backup center Austin Davis, hails from there.

Every Spei happily brings something to share and show off at these affairs.  The situation is ripe for a competition, but I’ve never detected any of the sort of sidelong glances from one sizing up one’s offerings compared to another.   But my offerrings to date have been meager, limited mainly to beer (of the kind I like).  I once had a bit of a hit when I brought a full Corney keg, complete with CO2 tank, of beer drawn from our beloved Wolverine tavern.  This year will be different.  When I saw my brother-in-law Dan’s post that he could bring from rural New York, among several other things, mashed potatoes, I was inspired to step up and say hey I can make mashed potatoes!  Jake and Dan said go ahead, so this Saturday after the Michigan State game I will haul to Onstead my big blue pot full of the items listed below.  This represents a 6X amplification of the garlic mashed potatoes recipe in The Stinking Rose cookbook Kathy and I like so much.  Who knows how it will turn out.

10#  Yukon gold potatoes

4.5# turnips

2 X 32 oz. jars minced garlic

cube potatoes (don’t peel)

peel and cube turnips

place potatoes, turnips and garlic in 32 qt pot

cover with water

bring to boil and cook till potatoes are soft

drain pot

mix in

12 oz butter

3 C coffee cream

Salt and pepper to taste

Mash till just slightly lumpy

I’ve since put this on a convenient 3X5 card

By Saturday evening, my mashed potatoes will be among the many things they’ve consumed at the feast.  I hope the thing cooks fast enough that it’s not for midnight snack. Kathy worries. None of the Speis are shy about offering assessments of food.  So I’ll know how I did.  Even if it turns out to be crap, I’ll doubt they’ll love me any less, at least appreciating the effort I put in.  But if it’s good, I’ll get myself a little closer into the inner circle.  I’m sure they’ll say it’s just the Spei genes showing, although the Slater ladies (Grandma, Mom and Aunt Dorie) had an awful lot to do about teaching me how to cook.  No matter, it’s all family.

Reference: Dal Bazzo J.  The Stinking Cookbook.  Berkeley CA: Celestial Arts, 1994.  ISBN 0-89087-730-0  

My Michigan Alumni group teased me this morning by showing in anticipation of Valentine’s day pictures and stories of alums who had met at Michigan, asking for more stories. The latter proved to be a dead end. Maybe they’d had enough. I still went to their Facebook page and posted our story, after composing it. It’s a happy one and has to be told somewhere. We always enjoy retelling it. Here it is:

It was winter of ’84.  Kathy, daughter of UM alums, had come for grad school 3 years earlier, assistant coached the women’s swimming team, but was now hunkering down to her PhD work.   I’d arrived the previous summer, a ’74 grad with a ’75 masters, happy to be back in Ann Arbor.  Our mentors had something cooked up, unbeknownst to us.  Mine, skinny Tom Schnitzer presented Kathy as some one who also “I might like to know (ahem) socially.  She’s built a bit like a linebacker.”  Who knows what Tim White said to Kathy about me but we met in what passed for my office to discuss polymyositis (my thing) and exercise (her thing).  I managed to go on and on and she pretended to be captivated.  Maybe it was the white coat.  Soon we were at our first date at Bicycle Jims (in a building the U now controls and houses her office) then a birthday party for one of her mentor’s kids then a head over heels tumble leading to our marriage 30 months later

punctuated by an Ann Arbor house purchase (where we still live).  We remain all things Michigan, proud possessors of season tickets to both football and basketball.  I’ve hung them up after 36 years in the medical center, but Kathy continues to fight the good fight, pointing out the way to clear exposition to Kinesiology sophomores, happily watching former students perform in their chosen venues.  We aim to live and die in Ann Arbor.  Go blue!

Pertaining to 2/4/20

Quite a few months ago we figured this date would mark 33 and a third years since the day we wed.  Hard to let that one sneak by.  I put in in my phone and only a couple of days ago noticed it was coming up.  Warde Manuel and Juwan Howard had conveniently scheduled a contest in Crisler tonight hosting the hated Buckeyes of The Ohio State University, a nice anchor to the day.  Tuesdays are big teaching days for Kathy with 4 90 minutes classes with 12 students each.

Of course, I had my very busy retiree’s schedule.  After walking Kathy into her office, I was off to the Union to tend to a sick old computer.  In trying to sort out why my 2011 Mac was having trouble with some Adobe files, the help desk guy discovered that the operating system I was running was 4 levels short of current.  The Computer Showcase Technical Support people would take care of it.  I knew from my tour of the newly renovated Union a few weeks back that they were in the basement.  I got to the Union a half hour before the Computer Showcases website said they’d open.  I was forced to purchase a tall latté from Sweetwaters and set myself in the big leather couch facing the fireplace in the William Ward lounge.  Internet was good, of course, so I read and dashed off a few e-mails. The small but necessary tour I took revealed some startling developments which deserve their own post.  Quite a few minutes after opening, I finished my coffee and ventured downstairs.  The same signs that had announced the future home of Computer Showcase were till there.  My phone told me they were still in the UGLI, so off I went.  Except for forgetting that sign in pads worked with fingers, I don’t think I embarrassed myself too much before the youngsters manning the place.  A young Asian woman took pity on my plight and proceeded to find the highest operating system to which I could upgrade.  Not much, it turned out.  I could go from “Sierra” to “High Sierra (I love that Boz Scaggs song)”.  Anything above that, my old computer couldn’t handle.  Much like a patient receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis, I had the urge to say “how long does she got, doc?”, but I knew I would be asking for a new computer for my birthday.  I think the necessary bits were being loaded up by arthritic mules, as the update took all of 2 ½ hours.  It was like a dentist’s office without the drilling.  I dove back into the politics reading I’d sworn off, and mostly was elated by what I read, except for Rush’s lung cancer diagnosis.  As I promised I’d avoid politics in this blog, I’ll leave it at that .  The change in venue from Union to UGLI deprived me of my planned perfect walk home.  Like Ways reconstructing your route when you make a wrong turn, I was able to adjust and head back across campus to the LS&A building where I walked through the lobby to be deposited smack in front of the Cube.   Spin, anyone?  Then up Maynard to visit my old friend Bill at Campus bike shop.  When I asked the dour old man behind the counter if Bill and Naomi (his wife when last I’d been there) were in, he said “no, not for 15 years”.  As I talked to the old man, he got to looking more and more familiar.  Sure enough, it was Bill, who had divorced his wife and severed ties with son James, whom we had seen grow up in the shop as a toddler and was set to take over the business.  Bittersweet, but Bill was still at it, more than 50 years in bicycles.  Somehow he’d missed holding a golden anniversary celebration.  I asked him about buying back my 6 bikes, 2 of which I bought from him with the others serviced, now hanging unused from my garage ceiling since my accident 5 years ago left me fearful of riding them.  “Can you bring them by?”.  If my upcoming psychologist’s sessions don’t purge me of my fears, I will sadly take him up on his offer.  After that it was on to Apples and Oranges in Nickels arcade to tell my Apple tale to my friend, proprietor Raoul. He wondered why I hadn’t brought the problem to him, and I confessed I was lured by the possibility of free Adobe stuff thanks to my U connections, which never materialized.  I told Raoul he would need to pass last rites over my 2011 Mac someday, but now was not the day.

The path home up State was familiar and uneventful, past Darai and Connie’s old house, Minnie’s purple co-op, and Tommy’s beautiful stone church.  The construction workers at the Kroger’s site hadn’t made too much a mess of the sidewalk to block passage, and it was an easy walk up the Broadway hill to home.  The mailbox was stuffed, mainly with a package containing a cassette I’d ordered from the MSU museum: “Michigan in Song”.  I was turned on to this work by Ray Kamalay, an Ohio based jazz singer and guitarist whom I first saw at one of the U Hospital Thursday noon lobby shows and later dragged Kathy to see at the West Bloomfield Library.  Ray had produced this collection of songs for Michigan’s sesquicentennial in 1987, and I was so happy to find a copy, in whatever form.  Still unplayed, but I have a functioning cassette player.

A major trip way south to Meijer brought back fixins for Saturday’s feast (separate post), new reading glasses (work great), a query to Sergio into status of my broken watches (still coming) and some new beer, thus setting the stage for the evening’s momentous 33 1/3d anniversary celebrations, which were to take place in the front seat of my Patriot in a Crisler parking lot.  We’d done this once before.  I was to arrive in the parking lot of OBL (Observatory Lodge, where she taught her classes) at 6 sharp.  The game was at 7.  Tho’ laden with drink and victuals, we would resist the urge to consume until we negotiated the traffic across town to Crisler, were my retiree’s parking pass would admit us to a nice close lot, where we could exhale and consume.  This time was to be better than the last.  The subs were from beloved Pizza Bob’s and not corporate Subway, there would be 4 beers not 2, in case we wanted any after the game , and for the special anniversary a present (a squeeze bottle of liquid garlic found at Meijer, which I promised I’d lick off anywhere) and a split of Prosecco (champagne equivalent) with 2 glass flutes.  These were all happily packed in a slightly insulated zippered maize and blue bag dotted with Ms we had received as a wedding present.  We’ll use it a lot more after tonight.

Like a well rehearsed skit it came off without a hitch.  I had cruised by Bob’s just as they were taking our subs out of the oven and they were as always delicious, even better warm.  We debated drinking the second beers but chose the game, getting in less than 10 minutes before tipoff.  The management had laid t-shirts across our seats to give us the option of wearing Michigan gear made in this century.  I kept mine on.  The game was exciting, but we were royally screwed by bad reffing.  Kathy’s former student backup center Austin Davis had a great game – maybe his best as a Wolverine – scoring 11 points in 15 minutes and playing tough throughout.  Had the boys made a few more shots, the bad reffing wouldn’t have mattered.  They’re just not there yet, but we still have the coolest coach in college basketball.  I wish I could afford his suits.

Having that beer waiting for us after the game proved capital, as the time we’d finished – all the while bemoaning our boys fate and thankful we didn’t rest too much of our happiness on the outcome of contests between groups of. teen aged boys – the traffic was mostly clear and we had a smooth ride home.  Cleaning out the car upon arriving was like policing the family sedan after a petting session: beer cans, corks, champagne bottles, glasses glass and plastic, crumpled up papers oh my.  I half expected to come across a used condom.  Retiring to the living room we lit a fire and sat to listen to whatever the Spotify Van Morrison station sent us.  There was way more wine in the house than beer, making the choice of Kanonkop Pinotage 2016 (South African) an easy one.  It might soften Kathy up for my first reading to her of “Feeding the Speis”, coming to this blog soon.  It was an evening we wished would never end, as we’ll never see 33 1/3d again.  45 might be possible, 78 eh?  But bed was necessary so there would be a tomorrow, when we’d get up and do it again.  Amen.

I’m the luckiest man in the world.  Life is good.

Saturday presented another new mystery.  The night before I’d found in the pile of stuff emptied from a box of Vicksburg memorabilia a manila folder containing press clippings describing the horrific 1968 accident that had killed 2 friends and classmates of mine plus 3 older boys.  I was so excited by the contents, I did not look at the folder itself.  By Saturday morning’s light I made out two unusual features.  First, stuck to it like a lamprey was a white envelope “Enclosed is the United Nations Charter”, containing not only a white parchment copy of said charter, but also “aged” parchment replicas of colonial scrip, and – for good measure – 2 copies of my 6^th grade picture, complete with Safety Patrol strap (I eventually made captain).  The curiouser feature was in the upper left corner, where two people had signed their names.

I immediately fired off an e-mail to my old friend Forrest, thinking these two might be from some now-forgotten rockers we had gone to see in high school: “Sonny Dove” and “Jimmy Walker”.  I don’t think that Jimmy Walker, Mr. Dy-no-mite, was around in ’68-9 when this folder as created.

I didn’t want to hit send before I’d put in some effort on the problem, and I think Google has given me the answers, with that information jogging additional memories – good ones – about the night I got the autographs.  Sonny Dove, born in Brooklyn to a full Narranganset father and Mashpee Wampanoag mother, and was the “Big Indian” who starred at St. Johns till ’67 then played 2 years in Detroit after being drafted by the Pistons then went to the Nets of the ABA till ’72.  He died young 11 years later when the taxi he was driving skidded from a partially open bridge into the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn.

Jimmy Walker was a sweet guard from Providence whom the Pistons drafted in ’67.   He never stuck longer than a year with anybody, with 2 stints each with the Pistons and Rockets, and 3 with various Kansas City iterations.  He was twice an NBA All-Star.  Oh, and he sired Jalen Rose.  Jimmy died of lung cancer in ’07, having never met his also sweet son. 

So I remember it pretty well now.  The Pistons came to Kalamazoo (I forget the venue) to play an exhibition against the Knicks.  Had to be fall of ’67.   Cazzie Russell was playing for the Knicks and he was the star attraction for us.  Cazzie transformed Michigan basketball when he came here from Chicago’s Carver High in ‘63.  Tall, strong fast with incredible hands, he provided joy every time he touched the ball.  A Cazzie steal followed by a full court race to the bucket where he smashed it through was a thing of release for this skinny teenager as well as most everyone else lucky enough to be watching. He took the star-laden Wolverines to final fours in ’64 and ’65, but never grabbed the brass ring, falling to Duke in the ’64 semis then getting oh so close the year later smashing Bill Bradley’s Princeton only to fall to John Wooden’s smooth Gail Goodrich-led UCLA Bruins. In ’66 he couldn’t get the team past Kentucky in the regionals but was named College Basketball Player of the Year.  Cazzie’s legacy at Michigan extends beyond all the memories, trophies, and banners he left.  The outpouring of enthusiasm and support for Cazzie’s roundballers convinced the Regents to find $7.2 million to build Crisler Arena, which opened the year after Cazzie left and will forever be known as “The House that Cazzie Built”.  Cazzie was the number one overall pick in the NBA draft but never achieved pro stardom at the level he’d attained in college.  He made the ’67 all-rookie team and his Knicks won the NBA championship in ’70.  Golden State traded legend Jerry Lucas to get him and the next season he was an all-star.  He made stops with the Lakers and the Bulls, leaving the NBA after 12 seasons, playing in minor leagues for 3 more years.  He coached successfully at some small schools and was mentioned as a candidate for every U of M opening after Steve Fisher.  He still stops by his “House” from time to time, always getting a warm standing ovation. So you can understand why it might be exciting to see him again up close, an opportunity the Pistons-Knicks contest provided.  Dad took me and we had good seats.  I had with me several 8X10 black-and-white glossies of Michigan Cazzie in action, given to me by a guy in my dad’s office.  Here they are:

Before the game we ventured courtside and met Cazzie. He liked the pictures and signed them on the back.

Pistons’ rookies Walker and Dove came over and signed the manila folder I had holding Cazzie’s pics.  I don’t how the game turned out, but even before tipoff I’d and a pretty good night.

Denise was the perfect woman for me.  Tall, smart, cute, athletic and right around the corner on Barton Lake.  Who knows what forces got me to make the trek over to her house to visit, but they must have been considerable.  Once there, in a season I don’t even recall except we weren’t going swimming, it was an idle boring afternoon.  She recalls the fancy ’68 yellow Pontiac Tempest I drove over, a cut above the beaters her other suitors tended to bring. Not enough to spark the passions I’d hoped. How much can two kids say to each other, before they start groping, which unfortunately didn’t happen.  I got a little show as Denise picked up her socks and turned them into puppets.  Then, bye.  No calling from me (why?) and certainly no gestures from shy Denise.  We went forward into our VHS careers, me with my egghead rewards and Denise with a variety of accolades, ranging from cheerleading to competitive letter-winning sports to the homecoming court’s tiara and of course the Honor Society.   We ventured off to our respective colleges and never heard from each other.  Along the way she married and had kids and I did the same, less kids.

Then Facebook happened.  There was her luminous face, looking much as I’d remembered from Barton Lake, on top of a tableau from one of the many vacations she and her lawyer husband Kevin had taken.  Her occasional appearances on my Facebook were a joy, and I made a few comments so she noticed.  We were only a year apart in VHS terms, and shared many of the same friends.  Including Sam.  We both delighted in his droll postings.  Denise was connected through her classmate Sam’s little sister Beth, and I was enjoying a growing friendship based on postings, emails and personal visits.  When Sam died in January, I copied Denise on what I was writing about him, and her responses suggested a get together of us and Becky Durham Knapp and Roger, classmates of Denise and sister of my best friend Eric.   That wasn’t happening as Denise and Kevin were cleaning out their years occupied home to move into a condo.  But they had a lunch date in Ann Arbor February 1^st and wondered about tacking on a dinner date with us.  Sho’ nuff and at 6 today I stood hugging the same tall gorgeous Denise I remember from high school, maybe the first time since I graduated a half century ago.  We all seemed to like our old each others just fine.  Kevin proved a space nut, so Kathy’s regalements kept him spellbound.  We learned we were all grammar nazis, so we shared tales from the front of the war on the English language.  The food at Metzger’s was simply sumptuous, hardly the boring German fare we’d worried we’d face when Kevin made the suggestion we go there.  My rouladen was melt in the mouth, hardly like when I tried to cook it years ago, and validated my own mentor Bill Castor’s practice of calling ahead to see if it was available.  With Kalamazoo and bed for them 90 miles away, we parted without dessert but with hugs and wishes we do this again soon.  I certainly hope so.

Spinning through space, tomorrow February 2nd we in the Northern hemisphere find ourselves smack between the winter solstice, shortest day of the year, and the vernal equinox, when light and dark will be evenly split.  Yes, it’s getting lighter, and you should begin to be able to appreciate it.  The Celtic pagans called this day Imbolc* and celebrated the returning of the light with feasting, fire and candles to hasten return of the light, crosses fashioned from wheat stalks to honor the day’s patron Fire Goddess Brigid, and even an animal based weather prediction.  This one’s a little strange, as the critter observed was the snake emerging from Brigid’s womb.  Today’s Wiccans continue the observance, although I don’t know about the snake.  In the Catholic Church, this became a 2 day festival (cross quarter days wobble a bit) with February 1^st (now she’s a-) St. Brigid’s day and February 2 Candlemas (still with the fire to encourage the light along with celebrations of rebirth).

So how did it happen that instead of feasting and fires, we hang onto news from Pennsylvania about some silly but fun rodent?  Imbolc was one of the first pagan festivals appropriated by the Church, with the first Feast of the Presentation (see Luke 2:2-40), now also known as Candlemas and Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, celebrated 40 days after Christmas 4 A.D. in Jerusalem.  Central European tribes who begat the ancestors of the Pennsylvania Dutch who settled around Punxsutawny watched the movements of the badger for weather clues, particularly his behavior on emerging from hibernation and encountering the light in late winter.  As this line of people became German and Christianized, they incorporated this rite of rodent observation into Candlemas services as Dachstag – Badger Day – with a prescribed folk formula in German: “Sonnt sich der Dachs in der Lichtmeßwoche, so geht er auf vier Wochen wieder zu Loche,” which in English is reminiscent of the Groundhog day lore we know: “If the badger sunbathes during Candlemas-week, for four more weeks he will be back in his hole.”  Pennsylvania has few badgers, so the Pennsylvania Dutch settlers adopted the similar looking and much more abundant groundhog to continue their observations.  The ritual we recognize as Groundhog Day began as a publicity stunt, of course.   In 1887, the editor of the Punxsutawney Spirit, himself a member of a local hunting club: the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club, declared while standing on Gobbler’s Knob that Phil, the Punxsutawney groundhog, was America’s only true weather-forecasting groundhog.  So for 137 years and counting, Americans have breathlessly awaited to hear if one of Phil’s descendants has seen his shadow, often trying to remember the formula.  Instead of the 4 more weeks of winter the sun-shunning German badger gave, retreating Phil gives us 6.  Since weather is a very local phenomenon, why do we care what happens in Central Pennsylvania?  A number of north American communities have tackled this problem by adopting a local groundhog (they are plentiful creatures) for their own ceremonies.  I’ve been taking names over the years, and here’s my list:

Balzac Billy	Alberta, Canada
Buckeye Chuck	Marion, Ohio
General Beauregard Lee	Yellow Game River Ranch, California
Pee Wee the Woodchuck	Miles Square Farm, Vermont
Punxsutawny Phil	Punxsutawny, Pennsylvania
Shubenacadie Sam	Wildlife National Park, Nova Scotia, Canada
Sir Walter Wally	North Carolina Museum of Natural Science, Raleigh, North Carolina
Smith Lake Jake	Birmingham, Alabama
Staten Island Chuck	Staten Island, New York
Wiarton Willie	Wiarton, Bruce County (on the Bruce Peninsula), Ontario, Canada
Woody the Woodchuck	Howell, Michigan

There may be one near you.  Here in southeast lower Michigan, we’re blessed with two close by:  Wiarton Willie (a rare albino) and Woody.

So now you know a little more about one of the calendar’s least appreciated holidays.  And boy do we need one about now, at least around here.  Around here we always expect a bright sunny Groundhog day, then ruin it for ourselves when we hear what the damn groundhog did.

So don’t let your joy or sorrow tomorrow rest on what your local woodchuck does, or even on who wins the Super Bowl.  Celebrate the day as the ancients did, recognizing that on the climb from the pit of winter to the hope of spring, you’re halfway there, and beginning to see the light.  Light a fire and help it along, don’t crawl back in.

*also called Oimelc to honor the milk beginning to flow in the teats of pregnant herd animals