John Schneider

Smoked!

To paraphrase Bruce Springsteen, I woke up Thursday morning to a yellow sky, hazardous air and instructions to stay indoors.

What I thought was pollen on the windshield of our Impala was actually ash.

It’s the heart of Michigan’s short summer and we’re eager for some fun on the lake. But to paraphrase Lord Huron, the 800-plus wildfires currently burning in Canada don’t care, nor does the wind that's carrying the smoke and ash to the northern U.S.

I heard a business man in Cheboygan ask, while glancing in the general direction of Canada: "Why can't they keep their damn smoke to themselves ...?'

Not suitable for all audiences

During my days as the daily columnist for the Lansing State Journal, the local library sponsored a kind of “literature hotline”; kids could dial a number and hear “celebrities” read passages from books that influenced them as they were growing up.

I was one of the recruits. Not paying close enough attention, I suppose, to the demographics of their target audience, I immediately turned to “Catcher in the Rye,” which, as I wrote in Tuesday’s blog, nudged me toward my chosen career. I recorded and posted.

As it turned out, I should have gone with my second choice, Dr. Seuss’s “McElligot's Pool” - the angler’s ode to optimism - because “Catcher” went over like a firecracker in a library. I don’t recall which part of the book I read, but it must have had a touch of salt on it.

A librarian phoned me to say that my selection was, well … inappropriate and that it had been banished from the hotline.

Happy birthday, ‘Catcher’

When, as a surly 16-year-old, I turned to the first page of “Catcher in the Rye” and started reading the opening sentence, something clicked.

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

The first-person narration, the wise-guy attitude, the plain language, the thumb in the eye of authority … I devoured the book in a single sitting. I can’t say “Catcher” was the only factor in my career choice, but it was a big one.

This is on my mind because Tuesday’s New York Times included a story about J.D. Salinger’s tale of adolescent disillusionment turning 75 this week.

Obviously not every book gets that kind of treatment. Clearly I wasn’t the only one to fall under in its spell.

Kayaking craze

I looked out onto the lake recently and marveled at the sight of this 4-person kayak.

Then I took a closer look and realized it was actually a fleet of four singles - or possibly two singles and a double.

Kayaks are a common sight on the big lake - and just any other body of water deep enough to float one (and it doesn't take much).

The grandkid's all right

Even before I posted my blog about the mother-Lord Huron- Windsor connection, the front Bub texted me with some pointed questions about his grandmother's recreational habits.

I knew right away where it was going and that's exactly where it went - straight to the stage of the Colosseum, the concert venue at Caesar's casino in Windsor.

In between the songs he spun a loving little yarn about his grandmother's enthusiasm for video poker - and life in general.

The ultimate jackpot

It’s too bad my mother didn’t live to see this - her grandson and his band performing in one of her favorite places on earth: the Windsor Casino.

What a jackpot that would have been …

This evening the Bubs will play The Colosseum at Caesars in Windsor, a 5,000-seat venue that’s part of the casino/hotel complex in Windsor, Ontario.

Even after the Detroit casinos opened, my mother, a lifelong Detroiter, preferred to play her video poker in the smokeless atmosphere of the casino across the river. The air was fresher, she said; the machines, more generous.

She never got to see Lord Huron. However, she did witness the larval stage of her grandson’s music career on two different occasions …

The first time came at an Okemos High School Jazz Band concert, directed, I might add, by Jim Barry, father of LH drummer Mark Barry. Mark was in the band, too. Benjamin was on double bass.

The second time came in 1998, at a high school graduation party for Benjamin’s older brother, Justin. As I recall, Mark and Tom also played. I think they were calling themselves Razor Dave at the time, or possibly The Skatrats.

A good fit

As I previously mentioned, the exchange of trinkets among Lord Huron fans is a wildly popular tradition at the band's annual Red Rocks shows.

At the most recent concert last month, a woman named Darcy gave Sharon and me bracelets personalized with the name of our dearly departed daughter. They were adorned with tiny sunflowers, which hold a special meaning for us.

Not being a bling-wearing kind of guy, I considered what to do with mine. Surely I could give it a better life than it would have in a drawer.

Sharon suggested that the bracelet would look good at Leek Cemetery, on top of Jessica's headstone, among the "visitation stones."

Maritime graveyard

My fishing grounds - Hammond Bay, in northern Lake Huron - is known as “Shipwreck Alley." It's part or the 4,300-square-mile Thunder Bay Marine Sanctuary, created to protect 200 shipwrecks from looters.

This summer I’ve seen charter dive boats heading out from from the launch, carrying customers eager to explore the wrecks. It occurred to me that, with the collapse of the salmon fishery, wreck-diving may become a new tourist attraction.

Treacherous shoals, shifting sands, dramatic variations in water depths and collisions doomed many a ship in the early days of maritime navigation. The oldest wrecks - largely preserved by Huron’s cold water - date back to the mid-19th century.

Like the old days

After catching nothing but lake trout in recent years, I knew immediately that the fish that took my spoon Tuesday evening was something different.

It stayed deep in the water. It peeled line off my reel, creating that joyful whine - zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz - I hadn't heard in years. The fish refused to give an inch, continuing to fight even after it was in the net. Just like the old days.

My initial conclusion, once the fish was in my cooler, was that it was an Atlantic salmon but the more I examined it, the more I saw Chinook characteristics; black gums, for example.

Puddling party

This is the time of the year butterflies - eastern yellow swallowtails, I believe - gather in clusters on our Lake Huron beach.

They don’t come for the the sun, or the surf; they come for the sand - specifically for the salt and other minerals therein.

According to the Internet, the behavior is called “puddling.” The moist sand along the Great Lakes is the ideal puddling-party venue.

MAGA boat

You can't escape it - not even when all you want to do is launch your boat for a peaceful, non-political evening of fishing and pleasant free-floating contemplation.

Instead, I was forced to spend too much time on the water puzzling over that infernal question: How can people continue to support Trump and the MAGA movement after all they've seen ... ?

All in

There comes a time in every summer when Lake Huron finally extend a begrudging invitation.

After remaining aloof through May and June, the lake generally begins to warm up in the early days of July - just enough to make full immersion possible.

On Independence Day it called to us. Taking courage from each other, we waded in, completing our transition into summer and the life aquatic.

Bees and butterflies

I went bee-hunting the other day (I’m still trying to get a photo accepted for the New York Times’ daily Spelling Bee game).

The bees wouldn’t hold still but this butterfly offered a different kind of photo op. The photo speaks for itself, but I’ll state the obvious again: The beauty in nature is sometimes hard to believe.

As for Spelling Bee, the game is accompanied by a different bee photo every day. Readers are invited to submit pictures for this purpose. Not for pay, but simply for the buzz of it.

I’ve sent in two so far; I don’t know if they’re in the NYT queue, or if they’ve already been rejected.

Toward a better future ...

Some say the only honorable way to celebrate America’s 250th birthday today is to downplay it, or ignore it entirely, lest we be associated with Trump’s royal gala currently unfolding - or, should I say unraveling? - in D.C.

I appreciate the sentiment. I truly do. Throughout our history, no Independence Day picnic has been without its ants. But on on this Fourth of July, we’re further away than ever before from the ideals laid out in the Constitution.

So, I understand the impulse to sit this one out and save our patriotism for better days. But I think standing back and letting Trump Inc. hijack Independence Day is the wrong approach.

Some beautiful chemistry

“Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle …”

From “The Song of Hiawatha” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Like lightning itself, lightning bugs (the term my mother used) are tough to photograph. But that’s OK; it’s reward enough simply to watch them do their enchanting magic.

A firefly’s glow is a chemical reaction caused by an organic compound – luciferin – in their abdomens. As air rushes into a firefly’s abdomen, it reacts with the luciferin, causing the chemical reaction that gives off light.

As you may have suspected, the light show is not strictly for the delight of us humans; fireflies shine their little lights to notify predators of their bitter taste and to attract mates.

The night shift

Like all the Lake Huron freighters that glide past our cottage, this one is a working vessel, hauling various raw materials from one harbor to another.

But the lights of a ship passing in the night always give it festive quality. I can almost hear band music drifting over the water.

La belle fleur sauvage

It’s wildflower season in Michigan and I found this pair of beauties growing in the wooded area between our cottage and our Lake Huron beach.

I’m awed, all over again, by the grace and elegance of nature’s artistry.

This perennial, native to North America, goes by many names: wood lily, flame lily, Philadelphia lily, tiger lily, prairie lily, or western red lily.