As a boy, in Michigan...

A huge part of my boyhood in Michigan was the Detroit Tigers. I think it was impossible for them not to be. I don't remember the Tigers ever having spectacular seasons when I was young. In the 1970s, especially the late 70s, they seemed to be in a constant battle for fourth or fifth place with the Cleveland Indians. But who cared? I lived and breathed the game. The best games to listen to were the night games. I'd hang out with my dad in our garage, the sounds of evening filling the air. WJR 760AM would be on our little portable radio. And then, it would cut through on the speaker: "Detroit Tiger baseball is on the air!" — a mighty roar — and then the familiar march. Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey. Legendary voices calling the plays. Harwell would call the first and last three innings, the baritone of Paul Carey in the middle. The names of the players are still with me. Guys like Alan Trammell. "Sweet Lou" Whittaker. John Wockenfuss (I'll never forget his

The perfect Father's Day in El Paso, Texas and Anthony, New Mexico. A wonderful breakfast from my wife. Presents from my wife and daughter. A movie and bowling with my father and daughter. After dinner, which my mom made for us all at their house in rural Anthony, New Mexico (only about 10 minutes from our house), my father broke out the old Double Ducks thinning scissors I mentioned in a previous post. They were still in their little red plastic case. And while my daughter watched, my dad trimmed my hair, 24 years after the last one he gave me before he moved to El Paso. And for a few minutes, I swear I was right back on the deck at 6508 Crane Road.

Watson and me. My guess is this photo was taken in summer, 1975 or 1976. It's probably the first photo we had together. He's just a puppy here. Watson was a funny dog. After the death of our family's beloved basset hound, Jenny, who lived to be 14-1/2, and passed away when I was five, I desperately wanted another canine companion. Watson came from the Huron Valley Humane Society on Cherry Hill Road. He was named after his veterinarian, Dr. Watson, and his name fit him perfectly (think the slightly dense Watson to the razor-witted Sherlock), so we decided not to rename him. Watson was half basset hound, half cocker spaniel. There seems to be something in a mutt that makes them more indestructible. Watson would run away from home, once even prompting us to take out an ad in the local newspaper (yes, he was found). He also outlived two other dogs we adopted. The first, a pointer named Lindy, after Charles "Lucky" Lindbergh, was not as lucky as her namesake, and was k

Summer in Michigan was always abloom with Queen Anne's Lace (wild carrot). It would literally grow anywhere, and lots of people considered it a weed. As I would wander our property, I would occasionally try to pull out one of the stems from the rich Michigan soil. It was always difficult, as the root of Queen Anne's Lace is very, very strong. If I could wrangle one out, you could see the white, carrot-shaped root. While not like a typical blossom, Queen Anne's Lace is more like a hemisphere of small, white, clustered blossoms; their fragrance was one that simply defined the scent of summer. Sweet, but not too sweet. I had actually forgotten that Queen Anne's Lace was this fragrance until five years ago on a trip back to Michigan. My wife, daughter and I went to the Botanical Gardens in Ann Arbor, and one of the many beautiful walking paths, the scent struck me. I was literally stopped in my tracks. The mixture of the flower and the sweet, dewy grasses sent floods of boy