June 24, 2007: Biking into the past

OK, I'm actually going to start posting regularly now -- I promise.

One of the things I enjoys most is biking, and today I biked 52.7 miles with Bust (my Dad) for the annual Eco Ride. To pass the time, I asked Bust lots of questions about his past. I love listening to him tell stories about his childhood. I love learning as much as possible about what he was like back in the day.

Among the things I learned today:

Bust went to the same high school named T.C. Williams that "Remember the Titans" is named after his freshman year in Alexandria, Va. It was integrated then. Bust actually doesn't remember anything about that supposed football story. Then he transferred to a predominantly white high school for his final three years. He remembers seeing just a single black student.

Bust and family only lived in Birmingham, Michigan from when he was 3 until he was 6. Grandpa Bart moved them back to Alexandria because he really didn't enjoy his job as a minister. It was too consuming. He had to do way too much. Also, Bart caught flack for owning the area's lone Volkswagen during the auto industry's boom in and around the Motor City.

I've got to mention the incident.

When Bust was in third grade, his older brother Buzz, who was in ninth grade, convinced him to ride on Buzz's shoulders down a steep hill, which Bust equated to Spring Street -- long and steep. Yeah, that's right. Buzz was standing up and Bust was sitting on his shoulders. Somehow they survived, and Bust isn't sure if Grandma Roz even knows about the incident to this day.

Bust also gave me a rundown of his family's pets. There was "Tiger" the cat, who predictably had the countenance of a tiger. There was "Sparky" the dog, who was a little feller with some bugle in him. Sadly, Sparky's existence came to an end when he was hit by a car (which made me realize that my aunt Vicky has witnessed two dogs -- also Gus -- die in car accidents). There was "Gloria" the cat, who was black and had several litters of kittens.

Finally, there was the famous "Georgia," a dog who could open the front door of Bust's family's front door. Man, I wish I could have met these pets

Still, it was great learning about them. As it was learning how Bust turned from sports to music around the beginning of high school. The three reasons he gave me?

-- he got cut from the freshman baseball team

-- he became good friends with a guy named Keith, who was a musician but also was "connected," especially with girls

-- he became immersed in the radical movement of the 1960s. In other words, he became a hippie. Sports figures were generally conservative during that time, and Bust was liberal -- so he kind of gravitated away from the sports world.

Not only was the bike ride great exercise, it was also very educational. Nothing is more enjoyable than learning about my elders' past.

Other highlights from the ride:

-- We biked through "Hell," a tiny town in the middle of Michigan that boasts a single morgue of a store and a bunch of motorcyclists.

-- There were lots of Cliff Bars to eat.

-- Strawberry Lane is a great road to bike on.

When we got back from the ride, we took Copp to Barton. Copp, who suffers from cancer, is on his last legs. So we have to make the most of our time with him. He definitely doesn't lack energy. He led us on a long tour of Barton this afternoon as we videotaped him.

I'm pretty sure we're going to put together a movie of Copp. Should be fun. He's so photogenic.

Funny anecdote: As we were entering Barton, Bust found a cell phone on the ground. When he said the owner was a "Malcom," I instantly knew that it was a kid's who we had just passed who I knew I recognized from Albion. I ran toward Malcom's car and got it to his friend right before they drove off. The kid was disappointed when I handed him the phone.

He thought it was a joint.

The power of a good story

An era of my life officially ended what now seems a very long three-plus weeks ago. That would be my graduation from Albion College, when I received that rectangular black leather book called a diploma.

But I didn't really feel like my undergraduate career was over -- in the books, you might say -- until this past Sunday. That is when a conglomerate of old people -- aka friends of my family but not necessarily my similarly-aged friends -- came to our stone house on Spring Street to bask in my glory.

I'm not one for ceremonies or graduation parties, or anything, for that matter, that puts the focus squarely on me. (That's why, I suppose, I chose journalism, in which I focus on the pursuits and actions of others). So, besides the display of food my mother ordered, I wasn't particularly looking forward to the four-hour Sunday evening event.

But, gauging by how fast the 240 minutes passed, I must have had fun (either that, or the cliché’s incorrect). As mom said later that night, once all the visitors had said their goodbyes and good lucks, she had never seen me talk as much as I did that night.

One of the great things about conversing with elder generations is the plethora of anecdotes they have to tell. To me, nothing's better than a story. If a person asks me whether I'd like to debate the fate of the 2007 Detroit Tigers or hear their story from Friday night's Tigers' game, I'm probably going to choose the story. For one thing, when another person is telling an anecdote, all I have to do is listen (and listening is one of my few strengths and, of course, another reason why I chose journalism). Additionally, many of the stories I hear are fascinating.

My favorite from Sunday came from a fellow I just met that evening named Barry. We were talking about the best sports movies we'd ever seen, when he brought up the story of his great aunt. According to Barry, his great aunt was at the 1932 World Series game when Babe Ruth called his shot against the Chicago Cubs. Barry's great aunt told Barry that one of the reasons Ruth pointed his finger toward the right-field grandstands before putting the baseball there was that Cubs fans had been hassling he and his wife all day, both on the way to the ballpark and once they arrived. Chicago's players had even joined in, not letting up on the insult pedal.

So Ruth jabbed his finger toward right field and said, "I'm gonna hit the ball over that stupid ivy fence."

And, of course, he did just that. It may have been 51-plus years until my conception, but Barry's story brought the day in 1932 to life for me. Images popped into my head as I imagined what it must have been like. Ah, the power of a good story.

On Sunday night I didn't just learn that it's good to invite a lot of adults to your graduation party -- mo people, mo money. I also learned how educational a good anecdote can be.

Maybe, in the years to come, I'll be the one telling the great story. Maybe I'll be telling of that one game where Magglio Ordonez hit a three-run homer while I was sitting in a hostel in Australia...

There's a new story to tell every day.

Rain, rain and more rain

Yesterday was a long, long day.

It also involved a lot of rain.

I personally am enamored by rain, especially warm rain. To me, there is nothing like going outside during a summer rainstorm and getting absolutely soaked. Whether I'm playing hoops, playing baseball, biking, swimming or doing something else, soaking up a summer monsoon is refreshing.

But yesterday was not the right day for rain. I was covering the Division 3 state track meet in Comstock Park (just north of Grand Rapids, MI). I had an early deadline to write two fairly lengthy articles.

Because of an afternoon rainstorm, however, I had to leave the meet early -- with my stories in progress -- to get back to the office in Jackson.

And that is when I got caught smack dab in the eye of the storm. I felt as though the storm was attached to me like a magnet. It didn't matter what highway I was on. I drove through a monsoon -- AND a traffic jam -- on I-96 for two hours. Then, as I took a southward turn onto less-crowded 127 South, the rain followed suit.

It didn't leave me until I was 10 minutes from the office.

By then, though, I had been on the road for close to two and a half hours (usually the drive takes approximately an hour and a half), lagging along at a pace of about 40-50 mph.

As I pulled into the office, prepared to make a harried attempt at calling coaches and patching my stories together at the final moment, I cursed the rain for my predicament.

It was that kind of day. A rare rain-cursing day at that.