My Town Monday: How to Complain About Michigan Weather

Michiganders love to complain about the weather.  There are some guidelines for these complaints, though, so everyone is on the same page.

If it's in the thirtys and snowy in January or February, complain about it being too snowy.
If it's below zero in January, complain about it being too cold (and ask where's global warming?!?)
If it snows in January or February, complain about how you're done with winter already.

If it's still below freezing any time in March, complain that it's supposed to be spring (and ask where's global warming.)
If it's warm in early spring, complain that everything is muddy from the melting snow.
If there's snow in late March, complain about how you're sooooo tired of winter!
If it's warm during the day, but cold at night in March, complain about how cold it is at night, as if it's some anomaly.

If it's in the 70s before June, complain about how long winter was.
If it rains a lot in March, April, or May, complain about the dreary weather and you're ready for summer.
If it's below freezing at any time in the spring, complain about how winter is supposed to be over!  (Don't forget to ask where global warming is.)

If it's over 80 in early summer, complain about the humidity or complain about how it's too early in the summer for heat like that.
If it's below 40 any time in early summer, complain about how it's still cold and how summer's NEVER going to start.
If it's hot and dry during the summer, complain about how brown and burnt all the plants are.  If you live on a lake, complain about low lake levels.
If it's hot and humid during the late summer, start complaining about how you're ready for fall.
If the temperature is in the 70s, complain about how cold the store air conditioning is or about how it's not hot enough.

If the temperature drops below 50 in September, complain about how you're not ready for summer to end.
If the temperature shoots up to 80s in September, complain about how you're done with summer.
If it's cold and wet on Halloween, complain about how it's always cold and wet on Halloween.

If it's below 40 in November, complain about how you're not ready for winter.

If it snows more than once in December, each subsequent time requires complaining about how you're done with snow already, even though it's barely started. 

That about covers it.  Happy complaining!

My Town Monday: Ice Harvesting Exhibit at the CoBACH Center

The old town hall in Brighton was recently repurposed for use by the the Brighton Area Historical Society.  They've been doing some different exhibits.  For the month of February, it's ice harvesting, which was a huge industry in the early 1900s, not just in Livingston County but in many colder climates.  During the winter, local residents and migrant workers would score the ice and break it into large blocks. It would be stored in ice houses along the shore.  During the summer months, the ice houses would be slowly emptied of their ice. 

The CoBACH center (City of Brighton Art, Culture, and History Center) borrowed some items from the Port Huron Ice Harvesting Museum and set up a rather nice display.  There were local photos of the ice houses and information about the tools of the trade.  They also made a mock up of a small ice house. 








I went there with Hubby and my Baby Son and we happened to go at the right time, I think.  One of the leaders of the Brighton Area Historical Society was there giving a well-informed tour.  My son was fixated on the sound of the tour guides voice, which was amusing.  (The kid's only 8 months old, so I'm sure he wasn't that interested in ice harvesting.) 

 This is an image of the Mill Pond in Brighton.  You can see the ice house on the shore past the boaters.
Here's some more recent images of the Mill Pond.  The ice house sat where the brick building (barely visible over the bridge in the second photo) is today. 

There's one more week of the Ice Harvesting Exhibit.  I wonder what slice of local history will be displayed next? 

My Town Monday: 6 More Weeks of Winter

Puxatawny Phil predicted an early spring.  Livingston County's own woodchuck (aka groundhog) Woody predicted 6 more weeks of winter.  Now, Woody's record is 9/12 correct so far, so my money is on her.

That said, in Michigan, 6 more weeks of winter WOULD be an early spring.  Sure, the vernal equinox falls March 21st (ish), which is about 6 weeks after February 2nd, but that's hardly the start of spring in the Mitten shaped state.  Not weather wise at any rate.  There is often still snow on the ground and one last snowfall in late March. 












Spring doesn't really start here until mid or late April.  That's when the weather starts to stay above freezing during the day.  And the sun comes out from behind never ending piles of gray clouds.  It feels so good to Michiganders, that winter coats are often prematurely shed in the "warm" weather.  By the end of April, it feels like spring is finally starting.


That's also the start of road construction season...

My Town Monday: Snow Storm

Snow is part of Michigan winters.  And that includes the occasional snow storm.  The Big One last Wednesday was a bit overhyped in my area, and, as with all things overbyped, it did not live up to the predictions.  In my area, we got about 6 inches of snow. 

This is about the amount needed to shut the area down for a day or so.  Livingston County is part rural, part suburb-- but not a very dense suburb.  It is largely a bedroom community to places like Ann Arbor and Detroit.

  

So, the snow fell.  It piled up on top of the previous inches-- I think there was about 6 inches from prior snowfalls currently on the ground.











My driveway was complete obscured by the falling and blowing snow.  I'm standing next to my garage.  The road is past the fence.  This driveway is only marginally longer than average.

Yes, we have a snowblower.  

One of the most interesting thing about the last snow storm was how quite the world got.  Few cars ventured out most of the next day. I rather liked it myself. 

Also absent from the roads were snow plows.  I live on a main road heading into one of the two larger towns in the county.  Well, it's called a city, but it's not very big.  (I know, it's a term that defines local government size and function more so than population size and density.)  Anyway, usually this road is one of the first and best plowed, being that about a mile away it turns into Main Street.  But even at 1 in the afternoon, the road is still snow covered. 

Not bad though.  One could easily get around in this sort of snow fall.  I don't care much for driving in snow-- but that's just because other drives don't have the sense to slow down and exercise caution. 

I happen to like when the snow comes down and the world is quiet.  It's peaceful.  There's nothing quite like the barely perceptible sound of snow falling-- yes, it has a sound. 

FFF 8: Time

I'm a little late this week... partly because I still thought the deadlines for F3 were Friday.  And partly because I really just need the whole week.  =/  I'm gonna keep trying the prompts, when they tickle my muse, but I already know I'm not gonna make any Wednesday deadlines.  ESPECIALLY not Wednesdays!

Anyway, here's my story for F3 #8...



Wasting Time
A Bo Fexler Story

The clock ticked off the seconds, each a piercing reminder that time moved forward.  It was already late on a bitter cold night.  The heat had turned off for the night—and the long holiday weekend—in the office building.  The cold workspaces, extra clean by some managerial mandate, were even more impersonal in the dropping temperature.

My shoulders were tensed, as if doing so would contain what little body heat remained in my body.  My fingers were so numb that I could barely feel the shape of the mouse as I navigated with it. 

Without the intermittent whooshing and humming of the heating system, the office was still, lifeless.  Only the barely perceptible whir of the computer fan, the faint click of the mouse button, and the interminable ticking of a clock on the desk next to the computer broke the still stillness. 

Everyone that normally worked in that office building was off doing holiday related things.  If not enjoying their families for Thanksgiving, they were tolerating them with whatever coping methods or alcohol they could manage, or just plain avoiding them at home or at the bar.  The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is the biggest bar night of the year.  Few people work that night—besides the standard retail workers, law enforcement and emergency responders, and bartenders.  The occasional private investigator will put in a few hours, checking to make sure that a certain spouse is actually working late, rather than finding unauthorized reasons for giving thanks.  Then they, too, would join one of the normal Thanksgiving activities.  Being a PI, like being a cop, can be hard on personal relationships, though, with the odd hours and spying and trust issues that come with watching everyday people betray the trust of those who care for them. 

Luckily, I had trust issues long before I entered the PI business.  It makes the job easier.

The holidays no longer have any meaning for me beyond the normal ebb and flow of business as people increase or decrease their need to know the truth.  It’s just part of the passing of time.  One month to the next, one year to the next. 

I tucked my hands under my arm pits, trying desperately to restore some feeling to them, while the computer considered my request.  Fittingly, the machine turned a digital hour glass while we waited.  The sand grains didn’t move though.  It was an old machine, running an old operating system.  It made my job both easier and harder.  Security on that old computer was something of a joke.  And the man who used that machine wasn’t very good with computers.  The collection of empty folders named New Folder was amusing. 

The man who worked on that computer was at home with his wife and grown child.  According to the wife when she called me, he was pretty well trashed too.  That was why she'd asked if I was busy—or more importantly, was my time claimed by anyone else that holiday-eve.

 She'd first thought maybe he was staying out late because he was having an affair with some office girl.  But a couple days of surveillqnce showed that the husband was the last to leave his office, and did so well after everyone else.  Sometimes, he'd return to the office after a few hours at home, claiming he had things to do.  He had agreed to stay home the night before Thanksgiving, but promptly got plastered.  That meant she could take his keys—under the guise of keeping him from driving drunk.

So, while he was drunk, and his wife was working on a bottle of wine, I was snooping around the man's computer.  It looked like he had saved everything in the My Documents folder, without even the benefit of sub folders for organization.  Except there was another folder, buried among the system folders.  It was also named 'New Folder' but it wasn't empty.  It was quite full, actually.  Full of movies mainly, with the occaisional picture, too.  Renaming files was not part of his skill set, so I was able to tell the content without actually having to watch any of them.They had titles like Girl Takes Huge Dick and Young Blonde Likes Getting Rammed.  Not even any flicks about anal or threesomes.  As far as porn went, it was tame.    

I rummaged around in the man's internet history.  Nothing much there.  A couple porn sites, some random searches for trivia bits-- the sort of things people talk about in the break room and then Google to find out who was right-- and some searches for local addresses.  I searched for the addresses and found he'd gone looking for a bar, a floor covering outlet, two restaurants, and a sex toy store. 

With his not updated web browser, I was able to access his email, even though he'd logged out.  The session cookie was still available, so hitting the back browser until it activated the session cookie.  Except it wasn't worth the technical know how.

How the hell was I going to write up the report on this case? The man wasn't sleeping around.  He seemed to be avoiding his wife by going to the office after hours and, while there, watched porn.  And probably jerked off.   He had enough videos that he could watch for days.  Plus, given the dates on the files, it appeared that he went hunting for more every three or four days. 

 Hopefully she could accept that her husband was passing his time with porn and masturbation.  More likely, she would claim the investigation was a waste of time. 

For me, though, finding answers, no matter how mundane or disappointing, is never a waste of time.

Besides, I get paid pretty damn well for my time. 

END

FFF3-Deadly Coincidences

 Joining in with the other fine folks at Flash Fiction Friday.  This week was a themed word list with a suggested genre of suspense or horror.  I got the words, but I'm not so sure on genre.  I do know I'm not feeling the current title.  Here's my piece anyway.

Deadly Coincidences
A Bo Fexler Story
by Clair Dickson

The death of my car battery turned out to be an omen of the disruption death was going to cause in my life the next few days.  I had to cancel a meeting with my client and get a battery delivered from an auto parts place to the grocery store parking lot where I was stranded.  Canceling the next meeting with my client only bothered me in that my client was hiring me to find her missing niece, who she cared about greatly.  

As soon as the delivery hit showed up, it started to rain.  And the rain was predicted to continental for the next several days.  Regardless, I still had work to do, and to do it, I needed my car back from the dead.  I lost my umbrella in the hasty move to the new apartment, so I just stood in the rain while I installed the battery.

A couple people stopped and stared.  It’s rare enough to see a woman working on a car, let alone one who is tall, attractive, and standing in the rain.  To my surprise, the only comment was from a matronly woman who told me that I was going to catch my death of pneumonia out there.  I wondered what Louis Pasteur would think of such an enlightened comment.   

When I went inside, I found a shallow puddle of water on my bed.  It took a moment for the implication of that to set in.  My bed is fairly absorbent, so for there to be a puddle, there would have to have been an unfortunately large quantity of water.  A deluge. 

With a sigh, I went down to the land lord's unit and knocked.  And knocked.  The nosy old lady across the hall poked her head out.  “He's gone,” she snapped.

“Clearly.”

She glared at me. 

“I'll try later then.  Maybe he’ll be home tonight.  He likes to watch the Late Shows.” 

Her eyes narrowed and nearly disappeared in the wrinkles around them.  “He's gonna be gone all weekend.  Death in the family.”  She slammed the door on my incredulous response.

I debated between spending money on a hotel room or just sleeping on the couch.  The couch-- or rather my spendthrift ways-- won out.  I did flip the mattress up against the wall and put the bedding in the wash.  I was centering a bucket under the continuing drip when my cell phone rang. 

“This is Bo,” I answered. 

“Bo.  It's Raquel.   I'm gonna-- I mean-- I guess I don't need you any more.”

“Okay.  Why not?”

“They-- the police were just here.  They found McKayla.  Her car went off the road into a swamp.  The think it happened two weeks ago.”  She cried as she spoke, her voice wavering every few syllables.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I replied, the words automatic because my feelings were still sorting themselves out.

I was fired because the young woman I'd been hired to find was found already, and found dead.

After I hung up the phone, I sat on the couch a moment.  Then I grabbed my coat and went down two blocks.

The church was old, styled in a Gothic sort of way with narrow arches and tall stained glass windows depicting scenes from Jesus's life.  I hadn't been to church since I was a child and I couldn't articulate what I thought my visit would do or get.

But it seemed like a good idea.

END

FFF: Knowledge of Good and Evil

I'm feeling a little rusty at this fiction thing, but I decided to take a shot with the Flash Fiction Friday folks. 

Knowledge of Good and Evil
A Bo Fexler Story
by Clair Dickson

“Mom said I was going to be something one day.” She smiled as she said it, a big toothy grin that revealed a missing front tooth. She twirled the end of her blond pig tail around her finger.

"And what would you like to be?” I asked. If anyone had bothered to tell me just how much small talk I would do as a private eye before I got licensed, I probably would be in a whole different vocation-- for better or for worse.

She shrugged.

“Is Carrie home?” I asked.

“Nope. Not until 4. She's my sister, you know.”

“I do know,” I answered. I had also been reasonably sure she wasn't home. “Can I come in and talk with you for a little while?”

Jaimie hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “I dunno.”

“I brought some ice cream that I was hoping you would help me eat.”

She grinned “I love ice cream. Chocolate chip cookie is my favorite.” But she still blocked the doorway.

“Can I come in?”

She nodded, hesitated once more, then finally opened the door to let me in. She led me to the kitchen and got two bowls and two spoons from the dishwasher.

“How long have you been living with Carrie?” I asked scooping a large bowl of ice cream for Jaimie and a more reasonable sized bowl for myself.

“Hmmm... Since March. Sisters are like friends but better, right?”

It was either the statement or the way she said it, but something about that bothered me. “You like living with Carrie?”

She looked around and made thoughtful faces before answering, “Yeah.”

“It's better than living with Aunt Tara?”

More thoughtful faces. “Sometimes.”

“When is it better?”

“When she takes me places or buys me a new movie. I have a TV in my room so I can watch my movies. Aunt Tara never let me have a TV in my room.”

“When do you like not like being at Carrie's?”

“When Jeff comes over.” She frowned.

“What don't you like about Jeff coming over?” I didn't really want to hear the answer. I never do, but my job requires that I ask the questions anyway. Some days, I would gladly trade that for the stupid paperwork or clueless bosses that other people complain about.

“When Jeff comes over to spend the night, I'm supposed to stay in my room. I don't like always being in my room. Carrie said if I lived with her, then we'd do fun things. But we don't do fun things when Jeff comes over. And he comes over a lot.”

“Do you ever get to play with Jeff?”

She shook her head. “No. Carrie says that he’s her friend so they play together.” She shrugged. “I just wish he didn’t come over so much.”

“Does Jeff ever come over when Carrie isn’t here?”

“No. He’s Carrie’s friend, so he wouldn’t come to play with me. He never plays with me.” She finished the last of her ice cream and licked the spoon clean.

“Did Carrie say anything about what the court thought about you living with her?” The main reason I was there. I wasn’t particularly threatening, nor was I part of the justice system. My client and I had both figured that might make it easier to get information out of Carrie.

Jaimie licked her spoon. “Well, she said that since she wasn't married, that the court wouldn't send me checks any more. She helped me get a job so I can still buy things that I want. I'm saving up for a Wii. I got almost a hundred dollars.”

I smiled. We talked—or rather, I let Carrie tell me about herself and her life with Carrie for several minute more. Then I stood up and told her, “You can have the rest of the ice cream.”

“But you're going to miss Carrie.” Her brow furrowed.

“You know what, you did such a good job answering my questions, that I don't need to talk to Carrie.”

Jaimie beamed with pride.

I stopped by my client's house on the way home to give her an update before I finished my report. “So Jaimie thinks she's not getting the checks any more, but she is,” my client said. She was Jaimie's aunt and, until the previous year when Jaimie has turned eighteen, her guardian.
I nodded once in confirmation of the facts.

“I fought the courts. Fought them hard, particularly because I don't trust anyone in that family. She may be nineteen years old, but she has the mind of a child.”

“Seems all Carrie had to offer was that they would do fun things together. Jaimie adores her sister.”

My client shook her head. “How do you stand learning these things about people-- or stand meeting people like Carrie who would con her own developmentally disabled sister? It makes me sick...”

I gazed out the window while I figured out the best response. “Because of people like you that are just the opposite,” I said, even sounding sincere.

Truth was, I also had learned to detach myself, distance myself from a young age. Jaimie, with her simple mind, couldn't imagine anyone deliberately doing harm-- but me, I could hardly bring myself to see anyone doing good.
END

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