Norse gods and meteorologists don’t scare me

Well, somehow I managed to survive this winter’s first “Snowpacalypse.” (The first of many, if TV meteorologists have anything to say about it.)

Despite what the talking heads on the morning news were yammering on about, I didn’t freeze to death beneath the permafrost, timber wolves did not appear in the yard to devour my cats, and Snærr, the Norse god of lousy weather, didn’t pop in for a second coming and plunge the world into 100 years of icy darkness.

I did what Michiganders have been doing since we stole the state from its original owners: I dug out the driveway and got on with my life.

The tires on the Toyota were not what they were a few years ago, though, and I did manage to drive off the road at one point. Judging by the length of time it took the tow truck to arrive, I wasn’t the only one.

I now have the new tires I’ve been meaning to get since July, so bring it on, Snærr, I’m ready.

That said, I will admit I’m learning there are two winters every year — city winter and country winter. 

Having grown up in big cities, I’m familiar with city winter. The soot-smuged snow, slush-filled potholes, frequent low speed fender-benders. It’s all well-travelled territory.

What I’m not used to is country winter.

I moved to Lori’s little house on the prairie back in June, so this is my first winter here. We live on land that only a decade ago was somebody’s corn field. Then developers came, excavated a rutted path they laughingly called a “road,” and built a handful of ranch style homes along either side.

The middle of nowhere looks like Manhattan by comparison. This past summer, I felt like a character in a Zane Grey western, a feeling reinforced by the horses living next door. And the tumbleweeds. 

Yes, there are tumbleweeds out here! I have no idea where they come from, but if I leave the garage door open they fill the place in a matter of hours. Crazy.

At any rate, based on what I’ve seen of winter so far, it’s going to be tough to survive out here on the rim of the state’s rugged hinterland. Just this first dusting has piled drifts up to the windows on the northwest side of the house. The tractor, which I was planning to store in the shed, will now instead spend the winter beneath a tarp out back. The shed is snowed shut and it’s just getting deeper. 

Worst of all, the satellite TV and internet — our tenuous link with civilization — has all but shut down. It didn’t work all that well even during the halcyon days of summer, but with the coming of the snow … let’s just say the Amish have better technology.

Still, I am descended from hardy pioneer stock. I’ll survive my first country winter somehow; no matter what Norse gods and TV weather people send my way.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 548-8273

There may be a few snags in my new business idea

I need a kid. Were I not older than most Mayan temples, I’d just have another one of my own. That’s assuming I could find a willing (and biologically viable) partner to join me in the endeavor.

I have three kids already, or rather, I used to. These days they’re adults with jobs and lives of their own. 

I see them often enough, my sons at least. My daughter lives in Detroit, runs a business and has four munchkins of her own. She’s busy.

And even when I do see them, it’s not the same as when they were children. Because they’re not kids anymore. They’re old, like me.

My grandkids are great, but again, I only get to see them a half-dozen times a year, usually during family events when everyone’s trying to horn in on the grandkid action.

What I need is a kid of my own. Why? Well, put simply, I miss having a playmate.

I miss having someone handy to take fishing, hunting, jogging, bicycling, out to dinner. Speaking of dinner, I even miss the lunatic asylum that is Chuck E. Cheese. I haven’t eaten there in years.

If you’re a middle-aged man you cannot go by yourself to Chuck E. Cheese without attracting a lot of unfriendly stares. Thank you, media, for painting every American white guy over the age of 35 as a potential pedophile.

Not that it matters; Chuck E. Cheese is no fun without a couple toddlers of your own in tow anyway.

I was a single parent during most of my own kids’ childhoods and much of what I miss is the little stuff; frying up Mickey-shaped pancakes in the morning, checking homework, braiding my daughter’s hair at bedtime … dumb stuff like that.

Yeah, I know I’m seeing all this through time’s rose-colored granny glasses. I haven’t entirely forgotten the bouts of flu, the temper tantrums, the shock of a Hot Wheels car crunching beneath my bare feet in the middle of the night.

But the good far outweighed the bad. I thought so even at the time.

I was a dad and I was pretty good at it. Then, just about the time I was really getting the hang of the job, everybody grew up and moved out. I was forced into parental retirement! With no severance package!

I can’t believe I’m the only empty nester to feel this way.

With that in mind, I’ve come up with a great new business idea (yes, yet another of my get rich without working plans).

I call it Rent-a-Kid. 

That’s right, for a small fee — thirty bucks, maybe — a kid between the ages of five and nine will accompanying you on hayrides at the apple orchard in the fall, or drop by your house to open presents Christmas morning, or maybe play in the lake while you sit on shore hollering at him or her not to wade out too far.

Or maybe not. Now that I actually put the idea down on paper, I gotta admit it sounds a little creepy. That’s not how it was in my head. 

I blame the media for sending me back to the drawing board.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

I’ll soon be the wallflower on the radio

My life keeps serving up dishes I’m not sure I want to eat. 

Despite my gregarious personality, I am at heart an introvert. I know, I know … those who know me personally are rolling their eyes right now.

I have a big mouth and I know how to use it. But honestly, I’m a lot more comfortable sitting in a dark corner somewhere, a wallflower watching the party from a safe distance.

I’m happiest in a small fishing boat on a quiet lake, an ultra-lite rod in one hand and a cold Bud in the other.

I know the trend in this country is to seek out fame (or at least notoriety) at all costs. We’re constantly bombarded with the message that you’re nobody unless you’re famous. The timid among us get their fame fix by posting endless selfies on Facebook. The more desperate climb water towers and take potshots at student nurses.

It all comes down to the same thing: being the little kid on the playground jungle gym yelling, “Hey! Look at me!”

At any rate, the itch to be well known is a condition I’ve never really developed. But I am, at least a little bit. 

I’ve been writing this column for decades. It appears in a lot of different newspapers and online outlets. So every once in a while, someone will walk up to me at the grocery and say, “Hey, aren’t you that guy that writes that column?” 

Now, I like people and it’s nice to know someone’s reading my work. But while I like people, I like them best in small numbers; preferably in groups of one. 

Crowds freak me out. Even “virtual” crowds. Writing this column for a relatively large audience is easy, mostly because I pretend I’m not. I pretend I’m writing for my girlfriend, my kids or sometimes, for myself. I try not to think about all the eyes that’ll be looking once it comes out in print.

Fooling myself like this is going to be harder with my radio show. Yup, radio show. Beginning Nov. 10, I’m going to be on the radio. It wasn’t my idea, but when Jim at WGLM 106.3 made the offer, it sounded too fun to turn down.

It’s not live, thank Heaven. But it’s still me; my dorky-sounding voice (and it does sound dorky, make no mistake). My inane comments and observations. My big mouth yammering away.

Every time I record an episode, I feel like a fool and a fraud. I’m hoping this doesn’t come out in the broadcasts (which will air weekdays at 5:30 p.m., by the way) but I’m afraid it might.

Ah, if I bomb, I bomb. It won’t be the end of the world and I will have at least tried. But I’d really rather be in that dark corner or out on a fishing boat.

Instead, here I am again, stepping up to the jungle gym and yelling, “Hey! Look at me!”

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

I barely knew Frank, which is kind of a shame

This is something different; not one of my newspaper columns. It's an obit I wrote for my girlfriend Lori's dad, who died earlier this week. He lived a pretty amazing life, of which only a small portion is related here. Just thought his passing merited a remark...

Weldon D. “Frank” Frankforter

GRAND RAPIDS — Weldon D. “Frank” Frankforter, 94, of Grand Rapids, died Tuesday, Nov. 5, 2014 at Metro Health Hospital in Grand Rapids.

Frank was born May 1, 1920 in Tobias, Neb. to parents, Archie and Mary (Schroeder) Frankforter. He was married Sept. 12, 1943 to Laura Glea Nicholas, who preceded him in death.

Frank earned his bachelor’s degree in 1944 and masters in 1949 in Geology/Paleontology from the University of Nebraska. He served as associate curator at the University of Nebraska State Museum from 1941 to 1950, director of the Sanford Museum & Planetarium in Cherokee, Iowa and as assistant director of the Grand Rapids Public Museum from 1962 to 1964. In 1965 he became director of the Grand Rapids Public Museum, a position he held until retiring in 1988. After retirement, he remained involved with the museum as Director Emeritus.

Frank’s interest in archaeology and paleontology was a lifelong passion and he was at the forefront of the burgeoning historic preservation movement of the of 1960s and ‘70s. During his tenure with the museum, Frank organized and managed several archeological digs. 

Also, he was instrumental in creating numerous annual ethnic festivals in downtown Grand Rapids, beginning with the Mexican-American festival; over the years, Frank oversaw the creation of several other annual ethnic festivals in the city.

Frank also sat on a committee in Washington D.C. charged with developing standards for museums nationwide. Under his guidance, the Grand Rapids Public Museum was the first to be evaluated and certified under the American Association of Museums accreditation process he helped create.

Frank spearheaded the move to relocate the Grand Rapids Public Museum from its former location to its current home along the Grand River. He also was instrumental in making sure the whale skeleton — always popular with museum patrons — made the trip to the facility’s new location.

Frank also was the driving force behind the restoration and installation of the museum’s popular antique carousel.

Surviving are his daughters, Mary Emmert, Lori Frankforter; sons, Nick (Dawn) Frankforter, Gary (Carol) Frankforter, Matt (Kate) Frankforter; grandchildren, Daniel, Jessica, Noah, Megan (Daniel), Jason, Victoria (Troy), Christina (Jennifer), Zachary (LeAnn), Lorri (John); great grandchildren, Tori, Sydney, Alix, Erin, Winter, Trez, Weldon “Justice”, Zaniya, Kaley, Taylar, Blaine, Trey Camdyn, Daniel Jr.; great-great grandchildren, Kennedy, Keegan, Chance and Samatha.

A memorial service will be held 2 p.m., Saturday, Nov. 8 at Ofield Funeral Home, 4500 Kalamazoo Ave. The family will meet with friends from 1 to 2 p.m. prior to the service.

Donations in Frank’s name may be made to the Frederick Meijer Gardens and Sculpture Park.

Please be sure to sign the online guest book located on this website.