Maybe I need to get out more, but I’ve never seen a faucet like this one that was in my motel room.
I’m guessing that the cleaning person wiped the outlet with some sanitizing chemical, making it ready for the next person to brush his teeth.
What was wrong with the first one?
Looking east up the Grand River
Here’s a trailer offering a great view. It looks like it would be a good choice for someone who is not too picky about privacy.
Just past the Muskegon County Airport, USBR 35 makes a left turn and merges onto Business US 31 to cross Mona Lake. Unfortunately, the north-bound bridge was closed for repairs, and the north- and south-bound traffic shared the narrowed southbound bridge
I took the southbound detour, and as I rode the berm of Business US 31, a passenger in a pickup truck yelled something, but I couldn’t hear it over highway noise. I assume it was a reminder to not exceed the posted speed limit, so I smiled and waved back at him/his (or possibly she/her, or they/them. I don’t know.)
I got off at the first available exit, headed south, then east to find an alternative way north.
While heading east I passed what may be the least interesting building I’ve ever seen. Even the windows are boring.
Heading north again on an alternative route, I pulled off the road, and while standing in the weeds I noticed these wild plants. I’m not a botanist, but these look like cacti to me.
USBR 35 routed me through Muskegon/Muskegon Heights, a declining neighborhood of 1920’s working-class homes.
Across the street from these homes is Sacred Heart of Jesus parish, which is built in an out-of-context 1960’s architecture.
Just past the church is the school (with a 1966-dated cornerstone) that, judging from the weeds that had sprouted through the playground pavement, has not been used in years.
(After I returned home I googled this church and learned that it had been founded by a community of Hungarians in 1913, had flourished for almost a century, but was now permanently closed three weeks after I rode by.)
I stopped at a Burger King in Muskegon Heights, and during what must have been a 15-minute wait in line, I struck up a conversation with a 50-ish gentleman who commented on my Cleveland Browns tee-shirt. (He was wearing a black shirt with gold trim on the collar, a gold tie, solid black jacket and pants, and a short-brimmed black hat with a 1” gold band around the dome.)
Even though it is about 100 air-miles from Muskegon to Detroit (and also to Green Bay) he and his friend are Chicago Bears fans, 130 air-miles away.
We talked about pro football, and then sports in general. He commented that when he was in school, everyone played football and/or other sports.
(My mind flashed back to my high school freshman year when I played bench for the entire football season, and only got to play after the game was already decided. The most memorable play that year came late in the season when Mr. King decided that we were ready to try a field goal. Kicking a field goal requires three skilled players, and I think Mr. King overcounted what we had. Our left guard was credited with blocking the attempt when the kicked ball hit him in the butt.)
Anyway, the conversation turned darker when he observed that few young people play sports today. Now, he lamented, they are involved with drugs. Drugs and guns. He had a nephew die of a fentanyl overdose last month. He said the reason he is dressed this way is that he was going to three funerals this week, all for young people killed by drugs or guns. I was stunned into silence at three funerals for young people in the same week.
“Where do these drugs and guns come from?”, he asked no one in particular, and then with rising anguish he answered his own question with “They aren’t made here. Our own people bring them into our community to kill our community. Our own people are killing our community” He finished saying that they don’t know it, but they will be cast into the lake of fire for all eternity for what they are doing.
I wasn’t prepared to get into this particular conversation, so I told him the only thing that came to mind, that he was doing the right things by supporting the families in their grief, and speaking out against the guns and drugs that are destroying his community. I wished him peace as I left with my Whopper.
Continuing northward through Muskegon, I didn’t stop, but I certainly appreciated the sign.
The Fred Meijer / Berry Junction Trail, which is built on an abandoned C & O Railroad line, runs 11.5 miles from Muskegon to Hart, is essentially flat, straight, and partially shaded by oak and now some pine trees.
I was enjoying the easy ride when I was startled by the unmistakable sound of multiple voices screaming in the woods to my left. I stopped and looked into the woods, but saw nothing troubling or unusual, so I continued heading north on the trail.
A few minutes later I heard more screaming in the woods, and this time it was louder. I got off my bike and walked in the direction of the screaming. I continued until I discovered the source of the screaming.
I was on the Fred Meijer Junction trail at the red dot. Immediately to the west behind a small stand of trees was Michigan’s largest amusement park.
I eventually got off the trail and took some unpaved, sandy roads to the Palmer Blueberry farm.
This is Chris Palmer, who identifies himself as the middle of five generations on the Palmer Blueberry Farm. (His wife’s grandfather started the farm, and his young grandsons who live nearby are often at the farm.)
The Palmer farm has several large fields of a variety of full-height blueberry plants (max 6’ tall) that ripen at different times, allowing for a longer fruiting season.
I have (6) half-height (4’ max) blueberry plants at my suburban house, and I’ve had to enclose them with a 4’ chicken wire fence to protect the plants from deer, and cover the top of the fence with netting to protect the berries from the birds.
I noticed there is no fencing or netting on his plants, and I asked Chris how they keeps the deer and birds away. He said he really didn’t have a problem with deer or birds, but a large section of a recently-planted field was decimated earlier this year by wild turkeys.
Chris and his family pick some of the blueberries by hand, and some with a machine.
Here is the picking machine, which straddles the plants as it is pulled down a row. The white “fingers” on each side of the interior of the machine vibrate and shake the ripe berries off the plant and into trays and conveyor belts at the bottom of the machine.
Here’s a snip of the visitor’s guide in the motel room at Whitehall.
I wonder if St. James himself showed up one Sunday morning which church he would attend