Shirley McShane Sillars

As I pedaled my 21-speed bike along the streets of Detroit, passing through clouds of sewer steam and bracing against a frigid headwind, I lamented my inability to document every nuance of  Tour de Troit. I’ve never done anything like it; the first hour was a pure rush of energy and emotion.

There was the sheer number of us, rolling en masse through intersections, as stopped traffic honked and cheered. There was the look of utter surprise on the faces of those along the route who didn’t get the memo. There was just no end to us. Oh, and there was this bearded homeless guy, clutching a paper-wrapped bottle in one hand, shouting a pep talk to us like a wayward high-school coach. “Take your time, people,” he sang. “This isn’t a race.”

There was the cussing van driver, who balked at the 3,000 of us cyclists clogging her Saturday morning route. There was the postcard view of Detroit’s skyline from Belle Isle. There was the scary beauty of urban forest devouring the remains of houses and factories. Did you know: Trees are growing inside abandoned warehouses?

Tour de Troit is a ride not a race, as the scruffy stranger in the park reminded us. In its ninth year, the event is sponsored by the Southwest Detroit Business Association. The ride-not-race also is a fund-raiser for the Corktown-Mexicantown Greenlink, a planned series of bike lanes and off-road pathways that will connect the neighborhoods of Corktown and Mexicantown to each other and to the Detroit River, according to the Tour de Troit Web site.

The sights. The sounds. The smells. The observations. The feelings, those elusive feelings that if not captured, vanish like mirages on the highway. My emotions ran the gamut as I gazed up at stunning architecture of historic churches, swerved to avoid an oncoming truck, and gaped at utter ruin.  I wanted to stop and chat with all the people living their lives in neighborhoods close to my home but a world apart. I pondered the state of Detroit: what once was, where it’s at, and where it might go. I marveled at all the hidden treasures. One, a baby-blue mural dotted with puffy white clouds marched across on a crumbling viaduct.

As I steered along the 30-mile route over choppy brickwork, cracked concrete, and smooth asphalt, I realized some things are meant to be experienced and then let go. So, I tucked my camera into my pocket, closed the mental notebook, and  just pedaled. I felt the wind  burn my cheeks. I listened to the city as it whispered: Look at me. I inhaled the scent of fresh baked goods and barbecue barrels carried on the breeze, of freeway exhaust, of the sweating guy ahead of me. At times, totally lost in the moment, I forgot where I was, although I’ve traveled most of these roads in my lifetime.

For four wonderful hours, I was part of something larger than myself, a shared experience, that opened my eyes to my city. I’ve been here all my life, but this ride showed it all to me through a new lens.

Related posts: David Byrne’s view of Detroit

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I am a country girl trapped in a city dweller’s body.

Or, something like that. I take after my father. He lived his life in the city but spent his vacations exploring the countryside and living as close to the land as possible.

Our family logged extended stays in a one-room cabin tucked in the woods of northern Michigan. We picked berries and mushrooms. We tapped maples and boiled sap into syrup. We tended two gardens: one at home, the other at the cabin. In the winter when the snow was too deep for our car, we pulled our provisions on sleds along the two-track road. My father was a hunter and fisherman. We often lived off his kills and our harvests. These experiences planted a deep-seated appreciation for living simply, according to nature’s cycles and whims. To this day I gain no greater peace than when I’m nestled deep in the woods or high atop a mountain.

Along with nature came a fascination with those who sought to tame it: the pioneers and homesteaders of the American West. My favorite childhood books were the “Little House” series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. My father surprised me with the first book in the series, “Little House in the Big Woods.”

I couldn’t get enough of Laura’s books. Even though we were born a century apart, I could identify with the dreams and frustrations of the brown-haired Laura of the series. Many a summer afternoon, I’d pretend I was steering my bicycle across the endless Western prairies and not bumping and clattering over the gravel and cracked pavement of the city.

This summer I found a way to trade pavement for prairie and visit the Laura Ingalls Wilder home and museum in Mansfield, Missouri.  On the long haul across the flat Midwest and down into the lush hills of the Ozarks,  I worried.  Dragging family along on a personal quest, particularly when it’s tacked onto a vacation, is messy business. I worried the buildings and grounds would be deserted. I worried the docents would be so lonely they’d talk our ears off. I worried I’d be disappointed.

All worries slipped away as we turned in the parking lot off Highway A and found it full of cars bearing plates from across the United States. Not only was the place busy, but it also was impossible to linger over any photograph or display, which of course, is exactly what I wanted to do. I had a joyfully odd discussion with a leather-clad biker over the Ingalls girls’ appearances in photographs compared with Laura’s descriptions in the books. Really.

Two hours were all I had to soak in the legacy of Laura’s life. It’s one thing to read a writer’s words. It’s another thing to see where she bathed and slept. As beautiful as the grounds were, I walked them at a fast clip. The humidity packed itself against everything like suffocating layers of insulation. A symphony of cicadas sawed deafeningly from overhead. I imagined they were the size of SUVs. I sent a silent thank-you to the cosmos for whomever was responsible for the central air conditioning installed in the house and museum.  Most of the rooms were open. Many recognizable artifacts were on display.  Some things came as surprises: the wooden writing desk tucked in a corner of the wallpapered study, where Laura wrote her books, a notebook and pencil forever poised to receive the next chapter; a dreamy living room with beamed ceilings, window seats, a stone fireplace and  corner library packed with volumes; and the married couple’s bedroom outfitted with two tiny twin beds.

I am a lifelong admirer of Laura Ingalls Wilder the woman, author, newspaper columnist, homesteader and pioneer. (I am not a fan of the 1970s television series.) She was the daughter of risk-takers and dreamers. She endured years of crushing heartache and loss, weathered physical and economic devastation, and persevered with the hope that a better life awaited. She also was eyewitness to an era of great change in America.

She was a devoted wife and mother who also believed in equal rights for women. She found success in both worlds. She asked the minister who officiated at her 1885 wedding to remove the words “obey” from the vows. She and her husband ran their farm as business partners. She began writing her books in her 60s. Her words changed her destiny.

Her life began most humbly in a one-room log cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. She slipped out of this world an international figure, beloved by children all over the globe.

We all should be so blessed.

Detroit said good-bye to Julie Hecker today.

Those touched by Julie’s life  –  and there were many judging by the gathering inside a suburban Detroit church for her funeral  – gave a final shout out, a heartfelt cheer, a round of applause, retold an anecdote, shed tears and shared a laugh for everyone’s favorite cheerleader. We also wondered who would ever be able to fill her always-on-the-go shoes.

Everyone who knew Julie had a Julie story. It didn’t matter how you knew her:  as a fellow parent at the local elementary school, as a part of the local music and arts scene, as a student in one of her many exercise classes at the recreation center,  as a member of Punk Fitness Detroit or the Motor City Rah-Rahs, you knew she had a smile as bright as the sun, a heart as big as all the goodness in the world, and the energy and enthusiasm of a team of hyperactive go-getters.

Julie died unexpectedly on June 30. She was 45 years old. She was a mother of two children and a wife. She was a professional fitness instructor. She did many amazing things in her life.  I won’t pretend I knew her intimately. But what I did know made me both admire and envy her. She drank deeply from the pitcher of life and savored every sip. She also made sure to share a glass with everyone around her. If the brew was ever bitter, you wouldn’t know it.  She championed everyone and all causes.

My Julie story begins in 2004. A flyer for her new Punk Fitness Detroit class landed on my desk at The Daily Tribune. Its sassy  provocation, “Get your ass to class” piqued my curiosity.

I called  to set up an interview for a freelance story on this alternative exercise program. Julie, being who she was, talked my ear off. She made me laugh within the first minute, was infinitely quotable, and convinced me I had to experience the class. Without being pushy, bossy or condescending, she motivated me to haul  myself out of the house on a cold, dark night in October to hula hoop on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers and contort my body using stretchy bands on an exercise mat while smug beer drinkers looked on.

I showed up. I was instantly smitten with this woman with the throaty laugh. I came back. Again and again.

Then I went to China to bring home my baby girl. My Punk Fitness days were over.

When she was ready, I enrolled my baby girl in one of Julie’s tumbling for tots classes and the Ferndale Community Center. It was my little girl’s first foray into anything outside her native culture.  Who else but Julie could get my timid rosebud to unfurl her petals?  Julie’s boundless energy, creative improvisation, and insistence that music be the soundtrack for everything helped my girl turn her first somersault and round her first corner in socialization.

I lost touch with Julie in the last year and a half. But even in our last meeting, she had a bright smile, a big hug and the lowdown on the new and interesting happenings in Detroit.

Her short life serves as a reminder to us all. We do not know what day will be our last. What are we doing to make our community and our world a better place?

Sometimes all it takes is a hula hoop and a smile.

Photo by Rosh Sillars

Things I learned from my father:

Know how to read a map.

Plan your route before you leave.

Have a back-up plan.

Deviate from the main road and enjoy.

Develop an intimate relationship with nature and respect its rules. (Dad regularly took us on vacation to a private cabin in northern Michigan where we lived a week or longer without electricity, running water or heating/cooling.)

Don’t be over-reliant on technology or modern conveniences. (See above. My father was a major technophobe. I don’t know how he would regard today’s 24/7 connectivity. He didn’t much like it when cordless phones came around.)

You can’t have too many good books or good records.

Don’t underestimate the healing power of a Sunday drive to somewhere interesting.

Fill idle hands with books, brooms, rakes, paint scrapers and brushes. My father had an amazing work ethic. The only time he rested was either to admire his work or to assess the damages. (He was suspicious of idle TV viewing, sunbathing and other mindless pursuits.)

Things I learned indirectly through my father:

Humor is an essential ingredient in almost every situation, but particularly in those that challenge your patience and sanity.

Humor has both healing and hurting power. Use with care.

Never part ways in anger.

Things I wish I’d taken the time to learn from my father:

Our family history

How to plant and maintain a perennial garden

How to grow organic fruits and vegetables

How to read the stars

Don’t believe everything your parents tell you.

Home is on my mind.

This spring marks 10 years of living in our house, which has become over time, experience, buckets of sweat equity if not real financial equity (thank you, recession), a home. When we took possession of the property in April 2000, we were giddy soon-to-be-married lovers. Everything we did was a romantic moment. Our first meal in this house was Middle Eastern takeout.  We sat cross-legged on the scuffed hardwoods, scooping tabbouleh and hummus on our plates. Between bites of stuffed grape leaves, we chatted and laughed and listened to our voices bounce around the bare walls.  We discussed changing the paint color, improvement projects, where my then 6-year-old daughter would sleep, where our *gasp* future children would have their bedrooms. This modest brick bungalow was the blank slate of our future.

Karindaiziel via Creative Commons

After a wedding ceremony, several years of enjoying life as a newlywed couple, an adoption process that resulted in another girl child in our home, endless home projects, parties, illnesses, spilled paint and shattered dreams, a parade of Christmas trees, birthday party sleepovers,  financial heights and economic lows, power outages, infestations, and the first green sprouts of renewed hope, we are still here. Our marks add to the collective history of this little house built in 1941. While I may resent the moldy basement, the dingy siding, the windows that don’t open, I also have a deep gratitude for these sturdy walls, floors and the roof. The bones of this place have held up. They’ve  given us shelter from the heat, the cold, and the economic storms. During the darkest hours of our despair, I’ve  felt comfort in this house as it held me in its quiet embrace.

I’ve been thinking about  my hometown, too.

No, Detroit is not a travel destination. No one drools with envy when I announce I am from Detroit. However, I have the pleasure of knowing as friends and as acquaintances a number of people from all over the world who are happy to make Detroit their home.  These people  left their cosmopolitan cities, their colorful cultures, their mountain views and beachfront vistas to come here to this (insert latest media catch phrase). They like the cultural diversity, the music scene, the abundance of water, hunting for and discovering the hidden gems amid the ruins, and the niceness of the people. Despite our crime statistics and widely reported corruption, people here are nice. Really.

Read this transplant’s blog post to gain a fresh perspective on national and international reporting on Detroit.

I’m in school again.

It was as easy as saying “yes” to a request.

On my first day as a Reading Corps volunteer for the Detroit Public Schools, I’m greeted by a group of gap-toothed and wide-eyed five- and six-year-olds dressed in white shirts and navy blue slacks.

As their teacher guides me into the colorfully decorated classroom, I follow armed with orientation materials and weighted with expectations. The first thing I learn is that the plan has changed since my orientation. Week one, day one, the first minute of the first hour and things have changed.

So I set down my heavy folder, cast aside my expectations, and focus on the basics:

They’ve asked for help.

I’m here to give it.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask the teacher.

After a few minutes of discussion, we have a plan.

The first week, the school is a hive buzzing with activity. The middle school band warm-ups send waves of  toots, honks and thumps marching down the halls. Most of the elementary students are jumping around, shouting or eating pizza at a lunchtime dance party. We retreat to the classroom, where it is cool and quiet. The students here have emerged from a midday nap. I’m assigned three charming boys who are eager to please. They say “thank you” when I praise their efforts. We focus on the ABCs and trios of good guys (The Three Little Pigs) and one bad girl (Goldilocks). We burn a fast hour seated around a tot-sized table.

The second week is much quieter. The lunchroom resumes its utilitarian role.  We set up operations at a fold-out metal table while nearby a custodian cleans and polishes the tile floor. This time, I’m visited by two girls with beaded hair. We work on telling stories aloud by talking in complete sentences. We work on using the names for things rather than saying “this thing” or “that.”

On this day, my third week,  we all seem to be riding the same current. I remember to clip on my ID badge before entering the school. I remember to sign in and out at the office. The children arrive in groups of two or three, are dismissed and then replaced with a new group at the 30-minute mark.  If we hit a rough patch, I pause and remember this is about the basics.

After each session, the teacher asks me how her students fared.

Each week I wonder how I fared with them.  Did they learn anything in our time together?  Can one person affect change? Did I meet the goals the teacher laid out for me? In the long term, will our efforts help turn things around in this school district?

Sure, I have my doubts. Then I read this and know I have to try.

I’m in school again. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from these students.

Last night I saw “Under Great White Northern Lights” at the Burton Theatre in Detroit.

It was perfect.

The former Burton International School building turned independent cinema and art studio seemed the proper venue to pay tribute to  The White Stripes‘ minimalist ethos. Whether the one-night-only show landed at the Burton by happy accident or by design, I’m glad I saw the documentary of the Stripes’ 2007 Canadian concert tour there instead of at the multiplex in the suburbs.

Bear in mind, I’m a hardcore White Stripes fan. I would watch their movie in an alley if necessary. At least part of what made this night perfect was Burton’s intimate auditorium dressed in velvet curtains, art-deco fixtures, and polished wooden floors. Like the historic concert venues the Stripes prefer, the building bears the artistry and scars of a bygone era.

I’m not a frequent moviegoer. I pick my shows carefully. I tend toward the smaller, art house offerings.

When an e-mail alerted me to the sneak preview of “Under Great White Northern Lights,” the Burton was an easy choice. Even though I hadn’t heard of the Burton, I was intrigued by the idea of an alternative movie house inside a school built in 1912. My heart breaks every time I witness another death of the old Detroit. It also soars with joy when I discover the buds of rebirth flowering amid the ruins.

The White Stripes have built a reputation around the idea that there is value in that which has stood the test of time. They take a minimalist approach, use antiquated instruments and recording equipment, and avoid the easy route. Their latest tour takes this ethic to the extreme. They perform shows on the windblown tundra, before aboriginal elders, on a lane in a bowling alley, at a flour mill, and on a moving bus.  To them, nothing worth doing well will be easy.

I see this little movie theatre the same way. It’s a challenge to start a theater in an empty school in a downtrodden part of town. It’s a risk to revitalize a decimated neighborhood one building at a time.

It would have been easier to level the old building and walk away. I could have watched the movie in the safety of the well-lighted suburbs just 10 steps from the closest Starbucks.  But it was more than the large coffee from the concession stand that had me giddy last night. This revitalized building, this band, this idea that something new can come from the old and discarded makes me a proud Detroiter.

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• Film review: Under Great White Northern Lights (guardian.co.uk)

Photo by Shirley McShane Sillars (Phone number erased to protect privacy)

I’ve driven by this sign many times. Each time I see it I’m tempted to do one of two things. I want to grab a can of red spray paint and fix the two misspelled words, add a dash of punctuation for clarity, and get rid of the superfluous parenthesis. I also want to snap a picture of it for the English Fail blog.

Getting this picture posed a challenge. It’s painted on the side of an old building in a marginal neighborhood along a road with fast-moving traffic. Last week I devised a plan. I grabbed my camera and tried to get a drive-by shot. The first time I attempted a drive-by with my daughter at the wheel. I had a nice shot of the raindrops on my passenger window. Opportunity came when a UPS  truck driver parked in front of the building. I pulled in behind it, held up my camera and aimed. I got a nice picture of the UPS driver, who shot me an odd look. I had one more chance. What I captured is what you see above. Then I threw my camera into my purse and fled the scene.

Later, as I processed the image on my computer I thought about the bigger picture. In spite of its errors in basic English, its random use of upper and lower case letters, the sign still is understandable. Like the abbreviated, coded lexicon of today’s text-messaging world, it isn’t grammatically correct but if the reader gets it, who cares? English teachers, newspaper editors and publishing houses care. But for the rest of the world, do language skills still hold value?

I thought about how easy it is to laugh at this sign and the many others like it around the city. It’s even more entertaining to visit Web sites that poke fun of poor language skills. But laughter quickly gives way to sadness. What do these signs say about our education system and our literacy as a nation?

In order to do more than just point out what is wrong, I joined the ranks of an estimated 2,000 Detroit-area residents who will tutor Detroit Public Schools preschoolers.  I’ll need to fill out paperwork, attend an orientation, and pass a background check before I begin working with children. Look for updates here on this program as it unfolds.

Meanwhile, laugh or cry:

English Fail

Cakewrecks

Unnecessary quote marks

Do something:

Pro-Literacy Detroit

Detroit Literacy Coalition

Dominican Literacy Center

Via http://awfullibrarybooks.wordpress.com

I’m a book junkie.

I have my reliable suppliers to feed my addiction. They are the ones, with their colorful displays and come-hither promotions, who entice me to open my wallet and empty it in exchange for hours of reading pleasure. The heavy-duty pushers, otherwise known as independent book stores, have me weak in the knees, not only with their eclectic inventories but also their knowledgeable staff and peripheral products (stationery, pens, coffee cups, paper weights) that further deplete my capital resources.

Thankfully there are low- to no-cost options for when the wallet is light. There are used book stores, yard sales and online book exchanges.

The public library, of course, stands ready and waiting to lend to those of us on really tight budgets.

Beyond the search for books is the need, on occasion, to gather information about a book before buying it or to find new authors and titles when you’ve exhausted your reading list.

Here are a few online resources I’ve used:

Books Are Pretty
Bibliodyssey
The Millions
DeweyDivas
ALA Booklist Online
Paperback Swap
Book Page

But who is out there to steer a bibliophile away from a bad book or to highlight books that, despite better judgment, were published at all?

My local newspaper alerted me to a new resource,  Awful Library Books, put together by two librarians from suburban Detroit who have created a popular new Web site devoted to bad books, or as they say in their own words: “None of the books presented are particularly awful (okay, maybe some are).  These books are just odd, outdated or maybe should be reconsidered under a current interpretation of collection policies.”

A sampler of titles highlighted include:

• “Driving: How to Get a License and Keep It” (Put down the book and just drive, right?)
• “Clothes Hanger Projects” (Who doesn’t want a holiday gift crafted from an old clothes hanger?)
• “Dating for Under a Dollar” (Or, ‘How to avoid ever having a meaningful relationship’)
• “How Maps are Made” (If you’re not a cartographer, you just don’t care)

See for yourself:

http://awfullibrarybooks.wordpress.com

This is the first thing that happened when I stepped into the Emory for the Ferndale Library’s book party: The server asked what I wanted to drink.

What does one drink at a book club party? Having never been to one, I opted for a nice local brew.

Here is the second thing that happened at the library book party: The server carded me.

It’s not that I look underage. Those days are long gone. She wanted to see my library card.

An ordinary library card — not a platinum credit card or an exclusive membership pass — gave me entree to this event that featured the first drink free, appetizers, and participation in a book discussion.

Here is why I love my hometown: We have book club parties in local bars. I’m not a big drinker. I am, however,  easily intoxicated by good books.

After I tucked my library card into my wallet, I grabbed the frothy glass of amber liquid, my tattered copy of “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides, and slipped into an open spot at the reserved tables at this popular bar/restaurant.

Placards on each table offered trivia questions and discussion points as a way to spark conversation about Detroit-native Eugenides’ Pulitzer Prize winning novel. If you have not read this sweeping epic, I won’t spoil the plot points. How about a teaser?  It is a mix of a Greek-American family’s history, Detroit’s 20th century rise and fall, and the painful coming of age of the gender-challenged protagonist.

Why have a book club meet in a bar? Organizers say the corner bar is the classic community meeting place; it’s the natural stopping point between work and home. It’s a place where we share information, vent our frustrations, and hatch relationships and deals.

Why a book party instead of a book club? The Ferndale Library wrote for and received grant money to create buzz about The National Endowment for the Arts’ Big Read in March 2010. Library staffers say they wanted to do something fun and different and attract a wider audience. They were surprised and pleased by the turnout of about 25 people.

While discussion of the plot, the character development, and the author’s literary devices served as an ice-breaker, conversations meandered away from the book. This is natural. The organizers are OK with it. The point isn’t to labor over a book all evening. It’s to get folks interested in books, in libraries, sharing ideas, and participating in a wider community.

I am fortunate to live in a progressive community with creative thinkers who take a venerable institution and its resources and give it a modern twist.

Speaking of books and creative thinkers, at the last annual street fair, I discovered two young creative types busy selling  old books reconstructed into journals, jewelry, buttons, badges and other fun gift ideas.

What do you know? They are my mother’s books.