Through the past brightly
He’s just another con-man sitting on a hill
You see him at a bull fight, closest to the kill
He lives up in a tower, sells dreams to the poor
No matter how he gets ‘em, he always wants some more
— Dispatch from “Con Man”
According to my sources, today is officially “ChocolateCovered Anything Day,” so go fetch yourself some chocolate and cover something with it.
Couple things I need to get to today before we continue chronicling my lifetime of outdoor adventures.
First, I want to bring attention to a longtime Barryton, Michigan, native and local celebrity, Gus Limbo, also known as Father Wheatland. Gus is an institution at the annual Wheatland Music Festivals.
The Wheatland Music Festival is a shindig organized by the Wheatland Music Organization, a non-profit specializing in the preservation and presentation of traditional arts and music. For you outlanders, the festival is held over three days on the second weekend in September in the unincorporated community of Remus (my barrio) in the state of Michigan. The first Festival was held August 24, 1974.
We began attending Wheatland in the early ’90s when we were still living in Northern California and we’ve only missed a couple since then. At every one, there Gus would be, dancing, dancing, dancing — dancing in the crowd, dancing by the Main Stage, dancing with laughing children on the wooden dance platform and usually in some outlandish costume.
Gus is whip-thin, seemingly indefatigable and at 82 can cut moves I could only dream about in my teens. Before we learned his name, Debbie and I simply called him “Dancing Man.” I still don’t know his real last name. It’s said he won his colorful sobriquet by winning countless limbo contests.
Gus is a four-time cancer survivor but he’s battling once again so we’d all appreciate your prayers, well-wishes and whatever sort of karmic hoodoo you subscribe to, sent his way so we can see him rocking Wheatland again next year.
Now for something completely different. I took part in a Trump-sponsored poll several months ago and I’ve been getting Trump emails asking for contributions ever since. I always reply by suggesting that he engage in an activity that I’m fairly certain is anatomically impossible but I always receive a polite “Thank you” anyway.
Once a grifter, always a grifter, eh? The Donald has collected over $200 million from his evergullible base. It’s presented as funds needed for his attempts to overturn the presidential election he lost but reportedly, it’s a slush fund for Trump and his family. Playing the long con right to the end.
For your edification and amusement, here is the email I received today in its entirety, described as coming from Donny Jr.
The President is asking about you, Donald.
He noticed that your name was MISSING from the entry list to win the Make America Great Again Hat that he SIGNED for YOU.
Why is that, Donald? President Trump is only offering this one- of- a-kind hat to a select group of his TOP supporters, and NOT entering just isn’t like you.
It’s not too late. We’re giving the President an updated list of entries TONIGHT, and we want him to see YOUR NAME!
Please contribute $5 RIGHT NOW to win a SIGNED Make America Great Again Hat from your favorite President.
A “select group?” Really? Like what, a select group of 70 million? I’d send the poor schmuck the five bucks but
I’ve already got a MAGA hat — signed by Putin.
OK, I’ve only got around 140 words left to talk about my outdoor adventures so here goes.
We’ve gone from the halcyon days of my youth to the year after Deb and I married. We were all young and while we always appreciated a sunny day, as long as we were on the Pigeon river with a gaggle of friends, we were, literally, happy campers.
We camped on Opening
Day when it was nearly 90 and on other times when the snow blew sideways and the dining fly was in peril. We laughed and sang and because my brother-in-law Vern was with us, we broiled very large trout.
Often, we stuffed the fish with wild mushrooms we’d gathered, specifically, beefsteak morels. More on this next week.
And so it went.