John Schneider

Together, while apart

On Friday afternoon Sharon and I got together with - while staying apart from -  a couple of friends.

We didn’t hug, or shake hands and never even crossed the threshold of their house. We met them on their driveway, then - practicing social distancing all the way - took a long walk.

We ended up at Lansing’s Hawk Island Park, where the tubing/snowboard hill is still packed with snow, and where some young folks were making the most of the situation.

Meanwhile, we elders moseyed along while commiserating about our ruined plans for going to Greece together in May, our sinking portfolios, our estrangement from our families, etc. It was damn therapeutic.

On the Sunday agenda: A virtual family gathering in the early afternoon and a virtual happy hour with two neighbors.

Imagine a time when our only option would have been to write letters to each other.

‘Venison Man’ dead at 77

It has been noted that the green Tom Cullimore bled was not MSU green, but “John Deere green.”

The man truly loved his tractors. He also loved his farm in Williamston. So the resting place his wife, Karin, has in mind for him is only fitting.

She  told me Friday, she will hold onto his ashes until the coronavirus loosens its grip on us. Then she’ll host a celebration of Tom’s life at the farm. During that party Tom’s remains will be plowed into one of his fields by members of the local tractor club over which Tom presided as president for 24 years.

He will literally become part of the farm that was such an important part of him.

Cullimore died earlier this week at age 77 of Alzheimers. I knew him through H.O.P.E. (Help Other People Eat), a project he founded to help feed the local hungry. He encouraged hunters to donate venison, which he picked up at area meat processors, then delivered to local food banks and soup kitchens.

As a Lansing State Journal columnist, I gave the eminently quotable Cullimore and H.O.P.E. lots of publicity because it was the kind of charity closest to my heart: It was local and it was direct, Not a dime’s worth of donations went to pay administrators, or buy office furniture. It all went toward delivering hard-to-come-by protein to those who needed it.

In fact, Tom often gassed up his delivery truck out of his own pocket.

After I left full-time employment eight years ago, I frequently rode shotgun with Tom, retrieving as much as 1,000 pounds of processed meat in a single day, then distributing it those who fed the needy. They were invariably grateful. The folks at least one of the food banks he served called Cullimore “St. Thomas.”

A few years ago CWD (chronic wasting disease) in Michigan’s deer herd, along with Cullimore’s fading health, put an end to H.O.P.E., but not before Cullimore had delivered more than a half-million servings of venison to local families.

(The photo shows Cullimore being interviewed by a TV reporter about H.O.P.E.)

All in on spring

I’ve spent some time in the past couple of days dismantling the machinery of winter - removing the snowblower from the tractor, getting the mower ready, pulling the driveway markers, etc.

I know it’s only March and, yes, I recall more than one early-April snowfall. But I don’t care, because:

- There is no suggestion of significant snowfall in the  long-range weather forecast for lower Michigan.

- April snow melts quickly.

- Given the stay-home restrictions, we’re not going anywhere anyway and nobody is coming here. In other words, our driveway isn’t particularly relevant these days.

Plus, considering the current state of affairs, I can really use the psychological boost of transitioning from winter to spring.

Play ball! … maybe some day

In normal times, the Detroit Tigers’ march to baseball glory would have started today at 1:10 in a game against the Cleveland Indians, in Cleveland.

Actually, given the level of talent on the Tigers’ 2020 roster, glory would have once again eluded them this year. But still …

When, in a recent phone call, I mentioned to son Justin that even the best-scenario has the baseball season delayed until June, he said, “Just think of all those Tigers’ losses we won’t be able to enjoy.”

Where’s the boy’s optimism …?

And what’s spring without baseball …?

A shock to Richard’s system

One of my favorite parts of Richard Prangley’s story, which I told in my book “Waiting for Home,” concerned the strawberry pie he ate religiously at the Big Boy restaurant near his first post-institution apartment.

In an interview for the book, Richard, a natural night owl, told me that eating the pie - particularly at 2 a.m. -  was a delicious symbol of freedom from the institution where he had been wrongly held for 15 years.

Even since then, eating out has been a big deal for Richard, who, nearly 50 years after gaining his freedom, still savors it. Consequently, the current restaurant closure has been hard on him. 

After I took him shopping earlier this week, he wanted to buy me lunch, and could hardly believe that he and I couldn’t sit down at a table at YaYa’s.

Once inside, he saw that all the tables were empty. He settled for take-out.