Maple & Main

When people find out I lived in California for a time, they often ask the question, “Did you ever see someone famous?”

Now, California is a BIG state and the chance of seeing someone famous is slim- unless you live near LA. I was lucky enough to have lived in the heart of Southern California and spent a lot of my time working in and visiting LA.

And, yes, I have seen some famous people.

I once rode and elevator with the Beach Boys (the new Beach Boys- with John Stamos- if you can call that The Beach Boys) in Long Beach.

I was introduced to Sidney Poitier at lunch in Beverly Hills.

I also strolled down the street behind Michael McKean (Lavern and Shirley’s neighbor, lead singer of Spinal Tap) while shopping in Santa Monica.

These are a few of the most notable celebrity sightings I could add to a short personal resume of my own famous encounters.

However, the recent rise in coyote sightings around the Waukesha County area has reminded me of my most memorable celebrity sighting…

Coyotes were no big surprise in our neighborhood in California. They would come out of the hills and valleys at night in search of snacks throughout our town (little furry ones were their favorites).

It was something you needed to be aware of when you walked your dogs late at night or early in the morning. A single coyote (I have been told) would not usually approach a person walking a dog- they were too timid. However, a pack would consider it, and Fido makes a great meal for a gaggle of hungry coyotes.

I had heard them at night, howling and yipping, and had seen them in the early morning, slinking along fence lines, searching for treats.

It was usually kind of un-nerving to see them around.

Early one Sunday morning, my wife decided to take a brisk walk down to the lake. We decided against bringing the hors d’ oeuvres- I mean dogs- because of the chance we may encounter a coyote.

It was eerily quiet outside and a light fog was hanging low throughout the area. Most people weren’t up yet and the neighborhood was still.

As we rounded our block (now a whole 30 seconds into our walk) I noticed something ahead in the fog. Through the mist we could just make out the form of a dog and figured someone must be out enjoying the morning with their pet.

As it drew closer, we noticed something was missing from the equation- an owner.

We both stopped dead in our tracks. The form was beginning to take shape now, and it was beginning to look a lot like a coyote.

Now only a few yards away, it was easy to tell this was no house pet.

A lot of things began to go through my mind.

First, I am a much faster runner than my wife. I contemplated a dead run for the safety of home, but what kind of husband leaves his wife to fend off a wild animal by herself?

An alive one.

And I always say, someone has to live to tell the story.

I’m kidding.

The next thing to race through my mind was my extensive knowledge of wildlife facts.

I’m kidding again.

I couldn’t remember if you were supposed to run from coyotes and not bears or from mountain lions and not badgers or what.

There I stood, face to face with danger, and I didn’t know what to do. This coyote wasn’t timid like it was supposed to be.

And that’s when we noticed this wasn’t a coyote.

This was MUCH bigger.

This- was a wolf.

I quickly began trying to recall my knowledge of wolves-

Grey wolves are highly social animals living within packs. Each pack comprises two to thirty-six individuals, depending upon habitat and abundance of prey. The territory of a pack ranges from 130 to 13,000 square kilometers, and it is defended against intruders. Only dominant wolves reproduce. A wolf pair will mate 1-2 times a day for 2 weeks. The gestation period is 9 weeks. The female gives birth to 3-10 young in an excavated underground den. The sightless whelps are helpless and must be fed for 6-8 weeks. An adult will either bring food to the young or regurgitate it if the food must be carried over long distances. The youngsters spend the first few months of their life in the den. Young wolves are lucky to survive; the mortality of pups is greater than sixty percent.

Yep, kidding again.

I had nothing on wolves in my brain files. This was new territory for me- Monica as well. All we knew was that it was big, looked mean, and was within 10 yards of us. Each second that passed brought this beast closer and closer to us.

I had no idea what to do next…

Now, a good story teller will leave readers hanging on until next week at this point in the story. And since I hope to someday be a good story teller, that’s exactly what I am going to do.

Just like the Spiderman comics- be sure to check in next time to see the fate of our two city dwellers as they face the chilling, killing machine

Word is beginning to spread now about the recent closing of one of Downtown Waukesha’s brighter gems- The Donut Shoppe.

However, that word hasn’t exactly made it to those affected by it most.

Yesterday, a man was at the door of the shop, peering inside, obviously upset at the fact they were closed. Turns out he had a good reason- he was there to pick up his order- an order that was supposed to ready at 7:30.

I watched out the window as car after car drove by and person after person tugged at the door.

The fact they closed so abruptly was strange enough. They didn’t tell their customers and it was a surprise to their employees.

However, this morning, a dairy truck showed up to make a delivery. They seemed perplexed by the dark windows and locked doors.

The delivery guys don’t know?

Weird!

Not to mention the local coffee shop that relied on The Donut Shoppe for their bread for the last several years. They, too, were not notified. Turns out the recipe for that bread is not going to be shared either.

Real weird!

The Donut Shoppe was a popular spot for weekday office workers as well as weekend tourists.

I know of a certain Art School Downtown that has a Saturday morning student population that will be beside themselves this weekend when there are no donuts (actually, maybe class will be a little calmer on Saturday without all the sugar running through their veins).

Sunday morning Ham and Rolls are a tradition with many here, and the Donut Shoppe had the best around.

Personally, I will miss the smell of fresh donuts that wafted up toward our porch early in the morning. The morning greeting from the bakers who sat out back on break. And the families that sat on the curbs and benches around West Main, laughing and enjoying the day over sprinkle covered donuts.

The squirrels are going to miss that, too. Left-over donuts have become a staple of their existence.

My history with The Donut Shoppe only goes back a couple of years. However, in those two years I have overheard more than one backyard conversation between the many employees of the shop, usually while they are venting their frustrations about upper management.

While complaints of bad management are nothing new in today’s workplace, the problems always seem to have been centered around the same individual. Baker after baker, manager after manager, employee after employee- all fed up over the same issues.

Just an observation, folks. I can’t help it, they are my neighbors and they talk loudly- especially when they are upset.

There seem to be a lot of unanswered questions regarding this matter. Perhaps some light will be shed on the situation within the next few days.

It’s unfortunate that an establishment with such a great product can’t get their act together well enough to stay in business and continue to benefit our Downtown.

Does anyone out there know how to run a donut shop?

Monday, January 8, 2007, 3:00 AM.

There I lay in bed, staring into the darkness of my room, wondering what I was going to write about for this week’s blog.

(Yep, that’s what keeps me up at night, folks- that and the giant bowl of mac and cheese I ate at 9:30PM).

I was just beginning to drift off into a deep sleep when I was startled into an immediate upright position by a loud “WHAM!”

From the sound it made, my initial thought was that someone hit a parked car on Main Street. I then went a step further and thought perhaps someone hit our building.

A slew of terrifying tragedies filled my mind as I raced for the kitchen window- otherwise know as the “OB” window (short for “observation”).

This window faces Main Street and has the added feature of the outer screen being removed, thus giving the user the means to hang themselves out of the window to see all the way down Main in both directions- a must when things are happening downtown.

As my eyes began to focus, I noticed a minivan sitting by the side of the road a few doors down; lights on and the front tire flat.

My wife had now joined me in the “OB” window and was asking for an update. She would have slept through the entire incident had I not been yelling, “Something happened- wake up, something happened”.

The minivan was beginning to roll ahead, heading west on Main; however, the flat tire was definitely impeding its progress.

On came the right turn signal, and the driver pulled into the parking lot of 426 West Main- out of our sight.

“Get dressed and go, get out there” –Monica’s exact words as she pulled her head in the window.

I darted back to the bedroom, threw on a shirt, put on some pants, couldn’t find socks, looked for slip on shoes, settled for lace up boots and was just about to dash out the door.

It was at this point I realized I would not make a good fireman.

There I stood in the living room, wearing Monica’s pants, no socks, hiking boots, my shirt was on backwards, and with no real plan of what exactly I was going outside to do.

I paused for a moment to think to myself- if, for some reason, I need to contact the police regarding this matter and they show up, and they see me standing on Main Street dressed like this, my next call will be from inside a padded room.

I took a deep breath, changed my pants, grabbed the phone, and headed out the door.

I sleuthed down Main towards the van’s resting spot. I figured I should do a quick “walk-by” and observe the situation before making a call to the police- I mean maybe it was just the paperboy and maybe he was trying to get close enough to my front porch to ensure the safe delivery of my Journal Sentinel and because of his dedication to the accurate delivery of my newspaper he didn’t see that the curb jets out there and accidentally hit it.

Or, maybe not.

My initial walk-by gave my no insight into the situation. I didn’t see anyone in the driver’s seat nor could I assess any of the damage.

I sauntered by and as soon as I was out of the van’s view, I raced down the block, around the corner, and up the river walk- seeking a perfect vantage point from which to see the van.

Upon my second observation, I still saw no driver, and as far as I could tell, the only real damage to the van was a blown tire and bent rim.

I continued around the building at 426 Main and began contemplating my next move.

I called home for advice, but Monica was still hanging out the “OB” window, wondering where I disappeared too. I then gazed across the street and considered a call to my neighbors (fellow Downtown Waukesha observers), but I hated to wake them because I knew they would never be able to get back to sleep.

It was at that point that I decided I was going to approach the van and look for the operator.

Two steps into this decision I saw someone sit up in the front seat! I sprang back into the shadows, fumbled for my phone, and called the police.

It was time to bring in the professionals.

I spoke with the dispatcher and gave her an update of the situation. Sixty seconds later, two officers rolled down Main and stopped in front of me.

I believe their initial thought was that I was the driver of the van. There I stood, in the dark, hair all messed up, glasses on crooked, no socks. I fit the bill of the average late-night loon ball.

I pointed to the van and assured them that I was the one who made the call. The officers approached the vehicle, asked the driver to step out and began routine questioning.

According to the police, the man had been drinking, but it was unclear yet as to exactly how much. I accompanied one officer back to spot where I thought the van had hit the curb while two other officers continued questioning the driver.

Although I had heard what sounded like an impact- actually it sounded a freight train fell from the sky, we couldn’t see any impact marks on the curb, just the skid mark from the curb to the area whe