Growing up we drove up north for a one week summer vacation. Whether it was a tiny cinder block rented cottage or a tent plopped on a state park plot, it was always someplace in northern Michigan. When I became a teenager I began to resent this trip big time. My best friends were off to exotic sounding Francestown, New Hampshire or a dude ranch in the Grand Tetons. One friend traveled to so many states, her family had a U.S. map with all their routes neatly colored in and dated. I never left Michigan.
My mother spent the week cleaning the cottage, making sure there were no germs on the dishes or sand in the saggy spring beds. Dad looked for good fishing spots. I looked for a quiet solitary place to read. I missed more than I would like to admit. I vowed that my children would see the U.S.A., trips to mountains and sea shore and lots of dated routes across our states map.
Even with all those adult vacations elsewhere, the north, especially the shoreline of Lake Michigan, drew me back. I realized I had savored sweet moments between chapters of Janet Lambert and Rosamond du Jardin. I do remember walks in the ankle high “creek” connecting Silver Lake and Lake Michigan, the dunes surrounding it pristine and quiet, the shore of Lake Michigan guarded by another sentinel, the Little Sable Pointe Lighthouse. I skipped the Traverse Bay waves again at sunset. I repeated the ritual of rolling Dad’s fresh perch around in my mouth, checking for errant bones, bread close at hand. Northern Michigan always seeped inside me, showing no resentment for my teenage rudeness. The shoreline sings. The white pines whisper. The wildflowers bop and bloom. The chickadee welcomes me home in any season. I am blessed.
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