When I am asked where I'm from, I usually give the name of the town: Hart, Michigan, population around 2,000, six miles from the family farm in Elbridge Township. But when I let my mind wander to memories of home, I always seem to end up fifteen miles west, at a Lake Michigan beach, in the village of Pentwater.
My happiest days were spent having picnics with my family or friends before splashing in the waves or riding on a floating device out to where the buoys marked out the swimming area. Running back under the shade of a small tree to apply more Coppertone 8, the highest strength sunscreen at the time, I would usually go home sunburned anyway. After spreading the therapeutic baking soda paste all over my red skin, letting it dry, and eventually washing it off, I would peel in a day or two before going back outside for more sun. And yet, going to the Lake was always worth it. The body of water embraced me, as the sun baked my skin, and I would find comfort for all that was wrong in my world.
On my saddest days I would sit alone in the bluffs reading or writing in my journal. Walking barefoot on the fine-grained sand up and down the shoreline gave focus to my thinking; the rhythm of water and wind calmed my spirit. I would sometimes find a piece of driftwood to lean against as I poured out my heart to the water, the sand, the birds, the sky, . . . to God. Cradled by the warm sand, I could fall sound asleep.
The Lake, in all of its life-giving beauty also takes lives, as one living near water is well aware. As we breathe in the fresh air we are reminded that we cannot breathe underwater. I would often bring a raft with me when I went out over my head since the water was so cold my legs would cramp and the raft would help me make it back to shore. The water was somewhat warm enough for swimming by the end of August and too cold right after Labor Day. When one's lips turned blue, it was time to get out.
There was more to do than just to swim, as boats on the Lake were abundant. The summer I worked at the yacht club I was invited to take a ride on a sailboat named the Northern Light. Sailing on the cool, smooth water of the Lake while the sun was setting is a once in a lifetime experience for someone who will most likely never become a member of the boating crowd. It was different from the experience of riding on the car ferry that carried my family across the Lake on family trips, or the smaller ferry used to transport us to Mackinac Island on our family vacations. Being on a large, luxurious sailboat allowed me to be someone else for a couple of hours; someone like those who lived in this northern resort village in their summer homes, while local girls like me served them their steak and seafood, and brought them their drinks.
One summer I worked across from the dock at a restaurant called the Dry Dock, a restaurant so small it only took two waitresses to work the dining room on any given night. Groups of men from the boats with big appetites would fill the place up and as long as we kept the food coming, they would reward us with even bigger tips. Though waiting tables was not something I enjoyed or was any good at, the homemade soups, freshly baked breads, combined with local produce, meat, and fresh fish made for some of the best restaurant food around at the time. I did not mind the work when it included getting a taste of the good life.
The seafood I would buy for myself would be every bit as delicious though far less expensive as I would obtain it from a local fish shop: Lake Michigan perch, lightly breaded and fried. When I could not get to the fish shop, I could always stop at the soft serve ice cream shop for deep-fried breaded mushrooms to take down to the beach for a tasty snack. And of course the soft serve vanilla cone dipped in the kind of chocolate that would instantly harden providing a satisfying crunch was another one of my favorite beach treats.
Soon I will be traveling Up North with my husband to attend a class reunion. I haven't dipped my toes in Lake Michigan in four summers. I read that the last of the ice melted on the Great Lakes at the beginning of June so I am not foolish enough to think that swimming will be much of a possibility. Of course, swimming has never really been a great possibility unless one has a wet suit. But if we can bear to step into the cold water, on the hard-packed sand, and allow the brisk air to send us grabbing for our jackets, we can walk together along the shoreline, talk about the stops I will want to make and the people I will want to see. Looking toward the West at the setting sun, we will pause to remember how our lives together began, turn toward the East, then travel back to our home in the South.
My happiest days were spent having picnics with my family or friends before splashing in the waves or riding on a floating device out to where the buoys marked out the swimming area. Running back under the shade of a small tree to apply more Coppertone 8, the highest strength sunscreen at the time, I would usually go home sunburned anyway. After spreading the therapeutic baking soda paste all over my red skin, letting it dry, and eventually washing it off, I would peel in a day or two before going back outside for more sun. And yet, going to the Lake was always worth it. The body of water embraced me, as the sun baked my skin, and I would find comfort for all that was wrong in my world.
On my saddest days I would sit alone in the bluffs reading or writing in my journal. Walking barefoot on the fine-grained sand up and down the shoreline gave focus to my thinking; the rhythm of water and wind calmed my spirit. I would sometimes find a piece of driftwood to lean against as I poured out my heart to the water, the sand, the birds, the sky, . . . to God. Cradled by the warm sand, I could fall sound asleep.
The Lake, in all of its life-giving beauty also takes lives, as one living near water is well aware. As we breathe in the fresh air we are reminded that we cannot breathe underwater. I would often bring a raft with me when I went out over my head since the water was so cold my legs would cramp and the raft would help me make it back to shore. The water was somewhat warm enough for swimming by the end of August and too cold right after Labor Day. When one's lips turned blue, it was time to get out.
There was more to do than just to swim, as boats on the Lake were abundant. The summer I worked at the yacht club I was invited to take a ride on a sailboat named the Northern Light. Sailing on the cool, smooth water of the Lake while the sun was setting is a once in a lifetime experience for someone who will most likely never become a member of the boating crowd. It was different from the experience of riding on the car ferry that carried my family across the Lake on family trips, or the smaller ferry used to transport us to Mackinac Island on our family vacations. Being on a large, luxurious sailboat allowed me to be someone else for a couple of hours; someone like those who lived in this northern resort village in their summer homes, while local girls like me served them their steak and seafood, and brought them their drinks.
One summer I worked across from the dock at a restaurant called the Dry Dock, a restaurant so small it only took two waitresses to work the dining room on any given night. Groups of men from the boats with big appetites would fill the place up and as long as we kept the food coming, they would reward us with even bigger tips. Though waiting tables was not something I enjoyed or was any good at, the homemade soups, freshly baked breads, combined with local produce, meat, and fresh fish made for some of the best restaurant food around at the time. I did not mind the work when it included getting a taste of the good life.
The seafood I would buy for myself would be every bit as delicious though far less expensive as I would obtain it from a local fish shop: Lake Michigan perch, lightly breaded and fried. When I could not get to the fish shop, I could always stop at the soft serve ice cream shop for deep-fried breaded mushrooms to take down to the beach for a tasty snack. And of course the soft serve vanilla cone dipped in the kind of chocolate that would instantly harden providing a satisfying crunch was another one of my favorite beach treats.
Soon I will be traveling Up North with my husband to attend a class reunion. I haven't dipped my toes in Lake Michigan in four summers. I read that the last of the ice melted on the Great Lakes at the beginning of June so I am not foolish enough to think that swimming will be much of a possibility. Of course, swimming has never really been a great possibility unless one has a wet suit. But if we can bear to step into the cold water, on the hard-packed sand, and allow the brisk air to send us grabbing for our jackets, we can walk together along the shoreline, talk about the stops I will want to make and the people I will want to see. Looking toward the West at the setting sun, we will pause to remember how our lives together began, turn toward the East, then travel back to our home in the South.
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