My new life in a small town

 

I now reside in the town of Newberry. It is located the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with a population estimated at about 1368 after its last census. That makes me 1369.

The only traffic light is about 3 miles from the village limits and there are no stop signs on Main Street. The clock at the bank has been precisely one hour slow since I moved to the area in December but everything and everyone else seems to be getting along at their own pace just fine.

On the north side of town there is a hospital and on the south end of town there is a prison. This way, no matter which direction my life turns, I will be taken care of.

There is also a railroad less than 100 yards from my house. The tracks are old and crooked and the trains have to crawl through the neighborhood before reaching the Newberry rail yard. So far, the sound has been soothing. It is a very different kind of quiet in the village as opposed to where I came from living on the lake.

I’ve always known that life moves at a different pace up here. This week I was part of that pace when I had an issue with my Jeep. It will take the dealership a week and a half before they can look at it. It took a day and a half to get a tow just a half mile down the road.

Luckily, I can walk to the grocery store without wearing too much rubber off my shoes.

Tiger Jack had a rough first night at our new place. I’ve noticed signs of dementia over the last couple months and he appears to be exhibiting signs of “Sundowner’s Syndrome” (exacerbated dementia, nervous pacing etc.) at night. I am trying to regulate it with a sleep aid for him and it has gotten better each day. Making sure my dogs have a smooth transition is my top priority.

The jury is still out on this move. It is probably too soon to say whether I made the right choice or not but each day is getting better. It must.

My cell phone still isn’t operable and it appears I have lost my contacts and photos and a whole slew of little things have made my move less than stellar.

So far, the people I have come across in town seem happy and pleasant. I have met the couple next door who are very friendly and they love my dogs. An “across the street” neighbor has either waved at me twice or flipped me off as they pulled out around the same time I was walking the dogs. I will assume the better.

I’ve enjoyed the late afternoon rumble of the freight train inching its way along the tracks on its way out of town and if I had a working cell phone and knew more people in town, I would seriously consider jumping the train before I am too old to do that sort of thing.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday night’s walk I observed that the clock at the bank is no longer working. But I’ll bet you a nickel that nobody around here is going to make a fuss.

Life Between the Lakes, the last chapter?

 

It has been both a pleasure and a privilege living in Deer Park, MI for the past eight months. I never imagined my stay would last this long (and neither did my gracious landlady and her family.)

The experience of living in this area has been nothing short of amazing. But all good things have to come to an end. Thank you Aunt Carla and your family for allowing me to borrow your sacred place. Being here meant a lot to me and inspired me beyond belief.

So much of life is noise, much of it of our own making. And much of modern humanity worries what will happen if they take the risk and wonder what they will find when the noise stops.

The Upper Peninsula became a place for me to plum these thoughts and ideas that I have always felt and known I’ve wanted to explore.

I’ve witnessed the changing of three seasons, have seen hundreds of birds and watched the eagles help themselves to free fish almost weekly.

I’ve fed the chipmunks and felt like a giant.

I’ve faced the roar of Lake Superior and felt so small. 

And I’ve walked with Jack and Needa almost 500 miles up and down the county road we've been living on.

I’ve seen light from ancient starts illuminate the night and falling starts lite the sky like bursting pearls that burn out in a flash. I’ve seen a flock of cute fuzzy goslings grow into adult geese and take flight.  I’ve watched the coyote, fox and deer do what they can to survive and I’ve watched Lake Superior slowly freeze and thaw.

I’ve seen the way the sunrises and sunsets around the lake shift as the axis of the earth changes. But more importantly, I’ve read and reread every poem Jim Harrison has ever written and have upped my writing game as a result. I’ve written more in the last 8 months than I have in the past 8 years.

Between the lakes you’ll find cabins, forest and shoreline. But within them are places you cannot find with the point of a finger. No photograph completely captures the patchwork of stories passed down, but rediscovering them helps us remember them or perpetuates our dream about them.

I’ve walked for hours on the roads, shoreline and in the woods, watching life in the forest unfold as the seasons change and I am unsure all of me will leave when I do.

And that pretty much sums it up for now.

Life Between the Lakes, the lost chapter

 

 

Deer Park, MI.

I’ve been living on a county road made of dirt and gravel that sees most of its traffic in the summer. These last few months, I could have made a fortune selling maps to Grand Marais and Munising, as someone stops me on our walk almost every day asking for directions. But better than money, I love the look on some on some of their faces when I ask them if they brought their passport, explaining straight-faced that if they make a wrong turn, they might end up in Canada.

There was a brief, midweek storm that brought enough rain to ripen more of the blueberries which just started to ripen over the 4th of July. Prior to the rain, an honest afternoon’s work would get you enough for pancakes and a maybe a small pie if you had enough time and patience. The black flies stayed away, the mosquitos were few and there was an abundance of “sunny and in the 70s” in the forecast.

A couple of black bears have been sighted around Deer Park on the Seven Mile and on CR 407 on the way to Grand Marais. A moose made a rare visit to Muskallonge Lake State Park around the 4th of July.

Deer Park has had more than its fair share of great weather and calm evenings this summer. I contend that the best bonfires in the world are found on Lake Superior. Far below the bright glow of the Milky Way, I often wonder how they look to the vessels out on the lake.

Day or night; I am always thrilled at the sight of a freighter. During late nights under the stars Lake Superior boasts massive ore freighters, lit like moving bridges, punching holes in the skyline on their way to Sault Ste. Marie. They appear on the horizon out of nowhere and vanish on their own terms.

We finally had some significant rain on Friday night. It was the first real storm of the summer came and went quickly. The rain was steady and the thunder sounded like God was bowling a 300 game.

Mid-morning Saturday, the rain came back, gently moving through the area with distant, rolling thunder. Nature’s history dictates that when the weather warms up people should have no problem filling their coffee can with fresh, plump blueberries; enough for pie and enough to share with people like me.

Of all the places in Michigan, the Upper Peninsula gets cheated the most when it comes to weather. We often describe summer as “six months of bad sledding.” But if the summer season were six months long instead of three, the Upper Peninsula would be the Midwestern Rivera and financially out of reach for most.

The short season makes it special. I hope your summer memories were too.

Life between the lakes, part 60

                                                     The final chapter?

Life between the Lakes, part 60. The final chapter?

It has been both a pleasure and a privilege living in Deer Park, MI for the past eight months. I never imagined my stay would last this long (and neither did my gracious landlady and her family.)

The experience of living in this area has been nothing short of amazing. But all good things have to come to an end. Thank you Aunt Carla and your family for allowing me to borrow your sacred place. Being here meant a lot to me and inspired me beyond belief.

So much of life is noise, much of it of our own making. And much of modern humanity worries what will happen if they take the risk and wonder what they will find when the noise stops.

The Upper Peninsula became a place for me to plum these thoughts and ideas that I have always felt and known I’ve wanted to explore.

I’ve witnessed the changing of three seasons, have seen hundreds of birds and watched the eagles help themselves to free fish almost weekly.

I’ve fed the chipmunks and felt like a giant.

I’ve faced the roar of Lake Superior and felt so small. 

And I’ve walked with Jack and Needa almost 500 miles up and down the county road we've been living on.

I’ve seen light from ancient starts illuminate the night and falling starts lite the sky like bursting pearls that burn out in a flash. I’ve seen a flock of cute fuzzy goslings grow into adult geese and take flight.  I’ve watched the coyote, fox and deer do what they can to survive and I’ve watched Lake Superior slowly freeze and thaw.

I’ve seen the way the sunrises and sunsets around the lake shift as the axis of the earth changes. But more importantly, I’ve read and reread every poem Jim Harrison has ever written and have upped my writing game as a result. I’ve written more in the last 8 months than I have in the past 8 years.

Between the lakes you’ll find cabins, forest and shoreline. But within them are places you cannot find with the point of a finger. No photograph completely captures the patchwork of stories passed down, but rediscovering them helps us remember them or perpetuates our dream about them.

I’ve walked for hours on the roads, shoreline and in the woods, watching life in the forest unfold as the seasons change and I am unsure all of me will leave when I do.

And that pretty much sums it up for now.

Life Between the Lakes, part 57

 

 

All quiet.

Waiting on the sleepy feeling.

At dawn, it’s love at first sight.

We’ve waited so long.

Summertime is here.

There is a small field in the forest next to the cabin. It is the clearing where flowers grow, kids played, fishermen told fibs and we said goodbye to loved ones as we spread their ashes around the place so many of us love and cherish, almost as much as life itself.

The field saw whiffle ball games, balloon tosses and was a place teen aged girls, giggly on Boones Farm Strawberry Wine, talked about Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy.

I know; I was there.

It was fun and easy.

Life was so easy until our lives changed.

From the clearing at the cabin there are no city lights and they sky remains light long past midnight. The brilliant white illumination of the Milky Way in July and August is raw and untouched; vivid and inspiring.

In 1975, I celebrated my tenth birthday at the cabin, surrounded by family and fictive kin. Birthdays at the cabin were a big deal. With three creative mothers, the day was well organized with games, outings, fun and food.

Our alarm clock was a scratchy Sousa march from the Brunswick Victrola. If we weren’t downstairs before it was over, we got polka after polka, followed by cold pancakes or cold oatmeal.

We quickly learned to respect Sousa.

After breakfast we would all pitch in with chores. This was a log cabin, void of electricity or plumbing located in the thick of the Upper Peninsula and we needed to be ready for anything. We burned paper, carried garbage to the dump, collected kindling, chopped wood, helped our mothers with meals and dishes and helped our Dads by staying away from whatever they were working on.

Baloney sandwiches and Orange Crush fueled our afternoons. Reese Peanut Butter Cups and Bit-O-Honey, made them better. Games of wiffle ball in the side yard were friendly but competitive. Shooting pop bottles in the dump with BB guns was a challenge but it was harder with a Wrist-Rocket slingshot.

We either smelled like Coppertone, Bactine or OFF. We pooped in an outhouse, bathed in the lake and drank water hand pumped from the well. The fishing was always good and we all discovered adolescent freedom in a fourteen foot Alumicraft boat with a 5 horse outboard motor before we could drive a car.

Those were days without college, kids, the internet, politics or bills. Our big treat in July was heading to Papa’s house up the hill and watching the Major League Baseball All-Star Game on TV in early July.

Years passed and one by one, our elders left us but the memories didn’t. And today those memories serve as a subtle and sobering reminder that our generation is next in line.

The world is so different now. We all have changed. My extended family doesn’t make this pilgrimage every year, which makes this gathering special.

For one week out of the year, we can return to a place that rarely changes and we all get to hop into the same time machine.  The summer of 2021 is really here now. My family and fictive kin arrive in a few days and it will be the first time in many years that we will all be together.

Any way you look at it; the week will be full of hugs, beer, tequila and smores. But most of all, there will be laughter; because that is one area in which we excel in creating and inducing and carrying out.

My family often asks me how I remember all these cabin stories.

The answer is: “I remember them because I love this place so much. And I have never stopped thinking about it.”