"Deer!" I tell Eric who is sitting in the Toyota's passenger seat. Liz and the rest of the Ogdens, sitting behind us, look out the window as the car flashes past the deer which quickly jumps into the brush and disappears. "Actually it was a doe," I say, focusing on the road again.
From behind me Liz suddenly breaks out into song:
"Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun
Me, a name I call myself
Far, a long, long way to run
Sew, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow so
Tea, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to oh, oh, oh."
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A mere 90 minutes from the windy city, it is a destination for many weekend warriors who are tired of the daily congestion of the Kennedy Expressway, over-rated piano bars, $30 dollars-per-hour parking fees, and Dante's eighth circle of hell, better known as the loud and crowded confines of Wrigley Field.
But for Liz and I, living in Wisconsin, it's further evidence of our Michigan state of mind.
* * * *
After graduating from college -- between 1984 and 1991 -- Liz and I lived in Michigan, We lived in Grand Rapids and Coloma, but spent many weekends exploring the western side of Michigan, discovering the beach town communities of Charlevoix, Petosky, Traverse City, Grand Haven, Saugatuck and St. Joseph. Like the budding affection we felt for each other, we fell in love with the natural beauty of towering sand dunes, fire engine-red lighthouses, pristine white sand beaches and glorious red sunsets.
Having grown up on the shores of the muddy Mississippi River, it was like paradise found. Instead of brown, stinky muck to sink my toes into, I buried my toes into soft sand that shared valuable real estate with boardwalks crowded with artists, fishermen and tourists. Abandoned industrial sites and paper mills where replaced by quaint B & B's, sailboat-filled marinas and a Dutch windmill village surrounded by thousands of colorful tulips. And fields of golden-tasseled corn became acres of pink and white blossoms sprouting from cherry, peach and apple trees.
It made the change to eastern standard time bearable.
Almost.
I had no pre-conceived ideas when I moved to Michigan. My only interest was in spending as much time with an incredible woman who couldn't find a nursing job in Wisconsin. After interviewing in Wisconsin and states as far away as Maine and Massachusetts, she landed her first, post-college gig in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Instead of traveling eight hours to visit her, I thought it would be much easier if I could spend more hours of the day (and night!) if I lived in the same town, much less the same state. And in the same time zone.
My first images of Michigan came shortly after gassing up in Michigan City, which is in Indiana (go figure), traveling down I 94 as it passed the small towns of Bridgeman, Stevensville and Benton Harbor. It was a congested stretch of concrete and asphalt that baked in the summer sun or vanished in lake effect snows which were dumped after picking up steam over Lake Michigan.
Michigan's southwestern area is one of the most agriculturally diverse regions of the United States, growing corn, grapes, apples and peaches. The state ranks first in the nation for production of begonias, blueberries, tart cherries, petunias, and squash. The region is heavily influenced by winds crossing over Lake Michigan as they have a cooling effect in the summer and a warming effect in the winter. During our annual pilgrimages back to Michigan, we've noticed the western shores of Michigan are embracing change with a growing emphasis on wineries and micro breweries.
Liz and I bought our first home in Grand Rapids which remains the second largest city in Michigan following Detroit. The house wasn't much, but it was an improvement over my small efficiency and an apartment that had carpet in the kitchen. Like every homeowner knows, it was a commitment that said, "we're here to stay," and allowed us to put our first roots down and to feel like we belonged. To identify ourselves as Michiganders. To eat patsies and drink Faygo pop. To anticipate the "Michigan left", where you drive through an intersection before doing a U-turn and taking a right-hand turn.
Before Michigan State achieved some success at football, the Maze and Blue was the college flag of choice for many homes in our neighborhood. We would talk about our jobs and our future while pushing our first child, Matt, in a stroller past affluent homes flying Michigan (and an occasional Irish) flags on Providence and Westwood avenues. I didn't have the courage to fly my Wisconsin colors, but back in those days, there wasn't much to be proud of anyway.
During our nearly eight years spent in Michigan, we visited ice-covered lighthouses during winter, smelled lilac-covered islands in spring and climbed 450 foot dunes during summer. Many of the photographs filling books around our house are of our weekend travels up and down the beautiful western shores of Michigan.
Unlike those pictures however, our memories of friends and places have not faded.
Today, nearly twenty-five years later, Liz and I will return to many of our favorite locations to find familiar blueberry farms and road-side farm markets. While driving down Red Arrow Highway, we will begin a sentence by saying, "Isn't there a old mill somewhere near here?" And sure enough a few minutes later we will pass Petersen Mill, a historic mill turned into a rental cottage. When we drive across the Mackinaw Bridge or step off the Badger Ferry in Ludington we feel at home.
How is it that a state we lived in for such a short time continues to seem so familiar?
* * *The orange light of the setting sun flickers across the incoming waves before reflecting onto Liz's face. Her eyes shift to mine and she reaches for my hand which is still wet from skipping stones in the lake.
"This has been so nice," she says interlacing her fingers with mine. "I could stand here and watch forever." As if in agreement, we stand together in silence, our thoughts directed toward one of God's greater creations.
In less than a minute the sun is nothing more than a flare that has dropped below the horizon taking the remnants of the day with it. Now comes my favorite part, when the golden glow of the sun reaches toward darkening clouds, tracing them in purples, pinks and yellows. A jet stream trails across the light blue sky like a chalk mark left by some invisible hand.
A wave crashes on shore bringing cool relief to a beach that has endured another full day of eighty degree weather. A small sailboat has been dragged to the base of a small sand dune, its sails flapping wildly in the wind as if eagerly yearning to return to the water and new adventures.
"I hate to leave," I say, watching our feet slowly sink into the wet sand. "This week has gone by so fast -- and yet I don't feel like we've done very much. A few wineries, some shopping in Saugatuck and time on the beach. I still feel like we just got off the ferry and arrived at our B&B in Grand Rapids."
"It was good to see the downtown area doing so well. I can't believe how much it has changed." Liz pauses to take another photo of the changing sky. "The micro-breweries are everywhere and I love walking along the Grand River -- it brings back so many memories."
"It's been more than twenty-five years. Can you believe it?"
Liz looks out toward the waves that continue to crash on shore, reaching their destination after countless hours of travel. "Where have all the years gone?"
"They're in a box, with all the other memories we have."
We turn our backs to the sun -- which is now completely below the horizon -- and look toward the lake house tucked away from the beach, past marine grasses, paper birches and beech trees. A weathered boardwalk snakes its way through it all before stairs rise into the bluff overlooking the beach. A glow is coming from one of the house's rooms where Colin and Jacqueline anxiously await the continuation of The Sound of Music. Our impromptu sing-along has stirred a desire to watch the musical.
Somehow it seems appropriate for our last night here. The Rogers and Hammerstein production earned five Academy awards and five Tony awards on its way to becoming one of the all time greatest musicals.
If mother nature gave out awards for most beautiful states, Michigan would certainly win an award.
