Originally published July 5, 2013

Earl and I are planning to visit Beaver Island this month. In preparation, I’ve studied where it is (Two hours off the coast of Charlevoix), how to get there (Ferry), where to stay (Beaver Island Lodge), and what to do. I was helped with this last category by a friend who’d been there more than once.

“The bakery is next to the grocery store,” she said over coffee a couple days ago.  “It has excellent cinnamon rolls.”  Since this friend and I occasionally share a sour cream donut with our coffee, I took her comment at face value.

She also cited the old light house, the forest preserve, the local museum, and the library with its gardens as “must see” material.  I didn’t check, but I suspect most of these sites could be found in a Fodor’s.

But here’s a tip that stands on its own.  “The best place to buy a hat,” she said, “is on the main drag across from the hardware store and down a little on the beach side.”

I’m not sure what kind of hat my friend is referring to; believe me, we already own a couple dozen hats from various trips we taken. But the very fact that there is a “best” place to buy a hat on Beaver Island has me curious. How much do you want to bet I come home with one?

Originally published April 25, 2013

There are not a lot of opportunities to swim in this community.  Neither St. Joseph nor Benton Harbor has a public pool, so that leaves only the local Y or the South Shore Health and Racquet Club for those who love the water.  I belong to South Shore.

It is a busy pool and, according to the pool director, accommodates approximately seven thousand swimmers a month.  Of course, many swimmers double dip; so it’s really seven thousand swimming experiences we’re talking about here.

Still, it’s significant.  Which mean that people like me who enjoy swimming laps must sign up for a lap lane in advance.  Each swimmer is entitled to thirty minutes of time before relinquishing the lane to the next signee.

Today mine was the 10 AM slot.  Being a couple minutes late, I was eager to get going.  Position my fins; tighten my goggles; grab my float board for the first few laps. Off I went.

I did my half hour and looked around to see if the next swimmer had arrived.  Nobody claimed my lane, so I kept going. It was the first time I’d ever been able to do this, so I want to thank the person who didn’t show up for his or her thirty minutes after mine.  You made my day!

Originally published March 9, 2013

Tonight we move our clocks ahead one hour; tomorrow I move mine ahead another seven hours as I cross the Atlantic headed to Rome.  It’s enough to cause confusion.  And jet lag.

In the past, I’ve tried various approaches to coping with the time difference between our country and Europe.  I’ve set my clock on European time when I strap myself into my airplane seat.  I’ve stayed up late the night before flying. I’ve tried taking a little nap on arrival at my destination on the other side of the Big Pond, and I’ve stayed up until normal bedtime. Nothing really works.

So I’ve decided that for this trip I’m going to ignore time.  Pretend AM and PM don’t exist. Try to sleep when I’m tired and not check my watch. Not think what time it is stateside.  Just go with the flow.

I’m a very time-conscious individual, so this will be a challenge.  But given that there are so many other things out of our control – the Papal conclave and its impact on the Marathon, the weather, the logistics of having all three planes involved in our travel plans arrive and depart on time – what have I got to lose?

Originally published February 23, 2013

Sea and sand are lovers,
each bound to the other
through endless years
of rubbing,
chafing,
pushing,
changing.

Sand containing, restraining.
Sea stressing, pressing.
Each preventing, resenting.

I do not want to be
the sand that holds your sea.

Originally published February 16, 2013

Yesterday, after having lunch at Sloppy Joe’s (See previous blog post), Earl and I went on a dolphin safari with his son, Rich, as our boat’s captain.  We had hardly gotten started when we sighted our first dolphin hanging out near some residential docks.

“That’s Grady,” Rich said, although I honestly don’t know how he knew the mammal’s name.

But as Rich noted, this took the monkey off his back in terms of offering what the tour promised.  However, he was a long way from being done.  For the next hour or so our boat literally “swam with the dolphins” as they jumped, dived, and floated around us.  There must have been fifteen or more just hanging out.  Just like we were.

Earl and I have been on other dolphins tours.  We’ve also been in the water with tamed dolphins and ridden them by holding onto their dorsal fins.  But we have never seen as many being active for so long as we did today.  It was something to remember.

Originally published February 14, 2013

Note: This story won an Honorable Mention in a recent contest sponsored by Women on Writing.

He was tall and lanky and athletic, especially athletic.  But he flunked chemistry junior year, when the world should have been his for the taking; after that, he was ineligible to compete in high school basketball.  So he dropped out and married; but, like chemistry, he wasn’t much good at that either.

In the following years, he turned his basketball footwork to dancing and, in between wives, won big money in dance contests.  How he had rhythm!  But he spent every penny the contests awarded him and always hoped his current partner would pay the rent.  She usually did.

All this occurred in the first twenty years of the boy’s life.

Now a man, he varied the pattern only once, in a half-fought legal battle against Wife Number Three to gain custody of his two daughters.  The mother was an addict, unstable, unreliable. That he won surprised him.

That his daughters cared surprised him even more.  But they adored him without reserve, even though they saw his faults.  What they loved most was that he had fought for them.

Over the years, he did his best by them, although it was meager by most standards; so he truly understood when, in the end, they left home for good.

After that, he spent his final years sitting in front of the TV, watching basketball and wondering where the time had gone.  When he died, his daughters came and conducted a service, but they were beyond true mourning.

The only personal remnant of his life was the high school letter sweater that his children found hidden deep in the bottom of his dresser when they went through his belongings.  It didn’t mean a thing to them, because he had never shared stories of his youth. So they gave it to the Goodwill and figured his life had been unimportant.

And yet, because of him, they were who they were.

Originally published December 3, 2012

It’s been a lifelong challenge to look forward to shorter days in winter, where I awake before the sun is up and see its waning rays before dinner. I much prefer the long, leisurely sunsets of July.

However, I have no control over the various solstices or when Daylight Savings Time begins or ends. So a couple years ago, I decided I had to do something about my winter malaise.

I started categorizing my activities into a summer/winter dichotomy. In summer I garden, walk outside, bike, and sit on our patio. In winter, I read more, do crochet projects, and stay inside. I also appreciate that I don’t have to garden year-round.

But what does this have to do with “grey”?

Grey is the predominant color for winter in our neck of the US woods. It’s different from dark descending earlier, since it pervades and invades from dawn to dusk. The past two days, for instance, have been exemplary in their greyness. Which means that even during the eight or so hours of “sunlight” in the deep of December, it’s all grey.

This is my next challenge: to pretend I don’t notice, that it doesn’t matter if the sun shines, that I can be productive and not whiney under the circumstances. I’m working on it.

Originally published September 6, 2012

In the previous entry, I chastised hotel and motel owners for not taking a certain pride in their establishments. At the same time, we have seen such rude behavior on the part of transitory tenants that makes us understand the proprietor’s point of view.

Case in point: In Hardin, MT there is a sign directly above the ice machine asking guests NOT to fill their personal coolers so that other guests might have ice. Yet, there was some dude filling his cooler and ignoring the sign. Earl refrained from chastising him, since he was bigger and had tattoos. But we understood the owner’s angst.

In Rapid City, SD Earl – who frequents the breakfast buffet without me– saw a woman fill two large thermoses with decaf coffee, draining the pots for anyone else.

And in Sioux Fall, SD Earl rose early. He went to the breakfast buffet a little after 6 AM to find a large woman with a gallon-sized plastic zipper bag emptying the cereal containers into it. Next, she went to the French toast warmer and helped herself to eight to ten pieces which she wrapped in a napkin. Then she left.

I don’t want to judge. Perhaps these people can’t afford to pay for the provisions they take. However, this type of behavior just increases the price of a night’s stay in the particular establishment. And it does make me realize that perhaps the proprietor doesn’t change lightbulbs or fix drains because he can’t afford it. Or worse yet, he’s getting back at his customers.

Originally published August 26, 2012

We’ve been on the road two weeks, with two more to go. Along the way, we’ve learned a tip or two to enhance our travels. I suspect those pioneers who started from St. Louis, Missouri, in the late 1880s said the same thing.

For instance, we’ve purchased a reusable water bottle instead of buying plastic bottles filled with water that cram our landfills. We get ice from the ice machine at the motel we’re staying at, fill the bottle with it, and then top off with water. The water stays cooler longer as we’re driving. The pioneers probably kept an eye out for a rambling stream to fill their water pouches.

Our packing procedure has also been refined. After seeing more than one authentic Conestoga wagon, we have learned to make better use of our car space. Because we didn’t know what kind of weather we’d encounter, we packed for extremes. So far, we haven’t needed the rain gear, the heavy winter coat, or the wooly hats and gloves. Instead of bringing them into the motel each time, we leave all the peripheral gear in a suitcase in the trunk, at the ready if needed. The suitcase is named “The Beast.” Of course, pioneers didn’t sleep in motels; their entire wagon could be called “The Beast.”

We have also honed our criteria for lodging. After a stay in a primitive cabin in Yellowstone, hot water was added to the list. The pioneers probably never considered this. Already on the list is Internet access, complimentary breakfast, preferably first floor accommodations, and two rooms for two people if we’re staying more than one night (Explanation to follow).

If we’re hunkering down for more than one night, we must consider that Earl loves television noise, while I love the noise of silence. I work on my computer in the evenings after we’ve visited every tourist attraction in sight. He channel surfs. So we’ve found that a two room suite in an economical motel is just the thing. If you’re wondering what “economical” looks like, it’s either an AmericInn or America’s Best Value Inn. The thread count on the sheets is minimal, but the enhancement to our trip is maximal.

Originally published August 24, 2012

This morning we said “Goodbye” to Yellowstone National Park. I didn’t think I would be as sad as I was; there is so much here that defies description and requires personal viewing. Additionally, the fact that we could not be on the Internet added to the intensity of the experience. We could enjoy the “wild” instead of constantly checking in.

It took us all of two hours, but we drove a hundred miles to Cody, Wyoming, a town about the size of St. Joseph, Michigan, but markedly different after one acknowledges population. It’s definitely western, having been established by Buffalo Bill Cody in the early, early 1900s.

In fact, we had dinner in the Irma Hotel, the very hotel Cody built back then and named for his youngest daughter. We sat at the bar that Queen Victoria is said to have gifted Cody after he and his Wild West show performed in London with her in attendance.

Now we’re in for the night in our motel suite with Earl in the bedroom watching the Chicago Bears in an exhibition game, while I’m in the living room working.

We think we’ll be here three days as there are many sights to entice us. A full-fledged rodeo, an historic town, four museums about the old West, and even information about the internment of Asians here during World War II.

The odd thing is we never had any intention of visiting Cody. But, while we were in Denver visiting my aunt and uncle, Aunt Alice told us of the bounty that was a traveler’s delight in Cody. So we changed our route, have come here instead of Billings, MT, and so far have enjoyed it.