life, Michigan

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I know great minds discuss ideas and small minds discuss people,” she said over her margherita flatbread and my fish tacos, “but I find people FASCINATING.”

Her eyes and her voice grew big.

Perhaps it was her fascination with people that caused her to notice what I completely missed earlier in the evening, or perhaps it was the fact that I was looking for a parking space.

I took my daughter out to celebrate the 17th anniversary of my wedding.

Shouldn’t your husband have taken you out to celebrate your anniversary?, you might be thinking.

Yes, that is what one would expect, but this year, this April 6th, he took me out to breakfast and then promptly headed up north to go fly fishing for the weekend.

Seventeen years ago he turned down an invitation to The Masters to marry me on April 6, big golfer that he was, his love for me was even bigger.

But now, seventeen years later….  No really, I’m okay with it.  Our brother-in-law invited him and I said, “Of course, go ahead.”

So I took my daughter out to dinner.

And though it might certainly be a memorable anniversary dinner, there was nothing romantic or magical about it.

We thought we’d take a chance on the Roadside B & G, even though they don’t take reservations.

45 – 60 minute wait.  Nope.

We headed south while we racked our brains for plan B.

“What about Mex?,” my daughter offered.  It was five miles straight down the road.  

I was hungry and it was close, so Mex it was going to be.

We hit a traffic jam two miles down. In the distance we saw the flashing lights of multiple emergency vehicles, just in time to bail and take the long way around.

Upon arriving at Mex, I circled around the back of the restaurant looking for a parking space.

My peripheral vision noticed two men talking near the “employee only” back door and assumed they were on a break.

We parked, walked around to the front door and were greeted by a friendly host and hostess.  The hostess picked up two menus, things looked promising.

For a second.

Just as she picked up the menus there was a LARGE, jolting bang.

My first thought was a gunshot.  In this day and age it’s probably everyone’s first thought.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the spray of shattered glass, a stool tipped and crashed to the floor.  Oh no! Was someone sitting in it?

Looking up from the stool, draped only with a coat, I saw the mangled fender of a car ten feet from where my daughter and I were standing.

A woman came running from the back of the restaurant yelling, “Call an ambulance!,” as she ran out the front door.

She ran back in to make sure everyone inside the restaurant was okay.

No one seemed to be injured, not even the diners whose table was displaced by the car, not the diners at several tables near the window upon whose meals shattered glass rained.

The quick responding woman, perhaps she as the front of the house manager, ran back outside, by then several other employees were out there, too.

“We better leave,” I said to my daughter.

We headed out the chaotic front door just as the woman was yelling for someone to get towels.

We looked to our right.  The driver of the car was sitting against the wall of the restaurant with blood pouring out of both nostrils, agonized look on his face.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he kept repeating as attenders tried to calm him.

We sat in my car for a minute processing what we just saw.

“The driver was that young man who was arguing with the manager by the back door.”

“What, they were arguing?”

“Yes,” my daughter said, “I was watching them intently and I could see by their body language that they were arguing.  And then the young man walked away looking dissatisfied.”

“We better hurry and go before the emergency vehicles get here and block the driveways.”

As it was I had to wait to pull out of the parking lot while 4 firetrucks and 6 police cars pulled in.

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My daughter snapped a picture as we drove past. You can’t see anything but a couple of police cars, but this story needs a picture or two.

“Now where?,” I asked.

“Just head into Birmingham,” she said.

There are a lot of restaurants in Birmingham, and lots of long waits since B’ham is a popular date night destination. But what the heck.

Foiled again.

The hip restaurant we thought we might try is on Old Woodward, upon which I was going to turn left.  But the road was gone. Completely torn up in both directions.

“This is turning out to be the anniversary dinner from h-e-double-hockey sticks,” I sighed.

A little out of town is an upscale grocery store which has an upstairs bistro.  

“Do you have a reservation?,” the young, pleasant hostess asked.

“Do I need one?,” I asked in return.

“No, but it will be about a 15 minute wait, you can browse in the store and I’ll text you when a table is available.”

As we browsed the bakery section we spotted a wonderful selection of individual trifles.

“Let’s get a couple of those after we eat and take them home for dessert,” I said.

My daughter nodded enthusiastically.

After 30 minutes of browsing and still no text, I had my daughter climb the stairs to check our status.

“We’re next,” she reported back.

It was another 15 minutes before we were seated at a table next to a window with drafty plexiglass seams.  I wrapped my winter coat around my shoulders.

A long and hungry forty-five minutes later we were finally sharing her flatbread and my tacos.

The only truly enjoyable part of the evening was the conversation during our hungry forty-five minute wait.  She told me about her day, careful to guard the privacy of her patients, as she sipped a glass of wine and I sipped a cup of hot tea.

Dissociative identity disorder. Fascinating.

I looked out the window, it was blizzarding.

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“Snow is coming in,” I said.”  My daughter looked at me in disbelief.  “Feel” I said.

She hovered her hand over the seam. Sure enough.

“It’s better than a car coming in,” she quipped, putting my misery in perspective.

“I’m still thinking about that young man,” I said. “He probably didn’t make a lot of money working there, and his car didn’t look that nice, I doubt he can afford to get it fixed.”

“He was wearing street clothes,” she said, a detail I completely missed, “so he probably wasn’t working that day.”

“Maybe he was there to pick up his check,” I guessed, “and got fired…”

My daughter wondered whether he had driven into the restaurant intentionally.

I didn’t think so, since he kept saying, “This wasn’t supposed to happen…”  I thought maybe he was upset and distracted and wasn’t paying attention.  Or perhaps he meant to angrily squeal his tires in front of the restaurant and lost control.  Or perhaps he was looking in the window as he drove past and his steering followed his gaze.

All we knew for sure was that his bad day got really bad.  And we hoped he’s going to be okay.

I asked for the check as soon as our plates were cleared.  We had been there two hours and I was ready to go home.

As we descended the stairs to the store I said, “Let’s go get those trifles before we go…”

There was a large, thick black curtain blocking the entrance to the store.

“Oh shoot, are they closed?”

“It’s 9:10,” my daughter said, “they probably closed at 9.”

Missed our desserts by ten minutes, of course we did.

“It’s just as well, I want to get home” I said, as I pulled onto the main road, “I’ve had to pee since we arrived two hours ago.”

“This really isn’t your night,” my daughter chuckled.

“I hope Maxy* hasn’t pooped on the floor.”

This morning I received a text from the hub:

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Happy Spring!!??!! from Pere Marquette Rod and Gun Club, 12” in spots

Guessing his will be a memorable, but not magical, fishing trip.

*Maxy is our fifteen-year-old, incontinent hound dog

 

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life, Michigan

It was the worst school massacre in history.

Classes began as usual at 8:30 a.m. at the Bath Consolidated School.

At 8:45 a.m. an explosion tore through half the school.

First-grade teacher Bernice Sterling described the explosion as being like an earthquake: “It seemed as though the floor went up several feet”, she said. “… the air seemed to be full of children and flying desks and books. Children were tossed high in the air; some were catapulted out of the building.”

The north wing of the school collapsed. Parts of the walls crumbled, and the edge of the roof fell to the ground.

A rescue worker recounted: There was a pile of children of about five or six under the roof and some of them had arms sticking out, some had legs, and some just their heads sticking out. They were unrecognizable because they were covered with dust, plaster, and blood. There were not enough of us to move the roof.

It was the worst school massacre in history.

The Bath School massacre was a series of violent attacks perpetrated by Andrew Kehoe on May 18, 1927, in Bath Township, Michigan, which killed 38 elementary schoolchildren and six adults and injured at least 58 others. Kehoe killed his wife and firebombed his farm, then detonated an explosion in the Bath Consolidated School before committing suicide by detonating a final device in his truck.

The 55-year-old school board treasurer was angered by increased taxes and his defeat in the Spring 1926 election for township clerk. He was thought to have planned his “murderous revenge” after that public defeat.

An eyewitness described the aftermath of the explosion: Mother after mother came running into the school yard, and demanded information about her child and, on seeing the lifeless form lying on the lawn, sobbed and swooned…In no time more than 100 men were at work tearing away the debris of the school, and nearly as many women were frantically pawing over the timber and broken bricks for traces of their children.

Another witness painted a portrait of personal despair: A mother, Mrs. Eugene Hart, sat on the bank a short distance from the school with a dead little daughter on each side of her. She was holding her little boy, Percy, who died a short time after they got him to the hospital. As she sat there in despair, waiting for help for her son, Kehoe blew his truck up, severely wounding Perry, her oldest child. How does a mother survive that?

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As you can see, several parents lost multiple children that May day.

Hundreds of people worked in the wreckage of the north wing all day and into the night in an effort to find and rescue any children pinned underneath.

During the search, rescuers found an additional 500 pounds of dynamite and an alarm clock timed to go off at 8:45 a.m. in the south wing. He had intended to blow up the whole school.  Investigators speculated that the initial explosion may have caused a short circuit in the second set of bombs, preventing them from detonating.

 

What set off the man who set off the bombs?

The Wikipedia article, from which I took this information, listed the motives as revenge for defeat in a local election and personal and financial stress.

Lots of people lose elections and lots of people undergo personal and financial stress without killing anyone.

But Kehoe did.

He methodically planned his revenge – which is not even the right word because revenge is “the action of inflicting hurt or harm on someone for an injury or wrong suffered at their hands.”

Kehoe didn’t suffer injury or wrong at the hands of the 38 children and 6 adults he killed or at the hands of the 58 he wounded.

The children didn’t have a vote in his lost election.

But he killed them anyway.

Misguided revenge may have been the motive, but it wasn’t the reason.

He was mad because things weren’t going his way – property taxes, elections.

Investigators found a wooden sign wired to the farm’s fence with Kehoe’s last message stenciled on it: “Criminals are made, not born.”

Back when I was a social worker, I attended a foster care event.  The keynote speaker was a man named Glenn Hester, who had written a book entitled, Child of Rage. I read the book and learned that Mr. Hester had grown up in the foster care system.  A childhood full of abuse gave him ample reason for rage, rage which landed him in correctional institutions and  psychiatric hospitals. His rage was about to explode in a massacre when God intervened. At the time I heard Glenn speak he was working in a Christian program helping urban teenagers and educating foster care workers like me about what it’s like to be a kid in the system.

Glenn was a criminal who was made, but Kehoe was a criminal who was born.

He killed a neighbor’s dog for wandering onto his property barking. He beat his horse to death because it wasn’t doing what he wanted it to do.  It was suspected that he caused the gas stove explosion that killed his stepmother.

Killer’s gonna’ kill.

I’m not for guns and I’m not against guns and perhaps that’s how we’re all going to have to be if we want to stop this epidemic of school violence.

I’m not against guns because the worst school massacre in history was carried out without them.

I’m not against guns because guns don’t kill people, a murderous belief that one has been wronged, whether or not it’s true, kills people.

I’m not against guns because the right to bear arms protects us from would-be fascist dictators.

I’m not against guns because those who are hell bent on destroying life are going to destroy life – guns or no guns, legally obtained or illegally obtained.

I’m not for guns when they are automatic weapons in the hands of a 19 year old.

No civilian 19 year old should ever be sold an automatic weapon, but gun control would not have saved the 38 children and 6 adults in Michigan in 1927.

Banning the sale of automatic weapons to civilians might have saved the 14 children and 3 adults who were killed in Florida in 2018.

Murder as old as Cain and Abel.

Cain felt wronged because God accepted his brother’s sacrifice but not his.

No matter that his brother gave God his best and Cain gave God whatever.

Cain pouted and plotted because he thought God liked Abel better.

But He didn’t.

God found Cain pouting and plotting and intervened.

“Don’t do this thing you’re plotting,” God warned, “do the right thing, let go of your anger.”

But Cain went and killed his brother anyway.

I wonder whether God urged Andrew Kehoe to do the right thing.  I wonder whether he pointed out to Andrew that he hadn’t actually been wronged, that it was wrong of him to kill the dog, beat the horse, murder his stepmother.  I wonder whether He tried more than once. A year is a long time to maintain rage.

I wonder whether God urged Nikolas Cruz to put down his anger, to do what is right, to think straight.

Perhaps He did, but like Cain, he didn’t.

I saw a post on Facebook this morning saying that the solution is to let God back into the schools.

Yes, let’s let Him in – not so we can shove Him down anyone’s throat or make anyone feel bad about having differing beliefs – let’s let Him in to be available; to give rest to those who are weary, downtrodden, angry and hopeless.

What else might help?

It would help if people spoke up when they saw somewhat unusual behavior – like carrying things into a school at night – and blatant behavior like describing oneself on Facebook as a school shooter.

It would certainly help if “see something, say something” was followed up by the FBI with “do something.”

It would help if both staunch and stubborn gun camps would admit that the other side has some good points.

It would help if we would admit that it’s less about guns and more about the enraged hearts, souls and twisted minds of those who murderously wield them.

The Lord bless you and keep you, dear families and loved ones of Alyssa Alhadeff, Scott Beigel, Martin Duque Anguiano, Nicholas Dworet, Aaron Feis, Jaime Guttenberg, Chris Hixon, Luke Hoyer, Cara Loughran, Gina Montalto, Joaquin Oliver, Alaina Petty, Meadow Pollack, Helena Ramsay, Alex Schachter, Carmen Schentrup and Peter Wang. The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace. Deep and abiding peace.

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Michigan

Clever Planet

The clever chef at Small Batch in Harbor Springs dropped tiny Peruvian peppers onto my flash fried kale and made it look like Christmas.  Delicious.

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A considerate shop owner in Boyne City placed pillows on a sofa of straw.  Rest for the weary.

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A creative bookseller in Traverse City provides water and age-appropriate reading material for the four-legged passersby. Delightful.

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Creative planet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Food, Michigan

Fully Caffeinated

Friday morning we headed out on our annual Mother/Daughter Road Trip. If you recall from years past, you know they are all about coffee, food and beaches.

This year it was more coffee, food and shopping, with a little bit of beach.

First stop:  Saugatuck

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Why have I never thought to turn a rusty old propane tank into a jack-o-lantern?

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After perusing many a posted menu, we decided on Grow for lunch.

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The waiter was attentive, the food and the vibe were just right.

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Tasty little potatoes, Michigan made sausage, a delightful dipping sauce and carrot pancakes.  Oh, and fresh lavender lemonade.

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Most of the patrons were dining al fresco, but we liked the calm inside. You don’t get much complete silence these days and I loved it, though my daughter would have preferred a bit of mellow folk music.  Are you listening Grow?

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Lunch, shopping and then a really fun, really fast dune ride.

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Those aren’t trees, they’re the very tops of trees.  Cottonwoods – the only tree that can survive being buried in 100 feet of sand.

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Singapore, Michigan – a fledgling resort town –  is completely buried under the dunes.  There’s a school, a church, a hotel under there.  In the 70’s the very top of a 3 story building was still visible.  Not anymore.

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The buggy driver said the area was a vast pine forest until the trees were harvested to help rebuild Chicago after The Great Fire in 1871. With the trees gone, there was no root system to hold the top soil in place.  Sand from Lake Michigan blew in and buried everything.  Only the cottonwoods survived.

A 1959 Michigan State University project to plant grass in order to stabilize the dunes is gradually bringing top soil back.  The aim is to restore the land to forest.

And that concludes your dune education. Unless you want to read about the Sand Dune that Swallowed a Boy.

After the thrill ride we drove thirty minutes up the coast to Holland.

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Dinner was at Butch’s Dry Dock, as seen while shopping across the street.

Neither of us snapped a picture of our ultra flavorful Campanelle with basil cream, zucchini, summer squash, tomato and goat feta paired with a glass of Terra Di Briganti Falanghina, Campania, IT 2015 because the lighting wasn’t suitable, but take my word for it, it was beautiful. And delicious. We were very happy.

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In the morning we grabbed a miel to go and walked several blocks to the Farmers Market.

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It was a perfect Farmers Market morning – crisp, sunny, 46-degrees-but-with-a-hot-cup-of-coffee-in-hand.

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And the colors were beautiful.

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When I was in Holland last January, there was only one downtown coffee shop, now there are two hip newcomers.

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Look at how cute this place is.

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Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world, The 205 is our new favorite.  Definitely the winner of the trip.

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Kombucha and sparkling cascara on tap.

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And complimentary honey cookies.

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They even have a cool floral mural.

After a morning of farmers market strolling, shopping and coffee bar hopping, we headed further north to Grand Haven.

I’ve taken you there before.

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It’s still a very tasty sandwich.

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And it’s still a beautiful [board] walk to the beach.  My phone tells me we walked over 8 miles that day. I believe it.

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The aged, crumbling pier is being restored, so no walk out to the lighthouse this time.

We took a nap upon checking into our hotel in Grand Rapids and then immediately started researching places for dinner.

One of the highlights of staying in downtown GR is walking across the blue bridge to dinner.

But our feet were tired so, even though it was only 1.2 miles away, we drove to the trendy new Downtown Market for pizza. It has greenhouses on the roof.

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For dessert we were going to have a pour over for two and creme brulee at a fancy restaurant near the hotel, but then we noticed the flavor choices at Love’s.

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I chose a half scoop of cardamom orange blossom and a half scoop of chocolate coconut curry. Individually they were very good. Combined they became a delightful couple.  My daughter chose a half scoop of basil and a half scoop of roasted strawberry balsamic. The basil was really good alone (she let me taste it) but the strawberry/balsamic wasn’t quite right. Combining the strawberry with the basil, my daughter assured me, made it much better. Really good.

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We love Loves.

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Feet somewhat recovered, we took the beloved walk across the beloved bridge to listen to a bit of street music. Two young women on a street corner killing Riptide by Vance Joy.

A homeless man asked me if I smoked dope.

Do I look like I smoke dope?

I laughed.

“Look into my eyes,” he said, as he stared into mine.

“You don’t believe me?”

I wanted to tell him how old I am.  But I suppose old people smoke dope.

First order of business Sunday morning was Madcap for another miel.

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As I drank my heart began to transform into a Michigan Mitten.

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My daughter staging a photo of her pour over. She hates everything about this pic but it’s my blog.

From Madcap we walked back across the river to try the brand spanking new Rower’s Club.

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Love the table.

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Miel to go.

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Last stop: Wolfgang’s. Of course.

Reflecting back we decided we’ll spend more time in Holland next year, where there is food and coffee yet to be tried.

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We ❤ Michigan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Food, Michigan

Living, Dying and Dining on Union Lake

The hub and I went to a matinee yesterday afternoon.

By the time the credits rolled all I wanted was something delicious for dinner.

(And a charming, romantic man to take me on a culinary tour of France.)

So the hub, my daughter and I went to a restaurant on the water where the food is always good.

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The Roasted Forest Mushrooms appetizer (wilted onions, spinach, morel cream & manchego cheese en croute) was just the deliciousness I craved.

Midway through our Pan Roasted Grouper (vermouth, artichoke hearts, capers, spinach, tomato concasse, with whipped potatoes and roasted asparagus) my daughter groaned.

“I’m getting really upset,” she said.

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She nodded toward a table at the corner of the patio where a handsome young man sat alone.

He kept glancing toward the door. And then toward the parking lot, which he could see from his seat.

“I hope his date isn’t standing him up,” she whispered.

He looked really clean, shiny, and endearingly first date nervous.

“If she isn’t laying in a ditch somewhere then I hate her,” I said.

We ordered dessert and coffee.

“Go sit with him,” I said.

“I’m not going to sit with him,” she said.

“If she doesn’t at least call or text then she puts the bitch in obituary,” I said, borrowing a line from a movie I borrowed from the library last week.

I noticed that the flotilla on the lake was growing.  Lots of little boat lights were filling the horizon.

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See all the boat lights? See the back of the hub’s head?

“Are there going to be fireworks on the lake tonight?,” I asked our waitress.

Yes indeed.

I turned to my daughter. “He has the perfect table for watching the fireworks and she didn’t come!”

“That’s probably why he chose this restaurant and this night for their date,” she sighed.

Soooo sweet and romantic.

“I’m getting really upset,” she said.

“Look!” I said as I tugged my daughter’s arm.  A young woman, in a first date outfit, was approaching his table. “She’s here!”

“Oh thank God!,” we both exhaled at the same time.

“Thank God,” my daughter said, again, “because the waitress was just at his table and it looked like they were having the “What do you want to do?” conversation.

“Thank you Jesus!,” I said, “Now I can really enjoy my second cup of coffee.”

“I wish she had come just a little sooner,” my daughter replied, “so I could have really enjoyed the creme brulee.”

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I really enjoyed it, even with a side of angst it was reeaaally good. Really good.

To the dismay of my dinner companions, I got up and snuck a picture of the couple.

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They looked happy.

We left just as the fireworks were starting.

I didn’t want to leave the friends home alone with fireworks going off everywhere. I read it’s especially hard on elderly dogs.

And Maxy is really old.

We should have left the restaurant just a little bit sooner.

Because the fireworks scared the p-o-o-p out of him.

Literally.

Welcome to canine geriatrics.

Except for that, it was a lovely evening.

 

 

 

 

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love, Michigan

Wes Leonard

Wes Leonard scored the final basket in the final game of the regular season and then he died.

The score was tied going into overtime. The Fennville Blackhawks had won 19 out of 19 games. A perfect season hung in the balance, and then Wes scored 4 points for the win.

That was in 2011.

This past Friday afternoon the hub and I drove to Hope College in Holland, Michigan to attend the 6th Annual Wes Leonard Heart Team Never Forgotten Game:  Fennville vs. Saugatuck.

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At halftime Wes’ former teammates lined up mid-court.

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And presented a portable AED machine to representatives from 20 High Schools.

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The hub, blurry in my haste to snap a pic before he sat down, was one of them.

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Before the game we were taught how to use the device and instructed in the importance of maintaining fresh batteries.  Wes’ school had a device the night he died but the battery was dead.

At the end of the game the fans from both schools – rivals – chanted Wes-ley Leo-nard, just as they have at the end of every game these past six years.

I love this family and this community – who have come together to get life saving information, legislation and devices into every Michigan school.

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Since Holland is about a 3 hour drive, we spent the night.

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In the morning, as we walked into town in search of the perfect cafe miel – and it was perfect – we came upon this sculpture.  Which is another reason I love this town.

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

If you didn’t watch the video, scroll back up and watch it.  With a hanky.

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Food, Michigan

Michigander

The hub, my shingles and I went up north for a long weekend.

Yep, shingles.

The doc said it isn’t contagious. I could, however, give chicken pox to anyone who hasn’t had them, but only if they come in direct contact with the rash.

So I packed the antiviral he prescribed, some Benadryl – in case it got itchy – and Motrin in case it started to hurt. Doc said he’d give me Norco if it gets real bad.

Norco if it gets real bad?

God, I hope not.

I’ve heard stories, I’ve seen fear-mongering commercials.

We headed north Thursday morning as scheduled. First stop: Harbor Springs.

We walked the pier at twilight. Felt like a date.

Next morning we snubbed the hotel’s complimentary breakfast and went into town in search of something good. No offense to the lovely, hospitable hotel.

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High atop a hill sat Small Batch at the Cupola, with its welcoming porch.

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Oh. Linen tablecloths. This is going to be expensive.

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But the little cow creamer was cute.

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Flash-fried spinach is my new favorite thing.

The hub ordered a Hansel and Gretel Waffle – gingerbread waffle topped with a maple and peach syrup and a cinnamon cream. He gave me a bite. Oh. My.

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I had to snag this photo from their Facebook page to show you because his didn’t last long enough…

After breakfast we headed to Mackinac Island, taking the long, coast-hugging way so we could see the property on which my sister’s retirement dream house will soon be built; the final resting place for her ashes.

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Men arrived and began clearing trees.

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Arriving at the Island never loses its thrill.

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You (meaning me) can’t visit Mackinac Island without saying “hi” to John.

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John is the extraordinary father of my delightful niece, Mary.

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He’s also the Senior Vice President of the Grand Hotel. If you don’t know the Grand, click here. It’s quite special. If you’ve been reading my blog from the start you’ve been there before.

One of these days I’m going to interview John and tell you all about him. In the meantime, this is his bike.

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It’s the coolest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

Many who visit Mackinac Island never venture beyond the town, except to rent bikes and ride around the entire perimeter of the island.

I prefer the interior.

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I like to hike to Arch Rock.

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And check out the view.

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If you know anything about Mackinac Island, you know there are NO motorized vehicles (except an ambulance).

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It’s all horses, feet and bikes.

After lunch we strolled along the boardwalk, strolled past John’s house.

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Browsed some shops. Bought some fudge.

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And caught the 5:30 ferry back to the mainland. That’s the Mighty Mac in the distance.

The hub wanted to show me something so we took another short detour on the way back to Harbor Springs.

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In a beautiful park-like setting behind a Catholic church in the middle of nowhere waits a magnificent bronze sculpture.

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It weighs 7 tons and is 28 feet tall from head to toe.

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Truly a site to behold. Love the glow of the late-day sun on the tip of the cross.

Back in Harbor Springs we prowled the streets looking for somewhere not-fancy for dinner.

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There was a bar on the corner, down by the water, with a note taped to its door: “Friday Fish Fry $10.99.”

As we stood inside waiting to be seated, the hostess asked if we were there for the fish.  The hub nodded. “I’ll save you one,” she said, “there are only 3 left.”

In the morning I took my complimentary envelope of oatmeal to go as we checked out of the hotel and went forth.

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Early morning coffee in Charlevoix.

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Lunch in Leland.

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I make friends with beagles wherever I go.

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This is Bella. And her mom.

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You (meaning me) can’t be on the Leelanau Peninsula without stopping at Karl’s aka Brisling Pottery.

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Who am I to disobey?

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Treasures in tow, we headed to the hub’s favorite Leelanau wineries.

I lost a round of miniature golf. Only because I’m sick.

And then over to the Mission Peninsula to check into our B & B.

Dinner was pizza at a picnic table at the old State Hospital grounds.

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Those are pickled pears julienned on that pizza. A little tangy and very tasty.

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Yes, we did go back for breakfast the next day. I mean, look at that stuff.

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Rain Man.

The final day of our get-away began with fruit, yogurt, peach and lavender jam on english muffins, pleasant conversation and a goodbye to our B & B hosts.

It was another weather-blessed day so why not head to the tip of the peninsula, to the lighthouse and climb to the top?

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On no-more-than-four-inch steps.

While I climbed and took photos, the hub struck up an over-the-fence conversation with a stranger. It was all about fishing Lake Charlevoix.

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Hey, why not stop at a couple more wineries on the way back down the peninsula?

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The vines were pregnant, ready to deliver.

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Harvest is this week.

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With the warm weather we’ve had, Chateau Chantal says 2016 is going to be a very good year. Keep that in mind when you buy Michigan wine.

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I can’t have any because I seem to have developed an allergy to sulfites.

But you go ahead. I’m going back to the Pleasanton Bakery. Yes, I did already have breakfast. So what?

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Pleasanton Bakery chocolate almond croissant + Higher Grounds brew of the day = good.

Some coffee shops charge $5 for a cafe miel and I pay it. But at Higher Grounds I buy a $2.75 cup of their daily brew and add the honey, cinnamon and cream myself. And it’s really good.

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As you know from a recent post, I love it when old things are re-purposed. That’s why I love the old State Hospital. The old asylum.

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I wonder what this building will be.

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The hub isn’t going to read this post. He’s going to think it’s way too long. But he wanted to show me one more thing as we headed home.

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He ignored the “Private Property, No Tresspassing” signs like he owned the place and drove me through the woods and onto the grounds of the Pere Marquette Rod and Gun Club. He’s been there fly fishing a couple of times with my brother-in-law, Mike. He’s going back again in a couple of weeks. He wanted to show me and that’s okay. I like show and tell.

Stopping for lunch in Clare on the way home is kind of a tradition. A tradition we haven’t kept in several years. Lunch at Bob’s Broasted Chicken in the Saturday Evening Post Bar.

Back when the rooster was white, you could feed a family of four for $20.

Now that he has a new paint job, it’s $14 for 2.

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This photo-bombing patron ought to be in church.

I don’t know if it was the broasted chicken or all the ground we covered, but the rest of the ride home was kinda’ rough.

Might have been a little too much fun for an old gray mare with shingles.

Rainy day today.

 

 

 

 

 

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