Lake Michigan

Familiarity breeds contempt, but I wouldn't say I feel contempt for Lake Michigan. Maybe I should say, familiarity breeds indifference. I have been looking at Lake Michigan for as long as I can remember. We went to Chicago on a regular basis and one of those memories that has been imprinted on my brain is driving down Lake Shore Drive checking for The Drake and The Playboy Club on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. But really, it was Chicago's skyscrapers that got my attention.

Memories can be tricky. I think I remember swimming in Lake Michigan from some beach in the city. But is that memory real? Not sure. I've contacted by sisters and parents and that jury came back with a split decision. Either way, Lake Michigan is taken for granted. Even now, on my most recent look at this huge body of water from above on a Michigan state highway, my first thought was of Grampa asking Long Duc Dong, "Where is my automobile?" Still inebriated, Dong makes skidding, crashing, and splashing sounds and answers, "Lake! Big lake!" The Donger does understate.

Despite my lack of respect for the lake, it was the waters of this body in which we did the most frolicking and of which we saw the most. Hitting beaches on the east side  in Michigan and west, across the way on the Door Peninsula in Wisconsin, we found the east side to be the most enjoyable. Lake Michigan had fun, power and beauty.

The mouth of the Platte River runs right into Lake Michigan and the best time we had in the water was being spat out. This river ran about two to three feet deep and carried us right along like a big game of human Pooh Sticks. At the end was a long sand bar that separated the river from the lake and Maddie would strike poses as if she were the Little Mermaid, arching her back and facing the shore as waves crashed behind her. It was funny to see, but I am sure in her mind she was singing "Part of Your World" and it was nothing but grandeur. This was the best swimming on the trip.


Thomas at the mouth of the Platte. This sandbar separates the river from Lake Michigan.

Sandy Cheeks sitting in Lake Michigan.

We were in Michigan for a wedding and on that wedding day, while the parties involved were busily preparing for the nuptials, we went sight seeing and then swimming in Frankfurt. This beach was in a man-made harbor, two long break waters reached out to hug the sea and shielded us from the choppy waves. At the end of one was a tall, white lighthouse, so I suggested a walk out to the end for a good view of the beach. It was about a  half mile walk and I say we didn't really realize the strength of the waves until we got out to the end. There were about a dozen people out there, but we couldn't understand why they were standing, back against the lighthouse, like they were stuck with Velcro.

Then a wave hit the boulders and rocks surrounding the end of the jetty and a splash of water sprayed up and over the top, soaking our legs. Interesting, because that wave wasn't nothing. A couple more came and did the same, but I could see a good sized wave with what looked like perfect timing. A little nervous, but sure of our safety, I held the Maddie's hand, while Jen took Thomas'. When that wave crashed a wall of water shot up and over our heads, soaking our once dry bodies through and through with water, mist, and foam. It was like standing at the base of a waterfall. So, naturally, we waited for another. And another. And another. It was strange that we were the only ones doing this. The onlookers would come and go, but no one else wanted to get wet.

Not our pic, but this is the place. Feel the power.
http://www.lovethesepics.com/2011/04/power-of-the-storm-44-ferocious-waves-attacking-lighthouses/

Our last touring day in Michigan was spent enjoying the beauty of the lake. Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore had roads that twisted through dense forest, leafy trees up high and layers of light green ferns below, that would turn into wide open vistas of this big lake stretching out like a blue carpet on the horizon. And so, finally, Lake Michigan regained its sense of awe.

Sunday came and it was time to move on. We continued north, on our way to Michigan's Upper Peninsula. But first, we had to cross the Mackinac Bridge. Five miles long, this bridge crossed the strait that separates Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. On the road, we skipped church that day. But that was alright, because as we drove, 200 feet above these lakes, looking out at nothing but water on our left and right all the way to the horizon, I figured we met God there.

View of the top of the world from the Mackinac Bridge borrowed from Google Earth. We did see one ship, but further away. Jennie didn't care for me taking pictures while driving so this had to do. See that grated lane? You can look right down to the water through it. 

Three in the Morning with Interplanet Janet and the Tin Man

"Interplant Janet, she's a galaxy girl. A solar system Miss from a future world. She travels like a rocket with her comet team. There's never been a planet Janet hasn't seen." 

I am so thankful that I got out to watch the Persied Meteor Shower on Saturday night/Sunday morning. The peak of the event wasn't supposed to hit until the next two nights, but the Syracuse weather girl said that would be the only shot to see it in our area. So as 3am hit The cell phone alarm went off and a couple minutes later I was out the door with my head cocked to the sky.

As cool as this summer has been, it wasn't so bad out. It was warm enough to wear a t-shirt, but cool enough so the bugs stayed warm in their beds. Jen and Zach passed on this one also staying warm and there was no way I was waking the younger two. The view of the sky from our back yard is pretty full. Trees literally frame my view, which is only about 45 degrees east to west, but the north-south stretch is about 140 degrees. There must have been a slight haze out there. I could see the stars clearly, but they didn't quite pop. Wandering toward the middle of the yard to a spot where trees blocked the streetlights,stared up at a patch of stars that didn't have a single recognizable constellation or planet and just waited. And for about 10 minutes, I looked up, listened to the sounds of crickets and katydids singing, and saw absolutely nothing.

Then the first one zipped across the sky. I don't know about you, but I get a rush when I see a shooting star. Every single time. It wasn't the best one ever. A quick, thin dart of light, but it was centered in my line of sight. They came more frequently, shooting mostly toward the north. For some, my eyes were spot on and others were like that ghost standing down the hall when you know you're the only one home. You catch it out the corner of your eye and turn quick, but then it is gone.

The thing is, I can't help thinking that this show is put on just for me. I'm standing alone in the dark with bugs and birds chirping. There is a train somewhere out there and I have an assortment of neighborhood wind chimes providing the musical score. There weren't even any cars. It was just me until the Tin Man came by. When I go out to run at 4am, I never, ever see people. I see cars and occasionally lights on in homes or businesses. But never any people, so hearing footsteps is out of place. Metallic bouncing, snaps, and crunches were distant and getting closer. In my yard, no one can see me, so I continued to watch for meteorites, but kept a concerned awareness. Oil can, indeed. The Tin Man turned out to be a gentleman with a large bag of aluminum cans and absolutely no concern that bouncing the bag against his leg as he walked in the early morning hours was quite loud and extremely rude.  But I kept watch, not only on the sky, but on my company as well. Followed the sound, loud past the front of the house, cans sparkling off the streetlight, then he moved around the corner to Oakland Street, where sound and sparkle faded into the dark.

Meteors are an addiction. I was so tired, but I kept thinking, "Just one more." They came, sometimes two or three per minute. Then I'd wait two or three minutes for the next. About a quarter of an hour in is when I caught the highlight of my evening, or...morning. From east to the northwest, centered in my view was a beautiful, thick streak of light that lit up a full three quarter strip across my visible sky. The streak that this meteor left in its path was really like the quintessential comet's tail. It was long and full and its wake had a sparkle and glitter that hung in the night sky for what seemed like the longest couple of seconds that I have ever known. That was a rush. And though they kept coming after that, all seemed to pale in comparison.

Finally, about 30 minutes after I stepped out the door and dozens of shooting stars later, my eyes were wishing I was in bed and my neck was wishing that we owned a chaise lounge. I fell back to sleep happy. Content. Like I was the only person in the world who saw something amazing. One with the universe.

Fishy! Why are you sleeping?

We are now a house without pets. The last goldfish passed recently, ending a five or so year stretch where were had a dog, two cats, a hamster, two rabbits, a hermit crab, 3 birds,  and four fish.  My children, really aren’t pet kids. They love the idea of the animal, but aren’t really into the whole taking care of the animal. So, a few years ago, Jennie and I established a DNR policy on pets. If they die, DO NOT REPLACE!

They have died, one by one, of natural causes, of course. I didn’t kill them. The dog died young of liver failure. The cats ran away together, last seen on Christmas Eve 2009. One rabbit, Princess, killed its hutchmate, CuddleBuns. (Apparently, rabbits will do that. Who knew?)  Princess died two years later thanks to a poorly chosen escape route. Zachary tried to take care of a bird. After 3 died in two weeks, Petco suggested he try a slightly hardier companion, like a pet rock. Some lived well beyond the life expectancy for their species. That hamster that Thomas got in first grade was 4 years old when it passed. The hermit crab had the same longevity. And most of our goldfish lived long and got big.

The last living pet was a goldfish. I don’t recall its name and I am not about to ask Thomas what it was. The fish tank is in Thomas and Maddie’s room, but that fish has been dead for weeks and they still have no clue.  So, for now I shall call it Fishy.  Two or three years ago we were wandering through the carnival at the Weedsport Field Days. Thomas wanted to win a fish. The boy came nowhere near sinking a ping pong ball into a bowl, but the female carny leaned over, gave him a ticket, and said, “Come back later and I’ll give you a fish.” A free prize at a carnival? Such an auspicious start.

Other than that, there wasn’t much unique about Fishy. The tank was in the kid’s room between the bed and the door and didn’t command much attention.  Despite having the tank to herself for the past year, Fishy didn't seem to grow much. Every night, when I put the kids to bed, I’d drop some food in the water and watch her come to the surface to nibble. I’m guessing we, okay, I, bought the wrong type of vacation feeder, because when we returned from our 12 day trip west, Fishy was pushing up water lilies. 

No doubt about it and clearly, Fishy had died some time ago. There was no gold to be seen.  I think I could faintly see bones, but mostly it was just a grey fish shaped mass. Narrow at one end, and getting wider toward the other, the thick end was punctuated with Fishy’s big, black eye, bringing to mind one of my all-time favorite movie lines. Capt. Quint in the movie Jaws, in his gruff old fisherman voice, describing the eyes of a shark:

"Another thing about a shark is it has got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes.”

All fish are like that. No pupils. No eyebrows for emotion. Just staring. This feature being part of a fish's appeal, but also slightly vexing. Fishy couldn't 'speak' with its eyes like a dog or a human. I would expect to see something sad in its lifeless body, her eye looking out, saying “Why me? I am all that is left of the life and love that once filled this tank.”

I left Fishy there for over a week after we returned home. The kids didn’t know and could probably graduate from college and still have no clue that the fish had died a decade earlier. So, I let it be to avoid any unnecessary drama. Today, with Thomas and Madeline out of the house I could take care of the dirty work.

The scoopy net was nowhere to be found. Taking one last look at Fishy in her watery grave and Fishy coldly staring back, pitcher by pitcher I began to empty the water from the tank in order to get low enough to scoop out the remains. Three pitchers full later, I stopped to check on Fishy. She was gone. Thinking Fishy had drifted from the current, I scanned the tank. Nothing. Flicked on the lights. I looked closer,checking every corner. Looked behind the plastic anemone! Around the treasure chest! That fish was no where to be seen.

But then, something caught my eye back where Fishy had previously come to rest. I thought it was a rock, but no. The eye. Small, black, round. It was still there. Fishy had dissolved into the water. Her grey ghostly appearance had turned into an actual ghost. Casting off the physical limitations of this world, Fishy had moved on to the spirit world. Her body was just gone.

Except for the eye. It just looked at me. But now, as I looked closely into at it and reflected on the life of Fishy, I think, finally it WAS speaking to me. I leaned in, and I could hear it say,  “You bought the wrong food, dumbass.”

Lake Huron

                   Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings

                       in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.

                  Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;

                       the islands and bays are for sportsmen.

                 And farther below Lake Ontario

                       takes in what Lake Erie can send her. - Gordon Lightfoot

 

 There is no doubt that Lake Huron is a great lake. By surface area it is the 2nd biggest of the five. The shape of Huron is a cool one. It looks as if it is reaching out or like a wave of water crashing over that point in Southern Canada that intrudes on the U.S. But Lake Huron isn't THE biggest like Lake Superior and it isn't a glory hog like Lake Michigan so it doesn't get the props is deserves. Kinda like an All-Star baseball player...in Pittsburgh. Yeah, you're really good, but if you don't do it in New York, does anyone notice?


On Facebook, Lake Huron is 10,000 Likes behind leader, Lake Michigan. That ain't right.

Lake Huron's shoreline is all Michigan and Ontario and we decided that we'd make our stop in Canada. The last time Jen & I set foot in Canada, we had just one child. The post 9 - 11 atmosphere resulted in a passport requirement that put an end to our international travels. So, we secured our enhanced driver's licenses and were on or way with no plan whatsoever.

Well, we sort of had a plan. Drive across Canada and when we got to a point close to Lake Huron, drive north and there would have to be beach access somewhere, right?  Closing in on the American border at Port Huron, Jennie finds a road. Heading toward the lake, the road, trees, landscape, and barns, they all look like home, except flat, like someone took an iron to Central New York. And as we approached the lake the residential areas looked like America as well. Looking for lake access we drove through a trailer park, then a neighborhood of beach houses that were quite familiar. The same cars, boat trailers, and swimsuits & beach towels hanging out to dry that we'd see at home. And outside those home were equally familiar angry dogs yelling to us in canine Canadian, "Don't even think about stopping to ask for directions."

Directions would come from Chad. Giving up on this spot, we drove until we found a campground. Inside the store there, I met Chad. Long t-shirt, baggy shorts, and holding a large drink, this 20ish young man was exceedingly friendly and helpful. His sentences were peppered with the stereotypical Canadian, "eh", as well as lots of "dude"s. I couldn't help thinking he was the cross cultural mix of Bob & Doug McKenzie and Jeff Spicoli. If only I had my camera, I'd have gotten a picture of my 1st Lake Huron surfer dude.

Chad's directions led us to a road we had passed 3 times already. The very official looking sign, "Highland Glen Conservation Area" kept us from venturing into the dense wooded area, but that was the place. We headed down a winding gravel road into the dark forest. As we wrapped around that last curve, the trees opened up and there it was. Lake Huron.

I am a 45 year old man. I don't lead a sheltered life. I've been around. It is just a lake. I've seen lakes. I've seen oceans. So why am I so excited? The kids are sooo slow getting out of the van. It is a small public area. A boat launch to the left and a couple couples are picnicking on the grass to the right. The small slope makes it hard to see the beach, but I can tell there are 3 little girls down in the water. My kids are finally out and ready to go. "No Fun" Zachary refuses to take off his sandals, which turns out to be a good thing.

It is a short sandy beach, but you have to go down a short slope to get down to it. Thomas went first and as I get to the edge I can see him down there on his hands and knees. They are buried in the sand and  he is crying. He must have fallen, so I head down to check it out. I have been on hot sand. I've been to beaches in North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, & California. I have been in the California desert to watch the Space Shuttle land. In my life, I have never experienced sand so hot. With every step there were 100,000 grains of sand beneath my feet, each one heated to a degree somewhere mid to high degrees Kelvin. And I could feel each and every one. Thomas had buried his limbs to escape the heat. He chose fight. I chose flight and ran right past him where cartoonish steam boiled up from the cool water. Jennie couldn't do much more.


Let those among you without sin throw the first stone. When you are on a troubled aircraft and those oxygen masks drop in front of your face, they tell you to secure your own mask so you will be better able to help your child. Thomas didn't really buy it either, but I was able to direct "No Fun" Zachary, equipped with his sandals, to save his little brother. It was a nice bonding moment for them. DON'T JUDGE ME!

The lake was beautiful. Everything I hoped it'd be. Up close, the water was a little green. Seaweed stuck to our legs here and there. The rocky beach could poke a bit, but out there, it was all blue. A slight foggy haze hovered over the horizon. The girls that were swimming were accompanied by their mother. A sweet woman who was quite interested in our Great Lakes quest. She was kind enough to offer flip-flops for our trip back across the beach. She sent her daughter to deliver them, of course.

I didn't get her name, but she insisted that Lake Huron has the best sunsets of all the Great Lakes. With another 4 or so hours of driving ahead, we wouldn't be able to stick around to see it. But I suppose that is reason enough to come back. 

The Great Lakes

Growing up a Catholic school kid is the ‘70’s was pretty cool since we got days off that the public schools didn’t.  I couldn’t tell you what they were, now.  The Ascension? The Assumption? The Immaculate Conception? I don’t recall. What I remember, though is my Grandma Madeline as a superintendent and teacher at Sunbury School – a since closed small country public school in Illinois. When one of those days off would come up, I would spend the night before at my Grandma’s house and go into school with her the next day.

There is nothing like school on your day off.  I’d play with chalk, write on the blackboard. Poke around the office. Loved free use of the gym and all the balls and equipment that came with it. And sometimes I would just sit in on her middle school classes, drawing, reading, or actually paying attention.

The one lesson that I remember was on the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence Seaway. She showed a movie. And what a rare treat it was back in those days. No VCR.  It was a reel of film loaded on a projector. All about each of the Great Lakes and the creation of the St. Lawrence Seaway that allowed ships to go from Duluth, Minnesota all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. This was fascinating stuff for a young boy who generally chose to flip through an atlas when it came time to read.

Our inland watery border looked so inviting and yet so remote to me. Lake Superior might as well be the Caspian Sea. When would I ever venture to Northern Minnesota or to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula? Naturally, that distance adds to its allure and mystical aura. Lake Michigan, right up in Chicago didn’t have the same air. I saw it all the time.

 

But with the others, I could picture myself sailing off in a sort of Lord of the Rings type quest through the fog of Lake Superior to Isle Royale encountering fantastic beasts and having adventures. And now, thanks to a wedding in Northern Michigan, it was really happening. Not the fantasy. Right here in reality. And the reality was with three kids and my wife in a blue mini-van, but it would be no less an adventure.