Packing Up

No pictures for today...as expected, it dawned rainy and dreary, but I was thankful we had chosen to spend an extra day waiting out the more serious weather to the south. I went to Pentwater in the morning, had a tea and yet another snickerdoodle at VGC, which is a Very Good Coffee shop indeed, filled the truck with diesel, and waited to meet my parents at Morat's Bakery in Mears. Morat's has been in business since 1915, and it has the most fantastic period oak and curved glass display cases that house row upon row of rolls, doughnuts, pastries, cookies, brownies, tarts, fudge, and on and on. They're famous for their English Muffin bread, which is shipped all over the world. A loaf is in the fifth wheel's freezer for the ride home.

The weather finally broke this afternoon, and we had dinner at Open Hearth Grille; I must say it's the best meal I've ever had on the second floor of a gas station or anywhere near any gas station for that matter. I hitched tonight and retracted all but one slide. I'm hoping and praying for a good and safe day of driving tomorrow and am lamenting saying goodbye to my parents. A little over half my life ago, I said goodbye to them as I left for college, and I still have that sad, sinking feeling each time I say goodbye all these years later.

These People Are Nuts

This morning, I had the chance to meed Howard and Linda, full-timers who have created one of the most honest and informative websites regarding full-timing I've seen - www.rv-dreams.com. I admire their openness in discussing what it really takes and what it really costs to pursue the dream of living full-time in an RV while traveling the country. They're off to Hillman, Michigan, for a golf resort where they will work a couple of days a week in exchange for their site and all the golf they can play.

After lunching in Pentwater, we decided to head to the ORV - Off-Road Vehicle - area of the Silver Lake Sand Dunes State Park. Apparently one of the big draws of this area is the 400-acre portion of the 1200-acre state park that has been set aside for off-road vehicles to traverse the dunes. While the ORV area, like almost everything else around here, is quiet for now, it's easy to see how the area could quickly turn into a recipe for disaster. After watching people on the course, combined with watching a first-timer get a five-minute lesson on how to handle a quad, plus the ever-changing nature of the dunes, it's easy to see how the dunes rarely get through a year without at least one fatality. I'm all for fun, but riding a large, relatively stable, 650 CC quad at home purely for work purposes, such as dragging the riding arena and spraying weed killer, has made me extremely respectful of the dangers of these things, and handing the keys to hundreds of newbies and turning them loose in a relatively confined area full of changeable, steep grades...count me out.


We returned to the campground, and Dad loaded his fancy metal detector into his truck and headed for the beach at the Little Sable Point lighthouse. I walked the dogs and decided to ride my bike to the lighthouse, which made for a pleasant five-mile or so ride each way. Dad was still hard at work with his detector and shovel when I arrived, and his hour-long search netted...(drumroll)...thirty-two cents.



The beach was entirely empty, and for the first time on the trip, I was able to revel in nothing more than sitting on the sand, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves. For all its grandeur, size, and, at times, stormy violence, Lake Michigan is still a lake where the water laps upon the shore rather than rolling onto it in waves.



I couldn't resist the smooth, flat pebbles washed upon the beach. While I have no plans of turning into Lucille Ball's character in The Long, Long, Long Trailer, who lugs home a rock from every place she's visited, these pebbles nonetheless fascinated me. Were they part of larger rocks that fell from the rocky cliffs in Wisconsin? How long have they tumbled about in the lake, finally to wash ashore as smooth, flat pebbles? Have they been adrift for years?



We had to call the ball tonight regarding the duration of our visit here. While my plan had been to depart early tomorrow morning, the prediction of heavy rain here and severe weather along my route home throughout the day tomorrow prompted the decision to wait things out another day, which will make for a long drive on Friday. But the idea of driving through heavy rain, thunderstorms, high winds, and hail wasn't appealing.

It's All About the Cookie

Last night was a pleasant evening; with temperatures in the 50s, Dad and I finally hopped on our bikes after toting them around for almost a week and rode into Silver Lake and around the lake itself. We'd like to thank MDOT or Oceana County or whomever the responsible party is for completing the new asphalt from the campground to the lake just in time for us to ride our bikes. I was riding along thinking about my trusty old Giant mountain bike, which I emasculated last week by putting road tires on it. I bought it my freshman year in college and rode it all around campus for almost four years, lashed it to the back of my old Honda for spring breaks in Myrtle Beach and Pensacola Beach, moved it with me to St. Louis, wrecked it hard at Castlewood State Park, and took it on vacations in Colorado, Door County, the Outer Banks, and everywhere in between. It was replaced as my primary bike two years ago by a new Cannondale, but the Giant still travels with me. I waxed nostalgic about it until about three miles into the ride, when my backside reminded me the Giant's original saddle wasn't holding up quite as well as the rest of the bike. Almost two decades equals crunchy foam. I need to remedy that when I get home.


This morning dawned, as predicted, cold, rainy, and windy. I woke up with only one goal for the day - to replenish my cookie supply in the trailer with real bakery cookies, not grocery mini-frisbees - and then managed to blow almost three entire hours doing nothing more than catching up on email and watching a movie. We headed into Silver Lake for lunch at the same restaurant where I had thrown away Dad's cell phone two days earlier. For those keeping score, I picked a time to vacation in Michigan when it's cold, rainy...and desolate, with almost nothing open for the season yet. Take a look at the dining room of the Sands Restaurant, the only restaurant in town that's even open, during lunch hour:


It was then off to Muskegon (boooor-ring) and down to Grand Haven. For those still keeping score, I also picked a time when the entire state of Michigan, from the road outside our campground to the main drag in downtown Grand Haven, is under construction. However, my cookie goal was fulfilled by a bakery in Grand Haven, and I saw the Pere Marquette 1223, sister to the operable 1225. I was pleased with the condition of the locomotive, including what looked to be abatement of the boiler lagging. I was even more pleased by the positioning of the exhibit next to a coal tower.


The navigation pier light and house in Grand Haven were attractive, even through the wind and rain. Mom worked some magic on the teenager working the entrance gate to the state park to get through without paying the vehicle fee so I could play tourist for a moment.


So, as I settle in for the evening, two questions loom: Do I drive the entire 540 miles home on Thursday, even though my pet sitter isn't expecting me until Saturday, or do I take my chances finding a good campground in Illinois for Thursday night and get home Friday? And, given how splendidly I've done with planning this trip (not), where do I go in late August, when I again have Gina, the Fabulous Sitter, scheduled for a week? Colorado? Door County? Eastern North Carolina? After all, the best way to get over the end of one trip is to start planning the next.

I've Seen Sunshine...

Finally, a full - well, up until 3 PM, anyway, but close enough - day of sunshine today. Not that it was balmy, or anything; the lows last night plunged into the mid-20s, leaving a hard coating of frost on the truck and everything else. I was glad for the Mobile Suites and its thick walls and double-paned windows, especially when Dad told me they blew a circuit at 1 AM using electric heaters in their trailer.


Dad. Here's the man who taught me how to throw a ball and broke me of the habit of one-handed catches like former Reds outfielder Dave Parker. Who took me out into the middle of nowhere in our '86 Ford F-250 with a granny gear and told me to drive us home, thereby teaching me to drive a stick. Who survived being thrown through a plate glass picture window by his twin brother when they were young and then survived my grandfather's reaction to that plate glass window being broken. Who survived six years of the seminary before (thankfully, for my brother and me) deciding he wanted a family instead. Who spent most of his life raising beagles and being a real dog guy.

Now, it's come to this.


Yes, he's walking the cat. With a pink leash.

It was then off to recap yesterday for Mom, who arrived last night. We went back to the Little Sable Point light, which photographs very well at 9 AM and 40 degrees when everyone else is smart enough to stay off the beach.



We then headed to the famous sand dunes of Silver Lake. Brighter, or, as I like to think, lazier people than I do things like rent quads or dune buggies or ride with Mac Woods on their dune trucks to traverse the dunes. Me - I climb hills like this, thinking Lake Michigan is just on the other side:



After scurrying up that hill, at one point climbing on all fours like a monkey to combat the sheer grade of it, I realized instead the dunes go on for easily another mile or so before dropping to Lake Michigan. At least the view was good.



We then headed up to Ludington and enjoyed a good lunch at House of Flavors, known more for its ice cream than its food. But my omelet - because breakfast is good any time of day - was really tasty. From there it was up to Manistee, known for its Victorian architecture. I tried to sneak into the historic Ramsdell Theater but was thwarted by a school teacher of all things. Having been raised by two school teachers, I thought I'd rely upon my tried-and-true polite/curious/academic -type approach, but it got me nowhere with this particular fellow.



Tomorrow could be interesting; clouds are already rolling in for what is predicted to be a gulley-washer of a day. My prediction - some down time in the trailer.

Lost and Found, Part Deux (or Never Let Molly Touch Your Stuff)

Today began crisply - I didn't know how crisply until I put the slides in and chunks of ice fell off the slide toppers - but, happily, with a bright blue sky. I decided to be a hospitable neighbor to the Boston Terrier people and wait to dump my holding tanks until they finished grilling their bacon and eggs outside their motorhome. The husband thanked me by staring intently as I hitched up, almost as if he were waiting for me to do something stupid. Thankfully, I didn't - that would come later.

The drive from South Haven to our next stop, Silver Lake near Mears, Michigan, was pleasant and surprisingly quick. I am fascinated by the cruisers of the Michigan State Police. Regardless of whether they're Crown Vics or Chargers, the "blue gooses" still wear a single red rotating beacon light on their roofs and a "STOP" shark fin on their hoods, which dates to the days of the side stop, wherein officers would pull alongside a motorist and activate the shark fin to signify the motorist to pull over. I don't want to experience this phenomenon first-hand, but I admire the nod to tradition.

We're at Silver Creek RV Resort, one of the cleanest, nicest, friendliest campgrounds I've yet experienced. And I'm proud to report I was able to back into my site with an audience of three couples across the way, all of whom had more wisely, perhaps, chosen pull-through sites.















After setting up and eating lunch, we hopped in Dad's truck - it's rather nice having a truck perceived as too big in which to sightsee, so my truck usually stays back at the campground - and drove around Silver Lake and up to Pentwater.















After walking along the navigation channel and experiencing standing out on a navigation pier in 45-degree weather, we decided to stop at a local coffee shop, where Dad got brave and rather metropolitan by trying a mocha for the first time in his life. His impeccably brilliant and concise take on it was that it tasted a little like chocolate and a little like coffee. He ordered a scone, and I couldn't resist a snickerdoodle. After ribbing the high school- and college-age staff about how much better Ohio State is than Michigan, we were handed the scone and the cookie in a white paper bag. This becomes important later.















We then headed back toward Silver Lake, stopped at a restaurant we had seen earlier to check out the hours and to drop our empty cups and the bag in the trash, and then went on to the Little Sable Point lighthouse. I'm a sucker for lighthouses anyway, but I have a particular affinity for unpainted brick lighthouses. I am immensely impressed by the skill of masons more than a century ago who were able to lay thousands of perfect courses of brick punctuated by limestone lintels and sills for windows as well as wrought iron walkways. Little Sable Point, still an active light, is on par with the Currituck light on the Outer Banks in my mind.


We then headed back to the campground, where I undertook my mid-trip de-hairing of the back seat of the truck. If you want a smart and tough Lab, get a black one. If you want a slick-coated one that doesn't shed quite as much but could potentially have rocks between its ears, get a chocolate. If you want a sweet-natured one that sheds like crazy, get a yellow. In the midst of vacuuming, Dad came over looking for his cell phone. In a repeat of yesterday, we looked in the truck - this time his. We looked in the trailer - this time his. Just like yesterday, we retraced our steps. And there it was - in a trash can at the Sands Restaurant inside a certain white paper bag. In an utterly brilliant move that topped yesterday, I had thrown my father's cell phone in the trash. At this rate, I will manage to lose the entire truck and trailer before this trip is over.

Good thing this is Mother's Day and not Father's Day.

Lost and Found

The old salt in me (okay, so maybe running a 22' Cobalt on Table Rock Lake doesn't actually make me an old salt) rather likes vacationing in an area where they refer to "gales" rather than plain old wind. I just don't know that I want to vacation there during the gales.

This morning brought rain, temperatures in the low thirties, and winds in the 15-25 MPH range with gusts reaching 45 MPH. The day began to look like a loss, and then I really lost something.

Those who know me know I hate carrying a purse. I don't even like the word; I have a little Tom Bihn metro bag that actually rarely travels far from being stuffed under the seat of my car. Instead, I have a tiny little thing - I wouldn't call it a bag or even a wallet - that purposely holds nothing more than my phone, my debit card, my driver's license, and a little bit of cash. But this morning, it was no where to be found.

I tore apart the trailer. I tore apart the truck. At one point I had my arm stuffed so far underneath the driver's seat of my truck that I began to lose feeling in my fingers. I went through every jacket pocket. I dumped the laundry bag out on the floor. I pulled every cushion off the couch.

Then Dad and I drove to the last place I definitively remembered having it, a gas station some 25 miles away. I knew it wasn't there, but a tiny little glimmer of hope that it might miraculously be in their lost and found drawer was enough to draw me there. That glimmer was quickly and not very gracefully snuffed out by the slightly bearded woman behind the counter. I began to panic at the thought of a week spent with no driver's license and no debit card some 400 miles away from home.

So, back to the campground we went. I pulled a flashlight out and went to work, shining it in every nook and cranny of the trailer. And then, like a gift from above, there it was...under the back of the TV where I had stuffed it the day before trying to prop the TV up at a better angle so I could watch a movie from the couch.
















With what felt like a new lease on the day - and the trip - Dad and I set off for the Michigan Maritime Museum. Although Dad couldn't wait to tell the man who took our admission that I am the director of a museum, I have mixed feelings about visiting museums. As a professor in graduate school predicted some fifteen years ago, once I began working in museums, I have since failed to see or even enjoy them in the same way. This one, however, was so simple, straightforward, and honest that it was hard not to enjoy it. A highlight was a visit to the restoration shop with its glorious smells of cedar and linseed oil and its engaging manager, who illuminated for me the virtues of using sassafrass wood in restoration, which might be a promising replacement for the white and red oak we so often use but that has issues of its own related to its acidity.
















Then, the feasting began. I have a few rules when it comes to traveling. One is actually a process for mitigating, um, "cleanliness" issues with public toilets that I won't outline here. The other is an abject aversion to chain restaurants of any kind unless they are an absolute necessity during marathon interstate highway runs. In every other instance, the best of local fare must be sought, and "best" doesn't equate to "most expensive." It means the places the locals revere and the places that punctuate trips with great gastric memories. Today featured not one but two such institutions.

A slice of pie heaven is in little Fennville, Michigan, at Crane's Pie Pantry and Restaurant, open since 1919 and set in the midst of acres and acres of orchards. I try to eat healthy for the most part and yadda yadda, but darn it, good pie is good pie, and this was great pie. I love apple pie that celebrates the apples and doesn't hide under overwrought, butter-crumb-dutch-cinnamon-sugar-whatever crust. This slice of pie was all about the apple, and if I hadn't been in a public place, I would have licked the plate.
















In a continued celebration of all that is great about Midwestern dining, we went to Sherman's Dairy Bar in South Haven, where a yellowed newspaper clipping on the wall celebrated the ice cream bar's opening in July 1958, complete with pony rides and balloons. I forced Dad to get over his shock at the menu price of $2.60 (when did he turn into Grandpa, who actually did live through the Depression?) and order that scoop of butter pecan he coveted so, and after they handed him a six-inch waffle cone stuffed full with another five inches of ice cream above the cone, he stopped complaining and got to work. How could a half-century -old ice cream bar with a blue cow on the roof do you wrong?

The day I had feared lost ended up being found underneath a TV and then in boats, pie, ice cream, and - finally - sunshine.

Rain, rain...Day 2

The day began with a rumble of thunder that woke me up at 6:15 AM (5:15 my time...is it possible to have jet lag between the Central and Eastern time zones?). I debated whether to get up and take the dogs out before the rain or sleep a little longer, so I laid in bed awake and ended up standing in the pouring rain hoping like anything Greta would just pick a spot and GO.

After breakfast, Dad called from his trailer in a minor panic because he couldn't find Amelia, Mom and Dad's beloved cat. He had torn apart every cabinet and drawer and looked under everything. Knowing how outgoing she is, I figured she might come out if I went over to the trailer. After she came slinking out from under the love seat less than twenty seconds after I walked in his trailer, Dad was caught somewhere between relief and embarrassment.



We then headed to Saugatuck, a quiet, charming art community north of South Haven. While I'm not really one for shopping in quaint little stores - unless it's for dog collars, my weakness - I can appreciate why the National Trust for Historic Places named Saugatuck and neighboring Douglas a distinctive community for their preservation of their built historic resources. Then, at the peak of the Tulip Time Festival, it was off to Holland...

The "world-famous Dutch Dancers" are actually kids from the Holland-area high schools. They were really good - good dancers and, from the looks of it, good kids - but my notoriously short attention span during performances of any kind left me wondering. Do the kids volunteer, or do children in Holland grow up knowing they're destined to dance a Dutch Dance on Main Street as part of their passage to adulthood? Did the Dutch invent and perform these dances sober or while tipping back a frothy mug or two or five? How do they keep those shoes from flying off when they kick?



Afternoon has brought us - and more rain - back to the campground. I'd like to think I'm friendly and all, but I can't quite figure out why, when only about twenty of the nearly 150 sites here are filled, the office put someone in right beside me. They seem very nice albeit a bit vocal, but they have two yappy Boston Terriers, one of which is a teacup, as though a regular Boston Terrier isn't small enough. The teacup - named Angel in the kind of irony with which only people with teacup or otherwise made-up "breeds" can name their dogs - came running out yapping at me and paying no heed to her owners as I turned my water back on. It didn't bother me at all, and when the owners seemed horrified that I might be scared of little Angel, I had to bite my tongue so as not to inform them either of the dogs in my trailer could eat sweet little Angel without even chewing. I didn't want to give them the wrong impression so soon.

Ahhh, rain, cold weather, sleepy dogs, heater on...movie time.

Travel Day

Today was day one of my trip to western Michigan to spend a week camping with my parents. The last time I camped in Michigan with my parents, we used my uncle's 1978 Winnebago Brave...when it was almost new. I vaguely recall wooden shoes in Holland and vividly recall being so terrified the winds on the Mackinac bridge would sweep the boxy, top-heavy Winnie right over into the water that I hid under the bed in the rear of the motorhome.

Things are a bit different now. My parents' hair is gray or graying, my hair is not yet gray but definitely graying (oh, the horrors!), and we travel in different rigs. The shag carpet and black and white TV of the Winnie have been replaced by Corian countertops and flat-panel HDTVs with automatic satellites. I hesitate to call it camping, but as long as it requires me handling sewer hoses, I think it earns that right.

The drive was mercifully uneventful; I actually left by my 6 AM goal and was aided by light traffic, good weather, a truck I love, and some guidance and state-by-state laws and emergency contact numbers provided by a kind Missouri state trooper who appeared with a seat belt convincer at an event we held at the Museum of Transportation last weekend. I was really glad I remembered his advice about following vehicles ahead of me when the rear window flew out of a mid-90s gutless Cutlass in front of me right in the middle of the I-57/I-80/94 interchange, providing the only excitement of the drive up. Thankfully, I was far enough back that I was able to change lanes and barely miss the window frame and shattered glass.

I set up at the campground, and Dad and I (Mom arrives Sunday) ate at Clementines, housed in a gorgeous Richardsonian Romanesque bank building, in downtown South Haven. As I write this later in the evening, Sam and Greta, the traveling Labradors, are crashed. On this rare occasion, Sam scored the big bed.