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 The shag carpet and black and white TV of the Winnie have been replaced by Corian countertops and flat-panel HDTVs with automatic satellites.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.
