Fox 32 was airing the 1998 Halloween episode of The Simpsons when she called. I’d been expecting to hear from her, we had tentative plans. Her name showed up on my cell phone and I answered in a goofy voice. “Hellooooooooo Angelica,” I said, like the Big Bopper at the beginning of Chantilly Lace.
“Hi,” she said. And then: “so, my dad died.”
I can’t remember exactly what I said next, but there was at least one expletive, and expressions of shock and sympathy. As she explained the circumstances of her father's death my cat pressed her head into an empty yogurt cup that I’d left on the living room floor, and the 8 oz. container stuck to her face. “I’m sorry Angelica,” I said, as my cat tried to back out from the plastic cup, her shoulders lifting and dropping dramatically as she stepped backwards, like a film noir actress backing away from danger.
Earlier that day I’d fallen while running the trail in Horner Park; a root tripped me and as I flew through the air I tried to land with the least amount of damage, ending up on my stomach and chest, arms splayed wide. I wasn’t badly hurt, a smallish bruise showed up on my right knee a few hours later, but my hands, which had acted as brakes in the dirt, were fine. I dusted myself off and continued running. Now the moment seemed symbolic.
Angelica is in North Carolina now, where her brother lives... where her father died. Soon they will make the trek back to their hometown in Michigan, where funeral services will be held. I’ve been thinking about her a lot today.
Showing posts with label Michigan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michigan. Show all posts
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
September 27th - On the way back from Grand Rapids
The roads were clear until we got to the Dan Ryan, where traffic was heavy. A man in the car next to us rolled down his window, pulled a piece of bright green gum from his mouth, and dropped it out the open window. It stuck to the door of his SUV like a gigantic booger. I hope that piece of chewed up gum stayed on that car the whole way home.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
September 26th - Notes from The Brayton House
I. I first came here in May with Angelica, we needed a hotel in Grand Rapids on our way to and from the U.P. We wanted something close to the Amtrak station, and were hoping for something cheap. Someone was smart enough to make their website bandbofgrandrapids; it was the first listing that came up when I typed those words into a Google search. "Goooood morning, Brayton House, this is George, how can I help you?" a man with a radio announcer's voice answered when I called. I told him the dates we needed, and he described each of the three rooms available -- what kind of bed was in it, how much it cost per night. The smaller rooms were $80 a night, and the big room with bay windows was somehow only $5 more. I said we wanted the big room, and asked if it was possible to get two beds. George paused, and asked: "Well, what's the situation, are you two ladies?" "Yes," I said, barely containing the urge to laugh. "There's a cot that we can bring in but it's not very comfortable," he said. I said it was probably fine just to have the one bed, but before booking the room he made me call Angelica first to clear it with her. "No way, I'm not sleeping with you," she said, in her flattest sarcastic voice, which can be mistaken as serious if you don't know better. I called back to reserve the room, and George asked if I had a credit card. "Just to hold the room," he explained, "we accept cash, checks, and credit cards, but we prefer cash because the bank fees are killing us." "Okay," I said. "We take Visa, MasterCard, and American Express," he continued, "do you have one of those?" "Yes," said. "Well if you've got that rascal out, I'll take the number now," he said. I relayed this tidbit to Angelica. "All I can say is," she said, "welcome to my people."
II. In our room, there were stacks of old magazines: Smithsonian; National Geographic; The New Yorker. I read a 1976 New Yorker article on the Carter v. Ford Presidential race.
III. In every room is a sheet of paper that explains, in flowery, italicized font, the house rules:
No rules - No regulations
Most of our guests are ladies and gentlemen, who are just naturally decent and orderly, and are considerate of the rights of others, therefore, the "rules and regulations" they have applied to their own lives are much better than any printed list we might suggest.
To that very small minority of people who through ignorance or just plain cussedness, smoke or burn candles in the building, endangering the lives of all our guests, who drink loud and long, who have their televisions going full blast when others have turned in for the night, who think it is their (right) privelege (sic) to take towels and other articles when they leave, who throw refuse most anyplace, who feel the entire water supply belongs to them, who allows (sic) their children to roam the building without supervision, and who leave a dirty mess in the rooms.
A list of "rules and regulations" a mile long wouldn't change their habits of living, therefore, none has been applied.
We enjoy having you as our guest and hope your stay is pleasant and memorable.
IV. Also in every room is a brief history of the house, typed on letterhead with a black and white rendering of the building in the header:
THE BRAYTON HOUSE
516 College Street
James P. Brayton was the builder and original owner of the house we are enjoying this evening.
Mr. Brayton was born November 23, 1840 in the state of Wisconsin. At age 15 he moved to Michigan and earned his living as a county surveyor in Ottawa County. He was assisted in his job by his father. Through this position he came in contact with men who were making history in Michigan lumbering operations. Some of these individuals were: T.R. Lyons, T. Steward White, and Thomas Friant. Mr. Brayton himself became well known all over the United States.
In addition to buying and selling lumber for himself, his signature was accepted as the last word regarding the value of standing lumber. Mr. Brayton was a quiet man and aside from being an early member of the Masonic Lodge, he was not a figure in society and did not take part in public life. He built this house in 1889. The architecture of the house is called Georgian Revival and it is listed on the National Historical register.
The next owner of this house was Stewart Foote, President of Imperial Furniture Company, which at one time was the largest manufacture (sic) of quality tables in America. Mr. Foote occupied the house from 1920-1935.
In 1935, James McInerny, (President of McInerny Spring and Wire Company, the world's largest manufacturer of seat springs for automobiles) purchased the home. He and his family lived here until 1945. During their ownership, the kitchen and bathrooms were remodeled and wallpapers were put up. They also adjusted the size of the ballroom on the third floor in order to add three extra bedrooms. The Carriage House was made into living quarters at about the same time.
In 1945, Mr. McInerny gave the house to the Catholic Diocese and it was used as a residence for priests until 1970.
Mr. Walter Kehres, Director of Waldon Village, an alternative high school, purchased the home in 1970.
In September 1971, the property was bought by Gene and Phyllis Ball. Mr. Ball passed away in 1976. Mrs. Ball continues to reside in the home, as well as rent out some of the guest rooms to tenants.
V. Phyllis likes to serve breakfast early. I'm here again in September, this time with my husband. We're visiting Holly and Jeremy, who were already putting up several people in their apartment; the Brayton House is only about a mile from them. "What time do you want breakfast?" Phyllis asked us when we checked in. "We're here visiting friends, and we'll probably sleep late tomorrow," I said. "So, nine o'clock?" She asked, her unblinking eyes fixed on me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. M considered saying something jokey about nine o'clock not really being late, at least not to us, but reconsidered. "Um, we're meeting our friends for breakfast," I said, "I don't want to trouble you with making breakfast for us, but thanks."
VI. Phyllis reminds me of David Letterman's mother.
VII. Phyllis leaves two After Eight mints on a little red tray on the nightstand when she makes up the room. Angelica thought they were condoms.
VII. There's a WiFi connection, but it's not very good.
IX. I went for a run in the morning, then took a shower. Phyllis opened the door to the bathroom while I was drying off. I gasped as I saw the top of her gray head, which only comes up to my shoulders, and held a bright yellow towel between my body and the widening crack in the door. "Oh sorry," she said loudly, closing the door, "sorry, I wasn't sure where you'd gone or where you were." "That's okay," I said from inside the bathroom.
X. There are 20 rooms in this house, and only 3 are rented out to guests. There's an entire floor I haven't seen, not to mention the carriage house. The wallpaper, bathroom and kitchen fixtures date from 1935-1945. Antiques and curios are everywhere, including quilts hung from picture molding on the walls.
XI. Someone at the end of the hall, in the residential part of the house, has a TV or radio turned on at a low volume all day, and I can hear people walking on the floor above us.
XII. In May, on our way back from the U.P., Angelica and I stayed in the same room with the bay windows that we'd stayed in on our way north. We sat on the porch eating burgers from Black Castles - a burger joint that looks like it operates out of the converted living room of somebody's house, has a pool table, framed photos of Malcolm X and Tupac, and a TV set that blared infotainment news when we walked in. Our order came to $7.50; the cashier - who was the only other person there besides us, couldn't break $8 so he gave us back $1. Angelica found two quarters in her purse so that we could pay what we owed. On the walk back, we realized we'd just visited the neighborhood where, back when the Brayton House was first built, the day servants lived. A group of Heritage Hill tourists stared at us from across the street. One of them walked over to us and asked: "Do you own this house?".
"Yes," Angelica said, in her flattest sarcastic voice, which can be mistaken for serious if you don't know better.
II. In our room, there were stacks of old magazines: Smithsonian; National Geographic; The New Yorker. I read a 1976 New Yorker article on the Carter v. Ford Presidential race.
III. In every room is a sheet of paper that explains, in flowery, italicized font, the house rules:
No rules - No regulations
Most of our guests are ladies and gentlemen, who are just naturally decent and orderly, and are considerate of the rights of others, therefore, the "rules and regulations" they have applied to their own lives are much better than any printed list we might suggest.
To that very small minority of people who through ignorance or just plain cussedness, smoke or burn candles in the building, endangering the lives of all our guests, who drink loud and long, who have their televisions going full blast when others have turned in for the night, who think it is their (right) privelege (sic) to take towels and other articles when they leave, who throw refuse most anyplace, who feel the entire water supply belongs to them, who allows (sic) their children to roam the building without supervision, and who leave a dirty mess in the rooms.
A list of "rules and regulations" a mile long wouldn't change their habits of living, therefore, none has been applied.
We enjoy having you as our guest and hope your stay is pleasant and memorable.
IV. Also in every room is a brief history of the house, typed on letterhead with a black and white rendering of the building in the header:
THE BRAYTON HOUSE
516 College Street
James P. Brayton was the builder and original owner of the house we are enjoying this evening.
Mr. Brayton was born November 23, 1840 in the state of Wisconsin. At age 15 he moved to Michigan and earned his living as a county surveyor in Ottawa County. He was assisted in his job by his father. Through this position he came in contact with men who were making history in Michigan lumbering operations. Some of these individuals were: T.R. Lyons, T. Steward White, and Thomas Friant. Mr. Brayton himself became well known all over the United States.
In addition to buying and selling lumber for himself, his signature was accepted as the last word regarding the value of standing lumber. Mr. Brayton was a quiet man and aside from being an early member of the Masonic Lodge, he was not a figure in society and did not take part in public life. He built this house in 1889. The architecture of the house is called Georgian Revival and it is listed on the National Historical register.
The next owner of this house was Stewart Foote, President of Imperial Furniture Company, which at one time was the largest manufacture (sic) of quality tables in America. Mr. Foote occupied the house from 1920-1935.
In 1935, James McInerny, (President of McInerny Spring and Wire Company, the world's largest manufacturer of seat springs for automobiles) purchased the home. He and his family lived here until 1945. During their ownership, the kitchen and bathrooms were remodeled and wallpapers were put up. They also adjusted the size of the ballroom on the third floor in order to add three extra bedrooms. The Carriage House was made into living quarters at about the same time.
In 1945, Mr. McInerny gave the house to the Catholic Diocese and it was used as a residence for priests until 1970.
Mr. Walter Kehres, Director of Waldon Village, an alternative high school, purchased the home in 1970.
In September 1971, the property was bought by Gene and Phyllis Ball. Mr. Ball passed away in 1976. Mrs. Ball continues to reside in the home, as well as rent out some of the guest rooms to tenants.
V. Phyllis likes to serve breakfast early. I'm here again in September, this time with my husband. We're visiting Holly and Jeremy, who were already putting up several people in their apartment; the Brayton House is only about a mile from them. "What time do you want breakfast?" Phyllis asked us when we checked in. "We're here visiting friends, and we'll probably sleep late tomorrow," I said. "So, nine o'clock?" She asked, her unblinking eyes fixed on me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. M considered saying something jokey about nine o'clock not really being late, at least not to us, but reconsidered. "Um, we're meeting our friends for breakfast," I said, "I don't want to trouble you with making breakfast for us, but thanks."
VI. Phyllis reminds me of David Letterman's mother.
VII. Phyllis leaves two After Eight mints on a little red tray on the nightstand when she makes up the room. Angelica thought they were condoms.
VII. There's a WiFi connection, but it's not very good.
IX. I went for a run in the morning, then took a shower. Phyllis opened the door to the bathroom while I was drying off. I gasped as I saw the top of her gray head, which only comes up to my shoulders, and held a bright yellow towel between my body and the widening crack in the door. "Oh sorry," she said loudly, closing the door, "sorry, I wasn't sure where you'd gone or where you were." "That's okay," I said from inside the bathroom.
X. There are 20 rooms in this house, and only 3 are rented out to guests. There's an entire floor I haven't seen, not to mention the carriage house. The wallpaper, bathroom and kitchen fixtures date from 1935-1945. Antiques and curios are everywhere, including quilts hung from picture molding on the walls.
XI. Someone at the end of the hall, in the residential part of the house, has a TV or radio turned on at a low volume all day, and I can hear people walking on the floor above us.
XII. In May, on our way back from the U.P., Angelica and I stayed in the same room with the bay windows that we'd stayed in on our way north. We sat on the porch eating burgers from Black Castles - a burger joint that looks like it operates out of the converted living room of somebody's house, has a pool table, framed photos of Malcolm X and Tupac, and a TV set that blared infotainment news when we walked in. Our order came to $7.50; the cashier - who was the only other person there besides us, couldn't break $8 so he gave us back $1. Angelica found two quarters in her purse so that we could pay what we owed. On the walk back, we realized we'd just visited the neighborhood where, back when the Brayton House was first built, the day servants lived. A group of Heritage Hill tourists stared at us from across the street. One of them walked over to us and asked: "Do you own this house?".
"Yes," Angelica said, in her flattest sarcastic voice, which can be mistaken for serious if you don't know better.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sunday, September 5th - Postcards of Michigan (now with improved photos!)
A selection of postcards that I found today at the Jackson Antique mall in LaGrange, IL. Please pardon the terrible iPhone photos - only two kinda sorta came out once I emailed them to myself and tried to upload them here - the other three keep coming out upside down. I'd work on this more but it's 11:41 - I only have 19 minutes left for today's post! If I'm feeling less crabby about it, maybe tomorrow I'll use a real camera and make it prettier. (Update: the husband helped me fix it! Yay!)
Postmark: April 1966, Grand Rapids, MI
Card showing the interior of Finger's Restaurant, Grand Rapids, MI.
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text:
"Michigan's Early American Show Place"
4981 Plainefield N.E. Grand Rapids, Mich 49505
Tel 363-3836
Shown is the unique Country Store, which is only one of the many pleasant surprises in store for you along with a dining experience you will long remember. Your Hosts - The Fingers
Handwritten message:
Dear Mom, Dad, & Grandma;
I had the school send Sue some applications and I sent Mark some information. I wish Doug would forget what Beth told him. Won't be long now til youth conference. The weather is very nice. It reminds me of last year at youth conference. Mickey got some crazy slides of dorm life at our dorm once. He says they're going to be in the year book & that he's going to show them at Y.C. I hope he's kidding. I'll die.
Dave
Postmark: Aug 4 1927, 5pm, Oshkosh, Wis.
Text on front of card: "No. 149 View In John Ball Park, Grand Rapids, Mich."
Mailed to an address in Waupaca, Wisconsin
Handwritten message:
Dear (name unclear),
If it isn't stormy we will come Sun. morning. Hope you are all well by now. Papa seems a little stronger this week.
With Love,
Mother
Thur. P.M.
Identical cards showing a photo of the Upper Tahquamenon Falls, both postmarked: Aug 15 1961, 9am, Paradise, MI. One addressed to Mrs. Anna Mae Angus of Morris, IL; the other to Mr. and Mrs. Don Angus of Joliet, IL. Both have handwritten messages written in green ink.
Printed text:
Upper Tahquamenon Falls
In Michigan's Upper Peninsula
White waters created by the powerful fall of water as it drops close to 40 feet from the rim of the Upper Falls of the Tahquamenon River, gives the camera enthusiast a beautiful subject for his pictures.
Handwritten message #1:
Hi Gram - having a real swell time. So far we have really seen a lot of pretty country. We saw these falls today. Going on to Green Bay Wis. tomorrow. - See you soon
Love,
Jim (your grandson)
Handwritten message #2:
This is beautiful country. These falls are really pretty. We enjoyed the island very much. The kids rode bikes & Ben & I walked. Probably get to Green Bay tomorrow.
The Angus Clan
Postmark: Aug 15 1958, Naubinway, Mich.
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Defiance, OH
Printed text: This engineering masterpiece, one of man's truly great achievements, forms a 4-lane ribbon of highway over the turbulent straits of Macinac(sic) between St. Ignace and Mackinaw City, Michigan. Its contribution to the economy of Upper Michigan and the North Country cannot help but be significant. The overall length makes it the longest bridge of its type in the world. Opened in November of 1957, it carries thousands and thousands of vehicles between the two great peninsulas of Michigan.
Handwritten message:
We hope you folks are making plans to come up to the club. This bridge is something to see - weather very good.
Love - Elsie T. Glasser
Postmark: Aug 29, 1961 Mackinaw City, MI
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text: connecting the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan was opened for traffic on Nov. 1st, 1957. It is the world's longest and most expensive suspension bridge, the length being almost 5 miles. The towers are 752 ft. high, of which 552 ft. are above water. Clearance at the center is 150 ft. It carries 4 lanes of traffic which are regulated by signals operated from a control system at headquarters in St. Ignace.
Handwritten message:
Hi
Arrived up here today at 10:00 A.M. Left yesterday and took a couple tours in two different cities. Had a real cute cabin last night at Big Rapids. Sure is pretty here. Will see you soon.
Love,
Caryl Art & All
Postmark: April 1966, Grand Rapids, MI
Card showing the interior of Finger's Restaurant, Grand Rapids, MI.
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text:
"Michigan's Early American Show Place"
4981 Plainefield N.E. Grand Rapids, Mich 49505
Tel 363-3836
Shown is the unique Country Store, which is only one of the many pleasant surprises in store for you along with a dining experience you will long remember. Your Hosts - The Fingers
Handwritten message:
Dear Mom, Dad, & Grandma;
I had the school send Sue some applications and I sent Mark some information. I wish Doug would forget what Beth told him. Won't be long now til youth conference. The weather is very nice. It reminds me of last year at youth conference. Mickey got some crazy slides of dorm life at our dorm once. He says they're going to be in the year book & that he's going to show them at Y.C. I hope he's kidding. I'll die.
Dave
Postmark: Aug 4 1927, 5pm, Oshkosh, Wis.
Text on front of card: "No. 149 View In John Ball Park, Grand Rapids, Mich."
Mailed to an address in Waupaca, Wisconsin
Handwritten message:
Dear (name unclear),
If it isn't stormy we will come Sun. morning. Hope you are all well by now. Papa seems a little stronger this week.
With Love,
Mother
Thur. P.M.
Identical cards showing a photo of the Upper Tahquamenon Falls, both postmarked: Aug 15 1961, 9am, Paradise, MI. One addressed to Mrs. Anna Mae Angus of Morris, IL; the other to Mr. and Mrs. Don Angus of Joliet, IL. Both have handwritten messages written in green ink.
Printed text:
Upper Tahquamenon Falls
In Michigan's Upper Peninsula
White waters created by the powerful fall of water as it drops close to 40 feet from the rim of the Upper Falls of the Tahquamenon River, gives the camera enthusiast a beautiful subject for his pictures.
Handwritten message #1:
Hi Gram - having a real swell time. So far we have really seen a lot of pretty country. We saw these falls today. Going on to Green Bay Wis. tomorrow. - See you soon
Love,
Jim (your grandson)
Handwritten message #2:
This is beautiful country. These falls are really pretty. We enjoyed the island very much. The kids rode bikes & Ben & I walked. Probably get to Green Bay tomorrow.
The Angus Clan
Postmark: Aug 15 1958, Naubinway, Mich.
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Defiance, OH
Printed text: This engineering masterpiece, one of man's truly great achievements, forms a 4-lane ribbon of highway over the turbulent straits of Macinac(sic) between St. Ignace and Mackinaw City, Michigan. Its contribution to the economy of Upper Michigan and the North Country cannot help but be significant. The overall length makes it the longest bridge of its type in the world. Opened in November of 1957, it carries thousands and thousands of vehicles between the two great peninsulas of Michigan.
Handwritten message:
We hope you folks are making plans to come up to the club. This bridge is something to see - weather very good.
Love - Elsie T. Glasser
Postmark: Aug 29, 1961 Mackinaw City, MI
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text: connecting the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan was opened for traffic on Nov. 1st, 1957. It is the world's longest and most expensive suspension bridge, the length being almost 5 miles. The towers are 752 ft. high, of which 552 ft. are above water. Clearance at the center is 150 ft. It carries 4 lanes of traffic which are regulated by signals operated from a control system at headquarters in St. Ignace.
Handwritten message:
Hi
Arrived up here today at 10:00 A.M. Left yesterday and took a couple tours in two different cities. Had a real cute cabin last night at Big Rapids. Sure is pretty here. Will see you soon.
Love,
Caryl Art & All
Friday, May 7, 2010
Going to the U.P., and getting tighter on the comment moderation
Later this evening I'll be heading up to Michigan for about a week and a half, and chances are I won't have much Internet access, so while I'll be writing, there won't be any posts for a while.
I also wanted to let you know I changed my comment moderation so that I have to clear your comments before they appear on the blog - this isn't because I don't love comments, on the contrary I ADORE them! Its just that lately I've been getting some really weird comments in Chinese, and when I get them translated in Babblefish they come out like this, for example:
Before the being frustrated person, do not discuss the self-satisfied matter; Before the self-satisfied person, do not discuss the being frustrated matter
This seems innocuous enough, but then there's always a link hidden in the comment in the form of an ellipsis that takes me to a page of Chinese ladies in underpants, and well, I'd just really prefer not to have that kind of content linked to my blog.
Have a good week, and I'll get back to posting soon.
JP
I also wanted to let you know I changed my comment moderation so that I have to clear your comments before they appear on the blog - this isn't because I don't love comments, on the contrary I ADORE them! Its just that lately I've been getting some really weird comments in Chinese, and when I get them translated in Babblefish they come out like this, for example:
Before the being frustrated person, do not discuss the self-satisfied matter; Before the self-satisfied person, do not discuss the being frustrated matter
This seems innocuous enough, but then there's always a link hidden in the comment in the form of an ellipsis that takes me to a page of Chinese ladies in underpants, and well, I'd just really prefer not to have that kind of content linked to my blog.
Have a good week, and I'll get back to posting soon.
JP
Sunday, August 9, 2009
97 In The Shade
It is hot as blazes. According to WGN chief meteorologist and Chicago institution Tom Skilling, the 1913 record of 97 degrees might be broken today, with heat indexes reaching 105. We've been indoors all day, moving as slowly as possible and turning the air conditioning on when we can't take it anymore. I'm dressed in a tankini top and summer weight pajama bottoms, my hair up in a clip and contact lenses in my eyballs because its too hot to wear glasses. M is in a t-shirt and madras shorts. This kind of heat causes me to hibernate as tightly as severe cold, but for some reason it makes me feels worse. Maybe it just feels that way because its summer - ask me in six months and I'll probably dream for a day when I sweat the afternoon out in my kitchen.
There's almost nothing to eat in the house but neither of us wants to go grocery shopping, so I've been excavating the pantry. I would have food delivered, but I can't muster up enough appetite to think of something I want to eat badly enough to pick up the phone and talk to someone about it, and I'd feel responsible if anyone died of heat stroke on the way to my house just so that we could eat a plate of cold sesame noodles. Here's what my spelunking has uncovered:
The remains of a 16 oz. bag of farfalle;
Two 6 oz. cans of tuna, dusty;
One 15 oz. can of Del Monte sweet peas, dusty;
One 15 oz. can of Trader Joe's whole kernel corn.
I don't really want to boil anything, but it's better than our microwave option: one freezer burnt Trader Joe's southwest chicken quesadilla to split between us, and there's no way I'm turning the oven on. I set some water to boil and grabbed a cucumber from the fridge, along with a container of kalamata olives and a jar of mayonnaise. I boiled and drained the farfalle, opened a can of tuna and plopped its contents into the same saucepan used for boiling the pasta, the heat from the pan igniting the aroma of canned fish and a sudden interest from the cat population of our household. I cut up some olives and cucumber, and tossed them in with mayo, salt and pepper. The final product looked like something out of a 1950's cookbook for children, and smelled like cat food. I plated two dishes, arranging tomato slices on the plate edges in an attempt at presentation.
It's been three weeks since the triathlon, and I've been floundering between projects. The week after the race I volunteered as a camp counselor for the final week of summer camp at the Alliance Francaise, I'll get a free class out of it. I worked with a group of five to seven-year-olds, and one week was about all I could handle. From 8:45 a.m. to 4:15 p.m. every day I herded them towards whatever project was on the schedule. I was the oldest counselor by about twenty years, which made me the obvious choice for dealing with the behaviorally challenged kids. I found myself saying things like:
"Is that really working for you?" to the seven-year-old girl who pouted and cried her way through the entire week because two children who she'd decided should be her best friends were ignoring her. When she wasn't whining and pouting, she was interrupting people, and rolling her eyes and neck.
"They're being mean to me," the pouter said, leaning into my leg and resting her tear sodden face onto my breast.
"Well, you're not being very pleasant right now," I'd say, "I don't really want to be near you either. Is pouting and crying really working for you? Maybe you should try a different strategy."
The highlight of that week was a tossup between some misunderstood lyrics to a Michael Jackson song, and signage in the break room. A sign by the coffee pot read: "It would be nice if everyone would bring some ground coffee so that we all can enjoy a cup of coffee once in a while. Thanks." It reminded me of something my teacher Tim had said about the French cultural penchant for understatement. If a French person really likes something, he explained, they're likely to say "it wasn't terrible," rather than "it was great!" A sign by the sink read: "Please wash your plates and cups after you use them. Please "DO NOT" leave them in the sink. Thank You", the quotation marks undermining what they meant to stress.
One little girl kept singing Billie Jean, but it came out: "Billie Jinx is not my love, she's just a girl who says I am the one, but Chan is not my son." At one point she asked me if it was Billie James or Billie Jinx. I asked her which she thought it was, not wanting to ruin the entertainment.
We took them on a field trip to Oak Street Beach, leading them past a sleeping bum on the sidewalk, and steering them away from an empty fifth of vodka and clusters of beer bottles scattered underneath the lifeguard's perch. One boy was transfixed by something floating in with the tide that appeared to be a decomposing tampon. "It's garbage," I said to him, "leave it alone." This worked for a few minutes, but he turned his attention to it repeatedly.
Lunch for the counselors was provided by the Alliance, and consisted of a few plates of thinly sliced cold cuts, off-brand bread, iced tea and candy bars. Every day after lunch the director asked if I'd had enough to eat. I always said yes, but I was lying. I began joining the children at their 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. snack times, and carried granola bars with me in my purse. On one particularly tiring day I walked to the closest Starbucks for a strong coffee at lunch, and witnessed a bum being asked to leave Mr. J's Dawg 'N Burger. The counselors ate together in the atrium next to a baby grand piano while the kids ran around the courtyard, and conversation usually revolved around campers who were being particularly difficult.
I took a shine to one of the girls who worked with the 8 to 12-year-olds. She had long dirty blonde hair parted far on the right side of her head, the strands cascaded across her face creating a slight Flock of Seagulls effect. The braces on her teeth were offset by a small dark hoop pierced into the right side of her lower lip, and she texted constantly on her iPhone during lunch. She wore blue metallic shorts over her pale chubby thighs, tank tops that exposed her soft belly, and flip flops. She developed an instant crush on the teenaged son of one of the instructors, he'd assisted during a cooking demonstration.
"Mireille's son?" I asked.
"Do you know her?" she asked, eyes wide.
"No, sorry," I said, "I don't have any inside information for you." At the end of the week she asked if we could be facebook friends.
That weekend M and I went to Michigan with his parents, his sister, and our seven year old niece, who was a breath of fresh air compared to the children I'd worked with all week. The six of us spent three days in a cabin on Magician Lake with no internet access. We played Clue, Scrabble and Boggle when it was cloudy, and swam, canoed and fished when it was sunny. With no computers around it felt more like a week, and we returned to Chicago refreshed, our car packed with blueberries, peaches, corn, beans, tomatoes and cucumbers from a local farm stand. I turned on the computer almost immediately after returning home, logged onto facebook, and there it was - a friendship request from my teenaged co-counselor. In her profile picture she's leaning over in a tank top with six inches of cleavage visible. I haven't decided yet whether to accept.
There's almost nothing to eat in the house but neither of us wants to go grocery shopping, so I've been excavating the pantry. I would have food delivered, but I can't muster up enough appetite to think of something I want to eat badly enough to pick up the phone and talk to someone about it, and I'd feel responsible if anyone died of heat stroke on the way to my house just so that we could eat a plate of cold sesame noodles. Here's what my spelunking has uncovered:
The remains of a 16 oz. bag of farfalle;
Two 6 oz. cans of tuna, dusty;
One 15 oz. can of Del Monte sweet peas, dusty;
One 15 oz. can of Trader Joe's whole kernel corn.
I don't really want to boil anything, but it's better than our microwave option: one freezer burnt Trader Joe's southwest chicken quesadilla to split between us, and there's no way I'm turning the oven on. I set some water to boil and grabbed a cucumber from the fridge, along with a container of kalamata olives and a jar of mayonnaise. I boiled and drained the farfalle, opened a can of tuna and plopped its contents into the same saucepan used for boiling the pasta, the heat from the pan igniting the aroma of canned fish and a sudden interest from the cat population of our household. I cut up some olives and cucumber, and tossed them in with mayo, salt and pepper. The final product looked like something out of a 1950's cookbook for children, and smelled like cat food. I plated two dishes, arranging tomato slices on the plate edges in an attempt at presentation.
It's been three weeks since the triathlon, and I've been floundering between projects. The week after the race I volunteered as a camp counselor for the final week of summer camp at the Alliance Francaise, I'll get a free class out of it. I worked with a group of five to seven-year-olds, and one week was about all I could handle. From 8:45 a.m. to 4:15 p.m. every day I herded them towards whatever project was on the schedule. I was the oldest counselor by about twenty years, which made me the obvious choice for dealing with the behaviorally challenged kids. I found myself saying things like:
"Is that really working for you?" to the seven-year-old girl who pouted and cried her way through the entire week because two children who she'd decided should be her best friends were ignoring her. When she wasn't whining and pouting, she was interrupting people, and rolling her eyes and neck.
"They're being mean to me," the pouter said, leaning into my leg and resting her tear sodden face onto my breast.
"Well, you're not being very pleasant right now," I'd say, "I don't really want to be near you either. Is pouting and crying really working for you? Maybe you should try a different strategy."
The highlight of that week was a tossup between some misunderstood lyrics to a Michael Jackson song, and signage in the break room. A sign by the coffee pot read: "It would be nice if everyone would bring some ground coffee so that we all can enjoy a cup of coffee once in a while. Thanks." It reminded me of something my teacher Tim had said about the French cultural penchant for understatement. If a French person really likes something, he explained, they're likely to say "it wasn't terrible," rather than "it was great!" A sign by the sink read: "Please wash your plates and cups after you use them. Please "DO NOT" leave them in the sink. Thank You", the quotation marks undermining what they meant to stress.
One little girl kept singing Billie Jean, but it came out: "Billie Jinx is not my love, she's just a girl who says I am the one, but Chan is not my son." At one point she asked me if it was Billie James or Billie Jinx. I asked her which she thought it was, not wanting to ruin the entertainment.
We took them on a field trip to Oak Street Beach, leading them past a sleeping bum on the sidewalk, and steering them away from an empty fifth of vodka and clusters of beer bottles scattered underneath the lifeguard's perch. One boy was transfixed by something floating in with the tide that appeared to be a decomposing tampon. "It's garbage," I said to him, "leave it alone." This worked for a few minutes, but he turned his attention to it repeatedly.
Lunch for the counselors was provided by the Alliance, and consisted of a few plates of thinly sliced cold cuts, off-brand bread, iced tea and candy bars. Every day after lunch the director asked if I'd had enough to eat. I always said yes, but I was lying. I began joining the children at their 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. snack times, and carried granola bars with me in my purse. On one particularly tiring day I walked to the closest Starbucks for a strong coffee at lunch, and witnessed a bum being asked to leave Mr. J's Dawg 'N Burger. The counselors ate together in the atrium next to a baby grand piano while the kids ran around the courtyard, and conversation usually revolved around campers who were being particularly difficult.
I took a shine to one of the girls who worked with the 8 to 12-year-olds. She had long dirty blonde hair parted far on the right side of her head, the strands cascaded across her face creating a slight Flock of Seagulls effect. The braces on her teeth were offset by a small dark hoop pierced into the right side of her lower lip, and she texted constantly on her iPhone during lunch. She wore blue metallic shorts over her pale chubby thighs, tank tops that exposed her soft belly, and flip flops. She developed an instant crush on the teenaged son of one of the instructors, he'd assisted during a cooking demonstration.
"Mireille's son?" I asked.
"Do you know her?" she asked, eyes wide.
"No, sorry," I said, "I don't have any inside information for you." At the end of the week she asked if we could be facebook friends.
That weekend M and I went to Michigan with his parents, his sister, and our seven year old niece, who was a breath of fresh air compared to the children I'd worked with all week. The six of us spent three days in a cabin on Magician Lake with no internet access. We played Clue, Scrabble and Boggle when it was cloudy, and swam, canoed and fished when it was sunny. With no computers around it felt more like a week, and we returned to Chicago refreshed, our car packed with blueberries, peaches, corn, beans, tomatoes and cucumbers from a local farm stand. I turned on the computer almost immediately after returning home, logged onto facebook, and there it was - a friendship request from my teenaged co-counselor. In her profile picture she's leaning over in a tank top with six inches of cleavage visible. I haven't decided yet whether to accept.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Wedding - or - The Road to Pentwater
I set the alarm for 6 a.m., but it didn’t go off. M magically woke at 6:30, and we hit the road an hour later in a borrowed car heading towards Michigan, Eastern Standard Time, and Holly and Jeremy's wedding. I met the bride in late 2002 when we were coworkers at a national nonprofit organization. I walked into her office shortly after being hired and saw an image of comedian David Cross on her computer monitor, and knew then that we were destined to become friends. We were even neighbors for a while, I knew the guy who owned the house next door and the rent was cheap, so she and Jeremy moved in. They had a set of E.T. walkie talkies, and we kept one in our kitchen, turning it on now and then and speaking into its belly to see what was going on next door. It wasn’t very effective since we’d have to call first and tell them to turn their E.T. on, but it was fun nonetheless.
Time spent with Holly and Jeremy is frequently spontaneous and immature, and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Once while driving on Ashland Avenue Jeremy began yelling things out of the passenger side window. I told him to yell "alcohol is a social lubricant," and he did, hanging his head out the window like a dog and howling it at pedestrians. Eventually the phrase was condensed to "social luuuuuuube," and still later to a single word, "soshalube." For days afterward we muttered it to each other in a kind of half-cough.
We were fairly casual about visiting between our homes, and I walked into their living room once to find a small pile of toenail clippings on the edge of the coffee table.
"Are those toenails?" I asked Holly.
"Yes," she answered, mortified. I knew what they were instantly, and I knew that they had to have once been a part of Jeremy’s foot because M does the same thing in our living room.
Their apartment was in the attic and had slanting walls where the roof inclined. It was cute, but small and poorly heated, so they moved out after a year to a bigger space near Logan Square. Holly quit her job in August of 2005, and I followed suit shortly. It was an adjustment; towards the end of our time working together we shared an office with a window that overlooked Lake Michigan, and it was fun going to work knowing she’d be there. About a year ago Holly and Jeremy moved to Grand Rapids, and we’ve seen them once or twice since then. They’d been together for seven years before they got engaged, so it was almost as if they were married already, but I was looking forward to watching them make it official. They'd chosen the small town of Pentwater for their wedding because Holly's family has been spending summers there since before she was born; for years they've had a bumper sticker on their car that says "Pentwater, Heaven, What's The Difference?"
We took the Kennedy to the Skyway and drove through Gary and northern Indiana before crossing the border into Michigan and connecting to Route 31. Signs for the Blue Star Highway appeared on the side of the road, and I thought it sounded like the most beautiful highway in the world. We passed Schmuhl Road, crossed the Paw Paw river, and as we approached Holland I realized I had an urgent need to find a bathroom. M pulled into a gas station and I walked into the adjoining convenience store, where a woman sat behind the counter engrossed in a phone conversation. I looked around the small space hoping that the bathroom was inside the store, but saw no evidence of one. I got the cashier’s attention, and hadn’t even finished forming my question before she threw a key attached to a piece of wood on top of the glass-topped counter in front of her without breaking the rhythm of her conversation. I walked outside and slipped the key inside the lock of the bathroom door, the promise of sweet relief just seconds away. What I saw sent my urine into reverse; even with the lights off I could see a pyramid of toilet paper sitting glacier-like in the middle of the toilet bowl, accented with streaks of brown that cascaded down onto the toilet seat. Like a glacier, a small percentage of its mass showed above the waterline. I walked back into the convenience store and threw the key onto the counter with the fury of relief denied. The cashier absentmindedly picked it up and hung it back on its hook behind the register.
“Do you have another bathroom?” I asked, “that one’s dirty.”
“Oh really, is it bad?” she asked, the phone receiver still pressed to her ear, "yeah," I said.
“No, that’s the only one we have,” she said, and turned back to her conversation. I marched towards M, who was finishing up at the gas pump.
“That toilet is disgusting,” I announced, “we have to go somewhere else.” We drove a few hundred feet to a Denny’s, and I marched right past the hostess to the back of the restaurant. I burst through to the first toilet and was so relieved that I started laughing as a torrent of urine exited my body. I heard a rustle coming from the adjoining stall and realized that I wasn’t alone. I finished quickly and washed my hands, and giggled again after reading a sticker affixed to the paper towel dispenser that read:
BEFORE YOUR SHIFT BEGINS
AFTER A BREAK
AFTER BEING SOILED BY WORK
AFTER A SMOKE BREAK
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS
On my way out of the restaurant I passed by a friend of M's, a professional painter who, in exchange for tattooing from M, painted our living and dining rooms when we first moved into our house six years ago. He was on his way from Chicago to a wedding in Saugatuck, and I wouldn't have recognized him, but he'd approached M in the parking lot and they'd exchanged greetings.
Back in the car I began to notice that the town of Holland, MI had a Dutch theme; there were signs for Tulip City Airport, I spotted a mini golf course with a windmill on the putting green, and we drove past a sign in the shape of a Dutch clog advertising the Wooden Shoe Antique Mall & Restaurant. At Felch Street we spotted a car with four Jesus fishes attached to the rear.
"That guy just really, really, really, really wants you to know that he believes," I said.
"He also really runs red lights," M said, as the believer blew through an intersection ahead of us. We continued on past both Ransom Street and Ransom Street West, Macatowa Legends Golf Club, and a convoy of vehicles transporting boy scout troops to a jamboree.
We pulled into Pentwater at about 12:30 p.m. Michigan time, changed out of our traveling clothes and walked to the village green. The wedding ceremony was short but poignant. Holly walked across the green with her father and stood on the steps of the gazebo with Jeremy, where they exchanged vows. Their dog Enzo served as the ring bearer, with assistance from Brian, the brother of the groom. Once Enzo delivered the rings a round of applause came from the guests, and a woman with salt and pepper hair who I recognized as Jeremy and Brian's mother leaned forward and said:
"Good job Brian".
Afterward there was a reception under a tent on the lawn of the Ida Jean Bed & Breakfast. Teary eyed toasts were made by the two sisters of the bride, the father of the bride and various friends, as well as the single funniest brother of the groom speech I've ever heard. Jeremy and his brother Brian have many similar features, but while Brian has a full head of hair Jeremy has none. In some circles Brian is known as Hairemy, and he opened his speech with:
"People say that my brother and I are a lot alike, but there are some things I do that he doesn't... like buy shampoo." Much dancing and revelry followed, and at midnight the party moved to a local bar called The Antler. M and I headed to our cozy B&B, dog tired from our travels.
We spent the next day with the bride and groom, and a handful of other guests, passing an idyllic day swimming, watching the sunset, drinking beer and sharing stories under the stars. Since we were on the far western edge of the eastern time zone the light lasted until ten o'clock at night, adding to the sense of magic. By the time Monday rolled around it felt as though we'd been there for weeks, and had completely relaxed into the small town routine of greeting strangers on the street and never walking more than four blocks to get anywhere. We'd spent more time with Holly and Jeremy than we have in years, and made connections with some of their friends in the process.
We made the trek back home on the same roads we'd driven up on, with a view of new billboards. One bore an ad for an "adult superstore" called the Lion's Den that featured the silhouette of a lion with a full mane standing closely behind a lioness in a pose just shy of coitus. Another advertised Buck Snort Lodge Products, and a third advertised a restaurant called the Texas Corral with the catchphrase "Just drop the shells on the floor," an odd selling point. In Michigan City, Indiana, a billboard read "What can wash away my sins? Only the blood of Jesus," but I wasn't sold on that either. We pulled off the highway twenty yards from it it to stop at the Indiana Welcome Center, and parked next to a man who got out of his car sporting brown polyester pants and thick lamb chop sideburns. It was as if we'd not only crossed over the state line to Indiana, but had also crossed over to 1975. In the ladies room every third bathroom had a sign announcing that it was out of order, and the clock in the main entryway was set for Chicago time.
Just before stopping at Culver's for butter burgers (if you've never had one you're missing out) M spotted this bumper sticker on a car ahead of us: "If you can read this, thank a teacher... and since it is in English, thank a soldier."
"Wow, that's great," I said, "since everyone in the service speaks English as their first language."
"Not to mention that the only war fought on U.S. soil was against England," M added. I considered this for a moment.
"What about the Alamo?" I asked. We were cloudy on the specifics, but if you'd like to take it up with the driver, they have vanity plates from Michigan with the word "ANJULS" spelled out - in perfect English, naturally.
Time spent with Holly and Jeremy is frequently spontaneous and immature, and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Once while driving on Ashland Avenue Jeremy began yelling things out of the passenger side window. I told him to yell "alcohol is a social lubricant," and he did, hanging his head out the window like a dog and howling it at pedestrians. Eventually the phrase was condensed to "social luuuuuuube," and still later to a single word, "soshalube." For days afterward we muttered it to each other in a kind of half-cough.
We were fairly casual about visiting between our homes, and I walked into their living room once to find a small pile of toenail clippings on the edge of the coffee table.
"Are those toenails?" I asked Holly.
"Yes," she answered, mortified. I knew what they were instantly, and I knew that they had to have once been a part of Jeremy’s foot because M does the same thing in our living room.
Their apartment was in the attic and had slanting walls where the roof inclined. It was cute, but small and poorly heated, so they moved out after a year to a bigger space near Logan Square. Holly quit her job in August of 2005, and I followed suit shortly. It was an adjustment; towards the end of our time working together we shared an office with a window that overlooked Lake Michigan, and it was fun going to work knowing she’d be there. About a year ago Holly and Jeremy moved to Grand Rapids, and we’ve seen them once or twice since then. They’d been together for seven years before they got engaged, so it was almost as if they were married already, but I was looking forward to watching them make it official. They'd chosen the small town of Pentwater for their wedding because Holly's family has been spending summers there since before she was born; for years they've had a bumper sticker on their car that says "Pentwater, Heaven, What's The Difference?"
We took the Kennedy to the Skyway and drove through Gary and northern Indiana before crossing the border into Michigan and connecting to Route 31. Signs for the Blue Star Highway appeared on the side of the road, and I thought it sounded like the most beautiful highway in the world. We passed Schmuhl Road, crossed the Paw Paw river, and as we approached Holland I realized I had an urgent need to find a bathroom. M pulled into a gas station and I walked into the adjoining convenience store, where a woman sat behind the counter engrossed in a phone conversation. I looked around the small space hoping that the bathroom was inside the store, but saw no evidence of one. I got the cashier’s attention, and hadn’t even finished forming my question before she threw a key attached to a piece of wood on top of the glass-topped counter in front of her without breaking the rhythm of her conversation. I walked outside and slipped the key inside the lock of the bathroom door, the promise of sweet relief just seconds away. What I saw sent my urine into reverse; even with the lights off I could see a pyramid of toilet paper sitting glacier-like in the middle of the toilet bowl, accented with streaks of brown that cascaded down onto the toilet seat. Like a glacier, a small percentage of its mass showed above the waterline. I walked back into the convenience store and threw the key onto the counter with the fury of relief denied. The cashier absentmindedly picked it up and hung it back on its hook behind the register.
“Do you have another bathroom?” I asked, “that one’s dirty.”
“Oh really, is it bad?” she asked, the phone receiver still pressed to her ear, "yeah," I said.
“No, that’s the only one we have,” she said, and turned back to her conversation. I marched towards M, who was finishing up at the gas pump.
“That toilet is disgusting,” I announced, “we have to go somewhere else.” We drove a few hundred feet to a Denny’s, and I marched right past the hostess to the back of the restaurant. I burst through to the first toilet and was so relieved that I started laughing as a torrent of urine exited my body. I heard a rustle coming from the adjoining stall and realized that I wasn’t alone. I finished quickly and washed my hands, and giggled again after reading a sticker affixed to the paper towel dispenser that read:
BEFORE YOUR SHIFT BEGINS
AFTER A BREAK
AFTER BEING SOILED BY WORK
AFTER A SMOKE BREAK
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS
On my way out of the restaurant I passed by a friend of M's, a professional painter who, in exchange for tattooing from M, painted our living and dining rooms when we first moved into our house six years ago. He was on his way from Chicago to a wedding in Saugatuck, and I wouldn't have recognized him, but he'd approached M in the parking lot and they'd exchanged greetings.
Back in the car I began to notice that the town of Holland, MI had a Dutch theme; there were signs for Tulip City Airport, I spotted a mini golf course with a windmill on the putting green, and we drove past a sign in the shape of a Dutch clog advertising the Wooden Shoe Antique Mall & Restaurant. At Felch Street we spotted a car with four Jesus fishes attached to the rear.
"That guy just really, really, really, really wants you to know that he believes," I said.
"He also really runs red lights," M said, as the believer blew through an intersection ahead of us. We continued on past both Ransom Street and Ransom Street West, Macatowa Legends Golf Club, and a convoy of vehicles transporting boy scout troops to a jamboree.
We pulled into Pentwater at about 12:30 p.m. Michigan time, changed out of our traveling clothes and walked to the village green. The wedding ceremony was short but poignant. Holly walked across the green with her father and stood on the steps of the gazebo with Jeremy, where they exchanged vows. Their dog Enzo served as the ring bearer, with assistance from Brian, the brother of the groom. Once Enzo delivered the rings a round of applause came from the guests, and a woman with salt and pepper hair who I recognized as Jeremy and Brian's mother leaned forward and said:
"Good job Brian".
Afterward there was a reception under a tent on the lawn of the Ida Jean Bed & Breakfast. Teary eyed toasts were made by the two sisters of the bride, the father of the bride and various friends, as well as the single funniest brother of the groom speech I've ever heard. Jeremy and his brother Brian have many similar features, but while Brian has a full head of hair Jeremy has none. In some circles Brian is known as Hairemy, and he opened his speech with:
"People say that my brother and I are a lot alike, but there are some things I do that he doesn't... like buy shampoo." Much dancing and revelry followed, and at midnight the party moved to a local bar called The Antler. M and I headed to our cozy B&B, dog tired from our travels.
We spent the next day with the bride and groom, and a handful of other guests, passing an idyllic day swimming, watching the sunset, drinking beer and sharing stories under the stars. Since we were on the far western edge of the eastern time zone the light lasted until ten o'clock at night, adding to the sense of magic. By the time Monday rolled around it felt as though we'd been there for weeks, and had completely relaxed into the small town routine of greeting strangers on the street and never walking more than four blocks to get anywhere. We'd spent more time with Holly and Jeremy than we have in years, and made connections with some of their friends in the process.
We made the trek back home on the same roads we'd driven up on, with a view of new billboards. One bore an ad for an "adult superstore" called the Lion's Den that featured the silhouette of a lion with a full mane standing closely behind a lioness in a pose just shy of coitus. Another advertised Buck Snort Lodge Products, and a third advertised a restaurant called the Texas Corral with the catchphrase "Just drop the shells on the floor," an odd selling point. In Michigan City, Indiana, a billboard read "What can wash away my sins? Only the blood of Jesus," but I wasn't sold on that either. We pulled off the highway twenty yards from it it to stop at the Indiana Welcome Center, and parked next to a man who got out of his car sporting brown polyester pants and thick lamb chop sideburns. It was as if we'd not only crossed over the state line to Indiana, but had also crossed over to 1975. In the ladies room every third bathroom had a sign announcing that it was out of order, and the clock in the main entryway was set for Chicago time.
Just before stopping at Culver's for butter burgers (if you've never had one you're missing out) M spotted this bumper sticker on a car ahead of us: "If you can read this, thank a teacher... and since it is in English, thank a soldier."
"Wow, that's great," I said, "since everyone in the service speaks English as their first language."
"Not to mention that the only war fought on U.S. soil was against England," M added. I considered this for a moment.
"What about the Alamo?" I asked. We were cloudy on the specifics, but if you'd like to take it up with the driver, they have vanity plates from Michigan with the word "ANJULS" spelled out - in perfect English, naturally.
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