6/23/18 - In anticipation of our trip, we recruited our two and a half year old daughter, Isobel, to help pack. She assumed her assignment with ardor. Having a fondness for stacking, organizing, and putting objects in their proper places, assembling her goods delighted her. She grabbed entirely too many stuffed animals and insisted they join us. She flitted about the house, moving sundry objects from one spot to another, objects not slated to accompany us yet still swept up in her tornadic sweep. She put medicine droppers in each of my loafers and transplanted books from one the coffee table to the ottoman to an armchair.
Before we put her down for bed the night before we departed, preparedness remained on her mind. In her mother’s arms, she asked about her water shoes.
“Yes, honey, we packed them.”
“The pink ones?”
“Yes, the pink ones. Those are the only water shoes you have and we put them in your suitcase.”
“What about my hiking boots?”
“Yes, we packed those, too. Now let’s go to bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
She eventually relented and fell asleep accompanied by the few stuffed animals that didn’t make the cut.
6/24/18 - Megan awoke at 4:00A needing to relieve herself. Once awake, she remembered the tickle in her throat she’s had the past week. She suppressed more coughs than she let escape over the next hour, but the damage was done. We both tossed and turned throughout the wee hours of the morning. Restless, we began our final preparations for the journey at 5:20A.
The good news: we were ready to go by 7:15A.
The bad news: 7:15A conflicted with Isobel’s regimented schedule. She rose with ample excitement, dressed with relative ease, and showed her usual tepid interest in breakfast. The day had finally come, and she wanted to get going. When asked, she demurred on going to the bathroom. Isobel had already gone once immediately after rising. But there was more, and we knew it.
We cajoled her into using the potty before we left. Now, come on Iz, we have a long way to go in the car. Will you please try? We resorted to bribery, at which she dashed into the lavatory. She announced she had peed and stuck out her hand to collect her payment. We cheered, we paid, and we piled into the car.
We double-checked the necessary devices and snacks were within arm’s length. I turned the key, and we back out. The early morning sun warmly lit our way. We drove down our street, merged onto the highway, and passed the familiar landmarks along our morning commute. We were on our way, brimming with optimism and progressing to our destination.
Just inside St. Louis’ city limits, Isobel announced she needed to poop. We hadn’t made it 1/100 of the way into our trip before our first stop.
Her morning constitutional cannot be rushed.
To pass some of the time while driving, Megan and I listened to an audiobook. Isobel, who’s within earshot, took a surprising interest in the storyline. Every time Isobel asked us a question, we paused the story in order to respond. It was like watching a movie with your mother, but worse. Isobel was hung up on the novel’s emotional content and would not stop asking about the references to crying. Before reaching Chicago, we’d already had a frank discussion about death and mourning.
Our lengthiest discussion, though, was on the topic of weather. Isobel asked the usual battery of questions regarding a storm described in the story (what was the storm, when was the storm, where was the storm, and why was the storm). Despite concise explanation of fiction, authorship, artistic license, symbolism, and the rudiments of meteorology, Isobel was never satisfied with the rationales provided. By the end of her interrogation, I was beginning to see her point. When it comes down to it, there may be no properly good reason for why the author conjured the storm.
I fear her engineering bend and scientific aptitude will freeze the bud of her creativity before it even flowers.
We stopped in Rockford, Illinois, the home to many a 19th century Scandinavian immigrant. Unable to pass up a gimmick--especially an international one--we stopped at the Stockholm Inn for lunch. I ordered the kroppkakor (fried potato dumplings) and fruit soup (dried raisins, cranberries, and lingonberries boiled in water, cinnamon, and lemon juice--served cold). The soup was sui generis, having no known analogue in North American cuisine. I began to suspect the food may not be authentic when I tasted the dumplings. The kroppkakor could have been served at Denny’s, IHOP, et. al. as they were hash browns pressed into little donuts with a slice of sausage plugging the hole. Megan ordered their (allegedly) world famous Swedish pancakes. Her entree, as well, fit in with American fare. Evidently, the Swedes share our midwestern love of fat. The crepes were slathered with butter and served with a scoop of same in case the house’s slathering wasn’t enough for you. Our GI systems were appreciably slowed.
On our way out of the restaurant, a nice employee was pulled into Isobel’s cuteness orbit. Smitten, she offered Isobel a balloon. Isobel rewarded the woman with a sheepish smile. Many nearby hearts were warmed. Out of an abundance of caution, I insisted we tie the balloon to her wrist. Not understanding how gaseous helium behaves in our atmosphere, Isobel objected. I overruled her objection with an ultimatum involving balloon forfeiture, and she relented. After exiting, I tried to legitimize her concerns. I tried to explain Newtonian gravity and the relative molecular weight, but Isobel pressed me on why this was the way it was. Midway through explaining what a brute fact is, we reached our parked car. Once inside the Elantra, I untied her prize from her wrist. The balloon started to drift around the backseat.
No sooner than I shut her door with the balloon safely inside did it burst. I was shocked, as were Megan and Isobel. The latter, startled and dismayed, started crying. I tried ascertaining from our sobbing child what happened, but she had no idea. I surveyed the scene. Was there something sharp on the headliner? Could I have somehow popped it through the force of shutting the door? I felt around and found the culprit. Not something sharp, but something hot. The plastic overhead light’s cover, which could have cooked Megan’s side of scrambled eggs, compromised the thin rubber’s integrity.
So fragile is kindness that even when you preserve it from known dangers it still can be destroyed. Yet, the memory endures.
Thirty minutes later, Isobel was the recipient of yet more kindness from strangers. As she was peering into a pond at the Anderson Japanese Gardens, an elderly woman approached us.
“Would you like to feed the fish?”
Izzy nodded her affirmation. The woman filled Isobel’s little outstretched hands with duck kibble. What generosity! Such a simple act requiring only a little money and foresight was all it took to amaze Isobel. I want follow the woman’s model when I’m old. I want sit in the shade near a pond and make childrens’ days from sunrise to sunset, one handful of duck kibble at a time.
We moderns are accustomed to the replication of goods and uniformity of franchises around the country. We expect the Coke to taste the same, the inside of QTs to look the same, and the songs to be the same on pop music stations. Sometimes far from home, a copy catches you off-guard such as when you alight upon a familiar object you naively took to be one-of-kind. These moments are the uncanny science fictionalization of our lives. The rules we know and trust have been broken.
There are a set of three figurative sculptures by Carl Milles in the Missouri Botanical Gardens that dance on pedestals high above reflecting pools. The triplets are iconic. The fountain figures are frequently used in MoBot’s promotional material. Tourist take pictures of them, whether their family is in frame or not. I’ve eyed figures dozens of times. These nymphs was part and parcel of St. Louis.
Then, walking through Rockford, Illinois, I discovered the same sculptures dancing above a pond in one of their gardens. The sky above them was the familiar cobalt blue of summer. The rippling images below them were cast upon the inky black analogue of our Missouri waters. Tourists were flocking to them and taking pictures, too.
The internet reveals there’s another set in Stockholm and in Kenyon College. Although the sculptures were the ones replicated, I feel less unique myself.
We stopped at Econo Foods in Sturgeon Bay to load up on breakfast goods and picnic food. For efficiency’s sake, we divided the grocery list. Megan took Isobel and sought out the AM options. I was tasked with cobbling together the ingredients for sandwiches.
I headed eastward to the perimeter, craning my neck around endcaps and struggling to make sense of the layout. I found the bread and splurged on the most expensive generic loaf around. I was bound for the deli section when my progress was arrested by a bright red display. There, between the produce bins and the bakery, stood two short aisles stocked exclusively with cherry-based products. If you could conceivably associate the tart fruit with it, the item was somewhere on the shelves.
The nearly complete list of products in The Cherry Depot: Dried cherries, chocolate cherries, cherry hard candies, cherry chews, cherry jelly, cherry jam, cherry preserves, cherry syrup, cherry pie filling, cherry juice, cherry wine, cherry vinegar, cherry concentrate, cherry capsules, cherry salsa, cherry relish, cherry chip cookies, cherry scone mix, cherry-centric cookbooks, oven mitts sporting embroidered cherries, trucker hats with the relevant slot machine icon screen-printed on them, wooden wall decor with “A 🍒 On Top” painted in cursive, a variety of cherry pitters--one of which was approved by AARP for its ergonomics.
Succumbing to the Win In Rome thinking of a tourist, I grabbed a jar of cherry mustard and moved on to my next item while Megan wondered what was taking me so long.
Isobel beat all expectations today. She was up two hours later than usual and napped an hour less. Nevertheless, she didn’t have a single meltdown or tantrum.
Thirteen hours after we backed out of our driveway and twelve hours and fifty five minutes after our first pit stop, we finally saw the glossy sapphire expanse of Lake Michigan. The crisp air carried the scent of a nearby beach bonfire. The water’s perpetual motion eroded the malaise we accumulated during the journey. Those fifteen minutes gazing at the horizon, having our outstretched fingertips licked by the waves, redeemed the day.
6/25/18 - In hindsight, I should not have inquired as to when the sun rose in these parts. But I did. Curiosity is an itch waiting to be scratched by the computer in your pocket. 5:02 AM. I laughed at the absurdly early time. “I don’t think I’m going to see one,” I told Megan last night.
Then I work up this morning and made my second mistake. I jiggled my phone and checked the time. 4:32 AM. Howabout that. Well before sunrise. You could see it if you wanted to. But I didn’t settle down until after 10:00 last night, and I’m still sore from inadequate sleep. But here’s your chance! You aren’t going back to sleep, anyway, if you’re having a conversation like this in your head. Good point.
So, I snuck off as quietly as I could (which, I noted, was far quieter in this newly constructed house than I was accustomed to in our 80 year old one.) I padded down the street and followed my father-in-law’s directions for walking to the lake (make a right on Chapel Road and a left past the big gate where there’s a sign for the North Trail).
The sky was already brighter than I anticipated. Unsure of how long the road was and how windy the trail would be, I started running. I could hear the lake lapping off to my left. Bright silver shone through the shadowy woods. Once I entered the gate, I made a left at the trailhead. The ground underfoot was soft with fallen white cedar leaves. The ambient scent was distinctly coniferous. I felt like a werewolf running through the dark forest by myself--or else someone fleeing a werewolf. Save for my footfalls, all was quiet. The animals weren’t stirring yet. No breeze jostled the limbs. The lake’s patter was barely audible.
Overhead, the sky was daylit. Off to the left, through the trunks, I could see the dreamsicle glow intensifying. I approached a rocky outcropping with ten minutes to spare by my watch. I sat, cross-legged, and waited.
The view was sublime. My own physical insignificance was amplified by my solitariness. Water dominated the panorama. The eastern horizon was interrupted by a sliver of land, over which the sun would rise. Past its tip yawned the great shimmering expanse of Lake Michigan.
I watched the distance eagerly. Such a sense of anticipation I hadn’t felt since last summer’s total solar eclipse. As the brightness continued to intensify, I pointed my smartphone camera and started recording. Any second now, I thought the unmistakable beacon would protrude above the faroff trees.
As I watched the screen, making sure my shot was steady, I was reminded of the old viewfinder on my dad’s camcorder. To my chagrin, I found myself reprising my father’s performance. He taped sunsets over Lake Michigan every summer. Every August, he’d prop up his video camera on a rock, on a railing, or directly on the sand itself and push the red plastic button. For twenty-plus minutes, his camcorder would store waves spilling ashore and daylight slowly extinguishing on a diminutive VHS-C.
I never saw him watch any of these videos. My mom and I never watched them, either.
The only time any of them were screened to my knowledge was when I missed our pilgrimage due to a freak knee injury the summer before my freshman year of high school. He made the trip solo, claiming he didn’t want to forfeit the deposit. I remember him tearing up at my bedside, in disbelief I was refusing to accompany him in my full leg cast. When he returned, the two of us watched all of the tapes he made including the one of the setting sun. He narrated the action, overlaying obvious statements about what we were looking at and repeating how much he wished I was there. Mom asked him whenever she passed the TV on her way through the living room if he had to talk so much, as though something could be done about his voiceover now.
But for the most part, the videos went unwatched.
I know dad is reassured the tapes exist, though. They’re all labeled on a couple of shelves in the basement. They surround his desk like a fortress of the past. The most important days of his life from 1992-2007 are preserved in an inorganic medium, one that will degrade less quickly than his brain, which isn’t so different from his son storing a video on an SD Card or writing travelogues.
That his son, who in most ways contrasts him (politics, fashion, taste, appearance, intelligence, age, etc., etc.) in this way follows in his footsteps, goes to show that the range of human possibilities is limited and must necessarily require overlap between two particular people.
And while I’m thinking about being like my dad and being uncomfortable with that, the sun still hasn’t pierced the skyline yet, so I stop what is now clearly a premature recording. I divert my attention from this natural beauty to delete the clip from my phone. I can’t spare the space on my meager internal storage.
Throughout my childhood summers, we motored up to the opposite side of the same body of water. My dad, equal parts Chicken Little and Eeyore, was enchanted. All year long, he’d look forward to this trip. Then, once he got here, his infatuation with the place would nearly be unbearable. He’d spend so much time doing any one thing, those of us who travelled with him were driven to boredom. When he’d take a swim, it’d be fore two hours. When he’d take a walk along the beach, it’d be for five miles. When he’d watch a sunset, it’d be for the thirty minutes leading up to the sunset and the thirty minutes after. The camera would watch, too.
I couldn’t take it. I criticized him for idolizing the place.
The whole time, I wanted to tell him to give it up. Give us all a break from your glee. Stop enjoying yourself so much. You were the one who taught me life was so shitty. At every turn, you told me how you never thought it would go this way. That you never dreamed you’d be so poor. You were such a devoted pessimist. How could you not tarnish this experience, too?
You called the lake a dream, and you meant it in the best possible way. An oasis. A utopia. Heaven on earth. Fantasy Island. Once the Alzheimer's started setting in and you struggled to find the right words, you called it Candy Land. A sweet place, I guess. But you, of all people, were inclined to see through those mirages and to find the bleak shadows beneath them.
And so I found your joy here, your incessant savoring of every experience unbearable. Because I always knew the trip was going to be over sooner than you’d like to admit. There was no afterglow once the sun set on Lake Michigan. Then it was another 51 weeks of gloom and misery, and the recollections of these happy times somehow rendering normalcy worse. I wanted you to either apply that same reverential vision to the life we led together back home and thereby show me what it was to persist in trials or to tint this place with your dim glasses and prove that you were a thorough pessimist rather than a hypocrite.
But you never did. You were always and only happy at the lake, the same lake your son is now keeping vigil over, but from the opposite side. When the sun finally pokes through over the distant trees, I too want to stay here forever, Dad. I too want to retire here. This is Candy Land, Dad. I get caught up in it just like you did. I hear its siren song.
But this side suits me better. I’m more of a Wisconsin. You’re more of a Michigan. Whereas I watch with hope of a new day dawning, you stare transfixed at the day you’ve already lost. That sweet cruelty is what you brought back. You basked in the pain, anhedonia being the closest you come to happiness. Those sunsets spoke the truth to you. Gone. Gone. Gone.
I can see it now: the sun over the bay and your tragic attachment to that which you can’t possess. You long for that which has already departed: to the past, to memories, to the lake, to vacations, to the few blissful moments in your unhappy childhood that were on the shores of this same lake.
This place has always meant so much to you because it has been the exception. The light in the darkness. The sugar in the ashes. The dream in your waking life. You love it for it’s unreality.
We took Isobel lakeside today--not to a proper sandy beach, but a rocky shore. We had to climb down a limestone embankment to arrive at the water’s edge. Once there, Isobel had to be restrained from diving headlong. She took off her shoes and socks. I rolled up her pants legs. The cold was no deterrent. She scream-laughed with excitement when the cold water rose to her calves. At first, she wanted to hold my hand as she ventured farther out. Eventually, she pulled away. I let her creep out a little farther, seizing her own independence. She lost her balance, fell back on her bottom, and didn’t seem to mind at all. I was happy for her, if reluctant to release my grip.
When Izzy took a nap, so did I. It’s a luxury in which I rarely partake when at home, but isn’t indulgence permissible on vacation? What else am I going to do? I have no chores here, no lawn to mow, weeds to pull, or dishes to wash. So, I slept a little.
We went to a proper beach this afternoon. Isobel addressed Lake Michigan like the Old Testament God: with love and fear. At first, she was stoked. She jumped and splashed and squealed and flirted with the water. She’d dart out to it, skim it with her hand or foot as it receded. She’d wade up to her shin and splash.
But then a wave would come and roll over her thighs. Those chilling 62 degrees touched her torso, she was horrified. She’d dart back squealing and seeking haven on the shore. She bolted for the towels. She wanted to go home immediately.
Through joint parental encouragement and gentle vocal inflection, we were able to disarm her. Once her cousins arrived, Izzy had forgiven the lake. She never wanted to leave.
One of the perks of extended-family vacations is you abandon your kid without being irresponsible. Megan and I snuck off to stroll down a nearby jetty, and there was no risk of child endangerment. Thanks, guys.
6/26/18 - I woke up at a slightly more reasonable hour this morning.
After breakfast, we went to the Ridges Natural Sanctuary. The sanctuary is named after successive shorelines created by changes in the sea level over the last 50,000 years. (Fun fact: the low-lying areas between the ridges are called swales and are filled with water and water-loving plants.) We hiked around the various short loops that traced the ridges’ crests. We spotted a few birds. I found an orchid. My nephew found a frog. Mosquitoes found all of us.
This adventure supported the following hypothesis.
There are two kinds of hikers: (1) those who are terrified of getting lost and (2) those to whom the possibility of getting lost never occurs. (There are other categories, like the indoorsmen who would rather not be outdoors, but they eventually fall into (1) if they are kept out long enough.)
Anxious persons’ anxiety manifests once you displace them from their native habitat. They are sensitive to the very real and present danger of being cut off from civilization, marooned on an infernal island far from the nearest backwoods road. Their minds start to wander as soon as they step off pavement. They consider how long they can survive off the granola bar in their pocket and whether lapping up the groundwater will make them ill.
Confident persons’ self-assurance manifests in the conviction they can dominate this foreign territory as well as they have the domestic. Of course they will be able to follow the trail and orient themselves in the event they have temporarily wandered from it. It’s not hard to follow a path. They assume they’ll be able to find their way back by tracking the sun, cloudy day or no. To hell with a GPS. Leave that paper map for the next guy. They already committed it to memory. You don’t even need a compass, so long as you can find the mossy side of a tree trunk.
Having played both roles personally, I can attest to the equilibrium they provide expeditions. Without the anxious-types, the confident-types would charge off into oblivion. Without the confident-types, the anxious-types would never see the world.
You supposedly head outdoors to commune with nature, but communing requires intentional effort. You don’t become one with nature as soon as you enter into it. More often, you hike despite nature. Yes, you let go of aspects of yourself--your modern worries and practical concerns--but you also ignore most of your surroundings. You don’t take your time. You don’t stop and breathe deeply. You don’t see the limbs high above reflected in the pond. You don’t spot the flashes of color popping out of the decaying forest floor’s browns.
The need to safely and timely arrive back at the trailhead directs your eyes to the ground immediately before your feet. You focus on the roots and rocks obstructing your way and then look up, not to find the origin of a bird call, but to the trail markers assuring you you’re headed in the right direction. You remind yourself to look around every now and again, but your task-oriented self forges onward as though you were racing.
What’s the point of all this? Is it exercise? Is it a notch in your belt? You’re evading negative emotions out here, boredom at being separated from your information IV and fear at being far from conveniences. Is that more laudible than hopping on the treadmill?
The mosquitoes are flourishing in Door County. With all the low-lying areas and standing water around, the bloodsuckers are in their own heaven. No mammals are safe.
As we were exiting our car at different area within the Ridges, another family was completing their journey. A grandfather advanced toward the parking lot like a soldier staggering out of a warzone, two children drudging behind him. After he strapped his flagging grandkids into their carseats, he approached us.
“Were you all smart enough to bring bug spray with you?”
I assumed he was just making small-town small talk. Without thinking, I answered affirmatively.
The man asked if he might have some.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Hold on.”
Megan, who was unbuckling Isobel, said something under her breath. I leaned back into the car. “What?”
“We don’t have very much.”
“Well, what was I supposed to say?”
She handed me the bottle. I held it up to the sun and saw the clear contents sloshing around near the bottom of the bottle. I handed it to the grandfather. He took it, also eying the bottle, and frowned. He retreated, bent over, and starting spraying his charges.
What was happening here? Were there mosquitoes in his car? Does he not understand how bug spray works? How does a person live to his advanced age thinking repellant keeps the past away?
He returned the bottle, adding that he’d foregone spraying himself since we were so low. I thanked him for his consideration and watched him round his Toyota, unsure of what just happened but sure I did the right thing.
The episode would have been fodder for a fabulist. In a time of scarcity, the wife tries in vain to protect her family while the husband is duped into squandering precious resources. Yet the husband wins because he spends the afternoon feeling morally superior.
Towards the end of the hike, our paths crossed with a family who had paused to consult a map. Nervous we had zigged when we should have zagged, I asked if we were on the right trail. They verified my suspicions. We should have stayed on the orange, not taken the yellow spur. Oh well. What’s another fifteen minutes?
As the father was folding the map, he asked me if we had bug spray. Once again, I said we did--but added not too much. Our conversation ended. We headed in opposite directions.
Because there was no follow-up question, I realized we were on the other end of the exchange. It was the preface to an offer, not a request. In this parable, we were the wounded traveler instead of the Samaritan. Having already passed through the bog, we knew the infested grounds we were reentering and had already drained what little we had left reapplying. But they didn’t know that we knew, so they were trying to spare us the welts and consequent itchiness. If we have a long future ahead of us as a species, it is due in no small part to simple kindness like theirs.
We’d heard Door County described as the Cape Cod of the Midwest. Having honeymooned in Cape Cod, we were curious to investigate the claim.
I can see the family resemblance. Both names denoting regions rather than particular cities because none of the particular cities therein dominate. Their proximity to a bodies of water that stretch out to the horizon. Lighthouses aplenty. Low humidity and crisp, constant breezes. Windy touring roads unmarred by billboards. A conspicuous absence of strip malls and big box stores.
But the Wisconsin peninsula is not a Midwestern twin to the Massachusetts. Fresh water is not salt water. The seafood here cannot compete with coastal catches. The beaches here are less foot-friendly. This place is too practical. There are working farms. The money here is too scarce and, when plentiful, is too new. The homes here are too tightly packed together, too large, and not covered with painted wood shingles.
No, this isn’t Cape Cod. But that’s not a criticism.
Like a death row inmate who asks to be read the phonebook before the switch is flipped, Isobel grasps at straws to prolong bedtime. Tonight, she fixated onto a nearby board game box, claiming she wanted to play it before she went to sleep. The reasons against granting her request: 1) she was sobbing uncontrollably a minute earlier over not having a different pacifier (a sure sign of fatigue being emotional outbursts), 2) she never played the game before, 3) she was nine years shy of the the suggested minimum age threshold, and 4) even if she were of age and had known the rules, we wouldn’t wrap up the game until an hour after her bedtime.
None of these valid reasons mollified her.
6/27/18 - Maybe it’s the only-child in me, but I am overwhelmed by the power dynamics at play in large family trips. When I only had my parents to deal with, I could make things happen. But now that we’ve bound three family units together, it takes too long to get anything done. You have to wait until everyone is up. Then you have to wait until everyone is fed. Then you have to wait until everyone is groomed and dressed. Then you have to wait until someone broaches the topic of what to do today. Then, since everyone else is going to ignore the topic because they’re too lethargic from a poor night’s sleep or absorbed in their smartphones, you have to wait until the person who broached the topic gets fed up and checks out and heads upstairs to pout and write in his notebook. Then, a few of the remaining adults get short with their children, who have been structure-free so long they can’t remember what it’s like to meet a deadline.
It’s only when the entire group is amply irritated by their confines and what’s been happening within them for the past hour does the inertia of disorganization get broken en masse.
“We’ve gotta get out of here!”
“We do!...But where?”
Proposals are pitched and their flaws highlighted and voted down until the possibility that offends no one and excites no one is eventually settled upon, at which point everyone has to wrangle the kids, rebrush their hair, cajole them into using the potty, and assemble the requisite gear, fill the water bottles, and tell one child for the last time to put the tablet away because we’re leaving now.
By the time everyone arrives at the underwhelming destination, with the grumpy only man-child bringing up the rear, the kids are feeling peckish and the activity is cut short in favor of an early lunch at the closest possible restaurant with bland food and long wait times.
But at least we’re all together, right?
If you’re in the septic business, you might as well have a sense of humor about it. As we were negotiating what to do next, a septic truck drove by us in Sturgeon Bay. Beneath the company name was written: Stool Bus.
If only I could give them my business.
Door County is a delight to explore. There is so much untouched land (or, rather, land that hasn’t been touched since early in the European’s settlement), so many fields to look past, silos and barns--some operational, others derelict--supplementing the landscape, colorful barn quilts above their doors, a body of water sparkling through the flanking tree trunks, gentle peaks and troughs to roll over in your automobile, soft curves to keep the driver engaged, little traffic to irritate her, every third house a bed and breakfast, every fifth driveway anchored by bundles of firewood for sale ($5 near a town; $3 in the unincorporated areas), main streets every ten to fifteen miles lined with souvenir stands, ice cream shops, and biker bars--plus a supper club at the intersection of most country roads. There must a lower rate of hypertension on the peninsula than the rest of America.
6/28/18 - Today, Isobel was helping me get ready for our day. (Now that her cousins have departed, we need to do more to keep her entertained.) I asked her to bring me my socks and medicine for my feet. She obliged and watched intently as I applied the antifungal ointment to the bottom of my feet. We’ve discussed athlete’s foot before and how antifungal ointment works. She asked me where the fungus was.
“Oh, honey. It’s too small. You can’t see it.”
Then she fashioned binoculars out of her hands and bent her face nearer to my arches.
“Ah. You’re using your owl eyes. That’s a good idea. Can you see anything?”
She said yes and pointed to the ball of my left foot. “There it is.”
“Yep. There it is.”
Strolling through Door County is a bit like watching old Hollywood movies: there’s nary a minority to be found in either. It’s not like minorities are willfully kept out. It’s as though they didn’t exist. It’s not like minorities are scapegoated or denigrated. It’s as though they aren’t a polite topic of conversation.
For generations, this has been a white place where white people lead their white lives in cold, white seclusion and are seasonally joined by other white people to partake of their geographic spoils during the temperate months.
It wasn’t always so pale. In 1820, Native Americans held the peninsula. By 1870, whites dominated the land and displaced the natives to the hotter, resource-scarce land of Oklahoma. Whites have exclusively been enjoying the views ever since.
6/29/18 - I woke early, having to evacuate the remnants of last night’s beer. The sky glowed powder blue, so I was curious what time it was. Not like it matters. I was going back to bed whether it said 4:00AM or 6:00AM. I was tired.
4:46AM. Ah, well. The sun will be up soon. Too bad. I’ll miss the sunrise. Just last night I was bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have a proper camera with me when I saw the first one. So it goes. The sun still rose. I have memories, which I’ll keep if I rehearse them, and smartphone pictures, which aren’t such poor quality anymore.
I laid back down and pulled up the covers. If I really cared, I could wake up early tomorrow. But now, it’s time to sleep. Get some more rest before the last full day of your vacation. Lying here, thinking about the rising sun you’re about to miss, is the worst of both worlds. Where is the camera, anyway? You had it with you last night. Five days in and you still haven’t found a spot for it. This is the same position you were in on Monday. A prime photo op with no camera. And this spectacular scene is about to unfold a short walk away. You’re going to miss it, and you aren’t going to go back to sleep because you’re thinking thoughts like these, which means you are way too awake and alert to drift off again.
So you’ll be in this bed scolding yourself for the next ten minutes and missing your chance to see the stunning sight you never see back home. Your joints will be sore today for nothing. You’ll plod downstairs and drink cold coffee and watch the shadows start to form in the wooded lot surrounding the house while one of the most splendid events you can witness on earth is happening just across the street and through the conifers.
My better self won. I rose, smacked my head on the slanted ceiling, groped around for the camera, and still made it to the shore in time.
We did not get lost once on the way to Door County.
We got lost twice in one day within Door County.
Door County residents do not rely on signs to get where they’re going, so why would visitors need them?
Isobel was in rare form on Washington Island this afternoon. The Children’s Tylenol, cough syrup, and promise of a lavender macaroon lifted her spirits considerably from her cranky morning doldrums. She morphed into a performer. When welcoming Megan to the table we secured while she was away, Isobel said, “We got a chair for you! Here you go my dear!”
While on the island, we stopped by Nelson’s Hall--the longest continually operating bar in the fine state of Wisconsin. I joined the bitters club by downing a shot of Angostura, what passed for medicine during prohibition and allowed the proprietor to receive a pharmacist’s license to dispense a curative coincidentally high in alcohol.
No sooner had we entered the Stavkirke Chapel than Isobel spotted a hymnal, grabbed it, and took a seat. Her preoccupation freed us up to admire the woodwork without having to keep an eye on her. It also kept us from leaving until after she had individually flipped everyone one of the pages.
Fed up with our futile coaxing, Megan waited outside. Isobel told me, “I’ll come out once I’m finished, okay Dad?” in her best impression of a weary teenager. To her credit, she was a girl of her word.
I’ve avoided being alone with my thoughts because my habitual End of Trip Despondency has set in. The usual melancholy that attends the end of vacations has been compounded by the melancholy that attends reflection on my daughter’s aging. It makes for a bitter cocktail.
A story I read earlier this week while everyone else in the house was sleeping concerned mortality. A character meditated on his ill wife’s hand and how someday soon the hand he was holding would be lifeless. Our awareness of time’s passage rewards us with such terrifying thoughts.
On first trips to X, you’d customarily consider if you’d ever want to revist X. You project ahead, imagining being here again but older. If we ever returned to Door County, Isobel would be so different. She wouldn’t need a nap. She wouldn’t need a flotation device. She wouldn’t ride on my chest in a carrier through a fen and forest or fall asleep in the stroller being pushed along main street on Washington Island. She wouldn’t sit on my lap on the ferry back to the mainland.
Part of me can’t bear the prospect of coming back here and Isobel being more independent, not needing to hold my hand down a steep flight of steps or my assistance staying afloat and horizontal in the shallows, making her first foray into the sea and learning the rudiments of swimming. What am I to do then?
I want to give her the world, and I do. I give her what I can. I give her as much as I can most of the time. I give her my attention. I give her my love. I give her my tickles. I give her a chance to get in the water at Schoolhouse Beach when she’s clearly enamored with it. We slap a swim diaper on her to approximate a swimsuit and use a pair of pajamas we stored in the trunk in lieu of a beach towel. I pocket a rock from the path to the parking lot that looked like it belonged to the beach but dirtier and give it to Isobel instead of letting her lift one from the shore because there are signs all over imploring you to leave the rocks because they are rare and belong on the island. Isobel accepts this gift. There’s no time for a parental goad to express gratitude because she and says a heartfelt, “Thanks, Daddy!” immediately.
I reflexively choke out, “You’re welcome,” but it doesn’t sound right. I’m moved to tears in the car because she is welcome. Isobel is so welcome. I’m glad you liked the rock. I picked it for you. I gave you a rock and the earth is made of rock so, in a way, I gave you the world.
The next time you step foot onto this island, if you ever do, you can purloin your own contraband rock. If you can take the world on your own, Isobel, what good am I for trying to give it to you? I don’t want to be obsolete, sweet girl. Please keep accepting what I can give and keep needing me…
Isn’t that what my father has struggled with? The fact that I have no use for what he can offer, and that I don’t need him at all?
No. Let’s not go there right now.
Learning kids lesson as an adult: Isobel watched Daniel the Tiger in the backseat on our way to the dock this morning. The episode was about coping with disappointment. Daniel’s birthday cake was ruined, so his wise father sung him a song about turning it around. He made it sound so easy.
I haven’t been doing a great job turning things around this week and neither has Megan. Maybe Izzy can teach us.
Isobel was amped up after joining the family for a round of fireside s’mores. HFC coursing through her veins, she unfurled a dizzying line of questioning upon us.
“Where’s Nana?”
“She’s in her room.”
“What’s she doing in there?”
“She’s packing.”
“Why?”
“Because her vacation is almost over.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve been here for a week, and now it’s almost time to go home.”
“Why?”
“Because vacations don’t last forever.”
“Why?”
“Well, because we have to work to live, and we don’t have jobs here.”
“Why?”
“Why do we have to work to live, or why don’t we have jobs here?”
“Why don’t we have jobs here?”
“Because we’re only visiting. That’s why it’s a vacation.”
“And we need money.”
“Right.”
“Why did we take two boats to the island?”
“Um. One boat to get there and one boat to come back.”
“Why’d we come back?”
“Because we don’t live on the island.”
“Why?”
“Because we were only visiting.”
“And it’s a vacation.”
“Right.”
6/30/18 - Then there’s the morning after, the last morning of the trip where there’s nothing left to do but redact the references to yourself from a space that isn’t yours and haul all your belongings back to the place you belong. Like Lake Michigan, I was churning last night. I woke up at midnight, missing my wife who was asleep next to me, and my daughter, who was asleep in the next room.
I was alone in the tempest.
It’s hard for a vacationer to fathom how you could get tired of Door County, how you could interpret your proximity to the lake as an investment and generate revenue off of it rather than inhabit it. But clearly, that’s what happens. Given the subtle, tasteful signs to to left or right of front doors around here, a vacationer senses most of the waterfront or near-waterfront properties are rented out. Clearly there’s money to be made off the overwhelming majority us who wile away our days far from the Great Lake’s majesty. But why monetize Fantasy Island? I know it’s our American right to do what we will with our private property and I wouldn’t have been here were it not for someone lending the property to us for a fee, but it strikes me as a flagrant misprioritization.
Two memorable sounds from this trip: 1) the squeak and hiss of the hidden automatic air freshener interrupting conversations, solitude, etc. and 2) the sound of the screen door slamming shut disturbing sleep, naps, etc.
On the first morning of the trip, my niece Charlotte stepped on a spider as she exited the rental house. Isobel must have known about this because she has pointed to the squished spired every time we’ve entered or exited. Every time, she bent down close to the ground and pointed. “Look a spider!” Every. Day.
We know.
Twice in the past twenty-four hours, a police SUV flipped on its lights behind me. Both times, my heart raced. I was certain a ticket would soon be written out in my name. Curse these out-of-state plates! And yet, I wasn’t speeding. (At least not knowingly. The limits on county roads are sinusoidal as you approach, enter, and depart from towns.) I have a wife and child onboard, after all. Why risk their safety? I’m cheap. Why risk the unnecessary expense? I’m on vacation. What’s the hurry? Nevertheless, my conscience is so guilty, I assume I’ve done something wrong as soon as it’s evident something has been done wrong in my vicinity.
Both times, the officer passed by me in hot pursuit of someone else. Both times, I blanched with adrenaline.
On the drive down south, through the length of Illinois, oceans of soy and corn replace an ocean of fresh water.
When the car’s interior starts to close in and the passengers trapped within start to crack, we break the glass on our emergency activity and initiate a sing-a-long sequence. We buy another twenty minutes. Three hours to go.
Before we put her down for bed the night before we departed, preparedness remained on her mind. In her mother’s arms, she asked about her water shoes.
“Yes, honey, we packed them.”
“The pink ones?”
“Yes, the pink ones. Those are the only water shoes you have and we put them in your suitcase.”
“What about my hiking boots?”
“Yes, we packed those, too. Now let’s go to bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
She eventually relented and fell asleep accompanied by the few stuffed animals that didn’t make the cut.
6/24/18 - Megan awoke at 4:00A needing to relieve herself. Once awake, she remembered the tickle in her throat she’s had the past week. She suppressed more coughs than she let escape over the next hour, but the damage was done. We both tossed and turned throughout the wee hours of the morning. Restless, we began our final preparations for the journey at 5:20A.
The good news: we were ready to go by 7:15A.
The bad news: 7:15A conflicted with Isobel’s regimented schedule. She rose with ample excitement, dressed with relative ease, and showed her usual tepid interest in breakfast. The day had finally come, and she wanted to get going. When asked, she demurred on going to the bathroom. Isobel had already gone once immediately after rising. But there was more, and we knew it.
We cajoled her into using the potty before we left. Now, come on Iz, we have a long way to go in the car. Will you please try? We resorted to bribery, at which she dashed into the lavatory. She announced she had peed and stuck out her hand to collect her payment. We cheered, we paid, and we piled into the car.
We double-checked the necessary devices and snacks were within arm’s length. I turned the key, and we back out. The early morning sun warmly lit our way. We drove down our street, merged onto the highway, and passed the familiar landmarks along our morning commute. We were on our way, brimming with optimism and progressing to our destination.
Just inside St. Louis’ city limits, Isobel announced she needed to poop. We hadn’t made it 1/100 of the way into our trip before our first stop.
Her morning constitutional cannot be rushed.
***
Our lengthiest discussion, though, was on the topic of weather. Isobel asked the usual battery of questions regarding a storm described in the story (what was the storm, when was the storm, where was the storm, and why was the storm). Despite concise explanation of fiction, authorship, artistic license, symbolism, and the rudiments of meteorology, Isobel was never satisfied with the rationales provided. By the end of her interrogation, I was beginning to see her point. When it comes down to it, there may be no properly good reason for why the author conjured the storm.
I fear her engineering bend and scientific aptitude will freeze the bud of her creativity before it even flowers.
***
On our way out of the restaurant, a nice employee was pulled into Isobel’s cuteness orbit. Smitten, she offered Isobel a balloon. Isobel rewarded the woman with a sheepish smile. Many nearby hearts were warmed. Out of an abundance of caution, I insisted we tie the balloon to her wrist. Not understanding how gaseous helium behaves in our atmosphere, Isobel objected. I overruled her objection with an ultimatum involving balloon forfeiture, and she relented. After exiting, I tried to legitimize her concerns. I tried to explain Newtonian gravity and the relative molecular weight, but Isobel pressed me on why this was the way it was. Midway through explaining what a brute fact is, we reached our parked car. Once inside the Elantra, I untied her prize from her wrist. The balloon started to drift around the backseat.
No sooner than I shut her door with the balloon safely inside did it burst. I was shocked, as were Megan and Isobel. The latter, startled and dismayed, started crying. I tried ascertaining from our sobbing child what happened, but she had no idea. I surveyed the scene. Was there something sharp on the headliner? Could I have somehow popped it through the force of shutting the door? I felt around and found the culprit. Not something sharp, but something hot. The plastic overhead light’s cover, which could have cooked Megan’s side of scrambled eggs, compromised the thin rubber’s integrity.
So fragile is kindness that even when you preserve it from known dangers it still can be destroyed. Yet, the memory endures.
***
Thirty minutes later, Isobel was the recipient of yet more kindness from strangers. As she was peering into a pond at the Anderson Japanese Gardens, an elderly woman approached us.
“Would you like to feed the fish?”
Izzy nodded her affirmation. The woman filled Isobel’s little outstretched hands with duck kibble. What generosity! Such a simple act requiring only a little money and foresight was all it took to amaze Isobel. I want follow the woman’s model when I’m old. I want sit in the shade near a pond and make childrens’ days from sunrise to sunset, one handful of duck kibble at a time.
***
We moderns are accustomed to the replication of goods and uniformity of franchises around the country. We expect the Coke to taste the same, the inside of QTs to look the same, and the songs to be the same on pop music stations. Sometimes far from home, a copy catches you off-guard such as when you alight upon a familiar object you naively took to be one-of-kind. These moments are the uncanny science fictionalization of our lives. The rules we know and trust have been broken.
There are a set of three figurative sculptures by Carl Milles in the Missouri Botanical Gardens that dance on pedestals high above reflecting pools. The triplets are iconic. The fountain figures are frequently used in MoBot’s promotional material. Tourist take pictures of them, whether their family is in frame or not. I’ve eyed figures dozens of times. These nymphs was part and parcel of St. Louis.
Then, walking through Rockford, Illinois, I discovered the same sculptures dancing above a pond in one of their gardens. The sky above them was the familiar cobalt blue of summer. The rippling images below them were cast upon the inky black analogue of our Missouri waters. Tourists were flocking to them and taking pictures, too.
The internet reveals there’s another set in Stockholm and in Kenyon College. Although the sculptures were the ones replicated, I feel less unique myself.
***
We stopped at Econo Foods in Sturgeon Bay to load up on breakfast goods and picnic food. For efficiency’s sake, we divided the grocery list. Megan took Isobel and sought out the AM options. I was tasked with cobbling together the ingredients for sandwiches.
I headed eastward to the perimeter, craning my neck around endcaps and struggling to make sense of the layout. I found the bread and splurged on the most expensive generic loaf around. I was bound for the deli section when my progress was arrested by a bright red display. There, between the produce bins and the bakery, stood two short aisles stocked exclusively with cherry-based products. If you could conceivably associate the tart fruit with it, the item was somewhere on the shelves.
The nearly complete list of products in The Cherry Depot: Dried cherries, chocolate cherries, cherry hard candies, cherry chews, cherry jelly, cherry jam, cherry preserves, cherry syrup, cherry pie filling, cherry juice, cherry wine, cherry vinegar, cherry concentrate, cherry capsules, cherry salsa, cherry relish, cherry chip cookies, cherry scone mix, cherry-centric cookbooks, oven mitts sporting embroidered cherries, trucker hats with the relevant slot machine icon screen-printed on them, wooden wall decor with “A 🍒 On Top” painted in cursive, a variety of cherry pitters--one of which was approved by AARP for its ergonomics.
Succumbing to the Win In Rome thinking of a tourist, I grabbed a jar of cherry mustard and moved on to my next item while Megan wondered what was taking me so long.
***
Isobel beat all expectations today. She was up two hours later than usual and napped an hour less. Nevertheless, she didn’t have a single meltdown or tantrum.
***
6/25/18 - In hindsight, I should not have inquired as to when the sun rose in these parts. But I did. Curiosity is an itch waiting to be scratched by the computer in your pocket. 5:02 AM. I laughed at the absurdly early time. “I don’t think I’m going to see one,” I told Megan last night.
Then I work up this morning and made my second mistake. I jiggled my phone and checked the time. 4:32 AM. Howabout that. Well before sunrise. You could see it if you wanted to. But I didn’t settle down until after 10:00 last night, and I’m still sore from inadequate sleep. But here’s your chance! You aren’t going back to sleep, anyway, if you’re having a conversation like this in your head. Good point.
So, I snuck off as quietly as I could (which, I noted, was far quieter in this newly constructed house than I was accustomed to in our 80 year old one.) I padded down the street and followed my father-in-law’s directions for walking to the lake (make a right on Chapel Road and a left past the big gate where there’s a sign for the North Trail).
The sky was already brighter than I anticipated. Unsure of how long the road was and how windy the trail would be, I started running. I could hear the lake lapping off to my left. Bright silver shone through the shadowy woods. Once I entered the gate, I made a left at the trailhead. The ground underfoot was soft with fallen white cedar leaves. The ambient scent was distinctly coniferous. I felt like a werewolf running through the dark forest by myself--or else someone fleeing a werewolf. Save for my footfalls, all was quiet. The animals weren’t stirring yet. No breeze jostled the limbs. The lake’s patter was barely audible.
Overhead, the sky was daylit. Off to the left, through the trunks, I could see the dreamsicle glow intensifying. I approached a rocky outcropping with ten minutes to spare by my watch. I sat, cross-legged, and waited.
The view was sublime. My own physical insignificance was amplified by my solitariness. Water dominated the panorama. The eastern horizon was interrupted by a sliver of land, over which the sun would rise. Past its tip yawned the great shimmering expanse of Lake Michigan.
I watched the distance eagerly. Such a sense of anticipation I hadn’t felt since last summer’s total solar eclipse. As the brightness continued to intensify, I pointed my smartphone camera and started recording. Any second now, I thought the unmistakable beacon would protrude above the faroff trees.
As I watched the screen, making sure my shot was steady, I was reminded of the old viewfinder on my dad’s camcorder. To my chagrin, I found myself reprising my father’s performance. He taped sunsets over Lake Michigan every summer. Every August, he’d prop up his video camera on a rock, on a railing, or directly on the sand itself and push the red plastic button. For twenty-plus minutes, his camcorder would store waves spilling ashore and daylight slowly extinguishing on a diminutive VHS-C.
I never saw him watch any of these videos. My mom and I never watched them, either.
The only time any of them were screened to my knowledge was when I missed our pilgrimage due to a freak knee injury the summer before my freshman year of high school. He made the trip solo, claiming he didn’t want to forfeit the deposit. I remember him tearing up at my bedside, in disbelief I was refusing to accompany him in my full leg cast. When he returned, the two of us watched all of the tapes he made including the one of the setting sun. He narrated the action, overlaying obvious statements about what we were looking at and repeating how much he wished I was there. Mom asked him whenever she passed the TV on her way through the living room if he had to talk so much, as though something could be done about his voiceover now.
But for the most part, the videos went unwatched.
I know dad is reassured the tapes exist, though. They’re all labeled on a couple of shelves in the basement. They surround his desk like a fortress of the past. The most important days of his life from 1992-2007 are preserved in an inorganic medium, one that will degrade less quickly than his brain, which isn’t so different from his son storing a video on an SD Card or writing travelogues.
That his son, who in most ways contrasts him (politics, fashion, taste, appearance, intelligence, age, etc., etc.) in this way follows in his footsteps, goes to show that the range of human possibilities is limited and must necessarily require overlap between two particular people.
And while I’m thinking about being like my dad and being uncomfortable with that, the sun still hasn’t pierced the skyline yet, so I stop what is now clearly a premature recording. I divert my attention from this natural beauty to delete the clip from my phone. I can’t spare the space on my meager internal storage.
Throughout my childhood summers, we motored up to the opposite side of the same body of water. My dad, equal parts Chicken Little and Eeyore, was enchanted. All year long, he’d look forward to this trip. Then, once he got here, his infatuation with the place would nearly be unbearable. He’d spend so much time doing any one thing, those of us who travelled with him were driven to boredom. When he’d take a swim, it’d be fore two hours. When he’d take a walk along the beach, it’d be for five miles. When he’d watch a sunset, it’d be for the thirty minutes leading up to the sunset and the thirty minutes after. The camera would watch, too.
I couldn’t take it. I criticized him for idolizing the place.
The whole time, I wanted to tell him to give it up. Give us all a break from your glee. Stop enjoying yourself so much. You were the one who taught me life was so shitty. At every turn, you told me how you never thought it would go this way. That you never dreamed you’d be so poor. You were such a devoted pessimist. How could you not tarnish this experience, too?
You called the lake a dream, and you meant it in the best possible way. An oasis. A utopia. Heaven on earth. Fantasy Island. Once the Alzheimer's started setting in and you struggled to find the right words, you called it Candy Land. A sweet place, I guess. But you, of all people, were inclined to see through those mirages and to find the bleak shadows beneath them.
And so I found your joy here, your incessant savoring of every experience unbearable. Because I always knew the trip was going to be over sooner than you’d like to admit. There was no afterglow once the sun set on Lake Michigan. Then it was another 51 weeks of gloom and misery, and the recollections of these happy times somehow rendering normalcy worse. I wanted you to either apply that same reverential vision to the life we led together back home and thereby show me what it was to persist in trials or to tint this place with your dim glasses and prove that you were a thorough pessimist rather than a hypocrite.
But you never did. You were always and only happy at the lake, the same lake your son is now keeping vigil over, but from the opposite side. When the sun finally pokes through over the distant trees, I too want to stay here forever, Dad. I too want to retire here. This is Candy Land, Dad. I get caught up in it just like you did. I hear its siren song.
But this side suits me better. I’m more of a Wisconsin. You’re more of a Michigan. Whereas I watch with hope of a new day dawning, you stare transfixed at the day you’ve already lost. That sweet cruelty is what you brought back. You basked in the pain, anhedonia being the closest you come to happiness. Those sunsets spoke the truth to you. Gone. Gone. Gone.
I can see it now: the sun over the bay and your tragic attachment to that which you can’t possess. You long for that which has already departed: to the past, to memories, to the lake, to vacations, to the few blissful moments in your unhappy childhood that were on the shores of this same lake.
This place has always meant so much to you because it has been the exception. The light in the darkness. The sugar in the ashes. The dream in your waking life. You love it for it’s unreality.
***
We took Isobel lakeside today--not to a proper sandy beach, but a rocky shore. We had to climb down a limestone embankment to arrive at the water’s edge. Once there, Isobel had to be restrained from diving headlong. She took off her shoes and socks. I rolled up her pants legs. The cold was no deterrent. She scream-laughed with excitement when the cold water rose to her calves. At first, she wanted to hold my hand as she ventured farther out. Eventually, she pulled away. I let her creep out a little farther, seizing her own independence. She lost her balance, fell back on her bottom, and didn’t seem to mind at all. I was happy for her, if reluctant to release my grip.
***
When Izzy took a nap, so did I. It’s a luxury in which I rarely partake when at home, but isn’t indulgence permissible on vacation? What else am I going to do? I have no chores here, no lawn to mow, weeds to pull, or dishes to wash. So, I slept a little.
***
We went to a proper beach this afternoon. Isobel addressed Lake Michigan like the Old Testament God: with love and fear. At first, she was stoked. She jumped and splashed and squealed and flirted with the water. She’d dart out to it, skim it with her hand or foot as it receded. She’d wade up to her shin and splash.
But then a wave would come and roll over her thighs. Those chilling 62 degrees touched her torso, she was horrified. She’d dart back squealing and seeking haven on the shore. She bolted for the towels. She wanted to go home immediately.
Through joint parental encouragement and gentle vocal inflection, we were able to disarm her. Once her cousins arrived, Izzy had forgiven the lake. She never wanted to leave.
***
One of the perks of extended-family vacations is you abandon your kid without being irresponsible. Megan and I snuck off to stroll down a nearby jetty, and there was no risk of child endangerment. Thanks, guys.
***
6/26/18 - I woke up at a slightly more reasonable hour this morning.
***
After breakfast, we went to the Ridges Natural Sanctuary. The sanctuary is named after successive shorelines created by changes in the sea level over the last 50,000 years. (Fun fact: the low-lying areas between the ridges are called swales and are filled with water and water-loving plants.) We hiked around the various short loops that traced the ridges’ crests. We spotted a few birds. I found an orchid. My nephew found a frog. Mosquitoes found all of us.
This adventure supported the following hypothesis.
There are two kinds of hikers: (1) those who are terrified of getting lost and (2) those to whom the possibility of getting lost never occurs. (There are other categories, like the indoorsmen who would rather not be outdoors, but they eventually fall into (1) if they are kept out long enough.)
Anxious persons’ anxiety manifests once you displace them from their native habitat. They are sensitive to the very real and present danger of being cut off from civilization, marooned on an infernal island far from the nearest backwoods road. Their minds start to wander as soon as they step off pavement. They consider how long they can survive off the granola bar in their pocket and whether lapping up the groundwater will make them ill.
Confident persons’ self-assurance manifests in the conviction they can dominate this foreign territory as well as they have the domestic. Of course they will be able to follow the trail and orient themselves in the event they have temporarily wandered from it. It’s not hard to follow a path. They assume they’ll be able to find their way back by tracking the sun, cloudy day or no. To hell with a GPS. Leave that paper map for the next guy. They already committed it to memory. You don’t even need a compass, so long as you can find the mossy side of a tree trunk.
Having played both roles personally, I can attest to the equilibrium they provide expeditions. Without the anxious-types, the confident-types would charge off into oblivion. Without the confident-types, the anxious-types would never see the world.
***
You supposedly head outdoors to commune with nature, but communing requires intentional effort. You don’t become one with nature as soon as you enter into it. More often, you hike despite nature. Yes, you let go of aspects of yourself--your modern worries and practical concerns--but you also ignore most of your surroundings. You don’t take your time. You don’t stop and breathe deeply. You don’t see the limbs high above reflected in the pond. You don’t spot the flashes of color popping out of the decaying forest floor’s browns.
The need to safely and timely arrive back at the trailhead directs your eyes to the ground immediately before your feet. You focus on the roots and rocks obstructing your way and then look up, not to find the origin of a bird call, but to the trail markers assuring you you’re headed in the right direction. You remind yourself to look around every now and again, but your task-oriented self forges onward as though you were racing.
What’s the point of all this? Is it exercise? Is it a notch in your belt? You’re evading negative emotions out here, boredom at being separated from your information IV and fear at being far from conveniences. Is that more laudible than hopping on the treadmill?
***
The mosquitoes are flourishing in Door County. With all the low-lying areas and standing water around, the bloodsuckers are in their own heaven. No mammals are safe.
As we were exiting our car at different area within the Ridges, another family was completing their journey. A grandfather advanced toward the parking lot like a soldier staggering out of a warzone, two children drudging behind him. After he strapped his flagging grandkids into their carseats, he approached us.
“Were you all smart enough to bring bug spray with you?”
I assumed he was just making small-town small talk. Without thinking, I answered affirmatively.
The man asked if he might have some.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Hold on.”
Megan, who was unbuckling Isobel, said something under her breath. I leaned back into the car. “What?”
“We don’t have very much.”
“Well, what was I supposed to say?”
She handed me the bottle. I held it up to the sun and saw the clear contents sloshing around near the bottom of the bottle. I handed it to the grandfather. He took it, also eying the bottle, and frowned. He retreated, bent over, and starting spraying his charges.
What was happening here? Were there mosquitoes in his car? Does he not understand how bug spray works? How does a person live to his advanced age thinking repellant keeps the past away?
He returned the bottle, adding that he’d foregone spraying himself since we were so low. I thanked him for his consideration and watched him round his Toyota, unsure of what just happened but sure I did the right thing.
The episode would have been fodder for a fabulist. In a time of scarcity, the wife tries in vain to protect her family while the husband is duped into squandering precious resources. Yet the husband wins because he spends the afternoon feeling morally superior.
***
Towards the end of the hike, our paths crossed with a family who had paused to consult a map. Nervous we had zigged when we should have zagged, I asked if we were on the right trail. They verified my suspicions. We should have stayed on the orange, not taken the yellow spur. Oh well. What’s another fifteen minutes?
As the father was folding the map, he asked me if we had bug spray. Once again, I said we did--but added not too much. Our conversation ended. We headed in opposite directions.
Because there was no follow-up question, I realized we were on the other end of the exchange. It was the preface to an offer, not a request. In this parable, we were the wounded traveler instead of the Samaritan. Having already passed through the bog, we knew the infested grounds we were reentering and had already drained what little we had left reapplying. But they didn’t know that we knew, so they were trying to spare us the welts and consequent itchiness. If we have a long future ahead of us as a species, it is due in no small part to simple kindness like theirs.
***
We’d heard Door County described as the Cape Cod of the Midwest. Having honeymooned in Cape Cod, we were curious to investigate the claim.
I can see the family resemblance. Both names denoting regions rather than particular cities because none of the particular cities therein dominate. Their proximity to a bodies of water that stretch out to the horizon. Lighthouses aplenty. Low humidity and crisp, constant breezes. Windy touring roads unmarred by billboards. A conspicuous absence of strip malls and big box stores.
But the Wisconsin peninsula is not a Midwestern twin to the Massachusetts. Fresh water is not salt water. The seafood here cannot compete with coastal catches. The beaches here are less foot-friendly. This place is too practical. There are working farms. The money here is too scarce and, when plentiful, is too new. The homes here are too tightly packed together, too large, and not covered with painted wood shingles.
No, this isn’t Cape Cod. But that’s not a criticism.
***
Like a death row inmate who asks to be read the phonebook before the switch is flipped, Isobel grasps at straws to prolong bedtime. Tonight, she fixated onto a nearby board game box, claiming she wanted to play it before she went to sleep. The reasons against granting her request: 1) she was sobbing uncontrollably a minute earlier over not having a different pacifier (a sure sign of fatigue being emotional outbursts), 2) she never played the game before, 3) she was nine years shy of the the suggested minimum age threshold, and 4) even if she were of age and had known the rules, we wouldn’t wrap up the game until an hour after her bedtime.
None of these valid reasons mollified her.
6/27/18 - Maybe it’s the only-child in me, but I am overwhelmed by the power dynamics at play in large family trips. When I only had my parents to deal with, I could make things happen. But now that we’ve bound three family units together, it takes too long to get anything done. You have to wait until everyone is up. Then you have to wait until everyone is fed. Then you have to wait until everyone is groomed and dressed. Then you have to wait until someone broaches the topic of what to do today. Then, since everyone else is going to ignore the topic because they’re too lethargic from a poor night’s sleep or absorbed in their smartphones, you have to wait until the person who broached the topic gets fed up and checks out and heads upstairs to pout and write in his notebook. Then, a few of the remaining adults get short with their children, who have been structure-free so long they can’t remember what it’s like to meet a deadline.
It’s only when the entire group is amply irritated by their confines and what’s been happening within them for the past hour does the inertia of disorganization get broken en masse.
“We’ve gotta get out of here!”
“We do!...But where?”
Proposals are pitched and their flaws highlighted and voted down until the possibility that offends no one and excites no one is eventually settled upon, at which point everyone has to wrangle the kids, rebrush their hair, cajole them into using the potty, and assemble the requisite gear, fill the water bottles, and tell one child for the last time to put the tablet away because we’re leaving now.
By the time everyone arrives at the underwhelming destination, with the grumpy only man-child bringing up the rear, the kids are feeling peckish and the activity is cut short in favor of an early lunch at the closest possible restaurant with bland food and long wait times.
But at least we’re all together, right?
***
If you’re in the septic business, you might as well have a sense of humor about it. As we were negotiating what to do next, a septic truck drove by us in Sturgeon Bay. Beneath the company name was written: Stool Bus.
If only I could give them my business.
***
Door County is a delight to explore. There is so much untouched land (or, rather, land that hasn’t been touched since early in the European’s settlement), so many fields to look past, silos and barns--some operational, others derelict--supplementing the landscape, colorful barn quilts above their doors, a body of water sparkling through the flanking tree trunks, gentle peaks and troughs to roll over in your automobile, soft curves to keep the driver engaged, little traffic to irritate her, every third house a bed and breakfast, every fifth driveway anchored by bundles of firewood for sale ($5 near a town; $3 in the unincorporated areas), main streets every ten to fifteen miles lined with souvenir stands, ice cream shops, and biker bars--plus a supper club at the intersection of most country roads. There must a lower rate of hypertension on the peninsula than the rest of America.
6/28/18 - Today, Isobel was helping me get ready for our day. (Now that her cousins have departed, we need to do more to keep her entertained.) I asked her to bring me my socks and medicine for my feet. She obliged and watched intently as I applied the antifungal ointment to the bottom of my feet. We’ve discussed athlete’s foot before and how antifungal ointment works. She asked me where the fungus was.
“Oh, honey. It’s too small. You can’t see it.”
Then she fashioned binoculars out of her hands and bent her face nearer to my arches.
“Ah. You’re using your owl eyes. That’s a good idea. Can you see anything?”
She said yes and pointed to the ball of my left foot. “There it is.”
“Yep. There it is.”
***
Strolling through Door County is a bit like watching old Hollywood movies: there’s nary a minority to be found in either. It’s not like minorities are willfully kept out. It’s as though they didn’t exist. It’s not like minorities are scapegoated or denigrated. It’s as though they aren’t a polite topic of conversation.
For generations, this has been a white place where white people lead their white lives in cold, white seclusion and are seasonally joined by other white people to partake of their geographic spoils during the temperate months.
It wasn’t always so pale. In 1820, Native Americans held the peninsula. By 1870, whites dominated the land and displaced the natives to the hotter, resource-scarce land of Oklahoma. Whites have exclusively been enjoying the views ever since.
***
6/29/18 - I woke early, having to evacuate the remnants of last night’s beer. The sky glowed powder blue, so I was curious what time it was. Not like it matters. I was going back to bed whether it said 4:00AM or 6:00AM. I was tired.
4:46AM. Ah, well. The sun will be up soon. Too bad. I’ll miss the sunrise. Just last night I was bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have a proper camera with me when I saw the first one. So it goes. The sun still rose. I have memories, which I’ll keep if I rehearse them, and smartphone pictures, which aren’t such poor quality anymore.
I laid back down and pulled up the covers. If I really cared, I could wake up early tomorrow. But now, it’s time to sleep. Get some more rest before the last full day of your vacation. Lying here, thinking about the rising sun you’re about to miss, is the worst of both worlds. Where is the camera, anyway? You had it with you last night. Five days in and you still haven’t found a spot for it. This is the same position you were in on Monday. A prime photo op with no camera. And this spectacular scene is about to unfold a short walk away. You’re going to miss it, and you aren’t going to go back to sleep because you’re thinking thoughts like these, which means you are way too awake and alert to drift off again.
So you’ll be in this bed scolding yourself for the next ten minutes and missing your chance to see the stunning sight you never see back home. Your joints will be sore today for nothing. You’ll plod downstairs and drink cold coffee and watch the shadows start to form in the wooded lot surrounding the house while one of the most splendid events you can witness on earth is happening just across the street and through the conifers.
My better self won. I rose, smacked my head on the slanted ceiling, groped around for the camera, and still made it to the shore in time.
***
We did not get lost once on the way to Door County.
We got lost twice in one day within Door County.
Door County residents do not rely on signs to get where they’re going, so why would visitors need them?
***
Isobel was in rare form on Washington Island this afternoon. The Children’s Tylenol, cough syrup, and promise of a lavender macaroon lifted her spirits considerably from her cranky morning doldrums. She morphed into a performer. When welcoming Megan to the table we secured while she was away, Isobel said, “We got a chair for you! Here you go my dear!”
***
While on the island, we stopped by Nelson’s Hall--the longest continually operating bar in the fine state of Wisconsin. I joined the bitters club by downing a shot of Angostura, what passed for medicine during prohibition and allowed the proprietor to receive a pharmacist’s license to dispense a curative coincidentally high in alcohol.
***
Fed up with our futile coaxing, Megan waited outside. Isobel told me, “I’ll come out once I’m finished, okay Dad?” in her best impression of a weary teenager. To her credit, she was a girl of her word.
***
I’ve avoided being alone with my thoughts because my habitual End of Trip Despondency has set in. The usual melancholy that attends the end of vacations has been compounded by the melancholy that attends reflection on my daughter’s aging. It makes for a bitter cocktail.
A story I read earlier this week while everyone else in the house was sleeping concerned mortality. A character meditated on his ill wife’s hand and how someday soon the hand he was holding would be lifeless. Our awareness of time’s passage rewards us with such terrifying thoughts.
On first trips to X, you’d customarily consider if you’d ever want to revist X. You project ahead, imagining being here again but older. If we ever returned to Door County, Isobel would be so different. She wouldn’t need a nap. She wouldn’t need a flotation device. She wouldn’t ride on my chest in a carrier through a fen and forest or fall asleep in the stroller being pushed along main street on Washington Island. She wouldn’t sit on my lap on the ferry back to the mainland.
Part of me can’t bear the prospect of coming back here and Isobel being more independent, not needing to hold my hand down a steep flight of steps or my assistance staying afloat and horizontal in the shallows, making her first foray into the sea and learning the rudiments of swimming. What am I to do then?
I want to give her the world, and I do. I give her what I can. I give her as much as I can most of the time. I give her my attention. I give her my love. I give her my tickles. I give her a chance to get in the water at Schoolhouse Beach when she’s clearly enamored with it. We slap a swim diaper on her to approximate a swimsuit and use a pair of pajamas we stored in the trunk in lieu of a beach towel. I pocket a rock from the path to the parking lot that looked like it belonged to the beach but dirtier and give it to Isobel instead of letting her lift one from the shore because there are signs all over imploring you to leave the rocks because they are rare and belong on the island. Isobel accepts this gift. There’s no time for a parental goad to express gratitude because she and says a heartfelt, “Thanks, Daddy!” immediately.
I reflexively choke out, “You’re welcome,” but it doesn’t sound right. I’m moved to tears in the car because she is welcome. Isobel is so welcome. I’m glad you liked the rock. I picked it for you. I gave you a rock and the earth is made of rock so, in a way, I gave you the world.
The next time you step foot onto this island, if you ever do, you can purloin your own contraband rock. If you can take the world on your own, Isobel, what good am I for trying to give it to you? I don’t want to be obsolete, sweet girl. Please keep accepting what I can give and keep needing me…
Isn’t that what my father has struggled with? The fact that I have no use for what he can offer, and that I don’t need him at all?
No. Let’s not go there right now.
***
Learning kids lesson as an adult: Isobel watched Daniel the Tiger in the backseat on our way to the dock this morning. The episode was about coping with disappointment. Daniel’s birthday cake was ruined, so his wise father sung him a song about turning it around. He made it sound so easy.
I haven’t been doing a great job turning things around this week and neither has Megan. Maybe Izzy can teach us.
***
Isobel was amped up after joining the family for a round of fireside s’mores. HFC coursing through her veins, she unfurled a dizzying line of questioning upon us.
“Where’s Nana?”
“She’s in her room.”
“What’s she doing in there?”
“She’s packing.”
“Why?”
“Because her vacation is almost over.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve been here for a week, and now it’s almost time to go home.”
“Why?”
“Because vacations don’t last forever.”
“Why?”
“Well, because we have to work to live, and we don’t have jobs here.”
“Why?”
“Why do we have to work to live, or why don’t we have jobs here?”
“Why don’t we have jobs here?”
“Because we’re only visiting. That’s why it’s a vacation.”
“And we need money.”
“Right.”
“Why did we take two boats to the island?”
“Um. One boat to get there and one boat to come back.”
“Why’d we come back?”
“Because we don’t live on the island.”
“Why?”
“Because we were only visiting.”
“And it’s a vacation.”
“Right.”
6/30/18 - Then there’s the morning after, the last morning of the trip where there’s nothing left to do but redact the references to yourself from a space that isn’t yours and haul all your belongings back to the place you belong. Like Lake Michigan, I was churning last night. I woke up at midnight, missing my wife who was asleep next to me, and my daughter, who was asleep in the next room.
I was alone in the tempest.
***
It’s hard for a vacationer to fathom how you could get tired of Door County, how you could interpret your proximity to the lake as an investment and generate revenue off of it rather than inhabit it. But clearly, that’s what happens. Given the subtle, tasteful signs to to left or right of front doors around here, a vacationer senses most of the waterfront or near-waterfront properties are rented out. Clearly there’s money to be made off the overwhelming majority us who wile away our days far from the Great Lake’s majesty. But why monetize Fantasy Island? I know it’s our American right to do what we will with our private property and I wouldn’t have been here were it not for someone lending the property to us for a fee, but it strikes me as a flagrant misprioritization.
***
Two memorable sounds from this trip: 1) the squeak and hiss of the hidden automatic air freshener interrupting conversations, solitude, etc. and 2) the sound of the screen door slamming shut disturbing sleep, naps, etc.
***
On the first morning of the trip, my niece Charlotte stepped on a spider as she exited the rental house. Isobel must have known about this because she has pointed to the squished spired every time we’ve entered or exited. Every time, she bent down close to the ground and pointed. “Look a spider!” Every. Day.
We know.
***
Twice in the past twenty-four hours, a police SUV flipped on its lights behind me. Both times, my heart raced. I was certain a ticket would soon be written out in my name. Curse these out-of-state plates! And yet, I wasn’t speeding. (At least not knowingly. The limits on county roads are sinusoidal as you approach, enter, and depart from towns.) I have a wife and child onboard, after all. Why risk their safety? I’m cheap. Why risk the unnecessary expense? I’m on vacation. What’s the hurry? Nevertheless, my conscience is so guilty, I assume I’ve done something wrong as soon as it’s evident something has been done wrong in my vicinity.
Both times, the officer passed by me in hot pursuit of someone else. Both times, I blanched with adrenaline.
***
On the drive down south, through the length of Illinois, oceans of soy and corn replace an ocean of fresh water.
***
When the car’s interior starts to close in and the passengers trapped within start to crack, we break the glass on our emergency activity and initiate a sing-a-long sequence. We buy another twenty minutes. Three hours to go.
***
As the thermometer swelled, our optimism evaporated. When Egg Harbor was in our rearview mirror, the air temp was 68°. Within a half hour, it was 74°. By our scheduled lunchtime pit stop in Milwaukee, it was 97°. Our summer dream was over. Hot, humid waking life had been simmering all the while.
The slowly torn band aid that is the road trip home finally was off by 8:30P. Over the curb cut and onto the parking pad: it had been a long day. We put Isobel to the bed and unloaded the car with funereal pacing. I heaped my laundry downstairs in the washing machine’s general vicinity. I stored my luggage. I put the cherry mustard on the fridge’s top shelf. It was three-quarters empty, and so was I.
