Home Is Where the Car Is
I’m writing to you from Muskegon, Michigan—although, if the weatherman allows, I’ll be back in my Arkansas living room by the time you read this. But for now, I’m enjoying wintery walks on the beach, watching an army of hairless Ewoks pursuing their passion for water sports.
Despite frigid temperatures, the white laced chop of Lake Michigan waves crashing ashore is a siren call to these folks in head-to-toe wetsuits, armed with giant kites attached to surfboards. I love to watch their diminutive forms along the horizon. But I can’t watch for long—the windchill on my cheeks urges me to seek shelter. Apparently my passion for big water, while strong, is not as great as the Ewoks’.
I went to high school in Michigan—a very long time ago—but that was on the other side of the state. No ocean… er… um… Great Lake. My visits since then have been few and far between. My grown daughter is with me on this trip. She has vague memories of visiting eastern Michigan as a kid, but this was her first time seeing any of the Great Lakes. She was amazed. She hadn’t realized how vast a lake could be. What you learn in geography class just doesn’t cover it.
I’ve been contemplating a home on big water. Before moving to Arkansas, I had a house on the Mississippi Gulf Coast—but Hurricane Katrina flattened it. I was glad to move inland at the time, but in recent years, I’ve had a hankering to return to the ocean. I traveled to the Delaware and Oregon coasts, but for one reason or another, decided those were not the places for me. Now I’m considering the west coast of Michigan. It’s not the ocean, but it sure looks like one. My daughter dubbed it the fake ocean, which morphed into the faux ocean, and finally the fauxcean.
I’m good with living on the fauxcean.
I was in Muskegon once before—shortly before the election. The landscape, then, was coated with political signs, both red and blue. After all, Michigan is a swing state. This is a place where my vote would actually count!
Now the streets are pretty much devoid of political signs—unless you think a sign that says, “Hate has no home here,” is political. This particular sign displays English, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic, and a couple other languages my daughter and I cannot determine. It’s right across the street from our Airbnb. It inspires our affection for the neighborhood.
There are some big supermarkets here. Way bigger than the ones in Carroll County and, oddly, bigger than the ones I’ve visited in Fayetteville (which is far more populous than Muskegon). It pleases me to see diversity among shoppers. And employees. Of course, Berryville’s Walmart is a multicultural experience these days. I love that.
From our Muskegon backyard, we can see the local Unitarian church. (It practically abuts our back fence.) It’s bedecked with a pride flag and has parking spaces defined by rainbow-colored stripes painted on the pavement. Reminds us of Eureka Springs.
I miss my dog—who’s at home in Arkansas. Her hold on my heart makes me anxious to return. Yet the call of the fauxcean is strong. Would my Tootsie like it here?
Truth is—today I’m attached to Lake Michigan because of the “lake effect” that has covered Muskegon streets with snow, making travel sketchy. Home might be where the heart is, but if you can’t get there from here, home is where the car is.