The first leg of our trip was boring enough. Once the initial excitement of leaving town wore away, we were left with driving through ugly, smelly Gary, Indiana. Seriously, I don't know how Michigan ever attracts tourism business from Chicago with Gary standing in the way. You have to have some strong stamina to be willing to drive through the smog and steel mill odor of that town.
Soon, however, Jay, Sean, and I crossed the border from Indiana to Michigan. I love the "Welcome to Michigan" sign. It seems as though there is some invisible border in the air demarcating life and death. Life, as in sunlight, birds, and beaches. Death, as in pollution and dead fish along the lake shore. Really. I haven't been there recently, but Indiana Dunes State Park, during my youth, was about the most unsummer-like place you could go. There you are, sitting on the beach, and off in the distance you can see fumes billowing out of a factory's smokestack. You can smell it, too. There is a perpetually greyness to the sky, whether the sun is out or not. And, yes, it's not uncommon to see dead fish washed up on the shore, seagulls beating their wings to land and pick the carcasses.
Once in Michigan, we travelled along the lake shore, although this actually runs about 10 miles inland. There is surprisingly little lakefront you can actually drive along in the lower peninsula. Frankly it's discouraging and disappointing that so much of that land is privately owned, especially in a state that prides itself and depends greatly on its natural resources and tourism. There has been much talk over the years about the state buying this private property over a period of years, but nothing ever really gets started. And the land keeps getting more and more expensive to purchase as the years go buy, thus making it unlikely we will ever have a Lake Michigan Highway to rival California's Pacific Coast Highway. What a shame.
Still, we passed dozens of small towns and state parks along the way, most of which are outfitted for doing business during the tourist season. Little campgrounds and motels and RV parks dot the roadway, as well as gift shops and mini roadside museums. New Buffalo, Benton Harbor (not as lovely), South Haven (a beautiful harbor), Holland, Grand Haven. Finally, we reached Muskegon, the city of my youth. Founded on the lumber industry, Muskegon evolved into the "piston capital of the world" during the crest of the automotive industry. Though it appears to be making a comeback now, the eighties and nineties found her in dire straits, indeed.
My friends and I decided to drive by my old house first, and then down by the lakefront downtown. I don't think I had been there in four or five years. As we pulled onto the street that would take us past my old school, the one that would take us to Jefferson Ave and Wolf lake, I barely recognized any of it! The road was much shorter than it seemed years ago. I remember it being a thirty minute bike ride to get to E&J's gas station on the corner of Wolf Lake & Apple Avenue. It only took us four or fire minutes by car. I remember how daunting the high school looked the first time I entered its doors, but in reality there were only 400 students in the entire school! My high school in Chicago had 2500! Memories came flooding back. I thought of the first tape I had bought, "Synchronicity" by The Police, and how it was stolen the first day I brought it to school, and how my friend Russell the Bully beat up the kid who stole it from me. I remembered riding the swing set on the playground at my elementary school, kicking as hard as I could, and walloping an unsuspecting kid named Jeremy in the face as he walked by. He lay crumpled on the ground for a few moments, then got up, shook his head, and walked away. Amazing. I wonder how he's doing today? I remember how lonely and unwanted I felt back then.
I shook those thoughts away as we made a left onto Jefferson. The little park on the corner was still there, untouched. A dusty baseball diamond, a rusty swing set, a merry-go-round. And a little beach on Wolf Lake down the hill. I saw all of my old neighbors houses: the Hollenbecks, the Gransons, and others, that sadly with the passage of time, I had forgotten. And then, my old house! That majestic castle upon a vast sea from my youth! Well, it turned out to be just a regular house. Don't get me wrong. It was definitely big. My father had added an addition onto the single-story ranch with a basement it was when he bought it. And an acre of land was nothing to sneeze at. But in those few years I had been gone, I had grown. I was taller, I could now drive a car, I had seen skyscrapers! Ant to top it all off, our house, which once had been red, had been painted blue! I was disappointed. I didn't tell my friends. In fact I talked excitedly for hours about my memories of the place. But inside, I hurt terribly. I have no idea why. In the few times I have driven by since, always at someone else's request, I have gotten nauseous. Even now, just thinking about it, makes me sick.
All the important things, all the good memories, I have already stripped from that house. Now it carries no meaning for me, though somehow I think it ought to. Maybe that is why I hate it so. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's why my memories of youth are so fantastic and exaggerated.
Our journey continued.
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