Detroit, huh? CNN says there's 'real estate gold' in that place, surprising headline, but rather misleading. They write of homes selling for a mere $50- many of them! I guess there are people, as usual, flipping homes at these kinds of prices. From the article, it sounds like just a few people are making money, and not much at that...

I remember visiting my nonna (grandmother) in Detroit when I was young. She and her family had come from Italy in 1955, my father was only 7 at the time. They bought a house in Harper Woods, my nonno (grandfather) worked at Iroquois Tool & Die. Nonna lived in that little neat brick house for almost fifty years, while the property values rose around them, then began to drop.


Driving through Detroit was always something of an adventure- the highways are sunk below the skyline and as you dip and rise the glittering lights show, despite the factory smog always hovering over the city. We'd arrive, finally, at Nonna's house and eat sesame breadsticks with cold butter while she and my father would argue in rapid Italian. Her house was always perfectly neat, shining and clean, smelling of Ivory soap and Snuggle fabric softener. My nonno would stomp around the house, seldom sober, his cane clumping on the wooden floors and his hair smelling of Brylcreme. She and he slept in separate bedrooms- Catholic birth control that had worked since '69.

I grew up in the country, so this was the first big city in my experience- a fantasy concrete jungle when all I knew was dirt and grass. Some of my fondest memories are of Detroit- dancing in warm street puddles during a summer thunderstorm or eating hot fried fish on a Friday with my nonna. Some of my worst memories are also from there- Nonno drunk at a funeral, falling down and cutting his head in front of everyone, or of the gut-wrenching discovery of my dad's secret first marriage.

As a child, I did not know there was trouble, I didn't understand white flight or crime indexes or racial tensions or the suburbs or union workers or anything like that. It wasn't until the early nineties that I knew something was wrong with the city, but I still loved it just as much as before. As the years passed, I was sad to see the city decay and crumble, yet still relieved when we moved Nonna out to the burbs. Now it's just a place we pass through occasionally, caught at every stoplight on Telegraph Rd, or grabbing a loaf of bread at Tringali's. Now it's just the place both my parents grew up in, a place I seldom even need to see, but still remember with a touch of awe. It's also a place where things like this can happen.

It would be beautiful if somehow the city came back to life- if the crime and homelessness and general rot were wiped away, and some new industry or technology or trade or art were brought in to take the place of rusting cars and shattered windows. It would be amazing to see some of the grand old hotels and buildings brought back to luster, filled with life. I don't know if a few guys flipping houses is going to bring that change, or if its the advance guard to a change about to happen, but I would like to think that possibly there is hope...

Any ideas? Any other memories of the place, or photos?

**fascinating photosets of the place here, here, and here.

Labels: culture, Detroit, harper woods, history, memories, Michigan

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From Cadillac to Utah, with our stops at friends, family, and overnights highlighted with the little green letter tab thingies.

I love Googlemaps!

Labels: colorado, google maps, iowa, Michigan, miles, nebraska, road trip, travel, utah, wyoming

We live about a quarter mile from Lake Cadillac, which is now completely frozen over. Ice fishing is popular here, as is snowmobiling and whatever else people can do in the cold, as long as they don't require normal blood ciruclation. Here are some pics of the frozen lake, taken on our way out of town:

Labels: lake cadillac, Michigan, Northern Michigan, road trip, travel

We arrived in Michigan's Upper peninsula on day one of our Canadian Shield Challenge. It would have meant a late arrival had we continued on our path to Canada, so we stopped off at Tahquamenon Falls State Park. I am so glad that we did! Our stay was lovely, the weather was perfect, and we got a good night's sleep.

The park covers a good sized chunk of the U.P., and ranges from the lovely Lake Superior down to both the Upper and Lower Falls. Yes, there are two sets of them. I'll post pics of that in a later post, today I'm going to talk about Paradise. Not heaven, mind you, far from it. Paradise, Michigan is a town that the twenty-first century seems to have left behind. I didn't take a lot of pictures, mostly because I didn't feel like insulting anyone who owns a business up there. These fiberglass sculptures greeted me outside of the Chamber of Commerce:
The smallest one there in the middle is the same height as me. These thing are cheerful in a creepy kind of way, and have obviously had a second paint job within the last two decades, but are an obvious throwback to what must have been the heyday of Paradise.
Being in that town felt exactly like reading the travel ads in National Geographic magazines from the 60s and early 70s. In fact, I'm almost positive that I've seen an ad for Tahquamenon Falls somewhere in my dad's old NG collection.

Unfortunately, the town boomed then and never quite moved beyond that. Every other business, restaurant and motel is defunct, and the winters have not been kind to what is left behind. The town itself is charming and sweet in its smallness and ambition, but the remnant attests to the huge freeway that now bypasses the area completely, higher gas prices forcing people to remain closer, and trendier vacation spots elsewhere. People seem to make their living in any way they can. The recent firewood moving bans in Michigan and elsewhere seem to have helped small local woodsmen, and we bought a bundle or two from this stand:

If you're a lover of anything 1960s, I urge you to visit the area. Michael and I were on time constraints and a strict budget, so we didn't stay as long as I would have hoped, but I have every intention of going back, with the kids. We'll make sure to spend a bit of our hard-earned money in the area, keeping to our policy of independents. Independents are about all that exist in the area, not a single McDonald's franchise or chain motel was in sight. I'm sure their market research wouldn't allow them into Paradise.

Labels: 1960s, camping, Lake Superior, Michigan, Paradise, Tahquamenon Falls, travel, Upper Peninsula

The objective: to visit the Canadian Shield for 4 days on $500 or less. To come home rested, refreshed, and not broke. All food and any lodging must be obtained from a non-chain establishment.
The challenge: camping saves money, but rain is predicted for the next few days. Food is expensive. Gas is expensive. Everything's expensive. Chains are prolific



Now, we have no intentions of traveling the entire length of this natural landform. Just making it halfway around Lake Superior would be nice. We've heard from a friend that things are cheap up that way, and I've always wanted to see the rock formations around the lake.

We're packing up camping gear today, trying to fix the broken speedometer and irregular brake caliper on the passenger side that cause our car to squeal like a baby pig when we stop. Although we're currently at Michael's mom's house in Niles, MI, three hours south of home, we hope to leave our house sometime tomorrow and head further north into the 'wilds' of Canadia!

Stay tuned for travel updates, pictures, and little adventure snippets from the road! Our passports are in hand, our kids are safely ensconced at Gramma's, and our odd bits of camp gear are packed in a bin. Wish us luck! Look for updates as internet is available!

Update: veni, vidi, vici! I have pictures, but not many as it was just more fun to absorb the beauty rather than photo most of it. We spent time at Agawa Bay park, visited Wawa, and just enjoyed the lovely rocks and mountains.

Labels: Canada, Lake Superior, Michigan, Northern Michigan, travel, vacation

Labels: Charlevoix, Fisherman Island State Park, Lake Michigan, Michigan, pleasant peninsula, travel, up north

Labels: climbing, fear, heights, high, Michigan, Northern Michigan

Every weekend they come. They fill the small local highway with their SUVs and their boat trailers and their lavish campers. They come up on M115 because that's the straightest route from the Metro Detroit area. These people do not come from Detroit, however, they hail from wealthier zip codes like Novi and Farmington Hills and Clarkston.

Many of then have come since they were children. It is something of a family tradition, going 'up North'. Some own cabins up here- perfectly functional houses on a small body of water. Some camp- the little state campground a mile from my house swells to capacity during the summer. When I drive by, the scent of firewood and grilling meat assails my nostrils.

We thought the high gas prices would keep them away this year- but it hasn't, not one bit. Many who have chosen to stay home this year because of gas are being replaced by people who are traveling closer. But a far greater percentage of people just aren't affected by the gas prices. One can see that in the idling Lexus GX outside the liquor store, or the Lincoln Navigator that gets fired up to drive the owners from the campground to Chico's Taco House, a distance of some half a mile.
They bring money to the area, that is true. Cadillac, Houghton Lake, Traverse City, Beulah. All towns that do not really have a lot going for them without the fickle tourist season. Towns with water, towns with closed factories and hopeful storefronts and stacks of boats by the shore.

These people come here to get away from the hectic crushing pace of life in their own towns. Every time I find myself for even an hour in the vicinity of Square Lake Road or Dixie Highway, I remember why my father transplanted away from that. Here there is peace, quiet, solace in nature. In Bloomfield Hills and Rochester there is traffic and noise and road rage and cell phones and trendy clothiers and salons. These people work in the squat office buildings all week, or in the upper echelons of the crumbling American auto industry, or they own businesses that cater to their fellow upper class Michiganders. They do this all week, fighting the traffic and the hustle and the road rage. The women work out and have their hair elaborately tinted, then bring those gleaming heads and hard bodies up here and down drinks all weekend. The men work hard but they don't seem to work out, and they bring their paunches and baseball caps and sandals up here and grill steaks and drink beer and boat all weekend.

Sometimes the women shop in the downtown areas. They do this in clutches, clones of each other tripping into the stores and ignoring the help and picking daintily through the racks of offerings. Some are kind, some are not. They bring the attitude of downstate up north into our towns. The locals see the large sunglasses and streaked hair and Hollister shirts and do their best to imitate it. But you can always, always tell a local from a tourist. We have a more relaxed set to our shoulders, a few more pounds on our bodies.

The traffic that the tourists bring is amusing. Miles of gleaming vehicles will get stuck behind one slow-moving RV on the two-lane highway. By the time the families tumble out of their cars in the Burger King parking lot, they are rumpled, tired of traveling, at odds with each other. They are never quite sure where they are going, except for the ones that have come here since childhood. Negotiating a turn across the secondary highway is a suicide wish sometimes, as many of these massive cars have no regard for any other vehicle on the road.

The Fourth of July is always a huge tourist weekend, with throngs of weary vacationers heading this way and that- to the fireworks, on a beer run, in amongst the smoking barbecues and fluttering American flags.

Then comes August- hotter and stickier than the very name leads us to believe. The tourists stay in their cars more now, running the air conditioners that leave little pools of water in every parking lot, remnants of society determined to have their leisure at any cost. The lakes here are just now fit to swim in, it has only been a few months since a foot or two of ice has melted, you see.

By September, things have slowed down somewhat. Labor Day weekend is the one last hurrah, then many families have to get their offspring to school and college and life. The park begins to empty out, the neat little stacks of firewood dwindle and disappear inside a local's barn or garage. They'll wait there, quietly, resigned to their solitude. Kind of like us, the local people that must stay here through the long and harsh winter. We don't have to struggle with the traffic any more. There will be a few short bursts of it throughout winter- hunting and ice fishing and snowmobiling and skiing draws them up again. These sports, however, bring up a rather different set of people. Burly men with large pickup trucks and voices that carry across a starkly cold landscape.

We're in the midst of it now, this tourist season. There are a few farm stands by the roadside, selling the lovely cherries that this area is famous for. Hotels stand at the ready with clean towels and indifferent 'continental breakfasts'. The local eateries have extra high schoolers ready to bus tables and fetch bread. The stores stand hopefully at the ready- maybe this year we'll make some money, maybe this year we can make enough to get us through the winter. Maybe this year we'll be the ones who leave our town and join the fray and the hustle and the noise and the traffic of down there, so that we can own the 5 bedroom 3 bath house on the perfectly manicured suburban corner, with three luxury vehicles in the garage and a party to attend every month...


and then we look around ourselves- at the lakes and the pristine forests and the peeling paint on our homes and the wild weather and the driving snow and the towering, whispering red pine... and we think to ourselves- maybe not.

Labels: Michigan, Northern Michigan, tourism, tourists, travel, up north

So, it's not officially summer yet, I know this. But until recently we hadn't seen the sun in nearly six months, and there is no snow on the ground, and you can no longer walk across the lake successfully, so- we're calling it summer.

Summer in Northern Michigan is nothing short of glorious. People from the Detroit area (downstaters, we call 'em) have been apprised of this information for years, and many summer or weekend up here regularly. We have people who live in Florida or Arizona during the winter months, coming home to green grass and twinkling lakes for the short hot season. We have people who just rent a 'cabin' for a week or two, and we have die-hards who set up camp the first weekend the parks open and stay until the snow flies.

For anyone remotely interested in visiting this area, here are a few little bits of local stuff:

Labels: Cadillac, camping, fishing, Michigan, North, summer, travel, vacation, water, water sports, waterski

There is an epidemic sweeping our nation- our world.

It is untouched by language barriers, economic status, and political beliefs. The facts should unite us as a people: every day in this world 27,375,618 mates are lost.

That's 1,140,650.75 per hour.

19,011 per minute.

317 per second.

I'm not talking about divorce.

These are the hard, cold facts of sock, shoe, and mitten separation. Staggering, isn't it? Especially staggering is the fact that I completely made that first statistic up, and then bothered to do accurate math from it for the rest of the numbers.

The elusive Sock Fairy, genus Canus Elusia

Here's something that is not an exaggeration: In my short 30 years of life, I have moved 36 times. Thirty-six. Northern Michigan, Arizona, Tennessee, Ohio, New Jersey, back and forth between a few of those... now back once more to Northern Michigan. I have become a pro at throwing everything I own into random boxes, mislabeling the contents, and never opening the box again.

I remember being a teenager, moving yearly between Arizona and Michigan. Each time we would unpack I would find odd mates: knee-high stockings, white crew socks, even the odd shoulder pad or two (this was the early nineties, remember, don't judge me). Each time I would save these little mementos of disorganization, hoping against hope that the mate would show up eventually.
They rarely did.
Eventually, losing faith in the system of all things returning to their point of origin, I would get discouraged and throw that navy blue trouser sock away. On a Wednesday. On Friday the trash would come, and on Saturday, inevitably, I would find the other navy blue trouser sock.

Now, fast forward to today. Three children, ranging in age from three to nine years of age- all girls. One husband, with various hobby interests, including the rare game of paintball. Myself, retail career back on track, with a collection of various stockings: thigh high hose with those silicon grippers, thigh highs without the silicon, knee highs for summer- thin and patterned, knee highs for winter- thick and textured... sport socks... plain socks... funky five foot long purple and white striped socks from my days working the Renaissance Faires... socks just to wear outside when it's extra cold...
Oh, and not just socks! We have shoes: rainboots, snowboots, plain boots... sandals, brown shoes, church shoes, tennis shoes... work shoes, shoes that only go with that one outfit that doesn't fit anymore, shoes with sentimental attachments (don't ask)...
Don't forget hands! Mittens, driving gloves, fuzzy warm gloves, gloves that velcro around a kid's wrist, mittens that button down to reveal fingertips, stretchy gloves with sparkly butterflies...

All between size 1 in baby to 9 in men's. Sure, I don't have a kid that fits into a 1 anymore, but I can't just get rid of the little bunny sock! It's cute! And I can't give it to my sister or my friend in Grand Rapids for her daughter, not just a single sock! So, if I hang onto it for just another year or two, unpack maybe one more box of junk, maybe the mate will turn up! Right?

Oh, did I mention the colors? When we dump out our box of mis-mates (this happens approximately once a month, when desperation sets in) it looks like an Affirmative Action handbook: black, white, tan, brown, navy, yellow, pink, blue, striped, dotted, argyle, short, long, thick, thin, holey, sparkly, splotchy where I spilled the bleach, flowered, stripes mixed with dots, and holiday themed.

We have those little lace-topped girls' socks that would do so well with an Easter dress, if we lived in a place where Easter didn't come with subzero temperatures and freezing rain.

We have socks with dingle balls on the back, so the ball kind of hangs out over the top of a canvas shoe. Note from experience: don't let your kid wear these socks with boots, no matter how much they beg. Especially if you're going to be walking a lot.

We have thick winter socks that my husband wears playing paintball. He has played paintball exactly twice in ten years, yet he has 5 pairs of socks for it. That's not a smart ratio, is it? I should just make him play more often.

We even have socks with jingle bells on them. Seriously. These were, of course, gifts from grandparents that don't have to hear the jingle bells walking past their bedroom door at 6 in the morning. On a weekend. In July.

Eight years ago, I bought a pair of denim high-heeled strappy sandals. They are completely and utterly sexy, and now that I have this cool tattoo on my ankle, go perfectly with it. Well, the left one does. The right one disappeared six years ago. But I tote the wretched thing around with me, from house to house to house, hoping against all hope that the right one will show up and I can wear the perfect ensemble once again. I'm not a packrat, but I cannot seem to let go of these lost mates! The box continues to grow- size 3 purples nesting next to size 6 purples of a similar, but not quite exact, shade. My kids don't care whether their socks match, and will grab any random pairing of length and color. But I cannot let them go out like this, fearing that people will judge me by the footwear on my children. There's a little bit of OCD in that, too- for I cannot wear two differing weights, tightnesses, or lengths on my own feet or I go nuts.

Or maybe I already am nuts. My sock collection is older than my marriage. Somebody help me.



PS: there are actually websites for lost socks. Who would have thought?

Labels: boxes, children, footwear, glove, lost, Michigan, mitten, motherhood, move, moving, nylon, packing, shoe, socks, unpacking

The wind came across frozen Lake Mitchell with a banshee shriek. Splinters of ice whistled through the brittle air and drove their way into every surface in view, covered the world in frigid white. Native Michiganders huddled deeper into the hearts of their homes, flickering television sets offering little in the way of warmth, but much in the way of distraction. How these people survive twenty, forty, even sixty years here I cannot fathom. I've been home for three months and can't wait to get away. There is no sunshine, no color, no reprieve from the endless cold and gray. They say the divorce rate spikes high in this time of year, and its no wonder. People stuck indoors together for weeks at a time, skin growing pale and clammy, fighting over paying the heating bill.
I grew up here, you know. As a kid I wore my (boy) cousins' hand-me-down snowpants and trekked through knee deep snow to go sledding. I got chapped cheeks, frozen digits, and pneumonia. I ate snow, melted it on top of the wood stove, and shook it out of my clothes for five months a year. Then my dad moved us to Arizona for the winters, and we were able to leave behind the gray and cold, trading it for sapphire skies and blooming deserts.
When we did move home, several years later, the winter didn't bother me for some reason. Snow driving sucked, always has, always will, but other than that I barely noticed it. Then I got married and started moving elsewhere: Ohio, southern Michigan, Traverse City. Winter is still in existence there, but nothing like it is here in Cadillac.
I have kids of my own now, who are fortunate enough to have girl snowpants. They love the ice, the cold, the frozen windswept lake. Maybe I've gotten too old, maybe too spoiled by mild winters elsewhere, I am not sure. All I know is that it's a wicked winter wonderland. And I still don't have my own snowpants.

Labels: Michigan, snow, winter