First Three Days: Temperature in the mid-eighties to low nineties. Not a cloud in the sky.
The perfect start to the perfect vacation. Except…
There are dozens of holes in the showerhead in the shower at our cabin on Chickadee Trail in Michiana, Indiana. But when you turn on the faucet, the water trickles down from just three of them. And it’s brown.
Until the plumber fixed it five days later, here’s how we took our showers. One of us squatted on an old-time, small, wooden shoeshine box, placed in the center of the shower stall. That was our stool.
Water was heated in a large pot on the stove. When the water reached “shower temperature”, the “recipient” of the shower held a large colander directly above their heads with both hands. The “shower giver” then lifted the pot high, and slowly poured, sending water spraying through the holes in the colander onto the head and other parts of the shower “recipient” below. Bath gel and shampoo were also involved. The process – for two people – took about forty-five minutes.
When I wrote Major Dad, there was a complainy eleven year-old girl character – representing the complainy portion of me – whose “take” on the camping experience was the following:
“Hey, we’ve got some free time. Why don’t we go somewhere and live worse than we usually do?”
Our Michiana cabin is exactly that.
Only it’s spectacular fun.
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We attended an outdoor concert featuring The Platters. Not the real Platters – they’re a hundred. Or passed away. The concert featured replacement Platters. And they pretty much filled the bill. It’s interesting. When the lead singer introduces a song by saying, “And now, we’d like to take you back…” you get the feeling that, for many in the Michigan City audience, you weren't traveling all that far. A number of them are still back there. The men’s hair may be gray now, but they still sported the same haircuts Ricky Nelson wore when he was ten.
When the Platters rendered their hits, the audience was musically “home.” And so – though with a haircut of a more contemporary vintage – was I.
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Ice cream at Oink’s. (Dr. M’s favorite flavor in the world is called “French Silk.”) Oink’s is a deeply entrenched local tradition. Pathetically, across the street, someone recently opened a competitive ice cream parlor called Moo’s. (I swear to God.) Not one car sits in Moo’s parking lot. Just two large wooden cows.
(There seems to be a “death wish” in the local business community. I mentioned earlier a famous hamburger place called Redamak’s, where they specifically announce – almost proudly – in their menu: “We do not serve lettuce or tomatoes on our hamburgers.” A competitor opens a hamburger place directly across the street proclaiming on their sign outside, “We serve lettuce and tomatoes on our hamburgers.” Not one car in the parking lot. Why do they do these things?)
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There’s a “speed trap” near our cabin. Not on Chickadee Trail– we get about four cars a week – but on the street that Chickadee Trail runs into – Michiana Drive. Half hidden in the bushes to intercept speeders is a Michigan City police vehicle. And behind the wheel of that vehicle is…a skeletal-looking dummy wearing a Michigan City police cap. I’m not totally clear on the concept here. “Uh-oh. ‘Police Dummy.’ Better slow down”? Does that do anything at all?
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Ballgame at Coveleski Stadium. “A”-ball adversaries: the South Bend Silverhawks versus the Lansing Lugnuts. It’s the bottom of the ninth. Down 4-1, the home team Silverhawks are coming to the plate for their final at-bats.
Suddenly, over the stadium loudspeaker, we hear Gene Hackman’s inspiring speech to his overmatched Indiana High School basketball team from the movie Hoosiers. We’re in Indiana. The speech has resonance.
“And most importantly, don’t get caught up thinking about winning or losing this game. If you put your effort and your concentration into playing to your potential, to be the best that you can be, I don’t care what the scoreboard says at the end of the game, in my book, you’re gonna be winners! Okay?”
Hoosier fans know this movie in their bones. And they know what comes next – the slow-starting, steadily intensifying “hand clap”, rising to a cacophonic clapping crescendo.
Exactly on cue, at the end of Hackman’s speech, the entire Coveleski Stadium baseball crowd goes into “The Clap.”
The first Silverhawks batter comes up, and on the first pitch, slams a towering homerun over the Left-Centerfield fence.
Did the Silverhawks win the game? Reread the speech.
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The Fourth Day: A sixteen-hour downpour. From then on, the temperature begins to cool, accompanied by increasingly chilly nights.
We drive to the movies. Not me. I brake for shadows. But Dr. M agrees to brave the elements. We see Hamlet II. There are four people in the audience. The weather had kept people away. Either that, or they didn’t like Hamlet I.
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During one drive to I don’t remember where, we heard the CD played on a local classical radio station get stuck in one spot for over two minutes before anyone at the station apparently noticed.
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One morning, I drive, unaccompanied, to Al’s Market – about two miles from the cabin – to pick up some newspapers and some very good coffee Al’s serves at their recently installed coffee emporium. I secure the two coffees in a cardboard tray, place them on the floor by the passenger’s seat, get in the car, and start home.
When I turn down Chickadee Trail, a deer darts out from the underbrush, scampers directly in front on my car, and then leaps back into the forest. When I braked, the coffee cups fell over, but they were covered, so not much was lost.
(Subtext: I nearly killed a deer!)
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While running an errand that took us close to Lake Michigan, we discovered that an 1860 replica “Tall Ship” had just arrived for a teaching demonstration. (When our daughter Anna heard of this unexpected encounter, she accurately observed, “Surprise ‘Tall Ships’ are the best!”)
We were invited on board to look around. The next day, the local newspaper printed a picture of me, standing on deck, chatting with the captain. I would post the picture if I knew how, but I don’t. If you want to see it, check out the La Porte County News-Dispatch, September 6. It’s on Page 5. The one who’s not the captain is me.
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We went to an auction where you could bid on, among other items, a sausage stuffer, animal traps and various scythes. Then we drove to the nearby Door Village Harvest Festival, passing a local business offering “Vacuum and Shoe Repair.”
The Harvest Festival was a little gem. Model train exhibits, classic cars, vintage tractors. A man cornered Dr. M, insisting, “I can teach you to play a song on the dulcimer in less than five minutes.”
People dressed in period costumes – an elderly team of lady quilters, Civil War re-enactors from both sides, a man in an admiral’s costume proclaiming, “I am Farragut!”
If we'd returned the following day, we could have met a man who’d been honored as the top Lincoln impersonator of 2006. I really wanted to see Lincoln – I had missed him the first time around – but our travel schedule made a return visit impossible. I did get to see a Benjamin Harrison impersonator, who was also a president, though – and I believe most historians would back me up on this – he was no Lincoln.
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These were the highlights of our activity-filled but, somehow, still relaxing Midwestern vacation. All told, we went to three movies, two ballgames, a concert in the park, and a live musical at the local theater. We spent time at the “outlet mall”, an antique emporium, an auction, a Harvest Festival, a “Tall Ships” exhibition, and a voyageurs fur traders’ demonstration. And I still had time to finish a novel called Netherland and read a substantial chunk of David Halberstam’s The Coldest Winter.
It’s amazing how much you can accomplish when the television doesn’t work.
My favorite part? Besides Dr. M’s extended company? The insistent night sounds, crashing the silence through our bedroom window. This was nature’s symphony, the unmistakable song of the country, comforting us in our beds, and drowning out thoughts that many of our nation’s most shocking multiple murders were committed in the Midwest.
As we closed up the cabin and headed away, yellowing leaves fluttered down in isolated flurries. We had been there a week, but we had witnessed a seasonal changing of the guard.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
"Do I Miss It?"
It’s September. The new television season is about to premier. And once again – for, now, the fourth season – I won’t be a part of it.
I’m sometimes asked, “Do you miss it?”
I miss it a lot.
I miss the big checks. I miss the excitement of putting on a show. I miss working at the top of my game (though this blog continues to yield substantial creative pleasures). I miss driving through the studio gate. I miss having an office on the lot. I miss eating in the commissary. I miss the energy. I miss the interaction. I miss having my hair cut by the studio barber.
I miss being who I was.
But there remains an enduring satisfaction. I can best describe what I’m talking about by recounting a sequence from a movie called Northwest Passage.
In Northwest Passage, Spencer Tracy plays Robert Rogers, the leader of a company of guerilla-style soldiers who fought alongside the British in the French and Indian Wars.
Walter Brennan, a regular soldier, accompanied Rogers on his last harrowing adventure. The expedition had come close to annihilation, but had finally returned safely.
In the sequence I remember, Rogers and his men are heading out on another perilous patrol. As the company marches past the tavern on their way out of town, the Brennan character watches from the tavern door, a smile on his face and a tankard of ale in his hand.
“Ain’t you goin’?” Brennan’s asked by a drinking companion.
Brennan’s eyes crinkle up, and he utters the line that capsulizes his character’s condition.
“I’ve been,” he replies.
The enduring satisfaction.
I’ve been.
I’m sometimes asked, “Do you miss it?”
I miss it a lot.
I miss the big checks. I miss the excitement of putting on a show. I miss working at the top of my game (though this blog continues to yield substantial creative pleasures). I miss driving through the studio gate. I miss having an office on the lot. I miss eating in the commissary. I miss the energy. I miss the interaction. I miss having my hair cut by the studio barber.
I miss being who I was.
But there remains an enduring satisfaction. I can best describe what I’m talking about by recounting a sequence from a movie called Northwest Passage.
In Northwest Passage, Spencer Tracy plays Robert Rogers, the leader of a company of guerilla-style soldiers who fought alongside the British in the French and Indian Wars.
Walter Brennan, a regular soldier, accompanied Rogers on his last harrowing adventure. The expedition had come close to annihilation, but had finally returned safely.
In the sequence I remember, Rogers and his men are heading out on another perilous patrol. As the company marches past the tavern on their way out of town, the Brennan character watches from the tavern door, a smile on his face and a tankard of ale in his hand.
“Ain’t you goin’?” Brennan’s asked by a drinking companion.
Brennan’s eyes crinkle up, and he utters the line that capsulizes his character’s condition.
“I’ve been,” he replies.
The enduring satisfaction.
I’ve been.
Friday, September 5, 2008
"the Ultimate Show Biz Problem"
One reason entertainment has ventured so far away from anything resembling identifiable reality is that the purveyors of entertainment feel an ever-increasing pressure to give audiences something they haven’t seen before. It’s like drugs. You develop a tolerance to its effects, so you “up” the dosage.
In every succeeding offering, the violence has to be more graphic, the special effects more special, the characters more twisted, the storylines more extreme. There’s a constant pushing of the envelope, to keep the audience engaged.
The inevitable consequence is this:
I saw this cartoon. An audience watches a performance on a small stage in front of them. A banner strung above the proscenium indicates the nature of the entertainment:
“LIVE SEX SHOW!”
Onstage, as advertised, there’s a mountain of naked humanity – plus some barnyard animals and selected pieces of fruit – engaging in every possible permutation of sexual engagement. Nothing is off-limits. They’re doing it all.
In the foreground of the cartoon, a bored couple is walking out.
At the bottom of the pile, a participants in this sexual smorgasbord looks up at the departing couple, and laments,
“What do they want!!!”
What do you give people after you’ve given them everything?
In every succeeding offering, the violence has to be more graphic, the special effects more special, the characters more twisted, the storylines more extreme. There’s a constant pushing of the envelope, to keep the audience engaged.
The inevitable consequence is this:
I saw this cartoon. An audience watches a performance on a small stage in front of them. A banner strung above the proscenium indicates the nature of the entertainment:
“LIVE SEX SHOW!”
Onstage, as advertised, there’s a mountain of naked humanity – plus some barnyard animals and selected pieces of fruit – engaging in every possible permutation of sexual engagement. Nothing is off-limits. They’re doing it all.
In the foreground of the cartoon, a bored couple is walking out.
At the bottom of the pile, a participants in this sexual smorgasbord looks up at the departing couple, and laments,
“What do they want!!!”
What do you give people after you’ve given them everything?
Thursday, September 4, 2008
"Mrs. Hammerstein Speaks Out"
I take piano lessons. I bring my teacher songs I want to sing, and he devises simple arrangements, so I can play to accompany myself as I sing.
Recently, I’ve been working on “Old Man River.” Leave me alone. It’s a good song.
Learning to play “Old Man River” reminds me of a story involving a wife who stands up for her husband. Any story on that nature immediately jumps to the top of my list.
“Old Man River” is the show-stopping number from the musical Showboat. The music was composed by Jerome Kern, the book and lyrics written by Oscar Hammerstein II.
The story takes place during intermission at the theater where Show Boat is playing. Mrs. Hammerstein, Oscar’s wife, is standing in the lobby, when she overhears two women raving about the show. They love it all, but they agree on the highlight.
“‘Old Man River.’”
“What a magnificent song!”
“Jerome Kern is a genius!”
“Absolutely brilliant. Nobody but Jerome Kern could have written ‘Old Man River.’”
Mrs. Hammerstein steps in.
“Excuse me. I was overhearing your conversation, and I have to tell you, Jerome Kern didn’t write ‘Old Man River.’ My husband wrote ‘Old Man River.’ Jerome Kern wrote (HUMMING THE MELODY) ‘DA…DA…DA-DA.’”
I’d like to think Dr. M would support me in exactly the same way. I have a feeling she would.
Recently, I’ve been working on “Old Man River.” Leave me alone. It’s a good song.
Learning to play “Old Man River” reminds me of a story involving a wife who stands up for her husband. Any story on that nature immediately jumps to the top of my list.
“Old Man River” is the show-stopping number from the musical Showboat. The music was composed by Jerome Kern, the book and lyrics written by Oscar Hammerstein II.
The story takes place during intermission at the theater where Show Boat is playing. Mrs. Hammerstein, Oscar’s wife, is standing in the lobby, when she overhears two women raving about the show. They love it all, but they agree on the highlight.
“‘Old Man River.’”
“What a magnificent song!”
“Jerome Kern is a genius!”
“Absolutely brilliant. Nobody but Jerome Kern could have written ‘Old Man River.’”
Mrs. Hammerstein steps in.
“Excuse me. I was overhearing your conversation, and I have to tell you, Jerome Kern didn’t write ‘Old Man River.’ My husband wrote ‘Old Man River.’ Jerome Kern wrote (HUMMING THE MELODY) ‘DA…DA…DA-DA.’”
I’d like to think Dr. M would support me in exactly the same way. I have a feeling she would.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
"Durante on Writers"
Jimmy Durante was my favorite performer. He played piano with vitality and “voive.” He gargled songs with a soulful simplicity. He wrestled with multi-syllabic verbiage, and lost. He had sparkling eyes, a child-like innocence, and a smile could illuminate the universe. Durante was a lovable mutt. With a gigantic shnoz.
The “Great Durante” also uttered the most honest summarization of writers I ever heard.
I don’t know the name of the movie, but in it, Durante’s character co-starred on a radio show with the Mexican spitfire, Lupe Velez.
On the street, Jimmy bumps into a friend, who congratulates him on the new writer who’s been hired for the show.
“I hear he’s a genius,” the friend enthuses.
To this, Durante replies:
“They’re all geniuses. Until they write something. Then they stink up the place.”
Sad but often true. The only comforting part is that Durante’s hilarious indictment was concocted by a writer.
The “Great Durante” also uttered the most honest summarization of writers I ever heard.
I don’t know the name of the movie, but in it, Durante’s character co-starred on a radio show with the Mexican spitfire, Lupe Velez.
On the street, Jimmy bumps into a friend, who congratulates him on the new writer who’s been hired for the show.
“I hear he’s a genius,” the friend enthuses.
To this, Durante replies:
“They’re all geniuses. Until they write something. Then they stink up the place.”
Sad but often true. The only comforting part is that Durante’s hilarious indictment was concocted by a writer.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
"Composites"
One day, I pulled into the lot at Fox Studios, to meet with someone who ended up not hiring me for anything. After the attack on the World Trade Center, studio security was substantially beefed up. I, frankly, never understood the connection.
While one studio guard inspected my trunk for exploding spare tires, a female studio guard approached my car to check my I.D. I immediately noticed this goofy smile on her face.
I handed her my Driver’s License through the window. When she examined my license, her smile faded
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“There’s no problem, “ she replied. “I just thought you were somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I thought you were that comedian. Adam Shandling.”
Adam Shandling.
The composite Jewish funnyman.
While one studio guard inspected my trunk for exploding spare tires, a female studio guard approached my car to check my I.D. I immediately noticed this goofy smile on her face.
I handed her my Driver’s License through the window. When she examined my license, her smile faded
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“There’s no problem, “ she replied. “I just thought you were somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I thought you were that comedian. Adam Shandling.”
Adam Shandling.
The composite Jewish funnyman.
Friday, August 29, 2008
"Headin' To The Woods"
It’s time for a much-needed vacation. Not for me, I don’t do anything. At least, nothing that’s overly stress inducing. Except for maybe practicing the piano, an activity fraught with frustration when you’ve been blessed with hands of stone. If I were a boxer, “Hands of Stone” would be helpful. But I’m trying to make music.
Dr. M, however, listens to the problems of troubled people all day, and though it’s a gratifying and rewarding enterprise, she occasionally needs a break.
I’ve written a number of posts ahead. Shticklach – small pieces – to tide you over and keep you around. I like it when you’re around. If you weren’t there, I’d be typing for nobody, an activity strongly indicating some long-term involvement with one of Dr. M’s associates.
“I’m writing for nobody.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I can’t.”
“How’s Tuesdays and Thursdays at eleven o’clock?”
One of you helped me the other day. You sent me a link, so I could order this audio book I’ve been looking for. I can’t say “Thanks” directly, because I don’t know where the e-mail disappeared to. And besides, it was a “NOREPLAY”, which, as a learned (“Noreplay” - Feb. 5), you can’t reply to, because it’s not “NOREPLAY”, it’s “No Reply.”
So whoever it was who helped me, I’m thanking you here. Thank you. I get a lot of helpful stuff from commenters. Links to places I couldn’t find myself in a million years. Like The Court Jester’s “Vessel With The Pestle” scene on youtube, or however you spell it.
It happens a lot. I mention something in a post, and there’s the appropriate link in the following day’s “NOREPLAY.” Assistance from a total stranger. Thank you. Everybody who’s done that.
I also appreciate your comments. Some of them elaborate more fully – and more articulately – on my ruminations. Some challenge them. Some supplement them with ideas of their own. They’re always interesting, often provocative, and never dumb. No dopes read this post. Not that I’m anti-dope. Dopes are welcome too. (That’s not me, being tolerant. It’s me, wanting as many readers as I can get. Okay, let’s say, no big dopes.)
When I come back, I’ll be doing more Story of a Writer posts. I’m not sure what’ll be in them – because I didn’t write them yet – but somehow, when I start remembering, stuff seems to come up. The feedback I receive tells me people enjoy Story of a Writer. I, frankly, enjoy everything I write.
In the future, I’m looking to make this blog more interactive. Two people have told me reading this blog is like sitting in a room with me, only they don’t get to talk. I want you to talk. If I haven’t adequately encouraged your talking in the past, that was a mistake.
Talk.
Ask questions. About anything you want. (I mean, you know, don’t get crazy.) If the questions involve issues other readers might be interested in, I’ll take a break from my regular blah-blah and respond to them in a post. It could become a regular feature. I just need questions.
I guess I could make up my own questions.
“What do you mean, and pretend they’re from readers?”
Maybe.
“That’s not you.”
You’re right. Thanks, Italics Man. I lost my head. Wait. What if I did it funny?
“You can do it funny.”
Great.
“But it better be funny.”
I’m shutting you down now.
Sorry about that. Sometimes, I’m of two minds and they speak at the same time. Bottom line: Your questions are welcome.
So where are we going on vacation? Get ready to be jealous.
Indiana.
It’s not as exotic as it sounds. Michiana Shores is a cottage community about sixty-five miles from Dr. M’s hometown of Chicago. (It’s been called “The Hamptons of the Midwest”, though I think only by people from the Midwest.)
Dr. M’s parents purchased this place when Dr. M’s Mom was pregnant with Dr. M, and she required bed rest. It subsequently passed through the family, and now it’s ours.
The cabin’s a long way from our home, but we always love vacationing there. Why?
It’s in a forest.
A log cabin. Tiny but authentic. On Chickadee Trail. I love it. I live on a tiny bird street.
“A street named after a tiny bird, or a tiny street named after a bird?”
Both.
And it’s not even a street; it’s a trail. It says so right in the name. I live on a tiny bird trail.
In a forest!
The Forest Primeval. I don’t even know what that is. But I bet it looks like the forest surrounding Chickadee Trail. A lush, dense forest, with fifty foot trees that I’m sure have seen Indians.
It’s definitely Indian Country. The neighboring streets are named after tribes: “Comanche” “Kiowa”, “Choctaw”, “Chicagami” (that one sounds fishy, but you never know). Yeah, there’s also an “Oriole”, but that’s just so we wouldn’t be the only “bird” street.
Another point of interest:
Our cabin is in Indiana. But across the street – literally, across the street – it’s Michigan. (Hence the name: Michiana.)
It gets even more interesting. Indiana – at least the county our cabin’s in – is in the Central Time Zone. Michigan’s in the Eastern Time Zone.
That’s right. It’s an hour later across the street.
Is that not odd? I can barely wrap my head around that. It’s like it gets dark an hour later across the street. Or is it an hour earlier? You see? I can’t figure it out.
Michigan kids who get permission to play outside till eight o’clock, play across the street in Indiana, and when they come home at eight, it’s nine!
What happens? Do they get yelled at?
“We said eight. It’s nine!”
“Not where I was playing.”
We make eight o’clock dinner reservations, and forget the restaurant’s in Michigan. We show up – we’re an hour late. We go to breakfast at eleven – it’s really twelve – they’re not serving breakfast anymore.
We eat a lot of meals in the cabin. Frequently, after returning from reservations that we missed.
Sometimes, we get it right. There’s this hamburger place, in Michigan, called Redamak’s. Eating there is not a problem. There are no reservations, and they always seem to be open. Redamak’s serves the best non-gourmet (read: greasy) hamburger I’ve ever tasted. (Though L.A.’s The Apple Pan is neck and neck.)
Don’t ask for a salad at Redamak’s. I did that once. The waitress replied, “We don’t serve salads. But some of our hamburgers come with lettuce.”
It’s the Heartland. They grow vegetables there. But they don’t seem to eat them. Another hamburger restaurant opened across the street from Redamak’s, advertising in big letters: “We have lettuce and tomatoes.”
Nobody goes there.
Midwesterners seem unwilling to eat vegetables unless they’re deep-fried. People smoke. Many are alarmingly overweight. And yet, when they announce the names of people who lived to a hundred on The Today Show, they’re invariably from the Midwest. I don’t get it!
Entertainment in Michiana? The Dunes Summer Theater is walking distance from the cabin. Great shows, featuring local talent. Reading the theater program, along with their acting credits, you can also find out where they work. The Leading Man’s an optometrist, the ingénue’s an Assistant Manager at Denny’s.
Regular people, acting up a storm. And not an agent in sight. They do it because they like to. What a concept.
Movies? How about the theater in La Porte, Indiana, where you can see (at least, you could last summer) a “first run” movie for a dollar. A dollar-fifty, after six P.M. And you get free refills of popcorn and soda.
A dollar-fifty for a movie. It’s worth the trip to Indiana just for that!
Other entertainments? Horseback riding (along forest trails, keeping your eyes peeled for “owlhoots”), the Michigan City Zoo (featuring some of the most moth-eaten animals I’ve ever seen), The Lighthouse “Outlet Mall” (where, by September, even the “sale” items are on sale).
There are antique emporiums and weekly auctions, there’s miniature golf, there are batting cages, there’s the La Porte County Fair (where you can eat “Elephant’s Ears” and experience an almost immediate cramp bubble in your stomach).
You can drive around Indiana State Prison and “check the perimeter” for hitchhikers. Or you can take a walk and check out the seemingly endless variety of birds (Dr. M’s knows their names.)
For fifteen years, I was the part owner of the South Bend (thirty-five miles from the cabin) Silverhawks, an “A”-ball team in the Diamondbacks organization. Though I’m now a former owner, we still go to games, where John Baxter, the General Manager, and his wife, Rita, treat us royally. (Though they probably won’t let me throw out the first pitch again. Will they?)
What do we like doing best in Michiana? Taking in our favorite entertainment of them all.
The weather.
We don’t have weather in Los Angeles. My brother used to say, “In Los Angeles, every day is Tuesday.” He’s right. You wake up, you look outside, “Oh, yeah. It’s like yesterday.” Sure, we have earthquakes, but they spread those out. Generally, the weather is, “I saw that already.”
Michiana really gets weather.
The best seat for watching weather is on our screened-in porch. You sit out there with a book, and the weather passes, like it’s Disney on Parade.
It’s a pleasant day. Suddenly, the wind kicks up, rustling the branches in the trees. The skies begin to darken. There’s the roll of distant thunder.
Within minutes, there’s a deluging downpour. Sheets of rain, accompanied by startling streaks of lightning, and thunderclaps that’ll rattle your bones.
We watch it all, from the safety of our porch. Midwestern weather. It’s the greatest show there is.
Okay, so that’s it. I’ve left you stuff to read, and I’ll talk to you when I get back.
Have a good week. And think of some questions for me. You really don’t want me to make them up myself.
(Unless they’re funny.)
Dr. M, however, listens to the problems of troubled people all day, and though it’s a gratifying and rewarding enterprise, she occasionally needs a break.
I’ve written a number of posts ahead. Shticklach – small pieces – to tide you over and keep you around. I like it when you’re around. If you weren’t there, I’d be typing for nobody, an activity strongly indicating some long-term involvement with one of Dr. M’s associates.
“I’m writing for nobody.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I can’t.”
“How’s Tuesdays and Thursdays at eleven o’clock?”
One of you helped me the other day. You sent me a link, so I could order this audio book I’ve been looking for. I can’t say “Thanks” directly, because I don’t know where the e-mail disappeared to. And besides, it was a “NOREPLAY”, which, as a learned (“Noreplay” - Feb. 5), you can’t reply to, because it’s not “NOREPLAY”, it’s “No Reply.”
So whoever it was who helped me, I’m thanking you here. Thank you. I get a lot of helpful stuff from commenters. Links to places I couldn’t find myself in a million years. Like The Court Jester’s “Vessel With The Pestle” scene on youtube, or however you spell it.
It happens a lot. I mention something in a post, and there’s the appropriate link in the following day’s “NOREPLAY.” Assistance from a total stranger. Thank you. Everybody who’s done that.
I also appreciate your comments. Some of them elaborate more fully – and more articulately – on my ruminations. Some challenge them. Some supplement them with ideas of their own. They’re always interesting, often provocative, and never dumb. No dopes read this post. Not that I’m anti-dope. Dopes are welcome too. (That’s not me, being tolerant. It’s me, wanting as many readers as I can get. Okay, let’s say, no big dopes.)
When I come back, I’ll be doing more Story of a Writer posts. I’m not sure what’ll be in them – because I didn’t write them yet – but somehow, when I start remembering, stuff seems to come up. The feedback I receive tells me people enjoy Story of a Writer. I, frankly, enjoy everything I write.
In the future, I’m looking to make this blog more interactive. Two people have told me reading this blog is like sitting in a room with me, only they don’t get to talk. I want you to talk. If I haven’t adequately encouraged your talking in the past, that was a mistake.
Talk.
Ask questions. About anything you want. (I mean, you know, don’t get crazy.) If the questions involve issues other readers might be interested in, I’ll take a break from my regular blah-blah and respond to them in a post. It could become a regular feature. I just need questions.
I guess I could make up my own questions.
“What do you mean, and pretend they’re from readers?”
Maybe.
“That’s not you.”
You’re right. Thanks, Italics Man. I lost my head. Wait. What if I did it funny?
“You can do it funny.”
Great.
“But it better be funny.”
I’m shutting you down now.
Sorry about that. Sometimes, I’m of two minds and they speak at the same time. Bottom line: Your questions are welcome.
So where are we going on vacation? Get ready to be jealous.
Indiana.
It’s not as exotic as it sounds. Michiana Shores is a cottage community about sixty-five miles from Dr. M’s hometown of Chicago. (It’s been called “The Hamptons of the Midwest”, though I think only by people from the Midwest.)
Dr. M’s parents purchased this place when Dr. M’s Mom was pregnant with Dr. M, and she required bed rest. It subsequently passed through the family, and now it’s ours.
The cabin’s a long way from our home, but we always love vacationing there. Why?
It’s in a forest.
A log cabin. Tiny but authentic. On Chickadee Trail. I love it. I live on a tiny bird street.
“A street named after a tiny bird, or a tiny street named after a bird?”
Both.
And it’s not even a street; it’s a trail. It says so right in the name. I live on a tiny bird trail.
In a forest!
The Forest Primeval. I don’t even know what that is. But I bet it looks like the forest surrounding Chickadee Trail. A lush, dense forest, with fifty foot trees that I’m sure have seen Indians.
It’s definitely Indian Country. The neighboring streets are named after tribes: “Comanche” “Kiowa”, “Choctaw”, “Chicagami” (that one sounds fishy, but you never know). Yeah, there’s also an “Oriole”, but that’s just so we wouldn’t be the only “bird” street.
Another point of interest:
Our cabin is in Indiana. But across the street – literally, across the street – it’s Michigan. (Hence the name: Michiana.)
It gets even more interesting. Indiana – at least the county our cabin’s in – is in the Central Time Zone. Michigan’s in the Eastern Time Zone.
That’s right. It’s an hour later across the street.
Is that not odd? I can barely wrap my head around that. It’s like it gets dark an hour later across the street. Or is it an hour earlier? You see? I can’t figure it out.
Michigan kids who get permission to play outside till eight o’clock, play across the street in Indiana, and when they come home at eight, it’s nine!
What happens? Do they get yelled at?
“We said eight. It’s nine!”
“Not where I was playing.”
We make eight o’clock dinner reservations, and forget the restaurant’s in Michigan. We show up – we’re an hour late. We go to breakfast at eleven – it’s really twelve – they’re not serving breakfast anymore.
We eat a lot of meals in the cabin. Frequently, after returning from reservations that we missed.
Sometimes, we get it right. There’s this hamburger place, in Michigan, called Redamak’s. Eating there is not a problem. There are no reservations, and they always seem to be open. Redamak’s serves the best non-gourmet (read: greasy) hamburger I’ve ever tasted. (Though L.A.’s The Apple Pan is neck and neck.)
Don’t ask for a salad at Redamak’s. I did that once. The waitress replied, “We don’t serve salads. But some of our hamburgers come with lettuce.”
It’s the Heartland. They grow vegetables there. But they don’t seem to eat them. Another hamburger restaurant opened across the street from Redamak’s, advertising in big letters: “We have lettuce and tomatoes.”
Nobody goes there.
Midwesterners seem unwilling to eat vegetables unless they’re deep-fried. People smoke. Many are alarmingly overweight. And yet, when they announce the names of people who lived to a hundred on The Today Show, they’re invariably from the Midwest. I don’t get it!
Entertainment in Michiana? The Dunes Summer Theater is walking distance from the cabin. Great shows, featuring local talent. Reading the theater program, along with their acting credits, you can also find out where they work. The Leading Man’s an optometrist, the ingénue’s an Assistant Manager at Denny’s.
Regular people, acting up a storm. And not an agent in sight. They do it because they like to. What a concept.
Movies? How about the theater in La Porte, Indiana, where you can see (at least, you could last summer) a “first run” movie for a dollar. A dollar-fifty, after six P.M. And you get free refills of popcorn and soda.
A dollar-fifty for a movie. It’s worth the trip to Indiana just for that!
Other entertainments? Horseback riding (along forest trails, keeping your eyes peeled for “owlhoots”), the Michigan City Zoo (featuring some of the most moth-eaten animals I’ve ever seen), The Lighthouse “Outlet Mall” (where, by September, even the “sale” items are on sale).
There are antique emporiums and weekly auctions, there’s miniature golf, there are batting cages, there’s the La Porte County Fair (where you can eat “Elephant’s Ears” and experience an almost immediate cramp bubble in your stomach).
You can drive around Indiana State Prison and “check the perimeter” for hitchhikers. Or you can take a walk and check out the seemingly endless variety of birds (Dr. M’s knows their names.)
For fifteen years, I was the part owner of the South Bend (thirty-five miles from the cabin) Silverhawks, an “A”-ball team in the Diamondbacks organization. Though I’m now a former owner, we still go to games, where John Baxter, the General Manager, and his wife, Rita, treat us royally. (Though they probably won’t let me throw out the first pitch again. Will they?)
What do we like doing best in Michiana? Taking in our favorite entertainment of them all.
The weather.
We don’t have weather in Los Angeles. My brother used to say, “In Los Angeles, every day is Tuesday.” He’s right. You wake up, you look outside, “Oh, yeah. It’s like yesterday.” Sure, we have earthquakes, but they spread those out. Generally, the weather is, “I saw that already.”
Michiana really gets weather.
The best seat for watching weather is on our screened-in porch. You sit out there with a book, and the weather passes, like it’s Disney on Parade.
It’s a pleasant day. Suddenly, the wind kicks up, rustling the branches in the trees. The skies begin to darken. There’s the roll of distant thunder.
Within minutes, there’s a deluging downpour. Sheets of rain, accompanied by startling streaks of lightning, and thunderclaps that’ll rattle your bones.
We watch it all, from the safety of our porch. Midwestern weather. It’s the greatest show there is.
Okay, so that’s it. I’ve left you stuff to read, and I’ll talk to you when I get back.
Have a good week. And think of some questions for me. You really don’t want me to make them up myself.
(Unless they’re funny.)
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