Of all the gin joints…

The beginning is a card, a card of farewell. Someone found a poem for the inside, something to inspire me on my way.

 

A Walk Near the Lake

don’t think about early when the sun is

shining through blades of beach grass

I chose the long way to the beach,

hills with low valleys and dark horizons

aspens throwing me off with their mountain rustle

and out of sight of waves bearing no salt

only soft crashes and shatters and rhythms

sand underfoot, bearing branches green and gray

to step between and around

insects and birds buzz and chirp

whir whistle flutter into gold in the morning

silence is relative

I wasn’t alone when I read this, which was probably for the best because when I was alone, I cried. In the summer of 2002, I spent a few days at Sleeping Bear Dunes measuring native thistles, exhausted, eating cheese, lettuce & sand sandwiches at the car.

It was before. In another job, another city, another life. I cried.

That memory is a joyful one. My boss and I were there during a cherry festival (but really, you guys, a cherry festival!) and there was fresh fruit exactly everywhere.

You know those highway fruit seller stands? Bought stuff at three of them.

Sore stomach from too much fresh fruit? Yep.

For a 16 hour drive, though, it was good to have something fresh to eat.

So here’s the idea: we’re at the beginning where the ideas hang out.

I learned a bunch about the city I now live in by walking around and going to museums and parks and the local library. How much can I learn about a city that I don’t live in? I’m curious, in that warm feeling in the writer part of your brain way, about the story of that city as it can be found through library resources and whatever online archives I can find.

This blog will be my attempt to tell the story of a place that I only barely remember, and that mostly in between the words of someone else’s poem. Welcome!

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