The Fickle Sea
Glenn, MI
July 25, 2019
Last week’s heat has subsided. Morning coffee and evening wine once again yearn to be consumed under the comfort of sweaters or the cover of blankets.
Like a liberating force expelling a foreign army, howling winds and torrential rain made an amphibious landing over the weekend, chased the occupying heat from the field, and allowed us to settle once more on to the featherbed of a cool Lake Michigan summer.
The lake (as David observed, if this is a “lake”, then Lake Lanier is a puddle) is as cold and as high as we’ve seen. Typically, when we are here, the water temperature approaches 70 degrees.
The storms and swells that dissipated the brief spell of hot air also removed our refreshing dose of warm water. Strong waves on Monday caused “upswelling”, a process whereby warm water along the lake shore is displaced by cold water from its depths.
When we were here last month, the water temperature off our piece of western Michigan was seasonable, in the low 60s. It rose predictably since, but from the pre-dawn hours Monday to a few hours after dusk, it plummeted from the mid-70s to the upper 40s. We know because we were stupid enough to wade in.
As I write from my makeshift “office” atop this verdant coastal bluff, the water is as calm as Paris in August or Mecca on New Year’s Eve. And, depending on the day, it preserves only a sliver, or a memory, of what was once a substantial beach.
The last couple days sand has returned, supplying sufficient space to sit in our accustomed annual pose…book in one hand, beer in the other…staring hypnotically over the horizon like George Soros at the 1992 British pound.
A few days prior, angry arctic waves crashed unsympathetically into the hapless cliff, absorbing the undefended shore and digesting a few beach chairs and umbrellas left for future use by our naive neighbors the previous afternoon.
Such is the temperament of this fickle fresh-water sea that…like an Argentinian government bond or a Hollywood femme fatale…it is often alluring, but its disposition can change by the moment. You need to be very careful, as it can quickly pull you under.
As we wait for the the water to warm, we luxuriate in the cool air it breathes across the beach and over the bluff. We often do so perusing the pages of books, or by keeping company with an assortment of critters that are regular patrons of this fertile yard.
Not a morning has passed without small rabbits emerging from the clifftop vegetation to retrieve scraps left by goldfinches on their freshly-filled feeder. Butterflies and bees frolic among the flora that shelter these bunnies, as hummingbirds make regular sorties on their sweet sustenance posted nearer the house.
Overhead, a bald eagle periodically soars, no doubt appreciating the return of cooler air and unsuspecting bunnies. Deer are ubiquitous, often startling – and startled by – our walks or rides amid the surrounding woods from or to which they suddenly dart.
Joining us in these activities and observations are our sons, the elder of whom returned to Atlanta a couple days ago to meet some school obligations. Such burdens do not befall his younger brother for another week, but he has nonetheless found himself on school grounds.
The Glenn School is the longest-running rural district in the state. If it did not date from the 1850s, we’d think Norman Rockwell founded it. We met one of its alums yesterday, a woman named Sue who (naturally) still lives across the street, and by day peddles wares at community fairs in South Haven (where we met her) or Saugatuck.
The school serves grades K-5, with about ten kids in each. Of course, none are there this month, but a very good basketball court is, providing David a nice outlet for his energy. He and Alexander spent time there expending some earlier in the week, and he and I have done so since Alexander left.
When here, we also find our way to the other corners of the intersection that constitutes the little village of Glenn.
The Glenn Store is a reliably convenient source of news and nutrients, including remarkably good pizza. Across the street, CJs Cafe saved us earlier in the week by supplying our coffee till our power returned.
The Vintage Bee, opening just this year, offers artifacts and souvenirs featuring attractive images of Napoleon’s favorite insect. Rita and I spent a few minutes sifting these and meeting the store owner before collecting mail from the adjacent post office and returning to the house.
As in so much of the Midwest, the people of Glenn could not be nicer, their disposition no doubt encouraged by surroundings almost immune to tension, and that virtually compel anxiety to flee.
Akin to the upswelling lake, we realize onshore currents will soon shift, carry us away, and bring stress back to the surface. Till then, we soak in this pool of serenity, and are grateful to those who have so often enabled us to immerse ourselves in it.
JD
