Boone Docks

“We only go to Boone Docks if it’s an emergency!”
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.

Summer's Wake

Tall ship slice
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.

For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.

Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...

My nation tis of thee

Independence day, 2009

On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009

Devotion

For my Daddio…
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.