I went south to Grand Haven on Friday. I went east to Fremont and Newaygo on Saturday. Today, I went north to Whitehall and Montague thinking the bookstore might be open, offering music. That closed at One in the afternoon. I went into Jimmy's, which never closes, and ordered the $ 3.50 bowl of stew, which had too much flour added. I had a good talk with a fellow who runs his own machine shop and a cattleman who raises longhorns, a man in his sixties long his right arm at his elbow. I can always find a conversation at Jimmy's Bar, even if its a conversation with Jimmy, who owns the bar. I had a water with my stew, probably because I had two beers and a shot last night. Woo hoo.
Of course, by partaking of the house stew at Jimmy's, I have no appetite for the Sunday dinner special at the Harbor View Grill. As I write that statement, I realize that the Grill has gone dark until March. For that matter, so has the White River Gallery and all of the members have taken home their paintings, sculptures and jewelry, making the interior look as empty as a closed business. A sign in the window promises an opening for the change of season show, March 2, 2012, five weeks of winter away. I could drive out to Fenian's this Wednesday night just to see the days to go until St. Patrick's Day.
After talking with the men in the bar, I almost left without paying. I saw the bartender staring off into the distance and remembered, but can't believe I was so lost in thought to have spaced it off. I had sped away from Jack's BP a few weeks prior to today, and got as far as the Baptist church near the Old Homestead before remembering and turning back. Technically a drive-off. The guy just rung thirteen dollars and fifty cents on the register as I rushed in the door. A young clerks, the one who is not pregnant said to me, "We know what you did." She wasn't speaking in her usual sweet tone of voice. Think I'll go to Wesco for a few fill ups and pay at the pumps with a debit card. Maybe I have too much on my mind.
It's Thirty, which shouldn't be a surprise. Temperature should be lower than that. I marched up what I think is Montague Mountain to see the Ferry Memorial Church, a yellow brick church and steeple built in 1874. Major Ferry lost his life on July 3, 1963, Civil War, fighting in the battle of Gettysburg. Wonder if he was a leader in the Michigan Iron Brigade, which someone told me had a total loss of manpower in the day long battle that turned the tide of the Confederate rebellion. The stained glass windows are covered against weather by pexiglases inserts. An adjoining modern church connects to the landmark by a breezeway. The yellow brick could use some repointing on the front exposure, above the great wooden church doors. As I climbed the hill, I thought about the life of the 42 year old who owned the machine shop. He and his estranged wife could enter counseling. He could try to win back his buddy's friendship to comfort him in an old age to come. He could find silent partner to chip in the hundred grand he needs to modernize his shop. It is always easier to solve the issues of people one doesn't know. It is always easier to mourn the death of a local man who fell in battle on a Pennsylvania field one hundred years before my birth.
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