Sunday, April 12, 2020 at 11:22 AM
South Streator, Illinois
Livingston County
I call it the beach. The two plastic Adirondack chairs under the carport roof hardly qualify as a beach. What if I tossed a layer of Lake Michigan sand over the concrete floor?
I know where to go. Right now, the houses along the Pere Marquette Beach road should have signs posted in front, declaring "Free Sand" and "Freer Sand". The lake throws up tons of sand on the Muskegon beach and the beach houses collect a share. People come by with pickup trucks, load up and drive off and spare the residents the heavy lifting.
I liked my West Michigan dune land world and miss it today. I like where I’m staying, but it’s not the Big Lake. Yes, I like hearing a symphony of birds singing like a choir of Episcopalians on Easter Sunday. The neighborhood houses all stand under old trees. The presence of the Vermilion River can be felt. The Vermilion River nearby makes us rich with nature near by. Call us the Vermilionaires of LaSalle and Livingston County.
What can compare, however, to the miles of sand to my right and to my left as I contemplate a lake I cannot see across to the distant shore? That's why I need a boat for summer and a camper for winter. I'm a nomad for a view. It’s like being a miner for a heart of gold.
One of the houses with a "free sand" sign now has five pillars holding up the porch. I was invited by the owners of the house, a married couple married for six decades, to knock on the door in the late afternoons. It took a few years before I took advantage of the invitation. I was walking the beach with a friend who was in love with the daughter who was home for the summer. So we knocked.
Although it was a touch chilly, we sat on the porch and talked, my friend and the object of his affections sitting closer. I watched the lake and let the two talk. The parents brought out light blankets and bowls of blueberries tossed with watermelon balls. I had been waiting all my life for watermelon balls.
My grandmother Aino owned a silver watermelon ball scoop, but she never used it. She served slices of watermelon and I would eat the slice to the green rind. She joked, "My mother wouldn't have liked you. You leave nothing on the rind for watermelon balls". I didn't get her sense of humor at first, so I looked a little shocked. And she laughed. Every slice of watermelon since, I worried that I was nibbling too close to the green flesh rind.
Today, I am here on my makeshift beach, imagining elsewhere, time traveling thanks to memory. At every home along this wooded street, I hear the sounds of families enjoying Easter Sunday. I worry, but we have slowed the COVID-19 virus down, haven't we? We’re due a vacation from the plague, aren’t we? I saw a family sitting out on the driveway, socially distant in lawn chairs. The oldest man, the grandfather, waved to me as I walked by his driveway.
I'm keeping a bird count. I've noticed plenty of Robins. I've watched a Cardinal fly by as a red sine wave. I have heard a few bird calls that are new to me. I wonder how many chickens are kept on the far side of the neighbor's fence. I think I hear three hens and one rooster. Paying attention to birds slows me down. The birds can travel long distances in my stead for now.
Addendum:
The woman and gentleman became the best of friends, and he is now an adopted member of her big extended family. The woman maintains her love of independence (see "Never date a girl who travels"). Loving entertaining, though, she does her best to serve up memorable delicacies.
Photo Credit Bill Iddings
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