The Muskegon Rest Stop is a name that could be applied to at least two rest stops. One is located on US-31 just north of Muskegon, and it was recently named for Timothy F. Judge, a MDOT employee who was lost while scuba diving in the White Lake Channel, looking for a shipwreck. He had just entered the water when he called for help, and his remains were not recovered until several days later. The rest stop is just south of White Lake Drive exit. The dedication ceremony was observed less than a week ago. Over a million visitors pause at this rest stop yearly.
The rest stop I called the Muskegon Rest Stop is located on I-96 and it is closest Exit Nine Left to Nunica, Michigan. The State of Michigan calls it the Fruitport Rest Stop. Fruitport is a town that once loaded fruit on boats; now, it's fodder for comics driving from Detroit to Jack's of Spring Lake, Thursday free comedy night at the Holiday Inn. Funny, type in Muskegon Rest Stop, I-96, into Bing and my post with picture is top of search. I wish there was some money in this blogging. That's really good placement.
Remember, rest stops are temporary homes, mostly for truck drivers who must show rest periods every day on the road. This need for rest has overwhelmed parking at rest stops, forcing the State of Michigan to establish temporary facilities for parking. I've taken many a nap in rest stops all over the country, once on rock, sitting up, as the sun arose over the Texas - Oklahoma border. This was June 2006, and I had passed the weekend in the casino and bars of Durant, Oklahoma. Not gambling and drinking, but just collecting stories. I wrote most of my stories from that night to a filmmaker from Detroit, the Warrendale neighborhood of Detroit, and I'm not sure I have those stories in my email archive anymore. I hope he saves his correspondence. That night, I gave a ride to a lucky couple from the casino, who insisted on riding in the back of my truck. They insisted on paying me too, ten dollars, for dropping them off a their home near a bar on south outskirt of Durant. I enjoyed buying a few women beers with that money, women who proudly called themselves red neck girls. I also had my glasses smashed by an woman with long, jet black hair who pulled them off my face and pounded them on a tabletop. She demanded, "party!". So I danced with her, and after two minutes, she grabbed another man and danced closely with him. The next song, she came back to me. Next day, I took the glasses to an optician at Walmart, and she fixed them, but left pliers markings on the bridge. I sanded them down.
I slept part of that weekend on the shores of Lake Texoma, which is controlled by the Army Corp of Engineers. I understand many folks live on pontoons, anchored on bayous of Texoma. My neighbors had set up a RV on the shore and even a dock. Another couple lived in a low tent under an apple tree. I slept in a sleeping bag rolled out on the bed of my S-10. Two churches stood on the road out to this unofficial bayou campground. The topographic map showed that the road once ran through the valley now inundated by the dammed up lake. Churches had a bad hair cut lawn job, the kind delivered by a bush whacker running through grass gone wild, with roots to far apart for a manicured lawn. No cars showed up Sunday morning.
Why ever was I living in a makeshift village on the shores of a lake famous for catfish capture by the noodling method, literally ramming an arm up the mouth of a catfish living in an underwater cave, under the eroding bank? When I traveled for work, I stayed in hotels while maintaining a home in Royal Oak, Michigan. If I didn't work weekends, I traveled out into the countryside of Oklahoma or Louisiana and avoided booking a hotel. I also learned how to eat in the bushes. There's a surprising amount of delicious food available, all of it fresh, and all of it free. The phrase, "eat in the bushes", comes from a successful insurance broker who described his years building a book of business. It includes eating at mom's but might include free samples at the grocery store. Casinos are fantastic places for eating in the bushes, but long time readers of this blog know that I luck out at casino buffets, without gambling.
The Fruitport Rest Stop has a story too. I once enjoyed a fabulous night when I drove three women into Grand Rapids for a party at Cygnus, in the tower of the Amway Grand. One spoke a bit of Finnish, which was endearing to me. She had raised six children, married and divorced four husbands, and preserved her outrageously good looks. She had achieved my years in age. One night, I was watching the singing fountain in Downtown Grand Haven, and she appeared from no where and sat down beside me. The court in Ottawa County had just evicted her. Her last child at home, a son, had gone to live with his father. I have no idea why she had suffered eviction, but she had been laid off from a simple clerk job at a deli and wine shop on Beacon and she hadn't found any other work. She hadn't worked anywhere long enough to qualify for unemployment. And so, she was living in her van, 250,000 miles racked up on the odometer. The biggest problem of living in a van is finding a place to park, securely so one can sleep. Casinos check interiors looking for dashboard diners gone to la-la land and shoo them off. Walmarts are okay, but RVs are granted better treatment. I forced a twenty on her and then I opened my home to her. She joked that she could prepare me all the Finnish delicacies, but she didn't accept right away. So I gave her my phone number and my address. I mentioned that the rest stop on I-96 stood only 12 miles outside Muskegon; it could be reached easily on M-104, requiring a minimal investment of gasoline. She talked about selling a collection of purses in her van at a flea market in Grand Rapids and maybe staying in the driveway of a daughter living in Grand Rapids. Last time I saw her, she looked beautiful, her long wavy her aglow, her makeup perfect, dressed in an appealing outfit, talking one-to-one with a date at Theater Bar. I didn't interrupt. She didn't take her eyes off the man to look at me.
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