Michigan Summers

"Michigan seems like a dream to me now." Paul Simon

                                                                       

 I am a Chicagoan, born and bred, but every summer until I entered high school, my family was part of the great Michigan migration.   From Memorial Day until Labor Day, we took an extended vacation along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, renting cottages in various small towns.

The weekend of Memorial Day, our Chicago home was turned upside down to escape
the heat of the city for the cool breezes of  Lake Michigan. Supermarkets were raided for the empty boxes that we quickly  filled with clothing, toys,books and staples. Down in the basement, my mom unearthed  the silverware,  glassware and dishes that we brought out to Michigan, because the food we ate there wasn't always kosher.

With almost everything  packed, Dad  carefully collected the "medicaments" as he called our eclectic  collection of pharmaceuticals. Toothpaste and toothbrushes, deodorant and Vicks Vaporub, razors and shaving cream, baby oil and  Noxema ,iodine and band aids all went into a  box. He made sure were were prepared for any cosmetic or medical  situation. Unfortunately, though, sunblock had not yet been invented. Spending almost every day on the beach turned us all a deep, dark brown. Attractive?  Yes. Healthy? Definitely not, as my dermatologist informed me many years later. At one time or the other, we all suffered from painful sunburn, and had to deal long term skin damage.

Finally, everything was crammed into the car trunk, usually at least three separate times until it all fit. In the back seat of the car, we built a soft nest of linens, blankets and pillows ,piled so very high that it took a few tries for my sister, brother and I to squeeze ourselves in. That was the very best place to be. With hugs and and kisses and  waves goodbye to my grandmother and great-aunt, we were off for the summer.

 Our family car was not air conditioned, so we  rolled open all of the windows, except for when we passed through the  reeking gas refineries in Hammond and Gary. It was a toss up between the odor and the heat, with the heat winning out. At the outskirts of Michigan City, we cheered when the back wheels of our car crossed the Michigan state line. The windows were once again rolled down and we could almost taste the breeze coming from the big  lake a few miles to the east.

There is one trip to the lake that I distinctly remember.We were starting out late, so I was being a total brat, fighting with my brother, teasing my sister and not listening at all to my parents.I staked my claim to the window seat before getting in the car and then proceeded  to slam the door hard on my finger. For a moment, no one moved as I stared at my hand in horror. My father quickly pulled the car door open, scooped me up and rushed me into the house, where he quickly filled a bowl with ice and stuck my finger in all the way. As reality and throbbing  pain set in, I began to cry uncontrollably, not so much because I hurt, but because I was sure I  had spoiled our vacation. Mom came in , dried my tears and explained  that she would wrap my finger in an ice pack while we traveled. Nothing was mentioned about how my rotten behavior had led to the injury, so I kept my finger on ice and wisely kept  my head down for the rest of the day.

Please don't get the wrong impression about our vacations. My parents were neither wealthy nor without responsibilities. Leaving the city for three months out of the year came at a price, but somehow they always made it work. At the time, Mom and Dad owned a men's clothing store. My father would stay and work in the city most weeks. On Saturdays, he'd close the store at 6:00 sharp, throw a suitcase and some requested supplies into his car, and drive out to see us. My mom kept supper warm for him, and as soon as we heard his tires crunch the gravel, everyone piled out the door to greet him.

 Getting out of  the car, Dad stretched his legs, commented on the trip up, and offered my mother a kiss. She always hugged him and then firmly told him to toss his inevitable smelly cigar in the garbage before joining us at the supper table.
We  brought out a flashlight- trunks didn't come with lights in those days- and hunted for treasure. We were all avid readers, so Dad would manage to bring out library books almost every week ,my monthly supply of science fiction magazines, the Sunday Sun-Times early edition , comic books and, best of all, Mad Magazine.
 Besides these necessities,  blow up beach rings, diving goggles and inner tube patches  were in heavy demand. . Most importantly, a fresh supply of mason jars, dill and herbs arrived to supply us with my mom's incomparable  home made kosher pickles. Made with farm fresh Michigan cucumbers, sealed in jars and stored outside under the house, the partial sun slowly brought  them to briny sour farm stand  perfection .. I have yet to taste a better pickle.

At least three times during the summer, my parents traded places. Dad would stay for the week, while Mom took a bus and then a train into the city. Having Dad to ourselves had some definite culinary advantages. At a loss for meals, Dad loved to make omelets, hot dogs and beans and a delicacy called beef fry lettuce and tomato sandwiches on toast. Occasionally, we made a trek to Captain Dan's Fishery in Union Pier for smoked fish, ,lox and sturgeon.


After Dad picked out the smoked chub and sturgeon he wanted,Captain Dan would carefully weigh out sliced bright orange lox, or smoked salmon, onto a scale. I remember thinking that three dollars a pound was a fortune. Today lox rivals the price of gold on the open market. Bagels, in those days, were unheard of outside of Chicago, so Dad brought them in from a deli in our neighborhood. After breakfast, we headed for a carefree day at the lake,. No matter what town we stayed in, Lake Michigan was always a few blocks away and the blue water and sandy beaches were the main attraction.

The  beach meant total freedom for us. If the water was choppy, we  battled the waves on full sized car inner tubes. On calm days, you could paddle your tube out to deep water, slip on goggles, and dive down to the bottom for smoothly polished rocks. As a little guy, I remember wearing a  Donald Duck ring  around my waist and blowing bubbles in the shallow water. Occasionally, I dug into the shallow bottom for sticky grey "Indian clay" that I'd smear all over my face and arms. I was envious of the older kids who knew how to swim, and begged my parents to teach me. My mother was a good swimmer and a patient instructor. Soon, I was paddling around on my own, doing the dead man's float and exploring underwater near the shore with my very own swim mask and fins.

Not more then twenty yards from the water's edge rose the famous Michigan  dunes. My  friends and I raced up the hills and rolled all the way  down, covered with sand, shrieking hysterically.  When we reached bottom, everyone dashed to the lake and splashed our way in. Needless to say, we weren't too popular with the moms who had their beach chairs by the water's edge. We did this over and over again until we were warned to stay away.

No one went home for lunch. Coolers and picnic baskets were stored under brightly colored beach umbrellas. When we got hungry, we would find our way back to our blankets and share pungent salami sandwiches, Kool Aide,  home made pickles and fruit. Later in the afternoon, the ice cream guy would come around with icy Popsicles. If were were still hungry, we'd go to the beach store for frozen bananas. This also answered the question of where to use the bathroom.

There wasn't much to do in the little lake towns after coming home from the beach in the late afternoon. When we stayed in Lakeside, my parents discovered that the beach store just up the wooden stairs was owned by our second cousins, the Bergers. They had a large soda fountain, a  rack of comic books, and best of all, two pinball machines. One summer,  my mom went on a campaign to fatten me up. Two evenings a week, she treated me to a deliciously thick double chocolate malt at the Berger's fountain. You never heard me complain!  An added plus was that every week, the pinball repair man would appear at the store to test the machines. When Mrs. Berger told him that we were family, he handed my brother and me a fist full of nickels and told us to knock ourselves out. Both machines were in play for over an hour, lights flashing, bumpers bumping, flippers flipping and zappers zapping. A good time was definitely had by all!

With the end of the summer,the car was once again packed up. The night before we left, I always wrote a letter to myself,  detailing all the good things that had happened and the friends that I made and would miss . Tucking  the note into a secret hiding place between a crack in the living room wall, I vowed I would find it the next Michigan summer when we returned.