Sometimes I have trouble understanding the words and lyrics singers are singing. For example, I always thought Gordon Lightfoot was saying ‘the big lake, they call it Shagumee.’ After listening to and singing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald my way for about 40 years, my wife laughed and told me “The big lake is called Gitche Gumee, not Shagumee.” I was certain she was mistaken, and I think we even placed a bet on the correct lyrics. Well, it turns out she was right, but that wasn’t the only song in which I was unclear of the lyrics.
I first heard of Mackinac City, in Bob Seger’s song Roll Me Away. The song is about taking off on his motorcycle without a destination, trying to find himself. I loved the concept and thought I’d like to follow his lead and find the city of which he sang, but I wasn’t positive about what he was saying in the song. 
I found the lyrics to Roll Me Away on the inside sleeve of Seger’s album The Distance; “…12 hours out of Mackinac City, stopped in a bar to have a brew.” That’s odd. In the song, I thought he was singing Mackinaw City, but according to the written lyrics, he was saying Mackinac City. 
Since the song was about Seger riding his big two-wheeler, I wanted to ride my motorcycle to see what was there but never figured out where it was; I didn’t even know what state to look for Mackinac City, and it bothered me for years. (Keep in mind this was prior to the internet.) The Beach Boys sang about a place called Kokomo, an island which didn’t exist; Maybe Mackinac City was Bob Seger’s fictious paradise. At any rate, I gave up pursuing the town.  
Many years later, I was looking for a different route to get from Silver Bay, Minnesota, to Pennsylvania; a route that would keep me out of Chicago. No matter what path I took, there were two big puddles that had to be dealt with: Lake Superior and Lake Michigan. 
Researching my options, I found I could take Highway 2 across northern Wisconsin into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Highway 2 eventually ran into I-75 and from there, it’s straight south to Toledo, Ohio. Although the route was longer, it would bypass Chicago, and it was well worth the extra miles. Besides, if I get caught in Chicago traffic, and I always seem to, I would save time on this alternate route. I’d never been to the UP, but had heard it is beautiful, so that was the route I would take. My only concern was how to cross the water between upper and lower Michigan. Is there a bridge or a ferry? I zoomed in on the map. 
“I see,” I said, while looking at the map. “From St. Ignace, I cross over the Mackinac Bridge, into Mackinaw City.” I stared at the map. “Wait a minute, Mackinac Bridge and Mackinaw City? Could this have something to do with the place Bob Seger mentioned in a song, some thirty-five years ago?” Old sparks rekindled into new flames, and I was excited once again about Mackinac City, albeit confused. Maybe the reason I couldn’t find this place was the spelling. Is it Mackinac, or Mackinaw? I’ll try to unpack this; it’s an international, historical mess.
The Indians thought Mackinac Island was shaped like a big turtle and first named it Michilimackinac, meaning big turtle. The French later used the island as a fur trading post and shortened the name to Mackinac Island. In the French language, the last C is silent, thus it was pronounced it Mack-in-naw. 
Later, came the British, who built a fort at what is today, Mackinaw City. But the British spelled their new fort the way it was pronounced: Mackinaw, with a W not a C. The French and Brits pronounced it the same, they just spell it differently. Anyway, during the American Revolution, the British thought Fort Mackinaw was too vulnerable to attack by the colonist, and moved the fort to Michilimackinac Island, and named it Fort Mackinac…with a C, not a W. Good Lord, this is giving me a headache. No wonder I couldn’t find the town. 
I was becoming passionate about this trip that would take me through Mackinaw City for the first time. Unfortunately, because my departure was late, I would be crossing the Mackinac Bridge after dark. So, I pulled onto the shoulder of Highway 2, along the north shore of Lake Michigan, and stopped for the night. I set my alarm to get up at the crack of dawn. I rolled down the window and fell asleep to the sounds of the waves rolling into the shore. I hoped I would catch a sunrise over the bridge, but I slept through the alarm.
The warm sun shining on my face eventually woke me. I didn’t drive long before I was awestruck by my first sight of the bridge. Amazing! I was instantly taken by her majestic stance. The bridge was tall with two massive towers. Huge cables spanned between the towers and then back to the approaches on each end, connecting them to land. I was in awe.
I paid for my toll and drove across the bridge. The approaches are paved, but when you get to the suspended part of the bridge, the center lanes have open grates. I moved to the center lane; I loved listening to the sound of my tires rolling over the steel grates. I turned around in the town and drove back north across again. After I paid my four-dollar toll, I stopped in an area with a view to admire the bridge. Finally, I paid a third toll and crossed one more time to resume my journey eastward. I was in love!
I liked Gordon Lightfoot’s song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It had been nearly forty years since that boat sank deep into Lake Superior, which seemed like ancient history. But now, living by Lake Superior, I’ve met people who had relatives or friends working on the Fitz. The ships sinking took on a new perspective, far more meaningful than just a page from a history book. I wanted to learn everything I could about The Fitzgerald. Now, seeing the Mackinac Bridge for the first time, I wanted to learn everything I could about it
Construction began in May of 1954 and the Mighty Mac, or Big Mac as it is known, was open to traffic on November 1, 1957. Not only is she the longest suspension bridge in North America, it is also the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere. At five miles long, Mackinac Bridge is almost three times as long as the Golden Gate Bridge.
I had walked across the Golden Gate Bridge a few different times; now I wanted to walk the Mackinac Bridge. The bridge has very narrow sidewalks on each side, not suitable for foot traffic. But I soon learned that daily foot traffic (including bicycles) is not and never was allowed. But what about motorcycles? They must be allowed cycles; Bob Seger rode his motorcycle across this bridge, and now I wanted to ride mine over this beauty. In my research I learned the bridge is open one day each year to pedestrians. I immediately told Melissa, “I want to walk the Mackinac Bridge on Labor Day.”
“We can’t,” she replied. “We already have plans to go camping.” I suggested that we could change our camping destination to Mackinaw City. “There’s a lot of difference between driving an hour to Grand Marais and driving nine hours to Mackinaw City.” I wasn’t going to change her mind – at least not this year.
Over the next several years I had multiple occasions to cross Big Mac; each time increased my desire to walk that bridge. Finally, in 2023 I booked a campground and committed to the walk. Unfortunately, a family situation caused me to cancel. “I’m going next year, no matter what,” I told my wife.
In early March, I shared my plan to book a campsite in Mackinaw City and walk the bridge on Labor Day. “I’m not thrilled about the idea,” she said. “But we’ll see.” A few weeks before, I reminded my wife about the trip to Mackinaw City. “You can’t go now,” she said. “You’ll never get a motel room, or a campsite at this late date.” 
“I reserved a campsite last March,” I said. Despite my advanced planning, she was not onboard with the idea. 
“Traveling eighteen hours round trip, to walk five miles across a bridge with 35,000 strangers, doesn’t sound like fun to me,” she said. “And how are you going to get back across the bridge? They don’t offer any kind of shuttle or transportation.” I already figured that out, too. This trip was going to be a classic adventure, but I would be going alone. Well, Nova and I would go alone, we set out for Mackinaw City on Saturday afternoon….

To be continued next week; Double Crossed – The Walk.

In the fall of 2016, we pulled our Scamp fifth wheel halfway across the country on our way to Prince Edward Island, Canada. Along the way we stopped in Bar Harbor, Maine. For those who have never been there, there are no Rs when pronouncing Bar Harbor; it’s Bah Hah Bah. (The locals will help you if you pronounce it wrong.)
Two years ago, in Treasure Island, Florida, while walking our dog Nova Mae, I met a nice police officer. We struck up a conversation and I asked if he was native to the area. “No, I’m not sure anyone is from here,” he laughed. “All the people I know have moved here from other parts of the country,” he said. “I’m from Bar Harbor, Maine, myself.” He pronounced the Rs.
Since I’ve been there a few times now, I had to question him. “You pronounced the Rs. Are you really from Bar Harbor?”
“Yes,” he assured me. “I’ve been down here long enough to have lost my down east accent, but I am from Bah Hah Bah.” We shared a good laugh about that and then discussed the best places on the island to buy lobster. “I can tell you the lobster is much better in Maine than it is in Florida.” We shared another good laugh about that, and then Nova and I went on our way and let the man do his work. While in Bar Harbor, we got good advice from the campground host where to go for the best lobster.
“Where do you suggest we go for the best lobster without paying a fortune,” I asked our host. “Where do the local people go?” 
The campground host sent us to a restaurant downtown, on the water. “You’ll get good lobster anyplace in Bar Harbor,” he said. “But you’ll pay more in the downtown area.” We took his advice and tried the restaurant downtown. 
We both ordered the lobster dinner, which came with corn on the cob, roasted potatoes and garlic bread. When the waitress returned to our table, asking how our meal was tasting, I told her this was the first time I’d ever had lobster in Maine, and it was clearly the best I’d ever had. “And how about that corn on the cob? Isn’t that just the best in the world,” she commented. I smiled.
“We’re from southern Iowa,” I said. “You won’t find better corn anywhere than that which comes from the mid-west.” I probably should have stopped talking, but went on to say, “This sweet corn is very comparable to our field corn.” When she asked, I told her field corn was raised to feed the animals. But I quickly added, “The lobster we get in Iowa doesn’t hold a candle to this! This is amazing!” The smile returned to her face.
We ran into the host the next day and thanked him for his recommendation of the restaurant. I told him that the lobster was amazing. “If you think that was good, you ought to try Thurston’s Lobster Pound in Bernard, on the other side of the island. It’s a bit of a drive, but well worth it in my opinion.” The next day, we headed to Thurston’s for an incredible lobster lunch on the pier. As good as the lobster was in Bar Harbor, Maine, we found something even better! We returned to our Scamp and fed June her dinner before taking an evening walk. 
While on our walk, we ran into a real nice couple at their campsite and struck up conversation. Pete and Karen were their names. “Are you the couple that’s in that Scamp,” Pete asked. I told him we were. Our new friends had a slide in camper in their pickup. “We’ve been thinking about a different camper,” he said. “This is nice, but unless we unload the camper, we have to breakdown our campsite every time we want to go sightseeing.” 
I don’t honestly remember if Pete asked or if I offered, but we invited Pete and Karen to come see our Scamp. I could tell Melissa was a bit nervous about having company, not feeling like we were ready for company. “Just give us a couple of minutes to tidy up and make sure I didn’t leave my unmentionables laying in the middle of the floor,” I said. 
Pete and Karen really liked the Scamp. Melissa really liked Pete and Karen. We exchanged contact information to keep in touch. “Let us know if you ever decide to sell it,” Pete said. Eventually, Pete and Karen drove to northern Minnesota to buy our Scamp. We had them stay at the house with us, not as buyers, but as our house guests – friends. Since then, Melissa and I have visited Pete and Karen at their place in Virginia and stayed at their house. The Morrison’s are really neat people. They were both nurses; Pete was a helicopter life-flight nurse, and Karen worked in hospitals. Both have a great sense of humor.
Karen told us a story about a patient who was very demanding. “One day, when my shift was unusually busy and we were short-handed, this patient complained, ‘You’re late with my medicine.’ I explained it was not a time sensitive medication and they would be okay. But they kept complaining. ‘You’re five minutes late with my medicine.’ I finally turned around and said, ‘I know I’m a few minutes late, but did ya die?’” I thought I was going to die when she said that because I was laughing so hard! We visited them again at their farm. Anytime I complain about something, usually small and petty, Karen will quickly ask, “But did ya die?” It cracks me up every time she says that.
Despite the distance between northern Minnesota and south central Virgina, we’ve come to know the Morrison’s quite well. They have a hobby farm with a lot of goats. They also have cows, pigs, chickens, and I think a couple of sheep. For all I know, they might have lions and tigers and bears, by now - O my, but mostly goats. They have a couple of large
Great Pyrenees dogs to protect the herd. “Tom, stay a few feet back from the fence if you go near the goats,” Karen warned. “The dogs don’t really like men.” I asked why and she replied, “Who steals goats in the middle of the night, men or women?”  I guess that makes sense. But what about Pete? Do the dogs like Pete? 
“They keep a close eye on me when I’m around the goats, and I keep a close eye on them, too” Pete said. We shared a good laugh about that. I’ve come to learn there isn’t much Pete can’t do.
One time, I saw photos of Pete and Karen spinning honey, on their Facebook page. Come to find out, there was a swarm of bees in a tree. Pete (with proper attire) stood in the front bucket of their tractor. Karen raised the bucket so Pete could reach the bees. He retrieved the swarm and relocated them to a hive. Now, I am not afraid of bees, but I don’t go moving their homes, either! Since then, Pete has developed more hives and has become quite the beekeeper, which has been good for us. They’ve shared jars of honey with us on a couple of occasions, and it is the best I’ve ever had. In exchange, I will send cookies and such, but I know we’re getting the better end of the deal. Karen can bake, but I can’t make honey.
Sometime last year, we ran completely out of their honey. I offered to buy some from Morrison’s, but Pete said it had been a dry year, and the bees didn’t produce much. “We left what little honey they had in the hives for the bees to eat over the winter. We didn’t get any honey this year.” Boy, that was disappointing. What would we do without their fresh honey? We would be forced to return to store bought stuff. Karen assured me that I would be okay, but it was a long winter without our stash of honey. But I had bigger things to worry about than honey. I have a Scamp I need to get ready to sell. 
Yesterday, I was working on a Scamp in the driveway. The red stripes are faded, so I ordered new decals from Michelle at Scamp. “Those might still go out in the mail today,” she told me.
This morning there was a package by the mailbox. “There’s no way those decals could be here already,” I said. “I just ordered them yesterday.” Nova Mae and I walked swiftly in anticipation of finding my parts. The box label was facedown, and I was disappointed when I picked up the package; it was way too heavy to be Scamp decals. “It’s probably just shampoo and dish soap that Melissa ordered.” Carrying the box inside, I turned it over to read the label. I smiled and hurried to the house; the package was from the Morrison’s.
Before I even opened the box, I set the oven to 450° and pulled out the flour. I opened the fridge, “Darn, no buttermilk. Oh well, I’ll improvise” I said, and pulled out the heavy whipping cream. The dough texture was off, but in record time I had a sheet of biscuits in the oven. Next, I got a knife to open the package. “I’m going to be bummed if Pete sent me a box of Virginia rocks,” I said.
I dug through the Styrofoam peanuts and pulled out two jars of the best honey in the world! “Come to Papa,” I said to the honey. Melissa pulled out an envelope with a nice card from the package and read it to me. I pulled the biscuits from the oven, while thinking how long I had suffered with store bought honey. Just then Melissa showed me an embroidered patch that was in with the card (I’m sure it was from Karen), it read, “But Did You Die?” I had to laugh! I’m going to find a place to put that patch to remind me not to complain about the little things in life. 
I drizzled honey over a warm biscuit and took a bite. The honey was amazing! The biscuits had good flavor, but they were a little over baked and a bit flat, probably the difference between whipping cream and buttermilk. I smiled, because in my mind I heard Karen saying, “But did ya die?” Come to think of it, the biscuits were fine, too – so I had another

The leaves are beginning to change color. Temperatures are getting cooler. Dew gathers daily on the windshield of my car and a morning walk through the grass will get your shoes wet. As chilly weather sets in, so does the desire for a fire in the woodstove and a pot of chili simmering in the kitchen.
I like to make big pots of chili. We’ll eat some for our meal, put some in the refrigerator for lunches the next day, and a few quarts in the freezer for another day.
Through a combined series of misfortunes, distractions and sheer stupidity, I managed to burn two gallons of homemade chili in the pot. Sometimes I can recover the chili in the pan if I don’t disturb the burned chili on the bottom. But, this time, I really scorched it and that nasty charred flavor made its way through the whole batch.
I threw away the chili and scraped an inch of burned beans, meat and tomatoes from the bottom of the pan, exposing the hard, burned black stuff. Charcoal had nothing over the floor of this pan. I put some soap and water in the pan and left it to soak overnight.
I went back the following day and looked into the pan to assess the damage and see if the pot could be recovered. I tried to scrape the bottom with a spoon, but it was so charred I decided to just throw the pot away.
That’s when it happened. I heard my mother’s voice saying, “Don’t you dare! You get over to that sink and clean that pan right now.”
I sassed right back, "You can't tell me what to do. I am an adult now!" As I scrubbed on the pan, I tried to reason with her, “Look at this mess – let’s just throw the pan away and get another one.”
It was a fairly expensive pot, a nice stainless steel ten-quart pot with sturdy side handles and a vented glass lid. My wife bought it for me as a gift. I was sure it was ruined. “Keep scrubbing.” I heard the voice say.
“It’s not coming out” was my plea of defense.
“Use Comet” she replied.
I argued; “but it’s…”
“SCRUB!”
I scrubbed and scrubbed that pan with Comet and a green scratchy pad. I rinsed the pan, feeling it was clean enough and started to put it in the strainer, when the voice clarified “It is not clean. There is still more in the pan.” I thought again about throwing it out, but I was certain she was watching from somewhere around the corner to assure that didn’t happen.
After the final scrubbing, I rinsed the pan. I saw the bottom of a once again shiny stainless-steel pan. I am sure I felt a warm hand on my shoulder as I heard a softer voice asking; “Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t throw away that perfectly good pan?”
I took a quick look over my shoulder. No one was there. My fingertips were tender from scrubbing with the abrasives; my wrist ached a bit from the odd angle used reaching into the deep pot. I quipped to myself, “People should not be able to talk from the grave.”
The voice replied, “I heard that, too.”
As I dried the pan I thought about how much I miss those days in the kitchen with my mom and the lessons she taught me. They were lessons about cooking and cleaning, right from wrong, living, loving and believing.
It’s been over 25 years now since she passed away. From time to time, she still stops into my kitchen, offering me some remedial training. You know, people like Mom, who passed before us, don’t really talk from the grave – but they do continue to speak through the heart.
Melissa walked into the kitchen. I smiled showing her the pan and proudly said, “Look, I got it clean.”