Wellsboro, PA

The Ohio Turnpike is a stretch of toll road which cups the south-
western shore of Lake Erie.  Don't drive it, just don't, especially in
the rain.  For the entirety of the trip thus far, trucks were limited
to a speed 10mph below that of cars.  Not so on the Ohio Turnpike.
The supposed speed limit was 75mph for cars and big rigs alike.
With a wiper defying assault of water from above and below, a
culture of furious inches between bumpers, trucks howling past one 
another in every lane, and no shoulder whatsoever, those couple 
hours stretched on and on, brittle and clenched.

But all things pass, even the Ohio Turnpike.  We dropped into the
day lilies and cemeteries of rural Pennsylvania, Route 6 like the soft
syllables of a consoling grandmother.

The above photo is from Wellsboro, PA, an otherwise charming 
small town along Route 6.  Gas-lit lampposts, a train car diner, 
ancient elms, ornately masoned storefronts, breezy Victorian porches.

Michigan

Thanks, sign.

Grand Rapids, Michigan

We drove off the boat and onto Route 96 for the short leg remaining
to my cousin Mark's in Grand Rapids.  He and his two quivering 
beagles graciously hosted us for a night at their home.  That evening 
we were introduced to the culinary curiosity which is Michigan 
Mexican.  Well.

The next morning he took us out into the city, enriching the sights
with the learned narration of an architect.  Mark's an enthusiastic
champion of Grand Rapids and its neighborhoods glowed in the
light of his exuberant promotions.

Our destination was Meijer Gardens, a sprawling 158-acre art
museum, botanical conservatory, and the gem, its sculpture gardens.  
It had been a while since we'd both suffered the beautiful exhaustion 
of art-overload, but that's exactly what a person is faced with, 
strolling the center's innumerable outdoor galleries and promenades.  
It was a delight to move among the diversities of era, medium, and 
aesthetic.

The just-opened Japanese gardens hid haikus here and there in the 
folds of the landscape.

Crossing Lake Michigan

We took an auto ferry across the lake from Milwaukee to Muskegon,
Michigan.  It was a bit of a rough crossing.  High winds made for
six-foot swells and the boat heaved and pitched for most of the  
three-hour passage.  Initially jubilant families around us were 
silenced mere minutes into the ceaseless plunging.  By the time we
at last reached the far shore, most of these poor panting souls were
making frequent use of little complimentary bags handed out by the
crew.  An older woman seated in front of us turned to her husband
upon landing.  From the folds of her headscarf, with calm, lawmaking
finality, a voice gray and dripping with Eastern Europe, she told him,
"Never. Again."

Our breakfast fortunately held strong, though our faith in its resolve 
to stay put was certainly tested.  Megan had entered a meditative 
state so as to endure, envisioning the motion as giant clockwork.  
Each second was disciplined and she was not to be disturbed.  
Midway through I went up on deck for some air.  Imagine gentle 
giants giving you surprise shoves every few seconds, heedless of 
strangers' bodies or thigh-high railings.  The view, however!  The 
magnificent violence of the wind!  What a wonder to see a panorama 
of flatness, of inky blue, landless horizons, to have all the imagery of 
an ocean, and to know all of it was fresh water.  

Sheboygan, WI

Our good friend Danielle and her boyfriend
Tim live upstairs in this cute house, just a 
scant block from the shore of Lake Michigan.  
They took us on a walk through a beautiful 
and strange expanse of fresh water sand 
dunes, to a surreal abandoned forest gallery 
of cement sculptures (saints, squirrels, log 
reproductions, presidents), and introduced us 
to taco pizza.  A short but very sweet visit.

No nonsense Wisconsinism

En route to Sheboygan from Minneapolis.

The St. Paul Saints

Megan and I were taken out to to see the St. Paul Saints play the 
Fargo Redhawks.  A big group of my family went.  Being among 
them is a true pleasure, a pure, quiet contentment.   Their company 
coupled with baseball in a lively small park was blissful. 

Bill Murray is part owner of both the team and the ballpark.  He  
apparently frequents games and is rumored to take tickets and sell
programs.  No sightings for us, but we were abundantly content to 
be out on a beautiful evening with such fantastic people.  Plus the 
Saints won, a come from behind victory, 4-2.  And fireworks.

The Saint's mascot, Pablo Pigasso.  Each year it's a new pig.  Past 
names include Hamlet and Garrison Squealor.

Susan Elizabeth

The sisters, my Mom's aunts and her namesakes, buried in the Grady
plot at St Mary's.  Her aunts knew the baby was to be named for
them, and it's said, vied for who'd get first name. (Mom, what
if you were Elizabeth Susan?)

Minnehaha Falls, Minneapolis

Yes, another waterfall.  But here's the secret, Californians:  The 
water is in the East.  Beginning midway through the Dakotas, 
everything turns green and remains so all the way to the Atlantic.  
(Right now in Massachusetts, just a few days shy of August, it's a 
dense wash of greens outside.  It rains every other day.  When will 
the price of CA real estate pull its head out of the parched sand?) 

Bill's leg

St. Mary's Cemetery, Minneapolis.  Grady was my maternal grand-
mother's maiden name.  Her sister Jean married Bill Baune.  While 
fighting in the Battle of the Bulge, Bill was shot in the leg while 
climbing through a barbwire fence.  The Germans had pinned down 
his would-be rescuers, so he was left dangling up there in agony, 
bullets in his leg, by some accounts for hours, by others for more 
than a day.

As the battle shifted he was rescued and sent home stateside.  After 
his return gangrene set in and his leg was amputated.  In Catholicism 
major limbs have to be buried in consecrated ground, and my Great
Grandmother Grady offered the Baunes a spot in their family plot at 
St. Mary's.  So, among the buried Gradys, somewhere down there is 
Bill's leg.