Blue Horizon: Are we there yet?

Here they are, Don & Mickie,
or, as we lovingly referred to our parents:
Donald Duck and Mickie Mouse....

Mickie Hofman & Don Van't Hof
about a year before they were married.
The back of the photo says:
Decoration Day (now called Memorial Day)
Big Star Lake 1948, South Shore

Well. Where to begin?

My mom has always been a "glass is half full" kind of person
which meshes rather nicely with my dad's
"glass is half empty" personality.
(Notice Mickie's smiley enthusiam and Don's
pensiveness in the photo above. Typisch.)

In respect to BSL this manifested itself firstly in
The Ritual of Packing.

This ritual began weeks in advance of our BSL holiday,
it was steeped with ever heightening heights of anticipation,
usually lasted longer than the vacation itself,
and perfectly reflected the difference in my parent's temperaments.

Mom would instruct us kids to begin making
tidy piles of our clothing
(which took seconds since everything we owned
were a few cast-offs, [thank you Hoogstrates,
now you know why God put you on the earth]),
beachtowels and other beach paraphanelia,
bird, flower, fish, and insect guides,
board games, books and fishing equipment.

That's right. That's it.

We did not own any:
dirt bikes
quads
speedboats
jet skis
water skis
or downhill skis for that matter.

Or an EasyBake Oven.

Or a Creeple People Maker.

Yet....we still had fun.

As you can see below,
we had oars, but no canoe.

Calvin (the dog) and Mickie
This is 31 years later, summer of 1979
and it looks like it was taken at Owen & Spaak's

anyhoodle......

The Ritual of Packing was a very important ritual
in our life because,
a) it took up the half of the summer we were not at BSL, and,
b) did I mention before that we lived in the ghetto?

Getting out of the ghetto, or even packing to get out of the ghetto
was the best imaginary play ever.

Then .... the Day We (finally) Left
we began

The Ritual of Loading the Car
also known as
The Ritual of Dad saying
"Mick, we're not gonna make it."
(a close-cousin to Dad saying
"Mick, this Christmas Tree is not going to stay up"
but, obviously, in a different season).

Into our Country Squire station wagon
we did jam:

6 children
2 adults
a lot of food (since buying up north was too expensive)
gas for the motor, ie, the eggbeater,
the eggbeater,
several deflated tractor tires,
ancient beach chairs in various stages of incredible disrepair,
a whole separate wardrobe for the chapel (unbelievable)
cleaning supplies for scouring rental cottages (WHY?)
(this will definitely be another post since,
to this day it still makes my blood boil),
and, well,
you get the picture.

See picture and multiply by 2
plus insert to-the-ceiling junk

As you can see,
Dutch people excel in making every possible area of life
unbelievably labor-intensive.
Even vacations.

During both of these rituals please envision
Mickie flitting about in her state of undiluted euphoria,
possibly with a baby on her hip,
and Don lurching about in his state of undiluted exasperation
always with a cigarette jutting from his mouth.

Are we on the road yet?
Praise the Lord and Sound the Timbrels,
Yes Yes Yes.

At this point my Mom is purring,
"Isn't this nice?", or,
"Aren't we having fun?", or,
"Let's all play the Alphabet Game!"

In counterpoint to these cheery observations Dad is totally,
"I hope we don't run outta gas", or,
"Does the car feel like it's pulling to the right?", or,
"Better pray we don't hit a deer!"

And of course we're all piled in the back,
like cord-wood, car-sicker than a dog,
in a miasma of blue cigarette smoke.

Are we having fun yet?
Mmmmmm .... no.

Because US 131 was just an iddy-biddy,
going-nowhere highway at the time,
we always headed north on M37.
This brings us to our next ritual
which occurred somewhere south of White Cloud.

The Ritual of Being The First To Spot The Man (fake)
Asleep in His Red Dog House (real).

Ok, I know this is not a man but a boy,
and he's not sleeping but very much awake,
yet it was the closest photo I could find
even though I can't believe Newaygo County
didn't save a picture of
this valuable National Landmark
for all posterity to google whenever a certain
somebody might need it.

A red dog house in front of a white people house
on the left side of M37
and a pair of blue jean pant legs
tucked into work boots
protruding out the "front door".
Somebody must have a photo
of this somewhere!

We're getting closer, Tonto!

In rapid succession come the:
roadside BBQs in dilapidated, weather-worn stands,

a bazillion Mad Jon Escape signs
(kind of a 1960s Burma Shave thing),
and, Yes!, the first of many
Johnny's Bandstand signs.

Now the Country Squire
driven by the urban blue-collar worker,
like a trusty steed
is steadily honing in on
Big Star Lake Road and all its niceties:

Horse Farm where horse tried to kill me, check
Marquette Golf Trails, check
Trail leg to the PM, check
Access to Oddfellow and Rebekah, check
Road spur to Evergreen Chapel, check
The Bowery, check
The Blue Horizon, check
BSL Chapel, check
Chapel Road, check check check.

Night has descended,
the boat motor oil has been decanted from the
gigantic tupperware tub of bran-muffin batter (it happened!),
the treats for the next several weeks
have all been surreptitiously eaten,
everyone is sufficiently gag sick,
and out of the gloaming
our giant Van't Hofmobile
floats and dips and rises over all the
twists and turns and hills and dales
that describe lovely, sandy Chapel Road
until we pony up to the cottage
amid frantic whispers from both parents
that we must "Be Quiet" and
"Zip our Lips" because even though
this is a funfilled, sunsoaked resort,
it's a Dutch resort (for the most part)
and therefore it's Like Church,
and the biggest transgression EVER
in the Dutch diaspora
is to Make A Scene.

So Don tiptoes up to the back of the cottage,
followed in close succession by
Mickie Dave Judy Steve Joanie Karen Janie,
inserts the key taken from under the doormat,
gingerly opens the warped old door
so as to not cause it to squeeeeeeeek,
and suddenly, maddeningly, surprisingly
the door explodes outward and
all manner of furniture and beach equipment
and fishing poles rain down on Don
and Uncle John can be heard
maniacally cackling and gasping
and now the whole South Shore is wide awake!!