I don’t hang out in Grand Haven on a Sunday afternoon in November just for grins. Kate is preparing for an adventure — three weeks in Europe next summer with the international program at her summer camp. Not a bad deal, touring the Continent, playing jazz, staying with the locals. For us, it means a number of weekends between then and now being her Sherpas for the required rehearsals. After we dump the amp and the instrument — and the musician — we are at liberty. And on a lovely, warm day.
So we went to the water:
And then we went to the woods:
This was all within the same state park. Pure Michigan. About a minute after I took that last picture, two sizable does bounded across the path in front of us, having a little frolic before gun season opens Thursday.
And then we had lunch at a nice little diner in Grand Haven, which had that empty look tourist towns get in the off-season. We went into one store and the owner nearly tackled us, introducing us personally to every item of inventory. We escaped with one jar of blueberry jam. Eight bucks. So who won that one? I’d say the guy who got $8.
The walk in the woods was calming. I’m trying to stop slicing off piece after piece of schadenfreude pie, but man, is it good, and every time I see Karl Rove’s face, I must read whatever type surrounds it. But I think I’m done now. (Please, I’m so full. No more pie.) But please, don’t offer my any more. I’m not safe around that stuff.
Instead, how about a good old people-suck story about hazing? It’ll strip your good feelings about your fellow man, I guarantee.
What news I did read this weekend was about Cloak and Shag-Her, to use the NYPost’s outstanding headline on day one of the Petraeus story. When Alan told me this woman was push-up girl, much became clear. Someone tell me: At what age do men stop chasing poontang over a cliff?
Have a good week, all.