up nort

Monday
We pack the suitcase and head north. The bridge appears on the horizon like something mythical.

Water water everywhere.

The peninsula is lush and green and sparse, though RVs clog the highway. I remember the thrill of passing cars on the left, the calculated timing and the quick whuzz of acceleration. We watch the sun set behind a hill, sleep in Marquette.

Tuesday
No one is home in Wisconsin--the house in the woods is ours for the night. The dogs run in the field. I see my first blood-swollen tick, plucked from the pointer's shoulder. At the town's pizza parlor, pints of Heineken are $2.65. Later, we drink lemon and Leine's on the back deck and see the lights across the bay.

Wednesday
A bear crosses Highway 2 ahead of our car. Broad daylight, mangy fur.


In Superior, the view is Duluth, sprinkled on the green hills across the lake. I see where the B used to live--the house the only residential building on the block of bars. Further down the street, toward the bridge, the buildings are spaced every-other, the missing bricks burned or bulldozed or simply crumpled in a weeded pile.

Watch the lift bridge go up and down and up again. Boats loaded with ore and beet feed pellets groan their way back out to open water. People in bright shorts pick their way along the rocky shore. The bridges are named for WWII air pilots.

Thursday
I don't understand these small towns, the way everyone recognizes everyone even years later. Younger brothers and old school teachers and cousins all know each other. Even when waistlines and hairlines and tan lines change, something in the eyes must stay the same.
 
Friday
Every five years, this town hosts an open Homecoming--all classes come back and meet each other near the fire hall, where it smells like broasted chicken, and downtown, outside the purple-and-orange bar.

We trek into town, buy cans of beer, sit on the curb outside the bar. The bartender is the school janitor is the kid who never finished high school is the guy who once threw the B's baseball gear onto the roof of the school is the guy who was dumped into a Dumpster by the B's older brother and friends.

A first this year: phone reception in town. The smart phone and I find a friend of a friend from my Kato days. We used to sing karaoke in a cop bar in the Cities; tonight, we stand outside and drink beer smuggled in pockets and shout that it's so good to see each other, that it's been so long, that it's so crazy he and the B are from the same town.

The B runs into people from high school, who are drunk and loud and mock-angry that he's never come back home. You're just here because it's fucking Homecoming! one shouts, then shakes my hand and says It's really nice to meet you.

Saturday
We are back to Marquette. In the evening, I take the dog down to the city park and see a tall ship coming in. When it blows the horn, the dog flattens his ears.

On its way to dock, the ship passes so close that people reach out and touch its varnished hull.

Sunday
Back over the bridge. Below deck, I see the park where my family once stopped for a photo and my brother threw up a pound of Skittles. I miss my chance to eat a pasty.


I am glad to be back home in our city, which seems huge in comparison. Maybe it's grown in our absence. The grass is long, but the pillows are just right, and summer wants me to know it's still got a month left.