Muskegon Adventure

It took an easy six and a half hour drive to get to Muskegon, Michigan, and the half was mostly wandering in the dark looking for the route to the hotel.  You know how you are sure that you know the way, and then the star descends and neon signs scream in red and bright magenta with little illumination of street names, and you can't tell where in the hell are we?  But we got there, in Good Old Car.  One admirable thing, Muskegon labels its streets well, unlike Boston, Mass, where visitors are netted and scaled like tuna when they find themselves miles away from the intended destination.

So this is Muskegon, a small town sort of city where many wondrous things occur; it seems as if Jack planted the beanstalk and suddenly, there is a soaring monument to the sport of snurfing, a silver totem celebrating the origin of snowboarding, created here by Sherm Poppen, the father who bound two skis together.  It's outside the window of the hotel in the middle of a rotary, by the historic Frauenthal theater.

You'll see the hospital where Iggy Pop was born, and the Brunswick company where bowling balls are made.   Here also is the reason I visit every first weekend in October; Muskegon is silent film star Buster Keaton's home. This year I was part of the committee that kept the schedule running, did errands, introduced presenters, and greeted people; it was a terrific way to interact.

Wanting prints of some artwork, I was on the way to the local shop to order; Google gave directions, and I couldn't find the place, not having driven down the road long enough.  Frustrated and scheduled to be somewhere else, I temporarily retreated.

A kindly fellow brought out paper, marker, and got busy; the directions were then described, repeated, outlined, and made artistically scientific, it was comparable to a cartographer's thesis. After about ten minutes, it was decided to simply get in his car and be driven out. Success, and many thanks.

The next day, I went in my car out to the named street and instead of turning the instructed way, I took the opposite direction.  It was said that I had to go far out, so the distance wasn't alarming until I got to the orange striped barrels and the street changed into a suburban cluster of cul-de-sacs; several loops later, I refound the detour, but heck, this didn't look right and the way back was closed.

Head towards the west and you'll eventually run into water, which I did; sandy sandy Michigan beach was being whipped across the road at a clip generated by the temperature drop over the frothing lake.
Having never driven across sand before, I went slow; it felt like driving with no traction and squishy.  Remember that word, squishy; it will appear again when the story gets to the brake part.

I asked a visitor who was taking photos of the waves how to get back to the main part of town, and she happily said to pick a road and turn right; she was also a visitor who was giddy about being polished by wind and sand, enjoying the furious scene.  I ended up in familiar territory, and got to the museum where it was near lunch.  Drove again over to the restaurant, ate, was going to find the print shop again with corrected synapses, and my foot went right smack down to the floor when stepping on the brake pedal; the car slowly decided to squish to an uncertain stop, luckily on a side street.  Not good news, I had to be in Buffalo to teach kids on Monday, this was Saturday afternoon.

Triple A guy thought there was air in the line and I needed a cap.  There are no caps, was later stated by those in the know.  Others mentioned a possible master cylinder which, holy crow, would cost a sacred cow.  The tow truck took the car to a brake garage, which did not open until this morning, Monday, and it couldn't be looked at till later in the day.  By now chunks of ice were hurtling down, thunder and lightning adding just the perfect, dramatic, movie touch.

My roomie wanted to get back, so she took a cab and rented a car; last I heard, Flint, Michigan has good polka stations.  Called the school, took two more days off, and tomorrow may have the same cab driver get me to the repair shop.  Nothing bad has happened in the last three hours, so I am taking that as a good sign.

I love to drive, and will do so in a much happier, less ignorant of circumstances frame of mind.  Tonight will be peaceful, and maybe I will see stars, though unlikely under the sporadic cloud cover.  Right now I have a television, and will be watching old movies and typing, typing, the incessant typing that explains life to me.  I appreciate your patience and indulgence.  You sleep well, these colder nights call for blankets and deep dreams, slumber dreams, dreams of falling stars.  With love to all.