This side of the rainbow

ESCH BEACH, Mich. – I was Dorothy in reverse.

The tornado was a Delta Airlines jet, landing with a roar at Kansas City International, plopping me atop the Kansas-Missouri plains.

But there was no mad dash of color ahead of me, no circle of singing townsmen, no brick road of any color.

No, I found it to be flat, gray, listless, predictable. 

Awaiting the flight south.

Okay, that’s not fair. I was born in Missouri and have traveled its verdant foothills, floated its marvelous streams. I love Kansas, politics aside.  The Flint Hills remain my favorite Kansas stretch, and I get a wide grin when I crest the hill on I-70 westbound, en route to visit son Zach in Manhattan, Kan., and see the vast Hills unfold before me.

I certainly love Kansas City and its environs.  What a great place to raise a family.

But right here, right now, Traverse City, Mich., is our Oz.

That was reconfirmed as I arrived back in T.C. a week later, having packed in a dawn-to-dusk schedule of breakfasts, lunches, dinners and in-between meetings to do what is necessary to stay atop my job.

I enjoyed the return to K.C. and the meeting of friends and clients.  Plus Zach and I hung out a bit and took in a Royals game.

But I did feel like pre-tornado Dorothy.  Driving about Kansas City was like Dorothy traveling her dirt roads, heading home to Uncle Henry and Aunt Em. Been there, done that.

I was reminded of this contrast today as we sat on Esch Beach near Sleeping Bear Dunes, on Lake Michigan’s east coast.  Waves lapped ashore; the water was crisp, clear; the sky an emerald blue. Seagulls passed overhead, hoping for a handout. 

Only weeks before, our kids were up to visit  – Meghan, Zach, and Meghan's husband, Eric.  Esch is a special place for all of us.  So we made sure to stop by here. 

Now, today, there’s already a touch of red and yellows in the trees that blanket the bluffs along Esch. It is a sign, of course, of autumn’s eventual arrival.   

But even that harbinger of fall brings cheer.  We find ourselves soaking up the summer but also excited about what the next season will bring … and even the next.

Family shot at Esch.

Today, as Cindy and I floated like bobbers atop Lake Michigan’s waves, we discussed winter – what kind of snowshoes are best, whether we’d prefer that to cross-country skiing; how the cold will make our outside decks relatively useless, turning our already small house even smaller; whether, somehow, we can shoe-horn a gas-fired stove into the living room.

We’ve owned houses pretty much since we’ve been married, each equipped with a fireplace.  And now, to find us in Northern Michigan – land of a billion fireplaces – without one seems impractical if not on the wrong side of the divine.

In our other locations, the notion of discussing fireplaces while the sun danced off nearby waves – with us neck-deep in them – would have seemed ludicrous.  But in those places, the time between summer and winter was so very, very long.

Not here.  The frigid arrives fast and, we’re told, deep.  Not like the slam of a freezer door, because a Michigan winter offers its own natural escapes and adventure.

More like the tale of two cities … Traverse City inside, where all is cheery and warm,  and the same locale outside, where all is bracing, fresh and ruggedly cold. 

I suspect we’ll find a way to get our fireplace ... so we can substitute summer’s sun with winter’s flame. To warm our Oz.

To help us realize again what always has been true, even in reverse:

There’s no place like home.