Of fall and fudgies

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – We could sense it during the last couple of weeks … the changing season.  Mornings, we’d wake to crisp skies, a chilled deck.   At night, when letting the dogs out one last time, breath-born clouds of mist swirled as I urged the pups on.

Color along the trail.

“Go dogs, go … do your thing.”

Now, this weekend, we could see it.  Treetops shedding their greens in favor of scarlet reds, burnt oranges, golden yellows.  Not heavily so … more just a hint of the show to come – Nature’s clever invitation to come back next weekend, and the next, and, if we’re lucky, the next.

We’re joining in.  I cleaned the gutters this weekend, placed big pumpkins at the foot of our drive, and at last mounted our barn quilt on the shed.  We got bids on snow tires last week; today, Cindy’s baking pumpkin bread. 

There’s a secret that locals don’t always share here, for fear of the repercussions.  It’s simply this:  Summer is joyous for both the warm weather and less-cold waters, and also for the tourists who come by the thousands with their dollars.

But fall … well, that’s a season to truly enjoy.  Sure, there are still tourists.  The colors here rival those of New England, and so the down-staters continue to come.  A greeter at a popular Old Mission winery told me yesterday that the next three weekends are their busiest of the entire year.

Two 40-pounders, at least.

But it’s a different crowd.  They stick to the roads, rarely visiting the beaches and, rarer still, towing giant boats or trailers behind them.  Their stay also is shorter … a long weekend, perhaps.

Not like the “fudgies,” as summer tourists are called. (We learned the nickname at the farmers’ market. It’s not a put-down … just a way to categorize who rolls through town and when.  In this case, because many summer tourists visit fudge shops, they are, well, “fudgies.”)

No, I think most of the town let’s out a big sigh in late September and early October.  The summer craziness is over and it’s time to relax, to relish the elbow room relinquished to visitors since June.  July had its fireworks, but it’s the fall colors that now provide the real show, marking the slow easing into the long winter.

 

The Bear Paw.

We’re just now starting to feel a part of this town.  On the one hand, we find ourselves the permanent tourists – fudgies forever, perhaps – visiting old summertime haunts and marveling that we can return as soon as the next day if we want.

On the other, we’re feeling our own pressure to get involved, to form friendships, to sample the off-season culture of music, literature, food and drink.

And so we take those steps. We’ve joined a newcomer’s club.  I’ve had two lunches with the local newspaper publisher, and other lunches with local authors.  Cindy’s joined a book club and a remarkable harp class.  Friday night, we took in a writers’ series.

We’ve hiked many a trail, amazed by the warmth of walkers and bikers alike as they greet us along the way.  We’ve also seen many a sunset, each time saying, “This is why we came here.”

And every visit to a local merchant is a conversation, it seems.

Still warm at Esch.

Yesterday, after a trip to Esch Beach, we stopped at a local meat market on Union Street, Maxbauer’s. The owner, Mark Wilson, greeted us as if we’d been shopping there for years.  He’s owned the place for only 13 months, but the business itself has been ongoing since 1913.

Mark shared not only Maxbauer’s history but that of the entire local grocery scene.  How the Deering family arrived in Empire, then spread out … Tom Deering formed Tom’s Food Markets in 1953, how the founder of Oleson’s Food Stores married a Deering but also did well on his own with real estate purchases over the years, how there’s still a Deering’s deli up the street from Maxbauer’s.

As for Maxbauer’s … Mike Deering owned it for 32 years before selling it last year to Mark, who’d worked at the shop for six years.

It then dawns on us why the Deering’s in Empire is still a Deering’s.  That’s where it all started.  We shopped that Deering’s often while at the cottage.

It seems Traverse is a melting pot of sorts. Always has been. The Deering family’s roots are Canadian Irish.  I’m less sure of the Oleson heritage, though it’s clear there’s a Nordic streak there. Perhaps by way of Minnesota.

Behind this door ... good stuff.

So it was no surprise when the young butcher at Maxbauer’s – not Mark, but one of his employees – mentioned he was from Boston.  I’m cooking baby-back ribs today, Kansas City-style.  He volunteered that he bakes his first in the oven on a bed of celery.  And when he moves the ribs to the grill, he slathers them in a Boston barbecue sauce that has a strong Asian touch – soy, perhaps, or probably something more exotic.

He asked me how I cook mine.  I explain:  “Low, slow … on the Weber.  Pretty much all day. Wood chips for smoke.  Vinegar and apple juice to keep it moist.  Sauce the last half hour.”

He grinned.  “Everyone cooks ‘em different,” he said.

How this Boston guy got here is likely a story in itself.  I should have asked.

My current read.

I’m enjoying a book right now called “Grand Traverse: The Civil War Era.”  The author is John C. Mitchell.  John and I shared lunch recently at the VI Grill in Suttons Bay.

John is an ambitious author who now has his sights set on Cuba and exploring the parallels of Cuba’s 1800s sugar market and our own cotton industry.

John’s Civil War book is remarkable because of the detail it provides regarding Traverse City migration before, during and after the Civil War.   Mormons, Irish, Methodists and more … all displacing, of course, the Native Americans, who were here first.

So the seasons change.  And yet, much remains the same.  A Boston butcher offers barbecue advice.  An entrepreneur makes a go of it, as did Deering and Oleson.

And we take it all in, inspired by the dawning colors, but aware that we need to chart our own course as new immigrants.

We’re fudgies, no longer.

  

Judge ... and be judged

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – I cut the grass today … only the second time this summer.

It's uphill from here.

It’s not that drought has dried things up, or we’d let the grass grow unusually long.

We’ve had buckets of rain – so much so that we ordered more gravel for our uphill drive to replace what washed away.

As for the length of our grass … well, along our road, one is not judged by the manicure of his yard.

Yes, there are occasional houses where the yards are like an 18^th hole … flat like glass, vibrant green.  Drop a quarter and you expect it to bounce.

But I think those houses belong to retired men needing something to do.

No, for the rest of us, we’re perfectly happy to let nature take hold.  And it does so beautifully.  Out back, dune grasses grow tall and wildflowers bloom; out front, our tall pines release spent needles that drift like snow, blanketing the ground in a brown thickness so soft that I frequently walk it barefoot. The only grass is near the fire pit.

The fire pit.

We do have an advantage here on Hilltop.  Because we are so high up, our neighbors can’t really see the state of our yard.  The exception is Levi and Leslie.  Their house, just up the drive, is even higher than ours.  But they’re a non-judgmental pair, plus I don’t think they can see through the pines anyway.

And so I cut the grass for the second time this summer.  Not really because I had to, but because old habits die hard.  For 27 years we lived in Johnson County, Kan., where the condition of your yard defines your character.

Pity the man there who lets a bare spot lag or his grass go to seed.  In some subdivisions, I hear, there are busy-body lawn police ready to write you up and even announce your name – “Shame!” – at the next association meeting.

Yarrow.

Not here; not along Five Mile Road.   And so today, as I pushed my Honda mower, I felt some guilt.  Down came the dune grass, the wildflowers – a fragrant mix so sweet that, when cut, memories flooded back of Granddad’s mid-Missouri farm. 

There was white-laced Yarrow, tufts of Angelica, the yellows of Black-Eyed Susans, and the purples of Rough Blazing Star.

Black-eyed Susans.

I’d be wrong to say the yard was thick with these colors.  The wildflowers were sporadic at best. Various kinds of grasses filled the gaps.

And that’s why I didn’t mow every flower.  I dodged around the tallest, thinking this a good compromise.

And when it was done, I expected to gaze across the now-uniform yard with the pride I felt in Kansas, a pride usually born of next-door comparisons.  “Mine’s greener, thicker, shaved to perfection,” I used to think. 

Not this time, though.  It looked okay; the job was done.  No big deal.

In fact, of more interest to me were three other things:

First, the owners of the horse farm in back had finished constructing its new stables.  Last I’d seen it, the building was a skeleton of fresh timber.  Now, it was clad in beige siding and a metal roof.  Based on the whinnying, the horses seem to like it.

The barn, now finished.

Second, the moles seem alive and well.  I’ve not met them yet; they prefer to hide in their shallow tunnels.  But I saw and felt their underground trails as the mower moved across the yard. “Live and let live,” I thought.  I’ll save my angst for something more formidable – say, a bear or cougar.

And third, I realized how much gasoline I’ll have remaining in my gas can by October.  The neighbors left a five-gallon can behind, and I filled it up thinking I’d need every ounce this summer.  But I’ve barely touched it.

Snow blower awaits.

Then again, I keep forgetting what’s ahead.  I’ve not yet tried to master our Craftsmen 8.5 horsepower, 27-inch snow blower that stands, with canopy, about seven foot tall.  But I know its fat Briggs and Stratton engine will suck down gas like big-dog Nellie does water.

Plus there’s the emergency generator we have standing by, for when – not if – the power goes out.

So I know the gas will be put to good use.  Perhaps daily.

And that’s important. 

I hear that, up here, during the snows, one is judged by the manicure of his driveway.