Traveling On
I’m in Charlevoix for the week with seven other good women. Wat Water, stones, sand dunes, trees, grass. The empty beach reminds me of summers in Union Pier when I was a child. If I close my eyes, I can smell the pungent odor of clay, taste melted cream cheese and jelly sandwiches, feel the texture of peeled green grapes against my tongue, relish the flesh as it bursts warm and watery in my cheeks. The northern tip of Michigan has its own flavor. Multicolored, striated Petoskey rocks form a crust along the water’s edge. Across the bay on Washington Island , pure white stones bake in the sun. Streams along the edges of boulders produce silky strands of orange and mustard colored moss. I stare at the waves, mesmerized by the vast space. The season has shifted from summer heat to crisp autumn. The women move easily among each other. We take walks down the beach, watch sunsets, c...