Door County Wisconsin

We should have been deep in fall up here, this spit of land north of Green Bay, Wisconsin, this long fingered peninsula jutting out into expanse of Lake Michigan. Cornfields not yet harvested are a golden sea and their leaves crackle against each other in the breeze. The summer heat lingers still on this last September weekend. The trees try to change color but wait for that first cold break. No one is complaining. Winter will come at some point so the locals and the few lingering tourists, such as ourselves, share the wooded trails along the shores, the uncrowded outdoor cafes and visit the farm stands together. Our casual communion with strangers is not to be taken for granted, for along the idyllic rolling dairy pastures is the populated evidence of our times, the signs of our political positions, blues and reds, forward and back, from one home to the very next, neighbors with stark different points of view. None of that discourse is spoken in public though. Conversation is as sweet and abundant as the cherries that grow in these parts. Cherries are offered in every item of food and drink, from cherry drowned pancakes to cherry syrup-laced old fashions served in taverns. Perhaps the cordial of the cherry acts as a temporary sedative for our tongues. Evidence was everywhere. Lured by a banner offering ice cream and sundries we turn off a country road into a long private driveway ending at a homestead: a beach house, an old stern faced man tending to his trailered fishing boat and his opposite tempered wife bounding towards our car, now parked in front of the opened garage door outbuilding. It was immediately clear the improvised country store was her counter point to his powerboat. “Welcome, welcome, come in, come in. Thanks for coming. Are you staying the cottages? Look around. The season ends next week. Everything is going to be 25% off then, but I can offer it to you now.” Spoken in a joyful cadence, as our mere presence an affirmation of her project. We actually just came in for the ice cream, but felt immediately compelled to check out each item for sale as we didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Oh the summer kids love coming here on Sundays for ice cream” she continued “but after I make sure their parents gave them their breakfasts of course.” The overpowering maternal affection got me wondering. A previous evening at a beachfront bar, the farmers’ market the day after and again at a Sunday afternoon outdoor cherry stand – come beer stand complete with a guitarist duo playing familiar tunes from calmer days. Lyrics that still pull at common heart strings and almost forgotten memories regardless of the color of your lawn sign. I can see it clearly. On the isolated peninsulas of social media where conversations have no guardrails, no decorum of social respect, the digital lawn signs of memes overwhelm any chance of courtesy. Hard to just drive by them and you don’t dare stop and ask the owner why nor can you even share a drink or song.
Putting that thought in the back of my mind, we continue down the road. Visits to the Boynton’s 12th century styled Norwegian church or the Dutch built Brussels cemetery grotto, reminders of 18th century immigration origins to people of these parts. Sadly too many names and places of origin on the soft limestone tombstones wiped away by the years. Perhaps that erosion has happened to our ancestral memories as well. We need these old churches and cemeteries to remind us of where we came.
Later that night we started a campfire down by the shore of our rental. A north wind blowing was stronger, waves washing against the rocks below. Its voice telling us it will be much colder before we see another summer. So let’s try to gather around a common fire. Share the warm for we all we have is each other against the cold.
Keep on traveling, friends.