August 7: President of the Galaxy, Mackinaw City, Hope

Zaphod is still reminiscing about meeting a famous person . . .

"The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx," said Zaphod.  "He gave us food, booze--stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy--lots of conkers, of course, and we had just the most incredible time.  Then he teleported us back.  Into the maximum security wing of the Betelgeuse state prison.  He was a cool guy.  Went on to become President of the Galaxy."

Zaphod paused.

I have met some famous people in my lifetime.  On a vacation in New York, my family and I ran into Alec Baldwin.  He was filming near the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and we just happened to be eating some hot dogs in the same place.  I shook Kurt Vonnegut's hand.  Listened to N. Scott Momaday tell stories to a classroom full of undergrads.  Watched Gwendolyn Brooks be real cool not more than ten feet away from me.  I could go on.

The thing is, each one of those encounters reminded me of one thing--they are/were just regular people.  Alec Baldwin was sipping coffee.  Kurt Vonnegut looked old and bored and in need of a cigarette.  Momaday smelled like onions.  And Brooks looked like she was in need of a nap.  They were all amazingly . . . human.

Spent the day with my family touring Fort Michilimackinac in Mackinaw City.  It's a historic landmark from colonial times, much like Fort Mackinac on Mackinac Island.  There  are archaeological digs on the site, reenactments of musket firings.  My daughter and her boyfriend helped pull a canon out to Lake Michigan, where they loaded it with a gun powder charge and set it off. 

In the evening, we walked along the main drag of Mackinaw City and did all the tourist things.  Bought fudge and caramel corn and over-priced tourist crap.  Coffee mugs embossed with Shakespearean insults.  Tee shirts that changed color in sunlight.  Polished stones.  I talked my son out of a colonial pistol that I know would have ended up Goodwill fodder by Christmas. 

Now, considering my introduction to this post, you're probably expecting me to tell you that I ran into Jeff Daniels in Murdick's Fudge Shop or Bob Seger in the Popcorn Factory.  Although both of those celebrities are Michiganders, I did not run into anybody close to famous.  As far as I know, being the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, I was the only celebrity in town.  And nobody asked me for an autograph.  (Please read this paragraph with the appropriate dose of irony and self-deprecating humor.)

It was a wonderful day, despite a rather stressful supper at the local KFC.  The stress was the result of my son's ADHD medication wearing off and some over-cooked popcorn chicken and a mouthful of Mountain Dew.  The result, an ice cube fight and my ten-year-old son saying "Fuck!" loudly in a crowded restaurant. 

These last few days have provided me with something that I haven't felt in quite some time--hope.  That may be a dirty word to some people who see it as something empty, filled with nothing more than empty wishes or dreams.  Me?  I see hope as something that gives meaning when everything else seems meaningless.

So, tonight, I don't need Gwendolyn Brooks reciting poetry.  Or Kurt Vonnegut chain smoking in the backyard.  Tonight, I have hope that comes from firing a cannon across Lake Michigan.  From holding hands with my wife, walking down the path to a colonial fort.  From my son dropping f-bombs in the presence of Colonel Sanders.

Saint Marty will hold on to this hope, carry it home with him tomorrow, let it fill his days with light and joy.