Geography was never my strong suit in school. While I could spell the hell out of Zimbabwe, I had zero chance at giving someone directions other than a vague wave at a map and a mumbled “over there… ish.”
But, I do believe that one should always at least be familiar with his home geography — his own country, at the very least. Know your states. A plus for capitals. And know a little bit about your home state. Whether you choose to take pride in your state, for whatever reason — its sports team, its lakes, or its amusement parks — you should at least be able to tell out-of-towners where these things are located. And if you can throw in some smaller cities and restaurant recommendations, so much the better.
I took full advantage of geography this summer — living in Ann Arbor, taking a Leelanau wine tour and camping in Pentwater, I’ve basically triangulated the state.
Now, my parents took us camping all the time when we were kids. They’d load up the big blue van with six children, countless duffel bags and a cooler and set off for the wilds of… Ohio. As such, I never had much camping experience in the Mitten. When my Chris’s parents offered to host us at their campsite in Pentwater, I was ready to see a lakeside paradise… provided there were no bears. I was assured many times that there were no bears, but I still kept a watchful eye out, knowing that those who do not expect bears, as Bill Bryson once said, only need to be wrong once.
Chris was at best skeptical, at worst completely unhelpful, on the theoretical bear front.
“Let’s say there is a bear. Do I run?”
“There are no bears.”
“But if there are, do I run, or play dead? Do they climb trees?”
“I believe the ones that used to live in Michigan could climb trees.”
“Can they swim? Would they follow me out to sea?”
“That would be impressive, since there’s a lake, not a sea, and also? There are no bears.”
Seriously? We had beaches this whole time?
smallwood_lake_michigan
As it turned out, there were no bears — not that I had seen. What I did see was Lake Michigan, and lots of it, coupled with a fading pink sunset and a cold Oberon. I have lived in Michigan for all but two of my 29 years. I had seen trees and lakes and what seemed like the exact same snow every year — but I had no idea Michigan could be so pretty.
Accommodations weren’t bad, either. This was far different from sleeping in a damp five-sleeper tent with seven other crabby, bug-bitten humans. The tents of my youth were VW Beetles; our economy-sized Pentwater suite was a Maybach. Lights suspended from the ceiling. A mat for our shoes. From the tent size, weather, and company — and number of blankets that I wasn’t required to share — this was sheer decadence. An air mattress? Genius! And handy, if one floats out to lake in the middle of the night.
As it turns out, geography and wildlife skills are not the only practical responsibilities I lack. Last October, I managed to book two regular yearly vacations on the same weekend. I still have no idea how that happened, but rather than explain to 1) my friends or 2) my mother that I would have to cancel/postpone/cut short our annual wine trip, I suggested we roll all activities into one glorious, wine-soaked fete. My mother would get my days: wine tasting, lunches, walks in the woods. My friends would get the nights: hot-tubbing, Apples to Apples, very sincere and slurred conversations we will be unable to recall even when confronted with pictures.
My family was never the most social bunch. We knew each other, and if you knew us, that was enough. When there are eight people at the dinner table, you don’t seek out friends — you seek out quiet. And by “you,” I mean me. I made friends selectively, only involving myself (very awkwardly) when I was so drawn to a personality I couldn’t bear to be without it. And then one such personality introduced me to her friends… who were all just the same way.
I do not think I can describe that weekend. Not because I can’t find the words, because the words haven’t been invented. You might as well describe tax law to a plesiosaur. If you know, you know — and if you don’t, I can’t tell you. What I can say is: I’m very pleased to have made the friends I have this past year. They’re a wonderful group of people, and whether for chaos or support, they don’t disappoint.
And I still want one of those M22 bumper stickers. Sorry, Brian.
Sarah Smallwood is a freelance writer living and working in Ann Arbor. She is currently rewriting her first novel, keeps a daily blog at The Other Shoe and hosts a podcast at Stuff with Things. She can be reached at heybeedoo at gmail dot com.
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