A New Michiganer

Snowbound at the Lake

It happened overnight.  One snowstorm - 4 inches of snow and then a temperature dip to ten degrees Fahrenheit - and instead of looking out over a lake, I'm gazing at a glacier.  Is this really the same lake that was bubbling with activity all summer long, pontoon boats, water skiers, jet skiers, speedboats zipping by with tumbling tubes and screaming children getting tossed into the drink?  Now it is a plane of snow covered ice and David says we are going to go skating and skiing across the lake.  "No way," this city slicker told him.  "I can't even stand straight on a skating rink.  The thought of plunging into the icy cold water of the lake totally freaks me out."

"You will be skiing on the lake before the end of winter," he assures me.  "When the ice fishers are sitting in their little huts in the middle of the lake, you will see how solid it is."

Ice fishers?  Meanwhile, the whole state has turned into a skating rink.  Local roads are as icy as the lake.  Driving is a hazard - and I've got place to go and people to meet. Tell GM to make personal Zambonis - that will bring back the auto industry, for sure!  And give people in Detroit a way to get to work.

I remember announcing that I was moving to Michigan and people warning me about the winters here.  Meanwhile, New York was getting six foot snowstorms and winds that brought down mighty trees and electric wires, leaving parts of Westchester without electricity for over a week.  "Ha," I said.  "How much worse could Michigan be?  And besides, they are used to the snow and the ice there..."

It's a New York myth that, unlike the New York city metro area, places in snowy areas are better equipped and able to deal with snow and ice.  What they don't tell you is that here in the midwest, it isn't a matter of being able to deal with it...it's just a basic resignation.  The roads have not been salted - and at some point, people just gave up on shoveling their walks and steps - which makes for some slippery and dangerous maneuvering when you are getting from here to there.  So, it isn't that they are better equipped...just that they laugh at the possibility of falling through the ice, when skiing on a frozen lake.  Could these midwesterners be tougher than I thought?

 

Winter Arrives in Michigan

"You're marrying a man from Michigan, good luck weathering THAT winter," someone from Scarsdale joked before I left town.

"Um, didn't we just have two snow storms that dumped six feet of snow on Scarsdale?" I countered.  "And what about that crazy Nor'easter that brought trees down and left Westchester without power for over a week?"

Winter is winter.  It's cold and there is snow.  Michigan winter is cold.  New York winter is cold.  And so far I don't see a whole lot of difference between the two.

When I got off the plane at DTW, I decided to head up to the cottage.  A dry non-sticky snow was flurrying down, coating Hamburg, Pinckney and points north of Ann Arbor with a beautiful icing of sparkley white stuff.  Between yesterday and today there has been a dramatic change on the lake, which now sports a veneer of ice that is starting to spread around the perimeters of the shore.  I don't know if I would dare, but David says that soon he will be able to cross-country ski and skate on the lake but for now, swans and herons are perching on the mini icebergs and launching themselves into the water that is still liquid.  Yeah, that's the difference between Michigan winter and New York.  It's really beautiful here.  Even though it's cold.

Lake Yesterday:

 

Lake Today:

Back to Brooklyn

Going back to Brooklyn, for me, represents so many things. Brooklyn, the city I landed in as a teenager during the Saturday Night Fever era when it was everyone's goal to "get the hell out of Brooklyn!" is not just any city.  It is Israel, Chinatown, Little Odessa, Saudi Arabia, Punjab and Ethiopia, depending on what block you happen to be visiting.

It's a place where "Hey!" is the greeting of choice and nobody bothers with niceties - people simply cut to the chase.  It's the land of filthy streets and pigeons circling buildings - and every kind of ethnic delicacy imaginable for sale at reasonable prices.  The pizza crust is crispy, the shwarma is authentic, the restaurants include the gratuity on the bill so their waiters don't get stiffed, and there is no item that you can't find for sale within a 10-block radius.  It is a crowded, huddled mass of people bursting with bargains galore, cement playgrounds and lots and lots of noise.

And for this Michiginar, Brooklyn was the perfect holiday getaway. 

I visited a local supermarket to run some errands - and was shocked back into the thrill of the kill in the parking lot when I scored a good space by racing someone who saw the spot at the same time as I. As I pulled into the spot, I resisted the instinct to gloat, remembering that most Brooklyn people use "The Club" in their vehicle.  The Club is a heavy theft deterrant metal bar - that locks the steering wheel, but could just as easily be used as a device to bludgeon people who grab a coveted parking spot and gloat about it.

Inside the store were more surprises.  Unlike Michigan, where the supermarkets take up lots of space with wide aisles and a select number of products on the shelves, this ShopRite store crammed merchandise into its aisles.  The shelves seemed endless and stocked to the rafters.  And hordes of people poured in and out of the store grabbing the bargains advertised in the ShopRite circular.

There were about 16 checkout lines open.  None of the cashiers were chatting--or sharing pie recipes as they do in Michigan.  They were busy scanning and getting their lines of customers out the door as efficiently as possible.

As I approached the checkout line, I decided to do a Michigan experiment.  A big young man with a "Brooklyn" tattoo on his forearm was scanning items in a mechanical haze.  I put on my very best Michigan cheerleader peppy smile.

"Hi," I chirped.  "How's your day going?"

His brow puckered as he looked up from his scanner.  I kept the smile pasted on my face even though he was looking at me like he was ready to call the cops on this crazy woman.

"Is it going good?" I persisted.

"No," he grunted, turning his attention back to the items.

"Awww," I clucked sympathetically.  "So, what's wrong?"

The poor dude didn't know what to make of this customer who was playing cashier's therapist in his busy store.

"I got two more hours of this," he muttered.

"I'll bet it's tough at this time of the year."

He just shook his head, grunted and completed the sale and went on break.

And I went home singing the "I love New York" theme song.