Well, I remember that and also this: I discovered fried green peas. They were at a small grocery store known as Jay’s, which was next to an auto plaza known as Carl’s, which was just down the road from the only restaurant for miles around, known as Hank’s.

Talk about a first-name basis.

I had to drive this last lingering distance to West Branch by myself. Pattye, whom I’d come on this trip with, was in the car ahead of me with our friend Scott, who was in Michigan directing his version of Rent, styling, modernizing it if you will.

(By the way, good job, Scott).

I’d only been to Michigan once before. I’d taken the train the last time; perhaps you’ve read my blog on that eventful trip.

I saw no dead animals, that time, though. I was rightly mesmerized that so many raccoons had come to Michigan to meet their deaths.  I tried very hard to turn them into badgers or wolverines, or a jaunty mix of both, but sadly, their markings were too obvious.

I’m not sure what I expected out of this second venture northward: pickled herring stands, brown patches of grassless lawns, perpetual Christmas. (I saw none of these, either, during my first foray to the Great Lakes State, and I must confess, I felt a little cheated. Then I remembered that Rose Nylund was from Minnesota, and forgave the whole state).

But, I was at least, on this trip, better prepared. Thanks to Al Gore’s Internet.

See, I did a little thing called research. (Which, I’ve discovered, is a lot like a drug—addictive).

Michigan is chock-full of things to see, and things to do. Did you know that among its many monikers, it is also called the Great Beer State? There’s also a large German influence in Michigan, most notably seen in the village of Frankenmuth, or as locals call it Little Bavaria. And though we didn’t get a chance to visit it, I hear Mackinac Island is well worth it. After all, Condé Nast Traveler called it “one of the top ten islands in the world.” I mean, that’s got to be a good thing, right?

In retrospect, though, I realized that Michigan is a state best seen by train. The reason? You don’t have to drive a train.

Plus, like every other state in the contiguous USA, a highway is a highway. By any other name, it becomes an interstate. Bottom line: boring.

Of course, I’m not one who appreciates driving like others.  (There are a few who do).

And like most every other state, the highways, the interstates aren’t built to take you to a place, as much as through it. Meaning? The charm of Michigan isn’t seen from I-75, or Highway 10. Though, unfortunately, its state motto doesn’t really encourage you to take the next exit ramp. I mean, what can you expect from a state whose motto boasts, “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”

I had looked all about me. And all I saw were dead raccoons, which I pretended were freaks of a badger-wolverine hybrid to keep myself interested enough not to run off the road.  (Badgers, I learned later, weren’t even associated with Michigan; they belong to Wisconsin).

It was all the same to me: the north—one large, cold state.

It wasn’t until I stopped, and got out of the car, that I learned my mistake.  That I remembered where, despite landmarks and sites of interest, the true charm of any place lies: in its people.

The people of Michigan are good, honest, people who a) don’t mince words, and b) don’t mix drinks. They also like a hearty pizza.

And they are resiliently, surprisingly, hospitable. I thought that was only in Mississippi; maybe it’s an “M state thing.” Though I wouldn’t bet on Montana.

After our brief stay in Lansing—only for the night of the performance—we were invited to stay with Scott at his mother’s (Anne) house, a quaint two-story, loft-style bungalow, near Lake Houghton, I believe, and it possessed all the magic that a cabin in the woods should: tall cathedral trees, bird feeders, quiet and serene back porch, and the following morning, a breakfast that could feed the neighborhood.  In a sense it did, his mother’s best friend, who told us her grandkids call her Granma Ribs, made short work of the front door welcome mat.

The evening before, they sat in front of the fireplace and enjoyed a few cocktails while regaling us with a barrage of amusing stories about their lives, their children, the strength of commercial lubricants, and gay marriage. Pattye and I at once saw the potential for a cable-style TV program: Ms. Anne and Granma Ribs. There would be a censorship disclaimer at the start of each episode. I think, before we went to bed, we’d gotten halfway through Season 2.

It was hardly twenty minutes into their dialogue before I felt what I always hope to, when traveling. I felt at home. When you’re on the road, for any length of time, that feeling is well worth the drive.

Earlier that night, we were taken to Hank’s, the local restaurant, vis-à-vis juke joint, where we met with our first round of colorful locals. What I will say about these Michiganders is the men smile and nod a lot and the women will kiss anything that moves. You will, no doubt, draw your own conclusions, but after the dust (of hairspray and makeup) has settled, and the John Deere caps removed, you end up sitting at a table with people you know. And oddly, people you like.

I don’t think they believe in strangers, in Michigan.

Which is a good thing.  It works for us down south. So, I guess what’s good for the goose, is good for the Michigander.

After a few rounds, a pizza the size of Pittsburgh, and what I’m pretty sure was an accidental lap dance from a woman named Shelia, we called it a night, and that’s when I saw the pièce de resistance: that huge, expansive Michigan sky.

I turned to Pattye and said, “They don’t make them like anymore.”

“No,” she replied, “They really don’t.”

I’ve seen a few clear skies in my day, but clear stars? That’s rare.

Just like Michigan.

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