Letters

Letters 08-31-2015

Inalienable Rights This is a response to the “No More State Theatre” in your August 24th edition. I think I will not be the only response to this pathetic and narrow-minded letter that seems rather out of place in the northern Michigan that I know. To think we will not be getting your 25 cents for the movie you refused to see, but more importantly we will be without your “two cents” on your thoughts of a marriage at the State Theatre...

Enthusiastically Democratic Since I was one of the approximately 160 people present at when Senator Debbie Stabenow spoke on August 14 in Charlevoix, I was surprised to read in a letter to Northern Express that there was a “rather muted” response to Debbie’s announcement that she has endorsed Hillary Clinton for president...

Not Hurting I surely think the State Theatre will survive not having the homophobic presence of Colleen Smith and her family attend any matinees. I think “Ms.” Smith might also want to make sure that any medical personnel, bank staff, grocery store staff, waiters and/or waitress, etc. are not homosexual before accepting any service or product from them...

Stay Home I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read the letter of the extremely homophobic, “disgusted” writer. She now refuses to patronize the State Theatre because she evidently feels that its confines have been poisoned by the gay wedding ceremony held there...

Keep Away In response to Colleen Smith of Cadillac who refused to bring her family to the State Theatre because there was a gay wedding there: Keep your 25 cents and your family out of Traverse City...

Celebrating Moore And A Theatre I was 10 years old when I had the privilege to see my first film at the State Theatre. I will never forget that experience. The screen was almost the size of my bedroom I shared with my older sister. The bursting sounds made me believe I was part of the film...

Outdated Thinking This letter is in response to Colleen Smith. She made public her choice to no longer go to the State Theater due to the fact that “some homosexuals” got married there. I’m not outraged by her choice; we don’t need any more hateful, self-righteous bigots in our town. She can keep her 25 cents...

Mackinac Pipeline Must Be Shut Down Crude oil flowing through Enbridge’s 60-yearold pipeline beneath the Mackinac Straits and the largest collection of fresh water on the planet should be a serious concern for every resident of the USA and Canada. Enbridge has a very “accident” prone track record...

Your Rights To Colleen, who wrote about the State Theatre: Let me thank you for sharing your views; I think most of us are well in support of the first amendment, because as you know- it gives everyone the opportunity to express their opinions. I also wanted to thank Northern Express for not shutting down these types of letters right at the source but rather giving the community a platform for education...

No Role Model [Fascinating Person from last week’s issue] Jada quoted: “I want to be a role model for girls who are interested in being in the outdoors.” I enjoy being in the outdoors, but I don’t want to kill animals for trophy...

Home · Articles · News · Features · A Taste of Summer
. . . .

A Taste of Summer

Doug Stanton - June 14th, 2010
A Taste of Summer
By Doug Stanton
Summer is a time for forgiveness. Forgive the bullies, the liars, the cheats, the smiling posers, the con-men, the riff raff, the manipulators, the gravel voice hypnotists, the do-gooders, the bad-doers, the bookstore censors, the dictators, the misinformed, the rageful, the self-interested revolutionaries, the propagandists, the ego-maniacs, the political artists whose best arts are the art of self-promotion. The brooders who’ve blown to our door during the gray days of winter.
I’m sitting at the Union Street dam in Traverse City, Michigan, fishing for gobies with Will, our six-year old son. Our daughter is at driver’s ed. Our eldest son is washing dishes at an incredibly good restaurant in town, his summer job. It’s summer and Will and I are fishing. When I was Will’s age, I used to come down to this dam. The air smells the same. Like the underside of a bridge, even though it is broad daylight, and sunny. The dam pond is the color of cold coffee. Crumpled-up handfuls of foam float past, making it hard to see the shallow bottom. We are standing on the pitted concrete that is sagging into the dam pond. On the pond bottom are thousands of rocks, and among them, crayfish. Will likes to drop a worm down there and wait for one of the crayfish to come battling out of his small rock cave. The worm is circled by gobies, which are too small to really the bite the hook. I could fix this by tying on a smaller hook, but Will seems to enjoy the process of trying to catch a gobie. Perhaps because he is our third child, born 9 years after our second, he is most comfortable making up his own play.
I am thinking about a million things, except fishing with Will. I admire Will’s focus as he leans over the concrete slab and dips the worm and hook into pods of gobies and the tiny caves of crayfish. Why can’t I do that? This was the day I waited for, back in February. Winter is private, a ride down a frozen hole—- summer is confession. Sunlight. The days are so long, they contain distance as well as time. Why do they have to start shortening so soon, on June 21?
Will catches a crayfish and swings it over and lowers it at his feet. It is no bigger than a butterfly, but bony. It seems too small to catch. And in fact the crayfish has simply grabbed the worm and held on as Will hoisted him. What a terrifying moment. Or was it?
The dam pond asks: Do you believe in God? The old willows I know along the bank, rank with the piss of wanderers, faded beer cans woven into the thick grass, answer: I can’t answer. Does the crayfish think he’s been caught? I don’t know. I heard a man on the radio today saying there was nothing in the US constitution about “government” doing anything for anybody. My God, who are these people? They live in a world vibrating on the Internet in which they talk only to each other. Someone I know once said, “If I say something, it must be true.” When I questioned how this itself could be true, the answer was, “How can you question me? I’ve devoted my life to helping people.”
The sun on the water is oily and I can’t see the bottom, but on the far side of the pond other people are fishing, and Will wants to walk over there. He thinks the fishing will be better, though he has never seen anyone catch a fish while standing there. At the same time, he has caught several dozen gobies, trash fish, invaders, species nobody wants. But yet here they are, eating our worms, as we grow old, Will and I. We are smiling. Or rather, Will is always smiling. I am smiling too.
Nothing is happening, yet everything is happening. It’s summer. If this were winter, we’d go home. Indolence like this would kill us. My thoughts wouldn’t wander. They’d be sharp and focused.
“What does lightning taste like?” asks Will, looking up. He expects I have an answer for this brilliant, unexpected question.
“How about pine sap?” he asks. “What does that taste like?”
“Bitter.”
“I bet. What’s the best sap?”
“Maple.”
“What’s second best?”
“Hmmm.”
“Do you think birch trees have good sap?”
“Hard to say.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
“How about lighting? What’s lightning taste like?”
“That’s a good question, Will. Where did you come up with that one?”
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“I’d say that lightning… I’d say that lightning tastes like summer.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome.”

Doug Stanton is the New York Times bestselling author of “Horse Soldiers,” now out in paperback.





 
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