We haven’t had two homes since we sold the place in Florida a few years ago. That was easy to get your arms around. We lived in Michigan. Michigan was our home. We vacationed in Florida. We were snow birds.
We haven’t quite come to grips with having two houses in Michigan. Our children, God bless them, who insisted we acquire digs in East Lansing to be closer to family, are assuming that we have settled in, and are now officially, practically, realistically and emotionally residents of the Burcham Hills Retirement Community in East Lansing.
I am sure it was not arranged for our benefit, but the other morning the Michigan State University marching band staged a concert at Burcham’s main residential building, which was clearly audible at our condo.
Nice touch, but we still weren’t convinced.
The issue is simple, despite the confusion of names: are we residents of Burcham who own a cottage at Birchwood, or are we residents of Birchwood who own a condo at Burcham?
If there was any doubt, it was assuaged when our car merged from U.S. 127 onto Interstate 75 just north of Gaylord. The perfusion of green: trees, meadows, pastures and vistas too numerous to relate reaffirmed what everyone from Michigan will tell you: this is God’s country.
The magnificence of His artistry is overwhelming.
So here we are, home again.
It’s Sunday morning. Polly is still sleeping. I am at the computer, blogging, and soon will be writing a check payable to Holy Childhood of Jesus to be dropped in the basket at eleven o’clock Mass.
We live here in Harbor Springs. That’s what it says on my driver’s license. That’s what it feels in my heart.
We had dinner last night in the Casual Bar at the Club. Saw some friends who were glad to hear that my recovery from surgery is gong well. Perhaps on Monday, I will show up and see if Doctor Fred Hoffman can squeeze me into his Monday golf group.
There’s a lot of misery in this old world. Just turn on the television and it oozes into the room and boggles your brain. Hardly a day goes by that doesn’t feature another senseless, diabolical shooting or bombing.
What passes for political debate is too often a harangue or high decibel quarrel in which anywhere from two to five people all talk at once, apparently in the belief that the louder and faster they talk, the more convincing they will be.
It used to be that the political party which lost the election would function as the loyal opposition, which could be counted on to serve as the Devil’s Advocate to keep the ruling majority from becoming dictatorial.
Since the election of Donald Trump, we have seen a different kind of opposition emerge. More resistance that mere opposition, it consists of a continuous stream of tasteless invective, snide ridicule, and outright hatred.
Leave it to Michael Moore, the filmmaking firebrand from Flint, who found fame dissing the leadership of General Motors, to grab the brass ring of opposition leadership by offering an anti Trump comedy on Broadway.
Scheduled to open on July 28, the show is called “The Terms of My Surrender” and is directed by Tony Award winning director Michael Mayer.
Advertised as a comedy show, it will in fact be a one-man diatribe by Moore himself, who has a talent for biting satire and a track record of taking on big targets.
Moore apparently believes that his poison tongue will be caustic and powerful enough to oust Donald Trump from the White House.
With such insanity floating around the airwaves and spicing the Internet, it is comforting to know that little old Harbor Springs, Michigan is still a safe haven for sanity, beauty, and friendship. It’s good to be home.