There’s autumn in the air but summer remains in the water of Big Mama. The boats are still stubbornly moored in Montrose Harbor, next to the bird sanctuary, but everybody aboard is chilly and soggy, bring your brelly. But jump in, the lake is fine!
Because water enters and exits Lake Michigan through the same path, it takes 77 years longer for the water to replace itself than it does in Huron, despite their similarity in size and depth. We here happily bathe in some ancient bathwater.
That’s my neighbor, lawyer Brian, swimming at sunrise because, though the late September air is brisk, the water is still warm—bathtub warm. From my balcony, I can hear him cheer and gasp and curse and shout a satisfied “Woo!” because the surface of the water is like the great tympanum of the inner ear, amplifying everything. Don’t you dare gossip or tell a dirty joke to a friend while you’re out there treading water! I’ll hear every naughty word.
"Words are with us everywhere. In our erotic secrecies, in our sleep. We're often no more aware of them than our own spit, although we used them oftener than our legs. So of course in the customary shallow unconscious sense, we comprehend the curse, the prayer, and the whoop." -William Gass, "The Soul Inside the Sentence"
77 years. That's something to think about. xoxoxox
Beautiful! Thanks, bud