CAPPY

  For the past week, the national morning shows (and who can watch this crap...”Today Matt Lauer tries his hand at making Eggs Benedict”) have been crowing about the beauty of the Sleeping Bear Dunes area of Northern Michigan, labeling it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country.

   Having just spent a week vacationing in this area with family, I agree that it is exceptionally beautiful, though best in the country seems a stretch (aren’t Hawaii and Maine still part of the USA?). 

   My favorite memories of this vacation have little to do with the natural beauty of this National Park, but rather on a couple of activities that my family regularly participates in while at home.

   In the first, after a day lethargically spent walking around Northport doing little more than shopping and eating, we decided that a rousing game of tennis was needed for physical stimulation.  My wife Andrea, daughter Rachel, son Jackson and I piled into the car and headed for the Empire Michigan Municipal Tennis Courts.  If you want to know how the locals can identify you as a visitor, it will not be by the copious amount of fudge you are consuming, but through the use of their tennis facilities.  

   You never need to worry about these courts being occupied.  And, unlike the rest of rumpled Empire, the courts are well maintained ( we actually love the rumpledness of Empire and loathe the manicured/stuffy vibe of nearby Glen Arbor and Leland).  The courts sit isolated down in a little bowl, surrounded by large pines and a couple of tidy baseball diamonds.  You drive your car over a gravel road and park right next to the courts.  When you turn off your motor, it is just you and whatever animals happen to be staring at you from the sky or woods.  Quiet.

   Until we started playing doubles that is.  We changed partners every set, battled fiercely, and found it not surprising that the team my son Jackson played on won every time.  When we play tennis at home the injury bug rears its ugly head on a regular basis.  It’s almost always my brittle self, shoulder and forearm the focus of my crying ways.  This evening it was Andrea’s turn, as a wicked forehand glanced off her racquet and into her eye, bringing her participation to a premature end.  Unlike me, Andrea did not cry or whine (amateur).

   I try and pack the car for every occasion and that evening was no different.  Andrea found the cooler in the trunk and put ice to her eye to reduce the swelling.  She also noticed that I had brought along water, beer, a bottle of wine, wine glasses (we aren’t swine, after all), folding chairs and Cappy.  What is Cappy?  He is not a what, but a who.  Cappy is the bottle opener that we keep in our garage back home.  The one with the peanut shaped head, happy painted face, jauntily angled cap, and magnetically attached guitar-shaped bottle opener.  That I decided to pack this family famous bottle opener speaks volumes about our crew (we may need some help). 

   The kids and I volleyed for awhile after Andrea’s injury, but the evening heat and desire to get at the adult beverages had us soon calling it quits.  Oh yeah, we were concerned about Andrea’s eye as well.   I set up the folding chairs, broke out wine for Andrea and Rachel, beer for me and water for young Jack.

   I’m not sure if it was the injury, atmosphere or vacation mood, but the wine began to flow.  Initially, my wife voiced concern about drinking in a public park, but I quieted those concerns by pointing out our isolation and the fact that we were Up North, where pretty much anything booze related goes.  Soon, Rachel started to assign a voice to dear Cappy,  like that of a British man servant.  Oddly, she had trouble conjuring up that voice unless she was looking directly at Cappy.  The digital camera appeared and pictures of all were taken, including (especially) Cappy.  Cappy on the tennis courts, Cappy drinking wine, Cappy in a grassy meadow, Cappy planking.

   After killing the better part of the wine and a couple of beers, with the sun setting on another day in paradise, we decided to make the short trip back to our Empire home.

   This is when my second favorite vacation memory took hold.  We sat around the kitchen table, classic rock providing background from the living room and played cards for hours.  Specifically, we played 31 (aka Scat, Tonk, Blitz or Ride The Bus).

     Like playing tennis, playing cards is a regular home activity for Andrea, Jackson, Rachel and I.  My mom, however, is not a regular during these home games.  She is not always around when these impromptu games break out and she is sometimes reluctant to play due to difficulties seeing the cards ( my mom has macular degeneration, but never lets it define her life).  It might take her a bit longer to make out the discard pile or the difference between clubs and spades, but we were all so delighted to have her playing that nobody gave a damn.  Of course, we did take every opportunity to kid her about these delays (“Guess whose turn it is?” during a lull in the action).  

   

   We take 31 pretty seriously.  A worn deck of cards and bag of tokens for the players is tossed on the table and God help you if you grab a token one of the others consider “theirs”.  You will be mocked for knocking early, ridiculed for low scores and jeered for early exits.  I know this because these are all sins that I regularly commit.  I took one fact away from this vacation:  I blow at 31.  My mom, a rookie and a sight impaired rookie at that, regularly kicked my ass.

   I can’t say that I recall who won the majority of the games, but I do recall a lot of laughing, out of tune singing, old stories and family memories.  We snacked and drank a lot too.

   Yes, Sleeping Bear Dunes is magnificent, and if you want to call it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country, I’ll let you.  But when the memories of the shifting sands fades, I’ll still remember partying after tennis, tossing cards and the laughing faces of family enjoying both.  And Cappy!

Cheers! Jim