Too many stars in the Interlochen winter sky, too bright, the sky so heavy with them, many were bound to fall.
Just small-town Northwesterners in someone else’s town, we ate deep-fried mushrooms in a log-cabin bar, watched the multitude of animated beer signs, chatted with the outlaw snowmobilers in leather and denim, who laughed at a friend’s latest drunken escapade, racing a snowmobile off the bank into the lake. An off-duty sheriff harrumphed, complained about having to go out in the cold all the time for fools.
“It’s just what happens here,” one guy shrugs, and breaks a rack at the pool table.
The next day on the road home, the ’42 Plymouth goes into multiple 360-degree spins on the icy highway.
“Sit on the floor,” you say, calm as we silently spin down the roadside.
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