"My Neck Is On Fire, How Are You?"

Pentwater. Charles Mears State Park. We went there almost every summer. We had a 19-foot trailer that was our home for the week. My cousins would often go at the same time, and we would have a blast. I have a million vivid memories of this place, perhaps more than any other place.

Heather's family also went there. I wonder if we ever met there, on the beach, or in the candy store. That would be crazy cool.

The trips happened thirty years ago, but I remember so many of the details so well. Here are a few scraps floating around in my head:

- After a couple seconds of complete confusion, I felt the cold embrace of Lake Michigan replace the hot feet and sun of the concrete pier. I never even heard the splash. Small fish, by the millions, swarmed around my body and leapt from the water in a mass panic. My feet hit the sandy bottom, telling me I wasn't in over my head. Laughter, from Brian and my cousins. There was no climbing out, the water level was well below the concrete top of the pier. Better to just walk in to shore.

- Running down Old Baldy, at a pace that was too fast for my legs to keep up with. Using all my visual power to avoid the sharp sticks implanted in the hot sand. They will hurt ya, bad. Running, running. Through some shade near the bottom, the sand felt cold in comparison to its sunny neighborhood. Sometimes falling, then you get to feel the sticks in your back. At the bottom, only one thing to do: climb back up for more.

- A sound louder than any I have ever heard came from the sky, like a banshee from hell. I ran toward the water, and as the seconds turned into hours and the volume became unbearable, I hit the sand like a soldier, face down. A jet fighter strafed the beach, just a hundred feet or so off the sand. Very fast, in ten seconds it was gone. I still think of it whenever I hear a jet engine.

- Keeping freshwater crayfish in a Styrofoam cup in the shade near the trailer. Sinking a nine-volt battery into the water of the cup, contacts down. The crayfish exploded into action and tumbled in the cup. Then they relaxed. Did they really get a shock from the battery, or did they just panic from a foreign object being thrust into their home? I still wonder. Even learning about electrolytes in college didn't really solve this one.

- Walking to the candy store, for the third time today. Got some more money from Mom, thank goodness. On the way a little boy my age is making the same trek. The parking lot asphalt is hot and there are sharp little rocks that hurt my feet terribly. I walk like a cripple. The other little boy has no problem with the rocks. He never wears shoes, he says, and so his feet are "used to the ground". He even demonstrates by pounding the ground with his foot. He is from the south, Mississippi, I think. Once at the store, we competed for the "Squirrels", "Mary Janes", and other tasty treats. This will keep us good for a couple more hours until it is time to see Mom again for more money. We knew the store hours by heart, indeed it was the only application in my entire childhood that provided a real use for knowing how to tell time.

- Fishing in a hole near town, at the base of the pier inlet. The water had a slick of oil on it that danced in a rainbow of colors under the sunlight. Every time a boat went by it smelled strongly of gasoline. I wondered where they were going to, all those boats. I had a fishing box full of lures and sinkers, extra line and rubber worms. I caught a small fish and pulled on the pole so hard out of excitement that I yanked the hook out - along with the fish's mouth, guts, and spine. I never saw the actual body of the fish, it stayed behind in the water. I didn't know fishing was like that, exactly.

- At the basement workbench at home before our trip, we created a whole array of instruments and tools we could use on a raft to get water depth and temperature, and to bring up sand samples from the mucky bottom far below for further analysis. We had a small anchor too, so our research vessel didn't drift away from our experiments. We never used any of it, because we didn't really want to go that far out, where the water is dark green and things might be alive below us...big things with eyes that are dull and black.

- Bill's Dune Rides, back when a thrill ride really was a thrill ride. Back before "liability" in other words. Riding in the big smelly V8 Dodge Power Wagons, with their huge smooth tires, purposely low on air. One giant useless lap belt stretched across four people on each wooden bench seat. Driving fast across the dunes, the sand burning our eyes. Listening to the shirtless long-haired driver talk through the tinny intercom about the sand dunes of Silver Lake and how they move and all about the cars all buried on top of each other, seventeen high. Which was all just a big distraction to give better effect to the sudden changes in direction, jumps, and backwards-downhill runs that gave the special ride it's name. And who could forget the obligatory rude drenching in the lake that everyone knew was coming but for which we were never really prepared?

- Roasting marshmallows at the campfire. We had metal skewers, but liked to make sharpened sticks instead, because it was more like camping and you got to use a knife. The roasting was serious business because there is a small margin for error. Too little and you've accomplished nothing, too much and you have a lump of sweet charcoal. My Dad was the unchallenged master of "mashmallowing", consistently producing the most gorgeous evenly light-brown treats - light as air and perfectly crispy. Ours were usually raw on one side and alight on the other. My brother Brian had a blistering flamer going once and in the process of waving the skewer in the air frantically to put it out, had the marshmallow soar off and stick to my Dad's neck. It was painful, judging by the scene that followed.

- Making patterns in the night air with waving sparklers, the sulfur smell everywhere, and the crackling sound completing the ambiance. We would run into the darkness and inevitably step on something really sharp in the sand: sometimes, ironically, a wiry old sparkler. This temporarily paused the fun, and added the possibility of tetanus to the festivities.

Some memories are more fragmented:

- Dad made me a sand board one year for riding down the dines. We waxed it up and it was fun, but somehow never as fast as I thought it should be.

- Seaweed in the lake, and the fish that lived in it. I hated the way it felt on my feet, and I avoided it. It wasn't until many years later, at a sushi bar, that I made peace with seaweed.

- An old smokehouse down the road that sold smoked fish that smelled strange and wonderful and weird all at once.

- Having a new respect for the pier and waves after learning that a boy drowned there the previous year.

- Wondering what the difference between "non-potable" water and regular water was, but not wondering enough to try some.

- Rolling big rocks down the forested hills, at great speed. Trying not to hit the tents down there, but wondering what would happen if we did.