Come on, people now …

By Tim Mulherin

Sun contributor

On Memorial Day, my wife somehow persuaded me to accompany her to County Road 651 Beach on Good Harbor Bay for a few hours of rest and relaxation in the afternoon. I could think of a lot better things to do than THAT. Like mow the lawn. Clean the gutters. Have a colonoscopy. “It’s gonna be packed,” I predicted. Packed, not as in Coney Island sardine-can packed, but the much milder northern Michigan version, with locals having to share their slice of heaven with some out-of-towners for a few days. “I’m going to be miserable, you know,” I warned, a barely veiled threat to a certain somebody who was forcing the issue.

Like a well-trained husband, though, I relented. Driving in, we were greeted by the sight of several dozen vehicles lining the road before we got to the full parking lot (that’s what happens when you pave paradise). “Ah-ha – I knew it!” I declared to my not-listening-to-it wife. Although there was plenty of room on the beach to find our place in the sun, I prefer the nearly uninhabited beaches of northern Michigan’s pre-tourist invasion spring and especially “Locals Summer” in September. (As well, the solitude of a winter’s day in Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore is, for a recluse like me, beyond compare.)

But there we were. Along with perhaps a 150 other folks who wanted to recreate at one of the most publicized scenic destinations in the United States. After all, this is a free country.

Don’t cry for me, though—I managed. I delved into a cheerful book I recently picked up, The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History, a Pulitzer-Prize-winning cause for great concern about the future of life on Earth, something to while away the holiday. I occasionally put down the well-written buzzkill to watch young children frolic along the shoreline of the Big Lake. Kids are natural experts at having fun, and its therapeutic for adults to see them doing just that. I eventually quit reading entirely, opting to take in the scenery, the Manitou Passage and islands, the pair of loons offshore, their haunting territory-declaring tremolos suggesting their agitation with all the humans here as well. Admittedly, my wife did good in encouraging incorrigible me to come.

Later, while we dismantled our sun tent, I observed two large dogs running off their leashes, owned by two unassociated dog lovers. That’s not only breaking National Park Service (NPS) rules, it’s also downright rude. Not everyone loves dogs, including some people and all wild animals protected by the park.

Then a diminutive woman being dragged behind a Great Dane proceeded to enter the western stretch of the beach – where dogs are prohibited, as declared by the quite conspicuous NPS-posted sign at the entrance to the footpath. She was apparently just having a Burger King have-it-her-way kinda day.

“What did I tell you,” I said indignantly to my wife, who somehow finds the good in most people, even in the most obviously undeserving circumstances. She just shook her head—at me.

The following morning, I went for a 10 a.m. crowd-less walk on the same beach. Campfire coals had blown all over, as if the aftermath of a Camp Grayling National Guard live-fire drill. The Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore website has some simple instructions about building fires on the lakeshore, which include: “Please…remember to extinguish your fire with water and clean up all debris before leaving.” Inconsideration strikes again.

On Tuesday morning, when the natural world order should have returned, I drove by the Cedar River public launch. It’s one of my favorite waterways for its quietude, for its excellent birdwatching, for leaving one’s cares behind. I was startled by the sight of a couple putting in their jet skis. Water motorcycles disrupting the sanctity of the stream and the Cedar River Preserve is unconscionable to this kayaker.

I could go on. But you get it – you’ve had similar experiences. People should come equipped with a consideration-for-others gene; alas, we don’t. Being considerate is a learned behavior, usually a product of one’s upbringing. As my dear mother often reminded me in my younger days, “the world doesn’t revolve around you.” It does, however, revolve around the sun. Our sun. Being alive is inherently a shared experience. So, it logically follows that we should always consider our impact on others in all we do.

This rant-turned-meditation calls to mind a song I heard by The Youngbloods when I was but a child, during those flower-power days of Woodstock: “Get Together”:

“Come on, people now

Smile on your brother

Everybody get together

Try to love one another right now”

Nice beach tune. Probably won’t offend anyone, either. Even curmudgeons like me.