Lake Michigan: A Rhapsody

By Linda Jo Scott
Sun staff writer

Lake Michigan has always been a close companion to me. I was born — like millions of other people — in Cook County, Chicago, and our family lived just 11 blocks from Lake Michigan’s shores. I walked some of my earliest steps on her sandy beaches; my first toboggan rides were down her steep shoulders; I loved hearing my mother tell about that very cold winter in her childhood when the lake froze as far as one could see — and farther.
I especially remember our first boat ride on my beloved lake. The ship was the Yankee Clipper, and my sister, brother and I must have been three, six and nine, or maybe four, seven, and 10. It was summer, and our family set out for a day’s cruise. As we ate our picnic on the deck, we noticed my brother’s face suddenly go from its usual healthy tan to an ashen gray. He put his head down on my father’s lap and proceeded to vomit what looked like the entire contents of our picnic basket all over the entire surface of my father’s trousers. My poor father had to spend the rest of the day pretending not to notice his saturated pants, in hopes that no one else would notice, either.
I still live near Lake Michigan, though on the other side, where the sun sets in the lake rather than rising there. I still love that lake like a member of the family, but each time I remember that first boat ride, more than 50 years ago, I remember not the sunny day, not the thrill of walking the decks of a big lake ship, but rather I catch the stench of fresh vomit in the hot sun and the image of my poor father coming out of the men’s room with his dripping wet pants, held up by a dripping wet belt.