“I like to think of myself as an artist as being in a nondescript swamp, up to my knees in mire, painting the vital beauty I see there in my own way, not caring a damn about tradition or anyone’s opinion.”  –Charles Burchfield, 1938 journal

Whenever a student groans about Holland, I am taken by surprise and a little sad and a bit hurt. I want to pull him aside, gently, and whisper, I live here. Your profs all live here. The amazing staff lives here. Our children grow up here. You are complaining about our home!

Resist the urge to criticize the place you live, and instead, live. Resist the urge to romanticize and mythologize places you’ve merely passed through or seen on a screen.  

You can love Holland. It’s like grammar.  It’s not that hard—you just have to get into it! Be mindful, too, that many people in the world find great beauty here and an abundance of opportunities for fun, meaning, comfort, and happiness. It’s all here: Art. Music. Nature. Cuisine. Diversity.  Unlikely though that your fabulous new Holland life will come knocking on your door. Go out!

Enough complaining. There are annoying people in every village the world over. Hello, human condition! There is vibrance and enlightened living and thoughtful kindness and grace and artistry—in every village. It’s always your job to author your life.

*

I had to seriously revise my own.

When I first arrived in our little village, I was culture-shocked into fairly instant misery. I’d come from the South, a place I loved, the land of sun, story, friendliness, and food with actual flavor.  In Holland, I sat, on the verge of tears, before such pale food: plate after plate of chicken white sauce, potatoes, and cauliflower. It was like wax, not food. I had never seen recipes that said, when it comes to any vegetable, Step One: boil until done. Step Two: repeat. I had never before stood in a grocery store line where people didn’t talk to each other. I had never in my life walked past people in the sidewalk where people didn’t say hey back.  Where I am from, there was one guy who didn’t say “hey” And my boss said of this strange man, “Next time I see that fool on the street, if he don’t say hey, I’m going to be sticking my leg out to trip him.” Where I am from, you do not drive past another car and not wave. Where I am from you wave if you do not know the person and if you know the person, you stop. And you tell a dramatic and interesting story. At length.  And you get a story back.

In the south, with all these long loud cheerful conversations on the street, in line, at the post office the goal is to say, “We’re kin!” This is accomplished by asking a lot of personal questions combined with the telling of dramatic stories about your personal life until someone says “Just like me. We must be kin!”

My upbringing informed my teaching style. Yet, when I taught my first class in Holland, at Hope, a girl came up to me afterwards and said, “You gush. It’s scaring us.”

Who are these people? What have I done? Then it snowed. Which was pretty, for about five minutes. The complete absence of anything kin to a sun made me crave Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey by the tub-full. I drove to Meijer. I hadn’t yet met “wintry mix”—I was under the impression wintry mix was vanilla ice cream with Oreos. I ended up in a ditch. Many times. I was still struggling with the bizarre counter-intuitive concept “Michigan left”. That first winter, I gained 30 pounds. The only people I talked to were  unhappy people who complained about Holland.

And then, I met John Cox’s family. The Cox family set aside a Sunday, and took me on a tour of Saugatuck. Mrs. Cox drew a map. Here is where you go for coffee. Here is where to buy cherries in summer.  Here is where you will ski, between the apple trees, come next winter. They pointed me to Fennville, and the best Mexican food outside of Texas. They connected me to the artists who have beautiful parties all summer long at Ox Bow, artists who’ve become my dear friends. The Coxes are the soul reason I made it through that first hard, cold, weird first year. (Thanks, y’all, aka “guys.”)

*

Students! You are here! In a gorgeous little city on a great lake. You’ve landed, luckily, in one of the most beautiful places you could be. In a big city, excitement and diversity come easily and are counter-balanced by crime, high costs, and a commute. In a little city, you create excitement, you discover the diversity; you don’t get robbed on the subway. You can afford things. You chose this place. Own it. Love it. Live it. 

I can’t think of a better place to be a student than Holland, Michigan.

 *

Here you are. SEVENTY TWO HOURS IN West Michigan, Winter installment.

Remember, there is no bad weather. There are just bad clothes.

Here is what you do: Hush up, smile, and say hey. If you want to be happy in Holland, stop complaining. A place, like a person, isn’t going to be friendly to you if you are ugly to it. A complaint about the place you live in is a metaphor and an invitation to discover What is missing inside of you? (Besides the lil tub o Chunky Monkey?)

Your weekend starts on Friday at 4 pm. Walk to Herrick library, get a library card; while in line, say hey and then something friendly to the person behind you. Repeat. Go upstairs, select three videos for later. View the fish. Cost: zero.

Walk down River, turn right on Tenth, and go to the Nines Gallery. Look at amazing art. Feel humbled. These artists live in West Michigan? These hip gallery-goers live in Holland? Speak to two people. Feel slightly inane. Vow to read more books. Nibble delicious arty treats, enjoy two glasses of cider.  Cost: zero.

Trot along River to 8^th. Reader’s World. Peruse the magazines. There are thousands and they are amazing. Realize the character in your short-story-in-progress subscribes to Cat Fancy and the Russian Blue feature holds the key to her yearning. In the incredible poetry section read a poem. Read another poem. Check out the Holland history books on the display by the door. Pets will come in and get treats from behind the counter. Pet a small dog. Engage dog’s human in conversation. Say, “My aunt has this kind of dog.”  You’re headed for the “kin” trifecta! Baby steps.

Walk up 8^th Street and go to any art galleries that look interesting to you. When you gallery hop, immediately orient self to snack area, then take a very creative path to that destination. Make one comment to one townsperson before you leave.

Head west on 8^th Street to Kollen Park. View lake. You might see a giant freighter breaking through the icy lake, or bald eagles on their final flight home to their nests.  Greet the little kids sledding down the hill. Make a snow angel. Optional:  Head into Boatwerks for a hot dog and chips for $2. 

Back in your nest, watch your first video. Notice the lessons you learned in Story Class show up in all kinds of interesting ways. Listen to the director talk about how he crafts scenes. Experience a breakthrough in your cat lady story. Read Radioactive by Lauren Hiss. Pretend to be French. Realize the book glows in the dark. Realize you are hungry. Eat your roommate’s food, leaving the most clever note in French. It’s midnight. Go to sleep.  You have a BIG HOLLAND WEEKEND BEFORE YOU AND YOU NEED YOUR STRENGTH!

Saturday morning.  Sleep in. That is the greatest thing about living in the Midwest/ college.  You sleep.

Saturday at Noon. Walk to Resthaven or Freedom Village. Visit Rosamaria, the woman you have come to love at the nursing home. Sit with her and listen for half an hour. Just listen. Like you always do. Go through her photos with her. Hold her hand. It’s hard to just sit, in silence. But you do, and it’s amazing. Promise to be back next Saturday.  Cost: zero. (You consider yourself paid. Paid well.) Volunteer coordinator: Sarah Visser, tel 820-7654.  She is actually expecting your call.

Sat 1 pm. Flow South to 138^th. How? You can ride your bike in winter.  See Mike at VeloCity on 8^th Street to get undaunted. Or, you can ask that nice quiet person down the hall from you, who has a car, to go with you. Hike Saugatuck Dunes. Perch in atop blow out and be amazed. Vow that for as long as you live here you will visit the lake at least once a week. Make a list of all the landlocked villages you could have ended up in and take a moment to feel extraordinarily clever. The book to read: Sand County Almanac.

Go into Saugatuck village, to Uncommon Grounds. Drink amazing coffee, eat a muffin, and write in your journal.  Cost: $3. Window shop Saugatuck. Go to the used book store, the music store, Good Goods, and Landsharks. Go to James Brandess art gallery. Take free cookie from the counter. Purchase hand-made water color card. End up at Wallys for lupper at 4:45. Burger and lemon-lime water, $9.  Write card to someone you love, far away, in a small town. Mail card at Saugatuck post office.

Sat 6 pm. Cranes.  Hike in fields.[1]  Inside restaurant, get cocoa and share a piece of pie. 

7:30.  Fennville. Salt. You are in before the cover charge. Order a coke or your signature mocktail, water with a lemon and a lime, it’s Saturday night in Fennville aka Funville.  Listen to amazing live indie music; the Winter House concert series at Salt is truly amazing. Dance weirdly to Nobody’s Darlin, and then groove with Junior Valentine. Talk to two people. “You remind me so much of my favorite sister!” Note helpful “we are all kin” subtext is becoming your new orientation in the world. On your way out, buy amazing Salty Seedy day-old bread.  Chat up extremely adorable bread-sellers and wonder about. Cost: $8, including tip and bread.

During set break, pop in for a Gelato nightcap at Su Casa, across the street and one block up. Scarf a taco. Discover mariachi band is fantastic. Two more tacos and it’s midnight, and you’re heading home via the Holland tunnel. When in tunnel, crank Sufjan and roll down windows.

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Sunday morning. Do what you do.  Eat some of the bread with peanut butter, butter, and banana on it. Then, around 1 pm, walk down to 17^th and Columbia and enter Mi Favorita.  At the counter in the back, order two carne asado tacos. Practice your Spanish: introduce yourself to Irene, the owner, explaining how much you love her store. Go for kinship. Purchase two jarritos and a packet of pepitas. Eat tacos, walking back to campus. Realize you have now tasted heaven. Give extra jarrito and pepitas to your roomie, whose food you borrowed. Spend 25 minutes on homework, return to Facebook, where you explain at length how much homework you have and how you so busy. Friend SALT and breadmakers.

Mid afternoon, Bike, walk (Dow free living!) or drive with friend to Huynh Plaza Oriental Foods, which you can almost see from Hope’s campus.  Purchase rice, greens, radishes, sauce and mushrooms for stir fry.  Be amazed by 1) the languages you hear, 2) the foods you have never seen before, 3) the fact that there are many grocery stores like this in Holland. Buy bag of fortune cookies. Cost: $6. Stop into Goodwill (simply head east on Lakewood) and find cross country skis for six dollars, and a cashmere sweater for $1.99.

Friends bring beverages and some General Tso’s chicken to augment your amazing Huynh stir fry; watch two remaining videos.

Go to bed…dreaming of Borculo…..see me for details on that weekend plan. You know we have some kin there.

 *

“It’s difficult to take in all the glory of a dandelion, mountain, or thunderstorm.” –Charles Burchfield

Jim thought it would be a little bit cold to ride; he was all bundled up. Karen was in shorts and a thin jersey. I was wearing winter gloves and a headband under my helmet, my pink flowered helmet. The three of us set off, under the rising moon and falling sun, down towards the Blue Star Highway and it wasn’t cold or hot. It was a perfect evening to ride. Karen ate up the hills. On either side of the road, the soybean fields looked like itchy pink blankets in the late late sun, late in the day, late in the year. And the corn sounded like timpani and tambourines. When we curled onto Old Allegan by the river, we lay low on our bikes and looked like three great locusts, buzzing west, chewing up all our old dreams. I don’t feel like I am any age at all when I am on the bike. I don’t feel I’m in any mood, or skin. So I guess I’m saying I feel “free” but that sounds so stupid and on the bike I feel brilliant, perfected, empty and full. When Karen’s odometer hit 2500 miles (right in front of John Cox’s house!), we danced on our bikes and she threw her arms up in the air and we all whooped and celebrated, banging our knuckles and our helmets, all the way down past the hill, past the majestic llamas who were taking it all quite seriously, as they should. It’s a species that knows the bicycle, appreciates our little helmeted tight herd. Then Karen put on her arm warmers. Then I needed to stop for a snack. Then Jupiter winked on. And Jim said the first snowfall would be December 15. And Karen said beware of another forecast: the great pumpkin shortage. She’s a farm girl. He’s an almanac boy. When I ride like this, between my two sweet dear friends, I am in love with the world on my bike and I never want the ride to end, ever.

Call this another perfect ride.

Last night I rode my bike into the wind, one way. Usually, when I ride, it’s into the wind on the way out so when I’m tired, on the way back, there’s a lovely boost. But last night, I rode a long ways, uphill, into the wind. I’d be getting a ride back later. So this was just all hard for the fun of it being hard. No promise of a boost. No easy later to balance out the hard now. I planned it this way.

*

I have been thinking a lot about Renoir working on his boating party painting, how he says he has to do this painting, which is a little bit harder than what he is able to pull off. The project will require of him skills he doesn’t have mastery of and he knows this! What strikes me most is how aware he is of what he can do, what can be done, and where he is, technically.

*

Last night, it was in the mid-eighties. In Michigan, in May, this is a heat wave of record-breaking proportions.  People stay inside. They go down into their basements! I rolled out grinning. I rode slow. I imagined the air coming up from Mexico. It’s hot, wet, soft, sweet air. Thick. I pedaled evenly and I said this moment, this moment, over and over. I went slow into the wind, my body like a sail—not helpful!—but I had such a beautiful evening on my bicycle.

I saw frogs. I saw turtles and turkeys. Bluebirds, goldfinches, maybe a yellow flicker. I heard owls communicating. I think they were saying are you watching the egg? I’m watching the egg! Are you on it? I’m on it!  I saw the astonishing reflection of the rhododendrons in the river. Two men from Turner fishing in the slough in the late light, another painting to love forever. I saw the hills covered with purple and white phlox. And then a hummingbird came to my cheek. It turns out hummingbirds are scary, beady-eyed little micro buzzards up close, but still, it was very very cool to see one. I walked my bike up the sand road past the blueberry fields.

Not an easy ride. But it was the best ride in a long time. And this post is all about the writing life, not about the bike. It’s about writing. It’s about the plot point.