Sunday in Michigan

We're just barely into Michigan but we're here, and we'll do better today plunging deep into the center of the Upper Peninsula when we drive to Houghton. Last night we scurried back into Wisconsin to have supper at the Liberty Bell Chalet, a supper club that Durwood has talked about since I met him. For the uninitiated a supper club seems to be a Wisconsin invention; it's a tavern that's grown into a restaurant, oftentimes in a rural area, where you can sit at the bar to have a drink, order your meal, and the waitress comes to get you when she puts your salad on the table. The Bell Chalet is a step up in that you don't need to sit at the bar (but you can) and it looks like a ski chalet was run over by Italians bearing posters, memorabilia, and the smell of great food has sunk into the walls. Durwood had the lasagna (which I think was so good he had a little orgasm over it) and I had the (homemade) sausage and peppers over penne. It was excellent, I picked out each and every sausage, pepper, mushroom and onion so I didn't get too full. I also ordered garlic bread (which I've been craving for weeks) of which I only ate one slice because it was so buttery and so garlicky and so cheesy that I knew if I ate more I'd be one sick puppy. It killed me to leave it behind but I did.

October 1--Camille Pissarro, The Garden of the Tuileries on a Winter Afternoon. He stood at his window watching them. The cold radiated through the old glass pane separating them from him, keeping them safe from him. He hated them. Hated their smug superiority as they moved along the paths. Hated their raucous offspring that ran amok as if every space was their birthright. If he leaned too close to the glass his breath fogged his view and he'd wipe his sleeve across it, barely feeling the damp and cold. He felt the scrape of the leafless trees against the ice-blue winter sky as if the branches touched his naked skin. How could they go about their mindless lives when the world was in such pain? He picked up the long gun, stroked the barrel against his cheek and drew the cool scent of the metal into his nose. The muzzle-mouth of it pressed against the glass and its first word shattered the fragile pane sending shards sparkling down with the first of the rain of bullets.

Today we want to get off the highway to see more scenery and mosey our way from Ironwood to Houghton. I'll take pictures.
--Barbara