At Ohare Airport
7/26 206p

Abbey Feldman just hijacked me. That was okay, though. She’s looking real good.

Wow. I’m feeling a tad cracked out. Sober as a judge, but it’s been quite a trip. Just jumped off the phone with my ma right before Abbey and then E before and then 4.5 hrs on the road with Delio and then before that a manic bit of cleaning and the breakdown of the sweat lodge that began at 530a and before that a bad night of sleep for reasons I don’t understand. Should have been sleeping like a log, but things were weighing on my mind. Still are.

But first, the sweat lodge. A total success. I’m going to make notes here that will probably be used for the Good Heat blog, so excuse all the detail. (Editor’s note: no content was edited. Forgive me, internet and haters of sweat lodge information!)

The day before I’d dug the pit and grabbed the stones. Steve and I went through the house and gathered all the blankets and carpet scraps we could find. I had a bunch of long thin rods that I was going to use as support. I did a dry run of the build and wasn’t too happy with the results. The walls were pretty saggy. I fretted over space.

The next day, about 830a, I piled the stones on the grill over the pit and built the fire. That grill was key: it was huge and heavy and when I piled the stones on it seemed sturdy and strong.

I started looking for some plywood (we’d just thrown out several sheets, I’m sure). I found some in the garage, along with an old piece of the wall from the Cherry Valley house. They were too heavy for the light poles I’d intended to use, so I got some 1 inch pipes and pounded those into the ground. We now had a semicircle structure that would give us a little more rooom than if the fabric had just been left to sag.

About 930a we really got the fire going. There was now a good ash bed and we were able to jam it up with some logs. We realized that we were getting uneven heat due to air coming in the access hole in the front of the pit, so I moved a wall-board over to cover. This helped quite a bit.

We fed the fire regular until about 2, at which point we stopped and let it die. By this point, the grill was really warping under the weight of the rocks.

We talked some about the possibility of the rocks exploding, which I feel was something that I’d overheard talking to some unnamed saunaman from years back. “Can’t use lake rocks or it’s BOOOM!” We saw a couple crack under the heat, but there were no hisses or anything so we weren’t really worried.

At about 3 the fire was pretty low, and I used a couple hammers to grab the grate and drag it off the fire while Tony used a pole to help drop the rocks into the pit. It didn’t end up being the best pile, but it would work.

We set about covering the sweat lodge with the collected fabrics and were done quickly. We let the last of the fire die and the smoke clear out.

I confirmed attire confort with Steve (“I thought nudity was part of it…”) and we shed our clothes and crawled into the sweat lodge.

The getting in wasn’t the easiest for Steve and Tony. I’m pretty spry and can fit through small areas, but those guys had a bit more trouble. I’ll need to redesign the entrance if I do this again.

Also, the pipes were kind of a problem. They were pretty hot at this point and Steve got tagged a couple times. Tony and I both avoided this fate.

From inside the lodge – a tight squeeze

We had a pot of hot water in there and began to apply it to the rocks. We got a great steam off them. The heat didn’t hold too long, though, as it was escaping out of the chimney and also through the fabric. We realized that great care also needed to be taken to avoid hitting the smoldering embers below, because a shot of water to these babies sent up a great plume of ash. It was a mistake I only made twice.

The trick with applying the water was a gentle, even application, combined with roatation so as not to cool any one area prematurely. We also realized that with so much heat escaping, we had to really crank it to get it hot.

But when we did: that was a GOOD HEAT! We were really sweating in there by the time Steve called the first session. (With the difficulty of getting in and out of the sweat lodge, it’s kind of all for one.) We made out way out and headed down to the lake where we jumped in. Amazing.

We found slimy logs on the lake bed to stand on, and we pulled up the cold waters from the bottom by kicking or with our hands. High, puffy clouds sailed through the sky. There was no boat traffic. It was perfect.

Cold plunge

We headed back in for the second session and found to our delight that the rocks were still cooking. We changed positions, as in the first session Steve was right in front of this money maker rock that was putting out oodles of heat. We got it cranking, we got our heart rates up, we were sweating.

It was only then that I really realized what we were doing: we were taking of that place on earth into our bodies. We sat on the earth, in which a fire had been dug. The rocks had been pulled from the banks nearby, and now heated, were releasing their spirits for us to breath in, to take into our bodies. It was nothing short of phenomenal.

We jumped back in the lake, and it was Tony and I for session number three, which we really got cooking.

After another swim in the lake and a quick break, it was time for session four, which Steve joined us again on. With the embers all but dead, we closed up the chimney in order to better trap the heat. Steve made it about halfway through and found egress, but Tony and I had conserved the water and head enough left to really get it cranked. To our surprise, this turned out to be the best heat of the afternoon. We baked outselves in there.

We took a long swim and by this time, I was famished. Everyone was done, but I thought there might be one last heat left in there. I grabbed a bite to eat and took a swing on the porch. I gathered myself, then, I cut some oak branches (why hadn’t I before?!) and headed back in for a final, solo heat.

The rocks were pretty cool by this point. They weren’t putting out much hiss at all. But when they would I would fan the heat into me with the branches, and it felt incredible. When the rocks were totally exhausted, I lay back on the ground and looked up. It was a magnificent temperature, like cooling out on the lower level of the steam at City Spa. I couldn’t believe it. I’d done it. I’d built my first sauna.

Go ahead and think it’s corny, but I thanked the lake spirits and promised I would do my best to honor them and the advise they’d given me. (I’d asked some questions during a few of the more intense heats, and I felt that I had gotten answers.)

I went to the lake for one more swim, and then took a hot shower. I was, again, new.

Northwoods Saunamen

Dinner was a drawn out affair. I made pasta that no one said they wanted until it was made. Then Tony and Steve made bison burgers and corn and stuff. I did a quick clean and found my way to bed, still buzzing from the success of the sweat lodge, but anticipating the travel day that was fast approaching.

I slept badly. I had weird dreams and woke up and 330 and laid there for some time worrying about this painting Steve had asked me if he could take. It was of Granny Dot, painted by Grampa Don, and it had been hanging in the office. He made her 1000 times more beautiful than she actually was. “This was painted by a man in love,” Steve said. He asked if he could have it and I said yes, but then immediately regretted it. I laid awake thinking about it, making my resolve, rehearsing. I slept for another hour or so and got up ten minutes before the alarm, which was set for 530a. I packed and headed upstairs to make coffee.

Tony wasn’t too far behind me, and we started to break down the sweat lodge. Steve came out and we all pitched in and had it down in ten minutes. We left the fire pit and used the rocks to ring it. Easy.

Then we cleaned and packed and put away. We breakfasted on the go and drank coffee. I shuffled around, touching everything, thanking everything. I resolved to be back soon, and I will be. Next year, a week with E and O and ma, no doubt. But that seems so far away, and still so difficult.

We took our final pictures, we said goodbyes. I rang the bell and I meant everything I said. We were on the road by ten, and now I’m in O’Hare, heading back to California, where I feel so cool and life feels right. I didn’t want to be home among Midwesterners when we got back. I was proud to tell the guy working the desk at JetBlue I was headed to California. I was proud to pull my California ID. That’s me. Could I have an Illinois driver’s licence again? At what cost? I just don’t know. This is heavy and difficult and I need coffee so I’m going to get it. More from the plane.

(Editor’s note: There was no more from the plane. The questions linger like ghosts, and no matter how hot it gets in Los Angeles, they just won’t dry up…)

7/25 832a

Best night of sleep since I left. Finally. Being without Otis, I was supposed to be sleeping great. That hasn’t been the case until just last night. But I feel wonderful this morning and I’m glad for it.

Yesterday was our fun day. After Steve got up (around 10?!) we headed into town and had coffee at “What’s Brewin’” on the main drag.

Tomahawk main drag – not a drag at all!

We walked around and saw the sights and then headed to the Ben Frank and the grcery store. (No typewriter ribbon at the Ben Frank.) We came back and I went over to see Kevin. I think haven’t given that guy a fair shake. He’s not so bad. Granted, he was mostly sober when I went to see him, but still. He’s not so bad. We chatted for a time and made plans to take a boat ride that evening.

I came back and threw Tony’s throwing knife for a while, had some lunch and then started work on the sweat lodge. It’s going to be a tight fit and I don’t know if we have enough insulation, but it’s worth a try. I’ll be going out to light that fire after I finish here.

We took that boat ride with Kevin. Nice to see the lake again like that. Haven’t been out in a motor boat since I rode with Tracey and company.

Steve and I aboard Kevin’s deck boat

Kevin, sans mustache

The house from the lake

Got back and had a quick bite, then Steve and I went to the ski show. What a hoot. Man, those kids still got it. And there’s a few that are barely kids anymore, guys I recognize from the early oughts are still skiing. Steve got a huge kick out of it, was on the edge of his seat for the jumping. It was great.

We came back and looked through Steve’s collections from the garage and then I took a shower and hit the sheets. Tony harangued me but I got downstairs and was literally jumping for joy to be getting to bed at a reasonable hour (1030p).

I anticipate today being a little harder for me. There won’t be a ton of time tomorrow to say goodbye – or maybe if I get up at 5:30 there will be, but still. I need to clean and care for this place. I need to touch things and host them in my presence and in my heart. I need to sweat and offer my spirit to here.

I still don’t know what will happen, but the conversation has begun. Talked to E by phone yesterday and she and the family Collins are having a great time with Otis. She said he’s really benefiting from being around his Granan and that it has restarted the thinking of moving back to Chicago. It would be a tough reconcile for me, though I know I could do it successfully.

Should I talk to Dan? See what’s what? Couldn’t start this next year, but the year after? Start the process? Maybe.

It’s an interesting thought, and now I’m really thinking it.

But there’s plenty of time for that tomorrow on the drive home and then on the plane (oy). Now it’s time to build a fire and make good on promises.

7/24 804a

Yesterday was a success. A fantastic success. We cleared a huge swath of the garage and filled Bob Thrall’s trailer to the gills. Bob Thrall is hilarious. 80 years old and plugging along. A total up north character. I neglected to take before and during pictures, but I’ll include an after for sure.

Met with Andrea from Century 21 and she gave me the skinny on renting. Said she couldn’t be too much help but that she thought the place could rent. Craigslist, she said. $1500 a month, figure out the way I want to market it and then market it thusly. It was encouraging.

Steve found some great treasures in the garage, and it was nice to have his science on some of that stuff. I see these old photos from the 90-100 years back and I don’t know the players. He was able to school me a little.

The plumber showed up and took me for about double what I should have paid him to fix a toilet and swap out a disposal. I need a new plumber.

He also put a bid on fixing the pipes that burst in the back section of the house. It was grim. It’s going to be a three day job, and his end of it will cost $3100.

The cushions on the glass porch, those I can have Tony take up to my mom’s at the end of the season. The pull curtains, I’ll fix those if I get the right renter. Ditto the back bathroom et al.

It all wound me up, so I smoked some grass and took a long swim. I walked over to the second beach, which was clear of weeds and had a nice sandy launch. I stood in the water and said, “I am of these waters, and these skies, and this land.” And I looked at the clouds and said it again, and I looked at the lake and the far shore and the pine and the birch and the aspen and I said it again and again and again. I dove in and swam way far out and then rolled on to my back and floated for a time in the soft waters. I felt amazing.

I am of these waters

Steve got up from a nap and we scattered Granny Dot, Grampa Don and my dad’s ashes. Steve said some nice words, just talked to them and I said my thank yous and told my dad I missed him and that I was glad they would be up here to watch my family grow.

Scattered ashes on the lake, also maybe ghosts…

That’s when it made me realize that I don’t want to rent this place. I want to be up here with my family using it and making it better. I don’t know how to do that yet, but that’s what I want to do. I feel like it can be figured out. Summer in Chicago, winter in Los Angeles. That’s about right.

We made dinner of bison burger, corn and broccoli. We feasted on the back deck. We launched the canoe and paddled over for ice cream as the sun was setting and back by the light of the near-full moon. We laughed about Bob Thrall, about the day.

We got back and my glasses were missing. Did they fall out in the canoe? During the launch? I was worried, but not too much. I would look tomorrow when it was light.

We made a fire and smoked some grass and Steve showed an old VHS that Granny Dot and Grampa Don had made. A lot of scenery, a lot of really long takes from far away, not a lot of action. But some good shots of my dad, my mom, waterskiing, Manito-Wish. Some great stuff of Grampa Don on his 70th birthday. It was nice.

The place feels at ease right now. It’s more quiet than it’s been in years, I feel like. Is it because my time is so short and that there’s so much to be done? Is it because Steve is so easy to be with, ditto Tony? I don’t know. I kind of miss the charge that I’m used to feeling here. I’m certainly picking through the boxes and pictures and all that, but something’s different.

I feel so lucky to be here. I’m full of wanting more. The train is passing nearby and blowing its horn and it’s ringing through the woods, its own call and response. Some wind is finding its way through the oaks and aspens and the sound of the freeway is shrinking. This is all now and here and I am so lucky.

Will I rent this place or will I figure out how to use it in a satisfying way from California? It’s not an easy thing to know, and for some reason now it’s weighing on me. I thought I had this figured out. I guess I was wrong.

I found my glasses this morning. They’d spent the night in the lake under the canoe. Getting their fill, maybe. Camping. It’s what we do up here.

AT THE LAKE
7/23 707a

The drive was no sweat and only 5 hours despite some rain and traffic delays. Pulled in around 330. It’s been raining, and the lake is high, and this is good. Place looks good. It’s weathered in areas for sure. The canvas curtains on the back porch have had it, and the cushions on the glass porch are split through. The curtains in the main room, a few of the windows, these all need attention. The garbage disposal, some plumbing, some heating. The house ages, but the bones, the core remain strong.

This weekend we’ve decided to tackle a good handful of the more manageable. The plumber is coming, the heating guy. We got a hauler coming. And of course the property manager. That’s all today, and I’ve got to get on it to get ready. Really just for the hauler. He’s coming almost at the same time as the property manager (just after), so I have to have all that shit in a pile so he can just throw it into his truck and be done with it.

Steve arrived last night about 10:30. There was some adjustment for all of us. Tony and I were in full buddies mode, just sitting down to a game of chess in front of the fire when Steve knocked. And he had been traveling and quiet and was suddenly surrounded by his parents and grand-parents and even though I had told him several times to prepare, I didn’t really prepare for him. I had to get in a different head-space and fast to ease this guy in.

We got him set up in his room and then I warmed him up some pasta. We sat on the glass porch and talked. Tony got busy with other stuff and Steve and I began tracing the tracks, began the research. A couple beers later and we were old pals. Tony and Steve stayed up late doing God-knows-what (reefers), but I hit the sheets. Big day. First to clear out the garage to the best of my can. Wish me luck dear diary.

(Photos from after clean out. After. Believe it.)

A lovely night with dear Ma on the porch and patio, drinking cocktails and eating a delicious pasta. After, we rode bikes up the bike trail into Winnetka and got some frozen yogurt at a place called Loves that’s new to me. We rode back along the lake and stopped in Kennilworth and looked out at the water for a long while. The sun was going down somewhere in the west and was turning the night sky all shades of pink and lavender. We rode home the long way through downtown Wilmette, which my mom promised would be “jumpin’” and I guess it was. There were teenagers everywhere. At Loves, at the beach, in jumpin downtown Wilmette. The villages are lousy with them, and they look no different than we did fifteen years ago. I remember all of it.

And we came back and I spent some time picking through old writing and journals and stuff and generally making myself sick. My early 20s are well documented in type – I think I was single handedly keeping the Smith-Corona company in business buying typewriter ink. It’s hard stuff for me to look at and bear witness to. Furious growth often is. (Though in Otis, it continues to be impossibly cute.)

But then I found a box of photos and letters I wrote to E back in the early days of our courtship. Letters from Wisconsin, from New York, from my apartment in Chicago, even. Poloroids and photo booth strips from that period. My heart was warmed. Of the literally thousands of pages I typed, it’s these letters, maybe 10 or 12 of them, that are coming home with me.

Towards the ghosts, indeed, but shelter only for the righteous.

I like the Long Beach airport. Outside seating, retro restaurant, literally no line at either the ID checkpoint or the bag and body check, friendly vendors and now, a bar! In the terminal at Long Beach! I don’t need a drink this morning, but I like that it’s an option.

It’s the right airport to be flying out of for this trip. That’s certain.

From the Long Beach Airport
7/21

I’ve had this feeling for a few days now like something’s going to blow this trip. I checked my email on Monday to make sure that I booked the flight right. Seven. Twenty One. Michael Allen. Long Beach to O’Hare. It was all there, all thanks to JetBlue and MSN’s Hotmail. Images displayed, sender trusted.

E dropped me off well early. She has a work day in front of her, plus traffic. I was so grateful for the ride. We listened to retro 1260 and talked the trip, and we talked easy. We drove by the huge railyard off the 710 and I wished for a railroad life. Thought seriously about an imagined interview at Metrolink where I’m being considered for the position of “Conductor.”

“I’ve got a college degree, I can do math in my head, I’m a likeable guy. I’ve even got a beard. Why shouldn’t I get this thing?”
“Have you ever worked on a railroad before, Mr. Allen?”
“No, but…”
“Next!”
“No wait! Listen. You’ve got to understand. I’ve wanted to be a conductor since I started riding the Northwestern to downtown. I can do it. I can boom a fantastic TICKETS PLEASE, an ALL ABOARD. I can get safety certifications and wear a snappy uniform. I can do this. I’ve always wanted to. Please let me.”
“If you’ve always wanted to, Mr. Allen, why haven’t you?”

But I’m doing it now. At least, I’m pretending to. Conductor’s jobs don’t come up often. I look pretty regular.

We get to Long Beach and kiss goodbye. I put my card in the kiosk. My information can’t be found, I’m asked for a confirmation number that I didn’t bring. I’m filled with dread. This trip will somehow be foiled. I should call Elizabeth before she… no. I checked. This has to be right.

I try another card, the one with the cracked strip. The crack doesn’t bother me. The only person who had a problem with it was the hack at the cleaners. It’s not that hard to swipe a cracked strip.

“Hello, Michael C Allen.”

Done.

Now I just need to figure where to smoke this joint. I’ve seen two police so far. One in a car, one on a motorcycle. I’m not going down for the last three hits on this two week old roach. No way.

I walk all the way out of the airport to the golf course across the street. It’s nice to be at such an airport. What a gift.

I poke around, I pick up a score card. “It’s a nice looking course,” I prentend to think, really thinking “Great aliby,” and under that thinking, “Why am I so paranoid?” and under that thinking, “Because the people I love don’t deserve any hassle, but to me this isn’t a big deal and if I’m paranoid that’s fine because I’ll be at least less stupid about it,” and finally under that thinking, “I am here in the world, one with all, my love is ever expansive, my heart bounds towards the infinite.”

And so I go, towards the ghosts, into the ringing past.

Headed up to the Lake soon with Tony and Uncle Steve. It will be the second time I’ve seen Steve in almost 30 years — wait, come to think of it, it will be the third time I’ve seen Steve ever in my life. He and my dad were not close.

But at my dad’s memorial service, he asked me to join Facebook so that we could be in better touch. I refused, but said that I would write him letters if he wrote back. We’ve written back and forth maybe ten times. Ten letters will tell you a lot about a person you don’t know. And it’s a courtesy and extension of self I find incredibly generous. His made an uncle where there wasn’t one before.

We’re going up a week from Wednesday. The to-do list is long. On the top of it is to scatter the ashes of Granny Dot and Grampa Don, as well as some of my dad’s. Also at the top is for Steve to make peace with the energy of that house. He hasn’t been there since 1983. He hasn’t been there since his parents died, his mother taking care of that business in the house itself. There is a lot to lay to rest.

As for me, I need to figure out what to do with the place. As I swore before a notary public, I’m the sole remainderman, the person who has to figure out whether to keep the place or to let it go.

This rattles the nest and angers the queen. The only sensible reason to keep the place is if we move back to Chicago. That’s been talked about, especially after our last visit. It’s a possibility, one that we could figure out, one that we could make work.

But are we moving back to Chicago for a vacation house that’s a five and a half hour drive to a location that’s no longer in the far flung wilderness? They put the interstate along the east side of the lake, about a mile or so from the house, and you can hear cars and trucks on it all day and all night, especially when the wind’s not blowing.

And then there’s neighbor Kevin, who moved in after Tracy and Sharon left. Kevin’s from Portage, about 30 minutes north of Madison. He’s a hot dog vendor, a heart attack waiting to happen. A drunk who gets away from his family any chance he can and escapes to right next door to my house to drink himself into oblivion, listen to classic rock and get all up in my business. My dad punched him in the face after a night of hanging out with him. My dad. I almost didn’t believe the story, but Tony, who suffers cell phone calls from this guy, confirmed it. Kevin didn’t remember being punched in the face, but he remembers finding his glasses in the driveway the next morning. My dad had left him face down in his driveway.

But it’s on a lake. And my grandparents built it. The house is part of my family, part of me. Ditto Chicago, where my mom lives, where E’s folks live. We have a great pool of friends there, and could certainly build an interesting life.

But that’s what we’ve done out here. We’ve built an incredibly interesting life. The house we own looks out a literally thousands of trees. We can see for miles from our back deck. Outside the fence, we enjoy nightly parade of wildlife – skunks, raccoons, coyotes. Last night, we cut zucchini from the garden and cooked it in butter and cream and had a feast as the hill darkened and the lights of our little Ewok village started to blink on. It took six years and a lot of work to get to where we are. And we’re still working at it.

That life, however, is in Los Angeles, and I like the city, but I’m afraid for it. Will life be sustainable here in the future? It’s drying up, there’s no question about it. It’s going to get hotter, it’s going to shake until walls fall down. These things will happen. Will I be here with my family when they do?

Or will they figure it out? Is there a genius somewhere, a kid maybe 16 years old and sailing through his senior year at some top-notch university, majoring in some physical science I barely understand, who’s five years away from having the answer to desalinating water cheaply and on a massive scale? Are we fast approaching the days when we can pump water from the ocean into our gardens, the day when solar and wind will be harvesting from the Mojave and shot over here for pennies? Will Los Angeles become a paradise city or will it all go to shit? Will the town dry up and crash to the ground? Will the Chalet become worthless, will it become rubble?

The nest is rattled and the queen is angry. I’m hoping that my Wisconsin retreat will help me feel a strong pull in a specific direction. I will meditate. I will think. I will build a sweat lodge and consult with ghosts.

If you have any other ideas, I’d be glad to hear them.