LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE - A parisian
writer's literary dream
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Le Journal LittérairE's BRILLIANT
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<-back to ESL Carnival Academy - Submit French Writings to Le Journal Litteraire
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Coming in June 2020:
Le goût sucré de ma
vie passée de
Parisienne
....a story about Mackinac Island, Michigan. (More Paris on the way)
Lime Whiskey Grog:
A Coming of Age Story on Mackinac Island, Michigan
By: Gia Lovelady
I held this memory in my heart for most of my life. It is a memory of one place like no other where my spirit has resonated. It was the year in my youth in which I traveled alone for the first time. I still have the old letter of the job offer, but the ad that I had clipped from a Chicago newspaper has since then gone missing. It was an ad searching for young people who wanted to work various jobs in Upper Peninsula Michigan, for one summer, on the infamous Mackinac Island. I remember my heart fluttering with shear happiness as I recognized this vacation spot since my mother had the foresight of introducing me to places that would awaken my spirit. This would be my second trip to pure Michigan. As a very young girl my family and I would take summer road trips to visit my grandfather in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. We'd also travel to California, New York, Canada and anywhere in our summer family car or wherever our multi-family Winnebago would take us. The family car may as well have been a sporty roadster full of escaping balloons, for all of the fun that it had provided.
Additionally, the annual summer yacht races had a starting point during the month of May from Navy Pier in Chicago. The yachts would race straight up to Mackinac Island where the majestic boats would swoon into their docks. I tore the ad out of the Chicago Tribune, called the ad's representative and went to the Chicago interview as it was the year I was about to graduate from my suburban high school. Suddenly, I saw traveling and working very reasonable since I had an opening in what would become my illustrious summer. This was my perceived chance to begin traveling the world, even though it was Michigan. I got the job and was alone on a Greyhound bus which traveled up to Saginaw, Michigan where I spent the night at an inn and took a ferry the next day over to the Grand Island. It was the summer of my eighteenth year and later on I would discover that my mother had told the family that I'd run away from home, for which I have no idea why. How does one run away from home at the age of 18? There is a thin line between running away from something and wanting to run directly into the arms of something. I didn't run away I was pulled away by everything my mother had ever shown me. It was my breakout year, and I enjoyed each and every wave of the flag starting the race. I also enjoyed the breaking of the tape and plunging headfirst into a glorious wins.
On the island I lived in a dormitory styled setting for one summer. The openings for summer positions were full of fun opportunities like positions for bicycle rental, sports and gift shops, art galleries and souvenir shops, and saltwater taffy candy and sofa fountain shoppes. I opted for a job where I watched bartenders make Manhattans every night working as a cocktail waitress at the Island House Hotel. Back then one could serve alcohol at 18 but not consume it of course until age 21. This was my dream summer. I would visually learn that moss grew on the north side of trees. I had dinner with great friends and tasted Escargot for the first time. The wild array of island parties reminded me of Elvis Presley's Blue Hawaii and incidentally I never needed an alarm clock since I didn't have to report to work until 2 in the afternoon. It was my summer that resembled Elvis Presley's "Paradise, Hawaiian Style," or that other summer smash where Gidget and Moondoggy fell in love. I was kissed as if I were still in that Hollywood movie by the pier in the blue moonlight overlooking the harbor on historic Haldimand Bay.
This was real life! This was me really living for the first time because I was traveling alone. This traveling alone authenticated me as a woman and as a person. This was my coming-of-age story where I cycled around the entire island every day and awoke to the sounds of horses hoofs hitting the pavement on an island void of automobiles. This is my first memory of traveling alone and it changed my life forever. It was so beautiful that I still imagine that I’m still on the pier just outside of the Island House Hotel. Sometimes I’m sharing striped green and yellow salt-water taffy with my boyfriend, snuggling under the wooden sign of the Sea Biscuit Café and Grog right. Sometimes we’d share fudge-kissed lips right outside of Ryba’s Fudge house, usually the sweet concoction of a pink chocolate pecan wedge.
My spirit is still on this island. While I have a chance I’d like to inquire about the Mackinac Island Historical Society and discover how Captain Charles O’Malley discovered such an intoxicating beachfront resort in 1852. I want to ask the captain about the history behind the grog additionally, I want make an inquiry to great Mother Britain about gorgeous attire in the souvenir shoppes and about the salty crunch in her English Toffee. Would the grog with lime, whiskey, and a weak beer served in a highball glass be worthy of such celebratory in a place so diverse? I was as proud of my newly found independence as I adored taking my paycheck and shopping for food items and other necessities at Doud’s Market, (1884), and the Good Hart General Stores.
Shortly after I first arrived on Mackinaw, I took a walk over to a large opening and completely lost my aspiration to breathe. I was at a clearing and several people were already standing there, two with their arms clasped behind their backs, gazing at Lake Huron’s wide opening that meets the island with a large drop off. It was a hill some 950 feet up, mesmerizing me instantly and upon sight, I knew that God was present. I was unable to move or to speak and the other hilltop viewers just turned their heads to glance at one another. But no one said a word. Only earthly beauty and silence resided. I still have difficulty in describing just what I saw. Maybe that’s just it; it was more of what I felt rather than what I just saw. I felt as if I had not a care in the world. There were no wars, no starvation, no garbage patches in the oceans. While I was there nothing on this earth was in decay and no one harbored negativity. The Iroquois, Chippewa, and Blackfoot Indians were present in the breeze smiling with peace. My great, great grandmother was 100% Blackfoot Indian and I can see her long black hair blowing in the wind as she was brushing the mane of a retired buffalo. The smoke-filled air from her campfire was signaling to the rest of the tribe of simmering buffalo grog of a meal with thick plantain. Her smudge stick was lit and offered burning white sage.
Inside of the beauty were African Americans who helped to build the foundations of the Grand Hotel in 1887 and they were at peace in the unbridled bliss of God’s loving arms. Their love of a country that has built so much beauty around just one nation is was I could sense in the wind. This past had swelled up into the present and the diversity of American tribe’s people, cooks, land surveyors and horse stable keepers were all a part of the modern day beauty which was Mackinac Island.
When I die, I’ve told my daughters and St. Anne’s Church on the island, I’d like for my ashes to be sprinkled across Lake Huron to rest among the biology of the thick mosses. So that as the wind blows north I will be a part of the Lake Michigan, Erie, Huron and all of the great lakes. I want to call Mackinac Island my permanent home, and when you stand on that hill in the clearing, you will know that I too, am there.
This is the United States of America. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July and this, is my home.
LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE is an online French literary journal. The journal is currently accepting new works that document global travels by other travel writers, especially writers depicting Parisian culinary. LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE insists on portraying research on any of the boulangeries of Paris, France, and desires for writers of Parisian pâtisseries and boulangeries to submit their very best meringues, éclairs, mille fieulles, opera cakes, baguettes, and croissants to the online journal. The journal accepts culinary articles depicting the rich histories of Parisian shops along with their recipes encased in creative fiction creative nonfiction. Submissions with photos will be published in LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE in Summer 2020. (A Play in Three Acts: Les Boulangeries Français de Paris, Acts Deux & Trois, will be published on this site in Spring, 2020).
Contact/submissions:
JOURNAL.LITTÉRAIRE@gmail.com
Work may be submitted in English or in French.
<-back to ESL Carnival Academy
<-back to ESL Carnival Academy - Submit French Writings to Le Journal Litteraire
<- go to our sister site
Coming in June 2020:
Le goût sucré de ma
vie passée de
Parisienne
....a story about Mackinac Island, Michigan. (More Paris on the way)
Lime Whiskey Grog:
A Coming of Age Story on Mackinac Island, Michigan
By: Gia Lovelady
I held this memory in my heart for most of my life. It is a memory of one place like no other where my spirit has resonated. It was the year in my youth in which I traveled alone for the first time. I still have the old letter of the job offer, but the ad that I had clipped from a Chicago newspaper has since then gone missing. It was an ad searching for young people who wanted to work various jobs in Upper Peninsula Michigan, for one summer, on the infamous Mackinac Island. I remember my heart fluttering with shear happiness as I recognized this vacation spot since my mother had the foresight of introducing me to places that would awaken my spirit. This would be my second trip to pure Michigan. As a very young girl my family and I would take summer road trips to visit my grandfather in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. We'd also travel to California, New York, Canada and anywhere in our summer family car or wherever our multi-family Winnebago would take us. The family car may as well have been a sporty roadster full of escaping balloons, for all of the fun that it had provided.
Additionally, the annual summer yacht races had a starting point during the month of May from Navy Pier in Chicago. The yachts would race straight up to Mackinac Island where the majestic boats would swoon into their docks. I tore the ad out of the Chicago Tribune, called the ad's representative and went to the Chicago interview as it was the year I was about to graduate from my suburban high school. Suddenly, I saw traveling and working very reasonable since I had an opening in what would become my illustrious summer. This was my perceived chance to begin traveling the world, even though it was Michigan. I got the job and was alone on a Greyhound bus which traveled up to Saginaw, Michigan where I spent the night at an inn and took a ferry the next day over to the Grand Island. It was the summer of my eighteenth year and later on I would discover that my mother had told the family that I'd run away from home, for which I have no idea why. How does one run away from home at the age of 18? There is a thin line between running away from something and wanting to run directly into the arms of something. I didn't run away I was pulled away by everything my mother had ever shown me. It was my breakout year, and I enjoyed each and every wave of the flag starting the race. I also enjoyed the breaking of the tape and plunging headfirst into a glorious wins.
On the island I lived in a dormitory styled setting for one summer. The openings for summer positions were full of fun opportunities like positions for bicycle rental, sports and gift shops, art galleries and souvenir shops, and saltwater taffy candy and sofa fountain shoppes. I opted for a job where I watched bartenders make Manhattans every night working as a cocktail waitress at the Island House Hotel. Back then one could serve alcohol at 18 but not consume it of course until age 21. This was my dream summer. I would visually learn that moss grew on the north side of trees. I had dinner with great friends and tasted Escargot for the first time. The wild array of island parties reminded me of Elvis Presley's Blue Hawaii and incidentally I never needed an alarm clock since I didn't have to report to work until 2 in the afternoon. It was my summer that resembled Elvis Presley's "Paradise, Hawaiian Style," or that other summer smash where Gidget and Moondoggy fell in love. I was kissed as if I were still in that Hollywood movie by the pier in the blue moonlight overlooking the harbor on historic Haldimand Bay.
This was real life! This was me really living for the first time because I was traveling alone. This traveling alone authenticated me as a woman and as a person. This was my coming-of-age story where I cycled around the entire island every day and awoke to the sounds of horses hoofs hitting the pavement on an island void of automobiles. This is my first memory of traveling alone and it changed my life forever. It was so beautiful that I still imagine that I’m still on the pier just outside of the Island House Hotel. Sometimes I’m sharing striped green and yellow salt-water taffy with my boyfriend, snuggling under the wooden sign of the Sea Biscuit Café and Grog right. Sometimes we’d share fudge-kissed lips right outside of Ryba’s Fudge house, usually the sweet concoction of a pink chocolate pecan wedge.
My spirit is still on this island. While I have a chance I’d like to inquire about the Mackinac Island Historical Society and discover how Captain Charles O’Malley discovered such an intoxicating beachfront resort in 1852. I want to ask the captain about the history behind the grog additionally, I want make an inquiry to great Mother Britain about gorgeous attire in the souvenir shoppes and about the salty crunch in her English Toffee. Would the grog with lime, whiskey, and a weak beer served in a highball glass be worthy of such celebratory in a place so diverse? I was as proud of my newly found independence as I adored taking my paycheck and shopping for food items and other necessities at Doud’s Market, (1884), and the Good Hart General Stores.
Shortly after I first arrived on Mackinaw, I took a walk over to a large opening and completely lost my aspiration to breathe. I was at a clearing and several people were already standing there, two with their arms clasped behind their backs, gazing at Lake Huron’s wide opening that meets the island with a large drop off. It was a hill some 950 feet up, mesmerizing me instantly and upon sight, I knew that God was present. I was unable to move or to speak and the other hilltop viewers just turned their heads to glance at one another. But no one said a word. Only earthly beauty and silence resided. I still have difficulty in describing just what I saw. Maybe that’s just it; it was more of what I felt rather than what I just saw. I felt as if I had not a care in the world. There were no wars, no starvation, no garbage patches in the oceans. While I was there nothing on this earth was in decay and no one harbored negativity. The Iroquois, Chippewa, and Blackfoot Indians were present in the breeze smiling with peace. My great, great grandmother was 100% Blackfoot Indian and I can see her long black hair blowing in the wind as she was brushing the mane of a retired buffalo. The smoke-filled air from her campfire was signaling to the rest of the tribe of simmering buffalo grog of a meal with thick plantain. Her smudge stick was lit and offered burning white sage.
Inside of the beauty were African Americans who helped to build the foundations of the Grand Hotel in 1887 and they were at peace in the unbridled bliss of God’s loving arms. Their love of a country that has built so much beauty around just one nation is was I could sense in the wind. This past had swelled up into the present and the diversity of American tribe’s people, cooks, land surveyors and horse stable keepers were all a part of the modern day beauty which was Mackinac Island.
When I die, I’ve told my daughters and St. Anne’s Church on the island, I’d like for my ashes to be sprinkled across Lake Huron to rest among the biology of the thick mosses. So that as the wind blows north I will be a part of the Lake Michigan, Erie, Huron and all of the great lakes. I want to call Mackinac Island my permanent home, and when you stand on that hill in the clearing, you will know that I too, am there.
This is the United States of America. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July and this, is my home.
LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE is an online French literary journal. The journal is currently accepting new works that document global travels by other travel writers, especially writers depicting Parisian culinary. LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE insists on portraying research on any of the boulangeries of Paris, France, and desires for writers of Parisian pâtisseries and boulangeries to submit their very best meringues, éclairs, mille fieulles, opera cakes, baguettes, and croissants to the online journal. The journal accepts culinary articles depicting the rich histories of Parisian shops along with their recipes encased in creative fiction creative nonfiction. Submissions with photos will be published in LE JOURNAL LITTÉRAIRE in Summer 2020. (A Play in Three Acts: Les Boulangeries Français de Paris, Acts Deux & Trois, will be published on this site in Spring, 2020).
Contact/submissions:
JOURNAL.LITTÉRAIRE@gmail.com
Work may be submitted in English or in French.
<-back to ESL Carnival Academy
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