I spent this past weekend in Northern Michigan looking for Ernest Hemingway’s boyhood cottage, Windemere, on Walloon Lake, and I found it off the road in an affluent lakeside community. It was a bit underwhelming, but it was what it was, as it was hard to see from the road and apparently it is rarely opened to the public.
I was driving and looked at my wife and sighed, even though I felt like I was holding onto a ten-foot-high wrought iron fence on a cloudy day with my tear-strewn face pressed firmly between two pickets.
When it was all said and done, I had spent my time looking for a cottage that I assumed would have a profound impact on my being and was instead humbled by a few beautiful sunsets in the wooded campgrounds of Cheboygan. Leave it to nature to steal the selfish interest of the spirit…
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