Me standing in the shady lawn between the cabins and Spider Lake (courtesy of Peggy Meador).

When we'd had enough of those activities, or if it started to rain, we'd dash to the small arcade situated underneath one of the upper cabins. The arcade probably saw more traffic as the years went on, and the Nintendo generation further proliferated. The room did have some classics -- like Ms. Pac Man and Gauntlet -- and even a respectable pinball machine, but our time in the arcade wasn't all spent on video games; there was also a ping-pong table. On real crummy days when you couldn't swim or do anything outside without getting soaked, ping-pong matches were the main draw. We did know the rules to this game, and we relished the fraying pressboard table and the bumpy rubber paddles. However, our reverence for the game didn't stop us from snapping the little white ball at our opponent's head on occasion, just to see them duck with an angry look on their face.

There was no change machine in the arcade, so we'd have to exchange bills for quarters in the L' Da Ru office, a small room on the side of the owners' house. They were nice people and I never minded going in there. They also had a stock of board games that you could borrow, so we'd turn to Monopoly and Trouble when our parents grew tired of giving us arcade money. If that wore out, I'd find out what Michelle was doing. I remember going to her cabin one afternoon, sitting in their living room for a short while, and then running home when it started to rain harder. I must have been barefooted, because I badly stubbed my toe when I got about halfway there. I rushed into the cabin screaming and crying with blood starting to run out the tip of my big toe. I think stubbed toes were one of the worst experiences of childhood. Of course, that was all forgotten with a bandage and a mother's affection. But strangely this incident sticks out in my mind as a precursor to all romantic pursuits; they usually end with a stubbed emotional "toe."

When the rain passed, we'd head into Traverse City, a place that fascinated me with little more than a drive through. The East Bay looked like a Caribbean cove as we descended the hills on Hammond Road and Four Mile Road. The endless stretch of motels on US-31 all seemed homey and welcoming, even if their signs flashed "no vacancy." My eyes fixated on each of the putt-putt golf courses as we passed them. Even going to the soft serve ice cream stand at Garfield Road was an adventure in itself. I usually got a vanilla cone with butterscotch topping. After ordering we'd drive over to Bryant Park to cherish our creamy treats. We had to finish our cones before mounting the spinning merry-go-round, one of those wonders that disappeared from playgrounds by the end of the '90s.

On the West Bay side, our next destination was Clinch Park Zoo. We'd traverse the tunnel and search for all the native Michigan animals; my favorites were turtles, otters, and bison. We wouldn't let our parents leave without riding the miniature train, which was painted in bright colors, and which puffed out a substantial "choo choo" for its small size.

We would only go on a few rides at the Cherry Festival, since the same carnival stopped in our hometown in September. I adamantly sought out the soft serve yogurt with cherry topping, a sort of rudimentary cherries jubilee -- that is, if it had been a few days since our visit to the ice cream stand. My father was determined to see the Blue Angels air show, even though the intense noise gave us children quite a jolt. It was obvious that he was nurturing his inner child, since he had admired Navy fighter jets and aquatic SEALs his whole life.

We always made sure to go to Dill's Saloon for a dinner and show, which featured college-aged musicians throughout the summer. The host was a plump, animated woman who eventually remembered our family because we came every year. I recall very vividly one show where they played the Doobie Brother's "Long Train Runnin'." I loved the way the jazz chords rang and cut into each other. That single performance would influence my guitar style when I took lessons in high school some ten years later. On another occasion the show's theme had something to do with Disney. My little brother got invited on stage during the "Prince Ali" song from Aladdin, and all the cast members surrounded him. He was pretty angry that my parents had volunteered him for the job.

During nights up north surrounding Fourth of July, there seemed to be hundreds of fireworks shows. They were all near a lake, and the crowds were usually massive. I don't remember the specific towns we went to besides Traverse City, or even what the actual fireworks were like. I do remember endless lines of parked cars, people in rows of fold-up chairs on the sidewalk, and children adorned with glow necklaces and bracelets.

***

We came during that week from as early as I can remember until I was about nine. Then there was a block of time when we didn't go to Traverse City. I don't recall the reason; maybe my parents never told us why. But by the summer of 1994 -- when I was 11 -- we returned to L' Da Ru during the first week in August. I think the cabins were full during our regular week, but we liked the new stretch better than the old one.

My family switched to one of the larger cabins in the center of the hill, probably because of the havoc wreaked by the three hungry, moody, hyperactive boys, the youngest of whom was a six-year-old. L' Da Ru itself hadn't really changed, but now there were more kids around, and the weather might have even been more dependable for summer fun. What did change was my perception of the resort and Traverse City as a whole. I became more aware of the geographic location, and more interested in navigating when we'd drive up north. Putt-putt golf was now called Pirate's Cove. A pizza dinner was now ordered by the name of Peegeo's Pizza, and had the reputation of being the best in the whole TC area.

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