Erin McAllister has a weekend house on the Michigan shore. She would like the Membership to know several things about it.
Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, our Director of Membership stops returning email around 3:40 on Friday and is over the Skyway by six. The Society gave up scheduling anything of consequence for summer Friday afternoons after a few unanswered attempts in June.
The McAllisters' house is in Grand Beach. It shares a zip code with New Buffalo, but the entry gate says “GRAND BEACH,” which Erin finds quite clear. She corrects guests who say New Buffalo. Those who keep saying it may find that Esmeralda has been asked to make up the bunk room for them.
The gate is white, arched, and flies five flags. It settles every argument before the driveway. Erin slows down going under it whether or not anyone is behind her.
Her house is shingled to match the neighborhood. She adores the yellow Range Rover, a birthday gift. She made sure it had the trendy “Water–Winter Wonderland” Michigan plates. While she hails from a farm in Iowa, she prefers to discuss brunching in Grand Beach and how close her home is to the Daley home.
Saturday she shops at Barney's Market for the baguette, the flowers, and whatever else is on the list in her phone. Dinner is at Brewster's, the Italian place in New Buffalo she has decided is hers. She usually orders the same dish, but lets the server finish reading the specials before deciding.
Barney's deserves a word. It's the grocery every summer town believes it has. Green awnings, carts that all pull left, and a prepared foods case Erin has been known to describe as her cooking. She knows two of the butchers by name and one of them has it right back.
Brewster's gets the highest compliment she gives, that it could hold its own in the city. She says it about twice a summer. The waiter thanks her warmly every time. He is from the city.
Sunday morning she drives to Farmette, the glossy farmhouse coffeehouse on Red Arrow Highway that opened in the middle of the corridor's cannabis dispensaries. She orders what she calls her “safe day” latte and a biscuit, takes the window seat, and watches the dispensary parking lots fill up. Michigan sells what Indiana won't, and the state line is about four minutes south of her table.
“Do you suppose people drive up from Indiana?” she asks, stirring. “To buy it here?”
She likes the black-painted building and usually stays until she has finished her coffee.
A note on the neighbors
The Daley family's Grand Beach connection is one of Erin's favorite things to mention. She also remembers the party Patrick Daley held at the family house in 1992 while his parents were in New York. It made the papers, prompted his father's tearful City Hall news conference, and later resulted in a guilty plea to furnishing alcohol to minors and disturbing the peace. Erin generally returns to discussing the quiet street.
Sunday afternoon she loads the dog and the totes back into the Range Rover and waves at the neighbors on her way out of the driveway. The village on Halsted gets her back Monday morning, usually by ten.