editor's note
PAST PERFECT by CARA MCDONALD
T
here’s a video snippet I keep on my phone that never fails to give me a little hit of joy—it’s my two boys, ages 4 and 1, at the tiny one-ring Italian family circus that would come through our town each year. The oldest is hiding his eyes in disbelief while the youngest, wild-eyed from the spectacle and a skipped nap, is clapping madly as Nino the clown attempts to ride a unicycle across the high wire. Every year for the next 10, we would buy our tickets and wait for the horse trailers, campers and trucks to roll into town, for the circus family to spread wood chips in an enormous circle, set the horses out to graze in the vacant lot adjacent and begin the arduous process of erecting the big-top tent. On show night, as we stood outside the tent waiting to be let in, a handful of performers would cluster in front of the door and play the accordion or tell jokes, execute a few contortionist moves or make the crowd laugh. Without fail, Nino would ask the crowd, “How many of you have seen our circus before?” Hands would raise. “How many have been coming for two years?” Hands. “Three years?” Fewer hands. Year after year, we’d raise our hands—four, five, six years, more!—then file into the tent, buy a striped bag of popcorn and two sugary lemonades and climb into the bleachers to wait for the show to begin. It was a precious tradition for us. We watched as the dancing dogs grew old and new ones took their place, as the bareback rider married the ringmaster, then had a chubby baby girl. Nino the clown could always be relied on to annoy the ringmaster, get thrown out of the ring, then walk through the bleachers crying artificial tears that sprayed the crowd with water. Instead of provoking boredom, that predictability was part of the joy. Sharing the spectacle brought our community together—the children would wave to our pastor, climb over the laps of beloved teachers, bum snacks from friends’ parents and sit spellbound in the dark for a ritual that marked the end of summer. If as humans we’ve learned anything these last few years, it’s that we’re a social species and long to come together.
Customs, group rituals, festivals, traditions—we adopt these to revel in the mutual comfort, relaxation, familiarity and relief they provide. Visiting a beloved place, sharing a meal, watching the predictable gag of a clown year after year brings an indescribable pleasure. It’s not about the thing itself so much as it is the constancy—that in a world where we feel stressed, fragmented, isolated or disconnected, there is something we know to be reliable and good. The soul of this issue is forged in tradition. Chicken dinners at the Dam Site Inn, a tiny golf course dreamed up in the Roaring Twenties, the oldest family-owned grocery store in the country—the stories this month remind us that ours is a place where family roots grow deep and ties bind. In the midst of shaky economics, changing landscapes, regional growth or just plain old evolution and change, having beloved traditions to hang our hats on provides a sense of peace that nothing else can. So, for the moments when you feel scattered, alone, weary or demoralized, connection is waiting for you—the solution might be as humble as sharing the last drumstick, as pure as the thwack of a golf ball arcing over stately old greens, as joyous as the flags of a big top tent, waving us forward and calling us inside.
Cara McDonald Executive Editor cara@mynorth.com NORTHERN MICHIGAN'S MAGAZINE
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