At 4:30 am

When we were kids we used to go up north a few times a year to the cabin we had in the Upper Peninsula. This always involved getting up at 3:30 or 4:30 in the morning to head out so that we could beat the traffic or something. It was a 7 hour drive and for some reason we had to get up at an ungodly time in order to get there early. Why? Good question. The process of packing the car was always an undertaking, rarely simple and if I remember correctly, always involved a test packing. Meaning that the day before everything would be put in the car to make sure it would fit and then would be taken back out. Maybe this is why I always test pack my suitcase before I take a trip.

Anyway, my parents used to pack all the clothes and blankets and things in large garbage bags. These bags would be stuffed down in between the front and back seats and then a sleeping bag would be laid over the top so we could lay down and curl up and sleep. The space in the middle, that little middle seat - that was called no man's land and we put our stuff there, walkmen and whatever we had. Funny that we used to ride around this way and never wear seat belts, while my parents chained smoked with the window barely cracked. How things have changed.

I'm not usually one to have fond memories of my childhood. In fact it down right sucked which you might have gathered if you've been reading this for a while, or maybe I haven't written enough about it for you tell - but trust me it sucked. Rarely can I come up with happy memories. But I do have some happy memories of going up north and hanging out with my cousin Jodie. We used to rake leaf houses and pretend that we lived in them. We had a club, I can't remember what it was called. We talked about ghosts and Ouija boards, and whether or not our cousin could have been our uncle reincarnated. We made up stories about Mr. Sander-Pooper who lived in the scary green shack. I went fishing with my dad and probably nearly every time we rowed across the lake, I had to pee. We would go berry picking with my dad and it would take hours upon hours.

It takes a lot of effort for me to come up with happy memories. I just don't have that many of them and I really have to think about it to come up with them. But for all that went wrong in my childhood, I don't blame my father. I think he meant well and that he was basically clueless actually. I think he didn't know what to do - so he just didn't do anything.

So anyway, those are the things I've been thinking about since I've been up here, happier things. My brother probably remembers the whole thing differently. In fact sometimes we tell stories and you might wonder whether we didn't grow up in different houses. It's funny the way memories are like that.