Life in Marshall
When I take the exit off I-94 into Marshall, I still remember how the first time felt. Uncertain, wondering, hoping to feel comfortable at the job I was interviewing for: Communications Manager for Calhoun County. Knowing the job would provide me a way out of Herman Miller, but also would mean a major change in my life—so far away from Grand Rapids.
It became my home, and to some degree that surprises me. Did I know it then? Could I feel it?
(Or what if I had made a different decision?)
When you reach the pivot point of Marshall, its central gear, you must take the roundabout around a white-columned fountain that spouts colorfully in the summer months. During the school year, there are signs along the perimeter with the last names of competing high school athletes. If it's Friday night, you see road signs for the following morning's farmer's market with its address on Green Street. You can get wherever you're going in town from that fountain: It's essential for whatever direction you head.
Marshall is idyllic. I've compared it to Stars Hollow in writing or to a guy I saw on Friday, and I say the most similar element is the collection of earnest personalities—people who make the town and its drama. Marshall also shares with Stars Hollow and the Gilmore Girls narrative the stale pallor of old White money, but the problems are real for the folks in it. Marshall's contemporary problems include a racially divided school system and an asinine debate about masks in schools, which took place last week. What makes Marshall? Like you'd find in Stars Hollow, there are illustrative moments that are more comforting than disappointing.
Cut to a stunning "Villa" B&B on a grassy hill where Heather and I sipped alcohol at a young professionals meet-and-greet. We pet the tiny dog that lives in the huge, beautiful home, and gawked at the charcuterie board available to us because it was a work of art.
Cut to dark nights at Copper Bar downtown and lights from the hometown pharmacy that reflect off the bar's large front windows. Even now, I think about the way Heather looked holding her bag over her head one night to cross the street when it was raining and we were both single and dreamy. It's on Instagram from 2019. Things are so different now, but the lights from Hemmingsen's Pharmacy feel the same. On Friday, after waiting for an hour for AAA roadside assistance for a friend, I stopped by Copper afterward alone for soup and a beer, and to read another essay from the book I'm reading. I noticed the pharmacy lights reflected off of the road differently in the heat, but similar. My favorite bartender recently is John and I noticed he shaved his facial hair, he looks different, and I can tell he's conscious of it. He tucks his lips in so they become two thin lines, like he's hiding them, and I imagine what he'll look like when he's more comfortable being clean shaven. Does he have large lips? I doubt it.
Cut to Louie's Bakery where they know my name, across the street from Copper and doors down from Hemmingsen's. They ask me which donut I'd like, or confirm the fried joy I get most often, and I hand them a $5r and wait for the $.50 from the cash register. Louie's, where I run into people from work, like the overalls-clad Road Department supervisor who was picking up donuts, I bet for his crew, and he waved at me with an open palm, and it filled my soul with light because I'm glad for those moments to smile and connect outside of Board of Commissioners meetings—which is where I know him from. I don't know what happened to my favorite donut-tender Jo who used to greet me every morning but hasn't been there for weeks. I can't find her on Facebook. While my boss shows up in Instagram pictures from Burn Boot Camp's 5 a.m. workout classes, if Louie's social media was as customer-focused, you'd see me hip-popped and IG cute with my rather pricey Starbucks paper cup full of black coffee Louie's brewed and a glazed-O donut in my hand. Routine comforts me and back I go to Louie's a couple times weekly, because it's Marshall. Despite the cost and the store's goofy politics and the fact that my favorite donut-tender isn't there anymore, I like the place. I like how it colors my life.
Cut to my house on the corner. Covid has given me the impetus to make my home absolutely me and there is no better representation. Just enough landscaping left unkempt it mirrors my own no-makeup face; bookshelves line the walls and the books are pushed deeper into the cubbies by my wild dogs; books are stacked on top too in piles that only make sense to me; there's a leafy plant I'm trying to keep alive because it came from my grandma; and stools are placed strategically for the dogs to sit on. The art on the walls is random but mine and makes me comfortable.
I can't help but be amused by the crooked mess I've created in my imperfect home in Marshall. Poppy barks so loud it hurts the deep valley in my jaw where I had a tooth extracted a week ago. I'm worried that my living room smells foul from when a dog collided with the table two days ago and bong water spilled on the carpet. In the laundry room where I have a wide window, blinds span the entire width and are held up by four string-pulley systems. Two strings have snapped in the last week and now when the blinds are down it looks like a stereotypical drug house. It's what we work with, blinds crooked and weak, like me in its sunny face.
But the AC was fixed on Friday and now I feel invincible, and the weeds in front of the house that I should have trimmed a long time ago have flowered yellow with what looks like Golden Rod. Now, it's like eye-level bouquets are ready for me outside the window over the kitchen sink.
I live in Marshall. It's ideal for me because I am Marshall, too.
Sent in my newsletter on August 29, 2021
