The wheels roll along the seams of Michigan roads. Headlights rise and fall over the hills and everyone must watch for reflective green eyes along the side of the highway. I've just left a little town set amongst the back woods like some treasure that is seen only by those who know its there and is preserved in perfect antiquity, just like Disney's body. Parson's Grove boasts the oldest tavern in Michigan. This is a point of pride that the residents celebrate every night it seems. In fairness to them, it’s the only things to do in town after 6:00 p.m. other than buy groceries.
A gas station use to sit on the corner of Borden road, but that didn’t prosper so they made it a Celtic gift store. I’ve seen the children of Parson’s Grove jumping from the bridge into the town lake in the summer and playing baseball nearly every night possible, but now that the weather has turned cold they have all disappeared. Lights now decorate every house in town. They line every street and shimmer off the unfrozen lake. People here take the birth of Jesus very serious. The lights are a way for them to let you know they’re serious about the celebration too. I can imagine that there will still be handmade toys under some of the trees in Parson’s Grove.
I am glad to be leaving that little town. I am glad every time. I don’t belong there. I belong out among the mutants of the post-capitalist fallout.