My Hemingway thing {yeah, it’s def a thing} is always kicked up a notch or eleven when I’m found roaming Hemingway’s beloved places.

He spent his first 22 summers coming Up North, where his family had a house, not far from here, near Petoskey.

This shaped him in many ways. Set the stage for his love of nature, outdoor adventure and his athleticism. Don’t you love how I state this like it’s proven fact? As though I know because I talked to him?

Similarly to Paris, when I’m here, I picture Hemingway. Hiking the same trails we hike. The squint of his eyes as he surveys Lake Michigan from Petoskey, standing up on the hill where Stafford’s now sits. The even breaths of calm he had to have taken as he wound his way through these secluded woods.

It’s a shame that Hemingway was born in 1899. I think, The BF excluded here, we would have made a smashing couple.

Nevermind the fact that I’m not a big drinker and am all about joy. This means we would have spent the majority of our marriage apart, with him partying while I was meditating. Or something like that. And then he’d go in some depressive rage and I’d be all, it’s all about the power of NOW, Ernest. Yeah. Doubtful that would have worked. But a girl can dream. Right?

If you’re curious, Hemingway’s first published work included a short story, Up In Michigan.

If you’re further curious, my current companions are these guys. I think they’re pretty cute, too.

Back rocking it at The Pellston Airport.

Doing work and dreaming about Ernest. And the lake. We know importance must be placed on bronzing. Strapless bronzing. It’s called a wedding dress.

I’m also doing happy. Happy can be done, People. I shall be very brave and show us The Way on that front.

When I’m not out lost in some woods, that is. Or figuring out just what the hell amaranth is anyway. Again, no clue how to say it.