This was written in October 1997 after a long day’s journey along the eastern and northern rims of Lake Huron.
Room 01
of the Canadian Motor Hotel
is my destination.
The landscape outside the rental car
is conifer and pine
scattered about a rocky contour.
The overcast sky, its cloud dipping low,
seems a part of the ground.
Native reservations abound,
in more ways than 1.
Every 3 to 5 minutes
down the 2-lane blacktop
there appears, at the side of the route,
a grocery store, gas station,
motel or house
that has been either mercilessly gutted
or responsibly boarded-up.
Occasionally,
there is a piece of heavy machinery
in the front lot.
Some houses have snow plow accessories
in their yard.
But there is not yet any snow.
The locals must endure
not only the cold of winter
but also
the anticipation of the impending cold of winter.
It is a modern wasteland.
Somone has sprayed graffiti across
the blasted side of the Canadian Shield,
“I love nature.”
Quarries of muck become empty aluminum sheds.
The greens and reds of Autumn
must contend with forgotten rust.
Curves and hills
over aged deposits
of hard cracked rock.
Small shallow lakes,
each with a small island 50 feet from shore.
Each island with a small 1-bedroom house,
an occupant never seen,
making them all the more mysterious.
Towns Communities Farms
Bigwood Whitefish Iron Bridge
Forgettable uninspiring names,
as only small places can have.
Upon arrival, I notice that
The Canadian Motor Hotel
shares the cost of its matchpacks
with the nearby Super 8 motel.
“Two great hotels,” the flap reads.
The Super 8 has a fax number;
the Canadian Motor Hotel does not.
But it does have
Room 01.
I check in.
8 quarters in hand,
I make a beeline for the vending machine.
A buck for a ginger ale,
I insert 4 quarters and select.
Nothing happens…
select again…
nothing…
select root beer…
nothing happens…
but I hear myself sigh.
I insert 4 more quarters…
Ginger ale button, nothing.
10 seconds later
I’m at the front desk.
The 30-something man in K-Mart-bought sweater
unnecessary moustache
and haircut uncut in twenty years
informs me that the vending machine
does not accept
QUARTERS.
It occurs to me that in 27 years on this planet
I have never heard of a vending machine
which does not accept
QUARTERS.
He fills out a slip of paper,
“$2 – pop machine”, and I sign it.
He hands me a $2 coin
and I return to the machine.
The $2 coin, or Toonie,
a recent addition to the system’s currency,
does not fit into the slot of the vending machine.
My thoughts turn to the front desk clerk
and the many people like him
whom I have encountered before.
I return to Room 01, soda-less.
Of the 13 available channels on the television,
5 have wearied reception,
3 have low social castes arguing, seeking attention,
1 allows home shopping,
1 allows public access,
2 are French,
and 1 scrolls the TV programs
which are available on the 13 channels
AND
the TV programs which are unavailable to me
on the 48 other channels in the local cable system.
“Rhinestone Cowboy” plays tragically
over the listings.
I do not even get The Weather Channel!
The lack of a tropical report prevents
any Caribbean fantasies.
I do not even know the temperature beyond the door
10 feet from my feet!!!
All I can do
is try to romanticize it all
and look forward
to the journey back home tomorrow…
through Michigan,
where Jesus saves.