I GUESS IT’S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY: You can’t go home again. You can’t even go back to where you’ve been.
Last weekend I worked a race at a cider mill near Charlotte, MI. I’d had lunch there many years ago during a long bike trip, and looked forward to seeing it again. My route would also take me through Eaton Rapids, a classic Michigan small town for which I have particularly fond memories.
That first bike trip, I’d been struck by how charming its main street was. I’d stopped at a coffee shop (naturally) with terrific chocolate chip scones, had a nice chat with the baristas, and enjoyed the view of the pretty pond out in back. I arranged to go through it again during my 500-mile bike trip in 2012, and had another welcome break there.
I’d been told at the coffee shop that there was only one “Eaton Rapids” in the entire world. Someone in the UK had put that to the test once by addressing an envelope to a friend with the address reading only Eaton Rapids – no state, no zip code, no country – and it had been successfully delivered. Urban legend or not, it’s a good story.
This visit was a bit different. Instead of cruising on my bike on a warm summer afternoon, I drove through at 6 a.m. on a cold morning in my Jeep, towing a U-Haul with my Zero Waste equipment. No worries, though. There would be time after the race to see the town again and have my coffee and scone.
The race went well, and we were finished, packed up, and out of the orchard just before it clouded over and a light rain began falling. I pulled out my phone and asked the “Big G” for directions to the coffee shop. But there were no results. Just a sandwich place that served coffee drinks.
A more detailed search turned up Evelyn Bay Coffee at the address I remembered, but it was closed. Not a good sign. But Charlotte also had a coffee shop with that name, so I drove there. After ordering lunch and coffee, I asked my server (a co-owner) if she knew what had happened to the shop in Eaton Rapids.
“The owners sold out,” she told me, “and the people who took over just couldn’t make it work. They offered it to me, but I had my hands full managing this one. Too bad.”
Still, as I drove through Eaton Rapids on my way home, I stopped to take a look around. The coffee shop is now a Mexican restaurant. Sigh.
I walked down the main street and browsed a bric-a-brac shop of vintage items, but I couldn’t shake a feeling that matched the weather outside – dull and gray. Perhaps on a sunny day filled with the gorgeous fall color, I might have recaptured some of the nostalgic glow. But even the other buildings and shops now seemed – well, just ordinary. I returned to my warm, dry car and headed for home.
And yet, on the way down M50 I passed another place I’d stopped at on that same trip – a party store, of all things.
The sign that had read, in part, “Dragon’s Milk” had intrigued me enough to turn the bike around and go back to find out what that was all about.
I’d found out, as most of you probably know, that Dragon’s Milk is a type of dark, strong beer. While it didn’t appeal to me much, I just had to get a bottle to share with my D&D gaming group. And there was the store, all by itself along the road, looking the same as ever. I didn’t stop. They didn’t have scones.
But this experience doesn’t mean I want to return to those times. Life goes on, and a lot has happened since then that I wouldn’t want to give back. Like, for instance, getting hugged by my daughters after my safe arrival at our campground during that 500-mile trip.
I can always go back, too; maybe next summer another bike trip out there will be on the docket. And even if I don’t, I’ll always have the memories of those summer days by the pond, with good coffee and scones.