Michigan Sourdough
The taste of travel, and Babs riding shotgun
Butter in a tub. When did I buy butter in a tub? I never buy butter in a tub.
Except when I’m in Michigan, staying in a lakeside cottage for songwriting camp.
It’s only been a little while since the camp ended, and my brain must be very tired, because as I pulled a box of food items and booze out of my car, I had to search for the provenance of…pretty much everything nestled in the confines of the Subaru. An inventory might help me reconstruct the last ten days.
So - butter in a tub, along with some Michigan sourdough bread, a nearly empty bottle of Elijah Craig bourbon. Organic half and half, cage free eggs and a container of shredded parmesan cheese. Field Day organic penne pasta.
A few pieces of Wade’s homemade weed fudge.
All of these things (except the fudge) were purchased at the comprehensive mercantile in Leland, a charming little town just up the road from the lakeside lodge where the songwriting camp took place. I’ve been lugging them around in a cardboard box because I have this weird thing about coolers — I know they’re practical but —like Tupperware— I find them depressing. I don’t know why a cardboard box holds more appeal for me but it just does. A cooler screams “do activities! Go camping! Be prepared!” and that just feels like too much pressure. I never know where to store them in the house either. I feel the same about those folding festival chairs and most types of outdoor wear - they bring out my impractical, curmudgeonly side that will always prefer good old-fashioned lawn chairs and clothes that need to be hand-washed or dry cleaned.
At the same time, there’s a part of me that yearns to be practical, to be a woodswoman. The cottage at Lake Michigan had a woodstove, that was really the main source of heat as the place really wasn’t meant to be used in the more wintry months. Thankfully the weather during the camp was in the fifties and even sixties. I liked hauling logs and stoking the fire, for the time I was in the cottage with my two roommates, lovely women who were there to work on songs. Shannon, the first one I met who I got to hang out with quite a lot, called me a facilitator rather than an instructor and I liked that description. John Lamb has been running this camp for coming on thirty years and many of the attendees come back every year. This was my third time and maybe it’s the post-Covid appreciation of any instance where people gather but this year I felt so much love and admiration for my fellow campers and instructors —Buddy Mondlock, Pierce Pettis, Grace Pettis, Justin Farren— and for John Lamb. The energy everyone put into their music was inspiring and made me want to work harder and be better.
Our other cottage mate was Annie and she was the mom of a twelve year old and gave me some needed encouragement to keep pushing through with my second memoir about moving to Nashville and that era’s midlife years so derailed by one bad decision it can be hard to keep going. That’s an amazing thing about a workshop, you find yourself not having to do much in the way of conventional getting to know people, you all just lay it right out there in songs and talking about your work, and that can be so revealing. This year there seemed to be more women at the camp and the balance was wonderful.
I know I’m not doing a great job of describing this songwriting retreat - it’s kind of like Mardi Gras, you can’t really imagine what it’s like, you just have to actually experience it. I laughed a lot, did a presentation that I think went well, listened and felt inspired and also found myself overcome with emotion —and it wasn’t just that bottle of bourbon. People—it’s people I love the most; maybe when I’m not out playing I get a little isolated, working at the bookstore/bar has been less frequent as I needed to finish my record and trying to keep moving forward on this book too. Eric’s out on tour, my daughter lives on the other side of the country. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for both of them! Being around other musicians who all have full lives in other areas too filled my heart, maybe that sounds corny but I don’t know how else to describe it. Anyone who takes a risk to express themselves gets my respect! I reserve any snideness or cynicism for coolers and festival chairs with cupholders built into the arms.
Michigan is a beautiful state, I think they try to keep it a secret, like their sourdough bread. When the camp ended I went to see Killers Of The Flower Moon — it left me devastated, crying alone in a Traverse City movie theater — and the next day started driving towards Chicago and spent a night in a nice warm, no firewood needed hotel where a plastic cup of “California Roots” $5 Chardonnay from a nearby Target (where I also bought Spanx leggings and Elnett hairspray) and some Chipotle felt like a meal fit for a queen.
The next day I swam, did laundry and drove to Chicago. The venue where I’d be playing, Friendly Music Community, had offered me the Airbnb above for a few nights if I wanted it. It felt overwhelming rolling into Chicago after almost a week in the woods: all the noise, traffic, crazy parking regulations in Berwyn, but Lacy and Rob my hosts helped me figure it out. At first I’d thought of all the cultural things I could/should do on a day off in Chicago but I just woke up early, sat by a pickleball court for a minute watching these retired-looking folks play a pretty intense-looking match, wishing I could join the game. I love this about touring - being dropped into everyday life, not in the part of town where the attractions are (there are so many in Chicago but I’ve been here many many times). I found this frame shop/art supply store run by a mother and son team and we talked about the art supply business and when the mother asked why I was in Berwyn I told her about my gig. “You could be the next Taylor Swift!” she said, excitedly and asked if this was my first time in town. Casting my mind back, it’s probably more like.. the thirtieth? As I walked back to the Airbnb I did an inventory of all the clubs I’ve played in this town. “We’ll say we knew you when!” the woman said as she and her son waved goodbye to me, which was just so sweet and made me feel like “maybe you will!”
I forgot to mention, I started listening to the Barbra Streisand autobiography. It is incredible, Her memory for every outfit, meal, interaction, piece of furniture is intense—I admit I hesitated to start it. At 48 hours (!) this is a huge commitment but the attention to detail and all her insights, her warmth, intelligence and humor just keep giving and giving. I’ve been in tears at the end of pretty much every chapter. Who has had a bigger career? Yet even on the very modest scale of my life as an artist, I find so many of her observations validate my feelings. The idea of being more nervous about performing as you get older, she tells it beautifully through the experience of performing with Judy Garland when Barbra is like twenty and Judy forty one - it’s absolutely true. It all seems to matter more. How many times have I played Chicago? Yet getting ready for my gig, I just wanted so badly for it to go well. I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint people. Part of it is the stop and start nature of the last few years, part of it is feeling what a privilege it is for anyone to invest the time and energy and ticket price into coming to a show, things maybe when you’re younger you just kind of take as your due, like “of course they should come.”
I’m just so glad I got to play in Chicago again and look forward to another time soon. The same with Rockford. I hauled my cardboard box of supplies in and out along with guitar and clothes and gave it my all. Then I drove back east, stopping for the night west of Cleveland. When I was packing up to check out of my hotel, Goodfellas was showing. I learned it was Martin Scorsese’s birthday. It was hard to stop watching the film—what a lot he has given and continues to give this world.
I was pleased not to have missed the sight of Cleveland, to have a beautiful early morning drive past the downtown and the stadiums and all the familiar exit signs from the brief time I lived there, I blessed the place as I flew by in my Subaru and Barbra watched Pierre Trudeau rolling naked in the snow. “Not for me,” Barbra says. “No way - I’m a wimp.”
It took til the making of The Way We Were (7 hours later) to reach Catskill. Barbra illuminates why that romantic favorite film never made total sense plotwise, she is a tigress who is still fighting to get two scenes restored that are key to the story. I applauded her when I finally took my hands off the steering wheel and brought my box of provisions into the house and also stopped into our local Price Chopper supermarket where it occurred to me Thanksgiving was a few days away. I registered the familiar neighbors shopping in sleepwear and shower sandals (ah, upstate New York), picked up some new half and half, thinking maybe the one I’ve been carrying around is not so fresh, but the sourdough bread made some great toast and I was glad to have the taste of Michigan around for a little while longer.
"I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint people." I think its safe to say -- from my perspective -- you never have.
as always, I immensely enjoy reading this, thanks for sharing your lovely stories