This is the southwestern Michigan beach that feels like home more than anywhere. There last weekend, for the first time I noticed a thin line of plastic trash where the lake meets the shore. Up and down, as far as you can see, left to right, were bottle caps, shredded bags, broken-up styrofoam and countless nurdles, which are white pellets used in plastic manufacturing. There were no perished birds or fish this time. I haven't seen crayfish creeping from under the sand since early grammar school, but I did find fossils. I've read and written about plastic waste in waterways, but seeing the contamination in a place I love was especially saddening.
Several years ago, the family that used to own my family's cottage stopped by. In the 1950s, the ladies would hike down to the beach to collect fresh water for coffee. They caught the water from a stream that ran from the gray mud clay cliffs into the lake. When I was wee, Tracy and I named that stream Ladybug Land and built the insects shelters of rocks decorated in nail polish. I would slather my body in the mud, a naturally luxuriant skin treatment and sunscreen. Above the bluffs were 80 acres of woods. In the mid-80s, most of the trees fell for the sake of multimillion dollar lakefront properties. The homeowners above the clay cliffs and stream destroyed both with terraced landscaping.
Recent Comments