As if on cue, “Ice Ice Baby” by Vanilla Ice plays in my ears.
If there was a problem, yo, I’ll solve it...
Oh, I’ll solve it, all right, I think to myself.
I pick up my running pace as the song reverberates in my ears.
Ice, ice, baby...
Thank you, irony. My life should be an O. Henry story.
There are patches of ice on Little Traverse Wheelway, and—after the week I’ve had—the last thing I need is a fall. But things are improving, at least weatherwise. We’ve had two surprise days in the forties, a virtual heat wave here by winter standards, and I’ve already seen countless Michiganders come into the store wearing shorts and flip-flops.
I watch the path, but I can’t help but look out at the view. Even after years of running this same path, it is still breathtaking in its magnitude: the bay shimmers in the sun, the ice making the water resemble a giant, deep blue cocktail.
Sometimes I lie to myself when I run. Well, lie is perhaps too strong a word. I fool myself. I tell myself—when my body is tired, my mind weary—if I go one more mile, I can stop, knowing full well I won’t. It’s a trick that both runners and authors utilize: one more step, one more word, one more mile, one more page. Running and writing are cumulative. You do not see the progress at first, and then a mile becomes five, and a page turns into a chapter, and you push yourself to limits you never dreamed you could achieve.
Both are endurance miracles really, feats of the body and imagination. I can do only one. But I admire the other. It’s why I run. It’s why I do what I do. Because somewhere, deep inside, I still believe in miracles, that this long, often punishing journey will have a miraculous finish line.
The segment of the path I am currently running, between Petoskey’s Bayfront Park to Petoskey State Park, follows closely the path of the original Little Traverse Wheelway that stretched from Petoskey to Harbor Springs in the late 1800s. In fact, I run directly underneath a gate over the trail at the east end of Bayfront Park that proclaims “No Teaming or Driving.” This sign replicates the original gate that stood at nearly the same spot. It is a reminder of a time when people were prohibited from riding horses or horse-drawn carriages on the trail.
The sign, along with the lack of people on the path, does make me feel as if I’ve gone back in time. Those of us who live and work full-time in resort communities often don’t get to play in, or fully appreciate, the places others flock to on vacation. But in the winter, we tend to get a piece of the place we love back.
I scan the bay. It’s just iced over like a beautiful cake.
From April through October, the Wheelway is clogged with bikers, joggers and Rollerbladers. I joke, only half-heartedly, that my neck is perpetually kinked spring through fall from the constant calls of “On your left!” as exercisers pass me on the path.
I chug along the Wheelway that hugs a huge bluff rising over Little Traverse Bay. This section is called Resorts Bluff and considered a crown jewel of the path’s crown for a reason: the views make even the most ardent of exercisers slow and take in the expanse.
I pass a fishing pond left over from an old limestone quarry, just steps away from the bay, where the exposed shoreline is the perfect place to pluck Petoskey stones. Salmon-colored sidewalks, shoveled clean of the snow, signal my entry into the historic Bay View neighborhood, dominated by Victorian homes much larger and much older than mine. Bay View has long been a summer getaway for prominent Michigan families. I follow the trail for another mile and a half, passing a trail entrance to Petoskey State Park. I head down the trail and am greeted by sweeping sand dunes. In the summer, this swimming beach is jammed to the gills. Today, it is all mine.
At least for a few minutes until I meet my grandma.
I stop and lift my face to the sun. I remove my earbuds. The chilly wind off the water dries my sweat. The sound of the waves stills my heart. I open my eyes.
Why did I choose to remain in a town where my parents were killed? Where I am constantly surrounded by ghosts?
Because this is home.
I have walked these same paths and strolled these same beaches with my parents and grandparents my entire life. My grandma found her first Petoskey stone as a girl right over there. My mom used to paint sunsets on this beach. My dad would fish, and my grampa told me about his very first kiss on this beach.
There is a map in my heart that is shaped like a mitten, and it always leads me home.
And I know in my heart I yearn for someone to see what I still see here.
Family.
“Susan!”
I hear my name carried on the wind, and I turn. Grandma and Grampa are standing way down the beach, motioning for me to join them.
I take off, jogging along the shoreline, dancing this way and that like a piping plover to avoid the waves.
“Grampa’s walking?” I ask, catching my breath. “Hell has officially frozen over.”
He rubs his belly. “Santa’s gotta stay in shape, too. He’s got a big day coming up.” My grampa laughs. “And nothing’s completely frozen over yet. Beautiful December day, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“How was your run, sweetheart?” my grandma asks.
“Great,” I say. “Why’d you call me all the way down here? Trailhead’s up there.”
“That’s why. Look!”
My grandma points, and I follow her index finger.
On a large swath of beach, where the sand is hard, stands a sculpture garden.
To be more accurate, a sculpture garden created by Mother Nature.
“Wow!” is the only word I can muster.
Hundreds of shapes—some a few feet high—dot the shoreline. This happens on rare occasions during early winter on the beaches of Michigan. Frozen, sculpted sand along the lake emerge when strong winds erode the frozen sand.
The end result feels as if you’ve wandered into someone’s pottery studio and are perusing half-finished works of art.
I take a few steps closer and study the shapes.
A number of them resemble the vintage turned wood Christmas ornaments my mom and grandma collected.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say. “Look at that. Someone’s already been out here. They drew a figure eight around those two ornaments.”
My grampa laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s not a figure eight,” he says, “it’s an infinity sign.”
I look again.
“Listen,” he continues. “Sssshhhh.”
A gust of wind whips off the water and encircles two sand ballerinas. The wind picks up the sand, and the ladies look as if they are dancing in the sunshine. I move my eyes down the figures, and the wind is creating an infinity sign around them.
“We know how hard this holiday season is for you,” my grandma says. “We just wanted to remind you of how beautiful it is, too. You work so hard, you rarely take time to enjoy what’s around you anymore. Sometimes, we have to remind ourselves to stop and look around.”
My grampa gestures to the shapes in front of us.
“Not to get all preachy on you, but we just wanted you to see the beauty of what can be created when we allow the wind to wash over us and allow our true selves to emerge,” he says. “I believe God is telling us that when we still our minds and bodies, when we believe in something greater than simply what we see that surrounds us, then the image of what was originally intended will finally be born.
“Infinity,” my grampa continues. “God’s understanding has no limit. It’s infinite. We are all connected.”
I look at my grandfather. His faith has carried him this far after so much loss.
He looks at me and then scans the horizon. “I believe I will see your mother and father again, or I would not be able to go on with such joy and determination. Our lives are a continuum. Death is not the end, it’s the beginning. We are living in infinity, but we refuse to see it that way.”
My grampa takes a seat on a stool made of sand. He pats similar ones next to him, and me and my grandma join him.
“People forget that the legend of Santa Claus began with a Christian monk named Nicholas. He was born around 280 AD in what is now known as Turkey. Nicholas was from a very wealthy family, but he gave away all the money he had to help the poor and sick,” my grampa says. “Legend says he once saved three sisters who were going to be sold as slaves by providing them with a dowry so they could be married. As a result, Santa Claus became a phonetic holiday version of St. Nick.”
He continues. “The name ‘Kris Kringle’ dates back to the German Kristkindl, meaning ‘Christ Child.’ During the Protestant Reformation in the 1500s, Martin Luther wanted to discourage the figure of St. Nicholas, as he believed praying to any saint was against Scripture. Luther and his followers introduced the idea that the Christkind would secretly come on Christmas Eve to bring presents to all the good children. Christkind was modified to Kris Kringle. Although the first documented use of that name dates back centuries, do you know where many believe the name became entrenched in our society?”
I shake my head.
“Miracle on 34th Street,” my grandma says. “The name of the lead character who believes he’s Santa Claus. Americans began to adopt the idea that Santa’s real name was Kris Kringle, believing it was connected to St. Nicholas and not German for Christ Child. It’s the reason your parents named you Susan. You are part of the continuum. You are our infinity.”
I stare at my grandparents, shaking my head. I open my mouth, but my grandfather cuts me off before I can utter a word.
“Books, Susan,” he says with his signature Santa laugh. “That’s how we booksellers know so much.”
“And the occasional Christmas and Hallmark movie,” my grandma adds. “Where would we be without White Christmas, It’s A Wonderful Life, Elf and Christmas Vacation?”
“And don’t forget Die Hard,” my grampa says. He continues. “Family should be infinite, too, Susan. We’re not perfect. Far from it. No family is. But, done right, family provides a foundation for being your best self. Too few get this start in life.”
“Too few are given unconditional love like I’ve been blessed to be shown my whole life,” my grandma says. “Why do you think I married your grandfather?”
“You better say because I was handsome.”
“Well, that part is true,” she says, “but, mostly, you were just a good person, like my father and mother. You all taught me the meaning of unconditional love. It sounds so simple, but it’s so, so hard—to love unconditionally. What does that mean? That you love without any conditions. You don’t set rules for how, when and why you love. So many grow up believing they are not deserving of great love, and that their love must come with conditions. It’s okay if he treats me poorly if he tells me he loves me. It’s okay if I make less than other workers if I still have a job. It’s okay if he yells at me if he apologizes when he’s done. If we’re not demonstrated unconditional love growing up we have zero concept of what it means.”
Without warning, I start blubbering. It’s quite a show, a real Desiree Delmonico scene. My grandparents walk over to me and pat my shoulders.
“Too many of us are scarred by our families,” my grandma says. “What can we as parents and grandparents get right in this life? No, what should we get right in this life? To demonstrate and teach our children and grandchildren unconditional love.”
“Susan,” my grampa says, “your grandma and I just don’t want you to get consumed by your grief again. We’re here, like we’ve always been, if and when you need us.” He smiles. “That’s all. Sermon over.”
I stand and turn. “I wouldn’t be here today without you.”
We hug as one.
“Since it seems this walk has turned into an impromptu therapy session,” my grandma says with a wink, “I just want to say one last thing.”
“Do I need to brace myself?”
“After the Phillip Strauss drama,” my grandma continues, “I’m just concerned that you’re not the Susan we once knew.”
I begin to lie, but I stop. I have lied to this woman. I don’t want to anymore. “I’m happy, I really am. I’m just not...” I stop, searching for the right word “...complete.”
“Well,” my grampa says, “Noah told us about the mysterious Santa in Chicago. And I know you’ve had your share of dates...”
“Share?” I laugh. “I’ve dated every eligible man in Petoskey. Or scared them off.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
I think of Jordan. More irony.
“No.”
“When was the last time you went on a real date?” my grandma asks.
“You remember, right? The Cletus debacle.”
“Let me just say this,” my grandma continues. “Men are intimidated by smart women. And when you’re pretty, too...”
I start to protest.
“Uh-huh, not on my watch,” she continues. “You think you aren’t, but you are. You’re a natural beauty. I think you and Holly both scare men off, and I also think that’s a good thing because you both need to meet strong, smart men who not only love you unconditionally but also who respect you, who not only complete you but want you to be the best people you can be.”
“But you must be best friends and make a real team, right, Mrs. Claus?” my grampa asks. “To be completely transparent, Susan, I think you have this ill-conceived notion that our relationship, like your parents’ relationship, was as magical and simple as a sleigh ride around the world. It wasn’t. We all need to take a leap of faith. Sixty years of marriage just doesn’t happen without a lot of hard work, compromise, mistakes and faith.”
“I wasn’t looking for a man dressed as Santa, nor was your mother,” my grandma says. “Neither of us were even looking for someone. But when they appeared, we had to put our hearts on the line. We had to take a risk. And after all the grief you’ve experienced in this life, I can only imagine how scary that must be for you. But if you want a Christmas miracle, Susan, you still gotta believe in Santa.”
“Sorry to bring you all the way out here to pull an Oprah moment on you, but we just want you to focus on how many people love you. We just want you to love you that much.”
“I do,” I say. I stop. “Most of the time.”
“Well, we better get back to the store,” my grandma says. “Take some time for yourself. Remember, we greet the kids at 5:30 and then we have the event at the local library.”
“I’ll be there well before then,” I say. “Thank you.”
I watch my grandparents head up the beach, slowly growing smaller until they become one with the mist off the water. I sit down again on one of the sandy stools that has been formed directly on the shoreline, just feet from the water’s edge. I stare out at the bay. The shoreline curves in a sweeping arc, mimicking the infinity symbol before me. I lift my face to the sun and close my eyes. I think of my parents and grandparents when they first met. Two young women meeting two young men dressed in Santa suits. The absurdity of the universe makes me laugh out loud.
Over my laughter, the waves call and crash, louder and louder. It takes me a moment to come out of my thoughts and realize that something sounds as if it’s washed ashore. I open my eyes, and I jump up with a start.
The top part of a pine tree—drenched, yet green, fragrant and freshly cut—sits at my feet.
At first, I laugh anew, but then my laughter turns to tears.
As crazy as it sounds, I cannot help but think this tree was sent as a sign from Captain Santa himself, or perhaps from my parents, or even the depths of Lake Michigan, as a reminder and wake-up call that I am here—right here, this Christmas—for a reason.
“Infinity,” I say to the pine, touching its wet needles.