September 15, 1974
Bay View, Michigan
They sent me up here to photograph the changing colors of the trees and how the locals prepared for the cold weather that followed. It's more boring than I anticipated. Without the summery air that brings in tourists, I find myself wandering the few parts of the town that remain open. The local Italian restaurant has decent cannolis, and the memorial gardens have been a comfort to write in. Of course, writing without a typewriter isn't my favorite, but on days like today, I don't mind as much.
My mother called the inn last night, though I wish she wouldn't. She worries too much, unlike my father, who seems to care too little. I guess she makes it up for both of them. It makes me wish I had siblings to lessen the load, but then again, it would just be more people to call on birthdays and Christmas. The call was just the rambling she always does, something or other about a dream she had. Something tells me this was more than just her usual ramblings.
After I put the phone back on the receiver and fell back asleep, I woke up to a dripping noise coming from overtopping my head. The ceiling has water damage; I can see that in the brown stains that have formed into circles. Still, there was no water on the floor, only a small puddle in the bathroom where the tub met the floor. I thought I had cleaned most of the water up from my bath, but I suppose not all. What woke me up next was more anxiety-inducing than the last, though I suspected rats or bugs from the old inn. It brushed against the top of my head, pulling at a few strands of my hair, urging me to look up at the stained covered ceiling for the greater part of thirty minutes.
Now, I'm sitting in the garden again, watching Little Traverse Bay rock back and forth with my nice cup of coffee. The smell has already made me hungry, and simultaneously want a cigarette, but that could also be from the withdrawal. I'm not looking forward to going back inside the inn and staying there for another week, but I need to finish the article, and then I'm off again. To where? Unknown. Soon, maybe a desk in upper Manhattan, but until then, I'm content with these quaint cottages and inns.
-Birdie Bell
. . .
