Travel Journals

Vermillion, Ohio

7/15/25

“Granny Joe’s Ice Cream Emporium and Lunch.” Yellow walls, white lace curtains, old carpeted floors, old ceiling panels like the ones I used to have in the basement of our old house. White chairs with rounded tops and plastic magenta seat cushions. Flowers on bright green, pink, yellow and purple painted on the lower half of the walls, white on the top half. Only seven tables in total. Families, small children and grandparents. “You can’t get anything for a dime anymore!” An older woman says from behind the ice cream counter. I order a Lake Erie Perch Sandwich with green beans. The water tastes like well-water. Reminds me of Grandma’s old house. Cornfields and well water, driving in a toy jeep, pumping the silver water pump beside the barn. “Sugar-free? What’s the point in that!” Laughter. Coughing. Old black and white pictures framed on the walls: a horse and buggy with people smiling in the back, Lake Erie Drive-In, A&W root beer float drive-through, railroad tracks, cars from the 50s; all so familiar to me even though I’ve never been to this particular town. Water in that classic tall, see-through red, “Coca-Cola” glass cup that not’s really glass but plastic that all old diners have, that Grandma had. Salt and pepper shakers. Sugar packets. Sweet & low. Half and half. “This is one of those ‘Life isn’t too bad’ moments.” Clattering of silverware from the kitchen behind me. Flip flops. Colorful graphic t-shirts. Midwest. Home. “Patty” “Sue” “Judy” “Poppy.” Jean shorts. Ketchup bottles. Plastic straws in paper wrappers. Aprons. A family starts heading out. “Sir, no one paid here.” “Oh,” short-sleeve Hawaiin button-down, cargo shorts. Sandals. Sunglasses. “You still have to pay?” Laughter. Dad joke. I smirk to myself. Single vintage wooden fan on the ceiling. Vintage-looking wall lamps at every table. Small wooden block sitting on the mantel, ticking quietly. “When you have a moment,” an old woman with white hair sat kitty corner to me says softly in the waitress’ direction. “Yes, dear,” replies the waitress, mid-40s. “Could I get a small ice cream? Butter pecan?” Nods. “I’ll take the same,” says the older fellow across, her husband, in a soft strained voice. Hearing aids. “Well, what about the chocolate topping… Or….” He looks expectedly at the waitress. “I don’t know your tastebuds, hun.” The servers are kind, not nice – I didn’t realize I missed that. Perhaps the familiarity. The tough love. “Okay, butter pecan with chocolate sauce.” The older woman reprimands him after the waitress walks away. “She can’t make the decision for you.” “Sure she can.” Nice to see old age doesn’t take away everything. I hear my parents, see into their future. I smile. I order moose tracks, they called it something different like nilly something, then I pay and step outside. Lines of stores, all unique, all local and independent. No chains here. I step into an ocean-themed store, full of mini ship figurines, pirate treasures, and sea glass galore. I buy a few miniature dried starfish and sand dollars. The cashier is kind. He is missing a couple teeth. He asks if it’s okay that there’s a small credit card fee. “Oh, of course that’s no problem.” It was less than a dollar additional fee. ”I just like to let people know.” Big smile. Worn hands. Then to a fantasy/magic kind of store. I’m surprised that’d go in a town like this. I buy a surprise tarot card, feeling like I’m still in London for a moment. “RACCOON: The Inventor.” On to the pier. Lake houses along the way. American flags in every direction, every block. White porches with white rockers. A small canal with boats leading to the lake. An older man on a boat leading to the open water. I see my dad. I approach the big rocks around the pier’s edge. A small lighthouse. The Great Lakes are so big they look like oceans. You look off into the distance and its limitless. Without the big waves. Best of all, without the salt. The water is a velvet blanket, not a stinging burn. Bathing suits. Crying babies. Tattoos. Sand. Blazing sun. Gentle breeze. No seagulls, I realize. Still familiar. I sit on a bench on a grassy area just above the beach area. I feel the back of my neck burning. I recognize the families on the beach, see into my past, see me and my siblings running along the small beach. Tents and chairs set up. I’m no longer in the city. I’m no longer in a different country. I’m no longer the same, yet I am. I wanted to do a street-style sort of interview, but people don’t do interviews and tripods here. “That’s for city folk,” I hear them say in my head. I smile. Maybe I’m hearing my Grandpa’s voice. Too young to remember. It’s too hot out, anyway. Maybe I should go to Cleveland, where I was originally headed today, only 20 more miles from here. Maybe I don’t want to. I must be the only one here wearing full makeup right now; I made it to look natural, but still. Only one wearing an Apple Watch and white sneakers. “It’s too damn hot out for that,” I hear in that country bumpkin voice, maybe my Mom’s. An old man in a long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into cargo pants/trousers walks past me, up to the edge of the pier. Slight hunch, square glasses, hearing aids. He put his hands together behind his back, resting gently. He looks out over the lake, silently. I see my dad again. I was headed toward the city but ended up somewhere more like home. So I close my eyes and breathe in the lake breeze. For a moment, I take off this current version of myself, strip back into the child living inside of me. I take off my shoes and socks and walk right up toward the shore like I’ve done it a million times, and I have, just not here, not quite here, same lake, same people. I walk slowly along the waterline, right where the water across my feet submerged in sand and back over. I find a perfect piece of green sea glass even though I was only looking for a good rock. As I leave, a flamboyant man in his late 30s walks by with his mother and partner and uses his hands to say, “This looks like a mini paradise,” looking out over the mini beach. He really means it. I look back over my shoulder. Of course it is. I realize what I’ve had tucked in my pocket all along.