There’s a scene I love in the Michigan-set television show “Joe Pera Talks with You.”
Four gals are sitting around a table at an Upper Peninsula ski slope. One of them — who is new to the group — realizes the other three are on the wrong side of a political issue. Outraged, she yells at them and storms off into the snow. It’s clear the budding friendship is over.
Then a snowboarder plows into her. And, without hesitation, the other three gals jump from the table, run over, take care of her, and start yelling at the snowboarder.
Several episodes later, they’re still friends.
I love this scene, not because I hate snowboarders, but because it captures something I find really special about northern Michigan. We know we need each other. And because of that, no matter what, we show up.
Last year my husband and I were refinancing our house, and our new, California-based mortgage company was confused about the maintenance of our private road.
“Who plows it in the winter?” they asked.
“Our neighbor does,” I wrote back.
That wasn’t enough for them.
“Is there a contract with the neighbor?” they asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“What happens if the neighbor is out of town?” they asked.
“Our other neighbor does it,” I said.
That really seemed to blow their minds. Finally our appraiser saved the day, including in her notes something to the effect of “such an informal arrangement is very common up here,” and the deal went through.
West coasters haven’t been the only ones surprised by our tacit commitment to each other. Last winter, my husband and I took my mom and sister, who were visiting from the east coast, to our favorite local trivia night. It was snowing, with several unplowed inches on the back roads, and my mom mused aloud in the car whether anyone else would be there. I think it genuinely impressed her when we arrived at the bar to find it packed as usual.
More recently, my husband and I went to the monthly Elk Rapids trivia night, hosted by the inimitable Rob Ford, whose words often grace these pages. Snow was falling and visibility was so bad that we almost turned around twice. We saw only one other car for most of the drive.
Then we pulled up to the Historic Elk Rapids Town Hall, shining in the darkness, and found it fully surrounded by cars in the process of parking and people bustling across the street and up the stairs to join their community.
The way that sight made me feel is the same way I feel when I drive into town and see protestors faithfully holding their signs, or join them myself, in a line stretching the length of Front Street from Union to Park, and wrapping all the way back around to State.
I think we northern Michiganders just have a fundamental understanding that this whole thing only works if we all show up. Especially in winter. Especially now.
I’m proud to live in a place that understands that.