Maggie Doherty

This summer I’ve spent a lot of time untangling fishing line, rethreading rods, and pulling hooks of various lures out of dock lines, clothing, and other objects that sadly were not perch, pike, or walleye. Luckily, no eyes, scalps, or other body parts were caught. Fishing line seemed to appear in the unlikeliest of places, clumps of it lassoing unsuspecting bystanders and the knots only tightened.

It’s become a reflex of habit whenever I travel to other midsized or small cities: I notice crosswalks, look for bike lanes or paths, and scan lampposts for flags and helpful signage. I’ve become primed for infrastructure, aware of public parking lots, metered parking, and what downtowns look and feel like. Then there’s the tourism reaction sense that I try to tap into, gauging how the waiter or barista takes orders or quips with a patron.

I’m afraid that I didn’t keep in touch with many friends from my childhood, a combination of leaving my hometown for a college in another state, a petulant zeal to leave behind my small town and its trappings, including friendships, and my parents’ separate moves to new towns and new marriages. The final rupture between me and Boyne City was leaving for Montana at age 22. Childhood connections were lost in my attempt to stake a claim in a new landscape that felt equally exhilarating and daunting.