When I walk down a dirt road in Union Pier, Michigan, I’m transported back more than 30 years to the cottage we used to rent there every August when our two boys were young. The cottage was part of a compound called Edgewater Villas, two rows of simple wooden bungalows on top of a bluff with a long staircase going down to Lake Michigan.

Our cottage, more accurately described as a beach shack, was built in the 1940s and little renovated since then. The mid-century furniture had been there since the mid-century, with cushions covered in tropical fabric on rattan frames. The tiny refrigerator was equally old. With no air conditioning, we sweltered in the summer heat and fought off the carpenter ants that invaded the deck.

Union Pier is a resort area located a little over an hour from Chicago. A former stop on the railroad line, it was populated after World War II by working class Lithuanian immigrants. By the time we arrived in the 1980s, the few remaining Lithuanians were outnumbered by young families in summer rentals. The downtown consisted then, as it still does today, of two shops: the bakery, which specialized in doughnuts, and a small market with rapidly rotting produce.

Our two boys played every day with other children from Edgewater Villas. They built sandcastles and forts on the beach or slathered mud all over themselves and jumped in the water, shrieking and splashing. The adults had an unspoken agreement that someone would stay on the beach to watch the children while the other adults were free to swim or read or do whatever they wanted.

Family rituals

Nancy went on long jogs down the dirt road, while Harry sailed, and Henry played classical violin solos while standing on his deck, the lovely sound reverberating through the trees. I walked for miles on the beach, head down, the sun beating on my neck, looking for crinoids, cheerio-shaped fossils that waves had tossed on the sand. Then at 5 o’clock, Harry would bring a pitcher of gin and tonics to the beach and the adults gathered round.

On Sunday mornings, we walked 10 minutes to the bakery, our two sons skipping and jumping and eager for doughnuts. We ate our doughnuts as we watched the trains go by, whooping with delight when the whistle blew. For a special treat, we went to Oink’s, the local ice cream shop. On summer evenings, families crowded into the small shop, spending long minutes studying the flavors offered. The teenaged staff generously gave multiple samples as customers took their time choosing while we waited impatiently for our turn.

One year, we brought our pet hermit crab with us. Our sons named him Bob after a crabby neighbor, and we kept him in a glass aquarium. We were going away for the day, so we put him on the deck in the shade, not realizing, as the day passed, the sun would move to beat down mercilessly on him. We came home to find Bob plastered against the glass, desiccated.

We buried him with solemn ceremony in the yard. Another year we brought our pet turtle, but he disappeared one night. Did he escape or was he eaten by some local creature? We never saw him — or his remains — again.

Several other families shared Edgewater Villas. One cottage held three generations who sat together as close as possible on the beach, little sand visible among their towels, but never talking to each other. An older couple would place their beach chairs together at the edge of the lake, letting waves wash over their feet as they read long novels.

Others would spread out, taking up as much beach geography as they could. After a few days, most regulars were recognizable, responding with friendly hellos, but staying within their own group.

Few conflicts cropped up, but one did emerge between a family building a fancy new house and the owners of the old cottage next door. The newcomers planted a row of tall bushes to demarcate their property, blocking the view of the lake from the old cottage. Stealthily, the owner of the cottage trimmed the bushes, provoking furious words from the owner of the new house when she discovered that her bushes were shrinking.

This war went on throughout the summer as gossip about it spread throughout Edgewater Villas and people took sides. Today, the bushes are about 10 feet tall, blocking most of the view from the cottage.

Remembering simpler times

On weekends, day trippers invaded the bucolic scene, leaving behind beer cans and trash. Our children happily collected the cans for the 10-cent recycling deposit, using the money to buy chocolate doughnuts. The homeowners put up signs saying that this was a private beach, although the public was allowed by law from the lake up to the high-water line.

Some years later, guards were hired to patrol the beach, kicking off people who didn’t belong. The small public beach nearby would be almost completely covered with beach umbrellas.

Remembering past summers, I’m carried back to times which seemed so much simpler than today. No worries about COVID, no serious illnesses, and no fights about politics interrupted our summer sojourn. Times are different now, as we and our friends have become the elders, with illness and death too near. Tragically, one of the boys from Edgewater Villas died suddenly of an unknown heart ailment at 37, leaving his wife with a 4- and 2-year-old. “He was my little buddy,” said my older son, remembering how they played together on the beach.

This year, we will rent a cottage in Union Pier with my son and his family. It is his children who will build the sandcastles and frolic in the water. The bakery now offers lattes and cappuccinos, while the market sells wildly overpriced wines. Lavish new houses dot the area, with some old cottages for sale for amounts that would have been laughable decades earlier. Money is transforming Union Pier.

But blessedly the beach remains the same, waves beating patterns on the sand as they will long after we are gone.