POSTMARK
By Ray Marks

All the apartment windows were wide open, and the cool night air pushed through the curtains and swirled over me as I lay asleep.

I was dreaming. It was a delightful dream. In this lovely dream, I owned a new car a new one, and I owned it, mind you and I was in a service station and the attendant came out and said, "Yes, sir?"

"Fill it up."

He did so. He accidentally spilled a gallon or so over on to the fender, and he apologized for that he was afraid it might spoil the paint.

He checked the tires, too, but the poor fellow got too much air in one of them and blew it out. But that was all right he gave me a new tire and tube. I was still dreaming, of course.

I got behind the wheel and drove off. It was early morning, and the miles flew past with a wonderful speed. I passed a state patrolman on a hill and it was necessary for me to do just a shade over 65 in order to get past him. But it was all right he just tooted his horn companionably as I swished by. This is just a dream, you understand.

On and on I drove, one, two, three days without hardly a stop. Then, at the end of the fourth day's travel, something happened that spoiled my whole trip.

I woke up.

I got dressed and ready for work, and walked to the post office. I had intended to drive, but two of the tires on my Plymouth were flat. But that was all right. I was out of gas, anyhow.

No kidding, though, I don't doubt a bit but what post war trips are being planned and dreamed of by a good many travel-starved Americans.

Personally, I want to go back to Michigan. Just for a visit, though. But if I ever do have to live anywhere out of Washington, Michigan is where I'll go to.

The two states are a good deal alike. Oh, Washington has Rainier, of course, but some of the country in Michigan's northern peninsula is pretty rugged. And some of the roads in the Iron Mountain country are just as twisting and tortuous as those in the Cascades. But not so high up.

For a good many years we went cherry picking each summer on a peninsula that jutted twenty miles out into Little Traverse Bay.

I can remember climbing clear to the top of the trees and picking the last few big black sweet cherries that some picker had missed. It seemed as though those last cherries on the highest bough were the sweetest, blackest and largest of any that we had picked.

I can remember, too, driving to the beach at Old Mission and running down the sandy slope and stumbling out into the chill clear water of Lake Michigan and falling flat into the water and feeling the cold shock of it run through me and drive out all the tiredness and dirtiness and dust. And I can remember Mom telling me to use some soap. . . . . . .soap while I was swimming. Can you imagine that?

We never became rich from picking cherries, but it was a swell way to spend a vacation.

I've gone to Redondo Beach and watched the sun set way out behind the Olympics. I don't know of anything that is lovelier. Except a sunset on Lake Michigan.

A few years ago, when I was young and fanciful, I had every intention of being the world's greatest living poet. Now I'll settle for second or third place, but anyhow, at that time I felt it my duty to be deeply impressed by the song of birds, flowers, the beauties of nature, an sunsets. Especially sunsets.

I was impressed by one. I've never forgotten it.

The Lake was calm that evening, as though it were expecting the unusual to happen. You know how a lovely woman prepares herself for an especial occasion? How she paints and combs and arranges and fusses? Well, the lake was a Lady, and she had made her preparations, and now she was relaxed and waiting. Inviting. And soon the colors came. The Lake waved at them in greeting, and the colors settled from the sun and pressed close to the emerald gown of the Lake-Lady. All the colors of the spectrum were there, not in rigidly regimented rows, sharply defined, no, not that way. Blended and subtle and wavering and shapeless and mystic, mixed and stirred by a Divinely Artistic hand. We sat on the beach and watched, and the sun sank lower, and a little lazy night wind started up, and then quickened, and out on the lake thunderheads began to pile up and lightening started in competition to the fading sunlight. And night settled down and we picked up our baskets and towels and left the beach because the sunset was over.

However. This is perhaps too much about a mere trip. Anyone can go on a long journey if they want to. Sure. . . . . .clear to Michigan. Even farther. Here's how. Eat a big bowl of chili, two hamburgers, a piece of lemon pie, and a dish of ice cream . . . . . butterscotch. These things combined are promised to take you right out of this world.

FROM THE AUBURN (WASHINGTON) GLOBE-NEWS, AUGUST 9, 1944

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