Along the northern frontier

I’ll bet when you hear “Border Town” you think of dusty places in the Southwest, facing each other across the Rio Grande, full of Border Patrol vans driven by guys in black sunglasses.  You probably don’t think of the northern lakes and rivers that frame Michigan so attractively.  But here we are, snuggled up to Ontario, hockey-loving, auto-building voyageurs linked forever by ties of family and history. 

We have an International Freedom Festival on the Detroit River every July.  Our pockets jingle with each other’s pennies and quarters.  We don’t even notice until we try to use one of those quarters in a vending machine.  We think snowy winters, tall pines and Florida vacations are the norm.  We like each other.  Inevitably, we intermarry–although nobody notices.  Half the people we know have some sort of Canadian connection.  And why is all this on my mind?  Because I always enjoy the cheerful sight of the Fritzes’ toolshed when I walk past there with Miss Sadie and the Cowboy.