A few years back Laura Quackenbush from The Leelanau Historical Society and Museum uncovered a remarkable document and passed it on to me. In many ways this document is the Rosetta Stone of identity in Leelanau County, Michigan, and helps explain much of what we have come to take for granted about life as it is lived here. At the same time, it is a document in early touristic advertising, done in the day when narrative advertising was still possible. In our day of sound bites and image-driven longing, it is possible to overlook the power of the story to persuade. Nonetheless, the subtext of this early story has served as the dominant myth for generations of tourists and locals alike. It is the story we tell ourselves daily, and the source of its power is its partial truth. As a pattern for realistic year-round life in a small town, however, the narrative has some serious shortcomings. Put simply, the life of a tourist bears little relation to the life of a local, and yet the one story is all we have to go by.

Leelanau County is situated in Michigan's "little finger" peninsula, so called because of its placement on the northwest part of the "hand" of lower Michigan. A resort community was established here in the early part of this century, catering to industrialists from Indiana and Chicago who could afford to pack their families off to the north country for the summer. Today the county still caters to the resorter population. Much of the beautiful coastline has been preserved in the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, but much of the county is also under threat from the intense pressure of development. Cherry farmers, who tend to own the valuable view property so coveted by developers, have a very hard time resisting the pressure to sell their orchards. Loss of orchards inevitably leads to a loss of local identity.

In 1924 the Leelanau County Association of Commerce issued a promotional booklet entitled Leelanau County: The Land of Delight. The cover of the twenty page booklet is done up in mottled browns, with filigree cameos containing full color landscape drawings and depictions of abundant clusters of fruit. Inside is an odd little story of travel and tourism. The booklet recounts the adventures of the Cy Howard family as they travel north from the “corn belt” in search of rest and relaxation in the “Northland”.

As the story opens, father Cy has been driving like a man possessed for three days, determined to speedily clock up as many miles as humanly possible in his quest to reach the Straits of Mackinaw and beyond. In the back seat sit Madie, sixteen years old, and Ted, twelve years old. Beside Cy sits long suffering Mother, who wishes her man would slow down and relax. Cy has other plans.

The subtitle of the booklet, revealed on the first page and never directly alluded to subsequently is “The Captives, Being the Story of a Family's Vacation.” It may be a subtle play on words, or just dumb luck, but as the story opens it would seem that “The Captives” perfectly describes the situation of the children in the back seat of the automobile, who are forced to endure father's single-minded race northwards. By the end of the story, however, it becomes evident that the family has been made “captive” by the beauty of Leelanau County, after father is reluctantly diverted from his pre-ordained route north. The brochure is a remarkable document in auto-ethnography. In it, preserved like pressed flowers in a long forgotten book, is a snapshot of the early self-promotional efforts of an innocent Leelanau County, and an indication of the extent to which locals were supposed to be prepared to bend over to accommodate tourists.

Leelanau County: The Land of Delight is illustrated with photos from black and white postcards of the day, and seems very professionally produced, despite its “corny” stereotypical characters and stilted dialogue. In a stylistically awkward plea from mother the reader is informed of the family history:

“But it's only July; school doesn't open for months. There's nothing to make us tear so!” Cy advanced the throttle and crept up on another car ahead. “For thirty years we've rushed like this!” Mother went on. “You've burned yourself up to get to where we are. Now there's enough to educate the children, enough for us to live on, the factory's sold and – we're still rushing like mad!”

So. Dialogue as exposition. Father is a rich industrialist who has retired early and has money to spend - just the sort of man for Leelanau County. This is an amazingly astute and prescient piece of marketing. Much of Leelanau County's current inflated housing market springs directly from the abundance of disposable income generated by these very captains of industry which the booklet sought to attract. Back then, the summer homes were temporary escapes from the sooty cities to the south of us. Today offspring of those itinerant captains of industry work online from their getaway trophy homes “up north”, becoming semi-virtual residents in a semi-virtual community. Eighty years ago the author of this promotional booklet already had a clear notion of the target audience for Leelanau County resorters, and was tapping into a promising vein.

But, to return to our story of the Howard family…. Father has no intention of diverting to Leelanau County. Like a rich ancestral incarnation of the harassed Griswold dad, father is determined to reach his destination. He is a goal oriented man who does not know how to relax. Mother, then Madie, and finally Ted plead with father to relent for a brief foray into the little finger peninsula of Leelanau:

“Here it is!” cried Ted as, at a fork in the road, a huge sign board told them that the turn to the left meant Leelanau County. To the right, cars sped in an endless river of seekers after quiet and cool country; to the left the inviting road was uncongested. Cyrus stopped the car.
“Come on,” mother coaxed. “You're only getting worn out with this rush. It'll do you good to change the plan.”

Change the plan. Get off the fast track. Head for the slipstream. Turn off and tune out, and do it in style. The road less traveled leads to Leelanau County, and that makes all the difference. Leelanau county apparently offers little in the way of adventure, compared to the “quiet and cool country” to the north. It is an odd little detour, a refuge from the northwoods rat race. Little do they know, however, that they will be able to have their cake and eat it too, since Leelanau County is not only God's County, but God's County with plenty of amenities.

Over and over again, throughout the course of the story, Cy's financial credentials are subtly delineated. Father is an overachiever. He is a classic type A rich guy. He is rude and driven. He bumps into business associates and friends of friends from Cincinnati, Kansas City, and other metropolitan centers, and is amazed to find them in such a remote and far flung place as Leelanau County, the “Land of Delight”. Despite the isolation and beauty of Leelanau County, the Howards are constantly astounded by the upmarket amenities and surprisingly cosmopolitan charm of this rustic peninsula. It seems as if they have crossed over into some sort of Brigadoon for rich guys. Leelanau county, with its geographical isolation and presumed rusticity, is the last place Cy Howard would want to visit; he is the kind of cigar smoking tycoon who would have no use for the hayseed rubes who inhabit this out of the way place. He wants to go straight north, to the true wilderness, in search of more substantial adventure, but despite himself he is serendipitously lured into a better place. Cy Howard doesn't get what he wants; he gets what he needs.

Not far over the county line, the car sputters and starts. Father sputters too:

“Drat that motor! Must be the distributor again. Up here off the main line with nobody but hay-makers in garages. Fat chance of getting repairs! NOW see what you've done!”

Near Empire, father belligerently demands directions of an old man who peacefully sits by the road and whittles. At first he looks a little rough around the edges, but upon closer inspection the old man appears to be a sort of rural Dalai Lama:

The man looked up and they saw that he was neither old nor frowsy. His hair and beard were gray but his eyes were as blue as the lake itself and in them was friendliness and tolerance. His hands were browned and hardened but they were clean. He was a rugged fellow with many years on his shoulders but he had the smile of a boy and his voice was like a fresh wind blowing.

As the first resident of this hayseed county encountered by the Howard family, the old man impresses them with his calm friendliness. He repays rudeness with kindness and forbearance. He ends up being typical of all the inhabitants of this magical county, only more so. He is, literally, Leelanau County incarnate, as you shall see in the end. The old man has Droopy Dog's powers of unhurried speed. Everywhere the Cy Howard family goes they find the old man there before them, patiently helping them find their way.

After being pleasantly surprised by the speedy and inexpensive service on his car, Cy stuffs the mechanic's pocket with expensive cigars and drives on. The family stops at an inn for some down-home healthy food. Young Ted, who by now has been called both “spindly Ted” and “delicate Ted,” downs a glass of milk and asks for another. Mother ascertains from the waitress that the milk is “good”, tuberculin free, whole milk, and goes on to inquire about the availability of doctors in the region, should one be needed. A nearby woman replies:

“At no place in Leelanau are you more than mere minutes from a doctor. And they're good ones too. Three years ago we were terribly worried because our daughter had acute appendicitis. In twenty minutes after we called the doctor was here and in another hour it was all over.”

I tend to assume that “all over” means the daughter pulled through. The quality of life issues just keep on popping up all throughout the Howards' stay in Leelanau. Does the Leelanau County Association of Commerce want the Howards to move here permanently, or just spend some tourist dollars? Perhaps a little of both. Cy is determined to be ill tempered, but “somehow his ill temper didn't fit this place.” Slowly but surely Cy begins to unwind. Ah, the redemptive power of place!

The thread of Victorian Romanticism is strong: the redemptive power of nature, the simplicity and charm of rural life, the nearness of God and the friendliness of the inhabitants all collaborate to make Leelanau County a heaven on earth. The picture of Nature that emerges is not of the great unspoiled, undeveloped Northwoods, but of the overlooked place of beauty. On this out of the way peninsula exists an almost secret way of life which leads to unexpected contentment. Unspoiled nature combines with harmonious habitation to create a charmed enclave of tranquility. “Land of Delight… That's what Leelanau means in Injun',” explains the old timer, the “Neighbor”, who has mysteriously popped up again, launching into a homespun history lesson:

“They lived here and hunted and fished and was happy. Father Marquette and those other old fellers was here a lot and history shows they liked it. The fur traders come and our grandfathers followed them and in the late forties commenced to build their homes. Floks've been comin' ever since to settle and now city floks've found out that we've got better roads, that we're off the beaten trail and they've come to find contentment…like you have.”

Well, shucks! Ungrammatical wisdom just oozes from his every pore. What with them nice roads an' all, well…even city folks can find a place in the sun.

With a smattering of history, and enough simplicity to inspire exploitation, the old timer encourages the Howards to join him in this contented county. Of course, there is no mention of the lumber boom and bust which has already happened, and the desperate need to diversify the income base of the local economy. Tourism would become the salvation of the region, if only we could sell the lifestyle to the right market. And what better market than wealthy industrialists with disposable income? The anonymous author who penned this tractarian piece clearly understood the parameters of the game. It is doubtful whether the equation between wealthy tourists and local economics has ever been more clearly and consciously expressed. We locals have all grown up unconsciously accepting what is clearly articulated in this little booklet. Moreover, we have bought into the tourist mentality ourselves, so that we too feel privileged to live here, despite the fact that we ourselves are not necessarily wealthy resorters. Such is the power of advertising.

Leelanau County is marketed as a place of pristine beauty, inhabited, but not spoiled by man. In Leelanau County: The Land of Delight is the pattern and paradigm for all subsequent local promotional literature to follow. But coupled with the strong pitch for Nature is the equally insistent note of sophistication. There are plenty of amenities here, and plenty of willing locals to lend a hand to rich tourists. “We all aim to help you poor city folks when you come,” explains Neighbor, as he refuses payment for services rendered to the Howard family. For locals it's really not about money, and it's just as well, really. The faithful retainer waits on the seasonal resorter, and takes vicarious pleasure in his contentment. Time after time the Cy Howards are surprised by the endless array of fine accommodation, restaurants, golf courses and “surprisingly good roads”. You don't have to rough it in Leelanau County. “There's rewards up here. We worked hard to whittle our homes out of the forest, but see what we've got… And we can make cross men happy!”

Transportation is the key to luring these cross men (with disposable income) here. The Leelanau County Road Commission understood early on that the resort community which pumped precious dollars into the local economy needed good paved roads. Along with the good roads, however, was the obligation to maintain the scenic beauty.

In planning new road improvement we are bearing in mind the fact that is it [sic] absolutely necessary for us to not straighten them out too much, but leave them as winding as possible, with the curves built on long radius so as to give vision and safety. It is our obligation that we must retain our beauty that we have in our highways of the county for which we are noted, and which is a selling card to us. (Fourteenth Annual Report of the Board of County Road Commissioners of Leelanau County, 1930)

" Vision and safety”, the two factors mentioned in this report, represent the complementary needs of the sightseer and the functional traveler. With admirable candor, the report identifies the natural beauty of the area as a “selling card” for the county. Roads in resort areas must accommodate form and function, vision and safety. One need only spend ten minutes in any local resort town on a crowded summer day to see this dynamic in action. The complementary – one might say conflicting - needs of transport and tourism are embodied in the appalling - one might say near comatose – driving of aged resorters, obliviously pointing their huge vehicles in the general direction of straight ahead while slowly taking in the view.

Of course, 1930 (the year of the above excerpt) was a tough year for resorters. Because of the stock market crash of 1929, many of the cottages stood empty for a few summers. Gradually, the resort trade gained ground again, and the road commission took credit for helping the county weather the storm:

Leelanau County is known through Michigan, as one of the leaders in progressive highway construction and maintenance. That is not alone proving practical from a money saving standpoint, but has met with approbation on the part of the traveling public, and has helped our county maintain its consistent Resort and tourist business where other counties have failed, during this depression. (1931 report)

The report goes on to plead for special budgetary considerations, not directly linked to mere functionality of roads, which would be affordable but perhaps shortsighted. Instead, the road commission, quite rightly, points out the virtues of their “progressive” policy, which entails more than mere “promiscuous construction and maintenance activities.” A similar theme is sounded in the 1932 report which opens,

The resources of Leelanau County depend upon resorters and tourists more than upon any other thing. This has not failed us, and we must keep on expanding the wonderful resort possibilities this county has by ever increasing the efficient maintenance of our highways, [for] which this county now is noted. We must not fail to keep our county everlastingly before the people as the best in the north…. Our highways must be pleasing, alluring, smooth and safe to keep our own people satisfied and maintain an increasing tourist business. (1932 report)

What is remarkable in these reports is the clear analysis of the importance of resorters to the local economy, and the attempt to balance the needs of resorters and locals. Transportation in Leelanau County must meet both functional and scenic demands, to satisfy locals and tourists.

The Howard family of the 1924 promotional booklet, Leelanau County: The Land of Delight, arrive in the county by car, lured in by surprisingly good roads, on an impulse detour which leads them to discover remarkable amenities. In addition to the roadways, there are the steamers, which make it possible for fathers to commute from Chicago to Leelanau County for the weekend:

Ted and his father walked over to the Michigan Transit dock to watch the proud steamer Manitou dock. The village was filled with motor cars awaiting the passengers who crossed the gang plank. Most of them were men.
“Chicago folks,” said a familiar voice and Cy turned to see Neighbor beside him. “They've got cottages around here. They leave Chicago Friday night and get here next morning; first stop. They're with their families until Sunday night when the boat takes 'em back again, ready for the job. Great for 'em!”

And even though Cy has sold the factory, he is intrigued by the possibility of being able to commute to Chicago. Leave the family behind and go back to do battle in the great hog butcher to the world, at will, with ease – the best of both worlds. It's a crazy idea but it JUST MIGHT WORK!

The unreality of this self-promotional booklet is part of its charm, and the source of its power. The aspirations of the affluent are made real through scenery. At the same time, the nature cure does not require a severing of ties to civilization.

They struck the west shore of Lake Leelanau, eighteen miles long, and followed it into Leland, a village that with its fishing fleet looks like a bit of old Gloucester set down on the inlaid [sic] seas. They walked the forested bluffs and looked with amazement at the spacious summer homes hidden from the casual traveler by thick trees and stood for long staring out over the booming lake. ... A golf tournament was on in Leland and Mother smiled triumphantly to herself when she beheld Cy's rolling with a group toward the hotel that night, cap askew and laughing idly. It was the first time she had caught him idling in thirty years!

All the ingredients of the Land of Cokayne blend together to produce this magical experience. Lewis and Clark themselves could not have been more amazed by the scenic discoveries of the Howards. It's fresh and scenic, and yet it's peopled by inhabitants who conspire to provide the very best in recreational endeavor. The mention of “old Gloucester” gives the weight of tradition and prestige to tiny Leland. The “spacious summer homes” belong to the resort pioneers from Indiana who live in the eponymous “Indiana Woods”, tucked away from the prying eyes of the casual tourist. The scenery is not only redemptive, but tastefully discrete, sheltering the resorters from the “casual traveler.” And there's golf buddies for Dad, and a chance to unwind. It's not quite clear what mother gets out of this, apart from a sense of smug satisfaction. After all, she is being proven right in her wish to come to this county. Maybe she's just glad to be rid of him for a few hours.

But wait, there's more. It seems that spindly Ted slipped away from Mom and Dad and has been gainfully employed in picking cherries:

He came back to the hotel at evening, brown and dusty, clasping two one-dollar bills and said that he had been picking sweet cherries, and produced a box of the luscious, black fruit, which, he said, was shipped by the car load…
Ted was so enamored of the vast orchard, its packing house, its dormitories for city boys and girls who picked the fruit that he did not go with his people on their several side trips.

Later that evening Maddie is serenaded by three stalwart youths at a Suttons Bay campground. It seems that career prospects and husbands are not out of the question for Ted and Maddie, should they decide to settle out into the area.

It is only with the greatest of reluctance that the Howards eventually wind their way south towards Traverse City. They have spent two weeks in Leelanau County and even Dad has no particular wish to leave. South of Suttons Bay they stop at another cherry orchard, at Ted's insistence, and look out over the water to Henry Ford's Island in the distance (Power Island). They find out that the fruit farm, "Morningside", is owned by Dr. Flemming Carrow, "who spends eight months in Leelanau County and the other four wandering around and wishing he were back." There's no place like home, Toto.

They push on, with increasing difficulty, until they reach a "juncture of highways". Father puts in the clutch and hesitates, and then the dam bursts:

"I dunno. I s'pose there ARE other places, but what's the rush? We can take that road back and stay awhile. I'd like to see the woods in fall… and this farming thing might be the making of Ted… and I've got to have SOMETHING to do, now the factory's sold. Gee, we might as well LIVE as just have a house and lot and… Funny" -- brushing a hand across his eyes --"I feel funny! Like something was pulling at me, here, " -- gesturing to his breast.
"So do I," murmured Mother, her eyes misted. Madie threw her arms around her father's neck and Ted; well, Ted just grinned.
"Leggo!" said Cy, blinking. "Funny… It's like something PULLING at me!"

What can it be? Tuberculin infected milk? Overripe cherries? Bad clams? No! It's the creepy old man again:

From the bushes beside the road a chuckle sounded and then a figure emerged. Cy faced about sharply.
"You!" he snorted. "I s'pose you followed us! Say, Neighbor, who the dickens are you and how in thunder do you manage to keep showin' up?"

Now brace yourselves. Strange as it may seem, there can only be one answer to Cy's question. How is it that Neighbor has been able to shadow the Howards' every move throughout their entire stay in Leelanau County, Land of Delight?

"I keep showing up because once you've been here you can't shake me off!" His voice seemed to come from far away. The outlines of his figure grew vague, like a photograph out of focus. Their gazes appeared, of a sudden, to see right through him; and then he became close and concrete again. "And who am I? Maybe I'm nobody; maybe I'm everybody. I ain't got a name to my back; not a man's name… I'm …I'm what you'd call the Spirit of Leelanau, I guess. I'm old, but I'm young. I'm a son of the frontier but I've got over being rough. I sort of look after folks like you, seeing to it you have a good time, that no harm comes to you… And I tag along no matter where you go in the hopes I can catch you … and bring you back!"..
Cy looked down at his chest to where he had felt that imaginary tugging. He smiled to himself.
"You can," he said. "And you have." He opened the car door. "Get in, Neighbor. We can't shake you off. We're going back to Leelanau!"

And so, as the sun sinks slowly in the west, we leave our new found friends, the Howards, until we meet again, knowing that their lives will now be complete, thanks to the captivating beauty of Leelanau County. Amusing, no? But what does this pamphlet mean for today? It means a lot. Leelanau County: The Land of Delight has become the unconscious and unarticulated text by which locals and tourists define our county. Even though only three known copies of this document exist, the message has been absorbed and passed on through the generations.

It must be remembered that people on vacation are involved in a highly formulaic activity. Their experiences are geared to appreciation of specific sites or features of the destination. It is one thing to be aware of the beauty of your surroundings – quite another to be constantly articulating your appreciation of this beauty for all to hear. “Wow, it just doesn't get any better than this,” or “Isn't this something?” are two especially public utterances, intended primarily to reassure and bolster the touristic experience. Interestingly enough, this local boosterism is just as likely to be heard from year round residents. But why are locals always saying this? Well, maybe because they mean it. But then again, why the need to keep repeating it?

Tourists are supposed to be enjoying themselves, and their enthusiasm should somehow relate to the activity or landscape they have chosen to get involved with. When things don't work out, because of bad weather, or bad company, tourists can let go of the pleasure, and even laugh about things – “Are we having fun yet?” is the self-deprecating phrase that comes to mind. The phrase suggests a much deeper understanding of the “disconnect” experienced by travelers who feel somehow inadequate to live up to the expectations of the trip. But what if your real life is bolstered by touristic slogans? What if you can't tell or won't admit that things are not always wonderful, because you feel compelled to buy into the tourist mentality? If you live in a tourist destination and you’re still not “living the good life” is is your own fault?

The touristic experience can rarely live up to the advance billing we invest in it. Just as in real life, weather, kids, heath and our own diminished capacity for happiness and full appreciation can conspire to ruin the best of vacation experiences. It's quite understandable that tourists would construct happy memories out of photographs and (if the truth be told) mediocre experiences. The trouble is, if you live in a tourist destination, you start to feel as if the very fabric of your daily life should somehow be enhanced, merely by virtue of living in the “land of delight”. A terrible sense of inadequacy can creep in if you, apparently alone amongst your fellow inhabitants, feel a mismatch between the proclaimed reality and your own. Cognitive dissonance creeps in, and we find ourselves saying things like, “It just doesn't get any better than this,” or “I wouldn't live anywhere else in the world,” or “It's the best Jerry, the best!” There is a local saying that “A view of the bay is worth half of the pay,” which helps us get through the long winters around here, on wages which are puny in comparison to our summer residents, the ones with the houses we can’t afford.

Life rarely lives up to the overblown expectations we place on it. It's part of the nature of the American experience to expect wonderful things to happen: to be hopeful, optimistic, and sometimes even (gulp!) false. Leelanau County: The Land of Delight is an early and remarkably pure example of the power of touristic advertising to overtake and subsume the reality of place, co-opting local sensibilities completely in the process. It is a story we have all bought into, whether we can afford it or not.