I grumble as much as anyone about the difficulty of parking downtown during Fisherman’s Picnic. I complain about the long lines at the local eateries or street vendors when I want a quick meal during our big summer event. But when it comes down to it, I love Fisherman’s Picnic.
I always have. Growing up in Cook County, I looked forward to Fisherman’s Picnic every year. I wasn’t a “town kid.” I lived six miles away on “the old highway,” which is now known as County Road 7. So I didn’t get to go to town very much. But we always got to spend time in town during Fisherman’s Picnic.
Part of the enjoyment of Fisherman’s Picnic years ago was the carnival that came with it. The view of Grand Marais from the top of a Ferris Wheel is amazing. One of my all time favorite memories is riding The Octopus on The Point. You haven’t lived until you realize that the twirling car you’re riding in could snap off its sprocket and sail into Lake Superior.
But even without the excitement of carnival rides, Fisherman’s Picnic is fun. This community is very clever at coming up with interesting competitions. Over the years there have been canoe and motor boat races in the harbor, greased pole climbing, donkey basketball, hospital bed races and more.
Think about it—how many places have a pickled fish eating contest? A Fish Toss? I think we are alone in those pastimes! But it keeps Fisherman’s Picnic interesting.
There is, however, one “game” at Fisherman’s Picnic that I do not like. It’s the “I know who you are—who am I?” game.
One of the joys of Fisherman’s Picnic is reuniting with old friends and catching up with long-lost relatives. Fisherman’s Picnic is the time to come home for a visit if you want to see everyone you’ve ever known from kindergarten to graduation. The problem is, we don’t look like we did back then. That is one of the challenges of Fisherman’s. At least it is for me.
I think I am at a disadvantage though. It is pretty easy to figure out who I am. I’m the one walking around Fisherman’s Picnic with a camera around my neck and a little tablet, taking photos and writing down names. Who would do that, but a reporter? How many reporters are there in Grand Marais? Odds are pretty good that old friends can figure out who I am.
Unfortunately there are no clues for me. When I meet a 50-something friend wandering around Wisconsin Street and he or she says, “Hi Rhonda,” I’m at a loss. I have to smile and chat vaguely until I figure out how I know him or her—am I related? Did we ride the school bus together? Were we in 4-H together? Were we in detention together?
Most of the time I eventually figure out who they are. I’m always astonished at the vast feeling of relief when my memory finally kicks in and I remember who I am talking to.
Unfortunately there are those other times when I just cannot remember a person—and I can’t keep the conversation vague enough to keep him or her from knowing I have no clue. There is nothing worse than someone shaking his or her head and asking, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
It is an awkward situation, but I’ve come up with a solution. I think everyone should be issued a nametag when they cross the Lake-Cook County line. Fill it out, slap it on, and proceed to Fisherman’s Picnic.
If you don’t like the idea, stop by the office or catch me on the street to discuss it. Just please, please, tell me who you are first!
I always have trouble remembering
three things: faces, names and—
I can’t remember what the third
thing is.
Fred A. Allen
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