My friends and I polished our Petoskeys and turned them into jewelry for our mothers and aunts and girlfriends.
They wore it all, walking around town hunched-over, their bodies heavy with Petoskeys.
She looked at it as if I’d just handed her a macaroni bracelet. I’d spent my life believing that Michigan contains everything that a person could reasonably want or need.
It has rock jewelry, perfect views of the aurora borealis, Mackinac Island fudge, winning college football teams, no toll roads, more than 120 lighthouses and endless beachfront property, stretched across the longest freshwater coastline of any state in the nation.
Like many people who grew up on the Leelanau Peninsula, the “little finger” poking out of the Michigan mitten, I spent my boyhood trips to the shore scouring the sand for Petoskey stones: little round rocks covered in a distinctive interlocking honeycomb pattern.