Every high school summer I spent Memorial Day through Labor Day in Saugatuck, and Scooter and I worked part-time on the Saugatuck Chain Ferry, the only hand-cranked chain ferry left in the US. I was the first girl to work on the chain ferry, thanks to Scooter. No one questioned him in town, even when he’d drag down Water Street in his souped-up truck or wanted a girl to work one of the town’s main attractions. We used to take turns cranking the pretty, white Victorian ferry—embellished with ornate woodwork—across the Kalamazoo River. It was a shoulder-aching, backbreaking two hundred cranks to move the ferry across the river from the town to the beach side, transporting passengers and their bikes. While one of us cranked, the other recited an oral history of the town and ferry to passengers.

Originally used to transport horses across the Kalamazoo River, this Victorian ferry is now a top tourist attraction...

The older Scooter and I got, the smarter, and by our second year working on the chain ferry, we began asking passengers if they wanted to give it a try.

I look at Scooter and say, “Think you’re strong enough to crank this ferry across the river?”

He takes over, remembering our schtick. “I don’t think your wife and kids think you can do it, sir. Want to prove them wrong?”

“They always fell for it, didn’t they?” I laugh. “Saved our arms.”

“Pride,” he says. “Always gets in the way.”

Scooter says this with incredible sadness, and then kneels to pick up my phone.

“Remember the time I came up for the Halloween parade, and we dressed as the chain ferry?” I laugh. “Sprites covered in chains.”

“We were just kids,” he says, his voice again wistful. “I still can’t believe you’re standing in front of me. What are you doing here?”

“Well,” I start, bringing him up to date on the last few decades of my life. “And you?”

He smiles, and his eyes change colors, like a mood ring. Right now, in his gray sweater, his thick silver hair slicked to one side and matching silver stubble, his eyes are the same blue-gray color as a West Point uniform.

“I think you might need to sit for this,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Want to come into my office?”

I nod, and then hesitate.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

I look back at my car, which is still running. “I sort of adopted a stray dog yesterday. I felt like I wasn’t stressed enough.” I laugh. “He’s asleep in the car.”

“That’s so Adie Lou of you,” he says with a smile.

Adie Lou of you. My heart again leaps.

“Want to get him?” he continues.

“I think he’ll be okay for a few more minutes. Maybe we could ask your receptionist to watch the car?”