Mackinaw Island

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. 



Sometimes we waited in line for over four hours to get our car on the boat to take us to the island. The old Chevrolet needed the rest.

Chocolate, horse carts with poop bags hanging from their behinds, and of course the Grand Hotel were the soul of the island. The smell of the island followed you as you walked the city streets.

We never stayed at the Grand. Dad always knew when the last ferry left the island for the mainland. He said one day there would be a bridge to replace the ferries.