Popcorn

If money was no object. We’ve heard the phrase many times but it’s never been the case for me. Even at the peaks of my entrepreneurial career when I indulged myself somewhat, I never let go of my blue collar roots. I always think I could be back to living on pork n’ beans tomorrow, so I keep a good cushion for a soft landing. And, as I’ve aged, material things mean much less compared to the true joys of life.

But, I have had a taste of the high life now and then. This past week was the latest.

I had visited the enclave of the Midwestern very rich decades ago. I was starting a business and went to visit a potential investor at his place in northern Michigan. He picked me up at a small airport and drove miles up the coast, turning down a long driveway with overarching trees. That led to a house on the lake with a dock out back, equipped with runabout, sailboat, jet ski and a few other water toys. We entered and I was struck by the high ceilings, rich woodwork, polished marble, beveled glass and other details that are usually too expensive to be from the present day. “I hope you don’t mind being quartered in the guest house,” he intoned seriously. This was the guest house? It was about double the size of anywhere I had lived. I won’t even attempt a description of the palatial principal residence.

Nor will I try to describe the lifestyle, other than to say that you do nothing for yourself that a small army of help couldn’t do for you. And, that no item, no matter how prosaic, escapes the quest for the best. I can live without gold plated bathroom fixtures but apparently they can’t.

That was a little more extreme than last week, but was good preparation for it. The home became available for our use through an acquaintance of my traveling companion. It lies within the bounds of a gated community in a posh area of northern Michigan. Like many such communities I’ve seen, this one had its own golf course. Unlike some, it also had its own riding stables. Wait, I’m not done. It backed up to and included several mountains (such as mountains are in that area) and had its own ski slopes and lifts. You could practically walk out your back door and be swept up to the summits.

That’s why it was available now. The owner skis, but doesn’t indulge in the other activities. It’s a different mindset to plop down few million on a place you’ll use only a portion of the year.

One of the first things my companion wanted to do was to go into town to shop. Okay. She’s the host. I’ll play. She might’ve sensed my slightly less than enthusiastic reaction because she added, “They have an outdoors store.” Now we’re rockin’.

We entered a clothing store and she went left to the women’s section. I went right and was scanning the sports shirts, looking for something that wasn’t well into three figures.

An elegant woman approached and asked if she could help me. “Yeah, tell me why this shirt is worth $250.”

From her expression, you might think I had asked why water feels wet. “Why it’s a (brand I’ve never heard of and don’t recall).”

I could’ve pointed out it was still just cotton, dye, etc., but it was obvious I still just wouldn’t get it. She moved on to more promising prospect.

We wended our way through a few more such shops and finally arrived at the promised pot of gold. The outfitter. I managed not to trample my friend entering, but just.

It was unlike any outdoors store I had ever seen. To begin with, there weren’t the usual stacks of clothing. Everything was artfully laid out like a high end department store. The brands were not only the top echelon but the highest strata of those lines. While my closet does contain some of these logos, it’s invariably because I bought them through one of the liquidation sites carrying last year’s designs at clearance pricing.

This was heaven. But, the price tags were hell. The standard (for this village) impeccable clerk inquired if she could be of assistance. “Do you have discount racks with season-end stuff?” I thought I detected a flinch at either “discount” or “racks.”

“We don’t usually mark down. But you might find something of interest there.” She indicated a single display. At my customary Bass Pro of Dick’s Sporting Goods store, there would be multiple racks and tables of clearance items. Here there were a few lowly remnants on a table off to the side. I found one very cool jacket in my size that was discounted a hundred bucks. I didn’t need it but how cool would that be? I mustered up my self control and moved on.

I arrived at the paddling department, the Holy Grail. Inventory was sparse, perhaps making room for the upcoming ski season. However, there was one outstanding example of the British kayak industry. $3,900. “She’s beauty, isn’t she?” I turned to find a man who I would learn was the owner of the store and a fellow paddler.

“To say the least. Any wiggle room in the price?”

He smiled. “I think I know why you’re asking but, no. Around here, people buy those boats like popcorn. In this town, those are the expensive kayaks.” He indicated a couple cedar strip boats with intricate inlays that carried five figure price tags.

We chatted a bit, exchanging paddling experiences, but it was time for me to go. The jacket still loomed in my mind and I grabbed it before good sense could reassert itself.

I was getting rung up when a woman breezed by the counter. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (albeit of a designer origin) and jewelry worth more than my first house. “Have those skis and boots sent to the house, Gina. And, by the way, Justin is getting ready to go back to school in Florida and he’d probably like that pretty blue kayak (the $3900 one). Have that sent over, too.” Apparently people like her don’t have to be rung up, much less carry their goods.

And, around here, people buy those boats like popcorn.