I Fingered Ernest Hemingway’s Hole

It’s become a tradition

The author ignoring Hemingway’s staring problem. Photo courtesy of author.

For years, Lake Michigan beaches, nearby ski resorts, and majestic sunsets have drawn my husband, Sam, and I to Northwest Michigan. The quaint shops, fabulous restaurants, and scenic drives add to the allure, but nothing gave me a bigger thrill than fingering Ernest Hemingway’s hole.

I found it by accident

Sam and I wandered into City Park Grill in Petoskey for a late afternoon lunch and a couple of cocktails. We sat at the empty bar. It was late-Autumn, after the colorful leaves had already fallen — a lull in tourism until the snow falls.

The middle-aged bartender made our drinks as I admired the dark wooden bar.

“That’s solid mahogany. All one piece. Thirty-two feet long,” he said. He went on to regale us with the history of the building constructed in 1875. It was one of the oldest in town and had started off as a men-only billiard parlor in the basement. It was part of the network of underground tunnels that bootleggers used to covertly distribute their product. Conveniently, there was an attached hotel.

As the information swirled through my head, I said, “Somehow, I’m having a hard time believing there were no ladies involved in this ‘male-only’ club.” I used finger quotes and wide eyes to make my…