I Fingered Ernest Hemingway’s Hole

It’s become a tradition

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 point. “I mean there was billiards, illegal booze, and a nearby hotel. Come on!”

He smiled and said I was probably right.

Then, he told us about the resident ghost. A past owner who had hanged himself in the basement often made his presence known by opening and closing the front door or stealing objects only to return them later.

“What about Hemingway?” I asked. “There’s a sign outside saying he was a regular here?”

Hemingway couldn’t keep his eyes to himself

Turns out, Ernest Hemingway, The Nobel Prize winning author born on July 21, 1899, would stay summers at his grandparents’ home on nearby Walloon Lake his first twenty-two years. He became a regular at the bar, which at that time was called The Annex. Hemingway mentioned The Annex in his short story “Gentleman of the World.”

I glanced up at the picture of Hemingway behind the bar. It seemed like he was staring at me.

The bartender said, “He always sat in the second chair from the beginning of the bar. That’s why his picture is hung directly across from there.”

I spun my head toward Sam.

He already knew what I wanted and gathered our coats.

I wanted — no, had to — sit in Hemingway’s chair.

“Wow!” I said, settling in, spinning myself around in circles. “I love this!” I raised my glass to Hemingway’s image.

He was still staring.

It began to unnerve me.

Hemingway was a creature of habit

As the bartender kept talking, I learned Hemingway was kind of a prick. He sat in the second seat so he could see who was coming in the building, but no one described him as a friendly guy. He’d sit there with a stiff drink and a cigar, observing people. Maybe getting ideas for his next book.

The bartender nodded his head toward a bar mat to my left. “Go ahead and lift that up.”

Curious, I peered under the mat and found a circular hole about an inch in diameter and an inch and a half deep. I didn’t understand its significance and gave the bartender a confused expression.

I was horrified to learn Hemingway would grind his cigar into the beautiful mahogany bar instead of using an ashtray. He did it so often, in the exact same spot, it became a deep hole.

I stuck my index finger in his hole and while I felt my way around, I bored my eyes into his framed picture. Who’s being rude now?

He stared right back and didn’t flinch.

After lunch, I stuck a quick finger in the hole again and we took a short walk to the Ernest Hemingway statue in Pennsylvania Park. Based off a 1920 picture, it was of Hemingway about to leave Petoskey for a job in Toronto. Apparently, he had been in Petoskey for several months recovering from an injury from his time served in World War I.

Takeaway

Every time we visit Petoskey, we try to stop in to finger Hemingway’s hole. It’s become a tradition. On a girls’ weekend, I even got my prim and proper mother to stick her finger in his hole. The naughtiness of it delighted her.

We also try to get a picture taken with the statue.

That poor statue.

We’ve seen Hemingway suffering the fools who decorate him with bridal veils or pose lasciviously around him. Yet, he stands tall — as if silly antics would never break him.

I admit, I’ve given his butt a pat or two, and I’m just surmising here, but I’d say Hemingway has a big set of balls. And I bet they’re made of brass … okay, maybe bronze.

Keep reading for more of Tracy’s musings!

Hey, writers! Can any of you relate?