Hope springs eternal in Detroit

The Michigan Central Train Station, long a symbol of Detroit’s decay and ruin, has been restored to its original glory. It now stands as a sign of hope instead of despair in a city that is working hard to revitalize its economy and reputation. Jeff and I had the opportunity to tour the renovated interior and marvel at the beauty and elegance of the building. Hats off to Ford Motor Co. for tackling this challenge. It’s readily apparent this was a labor of love not only for the building itself but for the entire city of Detroit.

As I marveled at the gorgeous columns and spotless marble floors, I couldn’t help but remember my own introduction to the train station.

I am not a Detroit native. I’m an import from Chicago, and my knowledge of Detroit was scanty and negative. During the first few years I lived in the Detroit metro area, I rarely went into the city, unless it was for a hockey game. We zipped in and out as fast as we could drive.

My friends Nancy and Carrie cured me of the worst of my fears.

When my children were in school, I would drop them off, then I would stand around and chat with the other stay-at-home moms. Eventually, I developed a friendship with those two special women.

The three of us stood outside the elementary school and chatted, sometimes for an hour. (Yes, we had more imperative things to do, but we didn’t care.) Nancy’s youngest, Sarah, was only about four, not old enough for school, so she enjoyed the playground until we finished. At one point I suggested that we could walk and talk at the same time, getting some much-needed exercise (at least for me).

One day, Nancy said, “I don’t want to walk. How about we go out to breakfast?”

So, we did.

Thus began our new routine. Walk one or two days, then off to breakfast on others.

One day we couldn’t decide where to go to eat. We had exhausted the local choices. I asked, “What other options are there, ladies?”

Nancy and Carrie looked at each other, then at me, and said simultaneously, “Evie’s!”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a great place in Mexicantown,” said Nancy.

I gasped. “But that’s-that’s-that’s in THE HOOD. We can’t go there.”

They both rolled their eyes at my cowardice.

“Get in the car,” ordered Carrie.

So, I did.

Of course, Nancy couldn’t take the highway to southwest Detroit like a normal person. She had her own routes, veering through various neighborhoods and avoiding the highway whenever possible. I swear she did that just to watch me sweat.

As we crossed Michigan Avenue on my first visit to southwest Detroit, little Sarah in the back seat piped up, “We’re almost to Evie’s. I can see the Ghostbuster building!”

Up ahead loomed the decrepit hulk of the once-grand Michigan Central Train Station, now forever branded in my brain as the Detroit version of the Ghostbuster building. All of our adventures that followed included a drive past the faded beauty of the train station.

We traveled to Evie’s once a week after that. I felt safe because many of the other diners at Evie’s were Detroit police officers. Our main server was married to a police crime scene photographer. Often, there were state troopers and sheriff’s officers as well.

Immediately after 9/11, we noticed a change in the clientele. There were fewer police officers and more customs officers, many with Southern accents. The government had moved customs officials from the southern border and brought them to Detroit to help man the Ambassador Bridge and tunnel crossing to Canada.

Carrie was a feisty woman with no great love for authority. One morning between bites of carnitas and burritos, she said, “Well, now we know why there’s a six-hour wait to cross the border. All the customs guys are here chowing down on tacos.”

Her stage whisper carried. One of the officials, of course one of the big burly ones, stood up and loudly said with the slowest Texas drawl you can imagine, “You can just kiss my ass, lady!”

Good thing we weren’t planning a visit to Windsor, Ontario, that day. I suspect a full body cavity search would have been in store for us.

Once I was comfortable going to Mexicantown, Nancy widened our horizons. She drove us first around southwest Detroit, pointing out various places important to her from her youth. My first trips to Eastern Market were with my friends. I learned to love R Hirt Co., Rocky’s Peanuts and of course Wigley’s for corned beef.

Carrie was driving one day, and she decided we needed to expand our horizons even further. As we drove past Historic Fort Wayne, the gates were open and no guard was present, so we thought we could go right in. We were driving through slowly, taking in all the old buildings, commenting on how sad it was that this historic site was so badly in need of restoration.

Out of nowhere, a man in a uniform came running at us, shouting that we had to leave. The fort was not open to visitors, and we were trespassing. Carrie tried to explain about the open gate and all, but he was insistent that we leave and leave now.

So, we did.

We were startled one day when we drove to Evie’s and saw that the empty frames of the Ghostbuster building, aka Michigan Central Train Station, shone and sparkled. They had actual windows again. As the old joke goes, it was like putting a new chandelier in a dilapidated house, but it turned out to be just the start. Soon, construction crews were out, resurrecting the ruins for its next life.

Sadly, our little trio was not able to enjoy the renovation.

Carrie and I had a falling out (an argument about socks if you can believe it). She died a few years later. Nancy and I were both diagnosed with cancer a few years after that. Mine was easily treated, but Nancy had an aggressive form that she fought bravely. She lost the fight last year.

Nancy, Carrie and I would have had a blast touring the renovated site and putting the Ghostbuster moniker to rest.

After Jeff and I toured the building, we went to Evie’s for a little celebration and remembrance.

Rest in peace, Ghostbuster building. Long live the new Michigan Central Train Station.