Come Find Your Summer Memory

On Celebrity Encounters, Teenage Delusion, and One Unforgettable Ad Campaign

In honor of the last warm summer weekends back in the United States, here’s a slightly different travel story — one I hope my international readers may enjoy as well, because being a teenager is universal.

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I arrived at my friend’s lake house in northern Michigan convinced I would make a strong impression on everyone I met. Why? I have no idea. But I was seventeen, it was summer, and something about freshwater and borrowed property makes you feel like the star of your own movie. There were four of us teenagers, plus her parents, with her grandparents already up at the house like a welcoming committee. It was a postcard slice of America: forested beach houses on the lake, warm evenings on the dock, barefoot mornings with the sound of water lapping the shore.

The first night, I played my role exactly as written — sitting on the dock, chatting, staring at the sky.

The next day, my friend casually mentioned at lunch that the parents of a buzzy actress from 2000s teen movies had a house nearby. They might be having people over that night. Maybe we’d go.

My brain instantly converted this into a certainty. Not just that we’d go, but that she’d be there, we’d meet, and possibly fall in love in a way that would require a discreet but tasteful People magazine spread.

We went. She was there.

I ended up playing pool against her. She was nice, cool, and completely unaware that the 17-year-old across the table was performing a version of himself that felt far smoother than usual.

After the game, riding a rush of newfound confidence, I spotted her standing beside her dad, who was talking tennis with a doctor friend. I casually mentioned I played tennis. What I didn’t clarify was that it was for my high school tennis team. They both went quiet for half a beat — not long enough to be awkward, just long enough to make me wonder if they were picturing me in tennis garb.

“WELL, I’LL BE,” her dad said, slapping me across the back. “You need to play with me and the doctor tomorrow morning. What do you play?”

“First doubles,” replied truthfully, as if this were code for, I’m your guy.

“Well, great,” he said, passing a glance to the doctor. “The three of us can play Australian doubles then. See you at the court at 7?”

“Sure, see you there,” I said. There was a nod and a smile from the actress. I felt bold. Daring.

The rest of the night was a blur. Maybe there was a bonfire on the beach. Maybe fireworks. Maybe just my teenage brain firing on all cylinders.

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The next morning, I rolled out of bed to the sound of an alarm. When I went downstairs, my friend’s grandfather was already up.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“No, I’m going to go play tennis.”

“You got a racket?”

“I don’t.”

He nodded like that was the most natural thing in the world.

I walked down the forested road to the clay court. I was early, so I milled about, swinging my arms with an invisible racket — really, the best I could do.

A little later, the dad and the doctor arrived in tennis whites, bottles of Perrier in hand.

“Hey! Didn’t think you’d make it!”

“Heyyyy,” I said. “I’m here!”

We reintroduced ourselves. One of them offered me a spare racket. “Thanks — that’ll help,” I said, earning another firm clap on the back.

For the next two hours, they had me sliding all over the court. I got a few powerful first serves in — maybe even a couple of aces, in my memory. We rotated teams in a round-robin, with me dragging down whoever I was paired with, though the smiles on their faces made me wonder if they’d known from the start that this was how it would go.

At the end, another clap on the back from the dad. “You saved the doctor some money this morning.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, we usually bet on these games. Didn’t with you in the mix.”

Well then. Thanks for having me. Another clap on the back, and I was walking back to my friend’s lake house.

My other friend was up by then. “Well, how was it? Did you see her?”

“No, man,” I said, realizing only for the first time that her top priority was probably not watching her dad play tennis at seven in the morning.

That evening, we were deciding where to go out to eat for dinner. I’d been sulking all day — partly from naivety, but mostly from getting thoroughly handled on the tennis court by two older men.

As we lazed around, my friend took a phone call.

When she hung up, she said, “We should go eat now.”

“Why? Who was that?” my other friend asked.

“My friend from town. She works at the burger place — says Tim Allen is there, eating. Right now.”

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My celebrity stars were aligning. We didn’t hesitate. On the drive, we debated what to do and whether he’d still be there. I, now the self-appointed celebrity expert, suggested we ask for a picture with the disposable camera I happened to have. It was, after all, peak 2000s energy.

Sure enough, out front of the restaurant sat a yellow Corvette with a vanity license plate emblazoned with ‘TOOLMAN.’

Inside, the hostess who’d called my friend was at the podium. My friend locked eyes with her and went in for the kind of jazz-fingery hug you save for summer reunions. I stepped forward, and when they broke apart, I looked the hostess dead in the eye and said — far too loudly —

“SO WHERE IS THE TOOLMAN?”

Time stopped. The room went still. I realized the burger joint was about the size of an elementary school classroom, and that the Toolman himself was sitting ten feet away, staring directly at me, fries frozen halfway to his mouth.

We never got the picture. The last few frames on that disposable camera were never developed. I had to sit with my back to him, eating what might have been the fastest burger of my life. Possibly, the last burger of my life.

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For years, I cringed at myself, my first real travel story fading into a party anecdote I told less and less.

A few years later, I’d almost stopped telling it. Then, minding my own business, driving through suburban Chicago, the radio cut to a commercial — soft piano, gentle lake sounds.
Then came his voice.

“There’s a place where mornings are quiet, and the water sparkles.
Where the court is always ready, and someone’s saving you a spot.
Where a simple meal in town can turn into an unforgettable moment. And the shortest conversations leave the longest memories.
Come find your summer memory. In Pure Michigan.”

It was the Toolman. It was always the Toolman.

People ask why I moved abroad. The answer? Pure Michigan

*Note for Readers Outside the United States: “Pure Michigan” is a famous regional tourism campaign launched in 2006 to promote the state’s lakes, beaches, and small-town charm. The ads are, as noted, narrated by actor Tim Allen (the voice of Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story, Tim “The Toolman” Taylor in Home Improvement, and the star of The Santa Clause films). You can listen to one of them here: Pure Michigan

If this brought back a summer memory — or reminded you of that one celebrity sighting you’ll never stop telling people about — send it to a friend or share it below. The more we swap these stories, the more we prove that the best travel souvenirs are the ones that live in our heads.

If you enjoyed this, stick around — everything here is free, but you can support at any tier, from a small subscription to sending me on a trip wherever you like that ends in stories like these.