Why I Leave Michigan Every Winter (And What It Says About Us)

 What’s a “Snowbird,” really—and why do millions of Americans and Canadians head south every winter? In this video essay, Arthur Busch—former Genesee County Prosecutor and host of Radio Free Flint—shares why he became a Snowbird and what the lifestyle reveals about working-class culture from the Rust Belt to the Sunbelt. From union paychecks and shift work to HOA meetings and pickleball courts, the Snowbird migration isn’t just about sunshine—it’s about identity, mobility, and the American promise of a little comfort after forty years on the line. Arthur explores the joys, trade-offs, and quiet contradictions: community vs. roots, leisure vs. purpose, and the feeling of leaving family to chase better weather. Is this seasonal move a luxury, a necessity, or a new stage of American life? Let’s talk about the ducks, the geese—and us. 

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Chapters

• 0:01 Cold Open
• 0:28 What is a Snowbird
• 2:05 My Michigan-to-Florida Story
• 5:10 Working-class Culture on Wheels
• 8:01 Trade-offs: Family, Faith and Home
• 10:10 What this Says About America
• 11:30 Closing

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:08

Hello, this is Arthur Bush, and you're listening to Radio 3 Flint. Thank you for joining me today. Today is an essay, something a little different. The essay is called Fly Away Home Snowbird. I wrote this essay as I was sitting at my desk overlooking our little lake in northern Michigan. Leaves have changed in brilliant colors, and it was time to begin to think about picking up and moving on. One day my kids asked me, Dad, wouldn't you like to go someplace really nice? I looked at my kid and I said, Well, I already live someplace really nice. I couldn't think of a nicer place to live than in the Tampa Bay area of Florida along the Gulf of Mexico. And I live in northern Michigan, right next to a state and national forest. But I wrote this essay for those of you who wonder why somebody wants to take off all the time in the middle of winter and stay gone from their friends and family. And so here's my story. I hope you enjoy it. Hey, send me along your thoughts. Here's Snowbird, tell me why you like it. You can meet up with us on Facebook at Radio Free Flint. You can send us a message through our website at radiofreeflint.media. And most importantly, you can sign up for this essay and others that we'll publish in the future, as well as get our most current episodes by email. Please do that. It's that time of year when the trumpeter swans disappear from our little northern Michigan lake. Our family is called the modest home on that lake, the cottage. Lately the Canadian geese come and go after short visits while migrating south. The pervasive smell of fall is in the air on this brilliant late October afternoon. The leaves on the streets are changing to brilliant hues of yellow and crimson. Maple trees usually lead the fall color parade. This year the red leaves seem deeper and redder than usual. Ferns in a nearby woodlock quickly turn brown as the crisp morning temperatures take a dive. Soon the giant oak trees are soon to follow the ferns in changing to a stunning array of fall colors. There's something about this time of year that waxes nostalgic. Perhaps it's something so simple not being able to walk outside without a jacket, or the ducks moving on after making this beautiful lake their home for the summer. Just a few months ago, there were a dozen tiny ducklings that emerged to greet the world for the first time. They followed their mom in a straight line around the lake, like it was something they learned in a military boot camp. All the ducks and geese are leaving soon to visit their faraway southern home, where the warm sun will greet them upon their arrival. Reliably, each spring, for the past thirty four years since we have been at this retreat, the ducks and Canadian geese find their way back to this corner of the world. In Michigan, fall ushers in change and the inevitable long cold winter soon to follow. As I grow older, this time of year reminds me of how resistant to change I have become. At the local grocery stores, the most recent vintage of Michigan apple cider is prominent on the store shelves. Next to the apple cider are carameled apples. Fresh Michigan cider is the surest sign that fall has arrived. With the season's first batch of steaming chili in the crock pot, I sit and I think about all that might lie ahead. No, I'm not planning something grand. Life is unpredictable. The world seems more unpredictable lately than ever. COVID nineteen changed a lot of things for us and the world in which we live. Last November, my friend Joe died of cancer just five days before deer hunting season. For thirty three glorious years we spent each November together during hunting season. We shared stories, recounted tall tales from our fifty year friendship dating back to the glory days in East Lansing, Michigan. In more recent times, we shared books we read over the past year, we lamented the state of the world, gypsy moss, old trucks, and our kids, and best of all, the deer we missed on opening day. It was as if time stopped for this one week each year when we took to the woods, ostensibly to hunt white tailed deer. The yearly respite gave old friends time to catch up on things. Deer camp was indeed the best of times. Fall won't be the same anymore without Joe and the hunting camp. My thoughts wander to winter, and the endless summer of the sun coast of Florida. White sand beaches, reading a good book around the pool, or creating a new art project are all in store. Mom called it loafing. Working class flint where I grew up, that was not seen necessarily as a positive thing. She thought only the rich had time for loafing around and not working. It's one thousand three hundred and twenty five miles to my winter retreat along Tampa Bay. That distance seems to be far enough to recalibrate. Realistically, it is only as far as the two hour flight from Tampa to Detroit. Yet the distance gives one a perspective of another place and culture. Change is definitely in the air this fall. One of the most unmistakable signs of fall in northern Michigan is when the outdoor thermometer takes a dive to thirty two degrees at sunrise. It's time to put away the outdoor furniture and grill. The time has come to tidy up the house, pack some clothes, and close up our beautiful cottage. Over the past decades this ritual plays out as my retired neighbors do this very same dance. Most of my neighbors are retired auto workers. They prepare to head off to sun kissed winter enclaves like West Palm Beach, Daytona Beach, Bonita Springs, Sarasota, and Largo, Florida. A few snowbirds only make it as far as the mountains of Tennessee or the fine beaches of South Carolina. Just far enough out of the reach of a winter blizzard. Come May, these snowbirds will predictably return to the rolling hills in northern Michigan looking tanned and rested. Yes, they dodged another winter, perhaps missed the blizzard of the century, or a March and April that don't give up on winter. Like the geese and ducks, there's a rhythm to their comings and goings. They walk magnificent beaches, visit southern landmarks, take cruises, or enjoy life in a southern coastal town. The snowbirds return with beautiful stories, perhaps of meeting new friends, watching spring training baseball games, or about a trip they took to a Caribbean island. The return of the snowbirds to our Michigan water wonderland is marked by reunions with children and family, boating, and perhaps a mandatory visit to Mackinac Island to visit the Liloch Festival or just to get some fudge. Becoming a snowbird for me was an evolutionary process. It started in the 1990s with a few weeks away during winter that eventually became a few months. Eventually I decided to cut back the part-time work flying back and forth between homes. In recent years many snowbirds gave up on that lifestyle and sowed their summer homes in Michigan. That is a bridge too far for me. Summer months in Florida involves living with oppressive heat and humidity. It's a peculiar version of winter in reverse. More importantly, I'm scared to death of hurricanes. Leaving family and friends for a place in the old people ghettos, and with grumpy people from New York honking their horns at each traffic light takes some getting used to. Some call Florida God's waiting room. That is not an apt description in my opinion. There's a lot of old people ghettos in America. Consider Arizona, Texas, Georgia, and the Carolinas. These places all are some of the most beautiful places in our nation. I've asked myself many times why I became a snowbird. Why don't I just find one place to settle down? My fondest memories growing up in blue collar flint, Michigan include vacations on the shores of the Great Lakes, visiting Mackinac Island, and fishing for perch on Lake Huron with my mom and dad, and my brother and sisters. We love visiting my aunt and uncle's cottage at Higgins Lake where our families gathered. Michigan's water is brilliantly clear and blue, and the sandy beaches were superb playgrounds for young children. Northern Michigan was simply splendid. From a young age I dreamed of having a cottage in northern Michigan near a lake. That dream eventually came true. Michigan is in my blood and has remained so for more than sixty years. However, winter in Michigan has never been part of what I like most about living in Michigan. As my parents grew older in retirement, they didn't want to hang around Flint for the next blizzard. They started to visit Florida during the winter, staying in the Tampa Bay area, Bonita Springs, and later Stewart, Florida. Perhaps I'm more like those ducks and geese than I realized as I follow the sun. During my senior year in high school, my best friend invited me to his grandpa and grandma's house during spring break in Bonita Springs. That's in southwest Florida. I remember seeing for the first time an orange tree in their yard. His grandpa also had a cottage in northern Michigan. With the seed planted long ago, I eventually became a snowbird. During a visit in the early 1970s, I remember Bonita Beach was littered with beautiful shells. The beaches looked like those I grew to love in Michigan, so it was not hard to fall in love with southwest Florida. Friends and I returned to Naples area during spring break, during college, and also in law school. During my visits I would go to this deserted place called Vanderbilt Beach. It was a pristine and virgin beach with mangrove trees everywhere. There was Wiggins Pass State Park nearby. Florida had not yet developed what is known as North Naples. After visiting this place for parts of three decades, I knew that I would like to get a vacation home. The near disappearance of General Motors from Flint left professionals like me some stark realities to consider. They left me trying to sort out the evolving slow motion economic decline in mid-Michigan. The situation in Flint particularly was demoralizing. It was pretty clear that my children would never stick around Flint once they graduated from high school. That indeed became our reality. The desire to leave home, I thought, was for young people who need to explore the world and find their way. Wherever you go at my age, it's likely we have nothing to prove. There is, however, after nearly forty years working in criminal law, a deep desire to find a place of peace. I did my part in Flint, Michigan to make things better. It's time for new generations of Flintstones to carry on and make a community of their own design. As for me, the time has come to fly away home. If you'd like to share your own snowbird tale, please do. Send me an email at radiofreeflint at gmail.com. Don't forget to subscribe by going to our website at radiofreeflint.media. We'll pass along essays like this in our most recent episode. Thank you for joining us again. So I'll leave you with uh a few seconds here of what uh Lake Michigan's all about the lake. And uh I'll leave you like uh Charles Coral. Some of you like a little bit too young for Charles.