Longtime Detroit Tiger broadcaster, Ernie Harwell died last night at the age of 92. For most people he brings back memories of sunny days at Tiger Stadium, beer and hot dogs, and cheering crowds. But for me, the sound of his voice brings back an even better memory.

[ My brother and I at my grandparent's house ]

When I was a kid, my grandparents lived on Lake Huron and once or twice a month we would spend the weekend there. After lunch, we would gather our sand pails, beach towels, and sunscreen and walk in bare feet down to the end of the street, over the cool stone, through a path between pine trees to the beach.

We would play in the sand for hours, then venture out into the rocky, freezing lake. After we were sufficiently sunned with a pound of sand in our swim suits, we’d walk back to the house. On to the porch and in through the sliding door, welcomed by my grandfather listening to the ball game on the radio.

That’s what Ernie’s voice reminds me off. Coming back from the lake, tired and covered in sand. The smell of burgers on the grill, grandma handing us juice jugs that looked like little barrels, and running around the backyard with my cousins.