U.P. Reader -- Volume #4 E-Book

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 405

Beschreibung

Michigan's Upper Peninsula is blessed with a treasure trove of storytellers, poets, and historians, all seeking to capture a sense of Yooper Life from settler's days to the far-flung future. Since 2017, the U.P. Reader offers a rich collection of their voices that embraces the U.P.'s natural beauty and way of life, along with a few surprises.
The forty-five short works in this fourth annual volume take readers on U.P. road and boat trips from the Keweenaw to the Soo. Every page is rich with descriptions of the characters and culture that make the Upper Peninsula worth living in and writing about. U.P. writers span genres from humor to history and from science fiction to poetry. This issue also includes imaginative fiction from the Dandelion Cottage Short Story Award winners, honoring the amazing young writers enrolled in all of the U.P.'s schools.
Featuring the words of Karen Dionne, Donna Winters, Tyler R. Tichelaar, Brandy Thomas, Jon Taylor, T. Kilgore Splake, Joni Scott, Donna Searight Simons, Terry Sanders, Ninie G. Syarikin, Becky Ross Michael, Cyndi Perkins, Charli Mills, Tricia Carr, Raymond Luczak, David Lehto, Tamara Lauder, Chris Kent, Sharon Kennedy, Jan Stafford Kellis, Rich Hill, Elizabeth Fust, Deborah K. Frontiera, Ann Dallman, Mikel B. Classen, T. Marie Bertineau, Larry Buege, Craig Brockman, Megan Sutherland, May Amelia Shapton, Cora Mueller, and Fenwood Tolonen.
"Funny, wise, or speculative, the essays, memoirs, and poems found in the pages of these profusely illustrated annuals are windows to the history, soul, and spirit of both the exceptional land and people found in Michigan's remarkable U.P. If you seek some great writing about the northernmost of the state's two peninsulas look around for copies of the U.P. Reader.
--Tom Powers, Michigan in Books
"U.P. Reader offers a wonderful mix of storytelling, poetry, and Yooper culture. Here's to many future volumes!"
--Sonny Longtine, author of Murder in Michigan's Upper Peninsula
"As readers embark upon this storied landscape, they learn that the people of Michigan's Upper Peninsula offer a unique voice, a tribute to a timeless place too long silent."
--Sue Harrison, international bestselling author of Mother Earth Father Sky
"I was amazed by the variety of voices in this volume. U.P. Reader offers a little of everything, from short stories to nature poetry, fantasy to reality, Yooper lore to humor. I look forward to the next issue." --Jackie Stark, editor, Marquette Monthly
The U.P. Reader is sponsored by the Upper Peninsula Publishers and Authors Association (UPPAA) a non-profit 501(c)3 corporation. A portion of proceeds from each copy sold will be donated to the UPPAA for its educational programming.

Leseprobe

U.P. Redder

Volume 1 is still available!

Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is blessed with a treasure chest of writers and poets, all seeking to capture the diverse experiences of Yooper Life. Now U.P. Reader offers a rich collection of their voices that embraces the U.P.’s natural beauty and way of life, along with a few surprises.

The twenty-eight works in this first annual volume take readers on a U.P. Road Trip from the Mackinac Bridge to Menominee. Every page is rich with descriptions of the characters and culture that make the Upper Peninsula worth living in and writing about.

Available in paperback, hardcover, and eBook editions!

ISBN 978-1-61599-336-9

www.UPReader.org

U.P. Reader: Bringing Upper Michigan Literature to the World – Volume #4

Copyright © 2020 by Upper Peninsula Publishers and Authors Association (UPPAA). All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photo: by Mikel B. Classen.

Learn more about the UPPAA at www.UPPAA.org

Latest news on UP Reader can be found at www.UPReader.org

ISSN: 2572-0961

ISBN 978-1-61599-508-0 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-509-7 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-510-3 eBook (ePub, Kindle, PDF)

Managing Editor - Mikel B. Classen

Associate Editor and Copy Editor - Deborah K. Frontiera

Production - Victor Volkman

Cover Photo - Mikel B. Classen

Interior Layout - Michal Splho

Distributed by Ingram (USA/CAN/AU), Bertram’s Books (UK/EU)

Published by

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

[email protected]

CONTENTS

Moving Up by Donna Winters

The Many Lives of Pierre LeBlanc (Based upon an old U.P. legend) by Tyler R. Tichelaar

Service Alert by Brandy Thomas

The River of the Dead by Jon Taylor

How to Tell by Jon Taylor

untitled symphony by t. kilgore splake

god’s country by t. kilgore splake

The Woundwort by Joni Scott

Cousin Jack Foster by Donna Searight Simons

Mi Casa en El Paso by Terry Sanders

Catching the Butterflies by Ninie G. Syarikin

Love Is... by Ninie G. Syarikin

Much Different Animal by Becky Ross Michael

Dry Foot by Cyndi Perkins

Called to the Edge of Gichigami by Charli Mills

Clark Kent Says It All by Tricia Carr

Domestic Violence by Tricia Carr

The Truck by Raymond Luczak

Independence Day by Raymond Luczak

Coyote Pups by David Lehto

The Shepherd by David Lehto

U.P. Summers Are For the Bugs by Tamara Lauder

Muses from a Deer Shack Morning by Chris Kent

Katie: Purity by Sharon Kennedy

Quiet Times by Sharon Kennedy

Addiction by Jan Stafford Kellis

The Ratbag Family by Jan Stafford Kellis

The Bait Pile by Rich Hill

Whiteout by Rich Hill

Paper Tracks by Elizabeth Fust

The Great Divide by Elizabeth Fust

A Stone’s Story by Deborah K. Frontiera

Awareness by Ann Dallman

The Light Keeper Hero of Passage Island Lighthouse and the Wreck of the Monarch by Mikel B. Classen

The Kalamazoo by T. Marie Bertineau

Party Animals by Larry Buege

I Watched Someone Drown by Craig Brockman

Shirley’s Cabins by Craig Brockman

U.P. Notable Books List

What I Learned from Writing my Breakout Book by Karen Dionne

Young U.P. Authors Section

About the Real Dandelion Cottage

Confliction by Megan Sutherland (1st Place Jr. Div.)

Crucify and Burn by May Amelia Shapton (1st Place Senior Div.)

Thief of Hearts by Cora Mueller (2nd Place Senior Div.)

Attention by Fenwood Tolonen (3rd Place Senior Div.)

Young Writers Encouraged to Submit to 2020 Dandelion Cottage Short Story Contest

Help Sell The U.P. Reader!

Come join UPPAA Online!

Moving Up

by Donna Winters

When I consider my father’s life, three words come to mind—business, bowling, and boating. He clearly had a passion for all three. In reflecting on his accomplishments in those areas, I’d say he was always moving up.

Take business, for example. Before Dad was out of high school, he worked in his father’s small-town business. Dad grew up in an Erie Canal town in western New York State during the early 1900s. It was the kind of place where, as a kid, if you heard a whistle blow, you ran as fast as you could to catch a ride on the lift bridge and watch the boat pass underneath.

At eighteen, Dad would have been working fulltime in his father’s florist business except for one small problem: he had failed ancient history. He must have been disappointed when that failure prevented him from graduating from high school, but he was perfectly honest about the cause. He had been more interested in playing soccer than in studying.

So after his senior year, Dad went back to school part-time to get his diploma. Now normally, I would consider failure in academics to be a bad thing. But if Dad hadn’t failed Ancient History, he would never have met Mom, who was seated right in front of him because of the alphabetical seating chart.

I think I know why Mom fell in love with Dad. He was a good-looking, dark-haired fellow of medium height. Dimples showed in his cheeks when he smiled, and his voice had a sweet timbre that hinted at his gentleness. In the early 1930s, when the Depression was starting to take hold, a fellow with those qualities who had a steady job in a family business was probably considered a good catch.

Years later, when I was but five years old, Grandpa R. passed away suddenly of a heart attack. Overnight, the family florist business fell to Dad and his younger brother. I’m not sure what the division of duties was while Grandpa R. was alive, but after he died, Dad worked primarily in the hothouses.

Those glass hothouses always seemed bright, even on a cloudy day, and they smelled strongly of moist earth. If the sun was out and the temperature rose too much, Dad would crank a handle on a long shaft that creaked as the panes along the peak opened for ventilation. I remember looking up at the very top of the glass and asking Dad why all the windows were spattered with white spots. He explained that if he didn’t put some whitewash on the glass, the plants would burn up.

One day when my older sister and I were about eight and six, Mom and Dad took us to work at the greenhouse. I don’t remember much about the tasks we performed that day, but we felt pretty grown up to be helping out in the family business. Later, Mom asked us what we thought of working at the florist shop. I’m sure we said it was great fun and asked when we could do it again. Only years later did I learn that our parents had been trying to show us what hard work it was to be florists so we wouldn’t want to follow Dad’s footsteps into the family business.

Baraga street scene 1910

As I grew older, I gained appreciation for the growing cycles at the greenhouse. In fall, vivid yellows brightened the chrysanthemum hothouse, alleviating the dreariness of overcast days. When Thanksgiving was over, intense red poinsettias heralded the Christmas season. Dad always invited us to view the poinsettia house just before the first of the wholesale orders went out. He must have felt great satisfaction in the beauty he had produced from the thousands of cuttings he’d planted in July and August and repotted as the plants matured. When the holidays were over and the greenhouse benches were bare, Dad started filling them up with hundreds of white lilies. They would blossom just in time to grace the altars of local churches and the homes of retail customers for Easter.

Over the years, my dad’s reputation as a successful florist caught the attention of the head of the State University Botany Department in our small town. Dr. G. paid many visits to Dad’s shop to discuss the details of growing ornamental plants. I don’t know how Dr. G. did it, but he even convinced Dad, who had no college education, to teach a night class on flower arranging at the State University. In the world of ornamental horticulture, Dad had clearly moved up!

The family florist shop wasn’t Dad’s only passion in the business world. He took a great deal of interest in the way our village was run. Like his father and grandfather before him, he ran for office, being elected twice as a village trustee, and several years later, moving up to serve as mayor.

Because of the number of years Dad had spent in business and local politics, he knew almost everyone in town. When he walked along Main Street, shop owners would pause what they were doing and step out onto the sidewalk to greet him and shake his hand. As far as I know, everyone liked and respected Dad.

During Dad’s tenure as mayor, infrastructure was a big concern. The local State University was rapidly expanding, putting more demands on the water and sewerage systems, and police and fire protection. Dad was even quoted in a New York Times article in June 1970 about the burden of college growth on the village budget, which had increased 25 percent in each of the previous two years. At that time, Dad and other mayors of small university towns in New York State were asking the State to allow the universities to be taxed to pay for services. In the years following, a system of PILOTs (payments in lieu of taxes) was instituted. On my last visit to my hometown, both the village and the university appeared to be thriving.

While Dad was very serious about business, he was equally serious about bowling. By the time I was in high school, he had accumulated more bowling trophies than could fit on the top of our large TV. He bowled in leagues at least two or three nights a week and on Sunday afternoons. If someone called him to sub, he’d be gone even more. And it wasn’t unusual to find him at the local lanes on his lunch hour rolling practice games. By the time I was out of high school, his average was in the high 200s. Games of 283-289 were common. But as good as he was, he never hit 300. For a competitive bowler, that must have been a disappointment, but he found great reward (and more trophies) when his team(s) placed first at the end of the season. For as long as Dad bowled, his average was moving up.

When the bowling season was over and school was out for the year, Dad loved to head to our cottage, launch his motorboat, and spend time out on the lake. I remember his first runabout, a sixteen-foot wooden Penn Yan that he bought when I was about five. (That was in the days before fiberglass hulls.) Penn Yan boats were named for the Finger Lakes community in which they were built. The company no longer exists, but in its day, it was among the best of the boat builders out east. Over the years, Dad’s boats (and motors) gradually increased in size and horsepower. He’d keep a boat and motor for a couple of years and then either trade up for a faster motor or buy both a bigger boat and larger motor. By the late 1970s, he was skimming across Lake Ontario in a twenty-four-foot cabin cruiser. He joined a yacht club and crossed the lake with several fellow boating enthusiasts.

It was obvious to me that Dad’s yacht was his escape from the responsibility of caring for my mother, who had become disabled in the late 1960s. As Dad aged, the caregiver burden caused him to be an increasingly cranky and angry old man. I remember one time he and Mom drove several hundred miles to visit me and my husband. While they were with us, Dad began to criticize Mom harshly and unnecessarily. I wanted to tell him to stop speaking to Mom that way, but I was too intimidated by his controller-dominator personality to say anything. Later, in a conversation with Mom, I learned that she didn’t think there was anything wrong with the way Dad had spoken to her. Evidently, she had accepted his verbal assaults as normal years earlier.

At the start of 1983, Dad placed an order at Penn Yan for a new, bigger cabin cruiser of thirty-some feet at the (then) whopping price of $70,000! Clearly, in the boating world, Dad was moving up. But before the boat was delivered, Dad’s heart gave out, and at the age of seventy, he got his final call to move up. As I approach the age of seventy, I’m increasingly grateful for my memories of Dad, who despite his shortcomings, serves as an example of a life well lived.

Donna Winters is the author of over 20 books including the Great Lakes Romances® Series, and Adventures with Vinnie, a memoir of the most unpredictable shelter dog ever to join the Winters family. Donna lived her first sixty-five years in states bordering on the Great Lakes. Twelve of those years were spent in the Upper Peninsula, the setting for several of her historical romances. She is now developing memoirs about her ancestors. You can find her books at amazon.com/author/donnawinters.

The Many Lives of Pierre LeBlanc (Based upon an old U.P. legend)

by Tyler R. Tichelaar

Life 1

Chief Shob-wa-wa watched the canoe approach the shore. The old Ojibwa had seen it from high atop the ridge overlooking the bay where he had his wigwam. The rest of his tribe preferred to live closer to the shore and thought it odd he would live up on the ridge, but he knew his view of the lake would keep his people safe from being surprised should the Sioux seek to attack them.

However, this canoe did not bear Sioux warriors. Despite his advanced age, Shob-wa-wa’s eyesight was as keen as an eagle’s, and he soon saw that his sister’s son was paddling the canoe. His sister had married into the Crane clan at Bahweting, the place the white men called Sault Saint Marie, and each spring Chief Shob-wa-wa traveled there with his clan to see her and fish the rapids. He recognized the other Ojibwa in the canoe also as men he had met at the rapids, but not the pale face in the middle of the canoe in a long black robe. He had seen other Black Robes at Bahweting, but never had one come to his bay. He had never spoken to a Black Robe, but he had heard good things of them from his relatives. More importantly, last night Nanabozho had sent him a dream, telling him a Black Robe would come, bearing great tidings of importance, so Shob-wa-wa knew this visit was a momentous event for his band.

As the canoe reached the shore, Shob-wa-wa rushed down the hill. By the time he arrived at the beach, the members of his band were gathered about the stranger. They were asking a great many questions of their cousins from Bahweting who had come with the Black Robe, but when they saw Shob-wa-wa coming, they quickly stepped aside and closed their lips out of respect for the old chief.

“Welcome,” said Shob-wa-wa in Ojibwa, expecting the men from Bahweting to translate it into the white man’s tongue for the stranger. Instead, Shob-wa-wa was surprised when the pale-faced Black Robe replied in Shob-wa-wa’s native tongue.

“Thank you. I am Pere Marquette, and I have come to bring your people good news of the Savior of mankind so that they might believe in him, be baptized, and gain eternal life.”

Shob-wa-wa bowed in acknowledgment of this kindness and then replied, “I am Shob-wa-wa, chief of these people, and your words make my heart glad for we have heard from our cousins of this savior and wish to learn more of him. You, his servant, are most welcome here.”

“And I,” continued Pere Marquette, “have likewise heard stories from your cousins of you, mighty Shob-wa-wa. You are a legend among your people for your intelligence and foresight. Even the white men have heard of you and are surprised you are not French like us because you are so wise.”

Shob-wa-wa did not know how to reply to this, for despite knowing that these French white men had great ships and guns and the firewater, he was not always sure how wise they were. But he knew Pere Marquette’s words were meant in kindness, so he said, “Let us be friends then and share our wisdom with one another.”

To this proposal, Pere Marquette readily agreed, and that night, he feasted with Shob-wa-wa’s people.

It is said that Pere Marquette stayed three weeks with Shob-wa-wa and his band. The Jesuit and the old chief spoke day and night about everything of any importance there was to know. Shob-wa-wa told Pere Marquette how his people had been led to the rapids, which the white men called Sault Sainte Marie, by a crane, and since then they had branched out all across this great peninsula between Anishinaabewi-gichigami and Ininwewi-gichigami. Shob-wa-wa also told Pere Marquette of the lore of his people, of Nanabozho and the creation of the world, and many another of their ancient stories. Then Pere Marquette told Shob-wa-wa of the Christian God who had created the world in seven days, and of how when man had fallen into sin, God had become a man, being born as his own son Jesus and dying so man’s sins would be forgiven. Shob-wa-wa was so taken with this story that he believed Jesus set a very good example for his people and he agreed to be baptized, and when Shob-wa-wa’s people saw how their leader loved the Black Robe and trusted in his teachings, they followed his example and were also baptized.

And then came the day when Pere Marquette said he must leave. “But remember, Shob-wa-wa,” he said upon parting, “you are now Pierre LeBlanc, for I have baptized you as such, causing your sins to be washed clean like the snow, and you are the rock upon which I have built the Ojibwa church here beside Anishinaabewi-gichigami.”

“I will remember,” Shob-wa-wa replied. “In fact, I will build a great city here named after you so that what you have taught us will be remembered long after we are both gone, and Nanabozho shall help me.”

Then Pere Marquette and Shob-wa-wa smoked the peace pipe together. The next morning, they hugged one another goodbye and promised to meet again, if not in this world, in the next. Then Pere Marquette climbed back into his canoe and the men from Bahweting paddled across Anishinaabewi-gichigami until they were but a speck on the horizon.

Shob-wa-wa did not forget his promise. He built a church on a rock in the bay, and all his people built their wigwams around it. And for many years after, they met there and spoke of how the great Pere Marquette had brought them the story of Jesus, and they recited the stories he had told them from his holy magical book. It is said that Shob-wa-wa’s church remained many years after he had gone to his rest; French fur traders often passed by it and told stories of how Pere Marquette had once visited that spot, and those memories did not fade, even after Anishinaabewi-gichigami had reclaimed the stones the church had been built from.

And that is how Christianity first came to the Ojibwa who resided along what would one day be called Iron Bay. But it is not the end of Shob-wa-wa’s story.

Life 2

Pierre LeBlanc had been born in France, but he had come to Quebec as a young man. He had found service in the employ of Antoine Laumet de La Mothe Cadillac, the sieur de Cadillac. The sieur’s name was a fancy one, not at all like Pierre’s simple one, but he and Cadillac got along nevertheless. Cadillac made Pierre the bowstroke in his canoe, and although history has forgotten it, they and their voyageur companions once made a long journey together along Lake Superior’s shore.

One day Cadillac and his men passed a bay just east of the peninsula known as Presque Isle. Pierre LeBlanc was so struck by this bay’s beauty that he said to Cadillac, “We should build a city here.”

“It is too far from New France,” Cadillac replied. “Who would live here?”

“I would,” said Pierre, “and I would name it Marquette, after the great Jesuit missionary and explorer.”

Pierre had grown up in France hearing stories of Marquette and Joliet and their famous journey down the Mississippi River. The story of their adventures had been what had inspired him to come to New France and travel beyond it to the Great Lakes. Ever since he was a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to explore these waters and to rub elbows with the Ojibwa whom Pere Marquette had known and loved, and now in Cadillac’s canoe, he was doing so.

However, Cadillac just laughed at Pierre’s dream of a city in such a remote wilderness.

And the laughter caused Pierre to smile at his own fantasy—it was a funny idea to build a city way out here. It would doubtless be centuries before any white people settled this land, and the Ojibwa were migratory, so they would not want to live in houses of wood or stone if he did build them.

Within a few days, Pierre and Cadillac had returned to Michilimackinac. It was there that Cadillac got in trouble for selling liquor to the Ojibwa. Pierre had warned him not to do it. “It is like poison to them for it drives them mad,” he had said. But the Ojibwa dearly loved the brandy and whiskey the French often traded to them, and Cadillac wished to make money in beaver furs, and so Pierre’s words fell on deaf ears.

Then one day, an already drunken Ojibwa got angry when Cadillac would not sell him more firewater.

Pierre tried to make peace between the men. He reminded the Ojibwa that Pere Marquette would have been against his drinking the firewater, but the Ojibwa was already too intoxicated to heed his words—he only knew he wanted more. When Cadillac continued to refuse to sell him more, the Ojibwa pulled out a knife. A scuffle ensued, in which Pierre, trying to protect Cadillac, was stabbed.

Statue of Father Marquette

And then everything started to go black for Pierre.

I guess I’ll never get to build that city for Pere Marquette now, was his last thought.

But Pierre did not know that Nanabozho had other plans.

Life 3

It had been nearly fifty years since Peter White had come to Marquette. That first year of 1849, he’d been just a boy of eighteen when he’d sailed into Iron Bay with Robert Graveraet. On that day, he’d met his lifelong friend Charley Kawbawgam. Charley, in time, had become Chief of the local Ojibwa. And Peter, in time, had helped to found the town. Then Peter had served as mailman for Marquette, delivering mail by dogsled from as far away as Green Bay. It wasn’t as prominent a position as being an Ojibwa chief, but Peter was a man of great abilities and determined to prosper. Soon he was made town clerk, and then he started an insurance agency and he began to sell real estate. He also founded a bank and accumulated great wealth, and then he became a great philanthropist. He donated a library to Marquette, he put roofs on churches, and he even bought an island he gave to the city for a park. Then he built a house at that park for his aging friend Chief Kawbawgam to live in. But that wasn’t all. Peter got involved in state and national politics. President Cleveland offered to make him an ambassador to any country he wanted, but he turned it down because Marquette was home. Then Peter helped start a teacher’s college in Marquette. He also invested heavily in the iron industry, organized the Michigan booth at the Chicago World’s Fair, and did so much more that there just isn’t space to mention it all.

But the most amazing thing of all he did—though no one else would ever realize how amazing it was—turned out to be something he had not wanted to do at first.

When Mr. Archambeau, a French Catholic, had suggested to him that they build a statue to honor Father Marquette, the town’s namesake, Peter had not thought it a good idea because a depression was sweeping the country at that time. But after giving it some thought, he was won over by the project and became heavily involved in it. He even convinced the sculptor, Signor Trentanove, to use Kawbawgam as a model for one of the friezes on the statue’s base. Some said Signor Trentanove also used Peter himself as a model, and so when the statue was unveiled, rumors spread that it looked more like Peter White than Father Marquette, but Peter, of course, denied this.

But just what was so amazing about that statue? Well, the night after all the big hoopla was held to unveil the statue, Peter decided to walk down the hill from his Ridge Street mansion just to look at it. He’d been so busy that day giving a speech, having his picture taken, and shaking hands with people that he hadn’t been able to give the statue a good look, so now, on a moonlit night, he thought he’d get his chance when no one was likely to disturb him.

“It really is a fine piece of work,” Peter said to himself, admiring the bronze figure in the still night air.

But then Peter blinked his eyes, thinking he was imagining things. Had the statue moved? It couldn’t have. But sure enough, Peter saw the statue’s arm reach up and scratch its nose. Stepping back in surprise, Peter was not at all prepared when the statue jumped down from its pedestal and there was Pere Marquette standing before him. As Peter watched, trying to find words to speak, the bronze finish seemed to fade from the statue and be replaced by living flesh and black cloth.

“We meet again, Shob-wa-wa,” said Pere Marquette. “I see you’ve fulfilled your promise.”

And then it all came back to Peter. He didn’t know how Pere Marquette’s spirit had come to embody the statue, or how it was that he instantly remembered events from past lives he had never known he’d had, but suddenly, he had knowledge beyond the ken of most men.

Smiling, and thinking it strange that this didn’t seem so very strange after all, Peter said, “It’s good to see you again, Pere.” Then Pere Marquette gave Peter a wink. Peter blinked, and then there was just a statue before him again.

Peter was so astonished by all this that he didn’t know what to think. “Maybe that Peter White Punch I mixed up this evening was stronger than I thought,” he said to himself, scratching his head and turning to climb back up the hill to home.

•••

The next day, Peter took the streetcar out to Presque Isle Park where his old friend Chief Kawbawgam lived. Perhaps the old Ojibwa would know of some Native lore that could explain such a happening as a bronze statue coming to life.

But before Peter could even ask Kawbawgam about the statue turning into a person, he had a sudden insight into something that had never occurred to him before. Kawbawgam was a descendant of Shob-wa-wa. Peter didn’t know how he knew it, but Kawbawgam was his own many greats-grandson from another lifetime. What were the odds?

“It took you long enough,” said Kawbawgam when he saw the look of enlightenment on Peter’s face. Of course, Kawbawgam said this in Ojibwa since he did not speak English, but Peter had long ago learned to speak Ojibwa. Now remembering his past life as Shob-wa-wa, he realized why learning Ojibwa had been so easy for him when most white men couldn’t seem to tackle it.

Once Peter told the old chief about the statue coming to life, Kawbawgam explained that Nanabozho must be up to his old tricks again; after all, if Nanabozho could create the world, it would be nothing for him to bring a statue to life, or have a dead Jesuit’s spirit embody it. Then Kawbawgam agreed to go with Peter that evening to visit the statue and see if it would come to life again.

Now Peter was a very smart man, so he knew what Kawbawgam said seemed logical, but he was also a white man. Even though he’d had that past life as an Ojibwa, his white brain just wasn’t ready to accept everything he’d heard and seen, so that night when he and Kawbawgam went to visit the statue and it came to life again, Peter couldn’t help but ask, “Pere Marquette, is this real, or do I need to lay off the Peter White Punch?”

Pere Marquette laughed so loud Peter thought he would wake up all of Marquette. Then the Jesuit said, “I wouldn’t mind a glass of that punch right now.”

And so the three of them, the two-hundred-plus-year-old Jesuit missionary, the near-one-hundred-year-old Ojibwa chief, and the Grand Old Man of Marquette retired to Peter White’s mansion on Ridge Street and talked until the wee hours of the morning about everything from when Pere Marquette had first landed on the shore of Iron Bay to what Marquette would be like in the years and centuries to come. It is said they met regularly many a night after that, though I don’t know who would have been there to know if that is true. Of course, the day came when both Chief Kawbawgam and Peter White left this life, and then once his friends were gone, Pere Marquette returned to his bronze sleep.

Life 4

By the early twenty-first century, people in Marquette were getting concerned about global warming, and by the time Marquette celebrated its tricentennial in 2149, the water levels around Marquette were threatening to wash away the lakeshore because of all the arctic snow melting and causing Lake Superior’s water level to rise. Meanwhile more and more people were moving to Marquette because the temperatures were much cooler than in most of the rest of the country. Even insects from the Deep South were moving north for cooler weather. Marquette’s residents were starting to fear that if the killer bees didn’t get them, they’d end up trampled to death by all the tourists.

“What will we do?” many a concerned citizen asked at the city commission meetings.

But they were all asking the wrong question.

The only person who thought to ask the right question was a young architect from Marquette named Rock Chawabeau. Rock’s first architectural project had been to finally remodel the ore dock in the Lower Harbor, which had sat unused for more than a century and a half. He transformed it into a fabulous restaurant, botanical garden, and interactive history museum that had since become famous throughout the Midwest. But that had been an easy project compared to what lay before him now.

And to figure out how to face that project, Rock Chawabeau asked the question no one else in Marquette had thought to ask—not “What will we do?” but “What would Peter White do?”

It wasn’t an easy question to answer, but Rock was determined to find out. He read everything he could about Peter White, even checking out dusty old books from the Peter White Public Library by people like Fred Rydholm, Russell Magnaghi, and Tyler Tichelaar that no one had read in decades. Most people in Marquette didn’t even remember who Peter White was, despite the library being named for him. For that matter, most people didn’t remember how to read—they’d all gone to audiobooks. But Rock had always loved history, and while the city commission had thought nothing about letting developers put up ugly skyscrapers in Marquette, he had always fought to preserve Marquette’s historical sandstone look even in his newest buildings. And now he turned to Peter White for wisdom and inspiration.

One night, after reading a particularly dull tome that talked about old-time sports in Marquette, Rock fell asleep. Not surprisingly, that night he dreamed of Peter White. Peter White said to him, “I always helped to fund church roofs because there’s no other way to keep out the rain.”

When Rock woke, he pondered that dream for a long time. Then he remembered the book he had been reading. It had talked about a place called the Superior Dome that had once been part of Northern Michigan University. Rock had always wished he could have seen that dome, but it had been pulled down decades before he was born. Once too many head injuries had made football outlawed across the United States, the dome had fallen into disuse and dilapidation. After all, everyone just watched computer-generated sports now—they were safer. But Rock knew that dome had been an architectural wonder in its day—the world’s largest wooden dome when it was built.

Then Rock had an idea.

“What if I could put a giant dome over all of Marquette?”

It wasn’t an original idea. After all, it had existed in movies for years, but was it really possible to do? Rock didn’t know, but he was going to try.

And so Rock set to work. After many months of trying to figure out how it would be possible, he settled on building a dome thirty stories high as the most practical and realistic result. That would mean some of the ugly modern skyscrapers in Marquette would have to be torn down, but the city commissioners were reasonable, and many were glad to be rid of those eyesores. Better be skyscraperless than succumb to global warming. The dome would also have very deep walls that would sink into the earth for twenty stories, and a great floor would be built beneath it, and beneath that would be engines and motors to make it float in case the earth beneath it caved in or the lake level rose so high that the entire dome needed to be projected onto its surface.

“A veritable Atlantis is what it is!” said the mayor, shaking Rock’s hand once the decision to build it had been made.

“Brigadoon, eat your heart out,” said the mayor’s wife.

“Whoever would have thought such a thing possible?” asked the city manager.

But it was possible. It took a few years to complete, but when Marquette’s protective dome was completed, it was named the eighth wonder of the world. It was built of beautiful sparkling see-through glass of incredible strength, the manufacture of which I cannot even describe since it hasn’t been invented yet—this is, after all, a story set in the future. And grandest of all, on top of the dome, Rock had set a giant crown made out of iron ore so that everyone would know Marquette truly was the Queen City of the North. They say you could see that crown from as far away as Canada, the Porcupine Mountains, and even the Mackinac Bridge.

Of course, everyone now wanted to come live in Marquette, the Wonder City, but the city commission forbade it because overpopulation was exactly what it had been trying to avoid. Only current residents or people who could prove their families had lived in Marquette prior to its bicentennial were allowed in, although limited tourism was encouraged. The dome had been made with giant sliding glass doors, large enough for trucks and cars to drive through and even an ore boat to pass through on the lake side. Oh, yes, Rock had the dome stretch out a good three miles into Lake Superior just to make the yacht club happy. With all those wonderful features, how could the tourists stay away? But Marquette used the dome to help regulate the tourist industry so the city did not become overpopulated at any time. And most surprisingly, Marquette’s tourism dramatically increased in the winter because the dome regulated the climate. Not that there wasn’t snow in Marquette, but it was manageable and came down on an agreed-upon weekly schedule, which made the skiers very happy. But a couple of times a year, a good old-fashioned blizzard happened with only twenty-four-hour notice because, after all, Marquette without a snowstorm would be like a Cornishman without a pasty.

To make a long story short, Rock Chawabeau had saved the day for Marquette and made it a more desirable place to live than ever before.

The night after the dome was completed and the mayor gave Rock the key to the city, Rock decided he would celebrate by making up some Peter White Punch from a recipe he’d found in one of those old books.

He must have made that punch extra strong because he’d only had a few sips when two men unexpectedly appeared where he was sitting on his back porch overlooking the Lower Harbor. The first wore a long black robe and the other looked Native American.

“I’m Pere Marquette,” said the first, in French.

“And I’m Charley Kawbawgam,” said the second, in Ojibwa.

And the funny thing is, Rock understood them both completely.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Rock. “I’ve read a lot about both of you. I’m Rock Chawabeau. What can I do for you?”

“You’ve already done plenty,” said Pere Marquette. “You’re the rock upon which Marquette was built and saved.”

“You’re my old friend, Peter White,” added Chief Kawbawgam.

“Why,” said Rock, laughing at this revelation, “I guess I am. Well, what do you know! I wonder what I’ll do in my next life.”

Little did Rock know that Nanabozho already had his next life all planned out.

Author’s Note

Many years ago, I had the idea to write a story about the Father Marquette statue coming to life and walking about Marquette at night. Then recently, while doing research for another book, I looked through Peter White’s scrapbooks at the Marquette Regional History Center and discovered that not long after the statue was dedicated in 1897, legends started to spread about the statue doing that very thing. I also came across a poem published in the Detroit Free Press on September 27, 1897 playing off the French Canadian legend that Peter White had been alive to greet Father Marquette when he first arrived in Iron Bay. “The Many Lives of Pierre LeBlanc” is based on these old legends with embellishments from my own imagination.

Tyler R. Tichelaar is the author of twenty books including When Teddy Came to Town, Haunted Marquette, and The Marquette Trilogy. His next book will be a biography of Ojibwa chief, Charles Kawbawgam, scheduled for release in November 2020. Tyler is also a professional editor and the owner of Superior Book Productions. Visit him at www.MarquetteFiction.com.

Service Alert

by Brandy Thomas

(Archivist note: This is a selection of email from Margaret Decke, a quilter with her own business, over an approximate three-year period in the early 21st century.)

September 29

Dear Sarah,

I am very sorry to hear of the loss of your husband. Cancer is a horrible disease that has taken too many people from this world too soon. I would be happy to make a memory quilt using a selection of his clothes.

Please send me clothing most representative of your husband. Anything I don’t use as part of the quilt I will return to you with the finished quilt. Please see the attached document or my website for sizes, material requirements, and cost. You will receive a shipping notice and tracking number when the quilt is on its way to you.

Any questions or concerns please let me know and once again my deepest condolences for your loss.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

October 28

Dear Sarah,

I have finished your memory quilt but have not yet shipped the package to you. When I went to create a shipping label, I received a service alert that due to wildfires in California, there could potentially be shipping delays. I wanted to double check that you were safe and if I sent you the quilt it would make it to you.

Please let me know when you are able, what action you would like me to take. Obviously, you and your family’s safety are the top priority but know that at least a small piece of the memory of your husband is safe.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

December 2

Dear MacKenzie,

I am so sorry to hear of the loss of your daughter. I would most certainly be able to make a stuffed teddy bear from your daughter’s clothes. I know I advertise primarily quilts, but I can also make a wide variety of stuffed animals using similar techniques.

Please make sure to include a third more than the number of clothing articles listed for older children. Unfortunately, clothing that is smaller than 2T requires more items to provide enough material. If there is enough left over, I will include a small quilt as well, no extra charge.

I also wanted to make you aware that I received a service alert that items shipping to your area may be delayed in the upcoming weeks due to the measles outbreak that is affecting the region.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

January 11

Dear David,

I just wanted to make you aware that your package may be delayed due to snowstorms in the Northeast. I just received a service alert this morning after I had shipped your quilt. Although a new quilt would be nice to have in a snowstorm, it should, hopefully, arrive soon.

I hope you enjoy the quilt homage to your love of all things, Dr. Who. It was a nice change of pace to make something so fun. If you have any questions, please let me know.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

January 13

Dear Kina,

I am hoping you get this email. I received a service alert saying that shipping to Hawai’i will be delayed for the foreseeable future. Here on the mainland we have heard conflicting information on the events unfolding. We heard there was an emergency missile launch notification malfunction, aka someone screwed up, and sent out an emergency text signal in error. But then we heard it wasn’t a malfunction but an actual attack! There is a lot of confusion and worry about what is going on.

No matter what is happening, I hope you and your family are safe. I will hold your quilt until I hear from you and where you would like me to ship it.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

April 30

Dear Harland,

I received a service alert that due to recent flooding along the Mississippi River, your package delivery will be delayed. I hope you and yours are safe and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Margaret Decke

July 3

Dear Amy,

I am writing to let you know that your quilts will arrive a little later than planned. I received a service alert this morning that shipments to the D.C. area will be delayed due to the protests happening throughout the city. If you have any questions or concerns, please let me know.

Sincerely,

Margaret Decke

November 12

Dear Donna,

I received a service alert this morning that due to the bridge collapse outside of Chicago, there will most likely be shipping delays once I finish your wife’s quilts.

You mentioned in your last email that you had all the fabric and supplies of your late wife and were wondering where to sell all of it. I would like to propose a trade. In exchange for finishing the five quilts that were unfinished when she passed away, plus an additional twin sized quilt for your new granddaughter, I will take all of her fabric and sewing supplies. Please let me know if that trade would work for you.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

October 23

Dear Julia,

I wanted to reassure you that the memory quilt for your daughter will be finished in time for the memorial. I know you also received a service alert about shipping delays due to problems with the electrical grid. The rolling blackouts have been affecting everyone, but luckily, I have recently acquired a treadle sewing machine and this has allowed me to work even without electricity. I also do hand work as well, but the machine is much faster. Also, since you are located only an hour drive south of me, I will hand deliver the quilt at no extra charge. If that works for you, please let me know where you would like to meet.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

October 30

Dear Michael,

I normally do not give discounts on my quilts other than the occasional site-wide sale. However, I recently received a service alert about the disrupted shipping of international goods due to the earthquake and subsequent tsunami in the Pacific. This is delaying a lot of fabric shipments.

If you would be willing to send me various good quality cotton fabrics in addition to the material required for your quilt, I will make your quilt for no other cost. Since you are in a much larger city and are on the East Coast, the delays shouldn’t affect your stores as much as remote areas, like where I live.

Let me know if this arrangement would work for you and I can give you an idea of yardage and color requests.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

January 2

Dear Sam,

With the latest service alert limiting nationwide shipping to essentials and emergency supplies only, I can no longer guarantee delivery outside of the Northern Great Lakes region where I live. I am going to be updating my website and other contact information to reflect my new limited area. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but I wish you luck in finding someone to help you with your sewing needs locally.

Sincerely yours,

Margaret Decke

September 22

Dear Elyse,

Thank you for the email. I was very surprised to hear from you. With the continuing troubles, I am only able to check email once every couple of months. I’m not even sure how much longer that will even be possible.

Anyway, I hope you are doing well. I am so happy to hear that you received and loved your quilt. Too bad it took two years to get to you, but as they say, better late than never. They weren’t lying in that alert when they said there could be significant shipping delays.

To answer your question, yes, I am still making quilts. Turns out people still need something to keep them warm even when everything is falling apart. I usually trade for what we can’t grow in the garden or is hard to get locally. Older folk still want memory quilts, even more now than before, but the younger just want a practical excuse to have something beautiful.

Anyway, life goes on.

Sincerely Yours,

Margaret Decke

Brandy Thomas is a freelance editor based in Marquette, Michigan, who specializes in fiction but works and edits across the publishing spectrum. This includes working with indie and traditionally published authors in areas including mass media, non-fiction, doctoral dissertations and master’s theses, science-fiction/fantasy, and other fiction. She is a graduate of Southern Illinois University and holds a Master’s in Mass Communication and Media Arts. She has gained experience in writing and editing for public and corporate video productions, developing an adult continuing education class at Spokane Community Colleges, and editing a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction for local authors. When not at her desk, Brandy can be found drawing, painting, or sewing,

The River of the Dead

by Jon Taylor

The Dead River

Was given its name

Not because it has a slow

Or a listless current

But because

The spirits of the dead

Were thought to live in the spray

From its falls and rapids

And as one climbs

The length of its course

Where it comes down from the place

Of its headwaters

One gains an understanding