U.P. Reader -- Volume #7 E-Book

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

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 sixty short works in this 7th 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 Mikel B Classen, Sharon Kennedy, Ellen Lord, Deborah K Frontiera, Bill Sproule, Maria Vezzetti Matson, Tamara Lauder, Tyler R Tichelaar, Emilie Lancour, M Kelly Peach, Richard Hill, Roslyn McGrath, Becky Ross Michael, Julie Dickerson, John Adamcik, August Whitney, Tricia Carr, Elizabeth Fust,Ninie Gaspariani Syarikin, Mack Hassler, Donna Searight Simons, Leigh Mills, Raymond Luczak,J L Hagen, Nina Craig,Art Curtis, Brandy Thomas,Kathleen Carlton Johnson, Chris Kent, Ben Bohnsack, Edd Tury, Allan Koski,Jaclyn Jukkala, Lilli Gast, Miah Billie, Halle Wakkuri, Serah Oommen, and Betty Harriman.
"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
The U.P. Reader is sponsored by the Upper Peninsula Publishers and Authors Association (UPPAA) a non-profit corporation. A portion of proceeds from each copy sold will be donated to the UPPAA for its educational programming.

Leseprobe

www.UPReader.org

U.P. Reader

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

U.P. Reader: Bringing Upper Michigan Literature to the World — Volume #7

Copyright © 2023 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 978-1-61599-733-6 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-734-3 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-735-0 eBook (PDF, Kindle, ePub)

Edited by- Deborah K. Frontiera and Mikel B. Classen

Production - Victor Volkman

Cover Photo - Mikel B. Classen

Interior Layout - Michal Šplho (Amorandi Design)

Distributed by Ingram International (USA / CAN / AU / UK / EU)

Published by

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

[email protected]

CONTENTS

About the Cover: “Painesdale Rock Shaft House #4” by Mikel B. Classen

Janet by Sharon Kennedy

Quale and Agnes by Sharon Kennedy

Memory Trails by Ellen Lord

Two Riders by Ellen Lord

The Giant Flower by Deborah K. Frontiera

Spring Haiku Trio by Deborah K. Frontiera

Charles Uksila: From Calumet to a Career in Hockey and Figure Skating by Bill Sproule

Michigan’s Dogman by Maria Vezzetti Matson

Captive Spirit by Tamara Lauder

The Wonder of Snow by Tamara Lauder

Expanding Horizons – Seeking Harmony by Tamara Lauder

Victorian Nightmare by Tyler R. Tichelaar

Worth Fighting For by Emilie Lancour

Dying Autumn White by M. Kelly Peach

In Echoless Regions by M. Kelly Peach

Bestseller by Richard Hill

The Robin’s Nest by Richard Hill

White Knuckles/Black Wheels by Richard Hill

Mail Order Ministry by Roslyn McGrath

Recipe by Roslyn McGrath

Shelf Life by Becky Ross Michael

A Call in The Night by Julie Dickerson

Lost and Here/House of Autism by Julie Dickerson

Michigamme Grades by John Adamcik

Onward, Inward, Upward, Home by John Adamcik

Softer Echoes of a Frozen Roar by John Adamcik

The Bottom of the Cider Barrel by August Whitney

Free in the Harbor by August Whitney

Final Irony by Tricia Carr

soft forest symphony by t. kilgore splake

we love it by t. kilgore splake

those who stayed by t. kilgore splake

Astronautical: A Yooper Translates the Song of the Space Whales by Elizabeth Fust

A Yooper Wonder in My Backyard by Ninie Gaspariani Syarikin

On the Death of Two Finn Patriarchs by Mack Hassler

Innovations on History by Mack Hassler

Ghosts in the Calumet Theatre by Donna Searight Simons

Vicarious Vacationer by Leigh Mills

Bricks across West Oak Street by Raymond Luczak

Colonial Skateland by Raymond Luczak

Gogebic County Fairgrounds by Raymond Luczak

Two Bells by J. L. Hagen

The Frost Line by Nina Craig

Letters to Harrison #11 by Art Curtis

Letters to Harrison #32 by Art Curtis

Letters to Harrison #37 by Art Curtis

Way Leads on to Way A Choose Your Own Adventure Story by Brandy Thomas

Art Fair Summer by Kathleen Carlton Johnson

April in the U.P. by Kathleen Carlton Johnson

Keepsakes by Chris Kent

Massive by Ben Bohnsack

Dead Tree Standing by Ben Bohnsack

In Camp by Edd Tury

The Gift by Allan Koski

U.P. Publishers & Authors Association Announces 4th Annual U.P. Notable Books List

Young U.P. Author Section

The Window by Jaclyn Jukkala

Azalea Tea and Other Poisons by Lilli Gast

Shadows of the Mind by Miah Billie

The Karate Club by Halle Wakkuri

Overcoming Hardships in Life by Serah Oommen

Mushroom by Betty Harriman

Author Bios

Help Sell The U.P. Reader!

Come join UPPAA Online!

Comprehensive Index of U.P. Reader Volumes 1 through 7

About the Cover:“Painesdale Rock Shaft House #4”

by Mikel B. Classen

This is a mining shaft at Painesdale. Constructed in 1902, it is the #4 shaft of the Copper Range Company and is the oldest still-standing rock-shaft house on the Keweenaw. Located nine miles south of Houghton on the corner of M-26 and the Painesdale-Chassell Road, this mine once extended nearly 5,000 feet underground and had forty-eight levels. The Copper Range Mining Company had several mines in the area, also called the Champion location, but this is one of the only ones where most of the mine buildings still remain standing. The Quincy mine in Hancock is another.

An old blacksmith shop and machine shop still stand nearby. There are also the old offices of the Champion Mining Company, now abandoned, sitting on a hill west of the mine called in its heyday, “Snob Hill.” A bit of investigating will turn up the remains of another shaft and a hoist house along with relics of railway equipment, mining artifacts and other buildings scattered about.

The shaft and mine operated into the 1960’s, one of the reasons it is mostly still intact. Like most mines and mining companies, the profits were up and down. World War I and World War II gave the mine a boost in profits and business, but eventually, like all of the copper mines, it went bust and now sits marking the bygone era of the copper boom.

The town of Painesdale was named after Albert Paine, president of the Copper Range Mining Company. It was built between 1899 and 1917 by the Champion Mining Company. Today the town is not the boom town it once was, but it is still a small community. In 1916, the town reached its peak with about 200 homes. Today many of them still stand and are occupied. When visiting Painesdale, keep in mind some of the relics are on private property and should be respected as such.

A few years back, the historical shaft was being threatened to be turned into scrap. Members of the local community decided that this would not be the case and organized a local group to save the history and restore the town’s heritage. The Painesdale Mine and Shaft Inc. was organized and are actively trying to restore the buildings and relics that surround them. Free tours are available by appointment and the organization is looking for donations to help with the restoration. They can be contacted through email [email protected] or snail mail: P.O. Box 332, Painesdale, MI 49955. They also have a website at https://www.pasty.com/copperrange/sos.htm

Learn more about Mikel B. Classen in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

FICTION

Janet

by Sharon Kennedy

I met Janet quite by chance when I was at the Riverside Cemetery in Sault Ste. Marie. It was one of those overcast days when rain could come at any minute and force me to take cover underneath the branches of some old oak or maple and hope lightning skipped around me. Janet had her camera, too, and I watched as she tiptoed around the graves and carefully avoided stepping on old sunken markers. Once she did and I zoomed my lens in on her face, on the guilt clearly spreading itself over her features. She crossed herself, and I saw her lips move in supplication of the dead. Perhaps she said something like, “I didn’t mean to step on you” or “Please forgive me” or any one of a dozen apologies people might utter at such moments.

Eventually the rain did come. Janet ran for shelter, seeking a marble bench by a mausoleum in the gloom of a willow tree. I thought she felt safe there, concealed from the downpour and I hesitated before joining her. Would I frighten her? Repulse her? Would she run into the rain to escape me or would pity show in her eyes as she looked at me? Would she pat my back and smile the way people do when they think a pat or a smile can hide their disgust? But no matter. I was driven to her and made my way to the bench.

She looked at me when I took my place next to her, but other than a quick “Hello” she was silent. We waited, watching the rain, and I fancied I could smell her fear. I drew one leg up sharply underneath my chin and rested it on the bench while I struggled with my cart and photo equipment, cursing my mother’s womb where I had grown twisted. Janet, not much younger than I, sat huddled into herself, wisps of her curly brown hair sticking to her small face. The face, I had noted, was unremarkable—hazel eyes set deeply within their sockets, a rather long and sharp nose, a small mouth, and hardly any chin. Her neck, though, was long and graceful as it rose from her coat. An agreeable face, I thought, befitting someone generally satisfied with life.

“We really shouldn’t be here,” I ventured. “You often hear of people getting struck by lightning when they shelter under a tree.” She remained silent and I smelled her perfume. To this day, I remember the smell of rain and that perfume and wonder what became of her. “It’s only a shower,” I tried again. “It will soon pass.” Still, she stayed behind her thoughts, but when I spoke, I turned to her and lost myself in the porcelain face that had suddenly become beautiful. We sat thus for perhaps a quarter of an hour. The rain fell softly, and no thunder or lightning ensued, and it was not unpleasant. Her breaths came in long sighs, and I felt her relax. Without warning, she wept, carelessly dabbing a tissue at her eyes and cheeks. I wasn’t sure what to do. Although nature had damned my body, she had seen fit to give me a kind disposition. My natural instinct was to reach my hand over hers and say comforting words until the weeping subsided. But I am a freak. An accident of genes. Who was there to comfort her from me?

Allow me to speak of myself for a moment so you will better grasp the setting. I am twenty-nine years old but look much older. My red hair is thinning as are my eyebrows and lashes. I wear very thick glasses over colorless, myopic eyes that droop at the corners much as a basset hound’s. My head is large, my forehead protrudes over my nose, and my nose itself is large and bulbous. My mouth is twisted in a perpetual grin and my teeth are crooked. My complexion is muddy and pocked. I have no cheekbones, no chin, no neck to speak of, and the weight of my head leans over my small frame. I only hope to reach five feet tall, but it’s obvious I will never get there.

Mind you, though, I could live with the way my face looks. I’ve gotten used to it, as have one or two others who call themselves my friends. It’s my body that frightens me as I know it does others. Sometime during my stay in the womb, the signals got mixed up and my right leg misread the blueprint. For instead of growing straight as the left one did, it grew very little and what did grow got the wrong message. My shin hangs from my thigh much as your hand would if you held out your elbow and swung it. My little shin jerks my little foot, and I am forced to hop when I walk. My little foot is six inches off the ground and suspends itself, defying gravity. Often, I use crutches, but more often than not, I prefer to utilize my good limb. I hop down the street with my right leg leaning on my cart where my camera and books are. Except for the curious who stop, stare, laugh, or grimace, people leave me alone.

Mind you, I am not telling you this for sympathy or whatever. I only feel you must be told to understand why I hesitated to comfort the poor creature next to me who still wept as if her heart would break. I was afraid to breathe lest I scare her, but I was getting a cramp in my leg and wanted to move. It was impossible, though, to vacate the bench without much havoc and the last thing I wanted to do was create a scene. Actually, the fair maiden seemed to take little notice of me, so wrapped in her own woes was she. As rain continued to fall, I leaned on my cart and jerked my little leg over the good one. Then I whistled. It seemed the right thing to do.

I have always preferred taking pictures in a cemetery. It is not the calm, peaceful setting I treasure as much as the interesting events that take place. I am often on hand during a burial and get spectacular shots of mourners. You may or may not be surprised at the number of smiles that show up where one would expect tears. Mourners go from one extreme to another, and I have not yet decided which I prefer probably because I have had no one to mourn. The young woman next to me was not at a burial; that much I knew. She did not stop at any specific grave, at least not while I watched her. Since her camera was with her, I surmised she was simply on a photography assignment for class, and the gloom of the place overtook her. She touched her eyes with the wet Kleenex and emitted a very deep sigh. Good, I thought. She’s coming round.

“Oh,” she said as if she had just noticed me. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

She was looking me straight in the face, and I did not see as much as a flicker of disgust or amusement. What a remarkable person, I thought. As she gazed at me, the right side of my mouth started twitching. Still, she paid no attention.

“Have you lost a loved one?” My words sounded hollow as they left my throat. The twitching was making me nervous.

“Yes. No. Well, I’m not sure. I mean, I call her my twin sister but I’m not sure if she’s my twin or me. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I even have a twin.”

Her eyes looked away and I felt her mentally leave the bench. She continued to knot the Kleenex, then shred it, then roll the shreds into tiny balls that she put on her lap. It was a pink tissue which seemed appropriate for such a delicate creature. Her coat was rose colored, as was her handbag. Even her shoes showed a trace of pink. Rose colored blush was brushed on her cheeks. The farther away she looked, the more peaceful her face became until the few lines surrounding her mouth disappeared. She is beautiful was all I could think. I yearned to hold her. Water filled my eyes for how could I, a freak, expect to embrace this beauty?

“Did you hear me?” She sounded annoyed that I had remained silent. “I said I don’t know whether it’s my twin sister or I that is dead.”

“Yes, yes,” I stammered. “I heard you, but I thought you were just, well, just musing.”

“I tell you something as crazy as that and you think I’m musing?”

“Well, no, I guess not, but well, I don’t know.”

“I tell you I don’t even know for sure if I have a twin sister let alone whether or not she’s dead or I’m dead and you think that’s not crazy?”

“Who am I to judge?” She was furious now and thought I was making fun of her, which, of course, was the last thing on earth I would do to such a beautiful girl. She stood up and the pile of pink balls rolled to the ground. She placed her hands on her slim hips and glared at me, bending until her nose was level with mine. My mouth twitched madly, and I was powerless to stop it. She’s going to laugh when she sees it, I thought. I shrunk from her until my back caught the tree trunk and I almost fell. She grabbed me.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she screamed. “You’re not leaving here until you’ve answered my question.” She was out of control now. Gone beyond all reason. “Am I or am I not crazy?” Her pink hands were around my throat, and I could hardly breathe. She was the most enchanting mortal nature had ever made, and she was touching me—a freak—and it didn’t matter that I was choking. Her perfume covered me. I lost myself in it as I let my neck go limp in her hands and slumped forward unto her breast. I had never known such bliss in touching another human being. I wished the moment would last forever, but, of course, I knew it couldn’t and as quickly as she had encircled my neck, she let go.

“I hate you,” she screamed. “I hate you. I hate all of you here, so dead, so silent, so condemning, so mocking. Why won’t you tell me who died? Me or Janet?” She crumpled to the ground. It was all I could do to keep from kicking her with my little foot that was jerking uncontrollably. She lifted her head and leaned against my left knee. I noticed a tiny braid held in place by a pink ribbon mixed in with her curls. Her coat opened, exposing a pink locket hanging from her neck. She wore no blouse or sweater. I saw her small bosom. Her nipples stood erect like tiny strawberries. She was a naked vision of beauty. I held my breath.

“You’re right,” she said. “There is no Janet. I am Janet and I am both dead and alive and I come here to take pictures of the grave where I’m buried, except I can’t find it. I visit all the cemeteries in the area looking for my grave, but it’s not anywhere. It’s lost like me. Please take me home.”

She whimpered like a child and clung to my knee. At last, I drew breath. The rain fell, then let up, then fell again and still she did not move. She doesn’t notice me, was all I could think. She doesn’t see me at all. It’s not me she’s clutching but an apparition from her past. I wondered if the tombstones surrounding us would claim the name of Janet. I wondered if Janet was lying cold beneath the earth around us. The long branches of the willow danced in the calm afternoon breeze. The rain stopped and I felt chilled. I wanted to retreat to my rooms on Portage, start a fire in the grate, brew a pot of tea on my hotplate, develop my negatives, and sleep. I had my own troubles, but Janet clung to me.

“Please take me home,” she said again. She shifted herself, releasing her hold on my knee. I seized the opportunity, hopped from the bench, leaned on my cart, and moved away. Before I left the graveyard, I turned and looked at the beautiful girl who had suddenly become plain, resting in a pink haze, her drab, wet hair hanging flat against her head. A thought flashed through my mind that I could make love to her, that she wouldn’t even notice when I opened her coat and thrust myself into her body, but then I thought what a foolish idea. Why would I want to make love to one so obviously unstable? To one so freakish?

“Please take me home,” she pleaded. Without hesitation, I hopped away, eager to be rid of her.

“Please take me home,” she called again. For the first time in my life, I thanked the man and woman who made me. As I continued to hear the plaintive cries, I knew—even in my misshapen, ugly body—I knew I was happier, more content and more beautiful than Janet or whatever she called herself had ever been or was ever likely to be.

Learn more about Sharon Kennedy in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

FICTION

Quale and Agnes

by Sharon Kennedy

The fading sun shines through lacy beige curtains and brings a quiet glow to Quale’s living room, turning her surroundings into a welcoming cocoon. She wraps herself deeper into her yellow cardigan, stirs a little Irish cream into her coffee, and turns to Spike who is reading yesterday’s newspaper, quite oblivious to Quale’s obvious suffering. She hates him and his cool indifference.

“I didn’t think it would end like this,” she says. “I thought I’d awaken one morning, and Mom would be gone — that I’d find her asleep in her chair with a peaceful look on her face and her plastic crucifix clutched in her hand. Sweetie would be purring and licking her arm, trying to awaken her, but knowing as an animal instinctively knows, that her mistress has gone someplace the cat cannot follow. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Dear God, not like this.”

“How long are you going to cry?” Spike asks as he glances her way. “Your ma’s okay. She’s happy living at the home. It’s you I’m worried about. Snap out of the dumps, will you?” Spike has heard Quale’s complaints for weeks. Her constant rehashing of her mother’s move to the nursing home isn’t good for their shaky relationship.

“I can’t help it,” Quale answers. “This is the first spring in seventy-nine years she hasn’t been home to see the daffodils bloom. It doesn’t make sense that she lives in a healthy body while her mind disintegrates. If she had died, it would be so much easier.”

“But she didn’t die, and life goes on. Besides, the home has flowerbeds. She’ll be watching daffodils bloom from a different window, that’s all, and she won’t even know the difference. That should give you some comfort.”

“Why? Why does life go on and why should knowing Mom doesn’t know where she is bring me comfort? She worked hard all her life and look how it ended. Life makes no sense. It’s crazy—everything ends. Everything. All her hard work amounted to nothing. Her life amounted to less than a stick of kindling.”

“Stop it, Quale. Stop it or you’ll be sitting in a wheelchair next to her, dribbling your chicken noodle soup on your bib, and filling your Depends with urine.”

“You don’t understand. You didn’t live with her. We shared this house for nine years. It wasn’t until she moved in with me that I remembered everything about her that I thought I had forgotten. I loved her, then I hated her, then I forgave her then I loved her again. She’s been gone for two months. Give me time to mourn. Please. I need more time. That’s all I’m asking.”

“But you’re not getting better. Every time you visit her, you come home an emotional wreck. You can’t live her life. You have to go on and think about us. How about we go to the casino? I still have a little time before I catch the boat. What’d you say?”

“I say close the window. I’m cold and I can’t stand the noise from those four-wheelers. This sideroad used to be so quiet—no more than three cars drove by in a day. Sometimes it was three days before one car would go by. Now the quiet is gone. I hate it here now. Strangers live on the road that used to be ours. Kids break the windows in the old house and sleep like thieves in the barn’s haymow. Everything’s changed. I hate it. I hate the way things turned out. It isn’t fair. Please close the window. I said I’m cold.”

“You’re not well, Quale. You’re living in the past. You need to see a doctor.”

“What do I need a doctor for? To tell me cancer is eating my body? Or the polyps in my nose are malignant? So, what if a doctor says I need an operation? And if I survive, what then? What then? If they heal my body, and I lose my mind, what difference will it make? Why bother with a doctor? What’s the point?” Spike closes the window.

“Here, put on this sweatshirt and drink your coffee. Dammit, Quale, you’ve got to pull yourself together. You’re all I’ve got. I need you. Don’t quit on me. Did you take your Xanax?”

“Xanax, Prozac, Tetracycline, four aspirins, three Butterfingers, a bag of gas station popcorn, and a pot of coffee. That’s what I’ve taken today. Tomorrow will be the same except for the candy. Maybe I’ll eat a bag of Switzer’s black licorice.”

“Do you think this is what she would want? That she’d be happy knowing you’re ruining your health? Did she give up when your dad died?”

“No, but he died quick. He escaped a nursing home.”

“Then be like she is. Be strong. She’s adjusting to her new life. She seems happy. It seems to me you might be a little jealous that your ma has adjusted to the situation better than you have. She wouldn’t want to see you in such misery.”

“I’ve been strong all my life and for most of it, I’ve taken care of someone other than myself. I’m fifty-three years old and I’m tired. If I eat junk food and pop pills, then so be it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. You’re never around long enough to do anything anyway. Always complaining how much you hate the life of a Great Lakes sailor, but you love to boast about being one.”

As usual, Spike feels useless because he is. He looks at his watch. Nine-thirty. The ship will lock through in an hour and if he’s not on it, it will sail without him. The freighter Joe Block waits for no man. Spike knows when he’s licked. “Okay,” he says. “You don’t want to go to the casino but come here and let me love you before I leave.” Spike heads for the bedroom but Quale won’t follow him. How can a woman make love to a man she despises? The years of manipulation and verbal abuse and passive-aggressive behavior have taken their toll. Quale no longer feels any emotions for Spike other than contempt and fear. She feigns concern as he puts on his jacket and gets ready to leave.

“Be careful,” she says. “Dusk is when deer feed alongside the road. Promise me you’ll be careful.” Twice this spring Spike has hit a deer. Quale is much less concerned about his welfare. It’s the poor animals that have her sympathy.

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll call as often as I can, but you know when we’re on Lake Superior heading for Duluth, I can’t get a signal on the cell.”

“I know,” Quale says. She turns away after he kisses her cheek. She listens until his truck is gone and then closes her eyes. Soon she is sleeping, and her dreams reveal what she tries to keep hidden. Her dreams take her to the old barn, but it’s much larger than it was. Mom and Dad and Spike are with her. They’re walking along the south wall of the haymow because the floor isn’t safe. Years of neglect rotted the wood. Quale watches as the mow falls to the ground. Her parents disappear amid old milk bottles, curry combs, pictures of herself when she was young, and boxes of broken glasses. She grabs everything and runs to the house, but it isn’t the house, it’s the old red building Dad used as a work shed. When she puts the items on a table, they roll away like human heads roll from the slice of a guillotine.

Quale sees herself in the mirror she holds in her dream. Her face is lined, wrinkled, looking much older than she is. She tosses the mirror aside and returns to the haymow. Female bodies lie on the hay. When she looks closer, they open their eyes, and their arms reach for her. Their faces are white, and their eyes are colorless. A shudder runs through Quale as she thinks of the movie Je’Accuse and wonders what she has done to earn the wrath of these dead women. They go for her throat. Mom and Dad and Spike have disappeared so there is no one to help her. She does not struggle as the dead women strangle her. Resistance is pointless.

Quale cries in her sleep and awakens. In her mind’s eye, she sees Spike as he is—a handsome, tall man whose eyes are empty. Five years ago, when they first met, she asked him why he had empty eyes, but he didn’t understand so he didn’t answer. Quale’s eyes take her to the picture of Jesus hanging on the wall. In every Catholic home, the same picture is tacked or taped to a wall. The eyes of Jesus follow her as she moves from the bedroom to the kitchen. His eyes are full of love and hope and compassion and understanding. They are not the eyes of a stranger.

“It’s just You and me now,” Quale says as she pours water into the tea kettle. “I guess You’ll have to do.” She pushes back the linen tablecloth, takes a China cup and saucer from the cupboard, and puts a teabag in the cup when the water is hot. She opens the cookie jar and places three oatmeal cookies on a fancy plate and sits at her place, staring at the same picture of Jesus that hangs from a nail pounded into the west wall.

“I suppose You’ll do,” she repeats as she stirs sugar into her cup. “What choice do I have?” Quale looks past the picture and thinks of Spike as he drives north on Mac Trail towards the Soo Locks where he’ll board the freighter. Then she thinks of her mother. She sits for a long time and wonders what they are thinking. Eventually, she finishes her snack, puts the dishes in the sink, and draws the drapes. Evening has descended. The house is cold and dark. Quale no longer sees the eyes of Jesus watching her, but she feels His presence within her. At least she thinks it’s His presence, but maybe it’s only the Xanax.

Spike calls at midnight. She doesn’t pick up the receiver, and the call goes to the answering machine. “The night is clear. Superior is smooth as glass,” he says. “All is fine. I love you.” Quale erases the message and closes her eyes. She sleeps soundly until 6:00 a.m. When she awakens, she hopes the day will be different, but that’s a hope void of hope. How can something be different when nothing changes? She dresses, makes coffee, eats some cookies, sits at the kitchen table, and waits for the day to end. This is the life of Quale as she searches for meaning in the emptiness surrounding her. Emptiness occasionally broken by the appearance of a man she loathes. She longs for the safety and security of her youth when she was unconcerned about the future and the sorrow it would bring. Her eyes fill with tears.

Meanwhile, at the nursing home in Sault Ste. Marie, Agnes pushes her wheelchair down the hallway until she finds her room—B4. It’s an easy number to remember because it reminds her of bingo and the number that always comes up. She just finished a good breakfast and is looking forward to watching her favorite show on the small television in her room. She likes the banter between Kathie Lee and Regis. It’s not quite nine o’clock so she does what she does every morning. She opens the drawer of her night-stand. A feeling of pride rushes through her as she looks at the contents. There are so many things in it. She counts each treasure as she removes it.

Number one is a bottle of gold-colored cologne. Number two is the holy card of Mary. Number three is her rosary. Number four is a Mother’s Day corsage. Number five is a new pair of socks. The counting continues until Agnes reaches thirty-one. The number is high because she counts all the tiny bits of discarded candy wrappers and all the ribbons from various presents. Everything she owns is spread on the twin bed that is not hers in the room that is not hers. She smiles and tells her roommate that all her possessions are from someone whose name she doesn’t recall but who must love her very much to be so generous. The roommate agrees. Agnes puts everything back in the nightstand that is not hers. Then she leans back on the pillow that is not hers and smiles as her show comes on.

She spends her days watching shows and talking to her new friends. When the afternoon soaps come on, she wheels herself to the glass patio door that looks out on the garden. She watches the flowers grow and smiles when she sees the daffodils have finally bloomed. For the first time in her life, Agnes is happy. She no longer has to care for or worry about anyone. Her health is good as is her appetite. She doesn’t remember the home she shared with her daughter because she doesn’t remember either one. She gives a contented sigh as she wheels herself to one of the tables. It’s time for bingo. B-4 is the first number called. Agnes finds it on her card and quickly covers it. She hopes she picked a lucky card. If so, she’ll win the blackout and the main prize, a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. The caller yells “B-8.” Agnes covers it. The man next to her pats her hand. “You’re on a roll,” he says. Agnes smiles. “I-21” is the next number. She covers it. The smile spreading across her lips would melt snow. She’s never been so happy.

Learn more about Sharon Kennedy in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

Historical – ishpeming girl on motorcycle

NONFICTION

Memory Trails

by Ellen Lord

Rural roads were a childhood theme, backstory for so many memories.

We rode in a red Jeep Wrangler to the old camp west of Kenton in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Doors were off and I rode shotgun. It was back-country rocky, tufts of wild grass along the center-line; jackrabbits darted across the road, partridge flushed in the forest. The last three miles of two-track were rutted, muddy after a deluge of rain. An eagle soared high above the tree line. Dad said this was a good omen. It was the summer of ‘57. Sweet July. Just me and dad on a grand adventure—suspended now in time.

Long ago, that camp was used for logging during the Great Depression. Grandpa Cameron had draft horses, hired crews to harvest pine and hardwood. I’ve seen pictures of those wiry souls with their rough hands and hardscrabble faces. Sepia photos show sinewy men, smiles on most, as getting a picture taken was a special event. They were a tough bunch, mostly local guys from Irish or Finnish families; a few were vagabonds of dubious origin. They were known as ‘Jack-Pine Savages’. The big draft horses all had names: Stony, Big Red, Buck.

Years later, Garner Road meandered west of Stephenson, Michigan. I’d take solitary walks to a gravel pit, then hike into the forest. My favorite old maple stood on a high ridge and was a ‘climber’. I would get my first foothold and then, up I would go. I was a scrappy kid, tomboy—calluses on my hands and pine pitch under my fingernails. A thick branch would hold me as I gazed over forest and field. I’ll always remember swaying in a soft breeze and feeling free. It became a meditation for me—the beginning of a life-long practice to retreat to wild places whenever I could. It was the summer of ‘65.

As the years unfold, I continue to yearn for unpeopled spaces—to commune with the lakes, rivers, and forests. Of course, I cherish Idyllic days, but I love big storms—how they surge with bluster—a sky dance of thunder, lightning, and rain. I walk most days; early morning is best. There is nothing more spectacular than a Michigan sunrise. I have seen bobcat drink by a river, muskrat slide along the shore, and deer gaze from the shadows. I walk and walk as sun sequins the trees. I pass a long stretch of marsh, deep tangles of forest, and listen to delicious vignettes of birdsong. No matter where I go, I don’t need much—just a backwoods trail and a span of northern sky in Michigan.

Primitive trails are a lifetime theme, backstory to my changes.

Learn more about Ellen Lord in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

Two Riders

by Ellen Lord

We left Ann Arbor at dawn

on a long rising road in Michigan—

hitchhiked US-23, going north

to hunt at his camp in Curran.

Shotgun cased and slung,

he yearned for something wild—

I just wanted to get away.

It was October, fall colors vibrant

in the hills. So eager for adventure,

we believed this could be our life—

free to journey where we pleased.

His eyes flashed mischief

as wistful drivers waved goodbye.

Luck and rides came easy—

for I was young, and he was beautiful.

What I remember most, is how sunlight

shimmered above the highway,

like we were traveling to a distant sea—

an unexplored horizon, so far away

from where we were destined to be.

It was a mid-semester college interlude—

two small town desperados,

trying to traverse a big town world

on a quest to be the right size.

Learn more about Ellen Lord in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

FICTION

The Giant Flower

by Deborah K. Frontiera

Scout Bee #2100 buzzed into the hive bursting with excitement. She danced in circles indicating the direction of the sun’s rays and distance to her incredible find. Translated from the language of bees, it went something like this.

“You’ll never believe the Giant Flower I found—absolutely filled with never-ending sweetness! I’ve never tasted nectar so sweet. Or so much of it. Not far from here hanging from the house of the two-legged giants.”

“Calm down #2100,” said Lead Worker.

#2100 stopped her dance and rested—something difficult for a hive scout, or any worker bee, to do.

Lead Worker then questioned her further. “Now, please describe this supposed ‘Giant Flower’.”

“It’s large, very large, and reflects the sun-light in places, but is opaque in others. It’s red with yellow blossom openings. I headed for a blossom first, and found them not living, but the scent of nectar was SO strong. I tried to sip from the hole, but my proboscis could not reach the sweetness. It’s hanging in front of the shiny smooth place we can’t get through.”

“So how do you really know what is there?”

“It was sticky beneath my feet! Then I discovered a narrow crack between the top and bottom half of the huge red part and the bottom of it, just enough to slip my sucking tongue in. Oh, I can’t tell you how sweet it is!”

Lead Worker buzzed, still skeptical, but also thinking. Finally, she said, “Come over here, #3421! Go with #2100 and check this out. Report back immediately.”

The two bees left their hive in a hollow of a dead tree in the forest. A few weeks before, a bear had raided the hive and stolen over half their supply of food and eaten many larval and pupating bees along with the honey. Those remaining had worked so hard to repair the damage and build more honeycomb deeper in the hollow, where hopefully, the bear could not reach it again. The Queen had immediately laid eggs to replace the lost young. Now the new larva would soon pupate and then emerge as young workers. The Queen’s immediate assistants were concerned that if they didn’t have more scouts and gatherers to work extra hard to replace their food supply, the hive might not be able to survive the next winter.

Scout #2100 slowed down a bit flying around a balsam tree to check her position in the angle of a patch of sunlight coming through the branches. She turned to make sure #3421 was still following as she changed direction slightly. Ah, there it was, perhaps twenty feet from the tree line. #3421 could smell the sweetness and grew as excited as #2100 had been when she entered the hive.

“Here,” #2100 buzzed to her companion. “If you turn upside down by this crack, you can get your proboscis in better.” She demonstrated the technique she had done herself not long before.

#3421 copied the position and took a long suck. “WOW! You weren’t telling a tale! We must lead the others here.”

A few minutes later, a large group of bees followed #2100 and #3421 to the remarkable find. Back and forth the gatherer bees zoomed. To the Giant Flower, suck up a load, buzz back to the hive, deposit the sweetness into an empty cell (which the Queen would soon fill with a new egg, and nurse bees would cover with a layer of wax) and back to the Giant Flower. They worked at a feverish pace until the sunlight left the Giant Flower in shadow and almost until it was too dark to find, vowing to return the next morning for more.

For the next few days, many gatherers spent the entire day sucking nectar from the Giant Flower. On the fourth day, #3421 noticed something troubling, which she reported to her Queen. “When we first went to the Giant Flower, I could see red liquid on the inside, which we were sucking out at the bottom of the of the flower, about 2/3 up the see-through part of the thing. Now I see it is about half as much. I think we will eventually empty it. Great as the amount is, it will run out.”

The Queen was silent for a moment and then called for the Lead Worker. “#3421, please tell Lead Worker what you just told me.”

So, #3421 repeated her observation. “How many days more do think there will be of gathering there?” Lead Worker asked.

#3421 was silent for a moment, then replied, “Well, based on the rate of collecting we’ve been doing, I’d say not more than four or five days.”

Lead Worker and Queen stopped buzzing to think.

Finally, Queen stated, “Starting tomorrow, send only a third as many workers to the Giant Flower to continue collecting there. Send all the scouts out to search for more sources of nectar. While the Giant Flower has definitely saved us from our losses to the bear, we can’t depend on only one source of nectar.”

#3421 and Lead Worker nodded and flew off to carry out Queen’s instructions.

The following week, the bear attacked the hive again, but because the bees had built the new comb farther inside the tree, the bear could not reach it. The bear tried to rip the edges of the hive entrance to reach farther in. Though the tree was dead, the wood was not so rotten that the bear could rip the wood away easily to reach farther into the hole. The bees gave the bear’s nose such a stinging that the bear retreated growling in complaint. To be certain it would not return, #2100 and two other scouts followed the bear. It licked its nose, still growling and then settled for easier food in a patch of wild blueberries.

“You should say thank you,” buzzed one of the scouts. “We pollinated those white blossoms in the spring to make those berries for you.”

The bear paid no attention to her.

“You have to remember,” said one of the other scouts, “bears do not understand our language. It’s useless to try to reason with them.”

“I know, but one can always try.” #2100 was an eternal optimist.

The bees at the Giant Flower could no longer reach the nectar with their proboscises and had about decided to leave when a friendly harvester ant climbed down the string from which the Giant Flower hung. She had labored long to climb up the wall to where the string was tied, up the string, across from where the string was hooked to the eve of the Giant Two-Legged Creatures’ dwelling, and down to the Giant Flower. The bees, being insect cousins to ants, understood the ant’s telepathic message asking if she could share their bounty.

One bee told her their dilemma. The ant looked at the hole in the middle of one of the fake blossoms. Yes, she thought she could crawl in and check out the situation. She pushed her body through the hole and landed with a sploop in the pool of nectar remaining at the bottom. “Oh, oh, oh, there’s so much here,” the ant’s telepathy told them. “I can see the crack you used and, no, you won’t be able to reach it. BUT I can’t swim! I can’t get out! I shall drown in this nectar.”

The bees buzzed around in frustration as the ant struggled to reach the edge, which was too slippery to climb up. There was nothing they could do to help. The ant’s telepathy grew weaker and then stopped.

“What a shame,” one of the bees said. “But what a way to go!”

“Perhaps we should stop buzzing for a while in respect for her heroic actions,” said another.

“Here comes another ant,” buzzed a third. “We should warn her not to crawl in there.”

The bees buzzed around the second ant, gently so she wouldn’t think they wished her harm. The ant stopped, listened, thanked the bees, and turned to go back up the string, across the top, down again, then down the wall to the ground. Then it headed for an ant hill not far away. The bees assumed they would report it all to their Queen.

Not long after, scout #2100 happened to fly to the opposite side of the Giant Two-Legged Creatures’ dwelling and spotted another Giant Flower! She flew over to investigate. While not as large as the one they had already harvested, it was shaped in a way that did not allow any way for a bee to get at the nectar. Hummingbirds, rivals with the bees, landed, sucked away at it, and gave #2100 a mean look. She retreated. But she returned to check out the situation briefly every day. A Two-Legged female took down the Giant Flower one day and brought it back filled to the top with nectar. #2100 sighed and wondered why she didn’t fill up the other one again.

Life went on in the beehive. Late summer and then fall flowers bloomed, and the bees gathered more nectar. They still checked the Giant Flower from time to time, but the Two-Legged did not refill their flower. Did she mean for that nectar to be only for Hummingbirds? That seemed so wrong. The bees needed nectar, too. The days grew shorter, the mornings colder. The maples turned bright red and the birches yellow. Queen declared it was time for her to stop laying more eggs for that season. She directed her workers to continue gathering their winter food supply until there were no more flowers.

The day came when #2100 saw a Two-Legged take down both Giant Flowers but she didn’t bring them back out. She took in their outside chairs and her mate pulled their boat out of the lake. When #2100 reported seeing that, she heard a long sigh from the whole hive. Queen said their work for that year was done, decreed the usual rationing of stored honey, and told her workers to rest for the cold season to come. But #2100 made up her mind she would watch and hope that the Giant Flower would be refilled in the spring.

Learn more about Deborah K. Frontiera in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

Spring Haiku Trio

by Deborah K. Frontiera

Free water exists

“Snow and bitter cold will end,”

Promise ice pancakes.

Fiddleheads sprout up

Playing spring’s first symphony

Glorified in green.

Arbutus confirms

Fills air with sweetest fragrance

The promise fulfilled.

Learn more about Deborah K. Frontiera in our Author Bios section at the back of this book

NONFICTION

Charles Uksila:From Calumet to a Career in Hockey and Figure Skating

by Bill Sproule

Charles “Charlie” Uksila was one of the first American-born players to play in the Stanley Cup playoffs as a member of the 1915/16 Portland Rosebuds, and after he retired from hockey, he went on to a fascinating career in figure skating. Uksila was born in 1887 in Calumet, Michigan. His parents, Charles “Carl” and Anna (Niemela), immigrated from Finland to the Copper Country in the early 1880s when his father got a job as a laborer for the Calumet and Hecla Mining Company. There were fourteen children in the family.

While attending Calumet High School, Uksila participated in hockey, fancy skating, and speed skating, and after high school he played left wing on the Mohawk (Michigan) team in 1910 and 1911 when they won the Copper Country Senior Championships. He would also put on skating performances and barrel-jumping demonstrations at the new Glaciadom in Mohawk on Sundays during the hockey season. The family lived in the Osceola area of Calumet and there was an Osceola station on the Houghton County streetcar line, so it easy for Uksila to travel to Mohawk (six miles north of Calumet) and other ice arenas in the area. Like his father, he was also a laborer for the Calumet and Hecla Mining Company but moved to Portland, Oregon during the Copper Country strike of 1913–14. A childhood friend and former teammate, Jack Herman, had moved to Portland a couple of years earlier and encouraged Uksila to join him. Herman was also manager/coach of the Portland Multnonah Amateur Athletic hockey team in a Portland-based amateur league, and he recruited him to play on the team for the 1914–15 season. After the season, Uksila signed a professional contract with Portland of the Pacific Coast Hockey Association (PCHA), and he played two seasons with the Rosebuds (1915–16 and 1917–18).

The PCHA was founded in 1911 by Frank and Lester Patrick with three teams – New Westminister, Vancouver, and Victoria. The Patricks built new arenas with artificial ice surfaces in Vancouver and Victoria, introduced several rule changes, and were willing to pay the best players to head west. The New Westminister team relocated to Portland in 1914. In the same year, an agreement was also made where the champions of the PCHA would play the champions of the National Hockey Association (NHA) for the Stanley Cup, and the location of the championship series would alternate between the two leagues. The Seattle Metropolitans joined the league in 1915. In March 1916, the Portland Rosebuds won the PCHA championship and traveled to Montreal to play the Canadiens, the NHA champion, in a five-game series in Montreal’s Westmount Arena. This series marked the first time that a U.S.-based team played for the Stanley Cup. The Canadiens were an impressive team that included four players who were later inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame – George Vezina, and three former International Hockey League players, Newsy Lalonde, Jack Laviolette, and Didier Pitre. The International Hockey League (IHL) was hockey’s first professional league. It was founded in 1904 and operated for three seasons with five teams – Calumet, Portage Lake (Houghton), Pittsburgh, Sault Ste. Marie Michigan, and Sault Ste. Marie Ontario. Lalonde played one season with the Canadian Soo team, while Laviolettte and Pitre each played three seasons with the Michigan Soo team. The Portland team included future Hockey Hall of Famers, Ernie “Moose” Johnson and Tommy Dunderdale, and two American-born players – Charlie Uksila and Tom Murray.

Portland won the first game in the series 2–0, before dropping the next two games but then the Rosebuds tied the series with a 6–5 victory in the fourth game. Uksila scored a goal on the legendary George Vezina in both Portland victories. The Canadiens defeated the Rosebuds 2–1 in the deciding fifth game to win their first of what would be many Stanley Cup championships. The Montreal Canadiens are the all-time leaders having won the Stanley Cup 24 times.