y View Literary M he Ba agazin T Celebrating 20 Years e
Summer 2019 Volume 14 Your financial donation supports the Bay View Association
Rock Dragon Breath Photograph by Adrian Boyer EDITORS’ NOTE
In 1893, Bay View founder John M. Hall inaugurated the Bay View Magazine, published until 1922. It contained assignments for the Reading Circles and essays of Hall’s own about the readings and Bay View. In celebration of Bay View’s 125 years, and in keeping with the Chautauqua tradition, a new version of a magazine was established in 2000, this time containing the writings of Bay View members and friends, under the direction of Marjorie Andress Bayes and the late Marilyn Black Lambert. In 2010 Scott Drinkall joined the editorial team, followed by Sue Collins in 2018 and Evelyn Schloff in 2019.
Our mission is to provide a platform for Bay View members and friends to share their expressions through a variety of forms including poetry, essays, memoirs, short stories, and artwork inspired by the Little Traverse Bay Area and beyond. The magazine is published annually and includes a diverse range of subjects and styles.
This year marks the 20th edition of The Bay View Literary Magazine—a milestone worth celebrating. To submit your writing for the 2020 edition, please see The Back Page.
Scott Drinkall Sue Collins Marjorie Andress Bayes Evelyn Schloff
1 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Mary Agria Summer's Dance 3 Jack Giguere Trees by the Memorial Garden 7 William (Bill) Ostler Assorted Poems and Artwork 8 Debbie Hindle and Racketty Packetty House 11 Fred Marderness Marsha Ostler A Surprise Guest 17 David Larousse The Night of the Bad Ziti 18 Hannah Rees Anger 20 Mark Drinkall Holding On: Like This 21 Beverly Brandt A Tribute to a Tiger Cat 23 Rebecca Hale Bay Medicine 29 Susan Lyman Hayfield 32 Evelyn Schloff A Rainy Lullaby 34 Julia Poole Tour of Duty 36 Macy McLeod Remember 39 Mary Jane Doerr J. Will Callahan 49 Gerald Faulkner I Didn't Ask 52 Boo Kiesler Letting Go of Summer 54 The Back Page
2 SUMMER’S DANCE
By Mary Agria
She began to spin on tiptoe as children do. For the sheer joy of it. Her bare feet made no sound on the damp earth. Alone at sunset in her grandmother’s garden, the girl spun and spun. The gauzy skirt of her nightdress billowed out like hollyhock petals in bloom along the white picket fence behind the family cottage. It was the height of summer in Northern Michigan. The waters of Little Traverse Bay thirty miles south of the Mackinac Bridge were calm and glassy, tinged with bands of purple and teal. The girl’s name was Maggie. Maggie Aron. She was eight. “Hollyhock . . . our sandy soil is perfect for growing them.” That very morning her grandmother had laid a fallen blossom in Maggie’s outstretched palms. “Years back, we used the flowers for dolls. Look—here’s the head, the doll’s wide circle skirt.”
Brow knit, Maggie tried to make the circlet of petals dip and twirl. “A funny name,” she said.
Hol-ly-hock. Hol-ly-hock. Waltz time. A word just right for twirling. Like the sound of new patent leather Mary Janes clattering on the wood floor of the cottage.
It was getting dark before young Maggie had a chance to experiment on her own. Hair still damp from bath time, Maggie crept out into the quiet of the garden, chanting the magical word over and over under her breath.
Hol-ly-hock. Spin, spin, whirl. She began slowly at first, then faster. Her long chestnut brown hair flared outward. The dying rays of the sun set each silken strand ablaze with red and gold.
Heedless of seasons or calendars, little Maggie Aron spun on and on, turning in rhythm with the revolving earth and the moon rising over Little Traverse Bay. Arms stretched out and head thrown back, she surrendered to a steady circling that left her at once breathless and dizzy, giddy with youth and its endless promise. The high gable of the cottage seemed to be whirling with her, its intricately cut wooden gingerbread melting like icicles from a wintery roof.
3 After a while, Maggie fancied herself floating lightly above the yellow border of evening primrose. Their petals curled inward, anticipating sleep. The pungent scent of lavender stung her nostrils.
A childhood paradise. All hers, hers alone.
Except she wasn’t, hadn’t been for some time. That fact didn’t register until finally, her balance faltering, Maggie took a couple of wobbly steps, another, then collapsed with a squeal of pent-up energy and laughter on the damp ground of the garden.
And there he was. Watching her. Flustered, Maggie half-sat up. Her world appeared to be spinning wildly out of control in the gathering darkness.
A gangly, suntanned boy in cut-offs, t-shirt and sneakers was standing behind her grandmother’s white picket fence. His hands were braced on the gate installed mid- fence to access both garden and cottage from the alley. A baseball glove was slung over one of the pickets.
“Hey, there!” He sounded out of breath. The ballfields were a good half-mile up the hill above the lakeshore. “You hurt yourself?”
Suddenly embarrassed, Maggie picked herself up as best she could. She busied herself with brushing the stalks and stems, the fine dusting of pollen that clung to her nightgown.
“You okay?” the boy repeated. “Whatcha doin’?”
He had to go and spoil it, Maggie scowled. “None of your beeswax.”
Silence stretched between them. Then she saw him shrug.
“Well, g’night, then,” he called out to her retreating back.
An ordinary night, the culmination of a childhood day. It ended with an exchange over the back fence between a boy and a girl, a scene no more or less remarkable than the dozens and hundreds, nay thousands of children frolicking in the endless twilight of a Northern Michigan summer.
4 Care-less. Children at play, blissfully oblivious. And yet the memory of that solitary summer’s dance in the garden would stay with Maggie Aron into adulthood, for six decades and beyond. It would resurface even as she drew her last halting breaths.
Young Maggie found herself looking for the boy after that, scanning the knots of kids in the morning day camp, at crafts, at the waterfront. More often than not, she took the long way back to the cottage so she could pass the ballfield. She felt foolish doing it.
The two never spoke again. Years later, as a teenager, she often spotted him on the lifeguard stand at the beach. Surrounded always, Maggie thought with disgust, by giggling blond girls with their braces and just revealing enough bikinis. He was even taller then, tanned and with the lean muscles of an athlete. His smile, although not aimed at her, was troubling, made her look away.
“Jake” the girls called out, flashing tubes of suntan lotion in his direction. “Jake Faland, do my back.”
Jake would just shrug. Supremely above it all.
Everything in its season. Childhood innocence ended in resort country with the impersonal sound of a time clock recording the minutes and hours spent behind the scenes in the kitchen of a local inn or restaurant. Washing dishes. Busing tables. Quickly it became time to go to college. Get a real job. Settle down. Buy a house. Raise a family. Maggie did all of these.
Time and age creep up soon enough on both the wary and unsuspecting, child and adult, plant and gardener alike. And with each memory come the aches and pains accumulated from a life well and truly lived.
“Art-right-us,” Maggie’s grandmother called it.
The eight-year-old Maggie Aron didn’t understand the joke. Whatever art-right-us was, it didn’t sound fun. Who would want to stay stuck in one spot when everything around her was gloriously growing and changing, spinning off wildly into the unknown?
Excerpt from Range of Motion. Copyright 2019: Mary A. Agria
5 Since her breakthrough novel Time in a Garden became a bestseller in 2006 all over Northern Michigan, author Mary Agria has gone on to publish five other novels: Garden of Eve, From the Tender Stem, In Transit, Vox Humana, and Community of Scholars. Her column on gardening and spirituality appears monthly in the Petoskey News-Review and took first prize for features in the Michigan Garden Club competition in 2017. In collaboration with her husband, professional photographer Dr. John Agria, she published a children’s botany book, Second Leaves; a collection of her best newspaper columns, Through the Gardener’s Year; and a pictorial history, Bay View: Images of America (Arcadia Press). In 2016 she was named one of two featured Michigan women authors of the year by the Charlevoix Zonta club. She is currently on tour with her new novel Range of Motion, the story of a woman’s spiritual and emotional journey and cottage life along the shores of Little Traverse Bay. “Summer’s Dance” is an excerpt from that novel.
6 TREES BY THE MEMORIAL GARDEN
By Jack Giguere
Jack Giguere’s work was on the cover of the Bay View program book in 2002 and 2003. It can also be seen in five of Bay View’s public buildings: in the Library reading room a large oil painting of the Bay View woods hangs over the fireplace. In the Green Room of Hall Auditorium you can see his pencil drawing in honor of Chris Ludwa. In the Woman’s Council Building you will find a watercolor rendering of Hall Auditorium as seen through the porch of Harrison Hall. And in the Chapel you will find his water color painting of the Memorial Garden. Jack’s work can be seen and purchased at the NorthGoods store in downtown Petoskey.
7 ASSORTED POEMS AND ARTWORK
By William (Bill) Ostler
French Horn Horn Musical instrument Buzzing on mouthpiece Creates beautiful dreamlike music Cor
Horn Player He picks up his horn. Placing the mouthpiece on his lips He creates a buzz. The natural harmonics of the horn Transform the buzz into beautiful tones. Reading the music chart in front of him, He collaborates with fellow musicians Creating a musical potpourri of harmony!
Circus Clown There once was a clown named Kelly, Who always acted calmly. He was sent out to sweep, But when seeing no dirt, He just swept up the spotlight blithely!
(I remember seeing Emmet Kelly, a sad faced clown, going into the circus ring and sweeping up the spotlight on the circus floor. The light would get smaller and smaller until it was so small it went out!)
8 JOY AND HAPPINESS
Eight Bit Studios A Chicago company in software development, Led by two men and our creative son. Promoting serious play and collaboration; People loving their work in a creative environment making great products that bring people amazement! The office, full kitchen, Waffle Tuesdays, snacks and drinks, table tennis, arcade games, and tiddlywinks. Provide a real break for staff and all present. Receiving comments from staff boasting: “The best place to work!” Third owner in California operates a robot in office; Communicating through robot’s iPad that resembles a necklace. Is able to speak “face to face” with their clients in consent.
Moving the robot with a tie around its neck, Controlling remotely - he is such a tech!
9 OUR SON, JOHN
William (Bill) Ostler is a retired public school teacher. His family has had a cottage in Bay View since 1968. Bill began watercolor painting and oil painting by taking art classes in Saginaw and Bay View. He enjoys writing poetry as well as playing French horn with the Saginaw Brass Quintet, the Harbor Springs Community Band, and the Midland Community Orchestra, and singing with the Bay View Festival Choir.
10 TAILS AND TALES OF THE RACKETTY PACKETTY HOUSE
By Debbie Hindle and Fred Marderness
The cottage on Maple Street (Block 16 Lot 18) was renamed the Racketty Packetty House in 1960, cribbed from the children’s story written by Frances Hodgson Burnett in 1906. It tells the tale of a family and their once elegant and much loved doll’s house that over time fell into disrepair, and had become shabby and old fashioned. Two generations on, the doll’s house was superceded by Tidy Castle which was new, grand and had all the “modern amenities.” Yet in spite of being displaced, the Racketty Packetty family were always jolly and loved dancing – “whenever there was the least excuse for it –and quite often when there wasn’t any at all, just because it was such good exercise and worked off their high spirits so that they could settle down for a while” – whereas the family in the Tidy Castle were a bit dull. Soon the Racketty Packetty house was in danger of being sent to the basement and burned, but when, by accident, it was seen by a visiting Royal Princess, she delighted in it being just like her great grandmother’s doll’s house and insisted on taking it home, repairing and transforming it to the house she remembered so well. The story is about the beauty of what might seem old fashioned, about restoration, generational continuity and happiness – all the things that have deep associations with Bay View. Over time, the cottage has lived up to its name, as following the “Tails and Tales” give testimony.
From Fred’s Point of View, as told by Fred Marderness
In 1986 a four-legged friend came into our lives. He was a brown and white Corgy Beagle mix named Bud. He somehow became separated from his family, nearly killed by a car, fixed up by a vet, and then given a temporary home by a kindhearted vet- assistant. The vet-assistant happened to be the roommate of one of the players in Jill’s Wind Quintet – Quintessence. It was through that connection that gave us the privilege of adopting this beautiful little guy. 1986 was also our eighth summer as resident artists with the Bay View Music Festival. The idea of living in a summer home for eight weeks without a precious family member was not an option for us. Since the housing provided to us by Bay View came with a pet restriction, we had the challenge of finding a place for Bud to stay nearby.
11 Bud stayed in a different Bay View cottage for the next several summers. We still spent a good deal of time with him, but our Bay View friends provided a roof over his head.
In the summer of 1990 the Jones Family was kind enough to take a turn in housing Bud. GW, Joyce, Toby and Jamie were all happy to spend a summer with Bud in their cottage, but a problem popped up towards the end of the summer. Extended family guests would be staying for a week in the cottage so Joyce asked if we could find another arrangement for Bud. The music festival was winding down so we needed to find some kindhearted soul to help us out for only seven days or so.
The Harrison House apartment Jill and I shared overlooked the side yard of the neighbor’s cottage. There were two ladies who lived in the cottage. The older resident was a frail, white haired woman. The younger person was a tall, thin woman with dark hair. They lived with a small brown dog. The older woman would take the dog out the side of the house each morning and put him on a long chain that would allow him to get some exercise each day. When he was ready to go back inside the cottage he would let out a loud, pathetic sound which was probably his idea of a bark. We always got a chuckle from this. It truly sounded like a dog with chronic laryngitis. During one of his funny barking episodes we got the idea that our neighbors might not mind having one more dog for a week.
So, we crossed our fingers and knocked on the door of the Racketty Packetty House. As it turned out, the owner’s name was Virginia Sangston. Her daughter, Barbara, lived with her, along with their small dog, Brownie. Virginia was a great lover of animals and agreed to have Bud stay for a week.
That one week in 1990 which started out as a quest for help with a short-term problem evolved into a connection with another family that we could have never have imagined.
The kindnesses shown to Jill and me by Virginia Sangston and her extended family are far too numerous to list. The following is an outline of the history:
1990 – We met Virginia Sangston, her daughter Barbara, and their dog Brownie. Bud is invited to spend one week in August in Racketty Packetty House.
12 1991 – Virginia invites Bud to stay in the Racketty Packetty House for the entire eight weeks of the music festival. Bud quickly made himself at home. He would engage in howling duets with Brownie. He also enjoyed chasing a tennis ball around the cottage in an attempt to pick it up in his mouth, even though he already had one ball firmly tucked inside his mouth. He never became confused about which humans were his full time family. He would often jump onto a chair by the front window to look for Fred or Jill. When they appeared he would go to the front door and jump as high as he was able in order to get a look out the window on the door. This summer housing arrangement for Bud continued from 1992 through 1995. During those years we were introduced to the larger family - Barbara’s sister Debbie; Barbara’s sons Jordy and Rusty as well as all of their spouses and children.
1996 – (Emily Marderness is born on January 7.) On July 25, Virginia, at age 91, walked over to Harrison House at 6:30 AM and climbed 14 steep steps to our apartment to tell us Bud was having seizures. I drove Bud to the Maple River Animal Clinic where the vet gave him a shot to stop the seizures. I left him there for observation. I remember sitting in the kitchen of the Racketty Packetty House later that evening chatting with our now very dear friends about the events of the day. The phone rang about 10:00 PM. The vet called to say that Bud had just passed away. Virginia went along with us the very next day to say our goodbyes to the beautiful little creature who brought us together. As Virginia said, “He was a Good Bud.” A week later we shared some memories and scattered Bud’s ashes in the garden behind the Racketty Packetty House. So we lost Bud and gained a daughter in the same year. From 1997-2007 Emily’s grandmother would visit us in Bay View from time to time. Virginia Sangston was now living by herself so she offered a room to my mother, Helen. Virginia’s daughter Debbie was taking care of managing the property and they never would accept any payment for Helen to board there. Bud’s spirit had created a special bond between our families.
In 2001 the family of one of Jill’s bassoon students was interested in finding a new home for their Chihuahua mix. Our 5-year-old daughter was extremely excited to have a small dog and we were ready to take on that commitment. Yet, to travel once again to summer housing with a pet restriction..... What to do?
We made mention to Debbie and her mom that we had recently welcomed another dog into our lives. Was there any chance they would consider housing Sparky during the summer? The answer was a quick, “yes.” For some of the time, Virginia’s grandson, Jordy, brought two dogs along with his family. Sparky got along quite well with the
13 other pooches. And just like Bud, Sparky was always aware of her full-time family next door. She knew exactly where we lived and found an upstairs bedroom which had a perfect view of Harrison House. In her free time she would sit at the window and look for us. Occasionally she would escape through the unlatched Racketty Packetty screen door and run straight to the porch of Harrison House.
So, this cottage called the Racketty Packetty House became very special to us because the owners had big hearts. My family was made to feel like part of their family for four decades – and it all began with a little dog in need of a place to stay for a week.
From Debbie’s Point of View as told by Debbie Hindle
In 1986, I had been living in England for 13 years and continued living there until I moved to Scotland in 2009. But every summer, I came home to Bay View and the Racketty Packetty House, usually for three weeks. In 1986, my mother was 81 years old and my sister Barbara was 52 years old and had a long-standing illness, but each year they were driven to Bay View by one of Virginia’s two grandsons, Barbara’s sons – either Jordy or Rusty – who settled them in and left, but enabling them to stay the whole summer. That summer, I arrived to find that they had not one dog, our Brownie, but two dogs – as Bud had also taken up residence – sleeping under Virginia’s bed every night. She absolutely doted on Bud and Bud and Brownie were good companions for each other. What I soon came to realize was that having Bud also meant that Fred stopped in three or four times a day either to take Bud for a walk or to see him, and also to visit with my mother and sister. Suddenly, what had been a bit of a worry with them being at the cottage on their own was eased by Fred’s frequent visits. From my mother’s point of view, Fred also provided a link to the other residents at Harrison House. Often after Vesper Concerts, I found that not only Fred or Jill, but also Kelly Hale, or other members of Harrison House had called in for pie and ice cream and for a late night chat, the kitchen full of laughter. We also came to discover that we were related to Scott Thornburg on my father’s side of the family – a connection we were thrilled about!
By the time Emily arrived, Fred’s mother Helen had her own room and bathroom just off the kitchen. After my sister Barbara died in 1990, Mother also moved to the back downstairs bedroom – so both Helen aged 70 and mother occupied the downstairs – creating what we lovingly called our own ‘senior citizen wing.’ Helen also became a wonderful companion for my mother, now very much on her own. As my mother grew
14 older, well into her 90s, we hired Norma Schoolcraft to help out several mornings a week, providing further care and attention now for both mother and Helen.
By 2001, when Sparky joined the household, Helen was very involved with caring for him and Fred was once again stopping in three or four times a day between rehearsals to see both Sparky, his mom and Virginia. I continued my three week visits from the UK – always amazed by how well things were going, joining into my Bay View life and the life of the Racketty Packetty House as if I had never been away. Added to this was the host of visitors during the times I was at home, friends from our hometown in Pa., from college, and we counted more than 20 visitors from the UK over many years. It was as Fred reminded me, always a busy household with people coming and going, a bit chaotic, but full of life, much as the Racketty Packetty house had been portrayed in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s story. In 2002 my partner Ken’s parents, both in the 80s (adding to our ‘senior citizen scene’), joined us for our three-week holiday in Bay View. It didn’t take long for us to realize how much they all enjoyed singing – old songs. On one memorable occasion, it was like a Kelly Hale sing- along- ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ etc. with Helen in the lead, her still lovely voice shining through.
2002 was also to be my mother’s last year in Bay View, she died the following spring in 2003, age 97. Virginia had come to Bay View as a young child, with her own grandmother who owned a cottage on Glendale Avenue and had spent many happy years coming here, well into her early adulthood, taking piano lessons and enjoying all Bay View had to offer (as described in part in “Letter to Anyone Thinking about Bay View…” (The Bay View Literary Magazine, Volume 13, Summer, 2018). So it was fortuitous for all of us (the next four generations), that she reconnected with Bay View when we were children.
So in spite of losing Virginia, life in the cottage went on, with Helen still staying in “her room” when she came, and Sparky in residence throughout the summer. It was not quite the same, but by then when Ken and I came each summer, we joined a ready “family” in the cottage. I am not sure this arrangement is totally unique as there may be other quasi-family arrangements in Bay View. But ours became a longstanding arrangement – spanning generations and several decades (from 1986 to 2012 when Sparky died the following spring and we started renting the cottage on a regular basis.) We could never have imagined that a request for a week’s stay for Bud would have led to all this, but how grateful we were to have Fred, Jill, Emily, Helen, Bud and Sparky in our lives for so long!
15 Fred Marderness has been coming to Bay View since 1979, serving on the music staff as the resident percussionist. During the rest of the year he is a full time percussionist with the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra. Fred and his wife, Jill, reside in Scottsdale, AZ. They have one daughter, Emily, who currently lives in Tucson, AZ where she teaches English language learners at the community college.
Debbie Hindle has been coming to Bay View since childhood. She is now a semi-retired child and adolescent psychotherapist, living and working in Glasgow, Scotland for half the year and in Cross Village, Michigan the other half of the year, as well as a cottage owner and member of the Woods Advisory Committee in Bay View.
16 A SURPRISE GUEST
By Marsha Weaver Ostler
Opening a summer cottage brings joy and surprise. You survive the long winter to return to our summer side. Open the shutters and dust off the beds Turn on the water and “rev” up the gas.
Oh, what’s that funny smell? I say to myself. Has someone unknown been staying at the house? At dusk, the answer comes waddling back to the front porch A hole dug below, shows a home for some force.
A black and white cutie but don’t get too close. We harbored a SKUNK when we left in the fall! The home was all quiet until we arrived With sweeping, barking, and loud people speaking.
This proves too much for our guest under the porch. I’m sure the cottage skunk has had enough of this noise.
It’s time to move on, So thankfully, without leaving a trace, He finds the woods a much better place...... until the cottage returns to its peaceful self.
Marsha has been coming to Bay View since 1969 after she married Bill Ostler. His parents were teachers in Petoskey and bought the cottage on Forest Avenue in 1968. Marsha met Bill at Alma College. Marsha grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and left for college in 1965. She met Bill who was a life-long resident of Saginaw, Michigan. They raised three children in Saginaw and now enjoy them, their spouses and eight grandchildren. Bill retired as a Saginaw Public School teacher of 31 years and Marsha retired in Human Resource Administration for the City of Saginaw after 23 years. They now spend their summers in Bay View after retirement and enjoy all that Bay View has to offer. Bill’s parents, Jerry and Betty Ostler, were very active in all Bay View activities. Bill and Marsha now have the cottage and cherish their memories and continue the love of their Bay View cottage. 17 THE NIGHT OF THE BAD ZITI
By David Larousse
It was my good friend Suzanne Shea – now Suzanne Smith, having married Bill many years ago – who coined that phrase, after one disastrous dinner we all experienced, back when we were young, and light, and fancy-free with a smooth-talking former real estate salesman-con man from Denver. That night, he became the designated Cuoco da Notte, and that was where it first went awry. Of course it is not easy to screw up a good Baked Ziti, but this guy was a train wreck with a ziti curse. And before we knew it, the hour was 10:00 pm – and our host was still babbling on about his life adventures, and dinner was nowhere in sight.
On the plus side, we learned that real estate salesmen from Colorado don’t know anything about entertaining, or timing, let alone cooking dinner. But he had conned us into believing that he could prepare dinner. Frankly, I am certain that my Grandma Anne probably rolled in her grave.
Fortunately, someone ordered some take-out Chinese, which was delivered en masse, and that saved the evening. Of course, I offered to cook up a feast the next night, while the guys grabbed Denver, and wrote “I hate ziti” in lipstick on the back of his white shirt… then called cab for him, and he was gone. I knew he was lucky too – there are places in the suburbs of Naples, where if you over-cook the pasta, the pasta police arrive, they take you away, and no one sees you again. I know. I was a chef on a mega- yacht, and we motored to Naples back in 2002.
So the next night, I got the kitchen revved up around 4:00 pm. Guests sat in the living room, where a gaggle of good Zinfandel was opened – that’s three bottles – and awaited the feast. Just after 7:00 pm, I called everyone to the table, and we sat down, to what was one of the best pasta feasts anyone had ever been privy to. I called it ziti cotto in tre modi – which means Baked Ziti Three Ways.
First of all, it is critically important to cook the pasta al dente – or à la dente, as the French term it… which means the same thing... to the bite. So I shared my tale as to why the French over-cook their pasta – that it is a form of revenge against the spirit of Katherine de Medici, who married the Duke of Orleans in 1553, and whose
18 kitchen entourage taught the French how to cook... thus the French always overcook their noodles as a form of revenge. That’s my theory, although I am certain it is a true story… in a funny, historical way.
In any case, I set down a huge, oval bowl, in the middle of the table, filled with perfectly cooked ziti, topped with three sauces: first, a white sauce–rich chicken stock thickened with Texmati rice then puréed, simple, but seasoned perfectly. Then pesto, made with herbs from the garden, plus Greek olive oil, garlic, and toasted walnuts… one of my personal tricks. And finally, a red sauce, like Puttanesca – which has a whole nother story all its own (R-rated) – and it was fabulous: tomato purée, diced tomato, scallions, garlic, Kalamata olives, basil, oregano, and sea salt. Fabuloso.
So, in the end, the Night of the Bad Ziti turned into the Night of the Fabulous Ziti, and it will be a dinner we will not soon forget. And like I said, “This ain’t rocket science – it’s just good food, served to good people who know how to eat well.”
Bon appetit… e Buon gusto!
Noto bene: Spaghetti Puttanesca is also known as “the Harlot’s pasta,” and consists of thin spaghetti tossed in a quick, 15-minute sauce, ostensibly made by a “woman of the night,” in between clients. (Hey, even a woman of the night is entitled to good food.)
David Paul Larousse has worked as a hospitality professional for thirty years, across North America – including New England, Alaska, remote British Columbia – and on a mega-yacht in the Mediterranean Sea. He taught culinary arts at Johnson & Wales University, Rhode Island, and is the author of 12 books and more than three-dozen articles on cuisine and fine dining. In April 2005, Chef Larousse mounted his first exhibition of mixed-media assemblages at Espace Griffon, in Paris, France, and holds a BA in Communications from Skidmore College.
19 ANGER
By Hannah Rees
Anger erupts like a volcano,
Spewing hot molten
Words and actions -
Trying to crush everything
In its path -
Camouflaging sadness, pain and fear.
Hannah M. Rees visited her great-aunt, Alma Reynolds, in Bay View in the 1940s, and has enjoyed many summers here ever since. She married Gerald Rees 62 years ago. Since her retirement from 31 years of teaching grade school and his from the ministry and counseling, they have been having fun traveling and doing various volunteer projects. They have two daughters and five grandsons.
20 HOLDING ON: LIKE THIS
By Mark Drinkall
John W. Dyer never liked to hang on to much. The few items deemed worthy of keeping became rarefied. A dusty single-bolt action rifle tucked in the closet; an eight-foot mahogany table salvaged during renovations to the Northwestern University library in which he studied; framed photos on the wall—the fishing expedition with a crew on the Amigo, children and grandchildren. Among those few keepsakes were a black-and- white photo on the bedroom wall and a 1945 book printed in a German printshop.
As a boy, I would sit on the end of the bed and gaze into that black and white photo of my Grandpa surrounded by men I never knew. Men from a different time and place suspended in a moment. The photo was taken in Germany, near Munich, shortly after VE Day. Proudly standing next to men he led and served, my grandpa was always easy to recognize—dignified, happy, with a gentle command, standing straight and poised with his helmet on his head and his hands on his hips. Even then, I knew he loved this photo because he loved these men.
As we sat on the front porch savoring black cows, my grandpa opened that book from 1945: a published account of the 816th engineer aviation battalion’s European operations. The 176-page book was rich in photos, maps, and drawings depicting and narrating various phases of the battalion’s activities across Europe, from England, northern France, Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and Germany. Nine hundred copies were produced in September 1945 in Munich. It is a rarity as it was written and produced by those who took part in the events and was printed by a German printer whose shop was put into operation by the battalion.
These men—simple farm boys—literally saved civilization. Like most who landed on the Normandy beaches 75 years ago, they are no longer here to tell their stories. Rather, the stories are held onto by those who remember. John’s unit landed on D-Day +3 on Omaha Beach, the deadliest of the D-Day beaches. The LCVPs dropped the men into the water. Under fire from snipers and cannons on the cliffs, they swam with their
21 guns above their heads, hoping to make it to shore. John pressed ahead, knowing his new bride was waiting for him back home.
Upon his return he took Ruth on an extended honeymoon out West to reconnect after a three-and-a-half year absence. Like many returning soldiers, he simply wanted to settle down with his wife and peacefully raise a family. A few years after he died at 96, my grandma, with the august look of a new bride, shared how her husband held his gun high above his head. She demonstrated by raising her arms so I could see. “Like this,” she said playfully. Moments later she lay down to take a nap because she was tired and passed on to eternity.
The book and the photo are in my hands now. They are worth holding on to for the same reason my grandpa hung on to them and shared them with me. In the end our relationships matter the most. The words of Jesus speak hope to this passing world, “And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand” (John 10:28).
Mark Drinkall has spent every summer of his life in Bay View continuing in the liveliness of his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. He and his wife Tanya have two daughters in the Boy’s and Girl’s Club, Sophia, a first year Skunk and Charlotte, a second year Squirrel. Mark is the pastor of Emmanuel Evangelical Church in Petoskey where he and his family reside.
22 A TRIBUTE TO A TIGER CAT
By Beverly K. Brandt
It’s true what they say. You chose me. And, I simply followed your lead.
I wasn’t intending to adopt a kitten, late on a Monday afternoon in November. I was just passing by the “Petique” on my way home. Sure, I had been checking out their website. I had seen how many homeless kittens were available. I wasn’t entirely sure that this was the right time. But, my little inner voice said: “Stop. Check it out.”
So, I walked into the shop, run by the Arizona Humane Society, I said confidently, “I’m thinking of adopting a cat; And I have only two criteria: she has to be smart and she has to talk.” “Well, in that case,” said the manager, “you want one of the kittens.”
I followed her eyes across the room towards a large, rectangular, two-story glass cage. There, two striped balls of grayish fur were bouncing around, Bounding from the floor of the cage to an upper shelf, Batting at each other, and chasing each other’s tails.
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “They look like a handful.” “Perhaps you’d prefer an older cat,” said the manager. “We have a nice, one-year-old, female who’s looking for a home.” I went over to her cage. She met my eye and pawed at the glass. “Sure, I’ll give her a try.”
The manager led us to a small room with a chair.
23 She placed the scruffy, amber-colored cat on my lap. She left us alone. The cat looked up at me, as if to ask, “Are you the one? Will you give me my forever home?”
She seemed a bit unkempt. She had long claws and shed all over my black slacks. She seemed very happy. “This isn’t going to work out,” I said, however, sneezing, when the manager poked her head in the door a few minutes later. “I’m allergic to most cats. And she’s very furry.”
“So, why not try the kittens? They’re American Shorthairs.” I took a deep breath. I thought about their explosive energy. I finally said “Okay.”
I stared at them through the glass, admiring their long legs, artistic linear markings, as if an artist had sketched on their lean, graceful gray bodies with a fat graphite pencil. I loved their playfulness and their green-eyed expressions. They were nearly identical twins. “Two sisters,” I thought. “I have a sister. I know how close they must be.”
The manager prepared a larger room for us, where another family had just finished meeting a puppy one-on-one. She swept the floor and wiped down the chairs and table. I entered the room, and sat down, not sure what would happen next. “They’re called Callie and Buffy, by the way, ” said the manager. She set the two, tiny fur balls on the floor gently.
The kittens bounded into the room. They began running around, chasing each other. They were obviously delighted by their freedom.
24 They enjoyed having a large area to display their fuzzy energy.
I dropped my arm to my side, extending my right hand close to the floor. I cupped my fingers. One little kitten came up to sniff it. I wasn’t sure which one. She was curious. After a second or two, she bumped my hand with her nose.
Meanwhile, her sister hid under the table. I tried to interact with her, too. But she was skittish. She ran over to the opposite side of the room, Soon she began engaging her sister in play.
As it turns out, this was Callie. She cowered from me, but she was obviously the “alpha-kitten”— Pouncing on her sister. Batting at her with her tiny paw. Nipping at her tail with her white, needle-sharp teeth. Growling, in soft, high-pitched, experimental tone.
Her sister ran over to me, seeking refuge. She jumped up, landing deftly on my lap. She peered down at her sister. She looked up at me. She licked my finger. I was in love.
That tiny, fuzzy, striped bundle, with a pink, polka-dot tummy, dubbed “Buffy” by the staff at the Arizona Humane Society, Became my Willow.
I remember from the start how warm she was. Her kitten fur was coarse. Her tiny spotted tummy had a pink patch of exposed skin with stitches. She licked her incision.
25 Then she licked my hand.
The manager came back a half-hour later to see how we were doing. I hadn’t sneezed once. But, I was experiencing a dilemma: Did I adopt one kitten, or two?
Callie didn’t really appeal to me. And, clearly, I lacked whatever she was seeking. But, separating two baby sisters? It seemed cruel— Irresponsible.
“Frankly, you’d be doing them a favor,” the manager assured me. “They’ll manage better on their own.” “If you’re sure about that, I’ll take this one,” pointing to the little one who hung around my chair. “That’s Buffy,” said the manager. She picked up Callie, heading for the door. “I’ll be right back with the paperwork.”
As the door closed, Buffy began to cry. She ran over to the door, scratching it with her paws. She paced back and forth at its base. She howled from this forced separation. This was probably the first time she’d been apart from her sister. I felt horrible.
The manager brought me a clipboard with forms to complete. She picked up Buffy, She gently placed her inside a large cardboard box with one-inch air holes at the top. Her howls grew louder.
I didn’t know a kitten could make that sort of a noise.
Buffy’s howls grew more varied and plaintive.
26 I felt guilty as I shopped for supplies, and paid for everything at the counter. Buffy cried pathetically. Meanwhile, “Callie” fell sound asleep on the shelf in her, now, private cage. Oblivious.
“Maybe it IS a good thing to separate them after all,” I thought, feeling slightly better.
As I left the Petique and walked to my car, Buffy continued to howl. People’s heads turned. Two women stopped to inquire if everything was all right. “I’ve just adopted a kitten,” I said. “She’s a bit upset.” They smiled and congratulated me.
I opened my car doors, placing Buffy carefully in the back seat. As the car began to move, her howls intensified. It was a long, 35-minute drive home. She’s never liked riding in the car.
I tried soothing her with classical music. I drove carefully, avoiding sudden stops and jerky turns. “I’m a really nice lady,” I kept shouting over her heartrending howls. “You’re going to have a lovely home— two homes, really. You’ll get to go to Michigan in the summer.”
Buffy’s howls continued until we arrived at my house. I put her in a downstairs bathroom, Fed her, Filled her litter box, And found a wicker basket just the right size for a bed.
She seemed delighted with her dish of “Fancy Feast,” She climbed in and out of the basket, And into her litter box, where she peed and then buried the wet spot with enthusiasm.
27 Her mother had obviously taught her well. She was a competent little cat.
That evening, she climbed onto my lap, Circled around until she found just the right spot, Curled into a tight, little, fuzzy ball, And fell asleep, purring. ______
It’s true what they say about cats: You don’t adopt them. They pick you out.
You may feel that you’re saving them, But in reality, they save you. They snuggle their way into your heart, And they melt any cynicism, callousness, or boredom that you feel.
This is a tribute to the kitten that chose me, and transformed my life for the better. Little Buffy, who became My Willow-the-Wisp, My Best Furry Friend, My Kitty Home Companion.
Beverly K. Brandt is Professor Emerita in The Design School at Arizona State University. She has owned her Bay View cottage since 1997. Current passions are foreign travel, “plein air” painting, beachcombing, Zumba, and cuddling with Willow. She contributes regularly to The Bay View Literary Magazine, the Bear River Review, and writes the occasional scholarly essay on historic interiors, and the Arts & Crafts movement.
28 BAY MEDICINE
By Rebecca Hale
Bay View with a breeze of peace through leaves and softly bending tree tops sparkling mornings that harvest my soul this is where I came home every June this is where my heart clung goodbye in August, as an afterglow does on a rosy horizon, or morning dew on strawberries this is where I meditated deeply on family, the power of movement and music, the courage it takes to become my own person, season by season, meal by meal, nourished by hymns and gardens and feasts of food and love and laughter this is the place I come to heal from the bruises of winter and falls that fell solemnly this is the place spring prepares me for yearly, refreshing my sight with blossoms and dew and breezes so light, they could almost be in Bay View
29 this is the place where the sun stretches wide, broadening my appetite for the richness of life, the wisdom of experience, the joy in family, the bounty in tradition that ebbs and stretches open with the water this place is the golden hour where shadows dance gently between rose bushes, as we prepare for the sunset of our day, our work, our strife, our journey, our life
Bay Medicine with a View into the deepest currents of my soul, waiting and rushing and eager to fill me with the promise of heaven and painlessness, comfort that shimmers like light over afternoon waves and caresses the pink rims of sun-setting clouds my prayer is that these waters and forests and plants and animals are protected, the land’s first inhabitants given their rights, traditions of music and worship upheld and opened to all people in need of this medicine; their hues and creeds are but reminders of God’s same artistry we witness in a field of wildflowers, a tumble of late summer produce, or a handful of rocks from the lake, dripping bright and shining in our cupped hands every day of my life, this medicine heals me through lived experience of the promise of heaven, of serene evenings that wreathe us in stars, of arms that squeeze us with love and kinship,
30 of harmonies so brave and alive that the audience forgets their own selves in the sound of humanity glowing through stanzas on a stage
Bay View, a part of my home wherever I make my bed in the world. you carried me; now I carry you, a Petoskey stone in my wallet, a cascade of memories, a garden of joy, an anthem to a deep breath at day’s end, eyes wet and shining like the Bay
Rebecca Hale is an international student advisor and English as a Second Language instructor living in Cincinnati, Ohio. She spent her Bay View summers dancing, performing in music theatre, writing poetry, walking in the woods and growing up with the other music faculty kids. Now she relishes the opportunity to visit Bay View every summer with her father, Kelly Hale.
31 HAYFIELD
By Susan Lyman
2017 oil on wood panel 12” x 12”
32 Susan Lyman and her partner Kenyon Stebbins are excited to be spending their first summer in their “new” cottage on Terrace Avenue. Susan, who has been a painter and sculptor for over 40 years, has transformed the cottage garage into a painting studio. She is retired from an on again, off again career teaching art at various colleges including Hamilton College, Massachusetts College of Art and Rhode Island School of Design. Susan grew up in Birmingham, Michigan and has been living in Provincetown on Cape Cod since 1981. She and Ken now divide their time between Provincetown, Tucson and Bay View. More of her work can be seen locally in the Sales Gallery at Crooked Tree Art Center and at SusanLyman.com. Susan’s next exhibition will be at Boston Sculptors Gallery in October 2019.
33 A RAINY LULLABY
By Evelyn Schloff
Lou wakes up in the morning She stays very quiet. For baby brother’s still snoring.
Their room is not bright No ray of sun is in sight.
Lou doesn’t hear the birds Not a robin or blue-jay She thinks to herself something’s very different today.
Lou creeps up Very quiet and very slow To see for herself What is out her window.
There are droplets of rain Running down between panes.
So Lou watches. Lou listens. And the clouds above thicken.
The rain is falling fast. And the storm is now vast. The trees they are blowing And the wind is ongoing.
A flash of light suddenly appears. Lou quickly covers her ears. Lightning fills the room With quite a loud boom!
34 The sky cracks! The clouds darken Now very blue and very grey. Lou must wake baby brother Yes, wake him up right away!
Baby brother wake up! The clouds are nearly black! The rain it is strong. And the sky, it can crack!
But he is still sleeping. Still snoring. Still dreaming.
The rain and dark sky Are baby brother’s lullaby.
Evelyn Schloff is a third generation Bay View resident. This past spring, she completed her freshman year at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. Evelyn is majoring in Digital Arts and Culture and is currently working on illustrating a children’s book. She feels very fortunate to be spending another summer in beautiful Bay View!
35 TOUR OF DUTY
By Julia Poole
It was 1972, and I wore an MIA/POW bracelet in fifth grade. It was copper which signified the soldier was an officer and cost fifty cents more than the silver bracelets. Wearing it turned my wrist green. Had I known this would happen, I would have saved the fifty cents and bought a silver one. Lots of girls at school wore them, or so it seemed at the time. When the Vietnam War ended, there were a few articles in the newspaper and on television about people with bracelets finding the family of their MIA/POW. Strangers presenting grief-stricken relatives with the engraved bracelet of their loved one. I never found out what happened to the officer engraved on my bracelet because I lost track of it. Probably tossed in a drawer. MIA.
Dick was my dad’s cousin, and when he returned home in 1969 after spending a year in Vietnam, everyone said Dick had served his tour of duty. I wasn’t sure what that meant. During a family vacation to Florida, we toured Weeki Wachee Springs in a glass bottom boat and watched mermaids swim underwater. Vietnam was war and from what I saw on the six o’clock news, the entire concept of war confused: protesters on college campuses, U.S. soldiers wearing camouflage and Vietnamese screaming while running away from fire-soaked homes.
The sports car was red and brand-new. It was a shiny gift from Dick’s parents who were thrilled their son walked from the plane on his own two legs that hadn’t been blown off like many returning soldiers, or worse, as Grandma said, “Dick could’ve come home in a body bag.”
There was a party. Everyone wanted to know what Dick had seen and done in Vietnam. I was a child on the fringe, observing and listening to the adult world, but what Dick went through didn’t seem to matter. No one really cared about what was over and done. Dick was lucky. Handsome, smart, and outgoing, Dick could do whatever he wanted. Job. Marriage. Family. His high school sweetheart, Brenda, had waited for him. Wedding bells were in their future. Take your time, Dick. You deserve a break, after what you’ve been through. That’s what people said.
36 As an adult, I realized our culture placed little importance on a Vietnam veteran’s reentry to civilian life, but I felt it was an important consideration when it came to remembering Dick. Based on what I knew, I imagined Dick spent the next couple of weeks catching up with a life suspended. Eating his mom’s home cooking and sleeping in his old bed. Going to Sunday mass and kissing Brenda. Waxing the car and listening to Al Kaline commentate Tigers baseball. I imagined Dick hung his uniform in the back of his closet and took notice of his hair growing, longing for it hang over his ears so he would appear hip and groovy. In that new car, I imagined the windows rolled down and the low rumble of the engine with Brenda by Dick’s side, and an endless future, possibilities limited only as far as their dreams traveled.
And then one night, a few weeks after Dick was home and everyone was used to having him around, and there was talk of ring-shopping for Brenda, Dick drove that clean, red car off the road at high speed, propelled airborne and smashed into an apple orchard. Died at the scene.
At the funeral, my great-aunt wept, her only son had survived Vietnam but not the mysterious car crash. Soldiers fired guns, and a lone trumpeter played taps. Afterward, Dad took me to a local junkyard, where Dick’s car was heaped in a pile of twisted steel, the windows shattered, and the steering wheel jammed into the front seat.
“Had to have been a problem with the brakes,” said Dad.
I followed him as he walked around the car, inspecting it as if there were clues to be found, answers as to why it ended up tangled in timber.
“Had to have been a problem with the brakes,” he said again, hands straddled on his hips.
I peeked through the passenger window and saw my distorted reflection in the cracked rearview mirror laying in the front seat.
“Don’t get too close, you might cut yourself,” said Dad.
I never understood why Dad took me with him to the junkyard. A conscious decision to expose me to family tragedy, or maybe he brought me because he didn’t want to bear witness alone. Was the crash accidental or deliberate? People still can’t agree.
37 I don’t remember the officer’s name engraved on my MIA/POW bracelet. Perhaps he returned home, one of the lucky ones. If he was never found, his family and friends haven’t forgotten him, nor have they forgotten the unanswered questions surrounding his disappearance or the time it took to accept the fact he was never coming home.
Brenda couldn’t marry Dick, so she married his best friend, Alvin. My family spoke of how weird it was to attend their hasty wedding, murmurs of Alvin cozying up to Brenda while Dick was in Nam, the couple hurled together by Dick’s unfortunate ending. The newlyweds bought a house in the area where they had both grown up and soon had a couple of kids. It wasn’t long before the husband and wife got off- track, an unraveling that perhaps started before they walked down the aisle. There was talk of Brenda drinking too much and of Alvin running around. There was talk of their crashed and burned marriage and who would get custody of the kids. There was talk years after the divorce about wrecked dreams, and of how Dick, Brenda, and Alvin had lost whatever happiness they might have had. MIA.
Julia Poole is a writer and retired speech-language therapist. Her writing has appeared in Dunes Review, Bear River Review, Hypertext Magazine, Carbon Culture Review, Minerva Rising Journal, DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, The East Bay Review, The Dime Show Review, and MOON Magazine. She visits Lake Michigan often and especially loves the northern communities of Traverse City, Petoskey, and Charlevoix. Julia lives in Rockford, Michigan. More of her writing can be found at JuliaPooleWrites.com
38 REMEMBER
By Macy McLeod
The small bed sank beneath Raz’s weight as he settled in the center of it. Crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall, he let out a little sigh of relief. Finally, some peaceful quiet. Long, noisy, and hectic his day had been. Even between classes there was no rest, for Raz was always in a rush to make it to his next instruction on time. One hour remained before dinnertime, and though he had a massive amount of schoolwork to complete, Raz wasn’t planning on leaving the mattress.
He carelessly kicked off his shoes and slid out of his jacket. The brush of fabric on his left forearm jolted the boy’s mind into a frenzy. Raz frowned and muttered to himself, “Lost my record.”
Cradling his arm against his chest, Raz fixed his eyes on the rough, white tissue that marred the smooth tone of his skin. The scar was a mystery to him — speculations about it had occupied his mind endlessly since he had woken up with it several months before. He had no notion of how or when he had gotten it, for once he noticed it, it was already perfectly healed. Raz could not recall ever being injured in or even near the spot where the scar was.
However, the true puzzle wasn’t how or why he had the scar, but what it meant. In irregular, messy letters, the light skin spelled out “REMEMBER”. Raz had spent months combing his memory for whatever it was he needed to remember and could find nothing. Just recently had he reached the point where the scar did not occupy his mind constantly.
A groan escaped his lips. There went his hour of relaxation — no chance remained for Raz to avoid pondering the scar until sixth mark. He traced the word for possibly the two thousandth time, fingers caressing the raised skin. And for perhaps the four millionth time, Raz thought back to the day and night before he awoke with “REMEMBER” engraved onto his arm. However much he thought, though, nothing more than a fuzzy blur of daily habits came to mind.
The gentle ding of the doorbell startled him from his reverie. Crossing his dormitory room in four quick strides, Raz opened the door before the sound had fully faded. His
39 scar was forgotten a moment, for at the threshold stood a stranger.
The man couldn’t have been more than three years older than Raz — 20-years-old, perhaps. His hair was a mess of dirty blonde and his eyes a rich green. He was a slight bit taller than Raz and had a defined, muscular body. The simple university uniform was absent; instead, the stranger wore the casual clothing of a civilian. Raz was positive he had never seen the man on campus before.
“Abastian?” murmured the unfamiliar man.
A confused look flashed across Raz’s face. “Can I — may I help you?” he stammered.
“Abastian,” the green-eyed man whispered again. He advanced a step and, to Raz’s further bewilderment, made to embrace Raz. Purely out of instinct, Raz shoved him away and tried to shut the door, whacking the stranger with it on accident.
“Wait — ouch.” He rubbed his head where Raz had hit him with the door. “Abastian, it’s me, Kyrth, your brother!” Raz laughed in disbelief.
“If this is some prank, I am truly amazed, for never has Viq gone to such lengths to fool me,” chuckled Raz.
“What?” Kyrth’s mouth fell open and his brows furrowed as he watched Raz double over in laughter. “Abastian, what is so funny?”
“First of all,” Raz said whilst gasping for breath, “my name isn’t Abastian, it’s Raz. Second of all, you’re a really good actor, and third of all, I cannot believe Viq thought I would fall for this whole long-lost-brother story.”
“Fall for… long-lost-brother?” exclaimed Kyrth. He scowled and ran his hands through his hair, nostrils flaring. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Abastian, but it isn’t as hilarious as you’re making it seem. What is going on?”
***
“I’m going to work with Frey on a homework assignment,” Abastian sighed. His mother had stopped him the moment he was about to leave, as usual, and now he had to come up with a believable explanation for where he was going. Yesterday he’d used
40 the I-forgot-my-jacket-at-the-Rails excuse, when really his jacket was shoved beneath his bed. The day before it had been Frey-is-sick-and-I-need-to-explain-our-schoolwork. “Are you forgetting to bring your work? Where is your school tablet?”
“I’m going to work on it remotely. Mom, please can I go? I told Frey I’d be at his place by fifth mark.” Impatiently Abastian glanced at the clock. He should have left five minutes earlier.
This was the exact reason he kept the truth of his destination from his mother. If she was this concerned about him completing schoolwork with a friend, he couldn’t imagine how she’d react if she knew he was meeting with one of the Hidden Cross, an organization of the most wanted people in the nation.
“You need to be back here by sixth mark, Abastian.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
“How are we supposed to get anything done in such a short time?” Abastian protested.
“Dinner is being served at sixth mark, and if you aren’t back here by then, I’m afraid you won’t be getting any.” Was dinner really that important to him? He could sacrifice one meal if it meant spending more time with Zebba. Though, Abastian knew that more than a missed meal was at stake if he arrived home any later than sixth mark.
“Fine, I’ll be home by then.”
“Good. Go now, then. You don’t want to make it seem like you’re unreliable by not arriving on time,” she said reluctantly. Abastian rolled his eyes and slipped through the entrance as Kyrth was walking in.
“Where are you off to?” Kyrth inquired.
Setting a quick pace for himself already, Abastian called back, “Frey’s,” without sparing a glance for his older brother.
***
Raz shot a queer look at the man claiming to be his brother. Kyrth, or whoever he was, clearly wasn’t joking. None of this was possible, for Raz had never had a brother, or a
41 sister, for that matter — he couldn’t figure out why he was even considering the man’s words. He had always been an only child, and his two parents had given him a lovely home for the short years of his childhood.
“I have never seen you in my entire life, Kyrth. I’d appreciate it if you left.” “We grew up together in Division 71, in the little red house with the daisy boxes. Abastian —”
“My name is Raz. I’ve never been to Division 71 before. I lived in Division 8 before coming to school. I’ve only ever seen Division 71 on maps. Why are you still here?” Raz groaned.
Kyrth took another step forward and grasped Raz’s wrist. The effort he made to yank his arm from the stranger’s grip proved in vain; there was no possible way Raz could physically overpower Kyrth. He froze, like a deer in headlights, a rabbit who heard the crack of a stick.
The scar burned in Raz’s mind, and it took all of his mental willpower not to look down at it. In the back of his head, he felt he shouldn’t trust Kyrth, that the scar would raise questions and would aid the man in whatever scheme he had planned. Despite Raz’s effort to pretend the scar didn’t exist and had never occupied any thought in his head, the stranger found it anyway.
“This…” Kyrth brushed the raised skin. He stared at it as if it were the Holy Grail, a majestic prize for his taking. “This is what was bleeding that night. That night before you were taken. Did Zebba do this to you?” His voice quieted, and his grip loosened.
Raz ripped his arm away from Kyrth and clutched it to his chest. “I don’t know who Zebba is,” he growled, “or who you are, for that matter. Now, leave before I call the authorities.”
“Abastian, I haven’t seen you or Zebba in nine months. What happened to you?” The stranger’s voice was dripping with a desperation to rival that of a deprived young child.
***
Abastian slipped around the corner and down the deep alley. He couldn’t see Zebba
42 yet, but he knew she was there. She always was. As he made his way farther down the alleyway, the light faded. Abastian’s pace quickened despite the decreased visibility. He knew this passage like the back of his hand — countless times he had crept to the end of it. There wasn’t anything he could possibly run into or trip over, for in Division 71, even the most extensive and secret backstreets were kept spotless.
Occasionally is concerned Abastian to imagine street cleaners making their way down his and Zebba’s alley, though most of the time he assumed it was clean because no one ever went down it in the first place. The majority of the Division 71 population feared the Delegation far too much to break any laws, and illegal dealings were usually the only things that occurred this deep in the backstreets.
The funny thing was, that reason was exactly why they met there. Both Abastian and Zebba could be arrested immediately if the Delegation found out about the stories Zebba told, the verses she recited.
“Bas?” a light, feminine voice called. It rang as it bounced off of the walls, just short of becoming a tune.
“It’s me,” the boy replied. A spark flickered somewhere ahead of him, quickly stabilizing into a steady flame. He caught a glimpse of her face and her golden hair.
She was sitting on the ground at the end of the alleyway, a lighter in one hand and an object wrapped in cloth before her. Abastian sat across from her and squeezed her hand in greeting. Zebba offered a small smile and grasped his hand tightly in her own.
“It seems like ages since we last spoke,” she said quietly. This was the first signal to Abastian that something was off, for they had just seen one another the night before. Her eyes remained locked intently on the narrow, cloth-covered package between them. Through that warm brown gaze that refused to meet his own, he could see her mind racing. Zebba’s thumb danced dangerously around the spark wheel of the lighter in an urge to fidget with something.
“What is it, Zebba?” She didn’t react to his words, didn’t seem to have even heard them. Her hand slid out of his and began to mess with the button at the ankle of her trousers. For the briefest second she lifted her head, letting chestnut meet emerald just long enough to convey her immense anxiety. In that moment she looked ten years younger, a child afraid of the dark.
43 That fear unsettled Abastian. He couldn’t think of a time when Zebba had ever been truly scared. Once he had asked her if she was scared, and she replied confidently, “No, for I have faith I am always being protected by Him.” Never had her nerves been this raw.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, voice a caress. The forbidden name was sweet on his tongue, a song on his lips. Abastian never could fathom why such a beautiful name was banned. So rarely could he use it, and he did whenever a chance came up. Zebba lifted her head, the sound of her real name just barely waking her from her racing thoughts.
“We have to leave, Bas,” she blurted out. “The Delegation is onto us.” From the way she spoke, Abastian knew ‘we’ and ‘us’ didn’t refer to the two of them.
Of all the things in the world to fear, the only thing Zebba was frightened by was the Delegation. The Delegation struck some level of fear into every member of the nation, though not to such an extent as it did to the Hidden Cross. Elizabeth was not afraid of death, but of not being able to fight any longer.
“Where will you go?” It was his turn to avoid her eyes.
“Far. I can’t tell you exactly where. Reverend said I couldn’t.”
He hated to ask such a selfish question, but he could not help it. “What will I do?”
“Stay here, and stay hidden. We’re putting no pressure on you to continue Evangelizing in this Division. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Her voice cracked, and she was forced to pause. Taking a deep breath, Zebba reached for the cloth and pulled it away.
Metal gleamed in the dim flame light. The double-edged blade was nearly nine inches long, and sharper than anything Abastian had ever seen outside of a glass case. The handle was black, intricately carved wood.
“Where did you get that?” he breathed.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Dread pooled in his stomach.
44 “I’m taking a precaution, just in case you are arrested…” Zebba trailed off. “The Delegation has ways of making people… forget things. I figured you —”
“I don’t want to forget.” His voice was certain. Abastian was convinced he’d do anything to remember the verses she’d shared with him, the stories about the One and his Twelve, the glorious concepts of unconditional love and grace. After meeting Elizabeth one year ago, Abastian had found something worth living for. The Hidden Cross had put meaning into his life.
“Please trust me, then,” Zebba whispered as she gripped his wrist and dug the blade deep into the flesh of his forearm.
***
Kyrth patted his pockets and, upon hearing the soft crunch of paper, pulled out a small note. He held it up for Raz to read.
“This,” Kyrth began, “I found in my desk a few months ago. It’s Zebba’s script. When I read it, my doubts about your life were erased.”
“Did you think your brother was dead?” Hurt flashed across Kyrth’s countenance when Raz didn’t refer to himself.
“For awhile I did.” Raz frowned and studied the words on the wrinkled paper. They had to have something to do with the scar, with Kyrth, and with the girl Zebba. In a pretty cursive with red ink were the words “He is not here, for He has risen”. Despite reading it ten times over, nothing came to the surface of Raz’s mind.
He sighed. “I still don’t know who you are, I’m sorry. The dinner bell is going to ring really soon, and then I’m going to have to leave. In order to beat the crowds, your best bet is to leave within the next five minutes. I really wish I could help you, but —” “Come with me, Abastian. Com home. Maybe seeing our parents and our house will spark your memory,” Kyrth pleaded, motioning toward the scar.
“I can’t. Even if I wanted to, the college has us under heavy supervision. I don’t want to get in trouble. That is why I think it would be best if you left now.”
“Please, Abastian,” whispered Kyrth. Raz shook his head. Stepping around Kyrth, he
45 opened the door and watched silently as Kyrth left his room.
***
Abastian tightened his jaw and gritted his teeth. Never before had he been in so much pain, and he hoped he wouldn’t ever be again. The front of his shirt and the bandage wrapping his arm were soaked red. Zebba had taken precautions against his blood dripping on the ground, for she said he could be tracked and questioned should someone find it.
“You truly think I’m being watched?” His question broke a long silence. After a moment she nodded and sighed.
“We do. You’re not the only one either.”
“And do you believe that this,” Abastian motioned with his head toward his arm, “will keep me from forgetting?”
“No,” Zebba answered quietly. “There isn’t anything one can do to keep a person from forgetting when the Delegation is involved. Their technology is very, very advanced.” Giving Abastian a pained smile, she grasped the hand of his uninjured arm in both of her own hands and brought it to her chest. “When it has healed, a scar will remain. If your memories are wiped, then the hope is that this scar will help one of the Hidden Cross convince you more easily of your former association with us.”
A trickle of doubt dripped into his mind at her words. He had never known the Delegation to be so powerful. The majority of the time, when someone was arrested and never heard from again, one could only assume they were dead, or maybe locked away in some mystery location. It never ceased to astonish Abastian how much Zebba knew about the wiles of the Delegation. The government kept tons of information secret from the general population; insignificant bills and public emergency situations were the only things they ever exposed to the population.
Somewhere near the Rails, a bell began to chime.
“Shoot,” muttered Abastian. “That’s sixth mark. Elizabeth, I have to go.” He jumped to his feet and started back down the alley before wincing. Clutching his bleeding arm to his chest, Abastian frantically whirled back to face the girl.
46 “What do I tell my parents?” Zebba frowned.
“Is there any possible way to avoid them until it scabs over, and then wear long sleeves until it has healed?” she suggested. He nodded, but before turning back, he couldn’t help asking one final question.
“When will I get to see you again?” The inquiry hung in the air. A miniscule shake of the head was all Zebba offered as a response. Abastian’s heart sank, and his face fell. He took a step forward and made to reach out to her. At the last second, Abastian thought better of it, and he turned to head homeward. He prayed that someday, somehow, he might see her again. He did not know what he would do if this really was their last time together.
***
“Wait,” Raz said as Kyrth was crossing the threshold. The man looked hopefully at Raz. “Who…” Raz trailed off. He did not trust the man, yet he couldn’t shake his curiosity about the girl Kyrth had mentioned. For some queer reason, Raz felt she had something to do with the scar.
“What happened to the girl, Zebba?”
“I do not know. I haven’t seen her since the night before you disappeared,” Kyrth replied. Raz nodded, unsurprised by the lack of answer.
“Goodbye, then. Best wishes in finding your brother.”
“Thank you.” The disappointment in Kyrth’s voice wasn’t hidden.
Raz shut the door and did his best not to ponder the odd conversation he had just taken part in. Unfortunately for him, he could not quit the topic in his head until falling asleep that night.
***
Abastian let out a breath upon entering his bedroom. He had been late for dinner and knew pretty soon he’d be getting an earful from his mother about it. For now, though, there was time to think. As Abastian was about to collapse onto his bed, he caught sight of a small white envelope sitting on his windowsill. Slowly he crept toward it, as
47 if it would somehow hurt him if he moved too quickly.
It made no noise as he unfolded it. In Elizabeth’s beautiful script was written, “Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.” The words made him smile. At the sound of footsteps in the hall, he shoved it hastily into his desk drawer.
Abastian did not realize how fatal this decision would come to be. He did not remember he had put it there after getting ready for bed (if he had, he would have moved it), and didn’t think of it again until in the back of an unfamiliar vehicle with cuffs about his wrists.
Never did he think that the boy who slept one door down the hall from him would be greedy enough to turn in one of his own family members. Everyone knew the reward for the turning in of evidence of the Hidden Cross. Few, however, knew the reward for turning in a member of the Hidden Cross. Rumors held an extremely enticing return for such a feat. Not many people would give up such an opportunity as the one that presented itself to the young man living with Abastian.
Kyrth never meant to hurt his brother in the beginning. It was the reward that blinded him to the consequences, both before and after receiving it. It was difficult to feel bad about committing such a horror once one held a position for the Delegation and resided in one of the nicest Divisions of the nation. In his mind, and the minds of the rest of Division 71, he had turned in a criminal that was harming the world. The world was safer with such a person removed.
As Kyrth left the dorm room belonging to Abastian, now known as Raz, he couldn’t help but smile to himself about the wonderful deed he had accomplished for his nation.
Macy McLeod is a fifteen-year-old Army brat and a rising sophomore at her high school in North Carolina. One of her favorite things about summer is spending time at her grandparents’ cottage in Bay View; that and having all the time in the world to read fantasy books.
48 J. WILL CALLAHAN
By Mary Jane Doerr
J. Will Callahan was author of the words to “Smiles”—a famous “feel-good” song written in Bay View during a time of war and influenza.
J. Will Callahan was a very familiar name growing up in Bay View. A hand-painted sign on Forest Avenue told about his World War I mega hit “Smiles.” It sold 5 million copies. I always thought that was all there was to the story. He lived in a tiny cottage, was poor, could not afford tickets to the assembly program, never traveled, and was blind. Kind of a “one trick pony,” he and his music partner Lee S. Roberts were lucky enough to get their song published by Jerome H. Remick Music Publisher. “He wasn’t one of the major writers of Tin Pan Alley,” the niece of the manager of Remick Music offices told me. Her great uncle Charles Daniels worked for Remick during the teens.[i] This little bit of information, partially correct, sparked my interest to find out the “real story.”
This tall, blind lyricist/poet is one of Bay View’s famous residents. He owned a Bay View cottage for almost 40 years. During that time, he wrote the words to nearly 300 songs, working with nearly 60 different composers and nearly 70 publishers. Some of the cover art for his songs was done by the most famous Tin Pan Alley artists in the country. Recordings made of his songs from the teens are now available on YouTube. Copies of his music are held in universities and library special collections all over the U.S. Many are for sale on eBay and Amazon in the U.S., England, France and Australia. Some were translated to French. One of his songs still causes so much rancor, it is the subject of internet essays today, 100 years after he wrote the words. Another song is now featured on the Smithsonian’s Website about the history of transportation in America.
In 1915, he penned a spoof about women’s suffrage, which was sung by the soldiers in Europe and became the title for a play in England in the fall of 2018. On the other hand, he wrote for a number of women composers who could not get their compositions published. He even took a woman’s name as his pseudonym.
Callahan was a tenor and sang with the Tunesters at Juilleret’s Cabaret in Harbor Springs and conducted the Petoskey Band. In Bay View he was very popular and did
49 the “between the reels” song for the silent films. Helen Marin remembered how he would dictate words to a new song which his wife would play for him on their piano.
Mildred Place Panney was just a little girl when Callahan came to their house, now the Museum Cottage. She remembered the tall man with the visor playing his new song, written in Bay View, for her mother. The words to this song would become a mega hit in 1917. It only took him about 20 minutes to write the words but over a year to get it published.
It was 1917 during a traumatic time of war and influenza and the upbeat words didn’t catch on immediately. Finally, after a number of attempts, composer Lee S. Roberts, the head of the QRS Piano Roll Company, published it himself. Jerome Robbins, then manager of Remick’s New York office, noticed it and sent it around to “jobbers” and “song pluggers.” It was picked up for the review “The Passing Show of 1918.” The show debuted in New York and was taken to the troops at war in Europe and immediately became a hit. Numerous recordings were made and it was used in more than 36 films including “For Me and My Gal,” sung by Judy Garland.
As for being poor – no way. Copyright laws were just coming into existence at the time, so Callahan’s receipts were nowhere near what he would have received today. However, his next song “Tell Me,” set to music by QRS piano player Max Kortlander (also sung by Garland), garnered a payment of $100,000 from Remick Music. It was the largest sum ever paid for a song at that time.[ii] Callahan was not poor nor was he “a one trick pony.”
50 [i] Nan Bostick Email to Author Jan. 9, 1999. [ii] “A Conversation with Herman Kortlander,” The AMICA News Bulletin, Vol. 29, No. 3. May/June, 1992. P. 9.
Author Mary Jane Doerr wrote the book Bay View, An American Idea, which won the 2010 State History Award from the Historical Society of Michigan. Her family has been coming to Bay View since 1911. Her mother Jane Park Doerr was Director of the Bay View Archives at the time of the Historic Landmark Designation.
51 I DIDN’T ASK
By Gerald Faulkner
This Father’s Day I received cards and phone calls that congratulated me on being a Dad. It is always nice to receive those special items. However, this time it was different because it was time to do some serious thinking about my own dad.
He had died of his second heart attack. It was sudden and quite unexpected. He had lived his life as a quiet and generous person who handled his responsibilities as most Americans did at that time. He was an example of what was called “the common man.” He had many friends and was liked by all. He was a man of faith, but not the church- going kind. He was a man of few words. As I reflected to the time of his passing, I have asked myself, “Why didn’t Dad talk to me more?” He probably had spoken many times, but it was I who was not listening being first a teenager, then a young married man. I started to think of some of the historical things that happened during his time and wondered what he remembered. My questions to him would be the following:
What was it like when you received the news that World War I had come to an end and did you see any of the parades and returning doughboys?
Did you like President Wilson?
Were you a fan of Jack Dempsey or did you like the New York Marine Gene Tunney?
Were you a fan of Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig?
What was prohibition like for you? Did you know any gangsters or flappers?
When you first voted, was it for FDR and how did you feel when he died?
Tell me about your experiences during the Great Depression.
How did you support us during World War II?
52 What were your feelings when you heard your nephew had been shot down and your brother seriously wounded in World War II?
What was your thought when President Truman dropped the first atomic bomb to end the war?
Was Truman right to get us into war in Korea?
Did you like rock and roll or was it all just some kind of loud noise?
Was General Eisenhower as great a president as he was as a general?
What about Vietnam which was going on when you died?
Of course, I’ll never get an answer to these and other questions. However, finally asking so many questions made me feel maybe Dad would be a little bit curious about what has been happening here on earth since he left. The following are some of the events and changes I can recall: America landed on the moon ahead of the Russians. We now have Japanese cars made and sold in the USA. The Vietnam War did end, but not the way he would have liked. The Berlin Wall has been torn down, Germany has been reunited and the Soviet Union is no more. China is now our biggest rival. Our rotary phone has been replaced with an iPhone which is connected to something called the internet, which lets us speak, send messages and photos all over the world. Amazing, simply amazing.
Thanks, Dad, for everything on this, your special day. Sorry I did not ask.
Gerald Faulkner graduated college 55+ years ago. His professional life was spent in Human Resources and his second career was spent in the local school system. Early retirement came 15 years ago followed by three years of part-time work as a tutor in math. His hobbies are history, politics and, of course, writing. For the past five years, he has been teaching at Senior University, a local college. He has been vacationing in the Bay View community for the last 20 years and has been an Associate Member for over 12 years. Over the years, his love of the Bay View community has grown and he looks forward to being there each year.
53 LETTING GO OF SUMMER
By Boo Kiesler
I found a poem I wrote in 1983 when my sons were little boys here in Bay View and my parents were still alive and shared the cottage with us. I remember the morning I wrote it—I was grateful for my mother getting the boys ready for Club and giving me a little time in the morning to ruminate. We would be leaving for Texas soon, and I was sad about leaving Bay View.
The porch is a great place to day-bathe. The golden air wraps happy times. The buttering of bread the walking of the dogs the children’s voice their sweet laughter yellow and light. The family, like the sun, warm and round and here.
But as I run the mornings, they gallop beside me. And I want to hold the whole mess of it the golden sun itself just wrap my arms around it hold it up, up, don’t let it get away.
But it trickles through my fingers, big drops of golden, buttery days falling everywhere. They’re slipping through and splashing at my feet and I kneel to hold the last golden day-drop caress it and let it down gently— don’t let it drop don’t let it slip let it go.
54 Boo Kiesler graduated from SMU with a double major in German and English. She taught secondary level ESL in Dallas, and volunteered in the Austin area teaching accent reduction to mostly Chinese speakers. She has recently moved to Houston and hopes to find more soon-to-be friends with whom she can share her love of English. Her grandchildren are sixth generation Bay View, and her husband loves to come whenever he can to enjoy the cool weather and incomparable beauty of Northern Michigan.
55
THE BACK PAGE
We are excited to welcome Evelyn Schloff to the editorial team. Evelyn is a student at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee where she studies Digital Arts and Culture. She brings distinguished talent in art and design and a love for Bay View.
Please submit your poems, essays, memoirs, short stories, or artwork to be considered for the 2020 edition. We are always happy to discuss your ideas. Along with your submission, please include a few lines of biographical information. Additional copies of the magazine are available throughout the year at the Bay View Association office. Submissions for 2020 should be received by June 30, 2020.
Scott Drinkall [email protected] Sue Collins [email protected] Marge Bayes [email protected] Evelyn Schloff [email protected]