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

U.P. Redder

Volume 1 is still available!

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

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

Available in paperback, hardcover, and eBook editions!

ISBN 978-1-61599-336-9

www.UPReader.org

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

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

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

Cover Photo: by Mikel B. Classen.

Learn more about the UPPAA at www.UPPAA.org

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

ISSN: 2572-0961

ISBN 978-1-61599-508-0 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-509-7 hardcover

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

Managing Editor - Mikel B. Classen

Associate Editor and Copy Editor - Deborah K. Frontiera

Production - Victor Volkman

Cover Photo - Mikel B. Classen

Interior Layout - Michal Splho

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

Published by

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

[email protected]

CONTENTS

Moving Up by Donna Winters

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

Service Alert by Brandy Thomas

The River of the Dead by Jon Taylor

How to Tell by Jon Taylor

untitled symphony by t. kilgore splake

god’s country by t. kilgore splake

The Woundwort by Joni Scott

Cousin Jack Foster by Donna Searight Simons

Mi Casa en El Paso by Terry Sanders

Catching the Butterflies by Ninie G. Syarikin

Love Is... by Ninie G. Syarikin

Much Different Animal by Becky Ross Michael

Dry Foot by Cyndi Perkins

Called to the Edge of Gichigami by Charli Mills

Clark Kent Says It All by Tricia Carr

Domestic Violence by Tricia Carr

The Truck by Raymond Luczak

Independence Day by Raymond Luczak

Coyote Pups by David Lehto

The Shepherd by David Lehto

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

Muses from a Deer Shack Morning by Chris Kent

Katie: Purity by Sharon Kennedy

Quiet Times by Sharon Kennedy

Addiction by Jan Stafford Kellis

The Ratbag Family by Jan Stafford Kellis

The Bait Pile by Rich Hill

Whiteout by Rich Hill

Paper Tracks by Elizabeth Fust

The Great Divide by Elizabeth Fust

A Stone’s Story by Deborah K. Frontiera

Awareness by Ann Dallman

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

The Kalamazoo by T. Marie Bertineau

Party Animals by Larry Buege

I Watched Someone Drown by Craig Brockman

Shirley’s Cabins by Craig Brockman

U.P. Notable Books List

What I Learned from Writing my Breakout Book by Karen Dionne

Young U.P. Authors Section

About the Real Dandelion Cottage

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

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

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

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

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

Help Sell The U.P. Reader!

Come join UPPAA Online!

Moving Up

by Donna Winters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baraga street scene 1910

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Many Lives of Pierre LeBlanc

(Based upon an old U.P. legend)

by Tyler R. Tichelaar

Life 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Statue of Father Marquette

And then everything started to go black for Pierre.

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

But Pierre did not know that Nanabozho had other plans.

Life 3

It had been nearly fifty years since Peter White had come to Marquette. That first year of 1849, he’d been just a boy of eighteen when he’d sailed into Iron Bay with Robert Graveraet. On that day, he’d met his lifelong friend Charley Kawbawgam. Charley, in time, had become Chief of the local Ojibwa. And Peter, in time, had helped to found the town. Then Peter had served as mailman for Marquette, delivering mail by dogsled from as far away as Green Bay. It wasn’t as prominent a position as being an Ojibwa chief, but Peter was a man of great abilities and determined to prosper. Soon he was made town clerk, and then he started an insurance agency and he began to sell real estate. He also founded a bank and accumulated great wealth, and then he became a great philanthropist. He donated a library to Marquette, he put roofs on churches, and he even bought an island he gave to the city for a park. Then he built a house at that park for his aging friend Chief Kawbawgam to live in. But that wasn’t all. Peter got involved in state and national politics. President Cleveland offered to