Dockside Books on Bridge Street in Charlevoix, Michigan
There’s a new bookstore in Charlevoix, Michigan, called Dockside Books. It’s appropriately named because water abounds in Charlevoix. From the bookstore if you look to the west, you see Lake Michigan and the Round Lake Channel, which leads into Round Lake. If you look to the east, you see Round Lake, which leads into Lake Charlevoix.
The friendly clerk who helped me pick out a book
Dockside is a charming bookstore. Depending on the light, the color painted on the walls sometimes looks sea green or stormy blue. Changeable like Lake Michigan. A rowboat standing on end serves as a bookshelf. In addition to a wonderful selection of books in all genres, customers can shop for book bags, stationery, bookmarks, and journals. There is a nice sitting area where you can try out a book before you buy it.
I wanted to buy a book to be supportive of the new store. But I wasn’t sure what to get because I’d recently bought other books on my wish list. So, I asked the clerk what her favorite genre was and she said she likes them all (a diplomat!), but she added she loves historical fiction. I asked, “Do you have a new historical fiction book you could recommend?” She did. 33 Place Brugmann by Alice Austen. The story, set in Brussels in a small apartment building, begins with the Nazi occupation of Belgium. I bought the book because I like historical fiction and because the clerk enthusiastically recommended it. Also, I find that reading about World War II, Nazis, and fascism, which I’ve been doing a lot lately, is somehow less scary than reading today’s news. Sometimes, however, the parallels between the past and the present are frightening. I haven’t read the book yet, but if I like it, I promise I’ll post a book review.
I didn’t have long to visit the bookstore because I had two dogs in my car waiting for their promised walk. So I’m looking forward to spending more time in Dockside when I return to Michigan this winter. I also need to read 33 Place Brugmann before I return to the store because I promised the clerk I’d tell her what I thought of the book.
The locals like to say if you keep a big enough boat on Lake Charlevoix, you can go anywhere in the world you want. Sail into Lake Michigan, navigate through a few more Great Lakes and some rivers, and voilà you will sail into the Atlantic Ocean. And from there the world awaits.
Or you can do what I did and visit Dockside Books, buy a book, and go anywhere in the world and anywhere in time without getting seasick. Soon I’ll be traveling back in time to Brussels as World War II begins and the lives of ordinary people are upended because of Hitler.
To see interior pictures of Dockside, scroll through the slideshow below.
Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe is nonfiction. Published in 2018, it tells the story of The Troubles in Northern Ireland between Catholics and Protestants during the 1970s, and its aftermath during the 1980s through the early 2000s.
McGarr and the Method of Descartes by Bartholomew Gill is fiction. Published in 1984, it tells the story of Detective Chief Inspector Peter McGarr who strives to prevent the assassination of a Loyalist Protestant he loathes in order to prevent yet another cycle of violence between Catholics and Irish Protestants.
Both books tell stories involving the Irish Republican Army, the British Army, the Loyalist and Catholic paramilitaries, the informants, and the civilians who are swept up into tragic violence. In both books people are blown up, shot, executed, arrested, imprisoned, tortured, beaten, and burned out of their homes. Gill’s book is fiction, but it mirrors much of what happens in the real world of Keefe’s book.
I started out reading both books at the same time, sometimes reading a bit of each in a day, and other times reading them every other day. I’ve done this before with books. However, I stopped toggling back and forth after I repeated an episode from Gill’s fictional story to someone as if it had been a real episode from Keefe’s book. But in a sense it was real because the episode in Gill’s book was a fictionalized account of numerous real events that Keefe reported about in his book. Switch names and change some of the fictionalized details, and Gill’s event would be real. Gill captures the realism of the events and the emotional trauma that Keefe so deftly writes about in his nonfiction book.
Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe
Keefe’s book starts with the kidnapping and murder of thirty-eight-year-old Jean McConville, a widow and mother of ten children ranging in age from twenty to six. The IRA accuses McConville of being an informant for the British Army in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Without a trial of any sort, she was abducted from her home in Belfast, driven across the border into the Republic of Ireland, shot to death, then buried in an unmarked, secret grave.
Keefe’s book is highly engaging, well organized, and clearly written — important because he covers a slice of history that is complex and involves dozens of key people. He uses McConville’s abduction as a starting point to tell the story of The Troubles in Northern Ireland, but Say Nothing covers more than McConville’s disappearance and murder. As readers learn about The Troubles during the 1970s, Keefe leaves them with an understanding of the history behind The Troubles, the trauma caused by the conflict, and the negotiated peace that somehow feels tenuous.
I read Say Nothing on the advice of a nonfiction writer, Rachel Hanel, whom I admire. She recently reread and recommended it in her newsletter, stating, “It’s still my favorite nonfiction book of the past 10 years.” Keefe’s book was made into a limited TV series that can be watched on HULU. I have not watched it, but other people have told me it’s very good.
McGarr and the Method of Descartes by Bartholomew Gill
During the investigation of a murder, DCI Peter McGarr and his investigators uncover a plot to assassinate Ian Paisley, a bigoted, loud-spoken, but charismatic Protestant minister beloved by many Irish Protestants. (By the way, Ian Paisley was a real person who was all these things.) McGarr abhors Paisley, but he also detests the IRA, the British Army, all paramilitary groups, and anyone else who conspires to use violence in order to push Ireland and Northern Ireland back into the nightmarish times of The Troubles during the 1970s. Racing against the clock and up against a group of formidable foes steeped in a long tradition of deception and intimidation, McGarr and his team work to prevent Paisley’s assassination.
I read McGarr and the Method of Descartes because I liked the first five books in Gill’s series, which he published from the late 1970s through the early 2000s. I’m intrigued to see how Gill’s characters and stories will evolve in the series. I want to learn more about Noreen, and McGarr’s past, and if women are going to become an integral part of the police force. In Gill’s sixth book McGarr’s wife, Noreen, has a minuscule role, unlike the fifth book where she has her own story arc. But after a debate with McGarr and a sleepless night, she delivers the best lines in the book to her husband before he leaves their house to try and stop Paisley’s assassination.
The female computer expert, Ruth Bresnahan, is back in her biggest role since she joined the squad. The men on McGarr’s team know she is smart and rarely wrong, and they are intimidated by her. But McGarr isn’t bothered by her smarts. He respects her intelligence, doggedness, and energy. He believes in a way she is “worth two of any of the men on the staff.” He has her read into the case and takes time to mentor her. She plays a key part in helping McGarr and the team as they attempt to save Paisley’s life.
Bartholomew Gill’s sixth Peter McGarr book is excellent. It is his darkest story yet. But The Troubles in Northern Ireland was a dark time. I’m glad I read most of Keefe’s nonfiction book along with Gill’s novel. The talents of each writer made me appreciate the other’s book. Reading Keefe’s book gave me a great appreciation for the world Gill developed while fictionalizing actual events in Ireland that were barely dry behind the ears. On the flip side, Gill’s book gave me a great appreciation for Keefe’s ability to capture the human emotion and the tragic toll The Troubles wreaked upon generations of Irish people, both Protestant and Catholic.
A point both books make . . .
Colonialism and imperialism inflict a lasting impact on people who have been subjected to outsiders invading their lands and stripping their rights. The trauma of the oppressed and the entitlement of the oppressors are passed down from generation to generation.
On one side, children of the conquered sit at the knees of their parents and grandparents and learn about the atrocities their people have endured and the acts of heroic resistance they have performed.
On the other side, children of the conquerors sit at the knees of their parents and grandparents and learn about their superiority over other people and their imperial destiny.
Conditions become untenable, things fall apart. Childhoods vanish. Neighborhoods sunder. People die.
Playbill from Anne of Green Gables adapted for the stage by Peter DeLaurier
On Sunday I took my fourteen-year-old grandchild to see a play based on the children’s novel Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery.
Montgomery’s novel about a determined, outspoken, red-headed orphan is one of my favorites. I’ve read it twice.
I went to see the play for two reasons: first, to meet up with my old fictional friend Anne Shirley of Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, and, second to introduce my grandchild to Anne’s story. Judging by the large crowd of people at the play, who ranged from senior citizens to young children, Anne Shirley is still loved by old friends and still being introduced to new friends.
Montgomery wrote Anne of Green Gables in 1905. At first her book was rejected by publishers. Montgomery set her novel aside for a while, but in 1907 she sent it to L.C. Page in Boston. It was accepted and published in 1908. Within five months she sold over 19,000 copies, and it was reprinted numerous times in its first year. Since its publication over fifty million copies have been sold, and it has been translated into over thirty-six languages.
What makes the novel so popular and timeless? Most definitely, it’s the main character, Anne Shirley, who wins our hearts. Set in the late 1800s, we meet Anne when she is eleven years old. She is an orphan who has lived in both foster homes and the orphanage. Her life changes when Marilla Cuthbert and her brother Matthew Cuthbert decide they need someone to help the aging Matthew with his farm chores. Marilla writes to the orphanage to request a boy be sent to them, but there is a mix up, and Anne is sent instead.
Anne has been an orphan since she was a baby. She longs for a family and a home to call her own. She has red hair and freckles, and she believes this makes her ugly. She is outspoken, talkative, and a daydreamer. In a time when girls were to be ladylike and sweet, her candid manner is labeled impertinent and disgraceful. At first Marilla is adamant that Anne should be returned to the orphanage, but Matthew doesn’t agree. Anne’s spirit touches him, and he convinces Marilla to give Anne a chance.
Why have readers for over a hundred years loved Anne of Green Gables? Because Anne wants what we all want — a home, a family, and to be loved for who she is. She doesn’t want people to make fun of her red hair and freckles. She doesn’t want people to silence her outgoing personality or tell her daydreaming is frivolous. We cheer for Anne. She is our hero, not because she is always good or perfect, but because she is so human. When she makes mistakes, she learns from them while remaining true to herself. Anne’s willingness to be true to who she is as she grows up, changes the people around her, and they become more accepting and open minded.
Over a hundred years after its publication, Montgomery’s story still invites readers to be compassionate and accepting of people’s differences. Furthermore, without moralizing, her novel delivers this message with humor; tenderness; and richly drawn characters, such as the unforgettable, irrepressible Anne Shirley.
The play I saw on Sunday was wonderful. The actor who played Anne Shirley was outstanding. She captured the essence of Anne and brought her to life on stage. The supporting cast were also excellent; after all, there are no small parts. The play was creatively staged on a well-designed set, and the costumes were charming. (I found myself wishing I could wear some of them!) The play remained true to Montgomery’s story, and I loved being able to say to myself over and over, “Yes, I remember that from the book!”
Best of all, my fourteen-year-old grandchild loved the play. Teenage years can be difficult. Young people can be filled with self-doubt and feel as though everyone is judging them as they work to discover who they are and what they want out of life. The characters in Anne of Green Gables remind us that acceptance, kindness, and love are timeless and important for both the young and old. This message feels even more important today. In a world where some people want to divide us, we need to remember we are more alike than different. To forget this is to put our humanity at risk.
My story collection has a title! I’ll debut the cover when that is done.
In February 2027, the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point will publish my collection of short stories through Cornerstone Press, their university press. I’m excited, and nervous, and grateful. This is my first book, and like a first-time parent, I’m not sure what to expect, so I gather information. I talk to other writers who have published books. I attend book launches and author talks. I read blogs and articles and attend seminars about how to nurture a book in the world.
When Cornerstone accepted my manuscript, my publication date was more than two years away. But now it’s about fifteen months away, and if there is one thing I know about time — it’s how quickly it flies. I need to promote my book, and for that it needs a title.
When I submitted my collection in November 2024, it was called Fishing Around in the Dog Days of Summer, after one of the stories in the book. I chose the title for a couple of reasons. First, I really like its eponymous story about two young sisters with a tenuous relationship who go crayfishing on a hot, humid August day. Second, all the characters in my short story collection are fishing around for something they want. They each dip a line in the murky waters of their lives during their own dog days, hoping to catch something they long for.
But as much as I liked my original title, I began to feel it was too long and would be hard for people to remember. And I worried if the cover depicted a fishing scene along with the title, potential readers might think all my stories were about fishing.
I looked at my table of contents and considered other story titles. “Silent Negotiations” jumped out at me. It’s short and easy to remember, and it’s another story I really like. In 2020, it won second place in the Hal Prize Fiction Contest. (So, I feel the title has good mojo.) In the story a couple who have been married over forty years renegotiate the parameters of their marriage during a disagreement. Each spouse speaks their mind, but only to a point. The rest of their negotiations are silent, yet significant. The characters in my other stories are like the old married couple in “Silent Negotiations.” They all want something. They all talk to each other, but they leave things unsaid. And what is left unsaid, changes who they are with one another and themselves.
After I decided to change my title to Silent Negotiations, I asked my writing friends and readers what they thought. They had all read my stories several times, so I knew they would be good judges as to whether or not the new title would be a good fit for the collection. They all loved Silent Negotiations.
Last weekend I attended the Wisconsin Writers Association Conference in Stevens Point. The Cornerstone Press editors were there too. I talked to Dr. Ross Tangedal about using Silent Negotiations as my title. He liked it too, and so did his student editors.
My book has an official title!
Now, I’m excited to see some cover designs. Before I know it, Silent Negotiations will be out in the world.
I’m hoping to use this picture for my author photo. Photo credit: Max Youngquist
I’m back with another update on my quest to read all of the Peter McGarr mysteries by Bartholomew Gill. I just finished McGarr and the P.M. of Belgrave Square, Bartholomew Gill’s fifth Peter McGarr mystery. And I know I said this about Bartholomew’s fourth book, but his fifth book is now my favorite of the series.
What is this book about?
A dead body lies in a water-filled ditch for most of a day. It’s inconceivable to DCI Peter McGarr that the woman in the house overlooking the ditch failed to noticed the dead man. Furthermore, McGarr reckons she must have witnessed the murder.
The dead man is William Craig, an antiques dealer and business man, who until that morning had lived with his wife in the house with the view of the watery ditch.
McGarr quickly gathers a list of suspects: the wife, the son, the business partner, the gardener, the maid, a member of the Irish Republican Army, a former Nazi collaborator. Given the method of the murder, it appears personal. Curiously, considering the many valuable antiques in Craig’s shop, the only item is missing is a valuable painting.
The P.M. of Belgrave Square is a dog (not the Prime Minister), who has retired from the police force. P.M. lives next door to McGarr, and of course they’re friends. In many ways the dog is a canine version of McGarr.
Thoughts about story and character development in Gill’s mystery series . . .
For four books, I wanted to know more about DCI McGarr’s wife, Noreen. I wanted her to do more than cook a few meals for McGarr, drive him around occasionally, and look stunning in clothes that showcase her ginger-colored hair and green eyes. I wonder if Gill ever received fan mail from readers asking for more Noreen because in this book, she has her own story arc, something missing in the first four books. In the earlier books, Noreen was nice enough, but now she’s interesting.
There are still no female detectives. And the female temp with the competent computer skills, who I really liked, is absent from this book, but I hope she still works for the department. There is only one scene at the police station in this book, so it makes sense we don’t see her.
In Gill’s first five books, we learn a lot about the murder suspects and what makes them tick, but not so much about the detectives who investigate them. It’s nice to have interesting suspects with convoluted psyches and complicated motives. But I’ve been raised on police detective stories that also focus on the investigators and what makes them tick. We get a bit more of that in McGarr and the P.M. of Belgrave Square, as Gill gives us some insight into McGarr’s life through Noreen’s perspective on their marriage.
Turns out Noreen is concerned about Peter’s drinking and his smoking. Throughout the first four books, she seemed oblivious to his bad habits. There are cracks in McGarr’s facade, hints that something from his past has left scars, and Noreen is terrified about his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. His position as a DCI means he should be off the streets and at a desk, but Peter likes to be in the thick of an investigation. She believes he has a death wish. I wonder if she will make it as a cop’s wife.
The Irish Republican Army is back. Insinuations of IRA involvement always complicate McGarr’s murder investigations. He seeks justice for the victim or victims at hand, but Special Branch, or some other investigative entity, often wants to bury IRA involvement, either because they simply don’t want to deal with it or because they are deep into an investigation and don’t want their cover blown. McGarr doesn’t give a farthing for either reason — he solves the case in front of him. If that means rattling the IRA or interfering in an ongoing Special Branch investigation, so be it.
Gill’s Peter McGarr mysteries are dark. Set mostly in Ireland, I can’t imagine they would ever be endorsed by an Irish tourism board. McGarr’s Ireland is a land of dismal weather and stormy seas with only brief bouts of sunshine. McGarr’s Dublin is a city of coal dust, simmering class resentments, and political intrigue.
I wonder if I weren’t interested in seeing how Gill develops his characters over the series, if I would still be reading these books. But I think the answer is yes. The novels have just the right amount of darkness. The writing is good. I like the dialogue. The stories are interesting. The books are quick reads. And the pocket book size feels so comfortable in my hands. After I finished this book, I ordered Gill’s next three mysteries from Thrift Books. So, like Noreen is still sticking with Peter McGarr, I’m still sticking with Bartholomew Gill.
My essay “A Journey with Monarchs” was recently published inTales of Migration by Duluth Publishing Project. Professor David Beard (University of Minnesota-Duluth) and a group of his students spearheaded this project, from the call for submissions to the finished project. This is the second time I’ve had an essay selected for one of their anthology projects. I appreciate the hard work and dedication of Beard and his students, who all strive to make the experience memorable for their writers. In the spring after the selections are made, they always host a reading, and invite the writers to read their pieces. It’s a wonderful time. I enjoy meeting the other contributing writers, and listening to them read their work.
The inspiration for my essay
My essay was inspired by a monarch I saw in Petoskey, Michigan, on a chilly October day. The monarch clutched a pink cosmos flower, and it didn’t move when I approached it. Its behavior so intrigued me that I began to research monarchs and their migration habits. My essay is a creative nonfiction piece of nature writing. For the nonfiction part, I carefully researched all of the information by reading books and online articles from reliable sources. For the creative part, I used some literary devices that I hoped would make the essay enjoyable for people to read while learning about the wondrous migration of monarchs.
[The Tales of Migration anthology is available on Amazon. For more information, click here.]
I’ll never forget the reading for Tales of Migration because I got lost . . .
After this year’s reading, I struck up a conversation with one of the poets whose work appears in Tales of Migration. I had met her the year before when we both read our pieces from Tales of Travel. We left the meeting together and kept visiting. We had parked in different lots, but I kept walking with her because I enjoyed her company and conversation. I figured I would just walk around the outside of the buildings and return to my car. After all, it was a nice sunny evening, the UMD campus wasn’t that big, and I hadn’t gone that far out of my way.
Ha! It didn’t work out as I planned. After I exited the building with the poet, she walked off to her parking lot. I turned the opposite direction and walked off to my car. But I couldn’t find the lot in which I had parked. I walked around buildings. I set the GPS on my phone to walk mode, but it was no help. It was around 7:00 on a weeknight and the campus was devoid of students.
I walked in circles for almost twenty minutes. If it had been dark, I would have been panicked. But the skies were a bright, beautiful blue and considering what spring can be in Duluth, it was fairly warm. I have such a poor sense of direction to begin with, and faced with a random placement of large buildings connected by a maze of passageways, I began to feel stupid and frustrated. I felt trapped inside a bad episode of The Twilight Zone.
I decided I needed to reenter the doors I had exited from with the poet. I retraced my steps back through the liberal arts building and to the room where I had done my reading. From there I felt I could find the engineering building that I had walked through on my way to the liberal arts building before my reading.
But it wasn’t that easy. I had gotten so turned around and addled that I had a hard time remembering how I had originally come through the buildings, which were connected by long and meandering hallways. And to complicate matters, the floor levels in one building don’t always match up to the floor levels in the next building.
I asked a student if he could give me directions to the engineering building. He shook his head and said, “I don’t know. I’m a liberal arts major.”
“I was a liberal arts major, too,” I said, as if that explained why I was lost. He was not the only person to apologize about not being able to direct me to the engineering building. Perhaps liberal arts majors aren’t hardwired to locate engineering departments. On a large campus, many students may never need to visit certain buildings. I went to a small college, and I had classes in every building on campus.
Finally, someone was able to help me. Once I found my way into the engineering building on the correct level, I recognized where I was and located the right exit. My car was where I had left it. Dusk was descending, and I was relieved. It’s not fun being misplaced.
I had known all along where I was, and yet I had been so lost and turned around at the same time. I thought about the irony. I had just read for Tales of Migration, filled with poems and essays about moving from one place to another, sometimes covering thousands of miles. I thought about migrating people all over the world who would know the names of their new homes, yet still be lost and turned around, arriving in a land they had never been before, whose culture they had never experienced. They would have mazes and passageways to navigate, all of which would play out over years, instead of the thirty minutes in which I had been lost.
After it was all said and done. After I’d decided on two pairs of shoes to purchase, and the mother and daughter who were shoe shopping alongside me had decided on three pairs of shoes between the two of them, the sales clerk reordered the chaos on the floor. She checked the labels and sizes to make sure two shoes (a left and a right) of the same size went into a box with the corresponding size, style, and brand. The young sales clerk, maybe twenty years old, was swift and accurate.
After the clerk walked away to meet the mother and daughter at the checkout, my husband said he was surprised that the sales clerk had let the area become so messy.
“Oh, no,” I said. “This is how women shop for shoes.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave that look people give when they want to say, “Wow! That’s just crazy” without saying, “Wow! That’s just crazy.”
He didn’t know women have rules for shoe shopping. He just picks out one pair of shoes at a time, asks for his size, and tries them on. But women circle the store and gather several different types of shoes before approaching the sales clerk.
“I’ve been shopping for shoes for years, with my mother, with friends, and this is how we’ve always done it,” I said.
I explained all this to my husband as I walked around the store in a pair of shoes I was still auditioning. I stopped in front of the shoe mirror to see how they looked from the side. I walked up to my husband and asked, “Do these shoes make my feet look big?”
He laughed. “Of course,” he said.
I laughed because he got the joke.
Women really do have their own set of rules for shoe shopping. We try one pair then another pair. Maybe try them again. We ask for different sizes. We look at more shoes, and try those. And while we do this, the unboxed shoes stay on the floor. Unless we specifically tell the clerk that a pair of shoes are definitely a no go. A good shoe sales clerk knows this. It’s not chaos. We need to be able to see the whole array of shoes in front of us.
I haven’t had so much fun buying shoes in a long time. The mother and daughter and I had a good time visiting with each other while we tried on shoes. We laughed and joked together. The mother and I bought the same shoes. “If I see those shoes out in public, I’ll recognize you,” she said.
Best of all, the sales clerk was a joy. She was knowledgeable about the shoes in the store. She kept all our requests for different styles and sizes straight while she helped all three of us at the same time. She treated us like our quest for the perfect shoe was important. She understood how women shop for shoes.
A happy pollinator on the first flowers we encountered
Two years ago I took my four grandkids to a rose garden. We smelled the roses, walked along Lake Superior, ate ice cream, and tossed rocks in the water. Then we did it again last year. So, of course, we had to do it again this year. It’s a tradition now. When my grandkids are grown up and old, they will say to each other, “Remember when Nana took us to the rose garden every summer, and we’d get ice cream then throw rocks in the lake?” Just like I recall my nana taking us to George Webb, Sherman Park, and Capital Drive, and letting us use her galvanized steel wash tubs as swimming pools on hot days.
Can you find the pollinator in the rose?
We arrived at the rose garden, which also has other flowers. We spotted bees slurping nectar. My oldest grandchild took photos of the bees and roses. I took photos of the bees and roses. My other three grandkids watched the bees and smelled the roses. We all love the flowers and bees. I like to refer to bees as pollinators, like it’s a royal title and the bees belong to a noble class. Watching pollinators feed on flowers gives me hope for the world. If you want to help create hope, plant something pollinators like, and make sure it’s pesticide free.
As we smelled the roses, we took care to look for bees before sniffing. We didn’t want our noses stung, or egads, to inhale a bee. We visited the rose garden a couple of weeks later than we normally do, so we missed the peak bloom. But the roses that had waited for us didn’t disappoint.
My grandkids love the functioning water fountain, a focal point in the garden. I handed out pennies for wishes. They splashed their hands in the water. One of them found a small, round, flat stone painted with the message Make a Wish. I think more than one of them would have liked to climb into the fountain. Kids and water just go together. The summer I was twelve, my siblings and I spent three weeks with our grandma Olive. Every day we begged her to take us to Bluegill Lake so we could swim. The fountain in the rose garden was originally located in a different part of the city, where it supplied fresh water for horses in the days before automobiles. Everything changes.
After spending time with the roses, we headed down the Lakewalk, and enjoyed the views of Lake Superior. Later, on our way back, my youngest grandchild stopped at several of the park benches and assessed the views, commenting on each one. Perhaps, he is a budding travel writer.
On our walk from the gardens to the ice cream shop, we always stop at a large stone stage. Flanked with two stout turrets, it has a castle vibe. My grandkids ran across the stage and through the hidden passageways behind it, then suddenly appeared once again. Their laughter and excited shouts to one another rang through the air. I thought about Shakespeare’s famous line, “All the world’s a stage,” followed by his musings about the “seven ages” of life from infancy to old age. I stood on the stage with my grandkids, yet apart from them, separated by several “ages” of life.
Peaceful pigeons
The cooing sounds of pigeons who nest in the nooks of a stone wall along the railroad tracks captured the attention of my grandkids. One grandchild was impressed by the range of their colors and the variety of their markings. And the other three started a cooing conversation with the pigeons. I have to say, the cooing sounds my grandkids made were impressive, but finally I said, “What if the pigeons hear your coos as a battle cry and attack?” Yes, you got it, I was thinking about Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I saw the movie once, years ago, and I’m still miffed Hitchcock killed off Suzanne Pleshette’s character in the movie! She was one of my favorite actors.
If you asked my grandkids what they liked best about our adventure, they would probably say the ice cream. It’s what I would have said when I was their age. The picnic tables at the ice cream shop were new and so was the chocolate mint ice cream used to make my malt. For thirty years I’ve been ordering chocolate mint malts, made with the same minty ice cream filled with thin, flat pieces of dark chocolate. This year the ice cream was a little too minty and the thin, flat pieces of chocolate were replaced by mini chocolate chips. It was good, but not as good as it used to be. Next year I’m going to order a different flavored malt. Maybe I will find a new favorite. The clerk at the shop said they could no longer get the same kind of chocolate mint ice cream. All things change. But don’t ask me to say change is good when it comes to my ice cream. Some wasps hung out with us while we ate our treats. None of us panicked, but neither did we share our ice cream with them.
Our next stop was the lakeshore filled with rocks waiting for my grandkids to toss them back into the water. Now that they are older, they try to skip the rocks across the water instead of just throwing them. I planned to let them stay ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but they were having so much fun with each other. I watched them toss rocks, look for agates and beach glass, and play with driftwood, and suddenly I could see my siblings and myself on the sandy shores of Bluegill Lake seining for minnows, building sand castles, and floating on inner tubes in the water. I marveled at how long ago that was and yet how quickly the years had passed — in the snap of a finger. We stayed for more than a half hour. This was the best part of my day. Because while my grandkids on the beach had no idea how quickly time would slip by, I did.
My sisters and I — three backyard campers all grown up. I wish I had a picture of the three of us camping in the backyard. But we didn’t do anything picture-worthy — like catch a fish. (This photo was taken in October 2015 at a farmers market in Harbor Springs, Michigan. And yes, the white stuff is snow!)
I write for Northern Wilds, a local magazine based in Grand Marais, Minnesota. A couple of months ago, the editor put out a call for the magazine’s contributing writers to submit mini essays about camping traditions. I wrote one about my backyard camping trips, the only kind I ever took as a kid.
My essay was published in the August issue of Northern Wilds. To read my essay in the web format, click here and scroll down. To read it in the magazine format, click here, and click to pages 20-21.
And whichever way you choose to read it, I hope you enjoy the camping essays written by my fellow writers.
On August 10, I posted a picture of a caterpillar that looked like it had been assembled by a young child with a vivid imagination.
One reader said that it looked like a wet Tussock Moth caterpillar. At first, I thought the word wet was part of the caterpillar’s name. Then I realized I’d been hosing dirt off the lower part of my house’s foundation. The caterpillar rested about five feet up, but the mist from the hose gave it a shower, making it look even more fanciful than when it’s dry. A few days later, another reader also identified the caterpillar as a Tussock Moth. (There are about thirty different varieties of Tussock Moths.)
To watch a video about White-Marked Tussock caterpillars and moths, click here. Note: In this video the Tussock caterpillar is crawling on a person’s finger and hand. Because the caterpillars release toxins to discourage being eaten by predators, humans handling the caterpillars could experience itching and burning after touching them. I’d say it’s best not to touch. To learn more about Tussock Moths and see a picture of an adult version, click here.
Tussock caterpillars eat the leaves of a wide variety of trees, bushes, and other plants. They have voracious appetites, sometimes leaving trees bare. Although I’m sure no one wants to see the leaves on their trees disappear, people need to keep in mind that because Tussock Moths are native to their North American habitats, they are part of a balanced ecosystem. So, Mother Nature has an answer for Tussock Moths when they become too numerous — a virus outbreak among the species causes their numbers to drop, and that gives trees a chance to recover. However, some trees will die or be weakened and become more susceptible to other diseases and pests. As part of their ecosystem, Tussock Moths also face predation from native species found in their habitat: some birds, insects, bats, and small animals will eat Tussock Moths in their various stages of development.
While some types of trees can better withstand hungry Tussock caterpillars, other trees, especially conifers, are more susceptible to destruction. If you notice the leaves disappearing off your deciduous or coniferous trees, it might be wise to seek advice from several reliable sources.
On a literary bent, and because I often make connections to things I’ve read . . .
While watching the video on White-Marked Tussock Moths, I learned female White-Marked moths are either wingless or nearly wingless, as are most Tussock Moth species. They will never take flight. The male will find them, mate with them, then fly away to mate with other females. The female will lay her eggs and die shortly after. That’s it. She will never experience flight. Now, I know Mother Nature has specific ways of providing for the continued survival of each species, and I know I’m anthropomorphizing the White-Marked Tussock Moth, but I felt for the female moth who would never fly.
As I watched this video, I immediately thought about Kate Moore’s nonfiction book The Woman They Could Not Silence: The Shocking Story of a Woman Who Dared to Fight Back. In her book, Moore tells the story of Elizabeth Packard who is married to Theophilus Packard, a minister, and the mother of five children. It’s 1860, and after twenty-one years of marriage and being told what to think and say, Elizabeth dares to spread her wings and fly. A deeply devout woman, she begins to question some of her husband’s church’s teachings. She writes essays about her doubts and concerns. Theophilus tells her to stop, but she won’t because she believes she is a separate person from her husband and entitled to her own thoughts and opinions.
Outraged, Theophilus has Elizabeth declared insane and committed to the Illinois State Hospital in Jacksonville, Illinois. Shockingly, because Elizabeth is his wife, and because the state of Illinois allowed it, Theophilus is able to have her locked up simply on his say-so. After Elizabeth is placed in the state hospital, she discovers she isn’t the only married woman to have been declared insane by a husband who wanted his wife out of the way. Ironically, if Elizabeth and the other women had been single, it would have taken a jury of six people to agree they should be committed.
Through Elizabeth Packard’s powerful story set in the second half of the 1800s, Kate Moore explores the second-class status of women, the abysmal conditions in state hospitals, and the arrogant doctors and medical staff who professed to be experts in psychology, but who truly did great harm to the people they should have protected. Moore also talks about the people who, along with Elizabeth, worked tirelessly to change attitudes and laws to give women more rights and to reform state hospitals.
I’m just going to say it — Hey, Mother Nature, how about giving the female Tussock Moth wings?
Writing Near the Lake 