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November 08, 2007
Not your typical townies
The ghouls, goblins and cross dressers were out on the town in Glen Arbor during the Sunday prior to Halloween. Sue Nichols (left) took a tumble in the leaves, and Tim Barr (right, in the flowery dress) and Bonnie Nescott directed traffic outside of Art's ... Tim's makeover slowed traffic to a crawl.
Photos by Joanne Rettke
Posted by editor at 06:01 PM | Comments (0)
Holiday Marketplace
Check out the Holiday Marketplace at the Glen Arbor Township Hall on the weekend following Thanksgiving, opening at 7 p.m. on Friday evening, Nov. 23, and running through Saturday, Nov. 24, from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. The Holiday Marketplace follows Glen Arbor's famed Pajama Party sale at various stores around town from 5-7 a.m. (yikes) on Friday, Nov. 23. You'll be sleepwalking!"
Photo by Joanne Rettke
Glen Lake Community Library holds children’s holiday book drive
Press release
A special holiday tradition continues as the Glen Lake Community Library kicks off its ninth annual call for children’s books, November 14-December 15. The Friends of the Library, in cooperation with Glen Lake School’s Parenting Communities program, are seeking donations of new books for children in our community whose families are in need of assistance this holiday season. Kathy Bartell, the coordinator for the “Parenting Communities” program for the Glen Lake Schools compiles a “wish list” of boys and girls from preschool through age 11. She calls on such groups as Head Start and the Glen Lake Elementary School as well as her own “Parenting Communities” program for names of families that need assistance. Any family can find themselves in hard times and the goal is to make sure the children still have some holiday joy in the form of a special book. The list is available at the Glen Lake Library in Empire and at the Cottage Book Shop in Glen Arbor. Donors are asked to purchase a book for a child on this list and deliver it gift-wrapped to the library by December 15. The Cottage Book Shop in Glen Arbor will kindly provide a 20 percent discount on any books purchased for this program. Last year, over 120 books were donated. The list grows longer every year, so please help us bring the joy of books to these children for the holidays. The best part of this Book Drive is that we know all the books go to children in our own community. Thank you for your continued support.
Posted by editor at 04:44 PM | Comments (0)
A Glen Lake Honeymoon, 1942
By F. Josephine Arrowood
Sun contributor
A couple planning to wed these days has a huge and bewildering variety of decisions to make, from the color of the bridesmaids’ gowns to the reception location to the wording of their marriage vows. Last but not least in the wedding sequence comes the honeymoon: to the modern mind’s eye a flawlessly beautiful and luxurious idyll, attended by waiters, concierges and the ubiquitous credit card.
In 1942, life offered very different choices for a young couple in love, about to embark on their great journey of discovery, as November swept to a wintry close against the darkness of World War Two. Their honeymoon — rustic, hand-to-mouth, and nearly buried in the snowdrifts of an isolated cabin — set the tone for a long and fruitful marriage that continues today between two energetic, creative individuals.
Ben Bricker, 84, grew up in the same comfortable Illinois town of Winnetka as his future wife Ananda. His father owned a bakery, and she was the daughter of two artists and illustrators in the leafy suburb north of Chicago. The children often gathered with a group of schoolmates and siblings at the local skating rink, and had been friends since meeting in fourth grade at Horace Mann Elementary School.
When the pair married in November of 1942, Ananda was studying landscape architecture at Groton, Mass.; Ben had recently joined the Air Force, but had not yet been called to active duty. After a brief ceremony in Boston, bursting with college football revelers (Boston vs. Brown), the couple barely managed to book a room for the night at a nearby hotel.
“The clerk never even looked up,” Ben remembers with a laugh. “He just said all the rooms were taken. Then he did look up, said, ‘Oh, just married, huh?’ and somehow found us a room for the night.”
Several weeks later, Ananda’s college semester ended, and they decided to honeymoon in northern Michigan, where her parents, Frank and Alice Dillon, had built a cottage on Little Glen Lake. From Groton, they took trains to Chicago and Manitowoc, Wisc., where the ferry to Elberta, Mich. awaited.
“When we landed, it was snowing heavily,” Ben recalls. “It was early, early in the morning, barely light, and we had to walk clear around Betsie Bay into Frankfort. Then we started up old M-22 [the state highway]. There were no cars on the road — remember, there was gas rationing because of the war. Finally, a mail truck went by. It stopped and we ran up. The driver offered to take us nearly to Empire.”
From Empire, Ben and Ananda continued their trek to the north shore of Little Glen along M-109 (Dune Highway), which had been built in the early 1930s. They arrived at the tiny, uninsulated brown cabin that was to be their honeymoon nest for the next two weeks, and the intrepid pair got to work. They decided to close off most the small dwelling to conserve heat, and sleep on a cot in the living room.
“We brought the woodstove in and hooked it up to the chimney. It was made of sheet iron, and didn’t hold the heat in very well. Every night, we loaded it up, and even if I got up in the night to add wood, our boots would be frozen to the floor in the morning.”
The cottage had electricity, a pitcher pump for water on the kitchen counter, and a simple, wood-fired little cook stove that fit into the chimney, “but we only used it once, because it burned everything black,” Ben laughs. “We had an outhouse, too. Once one of us left the door open all night, and the next morning it was full of snow.
“It was snowing all the time,” he remembers, “ but it was so, so beautiful — deep and fluffy, like a storybook picture, and it went all the way up to the windows. We had a toboggan, and dragged it to Steffen’s in Glen Arbor for groceries,” a distance of four miles each way by road.
“The first time, we decided to go straight across Little Glen, which was very shallow and had frozen, and up over the Alligator. This was not a good idea,” he exclaims, as the two then struggled through steep glacial terrain, thick woods, and heavy underbrush hidden by drifts with their loaded sled.
He reflects with amazement on “the energy it took just to survive! But it was jolly — all the way through, we never took ourselves too seriously. We had a good time; it was a party. We did a lot of hiking, and took the toboggan over to the Bear,” the huge Dune Climb that lies across the highway from the cottage that still rests on Little Glen’s shore.
Eventually, the real world recalled Ben and Ananda, and they set off early one snow-laden morning to catch the ferry, about 25 miles away, which would carry them back to establish their married life together.
As before, the highway was virtually empty of traffic. “At one point, a snowplow went by, and we had to run into the ditch to avoid it,” Ben recounts. “We got into Frankfort early in the afternoon, hours before the ferry was to leave, so we went to a movie.
“When we came out of the movie, we realized how late it was; the ferry was leaving in about 10 minutes, on the other side of the bay. We got down onto the ice and walked across Betsie Bay to the shore near the dock, and got our ride,” back to Manitowoc and Chicago.
In the 65 years since Ben and Ananda’s winter honeymoon, their lively can-do spirit and many adventures together have included raising four children; careers in the arts and arts education; studying eastern spirituality; rallying around social justice issues; living in far-flung places like Arizona, Mexico, Kalamazoo and Tanzania; and co-founding the Glen Arbor Arts Association with several other area artists. About 20 years ago, they moved permanently to the small brown cottage on Little Glen, where they continue to build strong family and community ties.
Ben’s labors of love include teaching art as a volunteer at Glen Lake High School, demonstrating his blacksmithing prowess at the Port Oneida Fair each August, and creating original jewelry pieces in silver and semi-precious stones, which he sells at the Forest Gallery in Glen Arbor. Ananda’s poignant journey through the shadowy, trackless world of Alzheimer’s disease has not diminished her intense love of nature, and the couple continues to share long walks through Glen Lake’s four seasons of woods, fields, and shores.
Posted by editor at 03:54 PM | Comments (0)
A Marathon autumn for Ranae Ihme
From staff reports
Chicago — the city of skyscrapers, wind chill, good hotdogs, bad baseball … and heat stroke. That’s right, the Chicago Marathon on Oct. 7 was stopped in the middle of the race this year as temperatures reached the mid-90s and volunteers on the sidelines ran out of water. A police officer from Midland, Mich. even collapsed and died during the debacle.
Local Ranae Ihme of Leelanau Vacation Rentals trained for and ran the Windy City marathon and was absolutely crushed when she was forced by the police to stop after running 20 miles.
“I remember looking at a billboard reading 94 degrees, wondering if the next water station was going to have water, and wanting more than anything the gratification of crossing the finish line.
“But the police just kept yelling that the race was over and that you “must” stop. I tried to keep going and they wouldn’t let me. They told me there were no more emergency response people available. I cried for hours. I had trained so hard.”
Instead of stowing her sneakers and waiting until next year, Ranae ran the Grand Rapids Marathon on Oct. 28, and this time she completed the race and was greeted by jubilant family at the finish line.
Posted by editor at 03:51 PM | Comments (0)
Foothills restaurant celebrates 50 years
By Pat Stinson
Sun contributor
In the sixties, if you dined at The Foothills Restaurant near Glen Lake, a baked chicken dinner with relishes, a loaf of bread, salad, potato, vegetable and beverage could set your pocketbook back $3.50.
Fast-forward to 2007. A lunch of chicken tenders can still be had for $3.75, but a half-century of inflation has had a predictable impact on other menu prices. However, later in November, Foothills’ owner Don Sielaff will turn the clock back to a time when coffee was cheap and conversation flowed slower than the Crystal River in August.
From Monday, Nov. 19, through Wednesday, Nov. 21, the restaurant will commemorate 50 years of service to Glen Lake-area patrons by offering a free slice of anniversary cake and a 50-cent cup of coffee.
“It’s our small way of thanking long-time customers, neighbors and new folks for their loyalty, friendship and future business,” he says.
In October, 1956, on County Rd. 675 (Dunn’s Farm Rd.), just west of Trumbull Road, the land that would later become the site of The Foothills was purchased by Roland and Genevieve Foote. By ’57, the motel and restaurant were born. In 1965, the Footes sold the improved property to Joe and Dorothy Zboyan, who owned and operated The Foothills Restaurant & Motel until 1988. In November of ’98, after 10 years under various owners and managers, Don Sielaff purchased the property. Prior to ’98, Don had managed 42 employees in a 24-hour, 125-seat restaurant in West Bloomfield called “Village Place.”
“The first time I ever walked into The Foothills, with all of those nice windows, I said, ‘I’m going to own this some day.’”
His dream was realized, and the slower pace of life appealed to his family — though as Don later noted, Sunday mornings were and still are every bit as hectic as what he experienced downstate.
Among numerous property improvements made in the last nine years are a paved parking area, air-conditioned dining room, cooling units in the cooking line, a walk-in cooler and new range. As proud as he is of his upgrades, Don is more impressed by the original diner-style tables, chairs and booths — all recently reupholstered.
“Many guests visit every year,” he says. “Five out of seven days, I’ll serve the same locals. I’ve even had people come in and say, ‘Oh, man, I worked here 30 years ago.’
“I always invite them in the back to tour the kitchen.”
For motel reservations and information, call 334-3495. To reach the café, call 334-7499. Hours for the café are 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily.
Posted by editor at 03:49 PM | Comments (0)
Wrapping the Fall Classic
By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor
How fitting that on the very night in October the Boston Red Sox captured their second World Series championship in four years Alex Rodriguez, the most talked-about and highest paid athlete in America, shunned the New York Yankees and opted for free agency. The old guard is in disarray, and the epicenter of baseball in this new century has officially moved two states north, to Beantown: goodbye Joe DiMaggio, hello Manny Ramirez; eject Paul Simon, and welcome back James Taylor.
Entire libraries have been written about the rivalry between the Red Sox and Yankees: the Bostonians selling their rising star Babe Ruth to the New Yorkers in 1918 for cash, and the subsequent 86-year drought wrought on the banks of the Charles River as Ruth went on to invent the homerun and the Bronx Bombers tallied 26 championships; the countless near misses and late-season heartbreaks in New England, and parade of superstars turned goats, Bill Buckner, Bob Stanley, Grady Little.
But the curse of the Bambino is a twentieth century museum relic now. The Yankees have been eliminated in the first round of the playoffs for three years running, and the deckhands and captain, former skipper Joe Torre, have been jumping ship since the season ended early this autumn. Meanwhile, a ragtag, blue-collar bunch who often neglect to shave, wash their batting helmets, or button up their jerseys are America’s new team.
They are unorthodox, to be sure: dreadlocked slugger Manny Ramirez stumbling around left field as if he had smoked a joint before the game; menacing closer Jonathan Papelbon dancing an Irish jig in his Speedos for the media; designated hitter David Ortiz, who looks something like an armchair sofa and rarely plays in the field, though he packs a Ruthian swing; Japanese pitcher Daisuke Matsuzaka who wiggles his hips back and forth before throwing toward home plate.
The Red Sox walloped the Colorado Rockies in four games during the 2007 World Series and looked like a teacher towering over their student. The Rockies, whose franchise is only 15 years old, landed in the Fall Classic after winning an unprecedented 14 of 15 games to close the regular season and then swept the Philadelphia Phillies and Arizona Diamondbacks — each surprises in their own right this season — for a date on the ultimate stage. But a week off after disposing of the rattlers hurt Colorado, and just like the Detroit Tigers last year, the Rockies looked rusty, or intimidated, in the World Series. Their young phenoms collectively stopped hitting, or maybe they woke up one morning during the extended in-season vacation and realized that their late-season run was so unlikely, that it was nothing more than a mile-high dream. The Rockies never really showed up to the World Series, and their quick defeat cost me a bottle of scotch to my father. I had made the grave mistake of betting on numbers (the Rockies’ winning streak) and not on baseball wisdom (the Red Sox were clearly the better, and more experienced team).
We haven’t seen a close Fall Classic, now, since 2003, when the Florida Marlins knocked off the Yankees in six games. In fact, the last couple contests have been grossly under-played by the losing team and, at times, tedious. Four of the seven postseason series (eight teams qualify, meaning three rounds of games) this year ended in sweeps, and only one match-up required the maximum number of games: Boston’s comeback victory over the Cleveland Indians in the American League Championship Series. I ought to be writing about that contest instead.
So once again the recently departed baseball season will be remembered less for its climax and more for its buildup. This season — to no one’s surprise and to everyone’s relief because we’d finally stop hearing about it — the smug San Francisco Giant Barry Bonds eclipsed Hank Aaron’s all-time homerun record on Aug. 7 amidst allegations of steroid use that threw sports fans and non-sports fans alike into a moral frenzy. The fan who caught record-setting blast number 756 was a 22-year-old stockbroker visiting the Bay Area from New York who eventually sold the ball online to fashion designer Mark Ecko for $752,467. We live in the age of netroots democracy, and Ecko let baseball fans decide via an Internet poll to brand the cowhide with a demeaning asterisk (for Bonds’ alleged performance-enhancing drug use) before donating it to the baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY.
But perhaps this baseball season’s greatest moment came on April 15, which Major League Baseball named Jackie Robinson Day in honor of the African-American who broke baseball’s color barrier as a Brooklyn Dodger 60 years earlier. Cincinnati star outfielder Ken Griffey, Jr. asked Jackie’s widow Rachel for permission to wear his retired number 42 for the day, and baseball commissioner Bud Selig later invited all players to do so. Three clubs elected to have their entire team wear number 42 to honor Jackie Robinson: blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians alike.
For baseball is a universal game now, played by athletes from around the globe, even though its top league is confined to North America. From the colonial streets of Havana, to the jungles of Nicaragua, to the fish markets of Japan, kids play stickball and emulate their heroes in the big leagues, only now those heroes are more likely clad in Boston Red than in Yankee pinstripes. Indeed, “where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?”
Posted by editor at 03:42 PM | Comments (0)
Southern Pie-in-the-Sky
By Pat Stinson
Sun contributor
Just arrived — our last, weekly CSA (community-supported agriculture) bag of fresh booty from Black Star Farms. It’s a monster, too. Hefty packages in past weeks have revealed a Christmas-like surprise beneath the eggs, parsley, chives, lettuce, spinach, corn, carrots and tomatoes. Sometimes, a portion of a giant watermelon, a whole cantaloupe or a sweet honeydew melon would wait at the bottom. Other times, when the harvest was light or the bug infestation too severe, (members of a CSA are asked to share the “risk” of acts of nature, as well as the rewards), a bottle of fine BSF wine or a huge hunk of Leelanau Raclette Cheese would be the buried treasure.
Not this week.
The heftiest part of fall’s last harvest is the most puzzling to prepare: sweet potatoes. Unlike the giant bags of tomatoes, onions and cucumbers that my better half learned to can this summer, Dixieland’s favorite root vegetable doesn’t seem a likely candidate for the pantry.
It’s shameful, but it doesn’t help that one-half of the household heritage hails from Walnut Ridge, Ark. Great-grandmother Myrtle, “Mama Myrt,” served a side of mashed sweet potatoes with her famed chicken and dumplings for servicemen and townsfolk who frequented her boarding house during World War II. Her daughter, Marie, “Gramma Ree,” moved to Keego Harbor, Mich., after the war and preferred to make raisin pie. Her daughter, Betty Sue, only learned to make sweet potato pie after working in the Cass Corridor of Detroit, shortly before her retirement. Her youngest daughter never liked the candied sweet potatoes served at Thanksgiving and Christmas and shunned the spud for years.
No, the apples falling from our southern family tree were more like World Series pitches.
The question of what to do with these hypoallergenic “apples of the earth” remains a mystery. We refuse to add sugar; the spuds are already sweet, thank you. A quick search of my neighbor’s “upnorthfoodies.com” website led to a cookbook with recipes for stealth cooking with vegetables … and an idea for sweet potato French toast that calls for all of a third of a cup. Not too helpful.
Allergy Cook Margaret Crook has taught us how to bake sweet potato pudding for breakfast, steam sweet potatoes with apples on pork for dinner, and fry sweet potato slices as snacks. Ms. Chard, an Upper Peninsula gardener, delighted us with her recipe for sweet potato casserole in the cookbook, “Hollyhocks & Radishes.” But, really, how many sweet potatoes can two people eat?
If an edible solution for our five orphaned pounds isn’t found soon, a sweet potato homebrew is likely to appear in the cellar next March.
Spuds, anyone?
Posted by editor at 03:39 PM | Comments (0)
A Christmas caught between culturas
By Nadine Gilmer
Sun contributor
I felt a prickling of guilt as I sawed into the trunk of the knee-high tree and attached it to my dog’s harness. She barely noticed it on the walk home except when she looked back and saw its drag marks in the snow and scattered pine needles. “What a pitiful tree,” I told the dog. She just wagged her big black tail, knocking off more needles.
My parents refused to get me a bigger Christmas tree since they had decided we would go to Mexico this year. But I wasn’t yet ready to exchange my Christmas for a Navidad.
I had bragged to my friends that I would get to celebrate American Christmas early, but before we left on the trip my parents and I simply opened our presents while standing in the kitchen. It was no more exciting than opening the daily mail. The only present I received was a cheep MP3 player that I had picked out with my Dad, since the trip to Mexico was considered my “big present.” Nevertheless, I made a sincere attempt to be optimistic about my predicament.
I imagined a piñata strung up in my Grandma’s downstairs patio. I remembered the cool feeling of the tile on bare feet and how nice the air would feel where it was warm. But then I realized there would be no pictures of Santa, no tree, no cookies, no cozy Christmas morning watching the snowfall outside. Instead, we would be subjected to an hour-long mass of Jesus’ name echoing off every surface of the cathedral.
It seemed that if the Christmas ritual wasn’t celebrated in the exact form that I had come to know ever year, it wasn’t Christmas. I concluded that my thirteenth Christmas would be substituted for a cheaper Mexican alternative.
As we walked through O’Hare Airport, my love of travel collided with my disappointment. “I don’t want to go to Mexico,” I told myself. “I do not want to go to Mexico for Christmas. Any other time would be fine. Not Christmas.” My parents looked at me with stern expressions. I looked up at the familiar hallway of flags above me and realized I happened to be under the Mexican flag — its green and red banners buttressing an eagle with a serpent clutched in its mouth. I imagined a Santa hat in the eagle’s beak rather than the snake.
Being inclined to motion sickness, I also dreaded the drive to come through the mountains of rural Mexico, even though I enjoyed gazing at the scenery and what looked like pages and pages of National Geographic photos flowing by like highlight clips of my childhood. I loved the enormous green mountains and volcanoes, ramshackle farms, horses tied to fences next to the road, and endless rows of Agave plants in the winter. But my favorite part was always the small towns, so cultural and contradictory: a corvette parked next to an ancient statue; driving through streets made for horses, ancient dark women with braided hair sitting cross-legged and begging for money as a child walks by talking on a cell phone.
Upon our arrival, a puddle of light spilled over the uneven sidewalk and cracked street. Its source was the open door of my great aunt’s candy store and the doors to my Grandma’s house. As usual, my abuelita was squinting into the street for us, accompanied by several other family members yakking away. Her entire face lit up and she came quickly to us, her arms held high above her.
My Abuela hugged me tightly, with the strength of a person ten times her size. “I missed you,” she whispered in my ear and clasped my elbows so that she could look up at me. Her eyes lit up with tears and enthusiasm, and she squeezed my hands, “Niña preciosa,” she whistled through her teeth with the utmost conviction and reluctantly let me slide out of her grip so that she could greet my mother. I wondered to myself how such a tiny person could engulf people so well.
My first view inside my Grandma’s house was the traditional nativity scene: a paper mache cave (every Mexican child knows that Jesus was born in a cave not a barn) with a little porcelain Jesus sitting in the hay and the wise men gathered around him and Mary. Next to this stood a fake, midget Christmas tree. Old memories of past Christmases filled me and I stopped to breathe in the warm, inviting air, which still smelled slightly of dinner. The Mexican air implored me to dance, to laugh and to speak loudly in Spanish. Life flowed constantly in Mexico, not halting for a word too loud or an emotion over felt, but to my tired body, stiffly resisting culture, it seemed like breaking china, or more aptly put, a Mariachi band horribly out of tune.
After everyone had gone I sat on the last rung of the iron staircase and watched my abuelita make me hot chocolate; the real kind made with cacao that comes in big, sugary chunks. I watched her use the wooden instrument to stir it on the stove. The process both fascinated and appalled me to see the primitive means of making a simple cup of chocolate. Once she finished she handed me the foaming mug and smiled at me, once again teary-eyed. Our eyes met, and the emotion in hers seemed too honest for me. I broke the moment with a word, “Gracias.” She hugged me and I realized that I had grown quite a bit taller than her. “Dios Mio you’re so big!” she said and I gritted my teeth.
On our walks through the streets, the Christmas decorations left me culture-shocked and confused. Jesus was everywhere and there were no signs of Santa. Red, white and green flags appeared, hung from first floor balconies that formed a thick canopy of Mexican flags that nearly blocked out the sun. Stores and homes opened up life-size nativity scenes, and my little Mexican town slowly became Bethlehem. And since when was Christmas so HOT!
The insides of Mexican houses are also a style of their own. Besides being generally more open and airy than American abodes, their floors are covered by flat tiles that sound like a tomb or a chapel when walked on with flip-flops. The furniture is typically fancier but spaced farther apart in a way that seems to generate coolness. Every room has a crucifix, and the frames of the paintings on the walls are painted gold. The entire setup is made for optimum coolness and simplicity.
My abuelita’s room, where my father and I chose to rest, is very fresh and open and includes a balcony on which she keeps a healthy garden that overlooks the street. The whitish-purple tile is always cool on bare feet, and her bed is like a large and lonely ship, floating in memories and moored to this world by a modern television. On windy nights the white ‘70s fabric curtains twist and dance, stretching so far they almost touch the bed. And the stoic crucifix watches all activity. My Grandma’s room always disconcerted me because it seemed like death was near. Perhaps it was because my Grandma had been the only one to inhabit it for some time. This was her lonely room, the place she went when she was alone. For someone in my family, being alone is a serious illness. Imagining her lying alone in her bed, flipping through channels made me want to cry.
I spent Christmas Eve in that room, curled up in an old wicker rocking chair in the moonlight. It seemed eternal. I could not sleep, my head throbbed and my nose ran constantly from an awful cold I had picked up. Suddenly, interrupting my misery and snot, a shy voice of a younger cousin announced that my mother was calling my name. I realized that the shouts coming from downstairs had turned to one solitary voice, “Mija! Vente!”
I followed my cousin down the stairs and joined my family at the door to the street. They all huddled together, silently for once, and looked outside. My mom took me by the shoulders and pushed me to the front of the crowd. A procession of white garbed people was marching through the street with candles and singing Mexican Christmas carols with joyful solemnity. Ahead of them was a girl dressed as the Virgin Mary, riding a donkey and holding a baby doll, and man dressed as Joseph beside her. A small breeze blew through the lime trees and into my face, clearing my sinuses for a moment, and I enjoyed the sweetness on the faces of the singers who stopped at our house to engage us. Not to mention the smiles on the faces of every one of my relatives.
I forgot what made Santa better than baby Jesus as I listened to little white-robed angels sing, “Gaspar, Melchor y Baltazar son los reyes magos…”
Posted by editor at 03:30 PM | Comments (0)
Snow Angels
By Mary Sharry
Sun contributor
If Clyde didn’t hurry, he and Pearl would be late for the Christmas Eve candlelight service. Pearl waited at the foot of the stairs for him. From the top of the steps light from the lamp on their bedroom dresser streamed through the doorway. She called up to him, “Clyde, hurry on or we’ll be late.”
He mumbled something and she heard the rattle and pull of the dresser drawer, then a quick slam of the drawer. In an anxious voice Clyde hollered back down to her, “I can’t find my tie clasp. Where is it?”
“Well, I put it right on top of the dresser along with your tie. Hurry, for heaven’s sake.”
Pearl turned and looked toward the front door. She could see through the white nylon curtain that was stretched taut on rods at the top and bottom of the door. Through the shimmering cloth she saw snow falling beneath the glow of the street light.
If only Clyde would hurry. Christmas Eve candlelight service meant a great deal to Pearl. She loved the solemnity and quiet joy that filled the church, and the faces aglow as candles were lit one by one. She already had on her green wool coat and galoshes. Her black purse was slung over her arm. In it she had tucked in a few extra dollar bills in case Clyde forgot the tithing envelope. She always kept a roll of mint Life Savers handy, too. She might pop a mint into Clyde’s mouth if she thought he was going to tell his old story about when he was a boy on the farm and how he and his brother were chased by the bull. Why he had to keep telling her that same old story was something she could not understand. He never told it to anyone else.
At last Clyde was ready. He patted his lapel pocket where he had placed his offering envelope, put on his overcoat, and followed Pearl out the door and down the front steps to their old Buick parked in the carport.
They slid onto the cold seats. Clyde turned the starter and the car coughed to a start. For a moment they sat in the darkness and listened as the engine warmed. Then Clyde turned on the headlights, revved the engine a bit, At last, they were on their way. The new fallen snow created slickness on the pavement and the tires spun a little as they headed down the road.
“Now don’t drive too fast,” Pearl reminded. “We want to arrive safely rather than not at all.” She hummed a little bit of Joy to the World. Clyde turned the radio on and Pearl pursed her lips. She glanced at his speedometer. The needle pointed to 40. “Clyde, you don’t have to drive so fast.”
“I’m only going 35.”
“You’re going 40.”
The car was on the highway headed toward Traverse City, ten miles to the south. Now the snow fell heavily and quickly and buried their car tracks. Pearl didn’t want to let Clyde know she was afraid that they were not going to arrive in time for the start of the service. She didn’t like to ride with him when he thought he was late for something.
Clyde pushed on the accelerator and Pearl felt the surge of the engine. A pit formed in her stomach. The radio played Silent Night and Pearl hummed softly to herself. Clyde continued the steady pressure on the gas pedal. A deer darted in front of them. Clyde’s foot hit the brake. The back end of the car came up to where the front had been and they faced the direction from where they came and then they faced where they were headed, and then they spun completely around and slid sideways off the road. They came to an abrupt stop in a snow bank.
It all happened so fast. They sat in the front seat, amazed, unable to grasp any words or thoughts to say them. After a pause of dark silence, Clyde stepped on the gas pedal. The tires spun, but the vehicle didn’t go anywhere. Clyde put the transmission into reverse and the tires gave an icy whir. He threw the gear forward and then into reverse as he tried to rock the car out of the drift, but the old Buick just settled deeper and more comfortably into the snow.
Clyde opened the door and stepped knee-deep through the accumulating whiteness. Pearl’s voice scolded, “Just where do you think you’re going now?” He shut the door on her voice and walked to the front of the car. His hands were thrust deep into his overcoat pockets. He trudged to the rear of the car and tried to kick away the snow around the back tires. Maybe they could push themselves out.
“Pearl,” he called. Whether she heard him or not, she did not want to look at him. She kept her eyes straight ahead and stared deeply into the night. “Pearl, come out here.” Pearl didn’t budge. She fixed her gaze into the darkness. She thought she made out two headlights. They certainly were headlights, and they came from the direction Clyde and Pearl had come and were lighting the way toward the direction where they should go. She pulled the door handle, grabbed her purse, and stepped into the deep snow. She had to pull the hem of her coat high so she could move.
An enormous mass of whiteness swirled in the light that came toward them. Like an apparition in the night, ethereal puffs of vapor billowed their way. Once Pearl had seen a ballet and what she saw now reminded her of the deep blue lit stage and the dancers in white tulle costumes beneath the spotlights.
Pearl knew salvation when she saw it and the savior pulled to a stop right where they had slid off the road. This redeemer had an enormous humped backside that reminded her of an oversized beetle. It belched a heavy mixture of deliverance and repugnance.
Pearl looked up at the ghostly image and read the bold letters on its side: CEDAR DISPOSAL. The anointed one descended from the cab and stood right before Pearl. She beheld a huge grin on his face which was framed by dark curls of oily looking hair. In one hand he carried the end of a large chain the rest of which dragged behind him like a serpent lost in the snow. His white breath mingled with the vapor clouds of his headlights.
“It’s too bad. Looks like you’ve had a little accident.”
Clyde spoke from across the trunk of their car. “Why a deer ran out in front of us and when I braked, well, I’ll tell you. We spun. I couldn’t keep this thing on the road. We’re on our way to church. Candlelight, you know.”
The driver of the truck stepped around to the other side of their car and looked at the place where Clyde had tried to kick away some snow. Clyde walked over to Pearl and stood alongside her. The driver hollered over to them. “Here, I’ll get you out. You folks just stand over there.” He motioned to the far side of the road. He got down on his hands and knees and fastened the chain under their bumper. He pulled himself back up to his feet and assured them, “You’ll be on your way in no time.”
Pearl watched as he ascended into his truck cab. She watched what seemed to be a miracle as their car moved effortlessly out of the snowdrift. She thought about how they could be in church right now, if Clyde hadn’t driven so fast. She wouldn’t be here on the road along with a garbage truck on Christmas Eve. She imagined the poinsettias beside the altar and the tall white candles. The choir would have sung the processional hymn all the way to the chancel. She could almost hear Olivia’s strong operatic warble, and smell the heady fragrance of Dora-Mae’s perfume. She never liked the warble or the perfume, but she would rather be there than here in the snow with the smell of garbage. She was grateful, though, to be out of the snow bank, and so was Clyde.
Now their car was back on the highway, pointed in the direction toward the church. The driver climbed down from his cab and unhitched the tow chain.
Clyde asked, “This is unusual, isn’t it, for you to be out on Christmas Eve? You’re not out collecting garbage at this hour are you?
“Actually, I’m on my way to my brother’s to help him tow his car from a ditch. This truck serves more than one purpose,” said the driver, and he started to get back into the truck.
“Wait,” called Clyde. “Wait. I want to give you something.”
“Oh, that’s okay. This one’s on the house.”
“No sir.” Clyde reached inside his coat to his lapel pocket and pulled out the tithing envelope. He took the two $10 bills and fairly pushed them into the driver’s hand. “Please take this. We wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t. Please”
“Well, if you insist. Thank you very much. My daughter will be happy to find these in her Christmas stocking tomorrow morning.”
Clyde opened the door of the Buick for Pearl. She got in, and he closed her door and walked around to his side of the car. They drove on toward the city. The headlights from the garbage truck that followed made haloes around their heads.
Posted by editor at 03:26 PM | Comments (0)