| Preface Laughter to the heart is like sunshine to the day – both reflect on the world about us, bringing the beautiful and the precious into view. Sadly, when the sunshine disappears or laughter ends the world is plunged into a grayness, which permeates the very soul with discouragement, inadequacy and the pain of loneliness and uselessness. But let one ray escape the cloud cover, one upward curl of the lips or an outreaching hand sneak into life it is then anything becomes possible. The soul of man soars into that place where all is believable; wherein love dwells. H. A. Thurston |
CHAPTER ONE:
A Bear, Tubing and Mary
Good advice is worth considering
I stand on the river bank’s edge. The warm sand is firm beneath my feet as I let my toes wiggle down into it a bit. I am
fascinated by the swiftly moving water in front of me. Instead of the quiet I should expect, I am bombarded with noise. For such
a remote spot I wonder how so much sound can surround me. Part of it is that I’m not alone. In fact, ninety percent of what I
hear is coming from my husband, Ed, and our three grandchildren. They are behind me, up by the two-track with the van.
Together the four all but shut off what would normally be the voice of the river as it swirls rapidly past my toes.
What’s before me insists I listen more carefully. I tune out the family’s conversation. Their excitement over today’s adventure
makes them unaware of my lack of participation in unloading the van. So, I’m alone in this moment and I do hear the music of
the water. I’ve been here before; maybe not this exact spot, but nearby. The Pigeon River country is a favorite get-away for Ed
and me. Less than forty miles from our home, it could be a thousand. There is nothing here that speaks of what mankind is
doing to God’s world in other places.
The river is crystal clear. Sun spots flicker between its shadows highlighting the gold of the sand bottom. If I stand here long
enough a trout will swim by slowly, intent on his own agenda. On the river’s surface aspen leaves and bits of twigs are floating
down stream in their search for adventure. Fifteen feet wide at the best, it isn’t deep, except for occasional holes where the
water’s force has cut away beneath submerged rocks or tree trunks. I watch its rapid, intentional movement, working itself
around obstacles in a nonchalant manner, refusing to be deterred by anything. Its banks are low and the land is flat in an
undetectable downhill direction, allowing the water to move along without tumbling over rocks or down ledges. Although
surrounded by hills the Pigeon finds a course of least resistance by moving between them.
It has a distance to travel before reaching the mouth of Mullet Lake, forty-some miles to the north of me. Its twists and turns add
to the distance. Once it meets the lake it can rest, slow down and join waters from other sources to frolic in waves, massaging
beaches, rocks and colorful pebbles. Summer folk plumb its depths for fish and rile its surface with paddles, oars and motors.
In the winter ice and snow hide it from the sun and sooth it into a long quiet isolation. Take the summer visitors and a few year-
round residents out of the scenario and the process has been underway for eons; ever since the great glaciers scoured out the
lakes, swamps and hills of northern Michigan.
I feel euphoric in my trance. Is this the Peace Beyond all Understanding; this thing I have going with the river? Are we in
conversation, just the two of us, on this hot August afternoon out here in the middle of nowhere? Does it know my secret? Is
this river aware of my feeling of others standing beside me? Or am I the only one who feels their presence.? I don’t turn toward
them. I’ve done that before and found nothing. I don’t have to let my eyes look into theirs. Their presence doesn’t have
anything to do with sight.
It is just something inside me, someplace I can’t put my finger on, that tells me Mary and Pat are with me. I even believe they
are smiling. This is no surprise at all. I often feel them near by. I never tell this to anyone, except Ed. He understands. Others
would suggest I visit a psychiatrist. Everyone knows both our beautiful, vivacious daughter and her handsome young husband
are dead. Pat left seven years ago, just days before his thirty-fifth birthday and Mary followed him six years later in 1991. A
year has moved by since then, almost to the day. Mary’s funeral was on August 20th, a month and three days before her fortieth
birthday.
Today is August 16th, 1992 and hot like it was then. I expected them here today. After all, if it weren’t for Mary I wouldn’t be
standing beside the Pigeon River. She had thought this day would be wonderful for her children. I asked her about bringing
them here before I even asked Ed what he thought about taking our three grandchildren over to go tubing. I am standing
wiggling my toes in this sand by this river because I said to myself, What would Mary do...
A Bear, Tubing and Mary
Good advice is worth considering
I stand on the river bank’s edge. The warm sand is firm beneath my feet as I let my toes wiggle down into it a bit. I am
fascinated by the swiftly moving water in front of me. Instead of the quiet I should expect, I am bombarded with noise. For such
a remote spot I wonder how so much sound can surround me. Part of it is that I’m not alone. In fact, ninety percent of what I
hear is coming from my husband, Ed, and our three grandchildren. They are behind me, up by the two-track with the van.
Together the four all but shut off what would normally be the voice of the river as it swirls rapidly past my toes.
What’s before me insists I listen more carefully. I tune out the family’s conversation. Their excitement over today’s adventure
makes them unaware of my lack of participation in unloading the van. So, I’m alone in this moment and I do hear the music of
the water. I’ve been here before; maybe not this exact spot, but nearby. The Pigeon River country is a favorite get-away for Ed
and me. Less than forty miles from our home, it could be a thousand. There is nothing here that speaks of what mankind is
doing to God’s world in other places.
The river is crystal clear. Sun spots flicker between its shadows highlighting the gold of the sand bottom. If I stand here long
enough a trout will swim by slowly, intent on his own agenda. On the river’s surface aspen leaves and bits of twigs are floating
down stream in their search for adventure. Fifteen feet wide at the best, it isn’t deep, except for occasional holes where the
water’s force has cut away beneath submerged rocks or tree trunks. I watch its rapid, intentional movement, working itself
around obstacles in a nonchalant manner, refusing to be deterred by anything. Its banks are low and the land is flat in an
undetectable downhill direction, allowing the water to move along without tumbling over rocks or down ledges. Although
surrounded by hills the Pigeon finds a course of least resistance by moving between them.
It has a distance to travel before reaching the mouth of Mullet Lake, forty-some miles to the north of me. Its twists and turns add
to the distance. Once it meets the lake it can rest, slow down and join waters from other sources to frolic in waves, massaging
beaches, rocks and colorful pebbles. Summer folk plumb its depths for fish and rile its surface with paddles, oars and motors.
In the winter ice and snow hide it from the sun and sooth it into a long quiet isolation. Take the summer visitors and a few year-
round residents out of the scenario and the process has been underway for eons; ever since the great glaciers scoured out the
lakes, swamps and hills of northern Michigan.
I feel euphoric in my trance. Is this the Peace Beyond all Understanding; this thing I have going with the river? Are we in
conversation, just the two of us, on this hot August afternoon out here in the middle of nowhere? Does it know my secret? Is
this river aware of my feeling of others standing beside me? Or am I the only one who feels their presence.? I don’t turn toward
them. I’ve done that before and found nothing. I don’t have to let my eyes look into theirs. Their presence doesn’t have
anything to do with sight.
It is just something inside me, someplace I can’t put my finger on, that tells me Mary and Pat are with me. I even believe they
are smiling. This is no surprise at all. I often feel them near by. I never tell this to anyone, except Ed. He understands. Others
would suggest I visit a psychiatrist. Everyone knows both our beautiful, vivacious daughter and her handsome young husband
are dead. Pat left seven years ago, just days before his thirty-fifth birthday and Mary followed him six years later in 1991. A
year has moved by since then, almost to the day. Mary’s funeral was on August 20th, a month and three days before her fortieth
birthday.
Today is August 16th, 1992 and hot like it was then. I expected them here today. After all, if it weren’t for Mary I wouldn’t be
standing beside the Pigeon River. She had thought this day would be wonderful for her children. I asked her about bringing
them here before I even asked Ed what he thought about taking our three grandchildren over to go tubing. I am standing
wiggling my toes in this sand by this river because I said to myself, What would Mary do...
Chapter One
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