The Last of His Tribe by Orv Allison

Now in my eighties, every once in a while on a sunny day I’ll drive back on an old dirt road east of the lake to stop and gaze out in a field, at a couple of large scraggy white pines with a small grassy lump under them.  Both the trees and the lump have seen better days.

          Long ago before he died my dad took me back into the woods to show me this rundown abandoned one room hovel with no windows, a low sod roof and a dirt floor.  There was a small rusty stovepipe out the back earthen wall with what was left of an old weathered door drooping off one hinge that swung in the wind.  It looked like critters had been living in it for some time.

          He told me that one day as a little kid he was walking back in the south woods and met the last living member of Chief Shavehead’s Potawatomi tribe.  He didn’t have a last name.  They just called him Ole Injun Joe.  Ancient, indigent and bent over with a widow’s hump, he spoke slow broken English and didn’t smell too good. 

          There he lived alone with his old bony cow and a few hungry chickens that had about outlived their time and place.  Without a friend or family he was just a worthless smelly, begging pain in the neck who was no longer welcome anywhere.  The white settlers who had moved in and bought out the land got tired of this wandering, old nuisance hanging around.   So one late autumn day, with a loaded shotgun, they invited him out to live anywhere on the planet except around them on the sandy sunny shores of Shavehead Lake.  Cold and alone he was weak as water and the winter was coming on.

          My dad, as a little kid at the time, never really understood what Ole Injun Joe meant when he quietly said, “Little boy, don’t be the last of your tribe to die.”  Long gone, and forgotten he lays buried somewhere in an unmarked grave along with his time and his tribe.

The Lake and Beyond - Dave's Story by Sue Dunlap

Diamond Lake was the wonderful place that we packed up and moved to every summer from the time I was six months old.  Once we got there, however, my world expanded way beyond those shimmering waves in the front yard.  Perhaps because I am an only child I was always on the lookout for my own entertainment.  As a result I was fascinated by the whole north shore of this special place, spending a lot of my time on both sides of our country road.

Looking back at my 10^th summer at the cottage, my mornings did start with a fundamental lake activity – patrolling the shore for treasures.  With my red rubber boots pulled up to my knees I was out and about at the crack of dawn, slogging through the clear shallow waters, hopping up and over the docks that I crossed like hurdles.  Collecting mostly fishing lures and broken bobbers I did occasionally catch a wayward beach toy floating by.

My first breakfast of the day varied a lot in location and menu.  Some mornings Matt would call out to invite me next door for coffee cake.  Still working long past retirement age as research director for O’Brien Paint, he was a great story teller and had an even greater scientific mind.  Building a huge telescope to accommodate the 10” lens he’d ordered from Mt Polamor he poured a concrete pad in the back field where he was able to make several observations, contributing articles to Sky and Telescope Magazine.  The best nights for me were when Matt would tap on my downstairs bedroom window to wake me up to look at his latest discovery along with him. 

There were other mornings, though, when I would keep my red boots on after my beach walk and hike up to the farm to watch Gus feed his pigs.  Although the farmhouse was directly across the road from our driveway the pigs were raised in a pen down a little lane from there. After that chore was done we always went back for a farmer’s breakfast of bacon and eggs, hash brown potatoes, juice and milk – all cooked by his wife Laura in an ugly looking cast iron skillet on a wood fired cook stove.  Toward the end of the summer Gus would let me ride to town with him to sell his crops.  I was always fascinated to watch him roll a cigarette with one hand while he steered his old pick up with the other.

I really didn’t question these close relationships with the adults on our shore – getting to call them by their first names, even as a kid.  It was always just Matt and Lois or Laura and Gus when we were among these special people at the lake.  Unconsciously I just naturally switched over to calling my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Nelson and my scout master, Mr. Benson when we made the move back home in the fall.

My second breakfast each morning was a bowl of cereal at my house, to prepare me for nine o’clock swimming lessons at the yacht club dock.  This activity did not appeal to me as a break in the action so I sometimes pleaded a stomach ache to get a pass.  My mother’s reply was always the same, “Drink some hot water and get going.”  That might have prompted a sigh but no other complaint on my part.

With my dad working in Grand Rapids, except for his weekend commutes and two weeks of vacation in July, our one car stayed with him.  And I was always a little worried about him from the time he waved goodbye from the top of the drive until he arrived back at the lake at the end of the week.  

But my mother and I still managed to play our weekly round of golf together on Wednesdays, my one day off from swimming lessons. We loaded up our clubs in the small outboard motorboat and headed over to a family friend’s house which backed up to the course.  Leaving our boat tied there, we carried our clubs up the hill to duck in the back way to the first tee.   Playing with a starter set I sent the money I’d saved from cutting lawns back with my dad each Sunday night to buy the next club.  I’m not sure who I was more excited to see that next Friday night – my dad or my new iron.

Swimming off the raft and building endless seawalls with rocks dredged up from the lake with the other neighborhood kids was great, but there was always the lure of the farm late in the afternoon.  Leaving everyone else behind, I remember my futile attempts to shoot the pigeons off the rafters in the big barn with my BB gun. They were tough old birds.  The pellets just bounced off.  Then there was the hayloft ladder to climb, up through the slanting rays of dusty sunshine, then the big jump into the soft, threshed wheat.  It is all the smells and the sounds that come back to me now; the ping of the cow’s milk hitting the bucket at the end of the day and the squeak and the rattle of the windmill as it pumped cold well water into the trough that kept the milk cold in big metal canisters.  And then there was the one legged milking stool which I still think is pretty cool.  With your own two legs added to make a triangular base it was comfortable and efficient and one size fit all.

The really special family activity of the summer each year was going to the Cass County Fair with my folks.  That summer I was particularly fascinated with one of the games of chance.  Tossing nickels through a chicken wire screen, and successfully landing a coin in three separate saucers, would win you a baby duck.  Getting tired of hearing my urgent pleas, my mother bought a double handful of nickels at the booth and told my dad, “Win him a duck!”  We promptly left him to his task as we toured the livestock barn.  I smugly navigated the rest of the fair that evening, carrying my new duckling around in a plastic bag, half filled with water and half poked with holes for breathing.  That duck, soon named Lulu, did take to water but she only wanted to go in the lake when we went for a swim.  Otherwise she lived happily in a pen under the deck.  It was at the end of the summer that Lulu supposedly went to live with Gus at the farm, in exchange for a chicken for our Sunday dinner.

Those chickens also provided our family with another lake tradition.  About three times each summer our dog Tippy got away and high tailed it up to the hen house.  On the following Friday my father was greeted with the news that Tippy had gotten another chicken at the farm.  After dinner my dad knew what he had to do – drive to town and buy Gus a fifth of whiskey as an apology.  It was always graciously accepted and immediately shared with a toast to summer.

            Later that same season my family upgraded from their five horsepower outboard motor to a seven and a half.  Keeping the same 14 foot long aluminum boat that I’d learned to drive when I was eight years old, the increased speed with that new motor was amazing.  Until then I could only drive our boat by myself from Taggart’s dock next door down to Wolfe’s dock before turning around to come back – about 200 yards each way.  Still required to wear a life jacket I was now allowed to go anywhere on the lake as long as I told my folks when I would be back.  That was when I got my first wrist watch too, specifically for that purpose.  It never occurred to me to violate this rule, probably in part because I could only take the boat out by myself.  My mission became the exploration of the hidden channels of the lake and timing how long it took to circle the island in various wind and weather conditions.

            Standing in the yard of our lake house now I can still look around and see almost every place where I roamed that summer.  It was a big world then for a ten year old boy and still plenty big enough to be almost my whole world today.

The Rendezvous by Sue Dunlap

By 1960 I am sure that many people in the Midwest had been on some kind of boat – at least a row boat for fishing, a paddle boat at a lakeside park, or a sightseeing vessel making the rounds in a protected harbor.  Lots of kids had certainly taken a ride by then in a little boat at the county fair or a city amusement park, clanging its bell as it sloshed its way around and around in a circle for a five minute ride.  But at ten years old the world of boats was about to be rewritten for me as I was introduced to a boat powered only by the wind.

The fact is that a truly life altering event came about in my life that year – all due to a particular sailboat named The Rendezvous.  Stored in my grandmother’s garage this boat was purchased by my dad, mostly as a scientific experiment along with a slim volume called The A-B-C’s of Boat Sailing as his only guide.  First moored in Jackson Harbor in Chicago, it broke loose from its mooring and was rescued just before crashing on the breakwater. 

Next, he tried hauling the 18 foot sloop over endless city streets from the south side to launch it for an occasional Saturday sail – sometimes spending more time in the car than on the boat.  It hadn’t been near the water in years when my dad finally convinced my mother that buying a summer cottage on an inland lake was his only hope of ever really getting to sail this boat.

After weekends spent looking at quaint little summer homes, prodding the bottom of the lake at the end of each pier with a long bamboo pole, which sometimes sank an extra three feet in muck, my folks agreed on a cottage with a sandy beach at Diamond Lake.  Closing the deal in the fall, we only got to work on winterizing our new place in Michigan – our first taste of cottage ownership.  It was the following spring that brought the place to life.

Although the tiny house came stuffed with oversized furniture we still brought an extra boatload of

belongings to the lake from Chicago, packing what didn’t fit in the station wagon into The Rendezvous

that rolled proudly along behind us.

Staying for the entire summer with my mom and my brother and sister was the most unbelievable part of that June exodus from the city for me.  The weekend commute for my dad became his pattern, just like every other dad on our shore.   

Marveling at the sparkling lake in our front yard I did hear some big city chuckles about our new ten party phone line and the long walk up the hill to the 20 mailboxes at our Rural Route 3 address.  But I knew this was heaven on earth.

Turning on the well’s water pump, airing out the bedding and applying Lysol to every flat surface that my mother could find came first, before the big project waiting in the garage – getting the wooden sailboat ready for weekend sailing adventures with my dad.

I clearly remember the scrubbing and scraping and sanding that seemed endless as my brother and I worked to finish the dreaded weekly list left by my dad, before he arrived each Friday night.  Once he took over there were exotic smelly solvents used for the clean up after painting and the intriguing bubbling reaction of paint and varnish remover as it ate up old finishes down to the bare wood.  At last my brother was assigned to paint the bottom of the boat while my dad applied the final coat of varnish. 

All of these tedious steps postponed the launching of The Rendezvous until well after the Fourth of July, which my new lake friends informed me was way too late in the season to bother putting in a boat.   

Even at this early age I was ready to devote myself to whatever work was needed on this project.  I knew that keeping The Rendezvous afloat was my best guarantee of being back at the lake for every summer to come.

And you know, I still feel that a wooden sailboat really is superior to the modern day fiberglass variety in spite of all the extra work involved, because once it was finally launched, The Rendezvous seemed to take you right back to the olden days of sailing.  First it had to reside in a sling to let the wood soak up with water, to swell its dusty cracks shut to be seaworthy again.  Then its old bones would creak as the wind bent her mast and pulled at her fittings in a sudden puff of wind.   And the soft cotton sails made those luxurious flapping sounds until they were secured after the boat changed direction.

The first really magical ride that I can still recall vividly on The Rendezvous happened one night that August.  By then  I know I had been on board many times - watching it being rigged, hiding out in the musty storage space under the bow as we drifted in a dead calm,  or bracing one hand in the water to make a wake of my own as we dipped toward the waves on a gusty day.   But that one night, when the moon was full and the stiff breeze was warm, I had the sailing experience of a lifetime. 

There were five grownups and me on board when we started out, with just a flashlight to shine on the sails to announce our presence if another boat came too close.  Then our ghost ship sailed silently in and out of the shadows, back and forth along the east end of the lake – landing periodically to pick up and drop off neighbors who were taking their turns on this adventure. 

I managed to stay on board the entire time.  Trusting the black and inky lake as it swirled by, I went searching for a place that none of the newcomers would want as a seat, just to make sure I would not be displaced when we docked.  

I climbed fearlessly out onto the bow and flattened myself to the deck to allow the jib sail to cross over and back above me when we tacked.  Clutching the short brass mooring post, centered in my triangular space, I lay spread eagle so that my toes could brace against the wire stays on either side that held the mast in place.

I watched for each of the little living room windows, softly lit on the shore, between the drenching waves as they sometimes washed over me. The grownups on board were all just too absorbed in their own wonderment to notice the precariously balanced young girl leading the way.

Optional (additional) last paragraph -

Looking back I am grateful that the beginning of my love affair with sailing started when I was too young to be concerned that anything so wonderful might not last a lifetime.  That would have been a wasted concern indeed, because it has.  Lasted, that is.

Word count: 1183

Home Invasion: The Choice by Kathy Price

“We’ll report this as a Home Invasion” Hans, the taller County Trooper said. “Now let’s review a checklist of the steps you should take to prevent another break-in. “

“What you did tonight was actually quite good” said Kevin, the young Police Deputy from the Village.

He HAS to be older than 15”, I thought. How could the two troopers have dispatched him to search the periphery?  If anyone were lurking, Kevin would be toast.

 “Mrs. Price, let’s get back to this list” interjected Roger, the balding, older County Trooper.

I listened dazedly as my mind tried to grasp the reality that a few minutes earlier someone had penetrated my home.

          Our home at Diamond Lake was our refuge while we were living in Chicago: getting on and off airplanes, nourishing a son and daughter, and managing two high-powered careers. 26 years ago, when we bought it, we thought it was a palace. But it was really pretty bad. True, it had been a model home for the Howell Point Development. That was in 1935 when the brochure boasted:”It has all the modern conveniences: electricity and running water.”  The living room and dining room soaked up 10 gallons of paint before they were white. The kitchen had an ancient mobile home refrigerator mounted precariously on the counter. We ate in a booth with torn green plastic cushions and an ersatz wood tabletop. The bathroom cubicle was a night mare of iridescent brown tile and dark brown velvet wallpaper. We relished this home’s funky contrast to the famous Chicago lakefront towers in which we lived and worked.

When it became our retirement home we restored and renovated it into our “House on the Hill”. Our favorite room was the living room. We called this high-ceilinged aerie, all white and bright with its many skylights and glass walls overlooking the lake, “The Meditation Room.” The matching slim white recliners facing the lake were our “Serenity Chairs”. After cackling cancer wrested Don away,   I always looked to the lake for solace. I soared with dancing diamonds of sunlight and savored a full moon rising bright orange over the island. Fluttering Sea Gulls sailed past and carried me far from the pangs of a root canal. The thrill of an early March “Ice Out” eased the ache of laying off 15 souls. The soft “lap, lap” of the waves soothed me to sleep. It was serendipity. Until tonight.

I stepped out of the office sleepily, content that the report on the Yacht Club Harvest Moon Hayride was complete. I’d printed it on bright orange paper. A nice touch I thought.

PING.

“What was that?” I mused.

PING.

“What…”

Ping

Suddenly I knew exactly what it was! The ADT Alarm was counting down 45 seconds before screeching break-in. Some-one had gotten through the garage and was in my house NOW!

“Be careful. Don’t fall. Move!” I told myself.

 I hurtled down the hall to the master bedroom and locked the door behind me. One down! Diving through the bathroom, I secured the second lock. Two down! I slipped in to the walk-in closet. No lock, but a tricky pocket door to open.

PING!...PING!...PING! How many had there been? I did a quick calculation. It would take another 30 seconds before the Alarm went off. 

“Press your Lifeline button.  Now, get 911 on the cell phone. Where’s the cell phone? In your pocket where it should be? Yes! Here we go. 9-1-1.”

“This is 911.”

“Operator, someone is breaking into my home!”

“What’s your name?

“Virginia Trowbridge”

“Where do you live?”

“22369 Forest Hall Drive”

“Do you live alone?”

                  

“Yes. I’m a widow.”

“What’s your phone number?”

“Operator! Hurry! They’re in the house NOW!”

“Mrs. Trowbridge, I’m REQUIRED to ask these questions. What’s your       phone number?”

“269-445-2468. Please, call the police!”

“The Police are on the way”.

“Thank God! Let me give you the codes to get into the garage and the house.”

“We’re not ready for that. I’m busy talking to your alarm company.”

“But they can’t get in without them!” I cry in frustration. Why was this taking so long!

“What’s that? Is  some-one rattling the bedroom door?” I grab my cane, ripping the rubber stabilizer off the bottom. I want these invaders to feel the full force of its Titanium shaft! I get into batting position.”You’re only going to get one blow. Decide: eyes or crotch?”

          “Virginia Trowbridge! The troopers are at the garage door.

Give me the codes now!” the 911 operator demands.

Suddenly, it is SHOCK AND AWE ON Forest Hall Drive! The alarm explodes in non-stop, ear-shattering sound. The land line starts ringing off the hook in five rooms.  The Lifeline operator bellows forth on the separate enhanced speaker phone:

“Mrs. Trowbridge, are you all right? Mrs. Trowbridge, do you need help. Mrs. Trowbridge, are you all right? Mrs. Trowbridge, do you need help?”

Someone starts banging on the bedroom door.

“Virginia Trowbridge, please unlock this door!”

“Identify yourself first”.

“Mrs. Trowbridge, I am Roger and my team mate is Hans. We are Cass County Troopers. Come out NOW. “

I comply. As I enter the living room, I’m stunned by the fact that every single exterior security light is on full blast and there’s a police officer in a blue uniform on my front doorstep. The two troopers in front of me are in tan uniforms. The land line is still ringing off and LIFELINE is still begging to know if I need help. One of the troopers opens the door. A very young police officer steps in.

“Hi Kevin” the trooper says.

“Hi Hans” Kevin replies, marching directly to the Lifeline phone. “Lifeline, this is Deputy Police Officer Kevin Maloney from the Village of Cassopolis. Mrs. Trowbridge is okay. Intercept the ambulance. Return it to base. Thank you. Goodnight.

“911, kill that ADT phone response.” Roger is on his cell phone.

          “Yes Sir”.

I can’t wait any longer. “Officers, how did they get in?”

          “They used one of the new digital scanners. They try hundreds of codes on your garage door until they find a fit.  It takes only a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down and collect yourself while we check the basement and the attic” replies Roger.

I collapse into the recliner and try to soothe myself with the keepsakes of marriage and family. The picture of Courtney and Evan flames out above the creamy marble of the fireplace. My artist friend Tiby painted it when the children were two and four.It had been my Christmas surprise for Don that year. He had thrilled me with his gift of a much coveted Maxi Coat. Forty three years ago! Across the room is the framed black and white photograph of Don and his team mates when he played for legendary Basketball Coach Hank Iba. Oklahoma was number one in the nation that year. There are our six  family portraits. The latest one includes all three little granddaughters. Only Don is missing. Here’s a June Cary watercolor of the Hobie Regatta with  our boat, “The Island Cat”, right in the center.

“Mrs. Trowbridge, please stay with us now”. Roger’s voice startles me. I realize that we’ve been talking about the safety checklist for several minutes now.

          “Yes, of course. I’m sorry Officer. It’s just that it’s been a pretty tough night”.

            “I understand. This is the last point and the most important.    You probably could have stopped them tonight.”

“How?” I ask, stunned.

“The door from your garage into your mudroom was unlocked. It’s a big, heavy door that can be double bolted. It would take a battering ram to knock it down. Most intruders won’t waste time with an obstacle like that. As it is, your alarm monitor shows they penetrated the mudroom, great room, and living room. The master bedroom would have been next. It’s always the goal. That’s where the jewelry and the money are”.

“You should have chosen another hiding place” interjects Kevin.

“It’s the only room inside the house with a keyed lock”, I protest.

“Well, we scared them off this time. But remember, keep that garage door locked and bolted”, Roger concludes.

“Yes Sir.”

I show them out. Trance-like, I start through the safety checklist. I secure the garage door. I change the ADT alarm code and reset it.  I call ADT service and leave a message that I want a technician out in the morning to test their equipment. I decide to change the outside garage code in the morning. There is NO WAY I’m leaving this house tonight. I go through the house and turn the outside security lights to always on.   I switch on the porch lights. Done! The house is now lit up like a maximum security prision. Exhausted, I sink into the white recliner. Will it ever be a serenity chair again?

“What almost happened tonight?” I ask myself. Would it have been robbery, assault, rape, murder?” I shudder.

“What if I’d been asleep in the master Bedroom? I would never have heard those first PINGS.”

“I could have dozed off in the great room with the TV blasting away. They would have stepped right in on me from the mud room!”

          “Thank God I double-bolted that garage door”, I think wearily. I jolt upright out of my stupor. “”How could I forget? I leave that door open so the EMTs won’t have to break it down!”

          “Stay calm. Think rationally”, I counsel myself. “Would a delay have mattered when you fell and broke your hip?  BUT, THIS INVADER IS TRULY DEADLY. He comes and goes at will. Each time he steals more. What if next time it’s a heart attack?

          I get up. I unbolt the door. I go back to my chair. Trembling, I look to the lake for comfort. It is dark and silent.