Will Bishop Baraga become Venerable?

Bishop Frederic Baraga, circa 1860

This coming February 6th and 7th will be two of the most important days in the history of the Marquette Diocese. For years, efforts have been made to achieve the canonization of Bishop Frederic Baraga, affectionately known as “the Snowshoe Priest,” as a saint of the Catholic Church.

The Cause for Baraga’s sainthood, which the diocese has been supporting for more than half a century, may or may not make significant progress on February 7th. On that date, the Cardinal members of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints will hold a formal discussion of Bishop Baraga’s heroic virtue, conduct a vote, and make their recommendation to the Holy Father regarding whether Bishop Baraga truly exhibited heroic virtue in his life and is therefore worthy of the title of “Venerable.” If the vote is positive, public veneration of him may take place, and his earthly remains, now in the bishops’ tomb in St. Peter’s Cathedral will be moved to a more prominent location for veneration of the faithful.

Current bishop of the diocese, Alexander Sample, has designated February 6th as a day of prayer and penance for the success of this effort.

If Bishop Baraga does receive the title of Venerable, the next step toward canonization will be for him to be beatified and granted the title “Blessed.” Part of the requirement to achieve “Blessed” status is proof of a miracle, which can occur through the intercession of the prospective saint through the power of prayer. An alleged miracle has occurred and a formal diocesan investigation occurred in July 2010. The Church is currently waiting to have the miracle recognized by the Congregation for Causes of Saints. Once Baraga is beatified, the next step would finally be canonization.

While we await the Vatican’s decision, the people of Upper Michigan already know that Bishop Baraga was a man of God who served the Native Americans and early settlers of Upper Michigan for three decades, snowshoeing and walking across the entire Upper Peninsula, as well as Wisconsin, Northern Minnesota, and Lower Michigan. His impact and his memory will never be forgotten here.

Bishop Baraga’s strength, courage, endurance, humility, and love have always been an inspiration to me, so much that I could not resist in my novel Iron Pioneers to depict him and suggest that he may have been responsible for working a miracle, or rather, having God work a miracle through him. Following is a scene from Iron Pioneers: The Marquette Trilogy, Book One, which takes place when Molly attends Bishop Baraga’s funeral and thinks back to a meeting she had with the bishop:

Molly entered the somber cathedral, now completed and functioning for two years. She clutched Kathy to her, glad to be inside the warmth of the church lit by candles to dispel the gloom of the blizzard raging outside. She felt privileged to attend the saintly bishop’s funeral mass, and when she saw his coffin, she replayed in her mind the day of her miracle, the day she was convinced Baraga was a living saint. It had happened a few months earlier, not long after Kathy’s birth had relieved some of the pain of Fritz’s loss. Molly had found it hard to understand why God had taken Fritz from her, but He had sent her someone equally precious in her long awaited little girl. Then one cold autumn day, Kathy had contracted pneumonia, and Molly was terrified. That day was the worst in her relationship with God; she had never dared be angry with Him before. But even in her anger, she struggled to keep her faith and pray.

Iron Pioneers, The Marquette Trilogy: Book One by Tyler Tichelaar

“Lord, I don’t understand,” she had pleaded. “I pray and trust in You and the Blessed Virgin with all the faith I can muster, yet You keep sending hardship my way. I try to believe my sufferings are a sign of Your favor, and that You will make good on Your promise that the meek shall inherit the earth, yet after all these years of praying, there seems no end to my difficulties. I do not wish to complain, but please, dear God, do not take my little girl from me. I cannot bear her loss.”
That same evening Kathy’s pneumonia had turned into a dangerous fever. Although Molly could scarcely afford the expense, she had sent Karl for the doctor. Kathy’s fever raged for two seemingly endless days. Finally, the doctor had admitted Molly should send for the priest to give last rites. But Molly had adamantly refused; she would not give up hope. And then, the thought of the priest had made her think of the bishop. Ignoring the doctor’s protests, she had quickly bundled Kathy up in a blanket, then run through an October rainstorm to the church rectory.
When the housekeeper opened the door, Molly demanded to see the bishop; the housekeeper replied he was in a meeting with the Ursuline nuns who had recently started a Catholic school in Marquette; could Molly possibly return in the afternoon?
“No, I can’t. It might be too late then,” Molly had cried.
“I cannot disturb His Excellency,” said the overly dutiful housekeeper.
“Please. My little girl is so sick with a fever. I need the bishop to pray over her. I can’t bear to lose her. Only he can save her. You don’t understand. My husband is dead, and I waited so many years for this child. I’ll never have another. Please.”
Molly sobbed as she spoke, and the housekeeper had pitied her, but she also feared Molly’s cries would disturb the bishop.
But His Excellency had heard the disturbance and stepped out to the doorway.
“What’s the matter?” he had asked, although he need not have; he clearly saw a wretched mother clutching the child she loved better than herself.
“Your Excellency, I tried to tell her to come back later,” the housekeeper had apologized, but the Lord’s servant calmly dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“Molly, your little girl is ill,” Bishop Baraga had said. Molly had never spoken to His Excellency before, save a few times when he gave her communion at Mass. She had not realized he knew her name. Overcome with fear, she heard herself babbling in desperation.
“Yes. Oh please. She has a fever. The doctor said I should have a priest give last rites, but I can’t. I can’t bear to lose her. Please, if you pray over her, maybe—”
The words had scarcely left her mouth before Baraga had taken Kathy in his arms.
“The doctor has given up hope?”
“Yes, he’s attended her for two days and says he can do nothing. But I thought—if you prayed—God would hear your prayer and heal her.”
“You have great faith,” Baraga had said, placing his hand on Kathy’s forehead to feel it burn like hellfire. “Let us pray, Molly.”
She had bowed her head while Baraga whispered, “Lord God, we pray you to heal this child. Cure her sickness that she may grow up like her mother, a faithful servant who does Your will.”
He had then spoken several sentences in Latin. Molly had not understood the words, but she was comforted merely by his gentle voice, his kindness, and the sacred language.
“Now go home and care for her, but remember her soul is saved, and that is what matters most. God bless you.”
Molly had then felt a bit let down, even as the bishop placed the child back into her arms and made the sign of the cross over her. She had muttered, “Thank you” and turned to leave.
Then Kathy had let out a cry.
“She hasn’t cried in two days!” Molly had said as she felt Kathy’s forehead, now soaked with sweat. “The fever has broken! Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Thank God, Molly. I have done nothing. He must have some great plan for her to heal her so rapidly. Perhaps someday she will be a loving mother like you and bring many servants to the Lord.”
Molly had scarcely heard these prophetic words; she had only had eyes then for her child.
“Thank you,” she had repeated.
“Go home now and keep her warm. Do you have medicine for her?”
“Yes, the doctor has helped with that.”
“Very good,” the bishop had replied and bowed to dismiss her.
She had rushed home to share the miraculous news with Karl. She found him seated with the doctor, both still surprised by her hasty, unexplained departure.
“The fever broke!” she told them.
“Impossible, so suddenly,” muttered the doctor, placing his hand on Kathy’s forehead. He found it cool and drenched with sweat. “Why, she’s breathing regularly now and the color is returning to her cheeks.”
“It’s a miracle,” Molly had said.
The doctor was not a Catholic, but an Episcopalian. More so, he considered himself a man of science. “Often it is at the most critical moment these fevers turn. Perhaps taking her out in the cold air made the sudden difference.”
“It was a miracle,” Molly repeated.
“It doesn’t matter so long as she is better,” smiled the doctor, collecting his bag. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to check on her again.”
It had been a miracle. Molly refused to believe otherwise. Now months later, she knelt in a pew waiting for Bishop Baraga’s funeral to begin. She wondered why God had not prolonged his servant’s life longer, that more souls might come to Him. Then Molly remembered the Bishop’s words that many might come to the faith through Kathy. Perhaps Bishop Baraga had served his purpose on earth and now was rewarded, and it was left to those, like her, whose lives he had touched to win souls for the Church.

The History of My Stomach: A Tristram Shandy Parody

The other day I came across the following paper that I wrote for an eighteenth century literature course when I was a graduate student at Western Michigan University. It was a fun little assignment where we were asked to write a parody of Laurence Sterne’s novel Tristram Shandy (1759-1767). For what it’s worth, here is my offering which has a bit of a Marquette connection since it references my ancestors.

The Life and Opinions of Tyler Tichelaar, Graduate Student

Or

The History of My Stomach

            This work is intended to be the history of my life and opinions, yet as I sit here typing, I find that my stomach is so upset I cannot concentrate on my subject, but perhaps this is not amiss, as stomach disorders have been my lifelong problem. In fact, I probably had stomach troubles while still in my mother’s womb, so my life story cannot be told without discussing my stomach.

My stomach has always caused me grief. No matter what I eat, my stomach becomes upset. Similarly, if I do not eat, my stomach is upset. A doctor would suggest that I change my diet to remedy this problem, but since everything upsets my stomach, changing my eating patterns is hardly a solution. Nor is it a matter of nerves or stress which causes my disorder. As an innocent, sheltered infant, I was removed from all forms of stress, yet I went through more diapers as a result of diarrhea than is suffered by anyone who regularly eats three meals a day at Taco Bell.

The reader may then ask if it is not purely my imagination that makes my stomach upset. Reader, I am not like Joyce’s Leopold Bloom, receiving pleasure from my bodily functions, enjoying each chance to urinate, and indulging in the movement of my bowels.

The fact is that I have a stomach problem, and there is no solution to my problem;  nor is it simply my problem;  it is a family complaint. Would that my problem were only my nose!  Then, like the admirable Walter Shandy, I could find some consolation in Slawkenbergius. But if there is a worthy book on stomachs, I have yet to find it.

Perhaps the lack of such a treatise is why I dwell on the subject now. Perhaps it  will behoove the world if I write on the cause of my stomach complaints. Perhaps others like me will realize they are not alone, and possibly, they will even learn the source of their own complaints. But perhaps if I am to write such a treatise, I must first relate how I discovered the true cause of my stomach’s malfunctions.

One day, while in the midst of great gastronomical pain, I thought I would contemplate the enigma of my stomach. In my contemplations, I recalled my mother once saying to me, “You have a stomach just like mine.”  Therefore, reason led me to theorize that my stomach was a genetic inheritance from my mother;  further contemplation caused me to believe my theory was true, for the similarity in our stomachs is attested to by our fighting over who gets to use the bathroom first after a visit to Bonanza’s salad bar.

After contemplating the inheritance of my stomach from my mother, I inquired of her if she might have inherited her stomach from one of her parents. She contemplated my question and then recalled that her father had also had a weak stomach. Being an amateur genealogist, I knew my grandfather had had parents of his own;  perhaps from one of these parents, he had inherited his disordered stomach. But upon inquiring of other family members, I learned that the memory of my great-grandparents’ stomachs had disappeared into oblivion.

But I was determined not to give up the search for my stomach’s origins. It then occurred to me that some information might be derived from “The History of the Bishop and White Families” which Jean Martel, my second cousin once removed, had compiled. This family document was easily attainable since the author had given me a copy. In perusing this work, I learned that my grandfather’s father’s father, Jerome Nehemiah White, was a corporal in the Civil War.

But what does the Civil War have to do with my stomach the reader asks?  Well, reader, be patient rather than trying to rush me, and I will let you know. Corporal White fought on the side of the North during the Civil War. Most importantly for my theory, he was shot in the abdomen on June 19, 1864 at Petersburg, Virginia. Following this wound, he did not die, or else I would not be able to write this now, nor would you be able to read this, so be thankful that Johny Reb was such a poor shot, unless of course, you are not enjoying my discussion of inherited stomachs and wish my great-great-grandfather had been shot to death, but I am sure such a brutal thought never crossed my humane reader’s mind. See, I knew you were deeply interested in the state of my stomach all along.

But what happened to Corporal White?  Well, reader, he went to a hospital in Washington D.C. and recovered. In fact, he was released soon after the Civil War ended. Feeling much better, and wanting to celebrate both his recovery and the end of the war he had so bravely fought in, he decided to see a little of his nation’s capital before returning to his Michigan farm. After all, he was only twenty-four, and since he had seen little of the world he was in little hurry to return home. So one night, Corporal White went to the Ford Theatre to see the play Our American Cousin. But reader, you are anticipating me. Yes, you have guessed my family’s secret claim to greatness. My ancestor, Jerome Nehemiah White, witnessed the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth. There you have rung from me the surprise I intended for a future chapter since this chapter was only meant to explore the history of my stomach, or actually my birth, but since I am off the topic, let me discuss how this digression relates to the main topic.

Reader, I am a firm believer in cellular memory. I believe parents pass their memories on to their children through their brain cells, but only those memories of things that happened in their lives up to the time their children are conceived. My great-great-grandfather returned to Michigan and assisted his wife in conceiving my great-grandfather;  in doing so, Corporal White passed on the memory of his wounded abdomen to my great-grandfather’s subconscious, causing all of Corporal White’s descendants to have upset stomachs. Therefore, my stomach is a direct descendant of the Civil War, as the following stomach chart illustrates.

THE STOMACH CHART

Corporal Jerome Nehemiah White’s Stomach (1841-1900)

Jay Earle White’s Stomach (1880-1963)

Lester Earle White’s Stomach (1905-1987)

Nancy Lee Tichelaar (nee White)’s Stomach (1941-    )

Tyler Richard Tichelaar’s Stomach (1971-    )

Reader, I intended to write about my birth in this chapter. I keep trying to return to my topic, but you keep demanding other information from me. But perhaps these digressions are not without value. Certainly, a little family background is needed to understand how I became the person I am. Really, going back 107 years into my family history is only a small leap, considering I have traced my family tree back nearly two thousand years, and my cellular memory goes back nearly as far. For example, I often have dreams of being in Hastings, England during a great battle. Such dreams might strike you as odd, but since Corporal White was descended from both William the Conqueror and Harold Godwinson, who fought each other at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, my dreams are also the result of a cellular memory passed down for twenty-six generations.

Cellular memory is so marvelous it now enables me to begin the history of my life, or my memories anyway, in the year 1066. But I shall not begin this history until the next chapter, having already filled up enough of this one. In fact, my story should rightfully begin in Chapter One, so I will name this section The Preface. And now, on to the Battle of Hastings.

Sledding on Ridge Street in January

As we experience another winter storm today, I thought I’d post another winter scene from The Marquette Trilogy. This scene takes place in Iron Pioneers January 1884 when Agnes Whitman takes her children sledding on Ridge Street. Enjoy!

1884

            There was no absence of snow that January, and it was the best kind of snow—good for both sledding and snowshoeing. Agnes had already been out with the Marquette women’s snowshoeing club a few times that winter, but somehow she had always been too busy to go sledding with her girls. A fresh snow had fallen the night before, and the day being a surprisingly warm twenty-five degrees, the afternoon was perfect sledding weather. She had to take the children sledding at least once this winter since her son Will was three years old now, and he had never gone before; she had always felt him too little in past years. And she might not have another chance to take him because she was expecting her fourth child; if it were not that bundling up in winter clothes hid what her figure otherwise made apparent, she would not have gone outside at all, but her winter coat would allow her to remain active for another month. Of course, she and Will would have to settle for a safe, small hill, but that was better than an entire winter without a sledding trip.

A good half hour was spent getting everyone ready. Will was her only child who needed help putting on his winter clothes, but Mary and Sylvia insisted on their mother’s constant attention even for such little details as color coordinating their hats and scarves.

“We’re only going sledding girls, not to a party,” Agnes reminded.

“Yes, but you can never be too careful. A young lady must be prepared for every occasion,” Mary replied.

Agnes usually ignored such affected comments from her daughters. Mary was the worst while Sylvia only followed her older sister’s example. Agnes thought Sylvia would be more like herself if not so influenced by Mary, who sometimes reminded Agnes a lot of her own stepmother. She often wondered what kind of women her girls would be while she hoped Will would be as kind and handsome as his father.

“Are we all ready now?” Agnes asked, after helping Will put on his mittens.

“Yes, Mother,” Mary replied. “Hurry, I’m sweating in this warm coat.”

But they were delayed another minute. Kathy Bergmann chose that moment to appear on the doorstep with a fruitcake from her mother.

“Mama meant to bring it over before Christmas,” Kathy said, “but what with the funeral and everything, she didn’t have time.”

“I didn’t expect her to give me anything,” said Agnes, nonetheless touched to be remembered despite Molly’s recent troubles. Except for Montoni’s funeral, Agnes had rarely seen Molly lately. After Agnes’s father and stepmother had moved back East, the Montonis and Whitmans had lost touch with each other. But Agnes knew Molly looked on her as a daughter because her mother and Molly had once been best friends. Agnes had found it hard to visit Molly after she married Montoni because she remembered Molly as a happy young woman, despite poverty and her first husband’s ill health, and Molly’s sadness in recent years had unnerved her into keeping her distance. Now Agnes wished she had done more than just attend Montoni’s funeral and send a gift of money. She should have gone to visit, but Christmas and her pregnancy had kept her occupied. Agnes reminded herself that since her father had moved away, Molly was now the only one left in town who had known her mother well, and Agnes did not want to lose that connection; her memories of her mother were growing dim, and she had recently been surprised to realize she was now several years older than her mother had been when she died.

Agnes accepted the fruitcake, and feeling she should give something in return, offered, “Kathy, we were just about to go sledding. We would love to have you join us.”

Before Kathy could reply, Will grabbed her skirt and shouted, “Do come! Please, Kathy!”

Kathy laughed, and picking up Will, she gave him a big hug. She was sixteen now, and the maternal instinct was strong in her. She yearned for a baby, one as cute as Will, but first she needed a husband. Not even her mother’s second marriage had distorted her romantic notions; Montoni had been a bad man, but Kathy honored the memory of the father she had never known, and she idolized her brother. She even had a secret fondness for Ben, her brother’s attractive business partner; she hoped someday he would notice her. But if not, other men existed who might make good husbands and fathers; she was becoming obsessed with the desire to find one.

“Kathy is going to join us,” Agnes told her daughters as they continued to sweat in their winter clothes.

“Oh,” Mary said. Sylvia sighed. Both noted Kathy’s unfashionable coat.

Seeing that Agnes and Will wanted her to tag along, Kathy overlooked the girls’ lack of enthusiasm and agreed to join the party.

“I don’t think you’ll be warm enough,” Mary tried to dissuade her. “You’re not dressed for sledding.”

Kathy felt self-conscious then, and she hated that Mary, three years her junior, could make her feel that way. “I’ll be warm enough,” she replied.

“I have an extra scarf and some heavier mittens you can borrow,” Agnes said.

“No, I’m fine. I don’t mind the cold,” said Kathy, already regretting that she had agreed to join them.

“Let’s go!” Will screamed and wiggled until Kathy set him down. Then he grabbed her hand and tried to tug her toward the door.

“Girls, fetch your sleds out back. We’ll wait out front for you,” said Agnes.

A few minutes later, they had walked to the eastern end of Ridge Street, where the bluff sloped down toward the lake to make an excellent hill for sledding.

“That’s my grandparents’ house!” said Sylvia as they passed the Hennings’ former home.

“They don’t live there anymore,” Agnes replied.

“No,” said Mary, “they have an even bigger house in New York City because they’re rich!”

Mary looked at Kathy as she spoke, but Kathy ignored the ostentatious child.

“Our grandparents always send us expensive Christmas presents,” Mary said. “This year Sylvia and me each got a dress made in Paris.”

“Sylvia and I,” said Agnes.

“Mary,” Sylvia said, “Kathy has probably never owned a store bought dress, much less one from Paris. I think her mother makes all her clothes.”

“Girls, that’s enough,” Agnes said.

“How will she ever find a husband without a decent dress?” Mary asked.

“Maybe I don’t need a husband,” said Kathy, denying her dearest longing.

“That’s good ’cause rich men don’t like poor girls,” Sylvia replied.

“I’m not poor,” said Kathy, “and even if I were, didn’t a prince marry Cinderella?” Despite this bold retaliation, Kathy was unnerved by the girls voicing her fears.

“Yeah, but Cinderella was at least beautiful,” said Mary.

“Girls, that’s enough,” Agnes repeated. “Do you want to go back home instead of going sledding?”

“No!” cried Will. “Be good. Don’t be bad,” he implored his sisters.

“Apologize to Kathy,” said Agnes.

Each girl muttered, “I’m sorry.” Kathy tried graciously to accept their apologies, but she felt this much-needed festive excursion was spoiled.

They had now reached the top of the sledding hill.

“Girls,” said Agnes, “why don’t the three of you ride down on the big sled, and Will and I will use the small one.”

Mary gave her mother a funny expression, making it clear she did not want Kathy on her sled, but when Agnes glared back, Mary said nothing. Kathy saw the facial exchange and again wished she had not come, but she would not embarrass Mrs. Whitman by acknowledging her daughters’ rude behavior.

“No. Me and Kathy ride,” said Will, unknowingly solving the problem.

“Kathy, do you mind going with Will?” asked Agnes.

“No, Will and I can have a good time by ourselves.”

Mary and Sylvia, relieved of Kathy’s company, climbed onto their sled, ready to go downhill.

“Thank you, Kathy,” said Agnes, feeling more tired than usual from the walk to the hill. “I’m feeling a little worn out so I’ll wait until later. You go without me.”

“I don’t mind,” Kathy assured her.

Agnes stood at the top of the hill. She watched her girls, then Will and Kathy sail down the snow-covered street. She had looked forward to this outing, but her obstinate girls now made her thankful for a moment alone. She looked out at the lake, slowly freezing over as winter progressed. January was her favorite time of year because the snow completely covered the earth; December even in this northern land occasionally could be without snow, and Christmas was so much trouble—although in the end the children’s pleasure made it worthwhile. But January was a month without the bother of holidays, a month that allowed a good long rest, a month to enjoy the snow before it piled up in February and March and seemed as if it would never end. January was the slow return of longer days, the month when each night a minute or two more daylight remained before you closed the curtains, a minute or two that reflected the promise of spring’s inevitable return. Agnes found pleasure in these little things, in marking the rhythm and progression of the seasons; she never complained about the weather, but marveled over the daily variety as one season changed into another, accumulating into a lifetime of natural wonders.

The children were climbing back up the hill, but Agnes still had a couple minutes before they would reach her. She continued to look out at the half frozen, silent lake, so serene this afternoon; a flood of warm sunlight made its iced surface sparkle like diamonds. Some days that massive lake roared like a bellowing monster; some days it was cruel, as when it had taken Caleb and Madeleine. But the lake was a constant in Agnes’s life, something that never failed to revive her spirits when all else came and went. The lake was always there, almost like a family member, someone to quarrel with one day, but ultimately, even if begrudgingly, to love as a familiar extension of herself, its very water flowing inside her. The lake was a part of her as was the snow, the trees, and these hills she loved so well.

She felt an especial fondness for this particular spot with its distinct view of the lake. She vividly remembered one summer day when she and her mother had stood on this hill to collect lady’s slippers—they had filled a whole basket with the delicate flowers, and all the while, she remembered that in the distance, through the trees—trees that were now mostly gone and replaced with large prosperous homes—she had been able to see the lake; back then there had been no grand houses, no real streets, just a small collection of wooden buildings nearly hidden along the shore of Lake Superior. At that time, she had known few children to play with, so she had named many of the trees, pretending they were her friends as much as any little boy or girl in the village. In later years, her father had frequently told her how her mother had loved this land—she wondered whether her mother had also thought of the land as a friend, a real person, a very part of her soul. Agnes loved her hometown, but she liked to remember more what it had looked like nearly thirty years ago when she was a small girl. Everything had changed since that distant spring day when she had come here to pick flowers with her mother, yet for a moment she could forget it was winter and that she stood in the middle of a fashionable neighborhood; for a moment, she could imagine it was spring in the forest and her mother was with her, listening to her childish prattle.

“Mama! Mama! We went fast! Did you see, Mama?”

She awoke from the past and turned to her son.

“Was it fun, Will?” she asked as he ran up to her, his chubby cheeks glowing red from the cold.

“I wanna go again!” he screeched with delight.

“You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to,” Agnes told Kathy.

“I don’t mind,” Kathy said.

“Just don’t scare him by going too fast,” Agnes replied.

She watched Kathy and Will go downhill again. Then Mary and Sylvia arrived at the top for their next trip down.

Agnes perched herself on a low snowbank, simply content to exist in this beautiful place where her mother had once watched her as she now watched her children.

When Will came back, he wanted her to ride with him, so she and Kathy started taking turns going downhill until Will’s little legs became exhausted from climbing back up. Agnes hoped that meant he would take a nap when they got home. Finally, she and Kathy sat on a hard crunchy snowbank while Will curled up in his mother’s lap and fell asleep. She wrapped him in her scarf to keep him warm. She considered taking him home, but the afternoon sun was causing icicles to drip off nearby houses, so she thought it warm enough to let the girls sled down the hill a few more times. Since Kathy waited with her, Agnes asked after Molly.

“Mama’s fine,” said Kathy, not wanting to confess how her mother had moped since the funeral.

“She must miss your stepfather?”

“I imagine so, but she doesn’t really mention it.”

“Do you think she’ll marry again?”

“Not at her age,” said Kathy.

“She isn’t that old is she? Maybe fifty?”

“She’ll be fifty-four this year.”

“That’s not so old,” said Agnes.

“Two husbands were enough for her, especially considering what the last one was like.”

Kathy regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, not wanting to shame her family.

“I always suspected she wasn’t happy with your stepfather,” Agnes replied, “but I remember your own father was a kind man.”

“Yes, but he was always so sick Mama had to work to support us.”

“Your mother did that out of love. It’s worth it for a kind man.”

“Is your husband kind?” Kathy asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I want to know these things for when I get married someday.”

“Yes, Jacob’s a good man. He loves me and the children, and he works hard to give us more than we need. Even when he doesn’t say so, I know he loves us by his deeds.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” Kathy said.

“You will when the time is right.”

“No, I don’t think I want to,” she lied to deny her fear of being a spinster.

“You will when the right man comes along,” said Agnes.

“No, no man will ever notice me,” she said, thinking of how Ben ignored her. “I guess I’m not pretty enough.”

“Of course you are.”

“And I’m not rich or fashionable, just like Mary and Sylvia said.”

“Mary and Sylvia are just silly young girls, and I apologize for their rudeness. I don’t know where they get it from—not my side of the family,” said Agnes. “But Kathy, in another year you’ll be a blooming beauty. I was much more plain than you at sixteen, yet Jacob took an interest in me.”

“I’ll be seventeen in April.”

“Then love could come anytime,” said Agnes. “Just be patient. You don’t want to rush it. Love comes at different times for everyone, but the wait is worth it when it does come.”

Kathy thought it easy for Agnes to say such things when she had a husband and did not have to spend every day wondering whether she were destined for spinsterhood.

“We better move a little, or we’ll freeze sitting here,” said Agnes, trying to stand up without waking Will. “The girls are almost back up the hill now.”

“We can lay Will in the sled to pull him home,” said Kathy.

“That’s a good idea. I’m glad you came, Kathy. It was the perfect day for an excursion. I hope your mother doesn’t mind that you didn’t come home sooner.”

“Oh no, she won’t be worried,” said Kathy. “Thank you for inviting me.” She did not add that she had not enjoyed herself.

“Hurry girls! We’re freezing!” Agnes called to her daughters still a hundred feet down the hill. Then she took another gaze at the lake as the sun began to set. “Kathy, look at how beautiful the lake is with the sky all pink and reflecting on the ice. Even with the snow and cold, how could anyone want to live anywhere else?”

“Yes, it is pretty,” said Kathy, but she was too worried about her future to appreciate the present moment’s glory.

Agnes asked Kathy to come home for a cup of hot chocolate, but Kathy excused herself to turn down Front Street and walk south to her mother’s house. She said she should get home before dark, but truthfully, she did not want to be around Mary and Sylvia any longer. She liked Agnes, but she had not found her comments on love very reassuring. She was terribly lonely, yet she preferred to be alone with her yearnings than to feel a lack of connection while speaking to others. She wanted to be needed, especially by a man, but everyone she knew already seemed to have a full life and not need her. Except for her mother, whose need scared her.

———-

To find out more about Iron Pioneers, visit www.MarquetteFiction.com

The End of the Blizzard

After we finally had our first winter storm this week, I thought I would post one of my favorite passages from my novel Superior Heritage. This scene takes place after a blizzard keeps John and Chad Vandelaare, in their early teens, home from school for the day. The boys go out into the storm as it is dying down with their dog named Dickens.

From Superior Heritage:

Being cooped up in the house all day made John and Chad anxious to explore the newly created landscape left by the blowing wind and drifting snow. Ellen was hesitant to let them go outside, but after supper, when the visibility had increased until individual snowflakes could be distinguished as they fell, she finally consented. It would not be dark for another hour, so the boys had plenty of time to trudge over the snowbanks and burn off their excess energy.

John and Chad put on their long johns and flannel shirts, then their snow pants and jackets. They wrapped scarves around their necks, pulled hats down over their ears, and slipped on boots and mittens. Before they went out the door, they were already starting to sweat from wearing so many layers, but they would be well protected once outside. John suggested Dickens should join them since he must be equally tired of staying inside. During the day Dickens had only made quick bathroom trips into the driveway, just a few feet from the garage door, but now he could wander free until he complained of cold feet.

Soon the boys and Dickens were outside. They quickly discovered the wind was still strong, so seeking protection, they set Dickens up on the high snowbank, then climbed up themselves. They trudged on top of the snow, at times six feet above the buried grass, until they reached the shelter of the neighboring woods. They found a giant pine tree whose lowest branches, usually eight feet above the ground, were now heavily weighed down with snow, until they curved down three feet to touch the top of the frozen banks. The boys were forced to bend down to enter beneath the tree whose branches were too high for them to reach on summer days. Beneath the tree’s bent limbs, they felt sheltered in their own little lodge house. A small depression around the tree formed snow walls to provide further insulation from the bitter chill wind, while leaving room for John, Chad, and Dickens to sit and watch the dying storm. Exhausted from the heavy trudge into the woods, the boys and Dickens were content to listen to the storm’s fury. The dazzling whiteness of everything was breathtaking—snow was clustered against the brown and gray tree trunks, turning them into giant white poles, while tree branches had glazed over with frozen ice and snow that perched precariously until the morning sun would come to melt it away.

Neither brother was eloquent enough to express his awe over the beauty of the scene, but neither could fail to notice it. Now free from the stifling, still air inside the house, the boys gratefully opened their mouths and breathed in the fresh coolness, enjoying the pleasure of it biting down their throats. They pulled off their gloves to coil their fingers into fists, then replaced their gloves with their fingers curled together to ward off the numbness a short while longer. They took turns petting Dickens with their fisted gloves, while Dickens huddled against them to stay warm.

Serenity filled the moment, yet in this serenity was an exhilaration surpassing yesterday’s anticipation of the storm. As the wind slowly died down with less frequent gusts, the boys felt proud to have survived the storm. Nature’s fury had left behind three feet of snow, broken tree branches, enormous snow drifts, hundreds of hours of snow removal work, and downed power lines, but it had also revived the courage of its witnesses; they were survivors like their pioneer ancestors who had fought similar storms a century before when snowblowers and electricity had not been imagined; the pioneers’ survivor spirit had resurrected itself, making the Vandelaare boys respectful admirers of Nature’s sublime power.

John’s spirits had been especially stirred by the wind, now no longer a screeching banshee voice wreaking havoc, but a simple whisper carrying the last twinkling fall of snowflakes that resembled confetti more than ice bullets. John recalled the Bible story of God’s appearance to the prophet Elijah. There had been a wind, an earthquake, and a fire, but God had not been in any of them. God had been found in a gentle whisper. Now John felt he understood that passage. The wind had subsided to a whisper, a promise of peace and renewal as the snow cleansed the earth to create a new landscape. John felt a deepened sense of contentment, as if he had learned a secret about Nature’s incredible power, yet sheltered beneath the pine tree, he felt he would always be safe in the northern wilderness, no matter how fierce the blizzards might blow.

“We better go in,” Chad broke into his brother’s thoughts. “Mom’ll be worried if we’re not in by dark.”

“Yeah,” John reluctantly agreed, “Dickens looks cold.”

The boys and their dog trudged back out of the woods. Where before the storm had caused a blinding greyness, now a tiny pink streak in the Western sky promised a fine day tomorrow.

Ellen had seen her sons heading toward the house, so she had water boiling on the stove for hot chocolate when they came inside. She told them to change their clothes before they thawed out and were wet. Then, with the storm all but forgotten, the family sat down to drink hot chocolate and play Monopoly until bedtime.

But in later years, when John would live in a far away city where fierce Northern winters were unknown, the memory of that storm would come back to him. A strong wind would recall the powerful snowfilled gusts of his childhood, and he would imagine himself once more at home, hearing the wind wailing down the chimney, or sitting beneath a pine tree’s branches to watch Nature’s sublime fury. Then he would realize how impressionable he had been to his native land’s natural rhythms where he had formed a bond with the wind, the trees, the snow, Lake Superior, and the seemingly neverending Hiawatha forest that encompassed his childhood world. Wherever he went, John was branded with the knowledge that he belonged to this place; whatever majestic sights he saw, the serenity of a snowfall surpassed them all.

For more information about Superior Heritage: The Marquette Trilogy, Book Three, visit www.MarquetteFiction.com

Marquette’s Grand Old Man of the Pacific

This house, located at 343 E. Arch Street in Marquette once belonged to Robert Dollar.

The Robert Dollar Home today

Captain Robert Dollar (1844-1932) was a Scottish lumberman who produced timber for the English market. He came to Marquette from Canada in 1882 and soon after built this home. He only remained until 1888, however, when he moved to San Rafael, California due to ill health and the difficult winters.

In California, Dollar became a prominent lumberman and ship-owner and pioneered trade between North America and the Orient. He was given the honorary title of “Captain.” In 1914, he was considered one of the fifty greatest men in the United States, even being featured in Time Magazine. When he died in 1932 at the age of 88, he was affectionately known as the “Grand Old Man of the Pacific.” At the time of his death, California Governor James Rolph Jr. said, “Robert Dollar has done more in his lifetime to spread the American flag on the high seas than any man in this country.” His fortune upon his passing was estimated at more than $40 million.

Although Dollar remained in Upper Michigan for only a short time, his legacy resulted in the town of Dollarville, Michigan, where he once worked as the general manager of a logging camp, being named for him. His memoirs discuss his time in the Upper Peninsula and can be read at: http://www.electricscotland.com/history/rdollar/vol1chapter03.htm

A full biography of Dollar, including the names of his numerous ships, can be found in his entry at Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Dollar

For more about Marquette’s historical homes and their fascinating residents, read My Marquette.

Scary Ghost Stories…of Christmases Long, Long Ago

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

As some of you may know, the first story I ever wrote set in the U.P. “The Ghost of Stonegate Woods” was set during Christmas Eve and told the story of how a young boy, a fictional me, got lost in a blizzard and had the ghost of Annabella Stonegate lead his parents to where he lay in the snow. I wrote that story in 8th grade in 1985. It was broadcast on Public Radio 90 at NMU that fall and the following spring was made into a video that aired on the Upper Michigan Today show.

You can now listen to me read that story–the original clip from the Public Radio 90 broadcast, at my website, as well as find out more about Annabella Stonegate, who will be featured in my upcoming novel Spirit of the North, coming in Spring 2012, at my website:

http://www.marquettefiction.com/ghost-spirit-of-the-north.html

While you’re at my website, check out its new look. I’ve remodeled, thanks to assistance from Larry Alexander of Storyteller’s Friend www.storytf.com

I’ve also added a new page for the Marquette History Quiz. Take the quiz and find out how much you know about Marquette history – and I have plans for more quizzes to come in 2012, as well as other facts and fun for the website.

Finally, you can now check out on my website the new covers for Spirit of the North and my other upcoming book The Gothic Wanderer: From Transgression to Redemption.

It looks like we may end up having a green Christmas in Marquette this year, but regardless of whether your Christmas is green or white, I wish all my readers and followers a wonderful holiday season!

Tyler R. Tichelaar

Poetry for Christmas – U.P. Poet L.E. Ward

Since it’s Christmas time, my friend, L.E. Ward, native of Iron River and author of numerous poetry books, has sent me a new original poem to place on my blog. The poem recalls his own childhood growing up in Iron River:

 

AN ONLY CHILD: 1940s & 50s XMASES

 

There was none either before or since

like those I used to know,

in a world covered with ice and snow and cold,

 

of playground bullies at school,

who would tug my mittens and coat

and leave me to extricate myself

 

from snow drifts, on the way home

up to my hips, but at home, a haven,

a heaven, neither beneath earth or above,

 

in a citadel of warmth, a fortress of Love,

an interest in Life, Itself,

in human things, stickers and name-tags

and gift wrap, X for kisses, O for hugs,

 

and holiday cartoon jamborees at the movies,

an item of canned goods would garner admittance

to the company of Popeye, Casper, Bugs Bunny,

 

and Terrytoons’ Heckel and Jeckel,

those raucous blackbirds who so disturbed

and perturbed Farmer Brown and his corn fields.

 

At home, my mother would decorate

our house and tree, with alleged help

from me, who sat mouth agap,

 

like a rapt witness to the wonder

of it all, willing to play my part,

so the candles of memory were lit, one by one,

 

never guessing that in time,

such times, in time, by time,

itself, would be overcome,

 

but eager for presents,

too anxious to sleep,

too filled with belief

 

to question belief, and unaware

of a future time, in which images and rhymes,

alone, such times might keep.

 

– L.E. Ward

 

You can find out more about L.E. Ward and his books, including The Child Who Loved Movies, The Hollywood Poems, and Portraits of Life at Amazon.

Santa Claus and Merlin Take on Satan: My First Movie at Marquette’s Historic Delft Theatre

In December, 1974, when I was only three and a half years old, my dad took me for the first time to Marquette’s Delft Theatre to see my first movie. It was a terrible film—at three years old, I was already smart enough to ascertain that. I remembered very little of it over the years, but I would occasionally think about that terrible first movie I saw, which had the Devil chasing Santa Claus, moving the chimney on him so he couldn’t get inside houses to deliver toys, and sicking a dog on him. My dad also thought the movie terrible. For many years, I wondered what this film was named, and I looked in many video books for it, but only thanks to the Internet did I recently discover it was the 1959 Mexican film Santa Claus. And, I was even more surprised to discover it had an Arthurian legend connection—yes, Merlin and Santa Claus are buddies. I didn’t remember that part of the film when I was three—but I don’t think I knew who Merlin was yet, though of course, I knew Santa Claus.

Santa Claus movie poster - "weird and wonderful characters" - Weird is right!

So when I found this film on Amazon, I had to see it. Knowing it would be terrible, I opted to watch the Mystery Science Theater episode that featured it. I’m glad I did because I would have groaned through most of it, but the Mystery Science Theater’s cast made me laugh throughout.

The story is simple and lame. Santa lives in a castle on a cloud above the North Pole. Instead of elves, he has children from around the world who help him. The beginning of the film shows Santa playing the organ as we are shown scenes of children from a slew of countries: Africa, Spain, China, England, Japan, the Orient, Russia, France, Germany, Italy, the Islands of the Caribbean, South America, Central America, USA, and Mexico—I know those aren’t all technically countries, but Santa and the Narrator don’t know that—yeah, there’s a narrator; sure sign the film is bad; he sounds like he’s detailing a documentary, like one of the old Disney wildlife films. Since we have to listen to children sing from each country, this part of the film really drags.

It gets more interesting when Lucifer (the chief devil) tells the devil Pitch he must leave Hades and go to earth to make children evil and to destroy Santa Claus. Pitch isn’t a very convincing devil—he likes to dance about as if he thinks he can do ballet. He goes to Mexico where he whispers in children’s ears, trying to make them do things like steal a doll and later throw rocks at Santa. Santa, however, can see everything through his magical telescope, so he knows what Pitch is doing. Santa even has a machine so he can watch children’s dreams. He’s quite the Big Santa, and it’s only 1959!

Soon it’s time for Santa to go to earth to deliver Christmas toys. Pitch is now out to stop Santa by moving the chimney so Santa can’t get in a house, as well as other, less effective ways to hurt Santa. Santa does get back at him in one scene by shooting at him with a toy cannon.

But where does Merlin come into the story? Merlin has given Santa a magic dreaming power he can blow in children’s faces to put them to sleep. Santa also has a special invisibility flower. Of course, Pitch destroys the powder and Santa loses the flower. Then Pitch sicks a dog on Santa so he has to climb a tree and is trapped. Santa is now in big trouble since he can’t get out of the tree and morning is coming; if the sun rises before Santa gets back to the North Pole, the reindeer will turn to dust. But no worries, Santa’s voice is so loud he can yell to “Mr. Merlin” who hears him from where he lives with Santa in the castle in a cloud above the North Pole. (You have to wonder why there’s no Mrs. Claus in the film.) Merlin is decked out in the typical blue robe with the big pointy hat and moon and star pictures on his clothes. He also wobbles around when he walks. (Mystery Science Theater asks, “Why can’t Santa give him another leg?”)

Merlin, being a great wizard and capable of doing magical things, quickly solves the problem. Does he cast a fantastic spell to make Santa Claus suddenly appear back home? No. Does he turn the dog into a toad? No. Does he resurrect the Knights of the Round Table to ride to Santa’s rescue? No. No magical spells for Merlin in this film—other than the lame dreaming powder. Merlin yells back at Santa, telling him to reach into his bag of toys and pull out a toy cat on wheels, throw it down, and let the dog chase it. Once that works, Santa can climb down from the tree and escapes. Merlin tells Santa it’s time now for him to come home, but first, Santa delivers a doll to a poor little girl who has tried to be good.

The film does have a few magical moments. It is somewhat enchanting in its North Pole sets despite its overall cheesiness, and Santa is kind enough to let a child who doesn’t feel loved by his parents, see Santa Claus. He also convinces those parents to go home to their son, after giving them some sort of “drink of remembrance”—as Mystery Science Theatre says, “Booze helps parents care for their children.”

The film is overly sentimental and moralistic for our tastes today, but even in 1959, I don’t know how anyone could have considered it a good movie.

The film certainly didn’t deserve its popularity. Why ever did the Delft Theatre decide to show this strange Satanic-Christmas concoction? According to Wikipedia, Santa Claus was quite a hit: “Santa Claus was considered to be a financial success over several holiday-season theatrical releases in the 1960s and 1970s. Broadcast of the film also became a holiday tradition at several U.S. television stations. The film garnered at least one award, winning the Golden Gate Award for Best International Family Film at the San Francisco International Film Festival in 1959.” And apparently, it was so popular it was worthy of being shown at the Delft Theatre in Marquette, Michigan when it was fifteen years old and I was three. I can only assume this popularity was due to a lack of children’s Christmas movies at that time, and that it was a time when we only got three channels on television, and we had no VCRs, much less Netflix to choose from. If we wanted to see a movie, we went to see whatever was playing.

Today, the film is listed on IMDB as one of the worst movies of all time. Considering that even as a three old child I thought it was terrible, I’m not surprised. If you want to groan, watch this film, but if you want a lot of laughs, watch the Mystery Science Theatre episode of it. Both are available on Amazon Instant Video for $2.99 if you search simply for “Santa Claus.”

If you’ve seen this movie—especially if you saw it as a child like I did—I’d love to know your own thoughts about it.

An Interview with U.P. Author and Native Jenifer Brady

I’ve invited my good friend and fellow U.P. author Jenifer Brady to be my guest on my blog and talk about her wonderful books about a summer camp in Upper Michigan. And if you enjoy what she has to say, come visit her and me at the Superior Dome for the TV6 Christmas Craft Show on Friday, Dec 2 – Sunday Dec 4. Hope to see you there!

U.P. Author Jenifer Brady - visit her at the TV6 Christmas Craft Show in Marquette Dec 2nd - 4th at the Superior Dome

Jenifer hails from Iron Mountain, but her heart is at camp—in fact, she calls herself a Camp Addict. She and her husband, also a camp addict, love camp so much that they got married there. Naturally as an author, Jenifer decided to write about camp. She is the author of the Abby’s Camp Days series, which currently consists of four titles, as well as two additional related books Super Counselors and Buddy Check. The fifth Abby book will be out in the spring of 2012.

Tyler: Hi, Jenifer. Of course, I’ve read all your books and I’m a big fan, but I never have asked you what made you first decide to write books about camp?

Jenifer: When I was in high school and college, whenever I’d miss camp, I’d get on this kick where I really wanted to read books about camp. I’d go to the library and used bookstores, but this was before the days where you could look online and find hundreds of books about any subject imaginable. I managed to find a few fictional books set at summer camp, but they pretty much all followed one of two predictable formats: 1) a kid has to go to camp but doesn’t want to (either because they are shy or they feel dumped there by their parents or the friend they were supposed to go with suddenly backs out) and they hate camp for the first ¾ of the book until they find out that camp is fun and then they can’t believe they ever didn’t want to go. Or 2) several characters from an already-established series decide that all 6 or 7 of them want to go to camp. There, they do whatever it is they would be doing in any of the other books of the series, except now they’re at camp instead of school or the mall.

While I enjoyed these books and their depictions of camp life, none of them came close to capturing camp as I had experienced it. Camp, to me, was the place you went every year (usually by yourself or with one friend from home, not 7 of your “real life” friends). You reunited with your best friends and favorite counselors every year and caught up on their lives. The story I was looking for was a story about camp people, friends who live miles and miles apart during the school year but for a week or two weeks or (for the really lucky ones) the whole summer, got to be together at their favorite place on Earth. These people already had a relationship from past summers. I couldn’t find books like that, so I decided to write them, both to help my own “camp withdrawal” and to help others in the same boat.

Tyler: That makes sense to me, Jenifer. That’s the same thing for me—I couldn’t find books set in the U.P. except children’s books so I decided to write them. However, are your books children’s books, or what age group are your books written for?

Buddy Check

Jenifer: My first two books, Buddy Check and Super Counselors, are young adult fiction. They are told from the perspective of counselors, and the main characters are in high school and college. The Abby’s Camp Days series is told through the viewpoint of a camper. Each book is one summer of her life. She starts out age nine and in elementary camp and gets a year older each book. Originally, I thought that middle-grade readers would like the series and that I wouldn’t get older readers until the characters themselves aged to junior high and high schoolers. But I’ve actually found that a lot of my most loyal readers are already teenagers or adults who used to go to camp themselves (or still do). This has been surprising, but very welcome and exciting as well.

Tyler: What about camp do you think is so appealing as a subject for fiction?

Jenifer: I think, in part, camp appeals as a fictional subject for the same reasons camp appeals in real life. It’s a place where kids can be independent. There are no parents at camp, so you’re on your own and have to solve your own problems, but it’s a totally safe place to practice independence because there are counselors and deans guiding your day who are there in case you get in over your head. I’ve always heard that when you write for kids, you have to get the parents out of the way somehow so that your child protagonists can deal with life on their own. Kids don’t want to read about a parent or teacher swooping in and fixing everything for the child characters. Summer camp settings automatically set your story up that way without having to make your characters orphans or contriving ways for mom and dad to be absent. It’s somehow easier to accept help, when needed, from a teenage counselor rather than a parent. Counselors are like friends and authority figures all wrapped into one cool role model. I still try to have the kids work out their issues on their own, though, and part of the growth of these campers is that while they often rely on the counselors in the first few volumes, as they get older, readers will see them starting to become more independent and relying more on themselves and the other campers their age to sort things out.

Camp Expert, first in the Abby's Camp Days series

That being said, I find that at camp (in books and in real life) you can delve deeper into your own family relationships and issues by talking with each other and your counselors. At home, there’s something limiting about complaining about your parents (since they’re right there in the next room) or trash talking your sister to a friend (since the friend will probably see your sister or people who know her within 24 hours). But at camp, your family is five miles or two hours or another state away. You can be brutally honest about what you’re going through with friends who have nothing to do with your home life, and you can work through tough issues without fear of being overheard by someone involved. Sometimes you can discover things about yourself and your family when you’re miles away from them.

Tyler: That makes a lot of sense to me, Jenifer, regarding no parents in the books—it’s like why Charlie Brown works, or how in fairy tales the characters can get married without parents to interfere. But now you’ve made me curious to ask how much of your books are fiction and how much is based on your own real-life experiences at camp?

Jenifer: My books are fiction, but I think every author’s work is influenced by their real life. This is the example I always use when people wonder about this: In real life, the summer I graduated from high school, I was at camp talking to assistant cook Josh (who was a staff member that I had just met) while wearing my Iron Mountain Class of 1997 graduation shirt. “Hey,” he said, “do you know So-and-so?” I replied that, yes, So-and-so had been a classmate of mine. He went on to tell me that he played sports for another U.P. school and that the year he placed first in the highest level of achievement for this sport, he was pitted against my classmate in one of the final rounds. I had known that this boy from my school had lost the competition, but I had no idea to whom or what had happened. Josh and I thought that it was pretty funny that our paths had crossed with the same person even though we were from different ends of the UP, but that was the end of the discovery.

Now in real life, I had (and to this day have) no problem with this classmate of mine. My feelings about him are very neutral. We didn’t pal around in high school, since we had different circles of friends and really nothing in common. But he also wasn’t mean to me at all and I never did anything, to my knowledge, that would hurt him. So I have no ill-will towards this person in real life. When I was writing Buddy Check, I remembered this situation, and I thought, well, what would make this exciting and book-worthy? So I came up with the idea that one character would have a sports rivalry history with another character’s school nemesis. I changed the sport and created this whole elaborate backstory that the classmate was this jerk who dated the main character’s friend just because he needed help to pass his finals and then dumped her to date the pretty cheerleader. Then the main character met the athlete who bested him at camp and got his autograph for her friend and the friend brought it to school. None of that happened in real life. It was simply, “Hey do you know that guy?” “Yeah, I graduated with him.” “Oh, I played sports against him.” No drama, no further jokes or conversations. An inconsequential, kind of funny coincidence.

But that didn’t make for good fiction. In fiction, everything has to be connected and woven through the story. So that’s what I often do. I get an idea from real life and try to figure out what elements of it, when changed around, would make a good story. Some of my plots are completely dreamed up (or things I wished had happened—it’s fun to be able to control your own world, even if it is fiction), many things are like the Josh story—a skeleton of real events jazzed up, some things are combined and exaggerated, and a few, rare things are pretty close to real life.

Tyler: That’s a lot like my experiences too—I might get an idea, but then I build and elaborate on it until sometimes the real part is almost erased or unnoticeable. Jenifer, your camp is a Christian camp in the books, so do you consider your books to be Christian fiction, and do you think non-Christians would enjoy your books too?

Favorite Camper, second in the Abby's Camp Days series

Jenifer: I do consider my books to be Christian fiction. They are set at Christian camp and a lot of what the kids deal with has to do with faith and discovering what a relationship with Jesus is and how rich one’s life can be with that relationship. There are Bible studies and devotions with the counselors in the cabins and introspection by characters of all ages as to their faith and the way they live their lives. At the same time, I try not to be preachy. Kids don’t want to be preached at. Nobody does, really. And I write real, round characters, not we’re-all-perfect-because-we-go-to-church-and-never-do-anything-wrong kids and teens that sometimes come through in some Christian fiction (I in no way mean to make that a generalization because I’ve read a LOT of great Christian fiction with fantastic characters, but sometimes I shake my head at especially the teen characters in some Christian fiction—if there are real, perfect kids like that out there who only make good decisions and constantly do the right thing, then that’s fantastic, but I don’t know many.)

When I first started writing about Camp Spirit, I didn’t think non-Christians would really be interested. But I’ve found that the camp connection is what draws people to my books rather than the religious aspect. Writing these books is a wonderful way for me to share my faith with others who might not be receptive to me just coming up to them and starting in on what I believe out of the blue.

I have a young person in my life, a family member, whom I love and care about very much. She’s not a Christian and has no interest in Jesus. She lives nowhere near me, so our opportunities to talk are limited basically to online chats. But she loves camp. She’s been a camper, CIT (counselor in training), and this summer a full-pledged, paid staff counselor. Her camp isn’t affiliated with any religious group, but we both love to talk about our camps, so I’ve found that we basically do the same activities at both camps. She’s a fan of my books, and we’ve been able to have honest, respectful conversations about my faith and her disinterest in Christianity that have come from discussing the fictional camp in my books and the real camps we both love. Whenever I’m tempted to give up with this writing endeavor (as I’m sure you know, Tyler, it can be lonely, difficult, and unrewarding at times) I think about this young woman and how my writing about this subject has provided me with opportunities to share my faith with her both through the books and through our discussions about them. And I know I have to keep going for her and for any other readers out there who are able to connect with people they love through the subject.

Tyler: Jenifer, I think one of your characters, Julie, really embodies that realism in terms of the Christianity in the books. She’s not a goody-goody but tries to understand and be a Christian, though real-life gets in the way. For example, I remember the scene in Super Counselors where she tries to remember to read the Bible every day, but then she sees a cute guy at the gym and can’t stop thinking about him and forgets to read her Bible that day. Can you think of a few other examples in the books like that where you tried to balance out Christianity and realism? I think the Abby books have some great examples along those lines.

Jenifer: The premise of my fifth Abby’s Camp Days book (tentatively titled New Staff and scheduled for release this spring) is that the awesome camp staff members (manager, lifeguards, cooks, maintenance guys, etc.) whom Abby loves and has known since she was really little have been replaced by a brand new staff that leaves much to be desired. The lifeguard is scary, the cooks only serve food that is gross or burned, and the new manager has come up with a bunch of new rules that the kids hate. After having many of their camp freedoms taken away and being crabbed at all week by these new, annoying staff members, things escalate to the campers getting canteen taken away and sent to their cabins early. Then, the manager arrives at Abby’s cabin to yell at the girls’ counselor because she wrote a personal note of thanks on the maintenance guy’s request sheet instead of using it for its intended purpose: to make formal requests. The counselors, Kate and Allie, try to calm the girls down, but they are all riled up from a week of what they’ve perceived as injustice.

“Hey, I’ve got it.” Rachel wasn’t giving up that quickly. “We should all start writing random things on the maintenance board, like stuff we can’t stand about them. Like all the stuff from my first petition.”

“Ooh, that’d be funny,” Maddy said.

Allie shook her head. “No.”

“Don’t do that,” Kate said, totally siding with Allie. “We can’t be mean just because they’re mean to us. The Bible says to turn the other cheek.”

Allie and Kate sent us back to our bunks, and we spent an extra-long devotion time looking up verses that said things like the whole turn the other cheek thing and “Treat others as you want them to treat you.” Rachel found a verse in Proverbs that said, “But if you are stupid, you will be beaten with a stick,” which got her really excited until Kate said that it was a rule from over two thousand years ago and didn’t apply to the twenty-first century and probably had a double meaning that we didn’t know and that she wasn’t allowed to beat anybody with a stick at camp that week.

“But there are so many good sticks at camp,” Rach protested, “and so many stupid people this summer. Don’t you have to do what the Bible says, anyway?”

“Here’s something then,” Allie said. She had been leaning against her dresser, flipping through her Bible. Now she stood up straight and cleared her throat. “Matthew 5:44. ‘I tell you to love your enemies and pray for anyone who mistreats you. Then you will be acting like your Father in heaven.’”

“That’s good,” Lindsay said. “I’m going to do that. Whenever I get really mad at someone, I’ll pray for them instead of thinking about what makes me mad.”

“Good idea, Lindsay,” Kate said. “I think we should all try that.”

“Won’t we be praying every second of the day for these people?” Maddy asked.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Allie said.

“I’d still rather beat them with sticks,” Rachel mumbled, low enough so Allie and Kate wouldn’t hear.

I had to try really hard not to laugh at the mental picture I got of Aaron trying to make us sing Rise and Shine again and Rachel going after him with a stick.

The counselors have had a teaching time, and obviously some of the girls are listening and taking to heart the Bible reading. But they’ve just endured a week of being annoyed and hurt by these people, and some of them aren’t ready to forgive. I think that’s pretty realistic. Everybody’s heart is different. Each of the four main camper characters has a different personality in my series, and they naturally react to situations differently. They aren’t always going to do the right thing every time, just as humans, including Christians, don’t do the right thing all the time.

Tyler: That’s a perfect passage for an example, Jenifer. Could you envision how your books would be different without the Christian themes in them?

Cabin Secrets, book three in the Abby's Camp Days series

Jenifer: They would be very different. The characters might be similar, but even if they had the same names and same personality and physical traits, they would be different people. Being a Christian (or not being a Christian) affects your motivations, your dreams, your actions. There’s a lot of hazing involved in many camp plots on TV and in books, and that just would not fly at Christian camp. The counselors would be all over you if you and your buddies tormented the weird kid or played a nasty trick on somebody. There would also probably be more of an emphasis on activities (more things like the traditional color wars or sports tournaments or horseback riding and archery) instead of an emphasis on relationships and character growth if my books didn’t have Christian themes.

The plots would probably be similar but the little details would be very different. In so many the camp-themed books and movies, when campers or counselors sneak out, they end up drinking alcohol, smoking, having sex with their camp romances. My characters sneak out at night, of course (how can you not—it’s camp!!!) but they do things like take a canoe out after hours and (ooooh) kiss their camp romances. I’m not saying that Christian camp counselors would never do those other things, but it would be less common and not as accepted. Since camp romance is such a big part of the whole camp culture, I love a good CR in my books or in a book about camp that I’m reading. One difference I’ve noticed in my books and non-Christian camp books is that the camp romances in my books often develop slowly from already-formed relationships while a lot of camp romances in secular media are “Ooh, a hot guy counselor is interested in me—let’s make out (or sometimes more) every other chapter. Then we’ll figure out what, if anything, we have in common or where this is going.”

I’ve always thought that my books would sell more if they had “more exciting,” worldly things like this in them, but I just don’t want to write that. Teenagers get enough of that from TV, and they need to hear from somebody what God hopes for their lives and that you can have a blast, whether it’s on a date or hanging out with a big group of friends, without drugs, alcohol, or sex. It can be just as exciting and romantic to build up to that first kiss in a camp romance.

Tyler: I know in the past when I’ve talked to you, you’ve talked about the need to balance your books between being too worldly and too pure or innocent (those might not be the exact words you would use but I think you know what I mean). How do you manage to carry off that balance, and do your readers ever think you go too far one way or the other?

Jenifer: I don’t try consciously to write one way or the other early in the process. I just write the story I want to write and then on subsequent edits, I try to look at things from several perspectives and sometimes I end up changing things if I think I’ve gone too extreme one way or another. Most of the people who have talked to me about it say that they think the balance is good and that the elements of faith are strong but the characters are realistic.

I did have a friend (who read the first three Abby volumes and said she enjoyed them herself) say that she knew some conservative parents who wouldn’t agree with them because the main character and her best friend have crushes on the teenage guy counselors. While I don’t see any problem with a harmless little kid crush (I’ve counseled elementary camp tons of times before, and it does happen quite a bit—I think it’s great for girls to admire and set their standards of their future boyfriends on real, stand-up, Christian guys they know rather than popular actors or singers they only know on the surface and who will inevitably be involved at some point in some sort of media scandal.) I’m not offended that people might have that opinion, though. If anything, I think it’s good to know what your kids are reading, and if it’s something you don’t agree with, that’s fine. I also know that there are people on the other side of the spectrum who will roll their eyes and think it’s totally lame that many of my college aged (and older) characters (male characters as well as female) are firm in their decision to retain their purity until marriage.

You can’t please everybody, so you just have to know your audience and write for them, and there’s going to be some sort of controversy, however small, about whatever you write, whether it’s college students not believing people would wait for marriage or parents who are wary about elementary kid crushes.

I think a lot of people have this notion that if a book is labeled as “Christian fiction,” that it’s suitable for everyone of every age and interest. That’s not always the case. In the beginning, I only had young adult books, and when I’d speak about being a writer to grade school students, some kids would come up to me afterwards, hand me money, and try to buy copies. I had to tell them that the books were really for teenagers and that they needed to check with their parents first because some of the storylines centered around the choices teenagers make in our flawed world.

Teenagers are going to be tempted by things, and some Christian teens are going to ponder these choices rather than sticking to their guns right away. They might even make the wrong choice sometimes and then have to live with the consequences of that choice in light of their faith or redeem themselves by making the right choice the next time. Being a Christian doesn’t put you in a bubble with only other Christians. Man, life would be easy if that were true! (That’s actually kind of what camp is like, which is why it’s so hard to take all the things you learn in that safe little bubble out into your real life.) In that real life, you’re still exposed to the influence of the world, no matter what promises you made to God and yourself at camp. Those things are still out there, affecting your view of yourself and the decisions you make. Sometimes you’re going to fail. Sometimes in big ways. And I think it’s okay if fictional characters do, too.

Tyler: Besides Christianity, what would you say is the predominant theme to your books?

Jenifer: Friendship and being there for someone unconditionally. Camp friendships are very different from real life friendships. Also, that everybody, no matter what you look like or what your interests are or what you’re good at (or terrible at), can be accepted somewhere, flaws and all. How if you and a friend have one really important thing in common (in my books, it’s camp, but I suppose it could be anything that means the world to you both) that’s enough of a bond to supersede any minor (or major) differences in your lifestyle or personalities.

Tyler: How important is humor to your books?

Jenifer: I think humor is very important. Most of the books I love are funny or at least have a major humorous component to the narrator’s voice. I like to be entertained, and I don’t think I’m unique in that respect. The two biggest compliments a reader can give me are to say that a scene either made them cry a little or caused them to laugh. I have a friend named Mevia who is great at catching typos and storyline discrepancies. She is usually one of the first people who reads my books when I’m at the very end of polishing them. I gave her a sneak peek of the FriendLink portion of my website (a fake social media network with my characters’ profiles). Well, she was on vacation reading it in a hotel computer lab, and she said she kept cracking up and the other guests would give her funny looks. When I hear things like this, it helps me so much fight through the tough writing times. I want to entertain people, and I think that having a funny voice is a big part of this, even if you’re dealing with serious plots.

Tyler: You also have serious topics, such as people having serious illnesses or being killed in car accidents, or being children of divorce. How do you balance out the serious and the funny, and why do you include both?

Jenifer: This was actually never a conscious choice. I didn’t sit down to write an outline of a book and think, “What kind of disasters can hammer my characters today? Oh, death by car accident!” It came about because my real life camp experience included campers telling me angrily about how much it sucks to hear mom and dad scream at each other or campers crying because they’ve lost a grandparent or a friend to cancer. One of my favorite campers in real life lost her father to a degenerative disease when she was a senior in high school. He was diagnosed when she was in junior high and I was 19, and he died when I was 23. It was horrible to watch his health decline and to see how heartbroken this camper I cared about was.

The first time I counseled, I was 16, and my co-counselor, who would go on to become a good friend, had just lost his father six months prior to the week of camp to a sudden heart attack. A big part of my first week of camp was working through that. Until that week, I was invincible in my mind, and so was my family. Sure, I had thought about the fact that someday, my parents would pass away, but in my mind, I had gray hair and wrinkles as I buried them. All of a sudden, I was confronted with mortality…the knowledge that I might not be old before someone I loved died and I remember feeling so helpless both for myself and my friend.

I think these, and the many other heartaches shared with me by co-counselors and campers, were so much a part of my camp experience that when I went to write fiction about camp, of course there were serious, horrible issues to deal with, not just corny jokes on candy wrappers at canteen and funny pranks. Like I said before, camp is a safe place where you can be yourself and work out your issues. And it’s funny and a little bit bizarre because one minute you’re pouring your heart out to your counselor about a parent’s terminal illness and the next you’re laughing like crazy at a goofy skit with all the other campers about a centipede peeing on someone. That’s camp, a strange mix of serious and funny, and I think that’s why it comes through in my books.

Tyler: Abby is the main character in the majority of books. How did you settle on her for your narrator, and what is the advantage of telling the story from her perspective?

Jenifer: Well, I got the idea to do the Abby’s Camp Days series while talking to my friend Phil. He’s a friend from camp, and he had just read Buddy Check. We were talking about my books and his projects (he’s a musician), and somehow the subject got onto the Harry Potter series. “Hey,” Phil said, “you should write a book like Harry Potter but at camp, where you have the same main character, but every year is year at camp, like how the Potter ones are one book for each year of Hogwarts.” I loved the idea!

I knew I wanted to keep this series in the Camp Spirit world I had created in my first two young adult books. So naturally, the first book in a series about a camper would be about a kid who was going to camp for the first time, didn’t know anybody, was pretty unsure about it and unfamiliar with the camp culture, and eventually realized that camp was awesome. But wait a minute…that was the story I was so sick of reading, the story that wasn’t camp as I knew it, the reason I started writing about camp in the first place. I knew I needed a twist. I needed a way not to deviate from my rule of writing about camp people who already looked forward to camp and the rekindling of relationships with their camp friends. But how could I possibly write that when Volume 1 of Abby was about a kid going to her first week of elementary camp?

Abby Riley was the answer to that dilemma. She was a 9-year-old girl who was ready to go off to her first week of elementary camp on her own (well, with one friend from school) but she was in a unique position because while elementary camp was new to her, Camp Spirit wasn’t. Her parents were the deans of the junior high week, so she already knew all the staff members, campers, and counselors. She already knew where the bathrooms were, what the cabins were named, and what activities they’d do. Or so she thought . . . turns out, most of the volunteer counselors at elementary camp are people she doesn’t know and the whole format of elementary camp is different from junior high. And, most annoying to Abby, she’s just one of eighty or so campers at elementary camp, expected to follow all the silly, babyish rules instead of a dean’s guest, privy to special privileges. So I was able to tell a story about a kid who isn’t sure about camp but who already had a relationship with the few counselors and staff members whom she knew from past summers. She already had expectations and knowledge about camp, and I think that I was able to put a twist on the popular first-time-camper storyline.

Tyler: When you finish writing the Abby series, do you have plans to write more books, and will they be about camp or other topics?

Lost Swimmer Drill, fourth in the Abby's Camp Days series

Jenifer: Abby was supposed to be a 10-book series, starting with elementary camp and ending with her graduation from high school camp. But I’ve gotten ideas for one or two books past that, when Abby and her friends are in college. More recently, a whole new cast of characters have come to me—the kids of the campers and counselors I’m currently writing about. I have one book about these second generation campers that I really want to write, maybe two. I thought it would be fun to see how they all end up 20 years from now. The focus would be on the kids, but their parents and honorary aunts and uncles would be in there, too, so you could see what kind of parents these people end up and what they do for a living, whether or not what their lives have become mesh with the dreams they have as teenagers. And, of course, if any of those camp romances end up lasting.

After that, I think it’s time for Camp Spirit to take a break. I’ve written them for the last decade and it will be another decade before I’m done with the next 5 Abbys and possibly the college and next generation books. I think it’ll be time to write about the “real world” for a while then. I have the seeds of ideas for several non-camp books, but I haven’t allowed myself to think too much about them because I have so much to do with my current projects.

Tyler: What is your absolutely favorite thing about camp?

Jenifer: The whole safe environment. I feel free to be myself at camp. The people are accepting. That’s why I keep going to camp as a counselor and dean. I was given, by the people running camp when I was a kid and teenager, that safe environment. I made friends and was accepted at camp when people my age in the real world didn’t want anything to do with me. Everybody should have the opportunity to have that, so I try my best every year to counsel a cabin that promotes acceptance for every single girl, a little family that values every camper.

Tyler: What do you hope readers will feel or think after reading your books?

Jenifer: I hope that fellow “camp addicts” will be able to say, “That is so camp!” I want them to be able to have camp for a few hours, even if it’s snowy and January. And I want non-camp people to understand camp and why it means so much to camp addicts. It’s hard to understand what appeals about camp when you’re not into it yourself, why the same stupid jokes cause camp friends to bust up laughing over and over, why camp people live the 51 weeks of the year counting down to the 1 week they get to go to camp. I think it’s sometimes incomprehensible and even a little hurtful to family members and friends who don’t also love camp. I want them to be able to read my books and understand the camp addicts in their lives, to know that it’s not that they value their non-camp friends or the time spent with them any less than their camp friends; it’s just that camp is a special place unlike any other.

Tyler: Jenifer, you have an amazing web site www.jeniferbrady.com. Will you tell my readers a little about the many fun things there, including FriendLink?

Jenifer: Well, thank you! When I finish a book that I love, I’m so sad because the story is over. If it’s a series, I immediately hit the library website to reserve the next book. If that’s the end or if it’s a stand-alone book, I want to know more about the author and the world I was so captivated by. One thing I do is go to the author or book’s website to find out more. The websites I love the most are the ones that continue the story somehow. It gives you your fix while you wait for the next book to come out. I wanted my readers to be able to continue experiencing camp on my web site, so I have lots of interactive things like camp recipes, instructions on how to make gimp bracelets, camp-themed e-cards, and yes, the FriendLink.

FriendLink came about because a couple of the authors I follow created MySpace or Facebook accounts for some of their fictional characters. You could “friend” them and “talk” to them and meet up with other fans. Well, that didn’t really appeal to me because I didn’t want to comment on a fictional character’s social media page. They can’t really be your friend. They aren’t real. Any comments by the character are, obviously, written by the author, or more likely, someone paid by the author to maintain the online presence. What I wanted to see was those characters interacting online with the other characters from their world. So I thought, why couldn’t mine? I created my own social media site called FriendLink for my book characters. It’s not a real thing; it’s created entirely through HTML coding just like any other web site page. But it’s real to my characters. It starts you out with Abby’s profile, and through her site, you can click on her friends’ profile pictures to get to their profiles. You can also click on “View Messages” under any of the pictures and see what they are writing on each other’s pages. It’s really fun because I get to write from the perspective of just about every character from Camp Spirit. It also kind of got out of hand because my original idea was just to have Abby’s profile. Then I thought I should link to her friends. Then they had to have friends on their profiles, and all of a sudden, I was creating 500-plus pages for FriendLink. It’s very time-consuming and almost like writing an additional book for each volume. But it’s fun and a good character-building exercise for me. And I think readers like to see what the characters are talking about after camp.

Tyler: Jenifer, in closing, will you tell us a little about your life as a writer. I know you’re a stay-at-home mom so how do you find time to write when you have kids, and what advice do you have for any of your readers who may want to become writers?

Jenifer: Writing with kids has been a challenge. There were months when I had infants in the house that not much got done. Now I try to dedicate my son’s afternoon nap towards writing time no matter how many other things I have to get done. I’ve had to realize that housework will always be there, and writing is important. I think that’s the biggest thing for people who want to write to know. That there’s always going to be something else you could and probably should be doing, but you have to value your writing time and sneak it in whenever you can. Sometimes there might not be anything you can do about it, like last year when my daughter had morning preschool and my son took afternoon naps. I had zero alone time to write, so I just had to work with distractions and call on my husband’s help on weekends to get writing time in. But when possible, try to carve out a consistent time, like nap time, to write, even if it means getting behind in other things.

It’s also hard to get out there to events. I know some writers are at various book signings and shows almost every weekend in cities all over. That’s not possible for me. So I have to try to choose the most promising few and hit those. I’m excited to be having my books at the Superior Dome in Marquette at the TV 6 Christmas Craft Show December 2 – 4 for the first time. I’ve been told by several people that it’s huge, and I can’t wait to experience it for myself. I think it will be the biggest show I’ve been at. But being able to go involved finding baby-sitters for the weekend and figuring out how my family’s schedule can fit around me getting there on time. Creative scheduling is always involved in these things. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for writers who don’t have young children and can pick up and go wherever and whenever they’d like.

If you’re a writer, you won’t be able NOT to write, and it will be a matter of survival to find time to write. I’ve tried several times to take a break or just give it up for all the other things I have going on in life. It doesn’t work. My characters and plots call to me until I finally give in and write again. And I’m not has happy when I’m not writing as when I am. So I’ve learned that I have to write, no matter the time-management challenge.

Tyler: Thanks again, Jenifer, for the opportunity to interview you. I can’t wait for the fifth Abby book this spring! And I look forward to seeing you at the Superior Dome this weekend where we’ll both be selling our books.

Marquette’s Harbor Ridge – the Pickands Home 455 E. Ridge

If you’ve seen my video for my book My Marquette, you may recognize this house as the cover image for the video. You can watch the video at my website at: www.MarquetteFiction.com

Following is the fascinating history of one of Marquette’s most beautiful and historic homes, as written in my book My Marquette:

Harbor Ridge - 455 E. Ridge Street

Known today as Harbor Ridge, this home was built in 1881 by James Pickands, a colonel during the Civil War who had become the head of a large ore and shipping firm on the Great Lakes and Marquette’s fourth mayor in 1876. Pickands was married to Caroline Martha Outhwaite, daughter of John Outhwaite, a director of the Cleveland Iron Mining Company, who spent his summers in Marquette. Outhwaite’s other daughter, Mary (Caroline’s half-sister), married Jay Morse, who had been an agent for the Cleveland Iron Mining Company. Morse and Pickands as brother-in-laws would be good friends all their lives.

John Outhwaite was one of the first residents in Marquette, actually arriving the year before the town was founded. After sleeping his first night on the sand along the lakeshore, the next day he went with his Indian guides to prospect for iron ore. He located the claims for what would become the Cleveland Iron Mining Company. Although other investors such as Dr. Morgan Hewitt and Samuel Mather played more public roles, John Outhwaite was the largest investor in the company when it was incorporated in 1850.

Outhwaite’s many other business interests included retail and wholesale groceries, provisioning, lamp (lard) oil manufacturing, investment in Cleveland’s first iron mill (which was supplied with ore by Cleveland Iron Mining’s mines), brewing, and land development. (His son John Peet Outhwaite of Ishpeming would follow his father’s lead in the grocery and provisioning business). Outhwaite backed his two sons-in-law and Colonel Pickand’s brother Henry in iron production ventures such as the Bay Furnace as well as several of his nephews in the Blackwell family. While John Outhwaite is predominantly credited with being a Cleveland resident, he was actively involved in the Marquette area and according to his descendant, James Pickands Cass, may well be counted as Marquette’s first millionaire.

Colonel Pickands did well for himself with help from his father-in-law. This beautiful Victorian home he built would contain seven fireplaces, beautiful doors of cherry and walnut, and eighteen rooms, but it would not be home to the Pickands for long. Within a week of moving into the home, Mrs. Pickands died. Rumor said the family had moved into the house before the plaster was dry, which resulted in Mrs. Pickands coming down with pneumonia. Unable to live in the home where his wife had died, Pickands sold the house to Henry C. Thurber, and moved with his children to Cleveland. Despite the move, the Pickands family would remain connected to their former Marquette neighbors. Colonel Pickands’ son Henry C. Pickands, would later marry Jennie Call, daughter of Charles and Bessie Call of Marquette (see 450 E. Ridge). In addition, Colonel Pickands’ sister Anna married William Goodwin and in turn the Goodwin’s daughter Helen married Alfred Maynard, son of Matthew H. Maynard (see 350 E. Ridge). Another of his sisters, Caroline, operated an early school in Marquette which became the inspiration for Carroll Watson Rankin’s novel Stump Village (1935).

Colonel Pickands remarried to Seville Hanna, whose brother, Cleveland industrialist Mark Hanna, would be President McKinley’s 1896 campaign manager. After Colonel Pickands died in 1896, his brother-in-law Jay Morse married his widow Seville. Pickands, who had named one of his sons for Jay Morse, probably would have given them his blessing. We can only speculate on what a friendship must have existed between these brother-in-laws. When Morse died in 1906, M.H. Maynard of Marquette said of him, “Jay C. Morse was the most upright and honest man I ever knew. He was thoroughly straight and I don’t believe he ever told a lie in his life. His word was always as good as his bond, and he was well liked by all with whom he came in contact.”

Henry C. Thurber, this home’s second owner, was the co-owner of the Hebard-Thurber Lumber Company. As Marquette’s tenth mayor, he would also help Peter White raise money to build the road to Presque Isle. Thurber did not live in the house for long before selling it to Frank Bennett Spear, Marquette’s ninth mayor.

Frank Spear was married to Sara Kennedy, which linked him to most of the Ridge Street families by marriage. Spear had come to Marquette in 1864. He founded F. B. Spear & Co., later known as Spear & Sons; the dock he built in the harbor early on was the only one to survive the 1868 fire. Spear began his company by dealing in wholesale and retail grain and feed, and in time, the company would also handle coal, wood, lime, brick, cement, fuel oil, sand, gravel, lumber, and other building materials. After Frank Spear’s death in 1924, his sons and grandchildren would carry on the business until the company closed its doors in 1993. I remember going to the Spears building on West Washington Street many times in the 1970s and 1980s with my grandfather, Lester White, so he could pick up wood to do his carpentry work.

Spear’s son, Frank B. Spear II, inherited the home. His wife, Rachel, was a huge collector of bells and her collection was featured in numerous collector magazines. The collection included more than 600 bells from forty countries, one of Bishop Baraga’s altar bells from the Indian Mission on Keweenaw Bay, a silver bell from a lady’s garter, a Chinese costume bell, and the bell to Engine 26 from the Lake Superior & Ishpeming Railroad. Today, the famous Rachel Spear bell collection can be seen on display at the Peter White Public Library.

As for Harbor Ridge, in the late twentieth century, it would belong to another Marquette Mayor, William Birch and his wife Sally. The Birchs became the saviors of Dandelion Cottage when, rather than allow it to be torn down, they moved it to their backyard where it became 440 E. Arch Street.

Discover more Marquette history in My Marquette, available at: www.MarquetteFiction.com