Sep 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles: The Details of People

Great Lakes Coffee Roasting Company

Detroit, MI

July 2015

Here I am.

How dependent we are on our electronic devices.

I love that the baristas here write names on the for-here mug.  I feel personalized.  I’m drinking the Brazil, so this reminds me what cuppa of coffee to get next : this or try something new.

Wi-Fi here keeps flickering, and I can’t connect my tablet to the network.  So I’ll write here, in my journal, by hand.  There’s no going back now.  It feels personal.

Speaking of, I just had a conversation with the man next to me.

I always wonder what motivates a man in a business suit, complete with a tie and tie clip, to be in a coffee shop at 3:10pm on a Friday afternoon.  Me, I’m done with work for the day, and I’m waiting for a storytelling event nearby.

The man has an accent.  Middle-Eastern, I think.  It’s a soft voice, casual and smooth.  I would never know that if the Wi-Fi wasn’t jittery.

I met with my editor the other day.  She commented that she can run her entire magazine from her laptop at a coffee shop.

I agree.  It’s pretty amazing.  I can write for any publication anywhere and talk via email to anyone.  However, the life you write about is up there, beyond your keyboard, above your laptop screen.

Staring at my screen, I’d never have noticed his light blue, long sleeve shirt.

He would never have seen me smile at him.

Sep 16

Up from Under the Bridge, Eh?

Pure Michigan campaign ads had persuaded trolls—residents of Michigan’s lower peninsula, like me—to crawl out from our homes south of the Mackinac Bridge. It was Labor Day weekend, the last chance for many families to head up north before the start of a new school year. For my family, this was the perfect time to explore the beauty of our grand state’s upper peninsula. Our adventure began in the city of St. Ignace at the area’s number one, Trip Advisor rated, hotel: the Best Western Harbour Pointe Lakefront.

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Nicknamed Mighty Mac, the Mackinac Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere and fifth longest in the world.

After dinner, my husband, four children, and I sat around a bonfire with other hotel guests. I asked Zach, who was part of the hospitality staff, if he knew any ghost stories. He was busy unloading wood for the fire but sat down for a few minutes to share some of the rumors he was familiar with. I light-heartedly listened to Zach’s fanciful stories. What I didn’t know at that time was just how much this discussion would affect my psyche and influence my decisions throughout the rest of the trip.

Zach recalled the tale of a woman who had an extramarital affair. Townspeople killed the unfaithful wife by dunking her repeatedly underwater in what is known as the drowning pool, a twenty-feet deep, seaweed-infested lagoon on nearby Mackinac Island. The ghost of the woman reportedly now haunts that area.

Intrigued by this story, I later looked online for more information. I read through pages and pages of creepy hauntings that had frightened local residents and visitors, but I couldn’t find the exact story Zach had referred to. I discovered one other, however, that best fit his account.

Haunts of Mackinac author Todd Clements described the unfortunate outcome for seven prostitutes who were accused of being witches. The ladies were subjected to a test in order to determine their innocence or guilt. A large boulder was tied to each lady. Then they were thrown into the drowning pool. If the women floated, they would have been found guilty—considered witches—and subjected to further punishment: death by hanging. Since every one of the accused actually sunk deep below the surface of the water, they were vindicated of sorcery but had drowned in the process of proving their innocence. The women now make appearances as eerie, shadow-like figures floating above the lagoon or as huge, larger-than-life splashes on the surface of the water.

Other stories also indicate that the drowning pool is haunted by ghosts. But Zach didn’t seem to believe in ghosts at all. He preferred to talk about a story that was based upon measurable, physical evidence. He said that hundreds of bodies had been uncovered during construction of the Grand Hotel. “There were so many bodies, they eventually stopped trying to retrieve all of them, so there are still hundreds, maybe thousands, lying beneath the building.” That’s not a fact the hotel advertises on its webpage, but Zach was confident of its authenticity. He emphatically added, “That’s a true story.”

The unique history of Mackinac Island may support that claim. Indian chiefs were buried there; soldiers died there. Other people committed suicide and murder. Death is nothing abnormal, of course, but it does produce an odd result on Mackinac. The island is considered to be one of the most haunted places in Michigan.

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This Bigfoot sighting occurred right in front of Muldoons’ restaurant and gift shop in Munising.

I suppose Zach has never seen a ghost, and so he finds it easy to dismiss the paranormal. But how do reasonable people like him react to legends of animal-like creatures such as Bigfoot?

Animal Planet’s popular television series, Finding Bigfoot began its eighth season in January 2016. Enough people watch the show to keep it on the air. Does that mean they believe that these creatures actually roam the earth? Or are they watching only to be entertained? Arguments run rampant in online forums as people seriously debate the question “Would you shoot a sasquatch?” Some believers say “I couldn’t kill it” and skeptics respond “You can’t kill something that doesn’t exist.”

Zach is probably a skeptic. He joked about having seen a similar phenomenon, the Dogman. It’s described as a large dog that walks upright on two legs and terrorizes the northern part of Michigan. Because Zach had laughed, I knew he didn’t want me to think that he truly believed in the werewolf-like animal.

But people in our remote towns are seeing mysterious things they can’t easily explain away. Documented reports are so convincing that I admit this: As my family and I hiked through the U.P. wilderness, I was on guard against two specific entities besides ferocious cougars, man-eating black bear, and venomous Massasauga rattlesnakes. I looked deeply into the thicket of the forest and wondered just what I would do if I crossed paths with the gruesome Dogman or the iconic Bigfoot.

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Preparation for our hike included selection of the right-sized walking stick. Luckily, we found these at the trailhead.

I stayed on the trail best I could and kept searching for anything out of the ordinary. I quickly dismissed non-threatening deer tracks. I counted the number of toes in common dog prints and made sure to find four paw prints in stride with one another. I listened for evidence that my family and I were being studied and stalked. Were our feet the only ones to be thudding upon the ground? Why were the birds in the trees suddenly taking flight?

In one hand, I tightly gripped the three-foot long walking stick I had selected at the beginning of our hike. I used the stick to brush the tall grasses that lay ahead of me, hoping to roust camouflaged critters. Occasionally I practiced twisting the knobby branch up and out in front, like a jousting pole or a sabre.

The fingers of my other hand delicately wound around another item that empowered me with confidence. I reasoned that I wouldn’t use it unless the risk to my family was too great not to. Could I actually do it? I wondered and considered alternative scenarios. I knew that I might very well be faced with no other choice.

I was convinced at that point. Determined. If the worst should happen and a feral beast were to get too close, I would swiftly raise my arm, take aim, and throw my treasured, tasty, chicken pasty at the creature. No Yooper would let that staple go to waste. By the time he finished it, my family and I would be long gone and safely out of the woods.

Sep 15

Mount Adams

Crouched in a blinding sleet storm on Mount Adam’s summit, I was alone and numb all over. Stranded in howling mist and 50 mph winds, it was early afternoon on what was supposed to have been a normal tranquil June day in 1989. Any thoughts of a view south 3,000 feet above the Great Gulf to Mount Washington four miles away were gone. I could barely make out a weather-battered wooden sign a few feet away in a greenish-black maelstrom. Huddled back to the storm on a tiny summit, there were only a few boulders for shelter. I was elated to have climbed to the top and worried that no one else was there. Did every other hiker in the White Mountains know something I didn’t? Was this a serious miscalculation? 

Worse, I had lost sight of a four-foot-high rock cairn a little below the summit. It was the only marker showing my way back down, since there was no trail of boot-prints in the rocks at this altitude. I needed to quell a growing sense of unease. If the rock cairn didn’t reappear soon, I was in deep trouble. Having climbed the White Mountains and the Appalachians many years, I was experienced and in good condition, but beginning to realize I might be in over my head. 

Already tired from climbing all morning, the storm was sapping my energy. Even though the wind was blowing ice pellets, I badly needed water, food, and rest to make it back down safely. A sandwich and almost-empty canteen of water was of little help. Yes, I had gained the top, but the rock cairn was the first of many I would have to find while crawling down a massive boulder field in blinding weather. Wandering around Mount Adam’s summit in this storm was inviting death from exposure or a serious fall off a precipice. 

Far below at the trail head, four hours before, the day had been promising with only clouds and spotty afternoon rain. Just an hour ago, I had decided to continue into the growing storm, to be able to say I had climbed Mount Adams rather than simply on it, a now seemingly small distinction. Caught up here, I was barely hanging on, trying to think clearly. How long should I wait for the rock cairn to reappear? I finished the soggy sandwich and took another gulp of water, my hands now too cold to hold the apple in my backpack. Prospects of finding shelter were bleak, but I couldn’t stay where I was. 

A sheltering line of weather-beaten, stunted junipers lay a thousand feet below past the exposed Knife Edge on the Durand Ridge over a mile away. The junipers were gnarled and twisted from a lifetime of constant wind and weather; the last living things at this altitude beside lichen moss. I looked around and couldn’t see any lichen growing on the summit, a sobering thought. I had no way to call or signal for help. Even finding the ridge below would be an iffy proposition if hypothermia set in. The nearest Appalachian Mountain Club shelter was far below and east in a mountain Col of Mount Madison, and there would be little chance of finding it. Without Madison Hut as an alternative, I was left descending in a blinding storm along the Knife Edge. 

With winds increasing, it was difficult seeing anything through my rain-fogged eyeglasses, so I couldn’t make out a compass reading even if I wanted. There was a distinct possibility of never finding my way down, instead laying down in exhaustion to die somewhere under a boulder. Thinking was fuzzier by the minute, disoriented as I was by Adam’s deceiving wind gusts, but an outline of a rock pile appeared a moment in the swirling mist. I scrambled toward it before it disappeared. The next quarter-mile descent would involve crossing a field of slippery boulders, trying to locate more cairns in growing black sleet. Never having been in a mountain storm before, I hadn’t realized rock cairns are silhouetted against lighter sky while climbing but otherwise disappear into a bare stormy mountainside. 

How had I gotten myself into this and would I learn anything if I survived? My wife, Joan, found a Tee-shirt on a Maine vacation that said, “Hiking is Life! The Rest is Just Detail.” I was wearing the now-soaked shirt, but a detail like not risking my life had been forgotten. I was soaked from head to foot despite two supposedly waterproof wind-breakers, one over the other. Special hiking socks were squishy-wet, no longer insulating or protecting against abrasion. Waterproof hiking boots were soggy and chafing; special hiking trousers and underclothes sodden.  

After what seemed like an hour of carefully feeling my way down through the  summit’s boulder field, often losing sight of trail marker rock cairns, I finally found a path below approaching the Knife Edge. The welcoming field of stunted junipers finally appeared, meaning a little more shelter from the driving rain and slashing wind. I crouched out of the maelstrom to take stock, no longer lost but wet, shivering, and beginning to have difficulty walking. 

I still had another three miles and a few thousand feet to descend, almost three hours to the trail head. There was no way to avoid losing my footing on occasion in the rain-swollen stream-bed that had been the rocky Airline trail that morning. Each step became slower, legs and feet afire; a beating they would feel for days. It took more than what I thought would be three hours, and I was dizzy, almost delirious, by the time I reached the trail head parking lot in late afternoon’s drizzling rain. 

I sagged against the car, glancing up a last time. Mount Adam’s summit was now shrouded in a frightening storm, no longer visible. I began unzipping soaked clothes with fumbling fingers before setting the car’s heater to maximum, luxuriating in its warmth. 

The adventure had been both rewarding and dangerous. But, where had I gone over the line; that it was too hazardous to continue? Perhaps it was time to stop solo-climbing, because it wasn’t clear when I should have turned back. I still don’t know how other climbers balance the risk and reward of summiting mountains, but many have died working it out. The question is, will I turn back next time?

Sep 11

Hot Blacktop Ch. 15 – Racing Under Caution

road-in-woodsSaint still reeled from Sienna’s departure. She needed the sense knocked into her after the nonsense she threw at him in the garage. Did she really think he was going to give up on her? Saint would set her straight once he found her.

When he moved to find his clothes, his head throbbed but the doctors had cleared him to leave the hospital minutes ago. It only took a few stitches to close up the wound. If Sienna had seen how much blood had come from the small cut, okay not small, she would have been hysterical and thought, he was dying. Now he just needed a ride to find her before she found out what had happened. If she even wanted to be found. He would have called Chris, but his friend was out of town for a meeting with his racing team.

“How goes it Humpty Dumpty?” A familiar voice snickered from the door, as he swung his legs around spotting his pants in the vinyl chair. He looked up as she entered. The face that went with the voice tightened.

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Smarty Pants,” Saint responded with Josephine’s nickname second only to the widely used Jo Jo, in the MOTO circuit.

“You scared the stuffing out of me, Saint.” She scowled her accent, thick with emotion, more than normal.

“I’m fine Jo Jo.” He grabbed his pants and slowly put them on, the push and pull making him queasy.

“Can you take me to the speedway? I need to take care of a few things.” The hospital supplied a scrubs top. Soaked with more blood than he thought possible, his shirt was a lost cause.

“Straight to bed is where you should go, hon.”

“Are you propositioning me Jo Jo?” he quipped trying to lighten the mood.

She blushed a bright pink, wagged her finger at him and said, “I’d smack ya upside your silly head for that one, but then you’d earn another night in this nightmare of a place.” She shivered. What was that all about he wondered. She shook her head coming back from wherever she’d gone. “Come on Humpty. Let’s get.”

“Only if you don’t call me that anymore.” She shook her head and finally smiled again.

Once they arrived, Jo Jo made sure he got in the apartment over the garage, motherly she definitely was, threatening to even tuck Saint into bed. He didn’t have time for her concern even if it was heartfelt. He needed to get to Sienna. She would blame herself for his concussion.

His thoughts were interrupted. “You’ll call me if you need me, right?” Jo Jo asked.

Saint nodded and winced. She took a step forward and he held up a hand to ward her off. “I will Jo Jo. I promise.”

“I’m at the Willmar B & B, like always.”

Once the door shut with a soft snick, he did his best to quickly get changed. He had to steady himself more than a few times to ward off some dizziness. He took a couple painkillers then headed out.

He arrived at Sienna’s in record time to see another vehicle pulled in front of her house. When he saw who it was he was more confused than anything. And then he saw that Sienna’s front door was wide open, remnants of the solid wood door, shattered glass reflected in the moonlight, scattered on the wood plank porch. He ran up the steps ignoring his pounding head only to stop short when Gunner pointed a gun at him. Saints hands went up and his pulse clocked into overdrive. Gunner motioned for him to get behind him when he realized it was Saint. Gunner put a finger to his lips and then with practiced movements aimed his weapon toward the open door and disappeared through it.

“What the hell man!” Saint whispered as the man disappeared through the door. Who the hell was this guy? Saint moved to follow his fear for Sienna gripping him in a choke hold.

“Stay here.” Gunner said as he crossed the threshold just inside the door.

“The fuck I will! He followed the man and sucked in all the air from the room. He walked into a disaster zone.

Gunner’s head swiveled sweeping the area. He moved through the house like he belonged here, which didn’t make any sense. Had he been in Sienna’s house before? When he came back into the living room, Saint finally became unstuck. “Where’s Sienna?” His heart hammered as the struggle that occurred in the room became all too real in his mind. Furniture was upturned, blood splattered the sofa, bullet holes riddled the walls. As he drew a picture of what happened…He just needed her to be okay.

Fueled by his rage, fear and adrenaline, he stupidly grabbed Gunner, and slammed him against the wall. The man grunted, from the force. Saint had a captive audience. A very pissed off captive audience.

“Where’s Sienna?” No answer. He slammed Gunner against the wall and then suddenly he was the one smashed against it. The pain in his head made a mad dash through his nervous system as it returned. Saints stomach rolled with nausea.

“I don’t know. You’ll want to calm dow…” Gunners words were cut down to nothing. Saint could barely see what had caught his attention. It was a small tennis shoe. Gunner suddenly let him go and Saint did everything he could not to slide down the wall.

“We need to go,” Gunner pronounced.

“We? I don’t even know who you are, man. I come up to find a gun pointed at me, Sienna’s house part of the backdrop for the five o’clock news and you think I’d trust anything you said? No. Just no. He turned to leave, to go find Sienna himself, when Gunner grabbed his arm and stopped him. Gunner flipped open his wallet and thrust a business card at him.

“What the hell is this,” he looked down and could just make out the card. “Anderson Investigations. I thought you said your name was Gunner Phillips?”

“My name’s Gunner Anderson. I’m a private investigator.”

Saint opened his mouth to speak, but Gunner interrupted. “I’ll explain on the way. We need to leave now.” Gunner moved and Saint was frozen in place by all that had happened.

“Paulson, let’s move.” Jolted by Gunner’s underlying growl, Saint moved.

As soon as the gravel at the end of the drive kicked up, Gunners words poured out of his mouth. “I’ve been working in Danny’s bitch of a mother’s father’s organization for over two years to gain their trust, to get close enough to the inner circle for the intel I needed to bring the organization down. That fucker Marco was the prize though. What he did to my sister…he’s either going to jail for a long time or I’m putting a bullet in his head.”

Saint watched Gunner as his words trailed off sister. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter as if it would bend by raw anger alone.

“What did he do to your sister?” He dare ask. Gunner’s eyes flashed on him and he would have missed the pain in that swift glance if not for the clearing that let the glow of the moon back into their ride.

“You don’t want to know,” Gunner said flexing his fingers as he guided the vehicle around a turn.

“Fuck!” Saint’s breathes burned in and out of his nose as all kinds of scenarios danced in his head. “Fuck, go faster.”

Gunner ignored him and spoke on. “Sienna’s mother is mired in her own shit, buried to depths that no one escapes from. Once Marco decided that her debt was owed…She’d been racking up debt, and Marco, who is Danny’s mother’s enforcer called her debt due. But, surprise, surprise, she didn’t have the money.” Gunner looked over at Saint. “Sienna is the next best thing. And Marco will do whatever it takes to extricate Sienna from her money.” Saint swallowed hard, the ache in his throat threatening to choke him. “Anything. Top that shit off,” Gunner continued, “I think Marco has Danny too.”

“The shoe. Christ!” He rubbed his face. His head hurt more than ever. “Why didn’t you get Danny out of that damn house? You could have gotten him away from his mother. Called social services. Something.”

“I couldn’t help him man. It would have blown my cover. I did the best I could to distract them each time they went after him, but you’ve seen Danny. It doesn’t always work. The good news is I was able to hand over some intel to the FBI. Tonight they arrested the bitch and her father. Their empire is crumbling. FBI’s on cleanup duty. That’s where I came from tonight. But Marco slipped their notice on roundup. I went straight to Sienna’s once I found out.”

The man sighed like he’d had to carry the weight of Atlas’s world. But Saint didn’t give a shit about him. All he cared about was Sienna. Her time was running out if the scene at her house said anything at all. “Where are we headed?”

Gunner looked over at Saint and then back to the road. “You’ve gotta keep it together man. What you’re probably gonna see isn’t gonna make you feel anything close to hearts and rainbows.” Saint watched as the guy’s teeth ground down onto each other. “The place is a shack. A place close to Danny’s house.” He cleared his throat and blew out a breath. “ We just found out about it. Had my guys known about it we would have taken care to clear it too. We think it’s where he’s been keeping Sienna’s mother. I think it’s where he’s taken Sienna.”

“You don’t know for sure? What if she’s not there? How are we going to find her?”
Saint’s words grew louder with every question. “Shit!”

“You need to be prepared.” Saint’s hands started to sweat. “This isn’t your normal little shack. He uses it for all sorts of work.” Gunner looked over again. “You do what I tell you when. No questions. You got me?”

“Yes,” Saint said. He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to disagree on the off chance that Gunner wouldn’t let him out of the damn vehicle.

They approached an overgrown turnoff and Gunner turned off the headlamps. He slowed down too, which put Saint on edge. They needed to go faster. And then he saw it. A small out building with a single window. Gunner pulled over a little way off from where he wanted to be. Sienna was in there and who knows God what was happening. Gunner got out of the car and signaled for Saint to follow. Saint didn’t take his eyes off the small building until he heard Gunner open his trunk and lift something out of a small compartment that Saint knew shouldn’t be there. Gunner handed him a gun.

“You know how to use one?”

“Yes.” Saint pulled back the safety and had it ready to fire in the next second.

“Good. Follow my lead and don’t go off all halfcocked. You’ll put us all in jeopardy.” Saint wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but kept his mouth shut. Sienna was his, and he’d do whatever necessary to get her back.

With each step bringing them closer to her, Saint’s mind spun with what he might see. But he couldn’t do that. Focus he told himself, focus.

They reached the side of the building and the first thing he saw through a small window made him bite his tongue. A small figure was curled up on the floor. It wasn’t moving. Fuck! his mind screamed. Then he breathed through his fear. That wasn’t Sienna he thought. The figure was too small, too thin. Was it Sienna’s mother? Was she dead? Where was Sienna? And then he heard footsteps. It sounded liked someone was pacing. And then the sound stopped.

“Where the fuck is the money?”

Was that moaning? Sienna? Moving at the noise to go around Gunner the man caught Saint’s shoulder and forced his back against the wall.

“There is no money,” Saint heard Sienna say. She was alive. Then Sienna screamed.

“Stay here,” Gunner whispered.

“Fuck that!” he bit out through clenched teeth.

Gunner kicked in the door and Saint followed. Instinct took over. Shots were fired and Saint dove to the side. Gunner grunted and hit the floor but then rolled when Marco fired his gun. Saint’s eyes scanned wildly for Sienna and saw her in the corner on a dirty mattress. The sight of her had his eyes filling with relief and then he looked closer. While chaos echoed throughout the shack Saint raced to get to Sienna. He tripped and fell. He groaned when he realized he’d fallen on Sienna’s mother, her eyes open staring blankly up to the ceiling. His stomach took a dive and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He couldn’t control his need to touch Sienna and took a rough hold of her arms and she screamed.

“It’s me baby. It’s me.” She stilled. He reached to unknot the blindfold that was too tight around her head. She started to struggle. “Sienna, hold still. Hold still baby. I’ve got you.”

She started to cry “Saint? You’re not dead. Oh, God. You’re not dead. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I love you. I love you.”

“I know, baby.” She rocked back and forth making it more difficult to release her bindings that cut into her wrists and ankles. When he finally got the last one undone she fell into his arms. “I love you too,” he said. “Come on we need to get you out of here,” but he was stopped as she grabbed his face with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry I was so hateful. I didn’t mean what I said. I was scared.” Sienna kissed him and pulled back quickly when she hissed from the contact. He was about to look at the cut on her lip when she looked up at him with frantic eyes. “Danny? Where’s Danny?”

“I don’t know.” Saint looked around and saw that Marco was dead, Gunner nowhere in sight. “We thought he was with you.”

“He…he was.” She started to shiver, the shock of what she’d endured taking hold. “But, but, then Marco took him outside. He was screaming and yelling at Marco, telling him to leave me alone.” She grabbed onto his shirt. “Marco said he was going to teach Danny a lesson. Did you see him outside? He was already hurt so badly. He couldn’t have withstood anymore, Saint.” More tears stained her cheeks and Saint wiped them away and kissed each one as they continued to fall.

“We’ll find him.” He lifted her chin and saw that her lip was swollen and encrusted with blood that had cracked open again from their kiss. She had a bruise on her head to match his own. And who knows what else. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” She started to get up and gasped. “Marco kicked me in the ribs.” Saint wished the asshole was still alive so he could kill him all over. When they came to the door Saint giving all his attention to Sienna, she moaned. He thought he’d somehow hurt her. But when he saw Sienna’s stricken face he looked up to see Gunner carrying Danny from a narrow path in the woods at almost a run.

“I need to get Danny to the hospital,” Gunner yelled. When he reached the porch he set Danny down, his body like that of a rag dolls. “I’m getting my ride. Make sure he stays awake. His pulse…” Gunner stopped speaking and swallowed hard. He shook his head and took off running.

“Danny?” Sienna said as she moved to look down at him. His breaths were erratic and his eyes were glassy.

Danny looked up to Sienna. “You…okay?” the small voice asked. Saint came up next to Sienna and looked over her shoulder. When Danny saw Saint, his eyes widened.

“She’s okay Danny. Everything’s okay.”

“Mom…arrested.”

“She was, yes. So was your grandfather.”

Danny closed his eyes.

“Danny! Open your eyes. Open your eyes honey,” Sienna said through her tears. The boy did as she asked but Saint could tell it was difficult.

“We’re going to get you to the hospital.”

“Okay,” the whisper was even smaller now. He closed his eyes again and exhaled.

“Danny?” Sienna said. “Danny!”

Gunner just hit the porch when she started to scream. He grabbed the boy up and raced to the open door of his SUV crawled into the back with the boy. Saint did his best to get Sienna in too and propped her up as close to Danny as possible. “You drive,” Gunner said, and threw his keys at Saint, never taking his eyes off the boy while Saint hit the accelerator and gunned it toward the hospital. He only hoped they made it in time.

Sep 08

This Is Your Brain on Sentences

the-high-mountains-of-portugalWords express emotions, actions and sensations. Both short Hemingway-ish power sentences and long clause-embedded beauties force me to marvel at the craft, inventive structure and grammatical placement. I go back, reread and savor an author’s phrase word by word. Reading is good food for the brain.

Now science proves what literature already knew. Neuroscience News reveals a study about predicting the areas of the brain activated by words in a sentence. Previous studies mapped the brain on the meanings associated with words. For example, the article cites the word “play” which triggers brain areas associated with biomotion and arousal. With a deliberate thought to brain play, it’s time now to hunt for some examples of brain tingling responses.

A perfect source of material is Yann Martel’s The High Mountains of Portugal. For readers of Life of Pi, Martel’s latest book combines unusual characters with somber themes, apes, and a special something extra of magical realism on the top. I listened to the audio book first and then sought the written copy to reread my favorite parts. Heck, I pretty much reread the whole book. The pure escape of Martel’s writing saved me when I had an unpleasant chore to tackle. Plugging my brain into Martel’s Portugal transformed the experience.

Lingering Despair

The novel begins with a quirky character Tomas who is heartbroken from the death of his son and the woman he loved. “ . . . he is ambushed by a memory of Dora, smiling and reaching out to touch him. For that, the cane is useful, because memories of her always throw him off balance” (Martel 2).

Martel uses the uncle to ask, “Why? Why are you doing this? Why don’t you walk like a normal person?” (9) My brain sympathizes with Tomas’ sadness and his peculiar manner of walking. Martel explains that “what his uncle does not understand is that in walking backward, his back to the world, his back to God, he is not grieving. He is objecting. Because when everything cherished by you in life has been taken away, what else is there to do but object?” (12).

Pestering Itch

Tomas begins his own quest for a sacred artifact in the high mountains. Preserving the past, the legends, and the myths, the mountains are also primitive and resist the modern. Soon, Tomas “is itchy all over, in a manner that is absolutely maddening, precisely because he is a tornado of vermin, with a civilization of lice, fleas, and whatnot dancing upon his head” (Martel 82). And ten pages later, my own skin crawls with imaginary lice. I feel Tomas’ relief when “he raises his ten fingers in the air. His blackened fingernails gleam. With a warlike cry, he throws himself into the fray. He rakes his fingernails over his head-the top, the sides, the nape–and over his bearded cheeks and neck.” And the scratching and grunting satisfaction continued for several pages, but I turn down the volume and glance around to see if any of the neighbors have come to find the source of such groans.

Nauseating Unease

Autopsy is common on the prime time television series. Martel cleverly calls “every dead body . . . a book with a story to tell, each organ a chapter, the chapters united by a common narrative” (137). My lessons in anatomy are limited to life drawing classes. Dissections ended in ninth grade biology with a starfish and frog. And my experiences with decay are limited to the latest zombie movie or the refrigerator crisper drawer. Martel lures squeamish readers, like me, into the examiner’s office. The coroner, Eusebio, “is used to being greeted by the Mortis sisters when he comes to work. The oldest, Algor, chills the patient to the ambient temperature; Livor, the middle sister, neatly applies her favourite colour scheme–yellowish grey to the top half of the patient and purple-red to the bottom half, where the blood has settled–and rigor, the youngest, so stiffens the body that bones can be broken if limbs are forced. They are cheery ones, these sisters, eternal spinsters who ravish innumerable bodies” (Martel 190). From here, the author dives deep into the stages of decay in the days after death. He pushes the descriptions to the limit; I can’t take any more. My brain on full revolt warns to avert my eyes and cover my ears. It was almost too much. It was too much. But then, before I look away, something unexpected happens. Something magical. Something beautiful. Something unreal. I want to believe. However, I also wanted to believe the notion of Pi training a tiger on a rescue boat in the middle of the ocean.

The High Mountains of Portugal is a successful storytelling rich for study. Other areas of study might include theme, structure, and magical realism. In every post, I highlight an author’s unique writing with a specific goal to avoid spoiling the reader’s full enjoyment of the plot and the story.