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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
For over 125 years, Mt. Hope has been inviting visitors to become part of its church family.
Oliver sits directly in front of me. The five-year-old was a student in my vacation Bible school class. He snuggles up to his mom. With a broad smile and a gleam in his eye, he leans in to kiss her cheek. She puts her arm around him and hugs him close. Oliver’s dad sits on the other side of the young boy. The two of them have the same color of hair, brown, and similar haircuts. The dad stretches his arm all the way out—behind and past his son—and caresses his wife’s shoulder. The way he stares and smiles at his wife in that moment tells me he adores her. She’s looking down at something in her lap and misses that glance of affection. All the while, Oliver is delightfully sandwiched between his parents. All three are visitors to church on this particular Sunday, but I’m sure they’ve been here in the past. Probably on a day that they came to hear Grandma Mary Ellen sing in the choir.
The trio fit right in with the rest of us regular worshipers. Love is abundant at Mt. Hope. Ours is a small church, but we’re big on family.
Across the aisle, in the front row, Kelsey sits where her mom used to. Everyone who knew Jan was saddened by her untimely death, due to a medical mistake. We miss her, but her husband Bud is the most distraught. We hug him when we can and cry with him when we do.
Nearby, Toddler Theo is full of youthful energy. He can’t be contained. His Nana carries the squirming child out of the sanctuary and to the nursery. I know she will stay there to play with him and keep him content, unless his Buppa happens to be volunteering in the back room to watch the young children during this morning’s service.
Farther back in another pew sits Sami. She rests her head upon her dad’s shoulder. Her neck is tilted—practically at a forty-five-degree angle—to her body. How could that position be the least bit comfortable, I wonder? I watch as her father protectively wraps his arm about her. Familiar tattoos peek out from beneath his short-sleeved shirt. His little girl is now a young lady. All grown up at eighteen and going to college in the fall. She will miss her daddy and mommy, though. Anyone can see that. Despite open seating to the right, Sami’s mom is pressed tightly up against Sami, an aspiring pharmacist. Beauty and brains, the perfect combination.
Signs of affection are common during church service.
A baby cries, and I don’t have to turn to see that it is Abela’s little sister. When just a few months old, the baby was baptized here. Pastor Steve poured holy water over the baby’s tiny forehead, and then our church family welcomed her by singing, “Jesus Loves Me,” like we do for all the babies. This precious little one didn’t even cry. She just cooed and smiled as she was carried up and down the main aisle so we could meet, eye-to-eye, the little person to whom we were promising to teach and guide and raise as one of our own. I hoped she would one day know how significant her baptism was. Even the water used to bless her was special. It came directly from Pastor Steve’s last trip to Israel. He had collected it himself from the Jordan River, where Christ had been baptized two thousand years earlier by John.
Today, the spot next to Al is vacant. His wife, Doris, is in the hospital recuperating from surgery, so their son Clark fills the void. Several pews forward from them, Mitchell is missing. He must be performing in a weekend matinee. What else can an actor be expected to do? Even on Sundays, the show must go on. On the rare occasion that Margaret isn’t in her usual spot, I immediately expect to find her at the piano, which she sometimes plays when our church accompanist, Sharon, cannot.
From my seat towards the back of church, I see all this and more. Dawn and Bill’s twin sons are training at West Point, so I know that the parents regularly sit beside lifelong friends and gab while they wait for service to begin. I notice when Grandpa John comes in to claim his place alongside his two grandkids. I hear when Lynn laughs and when Karen and Susie sing.
This morning, I can tell that we have visitors. Clumped together at the front, they must be with Bertha. She’s way out of place up there. Normally, she’s even farther back than me. But when I see her look closely at her great-granddaughter, clothed in a white gown and bonnet, I understand. There will be another baptism.
My mind races. Is the family bothered by the vacation Bible school decorations that will show up in the background of the baptism photos? Surely they didn’t expect a cave, complete with stalagmites and stalactites. I get up and quickly approach Pastor Steve who is seconds away from starting service.
“Should I move anything out of the way? Is it too late?” I whisper in his ear.
He smiles, shakes his head, and assures me. “We’re fine, Kelly. We don’t need to change a thing.”
This baby has a beautiful start in her journey to Jesus.
I return to my vantage point near the back of the sanctuary. Pastor Steve’s words float around in my mind and I think about this loving family that I’m a part of. Steve’s right, I know. We may try to capture life’s biggest moments from the perfect angle of a camera lens, but by focusing too intently, we might miss the delightful things that happen in the background.
There’s a woman here without socks on, sandals with toes sunning themselves as legs boldly thrust forward into the world. Chunky heels, a firm step, a heavy stomp. Somehow it makes them stronger. Women who wear pointy high heels, they teeter-totter and tip over. These are practical feet who want to walk.
My feet, also in sandals, while bare, they have an ankle strap. These are easier to walk in, but don’t look as free.
It’s a Frappuccino night despite the A/C making it downright frosty in here. I treasure my nights here, despite it being cold. Without socks on, my feet are cold. I definitely need a sweatshirt.
–6:25 PM—
A blonde haired mom and two kids walk in. The round boy and the girl in a blue dress squeal and play hide-n-seek between her legs. She says, “Hush!” when they yell.
I smile at her. “They’re cute.”
“It saves them from a lot,” the mom replies. “If they weren’t cute, they’d be in a lot more trouble.”
I flip through the book One Day My Soul Just Opened Up and it speaks of closure. Famous Kitty Carlisle says to her reflection every morning, “I forgive you for yesterday.”
Be compassionate; it’s as simple as that.
–7:35 PM—
A little brunette girl walks in behind her dad. She is all sunshine, excited about everything. She pushes her dad’s unshaven but fit legs away as he almost steps on an ant. The floor is dry. She moves the “Beware. Wet.” yellow cone by the counter. She is as free and expressive. as we all should be.
What prevents us from being our wonder-full selves?
Okay, I forgive myself for the pity party I threw myself on my previous journal pages. I allow myself to move beyond my distress and enjoy the happiness I’ve been given.
I will not always be happy and I am allowed to dwell on the negatives for moments in time. I forgive myself for being moody.
–8:50 PM—
I go up to the counter for my second venti Frappuccino and I smell flowers, like a shampoo or shower gel. The scent is not overly floral sweet but like bubble gum candy. It’s the woman behind me.
“What are you wearing?” I ask. “It’s delightful.”
“It’s cucumber melon antibacterial gel from Bath & Body Works,” she says. She wasn’t aware anyone else could smell it. I don’t know why.
Her male companion pipes in. “It’s a great smell, huh?”
“Do you use it?” I ask him.
He rubs his hands together. “Sometimes she gives me some.”
“A man who appreciates a good scent,” I say with a proud nod. The friendly couple smiles.
My second frapp is vanilla, but it doesn’t taste very vanilla-y. I don’t feel like going up to get another one.
–9:00 PM—
Two guys now sit across from me, reading. One of them takes notes on a yellow pad of paper. He asks his friend about “syllogisms.” I’ve heard of the word, and I wish I could interject with the answer, but they are both devastatingly cute.
They look older than your typical college student if that’s what they are. Who else would read in a coffee shop? Syllogism Guy has dark hair and a dark goatee. He’s wearing a black shirt, black shoes holding a yellow highlighter in his right hand. He reads from what looks like a library book.
It’s a quick glance I make because staring is too obvious. I pretend my gaze radiates throughout the store. Yep, I’m suave.
They discuss logic, both respectfully silent when the other one talks. The only sound between them is of the pages turning.
The other guy, I’m attracted to his voice. He argues respectfully with Syllogism Guy. He wears faded blue jeans, a grey T-shirt and has dark hair. His fit body is pleasing, too. Could I be worthy of such a guy?
Should I give him my phone number? The idea both thrills and scares me. Be safe? Or risk? Another glance. “Venti CM” is written on his cup. Does that stand for Caramel Macchiato? I could ask him.
His phone rings. He ignores it. He has sideburns.
Suddenly, Syllogism Guy closes his book. They stand and walk out. I was not courageous. I watch them through the window as they drive around in a circle. Rugged Voice left his coffee cup on the ground in the parking lot.
He’s too good not to be taken. If he’s here next week, I’ll talk to him and offer my phone number for sure. After all, what’s the harm in that?
Last week, I hugged Roomie down in Maryland, and that’s when it hit me: I’m saying goodbye.
I almost cried.
I’m moving soon, so it’s time for those farewells, that talking to the people I should’ve been talking to all along. My Grande Java Chip Frappuccino turns into a venti with extra ice added. More room to cry in my proverbial cup of coffee, if I did such a thing.
It was a wonderful chat, in a Starbucks of all places. We discussed families. Her boy is having some of those young child sensitivities, including separation anxiety. I totally get that today.
Her second baby is due in August, and she thinks she’s having a girl. Will a family of my own be in the future? We laughed about keeping kids occupied with a video or DVD for an hour. Years ago, we never would. Now, that’s an hour well spent!
I lamented our distance to come. She said, “We’ll always be friends,” casual as if saying the rain has stopped outside.
Then she drove away. When I arrived, the parking space next to my car was empty, so she had parked there. An hour later, when I left, her spot was still empty.
Coffee shops should be places to say hello, welcome people with hugs and squeals, or at least a handshake. I’m here in my usual spot drinking my usual drink, missing my familiar places already. I’ve taken them for granted.
Looking out the window into the dark night, my car’s in her usual place, headlights facing towards this store. Too many nights like this, I sat in that car, talking to Dad on the phone about his frustration that Mom wasn’t getting better and she didn’t seem to be trying. We talked and I stared into Starbucks, feeling empty even though there were lights inside. I willed the night to go away so I could forget him, Mom, and my own heartbreak.
Dad’s been gone for one year and three months. I miss those talks. They weren’t all bad. We compared notes every week about which one of us saved the most money with our grocery store coupons that week. It was a pretty even matchup. We talked about my job, his bus rides and talking to the regulars there, Pittsburgh sports and how terrible my high school teams were playing, and always the weather.
Dad would be tickled that I’m moving to Detroit, the place where he and Mom honeymooned. They toured the Ford manufacturing line, and that’s all I ever knew about it.
I wish I could ask him now. I’m curious about what else they did.
As if a higher power is watching over me, a little girl and daddy walk out of the Red Robin next door. Pink shirt, jeans faded, red balloon. Leftovers, two boxes of Styrofoam. Dad’s in long sleeves, maroon, and tan pants. He buckles her in the backseat, a minivan with silver doors and auto close. He puts the food on the front passenger seat. They back out now–how charming, how happy and content. Unlike a family of four just moments ago: the mom yelled at one girl while dad takes another girl in the restaurant.
What a shame. A wasted opportunity. I’d never take that for granted. My throat closes up at the thought.
I can’t take this. I need to write. My journal is filled so far with my newspaper article transcripts, notes about the houses we’ve already looked at in Michigan, reactions from my coworkers at my announcement and, funny this, a list of the four closest Starbucks to the area we’re looking at moving to. Now I add to that:
“At K’s parents’ house, I couldn’t find my School Days book. Did I take it to Delaware already? Worry, worry. An hour ago, found it. Looked through it, found Krista-TN stuff, letters Dad wrote me. Read one, his familiar print, all caps. A Penn State item taped in the letter. Weather report. Shows he videotaped for me. Mom and Star Trek group news. I missed Dad and I cried. I talked to him, to no one, about how I miss sharing this Detroit move news with him. I have to believe he knows, but I miss hearing his voice, his thoughts on it all. Cried more. Then had the strength to go into our Home Theater room and watch my wedding video. Father-in-law took it, used to think that was distracting from our ceremony. I am so blessed to have those images. Dad smiling. A smile! A cough. His large glasses, his cane. And somehow, that comforted me. I still cried.”
Gotta stop here. I’m about to cry again. Time to go out to my car and cry into my cup of Frappuccino. Time to say goodbye to this night.
